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doctorprofessorsong · 6 months ago

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Hello! I recently watched The Winchesters and had a question, which I figured you could answer/discuss?

I'm aware that the show takes place in an Alt Universe, and that Spn's John never fell into the hunting life earlier, so he never knew Carlos personally. But still, it's still him — and he is not homophobic towards Carlos who is canonically bi. It can be argued that he just does not know, like he did not know about Carlos serving the Navy, but then what about Anton? We know Lata knows, of course. But has it been explicitly stated that Mary & John know too? And it's not like Carlos hides himself; he's open about his interests and that's amazing, but John is never portrayed as a Hater, no? Not in this sense in the show.

But we, as a fandom, have concluded that John is the reason for Dean's suppression of his own feelings — in general, and about being into men — but then... Carlos.

Did Dean assume his father would never approve? Because he never does of anything that has to do with feelings; it's always hunting and more hunting and revenge, of course. Is that what happened, rather than John actually being homophobic, he was a colossal failure of a parent who "just" pushed away his son(s) emotionally to a level where potential abuse and discouragement were more realistic than anything else? Does this also mean that when Dean does come out to John he would be supportive, at least, of this?

It's just been bugging me, is all.

Hoo boy. Throwing me an easy one before coffee, huh? :)

As a fun aside, there is a scene where a Carlos is mentioned in the mothership. It's not established to be the same Carlos in SPNwin, but the SPN episode was written by Robbie and he has acknowledged they are in his mind.

That doesn't get us to an answer, but it's nice to know that Dean and Sam possibly knew a version of Carlos.

Leading with the short answer to the actual question: what you have described regarding canon is a lot of assumptions and headcanons, which are fine and can absolutely be read as "John was just different in the different universes,' but I personally find that to be the boring answer. I think this fandom tends to write John as the evil bad dad, when a complex gray John is far meatier, so I'm often inclined to go deeper.

The answer I feel works better is the possibly unpopular opinion that we don't actually know John is homophobic at all and it's very possible Dean’s relationship with his father, while fraught with expectations in any number of ways, may not actually be driving his choice to live in the closet and/or his delayed realization of his sexual orientation. It's extremely possible John isn't homophobic at all. Dean may have read him that way or he may have felt pressure from external sources. These days my preferred reading tends to actually be something else entirely: that Dean knows he is queer and simply doesn't reveal it because he is of an era and a world where queerness is often not open and obvious to outsiders.

This is gonna be a long haul so I'm gonna pop in a courtesy cut and jump in. Don't worry. There WILL be headings and bullet points. Regret asking me yet? 😆

Is John homophobic?

Canon support

There isn't a ton of canon support for the homophobic John reading. That's not saying it isn't a valid reading. It's just that it's an interpretation and not fact. Here are the things I have seen or remember:

Martin and Tara - taking these together because they are a similar pattern. Both tell Dean his dad would be disappointed in him for running around with this male shaped monster (boyfriend). The textual reading is that John wouldn't want him running around with monsters. There is a subtexual reading that John wouldn't want him to have a boyfriend which is super valid. It just doesn't tell us much about John because 1. We know he was very black and white on monsters, 2. neither of these characters knows John that well. Tara got ghosted by him. It's possible this is a reflection of the larger hunter community (though possibly not even that). The point is it's canon evidence that can be taken either way.

Lee? A lot of people write that scene as John finding in them in a compromising position and I get it because Christian Kane and Jensen Ackles looked like they were about to sneak off to the bathroom, but the actual story is "You remember that time he caught us wasted on a Hunt? Hm? He was so mad, I-I thought he was gonna have an aneurysm." We know that John is really hard on Dean and Sam specifically because he chooses preparation for monsters over all (including their mental health) so this is absolutely consistent with his character regardless of any romance between them.

The nuns - this is not technically canon, but there is a story about John sending Dean on a solo hunt on his birthday to chase after queer nuns. First and foremost, I am noting this is sketchy from a canon/non-canon evidence perspective. It is something written and endorsed by SPN in the same way as the cartoon and the upcoming graphic novel. It's not fan fiction, but I would say it's not truly canon canon. But taking the evidence for what it is, it's interesting to note that in the journal John doesn't actually say anything homophobic. He describes the hunt as "Simple salt-and-burn mission. Nuns in love with each other, then discovered. Killed themselves." There's no commentary. No slurs. They were "in love." The real meat of the homophobia here is that he sent is queer son alone on his birthday to deal with them and it could be read as a message. That doesn't mean it's intended to be one.

That's all I can think of. It's not a lot and it's not definitive. It's perfectly valid to read it as support for homophobic John AND I think there may be some writer intent in the same way that monsters are often an allegory in the show and in media for queerness.

But it's also not a smoking gun. It's more of a unloaded gun with bullets next to it. So why do people think John is this super homophobic person?

Non-canon support and factors

There's a lot that goes into the interpretation of John that lies outside of the text.

His age and upbringing - He was raised in a time and place where acceptance of queer people wasn't exactly the default and then he went into the military which is also not exactly known for being particularly great for queer acceptance.

Classism - I say this gently to the fandom, but there is this idea that people who aren't in urban areas, and especially in poor rural areas must be homophobic. This comes up a lot in the Sam went to Stanford and is educated and therefore is a better ally headcanon. It's worth considering whether that is a factor here.

He raised his kids with military precision when he was around - there is no doubt that John was a hard man who treated his children like soldiers. A lot of people group gender and sexual orientation, especially when it comes to the gender aspects of masculinity where "be a man" and "be tougher" is frequently aimed at queer men. There's a lot of masculinity reinforcement for sure in the text and subtext of the show.

He's a bad dad and we're a bunch of traumatized queers with daddy issues. I know because I'm not only the owner, I'm a member.

I'm simplifying some of this, but there are a lot of factors that contribute to this reading and they are real and valid reasons. They just aren't textual and in some cases they are absolutely based in stereotypes. That's fine! Stereotypes aren't always incorrect. But they can be and it's worth wondering whether or not they are true.

There are plenty of people like John who are either not homophobic, or of the nature of it's fine if I don't see it variety of homophobia (which would actually be fairly logical to read into given the time and place of Dean's upbringing and the risk being openly queer presented especially for John who's priority is physical safety and preparation).

Personally, I find the lack of text to be fairly compelling, especially when we look at Dean's other behaviors, but that is my interpretation. I personally think John would have a problem with a monster boyfriend because of the monster bit, but doesn't give a fuck about the boyfriend bit except to the extent it may draw danger. I don't actually think John fits the rural strict father homophobic stereotype very well. He's not particularly religious. He doesn't seem to care what his kids do as long as they are safe and in the family business. He doesn't quiz Dean about where he was or who he was with.

I grew up in the South and have known a lot of homophobic parents in my day (including my own! See above). The pattern is often a parent who wants their kid to meet a certain social standard. Don't be gay because it will reflect bad on the family and you will go to hell. John shows negative interest in that arena.

He shows some of the don't be gay because it isn't manly aspects of that type of parent, but I also think a lot of people conflate masculinity with sexual orientation in this analysis. I say this specifically nodding to the Krikpe quote about umbrellas which in no way mentions being gay, but does mention being tough hunters not scared of demons. The text of that tweet and the story the fandom tells are two very distinct things.

It's very possible that those aspects of John's personality are part of why Dean performs tough het male so hard and that would be an aspect of what you are describing. I will also say however that Dean cries a lot. He's very open with his emotions and with caring for people. He's very good with people. Hes always been openly a caretaker. So he isn't performing masculinity so hard that those pieces of him are erased or hidden.

Why is Dean Like That if it isn't the daddy issues?

Let's look at this as if John wasn't openly and particularly notably homophobic. That is to say he had the casual homophobia of the 80s and 90s combined with a friend group of hypermasculine beer and bourbon drinking dudes with guns, but he wasn't, say, abusing Dean if he caught sight of potential gayness. Just to analyze the other question which is Dean's suppression of his feelings or denial of his queerness.

The fandom is not a monolith and I think there are lots of fans with lots of differing analysis in this arena, so I just want to again reiterate, this is all interpretation and headcanon! It's fine to fall anywhere in this spectrum.

Dean is Like That because he assumes he knows how his Dad would react

It's possible John talked about this idea that he has to get to an apple pie life long enough and made assumptions about the gender of his future partner, or that he was so neglectful or abusive, or that he made enough comments about being a "man" because he was worried about Dean being a victim, that Dean assumed his father would not support him. It's possible the canon events above where never intended to send a message to Dean that he still believed and read into them. That's not a criticism. We all interpret the things that happen to us. We are the ones who put meaning to an event, and that meaning may not match with the other person's intent. It doesn't make it invalid.

As you say, it may be a failure of parenting.

Dean is Like That because he grew up in the 80s and 90s

As someone who was born between Dean and Sam, I can say with the authority of experience that the 80s and 90s were a rough time to be queer. Like a really rough time. There were a lot of cultural things happening. Not to mention Dean had a rough upbringing.

HIV/AIDS - There are greater and more knowledgeable sources than me about this topic, but growing up during this time I can say that people were absolutely fucking awful about HIV/AIDS. We had school assemblies full of misinformation. Scores of people were dying and being told they deserved it. A lot of queer kids were internalizing the idea that queerness was a death sentence. I cannot actually come up with a good comparison in modern day. It was absolutely awful for the community, and the messages being delivered to kids was: "if you choose to be gay, you will die."

Casual homophobia - Remember when Misha used the f-word and people lost their fucking minds even though he was talking about lived experiences for most of us of a certain age? Yeah, that outrage was unimaginable to me as a kid. The idea that people would ever get to a point where the use of the word in a non-slur posture would even register. Slurs were thrown around all the time. People and things were "gay" and that was bad. Dean spent time being thrown from school to school and it would have been a massively important for him to come in performing cool masculine untouchable guy who enjoys women.

Dean lives in a transient space - He's constantly alone and in charge in places where someone might take advantage of him or Sammy. Being noticed and assumed weak is dangerous.

Counterpoint: Dean's upbringing may support more comfort rather than less with queerness, but it encouraged secrecy

To fully contradict myself, Dean was in transient spaces. That means he would have been interacting with more queer people than the average suburban or rural teen. He's in truck stops and no-tell motels. That boy met queer people. But he met people who were living in the shadows. This isn't unusual for that era. Queerness to dean was cruising and truck stops and one night stands in seedy motels. Something to be done but not to be seen.

Dean's reaction to queer people in canon supports this reading. He's never disgusted, but he's often surprised specifically about open and public displays of queerness. He tends to react to openly queer people with surprise and longing, but specifically most of his oh right there are queer people faces are reactions to open displays of queerness.

Even HIV/AIDS may have hit different in the hunting community. Dean didn't expect to live to an old age. I say this mainly because the lack of blood squick.

Consider a reading that he knows

We have so many lovely coded moments of queer Dean. The bathroom he disappears into. The way he gets clocked and doesn't deny it at times. Any denials he makes can be read to be situations where he doesn't know what the other person will react like.

I think it's very possible he isn't repressed at all! He just uses the closet as a shield or he doesn't share that information with people unless he wants to/trusts them/feels it's relevant to them.

PS DM me if you want to chat more and also I may have a discord of interest.

#the winchesters #spnwin #supernatural #john winchester #dean winchester #john winchester & dean winchester #daddy issues #cw homophobia #cw mention of HIV/AIDS

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the-modern-typewriter · 2 years ago

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hey~ first off i love ur writing, it’s so gorgeous.

second, may i request something similar//continuation of the king x rogue series from like 3 years ago?? rly old so i understand if u don’t wanna bring it back but one of my favs of yours <3

(This one, I think -though this isn't a continuation)

"My lord."

The king jumped out of his skin (in a very kingly manner, of course) and whirled in his seat.

His rogue smirked at him from - he wasn't even near the window, he was lounging against one of the walls as if he'd been there the whole time. He hadn't.

"You're like a cat," the king said. "A ninja cat."

"A very royal assessment, my lord."

The king scowled at him.

The rogue's smirk grew. He pushed himself off his languid incline, shadowed by the encroaching evening, and closer to the pool of golden light which bathed the king's private desk. The king always privately thought that his rogue looked better in gold than he did.

Up close, however, there was something unreadable in the rogue's eyes. The king had seen it before, many a time, but he'd never quite managed to decipher it.

The king's scowl thus deepened. "You only call me 'my lord' when you're mocking me."

"I would never mock you, my lord."

"Or when you're about to tell me something that you know I won't like."

The rogue's smirk transformed into that something else - softer, but just as indecipherable. "Are you ready for your grand festivities tonight?"

"It's a ridiculous tradition."

"Most traditions are."

"Thank the fates that I'll have you by my side."

The rogue hesitated.

The king twisted properly in his chair, rising from his desk and his stolen moment for never-ending duties. His eyes narrowed. "Thank the fates," he said again, "that I'll have you by my side."

His rogue was always at his side, at his heels; his deadly, playful, dependable shadow. It had been that way since they were teenagers.

"My lord-"

"Do not." The king resisted the urge to fold his arms across is chest, because they were not boys anymore, and perhaps it was absurd to feel hurt. Betrayed, even. Yet... He swallowed and tried to keep his voice light. "You don't want to see who I pick to marry? You're going to have to put up with her forever."

His rogue, unusually enough, didn't say anything.

"At the very least," the king continued, "there'll be wine and dancing and games. All things, I recall, which are very much to your liking." It was more to his rogue's liking than his, certainly. He'd grown up the diplomat, but the only time he ever really had fun at such affairs was when his rogue was at his side, talking him into something that was probably a very bad idea.

"My lord." His rogue's voice was as warm and catching as a fire spark. "I can say with the utmost certainty that I have no desire to see who you pick or propose to tonight."

It was his kingdom's tradition that a new king, on the anniversary of his coronation, must throw a ball and invite all the eligible young women of the kingdom. He must then, over the course of three nights, choose one of them to marry. Of course, most of the time, the who was practically decided well before then informally. But it was still tradition.

He'd never considered that his rogue wouldn't be at his side for it.

"Oh," he managed. He was unsure how to reconcile the words with the tone. He cleared his throat. "I see."

"I don't think you do."

Their eyes met. The puzzle pieces flew together as his rogue took a step closer still, taking his hand with a boldness that would have shocked anyone outside of the room.

"I can't," the rogue said again, with no trace of that perfect, infuriating smirk.

The king didn't pull his hand away. The rogue's was rough against his own, scarred from fights and wounds that were meant for him instead. Still, he didn't know what to say.

I would choose you, if I could wouldn't fix the problem. Oh wasn't anywhere near enough, and I'm sorry felt like an insult to the both of them. It didn't change the obligations he had to his kingdom.

He could have prepared a thousand speeches for the moment, but his mouth still would have been too dry to come out with a single useless word to encompass everything. He pulled the rogue's hand up to his lips, instead, pressing a kiss to his rogue's knuckles in the same way a courtier might swear fealty to their sovereign.

The rogue closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged.

People would enter the room soon enough, they would whisk the king away to get ready for this grand and important night, and his rogue...

"You're leaving," the king said, finally. "I understand."

"What?" The rogue's eyes snapped open. "No."

Dizzying relief flooded the king and it must have shown on his face.

The rogue made a performance of rolling his eyes. "You'd be dead in a week without me." He dropped the king's hand, gave a smirk that didn't quite match up to the sharp shine of his usual, and stepped back. "I'll just be spending the next three nights getting merrily sloshed. You'll be well looked after. I've made the necessary arrangements."

"I'll send over a flagon of wine."

"Don't."

Yeah, that did feel like a pitiful consolation. Crueller than the king had intended it to be. He floundered. His hand felt far too empty. He folded his arms then, before he could stop himself.

"You don't have to stay by my side," he said, instead. The best and most terrible offer he could make.

His rogue opened his mouth, then closed it. He studied the king with uncharacteristic seriousness, before his face shifted to its usual carelessness. "Keep this up," the rogue purred, "and I'll think you're trying to get rid of me. See you in three days."

"Goodbye."

He watched his rogue go, heart aching, because what else was there to do that was fair or kind to the man he loved but could not have? Except to say goodbye.

He wished he could avoid watching himself get married to someone else too. He turned back to his desk, any vague excitement he'd managed to muster for the ball evaporated. He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes, when no one was there to see it.

He was, thus, surprised when the rogue appeared behind him again, pulling him around. Warm hands cupped his jaw with surety, and then the rogue's lips were pressed against the king's. Sweet and claiming and - if the king's heart had not been willingly given long ago - enough to steal anyone's love.

He'd imagined what it might be like to kiss his rogue so many times. He'd always feared that if he let himself try, he'd never be able to stop.

They broke apart, breathless; the king a little dazed.

"Tell your people," the rogue said, pulling him towards the bed. "That you're going to be fashionably late to that party."

#king x rogue #rogue #friends to lovers #writing #royalty #fiction #creative writing #story #story snippet #writing snippet #romance #m/m #lgbtq #lgbtq romance

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scorpiosleeps · 7 months ago

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Liminal Spaces - 141

((For this to make even a little bit of sense, please go read the wonderful brainchild of the talented @notspiders - I've linked the post at the bottom, you can't miss it! All credit goes to them ♥))

Part 1 - The Watchtower

There's only ever been one rule - You're supposed to stay up in the watchtower when he isn't with you (a rare occurrence as he seems to hate being away even for a moment) and you'd think there'd be some pull, some inclination to explore and see things for yourself... but not really? (Not anymore).

Sometimes there's a nagging, irritating feeling in the back of your head, it tells you to do silly things, dangerous things - like putting on your hiking boots, getting some essentials together... and running away.

But that's silly. (And you shiver when you think about going out into the woods on your own.)

It's cozy up in the watchtower, always the perfect temperature inside, always a drink fitting the weather set out waiting for you, a snack prepared in advance if you get peckish, a blanket or some fuzzy socks if it's chilly or a pair of sunglasses and a hat if the sunbeams are persistent.

Your biggest weakness however - several piles of books by the bed. You.. don't really remember how long you've been here, but you've read so many books one would think you should have managed to make a dent in the stacks by now - but no.

And it's not like you're complaining, not at all, every single book you've picked up thus far has scratched just the right itch for that day. (But it's weird, isn't it?)

And you couldn't have asked for a better companion, he doesn't crowd you when you want to be alone (though he's never far from sight). If you want to spend the day reading away, he'll simply take the four-wheeler (that only ever works for him) and go on a provision run, it's kinda funny how those trips are always on days when you have no desire to leave the watchtower (right?). Or he'll go hunting - disappearing in to the woods without gear or weapons of any kind and yet always bringing back game slung over his strong, broad back.

It's not that he refuses to take you with him (not at all, he loves your company!) it's just that when you go with him, the two of you always seem to get distracted and end up doing something completely different then what you set out to do. Like rock-climbing! Or he'll teach you how to throw axes, or tie a snare - always willing to please you, quick to laugh and even quicker with a joke.

Some days, instead of being boisterous and smiling, blue eyes glittering with mischief, he will go quiet, contemplative and go sit out by the railing and watch the horizon. - And you've found yourself thinking, on more than one occasion that it's as if he is actively trying not to look at you. His fingers wrapped around the old rusty metal, knuckles white and taut. You learned quickly that he was best left alone on days like that. (So things don't get out of hand).

He always keeps you safe though, even from yourself. Because as good as you have it here, sometimes you have bad days too and you get confused. You don't like yourself very much on those days, on those days you don't like your companion very much either, or at all in fact.

You scream and shout and cry, accuse him of horrible things, of scary things.. and on really bad days he has to restrain you, take hold of your smacking hands and scratching nails and push you down in bed under his solid body. Holding you still while he coos and whispers sweet nothings in your ear (always with that warm highland lilt) until you've calmed down, until you can breath again. When your head finally stops hurting, finally stops feeling like it's going to tear in two.

And you can't fault him if his touch lingers, if he's reluctant to let you go. To release your body from under his much bigger one. And him grinding up against your core, slotting your body perfectly against his.. that's just to keep you from hurting yourself (Even if it short circuits your brain). So what if his eyes go a little crazed and stares at inappropriate places on your body - anyone can get cabin fever!

The important thing is - He keeps you safe and even if you sulk and pout afterwards (his words, not yours), if you refuse to get out of bed and spend days simply laying curled up under covers and blankets staring out over the vast (never ending) stretch of forest surrounding you... he always takes care of you.

He'll nail up an old bedsheet and set up the projector so you can watch movies together, or he'll pick up the book you've started on and read aloud - picking up right where you left off.

More often than not he'll do voices for the characters, bring them to life with exaggerated accents and gesticulations, all to make you smile. Or he'll go completely off script and put on his own little show, just for your amusement, it never fails to leave you in stitches.

He'll tempt you and entice you with delicious smelling foods, stacks of pancakes with butter and maple syrup, rich flavourful stews that leave you both groaning and unbuttoning your pants. Or he'll pull a pint of your favourite ice-cream out of the icebox, when you could have sworn, you'd run out days ago (Gaz only knows where he got it from).

And soon enough the bad mood will pass, it will slip away and you're back to enjoying yourself in the quiet of the watchtower, feeling at peace once more.

His big, steady arm wrapped around your shoulders, his nose pressed down at the top of your head, breathing you in, calming him down and stirring him up in equal measure. (Unbeknownst to you.)

You're right where you should be, where you belong.

With him.

#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #cod mwii #cod mwiii #soap cod #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #task force 141 #cod 141 #cod headcanons #liminal spaces #watchtower #the woods #liminal spaces part one #sleepywrites

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knyox · 1 year ago

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I don't think I've ever seen top! Sae x bottom! male reader, so I'm taking it upon myself to feed our bottom inclined male readers (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

Enjoy~ (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ 🩷🩵

[Warnings: heavy smut, pwp, rough manhandling, anal sex, bondage, denial of release, overstimulation, slight S&M but it isn't the main focus, not beta read, not proofread]

Teammate reader, male reader, friends (?) with benefits

As usual, after a game that had left a tingling and persistent sensation of adrenaline in your spine, longing for more, you had immediately hopped into the communal showers to wash yourself off the grime and dirt and sweat that clung to your skin.

Sae was there, too. Exchanging a brief look, no words had to be said.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Barely even a door away from Sae's condominium unit, he had pushed you against the wall of the hallway, your tongues immediately tangled in a firey dance. You had stumbled your way to the entrance, with Sae pushing you along, still locked in a fierce kiss, fumbling with his keys to unlock the door.

It was a mess from there, both of you kicking off your shoes and shrugging articles of clothing one after the other, leaving a trail from the living room all the way to Sae's bedroom.

He wasted no time pushing you onto the bed and getting on top of you, his mouth immediately finding your neck, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses from your jaw, trailing lower, sucking marks on your chest where no one else could see. You softly moaned at each ministration, at each touch, your fingers carding through locks of red hair in encouragement. Your responsiveness to each of Sae's touches sent burning arousal straight to his dick, straining against the fabric of his underwear.

Sae lifted up your hips with a free hand, using the other to pull off your sweatpants along with your boxers, almost ripping them with how impatient he was. You shuddered as your cock was freed from its confines, hard and dripping pre-cum down your stomach. Without breaking eye-contact Sae lowered himself, taking you into his mouth. Your back arched at the familiar heat enveloping your dick, a loud moan leaving your lips as the fingers you had on his hair tightened in their hold, and he let out a groan in response, the vibrations of that sound made you buck your hips impatiently.

Sae began sucking, hollowing his cheeks and taking you deeper at each bob of his head, popping off to breathe and licking from the head down to the base and vice versa, teasing the tip before taking you into his mouth again. Your moans reverberated across the four walls of the bedroom, music to Sae's ears as one of his hands trailed under you to cup the plump cheek of your ass, squeezing. Your thighs were closing in on his head, your whines growing in volume and he knew you were close. Just when he felt your cock twitch in his mouth, Sae pulled off with a resounding pop, licking his lips and you almost cried. You were so, so close.

"Not yet baby." He said, kissing your cheek in apology as you glared at him through teary, frustrated eyes. Your hand came down to touch yourself, but he stopped you, taking both your wrists in one hand and pinning them above the bed as he reached for the nightstand, rummaging through the drawers and pulling out a bottle of lube and handcuffs.

Sae not so gently turned you to lay on your stomach, ass up, repositioning your hands behind your back and cuffing them there. He simply couldn't resist, delivering a hard smack to your butt and watching the tender flesh redden, your choked moan in response eliciting a slight smirk form him. Pretend as you might that you hate being denied release and the discomfort and pain that comes with it, he knows just how much you crave getting hurt. He's happy to indulge you in your dirty little masochistic tendencies.

Delivering one last smack, Sae massages the flesh, nails slightly digging into it and marveling at how pliant it is under his hands. You send a glare over your shoulder, telling him to hurry up, and just to spite you, delivers another spank that pulls out yet another moan.

Finally, finally, Sae grabs the lube, pouring a generous amount on his fingers and some directly on your hole, the cold of it making you shiver. His fingers circle your rim before pushing in slowly, the familiar tight heat of your insides enveloping his digits. You sigh in relief at the intrusion, clenching and wiggling against his fingers, signaling him to hurry. He shushes you, telling you to be patient before he adds a third finger, pouring more lube. His fingers move at a languid pace before slowly increasing speed, watching your reactions for any sign of discomfort which there were none. Sae's fingers purposefully graze against those bundle of nerves that drive you crazy, cock twitching upon hearing your high pitched moan. He assaulted that spot for a while, watching as your back arched further, peeking to the side of your face and watching you drool as those sweet sounds left your lips.

You were both getting impatient, so Sae pulled out his fingers, shucking off his last remaining article of clothing and lathering his dick in lube before roughly pushing in, burying himself to the hilt in one, hard thrust. He relished in the sound of your pained but pleasured moan, the way your hands clenched into fists pitifully as the cuffs prevented you from moving your hands anywhere else. You were completely at Sae's mercy, and you loved it, relinquishing control.

Sae set a brutal and punishing pace that left you breathless and drooling into the pillows, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the room, only your sobbing of Sae's name overpowering it. He lowered himself further onto you, his chest pressed against your back, one arm on your waist and the other over your chest, hand on your neck and jaw, forcing your head to be tilted up as he groaned lowly into your ear, biting the lobe. You were utterly consumed by his form, and you could feel him so deep inside you, hitting your prostate repeatedly with each thrust.

"Close... close close close... ngh~ 'm so close~ Sae... Sae.." You chanted over and over again like a mantra, feeling that familiar coil in your stomach, eyes rolling to the back of your head as drool dripped from your chin and onto Sae's hand on your jaw.

"Fuck.." *He growled, pulling out of you and you almost sobbed until he roughly turned you to lay on your back, lifting your thighs on his shoulders before roughly thrusting back in, resuming his brutal pace as he leaned down, nearly folding you in half. You could feel him impossibly deeper and you almost screamed, your restrained wrists struggling behind your back against the cuffs, fingers now tightly gripping the sheets. "Cum for me baby. Wanna see you cum on my cock... So good. So good (y/n)... taking me so well like a good slut.." He groaned into your ear, kissing and sucking marks onto your skin.

That sent you toppling over the edge, hot white pleasure clouding your senses as your cock twitched, thick spurts of cum staining your stomach and chest as you came with a loud cry, body convulsing with the force of your release. Sae moaned as he felt you clench and tighten around him, but he was far from done and you both knew it. He slowed down the pace of his thrusts after you rode out your orgasm, observing as you whined, weakly moaning as you caught your breath, his hands coming up to rub comfortingly at your skin.

Once he deemed you were okay enough, he resumed the brutal pace, chasing his own release. You were so sensitive still, and the attack on your prostate made your body jerk sharply, thighs trembling as you whimpered, feeling the overstimulation start kicking in. You had barely recovered from your orgasm, cock laying soft against your stomach, and you whined, begging Sae to stop. You both knew you didn't actually want him to.

You sobbed, tears slipping past your eyes as the painfully pleasurable sensation assaulted your senses at every one of Sae's thrusts. You had practically screamed when he grabbed your soft cock, jerking it in tandem with his pounding. It started to harden in his hands, and you were losing yourself in the overwhelming sensation, babbling mindlessly for him to slow down and stop, begging and crying and whining and Sae relished in how utterly debauched and fucked out of your brains you looked. Drool on your chin, tears on face and bangs sticking to your sweaty forehead - it drives Sae absolutely insane. He's close, he could feel it. He jerks you faster and harder, the pace of his thrusts becoming erratic as he lost himself in your body and your sounds. You came once again, screaming his name and Sae is sure his neighbors could hear. The feeling of you tightening and convulsing around his cock was too much and Sae followed suit after a few hard thrusts, releasing inside of you with a groan.

You felt so warm and so full, utterly fucked into the next universe as your body twitched and convulsed. You whimpered in pain when Sae pulled out, the overstimulation becoming too much. He gently lifted your body up slightly to uncuff your wrists then layed you back down, massaging the red marks that had formed from struggling against the cold metal.

"You did good. Are you okay? Did I hurt you too much? Y/n, can you hear me?" Sae cupped you face, wiping away the tears and brushing your hair out of your eyes. You managed a weak nod, struggling to catch your breath. Sae may be a cold man, but he's not heartless. He gently kisses your forehead, telling you to wait a moment as he runs into the bathroom to grab a washcloth to wipe you down. He gently glides it over your body, wiping off the stains before helping you drink a glass of water.

"Sorry. Didn't ask if I could cum inside. Wanna shower? I'll help you up."

You shook your head in response, voice coming out hoarse as you spoke, "It's okay. Felt good." Was all you could manage, still recovering from the intensity. Sae gave you a kiss on the neck before covering you up with a blanket as he hopped beside you, enveloping you in a warm embrace as sleep slowly consumed you.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

You stared into the mirror, your reflection staring back at you. Then you met Sae's gaze through the mirror, then back at yourself.

"Sae what the fuck." He had unconsciously left marks on the visible parts of your skin - your neck and jaw.

At least he had enough shame in that cold heart (affectionate) of his to look slightly sorry about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N:

whew. 1776 words :3

Not very dialogue heavy. porn without plot - the only plot here being friends with benefits and teammates. oho... if the media spots the hickeys on y/n's neck when the paparazzi stalking him uploads pictures 🤭

I hope you all enjoyed! English is not my native language and I pretty much only write what I think sounds right hehe (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

It's also my first time writing smut, so I hope it's satisfactory! To those that read and stuck around this far, thank you for reading!

🩵🩷🩵🩷

#sae itoshi x male reader #itoshi sae x reader #x male reader #itoshi sae smut #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk smut

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my-pjo-stuff · 3 months ago

Note

I can't go beyond the idea itself so...

Reverse AU, where 14-year-old Annabeth and 12-year-old Thalia find 7-year-old Luke and take him under their wing.

Ok so first off, THANKS for sharing with me. Second off, LET'S GET INTO IT.

So this AU has two ways it can play out. With either Luke being the one to take Annabeth's role (becoming friends with Percy, going on the quest) and Annabeth being the one to betray camp. Or Luke still being the one to betray camp with the ages simply being diffrent. Now I'm not gonna lie I think both versions have MAD potential. My personal favorite is the one where Luke STILL BETRAYS CAMP. (Mostly bc I think that in the other version all would stay the relative same, just with Annabeth and Luke switching roles) Just imagine how much worse the angst would be. Like, just imagine Annabeth. Imagine Annabeth watching Luke grow, trying to take care of him. Imagine Annabeth being the one who Luke came to with all his troubles and issues, promising Luke family. How she would never end up like his own mother or their families. And now imagine Annabeth when Luke leaves camp. Like, let's say Luke went with Percy on the quest instead of Annabeth at 12, but the betrayal still happens at the same time as it did in canon. Think about how she must feel hearing that Luke, at 12 years old, went off and ran from camp to revive Kronos. Just IMAGINE how Annabeth must blame herself. Luke was so, so young still. She promised she'd be his family- yet how come she never noticed this? She knew that Luke had his issues with the gods, but she'd never expected it to get like this. I think that, due to the fact that Luke is SIGNIFICANTLY younger in this AU, we'd lean a lot more into him being manipulated or "brainwashed" by Kronos. Certainly that's also the stories most people at camp and Annabeth would believe- thus instead of "hunting Luke down" being talked about at the very end of TLT it's "rescuing Luke". That only makes it so much worse SOM rolls around and Annabeth will have to inevitably realize that no. Luke isn't brainwashed or manipulated. He is doing this out of his free will. I think Annabeth, being much older, would really take up a sort of caretaker role for Percy. Luke on his end may react pretty badly to it, as he perceives Annabeth as "already having replaced him". He'd also be taken less seriously by other campers due to his age and being less of a caretaker. I think in that case Luke would appeal to many of them as a peer as he plays more on frustration than he already did in canon.

For TLT.....idk how Thalia would react tbh. On one had, she'd probably still see Luke as a traitor. On the other, he's like, 14 in this. And I do think his age would change a lot in terms of him being seen less as evil traitor, and more misguided and used kid. Annabeth would be especially quick to take the sky from him, considering that she's the caretaker of Luke in the AU. Percy may start to resent him though, as he wouldn't have that "oh he's just a kid" mindset with Luke due to their same age. Thalia would probably still join the hunters. The fact that she pushed Luke off the cliff at the end of TCC would probably not paint her in a very good light to Annabeth though (also would be a lot more fucked considering Luke is 14 instead of 21 here.) The only good thing I think could come from this is the fact that Annabeth would probably help Luke should he come to her and ask to run in the time skip between TCC and BotL. I don't think she'd have the heart to drive the kid away she had promised to take care off. Meaning Luke probably wouldn't have gone off and become Kronos' vessel. The gods too might be inclined to mercy at Hermes' urging, considering that Luke in that case would be viewed as a manipulated child. Someone who couldn't know any better and was used by Kronos.

Especially with Luke running away on his own it could work. Should that not happen, and should Luke do end up as a vessel for Kronos...man Annabeth would cry. Because that would mean she failed Luke. She couldn't protect him like she promised. When it get's to the throne room I think Annabeth would apologize. Genuinly apologize for "failing" him. Which is what I think would bring Luke back enough for him to kill himself. At the end of it all having Luke die at 16 would really hammer home the Percy parallel, but it would also hit the 23 year old Annabeth MUCH harder since she sees herself to be directly at fault for what happened.

#pjo #luke castellan #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pro luke castellan #luke castellan apologist #annabeth chase

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imagine-darksiders · 11 months ago

Text

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

Summary: Who better to know what a human needs than one who used to be human themselves?

[I'm still alive! Woo! Just overwrought! I'm playing in a sold-out show from Jan 16th and rehearsals have been 1900 to 2300 every night, bar the weekend, so my writing time is greatly diminished. I've also recently come into the family business, which isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but hey-ho, I haven't got any other option, so I'm also bogged down with learning that whole setup. These little moments where I can write and read all your kind, encouraging comments are becoming more and more precious to me. xxx]

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There is a kindness that the Universe could easily grant you, were it so inclined. Just a small thing, effortless even, hardly a difficult feat for the Powers that be, if They had so much as a shred of empathy.

The Universe has taken much from you, and were it a little kinder, it would take one last thing.

… It would take your ability to dream.

Death knows all too well that for as long as humans have been unwitting players on the cosmic chess board, they’ve been left to stand utterly alone, un-helped and unacknowledged by an indifferent Creator.

Why should you be the exception?

Why should you be granted a tiny mercy by the very Being who gave you a mind to dream with in the first place?

It just seems an unnecessary cruelty, the Horseman supposes, that your own biology should stand in the way of your respite.

It’s been several, long hours since you rolled over and eloped into the un-waking world, and Death has only moved as far as the door, leaning his weight back against the bone-dry wood with an air of resignation that his journey is to be paused until sunrise, at the very earliest. No matter… There’s little sense facing the Chancellor’s dreaded ‘Champion’ in the dark, after all.

You might have smirked and called him paranoid about the rigid stance he’s taken in front of the room’s only entrance, but the soft yet not-so-silent footfalls that keep approaching the door reaffirm his decision.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Blademaster sniffing about or some other undead who has come to gawk at the living, breathing human in their midst, but there’s something undoubtedly amusing about feeling wood push against his spine for a few seconds before the presence on the other side meets the resistance of a Horseman’s immoveable body weight.

What follows is the distinct sound of those same footsteps hurrying off down the corridor, making every attempt to be stealthy, but failing miserably.

It would be less amusing if any of their attempts were to wake you up. In fact, the only reason Death hasn’t ripped the door open and threatened to skewer the nosy stranger is currently sound asleep just a few feet away from whatever ruckus that would cause.

Or you were sound asleep. At least until a few minutes ago.

Death’s forefingers tap aimlessly against his bicep as he frowns down at your face. You’ve scrunched your features up into a tight grimace, nose wrinkling and the corners of your mouth twisted south towards your chin.

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

The pitiable whimpers you’ve been uttering for a while now indicate a troubled mind, though the Horseman can’t say he’s surprised. It’s disappointing, to be sure. He’d have thought you’d be far too exhausted to be plagued by dreams tonight, yet evidently, you’re not that fortunate. Which is a crying shame, because while Death doesn’t believe in luck per-se, he thinks that if such a thing were to exist, you’re more than overdue.

“Hmm, mnn,” you murmur through closed lips, tossing your head to the right.

Above you on the headboard, Dust retrieves his beak from under an ebony wing and cocks a gaze at you, crooning out a soft, inquiring noise from his throat.

“Shhh,” Death breathes, earning a sleepy glare from the crow, though he does at least fall silent, contenting himself to simply watch as you throw a hand out to one side and clench your fist around an invisible force.

“….Mmn, eye…,” you mutter through slightly parted lips.

‘Eye?’ Death’s brow knots under his mask, yet he isn’t left wondering for long.

“… Eideard?” you suddenly croak, “… C’m’back!”

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

Lowering his eyes to the ratty blanket, Death releases a sigh that’s been building in his chest for a few minutes now.

Your legs have been steadily working to kick the covers off the bed, never settling, as if you’re trying to run from something.

The clack of a beak draws the Horseman’s gaze once again to Dust, who now has a rather expectant look aimed his way.

Death can’t help but be reminded of that night in Tri Stone, when he’d remained stolidly outside on the bench whilst you stifled your sobs in the Makers’ Forge.

He recalls that Dust had been rather scathing about his inaction. The Horseman hadn’t cared for the bird’s judgement then, and he’s even less appreciative now.

What is he supposed to do? Wake you? At least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some rest.

Sleep, he’s learned, is something that’s essential to a human’s sustained survival.

Not for the first time, he considers the benefits of having an empty chest, hardened and calcified through centuries of existing in an indifferent universe.

It means he has nothing to steel when you suddenly fling yourself over onto your side with your mouth hanging open, releasing a short, hitching sob that catches in your throat, and an arm that stretches out towards something unseen by the Horseman, your fingers spreading rigidly until they quake with the strain.

… The gentling of Death’s expression goes unnoticed, even by him.

He’s nearly shocked when his boot slides forwards ever so slightly, scraping across the floorboards as if to carry him away from the door and towards you.

Pausing, he cocks a brow down at his own leg, half expecting it to explain itself.

What he doesn’t expect – but perhaps should have – is the loud and jarring gasp that suddenly floods into the little human on the bed with the frantic desperation of one who’s been underwater for far too long, and you’ve only just managed to reach the surface to take a breath before your lungs collapse.

Death’s eyes flick towards you just in time to witness your silhouette lurching up off the mattress, a garbled shout tumbling from your lips as you clutch feverishly at your chest.

“Karn!?” you blurt out, whipping your head back and forth to search through the darkness of Draven’s quarters for a maker who isn’t there.

It would be easy for Death to remain still and silent, to wait until whatever grasp your nightmare still has on you to finally slip loose on its own… He needn’t step in.

It would be easy…

“…Hhh…” Grousing silently to himself, the Horseman pushes away from the door and takes a decisive step towards you before he can begin to overthink his actions.

“Y/n,” he mutters, not loud enough to be startling, but just loud enough to catch your attention.

Even still, you flinch, whirling your torso in his direction and letting your hazy eyes land on the pale, ghostly mask looming above you in the dark.

For several seconds, you merely stare up at Death, the hand on your chest crumpling your shirt as you gather the flimsy fabric into a tight fist.

Death doesn’t elect to break the silence again. After another moment or two of watching you gulp down another lungful of stale air, his patience pays off, and you swallow thickly, croaking, “Death?”

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

“Is… Karn here?” Your voice sounds so fragile, poisoned by a grain of hope.

Going very still, Death allows a beat to pass, giving himself time to think of an answer.

Perhaps… you think you’re still in a dream.

Quietly, he offers a concise response, one that hopefully doesn’t cause you any more distress whilst bringing you further out of the idea that this isn’t real. “Karn…” he begins, “…remained in the Forge Lands.”

He watches you physically deflate. Not from relief though. Relief doesn’t douse the sleepy kindling of hope that had momentarily lit the contours of your face.

Solemn, a little more awake, you slowly ask, “Is… Eideard…. Is he…?”

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

A breath shudders out of you as you let your gaze drift down to your fingers, twining over themselves in twists and knots. “Oh…” you breathe, “I… thought I…” But your sentence trails off before you can finish it.

So, Death says it for you. “You thought you saw him,” he ventures, “In a dream.”

And with that, whatever strings have been holding you taut are promptly cut, sending you flopping back onto Draven’s mattress with a sorrowful ‘whump,’ still very much awake and positively quaking hard enough to cause the wooden bed frame to shudder in tandem.

That’s the thing about dreams, Death supposes, after a point, they’re the perfect nesting ground for ghosts.

His brother, Strife, would confide in him, many eons ago, that he could still see the faces of their fallen brethren behind his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. Death had only told him that it would pass, if given the time to. He hadn’t the gall to tell Strife that he too could see those same, hateful eyes and blood-filled mouths just as clearly.

Eideard isn’t the only person you’ve lost. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating; you’ve also lost your family, your friends and every other human on Earth.

Your dreams, much like Death’s, are full of ghosts.

Drawing your hands up towards your face, you press the heel of each palm to your eyelids and grind down hard until a kaleidoscope of colour sparks to life across your vision, not unlike fireworks blooming across a cold, November sky.

Shakily, you blow out a dry, unsteady whoosh of air and groan, “Fuck…”

Death purses his lips, privately concurring with your brief assessment of the situation.

Then, in a motion that’s steeped in tiredness, you drag your focus back over to the Horseman, rolling your head to the side and adding, “You’re still here…”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he utters, quiet as a breath, only to balk at the dulcet quality in his tone. Clearing his throat to rid it of the uninvited tenderness, he promptly tacks on, “I told you; someone has to keep an eye on Dust.”

Damp-cheeked, you crane your neck back to send an upside-down glance at the crow roosting on the headboard above you.

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

You’re fairly confident that Dust hasn’t done a damn thing to warrant any of Death’s baseless assumptions.

With your gaze still locked on the bird, you sigh, “You two can go, if you want to…”

At that, the Horseman knows he’s going to refuse before he even gives you a verbal response.

This isn’t the first time you’ve offered him an ‘out,’ a convenient excuse for him to duck from the room and escape the burden of bearing witness to your downward spiral.

You’re asking, in as quiet a hint as you can manage, for the privacy to cry without an audience.

… If it weren’t for the mysterious footsteps padding about outside…

“It would be in your best interest for me to stay,” he offers, earning a weary sigh from your side of the room, as if you’ve by now figured it would never be that easy to get rid of him.

Already, his keen eyes have picked out the slightest gleam of tears gathering behind your lashes. The next breath you try to draw in sticks to the back of your throat, yet before your face can crumple completely, you roll yourself over onto your opposite side, facing the wall – deliberately angling your body away from the Horseman, who watches on in silence as you hike your shoulders up towards your ears.

Drawing his brows together underneath the mask, Death glides silently closer to your bed and peers down at the human-shaped lump quivering under the covers.

All is quiet for a time, until at last…

“… I’m sorry.” Your words seep out of you in a thick, watery whisper. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

‘You didn’t sign up for me,’ goes unspoken, but somehow the idea still hangs between you both like cold, falling snow.

It seems an odd thing to say, Death muses, considering that in a sense, he did sign up for this. Hell, he all but stamped his signature on that contract when he carried you through the portal to the Crowfather’s realm.

“Well… Neither did you…” he returns truthfully as he turns around and sinks onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, draping each forearm over a knee. The old wood doesn’t even creak as he settles down, nor does the straw bend beneath his illogical weight, much like the desert sand hadn’t swallowed him up to his calves as it had yours.

He hears the blanket rustle behind him as you twist your neck around to spare him a glance over your shoulder. If you’re at all shocked to find him suddenly sitting so close to you, you’re either too tired or too polite to say a word about it.

So, you turn back to the wall without comment, and although you attempt to bring a hand up to press a sweat-slicked palm across your mouth, such a meagre covering of skin isn’t enough to contain the grief that starts to pour out of you.

But just as you’d offered Death the unquestioned freedom to seek vicinity to you, the Horseman doesn’t try to interrupt or diminish this sombre moment with talk or awkward attempts at comfort.

It stirs a memory in him, of a much younger Nephilim, trudging through a silent, windswept battlefield alongside the only other three who had escaped the Battle for Eden. Not a word was said between them as they left the dead behind, but Death had offered them proximity as well. They said nothing of it, they hadn’t even accused him of hovering. There was an unspoken understanding, in that instant, one that passed silently between all four of them; Death would be there if they needed him.

With a slow blink, the memory fades, and he’s left frowning gently at the dull, rotten wood of the wall adjacent to your bed.

You’re an intelligent human… He wonders if you’ll be able to infer what he’s doing by sitting at the edge of your bed. Death may be many things, but he is not cheerful by nature, and cannot thusly cause cheer in others. He can only sit. And wait. Listening, watching, offering freedom from interference, both from himself and others who would seek to disturb you now when you need to grieve.

Dust, predictably, affords your need for privacy about as much consideration as could be expected from a bird. That is, none whatsoever.

A sleepy caw is all the warning both you and Death receive before the crow hops down off the headboard and lands on your pillow with a soft rustle of feathers.

Of course, you flinch, but Dust – undeterred – simply invites himself into the space between you and the wall, strutting surefootedly over the rumpled blankets until he reaches your chest.

Exasperated, Death opens his mouth and is about to openly scold the crow when Dust turns himself about until the tip of his sharp, grey beak is pointed down at your sombre face.

If you’re at all worried about having it so close to your eyeballs, you don’t show it, though Death knows the corvid well enough to recognise that Dust would never hurt his new human friend who coddles and praises him like it’s going out of fashion.

Birds…

“H-hey,” you warble miserably, swiping at your eyes with the back of a wrist and trying to pluck up the willpower to give a tear-blurred Dust your most convincing smile, “Hey, boy. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

In response, the crow cocks his head at you, and follows up with a gentle croon that raises the small, downy feathers on his throat. Then, without bothering to give any sort of warning as to his intentions, Dust gives his beak a single clack and stretches out his neck, gathering up a few strands of hair around your forehead and dragging them through his beak as if to smooth them into place.

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

You can’t help yourself. A wet giggle blurts out of you, momentarily disrupting Dust’s ministrations. He croaks down at you flatly before returning to his task of taking your hair and grooming it with a gentle beak.

“Dust!” you blubber out another laugh, reaching up to try and dissuade the crow by pushing your hand into his feathered breast. For your trouble, he pulls away and administers a soft nip to your knuckle, barely strong enough for you to feel it.

Offering him a watery smile, you prop yourself up onto an elbow, and in one, smooth motion, you raise your free arm and scoop the bird against your chest, burying your nose into the ebony plumage right between his wings. He’s large, far larger than any crow you’ve ever seen on Earth, so it’s more akin to hugging a small dog than any kind of corvid….

Wow… You miss dogs…

As if he can sense your sudden spike of anguish for a species who was likely wiped out alongside your own, the crow nuzzles his head under your chin, tailfeathers flicking back and forth several times as he contents himself with his new position.

Death’s brows shoot up his forehead at the display, wondering how he could have missed the moment you and his crow forged this bond without him even noticing. Was it during the brief few hours when Absalom pulled him into the Tree of Life?

Or perhaps it was always there, and he just hasn’t been paying attention.

“Of all the crows I could have been saddled with,” he gripes under his breath, aiming a half-hearted scowl at the little he can see of Dust’s beak poking out over your shoulder, “It would be the one without a single ounce of pride.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” you sniff, your voice muffled by sleek, black feathers, “He’s trying to cheer me up.”

The Horseman grumbles something to himself, then raises his voice to huff, “He has to be good for something, I suppose.”

When you don’t reply beyond giving a click of your tongue, Death hesitates, his eyes roaming in every direction except for your face as he clears his throat and asks, “Is it… ah, working?”

There’s a speculative pause, interspersed with the odd sniffle as you take a moment to calm yourself down and recover from the embarrassment of once again crying in front of the sepulchral Death.

At last, you take in a deep, weary breath and pull your nose from Dust’s back, gazing warmly down at the crow. “Yeah,” you decide with a small nod as he pulls his beak from under your chin and peers back at you, “Yeah, it’s working.”

If only a little, but sometimes a little is just enough.

Dust’s head swings around to peer at Death over your shoulder, smugger than a bird has any business being.

The heartache of waking up to a world without Eideard in it is just as fresh as the heartache you feel when you open your eyes and remember your world is gone. That sort of grief, unquantifiable, is hard to shift by the efforts of one, friendly crow, no matter how noble his intentions.

But for Dust’s sake, you try to shoulder the sorrow a touch more easily, even going so far as to sit up properly, still holding the bird to your chest and giving him a gentle squeeze. It’s a word of thanks, silent but poignant. Slowly, you place the crow down on the mattress beside you.

This time it’s your turn to clear your throat. Scrubbing tiredly at your eyes, you untuck your legs from the scratchy blanket and roll them over the side of the bed, pulling yourself forwards until you’re sitting beside Death, hands clasped daintily in your lap.

Amber eyes flick sideways and find in the gloom that your cheeks are still damp and blotchy from shedding so many tears.

Behind you, Dust flutters back up onto the headboard, head held high and proud, pleased with himself for a job well-done, and feeling he’s absolutely deserved another nap.

You breathe a sigh, holding it in your lungs and then blowing it all out again, glad to hear that it’s devoid of further tremors. “So… I don’t suppose we can pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

Death half turns his torso towards you and replies, “Any of what?”

Without thought, you smile appreciatively and lean across the bed, giving the Horseman’s thigh a companionable pat. “Good man.”

It seems as soon as you touch him, you’re pulling away again, the moment passing too quickly for you to feel the way his leg jumps underneath your palm.

Death’s eyes are wide beneath his mask and affixed to the spot on his thigh you’d just touched without ceremony, without a single remark, like it was an entirely normal thing to do.

Certainly, you’ve touched Death before, and he’s touched you out of necessity, mostly. But here, in this dingy room belonging to an undead, the Nephilim takes particular note of the casual gesture, and he’s once again reminded of who and what he is, and what an outlier you are to touch the Reaper without fear.

Is that all it takes? Pretending he hadn’t heard you pour your grief out onto a stranger’s pillow makes him a good man?

Is that… how you see him…?

No. It was just another throwaway comment, meant to lighten the solemn mood that had taken hold of the room.

For a distracted moment, Death wonders if he can really feel the warmth of your skin through the leather of his trousers, or if it’s just a figment of his imagination. Whatever it is, it robs him of any witty remarks that might slip out to disrupt this tender moment.

A good man…

“You should try going back to sleep,” he offers absently, tearing his eyes off his leg to look down at you. The imagined warmth in his thigh has travelled to his chest, which is odd, given that you didn’t lay your hand anywhere near it.

Heaving a sigh, you ask, “How long do you think until sunrise?”

“Mm, at least another several Earth hours,” he says, “Plenty of time still to rest.”

Your fingers clench into fists around the blanket beneath you. “Plenty of time to dream…”

The old Nephilim’s mask turns to face you properly, eyes of liquid gold and sunset orange illuminating the darkness of his sockets. “Dreams cannot hurt you,” he says with conviction, partly because he knows they can’t, and partly because nothing, not even a nightmare could hurt you with a Horseman keeping watch.

“But they can make you sad…” you point out.

Hesitating, he has to take a second to remember that sadness can be potent enough to hurt a human. “I suppose they can,” he concedes reluctantly.

“That hurts, sometimes,” you whisper, drawing your knees up onto the bed and folding your arms around them, clinging tightly, eyes downcast to the floor, “Waking up and realising the people in them aren’t here anymore.”

Shifting his weight to prop a hand on one knee, he leans forwards so that he can meet your faraway gaze. “That pain will fade, given time,” he offers, echoing a conversation eons past.

After a second, your eyes slide sideways and align with his, and he can’t deny the glimmer of triumph that raises his chin at the sight of your gentle smile.

“I hope you’re right, Death,” you reply, “I really do.”

“You’ll find I’m not often wrong twice in as many days.” He’s referring to his… miscalculation with the heart stones and the Guardian, of course.

Did that really only happen yesterday?

“Cocky,” you snort, swiping a finger under the still damp corner of your eye, “Nice to know great, big Horsemen can make mistakes too though.”

“Is it?” he scoffs. He’d have thought it’d be daunting that the Nephilim whose charge you find yourself under isn’t actually as infallible as he’d like to claim.

“Yeah,” you hum, giving him a thoughtful look, “I guess to err isn’t just human, after all.”

Death waits, bracing himself to balk, to feel a spike of offence run through his veins at being told he shares a – rather undesirable – quality with humans. He waits, and feels-

… Nothing. No contempt. No disdain or disappointment. Maybe just a touch of surprise.

“I’m gonna miss them,” you murmur, derailing the Horseman’s train of thought.

“The makers?”

“Everyone,” you stress, “The makers, Blackroot, Warden…”

Coughing lightly into a fist, Death has to peel his eyes away to avoid looking at you when he says, “I’m sure they’ll be…. of a similar mindset.” Honesty, vulnerability, words that have real significance don’t come so easily to the Horseman. If they did, he’d tell you that those makers are going to miss you more than you could possibly know.

Chewing on your lip, you idly kick an ankle against the side of the bed and ask, “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”

In response, Death huffs out a short, soft laugh, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do I think you’ll see them again?” he echoes, “Y/n, I’m almost certain of it.”

“… Wait. Seriously?”

“Don’t I seem serious?” he blinks languidly.

“Yeah, it’s just… that sounded like optimism. And coming from you, that’s… I mean…” Squinting through the dark at him, you fold your hands in your lap and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

The Horseman’s lips quirk up, though his voice retains a gruff and unimpressed melody as his shoulders jump with a brusque harrumph. “You must be feeling better if you’re already poking fun,” he grouses, assessing the miniscule glow of humour tucked around the corners of your mouth.

“I am, actually,” you shrug, flicking a glance over his mask and tipping your head with a knowing smile, “Maybe Dust isn’t the only one who’s good at cheering me-“

Three, gentle knocks on a nearby surface of wood break through your sentence like hammer blows ringing off an anvil.

From one blink to the next, the Horseman is inexplicably on his feet, flinging a strong, sinewy arm out in front of you, all at once alert and suspicious, whilst behind him, you scramble off the bed with far less grace, fighting to find stability for a moment before you square your feet and send a wary glance over his appendage at the room’s entrance.

“Hello?” you call, swiping furiously at your cheeks to rid them of what little trace of tears might still cling to your skin.

Death doesn’t turn to face you, but you’d be hard-pressed to miss the disgruntled sigh that slips out from under his mask at your tactical blunder.

You’ve all but announced that you – a human, need you be reminded – are in here.

A voice from outside calls out, muffled behind the thick layer of wood. “… Lady - Ah, I mean, Y/n?”

The tension doesn’t seem to drain out of Death nearly as fast as it drains out of you.

Draven.

Before the Horseman can stop you, you’ve already ducked underneath his arm, reaching up to distractedly smooth down your bedhead as you call out, “Oh, Draven, uh, coming!”

You hear your name uttered in a growl behind you, but you wave off the ornery Nephilim with a flap of your hand, twisting about to face him as you make for the door, hissing, “It’s his room, Death. If he wants to come in here, he has every right to.”

Realising your hand is reaching to pull the door open, Death surges forward, intent on getting to it before you – ‘just in case,’ a voice at the back of his head whispers – but he doesn’t make it halfway to you when you grab the brass handle and tug the rotting wood towards you, letting dull, green light spill into the quarters and creep up the opposite wall.

A familiar silhouette looms in the doorway, framing the space with broad shoulders and a tattered shroud that’s been pulled low to half cover a skeletal, ghoulish face. From your angle, standing at least a foot and a half shorter than the figure, you can see up underneath his hood.

You regret your haste to open the door, simply because you aren’t at all ready to witness the grim and ghastly visage of the Blademaster this early in the morning, but you stamp down on the temptation to reel back, and instead school your expression into a friendly smile. “Hi, uh, again.”

Draven’s luminous, blue eyes flare brightly as soon as they land on your face. There’s something held between each of his hands, though you hardly spare them a glance because, ever the gentleman, he’s already halfway into a low, sweeping bow when he suddenly stops short, bent so that he’s staring you directly in the eye.

It’s decidedly unnerving to have so much scrutiny on you, especially when the undead’s jaw suddenly locks up tight and his browbone snaps together as if you’ve offended him somehow without even saying a word.

“Uh-“ you start to say, only to find yourself interrupted when Draven rises to his full height again, unfolding at the waist and aiming a frigid glare over the top of your head. Coincidentally, an icy presence appears at your spine, pressing in close enough that you notice the hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle.

A growl rolls out through the gaps in the undead’s hollow cheeks. “Y/n,” he addresses you, his voice hard as stone, “Has this devil done you a discourtesy?”

“W…What?” you blurt.

Ferocity bleeds from his lipless mouth as he glares at the Horseman who drapes you in shadow, pale blue eyes aiming to douse the liquid fire hanging ominously in the darkness behind you.

“Her eyes are scarlet with salt,” he accuses.

Raising a hand to your face, you prod tenderly at the raw skin beneath your eyes and realise with a sinking sense of shame that you must still look like even more of a mess than you did when the Blademaster first saw you. “Oh, no. No, Draven, it’s fine,” you sigh, dragging a hand down your face, “Just… Look, it’s just been a rough night.”

The undead’s glower lifts the moment he rips his eyes off Death and returns it to you, his forehead puckering with concern. “But, you’re-“

“- I’m all right,” you reiterate, crooking one corner of your lips into a tight smile that all but pleads for him to drop the matter. You’re mortified enough.

The look on your face must be adequately pitiable, for Draven’s stance relaxes by a fraction, and as his arms slump from their guarded poise, you hear something clunk woodenly by his waist, rousing your curiosity and tempting you to lower your gaze to his hands.

If you thought you weren’t ready to see the Blademaster at your door, you’re doubly unprepared to see what he’s carrying.

Clearing your throat, you bob your chin at his hands and ask, “What’ve you got there?”

“Hmm?” Begrudgingly peeling away from the Horseman, Draven follows your line of sight, blinking down at a little wooden bowl and cup he’s clutching in each hand. Suddenly very sheepish, the undead ducks further into his green hood, “Forgive me, I was going to leave these by the door, but… then I heard voices.”

“And what were you doing skulking about so close to the door that you could hear us talk?” Death asks, hardly bothering to hide his accusatory tone.

You turn to give him a quick, pointed glare over your shoulder, one that he ignores.

“Just as I said, Horseman,” Draven retorts, “I thought the lady might be hungry, so…” He offers out the cup and bowl for you to see, giving you an apologetic look. “I’d have left it outside for you to find when you emerged, I… didn’t want to disturb you while you slept.”

Before you can reply, a voice at your back pipes up.

“You were going to leave it outside?” Death scoffs, “Where anyone could have tampered with it?”

Ignoring the Horseman, you peer down into the proffered crockery, your stomach gurgling eagerly as a waft of steam drifts from the bowl and rises into your nostrils. Never before would you have thought you’d be so excited about something so beige.

A simple, brown stew is balanced on one of Draven’s large palms, lumps of what you presume is meat bob about near the surface, and a single slice of fluffy, white bread floats at the centre, drawing a rather embarrassing flood of saliva to the front of your mouth. In his other hand, the small wooden cup is clasped like a chalice of ambrosia, though the only thing that wets its interior is crisp, clear water.

In your eyes, he may as well be holding out a gourmet dish that only the wealthiest of men would deign to touch.

“Draven,” you breathe in awe, reluctantly dragging your gaze off the food and peering up into the undead’s hollow face, “What’s all this for?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head at you, as thought the answer should be entirely obvious.

“It’s… for you,” he says, pressing the bowl and cup closer to your wringing hands, “I assumed you’d want to eat when you awoke. It’s not much, just some pottage I scrounged up.”

You begin to reach out, unfurling your fingers to take the unexpected gift when all of a sudden, chilly fingers wrap around your wrist, and before you can utter a sound, Death tugs you tidily back into the room, taking your place in the doorway, and peering down at the undead. “Where did you get it?” he asks, ignoring the disgruntled huff you aim at the back of his head, “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Draven’s lipless mouth pulls into a sneer. “Do you think me a fool?” he accuses.

“I think you an undead who we’ve only just met,” the Horseman replies coolly.

The Blademaster leans back on a heel, appraising Death with an expression that borders on impressed. “A fair point,” he concedes. Seconds later, Draven yields a nod. “It’s safe, Death. Believe it or not, the King entertains more than just the dead in his court, some of whom still rely on sustenance to get them through the day. Supplies are not as scarce as they would seem at first glance, and I may be far-removed from humanity, but I still remember my way around a cooking pot.”

Then, wordlessly, he holds the bowl and cup out towards the Horseman, tipping his head to one side with an expectant gleam in his fearsome, blue eyes.

Death’s attention flits between Draven and his handful several times, squinting dubiously at the dull, brown slop. For a few uncomfortable seconds, the Horseman subjects your potential meal to a good, long glare, and then at last, to your relief, you watch him raise his hands and grasp the edge of the bowl between his thumb and forefinger, doing the same with the cup.

He doesn’t take them immediately, too busy giving the undead a threatening growl. “If she eats this and something happens-“

“-I’ll be meeting the business end of your scythe?” Draven guesses, quirking a brow bone as he relinquishes the crockery and drops his arms to his sides again.

Death’s eyes narrow to thin lines of fire, prompting the undead to let out a chuckle and raise his hands up in mock defeat. “I understand, Horseman, I understand. I’d be overprotective as well if I had a lady like her under my care.”

Half hidden behind the Nephilim, you suck a breath in through your teeth as your grim companion bristles like a cornered cat, almost doubling in size with the amount of indignation that swells his shoulders. You’ve only known him a week or so, but in that time, you’ve already learned that being accused of caring is pretty low on the list of Things Death likes to Hear.

And sure enough…

“I am not overprotective,” the Horseman seethes, but with such an air of petulance that whatever threat his tone might have been trying to imply is completely undermined. Not to mention there’s something curiously un-threatening about the sight of him clutching a bowl of stew that - not thirty seconds ago - he was giving the stink-eye.

Even Draven doesn’t seem all that worried as he casts a knowing look at you around Death’s shoulder, his ghoulish features scrunching into a wink.

“No?” he asks, cocking his head to one side and sliding his gaze back to the wall of Nephilim standing before him, “Well, in that case, when the sun rises, I’m sure you won’t mind if I treat the lady to that tour I offered her.”

He’s chancing his arm, and he damn well knows it. And because he knows it, he’s already watching for the precise moment when Death recognises that he’s just stepped right into a verbal trap.

Unseen by the human in their midst, Death’s narrow eyes are now almost indiscernible within the congealing darkness of his sockets, and it’s only thanks to their preternatural, fiery glow that Draven can tell they’re open at all. They float inside the pitch-black pits that have been carved out of an ivory mask, unnatural and eerie, like two strips of flame streaking through the night sky.

If someone were to strike a match in the air between he and Death, Draven is almost certain the spark would set off an explosion that could blow the Eternal Throne clear through the stratosphere.

Two options lay out before the ancient Nephilim: Allow yo u to go with Draven in the morning, proving the smug undead wrong in his judgement of Death’s character. Or refuse the offer on your behalf and prove him right.

Begrudgingly, Death concedes that the undead’s tactics have successfully tripped him up. Rare as it is, it’s somewhat refreshing to be kept on his toes. Not that he’s in any way pleased to be cornered like this… Not least because he has a reputation he’d like to keep intact.

“She’ll consider it,” he says shortly.

There. It’s neither a yes or a no, and vague enough that Draven’s expectant gaze darkens with disappointment. Death is tempted to smirk triumphantly. Just because he stepped into the trap doesn’t mean he won’t know how to get out of it. He’s almost offended that the undead thought it would be so easy.

But the acquiescing look on Draven’s face doesn’t linger for more than a blink before it’s gone.

“I hope she does,” he hums, leaning sideways once more so that he can send you another secretive smile around the Horseman’s bulk, a smile that you find yourself readily reflecting. It feels like there’s a connection there somehow, between you and Draven. Human and ex-human. It’s something that Death isn’t privy to because he isn’t and never was human.

You wonder… Hell, you dare to hope that Draven might just… get you. There’s common ground in your humanity. The soul that sits lonely in your heart reaches out for the tiniest promise of companionship, softening you to the undead in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Right now, as you share amusement at the Grim Reaper’s expense, you find Draven just that bit more bearable to look at. Even the swords and broken blades that jut from his person like morbid adornments don’t seem so gruesome.

“I will consider it,” you promise, prompting Death to heave a disgruntled sigh whilst you breeze over his complaint, “Thank you, Draven. Really. This…” This act of immense kindness, though it might have seemed so mundane if it happened on Earth, has done wonders to warm your heart after feeling your very soul freeze over after your nightmare. But how could you possibly put into words the comfort he’s brought you? Rather than overthink it, you merely give your head a tiny shake of disbelief and let out a soft laugh, “This means… so much to me.”

Laying a hand across his concave chest, the undead dips his torso into a shallow bow and replies, “For you, it was no trouble at all.”

To your own surprise, the chivalrous little display turns you shy, and you start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, avoiding his searching eyes as you smile down at the floor near Death’s boots.

Clicking his tongue, the Horseman shifts to stand sideways in the entrance, sweeping an unimpressed glance between you and Draven.

You may have averted your gaze, but the undead certainly hasn’t.

From head to toe, you’re all but poured over like a scroll of parchment in an angel’s library. Shameless in his observation, Draven’s cadaverous eyes carve tracks across your face and roam down the length of your body, whilst Death goes mostly ignored.

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

“At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

#I live #Darksiders #fluff #soft Death #jealousy #Draven x Reader #attraction #GOD it's late #But it feels good to post this #I'm still here

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drivinmeinsane · 1 year ago

Text

I Do Nothing but Think of You

※ DRIVER (SOLO) ※

{ masterlist} ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: He can't eat. He can't sleep. He's obsessed and restless. What else is there to do but go for a drive?

※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content

※ Content/Tags: Glove kink, Mentions of stalking, Semi-public masturbation, Troubling behaviors, Unhealthy obsession, Not necessarily a reader insert

※ Word count: 2,200

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's note: n/a

The florescent lights of the diner do nothing to ease Driver's agitation. Neither does the partially eaten slice of pie he is pushing around on his plate. Something is rustling around uncomfortably underneath his skin and he can't seem to shake it. He sits on the stool at the counter for another moment before fishing a couple of bills out of his wallet and tossing them on the counter. He stands. He is done here. Crappy pie and loudly humming lights aren't going to cure his bout of restlessness.

He shoves open the door harder than he should. The bells jangle loudly and slam into the glass as he exits. He draws his gloves out of his back pocket and pulls them on. The leather creaks faintly in protest while he works his hands into the confines of the material. The gloves have long since molded to the shape of his hands, but they fit so snugly that he has to gently coax his fingers inside. He sighs softly as he clicks the snaps closed, one and then the other. The metal feels cold against the back of his wrists.

He walks for a moment in the cool air, his hands tucked into the pockets of his bomber jacket. The city around him is still awake despite the late hour. He supposes that it's one thing they have in common. Neither of them ever seems to sleep. He cuts through throngs of people on the sidewalk. Their proximity feels like static. They instinctively clear out of his way. A shark among a school of fish.

Finally, he is at his Chevy. He had left it parked streetside. Secluded enough for the illusion of privacy but close enough to be easily within brisk walking distance. He drags his keys from his front pocket, something about the sensation sets his teeth on edge. He unlocks the vehicle and opens the door. He settles himself into his seat with a familiarity that should be comforting but it isn't. With the door closed and the ignition humming, he attempts to go limp and release some of the building tension. No luck. Apparently, he is doomed to spend the night sleepless and tense. His girl is at work, he won't be able to see her tonight. He turns the radio on. He wants to feel close to some part of her and so he finds a channel he's heard her listen to frequently. He keeps the volume low.

Squinting into the hazy lights of the night, he pulls away from the curb. With no job lined up to worry about, his girl to see, or goal in mind, he just... drives.

Lights pass, scenery blends together into a neon lit dream, and yet, Driver is still unsatisfied. He's burning up with an itch he can't seem to scratch with any of his usual methods. He watches his hands clench on the Malibu's steering wheel. The tendons in the back of his hands stand out in sharp relief, framed by smooth curves of leather. He relaxes his hands. Stretches out his fingers, watches how his exposed skin changes from a dusty red to a pale green when the light changes.

He accelerates and angles the car onto a winding side street. The incline is steep and poorly lit. He has to designate some sincere attention to keeping the car on the narrowing road. Finally, he summits. He coasts into a parking spot and puts on his parking brake. He leaves the car running, headlights off. Music still barely audible.

He is the only one in this dirt parking lot overlooking the blazing lights of LA. The valley below is awash in a golden glow. He's sure his girl would like the view. He shifts in his seat and his breath unexpectedly catches. He starts to feel the strain and tension in his body pool and turn into liquid heat.

Oh. He thinks to himself.

The uneasy sensation under his skin shifts and changes. It becomes impossible to ignore arousal, despite his best attempts to do so. He drags a gloved hand off the steering wheel and presses it into his upper thigh. He grips the denim and tilts his head back, pressing it into the headrest. He silently wills the erection straining against the zipper of his jeans to go away. It doesn't.

He pushes a harsh breath out of his lungs. The inhale is even more ragged. He feels his dick twitch and he loses the battle. He grinds his palm against his crotch, bucking up against the sensation. His back arches away from the backrest. The leather of his gloves catches clumsily against the fabric. He fumbles blindly for the seat release and reclines. It gives him more room to spread his legs wide, accommodating his wandering touch. He pauses for a moment, trembling and twitching against the weight of his own hand. With an abrupt, jerky motion, he sits up to wrestle himself out of his jacket and toss it into the back seat where it proceeds to slide off the smooth leather and onto the floorboard.

He sits hunched over in his seat, forehead against the steering wheel. His hands, the left fisting the fabric of his jeans and the right cupping himself, go still while he focuses on breathing. Unexpectedly, the glimpse he had gotten of his neighbor, of his girl, the other night flashes into his mind. His body stiffens and he feels himself spasm in interest.

He knows it's wrong, even as he works his zipper down. It's not enough to stop him though. He closes his eyes, leans back, and lets himself fantasize. He feels his dick spring free to lay leaking and rigid against his stomach. He's so worked up that he can feel his precum start to soak into his thin shirt and run down his shaft. He keeps his hands firmly on either thigh for the moment and simply focuses on his fantasy. He imagines his neighbor seated next to him. He thinks of her turning to him expectantly, lips parted, glossy, willing, ready. He swallows hard as he pictures her putting her hands on his thighs, right where his currently are. The only sounds in the Malibu are his heaving breaths and the faint music playing on the stereo. He knows he's running down his gas gauge by idling for so long but it doesn't matter. Nothing else matters but the thoughts of his girl.

He involuntarily jerks at the idea of her easing herself further into his space. He can almost feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. A non-imagined sensation is the precum that comes flooding at the thought. He finally wraps his hand around himself. The leather is immediately soaked through. He strokes himself. His grip is too harsh, too tight, not enough.

He wonders if she would let him kiss her while he jerks himself off. Would she look at him with shocked distain or would she coax his legs apart? Drape them over her lap and guide his hand to his own dick, encouraging him to touch it just for her as they press together intimately in the small space? He can picture the way his gloved hands would look. One on her jaw to draw her in for a kiss and the other wrapped around his flushed, weeping cock. She would pluck the toothpick from his mouth. She would kiss him hungrily, deeply. Painfully slow and all the while murmuring soft praise against his lips as he works himself over for her.

He pants silently, his mouth hanging open. There's a low whine building in his throat that he doesn't let escape. He imagines the slow, lingering presses of his neighbor's mouth against his. He feels his stomach tighten at the imagined sensation. His hand moves slower, lingeringly. He's taking his time now. He tightens his hand around his throbbing dick and strokes it tenderly in the way he imagines she would kiss him.

Would her mouth taste sweet? Bitter? Would he find a hint of coffee? Of the candy she favored so much? He had left a packet of it leaning against her front door one night after he had heard her complaining on the phone about running out. If she hadn't wanted him to know, she wouldn't have left her window ajar. He watches out for her. She is rarely without his presence, he makes sure of that. He can't not care for his girl. He knows she doesn't realize how much they've shared together. After all, he was the one keeping watch for perverts outside her window the other night as she teasingly stripped off her work clothes in preparation for her shower. He wishes he hadn't been standing in the parking lot at the time. He would have much rather been in her apartment with her, blinds tightly closed against the peeping toms he was deterring with his watchful presence. If only she had noticed him through her window and beckoned him to join her in the shower.

His hand stutters when he reminds himself of the sight of her. The leather catches uncomfortably against his skin. He thinks about the smooth expanse of her back, the way her breasts had slipped out of her bra when she had undone the clasps. He could see her now through half closed eyes, shirtless and lit by a golden glow. An angel hovering over him. He imagines her taking his free hand from her face and trailing it down her soft skin to her breast. Her delicate skin would slide like silk against his encased fingers. He would gently knead the yielding tissue, feel her nipple harden underneath his touch. The leather would be warm from their shared body heat. She should tell him how good he was, how he was her hero. She would lick her way into his mouth and-

The pressure building up inside him finally reaches its crescendo and it's all he can do to desperately grab at the steering wheel with his left hand as his other finishes the job. He braces his feet against the floorboard and cums hard. He makes the only sound he's allowed himself to make all night. It's a low, throaty growl of a moan. More animal than man. The toothpick in his mouth nearly snaps with how hard he bites down. He shakes and thrashes in his seat. His vision goes white. He breaks apart. He's emptying himself dry, nearly sobbing at the sensation.

He makes an absolute mess of himself and his vehicle. Semen runs down over the back of his hand. The milky fluid looks like rich trails of gold in the city lights. It gleams against the sodden leather. He sags in his seat, eyes staring blankly out of the windshield. The ringing in his ears gradually fades away and he becomes present in his body again. His girl always has the best way to make him cum, even if she doesn't know it.

He grabs a shirt from his passenger seat. It has lost most of its scent from its time in his '73. Much to his relief, however, he can still smell a faint trace of perfume and sweat. It had been a risky item to take, but it is one that he needed. He wipes off his face first, letting the scent of his girl wash over him before he cleans off his windshield and steering wheel. If only she had been here, he wouldn't have spent himself so recklessly. She would have been able to tell him exactly what to do. As it is, though, he drags the shirt down his chest to mop up the cum quickly soaking through his own shirt and towels off his softening dick. He winces at the overstimulation.

He tucks himself back into his jeans. He catches his breath before he pulls off his gloves and bundles them inside her shirt. He needs to do laundry anyway. He has been putting it off until his neighbor's bi-weekly visit to the machines. Always on a Wednesday afternoon. The chance to be in the same room as his girl was worth the inconvenience. He would also be able to return her shirt and borrow a fresher one to keep close for when he couldn't see her. Maybe she would be able to sense a trace of him in the fabric upon its return. His token of showing her exactly what she did to him.

His heart settles down and he finally starts to feel bone deep exhaustion set in. He is thoroughly spent. He turns his headlights back on and backs out of his parking spot. The gears shift smoothly under his expert hand. He's going to go back to his apartment and get a few hours of sleep just to wake up in time to see his girl's face as she comes home from work. If he's lucky, maybe she'll give him a tired smile when he holds the door for her as he exits the building. He mustn't be too greedy. After all, she seems to forget that she's his.

#drive 2011 #driver #drive fanfic #drive #ryan gosling #drive movie #Nobody even look at me. This the most gratuitous crap I've ever written. jfc #fanfiction #my work #my posts

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tieflingfingers · 3 months ago

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What and who: Astarion tries his first attempt at close quarters. Thomasin isn't happy about it. Summary: Thomasin awakes to find a silhouette hovering over her. Between blades, blood, and bickering, Astarion tries to find a way to feed himself without breaking the mild trust they have. Warning/Content: Re-write of first bite scene, character lore, and Astarion character study. Adjacent to horror/angst/humor/the seed planting of fluff. Vague mentions of abuse/trauma. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 4,925 Ao3 Link

In the depths of the Dales, where agriculture and pillagers roamed free, lived a forbidden courtship. Proof of peace and harmony sprout from its bud. It was the birth of a child. One whose cheeks were pink and supple like her human mother. Like her mother before her and those before them. Skin stained shades of raspberry as though she, too, was grown from the same acre of land. Soil rich enough to build a lineage of women feminine yet sturdy.

Paternal instincts didn’t come naturally to the infant’s father, but not out of his own volition. He was a drow softer than the Underdark would foster. Intimacy was prohibited. The gentle touch of sun-warmed flesh even more so. Only a handful of meetings left a legacy he’d never know. A daughter bathing in light not afforded to him whilst he was swept back underground.

But, living on farmland proved rich with experience. The child braided ribbons into her hair to keep strands out of her eyes while tending crops. Hours under the sun left imprints on her skin that mirrored her mother. Skin decorated by a labor of love. Speckled and peachy against silver tints.

"There’s so much to see in every plane, Thomasin,” her mother interjected between lullabies.

Perhaps her parents were both stricken by their own nagging wanderlust. Thomasin heard countless stories of travels beyond her young comprehension. Stories of a drow that defied Lolth. Not by mighty bloodshed, but a gentle demeanor. The defiance of a man wanting nothing more than freedom. Details that were mulled over so often, he began to feel more like a fairytale. His character evolved with the human’s fallible memory.

Some evenings, the drow was heroic against his raiding caravan. Other times, he simply was a man whose fingers ached for acceptance. All of it, all of him, muddled together, fed Thomasin like breadcrumbs. They were memories she could cling to, even if he existed only through anecdotes and physical letters left behind. He was folklore.

Lifetimes away from her original roots, Thomasin became the conduit of their dreams. She’d witness the vastness of their plane. Places where adventures never ended. But, her mother never truly warned of life’s woes. How merciless it could be, even when fruitful.

Thomasin spent the evening concocting medicinal magic. They were common procedural spells that ward off inflammation and voided the need of stitches. As content as her new companions were, it wore the half-elf down, and so she retired to her tent earlier than the others.

It wasn’t long until she was tucked away underneath a makeshift blanket. Sleep hadn’t always come naturally, so she took advantage of exhaustion. Her dark hair sprawled around her head like a halo, strands entwined and unfurled from restless slumber. But, no matter how hard she tried, her mind remained partially tuned in to life outside her tent.

Thankfully, it was nothing more than banter around a campfire. They rejoiced in comradery fueled by dinner whose foundation was primarily red wine. It eased tension. Let their playful jabs and jokes wash off their backs. This possibility of protection comforted the half-elf a bit.

So, Thomasin remained in her nest. At forty-five years of age, she figured fatigue stemmed from her human half. The same that made her frame worn yet strong. Travel brought city inclines, grassy hills, and crouching through thistle in the name of foraging. But, no matter how much she pushed herself, she was constantly decorated.

Easy on the eyes. It was a habit, more than anything. A default state of being.

Curated fashions were collected over years. Gifted, stolen, sewn, swapped, and saved. Pigments made cheeks looked pinched and sparkles smeared over scars from unfortunate scraps. Her hips were wide when seasonal harvests were plentiful. Her posture bordered between straight and feminine. It was as though every aspect of her persona had been created from decades of standing in front of a mirror.

Starting this new journey, as involuntary as it may be, she was thankful for what piece of home she carried. The belongings of an abandoned home still packed in her bag after getting abducted by mind flayers. Scarves made of fine stolen silk, whose weave snagged. Books with split bindings lovingly re-bound by bundling pages until whole once more. Their contents ranged from fictional anthologies to sappy romance to guides of edible flora.

Residing next to potions, bottled perfumes soaked into cork tops. Her violin slept in the corner. Its body had been as plucked, popped, and rewound as hers. Simple blessings.

Eventually, noises dwindled. Those outside finally laid to sleep. The forest began to rustle louder, as though it had been waiting for their commotion to cease. To be able to exist in its most natural state. It harmonized. Branches creaked and native berries were plucked by gusts of wind. Whenever the unknown awoke Thomasin, she reminded herself of her mother’s saying.

“We are a guest to nature. The nocturnal world has always lived with us, just as the light does."

What she lacked to consider, was the nocturnal entering her den.

Cast shadows were almost tactile in their density, hovering atop her skin. An ever faint sensation. One that resurfaced her hypervigilance born from syndicates. And, for a split second, she caught a glimpse of the greyed silhouette above.

Dread set in.

Before her was a tale as old as time.

Domineering men proving she was just consumable company.

There was no hesitation in her reflexes. No need to identify who it was. No time. Words fled from her lips in rapid succession. The spell, readily accessible, flowed from an unnatural tongue. It was a series of broken common, deep, and high drow. Unintelligible horrific statements. The whispers trickled in a river of flowing smoke, its blue haze snaking its way into the figure’s skull.

As the weave infiltrated their thoughts, it illuminated streams that spilled down the planes of their face. Down their cheeks like painful tears and pouring from an agape mouth as though squeezing the last remnants of a well’s ground reserves.

In a full blown panic, the figure gasped. Thomasin wouldn’t prolong the forced terror, but she knew even a single second of torment felt like hours. The pressure entangled within her foe’s temples and dragged its ephemeral claws around an already battered brain.

Out into the moonlight, Astarion stumbled from the mouth of her tent. He had flung himself backward, landing square on his palms. He stared back at Thomasin, but it was apparent he was still recovering from the sudden retaliation. He appeared disillusioned. Frightened in a way that made her uncomfortable.

Thomasin scuttled to the entrance with ragged breath. A small dagger embedded so deep within her fist, her knuckles grew white and sharp. Although her blade had become a beacon of last resort rather than an eager desire. Chips and wear along its metal mumbled its victims, but that couldn’t defy the obvious shaking of her hands and the memories of every time she’d fallen victim, herself.

In the darkness, the light from her cryptic illusions mellowed until both elves peered at one another in shades of livid grey. Before her, Astarion was shivering in place. Jaw slackened and back hunched. He knew he had to simply endure. Magical cruelty was unyielding, but the clutches of the Weave always dissolved before he did.

Thomasin recognized her chance to approach. Survey the feigning of undeath she figured he existed within. His humanity, stunted. Stagnant. She peeked her head out further like a writhing animal curious about a writhing beast. As though her quills plunging him into fright was an act of wry mercy.

Astarion’s knuckles appeared speckled in shades of bruised plum. Its fruit’s tender exterior tumbled, prodded, and thudded against the dirt before truly ripening. His heavy breath revealed the sheer discomfort his posture took to maintain. It was as though his frame ached under the weight of its growing hunger. They were wordless pleas of pangs. Pains of a pallid complexion.

Eventually, Astarion melted into his body once more. Pupils no longer dilated and dissociative. No longer forlorn. As his fingers eased from their strained grip into the grass, his gaze flicked back up to hers. It reeked of exhausted predation.

“Gods—shit,” he muttered. “It’s not–”

Thomasin’s intuition begged for civility. Her history beckoned her to protect herself through any means necessary. It boiled to a froth from her gut. Words clamored to be free, vitriolic in her throat. Syllables bashed against her teeth. But, she ground them down until the unbridled anger condensed into something meek. Uncharacteristically so.

“Astarion- Please. You promised,” Thomasin whispered.

His eyes trailed down to the dagger she still held tight.

“You don’t have to use that. Blades among friends is never the answer, honestly” His voice cracked. “An old-hat solution. Passé, even.”

“I-” She looked around the camp with bleary eyes. It was still. Oblivious in each tent’s drunken slumber. “Is this from all that dessert wine you found? Fucking hells- you have ten seconds to plead before I wake the others.”

“Ten seconds?” The elf swallowed his distress, struggling to smooth its ridges with his usual temperament. “Going back on a promise? I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I’m not some kind of- oh, I don’t know.” His hand twisted about in the air in search of answers. “A ne’er-do-well? I thought we were better acquainted than that.”

His lilt was slithering back into his grasp. He even let out a light titter.

“Thomasin. Darling. You’re beautiful, but I am no ill-intentioned monster.

Astarion shifted to tend to the impact upon his wrists, wringing his hands around sore joints. Thomasin watched him repress every line of dialogue that would fail to placate her. But, there was overcompensation in his eyes. After their tumultuous days, little strength was left to press down the fatigue he forcibly polished like an ever rotating stone wheel. He was stuck with the excess. Nothing but powdered iron and rust.

The elf’s ears drooped at the unnerving silence between them. He caught her hesitance. But, even her reluctance to strike couldn’t mask the sheer adrenaline coursing through her. And before he knew it, Astarion found himself pulled by his linen shirt collar.

His back slammed against crackling wicker. It was the mat flooring of her tent. Wavering between fragility and disorientation, he found himself straddled and pinned by the half-elf’s knees. One restrained his forearm whilst the other dug into his open palm. His fingers curled under the crushing weight.

“Absolute bitch- I need that!” Astarion hushed himself, but not before hissing through his teeth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Next was the fine point of a dagger nestled between his jawline and jugular. Any quick movements would prove deadly to Astarion, if he wasn’t careful, but the act of unrelenting threat grew muddled. It wasn’t her voice that faltered. Nor her commitment. It was the droplets that hit the elf’s face under her. Gravity pulling what laid along her lashline with little consent.

“What were you thinking? Sneaking up on me? Inside my tent? I wanted to consider you more than some… tawdry dandy… The lack of tact. I’m not afraid to end you where you lay, you know. Those weren’t falsehoods I spoke of.”

“Wait- There are few things I have a difficult time wording,” Astarion uttered. “Nothing awful, terrible, of course. I wouldn’t dare ruin the company we keep. Sometimes actions are more via–”

The microscopic tilt of Thomasin’s hand shoved the blade deeper against his neck, cutting shallow within the flesh. She was terrified, but couldn’t allow herself to voice it. Every word of his tasted like milk and honey. If only there weren’t gall in his heart and fraud in his deeds.

Astarion gasped and pulled his shoulders upward as though he could make distance between them. “Ah! Easy there. No need to spur a horse going full speed. Listen-”

A huff jut from his nostrils. His eyes closed to shield himself from the consequences. Each sentence raced behind the next, detailing the confession that finally caught up with him. The reason for his comeuppance.

“You remember that ghastly sight we saw on our walk earlier? That hog . You remember the one, yes? The one with those curious little wounds on his neck.” A weak laugh fluttered out, making the wound sting more. “Exsanguinated. Perhaps… the stories of creatures going bump in the night aren’t entirely as they seem. That-Perhaps… Perhaps! Just maybe, vampire spawn live amongst you just as your peers.”

Astarion opened his eyes to witness her reaction, although it was not as extravagant as he expected. It was quiet contemplation wracked with desires. For mercy. Possible bloodshed to solve it all.

After years of prowling, he was left to his own devices. No masters or gods to tell the elf what to do or how to act. No higher powers to blame. No scripts for the circumstance. No one to pick up the pieces.

“I could have guessed as much,” she finally spoke up. “You lack subtlety, I fear.”

“Look. I won’t be saccharine about all of this. I am not in this state of being out of choice . I-There are powerful people in Baldur’s Gate, you know this. Cazador resides in the high mansions of the city, maintaining his control through slavery. I was only lucky to be plucked from his clutches.”

The muscles in his face struggled to maintain a calm. His dignity, visibly pained.

She paused, recognizing the name from word of mouth. The rare occasions she associated with the upper echelon, where her escorting brought forth gifts of fresh seafood, fresher furs, and the freshest hearsay. She was suddenly grateful she’d never accepted invitations to the grand castle in the sky.

“Do you survive off animals?” she asked.

“Typically, yes. I’ve existed under strict rules for as long as I’ve been riddled with this disease.”

He averted his eyes and recalled the list of his master:

“‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.

Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.

Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.

Four, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’”

Astarion’s glanced and lit up at the sight of her expression softening.

“Though… quenching my thirst has proven difficult out here, “ he continued. “Every day I grow weaker. It gets more and more difficult to fight beside you all and hide such ailments. Aha… Color me… desperate.” The admission was bitter to taste.

Thomasin unsheathed the blade’s tip and pressed her thumb against Astarion’s wound. The gentle touch did not heal, but rather pondered over the damage. It was a souvenir of who she once was.

Astarion didn’t let his guard down further. He couldn’t. She had no reason to spare him the quickened death of a dagger through his chest. The obvious answer was self-preservation. Yet, she was suddenly tender, despite her weight heavy atop him. He let out a weak laugh. The reality was, he was still alive.

“Vampirism seems to have an odd relationship to the city streets,” Thomasin said. “I came across your kind every so often, but rarely did we speak. I imagine murdering the harlots would put a damper on your ability to blend into flophouses…” She grabbed his jaw, turning his face to assess the gnarled scar on his neck. The trauma of a blistering bite. Under it was an elf he once was. “I suppose part of me wanted to encourage whatever humanity is left inside you.”

“I… Well…” he mumbled, uncertain the comments called for offense or flattery.

“...Did you want to feed off me?”

He inhaled sharp, nodding his head in her clutches. “Yes! Yes, I would, very much so. Not a drop more than you are willing, of course .”

“Will… I turn?”

“No, I am merely a spawn. Transforming you into some thrall isn’t in my… vampiric wheelhouse.”

Thomsin felt coziness in the unconventional path. Dangers were plentiful and often more perilous than the man sitting before her. What was more indulgent than snake oil? The grey morals that provide true, unfiltered respite. The enticement of taboo relief. A thought that would later morph into regret if she didn’t take the chance. She yearned to finally relax. To finally feel something. Or nothing. Anything.

Although she’d never admit it to herself.

After short deliberation, the half-elf freed Astarion and positioned herself beside him. A shaking hand tucked her weapon back into its sheath. Her knees pulled into her chest. And, as she was about to consent, a noise escaped her throat. A whimper. Biology voicing its disapproval.

“Ah-What should I do?” she whispered.

“Just… let me take the lead. You sit pretty.”

Astarion sat up and gathered what energy he had left. He groaned and articulated his fingers, instructing his limbs to cooperate once more. Gradually, he oriented himself behind her with a slow stalking grace and encouraged her shoulders to rest against his chest.

It was as though a spark livened him. Not a sensation of excitement from pocketing coins or fulfilling lewd fantasies. This felt different. The vampire never had the luxury of an artery so willing and gifted. Wrapped in a bow, so to speak. Yet, he had an epiphany.

Every fiber of his being had subconsciously prepared itself for another death. His master professed this fate. He could already hear the joyous cackling Cazador would make upon finding his withering starved body in the forest. It was everything he promised upon escape.

Even if he wished to disobey, Astarion had never fed upon a victim nor been taught to. Rodents' bodies were compact, whereas living speaking anatomy had nuance. In fact, he’d only witnessed feasts from a distance with palpable envy. One could recall wounds, but where would be best to bite? How could he ensure she was preserved, leeching life without the inevitable corpse on his hands?

Astarion proceeded to mimic those dining in the halls of his home. The decorum was different, but that wouldn’t matter. The elf proceeded to wrap an arm around her waist for support and gently brushed aside long strands of hair. They ran down her clavicle like a cascading curtain, revealing her neck.

"How much will it hurt?" she asked.

Seconds went by. No answer. He was enamored by the mere concept of a meal. Stone still, ferality awoke within his brain, although he eventually snapped back into reality. He felt like a starving animal careening toward rats for sustenance. He was.

"It's only a pinch. A nick. Just…” His words trailed off, voice low and heavy. “Just relax yourself against me. I'll keep you steady.”

"What if you go on a count? I breathe in and out a few times?”

“Sure- Yes. Let us count.”

There was impatience in his tone being strangled. The elf was fueled by tunnel vision. Unshackled hedonism. Still, he played along.

“One.”

“Two.”

And not a syllable more.

Thomasin’s flesh being punctured felt like the hissing of an unkempt fire. Dried kindling snapping and sparking against moisture in the air. She yelped. The wound in her neck pulsated in a way she'd never experienced, uncomfortable and siphoned. Excitement of the unknown had all but culminated into panic.

But, if there was one about the half-elf, it was that she was stubborn. Her nails dug into his shirt, pawing at the linens for his cold embrace. They searched for any semblance of safety. Through creases and cuffed folds, they landed at his wrist and etched a codex into his skin.

Astarion's body began to writhe against her in pure intoxication. With his hand guiding her head, he rose to a kneeling position, fulling taking control of the dance macabre. The footwork proved messy, but style was far from his mind. Never had the finer tastes in life been so abundant. Every sense was sharpening. Every emotion, ecstatic.

The elf’s eyes had nearly glazed over until a pain brought him back. It was Thomasin’s nails. He realized her composure was crumbling.

"Keep counting, love,” he managed through a tongue coated in the blackened blood pooling at his lips.

Diving back into her neck once more, Thomasin finally let go. The pain that once seized her neutralized. What now resided was a bloodless calm. Their hearts raced at uneven beats, momentarily syncing until they passed one another. Hers slowing whilst his engorged with borrowed life. He ventured into an aggravated fervor at the expense of a bard’s descent into the dirt. The oozing ebb and flow of building delirium. An amalgamation of every misstep and the bottles of whiskey that couldn’t quite wrap them in creature comforts.

She did as she was told and crept into a languid submission, head rolling any way his body contorted hers.

Back to counting.

Two. Three. Four.

The numbers coinciding felt more like concepts than measurements.

Five. Six. Seven.

Internal dialogues began to devolve. Abstraction. It washed over her. Abrupt and startling like tumbling into a cold lake. Although its cool waters rejuvenated where her soil never knew rain. Repose began to blossom.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Thomasin clutched onto him as a safety net. She ran her fingers along his shirt. They trailed over every stitch, discovering mending he’d sewn by hand. Bumps and valleys.

By now, the sounds of his neglected appetite were fading into the ether. Numbers had lost meaning and she had to find new ways to remain grounded. First, it was the threads. Then, the slowing repetition of her heartbeat. They were the last ways of documenting how unsubstantial seconds passed by.

Time was trivial in the face of the physical.

Sensations lured her forward with warm euphoric dreams and brighter visions of the past. For a moment, she couldn’t identify the emotion heavy in her chest. Whether they were death’s temptation. But it wasn’t long before she realized they weren’t all acidic.

They were shades of colored wax she used to liven monochromatic children’s books. They were the light noise of tin cans tickling your ears as they clinked down cobblestone walkways. The mythical society of dust particles floating indefinitely against a window’s evening light. The stray fuzzy knits of her favorite sweater and the lingering scent of perfume from hugging close friends.

They were the protective glow from oil street lamps guiding her way home. The giggling and tingles of bubbles popping from steins of beer. Fogged mirrors from steaming rooms with a hot bath and the way sounds muffled when sunken into a wooden tub. Stories told under the covers, fairytales to romantic confessions, until everyone fell asleep to dwindling candlelight.

These all lived in a hypothetical mist that rolled in. More of a fog, like those she experienced during her childhood winters in the Dales. How she’d begun the exchange with Astarion was unimportant. Details melted into something viscous. Consumed how the two had even met.

Her fingers were still moving as far as she could understand. The atmosphere felt heavy against their journey, but they operated as their own entities. Their coordination, unsteady, persisted out of habit. The stripped down basics.

Repetitive motion. Color. Air. Pressure. Darkness. Enveloping darkness.

“Stop,” she mumbled. “Please.” Words seemed warped from her lips, unsure she had even spoken them aloud. They felt incorporeal.

Hunched over her, Astarion was coursing with vitality he’d didn’t know how to tolerate. His fangs were hooked and mania was the only voice in his head. It wasn’t until he noticed her shallow gasps of air in his arms. How her muscles no longer fought against him. The desire to simply finish her screamed at him, but he found the strength to pull himself off.

The elf’s grin framed his pointed teeth in their glory. He chuckled in his daze, unsure if her pathetic grasp for life were to be laughed at or pitied. She was food. An object. For once, he didn’t share that feeling.

Astarion scoot back to let her head rest in his lap so he could revel in his dinner. Although, his fantasies couldn’t help be bombarded with the reality of her death on his hands. It all conflicted. Anxieties had been buffered by his bloodied delectation.

He slapped her cheek twice, printing her blood against her flesh in a hasty spattering.

"C'mon. You haven’t lost that much.”

To no avail, the elf snapped his fingers over her shut eyes. He jostled her side to side. Pressed his hand against her neck, hoping to calm the flow unleashed. Soon, he noticed thin ribbons of red staining both of their clothes and caught himself staring at the blood wet between his fingers.

“Wake. Up. Don’t make me start asking gods for favors.”

Despite a faint pulsing thump against his hand, her responses were absent. Even looking at her made him uneasy. He wondered if holding his gaze for too long would unlock parallels between him and this random young woman. A thought that would anger him if not for being appeased by his leeching.

Suddenly, he considered her backpack and yanked it to his side, digging around for anything of use. He needed to stop the escalation. A potion. A salve. A deity with a worrying sense of humor.

Within, a diamond shaped bottle glittered. One he recognized. It was commonly consumed among mortals for hangovers, bar fights, or the lucky escape from an owlbear. The concoction healed minor injuries and illnesses in a foul swoop. Thomasin’s sickness was more dire than half a bottle, but it was still a victory to toast to.

Astarion tucked a pillow between his thigh and her head to create elevation. And, with a gentle tug by the pad of his thumb, he lowered her bottom lip. Its glittering elixir slowly but surely ran down her throat.

“Aha, wonderful. There you go. Watch your pretty little head.”

It took a minute or so, but Thomasin’s eyes finally flickered open. She had been unceremoniously thrown back into the realm of the living, where she lay in a veil of crimson strewn across her face. The land smelled of iron much richer than she remembered. But, her comprehension of her surroundings faltered.

“Do you know how irritating these stains are going to be to get out?” Astarion said, taunting her, egging her on to get a reaction.

Thomasin’s body suddenly flinched. A ragged titter. The half-elf was at least somewhat responsive.

“Wasn’t it wonderful though?,” she whispered, nearly inaudible.

Astarion’s ears perked up. Crisis had been averted. He was prompt to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the remaining evidence of bloodletting. With fresh water from her canteen, he soaked the fabric swatch and grazed it over her shoulders, chest, and neck. It wiped away what streamed down her arms. What dripped down her back. A courtesy of aftercare, wringing the tainted water into a bowl between each cleaning.

Once she acknowledged she, too, was alive, she resigned herself to slumber. His touch was oddly gentle. Comforting. The mindless task allowed him to think clearly for the first in centuries. Although he was unsure what to do with said thoughts. Knowing what he was feeling had become impossible over the years. Trusting them, even more so.

The longer he studied her face, the more he considered it helped repress the urge to kill. It forced him to humanize his prey. A concept he wasn’t privy to. A new novelty.

The elf ran his hand along her cheeks and admired her freckles through backhanded compliments not spoken aloud. He traced along the thick scar across her nose, pressing into the curl of her lashes to reveal her blinded eye, and conjured stories of how it came to be. Then, his trail took him up. The space where her fringe often fell and covered her forehead.

Right atop her brow, a tattoo had been intentionally hidden. The pattern consisted of four shapes laid in a row, overlapping one another in mashed thieves cant. Its black ink had faded. Damage that could only come from years of sun and forcible scrubbing.

“Everyone in Baldur’s Gate is owned by someone,” he mumbled, twisting his head every which way to decipher the tattoo’s meaning.

Eventually, he grew bored of solving her mysteries and situated himself in the corner of her tent. From the sullied water bowl, he wiped his own face with a dampened cloth, sneaking self-indulgent licks of what was left on his forearms. Only then did he notice he was shaking.

But the only person that could judge him was comatose. Her chest gently rose and fell with each rickety breath, but she would awake in the morning. For now, he'd keep an eye on her. What if she choked in her sleep? Stopped breathing altogether? He would be blamed.

It wasn’t difficult to busy himself in the confines of her tent. He was used to much more unwelcoming atmospheres where dangers lurked. Threats much more vile than him.

As he rid of incriminating stains, the water bowl grew dark and rich. What the elf had cobbled together was a fine wine of his own. Stealing an empty glass bottle, he began to store the liquid away for a rainy day. A treat for later.

Even engulfed in his usual unease, he couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe it was amusement. Maybe fatigue like before. Disbelief, even.

One thing was certain.

By the gods, he was rightfully fed.

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janicho88 · 1 year ago

Text

I Got You- Chapter 1

Pairing- Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Female!Reader

Word count- 963

Warnings- Some language, mentions of domestic violence, and abuse, abusive boyfriend, hurt reader. If I missed something please let me know.

A/N- Birthday post 2. This one has been sitting in my WIP since last fall. First Jake story, I hope I can do him justice. The first few chapters will be a little heavy, but we will move past that.

Summary- When you have finally reached a breaking point, you call the one person you trust for help. He’s never seen you as more than a friend, but he is the person you know you’re safest with. It’s been months since he has had so much as a text from you, but Jake Seresin would do anything for the Navy princess he met years ago. The pilot knows she means more to him than he ever will to her, but he will do anything for her

Series Masterlist

After a long first day of being back at Top Gun, Jake is sitting at the bar of the Hard Deck nursing his first beer of the night. Some of the other aviators from this detachment are by the pool table, after spending the day around them, he isn’t inclined to head over right now. The bar itself isn’t crowded yet, the night’s still early.

“I don’t usually see you sitting at my bar by yourself, you alright?” Penny questions as she wipes down the empty bar around him.

“Yeah, just been a long day Penny.” he returns with a slight smirk.

“Are you sure that’s all?” The bartender remembers Jake from his first go around at Top Gun. Maverick’s Goddaughter brought him in on his first night in town, and introduced Jake to Penny.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The pilot is staring at his beer before he speaks again. “Did you know the man we threw out last night was a Captain, and an instructor at Top Gun?”

“Oh God, Pete’s your instructor?” Much to Jake's frustration she laughs.

“Sure is, not really the best first impression one wants to make.”

“Don’t worry, that man has made much worse first impressions.”

“Doesn’t really help me now, Penny,” Jake responds with a shake of his head, and takes a drink of his beer. He has every intention of leading this mission, and last night’s little incident isn’t the best way to make that happen.

“There’s a blonde over by the wall who's been staring at you for a good ten minutes if you’re looking for company to take your mind off Mave,” she teases as she moves to help another patron.

Shaking his head once more, Jake’s attention goes back to the beer in front of him. It isn't long before his phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket, not bothering to look at the caller ID before answering.

“Hello.”

No one responds, but he can faintly hear breathing on the other end.

“Hello,” he tries again with a little impatience in his tone.

“J..Jake? Where are you?”

He pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at the caller ID. Seeing the number he assumes his eyes are playing tricks on him. He hasn’t heard from you in a few months.

“Are you there? Please…I..”

He can hear the desperation in your voice now.

“I’m still here princess, little surprised to be hearing from you though. What’s going on?”

“Are you in Lemoore?”

“No, I’m actually…” he’s cut off by your sob.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me Y/N,” he pleads, turning away from the bar.

“I… I… need help,” you finally whisper.

“Where are you?” Jake stands and throws some money down to cover his drink and tip Penny before hurrying out of the bar.

“I’m in L.A., but if you’re not in Lemoore…”

“I’m at Top Gun, I’m on my way. What’s your address?”

He puts it in his GPS as he speeds out of the parking lot and toward the highway determined to get to you as quickly as he can. He keeps you on the phone the entire drive, but here isn’t much said between the two of you. Jake does his best to console you over the phone as he listens to your tears. When he asks if your boyfriend is around, you just start crying harder. The urge to punch someone or something growing inside of him. Pushing the speed limit the aviator gets to your apartment in just under 2 hours, you buzz him in and he’s running up the stairs to your apartment.

Still on the phone with you, Jake lets you know he’s outside your door. The man is slightly confused when the door opens and he doesn’t see you. Carefully walking inside he looks around the room and quickly turns when the door shuts behind him. His longtime friend is standing behind the door with her head down and hair covering her face, he slowly reaches out to lift her chin and push the hair back. Jake can’t help the gasp that escapes as he takes in the sight in front of him, as she recoils from his touch.

“Y/N, princess, what happened? Who did this?”

Unable to answer Jake’s question, you return to staring at the floor. Maybe you shouldn’t have bothered your friend, but you didn’t know what else to do. You knew if Jake was still at Lemoore he would help you. Tonight was the worst it’s been and you were terrified of what the next time would bring.

“Sweets, did Josh do this to you?” Jake is seeing red, trying to rein his temper in for your sake. He never cared for your boyfriend, and if he finds out this is that man’s doing, Jake won’t be holding himself back next time he sees him. There are bruises forming on your left cheek and chin, and dried blood near your nose. Your left arm has some cuts he can see from the ripped sleeve of your shirt.

The only answer he receives is a slight nod of the head.

“Where is he?” When you don’t respond he tries again. “He isn’t here right?”

You shake your head no, before finding your voice. “Probably at the bar getting drunk and finding a better girl to go home with,” you mumble.

Jake can’t keep himself away any longer he comes and slowly wraps you up in a hug holding you close to him. You are tense when he first touches you, but slowly melt into his hold. This spurs on another round of tears, you can’t believe you still have any left.

“Okay, we need to get you out of here before he comes back.”

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 2

Tagged-

#jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #tw dv mention #tw injury #tw abuse #jake hangman seresin

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ikkosu · 6 months ago

Text

ERWIN. FEM. READER

Erwin offers to take you the market. You don’t like him very much.

THE office was dimly lit. Interior largely of mahogany brown, the once glossy veneer now bores the stale dull of wood. Pitch black blotted the regions where the gentle glow of the lantern from your table wouldn't reach.

Everyone had clocked out for today. You offered to stay behind to clear out the register — sorting through the columns and columns of names with a hope that each and every one of the patients had been rightfully dosed of medication. While it helped to ease the workload for tomorrow, your determination had came at a price.

On your right, beyond the frost sheathed window was the swarth-en veil of the night. And, it was childish impulse that urged you halt scribbling on the paper, turn, blow, curl out a finger and drag careful lines about the cold glass. Eventually conjured was a simple smile that grinned back, expectant.

Uncertainty blossomed in your chest. But you figured a taut quirk of your lips would be enough — even if it was stiff and even if it was half hearted. After all, the night had fallen cold. Having just finish up the last few batches of report , you longed for the warm covers of your bed.

You pushed the chair back. Blew out the flickering lantern and slung the satchel over your shoulder, paving your way down the steps.The ingress, large wooden doors, was wide open and no more than a few steps later would you be free from this—

A call of your name halted your steps, coupled with succession of footsteps behind thatmade you freeze. You whirled around, greeted with a looming shadow that overhead blocks the flare of the chandelier above and three steps back is all it takes for you regard his face fully.

“Commander.” You greet. Not kindly.

The commander smiles. But it isn't just any smile. The look on his face is soft. Just as his eyes were. Crinkling blue in tandem of the curve over his whites. He is but gentle as he regards you, gentle like the smile you carved out with care on the window. A warm touch against the cold. And, yet...

Discreetly, you glance around. There is no one else in the room. He peered at the satchel you were clutching and points to it almost instinctively. "I see you are finished."

“That, I am. I cant help but ask. Is there something you need from me?”

If he had caught onto your sharp tone, he shows no visible reaction. Instead, he inclines his head, a hand dismissing the thought. "No, not of that sort. It's a lovely weather tonight and I was hoping I could accommodate you across the market. There's a festival not too far and I hear the town lights are beautiful at this time of the month."

You blinked, “How did you know I was going to the market?”

At this inquiry, Erwin turns away. " I was passing by when I overheard you chatting with the lance corporal. I deeply apologized if I made you feel—“

“It’s fine." You raise a hand. "I was only surprised you knew. Only to the market, right?"

He ponders for a moment. " We could stroll on for more?"

You nod. " Won't be too much of a harm, then. Let's go."

Despite conceding, you were hesitant. Conjuring a scandal by simply seen walking alongside the commander isn’t something you could bear. It happened several times. Many had thought you were his lover. Not that you didn't mind covering for his Commander's apparent non-existent love life there was also the fact that you wished to never associate with him at all outside work duties. But it isn't wise to turn him down as well. Not when your life depends on his hands. What keys he chose to glide it over. Strings to a puppet. Puppet bounded by string.

Speaking of puppet..

Erwin isn’t beside you. You halt and turn to find that he has his back to you, the tip of his ears red. He's hunched over as well — is he rubbing his face? Just what on earth is he doing? You narrow your eyes. “If you need to get something—“

Instantly, he turns back around, clearing his throat. His forehead is all but pinched red. “Lets not wait any longer." He says. " The night might turn colder."

"I...yes, that is..right." You nod slowly.

As he strides past you, gait stern and commanding of an officer as he, all you could think about was how strange he is. He’s a strange, strange man this commander.

—

YOU try not to scoot away when he gets close. You also try not to flinch when his hand grazes against yours. Though, you did give him a look when he's close to holding your waist. But to be fair it was also a miscalculation, on your part. Too fixated on a stall, you tripped over your footing and it was all due to Erwin clutching your waist that the granite hadn't kissed your face yet. But the sudden proximity made you lock his eyes. He simply flushed at your look and kept his hands behind his back ever since. As though he'd be maimed the moment he twitched.

Irritation blossomed in your chest like vines curling up a ladder. Why is he acting this way? Childish. Awestruck. Often in the office, the most common expression he’s rooked on is a firm look that could melt ice and freeze hell over. Now, under the warm bustling lanterns of the festival, the past rolling fleets of vibrant mingling colors — his face is soft. One side of his cheek, the sharp contours is sheathed with bright orange while, where the shadow falls melts with the crinkle of his eyes and a shroud of a smile.

The visage of the window comes back. You push the thought away.

“A boy,” You mutter. Too bright. Much too bright.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

Erwin takes a step aside, cautious. "Did you find anything that you like?"

After a quick stroll round the markets, you had gotten the groceries you need. Mostly eggs and lettuce and a few chops of chicken. Now, you humored his request for a walk through the festivities.After all, the path is closer to your house, anyway which is why you conceded.

"I haven't been to a festival often. It's...new to me, to be honest."

" I see. Then I'm assuming you haven't tried these games, as well?" He gestured to the stalls.

You look, scanning the many sage tents propped up with decoration and vibrant commodities.

“Would you like to try?”

“The rifle range? I don’t think I’m adequate.”

You grimaced at the sight. Children and old seniors alike, giggling and cooing everytime a patron had made a perfect shot in the target. You were sure to humiliate him if ever you're to hold a gun.

Erwin only chuckled "Nonsense." And you flinched when his hands curled round your wrists, tugging you along. " Everyone has their own shortcomings. Learning a rifle isn't too bothersome, believe me."

Without much thought he grabs your hands and you try your hardest not to pull it away.

—

THE man at the stall was not much taller than Erwin. He was quite built. Tanned, dark eyed and considerably not bad looking from behind his ivory draped table.

"How many rounds?" Was his polite inquiry, already propping up the station for play. Your companion pulled out a pouch— his wallet that he took out several sheets of money from.

"Just two."

You reached into your satchel, frantic. "Oh, no it's okay. I'll—"

"Two rounds." But the deal had already been docked. Money taken and stashed. You gave a betrayed look to the man who only laughed in reply.

"Have you played this before?" He loaded up the rifle with, what you're assuming, is false bullets. Plastic at most. Soft and easily reflective.

"She hasn't."

You fight the burn from your face. "I must admit remorsely...i'm not very well aquainted with...these festivities."

"Ah, you'll get to be. Don't worry. Just a few games and—" He snapped his fingers in good humor. " You'll be rooked in like a drug."

" I hope not. I wouldn't want to go through the laboring process of rehabilitation." You said dryly.

" Easier said than done, lady." Was his playful retort.

Erwin extends the rifle to you, "Ready?"

You take it reluctantly. "Quite."

After a few rounds it was increasingly clear you're not as intelligent as you would seem to be. Each play proved further that your inadequate stance, aim, position is, at most, profoundly low levelled — even, the wind at some point isn't in your favor.

Observing the target, the concentric circle consisted of three layers. You drilled all but the middle. And all but the target, even. Some bullets pelted the sage tent behind.

Erwin pats your shoulder. "No point giving up now when you have so much to lose, yes? Stay put. I will get us drinks.”

And with that he left, disappearing amidst the flock of crowd. Now, you're here with the man who leant against the counter, regarding you with warm eyes.

"Help?"

"I'll humiliate you further if you don't." You said with a groan, lowering the muzzle. " I just can't hold it right."

He rounded the table and came behind.

" That's because you're too stiff, my lady. You should stand perpendicular to the target with your feet roughly shoulder width apart. May I?" You allowed him to cage you in. " Here, just keep your hold on it tight. ”

“Like this?” You curl your finger around the trigger. His curls over yours as well.

"Yes, like that." He echoed, "Now, aim."

You raise the muzzle in line with the target. Stance, aim, position and breathing in mind you pulled the trigger. And—

Your cheeks lift up in its own accord, carving out a bright smile from your lips. "The middle!"

"If you are then you might as well be the gods."

"Yes, the middle." He grinned as well, pointing at the chafe of a bullet in the circle. "I'm such a good savior aren't?"

His laugh rumbled through your body as he shifted behind you. "See? All it takes is—"

“Excuse me.”

The man stiffened and you both simultaneously turn to find Erwin standing at the parting of the tent with drinks and food on his arms.

The natural crinkle of his eyes and smile is now rigid under the lantern. Soft contours now donning a sharp shadow. The plastic cup in his hold is unnaturally taut, gripped firm. A kind of silence fell. You're not so sure what to say at this sudden change in disposition, but you kept quiet.

The smiley face on the window vaporized.

Erwin walks towards you. The man is already at arms length, three steps away and silent as Erwin grabs the rifle and drills in at least a perfect shot on each and every one on the target spanning across the ground.

"The prizes please.” He says politely, setting the rifle down.

The man bowed simply and left without a word.

Something simmered in your chest watching him waddled away— but it wasn’t annoyance. Something like guilt festers deep inside. But you’re not sure why you’re guilty at all when you haven’t done anything wrong yet.

When he’s done gathering the prizes, on top of all the food and drinks — seriously, how does he do that? He turns urns to you, "Shall we?”

You gathered the several box of prizes from him to ease the weight. “You can play more if you want,”

“But would it be alright if we went to a different stall?”

“I…” He wants to change stalls now? That’s….you thought he was having fun here. “Anything. It's alright, you can do whatever you want to do,”

He momentarily glances to the man. “Good.”

Good? Your confusion reeks further when his palm is on your back steering you away from the tent. Erwin twists his body, peering over your shoulder. To probably look at the target, no doubt. What could possibly fuel his sudden annoyance for the man?

That question is short-lived as the sight of food quells the confusion away.

—

WHEN Erwin bid you farewell that night he returned to his quarters immediately. It was almost a daze-like trance as he sauntered through his nightly routine. Changing into comfortable clothes, arms half-way plunging through a sleeve, his mind is consumed with the earlier escapade this evening, some lighting up a bright expression and some that drew a visible frown.

Either ways, he shook off the irritation and slumped on the bed, relished the warm cushions on his bed and wished, for a moment, that your face nuzzled the pillow beside him.

It was a memory engrained into his mind. Your face was warm under the vibrant lanterns. Almost soft, and pleasant like a summer's morning.

His face grew warm. Tip of the ears tinged pink. Erwin grabbed the pillow and plunged his face into it.

#hi i wrote this at 1 am so forgive the chonky bits #erwin smith #erwin #aot #attack on titan #erwin x reader #erwin smith x reader #aot erwin #aot erwin smith x reader #attack on titan x reader

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