#that feeling when words are sharper than knives | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

feyascorner · 8 months

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6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don’t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it.

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him—technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back. Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot.

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical @himesuedi @girlygmer-blog @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @aelieknox @hyperfixationwhore @teardropcup @bitterbeanren Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst

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katebishopsbow · 11 months

Text

YOU AND ME AGAINST THE WORLD • MAX VERSTAPPEN

pairing: max verstappen x sister!reader

summary: nobody enjoys being booed, and even the toughest of fighters like max verstappen would get disheartened from it. looking right through his act on camera, you decided to give your brother a call to tell him how proud of him you were. what you didn’t expect though, was to hear max cry.

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, reader being a good sister

word count: 1.4k

(image is not mine)

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

“And Max Verstappen wins the US Grand Prix!”

Your brother had done it again – proving to those who had ever doubted him that he was born a champion by getting his 50th race win. You watched the race from the living room of your family home, grinning at the TV screen with the biggest smile on your face as the camera panned over the Redbull racecar.

When Max came on screen during the post-race interview, his eyes crinkling from how hard he was smiling, your heart swelled with so much pride because you knew he was living out his childhood dream. You could still remember him telling you as a kid with the most determined look on his face that he was going to be a world champion one day, and you had never doubted him for a second.

That was when you could the faint sounds of people booing in the background, just barely masked by the voices of your brother and the interviewer. There was no doubt that the jeers were directed at your Max as he was the only one being broadcasted on the big screens, and the joy you were feeling moments ago had twisted into a sour, unpleasant feeling.

Max had worked so hard to be in his position right now. He didn’t have it easier than anyone else – he dedicated blood, sweat, and tears to his work and sacrificed everything to accomplish the achievements he had today just like all the other drivers on the grid, so why was he the only one being subjected to such unjust hostility?

Having been involved in the sport ever since childhood because of your father and Max, you had always known that people could be cruel. “The higher you rise, the sharper the knives,” couldn’t be more true, and people would do anything to tear you down. They would never acknowledge the effort and hard work you had given, because in their eyes you’d always be undeserving and overrated.

“Does the booing annoy you?” The interviewer asked the driver before him, addressing the unignorable sound of the crowd. Max chuckled lightheartedly at the question, shrugging his shoulder as he answered in good humor, “In the end, I’m the one taking the trophy home, so it’s fine with me!”

“So next week when it’s ten times worse and you win –” “Then I’ll still go home with the trophy, so it’s all good.”

The interviewer smiled at his graceful answer, glad that he approached the question with nonchalance instead of being spiteful and throwing a fit for the underserved hate. Max’s smile never faltered during the rest of the interview, appearing to be completely unaffected as he answered the questions all the while the crowd continued to boo him.

To the rest of the world, his act seemed totally convincing. It did look like he didn’t give two shits about the haters, laughing at some jokes the interviewer cracked as he talked about his performances during the race and areas of improvement. But you were his little sister, and you knew him well enough to know that the spectator’s reaction had undoubtedly affected him.

You noticed the way his lips twitched ever-so-slightly whenever the crowd taunted him louder, and how his eyes no longer had that gleam of genuine joy that was there when he first appeared on screen for the post-race interview. Max was such a great actor in front of the camera, always knowing how to put on the bravest face and the most convincing front when the world was watching him – but he could never fool you.

The interview concluded fairly quickly, with the interviewer congratulating Max on his 50th win and Max thanking him for his time. You watched as he gave a thumbs-up to the camera before walking off, and it’s times like this that made you wish more than anything to be there for your brother and let him know how proud you were.

So you waited for him to finish all of his media duties and obligatory team meetings that day, and dialed his phone number when you knew he had already settled down for the night in his hotel room.

In the dimly lit hotel suite, Max’s phone rang and he watched as the name “baby sis” and that terrible candid photo he took of you during a family vacation which he set as your contact photo appeared on his screen. He couldn’t help but laugh whenever he saw that picture – your face scrunched up in pure horror and disgust as a wasp flew toward your face.

He picked up the call and his face brightened up almost instantly the second he heard your voice. “Max, hey…” you said on the phone, your lips pulling up into the biggest grin the same way as your brother. “Hey kid, what’s up?” The nickname made you roll your eyes in feigned annoyance – even though you were all grown up and definitely not a kid anymore, he still called you that.

“Nothing much, just staying in for the night. You feeling okay?” You didn’t have to say anything more, Max already knew what you were talking about – the crowd booing at him this afternoon. He could pretend to not know what you had meant, diverting the topic to something unimportant, but he knew he would never get past you.

“Yeah, it’s whatever,” he hummed nonchalantly, hoping his curt answer could somehow fool you that he was not at all affected. The line went momentarily silent as you two said nothing to each other – you knew that he was lying, and he knew that you knew he was lying. “Max,” you broke the quietness and called out his name, “You know that I’m so proud of you, right?”

Max didn’t respond to your question, so you continued on with what you wanted to say to him. “We can all see your efforts… you are the smartest, strongest, most dedicated person I know and I am always so grateful to have you as my brother. Even when the world is trying its hardest to paint you as the bad guy and portray you as the villain, I know you have the kindest heart. I will always be by your side, Max. Always.”

You had to check your phone to see if the call had accidentally ended because the other side of the line was completely silent. “Max?” you called out your brother’s name again, and your heart ached with pity when you heard your brother’s soft sniffles over the phone.

Growing up, Max had rarely cried in front of you – it was always you who cried over the tiniest inconveniences and needed your brother to comfort you as you soaked through his t-shirt with your tears. You could still remember how his hands would glide down your back comfortingly, feeling like nothing could ever harm you again as he wrapped you delicately in his arms.

Max was always there when you needed him the most, and now you wished you could be there for him the same way he had done for you. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Max. I always got your back.” Hearing you say that you were proud of him and that you knew he had a kind heart was more than enough for Max. The world could say whatever it wanted about him, but as long as you were by his side, all is well.

“Thank you for saying that,” he said in a hushed whisper, voice wavering with emotions threatening to spill over. You wanted so badly to give him a big hug, to let him know that this was never his fault and he should never be punished by the world for his success. “It’s you and me against the world, Max, just like when we were kids,” you said with a smile, and for the first time since that afternoon, Max found himself genuinely smiling with you.

When the call ended that night, Max felt like a heavy weight was being lifted off his shoulders. He didn’t have to face the world alone, he had you by his side supporting every decision of his. The world could be so cruel, you both knew that, but everything seemed to be less nerve-wracking when you had each other’s back.

#f1 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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quinnylouhughesx43 · 1 month

Text

A Little Attention

summary: in which ethan and y/n are arguing heatedly, turns out it’s over something simple if only she would’ve said something

word count: 3.93

warnings: ⚠️MDNI 18+⚠️, smut smut smut, unprotected p in v, rough, moderate-a lot of foul language, fem!receiving oral, fem!receiving fingering, bit vivid

notes: hi there 👋🏼. this was written for @mommahughes19-23 for her birthday (everyone tell her happy late birthday 🥳) i feel it is one of the most vivid pieces I’ve ever produced smut or not. seriously no minors, if anyone can tell me how to age restrict it please message me 🥲

Ethan's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his knuckles white with the effort of containing his rage. Y/n's eyes flashed with a fiery defiance that matched the heat of his own. They stood in the living room, their voices rising and falling like the crescendos of a tumultuous symphony. Their words were sharper than the knives in the kitchen drawer, each one a deliberate strike aimed at the heart of the other. The air had unspoken accusations and a tension that could be sliced with a child’s toy knife.

"You never listen to me!" Ethan's voice echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the walls and ceiling.

"And you never understand!" Y/n shot back, her own volume rising to meet his.

Their argument had been brewing for days, a slow brew of unspoken resentments and misunderstandings. It had finally reached a boiling point, spilling over into a confrontation that neither had seen coming. Ethan's eyes searched hers, looking for a crack in the armor of her anger, a glimpse of the softness he knew lay beneath. But all he found was a mirror to his own fury.

Y/n's chest heaved with the force of her words, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she tried to keep up with the pace of the fight. Her cheeks were flushed, not just from the heat of her words, but from the rush of blood that came with the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The scent of their shared rage filled the room, a heady perfume that seemed to thicken the air around them.

"All you ever do is hockey this, hockey that, hang out with this group, hang out with that group," she desperately pleaded, her voice cracking with the weight of her frustration. "When will you have time for me?"

Ethan's anger fizzled at the sound of her desperation. He knew he'd been seeing her less recently, but the insinuation stung more than any slap ever could. He was torn between his love for the sport that had given him a future and the woman who was his present.

The woman who is hopefully his future.

The rage that had fueled him moments ago dissipated, leaving a cold, stark reality in its place. He had never meant to make her feel like she was in second place. He stepped closer to her, his heart pounding in his chest, and reached out to touch her, but she flinched away. He could see the hurt in her eyes, and it was like a punch to the gut.

With a heavy breath out, Ethan realized quickly the fight wasn't worth losing her over. He reached out again, this time with gentle hands that trembled slightly. "Babe," he began, his voice softer than the whisper of a leaf in the wind, "I'm sorry."

Y/n looked at him with sad eyes that spoke volumes. Her anger had not disappeared, but the intensity had given way to a deep sadness that was far more poignant. For a moment, she just stood there, her chest heaving with the weight of her emotions. Then, she turned and started walking up the stairs to his bedroom. The sound of her footsteps on the wooden steps was like a silent scream echoing through the apartment.

Ethan knew he had to act fast but he couldn’t chase after her instantaneously. He couldn't let the argument end like this, not when he felt so much for her. He waited a few moment, giving her space she to collect herself. While allowing himself some time to come together. Then, he followed her, his heart hammering against his ribcage like a drum. Each step he took was like sinking in molasses, slow, deliberate, feeling stuck in time, as if the fate of their relationship hinged on the precise timing of his arrival. Anyone who has ever been in a relationship knows timing is always crucial in arguments.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw her silhouette through the slightly ajar door of his bedroom. She was lying on the bed, her back to him, her body a taut bow of tension. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting a warm, intimate light over the disarray of their clothes, a silent testament to the tumult of their emotions.

Ethan approached slowly, his steps measured, each one a silent apology. He slid into the bed, his body careful not to disturb hers. He lay on his side, close enough to feel the heat of her body, but not so close that he could be accused of invading her space. He reached out, his hand tentative as it rested on her hip. Her skin was warm and smooth, a stark contrast to the ice-cold fear that gripped his heart.

For a moment, she remained stiff, unyielding. Then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned back into him, her body melting into his embrace. It was a subtle surrender, a silent acceptance of his apology. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the curve of her body fit against his like a jigsaw piece finding its match. Her breathing evened out, he took that as a good sign.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he whispered into her hair, his voice raw with emotion. "I didn't mean to make you feel less valued, or that I was ignoring you. I've just been caught up in everything, and I know that's not an excuse." He paused, feeling her body tense slightly. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. Just tell me what you need."

She rolled over to face him. Her eyes searched his, the anger now replaced by a smoldering intensity that sent a jolt of electricity through his body. She reached up, her hand sliding over his jaw, and then down to cover his mouth. The touch was gentle, but the message was clear: she didn't want his words, she wanted action. Ethan's pulse quickened as he felt her other hand begin to trace the line of his collarbone, her fingernails lightly scraping against his skin.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice a low, throaty purr that sent shivers down his spine. "I just missed you so much." His eyes stared right into her, and the depth of her need reflected in the dark lust filled pools. "I just got so frustrated because I needed you, and you weren't there. I needed you so badly, I couldn’t take care of it myself."

Her hand traveled south, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. The warmth of her touch was like a brand, searing through the fabric to the very core of his being. She teased him gently, her fingertips tracing the outline of his cock, which grew hard and thick beneath her touch. Ethan's eyes rolled back in his head, his breath hitching in his throat. He hadn't expected this, but the sudden shift in her demeanor was like a balm to his bruised ego.

“Y/n,” he shakily breathed out. “Baby, please. You do..”

She cut his words off placing one finger to his lips. “Ethan.” Y/n groaned. “Do not make me go back to my dorm, to my toys that are very much not you.”

Her hand traced his cock again, but this time she stopped and lightly squeezed it. The sudden pressure was like a switch thrown in a dark room, illuminating a hunger in Ethan that was more primal than anything he'd felt before. He took a sharp intake of breath, his eyes never leaving hers. He felt his body respond to her touch, his cock swelling and pulsing with the rhythm of his heart.

Without another word, Ethan rolled over her, his body a mountain of heat and need. One arm slid under her, supporting her back, while the other slipped under her shorts, seeking the warmth between her legs. Her thighs parted for him like the pages of a favorite book, revealing the slick wetness that coated her pussy. He groaned, the sound a mix of relief and desire, as his fingers found her clit and began to circle it with an urgency that matched the racing of his heart.

"All you needed was a little attention?" he teased, his voice low and gruff, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Hmm? Was that all it was?" His thumb applied gentle pressure, rolling her sensitive nub in a way that made her eyes flutter closed and her back arch. “You just needed to be a brat and pitch a fit to get my attention?”

"I need more than a little attention," she murmured, her voice thick with need. Her hand slipped down to cover his, urging him to increase the tempo of his strokes. His touch was electric, setting her nerve endings ablaze with every brush against her clit. "Much more," she gasped, as he obliged, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder.

Ethan's mouth found hers in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving deep, tasting the sweetness of her need. He could feel the tension coiled tight in her body, the way she arched into his touch, begging for more. He broke the kiss, his teeth grazing her lower lip, drawing a soft moan from her. "How much more?" he whispered against her ear, his breath hot and heavy.

“All of you. Please E.” She whimpered.

Ethan growled with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with desire. The roughness of his touch across her body sent a thrill of excitement through her, making her pussy clench around his fingers before he withdrew them. He began to remove her clothes with a purposefulness that was almost violent, ripping the fabric as if it were paper standing in the way of something he needed to claim. Her shirt was the first to go, torn away to reveal her lacy black bra, which he quickly unhooked. Her breasts spilled out, the nipples already erect and begging for his mouth. He didn't disappoint, taking one in his mouth and sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making her gasp with pleasure.

Her shorts were next, pulled down with one swift motion, leaving her in nothing but a pair of drenched panties. He kissed his way down her body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire wherever it touched. When he reached her panties, he didn't bother to remove them, instead choosing to kiss and lick the fabric that separated him from her soaking wetness. She bucked her hips, trying to get closer, but he held her firm, the restraint only adding to the delicious torment.

Unable to resist her whines any longer, Ethan tore the panties away, revealing her to his eager eyes. He spread her legs wider, exposing her completely to his gaze. He took a moment to drink in the sight of her, the way her pussy glistened with arousal, the way her thighs quivered with anticipation. His dick throbbed painfully, demanding affection, but he held back seeing how he with holding attention from was the reason they were arguing in the first place. This time wasn’t about him.

“I want to taste you, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Tell me how much you want me to make it up to you. Tell me how much you need me too.”

Her eyes snapped open, the desire in them a wildfire that could have burned down the whole apartment complex. “Ethan, please. I need you to fuck me so hard I forget everything else exists. I need to feel you everywhere, to drown in you. I need it rough and intense, just like how we felt downstairs. I want you to fuck the anger and frustration out of us both.”

The words were like a lit match thrown into a barrel of gunpowder. Ethan's control snapped like a dry twig underfoot. He grabbed her hips and yanked her to the edge of the bed, kneeling between her legs. He looked up at her face when his mouth made contact with her pussy. He let out the deepest of deep groans when he watched her eyes roll back slightly.

Her sweet scent filled his nostrils as he tasted her, his tongue delving into her warm, wet depths. She was already so close, her body quivering with the effort of holding back. He didn't bother with gentle licks or teasing strokes; he went straight for the kill, his tongue flicking against her clit with the precision of a snake's strike. She screamed out his name, her legs wrapping around his head, holding him in place.

"Do you want to know what you taste like?" He asked, his voice muffled against her, a smile playing on his lips as he plunged a finger into her, feeling her tighten around him. "You taste like you’re mine." Ethan stated firmly, possessively. His voice filled with satisfaction as she moaned loudly in response. "And I am going to make sure you feel like it too." He adds another finger, pumping fast, his thumb paying close attention to her clit. His tongue alternating out with his thumb. “By the end, you’ll have no doubts baby girl. You are all fucking mine.”

"I'm so close," Y/n whimpered, her body tightening around his fingers. She could feel the orgasm building inside her, a storm ready to break. Ethan's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched her, his mouth a wicked smile against her sensitive flesh.

"Good," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "Because I'm going to make you come so hard you'll forget how you were feeling when you were without me, missing me." He took her clit into his mouth, sucking hard as he pumped his fingers in and out of her. She bucked against his face, her nails digging into the bed sheets. The sensation was overwhelming, a crescendo of pleasure that washed over her like a tidal wave. The red flush across her skin a perfect show of the sensation flowing through her.

With a final, brutal tug of his fingers, she came with a scream that was muffled by the pillow she'd bitten into. Her body convulsed, her pussy clenching around his digits as she rode the waves of pleasure. Ethan withdrew his hand, his fingers glistening with her juices. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a smirk that was equal parts arrogance and satisfaction. The taste of her on his tongue was intoxicating, a heady mix of sweetness and desire that made his cock throb with need.

He stood from the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. With a swift movement, he removed his sweatpants and boxers, revealing his hard, thick cock. It bobbed slightly in the warm, lamplit air, a silent demand for her attention. He stroked it a few times, watching her reaction. Her eyes followed the motion of his hand like a hawk tracking its prey, her pupils dilating with each pass.

Ethan climbed back between her legs, his cock pressing against her slick folds. He didn't enter her yet, instead choosing to tease her by rubbing the tip against her clit. She bucked her hips still sensitive from moments ago and trying to force him inside quickly but he held back. He was enjoying an all new type of power play. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just above hers. "You sure you want, uh what was it you said?" he asked, his voice a gruff whisper that sent shivers down her spine. He moved to whisper right next to her ear. “Me ‘to fuck the anger and frustration out of us both’ y/n?” Ethan nudge her head to the side with his nose so he had better access to the sweet spot on her neck.

Her breath was coming in short, desperate pants as she nodded frantically. "Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible.

With a predatory growl, Ethan didn't wait, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, effectively opening her up to him. He positioned the head of his cock at her entrance, feeling the heat of her desire. He took one final look into her eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, but all he saw was the need for release, the same need that pulsed through him. He slid into her with one stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

Y/n's eyes widened with the suddenness of his entry, her body stretching around him. He didn't give her time to adjust; instead, he began to pound into her with a ferocity that matched the intensity of their argument. Each thrust was punctuated by a grunt of effort, his body moving in a primal rhythm that seemed to echo the beat of their hearts. Her walls tightened around him, the friction almost painful, but he didn't slow down. He was a man on a mission, she asked him for something after being upset with him and he was not going to let her be unhappy with him again.

He reached down, his hand wrapping around her throat, his grip firm but not painful. "Is this what you wanted?" he growled, his voice a dark rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air around them. "Do you want me to fuck you like you're mine?"

Her eyes, glazed with pleasure, searched his, and she nodded frantically. The pressure of his hand on her throat only served to heighten her arousal, sending a fresh wave of wetness to coat his cock as he pounded into her. The sound of their bodies slapping together was like a drumbeat that echoed through the room, a rhythm that seemed to sync with the racing of their hearts.

Y/n’s whimpers grew louder, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Each thrust was a declaration of ownership, a claiming of what was his. She could feel herself losing control, her body responding to his every move with a mindless need for more. The sensation was like nothing she had ever experienced before, a heady mix of pain and pleasure that had her teetering on the edge of sanity. The hand that was holding her throat traveled down her body and came to a rest at her lower abdomen. Ethan applied slight pressure. Eliciting a sharp loud moan from y/n. Ethan smirked proudly.

Her eyes were glazed over, her pupils dilated to the point where the color was almost entirely obscured. Her nails dug into his arms, leaving half-moons of pain that Ethan barely felt. All he could focus on was the way her body responded to his, the way she arched into every thrust, the way her pussy clenched around him like a vice. He felt like he could come just from watching her lose herself in the moment.

He slowed his pace, his strokes turning long and deep, drawing out her pleasure like a master artist. His hand found its way back to her throat, his grip firm but gentle, a silent reminder of who was in control. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Look at me while I make you feel this good."

Her eyes snapped to his, the intensity in them making his own pulse race. He watched as she bit her lower lip, her teeth sinking into the plump flesh, trying to hold back the scream that threatened to tear from her throat. He could feel her pussy starting to pulse and squeeze around him, her inner walls fluttering like a bird taking flight.

"Are you about to come for me, baby?" Ethan's question was a low growl, his voice thick with need. The words were a demand, a challenge. He knew she was close, he could feel it in the way her body was tensing beneath his. A quick simple “Uh-huh” was muttered.

With a smirk, he pulled out of her, flipping her over onto her stomach with ease. He grabbed her hips, positioning himself behind her. Her favorite position, their position when they need to be quick or he’s wanting to show her he pays attention. He took a moment to appreciate the view, her round ass in the air, her slick and it’s all for him. The sound of her gasp was like music to his ears when he thrust himself back inside, and he felt her body tense around him as he filled her completely.

She was teetering the edge of her second orgasm and he was veering towards his first.

"You take me so good, baby," Ethan groaned, his words hot and heavy in her ear. "So tight, so wet, like you were made for me." His hands gripped her hips, his thrusts deep and punishing, each one sending a bolt of pleasure through her body. "You look so pretty when you're getting fucked like this, all flushed and desperate for more." He gave her hips a squeeze, he was holding her up. Her legs were shaking too much to keep her up herself.

Without warning, Y/n's body tensed up like a bow string pulled tight, and with a scream that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room, she came. Her pussy clamped down on him like a vise, her inner muscles pulsing around his cock in waves of ecstasy. Her nails dug into the bed, her back arched high, and she trembled uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through her like a tornado. It was the kind of climax that stole her breath, made her vision swim with stars, and left her feeling like she was floating on a cloud of pure bliss.

Ethan watched her shatter with a mix of pride and need. He felt her pussy milk him, and it was all he could take. With a roar that seemed to echo through his very soul, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and let go. His hips bucked against her as he emptied himself inside her, filling her up with his hot, sticky come. Each pulse of his release sent a new shock of pleasure through her, making her orgasm last longer, making it even more intense.

As the waves of pleasure receded, Ethan pulled out of her gently, collapsing onto the bed beside her. He rolled onto his side, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving. He reached out, his hand shaking slightly, to trace the line of her jaw. She was so beautiful, so perfect, and he felt a fierce surge of love for her that could bring him to his knees.

Y/n turned her head to look at him, her eyes still glazed with the aftermath of her climax. A soft, sated smile graced her lips, and Ethan felt his heart swell in his chest. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth, tasting the salt of her skin. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Always." He paused and thought about what to say for a moment.

“Just next time, talk to me about how you��re feeling before you get a moody and bratty because you need dicked down. I’ll happily do it, but…” He stopped talking to push some hair out of her face. “But y/n/n, sex isn’t everything in a relationship, I can give you physical affection in many forms. Not that sex isn’t great, I don’t want it to be everything with us. Okay, baby?”

She gave him a genuine, gentle smile reaching out to hug him. She was so desperately, hopelessly, in love with him it was painful at times, but he was so worth it.

#cay writes #ethan edwards x y/n #ethan edwards fic #ethan edwards smut #18+ mdni #mdni #umich smut #umich x reader #umich request #umich fic #ethan edwards x reader #ethan edwards blurb #hockey smut #nj devils smut #ncaa college hockey

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estcaligo · 5 months

Text

Sebek's ears

Sebek x gn!reader, with a bit of angst

"Sebek, put that down!" a worried shout pierced the room. Doctor Zigvolt dashed towards the boy, but it was too late - the child had already nicked his ear. It wasn't a serious injury, thankfully, but blood stained his son's ear, neck, shirt, and his mint hair.

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Zigvolt hurried into the room. "Darling, what's-...!!!" Her voice caught in her throat, turned into a scream of shock that thundered throughout the household, startling every bird in the vicinity into a flutter of panic, as if sensing an imminent danger.

But there was no danger. Only blood. And tears. And a kid in front of a mirror with a kitchen knife in his hands.

"Sebek, let me take a look. You might get an infec- " Mr. Zigvolt tried to approach Sebek gently, but the boy pushed him away, sobbing loudly.

"This is your fault! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!! I HATE YOU!!!" Sebek cried out in despair, tears streaming down his sorrowful face as he ran past his parents. Mrs. Zigvolt could easily treat any wounds (it was one of the reasons she had been accepted to work at her husband's clinic despite lacking medical training), but now was not the time - Sebek wouldn't listen. So she just stood beside her spouse, watching their youngest son run away, not daring to break the silence. Words were unnecessary; they both understood. Sebek, despite being only 5, had already expressed a grand displeasure towards his human side. The destructive prejudice he had acquired not without help…

…

"A kitchen knife?... Back in Briar Valley, my grandfather would always look displeased whenever I entered the kitchen. So, I'm entirely unfamiliar with all cooking implements." Sebek said to the ghost chef.

"Oh? Why is that?" the chef asked.

"I have no idea... But he especially kept me away from sharp objects, like knives." he replied, examining the object in his hand.

"Well, mastering this skill is necessary for the course, so do your best!" the chef cheered, floating next to him.

"YES, CHEF!" Sebek boomed, making all the pans and pots shiver, and got back to cooking his dish.

…

It was rigorous but rewarding training, Sebek reflected, slowly washing his hands. Days spent in the kitchen were filled with various instructions and orders from the ghost chefs, requiring quick reactions, but due to their ghostly nature their words often faded, lingering in the air, so a regular human would have trouble hearing them. BUT NOT SEBEK ZIGVOLT. He had perfect hearing, his ears were sharper than...

…Sharper than what?....

He looked into the mirror of the Diasomnia dorm's bathroom, coming to wash away the smell and smudges from the Master Chef course. His face darkened once again as he lingered too long on his right ear. He remembered that day vividly. When he, a young and immature kid, tried to... tried to become a fae? Tired of being bullied by those around him, he believed that if he changed his ears - made them pointy like everyone else's - it would help him fit in. But now he understood how foolish it was.

Yet still. What makes a fae? A pair of pointy ears? “Not necessarily” is what his mother always used to say Be blessed by night, but don’t forget about the day And remembers, and he knows No need in those Yet still.

A bitter feeling of unfairness washed over him as he was drifting off to sleep.

Why? Of all human qualities, why did he have to have round ears? He had asked himself this question a million times. And it wasn't as if he lacked fae qualities - his hearing surpassed any human's, and he could even hear and understand the fae language, something no human could do due to its nature. He possessed all these abilities, yet they were overshadowed by this small, bitter nuance - his appearance. Genetics had played a cruel joke on him, he thought. Despite his efforts, he will always look like a weak, useless human.

Speaking of weak humans.

You and Sebek had arranged to meet at the gates to head down to Foothill Town today. Rumor had it that the famous bookshop there had new arrivals, and you were eager to take a look. And since Sebek was so knowledgeable about books, you invited him along. Of course, it wasn't like he really wanted to go with you! He had far more important matters to attend to. However, he couldn't risk you selecting subpar books that you might later mention in conversations with Master Malleus - Sebek couldn't let your lack of discernment in literature reflect poorly on the Young Lord!! So, he was coming with you, for that reason alone, nothing more! … The road wasn't long, and once you arrived at the shop, you began browsing the shelves. The selection was vast: novels, scientific works, poems, historical texts, dictionaries, even books in languages you couldn’t understand. Unable to decide, you grabbed a handful of books that caught your attention and retreated to a quiet corner to examine your finds.

“Get on with this human, I don't have all day” he said, standing next to you, arms crossed.

“Ok ok, how about this one?”

"It looks fine. You can keep it, I suppose."

"Great! And this?" you showed Sebek another book, but he frowned slightly.

"It doesn't seem like a decent book to me. Better put it away."

"Why? It's about knights. What exactly do you dislike about it?"

"The cover doesn't look appealing. As if they didn't put much effort into designing it properly!" he declared loudly enough to draw a few judgmental glances from the other customers.

"And that's it?" you blinked at him. "But the plot itself must be good!"

"I've given my opinion, do as you wish, human!" he huffed, turning away.

"...Oh, Sebek. Never judge a book by its cover."

…

In the end, you purchased quite a few books (Crowley had been unusually generous this month, providing you with some extra money), and Sebek helped you carry them back to the Ramshackle. As a thank-you for accompanying you, you offered to share a cup of tea together and he agreed.

...However, for the two of you, it was never just "having a cup of tea".

As usual, you found yourselves engrossed in intimate conversations, drawn close to each other.

Grim was absent, so it was just you and him on the couch in the spacious Ramshackle hall. Two cups of tea, long forgotten and gone cold, sat on the table.

Sebek rested his head on your lap, as he often did during your moments together, rambling about the books, his duties, or about Malleus, speaking quieter than his usual self. And you just patiently listened, knowing how hard he worked every day and wanting him to have some rest once in a while. The fact that he could relax in your presence made you genuinely happy.

Wrapped in serenity, you gently caressed his mint hair, occasionally running your fingers over his ears. You had grown accustomed to seeing them very clearly, as Sebek wore his hair swept back all the time. But when he was with you he sometimes let his hair loose and his ears became hidden amidst the soft waves of green, looking like two small islands surrounded by endless grassy seas. Or like curious animals peeking from the leaves. It was both adorable and endearing, and you couldn't help but giggle quietly. “Human! Is there a problem with your ears?! I’m talking to you!” Sebek’s loud voice brought you back from your daydreaming.

“Oh, sorry. I was lost in thought for a moment.”

“Hmph! And what was so captivating that you ignored my question?”

“Oh... er... your ears” you smiled shyly.

“My... what?”

…

“Your beautiful, lovely, adorable ears" you laughed at his reaction, showering him with compliments before placing a kiss on his right ear - the one he had once tried to...

A wave of strange warmth suddenly flushed through his body. Why would you say such things about his terrible flaw?

All his life, people around him in his homeland had diminished him because of his round ears. On Sage’s Island, people just ignored this feature, so he assumed they wouldn’t comment on the obvious. But you? The way you touched them, the way you kissed them - without revulsion, without hesitation, without doubt.

For a moment, he felt something unfamiliar - like nothing else mattered. An unusual feeling, one he only experienced by your side. But he liked it.

Who cared if he didn't have pointy ears? Who cared about others' judgments?

You were right - only fools judge a book by its cover.

“Sebek, do you hear me?” you were the one asking this time.

“Yes. Yes, I can hear you very well, dear human” he said, leaning in for a kiss.

#yes i'm doing it #i really like this one #twisted wonderland #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader #caligo's stories

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stoneagedevil · 2 months

Text

Reunion (I’m Not in Love Pt. 2) | Alastor x f!Reader

CW/TW: suicide, gore, death, murder, predatory behavior, blood, initial unrequited feelings, insecurities involving looks.

-♥️-

It is only when you lose everything, that you have the power to do anything. After all, what are the consequences?

There is nothing left.

There is only you. Head throbbing after a bullet went through it and a subsequent smack to…pavement?

There is only you filled with grief from an unrequited love you’d sunk over half of your lifespan into and a world you can’t quite understand.

There is only…

You.

Until you heard the screams. Cautiously peeking around the corner of the alleyway you landed in, you witnessed the abhorrent atrocities committed by beings you couldn’t quite comprehend. They were inhuman and inhumane.

You were inhuman and inhumane, taking notice finally of just how sensitive and high up your ears suddenly were. Perhaps your face was thoroughly scrambled by the bullet and you didn’t die? Impossible. But it would just be your luck wouldn’t it? Surviving a point blank shot to the face with a large caliber. You reached your hands- claws- claws?!

Sidetracked, your eyes gaped at the change in your hands. They were pitch black, fading into your skin tone that had lost its vibrancy the farther you trailed up your arms. Surely it was a malfunction or flaw within the rifle that caused an abundance of gun powder to color your limbs black? But…that didn’t explain the claws in place of your dull fingernails. You continued to reach towards the top of your head, startled by your new fuzzy appendages.

They were your ears.

Quickly darting out of the alleyway, you faced yourself in the reflection of a nearby storefront window. Only, this wasn’t the Y/N you talked to before ending your life.

This was…this was something entirely different. Someone entirely different.

But sure as the days are long, it was you. Your ears reminiscent of a deer, and twisting your spine and neck to look behind you, you were adorned with the tail of one too.

“What on Earth-“ You cut yourself off. Earth? No. This couldn’t be. You most certainly died. And if you were dead, and yet alive, that had to mean one thing.

You were in the beginning stages of your afterlife, which in turn meant one thing or another: you were either in Heaven or Hell. Taking into account the potential love rivals you murdered and your demonic appearance, you could only assume the latter option were true.

Hell. You were in Hell.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out all by yourself? It’s a dangerous world out here, little girl.” A gravelly voice brought you out of your daze. You whipped your head around to face the source of the slimy words. It was another demon, wolf-like in appearance with a smile that looked as if he would eat a grandmother.

“I would stay away.” Is all you said. Truly, you were a deer in the headlights. What did he mean by turf war? And how were you going to prevent yourself from becoming Little Red?

“And if I don’t stay away?” He challenged, slimy tongue running over rows of sharp teeth, inching closer as if to tease you. As if he preferred to play with his food.

“Then I’ll have no choice but to kill you. I’d rather not, if I can help it.” You replied. Maybe you could trick him into thinking you were dangerous, but given your new form, you doubted it. A prey animal. How unfortunate when your newest enemy was a wolf.

He barked out a hearty laugh, thoroughly amused by your polite warning, but continued to close in on you.

You felt something underneath the surface of your soft flesh. A mix of anger, of the warmth of a light, of the cold of a shadow, of the bubbling of champagne, all fueled by the sheer audacity of a man who couldn’t let you get your bearings in such a strange place. Couldn’t you ever get a fucking break?!

It happened suddenly, the cracking of pavement sounding beneath your hooves, vines dressed in thorns sharper than knives rose up from the crevices, almost shielding you from the perpetrator. Following suit, poison ivy twisted around, blocking any means of escape for the offending wolf demon. Your lack of fear and something else you couldn’t place told you these earthly vines of torture were yours.

You looked back up at the mangy mutt, a soft but dangerous smile stretching across you face, “Congratulations, my friend. You’ll be the first of many.” You flicked your pointer finger at him, and the vines shot out, tightening around his torso like snakes to mice. He yelped and whined, fighting against them. You were annoyed by the sounds he made, another set of vines wrapping around his unfortunate looking face, clamping down on his long snout like a muzzle.

“Good dogs are quiet.” You said.

It was like life on the surface. Smothering and strangling the life out of the women who had romantic intentions for Alastor. Women who told you that you’d never be right for him. That no one could ever love someone so poor as you. Your heart swelled at the thought of him. He would be so disappointed in you, surely.

But…

He’s not here.

There is only you.

The mutt of a man’s struggling subsided, his body falling limp from the hold of your vines and landing with an audible thud to the ground.

You were a firm believer that life was what you made it. You couldn’t make your life better, especially without your Alastor, so you ended it. But now, maybe the afterlife could be what you made it. He wasn’t here, you both separated by different plains of existence, and surely when he died, he’d go to Heaven.

Far, far away from you where he belonged. Where he surely wanted to be.

You’d been too pliant for too long. Holding in an anger that felt released ever so slightly when you killed so freely. Here in Hell, you didn’t have to hide your victims, and in their second deaths, they could be used as tools to earn respect around here.

Perhaps it was far better to be feared than loved.

Yes. The afterlife could be what you make it too. And you were going to make your afterlife everyone else’s problem.

——

You were deemed “Smother Nature.” One of the only clever names given to an Overlord in Hell. You strangled, smothered, and swindled your way to the top, becoming a feared but not unfair Overlord in just a few short years.

Within that span of time, you became more accustomed to your new body and its capabilities.

You were a deer demon, specifically a doe when in your regular form, but when in your more powerful demonic form, your skull would sprout wide black antlers with vines snaking around each one like a crown of thorns. From the tearing of skin atop your head at the site where these new extensions of you sprouted, blood would trickle down your face. Initially it was painful, but now? It only added to how absolutely terrifying you could be. Here, fear meant power, and you basked in it.

This was the only time you loved yourself. You were someone to answer to. Someone powerful and dangerous, who didn’t take anything laying down. You’d killed several Overlords in order to gain this title, and you were proud of it.

Every death at your hands or vines was a surge of adrenaline coursing throughout your body, and you couldn’t have been more thrilled with your decision in looking down the barrel of that rifle.

However, someone else had felt entirely different about their demise at first.

——

Distraught was an understatement. How was he supposed to visit you and his mother? Who else would get you your favorite flowers? Not just any random bouquet, but one composed of your most favorites?

How would he ever see you again?

Seeing as he was in Hell, that confirmed the existence of a Heaven, and surely you’d be up there.

He let out a growl of frustration, a long arm striking the side of a building, a spiderweb of cracks forming from the force. What a surprise, Alastor had committed atrocities during life so selfishly, and now they’d barred him from seeing you ever again.

He should’ve been more careful when burying that man in the swamp. He knew it was hunting season, and yet he couldn’t help himself. Even if it wasn’t, the police that were initially closing in on that woman-strangler shifted their focus onto him since the other killer’s disappearance. He always warned you about walking home alone at night because of that strangler. You’d always brush it off.

A snap from a twig and his head snapped towards the sound, and that blasted hunter shot well before he could ever think about what he was shooting at.

The shot connected at Alastor’s forehead, perfectly centered between his eyes. One of the best shots he’d seen since he took you on hunting excursions when you both were alive.

His heart tightened at the thought of you. You were all he ever seemed to think about.

He hated himself. He hated this body. A prey animal. A buck. Pathetic little antlers akin to toothpicks until he was in his more powerful form.

Nothing down here mattered. If you weren’t here, then nothing mattered. Down here, it was survival of the fittest, and it seemed he needed to make more of a statement in order to curb any ideas that he was weak, and considering his affinity for all things radio-related, he had just the idea to make it a reality.

It didn’t take him long at all to unlock his full demonic potential, hijacking the sound waves and crackling onto every radio in Hell, he made his debut appearance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I interrupt this regularly scheduled programming to bring you the worst thing to ever happen to you sorry sinners since the day of your demise!” Screams of terror and agony rang out from all devices in Hell, reflecting the sheer agony he’s felt ever since he lost you. How therapeutic it was to inflict pain on others, and yet how simultaneously unsatisfying that they’d never feel a fraction of the pain he felt.

If only he knew that your little doe ears flicked to your radio in pure shock.

——

It had to be him. No one else sounded like that. Talked like that. Made your heart race like that.

Ever since being here, the only thing that terrified you was that initial run-in with that wolfish sorry excuse of a man, but now that was topped by the sound of Alastor’s voice filtering through your radio, accompanied by the screams of his victims.

It wasn’t that you were afraid of Alastor, just of facing the unrequited feelings you initially shot yourself to get away from.

Why was he here? He was such a gentleman in his life on the surface, how could it be that he’s here? More screams cut your thoughts short.

He’s so…used to this. So used to torture that he welcomes it with open arms.

He…he had to be like you, no? Living a double life, teetering on the edges of a socially acceptable, functioning member of society, and a cold-blooded killer?

A part of you salivated at the thought that maybe he killed for you at least once, like you’d done for him so many times.

No. No he wouldn’t do that for you.

Your tail wagged and your legs craved to bolt out towards wherever Alastor was. But who knew if he even wanted to see you again? You looked into the mirror of your vanity where the radio rested.

Were you ugly? Would he find this form hideous?

Your fist collided with the mirror, shattering into hundreds of tiny images of you.

You rested your face in your palms, a took a deep breath.

…what did he look like?

The temptation to see him was so strong, it was as if you were caught in a trance that forced you out of your luxurious penthouse, a testament to the many lives you ended and souls you puppeteer. The over abundance of hope held in your body leaked out in the form of green grass and clover that sprouted from each footstep you took.

“Please let it be him.” You whispered to no one in particular. “Please let it be him.”

——

It felt like no amount of bloodshed was enough. He wanted others to feel the hurt he felt internally, and yet, despite the fact that the streets were painted with the lives of the sinners caught in his clutches, it simply wasn’t enough.

The void in his heart and soul was gaping, and he attempted to fill it with the viscera and gore of those he slaughtered, the taste of bitterness and iron filling his maw.

“Y/N if you’re looking down on me, look away.” He whispered to himself, hoping you’d hear his plea and turn away from the carnage he created in your name.

“Alastor?”

This truly was Hell. He was hearing your angelic voice calling his name.

“Alastor?!”

What hurt most was that every part of this eternal punishment was deserved, he just didn’t know if he could accept it.

“Alastor!”

No. He couldn’t accept this infernal reality. If he had to hear your voice but never see you again, he was sure he wouldn’t make it in this afterlife.

His train of thought was cut clean off by a harsh yanking around his throat that sent him flying backwards into the ground.

In shock, he bolted upright, fingers moving towards his throat to cup it gently, as if to assess the damage. Instead of being met with the warmth of his demonic flesh, his fingertips met something cold, and metal-like.

There were no words for how you felt about this situation. How did you…how…?

How did you have a chain around his soul if you never initiated a deal with him? This was unheard of. Absolutely unorthodox.

While you were staring in shock at the glimmering white chain that you held in your hand, his red eyes drifted from the chain up towards the culprit who yanked it, forcing him to the ground.

His eyes widened when he saw who was at the other end of it. He lost his breath for the third time that day.

The first being the impact of his fall.

The second being the chain pulling on his neck.

The third being the vision of you, which could absolutely not be real.

“Y/N?” He whispered, wishing he could take it back. He hadn’t said your name in so long, it was like a button that made his tear ducts malfunction. His vision was blurry, his breathing shaky.

“I-“ you opened your mouth then immediately closed it. It truly was him. He looked different, hair longer, skin grey, teeth sharp. And he was red. So, so red. But it was him.

Your Alastor.

He slowly got up from the ground, feeling as though if he moved too quickly, you’d dissipate like a mist. He couldn’t handle that.

The chain you held in your claws slacked because of his inching towards you. You debated backing away, but his eyes, despite being the color of blood, of warnings, of danger, you were sure they’d never looked to soft.

And they were looking right at you.

You. The object of all of his wants, desires, and affections. Too stupid to realize it in your lifetime, yet brought together by the very thing that made him realize the depth of his love for you; death.

You weren’t sure when, but you started to cry.

His heart felt so heavy. Heavy with love, with grief, with a hatred for the way he made you cry.

His claws reached out, cradling your wet face, the most gentle action he performed with them that day.

Your body betrayed your mind, your head leaning into the warmth of his large hands. You thought he certainly wouldn’t want you to, but your heart couldn’t help it.

His thumbs carefully wiped away the tears on your cheeks, being mindful of the sharpness of his claws. “Is it really you?” He asked.

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you looked as though you were in pain. Your ears drooped. This isn’t the way you wanted him to see you. You looked-

“You’re as stunning as the day I lost you.”

You sucked your lips in, trying to hold in the sob that was fighting its way out of your body, and you closed the distance between the two of you in the tightest embrace you could possibly muster, buried your face in the lapels of his overcoat.

He held onto you like you’d disappear for a second time, finger carding through your hair, nose intaking your scent. You smelled just like you did on Earth, only, with more floral notes.

For the first time since you got to Hell, you sobbed. “I’m so sorry Alastor.” You wailed.

He was sure you could both hear his heart audibly crack, “You’ve nothing to be sorry about, my darling.” He tightened his hold onto you. He was terrified he’d say something wrong, to have you take your life a second time in order to run away from him. “I’m the one who will forever be sorry. I-I was such a fool.”

You looked up at him, and shook your head. “I- I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me again.” You admitted.

“Darling, every waking moment of my life after you’d gone was spent wishing you were by my side once again. What I did to deserve my wish coming true, I’ll never know, but I’d do it over again if it meant I could have you.” Your foreheads pressed together, entry wounds kissing. “Y/N, no words could ever convey how sorry I am for treating you the way I did. I was so blinded by my own ignorance and arrogance that I couldn’t see just how madly, deeply, and quickly I’d fallen in love with you.”

You searched his eyes for a hint of an untruth, but found none. You laughed wetly, sniffling. “I love you too. More than anything. To live without you wasn’t an option, Alastor.”

His smile tightened at your last sentence. “I feel the very same way.”

You were counting in your head when to act on your emotions, trying to build up the courage.

One.

Two.

You never got to three. You didn’t like landing on three because that’s when everyone expected something to happen, and you just couldn’t wait any longer.

You took Alastor’s face in your hands, leaning into him while bringing him closer with your arms. Your kiss wasn’t how you always dreamed it to be, and yet, it was somehow better. It tasted of bitterness, of sweetness, of blood and death, and of life. He smelled of iron, of rot, of cinnamon and a fireplace.

And then it overwhelmingly smelt of roses.

You parted, both looking around in shock at the garden of rose bushes your powers created. You were initially bashful, but Alastor’s smile never looked brighter, laughing as he took your face in his hands and kissed you again, looking around as the rose bushes grew even larger.

“It seems the best way to get you flowers is to kiss you, hmm?” He teased. “We’ll have our very own Garden of Eden by the end of the day.” He teased softly.

“Not before you tell me why you’re down here.” You lightly scolded him, no real anger of malice behind the question.

He froze for a second, wondering if he’d scare you away if you knew what he’d done. “My dear, I-“ you placed a finger over his lips.

“Alastor, nothing you could say would ever make me stop loving you.” You removed your finger from his face and gesturing for him to keep going.

“I murdered many men who preyed on women…” he admitted, looking off to the side.

“You’re leaving something out.” Your neck craning to follow his line of sight.

“I also murdered men who meant to court you…” his claws reached up behind his neck to scratch at it, but he was reminded of the chain around his throat.

“You killed for me?” You said, astonished. Alastor mistook it for silent horror, until he saw clover sprouting out from around your hooves. He looked into your eyes, and saw nothing but an unbridled passion for him and his actions, leading to his cheeks to burn red as the rest of him. “I have something to confess myself.” You said at this revelation. “I strangled multiple women because they sought your heart. I couldn’t allow any competition whatsoever.” You played with your fingers nervously, afraid of what his reaction would be.

He was sure that you were made for him, and he for you. No other woman could compare to the lovely creature that was you; homicidal tendencies and all. He kissed you again, having to put this surge of love somewhere.

You looked at his throat then, at the glowing white collar around it. He shivered when your hands traced the metal, the very hands that had wrapped around so many necks before. The softest and most delicate hands he’d ever known that had snuffed out so many lives in the name of your love for him.

“I don’t understand how this happened, Alastor. We never made a deal. I shouldn’t own your soul.”

He thought back to a human version of himself, a broken man who pledged his afterlife to you. A decision he wouldn’t ever regret.

He took your hands in his larger ones. “Darling, you have all of me, heart and soul. I know you’ll take wonderful care of it.” He kissed the inside of one of your palms. “However, if you are going to pull on the leash so harshly, next time I’d prefer a warning.”

-♥️-

I would say I apologize for the wait, but patience is a virtue! I hope you all enjoyed this part 2, and I appreciate the support my last fic got. Please know I appreciated all comments, reblogs, and hearts you all so generously gave. ♥️

TAGLIST: @diffidentphantom @xalygatorx @whitewolfsoldat @littledolly2345 @purple-umbrella-girl @milkissesx @cinnamon-galaxies @michi-keinz

And apologies to @psychoaxo and @ari42 I wasn’t able to tag you for some reason.

#x reader #fanfic #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor hazbin x you #alastor x you #alastor hazbin x reader #alastor fanfiction #alastor x oc #alastor hazbin hotel

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sensitive-neuvi-enthusiast · 11 months

Text

Only You're Mine, Do You Understand?

♡♡-Request: Dottore (webtoon ver) and reader are out on a mission. He leaves for an erand, while gone reader gets hit on and doesn't notice the pissed off Doctor. He fumes, dragging her to their hotel and fucks her against the bed, pinned down. 3rd Person.

☆☆-Warnings: darling (for reader), pussy play, 3rd person, fem!reader, pussy smacking, titty smack, spitting (on p), rough fucking, laughing during sex (crazy), possessive behavior, plaything (for reader), mentions of being a toy, p in v, unprotected sex, cuming inside, fingering, please let me know if I missed anything♡

A/N: I'm sorry if he seems a little ooc for the version anon wanted. I haven't read it and did my best to portray from what content I've seen of this version. Also, it's 3rd as anon requested. Somewhat of a darkish theme, MDNI.

Dottore often didn’t have much faith in others to do any job the correct way, only his clones and her did he trust. She wasn’t the worst partner he could ask for, listened real well and generally completed tasks in a quick manner. And she rarely questioned his methods, which he found as a plus! A pointed smile graced his face as he looked down at her, eyes holding a bit of wild to it, he made a point of poking her forehead. For what reason? He didn’t know but it was fun watching her reaction.

“There are some people over there I need to have a word with, stay here, will you darling?”

She gave him a small smile but nodded, “I’ll stay here until you’re done. We’ll go back to the hotel after. I think we’ve asked around as much as we could.” His tongue slides across his bottom lip before nodding, his pointed teeth peeking through the open space of his mask. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” He announced almost too loudly as he waved a hand behind him, laughing to himself as he walked off in a direction she hadn’t even noticed was there. How did he do that? With a sigh, she moved to take a seat on a vacant bench, her hands in her lap as she swung her legs back and forth. Jumping slightly when she felt someone sit beside her; a man she’d never seen before.

“Hi,” he said. His voice wavering slightly as a small blush spread on his cheeks. She returned the greeting, angling her body to face him. It was the polite thing to do.

…

Dottore had finished his impromptu meeting, sliding the test tube in his coat pocket, pausing when he caught sight of her. And that man. Immediate possessive, burning jealousy coursed through his veins. She was his to play with, not that man! His gloved hands tensed at his sides, teeth sharper than knives sunk into his lip, seething. Who did she think she was? This wouldn’t do. And to think he’d praised her earlier in his head! With worrying speed, he transformed his face into an unreadable one. To her at least, as he made his way over, the man who was talking to her could feel his presence before he got within a few feet. Making up some excuse before rushing away, leaving her poor face all confused. How sad.

“We’re leaving,” he announced. Taking small pride in the way she jumped at his voice, she hadn’t noticed him. Or she was pretending.

He wrapped his hand around her arm, a harsh grip that would more than likely leave a handprint later. Dottore dragged her through the streets, caring none for the looks others gave him or her for that matter. He was mad at her. His face was a mixture of a pout and anger with a hint of a smile when you both arrived at the hotel room. With great force, he yanked her arm and shoved her to the bed. Watching as her body bounced from the force, giggling when he paid special attention to her tits. He took no time in placing both hands on her chest, fingers gripping the fabric before ripping it to shreds. Doing the same with her bra.She barely had time to process what was happening.

“Dottore what ar-”

“Silence. Any explanation would bore me. I’m going to remind you who’s allowed to play with you. That’s the end of it.” He worked down her body and gave the same treatment to her pants and panties, tossing the scraps to the other side of the room. She was still confused and surprised, but somewhat got it. He must have seen that man flirting with her. And he was acting like this? She knew he had a slight possessive side, she’d seen it with his subjects (only a rare few) but nothing like this. But she couldn’t say she was completely against it. So all she did was nod, her body immediately arching as she felt him spit on her pussy. His gloved fingers smeared in the saliva to get her wet. “This is my pussy. You’re my plaything. No one else's.” He reared his hand back and gave a quick smack to her cunt, giggling as it twitched. Her slick increased as it leaked from her slit.

He semi pouted, “I want to play with you but you need a lesson. So we’re gonna rush this, mmkay?” Another giggle left his mouth as he stood, pulling down the zipper of his pants. Freeing his erection, his length slapped against the fabric of his coat but he paid it no mind. Instead, he slid his fingers into the folds of her cunt, making sure to get all nice and wet so he could lube his cock. A little pain was fun but she’d get more than her fair share from how hard he planned on fucking her. Content with the amount of arousal on his hand, he ran it up and down his length, breathy laughter mixing into the silence of the room. Safe for the low moans she’d emit every now and then.

“Up we go!” He said, the excitement evident in his voice as he hoisted her legs onto his shoulders. Wasting no time in feeding his girthy cock into her sopping pussy. To think, she’d gotten this excited in a span of a few minutes, how delightful! He was rough with his pace, fucking into her like she was a doll, a true toy for him to use. Because that’s what she was! His special, pretty little plaything that needed to be reminded! Dottore laughed again, breaking off into a groan as she clenched around him, sucking him in further. “Yeah! Taking it so good, almost makes me not wanna punish you, ahaha, just kidding. You deserve this.” He grunted, pushing her legs up higher so he could watch himself push in and out of her pussy. “Look at that! I need a picture, too bad I don’t have my Kamera. Guess my eyes will have to do!”

She whined pitifully, breasts bouncing with each thrust. She wanted to say something, say anything but he was quite literally fucking the words out of her, he didn’t mind. It was more fun this way. To watch her silent scream and well, cream around his cock. Speaking of which, “Oho? You cuming? Me too me too!” His laughing became a staple of this moment, the speed increasing as he fucked her through her orgasm, his following soon after. As his hips stilled, he gave her tits a playful smack before pulling out, immediately shoving his fingers inside.

“We can’t have you losing the present I just gave you, can we? You’re lucky I decided to give you one at all.”

Navigation

#genshin impact #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #lovelies requests #dottore smut #dottore x reader #dottore #dottore x fem!reader #webtore #webtoon dottore

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pinchofhoney · 1 year

Note

You know I can't stay away from your writing for long so here I am againnn....angst prompt 5 and fluff promt 10. Besties to loverss plsssss.....with either Sirius Black or Kaz I can't choose

No angst...I can't take it rnnnn 😭

take a hint # 200 followers special event

» prompt event » special events masterlist

angst prompt five: “please leave before i lose myself to madness and beg you to stay”

fluff prompt ten: and it was when A watched B look at someone else the way they wanted to be looked at. does A realize how much in love with their best friend they were?

gif is not mine, credit to the owner

kaz brekker x fem!reader

word count: 3.8k

warning: kaz has no romantic feelings for inej in this one, it doesn't have a specific time in the canon, i made up one of the characters, best friends to lovers (between the lines), mention of murder

summary: It seems that Kaz always expects you to read between the lines, even though you are a thief and not an expert in interpreting written texts.

a/n: whenever i see notifications from you, i feel like a happy golden retriever puppy, hello!!<33 i feel that writing anything with sirius would be easier for me in almost every way, especially since that character has been my favorite since childhood, but i wanted to try something new and i was thrilled with the chance to do so! (it's a mess)

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

As you stepped out into the gloomy, rain-soaked streets of Ketterdam, you could felt the weight of the city's bearing down upon you. It was a place where danger lurked around every corner, where crime and corruption were the norm, and where only the strongest and most cunning survived. The city's winding, labyrinthine streets were treacherous and difficult to navigate, with slimy cobblestones that seemed to shift and writhe beneath your feet. The stench of sewage and decay hanged heavy in the air, a reminder of the filth and squalor that permeated every inch of the city.

The people of Ketterdam were a rough and ragged bunch, with sharp tongues and even sharper knives. Every interaction was a potential threat, every stranger a possible enemy. It was a place where trust was hard to come by, and betrayal was always just a heartbeat away. And yet, despite all of this, you couldn't help but feel drawn to the city. It was the only place where you've ever felt truly at home, where you could be yourself without fear of judgment or rejection. It was a feeling that both comforted and terrified you, and you knew that you'll never be able to escape it, no matter how hard you try.

You hated Ketterdam with a passion, yet you found yourself unable to imagine living anywhere else. Maybe it was because you hated yourself too, the mere thought of being ordinary filled you with a deep-seated loathing. You had no talents, no skills that could make others look at you with admiration, and to make matters worse, you weren't your parents' favorite child either. That distinction belonged to your older sister, the Grisha who had always been showered with adoration and affection, even when she was away in the Little Palace, thousands of miles from home.

Your parents had always compared you to her, highlighting your shortcomings and making you feel like a disappointment. Even when she was gone, they treated you worse than they ever had before, as if you brought them shame just by existing.

Yet, in Ketterdam, your ordinariness was a blessing. As a member of a gang of thieves, you were the perfect fit. Your lack of beauty and grace made you unremarkable, allowing you to blend into the shadows and avoid attention. You moved with ease through the convoluted streets of the city, navigating its twists and turns, always keeping your wits about you. Of course, there were a times of doubts, where you couldn't help but think that perhaps being strikingly beautiful would be an asset to your profession, especially when robbing wealthy merchants who came to Ketterdam seeking to indulge in its illicit pleasures. But even then, you knew that such a gift would come with its own set of complications, and in Ketterdam, complications were the last thing you needed.

You pulled the hood of your dark cloak over your head, lowering it slightly to obscure your face. You didn't want to be recognized by anyone, but at the same time, you needed to keep an eye on your surroundings and react quickly if needed.

You hastily tucked your frozen hands into the pockets of your coat and quickened your step as you saw two men who were part of the Dime Lions. Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized them. Lately, you had been avoiding these people more than usual, ever since you got into an unnecessary street fight with several members of the gang. They had made it clear that they weren't happy with you, and you knew that they wouldn't hesitate to attack you if given the chance.

But it wasn't just the Dime Lions that you were avoiding. Some people in Ketterdam knew about things they shouldn’t. It was no secret that rumors spread like wildfire in this city, and often found their way into the hands of those who would use them for their own gain. But in a world full of terrible people, you had to be worse.

You walked with no clear destination in mind, driven by the need to distance yourself as much as possible from the Crow Club. It was only moments ago that you had found yourself in a heated argument with the one person who mattered the most to you. His stubborn pride had come between you once again, making you curse his name to the heavens above.

The tension in the hallway was thick enough to cut with a knife as you and Kaz stood facing each other, both seething with frustration. His eyes glinted in the dim light, anger etched deep into the lines of his face. What had started as a minor disagreement had quickly escalated into a full-blown argument, fueled by the unspoken feelings that both tried to hide.

“You don't understand, Y/N,” Kaz growled, his voice low and scratchy. “You never do. You're always off on your own, thinking you know what's best for everyone. You can't keep taking unnecessary risks. It's not just your life on the line.”

“I know that,” you snapped back, your eyes flashing with anger. “But we can’t just sit back and do nothing. We need to take action if we want to survive.”

“Of course we need to take action,” Kaz shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I'm not saying we should do nothing. But we need to be smart about it. We can't rush in blindly. That's why I'm in charge. I know what I'm doing.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “Sometimes being smart means taking risks. That's how we get ahead.”

A heavy silence hung in the air between you, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the rustle of your clothes. Kaz's gaze bore into you with an intensity that made your skin crawl.

His jaw tightened, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Fine,” he said, his voice icy. “Do whatever you want. But don't expect me to follow you blindly into danger.”

You took a step closer to Kaz, your eyes blazing. “I don't need you to follow me, Kaz. I can take care of myself.”

His eyes narrowed, and he took a step back, his hand on his cane for support. “Then go ahead and do that. But please, leave before I lose myself to madness and beg you to stay.”

Your chest tightened with hope as Kaz's words registered in your mind. Could it be that he actually wanted you to stay? But your hopes were dashed as you saw him turn his back and begin walking away. The urge to call out to him, to make him admit his feelings, consumed you, but you knew it was pointless. Kaz Brekker was not one to bare his soul.

With a frustrated growl, you clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug painfully into your palms. Without another word, you turned and stormed down the stairs. Ignoring Jesper's questioning gaze and Wylan's confused expression, you burst out into the rain-soaked streets of the Barrel, letting the cool droplets wash away your anger and frustration.

Your mind was a chaotic mess of emotions as you walked, all directed towards the one man who had the power to make you feel so much. Kaz's words echoed in your head, spoken in his rough voice, which usually sounded like the most beautiful melody to your ears, but now it was a curse that tormented you and did not allow you to find peace.

“I don't need you, Kaz. You're the last person I want,” you muttered under your breath, and as if fate was playing a game, you bumped into the very person with whom the whole argument began. What a coincidence.

You lifted your gaze, and your eyes met with the one who infamously called himself Ketterdam's most dangerous person. Although he didn't know you, you were familiar with him well enough to know that he would want to have you with him despite your undistinguished appearance and lack of special skills.

In a rush of panic, you lowered your head, feigning humility to mask your face. “I apologize, sir,” you began, trying to hide the hint of fear you could sense in your voice. “I should be more careful.”

The man smirked, his eyes scanning over your form. “It's no problem, sweetheart,” he said, his voice oozing with arrogance and entitlement. “But you should watch where you're going. It's not safe to be wandering around these parts alone.” His hand brushed against your arm, sending shivers down your spine.

You flinched at the touch, trying to pull away from him, but then he grabbed you. You knew what type of man he was, and the last thing you wanted was to be alone with him in a dark alley. You tried to think of an excuse to leave, but before you could say anything, the gravelly rasp of a familiar voice interrupted.

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” Kaz's voice was calm and controlled, but there was an underlying threat that made the man release his grip on you and take a step back.

“None at all,” the man replied smoothly.

Kaz stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “I suggest you leave the lady alone then.”

The man scoffed. “I suggest you mind your own business, boy.”

Kaz's hand, covered with a leather glove, tightened on the crow's head ornamenting his cane. “I'll make it my business if I see someone harassing a woman in my city.”

The man sneered, clearly not intimidated by Kaz's threat. “Your city?” he asked with a hint of derision, studying Kaz more thoughtfully. Suddenly, as if he had just connected the dots, he added, “Last time I checked, it was still called Ketterdam, not Dirtyhands's kingdom.”

Kaz's expression didn't change, but you could sense the tension in the air. “Believe what you want, but if you don't leave now, I'll make sure you regret it.”

The man seemed to consider his options for a moment before finally releasing a grunt of annoyance and walking away, oblivious to the inevitable fate that awaited him regardless of his decision. Death was the only possible outcome and the only variable was who would carry out the execution.

Finally, the man was out of sight, and you released a breath you didn't even realize you were holding. Kaz turned to you, and you met his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and anger. Despite feeling indebted to him for his intervention, you couldn't help but feel frustrated by his interference. “I didn't need your help,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Kaz raised an eyebrow. “It sure looked like you did.”

You glared at him, feeling embarrassed and exposed. He had seen you in a moment of vulnerability, and you hated yourself for it. “I could have handled it,” you insisted, although you knew it was a lie. You couldn't have handled the situation on your own. You were a skilled thief, but you lacked the physical strength to overpower a man twice your size. You were not armed with revolvers, nor did you possess the abilities of a Corpsewitch. You were just an average person, with quick fingers and the ability to pick locks, nothing more.

“How did you know where to find me?” you added.

“Did you think I wouldn't follow you? I had a feeling you'd get yourself into trouble, but I didn't expect it to happen so soon.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small part of you was grateful that Kaz had your back. “And what about-”

“Inej will take care of him,” he said, cutting you off, signaling that he didn't want to discuss the matter any further. “Let's head back to the Slat. You're soaked.”

Kaz started walking away, disappearing into a dark alley without waiting for you. You sighed and followed him, feeling the dampness of your clothes sticking to your skin.

The walk back to the Slat was silent, with only the sound of raindrops hitting the cobblestones to fill the air. As you entered the place, you immediately noticed the curious looks of your crewmates. Jesper was there, even though he usually preferred gambling at the Crows Cub and Matthias stood at the top of the stairs, watching you with his arms crossed. It seemed like everyone was waiting for you to return, and you couldn't help but feel uneasy.

Ignoring the greetings, Kaz announced, “You'll never guess who Y/N met.” The room fell silent, and Kaz removed his hat as if to emphasize his point. “Antoon Beudeker.”

A hum of surprised sounds ran through the room, and all eyes turned to you. You felt uncomfortable being the center of attention. You had been trying to track down Beudeker for weeks, but he always managed to slip away from you, as if someone in the Dregs was tipping him off about your plans.

Nina spoke up, breaking the silence. “What do you mean by that?”

Kaz looked at you, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “A talent for stealing isn't Y/N's only skill. As you can see, the talent for trouble far outweighs it.”

You shifted uncomfortably under Kaz's gaze, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. You knew you had made a mistake by bumping into Beudeker, but it wasn't even your fault. All you wanted was to cut yourself off after the argument with Kaz, and now he was the one who was right again.

Wylan's voice carried through the quiet room, breaking the tension. “What are we do with him now?” he asked, but no one answered, assuming that it was up to their missing Wraith to handle the situation.

Jesper's frustration boiled over, and he jumped up from his seat. “It's not fair!” he exclaimed, pointing his revolver at the wall. “I was the one who wanted to put a bullet between his eyes.”

Matthias stepped forward, before anyone reacted to sharpshooter's words, his expression serious. “We need to figure out who's been leaking our plans to Antoon. This could be dangerous for all of us.”

“I agree,” Nina added. “We need to find out who's been betraying us and deal with them.”

Wylan's voice piped up, “What if we set a trap?”

Kaz nodded, considering the idea.

“We could feed different information to each member of the Dregs and see which version gets back to someone who will claim to be Beudeker now. That way, we'll know who we can trust and who we can't,” you suggested.

Nina grinned. “I like it. And if we catch the traitor, we can make an example out of them.”

Jesper's eyes gleamed with anticipation. “I'll provide the entertainment.”

Matthias shook his head. “No, Jesper. We can't take the law into our own hands. We'll handle the traitor according to our own rules, but we won't kill them.”

Jesper shrugged, disappointed but not arguing. “But killing is our rule, Helvar.”

Matthias's expression darkened, but before he could reply, Kaz spoke up. “That's enough. We're not discussing this any further. We need to focus on finding the leak first, not arguing about how to deal with them.”

Jesper and Matthias both looked at Kaz, but neither of them said anything. The silence in the room was heavy with tension, and you could sense the frustration emanating from Jesper and the anger radiating from Matthias. Kaz's tone had effectively shut down the conversation, but you knew that it was far from over.

“We'll start investigating tomorrow,” Kaz's voice filled the room again. “For now, let's all get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us.”

As Kaz's words faded away, the tension in the room dissipated, and everyone began to go their separate ways. You hesitated, still reeling from the events of the evening, unsure of what to do next.

Sensing your unease, Kaz approached you, his expression serious but not unkind. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he said, his voice low. “But we have a job to do, and we can't afford to let our emotions cloud our judgment. I need you to be focused tomorrow, do you understand?”

You nodded, feeling a bit guilty for today’s argument. “Yes. I'll be ready,” you replied, determined to not let him down.

Kaz gave you a small nod of approval before turning to leave. You watched him go, listening to the rhythmic tapping of his cane on the panels. The weight of his words settling on your shoulders. It was true that you couldn't afford to let your emotions get in the way of the investigation, but it was easier said than done. The events of the evening had shaken you to your core, and you weren't sure if you could push them aside so easily. Life in Ketterdam has been hard, but never before has such danger reached you directly.

With a heavy sigh, you made your way back to your room, hoping that a good night's rest would help clear your mind.

You were surprised to find the Antoon's spy so easily, feeling foolish for not discovering it sooner. Despite the setback, the mood in the Crow Club remained peaceful as the days passed. The seventh of you sat together, planning your next move and gossiping about Ketterdam's richest people. Kaz seemed more relaxed than usual, and even Jesper and Matthias were on their best behavior, seemingly content to simply enjoy the moment of peace.

As the night wore on and the group's conversation continued to flow, you couldn't help but notice Kaz's eyes on you. You caught his gaze a few times, and each time you felt a jolt of electricity run through you. It was a feeling you had been trying to ignore for a while now, but it was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day.

As you turned to look at Jesper, who was recounting a funny story, you noticed Kaz's expression change slightly. It was a subtle shift, but you could tell he was suddenly distant, lost in thought.

After a few minutes, Kaz stood up and motioned for you to follow him. You looked around at the others, confused, but they simply shrugged and continued their conversation. You followed Kaz up the dimly lit hallway to his office.

Once inside, Kaz closed the door and motioned for you to take a seat. You sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, feeling a bit nervous. Kaz took a seat opposite you, resting his cane on the desk, right next to the chair and leaned forward, his elbows on his desk.

His expression was serious, but not unkind. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” he began, his voice low. “I've noticed that things between us have been a bit... different lately.”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Different how?” you asked, not sure if you really wanted to know the answer.

Kaz leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I think you know what I mean,” he replied, his gaze fixed on yours.

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized what he was talking about. “Kaz, I...” you began, but he cut you off with a wave of his hand.

“I just wanted you to know that I'm aware of the situation,” he said, his tone even, then he paused for a moment. “You know, Y/N. I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to care for someone. To really care for someone,” he looked directly at you, his eyes intense, emphasizing the weight of his words. “And I've come to the conclusion that there's no one I care for more than you.”

You were completely taken aback by Kaz's words. You had never heard him express his feelings so openly before. Your heart raced as you searched his face for any sign of insincerity, but you found none. You were overcome with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and joy.

His heart sank as he watched you gaze at Jesper with a look of admiration and affection earlier, even if you two were just friends. It was then that he realized how deeply in love with you he truly was. He had been trying to ignore his feelings for you for so long, but seeing you look at someone else with such tenderness was too much to bear.

Kaz carefully chose his words, wanting to express his feelings without being too direct. “I've been thinking about our friendship,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I value our bond more than anything else in the world, and I want to make sure that nothing ever comes between us.”

“Why are you bringing this up now?” you asked genuinely confused by Kaz's sudden openness.

He shifted in his seat, looking almost uncomfortable, “Well, I just wanted to make sure that you know how much you mean to me,” Kaz said, his eyes meeting yours. “There's no one else I trust or care for more than you, Y/N.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the sincerity and depth of emotion behind them. You knew that he was a man of few words, and when he spoke, it was always with a purpose. It was hard to reconcile this Kaz with the cold and distant one you had grown accustomed to over the years.

You couldn't help but feel that there was an underlying message in Kaz's words, something that he wasn't explicitly stating. Your intuition was telling you that there was more to the story than what he had let on. You couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that something was amiss.

“Kaz,” you began, your voice hesitant. “Is there something else you want to tell me? Something that you're not saying?”

Kaz's expression remained neutral, but you could sense a hint of discomfort in his demeanor. You knew that he wasn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so you weren't surprised that he was hesitant to open up to you completely.

“I've said what I needed to say,” Kaz replied, his voice flat. “There's nothing more to it.”

His reply felt like a dead end, and you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. You knew that he was a complex person, with layers that even you couldn't fully comprehend, but you couldn't shake off the sense that he was still holding something back. Nonetheless, you tried to put on a brave face and show your gratitude for his honesty.

“Okay,” you said, rising from your seat. “I appreciate you telling me how you feel. Our friendship means the world to me too, Kaz.” You couldn't help but wonder what his true intentions were, but you knew that you needed to be patient and let him come to you when he was ready.

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mychoombatheroomba · 9 months

Text

Firing Range

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 10

As the weeks go by, you and Leon get closer.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Index

Weeks went by, quick as the slash of a knife. Leon learned to think of each day as a step by step - get through each task, each lesson, then worry about the next. He didn’t give himself a chance to pause, or let the fatigue set in. Not if he could help it. What had him out of breath once, now he could weather with greater and greater ease. He could feel the change in his body; muscles hardening, his reflexes improving. His legs would carry him further, and his aim was steadier. He could feel himself being honed into something sharper, and there was some grim satisfaction in that. Even so, he preferred to focus on the other changes those weeks brought.

Changes like the way you, on an unremarkable day, had set your tray down beside his at lunch, and didn’t look bothered when he did the same the following day. Or the way the conversations the two of you shared had slowly been growing longer. Many of those conversations were about the present - ways to improve, not just with knives, but with many aspects of STRATCOM training. Sometimes you would discuss music. Movies. Other interests. Leon clung to every piece of information you would give him, wanting to know more about you.

And, of course, some conversations were about the past. Those ones were more painful, but no less important to Leon.

“Is it alright,” he’d begun one night, a few days after your initial talk, “if I ask you about what happened that night?”

You hadn’t looked too thrilled, but you didn’t look surprised, either. “You can ask,” you said, “but I may not answer.”

“You said you weren’t in Raccoon City when you saw bioweapons. Where were you?”

You’d blinked, braced yourself. “On base in Finland.”

“Was it the same night you got hurt?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . you were stabbed, weren’t you? With a knife?”

“I was.”

“But it wasn’t a bioweapon?”

“No.”

“So then how did it happen?”

You frowned, and whatever your reasons, Leon knew not to press further after you answered: “Pass.”

A few days later, you had a question for him.

“Do you know how the outbreak started in Raccoon City?”

He’d been told not to speak on the matter. Why, he couldn’t say. Still, when it came to you, Leon decided that you deserved to know.

“Umbrella. The pharmaceutical company. They were experimenting with viral weaponry underneath the city.” Thinking of what he’d seen made Leon tense. Grip his knife tighter.

“Umbrella.” You’d looked a little distant as you heard the words. “So, they . . . what, infected everyone up top?”

“Not intentionally, I think. It was an accident.” And then he told you what he’d seen of the camera footage - the doctor, the armed men sent after him, and the broken vials of the viruses. “Rats found the vials. I think they spread it.”

“And the men that went after the doctor. Do you know who they were working for?”

“No, I’m not sure. He knew they were coming, though.”

You’d hummed, thinking. “And you found all this on security camera footage? From inside the Umbrella labs?”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell were you doing down there?”

“I was looking for a sample of the virus. I . . .” he’d paused, choking on the memory of a woman in a red dress pressing her lips to his, and then holding a gun to his heart. “I thought it would help bring Umbrella down.”

“Did you get it?”

“. . . Pass.”

You respected the end of the conversation just as much as Leon did, and just like that, the two of you had a system. An easy way out. A way to jump ship, to stop either of you from being lost in the memories.

He told you the abstract. Zombies. Umbrella. The city being lost.

He kept other things closer to his chest. Marvin, the glimpse into the life that could have been. Claire, the girl he’d come to respect more than almost anyone else. Sherry, the child who he’d given up his freedom for. Ada, the woman who he’d lost, not that he’d ever really had her to begin with. You didn’t need to know about them, and he didn’t need to know everyone you’d lost, either.

It felt good to have someone who understood. Someone who had been through that same hell. You didn’t pity him or what he’d been through, and what questions you asked weren’t an interrogation. Even if he wished that neither of you had been through what you’d been through, or seen what you’d seen, he was glad to have you - for company, and for help. The latter became all the more true when Krauser announced that Leon’s squad would be going through assessments.

“Already?” you asked, when Leon mentioned it over lunch. “He’s moving fast.”

“What’s he ‘assessing’? He wasn’t very clear,” Leon said, glad for the conversation taking his mind off the tasteless food he shoveled into his mouth.

“Everything,” you said before taking a sip of water.

“Everything.” Leon huffed. “Everything ‘soldier’ or everything ‘they’re going to make me retake the SAT?”

You deadpanned in the way you usually would, raising a brow and almost - almost - letting the side of your mouth curl up into a smirk. “Fitness, marksmanship, combat. Everything he’s taught you so far . . .” you paused, considering something, “. . . and maybe some things he hasn’t.”

“That is . . . not a whole lot more helpful.”

“Well, giving away everything would defeat the point of the test.”

“Right. So, if we pass, then what?”

“Then you move to the next phase of training.” You took another sip. Your eyes didn’t break from his own. “Same as my unit.”

The idea shouldn’t have made him as excited as it did. Advanced training meant more pain. More demanding exercises. More blood and bruises. It also meant that he would be one step closer to being ready. It meant that he would be able to manage whatever came his way. It meant, perhaps, that he would be in like company more often than just mealtimes and personal hours. That shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

“So, maybe we branch out,” you offered, interrupting his thoughts as you rested your arms against the table. “Focus on more than just knives.”

And that was how Leon found himself at the firing range that evening, holding a handgun instead of a knife. He might have hated how natural it felt to him, a few months ago. Now, it was a welcome relief. There was even some twisted excitement to it, because he’d agreed to this not only for the practice. You were at his side, holding your own gun like you’d been born with one in your hand. Part of him wouldn’t have been surprised if that were really the case.

The two of you had headphones on, though something told Leon that both of you had long since begun to damage your hearing with the sound of gunfire. Still, any words would be muffled, so you didn’t speak. You just tilted your head towards the targets downrange.

That was all the signal Leon needed.

Live rounds. STRATCOM wanted the best from their recruits and didn’t mind fronting the money for the munitions. It meant that an officer stood on duty by the door, there to observe. Neither of you paid him much mind.

There were twelve rounds in the magazine of his gun. Twelve times, as he pointed the gun forward, he squeezed the trigger. Twelve little ringing sounds as the shells fell to the floor.

When those twelve rounds were fired, Leon felt a little swell of pride in him as he looked through twelve holes punched through the target. Not quite dead center on all of them, but damned close.

He couldn’t help but look over at you, grinning like a bandit because, at last, he got to prove that he was good at something. If he was being honest with himself, that was part of why he’d agreed to this. He knew that you didn’t think less of him for his skill level in anything - you had never given him anything but respect. Still, it felt good to be able to show you that he wasn’t some helpless rookie. Not in every aspect, at least.

It made the impressed look you gave him all the better. “Not bad,” Leon read your lips before you turned towards your own target, your eyes narrowing as you took aim. You were fast, firing with a practiced precision. Quick and efficient, the same way you fought. Leon watched as you tore through the target, his eyes switching between the range and the steady iron of your arms.

When it was done, you stepped back, setting your pistol down and taking your headphones off. “Not so bad yourself,” Leon gestured down range. You’d shot about the same as he had, from the look of things, and he wouldn't have expected anything less.

“Years of practice,” you said, matter-of-factly. “You’ve got a natural talent, looks like. Or beginner’s luck.”

“What? Don’t think I’ve had ‘years of practice’ too?”

“Not with the military, you haven’t.”

“That obvious?”

“No soldiers I know have that haircut.”

Leon, for all he had been through, all the times you’d handed his ass to him, felt himself go a little red at the comment. It must have been obvious, because you looked entirely too pleased with yourself. The grin you let slip made it worth it, he supposed. “You’ve been holding on to that one for a while now, haven’t you?”

“Since day one,” you nodded, shifting your weight onto one leg and grabbing at the headphones around your neck.

“Well, it’s not beginner’s luck,” Leon insisted, “I did have some training. I was going to be a cop.”

“Of course, you were,” you shook your head, not at all surprised. “But what do you mean ‘going to be’?”

He wasn’t sure if that night was getting easier to talk about, exactly, but Leon found the answer escaping him quickly all the same. “I really only got one day in.”

“Ah,” you nodded, understanding as you always did. So much of what the two of you had shared about that night were the monstrosities. The why and how. Not so much what life was like before.

“What about you?” he asked, eager to switch the subject off of his only day on the job. “How long have you been serving?”

Before you answered, your eyes flitted off to the side like you were doing the math in your mind. “Four . . . almost five years, now.”

Leon let out a little huff of air, his eyebrows rising. “Did you join right out of high school?” You had to have - if he was guessing your age correctly.

“Yep,” you nodded, your answer short and stiff.

He wondered if he’d interpreted it correctly for only a moment before he asked another question. “Never thought of doing anything else?” He almost couldn’t picture it - you working some normal job in a city, spending hours a day at a desk or rushing between tables. You seemed so natural in this life . . . but he knew better than anyone that not everyone who was here had chosen to live this way.

You paused, eyebrows drawn together as you thought. “I thought about it,” you finally admitted, and the resignation in your voice gave Leon pause. “Not sure what I would have done, to be honest.”

“What made you join?”

He expected the answer he got before you even opened your mouth. “Pass.”

Another missing piece, but if it wasn’t one you wanted him to have, then he could do without.

“Well,” Leon breathed, “you’re a damn good soldier. Whatever your reasons.”

You looked up at him then, something flickering behind your eyes. “That wouldn’t be flattery, would it?” Your voice was low. Why was it so low? So the officer at the door wouldn’t hear? That had to be it.

“Not flattery,” Leon shook his head, speaking earnestly. “Just fact.”

You huffed, shaking your head and rolling your eyes. “Alright, pretty boy-” you said it and Leon might have choked because he never - never - thought to hear those words from you, “-less talking, more shooting.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been called that here. He’d heard Valeria and some of the others refer to him that way - even Krauser, on a rare occasion. Always mocking, when it came to the Major. Hearing it from you . . . it shouldn’t have thrown him for a loop, but here he was, reeling like you’d knocked him in the back of the head.

The last time he’d felt like that-

He wouldn’t let himself think of it. Not when he knew where that spiral of thoughts would lead him. Instead, he moved back to the firing range, about to slide the headphones back over his ears when your voice stopped him.

“Tell you what,” you grinned, “we’ll keep score tonight. Whoever wins gets the knife tomorrow.”

And whoever lost . . . “Fighting full out?” he asked, glad of the distraction - both from Ada’s memory and from the effect your words had on him.

“Full out,” you nodded.

“. . . I don’t think I’d do very well against you unarmed,” Leon admitted, because he knew damn well that it was the truth.

“Well,” you shrugged, pulling your headphones back on and glancing over at him with a smirk, “then I guess you’d better shoot straight.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Index

A/N: Leon is down so bad and who could blame him?

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #jack krauser #resident evil x reader #resident evil 2 #resident evil 4 #resident evil #between the bones #gender neutral reader #leon kennedy x you #no y/n

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aspiring-house-husband · 1 year

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it was feared in your village. they said it was half man, half monster. said it was beautiful and sung soft songs, but it was evil and would lure you away to kill you. they bring back bodies from the woods of men who were trapped by it and gored with its knives made of its own shed antlers. bitten by its sharp teeth, like a wolf’s, and ripped at by claws like bears’. they say that if you ever see it, run. hide. pray it does not find you. they say to stay clear of its woods, and never follow a voice into the trees.

their fear of it gave you peace and quiet in the woods, for you had never felt in danger. you had always felt quite safe. you had seen the bodies, sure, but still you privately doubted the creature’s existence. a man with antlers? claws? fangs?

“you are not one of them,” comes an unnatural voice behind you, one with too much clicking, like the tongue was extra zealous in the forming of the words. you whirl to see him, and his eyes glint like a deer looking into the fire. but he’s missing his antlers.

“you look…”

“i take this form to better communicate with you,” he says, slinking closer to you. he stays low to the grasses and undergrowth as he moves, stretching long legs around to keep himself grounded. he’s smaller and lither than you would have imagined. “you don’t realize it, but you do the same, to speak with them. those humans. you are so much more than them.”

“what do you mean?”

“you are of mine, not theirs,” he tells you, and now he climbs your torso, cupping your face. he slots his lips to yours, and no sooner do you melt to the kiss that he slides his tongue into your mouth, invading it, tasting it. but he pushes further, and with shock and slight fear you realize that his tongue is long. it explores you, deep and filling your mouth, licking into your throat and obsessing your mind with his taste. when he pulls away, his face is sharper, like a canine’s, and he licks his fangs from both his drool and yours.

“this is what lives in you,” he says, and his eyes are slitted, and his antlers have grown in. he looks like the demon they warn you about, but he feels protective. like a friend.

he grabs onto your shirt and pulls you to a rock not far away, sitting himself on it and lifting his legs to hook you between them. his ankles have lengthened out like a wolf’s, and he curls his fingertips to not slice through your shirt with bearish claws.

“give in to it,” he growls, long tongue circling his jaw and salivating as he looks at you. he pulls you close with the grip of his legs and you match the motion by holding onto his hips. he draws his hands down your body, until his too-long fingers grip into your pants and tear them apart. your cock hardens against his thighs when he exposes it to his skin.

“give in and be one with me,” he says, resting his forehead against your collarbone.

“yes,” you breathe, your body on fire as you push closer to him, to his heat, his wetness. he opens his thighs to invite you inside, and it’s no effort to push into him. you grip into his hips harder as the pleasure washes over you, shuddering down your body. he squeezes to encourage you, and you almost go cross-eyed at the tightness. he’s so perfect around you, feels so lovely, so right.

“let go,” he whispers against your chest, teasing his fangs across your skin, lighting it aflame everywhere his breath fans. you snap your hips into him, then again, and again, until he’s spread out on his back and arched his chest to the sky and he moans and whines and howls. it’s too good, it’s fire and adrenaline and rushing rivers and moonlit skies. it’s the wind of a hurricane and the autumn leaves bleeding red and the swell of blood flushing under his skin as his muscles tense around you. it’s the strong smell of his sweat and arousal and slick in your nostrils and the taste of his skin that you so badly want to bite and marr. it’s the feel of his hole around you, clamping down as though claiming you as his, your cock thrusting back in to mark him as yours.

it’s when you’re too tall to fuck him comfortably that you flip him onto his side, clawed hands tangling into his hair and avoiding both antlers and fluttering ears to keep his head down so he can keep taking it so perfectly, watching your thrusts ripple in his flesh. he cums around you after he pulls his leg up and over your shoulder, and doesn’t let you pull out to let him recover. instead he grips onto your antlers to pull your head down to him and tangles his long tongue around yours, the two slipping over each other, mixing their tastes.

“make us one,” he says, his hole still throbbing around you. his ankle locked behind you and still pulling you toward him makes the order hard to ignore.

you pull out only when his legs go limp against you, and you’re treated with the sight of your cum slowly spilling from his hole. he reaches out with clawed fingers in such a soft motion that you couldn’t resist but to sunbathe on the rock next to him, letting him catch his breath by resting his head on your chest.

“you’re so much more than human,” he tells you again, and this time, he breathes it like a prayer. his thigh over your hips is soft when your cock rises against it again, and his tongue leaves cooling tracks of saliva across your chest.

#monster #og #story #outdoor #transformation #corruption

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ashwritesandyaps · 28 days

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wip

Mal was born a leader. It may have been fear of her mother that stopped people from attacking her when she was a younger fae but as she got older, the fear was purely of her. She’d created her own terror, sharp words and sharper knives. It wasn’t easy to make people fear death when revival was possible.

No, Mal was good at dragging out the dying. It was painful, torturous. The gang knows. Jay knows what that feels like, remember how he pleaded with her to snap his neck to quicken the process. She had a wild look in her eyes, fingers trembling against his neck. There were never empty promises and she would do as she said.

Jay knows the fear of letting go of control. When shorter-than-now Mal turned up and set a deal with him promising him protection and safety in exchange for his skills, he tensed and wondered what elaborate scheme she was planning. Maybe some new technique he hadn’t seen yet. It was hard and he knew trusting her could mean dying for a week, could mean more enemies on this god forsaken island and suffering tenfold what he already had been.

But the day he shook hands with her, blood seeping into each other through fresh wounds on rough palms, was the start of something. Whatever it is.

Jay will always be proud to stand as her second, to puff his chest and stare down those who go against her. To swing his fist to protect. To stand in front of danger when really he knows she is the danger. He’s proud she trusts him, lives for the up and down glance she gives him when he impresses her. Proud that she’s choosing him.

#disney descendants #jay son of jafar #descendants #mal bertha #jayandmal #jal

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papaver-decervicatus · 1 year

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Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 2, Mus Rusticus

After months of tense flirting and teasing with the mountain of a man she only knows an König, Mouse finds herself in a life-or-death situation while on patrol in the Alps. Maybe her new admiration isn't as one-sided as she thinks…

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Wow! The response to this fic has been incredible, heartwarming, and just baffling to me! I cannot express how happy I am to share this with you all!

Being completely objective, this chapter requires some suspension of disbelief, the circumstance is not totally likely but alas, I am here for fun.

My college classes are starting up soon, so expect slower updates moving forward. As always, please feel free to leave a comment/reblog with a message saying you want to be added to the taglist or just interact in general!

Cura ut Veleas❣️~ Caedis

PREV | Pt. 2, Mus Rusticus | 4.1k words | Mouse POV | NEXT

He’s a vision, he’s hard to miss on the horizon, he stands out like a mountain lion against his fellow men. He sways his hips wide, the trusty Glock Field knife he keeps on his belt shines like a beacon. It’s such an outrageously cocky move, to keep glinting metal on his person when she’s sure he’s supposed to be stealthy. He’s tall as a tree and broad as a train and always has some hood covering his face. He’s sniper candy, he’s so obviously right there it makes her dig blunt nails into her arm in frustration. He’s hard to miss, should be her straight shot.

But he never is.

She never gets the barked orders, the confirmation. She’s asked a hundred times. When it’s in the forest, it’s less warfare and more stakeout. She’s not paid enough to know what she’s looking for, but she always sees him. And she’s always been told not to shoot. She stops asking at some point, but like everything else with this man, she doesn’t quite remember when. Her life is a blur of missions and off time and him and nothing else.

It’s been months since the ravine and she’s seen him just about everywhere she’s been. When SpecGru was gathering intel on KorTacs drug affiliations, she saw him in the haunted deserts of Sonora, Mexico where she lies in the dirt redder than blood and coyotes sing her to sleep. She gazes down at him atop crumbling 16th-century Byzantine marble when she picks off the guards of a weapons supplier in Belgrade, Serbia. In the ancient and verdant bamboo forest of Yibin, China, hunting down spy affiliations, she camps across a creek from him for a night.

It’s a small world, but not quite small enough for her to believe just how they keep running into each other. No matter where she ends up, their eyes always meet.

The eyes of the apparition with bloody tears on top of an executioner's hood always flick right towards her, even when she’s under a ghillie or some camo or nothing particularly obtrusive at all. She’s even taken off her scope once or twice to reduce glare, to see if the monster still turns her way then. To see if the cat is following a laser pointer she’s unwittingly putting out.

He does.

Always finds her.

No matter what.

He would’ve been a good sniper, in another life. If he wasn’t built like the trees she climbs for her shots.

Very few things are constant in her work. Very few people stay, very few people know. It’s awful, but she starts to hope to see him on the fields. Like he’s some coworker she’s been flirting with in the coffee lounge.

But he’s not her coworker. Quite the opposite, he’s a soldier on the other side. The enemy. He breaks men’s spines on his knee like toothpicks. He hums with visceral energy, like mud, blood, and guts. He disembowels men like fish. He walks like a monster with three legs (and at some point about three months into their little game, she touches herself thinking about that third leg.) He swings wide, he keeps his knives sharper than cat eyes.

His stare is constant, glacial, beautiful.

She wonders what the rest of him looks like, with such a beautiful set of eyes. Beautiful thighs. Beautiful shoulders. He must have some reason for the mask, but she can’t help but think (or hope) he’s a good kisser under there. That his hands must be larger than life, that his skin must be warm. That his teeth must feel good if used in particular places with caution and moderation.

She’s sure if he ever caught her, the cat would sink his teeth right in.

She finds she wouldn’t quite mind getting chewed on by him when they accidentally pick up each other’s radio frequencies in the field. They should be encrypted. They shouldn’t be able to, but the cruel stars align and they make their pacts.

It’s a game of cat and mouse. They’ve got their own little rules, too.

They don’t talk about work or positioning, he always knows where she is but never tells anyone on his team. Once she reaches out, he never gets any closer. Like it’s a game. Like they’re playing hide and seek and he knows he opened his eyes too early so he’s closing them again and pinky swearing not to tell.

He must not tell, because SpecGru has yet to fall into an ambush. So has KorTac, though. If anyone knew they’d have their heads, but no one else does. The secret stays between them and their radios become the divining rods of close encounters.

Mostly it’s just breathing on each line, mostly it’s just-

“König?”

“Maus?”

“Mhm.”

“Hmm.”

And that’s it. And they breathe at the same time, and he looks up at her in the trees or in her towers or wherever she is. And she hopes he’s thinking the same terrible things that she is, and she hopes that he keeps striking out at base camp and bars and wherever just like she has, and she hopes that he’s lonely like she is. That he has nothing else to focus on so she takes all the space in his head like he does hers.

She knows she should get a shrink or a good fuck to stop fucking thinking about him like this, but sometimes he whispers a joke into his radio and she laughs, and sometimes she tells him about the book she’s been reading, and sometimes he shows her his favorite knife tricks, and sometimes she tells him stories of before she was in the military and he always laughs and asks questions to show he’s actually engaged and he cares and-

She doesn’t know when she started missing shots. When she started covering his ass the three or so times he didn’t recognize some hostile getting a bit too close for comfort.

When the fire is heavy and the mission is condensed into a 100th the size of their usual open field rendezvous, she’s seen him in action. He can handle himself, he can more than handle himself. Some terrible part of her hopes, though, that he is thankful for her. Cover fire from a traitorous Angel in the trees, makes for a good romance novel but a terrible dynamic in war. And that’s what this is, right? It’s war? But what for?

She doesn’t know. She’s not sure she wants to. So she keeps their little secret and she prays that he stays safe when she really can’t risk covering for him. To that point, though, he does himself no favors. He fights like he can’t get hit.

When they’re alone he’s the perfect gentleman, he gets no closer than when she reaches out to contact him first. When they’re not, it's a whole different story. He runs into the middle field like if he can just reach her, he can keep her. If he can carry back his conquest, well… kings get their war spoils, don’t they? It’s a terrible secret she keeps alive only in her heart, but she hopes one day he finally will.

She’d never shoot one of her own, to save his hide. But when it’s one of his own going after his neck, or when one of hers needs cover too, or one of some other guys on him, it’s easy.

The Mouse saves the King.

But a game is no fun with only one player.

The King also saves the Mouse.

It’s November, it’s somewhere in the Alps. She’s had quite the pleasure of seeing him so in his element, so proud, broad-chested, and covered in the swagger of a mountain as it walks with its own. The snowfall constricts her view but not his movement. He’s practically prancing around like a snow leopard and despite the temperature it’s warming her up a little to think about how happy he looks down there.

“Are you gonna get me, kitty?” She hums into her radio, lips curling into a saccharine smile, when it’s just them alone in the cold. His eyes find her immediately after she’s made contact. Like always, they breathe in and out at exactly the same time once those terribly fantastic eyes of his meet hers.

“Haha!” His whole body shakes like an earthquake when he laughs. “No. Just…” he stops for a moment like he’s catching his breath or remembering the right word, “-watching.” He says, hand reaching to his mask, lifting it up just enough so she can see a red, red, mouth and sharp, sharp teeth turning in a cruel, Cheshire Cat smile. He languishes on a stump, playing with his signature knife, downright admiring her from far away. He pulls his mask back down, but the outline of his exhales still turn into clouds in the snow.

They breathe in tandem. Their hearts must sync.

Today is unusual because he is actually working at something in his grasp. Usually, his beloved knife is his dancing partner, his muse of movement, the loyal companion of his oversized hands.

Many times she’s been lost in the beautiful dance of his hands and his knife, as he flicks it up and catches it with ease. Every time he does so, her heart clenches in her all of a sudden seemingly too-small chest as she fears it’ll come down and slice him. She knows how sharp he keeps his many knives, she knows how terribly it would go for him should it ever fall out of its practiced battle dance. The knife, of course, never does. When he gets bored of tossing it, he starts doing little tricks. He balances it on his index finger, he spins it between the fingers on his massive hand, he can even juggle it between his hands without a moment's hesitation. What’s worse, is the whole time he does it, he is watching her with a relaxed posture. Like he’s showing off like he’s saying “Don’t you see how good I can be with my hands? Don’t you want to invite me over? Don’t you ache to know just what I’ll make them do for you?”

This surgical precision never ceases to amaze her because she’s seen him around his comrades. The steady hands she so admires (and yearns to touch her) disappear and shake like leaves the second he has to talk strategy or cover for others outside of immediate battle. He’s a capable soldier, he’s a great commander, he’s an excellent strategist, sure. But he’s never at ease enough to make his knife dance like this, never like he is with her. His hands shake without adrenaline and with the company.

His hands never shake when the two exist like this, though. No, the shy soldier boy who won’t look anyone in the eye doesn’t exist to her. Like a fairytale, the second the two see each other, he disappears and instead, a man of ferocious devotion finds himself in her sights. He waits for her. He never once gets closer to her than the moment she reaches out to him first.

It would almost be romantic. If it wasn’t war and she wasn’t herself and he wasn’t himself.

Her comm line lights up, ripping her away from her inattentive, lovelorn adorations. Apparently, there’s an enemy scout that’s inching treacherously close to her position and slipped past someone further ahead of her. If he gets beneath her, she’s D.O.A in her tree.

She sees König’s body tense a second after hers, the way she’s come to recognize he’s received a transmission. He stops his idle patrol and puts down the something he was working on in his hands. Quickly, he tucks it into his pocket. He’s ready to hunt all of a sudden, the relaxed air of his body falls away with all the quickness and ferocity of an avalanche. She knows to pity the poor soul on the receiving end of that look in his eyes and-

Is it her this time? Her heart stutters to a stop.

The snow is picking up, she can’t see much of anything but she sees him blur into motion. Towards her spot.

“Keep moving and I shoot,” she says to him. In warning. Begging him not to. She’d miss his comfort if he does make her.

“It’s right under you, Liebling.” His voice rasps through static colder than the snow on the ground.

She realizes she’s stranded on her branch, there’s a widow’s maker close enough to her perch to mean she’s screwed if she moves too quickly. She doesn’t have enough time to maneuver out of the tree safely and she’s a sitting duck for someone else’s shot, so long as all they’ve got is short range. If it were longer range she’d be dead already. She’s going to fall to her death or get shot at from below. It’s a shame, but she’s a little happy that it’ll be König, her cat, that’ll catch her corpse.

She sees the would-be assailant on the horizon and she brings her gun to her cheek. He darts frantically between trees, careful to only go far enough that she’ll have to re-aim as he darts out again. He’s gaining a substantial amount of ground as she finally has a good enough line of sight to execute and-

Her gun jams.

With all the futility of a mouse in a glue trap, she begins to shake and replace everything she can afford to in such little time to make her rifle usable. The man on the forest floor uses all of the seconds she cannot afford to waste as it becomes clear that he will reach her before she can either get down or get her gun unjammed.

But by the time she’s gone to pray and say her goodbyes in her head while frantically looking around, she hears the footfalls of a desperate man crunching snow and she sees red spill out.

König’s massive hands cradle one of his very own, dead. She sees the outline of hardwired explosive packs on the corpse’s chest, apparently a suicide bomber? Alone in the Alps?

For his part, the giant doesn’t seem the least bit displeased with his kill. He wipes his bloody knife on his pant thigh and sheaths it like it’s nothing. He’s got another man’s blood all over his lower half, he sliced that poor bastard clean between his third and fourth ribs.

“Threat eliminated. My position is compromised, I’m moving.” She says to her comm.

“Rog, Mouse.” Someone in command responds.

She, very slowly, makes her way down to the carnage near the base of her tree, sniper rifle at her hip like a mother huddles an unruly toddler. When she’s only 12 feet in the air instead of 40, König spreads his arms out to her. It’s snowing. Hard. He doesn’t move, arms outstretched like a tree.

“Maus, I‘ll help you!” He says.

It’s the first thing he says to her outside of the buzz of the radio.

It’s her name. Or, the only one he knows her by.

And the first thing he says is a promise. A promise of help. A promise of aid.

She shouldn’t trust him.

She tosses her gun to the pillowy snow, against all safety protocols and everything she’s ever known. He doesn’t move for it. He’s got a rifle of his own, well- not a sniper's rifle, on his back. Maybe he doesn’t need two?

She unhooks her cabling.

It’s snowing hard.

She kicks off the tree and into the air.

It’s snowing really hard and dawn is breaking.

He does, indeed, catch her.

He audibly gasps when she lands in his arms. He doesn’t move, she’s much too small and light to move the man. He just holds her. For a moment- in the air.

“… klein,” he all but whispers and puts her on the ground. His hands don’t start trembling as she expects them to.

She doesn’t know what that means and goes to pick up her gun and makes a quiet mental note to find a German Dictionary or self-teacher or something if this weird romance is gonna keep up.

“What’s this guy's story?” She motions to the left. Where there’s the stump of a man who should’ve been her death.

“Traitor, against both sides. Al Qatala. Made off with classified files.” He rolls his shoulders, completely unconcerned.

It could be a lie. It could’ve been that this man just has a weird obsession with her and couldn’t stand to see her get taken out by someone that wasn’t him.

Well, if that were the case, why’s she still around? He could just kill her. But then again, couldn’t she have killed him multiple times over?

She doesn’t think he's lying. He’s affected by some things, not by others. He’s much too jittery and anxious of a man to lie so easily to her. She recognizes she’s putting a terrible amount of trust in the enemy, but if it’s gotta be anyone, she’d rather it be the man who sometimes radios her terrible jokes instead of some stranger.

But now they’re as face to face as over a foot and a half of height difference will let them be. There’s still the hood on his face which is haunting, but this monster- he’s scarcely made a move to her that hasn’t been some perverse version of love or care.

She realizes she’s thankful for him.

Stockholm syndrome, she decides. Even though this is the first time they’ve been within 80 yards of each other.

“Thank you.” Is what she says instead, breathless and quiet, almost like she’s sorry she has to say the words out loud. Almost like they’re bad news like she’s telling the kids they have to put the family cat down.

“Bitte schön,” he says, gentle and warm like a wool blanket. His hands are drumming on his thighs with nervous kinetic energy and he looks intently at where he grabbed her, maybe he’s worried he hurt her? But he’s not trembling. She tries not to think about it, that he’s not trembling. Her face is red and her heart is fast but for all the wrong reasons.

Before they part ways and go back to their little lives on opposite sides of some silly war she’s sure is not worth the human toll, he reaches into his pocket.

He brings the little thing to his hood and places it right where she reckons his lips are.

Their breaths puff into billows of smoke.

They breathe in time.

It’s bloody from his pant legs when he presents it to her, holding the tiny object in two forefingers and thumbs. She cups her hands in front of her like a child begging the family pet to drop an injured bird it found in the backyard. He drops it just like that pet, a few inches above her hands to avoid bloodying her hands directly. Like it would be a shame. Like he cares about tainting her.

It’s a piece of light wood, whittled into the shape of a mouse.

She holds the thing in the palms of her hands and they ache. It is so small, so hard for even her to hold. His field knife, the one he loves so much, is massive but she knows it was the one that he used to make it. She did research one day, trying to discover what sort of blade it was. It's a custom Glock Field Knife, with a near mirror-perfect patina and two whole inches larger than the standard issue. She also thinks he wrapped the handle himself because she cannot find that stark red chord on any seller’s website. It's a monster of a knife, for a monster of a man. It’s not made for woodworking, for whittling, for creation– it's a thing of utter annihilation and destruction. Yet, he changed its nature. He utilized his most favored possession to carve intricately into fallen birch wood. He’s given a second life in the shape of her name to what would rot without his attention. He has created, against all odds, something beautiful and delicate out of a brutal tool and doomed material. For her.

She is dumbstruck by this man. She has no words for him, for herself, she wouldn’t have any for anyone who asked either. Suddenly, the Alps aren’t so cold even though it is verifiably snowing.

When he turns to go she thinks how much his hands must’ve hurt to make this little thing and she can’t just let him go, not empty-handed.

“Wait!” She calls to him.

He stops and looks back at her. She fishes around in her pockets and curses her nearly-frostbitten fingers until she finds it.

She tosses it to him.

He opens the little leather pouch and she sees his smile through his eyes as he recognizes what it is. It’s her pocket whetstone, with the crown she doodled onto the leather holder with charcoal.

Her lucky charm.

She shouldn’t trust him, she’s really got no reason to. But this man, he’s saved her life. He likes knives more than she does, hell, uses them more than she does. There’s really no reason for her to have it (just like there was no reason for her to put his symbol into the leather.) His glacial eyes melt while looking down at the object and she’s never known the winter wilderness to be so warm. She tries not to think about the way her heart speeds up when his eyes soften looking at the object.

“I will only use this from now on, Maus.” He says, voice quiet and reverent. Like he holds the keys to his kingdom when he holds the cheap piece of rock.

“Don’t. It’s- it’s not a great one. Just. My charm.” She shrugs. She wants to say ‘It’s a piece of shit and useless, just like I am. It’ll fuck up your knives. I know you love them. Don’t ruin useful things on my account.’

“All the more reason to treasure it.” He replies, simple and unburdened.

God. She wishes he wasn’t so charming. There’s no going back.

She feels like she’s in his jaws already, totally caught. He seems not to realize that he could march off with her and go anywhere and she’d just let him. He walks away and it genuinely hurts when his form disappears into snow and trees and leaves no trace like he’s a fairy tale. Like he’s not real and never was and cannot be.

And with that, the King had saved the Mouse. He turned and left and she moved her position before returning to base camp.

The next time she sees him, about a week later, she sees him sharpening his massive field knife with the tiny whetstone on his comically large thigh, and in response, she thumbs at the wooden effigy in her pocket. They laughed into their radios to each other. Her cheeks flush red. Her thighs clench around nothing. She dreams about those big, big, hands, the ones that cradled her in the air, pinning her down and leaving black and blue bruises all over her hips and thighs. She thinks about that red, red mouth tracing said bruises with a gentle tongue. She thinks about the hands caressing her neck, the mouth kissing the top of her head. The hands, holding her at the hip snug to his massive frame throughout the night. The mouth, hushing her to sleep and promising to be there in the morning.

She’s got nothing for him, though. Other than her body and the vain, ridiculous, impossible dream that’s enough for him. He doesn’t seem the romantic type. She doesn’t think he’d settle down. She doesn’t know him at all, not really.

But, she does have something for him. The answer to a question from what feels like lifetimes ago.

“It’s because I’m quiet.” She whispers into her radio, half hoping he won’t pick up.

“What?” He hums back.

“Mouse. Because I’m short and quiet in the field.”

“Really?” He asks back. “That’s it?”

“Yep.” A heartbeat too long of silence passes between them. She chews the inside of her lip to bits, waiting for a response. “Your turn,” she prods gently.

“Because I am not.” Is his response.

“Really, that’s it?” She chuckles into her radio.

He just laughs on the other end. And now she’s really got nothing else to give him, save a rare book recommendation, a laugh in return for his bad jokes, and her sharp eyes always trained on his form in her scope. She’s got nothing to give him that she hasn’t already given him, and nothing he couldn’t just find elsewhere.

But God, she wants him all the same.

It’s dangerous to be at war.

It’s dangerous to play cat and mouse.

Even more dangerous to fall in love on top of those two.

taglist!

@kneelingshadowsalomee @sprout-fics @bucca2 @dead-cipher @gallowsjoker @lostagoodcigar

#Navigation -> Cat/Mouse/Den #König #König x reader #König x OC #König MWii #König COD #Char: Mouse

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radioiaci · 4 months

Text

▹@electriccapitalist continued from here.

It is the only intimacy he knows.

Every word, every utterance of his intent is truthful - so often does he enjoy toying with Vox's emotions and yet in this moment, he has never been more bare in his own desire to seek to understand. Both for his own self-serving need to discover; the barest form of exploration in which he can pick apart the life-giving mechanisms of someone he's spent far too much time thinking about in the depths of his solitary years apart. Too many years left wondering, left waiting - fervent in memories of that warm blue glow that leaves him awash with a near lustful mental glimpses of the wires and tubing behind that glass.

Said imaginations never once leaving him be, even when he returns to see all has changed. Even now that Vox looks at him with such contempt, the desire still remains. To lay him bare and remind him of the strangling, stifling need to nestle so deeply into his entrails that they no longer feel the divide between them and seemingly never had.

He is stony when his coat is grasped, red gaze staring down in deadened apathy when he is begged.

But he is stirred. In his own tilted and festering heart, he knows that there is opportunity here that he has been yearning for and it is growing more and more difficult to ignore with the other pleading on his knees in a way that looks so poisonously beautiful. He always has been, Vox. Churning hatred in those eyes or otherwise. Even as he crumbles and sobs and warbles in that self-pitying tone, Alastor's gaze is unwavering. Until his staff is extended, pressing the tip of it to the underside of Vox's head to tilt it back upright to look at the radio demon proper.

"My knives are sharper than you think."

It's a reassurance in words that only spell out how definitively confident Alastor is that he can embolden the other with the splitting of flesh and worship of what lays within. They are both, in ways, horrific in nature - twisted and corrupted by too much of their own prideful machinations. Alastor's marred body that remains so tightly confined beneath layers of fabric has never been much different. A sordid reality.

His voice seeps through interference and waves of radio signal that practically permeate the air, the deep bass puncturing heavily through them to ensure that Vox hears him. Not just audibly.

He wants Vox to feel every word.

"Allow me to make you feel w h o l e again."

#△ on the air △#electriccapitalist #[ tw gore ]#[ bro is vibrating ]

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collidescopeeyes · 5 months

Text

Random Relationship Headcanons: Pyke

- Whittles in his free time. Always has a piece of wood and a carving knife on him, his pockets always have sawdust shavings in them. Likes working with bone too, but that's less portable. Forgot about it for a while after he died, but he tries to keep it up after the Deep loosens it's hold on him, it helps keep him occupied. Works more with bone after though; knives are somehow just a bit sharper in his hands. He always gives you the nicest ones, but he's very particular about which ones turned out good enough

- Pre-Deep, wakes up at the crack of dawn. Can be convinced to come back to bed for exactly as long as it takes you to fall asleep again. Post-Deep doesn't need to sleep, but still sticks around as long as it takes you to fall sleep before slipping away.

- Likes salty and spicy flavours, but is also used to eating whatever's convenient for sustenence. He has a few dishes he learned from his mom that he can make really well, but that's from years of practice: he needs to be given Very Specific Instructions for anything else or he's hopeless. Makes a god tier chili but it's so hot you WILL cry and he WILL laugh at you

- Post-Deep, he still needs to eat, but left to his own devices he just eats raw fish like some kind of extremely budget sashimi chef. He came back with sharper teeth, and he can't exactly get sick anymore.

- Speaking of post-Deep changes, doesn't need to breathe, and doesn't have a heartbeat anymore. He can see in the dark and in water incredibly well, but he's actually a bit blind during the day.

- His sense of smell is fucked from years of exposure to chemicals and offal on the slaughter docks, hence why he likes food with strong flavours; aromatics are wasted on him. VERY strict with personal hygiene bc of that, he knows he can't tell if he smells like blood and death and he doesn't want to gross you out. Steals your soap though, if he notices he smells like lavender he doesn't care.

- Forgets to act like a human being sometimes. Pre-Deep that was just peak bachelor behavior like eating a tomato like it's an apple cuz it's food and it's fast. Post-Deep he's just Weird, like stands in one spot looming and not blinking not breathing for an hour weird. Tries not to do it in front of you, but you're the only person he cares about not freaking out.

- Always smells like the sea, has calloused hands but is always very gentle with you (unless in some very specific situations where you don't want him to be wink wonk). His tattoos go up his arms and down his back. Feels kind of uncomfortable when he's out and around other people without his bandana up, he's just so used to it.

- His mother was Buhru serpent caller and his father a Freljordian who joined up with with the Noxian Navy during one of their northern campaigns. Father died young, mother when he was 18. Pretty much been on his own since then, never really had anyone especially important to him in that time and is used to taking care of himself. Pretty much never treats himself to nice things so the task has to fall to you. Consequentially, has zero immunity to you doing nice things for him just because; pack him a lunch with a sweet note and he’s Gone that's It, Pyke.exe has Stopped Responding

- Resting murder face that gets worse when he's embarrassed. His levels of flustered are directly proportionate to how much he looks like he's about to stab someone. His ears get red though, it's cute.

- Punctual and has an excellent memory, if you ask him to do something he'll do it no questions asked. If you tell him to meet you in a random alleyway at 10:05am with a grocery list of 16 things, he's there on the dot and to the letter.

- Fantastic whistler, great singing voice, you'll literally never catch him doing it. If you're sick or something he might be persuaded to hum you a lullaby.

- Thinks actions count more than words, and that being reliable and showing up is way more important than any grand gesture. If you're having a bad day he'll bring you coffee or a snack you like, chores are done so there's nothing for you to worry about when you get home, anything he can do to make your day less stressful. Doesn't mention it either, it's just natural to him, like obviously he's gonna do whatever he can to help. Likewise, it doesn't take much to keep him happy, just as long as he knows he can rely on you.

- Appreciates physical closeness but doesn't usually initiate it. Not really used to recognizing when he wants something, just kinda goes from mysteriously being unhappy to internally having a little :) thought bubble above his head when you sit down next to him (still looks pissed tho but that's just his face don't worry about it). Doesn't need to talk or anything, just likes being close to you.

- Great listener, you might worry he's not paying attention because he tends not to say much, but he'll remember every word. Will happily listen to you talk about literally anything that interests you, if it's important to you it's important to him.

- If there's a problem you need to work out just tell him. He'll notice if something is up but he trusts you'll come to him when you're ready to talk. Great at listening and trying to understand where you're coming from but isn't great at recognizing or articulating his own feelings, so he needs time to think about how to respond. Please be patient with him, he's trying his best.

- Not really jealous or possessive but has a natural ‘don’t fuck with me’ aura that means no one even thinks of getting too friendly with you, even before he became the Blood Harbor Ripper. Ngl, he enjoys it, means he gets to monopolize you–anyone who knows you well know he's harmless (to them).

- Post-Deep, gets more protective and…not really clingy but he Hovers. You're the most important thing in the world to him, you're his reprieve from the voices and the only good thing he has left in a world that's fucked him over and he's shit scared of losing you. Even when he can't actively be beside you, he still prefers to keep tabs on you from the shadows when he can. The Ripper thing gets in the way less than you'd think; no one really lives to say what he looks like and what does get passed on is very exaggerated, and freaky glowing eyes are more common than you'd think in Runeterra--plus, the Ripper's not just gonna be walking around, psh. He hates crowds now though and worries he won't be able to control his reactions, so if you're running errands at a market or something don't expect company. Gets antsy if he hasn't seen you in a while, so don't be surprised if he's disproportionately relieved to see you.

- Post-Deep, has a much harder time relaxing, his memory is a lot hazier, and he gets confused when things don't line up with what he has in his head. The voices are distracting and he's not always sure what's real and what's not. The Deep fucked him up and he's still sort of figuring how to deal with it–its pretty unclear how much of what's going on with him is actual literal magic and how much is a man with severe PTSD struggling to make sense of his new reality

- Anyway I finished playing the Ruined King game and my epilogue hc is the part in that where Illaoi offers to help break his curse and he goes to teach the Buhru about sea monsters. His list becomes his list, not about what the Deep wants but about protecting people who can't protect themselves. He finds connection with an estranged heritage and purpose in helping protect Bilgewater, either through helping the serpent callers or through putting fear into Bilgewaters scummiest.

NSFW (under cut)

- His job keeps him away from you for long stretches of time and by God is he gonna make up for that

- High libido but is used to managing that on his own, jerking off twice a day just was just kinda part of his daily routine; if you're in the mood he much much prefers coming to you instead

- Definitely a dom, likes being a bit rough with you. Gets immense satisfaction out of making a mess out of you, hand in your hair whispering filthy things in your ear while pounding you within an inch of your life. Loves hearing you beg and whimper. Act up if you want a spanking, you're not getting out of here without cumming at LEAST three times anyway

- Loves it when you're loud, it's his personal goal to extract as many noises from you as he can and he doesn't give a fuck who hears. Dirty talk aside, he's not very vocal himself, but God does he sound good when you do get a moan out of him

- Can and will manhandle you. Holds your wrists in one hand or pulls your head back with a firm grasp on your hair, holds your throat so he can feel your pulse pounding, flips you over or pushes you down so he can fuck you better. If you're getting home and he's in a mood you're getting picked up and fucked against the front door, neighbors who?? He wrestles sea monsters for a living, you basically weigh nothing to him, and he loves how cute and pliant you get when he's fucking your brains out ❤️

- Big fan of oral, giving and receiving. Eats pussy like he doesn't need to breath, he thinks you taste great and he loves making you squirm--be warned, this will work him up and you will be getting railed after, how many times you already came on his tongue is really irrelevant. Likewise, he thinks you're so pretty on your knees struggling to fit his cock in your mouth, and he makes sure he tells you that and what a good job you're doing ❤️

- He has thick fingers and by God does he know how to use them, can reduce you to a puddle with one hand up your skirt. If you're feeling bold enough to tease him in public you will inevitably find yourself in some dark corner with one leg hiked up to his hip while he makes you see stars. There are a lot of areas where he's a patient man, and this is not one of them--you fuck around you WILL be finding out.

- If you wear lingerie it's not coming out intact, sorry. Something about it just makes him want to wreck you, prettier the better. That being said, he can't decide whether you look better with his cum dripping out of you or off of you--help him decide, will you?

- Will happily let you take charge, he likes seeing you chasing your own pleasure. If you want to do any kind of edge play on him though he will need to be physically restrained, and he will get so growly about it. At his most desperate he doesn't even sound human anymore.

- Occasionally, just wants something slow and intimate, you in his lap with your arms around his neck, just taking the time to enjoy each other. He's a softy at heart, he doesn't know how to ask for it but sometimes he just craves a bit of romance.

- After, cleans you up and holds you until you fall asleep, occasionally presses a kiss to your hair. Actually gets super sulky if you don't have time to cuddle properly. He's not great with words, so it's an important way for him to show how deeply he cares about you.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #x reader #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #pyke #pyke lol #pyke x reader

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sansxfuckyou · 21 days

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i am the high you can't sustain

summary: sometimes surrendering yourself completely to your partner for the sake of a sharper edge is worth it

tags: innuendo, whetting/sharpening, heavy sexual tension, ambiguous relationship

authors note: was sharpening knives the other day and it Got Me Thinking, so i hope ya'll enjoy

Soul is a good Weapon.

He does exactly as his Meister says without question and lays his life on the line for her without a blink of hesitation. If he needs to die for her he will. If she needs to die for him he won't let her.

That's probably one of the reasons that it feels like second nature when she holds his hand and his other arm warps itself into a scythe blade. Sleek and shiny with sharp angles of red and black.

He blinks as he realizes what he'd done.

He reverts it.

"I want you in your Weapon form right now."

And Soul obliges.

A flash of light before the snaith rests in her hands and wow, it's so fucking different than normal when she doesn't have her gloves on. She's so, she's so warm. He can feels where each finger presses down on his body, heat seeping into him.

"What do you want me in Weapon form for?"

His voice reverberates in her skull as it always does.

She just shrugs.

"I never actually examined you properly, I need to check for cracks, see if you need repairs."

"Repairs." He scoffed the word, "I don't need repairs."

"Not even if I took a whetstone to your blade to sharpen you?"

Oh he is so glad he's in Weapon form right now because that sent a shudder ripping through his soul. A sharpening session. He's heard that some people with bladed partners partake sometimes, to try and strengthen the Soul Bond.

But Maka?

He was never able to picture Maka using a whetstone on him. Nor Black Star. Or Tsubaki. Not really anyone for that matter.

"Yeah, sure, whatever- do your dumb examination to see if I need sharpening or whatever."

His aloofness is more a show than anything else. He cannot let his Meister know he likes this.

Her hands on his body, cool steel heated by her touch. He's immobile, near completely, aside from the ability to turn back. Too late to do that without her recognizing this is putting him into disarray.

She holds his shaft all the time what makes this any different?

...

And why in the name of hell did he start thinking about his shaft in reference to his handle. His snaith. His definitely not the kind of shaft that first comes to mind when you read the word.

"Maka-"

"Yes, Soul?" She's trailing her hand from the pommel at the base all the way up in one swift motion.

"Stop touching there."

She does.

"Sensitive?"

"It shouldn't be, c'mon, you hold me all the time."

"I usually wear gloves."

"What difference would it make?"

Maka smirks a bit, "Body heat, Weapons are usually colder than Meisters. The gloves block most of it, and now that they're gone you can feel all of it."

"Your hands are warm."

"I know, if I didn't wear gloves you'd be way too distracted on the battle field."

"Would not!" The glint of a shocked expression is clear reflecting in the blade.

She just runs her thumb along the chine and watches as he sort of melts just like that. Retreating deeper into himself to avoid the mortifying ordeal of being seen so vulnerable as a Weapon. When she reaches the heel, where the tang meets the metal of the shaft, she pauses. Just resting the heel of her own palm against it.

And even though their souls resonate this is so close for them.

It's so close it hurts.

And then Maka pussies out and lets go, she practically drops him to the ground.

He's startled to the point of snapping back into human form and boy does he ever look disheveled. His face is flushed and was he sweating? He was. He's in some sort of disarray.

"What was that for!" Soul snapped as he jumped shakily back to his feet. He tries his hardest to stare Maka down but in spite of how calmly she was handling his entire body mere seconds ago she's flustered.

"I didn't mean too!" Maka snapped back, swiftly rising to her own feet to stare him down.

"Whatever. It's fine. Just don't drop me again," Soul said before trying to exit the room.

"I didn't finish examining you," Maka said firmly.

There it is.

That mule stubbornness Soul loves to see, something he's glad she grew into instead of out of. He was hoping she'd say something like that, an argument to keep going. He shuts off a shark tooth grin before holding out a hand to her.

She takes it.

Before another word can be spoken Soul is once again held entirely in her hands, the weight of his blade barely an offset as she settles down on the couch again. She runs the heel of her palm along the flat edge of the blade, smoothing from the beard to the toe with ease.

When she slides back her hand, she traces along those clashing ridges of red and gunmetal black. Soul let's her. He can feel it in his flesh, his idea of flesh at least. He doesn't really have that right now, just a glimmer of the self cast in the reflection off the blades edge. He can still feel it, like her touch is running across the scar on his chest.

She pauses momentarily before continuing to the unorthodox attachment ring. There's no rhyme or reason to how it works, he's so different compared to other scythes she studied in books. Most had a distinct knob and a distinct heel and a distinct tang- but for Soul? It all sort of melds into one thing with a nice design on it.

When she runs her finger along the edge, Soul whimpers. He would recoil but he physically can't. Besides, it didn't actually hurt, just shocked him a bit.

"Any scuffs?" Soul asked in an almost choked tone.

Maka shook her head, "None on the blade." She let her hand rest at the base of the knob on Soul's form. Is she allowed to be gentle?

She presses onward, scouring his snaith for any scratches or cracks. She can't let him snap in half on her. She can't have him be hiding wounds or damage either, as much as he's meant to die for her if needed, she doesn't want him too. She'll keep him safe too.

And he's fucking writhing the entire god damn time that she's fondling his handle. As much as she's always gripping what feels like his legs or his hand or his arms (he can't tell), this is just so different. He'll tell himself it's just maintenance but there's more, so much more.

They can both feel it, shaking them too their core. How long will this shaky resonance last they don't know. But they can both sense it, and they wonder for a brief moment if their friends have similar intimacies.

"You don't have any cracks, scuffs, or anything to worry about," Maka abruptly declared as she let Soul simply rest on her lap. Hands completely removed from his form.

He snapped back, still mostly rested across her legs, "Nothing?"

"Nothing at all," Maka said, and maybe he's tripping but he's pretty sure she sounds disappointed.

"If you like, if you weren't kidding about the whetstone, and have one ready." Soul sort of trailed off, face slowly getting redder before he turned to face away from her. He mumbles out a weak, "Might be nice."

"I actually did get one ready, I just didn't think you'd even let me inspect you for chips," Maka said, "I thought you'd lose it the second I touched your shaft-"

"Maka, don't call it a shaft."

Maka silently nods before continuing, "But you didn't lose it."

"If you have a whetstone ready please sharpen me, Maka." He sounds way too desperate. He isn't even begging. His words are just heavy with want. He's never been sharpened in his entire life, not even by himself.

"I mean," Maka started with, this sly smirk coming to her face, "You're already so sharp, I don't see why you need to be sharper."

Soul holds up a scythed arm, "Touch it, tell me I'm as sharp as I was when we first met."

Maka runs the pad of her finger on the sharp edge of his blade, and she doesn't loser the tip of her finger. Which is odd. He should be sharper, scythes usually slice through flesh without any hesitance. Maybe the Meister and Weapon relationship stops him without any thought behind it, maybe not.

She gives a small hum of disappointment. There's some blood on her finger, not much though. This explains why he's been so hard to use during missions lately, why she has to haul extra ass to get it to cleanly cut. To tear into flesh and rip apart with a smooth edge.

"You are kind of dull."

"It's an issue."

"Do you actually trust me enough to let me sharpen you?"

"What do ya mean by that?"

"Sharpening a knife shaves off the metal, sharpening a Weapon shaves off some of the soul. It's a permanent alteration."

Does he?

Man who the fuck is he kidding, of course he trusts Maka enough.

He gives a nod as he warps his arm back to normal, "Yeah, why wouldn't I?"

"It's permanent. What if I mess up your edge? And no one else can do it after I do, the angles will be different to the point it'll ruin your edge entirely. It's a one time deal, Soul."

He didn't realize it was that permanent, "I still trust you."

"Will you be my partner forever then? After I sharpen you no one else can lest they ruin you."

"No need to be so fatalistic. Besides, cool guys don't cheat on their partners. So we'll be partners forever, no doubt about it."

Maka nods, "Cool."

"The real question is whether you want me half transformed or fully transformed," Soul said as he sat up.

"We'll see where the night takes us."

"It's the middle of the day."

"You know what I mean."

"I'll be waiting while you wet the whetstone," Soul said, gesturing vaguely as he spoke. The success with which he beat down the flusteredness that wanted to surface was impressive.

"Cool." Maka stands up and brushes herself down, "Cool."

"You good?" Soul called out to her.

"I could ask you the same!" Maka called back from the kitchen.

Her hands are hesitant when she actually grabs the whetstone, retrieving it from where it rests wrapped in damp towels. It's a small one, handheld, a coarse grit on one side and a finer one on the other. She's used it on knives many times, she's never told Soul about it, tried to hide it from him.

Maybe it's selfish, but she never did want him too sharpen himself. He could so easily butcher his edge if he tried. She's had a hard time with many knives in the past, but now?

Now she's practiced.

Now she knows exactly how to match an edge and an angle and keep his blade the same but sharper.

She douses it in warm water before returning to the couch where she finds Soul perfectly prone in Weapon form. Entirely in Weapon form. She expected him to be half Weapon right now, an arm morphed into a scythe and nothing more.

In spite of this she takes a seat next to him and hosts him up onto her lap. His handle rests on the armrest of the couch as she adjusts his position.

"Comfy?" Maka asked.

"Comfy as I can be," Soul said.

"If it hurts, let me know," Maka said before placing the whetstone to Soul's blade.

He gasped.

He fucking, he really did just gasp.

She lifts the stone, sliding her finger down the slope of the blade to find the belly. The slightest little bit of metal before it gets to convergence of metal. Where the sharpness lays.

There's a far louder gasp as she runs her finger across the belly, from point to beard with one motion. If he were human he'd be shaking, he's sure of it. She grips the whetstone and holds it to the belly, held at an easy angle that matches his own.

It grates quietly as it sharpens him. Back and forth without a moments pause between the motions. She slowly works, drawing in with the stone and pressing out. Her motions are swift of course, but it takes time to make progress. Watching as that glossy sheen gives way to the glimmer of a fresh surface of red.

There's a throaty whimpering sound before Soul speaks, "Slow down."

"Does it hurt?" Maka asked, halting her motion but the coarse edge to his belly the whole while.

"No, just feels weird." He takes a few deep breathes to steady himself, "Keep going."

She picks up again at a slower pace, still repeating the motions dutifully.

He's squirming within the blade, his soul feels attacked directly. Shaving away his very being on a microscopic level. But also, it also feels really fucking good. He never really fully understand the whole getting a massage or taking a long soak to unwind thing, he never really was human anyways.

This feels nice though.

Relaxing.

Even if it is abrasive to his core, it's nice.

Maka flips him over to get the other edge. She feels around precisely for the belly, looking for it and finding it with much more ease than before. She pauses to actually enjoy the moment, the fact that Soul really does trust her. Trusts her enough to let himself be made anew by her hands.

It's...

It's something else that's for sure.

Falling into madness with each other is one thing, this is another.

It almost feels vulgar, but not quite. She's sharpened dozens of knives, honed steel on steel and sliced her fingers doing so many times. And she's always held Soul, his entire body, resting in her hands. Hands that he entrusts his life in, hands attached to the one that he's willing to throw it all away for.

She glides the stone across the edge of his blade, and then she runs her finger along it and hisses as it cuts the skin. Oh yeah, he's definitely sharper now, he could still be more sharp though. She only used the coarse grit, didn't even get a chance to use the finer one. That'd really shine it up, bring him to the next level of sharp.

"I guess I'm sharp enough now?" Soul asked.

"Could be sharper," Maka answered with absently, "But for right now? You're plenty sharp, better than when we first met."

"Nice."

"Come out of Weapon form for me?"

And he does exactly as she says.

He looks blissed out, just completely relaxed. She doesn't think she's ever seen him at this much peace before. Not a single muscle in his body is tensed and there's a lax grin on his face.

"You enjoyed it?" Maka asked with a teasing tone.

Soul nodded, "Oh yeah, I loved it."

"You look really fucked up right now."

"Fucked up bad or fucked up good?"

"Fucked up... Different." Maka paused, "You're usually pretty tense."

"I'd offer to sharpen your blade but I can't really do that for ya, it's an experience," Soul said, he gestured with a hand as he spoke. A small chuckle rises, "I get the whole self care hype now, I woulda been sharpening myself years ago if I knew it felt that good."

"If you sharpened yourself then I couldn't do it for you," Maka said.

Soul shrugs, "I'd just offer you massages instead, that'll strengthen the Soul Bond, won't it?"

"I haven't read on that before," Maka said, "It could."

"We could find out tomorrow," Soul offered, "You know, pay back or something like that."

"You don't need to repay me."

"What if I wanna though, Maka?"

"Firstly, I wouldn't trust you."

"I trusted you to hone my blade."

"I've been practicing on normal knives since we moved in."

"And you never sharpened me until today?!"

"I didn't want to fuck it up."

"How badly could I fuck you up by making a massage mistake?"

"Very badly." Maka slung Soul's legs off of her, "Before we get any further, I think I might have some wax."

"Wax?" Soul asked.

"Yeah, to give you a nice polished finish."

Soul feels his stomach flip at the notion, "Yeah, yeah that'd be cool. I'd be down to let you polish me off."

"Don't say it like that."

"Then don't call my handle a shaft."

#soul eater #soul eater evans #maka albarn #soul x maka #(ambiguously)#soul eater fanfiction #writing #fanfic #fanfiction

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