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sundrop-writes · 1 year ago

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Lessons For A Genius - Lesson One

Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader

Lesson One: Slick Silicone

(aka the one with the pocket pussy)

Summary:

What could a certified genius possibly have to learn from someone like you? Turns out - a hell of a lot.

And the real ‘teaching’ started when your graphic explanations of slang toward Spencer for the sheer shock value of it turned into something a lot more… hands on.

Sub!Spencer Reid x (BAU)Dom!Fem!Reader. Co-Workers to Friends with Benefits. Smut. Set during early Season 2.

Word Count: 17,200

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

THIS IS A RE-POST. This is a fic from my old blog (a blog that was shadowbanned, forcing me to move). This fic is not stolen, it is completely mine, and I am just re-posting it to help people find my new blog, and to make my masterlist complete when I post new fics for this fandom.

Detailed warnings and author’s notes below the cut.

Warnings: A lot of general stuff pertaining to an average Criminal Minds episode - mentions of death, mentions of murder/killing, mentions of possible trauma from being in the BAU, somewhat graphic descriptions of a dismembered corpse; this is not a casefic but there is a small section where Reid, Morgan, and the reader are at a crime scene and details of a case are mentioned (not a case in the canon, one that I made up); the reader sticks her hand inside of a corpse to get something out of it for the purpose of discovering evidence; making inappropriate jokes about dead bodies - the reader character uses dark humour to cope with the trauma of the BAU job; Spencer doesn’t understand sexual slang and the reader has to explain it to him (warning for slightly awkward moments because of this?); the reader calls Spencer ‘honey’ (could be considered condescending); use of Y/N and L/N (meaning Your Last Name); Reid struggling with his sexuality/Reid has some internal biphobia; mentions of anal sex/anal stimulation but it does not take place during the fic; passing mentions of Reid being bullied in school; mentions of past Spencer x Lila Archer (in this fic, she blew him while he was working that case but they didn’t keep contact when he left LA); mentions of the reader going to a sex shop; mentions of the reader dressing feminine/wearing lingerie; mention of Spencer being taller than the reader - but I think he would be taller than most people.

This is primarily a smut fic; there is sub/dom dynamics - Reid is submissive and much more inexperienced (he is 'learning’ about sex from the reader character, but he is not completely a virgin, he has had one singular sexual experience before); the reader is dominant and much more experienced sexually; the reader has a vagina and uses she/her pronouns; mentions of Reid being 'innocent’ (it’s more so that sex is an under-researched area of his life and he is too shy to explore it by himself); undertones of corruption kink; use of a sex toy - the reader gifts Spencer a fleshlight/pocket pussy and they use it together; hand kink - the reader admires Spencer’s hands; undertones of corruption kink - the reader is enjoying 'corrupting’ Spencer and showing him these things for the first time; BDSM/kink negotiations, possibly under-negotiated kink; the reader teaches Spencer BDSM terms.

Everything in this fic is fully consensual and safe for the characters; Spencer calls the reader 'Miss’; mentions of Spencer cumming inside the reader (does not actually happen during the fic); passing mentions of Spencer being insecure (about his sexual skills and his looks); Spencer is very obedient; the reader calls Spencer: 'good boy’, 'baby’, 'pretty boy’, 'dumb baby’; most of this fic is Spencer being fucked with a fleshlight while it’s controlled by the reader; heavy praise kink (from the reader toward Spencer); light bondage - Spencer’s hands are bound behind his back; edging - orgasm delay/orgasm denial (from the reader toward Spencer); the reader makes Spencer ask permission to cum; some size kink - big dick Spencer is too big to fully fit inside of a fleshlight; Spencer does a lot of begging in this; slight crying kink - the reader thinks Spencer looks pretty when he cries from being overwhelmed/edged a lot; degradation kink, dumbification kink, reader is condescending towards Spencer; some overstimulation toward the end; slight cum kink - Spencer cums all over himself and the reader enjoys it. I believe that’s it. There is descriptions of aftercare!

A/N: fair warning - a lot of this fic is build up/sexual tension (my speciality). and there is a long section before the smut where the reader is teaching Spencer BDSM terms and teaching him how to pick a safeword, but I think it’s interesting and I enjoyed writing it. and it’s worth the pay-off imo.

...

Being an FBI Profiler meant there were some rather… strange parts to your day.

Things that were once in a lifetime tragedies for other people that had become intensely casual routines for you. Things like - looking at gruesome crime scene photos, seeing a dead body in person, facing down a killer.

You liked to thank your nihilism and dark sense of humor for keeping you sane, working a job that would have driven others insane in such a short amount of time. You also liked to distance yourself from the darkness of it, and preferred to think of the people you helped, rather than the people you couldn’t.

Especially during moments like this, when you were exiting the car at yet another crime scene. It was a dump sight for the body of another young woman, adding to the trail of victims this newest killer was challenging the BAU with.

“Just like all the others… the limbs and jaw are missing. Eyes gouged out. This guy has one hell of a compulsion.” Morgan commented, looking down at the body… or rather, the torso, with intense disdain.

“I would say it’s less of a compulsion, and more of a fractured sense of reality.” Reid commented. “It’s likely that the UnSub sees these corpses as pieces of art. It’s why he was frustrated when the first four weren’t found soon enough, that they weren’t discovered when they were… ‘fresh’, so to speak. That’s why he started leaving the clues for law enforcement. He wants his ‘art’ to be seen in a timely manner.”

“Couldn’t the guy just take up painting or something?” You replied, looking at the body, still slightly shocked by how brutal the whole thing was.

“Looks like we got another one.” Morgan pointed out, crouching down beside the body, motioning toward a large gash between the victim’s ribs. “Another clue, that is.”

For the last three victims, the UnSub had cut a hole into their torso and left some kind of object inside. Something small that hinted at where the next victim would be found.

Morgan looked over his shoulder at you, as though waiting for you to make a move. When you turned to Reid, he was looking over the rim of his coffee cup at you with very expectant eyes, the thick lenses of his glasses making his stare all the more imposing.

You quickly realized that both of the men wanted you to stick your hand inside the corpse and pull out whatever was inside.

“What?” You chuckled. “You want me to do it? Is it just cause you think I’m the gross one?”

Your reputation for having a strong stomach preceded you.

You were shy or squeamish about anything, socially or functionally, and the team often took advantage of this. They would throw you into an interrogation with a suspect who made crude comments and you would end up grossing the man out with even more graphic words. They would have you sifting through a suspect’s trash looking for receipts or pieces of evidence and sometimes you would laugh at the things you found, rather than gagging at the smell.

It was rare that anyone on the team saw you flinch.

“The body’s been sittin’ out here in the sun for three hours.” Morgan said, glancing from the corpse up to the bright sky overhead. “I’m not doin’ it.”

You chanced another look at Reid. The small smirk he wore told you that he wouldn’t have to give some lame excuse about how he was squeamish and had just eaten in order for you to truly give in.

“Ugh, fine.” You said.

You naturally met Reid’s hand when he came out of his pocket with a blue latex glove for you to wear. You put it on, switching places with Morgan so you could kneel down beside the body. You put your ungloved hand on the ground to support yourself, and then inserted your fingers into the cavity - the hole between the ribs that the UnSub had made.

Luckily, you didn’t have to reach too far inside before you felt something. Though, because of the slight decomposition of the body and the bloat from the sun beating down, you did have some trouble getting a good grip on the item to pull it out.

Naturally, your discomfort with the situation caused your dark sense of humor to act up. You needed the comfort and you barely thought about the odd joke before it left your lips.

“God, it’s like a fucking fleshlight in here,” You groaned, disgusted laced through your voice as you finally hooked your fingers around the object and managed to pull it out of the wound.

Morgan chuckled at the joke and held out an evidence bag for you (which he had gotten from one of the uniformed officers on the scene). Before any of you could truly analyze the item that you had just pulled out of the body cavity, a voice trampled over your thoughts as you dropped the item into the plastic bag.

“Don’t you mean flashlight?” Reid piped up, so eager to correct you, as always. “Also, how is that comparable?”

You looked up at Reid with awe.

For a moment, you wondered if he was fucking with you.

But the look of genuine confusion plastered across his features - something so rare for the certified genius. That look made you realize that he genuinely didn’t know what a fleshlight was. He had no idea what you were talking about.

Your insides tingled with glee at this realization.

Morgan sighed when he saw the look that you and Reid exchanged. You, wearing filthy, smug dawning and Reid painted entirely with cluelessness. He hated where the exchange was going, knowing how shameless you always were in conversation. He quickly tried to distract from the interaction.

“So, this looks like a horseshoe-” Morgan said, motionting to the object in the evidence bag.

“No, I meant fleshlight.” You said, quickly trampling over Morgan’s words. “F-L-E-S-H-L-I-G-H-T. Fleshlight. Do you not know what that means?”

This caused Morgan to sigh sharply and shake his head.

You took off the glove with a snap and tossed it away, happy to be rid of the smell.

You stood back to your full height, entirely intrigued by Reid’s continued confusion.

“It could represent luck. Maybe a casino?” Morgan tried in vain to distract the two of you from the conversation once again.

Maybe he was trying to preserve Reid’s naive innocence, something you were determined to dismantle piece by piece because it gave you intense joy to see the shock cross his features whenever you explained outrageous concepts to him. The time you had explained to him what a ‘blumpkin’ was, you hadn’t stopped laughing for hours when he could hardly believe you.

“The nearest casino is 45.6 miles away, it’s far outside the UnSub’s geographical comfort zone.” Reid said, quickly dismissing Morgan’s thread of conversation before he turned back to you. “And no, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is it a coroner’s term?”

You let out a harsh snort at this. You had gotten a degree in mortuary science before you became a Profiler (likely something to thank for your strong stomach). But it was your other area of ‘study’ that made you an expert in this.

“No, honey, it’s not.” You quickly answered.

There was a slight flash through his features when you called him ‘honey’. You weren’t sure if it was shock or displeasure, but either way he quickly straightened his face and went back to intrigue. He stared at you with his full attention, ready for you to explain it to him. He was ready to learn and catalog the information in that big brain of his.

It was something you found entirely endearing.

“L/N, please, don’t-” Morgan begged you not to explain it any further, once again wanting to keep Reid in the dark.

Mostly, he wanted to save himself from the embarrassment of witnessing the interaction between the two of you.

“What?” You chuckled sharply, turning to Morgan. “There are some things the genius still needs to learn, apparently.”

Reid rolled his eyes at this. He didn’t want to admit that it was true.

“The other night I had to explain to him what the distinct difference between a Butt Dial and a Booty Call is,” You continued, giving an example to prove your point. “Because he walked into the bullpen and loudly announced to JJ and Elle that he was sorry that he booty called me at 3am and woke me up.”

Morgan choked on his laughter when you explained this.

“Dude, seriously?” He posed, raising a brow at Reid.

“I fell asleep with my phone in my back pocket when I was reading Voltaire.” Reid explained, a heavy blush falling over his cheeks. “I thought - I thought -”

“Okay, playboy, I’m gonna go call Hotch about this,” Morgan announced, motioning toward the evidence bag. “And I’m gonna pretend not to hear anything that’s happening over here.”

Morgan walked off to the car, and Reid turned to you with a defeated look cast over his features.

“I do appreciate when you explain these kinds of things to me.” He told you softly. “It… it saves me from future embarrassment.”

As much as you enjoyed the shock factor of watching Spencer’s innocence melt away when you explained such crude things so abruptly - that was also part of your motivation. You knew that as much as he was a genius - had stunning intellect on paper, could recite statistics by heart - he didn’t have the kind of social skills or social knowledge that you did.

“Do you really wanna know what I was talking about before?” You posed, giving him one last chance to preserve that innocence.

He nodded, ever thirsty to chase an unanswered question.

You held back a giggle.

“A fleshlight is also called a pocket pussy.” You told him, launching into a quick, efficient explanation for his confusion so that he could have his question answered.

“What?” He gaped, having the most beautifully dumb look on his face as the words left his lips.

“It’s a sex toy.” You told him.

His face scrunched even further into bewilderment, and you knew that now he was simply jumping through mental hoops, wondering what kind of sex toy a ‘pocket pussy’ could be. So you decided to make your explanation a bit more detailed.

“It’s a…” You thought for a moment about how to explain it to someone who had never seen one before. “A kind of tube? Usually in the shape of a large flashlight, and on the inside there’s a silicone vagina, or sometimes a silicone anus, and it’s meant to simulate intercourse the same way that a dildo can simulate intercourse by going into a vagina. Or an anus, of course. You do know what a dildo is, right?”

Reid quickly nodded his head - that bright flush even fresher on his cheeks as a deep thoughtfulness came over his features.

“Yeah. Y-yeah. I got it.” He quickly stuttered out, assuring you that he now fully understood.

“Cool.” You said, walking by him and thumping him on the shoulder for reassurance that the conversation was over.

“Wait, is that the hand that you - inside? You haven’t washed your hands yet!”

“I wore a glove, Reid!”

…

Turns out the horseshoe had a unique stamping on it from a closed down metalworks business. Four thousand square feet of abandoned building, perfect for the UnSub to make his ‘art’ inside. He had intended for the clue to lead the team to a barn where he had staged the next corpse, but you broke into the building and caught him in the act of drugging another woman before she was killed.

The state of the building was horrifying - the limbs of the other victims strewn about, a lot of them put on display like trophies.

Overall, you would call it a good day. There was a life saved.

On the way back home, Spencer could barely make eye contact with you while on the jet. His eyes constantly flickered away from you with purpose whenever you looked near him. The two of you played Gin Rummy and you had to remind Reid to take his turn several times. There was even one point where he won a hand and you had to tell him so - he claimed that he had ‘forgotten the rules’. As if.

You couldn’t figure out why he was acting so strangely. You wanted to chalk it up to the harshness of the case, the graphic nature of things - but you both had seen much worse. The ‘fleshlight’ conversation was so minimal on your radar, such a shameless moment for you. It was something you considered so entirely regular as an interaction on the rollercoaster of all things bizarre that was Spencer Reid. You were barely even thinking about it.

You had no clue that it was racing through his mind at top speed as he remembered your words from earlier that day.

…

Spencer couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He wasn’t sure why it had never occurred to him before. Sure, there were plenty of things he didn’t know, like you said. Plenty of things he was curious about, but far too shy to look up. Plenty of things he didn’t want to get caught looking up out of fear of embarrassment.

He knew some things about sex toys. He knew far more about the history of sex toys than he did about modern sex toys. He could tell you that Cleopatra had owned one of the first rudimentary vibrators, made from the shell of a hollowed out gourd filled with bees. But if he walked into a sex shop today, he probably wouldn’t know what half the stuff was or what it was used for.

When he thought about what you had told him, it only made sense.

Of course there would be some kind of solution, some kind of ‘opposite’ to a silicone penis used to simulate sex inside a vagina.

(“Or an anus, of course.”)

Those words flying out of your mouth so casually had sent Reid’s imagination flying into an array of interesting directions. Of course he knew that plenty of men liked to partake in anal stimulation for pleasure. There were no particular statistics about this that came to mind, because it was never something he had directly read a study about.

It was something Reid had always been curious about, because he did know that prostate stimulation was often considered to be the height of pleasure for men.

(Spencer’s attraction to men was a can of worms that he would leave untouched and attend to another day. The innate warmth that he felt when he looked at Morgan was something he always felt the need to suppress. Even though it was quite literally impossible for him, he was still trying to forget the involuntary reaction he had when he looked at a gay porn magazine that his classmates had left in his locker as a joke when he was thirteen.)

For the most part, his mind was hyper-fixating on your explanation of that object he had never even heard of before. The antithesis of a dildo, the supposed inversion of the male genitalia in a more portable form.

A pocket pussy.

You talked about it so casually, explained it so perfectly. You spoke about it in such a way that it left Reid’s mind whirring, wondering what such an object could specifically look like. Of course, he knew what a vagina looked like. In theory.

Yes, he was a virgin.

He actually wondered if he fit that definition exactly. He knew that most people considered virginity to be a milestone passed once they had participated in full blown intercourse for the first time. But he wondered if what he had done would ‘count’ as losing his virginity. It was something he would have asked you, would have wanted your social colloquial opinion on - if he wasn’t so embarrassed about being a virgin in the first place. (Or maybe being a virgin, he still wasn’t too sure.)

He had been touched by a woman before, but only once.

After he and Lila Archer had climbed out of the pool, before the team had arrived, she had kissed him on the mouth again and continued to thank him for his ‘bravery’ and ongoing protection in a very interesting way. And before he could truly process it or stop her (due to the intense unprofessionalism) - his pants were down and her mouth was on him. Because of his inexperience, it had lasted a whopping three minutes. (According to Spencer’s impeccable memory and the fact that he had been glancing between the top of her head and a clock on the wall, worried they would get caught, he knew for a fact that it had been three minutes and fourteen seconds to be exact.)

Which, at the time, was lucky. Because as she licked off her lips and looked up at him through her lashes, Morgan called out his name through the house, finally looking for them. He had rushed to straighten his clothes and look normal - but because Morgan caught them both looking incredibly guilty, he had hounded Reid for days about the ‘details’. Reid gave him none.

But that had been his only experience with a woman sexually. His only experience with anybody, for that matter. So any of his knowledge about vaginas was based entirely on pictures; scientific diagrams, and renaissance art. He was never gutsy enough to buy porn for himself.

He tried to imagine what a silicone vagina would look like - how one would fit molded into a plastic tube. He tried to imagine how it would feel to stick his penis into one.

Of course, he had plenty of experience with masturbation.

His instincts had taken over at the right age for that. Even though his brain was always advanced well beyond his years, puberty kicked in just the same. He had been a hormonal teenager just like everyone else. (Of course, he was the only one going to CalTech getting a PhD in chemistry, but he was right on track in terms of his physical development.)

And naturally, his imagination often ran away with him whenever he had the time alone to masturbate now that he was an adult.

One of the things he thought about most often when he masturbated was you.

The fact that you were so self-assured, so confident, the fact that nothing could shake you. It always made Spencer imagine you pinning him down, taking control of him, kissing him hard. He had orgasmed in his hand a great many nights, imagining you on top of him - imagining what you might feel like around him, on top of him, riding him.

He found it intensely difficult to pay attention to Gin Rummy when all of these thoughts were running through his mind.

…

You barely remembered the fleshlight conversation at all. Barely remembered it, that is, until you were on your way to work the next morning.

There was a small fender bender between two cars on your normal route and the traffic build-up around it caused you to deviate. Because of that, you just happened to drive by your favorite sex shop. The sign caught your eye, and you figured: you were already late. There was a great coffee place across the street. You could grab yourself a latte if you parked.

You were surprised that a sex shop would be open so early in the morning, but you were glad that you made the stop. Usually, you would have taken your time to browse. You liked to see what was new, especially in terms of costumes and lingerie.

You didn’t have a long term partner to impress, but sometimes you did like to strut around the house in lingerie (in your fleeting free time away from the BAU) just to make yourself feel good. That, and it was always fun to see the look on a date’s face when you gave the sensual promise of ‘slipping into something more comfortable’ and then came back in a latex nurse’s outfit and six inch red heels.

Unfortunately, today you were low on time and very set on what you wanted.

You went straight to the wall of toys and zoned in on the selection of fleshlights. You picked out the most ‘basic’ one you could find. You didn’t want to assume Spencer’s preferences, but you picked one that resembled a pussy rather than an ass.

It was on the expensive side, but you knew the look on Spencer’s face when you gave it to him would more than pay it off in your mind. That and imagining him using it, knowing that it would be far too tempting of a gift. He would never be brave enough to buy something like this for himself and once it was in his hands when he was alone, he would be far too curious not to use it - yeah, it was definitely worth it.

You walked past a rack of lube on your way to the cash register and realized that it would be rude to give this kind of gift without a bottle of lube in accompaniment. So you bought a bottle of your favorite water based lubricant. An unscented one, knowing that Spencer was a no-frills kind of guy, even though you usually bought a strawberry scented one for yourself.

You got the items put in a discreet, labelless black bag and then got yourself a latte. And you couldn’t help but to grab an almond croissant for Spencer because when you spotted it in the pantry case, you did think of him.

Of course, when you walked into the office (the black bag safely in the backseat of your car) Hotch just happened to be walking by with a handful of files on the way to his office.

“You’re late.” He commented, not looking up from the paper he was reading.

“Traffic was hell.” You fired back.

“Yeah, and I’m sure that latte just magically transported into your hand.” He said, his tone blank and unreadable as usual. “I want all your reports about the case on my desk by tonight.”

Usually, there was a grace period of two or three days to get the reports about a case done. But clearly, Hotch didn’t like your tardiness. You considered it worth it.

“Yes sir.” You mumbled under your breath.

He didn’t say anything else after that, simply retreated off to his office.

You figured he couldn’t be that mad. He knew the job could be an emotional strain, and it was okay to deviate from such a hard routine every now and then. Especially because now you were going to be spending the next five hours writing out all the gory details of how you had pulled a horseshoe out of a woman’s dead torso in order to catch a killer.

You walked over to your desk, which was right in front of Reid’s, and placed down the paper bag with the croissant on top of one of his files. This easily distracted him from whatever he had been writing - most likely one of his reports about the case.

“Almond croissant,” You said, placing down your coffee cup and placing your purse underneath your desk. “Your favorite, right?”

“It is.” He grinned at you. “Thank you.”

It was that sweet little smile, those big kind eyes staring up at you through the lenses of his glasses like you hung the stars in the sky - it was that bit of sweetness that got you through writing your reports. So yeah, it probably wasn’t just dark humor and nihilism that helped you keep your sanity. It had a lot to do with the pretty boy you got to sit across from every single day.

You worked on your reports. And yeah, you took too many coffee breaks, including a long lunch break with Elle, Penelope, and JJ where they insisted on discussing your ‘crush’ on Spencer.

You denied it.

Elle profiled your lie (which you insisted was not a lie) and JJ laughed about it. Penelope started humming wedding music under her breath and you threatened to spit in her salad.

By the time you actually got the reports done, it was late. Everyone else had gone home - except for Spencer, who was still sitting at his desk across from you with his lamp on and an air of quiet concentration. When you got finished with the last report, you slammed the file closed and let out a sigh, leaning back in your chair and running your hands harshly over your face.

“Finally done?” Spencer’s delicate voice inquired, peeking up over the median between the desks to look at you.

“Yes, finally.” You grinned back at him. “You done too?”

You couldn’t help but to ask. Spencer was always incredibly quick with his reports, simply by the nature of the speed at which he could read and compose writing. You wondered what exactly he had been doing at his desk for the past few hours. Perhaps he had been looking through old case files, possibly unsolved ones, thinking up new leads while there was no pressure looming over his brilliant mind.

“I finished up at three o’clock.” He said.

You glanced at your watch - it was getting close to nine. That made you entirely curious about what he had been doing, sitting at his desk for that many hours. What had he felt the need to stay so late for?

“So what has been keeping you busy this late into the night, Doctor?” You asked.

“I was reading.” He told you honestly, motioning toward a thick novel that he had in his hands.

“How many books do you have over there?” You chuckled.

Again, you knew that because of the intense speed he was capable of reading at, it would take a lot of books to keep him busy.

“Just one.” He answered, easily catching your eye and maintaining eye contact.

Both of you knew what this meant.

For a while, he had been rereading through old case files. But, not wanting to haunt himself with those gory details, he had chosen instead to simply sit at his desk and reread the same book over and over again because he had wanted to keep you company.

What you didn’t know was that his mind had still been heavily plagued by thoughts of your sex toy discussion from the other day, so he wasn’t exactly reading at lightning speed as per usual. Instead - letting his imagination wander, thinking about where he would get a silicone vagina if he wanted to buy one and if a toy would feel as good as yours. What yours would feel like around his penis if he ever got the minuscule chance to actually experience it.

“The Hollow Men by T. S. Eliot - but um, I was waiting for you, actually.” Spencer announced, making his intentions entirely clear, just in case you hadn’t already figured it out. “I was hoping maybe we could get dinner together? We haven’t - we haven’t hung out in a while.”

He seemed nervous asking you this, even though you were always enthusiastic in welcoming his invitations to spend time together outside of work.

Last month, he had brought you to a conservatory housing and actively breeding endangered species of butterflies in order to save the populations from extinction. It was a building full of plant life, an indoor jungle filled with the beautiful insects that took your breath away. Listening to him ramble on about the different species and their latin names, the patterns on their wings and their purpose of camouflage - it had been one of the most pleasant, most romantic non-dates of your life.

You didn’t understand why others on the team acted like his presence, especially his ramblings, could be a bother.

“Sounds good.” You told him with a smile.

He smiled back at you fondly.

“I have to drop these on Hotch’s desk and then we can go.” You explained as you stood up and began gathering your files. “But uh, I don’t really feel like going out? I’m way more in the mood for take-out and a comfy couch.”

“There’s a good Chinese place a few minutes away from my apartment.” He told you. “If you consider my couch comfortable?”

You resisted the urge to tell him that you loved his apartment because the smell of books penetrated every inch of it; the scent of yellowing, worn paper living there like the comfort of a library. But you held that back - choosing instead to say something else.

“The comfiest,” You grinned at him as you walked by with the armful of files.

…

You weren’t entirely sure when you were going to give the ‘gifts’ to Spencer.

A large part of you thought that it would be best to have an out, in case he got embarrassed, or hated it. Most likely, you would wait until after dinner and hand him the bag on your way out without telling him what it was. Which was why you shoved the black plastic bag holding the lube and the sex toy into your oversized purse while Spencer was distracted with carrying the takeout bag toward his apartment.

One thing that had not surprised you about Spencer when you found it out: he didn’t have basic cable. Part of you was surprised that someone who was so pro-book and anti-technology even had a TV at all. But apparently he had some favorites that he couldn’t stand to miss out on, like Doctor Who and Star Wars. So he had a DVD player hooked up to a very small TV that was banished off to a corner of his living room. A device that was dwarfed by bookcases, which did make a lot of sense.

He said that he spent so much time reading and away at work, traveling for cases that it just didn’t make sense to pay for cable. He said that he could get his mental enrichment from reading, and his nerdy pleasure from rewatching his old favorites, and apparently he got the news from listening to the radio. The radio. Sometimes you wondered if he was Benjamin Button - an old man who had somehow gotten into the body of a twenty five year old. It truly mystified you.

Either way, it meant that you spent dinner with season three of Friends on as background noise. Friends being a box set of DVDs that you had gifted him because you considered it to be classic television that he needed to see. The first time he had asked Morgan to his face if a girl had ‘friendzoned’ him with full confidence in what the term meant, you knew that Spencer had been watching it in his free time.

You easily fell into the comfort of your surroundings, enjoying the comforting canned laughter of the show, paired with the delightfully greasy food and Spencer’s ongoing commentary - both about the show, and about other, completely unrelated things. You were so relaxed that you had almost completely forgotten about the gift you had waiting in your bag for him.

It was such a strange coincidence that he had been the one to bring it up.

He offered to take your plate into the kitchen, leaving behind a waft of soy sauce as he went. You were wonderfully full and reached to the small side table where you were nursing a half empty (now warm) diet coke. You took a few sips from it, and heard Spencer’s footsteps shuffling back into the room. He hovered behind you as you watched Monica rush out of her bedroom with her phone pressed to her chest, concerned about calling Richard.

You were so focused on the show that you almost didn’t hear Spencer’s shy, tentative voice when he spoke.

“I’m sorry about the other day.” He said quietly.

“Hmm?” You looked over your shoulder at him, wondering what he meant.

He was rather nervously fidgeting with his hands, standing in the white glow of the TV in the dimly lit room - the only other source of light being a small lamp on the side table and dimness of the light above the stove shining in from the kitchen at his back.

You grabbed up the remote and paused the show, silencing the characters and their temporary problems in order to address the stress that Spencer was very clearly feeling - his whole body tight, hunched over, his face quite tight with worry.

“I’m sorry about the other day.” He repeated himself, slightly louder this time - perhaps not more confident, but simply not drowned out by any further noise.

You didn’t want to butt in, and gave him the room to explain himself slowly.

“I - I didn’t mean to put you in such an… uncomfortable position. If I don’t understand the things you say, I should just pull you aside and ask you privately what you meant.” He sighed. “I - I know that I need to learn to keep my mouth shut sometimes. It’s something I’m working on.”

You became flooded with peril at this. Had he really thought that he had inconvenienced you? Put you in an ‘uncomfortable’ position?

“Come sit down.” You told him, beginning to feel annoyed with craning your neck back to get a proper look at him.

Like a dog being beckoned, he couldn’t help but to follow your order.

He sunk down against the other arm of the three seater couch, leaving quite a bit of space between the two of you. He had his arms folded - closed off, clearly nervous. His eyes were focused on the leg of his pants, distinctly refusing to look at you. Perhaps he was afraid he would find disgust or disappointment among your features. You turned off the TV completely then and angled your body to face him before you continued speaking.

“First of all, you don’t need to learn to keep your mouth shut.” You told him easily. “I’m not sure who, or what gave you that impression, but it’s not true. Whenever you open your mouth, something brilliant comes out, and we’re all better for it.”

Reid’s lips flexed into a smile at the intense direct praise, and this made you happy.

“Second, you didn’t make me uncomfortable the other day.” You told him honestly. “I meant what I said - despite you being a genius, there are still some things you need to learn. And I’m more than happy to teach you.”

These words sent a shiver down Spencer’s spine.

There were so many things that he would beg for you to teach him if given the chance. But he didn’t want to embarrass himself. And most importantly, he didn’t want to come off as creepy or desperate toward someone as perfect as you.

When he dared to glance up at you, you were boldly staring him down. You wore a small smirk across your face. Heat began to stir in Spencer’s gut, and he couldn’t help but to wonder if you were thinking the exact same things that he was.

You couldn’t be. You couldn’t possibly want someone like him. You couldn’t possibly want a nervous, inexperienced ‘virgin’ like him.

Oh, but you did.

You were thinking all of the same things that he was. You were imagining giving him the most intricate ‘hands on’ lessons for everything he had ever been curious about. Giving him the most close-up, detailed tour of the female anatomy he ever could have asked for.

“Spencer,” You called out his name gently.

This forced his attention up from fiddling with a loose thread on the edge of the couch cushion - clearly something out of nervousness - and got him to look at your face. You wondered how someone who was six feet tall could look so delicately small, purposefully slumped over in his seat like that. You wondered what his pretty features would look like warped by an orgasm.

“What are you thinking about right now?” You asked him. You had to know if he was truly on the same filthy wavelength as you.

He knew he had to make up a lie. Because he wouldn’t be brave enough to speak the words out loud. He was too shy to actually tell you that he was wondering what it would be like to bury his face between your breasts, that he wanted to drown there.

“You… you did get me curious.” Spencer admitted quietly. “About the… the - uh-”

He trailed off, clearly too nervous to say the word for himself now that he knew the filthy implications behind it.

“About the fleshlight?” You finished the sentence for him, wanting to encourage him.

You wanted to make him feel brave about the topic. You were too curious about where this interaction was heading - you couldn’t bear to have him get shy on you now.

“Yeah.” He nodded, nervously clearing his throat.

He went back to fidgeting with the edge of the couch cushion, once again purposefully looking anywhere but at your face. You stared him down with purpose, all too intrigued by whatever might come out of his mouth next. Especially with the tense, thoughtful expression dipped along his eyebrows - the same one he got when he was reading or staring at maps.

“I was thinking - I was curious - curious about - about where someone might get one of those.” He finally announced.

He put intense stress on the word ‘where’ - his voice low, almost a lulling whisper in the already quiet apartment. He was speaking as though he was asking you about something incredibly illicit. Like a college kid asking where he could buy weed or a lonely man in his thirties inquiring about a prostitute. Though sex toys were perfectly legal, you guessed that for someone like Spencer, this was just as trepidacious.

You felt a sense of eager giddiness stir within you. You resisted the urge to bounce on the spot like an excitable, hyper kid on their birthday waiting to open their present. Even though he wasn’t looking at your face, you forced yourself to hold back a grin.

You didn’t want to ruin the surprise, after all. It was just too perfect.

“Well… lucky for you, Doctor Reid,” You told him, easily capturing his attention with the use of his proper title and the fact that you shifted slightly in your seat, reaching down by your feet to grab your bag. “I happen to have a spare one right here.”

Spencer watched you cautiously, his neck still sloped with anxious shyness. He almost had to believe that this was a prank, and you would pull a tape recorder out of your bag and laugh because you had captured his perversion for everyone to know about.

But of course - you weren’t that cruel. You were honest, and you were definitely not half as shy as he was. In fact, he would go so far as to say that you didn’t have a bashful bone in your body.

So of course, it made sense that it was not a big deal for you to walk into one of those stores and simply purchase that kind of toy.

Spencer watched eagerly as you pulled out a cardboard box. He heard the rustle of plastic inside your bag and guessed that it was a shopping bag. But he couldn’t be too focused on that once your arm extended out to him, showing him what the rectangular box was.

Spencer had never seen a sex toy in person before, but he quickly realized that they were packaged similarly to any other product. A clean, white background with a picture of the product on it, several claims and promises (‘new and improved design!’) (‘easy to clean!’) (‘soft and durable!’) - and a picture of someone smiling on the front, unconsciously promising a good user experience. In this case, it was a stereotypically beautiful woman in lingerie holding the… item, as though it were comparable… to her… to her parts.

“Open it.” You encouraged him, wagging the box in his direction. “Unless you don’t want it. I could return it.”

It was then that Spencer realized he had been sitting with his hands numbly in his lap for several silent moments, staring at the box in your extended hand.

“Oh!” He said quietly. “No! I mean - yes. I - um.” Rather than trying to articulate it, he reached out and grabbed the item, finding it surprisingly heavy. It easily compared to the weight of a good book in his hands. “Thank you.”

You would be lying if you said that watching him inspect the sex toy as though it were an object from an alien planet wasn’t the hottest thing you had seen in your entire life. Doctor Reid approached this the same way that he approached everything else in life: with intense scrutiny. Clearly his analytical mind was working hard as he carefully peeled back the cardboard flap of the box and slid out his prize.

You had to wonder if that mind of his ever shut off.

You wondered if you could make him dumb and cum drunk, make his head completely empty. You wondered what he would look like mindlessly chasing an orgasm, begging for release with absolutely no statistics or scientific papers running around inside that big brain of his. You wanted to see him completely worn down, just his base instincts at play. You wanted to see him with just the need to fuck and cum and have his release pounding between his ears as he whined desperately for more.

There was a sharp pain between your legs, intense arousal at the thought of it.

That arousal only increased when Spencer dropped the box in his lap and then - like man walking on the moon for the first time - he held the toy delicately in one hand and popped the cap off with the other. Clearly, it was a big discovery for him. Watching his eyes widen with shock did bring you an intense joy. It also immediately made you wonder if seeing the silicone pussy was his first time seeing a pussy so up close and personal at all. That thought only made your own cunt throb with need.

What he did next nearly sent you into orbit.

He gently placed the cap down on his lap, and without looking at you, his thoughtful eyes still entirely focused on the fake pussy - he reached toward it and oh-so-gently stroked his fingers across it. From your perspective, with the angle he was holding it at, you had a perfect view of his gorgeous hand delicately exploring the toy. Your cunt fluttered, clenching around nothing, and you knew that at this point you were definitely sitting in soaked underwear. If you didn’t know Spencer any better, you would have guessed that he was doing this on purpose, to tease you.

But that’s what made it so perfect - he was just naive, just exploring these things for the first time.

When he dipped two of his fingertips into the opening of the toy, you had to consciously hold back a moan. It was almost too hot watching his strong, thick fingers get swallowed up by the soft entrance of the toy. Of course, imagining how those fingers would feel dipping into your pussy with such tender grace.

“Wow.” Spencer said quietly, almost a gasp under his breath as he pulled his fingers back, in pure awe at this new discovery. “I didn’t expect it to be so soft.”

“It’ll feel even better when it’s wet.”

The words came so naturally from your lips, you couldn’t have stopped them if you tried.

Spencer looked up at you with a distinct pinkness spreading over his cheeks, clearly imagining that tight, soft wetness wrapped around his cock.

You dared to take a glance downward and surely enough - beside where the empty box was sitting in his lap, a bulge was forming in his slacks, pressing harshly against the zipper. You deeply resisted the urge to reach over and grope that bulge, not wanting to scare him by coming on too strong. Instead, you put that grabby hand back into your purse to get the other thing you had to give to him.

“Another lesson for the genius,” You announced, extending out the bottle of lube for him to see it. This time he was quicker to grab it, bringing it up to his face to inspect it with thoughtful eyes. “Water based lubricant is best. It’s water soluble, so it’s easy to clean up. And unlike other kinds, it won’t wear down the silicone of the toy over time or wear through the latex of condoms.”

You bringing up condoms caused a jolt in Spencer’s chest. Were you just giving him some friendly advice about safe sex or - or did you actually intend to have intercourse with him? Would there be a need for condoms between the two of you in the future?

The words gave him a temporary bold streak (that and the sexual adrenaline pumping through his system) and he decided to voice his thoughts before he became too shy.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked quietly, his voice taking on that sweet, mousy quality that it usually did whenever he got nervous.

“Of course.” You nodded.

You thought that he might have more questions about the lube or the toy. But what he said next - combined with the fact that he looked at you shyly through his lashes like a doll, like he knew exactly what he was doing - absolutely knocked the wind out of you.

“You… You said that you like teaching me things. So - do you think-?”

He paused for a moment, clearing his throat.

“Could - could you give me a demonstration?” He asked, his voice still shy and sweet.

Your lips gaped in shock - at first you thought you had misheard him. And when the words fully penetrated your ears, you thought that you had somehow misunderstood him. He couldn’t possibly mean-? He wanted you to use the toy on him?

You were shocked that Spencer Reid was openly asking for something like that.

Seeing the shock and slight confusion across your features, Spencer’s mouth raced past his better judgment. His lips plowed over that thing in the back of his brain nagging at him to shut up - and he kept on going.

“It only seems logical that, when tackling something new, especially something this… skill-based, I would need to be shown what to do.” He explained, his mouth running off in that way it always did when he sounded far too much like he knew what he was talking about. “It seems advisable to be shown by someone with more experience. Experience that I don’t have. I need you to show me. Please.”

The last word came out as a breathy plea from him. You could have easily gotten stuck on the fact that he had basically just admitted to you that he was a virgin. But instead, him simply saying that word: ‘please’, begging to you like your attention was the most precious thing in the world; it kickstarted something in your brain and switched on the dominant persona that you had always wanted to use with him.

The air shifted in the room then, and you both knew it. It was like a fire crackling around you. Spencer didn’t know what to do with it, but luckily, you did. He waited with anxious breath for your guidance, your instruction.

“You need me to show you?” You repeated his words, using the buttery sweet voice that you usually did when you had someone so willing and pliant for you.

Instinctively, you reached over to him and gently cupped his cheek. He easily leaned into the touch, shuddering with delight and letting out a small sigh as you made contact with his skin for the first time. It was the first time you had really touched him, aside from casual hugs of comfort after stressful situations that the job naturally gave the two of you. But this was entirely different.

He hummed in affirmation to answer your question, his eyes growing large with lust, pupils blown out as he melted into you.

“What do you want me to show you, pretty boy?” You asked, running your thumb along his bottom lip, admiring how absolutely pink his mouth was.

You hoped that you could prompt a genuine answer out of him - get him to say the words. You had never heard Spencer talk about anything crude before, and you wondered if he was even capable of talking dirty. You hoped that if he wouldn’t say the words on his own, you could coach him into doing it. You could only imagine the satisfaction of getting that smart mouth to utter such filthy things.

“I want…” Spencer swallowed harshly, clearly having a difficult time with his mouth drying out now that you had a hand on him, even though the touch was fairly ‘innocent’. “I want you to show me… everything.”

The intense emphasis that he put on the word sent sparks flying inside of you.

It sounded like he wanted a lot more than just a ‘demonstration’ of the toy. It sounded like he wanted a lot more than just a one night stand to get off.

Intense want flared up of you.

The temptation to own him, to make him yours… the temptation to take all of his first and have him tied to you like a lost puppy because of it - it was an intense one. But you wouldn’t hurt him, no. You would do it right. You would own him in that way because he wanted it just as badly as you did.

“Spencer,”

You said his name suddenly, harconing for his attention with it. You stroked your thumb along his cheek before you pulled the touch away completely. His head bobbed forward slightly to chase your hand, but he let you go without protest.

“If we’re going to do this, there has to be rules.” You told him firmly. “If I’m going to be your teacher, you have to listen to me. Teachers need rules, right?”

Spencer nodded vigorously at this.

“Of course. Yeah - yeah. You’re right.” He eagerly agreed. Then of course, he asked the obvious question. “What are the rules?”

You beamed a smile at him, loving his enthusiasm.

You knew that he would be a good boy. He was so eager to follow rules, to learn. Your body began tingling with delight at the thought of him looking up at you with hazy eyes, asking for his next command.

You had to forcibly clear your head. Right now you had to be level headed in order to teach him the rules.

“Okay the first rule - the most important one,” You prefaced, causing Spencer to straighten up slightly, showing his attentiveness, an eager student ready to learn. “Is that you need to pick a safeword. A word you can say during the scene so that I can know if you’re uncomfortable or if you need to stop.”

“‘The scene’?” Spencer asked, repeating back the phrase to you. “Also - why can’t the safeword just be ‘stop’, or ‘no’? Wouldn’t you just stop things if I said ‘no’?”

You decided to tackle his questions one at a time.

“Calling it a ‘scene’ - it’s lingo.” You said. “You know that everything comes with its own set of linguistics.” You told him, playing into his pre-existing knowledge. He nodded at this.

You then continued your explanation.

“A ‘scene’ means… any type of sexual play. Some people call it ‘playtime’. It’s lingo that exists because for a lot of people, sex is much more than just intercourse. It can start with speech and behavior and any interactions that they have with their partner when they’re alone. Like foreplay. So a safeword needs to be included in those moments too, in case someone needs to call timeout.”

Spencer nodded at this. It made him wish that he had developed a safeword with Lila Archer. Not because he hadn’t enjoyed the oral sex - but because to this day, he still shuddered at the possibility of being embarrassed by someone walking in on them, or the consequences if someone found out about the improprieties of it all.

“As far as the safeword being ‘no’, or ‘stop’…” You took the time to find the right words to explain it.

Spencer waited patiently, feeling curious about this.

“I will always look out for your safety, and if you seem uncomfortable, I’ll ask you if you’re okay.” You assured him, giving him a gentle pat on the knee. Spencer smiled at this, and you enjoyed that you had comforted him with these words.

“But sometimes ‘no’ doesn’t work.” You went on to explain. “Like… if I asked you something like ‘do you want me to stop?’ and you say ‘no’, that is a positive affirmation to continue what I’m doing, but it uses a negative word. Same thing with the word ‘stop’. If you told me ‘don’t stop’ - but your voice was too quiet on the first word or I didn’t properly hear you, then I may stop when you wouldn’t want me to.”

For the first time, Spencer felt as though he was the one being schooled.

You telling him ‘I may stop when you don’t want me to’ had him drawing an image up in his head of you vigorously riding him, taunting him while you were so well composed and he was reduced to a stuttering mess because of your wetness clenching around him. With you mistaking his words for a signal of distress, and taking away your beautiful body before he got to orgasm. It would be tragic.

He easily understood what you meant.

“The point of a safeword,” You continued on. “Is that it stands out. It’s a word you would never otherwise say during playtime. A word that would never come up during sex - except for you signaling your discomfort. So when I hear that word, I know that we need to shift gears into aftercare.”

“What’s aftercare?” Spencer asked, eager to learn another new term as it was introduced to him.

Again, you were puzzled about how to explain it, how to put it into words for someone who had no clue what the word meant.

These were things you had known about for years, words that were a natural part of your vocabulary now. Things you had been doing before you even knew the terms for it. It was strange having to explain it to someone so fresh.

“It - um…” You thought for a moment. “Aftercare is what happens after a scene. It’s the period of time when you mentally and physically wind down, in order to take care of your body and mind. Because of the physical exertion and the endorphins, sex can be exhausting and mentally tedious, as much as it is fun. So - aftercare helps transition the body and mind back into non-sexual activities. Different people need different kinds of aftercare, but usually it’s things like: drinking water, eating a snack, cuddling, words of affirmation.”

“That sounds nice.” Spencer said quietly. “Would you do that for me even - even though I’m not your boyfriend?”

You held back what you instinctively wanted to say - that you wanted him to be your boyfriend. That you wanted to own him like a cute little pet and didn’t want any other woman (or man) to touch him.

Instead, you went with the diplomatic answer.

“Of course I would.” You told him. “Aftercare is part of being a good - a good teacher.”

You quickly cut yourself off from using the word ‘dominant’ and replaced it with ‘teacher’ instead. You didn’t want to scare him with the idea that you would be intimidating, mean, cold - traditional ideas behind the term ‘dominant’.

“I want to be good to you, Spence.” You quickly added on.

His cock throbbed inside of his pants at this.

“So, you have to pick your safeword.” You told him. “Something that stands out, something that will easily come to your mind.”

Spencer took a moment, and you saw him take a sideways glance at the coffee table. The chess set that was there caught his eye, and that didn’t surprise you.

“Bishop?” Spencer posed, looking at you with eyes that said he was absolutely searching for your approval. “Is that good?”

“Yes, baby, that’s perfect.” You told him.

If you did your job well enough as a dominant, then he wouldn’t need to use the word.

You would be able to tell just by his body language and him voicing his enjoyment how far you should take things. And when he was comfortable enough, you would discuss other sexual acts, and what else you should try. Though, for tonight, you had a feeling you should take control without telling him too much of what you wanted to do. You didn’t need him getting shy on you just because of some dirty talk.

“You said that was only the first rule,” Spencer mentioned, remembering what you had said. “What are the other rules?”

“Well, the second rule is: you listen to me. You listen to everything I say. You do everything I say. You don’t question me.” You told him firmly. “Because I’m the teacher, I’m in charge.”

Spencer wanted to question you then. He wanted to point out that this sounded like multiple rules, but the way you said ‘I’m in charge’ caused something inside of him to quake, and he easily fell under your authority.

He nodded.

“The next rule is: you speak when spoken to, Spencer.” You told him, your tongue sharp on the words.

You were heavily enjoying ordering him around now.

These were two roles that the two of you fell so naturally into: he was soft and submissive under your dominant energy, and he only wanted more as your ego thrived off his eager submission. It was the start of a beautiful relationship forming.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” The title came flying out of his mouth before he could stop it, and then he instantly wanted to backpedal. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I like that.” You told him with a grin. “Though, if you want to give me a title, call me Miss.”

You held back from telling him the true title you desired. Again, not wanting to scare him away. Perhaps it was something you could ween him towards on another day.

“Yes, Miss.” He corrected, nodding. “Uh - Miss? Is - is there anything else?”

“Only two more things.” You told him. Of course, you didn’t want to overload him, but you wanted him to know your most important rules up front. He looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to explain. “You can’t touch me without asking first. And of course, you can’t touch me unless I give you permission.”

This news cast the saddest puppy look across his features. Clearly, he was deeply disappointed by the thought that he wouldn’t be able to grope and grab at your body freely. He was upset by the thought that you would deny him access to touching you. You could definitely use that if he ever misbehaved.

“And the last thing is: you can’t cum without my permission.” You told him, almost as if it were an afterthought. With any of your other partners, it would have been. Because it would have been a basic ground rule.

“Come where?” Spencer asked, his brows knit together in the most adorably confused manner you had seen yet.

Of course, he was confused. He had never before heard someone use the term ‘cum’ to refer to an orgasm. He was used to hearing that word - ‘come’ - paired with something else like ‘come here’. So he wondered what the hell you possibly meant by it.

You found yourself grinning like the cat who ate the canary as you realized that you would also have to explain this piece of slang to him.

“No, Spence, not C-O-M-E, like the verb. It’s C-U-M. It’s slang used interchangeably with the word ‘orgasm’.” You explained to him. “Sometimes it can be a verb. Like the act of cumming, it means orgasming. Or sometimes it’s a noun. Sometimes people use the word ‘cum’ instead of saying semen. ‘Cum’ is the fluid. As in: ‘I want your cum inside of me’.”

You intentionally teased him with this example, saying it as casually as a straight forward grammar lesson, looking him in the eyes the entire time. His eyes lit up at your words - obviously, he had no clue that such a simple sentence could turn him on so much. But the words immediately painted a picture in his mind of that white, sticky fluid dripping down your inner thighs, put there by him. It was so perfect that it almost made him dizzy.

When Spencer didn’t say anything, you continued with your ‘lesson’.

“When I said that you can’t cum without my permission, I meant that you can’t have an orgasm unless I say so.” You told him with finality.

He looked struck with worry at this. Partially at the idea that he wouldn’t get to have an orgasm if you didn’t give him permission, and partially at the thought that if he accidentally orgasmed without your permission, you would be angry with him and cut off all further sexual contact.

“What’s wrong, Spence?” You had to ask.

“How - how does that work?” He asked, all too curious at how he could stop himself from orgasming or how he could get your permission first.

“Well, you know what it feels like when you’re about to have an orgasm, right?” You asked, really hoping that he at least masturbated regularly. You didn’t think you could have the burden of giving him his first ever orgasm. He nodded and this and you felt a small breath of relief leave you. “So, when you feel like that, you simply ask me if you’re allowed to cum. Ask me if you can cum.”

“Will you let me?” Spencer asked nervously, sheepishly. You distinctly noticed how he avoided the word. He didn’t say the sentence as you had. You yearned to hear him say ‘will you let me cum?’ - but you knew you had to give him time to shake off his shyness.

“If you’ve been a good boy, then yes.” You told him. “Good boys follow the rules. But I don’t think you’ll have any problems, Spence.”

You saw him relax at this - any tension leaving his muscles.

You conveniently left out the part where you might edge him, might not let him cum just for your own amusement.

“I think that’s all for now.” You told him. “Now that we have the rules set - do you wanna play with your new toy?”

Spencer’s face absolutely lit up at this.

“Yes, please.” He said, his voice somehow still shy and quiet. “Yes, please, Miss.”

Your stomach jolted with intense pleasure at his declaration.

Spencer thought that you would simply grab the toy from him and unzip his pants. He was surprised when you stood up, and began looking around the room as though you were looking for something. But in alignment with the rules, he didn’t question you. He didn’t ask what you were looking for or why. Instead, he just sat there quietly and waited for your instructions.

When you seemed satisfied with your idea, you then began moving around. You leaned down and pushed away the coffee table, pushing it as far back as it would go. This made a fair amount of space in front of the couch. And before Spencer could become truly curious about it, you turned to the side of the room - toward a space where he had a small table.

It was meant to be a sort of ‘dining’ table, suitable for one or two people in an apartment like his. It had two chairs, but one of the chairs was piled up with books and the surface of the table had some files on it that he had taken home from work. He did sit on the other chair to eat occasionally - during the rare times he actually sat down and had a meal at home.

You grabbed the empty chair - which was a wooden chair with a round back and decorative wooden bars coming off the seat, holding the back of it up. (Something Spencer had picked up at a yard sale.) And then you put the chair in the middle of the room, right in the space you had cleared from moving the coffee table. The chair was facing the couch - and it became apparent to Spencer then that this was a stage.

You were either going to sit in that chair and watch him, or he was going to be the thing on display in the middle of the room. The idea of that happening - the idea of you watching him like a show, like he was something to admire - that put a twist in his stomach. It was something almost too daunting for him to conquer. He found himself swelling with shyness again, wanting to back down from this.

He feared that he wouldn’t be able to impress you. He feared that he was gangly, thin, undesirable. He feared that his experience would steer him wrong somewhere and he would mess up terribly and turn you off.

He thought that he wouldn’t be able to impress you.

But he wanted to impress you so badly. He wanted you. He wanted your touch. He wanted to be a good boy for you, like you had said.

“Give me your belt.” You said, turning to him expectantly and holding out your hand.

“My - my belt?” He asked.

Then, he immediately scolded himself inside as he realized that was questioning you, and against the rules.

You let that one slide. He was still getting used to this, and it must have been an odd, confusing instruction to hear right off the bat.

“Yes, your belt. I need it.” You said, still holding out your hand. “Come on.”

Spencer stood up then, his hands and legs shaking slightly from nerves and the overwhelming lust. Although he was taller than you, he felt so entirely small as you stared at him, waiting patiently while his shaking hands struggled to undo the buckle and then slip the leather out of the belt loops.

When he finally handed it over to you, you took the belt in hand and inspected it for a moment before you quietly said ‘perfect’ under your breath. You then looked between Spencer and the chair - he was still wearing his work attire. A cardigan, a button up shirt and tie, his usual slacks, and his adorable dorky glasses. He had taken off his shoes at the door, revealing his oddly sweet mismatched socks.

“Spencer,”

You called his name, capturing his attention from where he was swaying on the spot, nervously fidgeting with the buttons on his cardigan to avoid looking at you. As soon as he looked up at you with those big, wet eyes, you felt confident in giving him your next instruction.

“I want you to take off all your clothes. Except for your glasses and your socks.” You told him, giving him his first proper orders.

He held his voice in his throat when he felt the need to question you about it, to ask you why.

You wanted him to keep the glasses on because they brought an entirely dorky charm to him - you wanted to see if they would fog up when he became heated with lust. The socks? You thought they were cute, but it was mostly a test to see how closely he would follow the instructions. To test how well he would listen.

He did as he was told. He stripped off his sweater, and then his tie, and then his watch, leaving his wrists nice and bare for you. His fingers began to shake slightly as he descended on the buttons of his shirt - clearly, he was feeling nervous once again, so you decided to give him some encouragement.

“You’re being such a good boy, Spence.” You told him. “So good for me.”

He let out a quiet breath at the praise - a precursor to a moan. It was something that compelled him to strip faster, and gave him a small boost of courage when reaching for the zipper of his pants. After he unzipped them - his erection clearly fighting to be freed of the fabric - your mouth began watering at the sight as he reached for the waistband of his pants and his underwear all at once and slid them down.

A snake of surprising length popped out of his pants. His dick began bobbing around carelessly, smearing shiny precum all over his skin as he unhooked himself from the legs of his pants and put them aside.

You had to marvel at it.

You had never really thought about what Spencer might look like naked before. You had never allowed your mind to venture there. But now that you were seeing his cock: nine inches long, skinny and lean like he was, pale with a bright pink tip, sprouting from a thick thatch of dark pubic hair - it just made sense. He was tall and gangly, and so was his cock. It would be an impressive sword to impale yourself upon - but that would be for another day.

Spencer caught you staring, of course.

He had the urge to cover himself with his hands, and found himself clenching his fists by his sides because he figured that you wouldn’t like him trying to hide from you.

He wondered if it looked weird. He wondered if you didn’t like it. He wondered-

“You’re beautiful, Spencer.” You said, your voice so drenched in utter sincerity that you almost broke into a gasp trying to get the words out. “So fucking beautiful.”

Again, he wanted to question you - but didn’t. He wanted to be a good boy. He would follow the rules.

“Th-thank you, Miss.” He muttered out quietly, almost unable to accept the compliment.

“Come here, sit down.” You told him, motioning toward the chair.

He nodded, his legs feeling rather numb as he moved to follow your instructions. When his ass made contact with the wooden surface of the chair, he let out a gasp at how cool it was compared to his heated skin. You quietly giggled at this, and then grabbed the belt from where you had put it down. He grew tense and curious once again when you walked behind him.

You grabbed one of his wrists and began to guide it behind him, but he was so tense that you knew it would be uncomfortable for him. You eased your touch with a flat palm up his forearm and bicep, across his shoulder until you could press the weight of your thumb into the base of his neck. He moaned lightly at this, melting into the touch.

“Relax, baby.” You urged. Spencer relaxed even further at the nickname, absolutely blooming with affection inside because of it. “I’m not gonna do anything to hurt you. I just want to make you feel good.”

To drive home this point, you leaned in and planted a simple kiss on the back of his head, and then one on the side of his neck. Spencer let out a fluttering moan at this. He wanted more of those kisses, but he couldn’t work up the nerve to ask for it.

He could find no faults with what you had said, so he did his best to do as you instructed. He relaxed, leaning back fully against the chair - which was slightly uncomfortable while he was completely naked and throbbing hard, waiting for you to touch him more. But he trusted you.

You grabbed one of his wrists, and then the other, and guided them behind his back.

It was much easier now that his muscles were softer, more pliant to you.

You knelt down and used the belt to tie them simply. You looped the belt through the wooden slats so his hands would be held to the chair, and then placed both of his wrists into the loop. You didn’t want it to be so tight that the material would cut into his wrists painfully or cut off circulation, you just wanted to restrict his movement.

Which would absolutely be the case when his arms were bound behind him, awkwardly tied to the back of the chair. You hooked the buckle into the smallest notch, giving him a bit of room to move, a bit of a gap to put your finger between the belt and his skin. However, it put his shoulders at an awkward angle so he would need your help getting out of it.

“Is that okay?” You asked. “Not too tight? Be honest.”

Spencer thought that he should feel slightly afraid or too vulnerable - being completely naked and tied to a chair like this. But with you, he felt safe.

“It’s good.” He told you honestly. “Not too tight.” He assured you, moving to show off that wiggle room, demonstrating that the material wasn’t cutting into his wrists.

“Good,” You sighed quietly, standing up once again.

You walked around him like a predator circling their prey, making graceful, careful moments as you took in the sight of him.

He was absolutely, beautifully sinful in this state.

Stripped entirely naked, except for those glasses and those adorable, mismatched socks, sitting in the chair with his hands bound behind his back. All while he stared at you with his wide, expectant eyes, waiting for whatever your next move would be. While his heavy, hard cock leaked freely against his stomach, smearing a trail of sticky precum across his skin.

You reached forward and grabbed his chin, tilting his head up slightly to look at you. Having someone as tall as Spencer look up at you for a change was entirely powerful. You held him there while you asked him a very important question.

“You gonna be good for me?” You asked him.

Instinctively for him, there was only one answer.

“Yes.” He whimpered out. “Yes, Miss. I want to be good for you.”

The pure sincerity of his declaration caused another wave of wetness from your aching pussy. For now, you would ignore your own needs. You would take care of him, make sure that this was a pleasurable experience for him.

“Good boy,” You praised him, giving him a light kiss on the forehead - to which he sighed quietly in delight.

Then, you let go of his face completely and turned to grab the item that had started this whole thing.

You were excited to finally use it on Spencer.

Spencer watched with awe and intrigue as you grabbed the toy and then the lube - you peeled off the plastic shrink wrap on the lube bottle with your teeth, and then popped the cap. And you turned so Spencer could see as you poured a generous amount of lube into the opening of the toy.

“Don’t be afraid to use too much lube,” You told him, being a proper teacher. “In my opinion, there’s no such thing as ‘too wet’. But ‘too dry’ can cause skin irritation from friction. Or tearing if you’re trying to insert something like fingers or a penetrative toy. Like a dildo. Adequate lubrication always reduces the risk of both those things,”

Spencer wanted to ask if there were other kinds of penetrative toys aside from dildos, but he figured that would be a question for another time.

“Yes, Miss.” He nodded in understanding, absorbing what you had told him.

You looked between the toy and his cock, and realized you might as well slick him up beforehand.

You took a step closer to him and put the thickness of the fleshlight between his thighs, propping it there while you quietly mumbled ‘hold this’ - which caused him to tense his thighs in order to keep it from falling. He became enraptured by the sight of the silicone pussy, lubed and wet as a real one would be. He was so distracted by the sight that he almost didn’t take in you pouring lube into your hand before you capped the bottle and put it aside.

“This is probably gonna be cold,” You warned him quietly before you used your lubed hand to take a hold of his cock.

It was. And he let out a harsh gasp - from the shock of the cold wetness, a sound that quickly turned into a strangled moan as you formed a loose grip around his cock and began spreading the wetness over him with purpose. The lube soon warmed between your palm and the throbbing skin of his cock, and he unconsciously bucked into your touch, almost knocking the fleshlight out from resting between his thighs.

“Stay still.” You ordered sharply, shoving his hips back down with your free hand.

The harshness behind your voice, and your thumb pressing into his hip bone sent him reeling. He was so pliant under your touch. Between your commanding authority and the slickness of your lubed hand moving in a slow rhythm in lazy pumps up and down his cock - he was already way too fucking close.

You knew it. You could see the way his stomach muscles quaked, the tensing of his thighs. Those little lilting gasps like music to your ears.

You wondered if he would spurt cum all over your hand before he warned you. (If he did, you would likely pump him through it just to see if he would get hard again.)

“Miss-!” He hollered, choking on the word.

You abruptly stopped then. You stiffened your grip around the base of his cock - which was now nicely lubed up, and throbbing even harder as you effectively used your fingers around his pelvis like a cockring, causing his orgasm to fade dully back into his muscles. He let out a wounded sound, a confused moan from deep in his chest, his stomach shaking even harder as if he was trying to force the orgasm out past your gatekeeping touch. It was almost cute.

“Yes, Spencer?” You asked, looking at him dumbly as though you had no clue what he had been trying to say.

“I - I was getting close.” He completed the thought breathlessly. “C-close to orgasm.”

Damn. If he was this fucked out now, you couldn’t wait to see what he would be like when you were done with him.

“Well, good boys only cum with permission, right?” You said, grinning at him fiendishly.

“Yes, Miss.” He said quickly, his voice dull with disappointment, but agreeable.

“Good boy.” You praised once again. You felt his cock twitch in your hand at the words. “Besides, you haven’t even gotten a chance to try out your new toy yet.”

You then grabbed up the toy and turned it over, using your hand on the base of his cock to feed his length into the fake pussy. More cool lube came rushing down to meet him, and his lungs shook once again and his heated skin was shocked by the feeling. It was strange, but pleasurable as his cock was enveloped by the soft, wet walls of the toy. It was so, so very tight around his cock - and oddly cool, far wetter than he had expected thanks to the amount of lube you had used.

Spencer reasoned that it might be like sticking his cock in a watermelon, if that watermelon were also made of rubber bands.

You knelt down in front of Spencer, looking in awe between the spot where his cock disappeared into the fake leaking pussy to his face. Seeing his reaction to this was utterly beautiful - the way his jaw naturally fell open, his eyes half closed as the pleasure overtook him.

“Oh!” Spencer let out a sudden, high startled sound as you shoved the toy down onto his cock fully.

Your eyes once again flickered between his dick and his face, and you came to an utterly stunning realization.

He didn’t fully fit inside of the toy.

There was about an inch of his cock that was still sticking out of it at the base, and with the resistance your hand had brought up into, you knew that he was fully seated inside of it. Well - as fully seated as he could get, apparently.

It was one of the hottest things you had ever seen, and it sent a dizzying wave of endorphins through you. The sight of his cock not fully fitting into the silicone pussy was a stunning visual that made you realize just how deep he would go inside of you. It made your throat dry for a moment, forced you to swallow hard before you could speak.

“You’re right here, baby?” You asked, tapping a finger on the top of the toy, knowing that he would feel it as a vibration through the plastic.

He let out a gasp and bucked his hips up slightly, something that made you smile. He was too hazy to answer you already, something that you forgave for now. He was just too beautiful to scold in these moments.

“Fuck, you don’t even fit into this thing all the way, do you?” You gasped quietly, still absolutely marveling at the sight.

“I don’t?” Spencer gaped, finally looking down to where the toy was swallowing his cock, seeing as your words had captured his attention. “Is - is that bad?”

He was struck with worry. He thought that perhaps his cock wasn’t right - that he shouldn’t be doing this, that you wouldn’t like him.

It was in that moment that you realized what a treasure you had come across. A beautiful, intelligent man with a huge cock who had no idea how to use it. Someone who needed to be taught from scratch. Someone who could be molded into anything you wanted him to be. (At least in the sexual sense.) That, and he seemed to be naturally submissive and derive pleasure from following your orders.

You most definitely weren’t going to let him go anytime soon.

“No, baby, that’s a good thing.” You assured him. “That’s a great thing.”

Spencer smiled at this - an expression that slacked off into a moan when you made your next move.

You gave the toy a slow half-pump before you seated it on his cock again, seemingly knocking the wind out of them. Then, you let go of the toy completely, letting him sit there with the fleshlight on his cock, bobbing in mid-air. It began to rise up slightly as the tightness of it hugged his cock, and unconsciously, he bucked up his hips, seeking more friction. But of course - the object was simply hanging there, seated on his cock, unmoving. It was an entirely fruitless venture.

With his hands tied behind his back, he needed you. It was an adorable struggle to watch for a moment, especially when his face knit with frustration and his thighs began to quiver from the effort.

“Please,” He begged. He was so pretty when he begged. “Help me.”

“You want me to help you fuck your toy?” You teased, reaching for it again.

“Please, Miss.”

When he whined like that, you couldn’t bring yourself to deny him.

You took a good grip on the plastic then, and began a quick, smooth rhythm. You were eager to see his reaction to being fucked well, being fucked without hesitation.

Spencer immediately shuddered and began letting out harsh whimpers. He bit his lip, but it didn’t keep the sounds from wailing out of his throat as you pumped the toy up and down on his cock.

His chin was tilted down onto his chest, keeping his eyes locked on the place where the toy was devouring his hard cock. This caused his glasses to slip down his nose bridge slightly, something so entirely adorable to you in the moment. With his thighs tense and his stomach quaking, with that pool of artificial wetness leaking onto his pubes and slowly creeping down over his balls - he was so beautifully fucked out, the most perfect picture you had ever seen in your life.

“Oh - oh, oh, oh god!” His mouth fell open once again and an array of sounds fell out, a beautiful little choir that you could have only dreamed of coming from him. “Oh, please!”

You had to wonder if he was the type of person to swear when he came. Spencer was never the type of person to swear during other extreme situations. You had never seen him let out a single curse, not even with a gun to his head.

You had to wonder if you could be the one to make him swear.

“Please, Miss!” He squeaked out, sounding entirely wrecked and desperate. “Please, I’m close-!”

You couldn’t resist the temptation of stilling the toy completely, abruptly cutting off his orgasm once again. Spencer let out a broken sound as his muscles jolted and the feeling ebbed through him - so close, but not quite there. It was like a terrible ache in his muscles. Like a deep, terrible thirst with nothing to drink.

“Please,” He begged, his eyes shooting to lock onto you. “Please! Please, Miss.”

“Please, what, baby?” You teased him, reaching up and gently carding your fingers through his hair, brushing some of it off his forehead. He had a light sheen of sweat going, his body clearly strained. It was delightful to witness.

“Please,” He rasped out brokenly, so entirely desperate. “I - I need it.”

You bit your lip, holding back laughter at how perfect this was.

“Need what, baby?” You continued to tease him. “Come on, use your words.”

He swallowed hard, and stared at you with glassy desperation in his eyes. Either he was shy, or had no clue what exactly it was you wanted him to say - so you decided to guide him along.

“Say: I need to cum.” You told him, hoping that he was desperate enough now that he would simply repeat the filthy words.

“I - I need to cum.” He repeated, only mild hesitation on his lips.

“Say: I need you to make me cum.” You told him, pushing it a bit father.

“I need you,” He said, pausing slightly to catch his breath. “Need you to make me cum.”

“Good boy.” You praised him, running his hand through your hair once again.

You stood up this time, and put one hand on the back of the chair behind his shoulder for leverage, leaning over him as you took the toy in hand and started moving it once again. This gave him a perfect view down your top, and his lustful gaze locked onto your swaying cleavage as you worked on jacking the fake pussy on his cock. It was a maddening suction that had him grunting lowly with every thrust, letting out whines, flexing his hips to fuck his cock up into the toy.

“Does it feel good, pretty boy?” You asked, so heavily enjoying the sight of him so messy, so wrecked.

“Yes!” He easily replied.

“What are you thinking about? Hmm?” You couldn’t help but to ask.

“I - hnng - I - I don’t know!” He gaped.

Either he was lying, and simply didn’t want to tell you what was on his mind, or you had truly fucked his head empty. If it was the second, then you would heavily enjoy that fact.

“You don’t know?” You asked, your voice absolutely teasing once again. “Well, that’s a first.” You chuckled.

Spencer panted harshly, filling the space for a moment - along with the wet squelching of the toy moving up and down on his cock as your wrist continued to work. And then you became bold enough to ask the question that you truly wanted to.

“You thinkin’ about my pussy?” You prodded. “You imagining that this toy is me? Wondering what’s gonna be like when I finally sit on your cock?”

“Yes!” He was suddenly very eager to admit to this. Clearly it helped that he didn’t have to say the words for himself. “Yes! Yes, Miss! I want you. I want your-”

He cut himself off suddenly, moaning sharply as the tip of his cock brought up in the end of the fake pussy once again. It sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through him that had his skin boiling even hotter. You wondered if he would be bold enough to say the word ‘pussy’ or if you would have to heavily prompt him.

But that thought left your head completely with his next words.

“Oh! Oh, please! I’m so close!”

Again, feeling the devil rise up inside of you, you stopped off his orgasm.

This time, by pulling the toy away completely. You lifted the fleshlight off his cock, and watched with lustful joy as his cock slipped out of the opening with a wet pop. His thighs quaked with bitter agony and his long cock bobbed in the air, dripping thick waves of precum and lube as it separated from the toy.

Everything was so wet.

It was honestly a gorgeous sight, like a mini tidal wave dripping down onto the chair as the toy continued to leak the generous amount of lube you had put into it and his cock let out pathetic little spurts of precum. His pubes were glossy and matted together, his inner thighs were absolutely slick. He was glistening and whining harshly as the ruined orgasm crashed through his body, making his mind somehow even hazier and more desperate.

“God!” He choked out. “Please!”

He blinked harshly and a few tears escaped the corners of his eyes, making him look even more gorgeous somehow.

“Please - please! I need - I need - oh god!” He began sobbing nonsensically, begging you for release as he was practically on the verge of madness.

Your cunt throbbed at seeing him so wrecked - so utterly dependent on you.

“Hey, hey, shh.” You reached your free hand out and thumbed under the edge of his glasses - the thick lenses only magnifying his glassy eyes and lustful, broken tears all the more. You soothed your touch across his burning cheek, reassuring him. “You’ve been such a good boy. I’m gonna let you cum now. Okay?”

“Please!” He sobbed.

Hearing his voice so broken and needy probably shouldn’t have turned you on so much, but you absolutely loved it.

“Hey, shh,” You continued to rub his cheek, and he leaned into the touch. “I just need one thing from you first.”

“Anything!” He easily declared.

“I need you to say: ‘may I cum, please?’” You told him.

It was a start on the scale of filthy things that you wanted to hear from his mouth, but it would definitely be oh so satisfying.

And then - as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you, he blinked his big eyes and looked up at you through tear wet lashes, giving you the most pouty, fuckable look as he leaned into your hand before he said the words.

“May I cum, please?” He asked. And then, like the wet dream that he was, he seamlessly added on. “Please, Miss. I-I’ve been a good boy.”

“Yes, you have been.” You told him. “I’ll make you cum now baby.”

You used both hands to get his cock back inside of the toy - the sound of his cock fucking back into the fake pussy was so much wetter, the whine he let out made your knees weak.

You doubled your efforts now, even going so far as to squeeze your grip on the outside of the plastic - which made the silicone grip his cock just that little bit tighter as you slammed it up and down on him. Your movements were hard and fast in the effort to make him cum for certain this time.

“Oh, oh, oh, you - oh!” Spencer began babbling nonsense, his words barely broken up by harsh breaths being sucked into his lungs and whimpers emanating from his throat at the intense pleasure. “Oh, Miss - you - you’re so - ah!”

“Where’s that big IQ now, boy genius?” You taunted him, keeping up the brutal pace. “Did I make you all stupid? Did I melt your big brain? Huh?”

Spencer all but confirmed this as truth when he gurgled out nothingness as a response.

You felt slightly bolder, and you became slightly harsher in your degrading words. You almost couldn’t help yourself. You loved tearing him apart so much, having him melt under your touch. You couldn’t help but to brag about the amazing job you had done.

“Just a dumb little baby now, aren’t you?” You cooed, your voice entirely condescending. “Just a stupid little boy for me. So cumdrunk you can’t even think now, huh? There’s no boy genius here now. Just a dumb baby who needs to cum.”

He only inflated your ego with his next words.

“Yes!” He shouted out, entirely confirming what you had said - if he had even properly heard it through the blood pumping in his ears. To him, it might have just been the raw hum of your voice in the background, like an undertone with no true words to it. “Yes! Need - need t’ cum!”

It was the most incoherent you had ever known Doctor Spencer Reid to be.

You stared on eagerly as you watched his stomach tighten up, his lungs struggling for breath.

“Y/N-!” He gasped out your name right before it hit him.

And when it hit him, when he finally tumbled over the edge into the abyss - boy, it was a big one.

It was an intense, full body orgasm. His legs shook, his body arched off the chair as though he were having a seizure, actually putting a strain on his bonded arms for the first time. He wildly bucked up into the toy as you continued to work it over his cock, his mouth dropping open wildly as a strain of high pitched, needy whimpers poured out from between his pretty pink lips.

You were feeling selfish, and you wanted to see him cum at least a bit.

So knowing that he was riding the wave, you ripped the toy off him, causing a wounded noise to come out of him as his spurting cock fell from it. But you didn’t leave him hanging. You immediately replaced the toy with your hand, and put a tight grip around him, pumping viciously over his throbbing cock, wanting to milk the rest of the orgasm out of him by hand.

The sudden, shocking overstimulation sent his body into overdrive.

His thighs shook so hard it could have been mistaken for electrocution, he gasped like a drowning man - he would have begged for mercy, but he couldn’t catch his breath.

It was the best feeling he had ever experienced. It was pure euphoria, it was heaven on earth. It was an icy hot fire running through his veins that he didn’t even know was possible.

He had never experienced an orgasm like this before. He knew the feeling of an orgasm to be more like a dull tickle in his groin. But now that he had done this - he didn’t think he could go back to anything else.

Large spurts of cum blasted from his cock, so overpowering then that painted his stomach, his chest, and much to your delight - a few thick white spurts even dirtied his glasses when you angled his cock that way and kept viciously pumping him.

His cock was so hot that it felt like it could have burned your hand, so needy and bloated with blood from how long you had edged him. Eventually, when the tip of his cock began to weep out a pathetic clear liquid, and he was on the verge of sobbing once more, you let him go from your grip, finally giving him a moment to breathe.

You knew for certain that you would never be able to look at Spencer Reid again without seeing this imagery: him, completely fucked out, his face flushed red, mouth agape as he struggled for breath. His naked body, limp cock laying against his pelvis, painted in his own cum - including dirtying up his own glasses.

You loved those glasses even more now.

You couldn’t get him to swear - but fuck, that was really something.

“Thank you.” He said meekly, still struggling for breath. “Th-thank you, Miss.”

“Good boy.” You leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Such a good boy for me.”

Now, it was time to take care of him and make sure that he had a good come down.

You put the toy on the coffee table, placing it with the opening up so it wouldn’t leak everywhere - you wouldn’t clean it later. You also took off his glasses and placed them aside. Again - you would clean them later.

You rushed to untie his hands, and eased his arms back around his body by gently rubbing his shoulders, hoping that the muscles wouldn’t be too sore or stiff from being in the same position for so long.

“Such a good boy.” You assured him. “You did so well for me honey.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. Clearly, he was absolutely exhausted from the ordeal. You hoped you could get his tall, gangly self to his bed on your own if he was so fucked out and weak. You walked back around to his front and laid your lips on his forehead again, murmuring more praises against his skin as you continued to rub his shoulders and run your fingers through his hair. You told him how good he was, how perfect he had been for you, how beautiful he was.

After a few minutes, you felt his hands on your hips as he came out of the haze. He ran a thumb along the waistband of your pants, and his first words after that haze surprised you.

“What - what about you?” He asked.

Clearly, he meant that you should have an orgasm. Your cunt was aching dully between your thighs, and you were sure that you had soaked through your underwear. But that had been a lot for him, and you didn’t want to overwhelm him during the first time.

“That’ll be a lesson for next time.” You told him quietly. He hummed quietly at this. He felt assured by you simply saying ‘next time’. “I have to clean up your toy now, so you can use it again later. Then I’ll clean you up and tuck you into bed, okay, baby?”

He nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

You hesitantly broke away from him and grabbed the toy, and as you moved to leave the room, you paused at him mumbling out more words.

“Can - can I have a glass of water, please?” He asked quietly.

“Of course you can, baby.”

You went into the kitchen and ran the toy under hot water - which you left going as you got a glass and filled it with cold water and ice from the dispenser. You were lucky to find a straw in the takeout bag from earlier - you put it in the glass and, while the hot water was still running in the sink, you rushed out to give Spencer a drink.

You held the glass while he chugged gratefully from it, and after a few moments, you ensured that he could hold it with his sex tired hands by himself and then you left to finish cleaning up the toy. You set it on his empty dish rack to drip dry (which was quite a sight). And then you went to the bathroom, coming back with a warm cloth to wipe him down. He was only slightly unsteady on his legs as you guided him to bed - his muscles shaking and tired after the whole amazing ordeal.

You found it endearing that his bed was unmade, surrounded by stacks of books that were lined up on the floor, rather than on any shelf.

You pulled back the covers completely and helped him get in, and you were tucking him in nicely when he asked the sweet question.

“Will you cuddle with me?” He asked quietly, looking up at you with those adorable, expectant eyes once again. “You know, for - for the aftercare?”

You likely would have done it simply because he asked, even if you didn’t deem it ‘necessary’ for aftercare. But because he asked, it was part of good care.

“Of course.” You answered. “I don’t have any pjs, so do you mind if I sleep in my underwear?”

You had just tucked him into bed naked, and he was asking you to lay down beside him like that. But still, you wanted to ask how comfortable he would be if you were in a state of undress.

His eyes shined with interest at the idea of seeing you at least partially undressed.

“I don’t mind.” He told you.

You nodded, and stepped back slightly to begin undressing.

“So - did you have fun?” You asked. You suspected that he had entirely enjoyed himself, but you did want to hear him say it.

Spencer grinned at this. “I think what we just did has changed my definition of ‘fun’ entirely.” He told you. “In a good way. So you know.”

You preened at the idea that you had shifted Spencer’s worldview. Someone who most likely spent his free time reading research papers and playing through chess games entirely on his own and called it ‘fun’ would now be thinking about spending his free time playing with you instead.

You stripped out of your pants, socks, and work blouse, which left you in your simple cotton underwear, a thin cotton camisole and your bra underneath. You decided to take off your bra underneath your shirt and just sleep in the cami and panties for comfort. You knew your underwear was stuck to your cunt from your previous burning arousal, and Spencer’s eyes did focus hard on that, and then focused even harder on the outline of your bare breasts as you ditched your bra off to the side.

If he had the ability to get hard again after that spectacular orgasm, he probably would have been throbbing at the sight of you.

You lifted up the covers and crawled into bed with him, cuddling into his side as he tentatively wrapped an arm around your waist. Your stomach fluttered when he kissed the top of your head before you felt his body relax into the mattress.

“Thank you.” He said quietly, clearly exhausted. “I love it when you teach me things.”

...

Keep Reading Here - Lesson Two: Magic Metacarpals

Note: This is a Capsule Series, so each fic can be read as an individual oneshot. There is no overarching story, and no specific ending.

#sundrop writes #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction

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knight-hiccup · 24 days ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₂

- 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝟏 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥

This is Chapter 12 Final to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 18k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 12 - FINAL OF BOOK 1

A/N: Content Advisory: This chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It may contain explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised. You’re responsible for what you read.

The sky had shed its shroud of terror and ash, revealing a bruised, twilight expanse where stars flickered like the eyes of Valhalla's fallen, watching the scarred earth below. The dragons' nest lay in ruin, a wasteland of powdered soot that coated every surface—black sand, shattered longships, the Red Death's colossal corpse and its foul smell—like a mournful snow, inescapable and heavy with the weight of loss.

The air carried the acrid bite of charred bone and sulfur, mingled with the iron tang of blood that refused to leave, a relentless reminder of the slaughter that had carved its mark into the shore. Corpses littered the ground, Viking warriors broken beyond repair—Lifeless eyes reflecting the ghostly-hour's dim light. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint groans of the wounded and the crunch of boots on ash, a requiem for the war now etched into Berk's heart.

In the hour of ghosts, when the ash had settled into a fragile stillness, Stoick's strength returned, the chieftain's fire rekindled as he stood over the wreckage, Hiccup cradled in his arms, alive against all odds. His voice thundered, a war drum rallying the survivors, barking orders with the authority of Odin's chosen.

"Gather the lost!" he commanded, his bloodied beard trembling with resolve. "Lay them down together, far from the shore—tend to them later. The wounded come first!"

Vikings with faces gaunt, obeyed, dragging the dead to a clearing—limbs and all. Their bodies lay together like offerings to Freya, while others scoured the debris for those still clinging to life. Stoick and Gobber had stanched the bleeding from Hiccup's severed left leg, the wound a deep ruin where Toothless had grabbed to save him, now bound tightly with leather straps to halt the crimson from flowing.

They laid him on a clean plank, its surface smoothed by Viking hands, and entrusted him to your care. You sat beside him, his hand clasped close to your heart, its faint warmth a lifeline amidst the cold of the nest's aftermath. Toothless lay nearby, his obsidian scales dulled and covered by ash, too exhausted to move, his slow breaths a quiet hymn to survival.

Camp took shape around you, a fragile haven carved from heavy quick work—fires crackling all around in every direction, their smoke curling into the dark, casting flickering shadows on Toothless' weary form. Stoick and Gobber stood apart, their voices low as they conferred with the warrior-healers, grizzled bonesetters whose hands bore the scars of countless battles. Their words drifted to you, heavy with the weight of Hiccup's fate.

"The leg's gone below the knee," Gobber muttered, his axe hand gesturing toward the wound, his face etched with worry. "We've stopped the bleeding, but the flesh is torn—needs cauterizing, heavy stitching, if it don't rot."

The bonesetter, a weathered woman with ginger braids down to her knees—streaked with gray, nodded grimly. "We'll burn the wound clean, pack it with yarrow and honey if we've any left. He'll have a peg leg for the rest of his life, if he lives through the fever."

Her voice was matter-of-fact, devoid of ease on comforts, rooted in the brutal pragmatism of Viking healing—fire, herbs, and hope, the only tools against death's grasp. You listened, your gaze fixed on Hiccup, his gentle breaths a fragile thread tying him to life, your fingers tracing soft, repetitive strokes through his auburn hair, now cleansed of ash and blood.

You had tended him with care, your hands trembling as you wiped the soot from his face, arms, and legs, ensuring the bonesetters could work on clean flesh. The dirt had clung stubbornly, a grim tattoo of the battle, but you'd washed it away with water scavenged from a warrior's flask, your touch soft and reverent, as if each stroke could will him back to you.

His breathing had steadied, no longer shallow, but his pallor lingered, his skin pale as the white that dusted around you, a ghost of the vibrant boy who'd tamed dragons and stolen your heart. You admired him in the firelight, the sharp lines of his face softened in sleep, the freckles faint beneath the pallor, and your chest ached with a love that had endured so much.

"Stay with me. . ." His words echoed in your mind.

His hand, clasped in yours, was like a silent promise that you'd stay with him like he asked, as he had fought for Berk. The clamor of the camp—the anguished groans of the wounded, the rhythmic clank of axes carving through debris, the hushed deliberations of bonesetters—dissolved into a distant hum—faded. Your world contracted to the cadence of Hiccup's breathing, the fragile rise and fall of his chest, and the tenuous hope that he would stir to greet the dawn, praying he would beat the fever's cruel grasp.

Beyond the camp, the nest bore the scars of war's aftermath. Vikings worked grimly, piling the dead in a clearing, their bodies wrapped in tattered cloaks, faces covered to spare the living their vacant stares. One warrior's corpse, dragged from the shore, bore a gutted torso, entrails spilling like a grim tapestry, his armor shredded to reveal the cost of his final stand.

The wounded lay scattered, tended by healers with bloodied hands, their cries piercing the twilight as bones were set and wounds packed with moss and herbs. A young warrior screamed as a bonesetter cauterized his gashed arm, the sizzle of flesh mingling with the stench of burning skin, his curses, "Fucking dragon!" echoing until he passed out.

Only the work of stitches existed here, with fire, knives, and the crude wisdom of survival, a testament to Viking resilience in the face of death's shadow. Stoick's voice rose occasionally, directing the salvage of weapons and supplies, his chieftain's duty a shield against his fear for Hiccup, while Gobber's gruff encouragement steadied the weary.

You remained at Hiccup's side, your fingers never stilling in his hair, the rhythmic motion a prayer to Freya for his strength. The plank beneath him was stained with his blood, the leather straps around his stump taut, a crude barrier against the wound's wrath. Toothless stirred faintly, his eyes half-open, watching you with a loyalty that mirrored your own, his tail twitching in the ash.

Menace lay nestled beneath Toothless' wing, her small form rising and falling in peaceful slumber—a rare tranquility that Toothless, for once, did not begrudge but seemed to cherish, her presence a quiet comfort in the aftermath of pain.

Before the perilous descent upon the Red Death, you had entrusted the tiny dragon to Astrid, tucked away in her leather carrier sling with care. When you reunited, long after the battle's end, Menace had leapt from Astrid's arms into yours, her trembling frame burrowing against you, fear etching her delicate features.

Gobber's voice boomed with astonishment. "Oi! Ain't that the wee Menace that slipped the—You!" His weathered finger jabbed toward you, his eyes wide with mock accusation. Laughter rippled through the group, a fleeting balm amidst the scars of the day. Something you could all use more.

Now, the firelight danced across Hiccup's face, casting shadows that deepened the hollows of his cheeks, and you whispered to him, words too soft for others to hear, that you were by him through fever, pain, or anything come what may. Stoick's gaze met your hunched over form across the camp, a silent acknowledgment of your shared vigil, and he smiled knowing very well his son was in good care.

The camp's fires crackled in the dark, their smoke curling like wraiths, and the groans of the wounded wove a mournful hymn through the twilight when a few warrior-healers approached, their hands now washed clean of blood, their faces etched with the grim resolve of those who'd wrestled death countless times.

They carried crude tools—iron knives, a cauterizing brand, pouches of yarrow and moss—their methods rooted in Viking pragmatism, far from the clean precision in Berk. You tightened your grip on Hiccup's hand, your heart lurching as they knelt beside his severed leg, the stump bound in leather, its jagged flesh a testament to the bite. You wanted to stay, to shield him through the pain to come, but Gobber's hand found your shoulder, firm yet gentle, pulling you to your feet.

"No, lass," he said, his voice low, his eyes trailing over your dried, soot-tear-streaked face.

You protested, your voice cracking, "I can't leave him, Gobber—not now."

He held you steady, his grip a father's hold, and looked into your dry, ash-streaked face with tender care. "Hiccup'll be fine, you hear me? Trust in him, trust in the healers. I lost me own leg—and an arm! To a beast not half as fierce, and look at me—expert at hobblin' now, ain't I?"

His gruff jest coaxed a faint smile, but his tone grew solemn. "The survivors need you, lass. Help gather the lost—whatever's left. Scavenge supplies. We don't leave a soul behind, not in this hell."

His words carried weight, a call to duty that stirred your resolve. You sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion, and nodded, your eyes lingering on Hiccup's sleeping form. Before you could turn, Gobber pulled you back, his hand steady on your arm.

"One more thing," he said, his voice thick with pride, his eye glinting in the firelight. "I've never been prouder of you than I am right now, lass—I saw you up there on that mighty beast—We all did. You fought like Thor himself, and you held Hiccup's heart through it all."

The words struck deep, a balm to your battered soul, and a real smile broke through your grief, warm and unguarded. You threw your arms around him, and he hugged you back with a chuckle, his embrace fierce—the axe at his side grazing your cloak that Stoick had placed on you—as he held you like kin—like his daughter. The moment lingered, a spark of light in this messy darkness, before you pulled away—it made your heart steady by his faith—and made your way through the camp, the crunching of rock beneath your boots creating a somber rhythm.

The camp was a tableau of survival and loss—Vikings hauling bodies to a clearing, their faces frozen in death's grip; healers cauterizing wounds, more sizzling of flesh mingling with screams and curses; axes chopping driftwood for fires, their strikes echoing like war drums.

You wove through it, your cloak—stained dry with ichor—flapping like a tattered banner, until you spotted Tuffnut perched alone on a smooth boulder, his usual mischievous-self gone, his face pale beneath a mask of ash. You sat beside him, the stone cold against your thighs, and shared a look that spoke a thousand sagas—grief, exhaustion, the weight of a war that had stripped you both bare. For the first time, Tuffnut was quiet, his silence a wound deeper than any blade.

"I've never seen so much blood," he said at last, his voice low, stripped of its usual jest, the words trembling as he stared at the horizon. "Not in a fun way either! You know? This. . .this battle, it drained me dry. Took everything."

His admission, so out of character, hit you like a gale, and you placed a hand on his shoulder, your touch steady, grounding. He offered a faint smile, his eyes meeting yours, a flicker of the old Tuffnut buried beneath the weight. Before you could respond, a Viking's voice cut through, firm but kind.

"Up, you two—no time to lose. The dead need gathering, supplies need finding."

You nodded, rising with Tuffnut, the task a grim tether to purpose. You joined Ruffnut and Snotlout at the water's edge, where they waded through the shallows, salvaging weapons and gear from the wreckage. Ruffnut's braid was singed, her hands bloodied from hauling a dented shield, while Snotlout curses rang out, "Wretched sea, hiding everything!"

They masked a weariness that mirrored your own. Astrid and Fishlegs arrived soon after, their faces gaunt, Astrid's axe notched at her back, Fishlegs clutching a salvaged rope, his eyes haunted by the battle's toll.

You all worked in silence as you held your torches tightly, the aftermath pressing down like a stone on your chests. The water lapped at your bare feet, cold and heavy with blood, carrying fragments of longships and the occasional limb—a hand, a foot, bobbing in the crimson tide.

A Viking's corpse floated nearby—a warrior's throat torn open, another's legs charred to bone, their nudity a stark reminder of death's indifference. The camp's fires flickered in the distance, where healers labored, one packing a wound with moss as the warrior screamed, another cauterizing a gash, the stench of burning flesh sharp in the air as many lost their limbs.

You scavenged in quiet unity, the gang's usual banter silenced, each of you carrying the weight of the lost, the wounded, and the boy who'd changed everything, lying pale on a plank, his fate in the hands of healers and gods. The twilight had long deepened into a black canvas, and what sky there was the stars shined in patches—promising anew change, and you pressed on, your heart tethered to Hiccup, praying his fire would burn through the night.

The sky hung low as the third night began to descend on the volcanic island and it was currently high tide with the winds brewing. You all had been on that cursed rock for three days now and you were quickly running out of supplies. It was a cause of concern, definitely for Stoick, the injured were priority, but all mouths needed to be fed. And with only jerky, pickled herring and moldy bread to go by, things were turning upside down quickly.

Firewood had grown scarce, every splinter now requisitioned to patch the three remaining longboats—fragile vessels that could never bear the weight of three hundred Vikings across the unforgiving sea. Yet Gobber, ever resourceful, devised a solution: the camp would huddle near the smoldering crater left by the Red Death, its latent heat rendering further wood unnecessary, a grim gift from the beast's ruin.

The heavens, so often shrouded in relentless cloud, parted briefly that night, a rare benediction. Stars glimmered faintly through a haze tinged with sulfur and sea salt that made one dizzy, but it was a stark improvement over the acrid pall that had choked the air in the battle's wake. The camp thrummed with a weary resolve—fires hissed and snapped, their embers painting fleeting portraits of light across the weathered faces of Vikings, their wounds swathed in moss and leather, their gazes heavy with the toll of endurance.

A warrior limped past, his arm wrapped in bloodied cloth, a cauterized gash seeping beneath, while another sat by a fire, her leg splinted with driftwood, her face taut as she gritted her teeth against the pain. The air hummed with the low moans of the injured, the clink of axes shaping salvaged timbers to repair.

A chorus of distant dragon cries pierced the night, snapping every head toward the darkened horizon. The dragons, once scattered from their ravaged nest, were returning—a sight that kindled dread among the weary Vikings, their strength too depleted for another clash. The unexpected resurgence set nerves alight, a spark threatening to ignite the camp's fragile calm.

Above, a vast host of Gronckles, Nadders, Monstrous Nightmares, and Zipplebacks wheeled through the sky, their scales catching the faint moonlight as they converged on the volcano's cavern, driven by an primal urge to reclaim their hatchlings and eggs. The sight of Vikings bristling, hands gripping weapons in defiance, stirred unease within you. Determined to quell the rising tension, you and your companions stepped before Stoick, your voices resolute yet tempered, urging the wary to see the dragons' intent.

"They've come for their young," you declared, exhaustion heavy in your bones but resolve unwavering. "Let them pass, and they'll leave us in peace."

Convincing the clan was no swift task. Though Stoick and Gobber lent their trust to your words, the others clung to fear, their instincts honed by bloodshed. Hours of steadfast assurances passed before your truth took root. The dragons, as you foretold, paid the camp no heed, their focus fixed on the volcano's depths. Some lingered at the crater's edge, nudging the broken forms of fallen kin, their low, mournful keens weaving an elegy that mirrored the quiet grief in your own heart.

As even more days pressed on, the camp apportioned its waning strength with grim resolve. The wounded were gathered in a makeshift shelter, where warrior-healers worked with quiet tenacity, dressing gashes with yarrow and honey, their hands unwavering despite the anguished cries that filled the air.

At the shore, another cadre toiled, salvaging the longships—their hulls scarred yet salvageable. Vikings wielded axes with practiced rhythm, hewing fresh planks from the scant remnants of wood, their grunts blending with the ceaseless churn of the sea.

In time, Stoick delivered his somber reckoning. . .of Berk's three-hundred and eighty-eight warriors, fifty-seven had fallen to the Red Death—with one-hundred and thirty injured. Their bodies, save one claimed by the beast's merciless jaws, lay in a clearing, shrouded in tattered wool. The loss cut deep, a wound that seared the clan's collective heart.

It was not Berk's heaviest loss, but the weight of each name—carved into memory, soon to be etched on runestones—pressed down, a silent tale of sacrifice. Hiccup had survived the healers' brutal work, his fever breaking days after they cauterized his severed leg, the stump bound tightly, showing no signs of rot.

Yet he remained locked in a deep sleep, a Viking's term for the slumber that held him beyond reach, his chest rising steadily but his eyes unopened, as if Odin himself cradled his soul in a liminal realm. You sat beside him on the clean plank, your body aching, your heart tethered to his faint warmth, taking a break from the camp's endless demands.

Marta had sent you to Hiccup's side, her voice soft but firm as she stirred a pot of stew, the meager rations of fish and roots simmering over a fire.

"You've done enough, lass," she said, her eyes softened by kindness despite the weariness etched into her face. "You've hauled wood, tended wounds, scavenged till your hands bled. Go to the boy—he needs you, and you need him. Rest, if only for a moment."

Her words, a mother's gentle command, had stirred a gratitude that warmed your chest, and you'd nodded, too tired to argue, your steps heavy as you returned to the plank. Sinking beside Hiccup, your hand sought his, its calloused warmth a soothing salve to your frayed spirit.

Toothless settled nearby, his massive form curled protectively, Menace slumbering atop his back. His great head rested in your lap, scales cool beneath your gentle pats, emerald eyes half-lidded in unspoken trust. Your other hand traced Hiccup's auburn hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers as you gazed at the boy who held your heart.

They were yours—Hiccup, Toothless, and little Menace—your family. And in a hushed prayer, you whispered thanks to Freya, your voice barely stirring the air, gratitude swelling for their lives spared through the crucible of war, their presence a fragile miracle amid the nest's enduring scars.

Exhaustion gnawed at you, your body heavy from scant sleep—three hours snatched in fitful catnaps, stolen between tasks and haunted by nightmares. Each time your eyes closed, the war roared back—screams of the fallen, the Red Death's bellows, Hiccup's lifeless form in a dozen cruel scenarios, each dream waking you in a cold sweat, your heart racing as you pinched your arm to prove he still breathed.

Dark circles shadowed your eyes, a map of sleepless nights, your face gaunt in the firelight, but Hiccup's forehead, warm beneath your palm, was a lifeline. You pinched yourself again, the sting sharp, confirming he was no dream, his breath steady, his dragon curled close.

The camp stirred around you—Vikings hammering ship timbers, their blows ringing like Thor's anvil; healers murmuring as they changed a warrior's bloodied bandage, his groan sharp; dragons keening softly outside the volcano, their wings rustling as they mourned.

The stew's faint aroma drifted, mingling with the sea's briny tang, but you stayed rooted, your fingers tracing Hiccup's hair, Toothless' head heavy in your lap. Astrid's voice called faintly, organizing supplies, while Snotlout's grumble and Tuffnut's half-hearted jest echoed, signs of the gang's survival, though their wounds—physical and unseen—lingered.

You leaned closer to Hiccup, your whisper barely audible, a vow to him and Toothless. "You're still here," you said, your voice trembling with love and fear, "and I'll wait as long as it takes."

The plank beneath him was worn, its edges smoothed by Viking hands, a crude bed for the boy who'd reshaped Berk's fate and saved them all.

After a while—Your eyes, robbed of sleep, fluttered closed, surrendering briefly to a fragile slumber. Yet even in repose, the war's anguished screams and visions of Hiccup's false imagined demise haunted you, weaving a restless thoughts of dread.

The heavy tread of Stoick's footsteps jolted you from sleep, shattering the nightmare's grip. His broad shadow fell across the pallet as he drew near, his voice a low growl of frustration.

"Blasted supplies—half the ropes are frayed, and we've scarce enough timber to mend the ships!"

His words pierced the fog of your exhaustion, and you blinked, raising your gaze to meet his. The chieftain's bearded visage softened, his fiery exasperation yielding to a father's quiet dread as his eyes shifted from you to Hiccup.

"Any sign of him stirring?" he asked, his tone hushed, threaded with a fragile hope that wavered beneath his stoic facade. "Has he moved at all?"

You shook your head, throat constricting, your fingers stilling in Hiccup's auburn hair. "Nothing yet," you whispered, voice brittle yet resolute. "His breath is steady, but... he's still so far from us."

Stoick nodded, his jaw tightening, and knelt beside his son, his massive hand hovering over Hiccup's left leg. The stump, wrapped in coarse fabrics dotted with faint blood, bore the marks of the healers' brutal work—dead flesh cut away, the wound cauterized with fire to seal it, the bleeding now a mere seep, a testament to their skill and Hiccup's resilience. Stoick's fingers traced the air above the bandage, careful not to touch, his eyes shadowed with a father's anguish.

"We need to get him and the others back to Berk soon," Stoick said, sinking onto a nearby rock with a heavy sigh, his hands rubbing his face, smearing ash across his weathered skin. "The injured won't last in this weather—cold nights, damp air. Their wounds'll fester if we linger."

His voice carried the weight of command, but beneath it lay a tremor of fear for his son, for the clan teetering on the edge of survival. You bit your lip, your gaze dropping to Hiccup, his soft snores a quiet defiance against the nest's harsh reality.

Toothless stirred, his head nudging your thigh, his emerald eye glinting with a curious spark as he met your stare. You held his gaze, the dragon's silent question stirring something within you, a flicker of clarity piercing the fog of exhaustion.

"The dragons. . ." you whispered, the words barely audible, a seed of a plan taking root.

Stoick hummed, leaning forward, his brow furrowing. "What was that, lass?" he asked, his voice sharp with curiosity, missing your murmured revelation.

You turned to him, your eyes widening with sudden conviction, the idea blazing like a beacon in the dark. "The dragons!" you said, your voice rising, firm and clear. "We can ride the dragons home."

Stoick's eyes narrowed, then widened, the weight of your words sinking in, a spark of hope kindling in his gaze. You both look up to dragons gliding above, their wings rustling as they guarded the volcano's heart.

Your focus remained on Stoick, on the plan that could save Hiccup and the wounded. Toothless rumbled softly, his tail twitching in the soot, as if sensing the shift, his loyalty to Hiccup a mirror to your own.

Even if exhaustion etched deep in the shadowed hollows beneath your eyes, the ache receded as a daring plan blazed to life within you, kindled by the dragons' soaring silhouettes and Toothless' gentle nudge. Stoick sat opposite, his earlier vexation over frayed ropes and scant timber fading as he inspected Hiccup's wound, a silent prayer to Odin for his son's awakening lingering in his furrowed brow.

"It can work," you declared, your voice cutting through the camp's muted drone, steady and resolute as you held Stoick's gaze.

His weathered face shifted—skepticism warring with curiosity, then yielding to a glimmer of hope—as he tracked the dragons' flight, their wings carving the sky like tempered steel.

"Hiccup taught us," you pressed on, rising to your feet, your words gaining strength. "Me, Astrid, Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruff and Tuff—we learned to ride, to bond. We can teach the others. The three longboats can't carry all, but the dragons can bear those the ships cannot hold."

You gestured to the sky, where a Nadder banked gracefully, its spines catching the firelight. "The injured, the frail—they'll take the boats. Anyone strong enough can pair with a dragon. There are enough for every Viking here—then some."

Your plan, bold as a war cry, hung in the air, a spark of defiance against the nest's despair. Stoick leaned forward, his beard grazed by calloused fingers, elbow braced on his knee as he stared at the soot-dusted rocks, his thoughts churning like the restless sea. Gobber's peg leg crunched the sand as he approached, his axe glinting in the firelight, gruff voice breaking the silence after overhearing your words.

"That's a wild idea, lass, grand as any plan," he said, his eyes narrowing with skepticism. "But these Vikings? Gettin' friendly with these beasts? I don't see it, not like you and your lot."

His words carried the weight of experience, a warrior's caution tempered by the memory of his own lost limb. Stoick sighed, sitting upright, his massive frame casting a shadow across the plank, his gaze flickering between you and the dragons above. Doubt lingered in his eyes, but so did a spark of possibility, kindled by your conviction.

You stepped forward, more awake than you'd been in days, your exhaustion burned away by the fire of your plan. Toothless rose beside you, his tail lashing with excitement, his low rumble a chorus to your resolve, while Menace, the Terrible Terror perched nearby, leapt into your arms, her tiny claws gripping your cloak as she chirped in sync with your fervor.

"We have to try!" you urged, your voice rising. "What choice do we have? Three longboats, ferrying back and forth to Berk—it'll take weeks, months even, to get everyone home—and that's with no food for a time. The injured won't survive that long, not in this cold, not with wounds festering."

You pointed to a warrior nearby, his bandaged leg trembling as he leaned on a comrade.

"We flew here in less than four days on those dragons, with only short stops to rest. They're faster, stronger than any ship. We can do this."

Your words carried Hiccup's spirit, his vision of harmony between Vikings and dragons—It reminded him so much of Valka. . .And that struck Stoick like Mjölnir. He rose, his eyes narrowing, then softening as he looked at his son, still locked in deep sleep, then back to you.

"You're right," he said at last, his voice low but resolute, a chieftain's decree. "It's a mad plan, yes, but it's Hiccup's madness through you. If he were awake, he'd be the first to climb a dragon's back." A faint smile tugged at his lips, tinged with pride and pain. "We'll try it. For him." For her.

Gobber chuckled, shaking his head, his axe gesturing to the sky. "Well, Thor's beard, we're really doing this."

His jest broke the tension, drawing a reluctant grin from Stoick, who clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm with trust. "You and your friends—start with the willing," he said. "Show 'em how it's done. I'll rally the clan—I'll convince them with you lot."

His voice carried the weight of command, but his eyes held gratitude, a father's thanks for the hope you'd kindled. Toothless nudged your side, his gummy smile flashing, and Menace chirped in your arms, their excitement mirroring your own.

The volcanic island glowed faintly under the smoldering orange of its own heat, the sun obscured by a shroud of ashen clouds that cast a muted gray pall over the landscape. Soot-streaked sands, trampled by the relentless tread of Viking boots, glistened wet and black, reverting to their primal hue.

The air hung heavy with the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the acrid stench of decaying dragon flesh and the distant, mournful keens of dragons, their wings carving the brightening horizon as they circled the volcano's rim, vigilant guardians of their hatchlings. One by one, the clan gathered, their eyes fixed on their chief, awaiting his words on the path to survival.

Stoick ascended a fire-scorched boulder, its smooth surface a stark pedestal beneath the gray-orange sky. His towering figure stood as a bastion of authority, unwavering before the gathered Hairy Hooligans. His voice roared forth, a resonant war drum that quelled the camp's murmurs, drawing every gaze under the sun's relentless stare.

"Hear me, Berk!" he began, his blood-streaked beard trembling with conviction. "We stand on a razed earth, our ships broken, our kin wounded, our survival hanging by a thread. Three longboats remain—four, if we mend the last—but they cannot carry us all. This island, a volcano's heart, offers no sustenance, no shelter. We've scoured its depths these past days and found naught but ash and stone. To ferry our people home on ships alone would take months, back and forth, with half our fleet gone."

He took a moment to look at them, "The wounded—my son among them—will not survive the cold, the hunger, the rot. We face a choice: cling to old ways and perish, or forge a new path, one Hiccup carved with his courage."

He gestured to the dragons above, their scales flashing like polished steel in the daylight. "We ride the dragons home. They'll carry those the ships cannot, swift as the winds of Njord, to Berk in days, not months nor weeks. This is the only way."

A ripple of unease swept the clan, voices rising in protest, their Viking pride clashing with the audacity of your plan under the harsh scrutiny. A burly warrior, his arm bound in bloodied cloth, stepped forward, squinting against the glare.

"Ride dragons?" he barked, his voice thick with scorn. "They burned our kin, Stoick! You'd have us trust beasts that brought us to this hell?"

A woman, her face scarred from a cauterized gash, joined him, her tone sharp. "I'd sooner swim to Berk than climb a fire-breather's back! What if they turn on us?"

Another Viking, leaning on a crutch, muttered, "It's madness—Hiccup's folly, not ours."

The murmurs grew, a storm of doubt threatening to drown Stoick's words, their fear rooted in generations of dragon-slaying, a legacy harder to shift than the volcano itself. Yet Stoick pressed on, his voice unwavering, echoing your argument with a chieftain's gravitas.

"Three ships, four at best, leave half our clan behind. Starvation, fever, death—that's what awaits if we stay. Hiccup flew here in days on a dragon's wings, with his lot who followed. They're our salvation, if we dare to trust them."

His words quelled some, their heads bowing under the weight of truth, but others stood defiant, their fists clenched. "I'll take my chances with the sea," growled a grizzled warrior, his bandaged hand gripping a sword hilt.

"Dragons ain't our kin."

The clan teetered, divided between fear and necessity, their stubbornness a wall your plan struggled to breach. You felt the moment slipping, the hope you'd kindled for Hiccup's sake flickering in the face of their doubt. Toothless nudged you, his warm snout pressing against your side, a joyful croon rumbling from his throat, as if urging you to act.

Your heart surged, Hiccup's courage a fire in your veins, and you stepped forward, the crowd parting like a tide, their eyes widening as you took the center pushing past, your cloak trailing behind. The veiled sunlight bathed your face, your exhaustion carved into dark circles, but your voice rose, clear and commanding, a valkyrie's call that stilled the clan.

"Listen to me!" you declared, your words cutting through the murmurs like a seax through fog. "You stand here, doubting, fearing, while Hiccup lies there in a deep sleep, fighting to live because he had more courage than any of you!"

You pointed to the plank behind you, where Hiccup slept, his pale face a testament to his sacrifice, softened by the sun's glow. "A boy you scorned, mocked, called weak your whole lives—he climbed atop a Night Fury and faced the Red Death, a dragon greater than any our ancestors ever knew. A beast that dwarfed mountains, with fire to burn the heavens, and Hiccup brought it down!"

Your voice trembled with pride, with love, but held firm, each word a hammer forging their guilt. "He didn't do it alone. Toothless, this dragon—," you knelt, petting his head, his scales warm as he leaned into you, crooning happily, "fought beside him, saved him, saved us all. Toothless is why you can trust dragons."

"Those dragons." You rose, pointing to Astrid's Nadder, its spines glinting as it perched nearby, then to the twins' Zippleback, its twin heads alert, to Fishlegs's Gronckle, stout and steadfast, and Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare, its flames dim but proud.

"These dragons flew into battle, not just for their own, but for us. They were afraid, just like you, and they lost kin, just like us." Your words struck deep, the clan's gazes dropping, guilt shadowing their faces as they glanced at the dragons, their defiance softening.

"Hiccup, a boy you doubted, changed everything," you continued, your voice rising, a clarion call to their pride. "He saw what you couldn't—a future where Vikings and dragons stand as one. If he could face death on a dragon's wings, why can't you? Why can't you honor him by trusting what he fought for? The future of this clan—Chiefs' son."

The crowd stirred, a loud mumble rippling through, voices clashing—some defiant, others swayed, their whispers a tide of shifting hearts. Toothless pressed closer, his croon a warm echo of your resolve, and you stood tall, your eyes sweeping the clan, daring them to rise to Hiccup's legacy.

The grizzled warrior from before, his bandaged hand flexing, stepped forward slowly, his scowl fading to a weary resolve. He met your gaze, his voice gruff but steady.

"Alright, lass," he said, the words heavy with surrender. "Show us how to train a dragon."

A murmur of agreement spread, tentative but growing, the clan's doubt yielding to the spark you'd ignited. Stoick's eyes gleamed with pride, his nod a chieftain's blessing, while Gobber chuckled, his axe raised in salute—a gleam of pride casting upon his own expression.

"Thor's beard. . ." he said, his grin wide.

Your heart hammered as you nodded toward that Viking, with more coming up to you. The camp stirred—Vikings adjusting bandages; axes pausing as warriors turned to watch; dragons gliding closer, their eyes curious.

Your words crashed like a war hammer forged in their hearts, shattering the clan's brittle doubts and coaxing a fierce hope from the smoldering embers of despair. The Hairy Hooligans, once tethered by dread's icy chains, now gazed upon Stoick as a chieftain sculpted from Thor's own thunderous resolve, daring to blaze a trail no ancestor's foot had dared to tread.

Your ode to Hiccup—his valor, his selfless sacrifice—ignited like a bolt of lightning, its white-hot arc searing every soul, leaving hearts scorched and spirits alight again. The gang felt the blaze most fiercely, their resolve rekindled like a hearth stoked to roaring life, their eyes gleaming with the untamed fire that had driven them into the crucible of battle.

Astrid strode forward, her braid, scorched and frayed like a battle-worn banner, swinging with defiance, her gaze a piercing blue of purpose. Fishlegs, gripping a weathered rope coiled like a serpent in his scholar's hands, stood with a heart now clad in iron resolve. Snotlout, his bravado reborn, burned with a flare that rivaled the sun's fierce glow.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut, their usual whirlwind of chaos tempered from exhaust had returned. And they stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces etched with a grin, steely reverence and mischief anew, like twin oaks unbowed by the gale.

Even Stoick, a colossus against the molten horizon, bore the weight of your words, his pride in his son a silent, sacred oath, etched deep as runes in stone, to honor the boy who had reshaped their world's very marrow. The clan stirred, a restless tide of motion—hands calloused and scarred reaching for purpose, voices low but thrumming with resolve, like the distant rumble of an approaching herd.

They were ready, at last, to weave bonds with the dragons they had once sworn to slay, as strange as it was for them. Their silhouettes stark against the volcano's fiery glow, while wings sliced the dusk like blades of obsidian.

You led the way, the gang at your side, their presence a shield as you taught the clan to bridge the chasm between warrior and dragon. The Vikings clung to their weapons, their hands tight on swords etched with Tiwaz runes, their pride a fortress against trust.

"Set them down," you said, your voice a blade, standing before a red Gronckle, its stout form snuffling the ash. "These are not foes, but allies, bound by Hiccup's vision."

The gang echoed your call, their voices a chorus of conviction—Astrid kneeling beside her Nadder, its spines softened as she murmured to a wary Viking; Fishlegs guiding another to his Gronckle, his words steady as stone; Snotlout, with newfound patience, showing a warrior the Monstrous Nightmare's proud gaze; the twins, their jests silenced, helping a Viking face a Zippleback's twin heads.

The clan resisted, their warrior hearts battling fear, but the grizzled warrior who'd first protested stepped forward, his bandaged hand trembling, his scowl a mask for doubt. You moved with Hiccup's grace, recalling his lessons in the arena, and guided the warrior's hand to the Gronckle's snout, your voice soft as a saga's whisper.

"Feel his breathing, the fire beneath his scales, his beating heart like war drums—his trust," you said, your hand steadying his.

The dragon's eyes closed, its rumble a warm vow, and the warrior's breath caught, his defiance melting into reverence as the bond took root—and he gleamed at the dragon with a new look of excitement.

One by one, the clan followed, their weapons sinking into the sand, a surrender to hope. You and the gang moved among them, guiding hands, soothing fears, your voices weaving a new thread in Berk's tapestry. Astrid paired a scarred woman with a Nadder, its quick steps matched by her resolve; Fishlegs taught a young warrior to meet a Gronckle's gaze, his facts easing terror; Snotlout and the twins worked in tandem, their dragons' loyalty a mirror to your own.

Dragons descended, drawn by the shift in the air—Gronckles, Nadders, Nightmares, their eyes bright with curiosity, some choosing Vikings unbidden. A Nadder nudged a limping warrior until he smiled, his crutch forgotten; a Nightmares tail curled around a woman's leg, its chirp drawing a smile.

By day's end, one-hundred and twelve Vikings had bonded with dragons, their voices mingling with croons, a chorus of trust rising over the nest. Eighty-nine remained unpaired, including eighten healers and bonesetters bound for the longboats to tend the injured, among them Hiccup, who would sail with you, Stoick, Gobber, Menace and Toothless—the three of you also unpaired.

The camp thrummed with a fragile hope—The stew's warmth wove through the sea's chill, and a rare sunbeam broke the clouds, gilding Toothless' scales as he pressed against you, his joyful croon a spark in the gray light.

The clan's progress was a miracle forged in Hiccup's name. Thirty-five more Vikings had bonded with dragons by morning, their voices mingling with rumbles and chirps, leaving only thirty-three unpaired, the healers and bonesetters among them bound for the longboats.

The Vikings, once hardened dragon-slayers, now moved with a cautious reverence, their hands learning the language of trust—stroking scales, offering murmurs, mirroring the lessons you'd taught. Their fates were clear in their resolve—Astrid led with quiet strength, her commands sharp; Fishlegs offered wisdom, easing fears; Snotlout, showed off but worked tirelessly; the twins, with their chaos, guided with surprising care.

Together, you'd worked to make everyone feel at ease—including the dragons, kindling a future Hiccup had dreamed, and the clan followed, their steps steadier under Stoick's strong gaze.

You rested your head beside Hiccup's arm, his hand cradled against your cheek, the faint rhythm of his snores a lullaby that tethered you to hope. Your thoughts drifted, heavy with longing, wishing he could witness the clan's transformation—the Vikings laughing with Gronckles, the dragons soaring with new riders, the nest alive with a harmony he'd built.

Your exhaustion, etched into the dark circles beneath your eyes, pressed down, but his warmth kept you anchored, a silent vow to see his dream through. Behind you, Stoick and Gobber sat by a fire, their voices low as they ate stew, the clink of their spoons a soft counterpoint to the camp's hum. Stoick's tone carried a chieftain's weight, discussing ship repairs, while Gobber's gruff jests lightened the air.

You didn't notice their gazes turn to you, their smiles soft and knowing, mistaking your bowed head for sleep, a tender moment they chose not to disturb. Stoick rose, his heavy steps crunching the sand as he moved to check on the clan, his silhouette a titan against the veiled sun. Gobber remained, his peg leg propped on a rock, his hand picking at his beard as he hummed an old tune.

You stirred, lifting your head to shift, and Gobber's sharp eye caught you. "Oi, lass," he said, his voice warm but laced with mischief, "thought you'd drifted to Niflheim on us."

You blinked, a faint smile tugging at your lips, the weight of sleepless nights heavy in your voice. "I was, near enough," you murmured, your gaze drifting to Hiccup. "Best rest I've had in days, truth be told."

Gobber chuckled, leaning forward, his eye glinting with a teasing spark. "Aye, and no wonder, with you frettin' over your boyfriend there," he said, his grin widening as he tugged at his beard, carefree as a skald spinning a tale.

"Can't sleep proper when you're moonin' over Hiccup, givin' him those love-lorn looks, battin' your lashes like a lass in love."

The words struck like a spark, heat flaring from your neck to your face, a fire that rivaled Muspelheim's flames. Your head snapped up, eyes darting to ensure no one else heard, your voice a sharp whisper. "Gobber!"

He laughed, a deep, rolling sound that shook his frame, his hand waving dismissively. "Don't you 'Gobber' me, lass! I've seen how you gaze at him, all soft and starry, like he's hung the moon and stars. I know a fancy when I see one, and you're smitten as they come."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping, conspiratorial but warm. "Mind you, he's half as bad, the way he lights up when you're near. Lad's got no sense for hidin' it."

Your face burned hotter, your heart stuttering, but you couldn't muster a denial—at least on your part—the truth too plain in your trembling hands, you weren't sure about Hiccup.

Gobber's grin softened, his tone turning earnest. "Besides, you've got my blessin', you two. Hiccup's a good lad, and you're the fire to his forge or whatever and all that yak. He'd be a fool not to see it."

You sputtered, the heat in your cheeks now a blaze, your voice rising in flustered protest. "Blessing? Gobber, we're not—we're not betrothed or some such nonsense!"

He raised a bushy brow, unperturbed. "Not yet, maybe, but I've seen enough to know where this one's headed. You mark my words, lass."

Before you could retort, a shadow loomed, and Toothless bounded into the clearing—jumping over people to get to you earning groans in the process—his energy a stark contrast to the camp's somber weight. He leaped around you, fully healed, his obsidian scales shimmering with dew, his joyful warble echoing like a song as he pranced.

Without warning, his tongue swiped from shoulder to face, a long, slow, slobbery strip that coated you in warm saliva, the scent faintly fishy. You stood, groaning, wiping your face with your cloak, your flustered heart giving way to exasperated laughter.

"Toothless!" you chided, but he was already darting away, his tail lashing as he pounced toward Menace, the Terrible Terror chirping wildly and prancing along. The two dragons tumbled in the sand, joined by others—Nadders, Gronckles, a Zippleback—their playful roars a hymn to life amidst the nest's scars. You shook your head, your smile lingering, the warmth of Gobber's words and Toothless' antics a fleeting balm to your weary soul.

You sank back beside Hiccup, your hand finding his, your heart heavy with longing for his awakening, yet buoyed by the clan's progress forgetting Gobbers tease. And Gobber watched, his grin soft, as Toothless' distant warbles carried over.

A heavy tread broke the evening's murmur between you, Stoick's towering silhouette carving through the firelit haze like a drakkar slicing fog, his broad frame a bulwark against the twilight's chill. His weathered face bore the widest grin you'd ever seen, a chieftain's pride tempered by a father's joy.

His hands were planted firmly on his hips as he turned to face you and Gobber, who lounged by the fire lazily, his peg leg propped on a rock, his free hand picking at a steaming bowl of seaweed stew. The fire's glow caught the silver in Stoick's beard, his eyes alight with a warmth that rivaled Sól's radiance, as if Thor himself had kindled a spark in his heart.

"By the gods' own forge, I've not seen Berk this alive since we crushed the allied clans at the Regatta last year, with our mighty sails blazing with Tiwaz runes and Berk banners all alike!" Stoick's voice thundered, a war drum of glee that stilled nearby Vikings, their heads turning, axes pausing mid-strike.

He jabbed a massive finger toward you, his grin widening as he strode closer, his boots crunching the soot-dusted sand with the weight of each step. "You!" Before you could brace, his hand clapped your back, a hearty blow that nearly pitched you forward, your cloak flapping as you caught your balance on the plank's edge, the force a testament to his unbridled vigor, a chieftain's gratitude unbound by the nest's grim shadow.

Gobber's laughter erupted, a deep, rolling tide that shook his frame, his axe glinting as he waved it dismissively, his stew sloshing precariously.

"Thor's hairy backside, Stoick, ye'll send the lass to Niflheim with a pat like that!" he roared, his eye glinting with mischief and laughter as he leaned forward, ignoring the warrior nearby who muttered sleepily about "Gobber's blasted noise" while napping.

Stoick's grin held firm, undeterred, his voice rich with reverence as he steadied you with a gentler hand, his gaze sweeping the camp—the Vikings laughing with Gronckles, a Nadder nudging a warrior's shield, the Zippleback's twin heads weaving playfully around the twins.

"My son is blessed by Freyr's bounty to have you at his side," he said, his tone spoken to Odin's hall, each word weighted with the gravitas of a chieftain's pride.

"I stood on the edge of despair, my heart heavy as Ymir's bones, this cursed shore threatening to break us. But you—you kindled a fire in our souls, lass, pulled this old chief through the dark with a plan bold as Thor's hammer!"

He gestured broadly, encompassing the camp's renewed vigor—the smiths hammering ship timbers, the dragons' wings rustling like war banners, the healers murmuring over wounds with yarrow-soaked hands.

"Now, we sail home at dawn, back to Berk's hearth!"

Your face lifted, eyes widening in a rush of astonishment, the words catching in your throat like a carved tree snatched by the wind.

"Tomorrow?" you asked, voice sharp with disbelief, the prospect of leaving the nest's shadow a spark that flared in your weary chest, warming your bones against the evening's chill.

Stoick nodded, his hand sweeping toward the shore where four longships bobbed in the tide, their hulls patched with salvaged oak, their prows scarred but proud.

"Aye, tomorrow!" he declared, his voice a clarion call that drew nods from nearby Vikings, their faces brightening. "The smiths such as Gobber o'course swore to me—the fourth boat's mended, sturdy enough to brave Njord's seas back to Berk. It'll hold, by the gods' grace!"

Gobber's chuckle deepened, his eye glinting as he leaned forward, stew forgotten. "By Freya's tears, Stoick, ye've the luck of a selkie in a storm!" he said, his axe jabbing the air for emphasis, nearly toppling a nearby warrior's water flask, who shot him a glare before returning to his bandage.

Stoick's laughter rumbled, a deep quake that shook his massive frame, his hand clapping Gobber's shoulder with a force that made the older Viking wince. "Luck or no, Gobber, we've a path home!"

Stoick continued, his voice steady with command, his gaze returning to you, softened with a father's gratitude. "The thirty yet to bond with dragons—those unpaired—will sail with the healers and wounded on the boats. No soul lingers here, not one. We leave at first light, home to Berk's fires."

A smile broke across your face, bright as a sunbeam piercing Jotunheim's frost, the weight of days on this cursed rock lifting like a longship's sail catching Njord's breath. The thought of Berk—its thatched roofs dusted with snow, the forge's clang echoing through the cliffs, the warmth of mead in the Great Hall—stirred a longing deep in your marrow—how you missed cooking. . .

It was a fire kindled by the promise of rest and Hiccup's awakening beneath familiar skies. You glanced at him, his soft snores a quiet defiance against the nest's scars, and your heart swelled, tethered to the hope of seeing his green eyes spark with life once more.

Stoick's hand rested briefly on your shoulder, a chieftain's thanks unspoken but heavy as Mjölnir's head, before he turned to rally the clan, his voice thundering across the camp like a storm over the sea.

"Prepare the ships! We sail at dawn!" Vikings stirred, their feet pausing as they nodded before carrying on work to load the boats, a renewed vigor in their steps, their faces lit with purpose under the light. The dragons above crooned, their silhouettes weaving through the heavens.

You sank back beside Hiccup, your hand tightening around his as Toothless rumbled softly, his tail curling closer, Menace chirping faintly in her sleep. But before you could settle into the vigil, a commotion erupted near the shore, drawing every eye.

Snotlout, his broad frame swaggering as ever, stood atop a salvaged longship prow, his Monstrous Nightmare at his side, its scales glinting like molten iron.

"Oi, you lot!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the camp, a grin splitting his soot-streaked face. "Who's ready for a proper Viking send-off before we sail? A race—dragons against the best of us!"

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, materialized from the shadows, their Zippleback's twin heads hissing playfully as they shoved each other, their laughter a chaotic peal that cut through the evening's weight.

"You're on, Snotlout!" Ruffnut shouted, her singed braid swinging as she vaulted onto the Zippleback's gas head.

"We'll smoke you before you can say 'Loki's knickers'!" Tuffnut, not to be outdone, scrambled onto the spark head, nearly toppling over as he brandished a salvaged spear.

"Yeah, and I'm the spark that'll light your sorry hide ablaze!" he crowed, earning a groan from Fishlegs, who stood nearby, clutching a bundle of cloaks, his Gronckle snoring at his feet.

Astrid, ever the voice of reason, strode forward, her axe glinting at her hip, her Nadder preening behind her. "You idiots," she snapped, though her lips twitched with a suppressed grin, her blue eyes catching the firelight. "We're leaving at dawn, and you want to race now? You'll exhaust the dragons—or yourselves!"

Snotlout waved her off, his chest puffing out like a bellows. "Exhaust? Me? I'm forged in Freyr's fires, Astrid!? My Nightmare'll leave your Nadder choking on ash!"

The camp erupted in laughter shaking their heads, Vikings pausing their tasks to watch the spectacle, their weary faces brightening at the gang's antics. Even Stoick, standing near a fire with a bowl of stew, chuckled, his massive hand wiping broth from his beard as he shook his head.

"Let 'em have their fun, Astrid," he called, his voice warm with indulgence. "A bit of spirit'll do us good before the wind claims us!"

Gobber, still lounging by his rock, raised his hand in mock salute. "Aye, but if Snotlout falls on his arse, I'm claimin' his share of bread back in Berk!"

The jest drew another roar of laughter, the camp's tension easing. You couldn't help but smile, the warmth of the moment seeping into your chest, a fleeting balm to the exhaustion that weighed your limbs.

Toothless stirred, his emerald eyes glinting with curiosity as he watched Snotlout and the twins bicker, his tail thumping the sand, rousing Menace, who chirped indignantly before scampering toward the commotion. The little Terror darted between Snotlout's legs, nearly tripping him, her tiny jaws snapping at a stray rope as if claiming it for her hoard.

"Oi, you menace!" Snotlout yelped, stumbling back as the Nightmare snorted, its flames flaring briefly, singeing the edge of his cloak.

Vikings clutching their sides, their laughter a hymn. Menace, undeterred, pranced toward you, dropping the rope at your feet with a triumphant chirp in offering, her yellow eyes gleaming as if she'd slain a jotunn. You scooped her up, your laughter soft but genuine, her warmth a spark in your hands as you scratched her chin, her purr vibrating against your fingers.

Stoick's gaze found you, his grin softening as he watched Menace's antics, his voice carrying over the camp's din. "That little beast's got more fire than half my warriors!" he said, striding closer, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

"You've a knack for taming the wild ones, lass—dragons and Hiccup alike."

His jest was gentle, but his eyes held a knowing glint, echoing Gobber's earlier tease about your bond with his son. Your face warmed, a flush creeping up your neck, but you met his gaze, your smile steady despite the flutter in your chest.

"Someone's got to keep them in line," you replied, your voice light but firm, earning a chuckle from Stoick and a nod from Gobber, who raised his stew bowl in salute.

"Aye, and ye do it better than any skald!" Gobber said, his axewaving as he nearly spilled his meal again, drawing a groan from a nearby healer tending a warrior's gashed arm.

The camp settled back into its routine, the group's lively chatter echoing as they debated who'd win their race. Before long, night fell, and the whole camp rested for dawn.

The dawn broke over the volcanic shore with a tentative glow, as if Sól herself hesitated to cast light upon the scarred husk of the dragons' nest, its black sands glistening wet under a sky streaked with the pale fire of morning.

The air was heavy with the briny tang of the sea, laced with the lingering reek of charred bone and sulfur, a mournful shroud that clung to the ruins and the Red Death's colossal corpse, its scales cracked and oozing green ichor, a overwhelming stench you all wouldn't miss.

The camp stirred with a somber rhythm, Vikings moving like wraiths in the half-light, their faces gaunt with exhaustion but etched with a resolute hope created in Hiccup's name. Fires smoldered low or put out, their embers casting fleeting shadows across the wounded, their wounds bound in yarrow-soaked leather, and the dragons, their wings rustling like war banners as they perched along the volcano's rim—keening ready to leave.

The clan's newfound bonds with these once-feared beasts thrummed through the morning. You stood on the shore, your cloak flapping in the dawn's sharp breeze, your heart heavy with the weight of the fallen and the hope of home. The four longships bobbed in the tide, their oak hulls patched with salvaged timber, their prows scarred but proud, etched with new Algiz runes for protection.

The loading had begun at first light, a grim procession guided by Stoick's unyielding command. The injured were hoisted aboard first, their groans piercing the quiet as healers steadied them on beds of furs—tattered cloaks, their wounds packed with moss to fend off rot.

Hiccup, still locked in his deep sleep, was carried gently by Stoick and Gobber, his severed leg bound tightly and healing quickly, the leather straps taut against the stump, his pallid face serene yet distant, as if Odin still cradled him in a realm beyond Midgard's reach. The healers followed, their hands bloodied but steady, carrying only their pouches, their faces etched with the pragmatism.

The thirty Vikings yet to bond with dragons—those too wary or weary to claim a rider's mantle—boarded next, their steps heavy with the weight of survival, their eyes darting to the dragons above, a mix of fear and reluctant trust. The fallen, fifty-seven souls claimed by the Red Death, were laid in the final ship, their bodies shrouded in tattered wool, faces covered to spare the living their vacant stares, their sacrifice a silent tale to be carved into Berk's runestones.

You had boarded one of the larger longships, its deck creaking under the weight of warriors and supplies, and settled beside Toothless who protected Hiccup, who lay quietly, his obsidian scales dull with new ash but his emerald eyes calm, a steadfast guardian at your side. His massive form curled protectively, his tail twitching faintly, behaving with a dignity that belied the chaos he'd endured, as if sensing the gravity of the journey ahead.

Stoick remained on the shore, his towering silhouette a bulwark against the dawn's chill, his blood-streaked beard trembling as he barked orders, ensuring no soul was left behind. His voice rolled like thunder over the waves, directing Vikings to secure the last of the supplies—almost empty barrels of pickled herring, moldy rye loaves for last minute resource, and dwindling strips of jerky, rations stretched thin by days on this cursed rock.

He paced the sand, his boots crunching through soot, his eyes scanning the camp's remnants—scattered weapons that couldn't fit on the boats, broken shields, the faint glow of the volcano's crater—to confirm every warrior, living or dead, was accounted for one final time.

The camp lay empty now, its fires doused, its tents collapsed, the only trace of life was the dragons perched all around, their scales glinting like polished steel in the morning light. As the final Viking boarded, Stoick's gaze swept the shore one last time, his hand resting on his sword hilt, a chieftain's vigil unbroken until he was certain none remained.

Then, with a nod to the helmsman, he strode aboard the lead ship, his heavy tread shaking the deck, and a horn's deep bellow shattered the dawn's hush, its mournful note echoing off the volcano's rim like a call to Valhalla. The longships kicked off from the shore, oars dipping into the tide with a steady cadence, their prows slicing through the waves as the clan sailed away from the cursed island, leaving its scars to fade into the mist.

You stood at the ship's rail, your hands gripping the weathered oak, the sea's cold spray misting your face as the island receded, its jagged silhouette shrinking against the horizon. From this new distance, the devastation was stark—a wasteland of black sand and splintered stone, the volcano's crater glowing faintly, a wound in Midgard's flesh.

The Red Death's corpse loomed, the sole monument to the war, its massive form untouched by scavengers, its maw frozen in a silent roar, abandoned to rot in solitude. Even the warrior it had swallowed had been retrieved, his body laid among the fallen, ensuring no soul was left to the beast's claim.

The island could keep its desolation, its ash and ruin—good riddance, you thought, your heart heavy but resolute, the weight of the lost pressing like a stone in your chest. The clan sailed in silence, a collective vigil for the fifty-seven Vikings and countless dragons who had no choice but to fall, their sacrifice etched in blood and fire.

You glanced at Hiccup, lying on a fur-lined bed nearby, his breathing steady but his eyes still closed, and your fingers tightened on the rail, a silent prayer to Freya for their souls and his awakening. Toothless rumbled softly at your side, his head resting on oak, his gaze fixed on the fading island, as if bidding it farewell and good riddance too.

The veil of Helheim's Gate, that churning wall of fog that had shrouded the nest, closed over the horizon, swallowing the island whole, its gray tendrils the last you'd ever see of that cursed rock, a final curtain drawn by the Norns themselves.

The longships pressed onward, guided by Toothless' keen instincts, his low croons a beacon through the fog as he sensed the path home, his bond with Hiccup a compass for the clan. After an hour of sailing through—The veil broke at last, parting like a torn sail to reveal a vast, glistening sea, its blue expanse shimmering under the first true sun in a week and three days, a radiant gift from Sól that warmed your ash-streaked face.

Sighs of relief rippled across the four ships, Vikings shielding their eyes against the brilliance, their weary voices rising in murmurs of gratitude to the Allfather. The light cast away the nest's shadow, bathing the decks in a golden glow that gleamed off the sea's cresting waves, each ripple a promise of Berk's cliffs drawing nearer.

Some Vikings seized the moment, leaning over the rails to scoop seawater in their hands, scrubbing desperately at the volcanic ash that clung to their skin like a grim tattoo. The water ran black with soot, trailing from their faces and arms, a cleansing ritual born of necessity, their laughter—hoarse but genuine—echoing over the tide as they shook off the nest's weight.

One warrior, his beard caked with ash, dunked his entire head into a bucket, emerging with a sputter and a grin, his curse of "Freyja's mercy, that's better!" drawing chuckles from his comrades. The act was a small defiance, a reclaiming of life amidst the sea's endless hymn, and you watched, your heart lifting slightly, the clan's spirit stirring like a hearth rekindled.

You moved toward the ship's prow, where Stoick stood, his massive frame steady against the wind, his bloodied cloak flapping like a war banner etched with Eihwaz for resilience. Toothless sat nearby, his head raised, his emerald eyes scanning the horizon, his presence a quiet anchor for the chieftain.

The sea stretched boundless before you, its waves glinting like the scales of Jörmungandr, and in the distance, the dragons and their riders soared miles ahead, their silhouettes a shadow of a great flock, wings cutting the sky like blades forged in Valhalla's fires.

The sight stirred a smile, warm and unbidden, curling your lips as you imagined the shock awaiting Berk's remnant souls—those left behind, expecting longships, only to see their kin return astride fire-breathers. A soft laugh escaped you, bright against the sea's roar, the thought of their wide-eyed disbelief a spark of joy in your weary chest.

Gobber, hobbling closer on his peg leg, his axe glinting as he balanced, caught the sound, his bushy brow arching.

"What's got ye chuckling, lass?" he asked, his voice gruff but laced with curiosity, as he leaned against the rail.

You turned, your smile widening, the wind tugging at your cloak. "It's just—imagine the faces back home," you said, your tone light but warm, "their loved ones returning, not on ships, but soaring down on dragons, like a tale come to life."

Gobber's eyes twinkled, his grin splitting his beard. "Aye, they might think it's a raid!" he quipped, his hand waving for emphasis, nearly toppling into the sea.

Stoick, turning from the prow, his gaze softened by the sun's glow, joined in, his voice a deep rumble. "They will—until they see our riders atop those dragons, proud as Thor in his chariot."

His words carried a chieftain's pride, his eyes drifting to Hiccup's still form, a silent prayer to Odin lingering in his gaze.

The conversation faded, the sea's hymn reclaiming the air, its ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the creak of oars and the flap of sails dyed with runes of protection. You stood with Stoick and Toothless, your eyes fixed on the dragons' distant flock, their wings a promise of Berk's new dawn, your heart buoyed by the thought of home.

The longships sailed on, their course steady under Stoicks guidance, the veil of the dragons' nest a fading memory swallowed by the horizon. The journey would stretch two weeks, the ships trailing the dragons and their riders, who'd reach Berk days ahead before you, bearing tales of war and harmony to prepare the village for Stoick's return.

The sun climbed higher, its light gilding the waves, and you leaned against the rail, your hand brushing Toothless' scales, his warmth a quiet vow to see Hiccup through. The clan sailed in silence, their thoughts with the fallen, their hopes with the boy who'd reshaped their world, the sea carrying you all toward Berk's hearth, where dragons would soar free and Hiccup's dream would rise from the ashes.

The sea stretched boundless beneath a dawn sky kissed by Sól's first light, its waves glinting like the scales of Jörmungandr as the four longships carved their path through the tide, their oars dipping in a steady cadence that echoed the clan's unyielding resolve. Two weeks had bled into a relentless voyage, the memory of the dragons' nest fading into a shadowed saga, its ash and ruin swallowed by the horizon's veil.

The air carried the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the faint musk of dragon breath from the flock that had soared ahead days ago, their riders bearing tales of war and harmony to prepare Berk for your return.

A cry shattered the morning's hush, sharp as a raven's call over a battlefield. "Berk ahead!" The shout, raw with glee, came from a massive warrior at the ship's bow, his bandaged hand raised against the dawn's glare, as his voice a spark that ignited the clan.

Cheers erupted across the four ships, a thunderous roar that drowned the sea's hymn, Vikings leaping to their feet, their faces alight with a joy that rivaled Freyr's golden fields. You turned, your heart surging as Berk's silhouette rose from the horizon, its jagged cliffs crowned with snow, its thatched roofs dusted white, a comfort of home more radiant than any place could ever weave.

The sight was a balm to your weary soul, its beauty sharper than you'd dared remember—no volcanoes spewing Hel's wrath, no dragons the size of mountains blotting the sky, but a haven forged in frost, earth and fire, its hearths calling you back.

Yet, even as you'd expected the change, the vista stunned you, a jolt to the marrow that widened your eyes. From this distance, hundreds of dragons—Gronckles, Nadders, Nightmares, Zipplebacks and more—swirled through Berk's skies, their wings weaving patterns unmarred by arrows or axes.

They soared openly, unchained—unharmed, their roars a chorus of freedom that echoed off the cliffs. The clan gaped, their cheers faltering into awestruck murmurs, hands shielding eyes against the sun to witness a Berk reborn, where dragons danced with the wind, no longer foes but kin.

Stoick's voice boomed from the prow, his massive frame steady against the ship's sway, his beard trembling with laughter. "Well, then!" he bellowed, his brows rising in satisfaction. "Seems they've convinced the lot back home!"

His laughter rolled like thunder, deep and unrestrained, shaking his broad shoulders as he clapped a hand on the rail, the sound infectious. The clan joined him, their laughter a tide that swept the ships, Vikings slapping each other's backs, their weary faces brightening under the sun's glow.

Gobber, hobbling closer on his peg leg, his axe hand glinting as he held a crust of moldy rye—looked at it then back at Berk—and tossed it over the boat, chuckling hoarsely.

"Aye, Stoick, they've turned Berk into a dragon's roost!" he quipped.

You grinned, the warmth of their mirth seeping into your chest. Toothless rumbled softly, his head lifting to watch the distant flock, his tail thumping the deck, as if sensing Berk's transformation. The longships pressed onward, their sails catching Njord's breath as fast as they can, the sea's rhythm a steady pulse beneath the clan's renewed vigor, their eyes fixed on the cliffs that promised rest and rebirth.

The longships made land with a grinding crunch, their prows kissing Berk's rocky-sandy shore as the tide lapped hungrily at the hulls, the waves glinting ever so bright under the morning sun. The clan's cheers swelled anew, a war cry of relief that echoed off the cliffs, Vikings leaping from the decks before the ships fully settled, their boots splashing into the shallows with sighs of deliverance.

One fell to the sand kissing it and a dozen of the warriors plunged into the sea, their ash-caked faces breaking into grins as they shed ruined tunics and leathers, the fabric blackened with soot and blood, and dove into the waves, scrubbing desperately at the volcanic grime that clung like a grim curse.

"Free at last!" one bellowed, a burly Viking with a cauterized gash across his arm, his voice thick with glee as he stripped to his breeches and submerged, the water running black with ash as he surfaced with a sputter.

Others followed, their laughter hoarse but unbridled, diving and splashing like selkies reborn, the sea's cold embrace a cleansing ritual that washed away everything. The shore thrummed with life, Vikings hauling supplies saved—empty barrels, bundles of furs—while healers guided the wounded to solid ground, their groans softened by the promise of Berk's hearths and a warm bed.

You climbed from the longship, your boots sinking into the wet sand, your body aching but your spirit soaring as you stretched, arms wide to embrace the crisp air, the familiar scent of pine and rain a balm to your weary soul—how you missed it.

"Home at last!" Gobber groaned nearby, his peg leg wobbling as he vaulted onto the shore, his axe-hand unstrapped and tossed carelessly into the sand, the iron glinting with a thud.

"I miss my hook and brush!" he declared angrily, as he scratched his beard, earning a laugh from a nearby warrior who dodged the flying prosthetic with a curse.

Toothless, ever eager, erupted into motion, his massive form bounding from the ship with a joyful warble that shook the deck, his talons splashing through the shallows as he leapt from one Viking to another, nearly toppling a healer who yelped, "Oi, you overgrown lizard!"

The Night Fury ignored the protest, his gummy smile flashing as he pranced toward the docks, his tail lashing with unrestrained glee, darting down the beach and out of sight, his roars echoing.

You laughed, the sound bright against the clan's clamor, your smile lifting at his exuberance, a mirror to the relief flooding through you. The docks bustled with Vikings unloading the fallen, their shrouded forms carried with reverence to a clearing, while dragons swooped overhead, their wings casting fleeting shadows, their riders waving from above.

You stretched again, your cloak falling loose, with Menace close in your arms, the weight of the nest's scars easing with each breath of Berk's air, the cliffs towering like sentinels of Freya's grace.

The clan's voices rose, a chorus of homecoming—warriors embracing kin, healers calling for herbs and supplies ready, dragons crooning to their riders. You glanced at Hiccup, carried gently by Stoick to the shore, his face serene in sleep, and your smile held, in hope that he'd wake soon to this reborn Berk, where dragons soared free.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing into a chorus of welcomes as Berk's remnant souls—those who'd stayed behind—poured down the winding paths from the village, their furs flapping, their faces alight with joy and awe. Men and women, elders and children, wove through the docks, their arms wide to embrace kin, their voices rising in greetings that drowned the sea's whisper.

Dragons descended, their wings stirring the air, landing among the newcomers with curious chirps, their riders dismounting to join the throng, their tales of the nest's war already legends among the hearths. The clan parted reverently as Stoick carried Hiccup ashore, his massive arms gentle, his beard trembling with a father's pride and sorrow.

The Vikings fell silent, a solemn honor for the boy who'd faced the Red Death and reshaped their way, their eyes tracing his pale face, his severed leg bound in leather, a testament to his sacrifice. Carefully, they took him—placed on a fur stretcher—a group of warriors and healers moving with precision, their hands steady as they bore him up the vast wooden climb to Berk's village, their steps a quiet drumbeat against the planks.

The wounded followed, carried on other prepared stretchers or leaning on comrades, their groans softened by the promise of care. Gothi, the village elder, awaited above, her gnarled staff tapping the earth, her sharp eyes scanning the procession. She'd prepared for the injured, her hut brimming with herbs—yarrow, comfrey, honey and so much more—her apprentices ready with clean cloths and cauldrons of boiled water, ensuring every warrior would be tended, their wounds cleansed of the nest's grim taint.

A sudden blur of motion jolted you from the procession's weight, your breath catching as Toothless bounded back from the beach, his obsidian scales gleaming, his gummy smile and tongue flashing with unbridled joy. Before you could react, his massive head dipped, lifting you in a swift, fluid motion, his jaws gentle but firm as he hoisted you onto his back, his warmth seeping through you.

Laughter spilled from you, bright and unrestrained, bubbling like a spring in Vanaheim as you scratched his chin, his purr vibrating beneath your fingers, a song of reunion that lightened your heart.

"Toothless!" you chided, your voice warm with affection, but he was already moving, his talons digging into the sand as he surged forward, following Hiccup's scent up the wooden climb.

The Night Fury's speed was a whirlwind, his massive form weaving through the procession with reckless grace, climbing over Vikings who grunted and yelped, their balance faltering as his tail swiped their legs.

"Oi, watch it!" one warrior bellowed, nearly toppling into a comrade, while another groaned, "Freyja's mercy, he's worse than a storm!"

You clung to Toothless' back, Menace doing the same to your shoulders, your hands gripping his scales, your laughter a wild peal that rang through the morning, hanging on for dear life as he leapt over railings and dodged outstretched hands, his joy a mirror to your own.

The climb blurred past, the planks creaking under his weight, the village's rooftops rising as the dragon's boundless spirit went after the boy he chased. Toothless caught up to Hiccup's bearers in moments, his speed outstripping the solemn march, his warble echoing as he skidded to a halt in the village's heart, the central square alive with Berk's soul.

The clan waited, a sea of faces—warriors, smiths, children, elders—their voices rising in a thunderous cheer, chanting Hiccup's name despite his slumber, their fists pounding the air in a rhythm that shook the earth like Thor's anvil.

"Hiccup! Hiccup!" they roared, honoring the boy who'd slain a titan and forged peace with dragons.

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, stood atop a barrel, their singed braids swinging as they hurled makeshift confetti into the air—clumps of what you suspected was green dragon dung, its earthy stench drawing groans and shouts from older Vikings.

"Oi, you daft Thorstons, that's no confetti!" an elder bellowed, swatting at the falling debris, while another coughed, "On Loki's silver tongue, it's filth!"

The twins cackled, undeterred, their Zippleback hissing playfully behind them, its twin heads snapping at stray clumps, adding to the chaos. The crowd's laughter mingled with the cheers, a tapestry of joy and irreverence, Berk's spirit unbroken by war's scars. Dragons soared above, their roars a triumphant chorus.

The bearers carried Hiccup to his home, a sturdy hall of oak and stone, its roof thatched with a snow-dusted roof. You slid from Toothless' back, your boots thudding on the packed earth, and followed them inside—Toothless right behind you, the air thick with the scent of pine and hearth-smoke, a stark contrast to the nest's sulfurous pall.

The warriors laid Hiccup on his bed, its furs soft and worn, their hands gentle as they arranged his limp form, his auburn hair fanning across the pillow, his face serene under the dawn's light filtering through the shutters. You stepped forward, your voice soft but steady, a quiet hymn to their care.

"Thank you," you said, your eyes meeting theirs, gratitude swelling in your chest for their reverence, their silence a shield around the boy who'd saved them all.

Stoick entered, his massive frame filling the doorway, his cloak flapping as he nodded to the bearers, his voice a low rumble of thanks. "My thanks, all of you," he said, his tone heavy, his hand resting on the doorframe as if to anchor himself.

The warriors bowed their heads, their steps retreating as they left, granting privacy to the homes' quiet sanctuary. Outside, the clan's celebration swelled—voices chanting, axes clanging, dragons roaring. The mourning lingered, a shadow for the fallen, but the joy of homecoming burned brighter for them for they went to Valhalla, and a fire kindled by Hiccup's courage and the dragons' newfound place among Berk's hearths seemed a good thing.

You stood by Hiccup's bed, your hand brushing his, the calloused warmth a lifeline in the homes' stillness, Toothless curling nearby, his head resting on the floor, his emerald eyes half-lidded but vigilant.

The clan's voices filtered through the walls, a distant chorus of life, but your world narrowed to Hiccup's steady breaths, the faint rise of his chest, and the hope that he'd wake to this reborn Berk. Stoick lingered by the door, his gaze soft on his son, the weight of war and homecoming a mantle he bore with strength.

Hiccup's home stood as a quiet sanctuary, its oak beams etched with the weight of countless winters, their surfaces worn smooth by the hands of Berk's forebears, each knot and grain a silent saga of resilience. Dawn's light filtered through the shutters, casting golden threads across the floor, where dust motes danced like wraiths, the air thick with the scent of pine, hearth-smoke, and the faint musk of furs.

The fire pit at the room's heart crackled, its flames kindled by some unseen hand before your arrival, their warmth pushing back the morning's chill, painting the walls with flickering shadows that seemed to whisper of Hiccup's enduring might. Outside, the village pulsed with life—Berk's clan chanting Hiccup's name even now, their voices a thunderous hymn that shook the cliffs.

The celebration was vibrant, woven from joy and mourning, the clan's axes clanging, children laughing, and the twins' chaotic antics drawing groans, yet within these walls, the world shrank to a stillness, a sacred pause where only you, Hiccup, and his dragon dwelled. You stood by his bed, stiff, hand rested on his, his calloused fingers warm but limp.

Stoick loomed beside you, his massive frame a bulwark against the light, his ginger beard catching the fire's glow, his eyes softened. He gazed down at Hiccup, lying still on the fur-lined bed, his auburn hair fanned across the pillow, his face pale but serene, locked in the deep sleep that held him like a thrall to Odin's liminal realm fighting for his soul. He turned to you, his gaze steady, and placed a massive hand on your shoulder, its weight of trust, warm through your tunics' worn fibers.

"Watch over him, lass," he said, his voice low, a rumble tempered with gratitude, each word carrying the gravitas of a saga's vow. "I'll see that someone brings you food, and the healers will come to tend Hiccup soon."

His eyes held yours, a flicker of hope kindling beneath the sorrow, and you nodded, a smile breaking through your exhaustion. The promise of care, of home, was a spark of joy amidst the ache of Hiccup's stillness, and you inclined your head, your voice soft but resolute.

"I will, Stoick," you said, the words a quiet oath, binding you to Hiccup's side.

Stoick's hand lingered a moment, his grip tightening briefly, a father's thanks unspoken but heavy as Mjölnir's head, before he turned, his cloak flapping as he strode to the door, his boots thudding on the oak floor before leaving and shutting it. The hall's stillness reclaimed the space as he left, the fire's crackle a steady hymn, its light gilding Hiccup's face, softening the gaunt hollows carved by fever and war.

You sank onto the bed beside him, the furs yielding under your weight, your movements gentle to avoid stirring his rest. Your fingers brushed his hair, the soft strands slipping like silk, and you swept them from his eyes, revealing the faint freckles that dusted his cheeks, a map of the boy who'd stolen your heart. Leaning closer, you pressed a kiss just below his eye, your lips lingering on the warm skin, a tender moment woven in the quiet.

"We're home," you whispered, your voice barely stirring the air, a fragile thread laced with love and longing, as if your words could coax him from the Norns' grasp.

Toothless, curled nearby, his obsidian scales glinting in the firelight, lifted his head, his emerald eyes gleaming with a knowing spark. He warbled a soft coo, a melody of agreement that vibrated through the hall, his tail thumping the floor gently.

From the sack slung at your back, Menace stirred, her tiny form rustling as she poked her head out, her yellow eyes blinking sleepily. She chirped, a high, bright note that echoed Toothless' call, her claws gripping the leather as she scrambled to perch on your shoulder, her warmth a spark against the morning's chill.

Toothless settled closer, his head resting near the bed, his purr a low hymn, while Menace's chirps softened, her tiny form curling against your neck. The world beyond the hall thrummed with life, but here, time stretched thin, a quiet eternity where hope and love held sway, your gaze fixed on Hiccup's face, willing his eyes to open and see the dawn of a reborn Berk, where dragons and Vikings stood as one.

Five days had bled into a relentless vigil since the longships carved their path to Berk's shore, the dawn's golden light now a distant memory swallowed by the gray pall of worry that cloaked the village. The hall of Hiccup's home, its oak beams etched with the scars of winters past, stood as a solemn refuge, its fire pit crackling with a warmth that failed to pierce the chill in your heart.

In that short time, Gobber had crafted a temporary peg leg for Hiccup and a new saddle for Toothless, which would do until Hiccup, with your help, could build a better one, just like you both had made the last one together.

Toothless was so thrilled that he knocked Gobber over and licked him, much to the hook-handed man's grumbling. You and Gobber also planned to build dragon nests for perching and a large fish storage area for their meals. Berk now looked like a dragon haven.

Currently, the air was thick with the scent of pine, the hearth's glow casting trembling shadows across the walls, as if the spirits of the fallen lingered, whispering from Valhalla's halls—creeping in on Hiccup.

Outside, Berk calmed down and thrummed with a muted pulse—dragons soaring freely, their roars a hymn to Hiccup's dream, while the clan's voices rose in laughter and labor here and there, rebuilding, forging, and making bonds with their new kin. Yet within these walls, time stretched into a cruel eternity, each hour a weight heavier than Ymir's bones, as Hiccup remained locked in a deep sleep, his face pale as Niflheim's frost, his chest rising with breaths too faint to promise life.

Nearly four weeks had passed since the Red Death's fall, and the silence of his slumber gnawed at you, Stoick, and the clan, held a specter of dread that whispered of a loss too vast to bear. Your cloak, hung loose about your shoulders, and your hands, calloused from days of tending him, trembled with a fear that Odin's will might claim him yet.

The clan had honored the fallen in the days since your return, their bodies prepared with reverence on small longships draped in wool and flowers, etched with Eihwaz runes for resilience. The traditional Viking send-off had been a somber rite, the boats set ablaze as they drifted into the sea, their flames a guide for fifty-seven souls to Valhalla's gates.

The clan had stood on the shore, their voices raised in a mournful chant, axes clanging against shields, while dragons circled all around, their keens weaving a requiem that tore at your soul. You'd slipped away as the fires faded, your heart too raw to join the clan's mourning, and returned to Hiccup's side, the hall's stillness a shield against the world.

Alone, with no eyes to witness, you'd wept, tears falling like rain, each sob a plea to Freya that Hiccup would not join the fallen, that his fire would burn through the Norns' cruel thread. You'd vowed never to leave him, forsaking the duties of the Great Hall—its hearths, its feasts, its clamor—for the quiet vigil at his bed.

Stoick, his eyes heavy with a father's grief, had granted you leave, his voice soft with the respect he bore you, as if you were a daughter bound to his son by more than loyalty. The clan's tasks carried on without you, their hands tending the wounded, mending ships, and learning the dragons' ways—Marta had help from others, so, while you remained, a sentinel rooted by love, your world narrowed to the faint rhythm of Hiccup's breathing.

It was the sixth day, the morning light filtering through the hall's shutters, casting pale veins across the furs that cradled Hiccup's still form, his auburn hair fanned across the pillow, his freckles faint beneath a pallor that cut like a seax.

You sat beside him as usual, your fingers carving a small circle of wood with a blade, its edges smoothed into the shape of Toothless' curled sleek form, a black chain threaded through it, a necklace to gift him when he woke—a talisman to tether him to the dragon who'd saved him, and a quiet labor to fill the hours that stretched like Hel's shadow.

The knife trembled in your hand, your eyes heavy with sleepless nights, a map of grief and hope entwined. Toothless lay curled by the bed, his obsidian scales glinting in the firelight, his emerald eyes half-lidded but watchful, his tail twitching faintly as Menace, nestled in her sack at your side, chirped softly, her tiny claws gripping the leather.

A sigh from Hiccup jolted you, your head snapping up, the knife slipping as your heart leapt, certain he was stirring due to his movement—only to see his chest rise in a steady breath, his face unchanged, the sound a cruel echo of life without awakening. Your shoulders sagged, the ache in your chest deepening, and you reached out, brushing the hair from his eyes, the soft strands slipping like silk under your fingers.

Leaning closer, you pressed a kiss to his cheek then another to his forehead, your lips lingering on the warm skin, a silent prayer to the Allfather, and rested your own forehead against his, the contact a fragile bridge to the boy you feared might slip away. Tears brimmed, hot, spilling down your cheeks as you drew back, your voice breaking in a whisper that trembled with the weight of a heart laid bare.

"Please, Hiccup, wake up," you said, the words a raw plea, each syllable cracking like ice. "I miss you—so much it hurts, like a wound that won't close."

Your head sank to his shoulder, your tears soaking into his tunic, the fabric muffling your voice as you spoke into its folds, barely above a breath, the confession tearing free for the first time, a truth that had simmered in your soul through war and loss.

"I love you. . .Hiccup. Please, come back to me." Wherever you are, is where home is.

The words hung in the hall's stillness, heavy as a runestone's oath, their echo a wound and a vow, baring the love that had grown in stolen moments—aurora flights, cliffside laughter, the nest's crucible—now spoken aloud, a desperate offering to Freya to tether his spirit to Midgard.

You clung to him, your sobs muffled, each one a shard of glass carving deeper, the fear that he might fade like the fallen a blade twisting in your gut. The fire's crackle was your only answer, its warmth a faint comfort against the cold dread that gripped you, Toothless' soft warble a distant hymn, Menace's chirp a fragile echo, as if they, too, mourned the silence of the boy who'd bound you all.

Minutes stretched, an eternity of grief, until the door creaked open, its hinges groaning like a draugr's lament, and Stoick's broad silhouette filled the frame, his cloak dusted with snow, his beard catching the fire's glow. He paused, his eyes softening as they fell on you, your head resting on Hiccup's shoulder, tears glistening on your cheeks, but a smile curled beneath his beard, a quiet pretense that he hadn't seen the depth of your sorrow.

He strode to the fire pit, his boots thudding on the oak floor, and knelt to stoke the flames, his massive hands deft as he added a log, ensuring the hall's warmth held against the morning's chill. You lifted your head, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, uncaring if he saw the raw grief in your eyes, your face a map of love and fear laid bare. Stoick rose, his gaze flickering to Hiccup, then back to you, his voice low but steady, a command softened by care.

"Gobber's asking for you, lass—just for a moment. Something about the dragons and the forge. Won't keep you long." His tone held a gentle urging, a nudge to draw you from the weight you carried, though his eyes lingered on his son, a flicker of shared worry beneath his resolve.

You hesitated, your hand tightening on Hiccup's, the necklace half-carved in your lap, the thought of leaving him a stone in your chest. But you nodded, your voice barely a whisper.

"I'll be right back," you said, turning to Hiccup, your eyes tracing his still face.

You rose—picking up the knife and necklace, Menace chirping softly as you slung her sack over your shoulder, and walked to the door, Stoick's heavy steps following. The door shut behind you, its thud a final note in the hall's quiet, leaving Toothless and Hiccup to the fire's vigil, your heart tethered to the hope of his awakening as you stepped into Berk's clamor.

Now, you trudged through the village, your cloak trailing over the packed earth, the sea's briny tang mingling with the scent of pine and smoke. Menace chirped softly from her sack, her tiny claws gripping the leather, a small comfort as you made your way to the forge where Gobber waited, his summons pulling you reluctantly from Hiccup's side.

The forge loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened with soot, the air thick with the tang of molten iron and charred wood, its open side glowing with the hearth's restless fire. Your steps were heavy, your eyes puffy from tears shed in secret, the carved Toothless necklace tucked in your pocket, a talisman for the moment you prayed would come.

Gobber stood by the anvil, his peg leg propped on a stool, his hook-hand gesturing at a tangle of leather and iron—Toothless' new saddle. His weathered face lit up as you entered, his voice booming with its usual gruff cheer.

"There ye are, lass! I need more help with this—this saddle needs a tweak before Hiccup's up and about. The tailfin's linkage is off, and I reckon you've got the knack to—"

He stopped short, his eye narrowing as he took in your face, the swollen of your eyes betraying the grief you'd tried to hide.

"Lass. . ." he said, his tone softening, worry creasing his brow as he limped toward you, his hook-hand hovering awkwardly before he pulled you into a fierce hug. You sank into his embrace, the rough wool of his tunic scratching your cheek, and clung to him, fighting the tears that threatened to spill again.

His arms, strong despite his years, held you like a father, and his voice dropped to a gentle rumble. "You've been cryin' again, haven't ye? Don't think I can't see it."

You nodded against his shoulder, your throat too tight to speak, the weight of Hiccup's silence pressing like a stone on your chest. Gobber's hand patted your back, clumsy but warm.

"Don't ye worry that pretty head of yours, lass. Hiccup's tougher than a Monstrous Nightmare's hide. He'll be wakin' soon, mark my words."

Before you could reply, a commotion erupted outside, a swell of voices that shook the forge's walls like a storm's first gust. A shout pierced the din, sharp and jubilant.

"It's Hiccup!"

Your eyes widened, your heart thumping wildly, a frantic drumbeat that drowned the forge's hiss. You got out of Gobbers grasp and spun toward the open side, where Hiccup's home stood atop the hill, its thatched roof glinting in the morning light. A gasp tore from you, hands flying to your mouth as the truth struck—Hiccup was awake, his green eyes open at last, a miracle wrested from the Norns' grasp.

Without a word, you bolted from the forge, Gobber's heavy steps pounding way ahead of you, his peg leg thumping the earth the fastest you'd ever seen him go. The village blurred past, Vikings parting as you ran, your cloak flapping, the hill's climb a desperate scramble.

You pushed through the crowd outside Hiccup's home, elbows jabbing, your breath ragged as you broke into the clearing, where Stoick stood beside his son, now propped against the doorframe, his face pale but alive, a shy smile curling his lips.

Stoick's voice boomed, pride radiating as he gestured broadly at Hiccup, his blood-streaked beard trembling with joy.

"Turns out all we needed was a bit more of. . .this!" he said, his hand sweeping over his son, a chieftain's grin lighting his face.

Hiccup, his auburn hair mussed, his frame fragile but unbowed, ducked his head, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "You just gestured to all of me," he said, his voice soft but warm, a spark of his old humor that drew a chuckle from Stoick, who nodded, his eyes gleaming.

Gobber, shoving through the crowd with you close behind, reached them first, his hook-hand waving as he boasted, "Well, most of ye, lad! That bit's my handiwork."

He pointed to Hiccup's new peg leg, a sturdy contraption of wood and iron, its craftsmanship evident despite the rough-hewn design.

"With a touch of Hiccup flair, mind ye. Think it'll do?"

Hiccup's gaze flicked to the leg, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I might make a few tweaks," he quipped, his voice steadier now, earning a roar of laughter from the crowd, their cheers a hymn to his return, Hiccup's own laugh mingling with theirs, a sound that warmed your aching heart.

You reached him at last, huffing from the run, your eyes locking with his, and the world seemed to still, the crowd's clamor fading to a distant hum. Your smile gleamed, bright as a sunbeam piercing a storm, and Hiccup's face lit up, his green eyes softening with a warmth that spoke of shared trials.

No words passed between you, but your faces told it all of their own—your eyes brimming with relief, love, and the ache of weeks spent fearing his loss, his gaze mirroring it with gratitude, longing, and a quiet promise that he'd returned to you and kept.

The crowd watched, their murmurs hushed, Stoick's knowing smile deepening, Gobber's eye glinting with unspoken approval, both men seeing the bond that tethered you, a love as fierce as any dragon's fire. The moment hung, fragile and radiant, when you started walking to him.

The spell shattered as Astrid stepped forward, her braid swinging, her fist connecting with Hiccup's arm in a sharp punch that made him flinch. "Ow!?" he yelped, rubbing the spot, his eyes wide with confusion.

"That's for scaring me," Astrid said, her tone sharp but her lips twitching with a grin, her blue eyes flashing with her usual fire.

Hiccup opened his mouth, stumbling over his words. "What? Is it always gonna be like this with you? 'Cause—"

Before he could finish, Astrid seized his collar, pulling him into a fierce kiss, her lips crashing against his, a bold claim that drew a loud "Ooo!" from the crowd, their cheers swelling with delight. Your smile vanished, your heart lurching as if struck by a sword, the warmth in your chest turning to ice.

Gobber's eyes widened, his hook pausing mid-air as he turned to you, but you were already gone, slipping through the crowd, your steps silent, your face a mask to hide the pain clawing at your soul. Stoick caught Gobber's eye, their shared glance heavy with confusion and worry, a silent question of where you'd fled, but neither moved to follow, unwilling to dim Hiccup's moment.

Gobber, his worry for you a nagging weight, stepped forward, gently handing Hiccup Toothless' new saddle gear you had made him, the leather and iron polished with extreme care.

"Welcome home, lad," he said, his voice warm but tinged with unease, his smile masking the concern for you. "She made that for you."

Hiccup took the gear, his fingers brushing the straps, but his gaze darted to the crowd, searching for you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face when he found you gone. Before he could speak, a shout had rang out.

"Night Fury!"

And Toothless burst from the door, his massive form leaping over Vikings, who grunted and stumbled, his talons thudding as he pounced toward Hiccup, his gummy smile flashing. The crowd laughed, their voices rising as the dragon tackled his rider, Hiccup's laughter mingling with the clan's cheers, a moment of joy that echoed through Berk's heart, even as your absence lingered like a shadow.

The village's clamor faded to a distant hum as you bit your lip, wiping the tears harshly that stung your eyes on repeat. Hiccup's awakening, a miracle you'd prayed for through weeks of dread, had unraveled into a wound sharper than any blade—Astrid's kiss, bold before you could, searing itself into your memory like a hot brand iron.

Your heart, so full of hope moments before, now throbbed with a quiet betrayal, the love you'd confessed in the hall's stillness mocked by the crowd's cheers. You pushed through Berk's winding paths, your cloak trailing over the earth, its hem snagging in its fibers as you climbed the hill toward the Great Hall.

The air was sharp with pine and the faint smoke of hearths, but you barely noticed, your steps driven by a need to flee, to outrun the ache that clawed at your chest. Past the hall you went, its towering doors a blur, the laughter and clanging within a world you couldn't care less about.

You crossed the wooden bridge to the woods, its planks creaking under your boots, the forest's shadowed embrace swallowing you whole. You kicked at the dirt, your breath hitching as you climbed hills and stumbled down slopes, the earth's uneven pulse mirroring your own.

The cove loomed ahead, its rocky cliffs jagged against the light, a place once sacred with Hiccup's laughter and Toothless' warbles. You stood at its edge, looking down with a scornful twist to face, the memories too raw, too tangled with the boy who'd slipped through your fingers. Turning away, you plunged deeper into the forest, its pines whispering secrets as the evening deepened, your heart a storm you couldn't outrun.

You'd been out there for hours uncaring. The forest turning to woods finally gave way to an unfamiliar shore, a hidden beach on some forgotten edge of Berk, where you collapsed, the late evening sky bruising into twilight.

You sat at the water's edge, knees drawn to your chin, your torn cloak splayed across the sand, its fibers knotted with twigs that matched the disarray of your hair. The beach was a vision of unearthly beauty, a majesty that seemed to mock your grief, yet held you in its spell.

The waters glowed with bioluminescent plankton, their ethereal light washing ashore in shimmering waves, each crest a cascade of sapphire and emerald that flickered like stars fallen to Midgard. The moon, newly risen, cast a silver veil over the sea, its glow weaving with the thousands of orange hues painted by the setting sun, their colors bleeding into the horizon like a tapestry.

The waves lapped gently, their touch just grazing your toes, a cool caress that stirred the sand into fleeting patterns, while fireflies blinked in the dunes, their golden pulses dancing with the rhythm of the tide.

The air was alive with the scent of salt and kelp, a crisp tang softened by the faint sweetness of blooming heather, carried on a breeze that whispered of secrets older than Berk's cliffs. You sat motionless, your face blank, the world's beauty a stark contrast to the void within, your eyes tracing the horizon where sea and sky melded into a dreamlike haze.

Your hand opened, revealing the necklace you'd carved for Hiccup, its wooden Toothless pendant gleaming faintly, the black chain coiled like a serpent in your palm. You stared at it, expressionless, the gift meant for his awakening now a relic of a hope shattered by the kiss.

Anger bubbled within, a slow boil that tightened your chest, and with a sudden motion, you stood, backing away from the water's edge. Your arm reared back, and you hurled the necklace into the sea, its arc a fleeting shadow against the glowing waves, the pendant sinking into the depths with a silent splash.

The act did nothing to quell the storm inside, your breath hitching as the anger gave way to a deeper ache, the love you'd whispered to Hiccup in the hall now adrift in the tide. A low rumble broke the silence, a vibration that stirred the sand beneath your feet, and before you could turn to find its source, the ground shifted, pitching you backward.

You landed with a gasp, your hands grasping something warm and hard, the surface scaly and alive. The sand erupted around you, a living tide that surged upward, higher and higher, as you clung desperately, your heart pounding. It was a tail, its fin broad and leathery, and as you squinted, you saw eyes—two glowing orbs on its tip, staring back with an eerie calm.

Panic seized you as you realized it was a wild dragon, its form hidden beneath the sand. You released the tail, dropping to the beach with a huff, only to land on its back, the scales rough under your hands. The dragon moved, sifting through the sand with a fluid grace, and a pair of mighty orange eyes emerged, blazing like twin suns through the cascading grains.

Sand fell like waterfalls around its massive wings as it rose, hovering above you, its form fully revealed—a creature of terrifying beauty, its body sleek and sinuous, its scales a mosaic of dun and amber that shimmered in the bioluminescent glow. Its wings, broad and veined like ancient parchment, pulsed faintly, stirring the air with a low hum, while its tail curled, the eyed fin twitching as if sizing you up.

You stared, fear and awe warring within, your breath shallow as the dragon's presence filled the beach, its majesty a mirror to the sea's radiant dance. Its eyes held you, unblinking, their orange, fiery depths flecked with gold, like embers in a dying fire, and you braced for a blast of flame as its jaws parted, the cavernous maw glowing faintly. But instead, it yawned, a cavernous gape that revealed rows of sharp teeth, and collapsed onto the sand, its head thudding beside you, eyes fluttering shut as it began to purr, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the beach.

You sat frozen, the glowing night wrapping around you, the fireflies' golden pulses weaving through the air, the moon's silver light mingling with the sun's fading orange hues, the plankton's shimmering waves lapping at the shore. The dragon's purr, steady and warm, filled the silence, a sound far from its native sands, yet perfectly at home in this hidden cove.

You stared at the creature, its terrifying beauty softened by sleep, and felt the anger in your chest ebb, replaced by a quiet wonder. The beach held you in its embrace, its majestic fleeting balm to the heartbreak that had driven you here, and as the dragon slept, you remained, a solitary figure in the glowing night, your story poised on the edge of a new dawn.

ART CREDIT TO THE TALENTED @alec-volturi This is Chapter 12 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

#chapter 12 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom #rtte #sand wraith

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heavenbloom · 1 year ago

Text

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ:

DAILY CLICK • BOYCOTT TLOU • DONATE

please do not skip over this! continuing to support palestine in any way possible is much more important than reading any piece of fanfiction.

𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊: 𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏

knight!abby x princess!reader

summary: your plans to usurp your despotic brother are halted when he assigns one of his strongest knights to keep an eye on you. what will wither and what will blossom in her presence?

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, political elements, fem afab reader, princess reader is manipulative, extensive descriptions of blood and violence, graphic depiction of murder, subtle enemies to lovers (more so in next chapter), degrading terms used in a non-sexual manner, insults, profanity, probably ooc?, not edited, reader discretion advised

a/n: this is HEAVILY inspired by The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri. this song is the atmosphere i was going for if you wanted to listen while reading!! dedicating this to @catfern, love you <3

wc: 4.7k

The corpse-quiet hours before dawn settled over the world with the languidness of dripping wax. There was a tenseness to it, beneath the silence, the twinings of a tautly strung instrument. You could smell it on the breeze too, a lick of disturbance carried sharply on the air alongside the fragrance of jasmine and rose. This night was a thing too tender for imminence, you thought, as you watched off-white petals scatter across pristine marble.

You felt it in your bones first, as it reverberated through the night. It felt like rolling thunder across the mountainside, but it was far too regimented to be birthed from mother nature. No, you knew this sound as intimately as your own heartbeat.

Hoofbeats. Steadfast, almost urgent, as they ascended towards the palace. Through your balcony, you could see a sea of them, clad in the pure white of moonlight and the gold of dawn. At the very front jostled a garish carriage swathed in the same colours, flying your nation’s flags. You stepped further out onto the balcony. A retinue, a homecoming. Your brother has returned.

Of course, ease slid through your veins at the fact that it was not a darker reality encroaching, but it curdled instantaneously, soured by the notion that you would merely be a marionette tugged upon and prettied up in order to appease him. A dutiful princess, you would play the part of orator, musician, perhaps finally bride to a stranger if the King and all his attendants had his way. What were you but a flower with an endless array of malleable petals to be arranged this way and that?

You drank in the perfumed scents that swirled around you, a sigh passing your parted lips. The silk curtains of your suite lifted like a breath, the solid colour broken apart by somebody familiar, whose chest rattled for the solace of fresh air.

Your features did not falter as your eyes remained fixed upon the retinue fast approaching. The girl, one of your many pairs of watchful eyes, strode towards you, sweat upon her brow, a worrisome crease at the youthful corner of her lips. You remained fixed as you felt the brush of rough parchment against your smooth palm.

Politics was a game played by degrees, after all. It demanded quiet, the slithering of a black-belllied snake in the grass, waiting for the perfect moment to coil around its prey and squeeze. You let the paper unfurl against the wind, let it flap in the air as you read word upon word scrawled onto the page with an unsteady hand.

You knew what you hungered for, the prey that dangled just out of reach above your open maw. It glistened deepest oceanic blue cast in gold, and it sat safely atop of your tyrannical brother’s head.

Like all noble daughters, you knew that patience was a virtue. Things did not fall easily into your lap, so you would have to work for it, a dog searching ceaselessly for a single scrap of bone. You would let the meat of the empire simmer, wait until it was your turn to have your fill.

The parchment began to crinkle under the ferocity of your grip as your brother flashed through your mind. His smile, all canines. The cruelty that lurked just beneath the surface of that untarnished exterior.

With a fiery savagery singing in your veins, you silently declared that his crown would be yours.

𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

The day’s last light was beginning to wither away, its last breath sweeping across the courtyard below and setting it ablaze. The air that seemed like an extension of your own lungs the night before was cloying now, pollen stuck in the crevice of your throat and tightening it with fist-strength.

There were certain things you expected of your brother, but this…

Your eyes flitted from the balustrade to the woman who stood just behind the gauzy silk draped across the doorway. She had a straight spine to match the strength in her features. Slight aquiline nose, plump lips, and those eyes, crystalline blue but honed from years of slinking, silent observation. There was no denying the touch of regality woven throughout her being. If somebody had said she were an empress from some distant land, you would have believed them.

It wasn’t such an extravagance that granted you with her presence, though. A white cape threaded with gold was draped around her armour-laden shoulders. There was a sword at her hip, but the breadth of her body alone was enough to make anybody hesitate.

This woman, whose body was carved for the gruesomeness of the battle, was to be your watchful knight, under oath to quash any harm that may arise.

A bitterness rose from the pit of your stomach to the back of your throat. Sworn protector. The words thrummed in your skull like jailer. It was clear from her unbroken gaze alone where her loyalties were placed, at the feet of your brother and your brother alone.

You were the first to break your eyes away, demurely, subtle but unerringly feminine, and more importantly, inferior. Your spine was straight, but you hung your head slightly, letting your eyes wander along the outline of lush greenery below. Your hands skimmed along the finery that swathed your body. You appeared reticent and meagre, but every minute movement was deliberate on your part, a dance in which you knew all the steps.

Her shadow of a presence was a setback, certainly, something to keep you at bay, but if you wove the right tale, spun an intricacy of honeyed words and laid syrupy sweetness upon her… this one, like any other, could be used, moulded and rolled like clay with the right pressure. All you had to do was locate a chink in her armour.

You gave a hesitant pause, counted to three, until you walked the expanse of the balcony, back into your quarters, the tinkling of weighty jewellery sounding with each step you took. Even closer, she appeared much more powerful, the jagged lines of her face schooled into sternness. The refusal to drop her gaze in the presence of her new lady sent a shiver down your spine.

“Abigail.” Your voice was gentle, the lulling of a flute. “I am grateful for your service. To my dear brother, of course, but especially to me.” You stepped closer to her, but remained at a polite distance, a benevolent smile gracing your lips.

Her face remained the same, but there was a slight quirk to her thick brows. She was used to doing bloody work for the King, but you could tell that she was unused to interacting with royalty. “My loyalty is to the crown. I would do anything His Majesty asked of me, princess.” Ah, what a well trained response. As expected of one of the most renowned weapons in your brother’s arsenal.

“Yes, and it warms my heart.” You ensured your smile widened, your eyebrows softening in tandem with the lovely upward curve of your mouth. “I have heard stories of your bravery. To have such a hero protect myself alone… well, it feels rather a waste of talent, does it not?”

Her lips parted for a moment at the steer in conversation. You could see the hardness melting from her face like butter, replaced by an expression unreadable. It was too early to tell whether there was now a weakness to strike at, but it was better than talking to the righteous facade of her. “My talents can be just as useful in the Royal Palace as they would be on the battlefield.” Her words were as certain as solid stone, unmoving in their conviction.

“Such a noble heart you have.” You let the distance close between the two of you, then, your body just a few mere inches away from steel. Your hand met the one at her side, soft fingers grazing across leather, the cool hilt of her sword brushing against your knuckles. “But you do not need to protect me. Guards swarm this palace, after all.”

You expected abashment, the averting of that steady, unbreakable gaze, but not so much as a twitch of her fingers was drawn out of her. Still, you pressed on, as a thumb circled a spot on her gloved hand. “You would be better suited to attacking any threats at the root, dear knight. I could arrange you to be back where you once were. Not here, not with me.”

These lies, this faux flattery, left your tongue with the ease of second nature. You had none of the power you wished to possess, and you could not fulfil any such promise to her, but a few sweetened words could at least put you in her good favour, string her along for at least for a few moments outside of her obstructive gaze.

Something flashed across her features, but it was not the distant yearning for battle, not even the consideration of your hefty offer. You felt her thick fingers slip, gently, out of your grasp. Shock burst in your chest when her lips curled into a smile. Not completely unkind, but belittling all the same.

“The way we view honour differs greatly, princess.” Her mouth shaped the words slowly, deliberately and they hung in the air like an accusation. The last of the sun filtered through the balcony, causing the stray hairs framing her face to shine gold, the dust of freckles on her cheeks to appear like a smattering of starlight. You were once again struck by the wondrous beauty of her, a blow to the ribs.

You urged the swell in your guts down hastily.

“Is it so dishonourable,” you started, choosing to focus instead on that same jagged ambition that ate away at you, “to desire glory for oneself?”

The eyes that you thought resembled a pristine shoreline now darkened with the implications of your question. You watched as the storm passed across her face, as the act of noble knight swallowed her whole once more.

“Glory means nothing if it is not for the sake of serving the King.” She finally averted her gaze to the rolling gardens below.

“Our King.”

𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

Thunder rippled across the charred night sky, the rain beating against the earth with the ferocity of a thousand rapid heartbeats. Your quarters burst white and fizzled with each lightning strike, and you could see the dozing face of Abigail each time. She laid, with one arm cradling the back of her head, in a cot at the foot of your bed, her golden-brown lashes long enough to cast wispy shadows on the apples of her cheeks under the inconsistent light. Even in her sleep, she seemed to be withholding herself from you, despite the stretch of days you had spent together thus far.

Beneath the writhing rage that clawed at your insides, you felt a soft pang, something faint and unfamiliar, for this woman. She was forced to live her days, in utter numbness, waiting for an attack on your life that would never come. She was here to intimidate you into compliance, at your brother’s whims, and she was completely unaware of it. To be a pawn in such a twisted game unwittingly… It was cruel. But weren’t you attempting to do the exact same? The hypocrisy was completely not lost on you.

You watched her sleeping figure for a few more moments until you were certain she was asleep. Then, soundlessly, you slipped out of the embrace of your bed. The air was cool but heavy with humidity as you walked on the balls of your bare feet, your nightgown brushing your ankles and sending an anxious tremble up your body. You tried to move as swiftly as you could. Your spies and confidants were loyal enough, but even they would not wait out the entire night for you when there was other work to be done at dawn.

An electric thrill jolted your being when you clasped the door handle. Was evading her watchful eye really so easy? Was all you had to do is slink around in the deep hours of dark? You bit down a smile as the heavy door gave way . Freedom, for a few mere minutes at least, was just beyond the door…

“My Lady?” Something glacial hardened in your veins. The voice was hoarse with the remnants of slumber, but there was no doubting the razor-edge awareness of it.

For a beat, you were too stunned to face her. When you didn’t turn, she spoke again. “Princess, what are you doing out of bed?”

What was the safest way to avoid her suspicion? The crashing of thunder sliced through your thoughts like a knife, offering you an escape route on a silver platter.

You whorled around, your eyebrows high-strung. Abigail was sitting upright, her head tilted and her unbound blonde hair dripping over one shoulder. There was no armour covering the wide expanse of her chest, a rare exposure of bare collarbone and surprisingly soft skin. You would perhaps never get used to the sight.

You clutched the fabric of your nightgown and widened your eyes, fawn-frightened. “Abigail, I…” you let your voice taper off into a quiver.

She was up in an instant and striding towards you, brows knitted together. Despite the urgency vibrating every cell in her body, her large hands cupped your shoulders with a gentleness you thought so disjointed for a woman of her size and profession. You doubted she would have touched you if it weren’t for the haze of confusion that overpowered her usual meticulousness.

“What is the matter? Speak to me, princess.”

“I-it’s absurd, I…” You trembled ever so slightly and could only pray that you were convincing. “The storm… well, it frightened me. I apologise. You mustn't be used to such frivolity.”

The tautness of her bow-strung body seemed to drift away all at once. Her shoulders drooped and she smiled, this time a thing of pure relief. “Is that all that this is?”

You nodded once, pulling yourself inward more and silently thanking whichever god had just granted you quick wits. She tsked softly and brought you closer to her. The warmth of her body was comforting, as alive as the spark upon a coal.

“You can wake me when you’re frightened, my lady,” she breathed out, her breath rustling the hair at your ear.

“I thought– I didn’t wish to burden you.” For once, there was a distasteful speck of truth in your words. She was a thing too gentle and straightforward for the ugliness of court politics. How could you ask her to help you usurp a throne she adamantly kneeled at the foot of?

“Princess,” she sighed, her hands trailing from shoulder to elbow. “Your brother has tasked me to protect you.” A lie, and yet she believed it so wholeheartedly. A loyalty as steady as a heartbeat.

“You cannot be a salve for every little thing that ails me.”

“There’s a sort of protection in comfort, is there not?” Such naive words, ones a child could have spoken, but they rang throughout your entire being.

She was diluted ink in the dark of the storm, but the whites of her eyes and teeth shone with the sheen of pearl. Your lips parted, drinking in a shaky inhale. You should have kept playing the delicate flower in distress, but you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous and curious, a hunger that gnawed at the very marrow of your bones. A hunger that you had no choice but to satiate.

“And how do you intend to comfort me, dear knight?”

A moment of something heady passed, and you could practically see the churning of her mind, the weight of precariousness at her throat like a glinting blade. You knew then that the same starvation engulfed her own being, your hands slithering down to her wrists and clutching them.

“I would do whatever you ask of me, My Lady–”

“No,” you cut her off, tracing a sliver of puckered flesh that outlined her bare wrist. A quaint shiver wracked her shoulders at the abrupt stone of your voice, unbidden. “No, Abigail. How do you wish to comfort me? Speak plainly.”

“I want…” Her voice was strained, the word leaden and fumbling on her tongue, her own will now foreign to her. Her hands tightened around your elbows. “What I want… what I desire, is not so easily spoken, princess.”

Even in the dark, her eyes were the bottomless wells of a carefully guarded vulnerability. You wanted to chip away at that wall she had between you and her, between anyone but her fiery devotion and her own self.

You cupped her cheeks with the soft, uncalloused palms of your hands, watched as her reluctance dissolved with the touch.

“Then show me.”

Perhaps all that was needed was an uttered confirmation that you felt the same infuriating emotions. You had torn through the neat little bow of restraint that kept her being together, and now it was uncontainable, this ever-swelling.

There was a moment of hesitation, shared breath mingling sweetly, before she pressed her lips to yours. She cradled your waist as if you were porcelain, but her kiss was a beast of want, all teeth and tongue. Your back melded with the carvings of the door as she nudged you back, wooden jasmine blossoms and orchids keeping you tethered to the moment. You kissed back with just as much viciousness, astonished by your own affections welling up like crimson from a finger pricked.

It was with the ebb and flow of ocean waves that she let you go just as promptly as she had kissed you, her face a hazy mass of surprise in the semi-dark, leaving only the remnant of her warmth against your skin, the phantom of soft lips and tongue.

Her fingers scraped her blonde locks away from her face, chest heaving.

“Princess,” she spoke through the ragged edge of her breath. There was a singed quality to her voice, raw and crisp. “Princess, it would be improper to continue.”

Disappointment, to your dismay, pooled in the pit of your stomach. You turned your head to the side and gave a feeble nod, swallowing at the thick knot lodged in your throat. Letting her warm your bed would be unwise, you reminded yourself now. It would serve no purpose to your goals, and a lovesick knight trailing you around was the last thing you needed. And yet...

“We cannot cross that line,” she whispered. You felt the gentle snaking of arms around yours as you were pulled close to her chest, your ear snug against it. “But I am still here.” Her heartbeat was hummingbird-rapid, a reflection of your own.

She led you back to the bed and watched intently as you laid down beneath the smooth blanket. You stared in return. How was a person sharpened for such luridness able to wield tenderness the way she did a weapon? It was more frightening, you silently mused, than any tale of her violence could offer. It did little to divert the ache that seeped to your very bones, the craving for it.

Lightning still ruptured the heavens, followed dismally by a cacophony of thunder.

“Abigail.” Your hand drifted into the air, toward her. She held it gently in both of hers.

“Are you still frightened?”

Your plan for the night had been uprooted, and you had no choice but to remain here in this room. You traced each feature of hers with your eyes, lingering on the worrisome crease of her brow. Perhaps… “Yes, a little.”

Perhaps, this once, sweet selfishness was justified. Perhaps you could let this sordid business of trickery and usurpation float from your mind. This once…

“Will you lay beside me?” You sat up, peeling the blanket aside. “It would help me a great deal.”

“My lady…”

“Innocently, of course,” you reassured. “To know someone is beside me, to share that warmth… it would ease my nerves greatly.”

A beat passed, then another. “I think… It's something I also need. For tonight.”

“For tonight,” you echoed, patting the empty space of the bed next you.

She clambered in beside you without another word, a slow exhale escaping her when her head softly hit the pillow. You could feel her breath fan over your face gently, followed by a soothing, steady hand on your arm.

“Will you hold me?” There was a waver in your cadence, something unbearably soft puckering to the surface. “Is that okay?”

You were encircled by her arms, so gently that you felt, something swirl inside of you, just to then sink.

Consciousness left her almost instantly at the feel of your body against hers. The comfort of someone to hold in the eternal stretch of night elleviated the quiet ache that thrummed and tugged at her own being.

You listened as she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, until the sky stopped its tears and the only sound that could be heard was the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of her heart at your ear.

𖥸 𖥸 𖥸

The marble was icy beneath the soles of your feet, each footfall echoing softly through the desolate, cavernous halls. The lanterns flickered low, the walls cast in leaping, ravenous shadows.

Wait for me at the entrance to the orchard, you had told your spy, an inconspicuous place for business made in the night, but as you reached the intricately designed archway, you were met with the absence of the living. The sharp smell of damp earth and overripe fruit wafted through the open space, yet it did little to calm the eerie feeling in your blood.

Perhaps you were too late, or perhaps she had appeared conspicuous. A fist of disappointment twisted at your gut, but relief flooded your veins with it. There was silence, at least. Stagnance was a better ordeal than disruption. You turned away from the trees, feet almost silent without the usual finery adorning your ankles.

A whisper against the precious stone. Something scratching and picoting, until you felt the brush of it at your leg. Frozen, you peered at what had touched you. A piece of flimsy paper, the uncertain handwriting that you had come to know so well. Between the looping letters of secret after secret unfurled, vermillion stained the thin sheet. Vibrant. Fresh.

A man at the very first tree, the shimmer of the whites of his eyes furious and expansive. You knew this face, these pompous clothes, the cruel, all-knowing scowl on his lips. Your brother’s confidant and his closest advisor. If this man could stretch himself as thin as a carpet to soften your brother’s steps, he would have.

His movements were rigid, yet quick as he lunged in your direction, teeth bared and motivated by his sweltering rage alone. His cheek was streaked with the same shade of red.

“You treasonous whore!” He swiped his hands at you, but you scrambled away at the very last moment. “Traitor!”

“My Lord–” Your heart thrusted against your ribcage, your breath coming out in uneven, shattering breaths. There was no cajoling such a blind beast. His voice was much too loud, his body propelled by something untethered to reason.

You were going to be found out. He had the evidence and his screams were enough to alert any guards patrolling the slumbering palace. You had to do something, you had to–

He lunged forward again, forceful yet sloppy. Your body began to react on its own accord.

The blade was an ugly little thing, stolen from beneath Abigail’s pillow weeks ago and fastened in a makeshift sheath of torn silk and ribbon, held steadily enough by a bangle at your wrist. It was in your hand, slipping from the snugness of the material and clanging against the jewellery with the same delicate ring of anklet bells chiming in the midst of dance and song. A song of retribution, thrumming, awake and unabated, in your veins.

The moment was a blur, the contact of iron to skin one you could not even comprehend until a surprised, wet sound bubbled forth from the nobleman’s lips. He slumped forward against the blade, his eyes glassy. Lifeblood trickled down the hilt of the blade and down your fingers. The warmth of it made your stomach churn.

Before you could pull the blade out, he swayed to the side, toppling to the ground with a sickening thump. Crimson bled across the stark white of the floor, pooling beneath his now motionless body.

The bile of pure panic rose to your throat, face leached of warmth. What have I done? What have I done? What have I–

“Princess?” A voice of honeycomb, even when it wavered with such uncertainty.

No.

You stared ahead, the bulky outline of her blurring only to refocus as she got closer. There was a look that had never graced her face before, one of confusion mixed with something akin to horror. Had she known this man? Taken orders from him?

But she did not look down at the grim image at her feet, but rather at you. Your stained fingers, the way your face had grown ashen and fear-stricken.

Her fingers ghosted over your cheek, but stopped short of making contact. “What…” You could hear the thoughts that knotted in her mind. How could such a sweet thing – you – do this?

A shout sounded down the hall, and you flinched, eyes darting in the direction as a new wave of bone-rattling fear crashed down upon you. There was a clamour, the sound of swords against urgently moving legs.

Abigail pulled her hand away from you as if seared. Hardness seeped into the cracks where her moment of bare emotion shone. A moment ticked by, voices growing closer.

With a flash of movement, she yanked the blade out of the lifeless body beside her, a sickening squelch that did not seem to rattle her, and turned her back on you. Surely she had to be more selfish than this?

“Abigail–”

“Be silent and stay behind me.”

Your voice sank down into an urgent whisper. “Your recklessness is going to get you killed.”

Her head turned toward you then, her gaze meeting yours. Blue flame, a flicker of pure torment.

“You have already made me your accomplice.” They should have been sweet, simple words, but they held the acrid tang of rotting fruit, bitter and wilting despite their saccharine nature.

They were encircling you in an instant, guards wearing the colours of the sun and the moon. Their swords were raised, but they waited for something…

The guards parted, roiling ocean waves. You watched as your brother stepped his way to the front, head held high.

Without a single word, Abigail dropped to her knees, the blade clanging against the floor and skidding away from her to rest at his feet.

Your brother did not spare her a glance. His eyes pinned you in place, cold and measured. He did not ask about the commotion or point grieving eyes towards his closest advisor. No, he already decided on what truth in this he would spin and alter in order to squash you beneath his bejewelled hand.

As he stared you down, you gazed at the back of Abigail’s neck, peach-toned skin peaking beneath the cascade of blonde waves over her shoulders. You wanted to reach out, to touch her one last time if only to bid farewell.

Such a rotten heart you had. You felt it thump mournfully, greed winning out in the end.

Your lips remained tightly locked as she took the fall for your turpitude, an act of the foulest betrayal.

As you watched them drag her away, you may as well have been clapping the chains around her wrists yourself.

Who knew that even a blade of the soul could be double-edged?

#kinda rusty so don’t mind the inconsistency 😭#abby anderson #knight!abby #abby anderson x reader #abby tlou #abby the last of us #tlou #tlou2 #the last of us #tw blood #aeot

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hazelfoureyes · 1 year ago

Text

A Doe in Fall (Part 3)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie

Part 3 A tragedy

So enraptured with Alastor, you forgot how you left work on Saturday. Tommy didn’t forget. And he made sure you remembered. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for you, your paramour made a habit of helping quicken karma’s balancing act.

「warnings/promises: immediate physical assault (let’s be up front about that), allusions to sexual assaults having happened in the past to non-reader characters, HumanAlastor x FemReader, penetrative sex, Protective Alastor, bruises, somewhat graphic descriptions of murder, mentions to coerced prostitution, sex near a corpse (words that have the FBI watching me), stabbing, knife, bad burlesque names, gambling, my own new HC for the Radio Demon’s origins, another deer reference thanks to @n-after-me , chin quivering, Tommy doesn’t know French and it shows, posted early for @jazzmasternot, wrath」

Minors DNI 🤺

You walked into the theatre for rehearsals with a pep in your step, body still humming. It was like the usual adrenaline rush Alastor brought couldn't fade this time.

But it did, when Tommy grabbed you by the hair out of your makeup chair and threw you into the wall.

You couldn’t react, head ringing after it left a small indent in the drywall. Unlike before, you didn’t try to stand. Make him work for his second hit. And he did. Leaning down he yanked you off the ground by your arm and dragged you to your feet.

“Do you think you’re funny?” He shook you, you were sure you could feel your brain jostle. It was rhetorical, but you replied anyway.

“No, Tommy.”

“No. Exactly.” He backed you up onto the make up table, head pressed into the mirror. “Mr. Wilson was not happy. He pulled his contribution. I know you don’t have that kind of money. Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

His fingers dug into your cheeks, “No.” You genuinely didn’t. He was talking to you like you had been in the loop on whatever it was he had been doing on the side. All of this was as shocking to you as your actions were, apparently, to him.

“You’re gonna take whatever meetings I make until that money is back.” He let go of you and turned to leave but changed his mind. Coming back, he swung his fist and clocked you on the left side of your face.

You didn’t see it, but you heard the other girls running and pulling Tommy off of you, yelling and pleading for him to calm down.

“I worked really hard for you!” He shouted, jerking his shoulders out from under the hands of the other performers. What was he talking about? You hadn’t discussed any of this, asked for any thing from him. “I waited for a high roller for you. Real classy guy. Just wanted a private show! That was it!” He spit, “No, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is welcome now to ask for your time.”

You just held your face, unsure if you had the right makeup to hide the bruise before stage call.

“Well?! Say you’re sorry.”

You considered not saying anything. No response. When you looked at him, you could see the half a dozen other girls staring back at you, just say it. We have to rehearse.

“I’m sorry.” Eyes cast to the floor.

“For what?”

It hurt when you rolled your eyes, “For being ungrateful?”

He shoulder checked a few girls on the way out. A couple came to you.

“He’s got some gambling debt, he’s just using us to get ahead.”

“I have some stuff to cover that up for tonight.”

“He usually cuts us in.”

Tears stung your eyes, you were angry and humiliated. You could work elsewhere, with a little luck. Take a job at a diner out of the area where no regulars would stir up trouble. Maybe leave until Tommy got his debts paid off or whatever was motivating this recent streak of cruelty. But you didn’t want to run away. No one applauded waitresses. Maybe if you made yourself as unattractive as possible, no one would request you. Dirty your teeth, talk about other men, speak crudely.

“What exactly was he talking about?” you asked no one in particular. The girls were quiet for a beat.

“Well ya know, private shows for clients who can afford it.” High pitched and nasal, Florence spoke as she searched her make up station.

“That’s it?” Incredulous.

“Sometimes. You know how it is… woman left alone in a room with a man who has too much money or ego or drink. Doesn’t always stop at a dance.” Minnie had much more experience than you, “It isn’t our jobs. It isn’t normal. But, well, ya heard about New York right? They’re trying to make burlesque outright illegal…”

“Gotta enjoy the art while it’s just misunderstood.” Florence wiped down your mirror before setting her supplies down for you. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

By the time patrons began to stream in, you had blood staining the white of your left eye. Nothing you could do, but maybe at a distance it wouldn’t be noticeable. The bruise under your eye from his fist was easy enough to cover. The contusion from where your right cheek hit the wall was a little harder.

Luckily, the stage offered a buffer of space and the rest of the room was dark.

During your show, you tried to keep your eyes moving so the red sclera never stayed in one place too long. For the first time, the cheers did nothing for you. You felt your chin quiver, fighting back tears. You wanted to scream, to tell them to hate you and leave. Stop fucking clapping.

Ruth was naturally the first to come to you after your performance, “Want me to do the tour with you? Arm in arm around the hall.”

You took her up on the offer. It lightened the load, her taking charge of the conversation when people approached or bought you drinks. Luckily the bartender always poured the performers weak cocktails and watered down liquor to keep their heads on straight.

Ruth’s companionship afforded you precious time to plan, to consider how quickly you could find new work or at least a way out of this.

“What a treat. Two for one. Can I buy you both a drink?”

Ruth turned first to greet the customer, “Ooh yes sir! Gin and tonic, please and thank you. Autumn?” Your stage name drew your attention back to the world, turning finally.

“Alastor.” It fell from your mouth like a lead balloon.

He smiled down at you, his hand offering a little wave, “Hello. Surprise.”

Your face fell, a frown pulling down your chin. It took you too long to recover, batting your eyelashes and turning the corners of your lips up unnaturally.

“So you do have a beau!” Ruth slapped your arm, “I’m Skye, Skye Scraper. Pleasure to meet you, Alastor.” She extended her hand, Alastor planting a kiss on the back of it, concealing his smile at the name.

You tried to keep your eyes on the floor, head turned slightly away from him to obscure the neon sign of an eye shouting, ‘Weak!’

Unfortunately for you, Alastor wasn’t an oblivious man. Unless he was dancing or drunk. “May I have a moment alone with her?” Alastor asked Ruth. Ruth looked to you for your okay, and you just nodded. She gave a little nod of her own to Alastor and slinked away.

“Are you unhappy to see me, dear? Did I overstep by coming by unannounced?” You hadn’t heard him worried before, it pained you.

“No, no! I am… so happy to see you. I just had a long day.” You scanned the room for the darkest area to bring him. A booth would be best, you could keep him on one side of you. You gestured with a nod of your head.

“Ah, I kept you out too late.” Alastor didn’t move.

“Not at all, come on let’s sit down.” You reached back for his hand without looking at him, but when you pulled he still didn’t move. He remembered the way you pulled at the hand of that man in the alley the first night you met. Desperate to escape somewhere.

“Is there a reason you won’t look at me?”

Lie.

“Uh, no, I’m just embarrassed about this heavy stage makeup.”

Alastor paused, hand slipping from yours to adjust his sleeves. It was a nervous action, an attempt to self soothe, but you didn’t know that. “I should have asked before coming.”

“Alastor, it’s not…,” you kept your eyes down at your hands.

“Then look at me.”

Would he think you were incapable of protecting yourself? His pity would kill you. Perhaps he would decide a second rate burlesquer wasn’t worth making time for anymore.

You could intentionally wound him, say you don’t want to see him so he leaves. But that sword was double edged and you weren’t sure you’d survive that either. You weren’t making it out of this.

You finally looked at him. He leaned in, “What happened to your eye?” A slender finger gently tilting your chin upward.

Lie.

You thought too long for an answer. Why were you getting worse at lying? It used to be one of your best shields and swords but now you were so slow on the draw you were left defenseless. Vulnerable. His hand took yours, gently pulling you into the lobby and through the glass doors of the theatre.

Under the bright lights of the marquee and the street lamps, Alastor inspected your face. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, wetting it in his mouth before wiping the makeup off of your under eye.

“Alastor, people are staring.”

His eyes fell down, soft hands lifting your arm where a bruise was already formed. You hadn’t noticed that one.

“What happened?” He wasn't looking at you when he said it, instead cautiously wiping the makeup off your cheeks in search of more marks.

“The truth or wh-“

“Always. Never give me anything else.”

You sighed, and explained, “Tommy, the manager, he’s been shifting tactics for bringing in money because he owes some big bads a lot of debt. Private shows with performers that sometimes get hands on…,” his hands stopped moving but his eyes didn’t meet yours, “I never asked to be included in it. I wouldn’t do it. I was rude to a man Tommy introduced me to and I ran off Saturday. Yada Yada. He got me as soon as I got to work.”

Alastor didn’t reply, just turned on his heels and marched back into the theater. You chased after him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles!” You tried to get in front of him but he walked right past you.

“Not about what you need, dear, it's about what he deserves.”

Alastor asked the bartender for Tommy, who pointed to the short but stocky man talking to a group of guests. Alastor approached so quickly Tommy didn’t have time to greet him, instead just backing up until he fell ass first into a booth. Alastor boxed him in, one hand on the wall and one on the table, towering over Tommy as he sat.

“I hear you sell dancers by the night.”

You paced the lobby nervously. Would you be fired? What would Alastor say? Would Tommy hit him, too?

He re-emerged, “Come to my car, please.” He didn't stop walking as he said it.

You followed a few blocks down to his car, parked on the street. He opened the passenger door for you and closed it behind you. You wanted to ask if you were going somewhere, but thought better of it. A tight u-turn, he pulled the car into the side street where you’d first met each other.

Wordlessly he got out of the car, you opening your door before he could. Popping the trunk, he set the folded canvas inside a paper bag. Checking first, he placed it inside one of the tin trash cans.

You stood, waiting for an explanation.

Finally he stopped and made eye contact with you. “You have a date tomorrow, with me. Bring this to the apartment above the theater before Tommy and I arrive.” Opening your mouth to speak, he didn’t stop to let you add anything. “Preferably near the bed.” He closed the trunk, “Wear red, please.”

You searched his face for some kind of discernible emotion but found none. Those constricted pupils again, an animal staring back at you from behind a pair of glasses. There was no reason to ask him, it was obvious what was going to happen. Did you want to stop it?

Did you want to see it? Alastor at work?

“Okay. On all the points.” You looked back at the trashcan, “Canvas hidden near the bed. Wear red.”

“The extra clothes can go anywhere out of sight.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your voice cracked a little, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”

He nodded, “I can’t stay here.” Before getting into his car he turned and added, “Don’t cover the bruises tomorrow. He should see them.”

You nodded in return, “Are you doing this for me?” So quiet you almost hoped he didn’t hear it.

He paused, one leg already in the car and his back to you, “No. I’m doing it for everyone.”

You watched his car light up and leave the alley.

It’s not that you felt abandoned, you felt…. Stranded. You had to go back in there, alone, and put on the normal act but under abnormal conditions.

So it was happening. You hadn’t seen the first time. Just felt it. You didn’t see the second. You were going to actually see a man die. Not just a man, someone you knew. Someone you used to consider a friend of sorts. Before he got into whatever trouble was driving him to act like a flesh peddler. Could you do it? Could you watch a man be killed? Was that even what Alastor had planned?

Tommy found you the second you were back in the room, hand pressing too hard on the bruises he left on your arm. “You have a meeting tomorrow after your show. If you don’t show up,” he yanked you close, putrid breath of dead teeth you’d never been bothered by before this moment and bad booze assaulting your senses, “I will fucking kill you.”

You almost started laughing, bringing your hand to your mouth to hide your smile. “Okay Tommy.”

Fuck it. He was going to die anyway, might as well make it a date.

Ruth saddled up beside you as soon as Tommy was out of earshot, “Look at that smile. Quickie in the alley?”

Disgust, “Jesus, Skye, I was gone like, 5 minutes.” She shrugged. “Why does everyone think — is everyone fucking their daddies* in the side street?” She nodded. “Well, I’m not.”

“Prude.” She joshed before linking your arm in hers again, “We’ve got at least another hour of schmoozing. Tits up!”

Your smile came effortlessly that night, a thrum of excitement keeping you light on your feet. Not excitement for death, but for the very concept of being closer to Alastor. Would you see it happen, in front of you? Or would he have you leave? Either way, you were an active participant with a task list.

He trusted you, even if in a small way. Trust was so rarely given from the people who mattered. Men trusted you often; to be sweet when they tell you they were embarrassed about something, to lie when they ask if you orgasmed, to not steal their cash when they blacked out with their pants still on. Pulling it from strangers was one of your greatest pleasures. But it was easy. You were skilled.

Yet again, like so often now, Alastor was the exception. He didn’t toss himself at your feet. He stood tall in front of you and on his own terms offered you the things you wanted. You didn’t have to pretend to be demure, you didn’t have sit on his lap in silence and nod and laugh. Just yourself, as much as you could allow yourself to exist in the world. No tricks. If his trust was presented wrapped in a bloodied bow, well, you would thank him dearly and wear the ribbon round your neck like a trophy.

Many men spoke to you, but luckily your participation in conversation wasn’t something they really cared about. As they spoke, your eyes were looking past them and into the future.

However there was a sense of dread when you lied in bed that night. The excitement of getting closer to Alastor had melted into the fear there was no going back from this.

Something in your chest stung, a thorn growing from somewhere unknown. Three encounters (that he knew of) and already it seemed your thoughts were more Alastor than yourself. No person had ever made such an impression before. You didn’t like it, but it made you happy. Which is why you didn’t like it. Tying your happiness to another person was a reckless thing to do. You’d seen your mother and half sister both use a man’s attention as a replacement for being happy with themselves and it made them brittle and hollow.

Thinking of what would happen the following night, oddly, you were reminded of losing your virginity. You were a “late bloomer” and were terrified you’d never be you again after. Like something would be taken from you. You fell asleep to that thought, of what you’d lose.

Then you woke, uncharacteristically early, feeling none the bit rested. No dreams. No nightmares. A few seconds of darkness and suddenly it was morning. With the extra time you had you wandered into a department store before going to the theater.

When a sales woman approached you, asking what you were looking for, you were too tired lie.

“A red dress.” You didn’t have the makeup at home to cover your marks, and gave up being worried about it.

Unfortunately, it seemed it wasn’t so odd of a sight; a woman with a black eye.

“What’s the occasion? Apology dinner?” The woman fidgeted with the hangers while looking at you.

You grimaced, “No, a murder.”

She howled, “You are a hoot! Don’t we wish, huh? Let me pull you some options.”

You put the dress on the top of the paper bag, having hidden it under your make up table the previous night. Your fingers were trembling, applying your makeup needing deep breaths and concentration.

“Ruth, can you do my lips?” You turned and handed her the brush.

“The eye looks better.” She took your chin in her hand and painted your mouth a pretty shade of red.

“Thank you.” You offered her a smile but she didn't let go, “What?”

“You ever seen a cornered raccoon? Like one got in the house and your mom boxed it into a corner with a broom?”

A nod, yes, actually, you had.

“Who’s got the broom?” She asked. You knitted your brow, not understanding. “Who’s got you in a corner? Is it Tommy?”

You took your chin back, deep breaths. “No brooms. No corners. Just rattled still from last night.” Not a lie, surprisingly. “You thought of a raccoon? Really? Is it because of the eye?”

When you took your bow for the evening and turned to escape the stage lights for the darkness of backstage, you found Tommy leaning just outside the dressing room.

“Get changed, doors unlocked upstairs. Room 504.”

Grabbing the paper bag you ran through your mental checklist. Wear red, take off your make up, hide the canvas by the bed. An odd to-do list for murder.

The theater had two floors of modest apartments above it, the owners keeping two of the open for the theater’s use. One was for the owners should they ever visit New Orleans, and the other was multi use. Storage and a crash pad for performers or Tommy when he worked late.

The bag crinkled as you hugged it, looking over the small apartment. Boxes, decorations, a modest kitchen and a bed. The bathroom was quite large, a tub and shower head. Was this where the other performers went?

Why hadn’t anyone said anything sooner? Why didn’t anyone leave yet?

Taking a second, you got to work. You opened the canvas and slid it under the bed, the smallest bit of edge sticking out for easy retrieval. Dizzy with the quickly settling reality of what you were doing, you sat on the floor for a moment. Trying to calm your breathing, you closed your eyes.

The fear of the unknown was suffocating you. There was a possibility Alastor failed and ended up hurt. Or, that he changed his mind and Tommy left you two to just hold hands on the bed for a sex-appropriate amount of time.

You patted your thighs and stood up. No time now for a panic attack. Alastor had a change of clothes in the bag, neatly folded and tied in twine. They were set onto the shelf above the closet.

And finally, yourself. Your dress was on and you stopped to wipe the make up off your face in the bathroom mirror. Still bruised, still nasty. The dress was nice though, carrying some of the weight for your battered mug. Red cotton, sailor neck and little gold buttons down the front. Flashy, brighter than the dark number you usually wore.

Would he like it? Most men looked for how a dress accentuated your curves (or hid them) but you had a feeling Alastor didn’t care so much about that.

You took your seat at the edge of the bed, thin mattress sagging from your weight.

The clock ticked, until finally the door opened and you saw something you hadn’t seen before and knew you’d never see again. Tommy and Alastor.

“Here she is. Autumn, this is Mr. Cerf. He's asked I stay in the apartment, apparently word of your attitude already spread among the upperclass.” Tommy wagged his finger at you in a playful way that was entirely out of place.

“Look at her. Pouting. Not very excited, is she?” Alastor smiled at you, softly. You felt for a second that maybe you entirely misunderstood. He looked calm, normal. Even peaceful.

“It’s always nice when they fight a little. But she won’t cause you any trouble.” Tommy patted Alastor’s back, who immediately shirked away.

“Do you like it when women try to fight you off, Tommy?”

A dry laugh, “Ya know how it is. They gotta act like they don’t like it so people still respect ‘em.”

A hum. Alastor’s smile falling entirely. A shadow settled over his face. “I see. That does make things easier.” He slipped on his short black gloves. “I always tell her she looks lovely in red. She rarely listens to me, but I’m happy to see she did tonight. It’s a special occasion.”

Once, you thought. You didn’t listen once.

Tommy nervously chuckled, looking from Alastor then to you, “What?” Alastor grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing him to the ground and onto his knees. Hand fisted in his hair, knife pressing across his throat.

Alastor dug his knee into the small of Tommy’s back, “Tommy, I think you owe the lady an apology.” You let your feet find the edge of the canvas and slid it out with a kick. It glided across the wood and stopped where his knees met the floor.

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry.” Tommy was staring at the waxed fabric in front of him.

You felt your eyes sting with tears, a smile breaking out against your will. “For what?”

“I—,” his eyes searched the room for an answer, your words bringing a pulse of Deja Vu, “It’s about yesterday?” He seemed to relax a little, “Come on. I said sorry. ” Looking back to Alastor. “I didn’t know she had a guy.”

Alastor yanked his head back to look him squarely in his eyes, “Wrong answer.” He pushed him down onto his stomach, “Come on Tommy. I like when my victims fight a little, too.” Sensing the taller man towering over him with the knife, Tommy scrambled onto his back to look at Alastor. Tommy started shouting, “Hey!! Someone!” But there was no one to hear him. That was the beauty of the space he always brought his dates to; it was too loud to hear anyone scream.

Funny how that works both ways.

Alastor shrugged, “Well that didn’t last long.” As Tommy backed up, trying to get traction on the slippery canvas and failing, Alastor straddled him. Tommy’s hands came up, one pushing against Alastor’s face, the other against the arm holding the knife. Alastor put both hands onto the knife’s handle, staring down into Tommy’s eyes as he inched closer to the man’s neck. “You look scared, Tommy. Are you scared?”

The other man shouted, eyes trembling as he watched the knife come down.

Alastor pushed through, metal sinking into Tommy’s throat. No pause, he withdrew and sank it again and again. Tommy’s hands fell from Alastor’s face, flailing slightly at his neck before slumping down. He was frenzied, stabbing at his chest and upward with wide eyes. You recognized those constricted pupils. They made sense in this setting. Alastor was panting, taking a second to split the skin from ear to ear in the middle of his melee.

You brought your knees to your chest, watching the crime unfold. Was this anger for you or truly for everyone? No one ever got so angry for you before, if you could be so conceited as to say this was for you. Your mouth opened and you spoke without thinking, no filter. “You look like an angry God. A jazz demon of wrath.” You smiled, the morbidity not lost on you.

Alastor stopped, frozen as he stared at you. For a second, he had forgotten you were there. He was always alone during these hobbies of his. Until recently. You looked like an angel in red and gold. Had he dyed your heavenly robes crimson? Or had you been made that way?

He dropped the knife, peeling his gloves off and stepping over Tommy’s decimated torso before kicking off his shoes.

You scooted back onto the bed and opened your arms, welcoming a strange after-kill cuddle. Your reward.

Alastor took off his bowtie, then his shirt. It took you a second, not realizing what was happening until he began to unbuckle his belt. “Now?!”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“What the fuc— okay,” your hands flew to unclasp your stockings and roll down your panties. You mumbled to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

As he crawled over you, warm gloveless hands tracing along your legs, hips, waist, you looked at up him with your now dilated pupils, “It’s murder? You need murder?”

He laughed, embarrassing you a little, “No it isn’t that.” His face nuzzled into your neck, “You’d go to hell? For me?”

You froze, you hadn’t really seen it like that.

“You’d damn your eternal soul,” his hips pressed into you, an unfamiliar hardness there that made you gulp, “just to spend time with me?”

How were you so heated over an erection? A dime a dozen, men practically threw them at women who offered them the slightest smile. Yet feeling him so hard against you, something you had been practically praying for, made you weak. A trembling virgin all over again.

Don’t lie, he always told you to be honest so you decided to try it out even if it made you feel at risk of harm. Your hands slid up and into his hair, gripping gently, enough to elicit a groan from him, “Well I was worried heaven wouldn’t have jazz, so… yeah.” You had to always say something a little in jest, to hide from the vulnerability of honesty, “This seemed like a better option.” The truth was, if you had to state it plainly, you would dive head first into hell in exchange for his smile. To hear his laugh. To feel his breath over your mouth. You were quite sure hell was more your scene, anyway.

“I’ll be sure to fill your afterlife with jazz every day, dear.”

How could he make hell sound so sweet?

“It’s a deal.” Fingers playing with his hair, basking in the warmth of skin on skin.

He leaned up, eyes scanning your face as he always seemed to do in these intimate moments. The feeling spreading down his chest was one wholly foreign to him, one he was struggling to put into his own words. You hadn’t run away. You opened your arms for him even still, welcoming your own damnation in exchange for… affection? Attention? Him? The reason didn’t matter, not to Alastor, and not now to his growing need. You didn’t even push him for more than he wanted to give, not yet needled him for details, secrets, sex. Could you really just be there for Alastor? Take him for what he was and what he wasn’t?

His mouth was salivating at the thought you’d give him anything. Reality was, you already had. His finger caressed the purple welt on your cheek. You were given pain and he returned it ten fold to its owner. A demon of wrath. He felt his cock twitching, underwear tented around him.

You smiled up at him, wiping a little streak of blood from his jawline, “You look quite pretty in red yourself.”

His head came to rest on your collarbone with a shaky sigh.

Had you said something wrong?

“Please, you’re already pushing me to my limit.”

Making a show of it, you zipped your mouth and pretended to toss the key. You wanted to reach down and pull off his remaining bit of clothing, to rub yourself against his manhood. But, you weren’t sure if that was something he would appreciate. You didn’t want to ruin his experience, to make him regret offering you something he so clearly didn’t need to give.

He removed his underwear, watching you unbutton your dress and pulling your arms free. Your bra, garter, and stockings were still on. Somehow he found it more scandalous than if you were completely naked.

Your breath was shaking, uneven as the excitement took control of you. There was a not totally unfounded fear you'd black out from hyperventilating.

Alastor lined himself up with your heat and pressed in, making a hard to decipher face as his brow knit up and he bit his lip. You were already so wet, not a hand or mouth needed from him. He wondered if you shared more than an acceptance of justified homicide; your body so relaxed and welcoming to him.

With a few shallow thrusts, he was fully sunk into you. You may have let out a cry. An emptiness you hadn’t clocked was suddenly gone. Was this what Zeus meant when he said the two souled humans were too powerful and tore them apart to weaken them?

Was this sex, or love? The word made you nervous. But—- if he offered it to you in both palms, you’d suffocate yourself in his hands.

He began to move in earnest, thrusting in and out slowly. You had expected the frantic moves of a horny virgin. Instead he was moving with control, hips rolling into you like waves gentle and steady where the lake met land, not slamming like many men before him.

Had it been any other dick, you’d whine and begin moving yourself against it for that needed speed. This was Alastor. Dripping pleasure into your open mouth like a drought-breaking summer shower.

You didn’t recognize your own sounds, already panting and moaning as a warmth spread from the place where his cock was sliding around inside you.

Alastor tried to keep calm. Even when his body was sensitive, he wasn’t used to the mental work needed to fight off his orgasm. Usually he had the opposite issue, struggling to stay focused enough to finish. Mind wandering to more productive chores.

But you were so wet, so accepting in body and mind. He watched your eyes close, one hand gently clawing at the blankets, the other reaching down to touch his lower stomach every time he thrust back in. For the first time in a very long time you really truly wanted to remember who was at the other end of the dick you were enjoying.

Languid moves. Swollen cockhead hitting the bottom of your walls, the top, the end, pushing still a little further.

“I’m sorry,” Alastor leaned down over you, kissing at your jawline, “For making you wait so long for so little.”

His rhythm picked up then, burying himself deeper into your sopping cunt and dragging out enough to pull back that quiver of his release.

You shook your head, lips tingling. “Nothing little here.”

He attempted a laugh, losing his breath. He wanted to last longer, to make the experience worth your while but he could feel you dripping down his balls and it weakened him with alarming efficiency. Finally the frenzied speed you witnessed earlier was turned to you, you brought your legs up, holding at his sides. “Darling I need to-,” he moaned into your ear.

“Please stay.” You clung to his neck, nails grazing at his shoulders.

Alastor’s voice was soft and sweet, a small moan and a gentle grunt. His legs spread more, trying to get every centimeter of himself into you. Hips now grinding in a small circle, but not losing any of the comfort of your warmth. You felt him still pumping that welcomed heat into you, and you tightened around him, drawing out your own moan. He hissed, “Sensitive.” Your legs were shaking like leaves in a storm, no orgasm but the pleasure nonetheless intoxicating.

The front of your brain felt like static, perhaps from the lack of oxygen as you had uncharacteristically lost your breath under Alastor.

Like losing your virginity, after the fear faded and you were able to find a moment for introspection, you found yourself larger than before. The edges of your canvas expanded out, new parts of yourself unfurling for you to explore. Nothing had been lost, only gained.

Alastor kissed at the dark circle under your eye, at the bruise of your cheek, he lifted your arm and kissed gently at the purple and blue spots there too. He had lied, and he wasn’t sure why, but maybe he’d find the will to admit it to you someday.

He had left yesterday to keep from strangling Tommy in the center of the theater, finding himself in a rage. He rarely felt anger. His killings always about retribution, about karma, about righting the scales. He needed to leave to keep from losing his composure.

He lied to you in the alley, unable to look you in the eye when he did it for fear you’d see it. You always seemed to see him with a clarity others didn’t despite such a short time together. He struggled to hide from you and it was as exciting as it was frightening. A testament to your similarities.

He hadn’t done it for everyone. No. His personal moral code fell to pieces when he saw your bloodied eye and bruised skin. He would have killed Tommy even if he had been a good man, even if you’d been the instigator. None of his murderous rules mattered. And it scared him.

(Next Part Next Week, orz)

*slang for boyfriend, often a rich one

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay /

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

#alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader smut #hazbin hotel smut #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor smut #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x you #hazbin #the radio demon #human!alastor #human alastor

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salemrph · 3 months ago

Text

"Let the World Burn"

Chapter 5: Gravity - Part 1

A night of celebration ends in chaos—you vanish without a trace. The ransom demand arrives, but Sylus knows this isn’t just about money.

Chapter Summary: Classified research, human experimentation, and a serum designed for Evolvers like you.

"Pipsqueak."

You may not see him the same way anymore. But that doesn’t change a damn thing. You are his to protect.

Characters: Sylus x MC/reader/you, Luke and Kieran, Zayne, Caleb

Genre/Warning: descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, injuries, romantic, drama, action, slight sexual content, angst, graphic description of corpses, childhood trauma

Words: 8.1k | Reading Time: 32 min

Tag list: @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @syluscrows @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @syluskisser @fortunekookie07 @crimsonlittlecrow @mochibunnies3 @gazelover666 @fancyhawk45 @sorryimakira @paninisstuff @deathrye @tinyweebsstuff @sxderia @yunhogrippers @sylusqt @darkesky @an-ever-angry-bi @atinymekanie @bruisedchickensoup @thatonegenderfluidwhore @certainduckanchor @the-girl-who-used-to @reika-desu @f41k47 @beezabuzz @mentaltrouble2201 @bl00dsuccker @blorbohunter @gianchan-de @fortunekookie07 @sylusloml @pandoras-rabbit @the-spine-of-the-world @noradest @owodi @greatmistakes @theshadowsdragon @pillarofsnow @lawssocuteee @gibborger

Skyhaven – Three Weeks Before

The Farspace Fleet Base was never truly silent. Even in the late hours, the halls resonated with disciplined activity—soldiers moving with practiced efficiency, their boots striking the metallic floors in a steady, rhythmic cadence.

Throughout the sprawling command sector, figures in crisp military uniforms navigated their stations, issuing hushed orders, scrutinizing data streams, and coordinating missions that spanned the entire Deep Space Tunnel. The immense holo-screens lining the walls pulsed with constantly updated reports—strategic deployments, classified directives, shifting alliances.

Deep within the complex, beyond secured checkpoints and locked corridors, lay the nerve center—the high-command offices, accessible only to those of rank and authority. And one office remained illuminated.

Inside, behind a polished, reinforced desk, sat a man whose attention should have been fixed on the classified reports illuminating the space before him. But his thoughts were a storm, a tempest raging beneath a veneer of calm. He sat rigidly in his chair, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the armrest, a subtle telltale of the frustration boiling within.

A holographic display shimmered before him, a torrent of intelligence cascading in real time—fleet deployments, border skirmishes, the names of officers assigned to Linkon. But the data was a blur, a meaningless stream of light. His gaze skimmed the screen, seeing without comprehending, registering without processing, his focus consumed by a singular, urgent concern. He let out a sharp sigh, his fingers instinctively finding the cool weight of the silver apple pendant nestled against his skin. A cherished keepsake, a tangible link to you.

Pip-squeak.

Caleb had called you that since you can remember. A stupid, teasing nickname that had stuck long. It was supposed to be endearing, meant to ruffle your feathers, to keep that sharp fire in your eyes burning whenever you glared at him.

And yet, despite your frustration, he loved it—loved the way you’d always respond, the way your face would bloom with that vibrant, defiant smile. He had always taken care of you, in every way he knew. Gently scolding you when you begged for just one more snack, only to give in minutes later. Preparing your comfort food, anticipating your unspoken desires. Hovering over your shoulder, sighing dramatically as you tried to wiggle out of your homework.

But lately, things felt different. You had been retreating, little by little, leaving him to navigate the quiet ache of your absence. His brows furrowed, the weight in his chest settling deeper, heavier, a leaden ache that mirrored the growing distance between you two. Things had escalated quickly that night, a whirlwind of unspoken emotions that nearly forced a confession from his lips. He didn't want you to see him as an older brother anymore. He had never seen you in that way.

"I don’t need you— Caleb… You just can’t… You are very important to me, and no one can ever replace you…"

The way you had looked at him—like he was a stranger, an unknown entity, like you weren’t sure if you could trust the very ground he stood on. It was a wound, deeper than he wanted to acknowledge, a silent, festering ache. He had spent this whole time surviving, clinging to the fragile hope of seeing you again, a beacon in the darkness that kept him from succumbing to the madness of his ordeal. Chasing after the impossible, enduring the aftermath of the explosion, only to finally meet you again and then lose you in a completely more painful way.

Possessive? Absolutely. Obsessive? He wouldn’t deny it. But you were his. His to protect. And whether you liked it or not, he wasn’t letting go. The sacrifices he had made, the sins that clung to him like a shroud, the weight of being the Colonel of the Fleet. These were burdens he didn't know if he could ever confess. His jaw clenched, his grip on the pendant tightening until the silver bit into his skin. Some things were better left buried, locked away in the deepest recesses of his soul. He touches his bionic arm. Another secret. Another truth you hadn't discovered yet. If you did? Would you look at him the way you used to? Would you feel bad about it?

His fingers hovered over the holo-screen, scrolling past personnel reports—until a sharp, insistent knock on his office door shattered the silence, snapping him back to the present. Caleb shook his head and he forced his emotions back beneath the surface, burying them under the steel resolve that had made him both respected and feared. He tucked the pendant back under his uniform.

He straightened, his expression unreadable. The Colonel, once more.

"Enter."

The door slid open, revealing a uniformed officer standing at rigid attention, his face pale and his posture strained. Caleb knew immediately, from the officer's forced composure and the clipped cadence of his approach, that something was gravely wrong.

"Colonel. We have a situation."

Caleb paused, his mind already racing, but his voice remained calm.

"Speak." The officer swallowed, taking a measured step forward, the rigidity of his stance betraying the urgency of his report.

"One of our men is missing, sir," the officer stated, his voice flat. "Calloway. He failed to return from leave."

Caleb’s brow furrowed slightly. Another one.

"Three now," he murmured, his fingers tapping a sharp, insistent pattern against the desk.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Low-ranking members of the Farspace Fleet had been disappearing—quietly, without a trace. No distress signals. No records of their whereabouts. It was as if they had simply been wiped off the grid.

At first, it had been dismissed as desertion. Soldiers vanishing on their own terms. It happened. Some succumbed to the crushing pressure, some sought a life beyond the Fleet's rigid structure. But three in rapid succession? That was no mere coincidence.

Caleb leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto the officer, his gaze piercing. "What was his last known location?"

"Off-base, sir. He was granted a two-week leave and never returned. His family reported that he never reached his destination." The officer's tone was grave, confirming Caleb's suspicions. This wasn’t just a soldier going AWOL. Caleb's gaze flicked back to his monitor, the earlier reports now utterly irrelevant.

"Get me everything we have on Calloway. His communication logs, his last movements, every shred of information. Do the same with the others." His voice was cold, measured, but a low, simmering intensity underscored each word.

The officer nodded. "Understood, sir."

As the door hissed shut behind him, Caleb leaned back, his fingers unconsciously tracing the cool outline of the pendant. Another goddamn problem.

He was tired. Not just of this. Not just of missing soldiers, buried reports, or the endless cycle of war and bureaucracy. No—he was tired in a way that settled into his bones, in a way that no amount of sleep could fix.

Knowing the information gathering would take time, Caleb decided to return to go home. The thought was almost laughable. It wasn’t home, not really. Just a space, cold, silent, filled with things that no longer held meaning. No warmth. No presence. No you.

–

The apartment was deathly quiet when he entered, the air still, undisturbed, a chilling testament to his solitude. The emptiness of the space enveloped him a suffocating shroud. His steps echoed softly against the polished floor as he moved deeper into the apartment, his gaze drifting over the familiar surroundings.

His fingers brushed over the edge of the counter as he passed, as if expecting to feel your presence there. But the surface was glacial. Caleb made his way to the shelf where the only photo he has of you stands out. Her violet eyes reflected the deep regret and sorrow she carried with him, day after day. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he turned away. Shrugging off his uniform, he tossed it onto the sofa without a second thought.

Without even the thought of food, he simply fell onto the bed. As the mattress sinks beneath him, the exhaustion of the day presses into his bones. He stares at the ceiling for a moment. Lost in the silence. With a slow, drawn-out breath, he rolled onto his side, his eyes drawn to the pillow lying beside him. His fingers traced the soft fabric, a hesitant touch, before he pulled it to his chest, clutching it as if it could somehow fill the gaping hole you had left behind. Your scent is still there. He hasn't changed the pillowcase since you left—it’s pathetic, really—but he doesn’t care. It’s the last trace of you he has. And it’s been too long.

His grip tightens, eyes slipping shut, jaw clenched against the ache in his chest.

Pip-squeak…

The name barely forms in his mind before the memories surface—your face, the way you used to look at him, the warmth in your eyes before everything became so damn complicated. He can picture it too clearly. Your lips parted, the soft hitch of your breath, the way you whispered his name, unaware of the effect you had on him.

Caleb hates this feeling. The love he has for you it’s too much. It tears him apart from the inside, as much pain as it brings relief. His body betrays him before his mind can stop it. Heat coils low in his stomach, tension tightening, pressing down. Fuck. Caleb swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. He wants you. Has always wanted you. And worst of all—he knows that no matter how much time passes, no matter how much distance you put between you, that won’t change. He will still love you.

He buried his nose into the pillow, while his fingers trail down, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, exhaling sharply as relief and frustration war inside him. It’s not enough. It never is. The memories keep flooding in. He regretted it. Every damn day.

He should have told you at the graduation. Just said it. But he stood there, pretending it didn’t matter, pretending being your "friend" was enough. It never was. It never would be.

Caleb strokes himself with slow, rough precision, chasing something that won’t come—not fully. His breath is ragged, his body tense, aching for something real, something that isn’t just the fading memory of you.

He should have asked you out during school. Pulled you aside, away from the others, away from those clueless boys who thought they had a shot. Who looked at you like you were something they could own. They weren’t good enough. Not for you. He hated the way Zayne looked at you. Hated the way any of them did.

You had no idea how many times he’d chased them off. No idea how often he’d threatened guys who got too close, who thought they could touch you, kiss you. It was miserable, really. How far he’d fallen. How he had once cornered that quiet little thing you liked, the one who dared to think he could stand beside you. Who dared to think he had a chance. Caleb had stood in front of him, voice calm, deadly, his stance relaxed but full of warning. Every guy wanted you. Every guy was a predator circling prey. Pathetic. That’s what he was. Because despite it all, despite the jealousy, the anger, the obsessive fucking need—he had still failed.

A growl of frustration escapes him, his free hand fisting the sheets. The scent of you clings to them, but it’s fading. Just like everything else. His strokes falter, frustration curling in his gut. It hurts. Wanting you like this—needing you like this. It’s not just the physical ache; it’s the raw, consuming hunger, the part of him that’s starved for you. For your warmth. For your touch. For the fucking impossible dream that, maybe, you could have been his.

That stormy, suffocating night, years ago, when the two of you were trapped in the attic of your home, waiting out the torrential downpour. The rain had battered the roof like a relentless siege, the wind howling through the gaps in the aged wood. It had been so dark, so still, broken only by the soft rhythm of your breathing beside him, the flickering lamplight casting dancing shadows across your features. You had been so close. But again, you were arguing about whether he should stop protecting you.

"Right, I forgot. You’re not a little kid who needs to be protected anymore."

He had stared at your lips, at the way they parted when you sighed, at the way you frowned in anger, and even though it tore him apart that you rejected his protection, his touch… he should have done it. Should have leaned in. Should have kissed you. Should have finally shattered the pretense. All he had to do was reach out. Tilt your chin up just slightly. Close the agonizing space between you. But he hadn’t. Because Caleb—brilliant, calculating, fearless Caleb—had faltered. He clenched his jaw, dug his nails into his palms, and let the moment bleed away. Maybe with that kiss, you would have seen the tempest of emotions he kept locked inside.

Caleb’s breath shudders, frustration curling in his gut. His grip tightens around his cock, stroking harder, faster, his teeth gritted as his mind spirals deeper into the past. His wrist aches from the pace, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

How long had he been holding back? How many years? How many goddamn nights had he laid awake, aching for you? How many chances had he squandered, playing the part of the protective “big brother” when every inch of him wanted to be something else?

And then, just when he was finally fucking ready—

He died. Or at least, that’s what you thought. Faking his death wasn’t something he planned or expected. The only thing he could do at that moment was save you from the explosion.

Months after that, you were right there, in front of him, alive, breathing, more beautiful than he remembered. But instead of the relief he expected…You looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was someone you had to keep at arm’s length. Like the years you’d shared were nothing but dust. And that? That cut deeper than any blade. He knew you resented the Colonel, the mask he wore, but beneath it all, he was still the same. If only you'd see him, truly see him, and give him a chance.

His stomach tenses as his release finally hits, his breath punching out in a sharp, guttural sound as he spills over his hand. He lets himself ride it out, panting, his body trembling with something far more than just pleasure. But even as his muscles go slack, even as he wipes himself off with a sharp exhale, there’s no real satisfaction—just emptiness, frustration, and the cold, cruel truth: You’re not here.

After cleaning up and finally getting a bit more comfortable. He reached out for his phone. He goes over the last messages you exchanged, just a week ago. He never replayed. Your voice crackles to life, softer than he remembers, but unmistakably you.

"Hey… I know you’re busy, but—" A short pause, a short exhale. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you're not brooding too hard over classified reports or whatever it is you do up there." ��He closes his eyes. "Anyway. Just… message me back, alright?"

Caleb stares at the screen. He should have answered. He should have said something. Instead, he had let it sit. Left it unread for hours, then days. Let the silence stretch too long. His grip tightens around the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What would he even say? Would he lie? Pretend he wasn’t tangled in his own damn head every time it came to you? Would he apologize? Admit he didn’t know how to bridge the space between you anymore? Or would he say what he really felt? That he was angry. That he hated the way you pushed him away and he hated himself for letting you.

His thumb taps against the screen, hesitating before he types.

Pip-squeak, you worry too much.

He stares at it. Deletes it.

Don’t tell me you miss me. You’ll ruin your whole "I don’t need Caleb" act.

No. That would be mean.

I should have answered sooner.

Still wrong. The words hang on the screen, staring back at him. He knows it won’t send. He deleted it. Then, with a frustrated breath, he locks the screen, tossing the phone onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face as if he could scrub away the frustration twisting in his chest.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The abyss of loneliness isn’t just consuming him, it’s devouring him. Swallowing him whole in a darkness that only you can keep at bay. You weren’t just his light. You were his gravity. The unwavering force that kept him anchored, the only constant in the relentless chaos. His entire universe revolves around you. It always had.

But what if that center faltered? What if you drifted beyond his reach? Would he be left adrift—a derelict planet, lost and forsaken in the vast, indifferent cosmos? Or worse… would he implode, a supernova of self-destruction, unable to exist without your gravitational pull?

His dreams are plagued by memories twisted into nightmares, fragments of a life he barely remembers or chooses not to. The accident during his last test as a DDA pilot was repeated in his dreams. The way reality had warped and fractured around him inside the Deepspace Tunnel, time stretching, collapsing, and twisting into impossible, nightmarish geometries.

He remembers the desperation. The creeping horror of knowing something was wrong. He had been alone. Drifting in the endless void, praying to return home. He doesn't remember how he survived. Or maybe he refuses to. Because when they found him a week later, barely alive. The official reports called it a miracle.

Caleb never told you. He smiled and kept it for himself. He didn’t want to worry you. Didn’t want you to see him as broken. But he wasn’t the same after that.

Some nights, when sleep is kind, he drifts into a different kind of memory—one untouched by war, loss, and the weight of the present. Laughter echoes through the golden haze of afternoon sunlight. The warm, earthy scent of sun-baked grass fills the air, and the world shrinks to a comforting simplicity. You’re both just children again. No ranks, no titles, no battlefield of unspoken words and buried desires separating you.

Caleb watches as you dart ahead, your feet barely touching the earth, your arms outstretched as if you could take flight at any moment. Your laughter rings in his ears, bright and carefree. You’re running behind him, panting, pouting.

"That's not fair!" you shout, your small feet pounding the sun-warmed dirt path. "You're older, and your legs are longer!"

Caleb doesn’t slow down, tossing a playful, smug grin over his shoulder. "You’d run faster if you weren’t so short, Pip-squeak!"

The nickname makes your face scrunch in mock frustration, your eyes sparkling with playful defiance, and with a burst of stubborn energy, you push yourself harder, determined to close the distance. Caleb laughs, effortlessly maintaining the gap between you. But you never give up. He knows that about you. And, perhaps just to indulge you, or to feel the weight of you against him, he lets you catch him. You tackle him with a joyful cry, both of you tumbling into the soft, sun-kissed grass in a tangle of limbs and breathless giggles.

"Ha!" you exclaim triumphantly, sprawled on top of him, your chest heaving with laughter. "Got you!"

Caleb groans dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes, feigning defeat. "You cheated, you little sneak."

You punch his arm. "Did not."

His eyes glinted with amusement. "Yes, you did."

You huff, rolling off him onto your back, staring up at the drifting clouds, your cheeks flushed from exertion and the lingering summer sun. For a while, the two of you just lie there, side by side, soaking in the moment, the golden warmth, the comfortable silence.

His protective instinct, a fierce, primal urge, had awakened much earlier than he’d ever admitted, almost a few years before. The day he first laid eyes on you.

A small girl in a white uniform, just like the other kids, standing apart from the others, clutching a worn-out stuffed animal with a grip that spoke of silent desperation. Your eyes were hollow, devoid of the spark of childhood. Too empty for someone so young. You had death written all over you. The medical facility—no, the research center—was a place that devoured children whole, leaving behind only husks. Some called it a sanctuary for the orphaned, a haven for the lost, but Caleb knew the truth. It was a gilded cage, a holding cell where survival was a daily, brutal test. He had been one of those children, a survivor of its silent horrors. And now, so were you.

The experiments weren’t unbearable—not for him. He had endured worse before. At least here, he had a roof over his head and food in his stomach. And really, what did it matter if he succumbed here, within these sterile walls, or out there, in the unforgiving wasteland? Inside here, for now, he wasn’t starving.

But you… you were different. Different from the others. You never spoke a word. Never played with the other kids. You just sat alone, staring up at the sky whenever they let you out into the garden. Like you were waiting for something. Or someone to pull you from the abyss.

Caleb hadn’t planned on making friends. Didn’t see the point. But something about the way you kept slipping out of your room just to stand under the open sky annoyed him. The third time he saw you outside at night, standing barefoot on the frost-kissed concrete, your gaze fixed on the distant constellations, he finally broke the silence.

"What are you looking for up there?"

And just like that, his life became tangled with yours. You didn’t answer him right away. Did you even hear him? The night air was cold, biting against his skin, but you stood there as if you didn’t feel it. Your small frame, swallowed by the shapeless, oversized shirt they forced you to wear, seemed impossibly fragile. You didn’t shiver. You didn’t flinch. You simply… stared, your eyes lost in the vast expanse above.

Caleb had witnessed countless children succumb to the crushing weight of this place. Some cracked under the weight of what was happening to them. Others got angry. Fought back. Broke apart. But you? You were a still, silent enigma.

"Hey." He nudged your shoulder, his touch less gentle than he intended. "I asked you a question."

You blinked slowly, finally turning your gaze away from the sky to look at him. For a moment, Caleb swore you weren’t actually seeing him. Then, finally, you spoke, your voice a soft, ethereal, just a whisper in the rustling night wind.

"The stars… are different here."

He frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

You tilted your head, your grip tightening on the worn, comforting stuffed animal in your arms. "They’re in the wrong place."

Caleb stared at you, confused. What the hell did that mean? Of all the things you could’ve said, that wasn’t what he expected. You looked back up at the sky, eyes searching. Waiting. And for the first time in a while, Caleb felt something new. Curiosity. So, he sat down beside you, drawn into your orbit, into your strange, silent world.

"Then tell me where they’re supposed to be." He said, voice quieter now. Less demanding. And that night you truly spoke. At first, you spoke only in quiet, uncertain murmurs, short answers, observations about the sky, questions that never quite made sense. But with each passing night, with each shared glance at the stars, something shifted, something bloomed. You offered a shy smile, and with time a genuine laugh. Caleb, never cared for people, never let himself get attached but that night he felt something crack inside him.

You were stubborn, always trying to sneak past curfew, always looking for a way to see the stars. He started to call you pip-squeak, half-teasing. Whenever you lost a race because you couldn’t keep up with him. You’d pout, demanding a rematch, but you never won. And he liked that. Liked seeing you frustrated. Liked the way your nose scrunched up when you got mad. Liked the way your laughter made this miserable place feel less suffocating.

"Caleb, Caleb!" You ran to him, breathless with excitement, your small hands carefully cupped around something. "Look what I found!"

You opened your little palm, revealing a delicate pink petal resting in your hand. Your wide, gleaming eyes met his, and for some reason, something strange stirred in his chest. A warmth that made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain.

"It's the first time I've seen one of these," you said in awe, your fingers carefully clutching the tiny fragment of color in a world that rarely had any.

Caleb eyed it for a fleeting second, shoving his hands into his pockets, his posture stiffening. "Don't come so close."

You tilted your head, a flicker of confusion clouding your radiant eyes. "Why?"

"Just- don't."

Your lips wobbled, and before he could do anything about it, your eyes filled with unshed tears. "Do you hate me?"

"Tsk- what? No, idiot." He sighed, glancing away, a wave of guilt washing over him, instantly regretting his clumsy words. "It's… from an apple tree. I saw it in a book once. Asiatic apple."

"Do you like apples?" you lean even closer.

"I- I do…" he said, avoiding your gaze.

"Caleb…" You narrowed your eyes at him, studying him with that same intense look that always made him feel like you could see right through him. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. His face flushed, a wave of heat creeping up his neck.

"W- what?" he stammered.

"You’re smart. Thanks." You said, your grin widening, a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, before suddenly leaning in and pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek. Caleb froze. His mind went blank. His body stiffened like he'd just been struck by lightning. The warmth from where your lips had touched his skin burned in a way that he definitely didn’t understand.

You giggled, a bright, melodic sound, and skipped away, twirling with your delicate pink petal. Meanwhile, Caleb stood there, blinking rapidly, blushing like an idiot. He was just… glad. Overwhelmingly, achingly glad. Glad that you were alive, that you were here. And that fleeting moment of joy made him forget, for a precious and beautiful few seconds, the grim reality of the place where they were both trapped.

But with the abruptness of a slammed door, reality crashed back into him, a brutal, unforgiving wave. All the hope he'd had of escaping that place together vanished overnight. One morning, it was all gone. Your vibrant smile, the melodic chime of your laughter, the spark in your eyes: extinguished.

You sat in the garden, staring into the empty distance, your stuffed animal limp in your arms. When he spoke, you didn’t answer. When he nudged your shoulder, you barely blinked. And when he said your name, you just looked at him—through him. Like you didn’t even recognize him. Like those shared days, those precious moments, those fragments of a life you had built together, had never existed at all. Erased from the fabric of your memory.

"Talk to me. Did I do something wrong? I'll let you win next time…." Just the chilling silence, a void that swallowed his words whole. "Fine! Then don’t talk to me!"

The first time it happened, Caleb was angry. And not the kind of anger that burned fast and faded away—this was worse. This was a slow, simmering rage that curled deep in his gut, coiling tighter with every second you ignored him. You sat there, a blank canvas of indifference, barely reacting to the world around you. For days, he deliberately avoided you. Didn’t try to get you to talk, didn’t try to make you laugh again. Maybe it was stupid act of pride, but he reasoned that if you didn’t care enough to acknowledge him, then why should he expend any effort on you?

One night, he found himself wandering the halls. Drawn by the need to flee this madness. And there you were. Right where he found you the first time. Sitting on the edge of a bench in the garden, your legs swinging slightly, your eyes locked onto the sky. The stars were out, distant and cold, blinking against the vast darkness.

He just stood there in the shadows for a long time. Watching. Wondering if he should or should not continue his way back to the rooms. Caleb was many things back then: a fractured, discarded, forgotten child. But with you, he’d found an anchor, a constant in the swirling chaos. Something that drew him with an irresistible force, his personal center of gravity. So, he sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. Before he could second-guess himself.

"The stars are different here, right?" The words hung between you, fragile and uncertain. A beat of silence. Then, you blinked. Slowly, like pulling yourself from a dream.

Days full of laughing with him returned, but just as they appeared, they vanished just as quickly. The second time it happened, he started to worry. Not fully understanding what was happening to you. The third time? He knew something was wrong. It was always the same. One day, you were yourself, you'd smile, challenge him to a race you'd never win, stealing food off his plate when you thought he wasn’t looking. You’d laugh, roll your eyes at his teasing, shove him when he got too smug. Alive. Present. And then, gone.

Like someone had flipped a switch. Like the warmth had been drained from your body, leaving only a hollow shell behind. Your eyes would go dull again, your posture stiff, your mind somewhere else, somewhere he couldn’t reach. You wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t react. And each time, he was forced to start anew, to rebuild the fragile bridge of connection.

At first, Caleb thought it was just one of those things. Kids in this place had their ways of coping, of withdrawing. Maybe you were just shutting down. Maybe you'd been punished for sneaking out at night, and this was how you dealt with it. But by the fifth time, he realized the pattern. It always happened after your medical routines.

Three to five days. That was how long you disappeared each time. They took you to another wing of the facility, away from the rest of the kids, locked behind doors he had never seen beyond. Then, just like clockwork, they’d return you, placing you back in the main pavilion as if nothing had happened.

The day they brought you back, dazed, empty, hollow. Caleb didn’t try to talk to you. Didn’t try to pull you out of whatever haze they had left you in. Instead, he unleashed his fury, his evol flaring with unrestrained power, attacking the caretakers with a ferocity that startled even himself. He shoved back when they tried to move him away, snarling demands that went unanswered.

"Where did you take her? What the fuck are you doing to her?"

The faceless figures in white coats. The ones who came in the night, who took you without explanation and returned you less and less yourself every time. He swore a silent vow, a solemn oath etched in the depths of his soul. Never again. He was going to shield you, to safeguard you from their insidious manipulations. Even if you didn’t retain a single memory of him. Even if he was condemned to rebuild their fractured bond, to start anew, every single time.

That fierce determination to protect you, has endured, unyielding, until the present day.

—

Days crawled by. Caleb immersed himself in a flurry of work, burying himself in endless reports, tedious routines, anything to drown out the gnawing unease that clawed at the edges of his sanity. And finally, the full, damning report finally landed on his desk.

The missing soldier wasn’t an isolated incident. The disappearances weren’t confined to the Farspace Fleet or Skyhaven. They bled into the civilian sector, citizens of Linkon City vanishing without a trace, all within the same chilling timeframe. And a single, terrifying common denominator bound them all together: Evolvers.

Caleb’s fingers tightened around the datapad as he read through the details, his eyes narrowing. This doesn’t look good. Evolvers being targeted. But for what? Research? Trafficking? Cold-blooded eliminations? He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as he skimmed through the intelligence briefs. No direct ties to the Hunter Association, yet. A sliver of relief, a fragile hope. That meant you weren’t involved.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Colonel," Liam said, his voice grave, his presence radiating an unspoken urgency. If he was delivering this news personally, it meant something truly dire. Caleb exhaled slowly, a sigh of weary resignation, shoving the damning report aside. He was in no state of mind for more grim tidings.

"What is it?" Caleb asked, voice edged with irritation.

Liam stepped inside, datapad in hand. "We found Calloway’s body."

Caleb stilled. A heavy silence settled between them.

"Where?" A heavy, suffocating silence settled between them, a prelude to the inevitable.

"Near the municipal depot," Liam said, his voice smooth but his eyes holding an unsettling glint. "The body is… fragmented."

That single word, "fragmented," snapped Caleb’s attention into sharp focus.

Liam continued, his voice as clinical as ever. "Signs of black glass were found on the remains. We believe he started converting into a Wanderer before death." He paused. "Which is highly anomalous, considering Calloway was not diagnosed with the Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s fingers curled against the desk. That shouldn’t be possible. Wanderer transformation wasn’t random—it happened to Evolvers and people who had suffered severe long exposure to Protocore. But Calloway was stable, documented. He should have never been at risk.

"The autopsy is in progress now," Liam added, his gaze assessing. "We should have a clearer picture soon."

Caleb sighed, rubbing his temple. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together. First, the vanishing Evolvers. Now, an impossible Wanderer transformation. Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.

"Any progress on the other missing individuals?" Caleb asked.

Liam shook his head, his expression grim. "Still unaccounted for, sir."

Caleb pushed back his chair, the metallic screech echoing in the sudden silence, and stood, a palpable tension radiating from his rigid frame. He grabbed his hat, adjusting it on his head. Caleb wasn’t the type to passively await reports. He needed to see the grim evidence with his own eyes.

The corridors of the Farspace Fleet’s medical facility were eerily silent, a sterile, tomb-like quiet broken only by the soft thrum of life support systems. White walls, bathed in the blueish harsh, clinical glow of overhead lighting, stretched into the distance. The faint, persistent hum of machinery, a constant, unsettling drone, filled the air.

Liam walked beside him, his expression unreadable as always. He didn’t question the Colonel’s decision to personally inspect the gruesome remains, nor did he offer any unnecessary, platitudinous commentary. He simply followed.

When they stepped inside, the smell of disinfectant and something rotten greeted them. The morgue was always too damn cold. Calloway’s fragmented body lay exposed beneath the harsh glare of the surgical lights, his chest cavity gaping open, organs meticulously dissected and examined. His right arm was severed entirely, the stump jagged and darkened with the first signs of necrosis, while the left arm remained, but only partially, half-flayed, muscles and tendons peeled back as if someone had been mapping them.

Caleb’s eyes trailed to the shattered remains of Calloway’s face nor what was left of it. His jaw was unhinged, the flesh around his mouth torn as if he had screamed himself raw. One eye was gone entirely, an empty, hollow socket staring back at them. The other? Glossed over in an eerie black film, a telltale sign of corruption.

The coroner, a seasoned professional with graying temples and a piercing, analytical gaze, stepped away from the grisly tableau.

"You’re early," the coroner remarked, peeling off his blood-stained gloves and surgical mask with practiced efficiency.

"I don’t have time to wait," Caleb replied curtly. He glanced at the mutilated remains on the steel slab, then back at the coroner, his eyes demanding answers. "What have you found?"

The coroner exhaled, gesturing toward the shrouded body on the metal slab. He activated a holo-display, projecting detailed scans and preliminary analytical data. "Calloway’s Evol classification was B-Class. Standard military issue—enhanced perception, minor strength augmentation, a common profile among the ranks. The initial autopsy revealed traces of an unknown substance within his system. His cellular structure exhibited signs of forced mutation, a rapid, catastrophic degradation of his heart and lungs. It was an unnatural, violent process."

Caleb leaned in, his gaze fixed on the intricate data streams, his brow furrowed in grim concentration. "You're suggesting this was deliberated?"

The coroner nodded. "It's a bit early to say, but it's plausible. I discovered traces of black glass embedded in his internal tissue, a clear indication of Wanderer conversion. But the crystallization pattern is… peculiar. It deviates significantly from natural Wanderer transformations. The formation is irregular, almost chaotic, as if it was—"

"Induced." Liam crossed his arms. "Sounds like a black market serum."

The coroner scoffed, a dismissive snort escaping his lips. "If it were a black market hack job, it’d be sloppy, haphazard. This? This was meticulously crafted, surgically precise." He gestured towards Calloway's mangled remains, a silent testament to the horrific procedure. "But I must confess, Colonel, this level of… intervention… is far from commonplace."

Caleb’s stomach turned. A familiar unease settled into his bones. He had seen engineered horrors before. He knew exactly what kind of people had the resources to pull off something like this. A hunch clawed at the edges of his mind. He didn’t have concrete evidence, tangible proof, but his instincts screamed that this wasn’t an isolated incident.

His fingers tightened into a fist. "Classify this case as top secret. No one—and I mean no one—breathes a word about this until I give the order." His voice was a low, chilling rasp, absolute and unwavering. "I don’t want a single leak to the press. If anyone inquires, Calloway’s death was a tragic accident."

The coroner nodded slowly, his expression grave, but Liam’s gaze remained unconvinced, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He stepped closer, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "You think this is part of something bigger, don’t you?"

Caleb rolling his tense shoulders. "I don’t believe in coincidences." Liam stepped back, his expression grim, nodding in silent agreement.

If someone was experimenting on Evolvers…

Caleb turned to the coroner, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I expect a full report on what happened to him. Every detail. Every anomaly. I want it on my desk before the day is over."

The coroner gave a slow nod, unfazed by the sharpness in Caleb’s tone. "Understood, Colonel. But I’ll need time to run a full biochemical analysis. Whatever they used on him, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before."

Caleb exhaled, his patience running thin. "Then don’t waste time."

The coroner nodded, his expression grave. "Understood, Colonel."

A sense of foreboding settled over Caleb as he left the morgue. The weight of the missing Evolvers, the strange circumstances surrounding Calloway’s death, it all felt like pieces of a larger, more sinister puzzle. He needed to find the missing link, the piece that would unlock the mystery.

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the rhythmic hum of the computer and the restless shuffle of datapads. Caleb’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, scanned line after line of missing Evolver data, and the list of missing people from Linkon. Some had reappeared, their disappearances chalked up to miscommunication or temporary lapses in contact. Those cases were dismissed, deemed irrelevant to the investigation. But Caleb would make sure not a single clue went unchecked, no detail overlooked. He cross-referenced names, locations, and Evolver classifications, searching for a pattern, a connection, anything to illuminate the encroaching darkness.

A report flickered across his datapad, a notification from the Linkon City Police Department. An illegal shipment had been intercepted near the N109 Zone. The cargo was unknown, and the perpetrators had scattered, leaving behind only a few low-level operatives. The interrogations hadn't yielded much, just fragmented accounts and a single name: "Rudy."

Could this be related to the missing Evolvers? To Calloway's bizarre transformation? Caleb couldn't dismiss it. He added the name and the N109 Zone as location to his growing list of potential leads. He had to consider every possibility, no matter how remote. Every thread, no matter how thin, could lead him to the truth.

Then, the comm unit crackled to life, the sterile voice of the coroner cutting through the oppressive silence. "Colonel, the full report on Calloway’s autopsy is ready." He wastes no time, striding through the halls of the medical wing. Liam follows behind, silent as always, but Caleb can feel the tension radiating off him too.

As Caleb and Liam entered, the coroner tapped the display, bringing up a complex web of biochemical readings. The intricate chains of data, a language of cellular decay and forced mutation, were indecipherable to the untrained eye. But the stark conclusion, highlighted at the bottom of the report, was brutally clear: Calloway hadn't simply died.

"At first glance," the coroner began, his voice low and measured, "I suspected an atypical case of protocore exposure. But then, I detected an anomaly—his system was exhibiting a rejection of its own biological functions, a phenomenon reminiscent of Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. "Similar?"

The coroner nodded, his expression tightening. "Yes. Almost as if someone was trying to mimic Protocore Syndrome—but it doesn’t match exactly. The genetic deterioration doesn’t follow the usual pattern." The coroner continued, his voice laced with a clinical detachment that couldn't quite mask the underlying unease. "It shares similarities with Protocore Syndrome, yes, but it's not the root cause. From the limited blood samples we recovered, I was able to isolate residual compounds."

With a few deft taps on the console, an incomplete chemical formula materialized on the large display screen, a complex arrangement of symbols and bonds that pulsed with an unsettling, digital light. "This," the coroner stated, gesturing to the formula, "is what's left." He paused, his gaze shifting to Caleb. "An experimental serum. Code-name Chimera 1X9."

The name sent a slow, ice-cold dread creeping up Caleb’s spine. Chimera 1X9.

"Where did you find this information?" His voice was dangerously low, a barely restrained growl, but the coroner didn't flinch.

"The system flagged the compound, when I tried to pull more data, my clearance level wasn’t high enough."

This wasn’t just some underground black market experiment, some nameless operation buried in secrecy. And there was only one individual who possessed the access and the knowledge to wield such a weapon: The Professor.

Caleb turned on his heel, his decision made. He needed answers, and he needed them now. And if the Professor dared to believe he could dismiss him with vague half-truths and obfuscation, he was sorely mistaken.

"Thank you," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. "Your work here is complete. Prepare the body for transport. Ensure the family is given the respect he deserves."

"Colonel?" Liam asked, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze questioning. "Caleb?"

Caleb didn't bother with further discussion. "We're done here," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of patience. He strode towards the exit, his mind a whirlwind of cold fury and grim determination. Caleb doesn’t waste time.

That same rain-soaked night, he found the quickest way to Professor’s secluded residence. He carried with him every classified file, every damning report he could access regarding the serum, a tangible weight of rage and impending confrontation. He bypassed the security measures with practiced ease, not even thinking about knocking on the door, letting himself into the house with the cold efficiency of a man driven by a singular purpose. He marched into the Professor’s study, sooked by the rain. Leaving a trail of rain drops on the floor. Caleb slammed the stack of files onto the polished mahogany desk, the sharp thud echoing through the room.

"What is all this?" The Professor barely spared the scattered papers a glance, his fingers meticulously adjusting his spectacles as he exhaled, a sigh laced with thinly veiled annoyance. "At least let me know when you do this shit."

"Honestly, Caleb, have the decency to inform me before you stage these… dramatic entrances." The professor meets his gaze, calm, detache. Too comfortable in his secrecy.

Caleb’s expression remained an unreadable mask, his features carved from ice, but his voice was sharp, as he pressed his attack. "What exactly are you up to?"

"We’re simply conducting… tests," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the mundane details of a scientific experiment. "You really don’t have to concern yourself with any of this."

Caleb didn’t buy the Professor’s nonchalant facade for a second. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, the knuckles white against his skin.

"What, precisely, are you trying to accomplish?" he demanded.

The Professor let out a small chuckle, slow and knowing, a sound that grated on Caleb’s nerves. It was as if he had anticipated Caleb’s arrival, expecting this confrontation. As if it were merely another calculated move in a game he was already playing several steps ahead. And then, with a casualness that bordered on arrogance, he revealed a sliver of his true intentions.

"Patience, son," he said, his tone far too paternal, far too condescending. "We're simply attempting to enhance Evolver abilities."

Caleb’s expression remained unchanged, a mask of cold control. He didn’t flinch but inside, something sharp and brittle snapped, the last vestiges of trust shattering into fragments. The trust he had placed in his plan, in his ability to stand between you and the people who sought to exploit your power. He'd believed he could manage the situation, keep you safe while navigating their dangerous game. Now, he saw the cracks in his carefully constructed plan. He'd thought he understood the Professor's intentions, that he could anticipate their moves. But he'd been wrong.

"People have died." Caleb stated, his voice a low, icy pronouncement.

The Professor merely shrugged, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes. "That's science," he said, the words devoid of empathy, a chillingly pragmatic justification that made Caleb’s blood boil. He stared at him. This wasn’t mere experimentation; it was weaponization. This is not very different from the hell you went through as a child. Caleb’s fingers dig into the desk, his jaw tight, his patience wearing razor-thin.

"Why?" he asked, his voice a low, menacing whisper, a dangerous edge lacing every syllable. "Is this because of her?"

The Professor finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable light, a cold, calculated intelligence. Caleb didn’t miss the subtle twitch of his lips, a fleeting expression that suggested he was holding back a cruel amusement.

"You told me the time hadn’t come yet," Caleb pressed, his fists clenching tighter. "So why rush it now?"

The Professor exhaled, tapping a finger lazily against the stack of files Caleb had slammed onto the desk. His gaze flickered over the documents, unimpressed, dismissive.

"Because," he said simply, his voice laced with an unsettling finality, "sometimes fate doesn’t wait."

Caleb’s stomach knotted, a cold, hard fist of dread clenching around his insides.

"That’s bullshit," he retorted, his voice thick with suppressed rage.

The Professor smiled, a knowing, infuriating smile that sent a shiver down Caleb’s spine. "Maybe," he mused, his tone ambiguous, deliberately provocative, designed to ignite Caleb's anger.

The Professor never spoke without a hidden agenda, without a calculated purpose. And if he was implying that you were somehow entangled in this deadly game, that you were the catalyst for this accelerated experiment, then everything had just spiraled into a far more dangerous territory. He had played their game for far too long, adhering to their rules, their timelines. But if they dared to lay a hand on her, if they decided to inflict their twisted experiments upon you… Caleb wouldn’t hesitate to tear their entire world apart, piece by agonizing piece.

A/N: I know, I know! A lot of Caleb happens here. Don’t bail on me yet! I wanted to keep it short, but I got a bit carried away. There’s still a second part with him, full of mysteries, but we’ll be back to the action soon. I wanted this to be one chapter, but it would've been way too long—like 13-16k words. Sadly I don't have the time to write and review a so long chapter. By now, you should have a pretty good idea of where this is heading. If not—don’t worry. The real peak of the story is just around the corner. I promise the wait will be worth it—once we’re back with MC/You and Sylus.

Released date: ~2 weeks. Chapter 6: Gravity (Parte 2) - Caleb will find a way to the N109 Zone.

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xxnghtclls · 1 month ago

Text

Permission Masterpost

True Form Sukuna x Reader | NSFW/Explicit | Slowburn

Warning: Graphic Depiction Of Violence

Summary: After Sukuna destroyed your Village, you’re on your way to find a new purpose of your life in his shrine. How will serving the King of Curses play out for you?

Tags: True form Sukuna, Sukuna Has Two Dickies, Sukuna's Extra Mouths, Sukuna is His Own Warning, Corn With Plot, Corn with Feelings, Slow Burn, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Voyeurism, Toxic Relationship, Corruption, dark content, Angst, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Description of Battle, Codependency, Torture, Death, Possessive Sukuna, Slow Romance, Emotional Hurt, Soft Sukuna , Fluff, Way More Fluff Than I Intended, is this a threesome?, Body Worship, DP, Loss of Virginity, Cvm, Oral Sx, Rough Sx, Choking, Masturbation, Spit As Lube, Monsterfvcking, Creampie, Sukuna's Tummy Mouth, Drunken Flirting, Vomiting, Size Difference, Jealous Sukuna, Slice of Life with True Form Sukuna, True Form Sukuna is my King, Every character is an adult in this story please stop asking me

Read on AO3

Chapter Overview under the cut

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Chapter 2 - The Path To A New Beginning

Chapter 3 - A Bloody Incident

Chapter 4 - The Sounds Of Sex

Chapter 5 - Red Orbs In Blue Moonlight

Chapter 6 - The Taste Of Devotion

Chapter 7 - A Chaste Kiss

Chapter 8 - Impatient Little Kitten

Chapter 9 - Yours

Chapter 10 - Monster

Chapter 11 - Hunger

Chapter 12 - Rippling Water

Chapter 13 - Today’s Arrival

Chapter 14 - The Visit

Chapter 15 - Don’t Look Back

Chapter 16 - Dance With The Devil

Chapter 17 - Darkness Keeps A Lot Of Things

Chapter 18 - A Curse

Chapter 19 - Play Of Adrenaline

Chapter 20 - Drink

Chapter 21 - Only You

Chapter 22 - The Reminder

Chapter 23 - A Wish

Chapter 24 - Your Place

Chapter 25 - Eyes On You

Chapter 26 - A String

Chapter 27 - Heartache

Chapter 28 - His Name On Your Mind

Chapter 29 - Sounds Of War

Chapter 30 - The Embrace

Chapter 31 - Someone Special

Chapter 32 - Fireworks

Chapter 33 - The Chosen One

Chapter 34 - Apples And Fingers

Chapter 35 - A Certain Desire

Chapter 36 - Confession

Chapter 37 - Nourishment

Chapter 38 - Dessert

Chapter 39 - Manners

Chapter 40 - Ready For War

Chapter 41 - Stains

Chapter 42 - Lovely

Chapter 43 - Atonement

Chapter 44 - Rain

Chapter 45 - Abyss

Chapter 46 - Judgement Day

Chapter 47 - Mine

Chapter 48 - Epilogue

Permission Playlist

Additional Chapters:

Harder

True Form Sukuna x Reader | NSFW/Explicit I One-Shot

Word count: 4,8k

Summary: During a cold winter night out in the forest, you ask Sukuna to warm you up. (Permission ending mention!)

Pond and Poetry

True Form Sukuna x Reader I Mature I One-Shot

Word count: 1,3k

Summary: Sukuna meets you in the garden, while you’re busy playing with Kois. And then you flirt. Just flirt.

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sematarygirls · 1 year ago

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Living Dead Girl Pt. II — Patrick Hockstetter.

part one

pairing : patrick hockstetter x ghost!reader

summary : patrick gave into his urges and finally tested his morbid curiosities on prey much larger than just a cat or dog. little did he know his actions would come back to haunt him... literally.

warnings : patrick being a psychopath , animal cruelty , male masturbation , graphic descriptions of murder and suicide , reader being manipulative , degradation , sexual themes ,

word count : 4.5k words !

a/n : can't believe i'm finally posting this after a year and a half. also this is my first attempt at smut-ish so i'm sorry if it's ass. im not gonna say this is 18+ bc I myself am not 18+ (im turning 18 this year tho) also im not your mom and idgaf what you read.

"Finally," a voice sounded, causing him to drop both his can and his plate. The sharp sound of glass breaking followed by a loud thud echoed through the room as the plate and soda can collided with the floor.

"No, no, no," Patrick shook his head, shutting his eyes. "This isn't real. I killed you. You're not here. You're not real."

"Sorry, babe," the voice, your voice, whispered into his ear. Your warm breath fanned his ear, and he felt his whole body tense. "I'm very much real."

"That's not possible," he said through gritted teeth. "I watched you die. I buried you!" He opened his eyes, convinced that this was all some terrible drug trip. Maybe the weed he'd just got from Henry was laced, or maybe he was suffering from a temporary psychosis. Either way, there had to be some rational and logical reason that he was seeing you.

However, when he saw you there, sitting there with a smug look on your face, your presence as solid as any living person, he felt his heart skip a beat.

You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowing as you pouted. "What's wrong, Patrick?" You asked condescendingly. "Don't act so scared now." You walked toward him slowly, watching him scramble backward in a panic. A smile spread across your lips as you saw the pure fear in his eyes when he hit the wall behind him, having nowhere else to go. "You weren't scared when you stabbed me. You weren't scared when you watched me bleed out in your arms. You weren't scared when you buried my body like some animal you found on the side of the road." Your voice was seeping with anger as you stepped closer and closer, cornering him. "So you don't get to be scared now."

Patrick Hockstetter was not someone who was frightened easily. In fact, up until this very moment, he didn't think he had the ability to be frightened at all. His unique ability to remain calm and collected in situations that would often stress others out was one he was prideful of. However, at that moment, he felt all composure and level-headedness dissolve. For the first time in his life, he was scared. Not just scared—terrified.

"What- What do you want?" He asked, his voice shaky as he looked into your eyes. You no longer looked at him like he hung the moon. There were no remnants of your innocence and naivety—willing to trust that people have the best intentions. There was nothing behind your cold, lifeless eyes. It was like staring at a corpse.

"Now, what's the fun in that?" You grinned, leaning forward so your face was inches away from his. Your gaze flickered to his lips. The same lips you thought he'd planned to kiss you with, but instead, he'd stabbed you in the stomach and mocked your intelligence. "You should really watch your back, Patrick," you whispered with a devious smirk, your breath fanning over his face. "I heard the search for me is really picking up after they found my blood in the woods."

Your words snapped him back to the reality of the situation at hand. He had killed you. What you were saying was impossible though. Right? He was meticulous in every stage of his plan. There was no way they found any trace of you. "What are you talking about?" He asked, his eyes searching you for any sign of deception, but you were impossible to read like this. He was no longer able to detect everything from a single glance. He only knew what you wanted him to know.

Without another word, you disappeared, leaving the boy spiraling as he went through all the events of that night over and over again. "Come back!" He screamed, his voice echoing through the empty house. "You can't just leave like that you bitch!"

Patrick let out a frustrated yell as he grabbed the nearest thing—which happened to be a porno mag—and threw it across the room in a fit of rage. Who did you think you were to haunt him? To come into his room, make him feel that horrible emotion, and tease him just to leave abruptly?

He sat on the edge of his bed, trying to control his heavy breathing as his anger took over. You had to have been lying, trying to get into his head. He hated to admit that it was working. He was supposed to be the one in your head. This was his world. He controlled everyone and everything. You shouldn't be here. You should be dead and buried like he had intended.

He fell back in his bed and took a deep breath, letting his mind settle as he chased sleep. He told himself you would be gone tomorrow and that would be that. Your appearance to him, like something out of a Charles Dickens novel, was just a fluke. Tomorrow you would be dead and all would be right with the world.

He drifted off to sleep, having convinced himself that he would never see you again. He was able to get a few hours of sleep, but you weren't going to let him be at peace for long

At around 4 am, Patrick had a very vivid dream that he was choking. He was gasping for air, clawing at his neck as he looked around frantically. His surroundings dissolved into a pitch-black room. He felt his lungs burning, his brain growing fuzzy as the oxygen left him. It felt so vivid, so real.

He awoke in a panic, sitting up straight as he gasped for air. His lungs felt like they were on fire. Like he had truly been deprived of air like he'd dreamed about. He panted, catching his breath as he looked around at his room, thankfully finding no signs of you. However, when he finally felt secure, able to draw a breath without feeling like a thirsty man drinking water, he realized the pillow that had been behind his head was now sat on his lap.

The realization dawned on him that he may have been actually suffocating, and you were the culprit. He shook his head, trying to expel the thought as he laid back down, throwing the pillow off into the black depths of his room, so he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. It was just a dream. Just as you were just a vision.

Patrick wasn't stupid, though many would argue to the contrary. Just because he didn't give a shit about school and didn't try didn't mean he wasn't smart. He just saved his intelligence for things that actually mattered—like planning and executing a murder.

That in mind, his refusal to accept the things he deep down knew to be true was not, as some would think, him being stupid. On the contrary, he believed himself smarter than to believe in silly things like ghosts. Dead things stay dead. He'd learned that at a very young age. He knew when he killed his brother that he would not be coming back. Just as he knew when he killed you that you would not be coming back.

Ghosts don't exist. He wasn't dumb enough to believe that.

As he laid in bed, trying to rationalize himself into a calm enough state to fall asleep again, he found himself more on edge with every creak of the old house around him. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes conspiring with the moonlight to play tricks on him. His breath hitched at every shadow dancing around the dark.

You were proud of your work, and you had barely done anything yet. You watched from the shadows, pleased as he seemed to run himself in circles trying to cope with everything going on. The mere thought of you was torture enough.

You grinned, biting your lip as a thought washed over you. As a ghost, not bound by the physical realm, you had the ability to do a lot of things. One of those so happened to be raising and lowering the temperature in a room.

You focused hard, raising the temperature several degrees, making Patrick swear at the sudden sweat washing over him. You watched with a satisfied smirk as he pulled his shirt over his head, trying to cool himself off.

He didn't have a six pack or anything, but you didn't expect him to. He had a lean, toned torso with a very sexy v-line peeking out from his jeans. A small tattoo sat on his stomach just above his v-line on the right side. You couldn't make it out in the darkness, but you didn't care much. The sight of it alone was enough.

After all, who said you couldn't mix a little bit of business with pleasure.

He had taken away the rest of your life, all the possibilities of experiencing having your first kiss, losing your virginity, falling in love. It was only fair he made up for that in one way or another before your time together came to an end.

The time passed agonizingly slowly with Patrick staring at the ceiling and you watching him, studying him like he was some foreign thing. It was so interesting to watch someone when they don't know they're being watched. Of course, he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, his body detecting the unseen eyes on him, but he chalked it up to paranoia—as he did every other unexplainable thing that seemed to be happening to him.

His mind drifted off, the heat making him restless as his brain filled with gruesome images of his previous kills. He sifted through his memory for the most interesting ones—dismembering birds, beheading cats, snapping a squirrel or two's neck—but none of them seemed to get him off anymore.

The image of your face right after he stabbed you made it's way into his mind. Your eyes, so wide and filled with fear. He could practically hear your sweet voice crying out, asking why he would do this to you. The thought made his cock tighten in his jeans.

He reached down, palming himself through his jeans with a groan. Reliving the sounds of you choking and coughing up your own blood had his fingers working quickly to undo his belt. He tossed it to the side, practically ripping the button off his jeans as he pulled them down along with his underwear, allowing his dick to finally be free from the restrictive fabric.

He spat in his hand, gripping his cock and lubricating it. He caught his chapped lower lip between his teeth as swept his thumb over his pink head, smearing his precum across it. He let out a low moan, letting his hand travel up and down his dick at a slow, agonizing pace. He kept his eyes screwed shut, immersing himself in the memory of your murder as he stroked himself.

Patrick was not a moral man by any means but this was a new low. Getting himself off to you, in his mind, was no better than if he was imagining one of his dead animal playthings. You were nothing to him. You were roadkill.

But, for some reason, the fresh sight of you, wearing the clothes he killed you in with that dark blood stain right where he'd stabbed you, your hair all matted, and the cold, lifeless look in your eyes, made it so easy to relive that night in great detail.

It was the greatest night of his life. The biggest release of pressure he'd ever felt since he began getting those homicidal urges—those itches. He didn't think he'd ever get to feel that euphoria again, but fucking himself to the thought of it would get him pretty damn close.

He let out a strangled moan, his hips pushing into his hand as he came, and he was right, it was the second-best feeling he'd ever felt. It didn't compare to killing you, but it was enough to satiate his urges once again.

He laid there, panting for what felt like hours. The time moved by so slowly until finally, the sound of the alarm block beside his bed blaring pulled him from his thoughts.

The red numbers reading 7:30 blinked slowly, reminding him that he had to get up and get ready for school. He leaned over, smacking the top of the clock roughly to silence it before falling back flat on his bed, preparing himself to get up.

He groaned, pushing himself up and grabbing a random pair of jeans and a shirt that smelled clean enough. He quickly got dressed before making his way back downstairs. He knew Belch would be here any second to pick him up—he always woke up later than he was realistically supposed to.

He slipped his boots on, and a few moments later, he heard Belch laying on his car horn. Rolling his eyes, he opened the door, heading outside and letting it slam just behind him.

"Calm your tits," he shouted in annoyance. Patrick always had a short fuse, but after the particularly restless night in which he'd been visited by some fucking ghost of Christmas Past, he found himself particularly irritable.

"Dude what happened yesterday?" Victor asked as Patrick climbed into the blue Trans Am.

"You were totally tripping the fuck out," Belch chimed in, starting the car and peeling out of Patrick's neighborhood.

"Dumb fuck can't handle his liquor," Henry scoffed from his spot in the passenger's seat.

"Shut the fuck up, Bowers," Patrick bit back, gazing out the window. "At least some of us don't piss our pants when we drink."

"It was one fucking time you dickhead!" Henry defended quickly, his cheeks turning red from the embarrassment.

At the feeling of someone's hand on his thigh, Patrick quickly looked over at Vic. "Don't fucking touch me you-" he paused just short of spitting some derogatory remark about Victor being gay and a freak when he saw you sitting between him and Victor, grinning at him darkly.

"What the fuck are you talking about, dude?" Victor asked, bewildered by Patrick's behavior. Patrick was always an odd one, but he never acted this weird.

"He probably smoked himself fucking dumb," Henry grumbled, still annoyed about the pants pissing remark.

You held a finger to your lips as climbed over onto his lap, holding onto his shoulders to steady yourself. You just wanted to rile him up a little, make him feel suffocated by you, like he could never escape. And truly, he couldn't. You were never going anywhere until you believed justice had properly been served, and you would take that in any form.

He glared at you, but you paid him no mind, leaning to whisper into his ear: "How cute," you condescended him. "You thought I would just go away." You dug your nails into his shoulders making him sharply inhale, trying not to tip off his friends to the seemingly unwarranted pain he was feeling. "You will never be rid of me," you whispered menacingly, looking deep into his eyes with a sickening grin that made nausea pool in his stomach.

In any other situation, having someone on his lap, digging their nails into his shoulders would probably have been a pleasurable experience, but this was not any other situation. This was a nightmare he couldn't seem to wake up from.

When Belch finally pulled into the school parking lot, Patrick couldn't get out of the car fast enough. You disappeared as he scrambled to unlock the door and get out, finally feeling like he could breathe. He pulled his shirt collar to the side, looking down at the angry red marks where your nails had been. They served as a disturbing reminder that you were really there, and you could do anything to him.

"You get laid last night, Hockstetter?" Belch asked, grinning as he saw the red marks.

"That why you ran off yesterday?" Henry snickered. "You pussy whipped?"

"At least, I actually get pussy," he sneered, paling as he heard your laugh echoing around him the moment the words slipped from his lips. It was a deafening sound. Like a mix between a cackle and a scream that seemed to permeate his surroundings.

His jaw clenched, eye twitching as he resisted the urge to cover his ears. Apart from not wanting to look insane, he also didn't think it would help much. You weren't around him. You were in him, in his head.

The bell could faintly be heard going off inside the school, making Victor curse under his breath. They had two minutes to get to class or they were late.

"Mrs. Denton's gonna throw a bitch fit if I'm late again," he groaned, watching as Henry lit a cigarette.

"Kiss ass," he remarked, taking a long drag before exhaling the puff of smoke into Belch's face as Victor walked away.

"You asshole," Belch coughed, shoving Henry.

"Oh, shit." Henry's eyes widened as he tossed his cigarette on the ground, quickly stomping it out. "Let's go," he ordered, making his way up the stairs to the front doors of the school, looking behind him frantically.

Patrick's eyebrows furrowed at the sudden shift in Henry's demeanor. He followed the brunette's gaze, his eyes locking with those of Butch Bowers, the sheriff.

"Wonder if they're here for you," your voice taunted him, breath tickling the back of his right ear. He turned, preparing to come face to face with that condescending smile you always seemed to be wearing, but you weren't there.

He looked back, finding Sheriff Bowers still staring at him, seemingly ignoring whatever the deputy was leaning into his ear to say. Patrick wasn't one to back down easily, but your presence, your warnings, had him on edge. He quickly advanced forward, his lengthy legs providing long strides as he followed suit in heading inside Derry Highschool.

The sounds of his heavy boots hitting the linoleum floor echoed through the empty hall as he made his way to his math class. Victor was right; Mrs. Densen was going to throw a bitch fit that he was late, but he didn't care. He wouldn't have cared on a normal day, but on this day, with the police sniffing around and you practically breathing down his neck, he cared even less—which he didn't even know was possible.

He pulled open the door to the classroom, a hush falling over the students as he entered. Most stared at him wide-eyed, some avoided looking at him altogether, and he briefly caught Vic looking at him with sympathy. The teacher, however, was glaring at him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Mr. Hockstetter, late again I see," she said pointedly. "You've earned yourself a detention after school today." Patrick stifled a laugh as he made his way to his seat at the very back of the classroom. "Is something funny?" She asked, her tone displaying clear annoyance.

"Yeah, that you think I care," he rolled his eyes, slipping into his desk. He tuned out whatever lecture the teacher decided to give him after that. His gaze drifted to the empty desk in the front row— the one you used to sit at.

"Don't go feeling remorseful now," you said into his ear. He felt your arm around his shoulders as you leaned down, your face positioned next to his. He turned to look at you, and you turned to look at him, your faces almost touching.

your breath fanned across his face, the moment oddly intimate until you grinned at him, opening your mouth and emitting an ear piercing scream.

"Ah," he grunted in pain, his eyes screwing shut, and his hands gripping his ears. It felt like his eardrums were seconds away from bursting and causing blood to pour out of his ears. "Shut the fuck up!" He yelled, the room, and you, falling dead silent immediately after the words left him.

He peeled his eyes open, his hands falling as he looked around. "Excuse me, Mr. Hockstetter," the teacher gasped, clearly taken aback by his outburst. "Take yourself to the principal's office right this instant!" She ordered him.

His blood began to boil as he stood up abruptly, storming out of the classroom and slamming the door behind him. He was getting very very sick and tired of your little games. He headed toward the back door of the school, not wanting to cross paths with Henry's dad.

"This doesn't look like the way to the principal's office," you mused, appearing beside him. He stopped, turning to shove you against the locker. He groaned when his arms made contact with the locker instead of your body, and your laugh echoed behind him. "You think you can hurt me, how cute."

He let out a frustrated groan, smashing his fists against the locker. He couldn't stand you. He couldn't stand having someone that he couldn't manipulate or hurt but that could manipulate and hurt him. "What do you want with me?" He asked, refusing to look at you.

"To break you," you grinned. "To have you begging for it to stop."

Yeah, right he thought.

He was Patrick fucking Hockstetter; he didn't beg. He didn't bend to the will of others, especially not some dead bitch. He was determined not to let you win. You would eventually get tired of tormenting him and go back to wherever the fuck you came from. He was sure of it.

Oh, how he underestimated your patience and overestimated his resilience.

He lasted exactly a week. A week of you screaming and poking and scratching and fucking with his head. A week of people staring at him like he was insane with his random outbursts and talking to the air. A week of torment before you finally had him right where you wanted him.

"Just leave me alone!" He begged, standing in the middle of his room with his head in his hands. You had finally drove him to the brink of insanity, and he didn't know how much longer he could live like this. You, being everywhere all the time, taunting and touching and teasing, it was too much for him. He couldn't take it anymore. "Go away!"

You tsked, grinning at him, that condescending grin that filled him with indescribable rage. How could you look at him like that? Like he was stupid? You were the stupid one. You were killed by him not the other way around!

"I'm afraid that's not how this works," you told him, shaking your head slightly. "I get to stay until you give me what I want." You took a step, punctuating the next words you said with a pause between each one and another step forward. "However. Long. It. Takes."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" He yelled, desperate to get you away from him forever.

"Well," you drawled, running your index finger along his chest, making him flinch. You smiled at the effect you had on him. He talked a big game, getting mad when you left—cursing, throwing things, even—having the audacity to fuck himself to the thought of your murder— but when it came to being face to face with you, he cowered away.

Ain't nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble as Henry Bowers' father once said.

"I'll be nice and give you a choice," you said darkly. "You can turn yourself in," you almost laughed at the way his demeanor hardened. "Which we both know you're too proud and stubborn to do," you continued. The intrigue behind Patrick's eyes was undeniable as he eagerly awaited his second choice. "Or," you trailed off, grabbing a razor from his dresser and holding it in front of his face. "You can die."

"You're a crazy bitch!" He shouted, though his inability to mask the tremble in his voice made him sound less than threatening.

"Maybe," you shrugged, admiring the sharp piece of metal. "Hmm," you hummed. "I wonder how you'll feel about me in another week," you asked thoughtfully. "I bet you'll be wishing you took the chance while you had it."

His jaw clenched at your words. He'd already lost a considerable amount of sleep because of you, and the thought of you tormenting him any longer was a fate worse than death. "Why don't you just kill me?" He asked defeatedly. You'd backed him into a corner that he was positive he couldn't get out of without doing things your way.

"I'm not you, Patrick," you spat hatefully. "I don't kill people or things."

"What? Like driving me to suicide is any better?" He scoffed, challenging your sense of superiority over him.

"You have an informed choice," you told him, trying to regain your calm. You didn't like losing your temper, especially not to the likes of Patrick Hockstetter, scum of the earth. "That's a luxury you didn't extend to me."

He eyed the blade in your hand warily. He didn't like accepting defeat. He would never admit to killing you. Being confined to a tiny room, unable to satiate that burning itch deep inside him whenever he needed; it would drive him mad.

"Go on," you urged him softly, holding the razor out for him to take. "Put yourself out of your misery. End it all and be free."

He looked between you and the blade hesitantly, a million thoughts running through his mind as he tried to make a decision. Glaring at you, he took the blade. A scowl formed on his face as he observed the triumphant expression that you seemed to wear immediately after he made his choice.

"Two deep cuts, and you'll never have to see me again," you assured him. That all but sealed the deal. Patrick didn't believe in heaven or hell and death didn't scare him. Being caged like one of the many animals he's so cruelly killed scared him more than dying. He walked over to his bed, sitting on the edge.

He sucked in a breath, pressing the blade into his wrist and dragging it upward toward his inner elbow. He clenched his teeth, deeply inhaling through them. A groan of pain fell from his lips as he felt the warm blood begin seeping from his wound, running down his arms and onto his jeans. He continued the action on the other arm, feeling nauseous and lightheaded.

The blade fell from his trembling fingers, clattering to the floor as he fell back onto the bed. His head felt foggy, and the pain began to melt away into numbness. His eyes began to droop, and he faintly saw your outline standing above him.

He just barely felt you lean down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. His ears began to ring as his eyes fell shut. The words you spoke next were the last he would hear before his heart slowed to an eventual stop. He almost couldn't make them out, the sound muffled, as if he was underwater, but his mind used its last bit of energy to process them before giving out.

"Goodbye, Patrick Hockstetter," you said softly. "May you burn in hell."

tags! : @fatfagsj , @mysticalhills , @simpingforthe80s , @slasherho , @pinkpanther-44 , @slaggylemon , @kyranisnotdead , @ladydragiiss ,

#🎀#patrick hockstetter x reader #patrick hockstetter #the bowers gang #it 2017 #patrick x reader #patrick hockstetter x ghost!reader #henry bowers #victor criss #reginald huggins #belch huggins #it x reader #living dead girl #dark romance #dark themes

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noctiva · 4 months ago

Text

Under Your Skin

Toby Rogers x F!Reader [NSFW!]

“You poor thing. Sweet mourning lamb. There’s nothing you can do, it’s already been done.”

WC: 4.1k

Summary: Before he has to skip town again, Toby grants you your one and only request of him.

CW: 18+ content, very graphic descriptions of gore and bodily harm, mutilation and murder, blood and guts, desecration of a corpse, major character death, you die in this, dead dove!!! I’m being so fr that’s the whole drabble, toby kills you bc you ask him to, suicide + suicidal thoughts, veryyyy toxic relationship, sexual content, self-destructive tendencies, mentions of bodily decomposition and rot, if ur squeamish stay away

This is a work of fiction!! None of the acts written here are meant to be endorsed or romanticized! Also if you don’t think you can handle any of the above warnings do not read! Stay safe!

NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

How was it, that you were even more beautiful on the inside?

Warm, you were so warm still, even as your skin began to grow cold. So warm as his fingers dug in deep, slipping under skin and into your depths to curl around your entrails. He could feel them all, slippery and smooth, your intestines wrapping his hands in a sticky embrace.

It was so satisfying. So lovely. You were lovely. Always had been, but especially now.

Limp against the forest floor, eyes glassy as a pool of crimson grew and grew beneath you. Sinking into the earth, staining the dirt. It was just a taste, because at the end of this all, you’d be buried deep beneath the ground he was currently kneeled on - wide lifeless eyes unable to feel the sting of the soil pressing against them.

With a sickening squelch, he sinks his hand in deeper, clawing upwards into your rib cage. Elbow deep in everything you had to offer, his breathing quivering as he hovered above you. Fingers twitching inside you. Searching. Sliding against your bones. He found a lung and squished it, puncturing it with his nails and feeling as it deflated in his palm.

Your true last breath. The thought made him shiver. Feeling the last little bit of oxygen your body had preserved, turning to mush in his hands.

It was a beautiful feeling. You were beautiful.

That’s why he had done this, after all. He was a sucker for beautiful things.

Toby had met you on one of his missions. One that involved him going into town often, to stalk and gather intel on a soon-to-be target. He had to learn their routine, when they ate, when they got home, when they were alone. It was tough, time consuming work. And, so naturally, he needed a way to unwind.

The diner you had worked at was a shitty, rundown joint. Paint peeling off of the walls, grime caked so deep between floor tiles that no mop could ever scrub it clean. Posters on the walls from the eighties, sun bleached and faded to the point you could barely read them.

You, had stuck out like a sore thumb.

Young and pretty. You were far too much of each to be working there. Soft features with not a wrinkle in sight, nimble unblemished fingers tying an apron around your body.

He wasn’t one to get distracted, especially not on a mission, but you had gotten him. You had gotten him good.

He couldn’t remember much of your first encounter, and maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe the boss had caught wind of you, and was trying to scrub you away.

It was alright. You were safe now. He could never get you.

He did remember sliding into a barstool at the counter and looking up at you, to which you had returned his gaze with a disinterested frown.

You did that a lot, he would come to find out. You were always frowning, as if it were your default expression. When you did smile, it was fleeting, and it never reached your eyes.

Your eyes. Always so tired, like you never got a wink of sleep. Worn and hollow. Aged beyond your years. He remembered thinking they’d look so beautiful with a twinkle in them, but that had long been snuffed out. Long before you had met him.

“B-Boss not let you take breaks?” He had asked you, so stupidly forward. Always unapologetic in the way he spoke, even to strangers. “You look d-dead on your feet.”

And you had narrowed your eyes at him, your frown somehow deepening even further.

“I’m fine.” You had muttered. “Thanks though, mister. Can I take your order?”

You had probably just viewed him as another annoying patron. Some run of the mill chump who had come here to hit on you during your shift. He would bet you got a lot of that. The diner was mostly occupied by skeezy truckers and grumbling old men, and you… Well, you were a sight for sore eyes.

You had probably expected to serve him, entertain his annoying advances, then never see him again if you were lucky.

You weren’t.

Toby became a regular. Coming in every day, at the same time, even long after the mission was over and done with. He ordered the same thing every time. Black coffee with sugar on the side. Sugar that he never added, but always asked for anyway.

And as the days passed, you slowly began to warm up to him.

It was a drawn out process, but it was satisfying to him. Watching your irritated frowns morph into reluctantly amused little smiles. Seeing you let your guard down, come closer. Leaning against the counter to talk to him, fingers brushing his when you would take the empty mug from his hands.

He would learn a lot about you. How misfortune seemed to follow you everywhere you went. How life had been so cruel, to someone so lovely, leaving you to do nothing but waste your days away in this stupid diner - just so that you could pay for a bed to wallow in when your shift was over.

You didn’t have many hobbies. Had given up on them all. And you didn’t have many friends either. Just your coworkers, and him now, he supposed.

It was on the day when you had rounded the counter to sit next to him, that he knew he had really gotten you.

“What do you even do, Toby?” You had asked him curiously. “You’re here every day, same time on the dot. You coming home from work or school?”

“Nah, just… H-Hanging out.” He had shrugged. “Life’s boring. Need a l-little excitement.”

“You’re looking for that here?” You had snorted out a laugh. A lovely sound. “You’re not gonna find it.”

“Already did.” He hummed back to you, and met your eye.

You had tried to hide it, but he saw it when you melted.

It didn’t take long to for you to let him take you out. Even less time for you to take him home.

And he had been sweet on you. He had tried to be, at least. Was as gentle as he could be as his hands caressed your soft skin, smoothing over your curves, feeling every bump and ridge where your bones lay hidden. Resting his hand just under the swell of your breast, to hear the ‘thump, thump, thump’ of your heart beat - growing more and more rapid by the minute.

Sometimes, he would sink his fingers in too deep. Grip a little too hard and make you wince. But you’d never push him away. No, you always only pulled him closer.

You’d pull him close even when he sunk his teeth into your neck, even more so when he’d draw blood.

He almost felt bad about leaving his mark on you. This poor, sad girl, who was definitely only using him as an escape. As a way to forget for a little.

The key word there was ‘almost’. It was hard to truly feel bad when you fell apart so beautifully.

You would wrap your limbs around him like you were trying to suffocate him, claw at his back like you were trying to tear him to shreds. You would cry and whimper beneath him, mascara running down your cheeks as he took you apart over and over again. Sullying your sheets for the nth time that week.

And the way you kissed him. You kissed him like you were drowning, and the only available air had to be stolen from his lips. Even after he had taken his bandaging off, and showed you the nasty blight tearing through his cheek.

You didn’t mind. Of course you didn’t, because you were perfect for him.

As time went on though, it became harder to keep you in the dark.

“What do you really do, Toby?” You had asked him one night, sat at the edge of your bed with your skin still bare. You were swaddled in your comforter, hair a mess with a cigarette perched between your lips. One that you had snagged from the carton in the back pocket of his jeans, which lay crumpled on your floor.

Toby supposed he should’ve seen it coming, your curiosity. You had held it back, bit your tongue over so many questions he knew you had, and so it would only take time until you were unable to restrain yourself.

“Told you, I-I hunt.” He had muttered back to you, but it was becoming a lazier and lazier excuse as the days passed. Especially right then, as he lay on your bed in just his underwear - a myriad of scars littering his skin. Far too many to be excused by simply being a ‘hunter’.

You had told him once, that you were sure he was made up of more scar tissue than true skin.

“Yeah? What do you hunt?” You had questioned him, voice soft and hollow, as it always was. But something about the way you spoke then, with a slight tremble to your voice, had him knowing that you had figured him out.

If he was being honest, you probably knew it all for a while now. He hadn’t exactly been… careful. Showing up at odd hours of the night, sometimes stained with blood, sometimes not. On the nights when he was, your gaze would linger, but you’d never say anything.

You’d just tug the bloodied garments off of him the same as you always did, kissed him as you always did even thought you could taste copper on his lips.

He wonder why, sometimes. Why you didn’t care. Why, though you definitely knew there was something very wrong about him, you kept letting him in your home. In your body. Over and over again.

You couldn’t be ignorant to the danger, you were smarter than that. So were you just ignoring it? Or worse, were you just waiting?

Waiting for the day when he left your home bloodied instead.

“I th-think you already know.” He had spoken back to you softly, before standing up and rounding the bed - coming to stand before you. “Don’t you?”

You had looked up at him, bathed in the glow of the moonlight shining through your bedroom window, and he watched as your hand began to tremble.

“Yeah.” You whispered, breathing out the words in a cloud of smoke that washed over him. “I do.”

“And?” Toby reached down and cupped your jaw, squeezing the soft flesh gently. “Are you ss-scared?” He had known what your answer would be before he even asked, and so it was no surprise when you simply shook your head in response.

“No.”

“W-Why?”

“Because I know you can help me.”

Those words, were the clearest memory he had of you. He remembered you speaking them so vividly, could picture the exact expression you had when you said them. Somehow both resigned, and hopeful. A sad little smile tugging at your lips.

And he could remember how they had struck him. Because he had known what you meant, the second you had uttered them.

Still, he had asked;

“H-Help you… How?”

You had reached up, your fingers so cold as the wrapped around his wrist, gently grasping him as you leaned into his palm. You don’t answer directly, instead you say;

“You’ve thought about it, right? Killing me?”

Of course he had. How couldn’t he? It was like an itch he refused to scratch every time he was in your presence. He had thought about it all - the sound of your screams, how your face would contort in agony, what shade of blue your lips would turn when it was all over.

He thought about it often. Every time he laid his hands on you. Every time he curled his fingers around your throat, knowing that with one movement, he could end you with a ‘snap’.

Maybe you had seen it. The way his eyes darkened as he hovered above you, fingers pressing against your pulse point.

“Y-Yeah, I have.” He had muttered back to you. “I like you too much t-to really do it, though.”

“That’s a lie.” You had argued. “I’m just another person. You’d forget about me just like the rest of them.”

He didn’t want to agree with you, but he knew that you were right. Maybe that’s the real reason he hadn’t done it yet. Because he didn’t want to forget you, and if you weren’t at an arms reach at all times, he knew he would.

You’d just be another person. Another body he had to bury.

You’d lose your name. And your face would dissolve in his mind, faster than your real one would as the worms picked you apart.

But that was what you wanted.

To not be known. To be forgotten.

You were right. He could help you with that.

He had brushed your request off for a while after that. For weeks, actually, though he had never forgotten about it.

You never let him forget about it.

You’d guide his hand to your throat while he was inside you, curl his hand into a grasp and make him squeeze. He would. With enough strength to leave you wheezing beneath him, eyes fluttering as your cheeks started to go purple.

But he’d always let go, right before you went under.

Much to your dismay, though you’d never say it. Toby could tell though, from the look of disappointment that took over your expression as your lungs gasped for air greedily.

You wanted it, really wanted it, and it was getting harder to pretend that he didn’t want it too.

He got rougher with you. Drawing more blood. Leaving more bruises. Just to see how much you could take. If you really meant what you had said, or if you’d shy away from the pain out of fear.

You never did. Just letting him do whatever he pleased, to your poor mistreated body. Always reaching back out for him, begging for more.

And yet he still didn’t feel bad.

Did he even actually like you? Shouldn’t he feel at least a little guilty, if he did?

It didn’t take him long to realize the truth. He didn’t feel guilty, because he liked you. Because he wanted to give you what you wanted, to free you from the shackles of the life you lived. He was the only one who could. The only one willing.

The only one, who could make your dreams a reality.

It was two months after meeting you, that he decided he would.

It was a late Sunday evening, when Tim had informed him they’d be skipping town again. Moving far, to another state completely, because their mounting list of bodies was getting too large for the public to ignore.

It was a common thing for Toby nowadays. Hopping from state to state, leaving a blood trail in their wake. Normally, it wasn’t an issue, but this time - he had an attachment.

Unfinished business.

He had you.

And he couldn’t leave you here, with memories of him riddling your mind.

So, like he always did, he showed up to your front door unannounced - this time, for the first ever, with his two trusty hatchets hanging from the belt fastened around his hips.

You had known what he was there for, the moment you opened the door.

The look in his eyes, deader than you’d ever seen them. The glint of metal off the blades in his possession, rusty and already stained with what you knew was old blood.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t usher him inside like you always did. Instead, you simply stepped out and closed the door behind you. Not bothering to lock it, and not bothering to take anything with you.

“C’mon.” Toby had told you, voice low, before he turned and started walking without another word. You followed him, feet clad in nothing but socks, the shorts and flimsy t-shirt you had been wearing doing nothing to protect you from the nippy fall wind.

He lead you out of your building, down the road, in silence and under the cover of darkness as he trudged down the town’s streets. With each step he took, you could hear the clink of his weapons knocking against one another.

He would swear he could hear your racing pulse from a few feet in front of you.

“Y-You sure you really want this?” He had asked you, not looking back as he walked further and further from your home - closer to his destination. “I could just t-take you with me, y’know. Away ff-from all this. I’d keep ya’ safe.”

The offer, was a genuine one, but he had known you would refuse it.

“I’m sure.” You had responded predictably.

“Thought so. H-Had to at least try though.”

He stopped once he reached the edge of the forest bordering your little town, before finally turning around to look at you. “I won’t b-be nice about it. If you were s-smart you’d just do it yourself.”

“That’s okay. I want it to be you.”

Of course you did. Because you were perfect for him.

So, he had taken your hand in his glove clad one, and let you into the darkness.

He could feel you shaking as he dragged you through the brush, bare legs snagging and skin tearing against sticks and thorns. You didn’t complain. Not once. Even as the journey dragged on and on, further away from civilization. Even as the wind bit at your skin, and caused your teeth to chatter. Even when rocks and fallen branches stabbed at your feet through the thin barrier of your socks.

You just followed, not making a peep. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Toby could still remember how he felt when he finally stopped. How the silence hung so heavily in the air. Crisp, yet suffocating. An eeriness in the air, like the entire forest was holding its breath.

And then he had turned to you, and raised a hand, cupping your face with it. The other one, just out of your sight, reached down to curl around the handle or one of his hatchets.

“Y-You deserved a better ending, y’know?” He had muttered, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “Probably c-coulda been something, if you really t-tried.”

And you had smiled at him. The first, genuine smile he had ever seen you produce. Crinkling your eyes, forming dimples in your cheeks - a happiness taking over your irises that was so potent it nearly made him falter.

“I tried for a long time.” You had spoken back to him. “I’m tired of it.” As you leaned into his touch, he was pulling the hatchet from his belt loop.

“I’m s-sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

And he could tell that you meant it. That you really, truly, had no regrets even as you stood in front of this monster of man. You looked… Calm. Serene. Like he was bestowing a gift upon you, not offering a gruesome demise.

What a strange, strange girl.

It had to be fate, that he had met you.

He had leant forwards, giving you one last parting kiss. Pressing his lips to yours in a way that spoke volumes. A farewell, an apology, a congratulations, a ‘you’re welcome’.

And the way you had kissed him back, was the gentlest you had ever touched him.

If he had allowed himself to, he may have hesitated, just because of that alone.

But he didn’t, because this was what you wanted.

This was the one thing he could give you, before he left.

His memory was spotty for the next coming moments, a blur of red the moment his lips left yours. He did remember the way you had cried though, when his blade sliced into your shoulder.

You had stumbled back, trembling and gasping for breath, blood gushing from your wound and staining your clothes. The blade had sunk in deep, just like he had hoped. Probably hitting bone. Maybe even cracking through it.

He advanced on you when you backed up, but you didn’t retreat any further. It was so weird, having someone not fight back. Shaking and crying, but just standing there and taking it.

He swung again, blade already dripping with your blood. This time, he hit your arm. His hatchet embedded itself deep. Deep enough that he had felt it when he hit your humerus. Right into your bone it sunk, bringing with it a cascade of blood and a chorus of your screams.

You sounded pretty. He had thought absently, as he tore his blade from your skin - the gash it left behind so deep, that he was sure he could snap your arm clean off without much of an issue.

He had watched as you sunk to your knees, dizzy, crying, breathing ragged and frantic. You were gushing with blood, face contorted with agony - eyes squeezed shut as you sobbed and sobbed.

You had asked for this. Why were you crying?

“I-Is this not what you had expected?” He had asked, standing above you with a blade hovering over the crown of your head. You were swaying where you sat, skin already growing pale. Blood loss setting in rapidly. “I t-told you I wouldn’t be n-nice.”

“I-I know.” You had sputtered out, eyes shining with tears as you looked up to meet his gaze. “It’s- It’s alright. Just hurts.”

“Do you not w-want it to? I can end it right n-now.”

“No. Keep- Keep going. Do whatever you want.” You sounded woozy, eyes drooping as you took in shaky, shallow breaths. Your left arm hung limp at your side, mangled, still gushing blood onto the forest floor. You looked so pitiful.

So beautiful.

And so, he swung again.

And again, and again, and again.

Your chest, your neck, your thighs. Nothing was spared from the brutal onslaught he dealt upon you. Metal slicing through skin. Deeper, through fat. Deeper, meeting bone. He painted you red as you cried beneath him, turning you into nothing but a heap of blood and tears.

When you had fallen backwards, back hitting the dirt, he crawled on top of you.

“Still alive?” He had asked, eyeing your now mangled throat. Ribbons of skin and cartilage mostly disguised by the flood of blood pouring out of you.

You merely let out a little whimper. He supposed it made sense, if you couldn’t talk anymore. “You know, y-you’re pretty even like this.” He told you, watching your glassy eyes and how the life faded from them. How they went foggier and foggier as the seconds ticked by. He raised his arms up, both hands clutching the weapon he held over his head. “Maybe you’ll b-be a pretty ghost too.”

You sputtered, blood splattering against your lips and chin as you coughed it up. But you had also, by some miracle, managed a small, pained smile up at him. He deduced that sound would’ve been a laugh, if he hadn’t shredded your vocal cords. So he does as well. Lets out a bemused little chuckle, a warped grin on his face as he shook is head in disbelief. “Gonna miss you. You w-were a lot of fun.”

If you had something to say back to him, you couldn’t voice it. Reduced to just gargled whimpers, and pained whines. That was alright. He already knew everything. You didn’t need to tell him a thing.

He meets your eyes one last time, before bringing his hatchet down.

It tore through your abdomen, ripping through your clothes and skin in the same fluid motion. Tearing into your insides, puncturing organs and severing your intestines. He did it again, when his arms raised once more. Again, his blade met your your warmth within, widening the already gaping wound he had left upon your smooth skin.

The skin he had kissed, caressed. Loved, as best as he could.

This, was his final act of devotion.

He felt as the legs he straddled twitched beneath him. Watched as your eyes blew open wide, before they were rolling back. Tasted it, as stray droplets of your blood hit his lips.

Just as sweet as he remembered.

It was only once you stopped moving completely, did he relent. He dropped his hatchet down on the ground beside your head. Beside your face - the one attribute of you he had left untouched. Still contorted in agony, frozen in time, even though your breathing had ceased.

He was a mess. Coated in you. It was covering his whole body. Staining his clothes, seeping into his hair, dripping down his face and clinging to his eyelashes. You were everywhere. Just as you deserved to be.

You were much worse than he was though, obviously. Mutilated beyond all belief. Limbs barely hanging on. Cartilage and bone that should’ve never saw the light of day, basking in the moonlight. Your entrails had started to spill. Intestines slipping out like snakes that had been confined for far too long, bursting from you as if they had been waiting for this very moment.

And he thought to himself;

How was it, that you were even more beautiful on the inside?

—————————————————————————☆

trying my hand writing gore hmmm,,,

was it icky enough? yucky enough? I’m not sure

I promise also I’m working on asks this was just a short and easy lil thing to edit and post

thanks for reading! ♡

#toby rogers #creepypasta x female reader #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x you #ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby x female reader #ticci toby x you #toby rogers x reader #creepypasta headcanon #crp #crp fandom

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bearwithegg · 11 months ago

Text

Fight Like a Girl || B.Blackwood || Part 3

Oh man this part nearly fucking killed any mental capacity i had over the last week (you should see the other guy) probably final part goobers

PART 1 HERE || PART 2 HERE ||

Kieran!Benjicot x f!Reader

Words: 5.2k

Warnings: Blood, Injury, Gore, graphic descriptions of injuries

SPECIAL THANK YOU TO @spider-stark @venomnyx @karlachs-soldier for putting up with my insane ramblings while i took 500000 points of psychic damage trying to write this part difhlrdh

Tags: @nixtape-foryou @roseheart5

***

A swing from behind is all it took to bring you down. Amongst the bleating chaos it was hard to keep one's mind in focus, you were at no fault for that. A yell rips from your throat, but not due to the pain - that came much later - merely from surprise. Body and mind barely register the gash as you plummet into the mud stamped ground, another fallen to join the field of death littered with decimated bodies at the hands of the Green’s Army.

The swordsman, clad in the treacherous sigil of the false King goads you, a reminder of why you even waged this futile plight in the first place. Despite being prone and the bog beneath you seeping into the wound on your back, you do not let up because how could you not go out without a fight.

Distant shouts confirm this, you were on your own, no one was nearby to help you now. Garrus. You think. Where was he? He was only here a moment ago. But you couldn’t think straight. How long had this senseless battle gone on for? Mere moments like the striking of lightning or hours, like a storm brewing? Thank the Gods there were no Dragons to meet, only their cowardly foot soldiers, yet you look into the sky one last moment. No Dragons — only gloomy overcast.

Chest heaving as the pain slowly begins to spread from the wound outward, sharp and hot like the sun had touched you itself.

It would be easier to keep your eyes closed, accept death like one would a beloved and it was difficult to remain awake. Especially hearing the distant call of your brother's voice, you cannot will yourself to go; not yet.

A shaky war cry wrenches from a deep place of emotion, the swordsman while above you to prepare his final blow did not expect such a wordless decree. You will not win. A swift and firm stomp into the knee, buckling it the wrong way knocks him off course with a yelp of surprise. Certain you heard his bones snap or was it the remnants of battle in the distance? Regardless, you rise up and with a dagger unyielding in a firm grip and swipe left, across the neck exposed above his leathers.

Blood soaks you, like a torrential downpour from one of his compromised arteries. His body falls like a tree in the woods, indiscriminate of what it falls on because his body topples right onto yours. The gurgling sounds of him choking on his own blood and clawing at you distract from his limp weight and pressure of being buried beneath bodies.

It’ll haunt you for life, you think, the dying breaths of a man you killed echoing like a deranged symphony.

The pain came in waves, some more intense than others as you lay beneath a corpse, unable to move it off your body. The way your shoulder screams at the slightest movement, there is no room for doubt that the cut is deep, perhaps it was even to the bone.

You stopped calling for help, only until your voice shriveled up. It must have been hours, certainly, the distant sounds of metal clashing had long since ceased, and the only shouting was a mixture of victory and loss. Or was that your brother's voice? Beckoning from beyond the veil? Were you dead? Did mother await you in the whims of the afterlife also?

“Gods be good.” A voice aghast, pulls you from a delirious haze. “Another one!”

It was difficult to open your eyes, despite the dreary grey skies it burned to look up, the boy kneeling over you was smiling with relief, a reassuring hand on your face.

Another voice, further along the field you assumed, drew nearer.

“Send word for more men lad, the wounded will need to be taken back and treated.” That deep punctuating voice, familiar and warm.

“Help me with him first - he's stuck,” the boy grabs the corpse's arm and starts to drag it, the movement only serving to push you deeper into a blanket of mud, sinking you further into the ground and causing you to grit and whine.

“Mordin, leave the boy with me — go.” The command was firm and sharp. Scattering footsteps sloshing in mud indicated his swift departure. Silence followed. Thinking you must have imagined the brief exchange had it not been for a sudden weightlessness. The body that obstructed your movements and inhibited breathing now was moved off you, and you took your first full breath in what felt like hours.

If you simply had not heard him before seeing him, you'd have hardly recognised Benji. Covered head to toe in blood, a stark impression of his notorious namesake witnessed in person. And while this was further proof of how dangerous he was capable of being — his eyes were somber looking down at you.

“Benji,” you wheezed gratefully, with all the strength you could muster to reach out to him, you could barely move an inch.

His eyes widen, recognition flashing across his face and he drops to his knees beside you. It was a safe assumption that he didn't realize it was you under all the gore and viscera. “You were supposed to be in the back lines, what the hells are you doing all the way out here?” He reprimands, eyes flitting over you to inspect your wounds.

“Ambush,” you pant softly, “from the west.” breathing was beginning to get increasingly difficult through the pain. It was deep. His face contorts halfway into panic and guilt, you barely get out an airy laugh, “at least I held onto my sword this time.”

Following his gaze down by your side, your fingers gripped the hilt of the sword with such vigor, it felt like your hand cramped into the position.

His head drops and a bittersweet laugh falls from his lips, “you jest in a time like this? Foolish girl.” Though he did not say the words, the twinkle in his eyes was enough to know that regardless of the outcome he was proud of you.

“It hurts,” you manage to whisper through shaky lips, the silence that followed was louder than the wind that swept across the battlefield. His eyes never leave yours, they search for something, for what, you aren’t sure of but he hardens his resolve and looks up briefly, bottom lip tightly trapped between his teeth.

With a gentle tug, he pulls the dagger from your fingers, they too felt rigid and locked into their grip. Repeating the same motion for your sword and looping them both into his belt. You watch him with care because if you aren’t distracted then the pain will rear its ugly head, which is something you wished to avoid. He unbuckles one of his bracers, yanking hard at the straps before holding it close to you, “bite down on this, I must move you to the others.”

You suck in a breath, eyes partially wide at the thought of being found out due to a measly back wound. Adrenaline or panic, it wasn’t certain but you found enough strength to hold onto his wrist with a vice-like grip, voice shaky through uneven breaths, “find Garrus, he can stitch me up.” With that, your hand relaxes and slips from his wrist, falling slack against your chest.

“Where else would I take you? You dolt,” he smiles, lightheartedly and shakes his brace at you again, a silent push to do as he says.

You relent without further question, trust these days was as valuable as it was rare but you trust Benji — for better or worse. He had kept your secret, trained you personally and now was saving your life. The list of debt you owe the man increased tenfold by the week it seemed. Getting upright was half the battle, though try as he might to conceal his troubled expression upon seeing the wound on your back, he did a poor job of it. It must have been bad.

The pain had soared to such a high intensity, you could hardly remember the journey from battlefield to the safety of your tent… no this wasn’t your tent. Consciousness fleeting as the trees move and the scenery changes; was that the river you could smell? Or was it the lingering scent of death that wafted through the air? Familiar colours of House Blackwood embroidered the interior of the canvas in your surroundings — were you in Benji’s tent?

It held a surprising amount of warmth than you expected, a welcoming embrace disguised as an affirmation that mortal peril was not as close when you were guided by the hands of allies. You awoke on your stomach, needling and sharp pain coursing through the already tender skin of the ugly laceration parted onto you.

“Be still, Little Clover… Just a few more,” Garrus murmurs, his fingers featherlight against the skin of your back. The pressure you felt, merely the piercing of needle and cord, stitching your broken body back together. While painful, the journey ahead for recovery was no doubt going to be longer and harder. Recalling the books and their bountiful knowledge you used to read in the safety of Stylguard, first person accounts of severe wounds rarely acknowledge that pain is often a good sign. You hadn’t lost feeling in either shoulders nor arms, though this was not something you celebrated until much later on in recovery.

“Put me out of my misery,” you grit, a groan expelling from your throat, eyes clamped shut and slightly watering.

His amused chuckles blend together with another, someone else was in the tent – you need not ask yourself who either, “I fear it would make me a dishonourable man to execute another while they are unarmed.” Miscreant, you think, yet smile at Benji’s jab until inevitably wincing as the cord threads through marred flesh. There is a beat of silence but an air of mirth, “you may yet still fight like shit but your aversion to pain is admirable as well as your ferocity. I cannot say the same for the others with less severe injuries.”

You forget yourself, the company around you, because it was easy when Benji was near and scoff lightly, “pain is no stranger for me. None of these men have felt the pain of having a monthly blood, and they would cower at the pain it brings.” Another pause, the amusement in the air ripped from the drop of your words – taboo to speak freely about such delicate and ‘disgusting’ things especially in the presence of men, you clear your throat, “apologies.” But you weren’t sorry and felt as though you shouldn’t have to be. You had heard far worse from the mouths of men during dinner.

Garrus had thankfully finished not soon after, urging you to rest before departing to retrieve food for the three of you. Though your hands and the rest of you reeked of mud and rust from the dried blood, you needed to be clean of today even if the internal wounds will never heal, you could still wash away the stench of a dead man. Rising slowly, you are nearly startled back onto the bed by Benji rushing to aid you.

“I thought you left,” You reprimand, brows scrunched in response to the discomfort and pain. The undershirt you wore back to front for modesty sake, threatened to slip down your shoulders and expose more than what decency desired. The lone tie that kept the fabric together enough to stop it from completely falling threatened to undo every movement you made.

“I thought you were told to rest,” he counters, lips pressed into a frown, eyes looking away. “This is also my tent,” his indignance would have prompted laughter if the situation was different. You weren’t a complete imbecile, understanding that coming to his tent was the best chance at keeping your secret.

You give him a withering look, “and how does one rest covered in entrails and dirt?” Easy for him to enforce Garrus’ words, he had already cleaned the dirt and blood off his face and hands. He pulls a face, conceding at your words and makes no further comment, though flushed in his cheeks. “Thank you,” in your eyes a glint of amusement twinkles, “no need to sulk Benji — it’s merely a bath, not another battle.”

His jaw sets while his hands rest on his hips, eyes narrowed slightly at your jeer, “that is not the point nor the principle — do you intend walking all the way to your tent to wash yourself then?” Now his finger is out, wagging alongside his words as if he was admonishing a child for a minor wrongdoing.

“And you care about principles, now?” Your brow quirks, you have half a mind to mirror his stance if it weren’t for the fact you had been quite literally sewn together not even ten minutes prior. So you don’t. But the thought was enough to elicit a smirk. “If it will cease your pedantic worrying, I will bathe here,” your eye twitches with the jolt of pain shooting up your arm from the lazy gesture across the tent.

His cheeks begin to redden, as do yours at such an improper suggestion, “What is a man without honour and principle?” He huffs slightly.

“Your flair for the dramatic is ill suited for a man of such vicious notoriety.” You hardly suppress a smile, tongue poking into your cheek. Silence follows, either he is grossly offended by your words or has recognised that you are just jesting. Nevertheless, you slowly cross the tent, each step an agonizing shock through the back and shoulders.

You feel his gaze follow you before sighing, a soft chortle slipping in at the end of his exhale, “if you were as well-skilled with a sword as you are with that sharp tongue of yours, I’d fear for our enemy.”

Slowly turning at his words you regard him with a deadpan expression only muddied with a knowing look of your eyes, “stop being bitter and get me some hot water to put in the tub.”

Benji has often looked at you with curiosity, amusement, pride and a varying array of affection but he has never once looked at you with the dumbfounded expression laden on his face like he has just now. Even in times like this, you often forget that situation aside, the two of you were highborn and at this instance you weren’t speaking to a Lord with a matter of reverence but rather speaking to him like a servant.

”Apologies,” you clear your throat, “Lord Blackwood stop being bitter and get me some hot water to put in the tub, please.”

You could almost hear him thinking, the dead air in the tent was more than palpable but the thickness of something else continued to weigh heavy, as it so often did when the two of you were alone.

“You tempt the Gods with that inane behaviour and crass mouth, you are in good tiding with fate for me to not take that tongue of yours,” an empty threat really, he’s told you that before but even if that hadn’t been the case it was clear he wasn’t being serious. Even his jab is futile the second he concedes and goes to the hearth without any more complaints.

“Tongue or not, I would still find a way to torment you all the same.” You laugh and then promptly wince, he thankfully had not seen.

The quiet moments filled with lighthearted ribs back and forth seemed to be a sliver of the heavens placed inbetween unyielding moments of hardship, pain and suffering. A light one might see at the end of a cavernous abyss. Small moments, often menial, were filled with such delight that it reminded you that this is what life was. Yet these intermissions sprinkled throughout a world wrought with its own dark and poisonous acts of undeniable misery also served to remind you of what you were robbed of. A nice life. A happy life.

“Clover.”

An uncharacteristically gentle prod beckons you from thoughts of what could’ve been in a different lifetime. You blink, grounding yourself in reality — Benji, he stands before you, head tilted to the side as it often did, part of the many idiosyncrasies that made him, him. A hand hovering in your space, as if he was conflicted about reaching all the way out or perhaps it was to steady you.

“I am well,” you reassure, offering a smile and slowly make your way to the tub. Though, you supposed it was less a tub and more a misshapen barrel but it served the same purpose. “I assure you I will fare better once I rid myself of this filth.” You grip the sides of the tub, disgusted by your own reflection sullied with blood, dirt and sweat.

The water was not nearly warm enough but you cared more for cleanliness than comfort in this instance. The eyes that looked back up through the rippling water were not the same as the ones that looked in the mirror at Stylguard while hacking at once lengthy locks. That seemed so distant, the memory already thinly covered in a milky haze.

A sigh slips through parted lips, now came the difficult part.

Undressing — that is. Notoriously difficult to do with impaired range of motion in both shoulders. Which is how you ended up in this current situation.

Through burning cheeks, feeling as if you were suffocating from how thick the air seemed to get — if it weren’t for waning patience you’d have an amused smile at the farce the two of you found yourself in. Headstrong and ever the eminent gentleman (despite your often teasing sleights), Benji stared forward, unyielding and pointed to juxtapose the position of his body. The only body part of his remotely positioned toward you was the arm he outstretched behind him, which can’t have been very comfortable and added to the absurdity of the situation.

His fingers quite skillfully disrobing you without the advantage of sight at least meant that the two of you would be rid of such embarrassment sooner rather than later. Though it was ever the difficult feat, you could only raise both arms so high before the tender flesh pulled against the cord that kept you together.

“Oh for goodness sake,” you sigh frustratedly, feeling his hand suddenly stop, fingers barely hovering over exposed skin. The irritation was running deep, seeping through your skin now like an unchecked itch begging to be scratched but it was all over your body, “you would not feel the need to engage in such foolish hoop jumping if I was one of your men, just turn around and do it properly.”

“I would never compromise a Lady’s honour, even by looking,” his answer was immediate.

You’d have strangled him if you were capable of doing so. On the contrary there was part of you, old you, who buckled at the knees at such a sweet admission from a handsome man.

“At this current juncture, this Lady is asking you to,” you huff exasperatedly, patience wearing thin the longer it takes to do such a menial task; not even when you were a babe did it take this long to fret over mere bathing. In an instant the atmosphere has shifted almost entirely, the lighthearted mood sucked out into a vacuum and in its place something else.

The two of you were running circles around each other, a common occurrence that had first reared its head mere days ago. Two fronts whirling like the crucial hours before a violent tempest ravages the skies during a storm, unwilling to acknowledge what brewed in the centre of it all.

He clears his throat, you hear the rustling of his leathers as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, “you have put me in an impossible position by asking this of me – are you certain?”

“I have trust in no one else,” you affirm, quietly.

“Very well,” his footsteps are slow, careful – as though he ought not to startle you. Fearsome as Benji was, he could never frighten you. There was an innate warmth to his presence, so comforting and homely that it was hard to believe that he was capable of such ruthless and vicious acts of violence.

His hands were equally gentle, sliding the undershirt off each shoulder with such delicate handling, it made you feel like an heirloom almost. Almost. The rough fabric grazes over the fresh wound, pulling you back into the whims of reality, a sharp hiss pushed through gritted teeth.

“Apologies,” he murmurs, breath faintly fanning the back of your neck and in tandem sending a jolt down your spine. Not pain. Hackles raised though not engaging your fight or flight, nor spurring on fear. The feeling that had been simmering as a third party in the background of each encounter of late, an unspoken presence sifted between two finally uncovers itself – desire.

Gods, was it not the time for this, you think.

You unlace the trousers as loose as possible, making it easier for him to slip them past your hips. Part of the fabric felt solid, dried mud turned clay with a mixture of blood made it quite the task to peel off your legs.

Behind, you feel him move away, the warmth that radiated from him gone in an instant. The clinking of his belt buckle made your ears prick, but instead of querying, you remained silent, fearful that your voice would not be so steady – you step into the tub. Gooseflesh instantly rippled across your skin from the fact the water was far from warm, though it mattered naught as the dirt and blood slowly disseminated throughout the water.

With both legs in you start to visibly relax, no longer feeling as though you wished to chisel your skin off. By the time Benji has returned by the tub side, your body is submerged. The sleeves of his undershirt are rolled up, no longer wearing his belts or swords, answering the silent question you had mere moments prior.

When you finally look at his face, his eyes are already on yours, golden flecks sprinkled throughout. As if he couldn’t be any more impossibly handsome. His gaze is unmoving, even as he slowly reaches into the water and pulls your arm up by your wrist, thumb and forefinger coiled around it firmly. But not painfully.

“I can wash my own hands,” you find your voice as he begins to knead softly into your hand with the soaked cloth. Blood no longer coating your hands, dirt rubbed from the space between your fingers.

“I do not doubt it,” the outer corners of his lips twitch upward, suggesting a smile. When he was not intently looking at your face, his eyes drifted upward or past you but never down. And despite the frustration it caused in the lead up to this, you were grateful to a certain degree but also incredibly heartwarmed by him keeping his word.

Despite the cold water lapping at your collar bones and encasing your body, every meticulous adjustment of his grip on you or every tentative touch made you heat up. A permanent flush warming your cheeks as he quietly scrubs your forearm, upper arm and carefully washes your shoulders.

Slowly but surely, with every pass of the cloth accompanied by a steady and tender hand, you felt cleaner not just visibly but also internally. The blood that once stained skin, stood as a mark from the gods, a forever blight that threatened your soul for damnation, now had been washed away.

“Does it get easier?” You whisper, staring off into the tent.

He stops, the cloth remaining pressed into the crook of your neck as he exhales in thought. You barely shift, turning almost imperceptibly as your eyes meet his and there’s a flicker of concern? Surprise? Undoubtedly in response to the haunted look all over your face, “killing people,” you clarify before returning to stare back into nothing.

There was a brief stillness in the air, disrupted only by him clearing his throat. As gentle as a breeze, his fingers caress and cup your chin, seemingly holding your head in place as he begins to softly scrub at the dried muck on your face, “no.” His voice was deep yet soft, unwavering as if he’s thought of this question before. “It never gets easier, you simply learn to live with it.”

Live with it.

A macabre way to look at it, you think, but it seems to be a healthier way to deal with such a gruesome act, even if it was honourable to die in battle. You wonder if the Usurper and his family of parasites felt this moral conundrum when they murdered your brother.

You are doubtful.

“How does one live with such blood on their hands?” You ask, perhaps he was the best suited to answer such question, many slain under his own hand but even of your own observation Benji hardly fit the parameters of a well-adjusted Lord in Westeros. No one called ‘Bloody Ben’ could ever be well-adjusted, but it was hard to discern if years of bloodshed fractured him or if it had been there since birth.

Your head is turned, ever so slightly by his guiding forefinger and thumb still perched under your chin, his eyes bore into you but shows no ire or annoyance, “I honour the fallen. At night before I fall asleep, each name is passed to the Gods and if their name dies with them then faces suffice.” He cleans a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood on your forehead.

It was surprisingly pious of him — Blackwoods never quite took to the Faith of the Seven, much like northerners they remained loyal to the old gods yet Benji had never expressed piety like this.

“Even the slain Brackens?” The guileless smile on your face was an attempt to move on from the grim conversation you accidentally started.

The cloth hovers over your upper lip as he drops his head ever so slightly and chuckles, “even Brackens need honour in death. Gods know they lack it in life.” He presses the cloth onto the dried blood over your lip.

Once he’s rubbed it away, as if moving of its own free will, your hand comes up to grip his wrist, albeit weakly. Gaze sticking to your own, exhaling through parted lips as you attempt to get the words unlodged from your throat.

“I must thank you,” You breathe out. For what, you weren’t sure but it was the only way to express gratitude for the endless list of things he has done for you. You would have to thank him for a lifetime alone for what he had done.

The hand beneath your jaw shifts, his thumb runs across your lower lip to your jaw, just the mere action feels like dragging the tip of a hot needle across your skin in the best way possible, “that is not necessary,” he murmurs.

Possessed or merely a complete lapse in sanity, you will never know, but his soft gaze compelled you — no, bewitched you to lean forward and press your lips to his. Searing hot, your body ignited with a warmth that was unfounded until now, as though the barely lukewarm bath was filled with steamy water.

It was short, chaste and quite unexpected for both parties.

You pull away, aware of how hot your cheeks felt, your grip on his wrist loosens. Actions finally sinking in both your own mind and his. Like silt that had been kicked up in the shallow divots of a creek, finally settling into clarity.

Cheeks beet red and an unreadable expression apparent, the hand caressing your face had dropped.

Perhaps you miscalculated. The hammering of your heart was so loud there was no way in hells he couldn’t hear it. It was as booming as rolling thunder in your ears.

The two of you stare at one another, a silent conversation, a silent question hanging in the air between the two of you. Your mouth opens first, the beginning syllables of an apology croaking out before they are abruptly cut off by his own lips. This had been less of a shock than the first, it felt more needy and messy.

His hands came up to hold your head, thumbs grazing softly over your cheeks. He held you firmly as if you were going to disappear in a puff of smoke and you felt as though you might do just that from how light you felt. His tender caress accelerated the beating of your heart and jumbled any important thought crossing your mind, the only thoughts barraging your mind were of him, his hands, his lips, his voice; Him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, if you had any strength you would have pulled him toward you with a fierce urgency. It’s almost painful that you can’t. The air around you two is static, tempestuous and intense all at once, like two stormfronts finally converging before an explosive storm.

“I’m afraid I could only part with —“

The two of you rip apart at a speed that sends Benji careening backward, toppling onto the ground and you sloshing a large wave of water over the tubs edge. Oops.

“— the…duck stew…” Garrus’ words slowly die in his throat as he stands dumbfounded by the entrance of the tent, two measly plates of stew held in each hand and still steaming. Eyes looking to Benji and then back over to you several times, mouth open and eyebrows raised.

The pause seemed to have gone for a century. And neither you nor Benji would be the first to break it.

“I forgot the bread,” Garrus finally says, putting the plates down on the nearest surface and turning back out of the tent without another word or look.

You shyly looked over at Benji who remained firmly planted on the ground, his cheeks looked as red and hot as yours felt. The thundering of your heart steadily continued partly from the after effects of the kiss and being caught red-handed by the man who was essentially a father to you.

Benji is the first to break, a deep laugh shakes through him before audibly falling past his lips, this in turn makes you suppress a laugh by biting on your lip. Though, ultimately you are unsuccessful and join his symphony of laughs with your own. Not even the pain that pulsed from each laugh was enough to stop you.

The two of you may have plenty to answer for later, but perhaps that wasn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things. A more gruesome fate awaited outside the safety of this moment — of the camp — it would be unwise to not take pleasure in the small mundane moments.

For once it was a kind reminder that maybe, after the conflict ceases, there is room for you to enjoy the life you wished for.

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