#like the very fabric of existence was cracking open

[fratttymatty]

Back To The Past

(All characters are 18+)

Eli Turner was an adventurer in the truest sense of the word. At 20 years old, he had explored every nook and cranny of his college town, seeking out abandoned places like they were treasures waiting to be uncovered. His favorites were old warehouses, deserted schools, and forgotten buildings that whispered secrets from the past. But his newest obsession was an abandoned mall on the edge of town, a place he’d heard rumors about but never visited. People said it had once been a bustling center of activity in the 1980s, but when the new shopping center opened a few miles away, the old mall was left to rot.

Eli loved the idea of stepping into a space frozen in time, untouched and decaying, as if it were a momentary glimpse into a world that no longer existed. His friends thought it was weird, but to him, it was perfect. He loved exploring the past, especially when he could do it on his own terms.

It was a warm, late summer afternoon when he finally decided to go to the mall. He grabbed his camera, a flashlight, and a backpack filled with snacks, then hopped on his bike. The mall was located on the outskirts of town, far enough that most people had forgotten about it. As he pedaled there, he imagined the bustling crowds, the neon signs flashing, the music drifting out of stores. What did it feel like to be there in its prime? What was it like to experience a place that was now nothing but a faded memory?

When Eli reached the mall, he stood at the entrance, eyes wide with awe. The sign that once read "Crystal Springs Mall" was barely visible, the letters half-faded and chipped, but he could make them out if he squinted. The doors were locked, but that didn’t stop him. He was no stranger to finding a way in.

The side door was slightly ajar, as if it had been waiting for him. With a quick push, Eli entered the darkened mall, his footsteps echoing off the empty halls. The scent of must and old wood filled his nostrils as he turned on his flashlight and began to explore. The escalators were frozen in time, frozen in place, as were the stores. He wandered past long-forgotten stores like Champs Sports, Sam Goody, and Orange Julius. His heart raced as he took it all in.

He made his way to the food court, and there, in the center, stood an old fountain, its water still. He crouched to get a closer look, his flashlight scanning the cracked tiles and faded murals. Everything about this place seemed wrong, but also perfect, like stepping into a dream or a forgotten memory.

And that’s when it happened.

The ground beneath him seemed to shudder, a soft vibration underfoot that sent a shiver up his spine. He stood up quickly, scanning the area. There was nothing unusual, but something felt off. Almost as if the mall itself was alive, waiting.

Eli turned to leave, but his body froze when he noticed something that hadn’t been there before. In the middle of the food court, there was a strange door—one he was sure had never existed. It was old-fashioned, wood-panelled with a brass handle that gleamed even in the dim light. His curiosity gnawed at him.

Before he could think too much about it, Eli approached the door, and as he did, a sudden gust of air swirled around him. The door creaked open, as if inviting him in. Without thinking, he stepped through.

The moment Eli stepped through the strange door, he felt a jolt, as if the very fabric of the world was being rewoven around him. The air shifted, thickened, and for a heartbeat, everything went still. His senses sharpened—colors seemed to snap into sharper focus, and sounds that had been muted became overwhelmingly clear. His head throbbed as if trying to process a flood of information all at once.

As the world around him began to settle, Eli looked down at himself. The loose, comfortable college clothes he’d been wearing—skinny jeans, a hoodie with a faded logo, and scuffed sneakers—were gone, replaced by something entirely different. His T-shirt was now a tight, bright red one with a sports brand emblazoned across the chest, his jeans fit snugly and tapered at the ankles, and his sneakers were high-top, almost too pristine to be real.

But it wasn’t just his clothes that had changed. His body felt... heavier, more substantial. He’d always been lean, wiry—now, he was broad-shouldered, muscular, his arms thick with strength that had never been there before. His reflection in the window of a nearby store sent a jolt of disbelief through him. The face staring back was the same, yet different: square jaw, high cheekbones, sharper, stronger features. It wasn’t the face of the Eli who had spent his nights exploring forgotten places and reading in quiet corners—it was the face of someone who belonged here.

His hair... that was the biggest change of all.

He ran his hands through his hair and froze. What had once been a messy, tousled mop of dark brown hair was now... something else entirely. His fingers met thick, wavy curls that felt foreign to him. It was soft but voluminous, and it seemed to have a life of its own—bouncy, fluffy, and wild. As his fingers ran through it, he felt the shape of it fall over his neck in a kind of perfectly chaotic way. It was like he was looking at a grown-out, curly mullet—a style that screamed 1980s loud and clear.

"Whoa..." Eli... no, Ryan—he was pretty sure his name was now Ryan—said aloud to himself, his voice deeper than he remembered, a bit huskier. He tugged at a lock of hair, mesmerized. It was like something from an old high school yearbook, a style that belonged to the jocks and cool kids he’d seen on TV but never thought he’d embody.

"Looks good on you, bro," came a voice from behind him.

Ryan spun around to see a guy in a leather jacket—definitely a classic 1980s style—grinning at him like they were old friends. He felt a surge of recognition, like this person was a part of his life in a way that felt so comfortable, so familiar. He wanted to give the guy a high-five, maybe throw an arm around his shoulders, but he didn’t even know his name yet.

"Yeah, thanks," Ryan replied, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that something was wrong—something about his old life. The more he looked around, the more everything felt right, like he was always supposed to be here. His reflection, his clothes, the new energy in his body—it was all in place. He was him. This was who he was.

He flexed his shoulders as if testing the new muscles, and they felt... perfect. Strong, solid, like they were meant for something. He stood a little taller, his posture straighter, more confident. His hair, now a fluffy, curly mullet that seemed to fit him effortlessly, bounced with each movement of his head. As he ran a hand through it again, it felt natural, like this was how it was always meant to be. The feeling of his old self—the Eli who wandered the world quietly, curious and introspective—began to fade, like a dream slipping away from his consciousness.

The guy in the leather jacket clapped him on the back. "You coming with us to the arcade, or what?"

Ryan nodded. "Yeah, sure," he said with an easy, confident grin that didn’t feel forced, but like it had always been there. The invitation felt more like a command than a suggestion, and Ryan was eager to follow.

As they walked, Ryan’s hair bounced with every step—his mullet a little more wild now, the curls not just waving in the air but taking on a life of their own. It was as if his body was fully embracing this 1980s persona, from the way he moved, to the way his clothes fit, to the loud, proud, irreverent style of his hair. Every inch of him screamed jock, popular, alive.

There was a strange satisfaction in it. He didn’t need to think about it; it just was. He was Ryan now, and that was who he would be. The mall, the strange door, his old life—it all seemed distant, like a dream he could barely remember.

As they reached the arcade, the flashing neon lights welcoming him in, Ryan felt the last remnants of Eli's existence slipping away. There was no need to wonder about his past, no need to think about the life he’d left behind. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The past? It didn’t matter anymore.

Ryan grinned at the sound of the arcade machines beeping and buzzing around him. He was home.

Over the next few days, Ryan fell into his new life with eerie ease. He went to high school, hung out with his jock friends, and spent hours in the arcade. The more he lived this life, the more natural it felt. His old identity—the curious college student who loved abandoned places—faded into a distant memory, something he barely remembered. His new world felt more real than the one he had come from.

He no longer cared about the past. The idea of his old life, of being a gay college kid who explored forgotten buildings, seemed silly now. His mind didn’t yearn for solitude or adventure. Instead, he cared about football games, parties, and the approval of his friends. His body, too, had shifted to match this new life. He was bigger, stronger, more attractive in a way that made girls—and even some guys—look at him with admiration.

But deep down, somewhere in the back of his mind, a small part of him remembered something—a fleeting image of an old, abandoned mall, of exploring on his own terms. But it was distant, fading like a dream, until it, too, vanished completely.

And as Ryan stood on the edge of the football field one crisp autumn evening, watching the lights of the school shine down on him, he didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The past was gone. He was home.

[landwriter]

Aurora borealis, May 10 2024

[lilacxquartz]

part 17 of 19 of kinktober: trapped

pyramid head x gn!reader

plot: while exploring the town, you find yourself incapacitated in the worst possible position — themes: warning for non con, dark smut, gender neutral reader, size difference, monster fucking, horror, gender neutral smut — w.c: 700ish

kinktober masterlist • main masterlist • ao3

You were incapacitated.

Trapped in between the barely pried open iron bars, providing just big enough of a gap for your upper body to squeeze through and then… stall. In a way, it was humiliating, but in another sense, it was also terrifying because existing within the town as a whole was a death sentence in its own right. From one little miscalculation—you had potentially doomed yourself.

You tried to dislodge yourself again but the bars were too narrowly placed and you couldn’t push or pull yourself neither back nor forth and in doing so, you only found yourself more stuck than before. Panic quickly swept through your being in violent waves, abandoning all sense of rationality in favour of a hurried escape but nothing was working—but then finally, you heard it—the all too familiar scrape of metal, the thud of staggering footsteps—oh no, no, no… he was here.

You turned your head slightly back to just about catch a glimpse of him filling out the doorway, blocking all gaps of light that otherwise cut into the cell. In an attempt to avoid your flesh likely meeting the blade, you strove to push yourself forward, to at least nullify his efforts to strike you down… but then something else followed suit.

You froze as you felt his calloused hands brush around the soft contours of your exposed flesh; his fingers breaching the torn fabric and tearing away the cloth from the skin, readily exposing you to him. You remained statued in place as you feared for the worst, unable to quite comprehend what he was actually doing to you; almost delicately feeling you up—pushing—spreading your legs apart, ripping away at anything that acted as a barrier between you and him.

You tensed as you quickly understood what was following suit; feeling the tip of something very obvious poke against your most vulnerable parts. You writhed around and squirmed under his grip like a fish out of water, only to remain caught and hooked in his presence, feeling him drive into you in a near hungry pursuit. You gritted your teeth as you felt him force himself inside of you, feeling overwhelmed by his monstrous length that completely filled you out to the brim.

With shuddering, quaking cries, you softly wept as he continued to take in his brutal girth, feeling his cock slide in and out of your insides and stretch you out beyond a recoverable limit. With an unforgiving pace, Pyramid Head continued to hilt himself into your core, feverishly bucking into your body as a radiating, almost scalding pain akin to searing agony settled within the confines of your form. Of course however, he showed you no mercy, pounding into you with a near primal fervour; his hips slamming against your behind with each sawing motion.

Somehow, he grew needier as he continued to violate you—his fingernails digging bleeding crescents into the soft peaks of your ass, kneading against the cushioned skin and spreading you open as far as you could physically handle. It was as if he was trying to force you to accommodate the entire capacity of his impossible length, taking advantage of the limiting position, knowing that you couldn’t just pull yourself away.

Nearing his impending climax; his movements soon became more erratic and maybe even sloppy. He leaned his towering form closer wherever he could press against your bare back—causing the iron bars to crack open further—growling out heated breaths that rolled hot down your spine. Each passing thrust caused for you to shake, prompting you to involuntarily roll your eyes to the back of your head and perhaps even see stars from just how overwhelming it all truly was.

Just as you were about to pass out however, the monster finally came undone with one final violent rut of his stuttering hips. You gasped as you felt a stream of hot oozing warmth fill your senses to such an extent that your stomach nearly bulged from his pent up release.

Thinking it was all over, you tried to close your eyes to recover—but then you were promptly taken out of the cell, readily carried around like a rag doll, to be used and paraded around per each of his passing whims.

In a way you were thankful that he wasn’t going to end you outright.

But then you realised what your life was about to become and that much had otherwise terrified you.

Not quite a mercy after all and worse yet, rather a sentence in the hell you found yourself in.

[misc-obeyme]

You were so unexpected. He knew that you were yet another task that Lucifer was pushing off on him for the sake of Lord Diavolo. Only another instance of being used, of being relied on, of being given the job no one else wanted to do.

It was difficult at first. A great demon like him had better things to do than babysit a fragile human like you. But time passed. Things changed. You changed and he changed and everyone else changed, too.

And then one day Mammon looked at you and saw his entire world.

He saw his sun in your eyes and his moon in your smile. His sky in the soft expanse of your skin. His roots in your fingers slotted perfectly with his. Time and tide and thunder and lightning, every part of him and every part of you - it was his everything.

It almost hurt to say it out loud. To admit to this vulnerability. His greatest weakness. It was always you. It would always be you. And in darkness, when you couldn't quite see him, he found he was desperate to whisper his truth into you. Pressing his face against your hair or your neck, his arms around you, feeling your heartbeat thudding against his. When he could just exist there, in the only place he ever felt like he truly belonged.

The Celestial Realm didn't want him. And the Devildom was only home because no place else could be.

Until you.

You saw him for who he was. A demon, a former angel, but more than any of that, you saw a brother, a friend, a lover. You saw the part of him that wanted to have fun, pulling pranks on Lucifer and going out clubbing with Asmo. You saw the part of him that wanted to protect, threatening Levi's bullies and taking the blame for Belphie. You saw the part of him that kept things normal for his family, teasing Satan and gifting things to Beel. And more than anything, you saw him when he was open and raw - when he didn't hide himself behind too much bluster, when he admitted how much his brothers meant to him. How much he loved you.

And maybe it was a little bit dangerous. Mammon knew that when it came to you, it would take so little. That in an instant he could become a demon whose power and rage cracked through the very fabric of existence. The kind of demon he never felt the need to be, the full potential that he let pass by in favor of keeping the peace. It would be nothing if it meant keeping you safe.

Pact or no pact, Mammon knew the truth. And deep down, he was sure you knew it, too.

That Mammon would let that power off its leash and bathe the world in blood, only for you.

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[jolalibrary]

when his eyes open

joel miller x f!reader | masterlist

summary: joel wakes and admires you and the morning.

wordcount: <600 warnings: joeticness, a little angst, a little twisty. an: dedicated to @joelscruff, who told me this was one of her favourite gifs when i asked for inspo for my first ever giflet. for info on giflet's, see @morallyinept's list here. gif credit to the wonderful, amazing @perotovar.

Before, the routine had been to simply make it through.

To survive another day in a place where crimson clings to clotted wounds, where weeds choke signs as rot consumes all that once lived. 

There are names that linger on his lips. Indelibly stained, carved deep inside him. Never forgotten, each a raw wound with grief around them that throbbed incessantly. Each woven into the very fabric of his soul.

When his eyes close, a horror movie plays on repeat. Blood-soaked shirts and the crack in his voice when he shouts. The snarl in his throat when skulls shatter and bodies break. In these brutal moments, he found himself living again, in a way that's both savage and necessary, the violence a perverse affirmation of his existence.

Plagued—tormented.

Then he wakes, and the truth crashes down—it’s not a movie, but his life. A routine he trudged through for so long until he found this place. A place where sunrise doesn’t mean pack up and move. Where golden light caresses the room he’s been given, kisses the guitar that has built callouses instead of his gun. Light falls softly on things he’s crafted with his hands, hands that once only knew how to take and destroy.

Joel wakes in a room, inside of a home, that’s now his.

A younger him might have given more for the kindness shown to him. The sacrifices he made would have felt meaningful, the blood spilt a necessary price. But now, the weight of his sins, the lives he’s shattered, and the innocence long lost have left him hollow. Acts of kindness feel like a cruel jest, an echo from a life he can barely remember, a life he feels he no longer deserves. In this quiet dawn, amidst the gentle light, he is haunted by the shadows of what he’s become.

But he's tired, worn. The face that greets him in the mirror is now aged, beaten down, and scorched by the relentless elements. Not that you seem to care.

You, who, as his lashes lift and focus, he finds reading for the second time this week. Twisted away from him, the book tilted to catch the sunlight so you don’t strain your eyes. You’d traded for it, your thumb lifting the corner of the page before dragging it to the opposite side—so loud in the quiet.

Joel doesn’t need to steal a moment, but he does all the same. He’s so used to taking, after all. 

He admires how the years have been a little kinder to you than they have to him. How you are a rare sweetness in a world that knows only bitterness. A thing that would have been coveted before and is now more than cherished. He appreciates you when his body doesn’t betray him, when age doesn’t force his eyes closed as his spine meets the bed. But when he can, when he’s able, he leaves marks that’ll last for days—a prickly burn on your inner thighs as you weave your fingers into the hair he’s not allowed to cut. When he holds you so tightly atop him, he knows you can trace the bruises he’s left.

You leave your own marks too. One of them from simply looking at him, showing him that smile—the one that could stop a younger man's heart.

He waits for another page to turn, eyes closing and reopening before he slides his palm over your knee.

Morning, you say.

Morning, he replies.

A new routine, one he doesn’t hate, yet it haunts him with its simplicity and its promise of a fragile peace.

[peachessndreamss]

Thunderstruck

Summery : When a scorching hot summer a thunderstorm wakes you and Eddie and gets the two of you worked up

Characters : Eddie Munson x fem!reader. no use of y/n

Warnings : explicit sexual content including, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v sex, canon typical drug use

Word count : 3.2 k

A/N : Previously posted on my now deleted page. Honestly just re-sharing because I still love this idea and this character. And I'm willing the summer to start here.

Is there anything sweeter than a summer thunderstorm? The weather had been oppressively hot for two weeks now, the grass was dead and yellow with the lack of rain and the soil in every flower bed deeply cracked and dusty. The town pool was full to bursting every day of the week with children and adults alike trying to escape the heat. 

Eddie's home often became so hot in the day it was physically impossible to stay inside for more than a few minutes without feeling like you were being cooked alive in an oversized tin can. You’d spend the hours of sunshine sitting outside on old and creaking sun loungers listening to music on Eddie’s stereo, reading or dozing. Eddie would strip down to his boxers and stretch out his slim, pale body in the shade but only after you’d smothered him in sunscreen and he was so greasy with it he looked like a professional wrestler. 

At night the trailer was a little cooler, but still every window needed to be flung open wide to coax in the almost non-existent cool breeze that danced on the warm night air. You’d sleep under a thin, cotton sheet, as anything else would have been too uncomfortable and even then, with Eddie running hot, he often abandoned the sheet all together and just slept naked and uncovered. 

It had been an easy Saturday, nothing to be achieved and nowhere for either of you to be. Band practice had been cried off due to the heat and D&D wasn’t until Tuesday so you and Eddie had spent the day on the sun loungers. Eddie was re-reading The Hobbit, his copy battered and bent at the spine from the many times it had been opened and poured over. He would read his favourite parts aloud to you, giving every character their own distinct voice, he’d read it so many times now he was reciting it from memory rather than reading. 

After a dinner of take away pizza enjoyed outdoors with Uncle Wayne before he headed off for his shift , and a few joints to see the day home, you and Eddie had climbed into his bed, laying as far apart as possible as to not make each other warmer than necessary. 

It was very early in the morning when you were woken up, the room was still dark, not even a hint of the dawn in the darkness so it was the sound that had disturbed you and after listening for a few seconds you heard it again, the deep, rolling roar of thunder. It lasted for as long as 10 seconds before fading into a heavy silence. Then the rain started, a gentle plink-plonk at first but within moments it was a downpour. Heavy rain drops slamming into the roof of the trailer and bouncing back up only to fall again. Then another rumble of thunder and a flash of bright white lightning. 

“Eddie,” you whispered, grabbing at his arm and tugging gently, “Eddie, wake up,”.

Eddie snorted and shifted onto his back, turning his head and squinting at you. 

“Was it?” he grunted, confused and upset by being woken up. His nose scrunched up and his eyes struggled to open. 

“Listen,” you insisted quietly, grabbing hold of his forearm. His skin was hot to touch and clammy. 

It took him a few seconds to realise what you were talking about, as he listened, his brows unfurrowed and his eyes eased open. He cocked his head to one side, the tangle of curls under his head crackling on the fabric of his pillow. 

“It’s raining?” he asked, glancing at you. 

“It’s a thunderstorm,” you replied with a grin. 

“Awesome,” he said with a grin as he sat up and flung himself off the bed and across the small room to the window, yanking back the light curtain and taking in the scene. 

The sky seemed to glow dark red and stormy grey, the clouds low and flat, hanging over the town like a wet blanket. The rain that was falling was fast and heavy and the clattering, pattering sounds it made caused a shiver to run up Eddie’s spine. Suddenly there was a deafening roll of thunder, so loud it felt like it was happening inside your head, it was followed only a second later by a fork of lightning that illuminated the whole sky as it raced toward the ground. 

“Shit, that’s close,” Eddie said over the sound of the rain. 

“It’s so cool,” you replied, standing next to him at the window. 

The air outside was now much cooler and it whipped into the open window, bringing with it a smattering of rain. Eddie slipped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you close to him. The two of you watched three more lightning strikes, Eddie was certain that the last one must have hit his favourite picnic bench because the strike had been so close. 

You were now a little bored with the weather and your attention turned to the man standing beside you. You turned your head and placed a gentle kiss on his jaw, then another soft kiss on his cheek before bringing one hand up his naked back and shifting his curls away from his ear so you could kiss the lobe of his ear. You felt Eddie shudder and watched his eyes close as you let your lips linger on such a sensitive spot for him. 

"It's cooler now isn't it?" You said softly, turning your whole body so your front was now at his side, you placed one hand on his stomach, feeling the warmth and softness of his skin and the slight rasp of the hair that led down to his groin. 

"Yeah, a bit," Eddie swallowed as your hand moved a little lower down his stomach. 

You moved your head forward and snuggled into Eddie's neck, catching the smell of his sweat from his hair and his skin as you dragged your teeth against the soft skin. 

"Let's go back to bed Eddie," you mewled, your hand slipping even lower on his stomach, feeling the distinct change in his body hair, from the loose curls of his happy trail to the tighter and coarser curls of his pubic hair. 

Eddie swallowed hard, his cock already hardening and thickening at your touch. In less than an inch you'd be able to wrap your hand around the root of his dick and find him so ready to fuck. While the weather had been as hot and uncomfortable as it had been sex had been completely off the menu, neither of you liking the idea of any additional physical exercise than was strictly necessary. 

Eddie grabbed hold of your wrist before you reached the apex of his thighs and brought your wrist up to his mouth, biting gently at the soft underside of your wrist where a few delicate veins rose up from under your skin, almost imperceptible to the eye but Eddie knew they were there and how it made you squirm when they were touched. 

A thrill of pleasure ran around your naked body as his teeth caressed the delicate skin at your wrist before he kissed it softly. 

"Bed please, my love," he whispered before letting your wrist go and giving you a little bump with his hip in the direction of the bed. 

You smiled sweetly as you slipped out of his embrace and stepped back to the bed. Climbing on the end of the bed, glancing back over your shoulder while on all fours, finding Eddie watching you with his mouth open and a hungry look in his eyes. 

"Like this?" You asked, wiggling your hips from side to side. 

Eddie shook his head as he started to gather up his curls into an elastic he kept around his wrist. 

"On your back baby," he replied as he tightened the bun at the back of his head.

You grinned, feeling your body’s Pavlovian response to seeing his hair tied back like that as you flipped over onto your back in the centre of the small bed, your head resting on the pillow as Eddie positioned himself comfortably between your thighs. He'd settled himself with his cock trapped between his stomach and the mattress so when the mood took him he could grind down on the mattress. 

He ran his tongue over his lips as he looked up at your face, one of his forearms slipping around your thigh and lifted it onto his shoulder, your foot now resting on his back. His other hand pushed your other thigh aside, pushing your sex open for him. He made a sound of appreciation deep in his chest before he used two fingers to spread your slick lips open, exposing you even more intimately, giving him unlimited access to your clit, your entrance and with a tilt of your hips he'd have access to your tight asshole too. But right now, Eddie only had one thing on his mind. 

"Hey sweetheart," he cooed softly, dipping his head forward and placing a soft, closed lip kiss just above your clit.

"I've missed you," he continued in a soft, lilting voice, placing another kiss just below your clit. 

You made a soft purring sound, lifting your hips up a little, urging him to get to the main event. Eddie chuckled and gave you a very gentle slap on the thigh. 

“Don't rush me," he insisted, lifting his head to speak to you, "we need to get reacquainted and she's shy," he added before touching the pad of his thumb to your clit, the sudden direct contact making you jerk your hips off the bed and your hands claw at the bedsheet. 

"See?" He said with a grin as he cocked his eyebrow at you, "she's skittish,". 

Eddie returned his attention to your pussy and continued his slow torture, kissing around your clit, occasionally giving a small lick either side but never touching it directly. In what felt like hours to you, but was only 2 minutes in reality Eddie had you rocking and twisting your hips, trying to force him to give you the contact you wanted. 

"Eddie please, please please," you moaned as your hands fisted at the bedsheet. 

Eddie chuckled softly, rubbing his chin against the thigh he had hooked over his shoulder. 

"Needy, needy girl," he whispered sweetly before finally kissing your clit. 

The bud was tight and thumping in time with your heartbeat and Eddie's wet mouth created an explosion of pleasure and pain as the thousands of nerve endings were stimulated in unison. You gave a strangled cry, bucking your hips up and bringing one of your hands down on the back of Eddie's head, holding him in place, rocking your hips against his open mouth, feeling the hot, wetness of his tongue as he danced it over and around your clit. There was no consistency to his movements yet so while pleasure rolled around your body you knew he wasn't trying to make you come yet. He was still holding back. 

You moaned and bucked again, pushing Eddie's head down harder, feeling the press of his nose into your pubic mound. 

"Eddie, fuck, Eddie," you groaned as you noticed for the first time the slow, undulating movements of his lower body. 

You lifted your head up and watched his hips pressing and grinding down against the mattress, the muscles in his bare ass popping as he rolled his hips and clenched his glutes and thighs. The sight of him fucking at the mattress sent your body and mind spiraling as you dropped back onto the pillow and moaned loudly, your whole body suddenly more alive than ever. 

Eddie's tongue was now constantly licking at your clit, his lips fixed around it  creating a hot, wet seal around the bud. Eddie let you buck and grind and hold his face down all you needed until you finally reached your peak. Your voice disappeared for a few seconds as you felt nothing but hot pleasure rushing around your body.

As your muscles clenched and stars exploded behind your eyes a streak of lightning raced across the sky, turning the room as bright as your body felt for a few seconds. Your hand released Eddie's head and he moved a little, not enough to break contact but to ease up on your clit, stopping the intense licking and changing back to soft kisses to draw out your climax until you were shaking and writhing, nothing but soft mewling noises coming from your mouth.

"Oh god," you moaned softly as Eddie moved his kisses to the inside of your thighs, his eyes travelling up your body to your face. 

"That was so cool baby," he whispered, "you came so hard there was lightning,". 

You gave a soft laugh, lifting your head to look at the sweet man between your legs, he was looking up at you, his big brown eyes looking soft and loving. 

"Get up here and fuck me," you said, twisting a curl of his hair that had fallen loose around your finger. 

"Fuck yeah baby," Eddie replied as he clambered up, crawling up your body, pushing your thighs apart and bringing his hard cock right to your waiting entrance.

You were both beyond ready so Eddie sank into you easily, placing his hands on your thighs and drawing them up his body so you cradled him either side of his chest. He rested with his forearms either side of your head and kissed you deeply and he pressed his hips forward, filling your body with his, making you whole and creating a passionate fusion of your two bodies and your two souls. 

You broke away from his mouth and moaned his name, your hands clutching at his back, your nails digging deep and leaving red marks in his alabaster skin. Eddie hissed at the burn of your nails in his flesh but the hiss quickly turned to a laugh as he dipped his head and licked up the column of your neck to your chin before kissing you again, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he drew his hips back before driving forward again.

You broke away from his lips, taking a deep gasping breath as the head of Eddie's cock hit right against your g-spot. As the lights burst behind your closed eyes the sky seemed to shake with a huge rumble of thunder, it was so loud and so close it felt like it might have made the trailer shake but it was hard to tell if the shaking was the weather, or Eddie as he picked up his pace. 

He moves from drawing out and pushing forward to grinding, keeping his cock buried deeply inside you and rocking his hips back and forth, meaning he was able to constantly stimulate you internally as well as externally, your clit now being rubbed by the muscles of Eddie's pelvis. You clawed at Eddie's back, crying out as you felt your second climax starting to build deep inside your belly. 

"Eddie, oh God, Eddie," you breathed. 

You moved your hands from his back to his face. Catching his cheeks between your hands and bringing his face close to yours, pressing your foreheads together. His face was sweaty and so was yours, your two sweats mingling on your skin. 

You felt so completely connected to him it was overwhelming, Eddie was everywhere and, in that moment, he was everything as well. The intimacy of it all aided in pushing you over the edge very quickly, your orgasm burst outward with the power of an exploding star. Your legs gripping Eddie's chest and your arms dragging his upper body closer to yours so it was impossible to tell who skin was who's. 

With a stuttering and guttural cry, taken by surprise by your suddenly gripping, milking pussy Eddie came, hard and deep. Filling you up as another rumble of thunder and flash of lightning split the sky. 

The two of you seem to float, for a while, suspended in space and time, your bodies both corporeal and ethereal, human and divine. You come back to the sound of the pattering rain and the tickle of Eddie's curls, the weight of his body feels safe and the heat of his skin feels comforting. 

"Eddie baby?" You said softly, stroking your fingers down his spine. 

"Yeah?" He mumbled, his face pressed deep into the space beside your neck. 

"You okay?". 

"Baby," Eddie sighed, lifting himself up to look at your face, "that was the best," he grinned. 

You giggled, more of the physical sensations of post sex coming back to you. An ache in your hips, a stretch between your thighs, and warm wetness on your thighs. 

"It was good," you agreed. 

"I think we should always have sex when there's a thunderstorm," he said sleepily as he moved, withdrawing his softening cock from you and flopping down beside, patting a spot on his chest where he wanted you to put your head. 

You wriggled toward him and placed your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around your body and the two of you kissed deeply. 

"I feel like we just conceived the anti-Christ or something," you said with a giggle. 

Eddie scoffed and shook his head. 

"Don't even joke," he replied, kissing the top of your head tenderly. 

The rain seemed to be slowing and the rumbles of thunder sounded further away, the storm seemed to be rolling on, maybe waking up other young lovers as it went. 

Eddie dropped off to sleep after a few minutes, his body and mind completely relaxed and satisfied. You stayed awake a little longer, the day was getting lighter by the second and Eddie's features were being revealed to you in glorious golden morning hues. You were contemplating how much he looked like an angel from a painting when you dropped off to sleep yourself. 

The two of you woke up a second time when Wayne came home from his shift with paper bags of hot and greasy breakfast food. The three of you sat around the small table and ate. Wayne was tired from his shift and you and Eddie were dozy from being up half the night enjoying each other's bodies. The day after the storm was cooler, the air fresher. The plants seemed to be greener and the sky bluer and even the people seemed more friendly, Eddie's usually sullen neighbour greeting you when you stepped out of the trailer to find your rain soaked sneakers. 

Eddie brought his guitar out that day and he sat beside you on the same sun lounger and strummed chords, humming tunes and making up nonsense songs. Songs about his D&D campaign, songs about summer, songs about love, and one about passionate nights while lightning splits the sky. 

Hearing him recount the night before in his deep, rich singing voice sent shivers down your spine. 

"You're not sharing that one with the band are you?" You asked as he came up with a lyric about how the sound of the thunder was second to the sounds you make when he’s inside you.

Eddie chuckled and shook his head. 

"This one's just for you and me baby,".

[bel1ewrites]

Booth Five (Sam Carpenter x Reader)

A/n: Here's another one, love you guys.

WC: Idfk

Warnings: smut, top!Sam, bossyish!reader, slightly public sex, thigh riding, more thigh riding, Sam in fancy work clothes

NUMEROUS visits to her favorite place after a long, hard day of work had forced Sam's ears to grow accustomed to the deafening thunder of sensual music that pumped through the hazy club.

Ever since the very first week of her new life in the the city, Sam had made sure to become somewhat of a regular at The Vanity. She made sure to commit each and every worker to memory, even went out of her way to tip a little extra every visit. It was just who she was. She loved to pay attention, and she loved to be aware.

She did not, however, love to be confused.

From her spot on a cracked leather couch, she sits with a drink in her hand, the top few buttons of her shirt undone, and she watches you move. The colored lights run over your body like waves on a shore, black lace the only thing stopping you from being fully exposed. It's euphoric, the way you move. It's familiar and free, icy hot. Sam takes a pull of her drink.

------

"You've got a private booking, honey," your boss calls as you fuss with your hair in the vanity mirror. She's a firecracker of a woman, short and curvy. The voice of a smoker mixed with the tone of a caretaker. "Booth five."

It hadn't taken you long to understand the inner workings of your place of employment. Annoyingly, nothing was ever straightforward, and booth five was not an exception to this rule.

You'd learned that an hour with one of the dancers in booth five had to cost more than your rent; which, albeit, didn't say much. It was the coldest spot in the whole club, nothing but dark red walls and a single black couch, and you couldn't really tell if it was the air vents or the dark aura that made you shiver when you passed it.

This is the first time anyone has requested for you to be in there.

"Um," your voice is steady as you turn around, smoothing a hand over non existent fabric out of nervous habit, "Is it cool if Amber takes this one?"

A beat passes.

"The patron requested for it to be you." If she notices the way your heart drops, she doesn't mention it. Only smiles crookedly and nods, effectively dismissing you from the comfort of being alone.

The beat of your heart doubles that of the music as you walk out of the room, a little unsure and a little irratic. Your heels feel too tall, your chest too tight.

Dancing was different. Dancing didn't bring forth any unwanted social interaction. Sure, there was the occasional creep, but they never really bothered you much when you could tune them out with thoughts of being beneath your covers with hot Chinese food and your cat curled up on your lap.

This was intimate. This was private and there was really no practical way of getting out of it.

You're sure you're going to pass out when you reach the outside of the booth, nothing but a thin curtain separating you from the unknown man waiting inside. Is he married? Is he demanding? Does he expect anything more than a lap dance from you?

A job is a job, you remind yourself, breathing deeply once, twice before stepping inside.

The air is charged. Static pulses around you. So its a woman. There's a woman a few feet in front of you.

She sits there, back against the couch and legs spread like she owns the place, shirt slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. She's tall and dark and has the look of someone who's grown accustomed to getting what she wants one way or another. Her eyes drop down your figure, lingering at certain parts unabashedly. They run over every inch of you slowly, methodically. She wets her lips.

"Hello." She speaks. Her voice is fire and ice. It's raspy and smooth, dark and calculated and so insanely perfect that it makes your ears ring a little.

It's your turn to say something, anything, really. You really do try to greet her, even open your mouth for a second before promptly shutting it again.

"It's reasonable to expect a greeting after one says hello, is it not?" Her brow raises. It seems that all it takes for you to gain your composure is a little confrontation.

You close the still open door and take a step forward, trapping a palpable tension in the room along with the sound of muffled music.

"Sorry about that, I just wasn't expecting... this." Amusement flashes in her eyes. "You weren't expecting a woman?" She questions, patting the space beside her and signaling for you to sit.

There's room for her to scoot over and create a comfortable amount of space between your bodies, but that doesn't seem like something she wants.

Your body moves without your mind's consent, "no, I wasnt," you answer, taking your seat.

She hums, the scent of her cologne wafting over you like a drug. "Disappointed?" she asks, bottom lip puffed out in a teasing pout.

The couch is cold beneath you, but that doesn't stop the fire from rushing to your cheeks. Nervously, you run a hand through your hair and smile, trying not to let her undeniable smoothness get in the way of yours.

"Oh, hardly," you let out a raspy huff of laughter and you can't help the way your eyes flit to her mouth.

A smirk tugs at her lips, pout dropping entirely. "Well aren't you fiery."

"Why did you ask for me?" you pry, gaze hooded.

"Why wouldn't I?" She questions, tone serious and eyes on yours. The air feels thick around you.

She truly is a beautiful woman, silky black hair and dark eyes surrounded by thick lashes. The muscles in her arms pull at the fabric surrounding them. You suddenly feel underdressed.

"Amber normally takes this booth," you offer truthfully.

Amber was a favorite amongst the club. She was all dark smiles and sinful moves. You appreciated her for her wit and ability to seem completely calm at all times; a skill you wish you had.

Her hand drops to the bare flesh of your upper thigh. "I didn't ask for Amber, did I?"

Sam had interacted with the girl numerous times. She'd been working here since that first night and was undoubtedly beautiful, but she didn't feel drawn to Amber like she did you. Her body didn't light up when she saw her like it did with you. You were different.

"What's your name?" you pry.

The heat of her gaze along with that of her palm on your thigh sends jolts down your spine. You can see the muscles in her jaw move as she grits her teeth, swallowing hard.

"Sam."

"Why did you ask for me?" you ask again, eyes on her dark and blown pupils. Your own gaze is hooded, lashes low as you look up at her.

She smiles wolfishly, teeth flashing. "Can't a girl want to get to know someone?"

"Well," you look down at her mouth, "I guess when you put it that way."

The air around you seemed to grow thick, tension lacing through it. Her aura was intoxicating, the way it consumed you so quickly, made you want to give her everything.

She hums, tightening her grip on your thigh, "For such a pretty girl you sure do ask a lot of questions," the words fall from her lips, tone low and dripping with want.

"Yeah?" You smile.

"Yes." She shoots back.

"Really?"

She ignores you, looking at you so intensely you almost think you did something wrong.

"Can I kiss you?"

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly but you can't help it. When she kisses you it's softer than you expect it to be, like she's testing the waters. Her hand runs up your thighs, teases its way to your hip and squeezes the flesh there. It makes your head spin and your heart race, heat settling in your lower stomach.

Teeth graze your bottom lip as she pulls back a little. "Come here," The woman breathes into your mouth. She guides you onto her lap, smiling and leaning further into the couch. You have to arch forward to kiss her again, something that isn't an accident on her part.

Hands grip at your waist, your hips, your ass. She's deepening the kiss like it's pushing life into her and she can't get enough. it's a needy, panting scene as her lips and tongue slide over yours.

She kisses you like you've never been kissed, skill and need intertwining into a moment that makes you dizzy. She's all soft lips and rough teeth, nipping and sucking and soothing.

The musky scent of her cologne messes with your head and you can't stop your hips from moving, seeking pressure to tame the heat inside of you.

She trails her lips down to your neck, hand pulling at your hair to tilt your head back. "That's it, baby," Sam coos, teeth scraping under your jaw, "use my leg." She shifts the two of you before you can do anything, moving you to straddle her thigh. Her lips latch onto a sensitive spot on your neck as she pushes her leg up and into you.

"Fuck," you gasp out, gripping her shoulders and arching further into her. The position gives her mouth easy access to your chest.

The fabric of your lace bra is easy for her to move to the side, baring your hardened nipple to her.

"You're so pretty," She groans beneath you, pressing her tongue to the sensitive bud.

Pleasure shoots through you and you suppress a moan at the feeling of her skilled mouth against you. She's pulling at your hips, guiding their movements as you rock into her. It's hard to remember where you are, how any of your coworkers can walk in if they want to. All you can think about is how muscular her leg is through her pants as it presses into your clit in just the right way, how strong her hands are as they grasp at your body like it's her lifeline.

It's almost embarrassing, how worked up this stranger has you. She's touching you like she knows your body, and you can feel your wetness soaking through your fabric. Truth be told, you'd been wet since she first spoke, voice smokey and addicting.

She sucks your tit into her mouth, tongue lashing at your nipple and you have to push her away before you get loud. She protests as you send her back to leaning against the couch, but ultimately keeps quiet when you bury your head in her neck to muffle your moans.

"That's it, just like that pretty girl," She whispers in your ear while you grind against her, leg rubbing your clit just right each time. "You sound so pretty."

Needy whines and sighs escape your throat, lips pressed to her neck while she pushes her thigh harder into you. She hums at the feeling, sound deep and rasped.

You would be disappointed in yourself for being so close this fast, and over the clothes no less, but you can't feel anything other than the pressure in your lower stomach building and building.

"It's so good," you admit breathily into her neck, nails digging into her upper back through the button up. You can feel the firm muscles there, and you can't help but picture them rippling as she fucks you.

"What's so good?" she asks like she already knows the answer.

Her voice sends you spiraling further, the almost taunting tone laced in her words. "The way you touch me."

She laughs lowly, "Oh? You close?" Her head turns as she presses a kiss to your cheek, you pull your head out of her neck and look her in the eyes.

"Use your hand," you order, grabbing her right wrist and dragging it towards where you want it.

The look that washes over her almost pushes you over the edge, the way she listens to your command and presses her fingertips to your clit.

The texture of the fabric rubbing against you feels overwhelmingly good, tension building in your body. You watch her with your eyes half open and your lips parted, watch as she drinks you in with her eyes.

Everything about her is skilled, the way she moves her hand in hard circles and pushes into you. Her free hand wraps around your neck gently and pushes you back a bit so that she can see more of you, your free nipple and the blush spreading across your chest. The action combined with the slight pressure on your neck makes your eyes roll back, a curse falling from your lips.

"Faster. Fuck, Sam," you tilt your head back and move with her hand, "I'm so close."

She listens so good, movements speeding up just how you asked. It feels so good, the warmth spreading throughout your body and coiling in your stomach. You're panting needily, orgasm rushing towards you, its presence overbearing.

"So bossy," She teases.

A slew of words grace your lips, body falling forward to mask the volume of your moans in the crook of her neck. She moves with precision, never once slowing down or faltering.

"Come on, baby," She urges, "cum on my hand."

It only takes a few more movements before you're doing just that, body tensing up and shuddering above her. The orgasm hits you like a bullet train and drags itself out, lasting longer than any other you'd ever had.

The feeling of her arm around your back, fingers still moving on your clit to guide you through makes it last longer. Her voice is in your head, grounding you as she whispers.

Her hand is gone from your clit and her neck is sweaty from the combined body heat by the time you pull back, shaking slightly. The reality of the situation doesn't hit you, just lingers in the back of your mind as you look at her.

"Hi," you say, hair sticking to your forehead slightly.

"Hi," She smiles sweetly back. "Sorry about the hickeys, I got a little carried away."

Your nipple hurts a little from the intensity with which she sucked at it, and you know your neck is riddled with marks.

"It's okay," you smile back, "but you'll have to be the one to let my boss know where they came from."

Her smile turns sheepish, though you can tell she doesn't regret leaving them. "Only if I can see you again," her arms tighten around your waist, lips brushing yours.

"Deal."

[proseandpretrichor]

Longing For You~ Spencer Reid

Summary: After noticing you share the same bus route, Spencer can't help but want to know more about you Warnings: None

Spencer had memorized your entire routine. Not in a creepy stalker way, he honestly couldn’t help it, your existence shone so bright it rendered him in captivation without you really even trying. 

The first Monday he saw you, he smelled your perfume first. Vanilla with some hints of coffee and cinnamon, warm and comforting, like a hug from fall itself. You came to stand in front of where he sat, there being no room in the crowded bus, leaving you with the only option of invading his presence with yours. Facing him so that you could look out the window, the only words you had since spoken to him were a quick, “Sorry!” before turning your attention to the contents outside. 

He didn’t anticipate what your voice would have sounded like but it matched you perfectly, soft, warm, melodic and lilting. Reminding him of the wind-chimes, Garcia cluttered her front porch with. 

He wouldn’t have given anything and everything the universe desired of him to hear it again, to hear it every moment he was given on this earth. 

He took the advantage of your distraction to commit your appearance to memory. You were much shorter than him. While he was tall and lanky, you were soft and curvy, every part of your body well loved. Shiny  hair tumbling to kiss your shoulders creating a halo-like frame around your face. The hue of your hair saturating the  in color your eyes, which sparkled from the wide-framed glasses perched on your nose dotted with freckles that splayed out reaching out till your cheekbones. Your full cheeks tinted pink from your exertion to reach the bus. Your lips were a modest plump, your fuller bottom lip caught in between your teeth as you surveyed the scenes they passed. 

That day you wore a simple black dress. Thin straps meeting the v-line that plummeted to your cleavage. The fabric clinging to your soft curves until your hips then fell loosely till your mid-thighs. Artistically woven jewelry making home in the open space of your chest as though pointed to the art below the garments. An oversized sage green sweater covered your exposed shoulders and trailed down your arms covering your ring clad fingers which clasped your leather satchel matching his. 

Your black boot clad feet tip tapped on the bus floor as you mouthed the lyrics to the music flowing from the earbuds in your ears adorned with more jewelry he thought could possibly fit on someone’s ears. 

It was then that he noticed an array of tattoos underneath your black stockings. 

An open faced pomegranate, a fairy, a hummingbird, a lit lantern with some plants hanging from the frame, a cracked antique looking mirror and a mosaic looking window were only some of the art that he could see covering your lower thighs and upper calves. Spencer was never particularly drawn to tattoos before, but there was something so mesmerizing and intriguing about the ink plastered on your skin. Why these drawings, what did they mean to you, what were their stories, did you have any others he couldn’t see. 

The chirping sound of someone signaling the driver to stop the bus interrupted his thoughts and before he could snap out of his trance you were  gone. 

The next day, Spencer vibrated with anticipation as the bus hurled towards the stop he hoped you would be at. Sure enough, the open doors wafted your perfume towards him as he glanced up from his shoes and saw you walking towards him as you boarded the bus. 

This Tuesday was rainy, foggy, humid, and ominous. While Spencer loved the possibility these kinds of days brought, most of society didn’t. And much to his delight, this meant the bus wasn’t as crowded as the previous day, allowing you to perch yourself  in the seat across from him. 

The open space allowed you to open your satchel and bring out your book which seemed to delight you. You wiggled in your seat as you opened the very worn copy, cramming the bookmark, annotation tabs and pencil in your hand as you placed the book on your thighs. 

Spencer couldn’t help but stare at you in awe as you lost yourself in the pages in the way he’s only seen in himself. Every now and then you would pause, look up and out at the window above him, adjust your glasses, underline a particular sentence or two and tab the page before losing yourself in the plot once more. 

He couldn’t help but feel pieces of his soul chip off of his being and float over to you every time you  hummed a note in the song you was listening to or pulled a berry glossed lip into your teeth. 

Spencer knew in his very genius logical mind that love at first sight couldn't possibly be plausible. While love at first sight could very well be an intense initial attraction, one couldn’t simply be in love or hold the intense passion of love with nothing but a singular glance of a person.

 But in that moment, Spencer was willing to risk it all, he was willing to step onto every stage he ever stood on and declare he wished to worship this one goddess for the rest of his life, however long he was blessed with. And if he was granted too little time on this earth, he would beg on his knees to a god he didn’t believe in to have just one more minute looking at you. 

Over the coming weeks, Spencer committed any little detail of you to memory. An unsleeved coffee cup told him the secret of your coffee order- a hot/iced dirty chai extra chai and a shot of caramel. The temperature of your beverage depends on the weather that day.

He figured out your favorite color as your glasses, phone case, and many of your articles of clothing were various shades of the same color.

A flash of your work badge allowed him to notice your place of work- a local university in the city of Quanitico which a quick shameful google search he made as soon as he got to work told him you were the lead analyst and book curator for the library at the school.

He joined Instagram just to scroll through your posts and stories which included snapshots of the books you read - a blend of the classics, fantasy, and romance being the most frequent genres you enjoyed, song lyrics that spoke to you, and what you called photo dumps of random candids of you and things you enjoyed throughout your weeks.

He learned you had a rescue pitbull named Galadriel which you affectionately called Gala from your posts and phone lockscreen.

He learned you graduated from Harvard from the only swag sweatshirt you seemed to own since unlike all of the clothes he had seen you wear this one was faded and worn and a quick inquiry from an acquaintance who raved on and on about the sweet, dedicated, and smart nature of their old student. 

After three months of shared bus routes, he was totally enamored with you. You were  his last thought before he went to bed wondering how you would do your hair or what you would wear the next morning and the first thought he mustered when he woke up a ghostly waft of your perfume fueling him to start the day just to see her.

 He longed to hold you in his arms, to bury his head in your neck, card his fingers through your soft tresses and listen to your every word with a baited breath. But no matter how much he longed and struggled to gain the confidence to just try and approach you, he couldn’t enter your bubble for fear of you finding him uninteresting. 

It was 3:37 on a Wednesday afternoon as Spencer sat down in his usual seat. He and the team had just wrapped up a case when he decided he would take the after case paperwork home and do it after a little power nap and shower. As he leaned against the window clutching his go-bag in his lap, he didn’t notice the bus filling up with people leaving work, nor did he register the presence coming up towards him. 

“Excuse me,” he turned to face the voice, “Do you mind if I sit here, there’s no more space otherwise I’d give you the row” You smiled softly at him gesturing at the seat beside him. 

“No, of course! I don’t mind at all.” He said a little to hurriedly wincing at his own excitement. 

With a soft thanks, You plopped in the seat, thigh brushing his due to the close proximity. 

“Are you alright? I don’t mean to pry but you seem more exhausted today then you typically do. Not that you look tired normally, I didn’t mean that…” You stuttered, taking a deep breath before continuing, "I just haven’t seen you in a while and wanted to make sure everything was okay in your world.” Finishing with tinged cheeks you glanced at him before focusing on one of your rings. 

“I am quite alright, thank you. Exhausted yes, but if anything relieved to be here. I was on a case.” Spencer told you, teeming with excitement that they were finally having a conversation, something he only ever thought would happen in his daydreams. 

“A case?” What kind of case, if you don’t mind me asking.” You tilted your  head fully invested in his next words. 

Spencer couldn’t believe that not only did you notice he was gone, wanted to check on his well-being, but actually was invested in his life with a sliver of interest he had with you.

“You don’t have to share. I know I’m being nosy. Just tell me to butt-out if you want some peace and quiet.” 

“No! He quickly shut you down. 

“I don’t mind, I work for the FBI, I was on a case to stop a series of serial killings.” 

You  fully turned in her seat, mouth dropping in shock. “I thought they only had those jobs in movies! Do you have those boards with the pictures and the red strings, and have the family members make phone calls to the criminals?” your hands started waving and your eyes widening as the thoughts raced around in your  head. 

“Well I am a terrible liar so I don’t think I’m cut out to be an actor. He tried to joke that he was delighted to be rewarded with a little giggle from the girl beside him.

“We have boards, yes, no strings, though. We mainly put photos of preceding victims, evidence and geographical tools such as maps. Sometimes we entice the unsub with direct contact if they have the need to inselves into the investigation. Most of the time we don’t have any contact” He rambled but quickly trailed off taking a peek at you to see if you had any signs of boredom. 

Instead you found you leaning towards him, chin resting your closed fist which you propped on your thigh. You nodded along pausing before asking, “Unsub? I’m unfamiliar with that term.” 

“Unidentified subject,” Spencer supplied, “Since they are not convicted or charged with a crime, yet they are not technically criminals.” 

“Ohhhhh, yeah that makes total sense. Duh” You said lightly smacking your forehead. Spencer couldn’t help but chuckle. 

Spencer expected you to be content with the conversation and turn your attention elsewhere. Instead you continued asking him questions about the case, interjecting to ask his opinions on the unsubs behaviors or make little comments of your own. Just as Spencer anticipated, talking to you was easy even if they were discussing a rather heavy topic and you voiced very interesting points. 

Before he knew it, the bus had arrived at your stop and Spencer's heart ached when you moved to get up. 

“See you tomorrow… I’m sorry I don’t know your name!” you exclaimed, hands coming up to cup your cheeks in embarrassment. 

“Spencer Reid.” He offered. 

“Y/N Y/LN” you returned beaming up at him. “I would love to continue this conversation tomorrow if you're interested.” you  asked, looking down nervously. 

“I would like that.” Spencer returned. 

You nodded and with a little bounce you turned and headed to the bus exit. As you stood behind the line of passengers exiting,  you turned back and waved at Spencer before you disappeared off the bus. 

Spencer held his hand up to wave back hoping you  saw him return your gesture.

For the rest of his ride, he could not stop grinning. He willed the bus to drive to his apartment faster so he could climb into bed so the next time he opened his eyes he would only have to wait a little longer to hear your voice and smell that vanilla perfume.

[obliviouscxnt]

Home Azriel x Reader

a/n: forewarning I'm a firm believer in things getting worse before they get better. I hope you enjoy!:)))

synopsis: azriel has to resort to desperate measures in order to ensure your safety

Warnings: SA, depictions of RAPE, angst, violence, minor fluff

5.3k words

pt.1 | pt.2

The feeling was unshakable, those hands grabbing you, forcing you into the darkness. The freezing cold void of absolutely nothing and everything all at once. 

It’d been a day since the incident, the bruises and scratches on your body were already healing, getting better by the second. 

You hadn’t felt anything since then, no presence in the corner of your mind, no eyes on you, just silence. 

You didn’t know why its absence brought you no comfort. Why it made you feel worse. Like your body was trying to warn you about something your mind hadn’t caught up with yet. 

However, that was the last thing you wanted to think about as you lay beside Azriel’s form. Listening to his soft heartbeat. Letting the rhythm soothe you into a state of calm. 

You were so tired, you just needed a little bit of sleep, to rejuvenate your brain.  And if you had any hope of avoiding that nightmare you had to keep it far out of your thoughts. Distract your mind with other things. Conjure a nice dream for yourself. A dream about you and the shadowsinger. 

A dream where the two of you could just exist together. With no worries, no foreboding feelings in your hearts, just you and him, and your family, and happiness. 

Slowly that disturbed twisting feeling of unease faded away, and you closed your eyes. Ready for sleep to take you away.

Then it rushed you. 

Darting out from whatever crevice it had been lurking in. Invading your mind, taking hold of your senses. 

It tore apart your dream, cracked open your fabrication, and sent a shockwave through your system. It felt like the magic under your skin flinched. 

You gasp, eyes snapping open as you sit up. 

You feel Azriel’s hands on your shoulders, then you see his face in front of yours. Hazel eyes darkened with worry. 

It had been hiding from you, waiting for you to let your guard down. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to grab you and pull you into its never-ending darkness. 

It snapped your dream world in half. 

You shiver. 

“I don’t know what to do.” You confess to him. “It’s like it has a mind of its own.” 

Azriel’s hands grip you tighter and pull you into his chest. His wings cocooning you. “We’ll go see the sisters first thing in the morning. You can give it back to Elaine. Let her deal with it.” 

You swallow. Knowing that wasn’t an option. It would destroy her. And in turn, destroy Feyre. 

He reads your face. “You think you need to keep it? That because of your abilities you have some obligation to? You don’t. What if your abilities make it worse? At least, with Elaine it can’t take form.” 

You don’t voice your thoughts, you can’t fight with him. 

You don’t say that it would eat the newly turned Fae alive in her fragile state. Pick away at her mind until there was nothing left. That you at least had a fighting chance against it, even if you hadn’t quite figured that part out yet.

But you don’t need to say anything, not when he could see it all in your eyes. The shadowsinger sighed, so frustrated, so powerless, he wanted to do so much more, wanted to ease your stress, but he didn’t know how other than by being with you. Offering you his support.

It didn’t feel like nearly enough. 

He held you the rest of the night. 

*****

You’d abandoned sleep. Until you could find a way to counter this thing, to keep it caged, you would stay awake. 

You were very experienced in nightmares, probably the most experienced. You could manifest the perfect nightmare for any person, reduce the finest warrior into a sniveling coward at your feet. But you’d never taken somebody's nightmare before. Never had to hide from someone else’s fears.  

Even if you wanted to give it back to Elaine, you wouldn’t know the first thing to do. It was very different than twisting someone’s fears. 

So for the past week, you’d been doing research. Re-reading those books from Helion, scouring the library for anything else that mentioned dreams, nightmares, or the subconscious. When your brain needed a break from words you trained your body. Joining Cassian from time to time. 

The training backfired miserably, making you more tired, body aching with fatigue every hour, minute, and second of the day. 

But you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t go in that cauldron again. Not when it could hold you there. Keep you from waking. And even though Rhys had started sleeping at the House of Wind to ensure that you wouldn’t be trapped, you couldn’t risk it. 

You didn’t know if it would continue to attack you, like normal nightmares did, you had no way of knowing what its next move would be. It didn’t act like anything you’d encountered before. 

It could attack someone else next time, attack Azriel. 

That thought alone was enough to keep you awake for the past week. 

But with each passing day, keeping your eyes open got harder and harder. 

“You can’t let this continue.” 

Azriel hadn’t even noticed his brother’s presence. You’d taken all of his focus, diminished the spymaster to a man who couldn’t even hear Cassian’s footsteps. Which were not at all quiet.

The two Illyrians watch you from the library doorway. You sat with a multitude of books scattered around you, the one you were currently reading almost wider than the length of your hand and you were already halfway through. They watch your eyelids slowly fall, watch you try to fight it by blinking rapidly and shaking your head. 

Azriel was in full agreement with Cassian. This couldn’t go on.

Azriel feels hopeful when your eyes finally close, you’re head falling back against the sofa cushion. He holds his breath as he waits for you to sink deeper into sleep, not daring to make a sound in fear of startling you awake. But you shoot up a moment later.

Eyes flying open as you grab the couch like you had to catch yourself from falling. Head snapping to and fro as you frantically search for something that isn’t there. Harshly rubbing the sleep from your eyes over and over, but it only makes your eyes burn with a fire that could only be sated by letting them shut. 

In a moment of desperation, you grip your wrist, letting the sharp claws dig into your arm. Repressing the sleep in your system with pain.

Your hand is snatched away.

“Stop!” Azriel yells panicked. Watching as blood began to drip down your arm. “Fuck. Cassian can you-“ 

His brother was already handing him a first aid kit.

The sounds of shaky breaths and ruffling bandages fill the room. You don’t look at him as he wraps your arm, so mortified, so embarrassed he had to see you this way. That anyone could see you this way. So weak.

He grabs your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He’s not rough, but he’s not gentle either. So much emotion filled his face. 

So much worry, and love, and sadness. 

Then his eyes harden. “You need to sleep.” You try to shake your head but can't with his grip on you. “It’s not a suggestion.” 

Tears fill your eyes. No. You can’t. Not when you knew it was salivating at the thought. If it managed to kill you in your sleep, only the Gods knew what could happen. If that horror would be unleashed on the world. 

You couldn’t risk it. You wouldn’t. 

At first, the shadowsinger was torn on what to do. He couldn’t bear the thought of ordering you to suffer. Still can’t. But you were suffering anyway. He couldn’t watch you deteriorate anymore. 

He would sacrifice your trust in him if it meant you were healthy.

 

*****

Dinner was quiet, Rhys and Amren were busy. So that left you, Azriel, Mor, and Cassian. The Acheron sisters ate in their rooms and kept to themselves, though you had seen the older sister a few times. She joined you in the library every once in a while. She never spoke, never looked your way, but she stayed.

“You look like shit.” Mor had said when she saw you, slapping a hand over her mouth as if realizing she spoke aloud. Leave it to Mor to speak the truth.

“Gee, thanks.” You replied, wanting to send her a smile to let her know you didn’t take it to heart but could only find the energy to slide ungracefully into the chair next to her. 

Mor turns to you, forgetting her full plate of food. “Gods, look at you!” You tense as she reaches for your face, fingers brushing the bags under her eyes. Her touch made sleep slowly enter your system again. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” She asks as if she didn’t know the answer to that question. Which she most certainly did. 

You don’t have it in you to say anything so instead you start shoveling the tasteless food in your mouth. Forcing yourself to swallow it even though it felt like you were chewing chalk. 

“You know we’re here for you, don’t you?” She continued, and the food became increasingly hard to swallow with every word she spoke. “You don’t have to fight this alone, it wasn’t even your battle to begin with.” 

Your heart drops at her words. Not your battle? 

That’s right, this all started with your selfish need to feel useful. So you wouldn’t have to lay around like a weakling. All you did was make everything worse. Of course, you did.  

You reach for your water when you feel the food start to rise back up. The water doesn’t help. Your whole body starts to feel clammy, and your head starts to spin. 

So you pause leaning back to take a few slow deep breaths through your nose, swallowing the spit that didn’t stop gathering in your mouth.

“Feyre would hate to see you like this.” 

Those words were the final blow.

You jump from your seat, hand on your mouth as you dash out of the dining room. Running for the nearest bin, the house seemed to hear your inner pleas because a bucket was waiting for you in the hallway. You fell to your knees in front of it. Too busy hurling up all the food you just ate to cry out at the pain of your kneecaps slamming into the stone floor.

You feel his warm gentle hands on you. Softly rubbing your back, and pulling away your hair. Waiting patiently for you to finish heaving. 

When you could breathe without gagging you leaned into him, letting him wipe your face with his sleeve. Ruining the fine shirt he wore. “Can you call Madja? Tell her I need another tonic?” 

The little shots of energy that’d kept you standing the last two days, were all you could think of. You needed them before it was too late. Before a week's worth of sleep could catch up on you. 

Before that thing was free to roam.

Azriel looks to Cassian, expression grim, and he nods. The general was rushing off the next second. You hope he’s getting Madja.

A moment later Cassian was running back over and crouching beside you, pushing a glass of water in your hands.  You wanted to protest, remembering how the water hadn’t helped just moments before, but Azriel takes the cup and puts it to your lips. 

“Drink.” You comply. He tilts the cup up and up and up until you drink the final drop. “There you go.” He whispers, setting the cup aside so both of his hands are free to soothe over your body. “That’s it.” 

The effect was swift. 

That magic that was always writhing under your skin begins to slow.  It’s vibrating energy dying out. Until it wasn't even a tingle.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, and your heart dropped. What did he do?

Your head becomes foggy, and your body is no longer your own. You can’t fight it as you slump back, can’t do a single thing when your eyes fall shut, can’t even think as your brain powers off. 

All you could do was sleep.

Azriel holds you close to him, lip curling at the smell of your fear permeating through the air. “I’m sorry.” He whispered again, though he knew you couldn’t hear him now. 

“It will work,” Mor said from where she leaned against the wall, watching you with a solemn look on her face. She, along with everyone else in the inner circle, was on board with the idea the moment Madja brought it up earlier in the week.

“It better.” He was reluctant until today, until he watched you hurt yourself. The fact that you couldn’t keep your food down was the cherry topper.

Azriel just hoped the Faebane in your system would last longer than the sleeping tonic.

The drug succeeded in quelling your magic, succeeded in its purpose of ridding your mind of that awful thing. But it also succeeded in other things. 

Without your magic, you were unable to conjure a happy dream for yourself. 

Leaving you trapped in your very own nightmare. 

*****

Your mother smiled with pride as she adjusted your hair. “Every male will want you.” Your whole life had led up to this moment, everything you had been taught was for this night. The night a male would choose you. 

The night you would submit. 

 So why weren’t you excited? 

“Stop that frowning. It’s unsightly.” Your mother leads you to a mirror. A pressure settles on your chest when you look at yourself. 

The sheer white gown did nothing to hide your body. Giving anyone who looked a full view of what was underneath. Your face was painted, your skin shaved and silky—glowing from whatever substance she’d lathered on you—and your wings were spread wide, fluttering at a pace that made every intricate design viewable. 

Your mother looked the happiest you’d ever seen her. The expression uncanny on her. “They won’t be able to keep their hands off you.” 

You felt something inside you twist at the thought. 

“Mother?” You say before you can think better of it. She meets your eyes through the mirror. She looked at you like you were a trophy, an object to be displayed not loved. Not that you ever knew the difference.

I don’t want to do this. 

The words were right there. At the forefront of your mind. All you had to do was give them a voice. 

But it was like your lips were wired shut. Your mouth doesn’t move, your voice doesn’t work. You say nothing. 

It wouldn’t have mattered if you had anyway. You didn’t have a choice, you never did.  “Don’t worry, child, none of the others can compare with your beauty. You will not be left unpicked.” 

Her words brought you no solace. 

You hold your chin high, as she leads you out of the hut and toward the growing horde. You make sure you stand straight, shoulders squared like you had been taught. Make sure your hips swayed just slightly, just enough to keep their attention like your mother had shown you. 

Make sure your teeth don’t grit, and your legs don’t shake. Make sure your wings don’t twitch, and your smile doesn’t fall.

Your mother parades you around for every male to see. Laughing at some of the comments they made, insinuating banter between the rowdy ones, reveling in the way they fought over you. 

With each laugh, each yell, each claim made upon you that pressure in your chest grew. Except it wasn’t just in your chest now, it was in your stomach, and in your head, and under your skin.

Your wings folded subconsciously, making your mother sink her sharp claws into your wrist. Not enough to bleed, she wouldn’t ruin all her work, but enough to hurt. Enough to make your wings snap back open. 

Is this really it?

The feeling gets worse when she leads you toward the other women, and then it doubles when she leaves to sit with the onlookers. Not so much as a goodbye, or even a second glance as she walks away. 

Your heart pounds as you blend yourself in with the sea of white. 

Maneuvering through the women was easy, each and every one of them was silent, tense, and scared. You try not to look at their faces for too long, didn’t want to be able to notice which ones were missing once everything was over. 

It wasn’t uncommon for males to lose themselves to the night, last year seven woman were found dead. Brutalized.

You swallow, heart beating so loud, so fast, it’s all you can hear. It drowns everything out. 

I don’t want to do this. 

You don’t hear the horn blow. You only know it did when everyone around you began heading through the woodline. You almost trip over yourself as you dash forward. You had to run. You had to hide before the second horn blew. You had to make it till dawn. 

Your bare feet don’t feel the sharp rocks and sticks that stab into them. Adrenaline fills your body, pumping through your blood, and muscles. Blocking out the pain.

The shimmering barrier is what makes you come to a stop. You’d never seen them before, the wards that kept your community safe, but there was no denying it. That wall of energy was where your colony ended.  

Beyond it, death was inevitable. 

There was no hope in flying, male wings are much different from females. Stiffer, sharper, stronger, the males would always be superior in the sky. 

So you stay on the ground hiding in a nearby thicket just on the edge of the wards. Arms hugging your knees to your panting chest, making yourself as small as possible. 

 You hoped nobody would search this far. But you knew the males in your community. They stop at nothing and do anything to get what they want.  

When a distant scream echoed through the woods you knew you’d missed the second horn. The males were already hunting. 

You hold yourself tighter, trying to force slow breaths in your nose and out of your mouth. Frantically trying to slow down your palpitating heart. But it felt like you weren’t getting air. Your whole body was shivering from the adrenaline, that pressure still building. 

You would get found by the sound of your breathing if you kept it up.  

“No! Ple-!” Your head snaps in the direction of the scream, much closer than the other one. You try not to think about how it cut off so suddenly, about what could’ve happened to her. What could’ve made her object to a male.

You just need to make it till dawn. Just need to keep hiding. For six more hours. 

It was hopeless, there wasn’t nearly enough ground to give the women a fighting chance. The men greatly outnumber the women, making the former even more desperate, even more competitive.

Where was the fun if everyone had a chance at winning?

No, they had to yearn for it. It was what made the Ritual work. 

Your head falls to your knees. 

You don’t want to end up like your mother.

Three years ago your father had grown tired of her, he participated in that year’s Flowering and never spoke to either of you again. As your mother is far from pure, she can not be used in the ceremonies. Instead, she was made a community whore. 

A female for the pent up males who had no luck on Flowering to fuck as they please. 

Your mother always said it was necessary. That all the things your people did, there were reasons for.  

That Flowering Night was a gift, it provided the magic that grew our blooms. The blooms that supplied our only food source. Nectar. 

Of course, you believed her, you’d never known any reason not to. The Middle wasn’t a resourceful place. It was too dangerous to send hunters beyond the wards, and there weren’t even any animals to hunt. Only other monsters. And even they weren’t worth hunting. Bodies usually emaciated with no meat on their bones if any at all. 

It was necessary, but that didn’t mean you wanted to do it. 

You wouldn’t know until much later that your people were just addicts. That hunting wasn’t an impossible thing, not when they had wings. That they could’ve flown to the Day Court to hunt, or even the Winter Court, but they chose not to. Because nothing could ever compare to their precious Nectar. 

Snap. 

Your blood runs cold as an older male sniffs around. Fifteen feet from you. His hard wings make a low buzz as they vibrate against each other with frustration.

The male was a brute, muscle stacked upon bulging muscle. 

You hold your breath as he slowly gets closer, the buzz becoming louder. If he caught your scent, no amount of shrubbery could keep him from finding you. 

He gets closer, and your heart pounds faster. That pressure you feel under your skin now throbbing. Pulsating.

He’s almost ten feet away, if he got any closer he’d undoubtedly smell the fear that left your body in waves.

White dots started filling your vision. You fight with your body to hold it. 

A blessing came in the form of a scream, this one even closer than the last. Your throat constricts trying to force air into your system. Your teeth ache from how tightly you clench your jaw.

The male started in that direction. Your throat burned, your head pounding. 

Just a second more.

But you couldn’t stop yourself from gasping for air. 

The male stops. Then he looks right at you.

You’d never known terror till that moment. 

*****WARNING: until the next scene change dark themes will be depicted such as rape and violence, if you do not wish to read proceed to the next “*****”

He pounced, dragging you out of the bushes by the base of your wings. Even though you don’t struggle.

He throws you to the ground, not wasting a second before straddling your thighs. Pinning down your legs. His hands grip the fabric of your gown, tearing it off your shoulder. You want to cover your body, but instead you lay still. Let him run his filthy hands over your breasts, let them squirm their way between your legs. 

You let him cause it’s all you’ve ever known. 

Even though your mind was screaming.

He is anything but gentle, forcing his way inside, digging around. You can’t stop the cry of pain that leaves you, the tears that fill your eyes, and he moans. Touch becoming rougher, harsher, trying to force another cry from you. 

The pain becomes worse when he adds more fingers, shoving his way though. 

Like he was trying to rip you open.

 His head buries into your shoulder. Sniffing and groaning in your ear. Rutting against you like a wild animal.

Then he bites down, and you scream. 

Your hands find his head and that pressure, that jerking energy under your skin devours him. 

The male collapses, body twitching on top of you. Teeth still embedded in your shoulder. You're stunned for a moment, but that's quickly replaced with revulsion.

Your arms shake with the effort it takes to roll him off of you. Whimpering when his teeth slowly leave your shoulder. 

His hands don't leave you, even though he was now out of reaching distance you could still feel them. Touching, grabbing, digging.

You feel nothing but disgust as you look at the male, watching him mumble, whine, and mewl in his unconscious state. You don’t even get the time to question it, to think about what happened. The heavy footsteps that head your way get closer by the second. 

I don’t want to do this. 

So you don’t. 

For once in your life you disregard all of your teachings. Every rule beaten into you. Each false instinct that’d burrowed into your body. And you run.  

Right past the wards. 

Because you’d rather die than end up like your mother.

You run and you keep running until your lungs are stabbed with pain, until your legs give out from beneath you, and you crash to the ground.  

Your nails dig into the soil as you lay there. To breathe. To think. To cry. 

Maybe you could just wait here till dawn. Maybe then you could go back. Nobody would have to know you even left. 

But the chill of the crooked woods laugh at you. You hear the sound of old trees creaking in the wind, calling you foolish. 

You couldn’t go back, you’d attacked a male. There was nowhere for you now, just death.

Still, there was a senseless part of your brain that hoped this was all a wretched night terror. That any minute now you would wake up to your mom’s voice. And you would be in bed. And Flowering will have already passed. And you wouldn’t have went because your mom knew you didn’t want to. And she wouldn’t have wanted you to go through it either, because of how ruthless the males were. And your life would go on until the next year came around. And maybe then you would be ready. Maybe then you would have accepted it.

The other part of your brain was ready to be done with it all.

“[name]?” 

Your breath catches, unsteadily lifting yourself from the ground. You look around, searching for that familiar voice. 

 “Mother?” 

“[name], my child…” You see her. She was completely bare, something you were used to, her beauty a stark contrast to the spindly trees around her. She walks toward you crouching before you, you sob when she rests a soft hand on your cheek. So, so different from how she usually held you. Then she spoke in such a soft voice, a tone you’d never heard leave her mouth. “You looked so beautiful when you were screaming.” 

The next moment it felt like you were punched in the shoulder, a heat unlike any other burned your skin. You look down to see a blade sticking out of your chest, a shriveled-up hand attached. Not the smooth skin of your mother.

When you look back into your mother's eyes they were no longer hers. Replaced with a milky white that gleamed in the moonlight. The face no longer female or beautiful. It’s skin was stretched taught over its thin bones.

Then as it spoke again with a smile so wide, teeth so rotted, and breath so pungent you knew what it was. 

“Cry for me, child.” It said, sounding like a million different voices at once. 

A creature that preyed on the weak, found pleasure in the act of killing. It cannot be reasoned with, its only joy is to watch the life leave someone’s eyes. To watch people die a sad miserable death in the form of the ones they loved the most.

The Mymic.  

You scream, and it laughs. You scream louder as it twists the blade inside you and then drags. Ripping each nerve, muscle, and vein as slowly as possible. So you could feel each and every tear.

The creature howled in ecstasy as it tore into you, cutting you open endlessly. 

No one would save you, not this time. 

Nightmares don’t have happy endings. 

“So beautiful…” It sighed pulling the blade out of your chest only to play with the blood that pooled out, finger-painting your white gown red. 

*****

He couldn’t stand it, you were so still that Azriel had to keep making sure you were breathing. He holds you against him, unable to keep his hands from wandering, soothing you. Shadows doing the same. 

You’d been sleeping for two days straight. Madja kept assuring him and everyone else that you were okay. That it was a good thing, that your body was responding well to the tonic and catching up on the sleep it needed. 

The Faebane had cleaned out of your system after the first twenty-four hours. But no Hybern soldiers made any appearance, no evil king, not even a flicker in the fae lights.

His head leans against yours, watching your chest lift up and down. He moves a hand to rest there, watching it rise and fall. Finding comfort in the repetitive motion.

Maybe you weren’t made for him. Maybe the cauldron didn’t deem you mates. Maybe he didn’t care.

Azriel was content to just share something so real with you, so raw. 

A bond didn’t make what the two of you had any less intense. He didn’t need to be tethered to you to know what you were feeling. Didn’t need fate to tell him you were the love of his life. 

He’d always pick you.  

A small sound reaches his ears, he was so worried about you that he’d started having audio hallucinations. But then he heard it again, louder this time, and he knew it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

Your breathing becomes irregular, another little noise leaving your parted lips. Azriel’s hands rub you soothingly. Waiting patiently for the sleep to fade from your body. Whispering when he could tell you were conscious enough to hear him. “Hey.” He drawls, making sure he's quiet. When you open your gorgeous eyes and look at him his heart stops. “There you are.” 

You blink at him. “You drugged me.” 

Azriel flinches at the words. Actually flinches. Then he nods. 

“My magic… I can feel it now but it was…” 

His hand reaches for yours, feeling relief when you let him take it. He runs his thumb over the smooth skin. “Faebane. We got some when Rhys was captured.” 

You look down at your free hand, willing a small moth to appear there. Checking that everything was working correctly. The moth flies up toward Azriel but it dissipates before it can get far.

You weren’t mad. Quite the opposite. You’d woken up and found yourself relieved. Relieved to see him there next to you. Relieved to be home. 

You weren’t angry because you knew he did it to help not to hurt. Sure, he could’ve gone about it in a different way, maybe presented the idea to you instead of just slipping the drug in your water. But you couldn’t fault him for that either, Azriel was a man of action and few words. 

Still that didn’t stop you from asking. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” 

“I didn’t even want to agree to it at first. So little is known about your kind, your magic, there was no telling if the Faebane would even effect you. I didn’t want to risk you getting stuck in that nightmare without the ability to heal.” 

Your eyes widen at the information. If he’d told you that, nothing would’ve gotten you to agree. But he took that chance? Azriel wasn’t a gambler. 

Your face must’ve shown what you were thinking because he continued. 

“Then you hurt yourself and I couldn’t take it anymore, [name]. You needed to get better.” He squeezes your hand. “If I have to fight off a living nightmare so you can get a night's sleep, I will.”

“Did you?” You ask, wondering if the male had made an appearance or the Mymic. 

Azriel shakes his head. You sigh in relief. Ignoring the way your stomach grumbled with hunger, in no hurry to force down tasteless food. No hurry to leave your male. You lay your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You say, and he shakes his head at you in confused questioning. “For letting it get that far.” For not being strong enough to get a grip. 

The shadowsinger holds your head to his chest. “I’m sorry.” He presses his lips against your head, saying the words into your hair. “I wish I knew other ways to help.” 

Your hands grip him. Nails clinging to his bare skin. “I missed you.” The worst part about reliving that Nightmare, was that you hadn’t known he existed. That someone so amazing was out there, and capable of loving you. 

“I never left.” 

taglist <3: @acourtofbatboydreams @xreaderbooksreads @gorlillaglue25 @anuttellaa @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @mybestfriendmademe

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 3

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Plus size!reader

Summary: You're new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, maybe. I don't think anything else. Sorry if there are typos.

Words: 1720

The One I Want Masterlist

---

Jake Seresin is a wizard. Or a mind-reader. Or some creature with wildly sensitive hearing. You’re sure of it. 

In the month since you moved into the apartment, your only moments alone come when you lock yourself in your bedroom. Otherwise, Jake is near you—sitting next to you, looking at you, talking to you. If your door opens, he follows not five seconds later. If you sit down at the island with your breakfast of bland cereal, he enters the kitchen within two minutes to prepare his own meal; the same meal every morning. Eggs, Canadian bacon, and a protein shake. If you dare to switch the television on, turns out he’s been meaning to watch that show for weeks. You had no idea he was into movie special effects competitions. 

It isn’t irritating, exactly—though, it wouldn’t shock you if others experiencing similar treatment would feel that way. You just can’t figure him out. He’s unfigure-outable. You’re pretty sure that’s a thing. If not, Jake Seresin just brought it into existence. And here you thought you were the mystery. 

“So I was thinking,” he says. 

You close your book without a second thought, having barely read and retained a line in the last fifteen minutes anyway. From the moment he came out of his room and plopped down on the couch—his leg bouncing and eyes trained ahead on nothing—you’ve been waiting for him to snap the tense band of silence between you.

His fingers clasp together, thumbs subtly twiddling when he finally looks over to you. “Maybe you could meet my friends. They’ve asked about you, and you’ve already met Nat so it’s really only the guys.”

That was perhaps one of the last things you imagined he would say. You’ve heard very little of his friends. They’re also pilots. His team. They all have weird nicknames. Half of those nicknames are animals. 

There are other tidbits Jake casually mentioned as well. Coyote is his closest friend. There’s a Rooster who recently found himself a chick. A Bob and a Phoenix—who you learned is Nat—are particularly attached. 

But every bit of that information you figured he was simply spilling to fill moments where you were in the same room but not speaking. Or perhaps it’s some method to draw out feelings of trust so you might participate in his little game of show and tell. In his eyes is always the hope that you’ll share something of your own, but you have yet to find the courage or need to do so. 

“Oh,” you reply, trying to gather the correct words to turn him down. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not really up to meeting a group of people today.”

You hate the way his face falls. Like a puppy denied a treat. But it lasts only a second as another thought brightens the green hue of his irises. 

“What if we went somewhere? You and me.”

“What?”

His body shifts on the couch, more of him now facing you. He’s wearing a shirt today. He’s been wearing shirts around you since you made the request weeks ago, but they’re weak at disguising the body underneath. Thin fabric pulled tight like a second skin. 

“You said no bars,” he continues. “How do you feel about diners?”

—

It’s an odd image—Jake framed in this setting. He’s all lean muscle and neatly styled hair with a clean-shaven jawline surrounded by greasy food and booths so old their plastic seats are cracking. As others watch him—particularly the hostess who cannot for her life keep from glancing his way every thirty seconds—he watches you. Says nothing; just watches until the waitress returns to set a few plates and mugs in front of you both. 

“There you go, kids,” she says. She’s older, and her hair is done up in a style that hasn’t followed the turning of the decades, but you like that it suits her; that she hasn’t paid attention to the change around her, or simply doesn’t care. With her hands on her hips, she says, “Now Jake, if I knew you were bringing a girlfriend I would’ve set aside some of that pie you like.”

Your eyes bug so much they could’ve fallen right onto the table, but Jake chuckles, smiling at you before directing it to the waitress. “Don’t spook her, Mags,” he teases. Then, “This is my new roommate.”

Her lips form an ‘O’ that holds for a few seconds too long before she blinks and tilts her head to the side. “Didn’t work out with the other one, honey?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Well, that’s just fine. I wasn’t a fan.” Mags takes a breath and straightens out her little apron; a costume element you’d rather die than wear, but much like her hair, Mags seems to take pride in it. You can’t fault her for that. You wish you could find a job you enjoy. Or a job at all. She shoots you a grin; nothing like the rehearsed smiles from someone in a customer service job, but a genuine curve of the lips that creates a warm little ball in your chest. “You, on the other hand, look like such a sweetheart. So be good to my Jake here.”

You don’t have the opportunity to disappoint her because she doesn’t wait for a response. Be good to her Jake. Not an ask. A demand. An unspoken ‘or else’ hanging in the air. And though she’s got at least forty years on you, you’re pretty sure she’s spry enough to follow through on her sneaky threats. 

Mags squeezes Jake’s shoulder and departs, leaving you in a confused state of mixed energies. Shock and discomfort radiate off of you like heat waves, meeting the cool calmness emanating from a beaming Jake. 

“Will you tell me more about yourself now?” he asks. 

Shaking off the questionable tone of the older woman, you reconnect yourself to the man in front of you. His words soak in; another unexpected curveball Jake has thrown you within one day. His friends want to meet you, and now your personal details are on his mind. What would come next? Does he want to know the last time you were thoroughly kissed? Your high school GPA? Height and weight? If so, he’s going to be terribly disappointed. 

Steaming, wispy tendrils invade your vision, and you finally register the blueberry hint hitting your nostrils. Jake had whispered the order to Mags with the explanation that he already knew what you wanted. And being the mind-reading wizard you’re convinced he is, on a menu of nearly one hundred items he magically happened to pick something you enjoy. 

You hold yourself back from digging in, instead meeting his eyes as you cross your arms over your chest. “You think free pancakes are a good trade for my life story?”

He slowly slides a mug closer to you. “I got you coffee as well.”

When you raise an unenthused brow, Jake sighs. 

“Fine. You’re leaving me no other choice than to guess,” he says. “But if I get it right, will you be honest?”

With a snort, you pick up your fork and take your first bite of the sweet fluffy cake. It’s undeniably delicious. Fucking wizard. “Sure,” you say, and akin to a child, Jake’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. 

He ignores his own food and drink to once again watch you. Observing. Your eyes to your lips to your neck and back again. When he comes to a conclusion, he leans back in the booth. “You are a fan of the beach and before you die you intend to live in every beach town this country has to offer for at least two months each.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “Are you kidding?”

“Well, since it appears that I am wrong, I’m going to say yes I am kidding because I’m very funny like that.” He stares some more, eyes narrowing. “You’re searching for a long-lost family member.”

“No.”

“You are only attracted to Navy men and thought you’d travel to a hub.”

Again, as he likes to do, he leaves you lacking words for a moment. “That better be another one of your ‘I’m very funny like that’ attempts,” you eventually manage to say. “And you know I wasn’t aware this was a Navy town.”

Jake nods and then leans forward in his seat, arms overlapping on the linoleum tabletop. You can sense the sudden shift; a new energy. The glint in his eye doesn't quite go with the steady seriousness of his voice. Like mismatched puzzle pieces. “So you’re not attracted to Navy men?” he asks. 

Your head jerks back to regain the distance he lessened. “Not exclusively.”

“Damn,” he replies, full playful tone back in place. “I wanted to at least get that part right.”

There’s another bright smile from him. A wink. You look to your right to find Mags' watchful gaze; motherly and hopeful.

After another swallow of pancake, you say, “Alright, you’re done for the day.”

“Oh, come on,” he whines. 

When you shake your head, he picks up his fork and begins to poke at the eggs on his plate, and you bask in the silence of his disappointment. Peace and quiet, with the exception of the diners surrounding you. No questions. No attempted agonizing small talk. You have a moment to breathe. 

It’s not until you’re halfway through your food and the coffee is nearly drained that Jake lifts his head. 

“I’m going to figure you out,” he says with an unwelcome note of determination. 

Your eyes snap up. 

The feeling behind his statement is hard to nail down. You would’ve said delving into your history was something fun for him to do. Something to pass the time with the new person in his home. But now it comes off more like a need. A little prick in his side that he can’t shake. 

You so badly want to be wrong in your interpretation. You want him to give up; to surrender to your stubbornness. Ideally, sooner rather than later. 

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

Jake doesn’t miss a beat. Nothing about him—not his breath, not his stare—stutters at your response. Instead, he returns with, “But I want to.”

---

A/N: Sorry it's a little short. Next chapter will be labeled 3.5 and will be from Jake's POV.

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @rogersbarnesxx @nani-kenobi @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @cehenyne @tngrace @mamaskillerqueen @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @entertainmentgal8 @hookslove1592 @whoeverineedtobe @alwaysclassyeagle @chaytea06 @cherrycolas-things @turtle-in-a-tornado @have-a-nice-day-k @inkandarsenic @kidd3ath @coldmuffinbanditshoe

[chenfleur]

the long way home

summary. in which park sunghoon decides that nothing is more important than having you in his life.

pairing. sunghoon x y/n ft jake genre. high school au, fluff, angst word count. 4.8k released. 11.05.2023 author's note. experimented with writing style so sorry if this is bad and makes no sense ���� enjoy 🙏

masterlist

"Two cotton candies, please."

The first time Park Sunghoon speaks to you, you're dressed head-to-toe in a blinding, neon pink.

The fundraiser uniform was your co-president's idea. She'd suggested it offhandedly in a delirious, late-night planning session, and in a rather unserious fashion, you'd agreed. It's hilarity overruled any embarrassment bundled with it.

When Park Sunghoon is the one standing in front of you, embarrassment crashes into you with the force of an eighteen wheeler.

His presence is overwhelming. It looms over you as you prepare his order. It sends a shiver down your spine, which is absurd when you've never even met him.

Someone could tell you that Sunghoon lives on a completely separate plane of existence and you'd believe them without thinking twice.

He's the basketball team's star player. He adorns the number twenty-three with poise and grace. He's the principal actor in people's dreams and fantasies.

To you, Park Sunghoon is like the moon.

Beautiful, and so, so far away.

The two cotton candies you hand him are less than perfect. Without much thought, a mumbled apology falls from your lips. He still accepts them with a polite smile. It sends a nervous jolt to your chest.

You watch him as he walks away and joins Jake Sim's side, handing him one of the cotton candies.

You know Jake Sim from your physics class. He catches your eye and sends you a friendly wave. You shoot him one back before hastily turning around.

A second later and you would have noticed Sunghoon's gaze, lingering.

Tuesday after school, Sunghoon agrees to meet with Jay and Jake in the East Wing.

He leans against a locker, watching his two friends bicker with each other. Occasionally cracking a smile when one of them says something particularly nonsensical.

Someone rushes past him. His breath hitches. Gaze flickering. When they stop in front of a classroom door, Sunghoon realizes it's you.

You knock on the door. While you wait, he takes you in.

The way your yellow sundress hugs your body in all of the right places. The way the pearl barrettes clipped to your hair reflect the afternoon sun. The way you tug the sleeves of your cardigan down over your hands. Sunghoon has the urge to roll them back up and interlock his fingers with yours.

Each second Sunghoon spends taking you in, his chest grows tighter.

The metal behind him is suddenly freezing to the touch. It bleeds through the fabric of his shirt. Pierces his shoulder blades. Is he shivering? He doesn't know.

The classroom door is opened. Another girl appears in the threshold, an easy smile on her face. The two of you exchange words before breaking out into giggles.

Park Sunghoon takes notice of you.

There’s a part of him that finds it unbelievable that he hadn’t done it earlier. There’s another that is deeply unsettled about it happening at all.

Either way, he takes great care in memorizing the outline of your figure. Grasping onto each note of your laughter.

Sunghoon bails on this week's team outing. His reason is that he has an important language arts assignment due at 11:59PM.

He isn't lying. His teacher had carved the words ‘no excuses’ into the very core of his being.

When the words on his page start looking like globs of nonsense, Sunghoon’s mind drifts.

The basketball season begins soon. Who is the first game against?

He searches up the school website intending to find the season schedule.

He pauses when he sees a photo of you.

It’s from the other day. The same day Sunghoon saw you in that pretty sundress. You’re watching the other people in the photo strike funny poses with a soft, tender smile on your lips.

The list of names goes left to right, top to bottom. Sunghoon’s eyes dart around.

L/N Y/N.

That night, Sunghoon has an important language arts assignment due at 11:59PM. His teacher had carved the words ‘no excuses’ into the very core of his being.

That night, Sunghoon spends his time learning about you.

Curiosity spared no mercy for the cat. You pray it's kinder to you.

There are three other water fountains located around the school, all perfectly capable of refilling your water bottle. Yet, their existence escapes you when you realize the person using the one you'd chosen to go to is Park Sunghoon.

You try to leave. You can't. His presence binds the soles of your feet to the tiles of the floor.

The first game of the season is a few, short weeks away. The air is full of the distant screeching of basketballs. Sunghoon's hair is damp with sweat. His arms and nape glisten under the fluorescent lighting.

Sunghoon's lips leave the jet of water. A loud exhale follows. You watch as he wipes harshly at the corners of his mouth.

When he turns around, his eyes widen. He looks surprised to see you.

Why wouldn't he? The two of you are strangers. Mutuals, at best.

Yet, he doesn't move from his spot. He doesn't cast his eyes away or walk past you.

His stare is heavy. You feel like he's peering into your soul. Judging it. Tearing it to shreds.

He silently moves to the side. You realize he's making way for you to use the fountain. Embarrassment floods your system.

The sound of running water ceases when your foot lifts off the pedal. A double twist ensures the cap of your bottle is screwed shut. You're set to leave.

But a hand encircles your wrist, stopping you. Spinning you around.

You're inches away from Park Sunghoon.

You're shocked.

You don't tug away.

Your eyes dart around his face, searching for an explanation. His expression is indecipherable. He suddenly won't meet your gaze, only unravelling your closed fist with gentle fingers.

You notice a slip of paper clasped in his hold. You watch it as he places it into your open palm.

His voice is near silent. Words evaporating when they leave his lips and hit air. You manage to catch them before they're completely gone.

"Call me."

When Sunghoon is sure the slip is securely slotted in your hand, he leaves.

There is an unfathomable amount of things Sunghoon's worried about. You throwing his number away. Laughing at him. Thinking he's a freak.

But in the deepest part of his brain, where he keeps his muscle memory of how to ride a bike or snap his fingers, the voice of his first ever coach resounds; something about missing one hundred percent of the shots he never takes. Sunghoon thinks he's heard it more in his lifetime than he's heard his own name.

It dawns on him that you being in his life, as even just the smallest of features, was not a shot he was willing to ruin.

You call Sunghoon at a quarter past midnight.

The clock on your wall ticks loudly, mocking you for taking so long.

You don't expect him to pick up at all. You don't need him to. Hearing his voicemail would be enough to assure you that what had happened was real. That it wasn't a figment of your imagination.

Park Sunghoon had left you paralyzed. All of your work had been neglected because of that crinkled slip of paper.

It's been on the edge of your desk for hours. It taunts you.

When you will yourself to call him, you had climbed onto your bed. The slip of paper stayed on your desk, untouched.

You didn't need it to call him. The digits of his phone number were already engraved in your head from how many times you thumbed over them on the way home from school.

The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Hello?"

You finally breathe.

"Sunghoon?"

A pause. Shuffling sounds from the receiver. "Y/N?"

"You told me to call you."

"I'm happy you did."

You hear the sound of birds singing.

You wonder if it's coming from outside or the other end of the line.

"Sunghoon?"

"Mm?"

"It's nearly six. We have school soon."

A huff. "Shit."

You break out into a smile.

Sunghoon makes hours feel like seconds. Conversation flows between the two of you with the ease of changing seasons. You don't think you could ever grow tired of listening to his voice.

There's a certain playful lilt to it. Teasing, yet kind. Each syllable spoken with a gentleness you can't quite grasp. Each boyish laugh that leaves his lips sweeping you off your feet. When periods of silence dotted your conversations, his slow breaths filled them in.

He had yawned, here and there. You told him to go to sleep. He refused. You didn't protest. Selfishly, you wanted to have him for a bit longer.

You can't discern what about him makes your insides turn upside down. He makes you feel vulnerable. All he'd have to do is ask and you'd be willing to bare your soul to him.

You decide you're okay with that.

"Y/N?"

"Yes?"

"Talk to you soon?"

"Yeah."

Your friendship with Sunghoon is a quiet one.

It's found behind small actions that seem to communicate everything.

Candies slipped into lockers. Split-second eye contact in the halls. Candid photos of each other in the courtyard. Your eyes searching the cluster of players during games from above, his searching each row of the bleachers from on the court.

It's hidden away from prying eyes, and that makes you cherish it even more.

At the first game of the season, Park Sunghoon scores a tie-breaking basket just as the countdown hit zero.

The gymnasium erupts into a thundering ovation. His teammates roar with victory. Tackling him to the ground. Clapping him on the back. Hoisting him into the air, tossing him up. Your heart lurches at the absolutely radiant smile on his face.

Chants of his name fill the entire venue. The commentator's voice booms through the speakers. Ladies and gentlemen, number twenty-three: Park Sunghoon.

You silently watch the scene, a ghost of a smile on your lips.

The difference between the intensity of a crowd and the stillness of the night air is jarring.

Park Sunghoon confuses you. You don't know how he has the opportunity or the desire to meet you after the game. He should be out with his teammates celebrating.

Instead, you receive a message to wait by the West gate.

Tonight is colder than usual. Icy wind grazes your bare knees. As you wait, anticipation knocks at your front door. You let it in when you catch sight of Sunghoon making his way towards you, a golden medal dangling from his neck.

He's glowing. Victory looks good on him.

A gasp escapes you when your feet leave the ground. Sunghoon spins you around in his arms, adorable giggles falling from his lips. Blissful warmth sprawls across your chest, seeping in every crevice.

"Tonight's MVP and you still have time to spare for me?" you tease, eyes shining.

"I have all the time in the world for you."

Sunghoon recounts the game with fervor. Galaxies swirl in his irises. You wonder if you'd ever feel as elated as he looks.

When he embraces you again, head slotting into the crook of your neck, holding you like he never wants to let go, your wonders are answered.

Park Sunghoon does not idle.

He walks with a destination in mind. He gives courteous greetings to those who he passes by in the halls, but his movements never stop.

The only thing Sunghoon willingly stops for is the sunset.

On days where he leaves school late, he takes the long way home. Down a street lined with yellow ginkgo trees, a left turn too early. Across the bridge bound for the city centre.

The long way home never really takes him home.

Sunghoon ends up on a pier in the harbour, letting vermillion and marigold rays of warmth soak into each pore of his skin. Unwinding with a low puff of air.

Recently, Sunghoon stops for you, too.

Whenever he sees you, there's a stutter in his strides. A stiffness in his fingers. A clog in his airway. The world around him starts to spin, yet he himself freezes.

The next time Sunghoon takes the long way home, he stays with the sunset for longer than usual. He sits instead of standing, letting his feet dangle off of the pier's edge. It makes the sloshing sound of the water below him even clearer.

Sunghoon closes his eyes. He inhales the salty, sweet air. Feels his teammates hugging him. Hears hundreds of people chanting his name.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, and sees you.

It takes ten games for defeat to seize Sunghoon by the throat.

Under the dim light of the locker room, Jake eyes his friend warily. He searches for any sign of emotion in the lines of his stone cold face. If he didn't know him any better, he'd believe he's simply reserved.

But Jake Sim has spent too much time uncovering Park Sunghoon to be ignorant to his character.

He’s torturing himself.

"Jay," Jake whispers. Caution laces his voice. "I feel like we should do something."

Jay's eyes flit over Sunghoon's figure. The air is heavy before he responds.

"I think it’s best we don’t pry."

When the sound of their steps fade away, Park Sunghoon drives his fist into a locker door.

He knew something was off. When their score plateaued while the opposition's climbed. Frowns painted themselves on his teammates' faces. Shots kept getting fumbled. Intercepted. Rolling off the rim.

Sunghoon feels his knuckles throb as he lets his hand fall to the side.

Anger and guilt are a dangerous pairing. They swirl in the pit of his stomach like a storm and render him feeling weak.

He hates how badly he's taking this.

"Sunghoon!"

Peace of mind reaches out to him in the form of anxious footsteps.

From around the wall, you appear. Worry taints your features. It's a blow to the stomach for him. "I- I was waiting for you outside but I heard a noise-"

In two urgent strides, Park Sunghoon's lips are on yours.

Time pauses. Uncertainty hangs in the air. Sunghoon is racing at a million miles an hour.

When he feels you kissing back, he crashes.

Anger and guilt are a dangerous pairing. They join forces and leave desperation in their wake.

Sunghoon kisses you harder. He wants you to fill in all of the parts that feel empty. He wants you to help him feel whole.

You're pliant under his fingers, back slightly arching whenever he squeezes your waist. Sunghoon revels in the gasp that leaves your mouth when his hands slide under your shirt and paint landscapes on the expanse of your back. It's music to his ears. He records it in his mind before drowning it out with another searing kiss.

When you part to catch your breath, your forehead instantly presses to his. Chasing his touch, craving more of his skin against yours.

You look up at Sunghoon. His eyes are downcast to the floor. He feels your hand travel up to his hair, gently pulling on it. A silent plead.

He doesn't meet your gaze. He's floating. Adrift at a lawless sea. His palms continue to rub up and down your sides.

Sunghoon doesn't know how long the two of you spend in each other's arms. He doesn't want to know. Knowing would define a beginning and an end.

Sunghoon never wants this to end.

Seven days.

It's been seven days since Park Sunghoon last spoke to you.

With the way he walks past you without a mere glance, you wonder if what happened was even real.

But, you can still feel it. You can still feel him.

He had kissed you in that locker room. He had stolen the air from your lungs and never returned it. His scorching hands had burned themselves into your skin.

You pass him in the hall wordlessly. That's how it's always been, except there's no more eye contact that asks silent questions of 'How are you?" and speaks delicate words of "I'm happy to see you today."

Every one of your waking hours is spent wondering what went wrong.

You begin to neglect assignments and reject invitations to go out. Teachers eye you with concern. Friends ask if you've been feeling off. Everyone spares you a glance and a hushed whisper, except Sunghoon.

A frustrated hand cards through your hair.

Do you consume his mind as much as he consumes yours?

The hateful part of you prays it does. Prays that he's getting a taste of his own, cruel medicine.

When you lie in bed, you peer out of your window. The moon glows as brightly as ever. Oblivious to your broken resolve.

To you, Park Sunghoon had always been like the moon. Beautiful, and so, so far away.

Except, for once, he didn't.

He didn't feel so far away when his lips were on yours, hands roaming your bare back, rough fingertips grazing your sides. When your breathing had mixed into one exchange. He'd felt so, so close.

If only you knew he was going to be out of reach again so quickly.

For someone who's ranked 230th out of 239 students, Jake Sim is exceptionally sharp.

With a gentle tug aside to an empty classroom, he asks you the question you've lost nights worth of sleep over in a single, easy breath.

"What's going on between you and Sunghoon?"

You shift uncomfortably in your spot. The straps of your bag were suddenly too tight, suffocating you.

You take your time loosening them. Jake only watches you silently.

You're exploiting his patience. Trying to dodge the inevitable. But, what can you do? Confrontation frightens you to no end.

You choose the easy way out: you tell a bad lie.

"Nothing's going on between Sunghoon and I. What business could I possibly have with Park Sunghoon, of all people?"

Jake subtly rolls his eyes. He can tell that you don't even believe your own words.

"I might've believed you if I hadn't seen the way you look at him in the hall, Y/N. I can tell Sunghoon's been off, too. He's all tensed up."

For a second, you rejoice. You haven't been the only one losing yourself to blurred lines and longing.

When that second is over, emptiness settles back into you. "I see."

"I didn't know the two of you knew each other," Jake muses innocently.

It takes all of your strength to turn away from him and grasp the door handle.

"We don't."

Desperation doesn't overpower fear. Fear is still there as you march up to Park Sunghoon's table in the cafeteria.

You just simply cannot take it anymore.

Jake notices you before Sunghoon does. He isn't any closer to discovering what had happened between the two of you. Your entire relation leaves him at a loss.

But, he can tell by the way the smile you flash him in greeting doesn't reach your eyes. The way your gaze immediately falls back onto Sunghoon with melancholy.

You're tired.

Lightly, he kicks Sunghoon in the shin. Jake ignores the glare he receives, only nodding his head towards you. He's praying he's done you a favour.

For the first time in weeks, Park Sunghoon looks you in the eye.

His silence stifles the rest of the table. Their attention weighs heavy on your shoulders.

Fear looms much closer and higher than before. Fear is about to pinch your nose until you pass out cold.

"Sunghoon."

His name is already bitter on your tongue. Is it from all the times you've cursed it in your head?

He stares at you before redirecting his gaze to his food. Like you're some sort of eyesore.

Fear drops to the ground, dead.

"Park Sunghoon, what is your problem?"

Whispers surround you. Chills travel the length of your spine.

You think back to your brief conversation with Jake. How you had said there was nothing happening between you and Sunghoon, and how evident it now is that all of that was bullshit.

But now, you couldn't care if the whole universe is privy to you and Sunghoon's relationship.

All you want is to know is what realization he had. In this moment, you're desperate to realize it too.

"When will you cut the shit?"

Silence. A fork scraps against a plate.

"You know, Sunghoon. I've thought many things of you. How could I not? The school's star athlete who has everyone at his feet."

A dry laugh, a nervous glance to the side.

"You had me, too."

Sunghoon's knuckles turn white from how harshly he grips his fork.

"Never did I think of you to be a coward."

The sound of your steps bounce off the walls. Every pair of eyes in the room trails behind you, this time, including Sunghoon's.

His brain is a broken record machine. Replaying your words again, again, and again.

What is Park Sunghoon so... afraid of?

What is he so defenseless against that it's worth seeing the lights in your eyes die?

Sunghoon doesn't know what compels him to ignore you. To walk past you each day, as if you didn't convince him that happiness doesn't exist anywhere except for in your arms.

Perhaps, it's that you are a whirlwind of unfamiliarity. An onslaught of foreign emotions. You make him unsure of what to do with himself. Perhaps he finds it easier to avoid that than to approach it.

He's been so adept at pushing it away, that he doesn't realize you're slipping through his fingers until his head is an echo chamber of your words.

He had you.

"Sunghoon..." A voice cuts through the fog. Sunghoon isn't sure which of his friends it belongs to. From the intonation, he assumes that it's Jake.

"Whatever this is, you've got to fix it."

Sunghoon has listened to your voicemail play six times. He's been trying for an answer, yet he doesn't mind dialling for a seventh.

You sound happy in your voicemail. He never wants to forget what you sound like happy.

"H-Hello?"

Sunghoon's been lingering at the summit of a cliff. Carefully composing himself to avoid slipping off the edge.

When he hears how utterly broken your voice is, suddenly, he's plummeting.

"Sunghoon?"

Falling, falling, falling—

A sniffle, followed by an impatient sigh. "Sunghoon, if you're just going to waste my time-"

"I'm outside."

Sunghoon closes his eyes. He sees the ridges and lines of your front door. He thinks they're permanently printed into his eyelids from how long he's been standing on your doorstep.

Don't hang up. Don't hang up.

"What?"

Sunghoon opens his eyes.

"I'm outside your door."

In his peripheral, the curtains of a window crack open. His heartbeat reaches his ears. You don't question him any further, but he hears distant footsteps from your end of the line.

The front door opens, then stops. Ajar. Hesitating.

Sunghoon knows you're on the other side. He prays you don't retract your movements.

You don't. You push through.

When you appear in the doorway, his breath dies in his throat.

Slightly bloodshot eyes. Strands of hair astray, haphazardly held together with a claw clip. A large sweatshirt swallowing your frame.

Sunghoon doesn't think he's ever seen anyone as beautiful as you.

He should've spoken by now. He'd planned on speaking by now, yet all he can do is look at you. Eyes trailing over every delicate curve. The slope of your nose, the moles on your hands.

When he hears the small sigh leave your lips, he knows you're slipping away.

His brain goes into overdrive. He needs to act fast.

Frantically, he clears his throat.

"Come watch the sunset with me."

A breeze blows by. The neighbour's wind chimes knock together, playing a soft jingle.

"Please."

The only words you speak to Sunghoon on the bus are to ask where you're going.

He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, remaining silent.

You close your eyes. Surrendering. You're so sick of his silence.

You shouldn't have come. You're stupid to have believed otherwise—

"Don't."

Eyes snap open.

You turn to look at Sunghoon. You find that he's already looking at you.

"Don't- don't regret this," he pleads. Desperation pours from his voice. You would've scoffed if he wasn't wearing the rawest expression you've lived to see.

Park Sunghoon leaves you in despair.

No matter which lens you look at him through, he has no solution. He's wrung you dry of hope, yet you don't find yourself objecting when he brings your head onto his shoulder. His hastiness screams craving for proximity. Craving for reassurance.

Deep down, you know you're just the same.

You let Sleep take you.

It's the soundest you've slept in weeks.

You've seen the sunset thousands of times in your life.

From every place you've ever been. School grounds. Your bedroom. The drive home. Through the eyes of others.

And yet, none of those thousands of times hold a candle to the sight from the pier.

"It's beautiful," you breathe out.

A small hum in agreement. You smile weakly.

You know he isn't looking at the sunset, but you don't face him just yet.

"Sunghoon?"

He steps closer.

"What happened?"

You can feel him stiffen. Your eyes never tear from the vermillion sky. You're not sure if you're paralyzed by beauty, or by fear.

A head drops onto your shoulder. Its weight is comforting. Slowly, he readjusts himself to stand in front of you. Face pressing into your neck. Hands wrapping around your waist, holding on like you'd disappear if he let go.

His body shakes with each breath. It takes every bit of your resolve to not wrap your arms around him.

You let Park Sunghoon cry on your shoulder.

You don't think you'd ever deny him of it.

The sun doesn't budge from where it sits in the sky. It seems to be waiting for the two of you.

When Sunghoon peels his face away from you, you finally look at him. You can feel your heart fall apart in your chest.

Park Sunghoon is more beautiful than any sunset you'll ever see.

A careful hand reaches up. It barely rests against his jaw. You nearly chuckle at how he instantly leans into your touch.

He's staring at you through half-lidded eyes. Slightly parted lips. A gaze filled with longing, remorse, and a million unspoken words.

He leans in, nose brushing against yours. Before he can mouth the words he wants to say, you meet him half way.

The kiss is slow. Delicate. Fragile. Sunghoon is too scared to treat you as anything less.

It lacks the hunger of the one before. Your body is pulled flush against his. He's trying to convey thousands of apologies all at once. Hoping his sincerity can penetrate your skin, travel through your veins, and reach your soul. The way he's kissing you is heart-wrenching.

"I-" he gasps when you part. "Please. Please forgive me."

"Come back to me," you croak. "Why did you shut me out?"

He presses kisses to your jaw, then to your cheek. His hands slide up to your cup your face.

"Because I love you."

You close your eyes. Soaking in each sacred word that falls from his lips. Shuddering.

You feel like crying.

"I love you so much that I don't know what to do with myself. With you, nothing feels real. Time stops ticking. Everyone else fades into oblivion, and I feel like I'm on top of the fucking world," he whispers, voice wet and rushed.

Your forehead connects with his. A gentle rhythm is tapped onto his nape with the intention of calming him down.

"I've never felt like this before. I- I just-"

Sunghoon's face twists. He's fighting against his emotions.

You watch as he deflates.

"Please... find it in your heart to forgive me."

A small smile graces your face.

Under the glow of the setting sun, everything is okay.

"Stop staring at me like that."

Sunghoon peers up at you from your lap. His face glows golden.

A mischievous smile appears on his face. It infects you like a virus.

"Is it illegal for me to admire my girlfriend?"

"Yes." You shoot him with a finger gun. "Hands up."

Soft laughter fills your ears. You let Sunghoon pull you down into a gentle, loving kiss.

You'd let him do it for all of eternity.

To you, Park Sunghoon is like the moon. Beautiful, and so, so far away.

Now, you think Park Sunghoon is more like the setting sun.

Beautiful, and just on the way home.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

cursed hours, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: You know what your boyfriend is? That's right – horny. (Can relate.) And, you know what, you are too. Jeon Jungkook is super mega ultra hot. (Facts.) But. Even you don't fuck doing cursed hours. You try to delicately explain to your love that there are, in fact, suboptimal times to be asking for banging. (This conversation ends exactly in the way that everyone is predicting.)

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; established relationship; playful banter and shitty jokes; in which Jungkook tries to listen to your grievance but then he remembers what you look like naked and then the Calvin Klein's fly off; crack and fluff; smut (fem reader, ball torture JK is a freak, m-receiving oral, handjob, edging, penetrative sex (doggy), clitoral stimulation, m-masturbation); squabbling tbh; non-idol!BTS - short black-haired!JK with his two lip rings; the parenthesis are the reader’s inner thoughts

crackhead best laid plans / counter point / well dressed couple no need to read the others, but they’re there if you want more happy birthday, Jungkook! XD

--

It was the middle of the day.

“We need to talk.”

Your boyfriend and absolute love of your life, Jean Jungkook, vehemently shook his head and puffed his cheeks. It was quite sad to see that all of his previously bleach-blond (read: extremely fried) long waves were gone, but his current shorter black hair made him look even younger (carding territory, for real). At least he got another lip ring next to his first one. Not really to make up for anything. Just because he felt like being your forever wet dream (he was, keke).

You cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“No talk.” He stuck his tongue out (the disrespect, hah). “Nothing good comes out of your girlfriend saying, we need to talk.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out (or in… yet). He had a point. He wasn’t going to like what you had to say. (Be strong!) You had to say it anyway.

“Jeon Jungkook, you can't wake me up at six in the morning with your rock-hard dick shoved against my ass cheeks and expect me to have enough brain function to cooperate.”

Big pout. The biggest pout with the biggest peepers.

“But... I'm horny.”

Irrefutable argument, surely. He was horny.

(Yeah, when are you not?)

You laid down the law with vigorous hand waving. “Two in the morning? Okay. Three? Eh, pushing it but I can sleep right after. But six? Six in the morning?! That is too much. That (that) is cursed hours. There’s no way I can go back to sleep then. Cursed. I’m not a morning person. You’re not a morning person. Why is you dick awake?”

Big shrug. (Big dick too, wait, what?) “He’s an all-day person,” he nodded sagely. “Your tits and butt are right there. What can I do?”

Your eyes twitched.

“You’re the one who wants me to sleep in panties!”

Your boyfriend shook his head primly (and childishly and one-hundred percent like a freaking annoying little shit). “No,” Jungkook clarified. Very serious. Too serious. “I want you to sleep naked. You’re the one being unreasonable.”

You gasped dramatically. “I’m not waking up with jizz all over me… again!”

“Hence the compromise! That’s why I wake you up first… and then jizz all over you!”

This conversation would be a lot more (ahem) concerning if Jungkook wasn’t grinning like a madman and you weren’t clutching your non-existent pearls in a state of fabricated shock (although you would have pearls if he jizzed all over your neck right now, eh, eh, okay, never mind), anyway, you knew damn well that Jungkook would probably stop for, mmmm, a couple weeks, then promptly forget this conversation, and inevitably wake you up way too early to hump your sleepy ass (literally).

You weren’t with him because he listened (we can see that).

“I am just saying,” you lowered your tone, still lighthearted but somewhat stern now. “If you want me to be receptive and not grumpy, six in the morning is not the time. You can rub yourself all over me if you want but it’s very unlikely that I will be in the mood. I don’t want to get mad to you. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

Jungkook firmly nodded. Ah, he understood! Finally. He raised his rigid hand against his temple in salute.

“Okay. From now on, I’ll hump you to completion instead.”

You gave him a blank stare of utter disbelief.

That playful grin with those gleaming lip rings bounced forward and tackled you onto the bed as you continued gawking at him, shell-shocked. Really? (Really, dude?) But you could tell he was apologetic, showering your neck and cheeks with kisses, saying between blossoming laughter, “Sorry, sorry, you just look so cute when you’re mad,” and you were trying to stay mad. The principle of it all. Hmph! “I’m mad!” You vocalized with a huff. Maybe if you said it, you would mean it. (You didn’t.) “Yep, you’re definitely mad, so mad…!” This idiot was repeatedly mushing your cheeks with his big palms and deliberately piling on the aegyo. You squinted your eyes into lines. “Stop messing with my cheeks!” “Don’t wanna!”

You chopped his head.

“Yah!”

Your idiot – cough, sorry, boyfriend, love of your life, darling, all that fluff stuff – made a fake dying noise but you didn’t catch on to his admission of defeat (couldn’t trust it anyway, this was Jeon Jungkook), and grabbed his wrist, pinning it down onto the bed and getting right up in his face, planting your palm his broad chest and shoving him (which did approximately nothing, you really do need to work out).

“I’m being serious here. I’m telling you something that would piss me off and you hate it when I’m mad at you so I’m warning you in advance. I’m working on myself too, but sunrise is really pushing it,” you emphasized, practically sitting in his lap now, your (his) big white t-shirt spilling over his bare thighs. Nobody wore pants in this household. Jungkook could barely keep his underwear on (foreshadowing). “I didn’t want to get mad at you this morning out of nowhere, but you’re not good at taking the hint.”

Those glittering chocolate eyes softened. “Oh. I’m sorry. I get excited…”

“And you can get excited,” you sighed, letting go of his wrist and patting the top of his head. “I only want you to be aware of how I’m feeling at that time and it’s a whole lot of why do humans have to sleep, waking up sucks ass. Not good for horny.”

Damn, these big rueful peepers were going to be the death of you. “You know me. I like being with you more than anything in the world. I don’t like being without you. Even sleeping is such a pain,” Jungkook finished with a puff.

You smacked his (very firm) chest. “I’m not telling you leave me alone. Just don’t ask me to fuck, because the answer is most likely going to be no at that time of day. Wait for me to wake up, at least!”

“But…!”

He grabbed the front of your (his) shirt and you tensed, thinking he was about to shake you, adjusting to be a bit more stable on his legs and then your shin slid to the front of his crotch and both of you abruptly fell silent (a shocking moment in this household).

“Jungkook.”

He was trying very hard not to grin but you could see it in those dark brown orbs.

“Yeah?”

He really was your favorite person. Really. He had an intense, passionate outlook on life. Tried hard at everything and made a fuss when certain things didn’t work out as he planned. Slowly learned to let things go but still picked up too many interests. Still thought he could do anything (and you believed with him, so maybe you were both the problem). Jungkook always told you he was grateful that you were so into about the things you liked (read: obsessive), because he made him feel less weird, made him feel that someone could match his energy, made him feel like he finally met his person, someone loved to live life as much as he did.

Romantic, yeah?

“Why is your dick hard?” you accused.

Your (lovable but idiot) boyfriend grinned. “Just remembering what you look like naked.”

Really romantic.

Yeah.

“Oh?”

You backed off his lap and forced his legs open.

“W-W-Wait–”

Which was how you ended up yoinking off Jungkook’s Calvin Klein's (with force and a tangle of legs and maybe a yelp if you bothered to listen), and did not take off your shirt as you got to your knees and curled your tongue around his already-hard-and-getting-harder cock. Sure, he was saying stuff (blah blah that’s not fair blah, the usual), but you cared not. Zero fucks given. Hey, if Jungkook was going to be all horny on you whenever he felt like it, you were going to give it to him whenever you felt like it too. He needed to be punished for being insufferable!

(Never mind that this has been going on for years.)

“Come on, take off your… oooh, fuck…”

(Your predictable arguments ended in predictable ways.)

You spared no expense. Tongue all over his length. Dripping saliva. Porn-star-esque, complete with the slurping it all back up and jamming the head of that throbbing cock into the back of your throat, squishing it against the pocket of saliva. Nasty. Yo, you didn’t have sex to be elegant. You had sex to watch Jungkook’s torso shudder uncontrollably and hear him whine in the middle of him yanking off his oversized black t-shirt, his head of crazy messy black hair popping out. You watched as he emerged like a just-saved, half-drowned vacationer and then his eyes rolled back like he had been knocked out, all while you bounced your head up and down, running your tongue along the base and his balls, making sure to be extra soft at the tip and caress the slit with the gentlest of kisses. Not enough to pressure to really get him off, but so much pleasure, lovingly swirling your tongue around and pressing your lips against the sensitive skin.

Then you did what any reasonable person would do (heh) and replaced your soothing mouth with your punishing grip, pumping him roughly.

“Gah!”

Your tongue circled around his balls and both slid into your mouth, sucking on them as you jacked him off. Any intelligent response was immediately annihilated by the gargling moan Jungkook choked out, falling back to his hands. Mmmm, those arms. The tension was making his muscles bulge, the dark colorful tattoos on his right arm gleaming in the bedroom light, his left just as shapely and defined. You switched between each side, sucking and licking and toying with his balls while your hand built up a furious pace, grinning as you felt his length twitch and throb. Glassy, dark brown orbs glanced down to watch, the ends of his black hair stuck to his cheeks, mouth open, pink lips glossy.

The look in those eyes.

So needy.

You delicately trapped one of his balls between your teeth and sucked hard before pulling your lips back and grinning. The reaction was immediate. The shiver visible, the hitched breath sharp, the tremble lingering at his shoulders, exasperation and desire flashing over his expression. Jungkook pleaded with you, knowing full well he didn’t want you to listen to a single word he was saying.

“N-No, please, d-don’t make me a f-freak…”

(Not sure how to tell you this, Jungkook, but you’ve been a freak since day one.)

“You like it,” you replied (with his nut in your mouth, smacking it with your tongue as you spoke). “Don’t lie to me.”

“No, I like it when you’re nice,” Jungkook stressed and he was very stressed because your hand was slowing down and that was not a good sign.

“Oh, yeah?” you taunted. Totally unnecessary but totally necessary. You let go of his cock and switched balls, squeezing the other saliva-covered one in a slippery, punishing grip that make Jungkook yelp with an edge of panic.

His cock jolted, sticking straight up.

You gave him the look of see what I see?

Jungkook sputtered, frantically waving his hand about. “N-No! It’s not what it looks like!”

(It’s not… it’s not what it looks like? What does it look like then, huh?!)

You raked your teeth over his balls and started sucking and tugging on them.

His right hand instantly flew to his dick (bombastic side-eye) and he started desperately jacking himself off as you used precise pressure and tongue to tease him. He was loudly moaning in reckless abandon, “H-Harder, yeah, like that, oooh, fuck, yes, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop” (criminally offensive side-eye), but you obeyed, gripping the inside of his thigh and ravishing his balls. You could barely see from your peripheral vision but you could certainly feel the force of Jungkook’s firm, tight grip around his stiff length.

Damn.

Your panties were also getting uncomfortably drenched.

Suddenly his hand froze up, his whole arm shaking. You glanced up. White teeth biting the left edge of his lower lip, lashes fluttering, jaw clenched. Muffled scream in his throat. The line from his neck to torso to abs to crotch to tattooed hand choking his hard cock was incredibly hot. Even hotter was how dark the head was becoming, angry purple-red and beading pearly translucent pre-cum.

“Fuck, I almost came, fuck…”

(Was that not the goal or are we missing something here?)

You spoke sloppily with his nut halfway in your mouth.

“Thought you were going to jizz all over me.”

His dark brows furrowed, gasping for breath, trembling all over. “You know I would ask you first, I’m not a big meanie,” Jungkook pouted, opening his eyes when you knocked away his hand, then his peepers popping open wide as you picked up his vicious pace with a smirk, lowering your shoulder to squeeze his balls at the same time (zero chill here). It could have been your name somewhere in that strangled moan. Could have, but it wasn’t that discernable and you were unbothered, even as his hands flew up and grabbed your (his) shirt, practically ripping it off in frustration.

“Please, ack, please…!”

You stopped.

Jungkook nearly yelled bloody murder and snatched you by the waist, lifting you far too easily. He was two beats away from suplex-ing you onto the bed if it wasn’t for the horny beating out his frustration of being edged for the second? third? whatever time. You were almost worried (not really), but everything worked out (kind of). There were always condoms on the nightstand (for reasons) and it took Jungkook record time to rip one open and slide it on before forcefully grabbing your ass (you had been trying to move away for… reasons) and dragging you back to him from a growl, flipping the bottom of your (his) shirt up.

Somehow, in the tangle of legs and arms, you had managed to slip off your panties and put them on the other nightstand so Jungkook wouldn’t rip them off your body.

(It has happened before.)

At the sight of your naked and wet pussy, Jungkook forgot how to be mad.

“Oh!”

You looked back to see a pair of shining, starry-eyed dark brown orbs.

“You really do love me.”

You blinked at him (what do you say to that?). “Y… Yeah? Woah!”

Turned out horny also beats out romance (?) and now Jungkook was balls deep and you were gasping and beating up the pillows in attempt to get your bearings because, holy fuck, he was insanely hard (scientific term). Your lower torso dropped and you both moaned in unison, satisfaction from the sudden depth, the ache perfectly fulfilled at this angle. Thrust in, push back, overwhelming rush heating up your chest and down your legs, beginning right where you both left off.

Rough, fast, and deep.

Your (and probably his) knees were really feeling it. You didn’t care. (Classic.) The fullness was unbearable and addictive and it made your walls spasm, squeezing around him as your eyelids fluttered, skin prickling hot and heartbeat leaping to your throat. The wave swelled in your chest and pooled down, amplifying the sensation of slapping hips, pitching your moan, you fucking him and him fucking you, a joint effort, the grip on your hips tightening, fuck, he was so strong, not slowing down even in the middle of your orgasm, your mind fizzling to white noise.

And then.

You suddenly realized it was weirdly silent behind you.

You tried not to snort in laughter (being nice, of course) as you realized Jungkook was whining behind his bitten lip, trying desperately not to cum in your crushing fervor. Not that you were going to let up. Absolutely not. In fact, you moaned breathily and reached back with one hand, tugging on the flapping shirt and pulling it over your head, bunching it up. Heard him gasp, but now your hair was all over your face (didn’t think that through, did you). There was no time to correct. You shoved the ball of fabric under your chin and dropped your shoulders, ramming back into his crotch with a wet smack, a vicious bolt of painful pleasure flaring up your inner thighs and spreading over your lungs, knocking the wind out of you.

“Ah, Jungkook!”

Didn’t think that through, did you?

You nearly choked on your own moan (and a mouthful of your own hair), entire body shaking from the force of orgasm bursting within, your inner walls clamping down and hips flinching, carnal pulse radiating throughout your core, breathless, lust-blindness, your ass jerking forward from another powerful thrust, and then Jungkook made a series of noises that could only be described as unholy.

(Wanton moaning, spitting swears, using various higher entities’ names in vain, things like that.)

You basically faceplanted into the t-shirt, vibrating from the high.

Down for the count.

But not out.

You reached back and wrapped your fingers around Jungkook’s balls, firmly squeezing.

He let out a quivering groan of approval, long fingers on your hips tightening, pressing his twitching cock inside you. No intention of leaving. The tension was so electric that you could feel the sparks flying up your belly (or was that your arm falling asleep from this unnatural position, who knows) and you sucked in a ragged breath, not sure what was coming over you but it was so unbelievably arousing that all you could do was smile.

Well.

You couldn’t really breathe since you were mostly face-first into the mattress.

Thankfully, Jungkook had a brain (bless) and sighed contentedly, sliding his hot (read: scorching) hands up your sides and pulling your body up. You let go of his nuts, panting, feeling him slide out, drawing in a tight breath – his skin like fiiiiiiire (don’t sing it) – relaxing as you felt his fingers fan out over your breasts.

This was nice.

He squeezed your breasts and toyed with your nipples, sending pleasing tingles all over.

“My back is getting sweaty,” you chuckled. “You’re burning up.”

“No, you’re hot.”

Whines (his) and a flop onto the bed later (you), and you ended up on your back, catching your breath while looking up at the ceiling. Ah, that was nice. You didn’t think too much about your limbs akimbo. There wasn’t any shame. After all, this was your home and this was your love. Attentive, caring, enthusiastic (about laundry and dishes and fucking especially) love of your life Jeon Jungkook who was definitely not a freak. Nope.

You felt a hand on your knee.

Then you felt your legs being dragged apart even wider.

The slapping sound of hand on dick.

Eh?

You turned your head to see Jungkook masturbating while staring at your pussy, used condom still on the bed. Oi! How was he still going? You were pretty sure he blasted out several nuts worth of cum (and the fullness of that used condom was the visible proof, oop).

“Hey. I’m still here,” you reminded him.

Heavy exhale and brief glance at your tits. “I know,” Jungkook shuddered, voice low and gravelly. “And you’re so fucking beautiful, fuck.”

“I’m not a porn video,” you joked, secretly enjoying how heatedly he was getting himself off to your sexy bits.

“You really need to make some for me,” he replied absentmindedly, reaching out to spread your pussy lips. You flexed them. They made a wet, lewd sound. Obscene. Jungkook moaned and tightened his grip, speeding up, running his finger over your exposed clit. “At least send nudes.”

“I’m physically next to you almost all the time,” you gasped. “Whachu need nudes for?”

This really wasn’t the time for a full-on conversation and soon you both forgot about it, lost in the haze of pleasure. Your eyes slid shut, arms fanned out over the bed, back arching, following that racing feeling. Basking in it. You were sure he was watching and you let him enjoy the show, spreading your legs and letting your hips be guided by his rough fingertip, clenching your jaw at the sensitivity. Almost too much was the perfect amount of pressure, rubbing over your throbbing nerves, aching tension dispersing over your muscles, nearly uncontrollable, so close to the edge, his name in a husky whisper, closer, listening to his breathing shallow, tighten, closer…

Your eyes opened, lids heavy, watching him though lashes and the haze of moans.

Jungkook was gazing back at you, up and down, lust-drunk on your body, his chest flexing, his black hair over his eyes, sweat beading along his temples, shuddering again at your eye contact.

“You… You fuck me up.”

You smiled and was about to say, you too, but then your pent-up orgasm shot up your torso and you hissed at the intensity, your hand flying down and harshly gripping his wrist. Head snapping back, spine arcing, mouth open to an airless moan, fighting to leave your lungs as the powerful continuous flinching overtook your hips, each pulse thundering against his fingertip, your juices seeping out.

Slick painted over your pussy lips clenching around nothing.

Jungkook sucked in his inhale and groaned, cupping his palm around the head of his cock. Heat and tremors and visible lust, the pleasure sinking, sinking, and you heard Jungkook whimper, looking down to see that his hand was turned, his long fingers digging into the soft dip of his balls and roughly massaging them as he came.

You watched.

Glanced up at his face.

Your boyfriend glared back.

“Don’t… say… anything…” he wheezed.

You did not listen.

(No one is surprised.)

“You’re a slutty freak, huh.”

“Oi!” he barked, yanking his hand away from you, and then his face contorted, instantly regretting vacating your pussy. You peeled open your puffy lower lips with two fingers and wiggled your tongue at him. “Hey! Stop that. I’ll–”

Faster than light (and smoother than butter), you shot off the bed as Jungkook threatened you with his cum-covered hand. “I don’t think so!” All these years with Jeon Jungkook and he still looked shocked when you knew exactly what he was thinking. “Get back here!” You did not. You ran to the bathroom instead and proceeded to fight on opposite sides of the door as he tried to get in and you tried to lock it.

“Why are you only strong at times like this?” Jungkook whined as you threw your weight into the door and locked him (and his cum hand) out. “Let me in!”

“No! Not until you wash your hand in the kitchen.”

“I promise not to wipe it on you.”

“I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Which is not very far.”

“You should!”

“Throw you?”

The whine on the other side pitched. “Open the door…”

You sighed. (Uh oh.) Opened the door. (Duck!) And smacked Jungkook’s wrist as he tried to wipe his dried cum onto you in a bout of maniacal laughter. (You punk!) Naked wrestling match (nice) and some neck chopping infused minutes later, you managed to shove Jungkook’s right hand under the sink faucet and blast water over it, fiercely gripping (and very much enjoying) his forearm to prevent him from being a brat.

And he was laughing, the bubbly sound drifting between you and him, laughing with his left arm around your waist and his face in the crook of your shoulder and neck, his warm breath tickling your skin, pulling your close as you vainly tried to avoid his sweat (failing spectacularly). Asshat.

He sighed, breathless and shivery, nuzzling your jaw with his (big) nose.

“I love you.”

He was a freaking annoying brat but he was your freaking annoying brat and, to be honest, you loved it.

“I love you too. If you splash water on me, I will waterboard you next time we shower together.”

Jungkook pouted and squeezed your boobs with his left hand. Now that was talent.

“Aw, how’d you know…”

You turned the water off.

“Stop playing with my tits.”

“My nutties are sore. It’s the least you can do.”

“You did that to yourself.”

“Nu uh. I’m wholesome.”

(The lie detector test determined that was a lie.)

-

in which Jungkook's dick -accidentally- slips and falls into your mouth when you're asleep (oh no) night sucker

--

masterpost

[p1nkcanoe]

NSFW prompt for you based on that tag about Swiss giving good jfk

Swiss gives someone of your choice good jfk (maybe on the tour bus? in front of everyone? after a show?)

Love you bye 🫶

Swiss will not keep his hands to himself. He’s got something on his mind for sure. He’d stared at Phantom throughout the entirely of the night’s ritual from his platform, had glued his hands to Phantom’s waist and the small of his back during bows, and had practically dragged the ghoul to the dressing room afterwards to smother him with his lips and grope at sweaty skin until the door opened and the rest of their pack had filed in. And now, sitting on the bus, he still won’t stop staring at him like he wants to eat him alive. 

They’re far apart, not by either of their choices, and Phantom leans his head in his palm against the nice leather arm of the couch. His muscles are tired and tight with exhaustion and the soft rumble of the bus as it flies down the interstate adds weight to his eyelids that struggle to stay open. It’s too early for sleep–he knows this–but the drone of everyone’s voices and the hum of the engine are lulling him to an early bedtime. Phantom tries to stay awake. He lifts his head up, repositions his body to a position less comfortable, and tries to blink the sleep away, and everytime he looks up he makes eye contact with those piercing, golden eyes across the bus. 

For a short moment he looks back, holds his gaze the best he can to make sure the ghoul isn’t trying to get his attention, but Swiss doesn’t look away. He doesn’t change his position or make any sort of move, just stares with those beautiful eyes that make Phantom’s knees weak. But truly, Phantom is a sleepy ghoul. He breaks the gaze between them to allow his eyelids to fall again and his head to meet his palm, and when he finally begins to succumb to sleep he hears movement from somewhere on the bus and then feels hands at his belt. 

He cracks an eye open to find the ghoul squatted on one knee. 

“Oh–Swiss–What’re you–Oh–!”

Swiss pulls his dick, mortifyingly soft, from his pants and spits messily over the tip before taking the ghoul wholly into his mouth and swirling his tongue. Phantom shoots up at the very sudden and very unexpected stimulation, his hands flying to the back of Swiss’ shirt and bunching as much of the fabric in his fists as he can reach for some sort of hold on him. His face burns hot with embarrassment and he doubles over the top of the ghoul’s head in an attempt to hide himself and make himself smaller. The sudden movement and pressure to the back of Swiss’ head pushes him further down and Phantom chokes on his own saliva, coughing and sputtering and adding to the redness flooding under his skin. 

Everybody is staring–he can feel their eyes burning into him. And he really can’t blame them, if it was anyone else in his current position he’d probably be staring, too. But right now, suddenly the center of attention, he isn’t sure he wants this attention. “Fuck, fuck, fuck–” he gasps and raises up just enough to crane his neck downwards and catch a glimpse of the ghoul in his lap. Swiss sucks at him hard, brings a hand up to dig into the fly of his pants and play with his balls as if they’re not surrounded by their entire pack and also very publicly in the center of the bus. He scrambles at the back of Swiss’ head with shaking hands and digs his fangs into his lip. 

Phantom doesn’t think he’s ever been so mortified in his entire existence. He can’t look up past the top of Swiss’ head; making eye contact with anyone right now would probably kill him. But he can’t deny it feels fucking good. Swiss is a master with his mouth, everybody knows it, and he’s getting so hard so quick with the combination of dopamine and adrenaline running through his veins. He pulls at dense curls and shakes his head, tries to pull the ghoul off his dick, but Swiss is steadfast on giving him head he won’t ever forget. 

Phantom folds over his head again, tries to curtain away his dick with his body when Swiss starts bobbing his head, making little choked sounds deep in the back of his throat with how dedicated he sucks him down. He can only endure. He feels everything–the burning of everyone’s eyes, the heat and slickness of Swiss’ mouth, the kneading on his balls–and hears everything too. Hears the clicks and wet noises as his tip punches the back of his throat over and over and over again, and hears the comments and snickering from his packmates as they watch their free show. He tries to ignore it, tries to enjoy the feeling, because yeah, it feels good, but why did he have to do this here and now? 

Claws dig deep and tight into ebony colored curls when Swiss’ tongue swirls skillfully around his tip and then drags back and forth through his slit. Lightning shoots down his spine and settles hot in his belly and he accidently lets a breathy moan slip past his lips that causes someone to his right to chuckle and Swiss to drop his head halfway down his shaft. He moans around him, sending vibrations through his cock and Phantom groans, melts into the back of the couch and covers his face with his hands. Swiss hollows his cheeks, sucks so good that Phantom thinks he’s trying to suck any remnants of a soul out of his dick. 

“Oh no,” he spits through gritted teeth. His body buckles on him. “Oh no, oh– fuck– i’m gonna…” He spills quick and hot down Swiss’ throat and Swiss thanks him with an irregular pattern of squeezes to his balls followed by a gorgeous moan that turns Phantom’s cheeks impossibly more red. He tries so hard to stifle the whine that bubbles in his throat but Swiss’ work on his dick is way too good and he slips anyways, whines high and strained into his palms. He knows he’s bringing more attention to himself but he can’t help it. He’ll get Swiss back some way or another for this. 

Swiss takes all of him once more before raising up and off with a pop that makes Phantom gasp in sudden overstimulation. His dick twitches, jerks when Swiss pulls his hand out of his pants and wipes his mouth on the back of it so nonchalantly that Phantom frowns. He scrambles to tuck his softening cock away as Swiss pushes himself up to his feet, stretches his hands above his head and groans as his muscles pull back out. Phantom still can’t look at anyone. He can see Dew’s hand out of the corner of his eye, rubbing and pulling at himself hard through the fabric of his navy blue sweats. It feels like all of the oxygen has been sucked from the room. 

“Damn, Swiss, can I get one of those too?”

“Nah,” Swiss says. His voice is fucked. He steps between Phantom’s feet and grabs the ghoul by the front of his shirt. He yelps. “I’m not done with this one yet.”

[seaspringangel]

blood sport — ais

summary: you and ais indulge each other, in strange, strange ways. 

word count: 0.9k

content warnings: gn!reader ✦ canon typical violence ✦ suggestive themes ✦ blood kink ✦ rated A for Ais :)

notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY AIS!!!!!

The next time you see Ais, he is cracking open the skull of a thief as if it were a jeweled egg. 

You flinch and step away as blood splatter ricochets and dots the tip of your boots. You sink into the tired grooves of a wall against your back; a tide of red apples rolling out of your bag teemed around your feet. 

There’s a part of you that wants to turn away and squeeze your eyes shut, an anxiety-ridden voice yelling at you to melt into the worn brick and curl into the crushing safety of the mortar.

But there is a malevolent light sparking to life in the pit of your belly, an insidious thrill flowing like sterling water in your veins. You keep your eyes open to the violence and drink it all in.

You watch the thief crumple to Ais’s feet, body limp and shattered, like an oak tree felled by a raging thunderstorm, and you wrestle with the grim satisfaction singing inside you. 

Ais had lovely hands. Even if they were adorned in the red silk of blood, they were still a sight to behold, a cruel beauty. He studied them, the very ones that split open the scalp of a man as if searching for the white tissue matter that lay inside, and trailed the pad of his thumb over a bloodied knuckle in contemplative silence.

You try to be discreet with your glances as you knelt to pick up your apples. 

“Should be more careful,” he murmured, and his voice tickles like tendrils of smoke at the shell of your ear. 

You scoff softly, glaring up at his imposing form above you, a bruised apple clutched in your hands. “Careful is no match for crazy.” 

Ais tilted his head down at you, and there was a dark light to the curve of his lips, a soot-stained flame sparking to life. “‘Spose not. But I would prefer it if you knew how to watch your back.” 

The sun slithered down the horizon, stealing light from the world, blanketing everything in a velveteen darkness, but Ais’s eyes were warm, too warm, as he looked at you, the hopeful red sunrise before the break of dawn. 

You hate that you enjoy basking in it. 

From where you still knelt on the ground, you reached a bandaged hand out and pulled at one of his pant legs, gripping the fabric and tugging with more force than you ought to. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Stop being irritating and help me pick up these apples.” 

Ais stared at where your hand was placed on his leg, and you witnessed a shadow rushing to speckle the light dancing in his eyes. You felt a heady twist in your gut, hot like blood baking on the pavement in the sun. 

Ais sunk to your level, quite close to you, too close, on the girt and grim of the alleyway floor, and suddenly you felt both smothered and comforted, his musk enveloping you in a cloying embrace; the spice of cloves undercut with the metallic melody of blood, kissing your nose as if in affectionate greeting. The husk of blood that you smelled on his body made you feel warm and slightly dazed, red clouds filling your head.

Ais scooped one apple up, turning it this way and that, considering it in silence. You stared at him, stared at the redness of the apple that matched the redness of his gore-slick hands, of his bright crimson eyes, his existence, and his hands blood-staining the dark that surrounded the both of you.

His eyes slid over to you now, and there was something strange glittering in the shadowy depths of his eyes, dark embers flickering in the heart of them, sparking against your skin. You have never felt so raw and vulnerable; you have never felt so elated to be seen.

“Sure,” he said, and there was a lightness in his tone that belied the honeyed darkness that festered in his eyes, “but I’m afraid you’re in debt to me, little sparrow.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trepidation and excitement warring inside you. “Since when have I ever been in debt to you?”

“Since right now.”

Making use of his strength, the apple held in his hands was suddenly split into two perfect halves. The juices from the fruit snaked a clean river through the blood coating his hands, a sweet baptism of the violence, the crisp aroma perfuming the iron-leaden air hanging heavy above you.

Eyes not leaving your face, Ais lifted one of the apple halves to his mouth and swallowed in one whole go, quick yet silent. You were too stunned to question what he was doing when he raised the other apple to your lips, waiting. “Open up.”

You could see his bloody fingerprints marring the flesh of the apple, his scarlet whirlpools imprinting himself on the delicate fruit. You felt angry. You felt disgusted. 

But above all else, you felt very, very hungry. 

You open your mouth tentatively, and he slides the apple half into your mouth, almost tenderly. Your heart skipped a beat and your gut curdled at the taste melting on your tongue, at the bitter sugar of metallic blood and saccharine wetness of fruit exploding your senses and sliding down your throat. 

Ais hummed his satisfaction, his thumb pressed gently to your lips, ensuring that you consumed every little piece. “Good job, sparrow. Didn’t think you had the stomach for it.”

“You’re sick,” you muttered, but you felt yourself relax under his warm, crimson gaze. 

His bloodied thumb was still against your mouth, radiating heat. You fight the compulsion to suck it deep into your mouth and lick him clean.

tags: @houseofsolisoccasum

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 10: Soulbound

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Your fingers twitch and knead against satiny textiles as wakefulness begins to return you to existence. A lightheaded daze shrouds your vision as your eyes crack open. The canopy of your four-poster bed suspends above you. The drapery is embroidered beautifully with stars, constellations, moons in all phases, and soaring dragons, all revolving around the central sun. In this dream-like state, the depictions seem to move, playing out their destinies against the indigo astral sea as shadows gambol over the extravagant fabric. It would be enchanting if it were not making your head spin uncomfortably.

As you squeeze your eyes shut, your fingers clench and twist the fabric beneath you, and a feeble whine sighs from your lips. Your tongue feels numb and lazy, sagging in your mouth uselessly, and your body feels as fuzzy and impotent as your blurred vision.

“You are awake.”

Astarion’s voice grates at the inception of your consciousness, and you recoil as much as your bloodless body will allow. You still feel his hand around your neck, squeezing tight, halting the pleas in your throat as his fangs sawed at your neck, ripping and tearing the soft flesh. You tumble off the edge of the bed in your panic, and his hands break your fall.

He’s touching you. Hells, he’s touching you, and you want, nay need, him to fucking stop lest you suffocate.

“Don’t touch me,” you sob with a croak, flinging your hands up to protect yourself from further harm, palms heating as your magic surges. “Please. Gods. Don’t touch me.”

Astarion’s hands jerk away, and you shudder while trying to breathe. The stabbing pain in your throat is intolerable, fresh tears springing to your eyes, and your fingers tentatively prod the tender flesh. You don’t need a mirror to know that your skin is revoltingly bruised, a hemorrhaging mural composed by his wrath, and you whimper at the contact of your fingertips. The muscles in your arms and legs still feel like gelatin. They wobble weakly as you push yourself into a corner, hugging your knees to your chest.

“Darling-” Astarion’s hands are poised near you as if he might be able to stop the inevitable crumbling if only he could find the right place to brace it.

“Leave me alone.” You choke out grimly, swallowing the pain caused by your gruff inflection.

“It’s me,” he says, small and shaky.

You need time to think, to regain your composure, and you cannot do it with his eyes on you, his voice repeating your name like a prayer and his hands trying to find where your pieces are weakest so he can give them strength.

“Get out!” You wail despite the barbaric sting that causes more tears to rain out of your eyes. “Get the fuck out!”

“I… Yes, of course. As you wish.” Astarion stutters hesitantly as if he’s not sure if he will heed your commands. The door hinges creak as he closes it behind him, “I’m sorry,” he breathes with a sigh. “Truly.”

Like an ancient ruin that can no longer persevere against the ravages of time, you let yourself collapse and crumble.

The overbearing walls of the Crimson Palace wash over him in waves as he roams through them in a stupor. His fingertips drag across the chilled panels as he tries to orient himself. It feels like he’s waking from a nethermost trance, and his alertness has not fully recovered.

He dives for the desk when he enters the study. It’s full of papers and ledgers in neat piles, and he grabs at parchment chaotically, sending it scattering, sheets fluttering to the ground around him. His eyes scan the documents as he shuffles through them quickly. All in his hand, signature, name, but he does not recall any of this. He tosses sheet after sheet to the side until he finds one with a date.

Eight months.

Eight months of nonexistence. Of something walking around wearing his skin, using his name, speaking in his voice, imitating him.

Where the fuck has he been all this time?

He slams his hands on the desk. It cracks and caves in, regurgitating its contents to the floor. He frowns, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Her voice still reverberates, an echo in his mind, as she said goodbye in a hauntingly melodic timbre.

Why did she leave him?

Dashing through the halls, the floor mocks him in creeks and groans for his heavy steps. He pushes all the doors open as he progresses further into the palace until he finds what must be his room. Opening the wardrobes and dressers, he tosses his clothing haphazardly to the floor, detached from his typical compulsion for fastidiousness.

Nothing. Not a single article of clothing and none of her possessions are here. Why?

His heart pounds as he jogs through the palace until he catches her scent at the top of the dark staircase leading down into a murky darkness – the old spawn quarters.

No. This cannot be, surely. He wouldn’t. Right?

He bounds down the stairs, 2 or 3 steps at a time, until he comes to a slightly ajar door in the hallway with a lock that he does not recall being there. The pads of his shaky fingers stroke the cool metal, and he swallows the lump balling in his throat.

This has to be a nightmare. This cannot be real.

The door whines when he pushes it and peers into the room. It smells strongly of Jasmine, Honeysuckle and Vanilla - it smells like her. Astarion staggers in and throws open the simple wardrobes and chests, breaking the doors off some of them in his haste.

She left everything, which can only mean one thing - she fled.

What has he done?  

“Lord Ancunin?”

Good Gods, he’s come to loathe that singsong voice like nails on a chalkboard, and the back of his throat tickles as it hauls him away from his reflections.

“Elowyn,” he sneers spitefully, crinkling his nose in disgust. “How many times must we have this discussion? If this disobedience persists, I may have to reconsider our little agreement. I have no need for a spawn that cannot follow simple orders.”

The lie rolls off his tongue, smooth and modulated with the hint of a threat. Elowyn wishes to be given the gift of eternal life, and she’s idiotic and vain enough to believe he would ever grant her such a thing, but it is a simple enough falsity to keep her happy and submissive.

“I beg your forgiveness, Master.” Elowyn whimpers, dropping to her knees with her hands clasped in her lap, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good girl. Be sure it doesn’t, or you will force me to teach you another lesson.” He drawls unenthusiastically while staring at his nails. Threatening her brings him no pleasure. He finds it all a rather tedious business. “Now, I did not come here to chitchat. Araj, tell me what you have discovered.”

Araj glares at him with her arms crossed. The Drow has much more spirit and is more arduous to keep in line than her counterpart.

“Hungry, Lord?” Araj quips and leans her head to the side with an egregious grin. “You are considerably ill-tempered today. There’s always a neck here available for the biting if you were so inclined.”

“You can offer all you wish,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “The answer will be no until the end of time. You disgust me.”

“Such harsh words for an old friend.” Araj pouts sarcastically before launching into the excuses he’s already heard. “Your blood is not easy to work with. It’s volatile and eats through everything like caustic acid.”

“You brought me here to tell me of more failure?” He snarls, baring his teeth. He considers killing them both. Their tests have gotten him nothing and no closer to understanding what’s wrong with him, but there is at least one more answer he seeks before he can do away with them. “And the sun immunity?”

“It’s hard to say,” Araj shrugs. “Why the sudden interest in the sun resistance? I thought we were here to see what your blood may be capable of, not to waste our time trying to bottle useless effects. Why would you need a potion to make you invulnerable? You are already immune.”

“What yourself, Araj,” he growls threateningly, his brows knitting together in a fierce scowl that casts shadows over his eyes. “You are under my employ. I get to decide what’s useful to me and what isn’t. You will do as instructed.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Araj smirks. “If this is about that lovely spawn of yours, it may be prudent to allow us access to her blood.”

He’s out of his chair before Araj can blink, slamming her against the wall with one dagger to her throat and the other pressed harshly to her abdomen.

“If you touch her, I will liberate your vile innards from your body. Then, I will hunt down your family, lovers, and friends, turn them into my obedient meat puppets and let them rot away in my dungeon for eternity. She is off-limits. You are to go nowhere near her. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Araj swallows hard, her eyes wide with fear. “Perhaps you might consider an alternative? Turn Elowyn, and we can use her blood for testing instead.”

Throwing his head back, he laughs loudly, making both women jump, “You do not give the hound a bone until it has won the race. Find another way.”

He releases Araj, sheathing his daggers, and stalks away.

Araj’s voice stops him, “Elowyn tells me you’re refusing to give her more samples. We cannot run further tests without it.”

“No.” She would not want him to do this, and he has failed her enough for one day, “You will get no more samples from me until you have done as I ask. The next time you request an audience with me, you better have results, Araj, or there will be consequences.”

“Is that a threat?” Araj spits harshly.

“My dear,” he drawls nonchalantly. With a subtle movement, a dagger hurtles through the air and embeds into the wall so close to Araj’s neck that the shiny steel pets her skin. He looms over Araj, forcing her to arch her back while he hauls the dagger from the wall, “It’s a fucking promise.”

There’s an odd beauty to darkness, an inky void that obscures your surroundings and allows you to delude yourself into believing the elixir of lies you pour into your soul. In it, you can pretend, if only for a moment, that you are not a prisoner of your past and your sins are rendered null as they circle like vultures smothered by the shadows.

So, you lay in the jet-black abyss. Even as your bones begin to rue the rigid floor, and your eyes can shed no more tears, you lay unmoving.

Astarion sits beside you on the floor with his back pressed flat against the wall. He hasn’t uttered so much as a syllable since he settled there hours ago. When you look into his eyes, you see mayhem, starlight and darkness, treading the edge between diabolical and divine. He is a devil cloaked in the skin of an angel with blood dripping from his eyes, but Gods, you’ll ignite the world and walk across the hot coals of its remains if it means preserving the light in him.

You’re a warrior. When life threatens you with a battle, you will awaken every monster, every dragon, every demon that slumbers within you and answer with bloodshed.

You’ve wallowed in your self-pity long enough. A war awaits, and you intend to win it or die trying.

Crawling into his lap, Astarion wraps his arms around you. One of his hands comes to the back of your head, and his cheek presses tightly to yours as you slip your arms around his neck.

And Gods, it feels like heaven to be held in the arms of hell.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes next to your ear while he sweeps your hair away from your neck. His fingers shake as they brood over the bruised skin and gnarled, coin-sized holes that his fangs left. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

You press your hand against his, flat palm to palm. His hand dwarfs yours, “It’s okay.”

Astarion scoffs while his fingers interlock with yours, “It is most certainly not okay. I very nearly drained you dry, and who in the Hells knows what I would have done with you afterward!” His voice is unsteady, labouring beneath misery, “I will take you back to Shadowheart and Gale come morning. We can continue your lessons until you can feed yourself. Once that is accomplished, our business will be concluded, and you will never have to see me again. Freedom, as much as I am willing to grant you, is yours.”

Your eyes distend, and your brows pull down. Astarion is granting you the freedom you want. You should be happy, ecstatic even. So, why does it fill you with dread?

“Is that what you want?” You choke out, faint and tuneless, and pray to any God that hasn’t turned their back on you that his answer is not yes. “You want me to leave?”

“No, little love,” he finally answers in an eerily, delicate baritone after too many agonizing minutes of silent contemplation. “I am selfish as I always have been, perhaps even more since the Rite. Of course, I do not wish you to go, but you are not safe with me. I cannot control it. I have lost days before - days of not knowing where I had gone or what I had done.” He chuckles sarcastically, dismal and sullen, “We get what we deserve in the end, I suppose.”

Perhaps we do.

“I’m not going,” you state matter-of-factly. “Do you trust me, Astarion?”

Astarion gently draws you back to look into your eyes, sorrow dulling his expression with his lips firm in a tight line, “You may be the only person in the entirety of the cosmos that I trust implicitly.”

“Then trust that when the spark in your eyes is snuffed out, I can be your glow,” you vow, chillingly formidable. “My soul is forged in fire, and I will burn brighter than your demons and choke the darkness. I will do whatever it takes. I will always bring you home.”

“Don’t be a martyr. Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” he admonishes you with a shake of his head. “Why are you doing this?”

“Good Gods, you can be obtuse sometimes,” you roll your eyes at him. “You can stop posturing this charade of ignorance any time. I know you heard what I said to Gale.”

Astarion’s eyes drift to your hand, embraced with his, and his thumb skims up and down yours, “What if I am incapable of loving you back?”

Can’t or won’t? 

“I don’t expect you to,” you strive to keep your voice steady and casual even as your heart fractures and implodes in your chest. “Love given with the requisite of reciprocation is not love. I give it to you freely, as it always was, as it always will be. May I speak plainly?”

Astarion arches a brow, “Go on.”

“I don’t think you’re incapable of love, Astarion. I believe you’re scared of it.”

“Love is a sickness of the heart.” Astarion takes a deep breath, his voice grave. “It will hail itself your saviour but be your downfall.”

“Then...” you shrug, “down I go.”

Astarion loving you is a fantasy you’ve long relinquished. A pathetic hope that would asphyxiate you in pools of failed attempts. But wrapped in his arms, staring into scarlet eyes dusted with an ethereal radiance, a murmur begins to bite at your thoughts, quickly becoming a roar, filling your ears.

There’s that feeling again. That connection of invisible threads bridging the gap between you and the presence lingering in the back of your head that you cannot touch. It tugs at the borders of your mind with a request. No, an invitation. For the first time since it made its home in your consciousness when you reach out, it does not shy away, and you embrace it.

There’s an ear-splitting rush and a feeling of sinking. Your body jerks, trying to right itself, but Astarion holds you firmly, pulling you tighter.

“Let yourself sink,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Trust me just a little further.”

You stop fighting the feeling and plummet. Suddenly, you’re not just you any longer. You are you, and you are him simultaneously. One being in two bodies. You can feel the comfortable pressure of your body against him, and his heart beats behind your ribs.

Another abrupt drop. It makes your stomach flutter, and you’re in the bowels of a stygian doom. You feel the corruption you heard in his mind as if it were in yours, infecting your thoughts with sadistic rants and relentless chittering. You can almost taste the rancid colloquy on your tongue, and you fight the urge to retch.

A hunger longing to escape, thundering against the bars of its prison. It hums enticing promises in an absorbing, almost angelic inflection that compels you to release it, and you’re horrified to find yourself tempted.

You’re dragged away, a feeling of hurtling through time and space, not entirely unlike portal travel. His voice echoes in your mind, bellowing in your head, begging you to peer into his darkness, dance with his demons, and love him anyway.

I do, you answer, you are safe with me.

Your eyelashes flutter as you come back. You no longer hear the voices mumbling or feel that malevolent spectre with its seraphic affirmations, but you can still feel him in a way you’ve never felt before.

“I- I don’t understand,” you breathe, trying to reestablish yourself with your body, thoughts and feelings, “What was that?”

“I have always been with you.” Astarion gently taps your temple, “In here. You cannot tell me you have not felt me. I know you have because I always feel you.”

You can’t help the awe transforming your face as you continue feeling his desires, wants, and fears flowing through you as you flow through him, two stars colliding and recollecting unified.

“I thought that was just how you could compel me.”

“Well... it is,” he nods, “but there is much more to it than that.”

“Did you have this with...” You cut yourself off when you realize what you’re about to blurt out, biting your tongue so hard you draw blood.

Astarion smirks, “You know it works both ways, right?” You hear his voice in your head and only realize that it’s not him speaking when you comprehend his mouth isn’t moving, “Just because you don’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t hear it.”

Fuck. Are none of my thoughts private any longer? Did I throw open the door for the devil? 

“The devil, hm? A little harsh, don’t you think?” Astarion giggles. He must see the terror in your eyes, or Hells, does he feel it? Either way, he squeezes your hand. “Say what you were going to say,” Astarion instructs. “You might as well just say it.”

“I didn’t mean that you’re the devil!” You yelp and swallow hard, “Did you have this with Cazador?”

You wince as the name strolls off your tongue. You were never to utter that name in Astarion’s presence, and whenever you did, you paid for your carelessness. You impulsively cower, thrusting your eyes shut, magic rising in a sharp upswing.

“Easy, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. I would make a very dashing devil.” Astarion coos while rubbing your arm, “Yes and no. I felt something similar; that ubiquity rooted in my mind gave him the power to control me, but the link concluded there. This… bond, if you will, is unique to you and me.”

“Why did it not feel like this before? I can feel you, Astarion. I can feel your heart beating as if it were in my chest.” You push your palm against his shirt and let it heat slightly, and your skin starts to heat in concert, “I can feel this as if I were doing it to myself. I feel your desires, wants, and fears. Good Gods, I feel everything.”

It’s gloriously overwhelming, akin to a pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. Your nerves and synapses are overloaded as they attempt to make sense of all this information circuiting.

“I had to open the door, so to speak.” Astarion kisses your heated palm with a wolfish grin. “Tell me. What do I want, little love?”

I want you, it arises in your mind, drifting on the current between you.

“Me.” You stutter, feeling like all the breath has been sucked out of your lungs. You stare at him wide-eyed, “You want... me?”

“Until the world falls down,” he purrs tenderly with a genuine smile. “Do not worry. You are able to close and open the connection, same as I. I need not be in your head all the time. Your dirty thoughts are private if you wish, but I do hope you share.”

“Can you force the connection open?”

“Yes,” he retorts blatantly, “but I have not crossed that line, and I do not plan to, and before you ask, no, you cannot force it open. You can, however, request it simply by reaching out. Wherever I am, I will feel it.”

You rest your hand where your heart used to beat. Hells, it feels like it is beating again, but you’re feeling his. You thought you missed this sensation, but right now, you’re finding it a harsh cramp in your chest.

“Astarion, this… this is incredible.” Tears well in your eyes. He’s letting you in, and the significance of this gesture is staggering, “Thank you.”

“It is quite something, isn’t it?” Astarion takes his lips in yours, and you can feel his eagerness, his rampant desire and his enjoyment. When your tongues meet, tasting each other, you’re blown away by pleasure, yours and his mixed.

“Oh my, this will make for some very depraved carnal fun. I could read your body before, but now I can feel it. Hmm, the possibilities are titillating.” Astarion grins devilishly, “But that will have to wait. You are weak and must rest. I could find you some food if you wish. It will help you recover quicker, but it will not be of the four-legged variety.”

“Unless it’s your purple-haired hussy, I’m not interested.” You smirk. “I will make an exception on my dietary restrictions for her.”

“Oh, still positively green with envy, I see. I can feel your hatred. It’s delectable,” Astarion giggles. “My pretty consort, I do not like to see doubt cast upon your face. I told you I’ve never taken her to my bed. You need not be invidious.”

“Will you take me to your bed? I- I,” you stumble embarrassingly over your tongue. It feels cumbersome in your mouth, “I would like to rest with you tonight.”

You feel a rush of delight mixed with astoundment. Perhaps what’s more flabbergasting is that he simply lets you feel it, not attempting to camouflage or muzzle it.

“You do?” Astarion’s brows rise and curve upward, “I mean,” he clears his throat. “Of course. I can deny you nothing. You need not ask permission. You’re more than welcome to rest with me any night.”

“Well, in that case,” you smirk foxlike, “which wardrobe is mine then?”

The question only further increases the exhilaration you’re feeling ebbing from him. It’s so potent, a high so gratifying that you could get addicted to pleasing him - a dangerous notion.

“I suppose I will have to acquire you one.” Astarion chuckles and kisses your forehead, “Can you walk, or shall I carry you to bed?”

You scoff and do your best, but your muscles are still depleted of the sustenance required to function, and you wobble even with Astarion stabilizing you.

“Carry you, it is, clumsy thing.” He laughs lightheartedly while taking you into his arms. “Come, my love. Let’s go to our bed, hm?”

“Our bed,” you muse, kissing his cheek. “I do like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” he says, suddenly frighteningly serious, “Very much.”

The mattress dips as Astarion gets into bed. You’ve never really realized how enormous this damn bed is. Even with both of you lying in it, there’s so much space that it makes him feel far away, and you mourn the physicality.

A grin splits across his face, and he raises his arm, inviting you in, “I can feel that - you know, your desire to be close. No, it’s more than that. Isn’t it?” You can feel him scan the emotion, deciphering it, “It feels like a need. I suppose I should not be surprised. You never could get enough of me.”

“Astarion.” Pushing yourself close to him, you rest your head on his arm. The pads of your fingers rub the silken skin of his chest. Rest is starting to beckon you toward your trance. “What does this mean for us?”

“It can mean as little or as much as you wish it to,” his fingers meander the valley up your spine. “Nothing has to change between us, or we can… try for something more.”

As the dreamscape unfolds behind the closed lids of your eyes, your sensibility fading, you whisper, “Do you love me, Astarion?”

Emotional pandemonium tosses like waves on a rough sea. Alarm. Resentment. Dread. That proverbial portal slams closed frantically with so much force that it peppers your vision behind your eyelids white, and you lurch upward with your hand to your forehead with a howl.

It feels like a guillotine to your soul, slicing it in two. You are hollow. Your chest is still, the borrowed beat from Astarion’s heart dying. The slipstream of emotions no longer flows and combines as one enchanted ballad.

You are alone, completely incomplete, and you have never felt more dead than this moment.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion rubs your back and kisses your shoulder softly. “I did not expect it to pain you. I’m still learning. I will take heed of my haste from now on. That’s enough rooting around in my head for one day. Rest now.”

The pain ebbs, and your thoughts reform, piecing themselves back together. You lay down without a word because you’re unsure of what you can say in your state of confusion. The feelings, none of them love or even affection, but you’ve been feeling his veneration all night.

What the Hells does it all mean?

The sun-warmed stones of the courtyard thaw the icy chill of your skin as you lay under the radiant rays. The sky is full of fluffy, white clouds like unsheared sheep grazing across a cerulean plain. You thought this might make you feel as alive as when the bond between you and Astarion was open, but instead, it’s another reminder you’re a walking, talking corpse.

A feather-light breeze flutters your hair around your face and carries the smell of food, well, people but food to you, reminding you of your hunger. Those cramps in your stomach have returned, and the unquenchable thirst is parching your throat, making your tongue feel like an arid desert.

Firey orbs rotate above, and you twist them into constellations, which you often do when your mind is unsettled. Astarion said you could try for more; it sounds like fantasies made reality until you remember that he’d said he wasn’t sure he could love you. In that case, what does more even mean to him? Do you take the risk and put your heart on the table?

Everything is getting so fucking messy.

How can you tell what is genuine with him? Gale wasn’t wrong when he said Astarion knows how to manipulate you. He hardly needs to compel you because he knows what buttons to push and pull, the words to say, to get what he wants. He always has. All roads always lead back to him. Is it your heart that gravitates to Astarion, or is it something far more sinister? Are you just ingrained to be drawn to your creator? How can you know your feelings versus just an innate reflex that was planted and has taken root in your consciousness?

“What’s troubling you?” Astarion lays down beside you with an arch brow and his crimson eyes vivid in the sunlight.

“Everything,” you sigh, “Just everything.”

Astarion rolls to his side and puts his hand on your arm. He looks bothered by your answer with one brow pulled slightly down with his head cocked, “Is it something I did? You can tell me.”

“No.” The orbs start to absorb each other until there are only two remaining. You make them violently clash and burst like a firework, “You didn’t do anything. Where did you go this morning? You weren’t here when I woke up.”

“I would like to take you somewhere today.” Astarion sits and takes your hand, kissing the palm and all your fingertips, “Will you come?”

Sitting, you pull your knees to your chest, “You want to go out during the day?”

“Yes, during the day.” He purrs in a soothing baritone. “You’re safe from the sun with me. You need not hide in the manor all the time.”

“It’s not the sun, Astarion.” A lie. It’s always a little bit about the sun. That phobia is alive and well. You’re starting to wonder if it’s less of a phobia and more of some weird vampiric instinct. “It’s all the people. I’m hungry, and my control is dreadful. I can’t be trusted around them. I’m not sure how you did it.”

“Centuries of practice, love. You do quite well for a young spawn. Cazador kept us in the kennels until we could control the hunger. I was in there for many years, I think.” Astarion cocks his head, drawing his brows down as if he didn’t mean to divulge that information but continues. “You have my word; I will not put you into a situation you cannot handle.”

“Okay,” you say hesitantly, “I’ll go.”

“Splendid,” Astarion stands and hauls you up with him, “You can ride a horse, yes?”

Your brows pop up, rounding your eyes, “Me? Of course. Do you? Last I checked, you hated those beasts.”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Astarion rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, “I am more than capable of riding the beasts. I don’t have to like them."

“This is going to be so much fun,” you giggle. “I truly cannot wait to see this. The Vampire Ascendant on a horse. Miracles never cease!”

“Cheeky pup,” he smirks and bumps your shoulder.

It’s been a while since you’ve been in the saddle, but you settle quickly. With your feet in the stirrups and hands on the reins, the dapple-grey mare canters with a rhythmic stride. Astarion’s steed, a large jet-black gelding, keeps pace effortlessly. It’s hard to keep your eyes off Astarion. In the saddle, he attracts attention with a cut debonair form, his shoulders back, hips rolling smoothly to match his gelding’s long strides, and his hair flowing handsomely in the wind.

He catches you admiring him with your mouth dropped open and smirks with a chuckle, nodding in the direction to follow and eases his gelding into a gallop. The two horses soar over the plains outside Baldur's Gate with booming hoofbeats, manes streaming in the wind, and tails held high.

There is something so unbelievably picturesque about this moment, so familiar yet unsettling. You spent so much time travelling with Astarion across areas like this. You, him and dirt roads from dawn to dusk, but this isn’t the same man from your memories - is it? It’s getting increasingly more challenging to be mindful that Astarion may look and act, well sometimes act, like the same person you knew, but he isn’t.

He no longer becomes shy when you ask him for a kiss; gone are the awkward hugs, the way he used to mutter to himself to test what he was about to say, and the way his eyes would dart away when he said something sweet.

Now, he’s prone to blacked-out fits of violent, deadly rage and can let you burn in the sun at any moment should he choose, force himself into your mind, and take away your agency with a thought. He can turn himself into a bat, mist, and who knows what else. He said he felt his powers growing, and you have a feeling you haven’t seen the full extent of what he can do.

How many people has he killed in his blackouts? How many people has he compelled? Has he compelled you? You have yet to see other spawn, but who knows what he’s hiding.

Yet, you love him all the same - even with his demons, darkness and madness.

In these moments, when things start to feel too much like old times, you can’t help but mourn the man he was – a man you still miss.

I wonder what he would have thought of himself turning me into his spawn? 

Astarion reins his horse to a trot and guides the gelding into a dense thicket with a barely perceptible path. He twists in the saddle, “This way. It’s not far.”

The trees, smelling pleasantly of pine, are towering with thick trunks. A chorus of birdsongs flows like a river softly floating through the air. It’s easy to forget how beautiful nature can be. When was the last time you were out like this during the day?

After several minutes, the thick trees start to thin and give way to a pristine clearing with thick green grass carpeting the ground and a lake. The crystalline water looks as blue as the sky reflecting on its mirror-smooth surface.

“Here we are,” Astarion dismounts his horse. His feet land on the ground in silence; not even the snap of a twig can be heard or the crunch of his boots on the earth.

Your eyes scan the area with reverence. The colours are bright and vivid, as though painted and composed from an artist's rendering of a fairy tale. It’s been some time since you’ve seen anything of such beauty during the day. If you had breath to take away, this would surely confiscate it from your lungs. You pat the mare’s muscled neck, haul yourself up and hop off the saddle much less gracefully than Astarion.

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, “This way. Come.”

He takes your hand and leads you toward thick blankets, pillows, chilled wine, flowers, and candles in a stunning presentation.

“Astarion,” you gasp, below a whisper as you take in the scene, “Did you do this?”

“Yes.” Astarion slips behind you and puts his arms around your waist, hugging you close to his chest, “I thought you might want to get out of the manor for a day.”

You lean into him, “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“I told you I can be romantic,” he quips with a boyish smile. His cardinal red eyes are set ablaze by the sun glinting off them, “You did not believe I was capable. Before you say it because I can see it on your pretty face, yes, little love, true feelings - they were a requirement, if I recall correctly.”

Do I ruin this moment by asking about what feelings?

I must know.

“What feelings, Astarion?”

Astarion kisses your temple and coos, “My feelings for you, of course. You said you were hungry earlier. I will go find you some food.”

He’s trying to retreat from the conversation.

“No, I’m fine,” you clutch his arm, afraid that if you let him go, you might awaken from this dream. “Stay, please?”

“Are you sure? It would not take me long, and I will be sure to stay close.”

“I’m sure, please.”

“As you wish,” Astarion removes his shirt and lays on the blanket, closing his eyes and basking in the sun. “If you change your mind, you have only but to ask. I do not like letting you go hungry.”

You sit beside him and grab the wine, uncork it and drink it straight from the bottle, disregarding the glass flutes.

He opens one eye momentarily and chuckles, “Hells, I see you’re still as boorish as ever.”

“Oh, shut up,” you giggle while giving him a playful shake, “You used to love my lack of decorum.”

When you used to love me, or at least, I thought you did.

Astarion takes the bottle from you and drinks straight from it with a wink, “Who says I don’t still love it, you delinquent.”

He hands the bottle back and lies back with his eyes closed. There’s something so tranquil about him like this. You can barely believe that just a day ago, he had his hands wrapped around your neck while he tore at your throat. It feels like a distant nightmare and makes you question if it really happened.

Your fingers trace the scabbed, coin-sized holes he marred your skin with as if to prove to yourself it was real. There’s always a dull, icy throbbing in your breast as if you’re heart believes it should be beating and is trying to rival its death. Some days, the pain is easily overlooked, but right now, it feels like someone is driving barbed shards of ice through your heart with a heavy hand and thundering strikes. Bringing your hand to your chest, you put pressure on it as if that might impede the malignancy.

You need a distraction, a physical sensation on your skin that you can focus on before you try to claw your heart out, “Are there any people around here?”

Astarion listens intently for a few seconds before shaking his head, “No, there’s no one around for miles. Why?”

You swallow your anguish and give him a devious grin, “Can I swim in that water?”

He probs himself up and grins, “It’s not running. You should be fine.”

“Excellent,” you giggle, taking another big drink and handing him the bottle.

You remove your clothes and wade in, disturbing and rippling the glassy surface. Diving into it, you let yourself sink to the murky bottom. The water is cold, even to you, and nips your skin like needlepoints being dragged across your flesh. The sunless silence is serene, and you consider letting it swallow you whole, but when you open your eyes toward the surface, you can see the silhouette of Astarion standing on the bank. Bending your knees, with a push, you propel yourself to the surface, to him, because that’s what you do – is it not? You always return to him, even at your detriment.

Astarion’s eyes you regardfully with nervous scrutiny, as if he had been afraid you may never come back.

“It’s cold,” you warn him.

“That’s really not a problem,” he chuckles, relaxing his expression once he’s assessed you’re safe. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You arch a calculating brow at him, and he rolls his eyes, “Sweetheart, get your head out of the gutter. Gods, you’re a freak sometimes.”

“Another thing you used to love about me,” you snicker while walking up to him. “What would you like to show me?”

“Used to” hm? That’s another wildly inaccurate statement,” Astarion tsks while he takes your hand and places it on his warm skin with a soft exhale and a wince that makes you smirk your “I-told-you-so” look. Slowly, his body cools until he’s as cold as you.

Your brows furrow as you place your hand on random spots of him. Icy cold everywhere. “You can control your body temperature?”

“I can do a great many things,” he chuckles with a cunning lop-sided half smile twerking one corner of his lips up, “Interesting ability, although I have found little use for it until now.”

Before you can register what he’s doing, Astarion giggles mischievously, picks you up and throws you back into the lake as if he were throwing a pebble, removes his trousers and wades in with you.

“That was rude!” You glower at him playfully and tap your chin with your finger, “Retribution may be required. I might have to get your hair wet.”

“Don’t you dare!”

With a wicked grin, you start splashing him, and he lunges toward you. By the time he’s subdued you with his arms wrapped around yours, he’s drenched, including his hair, and you’re both laughing loudly.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he giggles. “Naughty thing.”

Laughing, you comb your fingers through his hair and muss it further, “Don’t worry, you still look earth-shatteringly dashing.”

Astarion brushes wet strands of your hair out of your eyes, “You’re a vision.” He purrs while pulling you close to him, guiding your legs around his waist.

His thumb traces your lower lip. When he takes your lips in his, the kiss is raw with emotion, demanding and primal. His finger puts gentle pressure on your chin, opening your mouth for him, and his tongue explores you with a longing groan.

Astarion abruptly breaks the kiss and stares off to the side, a million miles away. An almost startled confusion distorts his expression, which perplexes you. Have you made him uncomfortable somehow?

“Astarion,” you cradle his face with your palm, “What’s wrong?”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, and he swallows hard, making his Adam's apple bob. His eyes snap back to yours, a scarlet tempest of determination raging athwart his irises, “I think we need to talk.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

Please note - we may end up giving Tav a name. I've been agonizing over the idea for a while because it was something I never meant to do, but my resolve is weakening haha. If you're incredibly against the idea, please let me know.

I know my portrayal of A. Astarion is a softer version - I guess I have a weak spot for an Astarion that's all-powerful but still not completely cold and horribly abusive - although, he does have his moments.

[kunasthiast]

My God (4)

Just when you know your week couldn't get any worse, the universe really decides to bring out the worst in you.

You might as well be near your boiling point and do some dumb decisions... or not?

a/n: sorry that this took a while for me to post – a lot has happened to my life lately lol dfhdshfs no worries, i'll be back to regular updates by next week!

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: banters + angst, Yakuza AU, Fake Marriage Word Count: 4.4k All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

1 • 2 • <- previous

The morning sunlight streamed through the cracks in the curtains, casting dancing shadows on the walls of your bedroom. Your phone vibrated on the bedside table, jolting you awake from a very, very restless sleep.

The lingering effects of the past few days — the unexpected announcement and the whirlwind of events — had left you feeling exhausted and unsettled. Why does your life seem to deteriorate each day since that fucking party and announcement?

You rubbed your eyes groggily, still processing the reality of your situation. It’s that hard to move on, okay? As you swung your legs out of your comfy bed, your foot brushed against the plush rug beneath, grounding you for a moment before the chaos of the day.

Reaching for your phone by the bedside table, your heart rate spiked as you opened it — staring so long at the text messages waiting on your screen. It is indeed a lot of emotions already this morning. I’m just hungry… right? I haven’t eaten anything since last night.

Sukuna > good morning, princess ;) > so, where are we secretly gonna get married? > gotta have it on my calendar, u know I’m a busy man

A wave of dread washed over you. The reality of your situation hit you with full force, the weight of the impending ruse pressing down on you, and how the fuck you will deal with this. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you closed your phone and laid back down face-first on your bed to bury your face in your pillow. 

At least this pillow is soft enough, you thought as you continued to pound your head on it to at least try to escape the overwhelming sense of dread you’ve been having these past few days. The cool, soft fabric offered very little comfort, but at least it was something you could control. Or not.

You’re not ready to deal with anything this early in the morning, please. 

After a few minutes of futilely attempting to disappear into your pillow, you pulled yourself together and sat up, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed again. The creak of the bed frame seemed to echo in the silent room.

You opened your phone in hand, your fingers hovering over the screen as you contemplated your reply to the bane of your existence, as you often call him in your mind. 

You > will a civil wedding do? > i’ll have it scheduled around noon   > and please, no more morning texts 

You put your phone down and stand up, stretching your aching muscles. Comfy bed, comfy pillow, but still giving me these aches, you thought. The tightness in your shoulders and back was a reminder of the amount of stress you have. You ran a hand through your hair, feeling the tangled strands pull against your scalp.

“Holy shit,” you muttered as a sudden realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You immediately grabbed your phone, opened your calendar app, and scrolled through it with a sense of dread gnawing at your gut. And there it was — just as you feared. Yes, you did forget something.

There’s a fucking art gala tonight. Sponsored by your father.

Which meant… your father would be there, Sukuna would be there, everyone in the family would be there.

Worst of all? Satoru would be there. You just knew it.

Yeah, you’re skipping this one.

“There’s no way I’m going to the gala tonight,” you mumbled to yourself as you closed your phone and placed it screen down on the bedside table.

You walked towards your ensuite bathroom, and the cold tiles beneath your feet sent a shiver through you. Your disheveled reflection greeted you in the mirror, your hair sticking out in every direction, eyes slightly puffy from the lack of sleep. 

“I can’t deal with that hellhole tonight. Dealing with Sukuna is already enough of a headache,” you whispered to yourself, running a hand through your hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The strands slipped through your fingers like silk, but they stubbornly refused to cooperate. 

Your mind then wandered to whatever chaos you might be missing this evening. Yeah, there’s something that will happen tonight, you thought with a sinking feeling in your stomach. You gave up on your hair and splashed cold water on your face. The icy shock jolted you awake, but it did little to quell the unease bubbling inside you.

—

Sukuna’s footsteps echoed sharply against the marble floors, each step resonating through the silent, opulent corridors of the mansion. The walls, adorned with priceless art and gilded fixtures, only accentuated the coldness that seemed to seep up from the floor, biting through the soles of his expensive shoes. He paid it no mind, his thoughts already far ahead, focused on the confrontation that awaited him.

A faint buzz in his pocket broke the silence and paused his strides. Sukuna pulled out his phone, his eyes narrowing as he read your curt reply. He couldn’t help but chuckle in amusement at your attempt to try and take control of your situation like a kitten trying to catch the laser light but ended up tripping over nothing. 

He pocketed his phone, his smirk fading as he neared the heavy oak doors of your father’s office and knocked. Without waiting for a response, Sukuna pushed the door open. The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to your skin and made it hard to breathe. But, not to Sukuna. 

Your father, Akira, sat behind his massive desk, the steam rising from a cup of tea curling into the air like tendrils of smoke. The faint aroma of peppermint filled the air, usually calming, and added unease that hung between them.

"Come in, Sukuna,” Akira’s voice was both tired and commanding. Sukuna stepped into the office, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in every detail — the subtle twitch in Akira’s jaw, the way his fingers tightened around the teacup.

Yeah, he’s still brooding over last night’s drama, Sukuna thought.

"Sukuna," Akira began, his tone laced with disapproval, "I've heard about the incident last night."

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, his expression a perfect mask of indifference. "It was nothing," he replied, his voice calm and almost dismissive. "Just a minor misunderstanding."

Akira’s eyes narrowed to slits, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Minor misunderstandings can have major consequences," he warned. “The fight with the Zenin clan was reckless, and you know it.”

Sukuna shrugged, his posture relaxed, almost bored. "It was necessary," he replied, his tone nonchalant. "They were crossing a line."

Akira slammed his palm onto the desk, the sudden sound echoing through the room. “Just what line are you crossing, Sukuna?” He demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Just because I’ve named you as the next head of this family doesn’t save you from your dumb actions. I can take that back anytime. You’re becoming too reckless, and it’s only a matter of time before your actions come back to bite us all,” he warned. "You can't afford to make any more mistakes."

Sukuna didn’t flinch at the outburst, clearly expecting this reaction from the current family head. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Akira’s with an intensity that sent a shiver down the older man’s spine. “I have everything under control,” he said, his voice steady and cold. The calm in his tone was more terrifying than any thread could have been.

Akira sighed, massaging his temples with his fingertips and evident frustration. "You think you have everything under control,” he muttered, more to himself than to Sukuna. “But you're forgetting one thing."

Sukuna tilted his head, waiting, his eyes narrowing slightly and silently waiting for the rebuke.

"Your actions affect more than just yourself," Akira reprimanded, his voice regaining its firmness. "Your choices have consequences for the entire family. I won't stand by and watch you dismantle everything I've built."

Sukuna took a sit down, legs crossed, the chair in front of Akira’s table, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "You're getting emotional," he said with a hint of offense.

Akira’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm being realistic,” he shot back, his voice rising. “You need to start thinking with your head instead of your ego."

Sukuna chuckled a dark, humorless sound. "And you need to stop babying me like I'm some helpless child,” he retorted. “I know what I’m doing. My reckless actions are the reasons you chose me over your daughter. Or have you forgotten that?”

For a moment, the room fell into a tense silence, the words hanging in the air like a loaded gun. Akira stared at Sukuna, his expression a mixture of anger and reluctant acknowledgment. He knew that the young man was right in a sense, but it didn’t make them any easier to swallow. 

After what felt like an eternity, Akira spoke again, his voice calmer but no less tense. "Yes, your past actions played a part in your selection,” he admitted, his gaze never leaving Sukuna’s. “But, that does not give you a free pass to do as you please without regard for this family. We are not invincible, Sukuna, and your recklessness will catch up to you eventually.”

Sukuna’s smirk softened slightly, a rare moment of sincerity flashing in his eyes before it was quickly buried beneath its usual bravado. "I get it," he said, his one more subdued, though still laced with that infuriating confidence.

"Good," Akira nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly and his voice still stern but with a hint of relief. "Because this family can’t afford any more of your antics. Not now.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, raising his arms in a playful gesture of surrender. “Alright, alright old man,” he drawled, his smirk returning in full force. “I'll try to keep my antics in check."

As their conversation shifted to the upcoming gala tonight, Sukuna’s thoughts began to drift. He listened to Akira’s plans with one ear, already calculating his next move.

By the time he left the office, a sense of satisfaction settled in his chest, and couldn’t help but chuckle in satisfaction. He had defused the situation, at least for now. But he knew that old man would be watching him closely, waiting for him to slip.

It’s a game of patience, Sukuna mused. A game I’ve been playing for years. And I’m so close to winning.

—

“Well, fuck,” you muttered under your breath, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror. You were bathed in soft, ambient light that did little to calm your nerves.

As much as you hated the idea of attending the art gala tonight, you didn’t have the heart to miss whatever you felt would happen. The feeling is too strong to dismiss, okay?

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you adjusted your hair for what felt like the hundredth time. It had been at least 40 minutes since you started getting ready. Usually, you would take less than 30 minutes to get yourself to look presentable, but tonight was different. The clock on your wall ticked away relentlessly, reminding you that you were on the verge of being late.

With a resigned sigh, you puckered up your lips to readjust your dark red lipstick before accepting the inevitable. The deep red dress you had chosen clung to your frame, the fabric shimmering subtly with your movements. It was a beautiful dress, one that made you feel powerful yet vulnerable all at once. I look so good though, you thought.

But, even as you admired the way it complemented your skin, it didn’t ease the knot of anxiety in your twisting in your stomach.

“Just a few more minutes,” you whispered as if convincing yourself could somehow delay the night’s events. Grabbing your clutch, you cast one final glance at the mirror, hoping to see confidence reflected back to you. Instead, all you saw was a woman teetering on the edge of uncertainty. 

The drive to the gala was a blur of Tokyo’s city lights and quiet streets. You could feel the nervous energy bubbling under your skin, but you forced yourself to focus on the road.

When you finally arrived, the gala was already in full swing. The grand hall was filled with people, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Art pieces adorned the walls, each more elaborate and expensive than the last. Normally, you would have taken the time to appreciate them, but tonight, they were just background noise to the chaos in your mind.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the undercurrent of power plays masked by polite smiles. You wove through the crowd, trying to find a quiet corner where you could collect yourself.

But before you could escape, the grand hall plunged into semi-darkness. The sudden shift sent a ripple of unease through the crowd, punctuated by the commanding, firm voice you know all too well. You froze, your pulse quickening as the tension in the room spiked.

“Where have you been?”

You turned sharply, your breath catching in your throat as you faced your father, Akira, whose presence was as imposing as ever. His eyes bore into yours with a mixture of frustration and concern. He didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention; the weight of his words alone was enough to make your heart pound.

“I—” you started, but he cut you off with a curt wave of his hand.

“This is not the time for excuses,” he said, his tone cold and clipped. “Do you realize how important tonight is? You were expected to be here on time, not wandering in whenever you felt like it.”

You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to maintain your composure. The tension between you and your father had always been thick, but tonight it felt suffocating, more suffocating than your last confrontation. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” you replied, your voice strained. “Isn’t that what matters?”

Akira’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he spoke. “Your presence is the bare minimum. I expected you to support the family, to be an asset, not a liability. You can’t keep running away from your responsibilities.”

His words struck a nerve, but you refused to back down and remain as composed as ever. “I’m not running away,” you retorted, your voice rising despite your efforts to stay calm. “I’m trying to deal with everything you’ve dumped on me, including this ridiculous charade with Sukuna.”

Akira’s eyes flashed with anger, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “You’re lucky I chose him over you,” he hissed. “Do you think you could handle the pressure of leading this family? You can barely keep your emotions in check.”

The sting of his words was like a dagger to your heart, the familiar ache of inadequacy tightening its grip on you. You clenched your fists, fighting the urge to lash out. 

“I won’t tolerate any more of your outbursts tonight,” Akira continued, his voice dripping with authority. “Do what you’re supposed to do, and stay out of trouble.”

You didn’t respond, knowing that anything you said would only escalate the situation. Instead, you turned and walked away, the weight of your father’s expectations pressing down on you with every step. The air felt heavy, almost stifling, as you made your way through the crowd, trying to clear your head.

But as fate would have it, your search for solitude was cut short by an all-too-familiar voice that made your blood run cold. 

“Ah, there’s my favorite fiancee.” Gojo Satoru’s drawled, his tone oozed with arrogance and mischief, his presence as infuriating as ever. 

You stiffened, fingers tightening around your glass as you slowly turned to face him. Satoru stood before you, exuding his usual air of effortless confidence. His stark white hair contrasted sharply with the tailored black suit he wore, and those piercing blue eyes behind his sleek sunglasses sparkled with the same irritating delight that always set your teeth on edge. 

“Satoru,” you replied, barely able to keep the venom from your voice. The sight of him is enough to make your skin crawl, your eyes narrowing in distaste. You absolutely can’t stand him.

“Don’t look so thrilled to see me,” he teased, leaning in closer than you liked. “You know, we’re supposed to be making this work. Or did you forget about the message I sent you last night?”

You glared at him, refusing to be baited. “Why are you here, Satoru? Shouldn’t you be off charming some other poor soul?”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You do admit you’re a poor soul,” he said in amusement. “But funny you mention that — I was trying to reach you, but it seems someone decided to block my number.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze head-on, “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

Before Satoru could reply, a low, dangerous voice sliced through the air, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Sukuna’s presence is always an overwhelming one — dark, powerful, and very impossible to ignore. He stepped into view, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked from you to Satoru. His sudden appearance even made Satoru’s jaw clench in thinly veiled annoyance.

“Sukuna,” Satoru greeted, his tone light, but there was a sharp edge to it. “Just having a little chat with my fiancee.” He emphasized the last word, as if laying claim to you in front of Sukuna. Oh, if only you know, Satoru, you thought.

Sukuna’s gaze lingered on you for a moment as you stared right back at him, and then his eyes shifted back to Gojo. “Doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it,” he remarked, his voice calm but carrying a subtle challenge.

You know the tension is too tense, and you were caught in the middle of it all. Before you could try to break the ice, Sukuna continued with his tone still calm but now laced with unmistakable authority, “Well, if you’re done, I’d like to have a word with the princess here.” 

His gaze bore into Satoru, making it clear that he wasn’t asking for permission. Satoru's smirk faltered slightly, but he didn’t back down, his posture remaining relaxed, though his eyes betrayed the simmering annoyance beneath.

“Princess, huh?” Satoru’s lips curled into a mocking smile as he looked back at you. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your royal duties.” His tone was laced with sarcasm, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes before he finally stepped back.

“Don’t let me keep you, darling,” Satoru said, his voice deceptively sweet, but the undercurrent of hostility was unmistakable. He brushed past you, his shoulder grazing yours as he left, the brief contact sending a jolt of irritation through your body.

As he walked away, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, your entire body tense from the exchange. Sukuna remained silent beside you, his presence as imposing as ever. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unwavering, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes just yet.

Finally, after a long moment of silence, Sukuna spoke, his voice low and with a hint of amusement, “A civil wedding, really? How is that discreet enough?”

You finally looked up, meeting his eyes, searching for any sign of mockery. But what you saw was something else — curiosity, maybe, or perhaps a challenge. As he always has.

"It’s the easiest way to make it legal without drawing too much attention," you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "Besides, it’s quick, and we don’t need an audience."

He tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And here I thought you’d want something grander, with all the bells and whistles,” he teased, but there was an edge to his tone as if he was testing you.

You shook your head, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “We’re not doing this for real, Sukuna. It’s a ruse, remember? The less attention we draw, the better.”

He considered your words, his gaze never leaving yours, as if weighing your resolve. “So you think a quick signature and some paperwork will fool everyone?” he asked, his tone soft but laced with skepticism.

“It’s not about fooling everyone,” you countered, your voice firm. “It’s about keeping things under control until we figure out the next step. This marriage is just the beginning, not the endgame.”

Sukuna’s smirk widened, a glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re serious about this,” he observed, sounding almost impressed. “I didn’t expect you to be so... committed.” 

You held your ground, refusing to back down despite the proximity. “I’m not naive, Sukuna,” you replied, your voice firm. “I know what I’m getting into.”

He watched you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as if looking for something hidden beneath the surface. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he finally relented. “Alright, princess,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “But you might want to ease up on the seriousness. You’re making this sound more like a business transaction than a scheme.”

You rolled your eyes, feeling the tension in your shoulders beginning to dissipate, just slightly. “That’s because it is a business transaction, Sukuna. And I’m pretty sure you’re not one to shy away from deals.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and dark, and it sent a strange thrill through you. “True enough,” he conceded, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “But don’t you think it’s time to relax? We’ve done enough plotting for one night.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked up at him. “And how exactly do you propose we do that?”

Sukuna’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I have a few ideas,” he said, leaning in slightly. “How about we start with a drink? You look like you could use one.”

You hesitated for a moment, but then nodded, realizing he was right. You could definitely use a drink. “Fine,” you agreed, uncrossing your arms. “But just one.”

Sukuna’s grin was almost predatory as he led you to a secluded corner where a small bar was set up. The bartender looked up as you approached, and Sukuna ordered two drinks without even asking you what you wanted. He seemed to know exactly what you needed—something strong, something that would take the edge off the evening’s events.

When the drinks arrived, Sukuna handed you a glass, and you took it, eyeing the amber liquid inside. You took a cautious sip, the warmth spreading through you almost instantly. It was stronger than you expected, but somehow, it was exactly what you needed.

“To our little charade,” Sukuna said, raising his glass in a mock toast.

You couldn’t help but smirk as you clinked your glass against his. “To whatever the fuck will happen,” you replied, before taking another sip.

The alcohol burned pleasantly as it went down, and you could feel yourself beginning to relax. The tension that had been coiled tight within you all evening was starting to unravel, and you found yourself leaning back against the bar, feeling a little more at ease.

Sukuna watched you closely, his eyes never leaving your face as you drank. “Feeling better?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.

“A little,” you admitted, swirling the liquid in your glass. “But don’t get any ideas. This doesn’t change anything.”

He chuckled again, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Of course not, princess. But it doesn’t hurt to enjoy the moment, does it?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he shot back, his tone playful. “It’s a wonder we haven’t killed each other yet.”

“Give it time,” you muttered, though the edge in your voice had softened.

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe,” you said, finishing off your drink and setting the glass down on the bar. “But let’s see if you can keep up first.”

Sukuna’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he signaled the bartender for another round. “Oh, I intend to.”

The drinks kept coming, and before you knew it, you were both laughing more easily, the sharp edges of your words softened by the alcohol. The tension that had weighed so heavily on you earlier seemed to melt away, replaced by a surprising sense of camaraderie.

“Tell me,” Sukuna said after a while, leaning closer, his voice conspiratorial. “What was the real reason you chose me for this scheme of yours? Was it because I’m the only one who can handle you?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. You were just the least annoying option.”

“Least annoying?” he repeated, feigning offense. “I’m hurt, princess.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice behind it. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You know exactly why I chose you—you’re ruthless and cunning, and you don’t get sentimental.”

Sukuna’s gaze intensified, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “And you think that makes me the perfect partner for this little game of yours?”

You held his gaze, refusing to back down. “It makes you dangerous,” you said quietly. “And that’s exactly what I need. I kind of trust you, too.” It’s the alcohol speaking, is it?

For a moment, the playful banter between you faded, replaced by something heavier, more charged. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, a challenge hanging in the balance.

Then, with a slow, deliberate smile, Sukuna leaned back, the moment of intensity passing. “Well then, princess,” he said, his tone lightening once more. “Let’s see how dangerous we can really be.”

The night wore on, and the drinks continued to flow, loosening your tongues and blurring the lines between ally and adversary. You found yourself laughing more than you had in a long time, the weight of the world temporarily lifted by the alcohol and Sukuna’s surprising wit.

By the time you realized just how much you’d had to drink, it was too late. The room was spinning slightly, and your movements were less coordinated than they should have been. 

But somehow, it didn’t matter. The knot of anxiety that had been twisting in your stomach all night had finally loosened, replaced by a warm, hazy contentment.

Oh well, might as well enjoy the rest of the night, right?