#writing Drabble

[urfriendlywriter]

smutty prompts cus u asked for it ;)

(holy shii, MDNI please! feel free to use<333 tag me when yall write plsss especially 3! 6, 9,10, 12, 13 fckk. !!)

"that's my good girl."

when they're groaning and cursing into your ear >>>> [very demureee.]

"fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby."

their fingers curling into all the right places.

leaning back with their legs spread apart as they ask, with a smirk, "are you just going to stare, sweetheart?"

"that's," they groan, pressing their visible bulge over your stomach, "that, darling, is what you do to me."

"do you wish to see me on my knees? Is that it, darling?" [YES. yes. AND YES.]

your heel on their chest, pressing them down to the floor. "Beg. Maybe I'll consider."

^ they kiss ur ankle, and up your calves. "Please, baby.." the desperate tone but that dominant, humiliating fire in their gaze promising something sinister after.

"aren't you such a tease? I'm jerking off to that picture of you, and it's all your fault." [yall read rina kent' books?? rina verse men jerking off>>> fck Aiden and Ronan.]

their fingers tipping ur chin up, caressing your jaw and their thumb slowly parts your lips, dipping it into your mouth!!

^ "that pretty little mouth of yours..." followed by a dark gaze or a chuckle!!! FVKFKDKF.

^ "I'm going to fuck that mouth, baby. may i do that?" [two hands the phone yall]

their proud, predatory gaze on you, their lips curling into a smirk, "you--" they rub the lipstick on your mouth, "are such a pretty mess for me, darling."

"eyes open. keep looking."

^ and in the mirror--it's their large hand splayed across your abdomen, another wrapped around your perking nip. as they thrust into you, hard, slow, deep. their teeth sinking into ur neck.

maintaining eye contact as they gather the wetness from between your legs with their fingers and they're sucking them off with a satisfied hum.

^ "fuck, sweetheart." they smear it all over their lips, breathing heavy, and lean down to kiss you with it!!? [sad core cus i aint experience this yet :']

neck grabs, deep grunts, a desperate rolling of their hips against yours, "you wanna cum, yeah? cum for me, baby."

arms over their head, mouth gaping while they groan, pressing and thrusting themselves up into you. "Just, like that, oh.. god."

[angelilacs]

love? love. ˎˊ˗

⭑ waking them up with breakfast.

⭑ cooking and the other person hugging them from behind randomly.

⭑ ironing their laundry;

⭑ “what are you doing?” “ironing?” “since when do you do that?” “since you told me you don’t enjoy it.”

⭑ reading a book with one of them in the other’s lap, a few minutes into it they start kissing down their neck.

⭑ they come back from work and find their partner crying so they both sit on the floor until they stop�� they end up sleeping on the bean bags.

⭑ waiting for them to come home in lingerie that you just recently bought in their favourite color.

⭑ they find a photo album of their best moments in their partner’s underwear drawer.

⭑ coming home from a long day at work to a homemade dinner (salmon and lemon garlic orzo).

⭑ showering alone before their partner knocks on the door to join them with a speaker.

⭑ one of them breaking an expensive wine glass and panicking before their partner reassures their worries away.

⭑ “baby, what’s wrong? it’s just glass.” “i’m so so sorry.” “stop, the important thing is that you’re okay.”

⭑ “can’t believe i get to wake up next to you.”

⭑ “i want to have a family with you—” “what?” “i want to see a mini us running around, wanna see you handle them and then when you get tired i get to watch you sleep with them in my arms.” “it’s not that easy—” “but i get to do it with you.”

based on this ask !

[only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are]

could u maybeeeee do a rough caretaker x super sensitive whumpee? Maybe hospital setting, non con drugs, force feeding?? idk but i LOVED ur out like a light

By the end this turned into kind of a Munchausen by Proxy syndrome situation at least to me, where Caretaker is convinced Whumpee is sick or maybe they're just the one making Whumpee sick..? Anyway read it how you like! I hope this is okay for you and ticked all the boxes!!!

CWs: forced drugging, needles, sedation, medical setting, forced feeding, forced intubation (NG tube) restraints

“Let me GO!"

“Just hold still.” Caretaker ground out, pinning a wriggling Whumpee to their chest. “You're making this more difficult than it has to be.”

They threw Whumpee onto the bed, easily overpowering them and slipping both wrists and ankles into soft padded cuffs that were tied to the bed.

Whumpee let out a terrified shriek as Caretaker affixed the last restraint, then picked up a syringe off a metal trolley next to the bed.

“Here, this should help.” Caretaker flicked the cap off the syringe and drove the needle into Whumpee's thigh, emptying the contents swiftly into the muscle. Whumpee let out a cry like a wounded animal as the drug began to pump into their system.

“No, no, no..” Whumpee breathed as their limbs began to weaken and go slack in the restraints. "Don't.. need it. I'm fine.. mmfine.."

“Much better.” Caretaker patted Whumpee's head. “This is all for your own good. You get that, right?” They asked, smiling softly.

Whumpee’s heavy breaths slowed, and their head slumped back against the pillows.

“That's better. Now we can get some food into you.”

Caretaker turned their back on Whumpee, rummaging amongst medical supplies as they set up a tray with various tubes and syringes.

They snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, causing Whumpee to flinch against the restraints.

The drugs hadn't fully taken effect yet, and so Whumpee knew whatever was about to happen would not be pleasant.

Caretaker ignored their pleas, reaching for a long piece of tubing, which they removed from sterile packaging. They held the tubing up to Whumpee's cheek, measuring it and marking a line across it with a marker. Then, Caretaker covered the end of the tube in some kind of gel before leaning over and shoving it up into Whumpee's nostril without warning. Whumpee began to cough and splutter, trying to pull their head away, but Caretaker trapped their head in place and continued to force the tube further up. Whumpee felt the tube reach the back of their nose and begin to go down their throat. It was a horrifying, invasive feeling as they began to cough and gag at the foreign object, eyes watering with the force of the intrusion. The tube was still going further and further down until it seemed to reach deep inside their stomach. Finally, Caretaker stopped, pulling back and using a small piece of tape to tape the other end of the tube to Whumpee's cheek. Whumpee took in a deep breath racked with sobs as they tried to steady their queasy stomach.

Caretaker patted their head. “Wasn't that easier when you stopped fighting?” They asked condescendingly.

Whumpee spat in their direction. Caretaker simply sighed and cleaned up the spit from Whumpee's chin. They then picked up a bottle-like container, poured an unappetising solution into it, and then attached tubing to it, which ran to the end of the tube on Whumpee's face. They hung the bottle up on an IV stand as the concotction began to flow from the stand into the tube and into Whumpee's stomach. The initial sensation was just cold. Then, the solution travelled into Whumpee's stomach, and the sensation of being filled from within made Whumpee gag again.

“Deep breaths.” Caretaker cooed, massaging Whumpee's stomach.

Tears pooled in Whumpee's eyes as they tried to breathe through the nausea, finally managing to get through the sensation until all the solution was gone. As the next breath left their body, they felt their eyes growing heavy.

“You can sleep now, Whumpee.” Caretaker soothed, stroking their gloved hand through Whumpee's hair. “Sh, just rest.”

Whumpee wanted to say no, that there was something wrong, but the drugs were making the room spin, and they just wanted to close their eyes and …

Caretaker smiled as Whumpee's head drooped against their chest, their patient finally unconscious, finally calm. They whispered, “Just rest. I'll take care of you. I'm the only one who can make you better.”

[watercolorfreckles]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t want to!!❤️

Hello! This has been sittin in my inbox for many months during my huge writing rut, sorry about that! I know you also gave this prompt to @the-modern-typewriter and she's been making an incredible series with it on patreon! I changed some things around because I don't want to in any way attempt some sad copy of her interpretation, but I was still inspired by the prompt itself, so I've taken some fairly big liberties to avoid any significant similarities! Hope that's okay! Also, please manage your expectations, I do not compare to the magic that is TMT's writing 😆

TW: Brief depictions of body horror. Violence.

The power blew out in sections. The lights dissolved sector by sector with a sickening whine and click–one by one–in approach.

The commotion ripped Eloise from the fictional world she was lost in, aged page corners still pinched beneath her thumb. Her spirited storytelling abruptly died behind her teeth.

Somewhere in the distance, one person shouted. Two.

Her gaze flicked behind them to the door isolating herself and the bound supervillain from the other sectors of the Maximum Security Prison for Powered Individuals or, as everyone called it, The Max. Seeing nothing but black beyond the bullet-proof glass, her attention snapped forward again to the supervillain imprisoned across from her. 

Was this the start of some elaborate escape plan on his part? Why did it have to happen on a day that she was stuck fulfilling her community service hours instead of being something she could safely gawk at in the newspaper from a distance in a few days? Her stomach did a nauseated flip. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, voice quivering only a little. Her fingers tightened around her book.

The villain made a show of looking pointedly at his restraints. Wrists strung taut and chained to either wall, he shrugged an innocent shoulder at her as if to say “clearly, nothing.” He was perched on the edge of his bed like a bird, tilting his head with a matching sort of probing curiosity. 

For all the chaos outside of the room, Artisan had not a hair out of place. He appeared perfectly unconcerned, though as thoroughly trapped as ever: ankles shackled, arms stretched uselessly apart from each other. The power-dampening collar wrapped around his neck still blipped a faint red light, indicating it was active. 

The prisoners were rioting. Surely they couldn’t get too far? Containing the most dangerous of powered individuals was, after all, the express purpose of the facility…

The lights above them flickered, dipping the room in and out of inky darkness before settling into a dimly lit haze. Eloise’s breath stalled. The imposing dark felt like a threat, as if the lights could keep the monsters at bay. It only made a little sense, in the way that a child feels safe from the monsters under their bed as long as their nightlight is plugged in.

Except that these monsters were real. The most dangerous in the country. And she was currently feet away from the monster that made even other monsters run.

He hadn’t seemed so bad in the time that she’d known him. Quiet, impassive, yet twisting her gut with pity any time she eyed his barbaric restraints. The least she could do–while crossing off her hours–was to read the supervillain a story every few days. She couldn’t change his fate. Couldn’t make him more comfortable. What she could do was rattle off, sheepishly, about fictional worlds and impactful characters in literature and the way that a well-crafted story could transport you somewhere better.

A crash, gunshots, a scream. Tension racketed through Eloise’s shoulders. More shouts chased thundering footsteps.

Things were going very, very, wrong. And she was very much out of her depth.

Eloise jolted as something struck the door, her special-edition copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein falling to the ground and skidding away.

Finally, the lights cut out. With it, every noticeable piece of tech died. All of the energy felt sucked out of the room as if vacuumed. The camera’s blinking light disappeared. Alarms that should have been wailing cut silent. Speakers, keypads, and security systems, all dead. The secondary generator hadn’t sprung to life yet. That meant that this was more than a simple power outage. This was a calculated revolt.

 Eloise’s mind raced through a list of everything else that must have been failing. Coms. Sedative gas. Shock collars. Layers and layers of security locks…

Power dampeners.

Panic clamped vice-like and suffocating around her throat. Artisan’s collar was no longer blinking. 

She froze in the eerie silence of the cell, afraid of shattering the fragile calm. Her heart thumped, rabid, against her ribs.

Chains rattled and clinked to the floor.

Eloise bolted blindly for the door, smacking her palm against the DNA scanner while frantically swiping her “Volunteer Staff” badge through the card reader. When neither miraculously came to life, she resorted to banging on the door.

“Let me out, let me out! Guard!”

The door could only be opened by one person inside the cell and one outside simultaneously unlocking the security checkpoints. Even if the power were on, if the guard on the other side was gone…

The emergency floodlights kicked on, bathing the building in startling fluorescence. Eloise flinched, briefly stunned.

Hands grabbed her firmly from behind, yanking her backward.

Eloise yelped. “No, please–!”

The spot that she had been standing in exploded, steel door and concrete chunks collapsing into the room in a barrage of shrapnel. Something–no, someone–landed, bones crunching, at her feet. The guard who had last been standing on the opposite side of the door lay motionless. His blood puddled the floor, staining the soles of her Converse sneakers.

A horrified sound choked in Eloise’s throat.

Another supervillain strode in, eyes alight with hatred and something more–power. His lip curled, waving a mocking hand–engulfed in green energy–at the guard’s corpse. “God. I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. That one always got on my nerves.”

Artisan looked unimpressed. “You’re making a mess in my cell.”

Eloise’s breath caught. Hearing the supervillain’s voice was jarring. Artisan rarely spoke. Not that any of the other staff had ever actually attempted conversation with him… But even in news clips and YouTube videos, he carried himself with the kind of self-assured quiet of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove. His lethal efficiency did more for his reputation than any words could.

The other man was a villain named William Frenzy, a telekinetic with a gleeful taste for violence.

Faced with Artisan’s startling calm, Frenzy… paused. Faltering on a tight rope he had moments before been strolling across. 

“Yes, well. It won’t have to be your cell much longer, will it? They can’t stop all of us.” He smirked at the dead body on the floor. “Some of them can’t even stop one of us.”

Eloise shrank back toward the corner nearest the door, agonizingly slow, willing the ugly shadows from the artificial lighting to swallow her up while the supers focused on each other. She was the kind of person that people tended not to notice; a background character in the perimeter of a story that the protagonist would meet once and never spare a thought again. She wished, then, that invisibility really was her superpower.

Artisan said nothing, his steely gaze fixed upon Frenzy.

Frenzy floundered beneath the scrutiny. The smugness buffered on his face. Finally, he huffed, crossing his arms. “I made you a nice and easy door out. You’re welcome.” He flicked a hand toward the gaping hole in the wall.

Eloise inched further toward it.

Artisan tutted, and while it wasn’t aimed at her, it shot a cold thrill up her spine. She froze, briefly, before continuing her tantalizing escape. She listened to Artisan speak again. 

“I did not need anything from you. I’ll be getting out regardless. You on the other hand…” 

Eloise stared as Frenzy’s skin shrank taut against his bones, the frame of him creaking and groaning like an old tree in the wind. The air choked out of him, fingers grabbing at his jaw as it stretched open too wide. The corners of his lips tore, slitting his mouth into a gaping maw.

The faintest of smiles graced Artisan's lips as he continued, soft as ever. “Say sorry.”

Eloise didn’t wait to see the carnage through, slipping out into the hall and running.

The other sectors were washed in the same sterile glow as Artisan’s cell was, blue-tinged and horrible, like the lights in a dentist's office. She kept to the edge of things as best she could, clinging to the walls and dark corners.

There was brawling in every sector—guards with weapons drawn mowed to the ground by the creatures they had wardened for so long. A villain fell as shots rang out. Another grabbed the guard from behind, cracking his skull against their knee. 

The smell of blood stung Eloise’s nostrils. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe.

She turned to flee down another hall, but two fighting inmates crashed into the doorway in front of her.

Eloise squealed, jerking backward into the belly of the room's chaos.

Don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me.

Everyone was so occupied by their chosen prey, maybe she could fade into the background. Maybe she could–

Her heel caught on something and she tumbled, gracelessly, to the floor. It took her several moments to register the lake of blood seeping warm and sticky into her clothing. 

Terror blurred her brain in a white flash bang.

Disappear, disappear, disappear…

“Mm. What do we have here?”

Eloise couldn’t bring herself to lift her head. She clamped her eyes shut, another child’s illusion of protection. 

The villain opposite her chuckled. He ripped her volunteer badge off of its clip against her chest. Her eyes snapped open again. She recognized him as a ringleader among superpowered thieves. They called him Volt.

“Volunteer, eh? A pretty thing like you should know better than to willingly set foot in a prison full of men with nothing left to lose. It’s been a long sentence, darling. I could make excellent use of your volunteer services. Get up.”

Numbly, ears full of static, Eloise shook her head.

Volt frowned, electricity jumping to life in his palms. “No?” He reached for her, hand nearing her throat.

“Keep your hands to yourself or I will remove them.” 

Artisan’s voice was calm. His eyes were not.

The room quieted.

Spatters of red decorated Artisan’s prison uniform. A few drops dotted his face and he brushed them away with his knuckles, smearing the crimson across his cheek. Almost lazily, he popped his neck and stretched his shoulders, no doubt sore from the strain his restraints kept him in.

The villain across from Eloise paused, sparks still dancing across his fingertips. He regarded Artisan with the same wary caution as Frenzy had.

Before he'd been… Before Artisan had…

Eloise swallowed back the nausea climbing her throat.

Finally, Volt’s hand lowered. “She's yours?”

“She's hers. Step away.”

The man hesitated a moment too long. Artisan didn't offer a second warning. 

As if puppeted, the man's fingers raised to gauge at his own eyes. He screamed, the faint evidence of Artisan’s power shimmering over him. He clawed, next, at the skin on his face, peeling it back like wet wallpaper. 

As promised, his wrists crunched and bent, wrenching all on their own at impossible angles.

Eloise covered her ears, unable to bear the screaming. She felt sick.

“Stop,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

It did. The man collapsed into a sobbing, bloodied heap.

When Eloise managed to look at Artisan, she startled to find his attention fixed on her.

They stared at each other for a stretch of silence that itched. She imagined being forced to choke on her own lungs, or her skull constricting in on itself until it squashed her brain into pulp. For being so bold as to run, he might snap her legs and reaffix them the wrong direction, or splinter her bones to poke, grotesque, out of her skin. They always did say that his victims were his personal works of art, bodies twisted into shells of monsters.

He crooked a finger, beckoning her.

The edges of her vision swooped fuzzy and vertiginous. She rose onto wobbly knees and pushed herself to her feet. When she swayed, Artisan caught her elbow, slipping an arm around her waist to lead her forward.

He did not look back at the others, with complete confidence that no one would challenge him.

No one did.

Eloise was barely aware of taking one step after another. When they arrived back in the villain’s cell, the bodies of Frenzy and the dead guard, thankfully, were gone, though the floor was streaked with the drag lines of their blood.

She wrenched her gaze away.

Artisan’s hand moved further down her arm to her wrist, gesturing that she sit on his bed. When she shifted to do so, his grip tightened, tugging her to a stop. She frozen and tried to read his face. 

His dark brows were furrowed, suspicious eyes flicking from hers down to her hand.

He pulled down her sleeve and held her wrist up between them, revealing the power-blocking cuff clamped around it. His head cocked. He waited.

Eloise swallowed. “I’m not a super. I mean- not a super-super. Just a…..no one.”

“A no-one who volunteers at The Max? With a power-dampener?”

“They’re terms of my probation,” she blurted. “A thousand hours of community service here and a power-inhibitor for a year. I think they put me here to threaten me with where I could end up if I continue on like… Um…”

“Me.”

“A villain,” she clarified, as if that was better. 

Her gaze flitted from the fingers wrapped around her wrist and up to the villain’s face again. The harsh lighting haloed him, dimly silhouetting his face. He looked haunting. He looked lovely. A beautiful house, old and creaking, wrapped in ghosts like a bride’s veil and left to rot. 

“What did you do?”

“I…” Eloise felt very small. “I lied about being powered on my documents. So that they wouldn’t put me on the registry. When they found me out, I tried to run away.”

Artisan’s scrutiny burned her cheeks. He let go of her wrist.

“...What can you do?”

“Nothing special,” she said, cradling her wrist–wholly uninjured as it was–in her other hand. “It doesn’t even work most of the time. My power is sort of…blending in. Going unnoticed. When it’s working, I could stand in a the White House and people’s attention would glide over me as if I belonged there. Not quite invisible, but… It just tricks your brain into not thinking twice.”

Artisan’s eyes narrowed.

Eloise flinched back a step, stumbling back over her fallen book onto the bed. She stared at him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, but she still waited for the catch. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them? Trying to escape?”

The villain considered her for a long moment. He sat down beside her, and the hard cot creaked beneath his weight. “Mm. That’s just it. No one inside the prison could have blown the power-dampeners. They require someone with powers to turn them off or on, and the security is impenetrable. My team has tried. Besides, if this was a simple power outage, the inhibitors would still be on. But they’re not. This was premeditated–and no one imprisoned here could have done it. No one on the outside could have done it. So. Process of elimination. Who’s left?”

That was the most Eloise had ever heard Artisan speak, and she could only sit and listen intently–As he had when she’d read him stories. Her brain whirred in a jumbled jigsaw of puzzle pieces. 

“It… It could only be an inside job.” She wet her lips. “The heroes- The higher-ups- They want the prisoners to break out so that they can kill them. A clean massacre. Justified under the law. The world’s most dangerous criminals could never be allowed to escape…”

Artisan smiled and it swirled something in her insides. “A convenient way to get rid of all of the pesky criminals clogging up the system. I’d bet anything that there are 50 snipers surrounding the building, waiting to slaughter anyone who steps foot outside.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Artisan agreed, his smile easing into something softer; something with less feral teeth.

“Thank you for helping me,” Eloise whispered. “What do we do now?”

Artisan hummed. He bent down and swept up her book, dropping it into her lap. He laid back against his pillow and crossed his arms behind his head. The bloodspots on his skin and clothes glittered in the lowlight. 

“Keep reading. I want to know how it ends.”

Part 2

[ambrosiagoldfish]

Imagine a sleepy make-out session with Adam.

You’re both too tired to do anything more (much to Adam’s dismay) but still, that doesn’t stop him from keeping his hands off you. Grabbing your arms, legs, face, groping anything he can get his big callusedhands on. All he can do is let out muffled moans or swear under his breath as you both deeply kiss.

He can’t get enough of your soft lips on his, your body on top of his, or the way you both fight for dominance. He’d occasionally softly bite your lip with his sharp teeth, causing you to let out a breathy moan in between kisses. Your hands are tangled in his brown hair. The short, soft strands interlocking with your fingers as you pull his face towards yours. You try to hold on to consciousness as long as you could, but eventually your actions become sloppy as you both drift closer and closer to sleep.

The sounds of kissing slowly decelerates before stoping entirely as soft snores began to sound out in the quiet night of heaven.

[avvail-whumps]

I’m just thinking about a vampire hunter who lost their arm. They replace it with a prosthetic one made out of silver. Imagining the pain when they grab a vampire, or pin them down by their neck while their skin burns under the silver and there’s nothing they can do because it hurts so much. Fingers desperately trying to find something other than the arm to grab onto to try and pry them off.

[soapy-birblover]

nah but I can’t stop thinking about their early days. Charles accompanying Edwin as he combs through records of old newspapers, only to find a short entry on the outcome of the case of his death. “Act of God.” The face Edwin might have made, the look Charles would give him, but no questions, it’s too soon for that. He might look into death records, to find his parents; when and where and how.

Would Charles attend his own funeral, to see who shows up? Edwin would be there with him, I think. Politely standing behind him, for after all, this is the funeral of a boy he’s only just getting to know. When Charles’ father gives a speech, is then when his jaw would tighten, and he would tell Edwin that he “wasn’t a nice man”?

Where would they wander, these ghosts? Did they find the attic for their agency immediately, or did they roam the streets of London, finding abandoned spots to rest in? They don’t need to sleep, after all. I think Charles would have tried his darnedest to. Edwin might be restless, after years spent in hell. Charles would be able to get him to fully unwind after 70 years of running. Edwin would state that his time in hell was a mistake, a technicality, but he wouldn’t elaborate. Not yet. And Charles would be fine with that.

I can imagine Charles trying and failing to catch Edwin up on 70 years of history. He wouldn’t be able to answer all of Edwin’s specific and detailed questions about why or who or exactly what happened next. Edwin would go to a library to figure it out himself, and Charles would go along too, because that’s what they do now. Wherever one wanders, the other goes.

They would eventually open up, their banter transitioning from the mundane to more personal, about their deaths and about their lives. They would establish and build the agency, and help hundreds of ghosts move on.

But in those early days, neither of them had a clue what they were doing, except that they wanted to do it together, with this stranger who was quickly becoming familiar. It would have felt both fragile and stable, as if their friendship could end in a matter of days or last forever. They were each other’s last bit of uncertainty in a world which otherwise looked unchanging, with their bodies frozen in time and the lack of stakes that comes with already being dead.

You could say they became each others’ unfinished business.

[addiepaca]

#02 Wavering Resolve

“Honey.”

The Villain fidgeted with the ends of their nails, barely paying attention to the movie their spouse had selected. The lack of illumination in their shared living space except for the TV screen only made them feel more cramped. Villain’s gaze flickered to their lover’s face every now and then, an attempt to gauge their reaction. Though much to their dismay, the other was completely immersed in the movie—about superheroes nonetheless. They couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to watch a film about heroes, aren’t they overdone by now?

“...Honey,” Villain tried again, steeling their resolve as they finally locked eyes with them. Trying to ignore how the brilliant colors emanating from the movie played on their features brilliantly, reflected in their soft eyes. A sight to behold, but not what the Villain needed right now.

“Dear,” Hero replied with a snarky grin, slightly amused by their spouse’s display of anxiousness. Though a single look in their dilated pupils and stern expression told the Hero it was something serious. They shifted on the couch, giving them their full attention as they waited patiently for them to continue.

“I-” Villain struggled for a moment, a distasteful sensation curling up in their stomach. “I need to tell you something.”

Ignoring the obnoxiously loud sound effects from the ongoing fight scene, Hero tilted their head, raising their eyebrows in curiosity. “Yeah sure,” they replied softly. Letting the other work through it at their own pace.

The Villain had the sudden urge to retreat from the conversation. While the idea of not keeping any secrets from their spouse had been a long time promise, it was a dreadful matter to convey considering their… status. A criminal—or worse a monster, Villain wondered what words would come to Hero’s mind when they found out. If they found out.

Of course Villain practiced the words, carefully calibrating the perfect response to every reaction they could think of. They knew better than to hope for immediate acceptance and a bed of roses waiting for them after revealing their identity. At the same time, Villain couldn’t imagine their spouse wanting to be involved in the Hero-Villain business; they never had any interest in the matter. Not to their knowledge, at least.

God, what if they want to break up over this? Who would willingly want to be with a wanted fugitive of the law anyways? In fact, the Villain would be more concerned if the Hero decided to stay. Though all the worst outcomes ran through the Villain’s mind at that moment, a small part of them wanted to hold on to their spouse. Perhaps there was hope that they would stay for them. Entertaining such thoughts may be childish, yet it was a comforting notion that maybe their love could overcome their flaws after all. 

The couch creaked under their weight as they shifted again, it seemed like a faraway fantasy for the Villain, they realized how long they had been stalling and cleared their throat. Suddenly all of that practicing went out the window and they blanked, unsure of what to say or even how to act. Their fingers rubbing the nape of their neck, clinging on to the last sense of normalcy while they tried to compose themselves.

“I felt like I needed to tell you, I’m…” 

The world seemed to halt the moment they uttered those words. Their spouse, who was still patiently focusing on them despite their reluctance to even graze the subject matter, reached out a hand to caress their knuckles. Such a gentle action, their touch feather-like and warm, easing some of the tension in their shoulders that they didn’t even realize were present. Would that same comforting expression still be present when they told the truth?

Villain held their tongue, their eyes darting away for a moment. Nearly consumed by their thoughts as their heart loudly pounded inside their chest. They wondered if the Hero could hear the quickening rhythm. Hero leaned closer, their noses inches away from brushing against each other, resting their forehead against the Villain’s while cradling their hand. Their eyes locked on the other.

“...You’re?”

Maybe it wasn’t the right time. Villain wanted to hold on to this moment, this familiarity, if only for a few days, weeks, months perhaps. Losing something you once held dear, Villain didn’t know if they could handle that.

“...I don’t like the new rug.”

Hero blinked slowly for a few moments before a slight frown appeared on their lips, followed by an “Oh,” which implied both surprise and disappointment. Villain took their hand, entangling their fingers together while cursing themselves internally for their cowardice. “Yeah, it’s just… not great. I think we have to get rid of it.”

“What’s wrong with it? I thought you liked it.”

They pursed their lips for a moment, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume—as if the sound effects weren’t obnoxious enough—while they made up an excuse. “The texture really isn’t great, I mean I thought I’d like it but now? Not really.”

“Well okay, that’s fine,” Hero replied. Admittedly a bit taken aback since they had no qualms about that rug before, but if their spouse thought otherwise they didn’t mind compromising. Villain chuckled—awkwardly—rotating their head back to face the TV, still holding their hands together. 

Hero had to admit, they were slightly disappointed that Villain ultimately decided against revealing their identity, as they had many nights before. While Hero had their own fair share of secrets, they didn’t want to burden their lover with the pressure of unveiling their less than legal occupation if the Hero were to tell them theirs. So they waited until the other trusted them enough, secrets never stay secrets forever.  At least it was cute, this little game of to reveal or not to reveal they had going on. In spite of the fact that their lover was literally the fiend they had been trying to catch for months now, The Hero knew they would stay. Despite the consequences. They wondered if Villain knew that.

[orchid-and-bone]

"Savior" ||

Arthur Morgan x GN!Reader

Rating: None

Length: 2.1k

Asked by: @photo1030

Ooo! Random thought, maybe can link to my last request. Reader (or character, your choice) gets hurt and Arthur has to take care of them. Maybe shot in the leg and he has to carry them. They get to see a softer side to him, being all caretaker and protective.

Protective Arthur is just... *chef's kiss* I can't explain it but seeing him so good with a gun, being able to down someone within seconds then to turn around and be so gentle with you?? I need it, crave it, even. Thanks for the ask, hon!~

*

It was supposed to be a simple bank coach robbery, just a quick in-and-out sort of situation, and you insisted that you go along to assist Mary-Beth and Sean, but with Arthur being as worried as he always was, he felt it was best to tag along and make sure Sean didn’t pull you into any other mischief. The Irishman, of course, took offense to that, but he didn’t exactly mind that you two wanted to tag along. The more the merrier, even if the cut of the pay was less.

As much as Arthur tried to insist you remain back, you were headstrong and refused to let him tell you what you were capable of. You’d had a successful string of heists you were able to pull off with the other gang members, so why would this one be any different? Without much argument afterward, you rode off on your horse behind Sean and Mary-Beth, and a disgruntled Arthur followed you all from the rear. 

It was difficult to put into words how this made Arthur feel, but he knew that going along to assist would have eased his discomfort, and hearing Sean’s plan to distract the coach was more than entertainment in itself. But with Sean being inept with firearms, Arthur had ridden alongside your horse to listen in on the plan. 

Mary-Beth was more than excited to get out of the camp and put her talent to good use, and even more so when you had offered to tag along if they wouldn’t mind. “Oh, this is excitin’!” She exclaimed with a large smile on her face. “Easy enough to flag ‘em down, I think.”

Sean was proud of his idea and felt that he should have had more credit, but Arthur, being who he was, was unsure and unimpressed with Sean’s usefulness when it came to stressful situations. 

“I’m just keepin’ an eye on you, MacGuire, I know they’re solid,” he stated matter-of-factly as his horse trotted along to the speed of Ennis. 

“Alright, alright, you get knocked out on a mission one time-”

“More than once,” Arthur corrected. 

The Irishman just scoffed and shook his head. “Look, you can write about it in your journals, but let’s get back to my job, the one I brought y’all in on!” He huffed.

You couldn’t help but laugh at how much those two men were always at each other’s throats, no matter what the other was doing. “Let’s focus, gentleman, the lady and I will have this done lickety-split, it’ll be a cakewalk.” You looked over at Arthur with confidence shining in your eyes, and you thought you caught a glimpse of a smile from across his face, but it was gone before you could blink. 

Sean led the way until they came to a crossroads, then he told you all to keep the horses out of sight as he scoped out where they could hide for the time being. “Alright then, here we are, they’ll be comin’ from the North any minute, you both know what you’re doin’, right?”

Arthur just scoffed and shook his head. “Course they know what they’re doin’,” he replied gruffly.

You jumped down from your horse and patted its muzzle gently. “Mary-Beth is gonna run out and flag ‘em down, I’ll be off a ways to scope out the guards, and you two will be behind the log. Sean will ring off some shots, and Arthur will come in and clean up while I pick ‘em off from behind. Easy.”

Sean looked satisfied with that response and nodded. “Alright, perfect! Now, Morgan, let’s go and get behind this log, you-” he pointed in your direction, “-get over to those trees and don’t be spotted. Mary-Beth, get ready.”

The redhead felt proud of this plan, he was sure everything would work out, and he had the details down to a T. Everything went fine until it didn’t.

Instead of spooking the guards to throw them off, Sean took aim after hearing the way one of the men spoke to Mary-Beth and scoped him from his spot behind the log. Arthur immediately began to fire, albeit reluctantly since Sean was deviating from the initial plan. He hadn’t caught sight of you yet, but he figured you were doing alright for yourself. Then suddenly, a man lunged for Mary-Beth and held a gun to her head, his arm clenched around her throat.

“Let GO of me!” She snapped, trying her best to claw at his arm.

“Got your little lady friend here! Drop your guns!”

Arthur removed his rolling block rifle and watched the man hide himself behind the woman through the scope. “Dammit, he keeps movin’, don’t got a clear shot.”

“I got it!” You suddenly yelled out, and before you had a chance to line up the shot, the man had heard you and took aim. The shot rang out and the bullet penetrated your upper thigh. 

Your scream echoed out and Arthur finally had a clear shot to take the man down for good. “Sean, get Mary-Beth! I got them!” He said as he threw the gun over his shoulder and took off running where you’d fallen to the ground. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled to himself as he finally caught up to you. 

You were trying your best to hold onto your leg the best you could to apply pressure, but it didn’t help much, you couldn’t stifle the scream you released when it hurt a little too much. “Shit, guess I messed that up badly…”

“Nah, you didn’t, lemme see,” Arthur said as he moved your hands, checking out where the wound was. “Ah, right through the meat of the leg but just missed your femoral artery. You’ll be alright, just gotta treat it when we get to camp. C’mon, it ain’t gonna feel pretty.” 

Arthur grabbed his bandana and tied it around your leg the best he could to keep pressure, then he scooped you into his arms and carried you back to his horse. 

Sean and Mary-Beth had cleaned out the coach and the dead men’s pockets as he took care of you, but Mary-Beth felt awful. “Are they gonna be alright?” She asked, her tone laced with worry. 

He just nodded and helped you as carefully as he could onto his horse, but the discomfort was a lot, yet you remained as strong as you could and held onto the horn of the saddle. “Call my horse, please…” You whimpered. “Can’t leave ‘em here…”

“You worry ‘bout yourself, your horse’ll be fine,” the gunslinger assured you as he hopped on behind you. “It’s gonna hurt with the ride but the faster we get back the better. Y’all go on, we’ll split the money when we meet back, don’t let anyone follow you.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Sean said with a meek smile, feeling awful you’d been hurt. “Take care of ‘em, will ya?” 

Arthur nodded in response, whistled for your horse to follow, and rode off as quickly as he could. The ride was definitely painful, but you managed to hold out long enough until you got back to camp, where Arthur had taken you to your tent, which thankfully had some privacy. He left you alone for all of two minutes when he came back with all the necessities he needed to fix you up proper. 

You lay there on your cot, and as you tried to look up at him to speak, all you could do was groan in pain until he placed his hand gently on the back of your neck, having you sit up slightly. “Here, take a shot of whiskey, it’ll help a bit. I gotta dig the bullet out and cauterize the wound.”

After hearing all that and swallowing the burning liquid, your consciousness was in and out, very hazy, until you saw black and just heard the sound of Arthur’s voice. 

Hours later, you awoke with a dry hoarseness in your throat, your eyes blinked rapidly to adjust to the low lamplight that had been inside your tent, and you looked up to see Arthur beside your cot. He already reached for the deerskin and placed it to your lips. You drank greedily at the water until you felt satisfied enough to pull away, coughing from the coldness. 

“There you are,” Arthur greeted softly, removing the deerskin from your grasp. “You’re gonna be fine, just gotta stay off the leg for a while,” he commented. “You feelin’ alright?” He leaned over and dunked a cloth into a bucket of water, then wring it out, and placed it gently over your forehead. 

You looked over at him and smiled softly. “Didn’t know you were so caring,” you joked softly, chuckling to yourself. 

Arthur waved his hand dismissively and scoffed. “Had my fair share of bullets is all, makin’ sure you don’t pull a stunt like that again, you hear?” 

You nodded and a small smile crept across your face, you couldn’t help but stare up at him and admire the man. He acted as if he didn’t care much about others, that he wasn’t any better than a stone-cold killer, but here he was worrying about you and taking care of you. Usually, it was left up to one of the women who were more well-versed in bedside manner, like Miss Grimshaw, but Arthur had insisted on your behalf. Naturally, he didn’t tell you this, it was Mary-Beth who informed you when she came in to visit while Arthur had gone to refill the bucket and grab some more medical supplies from Strauss’s wagon.

“Oh it’s been real sweet, he ain’t left unless he needed to get somethin’ for you,” Mary-Beth beamed. “Almost like somethin’ straight out of one of my books, he’s been real particular, too.”

“Of what?” You questioned.

“He hasn’t let anyone other than me and Tilly into your tent, even was on edge when Charles offered to help.” 

This information made your cheeks feel warm, he was practically babying you back to health, you’d never seen this side of him before. “Wow, I would have never expected Arthur Morgan to be at my bed-side,” you teased as you looked up at the young woman. 

She nodded, still all smiles. “Well, I hear him comin’ so that’s my cue, better leave you to it or else he’ll kick me out,” she joked and stood up from the chair. “You feel better, and holler if you need anythin’ from us.”

“Thanks, Mary-Beth.”

She nodded her head and left the tent, then was quickly replaced by Arthur, who set the bucket down beside his chair and had a bowl of stew in the other hand. “You think you can eat yet?”

You hummed in response and wet your dry lips with your tongue. “I can try if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It would, now here,” he offered as he slowly placed his hand beneath your shoulders, giving you a little push to help you sit up.

“Heard you’ve been fussin’ over me since we got back, that true?”

Arthur sighed, knowing damn well Mary-Beth was going to say something to you at some point. “It ain’t a big deal, no big drama,” he waved it off. “Just makin’ sure you’re gonna be okay, which you are, by the way.” He held the bowl until you were ready to take it and try to feed yourself, but still leaned forward in case he needed to grab it from you. “Just rest up and you’ll be right as rain soon enough.” You grabbed the bowl and smiled over at Arthur, the adoration in your eyes quite apparent. “Arthur… thank you, I know you’re gonna think it’s no big deal, but it is to me. Couldn’t have made it without you,” you remarked. “I owe you-”

“You don’t owe me nothin’, well, except maybe one thing.”

Your head perked up and you offered him a smile. “Anything.”

With that, his mouth curled into a wide smile, thoughts running through his head as if he could have said so many things, but those thoughts would be shared later. For now, he figured he should settle on the obvious. “Promise me next time you ain’t gonna go runnin’ with MacGuire, you need a job done, you ask me.” He sat back in the chair and offered a lopsided grin. 

Thankfully you didn’t bring the spoon up to your mouth; you’d laughed and almost dropped the bowl. “Sure thing, Arthur, anything for you.” Your eyes locked with his and you couldn’t help but feel like you owed him more than that, but for now, you owed him to get better and listen for once. You’d show him how grateful you were when you could use your leg again. 

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks again,” you said softly. 

The man just chuckled and lit up a cigarette after getting your permission. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

[imagine-darksiders]

I’m having a really hard time right now. I just found out that my boyfriend of 2.5 years has been cheating on my physically and emotionally. Can I please request something fluffy and comforting of the horsemen reacting to finding out this news or just something fluffy with death? If not no worries, I hope you have a lovely day.

Oh my god that's awful! What a horrible, horrible thing for someone to do to you. I'm so sorry, I've channelled a bit of my own indignation into Death, War and Strife in these responses. I hope they bring you at least a little bit of comfort while you're going through so much. <3

Death:

This is… definitely going to be a problem for you.

Death never liked that sorry excuse for a human anyway… Never liked the way their eyes wandered in a crowd, even when they had your hand clasped possessively in theirs. The eldest Nephilim is an observer first, choosing to watch and wait for information to reveal itself, and after just a few days of watching you and your life-partner interact, he can already tell that there’s immeasurable love on your part, but very little on theirs.

Not that Death is any kind of expert, but he’s fairly certain love doesn’t involve draping oneself over another human while you’re still very much in the vicinity, a human who keeps shooting you quick, spiteful glances and grinning as they cling to your partner and bury their nose in their hair.

From his spot in the shadows, Death would watch your happiness wane, then vanish entirely. You’d turn away, and the Horseman had a sneaking suspicion that you were trying to convince yourself you were just being paranoid.

He had to stand there and listen, fingernails digging crescents into his palms as you quietly asked your partner about it later, politely mentioning how you weren’t sure it was appropriate for them to be all over each other like they often are. The subtle flirts that could easily be misconstrued as friendliness, the lingering touches on each other’s arms, the secretive rendezvous they’d tell you nothing about… You’d noticed it all.

Of course you did. They had the gall to be obvious about it. Death noticed too, and it was only because you told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to interfere in your love life that he didn’t pluck the little wretchs' souls from their bodies right then and there.

You were in love. You wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but the old Horseman wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand by and watch you be treated with so much cruelty.

Your partner’s response to your observations?

‘You’ve been spending too much time around that Horseman. He’s making you paranoid. Are you looking for an excuse to leave me? I bet he wants that, doesn’t he!? Are you two fucking? Is that where this is coming from? Guilty conscience much!?”

If you hadn’t asked Death to take you somewhere outside the city at that very moment, he couldn’t have promised your house would be blood-free by the time it took your partner to finish speaking.

Since then, things have only been escalating. You found out your partner had their ‘friend’ over to stay the night while you visited the Forge Lands. You'd even asked them to join you on the trip, citing that the makers were dying to meet the lover of their favourite human, but of course, they'd brushed off your invitation as if it were an insult.

They’d neglected to tell you of their own plans, of course, and you’d only found out when you came home, crawled into bed with your partner and discovered a pair of shorts under the sheets. A pair that didn’t belong to anyone in your household…

Nothing came of it right away, save for you withdrawing completely, even from Death.

He was just about to stage an intervention when it happened.

It was, of all people, Vulgrim who alerted him. ‘That human of yours didn’t look well,’ he remarked casually when Death passed one of his Serpent Holes near the old Maker Tree, ‘Did you do something? I’m fairly sure they slept all night on that bench…’

It was all Death needed to hear.

Despair careens to a halt outside your door, his hooves kicking up sparks as they skid across the tarmac. Death has already leapt from the saddle by the time the horse stops, and wastes no time storming up the steps towards your front door, only to be given pause when Despair lets out a haunting whinny, drawing his rider to a standstill.

Twisting his mask around, Death squints over his shoulder and finds the steed’s big, skeletal head has pivoted to the right, ears pricked towards a streetlight that keeps its lonely vigil on the path opposite your home.

There, laying on a bench underneath its buzzing glow, Death spots a small figure trying to huddle into their coat for warmth.

Spitting out a curse, the Horseman turns and marches straight for the bench.

You’re startled by an ice-cold hand grabbing you roughly by the shoulder and hauling you over onto your back. Blinking back tears, the blurry image above you focuses until you find yourself peering straight up at the last person you wanted to see tonight. Well… Second to last.

A baltic chill rolls off the Horseman in waves as he glares down at you. “What are you doing out here?” he hisses, beating back the relief that threatens to dribble into his voice, “This is no place for a nap!”

Despite his gruff tone, he’s gentle when he pulls you into an upright position, kneeling down in front of the bench to bring himself to your level.

For several moments, you merely sit there and watch him check you over for injuries, your face a picture of bleakness, damp and sticky with tears. “I found their texts,” is all you offer him in the end.

Death goes very still then, darting his gaze to your face as a low hum starts up in the depths of his chest.

“They’ve been lying to me, Death… This whole time…” Crumpling forwards, you bury your face in your palms, shoulders heaving, “I …. I’m such an idiot! I knew! I knew, I just didn’t want to believe it!”

Almost at once, Death scowls, reaching forwards to slip strong, chilly fingers around your wrists and tug them away from your face. “You are many things,” he tells you sternly, “Hopeful, yes. Optimistic? Certainly. But an idiot? Never. There’s nothing foolish about expecting better from people you trusted.”

“I can’t believe it took me this long to-…” Sniffling, you let your arms go floppy in the Horseman’s grasp, shaking your head. “They’ve been going behind my back for months… They’ve been sending messages to each other… They said they can’t believe I still haven’t figured it out.”

“Do they know you’ve figured it out now?” he presses. If they haven’t yet, they soon will after a livid Reaper comes flying through the front door wielding a scythe…

Giving him a tiny nod, you whisper, “Yeah. Yeah, they know… Kicked me out… Told me they wouldn’t have had to cheat if I wasn’t being so suspicious and clingy…”

If he hadn’t spent so many eons practicing self-control, Death is sure the whole block would be levelled by now, with only you and the Horseman left standing. As it is, he isn’t the young, volatile force he used to be. He is, however, struggling to maintain that carefully concealed composure, for your sake. He knows it’ll only dampen your already dour mood if he were to start collecting souls…

Instead, he closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of your wrists under his palms. Peeling his eyelids apart again, his gaze bathes you in a warmth of his own, the only kind he can give. Golden, ethereal light spills from his eyes and softly illuminates the tears on your cheeks.

“They… ‘kicked you out?” he puts tentatively, aware of the rough growl tinging his voice, “Of your own home?”

“…Technically it’s their home too.”

At that, the Horseman suddenly scoffs, sharp and cold. “Hardly,” he bites out, “You found it first. You had me check it for demon stragglers. Thane and Valus came and made sure it was structurally sound before you moved in! Your partner wasn’t around for that.”

With a grunt, he heaves himself to his feet, ebony hair swaying in front of his mask as he turns to stalk back across the street in the direction of your door.

In a flurry of limbs, you struggle off the bench, calling after him, “Death! Wait!”

He doesn’t, marching straight up the steps and curling his fist around the handle of your door.

“Oh god, what’re you doing? Stop!”

The Horseman’s shoulders rise and fall with a sardonic chuckle, and to your astonishment, he actually does stop, right on the top step, arm braced to rip your front door off its hinges. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he poses, “I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not-!” Shaky hands rake through your hair. “I don’t want to be in the same house as them right now, okay?”

“Oh, you won’t be,” he replies simply, a dark edge lacing the bass of his voice, “Not for long…”

And before you can stop him, before you can say another word to deter your apocalyptic friend from doing… whatever it is he plans to do, Death squeezes the door handle and wrenches the whole thing out of its frame, dropping it to the ground and sending splintered wood scattering across the steps.

You can’t bring yourself to go inside after him.

Like a wraith, the Horseman disappears into the darkness of your hallway, flitting through the house whilst you hover nervously at the bottom of your porch steps, heart in your throat and your elbows clutched tightly in sweaty palms.

It isn’t long before you hear a familiar voice exclaim, ‘What the Hell!?’ though it’s soon drowned out completely by a low, threatening rumble that sounds more like an earthquake than a Horseman’s vocalisation. The whole house even seems to shiver as the noise rolls through it, rattling the shingles and causing the windowpanes to wobble in their frames.

Your stomach drops like a stone when a shadowy figure emerges from the doorway moments later, holding another, far noisier shape aloft by the front of their hoodie.

“Death!” you blurt in shock, gawping up at your partner as they flail and beat their fists uselessly against the Horseman’s fist keeping them airborne, “Oh my god! Put them down!”

“In a moment,” he snarls, hauling your fellow human down the steps and out onto the street. For a brief moment, their eyes connect with yours, and you’re hardly surprised to see their pupils have shrunk to the size of pinpricks, delirious with terror.

“C-call him off!” they bark, earning a rough jostle from their tormentor, “What the fuck did you tell him!? Make this asshole put me d-ack!”

Letting out an inhuman growl, Death jerks to a halt and hoists your ex-partner higher into the air above his head. His arm doesn’t even quiver from the strain of keeping an entire human aloft.

Slowly, dangerously, he lowers your ex down towards his mask, fist twisted into the hoodie’s fabric with a silent promise to do the same to their neck. “You have no idea what you’ve brought upon yourself,” the Horseman seethes, “You will leave this place. You will leave this city. You will never return here unless you’re prepared to face the consequences.”

“What!?” they choke, giving up on hitting his impervious arm and instead trying to pry his fingers out of their hoodie, “Y-you can’t kick me out of Haven! Who the Hell do you think you are!?”

Hackles raised, Death keeps his head tilted back to glare up at them with wide, piercing eyes. “Who am I? Do you really need a reminder?” he laughs but it’s an ugly sound, dark and filled with the promise of pain, “Perhaps I should tell you exactly how and when you’re going to die, see if that jogs your memory.”

You can only watch on as your partner goes several shades paler than normal, shaking their head and begging Death not to tell them.

Cocking his head to one side, Death just shrugs a massive shoulder and says, “Suit yourself.” And with that, he promptly drops your ex on the road with a sickening ‘thud,’ turning his back on them as they writhe about, clutching at their coccyx and wailing in agony. It was quite the tumble.

As he passes you, Death catches your elbow in his palm, pulling you gently away from the human in the road. “Come on. Inside, now…Before you catch a chill.” Sparing a brief glance at the broken door as he guides you inside, he adds, “I’ll get that fixed…”

The night is still in its early hours, but you hardly feel like you’ll be getting much sleep. So, it’s with a heavy heart that you drag yourself into your bedroom, watched all the way by your ever-vigilant companion.

By his very nature, Death isn’t a comforting Nephilim. He’s grateful you don’t ask anything more than for his presence. You don’t expect him to hold you and stroke your hair while you cry against his chest, nor do you ask him to fill your head with pretty words about how you deserve so much better than your ex.

You don’t need to ask him for that. He does it of his own volition.

Instead, you’re content to sit on your bed with the ancient Horseman occupying the space beside you, an ever-constant presence, watchful and protective.

And if, after crying all of your tears out into the quiet night, you slouch sideways against Death and end up with your cheek pressed into his cool, bulbous shoulder, well… he’s not complaining.

War:

War was riding towards your home when he spots you stumbling in the opposite direction down the dark, empty street with a hand clutched around your mouth and your shoulders jumping with harsh, rapid intakes of breath. He’d been on his way to conduct another ‘welfare check,’ as you’ve recently taken to calling them, where he drops into your home just to make sure you’re safe.

So, to see you staggering outside without any visible protection has him spurring Ruin into a loping canter to pull up alongside you. Swinging a leg from his saddle, War drops heavily to the ground beside you with an almighty clang of steel, causing you to jump a foot in the air, as if you hadn’t even noticed him coming.

You really must be out of it to miss the largest Horseman’s approach.

What are you doing out in the city at night? He’s told you until he’s blue in the face how dangerous it still is for humans to wander around alone in the darkness, where demons could be lurking around every corner, sympathisers of the Destroyer or enemies of the Horsemen.

When you whirl around towards him, throwing your hands away from your mouth in shock, he catches his first glimpse of your face.

All at once, the titanic Nephilim goes from disgruntled to downright frenzied.

You’re crying. You’re alone, in the dark, with tears cascading down your ruddy cheeks, and he doesn’t know why.

His famously short fuse bursts into flames, whittling down to an explosion you can see coming from a mile off. Apoplectic with outrage, War surges forwards, crowding you against the faded brick of an old, tumbledown building as he darts his icy glare over you from head to toe.

You must be hurt, he concludes. Once he’s brought you safely into your home, he’s going hunting…

A wall of warm, unassailable muscle keeps you pinned as the Horseman surrounds you with his huge, encompassing gauntlets, their metal fingers splayed just inches above your arms with barely contained agitation. His anger only grows tenfold when you start to cry even harder, turning your face to try and hide from him.

“Who did this?” he rumbles, his voice rolling through you like distant thunder, warning of the storm to come.

“N-Nobody!” you blurt out in a sob.

The Horseman’s jaw clenches shut, canines poking out through a gap in his curling lips.

You know how much he hates being lied to.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you hang your head, lips pursed to hold back another miserable whimper. Under War’s attentive stare, you finally admit that your partner, the person you thought you’d spent the rest of your life with, has been cheating on you.

After an awkward moment spent explaining that cheating means seeking the affections of another behind your back, War’s lips peel back into a ferocious snarl, and the heat he exudes climbs higher and higher until it feels as though you’re standing in front of a burning furnace. Shyly, you tell him that you’d come home to find a stranger in bed with your partner, and you’d simply turned around and fumbled your way out of the house again, though not before taking an axe from the basement and destroying the fridge you’d just fixed, the television you’d scrounged up from a junkyard of course, the front door.

You were always busy in that house with a hammer and nails, fixing what the Apocalypse had broken. They were… good at telling you what needed to be fixed. Now, they can do it themselves. Ought to teach them some goddamn self-sufficiency now that you’re gone.

After willing his Chaos form not to burst out through his skin at the injustice of it all, with wild-eyes, War twists his hood in the direction of your old home, shoulders rising like the hackles of a beast.

He cannot allow this… this disrespect to go unpunished. The coward who did this will pay for his transgression. War’s scowl darkens. Behind him, Ruin throws his head back and bellows out a guttural whinny, pawing a molten hoof at the road until the tarmac starts to turn soft from the heat.

“War?”

Small, quiet, a far cry from the human he knows so well, you sound wounded though he can’t see any blood. You always told him the people who love you are supposed to protect you, to keep you safe and try to make you happy…

It had brought into question his own feelings on more than one occasion…

War knows how much you love the human you called your partner. He’s seen you sacrifice much for their happiness, not least agreeing to limit your exposure to the Horsemen solely because the Four made them so anxious. In War’s eyes, your loyalty to them was always admirable, even if it came at the cost of your closeness to he and his siblings, but now your partner has betrayed you in a way that’s cut you down to your core, spilling sadness out like a severed limb haemorrhages blood.

First thing’s first though… He has to get you somewhere safe. He knows without asking that you won’t be going back to your home… He’ll have to return in the near future to gather some of your belongings, but for now… Well, he’s been looking for an excuse to move you somewhere more secure. Somewhere off-world, perhaps. Like a fortress that he’s been fitting out to suit a very specific, very human set of needs…

Strife:

When he invites himself into your home in the typical, jocular fashion, only to find that you’ve locked yourself in your bedroom, sobbing under the covers, Strife’s first thought is ‘point me at the idiot I’m gonna murder.’

You don’t tell him what happened, not even when he wrenches your door off its hinges and throws it into the adjoining hallway before hauling his armour through the narrow frame to get to you. You know for a fact that he isn’t bluffing when he snarls, “I’ll kill ‘em. Just tell me who, and they’re dead.”

He’s killed plenty of people for lesser things than the unforgiveable crime of hurting his best and only friend.

His trigger finger twitches on the leather of Redemption’s holster.

It takes several minutes before he manages to coax the truth out of you, and when he hears you choke through a raw throat that your partner has been unfaithful, he’s…

… Conflicted.

First, there’s a surging upsweep of excitement. You’ve been spending less and less time with the Horseman lately, something your partner implemented after complaining that Strife would end up getting you killed someday. The nerve… You’re never safer than when Strife is at your side. Of course, there are times when he brings you to places where danger is present, but he’d die before he let said danger touch one, precious hair on your head. Now though, with your confession that you’ve left that cowardly human for good, Strife realises what that really means.

You’re free. You’re no longer tied to the arm of another, and he can finally have you all to himself!

Then, comes the guilt.

Selfish. How could he possibly be happy that your heart has been broken. Death always said Strife was sicker in the head than the rest of them…

Finally, every other thought he has is promptly buried by an uncontrollable, white-hot rage.

How dare they…

How DARE they!

Quick as a flash, he’s ripping Redmption from its holster and storming towards your bedroom door. His jagged edges are too sharp, too barbed and bristling to try and console you right now… He’d only end up hurting you…

“Strife! Wait!” you choke out, scrambling out of bed after him as soon as you realise his intent, “Stop! Wait, w-wait, wait! Don’t!”

It’s only the feeling of your tiny hands wrapping around his gun arm and clinging to it with feverish desperation that the red mist of rage starts to lift, leaving him huffing and snarling like an injured wolf in the doorway to your room.

“Please…” Your watery voice calls him back from the edge he’s teetering on, and he stiffens when you press your forehead into the swell of his bicep, as if to push your plea directly into his body. “Please. Don’t give me something else to have to cope with.”

It’s the only way to reach him.

Appeal to the trigger-happy Horseman’s soft spot.

You.

He loves causing trouble. But he hates when that trouble circles back to you.

With a deep, resonant exhale, Strife’s shoulders slump and he reluctantly slips Redemption back into its holster.

Then, in one, sweeping motion, he spins on his heel and bends down, scooping you off the floor, never minding the yelp of shock he draws from your chapped lips. You’d been crying for a while before he arrived.

The knowledge sets his temper flaring.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he forces the fire in his belly to quell, focusing on the cooling balm of having you held close to him.

With you in arm, he ventures into your living area and plonks himself down in front of the television on your sofa, causing its wooden frame to creak pathetically under his weight. Still bridling, he takes care in nudging a set of controls into your hands.

“Wanna watch somethin’,” he says churlishly, hoping you don’t think his mood is aimed at you, “Somethin’ funny… Cheer me up.”

‘Cheer you up,’ he doesn’t say, because that would invite a level of vulnerability that he isn’t ready to address just yet.

For you, it feels as though you’re sitting in the lap of a ticking time-bomb, though the both of you know that so long as you’re here, he won’t explode.

You’re still crying though, startled by a Horseman sweeping like a hurricane through your house, but at least you’re not alone with your thoughts anymore, nor the doubts or insecurities that keep scuttling like little bugs inside your head. Instead, you can focus on Strife, who eases his hissing temper back bit by bit, tipping you into his chest and curling his chin over you as he glares unseeing at the television screen.

There’ll be Hell to pay, owed by the human who did this to you. Of that he has no doubt. Oh, they’ll suffer, but sadly, he won’t kill them. Anyone who would look elsewhere for love when they had someone like you in their corner is the biggest fool in the Universe, and Strife intends to make sure they know it.

But for as long as you still draw breath, he doesn’t plan on letting another soul try to take you away from him again.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Yandere! Valdor

Valdor, the most loyal, the greatest of the Custodes, a Primarch in all but name. Who else can obsess more than him, whose every function besides loyalty was beaten out? A/N: Playing “fucked up obsessive twinks” on easy mode here, aren’t I? I’m sorry, SCP-XXXX who requested this, but you told me Valdor was a twink, and evil twinks are the best kind of men, so therefore this is your fault! Full throttle ahead, let us be damned together! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Relationships: Valdor/Gn!Reader, mentioned Valdor/Emperor Mentions: @kit-williams would you like some food?

Valdor does not love. 

The Custodes simply can not love. Their love perished beneath treachery and fire, ten thousand years ago, and they simply cannot piece the remnants that was a heart back together again. 

The Emperor took away their ability to love any but Himself, and what else could be left but a hollow void, an immortality without substances, a heart that beats while it lacks its other half? 

There was simply nothing left of him to spare when the Emperor had brought down his claws. His love, his joy, his dreams, all gone, wiped away like sand upon the sea. Leaving behind nothing more than a hollow without sustenance, a phantom vestige of a dream crushed long ago, its corpse entombed within perfected flesh and bone and blood. 

He loves no one, not even himself. When the Emperor died ten thousand years ago, he lost his way. He lost his tether to life itself. And for ten thousand years he wandered for the corpse of his master. There was a poem once, a poem so long ago about the loyal dog that stood guard before his master’s bones, who licked the once-petting hand once, and laid down to die. 

Valdor’s loyalty is no weaker than that dog’s.

He loves no one, not even himself. But he loves the Emperor. He loves Him, so brokenly, so obsessively, so utterly insane in his adoration, the First Custodian would have let Him tear him apart if He wished. 

He loved the Emperor. 

And that is why he loves you. He thinks you to be his Emperor. If not Him, then at least a shard.

He doesn’t care who you were, he doesn’t care whether you were once a captain, a Chapter Master, a Thunder Warrior even. He thinks you to be his master, back from the dead, one of His shards caught in life and flesh. 

He thinks you’re Him. Or, if not Him, at least a fragment of His former glory.

Valdor calls you his Emperor, his shard, his beloved, he ignores any name you had once in favor of calling you his master. A name is only a word, after all, and you are nothing but his Emperor reborn, in his mind. A guardsman, an Astarte, a Thunder Warrior, you are all mortal beneath his eyes. He only smiles that cold, humorless smile of his when you attempt to correct him, when he brushes off your words with the same cold, humorless disinterest. 

Valdor thinks you to be his Emperor. And he doesn't care that you were once someone else, you were not always his beloved, you were not the master he imagined, that you are not the master he built from memories and bones. 

You were nothing before his master, he reasons, you will be nothing after his master, and you were his Emperor once upon a time. It is doubtful if he can even know love, if he had not projected his own delusions of his Emperor upon another. Valdor failed Him once and only now the fates have judged him fit enough to protect a shard of Him, one that is so frail compared to himself, so unspeakably mortal, his atonement for the master he failed so long ago. 

He failed the Emperor once, and watched Him die. He will not do so again.

Protection. You will never walk free again, never without his cold presence by your side, that effortless, confident stride as he accompanies his master. You will never know the taste of sunlight, the easy voice of another conversationalist before their words taper off into uncertainty, and then fear, beneath the jealous glare of your bodyguard. How their sentences trail off, how Valdor looms like some ancient, murderous harpy, his shadow constantly overcasting yours.

He knows nothing of love, of human emotion. But he knows protection. And he knows obsession. 

Valdor is not a passionate man. But he is neither a cruel one either. Of course, Valdor will never raise a spear nor blade against his adoration, to strike his master would certainly mean death, but he will slaughter your loved ones without even horror. He will whisper litanies of loyalty on his knees while his Custodes sink in the knives. He will speak ironclad promises and gilded oaths when they label your soldiers traitors and slaughter them upon the snowfields, when they hail for unity, and hear the blade fall. 

He seems to like walks in wintery fields. It reminds him of what he lost long ago, when the Emperor took him atop Ararat, and he enacted His first vengeance upon the Thunder Warriors. He sometimes brings you there, to altitudes higher than even what a Space Marine can withstand, and gathers you beneath his cloak, whispering memories that were never truly yours, asking for your orders, asking for your forgiveness, asking if you can remember what it felt like ten thousand years ago.

(Sometimes, you can nearly believe him when he says you’re a shard. It’s flattering, almost, to be under the eye of the captain-general.)

He can kill. There is nothing left of him if he could not. Nothing but the Emperor’s spear, a sharpened tool meant to kill and to serve, and to be cast away when its function is complete. You have nothing to fear from him, of course, he would rather end himself than raise a blade against his master. But he loves no other. He does not know how to love. And that makes him dangerous. You know it when you gaze into his eyes, you are sure you could imagine him covered in the blood of your loved ones, guardian spear flashing as he hacks through them without even the shadow of hesitation. He will take no fear, no regret, no relief, barely even satisfaction in the grim act, and yet that is somehow more profane than joy in slaughter. Not even a single hint of joy, wild and unfettered in the sheer cruelty, not even a single hint of an ambition for why he would lay such altars of blood before his master’s feet, only simply because He wanted it to be so, and simply because he loved Him. 

In his eyes, you are his Emperor. But he does not always obey you. He does not kneel as he would’ve knelt before his master. Because he knows, Valdor knows that to protect Him, to serve Him properly, sometimes he must smother Him for His own good. It’s the twisted rationale of a dog who has lost his master, whose death had rocked him so thoroughly he was willing to kill to save Him again. 

Valdor kneels, of course. He’ll kneel before you and speak his words of loyalty, he’ll give you his names one by one if you only ask. Valdor has never considered himself eloquent with words, but he’ll listen to you, he’ll even let you command him as the Emperor would have done. Rank be damned, he cares not if his Emperor had been reborn as a guardsman or an Astartes or even a Thunder Warrior. 

But he does not hide his obsession. To obsess is the only way he knows to love, after all. He’ll smother his beloved with his protection, with his adoration. He’ll hack his way to be their only protector, their only bulwark before the madness, the only man they can trust to defend them. Gaze upon his Emperor once, he’ll tear them apart. Love the Emperor more than him, and he’ll bury their bones beneath the snowfields. 

And be loved by the Emperor more than him….and he’ll betray them as he had betrayed the Thunder Warriors. He’ll sink in golden knives and golden spears in turned backs without even the hint of remorse, Valdor will remind his beloved that it is he who is the servant, it is he who serves to be praised for his duty. Valdor can take you from your family as the Emperor took him from his, he’ll so effortlessly ensure the utter protection of his new Emperor, all for himself. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

It is he who should be the favored servant.

No one can love you more than I, my Emperor.

He’ll croon those litanies of loyalty to you. He’ll whisper those promises of protection, of ambition, he’ll promise you an eternity while standing atop the frozen ashes of your loved ones. He’ll promise you a throne if you don’t cry, if you’ll love him as his master did. He’ll bring you a crown of gold, he’ll strangle the living storm for you, if only you promise to let him protect you, if you promise if you’ll be his Emperor. 

You died once. I will not let you do so again, my Emperor.

And his obsession would never be checked, and much less ended by the true power behind the Imperium.

You are his Emperor. In that mind He broke so thoroughly long ago, you are the Emperor, reborn. Heavy is the head that bears the laurel, bloodied is the hand that holds this mad dog’s leash.

It is Valdor who should be the favored servant. 

No one will protect you more than I, my liege. 

He will protect you. 

He will protect you, obsess over you, guard you with the hollow that is a heart. He’ll bring you a throne, a crown, an army, an eternity, if only you promise, if only you’ll be his Emperor. 

The Emperor died ten thousand years ago. And in turn, he casted you in His corpse.

[urfriendlywriter]

15 sweet/romantic gestures !!

(feel free to use!! the lover girl in me when writing this > <)

occasionally pressing soft kisses to ur temple or cheek [melting]

caressing their cheek and they nuzzle into your touchhhhh T T

their eyes fluttered close even after the kiss has ended.

^ their gaze that meets you is full of pent-up longing and affection !!

a hint of shyness creeping into them when u tease them [💳‼️‼️💳‼️💳]

hugs where they nuzzle their face into your chest

^ "can we stay like this forever?" tears

intimacy of eye contacts, slow kisses, cheek touching !

a quiet, whisper of "i am so proud of you" ✯

"you take such good care of me," is mumbled as they look up at you, drying their hair, their eyes shining with unshed tears, love and adoration. (CRY WITH ME PLEASEEEE)

tucking a small flower behind their ear <33

when they bury their face in ur chest while cuddling !!!

"I am falling in love with you every. single. day." ♡

a flustered "you smell like me.. oh god, it's driving me crazy..." mumble as they pull u closer into a hug [ksksjdnsks]

"marry me, my pretty baby." but u r cuddling and giggling. "I'm your pretty baby now?" they ask, shyly smiling. "yea, u always been." AAAAH

[artpoplibrary]

“Gods aren’t called upon, rather, they are made. They are made with blood and tears and the strain of muscles; bones crushed under the feet of the first ‘heretic’ prophet to preach your gospel. Gods are made in battle, in the solace of the night skies, or, in your case at least, in the obsession of one human; your prophet, with you as their muse.”

God!reader x m! or gn!worshipper

How do we feel about this idea, broskis? Is this the vibes? It would most likely have some toxic codependency stuff going on (but in a romantic wayyy), and also some Yandere behaviour directed at reader—

If folks vibe with this I’ll probably drop the actual first post about this concept on the weekend?

[unforgivenn]

The cold concrete floor sent shivers up Whumpee's spine as they lay there, wrists bound and heart pounding. Whumper's footsteps echoed in the dimly lit room, each step drawing closer, like the slow approach of impending doom.

"You thought you could escape," Whumper's voice dripped with malice, sending a chill down Whumpee's spine. "But you forget, I always find my prey."

Whumpee's breath hitched as Whumper crouched down beside them, a twisted grin etched on their face. The glint of a knife caught the faint light, sending a wave of terror through Whumpee's veins.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Whumper whispered, their breath hot against Whumpee's ear.

Fear consumed Whumpee as Whumper's hand tightened around the handle of the knife, anticipation hanging heavy in the air. In that moment, Whumpee knew there was no escape, only the icy grip of despair tightening around them, suffocating any hope of salvation.

[orangechickenpillow]

Wyll is the one who starts it. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since Karlach visited her parents' grave -- replaying her words over and over in his head, feeling them in his heart. One night it gets too much, the thinking, so he just does it. Karlach gets up from the fire, giving her usual cheery "good night" to everyone, giving her nightly hug to someone. It changes every night, but this time it's Tav. And she gets her usual mismatched chorus of replies from whoever's left around the fire. Sometimes it's only Lae'zel and Astarion who are still up, so she only gets a grunt and a "Yes, good night then." Sometimes it's a "Sweet dreams" from Gale or a vague "Night" from Shadowheart as she waves her away. Tonight, the chorus consists of notes sung by most of them, as they're all still up. And Wyll says it.

"Night, Karlach. Taters."

The woman stops, a smile frozen on her face even as her eyes express something else entirely a moment before tears start to well.

"Oh dear," Astarion hums from where he's lounged back like a cat, and the mild, uninterested concern seems to be more for the rest of them than Karlach herself. Karlach, whose face has begun to smoke as a few tears evaporate on her cheek. But they're gone just as quickly as they were there, and then she's making a noise that usually means someone is about to get crushed in a hug, or kissed, or both.

"I... I haven't heard that in-- ages," she chokes, reaching for Wyll -- hesitating for just a moment (she's come to understand that it's usually better to ask before touching someone -- a lesson learned quickly thanks to some of her more guarded companions) -- before grabbing the front of his nighrshirt and tugging him into a fierce, warm hug. His wine spills and he nearly drops the glass moving it out of the way so it doesn't get crushed between them. Shadowheart, sitting next to him, takes it on instinct, and then Wyll is hugging Karlach back (almost) just as hard.

"Awwwe, Wyll." She leanes back, a few more tears swimming in her firey eyes. Then she tilts her head down to bump their horns together. "Taters," she murmurs, cupping his face in her hand. Wyll feels warm and knows it's all the love coming off of his companion. All the love that's stored in a single word that doesn't really make sense, but means so much.

"Well," a familiar haughty voice pipes up. "Wasn't that just sickeningly adorable."

Astarion gets a light smack to either of his shoulders -- one by Gale and the other by Tav, who is watching the whole affair with some tears in their own eyes and a smile on their face.

Yes, Wyll is the one who starts it, but he's not the only one who does it. Much like Karlach's "good night"s and her doled out affection, taters becomes a thing, and her "good night"s often accompany the expression of love. And the chorus of replies occasionally include it, too. Hers and Tav's nightly parting involve whispered "Taters" to one another. Wyll continues to use it, earning him many a gentle headbutt from the woman. She even gets a sighr and a reluctant "Fine. Taters, Karlach" from Shadowheart, who tries to hide her smile at the firey woman's excited squeals -- the excitement barely contained within her body.

Some of her conpanions are more giving with the word than others.

"I don't understand," Lae'zel says one night, taking a rare break from sharpening her sword to join them by the fire. "This... 'taters'... it makes no sense."

"It just means 'I love you,'" Karlach replies, shifting enough to knock her boot against Astarion's. He's lounging between her legs, arm propped up on one of her bent knees.

"Chk! Love. It's bad enough that there is one word for it, let alone as one as foolish as 'taters.'"

"I think it's delightful," Gale announces swirling some wine in the glass that Wyll lent him.

"You would, wouldn't you," Astarion snorts airily. Karlach bounces her knee -- the one Astarion isn't leaning on -- a sure sign that she was stopping herself from hugging him.

"Yes, well," Gale continues. "Some of us enjoy feeling emotions like love and pleasantness."

"I enjoy feeling emotions. Carnal lust, animalistic pleasure, the glee of driving a knife into someone's throat, among other things." Astarion lists them out on his fingers.

"You walked into that one, my friend," Wyll says with a smirk, crossing his legs -- crossing one of his ankles over Gale's shin.

"Love is not something I've often considered," Astarion suddenly says, sounding like he's talking to himself. "Lust, of course. On rare occasions, I've even liked a few wretched souls, but love... Thats.... well--" He falters a little, tsks, and then lifts his chin. "It's new."

Karlach is practically vibrating now. Astarion opens his mouth, eyes narrowing-- and then he rolls them and says "Gods, you might as well do it or our little bonfire isn't going to be the only thing lit ablaze" and it's permission enough for Karlach to shoot forward and wrap her arms around him.

"Astarion," she draws out his name, her voice pitched higher with excitement and emotion until it's almost bursting. She hooks her chin over his shoulder and nuzzles into him. "Taters," she whispers.

From across the fire, Tav notices the briefest moment of vulnerability flash across his face. It's raw, and Tav can see it's heavy, but his eyebrows knit in a way that suggests it's not exactly unwelcome. But then it's gone, and their usual Astarion returns.

"I am not saying it back," he says with the air of one brushing off the front of their tunic. Which he would have done if Karlach wasn't still hugging him.

"That's probably for the best, fancy boy, 'cause if you did, I'd have to kiss your pointy face."

"Watch out, fire girl. Remember, I bite," he threatens, a dark smile on his face -- feeling much more comfortable with this kind of affection. Maybe it was his taters.

Because taters isn't just about taters. It isn't just a word to say "I love you," it's a way to show you care.

"I still find it strange and... repulsive," Lae'zel bordely comments.

Astarion clicks his tounge, rolling his eyes once again. "It's like how you feel about that damned sword, gith."

"Ah," Lae'zel nods. Rising to her feet, she holds the hilt of her sword up in gesture. "My sword offers much better company," she says, then without further comment, heads off toward her sharpening stone. Everyone around the fire groans.

"Now you've done it," Gale mutters.

"Me? I haven't done a damn thing. She was going to do it anyway," Astarion leans forward, propping an elbow on Karlach's knee to better point an accusatory finger at the wizard. Karlach is grinning like an idiot.

"Taters, Lae," she calls to the retreating githyanki.

Lae'zel stops, and for a moment, nothing happens. And then she turns around, an expression that could have almost been confusion on her stony face.

"Yes, I suppose that--" she pauses, her voice no less coarse than usual, but perhaps there's a bit of thoughtfulness in it -- like how one might consider a strange corpse to see if it held anything valuable. "...Taters."

It's nothing more than a word, and it's nothing more than Lae'zel trying it out, but Karlach's face is doing that thing again and Astarion can feel it a second before it happens -- too late to do anything but mutter a "Shit-- Gale!" as if the wizard could do anything to save him from Karlach throwing her arms around his middle and squeezing him like a giant teddy bear. A very pointy teddy bear.

"Did you hear that, oh my gods," she cries, burrowing into Astarion's shoulder. His limbs flail and his legs nearly smack her horns as she shakes him like a dog with a chew toy.

"Kuh--" his arms fly up. Gale is laughing. Wyll is laughing. Astarion swears he'll kill them both. "Karlach, please--"

"Oh right," she says, and at least she stops shaking him. "I always forget you're all tiny and breakable."

"I beg your pardon."

"I mean, she's not wrong," Wyll says from behind his glass of wine, and Gale whistles low.

"This is your fault," Astarion turns his pointy finger to Wyll. "If it weren't for you, none of this would be happening and we could go back to being perfectly cold, untrusting strangers with a common goal."

"I don't know, Astarion, I think you like it here with us."

The vampire straightens up and lifts his chin. "Don't think too hard, darling, your horns might fall off."

"Ha!" Karlach laughs. She's still got her arms wrapped around the smaller man's waist, but they're hanging loosely now. No one mentions how Astarion has rested his forearms over her's. "That's how I lost mine," she jokes, tilting her head in gesture to her broken horn.

"And no one's surprised," the vampire nods knowingly, giving her hand a pat.

Suddenly, the grind and scream of steel against stone fills the night.

Everyone groans.

"That's it," Gale says, rising to his feet. "I'm going to hit the sack. Preferably hard enough to knock me out so I might get some actual rest. Good night, everyone," he nods. "Taters."

"Taters." It's an echo as everyone replies automatically. Unconsciously.

Almost like it's become a habit.

Oops.

[bookskeepers]

third time's the charm ♡ chapter six

content warnings: mentions of sex, bad pickup lines, some fourth-wall breaking, MDNI

word count: 1,381

a/n: it's been 5 months oops thank you all for waiting + sorry for it being short </3 it's a little filler-y

taglist: @wakashudou @maddyb-rapps

previous ♡ masterlist ♡ next

You try to avoid being the one to text first after a hook-up, since it makes you feel pushy and bothersome. After all, both parties got what they wanted out of the encounter -- sex -- so there's no need to try and communicate again. As your luck would have it, you've rarely hooked up with the same person more than once. You weren't keen on breaking that trend.

Needless to say, you're pleasantly surprised when Tsukishima ends up reaching out a week and a half later. The Tinder notification appears when you're deep in a solo study session, eyes weary from staring at so many cramped words on a page.

Tsukishima: So. What classes are you taking this semester?

To put it simply, the question takes you by surprise. This man, who was arguably one of the best lays of your life, is expressing interest in your class schedule?

You blink at your phone a few times, certain there must be genuine confusion on your features. After all, what kind of hook-up wants to know your schedule? Isn't that strange?

Your first instinct is to text Mai, Kanji, Aone, Kosuke, or the groupchat with all five of you. But you know that'd be silly; after all, that'd be an overreaction. It was a simple question and you barely knew the guy beyond his prowess in the bedroom. Maybe he just wanted to learn more about you.

As you dwell on this, two potential responses rise up in your mind: you could bite the bullet and ask 'why,' or you could just give him an honest response without questioning it. Your initial read of Tsukishima was that he's aloof and likes to maintain distance, given the way he tried to leave your room while you were asleep. Him asking a question like this felt oddly personal.

You're so caught up with thinking of what to respond with that you eventually end up forgetting to respond altogether; it takes several hours before you remember that you didn't actually type a reply to the blonde man. After wincing in embarrassment upon realizing, you end up deciding on what you view as the less offensive of both options: answering his question without doubt.

You: hey! i'm taking mammalogy, advanced neurobio, an intro to ecology course, and a class about pharmacology. what about you?

♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡

Forty seven minutes. That's how long it takes for Tsukishima to respond to your text. You'd expected for him to take longer; after all, he waited several hours to reply whenever you took hours to reply as well.

You waste no time in checking your phone when the notification arrives, pausing your studying once more. The bright light of the screen makes you wince a bit.

Tsukishima: Neurobiology, huh? Think you can explain the neuroscience of sex to me?

You have to reread each word over and over again before the meaning sinks in -- or, at least, what you hope the meaning is. You're not used to there being a second... session, for lack of a better term, with the same guy, even less used to the guy suggesting the second one. You can feel the blood rush to your face, certain it's tinging your cheeks pink. The heat also rushes elsewhere, more south, making you cross your legs and squirm slightly. The unexpected turn of events isn't unwelcome, though. You're pleasantly surprised that he both reached out first and cut straight to the chase. There's no need to dance around the bush when it comes to the more carnal desires of the flesh, after all.

Since Tsukishima hadn't taken forever to respond, you decide to grace him with an even quicker response. After all, why wait? You're hoping he's implying that he wants a second hook-up with you, another chance to get in your pants, and the best way to confirm is to reply.

You: oh, do you need a tutor? if so, i'm free tomorrow after 8:30pm... ;)

Satisfied with your response, you hit send and put your phone face-down on the table. You're sat at your desk for a few more minutes before deciding that you've had enough of studying -- it's 9:47pm -- and you deserve a break. You crawl into bed with a book that you bought recently, feeling a little happy about finally having the time to read it.

Unfortunately for you, however, your phone remains on your desk, just out of reach. And you become so engrossed in the novel that the vibration of a response falls on deaf ears, and you also find yourself falling asleep without a second thought after reaching the halfway point in the book at about 3:42am. There goes your sleep schedule.

♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡*•.¸♡¸.•*♡

When you wake the next morning -- or afternoon, since the clock reads 1:12pm -- you curse yourself for forgetting to set an alarm before you got into bed. That's two lectures missed, so while you're mad, you also take it as a sign from some higher power that today was not a day for you to attend classes.

You change out of the clothes you slept in into something far more comfy before sitting down at your desk, checking your phone before plugging it in to charge. The Tinder notification sits proudly at the top of the list, above the automated promotional texts and email notifications. You tap on it, noting that the reply came the night before at 10:12pm, a grin spreading on your tired features as you absorb the words Tsukishima sent.

Tsukishima: Sounds good. I'll bring my already-filled-out neurobiology notebook this time.

You tap out a quick response -- perf. see you tonight! -- before letting out a deep, shaky breath. You just committed to a second hook-up with this incredibly attractive, tall, blonde man. You're not quite sure how he wasn't turned off by your incessant babbling during the act, but you're going to try and not dwell on it. After all, you're in college; pretty much everyone is looking for a quick fuck, right?

And so, your stress begins. Somehow, the thought of seeing him again wearing anything less than the perfect outfit has you sweating, even though he's already seen you naked, in pajamas, and also in his own clothing. You immediately stand up from your desk with enough force to accidentally knock the chair over, wincing at the loud bang despite it being a perfectly normal time to make accidental noise. You quickly right your chair before whizzing over to the wardrobe on the other side of the room, opening the doors wide and staring at the clothing hooks laden with garments.

It takes you several different iterations of roughly twenty three different options before you decide on fun, two-tone jeans with a top in a hue that flatters your skin tone. Simple and elegant, which should translate to "decent-looking and not a total gremlin" in other people's eyes.

Now that the outfit is out of the way, you spend the next seven hours stressing about how there's so much time left and it's crawling by so slowly until, tada, it's 8:30pm or so. Now, you spend your time stressing about when exactly he's going to get to your dorm, whether he'll text you when he's on his way, if he'll surprise you with a knock out of nowhere... It's all a very productive use of your time.

The time creeps closer to 9:00pm when the knock finally sounds -- he didn't tell you when he began his journey towards your residence -- and your heart hammers loudly in your chest. Really, you shouldn't be so nervous! After all, this man has already seen you naked and decided he liked what he saw and heard enough to ask you for sexual favors again.

Sometimes you wish you phrased things better in your brain.

Deciding not to let yourself dwell in your thoughts any longer, you approach the door and take another deep breath before flinging it open with so much force it slams against the wall. Both you and the blonde jump in response, a nervous chuckle escaping your lips.

"Hey," you say, praying that your eagerness didn't leave a hole in the wall.

"Hey," he replies. "Guess we're starting off with a bang, huh?"