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immaculatetfs · 3 years

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The Orc King

A bit of a longer one :P sorry for inactivity!

(Also couldn't find any clothing appropriate images so just imagine that Pate has clothes on <3)

The crisp evening air gave way to a thick smokey haze as Hal entered the 'Pigs. It was the tavern he frequented most often throughout his short career as an adventurer, and he always coming back following a hard day of questing. There were always people around, he recalled, adventurers, magicians and thieves and the like, but around now was when it was busiest. The air was filled with loud drunken chatter and the dull thunks of a tankard hitting wood. When he saw through the crowded room that there was a stool still empty stool right up at the bar he thanked the gods.

“The usual?” asked the barkeep, a squat, pug-nosed woman, when he sat down

“You know it Helga” He gave her a worn smile

As she filled a mug with thick yeasty ale, his attention shifted to the man beside him. Built like a plowhorse, he wore a boiled leather vest a sweat-stained tunic, emphasizing tightly, emphasizing the hefty muscle and sizeable gut that bulged out from his arms and torso. Two wide shoulders framed him, with wide and strong arms that connected to rough hands, calloused and brown from years of hard work. He smelt of leather and sweat, and when he looked over and caught Hal staring, a cheeky smile came across his bearded face.

“You come here often?” was the only thing Hal could think of saying before he felt a red flush come across his cheeks

The stranger gave a chuckle “Nah, I'm new in this area. The names Pate”

Pate shook the Hals hand, crushing fingers under his grip

“you a regular?”

“I’m Hal, and yeah, I do come here often. This is where I come after my quests”

They were interrupted by a sharp clearing of Helga's throat. “two silvers”

Pate dropped a fat golden coin on the counter.

“Will this do for tonight for me and my bud?”

He had never seen Helga move so quickly as he did then.

“Yes Yes, of course” she said, snatching it and giving a cautionary bite, before another customer called he over

Hal must have looked as shocked as he felt because Pate chucked again when his eyes reached him.

“How do you have that kind of money? That coin is worth what I earn in an entire year!”

“Believe it or not, I’m secretly royalty,” he winked.

Hal's jaw dropped

“I'm just jesting," an affectionate hand patted Hal on the back "came across a Wizard that was traveling on his way over here, said he was transporting an ancient artifact. He hired me, called me his “extra muscle" He took a sip of ale "we were ambushed, turns out I wasn't much help. I don't even remember how I was knocked out, but I do remember waking up in the middle of the road with the mother of all headaches and a chest full of treasure, with and this on top.” He held out a small hollow green tube, rubberlike and the width and length of an ear of corn, an inscription along the side reading in an alien script

“Dunno why they left that chest, and everyone was gone, so I took the valuables as payment and decided to complete the mission I had been hired for. Do you know any places here that have anything to do with orcs? the old wizard was talking about them when we were on the road”

“Whoah, that's crazy, You've probably got more money now than i'll ever see in my life as an adventurer” He studied the table “I might've heard some stuff about them as a kid, they say that they live in these local woods. You know, it's kind of dangerous if you would go out searching here… you know..” he looked into Pate’s dark brown eyes and his cheeks were red again, but not off drink

”...without a guide” he quickly distracted himself with his ale, trying to mask his embarrassment with the thick yeasty drink.

“Say, why don't we go on an adventure together then? Might be that I can't go back home now, since the Magician's colleagues would hang me for a thief if they knew I took the gold. You seem as good a partner in crime as any”. A thick hand lightly caressed Hal’s thigh. The younger man's gaze returned to Pate’s eyes, cheeks like raspberries as he tried to ignore the stirring in his nethers.

"What do you say? Partners?”

“Yes!” Hal said, a little too quickly.

“Good.” he spat on his hand and held it out for a shake, a gesture which Hal reciprocated.

A short few hours of talking made Has feel as if he had known Pate for years, and before they knew it the 'pigs were closing for the night.

They found a soft bed of moss out in the woods that surrounded the tavern to set up camp. A cool night breeze blew pleasantly on the pair as they lay down from their first night as partners.

Pate wrapped his bulky arms around Hals's reclining body, moving in for a spooning. Hal could feel hot breath on his neck, and the warmth of Pate’s larger body radiating into him, but most of all he felt a hardness pressing upon his lower back. He felt his own member begin to twitch as rough hands rubbed across his body, absently stroking and folding the mounds and crevices of his lithe body. His own hand moved up to meet one of Pate’s as it folded his pecs.

“You like this?” he heard Pate murmur

Hal turned around to gaze into his green eyes, illuminated by the starlight

“Do you?”

They plunged their lips together, the taste sweet on each other's mouths. Hal tore Pate’s tunic over his head and tossed it, revealing a sturdy chest, pelted with the same dark wiry hairs that scratched Hal's face. His nipples were two dark diamonds in the starlight, his body smelling of sweat and leather and dirt. Hal’s lips moved down, taking his right nipple into his mouth and teased it with his tongue. Pate gave a soft moan and pressed his right hand into Hal’s fluffy brown curls.

Suddenly, A voice came into Hal's head. Deep and rumbling it told him, commanded him. His hand reached into the satchel that lay beside them, fingers securing around the thick green pipe that Pate had shown him earlier that night, only now it was softer and slightly moist.

Like he had done it a hundred times, Hal tore down Pate’s britches, revealing a long mast that stood proudly in the night. Before he could say anything, Pate was overwhelmed by a sense of otherworldly pleasure as his cock pushed into the soft green material, pulsing madly in the warm cocoon.

Hal’s member was next, sliding in to meet his partner’s cock within the strange object, their pre intermingling as they did. They embraced again for another long kiss. Where the skin of the two men met, It seemed stuck together, seeming as though Hal was sinking into Pate's embrace. From these points, a dark green shade overtook their previous skin tones. Hal's torso sank blissfully into the warmth of Pate’s huge chest, his own body losing form as their insides homogenized. Where their two cocks had once come together, a fat green monster, long and thick as a beer bottle now stood, leaking warm wetness across its engorged mushroom head. Their arms and legs merged, becoming engorged with muscle and fat with the same evergreen hue as their member. From where Hal’s ass and back had been, pushed out an imposing muscle gut, covered with long wiry red hairs that grew into a Forrest as down to his crotch. framing this impressive green orb were two meaty pecs that pushed out of his chest like fat hairy cones. A massive green hand reached down to stroke the tower of flesh between his thighs, sending tidal waves of pleasure that broke the two men’s brains. Their faces merged together, individuality melting away like butter in a pan, features rearranged to create something new and exciting. His nose became bulbous, pushing out from a wild tangle of long red hairs that grew across the new creature's face, forming a wild untamed beard. His eyes darkened to black, lower canine teeth pushing out to form two intimidating tusks. The hair remaining from the heads of Pate and Hal fell away, leaving a shiny scalp dripped with rivulets of perspiration. Memories appeared to the creature that had been Hal and Pate, slow simple messages that even an orc-like him could understand

“I Ugrull”

“Orc king”

“Must make kingdom”

He climaxed, a torrent of potent hot green cum blasting in a torrent across his mountainous torso, leaking down across his back. Deep down, Ugrull knew that all a man had to do was smell his seed to become overcome with lust, to submit to him. They would want nothing else but to take his hot thick Warhammer of a cock down their puny human throats, for their king to make them his orc slaves. “Humans submit, become sons”, he thought as his fingers glided across his slick belly, grinning wildly. He would be the greatest incarnation of the orc king this world had ever seen before.

#weight gain transformation #male transformation #merging #gay male tf #orc tf #orc transformation #male tf #wg tf

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nopelleen · 3 years

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Perish, Pretty Please (5/5)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Rick Flag was known to be a pretty good leader, it was the reason why he had been chosen to lead a squad of infamously reckless and idiotic criminals, however it was a lot harder to maintain his authority when one member of the team despised his guts for seemingly no reason.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Rick Flag x Reader

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.7k

ɴᴏᴛᴇ: it took me so long, but it’s finally there -- the last part! I started this fanfiction knowing I had a tendency not to finish them and I’m honestly so proud right now, I hope you’ll enjoy this last part as much as I enjoyed writing all of this! (also please let’s all have a moment of silence to remember the moment my hopeful, foolish ass actually posted the first part with “1/2″ in the title)

“Nope, there’s something we gotta take care of first."

You watched with blatant bafflement as the three men nonchalantly walked away from the blazing truck that had been transporting them merely minutes ago. There was almost a bit of disappointment in your heart as you watched the plan you and Cleo had so meticulously orchestrated on your way here vanish into thin air. It was a shame – your rescue plan involved a lot more wow factor. Had you known the outcome of this small drawback, you wouldn’t have put so much effort into it; but how could you have guessed the three of them would find a way out of a van guarded by multiples soldiers all the while handcuffed and therefore supposedly incapacitated? That was absurd.

“Don’t look so surprised, it’s insulting.”

You shot Flag a tight lipped, mocking smile as a response to his friendly jab, clearly recognizing the words you had used against him in the afternoon. Your sardonic grimace poorly mirrored the playful smirk the colonel adorned as he walked towards the van, and you were surprised to feel your heart swell a bit when you noticed his smile spread into a genuine one as he walked past you, slightly shaking his head in amusement.

Without even questioning how they had gotten themselves out of that prickly situation, you whirled around and followed suit as Rick climbed back into the van, telling Milton the small change of plan. That one enthusiastically nodded before happily informing the squad that you’d reach the city by dawn, making you realize you had spent a good chunk of the night at that bar and yet did not feel that tired yet – which might just have been from the adrenaline released into your system at the sight of your three teammates walking out of a blazing vehicle.

“You sleep, I watch Thinker,” Nanaue suggested as he heavily lumbered towards the back of the van, where the hostage was surprisingly staying very still, wise enough not to attempt anything while sharing the same space as King Shark.

Your steps faltered as you entered the van, your gaze hesitatingly flickering towards the seats in the back which appeared way too crowded for your liking. You usually would’ve simply gone back to your seat at the front, but Rick was now occupying the one near the window, probably as a way to stay close to the driver.

With a reluctant sigh, you were about to follow King Shark towards the back when Rick casted a pointed look towards you before patting the seat beside him in case you did not understand.

Relief washed over you and you didn’t even need to give it a second thought before flopping onto the space beside him, glad not to have to settle for a spot anywhere near Peacemaker. Your muscles were stiff as you quite literally bounced onto the cushion, and as soon as your back did as much as graze the backrest, the entire day of walk, hours of dancing and minutes of worrying about Flag’s well-being caught up with you with a dizzying speed.

If earlier that day you had been able to fight off sleep vigorously, you now found yourself melting into the cushion of your seat as soon as you flopped onto it. At first, you remained steadfast, refusing to yield to your basic human needs as you forced yourself to sit up straight, but then there was a strong gravitational pull making you sway a bit on your seat as your head started lolling forward, and then another pull – Rick’s hand, this time – gently steering you back into your seat. Incapable of fending off the drowsiness any longer, you surrendered and finally allowed yourself to loosen up, feeling your head snugly land upon Rick’s shoulder as you drifted off into a soundless sleep.

-----

“Outburst, hey!”

“She’s sleeping.”

From his seat at the very back of the van, Peacemaker frowned as he craned his neck in an attempt to peer at your figure still slumped over Rick’s shoulder. “Well, wake her up,” he groused, tinges of annoyance seeping from his usually polished tone. “She’s… spewing her emotions all over the place. It’s reeking of sadness in there.”

◦◦◦

“It’s reeking in there; crack a window open, will you?”

Your finger harshly jabbed the switch, your gaze remained firmly fixed on the buildings passing by in a blur as the window lowered just a bit in an abrupt, choppy motion. From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of your mother shooting you a brief, curious look. You hadn’t uttered a word ever since you two had left the family reunion. You knew it hadn’t been a good idea to agree to come.

The car then lapsed into another uncomfortable silence. You were both acutely aware of the thick, sweltering acrimony flooding off of you and yet still refused to address it, instead letting you bask in it with your mouth clamped shut, letting it gnaw your insides until your lungs felt charred, incapable of drawing oxygen any longer.

Why had you agreed to this? You were an adult; you didn’t need to expose yourself to this anymore.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to breathe in deeply, only for your chest to constrict, becoming painfully hollow. Tears started brimming at the edges of your vision and you finally allowed your lips to part, letting a bated breath stumble out of them with urgency.

“I heard you earlier.”

◦◦◦

“I’m not waking her up,” Rick scowled in one curt sentence, already feeling a bit on edge and therefore not wanting to dwell on the matter.

Peacemaker’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper at Rick’s unwavering tone. He usually dealt easily with negotiation and compromises, he worked well under authority and was a suitable soldier because of it, but at the moment, he couldn’t find it in himself to be patient – maybe because of how thick with tension the atmosphere had become because of you.

“We can feel her,” he insisted again, spitting the words out in an irritated hiss.

◦◦◦

“Honey, I can feel you, tone it down,” your mother complained as she kept her eyes on the road. Either your words went completely over her head, or she refused to acknowledge them, knowing that with the amount of resentment she could feel rolling off of you in waves, there was no way a discussion could lead to a good outcome at the moment. She was already having a hard time not letting the irritation get to her in spite of the smoldering atmosphere.

“I heard you talking to aunt Matty,” you reiterated. “You said it was my fault.”

“What was?”

“Dad leaving.”

The uttered words dropped like thunder in the car, leaving the air charged with electricity.

“I didn’t say that,” she rebutted with a bit of an acerbic tone. The tension was starting to get to her, slowly but steadily eating away at her mind in spite of her resolve. She could feel the resentment seeping into her like a foreign body infiltrating her immune system, but paradoxically, the angrier she got, the less willing she was to fight it off. “Don’t twist my words, you know I hate when you do that.”

◦◦◦

“I didn’t say she wasn’t allowed to sleep,” Peacemaker clarified, starting to sound a bit agitated as the tensed atmosphere got more and more on his nerves. “I’m simply saying she shouldn’t until we are.”

“She’s not hurting anyone.”

◦◦◦

“You said I was hurting him.”

“I said he was often on the wrong end of your temper. Listen, it’s—”

“Back off!”

◦◦◦

“Back off,” Rick sternly admonished him as soon as Peacemaker made a step towards the front of the bus, protectively wrapping an arm around your sleeping form. “She needs to rest. She got shot acting as a distraction so your team could make a smooth entrance, remember?” he reminded the man scornfully.

Peacemaker’s face remained calm in spite of the irritation coloring his eyes. His gaze briefly flickered from you to Flag, hesitating.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

◦◦◦

“You know how you made him feel,” your mother uttered, efficiently putting an end to the exchange.

You remembered the times during which you were moody, when you came back home after having spent the entire day feeling everyone’s emotions around you, when your father did as much as try to talk to you about it, thus instantly setting you off. He was always the spark that ignited you. Whether he was inquiring about your day, or commenting on your behavior, or even just standing a bit too close to you… He’d end up angry, hurt, aggressive – whatever you were feeling at the moment, he’d always end up feeling it too.

Your mother was just wise enough to stay away.

But you also remembered the shouts in the kitchen, the jabs, the constant bickering between them. You remembered listening to it from the stairs and then being blamed for their bad tempers. You’d be blamed for the anger, the aggressiveness, the slaps that so often echoed through the house.

She was wise enough to stay away, and yet be close enough when she’d need an excuse.

“It wasn’t just me,” you whispered through gritted teeth.

“I never said it was.”

“It was you,” you spat out as you whipped your head towards her. “You made him miserable.”

Your eyes were completely focused on her face, her pursed lips and closed-off features, and never once did you notice the way her foot slowly started pressing further onto the accelerator.

◦◦◦

You woke up with a start and instantly casted a frantic gaze around you, expecting the usual blaring horns and shouts that followed this exchange. You were surprised to find yourself in a safe environment, all wrapped up in an unexpected warm, comforting atmosphere. Usually, the second you woke up, your instincts picked up on the foul aura of anguish you had unconsciously secreted into the air, and yet, here, you could feel nothing but utter peacefulness.

One of your eyebrows formed an elegant arch as you lowered your gaze to glimpse at the warm weight wrapped around you, only for your eyes to land on a familiar calloused hand hanging from your shoulder and almost grazing your cheek. You felt a faint smile tenderly pulling at the corners of your lips before even turning your head to confirm the identity of the owner of the arm wrapped around your shoulders, and when you turned your head to direct your gaze towards Flag’s sleeping face, you simply found yourself incapable to fight it off anymore.

Then, with a fond smile pulling at the corners of your lips, you snugly nestled you head back into his side and shut your eyes, this time knowing for a fact that you wouldn’t risk infuse the atmosphere with anything else than a blissful quietude.

◦◦◦

It was chaos. Utter chaos.

Your car was long abandoned a few feet away from you, fuming after having hit another vehicle in the middle of an intersection. The driver who had started fighting with you was now in a fully blown-out fist fight with another man who had merely tried to step in for you, and the more people got out of their cars to understand what was going on, the more people got trapped under your influence and started fighting, some going as far as purposefully ramming their vehicle into another’s.

Your voice was hoarse from shouting at the driver who had first attacked you and you were now trembling with anger as you watched an entire riot unfold before your very eyes, unconsciously fueling it with intense waves of rage that'd hit any innocent that'd happen to walk a bit to close to the scene.

Someone gripped your shoulder and you tried to jerk away from the touch, whirling your head towards the person with your teeth bared, ready to attack whoever was trying to get your attention.

“Honey, focus on me, alright? Focus on me.”

The voice was rough, the tone frenzied, and yet when the hands grasped your shoulders, it was with an unexpected gentleness. The fingers were quivering with restraint, barely managing not to dig into your skin in an attempt to snap you out of it.

This staggering tenderness startled you so much that it managed to take you out of your trance for a fleeting moment, allowing reason to take over as you fought back the instinctive urge to shove the hands away. With frantic, brimming eyes, you diverted your gaze towards your mother, desperate for a comforting point of focus to latch onto like a lifeline.

A sob threatened to crawl up your throat as soon as you met her eyes. There, in the midst of all the hardly concealed anger – a glint of affection, a vacillating spike of tenderness battling to emerge from under all that vibrating rage your mind was forcefully pushing into her. With a choked-up breath of relief, you instinctively stepped forward, latching onto that abiding twinkle of kindness in spite of all that surrounding violence like a lifeline.

Then, when there was an anticipated screeching of tires coming from your side, a glimpse of grey metal flashing out of the corner of your eye, and an oh-so-familiar harrowing feeling of dread seizing your insides, you kept your eyes unwaveringly locked into your mother’s, resolutely shutting out everything else around you. You bored your gaze into hers and let your mind soak in her warmth.

The car never came, the shouts quietened down, your surroundings slowed down until coming to a complete halt, time stalled and your dream mercifully stepped away from your memories to spare you.

You stood there for ages lost into your mother’s loving gaze, until – having strayed too far from reality – your subconscious lost all senses of what was and wasn’t at the time and let the scene morph into whatever your mind desired. Then, when the voice spoke up again, it wasn’t your mother standing before you anymore, but a person you now trusted more than you ever thought you would.

“Don’t be scared of me.”

-----

“We need to help these people.”

The words went completely over your head as you despairingly gaped at the glass in front of you, feeling cold to your bones.

You had gotten a bad feeling as soon as the elevator doors had cracked open.

There hadn’t even been time to make a step forward before you had gotten hit by the foul, repugnant thickness sullying the air with a strength that almost had you rearing your head back a bit. For a dizzying second, the vile and nauseating reek had left you standing there, blearily blinking as your senses had desperately struggled to accommodate to the repellent atmosphere. Yet, in spite of the tears brimming at the corners of your eyes just from the sheer despondency emanating from the place, you had been far from imagining the atrocity, the barbarism of the experiments that were taking place down here.

Despite your reluctance, you had been forced to follow the others as they had stalked out of the elevator, engaging into the dark and humid place with feeble, hesitant steps. As you had all crossed the small entrance leading to the laboratory, you had needed to fight your instincts that they had urgently pleaded you to simply whirl around and run back into the elevator.

Every breath you had taken weighed heavily on your tongue, the pungency sticking to the walls of your throat and poisoning your lungs. Every other second you had spent down there had simply felt like another year taken off your life, the wretched atmosphere slowly eating away at your brain like acid.

In spite of all of that, it had taken some time for the horror to truly dawn on you.

The despair had crept into your heart with every step you had made into the cellar, and then, when you had gotten to the center of it, you had felt for the very first time of your life an intense claustrophobia swarming your heart. Surrounded by a sea of decaying bodies all bound together by the same searing, devastating agony, the hostile basement had quickly gone from a gruesome laboratory to a deadly trap slowly closing in on you.

With nothing but wandering bodies all around you, you felt at the bottom of a pit of wretchedness, your head swelling with an intense, overwhelming pain. It was as though you were entrapped in the center of a microwave which was channeling thousands of screams directly towards your brain instead of radiations, however one of them was significantly stronger than the others and seemed to come from the wide glass wall right in front of you.

“Impossible, dear. They’re corpses below those stars.”

In spite of the searing agony flaring through your chest, your heartbeat seemed to slow down and settle onto a numbing, soporific pace as you unconsciously started stepping towards the wide glass, as though bewitched by the heart-wrenching wail you felt coming from whatever was hiding in that liquid.

With trembling, tentative fingers, you lifted your hand and slowly pressed your palm against the freezing glass, yearning to soothe the poor sufferer from their wrenching agony. The pain only seemed to intensify at the touch, the feeling of desolation gripping your insides as your ears started ringing, completely isolating you from the others. There was nothing else in that room but you and a desolated martyr screaming with thousand of voices right into your mind.

You watched with mournful, brimming eyes as the dark figure behind the glass started stirring until a single, colossal eye revealed itself in front of you, appearing emotionless to any common spectator and yet emitting an amount of woe that would’ve had you on your knees had you not gotten so used to sensing people’s emotions.

“Outburst?”

Rick’s voice rose up right behind you but still didn’t startle you, your eyes riveted onto the creature before you with rapt focus.

“It’s in pain,” you croaked out, the faint words scraping your dry throat like some sandpaper grating your vocal cords. “It’s in so much pain.” You shifted your fingers a bit, as if trying to press your hand closer to the glass, get closer to that strange creature, completely blind to the danger it represented. The tentacles, bumps and single eye did not matter – all you could see was the utter suffering it was in.

“Well,” the Thinker unabashedly butted in, “if I’m not mistaken regarding the purpose of your self-righteous egomaniacal mission – not for much longer.”

His words dawned on you with a dry clarity and had you shifting away from the glass in one brisk motion to whirl your head towards Rick. “We can’t kill it,” you asserted with an adamant, steadfast tone that did not match the slight waver in your voice.

“We have orders.”

Rick’s steadfast voice was way more convincing than yours, and what would’ve usually been a mere reminder of his status as colonel felt like a frustrating hindrance that only heightened the desperation swarming your heart and made you let go of the glass to tighten your fists as you turned around to fully face him.

“No, we can’t, we have to help it, it’s—”

“It’s dangerous,” Rick cut you off, his distrust-colored eyes briefly flickering towards the glass wall.

“It’s suffering!”

Your distressed screech echoed through the cellar, your plea painfully reverberating on the walls and splattering the frantic desperation dripping from your tone all around the basement.

For a fleeting moment, Flag remained speechless, as if hit with full force by the intensity of your despair. During that fleeting moment, you caught a glimpse of the hesitation flashing in his eyes, the way he seemed to ponder over the situation for even just a second, wondering what to do and which way to choose. Then, his gaze flickered to the side, briefly meeting Peacemaker’s, and you were able to pinpoint the exact moment he put his guards up again, welding back on his old mask of professionalism to tightly shut out any emotion you could try to induce in him.

There was a subtle shift in his expression, so subtle you might not even have noticed had you not been so desperately seeking any trace of support on his features. Instead of showing the understanding you were so badly hoping for, the traits of his face hardened, the glint in his eyes dimmed, and then you weren’t standing before Rick anymore, you were facing the colonel, towering over you with his back straight and his orders engraved in his mind.

You were acutely aware of the fact that the mission outweighed you; you had just hoped Rick would hold enough respect towards you to give your words the slightest bit of consideration. Apparently, this respect only allowed you one minute of his time before he completely shut you out.

With a sharp, regretful sigh, he took a step towards you and grabbed your arm with a gentle reluctance that contrasted with the harshness of his tone as he said that you needed to go with the other team.

You tried to protest but his strides were long and hasty, and before you even knew it, he was punching the first-floor button of the elevator as you stood inside of it, stunned.

Just as the doors started closing before you, you feebly parted your lips to utter one last plead; your pained, wavering voice coming out laced with betrayal. “You said I could trust you.”

When he had seemed ready to turn away as soon as the doors started closing between you, Rick’s attention seemed to be piqued by your words as he shifted his gaze back onto you, lingering in front of the elevator for just a second more.

The distress coloring your eyes melted into a sullen resignation as soon as your gaze bored into his, your chest constricting with dejection. There, under the thick coat of seriousness, in the midst of all the restrained belligerence this place inspired him, no glint of affection was to be found, no spike of tenderness desperately trying to emerge from the vibrating anger – nothing but cold, glaring callousness.

Not Rick.

Colonel.

-----

“Where’s Flag?”

Bloodsport turned his gaze towards you, and you instantly recognized the apologetic look in his eyes.

As he grimly shook his head, you finally experienced it firsthand – the agony of a thousand people.

-----

“Apparently Waller sent something to his hospital room. People are joking and saying she sent flowers, but if you want my opinion the old hag probably sent him a reminder that his contract doesn’t cover paid sick leaves.”

The voice, just like the steps accompanying it, echoed through the corridor and kept getting closer to your cell, undoubtedly coming from yet another guard who’d attempt to get a word or a reaction out of you – anything that’d stop them from having to book in an appointment with the jail therapist.

You had seen many of them pass by while you had spent days in a temporary cell during your recovery but hadn’t thought they’d keep on sending them after having transferred back in your old cell this morning.

The landscape change didn’t make any difference for you, as you simply kept on staring at the wall for hours on end with the most irksome gloomy look clouding your features.

You couldn’t think about anything else than Rick.

You didn’t think you had even truly processed it yet. It had happened too fast.

Within the span of a few days, the colonel had somehow gained your trust, slowly leading you to warm up to him by showing you an affection you hadn’t experienced in years. It felt like he had turned your world upside down, made everything brighter with the prospect of saving lives alongside a superior who truly valued you, and then you had made the mistake of letting him out of your sight, forced to walk away from that dreadful laboratory for just a few minutes, and he had died there, the one person on this earth who you could genuinely trust now buried under the rumbles in that bottomless pit of agony.

You had mulled over it what felt like a thousand times already and you just could not figure out how to simply go on with your life. Not when your one chance at a brighter future had been squandered so violently as soon as you had turned your back to it.

Somehow, it felt like your fault.

You had been careless, unfocused. You had forcefully dragged Rick’s attention away from the mission at hand only because you were too weak to handle the downsides of your ability, your eyes pathetically overflowing with tears of empathy as the rest of your team simply tried to achieve the mission. You had distracted Rick as that one had been forced to take you to the elevator like a child, had unconsciously helped Peacemaker steal a secret file and forced Cleo to try and stop him on her own before Flag could come to her aid.

The file had been retrieved, but only after Bloodsport had stopped Peacemaker from coldly eliminating Cleo. Only after Rick’s body had already been left laying soundly in the laboratory.

They had fought with all their might for that file, for those values you had accused Flag of lacking merely days ago, and you hadn’t even been there.

It had been crushing to find out that the trust you held towards him had been misplaced, but it was nothing in comparison to discovering he shouldn’t have trusted you either.

You forcefully swallowed back the lump in your throat when you heard the steps finally come to a halt right by your cell and had a hard time concealing the startled look on your face when a very familiar voice rose up.

“Well well well, from what I’ve heard little princess doesn’t want to eat anymore?”

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end at the falsely dulcet tone dripping with a syrupy looking but dangerously abrasive poison. You had to keep yourself from gritting your teeth as your gaze caught up on Griggs’ silhouette standing before your cell from the corner of your eye.

“You’re not even gonna make an effort for me?” he teased you as his lips spread into a sneering smile that made him look more moronic than sadistic due to the absolute lack of sagacity behind his eyes.

You kept your mouth tightly shut and your eyes riveted to the wall across from you, trying to muster the blankest expression you could not to let him affect you but feeling a peeved expression weighing down on your features nonetheless.

“Aww, guys it looks like we’re gonna have to use the feeding tubes,” Griggs ironically groaned, turning towards his colleagues with a facetious glint in his eyes. One of them instantly stepped up to open the door to your cell, not even needing to think twice about the threat just emitted. “You know how much I hate doing that,” he then kept on jeering, much to the amusement of the other guards.

You waited with anticipation as he stepped into the cell, feeling your entire body buzzing with an overpowering apprehension, not having a clue of what you could do but knowing for a fact that with all the adrenaline slowly being spread into your system, there was no way you’d let Griggs go back to his old mistreatment.

His filthy fingers barely grazed your skin, and, as though electrified, you jumped to your feet, putting some distance between you and him. You kept your eyes determinedly fixated in front of you but could see from the corner of your eye how stunned he was by your abrupt reaction. He had gotten to the unresponsive side of you that had emerged after only a few months here, the poor figure staying down on the ground and no longer batting an eyelash at his constant abuse. His face remained dazed for a fleeting moment before the ghost of a smirk reappeared on his features.

After all, he had broken you once, it’d be no bother to do it a second time.

“What, you go on one mission with Task Force X and then you don’t like me anymore?”

He reached out a hand again, much more aggressively this time, and you jolted away, instinctively bringing a hand up without even knowing if you were willing to take the risk of hitting him.

“Step away from her, Griggs.”

The stone cold words loudly rang through the cell and heavily fell between you both, instantly followed by a deafening silence as Griggs’ hand hovered in the air for a fleeting moment, just inches away from the skin of your arm.

Then, for a dizzying, fleeting moment, it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the cell.

Chill shivers of relief racked your spine before your brain even had time to process the voice, and then, when the familiarity of it finally sank in, you felt as though some freezing water had been dumped over you, leaving you soaked and shivering in the middle of your cell – only this time Griggs wasn't the cause of it.

You whirled your head towards the entrance of your cell with a vertiginous speed and had to bite back a choked-up noise from stumbling out of your lips when your gaze landed upon the owner of the voice glowering at Griggs with a murderous look in his eyes.

“You’re not supposed to be back yet,” Griggs pointed out sheepishly, letting his arm limply drop to his side now that his focus had been completely taken off of you.

“I was feeling better,” Rick informed him with a tight-lipped smile which then briskly dropped from his features. “Now stand down,” he repeated himself, his voice steadfast and as neutral as he could muster it. “I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you. I’ve seen what you did to her, and I’d love to show you what it feels like to be on the wrong side of the blade.”

The threat made the cell go utterly silent and for just a second, the sweetest second ever, all traces of amusement vanished from Griggs’ suddenly pale face. He looked started, nervous, oh so pathetic, and then when he finally regained his composure enough to quickly muster up the most serious look he could to paint on his pallid features, he had already lost all respect from every occupant of the room.

“You’d risk your job for a bitch who told you to eat shit five minutes into your mission?”

There was an imperceptible twitch on Rick’s features at the reminder. He had to briskly fight off a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, but you could still discern the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes and had to swallow back a choked-up laugh – your heart swarming with a bunch of overwhelming emotions you couldn’t even identify at the moment.

His eyes briefly flickered to you. “Apparently,” he conceded with the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, before he cast his gaze back on Griggs and recovered a cold, severe expression. “And, trust me, given how liked you are around here, I don’t think I’d risk more than a paid leave even if I attempted to murder you.”

Yet another sullen silence fell over the cell like a heavy fog, and this time, Griggs made the wise decision of not shattering it, containing his anger within a single huff before stalking out of the cell with heavy steps that made him akin to a stomping child. His colleagues briefly glanced at Rick, not quite knowing what to do, before meeting his eyes and promptly deciding to follow Griggs’ decision.

“You’re alive,” you breathlessly uttered as soon as you were both left alone.

“A bit roughed up, but yes, alive,” he winced back, turning his gaze towards you.

You knew he couldn’t feel the blissful exultation swarming your heart now that your ability was smothered by the collar secured around your neck, but you hoped he could see it in your eyes and in the way you just couldn’t seem to blink those relieved tears away.

Rick took a few steps towards you and let out a bated breath, as if he was finally allowed to exhale, as if he hadn’t been able to feel comfortable until standing near you again – and you then knew for a fact that if he couldn’t see the exultation in your heart, he at least felt it as well.

Without another word, he then tentatively brought a hand up before letting it hover uncertainly in the air. He seemed hesitant as if he wasn’t sure how to act anymore now that his mask of professionalism was gone, and you couldn’t help but let out a short chuckle. This was enough for a single droplet to finally fall from your brimming eyes, and the way Rick’s gaze seemed to soften even more at the sight of it almost led you to shedding a few more.

With utter cautiousness, he brought his hand to your face to brush the stray tear away and then left it there, his warm palm cradling your cheek.

“Looks like I’ve won again,” he said in a breath, the words merely stumbling out of his lips as if he were afraid to break that frail, tender moment of vulnerability between the two of you. His thumb gently stroked your cheek again and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch, your gaze never once leaving his. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You had once said that the only way for Rick to ever get close to you was for you to give out your last breath, and yet, ever since that very vow you had felt yourself ever-so-slowly opening up to him, as though there was something in the air and it was killing you softly.

Now that the sweet, sweet poison had filled up your lungs – all wrapped up in his arms and boring your gaze into his with a wide-eyed fascination – you chose to completely let go of that vow, braving the risk to perish and merely uttering back two candid, gentle words.

“Pretty please.”

tag list: @honovi18, @jackdanieltorrance, @mochminnie , @themightyredwood, @taternuts, @weallhaveadestiny , @derangedcupcake, @to-be-or-not-to-be-2021, @vvipgot7be, @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine, @lacontroller1991, @navs-bhat, @monkeyyellowsunshine, @ajeff855, @brokenwhitegirlsworld, @agirlonfire95, @kingtwhiddleston, @cluelessnitwhit, @davnwillcome, @xoxabs88xox

#dc #tss #the suicide squad #rick flag x reader #rick flag headcanon #rick flag imagine #rick flag fanfiction #joel kinnaman #suicide squad #rick flag one-shot #rick flag x y/n #rick flag x you #colonel rick flag

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rodeoxqueen · 4 years

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Keeping Up With A Himbo: Vergil (I)- Lost In The Sauce

Series Summary: A series of domestically fluffy snippets where the s/o of a Sparda learns just how much of a himbo their lover is.

Work Summary: Vergil tries to cook for you and loses a fight with a salt grinder.

Tags/Warnings: Gender-Neutral S/O, Domestic Fluff, SFW, Vergil Is A Disaster And We Love Him, Meme References in Title and Story, Implied Touch-Starved! Vergil,

Vergil always noticed that ever since he moved to your place, he had yet to move a finger when it came to making meals. Usually, it was you who chose to go to the grocery stores and come back home to cook.

It always brought him good feeling, to sit beside you and have a hot meal with you. However, he soon realized how the scale of responsibilities was becoming lopsided, tipping in his favor.

You would return exhausted from work, only to cook and clean once more. Vergil was also working at his brother’s shop, slaying demons and all sorts of nasty creatures.

But he was a subhuman of ungodly stamina, he rarely felt exhaustion as quickly as you did. You knew that. And yet, here you were, still insisting to do most of the cooking. Although it was nice to be pampered, reading a book near the counter as you chopped up ingredients for a hearty lunch or dinner, Vergil knew it was unreciprocated for some time now.

As of late, your work had become harder, with longer hours and lesser benefits. You found yourself pushing against the clock, having to prepare the evening meal despite the time crunch. You woke up earlier to sleep later. And yet, you staunchly refused to not provide for the two of you.

He grumbled a bit on the inside, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His eyes glanced at the clock. You would be home in an hour, at around 9 pm. Much later than you had already been working.

Humans are easily tired, and it was a Friday. For you to come home and deal with such a chore would be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Vergil cursed himself. He was more than capable of doing some tasks around your shared home. After years of living alone, he was not used to all of this-this bliss. How could he be so foolish to not give back to his beloved?

With strife, he promptly rolled up his sleeves and grabbed your apron. A bit small around his chest, as he was much more muscular than you.

Thinking of the sight of your face brightening if you came home to a prepared meal, he set out to prove himself as more than capable in the kitchen.

And perhaps garner some praise from you. Not like he’d ever admit he wanted it.

He opened the cabinets and fridge. Careful hands took out pasta and tomato sauce, setting it on the counter. Vergil read the instructions for the spaghetti, doing exactly what the box told him.

It was already his job before to open the cans, and the glass jar popped freely of its lid within seconds.

He tasted the sauce with a spoon, observing that the sole acrid taste of tomatoes did not sit well with him.

What did you always add? Obviously salt and pepper.

He did as such, taking out the old salt grinder. He proceeded to grind the salt into the pan of simmering sauce, bubbling perhaps too rapidly and violently. Somehow, no salt seemed to come out. He tsked and incessantly continued his motions for what seemed like whole minutes.

When that didn’t work, he changed his clockwise motion to counter, and no avail. It must have been jammed in the inside, he deducted.

He shook the grinder.

The lid of the grinder fell into the saucepan, a cup’s worth of salt tumbling in also.

Vergil cursed, trying to take out as much salt as he could before it dissolved in the sauce.

The hands of the clock comforted him, you were yet to be home for some time.

The sauce was ruined and it was salty like the sea, ten-folded.

“What can counteract salt?” Vergil thought to himself.

A dusty lightbulb flickered in his mind, and he reached for the little canister of sugar.

He poured some sugar into the sauce, hoping to revert it back to normal. Years of consuming demonic flesh would do this to a man’s sense of culinary logic.

The pasta, which he forgot to strain out earlier, flopped miserably into the pan. Vergil gave his attempt a try.

As if salt wasn’t bad enough, the sugar combined in it made Vergil actually recoil. How on earth did you cook everyday?!

More over, how on earth did he derail a simple recipe to this?

Sauce, burnt, salted, sweetened, and pasta forsaken and soggy, Vergil had officially lost his mind.

He went to take off your apron in shame, and all the hairs on his body stood up when the door opened, earlier than he presumed.

You came home to a strange smell, kicking off your shoes and leaving your coat on the rack.

“I’m home!” You called out wearily, ready to make some dinner.

You expected to see Vergil sitting in his loveseat. What you got was Vergil standing awkwardly in the kitchen, as if he did something wrong and didn’t want to tell you.

“He looks like that Robert Pattinson meme?” You half-smiled at your internal monologue.

“Ah! You’re cooking.” You say, making your way over to the stove.

He murmured grumpily. It appeared he tried to make some noodles in tomato sauce. You went to take a forkful of it, when a strong hand caught your wrist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why not? You made it!”

“I don’t want to poison you.” His grip was strong, refusing to let you move your hand to your mouth.

Instead of putting the pasta to your face, you put your face to the pasta, tricking the devil with your conniving reflexes. He released you with a sigh, his lover Loki-incarnate.

Vergil expected a look of disgust akin to his own, yet you didn’t allow that reaction to appear on your features.

“Not bad.” You say with endearment, looking up at him. He scoffs when your eye twitched at the soured taste.

“You would be a fool to lie to me.”

“I mean, it’s-it’s something.” You laugh, stirring the very-past-al-dente noodles.

The fork clinks against something solid in the pot. You fish out the lid of the salt grinder.

“Oh, oh you really got lost in the sauce.” You deadpan. He stiffens in embarrassment.

“This was a waste of resources and time. I should’ve been better.”

“Not to me it’s not. You did do your best. Were you trying to cook for me?” He nodded, refusing to look at you.

You take another mouthful, noting sweetness.

“Did you add sugar-” Your answer lies in the half-empty container of sugar. You cover your mouth to laugh. Vergil grumbles again.

“It’s okay, Vergil!” He still won’t look at you. No matter how much you chant his name, he refuses to turn his head.

“Hey. Hey.” You try to move his face to look at you. His jaw clenches and he relents his gaze at the wall, opting to be eye-to-eye with his beaming lover.

“You tried. And that’s all that matters.”

“And I have failed to make something edible. It’s not fair for me to serve you this after such a toiling week of work-” He glances at the pan with this scorn.

“But you made something for me. And that’s very thoughtful of you.” You cup his cheek, your boyfriend subtlety leaning to your palm.

“I’m still not letting you eat the rest-”

“Oh trust me, I don’t want to.” You butt in, taking out your phone.

Takeout?” You offer, pointing to the GrubHub delivery app.

He agrees, letting you pick out what you think he would like.

Your grumpy devil sits on his dark blue loveseat, forgoing to untie the apron. You wait for your delivery, sitting in his lap. Your exhaustion from work and the emotional sauce rollercoaster is seeping away from you-

-and into the plush pectorals against your cheek, framed nicely by your usual cooking smock.

“This man could burn down the kitchen with that apron on and I’d just let him.” You think to yourself.

He’s lucky he’s cute.

#rodeo is not sponsored by grubhub...although that would be very yeehaw of them to do that #keeping up with a himbo #kuwah #vergil x reader #vergil sparda #vergil imagines #dmc vergil #devil may cry #devil may cry imagines #devil may cry imagine

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instasiswetrust · 3 years

Text

Cherry Lane Challenge Day 3 - Crow

A flutter of black, out of the corner of his left eye is what first catches his attention. His hand raises, signaling his party to stop in their tracks. There's some shuffling and a few annoyed huffs which he ignores in favor of taking careful steps towards what caught his eye in the first place.

All is still for a second and then- There. The dry sound of feathers brushing together.

Silently, he steps closer to the source of the sound. When he sees what it is, he relaxes minutely allowing himself another breath. It is but a crow, its left wing dragging over the dewy grass of the clearing. He sees no blood so he assumes it must be broken.

Another careful step takes him even closer to the scared bird, his fingers nearly brushing its feathers, so close-

"Steve, what's the hol- Is that a bird?"

Tommy and the rest of the hunting party burst into the clearing with too loud steps and raised voices, startling the bird into a frantic state once again. It squawks in its fear, broken wing fluttering pitifully as it tries to escape what it assumes to be a predator.

"I almost had it, Tommy!" He turns to his companion, features set into an angry scowl. He may only be seventeen but he was the Crown Prince and they should've listened to his orders! "Why did you break position?"

Instead of answering his question, Tommy walks past him as crouches right by the bird, poking it with a stick and laughing at its resulting squawk. "Can't believe you stopped a hunting party just to save a bird, Stevie. What are you? Snow White?"

Heat rises to the prince's cheeks and he smacks the stick out of Tommy's hands. "Leave it. It's already hurt enough without you making it worse."

Tommy quirks an eyebrow, teeth bared into a nasty smirk. He gives a mock bow that makes Steve's eyes narrow.

"As you wish, milord."

And then, making sure he's got Steve full attention, he gives the injured bird a sharp kick sending it smacking against a tree with a feeble squawk.

The bird struggles to upright itself, collapses, and tries again, before eventually just laying there. Unmoving if not for the minuscule shifts of its diaphragm. All Steve can do is watch, knowing full well that if he so much dares make a move to help it again, Tommy might outright try to crush it under the sole of his boot.

Under the raucous laughter of the soldiers, he follows the hunting party back to the deer trail they were following, the back of his neck red with poorly contained rage. All thoughts of injured crows and helpless birds are stored at the back of his brain where he no longer has to think about them again.

---

So that night, when he walks into his chambers half-drunk on too much ale and a hearty roast, the last thing he expects is to find a girl sitting on his desk chair. Her vermillion hair is cropped short and would help her pass for a man were it not for her curvaceous figure, so distinctly female even under the black robes she wears. On her head, a crooked hat sits adorned with what he thinks are feathers.

As he steps inside, she stands up and he notices her eyes appear yellow behind her spectacles.

"Who are you?" He tries to sound authoritative, like the prince he's supposed to be, but he's too drunk to manage anything more than slurred inquisitiveness.

"Don't you recognize me?" Her lips barely move as she speaks and yet her voice comes out as a shrill squawk, not too different from the frantic sounds of the crow in the forest. It makes him flinch, taking a step back. "Maybe this will help jog your memory."

Under his watchful gaze, he sees her shift into the same crow he saw that morning. His eyes follow the bird as it flies around the room once, before landing on the chair. A blink later, and the girl from before is sitting in the same spot.

No. Not a girl.

A witch.

Because of fucking course the crow had to be a witch. That was just his life.

"Look, I'm sorry for what Tommy did to you earlier today and I truly wished to help you but if I did-"

"But if you did, your companions might've killed me while you watched." She hums, inspecting her sharp nails with clear disinterest. "Those are but excuses and we both know it."

"They are not-!"

The witch clicks her tongue disapprovingly and he finds the words he meant to say dying on his tongue. Fear rises in him, and only then does he consider that the reason she's here and not with Tommy is that he's the one she's planning to hurt.

"It is an excuse, darling." She fixes him with a sharp glare. "You're Steve Harrington, Crown Prince of the kingdom of Hawkmond. They should respect you and yet your own foot soldiers treat you like you're below the sole of their feet."

A feeble protest rises in his throat but she only has but to look, before silence descends upon him again. The worst part? She is absolutely right.

"You're weak-willed. Spineless. A disaster in the making." She huffs, taking the few steps that separate them until they are standing almost nose to nose. "I shall not allow a person like that to ruin what this kingdom could become."

In her yellow eyes, he sees rage flash however briefly, and he wonders what sort of circumstances led a witch to care this much for the outcome of a whole kingdom. It is but a split-second judgment, yet it's all he manages.

For the next thing he knows, pain radiates from every single nerve ending in his body. He falls upon his knees, writhing in agony, and through his anguished screams, he swears he can hear the witch croon in a sticky-sweet voice.

Scion of swords and kings

A curse of feather and blood

Placed upon thee

For thine will is brittle as bone

This shape thou shall keep

Til’ the day thy soul’s to pass

Unless thy lesson is learned

And thee flies with thine own wings

By the next morning, every single person in the Capitol knows Crown Prince Steve Harrington has gone missing. None a single clue left behind to find him.

---

He finds out pretty quickly that the best way to find food in the forest is to follow the wolves.

It's been two months since the night he was cursed, and Steve's come to the conclusion that while sometimes annoying, being a bird wasn't as awful as he first assumed it would be. Flying was nice once he managed to get the hang of it, and messing with the occasional villager while he indulged in the instinctual desire to steal shiny things was something he hadn't expected to enjoy so much.

But he really could do without the feeding.

The first few days he had outright refused to take part of any rotten bit of meal he found, no matter how appetizing it might've seemed to his new instincts.

By day four he had to give in and eat, or he risked worse injuries.

It had been a distasteful ordeal up until he had found the wolf pack during his first full moon as a crow. Night had fallen, and as he made his way through the thick trunks on unsteady talons, he had heard the first howl. For a second, he had almost considered leaving. Retaining this half-human form was still something he struggled with and he wished to enjoy the little time he had before he once again had to return to his feathery prison.

But the call of the wolves ensnared him, and he had to find them.

Except none of them were normal wolves, as he found out once morning came.

From what he has observed in the last month, most members of the pack preferred to stick to their wolf forms as much as they could. Occasionally, one or two of them would venture into the closest town for certain necessities but that was about it.

It was weird.

It was also fascinating.

They didn't seem to mind his prolonged stay, in fact, it almost looked like they welcomed him among their midst without so much as a second thought. He didn't question it, just enjoyed it for the time being although he always made sure he only shifted into his halfling form where the wolves wouldn't find him.

At least, that had been the plan.

But now, staring into the ice-blue eyes of the blonde wolf he had started thinking as his wolf, he realizes that he overlooked one tiny but very important detail.

Wolves tended to have a keen sense of smell.

Well, shit.

Silence pervades the small nook between the trees he had taken as his hiding spot away from the pack, as he simply stares back at the wolf. Waiting for something, maybe a shift, a lunge. Anything.

Except a whole minute passes with nothing happening, and Steve is starting to feel foolish.

"So is this the part where you try and eat me? Or warn me to stay away from the pack?" He chances, hoping for a reaction.

The wolf cocks its head to the side, blue eyes looking almost mocking before there's a ripple and a human is crouching in its place. A very blond, very handsome, human with ice blue eyes. Who's also kind of naked.

Huh.

"The fact that you think nobody knew what you were as soon as you hopped into the clearing that night is telling." At Steve's confused look, the wolf (the man?) chuckles. Guess he was right about the mocking part. "You reek of magic, little bird. Magic and human flesh."

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" He snaps, the small feathers that cover his neck fluffing up.

"Common sense?" There's a smirk this time, along with a flash of fangs. "Did your mother not teach you about magical signatures once you came out of the egg?"

"I- ah" He falters, unsure if he should explain that he wasn't born like this but rather turned into this. He runs a talon through the feathers that have replaced his hair before sighing. "I'm a human, actually. Just got cursed to look like this."

The man-wolf hums, giving him an appraising look. "That explains a few things."

Steve scoffs, ready to stand up and leave this guy alone to go bother somebody else when suddenly he feels a heavyweight drop onto his lap. When he looks down, he's met with a pair of ice-blue eyes looking back at him.

He wonders, not for the first time, why he picked this particular wolf to stick close to out of all the others.

"Does the little birdy have a name?" That smirk is back again and it almost makes him blush. Makes him glad that his whole skin is now covered in black fluffy feathers.

"If I tell you, will you stop calling me that?"

"Nope. But I might give you my name too."

It sounds like a fair deal at least. And that way he could stop calling him man-wolf in his head.

"Steve."

"Steve. Hm. Not quite what I expected." It's been so long since the last time someone said his name, it feels weird hearing it now from someone that is not himself. "Mine's Billy, by the way."

"And what did you expect, Billy?" The name feels foreign on his tongue but he figures time will make it easier. After all, it's not like he ever can return to Hawksmond unless whatever conditions the witch placed upon the curse are met.

Billy shrugs, stretching languidly across Steve's lap in all his naked glory. Something that Steve's doing his best to steadfastly ignore. "Some fancy bullshit like Stefano or Guillermino."

He snorts at that, covering his mouth with a clawed talon. "Why would you even think that?"

"You look the part, little birdy."

#CherryLaneChallenge #steve harrington #barbara holland #tommy hagan #billy hargrove #harringrove #fantasy au #i have no idea what this is but enjoy #shotout to my friend who helped me with the curse bit #you're a lifesaver vani <3 #werewolf!billy hargrove #crow!steve harrington

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 4 years

Text

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 11- At Last

Summary: Finally reunited with Geralt, the two of you attempt to avoid Nilfgaard and find a tavern for the evening, although it appears destiny has other plans.

Warning: angst, fluff

Masterlist

-last and final chapter my Witcher friends, that is until next season, and yes I will be continuing reader and Geralt’s story. There’ll be more monster slaying and adventures to come!

Within minutes after reuniting with your silver haired lover, did the two of you immediately find a spot elsewhere from the main trail for well...you know. A place hidden away from any unwanted prying eyes so that you both could show one another just how much you've desperately missed each other, in more ways then one. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so euphoric, perhaps that's just what making sweet love to your Witcher does to you. Even when he's pounding you against a tree while whispering the most dirtiest of sweet nothings into your ear.

You hadn't touched him like this in weeks, nor seen him for that matter, but he felt wonderful and seemed to be enjoying his time with you just the same. Though all too soon would your bodies have to part from one another's close embrace. All to your utter disappointment did the two of you end your hasty love making session, seeing as the land is closely crawling with Nilfgaard soldiers and who knows what else.

You got what you could get, and anyways, that won't be the first nor last time you two fuck in the woods.

The grass feels soft against your clothed bottom as you lace up your boot, your gaze set to the individual across from you as your eyes unbashfuly admire Geralt while he lays in the grass shirtless. His beautiful golden irises staring up into the tree tops as the wind sways the leaves every which way.

You pull at the leather strings, tying a confident knot with skilled hands while a small breeze blows your hair back, you're admittedly feeling quite delightful if you're being honest. Though when your crimson eyes glance up at the snowy haired man again, he's turned his head to you.

Your eyes meet at once, sending a blissful smirk upon your lips, "Anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?" You teased, narrowing your eyes in a playful manner.

Geralt's lips curl into a half smile as he lets out a small hum in reply. Setting your arms upon your propped up knees, you freely show him an eye roll. Earning a proper chuckle from the man, "Y/N I was simply cherishing your stunning appearance."

Shaking your head you smile, "Yes, of course you were. And I am simply looking at a shirtless man with the most utter respect and clean of thoughts in my mind." You casually shrug, "Nothing else going on in here, I promise."

Geralt raises a greyish brow, moving to prop himself up upon his elbow, "That sounds honest." He hums, "But you are no virtuous maiden my love, and by that telling look on your face only moments ago. I can only imagine what things you may have been thinking of then."

You let out a snort before deciding to crawl over to him, where he lets you push him back into the grass, "Indeed I am not." You whisper close, leaning on an elbow as your other hand caresses his cheek, "But I am undoubtedly in love with a Witcher of all creatures to walk this earth, so if we're using our heads, what does that truly say of me then?"

His golden eyes keep to yours as he brings a hand to rest over your arm, "I would say it means perhaps I am a fool to fall for one of my enemies' creations, my dear Y/N..." He pauses for a moment, taking this brief second to focus on you and only you as he holds you with the most care, "you are most cunning and beautiful."

Leaning into his small touch you grin blissfully, a feeling of ease and calmness setting over you as Geralt studies your face, "You are no fool my White Wolf. That I am sure of without a doubt in my mind, I can't seem to be able to even jest about it." You chuckle, "Though you tempt me at times." The smile that he gives you is the most precious thing your eyes could ever be blessed with, its warm and genuine, filled with the deepest and most purest of love for you. His lady of night, the one monster he could never slay, nor would he ever dare.

Though your heart fills with joy for him, a sudden sadness seeps into your soul, obstructing your happiness. Your eyes fall downcast as you move to lay yourself next to Geralt in the grass, he follows you closely, a frown displaying itself upon his handsome features at your sudden spurt of melancholy.

"What troubles you Y/N?" Wonders Geralt, shifting his body so that he can rest an arm over your chest, pulling you in close as he studies your face.

Resting a hand on Geralt's muscular arm, you frown once again, "I was brief about my short time in Aretuza and the Elven keep, I know I told you about all those bastard soldiers I killed and when I helped the mages the best I could.....it's just. I haven't told you everything." Your voice feels so small in the large forest, now since you think about it. You haven't had the time to completely process what happened at Sodden's Hill, with all those soldiers, the other mages, and especially Yennefer.

So much death.

His brow furrows in thought, unsure of what you're going to reveal next, all he knows is that he doesn't plan on letting you go for awhile longer. Your Witcher hums in reply, giving you a moment to find your words. Taking a deep heavy sigh you turn your head to look out at the clouds. "We tried to protect the North from Nilfgaard, those fuckers had their own spout of powerful mages to test against our own. For the whole day we all fought together...every man, woman, child, and mage. Fucking farmers and tired refugees, they weren't warriors, Geralt. None of them were."

You take another shaky breath as Geralt presses his head against your cheek, "I did what I could to save them. But I'm just one person, I couldn't save them all....though I must admit, those people fought braver then most royal soldiers I've ever seen. They have good heart in them....well, I guess did. Not many survivors I think, just the ones who had enough sense to get the fuck out of there.....and of course myself, Tissaia, Triss, and Yenn..." A small lump forms in your throat as you remember what happened, causing you to choke on your own words for a moment.

You bite your lip hard, your hand squeezing tightly onto Geralt's muscular forearm as you collect yourself enough to speak, though your voice is raspy and broken, "Yennefer, right. She fought valiantly like a true warrior, she was like a phoenix, like a raging mighty dragon of power and flame...Geralt you should have seen her." A tear falls down the side of your face as you smile into the cloud covered sun, your voice above a whisper, "I'd never seen anything like it....it was.....beautiful."

A light kiss is placed gently over your tear streak while his hand moves to find yours, "What I would have given to see you slay those dogs alongside Yennefer, Y/N. I'm sure she is proud to call you a friend."

"She's dead." Those two words leave your lips so quietly that Geralt almost doesn't catch them, but he does.

The heavy weight of this news takes him off guard, he did not expect you to just lay such tragic tidings over him like that, he may have been greatly annoyed by Yennefer but he did see that stubborn mage as a friend. Though his heart hurts for how broken and defeated you feel from the terrors you'd underwent only yesterday, the great loss you've experienced, all of your traumas crashing down atop your soul in this moment. He wants to comfort you the best he can.

He listens to the steady beating of your heart, understanding how sad yet angry you're feeling, "I'm sorry Y/N. Truly I am."

A tired smile forms at the corners of your lips as you turn teary eyes over to your Witcher, your faces mere inches from one another, "She was my first real friend you know, and I think I was hers. I'm grateful to have spent the last of her hours on this earth by her side then.....glad she wasn't alone. I just wish..." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you focus on Geralt's shimmering irises once again, "I just wish the world wouldn't take everyone I give a shit about, so don't plan on doing anything stupid, okay? I can't lose anyone else or so help me god or whoever is listening out there, I will slaughter the bastards who dare take you away from me."

"I do not doubt it my love, and don't worry Y/N. I don't plan on leaving you anytime soon." He speaks honestly before pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "You have my word."

——

Geralt holds tightly to Roach's leather reigns as he keeps a firm hand over your lower abdomen, a small content smile gracing over your features while you sit comfortably in front of him on the large mare. Just as you always have.

Your hands rest over his as you keep a steady lookout over the trail ahead, silently overjoyed to be leaning against Geralt and all of his godly body holding you up. A blissfully drunken grin keeps to your face while your mind tumbles and reels with everything that he's just confided about from the last four weeks, like what you'd done earlier after a fine quick session of love making.

Apparently he's been busy.

Though for the second time today, another troubling thought randomly pops into your mind as things tend to do, and now you feel this time is as good as ever to actually address it. Squeezing his arm a bit you let out a half amused huff, showing that you're about to speak your mind on something idiotic Geralt has done, and he knows it.

Your Witcher figured you'd eventually spill your two cents, as you always seem to do.

"So." You begin, slow and filled with something Geralt's not quite sure of, he mentally cringes as you squeeze his arm again, "you just told him to fuck off and that you'd prefer to never see him ever again? Just like that? To our bard. Jaskier."

Geralt pauses for a moment as you wait for an answer, "Yes." Is all he whispers, low and filled with regret. He told you all about Jaskier and himself hours ago, hoping you wouldn't bring it back up, but of course you would. He's never that lucky, there's nothing you don't ever catch.

You raise a brow and shrug, "Can't say I blame you. That idiot has gotten our asses in a lot of shit over the years." He lets out a breath, glad you're not fuming at his heated rash actions on the mountainside after you dramatically parted ways. Suddenly you grip his arm tight, enough to actually feel uncomfortable, he sucks in a breath as you squeeze, "Although, I don't believe Jaskier completely deserved that." You seethe through clenched teeth before letting go of your iron grip. So you are angry after all, thinks Geralt, funny way of showing it.

"I know....I was just....I'm sorry Y/N." He replies, his voice much softer then he'd intended.

Your face falls as you feel the hurt in his words for what he's done, "I know Geralt." You sigh, "Enough with the sorry's and regrets okay....what's done is done and there's nothing we can do about it now. And anyways, as I like to say "we'll cross that bridge when we get there" so don't feel shitty about it now." He gives you a hidden smile as you chuckle to yourself, "You can feel shitty about it later."

Geralt lets out an amused snort, "Always one for wise words Y/N. What would I do without your kind intellect?"

"Dunno." You casually shrug, "Be a far less intriguing creature I suppose."

He tenderly kisses the top of your head, "I'd be a fool to argue against that logic."

"You're still a fool either way." You jest, cackling at your friendly jab at him, earning a gentle squeeze on your hip that sends butterflies into your stomach.

Gods the things he does to you.

For a couple more hours would you both ride Roach down the trail, past countless trees and a few streams until the sun would begin her descent over the land. Through this time you've been admittedly back to your old habits of amusing your Witcher to pass the time, mixed with seeing how long it would take to annoy him before he threatened to kick you off the mare.

It had been quite the eventful stretch of time before you caught the nasty pheromones of war seeping throughout the forest from some place close by, but not seen by your skilled eyes just yet. You held your tongue, not wanting to worry Geralt over something as insignificant as rotting corpses in the woods. But as Roach gets closer and closer, you begin to feel more strange, your scarlet irises suddenly catch a ripped tent behind a few trees.

Nilfgaard. Smell of death, more destroyed tents. Those bastards did this.

Your nose crinkles in disgust, the scent of freshly decaying corpses overloading your senses just about making your eyes water, you can't smell anything else but the stench of death.

"What I would give to be in a flower meadow right now." You seethe, blinking away the reactive tears in your eyes, Geralt looks down to you, unsure of what you mean considering his sense of smell is not nearly as prominent as yours. "I think Nilfgaard found a camp just over there, gods it reaks."

His grey brows furrow in thought, though he's left his words in the back of his throat as Roach walks closer to the carnage. Suddenly the three of you are face to face with an older man and his horse cart as he desperately and stupidly does his best to move the dead in piles for whatever it is that he's intended for them.

What a strange man.

Geralt shifts from behind you, tilting his head at the bearded man, "Ill winds follow grave robbers." States your Witcher as he hugs you closer protectively, or perhaps to keep you from doing anything destructive. The greyed man looks to the two of you, quietly acknowledging your existence before turning around to continue his doings.

"If I was a grave robber, I'd be taking their belongings, Butcher." He adds gruffly, squatting down to examine another slain body, "So best keep your beast with you." He adds, side eyeing you cautiously as he goes to move another of the deceased. Well, he knows Geralt's a Witcher and that you're not human. Maybe he's not that idiotic?

Geralt smirks, "If I was to let her satiate her appetite, you'd be amongst the corpses." The man falls silent, looking wearily between the two of you as your scarlet eyes trail over the nervous man.

He lets out a sigh, finally breaking under both your hard gazes, "I was goin' home to my family when I came upon these poor souls." He points towards the rotting bodies, "Cintran refugees. Dead at least a week. Now they're a feast for the crows."

"They're not for crows." You implore, shifting your ruby irises across the shadowy wood line while you listen to the buzzing of feasting flies. You had previously forgotten about what else may lurk in the shadows ready to feed, until now.

"Wolves?" He wonders.

"No."

Shaking his head, he ignores your odd wary vigilance, turning to glance at the two of you, "With more hands I could move quicker."

Yeah, fuck that.

"The only thing you should do quickly is flee." Warns Geralt, alert to the same understanding of what creatures may be hiding close by. The strange man grunts as he drags a body over the leaves, ignorantly discounting both your warnings.

With a click of his tongue, Geralt pulls at the mares reigns, "Come on, Roach, back to Kaer Morhen." You shake your head at the man as Roach begins to take a couple steps forward.

"Don't leave!" Pleads the bearded man, while dragging another, "Look at these people. Innocent people, killed for what?" He exclaims, sucking in labored breaths as he stands to look out over the mass of dead refugees, "So Nilfgaard can have more land? We owe it to 'em to do better."

"I'm not better." Mutters Geralt as he directs Roach away.

Always so dramatic huh.

You don't make it even three feet before your sensitive ears prick at the sound of crawling under the dirt. You know exactly what's now hunting the man, without a second thought do you break from Geralt's muscular arms to jump off of Roach.

Your feet move inhumanly fast as you race for the panicked man who's now scrambling away on the forest floor as two hungry ghouls claw for a taste. Realizing all too late that your silver dagger is lost to the ages you quickly adapt to instead aim for electrocuting the ugly fuckers.

Your palms spread wide as white hot lightening crackles and sparks in the misty night air, piercing the grotesque bodies of the living undead.

They screech in pain, giving Geralt just enough time to cut them down before they're able to recover, the man stops whimpering in fear as he turns his head up to you and Geralt. Who's now crouched a couple feet from the wide eyed man while he cleans off his sword, his eyes now two pools of glistening obsidian.

Sparks crackle in your palms as you huff in annoyance, "Go home." Your voice strong and steady.

The man snaps his attention over to you, "I can help." He insists urgently, causing you to roll your crimson eyes.

"One bite will kill you." Implores Geralt sternly.

The man turns to him, "Or you two." Then back to you again, his eyes fretful as you notice how he's just about shaking. He's terrified.

You let out a frustrated sigh, "I'm immune." You conclude gruffly, pointing to both himself and Geralt, "But not you two, so if you want to see your wife again...go home." The man stays still, breathing heavily as he sits on the soft ground, his mind swirling.

Geralt slowly stands, glaring at the man, "Go...home!" He snaps in that gravely voice of his, the petrified man stares at him before looking to your equally as stoic face. The blood red glow of your irises and the low crackling of lighting in your palm shifting his mind to a new understanding of his current situation.

He lets out a shaky breath, "All right..." Huffs the bearded man before scrambling to his feet, his boots carrying him over to his cart as he throws something into the back.

You ignore him and watch as Geralt walks slowly forward, his black eyes cautiously surveying over the land as you take a step, "Let me be the first to say, but I don't happen to feel very fond of what else follows." You whisper softly, your voice laced with concern as you sniff the foggy damp air, smelling nothing but decaying flesh as it wafts into your nostrils.

Geralt holds his weapon tightly, opening his mouth to answer, but before he's able to say anything a piercing screech breaks out from the woods. His sword flashes in the moonlight as he cuts down another hungry ghoul. Without warning another one breaks out of the earth to his right, dead in a flash as he slashes it across the throat.

The dirt bulges upward as another crawls from underneath the ground, heading directly for Geralt, the beast doesn't stand a chance as your Witcher stabs the soil directly in front of him. Killing the damn ghoul in an instant. Suddenly a black screaming flash races past you and tackles him to the ground.

"Oh fuck!" Unknowingly leaves you lips as you race to his aid, five of them have him pinned to the ground already as you pull his silver sword from the earth that he had left behind in the scuffle. These starving bastards don't see you coming as you begin slashing and hacking violently away at the ghouls. Trying your damn best to get them off of Geralt, they scream in agony as you end their half-lives.

More race out from the shadows to surround the two of you, Geralt pushes and punches more off of him as you slice through their grotesque inhuman bodies. So caught up in your own world that you don't have time to make sure if Geralt is all right when another one jumps for your arm, only to be greeted with a hard cut to its sunken in stomach.

Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths as you turn your head left and right, readying for anything else. When nothing appears to move you lower his sword to your side, turning around to give Geralt a smirk and no less a cocky comment.

Your face instantly falls when he whispers a harsh "fuck" while he leans down to look at something on his left thigh. He shakes his snowy mane, standing to his full height as he takes a limped step towards you. His obsidian eyes finally finding yours as he takes another troubled step forward, he looks like a mess.

Your eyes glance down at the bite mark revealing itself from an opened spot in his dark pants, you suck in a sharp breath, your face dead serious as you watch him with wide glossy eyes. His face looks rough and sweaty as he limps closer, suddenly falling to his knees as he stares at you, almost pleadingly, his dark eyes full of pain.

"Geralt?" You whisper, your nerves standing on end at the sight of him, no way he's just been bitten, it can't be.

Your lip quivers as you drop the forgotten sword upon the earth, taking hasty steps as he looks tiredly into your frightened face. You quickly kneel down to meet his eye level as he lets out a shaky breath, your hands gently touch his dirt smudged face as he wills his hands to grasp your arms.

His grip is unnaturally weak as you look deeply into his eyes, your voice shaky, "You're fine. You're fine, it's just a small wound nothing worth worrying over....it's just..it's nothing...you're fi...." His head falls downward in your palms as his hands slip from their place on your arms, "No, no, no, no....Geralt, love look at me! Look at me!" He answers back with a low groan, you swallow the building lump in your throat as he struggles to lift his tired gaze to yours.

The weakest of smiles displays over his handsome features as he lets out a tired sigh, "You're beautiful....you know that?" His voice is soft and broken as you hold up his face, biting your lip to keep from crying. He smiles sluggishly, "Thank you for loving me...I....Y/N...I...love y..."

Suddenly his eyes shut as he goes limp against you, you catch him and quickly move to gently position his body so that his head can rest in your lap, "Geralt no!" You exclaim desperately through tears that are starting to blur your vision, "Wake up! Wake the fuck up you dick...you can't leave me here!" You shake his shoulder but to no avail, "Fuck! No, no, no....I just got you back." Tears race down your cheeks as a sob racks through your entire body, you suck in a breath, trying to contain your pain.

This isn't fucking fair!

The old man hustles to your side, now made aware of the dire circumstances, "Ohhh, dear...Uh....we can take him to my house, if you will.....Just, keep him awake." Proposes the man, you hold Geralt closer, your wet cheeks glistening in the moonlight as your crimson eyes glow blood red.

"If you help me save him I won't end your pathetic life because of your stupidity!" You snap, making him flinch backwards as you glare at him, a low growl emitting from deep within your throat. If Geralt dies you might tear this man to shreds.

He quickly regains his bearings, now understanding that his life is at stake if Geralt dies under his care. The man walks around you, reaching down to pull Geralt from out of your lap. Once you're free he looks to you, "Miss he's quite heavy, this one. Could you lift his legs and help me carry him to...."

He's left with nothing but a genuinely bewildered look as you pick your sleeping Witcher up, holding him in both your arms while ignoring the mans shocked expression as you walk over to the large wooden cart. Setting Geralt in the back on a couple soft bags of goods.

Jumping in next to him, you kneel down by his side while the man quickly ties Roach to the back. It's going to be a long night. Until dawn broke out over the horizon, the great sun coating the land in daylight would you lay by his side as he slept through the multitude of hours.

Finally coming to in the late morning, looking more pale then usual and clearly disoriented, his golden irises trying so hard to focus on your blurry face. The man, who revealed himself to be Yurga, kept his horses at a fast trot while you continued to hold tightly onto your Witcher's arm, squeezing it every time he would begin to close his eyes. Just keep him awake.

"I don't know about you." Starts Yurga, "But I'm not liking the sound of those explosions in the distance....bloody Nilfgaard better keep themselves far away from here. We don't need trouble like that round these parts. Not after everything they've done."

Geralt stirs underneath your touch, snapping your attention back down to him, you watch as his eyelids open and close, his golden irises looking rather lost and hazy. He's so pale, too pale.

"Easy does it Butcher." Affirms Yurga as he turns his head to the side, "You got bit, best keep your sights trained on the pretty lady in front of you."

Geralt's brows furrow as he turns his own head to the side at the sound of the mans voice, confusion clear on his face since the poison from the ghouls has begun to mess with his mind. Seated closely on his right, his muscular arm on your left and his broad body on your right, his face is much more faded in color now. Too pale and sickly looking for your liking.

Reaching an arm out, you gently touch his face, turning his head back to you, "Geralt, keep those fine golden eyes on me, you gotta focus love....you're becoming delirious, but you're not dead. Just stay awake Geralt I'll be right here." He blinks hard, his face appearing dazed as he listens, suddenly trying to sit himself up.

You quickly react, leaning over him to grasp both his arms, stopping him from moving anymore, "Be still Geralt. You'll only make things worse if you try and move, your bite is spreading slowly but moving will only bring you more pain." His face grimaces in discomfort, you release your grip, sitting normally once again.

Oh Geralt, be strong for me.

Your face a mask of deep worry at his reaction, he may be a Witcher, but if his wounds are not treated properly he will die. Leaving you completely and utterly alone in this world whether you're ready for it or not. You rest a hand over his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat, he stares up at the sky, his gaze lost in the clouds.

You can tell he's probably watching some hallucination playing out before him, his gaze seems so far away while you sit here on this stupid hay covered cart pulled by the slowest two horses you've ever seen. He stirs again, his pale face trying to find yours as he focuses in on your worried appearance.

You can tell he's back, especially when his left arm quickly takes yours that was previously resting over his chest. He squeezes your hand, "My bag. Y/N I need my bag." His voice his gravelly and urgent, you quickly turn to look around, the pull of the cart jostling you while your eyes hunt for the bag.

"Yurga stop the fucking horses for a moment!" You yell, letting go of Geralt's hand as you grab the leather bag. Yurga directs his horses to stop, turning abruptly around to see what's the matter.

"The bottle....Y/N.....you know which one." Rasps Geralt as your eyes quickly find the small glass bottle containing some dark liquid, a type of healing potion for sure.

Handing the potion to your Witcher he hastily takes it, ripping off the cork with his teeth before making a face and chugging most of it. He groans, pouring the rest over his infected wound, more groans of pain sounding as you listen to the sizzle of flesh take to the healing mixture.

Gently patting his arm you hand him a small smile of reassurance, "You definitely need a healer, I'm afraid not even my blood can heal these wounds. Those fucking ghouls." You growl as Yurga urges his horses to begin trotting down the trail again.

His body rests against the piles of clothes and hay while his hand reaches out for yours, "I need to go to the Blue Mountains....Y/N...tell him I need to...." Mutters Geralt with tired eyes.

You squeeze his hand, "What? No, we don't have....you don't have enough time, Geralt you'll die."

"He'll heal me....I just need to go...."

"No!" You cry, there is absolutely no way you'd both make it to the Blue Mountains before his heart stops beating, "Stay awake you fucker, we'll heal you soon enough, just stay awake....we're almost to Yurga's farm. You'll get proper treatment there....just stay awake."

Until the sun would set and the darkness of night crept over the land would you constantly play as an ever continuous jostling annoyance to Geralt, doing all that you must to keep him awake and alive. Soon enough would Yurga have to stop and let his old horses rest for awhile. In the meantime, you'd help Geralt to lean against a tree as you went off in search of healing plants that could help to temporarily stop the spread.

With not much to give from your herb hunting, you walked forth from out of the bushes and into the grassy tree covered opening where you're greeted with the sight of a dark-red haired mage tending to your Witcher's infected bite wound. You immediately freeze, though she's too focused to even realize that you're watching her work. For a couple minutes would you observe her talents before blinking once and suddenly she's gone. Just like that, gone.

Well that was fucking bizarre.

Suddenly Geralt bolts upright, your brows furrow as he looks all around him, his wide eyes shifting right and left until they finally find your familiar form walking closer. He lets out an audible sigh of relief, before his grey brows furrow once again in thought.

"Where'd she go? The woman?" He wonders, confusion clear on his face as he watches you crouch down to meet his eye level.

You raise a brow, "Can't say I'd know, but I wish I'd have time to thank her for doing whatever magical mage shit she did to your infected bite mark." You reply with a chuckle, "Now you've gotten yourself a new scar added to the collection. Though still a very handsome work of art in my humble opinion."

His face softens at your relaxed tone, suddenly realizing that there's no need to worry anymore, "Thank you Y/N."

You laugh, "What for? I didn't do that much, I didn't even know how to properly heal you. And I definitely wasn't planning on turning you into a vampire just to have you around longer."

A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as you study his face, "For keeping me awake this long, no matter how much I wanted to shove you off the wagon."

"I knew you wanted to do it, I could see it in your face. That is, when you weren't staring off into nothing like a lost boy who had too many special herbs." You jest, earning a pleasing chuckle from your sweaty Witcher. You smile, "Now. Come on my love, let's go." You reach a hand out for him to take, without a second thought he accepts, letting you pull him to his feet.

He shakes his head, steadying himself as he holds your arms, "Geralt you're acting like you've just downed half a dozen mugs of ale, lets rest on the cart yeah? Yurga will take us to his farm where we can get some proper food and drink, and if we're lucky....you some new pants."

His smile is soft as he looks down at you, Geralt touches your chin affectionately, "That sounds rather lovely."

Before he can do anything else you grasp the hand that's touching your chin, "I know exactly where your mind is going next and all I have to say is you're getting a bit more cleaned up before those pretty lips of yours are allowed to kiss me." He closes his eyes, resting his head against yours as he releases his hand from your chin. Now pulling you closer with his large strong hands.

"I could have died." He mutters, his gravely voice laced with a friendly playfulness.

"But you didn't."

"I could have."

"I know." You finally sigh, "You're still sweaty and smell like a dog who rolled in cow shit."

He lightly chuckles, "That's rude." Before pressing a feather light kiss onto your forehead where he then pulls away after a moment, "Guess we should help the old man pack the rest of his bags away."

Gripping his torso tighter you lean in close, "I'm enjoying myself too much." You admit, "Even though you smell rather atrocious at the moment."

"Oh please Y/N." Muses Geralt, his face inches from yours, "You still called be pretty when I was covered head to toe in Selkiemore guts, if I do recall."

"Did I? Must have slipped." You mutter lowly, brushing your lips past his.

"Y/N." Warns Geralt, his hot breath fanning over your smirking face as your ruby irises flicker from his plush lips to his golden eyes.

"On second thought. Perhaps you do look rather lovely at the moment, I think I'll just have to..." He's left guessing what you would have said next as your lips press firmly against his, both your arms pulling one another even closer now. Despite all he's just endured, Geralt tastes quite nice, his muscular body feeling even better holding you so close.

His lips move with yours in some pleasurable heated dance, soon enough does his calloused hands reach up to place themselves on either side of your face, you smile into the kiss at his urgency to hold you close. A couple more lingering blissful moments are shared flush against one another before your Witcher inevitably pulls away, first pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips once again before finally pulling away to look into your glistening eyes.

His hands still gently holding your cheeks, while your own ones grip around his forearms, "I hope there's more of that for when we find a tavern later." You muse, biting your lip as Geralt's eyes stare deeply into yours.

"Y/N. I'll let you take me any way you want." Mutters Geralt in that low and gravelly voice of his, "Just me and you."

"I think I'd like that very much." His lips find yours once again as your fingers trail down his back, wishing so hard that you were both laying on a soft warm bed in some hidden tavern in the mountains.

While you're both unbashfully exploring each others bodies like it was the first time, a sudden cough is heard from behind you causing the two of you to abruptly pull apart and look in that direction, "Uh...don't mean to intrude, but uh.....could we get moving if ya both don't mind?" Asks Yurga politely, trying not to find either of your amused gazes as he looks at a stick on the ground.

Right, you'd probably want to get out of the woods first.

The merchant Yurga had been true to his word, he had finally at long last made it to his home placed in a great clearing within the woods. A comfortable farmhouse on an open spot of land away from the fighting and battles nearby. His cart came to an abrupt halt as his wife quickly opened up the door and raced out to meet him, excitement flowing through her veins as a huge smile graced her face.

"We're all okay. The war is close, but we're okay. I need to tell you something." Exclaims Yurga's blonde curly haired wife.

"Me too." Affirms the older man with a slight thrill lacing his words.

His wife smiles, "I met a girl. An orphan, I found her in the woods nearby." Geralt halts all movement at the startling words, you doing the same as both of your furrowed gazes find one another.

No way this is who you think she's actually talking about. Hundreds of girls have been orphaned by the war.

"I met a Witcher." Speaks Yurga with a nod, "And a dhampir, if you'll believe it." Without warning Geralt jumps down from the cart and begins walking towards the woods much to your confusion, "They saved my life. Now fetch 'em some ale before they go to Kaer Mor-somthing." Urges Yurga, while you jump down from the cart, making hasty steps in Geralt's direction as Yurga and his wife finally look over to watch as the two of you make for the woods, "Hey, Butcher. Butcher! Where you goin'?" Shouts Yurga as Geralt continues onward, almost caught in a trance as he ignores the rambling merchant.

"Y/N?" Shouts the older man, causing you to stop and turn to him, "Where you two goin'?"

Your brows furrow, not completely sure of yourself, "I don't know." You whisper, keeping your body still as you look out at the thick greenery where Geralt had just wandered into for some unknown reason. You can't explain why, but you feel as though this is a path that only he must take.

The girl in the woods will be with him always.

He walks through the forest, his feet taking him somewhere or rather to someone who's been hiding from him for a long time. He can't even fully explain it, the call he feels to find what he's seeking. He suddenly stops, thinking his thoughts must be false and this urge to find who lingers in the wood is simply horseshit as per usual. A false sense of destiny. He turns around, walking a couple steps further back the way he came before an undeniable urge to look back consumes him.

The girl in the woods will be with you always.

And there she is, Princess Cirilla of Cintra, a shining beacon of hope in the dull wet gloom of the towering forest.

Destiny has prevailed.

Your boots shift from right to left as you stand idly in the morning air, your thoughts swimming around in your head of what could be taking Geralt so damn long, even if it's only realistically been about three minutes. Your new friends from behind you have instead left you to yourself and decided to tend to their horses, much to your relief.

Hugging yourself closer, you shiver, though you're not cold. A kind of magic of sorts seems to catch you in the misty air, a feeling you haven't felt since that night at Pavetta's banquet pulls around you like leaves on the wind.

How odd it feels, yet this seems right.

Two heartbeats reach your heightened ears, one so slow. But the other, beats normally like that of a child's.

You take a step back, steadying yourself as you wait for who you're expecting to inevitably appear. Shoes move across earth and leaves, signaling their close arrival. Your nerves die as two shadows emerge from the bushes and into the sunlight, the two of them are talking, unaware of your presence in the yard.

The child suddenly looks, her enchanted blue green irises falling onto you as she quickly comes to a halt, her eyes full of wonder and nervous apprehension. Geralt's brows furrow as he stops as well, his face turning to find the source of the girls fear.

His golden eyes spot you in an instant, he finds you staring curiously at the small blonde girl, the tiniest of smiles gracing your lips as you fiddle with your hands. You can't help but feel ridiculous for how you've been feeling about meeting this Child Surprise after so long, she is just a girl, a survivor of the unspeakable. Though you may not be the best with children in general, you feel no ill will against this one, all those previous feelings of loathing and judgement are gone to the wind.

Geralt's eyes are kind as he gently rests a comforting hand over her thin shoulder, she looks to him now then back to you as he speaks, "This is Y/N of Alkatraz, the dhampir princess of the High Northern Kingdom. My uh, lover?" He says cautiously, a bit unsure of what to truly call you before he thankfully finds his words, "Well...uh, my immortal companion, and someone who I love very deeply."

Oh, Geralt you adorable idiot.

Ciri's brows furrow in thought for a moment as she finds her courage, "My grandmother told me of that kingdom, she said it is ruled by vampires. Are you one?" She wonders, her voice a small nervous whisper.

The corners of your eyes crinkle in amusement as you smile, shaking your head, "No my dear princess, I am of that blood and character, but a dhampir is what I am as Geralt said. It's someone who is half vampire and half human." You assure the small girl, "No need to fear me, I promise you princess that I would never harm you in any way, you have my word."

A small grin tugs at the corners of her lips before her eyes fall downcast, "That's very kind, most people I've met so far out here have tried to kill me." She hands you the flash of a smile, "Glad to know not everyone is like them." She reveals freely to you with her small voice, so this is truly the Child Surprise.

The princess of Cintra.

"With us, you will not have to fear the damned talons of Nilfgaard Princess Cirilla...I will protect you with my life now."

Her brows furrow in thought at your truthful words, "You know of me? But how?"

You smile kindly, your scarlet irises flashing over to Geralt for a brief moment, "I have traveled with this handsome Witcher for almost fifty years, I know everything he knows. Even who you are." You take a couple steps forward, kneeling down to face her sad eyes, "And I am truly sorry for your loss, no child deserves the pain and fear you have endured since Cintra's fall. No less the horrors you have witnessed since your escape, these lands are undoubtedly deadly."

"Thank you, Y/N." She looks from you to Geralt, "I'm glad to have found you both then." You smile, standing up fully to lace your arm with Geralt's.

"Now, I think these kind people here may have breakfast waiting for us and some ale if I'm lucky, so my small friend Ciri, would you join us for a decently peaceful morning?" Ciri gifts your ears with a small giggle as Geralt hums in amusement. Proud that you're taking so well to the newest addition to your group of two.

You turn around just as the curly haired woman waves, "Would you all mind joining us for breakfast?" She calls out as a satisfied grin breaks out upon your face, "Of course we would be delighted!" You shout back, probably with too much excitement but you're trying to look as non threatening as possible. Also you are admittedly very hungry.

The three of you begin walking toward the farmhouse, Ciri follows the woman and her husband inside as Geralt stops near the entrance, you turn a raised brow to him, "What is it now? You planning on finding another magical orphan in the woods again?"

He looks down at the muddy ground before finding your lingering gaze once again, "No, just trying to figure out what to do next." Grumbles your Witcher in that lovable gravely voice of his.

You gently squeeze his hand as a smirk plays at your lips, "How bout we think of breakfast first? Then we can set our sights on paying our friends at Kaer Morhen a little visit. Bet they'd love that." You add sarcastically, wiggling your brows.

Your Witcher finally gives you a small smile, "Oh, I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you again." He jests.

Lightly smacking his arm you take a step into the doorway, turning back to look at him, "What? Am I not nice and lovable? Can't believe you'd even say that."

"Only when you want to be." Mutters Geralt before gently kissing the side of your head while walking past you, "Now lets get some ale."

Tagged: @seninjakitey @notahappytree @ashleyforeverareject @sokkasdarling @kmuir1@haleypearce @diegos-butt (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work) @a-girl-who-loves-disney

#the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt x reader #geralt x you #princess cirilla #roach the horse

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asweetprologue · 4 years

Text

(no such thing as) an uncompromised touch

Octoberfest 14: Cuddle (flufftober #25, + ace awareness week)

Jaskier was getting drunker by the minute, and with each drink he occupied more and more of Geralt’s carefully managed physical space. Jaskier was, Geralt had quickly learned, an exceptionally touchy drunk. As an enthusiastic crowd passed him mugs of ale and cups of sweet wine, he would become more and more handsy. It would start with grabbing a hand here and there when they reached for him, shaking one and kissing another, all humor and flashy smiles. Then came lingering touches to shoulders or elbows, morphing into full embraces as he draped himself over someone’s chair or flung an arm around their back. As the evening wore on, he would begin to focus on one or two people that caught his fancy, and by the end of the night he would more often than not be in their beds.

Lately, these end-of-night affections had been directed more and more at Geralt, which was both flattering and unsettling. While he grudgingly welcomed the bard’s attentions, Geralt had little interest in becoming one in a long line of bedpartners.

Tonight was another of those nights, Jaskier making his way closer and closer to Geralt’s corner of the tavern until he was practically sprawled out in his lap. It was fairly innocent, as far as these things went, just an arm slung around Geralt’s shoulder while Jaskier leaned close to giggle in his ear about the barkeep’s ridiculous braids. They were pressed together from shoulder to hip, their legs half tangled below the table, and Geralt was torn between basking in the comfort of the easy touch and his mounting anxiety about what it all meant. Looking down at the bard as he muffled a laugh at his own joke in Geralt’s shirt, he wondered why he couldn’t just, for once, be normal about something. Everyone else seemed to want Jaskier, and it seemed, based on observation, that Jaskier wanted Geralt. So why couldn’t Geralt want him back?

Witchers were, in general, creatures of few needs. Geralt could function on a third of the sleep that a human did, keep pushing himself for days on only a handful of rough jerky or scavenged berries. He didn’t need to be present at large gatherings or shove himself into a throng of people to stave off loneliness like so many humans seemed to. And he rarely felt the need or desire for sex.

He wasn’t sure if that last bit was a him thing or a witcher thing. Sex was fine, he supposed; just another thing his body was capable of doing. Sometimes it was pleasant, sometimes it was less so. Generally he didn’t go out of his way to find it, and he never looked upon any man or woman with the thought of taking them to bed. He’d not paid it much mind before he’d met Jaskier, who made bedroom eyes at people across taverns and tumbled back into their shared room hours later reeking of sex. Geralt didn’t have the urge in the same way Jaskier did, or the way others seemed to have for Jaskier. Perhaps witchers were just built different in that regard - the attraction burned out of them along with their humanity.

The issue was that, despite his ambivalence towards the sex itself, Geralt was fond of what came after. He’d pay extra, sometimes, for a whore to just hold him for a while, tracing his scars and running gentle hands through his hair. It was nice, to be close to another, even if he was buying the time. The itch under his skin that demanded touch surfaced only rarely, and was easily dismissed with a night of pre-paid lovemaking. It wasn’t what he wanted, really, but it was the only way anyone would lie down with a witcher.

Jaskier didn’t truly change anything, not about that. Geralt wasn’t jealous of Jaskier’s bedmates because they got to experience his supposedly legendary skills in the bedroom. No, Geralt was jealous because Jaskier touched them, and they got to touch in return, and Geralt wanted it like he couldn’t remember wanting anything in his life.

The issue was that Jaskier did touch him, quite a lot. In the morning as they prepared their breakfast Jaskier’s fingers would skate over his when passing the cookware. When he spoke he would throw lighthearted jabs to Geralt’s shoulder or ribs to emphasize a joke, giving him a lopsided grin. When he was hurt or coming down from a hunt, Jaskier would comb lightly through his hair, removing tangles here and there as he traced over Geralt’s scalp. Twice, he had massaged oil into Geralt’s back and shoulders when he’d strained a muscle during a fight. On the Path by himself, Geralt turned his mind away from warm hands and kind eyes and was typically fine going without. With Jaskier traveling by his side, it was impossible to forget this small, yearning part of himself that ached for touch. The itch under his skin roared to life anytime Jaskier got too close, demanding that he sweep the bard up and touch every bit of him that he could reach.

But Jaskier wasn’t one to take such gestures lightly, and such intimacy in Geralt’s experience was always purchased through sex. And he didn’t want to sleep with Jaskier. He did, but - he didn’t. It would be nice, he knew, probably perfectly pleasant, and something warm always swept through him at the thought of pleasing the bard. But that wasn’t what Geralt wanted. He wanted to hold Jaskier close and wake with him each morning and feel those soft hands pressing tenderly into his skin. It was too much, he knew. Not at all what Jaskier seemed to be seeking, when he went to touch others like he was doing to Geralt now. He wanted sex, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it would be better or worse for his heart in the long run if he went along with it.

Carrying the bard upstairs was an ordeal, Jaskier seemingly uninterested in removing himself from Geralt’s side. He was half carried up to their room and dumped unceremoniously on the bed when they finally - finally - reached it. Geralt, being an exceptionally good friend, let Jaskier get his bearings while he pulled off his boots, setting them aside. Jaskier, for his part, stared blearily up at the ceiling as if he were trying to place it. Geralt stepped away to remove his own boots and shirt, leaving his loose pants on. Jaskier was still mostly clothed, only the doublet discarded earlier in the night detracting from his typical pomp. Geralt stood for a moment, just looking at him. His hair was flatter than normal after hours of sweating and running his hands through it downstairs, and it flopped into his eyes. His fingers picked idly at the blanket under him, distracted. He was, Geralt thought, exceptionally beautiful, backlit by the moonlight coming through the window, his features sharpened by darkness and wine.

When Geralt didn’t return, Jaskier turned to look at him, his eyes overbright from drink. He pouted and reached out a hand in Geralt’s direction. “Come to bed,” he said, in what was probably meant to be a bit seductive but instead came out whiny. Geralt sighed and moved to his side, pulling back the thin blanket to crawl into the bed. Jaskier immediately turned to face him, arms thrown around Geralt’s waist and nose buried at his throat. The slight scent of happiness and arousal wafted around him, almost buried under the smell of alcohol. Geralt shifted, wanting to set his own arm around Jaskier’s back and hold him close, but not sure if it would be interpreted the wrong way.

He had to say something. It wasn’t fair to either of them, to drag this out. “Jaskier,” he said, warily, exhausted. “I don’t - I can’t give you what you want, here.”

Jaskier hummed against his neck, a confused sound. “What do you mean, dear?” he asked. One finger skated along Geralt’s ribs, a lazy trail that made him shiver.

“You want - When you get like this, with others, you always want to sleep with them. I’m not - I don’t -”

Jaskier, with what seemed like monumental effort, pushed up onto one elbow so that he could glare down at Geralt. “I don’t always sleep with them,” he said, defensively. The pout was back. “I just… like it. I like being close to people. To you, specifically.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to sleep with me,” Geralt said dubiously. The subtle scent of Jaskier’s arousal still filled the air around them, like a warm mulled wine. He couldn’t deny it.

“Well I wouldn’t say that,” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes. In his intoxicated state the gesture seemed to extend to his entire upper torso. “I think you are… very attractive, and if you ever wanted to I would definitely share your bed, but mostly I just like this. The touching… thing. Being next to you. I know you don’t look at people, not the way I do, and we don’t need to do any of that if it’s not what you like. But I like touching you, just like this.” He ran a broad palm across Geralt’s ribs, hesitantly. “If you like it too, I’d like to keep doing it.”

Geralt hummed, a soft affirmative sound, and Jaskier gave him a pleased smile in return. He settled back against Geralt’s side with a contented sigh, and Geralt allowed himself to settle a hand between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. “We’re discussing this in the morning,” he said.

“Mm,” Jaskier agreed. “When ‘m not so drunk. Yeah.”

Geralt laughed, a low rumble that shook them both. “Yes. When you’re not so drunk.” Placing a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s hair, he said, “Goodnight, bard.”

They stayed wrapped up together throughout the night, and Geralt fell asleep thinking that maybe, just maybe, this really was enough.

#this is so!! late!!!!#but I'm getting both of my last fics in within october so :)#i win #this is written for ace week!#as your local asexual I am obligated to write every character as ace at least one(1) time #I like Geralt as ace bc I think he's probably preoccupied with WHY he doesn't experience attraction #like is it a witcher thing? is it a him thing?#and that's kind of reflective of my own early experience wondering if I was just afraid of intimacy or if i was really ace #but of course it doesn't truly matter #like if ur ace ur ace the reason doesn't matter #I hc geralt as a sex neutral sometimes sex positive asexual #like he's fine w it and he likes to please a partner sometimes but he's definitely not always into it #ANYWAYS #real tags now #ace #ace awareness week #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #witcher #my work #october2020 #flufftober #<5k #ace!geralt #fluff

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lifeofkaze · 3 years

Text

When Stars Ignite - Chapter 3

HPHM Rockstar AU

A/N:

General Warning: This whole fic has a general warning of being NSFW / 18+. We will give specific warnings for every chapter in itself, but several adult themes will be more or less present in every chapter, may it be explicitly or in mention. These include sexual topics, drug abuse, (ab)use of alcohol, smoking and a whole lot of cursing.

Specific Warning: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of NSFW content, suggestive NSFW content

~~~

Find the masterpost here, the previous chapter here and the next one here. The songs featured before every chapter can be found on this pretty badass playlist here.

~~~

This work is a collaboration with @the-al-chemist

Taglist: @slytherindisaster @carewyncromwell @night-rhea

Chapter 3: Dirty Little Secret

I’ll keep you my dirty little secret

Don’t tell anyone or you’ll be just another regret

Hope that you can keep it

My dirty little secret

~ The All-American Rejects - Dirty Little Secret ~

All three girls watched as Orion left the private area of the nightclub, two of them looking confused, one of them trying her hardest not to laugh.

“What’s got into him all of a sudden?” Merula asked, looking baffled.

“Seems like Jameson’s show rattled the poor guy alright,” Skye cackled.

Lizzie joined into her laughter. “As if. I don’t think anything could shake him, let alone me.”

She hid her smirk by taking a sip of her cocktail.

The next fifteen minutes felt like an eternity to Lizzie. She passed the time by listening to Skye and Merula’s chit chat, sipping her drink and nodding from time to time. She had to fight the urge to bounce her foot in impatience and not glance at her watch repeatedly. Not quite succeeding, Lizzie caught herself tapping her finger against her glass to the beat of the music; she willed herself to stop.

When she had finally finished her drink, she rose from her seat, stretched her already aching back and smiled at her remaining two friends.

“I’m afraid Orion had a point earlier, I always forget how exhausting playing a full show is,” she yawned and reached for her bag. “I’ll get a cab back home to get some sleep in.”

“Alright, let us just finish our drinks and we’re ready to go,” Skye said immediately, but Lizzie could tell she wanted to stay for a little longer; she always did.

“No, it’s alright, go and have some fun. Once we’re out of London there won’t be much time for that anymore.”

Skye scowled at her. “You sure? Not that keen on you going back all by yourself.”

Merula rolled her eyes. “Just let her go, if she wants to. If she gets kidnapped, no one can chew their captor’s ear off with that awful cheeriness like her. We’ll have her back in no time.”

Usually she would have shot back at Merula but right now Lizzie was glad she was playing into her hands. She was buzzing to get out of the nightclub, so when Skye tried to speak up again, she just shook her head.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll text you once I’m back, alright?”

Without giving Skye another chance to reply, she smiled at both of them, turned around and walked towards the exit.

The cool air of the summer night felt wonderful compared to the stuffiness of the packed nightclub as Lizzie stepped outside. She buried her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and bowed her head as she passed the group of photographers always present in front of high profile establishments like this.

It was her luck that they cared more for soap stars and minor starlets stumbling home on the arm of a football player than one relatively sober person leaving all on her own. It was only a few clicks and flashes she had to make her way through before the mob had already focused on the next familiar face emerging from the doors behind her. She just hoped she had waited long enough for no one to make the connection.

Checking the message on her phone telling her where to go, she quickly walked a few steps away from the crowd until she reached the entrance to a small side street. Turning her head, Lizzie made sure no one was watching her before she stepped into the darkness of the alley. Anyone still in possession of half of their senses would have told her to stick to the main street, but Lizzie knew where she was going.

A smile stole onto her face as she walked towards the figure stepping out of the shadows.

“What the hell took you so long?”

Ignoring his question, Lizzie sped up her steps until she had reached Orion, grabbing him by his jacket and pulling him towards her. Her lips crashed onto his and his arms immediately went around her as he kissed her with the same desperate hunger she was feeling herself.

She buried her hands in his dark hair and sighed against his mouth as she felt his hands wandering over the curve of her waistline before his fingers hooked through the loops of her jeans.

“So fierce tonight,” she chuckled as they broke apart for a moment. Both of them were breathing heavily, Orion’s skin feeling hot to her touch. There was a fire burning inside his eyes that made her shudder.

“You did keep me waiting,” he murmured into her ear. His breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of her neck was giving her goosebumps all over and he knew that full well.

“I couldn’t really down my drink in one go and run after you, could I? Your fault you left so early.”

She would have loved to go straight after him but that would have been way too suspicious; their little affair - if one could even call it that - was a secret both of them very much intended to keep from the others.

“After that show you’ve given? What did you expect?”

She had to laugh at his words, her eyes twinkling with promise as they found his. Her finger traced the line of his jaw, the stubble of his beard biting into her fingertip.

“I knew you’d love it.”

She rose onto her tiptoes to reach his ear as she whispered, “Want me to remind you what else my tongue can do?”

“I don’t think I’m the only one eager for that.”

Despite herself, Lizzie’s breath hitched and she bit her bottom lip as she felt Orion’s hands travel downwards from her waist. He stopped over the back pockets of her trousers, squeezing her bum as he captured her lips in another searing kiss.

Her head spun for a moment, dizzy from exhaustion, alcohol and Orion’s touch. She had to will herself to break away from him again, this time taking a step back out of his reach.

“Come on then,” she purred, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger as she looked him up and down, “What are you waiting for?”

But Orion knew how to play her game as well. Mirroring her grin, he simply walked past her in the direction of the main street, not sparing so much as another look. He passed so closely that he was almost brushing against her; the electricity between them was palpable and Lizzie felt her mouth go dry as she watched him from behind.

Orion waited a moment before motioning for her to follow him when he was sure no one would pay any attention to them.

While they were waiting for their cab, not being able to touch Orion when all she wanted was to feel his lips on her skin almost killed Lizzie; judging from his tensed shoulders and nervous fingers drumming against his leg during their ride home, that feeling was mutual.

It was no use, though; as long as they were in public, there was nothing they could do. Making out in the alley with a bunch of reporters around the corner had already been a hell of a risk.

The drive to Orion’s place in Nottinghill felt like an eternity; by the time they had finally reached his flat, Lizzie’s skin was positively tingling. Not being quick enough for her taste, she plucked the key from his hand and unlocked the door herself before stepping into the dark hallway first.

She turned around in the doorframe, shooting him a cocky smile over her shoulder.

“Are you coming? I think I promised you a show.”

***

The pale sunlight of the early morning seeped into the room from the skylight above Orion’s bed. Falling onto Lizzie’s face, it made her stir in her sleep, slowly waking her up from her dream. She tried holding on to it for a moment longer, but it drifted out of her grasp as her body was waking up until it was completely out of reach.

Sighing wistfully, Lizzie turned around and propped herself up onto her elbows. Her lips curved into a smile as her eyes fell onto Orion, who was still sleeping next to her. He was lying on his stomach with his face buried in the fluffy white pillows, his breath deep and even.

Now, in the light of the new day, Lizzie could see the bright red scratches running over his shoulder blades. She blushed a little; maybe she had gone a little overboard in the heat of the moment.

The sight of Orion’s maltreated back made the memories of last night return to her. The thought of his rough fingertips exploring every inch of her body, the sweet bite of his unshaved cheek against the inside of her thighs sent a pleasant shiver down her spine even now. The way she had relished the feeling of his skin against hers as he had coaxed wave after wave of pleasure from her body made her realise how starved she had been for his touch.

It almost surprised Lizzie how quickly sleeping with Orion had become her favourite way of winding down after a show. The sex was fantastic and the fact that no one knew what they were doing was only adding to the excitement. They were aware that it was one of the band’s most important rules they were breaking time and time again: No meddling with the other members. According to Ethan, getting involved with each other could cause nothing but trouble.

However, Lizzie was enjoying their time together way too much to just give up on it like that; free from any form of commitment, it was a bonus to their friendship neither of them wanted to miss. She could definitely confirm that Orion’s fingers weren’t only nimble when it came to playing the guitar.

Without really thinking about it, Lizzie reached out towards him. Her fingers were tracing the lines of the tattoo covering the whole of his back, from the now slightly scratched eagle wings spanning from shoulder to shoulder, down to the woven circle of the dreamcatcher the eagle was carrying in its claws. Her fingers tiptoed lightly over the pattern, joining up the beads worked into the web. Orion had told her that each of them represented a memory dear to him; she noticed he had some new ones added since the last time she had seen it.

Some of the inked feathers flowing down from the circle past beneath the eagle’s tail were new to her as well. Her fingers were wandering over them, dancing across his lower back.

Completely consumed by what she was doing, Lizzie hadn’t noticed Orion waking up. She jumped as he spoke to her, her eyes flying towards his face.

“What are you doing?”

Orion’s head was turned towards her, his eyes still closed, but a cheeky smile was playing around his lips.

Lizzie was spared an answer when he opened his eyes to look at her. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Realising how his words must have sounded, his smile turned softer as he closed his eyes again. “Don’t stop though.”

Setting her hand onto his back again, Lizzie let her fingers wander up his spine. She lightly tapped them to a rhythm only she could hear and noticed the tiny shiver running through him when she brushed them downwards again, her fingernails grazing his skin ever so gently.

“You never stay the whole night when we’re touring,” Orion murmured sleepily.

Lizzie hummed in response, not taking her eyes off the beautiful picture painted on his skin.

“I missed this,” she murmured under her breath, more to herself than to him.

“I missed you.”

Caught by surprise at his words, her movements stopped abruptly. Orion’s eyes were soft as he watched her, taking in his shirt hanging loose on her body. Her open hair was still a tangled mess from last night

“Why would you say that?” Lizzie laughed, trying to mask her being caught unaware with a poke to his ribcage.

Orion laughed along and evaded her by rolling onto his side. He quickly caught her wrist and held it away from him. A grin formed on his face as he shrugged.

“Because it’s true; nothing relaxes me more than you do.”

Lizzie snorted. “Is that so?”

With a laugh, he let go of her hand and let himself fall back into the pillows. “Do I look not relaxed to you?”

“If anything, you look overly smug to me,” Lizzie shot back.

She grabbed her pillow and hit him with it before quickly jumping off the bed to get out of his reach. She searched her jacket that was among the pile of clothes littering the floor for her phone and a hair tie, all the while feeling Orion’s eyes on her.

When Lizzie had found what she had been looking for, she tied her unbrushed hair back and straightened up again. Unlocking her phone, she quickly scrolled through her messages.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Orion getting up as well, stretching his back.

“Come to think of it, I might have overestimated how balanced my body is this morning,” Lizzie heard him complain, “my muscles hurt like hell.”

She didn’t even bother looking up from her phone. “Tell me about it.”

Orion finally caught her attention when he stepped closely behind her. “I could do something about that, you know.”

Lizzie had to stifle a sigh when he gently began rubbing the tension from her shoulders, knowing exactly where her tight spots were; he had developed a knack for this she had come to appreciate.

Enjoying his touch for a moment longer, Lizzie pulled herself together and shook his hands off. She turned around, holding her phone up for him to see.

“Forget it, I have a breakfast date.”

“With Charlie, I presume?”

“Charlie is busy interviewing that new pyro guy.”

Orion tilted his head. “Who else then? Someone I need to be jealous of?”

Lizzie chuckled at the notion. “Only if you consider Skye as competition. But we both know you’re not the jealous type,” she shrugged. “And why would you be, anyway?”

She started gathering her strewn about things. “In any case, I need to get ready. I could really use a hot shower.”

Looking down at herself, still dressed in Orion’s shirt, she plucked at the collar and chuckled. “You’ll get this back another time.”

She turned to leave but didn’t make it far. Orion’s arms closed around her from behind, his lips nuzzling against the exposed skin of her neck. “Your wish and mine don’t necessarily rule each other out.”

Goosebumps were spreading all over her skin at his touch but she pulled herself together and broke free of his embrace.

“Tempting, but no. I can’t really show up at Skye’s place wearing last night’s outfit or, even better, your shirt.”

Her smile turned into a smirk as she looked him up and down, taking in his bronzed skin, lean but still muscular build and tousled black hair, regretting her decision already. “I might take you up on that massage later, though.”

She tried to leave a second time before she could change her mind, but Orion caught her wrist, pulling her back towards him.

“Do I get a kiss?”

Lizzie was already smiling; she had anticipated the question. He always asked it before she left, and her answer was the same every time. “You already got much more than that.”

She took a step back towards him, rose to her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Maybe next time.”

Orion laughed as he finally let her go. “I’ll get my kiss one day.”

Lizzie dipped her head back as she laughed and turned towards the door. “We’ll see about that.”

#hphm #harry potter hogwarts mystery #hphm au #rockstar au #orion amari #lizzie jameson #when stars ignite #besties collaborate

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magicianapprenticelyra · 3 years

Text

Day 2: Touch(y)

@sweetalnazar

Featuring Lyra Nguyen and Asra Alnazar; Modern AU

(Close Friendship, Pre-Romantic Relationship)

“How long do you think she’s going to be angry at me?”

“Asra, she has no right to be this pissed at you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll probably know for sure in about . . . two hours?”

Asra winces at that assessment, barely able to prevent himself from tripping over a tree root in the sidewalk as Lyra continues ahead.

“It’s not your fault!” she calls back, slowing down enough for him to finally catch up.

“Wh-when you said that your mom can blow things out of pr-proportion—” Asra chokes on air, coughing. Lyra reaches into her drawstring bag, handing her friend a plastic water bottle. Asra takes it with a quiet thanks, waterfalling the contents into his mouth.

“This is actually mild compared to the other bullshit she’s pulled.”

Asra grimaces, struggling to keep up with her when she resumes power walking. This situation is flipped from when Asra wanted to go go go somewhere; he didn’t like this one bit.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m going to stuff my face with food,” Lyra replies simply. “There’s a small Vietnamese place that cooks the best popcorn chicken with their rice down this way—” Lyra walks on, rattling on with commentary about a third of the menu before she stops and turns to face Asra again, giving him a small smile. “I’ll even pay for whatever you want to get, too. Cap is $200 altogether, for the both of us. Is that okay?”

“Y-yeah . . . no, no problem . . .” Asra's breathless. He gets properly upright once at the door of the establishment. When Lyra opens the door, the bell above clangs into the metal frame it hangs off of.

The smell of good food welcomes them both.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Later . . .

Asra, having the end of his chopsticks hovering close to his lips, watches Lyra consume another bowl of fried rice and a side of dumplings. The aisle-side of the booth’s table has a wall consisting of plates, bowls, and various utensils. Asra looks to the busser, sympathetic when they stop by the table for the third time to clear it. He places his chopsticks horizontally over his bowl of phở, exhaling softly.

“Ly?”

“Mmph?” Lyra stops eating, one cheek full of food as she looks at him. Seeing his expression, she carefully turns to the side.

Shielding the lower half of her face with her hand, Lyra quickly chews what’s in her mouth. With each swallow, she chases it with her tea, wincing at the heat. Once she’s done, Lyra quickly grabs tissues from the napkin dispenser against the wall. With one hand, she works on getting rid of what’s leftover on her mouth and lips. Her other hand rubs the area under her hyoid bone.

“Ow . . .” she rasps.

“You’re not Faust!” Asra teases, but there’s still that edge of worry in his voice.

Lyra glances at him, her dark brown eyes unexpectedly meeting Asra’s own. Her eyes widen, taking in the brown curls framing his face. She quickly averts her gaze to the table itself. Her eyes bore into the resin tabletop.

“Do you think you’re done?”

She nods.

“Okay. You still want to pay for all of the stuff we ate?”

She nods again, taking the table’s number stand with her as she goes to the register a ways behind Asra. He finishes up his bowl of phở and leaves a hefty tip on the table when the busser comes. He thanks them, getting to his feet when Lyra returns soon after.

After they box their leftovers, the pair walk single-file out the door. Outside, they maneuvered themselves to walk side by side.

“Where do you want to go next?”

“I don’t wanna go back to my uncle’s yet,” Lyra murmurs.

“I know . . .”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Lyra is much, much slower with a stomach full of food. Asra's relieved, especially since he has an inkling he might have pulled something while tripping over the tree root earlier.

"How are you feeling?" Asra asks, looking over at her.

"Not that good." Lyra hugs herself around her abdomen, looking a little green.

Asra winces. He looks around them, immediately spotting a bodega up ahead.

“Ginger ale or—?"

"The lemon-lime one this time, please," Lyra rasps, swallowing thickly.

He's off like a shot, making Lyra laugh when he zips past the front door. In a few moments he zooms back to her, quickly wiping the top of the can with his shirttail before passing it to her.

Lyra gently taps the top of the can with a fingernail. She holds it away from herself, tugging on the pull-tab before shuffling to the side of the sidewalk.

The both of them stand under the awning of a boarded up building, graffitied with all sorts of art.

"No 'splosion," Lyra exhales in relief. She carefully sips on the drink, lightly coughing.

Asra nods, barely able to hide his concern as she closes her eyes.

Lyra was prone to eating her feelings. That wasn't the surprising thing. Asra has seen her stress-eat during final exams back in high school, but this was something else.

Bzz. Bzz.

"That's you," Lyra murmurs.

You left your phone back at your uncle's? Asra didn't voice these thoughts, instead checking on the messages he's received. As expected, they were all from Lyra's family.

🏒Neha: Where are you guys?

💻 Walt: Still a bit dicey back here. I think you kids can come back around 4 or 5 o'clock though.

🍰 James: Bao and Mai are still yelling at each other. Going to be a while yet. Everything ok?

Asra answers them all to the best of his ability, immediately pocketing his phone.

It's only just after 2 p.m.

"What they say?"

"Your uncle and mom are still discussing things—" He blinks in surprise when Lyra snorts derisively, shaking her head.

"Well, what do you want me to say about it?" Asra shifts his weight from one foot to another, assessing her body language.

"I know they're at each other's throats still. You don't need to protect me from that." Lyra gives him a rueful smile.

"I'm sorry,” Asra murmurs softly.

Lyra gently nudges her elbow to his upper arm. "It wasn't my fault, much less yours."

"She got really angry today."

"We were just snuggled together—" Lyra stops to scoot back from the sidewalk, allowing a parent and their gaggle of children to pass before continuing,

"—we fell asleep watching t.v. in the living room. Mom didn't have to surprise us with a visit."

"It's just her up here, right?"

"Mhm. Vinh is back with Theodore. I'm just happy my mom didn't hit you with anything more substantial."

Asra laughs. "The pillow was within reach—better than the lamp on the side table.”

"I would feel terrible if she did."

"She didn't though."

Lyra nods, exhaling softly. "I'm sorry I freaked you out earlier. I must've looked like a Sarlacc pit."

"You're nowhere near that" Asra nudges his upper arm against hers. "I don't blame you for what happened."

"I still say she's blowing it out of proportion!"

“Perhaps, but she wanted to protect you.”

“She assumes the worst in everyone around her, Asra. Theodore is the only one that’s not subject to it anymore. It’s really not healthy. Aside from my father being a major part of why I left, why do you think I wanted so badly to stay with my uncle?”

“Mmm . . .” Asra hums, exhaling.

He scoots back over to her, positioning himself so that shoulder to shoulder, they’re touching. In turn, Lyra leans over just enough to have the side of her head rest upon his shoulder.

They still had a few hours to kill. There weren’t any NO LOITERING signs nearby, either. For the time being, this was a perfect spot to rest in.

A/N: I took it in a bit of a different direction. (^w^)

Context for who is who in here—

Lyra Nguyen is related to her uncle Bảo through her mother, Mai. Theodore is Mai’s current significant other, but not married to her (yet). Vinh is Lyra’s biological younger sister.

Walterine Aster is—from the canon Arcana timeline—the aunt Ly inherits The Shop from in Center City. In modern AU, she’s a single mother who has a daughter named Neha. She’s known James and Bảo for years, having met the former back in their college days.

James Cionaodh is Bảo’s partner (married). These two live with Walterine and Neha because living where they are—modern equivalent to San Francisco—is expensive as all hell.

Neha is roughly the same age as Vinh in this modern AU. She is technically Ly’s cousin by marriage from the canon Arcana timeline (long story), but in that timeline they’re essentially sisters, at least Pre-Red Plague and post Upright/a few Reversed timelines.

I’ll probably need to make a separate post for this but, thank you so much for reading!

UPDATE JUNE 12TH, 2021: [NEXT]

#The Arcana #asraweek2021 #fan apprentice #Asra #magicianapprenticelyra #the scribe writes #Uncle Bảo #Neha Aster #Walterine Aster #James Aster #OCs #modern AU #AUs

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jq37 · 3 years

Text

The Case File – Mice and Murder Ep 4

The Case of the Puzzling Painting

Welcome back to Loam Hall where our Sylvan Sleuths are still hanging out in a room with a dead body. When we left off, Gangie had been snooping into Sly’s conversation about Fletcher Cottonbottom and now, he uses his Criminal Contacts feature to see what he knows, if anything, about a recent return. With a 26 he knows that his family used to be well respected but after the whole business with the insurance fraud and Sly busting it, the family kind of fell out of favor. So Fletcher was in a weird position where he was rich and a part of high society and had enough dirt on everyone to get them to do things for him but couldn’t actually show his face because he was disgraced. Gangie also knows that it’s rumored that Fletcher’s weapons running scheme was actually a front for moving art.

With regard to more recent news about Fletcher, Gangie was never in direct contact with him but he knows that 3-4 years ago, his most trusted henchmen started going missing--people attributed it to some kind of “Cottonbottom Curse” and that rumor is part of why Gangie decided to get out of dodge in the first place.

Buck does an insight check on the rest of the PCs and, with an 18, doesn’t clock anyone there as especially suspicious (Lars isn’t there but like..it’s Lars). Ian tries to give Squire Badger his last rites but ends up pulling the knife out, putting it back in, flapping blood everywhere with his feathers, and sending Constance into a badger rage. Buck tries to help smooth over things, claiming his big screw up was a new style of avant garde church ritual (Ian appreciates the support--who ministers to the ministers, you know?) and in the process sees his knife for the first time. Which, you know. He obviously suspected before but never nice to see.

While this is going on, Daisy sneaks off to try and check on the secret door and everyone sees her do it/eventually follows her but we’ll get back to her once we check in with Lars who is en route to the kitchen. Once in the hallway, they do a perception check and, on a 15, there are 3 doors and Ally gets to pick one. There’s a kitchen where Gilfoyle is talking to a group, a door where someone is crying behind it, and a door where they can hear nothing. Ally, the galaxy brained genius, goes for the quiet door. That’s the money door and with their ears pressed against the door, they can hear Edwina and Carolyn--the two mice maids that overheard Buck’s conversation with the Badger--whispering about what happened there and wondering if they should pay back the money they were paid to by Buck.

Gilfoyle walks out and sees Lars snooping but on a Nat 20 deception check, Lars is able to play dumb and skate by suspiciousness. Also, with a dirty 20 perception check, when the mice maids leave, Lars sees that they’ve been stealing silverware.

OK, back to Daisy who is getting to the séance room as quickly as possible. She has two rounds before people catch up to her so she’s trying to make the most of it by Investigating the painting she noticed was bolted to the wall earlier. She first rolls an 11, getting no new information. This is so frustrating to her. She’s good at this dammit! But being around Sly is rattling her terribly. She has feelings for him--strong ones. But she isn’t herself around him. How can she be with him if he makes her so unlike herself? Her introspection is enough to earn her advantage from Brennan on her second roll and boom! 25! Daisy is back.

With that roll, she notices that the eyes in the painting actually move and can be used as a spying post on the other side. Then Sly runs in and they start bickering immediately. Daisy throws a crystal ball at him and absolutely brains him on a nat 20--the first combat roll of this very RP oriented season.

Buck and Ian are still in the room with the body for the moment and Buck asks Ian about the first few names on the list Gangie gave him. There were a bunch of members of the Burrows family--a working class family that all died of a consumptive illness. And then the Diggories who died in a carriage accident. The connecting thread? All badgers. Buck then zooms away to follow Daisy, Ian follows, and Lars, seeing them as they leave the kitchens, also follows.

So all the PCs are in the séance room now and they kinda have the sense of, “OK y’all, we’re all screwed but we’re al screwed together so we better throw our lot in with each other and start working together so we don’t die because no one else here is on our side.” Buck proposes an alliance and they all agree to share info. Sly asks about Buck’s knife and Buck admits it’s his but says he didn’t do it. Sly believes him--not because he wouldn’t do it but because he has no motive (that he knows about anyway. Buck doesn’t spill about the contract).

Gangie shares the list of names from before with the whole group.It’s like half badgers and then some other critters (full list here). Sly doesn’t share any of his secret info Grant got texted. Daisy and Buck don’t share about the key (though Sly you’ll remember sat her steal it). Buck does however mention his suspicion about the fact that Gilfoyle wasn’t around when Squire Badger gave his speech and Daisy does the same about the fact that he said he would call the cops but the cops haven’t arrived yet. Lar’s remembers that Jez’s husband is gunning for at seat in parliament and wonders if this is related somehow. Daisy mentions the eyes in the painting and everyone is like way to bury the lede dude! Especially when they’ve just all spilled their secrets. Everyone checks on the painting and with a 25 Gangie can intuit that this is probably used to spy on rich people when they’re mid-séance and vulnerable and spilling secrets (which he doesn’t share but Daisy comes to a similar conclusion on her own). Buck on a 23 can smell ledgers (idk how but the DM said so and I’m reporting it) and guesses that that’s where the Squire’s real office is which means that’s probably where the contract he needs to find and destroy is too.

The group makes a list of their loose ends which are what’s on the other side of the painting, what’s up with Fletcher, and the smell of ozone. Plus Ian remembers that the date on the bust in the study is wrong and shares with the class.

Lars tries to get to the other side of the room by ripping the painting off the hinges with a very impressive 26 but there is fully a wall behind it and the noise brings Gilfoyle, Harding, and the Badger kids running. Lars notes that in the stone behind the painting it says “⅓” and then hurriedly puts the painting back. Daisy thinks that might refer to a secret third floor or basement accessible by the elevator (but my first thought was that there were 2 other spying paintings in the house somewhere).

Everyone in the room hears the Gilfoyle and co. coming and try to act natural. There is a group stealth check that they all tank so heavily that all the suspicious staff and kids need to do to suss them out is roll above a 5.

AND THEY ROLL A TWO.

With that, Lucretia appears, totally buys that they’re doing very important spiritual work in there, and in fact guards the door for them. They use the privacy bought by their very vigilant sentry to plan their next steps. Sly, Daisy, and Ian will check out the study while they rest of them check out the elevator. As they exit, Lucretia asks if they got the answers they needed out of the spirits.

Oh yes, says Daisy, echoing Lucretia’s nonsense prediction from last episode. Either something good or bad might happen. Either way, I’m excited!

Case Notes

How baller of a player move is it to say a line so poignant that the DM is forced to let you roll with advantage? I have been on the other side of that as the DM and it’s so great. MAD respect to Rekha for that. AND THEN THE DICE COOPERATED. You simply love to see it.

The other best Rekha line is Daisy to Sly upon being called out about stealing the key in his normal, coy, quippy way: You saw me bitch.

Shout out to Grant also for being constantly on as Sly. The guy is on point always. Impeccable.

I am SO SO SO happy Daisy and Sly are on the same mission team. If I was friends with either of them I’d be like, “This is a toxic relationship, they make you too crazy.” But as an outside viewer I want them to be within crystal ball throwing distance always.

The question I’m sure we’re all asking: Is Brennan enough of a minx to invoke the butler did it trope? I know everyone at the table is thinking it even if none of them have said it outright. I figured the reason the cops haven’t showed up yet was the storm but who knows?

Two pieces of housekeeping, only Buck and Gangie know what the room behind the painting is with their high rolls and, after the bit of passing it back and forth with Buck, Daisy has the key.

I really can’t do the bit about Gangie’s mom justice. I wish there was a comedy Emmy for actual play DnD shows so D20 could get the accolades it deserves just for that bit.

Brennan indicated that the conversation between the mice maids was the most interesting info (Gilfoyle convo to staff was too public to be juicy/they could get the info from one of the many gathered staff people and crying is info on its own--though I am curious about who the crying person was) but I’m wondering what he meant by that. Because the fact that Buck paid them might be interesting if Buck did it. But we know he didn’t. Is it the fact that they were in the room at all? Again, info that the party knows if not Lars specifically. The fact that they were stealing silverware? What’s Brennan’s game here?

#dimension 20 #dimension 20 spoilers #mice and murder #mice and murder spoilers #the case file

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straight-outta-kaer-morhen · 4 years

Text

Timing <Vernon Roche>

My Vernon Roche obsession continues...

The edge of the bar dug into her back as she pressed against it. Soldiers were shouting over card games, while others were caught up in the thrill of their dice roll. Catching the glass of Temerian Rye the bartender slid her way she took a few sips. The Commander leaned over the bar ordering a second round. Blue linen brushed her arm as he turned to settle next to her. “None of the men interest you?” He inquired, nudging her smaller frame with his shoulder.

A blush threatened to bloom on her cheeks. “I wouldn’t say that.” She mumbled, taking a sip of the burning liquid.

Chip. Chip. Chip. (E/C) eyes flickered over to Roche’s hands as he sparked up a pipe. The scent of tobacco flooding her senses. (Y/N) opened her mouth to say something more, but Ves’s voice called from a table by the fire. “Commander! (Y/N)! Up for a round of Gwent?”

A smile pulled at the corner of her lips as she sauntered over to the table. Taking a seat at the table she grabbed the Northern Realms deck sorting through the cards. Vernon took a seat next to Ves. Smoke filled the air as the pair laid cards down in silence. “Torrential Rain?” Ves whined, throwing her cards down. “Pass.” She grumbled, picking up the coin they were using to keep track of rounds.

(Y/N) drew another card as the round winner, before laying a hero card down. “Geralt of Rivia.” Ves mused, lost in pleasant memory.

A fine brow crooked up at Ves, “I take it there's a story?” (Y/N) inquired, her eyes flickering down to the painted portrait of the White Wolf.

“Let’s just say the stories about Witcher stamina are completely true.” A loud coughing came from Roche as he sat his glass of ale down.

“Fuck, I’ll toast to that.” (Y/N) said, with a tilt of her glass. Vernon looked at them incredulously, “when, how?” His words were jumbled before he cut himself off. “I don’t want to know.” He mumbled, waiving Ves off.

“But I do, spill.” (Y/N) said leaning forward, eager to be privy to Ves’ information.

A mischievous smile appeared on Ves’ porcelain face. “Well for starters, three rounds wouldn’t sate him.” A small giggle escaped her lips, as she took in Vernon’s tense shoulders as he inhaled the smoke from his pipe.

“And you…” (Y/N) trailed off.

“Came?” Ves finished for her. “Every single round.”

“Damn.” (Y/N) said, throwing another card down. “Maybe I should find a Witcher.”

Ves gaped at the board, “did you really just distract me, so you could win at Gwent?”

A smirk appeared on (Y/N)’s lips. “I saw an advantage and took it.” Ves’ eyes flickered between Vernon and the board as (Y/N) made her way to the bar for another round. “She’s ruthless.”

Chocolate eyes watched her at the bar as a soldier sidled up next to her. Wooden chair legs scraped against the floor as his legs carried him over to the bar. “Commander.” The soldier said, surprised by his presence.

“You’re dismissed.” His smoldering gaze locking on her wide eyes. The young soldier was quick to scurry away leaving the two alone. “You’re cunning.” He stated, taking a step closer. Her heart thudded in her chest at his proximity. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol contorting her vision, or if Vernon Roche was blatantly checking her out. “Any man worth a damn can give you three rounds.” He added, his breath fanning her neck. His thumb ghosted against her chin tilting her head up to his gaze, “especially when that woman is you.”

“Commander?” In an instant Vernon Roche had crossed the room, as if nothing had happened. (Y/N)’s jaw went slack, as her eyes followed the outline of his broad back. Her eyes shifted over to the table Ves had occupied. The blonde was caught up in another game of Gwent with a medic. (Y/N) stumbled out of the tavern into the night air, hoping the cold air would give her some clarity to the situation. She could chalk it up to the drink. Perhaps it would be best if she returned to her tent.

Vernon’s chocolate eyes snapped toward the door when he heard it close. He cursed himself as he bit down on the pipe stem. Usually he was able to keep a tight lid on his thoughts, but lately he found words slipping from his tongue in (Y/N)’s presence. He definitely didn’t mean to admit to the more primal urges he felt for her. He could blame it on the alcohol, but the truth was he hadn’t even finished his second beer. He was stone cold sober when it slipped out. Leaning against a wooden pillar he watched a dice game without his eyes actually seeing. He wasn’t sure what was holding him back from fully expressing his feelings.

Ves studied Vernon for a moment before deciding to speak, “it’s obvious you like her.” A sharp look that would cut most soldiers to the core met her cornflower eyes. “Just go for it. She’s crazy about you.” Ves added. “Trust me.”

He lingered in his thoughts. After a few puffs of smoke he made his way back to camp. Making up his mind he would express his true feelings he followed the path to her tent. Outside the small tent he called her name. There was no reply, and no sound came from the inside of the tent. Peeking inside he saw her curled up on the cot asleep. She hadn’t even bothered removing her boots.

Taking a seat at the edge of her bed he unlaced the boots setting them next to her cot. Grabbing a quilt he tucked it over her. Candlelight illuminated her features, and Vernon took the opportunity to study her face. He hadn’t noticed how thick her lashes were, or how long her hair was. Most of the time she had it pulled up, so it didn’t interfere with her daily tasks. He made his way to the candle before blowing it out.

“I’ll tell you later.” His deep voice settled in the tent as he left her to sleep in peace.

It was another campsite in the middle of Temeria. (Y/N) crested the hill, eyes bright, her assumption was correct. A blanket of stars littered the sky. Pulling the thin blanket from her satchel she spread it on the grass. Leaning back on her hands she took in the night sky.

“Am I interrupting?” Ves’s voice hissed from the tree line, soliciting a smile from (Y/N).

“Care to join?” (Y/N) asked, scooting over on the blanket. Ves jumped up excitedly, practically pulling the Commander of the Blue Stripes up the hill behind her.

Both of them smelled strongly of alcohol and smoke. They’d joined the others at the tavern earlier before trekking into the valley to find her. Ves offered her a bottle, but (Y/N) waved her off. Ves shrugged, taking a long pull from the bottle before handing it to Vernon.

“Why do you wander off by yourself?” Ves inquired, tilting her head in (Y/N)’s direction.

(Y/N) shrugged, “I like the silence.” Truth was she came out here to contemplate her thoughts. She still wasn’t sure if she’d imagined the words Roche had said to her at the bar. He hadn’t acted differently the next morning, so she assumed she’d made it up in her drunken haze, but some part of her told her it had all been real. “I can hear myself think.”

Ves grew quiet, “what do you think about?”

“Sometimes it takes me time to process how I feel, or why I feel it.”

Vernon’s brow furrowed. Logic ruled his decision making, he rarely let his feelings intervene. Which is why he made such an excellent commander. (Y/N) had always been reserved in his presence, but he wanted to know what ran across her mind everyday. Part of him hoped he held a place deep in her thoughts. “What does your instinct tell you?” Vernon asked, leaning closer to her. Y/N felt his fingers touch her’s, but he made no move to retract his hand, or offer a half hearted excuse.

Ves had wandered off at some point. Tired of watching the longing stares, she was determined to push the two together. Both too stubborn to make the first move, Ves saw no harm in speeding the process along.

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. He knew what had clouded her mind as of late. She’d been mulling his words over for weeks trying to decide if she’d heard him right, and here he was confirming what she already knew. “Did you actually mean that?” She inquired, “what you said at the tavern.”

Vernon’s deep chuckle sounded like honey in her ears, “I mean everything I say.” Chocolate eyes flickered over to her, “you’re everything I’m not. Warm, kind, and gods that smile.” He brought his thumb up to run down her soft lips.

“You’re drunk,” she murmured, hypnotized by his gaze.

The corner of his mouth pulled into a half smile, “that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

“I can’t take advantage of you. It goes against my honor.” She teased, nudging him with her shoulder.

He let out a wolfish laugh at the thought of her taking advantage of him. “Fair enough.” He conceded, “we’ll get the timing right. Eventually.”

Vernon Roche had headed straight for her tent as soon as Ves gave him news of the ambush. His blood felt thick pumping through his veins as he played out the different scenarios in his brain.

His keen ears almost missed the muffled sobs coming from her tent. Ducking inside the tent he found her face buried in her hands, as sobs wracked her body. Ves had told him she’d been the only one to survive the ambush. She’d dragged another soldier back to the Medical tent, but he’d died as soon as they got him on the table.

“You did everything you could.” His words were soft, afraid anything else might startle her as he took a seat next to her.

Jumping at the sound of his voice she wiped at her eyes, “I’m sorry Commander, I-.”

“Vernon...just call me Vernon.” He said, gently coaxing her to sit back down. “I didn’t come here as your Commander.” Soft eyes took her in, she’d been through hell in the past 24 hours, and the only thing he wanted to do was hold her. “I was worried about you.” He confessed, “I just needed to see you. To know you were safe.”

(Y/N) leaned against him, “can you hold me?”

Vernon nodded, pulling her close. He smoothed her hair. “You feel everything so deeply,” he murmured, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Pulling back slightly, she gazed up into his chocolate eyes. “Are you saying that you want me?”

Vernon Roche nodded, gently caressing her jaw with her thumb, “I’m saying that I love you.”

She pulled him into a deep kiss, before settling into him. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, pulling her close once more. Content he finally got the timing right.

#vernon roche #vernon roche x reader #vernon roche oneshot #vernon roche x y/n #the witcher 3 #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher oneshot

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ri-ahhh · 4 years

Note

what about drunk y/n bluntly saying all the things he wants to do to gray and he’s shocked bc she’s usually really shy. ( inspired by the first lines of pu$$y fairy by jhene) “ i like to suck when i’m drunk” “i like to fuck when i’m drunk”

Loud music thuds in every corner of the West Hollywood house you and Grayson walk into for a random party he had been invited to earlier that day. Ethan had chosen to stay at home, but you and Gray both needed to get out of the house, and while parties weren’t really his scene, socializing felt like a better alternative to Netflix tonight.

Grayson daps up his friend that’s throwing the party and introduces you to him. He seems nice enough, but you barely catch his name before he’s excusing himself to greet some other people that have just walked in.

You catch Grayson’s eye and lean close to shout in his ear so he can hear you over the YG song blasting through the speakers nearby. He smells even better this up close than he had in the car, clean and masculine with that woody undertone that’s just a permanent part of him now. “Do you see anyone else you know?”

He shakes his head, switching places with you so his mouth brushes your ear now. You’re sure he can feel the shiver his warm breath and too-close proximity elicits, but you’re glad it’s potentially dark enough for him not to see the goosebumps flaring across the skin left exposed by your simple bandeau top.

“Not yet!” he says, and his huge hand places itself on the small of your back as he lifts his head to inspect your surroundings. His long fingers radiate warmth and calm your nerves a bit as you also take in the features of the house you’re in. It’s big, but not a ridiculous mansion or anything, which makes you feel a little more comfortable about being somewhere that you know literally nobody else.

Until Grayson speaks again, that is. “Are you good by yourself long enough for me to go piss? I’ve been holding it since I got in the car.”

‘No!’ screams the petrified introvert inside you.

“Of course,” smiles the rational grown woman you pretend to be most of the time.

He grins back at you gratefully. “I’ll be like, five minutes tops,” he assures, moving his hand from your back to your hand and giving it a squeeze.

You cling to his fingers until they’re forced to drop away with the distance between you, and watch his broad body thread through a crowd of fellow partygoers as he follows the handwritten sign with an arrow labelled ‘bathroom -- you puke, you clean.’ It’s pathetic how much you miss his presence already, but it’s not like this is the first party you’ve ever been to; if there’s any safe place at a house party for the single person to go, it’s the kitchen.

You’ve only made it a handful of yards away from where Grayson left you when suddenly a large someone stumbles into you, his drink sloshing precariously in his solo cup.

“Woah!” he says, holding his drink up and away as he glances down at you, clearly tipsy. To your dismay, some of whatever is in his cup has spilled onto your jeans, but you try to just chalk it up as a party foul without getting too annoyed. “Sorry about that.”

“You’re good,” you offer with a polite smile, brushing off some of the droplets that cling to the denim stubbornly. At least now you have another excuse to get to the kitchen and preoccupy yourself with something until Grayson returns.

The guy blinks and looks you up and down unashamedly, and you fight not to roll your eyes. He can only be described as a Chad, looking every bit the frat daddy with his Supreme t-shirt, snapback backwards over his too-long hair, and alcohol-induced predatory gaze.

He offers you his hand, and out of instinct you take it, but instantly cringe at how clammy it is. Being too nice to douchebags is definitely one of your character flaws. “I’m Brad.”

You can’t help but laugh at the irony, because of course he is, but he must take it as a flirtatious giggle or something, because he smiles back at you. “What’s your name? I’ve never seen you at these things before.”

You tell him against your better judgement, and Brad does that thing where he pretends not to hear. He pulls you by the hand still clasped in his and brings you closer to him, as if to hear you better. This time, you can’t stop your annoyed eye-roll, telling him again with finality and pulling away quickly. If Grayson’s closeness that way made you shudder with desire, this guy makes you do it with disgust.

Really, you just want Grayson again. You need him.

You finally rip your hand out of his grasp and give him a tight smile. He starts to speak again, but you cut him off. “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m gonna go find something to clean myself up with.”

Whether he’s just an idiot asshole or because of the alcohol flowing through him, Brad doesn’t take the hint. “Aw, beautiful, I said I’m sorry! Let me come with, and I’ll make you a drink to make up for it.”

“Dude, I literally just told you my name,” you say, unable to help yourself as this guy’s douche-meter hits record highs with that. “Thank you, but I’m good. Please leave me alone.”

You turn on the spot, but you can feel him following close behind. Luckily, the kitchen is only one room over, and even more in your favor, Grayson is already there, shining like the beautiful angel he is under the recessed lights.

He meets your eyes when you walk in, and you give him the bug-eyed ‘save me’ look that you hope translates to boy as well as it does to girl. He cocks an amused brow, but then his eyes fall behind you and see Brad trailing you like a lost, horny dog, and he frowns immediately.

“Hey,” he greets, opening his arms to you at once as soon as you wiggle through the other minglers between you. You fall into them and sigh in relief, so happy to see him that you stand on your tiptoes and plant a warm kiss to his stubbled cheek.

“Hey,” you return, pulling back and looking up at him with a smile. His eyes are still locked on Brad, who has stopped in his tracks but not walked away. “Brad here spilled some of his drink on me by accident but doesn’t seem to think I’m capable of cleaning up myself.”

“Nah, I was just gonna make you a drink, babe, remember?” he slurs, narrowing his beady blue eyes at Grayson, like there’s even an ounce of intimidation behind them.

Grayson scoffs, and shifts so he’s squared up with Brad. He keeps his arm slung over your shoulder to hold you against him protectively, and you hold onto the hand of that arm with one of yours while you wrap your other arm around his back. Both of you glare at him. “Okay Brad, first of all, don't fucking call her that. Second, what decade are you living in? What girl nowadays is gonna take a drink from a random, sketchy guy she doesn’t know? Walk away and leave us alone, please.”

“What, is she your girlfriend, bro?”

“Yeah, she is,” he retorts without hesitation. Your heart drops, and you look up at him with surprise. His jaw is set tight and it makes his profile even sexier than usual. “Go be creepy with your own friends now. And leave the other poor girls at this party alone.”

Grayson looks down at you and cups your cheek. This whole lie has caught you completely off-gaurd, but you’re catching on to what he’s doing. You nod nearly imperceptibly in consent, and Grayson dips down to capture your lips in his for the first time ever. They're warm, soft, pliant, and perfectly insistent against yours. If Grayson is capable of anything chaste, this is it, but there’s still a heat behind it you’re all-too familiar with. This isn’t a ploy kiss; there’s something there, and neither of you are able to stop now that you’ve started.

You trace the seam of his lips with your tongue to beg entry, and he opens willingly. His hand slips from your cheek to the back of your head, clutching a handful of your hair and tipping your head back to allow himself better access to your mouth as his tongue takes dominance, just how you imagined it would so many times late at night.

“Uh, Grayson?”

Both of you are startled apart, and jerk your heads to the female voice just a couple feet away that had interrupted you. Brad is gone, but a beautiful dark-skin girl with piercing eyes the color of cinnamon stands there with her arms crossed and a perfectly done brow arched high on her forehead. Clearly, you had interrupted them first.

“Nadia!” he exclaims in surprise, clearly having forgotten she was even there before he kissed you. His chest heaves as he fights to catch his breath and you blush when he swipes his thumb across a patch of your saliva clinging to his lower lip. “Sorry. I, uh --”

“You didn’t tell me you have a girlfriend.”

It hurts your heart to do it, but you look at Grayson and step away. Who knows how long he’s been talking to this girl before tonight; who are you to come between that right now?

“I’m sorry, I’m not his girlfriend. He was just helping me get rid of that gorilla that followed me in here. You know how some guys are. They respect a man’s ‘territory’ more than the girl just telling them no.”

Nadia’s pretty features soften some, and she sighs. “Yeah, tell me about it.” She looks at Grayson, standing there still somewhat sheepishly. “I have to go. Call me when you get...this sorted out.”

“I --”

“It’s okay, Gray. Trust me.” Her eyes linger back and forth over the two of you. “Figure it out, and call me.”

She leaves the two of you with a small but friendly smile that confuses you some. You heave out a sigh. The night has definitely taken a turn for the dramatic, that’s for sure.

You long for a stiff vodka soda to settle your mind, but there are too many external factors that make that a bad idea right now. You’re suddenly aware that there’s still many people in the kitchen, but they're all impervious to two random people making out next to them.

You snatch a couple cans of ginger ale off the huge collection of mixers on one of the countertops, and hand one to Grayson. He pops it open gratefully and chugs a huge swallow of it, burping into his hand. You can’t help but giggle, and take a more dainty sip of your own can. You still wish it had alcohol in it, but it’ll do.

It’s like he can read your mind, stuffing his free hand in his pocket. “You know, you can have a drink. I really don’t mind.”

You lean back against the counter and look up at him. He’s blushing, from embarrassment or arousal, you’re not sure. You know your heartbeat is still thumping in your panties at the lingering feel of his lips on yours and his hands trailing over your body. Something has inevitably shifted between the two of you, and Nadia was right: you need to figure it out.

You’re not the most outspoken person all the time, but if there’s one thing you hate more than putting yourself out there, it’s leaving heavy things up in the air. You take a deep breath and scoot a little closer to him.

“I know. I just...don’t trust myself to be even remotely tipsy around you right now.”

He looks at you, confused. “You don’t trust me?”

You suddenly remember his complete lack of experience with how alcohol can affect more than your motor movements and decision making. It’s endearing.

“I said I don’t trust myself,” you correct with a smile, reaching up to brush his flop of hair out of his eyes. “I liked that kiss. It made me want more.”

Grayson swallows. “Yeah?” he finally says, a little dumbly.

You giggle. “Yeah. Like, a lot more.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and he shuffles even closer so you’re pretty much trapped against the counter and his thick, muscular body. Despite the fact that you’d have a harder time escaping this than you did back in the living room with Brad, you feel more free and confident than ever.

“Like what?” he asks, setting his can down behind you, planting his hand on the edge of the counter next to your hip.

You smile and allow your hand to rest on one defined pec through his thin shirt. You can feel his heart beating strong and fast, matching your own. It gives you the courage to put it all out there.

“Like... take you to the car and suck your dick; like, have you fuck me once we get home.” You look up at him through your lashes, pleased to see him sufficiently flushed and flustered by your words. “Like, go on a date?”

Your fingers have trailed over the hard ridges of his abs and settled on the edge of his belt, tugging on it playfully. Grayson gasps and looks at you with wide eyes and a disbelieving smile as he snatches it away in his own, bringing your fingers to his lips. “Easy. Wow, I can’t decide which of those I want to do most.” He looks back a little and narrows his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not drunk.”

You laugh and shake your head, taking your hand out of his and wrapping it around the back of his neck. “Nope, that’s all you baby. But who says we can’t do all of those, tonight?”

Grayson smiles brightly, and interlaces your fingers. Your ginger ales get abandoned on the counter as he starts to drag you through the throngs of people. “Let’s fucking go.”

#not exactly the ask but this is what came out of it lol #grayson dolan #grayson dolan fic #ethan dolan #dolan twins #blurb #g blurb

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come-on-shitty-boys · 4 years

Text

//lunch date memories. sakusa kiyoomi//

Request: c-can I ask for some Omi fluff or anything actually🥺 Up to you- my brain diededed- lmfao hahhaa It's just fully shut down hue- ily Maddi 🥺

Warnings: None bby ;-; just pure unadulterated fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

Notes: Me: ah yes. Let’s do some nice, short fluff.

Me, 6 pages later: 0-0

“Omi, did we really have to come all the way up here for a picnic?” You pant, struggling to climb the steep slope of the trail. You were far behind your boyfriend who seemed less than bothered at the hike. Yet, you had sweat dripping down your face, knees weak from the constant attempt to keep up with Sakusa’s long strides.

“It’ll be worth it, I promise,” he says, turning to give you the faintest hint of a smile. He stopped, letting you catch up to him before slowing down his pace, helping you not-so-elegantly scramble over some of the particularly large rocks blocking the hiking trail that proved to not be a setback for Sakusa’s incredibly long legs, letting him easily step up and over any of nature’s obstacles.

And you know what? He was right. It was worth it. The view from the top was the most beautiful thing you had seen in a long time. Trees surrounded you, letting the sunlight filter through layers of leaves, stippling the ground with tiny golden beads of light. Clumps of wild flowers settled around the edges of the clearing, swaying daintily in the warm summer breeze.

As you catch your breath, wiping sweat from your chin, Sakusa lays the blanket down on the ground, smoothing down the fabric. In the least graceful fashion possible, you both flop down. You lay back, chest still heaving with ragged breaths. Your boyfriend only hums, looking down at you as he sets out to unpack the bag that carried the bentos he had prepared that morning.

“How are you not even the slightest bit exhausted?” You whine, rolling over onto your stomach, untying the soft purple cloth around your bento as Kiyoomi set two water bottles between you.

“It helps that I’m not a shortie,” he claims, tweaking your nose softly between his fingers.

“Hey!” You huff, holding your nose and shooting him a soft glare. He says nothing, just opens his own lunch and begins eating in silence. For many moments, the two of you sit in comfortable silence, letting the soft gusts of wind tousle your hair in every which way as it brings the sweet scent of flowers towards you.

Sakusa’s eyes are soft as he examines you. You’re lost in your meal, lazily scrolling through social media, every now and then lips shifting up in a little smile at a silly meme. Strands of hair flitting gently as the sun’s rays shined against your skin, casting a warm glow on your delicate features. It looked like a scene straight from a cheesy rom-com, but it’s not like Sakusa complaining. He’d happily be the lead in any movie if you were right there with him. It was beautiful.

You were beautiful.

If someone had told Sakusa when he was in high school that he’d be in love, he would’ve laughed in their faces. It’s not like he never wanted to be, sure, he had crushes, but most of them were just fleeting interests, lasting only a short amount of time and never really going further than a crush. Yet, here he was, five years later, sitting across from you. The first person he had ever truly fallen in love with. And hopefully, the last.

It was here, three years earlier, that he kissed you for the first time, holding your soft cheeks between his hands, letting his lips move over yours. It was awkward and clumsy, noses colliding more than once, and not at all what he had imagined a kiss being like, but it was nice and your lips felt so warm against his. He never wanted to pull away and if it weren’t for his lungs screaming for oxygen, he never would’ve.

He had been panting, face flushed, eyelids refusing to open in fear that this was all just some fervent dream. But, you had softly spoken his name and he had opened his eyes to stare down into yours. Eyes so full of life and love. Love for him. He had to move his thumbs across your skin, just to make sure one last time that this wasn’t a dream. The feeling of your face underneath his worn fingers brought a smile to his lips.

He had brought you here for a picnic, just like the one he had set up for today. But, you had made the lunches that day, promising that you washed everything properly while preparing them. Sakusa had noticed your small sigh of relief when he willingly took second, third, fourth bites until it was inevitably gone. Conversation had been much like it was now, nearly non-existent, preferring to revel in one another’s company than having meaningless discussions about things like the weather or the view.

If Sakusa Kiyoomi had been told in high school that in five years, he would be getting engaged, he wouldn’t have believed it. He would have just rolled his eyes, walking off, unamused by the conversation. But, now, there’s a small weight in his pocket and hundreds of pounds of pressure weighing down on his shoulders. Yet, the thought of it kept bringing a soft smile to his face, the mental image of you smiling down at him as he put the little diamond on your finger brought the familiar warmth to his heart. It was a warmth that he felt every single time he looked at you, thought about you when you were apart.

Bentos had long been pushed aside, crumbs being the only remnants. You had moved so that your head was laying against his thigh, every now and then poking his chin to get his attention to show him something that you thought he would enjoy. Kiyoomi’s long fingers were threaded in your hair, reaching for the right thing to say. He was sure that if you had a clear view of his face, you would be asking a million questions, trying to get inside his head and figure out what was with the weird look on his face.

“Hey,” he started, looking down at you.

You lock your phone, putting it down beside you, smiling up at him. “Hey.”

“Can I show you something?” When you just nod, he just shakes his head and tweaks your nose again. “You have to get up, shortie.”

Your lips settle into a cute pout at the nickname, but you sat up anyway, letting him pull you up from the blanket. He tugged you towards the edge of the clearing where the sun shone through the canopy in the breathtaking way. Kiyoomi wasn’t really sure what he was pointing at, but he led your gaze to something in the distance. Yet, even if there was nothing to look at, you still pretended to be mesmerized, whispering softly, “Oh, Kiyoomi. This is incredible.”

Sakusa pulled the little silver band from his pocket. He had been waiting for just the right moment for weeks now and it was here. He had every ounce of courage possible coursing through his body.

While you were distracted by nothing, Sakusa Kiyoomi sank down to a single knee. The happiness of just being here with you, ready to move your relationship forward, pushed any of those annoying thoughts about the filthiness of the dirt to the back of his mind. He didn’t care. You were the only thing that mattered to him right now.

It was the lack of his presence that made you turn your head side to side, looking around wildly for him. You stepped backwards, eyes wide in shock as you looked down into his deep brown eyes. Your boyfriend reached out his hand, taking yours so he could pull you closer towards him.

When he hadn’t even said a word and saw the tears streaming down your face, he was convinced that he had done something wrong. He was already getting up to wipe your cheeks, but you just shook your head, pushing him back to the ground. “No- No, I’m sorry. I’m just- I’m really happy, Omi. You can go ahead. I promise, I’m fine,” you say, smiling wide as you try to dry your eyes.

“Are you sure?” He asks, sinking back down, concern swimming all over his features.

“Yes, baby. I promise.”

He just nods, taking a deep breath. “I’m not really the best at words, but you’ve probably realized that by now. I didn’t really prepare a speech or anything, so this is likely not going to be the proposal you envisioned. The thing is, I have never felt like this with anyone else before. Every time I see you or think about you, I just get so stupidly happy and it took me a really long time to figure out what I was feeling. But, I realized that what I was feeling was love. I was in love with you and I don’t want to be in love with anyone ever again.” He pauses, brows furrowed tightly together as he breaks eye contact with you. “Wait- that sounded bad, didn’t it?”

You shyly shrug as if to politely say yes, but even he can’t miss the breathy laugh escaping your lips.

“Let me try that again- I don’t want to fall in love with anyone else. Was that better?” Sakusa quickly waves those thoughts away. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I love you. I love you so incredibly much. I love every moment that we get to spend together and I want more of those moments. I don’t know if you remember, but we had our first date here. I kissed you right here in this clearing for the first time. It- It really only felt natural to do this here, where everything started all those years ago. I want to marry you and I hope that you’ll have me as your husband, so that we can share more moments like this. Y/N, will you marry me?”

“Of course, Kiyoomi. I would love that more than anything,” you say, smiling down at him, holding his face in your hands. “Or, should I say, shortie,” you tease, pinching his own nose in retaliation.

Your boyfriend, or rather, your fiancé slowly got back to his feet, looking down at you from his incredible height. “What were you saying, shortie?” There’s a gentle smile on his face as he takes your left hand, placing the ring on your finger. “I love you, honestly,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you more, Omi.”

And just as it had begun, this chapter of your life ended with lips connected. But this time, less awkward and significantly more graceful. There was no clumsy bumps of noses, but even after all these years, Sakusa Kiyoomi found himself unwilling to pull away.

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #kiyoomi #omi #imagine #x reader #fluff

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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years

Text

Sharp Edges

Sam Winchester x Spencer Reid

Word Count: ~4880

Warnings: BDSM. Pain play and impact play (hands only, no tools) and discussion of sadism/masochism. The working title for this was “Reluctant Sadist Sam.” Memories of a time Sam pushed the limits of a previously negotiated BDSM scene. Very brief non-explicit masturbation. No actual sex, but it’s very sexy... or at least I think it is?

A/N: This pairing just, like, snuck up and made itself my OTP when I wasn’t looking, and I’m kinda obsessed with it. Big thanks to @mskathywriteswords for a super helpful edit, to @stunudo for an early read and characterization cheerleading (plus this whole Spencer Reid Thing, which is pretty much her fault), and to @fookinghelljensensthighs, for a brainstorming sesh about crucial jizz-related plot questions.

Sam hesitates outside the door for longer than he wants to admit. He’s been thinking about this for years, now. It’s not like there’s any doubt left in his mind, but stepping through that door makes it real. Until he steps through that door, he can brush this off; he only acted on the impulses when he didn’t have a soul, right? They’re not his. Not really.

They are. He knows it.

Years of wondering, guilt, self-loathing. Months of research, asking around, making connections. Weeks since he got the invitation, weeks of nervous anticipation and doubt. Fuck if he’s backing out now, even if he does feel like he’s choking.

He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans and goes inside.

He’s not expecting Lindsey to remember him, but she does, and she greets him with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing knee-high boots and a corset that shoves her cleavage up toward her chin, and Sam feels underdressed in his plain black t-shirt, not to mention painfully inexperienced.

“Want a soda or anything?” she asks brightly, like she’s the head of the PTA instead of the dungeon mistress. “Need me to show you around?”

“No, thanks,” Sam says, tucking his hair behind his ears nervously. “I think… I think I might just want to hang back for a bit.”

“Of course, sweetheart, whatever you need.”

Sam’s good at hiding his fear; he’s practically made a career of it. He puts on his most confident mask and starts walking.

He’s not really sure where to look, at first. His immediate instinct is to avert his eyes. There’s a startling amount of skin on display, but more importantly, there are scenes being played out all around him that are straight out of Sam’s fantasies - the dark, secret ones - the ones he couldn’t admit to, for most of his life.

It took losing his soul to ask for what he really wanted.

The memories from that time, back when something important was missing, are tinted red and foggy. He was selfish, when he didn’t have a soul. It’s the one thing he’s always vowed not to be.

He met a girl in a bar, somewhere in Colorado, and he took her to whatever grimy motel he was calling home that night. When he asked, she giggled, giving him some stupid line about needing to be punished, but when she realized he didn’t just mean a couple light smacks on the ass, she asked him to stop. He shrugged, fucked her anyway, and told her to leave.

The next night, he found a professional, and he made sure they negotiated the price before he took her back to the motel. Even then… Sam feels a twist of guilt when he remembers the moment her moans became whimpers of pain, the look of apprehension in her eyes when she realized she might be in over her head. She never used her safeword, but he knew she wasn’t comfortable with it.

He’d made it up to her, of course, afterward, even before he paid her, but it wasn’t out of any selfless desire to see his partner enjoy herself. It was just ego, just another game. The predator in him just wanted to see if he could make her beg for more after she’d begged him to stop.

When Sam got his soul back, there was a laundry list of foggy red memories that made him feel slimy and sick with shame, but that little vignette was one of the worst.

Sam doesn’t want it to be like that. He doesn’t want to be that brutal, selfish person who got what he needed, no matter the cost.

He wants romance: dinner and a movie, flowers, shy first kisses. He wants those things, but he’s starting to realize that he needs more. He needs that sharp edge of pain with his pleasure. He knows, logically, that there are people out there who need to feel it, in the same way he needs to cause it. It’s a matter of finding the right puzzle piece, is all.

All around him, now, he hears people asking for more, yes, harder, and there’s a sweet, breathless relief coursing through him. He pauses in front of a couple, watching the dom unclip his partner’s leather cuffs from where she’s chained to a ring in the wall. She’s smiling as he murmurs something Sam can’t hear.

“Please,” she says, beaming up at her partner with this incredible blissed-out expression on her face.

Sam’s stomach swoops with such an intense longing that it’s almost painful. He looks away.

He wants that.

Sam glances around the room again, and his eyes catch on a man who looks like he should be in a college lecture hall, instead of a BDSM party. The guy sticks out like a sore thumb in this sea of black and red and leather; Sam can’t help but notice him, and once he notices, it’s hard to tear his gaze away. He’s wearing a sweater-vest and a tie, for fuck’s sake. He’s got a mop of long, messy hair that makes Sam want to tug.

The longer Sam looks, the more he notices the sharp edges. The guy is tall and twig-thin, gangly, all elbows and angles. The line of his jaw looks like it was cut with a razor.

It’s not just the shape of him, though, that’s making Sam think of glinting steel and the rasp of a whetstone. The guy is on his own, hanging back in the same way Sam is, observing… his eyes dart around the room, glancing back and forth, taking it all in with a bright, clear, whip-smart awareness. He’s not smiling, and there’s nothing about his body language that’s welcoming. If someone handled him the wrong way, he’d slice them open.

Sam’s hands twitch. He wants to fit his fingers to the angle of those bones, thumb along the underside of the jaw, index finger running up to the cheekbone. He imagines it would be a perfect fit.

Sam shivers and looks away.

He sneaks a glance again, a few seconds later. The guy’s looking right at him. Sam’s stomach flips. He smiles hesitantly, and gets a blatant assessment in return, an appraising up-and-down. Sam feels like he’s passed some sort of test when the guy starts walking toward him, weaving easily through the crowd.

He stops abruptly when he’s in front of Sam, and Sam feels off-balance, somehow.

“I’m Spencer,” he says, in a soft scratchy voice that makes Sam want to lean in to hear better.

“Sam.” He sticks out his hand.

Spencer doesn’t take it; he waves instead, an awkward little gesture that’s oddly goofy and endearing, even with the frown line creasing his forehead and the shrewd expression on his face.

“You’re the new guy Lindsey was telling me about.” He tilts his head, almost birdlike as he blinks and waits.

“I… guess so? Why would she…”

“I assumed she meant new here, but you’re new to all of it, aren’t you?” It’s not a question.

Sharp, Sam thinks again, flustered. He shrugs.

Spencer’s eyes flick over his face like he’s reading lines of text. There’s something closed-off about the way he’s holding himself, tension in his features, mistrustful or maybe defensive.

Spencer licks his lips as he thinks, and Sam stares at his mouth. His mouth isn’t all points and angles like the rest of him; it’s plush and pink, wide, expressive.

“Hey, Professor,” says a woman, brushing a hand down Spencer’s arm as she passes, and Spencer gives her a quirk of his lips that’s not quite a smile.

“Are you really a professor?” Sam asks.

“No. It’s just because of the way I dress.” He says it matter-of-factly, but Sam notices the way his eyes drop for a second. He’s self-conscious.

“I can’t picture you in leather pants,” Sam says wryly.

“But you’re trying, aren’t you?” Spencer asks, with a flicker of an amused, mischievous smile. It’s gone just as quick as it came, but it leaves Sam feeling warm and pleased. He already wants to see that smile again.

“I think I missed the memo about the uniform,” he admits.

Spencer glances around and says, “I can see how adhering to a certain set of aesthetic cues would help members of a subculture identify each other in everyday life, but it does seem unnecessary here. Something about dressing up just to meet expectations seems disingenuous.”

“You’re really not a professor?” Sam asks, almost unbearably curious.

“No.” Spencer hesitates. “To answer your earlier question, Lindsey told me to keep an eye out for you because she seemed to think we were here for… similar reasons.”

“Oh,” Sam manages. He feels hot and cold and panicky, and he wishes he’d gotten a drink, if only to have something to do with his hands. “You, um. You like…”

“Pain,” Spencer says crisply, with an almost clinical detachment. “I enjoy experiencing pain. And you enjoy inflicting it.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, mouth dry.

Spencer’s watching him closely, frowning again. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.”

“I… yeah,” Sam says. “I guess I know that? Just, um, I always thought of myself as pretty traditional. Not big on one night stands, I like… relationships.”

“And you don’t think people who are into BDSM can have traditional relationships?” Spencer asks, smirking slightly.

Foot, meet mouth.

“No, not like that, I just - if I’m into someone, I want to treat them right. I’m a romantic.”

“A beating can be very romantic,” Spencer deadpans.

Sam sputters out a laugh. “I - I guess. Sure.”

“So, what, you’ve always been about the Al Green and missionary, and you figured you’d try something new?” His voice is dry and amused, and he’s watching Sam, just waiting for a reaction to the needling.

“Not exactly,” Sam says, grimacing.

“What, exactly, then?”

Sam can’t remember the last time anyone made him feel like this, like the conversation is a fencing match that he’s losing spectacularly; Spencer disarmed him already and is still toying with him, landing one glancing blow after another, just to see if he can.

Sam stammers for a second before saying, “I’ve always been interested in this, I just - never had an opportunity, really.”

“Don’t lie. You don’t have any reason to be embarrassed,” Spencer says, frowning.

Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He forces himself to spit out the truth: “I always wanted to think of myself as a nice guy. The things I want… there’s nothing nice about what I want, when it comes to sex. I couldn’t admit that until recently.”

Spencer smiles, and his whole face is incandescent with it. He tamps down the wattage of the smile with a twitch of his lips, eyes darting around as he thinks. Sam gets the feeling he already knew the answer, and was just waiting to see whether Sam would admit it.

“It’s not always about sex,” Spencer offers. “Sometimes you just… want to get out of your head, you know?”

Sam considers that for a moment, and he looks at Spencer, watching his fingers as they tap a silent rhythm against the side of his leg.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, and he’s proud of himself for how steady his voice sounds.

“Maybe.” Spencer meets his gaze evenly. “But you’re very strong, very inexperienced, and very anxious, and that’s not usually a good combination in someone who gets off on being in charge.”

Sam bristles instinctively before he hears the question in it.

“That’s not - it’s not like that,” he says with a sigh. “It’s not a power trip thing. It’s not about overpowering someone, I don’t want to tie you up, I don’t - it’s not like that. And I’m not inexperienced.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You said -”

“I’m new to this,” Sam interrupts, and gestures around them at the party. “I’m not new to… pain.”

For the first time, there’s a hint of curiosity in Spencer’s eyes, an inkling that he doesn’t have Sam quite as figured out as he’d thought.

“Why are you here, then? What do you want to get out of this?” Spencer asks.

Sam thinks about that, trying not to fidget as he figures out how to say it.

“I don’t want it to be just about… what I get out of it,” Sam says slowly. “I want someone who - who needs it the same way I do, so that it’s not… I don’t want it to be something I do to someone, I want to do this with someone.” He hesitates and adds, “With you. If you want.”

He can see Spencer analyzing him, analyzing his words, weighing the odds, calculating the risks.

“I’m not going to have sex with you. Not tonight,” Spencer says coolly. “You can touch yourself, but I’m not going to touch you.”

Sam shrugs. “Okay.”

“No tools, no toys, no restraints, not the first time.” His voice is dispassionate, matter-of-fact, like he’s reading out a grocery list. “Just your hands. You can scratch, but don’t draw blood.”

“Okay,” Sam says. He’s glad Spencer said it before he had to admit he wasn’t confident enough, yet, to use a flogger on a stranger. His voice cracks. “Safeword?”

“Lateral orbitofrontal cortex.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, I’m aware that it’s three words.”

It startles a laugh out of Sam. “That’s not what I meant.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile. “Seriously. But I only say ‘stop’ if I really mean it.”

“I understand. If I didn’t get the joke, would you have called this whole thing off?”

Spencer’s lips twitch again. He just shrugs. “Anything else we need to talk about?”

“After?” Sam asks. “What can I - how do I help, afterward?”

Spencer pauses, a strange expression flickering over his face for a moment before he says, “Don’t leave?”

It sounds like a question. Sam doesn’t think it was supposed to sound like a question.

“Of course. Is that all?”

Spencer shrugs. “That’s all. Just. Stay, for a minute. I’ll tell you, if there’s anything else I need. That’s the only thing I… can’t always bring myself to ask for, in the moment.”

He gives Sam a very practiced, casual sort of smile, nonchalant, blinking up at him innocently as if to say I’m fine! See?

The protector in Sam is snarling. He just nods calmly.

“What about you?” Spencer asks.

Sam frowns, taken aback by that. It didn’t occur to him that he might need to be taken care of.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Is that okay?”

“Yes. That’s okay,” Spencer says. This time his little half-smile is sweet and genuine.

Sam looks around nervously. “Is there anywhere more private? This isn’t really...”

“Agreed,” Spencer says. “There’s an open door policy, I’m sure Lindsey explained, but there are other rooms where there won’t be a crowd.”

He leads Sam through the living room, heading up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. Sam catches glimpses of scenes through three open doors before they reach the last room. It’s small, some sort of office, he thinks, lit dimly enough to feel comfortable. There’s no bed, just a loveseat, an end table, and a desk with an office chair, but the desk holds an assortment of toys, chains, and condoms instead of a computer.

It’s quieter, here. It feels warmer, too, but that might just be Sam’s nerves kicking in. He glances at the open door instinctively as Spencer starts to loosen his tie.

Spencer notices, of course. “There’s an understanding, with the regulars, that this is where you go if you don’t really want an audience.”

Sam nods and turns to get a better look at some of the implements on the desk, skin prickling with adrenaline. He runs his fingers over the sleek handle of a riding crop, imagining the sound it would make on skin.

He’s all too aware of his own inexperience, and he’s all too aware of how badly he could hurt someone with a misplaced blow from the gorgeous leather whip that’s lying next to the crop. He’d want to practice, first, and he’d want to be with someone he trusts, but there’s no denying that he wants.

Someday, he thinks, and shivers.

When he turns around again, Spencer’s putting a neatly folded pile of clothes on the loveseat. He brushes his hair out of his eyes as he straightens up, tilting his chin almost defiantly to meet Sam’s gaze. He still looks sharp around the edges, from the angular shape of his Adam’s apple, bobbing as he swallows, to the jut of his hipbones. There’s something brittle about the way he holds himself.

“Where do you want me?” he asks quietly, with a crack in his voice that belies the careful blankness on his face. “Um, bearing in mind that most of this room is probably highly unsanitary and I’m something of a germaphobe. Minimal contact with furniture would be… ideal.” He wrinkles his nose and Sam huffs out a laugh.

“Over here. Brace yourself against the wall.”

Spencer walks over silently and settles with his forearms on the wall, his head bowed, and goes completely still.

Sam lets himself stare for one long moment, taking it all in: the delicate curve of his bent neck, the prominent ridge of his spine, the lean muscles that shift under pale skin, shoulder blades that Sam wants to run his thumb across to test whether they’d cut him as easily as he imagines.

There’s tension in the way he’s holding himself, though. Sam frowns to himself and steps closer.

Sam’s been hiding this, his whole life; he’s been burying this sharp, nasty piece of himself, ignoring need in favor of romance, affection, emotion. He didn’t think they could coexist.

He has a feeling that Spencer’s been doing the opposite: slipping into this formal, scripted exchange of limits and safewords and scientific explanations, being perfectly clear about what he needs but never admitting what he wants.

The party is still going on outside, but the silence between them is heavy enough to drown out the noise of it. Sam takes one deep breath, then another, syncing his inhales to the steady rise of Spencer’s shoulders, and sidles closer, standing at Spencer’s side where he’s visible.

He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he’s crossing a line, before following his instinct and resting a gentle hand on Spencer’s back, right between his shoulderblades. Spencer doesn’t flinch at the touch, but Sam can tell he’s surprised.

“You good?” Sam asks quietly.

Spencer turns his head slightly, looking sideways at Sam through long lashes.

“I’m good,” he whispers, in that soft, smoky voice.

“Okay.”

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth crooks up in a shy half-smile. “I’m not gonna break. I’m stronger than I look.”

“I’d fuckin’ hope so, cause you look like I could snap you with my pinky finger,” Sam says bluntly. Spencer ducks his head and laughs, bright and surprised, and Sam can feel the vibrations of it under his palm.

“Fair enough,” Spencer says, grinning as he goes still again. He’s not tense any more, though. He’s calm, breathing evenly under Sam’s hand.

Sam rests his fingertips on the nape of Spencer’s neck for a moment, making his intentions clear. The first drag of his nails is gentle, nowhere near enough pressure to sting. He twists his wrist to drag them back up along the same path, still gentle, and then moves to repeat the process on a new strip of skin, once and then again. He can see the goosebumps running down Spencer’s arms, the way his neck arches, silently asking for more.

“Are you sure?” Sam asks.

His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation when he whispers, “Yes.”

Sam curls his fingers in and drags one knuckle down the knobby bumps of his vertebrae.

“Okay,” he repeats.

Every lingering bit of doubt and hesitation and anxiety disappear with the first sharp crack of his palm coming down. Spencer hisses in a breath, shivers, and Sam exhales with him.

His body goes fizzy and focused, suddenly. It’s like in the last moments of a fight, when Sam knows he’ll win, he knows exactly what to do, he sees what needs to happen with absolute clarity, and all that’s left is to trust his muscles to get the job done. It feels good. It feels like this is exactly where Sam’s meant to be.

Two more blows, in quick succession, and the next exhale is more like a gasp. The sound sends heat lancing through Sam’s gut.

He’s careful about it, precise, still holding back, as he moves lower. He knows how to use his hands, how to hit with just the right amount of force, which spots will hurt, which spots he should avoid unless he wants to cause real damage. Sam’s been practicing for this his whole life, in a way.

He lands a light smack on one thigh, then the other, then harder, on the same spots. Sam’s vision tunnels down to the red flush that’s already blossoming on Spencer’s pale skin. Something dark and possessive curls in his stomach.

The next impact pulls a rough, gorgeous sound from Spencer’s throat. Sam gives him a second to recover before doing it again, and then again, until his palm is smarting with the force of it.

He pauses abruptly. He can see the way Spencer tenses, waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. Instead Sam brushes the tips of his fingers over red, heated skin, feather-light, making Spencer shudder, before dragging three fingernails delicately up his spine again.

“I like the way my handprints look on you,” Sam says quietly. Spencer sucks in a shaky breath. Sam rakes his fingernails down again, digging in this time, and Spencer’s exhale breaks on a low, gravelly groan.

The raised red lines trail down his back, a perfect set of three all the way down the right side of his spine. Sam takes a moment to admire them before giving him a matching set on the left. He traces those lines again, smoothing them with his fingertips, fascinated by the feel of raised flesh.

Spencer is trembling, but he’s still, waiting, ready, and there’s a dizzying level of trust implicit in that stillness.

Sam’s blindsided by the gut-punch of arousal he feels at that realization. He takes a deep breath, putting it to the side. He’s determined to prove to himself that this doesn’t have to be selfish.

He brings his hand down again with a powerful snap of his wrist that makes Spencer whimper. His skin must be sensitive now, blood rushing to every spot Sam’s marked, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Sam puts some muscle into the next one, and that’s saying something. He’s strong, he knows he is, and he pauses to gauge the reaction. Spencer lets out another of those breathy, beautiful whimpers, and Sam can see the shudder that goes through him. Sam rakes his fingernails up the tender, overheated skin he just hit, nothing gentle about it, and Spencer arches his back, squirming slightly.

He’s panting; they both are. Sam realizes that they’re breathing in sync, and he takes another deep heaving breath that matches the rise and fall of Spencer’s shoulders.

Sam gives in to the urge, finally, and tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair, tugging his head back so Sam can see his face clearly: eyes closed, lashes fluttering, a sheen of sweat on those lethal cheekbones, his mouth slack. There’s a flush decorating the pale skin, patchy, spilling all the way from his cheeks to the hollow of his neck and down his chest. He looks totally relaxed, peaceful, like he could melt under Sam’s hands.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Sam bites out, before he can help himself, and then asks, “You good?”

“Yes.” It’s a gasp more than a word. Spencer’s eyes are still closed.

“More?”

Spencer licks his lips and swallows hard, and Sam watches the way his throat moves with it. He whispers, “Please.”

Heat thuds through Sam’s belly, urgent and overwhelming. He ignores it, ignores how hard he is, ignores everything but the way Spencer’s head lolls forward when Sam releases his hair and the way he moans at the next hit.

Sam’s not holding back any more.

There’s a rhythm to it: the sound of his palm, crack, and the choked, rasping sound that it pulls from Spencer’s lips, nnngh, and the steady thump-thump of Sam’s heartbeat pounding in his ears, and it crescendos quickly, until the ragged cries turn desperate and wrecked.

“Last one,” he warns.

Crack.

“I need -”

Sam thinks of Spencer’s “no touching” rule, but he can’t bring himself to move away entirely. He tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair again, tugging gently and then combing through the messy curls, and Spencer leans into it, catlike. He lets out a deep, ragged groan as he touches himself, movements fast and urgent.

“Did so good,” Sam says fiercely. His fingers twist and tug, sharp enough to sting, and he curls the other hand around Spencer’s side, digging his thumbnail into the ridge of his hipbone. That’s all it takes; he can feel the head-to-toe shudder, the last surge of tension before Spencer shakes almost violently under his hands.

Spencer crumples like a puppet with his strings cut.

“C’mere, I’ve got you,” Sam says hoarsely, getting an arm around him and maneuvering so that they both have their backs to the wall as they slide to the floor.

Spencer ends up tucked against Sam’s side, folded under his arm like he belongs there. He’s breathing harsh and heavy, and Sam cups the round of his shoulder with one hand, running his thumb in mindlessly soothing circles, waiting for him to come back to himself.

As for Sam… he’s hard, still, more turned on than he can remember being in a long time, but there’s the strangest sense of calm settling into his body, a bone-deep satisfaction that has nothing to do with sex.

This isn’t the same vicious, feral sort of satisfaction that he remembers. It’s nothing like crimson-tinted memories of lashing out rough and wild, like some sort of savage animal he’d unleashed. There’s nothing selfish about this.

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathless at the wave of blissed-out relief that’s crashing down around him.

“You good?” he asks, falling back on what seems to be his mantra for the evening.

“I’m… no, not really, hang on,” Spencer mumbles, and Sam flinches, moving away instinctively.

“Shit, sorry, what -”

“No, wait, that’s not - just… can you reach the tissues, or do I actually have to stand up right now?” Spencer asks, with a disgruntled sort of glare at the box of Kleenex on the end table.

Sam laughs, awkward and self-conscious. Spencer blinks owlishly up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Then a smile spreads over his face slowly and he’s laughing too as Sam leans and stretches over to grab the box.

“The male orgasm is really inconvenient sometimes,” Spencer mutters.

Sam lets out another snort of laughter, looking away to give him some privacy as he cleans up. He’s not sure what the etiquette of this whole situation is; it’s such a strange thing, oddly intimate, and even though Sam’s still fully-dressed, he feels exposed in a way he’s not used to.

“Now I’m good,” Spencer says quietly. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, but he tilts his head back against the wall and aims a hazy, heavy-lidded stare at Sam. His lips part and curl up in a barely-there smile, and his tongue flicks out over the pink curve of his lower lip.

Those edges that Sam first noticed are harder to see, now; he’s all soft eyes and softer mouth, flushed skin, messy hair… all except the line of his jaw. That’s still wickedly, unmistakably sharp.

Spencer should come with a warning sign: handle with care. Sam’s not sure who that sign would be protecting. It could be handle with care: fragile, or, just as easily, handle with care: sharp edges.

Either way, there’s a good chance of someone getting hurt here.

“Can I kiss you?” Sam asks.

Spencer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly with surprise, and his pupils are huge and dark, liquid-looking, hypnotic. He blinks, slowly, and suddenly looks about ten years younger. He’d been so self-assured ordering Sam not to draw blood; that confidence is gone, now, like he’s had less experience with kissing than with telling people how to hit him.

Oh, Sam thinks, and tries not to let his own surprise show on his face.

“Yes,” Spencer whispers. He licks his lower lip again before adding, thready and shy, “Please.”

Sam reaches out slowly. His pinky, ring, and middle fingers curl around the side of Spencer’s neck, sliding through thin, sweat-damp strands of hair. The L-shape of his thumb and index finger slots to the angle of Spencer’s jaw. He can feel the bone under thin skin, the way the pad of his thumb nestles so neatly between the hard edge of jawbone and the soft give of vulnerable throat.

It’s a perfect fit.

#spencer reid #sam winchester #spn #criminal minds #sam winchester x spencer reid

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