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em1i2a3 · 5 days ago

Text

Oxygen

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Fem!Reader!

Summary: Your period has come, and you’re feeling extremely moody and down, mix that in with intense cramping and you’re absolutely miserable. But when Bob lets out The Void for the night, he has a solution for all your troubles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angsty (kind of), Would I say this is Hurt/Comfort? I mean…Kind of? In the literal sense lol. Reader is in pain and The Void is comforting her…So yeah. Reader has an established relationship with Bob. Void is a bit soft here

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Period Sex (it’s going to get messy), Descriptions/Mentions of Period Blood (it kind of gets everywhere…Do with that information what you will), Oral Sex (Void being a certified munch…Wheew), Fingering, Void gets a little rough, Scratches, Love Bites (that borders on painful while receiving them, but like…A good kind of pain?), Little bit of hair pulling, Nipple/Breast Play, Reader is Hypersensitive so Overstimulation is a thing, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, A Bloody Good Time (the request asked for filth…I shall deliver as much as I possibly can.), Aftercare (because hell yeah!)

Author’s Note: Wheeeewww….Wowie. This request was a mood and I thought I would oblige. I love writing Soft Void so much that it’s taken over my life, Jesus Christ! Anyways, I know this may not be everyone’s cup of tea, so hopefully I can make it up to y’all tomorrow with some cavity inducing Fluff? RAF is tomorrow too. However! I hope you guys enjoy <3

Word Count: 11,756

When Bob arrived at your apartment, the front door was already unlocked–just like you’d told him in the text you sent thirty minutes ago, when the cramps had gotten so bad that even reaching for your heating pad felt like too much. It wasn’t that you were being reckless or forgetful. It was just that you had finally managed to contort your body into the one exact position on your couch where the stabbing pain in your lower abdomen dulled to a tolerable throb, and there was no force on Earth–nor in your aching uterus–that could convince you to ruin that hard-earned victory just to answer the door.

You were curled into the deepest corner of your couch, half-wrapped in a fuzzy navy throw blanket that clung to your overheated skin with static. One leg was tucked beneath you while the other dangled over the side like a limp vine, toes grazing the edge of the coffee table. A heating pad was crammed against your lower stomach tucked under the waistband of your oldest pair of sweatpants–gray, baggy, and speckled with faded bleach stains from an old laundry mishap. Your hoodie was black, and your socks were mismatched. You were also surrounded by tear stained tissues, half-finished tea, and two little individual Tylenol blister packs you couldn’t summon the strength to throw away.

You had messaged Bob earlier, before the cramps got really bad—“Door is open”—and he’d replied quickly, sweetly, with “Okay :)” like the smiley face might soften the guilt you were already wallowing in.

Because truthfully, you had tried to cancel the whole night.

Your period had come four days early, and you were completely caught off guard by the sudden flush of hormones and ferality, the fatigue that hit like a train, and the emotional fog that crept in as if someone had quietly dimmed all the lights inside you. Within the span of a few hours you had gone from feeling excited for your night with Bob–featuring blanket, popcorn, movies, him sleeping over, and of course the subsequent sex that came from it–to being curled up on your couch in a haze of discomfort and self-loathing, texting him “actually I think I have to cancel, I feel really gross, and disgusting” with trembling fingers and wet lashes.

But Bob didn’t hesitate at all in his response.

”I still want to come over. Period or not. You know how much I want to be around you, and I’ll be happy to take care of you.” You stared at that message for a full minute before replying, chest aching. You’d always made it a point to schedule your hangouts around your cycle. You didn’t want him to see you like this–emotional, bloated, sensitive to the point of irrationality. It wasn’t just about the pain. It was the unpredictability of your own mood. The way everything felt heavier. The way you got clingy and quiet and sometimes cried over the dumbest things, and how much you hated being perceived when you weren’t at your best.

This would be the first time seeing you like this and nervous didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling about that situation.

You flinched at the sound of the front door opening with a soft click. You didn’t move. Just held your breath and stared at the ceiling, heart thudding as you heard the unmistakable rustle of a grocery bag, followed by the quiet shuffle of Bob’s sneakers on the entryway mat. His presence was always warm, always calm. Even now, as he shut the door behind him and moved towards your kitchen counter, you could feel the atmosphere of the apartment shift–like someone had finally cracked a window in a too-stuffy room.

”Y/N? You here?” He called out. Not loud or overly careful. Just softness…As if he already knew you didn’t have the energy for more than that. You groaned and closed your eyes.

”Couch,” You croaked, raising your hand up like a flag, your voice dry and almost pitiful. You could hear him let out a little laugh as the rustling of bags followed his movements. He took your outstretched hand gently,–warm, careful fingers curling around yours as he brought it to his lips and pressed a few soft kisses to your knuckles. Each one was slow and featherlight, like he was afraid of overwhelming you with too much affection all at once.

”Hey, hun,” He murmured, his voice low and sweet, vibrating through your fingertips, “How’re you feeling?” You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it died halfway in your throat and turned into more of a wheeze. Your eyes stayed closed.

”Like garbage,” You croaked, “And…Gross.” Bob let go of your hand with a soft squeeze and circled around the couch until he was crouched in front of you. He set down the grocery bags on the coffee table, the softest rustling of plastic being heard. You could see that there were an array of chips; plain, sour cream, salt and vinegar, all dressed, and if you looked even closer you noticed there were a few bags of candy and chocolate. The other bag seemed a little less full, but you couldn't tell what was in it from the angle you were lying in.

He shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over the back of the couch, before turning his attention back to you with that familiar crease of concern between his brows and his blue irises studying you, scanning over the expression that was plastered on your face–one that he would probably describe as anguish more than anything. You watched him through heavy lashes as he reached out, fingertips brushing against the apple of your cheek.

The touch sent a fresh wave of heat blooming beneath your skin, and you hissed involuntarily, recoiling slightly from the contact. He jerked his hand back immediately in surprise.

”Crap…Sorry. I didn’t mean to–“ You shook your head faintly.

”It’s okay…It wasn’t you. I run super hot when I’m on my person and I literally feel like a raw nerve. You had no idea.” Bob gave a small, guilty sigh and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, his light brown hair a little mussed from where the wind had caught it outside. He looked sheepish, lips parted like he might say something else–like another apology–but instead his gaze flicked toward the grocery bags.

”Well,” He started, clearing his throat, “I-I got you some of your favourite snacks. And some painkillers. And another heating pad in case this one gives out.” His voice wobbled on the last bit like he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say. Your eyes fluttered open just enough to squint at him.

”You did?” He gave a small, proud nod.

”Of course I did.” You stared at him and felt your throat tighten, something warm and tight rising in your chest like a balloon that was being blown too fast. He leaned forward, took your hand again, and brought it back to his mouth. Another soft kiss, right at the center of your palm this time, “That’s what I would want someone to do for me if I was in pa-pain.” He added softly. You squeezed his hand gently, a tired little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite how miserable you felt.

”You’re too sweet, Bob.” His pale cheeks flushed immediately–the tell-tale pink blooming across his face and up the tips of his ears–and he ducked his head just a little, shying away from the compliment slightly.

”It’s the least I can do…” He stated, brushing his thumb along your knuckles, adding in a quieter voice, “I can also help with the heat issue too…If you’d li-like of course.” You raised a brow.

”Oh yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?” He looked up, shrugging slightly, though his fingers twitched slightly in your grip.

”I can call in the re-reinforcements…” You squinted at him, wary.

”Please don’t tell me you’re gonna let Sentry come out…He almost burned a hole through my sheets the last time you let him take over.” Bob let out a short laugh, rubbing his free hand on the top of his thigh, getting rid of the sweat that was building up along his palm.

”No., no. Definitely not him. He’ll make your situation way worse than it already is. You don’t need a sentient sun snuggling you right now.” You snorted softly, even though the vibration slightly disturbed the position you were in, a slight cramp tingling in your abdomen.

”I was actually thinking…” He hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, watching for your expression, “Y’know…The ot-other guy.” Your brows knit for a second before the connection clicked–and your expression shifted, eyes widening just slightly.

”Oh…” Bob gave a faint, awkward little smile like he wasn’t sure how you’d take the offer, but your response was quiet and calm.

“Well…I mean…I’d be okay with that,” You replied, your voice laced with surprising honesty, “He’s an ice cube so that’ll definitely help…And he’s pretty easy to be around.” Bob huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, squeezing your hand a little tighter

“You know…You still haven’t told me how you made him get all mushy fo-for you,” He muttered, “He gets so angry at the compound when people talk to him, but for some reason he’s a bumbling mess with you, it’s ridiculous.” You shrugged, letting your head tip lazily to the side.

”He’s tethered to you, so technically…He’s just emulating your feelings. Just in a different form. You’re always soft with me and you’re also just…Madly in love with me. So he is too.” You teased, Bob raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but you weren’t done. “And it’s also probably because I constantly feed him. He practically eats me out of house and home when he’s around.” That made Bob smirk.

”I guess food really is the fastest way to a…Dark entity’s heart.” You both let out tired little laughs, quiet and breathy, the kind that fizzled out gently into a soft silence. There was something tender about it–how even in the middle of your worst pain, you could still laugh with Bob. Still feel the warmth in his presence, the subtle rhythm of comfort his voice offered, like your own nervous system was finally allowed to let go.

Your thumb traced absentminded circles into his palm as the moment stretched, quiet and calm. His fingers were still wrapped around yours, warm despite the cool edge now lingering faintly in the air–residue, no doubt, from the Void’s hovering nearness. Your gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than intended–soft, fond, aching just a little.

Then, leaning forward slowly, careful not to upset the careful position of your heating pad or spark another cramp, you brushed your lips to his.

Just once. A soft, grateful kiss. Chaste, almost–more a gesture of affection than desire. Still, it lingered.

When you pulled back, Bob’s eyes blinked open slowly. The familiar, oceanic blue of his irises struck you all over again, even in the dim light. They were that rare kind of blue–pure and soft, but startling in their deepness and intensity. Almost unreal in a sense, like you’d expect to find this kind of blue painted across the sky on the clearest day of the year. Right now, though, they were a little darker, a little stormier, pupils dilating then constricting ever so slightly as he tried to refocus.

And in the very center of each pupil, you saw it–a pinprick of shifting white. That tiny speck of starlight you’d come to recognize as The Void’s slow, and creeping awareness. You brushed your thumb lightly over the back of Bob’s hand.

“I do want you to stay for a bit though,” You whispered, voice quieter now. “Before you let the ice cube out.” He nodded once, his eyes fluttering shut–hard, purposeful. You could see the tension in his jaw as he exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his breath, pushing the shadow back down beneath the surface. For now.

“That I can do…” He murmured, his voice a little raspier than before. Then, softer still, “Wa-Want me to hold you? I promise I won’t touch your face again.”

You smiled, heart tugging at the awkward little stammer and the genuine warmth behind his offer. “I’d really like that.”

He didn’t waste time. Just moved slowly, carefully, like you were made of glass. He stood just long enough to toe off his sneakers and ease himself onto the couch beside you. Then, without asking again, he opened his arms.

You curled into his side, rearranging yourself gingerly to avoid jostling your heating pad. Your head settled against his shoulder, your cheek pressing into the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. His arm wrapped around you securely, palm splayed warm and steady across your upper back.

The relief that came from being held like that was immediate. Like a switch being flipped. Not because the pain vanished, but because the isolation of it lifted. You weren’t suffering alone anymore. You were here, in the arms of someone who didn’t flinch from your discomfort or try to fix it with empty words. Someone who wanted to be here, in this quiet, messy moment with you.

You leaned forward again just a little, brushing your lips to his cheek. A brief kiss. Gentle. Grateful.

If it were any other night–if your body wasn’t at war with itself–you knew you’d be all over him by now. He smelled good, like wind and clean cotton and whatever fabric softener he always used that clung to your sheets for days after he left. And he was so close, warm and pliant beneath your hands. There was always something about Bob that pulled at your skin like gravity.

But tonight…Tonight was different.

You felt a familiar ache of desire tug somewhere deep in your core, curling low and hot beneath the cramping you were experiencing still. You knew sex could help–that it might actually alleviate some of the pain. But still, the words stuck in your throat. This was the first time he was seeing you like this, and you didn’t want to risk turning tenderness into tension. Didn’t want him to think you were asking for more than he was ready to give under these conditions.

So instead, you let yourself rest. Let your fingers trace lightly over the stitching on his shirt, your breathing slowly syncing with his. You wondered, idly, if he knew–if he had any idea about the things that could help you feel better. If he’d ever read that article or heard someone say it out loud in passing. But if he did, he wasn’t mentioning it. And you weren’t brave enough to ask.

Not now at least.

You shifted even closer to him with a soft, involuntary hum, the smallest sound of contentment escaping your lips as your body registered the warmth of his side and clung to it. Bob didn’t move, didn’t speak–just tightened his arm around you ever so slightly, his hand resting securely on your back like he was anchoring you to the present, to safety.

You closed your eyes, and breathed him in again. The cramping hadn’t gone away, not completely. But it no longer ruled you. It lingered like a distant storm, rumbling at the edges, while the quiet beat of Bob’s heart offered something steadier to focus on.

Thump.

You let the sound cradle you, like a drumbeat in your chest that wasn’t yours but still somehow belonged to you, bringing your leg over his slowly, your hips shifting with the movement. Bob responded immediately to the new position, his own leg adjusting instinctively beneath yours to make a little space for you to settle into.

Your face pressed deeper into the hollow of his shoulder, the heat in your cheeks now less about fever and more about quiet intimacy. You stayed there like that, enveloped in the low murmur of his breath and the steady pulse beneath your ear.

Every now and then, he’d shift slightly to get more comfortable, and the subtle motion–his chest rising, his ribs flexing, his fingertips dragging lightly through the fabric at your back–would draw you back from the edge of sleep, until it finally overtook you.

—————————

The first thing you noticed when you stirred awake was the absence of warmth, and the pressure of arms and hands touching you.

Instinctively you reached for Bob, thinking that maybe in the midst of your nap you had untangled yourself from him, only to find the indentation he’d left in the couch and a faint lingering trace of his fabric softener. The fuzzy navy blanket had slipped down your hip, and the heating pad, long since gone cold, pressed heavy and useless against your lower stomach. You sighed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your ears registered the low, distant whir of the bathroom fan humming from down the hall.

Slowly, your eyes trailed over toward the clock on the wall.

9:25 p.m.

Somehow it felt later and earlier than that all at once, like time had folded in on itself and it was just an odd loop. You sat up with a soft groan, hands bracing against the couch cushions as you shifted. The cramps had dulled–less a serrated edge now, more a muted throb radiating into your lower back like a tired engine. Still there. Still annoying. But tolerable.

You peeled the cooled heating pad from your skin and dropped it beside the grocery bags on the coffee table, your eyes skimming over them with a faint smile, though you had noticed they weren’t as full anymore.

The all-dressed chips were gone, so were the sour cream ones, meaning Bob must’ve eaten them all on his own. You let out a quiet, amused hum and pushed yourself to your feet, stretching just enough to feel the pull in your shoulders, your hoodie exposing your midriff with the movement.

As you padded across the room, you grabbed the unopened bottle of Advil from the second grocery bag, cracked the seal, and shook out two liquid capsules into your palm, tossing them back and swallowing them dry, wincing slightly at the way they briefly got stuck in your throat.

Then you stood there for a beat, letting everything settle around you.

The apartment was quiet, but not silent. Dim, but warm.

A few lamps cast soft pools of light across the space–one near the couch still glowing amber, another by the kitchen left on at half brightness. The curtains over the windows were drawn tight, muting the outside world to a soft shadowplay of headlights passing every so often. On the kitchen counter, Bob’s keys were resting beside a crumpled receipt and the half-empty bag of gummy worms he had clearly dipped into while you were asleep.

You shuffled down the hallway, arms folded loosely across your chest, each step deliberate and soft. A few hours ago you probably wouldn’t have been able to move like this, so evidently whatever you did had helped.

The further down the hall you went, the cooler the air became–less from the apartment’s thermostat and more from him. That telltale prickle at the base of your neck. Not sinister. Not unwelcome. Just a quiet alertness in the atmosphere. The kind of cold that carried intention.

The bathroom door was mostly shut, but the light bled out beneath it in a thin golden strip across the floorboards. The fan buzzed faintly above it, soothing and constant, and you could hear the quiet sound of water–either running or having just stopped.

You lifted your hand, hesitating only for a moment before gently knocking on the door with the soft part of your knuckles.

“Bob?” You called out, your voice scratchy with sleep. There was a brief pause, and then the fan cut off with a quiet click, and for a moment, all you could hear was the dripping of water and your own breath echoing through your nose.

Then the door opened, and standing in the center of the soft bathroom lighting was The Void. He was unmistakable–tall and defined in that way Bob always was, but rendered in silhouette so precise it looked carved from shadow itself. Smooth and obsidian from head to toe, his features unreadable save for the faint glint of white where his eyes should be–those signature star-pupils glowing dimly in the low light–and the suggestion of a mouth that moved only when he chose it to.

He wore nothing but a towel, slung low around his hips, and the fact that he’d just gotten out of the shower was made abundantly clear by the way water still clung to him in languid droplets, trailing down the lines of his chest and abdomen in slow, shimmering arcs. Each drop disappeared into the dark surface of his skin like ink being swallowed by midnight.

His silky black hair was damp and heavy, hanging over his forehead and temples in wet, tousled clumps. It framed the curve of his jaw, you could see it from the way it flowed out a bit and hung slightly. Somehow, even in his wordless presence, he radiated a kind of calm–but it pulsed with tension just beneath the surface. As if the moment could shift at any second, if he let it.

You blinked, eyebrows lifting, “Oh. I didn’t know you were here.”

He nodded, voice lower and smoother than Bob’s but carrying the same gentle breathiness. “Yeah. Bob fell asleep, so I just…Decided to take over during that.” He paused, tilting his head faintly, water dripping onto the tile from his hair. “Was feeling a bit sweaty though, so I wanted to freshen up a bit. Hope that’s okay.” You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing lightly over your hoodie, a smirk pulling at your lips.

”Well, what’s mine is yours,” You stated casually, “So…Have at it.” You caught a flash of his teeth–just the slightest curve of a grin in that shadowy mouth.

“You have quite the array of soaps,” He replied, tilting his head with mock gravity, “So I certainly had at it.” You let out a little laugh, stepping into the bathroom a bit further, heat curling low in your stomach just from the sheer sight of him in basically nothing but the towel itself.

”I’m sure you did.” You commented, before raising onto your toes and giving him a soft, lingering peck at the corner of his cold mouth.”Hello, by the way,” You added, with a little smirk on your face. He hummed, low and pleased, the sound vibrating in his chest. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist in a slow, measured motion–cool to the touch, but not unwelcoming. In fact, he felt like relief. Like stepping into shade after being in the sun for too long. His hands slid along your back, fingers dipping under the hem of your hoodie where your warm skin met his coolness.

“Hello to you too,” He murmured–and before you could answer, he leaned forward and kissed you properly this time, and it certainly wasn’t the same type of greeting you had given him. It was slower. Deeper. His mouth was cool but somehow still pliant against yours, parting just enough for his tongue to tease the seam of your lips before he gently sucked on your bottom lip, drawing it between his own like he had all the time in the world. You let out a faint, breathy sound against him, your hands gripping the towel at his hips for balance. You could feel the heat in your stomach ignite almost instantly, curling low and sharp, like a spark catching dry kindling. Every glide of his mouth against yours pulled you closer to the edge of forgetting–forgetting your cramps, your exhaustion, your discomfort. Forgetting yourself entirely.

Which was exactly why you had to stop.

With reluctant fingers still curled around the soft edge of the towel at his waist, you pulled away from his lips, your breath catching as your forehead gently rested against his.

“Void…” You whispered, voice barely above a murmur, “I’m on my period.”Your hands lifted, sliding up to press gently against the cool, velvet-smooth skin of his chest–broad and unyielding beneath your palms. His body stilled for a breath, but not with hesitation. He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his white pupils glinting like distant stars as he gazed at you.

“I know,” He murmured, without shame or judgment. “I’m able to smell the blood.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in before you could, placing a kiss to your cheek, then another just below your jaw. His lips were cool and reverent, trailing slowly down to your neck. One kiss. Another. Then another.

Each one was featherlight and deliberate, lips barely brushing against your overheated skin–and yet your pulse fluttered, your breath hitched, and your head tilted almost instinctively to the side to give him more room. The contrast between your warm skin and his chilled mouth made your toes curl, a tingling shiver running down your spine like lightning.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, and you exhaled softly.

“You sound like a vampire…” You mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady. Void let out a low, indulgent laugh, the sound vibrating against the hollow of your throat like the roll of distant thunder. Then–without warning–he nipped at your pulse point, sharp enough to make you jump slightly, but not enough to hurt.

“I could be one,” He said slyly, voice curling like smoke. “If you’d allow me to. I already have super senses, so…I’m halfway there…Only thing that’s missing is drinking blood.” The suggestiveness in his tone made your stomach twist into tight, unbearable knots. You were just about to say something back–some equally flirtatious quip to match his vampire fantasy–when he added, entirely too casually:

“Also, with those super senses, I can literally hear your uterus contracting right now. Did I mention that?” You froze. Your head pulling back immediately, brows knitting together in horror as your face twisted into the most incredulous expression humanly possible.

“Jesus,” You groaned, pushing against his chest–not hard, just enough to make him take a step back. “You really know how to ruin a sexy moment.” Void’s mouth curled into a smug smile, the white glow of his pupils sharpening with delight as a low laugh rumbled from his chest.

“Don’t worry,” He murmured, unbothered. “It doesn’t sound weird.”

You stared at him.

“I thought it would be like…Leather gloves squishing together or something–”

“Oh my God–”

“–But it actually registers more like a second pulse of sorts. Slow. Steady. Very, very calming to listen to.” You covered your face with both hands, letting out a muffled sound of despair.

“You have to learn how to keep things to yourself, Void.” You groaned through your palms. He tilted his head, completely unashamed, the way only an immortal void-being could be.

“I find it to be beautiful,” He said earnestly. “It seems like you’re the one who’s embarrassed by a normal bodily function.” You lowered your hands slowly, one brow arched so high it might’ve shot off your forehead.

“Me?” You asked, pointing to yourself.

”Yes. You,” He replied, pressing a cold fingertip to your nose without missing a beat, “I can practically hear the hum of your sexual frustration in your bones–“

”Void–“ You tried to cut in, though he trampled your attempt.

”–But you’re too reluctant to ask me to take care of you because you’re embarrassed about it.” Your mouth dropped open slightly, almost shocked by the forwardness of his statement. He was staring at you, completely composed and unbothered. You gulped loudly, feeling your heart rate pick up under his steady, unblinking gaze. It felt like he was staring through you–like he could peel back each layer of your composure with just a tilt of his head. Void watched the fluttering of your pulse with mild fascination, his eyes gleaming.

”Am I right or am I wrong?” He murmured. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your lips just parted on a soft exhale, throat working as if your body had forgotten how to form a sentence. Your mouth had gone dry–parched like desert heat–and so you broke eye contact, glanced away from him, ashamed at the burn of arousal coiling through your body in tight, low spirals.

“Void…Listen, I–” He reached up, cold fingers brushing along your jaw until his hand cradled the side of your face. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze back up to his. His touch was soft but steady, almost bordering on firm.

“I asked if I was right or if I was wrong,” He repeated, his voice laced with that subtle, grounding dominance. Calm and unshakeable. “Can you answer me, please?” You stared at him, throat bobbing with another nervous swallow. Your pulse thrummed in your ears. His thumb brushed over your cheek, like he was soothing something only he could sense.

“…Of course I’m reluctant to ask,” You whispered, your voice almost hoarse. “Who wouldn’t be?” He exhaled slowly, a little sigh escaping him–less disappointment, more knowing. He shook his head faintly, and the shadowed strands of his wet hair shifted with the movement.

“Someone who isn’t embarrassed of what they want,” He replied simply, and the smirk that followed was sharp–knowing, dark, fond. You could feel your palms getting sweaty. There was a heat building inside you that had nothing to do with your cramps. It was a different kind of ache now–deep and thick and pressing down on every nerve in your body like it had weight.

“I’m not embarrassed,” You muttered, eyes darting to the floor between you like you were hoping for an escape hatch to open beneath your feet. “I’m just…”

The Void didn’t move nor did he blink. He just waited, and watched you closely.

You glanced up to meet his gaze again, but before the rest of the sentence could fully form, he cut you off–quietly, confidently, like he’d been waiting for the moment to fall apart in your throat.

“Reluctant to indulge in something you want?” He finished your sentence for you, letting the words drop like stones between you.

He leaned forward just slightly, not enough to touch–but enough for the chill of his breath to ghost over your cheeks like frost crawling up a windowpane. You felt it like a current–sharp and soothing at the same time–cutting clean through the haze of your heat-flushed skin. It pulled a shiver from you, involuntary, delicate as a blade of grass bending in the wind. The stars in his pupils shimmered faintly, twin glints of something eternal, patient, and entirely undisturbed.

“…Reluctant to put you in an uncomfortable position,” You corrected quietly, the words trembling slightly as they left your lips. They felt too honest, too exposed–but true all the same. “It’s not that I don’t want to–I do. God, I do. But I’m not gonna beg for something if there’s even a chance it’s gonna make you uncomfortable or…Cross a boundary for you. That’s not who I am. And it’s not fair to you.”

There was a pause–soft and heavy.

Then, he let out a quiet, amused sound. A low, warm chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest and unfurled like black velvet across your skin.

“Y/N,” He started gently, shaking his head. The stars in his eyes brightened slightly. “A little bit of blood would never make me feel uncomfortable.” He dipped closer, the line of his shoulder brushing yours, his mouth nearly at your ear now as he murmured, “You should know that by now.”

Your breath hitched.

His words weren’t mocking or pitying–they were gentle. Certain. Like the idea of your bleeding body repulsing him was so laughably impossible that it didn’t even deserve serious consideration.

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze again, but he didn’t move away entirely. One of his hands trailed down slowly to rest just above the waistband of your sweatpants. The tips of his cool fingers brushed your warm skin where your hoodie had ridden up. The contrast made your stomach twitch.

“All I want is to take care of you…And it would be great if you’d let me.” His voice was low and soft, coiling through air like smoke–cool and deliberate. His fingertips slipped under the waistband of your sweatpants and just rested there, grounding you. You bit the inside of your cheek, pulse quickening. His hand wasn’t moving, wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t trying to talk you out of your nerves, wasn’t seducing you in the typical way–but it still felt seductive, still soothing, the way only Void could be. Your throat worked around the ache in your chest, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

“…You really want to do this?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Of course I do.”

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just certainty.

You brought your hands up slowly to press against his chest–cool, slick, still faintly damp from the shower. The sensation sent a little jolt through your fingers. You closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“…Okay,” You whispered. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready at least.” His mouth quirked–barely a smile, but filled with something like affection.

“No problem,” He said, brushing a kiss against your cheek with a softness that made your knees weaken. “I’ll meet you in your bedroom.” And just like that, he slipped past you.

The cool absence he left in his wake was almost startling–the door clicking softly shut behind him as he went. You stood there in the bathroom for a beat, heart hammering, your reflection catching your eye in the mirror.

You looked like a storm had passed through you. Hoodie riding up, eyes sleepy and a bit glossy. Lips kiss-bitten and puffy. You could even feel the shape of his mouth on your neck still. You stared at yourself for a long second, then exhaled hard through your nose and mumbled–

“…What the hell do I do?” Panic flickered just beneath the surface, stuttering hot against your nerves. It wasn’t that you didn’t want this. You did. Badly. Desperately. But then the logistics came crashing in—blood. mess. cleanup. embarrassment. the way your stomach might cramp mid-orgasm. the way you might sob afterward because your hormones were deranged.

You could already feel your anxiety building.

Your gaze darted toward the bottom cabinet beneath the sink, and your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You crouched down and yanked it open, fingers wrapping around a half-used pack of wipes from the last time you’d needed a quick clean-up post-sex. You tossed them onto the counter, then paused.

Okay. Okay. Quick solutions. You’re okay.

You pulled down your sweatpants and underwear, removed your tampon with swift, practiced ease–wrapping it tightly in toilet paper before tucking it deep beneath the mountain of used tissues in the bin. You washed your hands quickly, your fingers trembling slightly beneath the rush of warm water. The stream was too hot on your already overheated skin, but you didn’t care. You needed the sting. Needed the reset.

You paused in front of the mirror again and pushed your hair out of your face, taking a deep breath. You decided to keep your sweatpants off just so they didn’t stain, but your underwear remained on, just for insurance. You tucked the pack of wipes under your arm, before padding back into the hallway, making your way across the hall to your bedroom.

You opened the door to your bedroom slowly, the hinges barely creaking as the light from the hallway spilled across the floorboards in a soft ribbon of gold. But inside–it was all dark.

The only illumination came from the moonlight, cool and silvery, filtering through the slats in your curtains and painting faint stripes across the walls. It caught on the curve of his shoulders first. He was seated at the foot of the bed like a statue carved from night itself, all sharp lines and slick, smooth skin that shimmered faintly under the light.

The towel was still slung low around his hips, just barely clinging to his frame. His posture was relaxed, almost regal, arms resting on his thighs. But the moment he saw you–standing in the doorway, hoodie hanging loose over your body, your legs bare beneath the hem–his head lifted.

Those star-pupiled eyes dragged slowly up your body, deliberate and unhurried. From the tips of your toes, up the line of your calves, your thighs–he lingered there, lips parting ever so slightly–then continued, drinking in every inch of you until his gaze reached your face. The faintest smile curved across his mouth.

“Come here.” His voice was soft, velvety, but there was weight behind it. Command hidden inside kindness. He extended a hand to you, fingers curling ever so slightly, beckoning. You swallowed. Then stepped forward. Your heart beated faster with each movement across the floor, the cool air curling around your exposed legs, your fingertips gripping the edge of the wipe pack a little too tightly. You stopped just in front of him and dropped the pack beside his thigh. He didn’t even glance at it.

He only looked at you.

Your fingers met, and the moment your hand slid into his, his other arm was already reaching to wrap around the backs of your thighs. He pulled you into the cradle of his body gently, slowly, until you stood fully between his knees, the heat of your skin brushing against the coolness of his chest. His hands moved to your ass, slow and possessive–broad palms splaying there with intent. Not squeezing yet. Just holding.

Then he leaned forward.

And kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth was cooler than yours, but it only made the friction sweeter–the contrast sharper. It started with pressure, then parted into hunger. His lips moved with an urgency that surprised you, tongue flicking against yours with teasing precision before deepening the kiss into something that made your knees tremble. He sucked on your bottom lip just enough to draw a gasp from you, one hand slipping higher to squeeze your hip.

You whimpered faintly into his mouth, your fingers finding the slick skin of his shoulders, clinging.

“Void—” You breathed between kisses.

But he just hummed, a low sound of satisfaction, and pulled you forward with firm hands until you had no choice but to straddle his lap. You climbed up instinctively, knees bracketing his thighs, arms looping around his neck. The towel bunched between you, but barely registered. He groaned softly when your weight settled into him, his hands roaming again–palming your ass, your hips, dragging you flush against the line of his abdomen.

“You’re so hot,” He murmured against your mouth, voice dark with awe. “I think I’m going to have to cool you down.” He stood in one fluid, seamless motion–not a jerk or a lift, just a smooth ascension, as if gravity bowed to him. You barely had time to gasp before your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, arms tightening around his shoulders, breath catching in your throat. His hands supported you easily, one cradling beneath your thighs, the other anchoring your lower back.

And then, without warning, he turned.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thump, the air catching in your chest in surprise before it dissolved into a giggle. A real one. Light and unguarded. The kind that cracked through the last of your tension and made your head tip back for a second, even as he hovered above you.

He loomed, dark and cold and beautiful in a way that never stopped stealing your breath. Still damp, water beading faintly across his shadow-black skin, the remnants of his shower gleaming like stardust scattered across him. His hair clung to his temples, longer pieces curling at his jaw, giving him an almost feral softness. His glowing white eyes skimmed over your face, then down your body, before flicking back up, his mouth quirking into a sly, knowing smile as he straightened up above you, his fingers ghosting over the towel on his hips. He held your gaze with that impossible, infinite stillness–like the stars themselves had gone quiet to witness this moment–before slowly tugging the towel free.

“Y’know,” He said, the corner of his mouth lifting, “You really should’ve gotten those black sheets you mentioned seeing at the store the other day…” You raised a brow at him from beneath your lashes, still breathless from the kiss, heart drumming against your ribs, “Because now we’re going to ruin this towel.” He added, lifting it in his hand and motioning to it. You let out a soft, startled laugh despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you lifted your hips ever so slightly.

“Then I wouldn’t be able to find you,” You teased, adjusting just enough for him to slip the towel beneath you, “You’d camouflage into the sheets.” That earned a genuine laugh–a low, smoky exhale that brushed against your throat as he lowered himself over you, his shadowed skin cool against the fire of your thighs.

“Mmm,” He mused, his mouth hovering just above yours, “I’m sure you would manage it.” And then he kissed you again.

Slower this time. Deeper. His weight settled between your thighs with deliberate care, the blanket of cold that clung to him seeping into your overheated skin like an offering. It made you shudder, your fingers curling in reflex around his arms as your thighs instinctively tightened around his waist. The contrast was maddening–your warmth against his chill, his steady hands anchoring you while your body throbbed with need and ache beneath him.

His lips moved with worship, with reverence. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just sure–like every press of his mouth had a purpose. You whimpered softly into him, and the sound made him groan low in his throat, his hands sliding up your sides with slow, dragging strokes.

And then one hand rose to the zipper of your hoodie.

You gasped faintly as he tugged it down, tooth by tooth, the faint sound of the zipper somehow deafening in the quiet. His lips never left your skin as he worked, kissing the underside of your jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the curve of your neck until you squirmed beneath him. The zipper reached the bottom. He opened your hoodie slowly, like parting the petals of a flower. You were in your old, soft sleep bra–barely supportive, thin and stretched from too many wash cycles–but he didn’t seem to care. If anything, the sight of you–barely dressed, and so open to him–made his pupils pulse brighter with starlight.

He leaned back for just a second, letting his eyes devour the view of you laid out for him. You saw the moment it hit him–his breath caught. His gaze dragged across your chest, where your breasts rose and fell with each shallow inhale, visibly heavy with heat and swelling from your cycle, from the hormones that rushed throughout your bloodstream.

“Oh, Jesus…” His voice broke over the words, a rasp of awe and hunger curling low in his throat. His cold palms slid up from your ribs, “You’re burning up so much,” He whispered, his hands cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric. The contact made you gasp, hips twitching beneath him. His thumbs brushed softly over your nipples and you arched faintly into the touch, breath hitching as the friction sent sparks skittering down your spine. He hummed low in his throat, the sound curling like smoke between your ribs.

“Sensitive little thing,” He murmured, his voice velvety and warm despite the chill of his body. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet, and already you’re squirming.”

You let out a soft whimper, and he took that as permission–slipping the straps of your bra off your shoulders, letting the cups fall away slowly, exposing the full swell of your breasts to the coolness of his body and the room. The moan that slid out of him was low and long, almost involuntary.

“Look at you,” He breathed, “You look so fucking soft.” He ducked his head without hesitation, brushing his mouth over the top of one breast–just a featherlight kiss at first, then another, then another. His lips were cold but plush, the contrast against your overheated skin making your back arch reflexively off the bed.

Then he sucked.

Not gentle.

Not harsh.

Just deep and slow and possessive, like he was savoring the taste of you, mapping you with his mouth. His tongue flicked at your nipple, then flattened and dragged across it, teasing it into a peak before he latched on and sucked again–deeper this time.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, writhing slightly beneath him. Your thighs twitched, heat pooling low in your stomach like a slow, molten tide. He groaned against your skin, the sound reverberating through your chest.

“You like that?” He asked, pulling back just enough to blow cool air over the wet peak, making you cry out softly. “You’re so fucking sensitive. It’s gorgeous.” His mouth returned to your other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment–licking and sucking, nipping lightly, dragging the flat of his tongue over your nipples until they ached in the most delicious way. He marked you there–soft bruises blooming under the suction of his mouth, kisses that would fade slowly over the next few days. Proof that you were his. That you had been worshipped like something holy.

“You taste like a fucking fever,” He muttered between kisses, “And you make the prettiest little sounds when I suck on your nipples, do you know that?” Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging gently, breathless and whining as your hips rocked against his abs. You could feel the damp patch at the crotch of your underwear growing wetter by the second–not just from your menstrual blood, but from arousal now as well.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” You whispered. “Please…Please–”

“Shh,” He soothed, dragging his mouth down your sternum, licking a path down your belly, “I know. I know, little flame.”

He kissed your stomach next, slow and warmly. You felt the points of his teeth graze your skin as he bit lightly–just enough to make you twitch. Each kiss was possessive and deliberate. Your flesh tingled under every scrape his mouth provided, the tension in your core building to an unbearable level.

“You’re beautiful,” He said between kisses. “All of you. Especially like this.” He nuzzled into your navel, then kissed just below it. “Soft. Swollen. Needy.” Your thighs trembled beneath him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. He paused, lifting his head to meet your eyes.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You obeyed without question, breath catching as your muscles clenched and your hips tilted up. His hands gripped the sides of your underwear, and he peeled them down slowly–dragging the fabric over your thighs, your knees, and finally your ankles before tossing them somewhere behind him without ceremony.

Then he stilled, crouched between your legs, and inhaled deeply.

His eyes flickered open–bright white star-pupils pulsing softly with what could only be described as hunger.

“You smell delicious,” He praised, voice dark and rich with awe. His nostrils flared faintly as he leaned closer, dipping his face down toward the apex of your thighs. “I’m going to get so fucking drunk off you.” You whimpered, thighs pressing together slightly at the praise–but he immediately placed his hands on your knees and coaxed them open again, eyes glowing brighter as he gazed down at your slick, glistening core. You knew there was definitely more blood there, mixing with your arousal, but Void didn’t flinch, nor did he hesitate. If anything it seemed like he locked in even more, and his hunger only grew.

His fingers dug gently into your thighs as he leaned closer, his breath skating over your swollen folds.

”Mmm fuck.” He moaned, before leaning in and licking.

A long, deliberate drag of his tongue–flat and firm–starting at your entrance and pulling all the way up through your folds to your clit, where he flicked the tip against the sensitive nub with precise, teasing pressure. The moment his tongue touched you, your entire body jolted, a breathless gasp tearing from your throat as your hips bucked off the bed.

“F-Fuck…Void…”

“Oh, I know,” He purred, already moving back in, his breath cold and steady against your dripping heat. “You’re so fucking sensitive. I can feel it…The way your thighs twitch…The way your heartbeat stutters under your skin…” He buried his mouth back between your legs, licking again–this time slower, messier, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth gently. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping tightly as you cried out. The sound that left him in response was somewhere between a growl and a moan, vibrating against you like thunder under your skin.

He didn’t stop.

He licked through the blood and slick like it was nectar–like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He groaned again, louder this time, tongue plunging deeper, swirling around your entrance before dragging back up to flick over your clit with maddening precision.

”Tastes so fucking good, I wish I could have you this way all the time.” He rasped, pulling back only to speak for those brief seconds. In the moonlight you could see the way his chin was slick. You whimpered, thighs trembling around his head, the pleasure already cresting far too fast. Your body was so sensitive it felt like every flick of his tongue set fire to your nerves. You could feel every nuance of it–every swipe, every suck, every teasing swirl of his tongue through the slick mess between your thighs.

Then he moaned into you again and shoved his face deeper–pressing his mouth hard against your aching core, his tongue working fast and filthy as he wrapped his arms under your thighs and held you still, forcing you to ride his face. You cried out, hips trying to squirm, but he growled–deep and warning–and tightened his grip.

“Don’t run from it,” He grunted against your clit, the vibration making your whole body twitch. “I want you to fall apart on my tongue. Let it happen. Don’t fight it.” One hand pulled free from your thigh and slid beneath him. Two fingers pressed to your dripping entrance, circling once–slick with blood and arousal–before slowly sinking inside you.

You sobbed. The stretch was gentle, but intense–your body already sheened with sweat and tight and overwhelmed. His fingers curled deep, slow at first, dragging against that aching spot inside you with precision only something inhuman could have. Your walls clenched around him instantly.

”Fuck, Y/N,” He muttered, voice dark and rumbling, “You’re so hot inside…Clutching my fingers like you don’t wanna let go.” Then his free hand rose and pressed flat against your lower stomach, right over the ache. Right over the source of your cramps. And it grounded you instantly.

“You feel that?” He whispered, licking your clit with long, slow strokes while his fingers began to pump inside you. “That pressure? That’s me. Right there, where it hurts. Let me fix it, let me fuck it out of you with my mouth.” You choked on a sob, gasping as your hips arched off the bed, the hand on your belly the only thing anchoring you.

His mouth moved faster. His fingers did too–curling, pumping, coaxing the tension in your core into something unbearable. The obscene, wet sound of it all–his tongue working your clit, his fingers squelching inside your soaked cunt, the wet slap of his chin against your blood-slick thighs–it should’ve embarrassed you.

But it didn’t.

It made you dizzy.

It made you cry out his name again, loud and needy and utterly desperate.

“Void…Void, I…Oh my god—”

“That’s it, little flame,” He growled, lips dragging across your clit again, “Give it to me. Let me taste it. All of it. Don’t hold back.” You couldn’t. You were shaking. Gasping. Your thighs clenched around his head as your back arched sharply off the bed, your body locking up like a livewire.

You came.

Hard.

A sob tore from your throat as your body seized with pleasure, tears springing to your eyes unbidden as the orgasm ripped through you. The combination of his fingers pressing deep, the steady weight of his hand against your stomach, and his mouth–cold, slick, merciless–on your clit was too much. You didn’t even realize you were crying until his tongue slowed, and his fingers gentled inside you. He licked you through the aftershocks, slow and soft now, lapping up the mess he’d made of you like it was holy.

And when he finally looked up, his mouth slick, chin gleaming, star-pupils glowing brighter than ever, he whispered–

“Jesus Christ…That was fucking amazing.” He slipped his fingers out of you, before crawling up your body slowly–like a shadow, like a storm, like something that could devour you whole and still beg for more. His mouth brushed your hipbone first, then your stomach, pausing to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss just above your navel, right where your muscles still fluttered from the orgasm he’d wrung out of you. His breath was cool and steady, his lips slick with blood and arousal. He didn’t bother to wipe them.

He didn’t need to.

He wanted you to taste it.

You could see it in the way his glowing eyes dragged up your body, lingering at every mark, every quiver, every trembling inch of your skin as if committing it to memory. As if this was a prayer, and your ruined body beneath him was a sacred altar.

He reached your chest again, kissing a slow trail up your sternum. You could still feel the faint ache in your nipples from earlier, already hypersensitive again as his mouth brushed them, one after the other. His tongue flicked lazily over one, and he smiled when your breath caught.

“Still so reactive,” He murmured, his voice thick with affection and heat. “You always are. Especially when you’re messy like this.”

He finally reached your throat and hovered there for a moment–just close enough that you could feel the wetness of his mouth against your skin, the blood and spit and come-slick humidity of him.

You were still panting, your cheeks flushed, your limbs limp and boneless beneath him.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice like velvet smoke. “Still with me?”

You nodded faintly, whispering, “Yeah.”

He smiled against your throat and then dragged his lips up your jawline, slow and savoring, until he reached your mouth.

His tongue was cool. His kiss was filthy.

The moment your lips parted for him, he pushed inside–slow and deliberate–letting you taste the blood and slick and heat still coating his tongue. You whimpered at the taste, hips twitching faintly beneath him, even though your body was wrung out and raw.

“There it is,” He breathed, voice breaking as he kissed you deeper. “Taste that? That’s you. All of you. Sweet and bitter and so fucking perfect.”

You groaned into his mouth, hands sliding into his hair, and he moaned like he could live in this–like your kiss, your taste, your breath were oxygen.

His mouth was greedy, slick and open and unrelenting as he pressed closer, slotting his body against yours like he could mold himself into your skin. You could feel the length of him pressing hard between your thighs, his cock thick and pulsing. You grounded up against him lazily, still slick and hot and sore, but wanting.

He pulled back a little bit and looked down at you, letting out a husky laugh against your mouth.

”You’ve got some blood on your face.” He commented. You blinked, dazed and panting, and he grinned—sharp, glowing, haloed in moonlight. He reached behind him with one hand, retrieving the pack of wipes you’d tossed earlier. With a practiced flick, he tore one free and dragged it slowly across his own chin first, wiping away the glistening blood and slick that still coated his mouth. The red stain smeared faintly along the wipe like paint across linen. Then, with the same slow reverence, he leaned in and gently swiped it along your cheek, cleaning where your own blood had transferred to his mouth, then your skin.

He dropped the used wipe off the side of the bed without a glance, not caring where it landed.

Then his hand was back at your cheek, cupping it as he leaned in to kiss you again.

It was softer this time—but no less intense. If anything, the tenderness of it made the heat in your stomach roar back to life. Because there was nothing gentle about the way his cock throbbed between your thighs, brushing hot and heavy against your slit. You felt it, solid and insistent, grinding lazily along your folds as he kissed you deep enough to make your eyes roll back.

Then his hand moved between you.

You gasped as you felt his fingers curl around the base of his cock, the head nudging against your clit in a slick, teasing drag. His mouth pulled away from yours with a quiet, wet sound.

“You okay for us to have sex still?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but his pupils flaring bright with hunger. You didn’t hesitate. Your whole body arched into him, your nails curling into the damp skin of his shoulders.

“Fuck, please,” you breathed, desperate and hoarse.

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Dangerous and soft, his teeth faintly visible in the moonlight, a haze of red still staining the tips. His cock dragged through your folds again, and he let out a slow, pleased groan, hips twitching at the feel of your slick, swollen cunt parting for him.

“You’re soaked,” He murmured, dragging the blunt head of his cock over your clit once before sliding it down to your entrance, “Bleeding, dripping, fucking throbbing for me. You need to be filled, don’t you?” His voice was velvet filth, low and coaxing, and you nodded frantically.

“Yes…Yes, fuck, I need you, Void…”

“Then take me…” He whispered, and with one slow, brutal push, he sank inside you. Your mouth dropped open on a silent scream.

The stretch burned–hot and overwhelming–your walls clenching around him so tight he groaned deep in his chest, closing his eyes tightly as he continued. He didn’t stop until he was all the way in–buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you, dragging against the sensitive, swollen walls of your still-sensitive body.

“F-fuck, baby…” Ge rasped, voice fraying. “You’re squeezing me so tight–I can feel every flutter, every pulse.” His hips jerked slightly, an involuntary grind, just enough to drag the thick head of his cock against your most sensitive spot. You gasped, back arching.

“God, Void–” You choked out, your hands clutching his shoulders like you needed him to hold you down before you came apart again.

He dipped his head to your neck, tongue dragging slowly along the column of your throat before he sank his teeth into the skin–not enough to break it, but enough to make your entire body jerk. He sucked there, slow and hard, until the blood surged beneath your skin, and your breath hitched in a broken moan.

“I love how fucking warm you are inside,” He growled against your neck, licking over the bite to soothe it, “You’re so soft, so slick…I could stay buried inside you forever.” You whimpered under him, grinding your hips upward as best you could, desperate for more friction.

“Please,” You begged, breathless and raw. “Move. Fuck me, please–” That shattered his restraint.

He pulled back slowly, just a few inches, letting you feel the full drag of his cock against your swollen, aching walls–and then he drove back in with a filthy, wet sound, his hips smacking against your thighs. You gasped–loud and helpless–and he did it again. And again.

And again.

Each thrust was a perfectly measured, brutal stroke. Deep. Sure. Possessive. Like he was carving himself into your body with every push of his hips.

“That’s it,” He grunted, fucking you harder now. “Let me hear those little noises–God, you make the sweetest sounds when you’re getting fucked…” You were incoherent beneath him, crying out with every stroke, nails digging into his back, legs trembling.

“Y-you’re so deep,” You sobbed, voice breaking, “I can feel you everywhere…Oh my fucking god.” His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for you—like your breath was his only tether to reality. He moaned into you as he fucked you, his pace relentless now,.

“I want it messy,” He hissed against your lips. “I want to ruin this bed with you–ruin this whole fucking night with how good I fuck you through the pain.” You sobbed again, overwhelmed by the pressure, the stretch, the heat–and the devotion in his voice that made it all unbearable in the best way.

“You want that?” He demanded, snapping his hips into you, making your breath hitch. “Want me to fuck you through the cramps? Want me to use this cock to fix what your body’s doing to you?”

“Yes…Yes, please, Void…”

“Say it,” He growled. “Say you need it.”

“I need it,” You gasped. “I need your cock, I need you to fuck it out of me–fuck the pain out, please, I’m yours, I’m fucking yours…” A sound ripped from his throat. Feral. Wrecked.

His thrusts got messier, harder. The bed creaked beneath you. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles, your thighs twitching against him instantly.

“Then cum for me again,” He ordered, voice dark silk. “Cum around my cock while I fill this pretty little pussy…Let me feel you tighten around me.” And just like that–you shattered.

You screamed. Loud. Broken. Beautiful.

Your walls clamped down on him so violently it dragged a curse from his lips, and he snapped his hips into you once, twice, three more times–before groaning like a dying man and spilling into you with a stuttered cry. You felt the warmth of his release, thick and hot, flooding your already filled core, dripping out around his cock.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even move.

Just stayed there, trembling above you, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking between parted lips.

“Holy fuck…” He whispered. “You…You’re fucking perfect as usual.”

Your body was trembling, your thighs were sticky and our mouth was kissed raw.

But when you opened your eyes, all you saw was him looking at you like you were the center of the goddamn universe.

And in his orbit–you believed it.

The only sound was the slow, ragged rhythm of your breathing–and the way his heart thundered against your chest. Your arms stayed around his neck, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp curls at his nape. His weight settled over you like a blanket, anchoring you, keeping the ache of emptiness at bay while your body slowly came down.

He nuzzled into your jaw with something almost shy in the way he breathed you in–soft, slow, like he was memorizing the smell of your sweat and your blood and your orgasm. You felt the chill of his skin even through your shared heat, the contrast making you shiver just a little beneath him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, slowly, with a dazed little smile curling on your lips. “You definitely fucked the pain away… because all I feel is absolute… euphoria.”

His mouth quirked into a knowing smirk, not cocky—just deeply pleased. His voice dropped low and smooth as he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “I’m gonna pull out,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice quiet, reverent.

You nodded again, whispering, “Okay.”

He moved slowly, carefully, the way you might handle something precious and fragile. And when he finally slid out of you, the heat of his length dragging against your walls one last time, all you felt was a thick, wet rush between your thighs. A flood of warmth and slick, dripping out in slow, messy streams.

You gasped softly at the sensation, and he let out a quiet, breathy laugh as he looked down between your bodies.

“My god,” He muttered, raking a hand through his damp hair. “We really did make a mess…”

You turned your head slightly and followed his gaze. The towel beneath you was utterly ruined–soaked through in deep streaks of red, streaks of slick and cum painting every fold of the fabric. You groaned, embarrassed but not really.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to use this towel ever again,” He added with a smirk, sitting back on his heels.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, he reached over to the side of the bed, grabbed the pack of wipes, and got to work–without a word, without hesitation. His touch was clinical, but gentle, as if he were caring for a wound he revered more than feared. He wiped between your thighs first, slow and careful, murmuring a quiet “Sorry” whenever you twitched from overstimulation. It took five wipes to get most of it–blood and slick and his cum smeared everywhere.

Then he shifted lower, taking his time with the mess on your stomach, dragging a clean wipe across the smeared trails of red that had bloomed beneath your breasts and along your hipbones. His thumb brushed over one of the kiss-marks he’d left–dark, blooming like a rosebud beneath your skin–and sighed.

“These ones might take some elbow grease,” He teased softly.

You let out a little wheeze of a laugh, your voice still hazy with afterglow.

Once you were clean, he finally turned to himself, wiping himself off gently. He bundled all the used wipes in one hand and walked across the room to toss them into the little trash bin near your dresser.

Then he opened your top drawer, rifled carefully through your neatly folded underwear, and selected a soft cotton pair with tiny stars on them–one of your comfiest ones. He smiled faintly at the print, then turned and opened the second drawer–his drawer. The one you had made for him months ago. He pulled out a pair of his black boxer shorts, slid them on, and returned to your side.

“Alright, little flame,” He murmured, scooping you up again with ease, one hand beneath your thighs, the other steady against your back. “Bathroom time.”

You didn’t protest. You let yourself be carried, sleepy and raw and warm in the cradle of his arms. He padded down the hall with you, silent and sure. When you reached the bathroom, he set you gently down on the toilet seat, then opened up the cabinet under the sink and handed you a pad. You blinked at him, slow and grateful, while adjusting it onto the underwear he’d brought.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with the satisfied look of a man who just cured a century-long affliction with his tongue. The white in his pupils pulsed softly, his expression pure mischief.

“I guess now,” He began, tilting his head, “you won’t be so embarrassed to ask to have period sex, hmm?”

You snorted, letting your head fall forward briefly before looking back up at him with a tired grin.

“I think I’m going to want it until it’s done.”

He pushed off the counter with a pleased little hum, leaned down, and kissed your forehead–soft and cold and grounding.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He lingered there for a second, his lips pressed against your skin like a promise, his hand bracing gently on your knee. Then he straightened up again, reaching for the plush hand towel on the rack beside you.

“Let’s brush your teeth next,” He said softly, that calm authority slipping back into his tone. “Then I’m putting you to bed.” You laughed, wobbly and fond.

“And after that?” You murmured, blinking up at him.

He grinned.

“Then I’ll hold you all night,” He said, matter-of-fact. “And if your cramps come back…” He leaned down again, voice low and filthy, “…I’ll go down on you until you forget how to spell the word pain.”

Your legs trembled just hearing it.

“Deal,” you whispered.

And he smiled–glowing, content, and entirely yours.

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bluudsucka · 1 month ago

Text

juna - bo chow x tomboy!reader

chapter I - chapter II

summary: you were never in touch with your feminine side, being raised by your father and older brothers you knew built a tough exterior. always opting for wearing male clothes and sporting a short haircut, but that was until you stopped at the new local convince store and met bo.

word count: 7k

warnings: smut, female reader, awkward/shy reader, slight mentions of race, loss of virginity, oral sex, noncanonical setting, unprotected sex, slight age gap (nothing too crazy reader is in her early twenties while bo is in his late 20s/early 30s), mentions of other characters

author's note: i had a lot of fun writing this! this is my longest fic i ever wrote so far, so thank you for reading and thank ya'll for the support! <3 (i was also listing to juna by clairo while writing bits of this haha)

“You make me wanna go dancin’, you make me wanna try on feminine, you make me wanna go buy a new dress, you make me wanna slip off a new dress...”

The blistering summer sun nipped harshly at your skin, sweat from the heat and a hard day's work clung onto your chest and forehead while driving your father's rusty car, you'd hope you could pick up a breeze to cool you down.

That of course didn't happen.

He sent you into town with a shopping list of materials your household needed - and seeing as your mother passed last year - it was your duty as a woman to go out and shop for the boys, as your father so 'eloquently' put it. His remarks about your gender bothered you seeing as you were responsible in the cooking and cleaning while also being responsible with manual labor on the farm too.

It was common to help your two older brothers fix run down and broken appliances such as rickety barn doors, leaky faucets, and wobbly banisters. Your hands were covered in cuts, scabs, and blisters from hammering away for hours. It didn't help that during those hours of work your brothers would tease you about not being 'girly' enough, jesting that you were more of a man than them both combined. It also didn't help that your family's budget was tight, meaning you had no choice but to wear their hand-me-downs.

With a tired sigh you pulled yourself out of your thoughts, finally entering the town. The dusty and bustling streets was lively today despite the cruel heat wave that clung on the Mississippi air, breathing in the hot oxygen was like swallowing thick molasses.

Parking the beat-up blue car, you adjusted the dingy green bandana that rested on the temples of your forehead, soft and short curls wrapping around the fabric. You tried your best to style it more feminine after your father cut way too short for your liking - but half of you still felt insecure about the hairstyle.

Your eyes would gaze upon the ebony beauties that would waltz around town with frilly hair pieces and intricate styles, their long, gorgeous dresses flowing in the wind as men would stop and stare - you would stare too. Sometimes you would daydream about being in a moving picture playing the leading lady that had a lover who would do anything for you; give you flowers, love, and affection. The kind of guy who wouldn't be embarrassed about being tender on you.

Slamming the car door after jumping out the sizzling leather seat of the car, your rough hands dug into the front pocket of your oversized denim overalls. Your eyes scanning the chicken scratch of a list your father wrote on stained paper, passing through the crowd, trying your best not to bump into anyone.

nails (three 100 pack)

gun oil

chiken chicken feed

red paint

game meat

horse fed feed

fox repellaint repellent

Walking towards the general store you normally shopped for your items; you noticed something strange; it had completely changed since you last stopped by. The store was bigger - more cleanly. Items within the store wouldn't be organized, as medicine would often be found next to the rat traps, but now just by gazing around the store everything was neatly placed in spots that...Made sense.

You also noticed a man that you hadn't seen before, he was hunched over stacking cans of peas next to the tidy stack of caned carrots. Before any words could slip out of your lips he turned to face you, as if he could feel your eyes staring at the back of his head.

He was handsome, strikingly so.

His jet-black hair was neatly styled, and his lips held a light welcoming smile. He wore a crisp white button up with an onyx-colored vest on top, protecting the white shirt from the grime and dust. Rubbing his hands on his grey pants he lifted from the ground, rolling his shoulders and neck as he stood at his full height.

"Welcome. What can I help ya' with?" He asked, a low southern drawl boomed from him, the sound of his voice made you jump. You didn't expect him to have such a sultry voice. Your warm skin on your cheeks began to tingle as your eyes quickly darted towards your muddy shoes.

"U-Um, I'm just shoppin', sir. Thank you!" You rushed out, stumbling over your words as if you just learned how to talk an hour ago. His lips stretched into a kind and toothy smile, and he nodded his head, dark eyes not breaking contact with your frame.

"Well, if you need somethin', lemme know."

And with that he turned onto his heel and continued to work, you quickly scanned around the store looking for everything that you needed on the list. You wanted to leave the store as soon as possible, not because of the handsome man's actions - but because you felt as if you looked...Terrible.

Your undershirt was a stained long sleeve, a once white fabric now faded into a dingy tan color due to dirt, sweat, and age. The shirt hung off your shoulders, it was your older brother's before it was handed down to you, the piece of clothing was basically swallowing your feminine frame. The muddy overalls that you sported was from your other brother, the second oldest, and it was big on you too.

Wearing these clothes strangers would sometimes mistake you for a boy, which didn't bother you at all, but the thought of this attractive shopkeeper mistaking you for one sent a wave of anxiety through your body. Grabbing the gun oil, the multiple boxes of nails, and fox repellent your hands were already full.

You looked around for a basket to hold your items, but none were found. You stood in the middle of the store your face twisting in confusion as you looked around one more time just to make sure you didn't overlook the baskets to hold your stuff, and the man noticed this.

"Sorry, I just open this place up, last owner's baskets were full 'o holes. I had to toss 'em, won't get new ones till next week."

"O-Oh, it's fine."

"Here." he said as he strutted towards you, his arms stretching wide. Your eyes landed on his toned forearms, they looked strong and powerful, and you couldn't help but to gaze at the vein that pressed against his pale olive skin. Standing in front of you the stranger tilted his head in confusion, and you finally realized that he was signaling you to place the items into his arms.

With a strained and awkward chuckle, you blurted out an apology and gave the items to him.

"Don't worry, I'll place ya' things on the counter so you can shop around some more." He assured as his long legs strutted towards the register that rested on a mahogany table. He noticed you standing stock still as your fingers fidget between each other. Leaning on the wooden table with crossed arms he sent you another gorgeous smile your way.

"You new to town?" He asked, his voice was alluring and warm, you could hear him talk all day if you could.

"No, I live on the outskirts of town with my brothers and Pa, w-we got a farm..." You blurted out, the words rushed from your mouth like a running faucet, which made the man chuckle.

"Hm, and they just let a pretty girl like yourself go shopping alone?"

Your eyes widen like saucers and your already racing heart sped up even faster, it felt like you were moments away from a heart attack. You opened and closed your mouth in quick successions, as if you were a fish out of water.

You were.

You never heard a man refer to you as pretty. They called you strong, reliable, tough, hardworking - but never pretty. Noticing your anxiety rising he spoke again, this time more carefully.

"My name's Bo Chow, I'm from around these parts but I just open this store few weeks ago," He then paused as if scanning his thoughts to find the right words to say to not scare you off. "You said your family has a farm? Ya'll got chickens and such? I'm lookin' into finding a stable source for eggs, got an ice box comin' in later today and I wanna stock up."

"Oh, um. Yeah, we got chickens. Lots of 'em, mean bastards." You mumbled, spitting out a mild annoyance you had with the feathery animals, one of them bit you on the thumb this morning.

Bo blurted out a laugh from your comment, his chuckles crashing into you like a wave, and it made you smile. With fidgeting fingers, you told him your name, which he repeated three times, each time breathier than the last. He told you that your name was beautiful - that it suited a beautiful girl like yourself.

Bo noticed that you were on the shy side, so he toned down his flirty advances towards you, but he still let it be known that he found you attractive. Slowly you eased out of your shell and continued to shop, placing each item on the counter as words and laughter exchanged between you two. Completing your shopping list you paid for the items, Bo carefully bagged them into thick brown paper bags, his dark brown eyes trailing your face as he soaked in your beautiful features.

It stunned him that such a pretty girl was so shy, it was if you were completely unaware of your beauty. With small smile you grabbed the paper bags and Bo reached for the horse feed that rested on the counter.

"Lemme carry this out for you; it's pretty heavy."

"No, n-no! It's fine I can make two trips."

"Nonsense, what kind of man am I to let a lady carry all these bags by herself?" He replied as strong arms lifting the feed as if it weighed nothing, a rush of lust bloomed within your chest as thoughts of his arms holding you tight crept within your mind. But those thoughts were quickly replaced with embarrassment, and you avoided eye contact with the man as you both walked out of the store towards the car.

Placing the bags in the passenger side of the vehicle Bo shot you a smile, which made you gaze at your shoes again, your boots kicking the dry dirt beneath your feet. Crossing his arms against his chest and without thinking he said: "I know some fella is really lucky to have you."

"I-I ain't with no one, not like that." You whispered, biting your lip as you leaned against the hot car door, your eyes meeting his for only a split second before looking away. You had a boyfriend in the past, but the only thing you did with the man was kiss and hold hands, you weren't really attracted to him, and he was only with you for 'convenience' - according to him. So, it didn't hurt you none when he dumped you for another girl.

But you did enjoy landing a right hook square against his jaw after that nasty breakup though.

Just because he deserved it.

"W-What about you? I mean, I'm not sayin' a fella is lucky to have you, unless there is--ain't nothin' wrong with that if there is--I mean--"

"I'm divorced; my ex-wife works at the general store on the white side of town." Bo chuckled, cutting you off from your rambling. You whispered out a meek apology and silence soon followed. The muffle sounds of people's chattering, cars honking, and wheels racing on the dirt road eased your thumping heart a bit. With a sigh Bo tilted his head, his eyes traveling up and down your body as he tongued the inside of his cheek.

"...I know some fellas who own a juke joint, just outta the way of town. They play some real good music there - and the catfish they serve is fresh, pipin' hot never cooked in stale grease, unlike the fish fry across the street." He said as he pointed his head towards the run-down restaurant that was packed to the brim with people. You giggled at his comment - he was right - despite the popularity of that place, their food was disgusting. With a pause his face twisted in deep thought, finding the next words that he truly wanted to say.

"We should go there sometime - the juke joint," Bo casually said, his hands now tucked in the pockets of his pants. "Up to you, of course." He quickly added trying his best not to lay it on thick. Your body stiffed and you scrunched up your face in concern and without thinking you blurted out: "You ain't crazy, right?"

Bo was a handsome man, the kind that you would daydream about as you hammered and worked your days away. It made no sense to you that such a gorgeous man like him would ask you out, he seemed like the type to be paired up with a woman who wore frilly dresses and expensive perfume.

Not a woman in old, dirty hand-me-down male clothes.

He shrugged his shoulders as an airy laugh escaped his lungs, you noticed that he laughed a lot.

The sound of it was music to your ears.

"Just think about it, okay?" He asked softy, which earned a nod from you. With one last smile he began to walk towards the store backwards, his chestnut-colored eyes not breaking contact with yours.

"And make sure your brothers help you with movin' allat stuff."

The drive back home was felt quicker than it actually was, your mind raced with thoughts of Bo. His soft smile, his strong muscular arms, his beautiful deep brown eyes, his thick southern twang with each word he spoke - even though you just met the man you were already falling for him, and you considered his invitation to the juke joint.

Once pulling into the long dusty driveway of your home a quick realization set within you.

How would you take him up on that offer?

Driving back and forth from town wasn't manageable; your father's car drank up gas like it was nothing - and gasoline was expensive. You sighed at the missed opportunity to ask how communication would work between you two. With a lull of your head, your eyes landed on the grocery list that rested on top of the items you bought. Reaching for the stained paper your heart fluttered as you read the numbers out loud, his name scribbled on the bottom of it.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

A few blistering weeks had passed and your relationship with Bo blossomed as you both spent hours talking on the phone, and you were starting to enjoy the tedious shopping trips your father would send you on - that meant you were able to see the shopkeeper in person. But when driving into town wasn't needed you settled on calling the man after finishing your chores.

You learned that the Bo's family was from China, a long way from Mississippi. You would ask about the country and if it was any different from here, his deep voice would sigh and reminiscence about his homeland. His family moved here when he was only a small boy and stated that he lost his accent in exchanged for the Mississippi drawl from living here so long - but he still spoke perfect Mandarin.

You noticed that his flirty persona would slip as he displayed a sillier side to him. Cursing and complaining about customers leaving messes around his store or local vendors who tried to rip him off, his soothing voice would slip into speaking his native tongue, the sound of those foreign words would caress your ears and make your heart flutter. You would ask him to teach you some words and phrases, which he gladly did.

Most of them were curse words though.

You would butcher the unfamiliar words with your southern accent, but he was patient with you as he chuckled out the proper pronunciation of those dirty words, praising you when you finally articulating them semi-perfectly.

He would ask you about your day as well and you told him everything, down to the exact minute you woke up. He would let out a sharp whistle hearing all of the manual labor that you were responsible for - flirting with you about how you needed a break often saying things like: "Sounds like a hard day, you probably have knots in your shoulders - I could fix that, y'know."

Which you would reply: "You givin' out massages now?"

And in turn he would tut out a quick comeback along the lines of: "Only to those who deserves them. I've got magic hands...And a soft spot for women who pretend not to need them."

You would choke and stumble over your words, quickly changing the subject towards something else. Tonight, you were on the phone with Bo, listing intensely at the story he told - your sore hands shooed your nosy brother away as he gave you a lopsided smile. You told your brothers about Bo, and they teased you relentlessly about him.

"So, when am I gonna see you again?" Bo asked, making you bite your lip and shrug as if he could see you.

"I don't know...Maybe soon?" You whispered you didn't want it to come out as a question, but it did, and you mentally kicked yourself for it. You remembered his offer to take you to this 'mysterious' juke joint, it sounded like fun. You love to dance even though you were self-conscious about doing it in front of people, often swaying your hips as you hummed a melody you heard on the radio while cooking or doing chores by your lonesome.

"How...How 'bout we go that juke joint you were talkin' about? That sounds like fun."

"Ah! Lil' miss busy body finally wanna come dance with me?"

"Oh, haha," You sarcastically laughed, picking at the skin of your thumb. "How 'bout next weekend? Does Saturday work for you?"

"Of course, I'm free Saturday..." He then paused and you could practically see the wide smile that clung onto his face.

"It's a date, then?"

"Y-Yeah, it's a date."

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Your fingers fidget and twist around each other, the crunching sound of rock and dirt beneath your feet grounded you somewhat, but your palms were already beginning to sweat. Passing through parked cars and couples grinding themselves onto each other, you finally made it to this aforementioned juke joint, the booming sound of music and shouting made a lump rise in your throat.

Stepping towards the large open double doors sat a stocky man. He nodded and waved as people enter and exited the makeshift club - his head snapping forward as his eyes landed onto you. With a wide and friendly smile, he tilted his straw hat with thick fingers - lowering his head in reverence as he spoke.

"Hello, missy. Ain't seen you around here before," His head rise again, making heavy eye contact with you. You figured that this large man was a bouncer, here to try and keep troublemakers out of the juke. "Word gets around, huh? Each weekend more and more people come - since it's your first time here I recommend trying the Irish whiskey. It got some kick to it, haha. All thanks to those twins, of course."

"Y-Yes, will do. Thank you." You mumbled, your shy eyes looking down at your feet. The muddy boots that you wore everyday were replaced with emerald green heels, the shoes hurt your feet, but the sales lady reassured you that they'll break in quickly.

Shuffling around the man you stumbled into the crowded club, your eyes scanning for Bo, but you couldn't find him anywhere. A lost and confused look plastered onto your face - you were starting to feel overwhelmed as second thoughts rushed through your mind. Deciding that you should just leave you quickly turned on your heel, but you bumped into a soft body, strong yet comforting arms steadied you.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" You repeated with a strained voice, shouting out apologies over the loud Blues that reverberated on the wooden walls.

"It's okay, you alright?" A womanly voice calmly spoke. Your eyes were met with deep mahogany brown irises, her features were beautiful, welcoming. Yet an air of sternness and confidence oozed casually from her as she adjusted her dark blue dress. Her natural hair was done up neatly, framing her face in a way that only enhanced her beautiful features. You couldn't help but to gawk at this woman. Noticing this her smile only soften as she awaited your answer to her question.

"Oh, um. Yea', I'm okay. Thank you," you choked out, your awkward eyes darting around the room as you peered into the dancing crowd. "Have you seen Bo around?" You added with a bite of your cherry red stained lips - for the first time you were wearing makeup.

"So, you're her? He's gamblin' with that drunk 'ol fool in the back." She stated, giving you a friendly grin. She turned her head and stopped a man dead in his tracks as he gave her a look that was tinged in nothing but respect.

"Yes, Annie?" The man asked.

"Take her to Bo and them, would you?" The woman, now known as Annie, casually said which earned a nod from the man. You gave your thanks to Annie as she winked and disappeared into the crowd. You followed the man, pushing pass people dancing and drinking with apologies falling from your lips, bumping into them accidently. But most of them were either too drunk to care or too busy dancing to notice.

"Damn, Bo. I thought you said you was good?" A commanding voice boomed, which followed by a chorus of laughter from multiple men. The music wasn't as loud within this hidden room, the muffled hymns were drowned out by lighters flicking, glass bottles clanking, and cocky chuckles coming from each man that huddled together around the small table.

"I am, but I'm already known' that Slim is cheatin." Bo sighed in annoyance, a cigarette hanged limp between his plump lips as he tossed a card down on the table, stress pulling at his chiseled features and smoke plumed from his mouth with each word he spoke.

"I ain't cheatin'." A man, who was much older, confidently stated as he took a long swig from his metal flask - licking his lips to taste the alcohol that slipped pass his golden capped teeth.

"You is." Bo shot back as he took a drag from the cigarette, pulling it from his lips with an index and middle finger, and leisurely blew the smoke into the already thick hazy air.

"No, I--"

A sharp wolf whistle cut off the older man's defense, which cause the men to snap their heads towards your direction. The whistle came from the man standing, his hands reaching for the red brimmed hat that rested on his head and placed it over his chest, shielding his well-tailored suit.

"Ain't you a pretty lil' thang?" He spoke as his dark brown irises slowly ran up and down your body, he was absolutely undressing you with his eyes. You wore a thin silky emerald color dress that loosely hung onto your body - but the soft fabric outlined and accentuated your curves. Your short hair was styled in finger waves, mimicking how women would wear their hair in the many magazines you had hidden away in your bedroom.

With long mascara covered eyelashes you blinked awkwardly, turning your head to look behind you, confused if the man was talking to you. Bo looked at you with awe, he couldn't recognize you at first but looking deeper at your dolled up face he could see those same beautiful features he'd grown fond of.

You looked amazing, like a movie star that jumped straight out of the silver screen.

"Y-You talkin' to me?" You asked the man, pointing at yourself with your head tilting to the side, the dangling silver earing you wore had small green gems, the light catching the dark color - making the jewelry sparkle. The jewelry grazed the warm skin of your bare shoulder as you lulled your head back into its natural position.

"My, my. And she's humble too," he laughed as he reached his hand out for yours. With sweaty and shaky palms, you placed your hand within the stranger's grasp, it seemed like he didn't care about your drenched soaked palm as he placed a kiss on your trembling hand, the feeling of his moustache lightly tickled your skin. "My name is Stack, baby." He said as he shot you a wide smile, showing off his golden capped teeth that shined under the ember light of the club. But before you could open your mouth Bo quickly cut into the conversation, swatting away the advances Stack was planning on making towards you.

"Watch yourself - she ain't like that, Stack." Bo hissed tossing his cards on the table, quitting from the game which made Slim smile ear to ear from the easy victory.

"Why you care, ain't you married?" Stack jested back, his voice dripping with charisma, sending a wink your way after finishing his sentence.

"Divorced." Bo said curtly.

Stack raised his hands up in a playful display of defeat, his face twisting in mischief as a chuckle fell from his plump lips.

"My bad, Bo. I ain't know you like the sistas." Stack chuckled as he pulled the empty chair from the table, claiming his seat as nimble hands collected the scattered cards - preparing to shuffle them for the next game.

"I ain't know you like 'em either." Bo replied, sitting up from his chair as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, stopping right at the elbows - his cigarette still hanging limply from his mouth.

This statement earned a raspy roar of laughter from Slim as he clapped his hands together, the sound of his foot stomping made you jump a bit. Stack's once confident persona melted as he shot glares at Slim and Bo, which only made Slim laugh even harder.

You were oblivious to their 'inside joke'.

"Whew, you have fun you crazy kids," Slim sighed out, taking another swig from his flask. "And you: get outta ya feelings, boy. Shuffle them cards." The older man places a hard pat on Stack's shoulder, which only made him grunt in annoyance.

"I think you had too much to drink, old man." Stack seethed as he quickly mixed up the cards in his hands.

Putting the cigarette out in the ashtray Bo's striking features eased with happiness as he laid his eyes on you. Holding his arm out for you to grab onto, both of you exited the small gambling room - now out on the bustling dance floor. His eyes were trained onto your face as he pulled you closer towards him, the bloom of attraction and arousal tugged within Bo as he bit his lip.

You were looking damn good tonight.

"I see why you didn't want me to pick you up - you're somethin' else, you know that?" He smiled, the dimples of his cheeks deepening as you shrugged your shoulders at his words, your eyes gazing at him. He looked handsome as always, but tonight he looked dashing. Noticing his eyes that flicked towards your body, you took a step back to show him your full outfit.

"You like my dress? I bought it earlier today - I wanted to wear somethin' new." You gushed out and with a twirl you showed him the back of your dress that exposed the bare skin of your back, but you didn't notice Bo's eyes landing straight on your ass that poked against the thin fabric. Sticking his thumb in his belt loop, he adjusted his pants - he really wanted to see what's under that dress - but alas, he wouldn't outwardly say that to you as his own worrying self-conscious crept in.

Bo wasn't bashful nor shy when it came to intimacy and sex, he was open about his wants and desires. But you were the polar opposite, so he tried his best to keep those lustful thoughts about you to himself, toning the flirty banter down to a minimum. But that was becoming a challenge tonight with how sexy you looked, and it didn't help much that Stack's actions made him a tad bit jealous.

Bo knew you desired him just as much, but he knows it'll take a while for that shell of yours to crack.

Low strumming of guitar strings pulled your attention away from Bo, your eyes gazing at the makeshift stage ahead of you, watching a man that was around your age plucked the metal strings of the instrument. With a low hum you noticed the once lively dancefloor coupled up in pairs, while the singles made their way to the bar to fill up on drinks. With a thumb on his bottom lip Bo, smiled at your sudden ramped attention towards the slow music.

"That's Preacher Boy, he's mighty fine at playin' that guitar," Bo walked forward towards the dance floor with your hand in his. Both your fingers interlocking with each other's. "Care to fancy me a dance?"

You couldn't do anything but to excitedly nod, the butterflies in your stomach were becoming unbearable. With strong arms Bo held you flush against him, you could feel his lean body through his clothes - both of you swaying to the rhythm of the song. Tough hands rested on the small of your back, his calloused fingers resting dangerously close above your ass.

You wouldn't mind it if he rested his hand there.

With threaded fingers he guided your steps, you tripped over yourself for a bit - but you quickly found the rhythm again. Your head rest on his shoulder while he placed his on top of your head, the tender lyrics about love and not wanting to let go echoed through your mind, the lovesick song made your heart swell.

Bo then pulls away from your body, but only for a bit - he twirled you around, making you giggle at the action and with skillful movements, he pressed your backside onto himself. His hands guided your hips against his and you could feel his growing bulge pressing against your backside. You shiver in delight at the feeling of him pressing against you, his lips also pressing against your ear as he sang along the lyrics - switching some of the words with Mandarin. He was singing the song directly to you.

Your loins were on fire, and you tried the ease the ache between your legs by grinding yourself onto his stiffening member. Bo took quick noticed of this, his fingers pressing down on your hips as he steadies himself.

Helping you grind yourself on him.

Turning around to face him again you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, still pressing yourself firmly on his body. Your lips ghosting over his - he leaned forward in an attempt to close the sliver of space between your lips, but you pulled away with a slight grin that danced across your cherry red lips.

"Do you think I'm pretty even when I don't look like...This all the time?" You asked him. Though you enjoyed dressing up and doing your make up - a part of you also found comfort in wearing clothes that weren't 'conventionally' for women. You were shy and sometimes you had some bouts of insecurity - but that was every woman.

You hoped that Bo could understand that.

"The moment I laid my eyes on you - when you came into my store - I knew then that I wanted you," he paused as his brown eyes stared into yours intensely, every word he spoke made you lose your breath. "You're more than pretty; you're beautiful - gorgeous. Doesn't matter what you got on."

With quivering lips, you kissed him, Bo's lips were soft, and his kiss was steady as he guided your unskilled mouth against his - deepening the kiss even more. His warm hands trailed over the exposed skin of your back, the feeling of rough fingers made you spiral, and you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second. Bo could feel your wetness too - pressing his thigh in between your legs and against your aching core.

You moaned into his mouth, and you held onto his shoulders for dear life, you needed to feel this man inside you - you were growing desperate to relieve yourself from the intense arousal that bubbled in your core.

"C'mon, lemme take care of you, baby." Bo whispered.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Slipping away from the crowd, you and Bo found an empty room upstairs of the juke, away from prying eyes. The room was dusty, and the air was stale and thick - as if you both were the first people to enter in years. The slow love song that Preacher Boy sang was now replaced with loud, intense melodies and the once tender lyrics now oozed with raunchy double entendres.

Pressing your back against the wall, Bo's nimble hands ran over your body, stroking and squeezing all of your curves as if his life depended on it - his hands stopping at your breast, cupping them gently through the fabric of your dress. His faced rested within the crook of your neck as his lips sucked at the exposed skin, slightly nipping you with his teeth. Your hands race through his black hair, the strands threading through your fingers as your nails softly scratched at his scalp.

"You see what you do to me, girl?" He asked as he reached for your hand, placing it over his clothed bulge that strained against his pants. You bit your lip as your fingers rubbed against his hard member, his hips bucking into your hand as you pressed down on his dick.

"I-I gotta tell you somethin'."

"What is it, baby?" He asked in between fevered kisses on your neck.

"I ain't never did this before." You sighed out breathlessly. Kissing and grinding wasn't intimidating to you - you've done that before.

But sex, actual sex, was a whole different ballpark. You weren't 'saving' yourself for marriage or anything like that; you never had the opportunity to be with anyone sexually. Until now, of course. Bo stopped in his tracks and pulled away from your neck, his eyes that were filled with lust a second ago soften while his hands rested at your sides.

"...You a virgin?" He asked, which made you whisper out a yes. His eyebrows knitted together as he stared down at you, still pressing himself against your heaving chest. "Sure you want this?"

"Yea', I'm sure...I like you, Bo. A lot, I wanna do it," you paused - your eyes looking away from him and in attempt to try to break the rising tension from the realization of you never having sex before, you spoke again. "Just be patient with me."

"I'll be gentle I promise, baby. It's just like dancin', follow my lead - I'll make sure you feel real good." Bo whispered as his hand caress your cheek, his thumb rubbing circles. Leaning in he kissed you again, but this kiss was different than the last - it was slow and gentle.

You kissed him back and his tongue swipe at your bottom lip, asking for permission to deepen the kiss, and you let him. Both of your tongues danced in unison, the taste of cigarette smoke with the hint of peppermint lingered on your mouth with each kiss. His hands reached for the hem of your dress, pulling up the fabric exposing your bare thighs and thin cotton underwear.

His hand rubbed your leg, stopping at the waistband of your panties, his finger tracing over the band and stopping at the wet spot of the fabric. Slowly his fingers pressed against your clothed clit, rubbing small yet firm circles on the sensitive bud, earning a shallow moan that escaped your chest.

"Does it feel good, baby?" Bo asked as he continued rubbing your pussy through your panties. You groan out a breathy yes, encouraging him to keep going.

And he did.

Your hips bucked against his hand, while his free hand pinched at your right nipple with attentive fingers. The sharp feeling of his pinching sent a wave of pleasure towards your loins and your hands gripped onto his toned biceps. With skillful and experienced hands, he stuck his thumb within the waistband of your soaking underwear, slipping the fabric off your hips towards your already shaking knees, his fingers now rubbing against your exposed pussy.

"Oh, Bo. T-That feels good." You whimpered as he continued his movements - now picking up speed, making you moan even louder.

You were glad that the music was blaringly loud.

"Fuck...You're already so wet." Bo muttered as his fingers swiped across your aching entrance. He was practically straining against his pants, but since this was your first time, he didn't want to rush. He remembered his first time having sex - it wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great either - even so he still looked back on that memory fondly. The feeling of reaching that level of ecstasy sticks to a person and he was honored to be able to help you achieve it. It was daunting knowing that he's your first, but it also lit a fire within him.

He wanted nothing more but to pleasure you, to make sure that your first time is special. Trailing gentle kisses down your body Bo got on his knees, tugging the panties off of your legs as he did so. Your hands gripped onto the hem of your dress in a tight fist and your eyes followed his every movement.

"I wanna taste you, baby. Can I taste you?" He asked desperately, his eyes looking up at you as if you were an angel in disguise - as if you were a work of art.

You nodded your head, but he didn't move.

"Use your words, sugar."

"Y-Yes, you can taste me." choked out awkwardly, you never talked dirty to anyone before but the act of doing it only made you hornier. Bo smiled wide at your answer, placing a feather light kiss on your thigh and on your sensitive bud. The feeling of his lips on your pussy made you shiver in excitement and slowly he began to lick you.

The tip of his tongue skillfully circled your clit, only stopping to drag it across your soaking pussy. He moaned against your core - savoring sweet taste of your juices that filled his mouth. You bucked your hips against his face, riding on his experienced tongue as he continued repeating his movements.

Chanting out his name with a groan your hands ran through his hair, it took everything within you not to pull at his dark tresses - but the sensation of his tongue lapping up your pussy made your head spin. Working over your core Bo slowly slipped his middle finger inside of you, stopping at the second joint in case you couldn't take the feeling. To your surprise the feeling of his finger inside you didn't hurt; in fact, it felt amazing - it felt heavenly.

Careful and slow he moved his hand, pressing the finger in and out of your pussy as his lips sucked at your swollen and sensitive clit. Lulling your head to the side you rocked your hips to match the pace of his hand, biting your lip as a wave of pleasure washed over you. Bo then added another finger which made you squeeze your thighs against the sides of his head, holding his head in place with a vice grip.

His middle and ring finger worked your over your core, the digits now fully inside of you. Picking up the pace with his fingers your pussy, guttural moans turned into high pitched groans as your left hand scratched at the wall behind you. An unfamiliar yet intense feeling tingled at your core, and something within you desperately needed the feeling to be alleviated. It was as if Bo read your mind and his tongue swirled over your clit and within an instant a wave of euphoria crashed into you as a loud cry fell from your lips, your body shaking intensely like a leaf in the wind.

You came.

Bo's mouth pulled away from your dripping pussy, he didn't want to overwhelm you as his now slick fingers lightly stroked your tender button, easing you through your orgasm.

"Just like that, baby. You got it...Good job, great job." He praised. Looking down at him Bo's chin and the collar of his shirt was soaked with your juices, and it slightly embarrassed you with just how wet you truly were. But that feeling of embarrassment quickly dissipated when he stood up again, his lips crashing into yours - kissing you with fever.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, with shaky hands you locked your fingers together at the back of his head, deepening the kiss. Something about tasting you on his swollen lips made your pussy tingle with a need to be filled again.

"Bo...I-I need you."

"I need you too." He whispered back between kisses. Your hand reached for the buckle of his belt, fumbling over your own fingers as you tried to free him from his pants. Bo held your hands in his, guiding them in unbuckling the belt.

Finally, being able to free himself from his belt, he led your hand in his pants. You could feel just how hard he was. His member was thick and heavy and feeling the warmth of it on the palm of your hand made your mouth water in the anticipation of him fucking you. Pulling his pants off his waist, Bo's dick sprung free.

With strong hands he lifted you up from under your arms, making you gasp. Following his lead, you wrapped your legs around his hips as he pressed his lean body against yours, pressing you on the wall to steady yourself. Your sweaty forehead rested on his as you both watched him stroke himself, pumping his dick with his hand, precum making a natural lubricant.

With cloudy eyes you watched Bo lining himself towards your aching core he slowly entered you, his head rested on your hot and sweat slicked shoulder and the feeling of his cock entering your tight pussy almost made the man topple over. He was stretching you out and the raw sting of pain mixed with pleasure crashed into you like a tidal wave, your nails clung onto Bo's shirt, scratching at his skin through the cotton fabric.

"Shh, it's okay, I got you." Bo reassured as he paused the movement of his hips - resting his cock inside of you - allowing both of your bodies to adjust to each other. You were so tight, so warm, so wet. It felt like he'd just stumbled into heaven, and it took everything in him not to buck his hips until you were ready. With a nod of your head, you signaled him to continue, your tense muscles melted as he placed a long kiss on your jaw as he slowly began rocking his hips back and forth, fucking into you as softly as he could.

High pitched grunts fell from your lips with each thrust he made, and his thumb rubbed small and supportive circles over the skin of your thighs that wrapped around his hips, grounding you and easing the tense muscles within your legs. Bo began chanting your name, telling you how good you felt, and asking you if he felt good inside you too.

The pain of his cock inside of your once unexplored sex subsided and was now replaced with nothing but pleasure. You moaned against his plump lips as he groaned out curses in Mandarin at the sensation of your pussy squeezing around his member; his hips thrusting into you rapid but steady pace.

"Bo, I think I'm almost..."

"I'm almost there too." Bo mumbled as he rested his forehead onto yours and with a few more thrusts you felt the familiar feeling of a knot formed within your abdomen and with shaking legs your mouth hanged open slack as a silent scream pushed through your convulsing body - the high of reaching your orgasm made you hold Bo in a vice grip.

He cursed in pleasure as his own orgasm crept up on him, backing away from your tight grip with strong arms he pulled himself out of you, pumping his cock within his hand until he reached his climax - coming in his hand as he rested his head on your shoulders, your eyes watching him stroke himself. The sounds of heavy breathing filled the air as your head spin from experiencing your second orgasm.

Your sweaty body leaned against the wall and with a deep sigh Bo steadied his breathing, rolling his shoulders as your eyes met with his. You noticed a bit of blood that was in his hand and the odd sensation of slick clung on your inner thighs, putting two and two together you looked away from him, embarrassment blooming within your already racing heart. But before you could blurt out an apology, Bo kissed your lips - pulling you out of your self conscious state.

"That's normal for your first time. It's okay, baby." He reassured. Cleaning you and himself up with a small cotton handkerchief, you jumped at the soft fabric rubbing against your sensitive sex, which earned a sympathetic chuckle from Bo.

"Hopefully next time we do it we'll have a bed. My back hurts..." You whispered as your hand pressed on the small of your back, getting fucked against a hard wall feels good in the moment, but you know you'll be stiff as a board the following morning.

"Next time?" Bo asked as a mischievous grin tugged at his lips.

"I-I mean if you want--"

"I'll make sure we'll have a bed, and besides I promised you a massage, remember?" He smiled and you smiled back at him. After getting cleaned up, you and Bo rejoined the bustling crowd of the juke joint, hand in hand.

You were counting down the minutes until your next 'encounter' with him - and so was he.

#bo chow sinners #bo chow x reader #bo chow x you #bo chow x y/n #bo chow smut #bo chow x reader smut #black reader #bo chow x black reader #bo chow x fem!reader #bo chow x black!reader #bo chow x oc #sinners fanfiction

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vunblr · 2 months ago

Text

A Hand in the Dark (#3)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Fluff.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 5.1.k.

notes: More tags will be added in the future.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The pills went down with a scratch in his throat, caught for a second like they didn’t want to be there. The Gatorade was warm now, too sweet, but his body wanted it. Needed it. He could feel the burn of the heat in his skin, the pulsing ache where she’d stitched.

He stared at the blister pack again. Paracetamol. 1g. A simple anti-inflammatory. Fever reducer. She wasn’t trying to burn out his thoughts or dull his mind.

She wasn’t trying to sedate him.

Not yet.

He glanced down at his hands. No restraints. Just trembling fingers and the heat of the infection deep in his muscles. She had stitched him. She had approached without force. No gloves, no commands with venom behind them.

Maybe she was trained.

Maybe she’d been embedded, meant to recover him in the chaos of what happened. HYDRA didn’t always pull from within. When she spoke, her voice had slipped into something just firm enough to obey without thinking.

No shouting. No touch. Just… an order dressed like a request.

Just a quiet line in the air: I need you to take it. So you can get better.

He hadn’t understood that part.

Why did she need him to feel better? Was he meant to protect her? Perform for her? Was there a mission coming she hadn’t yet named?

Some of the handlers had never set foot inside a base. He remembered bits: Waking up in unfamiliar kitchens, basements, and laundry rooms, watching as faces changed, voices changed, but the orders remained.

No one helped the Soldat just to help it.

Maybe this was one of those occasions. Where other services would be required.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

He'd passed through hands that hadn’t precisely needed his combat skills. A different kind of usage. They’d stripped him like an object, and then used him like one.

After all, he only knew how to comply.

And yet-

I won’t touch you. Not unless you ask me to.

If this were another mission, she played it unlike anyone else he remembered. And if it wasn’t… he didn’t know the rules.

He coughed once, shallowly, catching it behind his teeth. He was soaked in sweat. Still feverish. But the pressure behind his head had shifted. Not much. But enough.

----

Once the door to his room had clicked gently shut behind her, she let herself sag against the wall.

Ok. He was in the spare room now. Installed there like a volatile machine, wounded, half-operational, with uncertain wiring. And hopefully, hopefully, medicated.

But he couldn’t stay in those boxers. Not in this weather. Not with how filthy they were, grime soaked into the seams, blood crusted along the waistband. And she wasn’t about to toss that shredded tac suit into the washer for him to use it again.

No. He needed clothes.

So she grabbed her coat and keys and changed her slippers to a pair of sneakers. She hesitated with her hand on the doorframe.

“I’m going out,” she said, loud enough to carry down the hall, soft enough to sound like she wasn’t afraid of startling him. “Just to a store. I’ll be back in a bit.”

No answer. Not even the creak of floorboards, a cough, a footstep. Just silence.

Still, she waited a beat longer. Just in case. Just in case his silence meant no, or wait, or I’m not okay. Even if he didn’t know how to say it.

Nothing.

So she left, locking the door behind her with soft fingers.

----

The store was dimly lit and half-stocked, exactly the kind of place that sold underwear in zippered plastic and plain black sweaters for five dollars. She grabbed what she could fast, two pairs of sweatpants, two long-sleeved shirts, a hoodie with a stupid logo, and a pack of boxers and socks that proudly proclaimed value size on the label.

Cheap. Soft. No tags. Nothing he could read as a uniform. Nothing too tight, stiff, or binding. Just warm fabric. Just comfort.

She added a small bottle of shampoo, a travel toothbrush, and a stick of unscented deodorant, because, well, because it felt right. Because if he stayed another night, he might need something to remind himself he was allowed to exist as a person. A real one. A clean one.

She paid in cash and walked back quickly.

When she opened the front door again, the apartment was -unsurprisingly- quiet.

She called out gently, “I’m back.”

No reply.

Still. She didn’t push. Just walked to the threshold and gently set down the plastic shopping bag beside the door to his room. Close enough to be seen, far enough not to breach the invisible line he’d drawn. She hesitated, then cleared her throat.

“There are clothes in the bag,” she said, trying for casual. “For you. New. Clean. They might be a little big, but better too big than too tight, right?”

No answer. She didn’t expect one.

She shifted her weight, rubbing her palm against her thigh, in the way she always did when she had more to say and didn’t quite know how to say it.

“I don’t usually work on Saturdays,” she added, speaking a little louder now. “But I’ve gotta cover the afternoon shift. My coworker’s out sick for a few days.”

Still nothing. Just the quiet beyond the door, heavy but listening.

“You’ll be alone,” she continued, softer again. “Use the time to take a hot shower. Put on the clothes. It’s too cold to be in, well, what you’ve got on. You’ll feel better. I mean… not just from the fever.”

Her fingers curled against the hem of her sweater, gripping it tight for a moment. Then she made herself let go.

“I’ll leave the front door unlocked. Just in case you… want to leave.” She swallowed. “If you do, please, use the spare key. It’s in the flower pot outside the door. Lock it behind you so no one comes in if the apartment’s empty.”

She stood there another breath longer, like she wanted to say something else. Then thought better of it. Her hand hovered once more near the doorknob, then dropped away.

----

He didn't move until he heard the sound of the front door closing. That was when he finally uncurled from the corner of the room. His legs complained, not used to that position. The blankets were still pooled on the old rug, where he’d dropped them when the heat started to break. Sweat chilled on his skin. The boxers stuck damply to his thighs. His hair clung to his neck in curls gone too long without care.

He stood up carefully and angled his head toward the hallway, testing. Still no sounds. She was gone.

He made it near the door -slowly, soundlessly on the wood floor- and stared at the bolt. It was… open. Just like she said it will. And in the flowerpot, a flash of metal half-buried in dry soil: the key.

A choice.

If you leave…

The rest of her words blurred. He didn’t know what she meant by that. Didn’t know if she meant freedom or a trap. Extraction or abandonment. No one ever gave him a choice like that, not without a leash hidden somewhere. If you disobeyed, you were punished. If you walked away, they found you. If you stayed, you were used.

He didn’t touch the key, instead, he went to the bathroom.

The light in there was too warm. Too yellow. It made his reflection strange, sunken eyes, dull with fever, patchy bruises across his ribs. Hair too long, unkept scruff, dirty with old blood.

The steam built quickly, rising in clouds, curling like fingers toward the ceiling. He waited too long to step in. Even now, the luxury of the action felt… dangerous.

But he did.

And when he did, the water scalded.

Not a hose. Not a punishment. Not a command. It stung down his spine, hissed over healing wounds, and softened the blood-caked threads on his stitches. He didn’t scrub right away. Just stood there, staring down at his hands, at how the water was dripping from the tip of his fingers. Flesh hand. Scarred. Left hand: dulled, but his now. Not a weapon someone else activated.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t know how to anymore.

But his chest hurt.

Years. He didn’t know how many. No soap. No heat. No kindness. Just missions and freeze, freeze and missions, the stink of old sweat layered like armor on his skin.

The water kept running.

And when he finally reached for the soap, he used it like it might disappear if he hesitated. He then reached for the shampoo with unsure fingers, not knowing how much to use. The bottle sloshed too fast when he squeezed, too much at once, dripping down his wrist before he could tame it.

He blinked it out of his eyes, working his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair. It felt wrong, doing this without urgency. Without someone barking a command or watching him from behind a screen.

He dried off with a thick cotton towel that scraped over bruises and caught on the stitches she’d sewn. Each sting connected him to the present. This was real.

The sweatpants were soft. Dark blue, unbranded. Interchangeable. Like uniforms, but meant to comfort, not control. The shirts were equally plain, one black, one grey. He picked the grey. It clung a little at the shoulders, but didn’t feel wrong. The socks were new, too, and warm.

And then came the boots.

Still by the door, caked with dried mud from wherever he’d crawled out of. He carried them to the sink, braced them under the faucet, and scrubbed with his thumb until the worst disappeared. The water turned brown in the basin, swirling into the drain.

He didn’t know why he needed to do that. Only that it felt… necessary.

He put them on last.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the floorboards creaked. The apartment still smelled like whatever she had cooked, something savory, spiced. Not chemically balanced for nutrition. Not portioned for macros. Just food.

A container sat on the counter, sealed tightly. Steam fogged the inside. And a note, short, scribbled.

Eat <3

His body obeyed.

He pried open the lid, and the scent hit him like a punch. Meat. Rice. He didn’t even look for utensils at first, just took a bite with his fingers, too quick, too hot. His jaw stung where a bruise was forming. He didn’t stop. By the time he found a fork in the drawer and sat down properly, the container was already half empty.

The last bite stuck a little in his throat. The animal part of him had quieted. Full stomach, warm limbs, boots on, body clean.

He glanced toward the door.

Still unlocked.

“Just in case you… want to leave.”

He stared. Like it might open on its own, like he might be tested. That someone would be watching for his choice.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t know what to choose.

----

The water steamed again, this time from the kitchen sink. He stood over it, with sleeves shoved up to his elbows, slightly hunched, like his body was still braced for a hit. The container clinked dully in the basin, plastic against porcelain. He scrubbed it with the sponge until the sponge began to fray. Not fast. Not sloppy. Just… thorough. Precise. No trace of food. No film of oil. No mistake left behind to be found later.

Mess meant punishment. Always had. Not scolding, not disappointment. His hair twisted in a handler’s fist until his knees hit the tile. A baton snapped across the cheekbone, the lip, the ribs. A mouthful of copper while someone barked that dogs don’t deserve kitchens.

He rinsed it twice. Dried it with the cleanest towel. Folded that too.

Then he froze. Palms pressed flat on the counter. Breath low, chest tight.

The flowerpot still had the key.

She had said it, If you decide you want to leave.

His jaw clicked as it clenched. That couldn’t be right. That line wasn’t meant for him. Not really. Because there were only two outcomes to that kind of offer.

Either it was a test.

If he touched the key -if he dared to leave- the punishment would be swift, savage, and absolute. And worse, it would be deserved. That’s what they’d taught him: disobedience was betrayal. And betrayal meant reconditioning.

Or.

She meant it. Meant the words just as she’d said them. That she had pulled him out of the street like a broken thing, stitched him back together, handed him a meal and clean clothes and an unlocked door, and expected nothing in return.

He didn’t know which was worse.

Because if it were the first, he could brace for it. He could ready himself for the pain, for the correction. He knew that script. He knew how to survive it.

But if it was the second…

Where would he even go?

There was no next mission. No extraction point. No coordinates in his head. No handler waiting for a report. Just silence. Just fever and stitches and a woman’s voice telling him to eat, to rest, to heal.

He hardened his grip on the counter.

Stay. Stay and watch. Stay and wait. Just a little longer. Just enough to see if the leash ever tightens. If the door stays open.

----

She dropped a stack of paperbacks, and the spines thudded dully on the counter. Her manager didn’t notice, too busy chatting up a regular at the register. Good. She needed the moment.

All the shift her mind had spun like a scratched record, the same thoughts, over and over.

Was he still there, or had he vanished like a ghost?

Was it wise to leave the note as she did?

Eat. Just that one word and a crooked little heart at the end. It did sound like an order. What if he’d forced it down out of compliance, and his body rejected it? He’d looked so pale. Hollowed out. Running on fever and instinct and not much else.

She pressed a palm to her forehead, forcing a breath through her nose as she restocked the romance display. New arrivals, bright covers with women in windswept gowns and men whose shirts had clearly lost a battle. Usually, unpacking shipments was one of her favorite parts of the job. Touching the smooth covers, flipping through pages no one else had yet. But now the titles blurred together -swirling pastel, muscles, corsets, and distant eyes, none of it remotely appealing.

----

The thoughts accompanied her during her bus trip home. The vehicle jolted over a pothole, making her sway in the plastic seat. She clutched the metal pole, blinking past the reflection of herself in the scratched window.

If he’s still there, she told herself again, I’ll talk to him this time. Really talk.

She’d tell him about Granny. About that night at the beach, when he’d thrown himself off a cliff to break the fall, saving her life. About the metal plate of his arm in the little pouch.

Maybe he wouldn’t remember, most likely he wouldn’t, considering what Seth had told her about the memory wipes, but maybe it would still mean something.

Maybe it would help him see she wasn’t a threat.

----

The doorknob turned easily beneath her hand.

Unlocked.

Her stomach flipped. He was either still inside… or he’d gone, and left it open behind him. No trace but the ghost of fever, sweat, and disinfectant.

She shrugged off her coat and hung it, followed by her purse. The apartment was still.

She moved to the kitchen first, needed a snack a while ago. She noticed the sink was empty, and the food container sat clean and drying on the rack.

He’d eaten.

She gripped the counter, just for a second. Okay. Good. Good sign.

She grabbed some yogurt and sprinkled some cereal on it, twirling the spoon idly as she considered what to do. After a while, she thought she heard the barest sound coming from his room. Ok, she thought as she munched the last of the yogurt. Time to talk.

She clicked on the hallway light, and its yellow glow pooled out toward the room. The door creaked under her hand as she pushed it open wider. It was dark inside, quiet. For a breath, she thought she had misheard, and he was gone.

Then she saw it, his silhouette, sitting on the cot, still as a photograph. Clean clothes, more or less combed hair. Staring at her.

“Hi,” she managed, “I… see you decided to stay.”

No response. But he didn’t flinch when she stepped in. That was something.

“I want to tell you something,” she said, slowly. “And then I’ll leave you alone. I should’ve said it this morning, but everything felt like a bit much.”

Still nothing. He just watched her with unreadable eyes, tilting his head the barest inch.

“I know who you are,” she said, quieter now. “What you do… or did. Sort of.”

His shoulders drew higher, tighter. Like a trap snapping shut.

“I found you yesterday behind the building. You must’ve wandered after falling into the river. You collapsed.”

Now his gaze sharpened, narrow and assessing, suspicious.

She raised a hand in a loose, nervous gesture. “It was on the news. You and Captain America. The helicarrier going down, the explosion… all of it.”

His jaw clenched.

“So yeah, that’s how I know. And- also.” She glanced at the floor, then back at him. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t just bring a spy and assassin into my house because he looked hurt and handsome in an alley.”

His expression twisted, something like confusion, maybe insult.

“Well, you are handsome,” she muttered, heat prickling her cheeks, “but that’s not the point.”

His brows furrowed like her words made no sense in his internal lexicon.

“I don’t have a second agenda,” she continued. “I didn’t bring you here to use you, or because I wanted something from you.”

Still no response.

“I brought you here because I owe you.”

That got something. A flicker of reaction across his face, subtle but sharp. Confusion again, but laced now with something else. Disbelief.

“You probably don’t remember. It’s not your fault. I know what… what they did to your mind.”

His metal hand twitched on his knee.

“A long time ago,” she said, softer now, “my grandmother tried to kill herself. She was going to jump off the cliffs near the shore. She slipped. Fell.”

His head tilted forward slightly, as if squinting into the dark of a memory.

“You were there. You jumped after her. Took the fall. You weren’t there when she woke up, but she remembers. She remembers your body breaking the impact. The blood. The way you disappeared.”

He was utterly still.

“She found a piece of your arm, part of the plate, broken off in the fall. She kept it. Hid it in a pouch she crocheted herself.”

His eyes dropped to the arm in question. His brows pulled tight, like he was trying to reach back into a void.

“She never told anyone,” she added. “But she told me. And I knew. When I saw you yesterday. I knew.”

The silence thickened around them, almost unbearable. She didn’t know what he was thinking. What part of him was reacting, the soldat, the wounded man, a mix in the void where memory should have been.

He had no memory of the cliff, or the woman, or her scream as she fell. No image, no sound. But his body knew. Somewhere deeper than thought, beneath even reflex.

He must’ve done it.

He’d let her live. Been seen. Intervened. That wasn’t his mission. That wasn’t his role. And that meant punishment. He didn’t know what form it had taken. Couldn’t picture the cell or the screaming or the blade or the ice. But he knew it had come.

They always made sure it came.

His jaw tensed, and the faint tremble that moved through his flesh hand disgusted him.

The woman wasn’t lying. He’d watched her eyes, her mannerisms. The scent of fear and sweat and courage on her skin. She wasn’t playing. Not like the handlers did. Not like the men who smiled before they put the bit in your mouth and the volts in your head.

He'd hurt himself. For a stranger. Damaged the arm. Let evidence be taken. Metal missing. That was never permitted. That was reportable, punishable, correctable.

He felt it now, just below the skin, the way they trained him to feel it. Every time he broke code. Every time the mission slipped. Guilt and revulsion and a choked, animal panic that curled like smoke in his lungs.

Why?

Why had he done it?

But because it was in him. Somewhere… before them. Some wrong wiring that hadn't been ripped out completely. The remnants of a man who wasn’t allowed to exist.

She said she owed him. That she brought him here because of that. Not because she was an agent. Not because she wanted to barter or use him or send him back.

But it didn’t make sense.

No one did things for nothing. Not in his world. Not in any world he could remember. She was speaking like he was a person. Like he deserved to be repaid for… mercy. But that couldn’t be right. He wasn’t built for mercy.

He didn’t know how to process the words she’d said. Didn’t know what she wanted from him now. But she hadn’t called anyone. She hadn’t screamed at him. She hadn’t ordered.

She wasn’t a threat.

Not yet.

But his chest ached with something worse than threat. Worse than fear. The burning, stupid question he didn’t want to ask himself:

If I saved her grandmother, what else have I done they made me forget?

And -quietest of all-

Who was I supposed to be?

She rose from the floor in one slow, fluid motion, unhurried, deliberately slowly, like someone approaching a wild animal, not out of fear, but with respect for its teeth.

“Wait a sec,” she murmured, mostly to herself, not expecting a reply.

She vanished into her bedroom, rummaged through the dresser with trembling hands. It was in the back corner, where she always kept it. Wrapped in tissue paper, then tucked into the crocheted pouch like a secret.

When she stepped back into the doorway, she made sure the little pouch was visible in her palm, hanging loose for him to see. Her voice was soft. Calm enough, even if her insides weren’t.

“Um- this is the proof of what I told you.”

He didn’t move, not right away, but his gaze found the pouch instantly. Locked onto it. Widened in a way that unsettled her. Not surprise. Something sharper. Like recognition was trying to claw its way up through a thousand layers of programming and pain.

She stopped a few feet from him. No closer than necessary.

“Honey, no offense,” she said gently, “but you know now that I have no power over you. You could kill me the second I step into your reach and I can’t do a damn thing about it.” Her voice cracked on the last word. Not out of fear, just the strain of honesty. “I should be the one scared here.”

He didn’t flinch, but there was something brittle in the air now, something held so tightly it might shatter.

She took another small step and extended her hand, with the pouch dangling between her fingers like a peace offering. Not a weapon. Not a bait. Just history. One he’d made, even if he couldn’t remember it.

He took it.

Slowly, silently, his metal hand rose until his fingers, unnaturally smooth, made a soft sound against the yarn as he pinched the pouch from her hand. She didn’t move. Not even to breathe.

He opened it like someone disarming a mine.

The scrap of metal inside it caught the hallway light, uneven edges where the plate had torn free. Titanium alloy, Hydra-issued, old make. His thumb brushed the surface once, then again. This wasn’t a replica. It wasn’t even just familiar. It was his.

Unmistakably his.

No one could fake it. Not the texture, not the weight. Not the fractured edge where it had been wrenched from him, where something had broken hard enough to do damage even to that.

He clenched it in his hand like it might vanish if he let go. Like someone might rip it away, call him a fool for believing any of this.

Then he looked at her.

Still at a safe distance, with no pressure, no smugness on her features.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to match the piece of himself in his hand to the story she’d told. Didn’t know how to believe her. But more than that, didn’t know how not to.

His throat worked around nothing. His brows pressed together, not quite frowning. Searching.

There were no protocols for this. No Hydra script to follow.

He just stared at her. A breath ghosted out through his nose. Quiet. Almost confused.

Still didn’t speak. But didn’t let go of the metal.

“I’ll let you be now,” she said softly, her voice was gentle, careful, like she was backing away from a wounded animal and not a man holding the sharpest piece of his own past in one trembling hand.

“I know what I told you... what you’re going through is too much. A lot.” She glanced at him again, uncertain if he even heard her, but needing to say it anyway. “I’ll go do some things and then, I’ll make dinner. I’ll bring it here.”

She paused in the doorway, resting her fingers against the frame, not looking back this time.

“Is not necessary for me to say, but you can... you can join me whenever you want. Outside.”

And then she was gone, her footsteps a soft sound down the hallway, leaving him alone with the silence, the pouch, and the past clutched in his palm, a memory he hadn’t known he’d lost.

----

A week passed by, and he stayed. That alone felt like a miracle, she was careful not to startle him.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t roam. She left meals by the door on a tray and they always vanished eventually, reappearing rinsed in the sink. He took the medicine, too. Not in front of her -never that- but the blister’s contents shrank, day by day.

He trusted her, in a way. Not with words. Not with eye contact. But as a caretaker, maybe. A non-threat. A fixture of the space he now cautiously shared.

He didn’t come out often. Just the soft click of the bathroom door now and then. No footsteps in the kitchen. No wandering. Until the day the chair tipped.

She hadn’t meant to stand on it, not really, but the lightbulb had gone out again, and it was just one quick reach, and then she slipped. A short yelp, the clatter of wood on tile, the thud of her hip hitting the floor.

She barely had time to curse when he was there. Silent and swift, like smoke, crouching at her side with sharp eyes and purpose.

His hands were careful. He touched her ankles, rotated them in his palm, brows pinched in faint concentration, as if her joints might tell him something her words couldn't.

"I’m okay," she said, managing a weak laugh. “Really. Just startled myself.”

But he didn’t stop. Not until he was sure. His thumb brushed just below her knees, pressing once, twice until he seemed satisfied. Then, he stood and slipped away without a sound. Just a brush of clothes, the creak of the hallway floorboard, and the soft hush of his door closing behind him.

“Thank you!!” she said earnestly, hoping he had listened.

The lightbulb still dangled dead above her head. But she didn’t move. Her skin was sensitive where he had touched her, and her heart thudded a little too loudly in her ears.

----

He stood with his back against the door for a long moment, tense, with his gaze fixed on nothing. The silence inside the room wasn’t peace. It pulsed. Swirled inside the hollow thing his mind had become.

He’d touched her.

Not under orders. Not to silence or subdue her. He’d touched her because she’d fallen. Because she’d looked up at him from the floor with surprise, not fear, and his instincts had dragged his body forward before he could bury it back down.

He sat heavily on the edge of the cot, with his metal hand open on his knee, like it didn’t belong to him. Not a tool. Not a weapon. Just metal and wire and sins.

He couldn’t shake the feeling.

The weight of her legs. The heat of her skin. The throb of her pulse under his palm, her soft voice saying she was alright. That he didn’t have to keep checking. But he had. He couldn’t stop. Not until he’d been sure. Until his fingers traced her shape and found no breaks, no blood.

She hadn’t pulled away.

Even now, that made no sense.

He leaned forward, threading fingers through his hair. The inside of his mind was a bag full of bad wiring: crackling electric thoughts, slippery half-memories, orders screamed into silence. The protocol would’ve punished him for hesitation, for contact outside the objective, disobedience, and softness.

They would’ve punished him for her.

A beat of nausea rolled through his stomach. He clenched his jaw. He remembered the rooms, filthy-white, always white. The bite of restraints, the shock when he misstepped, when he showed weakness. The dark between cryo sleeps, cold so deep it cracked thoughts apart like ice on a lake.

He’d touched her.

He’d helped.

And she’d looked at him like he was a human being.

He stood too quickly and paced. Four steps to the corner. Turn. Four steps back. His titanium hand flexing open, shut, open. Like he could scrub away the warmth of her skin.

She wasn’t afraid.

She should be.

He pressed his back to the wall and sank slowly, drawing up his knees and lowering his head. He didn’t trust himself. The part of him that moved to catch her. What was that? Soldat didn’t know kindness. But some part of him had.

Was that the man? The ghost left behind Hydra’s probing?

He didn’t know. But her voice was still in his head.

It’s alright. I’m okay. Thank you.

Like he wasn’t a thing.

Like he could be something else.

----

She’d sat on the couch long after he disappeared into the room again. Her ankle throbbed faintly, but she barely noticed it. All she could feel was the ghost of his hands on her. One warm and rough, the other cool and smooth, gentler than it had any right to be.

He’d helped her. He had listened to her fall and come out of that room with a purpose. Like something in him had recognized her pain and answered without stopping to ask why.

This time, he had come to her.

And he’d touched her.

It was the first contact he’d initiated.

A signal that he didn’t see her as a threat. That he felt safe enough -no, not safe, not yet- but compelled to leave that room for her.

She kept thinking about his eyes.

She’d seen them every day, in glimpses. Watching her without looking, flitting away if she stared too long. But when he crouched in front of her, inspecting her ankles and knees, the afternoon sun had caught his face just right, and his irises… they weren’t just blue. They were luminous. Like riverglass. Polished by time and weather. No less sharp, but still beautiful.

Even if he didn’t look her in the eye, not yet, she saw it. That flicker. The part of him that wasn’t just survival or training.

She leaned back against the cushions, breathing slowly. He didn’t say a word. He never did. But that action told her something, and she was relieved.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404

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florencemtrash · 21 days ago

Text

Ashes

Eris x f!Reader Oneshot ~4.5k

"The ground shifted beneath you and within you. Power rushed over the land in a sweep of blistering heat that had all creatures magical and mundane, powerless and powerful, shuddering in awe. It was the kind of power that only came to Prythian when a new High Lord had come into his own."

Warnings: canon typical descriptions of violence/gore, light smut at the end

Author's note: This has been sitting in my WIPs for a while, but I finally got around to finishing it! Also, I feel like the logistics of being with a High Lord aren't explored enough and Eris Vanserra deserves more love

You froze in the doorway, smelling the blood before Lucien even came into view. A pale, bloody body sagged against Lucien’s side, limbs hanging like leaves in the breeze. Mud and dirt matted the stranger’s hair and colored his beard a deep brown, illuminating the paleness of his sharp, scarred cheeks. Watercolor bruises — purple, blue, and yellow — swam across his temples and over his bent nose.

“Help him,” were the only words that escaped Lucien’s lips. “Please.” He groaned beneath the weight of his brother’s battered body. Tight muscles stretched until they nearly snapped and Eris was dropped, rather unceremoniously, on your doorstep. Lucien fell to his knees, sinking against the stoop with a wet cough that shook his bones. He pressed his forehead against the warm stone that had been baking in the spring heat.

“Lucien…what have you done?�� You breathed in disbelief. Someone had nearly beaten the both of them to death. Lucien cringed at the accusation in your voice.

“He’s still my brother,” he whispered, eyes drifting down to Eris. “And I didn’t know where else to go.” Lucien knew he’d doomed you. No one was meant to know you existed… no one. And now he’d dropped the most infamous heir of Autumn on your doorstep with a pack of bloodhounds and his father’s wrath on their heels.

“Please,” Lucien said again. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. He was begging now. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting rivers through the filth that coated his skin. He didn’t open them again until you gripped his chin with a gentle, but firm, touch.

“Get inside,” you ordered not unkindly. “I’ll take care of him.”

Eris Vanserra stirred, urged to consciousness by the warmth that spilled out of your home. He could taste the fires burning in your hearth, feel the warmth in your voice that promised salvation as you bent low to touch his brow.

You heard his slow heartbeat, felt the sluggish press of blood through arteries and veins. The rattle of air in his punctured lungs concerned you, as did the blood pooling in the spaces between poisoned, sickly organs, but you had practice in pulling people back from the brink of death — and Eris Vanserra was not dead yet.

Moisture stuck your hair to your forehead and the slippery slide of sweat down your back was enough to make you squirm with discomfort, but you drew closer to the fire, dragging Eris Vanserra into your lap. You threw a handful of cardamom pods and ground wyndworm teeth into the fireplace, speaking ancient words that slithered around your tongue like medicine. The flames spit and roared, growing ten-fold and slamming against the grate so hard even Lucien recoiled from the burst of heat.

Eris’s hand twitched on the floor, subconsciously reaching for the power that was already beginning to spill color back into his skin. The fire seemed to reach for him too. Cinders popped angrily and smoldered on the rug, burning into tiny balls of light that wrapped around Eris’s fingers and curled around his throat like smoke. His lips, normally pulled back in a sneer, parted with labored breaths, tinged blue from bloodlessness. Lucien and him had trekked through Winter together and the cold had stolen much from them — power, safety, and blood — until he could still feel the tendrils of ice on his hands like the touch of death.

You reached out, gently caressing his chest and feeling your powers fan out from you with a sigh. You mapped out his body, letting your powers seep and expand into his skin until there wasn’t a heartbeat, sharp intake of breath, or rush of blood out of a punctured vessel unknown to you. Wordlessly you urged his body to heal. You imagined the wounds in his organs, laid out by a violent hand, stitching shut and sealing over. You imagined his blood sliding out of his lungs and back into veins, arteries, and capillaries until his chest didn’t rattle. You imagined broken bones fusing together and bruises disappearing like a stone beneath water.

You heard Lucien gasp, eyes blown wide with wonder as every broken piece of his brother reset itself and healed with barely a scar. You forgot that for all Lucien knew about you, he’d never actually seen you heal someone.

“Will he be alright? We were in Winter so long, I—”

You hissed for him to be quiet, “I’m concentrating.” He shut his mouth immediately.

There were hundreds of smaller aches and pains littering his body — wounds old and new and scars that not even your power could reverse — but when Eris finally opened his copper coin eyes, you knew you’d done enough. For now…

“Eris!” Lucien lunged forward, nearly knocking away the hand you had laid on his chest.

You frowned, nose twitching against the stink that weeks spent in the wilderness had imparted on Lucien’s body, and would have moved away had Eris not decided then and there to grab hold of your hand.

You blinked in surprise, gaze dropping down to the Autumn Lord laid out in your lap. Dull eyes, sluggish and slow, moved up the path of your arm, catching ever so briefly on the flash of exposed collarbone from where your robe had slipped off your shoulders, before landing on your face. His lips parted, a sound of shock rushing out in a relieved sigh.

“It’s you.” He whispered. He dragged your hand languidly up to his cheek, turning his face into your palm and kissing your wrist.

You gasped at the hot touch of his lips and something in your ribs twisted and snapped into place. Heat flooded your chest, blazing and powerful — a shot of whiskey in the dark.

The moisture evaporated from your skin with a burst of heat and the fireplace that had seemed so scorching only moments ago now felt like nothing more than a blanket — comforting and familiar — as Eris’s own power flooded into your chest.

You knew your mouth was agape and you feared that moving would make this moment crack like ice over water. But then Lucien shifted and the crust of mud on his jacket crinkled and fell to the carpet in little pieces.

You and Eris both snapped at him.

“Just go take a bath you—”

“Leave us,” Eris growled. His free hand flung out to your waist, flattening against the small of your back to draw you closer to his chest and further away from his brother.

Lucien blinked in surprise, feeling the radiating power of the bond like a wave of heat. Already your powers were beginning to meld together, strengthened by the recent act of healing. Eris gritted his teeth and forced himself into a sitting position, looping his arm protectively around your waist and curling into the hollow of your throat. There was a feral glint in his eye, strengthened by hunger after two weeks in the wild and the sweet scent of his mate under his nose, the warmth of your skin as you rubbed circles against the inside of his wrist. You were still healing him, urging the aches and pains to subside. To melt like centuries of loneliness.

“I’ve got him, Luc.” You toyed with the sharp curve of Eris’s ear, sending a shiver down his body as you looked at him. “You know where the bath is. Feel free to use whatever you need.”

Lucien glanced once more at the pair before silently disappearing down the hall to scrub himself clean of his ordeals.

Eris sank into your arms, too exhausted to put up the front of the Heir of Autumn. He let you brush the worst of the mud from his hair, leaving whispers of magic that closed every scratch that lingered on his skin. It was Dawn Court healing. He could taste it in the air, feel it radiating off your skin in a shimmer that set you aglow. You cradled him close to the flames, coaxing them to grow stronger and feed his magic with every handful of herbs you tossed onto the simmering coals.

He took the time to examine you. The lush color of your eyes and the way the firelight tangled in the dark of your pupils and reflected in the whites. The slope of your ears and nose and the bend of your neck as you attended to him. Every ridge of your palms and fingertips as your hands wandered over him.

“Are you this handsy with all of your patients?” He dared to joke.

“Only the handsome, problematic ones who have the audacity to be dropped on my doorstep.”

“So you find me handsome?”

A smile toyed with the corner of your lips, matching the foxy grin that found its way onto Eris’s face. “I find you problematic.”

He clicked his tongue in distaste, then fell sober. “What is your name?” He whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckle brushed against the curve of your cheek, sliding down to your jaw and resting there.

“Y/n L/n,” you breathed, captivated by the strong, yet graceful fingers that strayed so close to your lips.

Eris’s brows furrowed. The surname was familiar to him — a royal surname belonging to the family that had once ruled Dawn Court long before Thesan’s time, before ultimately being absorbed into the clan of faeries that would come to lead the court. You waited for him to parse apart your lineage, taking in the host of freckles that darkened the skin across his nose. Through the cut of his shirt you could count dozens, perhaps hundreds more, scattered across his chest like stars across the sky.

“You’re Thesan’s family, but I’ve never heard of you before. Never seen you before. I would have remembered if I had.”

You smiled warmly. With a flick of your fingers a bowl of warm water appeared at your side along with a soft cloth you used to slowly clean the grime clinging to his beard and neck. “Thesan likes to keep as many of us hidden as he can. It’s safer this way.”

Thesan’s sole preference for males — namely his lover, Herades — was a terribly kept secret across Prythian, and the question of his lineage had always been cause for concern. The answer for Thesan had been to protect the quietest, most powerful members of his family. To cast them across Prythian to hide in plain sight so that should he and Herades ever fall, there would be a host of potential members for the power of the land to choose as his successor. You happened to be one of them.

Eris fell quiet, puzzling over the implications of your existence and the brilliance in Thesan’s choice. It was a choice he suddenly wished he’d been offered — to go into hiding, to disappear from court life and the vultures that hovered wherever they believed power lay. But that would have required his family to be fundamentally different from what they were.

His eyes flickered up to yours. “I’m Eris Vanserra.”

You snorted. “I know very well who you are.”

Eris smiled, as vicious and loyal as a wolf. “I figured, but I was raised to be a gentleman.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

His smile flickered in and out of sincerity, hiding hosts of knowledge and experience you couldn’t quite understand. But you already knew more of him than most, could feel the elements of his soul as intrinsically as your own. It’s how you knew he was safe, even if he attracted danger.

Lucien emerged from the bath, hair still soaking wet so that the spare set of clothes he’d last left in your cottage were already translucent with water, sticking to his chest and back.

You quietly nudged Eris’s side, dipping your lips to his ear to ask, “Can you stand?” He nodded and though he grunted in pain, leaning against your side as he arose, it wasn’t because of his injuries but the bone-deep exhaustion of being on the run for his life.

“I’ll keep the fire going,” Lucien said.

“There’s food in the pantry. Pies, breads, jams, meats. Help yourself.” You glanced down at the Heir of Autumn currently glaring at his brother. “And please prepare a plate for Eris as well.”

Disappointment curled in Eris’s stomach as you led him to the bath and waited for the enchanted tub to fill. It was an intentional move to have Lucien prepare his meal and the message was clear — you would not be accepting the bond tonight.

You forced Eris to sit on the edge of the tub and after a moment’s hesitation, began unbuttoning his shirt. It clung to him, fused to his skin with grime and blood as you peeled it off of him.

“I am very capable of taking off my own clothes, Y/n.” Eris dipped his head down to yours, staring unabashedly at your lips. Your hands ghosted over his ribs, tracing the faint scars from where he’d met arrows and blades and whips. There was one mark on his chest that made you pause. A handprint burned into the space over his right ribs, like someone had grabbed him as he turned to flee.

“I won’t be accepting the bond tonight,” you declared. A flash of sadness came and went across Eris’s honey-brown eyes before being replaced by a practical acceptance. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to,” you added, hands drifting to the waistband of his trousers. You undid the buckles quickly, forcing the blush away from your cheeks as you stripped him of his clothes. And surprisingly, Eris let you.

“I promise, I am usually better kept than this.” He scratched at the stubble that had trickled down his neck, hiding the sharpest edges of his face. “If that is what gives you pause.”

“What gives me pause is less your stint in the woods and more the danger your father presents.” You helped him into the bath, seeing the water boil as his hot skin made contact. He sank beneath the floral waters with a groan of contentment and a flash of pleasure pooled in your stomach. “I imagine that he’s the reason Lucien dragged you to my door. There have been whispers that you plan to overthrow him. Take the crown for yourself.”

Eris grimaced, teeth set on edge as he sat up in the tub. His hands tightened around the porcelain edge, drawing him up and close to your face. “It’s not the crown I want. I just want — no, I need — him dead. The only peace I’ll find in this life is knowing he’s buried somewhere no one can ever find him again.” His eyes studied you. “Perhaps not the only peace,” he amended, daring to hope.

You helped him bathe, scrubbing at his scalp with handfuls of soap that had sinful sounds escaping his lips. You positioned yourself at his back, leaning forward to wrap your arms around his chest, soapy water be damned. “I won’t be much use to you in a fight, Eris. I’ve never been built for it.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” he hissed, as if the very thought of you in harm’s way was akin to drinking poison. “I wouldn’t want that of you.”

Now that he was clean you were shocked at the paleness of his skin, the sheer amount of freckles that left no corner of skin uncovered and the scars that were almost as numerous. His hair and beard were as bright as fire and his body frighteningly hot to the touch, as if he’d been born from coals. “Then I will wait for you, either in the healer’s tents off the battlefield or here. Whichever will cause you less concern. I will wait for the day you bring me your father’s head.”

Eris stared and stared and stared, teasing apart the lies from the truth on your lips. Then his voice caught, some strangled sound of hope and disbelief slipping out as he realized you were completely serious. Whatever his past, the poison that seemed to run from his father into him, you cared not. You wanted him. You wanted your mate.

With renewed confidence and strength he pulled you to the side of the tub where you could face him fully and he surged forward, capturing your lips and drenching the front of your dress. You cared not and allowed yourself to be held flush against his bare chest. It was like falling into fire without the pain, just the warmth and the pressure of strong arms around your sides, the taste of smoke and cinnamon on your tongue.

“I’ll bring you his head,” he promised. “Then you will be mine and I will be yours.”

“It’s a deal,” you murmured against his lips.

Both Lucien and Eris knew the longer they lingered the greater chance Beron would find you, but they also couldn’t deny they were in no condition to travel. Not yet.

They risked one night, and when you led Eris into your bedroom, leaving Lucien to his own devices on the couch, no one made any noise of disapproval.

It should have been uncomfortable having Eris squeeze into your bed, to have his long, wiry body press you into the mattress with his arms locked protectively around your waist, but all you felt was comfort and safety. Even in sleep he wouldn’t leave you vulnerable and exposed, burying his freshly shaved face into the soft hollow of your throat where his breath could fan over your pulse and lull you to sleep.

For the first time that day you felt fear run through your body like a match set on fire — a sudden burst followed by a low, ever present simmer. Here you were, drinking in the feel of your mate not knowing if tomorrow he’d be hunted and killed. You didn’t want to lose this warmth — this heat. Maybe you could protect him. Maybe—

Eris sighed, shoulders rising and falling like a great mountain. His lips tickled your ear as he whispered. “I have so little that belongs to me, Y/n, so don’t entertain any ideas of putting yourself in harm’s way. I won’t stand for it and I won’t be the one to lose you. Sleep now and know that I will do whatever it takes to come back to you.” You swallowed thickly and nodded. This battle was one you could concede.

It had been nearly a year. A year of silence. A year of practical waiting and unbearable longing with only a promise keeping you grounded to your home. Eris had sworn to come back and so long as you felt the bond humming in your chest, you knew there was a chance that he would.

You were cooking dinner, eyes trained on the hound that guarded the garden in front as he stalked the edges of the woods. His sleek, steel-grey body twisted in and out of trees like smoke, black eyes so deep they seemed endless. It was the only thing Eris had dared bring you in the dead of night when Prythian was on the brink of tipping into war.

“Soon.” He’d promised. “Soon we’ll be together.”

You clung to that promise. To that hope.

The ground shifted beneath you and within you. Power rushed over the land in a sweep of blistering heat that had all creatures magical and mundane, powerless and powerful, shuddering in awe. It was the kind of power that only came to Prythian when a new High Lord had come into his own.

You blinked, hand flying up to your chest where the tight coil of the bond coiled even tighter until it was a hot coal lodged just beneath your heart. You waited for hours, food untouched on the table and your stomach in your throat until finally you heard the faint barking of the hound. Excited. Joyous.

You flung open the door to a gruesome, welcome sight.

Eris.

Bloody, but whole and standing. He smiled so wide it split the gore on his face in two, bronze armor half-melted off his form to expose luminescent skin that glowed with new found power. He was frightening, feral and drunk off power, and desperate. But you didn’t shy away from it. There was a metal box clutched between his hands and you already knew what was in it.

A prize.

A prize for his mate and proof of a promise fulfilled.

You ran towards him and he tossed the box aside carelessly, flinging wide his arms as you came sailing into them. He was nearly knocked over by your power and his breath was stolen as you slammed your lips into his, nearly bruising in their strength.

Together you stumbled into the house, tripping over furniture and leaving scorch marks on the wood floors as you went. It mattered not. None of it mattered anymore. Not really.

He took one bite of the meal you’d left on the table — just enough to dispense with the ceremony of accepting a mating bond — and then he descended upon you. Hungry. Starving. Ravenous.

That was what he was — ravenous. He swallowed the noises slipping past your lips like they were honey. Touched you. Licked you like you were food. At some point in the chaos you became aware of his newfound power. Flames peppered his skin, twisting around you with warmth and vitality. Never burning. Only warm against your flesh as you twisted with him in the sheets, leaving scorched handprints on the walls and on the bedframe.

“I imagine—” You began before his lips found the hollow of your throat and sucked. You stuttered. “I-I expect you to replace all of this when this is over.” Eris chuckled, teeth grazing against your collarbone. His tongue was hot and wet against you and it made you smile.

“My darling,” he whispered, voice low and rumbling, “I will give you anything you could possibly want.” The bond sang in your chest, pleased at the attention. But even you could tell that Eris was holding back. There was fire in him stronger than anything he’d shown yet. You felt it burning beneath every muscle and sinew like a hot coal smothered beneath ash.

“Anything?” You ventured to ask. There was a corkscrew curl that split down his forehead and you languidly twisted it around your finger, giving it an experimental tug. Eris groaned into your mouth, hips stuttering against yours.

“Anything.”

You hummed. “I moved everything of importance to me into the woods.” Eris froze, lifting his head from where he’d buried it into your neck. His eyes were alight with curiosity and lust. You leaned into him, nose brushing against his cheekbone as you whispered against his lips, “I couldn’t give a damn if this house is reduced to ash.” His lips curled back, wicked as sin. His teeth glinted, sharpened into fangs. “So don’t hold back.”

Eris erupted in flame, nails digging into your hips as he rolled against you, chasing a high that you’d both indulged in for hours but still felt new with every inward press. You were glowing. Happy. Feral. A shining sun to rival the heat of his flames.

You had the vague awareness of the mattress catching fire, the smoke billowing out the windows after they’d exploded into the yard, but you couldn’t care. Your focus had narrowed into two pinpricks of light in the vast universe — your pleasure, and Eris’s.

The roof fell the next time you and Eris came together, a mix of light and fire rendering it into ash — dark and clean and soft as snow as it settled around you. You trembled around Eris, twitching as you felt every tense muscle loosen one by one. The power that had erupted from you, twisting and writhing its way into the open air, cooled and fell like a blanket. Eris was a blanket too, a welcome heaviness over your frame as you slowly caught your breath.

Maybe you should have both eaten more before the kitchen went up in flames. Fulfilling the desires of a new mating bond was hard work on the body. You smiled to yourself, reveling in the pleasant soreness that touched every muscle, every crevice. The ash was warm beneath you, shifting to cradle your body in malleable hands. When your eyes finally flitted shut, carrying you off into a dreamless slumber, you saw the faint glow of stars still mapped on the inside of your eyelids.

“Gods.” Lucien sat amazed atop his horse. The creature he rode pawed nervously at the ground, feeling the heat waver above scorched earth. Where the house had once stood — your house — there was nothing but a smoking pile of ash. Even the clearing surrounding it, once teaming with life and carefully manicured rows of herbs, was blackened and smoking. The trees swayed in the air, nursing their broken branches and singed leaves like bones. “Eris? Y/n?”

The ash shifted, slow and lazy. An arm appeared first, pale as moonlight. Then a flaming head of hair. A figure curled protectively around another body, still languid with pleasure.

You instinctively pressed yourself into the ground, letting Eris hover over you protective and fox-like — a beast stalking the mouth of its cave; a dragon protecting its hoard.

Lucien smirked at the sight of his brother and friend tangled in the ash, then whistled low and cheeky. “I leave you alone for three days and this is what you get up to?” No one else had wanted to investigate the fire roaring between Dawn and Winter, and Lucien was suddenly grateful he’d been assigned the task by a very amused Thesan. Eris might have killed anyone else who stumbled upon your… activities.

“Go.” The voice that left Eris’s lips was powerful. Old. Ancient. And pissed.

Lucien tipped his head in a sketch of a bow. It took little convincing for the horse to back away from the clearing. Lucien dropped a bag on the forest floor, safe and away from the ring of fire that had already begun to erupt around the clearing. “For when you’re finished!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Save us all the sight of your pale, naked self!”

There came a disgruntled roar followed by a high, female laugh and Lucien couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. It would seem he’d chosen the right place to bring his brother after all.

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra x y/n #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris acotar #eris vanserra fic #eris x reader #acotar #acotar fanfic #autumn court #lucien ends up being an unlikely wing man #eris vanserra smut #eris vanserra x reader smut

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miss-vanta-likes-to-write · 7 months ago

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The Book of Yemoja

18+ mdni, please check master list for the content warnings

Master list

Chapter 1: Noctilucous - shining at night.

I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime

Tell them, tell 'em, tell them the truth

I hope you find some paradise (tell them, tell 'em the truth)

Tell 'em, tell 'em, tell 'em, tell them your-

“Captain Price, I'm afraid that if you try to separate them too soon, Kyle may go into shock.” The psychiatrist tries to gently explain. “Not to mention the young woman that is with him.”

John stares at his pack's omega and he feels like a failure. They thought he was killed in action. Gone from them for good. He's ashamed that he was ready to write it all off despite Soap saying he could feel it in his soul that Kyle wasn't lost. He doesn't even try to pretend to be concerned about anyone else other than his Kyle. Yeah, it's nice that this woman managed to save him. What's not nice is the unhealthy codependency. They orbit each other, always within arms reach, growling whenever someone gets too close. When one sleeps, the other keeps watch. They never eat at the same time or even eat the same food. John can't imagine what kind of hellish abuse happened to where neither of them will eat together.

Right now, both of them are lying on the bed. There are soft whispered words between the two of them. They lay in each other's arms, tracing soothing patterns on each other. Kyle has his back facing the observation window. He's hiding her. While Kyle was worse for wear when they found him, the girl was feral and extremely violent. It's clear that she's not all there, but there are moments where John swears she's clairvoyant and is always three steps ahead of the staff that has been tasked with watching them.

She counts a lot. She counts the amount of grapes in the bowl from their lunch. She counts the number of tiles on the ceiling and walls. She counts how many staff members pass the doorway window. John is sure she is keeping count of time, but he isn't sure how because there's no clock in the room, but she always makes sure she is up at each shift change.

“I guess she's stuck with us for now.” John sighs, turning away from the two way mirror.

I've been goin' through somethin'

One thousand, eight hundred and 55 days

I've been goin' through somethin'

Be afraid

Heat. Blistering itchy heat. Kyle wants to crawl out of his skin. It's so bad. The cold stone floor does little to give him relief. He imagines in his mind that Johnny will tease him. Nip at the bond mark on his neck, finger him open, and then slowly push himself into him. A sweet joining of flesh to prepare him for John and Simon. It would then be a week of non-stop fucking, and at the end he would he would be pleasantly sore.

“Suppressants aren't-” a voice says through the thick fog of his concussion and heat addled brain.

There's growling coming from above his body. A weight presses down on him, and it feels like when Simon lays on him. A weighted blanket that's growling and hissing. There's a clang and the sound of glass shattering. Pained grunts and muffled shouts.

“Fuck! Sedate-” another voice is yelling and it makes his head hurt. Then it's all quiet or he thinks it's quiet.

“You're okay.” A soft voice that sounds like it has swallowed rocks says to him. A warm hand touches him, and he hisses. “We'll get through this.”

He opens his eyes, and the splitting headache he has only gets worse. Her eyes are wild like a caged animal, hair a matted mess. Despite this, she gives the visage of a bright light shining dimly in the dark of night (he is delirious with pain and heat). He's about to close his eyes again, but she taps him on the cheek.

“Hey, stay up. You have to stay up.” She moves him and holds him close to her breast. “Are you in heat? How long does it last?”

“Six or seven days.” He manages to croak out. Promptly after everything becomes a blur and haze.

His body doesn't feel like it's his own, but his inner omega feels good. The heat in his body is still blistering, but right now, the edge is being taken off. He grips at the flesh of her hips as he rocks into her body. He almost never is on top. His own dick never really enters any of his alphas. It's always him on the bottom, so this feels different. She's got the smooth column of her neck bared, submitting to him fully. His body bends over her, and his hips work into her, trying to desperately find relief. His dick is covered in an obscene amount of her slick, and it's mixing with his own.

He whines, a guttural sound coming from his chest. He pants when he kisses her, bites at her lips, and shoves his tongue into her mouth. She sucks on his tongue and moans into the kiss. Her nails are bitten to the quick drag along his skin, and there won't be any scratches or welts on him. He still likes the feeling all the same. Somewhere in his mind he knows this isn't what his body of craving, he craves a knot, he desires to be ruined in the only way Simon can, to be choked and have his Captain’s beard leave a tingling feeling across his skin, to feel the jackhammer of Johnny's hips against his own.

This. Two omegas fucking. It feels like too needy pups that just discovered what sex was and didn't want to commit to the act with an alpha.

But fuck if it doesn't feel good. It feels wet. It feels hot. It feels like the frayed edges of his mind are being cooled. It feels good to dominate her body and flesh.

When his heat breaks on the last day, he finally is lucid. The two of them are in a tangle of limbs. Sweaty bodies pressed close together at the far side of their cell. They don't bother with clothes. The thin, scratchy blanket that covers them is enough for now. She keeps her back towards the cell door, and he faintly realizes she is trying to hide him.

“What's your name?” His eyes feel heavy with sleep. Voice raw from voicing his pleasure. “My name is Kyle.”

She is quiet as she stares back at him. He is a little unnerved by how she doesn't answer right away. Instead, a small smile graces her cracked lips, and he thinks about the dangers of dehydration. She has not, to his memory, drank enough water, and she certainly only allows him a few sips here and there. Her fingers trace over his cheekbones and lips. Hands cupping his face with reverence, almost like she can't believe that someone else is in here with her.

It's a long moment of silence, and he is drifting off to sleep now. “How many days has it been?” He asks. He is trying to get her to talk. One of the first things to go as a POW is sanity. Maybe hers is already gone?

“It's been two weeks.” She tells him. “They put it in the air…I'm sorry.”

“Hm?” He cracked open his eyes, “I just got here.”

“No. The suppressants and sedatives were put in the air when I wouldn't let them inject you.”

He lost time. A big mistake, a rookie one at that. He can already hear Captain scolding him. He takes a deep breath. The come down from his heat is pulling him under into sleep. He needs it so that he can figure out with a clear head on how to escape and get back to his pack.

Before his fitful sleep finds him, he hears her speak again.

“Call me Yemoja.”

Everybody grieves different.

I grieve different.

Huh.

a.n: hello everyone. I plan on making you all hurt in this one. Love you. 😘

Song: United in grief. Kendrick Lamar

Tag list: @uraeus56 @littlelovebug98 @mochroialainn @gazsluckyhat @chickennuggetuwu @beloveds-embrace @leahnicole1219 @curiouslittleprincess

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driedposies · 4 months ago

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"My little Nepenthe," {CHAPTER SIX: You're Lost At Sea, Then I'll Command Your Boat To Me}

Chapter summary: The High Lord of the Autumn Court calls for a family dinner. Eris learns the art of vulnerability.

Warnings: Explicit language, sexual content in other chapters (18+ only!), violence, bodily injury, torture, character death.

Chapter lyric: "Mariners Apartment Complex" by Lana Del Rey

Word count: 4k

As another week ends, a routine starts to settle into your life. You’d rise with the morning sun, your ladies’ maids appearing within the hour with hot breakfast and current gossip chirping between them—an unmarried Lady hiding a bump, a maid caught with a kitchen hand, someone forgetting the High Lord’s bitter tea. Your ladies will press and paint you to be presentable to the court before your escort leads you to whatever entertainment has been planned for you. Between public appearances, you devoured Autumn novelas and abbreviated histories.

Eris was your only constant. Letters in the middle of the night when nightmares crippled your mind, guiding you through forests with his pack of hounds in an attempt to control your gifts, dancing you until blisters formed at nightly revels.

At week's end, you’ll be left in a drawing room with Azriel, with the raven perched in waiting. He’d tell you of your sisters and how Nyx is already starting to teeth. You’d tell him of promenades and revels, finding startling ease in expressing genuine happiness with your current position—ignoring the silent looks Azriel gave you.

You wondered if he could see through you—how you’ve come alive in the place you’ve been taught to despise.

As the third week closes, Eris finally divulges how your scheme is to play out.

‘My Father expects a proposal by Summer Solstice to have a wedding by the Autumn equinox.’

The note came as you reached the twenty-third chapter of Autumn’s anecdotes—a war on the seasons.

‘Summer Solstice is in four weeks.’

Your heart lurches, anxious now that a clock has been forced on this plot, especially since no solid plan is in the works. Azriel’s shadows have yet to breach Beron’s study, let alone smuggle incriminating documents to prove the need for his execution.

‘Which means we’ll need a new plan.’

‘I’m assuming you already have one in mind.’

‘I do. But it involves more involvement from you. Something that may put you in a precarious situation.’

‘Am I not already in a precarious situation?’

Eris’s implication stoked curiosity rather than fear for whatever he had in mind. By all accounts, you have little worry about foul play regarding Eris. And if he truly was this good at masking ill intent, he ought to prepare for the Night Court’s wrath.

‘I mean to suggest goading my Father into threatening your life. Something that would consequently force my hand.’

‘I trust you, Eris.’

You meant all four words. They so easily slipped from your quill that you hardly had the time to process the implications. The betrayal they implied. That the foreign lands you harboured in now no longer felt so terrifying—that you began to accept them as your own. That you began to accept Eris; both his comforts and his monstrous sides.

Resting your palm over the ashen rune, you surprise yourself at the peace you feel at this new revelation.

Staring at the rune, you await Eris’s reply. Perhaps something affirming or maybe playfully sarcastic, knowing him. A minute turns into two and then into ten. You couldn’t help but start reassessing yourself—had you made a mistake or crossed a boundary? Surely asserting trust, a thing Eris was vying for, was not all it took to push him away again.

When a note reappears, you jump forward.

‘My Father has requested our audience for this evening's supper. Be prepared before sundown.’

All relief leaves your system, replaced by ice cold dread. Picking up your indiscretions, you drop them in your hearth, watching as the evidence turns to ash.

Your ladies' maids worked silently and diligently for the first time since your arrival into Autumn. It hardly eased your heart that threatened to burst through your ribs, the itch beneath your skin returning with a ferocity, responding negatively to your anxiety. You knew that this was inevitable—meeting with Beron without anyone but Eris as a shield—but knowing hardly made it easier.

The three pixies dressed you in the common conservative Autumn cuts and colours meant to mute and draw the least attention. Long chiffon sleeves, high collar, skirts below the ankle. It was all purposeful the way you’re being dressed, that you’re meant to be a mere accessory, silent and pretty to behold.

“Our Lord is waiting for you in the hall,” Merryweather whispers into your ear, and you give a small nod of understanding.

With a final look over and a faint spritz of lavender oil, you were sent out of your chambers to meet Eris—your dinner escort. A dinner that felt more like an interrogation or death sentence, by the way Eris stood wound tight—ready to snap like a taught string.

Sliding your arm into Eris’s started to feel second nature, and at this moment, you suppose this was the first time you garnered comfort in his hold.

Eris begins to guide you in the opposite direction you’re usually led towards, and something in your chest collapses as instincts start to send adrenaline through your bloodstream.

“Breathe, dear,” Eris murmurs as you turn down another corridor, the shadows on the walls starting to look like deformed monsters. “I can hear your heart. Don’t give my Father the satisfaction of seeing your fear.”

You let out a short exhale. “How delightful,” you sarcastically retort, begrudgingly taking Eris’s advice—focus on regulating your breathing and heart rate.

Eris was at your side, and he will not let you burn. Not when you both were so close.

By the guards that posed at statues by a closed doorway, you knew you had arrived at the High Lord of Autumn’s dining room. Before the doors yawn open, you share a final look with Eris. Through the little cracks in his mask, you could almost see his fear.

“Ah, so nice the lovely couple could join us this evening.”

Beron’s drawl was the first thing to greet you; an ice cold claw that dragged down your spine.

Taking a swift examination of the room—you’re surprised at how disarmingly intimate it all was. Just Beron and the Lady Autumn, Aurelia, sat at the table full of roasted meats and vegetables.

“Please,” Beron beckons with a deft hand, not even rising from his seat to formally welcome you both. “It has been… a while since we’ve had a small family meal.”

Eris directs you to the seat on his left, purposefully putting himself between you and his Father at the head of the table. You share a quick and fleeting smile with Aurelia before she starts staring at her lap.

“Now,” Beron drawls, dismissing any waiting maids that lingered in the room, only continuing when the door clicked shut with a foreboding snap. “Tell me about yourself, Lady Archeron,” he states, hardly a question—a command.

“Oh,” you sigh, letting out a slightly nervous laugh that cut through the clink of cutlery. Beron was the only one eating; your stomach was full of nervous spiders, and by Aurelia’s fidgeting and Eris’s stiff posture, you could safely assume they were suffering your same afflictions.

“There’s not much to say,” you finally stammer out, your eyes occasionally looking to Eris for answers. Unfortunately, you could not read minds like Rhys. “Before I was Made, there wasn’t much to my life. After my Mother’s passing, my family—um—weren’t doing so well. My Father couldn’t handle the grief.”

Your nails dig into your palms, that familiar itch crawling up your skin with a warning flare. Eris lays a hand on your thigh and you swallow thickly.

Beron relaxes back in his chair, an amused simper pulling across his lips. “I’ve heard the tales of your sister before she went beyond the Wall,” he muses, lifting his cup of wine. “How she was forced to be the one to provide for your family.”

Your back involuntarily straightens out, the seed of shame growing with each taunt. “I tried to help with the hunting a few times,” you admit softly. “Wasn’t very good at aiming. Nor at the… killing.”

“Not a killer, are you?” Beron repeats before his attention deviates to his eldest son. “I only ever imagined my son to be drawn to someone like himself.”

A tense silence follows, something heavy in the air as Beron and Eris stare at each other. After a few more beats, Beron was grinning again, taking a long sip of wine.

“And what of your… gifts,” Beron motions to you, the unease around the dining table reaching a peak.

Eris’s hand tightens just a fraction, and you knew it was a silent warning—this is what you were called here for. Beron had lost out on having Morrigan under his thumb, and now, it was time to assess his potential for more power. He would already have enough purely through your familial bonds, but Beron’s eyes were green with greed.

“That’s a work in progress,” Eris speaks for you, and something in your chest settles.

Beron raises an accusing brow. “A work in progress?” He questions, tone patronising and belittling.

Eris squares his shoulders and meets his Father’s fire with his own. “Just a small matter of control. But, rest assured, I wouldn’t choose a weak female to continue the Autumn Court legacy.”

It was dehumanising and insulting, just as it was moving the pressure off of you. You could only give a soft smile, a perfected mask of neutral adoration.

Beron hums and sets his cup down. “I can help with that,” he offers, his lips curling into something sordid. “Seeing how well I shaped you, Eris.”

“No,” Eris’s voice came out sharp and assertive—too assertive.

Beron cocks his head to the side, his expression falling into something grave. “No?” He repeats back.

You find Eris’s hand and fold it into yours, forcing his tremoring hand steady.

“You don’t need to trouble yourself with such matters,” Eris adds in an attempt to placate Beron’s ignited rage.

Beron only stares in response, having no need to say another word. The damage was done.

Aurelia’s expression was close to something mournful.

You didn’t sleep that night. Even on your worst evenings, your nightmares still managed to claw into your mind and pull you under.

But tonight, something tormented you, keeping you on a precept of adrenaline. Not even the flames in the bedside hearth could calm your rapid heart, nor the lulling sound of rain beating the earth.

The shadows on the walls came alive—shapes of trees yawning wide into gnarled beasts. You felt paralysed under the duvets and sheets, attempting to wade through the smog of pure fear.

You reach a trembling hand to your chest, and the life beneath squirmed and writhed to attention. It was something familiar yet utterly terrifying borne somewhere deep in your soul. And it was in pain, and you didn’t know how to resolve it.

Your thoughts tilt towards your desk across the room, and you’re reminded of Eris.

You didn’t get to talk to him after the dinner, as Karl returned you to your chambers while he remained with his Father. Not even leaving a note for you to find.

You’re told you don’t have anything to attend to on your schedule in the morning. For some reason, you imagined that meant your day would be with Eris—taking you to his cottage to continue the search for your powers.

When you’re brought your afternoon tea, you resign yourself to the fact that Eris wasn’t coming to fetch you. You’d tell yourself you didn’t mind spending your day reading and taking your meals alone.

As the silence stretched to two—and then three days—passiveness turned into unfounded worry. There was a space in your chest that began to grow, fissures filling with invisible sadness. It was almost distressing, the constant waves that ebbed and flowed, like fragments of something you weren’t meant to bear slipping through.

On the fourth day, you had enough. You wouldn’t debase yourself again by writing another letter to Eris—he clearly was in no mood to respond. A first for the arrogant male, as he was always so full of words.

After being dressed and powdered by your ladies’ maids, you ask for your personal guard’s audience. The moment Karl slips into your chambers, you’re turning on him with a hard look.

“Karl,” you greet the male, noting his drawn expression. “How has your morning been?” You ask, starting with needless pleasantries.

Karl raises a suspicious brow. “Well, my Lady,” he replies, slow and questioning.

You nod as you stride towards him. “I wish to be taken to Eris. It’s been close to a week since we’ve last properly spoken,” you request, watching Karl’s posture tense and brace. “Is he well?” You then decide to try, careful with your accusing tone.

Karl hides a forming grimace. “My Lord is… well,” he attempts, hardly sounding convincing. “He is just busy with emissary duties.”

You level Karl with a sarcastic hum of understanding before responding with a sharp, “Too busy to respond to my letters of concern?” You inquire, much to your guard’s evident apprehension. “Has Eris changed his mind about me?”

“No,” Karl quickly cuts in, and you respond with an awaiting look. Your guard lets out a defeated sigh, shaking his head—as if submitting to the fact he’ll be punished for what he’s to admit next. “Eris… he likes to be left alone after a meeting with his Father.”

You grow confused. “Did something over dinner upset him?” You try, wanting to broach the truth of this matter.

Karl’s expression turns grim. “Not the dinner,” he replies. “The High Lord requested a… meeting after that supper.”

“A meeting?” You repeat, the word something like a presage. It was clear more was being hidden from you—but with your life being left on the line, you weren’t about to take kindly to being left in the dark. With a huff, you pick your skirts up and start towards the door. “I wish to see him,” you affirm.

“No, my Lady, that won’t be a good idea,” Karl tries, striding after you.

“And why not?” You ask, turning back on the guard. “What aren't you telling me?”

Karl lets out a frustrated sound. “The Lord doesn’t want to see you,” he states, firm and cutting.

You don’t allow the words to hurt you; instead, you continue into the hall. “If you won’t direct me, I shall find someone who will,” you call back, taking a random direction down the left hall.

You hear Karl flounder and curse behind you before starting a quick pace to catch up. “You are too stubborn,” he grumbles, something close to a begrudging compliment. “Fine, I shall take you,” Karl finally acquiesces, pausing you in your tracks. “But do not expect him to let you in. Not even his most trusted staff are allowed in.”

The walk was brisk as it was silent. The few maids and guards you pass by give feline glances, the curious wonder that makes your skin prickle uncomfortably. As you exit the guest wing, the walls visibly age and wither, some of the mosaics charred and burnt—left without mending.

“Here,” Karl mutters under his breath, gesturing to a door at the end of the hallway. “I’m not permitted past this point without explicit concession.”

Turning to look up at Karl, you give a wavered smile. “Thank you, Karl,” you affirm before returning your sights to the door leading to Eris’s chambers.

Each step closer to that doorway burned something deep within your chest, attempting to twist away before it could be truly discovered. It felt colder here, somehow, your instincts adamantly rejecting further passage. The lingering smoke invaded your senses before the scent of something burning caught in your throat—something you’ve only smelt once, and that was near the battle against Hybern; charred flesh and cooking blood.

Something was wrong. With renewed haste, you reach Eris’s door, knocking against the wood with three sharp raps.

“Eris,” you call out, almost unsure, but the inexplicable urge to tear down the door to see if Eris is alive was ripping through you.

No one answers you, and you release a long exhale. A shadow moves beneath the gap of the door. Resolve squares your shoulders, and you knock again, this time with more insistence.

“Eris,” you urge again, watching as the shadow pauses. “I know you’re there. Don’t continue to make me look like a fool, talking to a door. It wouldn’t look proper to any passing maid.”

The door rips from you, and out appears Eris. You startle for a moment, lurching at the sight in front of you.

Eris stood gaunt and drawn, his life fire smothered into mere whispered embers. His usually perfected hair was close to matted, loose curls clinging to sweat against his brow, clothes a similar rumpled mess—the same clothes from dinner four nights ago. And—oh, by the Mother—dried blood and blister fluid were a tacked thick around slow-healing burns down his front.

Words were stolen from you, leaving you breathless as trembling hands returned to your sides. “Eris,” you mutter again, mollified into a state of shock.

“What?” Eris’s voice was a raw snap, hackles raised like an injured fox cornered. “What do you want now, hm?”

You meet Eris’s eyes, and you find terrified anger. You weren’t meant to see this—weren’t meant to come this close to this part of him. But he was the one to open the door.

“What did he do to you?” You ask, the horror plain in your features, and it made Eris all the more disarmed.

Eris scoffs and then winces. “You’re not allowed here,” he states, looking over your head to find the cause of this transgression, gaze blazing when he likely finds Karl at the start of the hall.

“You wouldn’t respond to my letters,” you say, pulling Eris’s attention back to you. “I got—worried,” you tried.

Eris's lips curl into a scowl. “Happy to know my reason for my absence?” He asks, purposeful in his condescension, enough to draw guilt to your surface. “Now, give me some fucking peace.”

Before Eris could shove you out, you stopped the door with a hand. “Don’t,” you start, meeting his fire with your own. “Let me—let me help you, Eris. Please,” you plead, trying to make Eris see reason.

“And would you be able to help me?” Eris drawls back, baring his fangs the moment you got too close.

You force your back to straighten before raising your free hand—gesturing your head to the healing wounds mottling your skin. “I know enough,” you affirm, catching the way Eris softens a mere fraction. “Please, just let me help you,” you continue, worming your way through his persistent walls. “I trust you—you can do the same in me.”

Something in Eris collapses, allowing his pain to show through the fractures of his mask of anger and malevolence. He pulls from the doorway like a phantom, a silent admission to enter.

You follow after him, taking a moment to scan the inside of his chambers. It was similar to your own, just larger and more lived in. Bloodied towels were discarded by the wash basin, bed sheets unmade and stained, and trays of half-eaten food were left discarded by the door.

Lavender scented candles burned away the stench of burnt flesh.

Eris collapses on the lounge by the fireplace, shrugging off the tarnished chemise with visible effort.

“Here,” you try, moving over to him to help in shedding the caught piece of clothing. You’re met with a cold glare, pausing you in your tracks.

With a heavy sigh, you instead turn your focus onto Eris’s bathside cabinets, finding a washbowl full of clean water—likely left for Eris to wash his face in the morning. With an armful of cotton pieces, you return to Eris’s side. Placing the washbowl on the small side table atop a discarded bunch of letters, you take a hesitant seat on the edge of the lounge, hip pressing into his thigh.

You meet Eris’s watchful gaze before letting your eyes fall on the gruesome planes of his chest. The skin was raised a swollen red in disfigured shapes of hands, pieces glossy from healing blisters. You swallow thickly—feeling the upset within you grow at a frightening rate.

“Are you going to help, or will you just stare?” Eris’s voice cuts through your delirium, shame washing over you.

“Sorry,” you grimace as you reach for a cotton pad, soaking it in the water.

Raising back up, you lift the piece of cotton towards Eris’s collar, where dried blood and puss sat over mended flesh. You hovered, finding Eris’s eyes again—searching for permission to begin.

Eris gives a resolute nod, lips pressed into a grim line. With a soft sigh, you start with gentle swipes, careful to avoid any boils to not further aggravate the wounds—not wishing to inflict any more agony Eris was still suffering from. You worked downward, from his collarbones to the slope of his abdomen, tossing used pads into the fire to eat away.

“This was because me, isn’t it?” You murmur after a long blanket of silence, brows drawn in concerntration—and guilt.

Eris’s chest dips with a long exhale before laying a purposeful hand against your thigh to give a familiar squeeze. “It was no one’s fault but my own,” Eris rasps, much to your adamant disproval.

“This isn’t your fault, Eris,” you state, voice wavered yet certain. “This is your Father’s hand,” you continue, shaking your head, “Beron. That—he is no Father.”

You could feel your face burn when Eris released a shaken chuckle, loose and dispassionate. “He is mine,” Eris bitterly affirms, much to your bemusement.

“I do not understand you,” you mutter, watching as a droplet of water connects freckles into a constellation. “How you’ve managed to stay… strong, for so long.”

Eris quietens for a moment as you toss another cotton pad into the hearth. “I suppose the monster deep inside wishes to survive,” he replies, his tone low with an undercurrent of self-deprecation.

You pause your ministrations to find Eris’s eyes on you. “You’re not a monster, Eris,” you aver, placing a hand over his before he could argue. “I know that because of all of this—risking your life to remove your Father for the greater good of Prythian. Not once, not even an implication, was all of this towards you getting power. A monster would be killing his Father for a throne. A… a better person would be risking himself to get rid of someone who threatens thousands of innocents,” you pause your outpouring to squeeze his hand. “You may not see it, Eris, but I do. I see you.”

Eris’s expression was agape, battling the contradictions of fear and comfort of your words. Breaking the growing tension from his burning stare, you return your gaze to your work.

“I suppose,” Eris begins, grasping for words to fill the void, “occasionally, I believe I am what I posture to be,” he admits, audibly swallowing, as if the words were vacuumed from his throat. Tilting back, Eris thumps his head against the cushioned armrest. “I fear the day disgust shifts to pleasure.”

“You’re not your Father,” you say, knowing where Eris’s mind was leading.

Eris lets out a humourless laugh before sighing, running a hand down his face. “I need to get out of this Court—I’m starting to lose my head,” he groans, angling his head in your direction as a thought comes. “Suppose Summer Court. Beautiful as it nears its Solstice,” Eris claims, tone an obvious proposition.

“What are you planning now?” You ask, almost amused at Eris’s attempts at goading.

“Summer is known for their operettas,” Eris adds, and you begin to understand, pulling a smile across your features.

A laugh is lured out of you. “Eris,” you start, giving him a long look, “would we even be allowed to leave Autumn together?”

Eris merely rolls his head before pressing a finger to his mouth.

“It can be our little secret.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Taglist

@rcarbo1 @kk191327 @huffleruffplant @seassttar @butterfly101sworld @elisabethch82 @imma-too-many-fandoms @lreadsstuff @mrsmrx @1455fun

#acotar #eris acotar #eris vanserra #a court of thorns and roses #eris x reader #eris x you #slow burn #autumn court #fake dating

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komotionlessqueenmm · 6 months ago

Text

Embrace Me

(1-1)

Short story # 26

Gif NOT mine.

Paring - Commander Mills X Plussize!Reader

Summary - Your simply trying to relax after a grueling day of hiking, across the tundra of an unknown planet. And Commander Mills is absolutely determined to relax with you, his copilot and long time crush.

Rating - SFW (It gets a bit spicy, but nothing occurs.)

Reading time (roughly) - 12 minutes

Year posted - 2025

"Can we please rest for the night? I feel like I've got blisters on my blisters." (Y/n) whined at her Commander, who was walking a short distance ahead of her. He sighed heavily through his nose, glancing back at his copilot over his shoulder. "We should find shelter first, it's going to storm tonight." He argued. (Y/n) groaned in response, her feet were killing her, and her gear grew heavier and heavier with each step. "Why did we have to crash on such a miserable planet." She complained, as she adjusted the strap of her plasma rifle higher onto her shoulder. Mills chuckled softly at her words, silently agreeing with her assessment of this uncharted planet. "I would offer to carry you." Mills said as he glanced back, smirking at how quick (Y/n) perked up. "But you're awfully heavy." He teased playfully, laughing when he felt her throw a handful of berries at his back. "That's not nice." She huffed at him, feeling a tad bit insecure, despite knowing he was only joking. Mills turned to observe her expression, and before he could see the look of insecurity on her face, (Y/n) pulled up a mask of playful bitterness. Even going as far as to childishly stick her tongue out at him. Again he simply chuckled and turned back to continue leading the way.

Almost an hour later they finally found a suitable place for shelter, and in the nick of time. As soon as they'd sat their packs down within the cave, it was as if the heavens had simply opened up, and a downpour of rain fell from the darkening sky. "Finally." (Y/n) sighed as she plopped down onto the ground, carefully pulling her boots off with a hiss of discomfort. While Mills on the other hand began setting up a perimeter defense, or rather a security system. The rhythmic hum of the security devices was soothing in a way, knowing that as long as they remind humming this calm tone, then they were completely safe. "Here." Mills offered (Y/n) his canteen of fresh water. "Thanks." She excepted it gratefully, taking a generous sip before pushing it back towards him. "I'm okay, drink up, you need it." He assured her, and though she knew it wasn't, it felt like another jab at her weight. "Okay." She muttered softly, her eyes unable to hide her sadness, as she looked down at the canteen in her hand. "Hey are you okay?" Mills asked, instantly picking up on her sudden shift in mood. (Y/n) willed herself to perk up a bit, a false smile stretching across her face smoothly. "Yeah just tired is all." She lied through her teeth, and while Mills looked like he wanted to say something, he simply nodded his head, and turned his attention to rummaging through his pack.

(Y/n) took a few more generous sips of the water, and as she sealed the lid, Mills held his hand out to her. "You should eat something." He said as he opened his palm to her, inside his hand lay a chocolate bar, her personal favorite chocolate at that. A nagging voice in the back of her mind taunted her, echoing that he chose chocolate specifically because of her weight. "I'm not really all that hungry, just wanna rest is all." She lied again, ignoring the hungry twist in her gut. "We've been walking all day, you need to keep up your energy." Mills insisted, placing the chocolate into her and, and closing her fingers around it. "Sure." She muttered softly, wishing the ground would just open up beneath her, and swallow her whole. Mills smiled at her, pleased that he had been able to snag a few of her favorite chocolate bars, before they left the tattered ships kitchen behind. (Y/n) had peeled back the wrapper, and was taking tentative bites of her chocolate. Her eyes following Mills as he refilled the canteen with rain water, and then retrieved a snack for himself. A preserved granola, high in protein, low in fat... And sugar. She felt the urge to throw up, but swallowed the knot of bile building in her throat. Unable to take it anymore she shoved the rest of the chocolate bar into her pack, and lay back against the hard dirt covered ground. Her eyes swirled with insecurities and sadness, as she stared at the roof of the cave.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Mills asked suddenly, observing her with concerned eyes. He'd never seen her act like this, and while it wasn't everyday they crash landed on an uncharted planet, he worried that there was something else bothering her. "I'm perfectly fine." (Y/n) insisted as she closed her eyes. "You know..." He started as he sat aside the rest of his food. "It's okay to be scared right now." (Y/n) took a deep breath through her nose, and crossed her ankles. "I'm pretty shaken up myself." He admitted in a soft reassuring voice, watching as she simply laced her fingers together on top of her soft belly. Mills swallowed thickly as he observed her, wandering if she felt as soft and cozy as she looked. "I'm just tired okay." She insisted with a bit of a bite at the end. "Okay." Was all Mills could bring himself to say, and for a moment his attention was drawn outside, as a crack of thunder rumbled menacingly in the darkness. When his eyes cast back to (Y/n) he noticed how she shivered slightly when a gust of wind blew through the cave. He smiled faintly at the sight of her, noticing how peaceful she appeared to be in this moment. Without thinking Mills crossed the distance to kneel at her feet. She didn't seem to notice his proximity, or she simply chose to ignore it all together. However when he gently grasped her ankles, and uncrossed her legs she reacted. "What are you doing?" Was all she said, her eyes still closed.

"You're cold." Mills stated as a matter of fact, before pushing her legs up until her knees bent. As he slotted himself between her legs, and pressed himself as close to her as he could, she opened her eyes. "That doesn't answer my question, what the hell are you doing?" She asked and though her tone sounded annoyed, her eyes betrayed her and bared her curiosity to him. "Keeping you warm." Mills stated casually as he hooked (Y/n)'s legs to rest comfortably around his waist. Afterwards he took ahold of her wrists, and pulled her arms up to lay beside her head, his hands engulfing her own, and keeping her locked in place. "A blanket would have sufficed." (Y/n) uttered as their noses brushed from their close proximity. "I was cold too, and we only have the one blanket. You know after you lost yours yesterday." He teased her with a grin on his face. "You're so annoying sometimes, you know that?" (Y/n) huffed as she tried wiggling free, only to freeze with a squeak, when she felt just how much of him was pressed against her. Mills hummed at the feeling and nuzzled his face into her neck, inhaling her natural musk after sweating most of the day. (Y/n) wanted to wiggle away, feeling insecure about how she smelled. "You're so soft." Mills muttered against her ear, his plush lips brushing against her skin. (Y/n) wasn't sure what to say, and despite herself, she felt herself relaxing beneath him.

"I've always wanted to be this close to you." He admitted in a soft whisper, his words making (Y/n)'s heart flutter. "Close? Mills you're more than just close. You're invading, suffocating, practically swallowing me." (Y/n) said as she made a mental note of how much his body was caging her entire body against the ground, how easily he covered her as if she was just a small thing. Mills pulled back a little, just enough to look at her face. "I can move." He said as he shifted to get off of her, however before he could move far, (Y/n) locked her legs around his hips, keeping him in place. "Don't you dare." She huffed at him in warning. With a smile he relaxed, and nuzzled his face into her neck again. "There is something you can do for me Commander." Mills shuttered at the use of his title. "Anything." He promised. "Let me feel all of you, crush me under your weight. Please." (Y/n) said in a breathless tone, finding herself desperate to feel him everywhere. Mills huffed against her neck finding desire flowing through his body, at the thought of truly laying on her. And without needing to be told twice he relaxed further, and little by little he dropped his full weight onto her. (Y/n)'s breathing became a bit shallow at the new weight on her ribs, but the moan that passed her lips was divine music to his ears. "Holy fuck that feels amazing." She breathed out, her fingers flexing and unflexing around his much larger ones.

"Keep making sounds like that, and we aren't going to get much rest." Mills murmured against her skin, moving so the bridge of his nose ran along the length of her jaw. "Fuck resting." (Y/n) huffed as she rocked her hips up, and moaning at the feeling of the curve of his cock nestled firmly against her. "You're going to be the death of me." Mills uttered as he pushed his groin against her, a groan bubbling in his throat when he felt just how much warmer she was there. (Y/n)'s breathing had become a bit more shallow, and sensing her body couldn't handle the extra weight, Mills pulled up just enough to ease the pressure off of her. (Y/n) grunted in annoyance however, and pushed her chest up to meet his. "Lay against me." She begged. "I don't want to hurt you." Mills argued before planting a feather light kiss against her forehead. "I don't care, I want you to crush me." She admitted before pushing forward to kiss him. Mills melted into the kiss, and slowly eased his weight onto her once more, greedily swallowing the moan that she gave to him. As the kiss deepened Mills began to slowly rock against (Y/n)'s clothed heat, offering them both some relief, and yet making them both crave more. "I want you to ride me." He admitted then they parted for air. "I thought I was too heavy." (Y/n) said, with a twinge of sadness in her voice. Understanding now the mistake he'd made earlier, Mills finally realized why she had been acting odd.

"Bullshit." He argued, and before she could say anything else. He hoisted them both up off of the ground, holding (Y/n) up by the fat of her thighs as if she weighed nothing at all. She had gasped in surprise and the sudden movement, and squeezed herself closer to him, afraid he would drop her. "You're so fucking perfect." Mills murmured as he rest his forehead against hers, allowing her body to lower just enough to keep his cock snug against her clothed sex. "Oh my god." (Y/n) panted almost breathlessly, as fear and desire coursed through her veins. Without thought she grinded down against him, her arms tightening around his shoulders, and her eyes squeezed shut. "So beautiful." Mills breathed out before kissing her once more, teeth and tongue clashing in a desperate symphony of love and desire. His large hands squeezed at her plush thighs, making him groan at how soft and squishy she felt. "I love you, fuck I love you." Mills declared against her lips, as he continued to grind against her. "Please let me show you how much I love you." He panted heavily, her moan going right to his core. "Please please please please." He rambled over and over, desperately wanting to make her feel good, and show her just how much he loves her. "Y-yes." (Y/n) nodded her head vigorously in agreement. "S-show me how m-much you love me Commander." She stammered over her words, her entire body buzzing with desire. "Thank you thank you thank you." Mills babbled as he began pulling at her clothes, desperate to see all of her body, and to finally get to worship every inch of her skin, and her very soul.

God I loved this movie... I mean sure it had some plot holes, but I could care less. The amount of grunting and heavy breathing we get to hear Adam make is divine... When I first watched this movie, I was wearing headphones, and oh my god he was killing me with those sounds. Anyhow I hope you enjoyed this one.

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ladylarynn · 2 months ago

Text

Alleyway Affairs

Part 4 - The Scars We Received

Summary: This is part four to Alleyway Affairs.

The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: Explicit

WC for part 4 - 7.7k, total - 31k+

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, oral sex (female receiving), p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, on his knees for you in more ways than one, in love & its a disaster, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

hope it's okay I tagged you again :) @babypeapoddd and @joyful-enchantress

☼

Traversing the Uppercity is like tracing the crevices of your palm. You tread its cobblestone walkways like skimming over callous. The maintained gardens like the nails you must keep trimmed. The domineering domains of the privileged patriars are like clenched fists white with rage, the fortresses impenetrable and fierce.

The sun revels in the city’s grandeur. You follow the dips and valleys as if they are ingrained within you. The pristine manors, the elaborate merchant stalls, the flowered fields that flow from one another like converging seas. The perfumed air of lavender and honeysuckle. There is a serene quiet of the Uppercity. It soothes with its calm lulling breeze, with its demure femininity, with its docile decorum. The marble and limestone statues cast long stretching shadows as you pass underneath, their chiseled gazes demanding reverence, utmost grace. It is a wonder the gods are not responsible for their creation.

You find your way to his residence, trailing down an extensive, spiraling path, shaded by a canopy of trees. Looming gates tuck away a prodigious manor that could rival the elite. When you get to the entrance, a pack of patrollers take one glance at you and wordlessly open the gates with bowed heads and averted gazes.

You walk up the staircase to the front door. It is oak paneled, with iron reinforcements that restrain the intricacy of bronze and copper trimming beneath. It opens without you needing to knock.

You nod at the door man your greeting, and he bows his head politely in response. He then closes the door behind you with a heavy thud, gesturing to the grand staircase.

“He’s in his library, Ms. Dove.”

“I figured,” you murmur, the false name dredging up feelings you rather remain buried. You sigh.

“Thank you, Ambrose.”

He bows again, before glancing at you once more with foreboding clouding his eyes.

You turn away, leisurely ascending the stairs, the pads of your feet echoing about the home, unsettling the stillness of the residence.

Drake Kane.

His initials are stenciled into the blood oath at your wrist, as they have been, countless times over the past decade of your life.

You take in the oil paintings of ethereal landscapes, the gilded furniture. The various tapestries draped over the walls are weaved depictions of dancing deities and singing devils making a mockery of faith.

He whose soul eclipsed with yours for the pursuit of this.

All of this.

When you reach the top of the staircase, you pause for a moment. The hallway to his study looks as though it could go on for an eternity before you.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek.

The rich red of the floor runner rivals that of Astarion’s irises.

Gods.

The way he looked.

Your fingers clench over the banister. You can’t think of this morning now. Can’t fixate on the uncertainty of his eyes or the crinkle in his brow. Can’t recall the way he caressed you, held you, spoke to you with honeyed words.

The guilt of leaving him in a hurry blisters your insides, festers in the fact that you’ll have to return after this and answer questions you yourself are not ready to answer, not willing to admit.

Did he mean everything he said to me?

Will he regret what he said if I tell him everything?

Will he still want me if he knows what I’ve done?

Could he come to fully forgive me?

If I get that scroll, if I…

You try to free yourself from the thoughts like wolves hounding your mind, however, when you reach Drake’s door, they are encircling, ruthless.

As you enter, the air in your lungs contract. The thick velvet curtains are all pulled closed, evoking the presence of night in the room. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling, organized meticulously by series and author, yet many litter the floor in disarray.

You nearly trip over one when your eyes fall upon him.

A tightness forms in your throat, making it difficult to swallow. The man, although hunched over, still towers high, leaning against the side of his disastrous desk. One gloved hand teeters his glass of liquor, the other idly stroking the scruff of his precisely trimmed beard. The glow of the fireplace spills over the deep crevices of his crows-feet and pass over his wrinkled mouth, his face a contortion of twisting tendrils, of yellows and shadows. He doesn’t turn his attention to you, instead choosing to admire the snapping jaws of flames as they devour the wood with crackling contempt.

When Drake speaks, it is as smooth as the brandy he is drinking.

“My sources say you’ve been very successful as of late,” he swishes the alcohol in his glass, “Efficient. Quick.”

He diverts his attention to you.

He smiles.

You know he is unhappy.

“I’m impressed… Even after all the hogwash in the city and your day in the sun, you still know how to make dealings in the dark,” he commends you, and there, beneath the brewing ire is a lilt of sincerity.

You inwardly cringe.

There was a time when you would bloom with satisfaction at his praise.

Now, you can only wither.

“Get to the point,” you provoke, the façade of his suavity useless when it came to you.

His gray eyes freeze over. His smile unhinges. His expression hardens, all pinched tight, his voice lowering to scold you. “Did you really expect you could hide something like this from me?” He reprimands, then finishes off his liquor with an unflinching gulp. He sets his drink on the desk with a bang. He pops the bottle of brandy open and refills the glass.

“I thought you knew better,” he mutters.

You give a shaky inhale, attempting to maintain your composure. It was always a thing of instinct to lie. But there’s no lying to Drake.

“I’m not hiding anything; he isn’t any of your concern.”

He smiles that half smile that doesn’t fit his face. Behind your back, you rub absentmindedly over your wrist.

“You know,” he starts, “When you first came back here, I was relieved,” He admits, takes a sip from his glass, and then gestures aimlessly, “You running off before the approaching apocalypse really put things in perspective.”

He rests back against his desk, facing you head on, “I mean… I always knew how invaluable you were to me. How necessary you are in keeping things afloat,” he waves his hand, “No one is as clever, as competent, or as cooperative,” he points to you, “you don’t trust in this line of business, but you and I have developed a special bond through the many years…” he scrubs over his beard, voice trailing off.

A special bond.

The remark makes you splinter like the firewood.

“And well, after everything you’ve done, after all we’ve accomplished, I couldn’t fathom you’d leave. Somehow… I had hoped dearly you’d come back in through my door, and you did.” He smiles, but it falters as he swishes his drink. His tone darkens.

“Though, I was hoping it wasn’t for someone else’s sake.” “I’m not doing this for him,” you retort, “and even if I was,” your shoulders straighten, your chin tilting up in defiance, “I don’t see why it matters.”

He laughs unhumorous. You bristle.

His head tilts to the side.

“You came crawling back from saving the world to beg for a bounty you had once profusely refused,” he mocks, and a swash of embarrassment slathers you in red.

He levies you with a tempestuous scowl. There’s an accusation inlaid in his eyes.

“Who do you think you’re trying to fool?”

You glance away.

“And of course it matters,” he contends with another condescending laugh, “you’re acquainted with a thing whose core design is to eat you.”

You sputter, “He doesn’t want to—”

He cuts you off, “We deal in deceit every day. It’s useless to deny it,” he shackles his gaze onto you, “not to mention, I have eyes everywhere,” he gestures about you.

You open your mouth to retort, but the words die on your tongue when he adds on, “But please, tell me you don’t let the thing feed on you.” “I don’t--” you blink, flushing. He notices. He shakes his head. His eyes dip to your throat, fortunately concealed by your high neck top. It doesn’t matter. You feel like he can still see it, the markings Astarion left hours prior, can still see the puncture wounds of fangs from your alleyway affair.

“If you’re not careful,” he delves a knife with his words, “it will bleed you dry, little dove.” “Stop.”

You squeeze your fists tighter. Your stomach drops. Astarion’s confession ripples through you.

“Despite my vitriol, my deceit, my pettiness, my shame, and my… almost killing you.”

But he didn’t.

And he wouldn’t now.

He… couldn’t…

Something shifts. Drake knows he’s hit a nerve.

He knows how to twist the knife.

“Look at yourself,” he motions to you from head to toe, intonation slick with disdain, “To think— you’re doing this for a leech?”

“What,” you bite back, “are you upset I’m not doing this for you?”

He laughs.

From the top drawer of his desk, he takes out a blade. He pulls up one of his sleeves, then yanks the bottom of his glove upward to expose his wrist. He holds the handle of the blade out to you with waning expectation.

“Glide the blade across my arm, Dove. You’ll find the mirrored symbol of our blood oath on my skin, as it is on yours.”

You don’t touch the knife.

He flips it over in one hand and does as he said. Slides it horizontally over the flesh, lets the skin pebble with blood. The blood drips down his forearm and over his wrist. Just as proclaimed, a twin inscription is revealed in a dull glow.

“You are doing this for me,” he contests, “though I admit, this complicates things a bit.”

You step back.

The room is hot.

The metallic scent of blood sickens you.

A familiar sense of hopelessness floods you.

“Don’t,” you warn, “don’t touch him.”

Drake shrugs with a sneer, tossing the blade onto the desk, and swiping the blood away with gloved fingers.

“Give me a reason not to,” he remarks cavalier, “seems to me this can jeopardize our oath, and I don’t like taking on unforeseen risks.”

“Drake,” your voice breaks, “please.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he quarrels, pinching his brow, “makes me think of when I first met you.”

“You already have my soul at your disposal,” you insist, “it doesn’t matter who I’m doing this for, it will be done. He won’t complicate that.”

Drake becomes eerily quiet for a moment too long. He picks up his glass of brandy, eyeing the licking of flames.

“Then what?” He queries.

Your blood goes cold.

“What do you mean?”

He turns to you.

“What comes after its done?” He drinks. “You planning on running away again?”

You inhale.

“No.”

He beams.

“Good.”

And then he is swooping forward to you like that of a panther on prey.

“But remember this,” he plucks up your hand, his gloved fingers still damp from his blood. He squeezes, purposefully, right over the palm, “Remember who it was who gave you everything you have. Remember who gave you the clothes on your back, the food that you eat, the bed that you sleep in,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “Who got you a way out of that room. Who made sure that you were no longer only skin and bones, selling yourself off to whoever would bother purchasing,” you teeter backward, wrenching your palm from his, heart lurching at his words.

“When this contract is over, and I’ve gotten what I want, you’re still indebted to me. You made your choices,” he sneers, “and I don’t care about the vampire, as long as he doesn’t interfere with that.”

You try to steady yourself, but you can’t. You’re trembling.

Your silence is not an appropriate confirmation.

“Understand?” He asks, though it comes with the connotation of being a demand.

“Yes,” you answer, diffidently.

He ponders over you with a scrupulous expression, then sighs. You hold your breath as he passes beside you. He opens a cabinet at the wall behind you, pulling out a matching glass, then walks back over to set it on top of his desk, right next to his. He fills it, then holds it to you. You mean to refuse it, but instead, you reluctantly take it.

The corners of his mouth perk up at this, and he takes a sip, watching as you do the same.

“Besides…. I don’t want,” his voice teeters, watching you drink with smug acknowledgement, “you to end up like your mother.”

He downs the last of his brandy, inspecting the now empty glass.

You recoil as if struck, visions of your mother flittering behind your eyes.

It is hard to remember the blur of her face, as she was so young. Much younger than you are now. You don’t even remember the sound of her voice.

He would bring her up.

An outrage so profound bubbles up your stomach like bile. Drake’s insinuation scalds you.

“He’s nothing like my father. He’s not a monster,” you argue through gritted teeth, but Drake doesn’t acquiesce.

“Bit of irony behind those words, isn’t there?” he states.

Vampire.

Monster.

“He wouldn’t…” the words falter, and you set the drink on his desk, not taking another drop, “he wouldn’t hurt me.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“I’m sure she thought the same,” he suggests, then stalks off behind his desk, rifling through drawers.

“For the ones yet to come,” he tosses you a scroll, “to aid in your endeavor.”

You unbound the scroll, and skim over the names, locations, dates. All listed meticulously.

You pause at Theo Cordelian’s name.

A sliver of dread sneaks up your spine. You subconsciously grip the parchment too tight.

As if reading your mind, Drake notes, “Our friend Theo still visits your old place of work,” you glance up at him, easing your grip, “his lovely wife finally caught on.”

He gives a rueful smile.

“The girls know he is a dead man. They will assist you in making the kill.”

Like they have a choice. They work for you.

“Ask for Sage when you decide to visit,” he shrugs, “you remember her, don’t you?”

Her name’s Marcella. And yes, I know her.

You don’t say this, instead choosing to change the subject.

“What of the remaining four?” “You never miss anything, do you…” Drake combs a hand over his beard, “I’m still working on that. It is essential we get you an alias, an invite… the whole thing.”

“An invite?” You ask, perplexed.

“Yes. For a big, ostentatious, masquerade ball. Isn’t that thrilling? I have to give it to these people, they may be predictable, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know how to have fun.”

You’re already shaking your head no.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am always serious,” he waves his hand at you, “it’s not like you can’t handle it. You managed to save the world. Four people in one night is nothing,” he assures with ease.

“Who’s hosting it?”

Abruptly, he draws back. His face becomes blank.

“Who is it?” you reiterate.

“Renald’s the only person who would hold a ball in his own honor,” Drake states simply. You huff out a laugh.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“He’s not a mark,” he reasons.

“He’s my father,” you retort.

“Not in any of the ways that matter,” He challenges, the line between his brow and the dip of his frown deepening, if only for a moment, before smoothing out.

“You can avoid him the whole night. As long as you make sure the people we need to have killed are killed, then there is no issue.”

Your nostrils flare.

“I should have known you’d pull something like this,” your voice raises an octave, “you knew I would never have agreed if I’d known.”

No.

You can’t.

You’ve tempted death enough times to know better.

“You know I can’t,” you refuse, despite knowing it is too late, that you have no choice, “I can’t get near him. If he even considers the possibility I’m there, all hell breaks loose.”

“If he knew for sure you were still alive, hell would already be upon us,” Drake soothes, all calm and collected, “But he doesn’t. So, no reason to worry. All you need to do is do what you do best. Avoid suspicion.”

“That’s not a guarantee,” you protest, “I— I can’t—.”

His words strike you down like a sword.

“How much do you care for this vampire?”

You stop.

You look at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“How much,” he repeats, slow, methodical, “do you care?”

You know what he is getting at.

You cast your eyes aside, and mutter, “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

He blinks, unperturbed.

“I guess that answers my question,” he nods, “Good. I knew I could depend on you to get things done.”

“When will you give me the rest of the intel?”

“A few months or so.”

“When’s the event?”

“A few months or so,” he remarks. You bite the inside of your cheek.

All this will go to hells. He is either being willfully ignorant or he is desperate.

“I’m leaving,” you murmur, turning to the door.

But then he says your name. Your real name.

You don’t look back, you only pause.

“Please be careful,” he says with an inflection that whispers of curtailed concern. It is not unkind. It is… soft.

But then, it is gravel.

“And don’t be naïve. Keep that thing in line, or I’ll do it myself.”

You cast him a look over your shoulder.

“Oh and,” he tacks on, pointing at his third finger, “did you bring it?”

You have to hold your tongue.

You untie the coin purse at your waist. You extract the severed finger, still swaddled in cloth, from inside. You toss it on his desk.

He unwraps it with care, peeling back the blood-stuck layers of cloth. He plucks off Cedric Lao’s ring. Slipping off one of his gloves, he cleans the ring until the green of the emerald is stark against the pale of his skin.

He slides it on over his ring finger, then casually casts the severed finger into the fire.

He examines the ring with a small smile.

“Thank you, Dove.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and leave out the door, away from Drake, and away from this.

☼

It isn’t until you are halfway to the inn, and halfway to Astarion, that you stop. You’ve returned to the sound of the Lower City, where the people horde together, not victims of propriety, but rather buoyant, musical spirits, weaving their way of life into their rampant conversation, into their howling laughter, their jocular pettiness and pride.

It isn’t until you have scaled the wall of one of the overarching buildings, that you realize you are… lost.

Not in a manner of direction. You know the way back.

But you don’t know what comes after that. Where to go then.

Drake was right. You shouldn’t be naïve.

There was never a reality where you get to leave this city.

Even if Astarion receives what he hopes for from the wish scroll. Even if he may decide he has forgiven you.

If you must continue down this path… you couldn’t ask him to stay. Shouldn’t.

You open your palms. There, healed over countless times beneath the ravages of nail bites, was the phantom of a cut. Precisely made, over and over with every oath; it haunts the flesh.

You can still feel the glide of the blade. That piercing pain; sudden and fierce, then dull and throbbing. It signified the clasping of hands, it meant the covenant of your soul tethered upon pursuit, or damned by potential failure.

You think of this morning, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling, fingers combing through white curls. The way Astarion’s arm was wrapped around you, the way his cheek pressed to your heart, the way his lashes lay closed. All the sharp angles and rigid lines were smooth like a still pond. That place. That haven of him, unlike anywhere or anyone else.

It was tender, and peaceful, and…

He was safe.

You tilt your head up, peering over at the horizon as it basks in the glory of a brazen sun, the light bursting out from behind clustering clouds.

You think of the scars he received, and and the ones you gave yourself.

He will be free.

Regardless of the cost.

Your fingers curl in.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to remind you.

Even if I am dragged to the hells.

☾☼

Losing track off time is not your standard forte. However, as the sun anoints the city streets in an outpouring of waning gold, you know you’re late. You slither down slanted roof tiles with ease, and spring across the gap to land on the inn’s balcony ledge, clutching onto the guardrail. You heave yourself over with an exhale. You knock against the balcony window, and although the inside of your shared abode is kept obscured by thick drapes, when leaning in close enough, you can hear a barrage of movement from inside.

A click, then a shuffling of footsteps away.

You make sure to be careful upon entering, eyeing the corner of your room where Astarion is sulking with his arms crossed, peering down at you over his elevated chin.

You hardly get the chance to breathe before he’s spouting off.

“I thought you’d only be a few hours.”

“I know,” you state, attempting to disguise the sheepishness of your voice as you lock the window, then conceal the sun behind the drapes once more, “I’m sorry. It went longer than I initially expected.”

You half expect him to tap his foot in response. He allows your excuse with an exception.

“Well. Don’t be so reticent darling, tell me what the man said,” he demands, stalking forward. When you swivel on your heel to face him, he halts in place.

“He gave me this,” you remark while collecting the bunched up scroll from the pouch attached to your waist belt. You hold it out for him, and he takes it, wasting no time in reviewing the list of assorted names, locations, times…

“It’ll make tracking them down easier and faster,” you tack on, and he hmms in response.

“How thoughtful,” he responds dryly, but then the notch of his brow builds as he skims over it once more.

While he combs over the details, you leave his side to change into new clothes.

Visiting Drake always made you feel smothered. Peeling off each piece of clothing helps alleviate that residual feeling, like a film clung to your skin that won’t wash off…

“There’s only five here.”

You nod with a sigh, before realizing he can’t see you behind the partition. You step out, smoothing your hands over the airy cotton of your blouse.

“Yes. The last four are a bit… complicated. But that won’t be of any concern to you. I’ll be taking care of it,” you assure, and for some trivial reason you think he might agree.

Perhaps it’s purely due to the exhaustion, as the look on his face clearly declares otherwise, all unimpressed and quirked brow.

“Oh?” He tilts his chin at you, one hand waving outward, exuding a vigor you’re far too drained to combat, “please do explain the rationale behind that choice.”

“It’ll be too much of a risk,” you insist, but he scoffs in response.

“Darling, as if our prior propinquity hasn’t been anything but precarious.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other and raise your brow.

“Drake wants me to take them all out in one evening at Lord Lockwell’s annual masquerade ball.”

He blinks, processing your words.

“Ah.”

You give a curt nod, then drag a hand over your face at the omission. He shakes his head, placing a hand on his hip.

“And what ever made you think I’d agree to you going alone?” He inquires, bewildered.

You peek at him behind splayed fingers.

“Because…” your fingers slide off your face.

You say it as though it is common sense, and perhaps to you, it is, “If anything goes awry, you won’t be collateral damage.”

“Typically, it’s me whose more of an optimist,” he quips, sardonic, but then his tone loses any ounce of humor. “There’s something you’re not telling me. What makes this such a risk considering everything else we’ve faced?”

You shrink backward.

How do you say something like this?

“It’s… Lord Lockwell. If he discovers I’m there… well. It would be disastrous,” you explain.

He edges toward you, crossing his arms over his chest once more, the scroll scrunched in his grip.

“Isn’t that a given when you take on assassination work? Nobody tends to think fondly of murderers in their manors.”

“It’s not that,” you prevaricate, before deciding it is no use. You pass by him to sit on the edge of the bed. You cradle your head in your hands, the dread of this impending confession cratering your shoulders.

You stare at the ground.

“Having his illegitimate child show up to his politically pandering ball may ruffle his feathers. That’s all.”

Astarion is dead silent.

You bite the tip of your thumb. Shit.

When he finally speaks, he is incredulous.

“You’re… you’re Lord Lockwell’s daughter?”

You glance up at him. His eyes are akin to red hibiscus unfolding in the sunlight, all bright and big.

He rakes a hand through his hair, and draws in a breath, mauling over his response. However, all that makes it out past his lips is a, “You?”

“Yes,” you respond a touch dismissive.

“Oh no, no, no,” he wags his finger at you, and you roll your eyes, “This is not something you flippantly divulge,” he gestures wildly, “Why did you never mention this?”

“It never felt like the appropriate time to mention,” You halfheartedly rebuttal, and he scowls at you, shaking his head.

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

He tosses aside the scroll and then plops down next to you. He sighs with his head swung back.

“Disregarding the fact that you decidedly didn’t tell me this like so much else,” he complains, then locks eyes with you.

“It’s time to start talking. What else am I not privy to? Do you have any other colossal revelations I should know of?”

“I—” you start.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t---

But you need to.

“What else do you want to know?” You give in, shifting back onto one of your elbows.

“Well for one,” he leans in a bit, for added affect, “who is this cryptic employer? Where did you go this morning? Oh, and how in the world did someone as morally virtuous as you get into the business of blood oaths? And—” he halts briefly, his shoulders hunching as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “And... well…” he trails off, “the whole flock of our weirdo companions bestowed upon you their entire life stories, and yet it was never the time to say this? Did you ever even trust me—or rather— us?” He amends, striving to remain indifferent, yet evidently failing.

“His name is Drake Kane. I’ve known him for quite some time. He resides in the Uppercity,” you answer, looking anywhere but him, “I’ve been doing this for the better part of a decade, before the mind flayer invasion.” You pick at the skin around your nails as you continue, “As for why… well. Let’s just say I was desperate for money.” Your gaze falls over the room around you.

The grandiosity of it all flickers to that of your old abode. The derelict doorway, the crackled skin of wood panels with their teething nails. The sharp corners of a locked room, lit by a candle’s flickering, feeble glow. The bed beneath you is not layers of silken blankets, but rather of tattered sheets only made sweet by sweat and the scent of shared skin. The ragged black drapes like clumped lashes, closing with each patron who entered.

You look back at him, suddenly tired, “Like I said before. I was trying to be someone different when we got the parasite’s powers. I wanted to do right by the world. I wanted to be worthy of belonging… to someone. To somewhere…,” your hands fold over your lap, “I never told you, or anyone else, before because—” you stall, the necessity to keep it from him strangled in your throat, “I was ashamed and—,” you glance down and away, “before being abducted by the mind flayers… I was…”

Waist deep in waves, enveloped by the night breeze.

Breathing in the riptide.

Salt in your lungs, the sea collapsing overhead.

“I wasn’t ready to confront it. If anything, I was still running away from my choices. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you,” you try to assure him, yet there is an undercurrent of something else there you’re not disclosing. He knows it. You know he knows it. But with what you do share seems almost enough for him.

“And what about now?” His hand falls over yours, and you look at him quizzically.

“Do you still trust me?” He questions offhandedly, yet you know he means it sincerely.

Yes.

But the word doesn’t depart your tongue. No. Drake’s words fester up in your mind.

“…don’t be naïve.”

You say nothing in response.

His expression softens a bit, yet his brow furrows, the hurt evident by your lack of response as it tugs at the corners of his lips. He takes one of your hands in his. His thumb strokes over the scars of your palm, and you involuntarily shiver.

“How long have you been doing this?” He murmurs, gentle.

Your mouth goes dry, and your cheeks color. You close your fingers over his thumb.

“I don’t remember,” you profess, a bit dazed. It’s only somewhat true.

His chest rises and falls. You want to reach out and tuck the defiant curl tickling his forehead behind his pointed ear.

But you don’t.

The words that you spewed at Drake resonate in your head.

He wouldn’t hurt me.

“Astarion,” you say, and his gaze swivels from your palm up to your eyes. You don’t say another word, and he cocks his head. You inhale, then brush the few strands of hair falling from your disheveled bun away from your neck, revealing the skin of your throat.

“I…” Your lungs are knotted together, yet you try in vain to get it out.

“I do,” you insist, though subdued, “I do still trust you.”

And as you say it, you know… deep down. It is only somewhat true.

But you want it wholly to be.

You need it to be.

Astarion’s eyes widen in recognition, and he shakes his head a little.

“I… that’s not necessary,” he jolts up, stepping away from you.

“I think it is,” you murmur back, picking at your cuticles.

“Are you wanting to test me?” He queries, becoming defensive. Your frown deepens; you shrink back.

“No,” you assert, then deflate, “I’m not trying to test you.”

“I won’t do it again,” he speaks over you, and it is pained, “I couldn’t.”

“Astarion.” You try to regain his attention, but he’s swiping a hand over his face, wrecked.

“I’m trying to show you that I trust you—” you persist, but he isn’t listening, his voice overlapping yours.

“You shouldn’t,” he remarks, “You shouldn’t l—” Your stomach drops, and you cut him off, “I shouldn’t?”

At the immediacy of your voice, he stops. His attention diverts back to you.

“I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean then?” Your fears are like plucked feathers, and your voice wavers, “are you… do you… still want to—”

Hurt me.

“Of course not,” he retaliates, as if reading your mind, “If this morning was not a clear enough indication, I don’t know what will be.” He snaps, and the cage around your chest constricts.

“Then…” you trail off, and clueless as to what to say, you look down at your palms. Self-conscious that he knows of your habit, you press them face down on top of your thighs. You feel the pressure of his stare as he contemplates you.

Maybe it is a test.

Maybe I need to prove to myself that I can still trust you.

Maybe I’m afraid of being naïve.

Maybe I’m afraid that Drake will be right.

Again… always…

Maybe I don’t want to end up… even more like my mother.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, and he bristles.

“There’s nothing you should be apologizing for,” he rebuttals, frustrated, “I’m the one that…”

He doesn’t need to say it. It hangs in the air.

There is a lull of silence.

You rest your elbow on your knee, mentally tracing the designs of the area rug.

“I’ll do it,” he says so quiet you have to strain to hear him, “I’ll do it if that’s what it takes… for things to go back to…”

You finish the sentence for him.

How they once were.

However, you’re not sure if there is a way to truly return to the way it was before. Though you ache with this ubiquitous hope, it seems as though there will always be a pull of his resentment scrabbling at his shoulders, and a swift tug of trepidation yanking you by the wrist.

You glance up at him again. He meets your eyes. Perhaps the same thoughts are preying upon his mind.

Regardless.

You want to try.

He must as well, as he cautiously approaches. He sits back down next to you and slips the stray strands from your neck. His fingers splay, reposeful over the skin. His lashes fall over low lidded eyes, and there is a question there, a searching for silent reassurance. A faint etch of worry settles in the lines around his mouth.

You tilt your neck to the side. It is a yes. Your heart thumps fiercely inside your chest.

You don’t realize you’ve begun to clench your fists until his fingers are prying them loose, his thumb sweeping and soothing the skin there.

“You’re trembling,” he susurrates into the shell of your ear, and there’s a lilt of suffering in it.

You try to ease your breathing, to pacify your pulse, but it is of no use.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he presses his lips over the pulse point, and you try to suppress a flinch, and if he were not a creature of the night, he fears you’d be able to hear his heartbeat too.

“I can feel it beneath my lips,” he gives the skin a closed mouth kiss, then an opened mouth one.

“I can feel it beneath my tongue,” he sucks the space bellow your ear, as delicate as can be, not enough to mark, yet you squirm a bit, feeling your breathing become more labored, your pulse heightening. You blush, trying to be more aware of remaining still.

You can’t help the heat flooding down to your core at having him touch you like this— it’s so familiar, so instinctual. Memories of him flutter through your mind, his teeth deep in you all those times before, drinking until the blood was dribbling down his jaw, until you were as weightless as a bird in the sky.

Nevertheless, anxiety nips at your nerves.

You feel the tips of his fangs barely graze the skin. You inhale deep, and he cradles your jaw with his other hand.

You feel him whisper into the skin.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, but there’s something in the way he says it, as if he’s trying to convince himself as well, “I’m not a monster.”

You want to say that you know, but it’s too late, as the words become incoherent jumbles from your lips as he sinks in his fangs.

He begins to suck, scarcely enough to taste.

You half gasp, the initial sting easing into the flood of diluted pain, of saturated pleasure. You feel him exhaling over the skin, and then his fangs are delving deeper as he sucks more firm.

For a fleeting moment, you worry you may faint from culmination of fear mingled with desire, of anticipation convolving with apprehension.

His hand fully closes around yours. His thumb rubs lulling circles there, seeking to reign you in, striving to calm you down.

All those times he had done this before like narrow, straight paths and rounding corners, and now, they are merging into a maze of maddening affection.

It feels good. It feels wrong. It feels like you may float from your body and rise to the ceiling if not for him anchoring you down.

A whimper stumbles from your lips, and yet you know you’re not the only one affected, as Astarion hums against your throat, a tangled groan of urgency and restraint.

Little do you know how much he resists. How delectable you taste, how he aches for more, this carnal hunger like that of a starved animal, like that of a beast. It is primal, and all encompassing, all compelling yet— you are close, so close. You are safe. You never take. You are the dawn he yearns to experience again, even if it burns, even if it means his very demise, he endeavors to have you still—

Another pull of blood from your veins, and you begin to feel hazy, like you are drifting off. A languish of your bones, your body melding into his hold, thoughts fuzzy, fleeting, and yet— that is when it descends upon you.

It is a downpour, sudden, and all too cold.

The scramble of your feet through the closing jaw of the city. Buildings bloated behind you, then prowling before you, then compressing into you from all sides.

Focus ebbing in an out. The potion of healing not enough to fully quell the wound still throbbing at your neck. The lantern lights glow simultaneously dilating and constricting, then stretching out, then swishing you in its mouth.

Finding your way into your inn, beads of sweat slick over your forehead and creeping over your skin as you feebly crawl into bed.

Curling into yourself, temple to your knees, knees snug to your chest.

Shuddering with sobs that go on for hours on end.

Part of you grieving over the fact that he hadn’t completely bled you dry.

After all, …

It is what you deserved.

“Stop,” you beg, pushing him away from you with a quaking gasp, the tears building in your eyes threatening to spill. He retracts from you in an instant, immediately noting the wet streak down your cheek. Although he is absolutely flushed, his eyes burning bright scarlet, the red awash with riveting feeling, his expression morphs to one of panic, of concern.

“I—” he attempts, wiping the back of his hand over the blood of his mouth, “I’m sorry— hells — I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he anguishes, then moves in to swipe at your tears, but you wince in response. He backpedals; his porcelain features shattering.

“I’m sorry,” you shield your face with your hands, hot tears descending your cheeks. It is like you are being swallowed up whole, the feelings of embarrassment, of denial. You don’t understand yourself. You don’t know why your body reacted this way. This shouldn’t be so hard—

He wouldn’t hurt me.

But the ugly reminder of that night doesn’t go away. It is like a mirrored image reflected on every wall of the room.

“If you’re not careful…. it will bleed you dry, little dove.”

“I’m sorry,” you curl into yourself, feeling miserable, feeling worthless.

It’s what I deserved.

It’s what I---

But Astarion is there, pulling you into his arms, attempting to mollify. His voice is watery, and it’s too hard to focus on what he says, too hard to listen, too hard to hear over the drown of your own thoughts.

“Please stop apologizing,” he pleads, kisses the top of your hair, rocks you in his arms, “I promise my darling— that night I swear I wouldn’t have—”

But then he stops. You can feel the drops of his own tears hit your temple.

“I don’t know,” he admits in broken syllables, “but what happened before will never happen again. I— I need you… I can’t lose you… I was so afraid that I had… the memory of you wilted in my arms… I can’t—” He chokes on the word, and then takes a breath, steadying himself.

Your breathing slows, and yet you can’t bear to unravel from him, can’t take looking him in the eye like this. You want him to finish, but you can’t say it out loud. It strains against the confine of your teeth, yet you force it out.

“How could you have changed your mind…” you say, and his arms tense around you, “when you despised me that much.”

Is it only for the scroll?

He pulls back but you refuse to meet his eyes, covering your face with your hands. You feel like a coward.

You feel his eyes heavy upon you. It’s as though he’s truly seeing you for what you are… for the first time.

This battered, featherless, little thing… how pitiful compared to that shining hero of the city…

What a fraud you are.

“I was angry with you,” he starts, all earnest and steady, “I loathed you for what I perceived as betrayal… I thought you choose to abandon me when I needed you most. I know now that it was me who didn’t give you a choice.”

You lower your hands from your face, only to examine the floor beneath your feet.

“I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to make you feel as much pain as I had,” the drag of air into his lungs is all wound tight, but he continues, “When I saw you at that tavern, all that resentment and blame I kept came pouring out. I felt possessed by anger at you… and at myself… my dead heart practically lurched out of my chest at the sight of you.”

His voice softens even more so. He wants to reach out and hold you, but he doesn’t.

“And then I… had you again. You were saying my name, professing that you…” you glance back up at him, and you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly.

“That you love me, and I… I was overwhelmed. I was angry because… it meant everything to me. So, I tried to prove that it didn’t. I wanted to hurt you, I wanted to keep you, I wanted…” he trails off, then partially regains his composure.

“When I realized what I’d done… when I saw you cradled in my arms, barely able to stand… I was so afraid that I…” the syllables wade in the tears of his voice, “I was terrified to find that I had let myself go too far. I lashed out afterwards because I couldn’t come to terms with what I had done, what I am.”

And then he is getting on his knees before you, taking your hands in his, his eyes imploring to meet yours.

“It used to annoy me how despite everything, you always tried to see the good in everyone. The good in me. No matter how diminutive or selfishly intended, you believed in me. You cared for me. Not for what I could offer you, which at the time really wasn’t more than sex… and then I couldn’t even offer you that… No. You cared for me because of who I was. And although I can still find myself steeping in the pure and utter shit of the last two centuries, even though I do still grieve over the ascension…” He gives your palms a squeeze, and your gaze locks onto his.

“I need you to know that what I did that night I will regret for the rest of my eternity.”

It is as though you had forgotten how to breathe before.

The room is silent for a long time.

“I don’t know what to say…” you murmur.

“You don’t need to say anything,” he hastily replies.

Your gaze drops to his hands holding yours. How refined and lovely they seem, despite it all. They feel like satin over your callous, over the ridges of your scars.

Another lull of quiet.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks, and it is aching.

You shake your head.

“No,” you glance up at him, “I think… we both need time to heal…” you mumble and weakly tangle your fingers together with his.

“But I don’t think I can do this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he refutes, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. He kisses it.

“I’m not going to leave again.”

You want to believe him. Part of you already does.

You don’t know how long you both remained there, settling into the evening, adrift in a river of recompense.

When you think back on this later, the memory is a domicile for the inviolable.

It is the calm before the storm.

☾☼

please let me know if this was okay <3 thank you for reading.

60 notes · View notes

silverzoomies · 2 years ago

Text

Screwball

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: smut, slow burn, kissing, hand jobs, loss of virginity, temperature play, mutant reader, ice powers, porn with plot, clunky writing

word count: 14,151

a/n: im so late posting this. i meant to finish this one like a month ago. but it's already september !! and a heatwave fic seems so out of season !! oh well !! i hope someone out there enjoys this. i went through hell tryin' to finish it. but i'm pretty happy with the way it panned out,,

apologies for the usual: clunky writing, slow as fuck execution, potentially ooc dialogue, etc etc etc kbgsjbdghsoiheg

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Westchester, New York had never seen such a record breaking heat wave.

And in all his reckless, fast paced years up to the ripe age of thirty, neither had Peter.

His fragmented memory is jam packed. Cluttered with disorganized checklists of every place he’s ever been. Not that he’s bragging or anything. But Peter’s basically seen the entire world, and then some. If one were to count those gnarly, X-Men space missions. He’d gone places no non-mutant could ever conceivably dream of reaching. From the deathly cold peak of Mount Everest, to the blistering sands of the Sahara desert itself.

Even with all that collected experience, Peter’s a hundred percent sure; he’s never faced summertime heat as insanely lethal as this.

Okay, sure. Maybe declaring Westchester as hotter than the Sahara might be a bit of a stretch. But to Peter’s credit, this heat wave is dangerous enough to warrant a citywide advisory. Which, in layman’s terms, means: don’t get ballsy. Unless you wanna end up fryin’ like an egg on the sidewalk.

The weather outside is so grisly, in fact, the X-Men themselves had to call their latest mission quits. Imagine that! Crazy, right? A fierce team of mutant heroes, capable of taking on behemoth sized sentinels. And even they didn’t dare another second in the heat.

Peter detached himself from the concept of religion ages ago. But thank the mysterious powers above, whoever they may be. Because he was legit two seconds away from collapsing to the ground, in a boiled heap of skin and bone.

He stumbles off the X-jet on wobbly legs. And no joke, Peter swears his muscles have somehow melted into jelly. It’s supremely embarrassing, the way he struggles to keep up with the team as they move ahead. They all stop before going upstairs, waiting to reconvene with Xavier. Organized in a careless, half circle; the X-Men look as though they’ve returned from an Olympic marathon. Their bodies exhausted, and blanketed in buckets of sweat.

Naturally, on account of Peter’s super dope, mutant genes; his body functioned at a nonstop rate of super sonic speed. As a repercussion, his average body temperature burned leagues hotter than any non-mutant’s. It wasn’t abnormal for Peter to dread the tormenting heat of the summer season.

In the blazing eye of a dangerous heat wave, swarming the city like an apocalyptic storm; Peter’s absolutely certain – like, for sure, he’s teetering on the brink of death. A miserable, stewing-in-your-own-sweat kinda death. Leave it to Logan to recite the eulogy at Peter’s funeral. No doubt, Wolvie would have nothing but positive things to say about Peter after he died. Most definitely.

Peter might be a teensy bit freaked out actually. Since he had no idea he was even capable of experiencing heat exhaustion. It almost makes him paranoid. Like a hypochondriac with a chest ache. In an attempt to force his recovery, Peter chugs through exactly thirteen bottles of dollar store water in a flash. The source of his stash? A stainless steel, mini fridge in Hank’s lab.

He knows Hank’s gonna be totally peeved when he finds the fridge raided clean. But Peter doesn’t bother worrying about that right now. Instead, he makes a mental reminder: Water bottles. An IOU. One he’ll probably forget about within the next two seconds. And never get around to fulfilling.

Professor Chucksters is talking, but Peter can’t find it in himself to listen to a single word. Whatever momentous info the ol’ baldy drops, flies a thousand miles over his feverish head. Peter cranes his neck back in overheated agony, lazily chugging Hank’s last remaining bottle of crisp, cold water. The smooth bite of that cold down Peter’s throat makes him exhale with relief through his nose.

Halfway through, he stops to shower his head in the rest. Letting chilly droplets rain down over his silver hair. Sharp tingles erupt down his neck and across his shoulders. Peter shudders, humming in delight to himself.

Oh. Shit. Wait…

Peter then comes to the regrettable realization that, in a heatwave so hazardous; water is a necessity to be shared.

No shit, blockhead.

Now, mind you, Peter isn’t known for his forethought. He’s pretty overzealous. Had he taken time to stop and think for a hot sec…yeah. Sure. Maybe he should’ve been more mindful of his suffering teammates. Oopsie daisies.

Much like a careless dog, Peter shakes off the cold drops soaking his hair. Sprinkles of water splash all around him, with Jubilee caught in the line of fire. She jumps in place with an abrupt, but silent exclamation of ‘ew!’ Shooting Peter a look of burning fury. Damp strands of Peter’s hair fan over his eyes. He runs his fingers slowly through them to give his forehead some air.

Maybe Peter’s a little delusional. Because he swears on his life he catches a red tint in Jubilee’s cheeks. She scoffs, like she can’t stand his bullshit. He throws her a wink. A beat later, she smiles and rolls her eyes.

Peter smirks. Lucky for him, his speedster charm has yet to fizzle out.

The team waits patiently for their opportune moment to flee. It’s obvious they’re all pretty antsy. Probably since they’re dying to change into something lighter. Better fitted for Satan’s city wide celebration of hellfire and brimstone. Anything but the jumpsuits, at least. But that’s just a hunch.

In Peter’s own personal opinion? The most ideal scenario would be to strut around naked, in nothing at all. Sounds awesome, right? Freedom from the suffocation of needless threads! However, societal standards and modern customs definitely wouldn’t allow such debauchery. Not to mention, Peter isn’t super keen on the idea of peeping his teammates in their birthday suits.

Except for Raven, maybe. He never gets tired of looking at those scales. All that blue. Nice.

Oh. And…you. Frankly, Peter’s willing to risk it all just to catch a glimpse of you in the buff.

He swallows a thick lump forming in his throat, sneaking a lightning fast glance in your direction. Observing you with a gawking gaze, Peter ignores the way his heartbeat kicks up to roadrunner speed. Faster than fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. It’s ridiculous.

You’re completely impervious to any heatwave debuffs. Lucky lucky. Standing there without a care in the world, you listen attentively to professor Charlie Brown’s ramblings. Since you’re so distracted, Peter lets his speedy eyes shamelessly wander. Trailing down the glittering, icy blue of your jumpsuit. Uniquely personalized to coincide with your wintry gimmick.

Which doesn’t at all explain why it’s so inappropriately skin tight.

Peter feels himself choke on his next breath. But he’s quick to blame it on the weather. Yeah. It’s just the heat that’s stifling him. Nothing else. Get real, dude.

The sparkling material of your suit hugs your figure a little too perfectly. Complementing every irresistible curve. Peter always thought you looked so ludicrously fine in that suit. If not way, way, way too distracting. Sometimes, he found it ultra hard – ignoring any euphemisms – to maintain focus during missions. Usually because your frosty ass came twinkling in his peripheral, throwing off his mojo.

But let’s chalk Peter’s lack of focus up to his chronic ADD instead, ‘kay?

Heck. Maybe it wasn’t the ADD’s fault. At least, not entirely. Like, cut the bullshit for a sec. Peter doesn’t have a lot of sexual experience. He’s never gone any further than a dozen heated sessions of heavy petting. And from time to time, though he hates to admit it; it haunts him. The way he’s so suppressed. Overflowing with pent-up desire.

Thirty years old and still a virgin? Clock’s ticking, Quickie. No wonder he can’t take his hungry eyes off your body.

Speaking of your body.

Damn, is it hot in here? Or is it just you?

It’s most definitely not you.

Your body naturally radiates a refreshing aura of frigidity. It’s no coincidence, the way your teammates linger so closely in your proximity. Peter can’t really blame them for doing so. You’re the human equivalent of an icebox. Even a touch of your finger could turn the entire X-mansion into a winter wonderland. Part of him wonders why you haven’t done so already. Since you’d be sparing everyone the infernal anguish of this awful heat wave.

Maybe you’re just as absentminded as he is.

Anyway, right about now, Peter desperately yearns to be a long lost tub of neapolitan. Stuffed deep inside your metaphorical freezer.

Which…sounds way dirtier than intended.

Fuck. Alright. Moving on.

Tugging at the collar of his jumpsuit, Peter fights to catch his breath. The fierce heat from outside has somehow seeped its way into the X-Men’s base of operations. Almost like an act of god. Or more like a punishment, maybe.

In desperate need of relief, Peter looks to you once more. He finds himself struck with an ingenious, lightbulb moment then.

A blink, and he bolts, appearing directly behind you. A faint gust of wind flutters your hair. But the breeze fails to even make you flinch. Peter isn’t the least bit subtle with his actions, as he presses his burning body a little too closely into your back. And hoooooooooooooo mama! The sweet relief of your icy presence is so worth any consequences, should they arise.

You whip your head around suddenly, giving Peter a weird look and a once over. He can’t really blame you for staring at him like that. Sure, you’re both teammates. Even family, one might argue. You’re both fighting for the same cause. But you haven’t built an inseparable bond with Peter or anything.

Honestly, he’d be totally down if you did. But that’s neither here nor there.

Peter always thought you were pretty damn cool. In more ways than one, if your glacial mutation was included in the mix. If he were more honest with himself, he would’ve acknowledged his dumb, boyish crush on you an entire ice-age ago. Oh well.

He’s still too much of an awkward spaz for his own good sometimes.

You seem…confused. Staring at Peter as if silently asking him a question. If he had to guess, it’s probably something along the lines of – what the hell do you think you’re doing, you handsome scoundrel? Peter exchanges your puzzled look with an uneasy smile. Dramatically, he fans himself with a hand. Hoping you get the hint, he pokes his tongue out to playfully express his suffocating torment.

Thankfully, you pick up what he’s putting down. As you turn back around, you giggle cutely. Peter breathes an alleviating sigh. He’s left to bask in the glory of your wintry aura. So freeing, and so, so cold. He could kiss you as a thanks, if only you’d let him. But you’ve already directed your attention to Xavier’s painfully long lecture.

Wait. Seriously, how long was this talk supposed to last? It feels like a million years at this point and-

Peter checks the Star Trek watch on his wrist. It’s only been…five minutes. Huh.

The gathering of ye olde X-council draws to a close. At long last! Xavier wraps up his spiel of heroic efforts , world peace , and wonderful work everyone. Bla bla bla. Don’t get Peter wrong. He harbors a lot of respect for the guy. Any other day, and he would’ve found those words somewhat awe inspiring. If not the slightest bit misguided.

But today? Professor, dude, now’s not the time to be preaching words of wisdom. Your nerd club’s literally cooking from the inside out. Give it a rest.

The team wastes no time. As soon as Chuck’s given the go-ahead, they’re gone. High-tailing it upstairs as fast as their tired legs can go. Which isn’t all that fast. At least, not by Peter’s standards. But he’s hella impressed with the enthusiasm.

Unlike everyone else, you move at a frustratingly slow pace. Walking behind you feels akin to waiting too long in a DMV line. Something Peter’s never had to do a single day in his life. And he’s not about to start now. It’s monotonous, and borderline infuriating. But his heightened impatience is probably just another consequence of this outrageous heat.

You take your sweet ass time – and holy moly, did you have a sweet ass – as you ascend to the first floor of the X-mansion. Peter follows after you like a lost puppy, not too far behind. On your way to – presumably – your room, you climb another, dreaded flight of stairs. And since when were stairs a hindrance to a speedster like Peter? He’s never once felt winded making a simple ascent like this. Ever.

Peter’s growing more and more restless. His skin feels sticky and uncomfortable under his jumpsuit, but he can’t rush home to grab a change of clothes. He’s unwilling to risk a race through whatever hellscape lies in waiting outside. No matter how little time it takes him. Not while his lungs are cooking to a crisp.

He aches for the touch of your icy hands. Plain and simple. Nothing to it. Nothing sexual. No strings attached.

Unless…you had a preference for strings. Peter would tie them around his wrists and move like a marionette puppet if you asked. Shit, you want a whole show? Bring out the dancing Muppets.

Midway through your ascent, Peter appears in front of you. He stops you suddenly, leaning casually with his hand against the wooden railing. His other hand rests on his hip. Lamely, he forces himself to act as naturally as he can. Which is virtually impossible, considering the circumstances. But even so, Peter throws you his signature grin and nods his head.

Be cool, dude. Be cool. Ease into it. Just try not to think about how you’re literally baking to death here.

His overheated exhaustion is impossible to miss. Even a dense chimp in a blindfold could sense something’s off about him. The quick rise and fall of Peter’s chest is a dead give away. Revealing how labored his breathing really is. Trickles of sweat race in a tense competition down Peter’s temples. Warm heat pools in his cheeks, and his skin appears ghostly pale.

That…might be the reason you gaze at him like you’re worried sick. As if you’ve seen a haunting, silverette ghost. Peter looks like he’ll pass out sometime within the next five minutes. Realistically, he should probably seek medical attention immediately. But he fakes his aloof casualness anyway.

“Heyyyyy, what’s the haps? Where’re you headed in such a rush, Screwball?” Peter asks, somewhat condescending.

“Screwball?” You narrow your eyes, puzzled, “Oh, y’know, my room probably? I might take a nap. Why?” You laugh despite your confusion, crossing your arms. Fixing Peter with a look that only suggests one thing: suspicion.

Fair enough.

He nods, rapidly tapping his fingers on the railing.

“Cool. Coooooool. I can dig it. Nothin’ wrong with that. I mean, who wouldn’t wanna spend a summer afternoon like this lazin’ around in bed, amiright?”

Good. Nice and easy. Peter should probably stop there, and speak no further. But his hazy, addled mind works on autopilot. The words race past his lips faster than he can keep up.

“It’s hot as hell today too. So, you could totally sprawl out butt ass naked and-”

Too late.

“...Yeah?” Based on your expression alone, Peter knows he’s made a total ass of himself. By some miracle, you don’t deck him with an icy fist of freezing fury. Not that you seemed the violent type to begin with.

“Wait, no-” He abruptly pauses to try and make sense of his thoughts. A stifling heat in the air swarms his head, drowning Peter in hot molasses, “Oh. Gah! What the hell am I even saying? Sorry, that was-uh…that was totally weird, right? Uh, lemme start over-uhm-”

Peter clears his throat, masking his mortification with his speedster charm. Super popular with the ladies. Tested on the battlefield of life and approved. A five star rating. No need to question why he still hasn’t managed to get laid, like ever.

“Sooooooooo…anyway. Y’wanna hang out?” He asks, cheesing a dorky grin.

“You never ask me to hang out with you. But today, of all days…that’s when you do? Everything’s closed, Peter. Y’know, because of the heat advisory? I mean, clearly…you look like you know.” You gesture to Peter himself.

A sweaty sheen coats his skin. He really should’ve taken a cold shower in the communal washrooms. At least before confronting you like this. Man, he really screwed this up. If this interaction falls flat, Peter’s just gonna bail. Maybe he’ll try and stuff himself in that mini fridge of Hank’s. He’d be way better off there. Until Beastie finds him, anyway.

“Uh, yeah? Pffft …no duh. I knew that. But, so what? Just ‘cuz there’s some lame stuff happening outside. That doesn’t mean we can’t do somethin’ totally cool inside. Know what I mean?” Simple and subtle.

“Hm…” You think on his offer for a moment. But it feels like he's aged another thirty years by the time you reply, “At least let me change first, okay? You probably should too! I know you gotta be burnin’ up in that jumpsuit, sweetheart!”

A dopey smile plays on Peter’s lips, pressing into his dimples.

So…sweetheart, eh? That’s a new one.

Politely, you push past Peter to make your way up the remaining stairs. Without any forethought or plan of action, he cuts you off again. He slides across the floor into your visual radius, worn sneakers squeaking along polished wood. Wait…why’s he losing his balance?? Peter doesn’t usually lose his balance. Shit.

Ah. he’s lightheaded now. Great.

You’re close enough that Peter can feel the tempting coldness radiating off your body. Oh, man. If only you’d envelop him in your frosty arms completely. You could even lay on top of him like a blanket of snow post avalanche. Anything. Please. Peter is so beyond desperate to beat the heat, he’d let you pelt him with a flurry of snowballs. At least then, he wouldn’t feel a spark away from igniting into flames.

Staring at him with an impatient look, you tilt your head and furrow your brows. Awkwardly, Peter shifts on his feet. Thick humidity overflows his lungs, close to bursting with the force of an atomic bomb. Breathing is near impossible at this point. Peter may as well bite the silver bullet, before he finally kicks the bucket.

Godspeed, or however the saying goes.

“Hi…sorry. Okay-uh…hear me out, please?” He begs. Peter brings his hands together in front of him like he’s praying at the altar, “This is gonna sound weird. Like, next-level weird. Yer probably gonna think I’m a huge creep. And I’m not tryna freak you out ‘er anything. ‘kay? Like, I totally get it if yer not down for this. ‘Cuz, y’know, we’re not really all that close. Plus, you probably have other stuff you’d rather be doin’ than helpin’ out some loser like me, but-” Peter rapidly stammers over his words.

Way to go, ponyboy. Graceful as ever.

Holding out a small hand to politely silence Peter, you utter his name in the sweetest tone he’s ever heard. Hushed, soft, and so gentle. Your voice is the equivalent of candy to his eardrums. He kinda really digs the way you sound when you talk. So courteous and nice all the time.

Be still, his palpitating heart. Seriously. Calm down. Or he’s literally gonna die.

“Peter?”

“Uhyeahwhat?” He stammers again.

“Are you…okay? You’re sweating like crazy. You look like you’re gonna pass out, dude.”

Peter throws you an ‘ok’ sign with a hand, his grin sluggish.

“Peachy keen, baby.”

He swears with every fiber of his sweltering soul that calling you ‘baby’ made you blush. But, y’know, since he’s a little bit doubtful, he might have to test that theory again. Just to be a hundred percent sure. Break out the ol’ chalkboard and sketch some x’s and o’s like a scientific diagram. Top of the line research. He’s the leading psychoanalyst in speedster charisma.

“You sure about that?” You ask, arching a brow, holding an easygoing smile.

Taking a few steps closer, you bless Peter with your emanating chill. He doesn’t at all expect you to raise your hand. Peter swallows a thick, blistering lump in his throat. Frozen in place, he watches in slow motion as you bring the tips of your frosty fingers to his chest. Brisk, winter cold spreads in fractals of frost over his jumpsuit.

Freezing heaven on scorching earth. It’s sorta…poetic, in a way. Peter blinks rapidly, caught in a mind-altering daze for a beat or two. Your touch really is like a miracle cure, alleviating that stifling thickness suffocating his lungs.

“W-Wow. Okay.” He chokes awkwardly, cheeks flushing. His skin tingles under his jumpsuit, “Wow. That’s cool. Literally cool.”

“Peter?”

“Mmmmmmhmmm?” He hums, slouching his shoulders. Peter shamelessly relaxes under your wintry touch.

“You’re suffering in this heat, aren’t you? You need me to help you out?”

Stupidly, like a colossal, doofus dumbass, he shakes his head. You’re offering the exact thing Peter came to you for. A golden opportunity. He’s really hit the jackpot now. All he has to do is face the music, and admit it. Just be honest. Say it, doofus!

“Huh? Naaahhhh! Pffft …why would-...hey, I told ya! I’m juuuust peachy, Screwball! Don’t gotta worry about me!”

Hanging in the air by a delicate string, is a tension Peter’s too stunned to identify. Taking another step closer, the swell of your breasts meets his chest. The hand you’ve placed over his speedy heart trails tantalizingly slow, up to Peter’s flushed cheek. His dark eyes flutter closed, and he almost falls face first into your touch.

“I can take care of you, y'know? I really don’t mind, honey. It wouldn’t be an issue.” Your soft voice exudes genuine compassion. The sweet, gentle attention burns his skin to a boiling point, his veins melting underneath.

That unidentifiable tension in the air permeates, thicker than summertime heat. Despite the relieving cold you’ve given him to bask in; Peter finds it even more difficult to breathe. It confuses him, the way you act so nice and considerate. And now? He’s melting entirely.

Literally. No dramatizations. Peter can feel his damp skin drooping slowly off his bones.

He’s already close enough to death as is. What’s with the tenderness and affection, huh? Were you going out of your way to make sure he dies faster? Have some humanity, for Geddy’s sake. Jeez.

“I-uh…I…” Peter stutters, at a loss for words, “I wouldn’t wanna put you out like that, but…uh…”

“Alright. Whatever you say.” You steadily pull your hand from Peter’s face, “Offer’s still on the table, though!”

Wait. Wait. Wait. Why are you pulling away? No, no, no! You can’t pull away! Not yet! Come on!

All at once, the soothing cold you’ve gifted Peter disappears. No thanks to the steaming fever brought upon by his overheated, speedster body. He nearly whines at the loss, pulling his lip between his teeth to stifle any embarrassing noises.

It takes Peter only a millisecond to give in. With a slower reaction time than usual – not really all that slow, from an outside perspective – he darts his hand out in a flash. Peter lightly grabs your wrist, stopping you from retracting your hand any further.

“Wait-” Peter groans, acting hasty. Frustrated with his own awkwardness, he rolls his eyes, “...I’m…I’m literally dyin’ here, okay? Like, no joke. I think my heart might actually explode. And I…kinda can’t breathe right now? So, uhm…can you just, like, touch me? Just a little bit? But not-” He panics suddenly, eyes widening, “N-Not like-...not in a weird way, I swear!”

He almost tacks on a suggestive ‘unless you really want to,’ but decides against it. Better not, lest he dig himself into a deeper hole. So far under the Earth’s surface, he’ll come out the other side. Not a bad idea, actually. Maybe it’s cooler over there.

“And I’ll totally make it up to you. I promise. Pinky swear. Cross my heart, hope I don’t die of heat stroke.” He insists.

You giggle again, cute as can be. It’s not the least bit condescending either, thankfully. Peter feels the weight of a billion megatons finally lift off his shoulders. With a nod, you take his hand in yours. A surprisingly intimate gesture, since the two of you have never done anything quite like this before. Hell, you’ve never spent time with each other one-on-one outside of the X-Men.

“C’mon, you silly goose.” You lightheartedly joke.

Your affection catches Peter off guard. Not that he’s got a problem with it. No siree. In fact, his heart might’ve skipped a few beats. A lazy smile plays at his lips, as you guide Peter down the hall to your room in your usual, slow stride.

Oh, sweet, frosty sanctuary calls.

As soon as Peter steps inside, you quickly close the door behind you. Feeling somewhat out of place in the unfamiliarity of your space, Peter distracts himself with the posters on your walls. He casts quick glances over the silly knick-knacks occupying your desk and dressers. Turns out, your room has a lot of personality. Neat.

He overhears a faint click suddenly. Whipping around to find you locking the door, Peter narrows his eyes in thought.

Huh.

Maybe he’s overthinking. Probably. But doesn’t locking the door like that suggest some…implications? Then again, Peter could be looking at this in all the wrong ways. Like, okay, if he were being realistic? More than likely, you didn’t wanna risk someone walking in. Not while you got handsy with one of your teammates in your room. Totally reasonable, he thinks.

But then-

Leaning your back against the door, you steadily unzip your glittering suit. Pulling the tiny, snowflake zipper down just enough to expose the swell of – Oh, hellllloooooooooo snowy cleavage. Where in the world have you been all his life? Peter has to refrain from whistling.

Okay. You totally did that on purpose, didn’t you? That was completely intentional. And Peter’s definitely not reading too far into things. He’s most unequivocally not letting his attraction to you affect his perception of a simple gesture. Not at all.

He can’t control his lingering gaze. Peter’s droopy eyes follow the slow movement of your hand, his mouth falling agape in a heat-exhausted stupor. Somewhere around him, he can barely make out your voice. But it’s muffled. All noise. Akin to a teacher from a Peanuts cartoon. Bwah Bwah Bwah Bwah.

Peter blinks.

“Huh? Sorry…you say somethin’?” It’s a failed attempt at a recovery. Peter taps his temple, “Gotta couple screws loose in here right now. Y’know, heat’s kinda gettin’ to me.”

You arch a brow, gazing at Peter like you see right through his bullshit. And yeah, he’s gonna go ahead and bet you probably do.

“Uh huh?” You scoff, giggling, “I asked if you’d be more comfortable on the bed, doofus.”

Moving closer to your bed, you bend over to adjust the fuckload of plushies resting on the blankets. Wow. Check that out. It’s like a Toys R Us threw up. A colorful mess of too many plushies for Peter to count. There’s barely any space to lie down, even if he wanted to.

Doing a quick double take, he glances between you, and your occupied bed. Peter sways where he stands, light headed from heat exhaustion. His brows shoot up in unexpected surprise. He whistles through a suggestive grin.

“Waiiiit, seriously?” Peter huffs a charming laugh, “Wow. Didn’t peg you for the direct type, Screwball. Y’wanna take me out to dinner and a movie first?”

“Dinner and a movie? I dunno, Peter. You’re askin’ for a lot.” You giggle again, acting nonchalant. You make your way around the room to a record player on a corner shelf. Neatly organized vinyls are aligned meticulously next to it. As you poke through your collection, you continue, “But sure. Fuck it, right? Why not! What movie?”

Distracted, as he usually is, Peter glances curiously around your room. Framed photos, postcards, and letters adorn your walls. Pinned carefully in place. Some of the photos, he suspects, are of your family. Others, more than likely friends. There’s even a few group photos of the X-Men together, bringing a fond smile to his face.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah?

Wait. Shit. You’re talking again. And Peter totally missed whatever you said.

“Huh?” Peter darts his head in your direction, watching with half lidded eyes as you set up the record player.

“Dude.” You roll your eyes affectionately, chuckling, “I said, is it hot in here, by the way? Just wondering. Since I can’t really tell.”

“Oh-” Peter exaggerates a sigh, “It’s really bad, babe. Like, sooo bad. I’m definitely gonna die if you don’t come over here and put those icebox hands on me, like, right now. Seriously.” He snickers, falling limply backwards into your bed.

Several plushies bounce with the impact of his weight. Some tumble onto the floor. Others topple onto Peter himself, but he leaves them be. He clutches a Beatles Blue Meanie plush to his chest. Breathing in quick, muggy breaths. Peter finds he’s even more consumed by the record-breaking heat. It’s a miracle he hasn’t disintegrated into a pile of ash by now.

“Howard the Duck.” Peter adds, staring at the ceiling in cloudy thought. He twirls the Blue Meanie in his hands.

“Pffft…what?” You laugh, “What are you even-”

“That’s the movie I wanna see. When you take me out? I wanna watch Howard the Duck. Oh! And I want popcorn too. Can’t watch a movie without popcorn. But it’s gotta be one of the big ones. With extra butter. And some candy-”

“ When I take you out. C’mon, really? Dude, didn’t critics totally pan that movie? I swear, I saw that in the paper just recently! It’s such an awful movie, Peter!”

“Uh, yeah? And so what? That’s kinda what makes it the ultimate date move, babe. Check it out – we could have the most awesome time makin’ fun of it.” Peter throws his head back further into your bed, peering at you from upside down, “Ooooh! Did you hear about the duck boobs scene? No joke. I kid you not. It’s got duck titties.”

A mellow tune slowly encompasses the quiet, muggy space of your room. Peter instantly recognizes it from the first few beats alone. Obscured by Clouds. Pink Floyd. …Cool. Peter’s pretty fond of that album himself. It’s not necessarily his favorite, per se. But it’s awesome enough. And it’s perfectly fitting for the mood of sweltering, summertime vibes too, he thinks.

“I didn’t until now.” You sarcastically scoff. Meandering towards Peter on your bed, “Spoilers, dude.”

He brings his head up to look at you. Spreading himself out, Peter knocks more of your poor plushies to the floor. Carelessly, he drops the Blue Meanie plush. Letting him fall to his ultimate demise. Au revoir, his blueness.

“Right. My bad.” He snickers. After a beat, Peter adds, “I love this album, by the way. It’s a nice vibe.”

In your eyes, he must look a lot like a beached starfish. Sprawled out and helpless. Drying to death in the heat of the summertime sun. Peter has his long legs hanging loosely off the edge of your bed. Moving in between those spread legs, you carefully climb onto the bed. Your knee stops just short of his crotch. As you inch yourself further over his body, Peter’s eyes widen. He blinks slowly, feeling hot beads of sweat roll down his temples.

“I know you do.” You grin down at him with a warm gaze. Peter’s lungs threaten to shrink into nothingness.

“Y-You do? Huh…no shit?” He appears put off, raising a silver brow, “How’d you know?”

You shrug, keeping your grin, “Guess I pay more attention to you than you think, hmm?” Perched over Peter with a palm to the sheets, you brush the silver bangs out of his eyes, “You got any limits?”

Peter blinks again, dumbfounded.

“Lim-...uh, what now?”

“Limits, y’know. Like, where am I free to touch? Anything you’re not comfortable with?”

“Oh. Uh…you can…touch me anywhere? It’s whatever yer comfortable with. Yer the one doin’ me a favor here.” he gazes at you with an unsure, sleepy eyed look. Nervously nibbling his lip, tasting the salt of his sweat, “Do you-uh…do you do this kinda thing a lot? Fer…other people?”

“Nope.” You blink down at him with that genuine, sweet smile again. Shrugging, “Just you.”

A subtle aura of addictive cold radiates from your body like a light. Peter can feel the faintest hint of it as you move in close. It teases him, promising sweet relief from the merciless summer heat. With his lips parted, Peter stares longingly into your eyes. His smile reveals a glimpse of his front teeth, as he snickers in disbelief.

“Uh huh. Alright. See, now I know fer sure yer just messin’ with me.” He bashfully laughs.

“Not yet I’m not.” You throw him a coy wink. Innocently, you ask, “Where do you want me?”

Which could so easily be misconstrued. Dammit.

Yeah. So, this one’s definitely on him. Peter’s inexperienced, sexually charged instincts immediately jump somewhere totally depraved. He’s a little ashamed of that fact. But hey, who’s the one climbing over him on their bed? Who’s the one fluttering those pretty lashes? Giving him those flirtatious smiles. Come on. Really? No wonder he’s lost his mind in the gutter.

Where do you want me?

Peter’s dark eyes immediately dart to his crotch for less than a second. But it happens so fast, he doesn’t doubt you missed it.

“Uhhhhh…I dunno. I didn’t…I didn’t really think about it? But, you cou- HHHHHHhnnnnnnnaaaaaaa-”

Frigid cold invades the exposed skin of Peter’s neck, as you press your hand gently there. A tiny thumb brushes his adam’s apple. Shivering, Peter bunches his shoulders. Tingling chills surge across his body.

“That’s good. That’s g-great. Awesome. Totally awesome. Thanks. Thank you.” He chokes in a rush, instantly melting into your icy touch.

Relaxing his body in your bed, Peter’s head falls loosely back. He breathes a long sigh of relief, his mouth falling open in a dopey smile. His eyes flutter closed as he laughs. Steadily then, your hand travels lower. Grazing frosty fingertips over his chest. Your fingers soon find the zipper of his jumpsuit, and you tug it down a little further.

That heavy tension from earlier grows a thousand times more distracting. For whatever reason, the mellow melody of Pink Floyd’s ‘When You’re In’ only seems to heighten said tension. Almost like it’s setting a certain kinda…steamy mood.

Did Peter wake up in some cheesy, VHS porno? He’s definitely living the plot of one.

Peter flutters his eyes open, met with the sight of you on your knees over him. Your gaze appearing heavy, focused intently on your task. You nibble your lip in thought, looking fine as hell while doing so. Pressing your small palm to his chest, you finally grace him with glorious cold again. Right over the sweaty abomination for a shirt he wore under his jumpsuit. He’s almost embarrassed that you’re even touching it.

Using your glacial gift, you manifest more coolness. Allowing it to spread all over Peter’s body. He sucks in a harsh breath, freeing his lungs from their heated asphyxiation.

There it is. Sweet, icy sanctuary, at long last.

“Ohhhhhhhh …” Peter groans, “Nice.”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his veins straining under his skin. Digging your nails firmly into his chest, you manifest snowy trails of glittering frost. The biting cold nips at his skin over the fabric of his shirt. Like walking chest first into an arctic glacier.

“Is this helping you much at all?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

“You have nooooooooo idea, babe.” Peter breathes a grateful sigh, “This is, like, so amazing. Thanks. I owe ya one.”

“Nah. Don’t worry about it.”

Your freezing hand meets Peter’s sweaty forehead, pressing into his skin. Like you’re checking his temperature with the gentleness of a mother’s touch. Humming to the music, you card your cold fingers through his damp locks. Firmly massaging Peter’s scalp.

Peter lets his eyes drift shut again. His mouth falling open out of his control. Leaving his hair, you bring your attention back to his body. Watching him carefully for any sign to stop, you tug the wet, frost nipped fabric of his shirt. Bunching it up over his neck, exposing his broad chest.

He shoots an eye open, fixing you with a curious look. Feeling hot skin under your soft palms, you slide your hands over his raised pecs. Your fingers gliding in a touch as delicate as powdered snow. It sends sharp chills down his spine. A sensation he’s quickly finding extremely addictive and all too pleasant.

Instantaneously, something clicks in Peter’s brain.

A beat, and your touch goes from relieving, to downright pleasurable. Even sort of…arousing. Peter immediately reacts, arching his back in an abrupt jolt. He laughs his surprise through a broken moan, tossing his head back for the umpteenth time.

“O-Oh, fuck.” He chokes, loud enough to disturb whoever occupies the room next door.

Peter’s so righteously fucked now. Because he really shouldn’t be as turned on by this as he is. It’s just…he’s so boiling hot. Miserable as hell. And not only are you finally breaking him free of hellfire’s tyranny. But you’re also touching him sorta intimately. Peter’s really not immune to attention like this. Especially not from a stone fox he’s super attracted to.

His nipples harden under your frigid spell, perky against the tips of your fingers. Peter hisses, whimpering another moan without meaning to. Your only response is to giggle. Curiously, you tilt your head. Quickly taking notice of the way Peter’s noises have changed in pitch.

They’re more like moans of ecstasy now. Because, well, they sorta are. Whoops.

Lowering your hips, you suddenly move to rest on Peter’s lap. Just to give your knees some much needed rest. His hammering heart threatens to burst straight through his ribcage. Rising from the bed onto his elbows, Peter tries to protest.

“Wait! Wait, don’t sit- hoooohhhh.” A throaty groan slips off his tongue.

The full weight of your lower half drops onto his lap. Right over the stiff hard-on in his jumpsuit, doing little to hide itself. Your ass is so outrageously cold against his crotch and… oh, fuck. That’s so perfect. Peter groans again through a shuddering breath. Limply, he lowers himself onto his back. Hoping to conceal his shame, he brings his hands to his face.

Except, there’s no denying his obvious desire anymore.

“Auuuuugh.” Peter curses himself, “Shit. I am seriously so, so sorry-” Your name plays on his tongue in a desperate, apologetic tone, “I-I really…I dunno why I’m so-uh…I’m not usually-”

“Hey, don’t worry! It’s okay. Believe me, I don’t mind…”

Gosh. There you go again, doing that thing. The thing where you act so unexpectedly understanding in the face of an awkward situation. But even then, Peter can hear your smooth voice waver. Despite all you try to hide, he can tell. You’re just as nervous as he is, but ultimately better at masking it.

He doesn’t see it, but you gaze down at him rather suggestively. A fresh, newfound sense of lust lingers in your eyes. Raking your nails teasingly down his chest, you draw numbing streaks of snow, making him wince. The frost manifests seamlessly from your fingers, tickling Peter’s ever burning skin. It melts instantly, leaving beaded droplets.

“Does it really feel good when I touch you like this, pretty boy?” You tease, that waver in your voice barely leaking through again.

Wooooah. Okay. Okay. Hold up. Rewind. What?

Peter isn’t hearing you wrong this time. He couldn’t be. It’s impossible to misread the dirty tease in your tone. In the blink of an eye – rapid fire speed – the blood pooling in his cheeks vacates straight to his dick. Peter’s cock twitches, pulsating under his jumpsuit – under you – and shamefully unveiling just how horny he really is.

The high-speed boom boom boom of Peter’s heart skids to a deafening halt. His exhausted lungs finally collapse. Squeezing out his final remnants of life. If someone were to hook him up to an EKG, he surely would’ve flat-lined. Sayonara, suckers. This foolhardy speedster’s at the end of his road.

But…what’s this?! Peter’s still alive and breathing? Who could’ve predicted such a phenomenon??

He lowers his hands from his flushed face, peering over the tips of his fingers. His black coffee eyes blown exceptionally wide.

“Woah. Hold on now. What?” Peter snorts. He shakes himself free of total shock, frantically nodding, “Uh, yeah? It feels…really fuckin’ awesome, to tell you the truth.”

“Mhm?” You hum a sensual vibration, biting your lip, “Mind if I try something bold then?”

Peter arches a curious brow. You’re kind of a little minx, aren’t you?

“Literally? You can do whatever you want with me, babe. I’m all yours.” He heaves an exasperated laugh.

A smirk dawns your pretty lips, and you shimmy backwards over Peter’s lap. Until the bulging swell of his hardness lies before you, squirming under his jumpsuit. Teasing him, you drag your biting touch down to his crotch. Euphoric cold dances across his pelvis. You stop short of his hard-on, and Peter draws in a ragged breath.

“Awww…feelin’ a little stiff, sweetheart?” You coo in a sultry sound. Peter feels his blood pressure drop to a life-threatening degree, “Let me help you out.”

Testing the metaphorical, frozen waters; you bring your frigid palm over his bulge. You watch Peter for any sign to retract your hand, fixing him with an intense look. But to your surprise, his cock doesn’t soften under your frosty touch. Not like one would expect. Oh, no. The opposite happens, in fact.

“Mmmmhh…oh my god.” He moans, his front teeth clamping hard into his lip. Jolting in response to his own sensitivity, he rolls his hips into your small hand, “Please…”

You squeeze the thick length of him as well as you can over his jumpsuit, applying more pressure. Awkwardly stroking his dick with your wintry tipped fingers. The bleak touch you cast sends chills racing through Peter’s veins, and sharp pleasure rises in his groin.

“F-Fer the record, by the way, this is not how I expected this to go.” Peter shivers, breathlessly chuckling.

“Oh, no?” You mutter, climbing over Peter on your knees. Glacial breath ghosts his lips. You lean in close, giving his cock another firm squeeze, “Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Fuuuuuuck no, baby. Not a chance.” Peter groans his reply, lifting his hips. Yearning for more of your gratifying chill. Another wintry wave of cold seizes through his groin, and Peter’s eyes roll back, “Holy shit. That’s it.”

Peter finds himself a little conflicted. His brown hues can’t decide if they wanna gaze into your own, or stare longingly at your lips. In the past, Peter thought about those same lips more often than he’d admit. But to be so up close and personal with them like this…

“I’m not even gonna lie to you, Screwball. I really wanna kiss you right now.” Peter admits defeat. Even in your polar proximity, humiliation burns his cheeks with the force of hellfire.

Knitting your brows, you narrow your eyes. And for a painfully long instant, Peter thinks he’s finally fucked up. As if confessing his desire to kiss you was somehow a step too far over the line.

Is there even a line left between the two of you anymore? Or did you both trip over it the moment you gave him ‘fuck me’ eyes?

You lean in a touch closer, quietly chuckling. Cold puffs of air fan over his lips, a needle-thin space away.

“You’re so silly, y’know that? Why do you keep callin’ me Screwball?” You ask, placing a tantalizing kiss to the corner of his lips. Like the touch of a delicate snowflake, “You make it sound like you think I’m crazy.”

“Well, okay, first of all, you gotta be some kinda crazy. ‘Specially if yer screwin’ around with me.” Peter jokes. He’s beyond winded under the teasing brush of your soft lips, “S-Second of all, it’s an ice cream thing. You ever-uhm…stop by an ice cream truck before?”

Why’s he even doing this? Making casual conversation like it’s a date at the diner. Peter half expects you to pull away. Since this is the least sexiest thing he could be doing. Amazingly, you remain where you are. Trailing kisses across Peter’s cheek, down to his ear. Leaving feather-light sparkles of frost in your wake. Still, they melt within seconds.

“Yeah. Of course I have. So?” You mumble.

He tenses as goosebumps descend down his neck. The tight grip you have on his dick doesn’t let up. Any words Peter planned on saying seem completely lost on him now.

“Uhhhh…Screwball’s the little…it’s got the-uh…gumballs at the bottom. It’s, like, a cone-”

Righteous work, casanova.

“Right. And I’m Screwball because…?”

Damn you, little minx! You know why. The answer’s totally obvious. There’s no way you’re that dense. Nah. You’re just so set on teasing Peter, tempting him to nervously ramble. Like you find his embarrassment…humorous or whatever. Pfffbbtt …

“You messin’ with me? It’s ‘cuz it’s ice cream, yeah? No duh. And ice is, like, yer thing, babe. I dunno. It made more sense in my head.” Peter laughs in spite of himself, “Listen…can I please kiss you? Before I make even more of an ass outta myself?”

In this position, Peter can’t kiss you. Even though it’s all he can think about. You’re too busy mouthing at his neck, grazing his skin with your teeth. Fondling his cock in freezing strokes, making him whine under his breath.

Up until this very moment, Peter’s hands remained mostly still. He’d dig his fingernails into your blankets, as the pleasure of freezer burn simmered in his pelvis. But he held himself back from ever really touching you. Since this little interaction wasn’t supposed to end up like this to begin with.

But now? Well…shit.

You knead at his junk like you’re making biscuits, flicking your icy tongue across the skin of his neck. Eliciting another husky whine from deep in his throat. Peter’s pretty sure, judging by your forwardness; you wouldn’t mind so much if he touched you just a little, right? Like, you totally wouldn’t protest if he brought his large hand to the back of your head, would you?

He threads his fingers through your soft hair, tugging your head back gently. Pulling you from his neck, just so he can meet your wanton eyes again. There’s a single second of hesitation, as both of Peter’s hands claim your cheeks. That second seems to stretch for what feels like an hour, while Peter memorizes the features of your face. His racing, speedster heart leaps at the sight.

He swiftly pulls you down for a kiss. It’s clumsy as all get out. Initially, anyway. But if there’s one thing he can actually pride himself on? At the very least, he’s had a lot of experience with canoodling. Kissing you comes as naturally to Peter as running does. His skillful lips and tongue guide yours effortlessly. Coercing you into a heated makeout session. Against his own, your lips are frosty cold. Like drinking crisp water straight from a chilled glass.

Or…it’s more like he’s lapping his tongue across some kind of…slushy ice cream. Like…a Screwball cone, maybe?

No?

Fuck it. Whatever. The only difference is, you don’t taste anything like cherry. You taste like you. And Peter would argue that’s almost better. Almost. Cherry’s pretty hard to beat. It’s a tough competition.

As you fall victim to his bitchin’ makeout skills, Peter indulges himself. He touches you the way he’s dreamed since forever and a day. His hands glide thick fingers down your chilly body. Feeling every glittering facet of your suit under his fingertips. Meeting the curves of your hips, he squeezes them firmly.

“Mmmmm…this is awesome.” Peter breathes, “This is really fuckin’ awesome.” He hums into your lips, stifling a moan by kissing you again. You stroke his clothed cock a little faster, and he chokes, “O-Oh…yer so awesome. Fuck.”

“You’re really awesome yourself. But I’ve always thought that about you.” You titter, nuzzling his nose so tenderly, “The others on the team? Yeah. They’re alright. But you? Peter, you’re the coolest.” You admit with a bashful smile. After locking him in one more, passionate smooch, you pull away, “Sexy too.”

“W-Wait, really? Are you bein’ serious right now?” Peter asks, stupefied. He furrows his brows. Another beat, and he forces himself to smirk proudly, “I-I mean…well, yeah. Pssshh …of course. Why wouldn’t you think that? I’m the bomb, baby.”

Peter keeps his hands on your hips, feeling your ravishing curves. Stroking them with his thumbs. They fit so perfectly in his grasp. And Goddamn, Peter doesn’t ever wanna let go. Mark his words. Right here, right now. He’ll glue his hands to you forever if he has to.

Lowering your ass over his crotch, you keep your erotic gaze focused on his. Your intense eye contact never seems to break for even a moment. Pressing into the exposed, damp skin of his chest, you brace your freezing hands over Peter’s pecs. A filthy moan teases your lips, as you roll your gorgeous hips forward and back. Grinding into his needy bulge.

Oh.

This is happening now. Fuck yeah.

Peter squirms in place, tightening his hold on your hips. His nails tear at the tiny sequins of your jumpsuit, digging into the sparkling material. It’s such a needlessly skin tight thing, for fuck’s sake. Criminally skin tight, even. How did Xavier ever greenlight that? Peter can see the tempting outline of your pussy in it, deliciously rolling into his clothed cock. His mouth waters at the sight. Lifting his hips off the bed, he meets your slow thrusts.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, what the fuck-” He moans an octave louder.

A strangled sound catches in his throat, and you’re quick to shush him the moment it frees itself.

“Pietro, honey, you gotta be quiet, okay?”

Hushed moans pour from your parted lips as you speak his given name. Peter’s completely bushwhacked at the mention of it. Since no one ever – excluding his mom, in her more frustrated moods – uses that name. A tickling flutter erupts with a burst in his belly. He almost creams himself at the sound of that name in your voice.

“Come on. Be good for me. You can be good for me. Can’t you, baby?” You plead. Moving your hips in a painfully slow, steady rhythm.

“Fuuuuuuuck. Babe, please-” Peter begs, “Faster? Faster, please. Yer killin’ me."

Your sharp nails sink into his bare chest, manifesting more glassy shards of frost. Winter cold seizes Peter’s body entirely, infecting him with frostbite’s kiss. Peter knits his brows tightly, his dark eyes mesmerized with your every movement. The freezing solace permeating from your pussy proves a little too overwhelming. As sharp, pinpricks of cold rush through his veins; it all morphs into carnal heat.

His muscles quickly tighten, every inch of him tensing in an instant.

“Wait wait wait! Fuck!” Peter whimpers in desperation, a flurry of moans erupting from his throat. His rock hard cock twitches, pulsating under you as he cums. Leaking thick streams of his seed into his boxers and jumpsuit, “F-Fuck! I’m sorry, baby! Ohhhhh god! I’m so sorry.”

As far as Peter knows, you have no clue he’s a virgin. Until now, he was content with that. He hadn’t planned on announcing it anytime soon. In hindsight, it’s pretty fucking embarrassing how easily he comes undone. All from a little dry humping, no less.

Yeah. You’re bound to figure it out sooner or later. Yikes.

Sticky, white pearls of his cum seep through his jumpsuit, staining the material. Your erotic motions slow to a stop, once you notice the streaks sticking to your clothed cunt. Tilting your head, you raise a brow. A delicate blush swarms your neck and ears, as you stare down at Peter with genuine surprise. He tilts his head back shamefully, sighing.

“D-Did you just-” You hesitate to continue. Wintry fingertips trace over his bare chest, “Damn, Quickie, that was fast.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Peter sighs again, bringing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, “Dammit.”

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling blistering warmth rapidly return. Taunting him with the promise of death by suffocation all over again. Before he finally succumbs to it, you crawl over him. Knees braced on either side of his body.

“I’m…god, I’m really fuckin’ sorry about that.” Peter awkwardly stammers, “I-I just…fuck! Yer just so-”

You shush him, chuckling, “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. That was so, sooooooo hot. Really hot, if I’m being honest.”

By virtue of his blessed genes, Peter takes very little time to recover. And hell, you make it an impossible feat not to chub up all over again. Your arctic tongue intertwines with his hotter one, as you meet him in another sloppy kiss. Cold hands grasp his cheeks, quickly sliding through his hair. Dragging your nails across Peter’s scalp, you kiss him with more urgency.

Peter sneaks his hands to your juicy ass, warm palms feeling at your plush booty cheeks. He gives one of them a light, playful smack. Drawing out a squeak from you, Peter giggles into your mouthy kisses. He’s distracted enough, he almost doesn’t notice you tugging the zipper of his jumpsuit.

“C’mon, get this thing off already.” You pull the zipper down even further, murmuring through frantic kisses, “Before you die of heat stroke in my bed.”

With a hmph , Peter nods his head, “Hey, if it’s life ‘er death? Guess I’ve got no choice then, huh?” He replies, fabricating his confidence, “Just a sec.”

Peter sits up fully on your bed, his feet absentmindedly kicking a few plushies on the floor. You slide off the bed entirely. Stepping back to give Peter the space he needs. From your perspective, the removal of his sweaty jumpsuit takes less than a second. But from Peter’s own POV, it’s a thousand years before he finally pulls himself out of his clothes. Clumsily, he peels his sticky limbs free.

“Fuckin’ shit-” He curses, struggling to free one of his ankles once he’s done.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but a faint air of raw cold filters through the space of your room. With his body free of stifling clothing; Peter can finally embrace that coolness in full. It bites sharply at his skin, making him shudder. Peter inhales a slow, deep breath just to feel it all

“Oh, wow! It feels damn good in here, Screwball! Like, woahhh! I feel like I’ve been sweatin’ my balls off this whole time until now.” He says.

“That’s the most charming thing you’ve said all day.” You sarcastically chime. And he snorts.

Peter promptly rids himself of his sweat soaked shirt, aching to feel more frigid air on his skin. He tosses the drenched fabric to the floor. Left in his cum stained boxers, Peter shifts uncomfortably on your bed. Self consciously, he gazes at you with a doe eyed look. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap.

“Sooooooo…uh…a-are you gonna take off yer-uhm…” Peter gives you a once over, gesturing to your jumpsuit.

He lets his long, sturdy legs hang off the side of your bed. Watching as you take slow steps backwards, pulling that tiny, snowflake zipper of yours. Dragging it all the way down. A mischievous spark twinkles in your eye, and Peter’s heart skips a thousand beats. Even though you’re trying your best to be sexy, you’re still just as clumsy as he was.

Which somehow, ultimately makes you even sexier to him.

You peel your limbs out of your glittering jumpsuit. Revealing the underwear beneath, fitting your body in all the right ways. Peter’s adam’s apple bobs, his eyes flitting up and down your curvaceous form. Drinking in the image of you almost completely bare.

“Holy shit.” Peter mumbles, leaning back and bracing his hands on your bed.

You’re giggling again. Blessing his ears with a precious sound he’s grown to adore over the last…however long it’s been since you invited him in. Peter can’t really remember. It’s impossible to hold any sense of rational thought while watching you like this. Especially when you pull off everything except your little, lace panties. Freeing your-

Whoaaaaaaa, mama.

There they are. In all their beautiful, freezing glory. Your icy cold knockers bounce freely. And with a flawlessly executed jiggle, too. If Peter had a sign, he'd rate them a perfect ten.

The skin of your breasts is heavenly soft, dusted in a faint motif of frosty snowflakes. Nipples perky.

Peter's wondered about those suckers for ages. And you most definitely don't disappoint. He whistles, his eyes flying open. Black pupils dilating like drops of heavy ink. No matter how hard he tries, he can't tear his gaze away from those bouncy beauties.

"Damn, Screwball…" Peter grins, shaking his head, "Yer a smokeshow, babe."

Subconsciously, he palms his hardening dick over his boxer briefs. Momentarily grimacing at the texture of drying cum in the fabric. His focused gaze lingers a little too long on your totally righteous titties. You're talking again. Speaking words in that sweet voice, though they go unheard.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah!

You must have given up on trying. He barely sees you coming, as you collide your lips with his again. Shocking him out of his boob-induced daze. The moment you're in close enough range, he reaches out to touch you. Burning hot palms fondle your breasts, fingers toying with your nipples. Furrowing your brows, you squeal into his mouth.

"Your hands-" You whine, "Your hands are so hot. It's like you're on fire." And Peter chuckles a heated breath in response.

"See? And that's why we're here. Gotta beat the heat somehow, eh?" He says, his hands playing with your frosty titties. Silken and cold on his skin.

Sinking to the floor, you lower yourself onto your knees. Peter knows without an ounce of doubt; your poor knees have to be aching like hell right about now. Yet, you persist. He scoots a little further at the edge of your bed, allowing you to ease yourself between his spread legs. With one less layer of clothing in the way of your touch, the coolness feels even more crisp and harsh over his cock.

“God, you’re so pretty…” He mumbles.

Peter stares down at you in awe, curling his fingers into the sheets. Biting your lip with an impish grin, you ease his boxers off completely. As your glimmering eyes meet the full length of his cock, you're instantly enamored. His dick, colored a scarlet hue and pulsing with thick veins, bounces over a silver bush of hair.

You haven't even touched him directly yet. But Peter can already feel that freezing aura easing in close. Swiping your tongue across your plush lips, you gaze at Peter's dick like your hunger hasn't been satiated in weeks.

No words are spoken between you both. As one of your hands treads carefully. Barely touching his thickness with your fingers. You stroke him in slow, but firm motions at first. Peter arches his back in shock, the cold like electricity rushing through his veins. Arctic temperatures rapidly pump his body full of adrenaline.

Maybe that’s why he’s so into this. Being a speedster, he’s always been addicted to the rush of exhilaration.

“Ohhh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Peter moans.

Your strokes slide up to the swollen, purple-ish head of his cock. Squeezing tightly. But the tip is too outrageously sensitive. A simple, icy cold tug of it gets Peter practically seizing. White light flashes through his vision. And just like that, he’s going totally mental. He jumps with an abrupt jerk, his body vibrating.

Peter whimpers in quick gasps, “Ah! N-Not the tip, baby! Not the tip!”

You make a quick retreat, sliding your hand down to the thick base of his length. Pumping his vascular cock in a frosty fist. He can feel his blood vessels constricting with every motion. Cold creeps under his skin, bringing with it a burning sensation. Peter’s groin tightens, and his moans turn to pleading whimpers.

With a cheshire grin, you flutter your lashes over a naughty gaze. Leaning forward, you tease the smooth length of his cock with your lips. Kitten licking a vein with the tip of your tongue.

“W-Wait! Hold on, Screwball! Fuck-” One of Peter’s hands finds your head, clutching strands of your hair between his fingers, “It’s too much, baby! I can’t-”

A long, chilling swipe of your tongue brings momentary crystals of ice. Igniting the burn along his skin. Peter never thought himself a masochist. But this freaky, frosty jerk-off session has somehow completely rewired his brain chemistry. Pain never felt so good.

In all your wickedness, little minx, you refuse to heed Peter’s warning. Your mouth engulfs the scorching heat of his cock. Surrounding him in a crisp, cold shroud. Bringing upon him a vengeance of the bleakest kind. Like a frostbitten hug, sending shockwaves of pleasure fluttering through his bones. Peter’s breathing quickens.

“Ah! FUCK! Gonna fuckin-...I’m fuckin’ cumming, baby! Sorry, sorry, sorr-” He falters over broken whines.

Acting on impulse like the total spaz he is, Peter panics. Tugging your head from his cock so he doesn’t bust a load in your mouth. He lags a few seconds behind. Late again, as per usual.

Peter accidentally showers your precious lips in his cum. Painting your face in hot, messy strands of it. He writhes in place, sluggishly rocking his hips forward. The spurting tip of his dick kisses your lips, the length bouncing with every eruption of thick, sticky heat.

For a second time in a row, he’s blown his load prematurely. Impressive, in a really lame way. But, hey, even if Peter feels a little bad for glossing you in his cum. He’s gotta admit, you look drop dead gorgeous like this.

Peter quickly snaps out of his post-nut daze, his eyes dancing across your decorated face.

Ah. Actually, now that he’s thinking somewhat clearly again…it’s a little gross. He fumbles over an onslaught of apologies. Reaching to the floor for his discarded shirt without thinking, he wipes your face clean of his nut.

Wait. Fuck. Why’d he use his shirt? Shit. Get it together, Quickie!

As always, you’re just as chill about this as you have been everything else, “That wasn’t so bad. But thanks. Sorry about your shirt, though.” You giggle. But all Peter does is shamefully laugh in response.

You’re perceptive enough to catch onto his sudden hesitance. He tenses, avoiding your pretty eyes. Bouncing a nervous leg at the speed of a rabbit’s kicks. Twice now, you’ve seen him finish way too early. And though he knows in his heart you wouldn’t judge him for his lack of experience; a small part of him fears the worst.

He really likes you, actually. It’d hurt like hell if you thought less of him over something so trivial.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” You ask. Playful, but still concerned.

Peter’s heart aches in the presence of your gentle nature. Swallowing his pride, he opts to confess. And if you think him pathetic for being a thirty year old virgin? Fuck it. He’s betting Hank’s mini fridge is still vacant.

You’re resting on your knees in between his legs, tracing feather-light, frosty patterns into his thigh. Peter’s skin swiftly erupts in goosebumps again, his body never accustomed to your arctic touch. Taking a deep breath, he drops his head forward.

“I…gotta be honest with ya about somethin’. I’ts-...” Peter cuts himself off with a sigh, burying his face in his hands, “I’m kind of…a virgin. Y’know, if you couldn’t already tell. I just…didn’t wanna say anything.”

“Pfffttt …” You puff in disbelief, like you’re assuming he’s messing with you. But Peter blinks, staring down into your eyes with a look that tells you he’s all business, “You’re serious? But, Peter, no offense? I’m really surprised! You always seemed like such a player. Like, you flirt with literally everyone.”

Peter stares at you in silence. He shakes his head, brows furrowed. A timid grin curling into his lips.

“I guess? I talk a big game, yeah. And I’ve made out with a lotta girls. Screwed around a few times. But…nah. I’ve never-uh…actually, really screwed. I dunno if the timing was never right or what, but…” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Despite fighting an internal war of crippling shame.

“Well, we’ll just have to remedy this then, won’t we?” Your hand rises to his chin, thumb tenderly stroking rough, silver stubble.

His eyes fly open, cheeks swarming a bright red. A beat, and Peter’s dick already twitches to life again at the prospect of your offer. However, despite his body’s insatiable desire, he waves his hands and shakes his head.

“N-No! No, babe! Listen, you don’t have to. I really wasn’t implyin’ anything when I said…uh…it’s just…I-I’ve never told anyone. That's all!”

“It’s fine! I said I would take care of you, didn’t I?”

He swallows, caught off guard by your choice of words. ‘Take care of you.’ His brows raise high, and the cartoonishly fast pounding of his heart returns. Fluttering in his chest, hiking up to sonic speed. Peter opens his mouth to protest, to remind you that you shouldn’t feel pressured into stealing his v-card.

But you’re already pushing yourself off the floor, climbing over Peter on your bed. With your icy hand to his chest, you guide him down onto his back. He gazes up at you with an uncertain, but lustful look in his dark eyes. In spite of the significantly cooler temperature of your room; Peter’s entire body breaks out in a humid sweat.

Okay. Calm down, man. Take a chill pill. Relax.

“You got any condoms?” You ask, blunt and up front.

So. This is really happening, huh? Yeah. Peter’s gonna lose his v-card to one of his teammates. No biggie. Screwing his fellow X-Man Screwball? Totally not a big deal.

Peter swallows dryly again, an awkward chuckle vibrating over his tongue.

“Not on me, no. I don’t really-uhhh…carry those around.” He makes a hasty move to sit up, “But I can run to the store really quick and grab some. Y’wanna snack ‘er a drink while I’m at it? I could really go fer somethin’ sweet like-”

Your frosty lips capture his in yet another, intimate kiss. For the sake of Peter’s inexperience, you take your time. Guiding Peter down onto his back once more. Working with tender consideration. When your tongue so lovingly swirls with his, he scowls. Tasting the lingering bitterness of his nut. He curls his lip.

“Euuuugh! Augh! Blegh! Is that really what I taste like? Eck! I’m so sorry, Screwball. I’ll try to spare ya next time. Eugh. That’s disgusting!” He rambles, overcompensating for his uneasy nerves again.

“Next time?” You raise your brows. Supple, wet lips smirking.

“Y-Yeah? Yeah…like… pfftt …if you want…” Peter shrugs, casual, blinking puppy dog eyes, “I dunno about you, but I’m havin’ a killer time fuckin’ around like this.” He adds, fingers toying with the hem of your panties.

Reaching for his cock, you take his length into your icy cold grip. Peter jolts again, cursing under his breath.

“I need to confess something too.” You say, bashful. Peter watches your facade of confidence diminish for a moment, “Would you still wanna do this if I told you I’m just as cold on the inside?”

“Woah…yeah. Listen, that is the opposite of a problem for me.” Peter reassures you, looking between your bodies, “Call me crazy? I’m really diggin’ the whole cold thing.”

He watches your fingers hook through the hem of your panties, sliding them down your smooth legs. It’s a bit awkward for you to get them off in this position. But eventually, you’re entirely exposed.

No more messing around. This is the real deal.

Wiggling your ass, you position your wintry cunt over his cock’s swollen head. Peter’s fingers tremble as they grab your ass for purchase. Holding you steady, he keeps his lidded gaze on your pussy. Entranced in the sight of your puffy lips lowering over his tip. Barely nudging it in, giving just a little tease of what’s to come. He shivers, muscles locking, shockwaves of glacial cold racing through his veins already.

“Ohhhhhhhh …wow…” He whines, teeth clamping his lip, “Please, ya gotta gimme more than that, baby.”

“Pietro, be patient.” You chastise him, fluttering your eyes closed.

Sighs and erotic moans of euphoria rise from the both of you in unison, just as his leaking tip dives through your cushiony walls. Peter shudders again, craning his neck back. Moaning a broken, strangled sound from deep in his chest. The tight, freezing sting of your cunt causes him to tense up. Peter digs his nails into the flesh of your ass, his lips parting for breath.

“Mmmmmfffuuck. You good? You okay?” You ask, little mewls bubbling in your throat.

Through frantic, wordless intakes of breath, Peter nods.

He’s never felt anything like this in all his thirty years of life. It’s a completely new sensation. The plushiest of pins and needles constricting tightly around his cock. Or the world’s softest pillow, pulled straight out of the freezer. Sex with you is the kind he could so easily become addicted to. If it was possible to stay connected this intimately forever, he’d do so in a heartbeat. No questions asked. Totally worth the searing pain of frostbite.

You take a few moments to adjust to the length and girth of him. It feels like centuries before you’re moving, but the wait is more than worth it. Your cunt weeps around his cock, swallowing him up completely in a frosty slickness. Peter chokes, his breath hitching. The pace you set is frustratingly slow, bouncing into his pelvis in steady slams of bush on silver bush.

“Fuck yeah. Just like that. More? C’mon gimme more, baby, please. Oh, please!” He whines, submissive and needy.

Sitting up a little straighter, you balance your cool hands on his chest. Peter’s skin is all raw and red, frostbitten from your previous teasing. It’s a little painful now, actually. Leaving a tingly burn. But the stinging pain registers as pleasure in Peter’s speedy brain.

Your pussy molds perfectly with the thick shape of him. Roughly shocking you with a surge of dull pain, Peter’s cock knocks straight into your squishy cervix. His expression contorts in overstimulation, his mouth falling open. He wets his lips with his tongue.

“That’s it. Fuckin’ ride me. Mmmmm yeah~” Peter moans, “Yer so fuckin’ cold. Shit-” His moans steadily trail off into whimpers.

“Should I stop? Is it too much?” You halt your movements for a second too long.

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ stop.” He groans, animalistic and ragged, “Ohhhh~ Please don’t stop.”

As you thrust your beautiful body into his lap, Peter follows your lead. Driving his hips against your ass with each bounce of contact. Overshadowing that sultry melody of Pink Floyd with the lewd smacking of skin on skin. Your cunt hugs his cock in a grip tight enough to induce more freezer burn. But it’s such an alluring feeling, he bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

Peter’s brown-eyed gaze rakes down your body. Intoxicated with the way your titties bounce and your pussy sucks the ever-speeding soul out of him. He has to mentally-prep himself so he doesn’t cum too soon again. But the piercing cold compressing his dick sends thrilling pulses through his limbs. Erotic pleasure burns deep in his gut.

“Pietro!” You cry. Riding his dick and mewling soft kitten noises, you circle your little clit with your fingers, “Want me to cum on your cock, pretty boy? Wanna feel this tight, little pussy cum for you?”

Ohhhhh. You can’t do that to him. Dirty, little minx. He’s never heard such filthy words like that come out of your mouth. And the way you sound, how you look touching yourself on his cock; It all triggers a carnal instinct in the recesses of his mind.

Peter lifts his hips in a display of super strength, abusing your cervix repeatedly with his cock. Pounding your pussy so fast and hard. With a force deep and rough enough to make you see stars. A filthy squelch of a sound echoes from inside you.

“Oh my god-” Peter’s face contorts in needy desperation, brows creasing, “Please? Wanna feel you cum, baby. Need you to cum on my dick so bad.”

Sitting up on his elbows with his mouth hanging lazily open, Peter brings his fingers to his drooling tongue. His eyes are half lidded and cloudy, almost rolling back into his skull. He reaches out, the wet pads of his fingers meeting your cute bud. He buzzes his digits in a scorching vibration, knowing how sensitive you are to his heat. Easily coaxing you towards release.

“HOH! FUCK-” Peter’s eyes flutter in shock, “ Ohmyfuckingod that’s really fuckin’ tight. ”

His body tenses hard as stone. Feeling you clench around him while he fucks you so deep he thinks he’s reached your stomach. Within a few, measly seconds of teasing vibrations on your clit; you’re cumming. Coating his cock in a wave of crisp slickness. You tremble uncontrollably, tilting your head back and crying like a siren of the arctic seas. Singing a mantra of the name Pietro.

Peter grips your hips hard with both hands, sinking his blunt nails into your skin. Animalistic instinct overflows his mind as soon as he’s reached his own peak. Ecstasy tumbles over Peter in an overwhelming crash, much like an avalanche. And just as he’s pumping you impossibly full of hot, thick ropes of cum; something happens.

His release burns inside you, pooling in a milky heat. A stark contrast to the freezing temperature constantly flowing through your body. Your nails scratch red lines into his chest, manifesting glass crystals of frost. They burn like hell, and Peter hisses. One, final slap of your ass against his lap, and –

A ripple of explosive, winter cold rushes from your body in a flash. The bombastic wave coats your entire room in powdery snow and sheets of ice. Turning the small space into a glorified freezer. It even hits the record player, slowing the final tune of Obscured by Clouds to a creeping stop. Piercing cold fires through Peter’s lungs, and he chokes on it.

…D…Did that really just happen??

Glancing around frantically, he pushes himself up on your bed.

A soft, tingling blanket of snow drapes his body. Peter sputters, quickly brushing as much of it off as he can. You’re still sitting over his lap, his softening dick tucked safely between your pussy’s plush walls. With every puff of warm air from his lungs, Peter can see his breath fanning like smoke through the air.

“Woooahhhhh, babe…” He nudges you on the shoulder to get your attention, his expression wide eyed and bewildered, “Are you seein’ this shit?”

Recovering from your numbing state of euphoria, you lazily scan your room. You gasp, though it sounds more like a really cute squeak; covering your mouth with a hand.

“Ah! What the hell did I do!? I’m sorry! Oh my god, Peter, I’m so sorry!” You say, dropping your face into Peter’s frost-bitten chest.

He hisses as you lean into his sensitive, scarred skin. And before you can spout off another flurry of sweet apologies – a noise catches the attention of you both. Outside, the two of you hear the unmistakable sound of children’s laughter. Joyful cries, followed by playful giggles and screams. You raise your head, meeting Peter’s doe eyes with a questioning look.

Narrowing his eyes, he pats your thigh. Signaling you to hop off his lap.

Clumsily, Peter zips around the room in a blur, searching for something to cover himself up with. But his clothes are all caked in snow. And not to mention a little something else. Peter has to resort to a blanket stuffed underneath all the others on your bed. Untouched by your surprise blizzard. He cloaks himself in the blanket, appearing at your door in a fwip.

Discreetly, he pulls the door open.

Or, at least, he makes an attempt. It’s completely frozen in place, sealed with ice around the lock and hinges.. Why is he even surprised at this point? Peter tugs the handle once or twice with barely any strength. And when that doesn’t work, he jerks it open with a harsh flex of his muscles. He pokes his fluffy, silverette head halfway out the door. Looking up and down the hallways.

Only to find…

Your orgasmic snowstorm reached places far beyond the confined space of your room. Looks like Christmas came early this year. The hallways of Xavier’s mansion are all drenched in frosty spreads of snow. It’s not nearly as much as what’s accumulated in your room. But it’s enough to stir up the students and teachers. Many of the kids run around excitedly. Bouncing, cheering, celebrating.

And who can blame them?

To those unseen forces of the universe out there: thanks for blessing us all with the power of Screwball's ecstasy.

Out of nowhere, the X-Men’s laser eyed leader makes his appearance. Scott comes skidding to a halt outside your door just at that moment. He balances himself with a hand to your door, a genial smile on his face. A fuzzy fust of red tickles the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Across the hall, Logan leans casually against a wall. Puffing a cigar, wearing a thin undershirt that compliments his jacked form a little too well. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his fitted jeans.

For a moment, Scott doesn’t seem to register why Peter’s even in your room.

But in this life, one speedster can only be so lucky.

“Wh-...Peter? Hey-uh…where’s-” Scott mentions your name, and continues, “I wanted to give ‘em my thanks for doing this.” He gestures over his shoulder to the mess of snow covering the walls and floors, “Some of the kids were getting really sick from the weather. And I know Xavier's gonna be pissed, but-...” His voice slowly trails off.

Scott’s smile falls for a beat. But Peter finds it hard to read his emotions without seeing his eyes clearly. Those sunglasses must do him loads of favors on a daily basis. If he tries, he can gauge what’s going through Scott’s head based on the look of surprise that crosses his face. Followed by a sly, knowing grin.

Summers is an intelligent guy. It doesn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

Especially with the way Peter stands in your doorway. He’s draped in a blanket that clearly isn’t his, shoulders bare underneath. The surface of his skin burns cherry red in some places. His hair is a tousled, fuzzy mess, and his cheeks are flushed bright pink.

Peter awkwardly swallows, avoiding the vibrant gaze of Scott’s red-tinted sunglasses. He directs his attention over his shoulder instead, making accidental eye contact with Logan. Wolvie arches a thick, quizzical brow, his eyes glancing over Peter’s blanketed form.

He really hadn’t meant for anyone to find out about this. But it looks like the cat’s out of the bag.

“You kids better be using protection.” Scott jokes, patronizing.

Which is funny, coming from him. Peter’s got ten years on him at the least.

“Uhhhh, yeah. I’ll totally tell ‘em you said thanks. We cool? Bitchin’. Later, Summers.” Peter rushes through his words ultra fast, before slamming the door shut behind him.

That’ll be a rough one to explain later. But hopefully no one’ll be nosy enough to pry. Besides, Peter doesn’t wanna think about it right now. Since, y’know, he kinda just got laid for the first time. Which is really fucking awesome, now that he can stop and really digest that it happened. And with someone he’s been crushing on too.

Maybe he’s luckier than he thought.

Peter presses his back against your icy door, letting the thick blanket covering his body fall to the floor. Leaving him butt ass naked in your freezer of a room. He rakes his fingers through his hair, cheesing a goofy smile to himself.

“What’s goin’ on? Were you talkin’ to someone?” You ask, emerging from your bathroom and brushing snow off a towel.

“Oh- pfffttt …just Summers. Yeah. He-uh…wanted to tell you thanks. ‘Cuz you kinda went all blizzard on this whole place and now it’s, like-” Peter makes a wide gesture with his hands, mimicking the sound of an avalanche falling. Or, that’s what he tries to do, anyway. He’s never been the best at charades.

“HUH!? What are you-” You rush to your door. Those pretty titties of yours bounce with every step. And Peter ogles them shamelessly. Poking your head through the door, he overhears the sound of your gasp. Followed by the shyest little, “Heyyyyyy, Logan.”

Before you’re closing the door again, marching to your bathroom with your head cast down in shame.

“Xavier’s gonna kill me, dude! I can’t believe this!” You whisper-shout.

Your bashfulness and frustration are so cute, Peter has to refrain from snickering. And as you reach the doorway, you stop yourself. He catches the motion of your eyes checking him out, before your gazes meet again. Peter smirks.

“Uhm…how was your first time, by the way?” You ask in a quiet, uncertain tone, “Was it…okay?”

Oh, you cannot even be serious right now.

Peter gives you a weird look. Staring at you like you’re some strange, newly discovered entity from a far off universe. Really, you must be, if you’re gonna question a good time like that.

“Okay? Okay?? ” Peter appears before you in less than a blink’s time.

He wraps his strong arm around your waist, pulling you close to his body. Grinning confidently, he darts down to kiss your frosty lips.

“Screwball, baby, that was a total rush. Are you crazy? It’s not every day I make somebody cum so hard they kickstart an early winter, y’know. Not bad fer my first time, if I do say so myself.” He waggles his brows.

I’m really glad I could help you out…” You mutter, smiling so sweet.

Your fingers trace the burns littering Peter’s chest with a feather-light touch. Even the faintest brush makes him wince in pain. But he’s not ashamed to admit it’s totally worth it. What’s a little freezer burn and frostbite between friends, huh?

Or, between…whatever the two of you are now.

“Oh, you did wayyyy more than help me out.” Peter winks, kissing you once more, “You rocked my world babe. Don’t sweat it, ‘kay? I had a great time.”

You saunter off to your bathroom then. And Peter reaches out to playfully smack your ass as you walk away. He admires your gorgeous figure in all its naked glory. His eyes following the jiggle of your booty cheeks.

“Yer still takin’ me on that date, right? Dinner and a movie?” He asks, startling you with his sudden appearance in the bathroom. Peter presses himself into your back, standing tall in comparison to your height.

“Can we hold off? Do you think you can wait until the city isn’t on fire?” You meet his dark eyes in the mirror over the sink, “And it can’t be Howard the Duck.”

“No. It’s most definitely gotta be Howard the Duck.” Peter brings his warm hands to your shoulders, thumbs gliding along your soft skin. He leans down to pepper your sex hair in kisses, “I won’t accept nothin’ else, got it?

“Mmmhm. Shouldn’t I be the judge of that, Peter? Since, like, you keep implying I’m the one paying.”

He scoffs, slowly gliding his large hands over the irresistible curves of your body. He gives a mischievous grin through the mirror, his look oozing speedster charm.

“Who said anything about paying?”

#peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x y/n #txt #smut

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spinzolliii · 11 months ago

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If you’re ever bored, just create your ideal whump room in Animal Crossing, Minecraft, The Sims, or anywhere that you can design a room. Bonus points if you can draw it.

Here’s some ideas:

A ridiculously comfy bed/couch/whatever with heavy blankets, cushy pillows, and maybe stuffed animals

Low, comfortable lighting

A trash bin or bucket within reach

A tissue box, possibly surrounded by crumpled tissues

Tea, hot chocolate, soup, broth, water, etc.. Maybe a tray to hold them

Bottles or blister packs of medicine

Cold compress and/or hot water bottle. Maybe just a rag hanging out if a bowl of ice water

First aid kit, fresh gauze/bandages/antiseptics

A chair for Caretaker

A fireplace, stove, heater, or fan

A window that’s either frosted over or being pelted with icy rain

Books, radio, other entertainment

A cabin or small cottage

Please give me your ideas

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miiiriko · 8 days ago

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gojo satoru x reader. takes place during the HI arc. i like to think everyone acts more amiable to him when he’s either in pain or not speaking. also this isn’t proofread i wrote it in like 10 minutes ignore all typos

White-hot harsh light invades all of his senses for half a second before its promptly gone.

Another trick of his technique, maybe. Still kicking and probing at him whenever it wants to throw him off balance. He had just narrowly finished his late mission of the day before his vision started to splotch. A steady climb that takes his migraine from a dull ache into pulsating pain, rendering him inept to move or think. He couldn’t even reach his room before his knees began to knock against each other, forcing him to pathetically stumble into the pitch black kitchens to wait out the worst of it.

These are happening far too frequent for his liking. During the ages of six to eight, bouts of migraines he’d never knew existed thundered through his tiny head, leaving him completely obliterated. All he remembers is groaning into the morning or night, empty cups of the finest medicinal herb brews next to his futon and his primary caretaker with him throughout.

He remembers her face, stony and aged. Sitting in seiza, head tilted down and eyes downcast in response to the writhing child in front of her. Another maid’s presence enters through the shoji doors, her cursed energy controlled to prevent hurting him further. It was no use. Her hand pressing a cold damp cloth to his forehead didn’t even touch him but just the closure of distance spiked irritation within his warbling CT. Everything was misshapen, light and colors fusing into one. She had hurriedly left the room, leaving her residuals behind.

One struggling glance at his nanny, calm and poised in his room almost sent him over the edge. Just as he was about to bark to be left alone, a crack in her armor broke. A tremor in her lips. With alien softness, she straightened his duvet wrapped haphazardly around his body and gently lifted his head to wipe at the sweat clinging to his nape. Her cursed energy is one that he knows. Deeply in his bones. Even as she gets closer, it’s no more than a slight throb contributing to the chaos. It’s weak too. Fainter than a non jujutsu’s.

In the blanketed silence of a winter evening, she caresses the plump of his cheeks. He will never forget the feeling of her papery skin on his.

And when she went to sit behind the shoji doors, it marked her first and only act against the strict behest to oversee him lest anything extraordinary occurs. He remembers strangely wishing she didn’t.

Logically, he went through that tumultuous period probably due to the fact that he was at the age where normal children within jujutsu society were manifesting. Rather than having his CT come to life, his got stronger.

That’s why he has little to no clue why it decided to kickstart again in this past week.

Stewing over the past paired with the maelstrom in his head makes him uncharacteristically unperceptive to the world around him. All that exists is the coolness of the wooden bench he’s hunched on and the erratic throb bouncing all over-

A hand on his forehead makes him blink.

A chilled bottle replaces the hand and he jerks back a little. Through his bleary sight he sees you sitting down next to him, a steam cup of ramen in hand.

The bottle of water is placed on the table in front of him and a handful of blister packs of pills. Sluggishly, he pops two in his mouth.

Even in his given state, surprise floods him as Nanami comes to sit on his left, starting at his own midnight snack.

Satoru feels warmth take root and spread from his chest.

The aroma from the food makes his stomach rumble too, a sudden noise too loud for the tender night. Invasive heat smarts at his cheeks at that. He hears a puff of laughter from his right and sees you hold a fork full of noodles near his lips, the cup hovering below to catch dripping soup. He takes the bite wordlessly.

Time passes like that. Being fed bites after you’ve taken your own bite, the comfort from the food and exhaustion from his inner turmoil dissolving his composure until his head is on your shoulder. He stares into the abyss of darkness, shrouding the three of you like a bird’s wing, and tries to fight the lull of sleep. Expecting to be dredged in an uncomfortable, aching sleep where he wakes up feeling the same.

But the light press of Nanami’s leg along his does something. Grounds him. Your chest, going in and out with every breath does something.

Just as he finally succumbs to the pull of sleep, he feels your arm slide around his waist.

He wakes up in his bed. The curtains are fully shut, just the narrow peek of light dancing on the floor. There’s a bottle of water, medicine, and chocolate on his bedside table. His favorite kind.

#jjk posting #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #comforting one another with sole presence ………#they saw him alone in the dark completely silent and were like this is happening only for tonight #u and nanami get little meals together to eat and yap send tweet

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adrift-in-thyme · 1 year ago

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@uncleskyrule happy belated birthday!!! Thank you so much for your patience while I wrote this! I hope it's worth the wait!

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

Four knows what sleep deprivation looks like.

He’s seen it spelled out on his grandfather’s face when long days turn his usual joviality to melancholy exhaustion and draws the shadows of half moons beneath his eyes.

He’s seen it painted across Dot’s beautiful features after an arduous night when the memories resurface, memories of a leering crimson eye, of claims to possession hanging heavy over her, of cages and darkness and smothering magic.

He’s seen it shadowed across his own face too, when the battles within and without grow to be too much, darkening his features, drawing them thin, sucking the youthful fat from his cheeks, the light from his eyes.

And he’s seen it…on the faces of his brothers.

On Time’s when the moon is full. On Twilight’s when a quiet twilight falls and skeletal trees whisper in tongues known only to some. On Wild’s when the amnesia recedes, Warriors’ when phantom lips press across his cheek, Wind’s after he awakens screaming his sister’s name. On Hyrule’s when he gives too much, Legend’s when the adventures he never speaks of tell their tale in his petrified cries at night…

And now on, Sky’s.

Some may find it strange for a man who can drift off practically anywhere to suffer from fatigue. Add to that uncanny ability, Sky’s penchant for seeming one of the most mature of their little group, the most…put together.

But Four is well acquainted with the deceptions someone can tell through demeanor alone. He himself has been dubbed mature, put together, responsible. And while, yes, those labels are true (Four would certainly be cross if people decided to start dubbing him childish or, Hylia forbid, a disaster as they call some more unruly children in his Hyrule), the lie rests in the assumptions they bring about.

Beliefs of invincibility and impervious spirit. Beliefs that there is no need to be gentle or kind, no need to offer respite or lighten the load.

It is the same fate their leader suffers so often, the same Warriors and Twilight sometimes crumble beneath. Suffering silently, yet always strong. So strong.

And Sky…

Sky hides it better than anyone.

Four is uncertain whether or not he is the only one who notices his distress. Perhaps, he is.

It doesn’t matter though. In fact, if he is the only one who has taken note of it then it is all the more important that he do something before Sky’s inevitable collapse.

But life never makes things simple. And in the end, he’s too late.

It has happened too many times now — a portal that separates the heroes into mismatched groups. Four thinks that perhaps, after his near defeat at the combined hands of the champion and the rancher the Shadow is attempting to be more careful.

More conniving. More vicious.

Attack first and you won’t be defeated. Such is the attitude of wild animals and beasts. More than likely, the Shadow shares it too.

This would explain why in addition to splitting the heroes up, this portal also dumps them right onto a battlefield.

Or at least, it does for Sky, Legend, and himself. Four can’t be sure what the others are facing. But he can only pray it isn’t a sand-drenched dungeon packed with redeads and stalfos.

The unearthly screeches of the emaciated corpses fill his ears as he fights, teeth gritted, heart pounding. It’s all the three heroes can do to stay out of reach of their paralyzing cries.

Back up to escape one beast and you nearly collide with the mad swing of a stalfos’ claymore.

Four winces as the very tip of a blade slices across his left arm and leaves an angry gash in its wake.

That’s going to need a bit of potion to remedy.

Beside him, Legend growls what sounds like a curse as he plunges his hand into his pouch and retrieves a fire rod. He brings it in a sweeping horizontal arc. In a blaze of blistering heat, a group of the monsters fall.

“Well done,” Four says with a breathless smirk. He plunges his sword into the gaping chest cavity of one of the stalfos still struggling for survival on the darkened floorboards. With a raspy exhale, it dissolves into ash. “I think you just turned the battle in our favor.”

“I’d better have,” Legend huffs. “The sooner we get rid of these things, the sooner we can get out of here.” He screws up his face in a grimace. More monsters crumple beneath his skilled hands. “It smells like death.”

It does, indeed, Four thinks as, finally, the last of the monsters fall. The stench of it hangs heavy, permeating the thick darkness that surrounds them, wafting from the thin threads of light carrying from faltering torches.

But now that the battle is over they can focus on escape. Hopefully, to a place where it proves easier to breathe.

He sheathes his sword, glances around. The gash on his arm throbs and the various bruises and smaller cuts he earned join in its stomach-churning beat. Still, it could have gone far worse.

“We all okay?” Legend asks, bangs falling into his face as he replaces his fire rod.

“Yes,” Four says. “How about you…Sky?”

His voice pitches an octave higher as he catches sight of the Skyloftian, turning the question almost into an exclamation.

The knight lies crumpled where he had stood mere moments before. The Master Sword lies fallen beside him, his cape flows over him like a blanket of snow. His breath comes in shuddering gasps that grate upon Four’s ears as he races to his side.

“Sky!”

He shakes him, slightly, and hazy blue orbs flutter open. Sky groans.

“What happened?” Legend drops down beside him, panic in his voice and a half-empty potion bottle in his hand. “Did a monster get him?”

Four shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” A quick inspection provides no sign of blood or other injury. But Sky’s face is ashen and he shudders as though in the throes of fever. “Sky, are you hurt?”

“N-not hurt.” Sky curls his fingers into a fist, as though attempting to gather strength. “J-just…just…” He swallows, tries to drag himself up, and nearly collapses again. It’s only Four and Legend’s quick movement that keeps him upright. “‘M fine.”

“Like hell you are!” Legend’s eyes are blazing with emotion now. “Sky, what happened?”

Sky shudders again. He glances down at the trembling hands he has folded into one, white-knuckled fist. There is a certain helplessness in the look.

“I dunno,” he croaks. “Was fighting and the room start-started swirling.” He curls in on himself further, and Four wonders if the next shaky exhale brings tears with it. His voice is very small. “I just-just fell.”

“And you didn’t have the strength to get back up,” Four says, solemnly. An idea is already forming in his head, a confirmation of what he has witnessed these past few hellish weeks.

I should’ve acted sooner.

But there had been fights both in and out of the group, and injuries and secrets unveiled. There had been discussions long overdue, restorations to be made in the face of pain and sorrow. And he, he had been in the midst of it all.

Between explaining the Four Sword and its powers and making up with Wild, he just hadn’t found the time…

“You haven’t been sleeping, Sky…have you?”

Now, Sky raises his head, glazed eyes focusing unsteadily on Four. Slowly, he shakes his head.

Legend blows out a sigh. He sits down beside Four and brings a dusty hand over his sweaty brow.

“Sleep deprivation? Yeah, that’ll do it. How long haven’t you been sleeping?”

Sky swallows. A beat passes, then another. The oppressive feel of death begins to crowd in on Four again. He struggles to breathe beneath it.

Then, “Since Twilight,” Sky whispers, and Four’s heart plummets to the depths of his stomach.

Legend’s hand falls to his lap with more viciousness than defeat. His face screws up in an expression that toes the line between sorrowful and intensely irritated. “I knew something was up! I knew it! I should’ve — ”

“Couldn’t have done anything,” Sky croaks, leaning further into Four’s touch. A small smile quirks his lips. “Was me that should-should’ve d-done something in the…in the first place.”

Legend’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

Sky looks back down at his hands.

Another theory is beginning to form in Four’s mind now, joining with the previous one, enlarging it, and embellishing it until things start to make sense. A theory born out of something Sky has said before, a snippet he had overheard and tossed aside in favor of giving his full attention to fighting the Yiga that had taken Wild captive.

“I’m sorry, champion,” the Skyloftian had said as he had helped Warriors tend to the boy’s wounds. “I was late…again. I’m sorry.”

“You blame yourself.” Four measures the words carefully, speaking each one with intricate precision. Lest he step in the wrong place and cause them all to plummet. “You blame yourself for what happened to Twilight.”

Sky lifts his bloodshot eyes. A tear wells in one of them then spills over to slither gracefully down his cheek.

“Why would you blame yourself?” Legend asks, even as comprehension burns in his violet irises. “It’s not your fault the rancher got hit. You weren’t even near him when it happened!”

“I was near enough.” Sky’s voice is quieter than ever now, more like a whisper than anything else. “I know the skyward strike. I could’ve hit that…that thing if I’d been…b-been faster.” His breath hitches. But to Four it sounds defeated more than panicked. “I was late and he paid for it. I’m a-always…”

He curls in on himself, weighed down by exhaustion, shuddering with pain and sorrow. Legend looks at Four and Four looks at Legend. Then, slowly, together they reach out and draw Sky into their arms.

It’s strange. Four hadn’t taken Legend for someone willing to show physical affection freely. But he embraces the Skyloftian as though it is no price to pay. As though he has done so before.

Long nights. A shuddering sob. Soft feet dressed in boots with wings adorning their sides. Whispers in the dark that exhaustion muddles before Four can make them out. Amethyst eyes staring from over a hazy cloud of silken white. Sliding shut as a larger form huddles deeper into an embrace.

Sky shivers again and Legend holds him tighter.

“It’s not your fault,” Four murmurs, pouring every ounce of confidence he possesses into those words and praying that it is enough. “It’s not your fault, Sky. You did everything you could do for him. There’s nothing else you could have done.”

Sky doesn’t reply.

They hold him, whispering assurances, as his tears wet their tunics and his fatigued body quakes beneath the burden he forces it to carry. They hold him until, at last, in the murky darkness, surrounded by carcasses of monsters and piles of resting sand, he drifts off.

In the arms of his brothers.

#trin writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu sky #lu legend #lu four #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #angst

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moons-and-mobility-aids · 7 months ago

Text

Muggle Pills

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: The boys learn what your pills do. Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, use of y/n, depictions of chronic pain, chronic illness realism, pots representation, cerebral palsy symptoms, hypermobility spectrum disorder, mentions of allodynia, epilepsy management, pmdd and depression overlap, medical trauma undertones, reader's self-neglect, some suicidal ideation (past), soft established relationship, reader explains their conditions, james being gentle with his questions, sirius processing through touch, remus understanding in silence, found family vibes, reader-led emotional intimacy, comforting domestic moment, mundane care as intimacy, magic meets muggle medicine, the boys learning to love what they don’t understand yet Word count: 3.3k words Series Masterlist

You sit cross-legged on the plush carpet of your bedroom floor, a small pile of pill boxes scattered around you. Your fingers move with practiced ease as you sort the pills into their respective compartments in a weekly divider—Monday through Sunday, morning, noon, and night.

It's a routine task, one that offers a strange sense of solace amidst the chaos of everything else. Plus, it saves you from the struggle of prying open blister packs every day.

Around you, the Marauders lounge about as if this were any other lazy afternoon. Sirius flips idly through a Quidditch magazine, his brows furrowing at an article about the latest racing broom. James lies sprawled out across your bed, tossing a Quaffle up and down while he debates strategy. Remus sits quietly in a corner, engrossed in a book, a sliver of sunlight illuminating the dust motes dancing around him. Your room has become their second home, just as comfortable and familiar as their dormitory.

They've grown accustomed to these quiet moments together, each occupied with their own thoughts or interests. And yet today, something shifts. A question hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

James is the first to break the silence, his voice cutting through the soft hum of activity. "Y/N?" He pauses, catching himself before the words tumble out unchecked. His gaze flickers over to where you sit, still dividing your medication for the week ahead. "Why... why do you take all those? Like, on top of the potions?"

For a moment, time seems to stretch thin, the seconds elongating as you weigh your answer. They've seen you like this before—pills in hand, water glass nearby—but never asked. Not until now. Something about the directness of the question gives you pause, but then you realize: they deserve to know. Especially now, when lines have blurred and friendships have blossomed into something more intimate, more profound.

"Right," you begin, letting out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Your fingers trace the edge of the first pill box—a small, round tablet that's more crucial to your daily life than any potion or spell could ever be. "This one is for my blood pressure."

James, Sirius and Remus lean in closer, their attention rapt despite the seemingly mundane topic. The significance isn't lost on them; every detail about you feels important now, woven into the fabric of their care.

"It's always been too low," you explain, eyes downcast as if you're sharing some great secret. Perhaps it is, in its own way. An admission of frailty, of the battle you wage within your body each day. "If I don't take this, I get dizzy... faint sometimes."

A flicker of understanding passes across James's face, then Sirius's. They've seen you like that before, pale and unsteady in the corridors during your early years at Hogwarts. At the time, they'd chalked it up to nerves or fatigue—anything but a chronic condition. But now...

"Wait," Sirius says, his voice rough with concern. "Are those fainting spells why you had to go back to the hospital wing so often?"

You nod, a hint of relief washing over you. It's easier than you thought it would be, opening up about this part of your life. Maybe because they listen without judgement, accepting each revelation as another piece of the puzzle that is you.

"Yes. That was before I started taking this," you say, tapping the pill box lightly.

Sirius leans back slightly, processing this new information with a furrowed brow. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Remus beats him to it.

"Do you still feel like you might pass out even with the medication?" His tone is gentle yet probing, respectful of your boundaries but curious all the same.

"Sometimes." You shrug, trying to downplay the gravity of what living with such unpredictability means. "But it's better than before."

Remus nods, storing away this tidbit of knowledge like he does with everything else. He understands, perhaps better than anyone, what it means to navigate the world with a body that doesn't quite cooperate. And while your experiences are vastly different, there's a silent kinship in shared struggle—a bond forged through resilience and endurance.

"Next is this one." Your fingers move to a different compartment, closing around another pill. "It's for my heart rate."

Their brows furrow almost in unison, confusion etching lines across their young faces. You suppose it must be strange for them, hearing about the inner workings of your body when all they've ever known are charms and potions, Quidditch injuries and common colds.

"But isn't that connected to your blood pressure?" James asks, his forehead creased as he tries to make sense of it all.

"In a way, yes," you explain, appreciating his attempt to understand. "But while the first medication helps raise my blood pressure, this one keeps my resting heart rate from getting too high."

"That doesn't sound pleasant," Sirius chimes in, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. Although he's always been more comfortable with banter than serious conversations, there's an earnestness in his expression that speaks volumes about how much he cares.

"It's not something I feel most of the time," you admit, setting the second pill aside. "I don't really notice unless I forget to take it or if I'm especially stressed out. But without it, my heart behaves like I'm running even when I'm sitting still."

You let the implication hang in the air, a testament to the silent battles waged beneath your skin. A hush falls over the room, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the fire. The boys exchange glances, each processing your revelation in their own way. From the corner of your eye, you see James run a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture betraying his unease.

"I remember once," you begin again, your voice barely above a whisper, "I got a concussion in school, no big deal but headed the A&E to be checked out, and I ended up being admitted because my heart rate was over 180 beats per minute and wouldn't come down. They were so alarmed, kept asking me if I felt okay..."

The memory is vivid, etched into your mind with sharp clarity. The steady beep of monitors, the worried faces of doctors—reminders of just how fragile human bodies can be.

"And did you?" Sirius interrupts, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

"Did I what?"

"Feel okay? Or were you..." He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. It's clear to see why; the notion of such turmoil within you, unbeknownst to them until now, is unsettling to say the least.

"I mean, my head was killing me but otherwise, I felt fine," you state, "but that doesn't mean it's safe to ignore."

There's a pause as they digest your words, the gravity of what you're sharing settling heavy in the silence. Remus shifts slightly beside you, his gaze thoughtful. As ever, he seems to carry an understanding beyond his years—a quiet wisdom born from living in the shadows.

"When we were in the hospital wing together in first and second year—you know, after the full moon and your... episodes," he begins cautiously, mindful of the delicate territory he's treading on. "Was this part of it? Your heart thing?"

You shake your head, offering him a small smile. "While I did have the heart rate as a problem, that's not why I was there."

Remus nods slowly, absorbing this new information. His brow furrows, not in judgement but in concern—a silent question lingering behind his amber eyes. How much more is there to learn?

"Right," you say, moving on to the next pill. It's a small orange capsule and looks innocuous enough, but its role is no less vital than the others. "This one's for my epilepsy."

"Epilepsy?" James blurts out, his eyes widening at the revelation.

You nod, acknowledging his surprise with a wry smile. "It helps prevent seizures. But it's not foolproof. I regularly have atonic seizures still, they only last a few seconds and nothing needs to be done with those. I don't really have big ones anymore, but when I get sick or stressed—or before I got my implant, when I had my period—I can still have them."

The room goes quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the background. Sirius and James exchange glances, their expressions mirroring the unease that hangs in the air.

"How long have you..." James starts, then clears his throat, struggling to find the right words. "How long have you had epilepsy?"

"Basically my whole life," you answer simply. "But it's mostly managed now. The stress of exams and assignments can trigger the big seizures sometimes, but most people don't notice."

Sirius frowns, running a hand through his hair. "Have you had any since getting with us?"

"I mean, I've had little ones but not any big ones." You reach over to squeeze his hand reassuringly before letting go. "But during last year, I did have several because of the stress of OWLs."

His grip tightens around yours, concern etched into every line of his face. It's strange, seeing Sirius so unguarded, his usual bravado replaced by raw vulnerability. But then again, nothing about this situation is ordinary.

"You never told us," James says quietly, meeting your gaze with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt. He's not accusing, merely stating a fact—one that seems unthinkable given how close you all are.

"I didn't want to worry you, you were just my friends then," you admit, looking down at your hands. "Besides, you three were so focused on your own exams. You wouldn't have noticed even if you tried."

There's truth to your words, but they do little to ease the guilt that flashes across James's features, and Sirius remains silent, his grey eyes clouded with thought. Both boys are processing this new information, trying to reconcile the image of you—a force of nature, unbowed despite everything—with the reality of your condition.

Remus, who has been listening silently, finally speaks up. "I remember... those nights in the hospital wing when we were younger. I'd be in there because of the full moon, you'd be there because of a seizure…"

"Or worse," you say, almost to yourself. "To be honest, I was also there because no one trusted that I wouldn't try to kill myself, and no healer or doctor would give an 11-year-old birth control for their PMDD. I got the implant at 14, and the seizures went away with my period, as did the temptation to kill myself."

James blinks, stunned into silence. "I never knew any of this," he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

"By the time we became proper friends, I already had the implant. There was no reason to tell you about something that was no longer a problem." You give him a reassuring smile.

James nods slowly, although the concern has not entirely left his eyes. Sirius, too, seems pensive as he stares into the fireplace, blowing out a slow breath. Only Remus appears unchanged, his expression calm and thoughtful, as if the revelations were expected.

"Right," you say, taking a deep breath as you reach for the final pill box, a small white container that holds a different kind of lifeline. "This one's my antidepressant."

The change in atmosphere is almost palpable as James and Sirius stiffen beside you. Remus, ever the stoic observer, merely watches.

"Is that... because of everything else?" asks Sirius tentatively, his grey eyes searching yours for answers. You can tell he's treading carefully now, aware that this conversation has ventured into territory far more delicate than any duel or prank gone wrong.

"Yeah," you reply, letting out a long exhale. "It helps manage the lows, but it's not foolproof. Nothing really is."

James's thumb brushes over the back of your hand, tracing patterns there as if trying to will away the pain etched between your words. He doesn't speak, but his silence carries its own weight, heavy with understanding.

"You're not always..." James starts, then stops, uncertain how to phrase his question without sounding insensitive.

"Depressed?" you finish for him, offering a wry smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Not always, no. But when I am... well, let's just say it's better for everyone involved that I have these."

Your fingers tap against the pill bottle, the sound echoing lightly through the room.

A moment passes before Sirius breaks the silence. "And do they work? The pills, I mean." There's a hopeful note to his voice, laced with a quiet desperation that mirrors the way his eyes never leave your face.

"For the most part," you admit. "But like I said, they're not perfect. They help keep things under control, but they don't make my symptoms go away entirely. And some days are harder than others."

You pause, considering how best to explain what living with depression feels like—the relentless heaviness that often threatens to pull you under despite the medication designed to keep you afloat.

"It's like walking through a storm," you say finally. "Most days, the meds are like a good coat—they keep the worst of the rain off. But sometimes the storm gets too strong, and all the coat can do is stop you from getting completely soaked."

"Merlin," James breathes, running a hand through his hair as he processes your words. "Have you been dealing with all this since..."

"Birth?" you supply, nodding once. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Since you were a baby?" Sirius asks, his voice rough with disbelief. "How long have you been taking all these pills?"

"I was little when I was put on the epilepsy meds," you admit, "but the others were added as new conditions developed."

"And what happens if you forget to take one?" James's tone is gentle, but there's an underlying urgency that betrays his worry. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Well, missing a dose here and there isn't the end of the world, usually." You shrug, trying to make light of it, though the truth is more complex. "But if I go too long without them... Let's just say it can lead to some serious complications."

Remus watches you, his gaze steady and thoughtful. "It must be exhausting," he says quietly, "keeping track of all this, making sure you're always taking the right thing at the right time. Especially with the potions you use for your pain."

"It's a lot," you agree, not seeing any point in denying it. "But the alternative..." Your voice trails off as you picture yourself without the medication: the pain, the fatigue, the despair. "Let's just say I'm grateful for muggle and wizarding medicine, even if it doesn't fix everything."

The words hang heavy in the air, a quiet echo of your confession ringing in the stillness of the room. The boys sit with straight spines and furrowed brows, each processing what you've just shared in their own way. For a moment, no one speaks, the silence filled only by the crackling fire and the soft patter of rain against the window.

The world of pills and doctors is foreign to them, so far removed from the magical healing they know. They are warriors in their own right, but this is a battle they do not understand, cannot see. It's in the lines that etch deeper into Sirius' forehead, the way his fists clench at his sides—not with anger towards you, but with a burning frustration for an enemy he cannot confront.

"I can't believe we didn't know," James finally breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. It's not an accusation, merely a statement laced with self-reproach. But there's no need for you to respond; the truth of it hangs in the air around you. How could they have known? You've become a master at concealing the extent of your pain, hiding behind masks of normalcy even when your body screamed otherwise.

Sirius shifts slightly, and his voice is quiet when he finally breaks the silence, a note of confusion threading through the words.

"Why didn't you say something before?" It's not an accusation, just a question born from concern and a hint of hurt. Sirius has never liked being left in the dark, especially when it comes to those he cares about.

"I didn't want to worry you," your voice barely rises above a whisper, carrying with it a weight that sinks into the silence of the room. "And knowing doesn't change anything." You glance at them, each face mirroring the gravity of your confession. "It's not like any of you can fix it."

James looks as if he wants to argue, to insist that there must be something they can do. But he remains silent, understanding—for now—the boundaries you've put in place. Relief briefly washes over you, even as you see the frustration flicker in his hazel eyes. James has always been a man of action, someone who leaps forward to shield those he loves from harm. To know there's a wound he can't mend must feel like salt on an open cut.

"I don't need you to fix it," you say gently, guessing his thoughts. "I just need you to understand."

Remus nods, his face softening as he speaks for the first time in a while. "And we do," he says quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. "Or at least, we're starting to."

There's a pause as the four of you absorb this shared understanding, a quiet acknowledgement that hangs in the air like a promise. You can almost feel the shift in the room, tangible and real, a subtle strengthening of the bonds between you. They may not fully comprehend your reality, but they're reaching out, trying to bridge the gap. And for now, at least, it's enough.

The fire dances in the hearth, painting the room with flickering shadows and bathing you all in its comforting glow. For a moment, everything else falls away, leaving only the crackling flames, the soft murmur of conversation, and the sense of peace that seems to settle over the world outside.

You finish sorting your pills into their designated compartments, the rhythm of the task grounding you. The lid of the weekly pill organizer closes with a satisfying click, a small victory against the chaos that often threatens to consume you. It’s a simple act, but in these uncertain times, even the smallest semblance of control is a lifeline.

James, ever the man of action even in stillness, shifts on the bed, leaning closer. His voice is a low rumble, steady and sure. "You know we're here, right?" It's not just a question—it's a tether, a lifeline thrown out to you in the darkness. And it's a promise, one that James Potter has every intention of keeping.

Sirius doesn't let himself be left behind, his own hand reaching out to touch yours lightly. There's something almost reverent in the gesture, as if he's afraid you'll shatter at a heavier touch. "We're not going anywhere." The words hang in the air, solidifying into a pact made of iron will and unyielding loyalty. His grey eyes are hard with resolve, the decision made long before the words had even left his lips: He will stay by your side, through this and whatever comes next.

Remus doesn't say anything more, but the silence that stretches between you is far from empty. His gaze never wavers, each exhale a testament to the quiet vigil he keeps. He understands, perhaps better than anyone, the battles waged in silence, the wars fought within oneself. And though he doesn't speak, his presence is a constant reassurance—there, always there, offering strength when yours threatens to wane.

#Poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #Sirius black x reader #Sirius black x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter x you #james potter x reader #marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfic #meant to be: hogwarts era #chantelle writes fic

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