#Mywriting

[inotakumagf]

the beast at the heart of the world

✶ gojo satoru x gn!reader

word count ✺ 1.7K

summary ✺ you’ve had a shadow following you since you were a kid. one day, it tries to hurt you.

warning ✺ kind of creepy descriptions of a cursed spirit, but it’s not super gory or anything like that. also i never usually enjoy instant love, but reader and gojo are very touch-starved, so it kinda goes from 0 to 100 real fast oops. reblogs & comments r very appreciated <3

You started seeing the creature when you were seven years old.

He’s never spoken to you, but he’s always watching. At least, you think it’s a he. The creature has pale, rubbery skin with pointed ears and a towering figure. The way he stares at you reminds you of how your father does, and the comparison causes panic to burst against your seams. 

The first time you notice him, you’re playing with your dolls in your bedroom. You focus on the story you’re telling with your Barbies, trying to ignore the way your parents scream at each other in the kitchen. You have this suffocating desire to make them stop, even if that means hurting them. You don’t want to—you know you’d never—but you can’t shake the overwhelming anger brewing inside of you. 

When you finally look up, your heart drops at the sight of sharp, glistening teeth peeking out from your closet. The only thing visible in the shadows is the curling grin of a beast, and it feels like a twisted promise to rip you apart. You notice its red, beady eyes next, and you whimper when you realize it’s looking right at you. The creature’s grin widens.

You scream for your mother to save you, hands clamping over your eyes as you sob. At least your parents’ argument stops as your mother comes to see what’s wrong. When you point out the creature to your mother and explain the situation, she throws open your closet door, to your absolute horror. But her smile doesn’t change as she steps to the side and motions to the closet, the monster still staring at you with its full attention. You cry when you realize she can’t see the creature. Its gaze burns into you as she reassures you that there’s nothing to worry about, even as the creature drools over her shoulder. 

You learn two things that day: one, no one else besides you can see this creature. And two, it follows you. Everywhere. 

You don’t know why, but he never, ever takes his eyes off of you. And he never stops smiling. You have to ignore him every second of your life after that, pretending that he doesn’t tower over you and terrify you beyond comprehension. No matter how many years it’s been since you first saw him, your heart and body freeze every time you look over your shoulder and see the imposing figure of your monster. Truly, it could be worse. He’s never touched you before, he’s never put you or anyone else in physical danger. He just stands a short distance behind you, and he stares. But the anticipation is so overwhelming that it may kill you before he does. You often cry yourself to sleep, hoping that he will just go away. Why can’t he go away?

Sometimes, he stands so close that you think he’ll swallow you whole. You know he thinks of it, because his large mouth is wide open as he peers down at you, letting his saliva drip over you. After all these years, it’s still nearly impossible not to sob in fear or flinch away from him, especially when you’re in public. It's so debilitating, and it turns something as simple as ordering coffee at a cafe into a dreadful process. 

Like now, you try to order your drink, stumbling over your words as you do your best to ignore the creature standing beside you. Your voice cracks and you freeze as the monster drops its head onto your shoulder. You can feel its clammy skin against yours, and there’s a slight scratch as brittle hair brushes against you. A sob bubbles in your chest as the creature licks a trail up your face with its long tongue.

“I–can I…?” You can’t finish your sentence, too busy trying not to scrunch your eyes closed at the feeling of his slimy, purple tongue dragging all over you. He’s never touched you before, and you don’t know why he has now. Maybe his insatiable hunger has gotten the best of him. 

You make a strange noise in the back of your throat. The barista in front of you rolls his eyes at the state of you. You can’t really blame him, because you know how you must look.

“Are you gonna order?” He asks impatiently.

You clench your fists and try to at least breathe in and out. “I–”

The bell to the front door jingles as someone pushes the door open quickly. You and the barista turn to the man that has entered the cafe. He has snow white hair and a dark pair of glasses that he pushes up the bridge of his nose. You can see how his chest rises and falls quickly, as if he’d just run a marathon. He swipes his gaze across the room before meeting your eyes. Your eyes widen when he locks his eyes with yours. 

“Are you ordering or not?” The barista’s annoyed voice brings you back to reality.

An apology is on the tip of your tongue, but the man who’d just stepped inside comes over with a grin on his face. 

“Sweetheart! Sorry to make you wait, I couldn’t find my card.” He stands besides you, laying a careful hand on your shoulder. He pouts at the barista. “I didn’t mean to make you guys wait, we’ll order now. What was it that you said you wanted to try, honey?”

You startle when you realize he’s talking to you. You stumble through your order. The mystery man orders after you do, handing the barista his card to pay and making small talk. Your drinks are made fast, and you can’t blame the barista for wanting to be rid of you as soon as possible.

You don’t know what you’re expecting, but it’s not the stranger keeping an arm over your shoulder as you leave. He doesn’t let go after you walk out of the shop, or even when you’ve traveled a block away. Your heart stutters in fear as you try to think of a way to escape his grip. 

But then he whispers into your ear, “Do you want me to handle this thing for you? It’s awfully close, don’t you agree?”

It takes you too long to realize he’s talking about your monster. Your monster that no one should be able to see. “You can see it too? I thought I was crazy.”

He grins. “You still might be, that’s not for me to decide. This special grade curse looks like it’s been brewing for a while. You poor thing, you can’t get rid of it, can you?”

You blink. “What? Special grade what?”

He ignores you, rubbing his hand up and down your shoulder in comfort. “How long has it been bothering you?”

“Since I was seven.”

For the first time, he looks surprised. “That long, huh? Let me take care of it, sweet pea. You won’t have to suffer much longer.”

You feel a rush of wind at your side and the stranger’s warmth disappears. It feels like you blink, and the creature turns to dust. Just like that, almost twenty years’ worth of suffocation is gone. The constant, overwhelming pressure against your skin is gone. The man appears at your side once more. 

It’s such a relief, and it's almost embarrassing how quickly you deflate against this man. He holds you to his side gently, running his hand against your back as you sob into his neck. You should have more shame, but you can’t bring yourself to care at all. 

You mutter your gratitude into his skin, and you can feel him shudder against your lips.

He lets out a shaky breath before grinning at you. “How ‘bout I walk you home? So I can make sure none of these curses bother you anymore, sweetheart.”

You’re flustered, stumbling over your reply before giving him a, “O-okay. Thank you.”

He lets out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Of course, honey.”

You can’t handle it. This man is a stranger, but he’s so…friendly. Thanks to your monster—your curse—you’ve never allowed yourself to be close to anyone in fear that the creature would snap and have its way. And though it’s hard to break away from your habit of fear, this man’s presence calms your fast-paced heart. He makes you feel safe. 

Once you’ve arrived at your apartment, you feel disappointment brew in your chest. “This is my place,” you mumble. “Thank you for helping me. For the first time in my life I feel…light.”

He smiles at you. “Can I give you my number? In case a curse like this ever bothers you again. All you have to do is call and I’ll be there for you.”

You agree easily, because you want to see him again, even if it’s in a less than ideal circumstance. You pass your phone to him, peering over his shoulder as he types his name into your phone. He pauses his typing to smile over at you, and it makes you flustered enough to turn away.

He laughs. “Aw, sorry, sugarplum. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Could I get a name to match that pretty face of yours?”

You tell him your name, only considering a moment later that you probably shouldn’t give your name out to a stranger so easily. But you feel comfortable around him, and you find yourself trusting—you glance down at the contact name he’d set for himself—Satoru. You trust Satoru.

You turn to go inside your apartment building, but Satoru calls your name and you turn back, a look of concern flickering over your face.

He rubs his hand against the back of his neck. He looks almost…shy? “You can use my number, uh, even if there’s no curse. Do whatever you want with it, actually. I’m always available to talk. If you have questions about all of this, of course.”

The furrow in your brow eases and you smile and thank him again. You wave your phone in the air briefly. “I’m sure I’ll find something useful to do with this.”

And before you head back inside your apartment, you glance behind you almost instinctively. But there’s no more monster to worry about. The only thing behind you is your strange savior. You promise yourself that you’ll take him up on his offer, as many times as he’ll have you.

[acesartemis]

Eddie "meddles" in the breakup

It's 3:42 in the morning one night, two or three weeks into the breakup and hundreds of baked loaves later. They're both drunk and can hardly stand straight, voices raspy from yelling out the lyrics to Divorced Dad Rock all night when Eddie finally says, "Call him."

It's a challenge. He tosses a phone at Buck, and it almost hits the blonde in the face due to slower reflexes than usual. Buck can't see the phone's face clearly, so it's an equal chance of it being Eddie's, and definitely can't see the numbers in the contacts so he tries "Hildy, call Tom-hee," on a burp and he tries two more before Eddie is stealing the phone with a disgruntled huff.

Eddie manages the call, and somehow manages to put the phone on speaker with triumphant yelp when they hear a familiar, sleepy but alert, "Hello? Eddie? Who's hurt?"

"It's your buds, man. All good here," Eddie slurs, pulling Buck closer to him so hard they bonk heads. If Tommy tries to speak, Eddie steamrolls him. "A' least we were, before y'were a cabrón, breaking our innocent little hearts. My guy here is devastated, and so am I. I thought I could trust you, dude, with both of our hearts. But nooooo. You didn't have the cojones to see this through. So fuck you, Kinard. But don't you worry. I will be here to take care of him."

He drops the phone with a smirk. "There, problem solved." And Buck is suddenly laughing hysterically as Eddie stumbles to the kitchen for more beer.

The duo are definitely going to regret it tomorrow when they wake up to alarmed texts from Tommy in the morning and pounding headaches.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 25/?

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

Read on AO3 (current chapter)

Read on AO3 (from beginning)

Tommy knew he should be more worried than he was.

He could almost hear Sal screaming at him that he was being an idiot, could picture Lucy’s disappointed face as she asked him what the hell he was thinking.

He’d known Evan was a powerful witch, even taking his banishment into account. That had been obvious from the start. But Evan had admitted that there was more to it than just the fact that he was from an old and powerful coven line. He was quite literally twice as powerful as any of the other witches in his coven—had absorbed his brother’s magic in a ritual that was so forbidden, the few people who knew about it thought it would destroy their entire coven if it got out that Evan’s parents had used it.

Mmhmm, the scary powerful witch whose family obviously knows how to use dark magic, who you just watched thrall three vampires at once, says he cast a spell when he was ten that just happened to link you two together. That doesn’t sound fucking suspicious to you, Tommy boy?!

Even in Tommy’s head, Sal was kind of an asshole.

But he wouldn’t necessarily be wrong in wanting Tommy to be suspicious. It was suspicious. He’d be a fool not to be suspicious…and Tommy had not lived as long as he had by being a fool. And yet…

And yet.

The fear in Evan’s eyes, the horrified regret—Tommy didn’t think Evan could have been faking that. There had been no lie in his heartbeat, only dread and panic.

He stood there, his hand resting on Evan’s chest, right over the thickened, pink skin of a scar that was identical to the one that Tommy had carried on his body since he was human. Evan couldn’t have known that. There was no way Evan could have known that. His witch’s skin was surprisingly smooth and soft, so warm that it made Tommy’s teeth ache anew, even with the power of more of Evan’s blood coursing through him. Evan was staring at him with a beautiful, aching trust in his eyes, a hint of disbelief in them, as though he still couldn’t understand why Tommy wasn’t running away from this. Away from him.

How long had it been since Evan had someone he could trust in his life? How long had it been since anyone had stood by his side the way Tommy so desperately wanted to?

Feeling the gentle rise and fall of his witch’s chest, listening to the conviction in his words when he promised that he belonged to Tommy just as much as Tommy belonged to him, Tommy found he didn’t care if it was a spell that had brought him to this point. The path didn’t matter if the destination was this: this man, looking at him like Tommy was something wonderful, something that he wanted and treasured; this man, giving himself over to Tommy, and taking all that Tommy offered in return. His witch—perfect for him in every way. His beautiful, beautiful witch—who he was perfect for.

His every instinct had been screaming at him to protect this man, stay by this man’s side, and never let anything separate them from the moment he’d laid eyes on him. It was madness. It was stupidity. It was dangerous.

Or perhaps it was just his body and heart recognizing what his mind hadn’t realized at the time.

He splayed his hand more firmly across the scar that bound them, that marked them as belonging to each other, his other hand coming up to cradle his witch’s jaw.

The kiss was sweeter this time, less hungry, less hurried. Evan met him halfway, his lips parting with a sigh as he reached up to sling his arm around Tommy’s neck, pulling them closer. Tommy swore he could feel the connection between them, a tether binding them together, a tie that was always going to bring Evan here, to him.

To where he belonged.

To where they belonged.

He was tempted to just sling his arm around Evan’s waist and hoist him over to the bed…spend the next few hours exploring his witch the way he wanted to, get his hands and tongue and teeth all over every part of Evan until he knew him the way he craved. But no. No. Reluctantly, he pulled back, smiling when Evan chased his lips with an audible whine.

“The hell you stopping for?” Evan panted, his pupils blown wide, his cheeks flushed delightfully pink.

“Cause like hell is the first time I get to do everything I want to you going to be in a cheap motel while people are trying to kill us.”

Evan pouted. Honest-to-God pouted. “I’ve had worse.”

Tommy had to kiss him again, though he kept it short and chaste. “You deserve better.”

The look of surprise that flashed across Evan’s face before it settled into something unbearably soft made Tommy’s heart hurt a little. But then he let his head fall back against the wall behind him with a soft thump. “Well…okay then, guess we better both fucking live through this.”

Evan smirked at him as he slid his hand out from under his witch’s shirt and stepped back, clearly seeing how difficult it was for Tommy to do so. He sobered quickly, though, running a hand through his hair as he walked over to the table and scooped the ledger he’d found in Greenway’s house up. “We should probably see if there’s anything we can use in this,” he said.

Tommy settled on the end of the bed as Evan sat down at the table. “Are you sure you don’t want to lie down for a little while? I can go through that while you sleep.”

Evan shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t actually feel that bad,” he said, a faintly puzzled frown furrowing his brow before it disappeared. “I mean—I’m going to need food soon, but other than that I think I’m good for a while.”

“All right, but let me know,” Tommy conceded. He was still concerned about the amount of magic Evan had been wielding, not to mention the (mild, admittedly) blood loss, but if his witch said he was all right, there was no reason to doubt him.

Evan hummed in acknowledgment, cocking his head to one side as he ran his fingers around the edges of the ledger, murmuring a spell. His fingers glowed with white light and lines of magic suddenly ran across the cover of the book in fractal patterns, like cracking ice.

“What was that?”

“Locking hex,” Evan answered absently. “Pretty good one—but those don’t really hold up well after the witch that set them dies. Covens used to use them to keep other witches from going through our spellbooks…but it would kind of suck if Grandpa dying meant no one could access the family spells and history.”

The ledger fell open in Evan’s hands and he set it out on the table in front of him, tilting it so that Tommy could see better. The first few pages appeared to be some kind of journal dated from several years ago—mostly Greenway detailing his training with his familiar, Victor. Evan’s eyebrow twitched upwards as he skimmed a couple of entries. “Huh. His familiar was old…I didn’t realize.”

“Howie’s never mentioned anything about the other familiars in his coven,” Tommy said. “Is that why Greenway knew how to hide all these things in the between?”

“Probably. Like I said, most witches only learn how to do the basics with it these days, but if your familiar is at least a few hundred years old, you probably know a lot more.”

“How old was your familiar?” he asked curiously. “Grant’s owl was talking like it was ancient.”

Evan did not look up from the ledger, but Tommy saw his shoulders tense. Instantly, he wanted to call the question back. Stupid. Of course that would be a sore spot—the bond between witches and their familiars went deeper than almost anything. Losing his connection to his familiar when he was banished must have been like losing a part of his soul. Even flipped to the next page, running his finger down the center of the page as he skimmed the words for anything useful.

“Sally—uh, Sally’s been part of my family’s coven since about the 1700’s. But she’s older than that. Her original coven was wiped out in the Annihilation.”

Tommy froze at that, his eyes going wide. “I’m sorry, your familiar was around during the Annihilation?”

The Annihilation was a series of coven wars that had erupted all over the world in the early 1600’s, the last conflict of which hadn’t died down until nearly a hundred years later. It had been the most intense period of fighting between vampires and witches for centuries before and in all the centuries since. The Annihilation was the reason vampires as old as Sal and Alonzo were unusual and vampires as old as Tommy and Gerrard were nearly unheard of. Vampires and witches, already declining in numbers due to the rise of human populations, had been in real danger of being wiped out entirely toward the tail end of the conflicts.

Tommy had spent most of the period drifting from coven to coven—helping where he could, but mostly trying to avoid the worst of the fighting. He’d gotten his fill of war in his centuries under the bastard’s thumb…he’d had no desire to embroil himself in more conflict. It had been during his efforts to keep moving and stay out of the hotbeds of conflict that he had first met and formed a friendship with Sal.

Evan nodded slowly, and suddenly a great deal about his magic and the way he used it made a lot more sense to Tommy.

“That’s—wow,” he said. Evan’s lips quirked into a smile that looked a little broken around the edges.

“My parents didn’t want to let me train with a familiar. It happens sometimes, but usually only if the unbonded witch isn’t showing very much potential. I don’t know how they were planning to hide…well…me. But after the, uh, the finding spell—Sally asked to train me. Well. I say asked. More like told my parents that she was taking me as her witch.”

Tommy wasn’t an expert on witch coven politics, but he couldn’t imagine that anyone would have been able to refuse a survivor of the Annihilation without a damn good reason. He wondered what this Sally had thought of what Evan’s parents had done to him and his brother—Evan made it sound like members of their coven had helped them cover it up, but they wouldn’t have been able to hide the amount of Evan was in possession of from his familiar.

He hoped she had been as disgusted as Tommy was.

He hoped his witch had had someone besides his sister solidly in his corner growing up.

“Okay, that’s it for the journal entries…the last one stops right after he joined Grant’s coven? Nothing that’ll help that I saw.” Evan flipped through a few more pages, before pausing and resting his finger in the center of a page that was seemingly blank except for a date an a set of initials at the top. “Hang on.”

“What?” Tommy asked, leaning forward. When he did, the shift in angle let him see a faint shimmer on the page.

“There’s something…” Evan said, narrowing his eyes as he tapped his finger against the page three times and said a spellword. The page shimmered again, the white light of witch magic glowing around the edges.

Hello? Sorry, can you help me? A young woman’s voice suddenly sounded in the room, clear enough that it was like she was speaking right next to Tommy. He startled, looking around wildly, but of course there was no one there. I’m from the temp agency on 12th—I’m supposed to be on housekeeping tonight? They didn’t…wait…wait, stop! Let go—let go!

The woman’s voice rose into a scream of pain and terror, and Tommy leapt to his feet. “What the fuck is that?” he demanded.

Evan looked faintly sick. He flipped to another page and snapped the same spellword, tapping his finger on the page again.

Hey are you Diego? I’m Aaron…yeah, from the temp agency. A male voice this time, one that sounded about Evan’s age. I mean, I’m down for whatever, but Mr. Greenway said it was just clerical w—

This one cut off with a cry of surprise and terrible, wet gurgling sound that Tommy was all too familiar with.

“Oh my God,” Evan whispered. Hesitantly he pointed to the initials in the corner of this page: AF.

He flipped to the next page and they listened to a girl that couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen singing softly to herself before it was cut off with another horrible scream.

A man cried out brokenly for his mother before his voice cut off mid-word.

A woman begged for her life, crying out that she was pregnant, please, her baby…

Evan looked like he was going to be sick at that one, tears rising in his eyes, and Tommy finally reached over and took the book from his hands. Evan didn’t resist.

Tommy counted the pages with the strange shimmer and the initials in the corners. Eight more. Thirteen total witches that had come to Jonah Greenway for help, come to him hoping to find work for whatever reason. Thirteen witches that he’d betrayed, sending them to meet their ends on the fangs of a vampire.

“He was watching them die,” Evan choked out finally. “This spell, it’s like a walkie-talkie. You, you, you cast it on something that someone’s carrying and it records them, sends the sounds back to you. You learn how to do it when you’re a fucking kid. It’s a game. It—it was a fucking game to him.”

“Ortiz has been feeding her people witch blood for months,” Tommy realized. “Damn it. Alonzo and Mehta couldn’t figure out why so many smaller covens were folding in with her so quickly. But if she was promising access to witch blood…”

“And they’d have been motivated to keep it a secret from other vampires that hadn’t joined her,” Evan finished dully. “Meanwhile witches are going missing—but Greenway was specifically working with witches who were trying to leave their covens or their families.”

“So, they probably weren’t telling anyone their plans. Or where they were going to find work. Fuck.” A sudden dread seized Tommy, and he flipped past the last spelled page. He clenched his teeth, and knew his eyes were flaring scarlet. This page looked the same as the others, but there was no shimmer of magic to indicate that Greenway’s fucking souvenir had been recorded yet.

EB

Right there at the top of the page.

A growl ripped out of Tommy’s throat, and Evan turned startled eyes onto him. They skated down to the page he was looking at, and Evan gasped. “He…he knew who I was?!”

A good question, but Tommy couldn’t get past the initials glaring up at him from the page. Greenway had written Evan’s initials in the corner of that page, intending to record his witch’s final moments like a goddamn signature in a yearbook. He’d probably spelled something on the temp agency uniform that Evan had been wearing so he’d be able to hear when the vampires at Gerrard’s part fell on Evan. Something to look back on and enjoy like it was a fond memory. His witch. Fuck.

If Greenway wasn’t dead already, Tommy would have made it a priority to rip his fucking throat out.

“Okay,” Evan said shakily. “Okay, whoa, put the fangs away, there. He’s…he’s dead Tommy. He can’t—he can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

Tommy reached for his witch, closing his hand around Evan’s wrist and tugging him to come sit on the end of the bed beside him. He pressed his fingers against the throb of Evan’s pulse, right above the makeshift bandage where he knew the marks from his bite were. He needed to feel his witch’s heartbeat, needed his witch here and close, filling his senses. Greenway’s plan hadn’t worked. Evan was here. He was here and safe and Tommy was going to make sure he stayed that way.

No matter what.

* * *

Evan thought he might throw up.

His head was spinning, the final words of the other witches that had been working with Greenway—so many witches—echoing in his ears long after the phantom screams of the mimic spell faded. Evan had almost been one of them. If his vampire had not followed him when he tried to convince Max to leave that godforsaken party, if Tommy hadn’t trusted the inexplicable pull of the spell that Evan now knew bound them together…Evan would have died there. He’d known that, of course, but looking at Greenway’s ledger fucking commemorating all the witches he’d helped kill, it all felt so much more sinister. Greenway really had planned his death.

Had planned all those witches’ deaths.

Only his vampire’s sure touch on his arm, Tommy’s fingers curling over his pulsepoint, holding him like he needed proof that Evan was still here, kept him from spiraling out of control. His magic pulsed through him, wild and shifting, searching for an outlet in response to his seesawing emotions. It was harder to clamp down on than it had been in months, surging through him in waves that felt stronger than they had in a long time. He twisted his wrist slightly, shifting Tommy’s hand so he could grasp it in his own.

“Is there anything else that can help Chimney and Grant? Grant will be able to confirm that all the spells cast on the book were Greenway’s…but that doesn’t nail anything to the vampires,” he said, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Tommy, his eyes still sheened faintly red, flicked through the last several pages in the ledger pausing at a page near the end where a series of numbers similar to the spreadsheet they had found on Greenway’s flash drive had been written. At the top of the page was a row of numbers that was too short to be a routing or account number. Beneath it was a series of letters. Tommy narrowed his eyes and hummed thoughtfully.

“That,” he said, indicating the rows, “might be a cypher key. Or a password.”

“Didn’t Chimney say there were still a bunch of encrypted files on the drive?” Evan asked hopefully. Tommy drew his hand up to his mouth to kiss the back of it before letting go to pull his phone out of his pocket.

“Let’s hope so,” he said, opening his camera and snapping a couple pictures. Then he scrolled to his contacts and selected the one marked ‘Howie.’

While the phone rang, Evan leaned tiredly against his vampire, tucking his head against Tommy’s neck. He still didn’t feel as bad as he had expected to after using a control hex, especially letting Tommy drink from him again, too. His magic still hummed steadily through him, though, and while he certainly wouldn’t say no to a nap and something to eat, it wasn’t a pressing need yet. It was confusing him greatly…but he couldn’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth.

When the crash did come, though, he was probably going to be down for a while. Hopefully he could last until they were in a safer location.

The call connected on the second ring, and Chimney’s voice came over the line. The other witch sounded a little breathless, as though he’d just been running. “Tommy, man, please tell me you have good news,” he said, a little frantically.

“I don’t know if it’s good,” Tommy said, his voice terse, “but we found something at Greenway’s house.”

“Wait, what? Athena and Bobby searched Jonah’s house top to bottom.”

“Evan found something in the between.”

“Wait, he told you about the between?” Chimney sounded shocked, but then he sighed. “Whatever. Never mind. What did you find?”

Tommy shot Evan a loaded look. “A ledger. I’m texting you come pictures right now—I think Greenway might have written his passcode down in it. And it looks like there’s more financials.”

“Oh thank fuck,” Chimney breathed. “That’s great!”

“Howie,” Tommy sighed, dropping his head so that it rested on top of Evan’s. “Listen. There were a bunch of spelled pages in the ledger. Evan opened them? I dunno if that’s the right term…”

“There were mimic bursts spelled into the pages,” Evan interrupted. He licked his lips, closing his eyes briefly. “I wasn’t the only witch Greenway turned over to vampires. He’s been doing it for months. He, uh, I’m sorry, he recorded—it’s bad. Really bad,” he finished clumsily.

There was silence on the other end, and then he heard Chimney swear softly. “All right, not dealing with that right now. Fuck. Athena’s meeting her contact on the SoCal high coven tonight. If it’s safe, we’ll set up somewhere to meet and you can bring the ledger to us. Hopefully the pages you texted are useful. Just…I dunno, keep doing what you’re doing. Just stay ahead of things. At least another day.”

Evan wanted to groan out loud at that, but he felt Tommy nod seriously. Then his vampire cleared his throat. “Will do. Stay safe, Howie.”

“You too, man. Uh…both of you.” With that, Chimney disconnected the call.

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats, before Tommy gently disengaged from him and got up. He moved over to the window and carefully edged the blinds aside, nodding to himself when he was met with the dusky purple of twilight. “We should get out of here—I’ll be fine just to get out to the car in this.”

Evan nodded and gathered the ledger back up. As soon as he touched it, though, he felt a tingle over the back of his neck. His magic prickled, swirling through him agitatedly. He frowned, focusing on the feeling, his magic surging through him. The ledger felt…different somehow. He could sense the remains of the locking hex he’d broken, could sense the echoes of the mimic spell. But there was something else—something fainter and more ephemeral.

“Evan?” Tommy asked in concern. Evan narrowed his eyes, staring down at the ledger in his hands and letting his magic wash through him. It almost felt like—

Evan sucked in a breath, his eyes flying to his vampire. He leaped up. “Now,” he barked, rushing forward and grabbing Tommy’s hand. “Now, we have to go. Now!”

[rumor-imbris]

I would dive in your pensiveness, drown deep into your mind like Ophelia floating on the waters of your thoughts Hoping I could resurface in your dreams like Venus nightly taking you away with me

[mitchelljoni]

Chapters: 4/5 Fandom: House of the Dragon (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alicent Hightower/Rhaenyra Targaryen Characters: Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Viserys I Targaryen, Otto Hightower, Criston Cole, Gwayne Hightower, and also literally everyone else at some point probably Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous References to Rachmaninoff, violinist alicent (read: insane perfectionist), pianist rhaenyra (read: dramatic and self-obsessed) Summary:

And even if getting Rhaenyra in as a soloist was a staggering show of nepotism, she was still the best concert pianist on the planet. It was like when Dmitri Junior recorded Shostakovich’s second. You could get mad about it for a bit, but it was ultimately fair game. Alicent had already reached all these conclusions because Viserys had spoken to her weeks ago about programming the Concerto, which only had the unwanted effect of giving her time to turn it over in her brain like a particularly nauseating Rubix cube. Each solution of the puzzle led her to the same conclusion: she would be seeing Rhaenyra imminently, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

 After ten years apart, Rhaenyra Targaryen re-enters Alicent's life for a set of solo engagements with her orchestra. Things go about as well as expected (not very).

[remuslupinslittleslut]

Remus, who just loves dressing Regulus up in girls' panties, lacy, frilly, and pink garments from which his dripping little cocklet sticks out from

Remus, whose favourite pasttime is leaving purple marks on Regulus' skin, letting everyone know who he belongs to, sucking and biting at his neck, fingers pressing into his waist, his hips, his arse, leaving him with new fingerprints daily

Remus, who is practically about to fucking combust when he sees Regulus out and about in his sweaters. The fabric falling off the slim shoulders, purple bruises on display for the whole world to see – but only Remus knows how far the bruises go, how they slip beneath the pink fabirc of panties Regulus is no doubt creaming into inside his trousers, no, that is only for Remus to know.

[buildmeafairytale]

Just thinking about a chubby farm girl who has never gotten much attention from the boys in her village or neighboring town. Some of them even pick on her, fegning interest only to turn around and laugh with their friends. She grows into a shy but sweet woman, with a full life of friends and family. She does not have a romantic life and only pretends to be okay with it.

One day she leaves her home to visit a friend who lives in a different village. A much less...human village. Her friend warns her about this, but leaves a few details out.

It's an orc stronghold. Her best friend moved into an orc stronghold.

She trots up on her horse and ohhhh boy. The guards at the door to the stronghold are young, close to her age. Young men who are given an easy task of keeping track of who is coming in and out, and to help anyone in need.

At the sight of this soft woman, their eyes jut out of their head and they basically make that 'ahhh oooo gah' noise.

Que all of the single orcs trying to court her during her stay.

[carlyraejepsans]

so who's excited for the valentines day UTDR newsletter.

[xiaq]

I remember the first pride I ever attended: seventeen, half terrified, half bolstered by reckless bravery. In the parking lot, I painted my eyes in pink-purple-blue using the review mirror. On the walk to the parade route, I purchased a flag with cash and tied it around my neck like a cape.

I remember crawling up onto a metal electrical box on a street corner--violently hot against my bare skin in the Texas sun. I remember the heat didn't matter once the parade started, once I caught a handful of thrown beads, a crown, a fan. Someone passed me a bottle of bubbles and I blew them out over the crowd as not one, not two, but three church floats bedecked in crosses and rainbows marched past. I remember feeling like I could breathe for the first time maybe ever. But I also remember walking back to my car at the end. Giving away my crown, my fan, and my flag to two kids in a wagon, trying not to let my pathetic envy show as I met the eyes of their smiling parents. I cleaned the paint off my face in the same parking lot I applied it.

I kept the necklace--cheap and plastic and dangerous. I kept it for the first fifteen minutes of my drive until my anxiety demanded I pull into a gas station and throw it away.

I went to work: a four hour shift I'd said was eight. It was one of the few times I ever lied to my parents unless you counted the pervasive, quiet, lie of omission that lasted another decade.

Today, I got ready for another pride with my husband. I wore my denim vest with its collection of queer enamel pins. We walked together from our house to the parade route. At the end, we walked back together in a crowd of other pride-goers.

I texted my parents pictures without fear.

And this time, I took my beads home.

[randomstupidchaos]

Okay, I need motivation to get to my writing tonight and I'm taking y'all with me. If you're a writer and you see this on your dash, go to your WIP now and write 3 sentences.

[thedreamlessnights]

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it. 

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing. 

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long. 

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path. 

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel. 

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face. 

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch. 

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now. 

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

 “Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.” 

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same. 

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel. 

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best. 

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too. 

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees. 

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?” 

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.” 

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud. 

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything. 

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound. 

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood. 

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?” 

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision. 

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue. 

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind. 

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething. 

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief. 

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps. 

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him. 

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck. 

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it. 

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand. 

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again. 

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot. 

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment. 

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements. 

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble. 

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire. 

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals. 

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

 You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

[acesartemis]

day three of @tommykinardweek -> supernatural creatures

for @dark-alice-lilith

“So, do you believe us now?” Tommy growls a bit after the question due to his current ... figure. He still can't hardly believe it and the fur is quite literally staring at him in the face. 

A whine follows the question from a butterscotch-colored furry figure next to him the size of an honest-to-God, come-to-life Direwolf. Tommy leans over to give Evan a reassuring kiss — lick? — to the side of his face.

A human, hysterical laugh bubbles up from Eddie. “This — somehow — y'all are somehow messing with me. I knew those clams weren't — it's got to be — what bruja did you piss off?”

Tommy doesn't even curb the instinct to bare his teeth at the man. He could easily eat him, if he wanted to. Thankfully he didn't—at least not in that way.  Instead, Tommy decides to head-butt Eddie so hard he falls over. “I knew we should have called Hen.”

Eddie rights himself, still snickering. He clicks his tongue and actually pets Tommy's head and when his hand moves just right by his left ear, Tommy wants to downright howl in pleasure. He's saved the embarrassment by another head forcibly knocking into his—Evan was never one to be left out.

The human of the trio laughs again, only this time it's fond. “Okay, okay. I can't forget about you, Buck.”

Evan positively beams as Eddie gives his ears a scratch, tongue lolling out and everything. It's absolutely adorable. “So, if we're stuck like this... What do we do now? We... don't really fit in a car.”

“Or a house,” Tommy chimes in. He resists the urge to scratch himself with his back... paw. He would not be caught dead doing something so… undignified, even if it were only in front of Evan and Eddie. Especially in front of Evan and Eddie.

“Wait, I got it,” Eddie says with a clap. “I wanted to surprise you both with a ski trip over the holidays, but this… whatever, is more important.” 

He pulls out his phone, typing away with his thumbs. “Okay, so Bobby knows we’ll be out for the weekend. Annnd I texted Lucy to let your Cap know.

“This is so weird; I can't believe I’m gonna suggest this, but… I’ll drive and you two just,” he gestures at their wolf forms, “follow… by running, I guess? ‘Cause I don't think even my truck bed will fit you both.”

“Might as well make the most of it if we’re stuck like this.” Evan nudges Tommy’s snout with his own. “Race ya?”

Tommy gives his boyfriend a playful nip. “You're on.”

🐺🐾🐺

Twin blurs of butterscotch and gray follows Eddie's truck for hours as asphalt and metal and glass give way to grand trees in a breathtaking kaleidoscope of yellows and oranges and reds as they enter the Sequoia National Park area.

Eddie pulls up to a grand private cabin. The land is secluded and, Eddie remembers with a snort, “pet-friendly”. Thankfully a former Army buddy of his pulled some strings so that they could crash for however long this event lasted.

The man follows the path behind the cabin on human legs, happy to find the quaint back area to sit. The sun would be setting soon, bringing with it the chill of the night.

As he watches his boyfriends lope back and forth, legs long and strong and sharp jaws playfully nipping at each other, Eddie is struck with envy. Sure, this was a fever dream incarnate and Eddie still couldn't quite believe the two beings—now howling as the moon and stars come out—were real, there was a part of him that yearned to be out there, wild and free, with them. But he wouldn't let himself dwell on the dark path that was bound to take him on and just relaxed, snapping photo and video proof if this wasn't all just in his head.

—It would be just like his head to think up a grand concept and just... leave him out of all the fun—

Stop that.

Enjoy.

🐺🐾🐺

It was no surprise to anyone that Tommy tired out first. Being an actual wolf matched Evan's nigh-insatiable energy to a tee.

As the younger of the two continued his mission of sniffing every tree about the place, Tommy trots over to their third, grinning a wolfish grin, and gives Eddie a large, slobber-filled lick-kiss. The man startles a bit, his eyes adorably droopy.

“Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.”  He sidles over to Eddie, laying out next to him. Eddie's fingers find their way into his fur, akin to his fingers scratching through his or Evan's curls when they're lucky enough to get a quiet night together.

“Buck still... wolfing around?”

“Duh.” 

They share a laugh. Tommy tilts his head at him, frowning at the sight of Eddie clutching his hoodie to his body. They hadn't planned for this impromptu trip, much less the weather. LA nights got chilly, but not like this. “Why don't you go inside?”

“And miss all the fun? 'M fine!”

A low whine rumbles in Tommy's throat and he nudges Eddie with his head. “We'll be fine out here, what with the fur and all. The last thing we need is an Eddie-sicle.”

Eddie huffs, “It's not that cold.”

“And you’re not in protective Army fatigues anymore, either,” Tommy counters. They both knew intimately what desert-cold was, and this was far from it. But now all Eddie was geared with was a hoodie. Tommy also knew Eddie had a stubborn streak that would rival a bull when he wanted.

“C’mere, then. I’ll keep you warm.” If Tommy still had his human brows they’d be waggling.

“Hell no!”

“C’mon, aren’t I soft?”

“Yes.”

“And oh so waaarm!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Evy, come heeeere,” Tommy calls, deciding to bring in back-up. “Eddie’s cold and won’t snuggle!”

Evan literally bounds over at the call, obedient as ever, tail wagging and tongue hanging lopsided out of his mouth. “Snuggles?!”

“Dammit, Buck, don't you dare!” Eddie warns but is blatantly ignored in favor of Evan (gently) body-slamming Eddie to the ground with his mass in a chaotic mess of kisses. Tommy gleefully joins in, wrapping his larger body around Eddie in equal parts protection from the elements and to ensure he doesn't escape. Eddie tries to wrestle Evan off of him to no avail.

“Okay, okay fine,” he relents with a fake pout, but Tommy is delighted to feel him snuggle back into his fur while Evan shifts to lay his head over Eddie’s body. They cocoon him thoroughly.

The trio are silent after that, taking in the breathtaking view of the clear starry night sky.

They are awoken by their shivering hours later, blessedly three humans again, only now two of them are naked. They high-tail it to the shower.

[pastorpresent]

Logan, who rolls his eyes at Wade's constant moving and squirming in their bed. Logan, who grumbles at him to shut up during the night when they are both trying to sleep because Wade won't stop rambling nonsense. Logan, who growls and shakes him off whenever they accidently end up intertwined in their sleep.

Except then Wade ends up on a merc job that runs through the night and Logan can't fucking sleep.

At first, he isn't sure what the problem is. He did his usual routine, set up the pull out and climbed under the covers, looking forward to a night with the bed to himself.

He then proceeds to toss and turn for hours. His brain won't shut off enough for him to fall asleep, and he can't get fucking comfortable. It's driving him insane, and he lies there for hours, utterly frustrated because he is tired. He's exhausted, actually, and yet he can't fall asleep and the why of it all doesn't hit him till about 3am.

The bed isn't creaking softly under Wade's constantly bouncing leg and shifting positions. There's no running commentary that quietens his own thoughts enough to let him drift off. There's nothing warm and solid that smells like Wade to wrap himself around during the night when his body is craving touch the most.

He gives up with a growl, flicking on the TV and relenting to the fact he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. His brain won't shut the fuck up repeating Wade's name like a damn mantra, and his body is practically vibrating with anxiety over the fact the merc wasn't next to him right now where he was supposed to be.

(Ridiculous and possessive, he scolds himself. Wade is his own damn person, and he has more important stuff to do that be Logan's emotional support teddy bear. Not to mention he's over two hundred fucking years old, and shouldn't need an emotional support teddy bear.)

Wades gets back at six in the morning. Logan can smell the thick scent of his blood before he actually sees him, and he's already up and at the door as Wade enters silently.

He almost jumps out of his skin when he sees Logan standing there waiting for him.

"Fuck, peanut! Warn a guy next time! I thought you'd still be sleeping," Wade says, pulling his mask off, clutching his chest dramatically.

Now that Wade's here, standing in front of him after Logan spent the last eight hours craving his prescence to a nauseating degree, he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't want to freak Wade out with his own stupid attachment, settles on a "you okay?"

His voice cracks, and Wade looks instantly worried, taking a step into his space.

"I think I should be asking you that," he frowns, and Logan shrugs, tries to keep his tone light and casual as he replies, "couldn't sleep."

It comes out the opposite of light and casual. The heaviness of the emotion there is embarrassing and obvious, and Wade clicks on without any further clarification.

Logan cringes, waiting for the jokes. Waiting for Wade to gloat about making it so he can't sleep without him, and the thing is Logan would take it all on the chin. Would accept every condescending word if it meant that Wade would just come to bed with him.

Except Wade's face goes soft instead, and he's tugging off his blood stained gloves and lifting both hands to cup Logan's face. His expression is... fond, and Logan wants to tell him he doesn't deserve it, but instead he just kind of melts into the touch. Into Wade's warmth. His smell. It's intoxicating, and a better distraction than any bottle Logan had ever found himself at the bottom of.

"I... come to bed, please? I'm so tired," Logan mumbles, and Wade smiles.

"There's no where else I'd rather be, sweetheart. Let me shower off the blood and I'm all yours."

Logan's anxiety spikes a little despite himself, and he's scanning over Wade with concern, "are you definitely alright?"

"Immortal, remember? I'm completely fine peanut, but if you want to join me in the shower to examine me yourself I'm not complaining," he wags his non-existent eyebrows, and Logan snorts.

"That shower would never fit the two of us."

"Is that a challenge?"

And he isn't sure why, but the warm familiarity of their back and forth sends him into a fresh wave of emotion again, and he finds himself pulling Wade in for a hug before he could chastise himself for even wanting it.

Wade hugs him back tight, running a hand over his back, "so no more overnight jobs?"

Logan grumbles his disapproval, and Wade chuckles in his hold.

[musicallisto]

hello beloved I hope your shoulder surgery goes well!!! as a little distraction can I please ask for a franco colapinto x driver!reader, enemies to lovers? love u and thinking of u always xoxo

· · · · ♡ BOOM, CRASH! (fc43)

… starring franco colapinto x f!driver!reader ... 2.4k words ... in which you get into a nasty crash, and the first person to visit you in the hospital is the last guy you'd ever imagined being worried about you. ... warnings for crash, hospital, injuries, blood, nothing too graphic i think! reader is a bit of a bully tbhh but it is a cutthroat sport 😌 ... if you haven't noticed already, these are all very self-indulgent for me, and this is no exception.

Ironically, the last words you remember telling Franco Colapinto before you barrel into the wall at turn 12 were “Don't crash it.”

“What?”

“Don't crash it,” you repeat pointedly. “Logan wasn't exactly irreproachable in that regard. Budget cap's drawing closer.”

Your smile is wide but dulcet, not quite reaching your eyes, and your teeth are sharp and gritted. To any inopportune cameras that would be pointed at you right now, you only look like a well-meaning driver giving your rookie teammate advice before his second-ever F1 race... but neither you nor Franco miss the electricity crackling in the hallway outside the driver rooms.

“What makes you think I'm gonna crash it?" the Argentinian bites back, all fluttering eyelashes and wolfish smile. Unfazed, as always. Grinds your gears like little else can. "If anything, you be careful to not crash into me. Since I'm starting ahead on the grid and all.”

“Right, I forget it's your first time in Baku. You'll see what I mean soon enough, anyway.”

Your steps lead you down the hallway and to the garages mechanically, a path you've taken dozens of times, wearing different colored suits, following behind different teammates in stride. And this year's Williams blue would've suited you perfectly... if it didn't come attached with the pretentious goofball traipsing behind you.

You don't even bother looking back when you speak again. You raise your chin and brace yourself for the artificial lights of the pitlane.

“Good luck, or whatever.”

“It wouldn't kill you to be nice, you know?”

“Wouldn't kill you to know your place.”

The door handle creaks beneath your gloved hand, drowning out whatever it is Franco mutters in Spanish on the other end of the hall—”re amargada la piba esta” he mumbles to no one but himself—, and at last you are safe, at peace in the nervous bustle of a garage entirely devoted to you.

Sure, getting a new teammate midseason is a tough predicament to find oneself in: a whole new dynamic to establish, a whole routine to fall into. And newbies always get the chance to make good first impressions; not the girl who’s been sitting in the car for two years. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t mind it—Carlos Sainz will be snatching your first driver privileges next year anyway—but it would be easier to comply if the aforementioned new teammate wasn’t an annoying pain in the ass, flirting and laughing his way through the paddock with that detached nonchalance that believes everyone must be wrapped around his finger, and then having the gall to outqualify you on one of your favorite circuits. On his first-ever time there!

So yes, maybe it’s your ego taking up too much space in the tight cockpit of your Williams, obscuring your vision. Maybe it’s the disastrous grip you’ve reported twice now on the radio—Okay, Y/N, we heard that and we’ll get back to you.

Whatever it is, somewhere around lap 20, your car oversteers into a wide spin right as you enter the rapid turn. The steering wheel snaps out of your hands, and it’s like a giant strangles you with all its might for a blink of an eye, barely even a second.

You only know you’ve hit the wall—hard—from the ringing in your ears and soreness of your jaw. What used to be your front right tire lies in front of your smashed wing, rubber and carbon scattered pitifully. Your finger shakes when you lift it and press the radio button.

“I’m OK… I think.”

A flash of red catches the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if it’s from the flag being waved outside of track limits, a Haas zooming past in the corner, or… it’s hot, and viscous on your eyebrow, dripping into your eyes. You bring your hand to your forehead, where your helmet is crushed inward, just above your left eye. Smashed into your forehead.

Then everything kind of blurs together. You vaguely feel someone helping you out of the wreckage, their distant yapping about concussion symptoms not helping your light-headedness at all. You think you slip out of consciousness for the first time then, on the track still, because your next memory is of an ambulance—or what you assume to be an ambulance, you’ve never ridden in one before, and you even think to yourself this new procedure is pretty excessive from the FIA, the medical car was quite sufficient—and then it’s back to nothingness until you wake up for good on a stretcher, hooked to some sort of medical tube—perfusion?—as you’re being ushered into a quiet hospital room.

The nurse who visits you is sweet, filling in the blanks in slow, accented English. The gash to your forehead is pretty deep, but nothing the surgeon doesn’t see at least once a week! (At that, you lift a groggy hand above your brow bone, where you feel a thick bandage.) A few stitches later and you’re good as new, though the blood loss and concussion combined left you pretty weak, and justify keeping you in observation for the night. It’s just protocol, you’re probably used to hospital visits in that line of work of yours, she jokes—and you know you’ve recovered almost all your mental acuity because you get offended at that. No, you don’t usually crash. In fact, you haven’t all season…

And it had to be today of all days, in Baku… after you told Franco to not crash it.

When the nurse leaves the room with the promise she’ll be back in an hour, you let out a long, dreary sigh. Fernando Alonso’s grainy voice over the radio comes to mind. ¡Karma!

Night falls quickly outside your window with nothing to kill time but your phone. After catching up on the race results—somehow you’re too exhausted to feel irritated at Colapinto’s points finish—and posting a reassuring Instagram story for your followers, you’re left to the mercy of your ruminating thoughts. Sleep is impossible to catch; the adrenaline of the race hasn’t worn off yet, and you’ve been knocked out so long now you’re desperate to leave this stretcher.

You’ve just about decided to call the nurse for an early discharge when a shadow appears behind the door’s little windowpane, hesitates for a second, and then knocks. Medical personnel wouldn’t bother; it’s probably your family, or maybe even Vowles, or…

“Hey, how… che, estás hecha mierda.”

You tense immediately when you catch the brown waves of hair and unmistakable accent as Franco walks into your hospital room. He looks genuinely stumped, like he hadn’t expected to see you in such bad condition, so much so he forgets to shut the door behind him.

For some reason, the sight endears you. Makes you want to take him in your arms, feel his realness in this hallucinatory evening. What a ridiculous thought!

“Stop it with the Spanish,” you protest, devoid of your usual fire however. “Maybe it works on your fangirls, but not on me.”

“I said you look like shit.”

“Oh.” You look him straight in the eye, the silliness of the situation dawning on you, and against all odds you start to laugh. A real laugh, more than a chuckle, one that sends phantom pains stabbing through your sore abdomen. “Well if that’s all you’re gonna say, you can stick to Spanish! I don’t want to hear it.”

What did the nurse say about the anesthesia’s side effects? Do they include feeling a little glad and relieved to see your detested teammate? To know he’s the first person to check up on you?

Whatever the reason, you’re laughing, absurdly, and so is Franco, chuckling to himself as he closes the door and drags a chair closer to your bed. His eyes crinkle like a little kid’s, and that’s when you notice his disheveled appearance. Cheeks a little flushed, hair tousled like he’s just run a marathon, he’s wearing a crumpled-up Williams shirt, no doubt the first thing he could get his hands on after the race. It hits you then that he’s probably just off media duties, and the fact he’s alone, with no team delegation in tow, indicates he left early. Just to get to you. To make sure you were alright.

You are a competitor, but you aren’t a monster. The idea Franco couldn’t be bothered to wait for James, or anyone else, tugs at your heartstrings.

“Thank God you told me not to crash it, huh?” he teases between chuckles.

“Shut up.”

“Careful, Y/N, the budget cap is coming for you,” he wiggles his fingers over your face like a looming ghost.

You turn your head away to face the wall, huffing in exasperation, but a throbbing pain traverses your skull, and you wince. Franco’s eyes darken, smile fading into a grave expression.

You rarely see him like this outside of the helmet. It’s novel, but it’s welcome. Almost attractive, in a way.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I… My helmet smashed into my forehead. I was bleeding pretty bad, apparently, they had to stitch me up. I got concussed too. Aren’t helmets supposed to absorb these hits?”

“Concussed?” he repeats, and holds out his hand in a peace sign. “How many fingers?”

You stick out your tongue at the Argentinian, flipping him the bird.

“And now?”

“Ah, come on, don’t be so mean,” Franco chuckles, scooting a little closer to your stretcher with his chair. Unfazed, as always. But this time it doesn’t peeve you; you’re rather thankful for his cheeky banter, actually. For a moment, in the blur of cold white lights and carbon fiber debris, you’d started to fear you could lose it for good. “We were just starting to become friends!”

“That’s because I’m concussed. I don’t want to be friends with you, we’re rivals.”

“Well the whole rivals thing isn’t working very well for you lately. Maybe you’re better off being friends with me.”

You roll your eyes, but the gnawing anxiety that roars in your stomach whenever someone pits you against the rookie stays quiet for once. Perhaps you’re still under the influence of the tranquilizers… or perhaps those brown eyes holding you in their light, tender in a way you’ve never seen them before, make it harder to get mad at him.

“I’ll consider it.”

And you don’t mean it just yet, but you don’t don’t mean it. What do you even hate Franco Colapinto for? Stealing the spotlight from you just two weeks into his career? Flirting with every living being on the paddock except you? Or forcing you to up your game and face your fears?

A stabbing pain crushes your skull all of a sudden, and you shut your eyes, teeth gritted and muscles taut, to try and breathe it out… to no avail. When you open your eyes, Franco is staring at you, brows furrowed in that same serious, concerned expression that sends a wholly different type of pins and needles through your body.

“Everything alright?”

“No… The painkillers. I need another ketoprofen,” you whine, squinting your eyes against the harsh hospital lightning.

“Should I call the nurse?”

“No, they’re on the table over there,” you gesture blindly. “There’s a glass too.”

Only sounds inform you of what’s going on once you close your eyes, faint lights and colors barely piercing through your eyelids. The rustling of fabric, then someone fumbling with cardboard and pills, your sink opening, and then cautious footsteps stopping at the edge of your bed.

“Here.”

You take the pill between weak fingers and fight with all your might to sit up straight in the bed without moving your head… but the soreness and exhaustion from the race and surgery overpower you. So much for neck strength.

“I can’t,” you huff out in defeat. “I can’t tilt my head.”

“It’s okay. Take the pill,” Franco orders softly, and you put the drug on your tongue, too tired to raise the outrage of him bossing you around.

Slowly, carefully, Franco brings the rim of the glass to your lips, and you drink all that you can, training your attention on the medication going down your throat—and not on your teammate’s intense gaze fixed on your mouth, nor the proximity of your bodies or his slightly ragged breath.

“Thank you,” you exhale when you’re done.

Luckily for him, he has his back turned to you when you speak, setting the empty glass down on the table, so you don’t notice his bashful smile. He’s never heard you so docile, affable, even, and though he likes it when you bite back… it feels great, too, to know there is a way to pierce that armor of yours.

“Franco,” you call out to him, neither of you missing how this is one of the first times you’ve called him by his first name. “Do you mind… staying? Just until James or someone else gets here. It gets so boring.”

He spins on his heels in disbelief, scrutinizing you in search of mockery, or irony, or your usual callousness… but all he reads is earnest and the slightest hint of embarrassment, all he sees is your outstretched hand. So he brushes it with his, not daring to hold it purposefully just yet. Like he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome into your bubble.

“Yeah, sure. But only so you won’t get bored.”

“Of course,” you smile faintly as he sits back down on his chair. Your eyes meet in newfound amusement, maybe even temporary fondness. “Don’t go around thinking I like you.”

“Me? I would never. We’re rivals.”

You give a small appreciative nod, and after some instants of silence, clear your throat and ask him to recount the end of the race. Just as you expected, his storytelling is dramatic and entertaining, interspersed with words he doesn’t remember how to say in English and the unmissable zest of grid gossip Franco always brings to his tales. You chuckle, gasp, and pester even, as much as you can with your aching skull and limbs… and barely notice the minutes ticking by, or how you wish the rest of your team would never show up, your distaste for Franco slaking.

Maybe you can be persuaded into liking his presence, after all. So long as he stays out of the car, though… and remains your personal nurse.

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[steventhusiast]

i’ve seen a lot of fics where steddie are in a secret relationship before the events of season 4, and then they reveal themselves by accident-ish when they reunite or in the hospital, and the one ive seen the most is eddie kissing steve and outing them when they find him in the boathouse after he realises hes threatening his own boyfriend.

and i love that, but what if it’s steve that reveals the relationship in a pretty similar way.

max and dustin tell him eddie’s missing, and he immediately reveals that he knows eddie well just from the amount of worry and anxiety that takes over him. he knows exactly where reefer rick lives because he makes sure eddie tells him where all his dodgy drug deals happen so he knows where he last was if he goes missing.

and then they get to reefer rick’s, and steve goes straight to the boathouse, followed by the others. he slams open closets and hastily looks under tables, and then notices the tarp on the boat and there is absolutely zero hesitation in his movements he just grabs the tarp and pulls it back because he needs to find eddie, he has to be okay.

and eddie is under the tarp and steve basically melts. eddie doesn’t have time to threaten steve because steve manhandles eddie out of the boat and just holds him, first pulling him in so they’re chest to chest and can feel each other’s heartbeats, and then he leans back to look at eddie’s face. eddie won’t meet his eye, so steve adjusts to hold either side of eddie’s face and force him to look at him. eddie’s eyes are wild.

“hey, i’m here.” he assures, and exaggeratedly takes a deep breath for eddie to copy.

“stevie-�� is all eddie can say, his voice cracking hard, before the tears spill over.

“oh, baby.” steve pulls eddie back in, cradles his head with the back of his hand, and presses a kiss to his hair.

and then dustin says something like ‘okay what the fuck is happening here’ and ruins the moment.

[iiping]

kaveh snapping at alhaitham for buying another ugly wood carving… except he forgot it was his birthday 👀

read my short fic on twitter here or see more below! 🫶

—

“This looks absolutely nothing like me!” Kaveh snaps at the rough-out Aranara carving that suddenly shows up one morning, looking so blonde and angry.

Alhaitham comes out of his room at this moment and walks over to their common shelf where the architect stands.

Kaveh has a meeting with a particularly frustrating client today and he’s feeling so anxious that he cannot help but snaps at Alhaitham too, “How many times do I have to tell you not to bring ugly wood carvings into our home!?”

Alhaitham looks at Kaveh, his lips tightens. Something unfathomable flashes across his eyes and disappears just as suddenly.

“Do whatever you want with it then,” Alhaitham says finally after an awkward silence. Then he grabs his key from the shelf and turns his back to walk towards the front door without saying another word.

Kaveh looks at him leaving the house in puzzlement. It is not a rare occasion to see the Scribe not bothering to argue with him but Alhaitham never walks away after saying only one sentence before. He looks as if he’s angry or even…pouting? Kaveh is not sure if that word can describe Alhaitham.

Maybe Kaveh did something wrong? He gasps at the thought.

Is it because the smell of the cream soup he made yesterday was too strong? Or maybe it was the fact that the house is now so messy because he’s in the middle of tidying up things? Or maybe he moved or touched some books he wasn’t supposed to?

Kaveh ends up thinking for the whole day. He even spaces out during the client’s meeting and almost drops the model when he tries to present his plan.

He thinks and thinks but nothing comes to his mind. They have been on unusually pretty good terms lately, so he cannot think of something recent that might have made Alhaitham upset.

Kaveh is so deep in thought he almost bumps into Collei on the way home.

“Ah! Sorry!” Kaveh exclaims then realizes who it is, “Collei! I didn’t know you were in town today!”

Somehow, the trainee Forest Ranger looks shocked to see him. She quickly picks up something that fell to the ground when they bumped into each other earlier. Kaveh catches a glimpse of a small green box with yellow ribbon before Collei swiftly hides it behind her back.

“It’s so good to see you! Wanna grab something to eat?” Kaveh asks, ignoring her suspicious behavior. He’s not ready to go home just yet, not when he still hasn’t figured out what he did wrong.

“Uh, sorry I have somewhere to be today,” Collei replies nervously, avoiding to meeting his eyes, “If you will excuse me, I really need to get going.”

Then she takes off before he can say another word.

Kaveh ruffles his hair in confusion. What is going on today?

After wandering around aimlessly for a while, he decides that he has no other place to go except the good old Lambad’s Tavern.

He sits down at a table and orders a drink even though it’s merely 5PM.

“Hey, Kaveh!” Lambad shouts his name from behind the counter, “That one’s on the house! Happy Birthday!”

Oh. Shit.

A realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning.

“How could I forget!” he cries, standing up abruptly, “It is my birthday!”

He tells Lambad that he’ll take a raincheck on that glass of wine before leaving the tavern. Kaveh rushes home as fast as he can and finds Alhaitham standing in front of the shelf with the Aranara carving on one hand and a bag on another.

Alhaitham raises his eyebrows when he sees Kaveh practically flying from the front door.

“No, wait—-“ Kaveh tries to catch his breath, “D-don’t throw that away!”

“Oh?” Alhaitham puts down the Aranara and turns to face the architect. “Seems like you finally remember something.”

“Sorry for what I said this morning,” Kaveh blurts out, “I know it sounds like an excuse but that client’s project kept me frustrated all night and I shouldn’t have taken it on you.”

Alhaitham looks at him silently.

“Alright, alright,” Kaveh puts two hands in the air, “I apologize for calling it ugly.”

The Scribe lets out a chuckle right this second. It is clear that he does not intend put up any fights with Kaveh on his birthday.

Alhaitham hands him the Aranara in question and asks, “Will you also stop calling my other wood carvings ugly?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Kaveh replies with a beaming smile. His eyes light up as he takes the wooden figure in his hands.

Alhaitham gives him birthday presents every year but they are usually books or drafting tools. This is the first time Kaveh has received something custom-made. Well, from anyone, really.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me this morning,” he mumbles, feeling the rough wood under his fingers. “Sure, it looks a bit cruder than that one in your bedroom which I kind of like, but the more you look at it, the mor—- Hey!”

“I changed my mind,” Alhaitham announces with a straight face, the Aranara is now back to his hand. “I’m taking it back.”

Kaveh blinks.

“What did you just say!?” he raises his voice.

“I don’t see any reasons why it should be in the possession of someone who doesn’t appreciate it,” he replies simply while putting the wooden figure in the bag, then starts to walk to the entrance hall.

“How do you know I don’t appreciate it!?” Kaveh follows him, trying so hard not to yell at his back, “This is ridiculous! You just gave it to me literally a second ago!”

That does not make Alhaitham slow down one bit. In the heat of the moment, Kaveh charges at him without thinking.

Next thing he knows, they are both on the floor with Alhaitham being beneath him. He quickly snatches the bag from the Scribe’s hand and sits up.

“Ha!” Kaveh exclaims, raising it in the air in victory. “You cannot walk away from me this time! Don’t you know that it’s rude to take back what you have given!?”

When there isn’t any response, Kaveh glances down, only to see that Alhaitham is covering his face laughing.

Kaveh looks at this scene in disbelief.

“Were you just teasing me!?” he asks with a high-pitched voice, “Oh my god, who are you? What have you done to my Alhaitham?”

“I couldn’t help,” he is still laughing, “You should’ve seen your face.”

It’s extremely rare for Kaveh to see a silly side of Alhaitham, let alone seeing him laughing like this. Kaveh stares dazedly at him, completely forgetting why he was mad in the first place.

“You can have the Aranara,” Alhaitham says with a smile, “Will you get off me now? Although I don’t really mind—-”

Kaveh interrupts this sentence with a cough, just realizing what a dangerous position they are in. He shifts to move out of the way, but at this moment, a small piece of paper falls of the bag and lands on Alhaitham’s chest.

The Scribe’s eyes widen as he moves to reach for it, but Kaveh is quicker.

Seeing what’s on there, he is speechless.

Alhaitham covers his face again, but his ears are turning visibly red. The worse thing is, Kaveh can also feel his face burning too.

“You carved this,” he asks softly, “for me?”

After a while, Alhaitham admits with a sigh, “Yes.”

Kaveh is dumbfounded. He assumed that it was merely a commission. Never has he ever thought Alhaitham would go that far to do something like this for him.

“That’s why you’ve been coming home late for the past week!” Kaveh just remembers how unusual it was when he said that he needed to work overtime.

“You knowing this wasn’t part of the plan, I was too careless.” he says flatly and decides to pull himself up, unintentionally getting closer to Kaveh. “Now it’s good time for you to forget you have seen that workshop receipt.”

“Nuh-uh,” Kaveh pokes his chest, “This Aranara is now worth a million mora to me.”

“You have just burdened yourself with a new enormous debt then” Alhaitham teases.

“Hey!”

“I think wood craving has grown on me.” Alhaitham smiles, “So I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with these ugly figurines for now.”

“Come on, they are not that ugly,” Kaveh chuckles, “But we do need to set up a proper corner for them so they don’t disrupt the current aesthetic.”

The Scribe can’t help but roll his eyes at this comment.

“Seriously though, thank you” Kaveh softly touches his shoulder and looks directly into his eyes, “It’s the first time someone did something so special for me. I will always treasure it.”

The Scribe stares back at him and without a warning, Alhaitham pulls him into his arms and whispers to his hair, “Happy Birthday, Kaveh.”

After that, Collei, along with Cyno and Tighnari, burst open their front door right when they are still hugging in the hallway. Kaveh’s face turns as red as a tomato as Alhaitham helps him up on his feet.

The night cannot be more perfect. The house is filled with the smell of good food, laughers and joy. His most favorite dishes are laid out on the table and the gifts are waiting for him to open. Wine never tastes better and even Cyno’s jokes are funnier than usual.

Kaveh watches as everyone starts to eat and cheerfully discuss about what games they are going to play tonight. His heart aches a bit thinking of how much he does not want to ever lose this; his friends, his happiness, his home.

And when his eyes accidentally meet with Alhaitham’s, he cannot help but wonder, would things turn out differently if he hadn’t met the Scribe at the tavern that night where he had taken Kaveh in?

He tries harder now to stay happy, to actually listen to some of Alhaitham’s advice, the sensible ones at least.

“Don’t burden yourself with something unnecessary from the past and from the future”, he would say.

So instead of dwelling on the past regrets and unknown future, Kaveh thinks he is ready now to find comfort in the present happiness.

(END)