#press x to cure plague

[niepomyslowaja]

I need a remake of pathologic made by david cage, that would be so funny holy crap

Every time u go into an infected district you have to do a long & rlly hard QTE

And ofc you control all of the protagonists in one playthrough, detroit become human style

[milkbobatyun]

anyone but you

pairing: wanderer/scaramouche x gn!reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: everyone else had abandoned him, but you always stuck true to him.

word count: 1k

a/n: proud to be a scaramouche simp AND wanderer haver !! dont question the lore aspect of this fic, idk myself asw LMAO

the two of you were but mere pipsqueaks when you met. 

your older brother, morax, had just ascended to godhood and was too busy with the affairs of his new nation to be able to carefully look after his baby sister. likewise, ei was too caught up in her pursuit for eternity to care for her newly made puppet. 

so, what better option was there for them than to let the two of you fend for yourselves together? being lumped together from a young age, and being innocent and naive meant that the two of you relied on each other, the two of you against the world.

you were there when his mother, no, creator, had discarded him. he had no strength, only a pure soul, one that had not yet been tainted by the cruelty of the world. his tender heart had been broken.

like a pet thrown out onto the street, kunikuzushi found himself always making his way back home, tracing the familiar steps to the shrine, sitting outside, pitifully waiting in the rain.

beside him, you sat quietly, offering him silent company. despite the bone-chilling cold, you offered him a hug, the warmth of your love engulfing him, a shield against the uncaring world.

as the both of you awaited for some sliver of hope to shine in the dark clouds of despair, you would pet his head and sing quiet lullabies as it lay on your lap, salty tears leaking from his eyes. he didn’t know puppets could cry. 

hope never came. the almighty shogun had abandoned her creation forever, condemning him to live among mortals, whose short lives meant death, a premature one when compared to his immortal lifespan. 

the bitterness of betrayal consumed a portion of his heart.

kunikuzushi had trusted him. his friend, katsuragi. 

they had promised to be family, a happy little family. tiny kuni, katsuragi and small [name].

so why? why did he tremble in fear now, when he saw kunikuzushi approach him?

it used to be cheers of happiness.

“little kuni!” he would greet, waving his arm in greeting, looking like a comical sight. a wide grin would mirror onto kunikuzushi’s face. someone had finally accepted him and [name] for who they were, looking past the non-human features and seeing their fragile hearts and souls.

katsuragi didn’t hate him for his porcelain skin and ball joints. he didn’t hate [name] for her strange, draconic horns. they were loved, remembered, as the blacksmith and his friends presented them with a beautifully decorated cake.

“to commemorate our year of memories together.” he had declared.

how cruel. how heartless of him, to take the hearts they had trustingly bestowed upon him, crushing it in his grip.

the crystalline pieces fractured, shards of a puzzle that could never be pieced together again.

his betrayal had taken a toll on kunikuzushi’s soul. tears rained down onto the ground as he clutched at your clothing with tight fists.

with warm words and soothing lullabies, your gentle touch and the feeling of home lulled the worn out puppet into sleep.

kunikuzushi was heartbroken. he was scared of this ugly nature of humans. no. he wasn’t scared. he was angry. angry at this cruel world.

he was falling into a dark abyss. curse this wretched world, for carelessly throwing his heart around.

the little boy. oh how naive and innocent he was, a fledgling chick, learning to fly.

kunikuzushi and [name] had found the sickly boy sheltering in your small, rundown, forgotten house on one of the many islands of inazuma. he was plagued with illness, not even your knowledge of medicine could cure him.

yet, you still pressed on, nourishing the little boy with lavender melons and a banquet of dishes. kuni often volunteered to go forage for different fruits, proudly bringing back the herbs he had picked in the wilderness.

once, you were even lucky enough to buy a small doll that resembled kuni.

that day had been the little boy’s birthday. you were on your daily trip to the local market when you caught sight of it. with care, you nestled the doll between the ingredients you had bought for the cake.

as the little boy blew out the candles on the sad, slightly lopsided birthday cake, he wished that he could stay with the two of you.

“we’re family now.” he had grinned at you, his two missing front teeth all the more prominent. “we’re going to be together forever and ever.”

how naive and innocent you were.

in the night, you tried to ignore the bone-chilling, hacking coughs that resonated in the empty manor. the worsening coughs that raked through his body, leaving him pale and shaking.

every night, you questioned the gods. if they were so benevolent and kind, why? why rip this young fledgling from his nest and toss him into the harsh world? what twisted sense of joy did it bring?

once again, the two of you foolishly bared your newly-mended hearts to humans, only for it to be crushed underfoot.

humans can’t be trusted. it took three betrayals before you finally understood.

a soft, porcelain heart, in this unjust world would only lead to pain and suffering. only by hardening his heart into stone, could the puppet withstand the test of human nature.

“you can’t leave me like him, [name],” kuni’s hoarse voice pleaded, gripping you as though you would disappear. “promise me.”

a link of your pinkies and you promised him, but a flicker of hesitation flitted through your eyes.

from that day on, scaramouche clung tight to you, you were his lifeline in this ugly world. the only thing pure and deserving of his love. he cast away his vulnerable and foolish younger self, burying his heart with his own two hands.

good riddance to the rest of the world, the world that he would curse at and denounce. but you, you would always have to stay by his side, in life and in death.

he would do anything to keep you near him. chain you, shackle you beside him, go to hell and back, anything so you wouldn’t abandon him, like all the others did.

his heart was cold and black, impenetrable like rock. but even a stone could retire under the erosion of time, becoming pure like the most exquisite of gems.

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Could you write about stan or Ford taking care of their sick s/o? I've been suffering from an awful head cold this past week and it sucks i could really use the comfort 😭

sick days with Stan & Ford (x reader)

a/n: starting with smth sfw while i work on… other things hehehhe but I hope you’ll feel better! take your meds and let yourself rest 💌 and thank u for the ask, anon!!

Stanford Pines

the kind of man who fights interdimensional monsters but still worries if your tea is the right temperature.

he tucks you onto the couch, fussing over pillows and blankets until you’re buried like some kind of marshmallow. then he disappears into the kitchen, where you can hear pots clanging and. . . is that the blender?

when he returns, he’s holding a tray with a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a strange concoction that’s vaguely green.

“head cold or not, you need fluids. hydration is important,” he says, setting a mug of something herbal-smelling on the coffee table. “this tea is from the forests of dimension 52. the locals swear by it for respiratory ailments.”

you squint at the mug. “it’s not gonna. . . mutate me, right?”

Ford pauses, adjusting his glasses. “probably not.”

“Ford!”

he chuckles, sitting beside you with a soft sigh. “it’s perfectly safe, i’ve tested it. besides, you trust me, don’t you?”

and of course you do, even when his idea of “helping” involves interdimensional remedies that could very well grow you a third arm.

you take a tentative sip. the taste is weird, but soothing, warming you from the inside out.

“good?” he asks, watching your face expression.

“yeah,” you admit, sinking deeper into the blanket. “not bad.”

satisfied or at least faking this, he leans back, but that little crinkle in his brow never really goes away.

“you’re overthinking again,” you notice, looking at him.

“i am not,” he says, entirely unconvincing.

“Ford.”

he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “i just hate seeing you like this, i keep thinking there must be something more i can do.”

you reach out, tangling your fingers with his. “you’re doing enough, really, just stay with me, okay?”

Ford’s expression softens and he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“always.” and he stays, reading to you from one of his journals while you drift in and out of sleep. his voice is calm, comforting and every so often, he pauses to carefully check your temperature.

Stan Pines

you wake up with your throat feeling like sandpaper and your head pounding. you barely have the energy to groan, let alone drag yourself out of bed, but the world outside your room is loud. voices from the tv, Stan’s yelling at it.

with blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you stumble out and see Stan sprawled on the armchair in his striped boxers and tank top, he’s shoving popcorn into his mouth by the handful, but when he sees you, he nearly chokes on it.

“jeez, you look like somethin’ the cat dragged in. worse than waddles after he found that mud pit last week.”

you sniffle. “thanks for the pep talk, Stan.”

he waves you over as his tone softens. “c’mon, c’mere. what’s wrong? flu? cold? bubonic plague? don’t tell me you’re contagious.”

you plop next to him, dropping your head onto his shoulder. the tv’s too loud, but you can’t even complain about it.

“it’s just a cold,” you murmur. 

“cold, huh? well, that’s nothing to mess with,” you can hear the tease in his voice. “lemme get my doctor bag. got some snake oil in there that cures everything, even bad attitudes.”

he shuffles off to the kitchen, muttering about needing to find some ginger ale. he comes back with a mug of tea that looks. . . questionable. is that a bay leaf? and a handful of mints?

“drink this, kid, don’t ask questions.”

you sip and it’s awful. Stan grins as you make grimace. “told ya it’s magic. now, get cozy.”

he turns the tv down and drapes his old, scratchy afghan over you. you don’t know when it happens, maybe during some ridiculous commercial for glow-in-the-dark socks, but you fall asleep with your head still on his shoulder.

when you wake up, the tea’s gone, replaced by a cup of melted ice cream with a sticky spoon, meanwhile Stan is snoring loudly with his arm protectively thrown over you.

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (13.2/15) - Part II

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @a-moment-captured, @boujiestpoet, @avngrsfangirl, @yeea-nah @alika-4466 @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @saturnville @weetjy @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @niahxo @purplelewlew @f1-football-fiend @imjustheretomanifest @gg-trini @kinggbl @iamryanl @mitruscity @nichmeddar @xoscar03 @4ftwonder

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 13.2: Baby LH-Squared On Board

Barcelona in June was a love letter to sun-drenched afternoons and evenings that stretched lazily into warm, starlit nights. The Spanish Grand Prix was always a highlight on the calendar for its energy, its sprawling Catalonian charm, and the way the city seemed to hum with possibilities. This year, it carried even greater significance for Lewis and Rorie. With Lyric happily spending time with Nina in Monaco, the couple had a rare moment to themselves.

Rorie sat on the sofa of their suite, her ginger tea cradled in both hands. The vibrant city stretched out beneath their balcony, the soft sounds of street performers playing Catalan melodies drifting in. At fourteen weeks, her belly was beginning to show, a small, undeniable curve that filled Lewis with pride.

He was crouched before her, his hands resting lightly on her thighs, leaning in close as if speaking directly to their growing child. "Good afternoon, little one," he murmured, his voice a tender melody of its own. He pressed a kiss to the soft fabric of her sundress, right where her stomach curved outward. "Your dad’s got a big race tomorrow, so you and your mum will be cheering me on, yeah?"

Rorie chuckled softly, running her fingers through his neatly braided hair. "I think your biggest fan is already ready to cheer you on, babe." She sipped her tea, savoring the warmth it brought to her still-sensitive stomach. "This tea is doing wonders, by the way. Not a total cure, but better than before. I’m not spending half the day in the bathroom anymore, so we’ll take it."

Lewis glanced up at her, a mixture of relief and concern crossing his face. He hated seeing her suffer through the extreme morning sickness that had plagued the early weeks of her pregnancy. The medication had helped, but there were still moments when the nausea crept in, stubborn and unrelenting. "You’re so beautiful," he said, his hand drifting to rest lightly over her stomach. "Both of you are. And you’ve been a warrior through all of this."

"Don’t make me cry," she warned, her voice teasing but her eyes soft. "Hormones are still raging. I’ll ruin my makeup."

He laughed, leaning in to kiss her gently before resting his cheek against her belly. "Okay, I’ll behave." But he stayed there for a moment longer, humming softly—some old Motown tune his mother used to sing to him as a boy. The vibrations of his voice traveled through her, grounding her in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

Rorie smiled, her hand drifting down to rest over his. "Martin called this morning," she said, breaking the quiet. "The meeting last month must’ve gone better than I thought because now he wants me to meet my half-siblings."

Lewis sat back slightly, his expression immediately shifting to one of cautious curiosity. "How do you feel about that?"

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the mug. "I don’t know. I mean, Athena seems fine—better than fine. She was fine when we met in Bahrain, but the others…" She trailed off, a shadow of uncertainty crossing her face.

Lewis reached for her free hand, lacing their fingers together. "Whatever you decide, I’ll be right there with you. But I won’t lie—I’m nervous about how this might pan out. People don’t always handle situations like this with grace."

Rorie nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, I’ve noticed." She took a deep breath. "But I want to try. If only to see what kind of people they are."

Her mind drifted back to that day in Monaco, just hours after discovering her pregnancy...

The restaurant terrace offered a perfect view of the Mediterranean, though Rorie kept her sunglasses firmly in place. Her lemonade sat mostly untouched as Martin spoke, his words washing over her like waves against the harbor wall.

"I made mistakes," he was saying, gesturing with hands that reminded her too much of her own. "The interview with Piers—that was wrong. I shouldn't have done that."

Rorie remained silent, one hand resting protectively over her still-flat stomach.

"And telling your mother to..." Martin paused, and had the grace to look ashamed. "Well, I was scared. That's not an excuse, but—"

"No," Rorie finally spoke, her voice steady. "It's not an excuse."

"I want to be part of your life," he pressed on. "Meet my grandson. Be a proper grandfather."

She took a careful sip of lemonade, buying time. The baby in her belly made her think differently about everything now. About family, about forgiveness, about protecting what matters.

"You don't get automatic access," she said finally. "To me or to Lyric. That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?"

"You start with my mother," Rorie set her glass down firmly. "A proper, in-person apology. No cameras, no press, no excuses. Just you, owning what you did."

Martin's face tightened. "Rorie—"

"That's the first step. After that, we take it day by day." She stood, adjusting her flowing top carefully. "I'm not the angry teenage girl you imagined in that interview anymore. I'm a mother. Think about what kind of grandfather you want to be. Then act accordingly."

She left him on that sun-drenched terrace, her heart lighter than when she'd arrived. Some choices weren't just about us anymore—they were about the future we wanted to build for our children.

______________________________________________

Later that evening, they found themselves in a private dining room at a high-end restaurant, waiting for Rorie's half-siblings to arrive. Athena arrived first, dressed professionally - her media credential from Motorsport Weekly still hanging around her neck.

"I just finished some interviews in the paddock," she explained warmly, hugging Rorie. "The perks of interning with F1 media - getting to see my sister more often."

Before Rorie could respond, the door opened again. Azariah entered first, his six-foot-three frame commanding immediate attention. His dark skin gleamed under the restaurant lights, and despite his imposing height, his eyes held a gentle warmth. He wore his hair in neat locs that fell past his shoulders, his button-down shirt and pressed slacks suggesting the polished professionalism of someone used to boardrooms.

Aaron followed, shorter than his brother but built like a boxer. His dark brown complexion was offset by a fresh fade, geometric patterns carved precisely into the sides. Despite the designer clothes he wore, his entire demeanor radiated hostility - from the set of his broad shoulders to the way his jaw clenched. Where Azariah's presence felt welcoming, Aaron's felt like a storm about to break.

Aaron spoke, his voice dripping with disdain. "So this is the famous Rorie. Dad's little secret."

Lewis's jaw tightened immediately. "Watch yourself."

"Or what?" Aaron shot back, rising slightly from his chair.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Lewis's voice was dangerously low.

"You heard me, nigga. What, you think because you race cars you're better than–"

"Aaron!" Azariah's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "That's enough. Apologize. Now."

"Man, fuck that–"

"Get your brother," Lewis said to Azariah, his fists clenched. "Before I forget this is supposed to be a family meeting and fuck him up."

Azariah turned to Aaron, his expression stern. "Apologize. You're out of line and you know it."

After a tense moment, Aaron muttered an apology, though his eyes still burned with resentment. Athena quickly tried to salvage the situation, talking about her internship and then their son.

"So, how’s Lyric? We’d love to hang out with him."

Lewis’s response was immediate and firm. "That’s not happening right now."

Athena glanced at Rorie, as if hoping she might overrule him, but Rorie simply shook her head. "You heard what his father said."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur, with Athena even inviting them to a dinner party their father was hosting, but Rorie gave a vague response, clearly unsure about attending. Eventually, Rorie gave Lewis the look — the one that said it was time to go.

Outside, walking through Barcelona's bustling streets, Lewis was still seething. "The audacity of that little–"

"Ice cream," Rorie interrupted, squeezing his hand. "We need ice cream."

They found a small vegan ice cream parlor tucked away on a side street. As they sat near the window, Rorie with her strawberry basil and Lewis with his salted caramel, the tension began to fade.

"I'm sorry about Aaron," Rorie said softly. "Though I appreciate you keeping your cool."

Lewis shook his head. "Azariah seems solid at least. And Athena... she's genuinely trying."

"Yeah," Rorie agreed, taking another bite of ice cream. "But let's be clear - Lyric isn't meeting any of them anytime soon."

"Agreed," Lewis said firmly. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing more of Athena in the paddock. Girl knows her racing."

Rorie smiled, reaching for his hand across the table. Despite the drama, they had each other. And right now, with the Barcelona sun setting outside and the taste of ice cream on their lips, that was more than enough.

Race day in Barcelona arrived wrapped in brilliant sunshine and electric energy. The paddock thrummed with life - carefully choreographed chaos of team personnel, media crews, and fans pressed against barriers.

"Lewis! Lewis! Please sign this!"

"Over here!"

"Just one photo!"

"Lewis, my daughter loves you!"

The chorus of voices rose and fell as they moved through the paddock, accompanied by the flutter of flags and the constant click of camera shutters. Rorie had grown used to this part of Lewis's world - the way people's eyes lit up at the sight of him, the surge of bodies toward barriers, phones thrust hopefully into the air.

But she noticed the change in Lewis immediately. Usually, he'd navigate these moments with practiced ease, a warm smile here, a quick wave there, walking slightly faster past the most enthusiastic fans while still maintaining his signature grace. He'd perfected the art of being both present and moving, of acknowledging the love without getting swept away by it.

Today though, his body language spoke volumes - one hand firmly at her back, creating a bubble of space around them as they moved through the paddock. His jaw was set differently, eyes constantly scanning, body angled to shield her from the press of the crowd. When a particularly enthusiastic fan leaned too far over the barrier, Lewis's hand tightened imperceptibly at her waist, smoothly guiding her to the opposite side.

"A bit much?" she murmured, glancing up at him, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders.

"Just being careful," he replied, steering them around a particularly enthusiastic group waving Mercedes flags and chanting his name. A security guard moved closer, reading Lewis's body language, but Lewis shook his head slightly - they didn't need the extra barrier. Not yet. Still, he kept his pace measured, deliberate, maintaining that protective bubble around them.

His protectiveness should have annoyed her - she'd always valued her independence, after all - but after their journey with Lyric, she understood. The years of trying, the heartbreak, the final success... every precaution felt justified, even if it meant adapting their usual routines. She caught the way his eyes flickered to her still-flat stomach, the careful way he positioned himself between her and the more boisterous fans, and felt a rush of love for this man who could command the attention of thousands but was most focused on safeguarding their precious secret.

A group of young fans called out in Spanish, waving a banner with Lewis's face. He acknowledged them with a warm smile and wave, but kept moving, his hand never leaving her back.

They ran into Susie near the Mercedes hospitality suite, her sharp eyes taking in Lewis's unusually upbeat demeanor. "Someone's in a good mood," she noted, looking between them with growing suspicion.

"Just feeling good about the race," Lewis replied smoothly, but Rorie caught the slight tell in his voice - the same one he got when trying to keep Lyric's Christmas presents a secret.

"Mmhmm," Susie hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Well, don't forget we're meeting later for the F1 Academy race."

"Wouldn't miss it," Lewis assured her.

As soon as Susie walked away, Lewis made an exaggerated grimace. "She's going to figure it out."

"Of course she will," Rorie whispered, squeezing his hand. "But family first."

They fell into planning mode, discussing timeline options. "In London," Lewis suggested. "When everyone's together."

C.J. found her shortly after Lewis had to scurry off for pre-race preparations, pulling Rorie aside to discuss an upcoming meeting with Polydor Records. "They're really interested," he explained, but Rorie's attention was already wavering.

"I don't know, C.J. The whole label thing…" She pressed a hand to her mouth suddenly, the familiar wave of nausea rising. C.J. reacted instantly, supporting her as she made her way to the nearest restroom.

"I got you," he murmured, holding her hair back. "I'll get some ginger tea."

While waiting for C.J.'s return, Rorie found herself ambushed by a welcome face - Louise Magnussen, her two little ones in tow.

"Rorie!" Louise exclaimed, pulling her into a warm embrace. "I was hoping to catch you. About the charity karting race - is Lyric going to participate? The kids are so excited about it."

"We haven't decided yet," Rorie answered honestly. "But I'll talk to Lewis about it today, promise."

C.J. returned with the tea just as Louise's maternal instincts kicked in. "Are you feeling alright? You look a bit peaked."

"Just a stomach bug," Rorie lied smoothly, accepting the warm cup from C.J.

After Louise left, C.J. shook his head. "People are gonna go crazy when you tell them."

"Fucking bonkers," Rorie agreed with a groan.

Her phone buzzed - a message from Julian updating her on the case. Reading about Deja's increasingly erratic behavior sent a fresh wave of tension through her temples. "I need carbs," she decided abruptly. "Something absolutely terrible for me."

"Garage snacks won't cut it?" C.J. asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," Rorie said firmly. "I need proper junk food. The kind Lewis pretends doesn't exist in the paddock." She paused, considering. "You know that little bakery we passed on the way in? The one with the chocolate-filled croissants?"

C.J. raised an eyebrow. "The ones dusted with enough powdered sugar to look like a crime scene?"

"Those exact ones. And maybe those potato wedges from the food truck by Turn 3. The ones with the garlic sauce." Her stomach growled appreciatively at the thought. "God, Lyric's going to have a sibling with a serious carb addiction."

"Better than your pickle and peanut butter phase," C.J. muttered, but he was already reaching for his phone to text one of the assistants. "You want the croissants heated?"

"Is that even a question?" Rorie deleted Julian's message, refusing to let it occupy any more space in her head. "And maybe some of those cinnamon churros too?"

"Now you're just being greedy," C.J. teased, but his thumbs were already typing out the addition to the order.

Rorie closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the ginger tea seep through her. In twenty minutes, she'd be stuffing her face with the most wonderfully inappropriate pre-race meal possible. Sometimes the best way to handle stress was with sugar, carbs, and a complete disregard for nutritional value.

___________________________________________________________

The Mercedes garage hummed with pre-race energy as Lewis began his meticulous preparation routine. Each movement was practiced, almost meditative - first the fireproof underwear, then the racing suit, pulling it up with practiced efficiency. The familiar weight of the HANS device settled on his shoulders as he secured it in place.

The balaclava came next, Lewis smoothing it carefully over his braids before reaching for his helmet and holding it in his hands. As he went through the final checks of his equipment, Toto approached with Bono, both ready for their usual pre-race briefing.

That's when they heard it - the unmistakable sound of enthusiastic munching coming from where Rorie sat by the screens, headset perfectly in place, looking utterly content as she dipped a churro into spicy mustard.

Several pit crew members did double-takes, their expressions ranging from fascination to horror as they watched her follow the churro with a bite of chocolate croissant dipped in cream cheese.

"Uh, Rorie…" one of the mechanics ventured, "you feeling alright there?"

She responded with a pout that only deepened when another crew member added, "That's some interesting culinary creativity you've got going on."

"Come off it," Lewis interrupted, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Leave my wife be."

After the others dispersed, Bono pulled Lewis aside. "Is she okay now? Wasn't she sick? What's up with the churros and mustard?"

Lewis couldn't suppress his dopey, toothless smile. "She's just being Rorie."

Bono crossed his arms, unconvinced. "Not with eating what she's eating but I'll leave it alone. For now."

As the final preparations continued, Lewis made his way to Rorie, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "I see your appetite is back. Morning sickness gone?" he whispered against her ear.

She turned to whisper back, "Baby LH squared wants carbs."

"Ah? Really?" He chuckled, nodding. "Alright, happy that you're eating, love. No matter…how…weird the concoctions, I guess." His eyes lingered on her unusual food combinations before he kissed her again.

Settling into his car, Lewis felt an extra surge of motivation. Starting from P3, Baby LH squared watching - even if from the size of a lime - he had everything to race for today.

The race itself unfolded like a symphony. From P3, Lewis maintained his position through the first corner, watching, waiting. The Mediterranean sun beat down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya as he found his rhythm, the car responding perfectly to every input. Lap after lap, he battled with the McLaren ahead, the gap shrinking and expanding like a living thing.

The pit stops were flawless, the strategy solid, but the front two had just enough pace to stay ahead. Lewis pushed the Mercedes to its limits, extracting every fraction of performance, ultimately crossing the finish line in P3 - a strong podium finish that felt like a victory given their recent struggles.

"Great drive, mate," Bono's voice crackled over the radio. "P3, solid points. The car's coming along nicely."

"Thank you, guys," Lewis responded, his voice carrying an extra note of contentment that had nothing to do with the podium. "Let's keep pushing. Good things coming."

The podium celebration was electric as always, champagne spraying under the Spanish sun. From his spot on the third step, Lewis's signature pointing gesture toward the sky seemed to carry extra meaning today.

Will Buxton caught him just after the podium celebrations, microphone ready. "Lewis, there's something different about you today - even with P3, you seem particularly focused, almost glowing. What's changed?"

Lewis's eyes found Rorie in the crowd, a small smile playing on his lips. "Just feeling good, Will. Everything's falling into place, you know?"

"Cryptic as ever," Will noted with raised eyebrows. "But there's definitely something in the air around you today."

They left the paddock together as the sun began to set, Lewis's race suit now tied around his waist, trophy in one hand, Rorie's hand in the other. The evening air was still warm, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers.

"Hotel?" he asked softly.

"Hotel," she agreed, leaning into him as they walked. "But maybe we can stop for more churros first?"

Lewis laughed, pulling her closer. "Whatever Baby LH squared wants."

The book in Dada's hands had a little brown boy on the cover, smiling next to a baby. At first, Lyric wasn't interested - stories about babies were boring. But as Dada read, talking about all the special things big brothers get to do, Lyric found himself leaning closer.

"Remember how you were upset about the baby?" Dada asked gently, pulling Lyric onto his lap. His bedroom in their Monaco penthouse was cozy, lit by the warm glow of his race car nightlight.

Lyric nodded, remembering his tantrum. He hadn't meant to be bad, but the idea of sharing Mama and Dada was scary.

"Well, being a big brother means you get to do more big boy things," Dada explained. "Like maybe…racing with Laura?"

Lyric's eyes widened. Jack always talked about racing, and Jack was the coolest. "Like Jack?"

"Exactly like Jack," Dada smiled. "Would you like that?"

Lyric nodded enthusiastically. As Dada tucked him in that night, thoughts of racing cars mixed with ideas of being a big brother. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

________________________________________________________

The Austrian airport was huge and exciting. Lyric held tight to Mama and Dada's hands as they navigated through the crowded terminal. The people with cameras were always there - "Papa-razzi," Mama called them - but Lyric knew to stay close whenever they appeared.

"Up, Dada?" he asked when the crowd grew thicker.

"Of course, big man." Dada lifted him easily, and Lyric watched the world from his favorite perch. A fan called out, "Lewis! Can we get a photo?" but Dada just smiled and kept walking.

"Maybe later," he said kindly. "Family time now."

At security, Dada made it extra special. He let him hold the important blue book - his passport, Dada called it. The nice man at the desk even gave him a stamp!

"Look, Mama!" he exclaimed, showing her the mark in his passport.

"Very official," Mama agreed, kissing his cheek.

The drive to the track was full of mountains - so different from Monaco's sea views. Lyric could barely contain his excitement about the karting race. His car at home that Pop Pop got him was fun, but this would be real racing!

Laura was waiting at the track, and they watched the grown-ups set up the karts while sitting on a stack of tires.

"Why we racing?" Lyric asked Laura, settling beside her.

"Dunno," she shrugged. "But Jack says it's cool."

"Dada read me a book," Lyric told her, proud to share his news. "'Bout being a big brother! I get to do big boy stuff now."

Laura wrinkled her nose. "Sissies can be a'nnoyin'. My sissy cry a lot. And takes my toys."

"But we get to race!" Lyric reminded her, bouncing slightly. "Like Jack! And like Dada!"

When his father called him to the driver's room, Lyric's heart did a little dance of excitement. The racing suit laid out looked just like Dada's - black with teal accents, sized perfectly for him.

"This is yours," Dada said softly, helping him into it. "Your very first race suit."

"Like yours," Lyric whispered, touching the material reverently.

"Just like mine." Dada's voice caught, and Lyric noticed his eyes were wet.

"Why cry, Dada?"

"Just happy to see you race, son," Dada pulled him into a hug. Lyric kissed his cheek, understanding this was a special moment even if he didn't know why. "Remember what I've told you?

"Have fun!" Lyric recited. "And be safe!"

"That's right." Dada helped him with the zipper. "And what else?"

"We race fair!" Lyric added. "No pushing!"

Mama appeared in the doorway, phone ready for pictures. "Look at my handsome racers," she said, and Lyric posed proudly next to Dada.

Before heading to the karts, they walked through the paddock where Lyric collected high-fives like treasures.

"Ready to show us how it's done?" Uncle Val asked, crouching down for a proper high-five.

Pierre ruffled his braids. "Future champion right here!"

Charles knelt beside him. "Remember to have fun," he advised with a wink.

The kart felt perfect when he climbed in, Laura on one side, Jack and the others nearby. Through the barriers, he could see Dada standing with the other racing dads, and behind them, so many people cheering. The racing talk people held their microphones, speaking quickly about "the next generation" and "racing legacies." Lyric didn't understand all the words, but he understood this was important.

A person stood in front of them with a flag. Lyric took a deep breath, just like he'd seen Dada do countless times. He thought about his car at home, about watching Dada race. His small hands gripped the wheel.

The countdown began.

Lights out.

And Lyric Hamilton began his first real race.

______________________________________________

From behind the barrier, Lewis watched his son's tiny Mercedes race suit - adorned with patches from Williams and McLaren, a nod to his own racing journey - as Lyric settled into the kart, which was a somewhat better model of the one he had at home. Since the kids ranged in various ages, they all agreed to do a kart race with a subdued motor, something even kids as young as his son could handle easily.

Before they got started, the commentators' voices carried across the circuit.

"And in an unprecedented move, Formula 1 has given us something special today," David Croft's voice rang out. "Free Practice 3 cancelled for what might be the most heartwarming event of the season - the F1 Kids' Charity Karting Race."

"Quite remarkable how they kept this under wraps, Crofty," Martin Brundle added. "Looking at these young racers - Lyric Hamilton, Laura Magnussen, Jack Wolff, Penelope Kvyat, Sergio Perez Jr. - all in miniature versions of their fathers' team suits. Though young Hamilton's got those special patches…"

"A tribute to where it all began for Lewis," Croft noted. "McLaren represented alongside Mercedes."

The atmosphere was electric, different from a regular race day. No championship points at stake, no team orders, just pure racing joy as the next generation took to the track. Lewis felt Toto's hand on his shoulder.

"Ready to be a racing dad?" Toto asked, grinning.

"Don't think I'll ever be ready," Lewis admitted, watching Lyric adjust his position just like they'd practiced at home. "I'm so close to shittin' my pants."

The lights sequence began. Five red lights illuminated, then extinguished. The karts lurched forward, Penelope taking an early lead with Lyric close behind. Jack slotted into third, showing his karting experience.

"And they're off!" Croft exclaimed. "Penelope leads into Turn 1, Lyric Hamilton showing his father's racing instincts in second…"

Lewis held his breath watching Lyric navigate the first corner. His son's lines were surprisingly clean for a toddler, the hours spent on his toy car at home showing through.

The three-lap race unfolded like a miniature grand prix. Penelope maintained her lead, but Lyric kept pace, occasionally getting close enough to challenge. Jack protected third place with skill that made Toto beam with pride.

"Look at young Hamilton's racing line through Turn 3," Brundle commented. "Someone's been studying their father's races."

The crowd cheered every overtake attempt, every slight wheel-to-wheel moment. Max and Lewis exchanged glances as the children battled for first, both fighting the urge to shout advice.

On the final lap, Lyric made one last attempt to catch Penelope, getting alongside through the penultimate corner, but Penelope held her nerve. She crossed the line first, with Lyric less than a kart length behind. Jack secured third place, completing the podium.

"What a finish!" Croft called out. "Penelope Kvyat takes the win, Lyric Hamilton a brilliant second, and Jack Wolff rounds out our junior podium!"

The paddock erupted in cheers as the kids pulled their karts to a stop. Lewis vaulted the barrier, reaching Lyric just as his son was climbing out. He scooped him up, helmet and all.

"Dada I raced!"

"You were amazing, big man," Lewis said, voice thick with emotion. Around them, other drivers were congratulating their children, the usual paddock rivalries forgotten in this moment of pure joy.

They had a proper podium ceremony, complete with small trophies and sparkling apple juice instead of champagne. Penelope, Lyric, and Jack stood proud, their fathers behind them, while photographers captured the moment.

"And to think," Brundle's voice carried over the celebration, "we were meant to have Free Practice 3 today. I'd say this was a much better use of track time."

Looking at his son's beaming face as he held his second-place trophy, Lewis couldn't have agreed more.

The podium celebrations were barely over when Jenson Button approached, microphone in hand but speaking off-record first. "Brilliant driving, kids!" His eyes landed on Lyric. "That defensive move into Turn 4? Proper racing stuff."

Will Buxton followed, crouching to the children's level. "Future champions, all of you. Those were some impressive lines out there."

Then Nico Rosberg stepped forward, and the paddock's atmosphere shifted subtly. He focused on Lyric, who was still clutching his trophy. "Excellent race, Lyric. You've got your father's instincts."

Lewis kept his expression neutral, professional.

"His hand-eye coordination is really good," Nico continued, glancing at Lewis. "The way he held that racing line…"

"Been practicing since he could walk," Lewis replied, surprising himself with the lack of tension in his voice. "Though Penelope gave him a proper challenge today."

"Good racing all around though," Nico agreed, extending his hand. "Congrats, man."

"Thanks, Nico." Lewis took it, a brief but genuine handshake. For their children's sake, they could manage this much. Nico moved on to congratulate Penelope as Rorie approached, tears streaming down her face.

"My baby!" She wrapped Lyric in a tight hug, covering his face with kisses. "You were so amazing out there!"

"Mama, you see? I race like Dada!"

"Just like Dada," she agreed, wiping her eyes.

Lewis clapped his hands together, grinning broadly. "Who wants ice cream?"

"Me!" Lyric bounced in his mother's arms. "Chocolate?"

"Champion's choice," Lewis laughed, leading his family toward the ice cream stall. Behind them, the paddock continued to buzz with excitement, the day's unexpected event already being hailed as one of the season's greatest highlights.

Today had been about something far more precious than he could ever imagine - the pure joy of racing, passed from one generation to the next.

The conference room in The Sun's London office felt suffocating as Alexander watched Julian review the settlement papers. Ten million pounds to be donated to fertility support organizations. A full retraction. A public apology.

The price to pay for invading the Hamiltons' privacy.

David, his boss, sat rigid beside The Sun's solicitors, his usual confident demeanor notably absent. The legal team had advised settling - the evidence was damning, the public sentiment overwhelmingly against them.

Julian made one final notation. "This seems in order," he said, his tone clinical. "The Hamiltons appreciate your cooperation in resolving this matter quickly."

The solicitors exchanged glances before signing. David's signature came last, a slight tremor in his hand.

"The funds will be transferred within 24 hours," The Sun's lead solicitor confirmed. "The retraction and apology will run tomorrow."

Julian gathered his papers with precise movements. "Good day, gentlemen." His exit left a vacuum in the room.

David dismissed the legal team with a sharp nod. As the door closed behind them, Alexander's throat went dry. He'd known this was coming.

"Alexander." David's voice was flat. "Your employment with The Sun is terminated, effective immediately. HR will process your–"

The door opened. David's boss, Richard, entered without knocking. Alexander watched David's face pale.

"Richard, I was just handling–"

"You're both fired," Richard cut in. "The board is cleaning house. This scandal has cost us more than money." He placed two envelopes on the table. "HR has your paperwork. Clear your desks by three."

The door closed again. Alexander stared at the envelope bearing his name, realizing how completely his pursuit of a story had destroyed his career.

David stood first, shoulders slumped. "Well," he said to no one in particular. "That's that."

Alexander remained seated as David left, the weight of his choices pressing him into the chair. Outside the window, London continued its busy Friday, indifferent to the careers that had just ended in this sterile conference room.

_______________________________________________

Alexander's phone buzzed as he began emptying his desk. Deja's name flashed on the screen.

"Well?" Her voice was tense. "What happened?"

"They settled." He placed a framed photo in a cardboard box. "Ten million to fertility organizations. Full retraction. Public apology."

"What? They can't do that! We had–"

"I'm fired, Deja." He cut her off, exhaustion seeping into his voice. "David too. It was above us."

A pause. Then, softer, scared: "Alexander, my lawyer called. They're… they're trying to have me arrested. Luisa's testifying against me on extortion and harassment charges."

He ran a hand through his hair, staring at his half-empty desk. This had spiraled far beyond a story about a celebrity couple. "Deja, I can't… I can't help you anymore."

"But–"

"Don't call this number again." He ended the call, immediately blocking her number.

The last items went into the box. Alexander looked around his office one final time, then walked out, leaving his keycard on the empty desk.

TO BE CONTINUED....

[obsessedwhyyes]

An Empirical Study

Part 2 of The Scientific Method Series (though readable as a standalone). Part 1, A Sound Hypothesis, can be found here!

Summary: As your first night together with Astarion draws near, your mind, ever the analyst, goes into overdrive. Thankfully, Astarion has a cure for those racing thoughts - a sensory experiment, one that will release your inhibitions and help you to embrace the unknown. In doing so, you discover that some mysteries are best experienced, rather than solved.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 7132 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader Content: Act 1, smut with plot, inexperienced nerd reader, losing virginity, sensory play, tantric massage (sort of), fingering, Astarion guides you during sex. Warning: Very mild reference to Astarion's past trauma, though this Tav doesn't pass her insight checks.

Gif by silverformymonsters on Tumblr!

A/N: This fic was inspired by the idea that mindfulness is the best cure for a busy mind. No one says mindfulness can't be sexy, right? Actual smut appears halfway through.

Travelling lush verdant landscapes on your search for the Druid, Halsin, your eyes are drawn to Astarion at each opportunity, your mind wandering to thoughts of your night prior. You had bared yourself to him, and him to you in an evening of bliss and exploration which you, even in all your overthinking, had not anticipated. Yet, it was nothing compared to what was to come tonight - at least, according to him.

Stolen glances, lingering touches on the small of your back, a brush of his hand against yours - all promises of what is to come, whispered between almost-lovers.

And so you find yourself sneaking glances at his lips, which spilled forth such delicious sounds for you at your touch; at his silver hair which you envision your hands running through in a moment of passion; at his eyes, which gazed into yours with the intensity of a winter storm as his pleasure spilled from him.

Gods, is it distracting.

You're meant to be leading this merry band of tadpolled companions you have founded, not indulging these dirty little fantasies of yours. You need to keep your wits about you. Lives depend on it. 

He, meanwhile, is the picture of easy grace and sardonic smiles, sauntering ahead of you with all the casual arrogance of a man who knows how good he looks from behind.

Every so often, he pauses to check his nails or adjust his perfectly coiffed hair, as if the finer details of his appearance are the most pressing concern in this current life-or-death situation.

And then there's that smirk. That knowing, mischievous quirk of his lips whenever he catches you staring. It's a look that says, “I know what you're thinking, darling. And you have to work for it.”

You're torn between wanting to wipe that damn smug expression off his face and wanting to… well, the evermore debauched side of your mind helpfully supplies several colourful suggestions, none of which are appropriate for your current company or circumstances.

So when you find yourself tripping over a fallen beam and nearly falling face-first into a pile of mouldy straw as your companions attempt to loot the blighted village you’ve stumbled into, you decide, for your sake and the sake of your increasingly concerned friends, to seek a moment of reprieve.

“You all go on ahead,” you shout to them. “I'll catch up.”

When they nod their understanding and continue on, you're relieved to have a moment to yourself. A moment to rein your wandering thoughts back under control and return to the wizard you were - one with a mind of sound, scientific thought and resolve, not of such lewd desires. For now, at least.

It seems only a taste of the once unknown was enough to drive you to madness.

But that isn’t all that plagues you.

As you stand alone in the dilapidated building you’ve resigned yourself to in your moment of madness, your mind wanders to the night ahead. Excitement bubbles in your chest, but it’s tempered by a gnawing anxiety that threatens to overwhelm you. You’ve faced down monsters, handled the horror of a mindflayer parasite lurking in your brain with a surprising grace. And yet, the prospect of fully giving yourself to Astarion shakes you in a way that you have never experienced.

It’s a natural biological response, you tell yourself. The release of hormones in response to a new, potentially stressful situation.

But there is a sense of finality to the coming night that intimidates you - a threshold that once crossed, cannot be uncrossed.

You pace the worn floorboards, your footsteps echoing in the empty room. Your mind, ever the analyst, begins to dissect your fears with scientific precision. Perhaps it’s not the physical act itself that fears you, but what it represents: a change. For so long, you’ve defined yourself by your rationality - your dedication to your craft - even if it meant keeping intimacy at arm’s length. But Astarion - he's awakened something within you. Something primal, something that can't be contained by logic or reason.

Astarion is a master in getting your heart racing - a dangerous cocktail of excitement, fear, and desire that leaves you breathless, in more ways than one as of late. He’s like the night itself - dark, mysterious, full of hidden dangers and untold pleasures. And just like the night, he calls to you, urging you to explore, to experience, to lose yourself in the shadows. It’s intoxicating.

There’s a part of you that fears this - that desire to cling to what is familiar. Yet you also yearn for the connection, the raw intimacy, the chance to experience life with your whole being, not just your mind.

And really, what does it matter if you lean into this yearning? You could all be dead tomorrow, or worse, transformed into mind flayers. If you're going to die or become a monster, at least you could do so knowing what it feels like to–

No, no. Stop that.

You groan and run a hand through your hair. All this anticipation is maddening.

Your eyes scan the room - what was once a bedroom - for a distraction, and locate a suitably perfect one placed conveniently on a bedside table: a small coffer, liable to be filled with the valuables of its owner, now long dead to the goblins which had infested this area before you and your companions had cleaned it up.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, the old, torn frame creaking as you lower yourself. The coffer is ornate, its lock intricate - complex enough to keep out the finest of goblin thieves, seemingly. Probably not enough to keep out particularly dextrous vampires though, your traitorous mind supplies.

Nevertheless, it will make a suitable distraction. You can figure out an old lock without Astarion’s expertise. You’re a wizard for gods’ sake.

You pull spare lockpicking tools from your pack, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as you set to work, trying to remember the vague instructions you’d once overheard in a tavern. Hells, what was it again? “Insert and wiggle?” Or “poke and hope?” Undeterred, you begin your fumbling.

… And the pick slips as you attempt to insert it into the lock, jabbing under your fingernail.

You yelp, nearly dropping the entire set, swearing profanities under your breath.

“Now this is just pitiful.”

“Shit!” You shout, the coffer clattering to the floor as you scramble to get up to address the velvety voice that manifests behind you.

You look up to see Astarion gazing down at you, eyebrow raised, amused at your lack of grace. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the picture of casual elegance.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he coos.

“No, I just…” You fight to catch your breath. “It looked valuable. I couldn't just leave it here without taking a peek.”

“All by yourself? I do hope you were planning to share,” he teases in mock pouting.

“As if you wouldn't keep it all to yourself.”

He brings a hand to his heart, with all the theatrics of a wandering bard recounting his most exaggerated conquests after too many tankards of ale.

“How you wound me! I think you'll find I'm very generous.” He looks you up and down as you reclaim your fallen items and your space on the bed to resume your attempts at this gods-damned impossible lock. Astarion, however, seems to have other ideas.

He saunters into the room, circling you like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You know,” he continues, a smirk on his lips, “if you need me to teach you, you only have to say so. If I recall, you're an exceptionally fast learner…”

He leans over you, lips hovering closely to your ear. You pulse quickens, but you don't look him in the eye.

“... Darling.”

Nope. Still not looking him in the eye.

“I’m perfectly capable of picking a lock, Astarion.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt. But perhaps you’d like a lesson from the master of larceny himself? I promise to be a thorough teacher. All you have to do,” he teases, “is say please.”

Bastard.

“And I suppose you’re offering this lesson out of the kindness of your heart?”

Astarion’s laugh is rich and warm, and your heart flutters for just a moment. “Let’s just say I enjoy watching you learn.”

The double entendre isn’t lost on you. Heat pools in your belly as you recall his “lessons” from the night prior.

“Fine,” you sigh in mock exasperation, turning to look directly into his ruby eyes. If it’s a cat-and-mouse game he wants, a cat-and-mouse game he shall have. “Please,” you purr in your best attempt to embody the sultriness that Astarion so easily exudes, holding his gaze with eyes hooded. You can only hope you don’t look and sound as silly as you feel.

You get more than you bargained for.

“Oh, my.” He positions himself behind you on the bed, pressing his chest against your back, his legs either side of you. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Your breath hitches. Your pulse quickens, pounding so loudly that you have no doubt he can hear it. But worst of all, the proximity, his breath on your neck, and the feeling of his hard body against yours ignite that familiar ache in your core. 

So much for a distraction.

He tuts. “Ah, I see the problem.” His voice is low, lips now hovering beside your ear. “The pick you’re using - it’s not quite up to the task.”

You frown, examining the delicate tool. “What do you mean? It seems fine to me.”

“Oh no, my dear. Size matters when it comes to these things. It’s simply not big enough for a lock like this. Luckily for you, I have a pick that is very large.”

You bite back a laugh and decide to play along. “Is that so? And how exactly do you manage to fit such a large pick in these small locks?”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich in your ear. “It’s all about technique, darling. With the right approach, you’d be amazed at what can fit where.”

You half expect to find yourself suddenly transported into the pages of one of those tawdry “romance” novels hidden in the darkest corners of Candlekeep’s library.

“I see,” you reply. “And I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice…”

Gods, you can’t quite believe you’re indulging this.

“... inserting your pick into various locks over the years?” You continue, heat flushing your cheeks at your own brazenness.

“Oh, indeed,” he replies. “I’ve encountered all sorts of locks in my time. Each one unique, requiring a… personal touch to open properly.”

“And have you ever met a lock you couldn’t pick?”

Astarion’s voice is downright wicked. “Not yet, darling. Though I must say, I’m quite looking forward to trying my luck with yours.”

There’s that ache of excitement again, pooling at your core at the implications which race through your mind. The air hangs heavy between you, charged with promise and anticipation. “Well then, master lockpick, perhaps you’d better show me how it’s done.”

“With pleasure,” Astarion coos, reaching behind him to retrieve an, indeed, much larger lockpick from his pack, alongside an additional curved tool: a tension wrench - how very advanced. He hands them to you, keeping a hold of your hands as you hold onto the implements.

“First,” he murmurs, his cool, long fingers guiding you to bring the tension wrench to the lock, “we need to slide this into the keyway, here. Apply constant, gentle pressure. Too much, and you’ll bind the pins. Too little, and they won’t set.”

Next, he raises your other hand, holding the pick. “Now for the delicate part,” he purrs. “We’ll use this to probe deeply, searching for those sensitive spots that, when touched just right, will yield to you.”

You swallow hard, but persevere.

As you work, you feel the subtle vibrations of pins through the pick; the minute clicks as they each settle into place. Astarion’s hands never leave yours, his touch both instructive and maddeningly distracting.

“Feel that resistance?” he asks as you encounter a stubborn pin. “Sometimes, darling, you have to apply a little more pressure.” He emphasises the word by pressing his body closer to yours, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound. “Maintain tension while you lift the pin with the pick.”

“That’s it,” he encourages as you successfully work your way through the lock, guided by his expert hands. “I knew those clever fingers of yours were good for more than just spellcasting.”

“And just what other uses did you have in mind for my fingers?”

His chuckle is low and rich. “My dear, I have so many ideas, we might need another night to explore them all.”

The promise in his words sends a thrill through you, equal parts excitement and trepidation. 

“Almost there,” he murmurs, voice husky with concentration - or perhaps something else entirely. “Just a little more pressure…”

With a satisfying click, the lock finally gives way. You let out a triumphant laugh, turning to face Astarion with a grin.

“Well done,” he says, with something resembling pride flickering across his features for a moment. Or hunger. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

As the excitement of your victory over that bastard lock fades, you become acutely aware of Astarion’s proximity. You realise with a start just how close you are. His face is mere inches from yours, eyes boring into you with an intensity that steals your breath. The cool solidity of his chest against your back, his breath ghosting over your neck - it’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once. The reality of what is to come tonight crashes over you like a wave, bringing forth those familiar pangs of anxiety deep within your chest.

“Astarion,” you begin, turning your face away from him. “About tonight…”

“Not having second thoughts, are we?” He says as he shifts to sit alongside you. You find yourself equal parts relieved and disappointed at the loss of him pressed so firmly against you.

“No,” you say quickly, then pause. “I want to. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m just–”

“Nervous? Darling, I assure you, I won’t bite.” He pauses, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Unless you ask nicely, of course.”

Your face flushes at his brazen comment.

“Besides, after your… performance last night, I thought we were well past this bashfulness. You don’t need more ‘experimentation,’ surely?”

“That was different,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh?” Astarion leans in. You feel his breath on your skin, cool and gentle. “Do tell. What makes tonight so special that it has our dear leader in such a state?”

You take a breath, deciding to be honest. “It just feels like… once we do this, there’s no going back. I’ll be… I don't know. Different.”

It’s a foolish notion by all logic, but one that gnaws at your mind nonetheless. You feel almost ludicrous as you voice your feelings aloud. It’s difficult, this “being honest with yourself” business.

Astarion’s eyebrow arches, a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Ever the overthinker.” He pauses, seemingly considering his words. “Darling, you’ll still be you. Just… more experienced. And significantly more satisfied, I might add.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean, Astarion.”

His expression shifts to something altogether softer. "I do. But tell me, darling - didn't you feel it last night? That thrill of breaking free from your own chains? The prim scholar I met would have baulked at such unseemly behaviour. And yet, there you were, eager and willing. Why cling to those old restraints when you could shed them entirely? There's so much more to experience, so many delicious freedoms to taste."

You blink. Loathe as you are to admit, he’s right about one thing: abandoning your own self-imposed constraints last night was… liberating.

“You know, you can be surprisingly insightful at times.”

He feigns offence, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Surprisingly? My dear, I’ve had centuries to perfect the art of observation. How do you think I’ve survived this long? It’s a crucial skill for any vampire. Or any lover.”

You laugh, and some of the tension eases from your shoulders at his usual bantering. “And there’s the Astarion I know.”

“Would you prefer I return to being mysterious and dangerous? That can certainly be arranged.”

“No,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I think I prefer you as you are.”

Shit, you think. Did I really just say that?

He makes an odd expression. That same indecipherable expression from the night prior, flickering across his features, barely visible, impossible for you to categorise. Is it disappointment? Annoyance? A deeper emotion that you cannot name? Gods, you wish you could see into that mind of his.

Well… you could, but that would be impolite.

But before either of you can speak again, a voice cuts through the air.

“Oi! Are you two coming back or do we need to leave you to the goblins?”

It’s Shadowheart, her tone impatient and slightly suspicious.

Astarion's usual smirk slides back into place, the elusive expression gone as quickly as it appeared. "Well, we'd better not keep them waiting. Wouldn't want them to start any unsavoury rumours, would we?"

As you gather your things, your mind whirls with thoughts of what almost was and what's still to come. Astarion brushes past you as he heads for the door, his hand ghosting over the small of your back.

"Until tonight, darling," he murmurs, just for you to hear.

-

The day crawls by with agonising slowness, each moment stretching like treacle in the sun; thoughts of the unknown looming over you like a curse - albeit one that promises especially satisfying outcomes.

When evening approached and you and your companions returned to the sanctuary of your camp, Astarion had caught you alone, his voice low and rich with promise.

“Meet me tonight,” he murmured. “When the others are asleep. In the clearing we found yesterday. Follow the path, and head east at the fork. I'll be waiting,” he finished with a smile - that same teasing, rakish smile which lingers in your fantasies at night.

Now, as you make your way through the darkening woods, your heart pounds a staccato rhythm against your ribs.

What if I do something embarrassing? What if I accidentally cast Fire Bolt in a moment of madness?

You snort at your own ridiculous thoughts. You can almost hear Astarion's voice in your head, calling you out for being the terrible overthinker that you are.

As you approach the clearing, you take a deep breath, trying to centre yourself. You're a bundle of contradictions - nervous yet eager, apprehensive yet excited. Your mind might be a chaotic whirl of thoughts and doubts, but your body moves forward with purpose, drawn to Astarion like a moth to flame.

Well, you think wryly, at least if I embarrass myself horribly, I can always hope for a sudden mindflayer attack to put me out of my misery.

With that comforting thought, you step into the moonlit clearing, your eyes searching for Astarion's familiar silhouette.

And then you see him.

Astarion emerges from behind a tree, shirtless, moonlight casting shadows that accentuate the lean contours of his form.

"There you are," he purrs, his voice low and rich. "I've been waiting. Waiting since the moment I laid eyes on you. Waiting... to have you."

You can't help but chuckle, a mixture of nervousness and amusement. "Since the moment you laid eyes on me? You mean when you held a knife to my throat?"

"Gods, you just can't let me woo you, can you?” he teases. He steps closer to you, his presence electric.

Your eyes trace the elegant lines of his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the mesmerising depth of his ruby eyes. He is beautiful in the way that wild things are beautiful - captivating and perilous in equal measure.

“You don’t need to ‘woo’ me, Astarion. I’m already here.”

His smile widens. "Indeed you are. But where's the fun in rushing? I intend to savour every moment of this."

As he approaches, he snakes a hand around your waist, lingering at the small of your back, before pulling you flush against him. Before you have a chance to acknowledge his brazen actions, his lips meet yours and his kiss is as hungry as you remember; as intoxicating as you’d dreamed. His tongue plays with yours, cool and skilled, a stark contrast to the warmth blooming in your core. For but a moment, you find your body taking the lead once more - your fingers glide up the bare skin of his chest, up his jaw, finally tangling themselves in the silken strands of his hair.

As your arms wrap themselves behind his neck, you suddenly feel your feet lift the ground. Your stomach drops, a fleeting sensation of weightlessness before Astarion secures you in his arms, twirling to press you against the tree he emerged from. The rough bark presses into your back, only accentuating the feeling of his hard, smooth body as it envelops your own.

But then the rush of sensation begins to ebb. In its wake, your mind reasserts itself, a tidal surge of thoughts and fears flooding back in. The bark digging into your back, once a thrilling counterpoint to Astarion's touch, now feels uncomfortably real. The weight of the moment settles on you, heavy and undeniable.

This is happening. This is real.

Your body, so responsive moments ago, now feels stiff and awkward. Your hands suddenly feel clumsy and unsure. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you, hyper-conscious of each touch.

Astarion, ever perceptive, seems to sense the change. His movements slow, and he pulls back slightly, ruby eyes searching your face. A furrow appears between his brows, concern replacing the hunger that had darkened his gaze.

"You've gone rigid as a statue, darling.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat. How can you explain this? The desire that still smoulders beneath the surface, at war with the fear that threatens to extinguish it?

Astarion's head tilts, a predator scenting uncertainty. But when he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "You're overthinking this again, aren't you? I can practically hear the gears grinding."

He doesn't wait for your response, instead lowering you gently to the ground into the grass below and settling on his knees alongside you.

"Perhaps," he says, a thoughtful look replacing his usual smirk, "we need a different approach. One that will keep that brilliant mind of yours occupied.

“I want you to close your eyes,” Astarion instructs, his voice soft but commanding. “And then I want you to focus entirely on sensation. No thinking, no more analysing. Just feeling. Can you do that for me?”

You nod, both nervous and intrigued, as your eyes flutter closed.

“Excellent,” he purrs. “Now, I’m going to touch you, and I want you to tell me everything you feel. Everything. Alright?”

“I think so.”

With your eyes shut, every other sense seems to heighten as anticipation washes over you. Moments pass like centuries, almost agonisingly so.

As if to break the spell, you feel him trace a line, gentle and deliberate, along your jawline, all the way to your neck, resting his fingers above your pulse.

“What do you feel?”

“I… I feel your fingers,” you venture. You can't hide the uncertainty in your voice.

“What about them?”

“They're… cool? But not cold. Your fingertips are slightly rough; they have a texture to them.”

“Excellent,” he encourages. “What else?”

You pause as you feel him shift above you, straddling you at your hips, and he brings his head down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. You shiver slightly as you feel the coolness of his breath, and his lips, which graze your skin, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake.

“I feel your lips. They're soft. I can smell your cologne… It's fresh, herby almost. And something else… something earthy. Something ‘you.’”

“You're more observant than I gave you credit for,” he teases, though his praise causes your heart to swell for a moment.

His touch becomes bolder, a hand trailing down from your neck to reach the swell of your breast, massaging it gently. You inhale sharply, the sensation both thrilling and unexpected as he brushes a thumb across your nipple over the barrier of your clothes.

“And now?” he asks into the crook of your neck, punctuated by slow, delicate kisses, planted along the line where he would sink his fangs.

“It's… intense,” you manage. It's as if your skin has become hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and receptive to his touch. “I can feel everything so clearly, even through my clothes. It's almost overwhelming, but in a good way.”

You hear a low chuckle from Astarion. “Good,” he murmurs. “That's exactly what I want you to feel.”

As he sits up, his fingers travel to the hem of your shirt, a whisper of a touch that sends shivers across your skin. He pulls at the fabric with deliberate slowness, exposing your midriff inch by inch. His fingers occasionally brush against your skin, leaving the most wonderful tingles in their wake. When he reaches your chest, he pauses, hands hovering just below your breasts.

“May I?”

You nod, unable to find your voice. With a gentleness that surprises you, he slides your shirt, bra along with it, up and over your head as you raise yourself momentarily to help him. The cool night air hits your exposed skin and you shiver, though not entirely from the cold.

“Beautiful,” Astarion breathes.

His fingertips trace patterns on your skin, starting from your collarbone and working their way down. Each touch feels electric, sending little sparks of sensation through your body. He traces the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist, the plane of your stomach, as if memorising the feel of your skin beneath his hands.

When he reaches the waistband of your skirt, you feel his knuckles brushing against your hip bones as he works at the fastenings, and the muscles in your abdomen tighten of their own accord. You hear every sound, every breath he makes, every rustle of fabric.

As your skirt falls away, pulled with deliberate slowness, you become aware of new sensations. The blades of grass tickle your legs. The night air caresses your skin. 

You feel exposed, vulnerable. But… safe.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The night seems to hold its breath, the world narrowing down to just the two of you in this moonlit clearing. You're acutely aware of your nakedness, and you need not see it to feel Astarion's eyes roaming over you.

“You're exquisite,” he says, and for once, there's no trace of his usual sarcasm or teasing.

Astarion’s hands and fingers continue their exploration of your body, alternating between feather-light touches and firmer caresses. He seems to delight in discovering places that make you gasp or shiver - the shell of your ear, the dip of your waist, the inside of your wrist.

The sensation is incredible - like tingles radiating out from his touch, spreading across your skin in waves. It reminds you of the pleasant shivers you feel when someone whispers close to your ear. But gods, this is so much more intense; more all-encompassing.

“It… it feels like…” You try to describe the feeling aloud, but words catch in your throat, coming out as a soft moan instead, causing you to clasp your hands to your mouth to stifle yourself.

“Don't hold back, love,” he encourages. “Let me hear you.”

As his fingers trail along your inner thigh, a soft gasp escapes your lips.

Astarion’s touch is feather-light, teasing, as he moves higher. When his fingers brush against your entrance, arousal and anticipation leaving you more sensitive than you have ever known, a low moan rises unbidden from your throat.

And then his fingers enter you. One finger, then two. He moves slowly, almost agonisingly so, in and out and in and out of you, curling his fingers ever so slightly upwards. Little whimpers and sighs escape you, a wanton symphony of pleasure that you never knew you were capable of. Each sound seems to spur him on, his touches becoming faster, more purposeful, more focused.

You find yourself arching into his touch, your body seeking more of the exquisite sensation he's drawing from you, only for him to bring a thumb to your clit, playing you with virtuoso expertise in rhythm with his fingers. You cry out and, for a moment, you're embarrassed by the volume, but Astarion's hum of approval vanishes any self-consciousness.

“That's it, darling,” he whispers, his voice dark, husky. “Let go. Let me hear how good you feel.”

His words push you closer to the edge. Your sounds become more frequent, more urgent. You're dimly aware that you're babbling, a stream of “please” and “Astarion” and “oh gods” spilling forth from your lips. 

As the pleasure builds to a crescendo, you feel the last of your inhibitions slipping away. It's as if the invisible chains which have bound you for so long are finally breaking, link by link. Each wave of pleasure weakens their hold, and Astarion’s touch is the key that unlocks every shackle.

When you finally reach your peak, it's like a dam bursting within you, sending all the pent-up fears and self-imposed constraints out along with it. Astarion’s name leaves your lips in a cry that's part plea, part praise, as you soar on wings of newfound freedom.

“Open your eyes, darling,” Astarion says softly, a grounding force in the wake of your climax.

You do, blinking in the moonlight. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust, but the world comes into focus slowly, like awakening from a dream.

Astarion’s face is the first thing you see, illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the trees as he sits up on his knees alongside you. And as your gaze travels down…

… He's also naked.

Heat rises to your cheeks as you take in the sight of him - all of him - all lean muscle and pale skin. You don't think you'll ever get used to the sight of his cock. Somehow, in this light, it's even more perfect than you remember: glistening, with a slight upward curve, and a girth that makes you ache in anticipation.

Astarion's smile widens, a hint of his usual mischief returning to his eyes. “See something you like, darling?”

You laugh, your voice raw. “You know I do,” you admit, surprising yourself with your own boldness.

“Hmm, yes,” he purrs. “But I do so enjoy hearing you say it.”

He shifts, positioning himself above you, aligning between your thighs.

For the first time, even at the final threshold, your mind is… quiet. You find yourself relaxed, languid. You feel that pang of nervousness, yes. But you don't find yourself restrained by it.

You want to revel in this feeling. In him. In the sensations he brings you. In this freedom he has granted you; this freedom that you have never before granted yourself.

A moment passes, and tension crackles in the air between you.

“Ready, love?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You nod. You are certain.

He positions himself, his hand guiding his cock, ready to bring it to your entrance.

“Breathe in for me, darling.”

You do as he says, drawing in a deep breath. And as you do…

His cock enters you.

You squeeze your eyes shut at the sensation. There's a moment of discomfort, your body stretching more to accommodate him as he slowly inserts inch after inch, giving you time to adjust. You have never felt so full before. You have never felt anything quite like this before.

“How does it feel?” He asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

“It's a little sore,” you exhale, and your voice slightly shaky at the rush of sensation.

“Then let's start slowly, shall we?”

When he leans down to kiss you, you become aware of every point of contact; the coolness of his bare skin pressed so closely against the warmth of yours, yet it never quite feels close enough. You wrap your arms behind his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss between you and, in turn, he wraps an arm under the small of your neck, lifting you to him. His weight on you is grounding as you adjust to the foreign sensations.

That is until, oh so slowly, he moves inside you.

His movements are controlled, restrained, yet you can feel the barely leashed power in his lithe form, in the ripple of his muscles. He's a predator, dangerous and deadly, yet in this moment, he handles you with a gentleness that gives you goosebumps.

Pain meets pleasure with each deliberate motion, merging into one muddle of intense sensation. But then the discomfort begins to fade, replaced by a building warmth that spreads throughout your body. Each slow thrust of his hips brings a new wave of feeling overwhelming yet exquisite.

Astarion brings a hand to your leg, coaxing you to lift it. You understand the message, wrapping your legs around his waist as he thrusts into you and gods. He's even deeper within you, the sounds wet and lewd with each undulation of his hips. You gasp loudly at the sensation, breaking free momentarily of his kiss.

You suddenly find yourself in need of more. More closeness, more contact, more of him.

Your legs, encircling his waist, involuntarily pull his hips into you, urging him on, faster and deeper into you. You hadn't meant to be so bold. But this feeling of fullness, of connection, is overwhelming, igniting every primitive urge within your body, now unconstrained by the shackles of your mind. He responds in kind, thrusting in time with each pull of your legs. Your voice is not your own, the most wanton of cries spilling forth from your lips, high pitched and needy. Your eyes search for his, eager to see them hungry, dark, brimming with pleasure just as you remember from the night prior.

But something’s different.

His eyes are glazed, ever so slightly, looking more through you than at you. It's as though he's focusing intently on something you can't see.

Concentrating, perhaps? Trying to maintain control? Gods, it's hard to think straight when each thrust hits deep inside you so deliciously. Each movement is methodical, perfect - skill clearly derived from centuries of experience.

But amidst the haze, you reach up and gently brush your fingers along his jawline. “Astarion?” you breathe, soft and inquisitive between each gasp of pleasure.

He blinks rapidly, his rhythm faltering. He pauses, still inside you. For a split second, what looks to be confusion flickers across his features, before his usual charming smirk, practised and perfect, returns.

“Ah, darling,” he starts, his voice hoarse. “Just got a little… lost in the moment.”

Before you can respond, Astarion suddenly shifts, changing your positions with a grace that takes your breath away. In one fluid motion, he scoops you into his arms and sits up, bringing you with him so that you're straddling his lap.

“Now then,” he says, “where were we?”

His renewed enthusiasm is almost overwhelming. His touch is more purposeful, his movements more intense as tangles a hand in the strands of your hair, pulling you in to kiss him. You find yourself swept up in his redoubled efforts.

Astarion’s spare hand settles firmly on your hip, pulling you to him, coaxing you to rock back and forth on his cock and–

Stars burst behind your eyes. A new, intense pleasure, richer than the last as the head of his cock brushes the uppermost wall of you.

He guides your movements, bringing you to a rhythm that has you gasping. You chase that elusive feeling eagerly. When you falter, uncertain and unbalanced from inexperience, he whispers his encouragement.

“That's it,” he murmurs as you find your stride. “Keep going.”

He rocks his hips to meet your own, and gods, there's that beautiful voice of his, punctuated by the rhythmic slaps of skin against slickened skin. His low groans reverberate through your body, mingling with your own breathless gasps and whimpers.

Finally, seemingly sensing your fast approaching limit, he brings a hand between your bodies, and you feel the familiar sensation of his thumb rubbing delicate circles on your clit.

The added stimulation is too much to bear. You cry out, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through your body as you close your eyes, giving yourself over to the feeling. Your breath quickens, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears, and you feel yourself shuddering, spiralling. You’re falling, flying, lost in sensation, and Astarion is both the cause of your descent and your only lifeline. He holds you steady, an anchor, as your senses return to you.

But this steadiness does not remain for long.

With a start, you find yourself lowered to the ground, Astarion holding you firmly by the hips, burying himself in you once more, his purposeful rhythm replaced with an erratic, senseless pounding in the final throes of his pleasure.

You feel the tension in him before it fully takes hold, a low steady hum beneath his skin. His breath grows shallow, his muscles tightening as if holding back a flood. You watch it build, each buck of his hips pulling him closer, like a thread winding tighter and tighter. His body starts to tremble and then, suddenly, it breaks - his breath catches, his body jerks, and you feel him give in, a surge of release that ripples through him like a passing storm. You find yourself moaning in response to the intensity, lost in the tension heavy in the air. Somewhere in the midst of his climax, you realise, he had pulled out of you, as you feel the coolness of his release on your abdomen.

He exhales, spent, the fire that had burned so hot now just a quiet warmth.

In the aftermath, silence falls over the clearing, bar your shared panting. The night air, cool against your heated skin, brings you gently back to reality.

“That… was amazing,” you breathe, still somewhat dazed.

Astarion chuckles, leaning his forehead delicately against yours. “You sound surprised,” he teases.

“Not surprised. I just had no idea I could even feel like that.”

Astarion's lips curl into a smug smile. “You just needed an expert’s touch.”

You laugh, giddy and carefree from the lingering euphoria. “Gods, all this talk of your touch might just make me want to go again.”

“Tempting,” he purrs. “But even I need a moment to recover, love.”

With that, he rolls off of you, settling beside you on the grass. You turn to look at him, taking in the sight of his profile in the moonlight, smiling as you notice the charmingly dishevelled state of his hair, a few errant strands falling across his forehead.

He seemingly feels your gaze, turning to meet it. The moonlight catches in his crimson eyes, causing them to glitter with his usual mischief, and something darker, more complex.

You recall his eyes in the throes of passion… a glazing over; a distance that you couldn't quite understand. The look had vanished as quickly as it appeared, just like all the others. The vigour with which he renewed his efforts to pleasure you was almost enough to make you forget the moment.

Almost. 

Alas, you are ever the overthinker.

You find yourself spurred on by thoughts and feelings you don't quite understand. A need to experiment.

Acting on impulse, you shift closer to Astarion. You hesitate for a moment, then slowly, carefully, you rest your head on his chest. You feel him tense for a moment.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a mixture of confusion and wariness.

“I'm not sure,” you admit. “I just wanted to be close to you. Is that okay?”

There's a long pause. Astarion doesn't push you away, but he doesn't relax either.

“I suppose,” he finally says, his tone carefully neutral. “Though I must say, this is… different.”

You lift your head slightly to look at him. His expression is guarded, as you've come to expect.

“We don't have to if you're uncomfortable,” you offer softly.

Astarion’s laugh is short and sharp. “Uncomfortable? Darling, I've done things that would make a succubus blush. This is hardly–”

He cuts himself off abruptly, seeming to realise he's saying more than he intended. There's a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken words.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, his arm comes around you. It's not quite an embrace - more like he's unsure where to put his arm and this is the most logical place. But it's a start.

You settle back against his chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes - unnecessary for a vampire; a relic of his past which he retains.

“This isn't… unpleasant,” Astarion finally says.

You smile against his skin.

Astarion truly felt like a puzzle box of a man at times. Certain reactions of his, certain words, dance on the edge of your understanding, always just out of reach. For a person of science, not being able to understand him in moments like this was… infuriating. Exhilarating. A conundrum that both frustrates you and drives your curiosity. Each time you think you've figured him out, he reveals another layer, another facet that sends you back to the drawing board. It's like trying to map the stars only to find they've rearranged themselves overnight. Thrilling, yes, but also unsettling. You're used to being the one with answers, the one who can make sense of the chaos. But with Astarion, you're adrift in uncharted waters, your usual compass rendered useless.

And yet, isn't this what drew you to the arcane in the first place? The allure of the unknown, the thrill of discovery? Astarion is a mystery more complex than any spell you've unravelled, a puzzle more intricate than any magical or alchemical theory you've studied. He challenges you, pushes you beyond the boundaries of your understanding in ways both terrifying and exhilarating.

You find yourself wondering if perhaps this is true alchemy - not the transformation of base metals into gold, but the transmutation of the self through connection with another. Each interaction with Astarion feels like it's changing you, reshaping your perceptions, your desires, your very understanding of the world.

But these are hypotheses to be considered in the daytime. For now, you rest, as a curious yet comfortable silence settles over you in the night air.

Masterlist can be found here.

No Pressure Tags: @silverfangmarks @davenswitcher @roguishcat @sparrowbard @chonkercatto

[nebbyy]

Asra Alnazar x reader - Intimacy before and after

Summary: just some headcanons that came to my mind about Asra<3

Warning: smuttt, but nothing crazy tho, there are mostly mentions or hints of smut, nothing specifically described (it’s mostly just angst tbh). There are also SPOILERS for Asra’s route and the Arcana plot in general, so if you haven’t finished playing it I suggest you don’t read this post. 

A/N: just to specify, reader is wrote as non-binary:) Also, this is the first smuttish thing I write, so feedbacks and advices are very much welcome<3<3

Asra has always been a passionate lover. It’s just the way he is, his body can’t help but follow the intensity of feelings his soul feels, and transfer it from the level of the soul to the level of the body

When he first met you, it was almost as if a wave washed over him, depriving him of balance, and he could find it once again in the feeling of you and your body, pressed against him

Passion mixes with intensity and haste the first times the two of you have sex. His every movement is a physical demonstration of  just how deep, how powerful, his feelings for you are

Once the two of you are done, you’re left breathless, legs shaking and sore, sweat covering your body, tears of pleasure running down your cheeks. You’re spent in the best way possible

It starts to change during the beginning of the Red Plague. The deep empathy you feel for the people dying in the streets, the desire to do something to help, takes all your desires to feel pleasure (or anything joyful for that matter), replacing it with the urge to help as many as you can

You start growing distant from each other, the atmosphere in the shop becomes tense, the interactions between you and Asra are short and almost void of any emotion. You start visiting the castle more often, volunteering to help doctor Devorak in finding a cure for this Plague. It comes without say that sex wasn’t really in neither of your minds

And it only becomes worse after your death. Asra feels that same wave washing over him, but this time he doesn’t welcome the feeling of it. It make feel lost, knowing that the very person he used to hold on to, the only one that made him forget the rest of the world, and just give into the pleasure the wave brought

This wave brings grief, desperation. Hell, it even brings hallucinations to some point. He can’t make out what’s real and what’s fake, he can’t discern when he’s dreaming and when he’s awake

It’s at this point that his situationship with Julian starts. We all know just how toxic it was, for the both of them. But Julian needed to feel love in these dreadful times, and Asra needed to feel that same feeling of grounding to save him from the power of that wave

It wasn’t the same as you, he knew that very well. Julian couldn’t fill the void of love Asra felt, he could only satisfy his carnal desires, give him that brief high that, for just a moment, made him forget everything that was happening in his life, his losses, his mistakes, his regrets

But not much time passes before that high becomes unsatisfying, and the guilt of what he’s doing takes over him. How can he do this with Julian, when all he’s thinking of is you? How can he deem himself worthy of having you once again in his arms, when instead of keeping the void you left empty, awaiting for your return, he filled it with someone else, someone not even comparable to you in his eyes?

That’s when the weird relationship between Asra and Julian ends, when Asra conveys all his energies and time in finding a way to get you back

At first, there was nothing in his mind when it came to you other than gratitude to have you back along with the utmost care to tend to you, to comfort you when you were in pain or scared at whatever appeared new to you after you came back. Your mind was at the same level as one of a child, there was no desire in Asra other than to have you back as you were

As time goes by, and you regain the aspects of the person you once were, that desire, that wave of passion, starts to awaken once again in him

And then after years of longing for the feeling of you’re touch, of your body pressed against him, he once again can feel that same feeling of euphoria once your bodies merge once again. Only that this time, his demeanor has changed. There’s a different kind of intensity in his actions

There’s not the feverish haste in his movements anymore; instead, he takes his sweet time kissing you, caressing your body, worshipping you as if you were some sort of deity. He holds you as if you’d disappear in his arms if he loosens his grip too much

His thrusts are slow and deep, making that wave of pleasure that’s in him fall into you too. It makes you feel a deeper kind of pleasure, one with such forse that it has you detached from reality once you reach your high, it knocks the breath out of your lungs, and it makes you only desire to hold Asra closer, to have him deeper inside you. You almost wish you could become one

There are still times where you have fast, rough sex, one that ends quickly and leaves you both breathless and spent. But you just prefer to feel that deeper connection, the one that has you longing for more, that morphs into endless hours of just holding each other. It makes you both feel as if time has stopped, and there’s no one else in the world but you two

[catch1ngmoths]

BRO I LOVE YOUR WRITING OML ESPECIALLY WITH JOOST ?! MHSKYTJSSYJ

Anywho im allergic to happiness rn so could you write a joost x reader (gn if possible, if you don’t do gn do whatever your comfortable doing idm:3) with like reader admitting that they’ve been struggling (like with depression, suicidal thoughts etc etc)

If you’re uncomfortable with any of this feel free to ignore!! Have an amazing day/night AND GET SOME SLEEP(•̀ᴗ•́)و

࣪˖ ཐིཋྀ SOBER TO DEATH ࣪˖ ཐིཋྀ

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ “take your hands off your neck and hold onto the ghost of my body…” - car seat headrest 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

Summary: you’ve been struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts. You’re struggling with a pretty bad mental episode just as your boyfriend Joost comes home…

Note: I love you all omfg, the support is insane! I absolutely love writing and reading angst so I get you annon 🙏🏻. PART TWO OF, “Only stay with you one more night” WILL BE OUT TOMORROW!!

Warnings: mentions of depression, suicidal thoughts, bad mental episode + comfort

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

You’ve been going through it, really going through it. You had no energy to do anything anymore. No energy to get outta bed, brush your teeth, or even eat. You felt utterly and completely worthless every single day of your life.

The thoughts of getting rid of all the pain and suffering your mind made you go through on a daily basis plagued your mind. The only reason you’d haven’t gone through with your plethora of ideas to end it all was your boyfriend, Joost.

He was the most important person in your life and the best guy you’d ever met. He always helped your mood; anytime he smiles, you smile. Anytime he laughs, you laugh. Anytime he’s happy, you’re happy. But he wasn’t around, not here to talk to you and hold you in his arms.

He was on tour and had been for the past few weeks, you’d realized how bad it’s been without the comfort and just presence of Joost. Don’t get me wrong, every day he was away from you he felt even more annoyed and irritated with everyone around him. Not his fans of course, while performing that was the little peace he got in the day. He just wanted to hold you, he craved it. Just the sight of you made his nerves calm immediately.

You both were like a cure to each others bad moods (THE CURE MENTIONED??!!), fixing each others problems by just being near each other. But your mental health has been the worst it’s ever been these few weeks. You don’t remember the last time you ate and especially drank water. You haven’t left your bed even, falling into deep thoughts of harming yourself that would worry anyone.

The good news is Joost was coming back today, he was practically rushing to get back home to you. FaceTime calls and texting just wasn’t doing it for him, he needed to hold and kiss you. You on the other hand totally forgot Joost was coming home, you’d lost track of time a while ago.

It was around 6pm when you heard the familiar sound of keys opening the front door of your apartment. Your eyes widen, is he home?? Is it really him..?! Before you can get outta your bed a figure comes running towards you with a wide smile, jumping on you and pulling you against them.

You feel yourself smile for the first time in weeks, breathing in the familiar smell of Joosts cologne. He grabs your cheeks and presses kisses all over your face, “missed you so so much baby” he says, his accent bringing the much needed comfort you craved.

He pulls away, looks at you and can immediately tell something’s wrong. He scans your face with narrowing eyes. You looked skinnier and had dark circles around your eyes, even still looking beautiful as ever but he knew you weren’t okay. He doesn’t need to elaborate or even explain, he just says, “what’s been going on in that pretty little head of yours hmm.?”

You sigh, he always knew when something was wrong. He would never let it go unanswered or ignored, “I’ve been getting worse without you here..” you say with a sad sigh, you could always be open and honest with him both of you knew that.

“Talk to me mijn lieve schatje” he says, rubbing your back comfortingly. You pour you heart out, you tell him all about your suicidal thoughts. You tell him about how you haven’t eaten or drinking anything in god knows how long. Your body felt so weak, it took a lot out of you to even raise your arm. You explain how depressed you’ve been, feeling like the most miserable person ever.

He gives you his full and undivided attention, keeping eye contact even when you looked away he stares at you with the most intense eyes that were filled with love and nothing but utter care and worry for your wellbeing. Once you’re done he immediately begins, “well first of all, I’m gonna make you something to eat and drink.”

He says picking you up and carrying you to the kitchen, placing you on the countertop and making you food. Not before handing you a water bottle and making sure you drink all of it. Once your fead, he brings you to the bathroom. You both shower together, he washes your hair and body affectionately while he presses kisses wherever he could.

Once you were both back in bed and ready to sleep he speaks once more right before you were about to fall asleep. “You’re coming on tour with me for now on, I don’t think I can spend that long without you again.” Is the last thing you hear before long kisses are pressed to your eyelids before you’re consumed by darkness….

[b00kdiary]

Better Than Any Fantasy | Ruhn Danaan + Tristan Flynn

Ruhn Danaan x Tristan Flynn x Plus Size Reader

Y/N’s been avoiding Flynn like the plague, and Ruhn knows why and is more than happy to tell him. Especially when that conversation leads to something much better than any of them could have hoped for.

Here's to all my thick, fat, plus-size girlies who want some SJM men love too xo

Warnings: mature themes (18 +) swearing, body-image issues, eventual smut and the Ruhn and Flynn being utterly infatuated with their thick, beautiful lady.

MASTERLIST

“Ruhn!” The sound that escapes Y/N is like sunlight, the kind of goodness that could be bottled up and sold, a cure for the worst and darkest parts of a person’s nature. “Seriously, how can I flip the pancakes if you won’t let me go?”

“Then forget the pancakes,” I grin against the column of her throat, inhaling the feminine scent of her as I hold her to my chest, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her stomach, keeping her giggling figure close. “We both know they’re going to taste like shit anyway.”

“Asshole! I can’t believe you!” Y/N exclaims, slapping my hand but she does mercifully drop the spoon in her hand, pouting as she turns off the gas, saving us from having to grin and bear through eating them. “Well, no pancakes for you- The Crown Prince can starve.”

“Ouch, that hurts Princess,” I croon, smirking as I turn her to face me, my hands running along her lush body, down to her soft ass, “Looks like I’m going to have to satiate my appetite some other way then.”

“Really?” She whispers, biting her lip and I can smell her arousal in the air, my smirk deepening at the way her chest rises and falls fast, and she clamps her thick thighs shut, trying to stop the ache between them.

“Really,” I slowly nod my head, watching as her eyes flutter shut as I kiss her cheek, peppering and trailing my tongue over her jaw up to her lips. She gasps into the kiss, her back arching into the counter behind her and it takes everything in me to not lift her onto the edge and feast on the sweetness between her thighs.

I slip my tongue into her mouth, tasting the bittersweet hues of vanilla and coffee and it ignites something in my chest, a dark and intense pulse that burns all the way down to my cock, already hard and throbbing against my jeans.

My fingers curl around the curve of her ass, my nails digging in hard enough to make Y/N moan, and I revel in the feeling of her large tits pressed against my chest, and her stomach too, so comfortable and perfect moulding against me.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall toward the kitchen has Y/N halting, and the second her hands push gently at my chest, and her lips draw away from mine, I groan. She giggles at the dejection in my voice, on my face, before pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek as she peels herself away from me- those footsteps infinitely closer now.

“You really have the worst fucking timing, Flynn,” I spit, my dark eyes lifting over Y/N's head, to the brown-haired, golden-skinned pretty boy smirking as he leans against the door pane, looking more than amused at my irate glare.

“By all means, please continue,” Flynn shrugs nonchalantly, teasing us but my lip quirks up at the way Y/N’s body freezes, her cheeks turning an adorable shade of red at Flynn’s words- at the secret between us that made her so perfectly embarrassed.

“Hm, what do you think Y/N?” I mutter gently, my breath running warm against her cheek, and I have to bite my lip to force down my bellowing laughter at the murderous scowl she gives me.

“I need to go get ready, I’m meeting Bryce in a few,” She bites back, ignoring my knowing stare as she pushes at my chest, brushing past me, the stains of red deepening as her gaze meets Flynn’s, before immediately looking away.

“Hey, Y/N,” Flynn smiles softly, but his brow furrows as he takes in her fast-paced footsteps and the way her head is pointed down, unable to meet his eyes.

“Hi, Flynn,” Y/N mumbles back quietly, and before he can open his mouth to speak again, she’s rushing past him, her curvy body curling in on itself like a flower so as not to feel every inch of him against her.

I fold my arms over my chest, trying to blanket my expression as her footsteps bound away and Flynn stares after her, his face a mixture of hurt and confusion, so unlike the usual carefree nonchalance and humour we were used to.

“Okay- she’s barely said five words to me in days, any room I enter she leaves, and she can’t even look me in the eyes,” Flynn frowns, frustration locking his jaw as he comes to lean against the counter-top, staring at me in expectance. “What the hell did I do wrong?”

“You’ve noticed all of that, huh?” I muse, cocking my head at him, and the way his frown deepens, and he leans forward makes me smile. “She’s not upset with you, Flynn. But she is distracted- she sees you and her mind turns to something I said.”

“And what exactly would that be?” He demanded, folding his arms across his muscled chest, seemingly relieved that Y/N wasn’t angry with him, but the glint in his eyes had sharpened, and I knew he was interested, knew he couldn’t help but be intrigued by my devilish smile.

“Well…” I run my tongue across my teeth, my mind racing back to that night four days ago, and Flynn’s eyes darken with shadows as I recall every last detail.

“Ruhn,” Y/N moans, her head tossing back to rest against my shoulder, and I nibble on her earlobe as I fuck my hips up into her, the sound of her wetness mixing with her breathless gasps driving me insane.

I groan as she rolls her hips, my fingers gripping into the meaty flesh of her thighs and hips, guiding her back and forth, up, and down, and the feel of her back and ass pressed against my sweaty bare chest is like heaven.

“Don’t stop, please, please,” She pinches her eyes shut, and I love the sight of her face as she takes me, the TV light casting over her, highlighting every expression she makes- every time she bites her lips, or rolls her eyes, or opens her mouth to release the most delicious sound for me.

“Look at you, such a good girl, so fucking polite,” I croon, my right hand sliding up to cup her heavy breast, bouncing wildly with her movements, and I grin as I pinch her pebbled nipple, rewarded with another whimpered moan from her. “And yet you’re riding me like a slut right now, making a mess of my cock and in the living room, for anyone to come in and see.”

“Oh fuck,” Y/N cries, her body sweating and her breathing erratic and I know her peak is close, know by the way her knees start to give out, her fingers cutting into my arm as she tries to anchor herself. I chuckle, my voice low with headiness and I take it upon myself to drive up into her faster, deeper, to hit that spot that has her seeing stars.

“Bet you’d love that, huh?” I mutter, kissing her neck, running my canines down her throbbing pulse point, “Bet you’d love for someone to walk in right now, to watch you get fucked like a good little slut, your entire body on display.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” She nods her head erratically, fucked dumb and swimming in the clouds of her mind as I slip in and out of her, her wetness almost ridiculous, her walls clenching me so goddamn tight.

“Yeah? Does my Princess want an audience, does she want to be watched?” She gasps as I bite against her sweet spot, that hurt turning to pleasure as I lap my tongue there, feeling her racing pulse. “What if someone came in right now… what if Flynn came in right now, you want him to watch? Or do you want him to join?”

The whimper that escaped her at my dark words surprised me, the way her entire body arched and trembled against me surprised me- because she did want that.

“Huh? You want him to join? You want to get fucked and worshipped by me and my best friend?” The idea makes my core burn, and I know we’re both reaching that climax, that euphoric tipping point where she comes around my cock, suffocating me and milking me dry. “Answer me, Y/N, or I’ll stop.”

“Ruhn,” She pleads with me, and the sound almost makes me give in, give her what she wants, but I don’t relent and when my hips start to slow down, pausing, she groans, and the satisfaction that fills me as she nods her head, almost makes me finish right there. “Yes! Yes, yes, I want that, Ruhn, I want that.”

“Want what? Be specific, Princess,” I coax, groaning, guttural and low as I move inside her, her pussy throbbing around me, her body so happy, so fucking relieved at the feeling of me moving again. “Tell me.”

“I want you a-and Flynn, I want-want to be watched,” Her voice is shaking as she speaks, the sound of her ass slapping back against me so lewd in the air, and I have to grit my teeth at the pressure building in my gut. “I want you both- to touch me an-and fuck me, I want you t-to worship my body.”

“That’s my girl,” I praise, knowing that my encouragement was feeding into her pleasure, heightening it and I know she’s imagining the both of us fucking devouring her, “bet you'd look so good with his cock stuffed in your pretty mouth, or fucking in and out of this tight cunt,"

My cock, my words, the images tip her over that edge with a devastating cry.

“Ruhn, Ruhn, Ruhn-“

“That’s why she’s avoiding you, Flynn,” I state hoarsely, ignoring the way my cock aches, the image of her body and the feeling of being inside her tormenting me now that I’d opened that box up, allowing myself to remember it. “Because when she sees you, she pictures that fantasy all over again.”

“Shit,” Flynn mutters and I recognise the roughness in his voice, recognise the intense, unsatiated gleam in his eyes and the way his entire body has gone hard with restraint. He’s imagining her- her body, her tits, her cunt, her mouth, and everything he could do to her.

I would’ve thought the idea of my best friend fantasising about my girl would make me furious, make me murderously jealous and yet, the more I thought about it, the better it all seemed.

“So, Flynn,” I know he sees the challenge in my eyes, the hot mischief as I grin at him, and I see his brows raise in shock, in interest, as I lean forward. “How do you like the idea?”

***

“Ruhn?” I call, my heels clicking against the floor as I walk down the dimly lit corridor toward Ruhn’s room, my voice echoing through the silence of the empty house. “Hello? Ruhn?”

My phone beeps in my hand, startling me, and I pause a few yards from his ajar door, not hearing the familiar sound of my boyfriend's voice or any other person's voice for that matter. I click open our text thread, and heat instantly fills my body.

‘Come inside, shut the door behind you and close your eyes- no peeking.’

Another game. Ruhn loved his games, loved watching me pant and sweat and blush under his ministrations and my body pulsed in excitement, knowing that as long as I followed his rules, as long as I played my part, I would get my reward.

I bite my lip, discarding my phone on top of the bookcase outside his door and my knees felt weak as I slowly walked over, the anticipation clogging the air. I close my eyes as I step over the threshold, my hand on the doorknob as I close it behind me, the wood creaking before clicking firmly shut.

It was a mixture of terrifying and thrilling, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but knowing that he was in here with me. That his eyes were on me, watching me, smiling, his gaze running over every inch of me as I stood there.

I hear footsteps echo against the floor, getting louder, and closer, and my nipples harden, the crisp air feeling hot and thick in the silence- knowing he was coming, what he would do, heightened everything.

“Always so obedient,” Ruhn’s voice ran over me like a caress, prickling my skin and I shivered under it, knowing he was inches from me. I swallow as his cold hand traced up the sleeve of my dress, moving slowly before resting against my chest, right over my thundering heart. “Nervous? Or excited?”

“Both,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the pressure of it all, his fingers teasing against my hot skin, barely touching me and yet it felt like I could feel him everywhere.

“Good,” He praised, and I inhaled as he slipped his hand into mine, tugging me forward. I followed, blindly, obediently, walking forward as he led me further into the room before eventually stopping, likely only a few feet from his bed.

His hand slipped from mine and the need to open my eyes intensified, the desire to see him almost overwhelming, especially as he circled me, like a predator, not speaking as he came to stand behind me, his hands clamped down like a vice on my waist.

“Do you want to open your eyes, Princess?” He whispers against my ear, and I can smell the mixture of alcohol and apples on his breath, it intoxicated me, and I whimpered quietly, arching my ass into his already hard cock.

“Yes, yes please,” With anyone else I would have been mortified by how my voice shook, at how desperate and helpless I sounded, but not with Ruhn, no, I couldn’t ever feel anything but thrill and need and comfort when with him.

“I think you’ve more than earned your reward,” Ruhn nibbles against my ear, his favourite tactic to make me dizzy, to fill my head with clouds, distracting me wholly. “Go ahead, open your eyes for me, Y/N.”

I inhale once, deep and steadying, and then with a long, slow exhale, I flutter my eyes open.

And my heart stops in my chest.

“Flynn?” I choke out his name, jumping at the sight of him sitting on the bed before me, leaning back on his strong arms, his eyes racking over me like I was prey, “What the fuck?”

“Breathe, just for a second, breathe,” Ruhn instructs from behind me, and my body seems to melt into calm, melt into him. It was as if I were predestined to trust him, to obey his words. I force the air back into my lungs as I stare at Flynn, my body shaking at the look in his eyes- for me.

“I don’t understand,” I mutter, my throat drying out as I glance over my shoulder up at Ruhn, to the pleased smile he wore. I watch as his gaze meets Flynn’s and something passes between them, some unspoken conversation I wasn’t privy to. “Tell me, Ruhn.”

“Flynn was upset that you’ve been avoiding him, he thought he had done something wrong,” Ruhn informs me, looking far too smug. It would have annoyed me if I didn’t feel so guilty for hurting Flynn. “I was more than happy to fill him in on the real reason you were being so distant.”

The real reason. That night, Ruhn’s words, his taunting, seductive, torturous words that have me picturing it all again- Flynn and Ruhn, all over me, touching me, tasting me, fucking me, absolutely ruining me.

“I see you remember it well,” Ruhn chuckles- the prick was taunting me, and I almost hated myself for how my body responded, how my arousal scented through the air, so obvious to the two arrogant males before me. “And we wondered if that certain fantasy was one, we could fulfil for you, Y/N."

“Oh,” It was an idiotic response, one that Ruhn would no doubt endlessly mock me about later, but I was speechless, breathless, my entire being trembling and weak at his words, at the insinuation, nervous under Ruhn’s watchful eyes.

“Is that something you would like, Y/N?” Ruhn mutters, and I sigh as he runs his nose down the vein of my neck, inhaling the scent of me. My eyes glanced to Flynn, patiently waiting, and the sweet smile he wore told me it was all up to me.

“Is- is that something you would want us to do, Ruhn?” My voice is weary as I glance back at him, and upon seeing the fear and concern in my eyes, that he would think I wasn’t happy with him, Ruhn smiles- one that warms my heart.

“I’m yours and you’re mine, Y/N, always,” He kisses my cheek, tenderly, and it’s enough to drive me mad, “But that doesn't mean I can't share, in fact, I'm more than willing to see you being pleasured by us both."

Excitement and thrill- that was always what I felt with Ruhn.

“Then yes,” I breathe the words and instantly the air in the room changes, the two males change and the predators in them, the hunters in them, the instinct of the Fae comes roaring out, their eyes latching onto me.

A low, rumbling sound reverberated through Ruhn’s chest and I felt it vibrate through me, straight to my thrashing heartbeat. I clench my hands as Ruhn turns my face toward his, and the second his lips connect with mine, every worry withers away.

I melt into the way his tongue laps against mine, smooth and graceful, so skilled in making something as simple as a kiss feel as intimate and real as when he fucks me, and it makes me just as wet.

“Why don’t we show Flynn here what’s under this dress, hm?” Ruhn muses against my lips, and I can feel Flynn’s intense stare and it’s almost terrifying how still he is. “Let him see what he's been fantasising about all day."

I gnaw on my lip, nodding my head and turning to watch Flynn’s reaction. Ruhn begins to tug at the zipper at the back, and immediately Flynn’s beautiful face turns lethal, feral, sharpening in a way that made me clamp my legs shut, so desperate to stop the ache there.

He tugs the zipper to the end, and together, we pull the material down my arms and chest, letting it slip over my wide hips and thighs before it pools to the floor at my feet.

“Shit,” Flynn curses, his jaw locking hard enough I can hear his teeth grating, and at that moment, wearing nothing but a black bra and panties, I’m glad that I hadn’t chosen something silly or unflattering to wear today- because he was looking at me like I was the beautiful one.

“I know,” Ruhn says, agreeing with his best friend, his brother, and my cheeks heat at the pride in his voice, the sheer masculine satisfaction. He was pleased with Flynn’s reaction, pleased that his chest was racing wildly, that his throat bobbed as he traced over my skin, pleased at the hard length imprinted against the seam of his jeans. “She looks even better without these on.”

Nausea fills me at the thought of Ruhn unclipping my bra and slipping off my underwear, nausea at the idea of being wholly naked before Flynn, every single curve and roll and stretch mark, all my cellulite and uneven skin and bumps on display.

It had taken me a long time to be comfortable enough for Ruhn to see me naked, and I loved him. Letting Flynn see me that vulnerable seemed like such a big leap to take.

"Is that alright, Y/N?" Flynn asked, and the tenderness in his face almost made me sob, the kind and thoughtful gleam in his eyes that told me that I could trust him told me that he would respect any choice I made.

"It's alright," I nod slowly, pushing down the insecurity and when Ruhn's gentle hands move to the clasp of my bra and he unhooks it, letting my aching breasts fall free of the material, I'm glad for that choice.

I recalled Flynn once stating he was a tits-over-ass man, and right now I could tell he was being honest. I watched as he ran a hand over his jaw, his gaze flickering back and forth between both of my breasts, a deep groan escaping him at the sight of them.

Ruhn chuckles, far too happy as he kneels behind me, his fingers gently hooking into the material of my underwear and began slowly tugging it down, over the curve of my ass and my wide hips, down my thighs, the material getting stuck between the places that touched and eventually down to the floor.

I curled my hands into fists, my nails cutting into my palms as Ruhn held onto each calf and slipped off my heels, one by one, and I giggled at the sound of him tossing the shoes behind us, my clothes and underwear flung back to some faraway corner as well.

"You were right, Ruhn," Flynn states roughly, his tongue lapping out to wet his lips, and I smiled under his eyes, the way they moved over me, over every inch, not blanching at any of me. "She's definitely better without anything on."

Ruhn stood behind me again, running his fingers up and down the length of my back, and something in me purred.

“I think Flynn should get a better look," I mutter, my confidence spiking as I glance back to Ruhn and his smirk is proud, arrogantly proud, "Or a better feel?"

The air went taut as I sauntered toward him, Flynn looking almost nervous as I came to a stop before him, staring down at his perfect form. I place a hand on each of his broad shoulders, my knees weak as I climb onto the mattress, his hands not hesitating to grab my waist and guide me to straddle his lap.

My sore nipples brush against the material of his shirt and my wet, aching core sits perfectly over the seam of his zipper igniting red, hot embers through my entire body. Flynn remains silent as he stares at me, his hands moving over my naked hips and thighs, waiting for me to make the first move.

Even if I could hear his heart racing, his eyes telling me that he was on the very precipice of his control.

"Kiss me, Flynn."

And by Cthona, he kisses me.

The way Flynn kisses is different to Ruhn, his mouth moves against me, all tongue, and teeth, suckling and biting and tasting, and I moan into it, relishing every second of him devouring me, every second of his hands all over me, palming and kneading my flesh, slapping, and clawing at my ass.

“Fuck me, Y/N,” Flynn growls in appreciation and I don’t have a second of reprieve as he kisses down my neck hastily, not hesitating to pluck a nipple into his mouth and suck at the taut bud. Gasps slip past my lips as he rolled it, bit it, lapped at it, the nerves alight as he moved between each, looking damn near giddy as he toyed with them.

The ache between my legs intensifies as he sucks at my breasts and I start rocking back and forth to ease the feeling, the material of his jeans and the hardness of his cock underneath rubbing against my puffy clit perfectly.

"Tsk tsk tsk," Ruhn muses from behind us, and my eyes flutter as I glance at him, moving to sit on the bed beside us, his shirt gone and stars gleaming in his eyes as he watches us. "The poor girls rutting against your clothed cock, Flynn, give her what she wants."

"And what do you want? Hm?" Flynn taunts, trailing his tongue over my nipple, his dewy eyes looking up at me as he does so, and I groan at the sight, and at the hold he has on my hips, halting any movement I try and make.

“Your fingers,” I croak, gripping his large hand and watching his breath catch as I drag it down my stomach, whimpering as I run his calloused fingers over my wet folds. “Right here.”

“You’re going to kill me,” He snarls, and my eyes clamp shut when he circles my clit, firm and sure, his fingers knowing exactly how hard and fast to go, and he has me arching my back and moaning, glad for the hand he had keeping me from toppling over. Flynn smiles, kissing my lips and cheeks, moving his fingers against my clit faster.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly my orgasm seemed to approach, and I knew I wouldn’t last long, not as that fire fanned in my core, edged on by every smooth flick of his fingers at my clit.

“You wanna come, Y/N?" Ruhn asks darkly and when my head turns, I see him palming his hard cock over his jeans, the muscles in his chest clenching and flexing in restraint, watching his best friend finger his girlfriend, and loving every second of it. "Be a good girl and ask Flynn if he'll let you."

"Please, please," I mewl loudly, my head throwing back as Flynn slips two fingers into my sopping cunt, the friction of him fucking his fingers in and out forcing me closer and closer to that edge, "Please, Flynn, let me come."

"So polite, asking me so nicely," Flynn croons and my thighs quake when he crooks his fingers inside me, pressing that magic button that has a swarm spreading through my stomach and core. "How could I possibly say no?"

He hooks his fingers against that spot again, and again, and his thumb brushes my clit and before I know it, I’m falling off the edge of a cliff.

“Flynn, oh-“ I cry out as his fingers drive into me repeatedly, hitting a spot that has my core exploding, hitting me hard and fast and lasting so long that my head starts to spin.

“Atta girl,” Flynn praises, and I feel his smile against my skin as he slows his fingers inside me, feeling every pulse and quake of my orgasm, before slowly slipping them out of me.

I sag forward, resting my forehead against his shoulder for support as I catch my breath, tendrils of release still coiling through me and gradually melting into oblivion. Flynn’s touch is soft across my back, waiting for me to come back down to Midgard.

“How are you feeling, Princess?” Ruhn asks quietly, his hand running through my messy hair, brushing it from my sweaty face and hooking the strands behind an arched ear. I flutter my eyes and meet both their gazes and again, that vicious, relentless monster of need rears its head.

“I feel like I want more,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and the heat that filled their eyes made my entire body ache. “Please.”

“Shit, Ruhn, you weren’t lying when you said she was a good girl,” Flynn growls and I giggle when his hands clamp down on my hips, lifting me with ease to sit on the bed between them both, the two of them rising from their seats. “She does deserve all the praise and rewards.”

“That’s my girl,” Ruhn winks at me and my cheeks burn at his words, joy and shyness filling me at the smile both males wore, looking at me like I was a fucking dream come true. “Move back on the bed, Y/N, we’ll give you what you want,”

Flynn chuckles as I rush to do so, my tits bouncing as I crawl backwards toward the headboard, stopping when I’m in the middle of the bed, space on either side of me.

My mouth waters as the two boys before me begin to reach for their clothes. I watch as Flynn unbuttons his shirt, one by one, almost agonisingly slow before he peels the material off his body revealing inches of muscle and rippling packs.

Where Ruhn was slender and lean, with hard abs and glorious tatted skin, Flynn was bigger, corded muscle and a six-pack for days. My pussy soaked at the sight of them both, grinning like they knew what they were doing to me.

I bite my lip hard enough to hurt as they both reach for their pants, the only sound in the air is my haughty breaths, the clinking of their unlocked belts and the sound of two zippers gracefully sliding down.

I whimper at the sight, a high-pitched, needy sound that makes them both look at me, Flynn raising an amused brow as he reaches down, tugging off his jeans and throwing them to the side, Ruhn following suit.

They were big, both of them. Big and thick, gloriously hung with strong veins and white pearly pre-cum leaking down their tips.

It took me a long time to adjust to Ruhn’s size, and even now my pussy was always too tight, always wrapped around him so painfully that he said it was the sweetest torture. And as I eyed Flynn’s cock, saw how red and angry it looked, I knew he would feel the same.

“Such a pretty girl,” Ruhn muttered, his blue eyes darkening to a tidal wave, a terrifying tsunami as he rounded the bed, his body glorious under the lights as he climbed onto the mattress, settling just behind me. “So, fucking pretty, right Flynn?”

“I can’t argue with you there, Ruhn,” Flynn smirks, and my thighs clench when he crawls onto the bed, his cock rising and hard as he settles just before me, looking down at me like he couldn’t believe his eyes. “I’m very jealous of your boyfriend, Y/N.”

He runs his hands up my calves, his touch bare as he moves up and down, going as high as my hip bone before swiftly moving back down, all the way to my ankles.

“Poor Flynn,” Ruhn laughs, and I groan as his hand slips around my neck, curling his fingers to grip my jugular, tipping my head back to meet his face above me, “You wanna help make our friend feel better, Princess?”

I grin, and Ruhn’s face is a mirror of mine as his hand slips away and I roll over and onto my front, my knees spreading and ass arching into the air. Flynn’s breath audibly catches, and the sound he makes is animal, purely Fae, at the sight of my pussy wet and bare, waiting for him.

“Flynn,” I mewl, my head sagging forward and resting against Ruhn’s stomach as Flynn runs his hands over my ass, scratching and fondling the flesh, but he doesn’t move further. “Please just fuck me, I can’t wait-“

“There we go,” Ruhn mutters and I can hear his grin as Flynn rubs his tip over my wet fold and before I can even moan, he’s pushing the head into my entrance, choking on a rough laugh as my pussy immediately sucks him in.

The sounds that escape me are high-pitched and restless as Flynn shoves the rest of his length inside me, not being gentle or slow, and I’m glad for it. Glad for the way he stretches me so thoroughly, glad that I can feel him sink all the way in, brushing a spot far and deep inside.

“Gods above,” Flynn growls, his nails cutting into the flesh of my ass as he draws himself out, nearly to the tip before plunging back in, the sound of skin slapping and my wetness making Ruhn groan. He swears lowly, watching as I suck up his length inch by inch, starting to move faster against me now.

Ruhn runs his hands over my hair, his face full of pride as he watches me kneel before him, my body wrecking back and forth, my tits bouncing as Flynn pounds into me, our moans a melody.

“Ruhn, Ruhn,” I plead, my wide eyes meeting his and he runs his thumb over my lip, a knowing gleam in his eyes, “Fuck my mouth, baby please, fuck my mouth.”

He didn’t say anything, nor did he wait, and my entire body trembled as his fingers gently collected my hair behind me, easily guiding me over his erect cock, waiting so patiently before me, and I closed my eyes as he brushed the tip over my lips and then pushed into my mouth.

“Shit, Y/N,” Ruhn groaned as he fisted my hair, guiding my head up and down his shaft, hitting the back of my throat more than once. I gagged and then moaned, Flynn spreading my thighs wider, and sinking deep into a tender spot within me.

There was so much spit drooling from my mouth, making a mess of Ruhn’s cock and stomach as he bucked his hips up, fucking my mouth just the way I liked, and as Flynn moved behind me in tandem, his cock slipping in and out, in and out, relentlessly, I was a whimpering, breaking mess.

It felt so good, felt so fucking right getting fucked at either end of me, and Ruhn swore, his body twitching as I moaned around his cock, the sound vibrating through him, bringing him closer and closer to that sweet edge.

“Shit, Y/N, shit,” Flynn gasped, his voice rasping and hoarse, breathless as he gripped my ass, as he had his way with me, still so painfully big but the hurt felt good, brought me closer to my end. “Look at that pussy, wrapped around me so fucking tight.”

His words encouraged me, and I suckled against Ruhn’s cock harder, tasting the familiar saltiness of his pre-cum, loving the ache of his fingers yanking at my hair, the pain at odds with the fullness of Flynn pounding into me, that dam inside me starting to fill.

“Princess, I’m not gonna last,” Ruhn warns, his fingers tightening in my hair, his hips stuttering, and I take it upon myself to get him there, to hear him moan my name as I suck against him, hard and fast, hollowing my cheeks and taking him even further down my throat. “Oh fuck- Y/N.”

He growls an animalistic, rugged sound that echoes through the whole room and makes my clit throb, his body jerking as I feel the warm, salty liquid squirt from his cock straight down my throat. I swallow, I always swallow, moaning happily as I do.

“Flynn, I’m so close,” I call out, Ruhn’s semi-hard cock resting against his stomach now and my face burying into his hip, feeling the tender touch of my boyfriend's hand in my hair, so opposing to the brutal, bruising hold of Flynn behind me.

“Me too, Y/N,” Flynn hissed, his cock starting to hammer into me quicker, and I can barely stop the shaking in my knees. I gasp when his thumb reaches around me, rubbing messily at my clit, and the angle changes, moving further and every single touch is too fucking much.

“There, there, there-“ I call out again and again and again, teeth biting against Ruhn’s thigh, something he fucking loves, as I’m hit with my release, a wildfire that starts at my core, and just erupts, moving through my veins and blood and bones and I can’t stop the sounds coming from me.

Flynn’s hips start to falter, curses endlessly falling from his lips as my pussy clenches around him like a vice, so tight and unyielding that he roars, stilling and growling as his cock spills inside me, filling me up.

Pleasure, hot and white and blinding, dying out so slow as Flynn moves inside me gradually, spreading his hot cum all over me, and it all feels like heaven.

I huff out a huge breath of air, my eyes clamped shut and head spinning and when Flynn ever so gently slips out of me, his hands holding onto the flesh of my hips and guiding me to turn and lay flat on my back, I don’t even fight it.

Pure exhaustion riddles me, so much so, that I lay there, my head against Ruhn’s thigh and my body trembling and weak against the mattress, unable to stop how my core throbs with the aftermath of my orgasm.

I blink open my eyes after several seconds and I’m met with the two males before me, their eyes returned to their usual bright shades of blue and brown, and their lips tilted up, sweet and wonderful as ever.

We’re all covered in sweat and panting, but as Ruhn look down at me from behind, and Flynn sits between my legs, rubbing at my weak thighs, I know we’re all fucked out- for now.

“Did that live up to the fantasy?” Ruhn mutters, his smile adoring as he brushes the hair free from my sweaty forehead, his fingers so gentle as he rubs the spots on my scalp he had yanked at before.

“Better than any fantasy,” I breathe, my cheeks hot as I grin, and Ruhn’s eyes brighten as he takes me in. I gnaw on my cheek, glancing forward to Flynn, his eyes never once leaving mine, “And for you, Flynn?”

“I agree, Y/N,” He smirks, his grip tightening around my thigh, and the look is so telling, that even Ruhn laughs, “So much so that I’ve got a few more fantasies that we could try.”

----------

@mis-lil-red @hyemishii @assaultsofthought @starswholistenanddreamsanswered

[moonstruckme]

Hey lovely! I read you’re response the ask about sirius helping an exhausted reader and let me tell you I was giggling and kicking my feet the entirety of my reading (and re-reading and re-re-reading) you did an impeccable job!! I was thinking as I was reading your doctor!remus fics and couldn’t get the thought of athlete reader with either poly!marauders or whichever of your choosing helping reader with back pain/achey muscles. I weight lift competitively and slowly throughout the season I’ve acquired a myriad of aches and pains but the worst is my back and the thought of coming home after comp or practice to one or multiple of the marauders ready with a back rub and icy-hot makes it bearable 😭 you’re an amazing writer and i appreciate you bunches n bunches <33333

Thanks gorgeous <33

modern au

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 480 words

You can’t help but think, as the old door to your flat creaks loudly open, that it sounds how you feel. 

You would never know you’ve just finished working on your fitness, with the way you walk inside shoulders slumped and back aching. You feel about three times your age. It’s ridiculous. 

“Hi,” James calls from down the hall. 

“Hey,” you shout back, and his footsteps begin coming towards you as you waver in the space between the kitchen and the living room. You really should start dinner, but what you’d like to do is lie down for the next two to three business days. 

“Oh.” James appears with a towel around his waist, curls wet and weighty against his forehead. “Not you too.” 

You roll your shoulders, hoping fruitlessly that the motion will ease out some of the pain resting between them. It doesn’t. “Yup. What’s plaguing you?”

“Leg. Your back again?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh. You sit on the couch, grabbing the icy hot from its now permanent spot on your coffee table and patting the spot beside you. “Here, let me help you with it.” 

“No way.” James sits, but takes the icy hot from you. “You first.” 

“You’ve been dealing with it longer,” you argue. You know his practice ended almost an hour ago. 

“I can tell yours is worse.” He nudges your shoulder gently. “Lay down, angel.” 

You can’t muster the energy to protest longer, and truly nothing sounds more appealing, so you do, peeling off your workout top as you go. “Thanks,” you sigh into the couch cushions, folding your arms under your head.

You hear James open the icy hot, and then his big hands land on your shoulder blades, fingers spread wide. He spreads the lotion down your back, palms pressing down with a pleasant pressure. The sigh that leaves you is borderline pornographic. He laughs. 

“I knew you didn’t really want to massage my leg.” 

“Shut up. I love you.” 

He says it back at a murmur, thumbs drilling into the tensed muscles on either side of your spine. Maybe by experience or maybe by some prenatural boyfriend instinct, he knows intuitively the exact amount of pressure you need, pushing down with enough force to work out the knots in your muscles but not hard enough to really hurt. Mumbled thanks mingle with your sighs, but soon you’re too blissed out to speak anymore, lax on the couch beneath him. 

“Where else hurts, pretty girl?” James asks you, circling his thumbs on your mid-back while he waits. 

“Nowhere. You’ve cured me, Jamie. Thank you.” 

You can hear the smile in his voice. “No problem.” 

“Okay.” You sit up, marveling at the ease of it, the comfortable warmth of your muscles. You feel brand new. “Your turn.” 

James plops his leg into your lap with eager readiness. “Give me the works, angel.” 

[dreamsontheirway]

Vanilla Chai | S.R.

Summary: in which reader has the flu and insists that they’re fine. spencer x reader. Warnings: sickness, vomiting, morgue/dead body on a case Word Count: 1.5k

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The sunrise of the early Friday morning shone through your blinds and cast its rays upon your face. You stirred, slowly opening your eyes, then closing them almost as quickly due to the pounding in your head. 

You groaned, squinting to check the time. Fuuuck, you thought. It was well past the time you needed to get up. You would have plenty of time to get ready, but the thought of having to leave your warm, cozy bed was pure torture. 

You reluctantly tore yourself from your bed, shivering when your skin hit the cool air that was once shielded by your tan colored comforter. You made your way to your closet and began the agonizing torture that was preparing for the day.

No matter what, though, you would be going to work. You weren't sick -- you didn't have time to be sick.

✿

You walked into the building with one hand securing your satchel and the other pressing against your temple lightly, attempting to ease the pain radiating through your skull. Tylenol had been fruitless in your attempt to ease the splitting headache plaguing you.

Upon entering the bullpen, you made your way over to your desk, squinting from the bright, harsh LED lights. You plopped down in your desk chair, draping your bag atop the back of it. Before you could even gather your surroundings, a cup from the local coffee shop was placed in front of you.

"Dirty chai," a voice spoke. "With two pumps of vanilla."

Spencer Reid, your boyfriend, your partner in crime - literally. A godsend. If anything could cure you, it was a chai latte.

You looked up at him through heavy eyelids. "You're truly amazing. Thank you."

"My pleasure," he cooed, tucking a stray hair behind your ear and kissing the top of your head as a greeting. Almost as quickly as he touched you, he pulled away.

"You're warm," He stated, matter-of-factly, before returning his hand to your forehead. His brows furrowed in a swirling concoction of confusion and worry.

You waved him off nonchalantly. "I'm fine, don't worry about me. Probably just dehydrated or something." You sipped at your latte, humming contentedly at the sweet, milky liquid.

The young genius was unconvinced and peered at you skeptically through black rimmed glasses. Your favorite. You recalled a moment before you started dating in which you sheepishly admitted how much you liked when he wore them. Spencer had blushed so deeply his face was the shade of a tomato. He had timidly thanked you for the compliment and you had noticed that he wore the glasses much more often after the exchange.

"Have you taken any fever reducer?" Spencer mused, and you hummed again in response, signaling you had, and took another sip of your tea. His brows furrowed again.

"I promise I'm fine, Spence. Now if you don't mind, I've got a lot of paperwork to complete." You smiled softly at the tall man beside you, and he seemed to relax slightly.

"Just," he started. "Just let me know if you need anything, okay? I could pick up some extra strength acetaminophen if you want me to."

"I will let you know. Promise," you smirked at your partner's concern. It was charming, really, but you were fine. Whenever you had been sick in the past, if anything it was merely a nuisance. All it had been was a hinderance preventing you from getting your work done.

Your thought was cut short by another voice speaking. "We've got a case. Conference room in 5." Hotch spoke, his voice embodying its usual firm timbre.

"Duty calls," you joked to Spencer, standing up to begin the trek to the conference room. As you stood, the hammering in your head began again, stronger this time. One hand flew to your temple, rubbing in hopes to soothe it, and the other gripped the edge of your desk.

"Whoa," Spencer reached for you, a hand resting on your waist, squeezing firmly yet also gently. “Do you need to sit?"

You waited a moment, allowing the black veil of dizziness to fade away. "No," you spoke softly. "No, I'm okay. Must've gotten up too fast." You gave him a smile.

Spencer was skeptical, you could read it across his features, of which were twisted up in apprehension. You knew he wasn’t going to let this go.

“C’mon, worry wart.” You both traveled up the stairs to the conference room. Spencer walked behind you, picking up on the fact that you were walking slower than usual. Your steps seemed calculated, ensuring that your feet would land firmly on each step.

You sat down at the round table, Spencer selecting the seat right next to yours. A sigh expelled from your mouth and your eyes closed, attempting to fend off the dizzying feeling that continued to consume you.

Spencer reached you under the table, rubbing his thumb against the lower part of your thigh. Oh how you wanted to curl up with him on the couch, his arms holding you tightly against him… No. You were fine! You needed to concentrate on work. You could rest with Spencer later.

Hotch and the rest of the team entered the room and took their seats. You listened to the case being explained, but your mind continued to drift towards nothingness. You just could not, for the life of you, get yourself to focus.

“Agent Y/L/N?” Hotchner’s voice seemed to be ten times as harsh as usual. God, did he have to talk so loud? Or was it purely the constant amplification of sound that swirled in your head?

“Yes, sorry?” You spoke, but your vision blurred and you started to see two of everything. You closed your eyes tightly, willing the double vision to dissipate. You could feel Spencer's gaze burn into you from your peripheral vision.

“You, Reid, and Prentiss will go to the medical examiner.”

“Yes, sir.”

You were thankful that no further questions were asked about your lack of active listening. You gathered your satchel and additional items in preparation to head out with the rest of the team. Before you could began your descent back down the stairs, a gentle touch laid on your arm.

"Are you sure you're alright? You can go home if you aren't feeling well. Hotch will understand," Spencer's voice soothed you, and pulled you in as if it were suctioning you to him. His fingers rubbed the back of your arm delicately.

Boy, did you want to just go home and cuddle under a blanket and watch your favorite show... No, you could do this. You wanted to be here for this case. Besides, it was Friday. You just needed to get through today and you could enjoy some much needed time off over the weekend.

"Yes, I'll be okay," you assured, leaning yourself into his side slightly. You could smell the scent of chai and cinnamon on him and it was the most comforting scent you could imagine in that moment. Spencer seemed to smell different each day, today it was chai and cinnamon, yesterday it was lavender and chamomile. You looked forward to what tomorrow's fragrance would be.

✿

The drive to the medical examiner's office was largely uneventful. Spencer drove, with you in the passenger's seat, and Emily in the back. The local radio station played softly through the speakers of the van, and Spencer snuck looks at you that you pretended not to notice.

You all made your way inside the building, its walls white and sterile like a hospital. The smell of bleach and cleaning chemicals wafted into your nostrils, and you found yourself craving the aroma of lavender and chamomile.

Prentiss suggested that the two of you go with the medical examiner to gather information about the body. That would leave Spencer to go through the files and reports related to the case. It made sense; Spencer could read through the handful of files in mere minutes. However, he was reluctant. His hazel eyes peered at you, questioning. You just smiled in response, communicating that you would be fine.

The morgue smelled even stronger of bleach and chemicals, and you felt your stomach do flips. The examiner displayed the body for you and Emily to look at. As always, it was a gruesome sight, but you were unfortunately used to it. But, why were you feeling entirely sick to your stomach all of a sudden?

You could feel something in your throat, and you knew you needed to get outside or to a trash can, whichever came first. You dashed towards the back exit so quickly, that you didn't even notice Spencer's worried stare.

Upon seeing your fleeing form, Spencer lightly tossed the files he was skimming onto the mahogany table and quickly bounded toward you. He arrived just in time to hold the heavy door with one hand and gather your hair on your neck with the other.

You heaved, tears burning your eyes. Spencer switched to use his hip to hold open the door and utilized his now free hand to rub circles on your back.

"Let it out," he cooed, continuing the soft, repetitive motion on your back.

"Spencer," you gasped.

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm sick."

-----

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[theres-a-body-here]

Scumtober- Day 18 (Medical Play)

SCP-049 x Male!reader

"Now, now," said SCP‐049 calmly, raising a hand to wave vaguely at the array of tools. "Let us begin. First things first – tell me how you've been feeling recently?"

You snapped out of your trance. You were busy looking around the containment room. Right, you're here for a checkup. You've recently been feeling under the weather, which is concerning considering you're an Euclid class SCP. Even more ironic, your abilities pertain to human diseases and ailments, more specifically, spreading them on an unprecedented level yet remaining immune to them. So its not hard to see why the Foundation would be interested to know what exactly is infecting you.

"Ive been feeling strange.....melancholic" you say softly as you glance at his medical tools curiously. The doctor nods as his hand goes under his chin as if in thought. He motions for you to continue. You look through your memories. "I saw one of the assistants whispering to one of the researchers the other day. She laughed and I felt....left out"

The Plague doctor stops pondering as he internally facepalms. You're just lonely. He could cure this in his sleep.

SCP‐049 leaned against the table, his mask's beak pointing at you. "Ah yes, the Pestilence of loneliness," he mused. "A most insidious affliction indeed. But fear not," he purred, placing a gloved hand on your shoulder. "For I shall be your... cure."

Without warning, SCP‐049 pulled back suddenly, revealing a syringe in his gloved hand. Before you could react, he pressed it firmly against your neck and pressed down on the plunger, injecting you with an unknown substance. As he did so, he continued to speak in his smooth, almost hypnotic tone. "There now, that won't do. Let's see if this helps clear up those pesky blues."

He removes the syringe and starts cleaning up the spot where he injected you. Within minutes you start to feel a warmth traveling from your chest to your groin. You blush as you start to visibly tent up. You move your hands to cover your boner. The doctor huffs and shakes his head as he gently grabs your hands to pull them away. You groan but let him since you want this funk to end already, no matter what crazy ideas this loon has.

As SCP‐049 began examining you, his movements became increasingly sensual, his fingers tracing along your inner thighs and brushing against your growing erection. "Tell me, mon cher," he whispered behind his mask. "Have you ever considered... exploring your own desires? There's no shame in wanting pleasure, after all."

Your mind swirled with arousal as you tried to focus on answering him truthfully. Finally, you managed to stammer out a response. "I... I haven't really thought about it much."

He simply gives a hum in response before tugging at your pants. Your blush darkens but you let him, he's the professional after all....you think. The doctor pulls down your pants and underwear as he carefully folds them and places them on a chair besides the trolley holding the tools. You shiver as your bare ass touches the cold metal of the exam table. The doctor reaches over to the trolley and pulls it closer to the table. He picks up the clipboard.

With practiced ease, SCP‐049 spread your legs apart with his free hand, exposing your genitals to his gaze. He hummed appreciatively at the sight of your throbbing member, eager and throbbing. He tilted his head as he ran a finger lightly along the sensitive skin of your balls. You let out a soft sigh at the contact. Your cock flexes and twitches.

"Interesting..." he murmured, jotting down some notes on his clipboard. SCP‐049 moved closer to you, pressing the tip of his pen directly onto the slit of your penis. At the slight pressure, you let out a surprised whine, involuntarily thrusting your hips towards him. This elicited another low hum of approval from SCP‐049 as he went back to writing more notes.

He suddenly puts the clipboard onto the trolley. He picks up a thin metal rod and applies some lubricant to the end of it. You raise an eyebrow as you try to guess where its going. With deliberate slowness, he placed the lubed end of the rod against the slit of your penis. You sharply inhale as you wait, shaking with nerves.

"Relax, cherie," he crooned, running a gentle hand across your stomach. "This won't hurt...much."

Slowly, oh so slowly, SCP‐049 pushed the sounding rod into your urethra, making sure to apply just enough pressure to keep you aroused without causing pain. As he worked, he couldn't help but marvel at the way your body responded to each millimeter of intrusion – your breath coming faster, your cock growing harder, and your eyes widening in anticipation.

Finally, with a satisfied grunt, SCP‐049 reached the desired depth and held the rod steady, taking great satisfaction in hearing your whimpers. Placing a small clamp near the base of the rod, he secured it in place, ensuring that it wouldn't slide any further into your urethral tunnel. Satisfied with his work, he returned to his clipboard, scribbling furiously as he documented everything he observed.

You whimper as he takes his time. "Please....I need more" You moan out desperately. The doctor rolls his eyes and sighs. Being a doctor can be so demanding sometimes. He shakes his head as he lubricates his gloved hands liberally.

"Oh, very well," SCP‐049 sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically behind his mask. "It seems our dear patient requires additional stimulation." He presses his fingers against your puckered hole, inciting a soft moan from you.

With expert precision, SCP‐049 inserted two fingers past the tight ring of muscle guarding your entrance. He scissored them open once inside, stretching you wider. Each movement was accompanied by a keening cry from you, your voice hoarse with desire. Your hips buck and your cock bounces, causing the metal rod to slide a bit in and out.

"Subject exhibiting signs of extreme arousal. Penis fully erect, testicles drawn up close to body. Vocalizations indicate heightened state of excitement. Shall proceed with next phase of experiment"

As SCP‐049 spoke, he removed his fingers from your hole and replaced them with three – one middle finger sandwiched between two index fingers. Your body writhed helplessly on the table as you let out guttural moans.

SCP‐049 grabs hold of your shoulder for support, using it as leverage to drive his digits deeper still. His fingers move with a cruel rhythm, plundering your depths ruthlessly until you felt like nothing more than an empty vessel begging to be filled. You grasp the edge of the table for support as he abuses your prostate. The sounding rod bobbed maddeningly inside you, adding yet another layer of sensory input to fuel your impending climax. Already, you could feel the telltale stirrings deep within your core as your orgasm approached.

Desperate to reach release, you claw at SCP‐049's robe, searching for something solid to anchor yourself amidst the storm of pleasure. Without warning, he yanks the sounding rod out of your urethra in one swift motion, sending a geyser of hot semen shooting forth from your dick. It splatters across your torso and chin, leaving you utterly spent and trembling with post‐orgasmic bliss.

"Magnifique!" SCP‐049 declared triumphantly, moving back slightly to admire his handiwork. "But I fear our session has only just begun, ma cher. We have much more ground to cover if we are to rid you of your loneliness."

With that cryptic statement, he began to undo the fastenings of his robes.

This was going to be a long visit to the doctors.

Scumtober 2023 Masterlist

[weskie]

A New Dawn (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violence, tentacle murder, tentacle affection, yeah that's a thing, shared shower, wesker lives au | Fic Directory

You found him by sheer luck.

That rock he’d crawled onto could’ve simply crumbled.  The volatile lava could’ve risen higher and submerged him completely.  Despite the odds being stacked so incredibly high against any hope of recovering Wesker, you managed to pull his legs from the impossibly hot liquid with the help of a small rescue team and loaded his charred body into a helicopter for what was arguably the worst moment of your life.

All you can do is stare at what he’s become– at the autonomous slithering of tentacles that, by some miracle, contained themselves to their host and did not spread to your shaking hands.  His lower body is marred entirely with burns and blisters so severe that you’re unsure if taking him out of there was even humane.  If, perhaps, letting him be swallowed by the earth would’ve been kinder than putting him through whatever is to come next.

Once he’s placed in a containment room, you call in every favor you’ve ever known him to be owed.  But it’s all for nothing.

The first attempt to prick his skin with an IV catheter results in bloodshed.  The entire team of medics stood stock still as the head doctor was impaled and dangled overhead by a mass of black, oozing tentacles emerging from Wesker’s body.  It happened so fast that you only realized it once the blood hit the observation glass.

Such would be the result of any attempts to address his injuries.  Not even a blanket was able to be laid over his bare form without retaliation. It was like the mass of tendrils had a mind of their own, geared only toward protecting their host– though it raises the question of why the initial recovery of his body hadn’t produced the same response.  Regardless, you wager they’re the only reason that Wesker is still alive.

For that, you’re thankful.

You talk to him through the intercom regularly.  You tell him about the BSAA’s seizure of Tricell and its assets, of how you’ve turned one of his hidden facilities into something livable for when he wakes.  That you’ll be there when he does, and how excited you are for the day.  That you hope he can hear you but feel none of the pain.

You pray he doesn’t.

At the end of the first week, you come to the realization that the tendrils are slowly engulfing his body.  Every day, more seem to appear until his legs are cocooned.

You take notes and photos of everything as best as you can, just as you know he’d want you to.  After all, this is his creation in action. The seed for his perfect world that was now seemingly consuming yours whole.

By the fourth week, they’ve risen as high as his clavicle. 

By the fifth, you feel as if you’re losing your sanity.  Alone in a massive underground facility, having not seen the sun for weeks on end, eating only MREs and having what little sleep you get plagued by stress and worst case scenario nightmares… 

You crack.

“I don’t know how to make it better, Al…”  You whisper brokenly, forehead pressed to the glass. “I can’t– I don’t know how to help you.”

Any assistance you could have possibly had turned their backs the moment the danger far outweighed the payment– which had been the case from the very start.  Though you can’t find it in yourself to fault them.  If it wasn’t for the fact your heart was lying on that table, you’d have probably followed. The threat of death can be very convincing. 

When the tendrils creep onto his face, you break containment.  And why not?  Why shouldn’t you go in?  You helped make this mess.  You helped create the organism consuming him.  For years, you worked alongside him to perfect the cure to humanity’s wretches– to cull the species destroying this planet and dragging the rest down.

Perhaps you deserved the same fate for sharing in his endeavors– for even having goals so similar and selfish.  But was it really?  Was it so selfish to want better for humanity? 

You drag your swivel chair behind you as you tread over dried blood smears and dehydrated viscera. 

“You always did like making me do things the hard way,” you jest as you approach him.  But you’re not in there to take notes or vitals.

You set foot inside to relieve your madness.

Your hand quakes as it hovers above his forehead.  You’re unsure if you should even touch him due to the blistering and ripplings of infection marring his skin.  The burns have healed a tad since bringing him in, but not nearly as much as they should’ve.  Then again, it’s been weeks since he’s had a dose of suppressant to keep his strength balanced.

You lower the back of your hand toward his nose, relieved to feel the faintest tickling of air.

“Thank god,” you whisper tightly.  “I really miss you...”

Which was the honest truth.  You miss your mundane nights with him, sitting near as you both worked independently. Stacks of paper, the clicking of keyboards, endless hours in the laboratories spent refining mere dreams into reality.  You miss his cold affections and strange ways of expressing that he, too, had been infected with that parasite known as love.

You let your hand rest shakily over a section of his hair that hadn’t been burnt down to the scalp.  You hold your breath and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You are not added to the stains of violence on the walls, nor are you impaled in the blink of an eye.

But you are greeted with a much thinner tendril creeping up over his brow and forehead to inspect you.  It nudges your thumb and your whole body goes tense, veins chilling as if your blood had turned to ice.  It slithers over the bumps of your knuckles, leaving a thin layer of ooze over every inch of skin it touches as it trails to wrap around your wrist.  For a brief second, you’re petrified of it taking hold of you like that.  Would it try to bind with you?  What if it did to you what it had done to your precious Albert? What if it rejected you?

And if it did, how would you continue to try to help him? 

But it doesn’t.  It does nothing of the sort, just simply continues snaking up the length of your arm.  The tip rests atop your shoulder in a strangely… docile manner. You cease petting Wesker’s hair for but a moment to calm yourself, and then you feel it do something odd.

The head of the tendril lifts itself and plops back down on your shoulder, stroking backward little more than an inch before repeating the process.  You watch with wide eyes, both fascinated and terrified.

It’s mimicking you.

You pet Wesker’s hair once more and it ceases its movements.

You stop; it begins again.

Was Uroboros itself doing such an act?  Could it?

A flicker of hope flashes in your mind and tears prick at your eyes.  It’s so fucking unlikely– nearly impossible even.  And yet–

“Is that you?”  You ask softly, inching just a little closer to him.  You can see the way his eyes dart around beneath his eyelids– an entirely new development.  Was he dreaming? 

The tendril wraps the slightest bit tighter around your arm. 

“Can you hear me?”

The head of it lifts and falls against you once more.

It couldn’t be… but, at the same time, it had to be.   The tears you’ve fought against so hard fall and you grin from ear to ear.  All of that fear fades away, the desperation, the depression and hopelessness– it’s all gone.

You lean forward and press a kiss to his brow, suppressing your silent cries as you revel in the joy that your love is still in there.  This is no mere corpse kept alive by the resilience of a virus. The tendril wraps tighter the second your lips brush his skin, and you know in your heart that it’s how he’s able to reciprocate.

“We're going to figure this out,” you promise him. “I love you.”

Two weeks pass before his flesh starts to peek from between those slithering lengths.  You’d almost lost hope again.

It’s his lower body that starts to emerge first, bit by bit, starting from the feet up.  Flesh that was once marred an angry red, blistered and scorched beyond recognition, was now a scarred pink.  Amazingly, some patches seemed to have healed flawlessly, as if he’d never submerged in the fires of the earth to begin with.

Notes and photos.  Tests where possible.  Anything you could do to make sure Albert had every scrap of information possible about his otherworldly creation.  

Uroboros works.

Not only that, but it can bring its host back from the brink of death– if not perform a complete resurrection. 

Day by day, more of him is revealed until the pink line at his waist shows you just how deep he’d been submerged.  There are splatter patterns elsewhere, you notice.  Tiny specks of scarring from where lava had touched him long enough to burn through the dermal layers.

You decide to finally attempt to cover his body again.  A simple blanket, but hopefully one that’s warmth would not go unappreciated in the chill of the sterile room. 

When his hands are freed, you hold and press countless kisses to them.  You rest your cheek in his palm, telling him about your findings– that he’s almost healed and that you’re so goddamn excited.

“Uroboros is a success, my love.  You’re proof of it.”

The most fascinating of all, though, is the amber-like formation embedded in his chest.  From what you can tell, it is from this that the tentacles on his body are emerging.

You dare not touch it. Not yet, anyway.

Six days later, you find yourself kicking around in the barren kitchen of the complex.  There’s nothing but crumbs, and you’re miserable.  You haven’t left since arriving, and these compounds of his were never meant to be more than a brief hideaway.

You drag your feet as you make your way back to the bedroom.  Seems there’s little more to do than throw yourself in the shower to start your day, so you do exactly that.  Though not with any degree of enthusiasm.  Instead you sit on the ground and hug your knees, eyes shut as you ignore the complaints of your stomach.

You’ll have to find transportation to and from the nearest town– if there even was one.  It’d be lucky if you spoke the language or could even find the currency, but you’ll figure it out.  You have no choice.

In the absence of your awareness, coupled with the white noise of the shower, you fail to hear the door creak open.  Not even the disoriented shuffling against the tile floor rouses you.

Suddenly, the shower curtain is ripped open, and you startle– damn near knocking your head off the floor as you slip around like a fool.  But you clamber to your knees in an instant, arms flinging around the intruder who had fallen to your level.

You can’t help but weep.

“Al?!  Oh my god!” you exclaim through the tightness of your throat. Your hand strokes at the nape of his neck.  “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.”

You should’ve been there when he woke up.  You should’ve fucking been there.

He shouldn’t have had to find you.

You move back and cup his face in your hands, pressing a smiling kiss to his lips despite the torrent of emotion rocking you to your core.  You pull away and find that he looks exhausted.  Completely and utterly drained.  His eyes are hooded, but the blue irises peeking out from under his lashes confirm that he is, in fact, exactly that. The formerly bright formation on his chest is dimmed nearly black.  All of his energy had gone into merely surviving.  Your poor, sweet love looked death in the eye for a second time and emerged victorious.

You help him get under the stream of water where you sit and hold him close.  You’ve never seen him like this before.  Vulnerable was an understatement.

He’s quieter than ever, staring straight ahead at the wall.  Shame, you surmise.  Humiliation.  He was defeated again– maybe even flat out killed.  His pride has always been its own Tower of Babel, built high enough to reach heaven and godhood.  But now it was truly shattered.  Crumbled to bits and buried in the sands of his failure.

There are no words to say.  Not yet, anyway.  He’s already heard them all.  Instead, there is shampoo to massage into his scalp and soap to trail over his body.  You may not be able to fix his pain, but you can wash away the remnants of volcanic ash and ooze tarnishing him.  The burden of grime is at least gone by the time the water runs cold.

You dry him with a towel, taking note of how his hands shake and how he balls them into fists to hide it.  You wonder if he still hurts, but you know he’d never admit to it even if he was truly in pain. Even wincing was out of the question, so you pretend not to hear it when he does.  You pretend like he doesn’t lean on you for support as you walk him to the bed, like he doesn’t need your help to lift his legs high enough to settle in.

He lets you hold him while he sleeps, something so out of the ordinary it leaves you blinking in confusion the second his head lays upon your chest.  Nevertheless, you do it anyway.  You pet through his hair, even occasionally running your fingertips over the healed sections of his scalp.  Normally he would stir if you so much as shifted, but he doesn’t even groan in his slumber.  

You hold him as though he's made of ceramic, basking in the tenderness of hope until your own eyelids grow heavy.  The world can wait.  Rebuilding can wait. Hell, even revenge can wait.  All that matters is this– is him. Your precious Albert, safe and very much alive in your arms, is more than you could ever ask for.

For the first time in weeks, your eyes flutter shut without fear of tomorrow.

loose followup fic here

another loose followup here

[dreadsuitsamus]

Will | Vegeta x Reader |

author's note: this is for the always lovely @miss-taura! i hope you're starting to feel better, or that you start getting better quickly!! rest and hydrate 🩷

pairing: vegeta x fem!reader

warnings: saiyan!reader, illness, mentions of death, mentions of frieza doing frieza things

Anxiety clings to Vegeta's stomach as he marches to your room on the Frieza station— you weren't at dinner tonight. It's unlike you, unlike any Saiyan warrior, and worry nags the Prince to his bones.

Of the Saiyans left, you're certainly his favorite. The bar is low, with your competition being Nappa and the Radish-boy, but you're still quite the cut above them. And your lack of presence is irritating, rude, and above all worth a princely tantrum.

Pounding on your door, his patience is too worn thin to properly wait for an answer. You haven't responded with the half second between his harsh knocks, so obviously he's got every single right to invite himself in. It's dark but his scouter clearly marks your exact position in your bed, and he hears your soft groan as the light from the hall floods in.

"What the hell, 'Geets?" Congestion plagues your sinuses, and a fever leaves you with harsh shivers as you glare at Vegeta with blurry eyes.

Vegeta scoffs and narrows his eyes as he steps further in, kicking the door shut behind him. "More like what the hell is up with you. You skipped dinner."

You cough into your shirt, flopping down pathetically onto your pillow. "I'm not hungry."

"A Saiyan is always hungry." Vegeta's arms cross over his broad chest as he tilts his head— he's not sure if he's ever seen you sick, or anybody else on this ship, for that matter.

A cold trickle of fear suddenly drips down his spine; Frieza certainly would find no use in nursing any of his army back to health, and absolutely wouldn't tolerate a particular bug spreading amongst the force.

He can't lose you like this.

Too tired to argue with him, you wave a hand in Vegeta's general direction. "Leave me be, 'Geets."

Vegeta nearly growls— you're far too uncaring. Do you have a death wish? He storms out of the room and you're far too ill to wonder what's gotten into him before another terrible coughing fit assaults you again.

Your consciousness fades in and out, though the next time you come to for longer than mere seconds, it's at Vegeta's shaking of your shoulder. His touch isn't particularly gentle, the rare occurrence never really is, but you can feel his effort of holding back. "Mmm…?"

"Sit up and eat, and take this too." A platter from the dining hall sits on the nightstand beside your bed, and a small caplet is flicked your way.

"Where did you find medicine?" Throat scratchy and burning at even breathing, a soft cough follows your question.

"It matters not. Just use it."

So he broke an international law somewhere, got it.

Your legs rub together unconsciously, begging the resulting friction for warmth. A Saiyan rarely feels so chilled, but it's as if you're iced to your very bones. Vegeta's jaw ticks and he doesn't put much thought into the why before he's stripped off a glove and pressed the back of his rarely-revealed hand against your forehead. His memories of his mother are frighteningly fading, but that is one of the few that holds strong and he can clearly remember of his late mother. He was young and felt awful for perhaps the first time in his life, and her gentle hand measuring his fever did wonders as a cure compared to all the bedrest and tonics.

Your watery eyes meet with Vegeta's as he moves to touch each cheek, his knuckles dragging along your skin and bumping over your nose. Eyes guarded, he turns his head and pulls back his palm. "You're running a fever. Eat now, and take the medicine. You're to be cured by tomorrow, understand?"

This motherfucker is giving my illness orders!

Opting for a dumb nod, your attention focuses on what he's brought you. Nothing too capable of potentially upsetting your stomach, it's easy to devour even with your fatigue crawling back by the second and the shivering from your fever slowly icing you more and more. You can hardly even notice Vegeta's too-quiet demeanor as he stares a hole into the carpeted floor, though to not see such a stoic side of the rather bratty, barbarous man that typically wears a smile of evil would be impossible.

"Done." Voice hardly capable of more than a whisper now, you set the plate aside and, large pill laid out on your tongue, finish off the first of the gallons of water he's thoughtfully provided you.

"Rest." His order is swift and gruff as he turns to leave, but your voice, quiet and unsure, calls for him to linger just a bit longer.

"T-Thank you, V-Vegeta." The tremors of your body are harsh enough to make your teeth audibly clash together, and the thin blanket wrapped around you couldn't possibly be enough to dispel this fever.

Breaking the fever will allow the medicine to work, and a little sigh pulls from his lips. You certainly always manage to break down a barrier he places, and usually it's fully unintentional and unknowing. But he cannot lose the last woman in his life, the last of the Saiyan race, and that's what has him stripping to his underwear and climbing into bed with you.

"'Geets…"

"Speak not a word further. Rest." He grumbles and unravels your wrapped form, inserting himself under the blanket with you. The heat radiating from him nearly makes your head spin as you grab the Prince's body despite how unbecoming this all is. The touch of his body isn't exactly foreign, though it certainly is in the manner of comfort rather than the training you've always known.

Vegeta's hold is tight. It's his duty as your Prince to keep you alive, though the warming of his cheeks when he gets a glimpse of your sleeping face suggests to himself it may not be as noble as he wishes.

[teddy06writes]

Whumptober Day 18 - Alfie Solomons

Alfie Solomons x male!reader

Prompt: Nightmares

Trigger Warnings: swearing, mentions of death, and the terrible conditions of ww1

Summary: Night after night, you are plagued with nightmares, and Alfie seems to be the only thing that can cure them. Technically a continuation of Day Six, but you don't need to read it for this to make sense.

With every passing moment, the cold of the mud was seeping further into your bones. The frigid water the filled one side of the fox hole was already beginning to soak your legs.

Miller's hands were pawing at your arms, threatening to drag you deeper into the mud. His inhuman cries of pain seemed to reverberate through your soul.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to get away from the hands that grabbed at you, the cold that stung at your cheeks, and the mud that clung to your skin.

No matter how far you ran, no matter how long you spent dragging yourself through the mud, you could never escape. The barbed wire sliced at your skin, and Miller's cold, cold hands never gave up their vice like grip.

You fought wildly to break away, clawing at the hands that clamped around your throat. When you opened your mouth to cry out, they only tightened their grip, tighter and tighter until you couldn't breathe-

You sat up violently, drawing in panicked, gasping breaths. Miller's dead, empty face flashed behind your eyes. Arms were quick to wrap around you, and you lashed out in blind panic, shoving away from them, and all but throwing yourself out of bed.

"Hey- hey easy treacle- listen to me..."

In your panic, your eyes refused to focus, darting around the unfamiliar room rapidly, as you backed away from the strangely gentle voice.

"Come on now petal, it's only me- it's your Alfie, see?"

Somewhere between blinks, you had landed on the floor, and a familiar figure crouched beside you.

"'s just me, love, just your old Alfie," Alfie held out his hands, as if to show that he was no threat, "No fuckin krauts here, treacle, just me."

You let out a gasp of relief, all but throwing yourself into his arms, "Alfie- Alfie..."

Alfie wrapped his arms around you tightly, holding you protectively against his chest, "I know, I know sweet boy. It's alright, you're safe now, Alfie's got ya."

Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you let out another shuddering sob, relaxing into his grip.

"Come on, let's get you back in bed, alright love?"

You nodded, allowing him to help you up and guide you back to the bed. It was easy enough to settle back into his arms, allowing the pressure of his grip to wash away the phantom feeling of Miller's hands.

"You want to talk about it?" Alfie asked, once your tears had subsided.

"I was back there again," Your voice was smaller than you would have cared for it to be, had you been around anyone else, "In the mud, with Miller. It's like it can never let me go."

Alfie cupped your face in his hand, gently, wiping away the last traces of your tears with his thumb, "Listen to me now, love. That fuckin hell hole of a place, it can't hurt you now. That mud, it's bloody miles away, right? You're not stuck there, your stuck here with me, in sunny old England."

You let out a scoff, unable to help yourself from chuckling at the joke.

Alfie grinned, his mission accomplished, "See, there's that smile I love."

"Oh shut up." You elbowed at him, wriggling in his arms for a moment before settling again, this time tucked closer to his chest.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your hair line, "You go back to sleep now, petal, Alfie's got ya."

[ploo-toe]

The Crow and The Mourning Dove: CH 4

SCP-049 x SCP!Reader

Series tags/warnings(18+): fem!reader, slowburn, (eventual)smut, horror, gore/violence,  Assault(mental, physical,sexual), death, unethical experiments, dark, mentions of past trauma, happy ending

Chapter Summary: I would take great pleasure in crushing you beneath my boot like the pest that you are.

Note: Sorry for the delay! I've been having some pretty bad migraines lately, but hopefully things will be rolling out smoothly now :)

 ___________________________________________

049 had been moved to heavy containment after the incident.  The questionings were weekly, staff always being met with hostility and agitation.  Despite his insistent demands, they had denied him anything regarding Y/n.  Given the state of his current arrangements, he could only assume the barbaric cruelty she must have been met with.  The very thought of it made his blood boil, the sight of her fear-stricken face burned into his mind.

It was one he wished to never grace her features again.

Director Novak slammed his hands on the table across from him, clearly angered by 049’s antics. 

"For the last time, what do you know about SCP-2895?" He was practically seething at this point. 049 would have found his lack of composure amusing given other circumstances.  “You and that thing killed four men, you will answer for it!”  

049 was on his feet in an instant.  His fingers twitched, itching to rid this man of the disrespect that clearly plagued him.  To speak of her in such a manner.  He fixed a hard, cold stare on the director, holding his vile nature under a harsh and unforgiving gaze. 

For a moment, he saw a crack in the director’s exterior.  The flash of fear that made its way to the surface.

To think of putting such vermin in a position of power was completely asinine.

“You seem to be quite ill, doctor.”  

If Novak wasn’t nervous before, he certainly was now.  He knew just how much power that single statement held.  

The director rose from his seat, poorly trying to mask his panic.  “I assure you, I'm feeling just fine.  I certainly don’t need one of your so-called cures.”

049 practically doubled over, letting out a cold unsettling laugh.  One that was unnervingly out of character for his normally composed nature.

“You think I wish to cure you?  Surely you jest!”  He pressed his gloved palms flat against the table, leaning across the table until his face was merely inches from the directors.  His words were sharp and gritted, all rouse of laughter gone. 

“I would take great pleasure in crushing you beneath my boot like the pest that you are.” 

Novak didn’t linger long enough for the good doctor to make true on his words.  

His next stop had been even less helpful than the first.

Where 049 had been standoffish and aggressive, 2895 had become unresponsive to personnel entirely.  Any attempt made at questioning had been fruitless.  No matter who came in or what words were spoken, Y/n’s gaze remained fixed in the distance.  She seemed to stare straight through anyone who took the place in front of her.

Novak studied her from the other side of the observation glass, as if trying to pick apart her exterior to get to what he really wanted.  Dr.Leeward stood next to him, incessantly fidgeting as he looked over his notes.  He desperately searched for something he had missed; something that would give them answers and get the Director off his back. 

2895’s provocation had been easy to see, but what he didn’t understand was why 049 had reacted so strongly to it.  The entire series of events had left it acting extremely out of character.  

It left him gnawing at his inner cheek until he tasted metal.

His colleagues always said that he was too soft for this job.  Maybe it was weakness, but he couldn’t shake the mix of feelings that were being brought on by the situation.  There was something about the display of emotions coming from the SCPs, something that he couldn’t help but describe as so blatantly human.  It went against everything he had learned until this point.

It was that mix of feelings that led him to where he was now.  Standing outside of SCP-2895’s heavy containment cell in the middle of the night, furtive to the directors knowledge.  

Leeward looked both ways before quickly entering.

“Novak doesn’t know I’m here.”  He spoke quickly in a hushed voice, taking the seat across from her.  “I don’t have much time, but I need you to tell me what you know about SCP-049.”  

No response.

He racked his brain for ideas, before a thought hit him that left both he and all the other staff looking like bumbling idiots.  The two have never interacted within the foundation before.

“...Do you know the plague doctor?”

Her eyes suddenly pierced his with an intensity he had never seen before.  She was staring right through him just seconds ago, and now it was like she was staring directly into his soul.  He fought to keep his next words steady, suddenly feeling small under her gaze.

“This whole situation puts you both in a heap of trouble, and I can't help unless you give me something to work with here.”

Slowly, she leaned down, not breaking contact as she reached a restrained hand into the collar of her shirt.  As she pulled it out, something familiar dangled in front of him. 

A ring.

[demonicbaby666]

The Melody of Loss

One shot | Criminal Minds Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x fem!Reader

Genre: angst 

Words: 1.4k+

Warnings: suicidal ideation, malnutrition, depression, grieving, blood.

Summary: Takes place after Emily has ‘passed away’. It’s really just an angsty fic about grieving the loss of Emily. 

A/n: I highly recommend you do not read this is you are prone to being easily triggered, its v sad and could be painful to read. But if you do, put on some sad music and get in your feels because this is 10x better with sad music. I recommend you’re someone else (flora cash) and it’s okay (Tom Odell) as that what I was writing it to. 

It had been two months since Emily had left your life, you had mourned her each and every day. Slowly pieces of you withered away as happy memories contorted to remnants of a life you could no longer have. Going into work served as only another reminder she truly was gone but you forced yourself to persevere.

That evening things became too much; you lay on the floor begging your brain for reasons to continue. Without Emily everything just seemed empty and there was a hollow part of your heart you feared could never be filled again. Though it was just an expression, having your heartbroken, you felt the organ incessantly cracking. Your chest was heavy and every time you breathed your lungs constricted, demanding to breathe the scent of Emily’s shampoo, the smell of her perfume, her. 

The hoodie that adorned your skin no longer smelled like Emily and you would have screamed out if your body allowed you to, alas it didn’t. You were running on minimal energy levels, meniscal daily tasks took their toll on you, nourishing your body was no longer a priority. It helped when you were numb, it wasn’t a cure, but the buzz of emotional pain was more dulled, diluted and less consuming. 

Quiet sobs passed through your lips as you lay on the cold floor, you had no idea how long you had been crying, all you knew was you woke up in the same position you were previously in with puffier, redder eyes. You sat upright, too tired to focus on anything other than the blank space that filled the front room, you finally let your eyes settle on the piano by the window. It was now gathering dust, missing its player’s delicate fingers. 

A single tear fell down your cheek as you forced yourself up and walked to sit down on the stool. You pressed down on a piano key and a note rang through the room, bouncing off the walls and yet another bittersweet memory resurfaced. 

It had been Emily’s idea to buy the piano, you’d planned on starting out small together, renovating this little apartment you’d bought with your dual salaries. One day you got back and there it was. It was vintage and though it took up a large amount of space, you couldn’t deny, the piano was perfectly suited to the vibe of the apartment. The sunlight beamed through the window and cascaded onto it as Emily sat on the velvet stool looking down at the keys. She seemed miles away, plagued by a distant memory. 

As you walked up to her, you took in how radiant she looked, a baggy white blouse was loosely hung around her shoulders, accompanied by plain black vest and casual black work slacks. The light hit her perfectly, showing off her slick jawline.

When you brought your hands down to her shoulders, she jolted just slightly but instantly relaxed into the contact. She hummed contently when you moved your hands down to wrap around her waist, nuzzling your head into her neck. The smell of her shampoo and perfume filled your nostrils and your little heart leapt from your chest, much like it always did when you found yourself wrapped around Emily.

Her hands were delicately placed on yours as she laced your finger together, holding you tight against her. The soft skin of her cheek brushed against the side of your face. You looked into chocolate brown eyes and saw the weight that was contained within them. Emily had never been a big talker and from months of experience you knew best how to help her through troubling times without antagonising her. 

You placed your lips to her temple for a few seconds, holding her you rocked from side to side on the heels of your feet, swaying the both of you slowly to a fictious melody playing in your head. Puckering your lips, you placed a soft kiss to her porcelain skin before breaking away for a split second to sit next to her on the stool. 

Shifting the weight of your body and head, you leaned into Emily. “Play me something?” 

She smiled down at you for a few fleeting moments before setting her gaze on the piano, elegantly bringing her fingers to the keys. With the lightest of touches on each key and the pedal moving under her foot now and then to elongate specific notes, Emily did as exactly you asked. When she finally finished playing you peered up at your musician to find her eyes were glazed over, salty tears were brimming over her waterline as she once again looked into the distance. 

Broken was your heart as you reached up to hold this strong-willed woman’s face between the palms of your hands. Emily wore sorrowful smile, looking deep into your eyes searching for answers to a question you hadn’t yet been graced with. A single tear spilled from her eyes and made its journey to your thumb so you could brush it away.  

“I knew a little boy; I taught him how to play.” From the heartache the words brought her you knew whatever had happened to the boy in question wasn’t an easy topic to breach. Of course, later you learnt who he was, how and why he meant so much to Emily. 

She adverted her eyes, looking around the small apartment, before meeting your gaze once again. Her hands homed in on your waist, gradually bringing your bodies closer. You vision went black as you closed your eyes and let her nimble lips grace yours with their presence. A slow rhythm was set as your lips danced together, just as they had time and time before. Held within the kiss was something new, you tasted the question that lay dormant within Emily, and you slowly pulled your lips away. 

Not wanting to stray too far away you leaned your head forward to touch Emily’s, relishing in the feel of her warm breath caressing your lips. 

“I want a family with you,” she breathed out, pulling back to study your expression. Melancholy tears were transformed into those of delight as she watched the corner of your lips twitch. 

“There is nothing in this world that I want more than just that Emily Prentiss.” Her face became blurry, you only registered you too were crying when the kiss that you shared moments later grew wet. 

With both hands you slammed the piano cover down, startling yourself when a loud thud echoed through the room that was once filled with the sweet sound of piano chords. The ghost of Emily was felt next to you on the stool and your stomach churned when you remembered just how close you once had her. How close you were to a future together, the engagement ring remained on your finger, though it had become loose, many of times it had almost fallen off, as if telling you to let go. 

Your body gave up on you and you fell against the piano, darkness circled around you, it was engulfing you, whispering and coaxing you to give in, to join Emily. It was unrelenting, sucking you in and you felt yourself folding over and over. A whirlwind of grieve was stirring mayhem in your head and you held no more control over your emotions as screams of pure agony worked their way up from your gut, passing your dry throat and exiting your chapped lips. 

Anger began to bubble within your veins, questions of how she could ever leave you all alone rung through you mind and you grabbed the only thing within your reach, throwing it as far your weak-willed arms would allow. 

“NO!” you screamed, running over to the broken shards of glass dispersed across the floor. The smell of Emily filled the whole room as her perfume circulated the air around you. “No, no, no.” You sobbed, picking up pieces of glass, not caring as red beads of blood formed on your fingers. You threw your head back looking up at the ceiling, pleading to any higher being to take this all away, to bring your fiancé back, to let you feel her arms around you again, “Please no.” you screamed out. Tears continuously trickling down your face, the acidity burning a red lined path down from your eyes to your chin. 

Your body shook from the pain that raked through you; you felt the emotions seep from every inch of you. Just as you though you would never know peace again, hands wrapped around you and the world calmed just a little bit. 

“She’s gone.” The words came out cracked and almost inaudible through all the crying. But you knew JJ heard when she held you the slightest bit tighter. You continued to cry, this time with the security of knowing you weren’t alone in all of this. 

“I-I’m so sorry.” JJ held you as she herself began to cry, only later would you understand just why her tears had been fuelled by guilt and not grief. 

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