#already that is going to give me a jaw or heart infection

[goldkirk]

If anyone remembers all the dental work I needed done uhhhhhhh three years ago and never went back and ran away forever…I’m finally going back to a dentist on Thursday to restart the process and face my deep and utter abiding terror. And I also scheduled my COVID and flu vaccines for a couple hours later. And my psych appointment to restart meds.

I figured get it all done in one day, have my miserable immune reaction on Friday that I seem to always get with Moderna COVID shots, and then flee directly into the weekend and never be a person again except when I’m on and off crying. It’s going to be so kind to future me to get these things done and I can do it no matter how much I feel like I am constantly about to Actually Physically Die.

[pursuitseternal]

“You had better tie me up, darling…” very nsfw (f*ck or die) update for Rogue Astarion in part 7 “Bites in the Night”

Astarion x F!Reader |E| 5.5K F*ck or Die Smut

Summary: He isn’t well… something he’s consumed… the blood of a Succubus in the heat of battle by mistake. He needs release… help… or else undead won’t be an accurate description of your vampire rogue any longer.

CW: rough sex, bondage, Sex Pollen Trope but blame those Succubi, feral rutting, blood kink (does that go without saying yet?), implied shared infection, tongue bath, raunchy and yet sweet confessions from his undead lips.

Read on AO3 | Series on AO3 | Master List

Better get your rope…

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Sunset always brought the demons out to play… and this time it had been real. Everything about the Shadow Cursed Lands fit the name… but you had all made it at last to the Last Light Inn.

Not without blood spatter and slaughter, fear and relief once victory over the Hellspawn was won.

Now at last, you can take your rest. In peace.

Most of your companions still drink and eat to their heart’s content. Of course, not your Rogue. After the fight, he had looked… gaunt. Tired. You had promised to come and let him feed, but first you needed your fill. He had flashed his smile at you before heading up the creaking stairs.

That was an hour ago. Now, you make your way to those same stairs, only to catch Shadowheart hustling down with wide eyes, Gale looking much the same as he follows.

“Come with us,” they whisper, leading you up the stairs in a hurry.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, anxiety darking your tone.

“It’s Astarion, he’s… unwell.” Gale… always so vague and polite.

“He’s in a rut,” Shadowheart snips back, exactly. “Literally.”

“What?” you startle.

“During the fight, he must have bitten and drank Succubus blood.” Gale rubs his fingers at his temple. “He’s locked in his room, but I fear he will claw his way through the door until he finds… relief.”

“Sex, you mean?” you can’t help but correct him too.

“It’s bad,” Shadowheart presses her lips together. “The blood is ten times worse than the spittle. Like, if he doesn’t find relief soon he could expire. Again. It’ll last him a full day to work out of his system.”

Your eyes go wide, your stomach sinking as well as your jaw. “Isn’t there some countermeasure? Some spell or… or potion?”

Shadowheart opens her hands, a small scroll in it. “Not for him, but for…”

“Me…” you realize. Your body tingles with the idea, that heady mix of fear of death and thrill of fucking with him. It always swims in your system before you go to his bed, but this time. It feels… more… exhilarating. More deadly. Riskier.

“It’s a scroll of Greater Protection… just in case he gets carried away.” Gale’s face screws into a look of discomfort.

“Keep your cunny from giving out on you.” Shadowheart winks.

That sinches up the knots in your stomach now. And by the time your cleric recites the spell, the dust in the air swirling into your lungs, you know you can’t turn back. You can’t forsake him.

You take a breath once they both wish you good luck, reassurances that the spell should be enough to keep you safe… but that they would come running if needed. That’s when Shadowheart stops you one more time, behind Gale’s back. She makes her face shush you silently as she shoves something into your hands.

A coil of rope. It tingles… enchanted probably for extra strength… that it could hold a deranged, sex-crazed vampire if worse came to worse.

That’s when you head up another flight of stairs, your heart beating faster with each step. Especially as you hear the grunts and growls that crescendo as you reach the landing. It’s easy to tell which room is his, the light under the door burns bright… the sounds of his voice raw and feral…

You hover your hand over the knob, sensing the magic that’s sealed him in. But you stop… that sound inside, you can tell already how he’s plagued. Rough, wet, and fast. The slap of his own hand tending to his… need.

You swallow, the beating of his fist on his cock already making you wet. Hells below… if there wasn't part of you that was just… tantalized. A small part, mostly cloaked in that heady fear to preserve your life.

But you feared no danger. And you by now… he would listen.

Maybe.

One last squeeze of the chord in your hand, you gripped the charged metal of the door, throwing it open.

He is naked, sitting on the edge of the bed at the back of the little room. His teeth glint in the firelight, his ivory skin glowing with sweat. Gods, if he had blood in his body, you are sure he would be beet red. His profile cut like the masterpiece he was. His throat bobbing as he swallows, the muscles of his arm bulging as he pleasures himself at a terrifying pace.

The sound as you shut the door behind him finally draws his attention.

He is… wild. Feral. Eyes so dilated, you can barely make out the ring of scarlet in them. His face shines from his exertions, he growls… like an animal… the second he sets eyes on you. His nose sniffing so hard at your scent… you can watch it open and close.

“Out!” He snarls, rising to his feet. That’s when you take in the full extent of his… suffering. He’s so erect, bigger than you have ever seen him. Harder. Throbbing so hard you witness it… where it stands almost vertically. Those intricate veins that usually rise subtly from his length strain dark, a web over his pale skin. “I’ll not hurt you, darling. Not you. Get out! I won’t have you!” He snaps his jaws. Every muscle in his body straining as he stands in place.

As if he’s fighting with himself.

“You will have me,” you snap back. “You don’t have a choice, do you?”

“Of course I do!”

“Not if you want to keep yourself in this realm. Undead you might be, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you alive… undead…”

That made him smile. Dark, wicked and still slightly manic. But it was there.

His eyes rake down your body, devouring you as he dares to let himself take one step. His eyes fall to your hand, the tangle of rope hanging visibly at your side. “Seems someone had the wisdom to not to send you in here defenseless and you stink of protective magic. Good,” he shudders as he talks. That voice sounding hollow. Pressed. Barely above a snarl. “I haven’t said this to many… but you had better tie me up, darling…”

He groans, forcing his body to move stiffly to the bed. The wood frame creaks and cracks as he crawls in, his rigid frame laying down.

That erection makes your mouth water, despite the obvious agony your vampire is enduring. But you can’t help but be mesmerized by how tall it stands as he pants on the bed. You cross to him, he can’t look at you, holding his hands out for you to bind.

Your hands work quickly, securing his arms firmly together, wrapping them to the scrollwork of the headboard.

His breathing is rough, ragged. His body twitches, shuddering each time your fingers barely grazie his arms and wrists. “Please,” he groans. “If you’re going to do this, then by the hells do it!”

His eyes are wide as he strains to look at you.

Your body aches, sympathy pains twitch down your spine to watch him quivering on the sheets. Your skin feels hot, your own body breaking into a sweat. He’s licking his lips, “Gods, if you go any slower getting something on this cock of mine, I can’t promise your safety, darling…”

You reach for that straining length, the second you wrap your fingers around it, he throbs and groans and twitches. His hips bucking into your hand, legs propped up so he can fuck anything you can get around his cock. You beat against his thrusts, that hardness unrelenting even as you move quicker than you usually do. Looking into his face, you move even faster, his face contorted in agony, his teeth biting so hard into his lips he’s bleeding.

He thrusts and groans and cries as he comes. Spurts of his seed drip down his shaft, coating his already damp lap, trailing milky streams as far as his belly.

But his breathing eases for a moment, his muscles softening just a bit perceptively. And Astarion gives a single contented sigh. “All that with just your hand. You little minx… pacing yourself?” he purrs. “Won’t you at least kiss me hello?”

You give him a small grin, at least he sounds like himself. His eyes are a bit more focused, his voice a bit more silken.

What harm could one kiss do?

You lay alongside him, pressing your lips to his.

The moment you touch, you can feel it, the heat, the lust, and the agony roaring full force through his veins. He’s straining on his bonds, trying to claw you into him. His mouth consumes you, sucking your lips inside his mouth, drawing them deep enough for him to bite. The tang of blood covers your tongue. And his.

He’s frenzied for more, biting you again and again. Drinking the blood that leaks from your kiss. Then you feel it, his legs, untethered, grip around your waist, sliding you to cover his naked, throbbing body. “Astarion!” you cry, muffled by his mouth. But he has you pinned between his thighs. Not unlike that first day in the wreckage.

His erection presses into your belly, he’s grinding it against the linen of your shirt. Rough and aggressive. As if he means to tear a hole in the soft fabric. He keeps you there, humping and riding into your abdomen. Grinding against your mound. Sucking and drinking your kiss as long as you let him.

Not that you have much of a choice, caught in his legs. “Easy,” you breathe, managing to steal your mouth back for the moment. “Easy…” you soothe again, making your body bear down against where he dry fucks against you.

“There is nothing I have in mind to do to you that would be easy…” he hisses. His voice almost sounds… not of this realm. And you press out of the clutches of his fangs. But he just raises his head higher, eyes crazed at the sight of the wounds he’s made on your bleeding and split lips.

“Sorry,” you murmur as you catch his throat under your palm. “It’s for your own good.” You feel his breath rasp, the ragged swallows of spit under your palm.

“The minx has claws…” he growls as you keep his head down.

“Only when you make me use them, Astarion,” you smirk. “Now, if you can keep your mouth to yourself, I’d be more than happy to put mine to other uses.”

“Gods, yes,” he moans. “It’s unbearable, the lust, the need to drive into you. Please put me out of this agony, darling. Please…”

The second you wrap your lips around that fleshy, pulsing head, his cock twitches out of your reach. With a smile and a lick of your tongue, you grip his straining, iron length, holding it steady as you run from base to bulging tip. The bitter tang of his cum fills your mouth. Making you swallow. Making you realize just how used to it you will be before the day of this torment is through.

You manage to still him enough with his squirming and bucking to get your mouth around him. Gods, it’s like stone in your mouth, every vein dragging over your tongue and you suck. You manage to bob your head up and down, avoiding the way he’s thrusting to get more of him down your throat.

The noises from his throat sound pained… agonized panting for more. “That’s it…” he’s hissing as you swirl your tongue around that ridge of his head. “Gods, do that again.” You do, laughing in your throat as you run your tongue over that seeping slit in his tip… so tight as you lap the stains of his cum. You feel it under your hand that works the base of his cock, that thickening, quickening spasm.

He howls, jamming his length into your pursing lips. And this time, you let him. His seed spills down your throat, spurting over your tongue and dripping in your cheeks. More with every pulse as he slowly begins to still again.

One last suck, you swallow him down. Greedily. Wondering if that succubus magic isn’t somehow in your system too. It’s heady, intoxicating. The way he’s glaring at you with his flame-kissed, glistening sweaty face.

But for now, he’s calmer. For now. “Darling…” he’s sighing as he tries to ease into the bed. “You… didn’t have to do this, you know. It’s still such a risk… if I didn’t… care for you… who knows how much of your body would be in one piece when this finally passes.”

“Oh I’m sure I’d leave in one piece… but maybe mostly bloodless and unable to walk straight…” you laugh leaning over him, placing a kiss on his dampened lips.

He slips his tongue in right away, searching for the taste of him in your mouth. He growls again, that throbbing suffering of lust raging beneath his skin again. “I want to see you,” he snarls. “I want to take you naked this time, my pet.” You shiver at the echo of pure desire in his silken voice. As if it doesn’t always drip with seduction. This… you shiver. This was even more wild, unchecked, feral. The need to rut. To fuck.

He looks at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, so dark with his lust, his attraction for you, you feel your own arousal dripping between your thighs. He purrs,“I want to be inside you, darling…”

Your hands couldn’t tug your clothes off fast enough, cursing the practicality of breeches. At last, you stood as he wished. Bared. Ready.

You scramble on the bed, throwing your legs around him. He seems… steadier. Still harder than rock, but less desperate. He strains against his binds, wriggling his lean and wiry body beneath you. So beautiful, every etched line of his muscles, every rise of his stomach, every vein that protrudes in his arms.

You caress him, once on his chest. So damp with sweat. Running your tongue up the center of those muscles, he shivers. The salt of his body makes your mouth water again.

“Hells, are we sure you haven’t ingested the same as me, my sweet?” He croons with a soft little laugh. “Or is this just all for me, darling, to ease my suffering.”

“To keep you alive? I’d do so much more than just lick the sweat from your body,” you taunt back, your voice so low and sultry, you barely recognize it.

He flashes his fangs at you, licking his lips. “Like slipping that sweet cunt on me? Riding me until you are dripping again?”

Ugh… you moan. “Yes,” you pant, “like that.”

The moment he feels your drenched folds hover over his cock, he spears into you. He screams at your union. “Sweet hells,” he groans, voice rasping and sore. “Yes, darling, give me everything. I can take it all…”

You lean over him, your hair cascading down in a curtain as you splay your hands on either side of his head. Barely brushing against his damp, unruly silver locks. You give the smallest rise of your body, the steadiest drag of your walls around his cock. He cants his hips beneath you, timing just right to shove up into your cunt as you settle back down.

A chorus of groans escape you both. He’s sputtering, “Please, darling, again,” over and over. Each time you give him what he wants, only to have him careening up into you harder. Begging for you to go faster.

Soon, your pace is breakneck, your own body shimmering in sweat as you buck and writhe and groan.

His eyes never blinking, those dark black pupils are wide as he watches your face twisting as you chase your own climax, flickering to the swaying of your breasts as they slap together each time you fuck him. They dart to watch where you are joined, where his stiffening cock pierces between your thighs, drenched in his cum and your arousal with every loud, squelching slap you make.

He’s merciless, finally hitching his hips to drive the hardest into you yet. You feel it when he comes inside you now, the sheer volume of his spew, hot and dripping from inside those walls where he’s buried in deep. Your belly aches from where he’s hammering against the end of your channel. More cum with each twitching spurt you feel. He screams like one wounded, his orgasm drawn out as you chase your peak yet. But he’s panting beneath you, catching his breath as he licks his lips.

Even more limp this time.

You’re relieved in your heart, even if your loins ache from the friction, the need to still release your own bliss. His brows furrow, his lips pouting as he looks into your eyes. “I���m… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” you gasp, even as your arms quiver and your thighs shake with the need to continue.

“No,” he squirms and tugs at the tethers. “Infernal rope. If you just let me free, I swear I’ll make it up to you…”

Your mouth waters. He would probably just find a way to break it or chew through that rope if he had to. A smirk plays across your lips, leaning forward to reach your knots. His cock slips out from inside you as you do, making him groan again.

The rope tugs apart in your fingers. Instantly his hands pull free, he shoves you over his face, so close already as you lean forward. He growls, his tongue slipping into your folds. His hands claw into your, gripping at the backs of your knees, spreading you wider as he eats into your cunt with all the hunger you feel raging in his body.

Starving, he feasts on you, and it takes all your strength to hold yourself up, hands splayed on the mattress over his head. That swirl of his tongue… that sucking of his lips on your clit, you already creep closer and closer to that swirl of heat simmering ready to consume you. It sweeps through you, cresting and tearing from your core up your spine.

And then, the world spins. His arms clutch around your legs, throwing you over. You're screaming, still spasming and clenching around nothing. Until your back is sprawled on the bed… until he’s shoved his cock into the last dregs of your orgasm. It makes you whimper his name once more, until you feel another spasm ripping through you.

Only this time, he’s pounding into you, thrust by thrust. Giving you something long and hard and cold splitting you in two as you go limp beneath him. His mouth descends on yours, sucking your breath from your body even as he traps your lips, your tongue with his own.

Manic, driven, he fucks you like one possessed, eyes wide as he finally pins you beneath him. Having his way with you as he chases that required release.

You lay back, still swollen and numb from your pleasure. But he is nowhere near close, not as his hands claw down your side, latching around your legs to make you wrap around his narrow waist. “Gods, you’re so tight, so wet… there have been none like you, darling. None I have wanted as badly as you.” He growls, fingers reaching around the backs of your ass, clamping into your cheeks. He raises you just enough to drag his length all the deeper. Making you keen and mewl and sputter incoherently.

Every nerve in your body hums, every patch of pleasure between your thighs feels him inside you. Gods, if it wasn’t for that scroll, you are certain you would pass out, lying there unconscious while he works this tainted blood from his own body.

By using yours.

By using you.

It makes you smile. Twisted and delighted to be so at his disposal. You were used to his fangs in your neck, his cock plowed into your cunt and his hips clenched between your thighs… but this…

This was intoxicating. Unbridled, unihibited fucking.

For his own sake of course.

That tainted blood and its magic being burned up with each time he filled you to bursting with his seed.

And as if his fixated eyes, hazy with his lust, can read your thoughts, he groans as he thrusts the harshest into you yet. So deep and hard and wild, you wriggle and claw against him as if you could shove him away from where he prods at the end of your cunt. But he only laughs. A laugh swallowed up as he is thrown off by another climax, another spilling of his cum that runs down your body and sticks to your skin. He pants as he looks straight into your face, manic and depraved.

“By the time this is through, your belly will swell from me, won’t it, darling? So filled with my cum, gods, you’ll be leaking for a week. For a fortnight.” He kisses into your neck, your body shivering at the chill of his breath on your skin. “And I’ll have the pleasure of smelling it, of remembering every time you took it so well, darling. I’m so very pleased…”

You look at him, half lidded and panting as he lifts his mouth from your flesh. “As I am…” you hum, running your hands up the ridges of his back, over those mysterious lines of Infernal, to thread your fingers into his damp silver hair.

He purrs as he kisses your lips, a sigh of his satisfaction as he tangles his tongue with yours. You taste yourself still in his mouth. Always so hungry, he is. It makes you wonder… “Aren't you going to beg me to feed, Astarion?”

“Hmm, if the offer is on the table, I’d love nothing more than to sup on… all… that you have to offer…”

He slowly slinks down your body. Your breath quickens, heart racing as he wraps his arms around the backs of your thighs. “Sweet hells, you're going to…”

The lap of his tongue up your seam again unravels you immediately. Your hands fly into his hair, pushing him away and pulling him deeper into your cunt with equal measure. You don’t know which you want more. He’s feeding on you, humming in delighted pleasure as he licks his cum from your folds, his eyes gazing up into your face as you pant and watch. Mesmerized by every dart and swirl of his pink tongue.

He licks his lips, “There is only one thing sweeter than the taste of us,” he purrs, low and deep in his throat, before he laps in a long, wet streak up your thigh. “Your blood, darling, my first living blood, and the last I ever want to drink in the realm…”

Your heart skips a beat, his words sweetening the pain of his bite into your thigh’s supple flesh. “Yes, love, yes,” you feel the wave of your joining… your connection by blood as you now fill him as he has filled you.

“That’s why I call you my sweet, you know… my little treat. None I have tasted… nothing comes close to how your blood sings in my veins like the way your body trembles beneath me.”

He bites you again and again up and down your thigh… little nips of his fangs, making blood drip down the softness of your skin as he licks every tiny trickle.

And all the while, he growls hungrily as he feeds.

It isn’t pain that fills you… not even pleasure. It is pure rapture. Pure bliss that rides up and down your spine. His fingers slowly, languorously curling into your folds, catching on that secret spot just inside that he knows so well.

“You’ve been so generous,” he purrs, letting the low rumbles of his voice shake into your already throbbing folds. “So good to help me through this. Giving me everything.” He glances up from between your thighs, pure wicked delight on his handsome face. “Well, I hope you haven’t given me everything. I think this tainted blood is going to take much, much more before it’s through…”

He pauses his sweet words to circle your clit, sucking it hard in time with the pulsing of those long, cold fingers inside you.

“You will come for me again, won’t you?”

You can’t even get a word in before he builds you to bursting. Driving you to shatter on his hand, under his mouth, as that voracious tongue laps at the arousal that spills from you. Your world spins, nothing but his touch on your skin, his fingers still clenched deep in your cunt.

You’re floating, limp as your muscles flood with warmth and pleasure. Steadied only by the bed at your back and the little sucks of his lips and the wet passes of his tongue over the blood on your thighs.

“Mmm,” he hums as he draws himself up to sit between your outstretched legs. “Every time with you is just perfect. And not just because it’s chasing the devil from my veins, you know…”

He shifts over you, dragging that heavy, cold, unyielding body across your skin. Making you shiver. Spasm. Making you reignite with desire for more of him again and again. That knee… that wicked, provocative knee… it creeps beneath yours to hook you, to spread you wide again as he glides his cock through the mess of your unions already drenching you.

“Seems you still have some of the devil in you, needing to be driven away, hmm?” you flirt, trying to maintain some composure, until he grinds against your already overstimulated folds, your aching clit, reducing you to nothing but moans and spasm.

And he laughs. “Why, my darling, it seems your body is as raging as mine.” His hands stroke against your cheek, fingers teasing their tips into your errant strands of hair that stick to your face. “Why, if I didn’t know better, I would have thought you were the one infected, if I didn’t still have this raging erection needing release…”

You catch him by surprise, buckling your knees around his waist, the wetness of your cunt almost drawing him inside you as you buck against him.

He groans, just a little thrust of his hips and he’s sheathed, so deep and already pulsing with that tainted, blinding need to fuck again.

You giggle, watching his eyes darken, his lids lowering to gaze with all the raging lust in his body upon the one he desires. The only one. As he is yours. You sigh, running your hands up those intricate scars of his back, “I am infected too, you know. Infected by my need for you, perhaps.”

His kiss descends to cover your lips, but it is one of tenderness. Longing. Unsated need softened by the affection that brims in the way he takes you this time.

He is slower, deliberate. Each thrust an offering of adoration for your body. Each drag of his cock inside your folds an expression of his gratitude, his devotion.

His proclamation that you are, in fact, perfect.

Your body rides his, melting into every motion your legs tight around his narrow waist, his arms slinking around your shoulders, pressing your face into the broadness of his shoulder. You gasp against his neck, wrapped in his pleasuring of you, as if you could pull him into your very being more.

That rhythm, that rocking, it begins to sweep you away, binding you to his body. Claiming you for his own. That same fever crawls in his veins as he clutches at you, that tempo increasing harsher. Faster. Until he’s groaning with all his feral drive again.

He pulls out from you, only to slam himself into your cunt, every inch of that long, pulsing length of his filling you to bursting.

He can’t take his eyes off you, raised up in his hands now. His crimson glare consumes your every reaction, every twitch and grin and grimace of painful bliss that he commands from you. Pummeling into you over and over again, your hands claw into his shoulders, slipping down his back to savor the feeling of every undulation of his hips into your core.

“So good… so perfect…” he purrs, ravenous in his gaze, “my only blood… my living blood…” the hard lines of his body ride over every nerve in yours. Your body burns. On fire. Consumed. His words tingle in your ear, caressing your heart that raps in your chest, pattering in time with his merciless thrusts.

It’s brutal, it’s unrelenting.

It’s wonderful. The sliding of his sweat soaked body over yours, your skin flaming and damp. “Hells,” you groan as that thick head of his cock presses and drags over that sweet spot in your channel. “Astarion…” you moan his name, almost incoherent aside from all he is.

“Mmmm darling,” he rasps, “no sweeter sound than my name on your lips… well,” he hums giving you thighs and extra hard slap that squelches with all your sweat and arousal, “aside from the way your body sounds as you take me over and over again so eagerly…”

Your eagerness peaks, your body ripping in two around the rapid plundering inside you. You sputter his name again, a moan that tears from your throat, a scream that makes his handsome face twisting in ecstasy as he rams hardest yet, pulsing and hitching and forcing his eyes to stare as you unravel. Sopping and drenched, the warmth of your fresh slick mingles with his, coating your thighs and his as it seeps from where you couple.

He groans, dropping his weight on you, blanketing you in his scent and sweat and panting frame. He places his damp forehead against your cheek, his cool breath making you shiver as he finally seems to relax. Even if his cock is still hardened and buried inside you.

You feel the rigid planes of his body slipping across yours with every one of your combined breaths. Signing in relief, you relish just how dirty you feel.

How dirty you’ve been.

“Once this has worked its way from your system, you will need to bathe me,” you pant. Your fingers linger and stray through the damp and sweaty curls of silver that stick to his face.

“That can be arranged…” those eyes, that face suddenly twisting again with all the depravity he still has simmering under his skin and in his mind. “Or would you settle for my tongue instead, darling?”

You shake your head, face bright, amused and skeptical. “As if you could accomplish that without bending me over in your state…”

“Mmmm,” he nuzzles against you, tilting his face to run the cold, damp pad of his tongue up your jaw. Laughing as you tremble. “You assume I could accomplish such a feat as resisting your charms without this suffering of tainted blood…”

He slips his cock from inside you, and you moan into his mouth, turning to bring that taunting smirk against your lips. Just for a moment kissing him, before he returns to lapping and caressing your sweat soaked cheek. You sigh with relief, stretching your legs, clenching them together to relieve the throbbing of your muscles.

And this was with that magical healing to sustain you.

You shake your head, in amused, affectionate irritation. Feeling his still erect cock beginning to rub against your hip. His tongue darts across your neck, the unvoiced question in the deliberate lapping and dragging of his fangs on your flushed and pulsing neck.

“For the love, please,” you pant, arching into him with your feverish body, your lust still matching his each time it rises, even as your muscles and marrow scream for reprieve. “Just a bit of rest, love, surely that tainted blood’s hold on you is lessened…”

“But what of your hold on me, hmm?” he rasps into the rapid pulse of your neck. “What if it’s not the succubus whose magic has consumed me, driven me mad and feral, making me no more than a rutting beast…” he gives that low throated giggle. “Your fault, you know, my sweet.”

You breathe heavily, aroused and exhausted in equal measure. “I take full blame,” you laugh weakly, “but it’s only because you’re so beautiful…”

“And witty… and passionate…” he adds a roll of his hips as he utters that last word, grinding that still hardened cock against your side.

“Just… a breath,” you plead. “Just a moment. You don’t seem to be so near death’s door now…”

“I’ll try not to take offense at that barb, given how good you’ve been and how much I’ve fucked you senseless,” he chides.

You laugh again, a bit of a whine in your voice. “Can’t you take care of just one by yourself…”

He murmurs in your ear. “Darling, I’ll take my pleasure from you in every way, in every hole, until this tainted blood is burned up in the blaze of my lust for you,” he groans, “or until I’ve completely exhausted you, leaving you spent and heaving. And then I’ll simply seek my own pleasure just at the sight of you sleeping.”

You stretch, clenching your whole body hoping for that release and rest. If he lets you have it for a moment. “Mmmm, well love, sounds like I’ll really need that bath in the morning any way you come at it…”

He giggles again. Naughty. Dirty. His hand now wrapped firmly around his cock, rubbing for himself, letting it beat against your skin softly. “Oh… I’ll come at it, don’t you fret… darling.”

[suavemania]

― ROSE FIELDS.

pairing: leon kennedy x partner!reader summary: leon kissed you during a mission. you confront him, but leon struggles to tell you the truth. that he loves you. words: 861 words, short and sweet. warnings: pretty angsty! leon deals with his trauma & self hate badly. light suicidal ideations. notes: i originally wrote this with my resident evil oc in mind. but i re-wrote this to fit into a reader perspective for tumblr to hopefully enjoy. written from leon's pov in mind. ummm, not super proofread BUT yeah. idk. it just spilled! i have pt. 2 and 3 already written but not sure if theres much interest tisstiss

"Leon, the kiss-"

"Don't."

He knew that the kiss was going to haunt him, that he would never be able to take it back. He placed his lips on yours, feather-like; as if he kissed you too hard you’d crumble under him. That’s all it was, he defended. A moment of weakness. But it was gone all too soon.

He sat on the bed, defeated. His shoulders stiff as he leaned forward, resting his weight on the elbows that were resting on his heavy legs. He felt your eyes burn into him. You were upset, confused, your emotions swirled in your throat, and Leon just sat there, silent. He refused to look at you, he couldn't. 

"Please." you plead.

And the guilt piles in his stomach once more. The canine teeth of his shame sinking in on his shoulders like pure poison, pumping his veins. He felt like he always made you feel like this, always selfishly hinging his feelings like bait, giving you bits of evidence to his true feelings whenever he felt like he would suffocate; whenever his heart burst at the seams. All he could do to defend himself was that this was for your own good, that it's nothing. You shouldn't know, you can't know, it would- it would­- what would it...

Coward.

That's what he thought about himself.

The truth was that Leon was scared of allowing himself to live in rose fields, let alone walk in them. After Raccoon City, he was so used to spending time in the dim and dark. The bright worlds felt foreign, forbidden; like something his mind and body had long forgotten. the light: it felt like a fantasy, you were like a fantasy. But Leon would rather let his heart waste away inside him than chase after a dream. His dream for safety, security, and knowing that his heart would be protected, shielded from his nightmares and guilt.

"Please, just talk to me."

But Leon kept his mouth shut, his head lowered to avoid seeing your silhouette. Had he given in, had he let his mouth confess his true feelings for his partner; he would have simply had to build another cage for his heart to live in: the inevitable fate of heartbreak, disappointing the one he loved the most. Leon had allowed himself to melt into his self-hatred long ago, feeding the insects at his feet and meeting the soil like honey. He would never admit that loudly, though. That would be thoughts he would sink with until the sticky soil met his broken body, his dampened soul melting into the stars. Or so he hoped.

Moments of silence pass, and as you stand in front of him, he notices your hands picking at each other (a bad habit, he knew that about you). For a brief moment, Leon allowed himself to marvel at you, to selfishly gaze at the only thing that mattered in his life. 

You.

The sun, he thought. He bit his tongue even harder, feeling his jaw clench tightly. Don't do this. Don't be so selfish, don't. What makes him think that he could ever pay off his mistakes, his sins that came back to haunt him every night; clawing at his back. The morbid pictures of Raccoon City were carved inside him, deeply imprinted into his body and mind. He couldn’t allow himself to lose another, especially if the person in question was you. 

He had imagined it if you were there that night, if he had lost you to the memory of Raccoon City. In his scenario, he would clammer his hands tightly onto yours. You’ve been infected, sick and weeping as you rot in front of him, your body actively decaying as he tries to fix you, trying to squeeze his power into you. You cried, blaming him for your slow, painful death. But that wasn’t a reality, and it was something he avoided by not telling you the truth, by not admitting that he loved you. Desperately. 

Maybe he was destined to be married to his work and not the person who stood in front of him. Had he thought about it? Absolutely, more than he would like to admit. Whenever he had trouble sleeping at night, his mind would wander into his better fantasies. He had played a ridiculous amount of scenarios in his head, all that would never come true. they would range from holding his partner's hand while they slept, to him taking photos of them as they explored the world together and the beauty that remained. 

“Leon, please-”

You felt your heart in your throat as you begged Leon with desperate eyes to speak, to answer your questions and feelings. You were filled with warmth, and your warmth was all Leon wanted to indulge himself in, to dive into. He wanted to feel you, to allow you to sand down his bones and brain until all he could be was the remains of his love, your love.

And he could just taste it, the sweet taste in his mouth. It was unbearable. He felt himself shred his hearts walls, the sting burning its remains in his chest, and all he could spit out was,

"I love you."

[lucienarcheron]

In the Shadows of War [ Eiris ]

@erisweekofficial Day 5: War

A healer's heart. A soldier's promise. A tender moment between husband and wife as war wages on. / A Spirit Meets the Bones AU where Iris was already married to Eris during ACOWAR. / Read on AO3.

divider by @tsunami-of-tears

Iris was careful to keep her expression set, watching the scene before her. 

Tents upon tents of soldiers. Some trying to rest, others trying to forget, the cries of the injured drifting between them all as death lingered over their shoulders, waiting.

She took a breath through her nose and then slowly released it to keep her nerves at bay. As one of the healers of the Autumn Court, she’d done everything she could to help those wounded. Carefully, and making sure Beron was kept unaware, she had hand-picked the best healers Autumn had to offer to join the trenches, for this fight would be a deadly one and Hybern certainly did not jest in his attacks. 

Evening winds swept a strand of hair from her loose braid and Iris curled it back as her eyes searched for her husband. 

With every soldier she’d healed, Eris sat at the back of her mind, the bond between them always checking, always confirming, that he was safe and he was alright. That he wasn’t hurt.

But Iris wouldn’t be reassured until she saw him. Until she touched him and checked every inch of him. 

She waited as the sun slowly began to set, as more of their soldiers returned, half dragging themselves and nodding at her politely as she acknowledged them back.

But Iris stood in front of her own tent, until what felt like a lifetime later, she sensed him before she saw him and Eris finally crossed her line of vision, speaking rapidly with his brother, Emil. 

Iris straightened and it was like Eris had sensed the movement, his eyes immediately finding her. His eyes never left hers as his mouth kept moving, giving orders to his brother and as he made his way over, Iris felt her pulse quickening.

Her expression hadn’t shifted and neither did his stoic one – it never would in front of an audience but Iris could tell her husband’s coldness wasn’t for show. Her Eris had not returned to her yet. This Eris was war-worn. This Eris was still on the battlefield.

Nodding to his brother who then disappeared with a thin smile to Iris,  Eris stopped directly in front of her, the tips of his boots an inch away from her own. 

He was a little roughed up. Dirt all over his armor, his hair tousled, and small scratches across whatever skin she could see.

Iris waited for a breath then another, swallowing before she asked softly, “Are you hurt?”

Eris seemed to struggle to find words. As if he was so exhausted, that answering this particular question was too much. After a moment, he took a breath through his nose and then answered, “A small scratch.” He nodded to his arm and Iris glanced down to where the armor had been torn, this cut deeper than the others. “It’s nothing.”

Iris’s lips thinned. “A small scratch can lead to big infections.”

The corner of his mouth lifted but his tired eyes remained cold. “I’m a grown male, wife. It would take more than a small scratch to kill me.”

The words felt like a knife to her gut. 

Anything could kill him. He could die at any moment fighting a war sparked by a madman and her bottom lip trembled before she could control it. 

It was at this that Eris’s eyes softened a fraction. “Iris –”

She turned on her feet without saying a word and a muscle feathered in his jaw as he followed her, stomping to their tent, and as he stepped inside, he felt the world finally go quiet. Silently, he reinforced the shield around the tent, his eyes on his wife who had her back to him, touching items he couldn’t see on their table. 

He fidgeted slightly with his armor – he never could stand it when she was upset with him. But he was still reeling from what he had seen out there. All the chaos. All the noise. All of the violence and death.

Eris sighed softly and it was then, that she turned back to face him and he made his way over to her. He watched her, placing his helmet on the table and then glancing at the items laid out before them to find her healing supplies. The corner of his mouth ticked up as he gently touched the tin of ointment waiting for him. 

Slowly, he let himself meet her gaze as she watched him and Eris found all of his worries – all of the chaos inside his own heart mirrored back at him. 

Eris reached for her hand and gently clasped it in his. “I am not hurt,” he confirmed quietly. “It was a small scratch that has already healed.” He squeezed her fingers. “I am not hurt.” 

Iris shuttered, closing her eyes as she squeezed his hand in return. “I’ve been so worried,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Eris shook his head, his thumb caressing the back of her hand. “I know,” he whispered in return. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Iris shook her head, her throat bobbing. She couldn’t help watching him as he watched her, the coldness slowly leaking out of his eyes until he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly before letting go and slowly began to take his armor off.

But Iris took another step closer, placing her hand on his to stop him. “Let me,” she said gently and he glanced at her in silence, the heaviness in his chest a little lighter. 

He desperately wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hold her until the death and destruction could be wiped from his memory.  But Eris needed to wait. He needed to come back to himself first. To her question, he finally nodded, letting his shoulders drop.

Piece by piece, Iris worked to help him remove his armor. She let her fingers linger, caressing muscles as she went, feeling his skin, the blood pumping beneath it, assuring herself over and over again that he was fine. That he was alive and standing before her.  Even as she wanted to launch herself at him, they needed a moment to get there. To be back together. 

When he finally stood in only his trousers and undertunic, Iris swiped a washcloth across his face, her other hand following the movement to heal any small scratches she found and when she was done, Iris allowed herself to brush her thumb across his cheek, watching as he shuddered. It made her heart ache. “I have a bath prepared for you. Let me look at the cut on your arm then you can let yourself relax a little.”

“Relax.” Eris scoffed tiredly. “Death is at our doorsteps with this war. I can’t relax.”

“Well, death can wait,” Iris replied, her eyes hardening. “I need you here. With me.”

He found the corner of his mouth curling up against his will again, gently tugging on her hand until she moved closer to him. “You’ll fight the Grim Reaper, will you?” he murmured, his other hand tugging on her loose braid. 

“For you?” she said and took a step into his arms, the softness in her eyes his undoing. “I’d fight every one of the gods if they tried to take you from me.”

Eris chuckled, her confession warming him inch by inch. “Death itself couldn’t keep me away from you, little gazelle,” he promised. “I’d crawl my way back to you.” 

Her smile was gentle, one he could never quite get used to being directed at him but nonetheless, Eris felt his body melt into her as she curled into him.

“Then kiss me,” she demanded, her voice low, intimate. “So it’s always in the back of your mind who is waiting for you.”

Eris smiled slowly, a smile he reserved just for her, and pulled her fully against him. “As if I could forget the only person who makes me want to live.”

And so Eris sank his lips onto hers, and with her body flush against his, he knew he could get through anything – anything this war would bring, as long as she was the one he was coming home to.

[todorokis-girl]

I saw you were wanting requests so I thought I'd stop by with an idea. A little back story for the idea, I had to have one of my molars pulled recently because it was broken and infected. So I was wondering how Sugawara would act in helping taking care of you after having a tooth pulled? Or maybe him comforting you over the anxieties of going to the dentist and having teeth pulled.

I hope this gives you ideas. No pressure to write it by any means. Feel free to ignore it if you want to. Anyways I hope you have a lovely day and remember to stay hydrated.

Hello! Thank you for the request, it took me a while because I had no idea how to approach it. There are so many ways to comfort someone during a scary situation; but at the end, I am just a fan of the mundane, making to much of a focus of things makes it harder to deal with.

I hope you enjoy this, Do let me know what you think!

masterlist

A Moment of Gentle Care

In the quiet embrace of evening, you found yourself ensnared by the throbbing pain of a broken molar. Shadows of anxiety loomed large, whispering fears of the impending dentist's chair and the extraction to come. Sugawara, with his warm, steady presence, became your beacon amidst the storm. His eyes, a gentle silver, reflected understanding and concern.

As you lay on the couch, Sugawara knelt beside you, his hands tenderly cradling your own. The soft glow of the lamp cast a golden halo around him, making him appear almost ethereal. He spoke in soothing tones, each word a balm to your frayed nerves. "Hey," he murmured, his voice as comforting as a lullaby. "I know it's scary, but you're strong. You've faced so much already." His thumb traced reassuring circles on the back of your hand. "Remember when you cheered us on during our toughest matches? You were my strength. Let me be yours now."

The night wore on, with Sugawara sharing stories, his laughter a light breeze easing the tension from your shoulders. He brought you a cup of chamomile tea, its steam swirling like whispered promises of relief. As you sipped, he gently brushed a stray hair from your forehead, his touch feather-light yet grounding. His presence was a soothing balm, his every action a testament to his deep care for you.

Sugawara’s eyes sparkled with playful mischief as he recounted tales from their volleyball matches, drawing you into a world where the pain and fear seemed to melt away. "Do you remember the time Nishinoya tried to teach everyone how to do a rolling thunder? He ended up crashing into Asahi!" His laughter was infectious, a warm melody that wrapped around your heart, easing the ache within.

When the day of the extraction arrived, Sugawara was there, his presence a comforting constant. He held your hand as you entered the clinic, his grip firm and unwavering. "I’ll be right here," he promised, his eyes locking onto yours, a steadfast anchor in the sea of your anxiety. His voice was a soft murmur in your ear, weaving a cocoon of safety around you. "You're doing great," he whispered, "just breathe."

Through the procedure, you felt his support, a silent vigil beside you. When it was over, and the molar was gone, replaced by a tender ache, Sugawara was there to guide you home. He prepared a cozy nest of blankets and soft pillows, ensuring your comfort. He read to you from your favorite book, his voice a melodic rhythm that lulled you into restful slumber. His hand never left yours, a constant reminder of his unwavering presence.

In those moments of vulnerability and healing, Sugawara's care enveloped you, turning a painful experience into a testament of his unwavering love and support. The pain seemed distant, a mere echo in the presence of his comforting words and gentle touches. He stayed by your side, his warmth a steady flame against the chill of discomfort.

Sugawara’s dedication was unyielding. He monitored your needs, bringing you cool compresses for your swollen jaw and preparing soft, nourishing meals. His hands were gentle as he helped you sip water, his eyes never leaving your face. "You're doing so well," he would say, his voice full of pride and encouragement.

As you drifted in and out of sleep, you felt the weight of his care surrounding you. Sugawara’s love was a soft whisper in the darkness, a guiding star that led you through the haze of pain. His presence was a soothing melody, a symphony of support and tenderness that carried you through each moment.

In the days that followed, Sugawara's care never wavered. He was your rock, your safe harbor. The anxiety and pain that had once loomed so large now seemed small in the light of his unwavering devotion. His love was a gentle tide, washing over you, easing your fears and bringing you peace.

Through his actions, Sugawara showed you the depths of his heart. He was more than just a friend or a caretaker; he was a beacon of light in your darkest moments, a reminder that you were never alone. His love was a steady presence, a quiet strength that carried you through the storm and into the calm beyond.

[stinkysam]

Porco Galliard - Tongue

Warning : none

Genre : fluff

Synopsis : “what about porco getting a piercing instead of reader?” - anon

Reader : male (you/yours)

A/N : Part ONE

Porco listened as the piercer told him what he was going to do. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he didn't let it show. He looked at you from time to time, as if to reassure himself everything was going well.

He didn't even know why he was stressed. He went through worse at war, so a piercing shouldn't be that bad. He repeated to himself his titan abilities would make it heal quickly, and he won't even have to worry about infections or cleaning it, all he had to do was to keep it so the hole wouldn't close back. Yet he couldn't help it but get anxious about it even though you had told him about how it felt when you got your piercings done so he'd know what to expect.

He glanced at you as you stood quietly in the same room as them, you smiled at him before he turned his focus back on the piercer in front of him.

“You're going to disinfect your mouth. Take this mouthwash. For 10 seconds.” The man said, giving the glass to Porco who took it. He stared at you while cleaning his mouth before spitting it in the sink.

“I'm gonna take a 14 gauge barbell-”

“You can take a smaller size.” You said. “His tongue won't get swollen.” You continued with a smile as Porco nodded. The man eyed him.

“Right. The jaw titan…” He said, taking a smaller size as you told him, and disinfected it as well.

“Stick your tongue out, please.” The man said and Porco did as asked. He placed a paper towel on it to dry it a bit before looking at his tongue, making some measurements, to finally put a mark on it.

“Keep your tongue out.” He said, taking off his gloves to put on another pair and grabbing his clamps, carefully placing it on Porco's tongue and squeezing it quite a bit. It wasn't painful, but definitely uncomfortable.

Porco looked at you when he saw the needle approach, but the piercer didn't give him much time to stress more as he pushed the needle in his tongue. You saw Porco's eyes twitch in pain before the man put on the piercing, removing the needle.

And voila.

“You can close your mouth.” He said, taking another paper towel to wipe Porco's chin, telling him the procedure to take care of it.

“I won't need it.” Porco says, cutting him off, grimacing. He can feel it in his mouth. “It'll heal in a matter of minutes.”

“Oh, right. Right.” The man said, throwing away what was needed and cleaning the rest. Then you went to his desk and paid him before walking out, waving the piercer goodbye.

“Let me see your tongue.” You said, stopping in front of him. It has already healed, some steam leaving his mouth.

“Cute.” You grinned, caressing his jaw and chin. Porco closed his mouth, blushing a bit.

“Does it still hurt ?” You asked, grabbing his hand.

“Nah.”

“Lucky.” You grimaced. You remember the headache you felt for your bridge.

“I can feel it in my mouth. It's weird.” He said, playing with it a bit.

You hummed, pushing his hand in your hoodie’s front pocket, holding it with both your hands.

“Since your tongue won't swell, you might not have a lisp.”

“I better not.” He said, getting annoyed at the idea of getting a lisp. He would sound dumb, and that's not in his plans. “Or I take it off.”

“You did good, though.” You said with a snort and kissed his cheek. He said nothing for a moment, taking your compliment in before looking away, hiding his slightly red cheeks.

“Obviously. I've had worse.” He managed to let out.

“I know. But still.” You squeezed his hand and he did it right back, his pulse quickening at your affection as you placed your head on his shoulder, still walking.

“Will you show the others ?”

“No.” He said, before thinking for a moment. “Maybe Pieck. But I don't want people to know. I don't want my superiors to make me take it off.”

You hummed, nodding, kissing his shoulder, your thumb stroking his hand, and his grip on yours tightened.

“Normally, after a tongue piercing you can't do oral for a while.” You smirked, looking at him while wiggling your eyebrows. “Thanks to the jaw you can still suck my di-.”

“I can also bite it off.” He glanced at you, smiling innocently.

“I'd rather not, thank you.” You replied with a laugh, moving your head away from his shoulder but Porco pulled it back where it was, making you smile.

“Were you stressed ?”

“No. I told you, I went through worse.”

“Liar. I've seen you glance at me each time he said something. Or when he pulled the big needle.” You nudged him with your shoulder and Porco said nothing, looking away, slightly embarrassed. You chuckled, squeezing his hand.

“You're putting something in your body, of course you're gonna stress about it. I stressed for all of mine even though I knew how it felt.”

You felt Porco hesitate, wanting to say something but deciding against it.

“What is it ?” You asked.

“I'm the jaw, I shouldn't stress about it.” He admitted begrudgingly, looking away.

“You're still human, Porco. I would worry for your health if you didn't stress about anything, ever.”

“Not stressing doesn't mean being careless.”

“You know you have a tendency to be overconfident, right ?” You say, looking at him and he frowned. “That can be dangerous for you.”

“I just know my abilities, I worked hard for them.” He huffed, taking his hand away from you to cross his arms.

“A little stress does no harm, Porco. I'm serious.” You locked your arm with his so he wouldn't pull away too much. “It's natural to second guess yourself at times. Even for something as small as a piercing is for you. Yes, you've had worse pain, it won't get infected or cause more health issues, if you don't want it you can just take it off and the hole is gone in a second-”

“That's why I shouldn't need to stress about it.” He said.

“But you're human and you don't want to regret doing it and you know your parents aren't big fans. So it plays into it.”

“How do you know my parents aren't into it ?” He raises an eyebrow, finally looking at you.

“Oh please. Not a lot of parents like their child getting pierced. Do you think mine were happy with my septum ? Or snake bites ? Or bridge ?”

“You even have tattoos, they should get used to it.” He scoffed.

“Do you think your parents are used to you getting hurt even though you have the jaw ? Knowing people are shooting at you with the biggest of weapons ? Their only remaining child ? They never get used to it. Even for something as small as a piercing.”

He said nothing for a moment, not wanting to admit you were right.

“It's not really the same but… I see what you mean.”

“Even for you stressing a bit ?” You nudged him, smiling.

“Don't push your luck. I still think I shouldn't have stressed.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes, pulling him closer as you continued walking. Your place was in sight.

“Well, I still think it's normal.”

“I don't.”

“Oh please, I'm sure all the warriors would've stressed as well.”

“Don't dream. Maybe Reiner because he's a crybaby but not the others.” He said with a smile.

“Even Pieck would've stressed a bit.” You begin. “Sieg would make the piercer stressed with all his questions.” Porco nodded and you continued. “Reiner, yeah, definitely stressed about it. Colt too.”

“Yeah, totally.” He snorted, imagining Colt and Reiner's stressed faces.

“So you didn't do too bad compared to them.”

“No, I guess not…” He admitted after a moment, feeling embarrassed.

“Come on, you did good ! You could've backed away at the sight of the needle but you didn't ! Or you could've pushed him when you felt it against your tongue, but again, you didn't !” You grabbed him, shaking him.

“Stop that.” He said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“No ! Admit it, say it ! You did good !”

“I don't need to.” He said, trying to stop his cheeks for reddening. But you insisted.

“I need to hear you say it.” You continued, placing both hands on his shoulders. Forehead against forehead.

“Alright, alright. I… did good.” He finally said quietly, looking away. He could feel his cheeks get warmer in embarrassment, even his ears turned red.

“Yeah !” You yelled, grabbing his hands and throwing them in the air. He sighed, rolling his eyes as you intertwined your fingers together.

“No need to make noise about it…”

“I don't care. You did good.” You grinned, happy.

He hummed before walking once again, holding your hand.

[cheriekos]

Hiiiii, this is a snippet of a SuperBat Hanahaki AU I wrote up - it’s a bit weird and I don’t really know if I’ll go forward with this. It’s in Poison Ivy’s POV (lmao don’t ask me how I got here) and I LOVE this but I think I would have to go with a different version of the story I want to write if I keep this. So I’m posting this here for posterity and whatnot and I’ll probably re-write aspects of this into an existing project later. This has been lightly edited and is not beta’d. Enjoy!

Ivy doesn't get a lot of visitors. She gets plenty of wayward children and adrenaline-seeking teenagers that really liked to push the limits on her patience and graciousness. However, that plea deal she made with the city kept her a short, short fucking leash. And despite how easy it is to flick her wrist, send thorns and vines and venom towards intruders and disrespectful punks - she likes having the greenhouse. She likes keeping Robinson Park evergreen and yes, her sordid, traitorous heart was kept alight when she saw the young kids of Gotham gently step over tree roots and gaze in awe at her azaleas. That all being said - she's not quite a people person. And most people aren't approaching her unless they have a masochistic streak running through them. 

"Ivy," grunts out the too familiar voice.

Ivy has a running theory that the Batman was, indeed, one of those people with said masochistic streak.

"Whatever mystery you're solving, I have no part in it," Ivy drawls, gently misting a particularly sad looking plant. She frowns. "You can check with your little Oracle - I'm sure she can scrounge up the camera footage somewhere. I've only been in my greenhouse." 

"I'm here on business."

"And I just told you - I had no part of that business," Ivy says, sharper. The plant - the Passions Vine, maypop, Passiflora incarnata - begins to bloom anew beneath her fingertips. "You can't implicate me in anything."

"I wasn't planning on it," He says, with a strange lilt to his voice. Her ears twitch.

She turns, only slightly, in order to look at him. He's as imposing as ever, more of a shroud of inky darkness than a man. The white of his lenses and the faint curve of his pale jaw the only real visible parts of him in the dim greenhouse, especially in the shadows where he liked to linger. It's a familiar sight, which gives her a faint burst of nostalgia. How disgusting. 

"Here on business, but not here to drag me off to Arkham?" She hums. "Color me intrigued. Do make it quick, though, you're interrupting my bedtime routine."

He only grunts. Ivy rolls her eyes, wondering how earth she found herself at the beck and call of this wretched creature. He finally steps under the blinking overhead light, awash in an orange glow. Without a word, he raises an upturned fist. When she arches a brow, he slowly unfurls his palm. 

Three petals. Yellow, slim, long - flecked with blood. Helianthus annuus. 

"Sunflower petals," Ivy remarks. Her eyes dart up to him. "But you already knew that."

"Yes," He says simply.

"Well, what do you need me for then?" Ivy asks, disdain coloring her tone. 

"These were collected from an individual who appeared to have an upper respiratory infection," He says. "All the symptoms of a standard viral infection were present - sneezing, coughing, congestion. After five days of a normal course of cold medicine, symptoms began to evolve that indicated a lower respiratory infection. After three days of worsening symptoms -"

"Get to the point." 

"The individual eventually coughed up these petals."

"...Excuse me?"

"The individual coughed up -"

"I heard you right the first time," Ivy puts her hand up.  "But what in the world could cause that to happen?" 

He curls his palm again, arm disappearing underneath his cape once more. "That is why I'm here."

Ivy blinks. "You thought I would know something about lower respiratory infections?"

"I assumed that, perhaps, in your tenure as an ecological terrorist, that this is a phenomenon you may have come across." He says, dryly. 

"I can't tell if you're trying to be funny or not."

He just hums. "Can you tell me anything about this?" 

Ivy stares, one part dumbfounded, and another part itching with the familiar sensation that comes with a near encyclopedic knowledge of plants and the urge to know and be right. How dreadful that the remnants of a competitive, perfectionist PhD student still lived within her bones somewhere. 

"One moment," She says, and turns on her heel.

He waits, patient, like one of the city's many faithful gargoyles. She sits on a sturdy leaf with a little thank you and calls other vines to bring her old books out to her workshop table. She flips through a folder with old articles on diseases and infections, but that path is not fruitful. She skims a textbook, a section on herbal medicine and quickly shoves it away with a dissatisfied as another set of vines brings out her laptop and lab instruments.

Her eyes shoot to him. "Come here." 

He moves, like shadow, like a piece of the night come alive. He hovers by the edge of the table, a curious tilt to his head. If she had any little bit of affection left, she would consider it adorable - he seemed like one of the many fruit bats that tried to nibble at her gardens. 

"The petals." She holds out a glass microscope dish. 

He shifts, then stops abruptly; there's an odd strain to his already grim face. If she hadn't known any better, she would've guessed he was hesitating. But the moment passes; he gently places the petals in her dish.

She adjusts the microscope, taking note of the regular aspects of the petals - protrusions she notes that are pollen tubes, the very odd cell structures - and briefly examines the blood specks. When she lingers too long on that aspect, her impromptu lab partner grunts disapprovingly.

"Do you have a problem?" Ivy asks, not taking her eyes off the microscope.

"Are they any irregularities with these petals?"

Ivy taps a green finger against the table. "Well, since you mentioned it - yes."

With a great of amount of self-convincing, she vacates her spot and gestures to the microscope. She can't tell what his eyes are doing under the mask but the air around him seems to fill with a general distrust. He looks into the microscope anyways; while he does, she motions for a come to pluck a petal off her own sunflower.

"Thank you for your service," She says to the little petal, and puts it into another dish. "The sunflower is a dicot, which means there are a number of expected cells within its makeup."

She switches the bloody petals for the standard one.

"Parenchyma cells, epidermal cells, xylem and phloem," Ivy waves her hand. "Things you would've learned in your elementary science class." 

"However?" He prompts. 

"However," She slides the bloody petals back in. "There is a mutation within these cell structures." 

"Elaborate."

"Don't make a fuss, I'm getting there," Ivy says, as if speaking to an impatient toddler. "Patience is a virtue, you know." 

Once more, he grunts. 

"Do you see the spiraling vessel next to the xylem? They look almost identical. The difference, however -"

"This one is filled with blood." 

"Not quite like a photosynthetic plant to absorb blood." 

"What does this indicate?"

"Right now? Nothing," Ivy turns to her laptops and begins a new file dedicated to this particular sunflower petal. "I don't have a definite answer for you on what this is or what it means - or why your little friend is coughing up petals."

He grunts - one of the ones that clearly signals his dissatisfaction. "How soon can we know what exactly this is?"

"You'll know when I know - which is whenever I feel like it."

"This could be life threatening, Ivy," He says, urgency in his tone. She could scoff; everything was so urgent with him. Now or never. Save the city, save the world and all that bullshit. "I'd advise you to not waste time."

"Yeah?" Ivy puts her chin in the palm of her hand. "I'd advise you to take that stick out your ass."

"Ivy -" He stops abruptly. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a world-weary kind of way that makes him seem less like a statuesque figure of nightmares - and something more like an old man. She blinks. 

"What would it take for you to...prioritize this?"

Let me out and let me raze the world in order to stare anew - and then that stupid, awful little voice that sounds suspiciously like Dr. Leland's comes in to grab her gently and say 'what can you change in front of you, right now?'

"Harley is out, but she's not allowed within Robinson Park," Ivy says. "Change the details of her pardon."

"You know I can't do that -"

"Bullshit," Ivy hisses, hands slamming against the table - and she feels it. The edges of her vision going green, how the smell of the poison in the very stems of the plants around her are present, how she could send the thorns of rose flying at his throat. How hungry her fly-eaters were for blood. It would be so easy. So easy. 

"Aw, sugarplum, just think of all the good things when the green gets too big! The smell of roses, lavender, or um...um - I dunno much about flowers. Or maybe me! I'm as comfortin' as a daisy, aren't I?" 

She breathes out. Slowly.

It would be easy. Getting freedom was not.

"That's all I ask," Ivy says, voice strained. "Just - let me see her. Somehow." 

He stands so still. It's irritating. She despises this - how desperate she feels, all the power he has, and the embarrassment of it all. There was a time when she would send him flying to the rafters, wrapped in her vines. The poisons, the toxins, the pollens - all of her knowledge and power dedicated to trying to knock down the immovable force that was the Batman. And now here she was. Bargaining with him in order to see the woman she loved. Pitiful. 

He shifts. His hand hovers in the air between them and she feels an edge of paranoia curl at the back of her mind. But then his hand settles, lightly, with his fingertips gently brushing her hand. It's...surprisingly gentle.

"I will see what I can do," He says. "

For a moment, Ivy thinks she can see his eyes. Behind the glare of those lenses, she thinks there's a human somewhere, underneath all of this. It makes something curl uncomfortably in her gut. But as soon as the moment has come, it is gone - and his hand is back beneath his cape. He's just a figure, a piece of the night, and the blight upon her existence. Familiar. 

She doesn't say thank you. She already doesn't like how much of her current existence is in due part to his relentless crusade against violence - and the repeating, endless cycle of it. She doesn't want to admit that within the many hands trying to pull her away from her endless spiral downwards, his was amongst them.

She just juts her chin out, vines curling around her shoulders. "Scram, Bats. I've got work to do."

For once, he decides to take the normal way out. She watches, intently, as he makes his way to the greenhouse door, and without so much as a look back her way, disappears into the night. When she finally turns away, back to her work bench, the blood specked petals are gone. 

[w3bgrl]

truth woven within the venom

synopsis: even when she reached out he was pushing her away; after months of festering angst and a growing list of instances where they butt-heads, changbin and juyeon’s pent up feelings finally boil over in their first ever fight.

date: late september 2019

era: pre-double knot

word count: 1.5k

featuring: kang juyeon, seo changbin, bang chan mentioned, ot10 referenced

warnings: swearing, arguing, hurt/comfort?

a/n: eeek soooo happy to be posting again! i hope you like sweet & sour as much as i do (*^▽^*)

"but you don't listen! that's the problem! it goes in one ear and right out the other. why don’t you listen to me?"

in hindsight, it was really quite a minuscule issue that started this screaming match — but hindsight was always 20/20.

after dinner on this particularly cold september night, changbin and juyeon had been the poor souls to lose rock-paper-scissors against the rest, leaving the grumbling pair to wash dishes and throw away any trash left behind by the 8 full-bellied boys. and though the other members' eyes would all wearily shift to chan for guidance on the volatile pair now dragging their feet to the kitchen, he'd simply round them up before making up an excuse for them to be out of the house, hollering something about the studio before the door closing behind them echoed throughout the starkly silent walls.

"i'll dry, it's your turn to wash." juyeon would say shortly as she gathered the plates. she honestly half-expected the response from changbin.

"but — i washed them last week."

"right," she placed them in the sink with an already clenched jaw "but i washed dishes yesterday, so it's your turn."

the mahogany-haired boy then shook his head dissmisively. "i think you're remembering wrong."

and that's where it started; over who was going to wash the dishes and who was going to put them away. again, a minuscule issue that wouldn't have been a problem if not for the thinned patience this duo had with one another over the past few months. they'd been butting heads quite frequently, not big enough to actually create an issue but often enough for the other boys to notice, which is why the leader hurried the boys out to hopefully allow them to work it out on their own. however, not one of the members could have expected it to pan out the way it did.

"oh —" changbin nearly scoffed, arms folded over his chest as the dishes had now been long forgotten in favor of their argument "sorry i don't heed your every word, your majesty. i didn't know whatever you say was of the utmost importance."

juyeon huffed and rolled her eyes "you are such a baby sometimes. you know that's not what i said."

"it's what you want to say! so just say it! 'i'm juyeon and i'm just so fucking important that what i say goes.'"

"don't be a dick."

he nearly laughed now, the blissful victory on the horizon curling his lips into a condescending smile "see! 'don't be a dick, changbin. watch your tone, changbin — bend over backwards on my command, changbin.' you're so full of yourself that you can't see how fucking demanding you are."

this jab at the older girl quickly became apparent as a step in the opposite direction, as now she was the one smiling deviously, a dry chuckle escaping her bitten lips. "at least i'm not a whiny little bitch all the time! honestly," she laughed again "it's like you're always on your period or something. even my emotions are on thicker ice than yours."

"it's not me on thin ice, juyeon, it's you. you are just so —”

changbin’s face tomatoed as he searched for the words before ultimately giving up on accurately pinpointing what it was about her that drove him mad, instead deciding to return the putrid way she made him feel, throwing the oozing pus infecting his heart back in her face.

“you drive me insane! you drive me up the fucking wall every day, juyeon! i can’t stand you! i can’t stand living and working with a bitch like you! you are the worst thing to happen to me — truly. i would be relieved if you just fell off the face of the earth."

there was a brief beat before her response, and from his place across the livingroom changbin could see her demeanor shift; her furrowed brows softening along with the sharp gaze pointing daggers his way, replaced by the discernable crease of a frown in the corner of her lips, folded arms falling with the weight of sheer disappointment. “is that true?”

his own intensity reeled back at her reaction and changbin found himself grasping at the truth woven within the venom — the well-meaning feelings masked by the disease of lovesickness. and while the memories felt so distant by this point, that feeling juyeon afflicted him with still lingered, nurturing his yearning until it grew teeth and learned to bite.

“is it?” juyeon prodded “that i’m the worst thing to happen to you?”

it wasn’t — of course it wasn’t. “you…” he’d start, starkly gentler than before “you live in every corner of my mind, ju. i can't think without thinking about you. i just — i miss you."

now, from her place by the door where she'd threatened to walk out before turning around to bark back once again, juyeon watched as his eyes grew glossy while he fought to keep his composure. his previously broad stance had dissolved into that of a teenage boy caving into himself, and as his hands found the back of the couch to brace the weight pressing him into the mantle, changbin lowered his head to hide the humiliation boiling his cheeks. this image in itself had her own vision going blurry with the tears forming.

"you think i don't?"

changbin would only sniffle. juyeon took a step closer.

"changbin." she'd say almost sternly, his wet eyes peering up to look upon her call "you think i feel any differently?"

"how should i know? you've kept me at an arms length for months now."

now juyeon felt the nausea of shame. she gulped before nodding. "you know what? you're right; i have been distant for a while, and i'm sorry. but you are the one that's been pushing me away."

jisung always did boast how well of a communicator juyeon was. hell, changbin knew this himself, but it was still quite overwhelming when knelt before her authenticity. he knew he should mirror her — own up to his shit and apologize — but as the words failed to come out he noted the inability to fully be that vulnerable with her now; even when she reached out he was pushing her away.

changbin looked back down at the couch. the air in the room grew thick with each passing second of silence the older girl refused to fill leaving them both sniffling quietly, parallel with one another in the group's living room, oxygen in their lungs coagulating like soup. finally, after what felt like eternity of changbin's ears growing a deeper shade of red, she spoke again.

"when did we get like this?"

finally something easier to respond to. "like what?" he asked.

"like...guarded. there used to be nothing you couldn't — wouldn't say to me."

changin lifted his head, cheeks wet and eyes red from the tears he'd concealed from her, offering at least a step in the right direction. he found juyeon a step closer with her own tears dripping down her chin. "you know when."

"why?"

he shook his head now, a dry chuckle almost escaping his glossy lips. "because —" changbin cut himself off. juyeon was then suddenly moving to sit on the couch with her attentive eyes peered up at him, waiting earnestly for him to continue. he inhaled sharply at the burn in his chest.

“because i hate how you make me feel. it feels pathetic — i feel pathetic. because you exist and suddenly i can't act right. and i have all this feeling inside and to you it’s only words — and i love you — like a monster like a beast; like something not worth loving back. and all i want is you but i can't have you, and it feels pathetic.”

for a moment just long enough for him to note her concentrated gaze fixated on his, juyeon sat and thoroughly sifted over his words before finally looking away. this, too, was only for a moment, as she soon looked back up to gingerly place her own hand on top of his.

“i told you; the love isn’t going anywhere, bin. it’s always here, even if i see you everyday, even if i never see you again. it’s not going anywhere. are you?”

it was changbin’s turn to marinate in her tender words. “n-no,” he sputtered “no.”

“then stop pushing me away. let me in, and be my friend again while the days pass."

"even after everything i said?"

juyeon would look up expectantly. "well...is there anything else you want to say?" he didn't need to be convinced this time, the older girl's transparency now came as a comfort than a threat. changbin placed his other hand on top of hers.

"i'm sorry. truly. i didn't mean any of it. i just...wanted you to hurt like i hurt."

finally, for the first time in months, juyeon's smile was directed at him; small and weak and honestly barely there, but it most definitely wasn't the frown he'd grown accustomed to. "we'll work on that." she hummed.

chan and the rest of the boys would return home an hour or so later with half-eaten ice creams in hand to find a completely clean kitchen.

[longer-than-i-should-admit]

Okay but what if Solas gets freed earlier than the big bad final fight (like we speculate) and he uses his Dread Wolf form in occasional pinches of combat?

And what if he has a moment where he has to deliberately choose his commitment to Rook like he had to do with the Inquisitor? (I'll utilize mine for this case.)

Walk with me. (Spoilery drabble under the cut. Probably OOC tbh.)

They're in a darkspawn infested spot. The objective was to get something. They got it, but now they're retreating back to the eluvian because there are far too many blighted things for them to feasibly fight against—it has infested the place, and Davrin being the only one resistant to it does not accommodate the very real threat of the others possibly being tainted.

So Solas, as one with the most experience of command, calls for a retreat. The rest of the Veilguard have stumbled either through or to the eluvian, watching anxiously as the rest forfeit their hard-won ground to safely draw back to his position as he covers for them.

Rook does not agree.

"It is suicide to stay here!" Solas shouts at her from across the battlefield, his spells as percussive and punctuated as if the Fade was popping through the Veil at his summons. It makes her hair stand on end, raises frissons under her clothes, and the pressure in her ears reminds her of the air tensing before a lightning strike. "We must go!"

"We've almost got them pushed back!" she retorts, all the way on the other side. The steppe is the highest point in the mountainside, and she has been blasting off the darkspawn with shockwaves of arcane energy thus far. "We could recover other things from the ruins!"

"It is not worth it if lives are lost in the process!" Solas snarls, and Rook glances over her shoulder at him with arched brows.

In the middle of the fray, overwhelmed by the surge of darkspawn scuttling over the cliff face like swarming insects, Emmrich stumbles and falls with a yelp.

Rook struggles to concentrate between two points of focus. She is in the middle of her own combat, but her first instinct is to run to the necromancer's side. He's still casting, keeping the infected off of him, but they give no room for him to get back to his feet.

Solas moves, so quickly that Rook did not catch it. Magic surges, tingles on the back of her tongue, and in a flash the Dread Wolf falls into a sprint across the ground glistening with ichor and smattered with decaying flesh and rotting guts.

Rook blasts through the wave clambering to drag her down and watches, slack-jawed, as the great black wolf lunges over Emmrich with a snarl, standing squarely over him with enough room to spare the tall human to right himself and flee to the eluvian unharmed.

Fen'Harel's mighty jaws snap around darkspawn left and right, shaking them to shatter their bones and flinging the battered corpses like rag dolls. Soon enough his teeth are stained with inky, corrupted blood, bits of viscera wedged between his frothing gums, and his six lyrium-blue eyes meet Rook's, resolute and unflinching.

In that moment, Rook knows he will leave her there to save the rest.

A hurlock grabs her ankle. It is half disintegrated by her magic, yet it's still going, still gurgling, still strong enough to yank her foot out from under her. She lands roughly on her back and the air rushes out of her lungs in a pained whoosh, stunning her. Her vision blurs and swims. The steady drain of her mana had already weakened her, in addition to her wounds, but she had bashed her head on the ground, too.

The hurlock intends to bring her down the cliffside with it, she knows. She grits her teeth against the pain and vertigo and bashes the heel of her boot against its face, sending it careening off the edge. Her heart leaps when she rolls over to scramble back up onto her hands and knees and realizes—too late—how close it had dragged her.

Her legs drop out into open air. Her belly scrapes against the slickened stone. Her fingertips dig into the gravel, a biting anchor sure to leave her own blood behind. Her nails might not survive the weight of her entire body hanging on the precipice of a fathomless drop. When she peers down past her shoulder, eyes rounding, and there is nothing but mist and insurmountable depth.

She barely hears her cry of alarm over the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. She does not recognize her own voice. She certainly does not anticipate calling out to the bane of her existence as a means to preserve it. "Solas!"

The wind is deafening, rushing past her as though it, too, flees the darkspawn she could sense clawing their way up the mountainside by the dread building in the base of her throat. The wolf had turned to deal with another cluster of darkspawn, but his ears angled towards her before his great head whipped around to spot her where she fell.

Her grip slips. She skids further down in a heart-lurching, precious, hands-breadth of distance. Her shoulders ache with the strain. Her chin drags the edge of the jagged stone. She cannot get a foothold with how the rock curves away from the ledge. She thinks she hears someone hollering her name, somewhere behind the wolf. One of her companions, or multiple—she isn't sure. She can see nothing save the glow of his eyes and the whites rimming them as he stares at her.

"Harellan!" she screams. The insult turned barb turned nickname seems the least fitting thing to use to entreat the man whom she had treated with such utter disdain and irreverence for the first portion of their acquaintance. But it is who he proved himself to be: a rebel with a cause. A man who stops at nothing to do what he feels is right.

One who does not flinch at the idea of sacrifice in favor of victory.

Rook's grip fails her. She scrabbles for purchase to no avail. The stone arches away from her, it seems, and she falls.

She does not see how deep the gouges the Dread Wolf's claws score into the stone when he launches into a sprint aided by his magic, frost fringing the ends of his pelt. She does not see the full stride of his legs stretching and hauling the ground closer to project himself into a lightning-quick gallop across the steppe. She does not see him nearly careen clean off the side of the mountain, barely skidding to a halt in time—back feet digging into the skittering gravel—as his upper half lunges over the edge. She does not see the massive maw of teeth engulf her because she has already squeezed her eyes shut in hopes that she won't know when the ground reaches her.

But the ear-ringing snap of his jowls jolts her out of her shock. If she had died, she could expect it to be dark. Maybe even warm. But wet?

Rook gasps as she's clamped tight in the mouth of the great black wolf. Her orientation becomes muddled, then—she has no concept of what direction is up, where he's going, or even what's going on around them. Any sounds are muffled. She thinks she hears the roar of a beast too big for them to handle in their current state of exhaustion. Her heart hammers against the inside of her ribs, and the rumble that surrounds her sets her nerves alight with prey instinct.

Fen'Harel runs. He leaps. He lands, and it is a jarring, uncoordinated crash into the ground—hopefully across the relatively safe bounds of the eluvian.

"Solas! Where's Rook?"

"Did you catch her? Is she—"

"Did you eat her?"

To answer the clamor of questions ringing in her ears, the wolf's mouth opens. She slides out and collapses on the ground in a gruesome heap of bodily fluids and remains.

"Remind me never to ask you for help again," she croaks. She reaches up and swipes the saliva off her eyelids so she can glare up at the Dread Wolf staring down at her in turn, every last eye trained solely on her. She thinks he is assessing her for damage.

His fur shimmers and she watches, disoriented, as the man reemerges from the shape of the wolf. His armor is battered and his shoulders sag from what is likely too prolonged of a mana drain, but he seems no worse for wear. She is momentarily distracted from him as her companions cluster around her and pull her into a seated position, their hands as busy as their mouths as they fret and curse and express their relief all at once in a raucous cacophony.

Her eyes snap back over to Solas struts promptly over to a hedge, yanks off one of his gauntlets, and proceeds to press a couple fingertips into his mouth and—presumably—onto the back of his tongue. He then wretches into the unsuspecting foliage.

The others fall abruptly silent, stricken and perplexed.

"I feel like I should take this as an insult," Rook remarks, scowling. "Surely I don't taste that bad."

Solas' eyes are red-rimmed and watery when he straightens, and if it weren't for that he would look as composed and dignified as ever. He snatches a potion from his belt and gargles it thoroughly, swishes it around his mouth, then spits it out. He swipes the back of his hand against his lips and scowls at her. "Forgive me if I would rather not be tainted by those blasted creatures!" he snaps, thoroughly rankled.

She knows it's not simply from how terrible darkspawn must taste.

She is proven correct when he stalks back over and kneels before her, the tension in his frame wound so tight she wonders how close he is to snapping his own spine. "Disrobe."

The others part like water at his demanding tone with varying levels of skepticism and disquiet, brooking no argument. But Rook is nothing if not contrary—she opens her mouth to protest, but Solas only lets out a terse, angry sound and reaches for the buckles on her armor.

"Stop!" she growls, slapping his hand away. She swears she sees the vein in his temple throb as he rears back as though she offended him. "What are you talking about?"

"Your clothes have been contaminated," he explains harshly. "The taint binds to organic materials. Being as that you were thoroughly inundated in blighted essence since you were too stubborn to fall back when I said to and relied upon an unfavorable means of rescue, we cannot risk you becoming infected!" He gestures to her clothes. "We will have to burn them. That goes for the rest, as well. I am certain Davrin already knows this."

"It's not exactly something you can wash out," the warden agrees.

"Oh, you have got to be joking!" Rook scoffs. "This is not the first time we've faced off against those bastards! What makes it so different this go around?"

"Your wounds, Fenalan!" Solas snarls. The intensity of his conviction as well as the rattled, unsettled tinge straining his voice makes her clamp her jaw shut. "If any ichor enters your bloodstream, you are doomed! You already tread upon death's door in your obstinance, but now you risk falling victim to something far worse!"

She frowns at him. She has a few scratches here and there, nothing so severe as to warrant such a reaction. She had been battered far worse before, endured wounds much more likely to do her in than hese. Something else had caused Solas to go overboard.

Her mind recalls the memory she had walked here in the Crossroads. The agent in Ghilan'nain's laboratory. The set of Solas' jaw when he had accepted the inevitability of his duty. He could not save her. There was no cure. He had no other option save to put her out of her misery before she truly suffered with the invented abomination.

The same fraught, wild glint in the eyes of his younger image peer directly into her own now. He is angry, yes, undeniably. But he is afraid, too. He does not want to make a sacrifice this day, she thinks.

Her hands shake as she begins to work the buckles loose. The others seem to take that as a sign to follow suit, removing the pieces of their armor that could be salvaged while piling the rest away from the vegetation encroaching upon the old paths winding around the network of mirrors. The metals could be decontaminated. The fabrics crackle and stink when Solas lights them with a curt snap of his hands. They are reduced to ash in seconds from the intensity of his ire, and he contorts the fabric of the Veil to crush that into powder that drifts, inert and harmless, off the ledge of the island in the wind.

The others group loosely together and head toward the Caretaker's dock when Rook tips her head towards it, helping each other along if they were weak or disoriented. No one had suffered grave injuries, thankfully, upon careful inspection. Most of the ichor had stained the outermost layers, so not all of it had to be destroyed, fortunately.

It was tough business, dealing with a mutated double blight.

Rook hung back a moment, waiting for Solas to turn away from the singed, blackened space below his feet. He is still drawn as tense as a bowstring, and does not move until she steps close enough to touch his arm. He pivots away from her hand and his gaze is cold on her.

"Ir abelas," she says. "I did not mean to worry you."

If Solas is taken aback by her admission, he does not convey it. But his shoulders loosen, just slightly. "That mistake almost cost your life, Rook," he says grimly.

"I know. I will endeavor to keep my head next time." She gestures towards the others, their low conversations carried by the breeze despite their distance. "Let's go wash all this shit off, yes?"

Solas looses a heavy exhale. They began to walk together.

"'Ma serannas," she tells him. "I did not think you would save me."

His stride falters briefly, then slows to accommodate her attention. The furrow between his brows eases into incredulity. "Why?"

Perhaps she expected him to confirm that it had not been his intention, that he had only done so because she was somewhat necessary to their mission's success, in the end. That he seems shocked she would even ask unroots her perception of him slightly.

"I rejected your orders," she says simply. "I got carried away. You had every right to leave me behind, but you didn't."

"I did not." Solas studied her for a moment, pensive. "I would not allow you to perish if I have a say in it, Fenalan," he offers after a moment. It is careful. It is measured. Yet she still notices the lack of bite to the words he normally wields when speaking to her. She had cultivated that response, she supposes, with how often she had exchanged verbal jabs with him in the beginning.

"Even if I don't understand your motivations," Rook sighs, "I thank you nevertheless." She swallows. "Ir abelas."

"Tel'abelas, ean'din. I am pleased to see you still live."

"Despite the perpetual headache I pose?"

"Despite that." Solas shakes his head. "I...do not think poorly of you. I would not see you fall into danger unnecessarily. That you can be so reckless and negligent of your own well-being at times is...disconcerting."

Rook cast him a side-eye. "Pot meet kettle. You stop throwing yourself on the line for the rest of us and I'll do the same."

The god of lies, treachery, and rebellion huffed what could have been a laugh. And Rook wonders if Varric would have any light to shed upon why the Dread Wolf was so protective of his unwitting pack, if he would ever admit to such a concept.

[scummy-writes]

Sinking

Rating: Mature

Words: 1742

Characters: Gilbert, Reader

Warnings: This fanfic focuses on the act and discussion of self harm. I do not recommend this to those sensitive to it, and fully encourage you to scroll past. Additionally, this is not meant to be portrayed as a glorification of the act.

-----

Until that very moment, you weren't aware of just how long you could hold your breath.

An ache settles deep in your jaw, your lungs, as you stare back at the figure standing in the doorway to your room. The only sound you can register is the thunderous thumping of your heart beating against your bones, until Gilbert quietly shuts the door behind him.

The click of the lock sets your mind into overdrive, a thousand panicked thoughts meshing together in a cacophony. Painful, as you struggle to remember to breathe. With his first step towards you, you've dropped your knife on the floor in your haste to cover up your thigh.

He's already seen it. You know he has. But you pitifully try to pretend otherwise, not caring how stained your underskirt will be the longer you hold it there, against your crying skin.

His steps come closer, until the tips of his boots come into view- and that view is forced on him now, as he grasps your chin, looking down upon you.

"Little rabbit, what have you done to yourself?"

.

In all the years of this haphazard routine, there were steps you followed to do your damndest to ensure that this was kept private. Knowing that you somehow even managed to mess that up during a fit of overwhelming emotions, that Gilbert, out of everyone it could have been, found out…

It was shameful, the speed at which tears flooded your vision. Gone was his blood red eye, and instead you winced your eyes shut as you croak out a plea.

"D-don't tell anyone."

It's the first words to tumble from your mouth, and the way they do so is pathetic. Your voice is shaking, so much quieter than you had hoped for, and at first he pauses. 

The emotion you couldn't put a name to, adding so much tension to the air, finally shows itself in the way his grip tightens on your chin. The way he pulls his hand back, taking in a deep breath before moving to sit on his knees, pulling the fabric of your skirt away from your hands. 

As the cool air touched your sensitive skin, littered with clusters of haphazard cuts, you realize that it is anger that exudes from him.

The question of why, however, remains unanswered. Too distracted with how shame fills you, watching as he inspects what you've done to yourself.

Never in your entire existence did you hope for this. This was an outlet, a secret of yours that you wished would never rear its head as often as it did.

But here was Gilbert, letting out a steady sigh at the sight.

"You don't let them get infected." He mutters, and the anger dissipates slightly.

You’re unsure of how to respond, the fear of the situation still settled into your bones. In hiccups your breath attempts to steady out.

“A-are you going to tell anyone?

“That depends on your answers.”

“You’re…Going to integrate me over this?” 

Gilbert’s eye flicks back towards you, and through the thinning tears you can feel the sharpness of his gaze. 

“I want to know why you’re doing this.” “That’s… Complicated. I can’t answer that succinctly.” “I’m aware,” another sigh leaves him, eye looking for what you dropped earlier now. Despite that, the tension he holds never ebbs away- his touch on your thigh now a tight fist, and you can tell he’s considering his next action.

It’s then that he finds your knife, taking a cloth from his inner pocket and wiping it clear of the lingering blood and dirt it gathered. Decidedly, he holds your knife up, continuing.

“I don’t plan to ask away and give nothing in return.”

The metal catches the light, a cast of white against the dark that is Gilbert as a whole. There’s a layer of fear still coating each thought, each breath, but you manage to clamor your heart down. The question of why Gilbert is seeking answers is one you know you can’t uncover, not as it stands now, but. Knowing that for once, just this once, someone could take the dirtiness of the act away from your sore hands, wins over your reason.

.

The way he handles the knife with ease, fills your heart with a cold unlike any other. Knowing that his movements are practiced, because this is nowhere near the first time he's laid a blade to someone else's skin. That, if he so desired it, he could hurt you beyond repair. Sink the metal into your pliant flesh, scar you indefinitely.

Yet, it rests gently against your skin. He holds it still, surveying the faded marks resting there. He drags the tip of the blade to each one, thinking.

"You never cut deep enough to leave an actual scar. Why is that?"

The casual way he asks such a thing causes your stomach to twist. All of this is just idle curiosity for him, and nothing more.

But the fear of the others- of Rio finding out, wins over. Numbly, you mutter out.

"I don't want it to be obvious. If it's too deep, it could hurt to walk- and people would realize something isn't quite right-"

"Even those who drove you to this?"

"...I did this. No one forced me."

That piercing red eye is upon you once more, his expression emotionless, searching. Unsure of what it seeks, you stare back at it, nibbling your bottom lip as your nerves settle in.

After a moment, Gilbert turns his attention back to your thigh, tracing the tip of your knife down past the history you've carved, to a patch of clean skin. It's there that he angles the knife, hesitation void.

The first cut is a kiss against your skin. Blood pebbles up in spots along the cut, but it barely satiates the itch that has been screaming inside of you. It wasn't deep enough- why was he going easy with you?

You decide that, perhaps, he's spent the years being so cruel, that it's difficult for him to reign it in properly- that this was too gentle on accident.

Yet, the second cut mimics the first. Barely any blood, barely any pain, and your body is shaking. This craving you've had built up over weeks, and the man you expected to show no mercy in this regard was currently hesitating.

"Do you hurt yourself in other ways?"

The question is quiet. Gilbert is still staring at your thigh.

"Sometimes."

"But you settle on this? Why?"

Why? Your thoughts come out instantly, your throat feeling hoarse.

"It's punishment."

The third cut has your breath stopping. It's no longer a lovers kiss- instead it's biting, sinking deeper into your flesh than you've ever had it before. You have to clench your jaw and knuckle your seat, lest you come off as weak. 

And as he slices through your skin, Gilbert keeps his gaze on your face, watching how it twists in discomfort. How, once he finally stops, your eyebrows relax into relief.

"For what?"

"F-for…everything. For being me. For existing. I-I don't…" Again, annoyingly again, tears well up in your eyes, "I can't explain…"

Unable to stand his eye, his imploring- his everything, you keep your eyes shut. Out of all the discomfort of letting someone else know of this, of playing along with idle questions, you're more disgusted with yourself at the fact that the inhumane wailing inside of you- your own personal beast fighting its confines, has finally died down. At the pain ebbing in your thigh, you're finally able to ease the deep ache in your muscles. And shame hits you. Hard.

"Prince Gilbert, I can't… I can’t."

Gone is reason and will, at this point. Now, you just want to hide away, burrow under blankets until you’re forgotten by all. The burning inside of you has been released, and pitifully you come out of the afterglow, scarred and exhausted.

In a moment like this, it would make sense for a man such as he to live up to the titles others whispered to you. To mock you in some way, blackmail you over such a vile act.

Yet, the only sound past your quiet hiccups is him wiping the knife clean, and the shuffling of cloth. There was a gruffness that you had expected from the start, yet Gilbert’s hands are gentle on your skin. With patience, he gingerly wipes the blood from your skin. No comments come from his mouth until you hiss from the ointment he dabs onto the cuts, and it’s as quiet as his touches.

"Do you remember that night in the church?"

It's the sound of your poor attempts at collecting yourself, first, in the silence. But Gilbert waits patiently until you nod, giving up on finding your voice.

"Do you remember what I told you?"

Through the haziness of shameful satisfaction, finding the answer takes a moment. When you had initially heard the odd declaration, your mind had promptly tried to brush it away, but now a cold sweat forms as you mutter, "you said you're…the only one allowed to hurt me."

“Did you not think I was serious?”

You’re unsure how to answer. Instead you meet his gaze, resisting the shiver at seeing his frown. Now, you’re plagued with your own questions, and one slips out at the thought.

“Why does this matter to you?” There isn’t an emotion to his face, not as he bandages your thigh, paying special attention to the last cut. When he deems it secure and tended to, he tugs your skirts back down. It’s then that you notice how tired he seems. That the anger in the air still lingers, but dissipated. An odd calm remaining in spite of it.

“We’re friends. It’s normal not to want them to get hurt by others- or themselves, no?”

He continues without your reply, standing and looking back down upon you. The judgement you want isn’t there. Instead, you watch him pocket your knife deliberately, giving a smile that doesn’t reach his eye. You almost miss his words at first, the twisting in your stomach suddenly wishing that this cruel man wasn’t showing you an ounce of kindness. 

“I’ll keep your secret this time.”

“And the next time?” You meekly call out, worried your voice will be drowned by the sound of his cane tapping back towards the door.

“Will there be a next time, little rabbit?”

-----

No tags on this, I don’t want to hear about if you believe this is ooc or not either. If you did not like it, kindly leave me alone.

I don’t know what the takeaway of this will be. I don’t know if this is confusing, or if this makes sense to some. I am also not sure if I will keep this up, or add it to my masterlist. I might let it sink into the void of my blog. I do want to provide some clarifications, however, just for my sake.

Gilbert will not do this again for her. He will not suggest it, threaten it, or promise it as a ‘reward’. For me, this was Gilbert allowing her one last indulgence while trying to understand where her thoughts took her for these actions, before forcing a step towards stopping.

Ikepri Masterlist || Ikevamp Masterlist || Ikevamp/Ikepri Server

[rivangel]

to kind of provide some sort of answer to one of the many questions surrounding newborn levi: i get the impression that kuchel's experience of giving birth to him was... rough. rough in the sense that kuchel was in labour for a long time. and that as far as complications go, he wasn't breathing immediately when he came out; kuchel's fear quickly morphs into relief when he starts breathing roughly 7 seconds or so later. but after, kuchel would rest for days whilst someone else watches baby levi.

i decided to combine these bc i have Many thoughts !!!! also i ripped my own heart out of my chest writing this. im a mess lol

//giving birth(?)

Giving birth to Levi was the most nerve-wracking and painful experience of Kuchel's life—as well as the best day of her life. Obviously she got no medicine for the pain, and a c-section wasn't an option because the risk of infection would've been enormous, and regardless there was no way Kuchel had a doctor or nurse to help her (and considering the time aot is set in, women dying during childbirth was probably very common), only some of her closest friends who volunteered to help.

The labor lasted hours (you know how babies cry out of the womb bc the experience of being born is traumatic? headcanon tiny itty bitty baby Levi did not feel like leaving his momma's belly so the labor was doubly difficult). He was a tiny newborn too.

One woman brings him into her arms immediately, swaddling him in an old towel, and announces it's a boy!! And Kuchel just starts weeping. Exhaustion, joy, relief. He's here.

While two women clean him off, Kuchel's closest friend is sitting by her head comforting and laughing with her (imagine, she gave birth in the same bed she worked in oh my god it hurts?), the two coddling Levi get frantic because his lips are blue and he isn't breathing.

Kuchel was already mumbling, "Let me see my baby, give me Levi," (she already had a name if it turned out to be boy). Her heart fucking drops to her stomach when the terror appears on their faces.

Would the women realistically know how to give CPR to a newborn (is that a thing?) or know what to do at all? No, or at least doubtful. Kuchel's best friend tears away from her, the most level-headed one and most determined, and strokes his back with a few fingers. Mumbling quickly please, please while Kuchel covers her red-rimmed eyes with her arm. Blubbering, "No. He's strong. He's strong," and then she just screams, "Help him!"

(please let me diffuse the tension i am having a heart attack) Kuchel's best friend slaps Levi on the butt (isn't that a thing nurses do?) until the blubbering and tension of the room silences the moment he starts to wail. throws his head back and cries and cries. goddd. Everyone, but especially Kuchel is laughing crazily and weeping at the same time. Color rises to his cheeks finally.

Kuchel stretches her arms out and jaw trembling, begs for him. Finally, the squirming bundle is carefully transferred to her hold before she even thinks of letting her legs down. Nothing else in the world matters, including the praise and reassurances of her friends and especially her own pain.

And he really is strong. Whimpers and cries as he's cooed and doted over, doesn't fall asleep for several minutes afterwards. Kuchel's cheeks are wet, and she can't stop looking at him. As soon as she saw his face, it's cemented in her. She already knew she loved him more than anything in the entire world, and she always would, but it's real now. It's that type of love that could break anyone down to tears. It's devastating.

He already has a little tuft of hair, and it's the darkest black just like hers. Ironically, no one could afford a cradle or little toys for him (besides one beaten rattle more designed for a doll), except for a white woolen hat fit for a baby to keep him warm.

Teeny tiny fingers that can barely wrap around one of her own. Holding him to her chest, while at the same time treating him like glass because she's horrified of hurting him. Of anything else going wrong.

Meanwhile the sweat is wiped off Kuchel's forehead and a blanket is laid over her legs (to none of her notice). She's okay, too. Her friends give her time alone with him (and most definitely use the excuse to face Kuchel's boss(es) themselves. The entire labor was most definitely loud and "disruptive" to business as usual, and they were going to do everything in their power for Kuchel not to hear the ramifications, and to take whatever punishment will come).

Kuchel could've easily fallen into an exhausted sleep while listening to the slight sounds of his breathing. But to keep herself awake until one of the women is back, she's murmuring so softly that someone across the room wouldn't be able to hear: "Oh... you're so beautiful. You're amazing... Oh my god. I love you. You're my sweet angel."

(im tearing up)

A short time (for the average) later, after Kuchel's friend has come back to sit with her, but before Kuchel can bear to hand him off so that she can rest, his eyes open. Her eyes blur with tears once again, which she quickly blinks away. The sweetest little grey eyes appear when he just barely cracks his eyes open. Innocently peering up.

And Kuchel's friend says, "My god. He looks just like you."

And the tears start up again. It barely crosses Kuchel's mind that her brother isn't here—she already knows that Levi is all she needs.

Days following the birth, Kuchel rests. The women do what they can all things considered, but on a lighter note they have a thorough debate over who will babysit him (everyone wanted to. everyone cooed over him and touched his chubby cheeks omg). Kuchel probably had to bargain with her boss(es) that she would pick up extra shifts as soon as she was able. The only think about it that bothered her was her ability to take care of Levi through all of it. Without question he was her new, sole priority. Her sun (and her son). Her reason for living.

| levi masterlist | main masterlist |

[katoska]

WTF kind of bullshit is it that when I call a dentist office to make an appointment for a fucking abcess (and, as I strongly suspect, a root canal) they say all they can give me is fucking pain treatment bc they don't take new patients and then I need to go to my usual dentist (whom I don't have and who'd be in another city anyway since I'm out of town)? I've already got Ibuprofen, bitch, plus the tooth stopped hurting which, y'know, is a bad sign. I need treatment for the infection that might spread into my jaw and heart, now.

Not gonna call the next office, I'm just going to show up.

[freezing-kaiju]

Lunatic of the Flesh

@my-ceiling-is-tilted 's Biotober prompts 7, 17, and 25: Cancerous, Mutation, and Infection.

Warnings: extreme body horror, werewolves, biting and neck trauma, intimacy, it's about a werewolf themed resident evil infection going horribly wrong so make of that what you will! it's also a bit t4t

---

The bus stop close to my old home has been chewed on.

Bites have been ripped out, glass lines the bench, and, on the metal, patches of fuzz grow, waving in the wind. There’s the sound of crickets and toads, but no cars, nothing save for the bus rattling away behind me and the wheels of my baggage against the ground.

The plants grow thick, choked with weeds and bursting with gorgeous flowers, except for patches here and there that lay covered in hair. Great tendrils of matted fur, gray and blue and black, swaying like grass in the breeze. Deer bound through the distance in packs twenty strong. 

The bus patrols exist for the infected. I’ll count as one soon, so it’s fine.

I fix my makeup in the window. Wouldn’t want to disgust them. After all…

——

…they’re beautiful.

Not from tip to toe, I know that. Slinking through the forest, I see some dragging massive, misshapen claws, some dangling boils, some with extra halves of jaws. Their hunts of the massive deer seem mutual; their destructive power is so increased, but the deer are so much faster, and they’re working so hard to catch their prey. Their imposing snouts, so well-suited to eating and howling… their ears, so soft-looking, so perfectly pointed… their backs so arched, their tails so long and fluffy, everything about them is so. Unbelievably. Perfect.

And yet, none of them are the right one. Maybe they know this; the first to catch sight of me slipped its pulsing violet eyes away not a moment after, likely out of disinterest. Maybe the foliage, leaves and bushes dead and alive, hides me perfectly.

Maybe… I’m already something else’s prey.

I stop, look behind myself. Nothing but the same fallen leaves concealing the same insects, the same trees looming thin and tall above me like the bars of a disorganized prison, but…

Above me.

Something flicked.

I look the rest of the way up and drop my luggage.

A wolf. Poised between the trees, spread on all four of its pristine limbs, a massive, gorgeous wolf.

“RUN,” it cajoles. 

I can’t.

The few tendrils that shiver on its body are symmetrical. Its teeth are so well-kept they shine. Its third eye lingers above the left one in the exact place a chunk of winged eyeliner would be, adding to a glorious air of cuntiness that its breasts only further contribute to. Those claws— oh, what I wouldn’t give to be pulled apart by them! And the chest fur… those patterns…

“RUN,” it says again.

“I cannot.”

“TOO WEAK?”

“I refuse! I will join you without wasting your precious energy.”

“JJOIN?”

“I’ll join your pack! I’ll become part of it! I’ll make you MINE!”

The wolf’s chest swells with what had to be pride. Two of the branches I thought might impede it if I needed to run cracked beneath just this simple exertion. “A WEAK HUMAN...WANTS TO JOIN? THE PACK? MINE?”

“Your pack, and nobody else’s!”

“WHY?”

“Because I know you! Do you not recognize me?!”

It took in a shuddering breath, paw scratching its chin in what would be a human gesture were its claws not out and drawing blood. “RECOGNIZE...YOU?”

“Y…” I planted my other foot and stood my ground. “Yeah, Winnie. I came all the way back to meet you again. You…”

God, from the Kingdom Hearts pattern on the chest fur to the strange piercings, she was precisely the same.

“You look like the fursona I helped you make.”

Both paws slammed down in the snow. The wolf’s great head, it—

A motorcycle’s worth of predator.

Launched.

Towards me.

In that moment, I processed it quite like someone had thrown a car at my face, and screamed.

The wolf stopped short. 

“IF…I AM WINIFRED… I AM? WINIFRED?”

“Y-yes,” I said, “yes, definitely, you are her and she is you.”

“I…CAN BE HER… THEN, I AM HER.” Winifred rises, not to her full height but a hunched position, like she speaks not to prey but to someone shorter than herself. “AND WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE HER DO?”

“B….bite me. Infect me. Love me! Love me like I always wanted you to, my dear friend, my beloved, make me yours!”

Winifred licks her lips and leans forward, snout inches from my face. “STAND UP…STRAIGHT. NECK OUT.”

I comply, face burning, soul weeping for joy.

Her mouth closes round my throat, and I can….I can feel the moment she penetrates me. Sharp. Clear, but right, I gasp for air and—

And I feel something pumping into my throat.

Dutifully, I swallow, wishing it were in my mouth, wishing I could taste the beauty that would now swallow me whole. I’ll be different, not this ugly, useless thing, but something sleek. Agile. Beautiful. Something that’ll make this all…worth…

——

Before my fur grew in, the hair I’d taken such care to mediocrely raise fell out in clumps that left me sobbing on the bedroom floor. I fear I’ve not lost cause to weep, nor have I stopped looking so…bald.

The glorious snout Winifred bears never grew in properly. My new ears came in in twain, perfectly shaped… the only thing in this wretched body to not split and pustulize. They top a sunken face, one I can hardly see from when my maw splits it to feed. If I look down, I behold a series of lumps; whether breast, stomach, tumor, or chin, I’m incapable of telling. As Winifred tells it, I have a centaur’s form… what grotesque parody of Greek myth she knows, I can’t imagine.

Perhaps I’m meant to have so many, such engorged and muscular legs, maybe their desperate uncoordination is the movement I deserve. After all, this form… I have no clue of the full extent with it, the last mirror brought within my sight is still shards on some barn floor. But I can feel my stomach churn with more than meat, feel parts of myself bloat with a thing beyond blood and meat. Winifred, too, is sometimes…

That venom she pumped into me, so clean and clinical, I… I drool it now. It fills my mouth and drips out when I breathe, onto buckets or the floor of our hideaways. At least, when she isn’t looking.

When she is, my mate licks it from my lips like a woman possessed. 

I can’t fathom it, neither the eyes left on my face nor the ones that dot the rest of my body like moles can believe how hungry she’s become. She comes home from hunts or meetings dragging cow after cow, sometimes a bag of human food too, and sets upon me with her tongue and hands faster than I can whimper a greeting. Every hair-coated fold of my body she cleans, licking as if hunting for some buried treasure. Are my moans that rewarding? Is my pain what she wishes? Does she want me to bite back? I can’t, I won’t, my maw will… it’ll do too much damage, truly. I can feel my vestigial tails flop and writhe as she buries her face in my part. When her paw holds the one of mine small and shapen enough to hold hers —I felt every agonizing moment of my right fusing together, and my second left is a mass of knotted fingers— those tails crack and sting with how forcefully they wag.

“My moon,” she calls me,  her tongue still exploring an area I’d never wish to touch myself, “my gorgeous moon, the hunt was so long.”

“I am,” I choke out the rote response, “sorry I couldn’t go.”

“No, be thankful. The others spoke covetously of you. It gladdens me…to have you all to myself.”

I feel something bubble up within me, and in a moment of terror, know not if metaphor can affect this husk.

“You’re…just…saying that because you’re stuck with me…”

She laughs at that, a barking laugh, one whose charm I’ve still yet to reach. Have I laughed recently? Only when she stimulated me to, only in…what could be called roughhousing, had I not fallen over, had she not treated me with pup’s gloves afterwards. 

“No??? I, like, treasure you,” Winifred said, tongue taking a rest from its travels across my taint. “This was all so lonely before you became—“

“Trapped?”

“What?”

“Trapped, isolated, burdened,” I found myself saying, coughing out each word within a mouthful of venom and teeth, “made into something— something disgusting, something that weighs you down, something that—“

Winifred leapt up from under me, growling like a chainsaw. I folded under those three burning lime eyes, but, curiously, when I silenced myself and slunk lower, Winifred’s own tail and ears dropped back too.

“Selene, I didn’t— never did I consider that—“

“You are a wolf! You’re perfect, everything everyone who’s ever been an edgy adolescent yearned to become! I am…”

“Selene.” Winifred’s paws reached up, squished together my cheeks, forcing our eyes to meet. “I am… the perfect specimen of a normal beastic wolf, yes. But you…” She pressed our snouts nearly together, “you are something special. Your mass of gloriously haphazard legs, your imposing form, every perfect eye and lovely tendril— and your soft, downy fur— and your tails! Their excitement is so… you’re so…”

“It hurts to move,” I whimper. “It hurts to breathe.”

“As does it for me, too,” Winifred admits, and shakes herself off, parts of her arms I never even thought had joints cracking like thunder over the plains.

Her…her own breathing is ragged, too, isn’t it? Winnie’s rib cage had always flexed and contracted, like a butterfly flapping its wings, in a way that I always thought was painless but…

Maybe she’s in as much pain as me.

And maybe...

Ah, she's started with her tongue again...

....maybe I can lose myself in it, too...

[fieldofdaisiies]

Ultima Ex Nobis | ch. XVIII

-all rights reserved-

Nessian AU word count: ~2,5k words warnings: mentions death summary: Six years into a global pandemic which was caused by a mass fungal infection that turns hosts into zombie-like creatures and makes the whole of Prythian collapse, the former army general Cassian Cadell is tasked with one very special mission – escorting Nesta Archeron, one of the few immune survivors, across a post-apocalyptic Prythian to a group of people of the name L. Their identity  is unknown but they can make an antidote.

masterlist

“What do you hope for at the end of all this? What are your dreams, Nes?” Cassian’s fingertips circle Nesta’s belly button, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. Nesta shudders a little, leaning further into Cassian. “I don’t know. I think I have never been a dreamer.” 

She tilts her head and looks up at Cassian, her brows a little furrowed. So are Cassian’s. He places his palm flat on her belly, his skin warm. The early morning sunlight is peeking through the dusty windows of the trailer, veiling the inside of the trailer in a beautiful glow. 

“Oh, Nes.” He kisses her head again and then smiles a little at her. “Different formulation then. What is the first thing you will do when this is over?”

“You really think that this will be over one day?” Nesta asks with a tone of wariness in her voice. She is unsure, has doubts, and it is etched into every fiber of her body. She thinks this whole thing won’t work out. That they might fail and Cassian hates this. He wants her to see how far they have already come, how far they made it, and how short the distance to their final target only is. He wants her to know that she can save the world, that it is her who can bring the end of all this. But in this very moment he also wants to get rid of the sad look on her face, the pout and the hurt in her eyes and so he kisses her — soft and slow. Nothing is rushing him, nothing is rushing them. Their lips melt together, explorative at first and then with a little more force, but still gentle and passionate. “You can bring the end to all of this,” Cassian whispers against her mouth, smiling so that his lips curl against hers. “And now tell me…what will you do first?”

“I guess kiss you some more?” Nesta chuckles a little and a content rumble courses through Cassian’s body. He gives Nesta a sideway squeeze, kissing the top of her head. 

“And then I…then I would find Feyre and just…I would just hug her. And make up with her. And then would find Elain. And hold her tightly to me for hours. I would spend time with the two of them, just chatting and holding them. And then—“ Tears fill her eyes and Nesta finds it hard to speak through the dryness in her throat. She clears her throat, coughs a little and looks up at Cassian with glassy eyes. “And then I will kiss you some more, thank you over and over again for going on this journey with me, for protecting me.” “Nesta—“ “Don’t!” Nesta places her hand on Cassian’s hard pectoral. “I wasn’t keen on going on this trip with you, hated it at first. But it was no different for you. You risked your life for me. You went onto to this trip for…because Rhysand told you so. But if push came to shove, you could have always said no and find a way out. But you said yes and all throughout the trip you were nothing but kind and protective and I think I will never be able to thank you enough for that.” She softly pecks Cassian’s jaw, her hand still resting right above his heart. 

“I am definitely a little more in love with you after this statement.” Cassian blinks rapidly and then a big grin parts his lips. But Nesta gasps, eyes going wide. He winks at Nesta, her expression still on the edge of flabbergasted. “You are—?” “I am going to give Az and Rhys a massive hug. Then I will go for a hike, maybe a trip to a mountain cabin, skiing for a few days. Hopefully with you. Do you ski, Nes?”

Her cheeks are a little flushed and Nesta laughs, shaking her head and burying her face in Cassian’s chest. “I can snowboard.” “That’s alright. So it is set. We rent a mountain cabin. Go there, ski and go for walks and have a lot of phenomenal cabin sex there?”

A silly snort slips through Nesta’s lips and she grins brightly. “I like the idea of that.” 

Cassian has never seen her so happy and he could get drunk on the sight of her like this. He loves it, loves it so much. He likes seeing her happy, her mask finally breaking and for Nesta that she can finally and at least partly enjoy her freedom. He wants more of those moments, for the pandemic to be over, for normality to return and Nesta to live the life he deserves. For them to…have a life together. A future together. A life they both deserve. And he doubts that Nesta might not want to be part of his future, but her saying she loves the idea gives him hope. She wants to be part of his future. 

“So Az and Rhys? If I remember correctly, you said Az is not your actual brother, but is Rhys?”

Cassian gives his head a little shake, his cheek and the stubble brushing against the top of Nesta’s head. She leans into him, and kisses his chest. The gesture is so small, so light, but it makes Cassian’s heart flutter and his cheeks warm. “No. We met in the army. We were in a team together. The three of us always stuck together, had each other’s backs, you know?” He smiles at the memories, the nostalgia and absently kisses Nesta’s head. 

“Where did you work in the army? Like in which…ahm—” Nesta smiles a little sheepishly and feels her cheeks warm. She doesn’t really know much about military, only knows the Darkbringer soldiers. But she wants to know more, wants to know more about Cassian and find out all about him.

“Service?” Cassian asks with a bemused smile on his lips and Nesta nods. “Air force.”

After a look at his watch, Cassian says that it is only half past five in the morning and that they can stay in bed a little longer and so they decide to cuddle some more, just holding each other, talking softly and exchanging stories about their lives, their pasts, their families. Nesta learns that Cassian has never met his father and that his mother passed a few years before the pandemic due to an illness. Cassian says that it was more than painful to let her go, but he is happy that she did not have to experience the pandemic and the Cordyceps virus. Nesta tells Cassian that she has lost both her parents as well and Cassian holds her tightly when she cries a little. He comforts her, drying her tears with his thumb. They also talk a little more about Elain and Feyre and Nesta says that she regrets not always showing them how much she loved them, because she did, she really did. 

∙ ∙ • ◦ • ◦ ∙ ∙

“Morning, lovebirds.” Eris says with a smile on his lips and heaves his dufflebag into the trunk of his car. “Talking about yourself?” Cassian fires back and clasps Azriel’s shoulder tightly, and with the index finger of his other hand points to his best friend’s neck. “Or am I mistaken and these are not hickeys but my brother’s neck is decorated with awful mosquito bites?” Cassian chuckles in amusement and he can practically feel the warmth fill Azriel’s cheeks. Eris only snorts a little and then closes the trunk, walking towards the driver’s side. “We needed to make up for all the time we missed,” he says with a wink and slides into the car and as much as Cassian’s wants to make a some feisty remark to that statement, his ears are filled with Nesta’s laugh and he can’t focus on anything else. The sound is so honest, so pure and so free-spirited. He wants to record it so he can listen to every time he feels sad. And most importantly he wants to see the look on her face, the glow in her eyes when she laughs. Cassian looks over his shoulder and watches her. Nesta walks up to car and claims the back seat that has somehow become hers. Only when the car door closes, Cassian let’s go off Azriel’s shoulder and heads for the car as well. 

“You are truly in deep, brother,” Azriel tells him, but it is not said in a bad way or accusatory, Azriel says it with happiness in his voice.

Cassian sighs and then grins. “I am, brother. I am.”

The road is still a little wet, but at least the clouds in the sky start to clear and leave more sunlight through than on the days before. It almost seems like a beautiful day and Cassian says, that maybe for the first time in weeks they have a normal day without any occurrences. Azriel tells him to knock on wood to not curse it and so Cassian does as told. 

After a while on the road Eris informs his passengers that they are about a 24h drive away from Spring, the southern-most county of Prythian and where Azriel has tracked L…or Lucien if it is truly him. Nesta can only catch a few words form the conversation between Azriel and Eris. They talk about Lucien and Eris having his hopes up high to finally see his brother again. She has to smile when he mentions that he would just hug him and that for a long moment because that is exactly what she would do. But her eye lids are heavy and Nesta feels tired — she hasn’t got that much sleep the previous night. She rests her head against the window, eyes trained on the outside world when she feels a hand clasp hers, holding it tightly. She does not look, but grins to herself and holds his hand just as tightly as he holds hers. The further they drive the drier the landscape gets. After around two hours there is no indication left that there have been rain storms these past days — dry hedgerows, weathered trees and patches of grass line the pathway. Nesta keeps looking at them, her lips a little pursed and her hand still in Cassian’s, until—

Nesta jerks up, her breath catching in her throat. “Can we stop her!”

Eris must have heard the panic in her voice, slowing down the car. “Please. Stop here!”

He pulls over, looks into his rear view mirror, checking that no one has followed them and kills off the engine. Nesta slips her hand out of Cassian’s and pushes the door open. “Oh God!” she expresses loudly. 

She almost stumbles after opening the door, the sight in front of her so unbelievable and surreal she can hardly grasp it. Nesta’s eyes fill with tears and she folds her hand over her mouth in shock. She holds her breath, frantically shaking her head and then her knees begin to buckle. Cassian is there to catch her. She didn’t hear him approach but she is relieved to have him there, supporting her, steadying her. The sun his high up in the sky, almost gleefully shining down on them. It is hot and humid outside, smells like rot and decay. There is not even a little breeze blowing around them. It is awful, Nesta thinks and almost feels like she is getting suffocated. The sight in front of her, of the bones, the pieces of bodies and the torn clothes, is…she has no words for it. The content of her stomach sours, her chest squeezing and aching fiercely in her chest. 

“Infected.” Cassian’s says with a shudder and pain in his tone.

“Not all of them. I knew a girl of the name Clare Beddor. They simply killed her because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” There is disgust in Eris’ voice, and hurt, and frustration and fury. He steps up to them and shakes his head. “They purged through this area. Killed everyone thinking it could save the world. Most of those people were poor and never had contact to anyone outside and most definitely not to infected. But they were easy targets.” His voice quavers, and he cuts himself off, not continuing, and walks back to the car. Nesta and Cassian stay for a little longer. He gives her time. Nesta just stares until she says she would like to return to the car and they are ready to continue. There is no conversation for the first few miles after this, no one talks. No one wants to talk. They all need to let the images set, need to work through them on their own. So many innocent people have lost their lives. This has to find an end and Nesta, more than ever before, feels like she can do this. Like she can put an end to it. She knows she will do everything possible to end this. She would even give her—

She won’t let herself finish this thought. She had always kept it in the back of her mind, that she would do whatever needed. But now…now that there is the prospect of a future with Cassian, she wants to live. She wants to have this future with him. They would have a future together. 

When the sun slowly starts to lower, Eris nervously checks the GPS and discusses with Azriel if they might have taken a wrong road as in front of them tower several huge factory buildings. 

“What’s the problem?” Cassian’s asks as he leans forward, his right hand braced on the arm rest between Eris and Azriel. His gaze jumps between the two men, before he looks straight ahead. “I am not sure what this place is, what we can expect from it, but I know one thing for sure…” Eris trails of, squinting his eyes at the distance. “We need to drive through this, as there is no way —no road around it.” He points at the GPS screen. Now Nesta leans forward as well, onto Cassian as she looks at the screen, her brows drawn close together. She shivers and swallows around the lump around in her throat. “I assume we should get our guns ready?”

Slowly, Eris bows his head, his gaze trained on the tight road between then factory buildings. His hand moves to the gear stick, the fingers of his other hand curling tightly around the stirring wheel, his knuckles turning white. Azriel is already weighing his gun in his hand when Cassian pushes off from the seat and reaches into the trunk to gather his big rifle, and also handing Nesta her gun and her knife.

And then Eris starts to drive. Into the midsts of uncertainty, none of them knowing what will expect them in a few minutes, or rather seconds. 

~~~~~~~~~~~ tags: @helhjertet @moonlightazriel@aayo-whatt @crushedcloudsx @brekkershadowsinger @girasoli-e-sorrisi @ignite-me @swifti-ed @cassiansbigwingspan @burningsnowleopard @headcanonheadcase @banasheefan56 @a-frog-with-a-laptop

[masterwords]

foolish heart

Summary: (coda to 4x07 - "Memoriam") Hotch has an ear infection, Derek rubs elbows with Las Vegas royalty, and then they have a little romantic time. Self-indulgent fluff.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 2.7k

Warnings: illness, lots of food and some alcohol

Notes: Fluff. Pure, decadent fluff. Hotchgan in Vegas. A private Tony Bennett concert because hey, Rossi has connections and that's canon. Enjoy. Brush your teeth afterward or they'll rot.

**

Vegas. It always came with this strangely electric feeling that seemed to course through him uncomfortably, like the lights from the strip were drawing straight from the pumping of his heart. This time was worse. This time Hotch could feel his pulse in his jaw, a steadily growing ache that lit up the side of his face. Placing his hand there, he almost thought he could feel it throbbing and he knew it wasn't just Vegas being Vegas, there was something else going on.

It hadn't been terribly concerning during the case. It didn't distract him, anyway. That was kind of the baseline...could he ignore it to stay focused? Then he was probably fine.

But the moment they had the child back in his parents' care, the moment the unsub was in cuffs, the throb from his jaw to his ear began getting louder and a lot harder to ignore. Periodically he reached up and cupped the side of his face, let his hand rest there gently, closed his eyes and counted one two three breaths. It was making him dizzy.

“Hotch,” JJ started, approaching him during a moment of dark, the dangerous feeling his knees might buckle just barely starting to pass. “You look as sick as I've felt all day. Go back to the hotel, I can finish up here. I'm waiting on a call from Michael's parents anyway...”

“What for?” he asked, focusing for a moment on her words. She smiled sweetly at him, brushing off his immediate concern.

“I just want to make sure they're okay, you know? Getting settled.” He could understand that. “Please, Hotch. Go. I'll be fine here. See you at the airstrip in the morning.” She placed her hand on her stomach, rubbed lightly at the underside and stared intently at him until he had no choice but to listen.

“Call if you need anything.”

“I won't. Go sleep.” She smiled, watching him pick up his jacket and drape it over his arm. “I'm going to check with Morgan later. You'd better be resting.”

“I will.” He wasn't sure his body was going to give him much choice. He didn't feel sick, necessarily, or even that bad...but he definitely felt foggy, a little lightheaded, and very run down. His ears started ringing in the cab, stop and go traffic jarring his already wobbly equilibrium. He could have walked, but the heat was oppressive, and the frigid air conditioning was nice.

That was how he knew he was getting sick, really. Air conditioning wasn't something he ever enjoyed, but he slid around in the backseat until he was positioned in exactly the right spot for the blast of cinnamon and exhaust scented air to hit him. The window, cold glass that smelled like ammonia, was icy and soothing against the heat of his cheek when the air conditioning failed to keep him comfortable.

“Looks like a big tangle up ahead,” the cab driver said, glancing into the rearview mirror at his passenger who looked more than a little green around the gills. “You might make better time getting out and walking. Be cheaper too.”

“If you don't have anywhere to be, neither do I.”

The cab driver let out a chuckle and nodded. “Only place I got to be is in front of your hotel, sir. You doing okay? This heat's murder. I got bottled water up here if you need.”

“No, thank you, I'm okay. I appreciate the concern.”

- - - - -

“The cab driver could tell you were sick and you're still trying to tell me you're okay to go out tonight?” Derek asked, exasperated. Hotch was buttoning up his last nice shirt, crisp and white and cool to the touch.

“I wouldn't say I'm sick.”

“Yeah? So what would you say exactly?”

Hotch grunted miserably. “I don't know Derek. My ears have been bothering me intermittently the last few days. It's worse today. It may be the heat.”

“Yeah. It might be...or you might be sick. I'll bet you five bucks you've got a fever.”

Hotch glared at Derek and pushed his hand back through his hair, trying to tame what couldn't be tamed. “Vegas isn't good for you.”

“Oh come on. You afraid you're gonna lose?”

In fact, he was. He could feel the fever under his collar. Derek's threat was met with an icy stare from an overheating man, but he had no response so he kept his mouth shut.

“I got us tickets to Tom Jones,” Derek said, reaching up to play with Hotch's hair, fluffing and parting, trying to do what he could to fix the chaos. It wasn't fixable.

“He's still alive?”

Derek laughed and pulled Hotch close to him, wrapped his arms around him and pressed his face into the crook of Hotch's neck. “You're hot.”

“Thank you. You're not too bad yourself.”

The eyeroll that comment elicited was epic, but he smiled against Hotch's flushed skin. At least his sense of humor, dry as the desert surrounding them, was in tact. Things couldn't be too bad. “There's a number in here for mobile doctors, they come to all the hotels. Mostly take care of people puking and hungover. I'll give 'em a call, sit tight baby.”

“I don't need a doctor.”

“Aaron, you were in an explosion a couple of weeks ago. I'm gonna need you to bare with me for a while, alright? Humor your adorably worried loverman?”

“We are technically working right now, which means I'll have to submit this through L&I if I use my medical insurance. I would rather wait until we're back in Virginia and can do it privately.”

It was a weak argument, Derek was already wearing him down. And he already had his next step carefully plotted.

“I'll pay out of pocket, my treat.”

“My hero.” Hotch deadpanned it, but he wasn't upset. He knew he really shouldn't push his luck with his ears. He's already been near another explosion, gunfire, and plenty of trips in the jet...he was already towing the line. Some mornings it took him a full hour before his ear popped and he could hear out of it. That was probably a bad sign.

It took only a few minutes, a quick look inside his ear and some poking at the swelling in his jaw before the doctor called it a middle ear infection with confidence. “Stay out of the shower for a few days, keep it clean and dry. Because of the level of trauma, you experienced in this ear you'll need to take extra precaution. I'll prescribe some pain-relieving ear drops, aside from that unless it's bacterial there really isn't much to do but managing symptoms. Take an antihistamine, some decongestant, and dry heat can help with the discomfort.”

“So he can fly then?”

“Well, he's already done it to get here so I don't see why not. By the looks of it, he's had this going on for at least a few days. Take some Benadryl and sleep the air miles away would be my suggestions. As for right now, manage the symptoms and get some rest. I know that's a cruel thing to say to someone in Las Vegas...”

“Not at all, sir,” Hotch replied quietly. A little defeated. He didn't particularly like Tom Jones, but Derek had planned out a whole night for them. They didn't get many opportunities to let go like this. “I'll manage.”

As the doctor packed up and made for the door, Hotch began the arduous process of unbuttoning his shirt. Derek pulled the Tom Jones tickets out of his pocket and stared at them mournfully, catching Hotch looking at him after a moment.

“Take Prentiss,” Hotch said, dropping to the bed once he was down to his t-shirt and boxers. The blankets were cool against his flushed skin and he pulled them up to his waist. “She'll love it. Just be careful, she can drink you under the table and she'll get you into trouble. I don't have the energy to come bail you guys out.”

Laughing, Derek helped prop Hotch up against a wall of pillows before throwing his heating pad into the microwave. This one, different from the one he kept in his nightstand at home, was filled with barley and lavender and much smaller. Fits in his go bag. It made the room smell slightly nutty and floral, relaxing enough that Hotch almost felt at home. It was familiar and comforting. Helping get it situated against Hotch's ear, Derek laid a quick and sneaky kiss on his forehead. Any excuse to touch.

“Alright. I'm gonna go hang with Em for a bit, pick up your meds when they call...you sure you're good? I can stay. I bet Rossi would love these tickets.”

“He knows everyone here anyway. He's probably spending the evening drinking with Tony Bennett. Please, go have fun. I'm just going to try to sleep.”

- - - - -

“Okay, Em, how in the fuck do I eat this?”

Derek was staring at a table loaded with food he'd only ever seen in movies. It was the kind of decadent table thrown together befitting royalty, and Derek sort of figured that's what this was. Tony Bennett's private suite was home, at least tonight, to all sorts of Las Vegas royalty. He was rubbing elbows with NFL players and singers, actors and dancers. In the corner was a small-scale Cirque du Soleil act being played out with a hoop and a number of gold-painted writing bodies contorting themselves in such a way that Derek often couldn't figure out which limb belonged to whom. “Emmmm...” he whined, and she laughed, sucking back her third or fourth oyster on the half-shell followed by a shot of vodka.

“Like this,” she said quietly, smearing a bit of cream cheese onto a cracker and following it up with a dollop of the black caviar. “One bite, all in.”

He hated it. But at least, if anyone asked, he could say he'd done it. He'd eaten caviar in Tony Bennett's private penthouse in Las Vegas. And he would never do it again.

“Rossi!”

Derek approached his friend at the poker table, waving his arm through a mist of cigar smoke. “Hey man. I gotta go check on Hotch, I feel bad leavin' him down there while I'm up here.”

“Do you really think he minds?”

“Well I'm sure he isn't thrilled about being sick, at least.”

“Touche. Go. Give him my best.”

“Hey, uh, can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course, kid. Anything.”

- - - - -

Derek tried not to let the plastic bag rustle too much as he entered Hotch's hotel room, not drunk but definitely more than a little fuzzy and buzzed. Under his arm was a garment box loaded with gaudy gold ribbons, smashed beneath his bicep. He half expected to find Hotch sleeping and was shocked to find him lying in bed wide awake watching a movie. Or staring at the television anyway.

“Hey you,” Derek said softly, the door closing behind him with a click. Hotch pushed up to sitting, rubbing at his sleepy eyes with his fists.

“Hey.”

“How you feelin', huh?”

“About the same.”

“I brought you something...”

Pulling little to go containers out of the plastic bag, he had everything. A small container with a slice of brioche French Toast drizzled with custard and blackberries, a little cup of some kind of soup that Emily said had truffles and some kind of unpronounceable Italian cheese shaved on top, and a little cup of petit fours in pastel shades of pink and green. Hotch might not have been up to see the feast, but the best parts of it were easy enough to bring to him.

“Where did you get this?” Hotch asked, realizing that he was in fact hungry. Ravenous, even. It would probably go along way toward curing the lethargy he'd been struck with. Tired without being able to sleep. He couldn't remember when he last ate.

“That's a story for another time. You, eat. After that, I have a surprise for you...if you're up for it.”

“Do I look up for it?”

“I think you'll be okay. It's nothing much. Just a little thing, if you don't mind putting on your pants for a little while anyway.”

Hotch shot him a funny look but smiled in spite of himself. First the food, he would tackle pants afterward. The idea of getting his aching bones back out of bed was daunting and unpleasant, but there was just enough curiosity to eventually pull him that direction.

The black sweater in the garment box, buttery soft and almost decadent, helped. “You look amazing,” Derek whispered, adjusting the collar a little. Sure, Hotch still looked sick, a little extra pale especially against the black merino wool. “Gorgeous.”

“Liar.”

“Alright, you know what Hotchner? I'm sick of your shit tonight...” Derek said it with a wicked grin, hooking his hand over the back of Hotch's neck. “You ready?” Hotch nodded and smiled, melting into Derek's touch. He could do this.

- - - - -

“The basement?”

“Cool your jets...trust the process.”

“You brought me to a storage room in the basement, Derek.”

Except it wasn't. There was a door at the end of the long cement corridor that opened into what appeared to be, at one time, something akin to a speakeasy. It was dark, with a small stage off to one side, a bar to the other, and a small dance floor in the middle. The whole thing had the feel of secrecy. Old gangsters, cigarette smoke, dirty deals being made.

“What is this place?”

“I dunno. I asked Rossi for a lil hookup...”

“Say no more.”

A light flickered to life above the stage, followed by the buzzing of an old amp and the scrape of a microphone stand being dragged from somewhere behind the emerald green curtain. Hotch felt his heart rate speed up a tick. He wasn't sure what to expect but the strange lighting and faintly thick, musty smell was making him a little lightheaded. Well, that and the ear infection. But he wasn't really thinking about that anymore.

Piano, soft and airy, floated from somewhere in the abyss. A few notes, slow and seductive, followed by a voice. And then a man was standing on the stage, his white hair lit like a halo from above.

“Is that...”

Derek grinned. “You bet your ass it is.”

Tony Bennett began singing a song, his voice sultry and delicate, filling the room with a strange warmth that soaked deep into them. Derek slipped his arms around Hotch and pulled him close, one hand at the small of his back, the other sliding up until it was against his shoulder.

“Someday...when I'm awfully low...when the world is cold...I will feel a glow...just thinking of you...and the way...you look...tonight...”

They stood there a minute, in each other's arms, and slowly Derek's feet began to move. Swaying, the smallest steps, in time with the delicate tinkling of the piano. Hotch sighed and let his cheek rest against Derek's shoulder, pressing his aching jaw into the warmth, and closed his eyes. That dizzy feeling wasn't so bad when he was here, and Derek had been right...he was up for this. More or less. And even if he really wasn't, it was worth it, and he'd do it again and again and again. A private concert in the basement of a Las Vegas hotel sounded like a fever dream, and hell, maybe it was. Maybe he'd fallen asleep after all, except Derek's arms held him so tight and his heart thundered so loud that it couldn't possibly be just imagination.

“You want to go back to bed?” Derek asked as Tony started another song. “I know you feel like shit and you're just humoring me...”

Hotch shook his head and tightened his grip just a little, still happily swaying. “Maybe one more song?”

“Anything you want. I got nowhere else to be.”

[19thsentry-blog]

I teased @leafweaverryn about having to deal with Tumblr's post creator and got bonked with righteous retribution for this fun little fella:

Rules: Pick any 10 of your fics, scroll somewhere to the midpoint, pick a line (or a few), and share it! Then tag people!

I choose to inflict @kwamisalami, and if it hasn't already started to infect the LBSC server, @goldenlaurelleaveswrites @quickspinner

(Do this at your own risk, TURNS OUT 10 IS ACTUALLY LIKE 100 WHEN YOU START TO PULL IT TOGETHER)

I was about to be glad I only started posting this year and only had a few fics to grab from, and then I remembered 2016 was a year that happened, so this is a mix of both my Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Miraculous Ladybug fanfic. Yaaaay...?

Some Things Change, Others Stay the Same | 6.1K words | Series: Window of Opportunity

(Tara Maclay & Dawn Summers & Spike)

They both made very little noise as they crept up the stairs, and Spike followed Tara to the master bedroom, where the wiccas had moved in. He paused to listen. Slow heartbeat, deep breathing. Asleep like a baby.

He could rip her limb from limb.

Still, he opened the door for Tara and left her to grab whatever she needed. He had to get Dawn. Spike moved back down the hallway and went into the Bit’s room. She was tossing fitfully in her bed, her mouth working soundlessly. Gently, Spike crouched down next to the bed and put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a few soft shakes as he softly called her name. Dawn’s eyes popped open and cleared as they focused on him. “Gotta fly, pigeon. Grab some stuff,” he whispered. Spike helped her sit up and pressed a finger to her lips when she began to speak. He meaningfully raised his eyebrows and Dawn nodded in tacit agreement not to speak.

“Trust me?” His voice was a harsh whisper. Another nod.

The Soggy Witch Factor | 1.1K words | Series: Window of Opportunity

(Tara Maclay & Dawn Summers & Spike)

Spike remembered, quite vividly now that he was standing there thinking about it, how it felt to wake up day after day without Dru next to him. It was lonely, shitty, and made him hate Dru even more for leaving him. The only reason he’d been able to deal was a large amount of tears, booze, and other women, and the only one Tara was indulging in was the tears, and he doubted she’d go any further than that. Still, the idea of having to pay for the fucking thing and then drag it through the parking lot and the hotel had him turning straight back around and heading for the cash register. No amount of soggy witch tears was going to get him to live through something like that.

Or so he’d thought. The ring on his thumb chose the perfect time to remind him of her. It was easy enough to ignore it and let it fade into the background, but once he thought about it, it came right back to the forefront. Spike looked up at the ceiling in irritation. Had he lived for a 126 years to get such a badass reputation just to have it ripped down in little but a few years? Apparently fucking so.

Over the Legal Limit | 1.2K words | Series: Window of Opportunity

(Tara Maclay & Spike)

Spike followed the noise Tara was making in the kitchen and casually leaned against the door frame. She was furiously scrubbing the inside of the coffee pot, totally oblivious to his presence. “And where the bloody hell were you last night, hm?”

Tara jumped and spun around, soap bubbles flying onto the kitchen island behind her, one wet hand going to her chest. “Spike! You’re going to give me a heart attack!” she complained, her cheeks flushed.

“You didn’t answer the question.” Spike regarded her with a raised eyebrow. Tara turned back towards the sink and started scrubbing the basin now.

“Sorry, I was too busy with the heart attack—”

His jaw dropped. “You had sex!” he accused, pointing a finger at her.

“T-that’s ridiculous!” She stammered, scrubbing the stainless steel viciously.

Equals | 101 words | Series: Window of Opportunity

(Dawn Summers & Spike)

Dawn still came by Spike’s crypt sometimes after school. It was tradition, and Tara never minded. Dawn would barge in, trying to be as irritating as possible, and he’d bristle up like an angry cat.

What the Wolf Brought | 848 words | Oneshot

(Daniel "Oz" Osbourne & Buffy Summers)

Time marched forward, chords were played, sets began and ended, school started and then finished, but the core of “Oz” stood still.

That was Before. Now, the After, the wolf reigned.

Everything was about movement and change. The wolf felt and smelled and heard and tasted the differences in every hour of every phase of the moon. The earth had rhythm and sounds, and now his very being moved with it, within it—he was part of it. He didn’t just participate in life on earth, he was it. He didn’t just walk on the earth’s surface, he was tethered to it. He was part of its ever changing landscape, and so was she.

Workaholic | 828 words | Oneshot

(Buffy Summers/Spike)

She came with a weapon this time. Didn’t know what he was thinking, that first time they fought. He should’ve insisted on weapons, because she was glorious. She didn’t hold herself like the first slayer he fought with a sword. She was wild, unpredictable. Her steps were intuitive in nature, not natural from years of practice. The blade sung through the air and they danced through the cemetery. He lept on grave markers, bounced on the sides of crypts, ducked under tree branches, swam around her as she tried to fend him off. Oh, it was a dance alright, and they moved to the beat of her heart and the swing of each other’s limbs. Blood sang.

Anarka, Meet Jagged | 1.3K words | Oneshot

(Anarka Couffaine)

"We need a guitarist--you're gonna give me someone." She could sing the lyrics her-damn-self; it wasn't like she was asking for a miracle here. There was no way Johnny didn't know someone that could play for them, at least for their gig at the shop.

Johnny tapped ash into the tray on the counter while he held one long pointer finger out behind her. "You've seen the board. You can post whatever notice you want up there. I'm sure someone would be interested."

Yeah, as if he didn't already know they'd done that weeks ago. "No, fuck the board. Your board fucking sucks."

"Hey!" he said back in mock offense.

New Beat | 42.3K words | Series: Boomer!Luka

(Adrien Agreste & OC, Alix Kubdel/Kagami Tsurugi, Adrien Agreste & Marinette Dupain-Cheng)

"They have to come together somehow," Adrien mused, lifting the half-built structure slightly to try to look beneath it. "But I swear, there's not--it doesn't look like the picture." 

Kamdyn stood to grab his cup of water from the kitchen counter, dipping two fingers in and flicking water droplets on Plagg before he drank from it. It at least stopped the Kwami from the constant snickering, which was a bit of a relief. "Look, I don't think we're getting any further tonight. Call the troops off the hill; the enemy has won." 

Adrien sat back on his ankles, frowning. They had made a lot of progress that night--they at least both had bed frames and a dining room table (although they'd botched one of the table chairs, it was permanently wobbly, and there was not much they could do about it but suggest no one sit in it). The apartment was covered in twice as much cardboard as when they'd started. White sheets of Styrofoam, empty plastic bags, and those weird L-shaped screwdrivers were strewn about every conceivable surface. Not to mention, they'd also made it through six of his mother's CDs from her collection, although he didn't exactly do the Isley Brothers much of a service. He'd stopped actually listening fifteen minutes back. 

Sunset Palette | 5.3K words | Oneshot

(Luka Couffaine/Félix Graham de Vanily)

Luka checked around the corner to see if anyone was coming, and when the coast was clear, he signaled to Félix with a head nod. "It's nice to play the damsel in distress sometimes. Getting saved by a knight in shining armor has its appeal."

Félix paused, mouth slightly open from where he'd been about to call out to Duusu, and Luka watched that brilliant brain dissect the comment into all its grammatical and contextual elements. Luka couldn't help but grin as one of his favorite shows took place, all the more enthralling under its new cerise pink lens. Félix snapped his mouth shut, looking away with something that might be a bit of a blush if Luka thought positively, and then he shook his head. "Next time, I'm going to let them have you."

Luka shrugged easily while his grin turned roguish, heart dancing and flipping to the same beautifully ruthless footsteps he'd watched earlier. "Doubt it."

Félix seemed like the jealous type.

The Night We Met | 15.2K words | Series: Boomer!Luka

(Luka Couffaine/Félix Graham de Vanily)

Félix watched with hidden approval as the fruit slowly disappeared, and once the plate had nothing on it but the light green and pink sheen of fruit juice, Luka got up to run sink water over it. Félix listened acutely as Luka fumbled around in the kitchenette, then frowned when the noise stopped. He tapped his forefinger on his papers for a minute, and when he hazarded to turn around, he saw a giant white comforter on legs stumbling back out into the main room.

"What are you--"

Félix was interrupted when the corner of the blanket slapped him in the face, Luka tumbling over the back of the couch to fall into the cushions like a killer whale breaching the surface of the ocean. The tangled mess of limbs, dark hair, and covers wormed its way into a semi-reclined position, squashed against the other side of the couch. Luka's face popped out of it, his bangs a mess in his eyes. He frowned again.

"Shit. I forgot my coffee."