#i like posting in the dead of night i can really strain all the thoughts out of my head like penne

[lesbiandarvey]

list of casey mccall love confessions off the top of my head

“you could run for congress and win” (1x05 mary pat shelby) in the sorkinverse, that’s like the highest compliment you can give someone

“they offered me conan’s show.” (1x08 thespis). we’ve covered this he literally turned down a cushy late night show to stay with danny and work together in dallas

not a confession per se but that moment in (1x19 eli’s coming) when he tells dan about isaac having a stroke and it’s bad, he sits on the edge of the stage watching dan do his broadcast, waiting for dan.

“i’m right here.” (from 2x05 shane) when dans still reeling from talking about sam

when he tells dan that it’s actually dans office and that casey’s real office is down the hall (2x21 bells and a siren) he just wants to hang out with this bestie

when he tells dan to go for the job in la, i think casey’s exact quote is “you can do it on your own” (2x21 bells and a siren) meaning the most important thing to both of them—doing a sports broadcast and doing it well—casey trusts dan to do himself. his faith is in dan

and finally the most important one … “i wouldn’t trade the last ten years working with you for anything. not for anything danny i swear to god.” (2x19 april is the cruelest month) <- a love confession btw.

[ridingtorohan]

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Masterlist - Want to Join my Taglist?

Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

[gghostwriter]

Still Alive for My Lover

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: The four times Spencer brushes with death and the fifth time he's reborn to find his way back to you

Warning: angst with happy ending || [Part 2A of Death of a Love Affair; Part 2B is the sad ending]

A/n: I did a poll the other day on if I should post both different part 2s for Death of a Love Affair and posting both won so here is one of the endings--the happy one! I actually scrapped my first happy ending idea for this (I dreamt about this plot just the other night) so like a maniac, I wrote and edited it in one sitting. Also he has been through a lot so I had to choose scenes that I think would affect his psyche. Hope you enjoy!

Part one || Main masterlist || Part 2B

The first time Death came close was during an Anthrax attack

In Spencer’s quest in solving the time sensitive and nation threatening case, he made a series of misjudgments that had led him to being exposed to the chemically engineered Anthrax.

During his months of adjusting back into being single and alone, he poured all that he could to his job. No longer were the cases viewed with a clear objective mind, they all became personal. Case distance from Virginia, where you were, meant nothing. He viewed each killer a threat to your existence. In the most convoluted way, this was him protecting and keeping you safe when he no longer could beside you. 

“Hey, Reid.” Garcia softly said.

“Reid, wow, no, uh—no witty Garcia greeting for me?” Spencer joked to try and lighten the mood.

She shakily exhaled her breath. “I can’t be my sparkly self when you are where you are.” 

“Garcia, do you think you can do something for me?” His voice trailing off at the end.

“Anything.”

“I, uh-I know I can’t call my mom without uh—“ he cleared his throat. “Without alerting everyone at her hospital and I can’t call Y/N since—since it’s protocol and we broke up.”

She paused, nodding her head. “What do you need?”

“I-I need you to record messages for them, in case anything happens to me.”

“Oh, nothing’s going to happen to you,” she tried to be optimistic. “You’re gonna—brilliantly find out who did this and we’re gonna treat this strain.”

He sighed with a slight smile on his face. “I hope you’re right, but if you’re not, I just—I really want to make sure that they hear my voice.” 

“Ok, just give me a second.” The taps from her keyboard echoing in the background.

“Are you ready?” Spencer asked.

“Ready.”

“Hi, Mom. This is Spence. I just, um-I just really want you to know that I love you and—i need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.” His tone fluctuating from holding back tears. “Y/N, I know we broke up months ago but—I need you to know that I love you and that I’m sorry—” A shiver passed through his body, a sign of his fever escalating. “Sorry for pushing you down in my list of priorities—should have done better. I don’t resent you for leaving me and if—if this is my last message, I want you to know you’re one of the last things on my mind, Angel.” 

The thought of you finding out through the news that an FBI agent had died or worse, not finding out at all, sent him into a tailspin. You were a worrier and Spencer didn’t want you to question your judgement of breaking it off with him and drown in the not knowing, what ifs of it all. He wondered where you were at that very moment as he crept closer and closer to Death’s door. Were you wallowing still? Maybe out for brunch with your friends or a date—his breathing stuttered at the thought. He tried and failed to imagine you smiling at a faceless man in front of you, preening under your attention. Who wouldn’t? He shook his head as an effect to bring him back to the present.

The pause made Garcia panic. “Reid?”

“I-I gotta go.” 

Click.

***

The second time was when Maeve died

Spencer thought he was finally going to get it right with Maeve but it was false hope, his speculation far from the truth because Maeve—his second chance in love was dead, killed right before his very eyes. He loved her, truly did even without knowing what she looked like—not in the encompassing way he loved you, no, but Maeve still carved a space in his heart that was one filled by you. She was comfort and a healing balm for the pain of losing you.

He associated navigating life with you as something like entering a luscious forest. With you leading the way though the beautiful greenery and kind animals—a fairytale kind of love. But when you let go of his hand, the forest turned dark and the animals turned into monsters that haunt his every move. Maeve was a cabin in those woods, lighted and warm with a fireplace—a respite for his lost and terrified being. He knew what was out there but housed in her presence, he felt safe and believed himself ready to defend his newfound solace. He was wrong, the security was temporary. His shelter torn down and taken away, leaving him back out in the woods with no light or guiding star to see him through. 

Curling into himself on the floor beside his bed with ‘The Narrative of John Smith’, the copy that Maeve gifted, tucked to his chest, uncaring of the the pathogens that it can carry, a folded piece of paper under the dresser caught his eye. He stretched his hand, feeling the settled dust on its surface scatter, and pulled it into the light. Gingerly, he opened the yellowing sheet and found himself staring at your handwriting—a note that he had never seen before.

He once asked about your penchant for leaving hand written notes for him to find. You shrugged then and nonchalantly called it a treasure hunt for him to partake in. During the times passed, he’d encounter lingering, forgotten notes from you all over his apartment. In his cupboard, pushed in the dark recesses, in his rarely worn patterned coat, and slotted in between the books on his bookshelf. He thought he had found them all but here was one left unread as if it knew when to make its presence known. As if it knew that he needed a sliver of light to guide him home.

Spence,

I’m not sure if we met at the right time, but because we’re both here, let’s do our best and if there does come a time were we must part, know that I love you. I’ll love you enough until we meet again. 

His tears broke free from his battered walls and streamed down his face. He loved Maeve. He was thankful for the peace each phone call had given him and although his memory of each talk may fade into the back of his mind, the relief and emotion she had given him will linger in his chest. He slowly got up from his position and approached his beloved shelf. With one last look at his book, he slotted it within the nook and walked away.

His love for Maeve will always be there but he loved you too and he thinks he always will. And when sadness and grief comes to pull him back under in moments of weakness, he unfolds his talisman—the note—kept near his heart as a reminder. A reminder that he has loved, was loved, and is still loved. 

***

The third time was when he was shot in the neck

Fading in and out. 

In—liquid seeping into his shirt and tie.

You were the only thing he could think of. Not the case, not the team, only you.

Out—sirens blaring in a distant background.

In—Morgan’s voice calling his name.

For the first time in a long time, Spencer was terrified. He was so terrified that death had come to collect his borrowed life without having a chance to right his wrongs. Without any contact and without any way to say how much he has loved you still after all these years and months. He could probably recite how long it had been, if only he wasn’t loopy from the pain. 

Out—muffled voices all around him. 

In—a gentle sway in the ambulance as it rushed to the hospital.

He wanted to tell you how much he’d learned from recalling all his memories with you. How much you had taught him about love—a teaching he could never find in books. How love was selfless and tenacious—just like when you didn’t give up on him early on—when it needed to be. How love is fueled with respect—like how you respected his choices and demands of his career, and how love—true love, knew when it’s time to go. 

Out—streak of bright lights passing him by. 

In—professionals dressed in scrubs and white coats touching him. 

Your face was the only image settling behind his closed eyelids. He tried to remember the crinkle around your eyes when you smile, the scrunch of your nose when you laugh, or the he arch of your brows when you teased him but all were hazy, as if he was staring into a deep depth of water that rippled nonstop. All he could conjure up was your face with tears sliding down to your chin from the hurt he caused. He was deathly afraid that his last memory of you were in pain. 

Out—laying cold on the operating table.

All he could muster to repeat to himself as he faded under local anesthesia was your name. Like it was a mantra, a prayer, and his own personal saving grace. 

In—surrounded by beeping noises and fluffed pillows.

Mind still hazy when he came to, he sent a thank you to the stars. Grateful that Death was unsuccessful and to have been given an opportunity to correct his mistakes. Wishing that somehow, somewhere your paths and his would cross again and he could tell the story of all his adventures and yours, and how he has changed, hoping once again to be worthy of you.

***

The final time was during his stint in prison

He’s changed. In the dark forest you’ve left him behind, the once scared and hunted by monsters had become the hunter. The anger and agitation that simmered near the surface of his every waking moment was something he did not know how to accept. He was worried about the new him and how you’d perceive it. There were no signs of who he was before and during you. If he’d cross paths with you on the street, would you recognize him? He hoped so. Would you still accept him? He needed you to.

Along his long route back to you, he grew thorns and horns. He became decorated with wounds and scars. His talisman—your note—had aged, just like him, and had ripped along the folds. His once brilliant mind—now in a haze from trauma, memorized the words. It was your writing that grounded him while he was stuck in the cell of a mad woman’s making. The slants and loops studied and the grooves and indentations caressed with his calloused, bloody hands. 

He loved you still, very much so, but with his change, it had also mutated. What once was compared to a fairytale kind of love had now been smudged with darkness and desperation.

He felt lethal in his journey back to your embrace. Gone was the boy who felt remorse in shooting an unsub between the brows and replaced with the man who felt no qualms in killing should safety be threatened. He knew he had to talk to someone about the path his thinking had taken but instead, he entered his home with a single-minded purpose, walking straight to your side of the drawer and clutched another memento that will buoy him through the ravaging waters of emotion—your engagement ring. Looping it through a chain that he now wears on his neck and near his heart, a symbolism of his will to see things through, come hell or high water, he’ll crawl home to you.

***

And his second life started when he left the BAU

Spencer wanted to see you. Once inside the building elevator going down, he fought the urge to dial your number—regardless if it was still even yours. He needed to know. To know if you’ve moved on after all those many years apart or lived just like he did—tried but unsuccessful, always comparing and always coming up short. The eyes not as kind as yours, the smile not as radiant, and the heart not as beautiful. Was it awful of him to wish for the former? Yes, yes it was. He knew you deserved happiness and support after all the times he had let you down, knew you deserved a life after him, knew you deserved a happy ending but here he was, hopelessly wishing that your happy ending was still with him. 

He didn’t keep up with your life as much as he wanted to. The wounds of his failure and the battle scars he received along the way were still fresh. He didn’t have the right to know—a self imposed punishment. Although Garcia offered to look into you whenever he would reach rock bottom, and he’s been there a lot, he refused. By returning your ring, the engagement ring hidden underneath his shirt, you’ve taken back his privilege and he respected your decision.

You deserve better than to have him contact you without his life in order. If you’d still have him, you’d get the best of him. And so for the past six months, he focused on himself. He gained his footing in teaching young agents, he worked on his anger and made progress with his therapist, and he got to know who he was again beyond being an FBI agent. And it was as if the stars took notice of the changes and decided to reward him.

It was late into the night when he decided to make a quick grocery trip for some perishables missing in his pantry. This was out of his normal routine and he was forever grateful to the impulsiveness that took over him that night ever since. It was what led him to cross paths with the only person he had once considered home—you.

As he was entering the store, you had come out in all your beauty, struggling with one bag in each hand. Whenever he would recall this story, you’d scoff and tell him that you didn’t feel beautiful then—hair in a sloppy bun, t-shirt all crumpled, and face bare from any makeup. He’d object as no matter what the circumstance, you were always the most beautiful to him. 

He cleared his throat then. “Y/N.”

“Spencer,” you breathed out, surprise painting across your face.

“Do you need help with that?” He asked, voice cracking at the end. He thought he outgrew his shyness, time in prison does that for a person, but here you were reverting him back to how he felt when he first met you. “I’d like to walk you back to your car, if that’s alright,” he added on as he was afraid of your refusal. The parking lot was dimly lit and almost deserted. Years of solving cases has made him hyper vigilante and even if he was technically no longer a fed, his experience stayed the same. He still wanted to make sure you were safe, after all the time away.

You hesitated before nodding once in agreement. 

He smiled, letting go of his breath he didn’t know he was holding, and reached out to take your grocery purchases. “Let me get these for you, lead the way.”

The silence was uncomfortable. Years of being away from each other has made him a stranger to you and you to him.

You crossed yours arms, a sign of defense, before clearing your throat. “How’s the team?”

He pressed his lips into a straight line, not wanting to spill every little change that has happened while you were gone. “Good, good.”

Silence.

“No case tonight?”

“Uh—I only consult now,” he explained. “I went into teaching.”

Your arms dropped, a sign of openness, and you peered at him. “That’s—different. I mean, are you happy about that?”

He laughed and almost felt like preening at the care that you still had for him. “Yeah, it’s nice to have a normal schedule for once.”

“Somehow normal and you being mixed together doesn’t compute in my head,” you teased, swinging your hands in a clear sign of nervousness. He felt good—glad that he still could read your tics. How the slight downturn of your eyebrow meant you’d table the information to ruminate on it later. How the little bounce on your walk, that wasn’t there earlier, meant you were accepting of this situation. And how you slightly shifted closer to him meant you find his presence a protector. 

As he was documenting each non-verbal cues into his memory, the back of your hand brushed with his, sending a jolt of electric charge. It was as if both your bodies needed a physical reminder that the other half is back and nearby. It was as if a defibrillator had charged his black and blue heart to life once again. 

You giggled. “Sorry about that.”

It was a cold night but each laughter wrapped around him like a comforting blanket, warming his weary bones that had been lost in the dark cold woods for so long. “It’s alright,” he stated as he watched you unlock the trunk of your car. 

Loading in your grocery in silence, he shuffled ever so slightly out of the way as you closed the trunk and rocked on your heels.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. It was the only way he could prevent his hands from reaching out and caressing your pink cheeks. He didn’t have the permission to touch you yet—not matter how much he wanted to. So wanted to.

“You look—you look great, by the way,” you stammered out.

“Thanks, you too—look great, I mean,” he stated. He wanted to sing out more praises on how you’d gotten more beautiful, more radiant, and more lovely but he settled on something simple lest he scares you away with the intensity of his feelings. “Do you think could have your number? You know, just in case you’d need help with groceries again.” A feeble excuse.

You smiled. The type of smile that was once reserved for him and he wished for it to still be his. Please don’t say no, please, he realized that if you do, that will be it. That there will no longer be any saving the tragedy between him and you.

As he was starting to slide down the familiar slope of sadness, you nodded. “I never changed it.” You unlocked the driver seat before facing him once again. “Spence—”

He basked in hearing you say his name.

“—I’m different now. So you’ll have to get to know me again.”

“I’m different now, too,” and while you uttered yours as if it was an apology or a forewarning, he uttered his as a promise. A veiled promise that he was now the man that you wanted him to be after all those years.

He reached his hand out. “Hi, I’m Spencer Reid,” he hoped you’d play along.

You laughed, clearly intrigued at changes that had happened to him. Here he was, a germaphobe, reaching for a handshake to a stranger regardless of pathogens. You weren’t really a stranger, not really, but he wanted to write a new beginning. The last time was too tragic and ended with goodbyes. This time, this time, it’ll be perfect, he vowed to himself. A perfect fairytale with a happy ending that he could share with his kids with you one day. 

“Hi, Spencer,” you reached out your hand into his, engulfing yours in his tight grip. “I’m Y/N.”

He watched as you got into the car, fastening your seatbelt and roll down the window. “I’ll call you.”

“Please do, I’ll be waiting,” you whispered out before backing away from the parking lot.

And he did.

And after a few dates, he slid back the ring that once hung around his neck, sitting near his heart, back to where it belonged—back to your fourth finger where the Romans once believed a vein ran directly to the heart. Vena Amoris, the vein of love. Where it will stay forevermore, never allowing time and the outside to separate what once was meant to be. Never allowing ‘him and you’ as separate, there was just ‘them’.

[namikawa]

— [the perfect host]

featuring: s. geto, s. gojo

cw: smut, implied threesome, cunnulingus, implied m/m, phone sex (?), daddy kink (ofc), established relationship (reader & gojo), fingering, fem reader, chubby reader, getting “caught” masturbating, use of the word cunt (sorry lol), aftercare, not proofread fr, anything else i forgot lolz, pet names (mama, baby, pretty, sweetheart, love). wc: n/a.

notes: this is actually a fic my friend wrote (never published) & i re did it with two diff characters & finished it for her cause she never did… so if yall like it GO TO HER BLOG ILL TAG HER. this wasn’t my og idea i just wrote the smut and tweaked & added. but enjoy pls, sorry i haven’t posted in so long life has beat me up. @nvmjccnluv !!!

“so explain to me why i’m watching her again, she seems completely capable of staying in your apartment alone yknow.” suguru questions over the phone. it’s not that he hates you, but what if he was busy? he wasn’t, but gojo didn’t need to know that, he didn’t even ask to be fair. quickly dropping you off after handing the long haired man a small bag of your things.

on the other end of the phone gojo lets out a huff of laughter. “had a few things to finish up, she gets too lonely when i leave her at home so i didn’t want her getting into things. you know how it is.”

“i actually don’t, but okay man.”

“anyway, she doesn’t like many people but she didn’t seem to mind you the last time we hung out, you seemed like a safe option.” gojo continues, sounding a bit strained.

“okay, whatever, fine.”

“where’s she at anyways? if she was with you she would’ve jumped your bones to get to the phone.”

walking toward the the closed door in the hallway, geto chuckles before reassuring his friend. “relax dude, she’s in the room taking a na- holy shit.”

-

“what happened??”

the dark haired man places his ear on the door to make sure he’s not hallucinating, not saying that he’s hoping to be.

muffled moans greet his ears, but not muffled enough evidently. no, you wanted him to hear. he would have to pass by your room anyways, given that you two would be sharing a wall for the night. but him being on the phone with your boyfriend was just a coincidence, an extremely embarrassing one.

he listens to your soft whines and high pitched whimpers for what feels like days, though its hasn’t even been half a minute, paying no mind to the man yelling at him on the phone.

“SUGURU? ANSWER ME! IS SHE OKAY? I SWEAR IF SOMETHING HAPPE-” at this point geto tries to think as hard as possible to come up with a lie that won’t get him killed by his friend.

snapping out of his daze, he finally gets enough courage to respond, “yeah um i’m pretty sure, maybe i’m wrong, i think she’s uh masturbating.”

“oh, oh okay” suguru can basically hear a smirk he knows all to well forming on gojos mouth. “don’t be a rude host, go help her out man.”

what the fuck is he talking about help you out? he can’t be understanding that this is his girlfriend he’s talking about, right? on top of that, shouldn’t he be asking you for consent as well.

“are you insane man? i know you’re into all that weird shit, but her? she’d probably kill me before i even got close to the bed and throw my dead body out of my own apartment.” as nice as it sounds he didn’t know if you’d be okay with any of this. he wasn’t going to just walk straight in, right?

there’s a loud howl that comes directly from the other end of the phone. “are you really being this much of a pussy right now? i’m giving you full permission to go help my girl out, and you wanna whine about how she might kill y-”

“shut the hell up man, i didn’t say anything about being a pussy.”

“alright, then there shouldn’t be an issue with you helping her out. don’t sit up on your high horse and act like you haven’t thought about it before, i know just how those perverted thoughts of yours work, don’t you rememb-”

“okay okay shut up satoru, im going.”

pushing open the door, the first thing geto notices is your hand rubbing lightly between your soft thighs and how your wetness soaks the bed, clear evidence of how needy you were. how long have you been at it?

gojo can hear you so clearly over the phone, he might as well be in the room with you, “shit, is that her pussy i’m hearing? whats it look like?” he questions, but unfortunately for him he receives no answer.

suguru is too busy enjoying the view and listening to the pathetic little sounds coming from your cunt. his sweatpants are slowly starting to fit a little tighter than before, but he doesn’t make any movements yet, just in case you don’t wanna play this little game.

almost immediately your soft eyes flutter open and lock into his, and he swears he just came in his pants.

“sugi, please, it hurts so much,” you whine out to him, desperate for his veiny hands on you. your own hand never seems to falter though, only moving in more erratic circles around your sensitive clit; while your other hand is busy touching your nipples, trying to get the most stimulation possible.

knowing that you were just as needy for him as he was for you made the man’s confidence peak. he gives you a light smile as he walks closer to the bed, softly sitting down next to you. he leans over you a bit, close enough to where you can smell the minty, almost overpowering, scent of his shampoo. half his hair loosely tied up in a bun, the other half falling past his shoulders as he looks down at you.

“something wrong, pretty? those fingers not doing enough for you, right? don’t ‘cha wanna wait for your boyfriend to come back so he can help you out, he’s on the phone you know.”

his soft hands begin to work at your thighs, but it seems like it’ll never be any more than that. continuing for a little longer, he presses the speaker button on his phone, handing it over to you as you pull away from your core.

“can you hear me, sweetheart?” gojo asks, now finally getting some time to speak to you after being ignored for so long. “i gave sugi permission to help you out, okay? does that sound alright to you?” he utilizes the small nickname you’d given his friend, innocently coercing you to be good.

you give a small “mmm” in agreement. then, opening your legs, you grab at suguru’s hand and place it between your thighs, just barely touching your cunt.

gojo continues, smiling to himself on the other side of the device. “‘kay. i’m gonna talk you through it, just so i know you’re treating my girl right. take two of your fingers and stuff it inside of her, she’ll clench up at first but just keep working at it and she’ll open up, okay? maybe if you do good, you can have something too.”

geto lets out an annoyed breath, short, but just long enough for gojo to catch it. he knows what that means. what’s even stopping him from fucking you in first place? it’s not like gojo would know. but as he looks into your pleading eyes he realizes he’d do anything to make sure you’re content and happy.. even if that means listening to satoru’s perverted requests.

his fingers slide down to rub at your clit just a bit, before burying his pointer and ring finger deep into your cunt, you clench so tight around him, it makes him feel like he’s dreaming the way your teeth suck at your bottom lip attempting to hide your whines.

“cmon pretty, open up for me. promise i’ll make you feel good, okay?”

a throaty whimper slides from between your lips as geto’s fingers work you open. “‘s good sugi, please like that more.” you scoot down a little more, chasing his fingers to get even just a little more stimulation.

“next you’re gonna press on her clit, just a little though she’s a sensitive little thing.” gojo groans out, it’s obvious he’s taken a break from his work to focus on… other things.

“yeah yeah, i know how to use my fingers, asshole.” suguru voices, clearly annoyed. although, he still abides by the instructions and moves his thumb to press on your clit just a tiny bit. your back arches away from his fingers almost immediately, like a natural instinct, he grabs your plush hips with his other hand, pulling you back down. “nuh uh, c’mere sweet girl, you wanted my help you’re gonna get it.”

his delicate fingers curve upward into you and you feel as if you’re floating on cloud nine, the way he flicks them at just the right speed while managing to hold you down and deepen his movements. it’s all too much for him you.

the sound of gojo’s voice breaks geto out of his daze, “fuck, i gotta go suguru. i know you’ll take care of her. i’m gonna have to cut this shit short, i’ll try to come back later tonight instead of tomorrow morning. love you guys, love you baby, be good for sugi okay?” geto’s eyes immediately flicker to yours, and you see just a little bit of what you think could be fear, or excitement, in his eyes.

“bye daddy, love you too.” you whine out, hearing a quick click before the call ends.

“daddy?” he questions. “knew he was into some shit, didn’t know you were too, sweet girl. you’re too pretty and innocent, or at least you put up a good act.” his fingers slide out of you as he snickers, not ignoring the way you pout at the loss of stimuli.

“nah, not gonna leave you here all needy don’t worry mama, just gonna do it my way, that sound good to you?” geto grabs you by your hips as you choke out a small “yea”, pushing you closer to the headboard of the bed. he fully removes his hair tie and throws all of it up into a bun, swiftly grabbing your underwear and pulling it off.

you look down at him as he crawls closer to you on his stomach, wrapping his arms around your thighs and closing them around his head. you feel his fingers spread your cunt apart, licking a long stripe onto you. your body tenses up, and on instinct your hand finds its way into suguru’s hair, tugging lightly. his head perks up at you, smiling, but eventually just deciding to leave you be.

his tongue swipes over your clit, taking small breaths occasionally as he tastes your cunt. neither one of you know who this is really for at this point. he’s supposed to be ‘helping you’ but with the tent growing in his sweats he might as well be doing this for his own pleasure instead. you continue to take harsh pulls at his dark strands, so unfamiliar to you. mostly with satoru you opted for scratching at his shoulders or gripping at the sheets due to the length he kept his hair, but this, this was something you could get used to.

“sugi please, m so close, want it so bad, need you to make me cum.” you cry out, loving the way his nose rubs against your clit as he licks.

he doesn’t say anything, he can’t really, but you know he understands. he grips your thighs tighter, licking the same way as before, occasionally sucking at your clit, and before you know it you’re squirming all over his face as that familiar feeling rushes over you.

the only thing that suguru could make out of your cries were “thank you”, “so good”, and “daddy”? he wasn’t sure if you were calling him daddy or if you wanted gojo, but at this point it didn’t really matter to him. he pleased you and that’s all he needed to make him feel better.

as he lifted his head up from your pussy he could already tell how tired you were getting, he immediately grabbed you a change of clothes that gojo had packed and cleaned you up with a wet washcloth. “everything okay, mama? need anything?” your eyes strain open and you smile at the man standing above you, “i’m okay, thank you for your help. will you stay?” you could tell that he genuinely cared for you, and was worried he had done something wrong by the tone in his voice. him staying was more for him rather than yourself, not that you were complaining.

he pulled off his shirt as he crawled into bed next to you. grabbing his phone from the bedside table he saw that gojo had sent him a message.

“i’ll take care of you both when i’m back, cause i’m betting you didn’t take anything for yourself. see you both soon ;)”

suguru chuckled to himself at the message from his friend, looking down at you peacefully sleeping on his chest. maybe he could get used to something like this? but for now, he’s content.

[hegoeshardasfuck]

(help me) you tear down my reason

wordcount: 1.2K

tags: pegging, kinktober, mating press, size queen sasuke, bottom sasuke, top sakura, post-sex cuddling, rough sex, rough kissing

synopsis: it started with one night to humor her, and now he finds himself revelling in being ruined by his wife without fail

authors note: written for day fifteen of kinktober, additional note at the end

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59780842

The first couple times they did this Sasuke was utterly fucking brain dead. Not a single thought could form in his head as Sakura ruined him. He was all drool and orgasms.

Now?

Now he has the gall to goad her on as she fucks him.

Even with an ungodly amount of glass shoved up his ass he still has the guts to stoke the flames of her competitive streak. He's gonna come out of it with a broken hip one day, and he can't wait for the day it happens. Getting to coast around in a wheel chair and having to explain why he broke his hip with faux grimace in his tone will be beyond fun.

Until then he has Sakura pressing him in a mating press that strains his joints. Fuck it hurts so good. Prostate hit every time and he wouldn't be shocked if it's been worn away entirely by the time he dies. Ragged moans shake through him as he tries to keep his breathing even just so he can spit some snappy remark at Sakura.

He opens his mouth to speak and she kisses him silent. Rough and hasty and nothing but teeth and tongue. Shock plays itself clear on his face at the attempt to shut him up, usually she just snaps something back with some form of agitation on her face as he stares up at her. Really, there's something religious about the experience of being railed by your wife as she calls you an idiot.

But fuck, if being kissed into submission isn't just as good he doesn't know what could be.

As fast as she pulls back she grinds back down into him. The hand clawing into his thigh is quick to raise to the plush pillow next to his head. She's breathing heavy again as he smirks up at her.

"God, you're awful."

"You love it."

"You fucking brat."

"So what?"

Sakura doesn't answer, just hoists him up enough to get a better angle.

Sasuke takes it like a champ.

A champ that's moaning and shaking and covered in his own cum, but a champ regardless.

It doesn't take much more for her to push him past the precipice one more time, and that's his limit. He can handle a lot and every night it feels like the point of overstimulation is getting further out of reach. In spite of that, Sakura knows it'll always be worth it to hear Sasuke scream her name and desperately clutch at her side.

She utters minimal praises as he shudders, slowly coming down from his high. With a slow motion she leans back and lets Sasuke rest flat on the bed. He whimpers as the blunt end of the strap slides out of him. She places it off to the side before laying between Sasuke's still bent legs.

With one hand on either knee she relaxes them down from a tensed state. A weary but pleased sigh is elicited with the motion as she rests a head on his thigh.

"You're a size queen, you know that right?" Sakura mused as she swiped cum off of his abdomen.

He shivered at the swift glide of her fingers across his skin, "I am?" His voice is croaky.

"They don't sell anything bigger then what I already have," Sakura said, "You're gonna have to go cold turkey on getting pegged for a while if you want it to leave you in shambles."

Sasuke whimpers a bit at the idea. He didn't mean to. And red hot embarrassment runs through him as he realizes that she's right. He is a fucking size queen, isn't he? A size queen and desperate for bigger no less.

"Hey, I didn't say that they didn't sell it anywhere. I'll just have to go looking." Sakura drums her fingers along his thigh as she speaks, a smooth smirk on her face.

Sasuke won't deny the fact that it's excitement running through him at the notion of something bigger.

Sakura hums quietly at the look on Sasuke's face, "Have you ever considered fucking me?"

Sasuke gave an inquisitive sound, pushing himself up with one arm so he could look at his wife. He cocks his head to the side just a bit.

"I don't know," Sakura mused, trying to recover from a request so bold, "Might be fun."

"You'd let me?" Sasuke asked back against the quiet hum of crickets outside. His voice was nearly lost in the quiet reverberations.

Sakura paused.

"I didn't think you would." Sasuke tacked on the notion in an attempt at saving face. He doubts it actually worked though given the look on Sakura's face.

She just looks sort of shocked, maybe a little bit dumbfounded. He can't quite read her as well as he'd like. It'd be easier if he stuck around more often, but the world doesn't offer him such grace.

"Of course I'd let you," Sakura said, "All you had to do was ask."

"Oh."

Sakura refrains from laughing at the rush of embarrassment on Sasuke's face.

Sasuke drops back down to the mattress below them as Sakura raises herself a little bit higher onto his body. Her arms lay crossed atop the base of his ribs. She looks at him like he's the world even if he feels like he's just a speck of sand in the beach sometimes. She reaches up with one hand to push aside the sheaf of hair covering his other eye.

Mismatched obsidian and purple stare back at perfectly paired emerald. He covers it again, he can control it, but he fears triggering it on accident. The Sharingan he can trust, even after all the strife ruby red eyes have brought him in the past, he can trust he won't misuse it.

"You know, you have gorgeous eyes," Sakura said. She held a gentle smile on her face as she spoke.

Sasuke doesn't think as he responds, "They're not for sale."

Sakura pauses before letting the words register. "I'm not going to take them, I'm just looking."

"Sorry." Sasuke leans his face to the side before nudging aside the hair in his eye. He supposes it'll be okay if it's Sakura, he supposes she's one of the three people he'd trust with both of his eyes uncovered.

"It's fine- you have all rights to still be weirded out about eye things."

"You're my wife, aren't you? I shouldn't be paranoid with you," Sasuke said, the firmness was directed at himself more than anyone else.

"It's alright." Sakura reached for his hand as she spoke. "Really, I don't mind."

"If you say so." Sasuke's dismissive tone is habit more than anything else. He let's Sakura hold his hand, letting his fingers settle between his own and pressing the tips to the back of her hand.

Sakura's elated mood didn't dampen at his tone. There was earnest emotion behind it that she could pick out from between the cracks of his demeanor. It took years of effort to figure out how to do so, but she's pretty sure it's worth it.

"You wanna go wash off? Or does waking up sticky sound good to you?" Sakura asked.

Sasuke groaned. The idea of waking up with a layer of coagulated cum on his skin made him shudder in disgust. He pushes himself up and Sakura rears back. He sighed, "We should both wash up."

"Unlike you I'm perfectly clean," Sakura boldly declared.

Sasuke raised his hand to wipe away the smear of his cum on her chest. It must've clung to her skin when she laid down on him. He raises a brow, "You sure that you're perfectly clean?"

"Almost perfectly clean."

"Let's go wash off."

_______________________________

additional note:

so notes app killed itself and trashed my kinktober prompt list and the fics i had pre-written, send in requests and/or prompts if ya have any because i dont know what im gonna write to recover from this

[chosoniisan]

A risk worth messy reward ↠ kamo choso

↠alternative title: swapping spit with choso, literally

↠pairing: kamo choso | sorceress!reader

↠setting: post canon, not at all compliant

↠genre: nasty, nasty fluff

↠caution: suggestive; height/size difference ("my" choso is over 6ft); unhealthy-ish/complicated relationship; kinda owner/pet dynamics; coercion (?); lots of tongue

↠summary: after yet another rural-steeped mission, your first priority is finding the nearest bed to fall into; conversely, choso has other things on his mind

↠authoress' notes: my initial plan had been to write a hc about the oddities of choso, how he has some bizarre and inexplicable habits, but writing hcs (without plot) isn't my strength, so I opted for what could be considered "snapshots" instead :')

also, the context, setting-wise, for this is that once the dusts settles post canon, the high-ups (the smattering of them still kicking), let choso live conditioned on you acting as his controller at all times, lest you risk ending up on the execution chopping block, too. . .

A ripely full moon, and the air’s refreshed with a slight chill:

by all means the sort of mid-autumn night you’d want to bottle up and take with you.

You might just have to overlook the chunks of entrails sticking to your soles, though. And maybe you can pretend that it’s the crickets droning in the grass and not the crisping of bone dissolving into nothingness. As if on cue, you resist the urge to sigh to keep the tang of death, thoroughly worn over, from invading your lungs any more than it already has.

It’s not quite how you’d envision your evening—but beggars can’t be choosers. And on the bright side, at least you’re fully intact, all your limbs present and accounted for despite enough close calls to last you a lifetime. Sure, you might have said the very same thing last time (i.e. a handful of days ago), and you’ll no doubt mirror that sentiment next time too (i.e. in another day or so), though you take your blessings when you can get them.

Granted, your good luck quickly runs its course since there’s hardly anything fortunate about the strain of curses the far-flung reaches of the countryside seem to breed to no end. Who would have thought that the higher you climbed the rankings the more acquainted you’d become with woodland critters the size of your hand (excluding cursed spirits, mind you). Then there’s the persistent feeling of otherness crawling over you like a second skin the longer those prying eyes rake and rove over you. (If only they knew that a city girl and her dutiful charge were the last bit out of place in these parts.)

“I mean it when I say that you’re a lifesaver, Choso.” Your poignant ring is all the encouragement he needs to scrap making sure that dead is actually dead this time around and squeeze himself back into your sphere again. Crunch, crunch, crunch goes the tall grass giving way to your missing piece because obviously solace by another name is your side. Leave it to him to be over 190 centimeters of delicately endearing. “I wasn’t expecting that other special-grade, but, of course, you’re always covering for me in a pinch—I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

In that moment, you’re the stargazer of him; a face lighting up the pearly night beyond measure. “I’m always following your lead, though. You’re a lot more experienced than me, too, so the best I can do is try to keep up. Because I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” A dash of sheepishness colors the downward wisp of lashes brushing against his cheeks, but that isn’t enough to distract him from the sway of you in his shadow (even if he has to really drop his head to horde that eyeful for himself). “I’m glad we make a good team,” his brief lull is beseeching, the tilted head even more so, “at least I think so.”

For the sake of his tenderly bleeding heart, your nodding doesn’t miss a beat. “Yep, we sure do. . .! And every good team needs some rest, so I should go ahead and text our supervisor and let him know we’re finished up here.” Another thwarted attempt at a sigh, so you settle for a mild quirk of your lips amidst reaching into your pocket for your phone spared from the fray. “We’ll have to stay the night in town, which isn’t ideal, but we can take the first train back home in the morning.”

The faster you can confirm the rendezvous spot, the faster you can sink into a warm bath and then beneath a cozy comforter, so you’re already a few rapid-fire texts deep when Choso pulls on your sleeve.

“Wait. Before that. . .” he begins, slow, measured as if he’s taking the time to taste every word before it leaves his lips. Like that’s not enough to prod at your attention, you’re especially perceptive to rose stain swashed across the expanse of his face, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think him too innocent to sell his soul to the devil for a life of strife alongside you. Though perhaps innocence in its purest state is wetting his hands in blood, bearing your burden of nocturnal calamity with the occasional slip of diffidence. “Can I. . .” Gulping down that lump in his throat. “Can I have my reward now?”

It's your turn to sound things out for good measure.

“Your. . .reward?” (Emphasis on the furrowed brows there.)

He bobs his head once, meanwhile you’re rifling through the pages of your mental archives in search of this reward, whatever it is. A contemplative hum sifts through you at the recollection of saying something in the realm of treating him once this mission wrapped up; admittedly, it was the sort of remark made in passing, but if it’s Choso, you don’t mind staying true to your word. Besides, you have an inkling of what he might have in mind (or you hope you know him well enough to make that guess. . .there’s only one way to find out).

“You’re talking about the souvenirs near the station; I think you were looking at the sweet dumplings, yeah? I don’t know if that shop is open this late, but we can go over and check—”

“No, not that.” Vehemence strums in his tone, so much so that you start a bit, setting off the ripple effect of him offering you a repentant look in return, one that’s still very clearly brimming with fervor. “I did a good job, right? And you promised I could have a reward if I was really good.” As a matter of fact, he’s not wrong, but his moonstruck gaze, expanding, plants an unnamed sensation between the open spaces in your chest. (You’re not daunted by him, it’s just that unpredictability has never been your forte.) “. . .So I was thinking that I wanted you.”

Doesn’t have a chance to click together in your brain until the warmed heart of his palm envelops your entire cheek, and even then you’re still too many steps behind by the time he’s level with you: face-to-face, eye-to-eye, lips. . .dangerously close. Inhaling a mingling of dried copper and powdery musk doesn’t help you figure out what he means by wanting you, having you; rather, with each fanning of his breath over you in crests, you’re gradually unraveling into something entirely unlike you. Something a lot more nerve-ridden.

If you had intended to chime in after scrambling to make sense of the situation (or not), the reality is that you’re simply opening the door for him to carve a place inside you. Literally. Considering it’s not the sound of a mildly articulated concern that echoes in the air, but a muffled squeak when he catches his lips on yours, inviting himself into the niche of your mouth before you can try to recoil. Even when you do think to reel away, his arm is already circled around your waist, seizing you into the bulk of him to the point that you can’t tell where one of you begins and the other ends.

You’ve long given consideration to the fact that Choso’s spent more time sealed than unsealed, that to this very day he’s still working out the kinks of what it means to be mostly human—but this. This goes beyond his idiosyncrasies of not knowing the particulars of kissing. No, this is nothing of a kiss and everything of devouring you whole.

As susceptible as you are, he has no trouble crowding his tongue against yours, which is the difference between tasting him and choking on him. Testing the waters is the last thing on his mind (you suspect it had never been there in the first place) when he’s using the anchor of his hand to steer you right where he wants you, because how else could he map the ridges of your palate without you shrinking like the violet you’re steadily flowering into. Intrusive is him eating away at your lips like a man starved, but it’s also the blooming of heat curled through your insides with a particular penchant for the midst of your tummy.

The compulsion to stagger back is second nature to you, except he’s unnaturally folded into you, so there’s really nowhere for you to skitter off to, especially not with the fixation given to a mesh of sticky pink. And it feels foreign, sinfully so, as he overwhelms you with broad, saliva-rife sweeps of his tongue, undeterred by your stagnate self, too paralyzed by the knotting in your core, the blistering up of sweat at your temples, and the uncut wildness—or is that obsession?—of him before your very eyes. Either way, it’s just the push needed to send you over the edge of quiet bleating. . .that finds its premature end swallowed into him for safekeeping at the bottom of his stomach, just like every other morsel of you.

Heady appreciation is quick to follow on your heels by way of a long-winded moan from him, to you by virtue of his snare. The stammering in your chest is the clear mark of being caught off guard, and Choso in all his fevered glory capitalizes on your lapse of self to plunge his tongue as deeply as it’ll reach. Nevermind the fact that there’s no stifling the stuttered heave around him or the full-bodied quaking against him, either, he’s still singularly focused on partaking in the mess of you. Willingly or not, you can’t help but indulge him when you’re varying shades of fluster, and it’s the gilt reflection of your disarray that has you clamping your eyes shut. Too bad for you, darkness doesn’t temper the dizzying sensation clambering through your veins that’s becoming more, and more, and more intertwined with him.

(You don’t know how much longer you can weather the storm of him, or if you’ll even be able to mend what he’s already bitten through, and maybe it would have been preferrable if he had taken your skin & tissue with him. He took something far more softly perverse.)  

Though in the end, it’s of his accord, only, that he spares you of the kind of smothering that’ll have you icesheet cold against him in no time flat. And you use spare loosely because he simply moves to sucking and nibbling on your bottom lip as if parting from you means imminent death. If he’d give you a chance, you could assure him that his fears of relenting are unwarranted, but in the thick of hungry fascination, he’d rather stripe his tongue along the corner of your mouth to gather up a stray bead of slick. Whether yours or his, you don’t know—you do know that when he’s done, it’s every bit of his tacky memento etched on your skin.

His gift to you for letting him have one of your deepest intimacies.

As expected, he doesn’t keen over from unlacing himself from you—truthfully, his hand is still palming at your cheek, so it’s not a full untethering—though you’re certainly not boasting a modicum of stability yourself. If that unyielding hold around your middle is anything to go on, you suspect that he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest; you might even say that he’s savoring in the ruby-rich reliance of his handler.

“Uhm,” Reticence returns with a vengeance despite having just rooted through you mere moments ago; the moonlight glancing off traces smeared across his lips a testament to that. “. . .Do you we could see about those dumplings now?”

And of course you’ll oblige him—even knowing you’re complicit in preserving his devotion.

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

Post-Mortem

Summary: Spencer wants to get back with Reader a month after their breakup, and it doesn't go the way he planned.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Angst

Content warning: Breakup, recovering from heartbreak, rejection, sad ending

Word count: 1.3k

Spencer Reid broke my heart, plain and simple. Eight months of wonder and joy were destroyed at one dinner. A romantic one, just to twist the knife more. I was sure we would’ve been together longer, which is why it felt like the world caved in when he ended it. I never felt so broken. At that moment, I could say it was the dinner to end all dinners. Because I told Spencer I never wanted to see him again.

So you can imagine his surprise (and mine) when I agreed to meet him for a coffee a month later. I took deep breaths in the car because, like the breakup, this location was just as methodical. The spot where we first met in our respective rushes to work, he decided would be the last. When opening the shop door and hearing the familiar bell ding, it's like a neck-breaking transport. And when I spot Spencer at a table, with two cups and a pastry wrapped in front of him, the reminder to breathe comes back. 

One of the most painful things about heartbreak is that it doesn’t rip up memories like your body. They’re as clear as ever when Spencer stands from his seat while we lock eyes. The chair legs scooting across the floor were as loud as it was when we came here for quick breakfasts. Quick breakfasts were never my choice, but duty calling never involves convenience. A call from Spencer’s phone was equivalent to a brace for impact. The anxiety of waiting for the pleasantries to inevitably end was as real as the others in the shop turning their heads at the sound of Spencer’s chair. Brief and dreadful.

Nevertheless, I walked forward, keeping eye contact and an optimistic look. “Hey,” I said.

“Hi.” His hand pops up to wave as his lips thin out in his classic unrelaxed half-smile. “How are you?”

I sit. “Alright.” I can lie if I try hard enough. That’s one perk of dating a profiler. “You?”

“Good.” He nods while shifting in his seat. “Yeah, good.”

“You look exhausted.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Did you just get back from a case?”

“Yeah, last night. Los Angeles.” He rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept. “I got you an iced vanilla latte.” He points to the cup, condensation already layering the outside of it.

I take a sip. It’s watered-down but sweet. “Thanks.”

He then slides the mystery pastry toward me. “And a scone.”

This will be a long sit-down. He wants it to be. I can smell the scone. Nostalgia hits hard and doesn’t apologize. “Chocolate Chunk,” I say. It’s what I ordered the first time. He and his damned eidetic memory remember how I entertain desserts whenever I eat somewhere. And I remember our last dinner, how he ended it before they even had a chance to offer the selections. I didn’t touch it. Instead, I leaned in my chair. I thought I should kick back. “Why’d you call me here, Spencer?”

He looked around the room as if others wanted to listen in on this riveting conversation. He takes his coffee and slowly sips, putting it down. “One of the victims, her girlfriend… or ex-girlfriend was devastated during our interview. They had been on a break and she —”

“Regretted the way things ended, and now that she’s dead she can’t say sorry.” I’ll admit I didn’t care for my monotone voice, but he’s told me similar stories and a range of others that cut him deep. And I listened and held him then.

Then is, unfortunately, not now.

Spencer’s eyes darted from the cup to the scone, to me, back to the scone, then to me again. “I really am sorry.” His voice is strained.

I gripped my sweater sleeves under the table, like how the dinner ended. Except I stood up from the table with my fists deep in the soft linen covering it. The anger boiling inside fueled my force as I walked out of the restaurant. It was literally a raging spectacle, despite the deafening sound of my heart cracking in my ears.

The anger had long subsided. “I know.”

His eyebrows raised, likely expecting a more spit-in-your-face response. “You do?”

“The phone calls made it easy to assume.” That doesn’t mean I answered. He called once a week, but picking up the phone any earlier than yesterday would’ve led to undignified sniffles, giving me away instantly. My broken heart has calcified significantly in record time.

Spencer nodded. “I know I hurt you, and I hope you can forgive me someday.” For a minute, I wondered if this was the workings of a genius or a psychopath (he hangs around enough of both). Because despite the cruelty of such a planned-out ending, I somehow felt sorry for him. And I hate to admit there’s a small part of me that wants to crumble to his side.

“It’ll be okay,” I told him. “Water’s making its way under the bridge.” Time was all I needed.

Quiet takes over for a brief moment between us, and even though we’ve been apart for a month, it doesn’t take away the other eight. Spencer’s eyes, puppy-like in shape and oaky in color, are as obvious as the rest of his behavior.

“That isn’t why you wanted me here. Isn't it?"

He licks his lips and shakes his head. “I was hoping… in due time, of course, we could try again.”

The sigh that came out of me was involuntary. I wouldn’t have held back my response even a week ago, and he was lucky about that. “Spencer, I’m sorry. It may not feel like it now, but I think, in retrospect, you made a wise choice.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Nothing has changed. You were just in Los Angeles.”

“But I could try harder. Like you wanted." He swallows again. “I miss you.”

Damn, that was all I thought.

“Well,” I cleared my throat. It didn’t help. “Maybe… maybe we can be friends someday. But for now, I hate to say this,” I do. “But it might be a smart idea to keep our separate ways for a while.”

The best thing I could do is avoid diving headfirst into my true feelings. To expect things to suddenly change just because he wants to return. It's vulnerability and blissful ignorance I can’t afford. Calcified is an accurate way to describe my current state, but fragility is still there. I’ve managed to get to bed without crying for a week, but the sucker punch of memories, the freshness is very prevalent. I can still pretend here.

Spencer though, no matter how hard he tries, is not a stoic person. It’s not in him. If he’s angry, it comes out in passive-aggressive remarks or emotional outbursts containing at most a single swear word. And when sadness comes, tears are sure to follow.

I see one fall, and I try to avoid erosion as he wipes the trail off his cheek. “I understand.” He doesn’t look up.

“I’m sorry. I really am.” That's all I can say. Having the tables turned is painful.

“I don’t blame you. I handled it terribly.”

I said nothing.

“And if I could, I’d —”

His phone vibrated. Brace.

“Duty calls,” I say with a lilt, and he isn't amused. I take another sip of my coffee before I scoot my chair back.  I push the scone toward him, but he stops me halfway. We don’t flinch at the contact, fingers nearly laced.

“It’s yours. You take it.” He pushed.

“I think you need it more." I push.

“Please.” He adds force.

I let go, leaving his hand alone on the wooden surface. I try to concoct a smile. “Take care of yourself, Spencer.” I stand up from my chair and turn to head toward the exit. The ding of the bell comes and goes, and the sun splashes my face with warmth. Tears collect and cool my cheeks as I walk to the car, but I let them.

[bloodlessbelmounte]

As Cold As Death (Part 1)

Part 1|2|3|

Summary:

You've had always lived what felt like a half-life, died more times than you could count. Astarion was a vampire spawn who had been "living" in the shadow of his master. But things change for the both of you when you're abducted by Mindflayers and implanted with tadpoles. With a Cleric of Shar; a Githyanki Warrior; an Escaped Solider for Zariel; the Blade of Frontiers; a Former Chosen of Mystra; the Corpse of a Scribe and the Pale Elf, you venture forth towards Baldur's Gate in the hopes of finding a cure. Where the shadow over Astarion is darkest and the Dead Three 's chosen lurk along the way.

Genre: Romance, Slowburn

Pairing: Astarion/Necromancer GN!Reader (Tav)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, blood drinking, manipulation. More to be added as the fic goes on. Please let me know if there's any I missed.

Word Count: 4.9k

Note: This has been cross-posted to AO3 and can be seen as a prequel to 'Predators and Prey'. No beta, we die like bing bong.

It had been a long and arduous day of exploring and bloody battle. Your grim harvest had done little to assuage the pain emanating from your strained heart. Of all the people to get infected with one of those gods damned parasites it just had to be you. Though at least you weren't alone in this - you had formed a little group with others in your predicament just a few days ago.

You were a ragtag group, some of these people you wouldn't have found yourself associating with if the circumstances weren't so dire. This included the pale elf in your group. Your magic thrummed in his presence, he was of the dead. A vampire. Though he was trying oh so hard to hide that, just not well. The fact that you could clearly see the bite mark on his neck really showed how half-arsed his attempts were. However, you figured that not having a reflection made it hard to know he had successfully covered them.

In fact, when you had awoken in the night to his attempt to feed on you, you just laughed.

“You won't get much from me if you're peckish. I'm not that nutritional and my circulation is horrid at best.” You lounged back on your elbows, peering up at him.

He stood there, arms crossed in dissatisfaction, “What? No shock? No horror? That would at least be some fun to see.”

“You thought you had fooled a necromancer? 'Star, you radiate undeath. You're paler than me and my pallor has been called deathly – not a perk of my school by the way.”

“Hmmm, you did strike me as rather sickly looking.”

“And so you thought I'd make a good snack?” You raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Look, I'm feeling weak, anyone would do.”

“Your words wound me.” You feigned insult, putting your hand over your heart.

“…You're vexing.”

You took a moment to contemplate the pros and cons of letting him feed from you. The other party members were likely to react negatively to his vampirism and you'd rather not risk him being staked or incinerated. That man's face flashed through your mind unwarranted and gave you the last push you needed.

You huffed a sigh, “If you're truly that weak, I guess I can oblige you. But don't take too much.”

He startled, “Really? I – Of course. Not one drop more. Shall we get comfortable?”

You laid back on your bedroll with a sense of trepidation pooling in your stomach but watched silently as the elf dropped to his knees. He cradled you in his hands and for a moment you wondered if others found his touch to be cold like yours. The thought was interrupted by the sting of his fangs piercing the delicate skin of your neck, like shards of ice. However, after a few moments passed, the familiar feeling of your life being drained away crept in.

You felt it in your fingers first, as your body started prioritising your vital organs over your extremities – the numbness slithering down from the tips of your fingers into your elbows as you fist his shirt, trying to hold on to consciousness. Next, it was your feet. They began to feel like solid ice blocks, you couldn't even wiggle your toes. Your heart began to struggle as your blood pressure dropped, if it weren't for his cradling you, your head would surely be lulling.

“A-Asta…rion. S-stop. That's… enough.” You tugged at his shirt.

By the grace of the gods, he had heard you, quickly releasing you from his maw. You were surprised to see his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen.

“Shit, shit, shit. You're going blue! You-”

His voice was lost to you as the all too familiar sensation of death's grip took you. Your face scrunched up in agony until suddenly, pleasantly, you were embraced by nothingness.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You awoke with a gasp, your heart stuttering back to life. Gods you hated when that happened. How long were you gone for this time? Your eyes flickered open and you were greeted by the sight of Astarion pacing back and forth. He was mumbling to himself but you couldn't make out what he was saying. You rolled to your side with a groan and he finally looked at you.

“You're alive! But you died! Your heart stopped-”

“Shhh. Wake up the whole camp why don't you?” You shakily pushed yourself up into a sitting position. “Not like this is my first dance with death. Lucky for me it's always cut short.” You laughed dryly.

Astarion's brows pinched together as he joined you on the forest floor, “Here I was weighing up the pros and cons of paying that skeleton to revive you, only to find out I wasn't even your first. Is that why he knew you? Dying a common occurrence for you?”

“More than I'd care to admit. My first death was when I was just a babe. Just dropped dead right in front of my mother. I don't remember it but she certainly does. I've been taken to see numerous clerics and healers, all of whom have been stumped. My affliction is no curse, nor is it ill health. It is simply a part of my being. Like my connection to life is weak but strong enough to keep me out of death's embrace permanently. As for Withers, I don't remember meeting the undead scribe prior to our encounter in the crypt.”

Your brows furrowed as you puzzled over the cryptic nature of the now-resident corpse. He was all riddles. There was a moment of silence as Astarion seemed to contemplate his words, “Dying is a wretched experience. I would pay any cost not to go through it again. You and I… we're more alike than I thought.”

“Tell me about it. All my life I have been compared to vampires. From my pale complexion, my sensitivity to sunlight and a touch my mother said was as cold as death. Only difference between us is that I can't drink blood for nutrients and mirrors are almost useless for you.”

Another moment of silence and then Astarion was up and riffling through the camp supplies, producing a bottle of wine you had recently found. He then grabbed two goblets from his tent.

“I propose a drink to our newly realised mutual understanding and perhaps, an arrangement?”

He poured a glass and offered it to you.

“What would this arrangement be exactly?” You asked before taking a sip.

Astarion swirled the vintage in his goblet, "Let me feed from you, I won't take much, just enough to give me the energy to find something more… filling. In return, perhaps I can help that pretty little heart of yours keep beating. To be honest, you're useful to me and I need you alive. If you need me to shepherd enemies closer to you so you can sap their life force to fuel your own, who am I to judge?"

You took a moment to consider it, "Well, in that case, feel free to sink your teeth into those we battle."

"I like how you think, after all, they're just as dead." He gave you a charming smile, a flash of fang, before downing his drink, "Now forgive me, as invigorating as you were, I need something more satisfying and you could use the beauty sleep, you look paler than my arm." With that, Astarion stood back up and started stalking towards the forest but he paused and looked over his shoulder at you, "This is a gift you know, I won't forget it."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, the rest of your adventuring party were quick to cotton onto the truth of Astarion's nature, probably something to do with the fresh puncture wounds on your neck and the scars on his that mirrored them. Vague threats were made towards him but you were quick to reassure them that it was a) consensual and b) he wouldn't be seeking out any of their necks. You were a tad surprised to see Astarion grab a portion of the morning meal when he didn't need to eat or keep pretending.

You were even more surprised when he unceremoniously handed it to you with a playful jab of: "We need to get you healthier if you're going to be making oh-so-generous donations to myself. You're eating for two now, pup."

"When can I next expect you to come for a nibble?"

"My sweet, there is nothing I'd like more." He placed his hand over his breast in a little half bow, "I'll come to you tonight, when you're snugly wrapped in your bedroll and we can have a little privacy. And this time I'll make sure I'm quiet - we don't want to disturb your rest. You need it more than I do after all. Later on, when we are settled for the day, I'll eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more. But, of course, I'll keep your delicate constitution in mind."

You couldn't hold his gaze, unused to such flippant flirtation, so you just shovelled down what you were sure was a lovely breakfast if you weren't too distracted to taste it.

It continued with every meal for the following days, you felt so full, fit to burst. Astarion did visit you most nights. Sometimes you slept blissfully unaware, and on others where sleep could not find you, you had idle conversation in the lead-up to his meal. You were surprised by his confession that you were his first thinking being. The way he talked to Shadowheart about sweet vs savoury hearts and his comment on liking spicy food when Lae'zel threatened him had you thinking he had been feeding like this since the start of his undeath. You felt oddly flattered, almost like it was a privilege to have been the camp member randomly chosen for his first proper taste of living.

As promised, Astarion found ways to lead foes into range of your spells so your grim harvest could be reaped. If there was still life in them afterwards, he always took the opportunity to have a bite to eat. You made quite the duo while the others could focus on the heavy hitters that you did not have the strength to face. This was an especially useful tactic when clearing out the goblin camp. Because although there was the option just to quietly take out their leaders, you hadn't the patience for sneaking about or scheming to get them alone. However, Halsin's complaining when you wanted to go to camp to rest up was getting on your last nerve. You had been up for days with no reprieve. You had run out of spell slots so you could reap no more souls to fuel you. It was all too stressful and you could tell that if you didn't rest soon, everyone would get to witness your lifeless corpse briefly. Frankly, it had upset you that it even happened in front of Astarion. Eventually, you put your foot down and hurried to your tent to rest in privacy.

It wasn't long before that privacy was interrupted. You heard Astarion clear his throat.

"Enter," you called weakly. Gods you hated feeling like this. It took all your energy just to sit up.

He was frowning as he pushed aside the tent curtain and stepped in, "Your heart, I can hear its stuttering. Is there anything that can be done to… steady it?"

You laughed dryly, "If there was anything I could do, I would be doing it right now. I just need rest, so please let me."

He didn't leave, instead, he sat himself down beside you, "Perhaps some food might help? Gale is making a stew. He seemed rather concerned, said you're paler than usual. Which is true, though you're not quite blue in the lips like last time. Shadowheart wanted to check you over for any wounds but I assured her I couldn't smell any bleeding."

You were touched that your party members showed you such concern, you actually managed to smile. It had been years since you felt so cared for.

"Stew does sound nice but sadly I don't have much of an appetite at this time. So no extra portion."

Astarion stood back up and seemed to hesitate for a moment, "Would you like me to inform them of your condition? It might help if you had extra eyes on you."

"I don't want to be a distraction. Just… just tell them I have a weak constitution. That should do."

He nodded his understanding then ducked out. You led back down and strained to hear what was going on outside.

"So? How are they? What's going on?" That was Karlach, there was genuine worry in her voice.

"Tav is fine. They just need rest and a good meal. Apparently, they've been frail since birth."

There was a disgruntled huff, "And you've known this the whole time. Is that why you've been hovering around them like a gnat?" Gale said accusatorially. You could imagine him possibly poking the vampire in the shoulder.

"That's true. I found out rather accidentally and they chose to confide in me. They didn't tell you because they thought you would've forgotten our mission and fawned over them like they were a sickly child." He was agitated.

"My my, I didn't take you for the doting type Astarion. Colour me surprised, you actually care about the well-being of your personal blood bank." You couldn't tell if Shadowheart was joking or not.

"Look as much I love idle chit-chat and gossip, Tav would really like a bowl of stew and that's what I came to get. So I'll just say this, when they've recovered from this little episode, do not crowd them. Stress sets it off."

There was silence and shuffling after that. It wasn't long before Astarion returned with a steaming bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. You tried to sit up again but your arms gave out causing you to fall back with a thud and a groan. Astarion sighed, set the stew down beside you and did something you had not expected.

He slid behind you and lifted you to rest against his chest. It felt oddly… intimate. Sure you had sat in a similar position when he fed while you were awake - but there was an understanding that the closeness was necessary. Was this necessary?

"Please tell me I don't have to feed you." He huffed.

You took a second to collect yourself and tried to will away what little heat filled your cheeks, "N-no I can do it. But uh… you didn't have to do all this. Thank you."

"I'm just simply keeping up my end of our little arrangement."

"Even though I won't be able to hold up my end until I'm stable?"

"The way I see it, the sooner you're back on your feet, the sooner we can carry on as normal." He placed the bowl on your lap and passed you the spoon. "Now eat up."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You got about halfway through your meal before you found yourself drifting off into an oddly peaceful slumber, slumped against the vampire. When you awoke the next morning he was no longer in your tent. You donned your robes and joined the others outside. You sat by the fire and Wyll passed you a portion of porridge.

"How are you feeling? Fighting fit I hope."

You gave him a smile, "I'm feeling right as rain today."

Lae'zel made a noise across from you, "If you are so weak that you are useless to us, it would be easier if I put you out of your misery."

Shadowheart glared at her, "Ignore the gith. We'd all be scattered to the winds trying to solve this by ourselves if it weren't for you. Now that we're all aware of your… limitations we can plan accordingly."

"I agree, perhaps Wyll and I can stay beside you while the others take the battle to our foes," Gale suggested, settling beside you.

You started zoning out as everyone except Astarion talked battle tactics. No, you had focused on him, he was standing off to the side staring at you intently. You could almost see cogs turning in his head. You were snapped out of your daze when he finally spoke.

"By all means, keep the ilk away from our precious leader, just don't get in my way. I have no plans to change how I've been operating because it'd been working just fine until we rescued that pesky bear."

It wasn't long before you all set out again. You came across a priest of Loviatar called Abdirak. He had implored you to go through some sort of ritual pertaining to his goddess of pain and at Astarion's behest you acquiesced. Karlach voiced her disapproval, pointing out that you had only just recovered. Normally you'd try to avoid unnecessary pain but if there was a blessing to be had, you figured you could put on a show. And that you did, you made no effort to hold back your cries of pain as that maniac let loose with a gods damned mace. If you were being honest with yourself, you had been expecting a whip. You couldn't focus on the chatter behind you as the others commentated but you did hear amusement in Astarion and Shadowheart's voices. Needless to say, you promptly downed a couple of health potions after you received the blessing.

You cleared through another room of goblins, dispatching Priestess Gut in the process and taking her worm to shove in your pack. You hadn't quite made up your mind on if you should take the dream visitor's advice. The last thing you wanted to do was put your trust in them and end up a mind flayer faster. As the others looked through the possessions of the dead for anything useful, Astarion took you to one side.

"Darling, I was just thinking about you. Remembering our time together, the things we've shared - and I don't just mean that lovely neck of yours." He chuckled then glanced away briefly only to start fiddling with his fingers when he looked back to you, "I'm growing to like the whole package honestly. And you clearly like me too, so…"

You raised a brow and crossed your arms, "So…?"

"Come now, don't be coy. Your body's already given you away. I could feel it when I was getting lost in your neck." His fingers brushed just millimetres away from your throat, "Your little shivers of excitement. And that delicate blush you had just last night when I held you close. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

He had crowded your space and you had to break eye contact so that the blush he was on about wouldn't return. Since when did you become so easily flustered? When did he start having this effect on you? You guessed you had always found him to be handsome but it shouldn't bring such a reaction from yourself.

"I'll never tell."

He gently grasped your chin and tilted your face to look at him, he was smirking like a cat who caught the canary, "You don't have to say a thing - I already know how you feel. Because I feel it too." His voice lowered and his thumb brushed along your bottom lip, smearing blood across it, "We could take an evening to ourselves. Get away from camp - get some privacy. I know somewhere quiet. Somewhere intimate. Somewhere we can…" He got impossibly closer, drawing you in with a hand on your hip, all you'd have to do is lean forward ever so slightly to close the distance, "indulge in each other. Feel alive together."

"A less trusting person might think this all sounds very suspicious," Dammit all! That came out sounding breathier than it had any right to!

Astarion gave a quiet laugh and stepped back, "Thank goodness we're all such good, trusting friends, then." He placed a hand over his heart, "On my honour, the only thing on my mind is depraved, carnal lust."

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, "Th-that sounds pretty good to me."

He gave you a toothy grin, "Wonderful. I just hope we don't have to wait too long to steal away. But once we can, I promise you a night you'll never forget. See you there, lover." He gave you a wink and promptly joined the others, making over-the-top pleased sounds when he found a golden goblet.

You leaned back against a wall, hand over your chest as you felt your heart thud and pause, literally skipping a beat. This man had already been the death of you once, and he might just be again if the last of the goblins weren't. Shadowheart noticed you in the corner and came over.

"We can take a short rest if you need it. We'll understand. Lae'zel can complain all she wants. I'd be more than happy to gag her for you."

You shot her a small grin, "I'd appreciate that. Now that the druid has been rescued and fucked off back to his bloody Grove, we can take this at our own pace."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You couldn't steal away that night, far too tired from Volo's botched attempt at removing the tadpole and slaughtering the last of goblins in the camp as none seemed to have the sense just to run the fuck away. Sleep took you as soon as you settled for the night but your dream was unusual. The visitor returned and yet again urged you to utilise the tadpoles you had collected from the slain goblin leaders. However, this being had claimed to be stopping the ceramorphosis from progressing as it should. So you were perplexed as to why they would want you to consume more. You awoke, confused and uneasy. A feeling which was compounded when the others came to you, describing a similar experience.

Astarion sat next to you, wordlessly passing you the hearty celebratory breakfast Gale had cooked up. You accepted it with a smile. You could feel the tension that had built between you from his proposition, you had always been a little awkward about… sexual encounters. Not many people want to be bedfellows with a necromancer and thus although you had experience, it wasn't much or recent. So you didn't really know how to talk to someone about it. Astarion, however, didn't suffer from the same anxieties as you.

"I think we should take the day to recouperate, especially with Volo unfortunately mutilating one of your lovely eyes. Though the replacement he supplied has its perks, I imagine that kind of… trauma needs some time to recover from. Perhaps we could visit that Ethel in her cottage. The teiflings aren't in any immediate danger, the Rite of Thorns will have been stopped by that bear of an elf Halsin." He tapped his finger on his chin, pantomiming being in thought, "Now, providing that the 'Dream Visitor' doesn't reappear tonight, perhaps you and I can enjoy a little death." He practically purred those last two words, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "Figuratively speaking."

The implication of what he said was not lost on you and it took all your will not to hide your face behind your hands as your flush finally appeared at full force. Even your ears felt warm! You struggled to respond, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

"That is if you still want to…" His hand dropped away, he actually looked unsure for once.

"O-of course! I uh- I'm just… not used to uh," you gestured between the two of you, "this kind of thing. Usually, there's a tavern involved, some alcohol and ends with disappointment."

He threw his head back, barking out a laugh. When he met your gaze again, there was something in his eyes you couldn't quite place, an unknown warmth was your best guess in hindsight. "I've been there, Darling. I know exactly what that's like. This is yet another first for me. But trust me when I say, a night with me will leave you far far more than simply satisfied."

Your hands flew up to your face as you held back whatever noise it was trying to escape you. He chuckled and you peered at him through parted fingers, he was grinning ear to ear at the effect he had on you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Auntie Ethel was a wash. She was a hag! An actual fucking hag! And she lost all interest in helping you when she saw you only had one eye remaining. There was a suggestion of one of your motley crew offering up theirs, but you weren't about to make them give up a goddamn eye to a creature as vile as a hag. And poor Mayrina, you couldn't stand aside and let her be swindled by the thing. Especially after you had found Mayrina's brothers dead in the swamp. You informed the poor girl of such and the hag had whisked her away. The ensuing battle was hell and you counted your blessing that no one accidentally killed the lass when the hag took her form.

So back you camp you went, still parasite-ridden.

You spent the lead-up to dinner organising your supplies in your camp chest, Karlach kindly offered to help as she found empty backpacks and trunks to organise things into before putting those into the magiced chest. Astarion's pottering about didn't escape your notice. He was gathering pillows and blankets from his tent and strolling into the woods with them only to return empty-handed a short while later and grab something else to disappear with. On his third trip, he caught your eye and flashed you a smirk and a wink. You almost dropped the bottle of dye you had been holding.

"Careful soldier, don't imagine you want custard yellow shoes," Karlach chuckled.

"Yeah, certainly not." You hastily put the dye in the appropriate satchel and then looked to Karlach who had a shit-eating grin.

"I saw that wink, have plans with a certain pale elf, do we? Can't say I blame ya. I would ride him to the Feywild and back if I had half the chance. And you too, until you were seeing stars. But sadly, I can't unless ya want to get third-degree burns in awkward places."

You choked on your own spittle. Was everyone around you so forward? Or were you simply the prudish one of the bunch?

"Thanks for the ah… compliment. To be honest, I'm out of my depth with this kind of, how to put it, entanglement. But he seems well versed in it. Like it's his forte I guess. Honied words and fleeting touches."

Karlach shuffled on her knees to face you fully, "All the better I'd say, who better to help ya blow off some steam and let loose than a master? Tell ya what, how about I give you some pointers and stuff? Before I was sent to Avernus and had this thing," she gestured to the engine, "put inside me, I used have the ladies and fellas wrapped around my fingers. If you catch my drift." Karlach wiggled her brows and you laughed, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

"I'd like that. I could use the pep talk."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the day passed quickly with Karlach imparting as much of her bedroom wisdom onto you as possible. And by the time Gale called everyone to dinner, your nerves were at ease. You had to force yourself not to rush through your meal as excitement filled you. Once done, you wished everyone a peaceful night before making your way through the woodlands in the direction you saw Astarion go multiple times that day, the final time being only moments earlier.

For a brief second, you were worried you had gotten lost until you saw his ruffled shirt hanging from a nearby tree branch. And then he was stepping out from behind it. You gulped, he was utterly beautiful haloed by the moonlight. Maybe he was a moon elf before he was turned?

"There you are," He was a vision of grace as he approached you, of elegance even when partially dressed as he was and surrounded by nature, "I've been waiting. Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you."

You couldn't help the quip that left your lips, "Since you set eyes on my neck, you mean? You don't have me yet, 'Star." The memory of your first encounter coming to mind.

He chuckled lowly and shook his head, "Don't I? You're here. And I don't think you want to talk." His hand trailed up your arm, "I think you want to be known." His hand cupped your cheek, his other on your hip - once again pulling you into him, "To be tasted."

You gulped, "A…And what do you want?"

He gave a wry smile, "What do any of us want? Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our Collective ecstasy." He absentmindedly stroked your cheek, "That's what you want, isn't it? To lose yourself in me?"

You leaned into his touch, "I want to forget about everything. I want to live."

"Then tonight, Darling, let's live to our fullest."

His lips were on yours in an instant.

[warrior-cats-rewritten]

I'm not trying to be rude, but I feel like you're going way too far to punish Brambleclaw. Thistleclaw, the child groomer, doesn't receive this treatment. I don't understand the point of bringing him back if you're going to portray him as the most evil cat in history. Brambleclaw is buried outside, while most of the evil cats are buried within the clan's territory, which seems very extreme. If you hate him so much, don't include him in a rewrite. It will feel just like what you hate the Erins for, "forcing too much on Brambleclaw." If you dislike a character, don't focus on them. Like Jesus Christ, my friend wasn't wrong, you have a hate boner for this cat. I mean no offense, but it's weird, dude. Real weird.

Why is it that the minute I post bramble facing consequences for actions I get bramblestans in my inbox assuming I hate him? I think what's weird is very clearly trawling the tag to look for posts like mine so you can write an essay. What you should be doing is drawing him with green eyes, it looks good.

Cause if you knew this project, you would know that Thistleclaw isn't a child goomer anymore, technically. He is Ivypaw's Dark Forest mentor (which... is grooming people but not THAT way), as Hawkfrost has a proper arc now and... Doesn't die in Sunset.

I will say one thing though, I did actually forget one thing to mention that you caught! He isn't on Thunderclan's MAIN territory. I mean... what do you call a border that shifts ALL the time? It's the Thunder-Shadow Niagara Falls.

It's where Tawnypelt is going to be buried! Under a pine tree. (It's also close to a lungwort patch Rowanstar is the protector of, territories NEED landmarks)

Also.... I don't truly hate him hate him! Sure, he sucks but he isn't real. And as a character? Dude, he's FUN. He's a self fulfilling Prophecy, he has good moments, in WCR, he is still a POV during TNP and is buddies with Cinderpelt. He's canonically a giant PUFFBALL of an animal and I've never been against adding your own pets to Xenofiction! I am also the biggest advocate for the Give Brambleclaw Green Contacts Organization. I'm giving him more moments with his family, and while those relationships get REALLY strained, it's a story. He wouldn't be interesting if he was a cardboard cutout of a cat. I think he's interesting in a way that is both intriguing and frustrating.

He's messy.

He loves his daughter Dandeliontuft, but she's the spitting image of his mother who died right after swearing to never speak to him again, and Dandy is nearly mute... It's hard to think about. Abusers are not unfathomable monsters with no redeeming qualities. He still cried when he thought Lionpaw was buried alive.

He does show up to Starclan, but when he sees the smoldering scorched earth, it's a clear message. He wasn't welcome, and he will not be staying. It's not like the actual literal groomer Stormtail, who got poisoned repeatedly, had all of his relationships ruined, and chased out of Starclan every night by a living and dead Goosefeather until his spirit eroded due to his refusal to move on. Tom got eaten alive and his spirit consumed by One Eye.

He's a ghost now. He's gonna have a long, long time to reflect on what he's done. How badly he did hurt others. He's been around too long, and his generation needs to be done away with. I think he'll find peace wandering the land, being a cat ghost.

He's not an evil cat, he's just stubborn. Stuck in the way he was taught to be by the Clans.

[meirimerens]

Do you have any thoughts on the Kains' family dynamics (especially Maria & Khan + Nina & Maria but anything will do)... Do you ever think about them...

god do i. do i ever. the maria and khan dynamic to me hinges so beautifully on that post i cannot stop thinking about it. in pathologic siblings either cannot part/love each other saur saur much (clara & changeling for the "cannot part" one, both for the stamatwins) or have this growing distance between them (georgiy and simon, in their defense One is Dead [allegedly], maria and khan, vlad jr and capella...). i think maria never really wanted a sibling but Tough Luck baby girl. she liked having all of her parents' attention; she knew she was destined to greatness by blood, and having that blood be shared didn't sit well with her. khan is bound to be an heir in his own way, a "beloved son", "the family's hope" - maria wishes she could have all of this. but they navigate very different waters, the two of them. khan respects her - respects her because she can make herself be respected so easily, with such grace, whereas he still has to claw for it, even within his family (mostly by virtue of. being 15). she finds him a little cringe and like a little insect in many ways, but one ought to respect insects.

khan, within his own family is beloved in the way maria is feared - meaning he is also feared, and she is also beloved. they're both bound to heritage - whereas maria welcomes hers, and fully intends on filling the dark sky with her hair like her mother did before, khan is not particularly excited to become like his father.

living with nina was like living with a biblical angel, or a maddened night mare. she was feared, even by her own family members, and yet adored. they were never afraid she would like hit them or anything, it was closer to living with lightning, but a lightning that loves you, in its own way. i think she was tempestuous and groundswell-like with Maria, i think as a way to... incite her power to come through. earthquake-like to release the magma underneath... that didn't happen before her death (that happens closer to like day 9 bachelor route p1) but maria will be forever thankful her mom did that. it was like fencing... like Mensur maybe even. she was not like this with her son, because. well his ass is not becoming a mistress. she loved him dearly too, but might have been a little distant, engulfed in her Mistress ways, but always tried to stir up his fires for desire of power and greatness... and that manifested itself as he became a teenager.

victor's relationship with both his kids is... strained in the fact that he has neither the power, the fury, the fire or the hold that Nina had. his daughter is slipping away from him because she is molding a volcanic fire of her own, that he knew once in her mother but that he never truly understood, and his son he couldn't hold onto because he longs for freedom so much (possibly inherited from his mother). maria doesn't want his tenderness because she wants respect and knows herself to burn so much brighter than him, and khan doesn't want it either because he wants quite the same, but doesn't have the mistress inheritance, the mystery, the power that maria has inherited... so he has to forge his own.

tldr

women when they're about to become their mother: 🖤🗡️🔥🫀🫁🌩️♥️

men when they're about to become their father: 😬😟🙁☹️😰🫨😱

and whatnot

[mswyrr]

Below is the 2nd part of Chapter 1 of my Sydcarmy fic, copy/pasted due to AO3 problems and post word limit here on tumblr.

Complete info on the fic and the first part can be found here.

The L ride to his apartment was quiet. Sydney stared out the window and tried to let her brain go into sleep mode watching the lights of the city pass. Carmy was quiet too. A weary, compliant blankness had come over him since the alley. 

By the time they got inside his place, she was dead on her feet, yawning and nearly tripping over the new weight bench he’d bought. She frowned down at it and then glanced around, looking for anything else he’d changed. But there was nothing. It was the same miserable, empty bachelor pad. 

There wasn’t even any fun guy stuff like a PS4. Did he do anything but go to work and work out? 

His voice startled her out of her daze. “You look beat,” he said, his expression concerned, like she was the sick one here. “Why don’t you take the bed?”

Sydney waved her hand. “I’m not going to put you out of your bed–”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I sleep on the couch most nights anyway.”

“Um,” she was so exhausted she felt feverish, honestly. She swallowed hard. “Well. Okay. Yeah –” she nodded, feeling like a bobblehead, “okay.”

He put his hands out, like he had earlier, palms up, like he was trying to appear nonthreatening. “Can I help you with your coat?”

She made a face, shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” It wasn’t like she couldn’t do it herself, but it seemed important to him. She watched as he approached and then, ever so gently, slipped it off one arm and then the other. She felt his hand lightly touch her shoulder in a quick caress. 

It was only a moment, but the look on his face was so fucking sad. Like he’d shattered something precious. But that wasn’t true. Whatever she was, she wasn’t broken, and neither was their friendship. 

“Do you need a hug?” she asked. 

His eyes widened and then darted away. “You don’t – have to do that, Syd.” He turned and busied himself hanging her coat on a peg next to his own. “It’s okay.”

Syd stepped closer, touched his arm. He froze, staring at the coats on the wall in front of him. The muscle under her hand quivered, but he didn’t turn to let her embrace him. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said, and just stepped up and put her arms around his waist from behind. He was, like, all muscle. He was tense too, like she was going to do something to him. It was kind of weird, actually. All hard with no squish.

She rested her head against his shoulder. “Come on, man,” she said, “come on, it’s okay.” She was so tired and her head hurt. 

He heaved a deep breath. She felt it move through him, expanding his rib cage under her arms and deflating again. “You’re never going to look at me the same way again,” he whispered. 

His head bowed, like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore.

It tugged at her heart. She rubbed her head against his shoulder, nuzzling the hard muscle. She was revising her opinion of those really jacked guys in movies now: no squish at all was kind of sad. “You don’t know that,” she said. 

“How could you, after what I–” His whole body tensed up harder, a tremor passing through him. It was so strange. She could actually feel his mind getting all twisted up through his body. 

On impulse, she tightened her hug as hard as she could and the shuddering stopped. He relaxed, going limp under the pressure. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No,” he said. “It’s – nice.” There was a hint of wonder in his tone, which she took as a good thing. 

“Okay,” she said. She could feel her own arm muscles straining, but she kept her hold tight around him. She swayed a little, moving slowly sided to side, and he went along, moving with her. He felt better to hold now, more human and less like she was hugging a block of wood. 

She idly thought about how to get him to eat more and work out less. It was possible to take the obsessive gym rat stuff too far. It just wasn’t healthy. But she guessed that was true of a lot of things in his life. 

Still, somehow, it was going to be okay. She told herself this, testing the idea out as she used their gentle swaying to soothe herself as much as him. He was a mess, but people dealt with this stuff all the time, didn’t they? That’s why there were experts. There was a whole thriving economic sector of people who knew what to do about this. 

She sighed, linking her hands together in front of him to make holding on easier, and snuggled against the comforting warmth of him. He fit against her so nice, just the right size to cuddle. As they swayed, she relaxed enough that she started humming in time with their impromptu slow dance, something sweet working its way up from her memory. 

After a while, she realized it was one of her Dad’s old favorites, Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me.” She smiled against Carmy’s shoulder as she hummed. She loved that song. The melody was so warm and gentle.

Then the gears clicked over and she remembered: that was Mom and Dad’s song. Their song. The lyrics were extremely fucking romantic. The thought jolted her and she let go, stepping back and clearing her throat.

That was not a place she was going with her troubled guy friend right now. She hoped Carmy hadn’t recognized the tune. 

“Um. Yeah, so,” she was bobbing her head too much again, “goodnight.” 

He turned to look at her, confusion in his expression, but just nodded back at her. “Goodnight.” He gestured toward the back of the apartment. “You can have the bathroom first. There’s a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.” 

He looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

Christ. Had he recognized the song? Or was the whole cuddling thing just too much?

“Thanks, that’s – that’s great. That’s, you know –” she felt like an idiot, “dental hygiene is important.” 

He raised his eyebrows, but just nodded again. Placating the freaky lady from work who had invited herself over to grope him and steal his bed. “Yeah,” he said. “Important.”

Sydney turned on her heel and tried not to look like she was making an escape as she fled to the bathroom. She messed around in there as long as she could, dreading seeing him after her little performance.

Coming on to the crazy guy was a really bad idea. 

She felt guilty for thinking about it that way. It was an Old Richie kind of thought. But it was true. And surely being a good person didn’t mean she had to pretend like humming love songs to someone who was that unwell was a good idea?

It wasn’t like she was against ever dating someone with his issues. But only after he got his shit together. She guessed that would take a lot of therapy and medicine. And then he’d still technically be her boss – if The Bear didn’t go under in the next ten months. It was all so theoretical.

She brushed her teeth twice, playing for time, but then started feeling guilty. He’d let her use the bathroom first. It wasn’t polite to hog it. When she poked her head out, he was on the couch, watching a cooking show. She called out a cheery “goodnight!” and darted into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her firmly. 

She pulled off her shoes and found that the bed really hadn’t been slept in much. The crisp, white sheets and blue quilt all smelled clean and like nothing, like hotel bedding. She thought she might have trouble getting to sleep, but the moment she lay down the warm, welcoming darkness drew her in, and she slept.

-

After a couple hours of sleep, Sydney woke up and stared at the ceiling, cursing her insomnia. At home, she had ways of dealing with it. There was her special chamomile blend tea, her favorite fuzzy purple blanket, and her bookcase of comfort reads. But at Carmy’s place? After tip-toeing to the bathroom and back, she was just stuck in his sterile bedroom with nothing but her phone for company. 

For lack of anything better to do, she sat down on the bed, cuddled the pillow close and went for an old familiar pattern: research. Learning about something always made her feel better. She googled “self harm psychology” and started scrolling through websites that looked trustworthy. 

Reading the American Psychological Association’s cool, clinical prose made her feel like a weight had been lifted off her. The first thing she learned was that Carmy hadn't been lying: this wasn’t about suicide. It was a person trying to cope with “unmanaged psychological distress.” 

This wasn’t actually a life or death thing. It just looked really upsetting from the outside. 

One website with advice for families said never to ask the person the why question she’d driven at earlier. Remembering one experience could trigger another. Sydney literally pressed her palm to her forehead at that and sighed. Jesus. That’s why he’d seemed to get so lost when she’d asked him to think back over it and explain.

But how was she supposed to know? She wasn't going to beat herself up over not knowing anything about this stuff. One of them doing that was bad enough. She read a little more, bookmarking a couple websites. What she read eased her mind enough that she laid back down and started to doze as she scrolled. 

[writerdownbookworder]

My father stares at me. “I…could ask the same thing.”

I wave off my soldiers around the room. “It’s okay. This is my father. Stand down”

He watches as they sheath their weapons, returning to their posts along the walls. His eyes travel the room, taking in all the Fae who are watching the exchange.

I clear my throat. “Attention, please. My receiving hours are over for today. Apologies to those of you who did not get an audience. I will open my courts tomorrow as well to make up for it.”

The throne room empties slowly, mostly without grumbling. A few Fae cast anxious glances at my father, glaringly human in the midst of so much magic.

“I- I-” he stammers. “You are… queen? Of all these…things?”

I gesture for him to sit. “I will explain. But you must listen and not interrupt.”

He nods, and I begin my tale.

“Twenty years ago, I was playing in the front garden on Mama’s birthday. I knew you wished to be alone, even at 4 years old. While you were talking to her grave in the clearing, I was stolen by a group of radicals, traitors to the Fae crown. 

“It was a civil war.

“It was almost two years before the resistance was tamped out and I was rescued by the crown. The previous queen was old. Her husband had died in the war, leaving her running the war with only her 8 year old son to help. 

“About 10 years ago, she crowned him King of the Fae. We struck up a friendship, which turned to courtship. We were joined - married - about five years ago. The old queen died shortly after. 

“So here I am, Queen of the Fae.” I smiled kindly at my father. “If you had come a few days earlier, you could have met my husband. He’s away right now, helping in one of the Eastern provinces.”

My father looks hurt. “They didn’t let you come home?”

I shake my head. “Father, you were so hurt after Mama died. You never really seemed to care much about me. I knew you loved me, but I assumed you would have thought I was dead and left it alone a long time ago. Besides, once I came to live with the old queen and prince, I loved it here. And once we began courting, they made me fully Fae. I can never live normally among humans.”

My father looks away uncomfortably. “I…never meant to make you feel that way.”

My voice is soft. “I know. It’s okay, Father. You’ve found me now! I’m alive. I’m happy. What more could you want? You can go home and live your life.”

My father steps forward. “I want you to come home with me! You can’t truly be happy! Look at this place, these people! They stole you from me. Now I can steal you back.”

I take a step backwards. “I am happy, Father. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, although you can’t stay permanently. But I will be staying. These are my people, and if you threaten them, me, or my family, I will not hesitate to take action against you.”

He does not fight me. My father agrees to stay for a little while, wanting to meet my husband. 

Two weeks later, after a few strained dinners between my father and husband, I woke in the middle of the night to see my father standing over our bed with a knife.

He did not leave the palace after all.

His daughter was stolen by the Fae. Two decades of fruitless searching later, his time for vengeance has come. He kicks in the door to the Queen’s throne room as she flies to her feet, grabbing the hilt of her sword before recognition flashes across her face. “Dad… what are you doing here?”

[lambden]

2.9K words, explicit, geraskier/competence kink, no warnings. originally posted (anonymously) to ao3 here

Something pulls Geralt from his meditation early. He has no clue what it might have been; when he opens his eyes, the forest is pristine. Picturesque, even. He and Jaskier had set up camp along the actual path of the Path. Fearing that the cold mountains would greet them with a blizzard, Geralt had suggested last night that they might seek refuge in a narrow but deep canyon for safety.

Jaskier had pointed out that a blizzard was about as likely to happen as an avalanche, and that if the goddesses decided to bestow the latter disaster upon them, they’d be absolutely fucked between the high rock walls on either side of them.

The petty bickering of last night seems so trivial in the brisk morning air. The thin tarpaulin Geralt strung up over their bedrolls to shield them from snow was fine yesterday. Functional, if ugly. But now, dappled light from above makes the fabric glow, and the sparse patches of new snow beyond their camp sparkle like glitter. Everything looks beautiful in the dawn— or, not dawn, technically, since he slept in. 

Geralt strains his senses for threats and finds no distant monsters to flee; he only hears birdsong. He only sees beautiful nature. He inhales deeply, and the sharp scent of spilled blood hits him immediately before Jaskier stumbles back under the tarpaulin.

“Ah, joy, you’re finally up,” says Jaskier cheerfully. There are no obvious wounds on him and no blood visible on his clothing. If Geralt hadn’t been made to spot irregularities, perhaps he would have missed the sweat at Jaskier’s hairline. Melodious and irritating as ever, the man continues, “Can we pack up camp and start moving now? I’m beginning to understand why you always gripe when I sleep in.”

Geralt doesn’t mince words. “What happened?”

“No clue what you mean,” Jaskier sings. He scooches over to come and sit beside Geralt, resting his back against the mossy wall covered in small icicles of frozen dew. Geralt, unconvinced, leans over the bard’s lap to try to get a look at the side he’s hiding, and Jaskier sighs. “Shit. Alright, you— alright! It’s fine, Geralt, really! Just a spot of bother, nothing to write home about.”

Geralt’s glare makes it clear that he isn’t going to repeat his question.

“It’s not my blood,” tries Jaskier, which does come as a small relief, although it hardly puts Geralt’s panic to rest. “It… I had to piss, alright? So I climbed up out of the canyon, and, you know—” he does some truly reprehensible miming— “I was right in the middle when I heard this awful caterwauling coming from somewhere. I thought it was a dying bobcat or something, but… it was actually a few of them, you know. Shrieking and grunting back and forth.”

A chill runs down Geralt’s spine. He leans in slightly, nostrils flaring as he breathes the blood in once more. He should have clocked the scent for what it was: “Nekkers.”

“Yeah, a whole happy family.” Jaskier, sighing again, finally relents and shows Geralt the spray of blood along his side. True to his word, it isn’t human. It still makes the witcher unhappy. He settles back down into his own seat as his friend continues, “There must have been about eight of them.”

Suddenly the amount of blood seems like far, far too little. Geralt stares, and demands, “How are you not dead?”

“It’s a funny story, actually,” says Jaskier, sounding sheepish, of all things. “I’ve seen you fight those little shits before, so I sort of… I dunno, copied what you do. Minus the swordsmanship, and magic fire, and all that, of course.”

If his eyes were bulging out of his skull before, Geralt is sure he looks positively ridiculous now. He can’t rein in his expression or regulate his emotions, too shocked by Jaskier’s story. “You killed them?”

“What was I supposed to do, give them all names?”

“You killed eight nekkers?”

“It was a little hard to tell from the mangled bodies, but yes, I believe so.” Jaskier awkwardly clears his throat. His pulse races. “Geralt, you’re staring at me like you want to bite my head off.”

The witcher doesn’t blink. “I’ve never even seen you kill a fly.”

“Well, why would I kill a fly,” Jaskier is beginning to sound a little exasperated— then before either of them know it, Geralt is swinging a leg over his lap and straddling his thighs and pressing in close, and Jaskier’s voice rises at least an octave. “I— I have no intention of taking on contracts! It was just a minor inconvenience; I didn’t want to wake you from your meditation! You can be quite a cranky prick sometimes, you know. Are you going to teach me some demented lesson about safety by bashing my head in?”

“No,” he informs Jaskier plainly. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s a little difficult to think while I’ve got a lapful of witcher!”

Geralt reaches between them to untie the complicated drawstrings of Jaskier’s trousers. His fingers only still when he’s got the cords loose from their knots; he glances up to check in, his gaze meeting the bard’s. Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide and dark, and how his heartbeat raced before is nothing compared to now. The silence is live, the air simmering like a place of power, and Geralt’s question goes unspoken but is understood perfectly by both men.

Jaskier nods, a small, overwhelmed motion— his chin tips forward and his head bobs with it, his lovely hair falling in front of his pretty eyes. Geralt gently pushes the errant strands of hair back, and before Jaskier can properly recuperate from that first delicate touch, the witcher inelegantly and bluntly reaches to free the bard’s cock from his pants.

“Holy ploughing mother of cunt,” Jaskier breathes.

“Tell me what happened,” repeats Geralt, “in detail.”

“Right. Yes. The nekkers.” His fist closes around Jaskier’s length just under the thick flushed head; they watch together as liquid wells up at the tip. The broad pad of Geralt’s thumb brushes over the wetness and a new drop of pre-cum rises to take its place immediately. 

Sounding more winded than Geralt has ever heard him, Jaskier manages, “They weren’t trying to sneak up on me, actually, so I had an extra minute to prepare. If they got the jump on me I would have been fucked, but as it was I had the time to rifle through Roach’s saddlebags. And, by the way, Roach was massively unhelpful during the fight. Loyal companion, my arse. I suppose I should stop talking about your horse while you’ve got your hand round my cock!”

“Focus,” says Geralt, stroking Jaskier with firmer, slower motions. “How could you have known what to use?”

That question nets him a very unimpressed look, the effect of which is only slightly dampened by Jaskier’s obvious arousal. “I’ve been your local companion for quite a while now,” huffs the bard. “I do actually pay attention, some of the time. And it’s easy enough to tell Grapeshot apart from the other explosives!”

Geralt adjusts his position atop Jaskier’s lap, fist still moving slowly around his prick. “I only had two Grapeshots made,” he mutters. “And I’ve never taught you the recipe.”

“Two was all I needed.” More turned on than he’s ever been in his life, Geralt keeps his gaze pinned to Jaskier as he tells the story— and his hand firmly in place. “You— You kept a trophy from that nekker infestation a few contracts back, and I figured, you know, they follow some kind of h-hierarchy. So I held the nasty thing up right in front of my head, and I shrunk my shoulders down and hunched my back, and… well, I’m not going to do my impression of a monster growling right now, but needless to say they fell for it.”

“Hard to mistake you for a nekker.”

“They aren’t the brightest,” admits Jaskier. His heart beats faster from the compliment regardless; Geralt feels a thick vein pulsing under the soft side of his knuckles. He chases the feeling, dragging his fingers up and down the bard’s length curiously. “It wasn’t a long ruse, anyway— I just had to get them to follow my orders. Once they’d all lined up in a group, it was easy enough to sling the Grapeshots their way; like one of those prize games from a festival, you know? But right as I threw the bombs—”

Geralt’s prick strains against the codpiece in his armour. Unable to hide the raw edge of desperation in his hoarse voice, he demands, “You threw two bombs at once?”

“Yes,” Jaskier mumbles, a bit pink. “What, is that against the rules?”

Instead of offering his immediate response, which is that Geralt is damn lucky he ran into Jaskier before Lambert ever did because if his little brother heard a story like that then he would have married the bard long before the fall of Cintra, Geralt shakes his head dumbly, and gestures with his free hand for Jaskier to continue.

“Well, one of the buggers noticed what I was doing right before the bombs exploded— or maybe he noticed that his newly beloved queen bee was actually a beheaded, reanimated corpse— and, in any case, he wasn’t too happy. While I was shielding my eyes and ears from the explosions he ran right up to me, and tore the trophy out of my hands.” Jaskier mimes this part of the fight, too caught up in his own story to even pay proper attention to Geralt jerking him off. His passion is beyond endearing. “But unfortunately for him, I had my trusty dagger.”

Geralt can’t help it— before he can restrain the sound, he snorts. “The paring knife you use to cut up Roach’s apples?”

“Yes,” huffs Jaskier. “I made do with what I had, alright? Time moves at a normal speed for us humans, you know, even during battle, so I didn’t have a moment to prepare. I just—” he thrusts his hand forward, miming gutting— “in and out, boom, done. Before I knew it, I had stabbed him in the eye. And he let out the most horrible sound, really, I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up!”

“You stabbed it in the eye,” Geralt repeats, dizzy.

“Yes…?”

“Right.” He finally lets go of the bard’s prick, rolling off his thighs. Jaskier watches with hooded, puzzled eyes that quickly widen as Geralt removes the lower half of his armour as quickly as he can. When he reaches back between his legs to shove two blunt, dry fingers into himself, the bard lets out a squeak not unlike a lutestring snapping. Geralt pants, “Tell me again.”

“Tell— tell you— wh-what exactly,” stammers the professional wordsmith. It only gets worse as Geralt takes hold of his prick once more. Jaskier’s cock is hard, standing at attention, and leaking everywhere; Geralt smears the pre-cum over its flushed, angry head. “Gods, fuck, Geralt—”

“Tell me the story again,” Geralt demands. “While I ride you.”

“I’m afraid I won’t last past the inciting incident— oh,” cries Jaskier. Geralt slides down onto him slowly, letting them both feel the tightness, and the lack of proper preparation. Geralt doesn’t care if the stretch is bordering on the edge of pain; he likes the weight inside him. It grounds him. Jaskier’s breath comes in quick, shallow puffs while Geralt inhales and exhales deeply through his nose, the same way he would after taking Killer Whale to dive to the bottom of the ocean. This isn’t too dissimilar from that— except that Killer Whale doesn’t usually make his prick hard as a whetstone.

Geralt sinks down to the very bottom of the sea. Once he’s fully seated on Jaskier’s cock, he can feel the length of it inside his arse, filling him completely. He can even feel Jaskier’s thudding heart under his hands, and echoing through the air, and pulsing deep inside him— almost in the right spot, but not quite.

The witcher places a broad hand on each of Jaskier’s shaking shoulders and uses them as leverage to pull himself up, slowly but firmly gripping onto the cock inside him as he does. Then, right as Jaskier’s cockhead is about to breach him once more, Geralt slides back down in one fluid motion. And rises to do it again. And again.

Jaskier’s grip on his hips is viselike; if Geralt was human, he might bruise. The thought allures him so he encourages the touch, tightening his own grip on the man’s shoulders as he fucks himself on Jaskier’s cock. Every time the bard opens his mouth to undoubtedly let out some irreverent prayer or curse or expression of disbelief, an incomprehensible litany of moans and other dirty sounds escapes him instead. He practically sobs when Geralt adjusts their position, bending his knees on either side of Jaskier so as to ride his cock more efficiently. With each new roll of their hips it seems to strike deeper and deeper inside Geralt. Then one of Jaskier’s hands quests around his backside to press them into a new, closer position, and the new angle has Geralt seeing stars, and suddenly he’s the one making all sorts of embarrassing noises.

“Good, that’s perfect, darling,” Jaskier, though breathless, takes the time to praise him carefully. This almost makes Geralt groan deeper than the pressure inside him. “You’re doing so good for me. Had I known this was my reward coming back from the hunt, I wouldn’t’ve wasted any time with those ugly monsters.”

“How did you know about the— the hierarchies, the family structures— that they follow a chieftain,” pants Geralt, his sweaty hair falling forward in front of his eyes. “You’re not even a witcher.” Jaskier quickly reaches up to brush it back, then holds it in a loose fist, which is, as it turns out, perfect. The hand on his scalp is just enough to ground him, and when Jaskier uses his grip to pull Geralt in closer, he doesn’t resist at all.

“Well,” Jaskier practically purrs against his lips, somehow managing to be smug even as he bounces Geralt on his cock. “It wasn’t that hard.”

Geralt surprises them both by coming all over Jaskier’s abdomen, and as his body tenses the bard follows him over the edge a moment later, arching up into him and filling him with his release. The two eruptions happen in such quick succession that they feed into each other, and it’s all Geralt can do to avoid clinging to Jaskier hard enough to hurt him. Jaskier presses against Geralt with the same fervour, kissing him almost violently; Geralt gives as good as he gets, sinking into the sensation.

When they pull away from each other’s mouths, Jaskier’s lips are bitten red and wet with spit. Geralt moves slightly and feels the odd but familiar heat shift inside him; judging from how Jaskier’s mouth falls open, he feels it too. Even after the aftershocks fade, Geralt doesn’t pull off just yet, enjoying the fullness and closeness. He bends down to kiss Jaskier again, and the bard reciprocates easily and readily. 

All those years bickering over petty, pointless nothings, when they could have been doing this instead.

“The next time there’s a monster, wake me up,” Geralt finally reproaches, punctuating the order by nipping Jaskier’s lip.

Jaskier nods, sluggish and satiated; then, because it’s Jaskier, he tacks on, “I handled it, though.”

“You got away with it this time, but you could have been in danger.”

“You like that I handled it,” accuses the bard. Geralt kisses the smirk off his face but can’t kiss away that smug edge in his voice. “You like that I can handle myself… and handle you, too.”

“As I recall, I handled you,” Geralt says. Jaskier laughs; it still sounds smug. The witcher hums thoughtfully.

He then rolls them over without warning, and ignores the resulting cry from his bard. He lowers his back onto Jaskier’s bedroll— like hell he’s staining his own bedroll with cum— and hooks his ankles around the man’s back, pushing Jaskier deeper inside. They both groan at that, and Jaskier lowers himself down without hesitation to loom over Geralt. “Shit,” he whines, bottomed out entirely inside the witcher again. “Fuck, how are you hard again?!”

“Takes a lot to tire me out,” grins Geralt. Truth be told, he doesn’t usually want this much— but Jaskier is having an unexpected effect on him. “You said you could handle me.”

“Might be the death of me, but I’ll certainly try,” huffs Jaskier. He holds Geralt up by his thighs and slowly pistons back and forth into him, pushing the load of cum already inside him even deeper. But he pauses as an idea strikes. Divine inspiration, or a gift from the muses; Jaskier talks about the concepts all the time, but Geralt hasn’t seen them really occur before. It is like glancing at the night sky and catching a comet. The man’s entire face lights up, and his tone is new as he says, “You know, I never told you about the one winter we had a pest infestation at Oxenfurt.”

Suddenly, Geralt knows precisely what he means. Trying to sit up, he protests, “You swore to me you won those extra vials of arachas venom in a game of Gwent!”

“I’m shit at Gwent, you should have seen right through that,” Jaskier laughs. He leans down, pressing Geralt back down against the mat and rocking his hips to push his length in deeper. “But the good part is that now I can tell you the whole story. In painstaking detail.”

“Oh,” breathes Geralt, quickly surrendering his anger and spreading his legs. His cock dribbles pre-cum between them. “... Yes, alright. Tell me the tale, Jaskier.”

[justanerdalltheway]

Posted this on twitter but going to post it here too! Thinking through episode 5.

.

.

.

.

.

.

I watched episode 5 AGAIN and I am not going to take anyone's side because all three of them had a big part in the shitshow that went down. BUT watching it really carefuly, scene by scene,using up every single thing I learnt in psychology class. I can understand why Lestat flipped so badly.

Claudia had her own problems, true, but she completely ignored Lestat and Louis even though Louis wanted to help her ever since Charlie's death. Of course she refused the help as all teenagers do because they don't believe their parents mean good.

BUT!

Because of her refusing help the relationship between Lestat and Louis gets strained.

Lestat is the parent who is like "tough love would work" which is understandable because he never got help as a child either, he has no idea what a helping father would be like. While Louis is the parent who puts his child to the center of his world, he would do anything to make Claudia feel better. Here starts the problem with L/L.

Lestat is the one who is neglected by his lover.

It's like when a baby is born and the husband gets jealous of the baby. We all know that he is insecure and he needs the affection he didn't get when he was a kid or when he was turned. That is why he goes back to Antoinette. It doesn't matter that she is just a singer who gets in anybody's bed, she gives him what he needs. And when Claudia exposes him it creates an even bigger rift between L/L.

Louis is understandably hurt because he thought they are a happy family and then Claudia leaves too. Two HUGE punches to the face in one night. He loses his footing completely. He wears pj's most of the time, turns towards different worlds (books) just to be free of his thoughts for a while, doesn't leave the house for who knows how long, ignores and irritates Lestat on purpose. And we all know Lestat is not fine with any of that.

Still,at first he tries to get Louis outside of the house(Armstrong concert). And later, when he is giving up, we get the scene where he clearly gives a last chance to Louis (when Antoinette is outside) but Louis just continues to read.

When Claudia comes back, Louis is relieved, as any parent would be, of course, so he hugs her. On the other side what Lestat sees is an ungrateful little girl who would be dead without them, especially Louis, since he was the one who got her out of the fire. He doesn't understand why Louis would choose Claudia over him after the suffering she caused Louis.

We shouldn't forget that he was the one who was next to Louis all those months witnessing what he was reduced to during her absence. We can see Lestat become angrier as the scene continues but what really breaks his control is when Claudia says "Let's be vampires worthy of your love."

She basicaly says that Lestat is not worthy of Louis.

And that is it, he is gone. Of course he would snap. Everything we see is Louis' POV or Claudia's diaries but we haven't seen depressed, tired, starved Louis with Lestat's eyes before. We don't know how he felt like when he looked at his lover and saw him suffer. But we do know that he DID DO THINGS in order to make Louis happy, he even said "Anything for you." before he dropped him. He lost control because of all the things that have been building up inside him and, sadly, when he attacked Claudia he didn't think that Louis would get between them. When that happens things starts to escalate even more. Now both of their locked away feelings are coming out. At one point Lestat is trying to make the fighting stop, says he is trying to restrain himself, still, the fight continues. Now Louis is either driven by his feelings like anger, sadness, or he is trying to protect Claudia because he knows that an angry Lestat would go after her again.

What is weird is that then comes a relatively calm moment when the noises of the fight stop and Louis is trying to calm Claudia down. He says they are done, they had enough.

What is happening? We don't know because they aren't showing it to us but something must have happened because all of a sudden they crash through the wall and Lestat is growling like a feral animal. It's like he is having a complete breakdown.

And those final moments, before and during the flying, are so important!

He tells Claudia he never wanted her, he only wanted Louis and his love. He told Louis to say "Lestat, I am never going to love you." He would be ready to let Louis go, even if it hurt him, if Louis would say those words. But Louis couldn't and his lips were quivering.

Lips do not quiver for nothing!

If he said those words he would be lying and we know that, too. He loves Lestat. And Lestat loves him strongly too.

Their love is harmful, very, VERY TOXIC, and Lestat's unleashing his power against Louis is extremely NOT OKAY.

Still, what I am trying to say, this was due to happen, if not in this episode then in the next. With Lestat's past traumas, with all the locked up feelings, it is a surprise he didn't lose control sooner. We did get glimpses of his quickly changing behaviours but he always got them under control. This, though, was the point when his brain shut down and just let his body do the work. We actually get to see him all calmed down when he finally lands and I think that by then his brain realised how badly he f*cked up. His eyes looked like he cried and his breathing is still heavy.

I believe he still feels hope that one day Louis will love him back because of Louis not being able to repeat his words but right now I have no idea how he thinks they could go from this to that.

This is what I think and I am not ashamed to say that during watching it for the second time I cried because of what I just wrote down. Anyone can judge me but I think they did a great job with this episode too.

[biblioklept-writes]

His Goddess (Aemond Targaryen x f!reader)

Summary: Now that the war is prevented by a betrothal of Princess Jaehaera and Aegon III, you feel needy after the feast and the celebrations. Aemond shows your just how much you mean to him

Warnings: fem!reader, nsfw (smut without a plot), no one is dead (except Viserys), breeding kink, slight choking, creampie, p-in-v unprotected sex, slight ooc Aemond (?), reader is of non specified ethnicity and house, was team green, wife!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

PS: This is my first time writing smut so I'd really appreciate some tips on how to improve my writing. Do help a girl out with constructive criticism. Also, I am posting this as another treat for my birthday hehe.

The night air buzzed with the upbeat music, for the feast was grander than any ever held in a while. It was to celebrate the union of the Greens and the Blacks: Princess Jaehaera was betrothed to Rhaenrya’s youngest: Aegon III. While your husband, Aemond, wasn’t too happy about it, he accepted it as a necessary means to end the conflict. 

But presently, Aemond was preoccupied by admiring his lover and wife. She had left a little early and was now dressed in a scanty black nightgown, beautiful legs on display for him. You rested on your elbows on your bed, looking up at the high ceiling lost in thought. Oh, how magnificent he thought you were: and with that divine neck on display, the only thought in his head was how much better it would look with all the bruises that he was desperate to give.

“What’s occupying your mind, my lord husband?” you whispered, not looking away from the ceiling. “Your gaze burns through my soul,”

“I believe my thoughts are too inappropriate for a lady of your stature,” he said, the kissable lips upturned in a slight smirk. 

“Surely they cannot be more inappropriate than mine,” You challenged, now fixing your gaze on him. “Cannot be too inappropriate to share with the woman you have been with the past couple of years,”

You lazily rose from her place, and strode toward him sitting on the large chair, stopping when you were right in his face. It took every last drop of his willpower to not grab you and leave open-mouthed kisses all over your body, to rip the flimsy garment off in an instant. He knew what being drunk in lust was - but today was different, much different. There was no war looming outside the window, there was no threat that they’d be trampled at any moment.

You leaned forward, holding his wrists on the arms of the chair and leaned closer to him, so close that they were breathing the same air. “I do not possess your infinite patience, my prince.” you breathed against him, lips brushing slightly when you spoke. “And I am nothing, if not a whore for you,” 

No amount of patience would have prepared him to accept those words. He pulled her close, onto his lap and fervently kissed her, eye shutting close at the intensity of the pleasure. His mind was filled with images of the nights he had gotten to spend with his divine lover, both giving into the primal carnal needs of the body and the soul. Right now, all he could think about was the few nights that she had been on top of him, hair a hot mess and his name on your lips like a prayer chant while his cock throbbed inside your warmth.

Your hands are now tangled in his silver hair, tugging at the root and eliciting a grunt from him as the tongues clashed, fighting to taste each other, to commit the taste to memory. He felt like he knew her mouth better than he knew his own. His hands are on her hips, grip bruising to find a semblance of connection to reality. All he can think of is that he is dead and this hell, tying him with his lust. You roll your hips against his pelvis, and a strained groan left his throat. With the pretty noises leaving your mouth and the torturous movements of your warm cunt against his hard cock, he thinks he can finish right there.

He effortlessly picks you up and gently drops you on the bed, fighting for control. He swiftly undoes his silken pants and drops them, moving on to his tunic and then the eye patch. Never his lilac gaze leaves yours, intent on memorising every face that you make. Now bare, he kisses you again, with an urgency he lacked before. He rips the flimsy black nightie from your body, and starts fondling with your pretty tits, their weight perfect in his hands as he shoves his tongue down your throat.

“You are a goddess among men and women, my love,” he claims, breathless. He pinches your perk nipple, eliciting another moan from your mouth. “I have never seen such a divine creature,” he moves the hair away from your face and pinches the other nipple, earning a similar reaction.

Your body felt like it was set on fire, like the blood in your veins had turned to molten metal and was threatening to burst out of your body. You had your dragon husband to blame for it mostly, and your yearning for him. A strangled gasp left your mouth as his long, slender fingers brushed past your opening, gathering the wetness and then settling on your clit, his pace deliberate in a sweet torture.

His lilac eye is wide and dark, focused on your cunt as you squirm and mewl, the glowing sapphire in his eye socket making him all the more seraphic. Aemond was made by the gods just for you, the old gods and the new working together to make this perfect man who loved you, owned you and took care of you. It was evident in his carved cheekbones that glowed in the firelight, the passion in his lilac eye and the sapphire in the other; his silver hair glowed as if made of liquid moonlight and his calloused hands elicited sounds from you that you didn’t know you could make.

Aemond whispers your name, like it's a chant, a prayer, rapidly losing any control that he had over himself. His digits prod at your hole and then enter you, making you arch your back in pleasure as a moan left your pretty mouth. He curled his fingers inside to get to that spot that had you squirming, but he held you in place with a firm arm across your hips. His dexterous fingers spread you open, readying you to take his cock. Even after all these years, you had not seemed to mould to his girth and size.

Each sound that leaves your pretty mouth goes straight to his cock, the tip now a violent red with the lack of friction and attention. Once he feels you open up, he removes his digits from your cunt, making you whine at the emptiness. “Need you now, Aemond,” you whined. “Need your cock in my cunt.”

A heavy sigh escaped his lungs, and he managed to say, “You shall get what you asked for, my love.” The both of you groaned when his tip breached your entrance, your wet walls gripping on him, his cock stretching them with that pleasurable burn that left you demanding more from him. “I will fill you up, make you carry my children,” he promised. “Open your eyes, princess,”

You struggled to keep your eyes focused on him, the hot coil of pleasure building up rapidly in the pit of your stomach. Your cunt throbbed with his promise of filling you up, the rhythmic spasms faltering his brutal pace. He roughly grabbed your knee and threw your legs over his muscular shoulders, the new angle letting him hit deeper. The tip of his cock felt like it was right in your womb, the pain blurring with pleasure as the hot coil threatened to snap.

His cock twitched, aching for release, and his digits found home on your clit, rubbing it just the way that had you screaming his name louder than before. His other hand rested on your neck, holding it tight enough to make you gasp for breath as the coil snapped and you fell over the edge, white hot pleasure blinding you as his warm seed filled you up. Aemond was gasping your name like you were his sanity, tightly gripping on your hip and his eye shut in pure pleasure.

Aemond collapsed on top of you, not yet pulling out. In the post coital haze, you thought he was the best he ever looked, with his straight silver hair tickling your neck as he inhaled your scent, memorising it. “You are my goddess, my alter,” he whispered in your ear, sounding blissfully exhausted. “Gods above, the thought of you filled with my babies is enough to make me want go hard again,”

Shivering deliciously with the memory of your orgasm, you said, “Give me two minutes and you can fuck me again,” grinning cheekily in his hair, and stroking his pale back you added, “We have to make sure it sticks,”

The grunt you received in response was the sexiest noise he had ever made.

[primofate]

Haikyuu! Drabble: When you get hurt (minor injuries)

Note: Ugggghhhhhhh I love these men. Honestly. wtf. How can you have so many good guys in one anime. Also please don’t take this as a sign that I’ll stop posting for Genshin, but you know, give me some space to hype over my other fandoms please XD

Warnings: it’s seriously just plain fluff

Characters: Kageyama, Tsukishima, Oikawa, Bokuto, Ushijima

Kageyama

“What happened to your knee?”

Is the first thing he says, his face as serious as ever, eyes looking at your bandaged knee as he approaches you in class. You laugh nervously as you unwound the school bag away from your shoulder, placing it on your desk.

“Ah, I was walking Momo-chan last night...But you know, he’s gotten so big and I guess I was a little distracted...He saw a squirrel and just went running for it and...” you trail off, feeling Kageyama’s aura change. You knew he was about to call you reprimand you, and sure enough, he says “Idiot,” just as he would to Hinata.

On closer inspection you also had a bandage around your wrist. He guessed that you tried to hold on to the leash and it dragged your hand across the pavement. 

After berating you with that one word, he wouldn’t say anything else about it. But he would, whenever he could, show some concern that you wouldn’t usually see. “I’ll take that,” he grabs your lunch box from you and you look up at him all confused as to why he’s carrying it for you today. 

But, he stops at the door of the classroom and then turns around. “Actually, let’s just eat here,” as opposed to the school rooftop where the two of you usually ate. 

And then, at the end of the school day, before you could even lift your bag over your shoulder, he’s already there and lifting it on HIS shoulder. You’re dumbfounded. “Are you going to your club? I’ll walk you first then go to mine,” 

Then it hits you. It’s because you’re hurt, and he didn’t want you to strain your knee or wrist anymore. You secretly smile but let him do what he wants. There was no stopping him when he set his mind to it after all. “Tobio-kun, you know, it’s just a scrape, I can still do things by myself,” 

“Shut up and just let me do it...” he mutters under his breath, until he drops you off to your club and goes his own way. 

And then, as your nightly routine to walk Momo-chan, you’re stunned when you see your boyfriend standing there, outside your house gates. Hands in his pockets. “T-Tobio?” 

He lived close by, but still, you didn’t expect him to be there. He snatches the leash away from you, your dog is just happily gazing at the two of you, tail swishing wildly at the fact that TWO of his favourite people are walking him today. And again, Kageyama says,

“...I need to go for a run anyway,”

Tsukishima

“Excuse me, I’m looking for a Tsukishima-san,”

A girl in the basketball team uniform appears at the doorway of the gym, all members turn to her as she bows and straightens up. Tsukishima sighs in relief. Finally an actual excuse to rest from training. 

“That’s me,” he towers over the girl, who only blinks up at him, slightly intimidated. “Ah, uh, yeah...Y/N said that you have her spare glasses?” His eyebrows perk up. Right. You were in the basketball team, for some reason he always forgot that detail. 

He turns away without a word and goes to his bag. He did, indeed, have your spare glasses. You left it at his house last time during a study session, being the airhead that you are. He retrieves it but before handing the black box to the girl, he asks. “What happened to the ones she has?” 

He wasn’t thinking much of it. Perhaps someone accidentally stepped on it, or maybe you even accidentally broke it.

"The ball hit her face,” 

“Is she--”

The words of worry practically dies on his lips. He could feel and sense Yamaguchi and Sugawara listening in to the conversation and he’d drop dead before getting caught being worried for someone. But still, this is why he always told you that you needed sports glasses. A scratch to the eye could be dangerous.

He sighs pretty loudly, and turns to face Sugawara who was off court, standing next to Yamaguchi who was also taking a small break. “Sugawara-san, I’ll be back,” There’s a big smile on his vice captain’s face, same as Yamaguchi who knew that his friend was actually worried. 

Tsukishima ignored their stupid smiles.

“Oh! Kei,” You look up as the door to the school clinic opened, you were just sitting on one of the beds, legs moving back and forth and waiting for your teammate to retrieve the spare glasses for you. Tsukishima said that he’d handle it and as he passed the black box to you he grabs your chin and turns it in his hands, looking at your eyes. 

There was a cut under your left eye that was already patched up. He releases your face when he was sure it was actually nothing serious, only to cross his arms and smirk at you. “See, I told you that hard head of yours would come in handy. Also receive the ball with your hands, not your face,”

You puff your cheeks out in annoyance and put your spare glasses on, feeling brand new. “Sure did, but my glasses aren’t as strong as my skull,” you sulked and he only blinked. “and I was taking a break! Then suddenly I see the ball coming at me, I don’t think that’s my fault!”

“I believe you. Your team has horrid ball passing skills after all,” he’s relentless with his insults but you knew that’s just the way he was. The fact that he came all the way to the school clinic told you enough about his worry. So, you ignore his last remark and smile up at him, “Thanks for checking on me, Kei,” 

He clicks his tongue but places his hand on your head, “Let’s get you new ones tomorrow, and maybe now you’ll listen to me about those sports glasses,” 

Oikawa

“She’s absent today,”

Oikawa’s face fell. You hadn’t told him anything about being sick or being unwell today. He wondered what happened. However, despite his looks and carefree personality, the Aoba Johsai captain was someone who was actually quite detailed. “In that case, can someone pass me her homework? I’ll go and deliver it to her!”

Safe to say your classmates were always surprised at how much the captain doted on you. He wasn’t always doing it openly, but at least he was thoughtful and thorough.

“Y/N-chan~ How could you leave me all alone in school today?” You could practically hear the pout from the other side of the line. He’d gone to the school grounds to get some private time to call you. 

“Sorry Toru, I can’t really walk properly. It should be fine in a few days though,”

His heart did a little leap, worry etching itself on his features. “What do you mean? What happened?”

The pout in his voice was gone, replaced by what you always called “the captain voice”. 

“I sprained my ankle...It’s a long and stupid story...” you laughed but you heard him sigh. “Well, I have no choice then. Your prince will visit you after-school today!”

You didn’t think he really would. He had volleyball practice and he took those seriously. But at 8 pm, just as you finished dinner, your doorbell rang and next thing you knew he was in your room. 

Your mother just LOVED him. Sometimes you thought even more than you. She was unaware of how hyper Oikawa actually was. He certainly knew how to play his cards right. 

“Alright princess, let me see that foot,” While you were sitting on your chair he practically bent down on on one knee and inspected it. He did kind of look like a prince like that, with his volleyball jacket. Then he suddenly plopped on the floor with his legs crossed. “AAhhhh! That sucks you won’t come to school for a few days!” He was whining again and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

Without fail, every day that you were absent, he showed up at your house after practice.

Bokuto

It’s not that you were particularly clumsy. You were actually a pretty careful person, and that’s why Bokuto always trusted your cooking skills over his. Baking a cake shouldn’t be too hard, but you were rather unfamiliar with the oven at his place.

“Mm, so, it says here to just leave it in the oven for 45 minutes!” he has this big smile on his face and you shake the batter in the round container again. The oven had already been pre-heated and when you open the door to it, hot air greets you. 

You took the round container in your hand, and push it in. It sits just at the front of the oven and you really hate it when that happens, so, with your boyfriend still focused on the recipe (and without mittens cause you think it’ll just be quick push) you try to inch the round cake pan further in with your hand. At one point, you accidentally touch the inside of the hot oven and you recoil your hand with a loud gasp. 

“WHAT?! What what what?!” Bokuto flings the recipe book away and clutches at your hand. In all honesty it didn’t hurt that much, but you had made contact on the hot surface just enough for it to sting and startle you. “Nothing Kou, I just accidentally touched the oven,” you laugh sheepishly but he’s pulling you over to the sink.

The boy is panicking.

“Water!” You’re amazed at how he even knows what to do, running water now splashing on your hand. It wasn’t even enough to burn you, it was just a little red, that’s all. “K-Kou, it’s totally fine,” 

But he turns to you with a waterfall of tears running down his eyes and his hair has deflated from it’s usual spiky style. “I-I’m so useless!” 

‘Ah there he goes,’ you think. But you’ve been trained by Akaashi how to handle these kinds of outbursts from him. “Not at all Kou-kun, you mixed the batter so perfectly. I usually get tired when I do that, but you have really strong arms! Next time I’ll let you handle the oven too, is that okay?”

He stares at you blankly for a moment. The tears have disappeared and his lips oh-so slowly curve into a smile. He gives you a thumbs up, back to his usual flair and confidence. “Of course! Leave it to me!” and he laughs triumphantly while you thank Akaashi in your mind.

Ushijima

Cooking for him and Tendo at the dorms was like a weekly routine. It was mostly for Ushijima, but Tendo liked crashing the cooking party too.

“Be careful.” Ushijima says as he passes the vegetables for you to chop. You did so without any incident. The cooking itself passes by without any incident, until your hand slip off the plate you’re holding and it comes crashing down the floor, shattering into pieces, some of the pieces flying off in different directions.

Ushijima and Tendo perks up in alarm at the sudden sound, with Ushijima being the first to rise on his feet and assess the situation. You’re about to carefully just move away from the mess you made, shards littering around your feet. “Don’t move,” Ushijima tells you, noting that you were only wearing his over-sized slippers. He sees that one of the shards has cut your foot. It was small, but since it was fresh, it was still bleeding. 

“If you move you’ll hurt yourself, wait for me,” you do as told as Ushijima first sweeps off the rest of the shattered glass with a broom, disposes of it. Next he comes to you with a new set of slippers, puts it down on the now clean floor, and tells you to carefully slip out of the ones you have on, he was cautious about the small pieces. Only when you were neatly into the new set of slippers did he clean off the rest of the glass.

Tendo only sat and watched in amusement. His captain was very thorough, even with things like that. “I’ll go and get a first aid kit~” he offered as he stood and sauntered off. “Y/N, sit over there,” he pointed at a nearby chair and you merely follow. There was no use saying no to him, you knew he just wanted to check if everything was in order.

Sure enough just as Tendo comes back with the kit, Ushijima inspects your foot, eyes scanning all around it. It seems that there was only that one cut and it’d be easy to treat. You weren’t surprised that Ushijima knew what to do, watching him take some cotton and pour some alcohol on it, muttering under his breath that it would sting a bit. 

By the end of it, the cut on your foot was disinfected and bandaged properly. “Oohhhh! Good job Wakatoshi-kun!” Tendo praised his friend for the clean job and Ushijima nodded his head with a small “Mm,”

“Thank you,” you smile up at him, “and sorry for the plate, I wasn’t paying attention,” 

Ushijima makes a thoughtful sound, perhaps a little confused by your apology “...The plate is of no great value,” he simply says “it can be replaced.”

"I can’t say the same for you Y/N, so it’s good that you weren’t gravely hurt,” The blush on your cheeks is obvious and Ushijima doesn’t understand what has you so flustered, he’s just being his honest and straightforward self. 

Tendo only laughs at the display.

Masterlist

https://primofate.tumblr.com/post/653296890583154688/masterlist-for-mobile-version-main-links

Taglist (Want to be notified when something new comes out? Sign up! I’ve added some other fandoms as well, so if you’re interested in those, fill in the form again!):

https://forms.gle/VZmJXQssHcv7YzQc6

Commissions are open on my kofi :) and there’s only a limited amount available. Make sure you read the description of what kind of commissions I do:

https://ko-fi.com/primofate

Taglist:  @coldstonecrematorium @gultonluvv @fiona782 @amigenshin @foxxtrot-116