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erika-xero · 2 years ago

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Beware, the long post incoming. Pro tips for artists who work on commissions!

DISCLAIMER: I do not have, like, a HUGE online following and can’t be called a popular or viral artist, but I do have some experience and I’ve been working as a freelance artist for more that five years, so I could share a few tips on how to work with clients with my fellow artists. Scroll down for the short summary!

First of all, you always need to have your Terms of Service written down in a document that is accessible for your potential clients. And by terms of service I don’t mean a set of rules like “I don’t draw mecha, anthro and N/S/F/W”. There is much more into it, than you may think when you first start drawing commissions.

You’ll need to understand how copyright law/author’s rights in your country works (for example, US copyright or Russian author’s rights, be sure to check your local resources). There are a bunch of sites where you can actually read some legal documents (. I know it might be boring, but TRUST me, you WILL need this knowledge if you choose this career path.

Russia, for example, is plagued with shops selling anime merchandise. The merchandise is usually printed somewhere in the basement of the shop and the shop owners literally rip off other people’s intellectual property. If the artist ask them to remove their IP from the shop the owners usually try to fool them with lies about how the IP works. They will tell you, that you have to register copyright on every single drawing and if you don’t do it anyone can reproduce and sell your artwork. In reality, copyright law in most countries simply doesn’t work this way. Once you create an original work and fix it, take a photograph, write a song or blog entry, paint an artwork, you already are the author and the owner. Yes, there are certain procedures of copyright registration, which is only a step to enhance the protection, but you become an author the very moment you create a piece of art, and no one have a right to take your creation from you. Knowing your rights is essential.

Some of your commissioners may try to scam you too, but most of them might simply not be aware of how copyright law works. I literally had people asking me questions whether or not the character I am commissioned to draw becomes MY intellectual property. I literally had to convince the person (who was legit scared, since the commissioned piece was going to be a first image of his character ever created) otherwise. If you have an idea of the character written down or fixed in any other form such as a collage, a sketch, or a concept art -- the character is yours. Artist may have rights to the image they create, but not the character itself. Your potential commissioner must acknowledge that their characters, settings and etc. is still theirs, while your artwork is yours, if your contract doesn’t state otherwise. You can sell the property rights on your artwork to your commissioner if you want, but it is unnecessary for non-commercial commissions. And I strongly advice you to distinguish the non-commercial commissions from commercial ones and set the different pricing for them. Even if you sell ownership of your artwork to your commissioner, you can not sell the authorship. You will always remain an author of your artwork, thus you still have all the author’s rights stated in the legal documents.

Another thing that is absolutely necessary to be stated in your terms of service is information whether (and when) it is possible to get a refund from you. You absolutely have to write it down: no. refunds. for finished. artworks.

You have already invested time and effort to finish an artwork. The job is done and the money is yours. I’ve heard stories of commissioners demanding refund a few months later after the commission was finished and approved by the commissioners, because, quote “I do not want it anymore”. Commissioning an artist doesn’t work this way, artwork is not an item purchased on shein or aliexpress that can be sent back to the seller. It is not a mass production. It is a unique piece of art. Example: My friend once drew a non-commercial commission for a client who tried to use it commercially later on. She contacted him and reminded of the Terms of Service he agreed with, offering him to pay a fee for commercializing the piece instead of taking him to the court or starting a drama. He declined and suddenly demanded a full refund for that commission via Paypal services. My friend contacted the supports and showed them the entire correspondence with that client. She also stated that the invoice he paid included a link to the Terms and Service he had to agree with if he pays that invoid. The money were returned to her.

However, partial refund can be possible at the certain stage of work. For example, the sketch is done, but something goes horribly wrong. Either the client appeared to be a toxic person, or an artist does not have a required skill to finish the job. I suggest you keep the money for the sketch, but refund the rest of the sum. It might be 50/50 like I suggested to my clients before (when I still could work with Paypal), but it really depends on your choise. I suggest not doing a full refund though for many reasons: not only you make yourself vulnerable, but you also might normalize a practice harmful to other artists this way.

The main reason why full refund when the sketch/line-art are done must not be an option is that some clients may commission other artists with lower prices to finish the job. This brings us to the next important point: you absolutely need to forbid your clients from altering, coloring or overpainting your creation or commission other artists to do so. This also protects your artwork from being cropped, changed with Instagram filters or even being edited into a N/S/F/W image. Speaking of which. If you create adult content, you absolutely need to state that to request such a commission, your commissioner must at least be 18/21 years old (depending on your country). And as for the SFW commissions you also have to state that if someone underage commissions an artwork from you it is automatically supposed that they have a parental concern.

There is also a popular way to scam artist via some payment systems, called I-did-not-receive-a-package. Most of the payment systems automatically suppose that you sell goods which have to be physically delivered via postal services. This is why it is important to state (both in the Terms of Service and the payment invoice itself) that what commissioner is about to receive is a digital good.

And the last, but not the least: don’t forget about alterations and changes the commissioner might want to make on the way. Some people do not understand how difficult it may be to make a major change in the artwork when it is almost finished. Always let your commissioners know that all the major changes are only acceptable at early stages: sketch, line-art, basic coloring. Later on, it is only possible to make the minor ones. I prefer to give my commissioner’s this info in private emails along with the WIPs I send, but you can totally state it in your Terms of Service. I do not limit the changes to five or three per commission, but I really do appreciate it when I get all the necessary feedback in time.

To sum this post up, the info essential for your Terms of Service doc is:

- The information on whether or not your commissions are commercial or non-commercial. If they are non-commercial, is there a way to commercialize them? At what cost?

- The information on author’s and commissioner’s rights;

- The information on whether (and when) refunds are possible;

- The prohibition of coloring, cropping, overpainting and other alterations;

- The information on whether or not you provide the commissioner with some physical goods or with digital goods only;

- Don’t forget about your commissioner’s age! If you work with client who is a minor, a parental consern is required. And no n/s/f/w for underage people!

- You may also want to include that you can refuse to work on the commission without explanation in case you encounter a toxic client or feel like it might be some sort of scam.

- I also strongly suggest you work with prepay, either full or 50% of total sum, it usually scares off the scammers. I take my prepay after me and my client agree on a rough doodle of an overall composition.

- I also include the black list of the themes: everyting offensive imaginable (sexism, homophobia, transfobia, racism, for N/S/F/W artists it also might be some certain fetishes and etc). Keep your reputation clean!

- Ban N/F/T and blacklist the commissioners who turn your artworks into them anywayss, don’t be shy <3

These are the things that are absolutely necessary but are so rarely seen in artists’ Terms of Service that it makes me sad. Some of these tips really helped me to avoid scams and misunderstandings. I really hope it helps you all!

#artist's terms of service #terms of service #tips for artists #useful info #useful for artists #art #artist #artworks #artists for hire

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drdemonprince · 2 months ago

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Could you reshare your shoplifting tips

I can't find it so here's a new list for you:

Identify appropriate targets. The ideal store to shoplift from will generally be a large, understaffed, moderately failing business. Walgreens right now is experiencing a huge uptick in shoplifting because its prices are too high and it doesn't have enough staff. Most of the time when I walk into my local Walgreens they don't even have enough staff to have anybody at the registers, let alone to keep an eye on the door. Usually I'm more subtle than this, but at some moments you can literally just walk out the door. Other good shoplifting targets are places like Dollar Tree, Dollar General, CVS, Aldi, non-fancy grocery stores, Meijer, places like that. Be more careful with small businesses. Be more careful with Target, or anywhere with security at the front. Neighborhoods matter too. Wealthy white neighborhoods are more heavily policed and if you stand out as visibly poor in an area where most aren't, you'll have more eyes on you.

Stake out the place. Visit the shoplifting target a variety of times, under a variety of conditions. Notice the ebb and flow of the space -- when does it get busy, when are there are a lot of staff on the floor, when are the lines really long. Check out the exits and the flow of human traffic. Pay some attention to security cameras, but don't assume that they're all even real, or being watched by an actual human. Many stores have fake cameras or only check the footage after there's been an Event. With experience, you will get better at sensing when is a good time to lift, and when not.

Steal at busy times. It's easiest to slip in and out unnoticed, especially without having bought anything, if you go at a time when there's a large traffic flow. You generally don't have to worry about customers ratting you out, unless you're in a very Karen-y neighborhood.

Carry or wear something you can subtly slip items into. I prefer using a tote bag that I act like I'm shopping into. It's very easy and casual to just place items in the bag, readjust the bag so that nothing can be seen poking out of the top, and then stroll out. (Sometimes after buying a few items, sometimes not). I have also used the side pockets on a backpack, or just my pockets. The key is to put items away in a relaxed manner, and to not obviously overstuff yourself. Don't bring TOO big of a bag, don't fill up your pockets TOO much. Keep it very light and subtle.

Avoid being sus. Don't spend a full hour in the grocery store. Don't circle the same two aisles over and over again visibly holding an item you're looking to take. Don't look around suspiciously at the cameras or the staff.

Act bored. This is my NUMBER ONE TIP to avoid being told you're not supposed to do something, whether it's tresspassing on a property, shoplifting, vandalizing, or just using the restroom you wanna use as a trans person. ACT BORED. Act tired and vaguely annoyed and like this is your last errand at the end of a long day and that you've been to this shop a million times before. People are far more likely to ignore you if you seem both relaxed and like you're too weary and over it to be even worth looking at. You can move at a decent pace, still, so long as you treat it like an errand you're just trying to Get Over With so you can get home and chill out.

have fun!!

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 1 month ago

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 25: Darkside

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

The Night Hag slinks out from the fog, her twisted form more monstrous than human. She grins, her jagged, yellow teeth razor-like as she slowly approaches.

“Lost, are we?” She croons, her voice raspy and vile; the sound of something decayed. “Such pretty little souls, caught in such a dreadful place. But I can help you, sweetling. Oh yes, I can show you the way out... for a small price, of course.”

Her grin widens, eyes sparkling with the promise of trickery. You hesitate, unsure; the pull of her words tempting, but a cold voice interrupts the moment.

"Oh, how original," Astarion sneers. “Let me guess, a ‘small price to pay for freedom’ or some other such nonsense?” He rolls his eyes, stepping forward slightly. For most, the movement would barely have been registered, seen as nothing but an idle manoeuvre, but as his body slides between you and the hag, you cannot help but wonder if it’s meant to shield you. Or simply protect his property. “Do yourself a favour, and save your pathetic little offers for someone who might actually be stupid enough to take them.”

The hag chuckles, amused by his contempt, and her eyes gleam as she turns her attention to him. “Ah, but what do you want, vampire?” Her voice is sweetly sinister, her long fingers gesturing toward him. “I can see the longing in your eyes.”

His scoff is venomous. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this. Please indulge me.”

“What is it you crave, hmm? Power? Control? No. I think not.” Her gaze polished with cruel delight. “Perhaps... freedom from your past. I could make you forget... her.”

The air freezes. Forget me?

You glance at Astarion, your breath catching in your throat. The hag’s words settle like a cold weight in your chest. Is that really what he wants? To forget you?

Astarion's face twitches—just for a second. But then his grin returns, sharper than a dagger. “Forget her?” he repeats with a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and heckling. “Oh, darling, you overestimate her importance to me. As if I’d waste my deepest desires on something so... trivial.”

Your chest tightens at his words, the venom in them striking deep. But there’s something else there, buried beneath the sarcasm—an atom of something more.

The hag seems to sense it too. Her smile doesn’t falter. “So proud,” she murmurs. “Deny it all you like, but we both know what’s holding you hostage, and it’s not that pesky, tattered soul of yours.”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. The mercilessness returns in a flash, his voice laced with mockery. “Oh, spare me the psychoanalysis. If I wanted to erase her from existence, well, I wouldn’t need your filthy little hands involved. I am quite capable of doing that myself.”

Does he really want to forget me?

The hag’s milky eyes are still somehow predatory, and they narrow in on you now. She steps closer, her crooked fingers beckoning you forward, as if she can see right through the thin veneer of defiance you’ve managed to hold.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you? Trapped in a nightmare of his making.” Her gaze flickers toward Astarion, her smile growing wider. “Wouldn’t you like a way out of this?”

You stiffen, a cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. A way out? The thought, even fleeting, lances through your mind like a tempting whisper. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?

“Don’t listen to her,” Astarion growls from beside you, his voice dripping with disdain. His crimson eyes press in on you, cold and cutting. “She’s trying to manipulate you. You’re not that gullible, are you?”

Of course you’re not. You know better than to make deals with these creatures. You didn’t do it even when the offer was to remove the tadpole from your brain, and you’re well aware you shouldn’t be entertaining the offer now. But you are so tired, so alone, and there’s no end in sight.

You swallow hard, his words stinging more than they should. But the hag’s voice wraps around you, smooth as silk, chipping through the fog of doubt. “I can break his hold over you,” she purrs. “You’ll never have to answer to him again. No more compulsion, no more being bent to his will.”

Your chest tightens, and for a moment, the idea of being free from his control claws at your thoughts. No more being bound to his whims, no more fear that his influence could pull you under again. No more being used like a puppet.

But Astarion’s voice cuts through your temptation like a scalpel, his tone filled with caustic derision. “Oh, yes, of course, by all means, let the hag break my hold over you.” His lips curl into a smirk, but his eyes flash with something sinister. “Because that’ll surely end well for you, won’t it? I’m sure she’ll just hand you back your freedom out of the goodness of her heart.”

You falter, your mind racing. You know he’s right—there’s no way a creature like this hag would offer something without a catch. But the temptation gnaws at you. What if… what if she could break his ability to control me? What if she could free me?

“Don’t you want to know?” The hag’s voice snakes closer, teasing the edge of your resolve. “Those runes he carved into your back… I know what they’re for. Wouldn’t you like to know, too? I could tell you… all it would take is a little deal.”

Your breath hitches, a chill sweeping through your body. The runes? The thought of them—burning into your skin, etched with wicked precision—sends a shiver down your spine. You’ve wondered, feared, what they mean. What they could do. Could she really tell you?

Astarion steps closer, his hand brushing your arm, and the gentleness of his touch jolts you back to reality. His voice is razor sharp, but there’s something beneath it, something simmering—anger, yes, but perhaps something more. “Don’t be stupid,” he snaps. “You think she’s going to help you? She’s playing you like a fiddle, and you’re letting her.”

Your thoughts spiral, torn between the two forces pressing in on you. Do I really want to know? But what if Astarion’s hold on you grows stronger, more unbearable? What if he’s truly gone and you’re left with this imitation of him for eternity? What if those runes mean something far worse than you can imagine?

Your chest tightens again, though there’s no heartbeat to quicken with the stress, no pulse to remind you that you're alive—just the suffocating weight of the choice crushing you.

The hag’s voice grows softer, more tempting as she senses your hesitation. “I could free you,” she whispers. “No more games, no more strings attached. You could finally be your own master again.”

Your fingers twitch, the offer hanging in the air between you like a curse. Astarion’s grip on your arm tightens ever so slightly, and his words are a low snarl in your ear. “You really are a fool if you take this deal.”

But you can’t help it. The thought lingers at the edges of your mind. Freedom. Control. Knowledge.

But at what cost?

“I—” You open your mouth, unsure of what will come out.

But before you can say anything, Astarion cuts in, his voice venomous. “If you take her deal, don’t expect me to come crawling to save you when it all falls apart. You’ll be on your own, little orphan.”

You stare at him, your mind a swirl of confusion and anger. Does he even care? Or am I just another tool to him, a possession he refuses to let go of? The idea that he would wipe you from his memory stings deeper than you want to admit.

But you also know what’s at stake. The hag’s smile grows wider, her eyes gleaming with victory as she watches you waver.

“No,” you say finally, your voice shaky but firm. “I won’t take your deal.”

The hag’s smile drops, her face furling into something far more sinister. “You’ll regret this,” she hisses. “Both of you.”

You meet her gaze, your resolve hardening. Maybe I will, you think. But I’ll regret it even more if I give in to her now.

Astarion watches the hag retreat into obscurity, his expression unreadable. But there’s a tension in his posture, something unsettled beneath the bluster. You want to ask him—do you really want to forget me?—but the words die in your throat.

“Let’s keep going,” you conclude. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Obviously,” Astarion drawls.

The maze twists around you, a suffocating labyrinth that pins down your mind with its dark, oppressive presence. Every path looks the same. There’s no way to tell which way is forward or back, each step dragging you deeper into this hellish nightmare.

Astarion strides ahead of you. The silence between you stretches on until it’s unbearable. You try to shake the sensation of being watched, hunted by unseen eyes.

“You’re slowing down,” Astarion’s voice slices through the silence, impatient and cold. “I know you’re slow, but honestly, do try to keep up. Or don’t—makes no difference to me if you get swallowed by this place.”

“I’m…trying,” you manage, though your legs feel like lead, your mind swimming with uncertainty. The weight of the atmosphere is pulling your thoughts in a hundred directions. Why did you refuse the hag? The offer to break his control over you…to finally know what the runes on your back mean. You had a choice, and yet…

"Trying? How sweet," he drawls, his voice saturated with sarcasm. “Not like we’re on a time crunch or anything. Really, take your time. I’m sure this maze will get bored of us eventually.”

The darkness cavorts at the edge of your vision, bringing with it images, half-formed nightmares. You see yourself in a mirror—pale, hollow, eyes sunken in a way that reminds you of what you’ve become. A vampire spawn, cold and lifeless. You are his, and yet… not fully.

You stop for a moment, staring at the shadows that swirl at your feet. “Do you…ever think about what would’ve happened if things had been different?” you ask quietly, unable to keep the question at bay. “If we hadn’t ended up like this?”

Astarion’s laughter echoes, harsh and bitter. “What’s this now? Existential dread? It’s not really your style.” His words are malefic, belittling, but then there’s a softening in his tone, so subtle you almost miss it. "Though, if you must know, I don’t waste time on ‘what ifs.’ Useless, really.”

His words confuse you. The thorny barbs, the endless brutality—it’s what you’ve come to expect from this version of your husband. But there are fleeting moments where his words hint at something else, and you don’t know what to make of it.

The shadows around you shift again, growing thicker, descending into your lungs with every breath. You can barely breathe as you stumble, catching yourself before you can actually fall.

"You’re pathetic," Astarion mutters, but there’s no bite in his voice this time. “Honestly, I don’t know why I keep you around.”

You blink, surprised at the lack of bane in his words. “You say that…but you haven’t left me behind yet.”

His eyes float toward you, a glint of something unreadable in those listless crimson depths. “Well, maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Or maybe…” you start, unsure where the courage is coming from, “maybe you still need me.”

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, but the usual coldness is absent. “Need? You? Don't flatter yourself, darling.” He turns away, his expression hidden from you. “Just…keep moving. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can sell off your sorry soul and return to my palace without the weight of you dragging me down.”

You press on, but the environment continues to erode your mind, twisting every step into a fresh hell. Every path seems to lead to more confusion, every turn bringing up memories of pain, of control. His control. Your skin prickles at the thought of the runes carved into your back.

What if you had taken her deal?

What if you had freed yourself from him?

A part of you wants to ask him about the runes, to demand answers, but the fear of what he might say—or worse, what he won’t—holds your tongue.

The gloom twists endlessly, a vicious mockery of freedom. Your legs grow heavier with each passing moment, the weight of fatigue settling into your bones. Every time you blink, you see flashes of the hag's grin, her sickening offer to break the hold Astarion has over you. The temptation lingers like a poison, winding through your mind.

Astarion strides ahead, his posture as relaxed and arrogant as ever, as though the maze is nothing but a mild inconvenience to him.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” he says casually, not even glancing back at you.

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

“Fine?” Astarion stops, turning to face you, his eyebrow raised in mock amusement. “My dearest pet, if this is what ‘fine’ looks like, I’d hate to see you at your worst.”

You want to snap back to tell him to go to hell, but the words die in your throat as your knees buckle. You catch yourself against a tree, your fingers catching on what you think is a knot, until you glance at it and realize you’re holding onto somebody’s lower jaw, opened and screaming perpetually. You do not have the energy to pull away in horror, panting from the exertion of simply standing.

“Oh, for the love of—" Astarion’s voice cuts off, and for a moment, there’s something close to exasperation in his expression. Not cruelty. Not malice. Just...irritation. “You’re about to keel over, aren’t you?”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“And I told you to stop lying,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, vitriolic hiss. “Honestly, do you ever stop being so stubborn? Must I drag every last ounce of truth out of you?”

You glare at him, but the heat in your gaze is weak, overshadowed by the fatigue. "I don’t...need you to take care of me."

Astarion smirks, though there’s a darkness to it. “No, of course not. Because you’re so terribly independent, aren’t you?” His words cut, but then, with a frustrated sigh, he steps closer, his eyes narrowing as they take in your trembling form. "Fine. Have it your way. But you’re no use to me if you collapse. We’re making camp here."

“You don’t have to do this,” you mutter, sinking to the ground despite yourself, your body sagging with exhaustion.

Astarion chuckles grimly. “Oh, believe me, I do not want to.” He drops down beside you, his presence unnervingly close. You find yourself tempted to wrap your arms around his neck, press yourself close, and beg him pathetically to pretend, just for a second, that he cares about you. “But watching you stumble around like a half-dead thing is getting tiresome.”

“I’m already a fully dead thing,” you snap weakly, your words a bitter reminder of the truth. No heartbeat. No life. A glorified corpse.

Astarion glances at you, something unreadable lambent behind his crimson eyes. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

There’s silence for a moment, thick and uncomfortable, but Astarion’s presence is the only thing grounding you. Despite everything—his savagery, his ridicule, the way he toys with you—he’s still here. He hasn’t abandoned or killed you.

“What do you want from me, Astarion?” The question slips out before you can stop it, your tongue loose from exhaustion, and your voice barely above a whisper. “Why keep me around?”

He’s quiet for a beat, his eyes fixed on the Stygian path ahead, as if he’s contemplating something far beyond the situation you find yourself embroiled in. When he finally speaks, his voice is braided with satire, but there’s an undertone of something else your ears can’t pick up. “I suppose I just enjoy your company so much, darling. Your incessant whining, your stubbornness—it’s all very endearing.”

You laugh softly, though it’s bitter. “Liar.”

Astarion turns his gaze to you, his smirk fading. For a moment, you think he might say something real, something true. “You’re right,” he says coldly, his eyes hardening. “I’m lying. I don’t care about you, not really. You’re just...useful. For now.”

You force yourself to nod, trying to ignore the strange ache in your chest where a heartbeat should be. “Useful to sell, you mean.”

Astarion’s expression flickers, but his voice remains shrewd. “Precisely. Rest,” he commands, not looking at you. “We’ll move again soon.”

He gets to his feet and walks a few paces away, his back to you, his silhouette stark against the umbra. Your mind races, but exhaustion finally wins out. The last thing you see before your meditation claims you is Astarion, standing alone in the dark, watching over you despite everything.

You wake slowly, the sensation of warmth beneath your head pulling you from the fog of your trance. For a brief, blissful moment, you forget where you are—no maze, no shadows, no twisted labyrinth of horrors in the Hells. But reality crashes down when you feel something solid beneath your cheek, soft fabric against your skin, and the unmistakable scent of him.

Your eyes snap open, and there it is—Astarion’s lap, your head cradled against his thigh. The realization sends a jolt of alarm through you, and you immediately recoil, scrambling back, the motion unsteady as your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind. Panic twists through you, the memories of pain too fresh, too constant to forget.

His eyes are on you, watching, his crimson gaze edgier than usual. There’s something unreadable in his expression. He doesn’t say anything as you pull away, just lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Good morning or night to you too,” he drawls, his voice thick with a scornful jab. “By all means, don’t be too grateful. It’s not as if I’ve been sitting here for hours, keeping you safe while you slept like the dead.”

You blink, your mind still groggy. “What...why was I...?”

“Ah, yes,” Astarion interrupts, leaning back with a mocking grin. “The big question: why was your head in my lap? I’m sure it’s baffling, truly. Perhaps you just wanted to be close to me. Can’t say I blame you.” His smirk widens.

You rub your temples, trying to make sense of the situation. “You... let me sleep on you?”

Astarion’s expression tightens ever so slightly, but the mordancy doesn’t falter. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. As if I’d willingly let you drool all over me. As soon as I sat down, you pitifully crawled over. I was benevolent enough to begrudgingly allow it. Wouldn’t want you rolling off into some thorny nightmare now, would we?”

His words drill more holes into your heart, but there’s something in the way he says them—something that doesn’t match the venom. “You didn’t shove me off,” you mumble, still trying to process everything. Your mind is beyond sluggish, more so than it should be. “Why?”

Astarion’s smile falters for a split second, and there’s that flicker again. “Oh, spare me the sentimental drivel,” he snaps, though his tone isn’t as keen as usual. “I didn’t shove you off because I didn’t feel like it. Does there need to be more to it than that?”

You narrow your eyes at him, sensing there’s more. "Usually, when you touch me, it's to hurt me.”

For a brief moment, he looks away, his jaw tight. “Yes, well. Consider it an anomaly.” He meets your gaze again, his expression twisting into something that’s half-snarl, half-grin. “But don’t get used to it. If you start expecting kindness from me, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Despite his harsh words, there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before—something unspoken between you. You search his face, looking for answers, but Astarion’s walls are as fortified as ever.

“You confuse me,” you admit softly, though there’s a tremor in your voice.

His lips curl into an edged, humourless smile. “Confusion is a powerful tool. Keeps you guessing, doesn’t it? But if you’re expecting me to confess some deep, hidden affection, you’ll not find that here.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” you reply, a little pricklier than you intended. “But it would be nice to know why.”

“Why?” he echoes, his tone biting. “Why, indeed. Maybe it’s because you’re useful. Maybe it’s because it amuses me to keep you around. Or maybe,” his voice drops, the causticity momentarily fading, “I just don’t like watching you suffer as much as I pretend to.”

Your heart would be pounding if it were still capable of such things. You search his eyes for any trace of truth, but he’s already deflecting again, his gaze sliding away from yours.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Astarion says, voice cold once more. “Whatever you think this is—whatever delusions you’re spinning in that head of yours—it doesn’t matter. I’ll do what I must to keep you alive. But don’t think for a second that you mean anything to me.”

You pull back further, his words settling like lead in your gut. He’s always like this—twisting the knife just enough to make you doubt everything, to make you question every shred of care he’s shown—but there’s little point in pressing him further, especially not when you can’t think straight.

The muscles in your body vacillate under your skin, coiling themselves in kinks and cramping. You swallow hard, trying to stymie the pain, disconnect yourself from it, and push it into the recesses of your brain. There is no time for weakness, not here and not with this version of Astarion looming like a threat.

“So what now?”

Astarion’s eyes snap back to yours, his smirk returning, though it’s more subdued. “Now, you get up, and we keep moving. Unless, of course, you’d like to go back to sleep on my lap awhile longer. I’m sure you’d find it so comfortable.”

You stand slowly, shaking off the lingering fatigue. “Not in this lifetime.”

“Pity,” he sneers, rising gracefully to his feet. But before he turns away, you catch the briefest glimpse of something warmer in his gaze—just for a moment, just enough to keep you questioning. Then it’s gone, and he’s back to his usual self. “Come along, then. We’ve got a lovely little maze to conquer, haven’t we?”

As you prepare to leave, your mind still hazy from the strange interaction, Astarion’s eyes drift downward. You don’t realize what he’s staring at until you follow his gaze and see your feet—bare, torn up, and bloodied from the relentless web of networks. The sight is familiar to you now—the constant pain, a dull throb in the background. But something about it seems to snag his attention.

For a moment, Astarion stands perfectly still, his expression unreadable. His keen, crimson eyes narrow as if calculating, and his lips press together in a thin line. It’s not concern—that much, you know—but there’s something unsettling in the intensity of his gaze.

Then, suddenly, his eyes dart around the area. His gaze lands on Shadowheart’s leather pack strapped to your side.

“Give me that,” he demands.

You blink, confused by the abruptness of his tone. “Why?” you ask, tightening your grip on the strap. That pack holds what little supplies you have—a healing potion, some scrolls, and anything else you’ve managed to scavenge along the way. You’re not exactly in a position to be handing over what little you have.

“Now, pet. I’m not in the mood for questions.”

You hesitate. There’s something odd about his request. He’s never cared about your supplies before—hell, he’s barely cared if you lived or died on most occasions, watching with disinterest as you struggled. Why now?

“Astarion, I need—”

Before you can finish your sentence, you feel it. The familiar cold grip of his compulsion wraps around you, sliding under your skin like an invisible chain. You stiffen, the sense of your autonomy slipping away. Your body is no longer your own.

Your hands move before your mind can catch up, fingers unclasping the strap of the pack from your side, offering it up to him like a puppet on strings.

No matter how hard you try to resist, your body won’t listen. It betrays you, forcing the bag into Astarion’s waiting hands, your muscles completely out of your control. Your mind screams in frustration, but it’s drowned out by the overpowering force of his will.

“There’s a good girl,” Astarion purrs mockingly, a savage smile twisting his lips as he takes the pack from your rigid hands. The compulsion lingers for a moment longer, making you feel like a prisoner in your own body, and then it releases you, leaving you breathless and shaken.

You recoil, stumbling back a step as you regain control of yourself, your hands trembling from the aftershock of his power.

“What are you doing with that?” you ask, trying to suppress the bitterness in your voice.

Astarion dumps the contents of the pack onto the ground with a clatter, items scattering across the cold earth. He shoves the one potion and scrolls to the side, but otherwise ignores whatever else fell out. Instead, he draws his dagger, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light, and begins cutting the leather into strips with practiced precision.

You stare, confusion swirling in your mind. “What are you doing?” you ask, your voice laced with uncertainty.

“Making you something more suitable for this lovely little excursion,” he replies. “Now, sit.”

Your instinct kicks in at the sight of the dagger, and you hesitate, grounding yourself in the Weave. You prepare to summon your magic, the familiar warmth thrumming just beneath your skin.

Astarion scoffs, his amusement evident. “Oh, don’t be silly.” He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “You’re not going to try that nonsense again, are you?”

Before you can retort, the cold grip of his compulsion washes over you, wrapping around your limbs like iron shackles. The force is undeniable, and despite your resistance, you feel yourself sink back onto the ground, compelled to obey.

“When are you going to learn better?” He mocks, amusement dancing in his red, glowing eyes.

Something ignites in you—less fear this time, a streak of defiance. “Maybe when you stop being so insufferably callous,” you bite back, your voice steady despite the turmoil churning in your gut.

His expression wavers, caught between amusement and irritation. “Oh, how delightful. A little rebellion,” he replies, the words dripping with condescension as he steps toward you, his posture predatory.

You brace yourself, heartless and defiant, ready for whatever bite he might deliver. But instead of pain, he gently takes your feet in his hands, his grip surprisingly careful, the contrast jarring. He starts wrapping the leather strips around your battered feet, crafting a makeshift shoe with a surprisingly delicate touch.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, confusion deepening as you watch him work, the sight of his concentrated expression momentarily disarming.

“I need you to keep up with me,” he replies, his voice a low, scornful drawl, but there’s a hint of something buried beneath the layers of facetiousness. “I’m not about to carry you if your feet give out, and I’m certainly not in the mood to deal with any more unnecessary delays.”

The leather fits snugly, giving you a modicum of comfort, yet the entire interaction leaves you unsettled. You want to scream at him, to push back against the conflicting emotions that swirl between you, but all you can manage is a shaky breath as he ties off the strips and releases your feet.

Astarion rises, brushing the dust from his trousers. “There,” he grunts, his tone flat. “Now, stop whining and keep up.”

There’s something unsettling about this version of Astarion—the one who can be cruel and yet oddly considerate.

“Thanks, I guess,” you say, still trying to reconcile his behaviour in your mind as you collect the potion and scrolls, stuffing what you can into your pockets.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, his tone clipped and dismissive, but a vestige of something softer flits across his face before he masks it with irritation once more. “Now let’s get moving.”

You nod, resolve hardening as you prepare to follow him into the void, your heartless state allowing you to push aside the lingering confusion. You still have to find your way out, and whatever emotions this twisted vampire stirs within you, they will not distract you from your goal.

The forest is seemingly never-ending, each turn a repetition of the last. Twisted trees and jagged rocks loom like spectres. Every step grates against your raw nerves, the tension between you and Astarion building with every passing moment. His footsteps are unnervingly quiet, while your makeshift leather shoes, for lack of a better word, scrape faintly against the earth.

You catch glimpses of him from the corner of your eye, his expression impassive, his gaze focused ahead as if none of this tortures him as much as it does you.

“How long do you think this will go on?” You ask, your voice low, not wanting to admit how much this is already starting to fray your mind.

Astarion glances at you, a mocking smile curling on his lips. “What’s the matter, pet? Already tired of our little adventure?” His tone is intense, biting—yet there’s a sliver of something almost... concerned? But the moment you think you catch it, he swats it away with a laugh.

Your mind drifts back to the Astarion—the one this hollow version has imprisoned somewhere deep within himself. The one who held you close after the nightmares, whose soft laugh felt like home even in the devastating moments. Your Astarion, the husband you barely got to spend any time with.

You ache for him—the real him—the one that still exists somewhere beneath this imitation. You miss the warmth in his gaze, the gentle way his fingers brushed against your skin when no one else was watching. The Astarion who could still care, still feel, still love you. The one who is gone now, locked away beneath layers of malice and apathy.

Where are you, Astarion? You wonder, hating that the person standing before you is a grotesque reflection of the man you once knew. And yet... a part of you can't help but search for him, even in this version.

“I’m tired of you,” you mutter under your breath, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you walk.

“Ah, and yet you’re still here. Curious, isn’t it?” he drawls, a glint of amusement in his crimson gaze. “Tell me, does the constant struggle against your better judgment wear you out? Knowing that part of you—perhaps the smarter part—wants to trust me?”

You snort, your steps faltering as you glare at him. “Trust you? I wouldn’t trust you with a cup of water, let alone my life.”

He smirks, fangs flashing briefly in the dim light. “Wise, perhaps. But deep down, you must wonder. Why am I still watching over you? Why haven’t I left you to rot?”

You stiffen, unsure how to respond. The truth is, you’ve been asking yourself the same question. His savagery is undeniable, but every so often, there’s some small gesture that doesn’t make sense for someone who should want you dead—or worse, sell you like livestock to an archdevil.

“Maybe you just enjoy torturing me,” you shoot back, keeping your eyes on the serpentine path ahead. “Maybe it amuses you.”

“You’re a nuisance at best, but I do have a certain... fondness for keeping nuisances close.”

Your fists clench, the rising tension between you nearing its boiling point. “Is that what this is? Just another game to you?”

He stops abruptly, turning to face you. His gaze is intense, unreadable. “What else could it be? You, of all people, should know by now that everything is a game to me. One that I always win.”

The way he says it, the absolute certainty in his voice, makes your blood solidify in your veins. There’s no room for doubt in him. No room for compassion or care—at least, not this version of him.

Before you can respond, the forest seems to shift around you, closing in tighter, the air growing heavier. You glance around, disoriented. The path ahead twists, writhing like a serpent. The world tilts slightly, and suddenly you’re not sure which direction is forward anymore.

Astarion notices your hesitation and steps closer, his presence like a cold shadow creeping up your spine. “Losing your nerve already?” he mocks, his voice low and taunting.

The labyrinth distorts again, and this time, the ground beneath your feet trembles, sending a shockwave through the air. You stumble, and Astarion’s arm shoots out, steadying you. You look up at him, confused.

He’s frowning, brows pulled down low. “Stay close,” he barks, voice tense. The shift in his demeanour is jarring, and it only deepens the unease settling in your gut.

The trembling intensifies, the trees groaning and shifting like they’re alive. You take a step back, your heart—well, the place where your heart should be—thrums in anticipation.

Astarion suddenly jerks his head, eyes narrowing as he scans the darkening path ahead. “Did you hear that?” His voice is no longer taunting but honed, focused. It’s as if he’s slipped into a mode of pure survival.

Your breath catches as you halt your breathing, and you strain your ears, focusing. At first, it’s just the faint rustle of leaves and the hum of the shifting terrain. But then you hear it—low, guttural whispers, as if the shadows themselves are speaking. They echo from every direction, surrounding you both, growing louder with each passing second.

“Astarion…” you whisper, your voice betraying the fear creeping up your spine.

“I know,” he snaps, his eyes darting around, calculating. “Stay behind me.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the ground splits open beneath your feet with a violent crack, sending a gust of scalding wind surging through the air. You stumble back, your legs buckling as the earth shakes and the trees twist into grotesque shapes.

A massive creature bursts from the ground in front of you, its skin slick and writhing with tendrils, eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Its mouth opens wide, revealing rows upon rows of jagged teeth, dripping with venomous ichor. It towers over both of you, casting a long, terrifying shadow.

Astarion’s face hardens, and his dagger is in his hand in an instant. “Run,” he commands, his voice deep and dangerous.

The beast lets out a deafening roar, and before you can react, it lunges toward you with impossible speed.

Everything seems to move in slow motion. The creature’s massive jaws open, and you can almost feel the sharp teeth ready to tear into you. You try to move, but it’s like your body is locked in place. Your mind screams for you to fight, to run, to do anything—

Suddenly, Astarion is in front of you, pushing you out of the way with a strength that leaves you breathless. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting up your side as you skid across the dirt. When you look up, the creature’s massive claws are descending on Astarion.

You scream his name, but it’s too late. The claws tear into him, the sound of ripping flesh filling the air as the creature lets out a triumphant roar.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

If anyone is interested, I rewrote and edited the first 4 (I think) chapters because when I started this I was pretty new and not entirely sure of myself. Nothing in them has changed story wise or anything, just tried to improve on some scenes and pacing, so there's no need to reread them if you don't want to, but for those who might, I wanted to mention it.

This Astarion is giving me emotional whiplash to write.

#astarion x reader #astarion fanfic #ascended astarion #bg3 #astarion x you #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts

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artbyblastweave · 9 months ago

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Have you got any opinions of Left 4 Dead 1/2's cast of survivors?

One thing I've been thinking about a lot lately is when a work of apocalyptic fiction treats the end of the world as a site for personal reinvention. On the one hand it's potent theming, because the questions of how you choose to behave when utterly freed from existing societal constraints, and how you reconstruct your sense of identity after total context collapse, are sort of inherently packaged in with the premise. On the other hand you're kind of playing with fire, because if you treat the apocalypse as something primarily liberatory or empowering for the protagonists I personally often find it offputting. Congratulations! Your personal growth was purchased at the low low price of the death of billions! You can get away with that kind of thing if you take it in a lighter direction and maintain, like, a deliberately mock-misanthropic tone, or play up the inherent comedy of a person whose life sucks so much that the apocalypse represents a step up- but it's a knifes-edge to walk. I've found that a satisfying synthesis is examine that act of personal reinvention as a coping mechanism, a story that the person doing it is telling about themselves in order to deal with the horror of their surroundings. Zone One by Coulson Whitehead and Rot and Ruin by Jonathan Maberry are pieces of zombie fiction that I think use this lens in an interesting way. I believe that Left 4 Dead is close-to-unique among Valve properties in that they actually released a close-to-standalone self-contained narrative starring game's the principal cast, in the form of The Sacrifice*, and I feel like the comic explored this dynamic in interesting ways, because the four survivors exist on a distribution between "Apocalypse-as-New-Lease-On-Life" and "Turbofucked," in ways that pointedly affect their behavior and outlook.

Louis, the eternal optimist, Certified Gamer, still clad in white-collar garb two weeks into the apocalypse, is revealed to have been the one of the four who had the most going for him before the outbreak, a middle-class job with a well-defined upwards trajectory. His dogged insistence that things will eventually be okay is implicitly informed by how badly his life got upended by all his coworkers going nuts and trying to eat him. On the flip side, though, the comic portrays him as having had the fewest actual interpersonal connections- the only person he interacts with in his flashback is his coworker Ray, and that interaction is defined by how Ray is nowhere near ride-or-die enough for Louis to risk coming into the office at his request. He barely registers that the guy in the bathroom who attacks him is a zombie. Make of this what you will.

Zoey was a step down on the ratchet-she was floundering, but it was a comfortable flounder that's likely familiar to a lot of us. Struggling in college, no direction in life, a would-be creative struggling to turn her interest in fiction into an actual career. Parents separated and at each other's throats- but she had parents, had support, had options even as she was treading water. The apocalypse is superficially her call to adventure, letting her live out the fiction she immersed herself in before the outbreak, and you see glimmers of bravado stemming from that- but that same genre immersion is directly tied to her decision to put down her father before his immunity was apparent, because they thought that they were living out a trope that they aren't. She embodies the gap between the nerdy apocalypse fantasy and the horror of actually living through that.

On the other end of things you have Francis, who's downright gleefully cynical about the apocalypse- marrying the assertation that they're all going to die, and that nothing will ever be okay again, with the claim that the apocalypse as the best thing that ever happened to him. Before the outbreak Francis had a strong social circle but was also slated for prison; the apocalypse eliminated the immediate threat of jail, but his pre-outbreak social circle very pointedly isn't around anymore, in a way he's kind of talking circles around when he brings it up with Zoey; he mainly brings them up in the context of contrasting them with how competent Bill is at navigating the apocalypse, and you can infer that his initial attempt to treat the end of the world like an opportunity for a party didn't turn out so hot. He very badly wants to be the guy who had nothing to lose, the guy who's having a blast, he wants to inhabit that role, but there's an undercurrent of performativity there.

Then you get to Bill, who genuinely had nothing, in a way that inform his post-outbreak behavior in really interesting ways. He had no friends, no family, no purpose, and he wasn't in particularly good health. The apocalypse is, in many ways, straightforwardly a step up from his previous situation, in ways that isn't true of any of the others- now he has friends, a goal, a reason to keep moving. The Sacrifice is interested in how that affects his decision making, for better or for worse- he's myopic, invested in the well-being of an extremely tight in-group at the expense of others, monomaniacally good at fighting the infected in a way that even the other survivors find somewhat unnerving. There's a sense in which the brave new world is Bill-shaped. Admittedly the brave new world killed him dead. But it killed him dead in a significantly more badass way than he otherwise would have died, and on some level that was probably his preference. (I don't really go to Dead By Daylight, but I'm tickled pink by their implication that getting to do asymmetric survival horror multiplayer forever is sort of like a Valhalla situation for him.)

#left 4 dead #thoughts #meta #asks #no thoughts on the l4d2 crew at this time #ask

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simmearly · 7 months ago

Text

A Sims 4 Players Guide To The Sims 3 By Simmearly

I am putting this together based on my own gameplay experiences and expectations, so some of this is purely my opinion.

I recently decided that with my new PC I would re-install The Sims 3, and All EPs, to see how it ran and play around with the features I miss in TS4,

I followed this guide on steam to set the game up to run smoothly.

To paraphrase just a little, this includes a TON of information, but basically, it shows you how to replace the launcher, and run the game on modern machines without issues.

Gameplay would not be possible for longer than an in-game week or so without the fantastic NRAAS & Lazy Duchess Mods.

I Use, Nraas Overwatch, Master Controller, Register, Error Trap & Traveller, which is my personal favorite, as it allows you to travel to more worlds for vacations, and own vacation homes in them etc. It also allows for you to move to a new town and retain relationships from the other town(s) you've lived in.

I recommend good default skin and eye replacements, as well as default replacements for Eyebrows and Beards, I Recommend Checking out @brntwaffles on Tumblr, as they have these as well as lighting mods to brighten up the in-game lighting and water!

Gameplay Mods,

I really enjoy TS3 Vanilla gameplay, so this list is short (For Now) however I do want to expand upon it, the Growing Pains Mod - adds a lot to the child stage and I feel like it integrates so well with Vanilla that it could have been in the game from the start.

Smaller Quality of Life mods,

Nectar Glass Replacements

Sim Drinks - Adds Buffs For Bar Drinks

Shop For Clothes at Clothing Rack, TS2 Style

That's it For Now, I will probably update this post as my Legacy continues, I am currently on Gen 4, and am having a BLAST!

Also - I do own quite a bit of the Store content and I have found myself using it more than expected, I bought a lot of it years ago, and I failed to realize then just how much gameplay is involved,

The Steam it up sauna is currently my favorite object due to its regenerative properties, but the Business-as-Usual industrial Oven, placed on your home lot allows for you to basically have a private chef! (Don't pay full price for any store content, wait for a sale or find it on other avenues) ;)

Thank you to all the amazing creators mentioned, none of this would be possible without YOU!

Edit - TIP! Reset your town using Nraas every few sim weeks to keep things running smoothly

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meidui · 4 months ago

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Hiii 👋

I hope you’re well, I wanted to thank you for all the content you provide. I’m able to satisfy that little monster inside while I gobble all the Steve, Tony and Marvel content you provide us.

I also didn’t know if you take request/ writing ideas?

I don’t know if there’s any fic out there like this or what to even use to search for this… if there’s not, then it’s okay I just saw it and was intrigued by it. Apparently I like to hurt when our boys are in pain.

Im soo sorry this is a bit of a long one… 🫂 please bear with me..

So I was reading this post a few days back (I don’t remember who posted it) about when Hulk/ Bruce Banner told some people that “Steve Rogers was not a virgin, he lost his virginity with a woman during the USO tour.” But they explained that it complicated the love story with Peggy and Steve since Steve had feelings for Peg and that she was the love that gotten away.

Then it goes into, how Steve was very impressionable - when that one woman that pulls him over to kiss him before he seen Howard and Peggy seen. And that technically Steve is property of the US government because he was part of the military AND the serum - after all, all he wanted to do was to serve his country, even if there was a price to pay for it. And that in ways like that, that Steve was abused by the government and goes along the same fan theory of Bucky getting sold to other officials during the time he was under Hydra’s control. That Steve was sold, or his body was to other powerful individuals in the government.

I just thought of this and it makes sense… and puts another layer of depth we don’t think about. That there are parallels to his story as it does with Bucky.. but I was thinking, that during Captain America: Civil War where they’re in the final fight ( Bucky & Steve against Tony ) they’re not just throwing punches but talking/ yelling at each other. And Tony goes “what so wrong with you that you won’t do this simple thing for me? It’s not like you’re selling your soul over to ‘the man’/government.”

And Steve, pour baby Stevie, stumbles when those words hit his ears. Stumbles and shatters. His ears echoing with the words and his mind flashed back to the times where he had been. And he breaks down, completely and utterly broken. Sobs, like he hasn’t before and both Tony and Bucky see this. Had never seen this pillar of America Values and “I can do this all day” attitude crying as he slumps to the ground and that’s when he tells them ( doesn’t have to be all but the bullet points of what happened ) what he went through while he was under the hands before he joined the Howling Commandos. And even can be when he got recalled after each infiltration of a Hydra base.

Can even have them still holding a grudge but Tony on some level understands. He’s seen what some government officials have done, has seen what some people in power will do. Hell what he let happen with the weapons until he was kidnapped in Afghanistan. So they work together to bring down Hydra, Shield, the US government that is backing the accords and while this happens, they are creating their own accords. Something that appeases the people & other governments but also doesn’t jeopardise all inhumans, super hero’s, etc. The people that don’t want the attention or the change in their normal lives as if they would if they had to register.

And Bucky, sweet, mind recovering Bucky, goes all mother hen. “I didn’t know this Stevie, if I had, we could have gotten you out. Went on the run and not let them hurt you again.” That he understands too because even though he is still trying to figure out what happened to him with the mind control, something in his core knows that he went through something of the same calibre.

Okay, so this is very specific (I kinda went full in 😬)… and there might not be something like this, but maybe along the lines 🤷‍♀️ ? But have you read anything like that? Or know how to search something like this…?

(If you like this idea and wanna write it, I’m okay with that. )

hello!! hehe thank you there's also a little monster in me that has to make stevetony content or else it'll throw a tantrum

omg i love this so much, this was the angstiest treat ever and it reminds me of finnick after he won the hunger games 😭 i don't know of any fics that are exactly like this, but here are some similar ones! thank you to steve fic connoisseur extraordinaire @bulkyphrase for finding them <3

America Thanks You by @lbibliophile

Captain America was born on the USO stage, but his duties went beyond that. Behind the stage lights, ‘Captain America’ does whatever is required to aid the war effort.

Natasha and Tony learn what didn’t make it to the history books.

put on that red light by Anonymous

Steve does what is asked of him.

For Sale, One Super Soldier, Slightly Used by valtyr

Movieverse hookerfic. Don't judge me. I guess maybe issues of consent in the social pressure kind of way?

Not a Perfect Soldier by @captaintoomanybattles

In a world where HYDRA was wiped out in the '40s, Steve is found by the Army rather than SHIELD. General Thaddeus Ross wants a perfectly obedient super-soldier at his command, and to that end, he sets out to break Steve to his will. As Steve struggles to come to terms with all he has lost, his life in captivity is only made bearable by the presence of another prisoner-- another super-soldier known only as "Soldat".

Then the Avengers strike a deal with Ross to "borrow" him for missions, and Steve is faced with a team who dislikes him, an organization he doesn't trust, and the question of what he's willing to do to escape Ross's clutches.

#steve rogers #giraffethatiam #asked #fic rec

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otoole23 · 2 years ago

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The Best Areas To Buy Commercial Properties.

If one likes skiing or wants to own some real estate that will have an attractive feature for renters they should consider buying a property that is close to popular skiing areas. By buying land close to these areas one can attract renters and have a place for themselves to use.

Before you begin the process of purchasing a commercial property, make sure you find a commercial broker who can help you with your specific needs. Some commercial brokers are not skilled in all commercial areas, which could prevent you from getting what you are specifically looking for.

Familiarize yourself with the basics of commercial property valuation. The things that can up residential value: kitchen, number of bathrooms, landscaping, and so on - mean little or nothing for commercial investors. One of the most important determinants of value for a commercial property is the square footage, and what the square footage yields in rental income.

As you consider a commercial investment property for your portfolio, you should explore all possibilities by completing a detailed breakdown of whether the property is income producing or non-income producing. Income producing properties would include retail sites, hotels, or warehouses. Understand the different ways that these possible tenants could generate and sustain cash flow and return on your investment.

To get a great deal on purchasing commercial property, look for very motivated sellers who are willing to part with their properties below market value. It is important to find someone who is desperate or motivated, because in land one who is in need is a lot more likely to negotiate than someone who isn't desperate to part with their property.

If you are using land as a rental property, properly screen your renters. You need to know who you have living in your properties. Be sure to use a legal lease and give them strict rules and guidelines. Rental tenants should know their rights and limits, as provided by their landlord or leasing agent.

Consider the property tax rate of the commercial property you are interested in. Determining the costs annually for owning the commercial property can help you decide whether the annual costs are within your budget. There are several factors that can increase your costs as well, including MUD's, various other U.D.'s, and even Property Owner Association fees.

Make sure that you read articles and blogs of some of the best areas to purchase in your location. This will give your company the best chance to buy a solid piece of land, to maximize the value of your investment. Use all information at your disposal before you make your decision.

Make sure that you conduct a final analysis after you have reviewed all of the potential options for your purchase. Do not hide this information from high level people at your company, as you will want to make the best decision as a team. This will help to increase gratification with your property acquisition.

In the long-term, commercial property investments are bound to be among the most profitable investments possible. Nonetheless, it can be frustrating to find a good commercial property, and managing commercial property can be quite challenging. Sometimes it's easier to handle a larger investment than a smaller one because the increased income will allow you to hire staff and delegate day-to-day responsibilities. In the final analysis, you must weigh the pros and cons for yourself and make the decision that will bring you the greatest returns with the least hassle.

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perfectghar-blog · 7 months ago

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Raj Heritage 2 by Raj Realty in Mira Road East

Description

Raj Heritage 2 by Raj Realty Mira Road Mumbai

Raj Heritage 2 Residential projects in Mumbai offering Apartments for sale in Mira Road East. The property offers 1, 2 & 3BHK Apartments meticulously planned that guarantee a hassle-free lifestyle. As per the area plan it is set in 1.4 Acres and has 238 units in the size range 426.00 sq.ft. - 761.00 sq.ft. Possession date is March 2026. Raj Heritage 2 offers prices suitable for both luxurious and affordable Apartments in Mumbai. Raj Heritage 2 is located Mira Road East. This is considered as best Apartments for sale in Mumbai and best Apartments for sale in Mira Road East. The floor plan of Raj Heritage 2 enables the best utilization of the space with spacious balconies, standard kitchen size and high-quality fixtures.

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classicrealestatespuneindia · 1 year ago

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mystra-midnight · 1 year ago

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Haunted Hoedown - DAY FOUR

summary: it felt like a thunderstorm was roaring in your head. Yyu heard him, but his words didn't register in your brain the way they should have. there was only building, mounting, and ruining pleasure that was spreading through your organs and seizing your limbs.

warnings: 18+ only. ghost!eddie x reader. mentions of an unsatisfying sex life/readers ex being a douche. masturbation. voyeurism. somnophilia. eddie being a tad mean/dom.

words: 5.7k

notes: day four of the haunted hoedown challenge being hosted by @inklore and @psychedelic-ink. a bit delayed because i was away seeing amy lee live and in person and fangirling. i tried a different style here with that i'm not 100% sure i love but i hope you enjoy reading.

prompt: american horror story Inspired + “i would burn the world for you.”

May 7th. 2001.

"Tell me why this place is so cheap."

You looked wide-eyed around the apartment. It was utterly perfect—exactly what you'd been hoping for when moving to Hawkins, Indiana. The walls were painted off-white, there were brand-new stainless steel appliances, and there were timber floors throughout. The ceilings were high, and there was a little reading nook, two large bedrooms, and a large clawed bathtub.

But the best part was that it was advertised at more than half the true market value. It was absolutely ridiculous, crazy, and completely illogical, and you couldn't understand why.

You saw the realtor flinch at the question, which immediately brought you down from the clouds. Shit. Of course, it was too good to be true. There had to be something wrong with the property for the owner to sell it for practically next to nothing.

With a sigh, you faced him. His expression was grim.

"Well, you see, um, there was, uh," he stammered, tripping over his words as he searched for the right ones, the ones that wouldn't scare you away. "About fifteen years ago, before the urban development and technology boom came to Hawkins, a young man died in the trailer park that used to be on this lot."

Your heart dropped as the horror of his words sank in, but the feeling was fleeting. Someone who was a stranger to you died ten years ago. They hadn't even lived in the apartment, so that didn't explain the next-to-nothing price. You said as much to the realtor, pressing him for more information.

"The owners want to sell the property quickly, rather than for money. They've explained that there were some... how do I put this? Some strange events occurred while they were living here."

"Such as?"

"Things would move when no one was around. There were always problems with the central heating. The televisions and radios would change channels in the middle of programmes or turn on in the middle of the night. I assume most of this is because of defective wiring somewhere in the building, but none of the electricians were able to find the cause."

You watched him cringe, as though saying the words aloud was physically painful to him. It all sounded ridiculous. And none of it was enough to make you turn down such a fantastic property for such a stupidly low price.

"That's all?" You teased, flashing the man a smile. "Consider the place sold.

June 11th. 2001.

Despite the realtor double-checking and then triple-checking, you crossed your T's and dotted your I's and bought the apartment that same day. You moved in the following month, piling boxes upon boxes, each one with a specific room written on it in your scribble: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, guest room, reading. You bought new furniture and decorated the walls with pictures of your family and the knick-knacks you'd accumulated after college.

It had taken weeks to sort out all the rooms and empty all the boxes, but the apartment finally felt like a real home, and you'd completely forgotten what the realtor had said when showing you the property: strange events.

It started after three blissful and uneventful weeks. Things had started to go missing, just like he said. It wasn't anything overly important, just small things like your rings, your glasses, or sometimes even your panties. Things would go missing for days at a time before reappearing in locations that they had no business being in.

And then the cold started. Not just cold, but freezing cold.

It got so bad that some nights you would see your own breath misting in the air. It never seemed to matter how high you set the thermostat or how many blankets you piled on top of you—you couldn't stop shivering.

But while all these things were certainly strange, they weren't illogical. You could explain each of them: you misplaced things because you'd moved towns—hell, you'd moved states—and were getting used to living somewhere new. It was also cold because the central heating was faulty. The lights would flicker because the wiring was done wrong. All of that made perfect sense.

But what didn't make a lick of logical sense was when things started to move while you were staring right at them. Hallway doors would swing wide open, slamming into the walls as though they'd been ripped open violently in fits of rage. Shadows would creep along the walls when you weren't looking. You'd catch a glimpse from the corner of your eyes of these stalking shapes, only for them to be gone when you turned to look at them.

Then the photos started to fall from their hooks on the wall, sometimes thrown across the room, so that the frames broke and glass shards littered the floors. You make yourself a meal only for the plate to be thrown off the table and against the wall, leaving the paint stained with splotches. It frightened you, leaving you turning off the lights, running to bed, and hiding under the covers like you were suddenly twelve years old again.

The worst of it was when the dissonant whispering started. It would wake you in the middle of the night, leaving you clutching a baseball bat for dear life. Your co-workers all agreed that you were stressed and overworked, probably exhausted from uprooting your entire life and moving across the country. None of them believed in ghosts, horror stories, or haunted houses.

You thought you might be going insane until you saw him.

July 4th. 2001.

Eddie Munson.

"Hey!" You called, startling the boy standing in front of your dresser. The top right drawer was opened, and your panties were on full display. Hidden beneath them was your vibrator, and you found yourself flustered, angry, embarrassed, and scared.

He looked at you with wide doe-eyes, swimming pools of brown that you could easily get lost in if he wasn't holding a pair of your panties to his nose like some god-damn pervert. You held a bat in your hand, ready to swing, when he turned and ran. You give chase, following him around the queen bed with fresh sheets and into the bathroom that joined the two bedrooms.

By the time you rounded the bed and made it through the doorway, he was gone, seemingly having vanished into thin air. Your panties were on the ground. You spent hours checking rooms, closets, and any nook and cranny a boy of his size could hide in. You even called the police and filed a report, but there was no evidence of forced entry.

In the days that followed, you took to sleeping with the bat besides the bed and a kitchen knife beneath your pillows. It was childish, but having them so close made you feel safer.

The next few weeks were surprisingly and uneventful, and soon you settled back into a familiar routine. Work five days a week, from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon, come home and eat, channel surf for a few hours, shower, and sleep. You were even able to have friends over without anything weird ruining the atmosphere.

It was as you were chancel surfing that you saw him again. You were looking through the music stations for something to listen to while you showered; you skimmed through the pop stations and skipped over the metal stations before setting on one that was playing When It's Over by Sugar Ray. The song was catchy and tended to get stuck in your head with how much it played on the radio, but it was a good one.

"Wait! Go back!"

You screamed.

With your heart pounding wildly in your chest and your stomach having fallen out of your arse, you stared at him. He seemed entirely unaware of your fright, instead gesturing frantically at the television. "Turn it back!"

This was the first time you'd gotten an up-close look at him. He was dressed in black jeans with rips in the knees and a shirt that said Hellfire Club. As he motioned between the remote in your hand and the television, it rode up, revealing a trail of hair that started at his navel and disappeared into his jeans. He had a leather jacket on and a denim Dio vest over it.

He looked like something straight out of the 80's.

"Back!" He yelled louder this time. He sounded panicked and frantic, and that was what snapped you from your stupor. You flicked backwards through the channels, finding the metal music one, when he ordered you to stop. He stared wide-eyed at the television, where Metallica was playing a live concert. You recognised the song; it was Fuel.

"That's James Hetfield," he said, his tone disbelieving. He flopped open-mouthed onto the couch as Kirk Hammett and Lars Ulrich began the opening rift. "This is Metallica."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know this song."

"It was released about four years ago; how can you not have heard it?"

You pressed yourself tightly into the arm of the couch, feeling it dig painfully into your back, when he whirled around to face you. His face was overcome with surprise, shock, and something else you'd yet to comprehend. Wild curls bounced around his face before settling into place.

"Four years?"

You shivered beneath the intensity of his stare and his emotions; even his presence in your apartment sent a chill down your spine. You nodded quickly, clutching the television to your chest like it was a weapon. Your grip was so tight that your knuckles ached.

"That's not possible," he whispered, turning back to the television as the lyrics started. "They look different. They sound different. This is crazy. They just released Master of Puppets?"

That caught your attention, and it was then your turn to be surprised.

"That was fifteen years ago."

"What?" He rounded on you a second time.

Over the next few weeks, you learned more about him. He’d lived in the trailer park with his uncle Wayne, and he’d passed in a tragic accident, an earthquake; his uncle had never found his body. You suspected there was more to it, but he was unwilling to give more details.

That accident had happened fifteen years ago, and the trailer park had been demolished about seven years later. A development block had been built to replace it, which eventually turned into an apartment complex as Hawkins expanded.

Eddie had only been twenty-one when he died. You learned that he liked music. Well, no, you learned that he loved Metallica and Dio. So you started to leave the television on when you went to work, letting it play from dusk to dawn to keep him entertained. Then you started buying magazines and comics to leave them open for him to read; you even bought home Metallica's latest CD.

And as the weeks dragged on, his presence in your apartment became less terrifying, except for the times he would seemingly materialise from nowhere. You even started asking him to hang out with you at night. The two of you would spend hours watching movies and music videos and just talking.

September 19th. 2001.

"Come on, Eddie!" You whined. He was behaving like a child, and you were exasperated and fed up with his antics. He was standing in front of the door with his arms crossed over his chest, obscuring the words on the front of his shirt.

"Don't you 'Eddie' me," he cautioned, his brown eyes narrowing into a glare. He hated the idea that you were mocking him, though he was smart enough to realise that wasn't what you were doing right now. "He's an asshole. I don't understand why you can't see it."

"Because I know him! You've only ever seen him! Briefly, I might add!"

Eddie threw his hands up in frustration; the sound that left his mouth was all but a growl. He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until your brains leaked out of your ears. Then you might be smart enough to realise that Michael was a fucking douchebag. "And I see you too!" Eddie spat, the fieriness in his tone making you roll your eyes and shiver simultaneously.

"Every time you've seen him, you come home frustrated, like the man doesn't know how to fuck or something! You always come back bitchier than when you left!"

"Eddie!"

If you could have hit him, you would have. His words hit too close to home for comfort. Michael was nice enough, if not vain and at times arrogant. He came from money, and he often acted and thought that money would carry him through the world. But he treated you well enough, and you enjoyed his company most of the time.

Except Eddie's intuition hit the nail on the head—Michael didn't know how to fuck. At least, not well. Each time you felt the familiar warmth of orgasm approaching, the same thing happened. It didn't matter that you'd be crying out his name and clawing at his back, begging him not to stop; he'd move, change his angle, change his pace, change his position, and you would be left a frustrated mess.

On the rare occasions he cared, he was able to make you cum. He'd work you over until you tumbled into oblivion, his fingers buried in your pussy as it clenched and spasmed around them, your back arched off the mattress. But he cared for his own pleasure above all others, and nine times out of ten, you didn't finish.

"Eddie!" He mocked. "Is my name the only thing you can say, sweetheart?"

"I'm not taking dating advice from a dead man!"

You regretted the words the moment they left your mouth. Tears burned in the back of your throat from how you swallowed the urge to cry, your emotions reaching a fever pitch as you walked through him. And as you passed, the cold of his presence enveloped you in a frigid hug but didn't stop you.

Instead, you left.

You drank too much that night; said too much, and let Michael work you over for far longer than you normally would. After being compliant and patient all night, he draped your legs over his shoulders, grunting and groaning as he fucked you, only to cum on your stomach before kissing you goodnight and slipping away. That had been the boiling point.

The relationship ended with you slapping Michael so hard that your hand hurt.

When you made it back home, the apartment was dark, cold, and empty. The television had turned off automatically at some point in the evening, and none of the lights were on. You’d expected him to be waiting for you with a smug smirk and an I told you so attitude, but Eddie wasn’t there, and that hurt more than the disappointing sex.

September 26th. 2001.

Six days later, you still hadn't seen him. Each night you tossed and turned, his absence from your life a gaping wound that often left you bleeding out and gasping for air. The apartment felt too large without him—too quiet and too empty. But you resigned yourself to the fact that you'd chased him away. He'd have found someone else to haunt, someone who appreciated him instead of insulting him. So you found something else to occupy your mind.

Except while you were settling into the mountain of pillows on your bed, the scent of clean linen and vanilla swirling around the room, he decided to make his grand reappearance. Well, no, not exactly.

The moment he chose to reappear was when you were sprawled on the bed, thighs spread wide, and heels dug into the mattress as you worked the tips of your fingers over your aching clit and into your leaking hole. You hadn't had sex since breaking up with Michael, but the ache had been in your belly long before that. The knot between your hips was pulled taut when you saw Eddie standing at the foot of the bed, panic bursting to life inside your chest. You snapped your thighs tight together, your hand flying to press into the sheets to hide the sticky evidence of your arousal.

"Don't stop," he said softly, his voice breathy and light. His wide-doe eyes meet yours. "Please."

"Eddie," you whispered as your face warmed with embarrassment. He didn't miss the way you rubbed your thighs together, desperate to stifle the ache between them. In that moment, you wanted him to be the one touching you. You wanted to feel the warmth and weight of his palms as he held you down and his breath on your neck as he kissed, bit, and sucked. You wanted him in the worst way, and it hurt you beyond words that you couldn't have him.

"Open them." His tone was harsh this time—forceful and demanding, enticing a soft whine from your parted lips. The smirk that found its way to his plump lips was sinful. "No wonder he couldn't get you off. Was he too soft, sweetheart? You need to be told what you want to do, fucked like a whore, to be able to cum?"

Eddie wanted to grab your ankles and drag you to him. Your little nub was so sensitive that he wanted to spread you open and rub the tip of his tongue against it until you were begging for him. He wanted to watch you cum on his cock, his fingers, his thigh, his tongue, and his cock again. He wanted to feel you with every fibre of his ghostly being. "Be a good girl and open your legs, yeah?"

You were slow to react. You parted your thighs slowly and shyly until you were exposed to his hungry gaze. The insides of your thighs were sticky and shiny with the evidence of your first orgasm; your puffy folds were still slick as you parted them with your fingers, moving to rub one on either side of your clit. Your breath hitched at the sensation and the way his eyes followed your movements.

"Eddie," you whined his name softly while your head tipped back, your throat exposed, and your chest heaving with each sharp intake of air. The crown of your head mashed against the pillows, leaving your hair a mess. You imagined the way his hands would feel—rough and calloused. He'd played guitar before his death; you knew he'd be good with his fingers. He'd be able to find that spot deep inside your gummy walls that made stars, no, galaxies, burst to life inside your veins.

"What a fucking prick." He spat the words through his teeth, each syllable filled with venom. "Didn't know how good of a thing he had until it was gone. Never even deserved to have such a pretty pussy if he couldn't get you off. I bet he couldn't even do it with his fingers buried in there or with his tongue, either. Bet he just rammed his dick in without getting you worked up first."

"He doesn’t.." You sighed, your breath airy and full of arousal. "He... he never tasted me."

If it were possible, Eddie would have cum in his pants like a fucking virgin. Not only had that asshole left you a worked-up and unsatisfied mess because he didn't know how to fuck you right, he'd never even tasted you, which was a crying shame. Right now, all Eddie wanted to do was have your sweet cunt beneath his mouth. You were a feast on display, and he was forbidden from tasting, touching, and fucking.

Eddie watched as you pushed your fingers into your clenching hole, chasing the orgasm that was starting to sear through your veins. You were so wet, your slick dripping down the crack of your ass, only to be lost in the bed sheets. "Forget about him," he followed up with a gentler tone, the cold of his presence enveloping the air around you until your nipples turned to hardened peaks that crowned your tits. "Forget about him. Just touch that hot cunt for me, sweetheart."

You answered him with a whimper, your lower lip quivering before being captured between your teeth as your fingers moved deeper, seeking and searching for that sweet stop. You heard his sharp intake of breath as you fingered yourself; the schlick sounds echoing around the room were obscene and pornographic. Your slick arousal coated your fingers, your hand, your palm, and your thighs, shining beneath the dull glow of moonlight that peaked through the windows.

"Harder," he barked, and you obeyed. The heel of your palm slapped against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. "Faster."

It felt like a thunderstorm was roaring in your head. You heard him, but his words didn't register in your brain as they should have. There was only building, mounting, and ruining pleasure that was spreading through your organs and seizing your limbs. You come hard and long, crying a pretty symphony made up entirely of his name.

October 31st. 2001.

It worked for a while.

In spite of the entire situation making your face burn, you couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you with those pretty doe-eyes or when he called you his good little whore. Thus, Eddie watched as you masturbated for him every night. He would tell you when to cum and how to touch yourself. You'd be told how many fingers to use and watched as you fucked yourself open.

It worked—until it didn’t.

After days and weeks, it wasn't enough to just touch yourself. You wanted him to touch you, but that was entirely impossible. So you threw yourself into your work and your social life to distract your melancholy heart. But each night, in the privacy of your apartment, you belonged entirely to him. You worked a double shift today in preparation for Halloween. Eddie hadn't said anything when you'd come home exhausted. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep like the dead.

And that was exactly what you'd done.

You didn't remember falling asleep, but you knew you weren't awake yet—you were floating on clouds in that blissful in-between. It was 3:15 a.m. in the morning, and you vaguely recognised the blurry red outline of the digital clock on the bedside table. The witching hour on All Hallows' Eve.

It was only the sudden, sharp zing of pleasure that woke you.

You cried out. Your voice was hoarse, and your vocal cords were thick with a myriad of emotions: sleep, confusion, panic, and sudden desperation. Reality finally dawned upon you as honey-sweet pleasure swept through your limbs, making them feel heavy and sluggish even as you grabbed a handful of the thick mop curls between your spread thighs.

You bucked your hips without intention, pushing his face deeper between your sticky folds until he grabbed your waist and pinned you to the mattress. When he pulled back and wrapped his wet lips around your throbbing clit, you could feel him smiling. A deep hum rumbled through his vocal cords and vibrated through your core until you were moaning out loud, your back in a perfect arch as red-hot lightning sizzled through your veins.

"E-Eddie?"

The panic in your voice finally encouraged him to lift his head. His doe-eyes were blown wide with lust, almost entirely black. You saw the way his chin dripped with a mixture of his saliva and your slick; he was a vision of ecstasy that made your brain short-circuit. This wasn't possible—it literally wasn't possible. But it was real. You felt the weight of his hands on your waist, the way his fingertips dug into your skin hard enough to leave bruises, and the way his weight dipped into the mattress.

"Was wondering when you'd wake up, sweets," he mumbled, his breath hot against your mound. Your thighs trembled and squeezed around his head when he dipped his head to lick from your quivering hole to your clit, lapping at the slick that practically leaked from you. There was a part of you screaming, wanting to rage and be angry at him for doing something like this while you were sleeping. There was also a part of you that wanted to be as distraught now as you had been the day you found him sniffing your panties.

Both parts were quiet, making room for the horny, touch-starved part of yourself to come to the surface. Your nails scratched his scalp when you tugged hard on his hair. Eddie tightened his hold on your waist to stop your impatient squirming as he kitten-licked your folds. You were already embarrassingly close, and he knew. It was obvious from the way you were squeezing your thighs around his head until his hearing muffled and how you squirmed and wriggled as the pressure in your belly built.

You made this sound—a little gasp of pleasure—that sent arousal rocketing through his veins and straight to his cock when he pushed two fingers into your tight pussy. His fingers were thicker than yours, larger and longer, reaching deep and rubbing against all of your nerves. You came without warning, slick walls clamping rightly around his thrusting fingers as the world shattered around you into sweet oblivion. Eddie kept his lips wrapped around your little nub, sucking and flicking his tongue against it as crystal shards of pleasure shot through her entire being. It felt like a bolt of white-hot lightning had struck your soul and set her world ablaze.

When you sagged against the mattress, Eddie climbed the length of your body, his lips leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses from your clit and up your belly, through the valley of your tits, until you were tasting yourself on his tongue. You touched him for the first time with shaking hands, feeling his skin against your palms, tracing the outline of each tattoo, and feeling how his muscles shifted and tensed beneath his skin as he settled between your thighs.

He was real; he was here, and he was yours.

As Eddie rubbed his cock against your sticky folds to get himself slick and lubricated, he groaned into your mouth. The flushed tip nudged your clit, causing you to gasp and arch beneath him. "Eddie," you moaned softly, your entire body burning and your eyes pleading for more.

"Say it." He growled. His breath was hot on your neck as he smeared open-mouth kisses along the column of your throat. He already knew what you wanted, but he wanted you to say it. He had to hear you say it. When you bucked up against him, desperate to feel him fill you or for friction of any kind, he pinned your hips down, refusing to give into your demands.

"Eddie," you whined. "Eddie, please, please, fuck me—ah!"

The stretch as he pushed inside was intense and immediate, more so than anything you'd ever felt. But it wasn't painful. No, it was deliciously mind-numbing. Your nails dug deep into his shoulders as you threw your head back. Your lips parted in breathless cries when he bottomed out, filling you so completely. The two of you have never talked about this moment, his size, or what to expect when having sex. Mostly because neither of you had expected this to ever happen.

Now that he was between your legs, holding them open with heavy palms, you knew that he was big—bigger than Michael and your other ex's. Eddie watched the way your lips clung to him as he pulled back, leaving only the crown of his cock nestled in your tight walls, and he moaned as you sucked in each inch of him when he snapped his hips forward. It felt like he was carving his way into your guts, rearranging your organs, or hitting the back of your throat. Maybe that was over dramatic; you were cock-drunk and delusional already. Maybe it was just the intensity with which you wanted him to act that made you irrational.

All that you knew for certain was that he was here, and he was fucking you, and you never wanted him to stop. You were crying, the tears having finally fallen, and you couldn’t stop shaking as lava pooled in your stomach. Eddie grabbed you by the chin, his thumb and forefinger pressing into your cheeks, so that you were pouting when he kissed her again. "Look at me when I'm fucking you."

Your eyes snapped open. When did you close them? You didn't know.

"This is what you needed, huh? You just needed a cock inside you—someone to fuck the attitude out of you. You're just a cockwhore, aren't you, baby?" His voice was rough as he growled the words through his teeth. He was hovering over you, hands on the mattress either side of your head, trapping you in the shelter of his body. You cried out when he made a particularly deep thrust; his aim never faltered. He found that spot that made galaxies come to life and made your thighs tremble around his slim waist.

"Answer me!" He repeated it louder this time.

"Yes!" You wailed. You felt racked with pleasure when he put a hand on your tit, palming it roughly and pinching your nipple to bring your attention to him. "Yes, yes, I'm a whore, just a cockwhore—of god, right there, right there."

"Whose whore?"

"Eddie, Eddie, please, need to cum—"

"You wanna cum?"

"Yes, yes, please." He was holding you at the edge of the world, leaving you staring into the abyss. You were buzzing with excitement, entirely ready and willing to take a leap of faith with him. You needed to free-fall; you needed to float through the clouds, and he wasn't letting you. Not yet. Not until you gave him what he wanted.

"Then tell me whose whore you are."

"Yours! Your whore! Just yours!"

Now that you'd given him what he wanted, he fucked you harder, impossibly so. The sound of his pelvis hitting the backs of your thighs was a constant smack, smack, smack. The headboard hit the wall with a resounding thud, thud, thud. The neighbours would surely complain, but you don't care because he's going to break you, ruin you, and wreck you.

The knot in your stomach unrolled quickly and all at once. A fresh wave of rapture raced through you like lightening arching through your veins, leaving you staring at the roof with wide-open eyes that took in nothing that they saw. Your back bowed into a perfect arch as you came harder than you thought was ever possible—even harder than you had the first time he'd watched you touch yourself.

Eddie buried his face against your neck, his abdomen dipping in and out as he chased his own release, his breath superheated against your skin while he panted. He was lost in you—the smell of your shampoo, the taste of your chapstick—utterly and hopelessly lost. Eddie came only a moment later, long and hard, painting thick ivory ropes along your quivering walls.

"So fucking good, baby. Pussy was made for me." He rambled between kisses, licks, and bites along your neck. Your nails scratched down his back as you preened beneath his praise, your mind somewhere in the clouds, no higher, in the thermosphere. "You're squeezing me like a damn vice. Fuck, you're perfect. I would burn the world for you. You're mine, aren't you, baby? My desperate whore. All mine."

Eddie kept you pinned to the mattress, legs still thrown over his shoulders as he huddled over you, almost folding you in half. He grabbed you roughly by the chin, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes were unfocused, and your face was streaked with tears. He felt your pussy still fluttering around his softening cock as you rode the coattails of your orgasm, each aftershock making you twitch and shake. He kissed you hard until you were breathless. You mewled into his mouth and pawed at him.

And you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were his.

#haunted hoedown #hauntedhoedown #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x you

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imaginedreamwrite · 1 year ago

Text

Entirely Unconventional

Part 10: Once, And Again

Enjoy the show? Have a fun night? Did you and König recover?

Nicht so süß und unschuldig kleines Kätzchen

Damn fucking brat

“Hey LT!” He felt pain behind his eye, the sudden sharp twitch had come within seconds of his mind registering Soap McTavish’s voice, and the weight of another trip back to that hell-hole in the middle of the same desolate state.

That armoury and artillery compound they’d invaded had been secured, everything inside was transported. But the man who was funnelling money into the operations in the middle of God knows where, was still hiding. Captain Price had given the objective, for the two of them, to head back to that place and flush him out.

The man who had funnelled money into this compound, this storage facility for munitions and artillery, was squirrelling himself somewhere in the backwoods and rural properties of the villages and farmlands. It made him both an easy target and a little rat bastard hiding in the crawl spaces of abandoned farmhouses.

“Looking forward to going back, sir? S’been nearly two months since you saw her last! You wanna make a stopover?” Soap’s suggestion was as much of a jest as this emotionless exterior as it was a genuine attempt at getting the cold Lieutenant to relax.

It was your fault, you had done this. You had started this fucking problem with your fingers, and your moans. The sound of your pleasure had centred itself in his mind again, a reminder of the passion that was thickened by the bond of being each others soulmates.

You, and your damn masturbation habits, had broken the straw that kept their own hunger at bay.

It was one too many bands that had snapped, and that pressure led to both Ghost & König experiencing the first rolling snowball of desire. The first initial shove that made them crash into each other, devouring the other with lust, all because you couldn’t keep your fingers out of your pussy.

And now, all Ghost could focus on was the need to have König pinning your hands above your head, trapping you. Giving you no room to leave, so Ghost could return the favour and devour you wholly.

His traumatic past couldn’t stop him from wanting to unleash his deeply seeded desire to fuck, to crave and taste and unleash his fated passions upon you.

“Fucking hell, you don’t fucking quit.” Ghost’s ire was vehement, his eyes stormy and dark. “Goddamn wanker!”

Soap held no more fear of Ghost than he did König, knowing that both his commanding officers were feeling the effects of their little soulmates late night excursions. The late night hours that had driven them crazy, has made the two men cantankerous, although Soap was more amused than not.

“We got leave soon, LT. Heard my little bird Em say your American spitfire is coming to visit for a few weeks.” Soap grinned in the way he usually did, like he had no real care in the world or any real-world consequences waiting for him.

John Soap McTavish was the kind of man most of them wished they could be. He still wasn’t jaded from what they saw, he wasn’t bitter and closed off. He had this natural youthfulness to him that had followed him all his life. He still had the ability to feel like a kid, like someone who wasn’t battered, bruised and dragged through hell.

Johnny was one of the lucky ones, one of the soldiers who had someone waiting for him at home when he went on leave. Johnny had someone who was writing him letters and caring for him with the intensity of a well-known lover. No matter what happened, Johnny had his wife to lean on.

Ghost was bitter, he was closed off and inflexible to love. Even when he was awarded two soulmates who could be everything he needed, he was still unable to see how he deserved them. In his mind, he was damned, and they were damned with him. He didn’t think he would ever feel free enough to endure such love.

“You got somewhere to go, Johnny.” Simon’s voice was less guarded now, more honest and natural. “Don’t take that for granted, don’t fuck it up!”

“You do too, LT!” Soap called back, nodding his head in Ghost’s direction as if to extend the invitation without having to say it.

Ghost was silent, he had revelled in the silence that stymied them both. He had endured the quiet and flexed his fingers around the hilt of his knife. He squeezed and let go, squeezed and let go, until he felt his resolve regaining itself.

There’s no where for a place like him; like them. They’re phantoms, shadows more than people now.

No you’re not, you never have been. Your voice countered his, and Ghost verbally hissed from the gentility. It was unwarranted, it was a direct attack on the shell he had surrounded himself with.

Damned fool, you’re gonna burn with us

We’re connected, whether you like it or not. You’re mine, I’m yours.

And you’re damned for it. You’re breakable, it’s inevitable. He was condescending, of himself and of König’s dependency on you, the three of you all meant to be twisted and broken together.

It was innate, it was their future.

What you want, we could never give you. We could never give you the future you want. Ghost’s voice went through your head, and König’s. We’re not meant for it. We’ll only break you.

It all felt like a step back, like he was land-sliding further from this new openness. You had broken off pieces of their guard, and Ghost in his fear of losing something real and true, again, was trying to shove it all back together.

You were silent, for a moment, and then your voice echoed in his head. Soft like a bell or whistle, yet with the ability to further crack that detrimental shell around his heart.

It's amazing how someone can break your heart, and you can still love them with all the little pieces.

Silence rang out, the bridge that bonded the three of you was silent.

And Ghost remained in that silence, his eyes staring ahead as he fixated his attention upon the wall of the helicopter. Transportation back to the States, back to that hellhole had begun, their task to track down that little worm was started.

You wouldn’t be an ocean away, you wouldn’t be across the world. You would be within his fingertips. And Ghost, irregardless of how hard he wanted to keep you at a distance, was drawn like a moth to a flame.

Damn him, damn himself to hell, he had to see you.

To spite himself.

To spite every damn bone in his body that hated you, that absolutely loathed you, he wanted and had to see you. It was innate, it was incredulous.

Simon Riley could’ve cursed you, he could have damned you with every breath. He didn’t need you, he didn’t want you, he had no use for you.

Yet, your ability to make the ice around the old soldiers heart chip away was beyond what he could control. If it were up to him, to Ghost, he would have frozen his heart in a cryogenic chamber away from yourself and König.

But damn you, damn you American woman with all he had in him, Simon Riley couldn’t turn off from you.

He was driven, by an unseen force, to find you. Despite the warring denial that they required you, that they wanted you, Ghost thought about Soap’s advice.

“You know you’re thinking about it. About seeing her. Trust me, LT...showing up to see her is exactly what you need.”

“Not happening, Johnny. We have a mission.”

Still, the thought was tempting.

Fuck, you better be around. His thick gravelly voice echoed in his own head, a thought shared with you as he let that shadowed and tiny piece of him have a small victory.

Regardless of how scared shitless, he was over letting that tiny little piece of hope win.

************

Simon Riley was not damaged, not like he had thought. Rather, he was traumatized from events of the past, and the cruel hands of fate handed to him.

You knew that, you had been warned of that, but you’d never fully understood to what extent he had hated any chance of happiness.

It was clear that of the two, Simon & König, König had been less physically damaged a than Simon.

You had seen more of König than you had of Simon. You’d seen more of his memories than Ghost had allowed you to see, with much of König’s thoughts and memories centred around his home life in Austria & Germany.

Not only that, but you’d seen the memories he had of his mother, the blood sweat and tears that she had shed for her little boy.

Young König, who wanted so desperately to go on school trips, leading his mother to prevent herself from eating food to save him money. She had done everything she could to give him the ability to go.

You had seen his memories and the bullying he suffered from being a poor boy who was bigger and taller than all his classmates. The kind of bullying that made König develop social anxiety that followed him all his life.

You saw his memories, and he had seen yours. He had seen your love of being on the water on a sandy, smooth beach and the crystal-like water that stretched for miles.

It was Devonshire Beach, someplace that had you had adored and craved to be at, a place where you were endlessly wishing to be at every chance you got.

You had been able to communicate your love for that place, the place where you were most comfortable and happiest. That place where you had longed to be day after day, week after week.

König had seen your memories of your short-term relationships that never gone anywhere for your fear of being taken too far emotionally into something that was doomed to fail.

You and König had created a new level of this bond; Ghost and yourself were still at a crawling point.

“I can’t wait for you to get here! Ugh, there are so many places I want to take you!” Em’s excitement bled through the phone as you’d pinned it between your ear and your shoulder.

“Three weeks in Scotland away from work, what a dream.” You were ragged, you were tired, and you wanted to go to bed.

Upon approaching your village townhouse, you dug your keys out from your scrub pockets, twirling them around your finger twice before you stepped up the porch.

Though it had been more than 12 hours since you left, you’d felt as if it were just seconds ago since you stepped outside for your shift.

Your keys were stuck in the lock, as usual. You jiggled the keys in the lock, grunting your irritation and annoyance, your ire for the damned thing.

Your frustration grew, and you’d just managed to turn the key to unlock the door when you heard audible footsteps behind you. You turned your head and cast your speculative gaze behind you, a squeaky shriek ripped from your lips.

“Y/N-” Johnny Soap McTavish was less than three feet behind you, with one half of your soulmates in tow.

Your immediate reaction was to strike him, your fist balled as tightly as you could manage, and you’d driven it into his shoulder. Though it hadn’t actually hurt him, Johnny still cursed under his breath and rubbed his arm. His blue eyes were narrowed, annoyed at you for striking him, and causing him minute pain.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! What are you doing here?!” You screeched at him, panic and fear rushing through you at the sudden appearance of them on your porch. “Do you have a death wish?! Do you know how many people have guns here?! You could have been shot!”

“Y/N? Is everything okay?” You were only aware of Em still talking when she raised her voice through the phone, reminding you that she could hear everything.

“You almost became a widow!” You struck Johnny again, anger coursing through your attack on your best friend's husband.

“Johnny! You didn’t shoot him did you?” She chirped with wonder, while you glared heavily at the two men.

“You got a minute?”

“You could’ve been shot, you idiot!” You struck Johnny again, only once being aware of Ghost’s eyes on you, and the striking blue eyes alight with amusement.

Strike him again, love

“You—!” Your eyes darted from Johnny to Ghost, your soulmate looking deadly and intimidating, like a demon at night.

He had stood behind Johnny, wearing that familiar skeleton mask and the black eye paint around his eyes.

He was dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, starting with a thick Kevlar vest and a balaclava beneath the mask. He hadn’t gotten rid of his weapons, not a single one, but rather he had kept them on to give himself a more intimidating appearance.

Honestly, despite his aggressive look, having Ghost appear on your doorstep wasn’t even close to the most negating experience of your night. Despite his intense distaste that he seemed to have for you, seeing him here was almost relieving. It had almost heartening to see him, to have him this close.

Even if he would rather not adhere to this bond, you were happy to see him again. Regardless of how they scared the shit out of you, having Ghost here was almost exhilarating.

Being in the presence of your soulmate, irregardless of his feelings for you, was affecting you almost as intensely as it had the night you met them.

“What,” your voice had taken a hard edge, your eyes narrowing in on them, “are you doing here?!”

Johnny grinned, boyishly, in a manner that made you irritated. His natural penchant to be a man riddled with good-natured humour, and humour at others expense, had been vexing to say the least. But no more than his ability to also make you forget your qualms with a man like him.

Johnny would have been a good friend, but you couldn’t have handled someone like him continually trying to get under your skin.

“I guess we need another favour.” Johnny’s voice first caught your attention; however, it was Ghost that had kept it.

Another look at him, and another remembrance of his size, was yet again capable of producing a sort of enchantment that took hold of you. He was at least 6’4” if not 6’5” and seeing him in person, for only the second time, had reiterated your feeling of being a sprout compared to him.

Between Ghost & König, you felt like a little sprite, a little gaiety creature surrounded by giants and beasts. Hell, even compared to Johnny, you felt short.

“Ghost.” You spoke his code name, far more airily than you wanted to.

You were captivated by him, and his aggressive nature. He was your soulmate despite denying you and attempting to push you away, and want was only natural. The desire to be around each other, to hear each others voice and grow deeper connected, was only natural.

Fate was not to be ignored, fate was not going to let any of you, not the three of you, part from the other. You were, and always would be, connected and bound together.

You were watching Ghost, and he was watching you, his chin tucked ever so slightly. His eyes had narrowed, minimally, and his fingers flexed around the gun he held in his hands. The tension between you was skyrocketing, thick and heavy, and bubbling over with desire and mutual need.

“You want some privacy-“ you struck Johnny again, as hard as you could with everything you could.

“Y/N! Did you kill my husband?!” Em’s voice was far more panicked than before, concern for her husband's well-being at your hand was not understated.

“Not yet.” You reassured her, though you felt tempted by the idea of murdering her husband. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“We had to deal with something—“ Johnny trailed off, ending the half-sentence abruptly. You thought it had been the end of it, and then you heard him speaking again. “Gonna let us in, love?”

“You don’t call me that.” You grit your teeth and bend down to gather your thrown items, ultimately standing and bundling them in your arms. “Why are you here? Didn’t think they allowed stop-offs when you’re doing the military’s work.”

“Got a job, went sideways. We only have an hour, two at max. Can we come in?”

Your eyes had been caught by Ghosts’ again, and your heart racing. There was such a draw to him, beyond the fear and the apprehension, you just wanted to be around him.

“You wanna come in?” Your question was aimed at Johnny, but looked at Ghost, and then turned back. “Your cut looks good, healed okay. You have another?”

“Not me. Got time?” Johnny’s grin seemed permanently affixed to his face, another layer to the charming Scotsman.

“I do now.” You mumbled under your breath and turned back to your door, opening for the three of you.

“If you murder me...” you looked back at Johnny, your stomach flipping end over end. “... I’ll haunt you.”

“So paranoid, lass.” Johnny’s retort was airy, and he was clearly amused, though you hadn’t seen the humour in it at all.

“Are you allowed to be here? Aren’t you on a time constraint?” You questioned them both as you stepped inside and waved them in.

There was hesitancy on both, parties, neither of them immediately wanting to step into your house.

Though Johnny was more receptive to coming in, even he had waited a moment before he stepped over the threshold and entered your place. As he had, you dropped your bag down onto your floor and kicked off your shoes. You flicked on the light switch and cast another look back at the two of them.

Both were wearing tactical gear, although Ghost seemed to have more, and while you could see the flag of their respective home countries on each of their uniforms, you were drawn to the UK flag on Simon’s.

“You can come in, maybe explain why you thought it was okay to give me a heart attack.” Your invitation was both ambiguous and intimate, depending on the two men who heard it.

Johnny had spared no effort to step into your townhouse, almost needing to step sideways with his gear; however, Ghost hadn’t been so eager. He stood on the other side of the door, staring you down with piercing blue eyes that struck deep into your soul.

And as you got a better look at both of them, you noticed the distinguishable sight of blood. Soap had seemed to be better off than not, with the man only receiving specks of the hemoglobin on his arms and forehead; however, it seemed like Ghost had a gash on his arm.

It didn’t look deep, but it was open, and it needs to be taken care of.

You didn’t want to know the details of how it happened, you didn’t think you could stomach the idea of it; however, you knew it must’ve been a sporadic event. His sleeve was ripped, torn or cut to find the wound, and there was already dried blood around his gash.

“Shit.” You winced at the sight of it, knowing that this was the explanation for their sudden appearance at your house. “You need that looked at, and it needs to be sewn.”

“Thought we should make a house call. Em gave me your address.” Johnny set the rifle in his hands down, much like Ghost had, and started undoing the Velcro straps of his Kevlar vest.

It is unclear to you why you didn’t notice before, why you hadn’t seen the wound on his arm and the missing portion of his sleeve, but now that you had, you knew you needed to fix it.

You didn’t need details, you hadn’t wanted details, and even if you had, you doubted they would tell you. Or at the very least fabricate a lie like Em.

That’s what you expected, that’s what you had anticipated, however you were once again surprised when Ghost had stepped forward toward your couch, littered with folded clothes you had forgotten about, and spoke with a gruff thick accent.

“Dealing with leftover shit, damned bastard set traps.” His gruff British accent had a surreal affect on you, the visible tremble of your hands and the definite acknowledgment of how attractive you’d found it, mentally at least.

It came naturally to your mind, and settled into your thoughts warmly.

An innate desire to hear it again, whispering the same kind of sexually fuelled words that had been uttered on the night that you had gone out drinking. It had been a turn on for you that night, the uttered sounds fuelling your need to find self-pleasure, and that had been shared with the two of them.

And you’d just as easily found yourself captivated by his thick British accent, and König’s German one.

“I have a habit of asking doctors for extra supplies just in case. I have surgical thread, I can sew it up.” You spoke quickly.

You were far more anxious being in your house with these two men, one being your soulmate, than you were in the hospital room with a crowd of them.

There, you felt standoffish.

Here, it felt intimate.

“I’ll just...” you glanced at the folded clothes, thanking your self-preservation for hiding your underwear in stacks of scrubs instead of keeping them out.

Still, you’d felt momentarily embarrassed by the state of your clothes folded and left out, and you’d quickly picked them up and set them back in the basket.

You’d wanted to put them away before you’d gone to work and never had the chance, your morning starting chaotically by your phone alarms failing.

“I’ll be right back. Umm...sit, make yourselves....just sit.” You turned away from them and headed toward the stairs, grabbing hold of the railings. You held onto both as you climbed the steps to the bathroom, stepping inside and opening the cupboard to the left.

You grabbed your first aid kit from the bottom shelf and tucked it under your arm, using your free hand to grab the antiseptic and gauze. With everything you needed, you headed back downstairs and to the living room, side-eyeing the two of them as they were in very different positions.

While Johnny was unceremoniously draped across one of your second hand armchairs, Ghost was standing near the couch, however he wasn’t sitting. He was staring dead on at a picture of you when you were younger that was taken at your favourite spot in the world.

Devonshire Beach was at the cusp of a massive lake, one that stretched for miles upon miles. The water was warm and relatively clear, with a sandy bottom. The lake had remained shallow enough to touch the bottom for what seemed like a mile before your feet wouldn’t reach, and the soft sand had continued well onto the shoreline.

In the picture you were seven or eight, covered in wet sand with a wide grin on your face and the sun at your back. You had just come out of the water after spending all day at the shoreline, and in the water, and there was no shortage of happy weeks there.

Devonshire Beach was one of the only times and places you’d actually enjoyed being in your dad’s presence. Every other time, you’d found ire for the man who would rather spend time with his girlfriend than his child.

But when he took you to Devonshire Beach, and let you run wild, you were truly happy. When you were in that water, on that beach, your father's indiscretions didn’t matter. You had the water, you had the sand, and you had the endless lake to spend your time in.

“That’s my favourite place in the whole world. I spent weeks there every summer when it was my dads turn to take me.” You set the first aid kit on the coffee table, talking to both of them, but mostly Ghost, as he had looked at your picture.

“I try to go back once a summer for a few weeks. Honestly, if I could live there, I would.” Your small conversation attempt with the roguish soldier was one-sided though you knew he, and König, acknowledged what you said and thought, when you felt that flourish of warmth in your body.

You thought of it, of the lake and the beach that you loved. The untouched source of happiness you experienced with your divorced father, and the soft glow of the sun. You were sharing that memory with them, all while Ghost was studying the coutures on your walls and Johnny looked like he was sleeping.

“I have the first aid kit, I can fix your arm.” You broke the silence and drew his attention away from the pictures on your wall, back to yourself.

His eyes had been striking, impossibly bright against the dark around his eyes and the bleached skeleton mask. He had turned further to face you, only taking two long strides to the couch, and sitting down almost silently.

“This might hurt,” you reached into the first aid kit for the kit of needles you had, as well as the gauze and wipes, “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Ghost was silent but observant.

He had extended his arm to allow you access to the gash, and a better look at the tattoos he had on his arm. You had taken a brief look at the ink marking his skin, the story of each tattoo simultaneously cohesive and almost.

Although you knew there was some meaning to them, to him, you weren’t going to ask.

“I’m sorry if this hurts.” You apologized prematurely and dabbed the antiseptic wipe against the edge of the wound first, watching him carefully for any indication that it hurt.

“Does this feel okay? Does it hurt? Am I hurting you?” His answer, predictably, came through your mind.

Doesn’t scratch the surface, love

“I don’t have any numbing gel or cream, so this might hurt more—“ you were cut off, rather abruptly, by his thick accent verbalizing his state of mind.

“I’ve been through hell, this is nothing.” His blue eyes bore into your own, and there was a cathartic minute where your gazes had been locked on each others.

Heat, intense and deep, had struck you like lightning. It was powerful and all encompassing, an internal combustion that was directly rooted in your fated bond.

Soulmates intertwined with each other in every captivating way.

Eventually, you dropped your gaze and finished cleaning the gash on his arm.

You had exchanged the antiseptic wipes for the surgical thread you’d taken from one of the doctors there. While there was no trauma bay, nor really, or any surgery rooms, a few of the doctors that worked there also worked in the city.

And they had known you wanted to stock up on your own miniature medical stash at your place. All it took was a conversation, a simple favour the next time they were in the city hospital, and at least one would try to abide by your request.

As you threaded the needle, you hummed a song under your breath. You worked quickly to tie and cut off the excess, only to hesitate before you made the first mark.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” Your concerns for him, about hurting him, were high. You hated the idea of not having some numbing cream or gel, and without freezing it could be incredibly painful.

With his silence, you had started the process of stitching his wound, weaving the needle and the medical thread in and out of his skin to close it again. You worked in silence under the weight of his icy gaze, a slight tremble to your hands as you worked.

You hadn’t been this close to him in months, not since you’d first met him, and he was intimidating. He was built like a mountain, with his height and weight relative to his thick size and strength. He could easily kill you with his hands, and everything else about him was just as pertinent to terrifying anyone he came across.

“Are you okay?” You questioned Simon again, doubling down on your insistence that you hadn’t wanted to hurt him. “Simon..?”

You sat up on your haunches and reached for his mask, fingertips grazing the hard shell before he stopped you. His hand snatched your wrist and squeezed enough to make you startle. His eyes narrowed, and though you couldn’t see his mouth, you figured he might have been scowling at you.

In exchange, you had tried to tug your wrist away, stumbling forward as he held you firm. He had leaned down, drawing himself closer and allowing you to see the darker flecks in his blue eyes.

“I never take my mask off.”

“I’m sorry!” Your voice was tight, squeaking almost. “I won’t touch it again.”

Johnny, to his credit, had noticed the shift in tension and flipped himself right, placing his boots on the ground. His own wondering gaze had flitted between the two of you, and his lips had become pursed.

“Y’okay, Y/N?” There was a protectiveness, a kind that would be present between a brother and sister.

“I’m fine. I’m almost finished.” Your hands shook, and you felt real fear, real apprehension. You worked as quickly as you could, tying off the rest of the stitches and giving it a final wipe with antiseptic.

When you were done, you threw everything back in the first aid kit and zipped it shut, hastily returning it back to the bathroom.

You’d almost hoped they’d have been gone by the time you returned, both were still present however they were getting ready to leave. You shuffled into the living room, still on the edge of fear, with your heart racing.

“The stitches need to stay in for 4–14 days, depending on how fast you heal. You could cut them yourself, but if you have a medic or doctor on your...base or wherever—“

“Thanks, Y/N. You’ve said our asses twice now.” Johnny had finished securing his Kevlar vest, and the Velcro that kept it in on place, and then he picked up his gun. “Three weeks in Scotland, yeah?”

“Mandatory time off. I haven’t used my vacation hours and they won’t give me anymore.” You explained softly, not being able to look at Ghost for longer than a few seconds. “Plus it's been almost 4 years since I’ve seen Emilia.”

“You mean for more than 12 hours.” Johnny added, stretching his arms above his head. “She’s excited for ya, been talking nonstop about you and her going out for your birthday.”

I forgot about that, your thoughts betrayed you, 25 in two weeks

Birthday? When is your birthday, schätzchen? König’s voice had crackled in your mind, his question softened.

“Apparently 25 is a big deal.” You furrowed your brows and crossed your arms over your chest. “I don’t celebrate my birthday usually.”

“Please for the love of God, humour my wife.”

Johnny practically begged, teasing her endearingly. “Let her take you out.”

“Mhmm.” You nodded and hummed, watching Johnny leave your house first, stepping forward to clsoe the door behind them. “I promise I’ll let her drag me out.”

“I love my wife, I’d die for her, but sometimes...” Johnny grinned, only minutely serious, and then he glanced back at Ghost. “LT...?”

You watched him standing just outside the doorway, his eyes once again boring into yours. As you stepped forward to close the door, one solid hand had pushed you back against the doorframe, and another cupped your chin.

His hand was large, fingers partially obscured by gloves that were cut off at his first knuckles. He had stepped close to you, trapping you between his body and your door. With one hand cupping your chin and his unrelenting eyes keeping your gaze hostage, you were breathlessly waiting for...something.

Tension was climbing, and it felt as if everything else surrounding you had become dull and stagnant. You couldn’t tear your eyes off him, you were unable to stop your heart from beating wildly.

Slowly he leaned in, closer and closer until his voice was nothing more than a whisper to you.

“Shouldn’t have scared ya, love.” It was as apologetic as you imagined he could get. “Fixed me good.”

“Don’t....get shot or anything. At least not before you get to an actual doctor.” A dry, humourless sound was heard between you, and then his hand tightened on your chin.

“LT! We gotta go!” Johnny called out from the front steps of your place, urging Ghost to leave.

Another moment, brief as it was, and then he pulled away. “Have a good night, love.”

He stepped away from the front door, watching you with intensity until you closed the door behind them and switched the lock.