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emmyspov · 2 years ago

Note

Idk if your requests are open rn, but if they're not I apologize. I was wondering how you think The Fellowship would react to their youngest member (someone a little younger than Pippin, like around 20) being incredibly prone to injury but also having a really high pain tolerance. Like they keep falling off things and getting hurt but are just like "Don't fuss over me" and the others are just like hyperventilating because they're already like a little sibling to them so there is PANIC in this fellowship tonight

Source: I fell off a swingset and either severely bruised or fractured me hip :)

The Fellowship x clumsy!reader headcanons

author's note: first of all, i am so sorry it took me this long to answer this - life was just.. a lot and i was trying to stay afloat. then, i hope you are doing okay! and haven't hurt yourself more since you sent this in - please be careful & treat yourself gently 🩷 last but not least: i hope i was able to do you justice & you enjoy it :)

warnings: reader falling/stumbling/hitting their head/getting hurt in general, mention of blood, mention of food, please let me know if i forgot something!

word count: 1.6k

edit is mine, pics are from pinterest :)

Frodo: I think Frodo is actually the one who would understand you the best. I mean, he is the ring-bearer and everyone is always so worried about him and the quest and it’s understandable. I mean, he has a lot of responsibility. But sometimes, he feels a bit suffocated by the way everyone is fussing over him, wanting to keep him warm and well fed and safe. So, whenever something happens to you, he would give you some space first – waiting if you ask for help on your own. If you don’t, he’d make sure that you are not hurt. And then, he’d trust your answer. After all, you know your body and its limits best. If you say you are okay, he will simply focus on the quest again. If you do need help however, he will make sure to inform the others so you can get the help you need. Maybe this is something you could actually bond over. Because you’d treat him the same way – not like a baby, but like a friend.

Gandalf: Since you are the youngest of the group, he would feel very responsible for you. Not as much as Aragorn, but very close behind. Whenever you fall or hurt yourself, the wizard notices immediately. In an instant, he is by your side, helps you up and looks over you from head to toe, making sure you don’t have some big gashing wound or bones sticking out. Maybe I am wrong, but I do think, he would scold you a bit. “You really have to watch out”, “Eyes on the ground”, “Be careful”. But, all of these things mean that he cares. He just wants you to be safe and for you to come back in one piece. On the other hand, he is always quite surprised whenever you tell him that you aren’t really hurt. “Maybe it looks like I would be, but I can move my leg just fine – see?” And he would see. It’d take a few moments for you to convince him, but once you have, you will carry on with your journey as if nothing had happened. What you don’t notice is Gandalf eyeing you every once in a while, just to be really sure.

Merry: This hobbit is kind of used to chaos. I mean- he spends most of his time with Pippin. So, if you stumble and roll down some hill, the first thing he would do is laugh. I am talking a full on bending over, belly laugh. Until Gimli or Gandalf or, even worse, Aragorn slightly smack his shoulder before they are running after you, checking you for any injuries. Only then would he realize how dangerous this whole thing was and he’d follow everyone down to you. What he was not expecting however was to find you laughing. “Did I look cool?” Merry would stare at you for a moment before grinning at you, nodding. “Super cool. But are you hurt? Your arm has some scratches from all these twigs laying around.” You were able to stand up immediately, ignoring everyone’s wide eyes, and brushing off the dirt. “Nothing some water and Elrond’s ointment can’t fix.” You two got closer after this.

Pippin: First of all, he is SUPER glad that you, too, came along, because this way he is not the youngest of the group. Sure, he still has to deal with Gandalf’s annoyance at him, but he also has someone by his side who is also full of energy and curious and excited for the quest (at least in the beginning). But because he is the second youngest, he does feel a bit responsible for and protective over you. Like the older one of a pair of twins would. And since you hurt yourself a lot, he is constantly on his toes. Maybe you’d hold hands sometimes? Just so he can realize as early as possible that you’re gonna fall so he can at least try to buffer it. More often than not, it would also end in you two falling ON TOP of one another and that always ends in a fit of giggles. If you fall on your own though and it looked bad, Pippin would immediately call over Aragorn or Gandalf to help you, even when you say you’re fine because you’re his friend and he wants you to be okay.

Sam: Now we all know Sam is a mother hen through and through, even if he denies it. He is, understandably, mostly focused on Frodo and his well-being, but if something happens to you, he is one of the first to help, despite your protests. You stumbled? He will grab your hand and pull you up. Your hands got dirty and bloody from a fall? He will immediately offer his water bottle and help you clean off any dirt. And most importantly: at the end of the day or during breaks, he will carry over some food he cooked (and always an extra portion, too) even though you keep telling him that you can get it yourself and your ankle does not hurt, even if it might have looked like that earlier. “I just want to be sure, my friend. I don’t like the thought of you being in pain.” After a while, you start to accept his treatment.

Gimli: He is not up for discussions. You accidentally ran against a tree? Slipped while getting some water with him? He will not care for what you have to say about the amount of pain you are. You are the youngest of the group and have to be protected. So even if you vehemently try to make him understand that, yes, you might be bleeding a bit or yes, your wrist might be a little bit swollen, he would ignore you and instead call over the others to let them have a look at you. If they decided you were well enough to carry on, he would either carry your backpack (“Stop trying to take this away from me, I will take care of your belongings for now”) or sometimes even you - “Stop fussing around”, “No, you are not too heavy” and “I will carry you around until you are better.” Often times he knows that you would be well enough to walk by yourself, but it makes him feel needed when he can take care of you in some way.

Legolas: I feel like this can go two ways. Sometimes, when he is running in front of everyone else, he is kind of the last to notice whenever you hurt yourself. If he is with the group however, he will almost always be by your side or at least close to keep an eye on you. He likes to listen to you and Pippin talk since it fuels his inner child. One time, he was walking in front of you with Aragorn when you hit your head on a twig, resulting in a small cut on your forehead. You let out a yelp, more out of shock than anything else, but immediately the man and the elf turned around and ran to your aid. You tried to explain that you were fine, but Legolas seeing himself as a wood elf, was already on his way to find the closest stream to fetch some water to clean your wound. Aragorn was telling the others to take a short break when he returned and sat you down. “Stay still, my friend. Even if your cut doesn’t hurt now, it will later if we don’t treat it properly.” He only grinned when you mumbled something in return.

Boromir: Listen, Boromir has a little brother and a shitty father, he knows how to take care of someone while also respecting their boundaries and wishes. No matter how you hurt yourself, the first thing he will do is communicate clearly. Softly grabbing your shoulders, he makes you look at him and asks if you’re hurt or in any pain. If you answer no, he will ask if you need anything or anyone and if you also refuse that, he will make sure that everyone carries on with the journey. However, he will keep an eye on you, more or less secretly. And he will assist you with all the small things during the quest: rolling out your bedroll and placing it close to his own and the halflings’, sneaking you an extra blanket, making you sit close to the fire or refilling your water bottle without you having to ask. He has a soft spot for people younger than him and will never not watch out for you. Can you tell I have a soft spot for him?

Aragorn: Last but definitely not least, the Dúnedain. He is literally one of the best people to have around as a clumsy person - he has the experience from Elrond and the elves in general and knows his way around nature and the wild due to him being a ranger, so he knows how to take care of a wound. Heck, he had to do it to himself countless of times already. However, seeing you getting hurt so often makes his heart skip a beat every time and not in the good way. He worries about you, even if you claim to be fine. No matter how often you fall, stumble, bump against something or hurt yourself in any other way, he is by your side to take care of you. And he will care for you, no matter what you say. When you scraped your knees one time, Aragorn made you sit down on a log and cleaned your wounds before applying some of the ointment Elrond had given them before their departure. Only when he was sure that he had done everything he could, he would allow you to get back up and carry on. You would not get worse on his watch during this journey.

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dusterbishop · 3 months ago

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you believe me like a god (i'll destroy you like i am)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 3.8k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. once again, i'm so grateful for the likes and kind words! it means a lot to me! this chapter is long, but the next one is going to be heavy and i needed to get it all out here.

part one. || part two. || part three.

Come’on, chér, just hold on.

Playing the odds?

Non, I’m bettin’ all on you.

Gambit talks for a long, long time. He tells you about Cassandra Nova, and the Resistance's intent to cripple her center of operations. He tells you about the other mutants he allied himself with. He tells you about the climate of the Void, which is dry and barren and desolate. He tells you about his liquor collection, even as he laments how he won’t be able to indulge in it for a while.

This version of him is dead-set on a suicide mission, you quickly realize. Nova and her power sounds far beyond the scope of Gambit’s abilities, and you doubt his allies could overtake her, either. They are all hopelessly outmatched.

Then again, they are also decaying in the Void. Void is a good name for it; the earth is desolate and menacing as the pair of you travel. Your powers flicker at the edge of your vision in a blurry mirage of recollection, like a film played backwards. You can taste the metallic tinge of blood in the back of your throat. Your body still simmers with feverish fatigue, even though you are five days deep into this timeline. You haven’t been using your abilities beyond necessity, but each time you wonder what would happen if your intended time-object doesn’t appear at the command.

C’mon, Wildcard, don’ get skittish on me now.

Just deal me in, Cajun.

They are all outmatched on their own. You stare at the broad expanse of Gambit’s back as you walk, taking in the way he walks over the uneven terrain, the idle twirl of his bo staff slung lax in his hand. The travel has worn him down at the edges; his hair is mussed and dirt-streaked, and his coat is weighted and torn at the hem. Five days of trekking through the daylight and camping through the night has taken a toll on his body, but he still hums to himself as you both walk.

You know this song. It’s the one Tante Mattie would sing to him when he was young and couldn’t sleep. Or at least, that’s what your Remy told you. Perhaps this version of Remy LeBeau found it through another source. You can’t imagine the man in front of you as a little boy needing comfort.

No. That isn’t quite true. You have seen photos of a younger Remy while visiting New Orleans, much to his dramatic announcements of utter embarrassment, and you never forgot just how small he seemed. How unfair that his life was wrought with pain and fear, even as that little boy, just for the color of his eyes. Abandoned by one family only to be raised in crime with another.

You know what your Remy went through. You just can’t bear to think about what this one has suffered with. Not now. Maybe not ever considering the terror Nova has been spreading across the Void.

“Okay,” you say suddenly. It’s nearly nightfall. You should find a place to settle for the night, then scrounge up enough from your rations to feed his burning metabolism and soothe the disquiet ache in your stomach. Despite the fever, you should eat something of substance even if the thought alone makes you feel nauseous.

“Go’on, chér,” Gambit says. He’s eyeing the horizon with a calculating look, no doubt thinking the very same thing you are. You don’t know how far the makeshift headquarters are for the rebel cause, but you can figure it’s still some ways off by the frown on his face. Just how far did he go wandering alone? You don’t allow yourself to wonder why he seemed to be looking for you, either. That would lead to more questions than your mind could handle.

“You want me to fight Nova,” you say. That catches his attention. He jolts as if you charged him with his own kinetic wave, his pitch-dark eyes sliding to lock on yours. He looks like he’s ready to argue, or maybe to sweet-talk, so you add, “I’ll do it. Fight her.”

“Suicide, chér?” His mouth is twisted unhappily. “Nobody tell you to do that.”

“Didn’t need you to, Cajun,” you shoot back. “No other reason for you to go hunting across the Void for me.”

“Mebbe,” he drawls out, his smile temptingly coy, “Gambit like what he sees.”

You don’t take the bait. “I can kill her, but where does that leave you? All of you?”

His smile grows just a little brighter at the misstep. It takes every nerve in your body to resist the urge to sigh in exasperation. You don’t have to remind him you care about his wellbeing. This Gambit isn’t yours to protect.

“Don’ worry ‘bout us, chér,” he says, nearly a purr. It sends a thrill down to the base of your spine. “We talk it out, eh? Our hand t’deal.”

“With a suicide mission?” Your laugh is strained. “You really know how to raise the bet, Cajun.”

“Playing de odds,” he agrees. In the half-light of the sinking sun on the horizon, his profile is cast in shadows, and yet you can see the faintest twitch in his mouth. Almost a frown. Then he turns his face away from you entirely, hiding back behind the facade of his relaxed shoulders. “We gonna get out dis place.”

He sounds so sure that you say nothing, taking in the moment of staring at the setting sun. It would be much easier to leave entirely, even with the heaviness of your limbs from the fever. Who knows how much time you have left in this place? Something about the timeline here has you untethered from reality. You keep swallowing back the taste of blood.

Part of you almost tells Gambit, right then, that you don’t think you have time to talk about plans. You can’t just wait for the right opportunity to land in your lap like a wounded bird.

But you don’t. The two of you quietly settle down around a fire and divide your meager rations. It’s a strange collection of his preferences with the oddity of your Void self’s miscellaneous tastes. It’s an unspoken agreement to swap the night watch while the other is asleep. Gambit takes the first watch. You pretend to sleep curled next to the heat of the fire, your mind flashing through broken images of different times, like watching broken sunlight filter in from under the surface of the ocean.

Remy used to think it odd that you didn’t dream. You would joke to him that you had enough of dreaming when you found him. Still, some part of you feels a hollow curiosity towards the thought of dreaming. How could your mind conjure images of desires only for you to wake up without them? There was never a time that you could remember where you didn’t just wave your hand and hold the world in your palm.

Yet the memories that flicker across your mind from the darkness behind your closed eyelids are strangely nostalgic. Thwarting a burglary attempt as your mutant debut, celebrating Jubilee’s birthday at the mansion, visiting New Orleans for the first time as a LeBeau. Waking up to Remy’s arm slung over your waist as if he was trying to keep you secured in this timeline, even as your mind traveled right in plain sight, gone beyond his reach.

It rends a heart-wrenching ache in your chest. You have to fight to keep your breathing steady. The memories are still there, rushing past you quickly enough to make you dizzy.

Marrying Remy and nearly missing on your cue to kiss because you were staring up at his eyes. Desperately reaching out to him as your power stuttered, nearly sending you tumbling over the edge of the roof. Discreet shuffling around in bed to avoid waking the cats piled around you two, with Remy sleepily pressing a kiss to your temple. Losing days at a time, flickering in and out of your life like a specter, only to watch him grow more and more desolate in the wake of your disappearances.

Growing sicker for all the time-summoning your body forced you through. Reaching out for Remy’s hand to kiss it. Laughing at the way Remy pulled you up out of your chair to waltz in the kitchen in the middle of the night, despite him supporting most of your weight. Staring at the abandoned costume hanging in your closet, no longer your size due to the weight loss, knowing you could not wear it again in this lifetime. Accepting that, to be with Remy.

Accepting it all, just to be with Remy. Playing the odds with your own sort of suicide mission, just to keep a life with him. To earn your title with the X-Men and get dispatched on missions with them again. To be able to cuddle with the cats without scaring them with a violent waking. To go to sleep next to your husband with the knowledge you could see the same version of him in the morning.

Deal me in, LeBeau.

Eyes, mon cuore.

Warmth burns the back of your eyes. You open them slowly to stare at the blur of the fire crackling quietly in front of you. You can taste the fresh warmth of blood coating your tongue and sticking to the back of your front teeth. There’s something small and rectangular in your hand, but you don’t shift out of your curled up position to see what it is. You hadn’t intended on bringing something out of the timeline.

How strange, to dream and wake with nothing to show for it?

“C’est tout un sucre,” Gambit says softly. You flinch at the sound of his voice. You had nearly forgotten that he was there. “Not gon’ go ahead an’ ask what’s got you so scared.”

It takes effort to swallow back the swelling emotion in your throat. “I can take watch.”

“I s’pose you jus’ want some quiet, eh?” There’s the whispering shuffle of fabric, and then Gambit is settling down to lay next to you, leaving a near-imperceptible gap between you. In another life, you could reach out and touch him. Just not this one.

“Not really,” you sigh. He lets that lie for a heartbeat, letting you collect the raging tempest of thoughts scrambling your head. It would be awfully convenient if a wandering pack of mutants tried to attack you, or if Nova herself descended from the sky to kill you. Anything to spare you from the grave you were preparing to dig yourself into.

“Gambit,” you start, still staring resolutely ahead at the flickering flames, “I told you what happens to me.”

“Reset,” he muses. You can hear the gentle rustle of fabric, then the soft flicker of shuffling cards as he takes them from one hand to the other. He thinks best when he’s in control, and so he has his cards poised for action. You don’t look at him, but you’re not entirely sure if it’s for the sake of your control, or for his.

“What I said,” you agree. “It’s not a suicide mission if I go after Nova.”

“No,” he says.

“Even if she destroys the Void version of my body, I keep traveling,” you continue. “I can — ”

“No,” he repeats. The edge in his tone makes you pause, but it’s the hand that grips yours that makes you turn to stare at him. He isn’t wearing his gloves, and the warmth of his skin against yours makes the heat of the fire feel insignificant. It’s his eyes, though, that make your lungs seize up. All night-black pupils with hardly the rings of red. His eyes are his only tell that he’s terrified out of his mind.

You blink back at him, stunned.

“Don’ be a fool,” he finally says. Slowly, reluctantly, he takes his hand from yours. The cold air in the wake of his touch burns just as much as uncontrolled wildfire. “We all gon’ get out dis place. Nobody dyin’.”

“I can’t die,” you shoot back. “Don’t you understand? I will always move on to another life. None of this matters to me! Not the Void, or Paris, or fucking New Orleans! If I go and blow up Nova, then I can move on and live my life in another timeline without dealing with any of this.”

“Movin’ on,” Gambit notes. He’s smiling, but there’s an edge to the curve of his mouth. “Dat’s jus’ called runnin’ away.”

“And Gambit never folds, is that it?” You hold up your other hand, the one with the playing card, and toss it to him. It flutters in the breeze before resting on his chest. He narrows his eyes at you, but his curiosity wins as it always does. He was always too easy to bait. A gambler never gives up the promise of a winning prize.

You don’t have to look to know what the card is. If you were dreaming of Remy, it only makes sense that you dreamed of his favored card. Gambit studies the Queen of Hearts with an inscrutable gaze. It’s not the version that Remy gave you; that one was likely consumed in the same blast that destroyed your body. This one is unwrinkled and vibrantly colored. Brand new.

“You don’ know, do you?” Gambit says. The flatness of his tone makes you pause, though you can’t bring yourself to look at the expression on his face. Your gaze locks onto the card he’s holding so delicately, as if he’s holding onto your heart rather than a piece of pressed painted cardboard.

“You kno’ me, hein?” He turns his head to look at you, and you have to force yourself to release the breath you’ve been holding in a slow, controlled sigh. Still, you feel stripped raw by his gaze. You wrap your arms around yourself to avoid the impulse to summon a staff and fend him off from his next words: “You recognize me.”

“Seen a lot of you lately,” you say. It’s meant to be dismissive and unaffected, but even you can hear the hitch in your breath when he shuffles an inch closer, eyes burning black into yours.

“You and Gambit meet before,” he half-laughs, not happily.

“Many times.”

“Then you know Gambit’s never forgotten a beautiful woman.”

Like that, he’s up and crouched above you, his hands clasped tightly to your upper arms. You’ve forgotten how quick he can be when he’s lost in the lure of a gamble. His warmth leeches through the thin fabric of your coat, time-stolen to match the beige wasteland around you and offer some hope of camouflage. It’s nothing like the armored fabric woven into his, and his touch reminds you of just how vulnerable you truly are right now.

You’ve met a few Gambits that have tried to actively kill you, before. One had plunged a sharpened edge of his staff right into your chest, aiming with precise calculation to slip it straight through the soft skin between your ribs. Another had taken you down as collateral in pursuit of more satisfying prey, stepping around your fallen body as he continued his game. And, of course there had been Remy, too.

This Gambit doesn’t tighten his grip, though you can feel the tension humming like hornets beneath his hands, kinetic energy pulsing in anticipation.

“Gambit,” you warn him. You don’t try to pull away. You don’t even reach for the veil of time that whirs at the edges of your vision, even if it would be almost easy to summon some method of distraction and escape this sudden intervention.

“He ain’t forget,” Remy repeats. He squeezes you, just once, eyes darting over your expression with intent tenacity. “Listen to me, eh? I promised you, chér. Even if you don’ remember it, I mean it. We gonna get out dis place together.”

Something metallic tastes spoiled in the back of your throat. You blink at him, struck suddenly by the realization that you have been hiding in plain sight. The Void must be more of a well-fitting title for this place than you initially assumed, as it’s given you nothing but barren territory to let your power meander. It gives you space to let the timelines mingle in a blurry mirage of recollection at the edges of your vision, like a film played in rapid reverse.

You thought you had been desensitized to meeting Gambits, and perhaps you were right. You couldn’t even recognize Remy LeBeau until he was right in front of you. How else would you explain finding your Remy here, and not recognizing him sooner?

One of his hands flickers, almost too quick to follow, and the cuff of his sleeve unravels to reveal a card. It’s not one of the suit of aces.

It’s your Queen of Hearts.

“Is dis your card?” His words are meant to be wry, but there’s a catch in his voice where his breath stutters, so soft you might miss it if you weren’t struck senseless at the sight. The edges of the card are singed black, no doubt remainders of the kinetic energy, but the crease down the middle is undoubtedly from your nervous fidgeting during missions with the X-Men. You kept it in your pocket as a good luck charm only to fiddle with it during downtime. Folding it over and over, running your thumb over the lines to memorize every feeling.

You can’t speak. It feels like being dragged into a violent undertow, the waves of memories flickering at the edges of your vision threatening to drown you. You suck in a shuddering breath, nearly a cry, and finally succumb to the urge to reach out and touch the curve of his jaw. He’s warm and familiar beneath your touch.

“‘M all in for you, mon coeur,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you.

Warmth burns the back of your eyes, the telltale harbinger of the tears that start trickling down your cheeks in a slow caress. He’s kissing you with reckless abandon, and you open up under his touch, unwinding your arms from your sides to reach up and clutch at the lapels of his coat. One of his hands wraps around your waist, tugging you impossibly closer, the other moving up to cup your salt-streaked cheek. You can hardly feel the rough pad of his thumb wiping away the tears beyond the whir of power buzzing in the back of your throat.

You have to pull back, breathless, though Remy is holding you tight from retreating too far.

“I’m the kinda man that don’t leave,” he tells you. His voice is just as hoarse as you feel. “I don’ care if it hurts, mon coeur. Dis place can’t have you. We gonna get out.”

“I care, you idiot.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, pulling back before he can turn his head to steal a proper one. He makes a soft noise of indignation, but you can’t let him think that any more sacrifice will fix the gaping wound festering between you two. “I don’t know how we can fix what’s broken between us, Remy. I’m terrified that you’re going to end up dead trying to fix it yourself.”

“Non,” he shakes his head, though he can’t hide the way his body tenses up beneath you. “Since when you talk that way, mon coeur? Gambit has a plan.”

“He knows the odds, is that it?” You tug him down to kiss him again, and he goes willingly to your silent command, his mouth warm against yours. You can taste the salt from your tears, only to pull back and see the shine in his eyes, too. How long had it been since you two were separated for good? You don’t remember. You have lived far too long outside of this time to remember when. You hope that Remy, however he ended up in the Void, doesn’t remember either.

You can’t bear the thought of him waiting to see if you would return, following in the wake of this Void version of your face. Counting the days, over and over, just to see a stranger wearing your body every time the sun rose.

“In this, he do,” Remy agreed. There’s a furrow in his brow, and you marvel at the way you reach up and smooth a thumb over the wrinkle, only for him to scrunch his nose at you in familiar distaste. “I taste blood, mon coeur. You hurt?”

Even as he asks, his hand runs down your side, checking for hidden injury. The memories at the edge of your vision flicker to a time where he had done the same thing after a particularly rough mission sent you crashing into a wall. You had cracked two ribs and spent some downtime on mandatory bedrest while he fussed over your every movement and tried to keep the cats from sleeping on your chest.

You don’t realize how long it’s been since you’ve seen him fuss over you, but the back of your eyes start to burn again. “I’m okay, Cajun. Just adjusting to the timeline.”

He lets you kiss him again, this time keeping your mouth closed to hide the taste of your blood, but he’s still frowning when you break apart. “Six days.”

You’ve never had to spend so long adjusting. You didn’t think Gambit would notice your lack of time-summoning, but then again, you hadn’t realized Remy was silently cataloging every action that confirmed your identity. In some instances, you would only spend a minute or two in a timeline. Six days counts as practically permanent without a reset.

God, how the hell had you not noticed him watching you? Of all the Gambits for you to return to, it had to be him. And out of all the versions of you that cross-trek the known universes, he had to get the one that is too goddamn tired of losing him. He had to get the version of you that was too tired to pretend that this life was worth wrestling with every moment of the day.

No wonder he broke his silent watch to admit the truth to you. Even if it broke his heart to watch you leave the timeline, he couldn’t sit there and listen to you act willing to destroy yourself again.

Which is why you can’t tell him you’re dying, anyway. Time doesn’t exist in the same capacity in the Void. The memories overlapping your vision are nothing more than ghostly shrouds of a past life. However your power works, it doesn’t have the same support in this place. Staying here will kill you.

“Listen,” you tell Remy. His body burns hot above you, a livewire of kinetic warmth. Alive and real. Your Remy, alive. “I promise we’ll get out of here, okay?”

I promise I will save you, you think as he kisses you, his hands cupping your face as if you are something precious to protect. No matter what.

#gambit #remy lebeau #gambit imagine #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x y/n #remy lebeau x y/n #gambit fic #d&w #dp3 #xmen imagine

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builtbykittie · 1 year ago

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Thirst

J.T.K x f!reader

Summary: you lose your friends at a party, the unfamiliar setting sending you into a panic. Giving up your search, you meet someone very peculiar...

Warnings: 18+, VAMP JAKE, mentions of alcohol, blood, portrayal of fear, injury & pain, blood feeding, SMUT, public sex, oral (f & m rec), fingering, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, choking, anything else I forgot

Words: 5.8k

A/N: happy Halloween to all that celebrate! In honor of one of my favorite times of the year, I give you a spooky Jake smut. Enjoy!

A chill creeps its way up your spine as the crisp October weather nips at your skin. "Can't tell which one it is can you?" You jest, shutting the car door behind you and staring at the large house decorated with countless Halloween props, loud music booming inside.

Your friends had plans to go to a party just outside of your city for Halloween. You originally said no but they inevitably convinced you. Apparently one of them knew the host of the party, but of course, you were still suspicious regardless of who knew who.

Large animatronics greet you on your way to the front door, anxiety settling in as you get a glimpse of everybody through the window. Suck it up. It's just a party, what's the worst that could happen?

If you're being honest with yourself, a lot could happen. It is Halloween, after all.

Going against all of your ethics, you walk through the door. Just as you expected there is not a single face you recognize and your group splits up, all going their separate ways. You knew you shouldn't have come.

Instant regret takes over your head and a lump forms in your throat. You can't leave because you didn't even take your car and you don't know anyone that could drive almost an hour just to come get you and drop you back off at your house. You decide a drink could be the best therapy right now.

As you walk through the main room, you lock eyes with a man leaning back against the wall, alone and observing the party. You watch as his tired eyes light up and he stands straight before you look away.

To your misfortune, the kitchen is completely crowded, you're unable to even see the counters. "Excuse me," you try your best to get past the crowd of people in costumes. After no one hears you, you say it again, then again.. and after trying over and over to get past everyone you realize it's no use. Why is nobody listening?

You grow frantic, scanning for any familiar faces. None. You ask countless people if they've seen your friends, giving them the best description you could possibly give, but to no avail. Finally giving up, you spot the patio door and make a beeline straight to it.

The second the cold air hits your skin goosebumps cover your body, nobody else in sight. Odd... Falling into the chair behind you, your eyes flutter shut. By the time you sit down, it's nearly 11:30 p.m. and you're undeniably tired.

You're not positive how much time has passed since you sat down, but you know it's time to get up once you find yourself dozing off. Looking into the party, you dread going back in, so you don't. Is it kinda crazy to be hopping a fence in a vampire dress at eleven at night? Absolutely. Do you care? Not even a little.

Silently thanking the universe that you learned how to hop a fence at a young age, you take your shoes off and throw them over the fence, stepping on the wire and hopping over. As you're getting over the fence, the wire snags your dress and cuts into the meat of your thigh.

The sudden pain causes you to fall over, luckily you hold your arms out to break the fall, but not without tiny rocks and sticks penetrating your skin. "Shit!" You cry, and shakily brush the dirt from your body, hot tears burning at your waterline as you put your shoes back on. This night truly cannot get any worse.

The sound of leaves cracking underneath footsteps interrupts your moment of self-pity, your head darting up faster than the blink of an eye. Your mind races, tears beginning to stream down your hot cheeks as you prepare for the worst.

A relatively shorter figure turns the corner to find you, curled up on the ground with blood trickling down your thigh. "Woah are you okay?" The stranger's low raspy voice speaks from where he stands, slowly stepping forward. "Um.. yeah," you nearly whisper, but the way your voice shakes and cracks proves that you're the opposite of okay.

"Please, let me help," he insists, still taking languid steps to make sure he doesn't startle you. All you can do is nod, accepting your fate. You're never one to trust a stranger, let alone a guy, but you're desperate.

He slowly extends his right arm, patiently holding it out for you. You take his hand, surprisingly calloused fingers holding tightly onto your wrist. "I'm Jacob," he softly grunts as he swiftly pulls you up "Well, Jake."

As you rise to your feet, his face becomes clearer, the moon shining just enough light for you to be able to scan his features. The same man you saw in the house earlier. The first thing you notice is his perfectly plump lips, then his sharp cheekbones, his eyebrows slightly knitted together in worry. The longer you look, the more you fall for him. You absolutely do not believe in love at first sight, but he might just be an exception.

However, you do notice something else. He looks sick.

You brush it off as makeup and pat yourself down "Thank you, I'm Y/N." Jake sends you a tight-lipped grin as you both begin to take steps forward "If you don't mind me asking, what happened?"

"Oh, it's stupid. My friends took me here but left me and I know nobody so I snuck out the back," you swipe away the tears from your cheeks and jawline. His eyebrows furrow and he brings his fingers to his chin "So how'd you get all... messy?" You feel his eyes linger on the large cut down your thigh, blood still trickling out.

"Well... I decided I didn't wanna go back in there, so I tried to hop the fence." A hushed chuckle leaves his lips and you start to realize just how dumb you sound, blood quickly rushing to your cheeks. "I know it's dumb I should've just gone through the house..." you trail off, bringing your cold scraped hands up to your hot face.

"Oh darling, I understand," he grasps the metal fence, opening it for you and placing his hand on the small of your back as he follows you out of the front yard. Darling. Replaying the word in your head, your tummy fills with butterflies fluttering around in your tummy. Knock it off. He's a stranger.

"Can you drive?" His hand never leaves its place on your back. "Considering the fact I didn't drink... I'd say yeah," you kick a rock as you both walk away from the house "but I don't have my car." Suddenly it grows eerily silent, and you become aware of a forest ahead. "Good."

"What?" You stop dead in your tracks, turning to face him. "Can I show you something?" He reaches out to grab your wrist, but you dodge. Fear courses through veins, you frantically look around, searching for anyone to be your knight in shining armor.

"Uh.. my friends are probably looking for me," you smile, hesitantly stepping back. "You sure? Because last time I was in there nobody knew who you were..." Jake steps closer to you, his eyes dark and pupils dilated.

Your own eyes widen as you look around you, without much thought you remove your heels and dart off into the woods.

You run and run until you absolutely cannot push yourself any further. Collapsing against a tree, you drop your heels, letting the tree hold your weight as you sob into your hands. For a minute, you believe you've lost him, struggling to catch your breath as sobs leave your body.

You're proven wrong as you hear the crunch of leaves beneath his boots. A sick, gut wrenching fear manifests it's way into your stomach, twisting your insides. Your heart races and tears flow from your eyes like melting wax on a burning candle. At this point, you're ready to give up.

Jake takes slow steps toward you, as he approaches, he brings his hand up to your waist. He firmly squeezes the meat of your waistline, shooting a sharp pain into your side as he pulls you into him. "Look at me," he demands, his voice low and raspy.

You listen, not just out of fear for your life, but also curiosity. Your eyes flick up to his, wide and fearful as they dart across his face. His other hand grabs your hair in a ponytail "I know you're scared baby, I don't blame you."

Silent sobs leave your body in a mix of fear, confusion, anger, and something else you can't quite put your finger on. Jake violently pulls your head to the side, revealing your neck to him "I'm not gonna hurt you, I don't want to. I promise."

You try your best to keep your crying unknown, but it's no use. Your chest bounces and choked noises escape from your lips. Jake lets go of your hair, both of his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. "Oh please, don't cry," he begs, cleaning up your smudged mascara before coming down to lick the tears from your face. Your brows furrow at the act, but you'd be dead lying if you said you didn't half enjoy it.

His face lingers near yours, your eyes darting all over his face. By now, you are strictly breathing in each other's breaths "Do you want to kiss me?" Your breath hitches in your throat at the question, his face inching even closer than before. It's as if your body is betraying you, you're unable to say anything even if you tried.

If you didn't want to, you'd pull away.

Finally, you manage to nod. A small tight-lipped smile plays on his lips "I have something first..." Confusion and anticipation swirl through your head, you quirk an eyebrow as you wait for what's next.

He doesn't speak, instead, bearing his teeth and dragging two pointed teeth along your lower lip. Your eyes widen and your heartbeat speeds to an impossible pace. There's no way.

Slowly and painfully he begins to sink them into the flesh of your red lips just far enough to create two beads of blood. You suck in a quick gasp as he licks the wounds before pressing his lips against yours. A tingly feeling becomes evident in your stomach and you find yourself oddly aroused by the situation.

"Holy shit. Jake. You're-" he cuts you off, his lips crashing against yours.

You lift your arms, grasping onto the back of his head and pushing him into you. The sting of his lips pressing against the fresh cuts on yours is so deliciously painful. Nothing about this is right.

His hands come up to grope your ass, eliciting a desperate whine into his mouth. You pull him even closer, letting him walk you backward into a tree, never breaking contact. The throb between your legs becomes unbearable as you bury your fingers into his scalp and Jake tugs on your hair.

"Y/N, there's a reason I chose you tonight," his hands sneak around your body, smoothing over the swell of your breasts. Jake groans as he feels your stiffened nipples under his palms. "Why's that?" You mutter, your voice hushed and sultry as your hands begin to wander all over his body, your lips pressed to his jawline.

"Because you were the most beautiful thing to walk through that door," he breathes, slotting a knee between your thighs and grasping your waist. You can't help but let out a tiny moan and pull his face towards you, desperately missing the contact. He pulls back, keeping you still against the tree by your waist "The moment I saw you I knew I'd have you." Jake's strength is unbelievable. You cannot move at all, you're all but squirming as you try to touch him.

"Do you want to fuck me, Y/N?"

The question shocks you and before you can think you begin to nod, then shake your head no, then you nod again. As you're granted his mouth on yours, you slip your tongue between his lips, dragging it over his teeth and pricking it on his canine's. Jake hums against your tongue, pulling away and wrapping one hand around your neck "I gotta hear you say it, darling." You swallow thickly against his neck, discomfort creeping up your throat as he gently squeezes.

"Yes," you whine, your fingers massaging his scalp as you try your hardest to kiss him "Please." He licks up your jawline and peppers kisses to the area. You snake your arm down to his abdomen and untuck his shirt, the tips of your fingers creeping up under the fabric.

He drops his hand and a sharp sting burns on your neck, sucking in a loud gasp and clamping your eyes shut as you realize he's biting you. The pain only lasts a few moments before he withdrawals from you, lapping at the wounds.

Suddenly he slaps your hand away from his torso and sinks down, dragging his calloused fingers down your bare thighs. "Jake what are you-" you're shushed, shock coursing through your veins as his hot breath fans over the deep cut on your thigh.

You throw your head back and let out a cry through gritted teeth in agony as he points his tongue, cleaning the blood from your wound.

"Shit! Jake, fuck," You wail, the pain numbing your body and your vision going blurry. After the blood is cleaned, Jake leans back and places kisses to each wound, a sharp pain shooting up your leg at each peck. "You're delicious, love," he praises "and I haven't even gotten to the best part."

A rush of exhilaration surges through your veins, your insides feeling as if they've just burst into flames. "Please," is all you can muster as Jake starts to draw a line of kisses up your thigh and then down the other. "Patience, love."

You roll your eyes dramatically and sigh, your head spinning as you wait for his next move. Jake continues to draw slow lines of pecks all over your legs as his hands find their place under the skirt of your dress. Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest once his cold fingers reach your panties, his hands resting just on top of your hips.

"You're such a good girl. Being so still and quiet for me," Jake speaks through kisses to your legs that are moving higher and higher by the second. You fight the urge to say something, instead letting him lead the way. At this point you're so wound up that just a slight touch to your heat might drive you mad.

His hands slide down, snagging on your thong and tugging them down. "Shit," Jake groans "Lace?" You can't see his face, but you know he's looking up to you, and your cheeks burn up.

"I- it's just- they're the only clean ones I had..." You stammer, tucking your hair away from your face. "Don't lie to me, baby," Jake smooths his hands over your thighs before bringing one up with a slap against your ass. "I'm not. I- I promise," you lie, chewing on your nails.

Jake simply ignores you, pulling your panties down to your ankles and hiking your dress up past your core.

"Oh baby, you just wanted your pretty little pussy to get a little attention tonight, huh?" He taunts you, bringing his thumb up to your slit and collecting juices. A breathy moan slips out of your lips, your hands involuntarily flying to his hair. Just that interaction alone was enough to make you squirm.

"Mhm..." you can't seem to lie any longer, as if he's forcing you to tell the truth. Jake lays a kiss on the very top of your clit, a shock of electricity flowing through your body. "Yeah, how long has it been since someone fucked you right?"

Just as you go to speak, a moan rips through your chest. Jake drags his fingers through your folds, spreading your arousal all over. "I don't- don't know," you whimper as you melt into his touch, throwing your head back into the tree behind you.

Jake continues to tease you, pressing featherlight kisses to your slit. "M'gonna fuck you so good baby," he speaks through kisses down your inner thigh "make you forget anybody you've had before me."

His words only make you ache even more, your clit crying out to be touched. "Then do it, Jake," you whine "please." You hear a low snicker below you, Jake snakes his hands up your thighs and squeezes rather harshly "beg."

"Please Jake, please touch me. Make me forget everyone who came before you. Make me yours, please," you pet his hair as you speak, so incredibly aroused you can't think of anything but Jake's body. "Atta girl," he whispers lowly, a groan rumbling out from his chest as he breathes over your throbbing cunt.

Jake brings himself incredibly close to your heat, at this point, you're so aroused it's almost painful. Jake begins to kitten lick your incredibly hard clit, and you fight the incredible urge to push his face into you. "So fucking wet," Jake groans, your arousal glistening in the moonlight. "Jake, please... I- I can't," you cry, unable to wait any longer.

Without warning, Jake sucks your clit into his mouth. "Oh- oh fuck," you throw your head back, involuntarily bucking your hips. The velvety feeling of his tongue swirling around your clit as he hums against you is pure pleasure. Just as you get used to his mouth on you, his fingers come up to toy with your entrance, a loud desperate moan tumbling out of your lips.

You're so focused on the pleasure, that you nearly forget that you're in the middle of a forest "Somebody's gonna hear you, baby.." Your head begins to spin once again as you imagine someone hearing you, finding yourself suddenly enjoying yourself even more. "Fuck. You're filthy," Jake speaks lowly with a grin just before continuing his attack on your clit, still just teasing your entrance.

The feeling of his calloused fingers toying with your weeping cunt as his tongue circles around your swollen clit draws you closer and closer to the edge. Your head hangs down as your arms instinctively fly to his head, gently pushing him into you. Jake fights against your hands, a weak whimper flying out of your mouth as he shoves two fingers into you.

"Don't do that," he nips at your thigh "Be a good girl and put your hands behind your back for me." His fingers never stop, viciously ramming up into you as he speaks. You do just as he commanded, reluctantly holding your hands behind your back and struggling to stay inconspicuous.

Jake starts to kitten lick your swollen clit, choked moans fall from your lips as you feel your orgasm approach. Your knees buckle and you writhe against him, his fingers curling up and hitting every single spot just right.

"Oh fuck- right there.. right there," you whine, squirming above him. Just then, he pulls his fingers from you and brings them to his mouth. You let out a cry at the loss of your approaching climax, watching in disbelief as he licks your juices clean from his hand. A guttural groan bubbles up from deep within his chest at the taste, and for a fleeting moment you swear you saw his eyes glow a dark crimson red.

"What the fuck?" You whine, your brows furrowed as he rises to his feet. Jake brings his face to your ear and licks at your neck, his hot breath feeling as if it's burning into your skin "I wanna make you fall apart. Wanna make you so fucking wet for me. I know what I'm doing, just trust me, baby."

You have no choice but to trust him, afraid that if you say something you'll be robbed of the perfect orgasm again. You don't know what to do, your heart pounding in anticipation as his lips drag along your neck. "I want you to take me," he whispers between heavy breaths "Take me right here. Like the fucking slut I know you are."

Your heart skips a beat and you hear your heartbeat in your ears "You're so fucking good. Touch me, darling. Do whatever you please with me." Your stomach flutters, your arms moving before you can even think about what you're doing.

Your fingers find his pants, tracing the hem with your index finger before slightly dipping it in. With your other arm, you pull him into you and smash your lips against his. Impatiently unzipping his pants, you push them down as soon as you get the chance.

You don't even try to hold back or act calm, you're finally getting what you so desperately want. Anticipation courses through your veins as your fingers dance along the hem of his boxers, a deep groan tumbling from his lips and into your mouth once you dip two fingers in.

Your cold fingers nearly burn against his skin, your other arm still wrapped around him and buried deep in the tresses of his hair. Finally, you manage to wrap your hand around him, a deep moan escaping your mouth as you feel him pulsate against you.

You push his boxers down, meeting his pants at his feet. Another deep groan rumbles up from his chest as his cock springs free, his tip brushing against the fabric of your dress. Without a second thought, you drop to your knees, your hands instantly coming up to fondle his base.

Jake sucks in a sharp breath, obviously very pleasantly surprised. The ache between your legs grows even more as you hold him in both of your hands. He has the most perfect cock. He's the perfect length and girth, more than enough to fill you up completely.

Knocking yourself out of the trance his cock has you in, you spit on his length and start to stroke him at a painfully slow pace. You'd get him back for earlier, for robbing you of what you needed so badly.

Jake's hips begin to buck into your hand as you continue that same pace from earlier, desperate groans bubbling up from his chest. "Fuck- I'm not stupid," Jake murmurs, sending another involuntary thrust of his hips into your hand.

You ignore his statement, a devilish smile playing on your lips as you begin to tug on him, your thumb brushing over his slit. Breathy moans flow freely from his mouth in a mix of frustration and pleasure. You come down to draw a line of kisses down his length, lifting him slightly to lick a stripe up to his tip from underneath.

You don't break contact with him, continuing to tease his tip with kisses and kitten licks all while stroking him as slow as you possibly can. You nearly break him, slight noises spewing from his mouth as he continues to fuck himself into your hand harder and sloppier.

That is until he digs his fingers into your scalp, grabbing a bunch of hair and pulling you back. Tears prick at your waterline as he begins to pull you up by your hair, a loud yelp slipping past your swollen lips. "You fucking whore," Jake growls, letting go of your hair and pulling you into him by your waist with an iron-clad grasp.

"Please," you whimper, taking the opportunity to grind your body against his. Without another word, he's flipping you around with a grunt and throwing you into the tree. You throw your arms out and catch yourself on the tree, your palms throbbing as you scrape them even more.

A moan rips through your chest and for some sick reason, you find yourself even more turned on than before, if it's possible. "Fuck, baby. You like that? Do you like being hurt?" Jake's upper body is flush against your back, a chill sneaking up your body as he whispers in your ear.

You've never considered yourself a masochist, let alone someone who enjoys pain in general, but for Jake, you might be. Before you can fully process the question, you frantically nod your head. Jake presses his palm against your back, pushing you down and forcing you to bend over.

Your back arches slightly, allowing yourself to put on a show for him as you swivel your hips. The anticipation is too much, the feeling of his rough hands hiking up your dress and smoothing over your ass sending you into a frenzy. "You wanna be fucked so bad don't you pretty?" He slaps your ass, the other hand coming around your body and finding your heat.

"You're so fucking wet for me," Jake snarls, bending slightly to whisper in your ear. "M'gonna make you mine," his voice is low and gravely, a whine leaving your lips at the statement.

You hang your head as you wait, the throb between your legs becoming impossible to ignore. Jake's hand is still toying with your soaked pussy, his rough fingers running through your incredibly slick folds. "Jacob..."

"What is it?" He knows exactly what you want, simply just teasing to worsen your suffering. "Jake please," you whimper, trying your very best to keep calm "Make me yours." You hear a deep snicker from behind you, a shock of electricity flowing through your body as he begins to drag his tip through your cunt.

You push yourself back onto him, not at all expecting him to push into you. "Oh fuck," you cry, feeling every inch of him as he so deliciously stretches you out. "Shit- you feel so fucking good," he snarls, his hips faltering slightly as he begins to find the perfect rhythm.

Jake's hand comes in contact with your clit, sending your head flying back with a string of hushed curses at the feeling. He doesn't hold back, the skin of his thighs clashing with the backs of yours, the hand not toying with your sensitive clit slapping your ass before returning to its place on your hip.

The pattern Jake has set is so rough yet so sweet. His hips roll as they thrust into you relentlessly while his other hand babies your swollen bud. "Do you like this?" Jake grunts, punctuating each word with an intoxicating thrust.

"Like- fuck- like what?" You stutter, pushing yourself with your hands to fuck yourself back onto him even harder. "Being treated like a slut out here in the open," he growls "Anyone can walk in and see us. Anyone can hear you moan for me like a little whore."

His words mixed with the rhythm of his hips and the way his fingers dance along your clit elicit sick noises you didn't even know you could make. "Mhm..." You moan, clawing at the bark of the tree to keep yourself as quiet as possible.

"Tell me how much you love it, darling," he rasps, and you can tell it's getting harder for him to form sentences. The hand at your hip finds its way to your neck, squeezing ever so gently and pulling you up into him.

You fail to form a sentence, his hand squeezing harder than before "go on, say it." All that comes out as you open your mouth is a pathetic squeal, bringing one hand off the tree to grasp the wrist around your throat.

"I love it, Jake," a cry of pleasure falling past your lips as he delivers a particularly sharp thrust into you "It's so fucking hot." His cock lit the embers deep within you, a fire sparking in your core as he buries himself so far inside you.

His hand keeps its grip around your throat, the other still teasing your clit. "Oh, fuck!" You nearly shout, your thighs aching as you continue to fuck yourself onto him every chance you get. "You're a noisy little thing aren't you?" Jake grunts with every thrust, his hips beginning to falter.

You respond with an involuntary high-pitched moan, rolling your hips against his fingers. The fire inside you grows, flames dancing throughout your body and spreading to every limb. It's clear he loved to hear you, fucking harder into you with every peep from your mouth.

It felt almost as if he was made for you. As if he'd fucked you a thousand times before. You don't know if you could live without it after tonight.

Your eyes rolled back into your head, choked moans and squeals flowing freely from your lips. "You're so fucking hot," Jake rasps "so fucking warm and tight around my cock baby."

At this point you know you won't last much longer, the fire burning inside you beginning to violently dance around every inch of your body and the coil in your tummy tightening. "Jake I'm gonna-" you interrupt yourself with a near shriek, completely blocking out your surroundings and focusing on nothing but Jake.

"You gonna cum, pretty? You gonna make a mess all over my cock?" He struggles to get the sentence out, his cock ramming so far into you it's nearly touching your cervix. "Yes. I'm so close..." It's getting harder and harder for you to breathe, Jake's hand keeping still against your throat.

"Fuck- cum for me, baby. C'mon," Jake coos, his hand rubbing rough, merciless circles into your clit as his cock hits a sweet spot with each and every thrust.

He feels like pure heaven, the sinful way he fucks so hard into you driving you straight to the edge. Your eyes clamp shut as you feel your orgasm creep up "fuck! Oh my god, fuck me." Suddenly, like harsh waves crashing against a shore, your orgasm fully takes over.

"That's it, baby. Fuck. Cum for me, just like that," Jake groans, delivering one final sharp thrust before his hot release spurts into you, painting your walls in ivory slick.

Jake's got you reduced to nothing but a whimpering, panting mess, and you love it.

It takes you a moment to come back to earth, Jake's cock still buried deep inside you. "You're such a good girl," his hands leave their place, coming to rest on the swell of your ass. You try to respond, but nothing comes out.

Jake lifts a hand and forces it down against your ass, the pads of his fingers massaging the supple flesh. A loud yelp flies last your lips at the contact, your body jutting forward.

"M'gonna pull out, okay?" He smooths his hand over the red skin of the back of your thighs, soothing the sting. You manage to mumble out an 'okay', clamping your eyes shut and practically holding your breath.

Sucking in a hiss, he pulls out, juices immediately dripping down your thigh. His hands grasp your waist, spinning you around to face him. "Touch yourself. Clean yourself up for me."

Your eyes blow wide at the command, but you do as he says anyway. Your clit is still wildly overstimulated, a whimper leaving your mouth at the slightest touch. You collect juices with your fingers, painfully spreading them all around your core.

"Jake I- I can't," you whine, your knees buckling as you press your fingers against your clit, your other arm grasping at the back of his neck for support. "Yes, you can. C'mon, be a good little slut," he presses, coming down to lay open-mouth kisses against your neck.

A cry leaves your lips, that same fire sparking again as you shove two fingers inside your entrance. Jake grabs your arm, pulling your fingers from yourself and bringing it to his lips. Slowly, he takes them into his mouth, his saliva cleaning the juices completely off your fingers.

"So fucking good. Now get on your knees," Jake demands "lick it off."

Again, you do as he says, sinking to your knees and grasping the base of his cock. You drag your tongue along his length from base to tip, licking every inch and making sure you got every last drop. "Atta girl."

Jake slowly helps you up, pressing your back against the tree and smashing his lips against yours. "Does it taste good baby?" Jake growls between kisses, massaging his fingers into your scalp. "Mhm," you whine, your arms wrapping around his body before he pulls back completely.

The two of you simply just look into each other's faces, breathing in the sweet taste and smell of sex that lingers in the air. "Let me take you home."

You simply just nod, Jake pulling his clothes back on as you grab your heels and slide your damp panties off your body. "So.. how does this work?"

"What?" Jake looks to you as the two of you begin walking back to the party.

"The whole... Vampire.. thing..." You trail off, looking down at the leaves crunching beneath both of your feet. You hear him chuckle to himself, amused by your curiosity.

"Y'know it's crazy how much people get wrong," he takes your hand in his "it's not a big deal, really. But if I go too long without specific needs, it could hurt me."

The two of you reach the entrance of the forest, street lights flickering along the road. When you look at him, he looks a lot more alive, significantly less tired and sick than earlier. "So... what, you feed with blood? That's kinda.. basic."

"Something like that, yeah. That and sex, basically," Jake laughs through his words, inching closer and closer to the party. "Sex?" You giggle, looking at him. "Yeah.. is something wrong with that?"

The two of you reach his car "No... I just didn't expect it." Jake opens the door for you, letting you slip in before shutting it and rounding the car to get in the driver's side.

"It's basically like.. energy feeding? It's hard to explain."

---

"So you don't turn to dust in the sunlight?" You both laugh. "No. I don't even know where that came from.."

Jake's car slows to a stop "This it?" Apparently, you'd lost track of time because as you look out your window, you see your house. "Mhm," you get out of the car, walking up to the steps of your home and letting Jake meet you there.

He pulls you into a kiss "I hope you had fun tonight, darling." A large smile finds its way on your face "I did."

"Hey, uh... How can I see you again?"

"I was hoping you'd say that." Jake reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a piece of paper with his number already on it, and holding it out to you with a smile "Call me when you get lonely."

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heyitsghost57 · 18 days ago

Text

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing 1

Pairing: Lamb x Narinder/The One Who Waits

Chapter: Chapter 1 | My darling’s betrayal

Chapter Summary: Lamb was excited to have their final meeting with their God, their beloved, their devoted. They’re upset that this reunion is soured with their followers tagging along, though they suck it up, doing anything to please their God. How will this meeting go, Lamb wonders?

Content Warnings: blood, gore, killing enemies, obsession, idealization, and injuries

Word Count: 3k

Authors Note: credit to @maibel-mai for inspiring me to make this fic & giving me permission to post this! this fic is also cross-posted on AO3

Centuries ago, Lamb wasn’t like this. Past Lamb couldn’t imagine themselves as the cruel, desperate, insecure monster they were today. Standing in front of their mirror, it was hard for Lamb to recognize themselves as the docile creature they were before. The night before, Lamb had finally brought down the last god of the Old Faith, Shamura. Although Lamb was a skilled fighter, they weren’t left unmarked. There was a gash along their stomach, slicing their pretty wool, and their knees were scraped. A slight cut marked their face. Lamb was never known for their vulnerability and their cultist being able to see their injuries, so obvious on their face, felt like a failure to them. It would take a bit longer before their wounds healed. With bandages and their fleece worn tightly, Lamb hoped it wasn’t obvious. Before the prophecy was made, Lamb never entertained the thought of being a fighter, let alone a cult leader. Unfortunately for them, they had the perfect little mind that their God could manipulate to his liking. Back then, they had a loving family located in a tight-knit, small village. Lamb had an older brother and a younger sister, as well as kind parents. They adored their family and their quiet little life; it was simple and calm.

However, Lamb didn’t socialize well with others, resulting in them having very few close friends. It was always so hard for them to connect with those around them, though they tried their best. It was like Lamb could physically feel the distance between them and others, making it hard for them to form connections. Although Lamb loved their family, with them long gone, it was hard for them to trust others. Lamb forgot what they looked like and how they sounded, only remembering their names. The only one they truly felt a connection with was their beloved savior, The One Who Waits. Perhaps that was a warning sign of what they’d morph into all along?

Upon meeting The One Who Waits in the gateway, Lamb felt a swirl of many complex emotions. Hatred, fear, aching, and loneliness. When realizing their family was really all gone, Lamb was disturbed and their heart felt heavy. They had expected themselves to cry and pound the ground in heartbreak, though they felt too numb to do so. Tears threatened to spill, yet they were afraid of letting it happen in front of the creature towering before them. They were slightly snapped out of their state of panic when their God spoke. To Lamb, it was outrageous for him to request their life for his freedom. How could Lamb go on at all, after what had just happened? They stared at their chained hands, covered in grime with dirt caked into their nails. They wanted to scream and refuse, just wanting to be in the afterlife with their family, though they couldn’t find the words to do so. They hoped it was just due to the shock they were feeling. Certainly despite their fear, they could deny this request. This had to be the one time they could properly talk, when it mattered the most. They had survived execution and now they were met with Death himself. They could barely process the words he was saying; something about a cult and worship. They were still reeling in their head, trembling and panicking. Just seconds ago, they were laid before a blade, their hands painfully pinned to their back by chains.

However, it felt like something in them had snapped, cracking within their skull. It took them a second to collect themselves after this painful sensation, processing a change within them. Unbeknownst to Lamb, Narinder grew tired of their panicked state and used his divine powers to get them to focus on what mattered most: him. They hummed slightly, cocking their head to the side to look up at their God. Starting a cult seemed tiresome. They were never known for their social skills, but what choice did they have?

“I guess I could,” they answered, rocking on their heels and sighing. Their God narrowed his eyes at the lack of respect. Sensing his annoyance, Lamb cleared their throat and tried again. “I suppose I can, my Lord,” they mused, smiling a bit. It was a weak smile, as they were exhausted and numb. With little motion from The One Who Waits, his crown and powers were given to Lamb. Soon after they were resurrected, they felt phantom pains in their neck. There was a prickling sensation underneath their wool underneath the collar they wore. They had little time to react to this, stumbling to gain balance against the cracked stone. Their blood from moments ago stained the ground, warm under their hooves as their crown morphed into a sword.

It felt wrong to Lamb, to be killing these people. While they had just killed them or aided in it, it was hard for them to stomach emotionally. The screaming and resistance the skin gave before being pierced made Lamb wince. Their ears turned down at the sounds as they continued their slaughter. Once they were in the clear for the time being, Lamb stopped to catch their breath; they were protected by rocks preventing others from crossing without breaking them. While they did labor in the village as a woodworker, they never had to strain their body the way they did now. Their calves ached and their lungs burned. There was also the uncomfortable burning feeling of foreign energy coursing through their veins.

After catching their breath, Lamb cautiously continued to the next room. At the sight of something burrowing out of a hole, their sword was raised in defense. They were met with Ratau, a rat. He reassured them that he was an ally to their God. Lamb breathed through their nose in amusement. What did Ratau look like when he served their Lord? It seemed hard for Lamb to imagine. However, they didn’t look much better in comparison minutes ago, with a tattered tunic and their hands bound in chains.

Lamb sighed, a bit upset watching Ratau burrow underground again, before continuing their wandering through Darkwood. If Ratau knew of a way to safety, why didn’t he lead Lamb there through the ground? Their thoughts were interrupted with a chaser worm crawling towards them, trying to ram into Lamb. Their breath hitching, Lamb dodged as fast as they could. Their slow reflexes led to them getting slashed in their calf by the worm’s twigs. A low hiss came from their throat, their grip on the sword loosening briefly. They held it steady once more and cut through the worm, then the next that followed. Lamb cleared three more areas of heretics; it was already deep into the night by the time they had reached a chest. Upon opening the chest, it held a single gold coin. They huffed, looking up at the sky. They could hardly see, considering how dark it was. Their sword was covered in blood, invading the Lamb’s senses and gleaming against the red hue of the crown’s eye, so they wiped it against their cloak.

Already breathless and tired, Lamb rolled their eyes when met with heretics and a tied-up, lavender rabbit. They seriously debated leaving her there to be sacrificed by the heretics; however, they held slight sympathy for yet another victim to the Old Faith’s blade. They hadn’t noticed Lamb yet, looking through the bushes, and they convinced themselves to leave the heretics to their own devices. As they were turning back around, a sharp pain pierced their skull. It hurt much more than last time. Groaning in pain and stumbling forward, they numbly gripped their sword in front of them before lowering it when seeing Ratau. Tired, Lamb tuned out Ratau’s speech about indoctrination and fought against their foes quickly, hardly noticing Ratau moving underground again. They tried to make their work as quick and as painless as possible, as to not scare the poor rabbit more than she’d been already. It was more for their sake than hers; they couldn’t have a traumatized rabbit as their first follower.

Cutting the rabbit’s bonds haphazardly, Lamb supported her to her feet. They felt their speech failing them as it usually did, Lamb avoiding eye contact momentarily. They had to say something, though. The poor bunny was crying and whining in fear on her knees. “Don’t be scared,” they forced out, “I know of somewhere safe. You can rest there.” Their voice was meant to be comforting, though she only let out a whimper in response. The crown teleported her to safety and Lamb quickly saw Ratau again.

“We’re safe now. You’ve done well so far,” Ratau praised. Humming slightly, Lamb thought about how that praise would’ve meant more to them coming from their God. They had half the mind to ask why Ratau didn’t help them more, tired and grumpy, though they held their tongue. It was early into the morning by the time Lamb got to the cult, dried blood caking into their wool. The fact that they killed so many heretics and enemies made them sick. Exhausted from their first day as cult leader, they laid down next to the bunny, Nana.

They watched her rest. Ratau told them to order her to work. They tried doing so immediately, though Ratau argued she deserved a break. Bitter, Lamb wished they had gotten a break before getting sent to do The One Who Waits’ work. They watched her chest rise and fall as she rested, getting a much needed nap. Lamb felt emotionally tired, their limbs sore, though sleep never came to them. Groggy and opening her eyes slightly, she saw her savior and smiled briefly. Her paw grabbed their hand softly. Lamb held back a noise of disgust, their hand burning up at the unwelcome sensation. Begrudgingly, Lamb stayed still and already wished for Nana’s death.

Present day, that promise didn’t hold true. Despite it being centuries ago, Nana continued to work throughout the cult, a golden necklace clasped to her fur. She worked as a farmer and as one of Lamb’s disciples. She was one of his most loyal disciples, in fact. Lamb noted how they could use this to their advantage. Besides Lamb’s hesitancy in the beginning, they grew to be an amazing cult leader. They were kind, hardworking, and great in combat. Of course, Lamb only cared about The One Who Waits’ approval; they could care less if all their followers had fallen ill and died. It was so draining to keep up this persona. Their followers idolized them too much to the point it made them sick. Giving babies blessings, listening to the elderly’s confessions before they passed on, comforting the ill till their final breaths; it was all too much. Lamb often gave themself a pep talk before facing their cult, hyping themselves up to please their beloved.

Smoothing out their fleece and playing with their wool slightly, they sighed deeply before forcing a slight smile on their face. When Lamb rose, it was signal for their flock to rise as well. It was time for their daily morning sermon and this one was possibly the most special of them all. The night before, Shamura had fallen to their blade and their master had praised them. Just recalling it made Lamb’s heart race. Many followers gave greetings as Lamb walked past and with a saccharine smile, Lamb sweetly returned the welcomings; their daydreaming of their god was interrupted. A chime went off that rung within the common grounds, signaling everyone to gather for Lamb’s speech. Cats, deers, dogs, and many other animals huddled within the temple, watching Lamb elegantly take place in front of the altar. Their legs stilled and Lamb opened their prayer book, thumbing the pages till they found the desired scripture. Although Lamb smiled calmly at their flock, internally there was indifference. They all looked like insects to them, lesser beings that Lamb would kill to crush under their feet. It took control and strength for Lamb to not let their mask slip as they eyed their followers. It was a bit easier today, however, because they could be reunited with their beloved soon enough. A genuine smile stretched across their face at this, their heart fluttering.

“Good morning, my flock. As you all know, thanks to your devotion and our God’s blessings, I was able to kill the last of his betrayers, Shamura. With them being slayed, our Lord may finally be free from his capturing. Rejoice, for I couldn’t have done it without my devoted following,” Lamb spoke, projecting their voice so their followers in the back could hear them clearly. Animals cheered in excitement, clapping and praising their leader. The words were in one ear, out another. Their words felt so empty to Lamb, making the constant aching within themselves much more present. Swallowing down their internal hollowness, Lamb continued, “You’ll be delighted to hear that our Savior has requested your presence, as well.” Lamb smiled and let their flock express their excitement, lowering their ears at the tortuous sounds as they grimaced slightly, “I declare a Sabbath today, as it’s an important one. After years of dedication, you can finally meet our Lord.” Lamb smiled, though the thought of sharing him with others annoyed them, “That is all, my faithful. Please enjoy the Sabbath.”

Floating slightly, Lamb felt the familiar warm presence of their devotion overtake them. Their eyes turned white as they happily absorbed their faith. It felt so strong today, given their soon meeting with Death. Once it ended, their hooves met the hard floor again and they blinked until their eyes were normal again. Dismissing their following, they were quick to leave and don their Sabbath clothes. Today was important and they didn’t like keeping their Lord waiting, though to keep up appearances, Lamb let their flock enjoy themselves a little.

Before meeting with The One Who Waits, Lamb nervously breathed in. They made sure their fleece and collar were adorned properly and that their face had no blood on it from their previous escapades. They were pleased to see their past markings had healed, so they removed their bandages. For such a big achievement, Lamb had hoped for praise in private. However, he stated at least twenty of his followers had to be present for him to be freed. Begrudgingly, they complied, with their followers trailing behind them like ducklings following their mother. Though this wasn’t how they envisioned this meeting going, Lamb would hate to disappoint their lord. With all of them joined together, they prayed on the marked stone with Lamb in the center, transporting all of them to Death’s doorstep. No matter how often Lamb was sent to the afterlife, the blinding hues of whites and creams never failed to hurt their eyes. It always felt cold in here. Thankfully, Lamb had thick wool; it didn’t make it that much more comfortable though. Lamb was beaming with pride, awaiting their love’s sweet words. They felt giddy and butterflies filled their stomach, their face flushed while being in the same realm as their God. They were snapped out of their delusions when they noticed they were met with weapons and curses at their disposal. The sight of it made their stomach drop. While he had mentioned Lamb would “lay down their life for him,” they didn’t take it literally. They thought it meant they’d spend the rest of their life devoted to him, which seemed like a dream. Lamb’s hopes were being crushed before them.

He spoke of how with Lamb’s death, he’d finally be freed and stronger than ever. Thinking to himself, Narinder was proud of his vessel’s work. He decided he’d give them a merciful death and they’d have a peaceful ending before being resurrected again, always at his side. Although he didn’t like admitting it, he had grown attached to this vessel in particular. He grew fond of them and wouldn’t mind their relationship developing into more. He brought a single claw down to Lamb’s head, patting and stroking the soft wool softly. It made Lamb’s breath quicken and despite this betrayal, they couldn’t help feeling swooned momentarily. Lamb wished time would stop here, with their beloved’s affectionate touch being all they felt. He didn’t know what he did to them. Weak to his touch, Lamb wanted to drop to their knees and be held in his hand. Lamb let out a slight whine, sighing. They felt dizzy. Lamb usually welcomed their God’s touch, but now it felt slightly tainted. The idealization Lamb held for their savior lessened slightly due to this betrayal.

He didn’t seem that bothered by losing his vessel, which stung. It brought out an icky side of Lamb they tried hard to control. Although Lamb had died countless times before, sometimes to their own blade just to see their savior, this was different. If Lamb kneeled for their sacrifice, that meant their beloved would eventually get someone new to worship them. Not a new vessel, but perhaps a new disciple. The thought of that made them sick, their face flushing slightly as possessiveness overtook them. They couldn’t let that happen; they forbid it. Narinder was theirs, their God, their beloved, their savior. It was fate that Lamb was the last sheep to be sacrificed. It had to mean something; it couldn’t just be a coincidence. It was destiny for them to meet their God. No, Lamb thought, he doesn’t really want this, he just doesn’t know it yet. Staring up at their God, Lamb felt hurt. It was very similar to when they were first resurrected in his domain, with that familiar helpless feeling they hated. Lamb couldn’t let him be taken away from them. He was theirs and they were his. It was fate. Fueled by their need to have their God as their own, Lamb refused to kneel. Although they didn’t know it yet, this was the best decision Lamb had ever made; to Narinder, this was the worst outcome possible.

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#cult of the lamb #cotl narinder #cotl lamb #narilamb #cotl #wisc #fanfic #fanfiction #wolf in sheep’s clothing #writing #wiscwriting

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hellsfirekeepsyouwarm · 2 years ago

Text

Commander (All Hell Breaks Loose)

Hello everyone, finally i got this done. It's been forever and i developed an obsession with Graves in the process of writing this. What can i say, i like the bad guys. This is for the Graves fans :)

This is a sequel/prequel to All Hell Breaks Loose Series, before Reader became a member of 141. In this Reader is an active member of the Shadow Company, taking place about 2-3 years before the series plot. BUT you can read this as a standalone, no need to know the plot of the series :) let me know if ya'll want more Graves content.

Philip Graves x F!Reader

Warnings: p in v, no protection (ya'll know the rules), cream pie, finger work (can't write down the other word) language, blood, slight sub+dom dynamic, not proofread, literally filthy

Summary: You are itching to get out of the car after a long day, and a way longer drive with your Commander's eyes set on you the whole time.

All Hell Breaks Loose Masterlist

Blood is sticking to your dirt coated skin, mixing with sweat and God knows what else. The car is too crowded, you have breathed in the air the other men breathed out. At this point, you don't care. You don't care about the disgusting clothes you are trapped in, neither the uncomfortable close contact with the person's bodies next to you. The only thing - or you would say person - you care about is sitting in the farthest seat away from you, eyes locked firmly on you, in the same state as you. He has a big cut on his cheek towards his right ear, but a huge fucking grin on his face. That damn grin is enough for you to forgot every damn bullet you shot, every little scrape and bruise.

You are itching, too restless for the last ten minute of this agonizing car ride. Base isn't that far now, but it feels like ages. Years until you can have his lips on your before literally blow up from the tension in between your legs. He is your fucking end.

Vance is talking your ear off, he's been doing that the whole ride. He has that adrenaline rush in his system working override, just as you, but damn he needs to shut up before you elbow him in the jaw. He's leaning close, you hear him, but do not understand a single word. You smile back at Philip, not caring who's seeing the fucking obvious pull to each other, and hell they probably already know he's fucking you.

When the car halts in the garage, you jump out like it was lit on fire, leaving a dumbfounded Vance behind who realized you wasn't listening the whole time, the team's laugh echoing back to you as they bicker with each other, not caring for your immediate leave.

Graves is hot on your trail, not fast enough to catch up to you, just to have the view to himself. Your body heavy with all the gear strapped on you, gun in your hands, braided hair messy with loose strands sticking out, soaked with your sweat and someones's blood. At least he hopes that it's not your blood.

The sway of your hips is still visible under all the protective clothing, and you might or might not play into it a little bit knowing he's right behind you.

You think you are so freaking discreet, but anyone who sees you chased by the Commander will know right away what's about to go down. But no one would ever bring it up, or question it. Not with Philip.

You body is burning from his stare, a smile plastered on you, full of pride and lust and everything beyond from the mission, from his apparent and steady steps close, hot on your heels, and from what he'll do when he catches you.

You practically tear down your door to your room. The room you have the privilege to even occupy, but if you think about it, this is the least for the right hand of the Commander, right?

You only manage to discard the bulletproof vest from your torso before Phil barges through the wide open door, swinging it behind his back, eyes never leaving your form. The door is shut by his back with a loud bang when you collide with him. Lips already hungrily tasting his, smelling gunpowder, sweat and iron. All that with his own unique scent is making you feral, your primal part reacting to it without faltering.

He groans into your mouth, hands grabbing your ass with an iron grip, pushing your groin to his, the bulge in his pants forces a gasp out of you, giving him the access to slide his tongue next to yours, fighting for dominance you can't match. But you'll try.

"You want this cock, don't you baby'?" He whispers into your mouth, hands trying to find a way under your shirt, fumbling with your cargo pants.

"Uhum.." You mumble, head foggy from his cold hands around your waist, his hips constantly rocking against you creating a growing pressure in the pit of your stomach.

"Uh-uh, try that again." He stops, switching to his work voice, grabbing your chin forcing you to look at him, into his eyes full of confidence. Demanding and irrefutable. Fingers digging into your soft skin, he can feel your jawbone perfectly in his hand, fitting too well to the tip of his fingers.

"Yes sir." You croak. You comply, earning the rocking motion back from his hips, an urgent small kiss planted on your lips before he retreats to take of his own vest. You help him with one hand, the other you use to search for skin, just a small touch because you know you don't have the luxury to have him fully naked tonight.

You catch a glimpse of your weapons right at the door when his vest hits the ground next to them, the weapons you should have returned back to the armory right away. But who the fuck cares when the boss himself didn't do it, right? No one cares if it's him, no one dares to care.

Now it's his turn to push you back, your lips stuck in his teeth, his rough chuckle music to your ears as he earns several moans from your throat. He takes this few steps to undo his belt, letting it hang lazily out of the waistband.

He guides you until your ass bumps into your desk, several papers fly off of it, his hardness grazing the insides of your thighs when he lift you up to sit on the desk. "You look so fucking beautiful right now, fuck me." He growls, leaving your mouth to suck on any available soft spot on your neck, enjoying the veins pulsing under his lips.

"You waited for this all day, huh? Is that right? Tell me." He commands again. You have to talk unless you want to be left there hanging, with so much pain in your core for him.

"Yes." You breath out, giving him more access to your neck, his teeth leaving aching marks soothed with his soft tongue after. The desk slams into the wall as he rocks his hips again and again, and it makes an awfully loud noise. And he's not even inside you yet.

"Yes what?" Fucking hell. "Yes, sir."

"Atta girl."

"I want you." You say, barely above a whisper, already lost in the building up ecstasy of him.

"How? Use your pretty voice, don't go shy on me now." He retreats from your neck, admiring his handiwork from afar, and you whine a little before you feel his hand around your belt. You nod repeatedly showing him how much you approve of his action. Your eyes flicker down. "Eyes up here angel. I asked something."

Oh yes, what was it?

"Fuccccck." You moan, furious with his teasing. "I want you inside me. Have me, fuck me, love me."

"I know, fuck i knew right away when you looked back on the field. You fluttered those pretty lashes at me with a big fuckin grin on your lips. You were already soaking wet..." He halts for a moment just to shove down his hands in your pants, to your folds, so slick his fingers slide perfectly down to your opening. His eyes flicker, lips parted with a sigh. "...just like right now."

His fingers got lost in your slick folds, thumb pressing and circling on your heat with such a force that the knot in your stomach pulls your insides towards that particular place he assaults. So deliciously slow put persistent, using the right amount of pressure that's quickens your already rapid breathing.

You don't catch on your movements that comes so naturally,just when his other hand stops your hips from grinding against his fingers, shooting you a disapproving look. He can act all tough and rough, but his flushed face, heavy eyelids over his lustfull eyes are a telltale sign of his very own need for you. It's not a want anymore, it's pure and addictive need. Need for a fix of each other like it's the best, mindblowing drug you every used.

He brings you back every couple of seconds with a new sensation from your haze, now two finger steadily pushing in and out of you, feral for more, you grab onto his upper arm, a way of grounding you and maybe grounding him too. "Don't play with me, Commander."

He fucking loves it. The way you keep authority for him while he fucks you is a high for him itself, his cock twitching in his pants, desperate to break free. You can feel it against your thigh, making you smirk, a smug one that will surely fuck with his brain.

"So fucking ready for me, eh?" God bless him for using his free hand to struggle down your pants, with the steady pounding and curling of his fingers in you. Sometime grazing over the sensitive bud to keep you on the edge, but not push you over it. "And needy too."

He looks his best like this, undressing you, pleasuring you with the most satisfied face you every witnessed. No successful gunfight, smooth mission, or the smell of new money could sooth his burdened features like you giving your all.

His finger slips out, a frustrated laugh leaving his lips. He literally drags the pants of off you, underwear somewhere gone with it. You spread your legs wide as soon as the clothing is gone, cold air hitting the wetness around your pussy, inner thighs and ass is dripping from his messy fingering. He steps back, looking so lost in thought, consuming the image of you, loss of words. Then the switch in his head jolts him awake, tearing his own clothing down just enough to free his length, wasting no time to meet your cunt with a grunt, the warmth of your slick turning him into putty in your hands. Muscles releasing the tension held in for god knows how long, weight leaning on you for support. It's his time to get lost in the moment, your hands gently running through his hair, enjoying this side of him until it lasts. The quiet and vulnerable him that's so rare sight, non-existent to others. Pride swells in your chest, knowing it's you who have the privilege to have his trust in you to be this comfortable.

You are so tempted to just snake your fingers around his cock, to guiding him inside of your cunt. You would die to see his face turn into a frown, mad that he isn't the one setting the tone, the one leading the course of events. Oh he would flip on you, and that it what makes this much more interesting.

"Uh-uh, don't even think about it sugar." You hand is stopped midway by his calloused fingers, sinking roughly into your arm but soft on the skin. He leans in close, his dick moving with him slightly creating a delicious friction on your clit that makes you moan so loud in the tense room. "I thought you knew better."

"I wasn't thinking." You voice is muffled by his sloppy kiss, all teeth and saliva, oppressive against your own willingness to surrender.

"I can tell." It's true, you are brainless when he is this close to fill you up, the only thing mattering is him still torturing you when he should be pounding into you by now.

"The only thing on my mind is why the hell aren't you fucking me?"

You utter with low voice, yelping right at the end from the pressure of his hand at your neck, the force of his grab faintly smacking your head to the wall behind you. There he is.

"Language! You are speaking to your superior, soldier!" His growl is predatory, your body reacting to his antagonistic action is beyond sick, but it's fuel to your fire at this point. The pressure on both side of your neck increasing, cutting off oxygen just the right amount to send you into a blisslike state, eyes rolling back, your orgasm growing tremendously in the pit of your stomach.

The ecstasy doesn't stop there, soon you feel him distance himself from your entrance just to push in with full force, there is no agonizing taunt in his movements, just pure power in his hips clashing to yours.

His hand never leaves your neck, releasing and pressing at the right moments, his dick filling you painfully good with hard thrusts. The amount of energy put to his body just to fuck you senseless is inhuman, while your drive is enough for a faint moan through gritted teeth and a dead grip on his upper arm.

"That's what you like, huh? Cockdrunk, needy for me to fill you up still covered in the blood of our enemies?" You remember him talking like this the first time, confused from why are you so turned by his words, forgetting to utter anything that makes sense, mouth hanged open.

There is in fact blood on both of you, none of it is yours. The blood on the cut on his face has dried before you stepped out of the car, and that cannot make this much mess on your uniforms. It's intoxicating.

"Yeah look at it. You are so fucking turned on. Oh. My. God." You were ashamed and embarrassed by it at the beginning, but now you just nod drunkenly, eyes jumping between the blood stains and his eyes watching your every reaction to his remarks. That is his turn on. How your behavior changes every second from everything he inflicts on you. His voice, his touch let that be harsh or gentle, his movements and actions, how much you can see or feel. And when you smile under his choking palm, clench around his cock, squeezing so sweetly he has to slow down so he will last longer, he's so gone. It's his personal drug. The burden and adrenaline of battle mixing with clear pleasure like the colors on marble. He can pick out and grab every feeling, taste them separately, but together it's the real fucking deal, overwhelming almost.

"Can i touch myself?" You ask, more like plead, the apparent but rarely enough friction on your clit is killing you, knowing the drag of his hips every 2-3 thrust is for that reason, to make you go batshit crazy. It's fucking working.

There is doubt on his features, contemplating before nodding his head in a clear motion. His gaze trails the way your fingers smoothly linger on your breast sliding slowly over your bellybutton to the place where your body needs the pressure. It seems like you aren't the only one filled with a long awaited bliss, Phil's body trembles when your fingers starts to work on yourself with a delicate touch, thrusts becoming unrushed, concentrating on your ragged breathing and hips drawing luscious circles on his length. It's a way for to get him move into you again, pushing your pelvic just to being held back by his hand. A pathetic whine leaves your lips earning an ear to ear grin from him.

"Ask for it sugar, you know how this works." Yes you do, but your whole being wants to defy him, and take from him not ask for it. You feel your high so close, so close that you couldn't stop now, won't let the pace die down. But he will, he will deny the peak from you if it means he can the double it later, and at the end he's always right. Now you just don't have the patience.

"Please. Please move." Voice high pitched out low on volume does it for him, giving you what you want. The fast pace and powerful jolt of his body into you is like electricity hitting you, the patience you lack is now dissolved from him, chasing his own release mercilessly.

The sound of the small slaps of skin against skin fills the room alongside with your grunts and moans. Your head and back rhythmically bumps to the wall with Phil's dick burying itself deep in you, hitting that oh so fucking sweet spot more often now as Philip positioned your legs higher. It's devastatingly beautiful, the whole experience stinks from the dirt and blood and your all day long sweat, but mostly the best sex you ever had in your life. You want to kiss him, suck on his tongue earning those unholy growls he usually makes, but your body is too overpowered, used and pleasured simultaneously.

"Inside me." You grunt, a hiccup like sound interrupting your words as your back hits the wall again. His gaze shots up to your face from the place where you become one, eyes laced with fog of everything happening at the moment. He's always looks lost and zoned out when he's close. "Please cum inside me." You repeat oppressing the weakness in your voice.

"Music to my ears." He smiles widely before returning his eyes back to your hands dictating a crazy rhythm on your clit, already feeling the climax numbing the back of your head, hearing the rush of blood in your ears. With every little vibrating circle on your bud you breath out a whine, making Phil switch from fast to hard, hitting your core so perfectly you come around him screaming.

Eyes roll back to your head, trying to keep yourself still on the desk while your body shakes with the full force of your orgasm, fingers numb over your sensitive clit, thinking you'll have a freaking seizure if you touch yourself again.

"Don't fucking stop now Darlin'." Graves pushes your hand out of the way, harshly pressing his thumb down earning a second wave of ecstasy destroy you, and that's all he needs to spill inside of you, grunting with smaller and smaller thrust, filling you up like never before.

You wished you could have seen him, but your mind went black and nothing could make you focus on anything else than your cunt squeezing everything out of him.

Your body shakes every time his thumb takes a lazy drag over your clit, you wonder how he manages to even move an inch after all this. All you can hear is his breaths,- vulnerably loud and rapid - coming closer, feeling his forehead buried in you chest. You stay there for a few moments, both of you regaining, trying to send signals to your limbs, but it's pretty fucking obvious you won't use them today anymore.

Philip has more presence of mind, hearing him shuffle and grumble while he slowly pulls out, and you wished he would have waited a couple of minute to pull yourself together. You hiss at the sudden emptiness, which he tries to soothe with gentle slides if his fingers on your fold, the remains of your orgasm still shocking your body.

"Fuck me." His raspy voice is scratching your ears, only that charging your battery up again, awakening what lead you to this bedroom at the first place. When you open your eyes, he's admiring his handiwork, a towel in his hands, pants pulled up loosely, all messy and breathless.

"I just did." You reply soundlessly, voice non-existent. His cheeks burning in a cute pink shade, lips turning upwards in an honest grin, the towel in his hand approaching you slowly.

"I thought it was the other way around." He says making you look up at his blue eyes filled with so much unreadable emotion, averting your attention from the drag of the towel between your thighs, which makes you take a shark breath in, too sensitive even from the breeze of the air.

He leans down to kiss everything away, to soothe your aching body, now gentle and slow, tasting the aftermath on your lips. He takes his time, sucking on your lower lip between open mouthed kisses and pecks planted anywhere his mouth reaches. Sweet, dripping from honey, apologizing for any harsh grab of your hips, sinking fingers that leaves bruises and for the sore muscles you'll surely have the morning.

"We stink." You state nose crunched up from all the smells, mind wandering to a hot long shower session. His laugh vibrates in your mouth, his palms holding your face from both sides to keep you in place for one last kiss on your nose.

"Yeah we do." There is no denying it that you are marinating in an all day long filth. "But fuck you are a sight to see darlin'"

Sometimes you see this look in his eyes that screams love, just like now, his eyes still hungry and filled with satisfaction, planting the seed in your head that he just might love you. He might.

#philip graves x reader #philip graves smut #philip graves imagine #philip graves #philip graves x f!reader #all hell breaks loose

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atsadi-shenanigans · 8 months ago

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Feeding Alligators 38 - Gatekeep

Bite Night 2: Astarion is trying his best but you have the romantic awareness of a potato.

On AO3.

Y’all do not find the demon woman by the time evening rolls around. Wyll curses as the crickets chirp into twilight; stares out at the forest as y’all set up camp. You leave him be—comforting others ain’t your strong suite (you mostly just stand there all awkward because shows are liars and actually saying “there there” pisses people off more than it helps).

Shadowheart swings by to run her jesus hands over you again.

“You still feel stable,” she says.

You nod. Pause a moment, considering. Then, “You’re a cleric, yeah? Like, tied to a god or something?”

Her expression doesn’t budge from the cool neutrality she usually wears. “That’s what clerics are, yes. Why?”

You don’t know what you’re talking about. This world and its customs are fucking foreign as hell. Still. Something shivers in the back of your brain (not the worm this time, which seems to be dozing).

“Paladins are kinda the same? That one back there mentioned Tyr.”

She almost rolls her eyes. “The Lord of Justice. Paladins are sworn to their gods or goddesses. But they’re strictly fighters.”

Shadowheart carries a mace and seems real cozy bashing in skulls with it. You got an idea what that makes a cleric, but you also realize you don’t know which god she’s all cozy with (the concept makes your skin crawl).

“Who do you, uh, serve?” you say, totally suppressing the helpful urge to sneer.

That coolness freezes solid. “We’re all stuck together for the benefit of working as a group. But we barely know each other, and we’re all entitled to our own business.”

Oof. Some kinda sore spot.

You back down. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I just…would you be able to tell? If those guys was, if there was something weird?”

Now she frowns. “Weird?”

Actual gods with real people as their servants (again, you smother your grimace). You don’t know shit, do you?

“Nevermind,” you say. “I just…this is all real new. Sorry to bother you and for, y’know, getting too personal. Won’t happen again.”

The ice around her seems to thaw just a touch. She gives a sharp nod. “Alright. And…thank you. For respecting my privacy.”

Which leaves you at Lae’zel’s tender mercies before bed.

You manage an actual push up.

***

So you’re flying pretty high as you drag your ass to your tent. Half the camp is bedded down for the night. Lae’zel—completely unfazed by running your ass into the dirt without so much as a hair out of place or a bead of sweat on her skin—takes first watch.

The spacing arrangement has definitely gelled; seems you’re assigned to the desk next to Astarion for this quarter. He lounges on his back amidst a pile of pillows—where in the hell did he pick up more of them? As you draw near, he sits up and spins around to face you.

“Hello, darling,” he says. “Always a pleasure to see you sauntering over.”

“Tripping, actually,” you say. You reach for your tent flap. The white of his hair and his shirt glow in your peripheral, and you stop. He stares at you. Expectantly.

…right. Blood.

“Oh, um,” you say. Pause.

“You don’t have to, of course,” he says. “I’ve gone much longer in between meals.”

You fucking forgot. There’s no solid reason for your hesitation, except that this is a change in plans (your fault) and that always wigs you out and having time to mentally prepare (lips, lips) would have been nice.

But you did offer. And he’s waited for you. It’d be bad manners to leave him hanging.

“It’s fine,” you say. Look around. Gale and Wyll are in their tents. Lae’zel stalks the perimeter, and Shadowheart kneels outside her own tent. She looks at you. Her judgment is just as potent at sixty yards. “You wanna take this inside?”

His grin spreads slow and syrupy. “My dear, there’s nothing I’d like more.”

You don’t got much in the way of decoration. Just your bedroll and your pack. You pause a second inside; there ain’t enough room to stand upright. This’d probably be a two-sleeper tent back home. But you got no seats or cushions. Hospitality dictates you let Astarion sit on your bedroll, as the guest.

He ducks in after you, and the tent seems a lot smaller. Y’all are gonna have to sit criss-cross applesauce. Knees touching.

Oh jesus.

“Um.” You clear your throat. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

You busy yourself lighting the small lantern you scrounged up using the (thank FUCK) matches y’all also found. It’s enough light to see his features clear when you turn and find him stooped there, watching you.

“And where will you be, darling?” he says.

You will not clear your throat again. You will not act like some awkward twenty-year-old climbing into a boy’s car for the first time. You are a goddamn adult human and humans touch each other all the time. He’s (sucked) touched your neck before. What you have in mind is far less intimate than that. This whole thing is a casual act born of necessity.

Touching other people is fucking normal.

You just ain’t…used to it.

“I thought it might be easier to control the bleeding if you bit my wrist,” you say. It’s just practicality. Nothing else. Certainly not you being shy all the sudden. Has got nothing to do with the feel of his cool tongue on your fucking neck. Nothing at all.

“Ah,” he says. Gaze flicks down your arm. “If that’s how you’d prefer it. Though, as I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t have, ahem, as much experience with that.”

The blind leading the blind. It’d be funny if you weren’t so full of the heeby-jeebies.

“You wanna try?” you say.

He looks at you. Goddamn, he’s hard to read when he wants to be. Then his usual smile slots into place and his eyelids drop and you struggle not to roll your eyes as he says, “I’m willing to try a lot of things with you.”

Jesus lord on a pogo stick. You turn away to let the eyes roll freely; disguise it as lowering yourself to sit on the grass beneath you. Your bad knee has been acting up worse than usual. It pops as you settle, which makes Astarion pause.

“’M fine,” you say and start to roll up your left sleeve. You wore your worst-off shirt for Lae’zel’s nightly beat down. Won’t hurt if you get more blood on it.

Astarion settles in next to you. Facing you, rather. But that angle won’t work very well, so you turn and shuffle a bit until you’re side-to-side, sort of staring past the other.

You got all the gear this time, too. A shirt you tore apart and washed (in boiling water) for bandages, water, apples, and a goddamn healing potion.

“I won’t take as much this time,” Astarion says.

You nod. There’s no protocol for this, so you lift up your arm and hold it straight out.

He takes it. You expect that. It has to happen; how else is he gonna bite you? Lunge teeth-first, like a dog?

Still.

Cool fingers glide over your forearm, across your palm. You blink fast, but refuse to let your face so much as twitch. Keep your hand and arm steady but pliable, just like you do when a doctor is taking your pulse and blood pressure.

He brings your arm up as his head ducks down. Hovers over your wrist a moment; cool air brushes you as he exhales through his nose and your rebellious skin erupts into goosebumps.

“Sorry,” you say before he can pull some shit. “Tickles.”

He gives you a sly glance out of the corner of his eye. Shithead. Then he presses his lips to your inner wrist.

He holds you like that a moment. His lips certainly are soft and cool. You’re pretty sure every muscle on your frame pulls tight. Then he moves. And it ain’t to bite. He brushes those lips over you, slightly parted, up and down. You’re about to ask what in the hell he’s doing, when he twists your arm to change the position and, apparently, finds (through scent? Touch? Vampire bullshit?) the right spot.

His lips pull back. His brow wrinkles. His pupils are huge and dilated, even for the low light.

His teeth sink in. The pain is sharper, this time. Probably because you see it coming. Twin fangs pierce your skin, sink into muscles. Your arm tries to jerk back, but his grip tightens to bruising.

You gasp. Jerk. Will yourself not to fucking move, because his teeth are buried in your wrist and there’s tendons and ligaments in there.

Then his fangs are out, and his lips come down and seal around the wound.

This time, you can see his face. See the way his eyes roll back. His lids flutter shut. He makes a soft sound against you, low and guttural and for some reason, your face starts to burn.

You tear your gaze away. Do your best to stare at the blue canvas of your tent.

The pain throbs into that pleasant numbness as before. The rest of you relaxes as nerves stop shrieking in alarm. He’s not pulling this time—thank god. Seems content to hold you, grip eased, and lap at it.

Which means that sure is his tongue against you. Again.

You wonder what the thread count is on canvas here in Faerun. Light shines through it, but you ain’t sure about water. Might have to find a magical tarp the next time it storms—

He’s still making sounds. They’re soft. You don’t hear them, not really. But the vibration thrums against your wrist. Short, tiny things. Moans. It don’t seem voluntary. His eyelids still flutter like he’s trying to open them and can’t. He takes a particularly wet suckle, and that pops him free.

He lifts up a second to pant. His lips and teeth are coated in red. A dribble runs down his chin and his nostrils flare.

Your wounds immediately stream. You manage a single “um” before he pulls your arm up so he can lick a strip back up with a groan, and seals his mouth over it again and suck in a gasp through his nose.

And that’s when the numbness…twists, somehow. Morphs a bit. Instead of throbbing nothing, there’s a feel of…heat? A kind of euphoria. Gentle, right now—you really want to sigh and fall backwards—but it seems to be building where his lips touch you. On the prodding of his tongue between the punctures, encouraging more blood to flow. You can almost feel your blood in him. The throb melding with your heartbeat filling his mouth, filling him. The two of you connected in a way you can barely comprehend, and heat blooms between your legs—

Oh motherfucker, he’s got aphrodisiac spit??!

“Astarion,” you say.

He’s not as lost in the sauce this time. He hums. Takes a last slurp and then pulls away. Snatches up one of the rags you set aside for this and clamps it down hard over your wrist.

You hiss. He doesn’t let up. His hands have turned into a vice. Fucker’s gonna bruise tomorrow.

“Lift your arm a little, darling,” he says and you do.

“Didn’t know you knew wound care,” you say. You’re a touch lightheaded, but you ain’t dizzy. Tired and thirsty, mostly.

“In my line of work, you pick up a few things,” he says. And sucks his teeth. His tongue moves around in his mouth (it was just on your skin) as he laps up all traces of your blood.

“So you just didn’t the first time you bit me?”

He turns. Pupils still dilated and if that doesn’t send some kind of prey animal shudder down your spine.

“You told me you did this all the time, little donor.”

“Not through a bite on the neck. And with vampire spit to deal with.”

He shrugs. “As I said, I’ve never had to keep a snack alive.”

The pressure hasn’t wavered. You fully cannot feel your fingers anymore. “Well, thank you. For learning.”

He blinks. Has that weird look you can’t place. Then he, as usual, buries it with smarm. “It has been an absolute pleasure, darling.”

And then he’s leaning in, face all intent, gaze locked on you. A static charge seems to fill the air and your brain starts flipping levers to dump some kinda panic chemicals into your bloodstream. His face is so focused, even as his lids come down and he is entirely too close.

You panic. You ain’t even sure why. Lift your free hand and jab him in the nose and say, “honk” because your brain is a loser and you are a loser and what the fuck, why the fuck is that what you went with??!

Astarion jerks back like you slapped him, the very picture of a pissed off cat. “Excuse you?”

Which send you jerking back because you pushed it too far. Got too weird. Fucked this up and misread something and got too forward a-fucking-gain.

“Sorry!” you say. “I was just, I don’t know, um! I was joking and I’m sorry.”

The two of you sit there, hackles raised, and stare at each other for a long moment. Until he (mercifully) blinks first and smooths his ruffled feathers back down.

“I can’t saw I’ve ever garnered that reaction before,” he says. Studies you, and then looks away (you try hard not to cringe). Then he notices his hands are empty, because you both pulled away.

“Right,” you say and take over pressure duty—the rag has absorbed quite a bit of blood, but when you risk a peek underneath, the wounds only ooze sluggishly.

Awkward silence fills the tent. You can’t go anywhere (and it’s your tent), and he seems kind of stuck on what to do now (how bad did you just fuck this up).

So you reach for your favorite tool: changing the motherfucking subject. “Can I ask you something?”

He finally notices the smear of blood on his chin as is in the process of fastidiously wiping it clean with his fingers and sucking those into his mouth.

You want to ask him about the paladins, but another question comes barreling into your brain and it sounds like a much more bonding topic anyway.

“You remember how I asked what blood tasted like to you?” you say. When he looks over, “I want to experiment with that, if you’re okay with it. Now that I know I can do this kinda regular.”

He wears the most deadpan expression when he says, “Ah, the vampire fetish appears at last.”

“What? No. People do that? No, no, nothing weird. It’s just, you only eat blood and I can’t tell the difference, but you can. So what if we varied up the taste? If I even can? So you can have different things, sorta, too?”

His eyebrow arches at a pace you can only describe as glacial.

“Like, if the next time I donate, say I eat a bunch of fruit. Or apples, really, since that all we ever find. Get them sugars into my blood and see how that comes across to you?”

“And whyever would you do that?”

Well shit, he makes it sound so stupid. Maybe you ought to bury the idea outright. But you notice while the others tolerate him, they ain’t inviting him in for dinner, and you don’t like seeing people left out. And while he’s an asshole, there’s a level of charm to him. He kinda pings on your level, so to speak.

“We all get to eat lots of things,” you say, going with earnestness and hoping he don’t toss it back in your face. “Might as well see if you can benefit off that?”

He don’t say nothing for a while. A long while. It starts to turn uncomfortable, and you’re considering forfeiting your tent and ducking out into the night.

When he says, “”Well, it’s your blood, darling. If you want to tinker around like that, far be it from me to stop you.”

You start to relax. Peace and good feelings restored.

And then, because it’s Astarion and he’s a shithead, he leers in and says, “Though if you truly want to know what you taste like, I know of much better options.”

This fucking—

“I think it’s time for me to take that potion and get some shut eye,” you say. “Thank you for helping.”

His smile doesn’t even twitch. If anything, it gets worse.

“A cruel denial,” he says and presses a hand over his heart. “I shall have to skulk into the night alone and pine away, awaiting our next encounter. Try not to keep me waiting too long to sample your…experiments.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” you say as dead-voiced as you can.

He rises and steps around you in one swift, fluid motion to duck through the flap behind your back. Before he goes, he gives you another silly bow.

You probably shouldn’t. That voice in the back of your brain (sin, sin, shame, sin) screams about it (talking to a man while you’re alone). But you do your best to bow back while seated. Because your life has got real, real weird, but beneath the bored, dull, and generally uninterested face you slip on everyday, you’re pretty weird yourself.

It’s that little connection. The tentative root unfurling and reaching for something it recognizes. The dare to grasp at something fun, just to spite the universe so intent on burying you.

He grins and lets the tent flap fall shut behind him.

Alone and unseen, you let yourself smile back.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

#feeding alligators fic #these two shitheads #bg3 fic #astarion fic #tavstarion #astarion x tav #slow burn #demisexual tav #plus size tav

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hinadoria · 9 months ago

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Title: the act of giving

Author: hinadoria / AO3: hinadoria

Rating: General

Summary: Cyno tries to come up with an adequate thank-you gift for Alhaitham, amidst both solicited and unsolicited opinions.

AO3: Link

On an otherwise uneventful morning, Cyno realized he had ushered in the high noon of his career; all thanks to Alhaitham. It was a startling realization, since the majority of Cyno's feelings regarding Alhaitham could not be placed quite so neatly in a box such as gratitude. Even though labels rarely served to contain the entirety of a concept. Dissatisfaction with this very idea was part of what drove Tighnari to pursue his chosen calling, or so he claimed.

Cyno was in a fugue the rest of the morning. He didn't let it show on his face, but the aim of his spear was ever so slightly off during his daily practice. Alarmed by this, he decided he needed to resolve these emotions quickly, before it made the difference between a successful and failed arrest. There weren't many he could call a friend. The fiasco of Lord Kusanali's kidnapping had netted him more friends than before, but habits were hard to break. His first instinct was still to bother Tighnari. He silently set off to do just that. With Alhaitham around as Acting Grand Sage, there was little he couldn't do during work hours. The implications of this fact were not something Cyno wished to explore in solitude, and so he quickened his pace.

Aaru Village was as cozy and attuned to nature as always. The leaves of the banyan tree casted a long-reaching shadow that hugged the dirt pathways. It provided a relaxing shade for any weary matra or sick patient that might travel by. Cyno was almost certainly the former. On his way exiting Sumeru City, he was accosted by not one, not two, but three of his well meaning friends eager to lend a hand to his plight. Cyno thought his face was quite the closed book. He was right, but his friends had noticed his odd state anyways when they found he wasn't carrying around his trusty TCG deck. Cyno had been so out of it that morning he completely forgot to bring it along. The first to ask about his woes was Nilou.

"What would you do if you wanted to show someone your gratitude?" he asked her. Nilou smiled.

"I'd dance for them, of course!" Cyno didn't know what he was expecting. Nilou was a lovely young lady, but she had a surprisingly one-track mind. Cyno thanked her and left as if escaping. On the outskirts of the city he ran into Dehya, who was accompanying a cheerful Dunyarzad. The rich young lady had brightened up considerably since the recovery of her illness, and Cyno was glad to see it.

"Yo! Where is the General scurrying off to now?" Dehya asked.

"Official business," Cyno muttered. Dehya's sharp laughter pierced his ears.

"Well now I know it's definitely not official business. 'Cause if it were, you would have just ignored me!" Cyno's ears burned with shame. Was he truly so easy to read? If the answer was something he wouldn't like, then he'd rather not know at all.

"I'm trying to show someone my gratitude," he said instead. "If it were you, what would you do?"

"Give them money," Dehya said almost instantly. Cyno didn't know why he would expect any other answer. Unfortunately for him, although their salaries were similar, Alhaitham's lack of a crippling TCG addiction meant that he was probably richer than Cyno. Therefore, any material possession he was in want of was either highly illegal or had already been purchased.

Dunyarzad giggled at Cyno's hesitance. "I'm sure whoever it is will appreciate whatever it is you give them, as long as it comes from the heart," she added.

Cyno stared into space. A gift from his own heart to... Alhaitham? The mere thought sent blood rushing towards his cheeks. Ugh, he might as well stab himself with Alhaitham's sword. Surely that would delight the cold-hearted man more? Cyno didn't know how he bid farewell and arrived at Aaru Village. He just figured if he ran fast enough, he could outrun his own embarrassment.

Beautiful and cozy Aaru Village, with few people in sight. The only sound came from the gentle rushing of water and the trilling song of the colorful birds perched atop Tighnari's clinic. The music was cut short by the piercing sound of Tighnari's yells. A flustered Collei came out.

"Another misbehaving patient?" Cyno asked. Collei sighed in exasperation. "I wish Master would get angry less often. It can't be good for his health." She looked him over. "Here to pay him a visit?"

"Yeah, I need his advice for something."

"You're always welcome... is what I'd like to say, but right now you should probably enter at your own risk." Tighnari's mood swings were of little concern to Cyno. As his best friend, he had long since become immune to his prickly words.

With this confidence, he entered the clinic, and subsequently dodged a flying catheter. Cyno left the clinic.

He returned when Tighnari had visibly calmed down and the frazzled patient had been escorted out by Collei.

“I need to show Alhaitham my gratitude,” Cyno said, cutting to the point.

Tighnari's ears, which had been drooping, perked up. “And what caused this decision?” Cyno avoided his gossipy gaze.

“Just, you know… I owe him a lot by way of my career. Without his role in dethroning Azar, I probably would've been sacked. Now that he’s Acting Grand Sage, I barely even get questioned when I carry out my duties.”

“Fair. But if you wanted to thank him, a new book would suffice. Why did you come all the way here?”

“I just thought… it wouldn't be enough.” It had been years since Cyno felt this much hesitation over any matter. Years since he was that scrawny young orphan from the desert, walking on eggshells in the hostile world of academia. Peace from distrust; from those gazes that followed him through the hallways was something he didn't expect to have in his whole lifetime. But it was something Alhaitham made reality. And Cyno couldn’t—didn’t know how—to repay a grace that meant so much to him.

Tignari sighed, “Alhaitham is a hard man to read. If it was something he truly desired, then he'd accomplish it with his own hands. You two are quite similar in that sense. Why don’t you talk to him about what you can do for him?”

Cyno’s first instinct was to bristle. But if even Tighnari couldn’t come up with something else, then maybe it really was his best option to ask Alhaitham directly. He said as much to his friend who smirked and said, “I’m always right.” He earned himself a messed up hairstyle from Cyno for that comment.

By the time Cyno arrived back at Sumeru City, the sky was stained a striking shade of orange. Belatedly, he realized he had wasted the majority of his day on this endeavor. Yet he still wouldn’t be punished for it, if Alhaitham had any power over the matter. Which, much to Cyno’s chagrin, he did. Cyno hesitated for only the briefest of moments before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Alhaitham’s voice sounded from within. It was laced with fatigue, and Cyno momentarily contemplated returning another time. Then Alhaitham said, “Cyno?” and his curiosity got the better of him.

“How did you know it was me?” Cyno barged in.

“Few people walk so silently as the General Mahamatra,” replied Alhaitham. “The absence of sound before the knock all but gave you away.”

“Noted.” Silence fell over the pair. Alhaitham sighed softly.

"If you're looking to spar, General, I really don't have the time today."

"No, I, uh…" Cyno's eyes fell on the large stack of unfinished documents and empty ink bottles. A bolt of inspiration struck him. "I was wondering if I might treat you to a cup of freshly brewed coffee? I know a great place." Fuck. He should have stopped before the last sentence. Cyno only knew of the one, and any Akademiya student worth their salt had spent their student days haunting it. Alhaitham must have been aware of this as well, because he laughed.

The laugh was genuine, not the sarcastic kind either. How long had it been since Cyno heard that beautiful sound? Was it during the celebration party after their successful mission? But that had been ages ago. Cyno found himself smiling fondly as he reminisced. It dropped clear off his face when Alhaitham asked, "Does this mean you're asking me out on a date?"

Archons! Heat rose to his face and neck so quickly that Cyno didn't need a mirror to know he was a ghastly sight. "I was just trying to show you my gratitude!" This seemed to take Alhaitham aback.

"By taking me on a date?" Cyno calmed down.

"Why? Are you disappointed?" Instead of the all-too-familiar snide remark he felt sure to receive and would thus steer the conversation away from dangerous waters, Alhaitham nodded.

"Yes, in fact. And here I'd thought you'd beaten me to the punch."

"What?!" Alhaitham stared directly into Cyno's eyes, and an emotion Cyno couldn’t describe welled up within his chest.

"Cyno. My dearest General Mahamatra. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a date? When I'm not swamped with all this paperwork, that is."

Embarrassment shot through his veins, and Cyno felt the urge to run. "You don't have to be so formal about it. I prefer the version of you that's blunt to a fault, and has a hundred backup plans for every situation."

"I'll take that as a yes." Alhaitham handed him a thick binder. Cyno opened it to find a set of locations, detailed with descriptions and cross-references of his and Alhaitham's own opinions. "Please peruse that at your own convenience. Any of those would be ideal for a first date."

"You're insufferable. Can't believe you made a portfolio."

"Yes, well, I'm still the one you fell in love with, aren't I?"

Cyno choked, "Too soon!" He might as well have said nothing, however, because the persistent flush on his face left little to hide.

In the end, Cyno never did give a satisfactory gift to show his gratitude. In a way, he had given himself to become Alhaitham's boyfriend. Yet as they walked down the street, hand-in-hand, neither of them complained.

#genshin impact #genshin #haino #cytham #cyno #alhaitham #fanfic #fanfiction #my works #ficlet

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slothquisitor · 1 year ago

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Sever

In which Gortash dies, and Karlach rages, and everyone wonders if revenge is really the right answer. Also, shout out to my fellow folks with complicated family situations. This one is for you. Astarion x Liv, 5.5k, mostly angst.

Also on AO3.

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Liv stares down at Gortash’s still-warm body and wonders when she became so comfortable with death. The first time she had ever seen a dead body had been when her sister had died, but she hadn’t been the one personally responsible for the death of another until she had been on that mindflayer ship. She knew, of course, that all of her magic, her studies, could be used in this way. But it is one thing to summon a flame and hold that warmth in her hand and another entirely to see the burnt corpse in the aftermath.

She remembers those first few weeks in the wilderness, killing gnolls and goblins and cultists, the way she would sneak away to retch after every fight. No one had noticed, or if they had, they simply hadn’t mentioned it. Until one day, with the adrenaline rush from the fight fading, she found she didn’t need to step away. And now, as she stands over Gortash’s body, she realizes she feels…not sadness, not exactly. Instead, it’s more a sense of waste.

There’s no sense of victory when she pries the netherstone gauntlet from his hand. Though the Emperor’s voice is full of it inside her head. But this isn’t like when they rescued the Gondians and Duke Ravenguard. This isn’t like killing Ketheric Thorm and watching the shadow curse recede. It’s justice, of a sort, but it doesn’t feel victorious.

Karlach is beside her, having dealt the final blow with her halberd. Gortash’s blood still stains the blade, and Liv can feel the heat radiating from her friend. It always takes a few moments for Karlach’s rage to fade after battle, but this is different. She’s somehow heating up. She’s about to ask how she’s doing when Karlach speaks.

“So Gortash is nothing more than a pile of flesh, same as the rest of us.” She’s staring down at his unmoving body, orange eyes filled with rage and grief and ten lost years. “I feel like there should be a sunset for me to ride off into. Or an orchestral swell…or something .”

Karlach finally meets her gaze. “But there’s nothing is there? I killed the bastard who ruined my life, and my prize is that I get to crawl into a corner and die. Am I fucking missing something? I can’t do it anymore. Ten years, man. It’s enough. It’s enough. He’s dead and he’s no fucking sorrier now than he was before. What was the point? I’m still dying. I’m dying. I’m going to die.”

Liv feels just as helpless, just as out of her depth as when Astarion killed Cazador. Gortash deserved to die, but Karlach is right: killing him didn’t make him sorry for what he did. “We’re going to figure out your engine problem, Karlach. There’s got to be a way.”

“Got a miracle in your back pocket you forgot to tell me about?” Karlach shakes her head. “I’m going to be as dead as Gortash any day now. Any moment. And what then? Off to the city of Judgement to waste into oblivion? Into the dirt to get eaten by maggots? Is that it for me? Is that fucking all?”

Liv flinches back as Karlach flares, heat radiating dangerously. “And you, you’ll just keep going, won’t you? Watching the stars. Reading your books. Drawing, eating, making fucking love all night - all of it. All of it.” The fire burns white hot and bright. “That’s my reward for everything I suffered. That’s why I survived years of torment. The fighting, the clawing, the loneliness, the fucking loneliness …All of it so I could rot. Because the person I trusted the most gave me away to the devil!”

And just as quick as it came, the flames diminish, banked by grief. Karlach begins to cry, face covered by her hands. “It isn’t fair. I don’t want it like this.”

Liv doesn’t want it like this either. Karlach’s anger feels different, somehow more distant than anyone else’s. There aren’t words to reach it. While she rages, screams, and yells about the unfairness, Liv has nothing to offer. Nothing that might close that distance, that might save her this. Gortash is dead, and it doesn’t matter because Karlach is still dying. Her heart still cannot survive in this plane, and it doesn’t matter what foes they defeat or if the city is saved, Karlach still won’t be. Liv fights the tears that threaten to fall. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. I hate this for you.”

Karlach wipes at her eyes. “I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to stay. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Liv steps closer, showing her that she’s not afraid, and that she’s not alone. “I don’t know. I want you to stay too.” She extends her arms and isn’t surprised when Karlach pulls her in for a bone-crushing hug.

When she pulls away, Karlach seems steadier. “I want to get out of here. I’ve always hated this place. Stupid fucking gigantic bridge or whatever. I think I need to go be alone for a while. Scream at the sky.”

Liv understands. “I’ll find you later.”

Karlach puts a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for listening. For existing. Love you.”

Love. Dropped so casually, but filled with so much heart. Despite all she’s been through, Karlach is unfailingly, unwaveringly kind. Quick to offer encouragement and praise, quicker still to offer comfort. It would be so easy for her to walk through the world with her fists raised, ready to fight off everything and everyone, to keep them all at a distance. But instead, her hands are out and open, a hug, an arm draped over shoulders, fist bumps, high fives. Always welcoming, always inviting. Liv doesn’t always know what to do in the face of all that, and now she doesn’t know how to respond. She wishes those words were as easy to say as they are to feel.

Liv hates that this is the one problem she can’t solve right now. Liv knows a lot about magic, history, languages. She has received the best education that her parents’ money could buy. But this is beyond her, for now. She’s sure that with enough time and study and perhaps help from Dammon, she can find a solution, but that is time they do not have. Not with so many other problems that seem hellsbent on presenting themselves at the most inconvenient moments.

Karlach leaves, and Liv glances around the massive office, eyes catching on their other companions. Shadowheart and Jaheira are busy tending to Lae’zel and Astarion who both got caught in those damn incineration casters that seem to be affixed to every wall in this place. She’s sure that Wyll and Gale will join them shortly, as they’d stayed below, picking off the last of the Flaming Fist who had tried to follow them up the tower. But everyone is fine. Everyone is okay.

There will be time later for her to consider how close this was. For her to fall apart while she remembers watching Lae’zel and Astarion get caught in flames. But she still has work to do right now, so she takes a deep breath and begins working her way through Gortash’s office. She rifles through cabinets, bookshelves, and desks, looking for anything that might be helpful, might give them clues about where the brain is. She keeps an eye out for anything that might implicate the people who were in league with Gortash, who funneled him support or money or simply turned the other way. Gortash seems the type to keep a list.

Once Lae’zel and Astarion are healed, everyone else joins in too, piling everything potentially useful on the table in the center of the room. Liv pores over it all, journal entries, memoir notes, invasion plans. Painting a picture of a man with more ambition than sense.

“There’s something over here,” Astarion says, and she glances his way. “Ah, how utterly predictable.” He pulls a picture down off the wall, revealing a safe.

Liv abandons the books she was looking through, wandering over to this corner of the room. “Can you open it?”

Astarion looks offended. “My dear, do you forget who you’re talking to?”

“Gods save me from certain vampires and their egos. This is the guy who rigged this whole place with concussion grenades and flamethrowers, and you’re telling me it’s a simple lock and key?”

Astarion grins mischievously. “Speaking of ego, it’s not even trapped.”

That is surprising. Astarion is already picking the lock, deft fingers working quickly. Despite his perpetual complaints for a skeleton key, Astarion seems to enjoy this. After a few moments, the lock clicks and the door swings open. Astarion steps back proudly, waving a hand in the invitation for her to go through the contents. She steps up to the safe, already reaching for the small black book that lies within.

“Is Karlach alright?” Astarion asks, words quiet though there is little chance of them being overheard here.

Liv turns away from the contents of the safe; they will keep. “Were you?”

His eyes widen at the question, but he recovers quickly. “Gods, is there no fairness in this world? Karlach may have killed him, but it doesn’t change anything does it?” His words are soft, sad even.

Liv shakes her head. “It doesn’t.” She turns back to the safe and the contents within. She picks up the book, and begins thumbing through its pages. It becomes obvious very quickly that these are Gortash’s notes, a ledger of sorts on every person who pledged him money and support. The names are written out in an inelegant hand, the black ink stains are dark and grotesque.

Her parents' names are on page five.

There is no ghastly surprise at the revelation, only resignation. Of course, their names are here. Of course, this is the way it is. She is so tired, so very tired. No matter how hard she tries, she isn’t sure if she’ll ever be able to escape her family. Because she can’t seem to hate them, can’t seem to forget them. So at every turn, with every revelation, she just ends up betrayed, somehow still young and stupid and naive even when she knows she shouldn’t be.

She tucks the book away in her bag; it feels heavier than it should.

***

Gortash is dead, and Liv is too quiet. In fact, all of their companions are. It’s almost as if they didn’t have a big victory today. They’ve got two out of the three netherstones! A bad guy is dead…as are many of the Flaming Fist following him, which, good riddance, honestly. Astarion isn’t sure why everyone is being so wet around the ears about this one.

Perhaps it is because killing Gortash has not secured Halsin’s release, and instead has revealed yet another hoop to jump through in order to rescue him. They truly have no reason to take Orin at her word, and yet, if Halsin was dead, Astarion is sure that they’d know it. The bloody notes Orin has delivered to their rooms at the Elfsong haven’t smelled even faintly of Halsin. Small comfort, that.

The somber mood might also be attributed to Karlach. He’s never seen her like this. Even in the shadow lands, she’d remained steadfastly cheerful. He remembers detesting it, her happiness, her freedom with touch after her second upgrade. Still, he wonders if he knows a little of what she’s going through.

So, despite his better judgment, he wanders over to Karlach. She’s sitting on one of the couches, alone but not quite alone. Across the sunken area of their rooms, she half-watches Wyll and Gale play a game of lanceboard while she nurses a mug of something that smells sweet and strong.

“It doesn’t feel like you’d expect it would, does it?” he says by way of greeting.

Karlach looks up from her drink, her eyes far away, lips twisted into a frown. “What doesn’t?”

He sits down beside her, on the extreme edge of the couch. “Revenge.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” She sighs. “What did it feel like for you?”

He swallows and looks away. He’s done a good job of not thinking about this, grateful for the many things that need doing that keep them all so busy. He doesn’t know if he really wants to name it, to risk giving these feelings real power outside of his own head. But somehow, he wants Karlach to know she’s not alone more. “Grief.”

Karlach doesn’t speak for a long time, hands twisting around her mug. She is almost never truly still. Finally, she wipes at one of her eyes, in a move that could be mistaken for simply scratching her nose. “Yeah. That fits.”

Astarion still isn’t quite sure what it was he was grieving anyway, but for Karlach it’s clear: her freedom, ten years of her life stolen from her. Karlach is better than most and she’s spending her last days trying to save a world that never cared about her. In his less generous moments, and of those there are many, he tells himself that ten years is nothing . Certainly not compared to two hundred. But he’s free now, and he has an eternity of immortality stretching out before him, assuming they survive everything else. And Karlach will die because someone stole her heart and now she’s bound to the hells. It’s really fucking unfair.

“I wish I could tell you that dying wasn’t so bad, but my experience has been quite…specific….I’m sorry.” He is surprised by how much he means it. How much he wishes he could change her fate. Is this what friendship is? It hurts more than he expected it would.

Karlach leans forward elbows braced on her knees, shoulders caved in. “Yeah. This just kind of sucks, you know?”

“It does…” He’s not sure what else to offer; he’s not sure that there is any comfort he can give. “I was trying to think of something more profound to say, but no. It just ‘kind of sucks’.” He is not Liv, and he does not have promises to give Karlach. However he does believe that if there is a way, Liv will find it. “You deserve better.”

Karlach’s eyes look up to the ceiling as she nods. “Yeah, so many do.” She turns to look at him, orange eyes filled with gratitude. “But…thank you.”

But he hasn’t given her anything. His confusion must show on his face because she smiles, and carefully, slowly reaches a hand up, and lets it hover over his shoulder. She hesitates, waiting to see if he’ll move away. He doesn’t, and heat radiates from the contact, warm and comforting and inviting.

“I appreciate the check-in, Astarion.” The words are infused with her usual energy, even if it does feel a bit half-hearted.

Astarion stands then, her hand falling lightly away. Something about this all feels too close, too kind of him. He straightens, determined to infuse this situation with more of his usual prickly humor. “We need you in your best fighting shape. With Halsin gone, who else is large enough to shield me?”

Karlach doesn’t laugh, but instead gives him a knowing look before taking a big drink. “Sure thing, soldier.”

He tells himself he’s not retreating by leaving that sunken area, that he’s looking for Liv, but it’s really just chance that he runs into her. She’s heading for the doors that lead downstairs with Gortash’s ledger in hand.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

Liv looks nervous, unsure. “Uh…just downstairs.”

“For?”

She holds up the book she’d taken from Gortash’s safe earlier in the day as she opens the double doors. “Percy is coming to get this.”

It’s clear that she doesn’t want to have this conversation, but that’s exactly why they probably should. He follows her without hesitation. “And you’re just going to give it to him?”

She pauses in the hallway, and he watches her take a deep breath before she turns. “Yes.”

Astarion stares at her in disbelief. “You have leverage over half of the noble houses in this city in that little book, and you’re just going to give it away? Are you serious?”

She nods.

Is she mad? They need allies. She could manipulate anyone she wanted into helping their cause, into doing so many things. He’s sure that there’s quite a large number of people in that book whose dealings with Gortash they would do anything to keep quiet. And she’d just hand it off to her brother?

“Think about the possibilities here, I beg of you. You don’t have to do anything with this information tonight or even before we figure out how to take on the elder brain, but don’t just give it away.”

Liv shakes her head. “I’m not giving it away.”

“You are though. You are aware that you don’t owe him a damn thing, right?”

“He gave us information. He helped us.”

Astarion shakes his head. “No, he helped himself. He knows you. Knows that you’d do exactly this because he asked for your help . He lost nothing telling us information we’d likely find out another way anyway.”

“I don’t think he’s what I thought he was.”

Damn her trust, her belief in people who don’t deserve it. Not everyone is going to rise up to her expectations. Not everyone has a better version of themselves. Not everyone wants to be better.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you give people the chance to take advantage of you because you genuinely believe that they won’t or because you don’t think you deserve better.” He wants to take the words back the moment they’ve left his lips. Not because they’re incorrect, but because he’s not sure he’s allowed to say any of it and still keep her at his side.

Her brows furrow and she shakes her head. “That’s not…that’s not what this is.”

He almost wants to laugh. That’s exactly what this is. Liv is his favorite person in all the realm, and that realization alone has brought with it its own sort of terrifying exhilaration. Because he knows her. Knows her better than himself. He knows that she’s quick to smile and defaults to politeness when she’s uncomfortable. He knows that she sees the bad in the world, but desperately wants to believe the best of it anyway. And he knows her instinct to offer something to everyone she meets is borne from a bone-deep fear that if she doesn’t, she has no value.

Whether she intends it or not, offering her brother that ledger from Gortash’s office isn’t about keeping her word; it’s about giving away the only thing that she perceives her brother as wanting, and then seeing what happens next. It’s an invitation for hurt, but at least it is a pain she can expect. Gods, he can’t even say he blames her. He’d done the same thing after meeting that blood merchant in Moonrise. Still, he’s not sure how to tell her any of this. How to show her these pieces of herself without it feeling like meanness, the words sharp enough to cut.

It has been a long time since he has questioned her, pushed back against a decision. It has never been this personal, and he doesn’t know how it will go. But he loves her and he’s tired of watching her take herself apart piecemeal for people who don’t deserve it.

He reaches for her hand with gentle fingers he hopes cushions the blow of what he’s about to say. “You keep giving people the opportunity to wound you and calling it kindness. You owe him nothing, and giving him this book won’t change who he is or was.”

She remains fixed on their interlocked fingers for a long time. When she finally looks at him, her eyes are filled with pain. “I just want to believe him when he says he’s going to take them down because…I don’t think I have it in me.” Her breath stutters, eyes glistening.

“They deserve to pay for what they did to you,” Astarion says. For making her feel small, for making her believe that she wasn’t worth time or energy or space. He hates them for that.

“And then what? It doesn’t bring my sister back. It doesn’t fix my childhood. It doesn’t change that I loved them and they never loved me. It won’t change a damn thing! I can’t get what Karlach said today out of my head. I can’t make them sorry, Astarion.”

He knows she’s right, but he wants her to be wrong. “You don’t know what your brother is going to do with it. He might protect them. I watched you, that day at the Audience Hall. I saw the way their indifference affected you. It was like you weren’t there. I never want to see that happen to you again.”

She had gone so distant, and it had scared him. She is always so perfectly put together, never caught off guard for long. But that day, something inside of her had broken off and rattled around all day long.

“And I don’t want to spend any more of my life thinking of them or making decisions because of them. I’m going to give this book to Percy before I lose my nerve, and then….I’m done. Whatever happens, happens.”

For her, that will be far easier said than done. Astarion still isn't happy that she's just going to hand the book over, but he supposes that if Percy turns out to be a shit, then he wouldn't feel very bad about killing him. “Alright. Do you want me to go with you?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think I need to do this alone.”

He brings their interlocked hands up to his mouth, and presses a kiss against her knuckles. “Just cast a fireball through the floor if there’s an emergency.”

She snorts, and smiles a little. It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now. “I’ll try to avoid emergencies of that type.”

“I’m sure the owners will appreciate that.”

“I heard you. I promise,” she says as she steps away. And then he lets her go where he cannot follow.

***

She heads for the stairs, waiting to hear the door shut to their rooms before she leans heavily against the wall, sucking down deep breaths and letting everything Astarion just said wash over her. It’s not that she’s afraid of him seeing any of this, of the vulnerability, or the weakness. It’s just that she needs a moment alone - alone - in ways she hasn’t been since they got to the city. It’s far more convenient to stay here at the Elfsong, and she’s missed sleeping in a real bed. But she can only seem to snatch pockets of isolation. She just needs to think.

For so long she used to tell herself that the entire world wasn’t her room, wasn’t her estate, wasn’t this loneliness that threatened to eat her from the inside. And now that she’s here, surrounded by friends and love and people, she craves isolation. She needs a moment where she can just be, and no one will see. Where she can break down, for herself only and then pick up her own pieces.

Astarion isn’t wrong. She offers everything she can, convinced that if she has nothing to give that no one will stick around. And logically, she knows now it’s not true. That her friends care about her not what she can do for them, but that fear still lurks, still whispers in the darkness. She cannot give it space now though. There will be time later, space for her to think about all of this. But for now, she simply needs to go and meet her brother and wash her hands of all of this.

The Elfsong is busy tonight. There is music and dancing and games. Liv catches snippets of conversation celebrations, speculations, and the inexhaustible variety of people’s lives. She feels so small in this room, surrounded by all of these strangers. There’s something kind of beautiful about it. She sits down at a table in the corner, in a place of relative quiet, and watches the people around her in their merriment.

When Percy sits down across from her, she is pulled back from the buzz of people, from the din of voices, to this table, this moment. He brings with him two mugs of ale, which was probably wise, they’ll draw attention if they’re not drinking in a tavern.

“You look tired,” he says.

She could say the same about him. He’s dressed just as finely as the night before, but there are deep bruises beneath his eyes as if he didn’t sleep at all. “It was a long day.”

“Everyone is talking about Gortash’s death,” Percy says as he takes a drink.

Liv nods. “Yeah. About that…” She reaches into her lap, and pulls out the ledger she found in Gortash’s safe. “Here.” She slides it across the table.

Percy stares at it but doesn’t pick it up. “What do you want for it?” He’s watching her closely.

“You already gave me the information we wanted, which was not a great negotiation strategy if you really wanted me to keep my end.”

“And yet here we are,” Percy smiles, pulling the book closer to him. Perhaps, Astarion was right; Percy knew she’d do this. But he surprises her by cocking his head. “You really don’t want anything else?”

“I have some questions I’d like to ask, but there is no expectation. The book is yours either way.”

Percy stares at her for a moment. “That is fairer than I deserve. Ask your questions.”

“How long…how long have you been…this? Working against them?” This is the question that has haunted her. That there might have been more allies in that house than she ever knew, and why didn’t she know? How could she have not realized?

He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice pitched low enough not to be overheard. “I’ve always hated Dad. There was an incident once, at a party. He was showing me off, making me perform for his friends. Gods, you would’ve been three years old maybe? I messed up, and his magic came for me. I think he was honestly surprised when people were horrified.

“I got sent away to Cormyr for almost four years after that so that all the gossip could calm down. When I got back, my plan was always to unseat him. To reign victorious over him and Cressida. I worked at it for a long time, until the night that..uh…” He looks supremely uncomfortable, and shifts in his chair. “Until that night.”

She knows he’s referring to Brelia’s death. It was never spoken of, even in the immediate aftermath. Her family had been so good at avoiding it, that sometimes Liv wondered if Brelia’s death had happened only to her.

“I watched them bury it, use their wealth and power and connections to cover the whole thing up. And I realized that I didn’t want to be him anymore.”

“So you joined the Guild?” Liv asked, trying to piece it all together to rearrange this person she thought she knew into the man across from her.

Percy laughs and takes another drink. “No, I got my ass captured by the Guild after a monthslong spree of drinking and gambling and trying to spend as much of the family money as I could.”

“You seem pretty cozy with them now.”

He grins. “You know what’s better than a noble you can buy off? One who actually believes in your cause.”

“So what? You joined the Guild and what? Became a good guy?”

Percy shrugs. “The Guild isn’t good, but Nine-Fingers has a vision and wants to take care of the people who have been looked down on for too long. She’s got a code. Which is more than I can say for our father.”

Still, there is something bothering her. “You knew I was trying to undermine our parents wherever I could, but you never said anything.”

Percy goes quiet then, smile fading. He is looking anywhere but at her. “Your stunts were useful distractions. Kept our parents' attention focused elsewhere.”

Liv leans back in her chair, letting the revelation hang in the air. She could’ve had an ally in that house, but instead, he’d seen her ‘stunts’ as distractions, useful to him. She had known she’d been ineffective at fighting against her parents. They had too much power, too much influence. She’d been going about it the wrong way; she can see that now.

“Well, then. Guess that’s something.” The bitterness is evident in her words, and she wishes it wasn’t. Wishes for aloofness, for calm that seems to elude her.

Percy runs a hand down his face and sighs. “I thought about it…more than once. But Liv, you were free, freer than any of us. I…I always hoped you’d get out. And you did.”

“Free? Free of what?”

“Their fucking expectations. Gods, I was so envious of you. They didn’t expect a damn thing of you!”

And that had been the problem. She had desperately tried for years and years to get their attention, their love, their approval. Something . They had remained horribly and terribly indifferent. It would have been kinder if they had been cruel or hateful. There had been nothing personal about it. And she was left wondering what on earth she had to offer anyone at all. But she had been envious of him too, of the attention her parents had paid him. “I guess the grass is always greener.”

“And you had Brelia and Roland anyway. You didn’t need me.”

She looks at her brother then, tries to really see who is around this mask he puts on and wears about, beyond the smoke and the mirrors and the insufferability. His last words are spoken so quickly, so automatically that she wonders if it is a question or otherwise a justification. She doesn’t know him well enough to guess.

“Brelia died and Roland left. In the end, I didn’t have anyone. It would have been nice to have not been alone.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing good lasted in that house.”

Liv can’t help but agree. “It didn’t.”

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry. For all of it.”

She’s dreamed of hearing these words from her family, for them to know and acknowledge the things done to her, the crimes committed. But she is surprised at how much she doesn’t want them from Percy. She understands now that he was just another victim of that house, of her parents. His suffering was different from hers so she didn’t see it.

“You don’t have to…”

Percy leans forward again again, looking utterly lost. “No, I owe you…we could…I don’t know…”

She wants nothing he might offer her out of guilt. And Astarion’s warning snags in her mind. “You know, Percy, I didn’t want a relationship with the person I thought you were, and I don’t know that I want a relationship with the person you are now. So…maybe this would just be easier for us both if we just let go of all expectations. You don’t owe me anything.” And she doesn’t owe him anything either.

The severing hurts worse than she expects. The relief in Percy’s eyes hurts more. And just like that, she’s cut loose the last connection to her family. Maybe after this is all over, she might have the time to figure this all out, to understand who her brother is and if she still wants him in her life, but she is not guaranteed an after. And she knows this: that she has had enough disappointment and heartbreak in her life when it comes to family; she does not need more.

Percy just nods, eyes fixed on his mug. “Yeah, alright. I…uh…thank you for your help.”

She stands then, her own mug utterly untouched. “I hope it’s enough.”

“Me too.”

She turns then, to head for the stairs when she hears him call her name. She turns back, and it’s still odd, to see her brother here.

“Don’t die.”

Nine-Fingers is well-informed enough that he should know what exactly they’re up against, how the odds are so far stacked against them. But they’ve made it this far, so who’s to say? She offers him a smile she doesn’t particularly feel. “I’ll try.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x liv #for once astarion isn't the one having the worst time #bright lost things #slothquisitorwrites

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toxiclovergirl · 9 months ago

Text

Cruel World

*after being with Coriolanus for almost 8 years, you thought the trauma from the hunger games would go away but it never did*

i was 16 when i was chosen to fight in the Hunger Games. i was just a little girl, against an arena of teenagers bigger than me who wanted to kill me. i couldn’t comprehend the fact that it was my destiny to fight in the games. all until I met Coriolanus.

Coryo was chosen as my mentor, i didn’t really understand what that meant until he explained it to me in full detail. he was going to help me win the games, and he had so much courage that he was positive i could win. i was just a small girl, not a very intimidating one, but i sure was fast.

“wear something red, so we can match. i’m sure Tigris can find you something,” Coriolanus says to me as i rip through our closet which we share. tonight we have a gala, nothing that i am involved with, but i have to go anyways.

“hmmm okay,” i stare at every dress that is hanging from the rack, i’m not very partial to red anymore, so there is nothing. i could just have Tigris pick me up something from the dress store down the street? i look over to Coriolanus as he tries on different button up tops in his mirror, even though we all know he’s going to pick the same white one he always does.

i walk over to the dresser that stands in the open closet, clothing i rarely wear is kept in here. i’m not one to throw things away, especially clothes i know that i could pass down to someone. it is the district in me that never throws anything away.

dresses and skirts i wore after the games fill these drawers, clothes i thought suited me but didn’t at all.

i get to the bottom of the drawer and my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach when i realize what it is. the dress i wore to the reaping, the same dress i was forced to wear during the games since they didn’t want to give me another change of clothes. i pull it out and hold it in my hands which begin to shake, just at the mere thought of being in that arena again.

the once crimson color looks more like burgundy from the stained dirt and blood that was covered in it. i forgot that i even put it in there.

“is that what you’re wearing?” Coryo asks me.

does he not remember? he was with me for the entirety of the games, how can’t he remember this is what i was wearing? i remember the side his hair was parted to and the color of his socks. Coriolanus was all i could focus on during that time.

“n-no,” i silently begin to cry, thinking about my young self, fending for herself to stay alive, all while people watched for their entertainment.

“where is Tigris?” i ask him, my voice shakey.

“she must be at her studio, is everything alright?”

“yes, i just need to see her,”

“the gala is in two hours, how will you have enough time to get ready?” my back still faces him but his worried voice comes closer to where i stand.

“darling is everything okay?” his hand rests at the bottom of my back, while his head rests at the crook of my neck to kiss it gently.

“yes, just emotional is all,” i tell him honestly without telling him exactly why. i think if i say how i’m truly feeling out loud i won’t be able to pull myself together for the gala.

“do you want me to call Tigris? she can drop off a dress for you,” his large hands begin to rub my back, as his hot breath lingers next to my cheek.

“yes… please. i have nothing to wear,” i drop the dress i was holding back into the drawer, my hands still shaking.

Coryo pauses behind me, not speaking, but just breathing against me.

“is that the dress you wore? in the games?” he walks to the side of me to hold the dress and observe it.

all i can do is nod my head as i watch him hold it out in front of him.

“Jesus, no wonder you’re upset my darling, i’m so sorry. i didn’t realize what it was until now,” he gently sets it back down before he’s engulfing his long arms around my entire body. i continue to cry into his chest, probably destroying his shirt with my tears, but i don’t think he cares.

“why don’t we stay here tonight?”

“what? no no Coryo this is important for you, we need to go,” i say with my cheek flat against his chest.

“y/n i am the president of Panem, i can do anything i want. and i’d rather stay home with you. why don’t we have some dinner and wine?” he backs up from me to watch my face.

“are you sure?”

“yes, i am sure,”

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #the hunger games

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fair-night-starry-tears · 1 year ago

Text

I forgot my entire idea and then it hit me.

- this story has a gore but no blood

- headmistress Rosehearts au

- Felicity realized she shouldn’t have been too nosy and now have to deal with the tiny bird girl who told her she knows too much

- don’t ask why I’m not asleep. I brainstorm. Shush

- ps this will be a case close

- this is one of the few endings in my takes. This is “The Nosy Rose is Plucked”

- headmaster Sato Suzuki

——————————————————————————

Felicity huffed as she had redecorated the office to her liking. It was months after she got Crowley booted off the education committee, things have been going her way. She did had to tolerate his daughter being here, given the girl is the only female in the school. She wonder why Crowley would leave his innocent doll like girl staying at a school of boys. And wonder if the girl education was all fabricated too.

The red hair woman had stayed in a few months, and ruled like a tyrant. She made sure every student have been studying till they drop, have the perfect meal plan she picked out, and monitored everything. Things was going her way. But she felt too curious. If she knew Dire was hiding dirt from the public. What else is hidden. She began to tear the school until she finds every missing details. But not more trace. She was about to give up. Yet something tells her the office felt. Haunted. The paintings have no words to say. But their gaze have been staring at something. The bookcase. As the woman noticed the gaze perspective. She moved the case to see it have been covering a safe. Felicity made haste to unlock the safe herself.

///

Darling was with her friends, whispering and mumbles as her days gone from bitter to worse. Being ridiculed and berated by Felicity was harsh. But suddenly. She stopped talking and began to walk away. “Darling?” As Yuu. “Where are you going- Darling!” And the girl had no response and vanished into the dark

///

Felicity was trying combination after combination. Until, she finally got it. March 14th. What an odd number. As she open the door, she almost screamed. Falling to the ground as she silently cover her mouth in horror to what she saw.

(Warning. This is the gore part. You have been warned.)

Sitting in the safe.

As a large jar of a man head. The expression kept a look of despair and death. As the head had been preserved so pristine. It looked so fresh. The woman noticed the male hair was a bright golden blonde, and eyes as like gold as well. Now it made sense why the room felt haunted. Just as she was about to cal the authorities. She yelped at the corner of her eyes. Standing there was the former headmage daughter.

“M-Miss Crowley! W-why are you here?” She asked, as Darling enter the room. She locked the doors behind her. “I just felt something and I guess my hunch is right.” She said. As Felicity immediately started to press the numbers, she felt threaten. After all, it was the girl father she booted out. But she screamed when a pen flew and pierced the phone machine down. Destroying the only thing that could’ve saved the woman. “You’re sooooo nosy, Mrs Rosehearts.” The girl said, as she walked her way to the woman in a very slow manner. Almost like a doll walking her way. The woman fell to the ground, trembling as she shakes in fear.

“Have you heard of a case about a cultist thirty years ago? Mages of Light leader?” The doll like girl said. As the woman nodded. She had heard of the case. The victim was a cultist leader, of the deranged cult of Mages of Light. Where they fight the purest of light magic good. And any of dark magic evil spirited. A blasted lie and tale. However, six months happened and the man was missing. But his body was found in Shaftlands. Hanging from a street lamp….. without his head. The small girl stopped in front of the woman, “that man…. He is the reason I’m still here young at 17 again….. he stole my life. The man I once loved years ago, my friends, my classmates…..” she spoke. Then it blared into a shriek. “HE STOLE MY LIFE!!!” She shouted. Making Felicity panic. “…… and so…. My father hunted him down….. and took his head.” She said. As Darling glared down at the woman. “And now you know….. I’m so sorry…. But I can’t have you going around….” As Darling grabbed the woman hair, the woman was screeching and wailing for someone to help her. While the girl walked to a hidden mirror in the office, she stood the woman tall and made her look at it. “Do you see yourself?”

The woman, sobbing uncontrollably as she nodded. “…… goodbye Mrs. Rosehearts.” Darling replied. Shoving the woman into the mirror. Revealing it like an empty room. A prison. And there was no way out.

- few months -

The school had been reinstated with a new headmage after Mrs. Rosehearts had “vanished” without a trace. And the new headmage was a kind man named Sato Suzuki. He had help NRC flourish back to their kinder spirits, rehired professor Crewel, and returned everything to its true glory. And made the school better. He did felt his office feel haunted. But for some reason. His gut told him to never explore.

Unbeknownst to him, the former headmistress was screaming and wailing in the hidden mirror of the office. As he pass by it, the woman can only sob and beg to be noticed and heard from. After all….

No one shouldve digged too deep

Dire had visited his daughter on campus as a parent, but he looked at Darling. As the two family connect eyes. Dire could only smile and pat his little girl head. “You did good, my little doll.” As Darling smiled “it was the right thing to do, father!” She spoke happily. Dire knew exactly what happened to the former headmistress. And all he could do. Was laugh at the result. “The nosy rose got plucked!” He chuckled. As the two raven fae Beastmen laugh away, while no one knows why. But never question it.

@adrianasunderworld @mangacupcake @writing-heiress @the-weirdos-mind @skboba-stars @nproduction626 @rose-tea-and-strawberries @anxious-twisted-vampire

MARRON WRITES HORROR SHIT LETS GO FEAR ME

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland oc #marron ocs #twst oc #twst #darling crowley #dire crowley #Marron writes #headmistress rosehearts au #headmaster Suzuki au

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ghosts-and-blue-sweaters · 1 year ago

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rain, blood, rivulets, runner, daughter, home, you

Regardless, Wilbur likes to come here a lot. It’s a pretty place, a few minutes walk from Pogtopia; it’s right in the wilderness, no buildings or houses or people around. Just grass, and dirt, and a few tiny flowers, and a lot of trees, and a big blue sky. Well, sometimes blue. Sometimes it’s kinda grey, and cloudy, and other times it cries small cold raindrops that splat into your eyes and make your clothes all damp and uncomfortable.

Wilbur doesn’t care if he gets wet, though. He’ll just come here anyway.

~~~

After several seconds of trying, Wilbur gives up, relaxing once more into this odd state of being. He realizes that his cheek hurts along with his neck, because his face is pressed firmly against this thing. It's probably stopping the blood flow right there.

AND!!!

For a moment, Wilbur's vision goes dark, and it takes several rasping breaths and hard blinks to rid it of black spots. Tommy is bleeding. There's blood on him. His eyes are closed. He's bleeding. He's completely still. He's bleeding. His eyes are closed. He's not moving. There's blood on him. There's blood on Tommy.

~~~

Nothing for rivulets!

~~~

Nothing for runner, either!

~~~

Dang. Nothing for daughter :0

~~~

After a few hours, Niki had stepped back, placed her hands on her hips, and looked around. She quite liked the place, if she was being perfectly honest. It felt cozy, similar to a home. It didn't feel like a company or an enterprise, devoid of emotion. No, it felt real. It felt personal. It felt like hers.

~~~

"You're so dramatic," Phil chokes out, chuckling.

AND!!!

"I'm fine," Wilbur assures, brushing off the hand that Phil didn't even realize had moved towards his son's chest. "I can stand on my own, Phil. You don't have to hold my hand."

~~~

Actually I’m gonna share a whole snippet from a story I genuinely forgot I’d started working on so aksvajdgsksgsh here ya go ⬇️

~~~

"Oh, mate... do you need water?" Phil glances at the table, finding a half-full glass of water just as Wilbur answers, "No."

"Are you hungry?"

Wilbur sighs again. "No. I just- Phil?"

"Yes?" Phil finds himself holding his breath.

Wilbur gazes at him for several seconds, and Phil notes with satisfaction that his eyes are no longer pink. His pupils are the usual rich-brown color that they aught to be.

Wilbur gives a slight shake of his head. "I want to go."

Phil stares. "You- go?"

"I want to get off of this couch. I want to get out of this cabin. I want to go, Phil. I want to-" Wilbur thrusts a hand forward, face twisting. "I want to go far away from this cursed land of snow, and never come back. I want to go outside."

Wilbur ends his rage-filled monologue, staring at his hands laid across his chest. His nostrils flare.

Phil watches him for a moment before dipping his head, beginning to shake with laughter.

Wilbur whips his head around to glare at him. "What?"

"You're so dramatic," Phil chokes out, chuckling.

"Wha- I've been confined in this place for weeks!"

"It's been four days, Wil."

Wilbur's eyes widen. Phil laughs harder.

"Only... only four days?" Wilbur questions, and Phil's laughter starts to subside when he hears how uncertain Wilbur sounds. "It hasn't even been a week? Only four days?"

"Yep." Phil nods. "A fever can really mess with your perception of time, can't it?"

Wilbur nods, at a loss for words. He stares back at his hands.

Phil chews on his lip. "You're feeling better, though. Right?"

"I guess."

Phil reaches forward, resting his palm on Wilbur's head. His son goes very still.

"You don't have a fever anymore. Still a little warm, but you're definitely getting better," Phil says, pulling his hand away. Wilbur relaxes instantly.

Phil feels a stab in his heart.

"Feeling- you said I'm better, right? So I can leave?"

"No."

Wilbur lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whine. "But I'm better! You said so yourself, Phil! I'm doing better, see? Look, I can... I can stay at Tommy's, and he can keep on eye on me! Right?"

"No," Phil repeats, a small smile appearing on his face. "I'm not letting you leave until you've made a full recovery, Wilbur."

"But you said-"

"I said you're getting better. I never said that you were better. You still have a ways to go, mate."

Wilbur groans, letting his head fall onto his pillow in dramatic fashion. He squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't think I can survive like this much longer."

Phil chuckles, but his brow furrows with concern. "You're not going to be like this much longer. A week, at most."

"A week?" Wilbur's eyes snap open, and he cranes his head around to stare at Phil. "No. You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

Phil opens and closes his mouth. "I mean... I'm not. You had a really bad infection, mate. You can't just heal from that overnight."

Wilbur stares for a couple seconds longer before laying his head back on his pillow, gazing up at the ceiling. He looks haunted—no. He looks scared.

Phil sighs. "It'll be okay, Wil. You'll get through this. Alright? Just trust me on that. You'll be fine."

Wilbur tries to hide it, but Phil can see how his breathing picks up; how his chest rises and falls with increasing speed; how his nostrils flare; how his eyebrows knit together in quick, barely perceptible movements.

Wilbur's starting to panic. And Phil doesn't know why. It's not like he's being held hostage or anything; he's just on bedrest. Nothing more. He's not trapped. He's not stuck. He's not-

Oh.

#the first one is from a (rare) sickfic type… thing #I don’t actually know where it’s going to go or how it’ll end BUT it has Techno in it!!#he’s fun to write but also so darn TRICKY man #the next two… well. this story has multiple lines with ‘blood’ lol #it’s a very sad fic #I JUST HAVE A FEW SHORT LINES TO GO UNTIL THE FIRST CHAPTER IS FINISHED #AAAAAAAAAH #Niki-centric fic :D #she’s super fun to write my goodness #SAND DUOOOOOOOO #gosh I forgot about this fic #I think I started writing it in… December or something? perhaps??#and then I completely lost inspiration and ran into a crisis with the plot lol #so I don’t know when the heck that’ll be finished #anyway yeahhh :)#ask #ask game answers #story snippet #my stories #c!philza #wilbur soot #c!wilbur #sand duo #oh and the first snippet is from Tommy’s POV by the way lol #he’s just thinking about Wilbur

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stolensiren · 2 years ago

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famous last words // teddy, emilio, teagan, patricia, macleod, metzli, & cass

TIMING: just before midnight PARTIES: @deathisanartmetzli @eldritchaccident @yourlocalbrawler @teaganmyrick @monstersfear @braindeacl @stolensiren SUMMARY: metzli, macleod, cass, patricia, teagan, teddy, and emilio all prepare to leave town together, but are stalled by the realization that something isn't right. metzli finds a solution, and everyone wishes there were a different one. CONTENT: sibling death, parental death

“It–it didn’t work.” The earth continued to rumble and crack, the lightning of concrete and dirt growing with each thundering pulse of energy from White Crest. Metzli stood there, watching helplessly, unable to coordinate another plan as everyone stood behind them. Cass, Teddy, Emilio, Teagan, Patricia, and Eilidh agreed to ensure the plan worked, to stay just outside the town’s boundaries in case they needed to step in or keep running.

And it was so funny, wasn’t it? Decades of being a strategist, with backup plan after backup plan, and now, when the world was ending—arguably the most important moment in Metzli’s life—they were coming up with nothing. “It was supposed to work! I don’t understand! Twelve sacrifices for each hour. All the books—Leah said—fuck! Fuck!” Abigail and Lil, and all those people had given their lives, believing they were doing the right thing. The very thought made Metzli sink to their knees, their heart aching and wishing for some other way. “All those volunteers…it was supposed to—”

Then, it hit them.

“The thirteenth hour.” Metzli practically whispered to themself, rising to their feet and stumbling as dry earth burst open. The sinkhole was going to reach the city limit if they didn’t act fast. If Metzli didn’t do something. “We forgot about the thirteenth hour. Teagan–you were in it.” She nodded with her brows furrowing together, as if she knew where they were going with their thought. She did. She looked down at Eilidh with a somber expression, not saying a word as Metzli continued. “You and that Sol guy, right? If it exists, it has to be the missing part. We need…” Their eyes fell at the realization they knew no one would want to say aloud. Avoiding everyone’s faces, Metzli continued, preparing for the inevitable rebuttals. Especially on Eilidh’s part. Maybe even more especially on Cass’s. “There has to be one more…sacrifice.” The final word hung heavy in the air, and Metzli didn’t lift their head. Doing so would make them think twice, and there just wasn’t enough time for that.

Eilidh was the first to surge forward, putting together what her partner was really saying. Her nails dug impossibly deep into their skin, drawing blood, and Metzli could’ve sworn they felt them in their heart. The two of them were supposed to have a new start, and they were effectively telling her they never would. Her screams filled their ears, her pleas making it nearly impossible to submit themself to what they needed to do. Whispering sweet nothings in her ears, she clung to them, and they finally rose their head to acknowledge everyone they loved, tears streaming down their fearful expression.

Rhett was dead. The ground was shaking, the world was ending, Rhett was dead, and it felt so much like Etla that Emilio could see Jaime’s body in the street just a few feet away staring at him with unseeing eyes. Nausea tugged at his gut, and it took everything he had just to keep his goddamn lunch down, just to keep himself standing on his own two feet.

And the worst part, he thought, was that it was all for nothing. Rhett stayed behind to play the fucking hero, did the exact goddamn thing he’d forbidden Emilio from doing, and it was all for nothing. Emilio lost the only brother he had left for nothing. The world was still ending. They were still going to die. It might have felt like a relief if he weren’t so goddamn angry about it.

Metzli was speaking then, and it took a moment for Emilio to tune back in to the conversation, took a moment for him to pull himself back into the present and away from the bodies in the street that had rotted away to dust in another country years ago, but when his mind caught up, he understood what they were saying.

Twelve people stayed behind. And there should have been one more.

Immediately, Emilio stepped forward. He locked eyes with Metzli, tilting his head in a silent question. He’d do it, if he had to. He’d be breaking a million promises — to Rhett, to Teddy, to people no longer around to care, but fuck, it’d be worth it. He chose to live. He chose that. Maybe it didn’t matter if he didn’t stick to it. Maybe choosing it once was enough.

The ground trembled beneath her feet, and Cass stumbled in a wild attempt to stay upright. It should have stopped by now, shouldn’t it? All those people who’d stayed behind, all those people who’d given everything to stop it… It should be over by now. The fact that it wasn’t was bound to be a bad sign, and maybe — maybe they all should have known better. Maybe they should have realized that things couldn’t be this simple.

Maybe some things weren’t meant to work out.

Cass’s heart was in her throat, because she didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to fall into a hole in the world where no one would ever find her, didn’t want her life to end when it felt like it had really only just begun. Superheroes died for their causes, sometimes, but in the comics, they always came back after. Death wasn’t so temporary in reality.

But then, Metzli came to a realization that was almost worse, somehow. They spoke, and Cass felt her stomach clench because she knew exactly what they were saying. She stepped towards them a moment after the hunter holding Teddy’s hand did, eyes sliding nervously to the man as she shuffled a little farther away from him and locked her gaze onto Metzli’s.

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Metzli, no. You — You said we were going to leave together. You promised that. Let someone else do it.” She didn’t mean to glance back to the hunter as she said it, but maybe she did anyway. “You get to live now. You get that. Please, Metzli.”

The crumbling canyon before them was a ripping, yawning, hollow thing. Bleakly mirroring the expressions on those who stood around the edge. Teddy heard, yes. Teddy processed the meaning moments after the words came from Metzli’s mouth. His grip on Emilio’s hand and stubborn feet maybe the only thing keeping the hunter from rushing in without even knowing what he was going to even do about it. Teddy was doing it again. Flushed cheeks on a paling face. Slowly becoming about as ghost white as the crackles of energy that seeped up and out of the ground before them. Stuck in his spot. Unable to move. But if it wasn’t fear that was keeping him rooted, what was it? Despair? Rage?

The florist (Well, was it even fair to call him a florist anymore? Twice now his shops had been swallowed completely by something all consuming and unstoppable. At least this time they weren’t alone. Though that thought was far more bitter than it should have been.) echoed the younger girl’s words. “No.” Firm, hurt, but lined with a breathy desperation that threatened to tumble outward should he say anything else. He finally forced himself to look over. Too much distance and too many people he loved stood between him and his appa. Fuck. Teddy was just getting used to that. To family. Each face painted a different portrait of grief. Emilio’s loss of another brother, Cass and the home she’d finally built for herself, Eilidh and the life they were about to create. And Metzli. Something determined and sad behind those eyes. A hungry thing Teddy recognized immediately as resolution.

“There’s gotta– anyone else. Please. There’s so many people out there who could– anyone else.” It was pretty clear. The people there were among the few Teddy Jones would do literally anything for. Except allow them to die. Except allow them to be the final sacrifice in a pyrrhic victory against the town that raised Ted. The town that was set to raze the rest of the planet if someone didn’t intervene. There had to be another way. Anything. Anything would be better than losing a single one of them.

—

Despite the ravenous trembling of the ground beneath her, Patricia’s feet remained planted, looking on at the city that had attempted to make a massacre of its own population. It took her a bit longer than it should’ve to realize what Metzli was implying, what grim resolution to the problem they’d come up with, but it still hurt all the same. They were a close friend, one of the closest besides Teagan, and somebody she thought would become a parent-in-law someday in the future, but like all things, that innocent thought was cut short. Life was unfair, and cruel, but those words were understatements for the irony of Metzli sacrificing themself after already having given so much to the town and its people.

A stunned silence washed over Patricia, the torrent of thoughts in her mind serving to silence the group’s pleading and denial. When she thought of putting herself in their shoes, she knew she couldn’t do it. There was no way she would leave Teagan and Daisy to give her life for the rest of the world. She knew just how selfish that was, but she didn’t allow self-pity to derail her thoughts. If anyone could do this, it was Metzli, that’s just the kind of person they were. They’d give their all until the last drop of blood was spilled.

Rather than a sob or a cry escaping Patricia’s lips as a tear streamed down her cheek, a grim chuckle instead left in its place. The feeling of disbelief fused with the sudden realization that it had to be Metzli, into a feeling of amusement at the irony of the situation. What else was there to do when all others wept for their closest friend? “Always gotta be the damn hero, don’t you Metz? If you’re going to go out, might as well go out swinging.” The world in front of them was emptying out, crumbling into nothing before their very eyes, but with a single realization Metzli proved that they were willing to charge forth into the void with a final defiant gesture. “Make it count, because there won’t be a single person who survives this that won’t miss you every damn day.”

There wasn’t much else to say. The group of people surrounding Teagan had every reason to refute what Metzli was saying, but even with how horrible the answer was, it was the answer. However, she did find herself wanting to fight back with the rest. If not to preserve a kind heart’s beat, then for her mother figure, Macleod. The love of her life was giving everything away, tossing out any possibility of the happy ever after she felt her mother deserved. But then, the love of her life spoke up, speaking in a way that would most certainly get her chastised.

“C-cariad.” Teagan pulled Patricia closer to retreat to the back of the group, her voice still cracking from her time in The Ring’s basement. Her neck still bore the evidence of the horrible conditions she was under, and she was still weak from her time away from Dark Score, but there was an undeniable strength in the way she managed to get Patricia where she wanted. “They might h-hit you. Wanted to protect you.” She whispered hoarsely, confident that Patricia would still hear. “May be best to k-keep quiet for now. People in mourning. Denial.” Teagan looked at Cass then, the biggest and most frequent offender of denial. She did it best, and Teagan has experienced first-hand more than once.

Everyone spoke together, refusing to accept the solution in front of them, just as expected. Metzli’s face contorted into a mixture of grief, frustration, and fear, the knowledge that they were wasting time heavy on their entire body. “Guys—please, can we just—” Then, Patricia, of all people, was tearfully chuckling, and they couldn’t help but scoff in kind. She not only understood what they were saying, but accepted it. There was no way they’d let Emilio give his life, and there was no changing Metzli’s mind, and she knew it.

“No, guys. No.” Metzli propped Eilidh an arm-length away by her shoulder, hoping to help her see that their solution was the correct one. She continued to argue, to kiss them and beg them to let someone else do it, but Metzli simply shook their head. It wasn’t easy on their part, by any means, though it may have looked like it was. They had coordinated so many plans, were looking forward to a life full of love and adventure, and now…there was no chance. All of that was being given up so that everyone they loved could have that instead. It would hurt, it would ache indefinitely. But to Metzli, that fate was far better than having nothing at all.

Looking to the rest of the group, Metzli could see a tsunami of emotions crashing together, further increasing the difficulty of their decision. Eventually though, they found their resolve. “Emilio, you’re not giving your life. You haven’t lived long enough to make that decision so easily. Teddy and Cass, I know this is hard. I know. But who else will it be? Who else has had their chance at life? I’ve lived over a hundred and fifty years. I promised, I know. And you know what?” They chuckled in disbelief, shaking their head. “I did. I worked so hard to get out of here with you all. I kept my promise, and now I’ve gotta make good on my promise to love and protect you.”

“Metzli…” Emilio’s voice was low, quiet. He wanted to argue that they had more to live for than he did, but Teddy’s grip on his hand reminded him that that wasn’t quite true. And there was something unspeakably cruel about that, wasn’t there? The last time Emilio had run from a town as it came to an end, he’d had nothing left to live for and nothing to chase him down and put him out of his misery. This time, he had so much left to do and the world demanding someone stay to pay the toll anyway. Two years ago, this decision would have been a simple one. But now? Now, it was harder than it should have been. Now, it wasn’t him who was making it.

He glanced over at Teddy, the stricken look on his face. He was going to lose something here today, no matter who made this sacrifice. And Emilio hated that. He hated that these were the kinds of choices they were given, hated that this was their lot in life, hated that Metzli was volunteering for this now, just when they were starting to make peace with each other, hated that he knew he was going to let them.

“It doesn’t have to be you,” he said, still low. It was a pointless gesture, both the quiet tones when just about everyone in their group had some kind of enhanced hearing and the offer that Metzli had already turned down once. “Already made it longer than anybody thought I would, you know. Wouldn’t hate it if it ended like this.” They were going to say no — he knew they were going to say no — but Emilio still felt the need to offer. They deserved that much. He got that now.

Frustration built up in Cass throughout it all, through Teddy’s voice echoing her pleas and Patricia’s teary chuckle and Teagan’s sidelong glance in her direction. They were supposed to all get out. They were supposed to all be safe. She was supposed to meet up with Sloane after, they were supposed to all get away together, and it wasn’t —

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. They weren’t supposed to be faced with more impossible choices when the decisions had all already been made. Cass had already lost friends to this crumbling mess of a town, had already lost people before the chaos started thanks in part to the strange ‘warning signs’ the town threw out as it started the too-slow, too-fast process of dying. She wasn’t supposed to lose anyone else. She wasn’t supposed to have to leave her family behind.

Teddy’s boyfriend made an offer, and it took everything Cass had not to beg Metzli to take it, not to say outright that it would be better if they left someone she didn’t care about behind than it would be to leave someone she loved. It was a selfish thing to feel, but she felt it so entirely that it threatened to swallow her whole before the crumbling town could. Growing up the way she had, first in the system and then on the streets, made it so easy to accept that terrible things were bound to happen and to prefer it when they were happening to people you didn’t know. It also made it harder, somehow, when they were happening to the people you loved. There were so few of them. Cass couldn’t afford to lose any more.

“I don’t want that,” she insisted, her voice breaking. “We don’t want that.” She gestured between herself and Teddy, speaking for him without permission because she knew she was right. For all that she’d resented him, she knew that Teddy grew up much in the same way she had. She knew that, like her, he would prefer it if strangers took the fall in place of friends. Teddy didn’t want anyone to die for him any more than Cass did. She was confident in that, at least. “Let it be someone else, Metzli, please. I — I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re my family, the first family I ever had. Please don’t leave me here alone.”

—

There wasn't anything Teddy could say that Cass hadn't already. Though her glances towards Emilio hadn't gone completely unnoticed. It wasn't her fault she never had a chance to really meet him and get to know the side Ted had come to love. But that didn't really stop the sting and feeling of betrayal at the silent suggestion. His heart was pounding. If he had not spent the majority of the last few months learning how to control his shifting, he might have sported a much more toothsome look by now. Instead he looked much like a dog someone left out in the rain. Tearing his eyes between the one who had volunteered themselves, and the man who tried to take their place. Neither would be acceptable. How could they be? Teddy's life had been empty, so fucking empty until these beautiful lights filled it with meaning and worth. He gripped even tighter on Emilio's hand. Maybe even painfully, but not on an intentional scale. He'd probably have done the same to Metzli if he already had a hold on them.

"You– you can't leave us." He repeated numbly, barely audible. "I said I'd go wherever you go, appa. You promised we'd be together." In lieu of a well thought out argument, Teddy began to mumble like a lost toddler. Felt the burn in his legs as he willed them to move but they stayed firmly in place. His stomach churned, and his chest rose and shuddered with his ragged breath. "Why-why-why would it even have to be you? Huh?" He stammered, a rising defensive rage bubbling up out of the demon. "Haven't you given enough? You deserve to make it out with all of us just as much as anyone else, more even. You fought for this appa, you have to come with us s-someone else out there has to-" The tears his wide stare had been holding back finally burst through the dam. Catching his voice behind a curtain of hyperventilation and choked sobs as the realization that there was no way that he was leaving here with his heart intact.

—

Patricia couldn’t think of anything witty or insightful to add to this devastating moment of collective revelation. All she could do was wrap an arm around Teagan, and watch as each member of this group reacted in their own ways. Even if all of them were normal people, intertwined only by common interests and memories, this would still hurt like shit, but they weren’t just that. Everybody here had been affected by Metzli for the better, time and time again. How could anybody ever accept that a world of people they’d never met, of people that would mostly never know them or care about them, should be more important than the one person who was good without expectation? It was a herculean task, and it couldn’t be resolved in the mere minutes that remained before the world ended.

Only an immensely small percentage of the world would know just what had been sacrificed for them, and even less would get to know who was lost for them. It was a devastatingly lonely fate that Patricia wouldn’t wish on nobody, not even those that had taken Teagan from her. There was no point consoling others right now, because not even Patricia could keep it together to do so. There was no staying strong, not anymore. Thoughts were quickly becoming harder to grasp as the knot in her throat felt larger and larger. Patricia leaned over and buried her face in Teagan’s shoulder, quickly dampening the fabric of her shirt with a stream of the tears just as inevitable as the shudder of the earth beneath them.

Teagan’s whole demeanor softened at the emotional outpour around her. She found herself wanting to fight back too, but there was a look in the vampire’s eye that told her everything she needed to know. They were a parent, a lover, a friend, a sibling, and everything in between. Soon, they would be none of those things except in the fleeting memories of everyone surrounding them. Macleod would mourn for the rest of her days, and as Teagan looked back over to her whilst she held Patricia, she held back a sob. The people she loved were always so strong and never let their tears see the light of day. Each a cache of emotions they held tightly shut. Holding tempers that could be akin to a blazing fire. But there they were, extinguishing the flames themselves so as to not leave anything unsaid.

“Shh…” She cooed, bringing Patricia closer. What else could she say? Teagan led the pair to the ground to get a better hold, a better look at the damage Metzli’s decision was making. It was then that she realized just how good of a friend they were to Patricia. She should’ve known. They had played a willing part in her rescue mission, after all. Teagan then cried, too. She held them at arm’s length so she didn’t have to feel the love they so obviously wanted to give, and did anyway, even without her permission. “I’m sorry,” Teagan whispered, looking at Metzli. “I should’ve gotten to know you better.” They shook their head at her, proclaiming her words nonsense and that they wouldn’t change a thing. Sometimes a quiet love is the one that echoes the farthest. Nodding in understanding, Teagan placed a kiss on Patricia’s head and intertwined her fingers with Macleod’s, extending her strength and love to her.

“Come on man,” Metzli shook their head and faced the wreckage that White Crest was becoming. “You’re not getting out of living that easy. You’ve got shit to do. Besides…” Shrugging, they turned to Cass and Teddy for a moment, going back to Emilio to finish their thought. “You need to make sure everyone stays together and gets out. No one else knows how important that is more than you.”

Metzli again turned around, this time facing Eilidh. If it wasn’t ghosts or ghouls, it was the intimate celebrations that brought back the dead, or better yet, kept them alive. Metzli had done just that only weeks ago when they put together a Día de Muertos party. Eilidh did that daily when she saw a butterfly and said hello to her first love. They wondered, for a moment, if she’d do the same when she found a blooming datura. At the thought, Metzli stared into her eyes with a softness that could compete with silk. Their hand grazed the necklace they’d given her and they swallowed a sob so they could replace it with a longing kiss. “I’m so glad you’re the first and only woman I’ve ever loved.” They muttered against her lips, stepping away slowly while holding her hand with a pressure she could feel. Raising it just as slow and biting hard enough to draw her black, clotted blood. She scoffed out a teary chuckle and roughly pulled them to her for another firm kiss. A proper one that ended with their blood in her mouth. “I love you,” They said in unison, in each other’s languages they learned for one another.

Finally, they faced Teddy and Cass, only cupping her cheek. They would’ve cupped Teddy’s too, but sadly, one needs two hands for that, and he was on their left. “Listen guys, I’m not leaving you because I want to. I made a promise to protect you. To love you so unconditionally that I would quite literally put my life on the line for you. Of course you don’t want this, hell, I don’t want this, but it’s the solution we’ve got.” Metzli tightened their eyes shut in a vain attempt to halt the tears that fell anyway, and slowly, they brought Cass and Teddy into the tightest hug. Tight enough to imprint their bodies onto their skin so they’d stay there forever and they never had to forget how beautiful it felt to have love wrap around them. “It’s not about deserve. That went out the window a long time ago. It’s just about love. That’s all this is, and if you remember that, I’ll never leave you. You’ll never be alone. Look around you.” They parted from the hug and gestured to the people that had banded together to leave. “We made a family, Cass. We started it. And then it got bigger.” Teary eyes met with Teddy’s. “So no, you two will never be alone, and you know, you know, I will find a way back. This isn’t the end. It never is in our world. I chose you from the get-go. I chose you when I said we should leave. I’m choosing you now.” With a pause, they let go and stood tall, looking at their car. “We don’t have a lot of time and I need to get something done. Can I do that?”

Teddy’s grip on his hand was almost painful, tight and certain in a way that told the slayer just what the florist thought of his offer. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Metzli had that bound and determined look in their eye, the one that told Emilio that their mind was made up. For all the ups and downs that their strange almost-friendship had been through throughout his year in White Crest, he could certainly recognize that that look meant there was no arguing with the vampire.

Glancing to the rest of the group — to Teddy’s stricken expression, to the heartbroken kid, to Teagan and Patricia on the ground and Macleod murmuring in the language she and Metzli shared — Emilio nodded. “I’ll make sure they get out,” he promised. Metzli was right; out of all of them, Emilio knew best just how important that was. He could save people, this time. It didn’t make up for the ones he couldn’t save before, didn’t undo the shit he’d done, but it was something. It had to be something.

Cass, of course, was far less understanding. She wanted an easier answer, wanted a better ending to this story. She wanted the kind of thing that only ever existed in fairytales, where the people she loved were fine and everyone lived happily ever after. Never mind that that was already out the window now, never mind that people had already died for this town, never mind that it would all be for nothing if one more didn’t join them. All Cass wanted was to get out of here with what was left of her family intact. That was all.

And this world couldn’t even give her that.

Her tears soaked Metzli’s hand as it rested against her face, and she shook her head adamantly. “It isn’t fair.” After everything they’d been through, after all the work they’d put into regaining their soul, how was this how it ended? How was it okay that they were going to die when they’d only just started to live? The two of them had just celebrated Metzli’s birthday, the first time they’d been allowed to do so. It was supposed to be the first of many, was supposed to be the beginning of a new tradition. They were supposed to have decades of movie nights and stupid dinner parties, were supposed to be there for each other until Cass was old and gray. Cass was supposed to have her sibling with her until the day she died.

They should have had sixty more years of laughter and joy and peace. It wasn’t supposed to end in a crumbling town, with tears and dust. It wasn’t supposed to end abruptly and without warning, the way every other attempt at a family Cass had ever made had. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But there was no other way it could be, either.

Metzli wouldn’t let anyone else make this decision in their place, not even if they were volunteering for it. No matter what they thought of themself, they were good. Too good to let anyone else do this in their stead, no matter how much Cass might long for it. Maybe it was always going to end like this after all. Maybe, since the beginning, Metzli doing something this selfless and this wonderful and this heartbreaking was inevitable. Maybe good people didn’t get happy endings.

She whimpered as Metzli spoke, a thousand arguments building up in the back of her mind. But you won’t, she wanted to scream. You won’t be here. You won’t be here, and the town is gone and Levi is going to go back into the sea and Teddy probably doesn’t like me much, anyway, and I can’t go back to being alone when I’ve only just started to be with other people. This can’t be all the time we get. This can’t be all the family I get to have. It was stupid and selfish and childish, but she wanted to stomp her feet and throw her hands up and scream at the sky, wanted to yell at a god she wasn’t even sure she’d ever believed in for making this the hand they were dealt. It isn’t fair. I need you here. I still need you here.

But what good would it do? What good would throwing a fit at the end of the world do for any of them? It would only make Metzli feel worse than they already did and, god, Cass didn’t want their last impression of her to be that. She didn’t want Metzli to feel anything negative towards her at the end, didn’t want to be the inconvenience every one of her short-lived foster families had accused her of being. There was so much here that she didn’t want, and so little time to correct any of it.

There was still too much to say, still too much to do. And the world was still ending. And not one bit of it was fair.

She reached out, clutching Metzli’s hand desperately. “I’m not — I’m not ready,” she said, voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a sob. “I’m not ready to be without you. We just started. This is supposed to be the beginning.”

The messy mix of memories that had firmly rooted Teddy in place began to settle into the corners of his mind, letting him slip into an unkind and uncomfortable sense of morbid pain. He had stopped flicking his gaze between Metzli and Emilio at some point, maybe when the older of the two guided the younger to keep everyone else safe. A firm decision that didn't seem up for debate. No, instead his eyes fell on Cass. Watched every bit of the churning ocean of emotions washed over her features in a way his inability to process the very same ones wouldn't allow. He watched until they were both pulled into a hug so tight his view was obscured, and he could only feel the flushed heat radiating off her skin. Hear her heartbeat banging against its cage in rhythm with his own.

Her words compelled him to do something he never really would have thought of, if not for how Metzli brought them closer together. Funnily enough, their connection to Levi and Marina made them something of siblings, but it might just have been the old vampire who made them family. Teddy gently, far more gently than he had been (and still was) gripping tight to his boyfriend, slipped his hand into Cass's. A wordless promise that if she wanted it, if she allowed it…he would be there for her. They both knew so intimately what it was like to be alone. Maybe it was time they tried to get rid of that feeling together.

Teddy wasn't ready to lose Metzli either. The annoying gnawing voice that always grated at the back of his head reminded him that they hadn't even really known each other that long. That the strange sensation of knowing the vampire all his life had come from a stint of magic that temporarily altered his memories and gave him and Metzli a few days where he got to be a real kid. Their kid. And now… now he was going to be an orphan again. It didn't really matter how old you were, losing that part of yourself… especially after having fought so long to feel it. To really belong to something or someone who chose you because of who you are, not something you did or something you could give. He wasn't ready to lose it all again. It didn't matter what he had with Levi. A thousand years and that would never be this.

A loving embrace, before a calculated release.

A selfless sacrifice that would leave a living scar on everyone here. Teddy wept. Silent and steady. Hot blistery tears streaking down his cheeks with no sign of stopping. His breath stifled any words, as if he could think of any. What the hell was he supposed to say? How do you tell someone that they've become such an ingrained part of you that to pull them away means the very fabric of you begins to unravel? How do you keep standing when the ground below gets ripped away? The closest he could think of was a sobbed, repeated phrase. Over and over.

"Apa, please. I love you."

—

All Teagan could do was watch with eyes so full of mist that everyone was a blur. Looking down at Patricia, it was all she could do to keep herself from falling apart when there were parties clearly more affected than she was. For the time being, she kept quiet, wiping her eyes to see Metzli hurry around the vehicles as the world crumbled around them. Time was ticking, and Teagan could’ve sworn she could hear the clock bell roar, confirming Metzli’s suspicions.

Why did it have to end this way? Life always had a cost, and it looked like there was nothing left to do but pay, and Metzli was holding the lump sum. One so large that it was lodged in their throat while they said their goodbyes, even taking the time to speak to those they barely knew. Teagan appreciated that, looking at Macleod with eyes so full of sorrow, they were dripping down her cheeks. Everything was breaking, and the nix didn’t wield the power to make everything come to a full stop when the collection of all their fears was titanic. But that strange, one-armed vampire did. And they knew it.

“I’m not ready either,” Metzli whispered with a tired smile, pulling Cass into one more tight hug after spending a few minutes rushing to transfer items to the other vehicles and writing letters as fast as they could. They figured their belongings would be better off kept by those they loved than lost beneath the rubble of a lost town, and their family would pass on their goodbyes to everyone they knew. Of that they were sure of.

“And Teddy,” Metzli locked eyes with the one and only son they ever had, wrapping their arms around him and giving into their heart that they opened up so anxiously to the world. “ I love you. I love all of you.” That time, they looked around them, taking the time to share a glance at everyone, disregarding the way their backwards world could they offer their dying breaths and it be called beautiful.

Emilio, the man that hated them without a second thought became one of their greatest allies, and even better friend.

Patricia, a woman who so lost in her failure that she nearly lost sight of what she could have. Now she had everything, and the best was yet to come.

Teagan, a girl who kept everyone at arm’s length, was now using those very limbs to encase people with love.

Cass, once a stranger that prevented them from being their own worst enemy. She shared Metzli’s fear of loneliness and abandonment so intimately that she became tightly entangled in their heart and made a family. Their first.

Teddy, a boy who was never chosen despite holding the biggest heart made of gold that persevered through loneliness, and now, finally, he knew what unconditional love from a parent was.

Eilidh, the first and only woman Metzli ever loved. With her heart as full and lively as every garden she tended, she gave the vampire everything, even if it was to her detriment. She found their heart, but she’d always be their soul. Their death so early on in their relationship was not the ending they wanted, but they handed her the seeds for the future and were giving her a watering can to nurture something into bloom. Each petal would be marked with their love and she would be reminded every day that they would never leave her. With their sacrifice, with their love, they were painting the future in the background with only 30 minutes left.

And yes, they would all grieve. But Metzli found comfort that their deep grief meant that they loved fully. They all opened their hearts despite the inevitable. Metzli had many regrets, but never would they regret the love they gave, or anything they did in the name of it.

With one final round of hugs and a lingering kiss for Eilidh, the ending was cemented. Each rumble and shake grew in strength, leading a flurry of tremors to course through Metzli as their legs settled in the driver side. “Please, take care of each other. Please.” They faced everyone, rolling the window down and shutting the door with their face tear-stained and red. “And Cass?” They chuckled dryly, a glimmer of humor pushing through with a twitchy, quick nod. “Tell amá I love her, okay? And check Macleod’s glove compartment in her trailer. There’s a little present there for you.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if the quakes hadn’t been trembling through the ground, wouldn’t have mattered if the sun was high in the sky or the clouds were all far away. In that moment, no matter what the world actually looked like, all Cass would have seen was darkness. The scene blurred around her as her eyes filled up with tears, and she shook her head again, adamant. It couldn’t end like this. After everything, it couldn’t end like this. They’d made it out. They’d gotten all the way to the edge of town, had plans to go farther, had a future all mapped out and ready to go. They were all supposed to survive this. They were all supposed to be okay.

But the world, Cass had learned long ago, never gave much of a shit about the way things were supposed to be. It didn’t matter that Metzli was going off to stop the apocalypse, didn’t matter that a dozen other people were giving their lives for the same reason. The world was ending anyway. It already had.

Cass clung to Metzli stubbornly as they hugged her, and she wanted to drag the vampire with them, wanted to say fuck the world, let it end, I don’t care even if it wasn’t true. She was too kindhearted to doom the world, even if hers would be so much emptier without Metzli in it. Even if it felt like the apocalypse might as well have been successful in this moment.

She sniffled as Metzli spoke again, nodding her head even as her throat burned, even as her chest ached. Whatever present Metzli had left for her would be far too small to fill the void carved out in her life, but at least she’d have something to hold onto. At least she’d have something tangible to remind her that once, for a moment, someone had loved her like this.

Too soon, the goodbyes were over. There wasn’t enough time in the world to say everything they wanted to say, and there certainly wasn’t enough time now. Metzli had to go, and so did the rest of them. Someone tugged her back towards the cars, Teddy’s boyfriend practically dragging him along, and everything hurt long after Cass was settled into the seat with a seatbelt holding her in place, long after Metzli disappeared in the rear view mirror.

There was a future ahead of them, still. There was a windshield with a whole world contained behind it, a world that would continue to exist because of an infuriatingly selfless vampire who left to save the planet because it needed them to. And Cass had needed them, too. She understood it — of course she did — but she didn’t think the ache would ever really go away. Maybe, if she could ever look to the future in the windshield instead of the crumbling past in the mirror, it would hurt less. Or maybe it never would. Either way, she figured, they had to keep driving. For Metzli. For all of them.

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