#sanctum x drift

[mickeygutz]

do we fw fortnite yaoi or nah

[redvexillum]

Hot damn, I can't believe it took me this long to finally get around to answering this ask. I would like to dedicate this story to @todash-darkness and Ms. 🍑. Thank you for being my friends and always cheering me on even when I get whiny and say "writing too hard!"

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, rough s♡x, possessive!alastor, alastor is bad at feelings, dual pov, reader is a sweetheart, established relationship, alastor is allergic to feelings, rough ♡ral s♡x, finger♡ng, miscommunication, one sided (alastor) denial of feelings

In the vast, unfathomable uncertainties of Hell, Alastor’s mind was a sanctum guarded by his own design, his kingdom of carefully orchestrated chaos. He adored unpredictability, yes – but only when it danced to his tune, his rhythm, his control. Anything else, anything beyond his boundaries, was sacrilege.  

There was no greater agony, no venom deeper, than the sensation of his world teetering beyond his grasp. His order, his routine ...demolishing right before his eyes.  

One such certainty he held with unwavering conviction was this: your soul belonged to him, irrevocably. He had claimed you in ways that transcended mere words. Every part of you – your thoughts, your desires, your body, and even the delicate cadence of your laugh – was woven into his web, bound and stitched to his very being.  

So why, then, were you here, laughing with that cur, the very embodiment of mediocrity beside you? Why did the melodic lilt of your voice drift toward that miserable fool’s ears instead of his? The sight of you smiling at such filth was an affront to everything he held sacred, and yet you persisted. You continued to share laughter with that loser, indulging his vapid words, his feeble presence.  

From his seat on the single couch, Alastor’s grin cleaved his face, a mask of delight that undercut the roiling fury within. Around him, other souls babbled, meaningless, and insipid, but he paid them no heed. His gaze was fixed solely on you – typically nestled by his side, hanging on his every word as if he held the keys to your reality.  

You, who would meet his stories with wide-eyed fascination, as if his very words spun magic into existence. You, who would follow him, entranced, into his realm.  

But now, now...his hand dug into the flesh of the couch, claws piercing through its plush surface as he fought to restrain himself, to keep from dragging you to his side where you belonged. In his mind, he could feel the invisible chains around your neck, the ones you had so naively accepted, binding you to him to the moment you surrendered your soul – for a little of wretched Hellmutts, no less.  

You were naive. Weak. Ridiculously innocent.  

But you were his.  

His eyes tracked every move you made, his gaze darkening with each soft smile that graced your lips for someone else, each glimmer in your eye cast in that foul creature’s direction. And then – then that trash, that waste of a soul, had the audacity to touch your shoulder.  

Alastor’s heart stilled, a visceral freeze rippling through him as he watched your fingers lift, as if in slow motion, to meet that filthy hand.  

And within him, something snapped. 

An uncontrollable twitch seized his left eye, a slight tremor echoed in the clench of his jaw. Rage coursed through him, an intense, molten fury tightening every muscle until he vibrated with it. A violent energy was held back only by a grin that split his face, frozen, even as his eyes bore into you, unblinking.  

Come to me, he thought, his voice a dark whisper in his mind, willing you to hear, to obey, Come here, darling. Come... 

Yet, you didn’t hear him. Not a single glance in his direction, as if the tether binding you to him had snapped. You, with those disgustingly bright eyes, filled to the brim with such boundless, grating cheer – those eyes that never strayed from his, were now fixed on someone else. They were facing the wrong way.  

The ownership he held over you was absolute, and he was certain there was nothing of value in this world next to your name – nothing but your soul. And that? Well, that belonged to him. You were his in every sense, a fact as unshakeable as death itself.  

The thought simmered, rolling over in his mind like a storm. He’d planned to speak with you tonight, to remind you of the boundaries that came with selling your soul to him. A gentle “discussion” about your arrangement, perhaps a reminder of the dangers of your reckless naivety, especially around others’ wandering intentions. After all, what did you understand of the hunger that prowled in the depths of Hell? 

But then you laughed. That joyous sound, brimming with warmth and energy – the very light he’d basked in so possessively – spilled from you for someone else. In that instant, something dark clawed up from within him, overriding every fragment of patience he thought he’d possessed.  

The lights flickered; sinners looked up and whispered, confused, looking up as the room dipped into pitch-black darkness. And in that instant, Alastor’s hand seized you, pulling you into the shadows before anyone would notice.  

The darkness folded around him, dragging you both from their prying eyes, and when he materialized in his room, any pretense of control shattered entirely.  

You’d been talking to a gentleman about butcher shops in Cannibal Town, a respectable topic considering he was a proud consumer of sinner flesh. Though you yourself didn’t indulge, you knew Alastor had a certain...fondness for the taste. This stranger, to his credit, offered genuine recommendations – shops known for prime, fresh meat. You listened attentively, committing every word to memory, already imagining the gleam in Alastor’s eyes when you surprised him with a choice cut of fresh deer sinner’s flesh.  

The best part? Each piece came with the sinner’s full consent. Nothing could be more natural, organic, and you supposed, humane in a macabre way, than that.  

Your smile grew brighter as you pictured his reaction, and out of courtesy, you kept the conversation flowing. After all, Alastor had always instilled in you the importance of politeness, of maintaining grace, especially in the realms of Hell. When the man touched your shoulder and praised your kindness, you felt a warmth spread through you. Kindness was a rarity down here, and it was refreshing to be in the company of someone who appreciated it without ulterior motives.  

But then the lights flickered, and instantly, the room plunged into darkness. Panic flared, voices rising in confusion, and before you could fully process what was happening, a cold hand clamped around your wrist. A sensation, chilling and immediate, enveloped you, and the world melted away.  

When you blinked, you were in Alastor’s room.  

The sudden brightness left you blinking against the light, your vision adjusting. But when you finally looked up, you were met with a sight that sent a shiver down your spine.  

Alastor stood there; his eyes ablaze with a crimson fury that bordered on madness. His grin stretched wider than you’d ever seen, jagged and vicious, as if it had been carved from his very rage. His gaze cut through you like a knife, every muscle in his frame taut with anger. Twin streams of red trickled from the corners of his mouth, and in that silence, you could swear you heard the crackling of something deep within him breaking.  

Before you could even form the words to ask why he seemed so upset, Alastor summoned the soul chain. A sickly green chain flickered into existence, snaking around his wrist, and in the next, you felt a sudden, brutal tug around your neck. Your teeth gritted at the sharp pull, and he yanked you forward until you were barely an inch away from him, his nose almost brushing yours as he bent down to meet your gaze.  

The dial in his chest swung wildly, ticking back and forth like a metronome set to a frenzied beat.  

“Uhm, Alast-” you started, confusion clouding your mind. You knew he was eccentric, yes, prone to outbursts and fits of emotion, but they always carried some purpose, a hidden logic that only he could fully understand.  

“Who do you belong to?” he demanded, his voice frigid and sharp. The chain clinked as he pulled you even closer, the heat of his body blazing through the air between you.  

“Y-you,” you stammered, searching his eyes, your hand trembling as you gently touched his sleeve. “It’s you.” 

For a fleeting second, your answer seemed to calm the storm raging in his gaze, his crimson eyes softening back to their usual dark slits. “That’s right,” he whispered, his voice low and deceptively soft. “You belong to me.” His hand slid to your waist, his fingers digging in possessively. “And yet,” his voice dropped to a hiss, “you had the gall to let another sinner touch you.” 

A wave of bewilderment washed over you, leaving you scrambling to make sense of his anger. Physical contact was far from uncommon in the hotel – just yesterday, Angel Dust had clapped you on the back after you told him a joke. Surely, Alastor wouldn’t be so enraged over something so trivial? 

But Alastor pressed himself against you, his body taut and seething with an intensity that left you breathless. “My, my,” he murmured, voice pitched with a mocking chill, “thinking about that wretched sinner already? Right here, in my presence?” 

“That’s not-” you started to protest, realizing with a sinking dread that you’d indeed just thought of Angel Dust. But surely, that alone wouldn’t justify this terrifying fury, this raw possessiveness radiating from Alastor? 

He let out a bark of laughter, sharp and scathing, before pressing his forehead to yours, his lips grazing dangerously close to your own. “I own your soul, darling,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous, velvety edge. You felt his claws inching up your skirt, his fingers scraping against your bare thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “I don’t share what is rightfully mine.” 

Unexpectedly, his mouth crashed onto yours, urgent and bruising, teeth grazing with a hunger so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs. You whimpered against him as his sharp tooth nicked your lower lip, the sting mingling with the taste of blood as his hot tongue lapped over the wound, a low groan reverberating from his chest.  

When he finally pulled back, his lips stained crimson with your blood, he gripped the front of your dress, his eyes blazing. “Who do you belong to?” he demanded again, his tone laced with desperation, as if even your words might not be enough to satisfy him.  

“You. It’s always you, Alastor,” you whispered, your hands gently cupping his face, placing a soft, tender kiss on his lips – a striking contrast to the bruising passion he’d unleashed moments before. “The contract says forever, remember?” You tried a slight, playful grin, but his gaze held none of his usual amusement, his eyes fixated on yours with an almost haunted intensity.  

“The contract,” he repeated slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on your dress. “Yes...that’s right.” His hands trembled for a fleeting moment before he forced them behind his back, his posture rigid. “I own your soul,” he said, voice hollow, “your servitude, I suppose.” 

It was as if he were no longer fully present with you, his gaze dark and distant, a hint of revelation in his eyes that seemed to tear him apart even as he chased it. You could see it, how this realization – this twisted revelation – pained him, even though he seemed oblivious to its source.  

You’d been here before, watched him spiral from bursts of passion to bitterness and then back to his lonely solitude. So, as always, you took that first step forward, drawing closer until your arms circled his waist. You smiled up at him, that bright, open smile he so often brushed off with sharp words, though you knew it softened him beneath the mask.  

He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, a breath escaping as he murmured, “My, you're suddenly so clingy.” But you caught the waver in his voice, hiding behind his usual teasing edge.  

“Because it’s you,” you replied simply, hands trailing up his back until they slid into his hair, guiding him down to meet you. “Besides, you haven’t kicked me to the curb yet, Alastor.” You giggled, only for the sound to be cut off as his lips claimed yours.  

His movement slowed, each kiss lingering, his fingers finding the front of your shirt, hesitating there. “I don’t share,” he murmured against your mouth, his claws grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “This chain,” he whispered, tracing it with reverence, “it binds you to me. I own you.” With each word, he deftly unbuttoned your dress, his gaze smouldering as the fabric fell open.  

“I know,” you answered softly, sinking beneath him as he lowered you to the hard floor, his arms and legs caging you in. “I haven’t forgotten,” you murmured, your fingers trailing down the front of his red-pinstriped suit, savouring the rough texture beneath your touch.  

He stiffened, a flash of raw anger crossing his features. “Then why,” he snarled, his voice dripping with possessiveness, “why let that waste of breath near you? Why laugh, why smile, why seek his company when I was right there?” His words tumbled out, unbidden, raw and unrestrained.  

At that moment, as his heated words filled the space between you, you caught a flicker of shame and horror in his eyes, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal this part of himself. But before he could pull away, you wrapped your arms around his neck, anchoring him to you.  

“No one touches me like you do,” you whispered, pressing soft kisses along his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, until you kissed him fully. And I don’t think anyone else can make me smile until my cheeks hurt.” You laughed softly, fingers combing through his hair, each touch soft and grounding.  

His response was immediate, his lips pressed against yours, his hips grinding against you with desperate fervour. His soft groans mixed with your sighs, and he gently took your wrists, guiding your hands back to the front of his pants. His lips never left yours, his hands tracing a slow, searing path as you undid his pants, feeling the heated weight of him pressing against your stomach as you freed him.  

“Darling,” he hissed as our fingers wrapped around him, stroking from his tip down the length of his hardened cock, slow and tantalizing. The fire in his eyes darkened, his pupils widening to pools of obsidian as he shuddered beneath your touch. “How should I make you remember,” he murmured, voice a low growl, “that you belong to me always?” 

His lips traced down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt to your waist with a deliberate slowness that made you ache. “Perhaps,” he breathed, his fingers pressing against the damp cloth covering you, feeling your desire seeping through, “I’ll make your body remember.”  

Without hesitation, he tore your underwear away, his fingers grazing the slick curve of your inner thighs, drawing a gasp from you as his touch lingered there. “Enough times,” he muttered, his voice thick with want, “That you never forget who I am to you.” 

Two fingers slipped inside, filling you in one firm stroke. The sensation sent a sharp tremor through you, and your breath hitched as your walls clenched around him. “Alastor...” His name fell from your lips in a shiver, and his eyes darkened at the sound, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  

“Shh, darling,” he cooed, his voice a velvet command. His fingers moved slowly, plunging into you with an unhurried intensity, dragging your slice over every sensitive spot before plunging them back in. His head dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing over your skin as he pumped his fingers, his own arousal pressing hot and hard against your thigh. “Tonight, I’ll make certain you’ll never consider anyone else.” 

Pleasure flooded through you, erasing everything except the feel of him, each pump of his fingers building heat within you. You wanted to tell him he was always in your mind, to confess that you’d never once thought of leaving his side. But words tangled and dissolved into moans, as if even trying to say them would break the spell.  

Things like, I like you.

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

A gasp tore from you as his mouth latched onto your breast, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak as he hummed in satisfaction, the wet sound of his fingers moving within you intensifying with each movement. You arched against him, hips moving of their own accord, desperate for more, clinging to every sensation.  

And just as you teetered on the edge, his fingers slipped free, leaving you throbbing, gasping from the loss of him. He rose above you, his cock fully erect, tip glistening. He lifted his fingers, coated in your desire, to his face, watching with fascination as he pressed them together. A glistening thread stretching between them before he spread too far apart, breaking it with a hungry grin.  

Then, without looking away, he brought them to his lips, sucking each finger clean with slow, deliberate motions, a satisfied groan slipping from his throat as he tasted you.  

“Who do you belong to, darling?” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as he gazed down at you. His hands moved to pin your wrists above your head, pressing his hips forward, his cock nudging against your slick entrance, sending a shiver of pure heat coursing through you.  

Your breath caught as he began to push in, the head of him stretching you with a slow, delicious pressure. Instinctively, you tried to shift your hips, to take him deeper, but his grip tightened, keeping you firmly in place. “Say it,” he whispered, his voice edged with a fierce tenderness, his eyes locked onto yours, demanding.  

“You,” you whimpered, voice trembling, and Alastor rewarded you by sliding himself just a bit deeper, the stretch trying to accommodate him making you gasp.  

“That’s right,” he crooned, his grin sharp, eyes narrowed to slivers of wicked delight. “Tell me,” he murmured, his lips brushing hot against your ear, the words like fire igniting every nerve, “tell me how much you want me. Go on.” 

When you hesitated, struggling for breath, he drew his hips back, leaving you painfully empty. Every nerve in your body was alight, humming, craving more. Embarrassment coloured your cheeks, but the heat, the need, drove the words from you. “Please,” you whispered, voice soft and fragile, “please Alastor, I-I want you.” Your eyes closed, the vulnerability tightening in your chest, sending waves of desire flooding your veins.  

The moment the words escaped your lips, Alastor surged forward, filling you to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, a shuddering groan escaping him. His length throbbed inside, stretching and filling you perfectly, leaving you breathless as he began a steady rhythm, each thrust pulling a whimper from your lips.  

“That’s right,” he rasped, finally finding his pace as he withdrew and slammed back into you, your breasts bouncing with every relentless stroke. “Say you want me,” he breathed, his voice rough, almost breaking, with the intensity of his need.  

One hand pinned your wrists above your head, firm and unyielding, while the other squeezed your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, sending electric shocks of pleasure through you. His hips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, the wet, smacking sound of skin on skin mingling with the sharp cries and moans filling the air. Each one tore through you as you clung to him, helpless against the power of his thrusts.  

“I want you,” you cried, voice trembling, head tilted back, your body limp and yielding beneath his strength. Every nerve was alive with a searing stretch, his cock grinding into your most sensitive spot as he drove deeper, forcing pleasure to crest higher and higher. His name fell from your lips in broken cries, each syllable dripping with the intensity of your desire.  

With a raw groan, Alastor shifted, grasping your hips firmly as he rose onto his knees, lifting you with him. Your body arched upward, shoulders and head the only parts still anchored to the floor as he drove into you harder, faster, every thrust meeting no resistance. He slammed his hips against yours, the force of it stealing your breath, pushing you to the brink, an overwhelming spike of pleasure building with every powerful relentless motion.  

Your lips parted, gasping, as his grunts filled your ears, his low, primal sounds mixing with the wet, sinful noises of your bodies colliding. The world around you faded to nothing but the feeling of him, the ecstasy of his touch, and the unstoppable climb toward a blinding, shattering release.  

His eyes locked on the place where your bodies joined, a hunger darkening his gaze as he thrust into you, each movement hitting that perfect spot, dragging every pulse of pleasure from deep within you. Your stomach tightened, thighs shaking, and as he drove in again, the pressure burst.  

You came with a shattering cry, your fingers scraping at the wooden floor, desperate for anything to hold as your walls clenched around him, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing through you.  

He pulled out suddenly, letting your body drop as he rose to his knees, his cock slick and throbbing against your parted lips. His hand wrapped around his length, pumping himself with frenzied strokes as he looked down, his gaze fierce and covetous.  

“I should mark you,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, his cock grazing your lips as he leaned forward. “Make sure my colour stains that smile.” His grin was wild as his hand moved faster, his muscles tense, his breaths shallow and ragged.  

You lifted your head, mouth open to take him in, your lips wrapping around the tip as your tongue swirled, savouring the mingling taste of him and your own desire. A moan tore from him, and he let his head drop back, his hands cradling the sides of your head, guiding himself deeper as his hips moved in slow, deliberate thrusts. His length stretched your lips as he pressed to the back of your throat, the guttural sound of his groans and the slick noises filling the air.  

Your own moans vibrated around him, spurring him on. His hips moved faster, his hands clinging tighter as his moans grew sharper, each thrust sending him closer. With one last hard thrust, he shuddered, and the first hot pulse of his release spilled down your throat. He withdrew, letting the rest spill over your lips, dripping down your chin in thick streams as he marked you. His eyes locked on your face, a wild satisfaction softening his gaze as he watched.  

The warmth of his release lingered on your skin, drying as your breaths filled the space between you. Your tongue darted out, tasting the lingering saltiness on your lips, and he groaned, his cock twitching in his hand as he watched, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.  

As if coming back to himself, he gently cupped your face, wiping his release from your skin with his sleeve, his expression caught between wonder and something deeper. His touch was unexpectedly soft, eyes holding a vulnerability he rarely let surface, the unspoken question hanging between you as his gaze searched yours.  

“We could be more,” you whispered, heart pounding as his fingers tilled on your skin, “if you want, Alastor.” 

His movements halted, his gaze slowly focusing on yours, a flicker of confusion slipping beneath his usual veneer of confidence. “I already own your soul,” he murmured, his voice edged with something darker, guarded. “There is nothing more you could give me.” His words were resolute, as if trying to cling onto their simplicity, yet the way his brows furrowed, and his head tilted betrayed a hesitation – a lack of understanding for the weight of what you meant.  

For all his power, Alastor had taken your heart without ever offering his own in return. The notion of “more” was something he danced around, something he coveted without daring to hold. He wanted you fiercely, hungrily even, but in ways he could still control – never in ways that would strip him bare and vulnerable.  

You placed a gentle hand on his thigh, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. With a soft sigh, you felt the truth of it settle heavy between you; until he could meet you on level ground, until he was ready to open himself as wholly as he demanded of you, this fragile back-and-forth was all you’d have. This quiet ache, this unspoken ache, would remain hidden, cloaked in omissions and denials.  

It wasn’t entirely his fault, either, this painful standoff. After all, there were things you held back too – things that lingered on the edge of every kiss, every touch, words that clung desperately to the walls of your heart, refusing to release themselves. The word that waited to change everything.  

Things like, I like you. 

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

I love you.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[circinuus]

wardance, romance, and neutron bombs

jing yuan x nameless! reader. 1k words

crisis diverted and peace retrieved, the general caught you running around luofu catching the dust that settles.

the luminary wardance was an eventful experience.

the exhilaration of reclaimed peace keeps everyone afloat as much as how the loss weighs them an anchor. for you, a Nameless, it’s only natural to do what you can to help in these precarious times!

returning lost packages in stargazer navalia. passing by the seat of divine foresight and hope to meet general jing yuan. finding depressed broken cycranes in the exalting sanctum. checking general jing yuan-recommended puffergoat milk in aurum alley. throwing away suspicious package littering the starskiff haven. stare at the sky and imagine general jing yuan’s eyes-

“fudge! son of a!—“

“ah, careful, there.”

“—n-nice beautiful man..??!”

your voice chokes like a fish gasping on land. a warm hand steadies the box in your hands, the other keeps your waist still from a doom dive the viridescent stairs.

“i see you have been busy. luofu is truly blessed to have your assistance. but please, don’t let yourself get injured.”

there’s only one person with that kind of gentle voice. and it’s— it’s—

“has someone been asking you to do these errands?”

a petal from the ambrosial arbor drifts upon his face. you see forsythia as you gaze into the gentle, golden irises of the sleepy general.

in flesh. oh. in flesh?

(ahh. he’s truly, verily prepossessing. his arms are very secure. with the kind of gentleness that evokes the desire of domesticity.)

(can’t you just marry him, actually? who cares about trailblazing?)

“(Name)?”

“yes!”

jing yuan takes a step forward in worry when you jerk backwards, though your feet landed in the good fortune of a steady staircase this time. you miss the general’s safe arms as quick as how your common sense dictated you to not exploit the close proximity. but for your dignity, at least, you attempt to paint what you hope a thoroughly normal, reasonably reserved smile.

well, you failed, simply.

“general! thank you! i didn’t expect to see you here! erm, sir!” your palms are clammy against the cardboard box. “and no one forced me, if you still ask. i’m just doing it.. in the name of the wedding— err... the Nameless.. trailblaze, yes. that. haha..”

the general gives you a closed eye smile. (and a preceding single raise of brow. but you turned a blind eye and refuse to think that the general has noticed your battered dignity).

“haha, aren’t you a sprightly little sparrow?” he lets out a loose chuckle, and you think you can die happy, anyway. “things have quieted down. i reckon a stroll will be prudent to see how everyone fares.”

“a stroll?”

“a stroll, yes.”

…

“r-right! a small break, and to oversee how everyone holds. a pleasure to cross paths here, sir!”

jing yuan shakes his head with amusement, “could I trouble you by joining you for a moment, (Name)? allow me to extend my gratitude on behalf of all luofu. the alliance is the astral express’ ally. you’ve done more than enough.”

a sudden formal words of appreciation!

“y-yes of course!” you scratch the back of your head, “it’s.. i’ll be sure to relay the words to everyone. thank you, general.”

ah.

you wished the general would have opted to pat your head instead. the mole on his cheek seemed more vivid when he speaks. or is it his golden eyes? his pretty laugh?

laugh?

when your eyes refocused, the laugh is, in fact, sourced from the man perpetually orbiting your waking dreams.

“no need to be so stiff, (Name). there will be no more duties pushed upon you.”

“i-i don’t mind. ready on standby, general!”

“is that so?” jing yuan, at this point perpetually delighted by whatever you do, leisurely strolls along beside you, mouth curled in an easy curve. “when you are free, could you please spend some time sparring with yanqing?"

“if general thinks i’m capable, then yes, general!”

“ah, speaking of... the teahouse sent over a collection of new releases from immortal’s delight. i can’t finish the batches of tea, but didn’t want to refuse the teahouse’s goodwill...”

“i will head over as soon as possible to help, general!”

“on that note, I wonder whether you have the time for another game of xianzhou starchess as well?”

“yes! yes! I will not waste your past teachings. anything for you, general!”

“then, what of staying in luofu with me?”

you almost repeat a nod in obeisance. but the brain sooner short circuits before it processes the last clause of his proposal.

proposal.

proposal…

system hours slow down. you can hear the drop of a coin from the shop across the streets. witness the creation of the universe, the cosmic ripples from carcasses of dead aeons, the thread of fate dictating the universe. what did he say again?

soberness arrive in the form of warmth on your shoulder.

“apologies, (Name). I jest in good nature.” jing yuan starts, “I know the path of trailblaze entails tracing the vast universe’s untouched trails. and I know that spirit burns bright within you. who am I to tie down a sparrow bound to the skies?”

you were almost that close to pipe a, “who cares! it’s you!”

alas. rejoice that the spirit of akivili slapped your brain in time to force a polite cough from your throat.

"well," you shift in your feet, half in mourning for the inevitable parting and half in lighthearted giddiness. “we can always visit luofu, and you are welcome to the express, too, general.”

jing yuan hums, content watching the bustling shops and streets. “that I am very grateful for your kind welcome.”

colored in his tone, painted in the subtle visage, you can hear a mix—although not potent—of melancholic acceptance. jing yuan is a man who has made terms with too many losses and enough unattainable dreams. you have talked of how his childhood dream as a galaxy ranger who roams the universe, of a shadow of an old friend when he sees dan heng, of the foxian nameless who left naught but a name. all the moments, with his distant expression, he eventually disregards in one same breath.

he seems to notice your gaze, as he looks back to you with an inquisitive tone, (and if he had worn the same distant, longing expression at your person, you never caught it, and jing yuan knows best to not let himself linger).

“—(Name)?”

“uh? sorry?”

that placating face marks another gentle, slightly charmed smile, “unfortunately, I think I’ve cut you off long enough from your agenda today. what were you doing?”

the spotlight is suddenly pressed on the box in your hands.

“oh, right, it’s nothing, general.” you readjust the cardboard cube.

“I found a bomb and it marked my bio sensors. something about exploding if I’m out of its proximity.”

“pardon me?”

this was supposed to be crack but please ignore the cringe either way. it’s from an actual quest if anyone wants extra jades and jy content!

[reveryfics]

In Every Universe

Pairings: Stephen Strange x Male reader

Summary: Stephen wakes up in the sanctum, his memory foggy and thoughts scattered until he spots you, a distant face he'd seen before.

A/n: I have a whole bunch of stuff in the drafts I'll be working on soon. Happy Holidays everyone, and thanks for all the support!

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Stephen groaned, his head buried in his hands. A shiver wracked his body as a gust of icy air seeped through the open window, chilling his bare skin. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the silk sheets pooling around his waist.

Disorientation clouded his mind. Fragments of memories flitted through his consciousness, leaving gaping holes in his recollection. His gaze swept across the room, landing on the partially open door and the faint strains of music drifting in, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed herbal tea.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright, the silk sheets trailing behind him as he searched his wardrobe for a pair of pants.

The rhythmic thud of his bare feet echoed through the ancient halls of the Sanctum Sanctorum, a weary cadence accompanying each step. The familiar surroundings seemed unchanged, untouched by any unwarranted magic, as far as he could discern.

As he rounded the corner, the grand library came into view. Several books lay scattered on the floor, and the crackling of a small fire danced in the hearth. The source of the music and the enticing scent of tea was the reading nook, where a lone figure sat ensconced in a worn armchair. His feet were propped up on the ottoman, his body draped in a luxurious velvet robe. An ancient tome obscured his face, but Stephen felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity wash over him.

The man finally lowered the book, a small smile gracing his lips as he regarded Stephen. The missing pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Stephen had seen this man before, countless times, across the vast expanse of the multiverse.

"Glad you're awake," he murmured, gesturing towards the armchair opposite him.

Stephen cautiously took a seat, his gaze fixed on the other man's face, a mixture of confusion and apprehension etched on his features. "You..." The words seemed to catch in his throat.

The man introduced himself, revealing that he was an old friend of Wong's, entrusted with the care of the Sanctum while Stephen embarked on his unplanned journey across the multiverse. "Seems that dark dimension had more profound effects than you anticipated," he observed, noting the lingering confusion clouding Stephen's expression.

They engaged in a lively conversation, discussing the events that transpired during Stephen's absence. Stephen recounted his bewildering experiences, explaining how in every universe he visited, this man was always present, always connected to his counterparts in some way. In each reality, this man held a position of great respect, yet their paths had never crossed in their own universe until now.

"It's not uncommon for individuals of significance to exist across multiple realities," the man explained, taking a sip of his tea. "But their roles and personalities can vary drastically. In one timeline, I might be the Sorcerer Supreme, while in another, I could be a villain as formidable as Thanos."

Stephen leaned back against the armchair, letting out a weary sigh as he pondered the implications. He recalled a poignant conversation with this man in another reality, a moment of profound connection that resonated deeply within him. "You said something to me," Stephen whispered, his voice barely audible. "I believed that in another universe, I would end up with her. But in every universe, it's you. Always has been, always will be."

The man rose from his chair, adjusting the belt of his robe as he approached Stephen. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, his body angled towards Stephen in a way that revealed a glimpse of his chest through the open slit in his robe. "Perhaps the other versions of me perceive something in you that you haven't fully exposed yet," he chuckled softly.

Stephen's gaze flickered between the man's exposed chest and his face, a strange intensity growing within him. "Perhaps it's simply a matter of time," he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

The man pushed himself away from the chair, his hand lingering on Stephen's shoulder for a fleeting moment. "Time will tell, Mr. Strange," he murmured, turning to leave.

Stephen was left alone with his thoughts, the lingering warmth of the man's touch still palpable on his skin, and the unsettling realization that the boundaries between their realities might be far more permeable than he had ever imagined.

[nayziiz]

Reckless | CS55

Summary: Via finds herself caught up in office politics and encounters Carlos Sainz Jr., the intimidating son of her boss. Despite her initial reluctance, she is drawn into a web of intrigue surrounding the Sainz family and their business empire. As tensions rise and secrets unravel, Via and Carlos grapple with professional challenges, personal relationships, and the allure of forbidden romance. Via must navigate the complexities of power, ambition, and desire, ultimately confronting difficult truths about those around her in a world where appearances can be deceiving and loyalties tested.

Warning: Violence, blood, alcohol, smut, fluff, guns

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x OC (Via Driscoll) - appearances from other drivers

Masterlist

Chapter 1

The bleak London sky seemed to reflect Via's mood as she sat in her office, the persistent rain tapping against the window panes like an incessant reminder of her dissatisfaction. She longed for the comfort of her home, envisioning herself cocooned in her favourite pyjamas, a bowl of popcorn in hand, escaping into the world of a movie. But duty called, and she found herself tethered to her desk, the glow of her computer screen casting a harsh light on her weary face.

Via's gaze drifted from her monitor to the expansive windows that framed her workspace, offering a panoramic view of the dreary cityscape below. The rain streaked down the glass in rivulets, distorting the already dismal scene outside. With a sigh, she swirled her chair to face the window, mesmerised by the hypnotic dance of the raindrops.

Her office, part of the executive suite, was a realm of corporate austerity softened only by the occasional flourish of personalization. Across from her was Eleanor's desk, a colleague whose meticulously organised desk offered a stark contrast to Via's own desk, cluttered with documents and folders. Beyond them lay the hushed confines of the boardroom, its sleek furnishings a testament to the gravity of the decisions made within its walls. And nestled at the heart of it all, concealed behind a frosted glass door, was the sanctum of the CEO, a figure whose presence loomed over the entire floor.

The executive suite was a realm unto itself, delineated from the rest of the office floor by imposing frosted glass panels. These barriers, both physical and metaphorical, served as a symbolic boundary between the realm of power and influence and the humbler domains of the rank and file.

As the sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room, Via instinctively recoiled, her chair scraping against the floor as she sought refuge closer to her desk. The starkness of her workspace mirrored the dreary weather outside, save for a solitary splash of colour—a bright red ribbon adorning her computer monitor, a token of whimsy amidst the monochrome.

Before Via could fully regain her composure, the jarring chime of a message tone shattered the silence, dragging her attention back to the task at hand. With a resigned sigh, she dove back into her work, sifting through the influx of emails that clamoured for her attention. Among them, a cluster of documents awaited Julia's scrutiny, prompting Via to spring into action.

With a sense of urgency gnawing at her, Via swiftly printed out the documents, the whirring of the printer adding a discordant rhythm to the otherwise hushed ambiance of the office. Clutching the papers in hand, she hastened down the main passageway, her footsteps echoing off the sterile tiles with each resounding click of her heels.

Despite her distaste for the clamour her heels inevitably caused, Via pressed on, her posture rigid and purposeful as she navigated the familiar corridors. Straightening her navy blue pencil skirt and smoothing down the crisp lines of her pearly white blouse, she maintained a facade of professionalism, unwilling to betray any hint of vulnerability to the world around her.

As she finally approached Julia's desk, Via's pulse quickened with a mixture of apprehension and determination. With each step, she drew closer to the epicentre of the office's bustling activity, her resolve unyielding even in the face of the tempest raging both outside and within.

“Hey, Jules.” Via greeted Julia with a warm smile, hoping to inject a bit of brightness into the weary atmosphere.

“Hi, Via.” Julia replied, her voice laden with fatigue, betraying the toll that the relentless demands of their profession had taken on her.

“I have some paperwork Eleanor wants you to go over. Mostly just details for the upcoming gala.” Via nodded sympathetically as she approached, presenting the stack of paperwork she had carried with her. 

Julia's shoulders slumped slightly at the mention of more work, her sigh echoing the sentiment shared by many in their line of work.

“The work never ends, does it?” She lamented, a weariness evident in her tone as she prepared to delve once more into the endless stream of tasks that awaited her.

“Sadly, no.” Via echoed with a resigned sigh, her own weariness mirroring Julia's.

“I've actually been meaning to call you over.” Julia interjected, her tired gaze flicking between Via and the documents she held.

“Yeah?” Via prompted, sensing there was more to Julia's invitation.

“Eleanor mentioned that Mr. Sainz wants you in the quarterly meeting tomorrow morning.” Julia explained, her voice tinged with a hint of intrigue as she relayed the information. Via's curiosity piqued at the unexpected news.

“Did she say why?” She inquired, her mind already racing with possibilities as she awaited Julia's response.

“I assume he wants to transfer some of Eleanor's workload to you. Which is both good and bad.” Julia speculated with a nonchalant shrug, acknowledging the mixed implications of such a directive. Via frowned slightly, her thoughts swirling with the implications of the impending meeting.

“She hasn't mentioned anything to me yet.” She murmured, her mind already strategizing how to navigate the potential changes.

“Anyway, listen.” Julia continued, steering the conversation toward more immediate concerns. “There have been a few big projects happening and we need to update the website. Would you mind going through some of our most recent projects and writing up some articles on them?”

Via's expression brightened at the prospect of a new task, eager to immerse herself in a creative endeavour amidst the routine of administrative duties.

“Sure, with pleasure.” She replied, enthusiasm infusing her words as she welcomed the opportunity to breathe life into the neglected facets of their online presence.

“Great! It's just we haven't focused on our website in ages-” Julia began, her words trailing off as she glanced around the bustling office, a silent acknowledgment of the perpetual whirlwind of activity that often left such tasks relegated to the back burner.

Julia's abrupt silence drew Via's attention, and she followed her gaze to the elevator lobby, where four figures stood, three of them familiar: Mr. Sainz, the imposing CEO; Eleanor, his steadfast executive assistant; and Paul, their ever-watchful bodyguard. But it was the fourth man who captured Via's curiosity, his dark chocolate brown hair a stark contrast to the sleek professionalism of the others.

As he turned to face them, Via's breath caught in her throat. The resemblance was uncanny—a younger version of Mr. Sainz himself, yet with a vitality and energy that set him apart.

“Who is that?” Via whispered, her voice barely above a murmur, her eyes fixed on the enigmatic newcomer.

“Carlos Sainz Jr.” Julia replied in hushed tones, her expression betraying a mixture of awe and trepidation at the unexpected arrival of the CEO's son.

As Carlos Sainz Jr. passed by Via and Julia, his impeccably tailored suit accentuating his lean physique, Via found herself momentarily speechless, her gaze lingering on him as he disappeared into the executive suite alongside his father and the others. A palpable tension hung in the air, an eerie quietness enveloping the office as everyone processed the unexpected encounter.

“How come this is the first time I've seen him?” Via queried, her curiosity piqued by the sudden appearance of Mr. Sainz's son.

Julia hesitated for a moment before responding, her voice tinged with a hint of apprehension. 

“He hasn't been involved with the family business. Neither has Blanca nor Ana, his sisters.”

“Why not?” Via pressed, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“It's complicated.” Julia muttered cryptically, her eyes darting around as if searching for eavesdroppers. “He only ever brings trouble when he's around.”

Via nodded slowly, absorbing Julia's words as she contemplated the implications of Carlos Sainz Jr.'s presence and the enigmatic aura that seemed to surround him.

Via's frown deepened as she watched Carlos Sainz Jr. lean casually against her desk, engrossed in conversation with his father and Eleanor. Despite the distance separating them, Via felt the weight of his gaze like a tangible presence, causing a shiver to run down her spine. She averted her eyes, the intensity of their brief connection unsettling her.

Even after breaking eye contact, Via couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. It was as if Carlos Sainz Jr.'s dark brown eyes had left an indelible mark on her consciousness, their magnetic pull impossible to resist.

A few moments later, the trio retreated into Mr. Sainz's office, the heavy door closing behind them with a finality that left Via feeling strangely bereft. She shook off the lingering unease, burying herself in her work as she tried to banish thoughts of Carlos Sainz Jr. and the inexplicable hold he seemed to have over her.

“I suggest you get back to work, Via.” Julia suggested, her tone gently nudging Via back into focus.

Via nodded in agreement, acknowledging the need to redirect her attention to the tasks at hand. With a determined resolve, she made her way back to her desk, the weight of Julia's words lingering in the air.

As Via settled behind her desk, poised to begin her work on the website articles, the shrill ring of her landline shattered the quietude of the executive suite. Startled, she reached for the receiver, her heart rate quickening with anticipation.

“This is Olivia Driscoll. How may I assist?” Via answered, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

“There is a black and a blue folder on my desk. Please bring them to me.” Eleanor's voice commanded, brusque and to the point, before the line went dead.

Via's brow furrowed in confusion at the unexpected request, but she wasted no time in complying. With a sense of purpose, she rose from her desk, her footsteps echoing in the hushed confines of the office as she made her way to Eleanor's domain, the folders clutched tightly in her grasp.

Via carefully selected the two folders from Eleanor's desk, ensuring she didn't overlook any additional blue or black folders that might have been hiding in plain sight. Satisfied with her choices, she proceeded to Mr. Sainz's office, her footsteps measured and deliberate as she approached the frosted glass door.

Pausing briefly, Via knocked three times, a customary gesture to announce her presence before entering. She knew that Eleanor was expecting her, but she still felt a twinge of nervousness as she awaited permission to step inside.

With a click, the door swung open, granting Via access to the inner sanctum of Mr. Sainz's office. Stepping inside, she cast a quick glance around the room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with a sense of curiosity. Despite having visited only a handful of times, she had never lingered long enough to absorb the nuances that defined the space.

Mr. Sainz was engrossed in something on his laptop screen, his attention fully absorbed by the task at hand. Via approached Eleanor, who sat poised across from Mr. Sainz, her demeanour composed and professional as always. With a respectful nod, Via handed over the two folders, her movements precise and efficient.

Via listened intently as Eleanor and Mr. Sainz exchanged words, her curiosity piqued by the mention of the gala and the logistical challenges they faced. She couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension at the prospect of navigating such a crucial aspect of the event planning process.

“Did you give Julia the paperwork for the gala?” Eleanor asked.

“Yes, she's working through it right now.” Via confirmed, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach.

“Good. We need to get sign off from the fire departments because we're literally at capacity for the event.” Eleanor continued, her tone conveying a sense of urgency that wasn't lost on Via.

The weight of Eleanor's words hung in the air, directing Mr. Sainz’s attention towards Via and then back to Eleanor, his expression unreadable as he absorbed the information. Via shifted slightly under his scrutiny, acutely aware of the weight of his gaze upon her.

“Retract some of the invitations that have no responses.” Mr. Sainz suggested. “I'm sure Ms Driscoll can handle that?”

Via's attention shifted as Mr. Sainz offered his suggestion, his directive clear and concise. She nodded in acknowledgment, her mind already processing the task at hand.

“Do you have capacity, Via?” Eleanor inquired, her gaze shifting to Via as she awaited confirmation.

“Yes, of course. I'll get right on that.” Via replied with unwavering determination, her resolve firm as she prepared to tackle the assignment entrusted to her.

As Via turned to leave, her gaze inadvertently fell upon Carlos Sainz Jr., who sat in the corner of the room, his presence a silent observer to the exchange unfolding before him. Eleanor followed Via's gaze, her eyes meeting Carlos Jr.'s intense scrutiny with a hint of curiosity. Via quickly averted her gaze, a sense of unease settling in the pit of her stomach as she made her exit from the office.

“Via.” Eleanor called out, halting Via's departure.

“Yes, Ms. Pope?” Via turned back, her attention fully on Eleanor.

“I don't think you've met Carlos Sainz Jr. yet?” Eleanor gestured towards Carlos, who stood and approached Via.

Via met Carlos's gaze as he extended his hand, and she shook it firmly, her composure unwavering despite the unexpected introduction.

“Olivia Driscoll.”  Eleanor added, providing Via's full name as a formality.

“Lovely to meet you, sir. If you'll excuse me.” Via replied politely, her tone respectful as she acknowledged the introduction before taking her leave.

With a nod to Eleanor, she exited the office, her mind racing with the events of the day and the newfound knowledge of Mr. Sainz's son's presence in the company.

Via retreated back to her desk, the weight of the encounter with Carlos Sainz Jr. still lingering in her mind. As time passed, her curiosity grew, eventually leading her to seek out Eleanor once more. With a sense of purpose, Via made her way to Mr. Sainz's office, her footsteps echoing in the hushed confines of the executive suite.

Entering the office, Via found it deserted, the air heavy with the lingering presence of power and authority. Her gaze swept over the room, taking in the dark wood cabinets and the photographs adorning the counter. Intrigued, she reached out to run a hand over the polished surface, her fingers lingering on the images captured within the frames.

“Looking for something?” Carlos's voice shattered the silence, his sudden presence causing Via to spin around in surprise.

Startled, Via found Carlos leaning casually against the door frame, his demeanour relaxed yet undeniably imposing. Her pulse quickened at the unexpected encounter, her mind racing to compose herself in the face of his scrutiny.

“I don't think my father would like it much if he knew you were snooping around in his office.” Carlos remarked, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement.

“I wasn't snooping.” Via replied defensively, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the implication.

“Olivia, was it?” Carlos inquired, his gaze probing as he addressed her by her full name.

“Yes.” Via confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper as she met his gaze.

“If you're looking for Eleanor, she's left with my father - something about a last-minute meeting.” Carlos informed her, his tone casual yet authoritative.

“Noted, thank you, sir.” Via responded, her voice polite as she acknowledged the information.

“Please, call me Carlos.” He insisted, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Via nodded in acknowledgment, her mind still reeling from the unexpected encounter with Mr. Sainz's son. With a polite smile, she excused herself from the office, determined to focus on her tasks and put the encounter behind her.

Via felt a jolt of surprise as Carlos's hand closed around her wrist, his grip firm yet strangely gentle. She met his gaze, her eyes widening in apprehension as he spoke.

“I won’t tell my father you were snooping,” Carlos stated, his tone low and deliberate.

“Because I wasn’t.” Via countered, her voice tinged with defiance as she resisted the implication.

“I won’t tell him on one condition.” Carlos continued, his gaze unwavering as he held her captive with his intense scrutiny.

“What’s the condition?” Via asked, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

“You don’t come in here by yourself again.” Carlos stated firmly, his expression unyielding as he laid out his terms.

“Yes… Carlos.” Via replied reluctantly, her voice barely above a whisper as she acquiesced to his demand.

With a sense of relief, she extracted her wrist from his grasp and quickly made her exit from the office, the encounter leaving her unsettled yet strangely intrigued by the enigmatic figure of Carlos Sainz Jr.

As Carlos released Via's wrist, she felt a rush of relief flood through her. She offered him a brief, uncertain smile before turning on her heels and hurrying out of the office, her steps quickening as she made her way back to her desk.

Behind her, Carlos watched her retreat, his gaze lingering on her figure until she disappeared from view. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips as he reflected on their brief interaction, a sense of intrigue stirring within him at the enigmatic Olivia Driscoll.

With a thoughtful expression, Carlos turned his attention back to the deserted office, his mind already pondering the implications of their encounter and the potential consequences of his decision to keep Via's presence in the office a secret from his father.

Via settled into her seat at the cosy coffee shop, greeted by the familiar faces of her close friends: Rosa, Tori, and Neil. Their playful banter brought a much-needed smile to her face after the events of the day.

“Well, nice of you to join us, big shot.” Rosa teased, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Hi, Miss rays of sunshine.” Via retorted with a chuckle, exchanging playful greetings with her friends.

“You look terrible.” Tori remarked with mock concern, her tone laced with humour.

“It’s a new look I’m trying out.” Via quipped, her reply eliciting laughter from the group.

“I don’t understand why you have to work so late.” Neil chimed in, his expression one of genuine concern. 

“It's just the nature of the job, you know? Deadlines, last-minute meetings, unexpected tasks. It never seems to end.” Via sighed, her demeanour growing more serious as she explained,

Her friends nodded in understanding, their expressions sympathetic as they listened to her explanation. Despite the challenges she faced, Via couldn't help but feel grateful for the support of her friends, their presence providing a much-needed respite from the demands of her hectic work life.

“No, there’s something else bothering you today. Out with it.” Rosa insisted, her intuition sharp as ever. Via sighed, relenting under her friend's scrutiny.

“The boss’s son showed up.” She confessed, her voice lowering slightly as she revealed the source of her discomfort.

“Ooh, do tell.” Tori exclaimed, leaning in with interest.

“There’s nothing to tell. He’s just intimidating.” Via replied, her gaze flickering with uncertainty.

“You never find people intimidating.” Neil pointed out, his brow furrowing in concern.

“I do when they’re my boss and his son.” Via admitted, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her confession.

“What’s he look like?” Rosa pressed, her curiosity piqued by the mention of Mr. Sainz's son.

“He’s attractive, that’s for sure. He’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome.” Via admitted, a hint of reluctance in her voice as she acknowledged Carlos Sainz Jr.'s undeniable allure.

“At least he’s something to look at.” Tori remarked with a playful grin, attempting to lighten the mood with her characteristic humour.

Via couldn't help but chuckle at her friend's comment, grateful for the lighthearted banter that helped to momentarily distract her from the complexities of her professional life. Deep down, though, she knew that Carlos Sainz Jr.'s presence in the office would continue to loom large in her thoughts, his enigmatic aura leaving an indelible impression on her psyche.

[lavenderfluorite14]

A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Chapter 12: Penance

Summary: The fun continues in a hidden, bloodied shrine.

Rating/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content ❤️‍🔥, BDSM, Impact Play, Flogging, Painplay, Loviatar's Blessing Scene (Baldur's Gate), Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, Bloodplay/Vampirism, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Unprotected Sex But No Pregnancy, Sexual Abuse and Recovery, Unhealthy Attitudes Towards Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Under-negotiated Kink. Full tag list on AO3. Read on AO3. Chapter 11.

A/N:

This chapter is dedicated to all the lil freaks out there (affectionate). Letting an evil priest whip you bloody on a dirty dungeon floor at the suggestion of your crush without establishing a clear safeword is not safe or sane, please do not use this as good or appropriate BDSM etiquette or representation. Please only use this as porn :)) And if this is not your jam, don't worry! Currently, this is the only chapter that will have heavy BDSM elements, although I do plan to continue to explore certain themes. We will be back to our regularly scheduled program soon.

The inner sanctum of the defiled temple is another den of debauchery, but of an even darker sort. The familiar scent of charred flesh fills the air and the even more familiar sound of screaming drifts in and out as they carefully make their way through the bowels of the ruin. In the middle of the chamber, a goblin booyhag stands over bright coals, heating up what appears to be a branding iron. They all give her a wide berth.

“By my Dark Lady, this place is a labyrinth,” Shadowheart wonders aloud. Despite her amazement, Shadowheart’s words carry an unmistakable note of disdain.

The scent of fresh blood fills Astarion’s nostrils as they pick their way up a narrow flight of stairs. “There’s blood in the air. The blood of a thinking creature,” he whispers to Tav. He leads them to a dark alcove. 

“Halsin?” Tav calls quietly into the darkness. As they peer into the shadows a figure stirs, rising to its feet.

“I’ve met few aside from goblins here. Have you come to assist with the prisoner?” a deep, rough voice answers. A man emerges from the gloom, clutching a flail that drips a steady stream of blood. His handsome face is scarred with deep gashes and his cool eyes glitter with an expectant gleam. His robe is a curious garment littered with barbs and thorns that dig into his exposed chest, drawing blood with each movement. The droplets well and gather against his pricked flesh like precious, pendulous rubies. One bloody bead breaks free, sliding down his pec to splatter against the stone floor. Astarion digs his teeth into the inside of his lip at the indecent display.

This man is a follower of Loviatar, Goddess of Pain. He glances over to Shadowheart, who must also recognize the stranger’s dark, distinctive raiment. There is a heaviness in her gaze and a twitch to her lip that suggests that Shadowheart is also deeply familiar with pain.

“What prisoner?” Tav probes.

“The gentleman being held next door. My acquaintance is working on him, I believe.” A scream pierces their conversation, reverberating through the stone halls until it is a distorted wail. Whatever they are doing to that man does not sound pleasant.

“While I was thrilled to be invited here, I must confess I find goblins and their methods-" he pauses, trying to find the right words, “…crude and primitive.” He smiles a tight, patronizing smile. “Pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I thought a follower of Loviatar would approve of pain,” Tav answers. Astarion can’t help but eye her curiously. What does a pretty little bard know about such a dark goddess?

“You know the Maiden of Pain? How refreshing,” the priest smiles. “But there is more to us than that. Yes, we worship her through pain, often our own. But it is an intimate and loving thing we offer up,” he insists.

Astarion doesn’t know about all that. He wouldn’t describe any of the pain Cazador inflicted as loving . No matter what Cazador had said. At least Cazador’s punishments had been fun to watch, when they weren’t intended for him.

“But trying to discuss such subtleties with these creatures is…” the man trails off as his eyes rake over Tav, appraising her. “But I could show you such subtleties first-hand,” he offers with a sly, knowing smile. “If you would permit it, of course.”

Both Shadowheart and Astarion perk up at the audacious suggestion. They share an incredulous, almost excited, look. Is he truly suggesting what they think he is suggesting?

“How?” Tav asks, a touch breathless.

“Through penance, administered by my skilled hand, as the Maiden of Pain teaches us,” he explains with self-satisfied pride.

Shadowheart smirks at Astarion, a dark glimmer in her eye. He is suggesting what they think he is suggesting. He knows that look: excitement, interest, lust . Shadowheart wants to watch this too. In tandem, they glance over to Tav, who shifts back and forth on the balls of her feet restlessly.

“And why would I do that?” Tav asks dismissively. But her tone is a touch too aloof, too coy. It doesn’t match her agitated body language.

“Because my work can grant peace and serenity - the likes of which few experience. It will be worth it, I promise,” the man reassures her. His unctuous voice drips with an infectious enthusiasm. “Pain is a powerful and sacred sensation, and should we delight our Mistress - should we embrace such a gift - she will grant her most sacred of blessings.”

“Go ahead, I’m sure you’re in need of a little penance,” Shadowheart encourages airily, her proposal a blade wrapped in silk. Tav jumps in surprise, but Astarion snakes a grounding arm around her waist, anchoring Tav between them.

“I must see this. Don’t you dare say no,” he wheedles petulantly. He cannot keep a small, wicked grin from his lips. Tav looks up at him and any hesitation she may have had melts away from her features when she sees his hungry expression. She looks to Shadowheart, who gives an enticing nod. Tav nods back.

“I must admit, I am quite curious,” Tav confesses. “And I’ll take any blessing I can get at this point.”

A red-hot coal of desire ignites in Astarion’s belly at the idea of Tav, submissive and bloody, willingly prostrating herself before them. That fantasy stokes his darkest instincts, the part of him that yearns to take and take until he is finally satisfied. Until he finally has his due. And if Tav is willing, then there is no reason why he shouldn’t enjoy the show. Perhaps Tav really is a little deviant after all, like he had originally guessed when she had offered him her blood for nothing in return. What a pleasant diversion this could be.

“I saw your book, priest. Let’s try some of those teachings on your newest convert,” Shadowheart suggests, taking charge effortlessly. Lae’Zel stands back, watching them all with doubtful curiosity.

“My, such eager students I have found. Those are advanced devotions.” He crosses over to a stone table, thumbing the text reverently. “The Mistress would approve,” he murmurs. He turns eagerly back to Tav, gesturing smoothly to the implements arranged neatly on the table. He’s brought a small armory of weapons with him. “Indicate which instrument calls to you, and then let us put it to work,” he grins.

“Let me pick,” Astarion interjects excitedly. Tav hesitates, but only briefly.

“Alright. I trust you,” she says. Something gentle flutters inside of him at her misplaced, absurd words.

“Trust is an essential element of the Mistress’s teachings,” the priest explains approvingly. “Trust in our bodies. In our ability to endure her glorious agony. “ His grin widens. “And trust in our betters to only inflict what we can endure.”

Astarion strolls over to the table, examining all of the Loviatan accouterments with a detached air that is utterly feigned. The variety is truly staggering, ranging from the sophisticated to the medieval. So many delicious options. How fun to be the one choosing the punishment rather than receiving the punishment.

His hand lingers on a knife quite similar to his own, which is part of its appeal. A brief memory from that awful night flickers in his mind and he quickly flinches away. Astarion can almost feel his scars burning through his armor. He doesn’t want that kind of pain for Tav. Instead, Astarion finds himself drawn to a much more traditional implement. Something that will hurt, but that can be healed quickly with their magic. Something that they will both enjoy. He plucks a whip off the table, marveling at its supple leather tail. It feels light and agile in his hands. 

Cazador had not favored flogging. He had preferred more creative cruelties.

“A very, very fine choice,” the priest purrs approvingly. He takes the whip from Astarion and steps back, effortlessly cracking the thong. Lae’Zel chks at the demonstration.

“I’d criticize your lack of imagination, but you’ve chosen surprisingly well,” Shadowheart teases.

“I have excellent taste, if I do say so myself,” Astarion smirks.

“You do,” Tav says, blushing furiously. If he had any blood himself, he suspects he would be blushing too. Gods, she’s so pretty when all that marvelous blood rushes to her face.

“Both Loviatar and I are interested in how you handle pain, dear one. And should you please her, she will grant her most sacred of blessings. Just face the wall and we can begin,” the priest instructs with barely contained enthusiasm.

Tav looks back to Shadowheart, who tilts her chin towards the wall imperiously. Then she looks to Astarion, and a flicker of hesitation crosses her features. He knows that look. Astarion crosses to her, cupping her cheek in his hand.

“Is everything alright, darling?” He caresses her warm cheek with his thumb. “Can you be a good girl for us?” He asks lowly. Tav nods. “I need you to say it, my treasure.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to try something like this, I don’t know why I’m suddenly nervous,” she reveals. “I suppose I just didn’t think my first time would be in a goblin war camp.”

“I’ll be here the whole time. I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” he coos, perhaps a touch too patronizingly.

“We will be here the whole time,” Shadowheart chimes in. Lae’Zel is a silent but attentive sentinel behind them. “And I will heal you up afterward. You have nothing to fear.“

“Thank you,” Tav says, smiling at each of them.  

“Good girl.” Astarion releases her. “Now, all that being said, don’t forget to put on a good show,” he reminds her, flashing a fanged smile.

“Yes. The only thing to fear here is boring us,” Shadowheart says lightly.

“A show? Is that what you want?” Tav asks. Her fingers find the buttons on her gaudy jerkin. Slowly she pops each one open, revealing the swell of her breasts and the soft plane of her abdomen to her captivated audience. Slipping out of her armor, she drops it carelessly on the floor before them. Hinging at the waist, she slowly bends over, sliding her ridiculous striped leggings over the full curve of her ass. When she straightens Tav is in nothing but her underwear, which still covers far too much skin for Astarion’s liking.

“I just don’t want to ruin my clothes,” she says innocently. “I want to feel it all.”

Each one of them eyes her body, admiring her shapely form openly. The priest’s eyes rake over her approvingly, but he doesn’t flinch at her boldness. Astarion suspects that a half-naked woman asking to be whipped must be routine for him.

Tav slowly turns to the wall, placing her palms against the smooth stone with finality. “I’m ready,” she declares, planting her feet. Her smooth, unmarred back and plump bottom look perfect, even in the dim light. The priest smiles.

“Then we shall begin,” he says.

The priest strikes Tav across her back, the whip cracking thunderously through the air despite its small size. Tav yelps in surprise as the lash strikes her flesh, a cry that morphs into a scream of pain. Her scream sets Astarion’s teeth on edge and sends a shiver of delight surging through him.

“The pain you suffer will cleanse you - do not fight it!” The priest calls to her. He changes position, moving to strike her from the opposite side. The whip cracks across her back again and Tav lets out another delicious cry, convulsing in agony. Her arms tremble with strain and her nails dig into the rock, but she remains in position, trying her best to withstand the harsh blows.

Shadowheart leans in conspiratorially. “Would you have joined up with her if you had known she would be indulging this sort of thing, Astarion?” Her voice is laced with amusement. He leans in as well, meeting her halfway.

“I mean, I had my hopes,” he smirks. He makes sure his voice carries, loud enough for Tav to hear. There is something inside of Astarion that revels in this feeling of power, of authority, at seeing another person laid so low beneath him for his entertainment and pleasure. It makes his blood hot and his cock hard in a way that should be shameful, but Astarion had been deprived of so many things for so long that he unapologetically finds pleasure, no matter how dubious, wherever he can find it. And of course, he loves seeing blood spilled. Perhaps this is all just an extension of his vampirism.

Shadowheart has no such excuse though. What had those Sharrans done to her in their secretive little shadow cult? He wonders for a moment if he should feel jealous that Shadowheart is enjoying this as much as he is, but so far she seems content to merely watch. Astarion can handle a few lewd looks.

This time the priest aims lower, dragging the whip across her buttocks. Tav wails in pain, finally buckling against the wall. Tears prick her eyes, threatening to fall down her cheeks. The lower body was generally a fleshier part of the body that can better withstand blows, but it also has some very, very sensitive nerve endings. Astarion wants to run his fingers over her pained flesh, feel her whimper at his featherlight touch before digging his fingers into her purple bruises.

“That’s it, dear one! Let Loviatar hear you!” The priest roars, as if in ecstasy. He strikes her again, harder than the last time, across the meat of her thigh. Finally, he draws blood. Astarion digs his fingernails into his hand as he watches it pour down her leg in an obscene waterfall. The priest thrashes her again, giving her no quarter, this time breaking the skin across her back. Tav shrieks in pain, sobbing against the wall as she bleeds. But she still doesn’t cry for help. Astarion imagines himself against her, lapping against her wounds, comforting her with his tongue.

“My, my, who knew our friend had so much blood in them,” Astarion marvels.

“Try not to lick your lips as you say that,” Shadowheart responds. She leans in further. “And are you sure she’s just a friend?” Astarion ignores her jab, focusing on the spectacle before them.

“You are doing so well! Do not give in now!” The priest screams. He brings the whip down on her again and Tav screams a beautiful, ear-shattering scream.

“Don’t wear her out entirely priest, I may have use for her yet,” Shadowheart heckles from the sidelines. Astarion casts her a sidelong glance. Is that bluster or is there intent behind her comment? He can’t be sure, and that concerns him.

The priest strikes her one last time across the ass and this time Tav calls for mercy, sagging against the wall in a bloody heap. The priest breathes a deep, satisfied sigh as he lowers his whip.

“Sweet child, you bore the pain like a true believer. I could feel Loviatar’s pleasure with every strike.” He inclines his head towards Tav in a reverent nod. “I am proud to have served you this penance.” Tav picks herself up carefully, wincing with every movement. The priest lays his hands firmly on her shoulders, which begin to glow with a sinister red light. When the blessing is imparted, he draws back.

“And on a personal note, thank you. That was positively divine,” he croons.

“You are welcome. I….I learned a lot about myself,” Tav says, panting heavily. Turning, Tav musters up the courage to face both Shadowheart and Astarion, who watch her with calculatedly composed expressions. Tav stares at them expectantly.

“Well, whatever you are into,” Shadowheart says glibly. Tav stares at her incredulously and Astarion has to stop the chuckle forming in his throat. As if she hadn’t enjoyed every moment of Tav’s torment.

“This planet certainly has strange customs,” Lae’Zel finally comments into the strained silence. She seems more confused by the encounter than anything else.

“Give me just a moment,” Tav says, deflating, wobbling over to her pile of clothes. This time she simply crouches down instead of bending over provocatively. She gingerly pulls on her jerkin, flinching as the fabric brushes against her skin. “We should check on that prisoner the priest mentioned. It could be Halsin.” Already Tav is trying to slip back into the role of a capable, completely normal leader. He’s a little sorry to see this new, fragile side of her disappear so quickly.

Tav had done this to please him. For other dubious personal reasons, yes, but she had surrendered herself to the mercy of a mad priest for his enjoyment. A deep shiver of pleasure courses through him, settling into his pelvis.

“An excellent idea. Why don’t the two of you take a peek around that corner and see what in the sweet hells they are doing to poor Halsin, and I’ll stay here and get Tav all cleaned up,” Astarion suggests.

“I’m the cleric, I can easily heal her,” Shadowheart says, her hands already glowing blue.

“It’s ok, Shadowheart, I don’t want you to use any of your magic on this little misadventure. I have a healing potion I can take,” Tav insists. Shadowheart looks at her skeptically.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise. I’m already feeling better.” Shadowheart raises a sculpted eyebrow.

“And we may need you later. We’re not out of the woods yet,” Tav clarifies. She straightens up. “That’s a good idea, Astarion. Shadowheart and Lae’Zel, go scout ahead and see if Halsin is next door. We’ll join you as soon as I’ve recovered.”

“Fine,” Shadowheart says, relaxing her casting stance. “But you both had better join us. Soon .” She looks between the two of them in warning. “Come on, Lae’Zel. Let’s do some actual work around here.” Lae’Zel moves quickly, eager to be away from this odd, uncomfortable scene.

As soon as the pair leave, Astarion grabs Tav’s arm and pulls her around a corner and into another small room, away from prying eyes. “Let me see, my darling,” Astarion says, his nimble fingers already working at the buttons of her jerkin. He slips it off gently, spinning her around so he can better see her wounded back. Bruises are already forming underneath the angry welts left by the whip. Blood weeps from her broken skin, streaming down her body in a river of crimson. Astarion curses under his breath at the exquisite sight.

“How does it look?” Tav asks, a little nervously.

“Hells below, that priest truly beat you bloody,” he says. Tav laughs a pained little huff.

“The ‘Maiden of Pain’ certainly lived up to her name,” she mutters. She cranes her neck to look back at him. “Did you enjoy the show?” Tav asks. Astarion’s hands clutch her waist. He’s careful not to pull her against him, despite the urge.

“It was fine, for a first act,” he says flippantly. He traces his index finger up her back, swiping through a trickle of blood with the pad of his finger. He sucks the digit into his mouth, savoring the rich taste of her blood. He stifles a low groan. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, hm?” he suggests. Tav nods, bracing herself again against the stone wall. “Astarion, please-"

“AHEM!!!” 

A garrulous cough cuts through the air. Tav frantically tries to cover herself as they both whirl around to face the source of the noise.

Volothamp Geddarm leans against the bars of an admittedly well-constructed goblin cage, eyeing them up and down with both offended shock and scandalous intrigue.

“Volo! Are you alright?” Tav pants, re-buttoning her armor with haste.

“Oh, I’m as happy as a clam! Just enjoying the luxurious accommodations of my generous hosts,” he says.

“Astarion, can you-” Tav begins.

“With pleasure,” Astarion mutters sardonically, already bending down to pick the shoddy lock with ease. The door pops open and Volo lets out a jolly laugh.

“I am quite saved! Thank you, my fine friends. I guarantee the story of your rescue of my person will live on for aeons,” he promises with a flourishing bow.

“Don’t forget, it’s Tav and Astarion,” Tav reminds him excitedly. Volo scowls.

“That will sound ridiculous. But fine, if you insist. As much as it pains me to cede creative control. Still, once I’ve written you into my books, there won’t be a tavern in Faerûn where you won’t receive a hero’s welcome!” Astarion rolls his eyes at Volo’s boasting. As if a vampire spawn would ever be seen as a hero.

“Come now, we mustn’t tarry, surely you must have a camp nearby? Somewhere we can conduct a private interview once we’ve both slipped the goblin yoke?” Tav explains where they have made camp in a starstruck jumble of words and Volo vanishes with a swift sip of an invisibility potion, promising to pick their brains later. As soon as he is gone, Astarion pounces on Tav.

“Now, where were we?” Astarion says, reaching for the buttons on Tav’s armor. “Ah yes, right about here.” He slips her coat off and leads her to the wall, placing her hands against it. He covers her hand with his own, leaning in close to her ear. “You were begging for me.”

“Astarion, please,” she groans, arching her back and pressing her ass against him, grinding herself against his stiffness. “Are you sure? We’ll be caught-”

“Not if we’re quick and quiet, my sweet.” He plants a kiss on her tailbone, kissing his way up her naked spine. He takes meandering detours, lapping up rivulets of blood, following wherever they lead him. He peppers her body with bloody kisses, which in turn need to be licked up and swallowed down. When his mouth finally finds her wound he traces it adoringly with tongue, shivering at the taste of fresh blood. Unthinkingly he grinds against her ass, rubbing his pleasure against her. Tav whimpers and flinches as he works, in pain and overstimulated, but still meeting his thrusts halfway. When he senses it is too much he pulls away, crouching down behind her.

“But what I really want to see is this,” he says, pulling down her leggings. Her smallclothes are a damp mess and her thigh sports an irritated, red gash where the whip cut her. He dives in, licking up the bloody mess of her cut with zeal. She tastes so sweet, her skin is so soft to the touch. As he loses himself he removes his leather gloves, stroking her wetness over the flimsy fabric. Tav groans and buries her face in her arms, which are still propped against the wall. He slips underneath the fabric and slides his fingers inside her, roughly pumping against her secret, perfect spot. Almost immediately her legs begin to tremble and Tav bites her lip to stop herself from crying out. Soon, she comes around his fingers. Tav collapses against the wall, panting with pleasure.

Sated on blood at last, Astarion withdraws his fingers and replaces them with his tongue, licking her drenched flower with gentle kitten licks as Tav returns to her senses. He fumbles with his buckle, pulling his cock out and pumping himself furiously. He’s so close, he so close -

“You can fuck me,” Tav moans. “If you want-"

Astarion is already standing up, kicking her legs even further apart and positioning himself behind her. He pushes himself into her, a touch rougher than he had intended, and a pretty ngh! of effort escapes Tav’s lips. Astarion begins a fast and deep rhythm, trying and failing to stay quiet. A breathy, embarrassing whine escapes him on accident but he’s able to catch the subsequent ones, lowering them to rough grunts of pleasure. He tangles a hand in her hair, gripping the follicles at their base, firmly pulling Tav’s head back towards him. Now Tav is the one to whine in shameful ecstasy.

“I should have known,” he chokes out between thrusts. He tightens his grip on her hair and Tav releases another pitiful mewl. “I should have known my love was such a slut for pain.” Tav whimpers in admission. He lowers himself over her, his mouth at her ear. His pace quickens, plunging completely into her with every thrust. “Is that why you’re consorting with a vampire?” He nips at her, scraping his fangs against the shell of her ear. She shudders against him. “Is that why you like my bite so much, darling?” He mouths at her neck, teasing the sensitive skin with his pointed teeth.

“Astarion!” Tav comes again, her pussy gripping his cock in tight, incredible contractions. It’s too much, it’s just too much.

“Fuck, I’m - !”

Astarion comes in thick hot ropes, emptying himself deep inside of her as she shivers with her own orgasm. He thrusts a few more times, milking both their peaks for all they are worth. But as the potent rush of endorphins wanes, he is left with a bone-deep hollowness that feels like pyrrhic victory. He slowly releases his hold on Tav’s hair and slides out of her, removing himself from her wet warmth. His cum drips out of her, pooling with her blood on the stones below.

He quickly tucks himself away, buttoning up his trousers with quick precision. He takes in Tav’s disheveled appearance, her whipped and battered body, and feels the smallest surge of pride and satisfaction at being the one to dominate this time. He took what he wanted. She submitted to him and was happy to do so, a win-win. And if he’s done his job, then this degradation will still advance the plan. 

This is how the world works.

Tav stands and turns to face him, still a bloody mess despite his thorough attentions. Cupping his cheek, she presses her lips to his. The kiss is soft but firm, her mouth moving against his own with unyielding gentleness. When she breaks the kiss, she pulls his forehead down to rest against her own.

“You don’t have to hold back. Not with me,” she whispers so only he can hear. Astarion stiffens, recalling the uncomfortable honesty of the morning. What she asks for is impossible.

“If I didn’t I would kill you,” he answers, just as quietly.

Tav giggles. “Well, then, maybe hold yourself back a little.” 

If he fed until he was full, he would kill her. The Hunger is relentless. He will never be sated. 

And if he told her the rest, he would break her beautiful little heart. He will not be responsible for that. Not until he has to be. His mess is too disgusting, too shameful to see the light of day. 

She wraps her arms around him, holding him close. “But I meant what I said. All of it,” she insists again. Astarion returns her embrace. For a moment they stay like this, Astarion fully armored, Tav bloody and half-naked, just holding each other.

“Here, my darling, let’s truly get you cleaned up now.” His voice is shockingly tender to his ears.

~

Several healing potions and two prestidigitation spells later, Tav and Astarion round a corner to see Shadowheart laying a red hot poker against a screaming man’s side as Lae’Zel looks on in tacit approval.

“Holy hells, what are you two doing!?” Tav yells, rushing forward.

“Took you long enough. We have questioned the prisoner and found Halsin’s location,” Lae’Zel reports.

“The prisoner says there are dungeons even deeper than this one in the temple. Pens, where they keep the worgs. Halsin could be there,” Shadowheart explains. 

“Good job, I guess?” Tav says, rubbing her temples in frustration and disgust. “Astarion, will you-“

“Are you sure you don’t have any more questions for the prisoner?” Astarion asks cheekily, half chuckling. 

“Absolutely not. Now go free him,” Tav orders. “Still so bossy,” Astarion returns, picking the shackles effortlessly. The man falls from the rack, moaning with pain as he hits the floor.

“Wait,” Tav suddenly remembers. “Did you tell them anything about The Grove-” “No, I didn’t say a thing,” the man who must be Liam says, scrambling to his feet despite the pain. There’s a frantic look in his eyes, an animal instinct to bolt to freedom, “Thank you, thank you, I won’t forget this!” Liam rushes off into the darkness of the dungeon, disappearing down a cave tunnel.

~ The dungeons are easy enough to find. All they have to do is keep moving down, down, down. When they push open the heavy wooden doors, there is a joyous squeal of goblin children and a ferocious roar of animal pain. In one of the cramped cells a beast bares its teeth, bristling with rage as goblins poke and prod it with sharpened sticks.

An elf with the presence of a bear.

Halsin.

Chapter 13: Party

[starks-hero]

Concerning Lockley

A 3rd installment to the Smoke and Mirrors series.

Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader, Steven Grant x Reader, Jake Lockley x Reader

Summary: A year has passed since the events in Cairo and two things cannot remain hidden for much longer; the truth and a third alter.

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: canon-divergence, revolves around Marc and Steven's past so implied child abuse, lightly implied smut, descriptions of violence, language (but it's me so that's almost a given)

a/n: A criminally late third installment to Smoke and Mirrors/The Truth is Rarely Kind. It's fairly heavy so I'd recommend reading the first two chapters for context. Anyway, guess who's finally arrived? 😏

You had grown fond of the night. The peace, the silence. The temporary comfort that, even just for a little while, things would be okay. Well aquatinted with the early hours, you woke to see them hit the clock almost religiously; every night without fail.

Every night since Cairo.

Sleep was something you'd forsaken. The few hours of rest you did manage to steal were few and far between and when you did manage to drift off your guilt followed you into your dreams. It seemed that was all you ever felt anymore; an overwhelming, crushing sense of guilt that never went away. 

You'd started making a cup of tea some time ago, (five minutes perhaps? enough time for the boiling water to cool, now a comforting warmth radiating through the ceramic.) It was another sanctum in your ritual, the action almost bringing more comfort than the drink itself. The steam kissing your hands and drifting through your fingers in playful wisps, the hypnotic sound of the spoon gliding against the ceramic edges of the mug.

Your hand stilled and your breath hung idle in your chest; a moment later two arms settled around your waist with a gentle squeeze and a yawn muffled against your shoulder. 

"Alright, love?"

Steven spoke the words into your neck. They were gentle and warm, just like the rest of him. There's a certainty in how he holds you to him and you quit stirring your tea in favour of supporting yourself against the counter. You fear your knees will give way, from the lack of sleep or guilt, you can't tell. His nose ran the length of your jaw and you offered a quiet hum in response to his earlier question.

"What are you doing up, ey?" His voice is breathily quiet, softening at the end as it would when he spoke to a child or small animal. Something he was worried he'd frighten. His hands, feather-light in their movement, traced down your arms until his fingers brushed the swell of your wrists. Intertwining your fingers, he brought your joint hands to your chest and pressed down. It was a grounding, comforting weight.

I'm here. I've got you.

You took several deep breaths, each somewhat steadier than the last. You swallowed down the sand that seemed to have formed at the back of your throat; dry and scratchy.

"Couldn't sleep," you answered truthfully.

Steven had waited patiently for your answer. He was always so patient. He'd been patient during the three weeks you'd scarcely spoken to them after Cairo, and patient still during the outbursts that followed when you did start talking to them again. And how could he blame you? Dying and coming back again was bound to have that effect. The entire dying situation was something that had been quickly placed in the red zone (extremely triggering and not to be talked about,) and after an exceptionally explosive episode with Marc over it, none of you were eager to revisit it.

Steven wasn't even certain you remembered your time in limbo, but if you did you didn't talk about it and he didn't pry.

"Come back to bed, yeah? I'll stay up with you till you doze back off."

He did know that you didn't sleep anymore. Not really. On more than one occasion he'd wake in the early hours to find you sat by the door or perched by the window, something sharp in hand. Harrow, by some miracle, hadn't come looking for you yet, but you planned on being ready when he did. 

Steven and Marc could feel the anxiety that practically hung above your head like a black cloud of miserable smog. The thought of Harrow and his goons finding the ushabti and following through with their plans was one that haunted you. A fact made clear by your desire to, in your own words, 'find the deepest, most ancient well known to man and chuck the damned thing down there.' But dealing with people set on genocide called for something more permanent and Layla had assured you she had it handled.

You didn't doubt her but it didn't make you feel any more at ease either.

You focused on the weight of Steven's hands against your chest instead and took another steadying breath. You agreed to go back to bed, if anything just to ensure Steven got a few more hours of sleep. You would fake it, you'd gotten good at it too.

He kept your hand in his as he led you back to bed. The tea abandoned on the counter eventually went cold.

You awoke to Marc, his lean arms barely brushing the expanse of your stomach, hand resting openly against your waist. You always knew the difference, knew who you'd woken up to. Steven held you like you would turn to dust and Marc held you like you were made of glass.

His hold on you tightened as he woke, that subconscious urge to keep you at arm's length crumbling. He kissed your head, your neck and then the expanse between the blades of your shoulders, his hands reverent as they traced your skin.

He made love to you differently since Cairo. It was slower and methodical, that desperation and fear that had been there before was long gone and there was a certainty now. He was more sure of himself, of you and of what you were to each other.

You rested in a comfortable silence afterwards, the air still warm and sweet and the sheets grounding against your trembling body.

Marc was a work of art beside you and for the briefest of moments you could understand why Khonshu chose him. He was made to be divine, to be godly.

His eyes had lightened a shade, as they tended to do when he was unfocused and staring into nothing. It was something only you'd noticed; the way the dark chestnut brown turned amber, almost pools of honey in the morning light now.

You traced his temple and he turned to you, taking the time to plant a kiss to your wrist. Right above the gentle beating of your heart. You temporarily worried that he'd feel your guilt in how your pulse drummed irregularly against his lips. You always felt guilty when he touched you softly. Knowing what you did you felt you didn't deserve it.

Your anxiety must have bled into your expression and Marc mistook it for worry.

“I'm alright,” he said. “It's just… quiet.” He traced his forehead and looked back at the ceiling. It was an observation he'd made several times in the last few months. His thoughts weren't as loud and his head didn't feel as crowded, no longer bursting and tearing at the seams. You supposed that made sense, now that a homicidal bird was no longer among his mind's residence.

You drifted with your thoughts until a gentle nudge from the man beside you brought you back to earth. His brows were furrowed subtly, trying not to give away that he knew something wasn't quite right.

“Baby–”

“I'm fine.” The words were so rushed they tumbled over each other as they left your tongue. You doubted Marc would have understood you at all if it weren't for how many times you'd parroted the phrase in the last few months.

Marc sighed and wrinkled his nose. “Steven doesn't believe you.”

“And you?”

“I think you're a bad liar,” he added. It wasn't accusatory, quite the opposite. “What's going on?”

The rehearsed lines came naturally. “I'm just tired.”

He seemed disappointed by your answer but said nothing. Another fifteen minutes in bed and Marc got up to start his morning routine and you prepared to keep up your masquerade for another day. You knew your lines as well as the part you had to play. It was all second nature now.

A week later you decided that you were going to tell them.

It wasn't the guilt that drove you to it in the end, not exactly. You'd been dealing with that for long enough. Rather it was the humbling realisation that this was no longer about you. It wasn't about how you spent every waking moment thinking about what you'd seen. How every time Marc laughed you envisioned the child that spent his birthdays either alone or berated. Or how each time Steven touched you softly you thought of the little boy cowering from his mother. 

No, it was about Marc and Steven and the fact that they deserved to know. And if your relationship was the price to be paid for them to have their truth then so be it.

But just because you'd made the decision by no means meant you were handling it well.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” You cursed with each step as you did laps of the kitchen. You'd started pacing just after Steven left for his shift and you were certain you could pace for the rest of the night if you needed to. A hieroglyphic on the patterned rug Steven had bought had noticeably worn down beneath your feet. 

You'd tried to rehearse something, gone as far as writing out bullet points and trying to convert them into something that resembled a speech. But all that came out of it was a bin full of crumpled-up paper and an even deeper pit where your stomach should be.

You passed the fish tank for what felt like the ninety-ninth time and stopped to glance at its resident. Gus seemed about as interested in the current affairs as a goldfish could be.

“How do you feel about staying with me on the weekends?” You asked. A single bubble left the fish's mouth in reply. “Gods, I'm losing it.”

Your heart near burst from its ribbed prison as the doorbell sounded three clanging chimes of doom. Your anxiety was so off the charts you were certain anyone nearby with a radioactivity monitor would be recording some cataclysmic event with your apartment as ground zero.

You employed every shred of willpower you had to get your legs to move you towards the door and opened it with such a convincing smile you should have been handed a bafta then and there.

“Hiya, love!” Already unsteady on your feet, the absolute, unabashed optimism in Steven's voice nearly had you keeling over.

He barreled forward past the threshold, a well-aimed kiss landing on your cheek and a bouquet of pink carnations brushing your chest.

“Picked these up for you on the way home,” he quipped easily as if the gesture came as easy to him as buying the milk. The bouquet was so large you had to employ both hands to hold it. The petals were so picturesque they almost seemed fake and the stems were a healthy green. The stall vendor had cared for them so well.

Steven hadn't stopped talking, not even as he removed his work clothes, electing instead to keep telling you about how the vendor had told him of the variety of colours carnations came in and their individual meanings but that he chose pink just because they were pretty–

“And I thought maybe we could go out tonight, grab something nice to eat. It's been a while since we've– everything alright, love?”

Still staring at the flowers, you hadn't realised you hadn't looked at Steven once. And he'd read you like a book.

“Do you not like them? Is it the colour–”

“No, no, Steven, they're beautiful.” You rushed. “It's–” That awful sensation of pressure began to coil around your neck and you struggled to swallow. Every thought spilled from your mind like water through a bullet-riddled tin can. “I just–”

In three quick strides, Steven was upon you, hands rising slowly to cradle your face. “Hey, hey now, it's alright. Had a long day?”

Something close to a whimper caught in your throat. You'd had a long few months. 

You closed your eyes and focused on the soft press of Steven's palms against your skin, how his fingers brushed your jaw and thumb was ceaseless in its comforting movements across your cheek.

You took a steadying breath, Steven praising you as you did, and in the moment of silence that followed you felt the extra presence. That there were two bodies in the room but three people. That reminder of Marc served as a final shove.

“I need to tell you something.” The words were so long coming you felt your lungs almost give out under the weight of them. “The both of you.”

Steven's gaze softened, not an inkling of fear to be found despite your troubled expression. There was no doubt or worry he'd done something, only that certainty he'd carried himself with over the last number of months. 

You thought about telling them your 'heinous crime' was breaking Steven's favourite mug and then he'd laugh and act offended regarding the remark Marc would have made about Brits and their tea. Then the three of you would go to bed and nothing bad would happen, nothing would change– 

“I'm here, Marc too. We're both listening.”

“Back in Cairo–” A breath. Now or never. “Khonshu showed me something. I know it sounds ridiculous but when Harrow shot me– when I died and before I came back, Khonshu– he showed me your past. He showed me everything. And I've wanted to tell you for so long, I should have told you–”

His hands fell from your face and without the anchor of his touch, you felt yourself sway. When he took a cautious step back your heart capsized. You wanted to follow him but guilt and fear had fused your feet to the floor in equal measure.

“Steven please, I didn't want to hurt you. Marc, I–”

His eyes fell closed and your chest felt like it was caving in atop your lungs as you waited for them to open. Waited to see Steven, eyes innocent and confused and knowing you'd have to tell him that everything he was came from something so awful. Or waited for Marc, eyes clouded and full of anger. Your entire life hung by a thread and at this rate, you wondered if cutting it yourself would be a kinder act.

They had every right to be angry after all, every right to hate you. Having someone poking around in your head without permission was such a nonsensical thing to have happen that you couldn't think of a single reaction that wouldn't be warranted.

After what felt like hours, his eyes opened. 

But it wasn't Marc. And it wasn't Steven. 

It was a dull, far-off stare; tired eyes regarding you from beneath hooded lids. 

You dared not move. It wasn't just the eyes but his entire body that was different, the way he carried himself. A tired smirk pulled at his lips and this stranger, this intruder in their body, seemed to have caught on to your realisation. He turned his back on you and walked towards the kitchen without a word.

His footsteps were lighter than Steven's and heavier than Marc's and his shoulders remained squared as if ready for a fight. And for a worrying moment, you thought maybe he was. 

You stayed as you were, moving only a few inches to keep him in sight whilst still within bolting distance of the door. It was a terrifying thought, having to run from someone that looked like them.

 The intruder opened the cabinet below the sink and pulled out a shoulder of whiskey you didn't know was there. The broken seal and missing liquor as well as how casually he grasped the bottleneck in his hand told you this wasn't his first indulgence. 

Opening the second cupboard to the left, (how did he know where everything was?) he retrieved two short whiskey glasses and placed them on the counter, the bottle presented in the middle almost decoratively.

He looked to you, then to his alcoholic display, then back to you expectantly. Against all better judgment, you joined him at the counter. You hoped he couldn't notice the sweat at your brow. 

“I don't know if you drink,” he said and his voice knocked the wind out of you. It was so foreign, coming from his mouth; like hearing the brass notes of a trumpet come from a clarinet. “But I think you might want one for this.”

You regarded him as one might do an unwanted guest, cautionary and with no shortage of distrust for this stranger wearing your boys' face. 

“Who are you?” he didn't answer. “Where's Marc and Steven?”

His brow twitched in a move you took for unamused disapproval. Ignoring your questions, he generously topped his cup and downed it all at once before pouring himself another and this time including you in the debauchery. You didn't trust your hand enough to lift the glass from the tabletop. You hoped he hadn't noticed how you were shaking.

His eyes set on you and his head tilted to the side. You were sure, rather you hoped, it was a harmless gesture but feeling as small as you felt it was hard to receive it as anything but predatory.

There was a stretch of silence that lasted so long you felt yourself losing your nerve, then–

“Three's.” He said, grasping his glass loosely. “All good things come in three's. You heard that one before, carino?” He lifts his pointer from the glass and tilts it in your direction.

If it weren't for the fact he was suddenly speaking Spanish you might have found the strength to answer. You anxiously toyed with your glass and you were certain he caught the tremble in your fingers.

Scared as you were, the fear was slowly melting into frustration as the absence of Marc and Steven became more pronounced with each passing second.

“You're not Marc.” He shook his head. “And you're definitely not Steven.” Another slow shake of agreement. “Then who are you?”

“People with big houses buy big guard dogs to keep them safe.” He took another swig of his drink. “Let's say I'm this house' guard dog, I keep things safe. And since you joined our little fiesta, that includes you.” 

You tried to swallow the information but found yourself choking on it instead. There was a third.

Your mind was near bursting, cracking and fissuring at the revelation. An hour ago you had convinced yourself that you were ready for whatever was to come, ready to change the trajectory of your life for the worst all in the name of both what was right and your love for Marc and Steven. But by the universe and all the gods within, this was not what you were expecting. The thought that Marc and Steven had been keeping this, keeping him from you was an unwelcome one. You could understand it of course, but the notion that you’d all been keeping practically life-altering secrets from one another left you feeling uneasy.

“Relax,” he said, and either the body's skills were interchangeable or you really were just easy to read. “They weren’t lying to you.”

The length of time you spent processing the information proved enough for him to finish his drink with another five seconds of wiggle room. 

“They don’t know?”

He shook his head and for the first time all night, he took his eyes off you. “And we’re going to keep it that way. They won’t find out about me, or Khonshu, or that little stunt back in Cairo-”

Your blood ran cold, freezing water flooding your veins. “How did you-?”

The movement of his mouth fell somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

“Khonshu told me to give you his compliments. You’re the first person in decades he’s done that to whose brain hasn’t turned to sand and come out their ears.” You stopped breathing. “That, and that he wishes you could have been there when we put three bullets in Harrow’s skull.” You rose so quickly the chair fell away behind you and your drink toppled. He kept a good hold on his own glass, ignoring the spilt liquor seeping into the timber. He didn’t seem concerned as you backed away from him.

“What the fuck did you do?” The words burned as you spoke them, leaving your throat hoarse. All the fear and confusion had warped into a horrified anger so palpable that your body trembled to withstand it. “What did you do?”

“What I had to.” He rose to meet you, in tone and stature. “To keep this safe-” he motioned his arm around at the apartment. “-And to keep this together.” This time his hand motioned between you and him. No, not him. The body.

“They have a right to know.” You bite the words out harshly, the tears of frustration welling in your eyes only making you more intimidating.

“They have a right to some peace.” His answers came quick and concise, as if he had them memorised like a well-versed script. “I think that’s something we can both agree on.”

Your lips parted with the promise of an argument but the absolutely overwhelming weight of the conversation crested and swept you away before you got the chance.

“They don’t want to be avatars anymore, that’s fine. They can stay here and keep playing house and happy families and I’ll do what has to be done. All you have to do is keep it that way. Now, I’m going to leave and when you open the door again it will be to one of them. And you’ll smile and act like everything is fine and the three of you will get on with things as if nothing happened. Understood?”

“And what about you?” You doubted the walls of any courtroom had ever heard a tone as accusatory as the one you’d just employed.

He made a brief noise of amusement before raising his head to look down on you and it was again made clear that this man couldn’t have been any more of a stranger.

“Some dogs are meant to be kept on a short leash.” 

With that, and leaving a deepening cavern beneath your ribs, he started for the door. You tried to breathe, tried to speak, tried to stop yourself from throwing your heart up. He swiped the bouquet of carnations from the desk as he went; Steven was prone to daydreaming, all he had to do was reset the scene. 

“Wait,” you managed as he turned the handle. If you were going to even entertain going along with this sick, twisted theatre of lies then you deserved to know who you were performing with. “Who are you really?” 

He grinned, apparently sharing the sentiment. “Jake,” he said, the sound like water on hot coals. “Jake Lockley.”

And then he was gone, leaving you to rehearse your appreciation of carnations and the colour pink.

Thank you so much for reading!

Smoke and Mirrors tag list: @bakerstreethound @crazydavefromplantsvszombies @admin-in-residence @bibli0thecary @mischiefmanaged71 @hoemadegrace @the-great-imagines-of-1812 @lokiedokiee @linkpk88 @theconsultingdoctor10 @jamiethenerdymonster @ponyboys-sunsets @shirukitsune @stwrawr @spectorsvoid @slytherheign @spideysimpossiblegirl @bored-as-hell-666 @marimarvelfan @stanmixtapes @stevenwith-av @buckys-other-punk @evienorville @stilllivindue2spite @daughterofthequeen @alotofsomething @niname92 @angelstark16 @child-of-the-moon-gods @interactive-brain @le3h4 @cutiecoww @heeheeeeeesblog

[iamsherlocked1479]

Coffee

Doctor Strange x fem reader

DeScription: A morning where only you get to finish before Stephen heads off to work? well thats just unfair.

Warnings: semi/kind off in public, risk of being caught, oral male and female recieving, masturbation.

Word Count: 3K

Mornings in the sanctum where probably your favourite part of the day, you loved waking up with the city, the sound of cars and passerbys drifting into your window along with the sunlight where it would illuminate the man laying next to you, you would yawn and rest your head on his chest and fall back to sleep until his alarm woke you up.

Stephen woke up first, as usual, he looked down, and like always there you were, sleeping soundly with your arm draped over his chest. But a recent development was the ring on  your finger, after five long years he’d finally realised you were putting up with him for life, he had planned it for years and after wong eagerly agreed to watch the sanctum while he took you away for the weekend he finally knelt on one knee and asked you. It always made him laugh when he thought of that night, how you had said yes before he could even complete the sentence, how you spent the rest of the evening admiring the ring and what he enjoyed reminiscing on the most was how he fucked you that night. Slowly and delicately drawing out each orgasm repeatedly kissing you every time you tried to return the favour to him allowing him to make you cry out his name more and more, that sent a twitch to his cock every time he thought about it.

“Stephen?” You finally stirred muttering his name as you came around

“Good morning” he said with a smile, kissing your forehead.

“What time is it?” you asked sitting up with him

“It’s 7am.” he replied, materialising coffee out of nowhere. Before he met you Stephen wouldn't need to get up until around 8am as it didn't take him long to get ready, but now he had you, well that left his options more open in the mornings.

“I bought you a coffee machine for no reason.” you rolled your eyes and sipping the coffee without acknowledging how good it was

“It's in my office.” he replied with a dumb smile

“You're expecting me to believe that when you’re not irritating wong, you'd walk the three steps from your desk to the machine?” you rolled your eyes with a laugh

“I don’t irritate Wong, people love my company?” he said seriously and you just stared at him “you do.” he added

“That's different.” you argued back

“Are you just using me for my body?! How could you?” he jokingly gasps

“If I remember correctly you came onto me.” your replied

“I have, many times.” he added with that same stupid dumb smirk

“Shut up.” you put your mug down and straddle him

“That's my phrase.” he replied flipping you both so that he caged you under him as he planted kisses on your neck

“Stephen,” you laugh, “you have to get ready for work, and so do i.” you say making no effort to stop him

“I am” he says as his kisses move down to your nipple and sucking on it while his hand works on the other.

“You know” you interrupt yourself with a moan “I have to get up too” you say snaking your hand through his hair encouraging him

“Then I'll make this quick.” he said, trailing kisses lower and removing your panties with a click of his fingers. He smiled as you whimpered when he ran two fingers through your wet folds gathering the slick around your clit. He drew circles around it and held your thighs apart as he placed his head between them and swapped out his fingers for his tongue. He licked small stripe from your entrance to your clit before switch to just fucking you with his tongue moaning with you, the vibrations of his deep voice only adding to the pleasure

“Steph- fuck, yes, fuck.” you cried out, your hands lifting over your head and clamping around your pillows as you tried to contain yourself. The room now switched from the soft morning noise to the sound of him sucking and you moaning, thankgod you two were the only ones in the sanctum. 

You felt an all too familiar sensation  building in the pit of your stomach as waves of it began to make its way down to you twitching clit, which Stephens nose was now histting as he thrusted his tongue into your dripping hole. Your eyes widened as even with his tongue he was able to draw out pornographic sounds from you. He switched again, circling your clit with his tongue and repeatedly sliding his middle and ring finger in and out of you curling at just the right spot to drag along your walls. His skill sent shivers down your spine right through your nervous system right back to your clit which began to pulse.

“Fuck you gonna come for me sweatheart?” he said taking a moment to look at the way you grabbed at anything to keep yourself fixated on his touch before diving right back in flicking his tongue against your clit.

“Oh- oh fuck Stephen” his arms held your thighs apart as they clamped with your orgasm, it was long coming in waves each time he licked a stipe on you aching pussy.

“Now that's the breakfast I’m happy to wake up for”  He grinned and kissed your clit one more time as he watched you come down from your high. You were speechless head in between the two pillows, your chest rising and falling with every deep breath you took.

“Fuck” you breathed out sitting up on your elbows watching as he got up from his bed casually licking his fingers like they where covered in honey. You crawled towards the edge of the bed and tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Sorry sweetheart, you’ll have to wait, i gotta get to Kamar Taj,” he said as he walked in the bathroom to take a shower. 

You sat there defeated on the bed, you really loved him, most men would’ve jumped straight at the offer to sort out their hard on, but he really was just in it for pleasing you, and it fucking sucked, he didn’t understand he that you got off on him getting off on you. 

You pouted as he came out the shower dressed in his robes with his cape sitting comfortably on his shoulders.

“Aww don’t miss my cock too much, you’ll get it when I'm home.” he lifted your chin with his finger and planted a soft kiss on your forehead. Before opening a portal and disappearing.

—-----------

Once he reached the sanctum Stephen let out a large sigh, his hard on just wouldn’t go away but he took his work very seriously, so now as he sat at his desk concentrating way to hard on a book about some relic he didn’t care about his eyes flickered to that dam coffee machine you bought him and instantly thought of you.

 And just a simple thought was enough, an uncomfortable twitch brought his cock to life and he couldn’t help but palm himself through his robes. He couldn’t help flicking his finger ensuring his door was locked before prying out his cock blushing as precum dripped eagerly from his tip over a mere thought of having you in his hands, just like he was some dumb horny teen. He closed his eyes with a sigh as he finally began to relieve himself, stroking slowly as he thought of how you had tasted this morning, or how the night before you had ridden him so well. He thought of palming your tits and nibbling on your nipples before laying you down and fucking every last orgasm out of you. His hand began stroking up his length even quicker as he thought of how you’d beg nim to go deeper muffling your moans with his pillow on the off chance that wong was in the sanctum. And right as he imagined you coming he came into his hand, grunting as he watch the white liquid seep between the gaps of his fingers. He cleaned the mess up with a snap of his fingers and continued his day as normal, like he hadn't just jerked himself off at the mere glance of a coffee machine, the mind is always a strange thing.

—---------

It was lunch time when you had finished your chores, you had taken time off from work to relax but found yourself bored within the first two hours of every day, you could try to clean the sanctum but with all these ancient relics and herbs it was probably best to avoid that. You thought about visiting Stephen but in reality you had no way to get to him, he’s yet to teach you how to open a portal. So you wandered the halls, trying to read the books in the library before eventually settling into stephens arm chair to endlessly scroll tik tok getting dragged into the recent curiosity of a new hero the internet had dubbed “Night Light” not the best of names but you never really where one for naming heroes.

After an hour or so you couldn’t help but think about how Stephen had left this morning, wondering if he had managed to hide his very obvious hard-on he left with. Your core clenched at the very thought of him in that way, your thoughts were interrupted by Wong who opened a portal into the library.

“Hey wong.” you smiled “searching for a book?”

“Yes, on astral projection, I don’t suppose you’ve seen it?” he said, climbing onto a step ladder.

“Uh, no.” You looked at the golden portal which remained open and you could see the familiar halls of kamar-taj, you could feel a pool of wetness forming in  your panties at the thought that Stephen was there, p[ossibly still with that hard on. “Whats stephen doing?” you ask nonchalantly

“In his office I believe.” Wong replied, you quirked your eyebrow and tentatively stepped through the open portal leading to the courtyard of Kamartaj where you followed the only route you knew to Stephen's office.

Stephen was reading when you knocked on his door, he jumped slightly as if whoever knocked on his door knew what he had done, he began thinking of excuses like some caught teenager until he sighed in relief when you opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” he said with a smile, as you closed the door behind you, locking it and wandered to the front of his desk

“Well I was bored.” you sighed as he came round to hug you

“You? Bored?” he smiled wrapping his arms around your waist

“Yeah, I'm regretting taking so long off work.”

“A week is too much?” he laughed

“Well you were supposed to be off too.” you added with a kiss gto his cheek

“Ouch” he laughed, “so what do you think I could possibly offer you here?”

“Hmmm” you played with the clasp holding his cloak onto his shoulders while you playfully looked around the room. “Well, if I remember the events of this morning correctly, I owe you something.” You say giving him puppy dog eyes. 

“I told you it was fine.” He chuckled tucking a strand of hair behind your ear

“But not for me” you lean in and press kisses against his neck.

“Honey, not in my office.” He groaned as your lips glided to his pulse point.

“Why not?” You smiled and unclipped his cloak which swiftly flew out the window.

“What if someone were to walk in?” He chuckled

“I locked the door.” You started dropping to your knees and tieing up your hair, before moving your hands to his belt.

“Sweetheart-“ he cut himself off with a soft moan as you palmed his half hard cock through his trousers.

“I’ve been thinking about your cock all morning.” You bit your lip as you pulled down his underwear and trousers exposing him. You jerked him a few times before licking his tip and tasting the salty precum dripping from him.

“Fuck.” He moaned as his gently placed his hand on the back of your hand while resting the other on his desk. He watched as you sunk your head down, swallowing his length slowly, before swiftly pulling up and releasing him with a pop. You kept eye contact as you did this again and again picking up you pace each time until his fingers laced through your hair and messing it up while he tried his best not to fuck your mouth. He groaned loudly, his head falling backwards as you removed him from your mouth and jerked him as you sucked on his balls. “Always know how to treat me sweetheart” he sighed.

You hummed in agreement as you puth the head of his cock into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it, drinking up every ounce of precum, he moaned and pulled your head away and lifted your chin.

“Let me fuck that pussy.” He said lifting you up and swiping the books off his desk, sending them tumbling to the floor. His mouth crashed with yours as his hand slipped up your thigh and pushed your panties to the side where he sunk his fingers into the warm mess waiting for me.

“Fuck, you’re soaked, i want another taste before i ruin it.” He whispered and dropped to his knees and parted his legs “we won't be needing these now will we?” He said tossing your panties somewhere across the room.

He knelt between your legs and dipped his head under your skirt, you felt his tongue flick up your folds and circle your clit before he latched onto it and began to suckle. His hands gripped your thighs firmly allowing him to keep them apart while he feasted on you.

“Shit steph-“ you winced in overstimulation as he added three fingers to the mix, curling them as he pushed them further. He groaned and grumbled every time your body twitched and hips jerked. He wasn’t stopping until you came, no matter how much we wanted to fuck you. You dug your nails into the oak of his desk looking up to the ceiling as you begin to see stars before being lifted into another dimension drenching his office floor. 

“Easy sweetheart, can’t have you dripping through the floors can we?” He chuckled, drinking up the remaining juices from your cunt before standing up to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his tongue as you pushed your hips forward allowing him to run his tip through your slit, he stopped at your hole and eased himself in, groaning as he finally found the sensation he’d been craving all morning.

He pushed into you slowly and steadily, you buried your head in the crook of his neck moaning at the unbearably slow pace he was going at.

“Please Stephen, want more.” You begged and he smiled

“You want it bad don’t you? You don't care where we are?” He smiled and griped your arse bunching up your shirt as he pulled himself deeper into you, the legs of his desk squealed across the floor as his motions caused it to slide back slightly. 

He was fucking you hard and desperately, you squinted as you felt him hitting that spot deep inside you, feeling as the curve of his cock scraped along your walls just perfectly. Causing another orgasm to build up. Your girl tightened around his biceps and he sucked on your neck in response making sure to leave a purple mark.

“You're gonna come sweetheart, give me another one.” He purred, snaking a hand up your top to play with a nipple.

You did as he asked and clenched your legs around his waist as your body released a wave of pleasure that slowly made its way through each and every nerve ending in your body.

“Stephen!” You cried out your body slumping into his, he had you now, you let him do whatever be needed to chase his own release and he did. He stood you up and spun you round and entered your cunt from behind. He pushed down on your mid back as he rutted into you, groaning and cursing every time you clenched. Your mind was blank, all you could focus on was the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of you, the perfect fit.

“Fuck, this cunt was made for me. I can’t belive i left you without filling it this morning, fuck sweetheart.” he gave your rear a firm slap while pinching the fat. “Wanna feel me cum in you?” he asked, speeding up, his cock began to twitch with your words.

“Yes” you crowd out

“Wanna hear it darling.” he said through stuttered moans

“Fuck yes stephen, want you to cum in me, wanna see how deep you can get it, fuck.” you moaned gripping the edge of the desk as he spilled himself into you, you could feel the pulsing of his cock as he groaned letting his body drop onto yours as he kissed your back.

“There, now I can start my day,” he said breathlessly. He lifted himself up your skin sticking to his slightly with sweat and pulled himself from you smiling as he watched his work drip from you. He snapped his fingers and the room was back to normal, and your clothes fitting you neatly. He walked over to you and planted a soft kiss on your lips.

“Uh stephen?” you broke the silence

“Yes?” he smiled innocently.

“You didn't give me my underwear.” you rolled your eyes as he dangled them in front of you.

“I much prefer you without, besides can't I have something to remind me of my finances visit?” he smiled as he put the scrunched underwear in his desk drawer.

“You know I have a draw full of them at home right?” you sat on the edge of his desk and watched as he walked to the otherside of the room

“So you won’t miss those” He walked over to the silver coffee machine in the corner of the room “cappuccino?” he pulled that dumb smirk that made you fall in love with him

“So you do use it” you laughed

“occasionally.”

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

A/N: okay so technically im still calling it valentines day, its only 5 minutes late (Bite me) writing has been slow for me lately and im not really complaing because I'm really happy with this one. <3

If theres typos im so sorry

[nickeverdeen]

can I request something for doctor strange pls? It's not romantic, it's just platonic)

So, the imagine would have two scenes, and there's years gap between the scenes. So, in the first, fem!reader is a kid (eleven or twelve) and she's in the same store as stephen. He's still a doctor in this one, so he's in his arrogant era. She's in the cashier trying to buy a box with special crayons but it's more expensive that she thought, so stephen buys it for her (he's rich, it's not a big deal for him.) but he's not all smiles kindness when she thanks him, and says he only did that so she could get out of the line and let him pay for his stuff, a detail she will remember for a long time.

In the second scene, they get to reunite when peter needs to ask him for a favor and brings his friend (now in her late teen years) reader. They recognize each other immediatly, and while reader says (when they have privacy from peter for a bit) she still has those crayons and tells him she will go to art college, stephen feels a little akward because he recognizes he could have been nicer by that time.

From Crayons to Canvases | Doctor Strange x platonic fem!reader

Warnings: None

———————————————————-

The bustling sound of the store filled the air as eleven-year-old Y/N stood at the cashier, clutching a box of special crayons. Your eyes sparkled with excitement, but your face fell when you saw the total on the register. You fumbled through your small purse that you got for your birthday, your fingers counting the coins you had carefully saved up.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t have enough,” you mumbled, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Behind you, a tall man in an expensive suit sighed impatiently. His sharp, authoritative demeanor made him stand out, and his frustration was palpable as he checked his watch repeatedly. This was Dr. Stephen Strange, renowned surgeon, known as much for his arrogance as his skill.

The cashier, a kind elderly woman, smiled sympathetically at you. “Maybe you can come back another time, dear.”

Your heart sank. You had been looking forward to these crayons for weeks. As you turned to leave, Dr. Strange stepped forward, pulling out his sleek, black wallet. “How much is it?” he asked brusquely.

The cashier told him the amount, and with a roll of his eyes, Strange handed over the money. “Here. Just get out of the way,” he said, his tone lacking any warmth.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you, sir!” You said earnestly, your gratitude shining through despite his cold demeanor and the small feeling of hurt and saddness in your chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” Strange muttered, waving his hand dismissively. “Just move, kid, so I can pay for my stuff.”

You quickly moved aside, clutching your prized crayons to your chest. You glanced back at Strange, his face a mask of indifference, and felt a mix of awe and confusion. Despite his harsh words, he had done something kind for you, a detail you would remember for a long time.

As Strange paid for his items, your mind was abuzz with thoughts. You wondered why someone so seemingly cold and arrogant would help you. With one last look at him, you exited the store, the special crayons in hand and hurried home to tell your mom, unaware that this fleeting encounter would stay with you for years to come.

———

The Sanctum Sanctorum was a place of mystique and wonder, filled with artifacts from across the dimensions. Peter Parker, the young and energetic Spider-Man, had come seeking help from Stephen Strange. Beside him was his friend, Y/N, now in her late teens. You looked around the grandiose building with wide eyes, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement.

“Whoa, this place is incredible,” Peter whispered to you as you both walked through the echoing halls.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s something,” you replied, your thoughts drifting to the last time you had seen Strange. You wondered if he would remember you after all these years.

As you and Peter approached the main room, Strange appeared, his cape billowing slightly as he moved. His face, though older and marked by the experiences of a sorcerer, still bore that same authoritative expression.

“Peter” Strange greeted, his tone both curious and wary. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Sir, I’m so sorry for wasting your time, but we need your help,” Peter began, launching into an explanation about the recent chaos involving the multiverse. You stood quietly by his side, studying Strange’s face, searching for any sign of recognition.

Strange listened intently, his eyes occasionally flicking to you. There was something familiar about you, a spark of memory that tugged at the edges of his mind. As Peter finished, Strange nodded, turning his attention fully to you.

“And you are, young lady?” he asked, his voice softer than Peter expected.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, offering a small smile. “We… we’ve actually met before, a long time ago.”

Strange’s brows furrowed in thought. “Met before?” he repeated, scanning your face. Suddenly, a memory from years past surfaced – a little girl at a store, struggling to buy a box of crayons. His eyes widened slightly. “The crayons,” he murmured.

Your smile grew. “Yes, the crayons. You bought them for me when I didn’t have enough money.”

Peter looked between you two, confused. “Wait, you guys know each other?”

You nodded. “Sort of. He hepled me out in a shop”

Strange cleared his throat, feeling a rare moment of awkwardness. “Right, I remember now. That was… quite some time ago.”

Peter was sent off on a task by Strange, and the Sorcerer Supreme led you to a quieter room. “I must admit,” Strange said, “I didn’t expect to see you again. How have you been?”

“I’ve been good,” you replied, your voice warm. “Actually, I still have those crayons. They meant a lot to me, more than you probably realized.”

Strange felt a pang of guilt and awkwardness. “I’m glad to hear that. I could have been… nicer, back then.”

You chuckled softly. “You were in a hurry, I get it. But that small act of kindness made a big difference to me. It inspired me, in a way.”

“Inspired you?” Strange echoed, genuinely curious.

“Yeah. I’m going to art college now,” you said, your eyes shining with excitement. “I’ve always loved drawing, and those crayons… they were the start of it all.”

Strange felt a rare smile tug at his lips. “That’s wonderful to hear. I’m sorry if I came off as rude back then. I’ve learned a lot since those days.”

You nodded. “It’s okay. We all have our moments. I’m just glad I got to thank you properly.”

As you continued to talk, Strange felt an unexpected warmth. It was rare for him to reflect on his past, especially the time before he became a sorcerer. Your presence was a reminder of his humanity, a link to a simpler time.

Peter returned, and Strange turned his attention back to the task at hand, but now with a renewed sense of purpose. The encounter with you had shifted something within him, reminding him that even the smallest acts of kindness could leave a lasting impact. As you prepared to face the challenges ahead, Strange couldn’t help but feel a sense of fatherly connection to the young woman who had grown into an inspiring artist, all because of a box of crayons and a brief moment of generosity.

[acciotherapists]

Far From Home (Chapter 62: Feels Like Goodbye)

Loki x Reader

Y/n Y/l/n never thought her past would come back to find her. After all who would look for her on Midgard? But one day in the small town of Puento Antiguo her world is turned upside down when an old friend turns up, threatening everything she has built and the people she’d fought so hard to protect. What happens when the life she left behind finally catches up with her? What happens when the old flame she thought had burned out reignites within her?

“Darling, why does this feel like a goodbye?” Loki murmured against my hair.

I shook my head, looking up at him. “I trust you. I trust that you’ll find a way out of this.”

His eyes shot up, glaring daggers at Wanda. “Take one more step and I will end you.”

“Just focus on me, baby.”

“Y/n,” he warned.

“It’s going to be okay.” I pressed my lips against his and he melted against me, his hands holding my waist tightly. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured against his lips.

Now!

Before Loki had a chance to respond to my words I felt a wave of calm wash over me and I collapsed against Loki, giving into sleep.

***

Y/n collapsed against Loki and his eyes widened as he held her up. “Y/n… baby, no… what’ve you done?” He looked up at Wanda, who had collapsed as well. He turned to Tony. “Check on the witch!” 

Tony nodded and ran over to Wanda, placing a hand on her shoulder as Loki looked down at Y/n. He gently moved the hair that had fallen over her face as tears slipped down his cheeks.

“Wanda?” Tony gently shook Wanda and she stirred, her eyes widening as she abruptly sat up, looking around.

“What did she do?” She was breathing heavily and her hands began glowing red.

“Wanda, calm down,” Tony said softly.

Loki looked down at Y/n, sleeping peacefully and gently squeezed her hand before turning to Tony. “Come look after Y/n! I’ll take care of Wanda!”

Tony nodded, gently squeezing the girl’s hand before moving toward Loki. He nodded to him and Loki made his way to Wanda, crouching next to her. “Hey, little witch. You’re alright.”

She shook her head. “Y/n’s asleep… she’s back there and it’s all my fault.”

“Wanda, you couldn't have stopped this from happening. Stephen Strange couldn’t stop it and he’s the master of the New York Sanctum. There was nothing you could’ve done.” Loki placed a hand on her shoulder as a tear slipped down her cheek. 

“You should hate me,” she whispered.

“I don’t… and I know Y/n wouldn’t either. She did what she did to protect you. She considers you a sister, now, Wanda. That makes you my sister, too. You’re under our protection and she wasn’t going to let the witch continue to torment your mind.”

“But now she’s…” Wanda trailed off, her eyes finding Y/n’s crumpled form. Wanda’s hands shook as the deep red glow began to spread and dark clouds crossed the sky once more.

“Wanda, look at me.” He grabbed the young witch’s face, lifting her to meet his gaze. “You are more powerful than you know and we’re going to need your help to get Y/n back… but you can’t help if you aren’t in control.” He grabbed her hands. “Just breathe… we’re going to get her back… and you’re going to help us.”

She nodded and the glow slowly started to fade. At least that was one problem he could fix, he thought to himself as his gaze drifted back to Y/n. Tony was holding her hand and Loki  swore he could see tears slipping down his face though the man would never admit it. Wanda stood, walking over to Y/n, followed closely by Loki. She sat next to Tony, placing her hands on Y/n’s temples. Her hands glowed red as she tried to wake Y/n. She jumped back as symbols she’d never seen before appeared on Y/n’s forehead.

“Runes,” Stephen muttered as he approached them.

“What?” Wanda looked up at him.

“The witch must’ve blocked us from reversing her spell, somehow… we can’t get Y/n back… at least not from here.”

“But how do we get there?” Tony asked, still holding Y/n’s hand, looking expectantly at Wong but he shook his head.

“I… I’m not sure.”

“They were able to get here,” Stephen reasoned. “Couldn’t we get there?”

Wong shook his head. “Not without exacting a heavy toll… and that’s not something we’re able to do. It’s not something Y/n would want us to do.”

*********

Taglist:

@nelachu2423

@purplekitten30

@lokisprettygirl22

@huntress-artemiss

@lokis-little-love

@lokis-tigress

@the-archangel-in-asgard

@crimson25

@thedistractedagglomeration

[ironwoman359]

A Thief's Gamble - Ch. 13

Lacking in Virtue

Prev: Ch.12 A Ghost from the Past || Next: Ch.14 A Deafening Silence Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: With Mercer and Ariene gone, Brynjolf does his best to keep the Guild in one piece...but he can't stop his mind from dwelling on potential worst case scenarios.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 2,414

Check the relogs for a link to read on AO3!

— — —

Patience was a skill essential to every thief. While most young footpads imagined thieving to be an exciting profession full of daring deeds and narrow escapes, the reality was that there was also a lot of waiting involved. Waiting for a mark to be alone before you pounced, waiting for a house to be empty before creeping in, waiting for a distraction to begin before you slipped past a guard…if you weren’t patient, you didn’t last long in this business. 

Brynjolf had been doing this nearly his entire life, and never before had he found himself so quickly out of patience. He couldn’t help lying in bed and staring at the ceiling the first night Ariene and Mercer were gone, unable to let himself rest. It would take days for them to even reach Snow Veil Sanctum, and yet he couldn’t help but worry about what might happen when they actually arrived at the ruin.

His mind drifted back to when he’d been a young boy– maybe nine or ten years old– and staking out the city’s local bakery. He’d watched and waited for hours for just the right moment to present itself before sneaking in and nabbing a sweet roll from the counter. The anticipation had felt like torture to him at the time, but he’d dealt with the feeling by imagining the sweetness of the prize at the end. 

Those experiences had unexpectedly served as preparation for his eventual career. Whether he was the one out on a heist or whether he was waiting on someone else to report back to him, he just had to hold onto the same mindset he’d had as a boy stealing sweets: no matter how long a job took, the payout would make all the waiting worthwhile. 

And what if that payout isn’t worth it?

Karliah was dangerous, so much so that she had already defeated the Guild’s very best over twenty years ago. As satisfying as revenge would be, Brynjolf couldn’t stop the gnawing suspicion that it wouldn’t be worth the risk that Mercer was taking, not just with his own life, but with Ariene’s life.

What if Karliah beats her? 

No, he couldn’t afford to think like that, not when there was nothing he could do about it now. He did his best to distract himself, and with Mercer away there was at least plenty of work to take up his attention. He threw himself full force into keeping the Guild running at peak efficiency, determined to make up for the time they had lost avoiding the guards. 

He had Cynric head to Markarth to case a few houses and get a feel for the city, sent Thrynn and Sapphire to check on Mallus and the new meadery in Whiterun, and told the rest of the footpads that they could go back to mingling amongst the public, listening for gossip and picking pockets. 

The guards that Brynjolf had on payroll also finally started taking their orders again, and he took advantage of that opportunity to arrange for some of Tonilia’s contraband to be smuggled out of the city. The tension that the Guild had been carrying for weeks started to evaporate as everyone got to work, and for the first time in a long time, the Guild felt almost normal. 

Brynjolf just wished he could enjoy it. 

Unfortunately, no matter how much he pushed himself to focus on the day to day Guild business, his nights remained restless as dozens of worst-case scenarios ran through his mind. After a few days without much sleep, he resorted to chewing on chokeweed stems during the day to stay alert– something he normally only used on overnight heists. 

He tried to tell himself that his anxiety had nothing to do with Ariene, and that he’d be just as worried no matter who ended up going with Mercer. After all, at the end of the day they were all thieves, not assassins. Astrid or one of her “family members” would be far better suited to taking down someone as dangerous as Karliah, but the Guild had that pesky agreement with the Brotherhood about taking out its own members. 

Brynjolf probably could have convinced Astrid that Karliah was an ex-member and thus exempt from that rule, but Mercer doubtless wanted to run the Dunmer through himself, if only for the satisfaction. 

So why does he need her to go with him? 

“Hey!” 

Vex’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he shook himself. He looked up to see his fellow lieutenant standing at his desk, hands on her hips. Her face was twisted in an annoyed expression, which with Vex especially was never a good sign. 

“Are you even listening to me?” she demanded, and Brynjolf flashed her what he hoped was a confident smile. 

“Sorry lass, I guess I was drifting for a moment there. What were you saying?”

Vex frowned, clearly unimpressed by his display. 

“Alright, that’s it,” she said. 

She grabbed Brynjolf by the arm, and before he could protest she yanked him up from his chair and pulled him away from his pile of papers. 

“Where are we–”

“Shut it,” Vex commanded, and Brynjolf complied. 

He’d learned a long time ago that arguing with Vex was one of the most futile things you could do; once she had her mind set on something, there was no changing it. 

Vex had been in the Guild nearly as long as he had, joining as a scrappy young thing of fifteen only a few years after Brynjolf’s own recruitment. She’d been with the Guild for barely a month when Gallus had been murdered and the Guild thrown into disarray, but she’d taken it in perfect stride. While many other members fled the organization, she’d risen tall within it, and to this day was one of the Guild’s best and brightest, not to mention most dangerous.

Which was why Brynjolf didn’t bother to struggle as she dragged him through the cistern and into the training room. 

“Out!” she snapped at Rune, who was squatting next to one of the practice chests, lockpicks in hand. 

Her shout made him jump, and he swore as the sudden motion broke his pick in two. He looked up and opened his mouth, presumably to complain, but he thought better of it when he saw Vex’s face and quickly ducked out of the room.

Vex spun on Brynjolf the second they were alone, pulling out a twin pair of wickedly sharp elven daggers. 

“Alright,” she said, stepping into a combat stance. “Come on, then.”

“What are you doing?” Brynjolf asked, and she snorted. 

“I’d have thought that was obvious. I’m sparring with you. Weapons out, now.” 

“I– I’m down a blade at the moment,” he said.

Vex raised an eyebrow at him, then she sheathed one of her daggers and adjusted her stance.

“Not a problem. Let’s go.”

“Vex, I don’t have time to—”

She didn’t bother letting him finish; she just darted towards him, swinging her blade in a wide arc.

Brynjolf reacted on instinct, dodging to the side and drawing his weapon to block Vex’s next attack. For a moment, he fell into the familiar rhythm of combat: dodge, strike, duck, slash. It’d been a little while since he’d fought with one blade, and it was good to refamiliarize himself with the technique.

After trading a few blows though, his fatigue began to show in his movements, and Vex began to prod at him. 

“You’re a bit rusty. Haven’t seen you practice in a few days.” 

“Didn’t realize you cared one way or the other,” Brynjolf said as he parried one of her attacks. 

“Why is that, exactly?” she asked, ignoring his deflection. 

“I don’t know,” he grunted. “I’ve been busy. I don’t have both daggers right now. I don’t need to. What’s it to you, lass?”

Brynjolf aimed high with his next strike, and Vex ducked beneath him, kicking at his legs as she did so. He stumbled back, and barely raised his blade in time to block her incoming blow.

“You’ve been off ever since Mercer went out on his little revenge mission,” Vex said, and Brynjolf’s expression hardened. 

“I’ve been left with a lot of responsibility in the meantime,” he said, pushing her blade away and regaining his footing. 

The two circled one another, and Vex gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Mercer goes off on his own all the time; this shouldn’t be different.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, but things at the Guild have been stressful lately,” Brynjolf said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I have.” 

Vex attacked again, and for a moment it was all Brynjolf could do to keep up with her as she spun, her elven blade glinting in the torchlight. 

“The thing is,” Vex said, panting only slightly as they continued to spar, “when you’re stressed, you usually come here. Blow off steam. Which you haven’t been doing.”

“Like I said,” Brynjolf said, stepping back for a moment to catch his breath. “I’m down a dagger at the moment.”

“Not stopping you now, is it?”

“Only because you forced me,” Brynjolf said, and Vex chuckled wryly.

“Funny, you being short a blade,” she said. She nodded towards the dwarven dagger in Brynjolf’s hand. “Seeing as Gallus gave you those. Never seen you part ways with one willingly.” 

“First time for everything,” Brynjolf pointed out. 

“Is there a first time for acting like an imbecile?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You heard me.” 

“What do you want, lass?”

“I want you at the top of your game,” Vex said. “And right now you aren’t, because you’ve got all your thoughts bottled up more tightly than a batch of mead.” 

“And kicking my ass is supposed to help how, exactly?”

A smirk flashed across her face, but her expression turned pensive as she looked at him. She lowered her dagger, but she didn’t let her stance drop, so Brynjolf kept his own weapon raised, just in case. 

“Look, I know that you like to put on a front for the rest of the Guild,” she said. “Give the footpads a strong leader to look to and all that. But your mask is starting to crack, and I’d bet my last septim it’s because you’re not dealing with what’s bothering you. So either talk to me or fight me, but don’t act like everything is fine. I know you better than that.” 

Brynjolf stared at her for a moment, then he laughed wryly. 

“Anyone who says that you’re no good with people is a damn fool,” he said. 

“I can read people just fine. Winning them over, that’s your job.” Vex slid her dagger into its sheath and folded her arms, looking at him expectantly. “Go on, then. Spill it.” 

Brynjolf sighed, sheathing his own blade as well.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say, lass.”

“Whatever you need to. Whatever you don’t want to show through to the rest of the Guild. It’s about your little protege, right?” 

Brynjolf looked away, which was all the answer Vex needed. 

“Look,” she said. “I think it’s bullshit too. Mercer’s too far up his own ass about Karliah to realize he’s not thinking straight. He should’ve at least taken one of us with him.” 

“I just…why her?” Brynjolf found himself saying. “He can barely stand her. What is he hoping to accomplish, exactly?” 

“I mean, she did pull off the Goldenglow job,” Vex pointed out. “And took out all those Summerset Shades, or Shadows, or whatever they were calling themselves.” 

“Maybe so, but he’s never actually seen her fight. If I needed someone to watch my back while hunting down a murderer, I’d go with someone who I knew for sure I could count on.”

“Well, neither of us are archers. Could be he wants to level the playing field with Karliah.” 

“So take Niruin!” Brynjolf exclaimed. “Seriously Vex, I don’t know if you ever heard us fight about it, but I honestly think he hates Ariene. I’m half convinced he took her just to spite me. I should have–” 

He stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath in through his nose. 

“So you’re not just worried,” Vex said, nodding in understanding. “You feel guilty.”

“I…I told her she wouldn’t have to be a killer for us,” Brynjolf said quietly. “I swore that I wouldn’t let Mercer put her in danger for no reason. And now…I don’t know. I should have tried harder to change his mind, should have insisted on going with them, should have done something.” 

“You’re not responsible for Mercer’s decisions, you know,” Vex said. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I know you try and shield the rest of us from his bad moods as much as you can. Especially the new recruits.”

“You make him sound like a belligerent father,” Brynjolf scoffed, and Vex shrugged.

“There are worse descriptions. My point is, I know how hard you work to keep his temper under control. But he’s a grown ass man, and babysitting his emotions isn’t your job.”

“Keeping this place afloat is my job,” Brynjolf said, his voice grim, and Vex nodded.

“Exactly. So stop worrying about what you can’t change and focus on that.”

Brynjolf smiled wanly.

“Would you be able to do the same if it was a girl that you were sweet on, lass?”

Vex didn’t answer, and Brynjolf nodded. 

“That’s what I thought.”

“Listen, Bryn,” Vex said, “I’m not telling you to stop feeling whatever it is you’re feeling. I’m just asking you to stop ignoring it. If nothing else, go see Ingun about a sleeping tonic or something. You can’t run on nothing but ale and chokeweed until Ariene gets back.” 

“Am I that obvious?” Brynjolf asked, wincing. 

“Maybe not to everyone,” Vex admitted. “But to me, and probably Vekel and Delvin? Yes.” 

“Fine, fine,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I suppose a tonic couldn’t hurt, at least.”

Vex nodded, then drew her dagger again, shifting back into a combat stance. 

“Good. Now, are we gonna finish this, or what?” 

Brynjolf grinned, and drew his own weapon.

“Just don’t cry when I beat you, lass.” 

Vex laughed, and Brynjolf took a deep breath in, forcing his worry out of his mind. He exhaled and looked Vex in the eyes, then swung. Her blade rushed up to meet his, and as the room echoed with the clash of metal, he told himself that everything would turn out fine. 

He just needed to have patience. 

— — —

I am now obsessed with the Brynjolf & Vex sibling dynamic that made itself known to me in writing this chapter. Also, Lesbian Vex rights! 👏

[noturlondonboy]

If Kate + Kate Makes Two… (Prt. 3)

-Bishova/Kate Bishop Selfcest Miniseries

Requested by @selfcestmovies

Masterlist

Pairing: Kate Bishop x Yelena Belova x Kate Bishop

Summary: The unlikely trio returns back to Past Kate’s apartment, where some odd, unforeseen chemistry builds when Yelena is attempting to make macaroni.

Warnings/tags: touches of angst, hints of Kate x Kate, silly lesbians being gay, not proof read, idk what to put really

A/N: part 3! Took me long enough… either way enjoy and share your thoughts <33

Kate is barely aware of two different pairs of hands gently tugging her away from Dr. Strange’s sanctum, one pair familiar, one pair even more so. The freezing January air is cold and dark on her face and in her eyes, but she suddenly feels much too warm, and without much thinking, she unzips her coat and pulls it from her body. There are a few protests that don’t register in her ears, but ultimately, neither Yelena or Other Kate stop her.

Kate trudges ahead of them in a daze, her feet dragging on the pavement as she weaves aimlessly through the late night New York crowds on the sidewalk. Wanda’s voice rings over and over in her head, stuffing her ears painfully with cotton.

We don’t know if we can get you back.

She rubs tiredly at her face, lips pulling into a frown. There was too much to think about. Too much to consider.

From behind her, Yelena and Other Kate watch apprehensively, the archer eerily silent and the assassin quietly contemplative. Yelena lets her gaze drift between the two women. She feels a bit lost in thought, and more than anything, unsure of what to do next.

Wanda’s assurances of her and Strange working to find a solution for their current predicament had been half-hearted at best, and the poorly hidden worried look on the witch’s face left an aftertaste of anxiety in Yelena’s mouth. The entire situation was so strange, and this older Kate Bishop may not be the one she was dating, but still- it hurt to see her struggling like this.

“So…” Kate says from beside her, kicking at a few rocks as they walk with her hand stuffed in her pockets. “We probably need to figure out where she’s gonna stay.”

Yelena nods absently, her fingers tangling with her girlfriend’s. “Yeah. I guess she would probably be most comfortable in her own- in your apartment, yes?”

Kate’s lips pull into a small frown as she takes Yelena’s hand. “Yeah, probably.”

They silently watch older Kate trudge along in front of them, her pace lost and uneven as her head hangs down.

“I cannot even begin to understand how weird this must be for her,” the blonde murmurs, tilting her chin softly.

“Yeah, I’m feeling pretty thrown off too, and I’m still where I’m supposed to be.”

Yelena hums a soft breath, her mind distant the entire walk back to Kate’s apartment. When they arrive at the door, older Kate stares at it for a moment before her unfocused gaze turns to them, and she backs up a few steps.

Kate fumbles for her keys for a moment before pushing the door to the apartment open and leading them inside, and she and Yelena kick their shoes off and hang up jackets. Older Kate stays where is, just barely within the threshold of the apartment, her coat hanging limply in her arms as she stares blankly at the floor.

Kate and Yelena share a silent look for a moment before the archer approaches quietly, pushing away the unease that was still settled in her gut at seeing her own face in front of her without a mirror- albeit a tad more weathered, a few scrapes and bruises here and there, some piercings she didn’t have yet, and longer hair. But this was still her- her own self, her own body, her own mind.

And she- they?- were rightfully freaking out.

“Kate?”

Older Kate’s eyes snap up to meet hers, and once again, the strange feeling of having an identical gaze looking back at her washes just underneath her skin.

“I would ask if you’re okay but-”

“-that would be a silly question,” Older Kate finishes for her.

Kate gives a weak grin and nods, biting back a joke about finishing each other’s sentences. Older Kate is doing the same.

“Okay, well… you probably need to eat something, yeah? We didn’t have breakfast and I have no idea when you last had food before you… came here.”

Older Kate is silent for a moment, a muscle in her jaw ticking as she swallows. Kate finds her eyes following the movement, a strange feeling in her gut before she tears her gaze away and sees herself staring back with an unreadable expression.

It’s silent in the apartment for a moment, only broken by Yelena shuffling around in the main room somewhere behind them. Eventually Older Kate nods, the movement tense and small.

Kate clears her throat and takes a step back, not remembering when they had gotten so close. Her socked feet shuffle for a moment, and she stares down at them, counting the puppies decorating her toes to help calm herself before she looks back up and steadies the smile back onto her face.

“Okie dokie then, uh, righto!”

RIGHTO? Girl what the fuck?!

Older Kate giggles at the same time that Kate cringes outwardly, a flush on both their cheeks.

“Okay! Moving on!” Kate is quick to clap her hands and whirl back around to face her girlfriend, who is looking equal parts amused and concerned, and the strange feeling in her stomach finally fades as she creates some distance between herself and… herself.

“Let me guess- macaroni?” Yelena says softly, a kind smile on her beautiful face as she continues to tidy up the apartment and pick up all the dog toys that had someone become a mess even with the animals themselves with Clint for the week.

Something in Kate’s chest eases at the suggestion, and she nods eagerly, turning back to Older Kate to see her reaction. The other archer is smiling weakly, her eyes still a little dazed but overall looking more grounded. “That would be amazing, thank you.”

They work quickly after that, Yelena making Older Kate rest on the couch as Kate starts the water pot boiling on the stove. Yelena takes over quickly from there, not trusting the archer to even properly boil water, but Kate can’t even fight her on that point, because it’s valid and founded on truth.

She instead does her part by wrapping her lithe arms around Yelena’s waist carefully, enjoying the catch in her girlfriend’s breath as she rests her cheek on the back of her neck, her breath warm and gently ruffling the golden baby hairs on her nape. “This okay?” Kate asks quietly, swaying slowly.

“Yes, this is more than okay,” is Yelena’s gentle response, her cheeks blazing and eyes focused on the noodles in front of her. This relationship was still rather new to them, and understandably, the assassin wasn’t exactly used to touches that were gentle and loving opposed to the harsh beating a baton could bring.

Kate hums softly and nuzzles into the warm skin of Yelena’s neck, content to be close and enjoy the quiet after the turbulence of the past 24 hours.

Not even a few moments later, there are soft footsteps from behind them, and Older Kate is suddenly there, her warmth on Kate’s back and her palms on the archer’s hands where they rest tentatively on Yelena’s stomach. “If you really wanna see her blush,” Older Kate murmurs gently, her breath hot on both Kate and Yelena’s cheeks, “then you gotta just, kinda…”

She’s gentle as she maneuvers Kate’s hands a little lower down the assassin’s abdomen, settling them just a little under where her belly button is. She curls Kate’s fingers down so that the archer is effectively pressing her hands into the soft tissue of Yelena’s gut, and the noise that sounds in her girlfriend’s throat makes her nearly dizzy.

They’re both stock-still as Older Kate finishes maneuvering her younger self, and Kate is so transfixed by the warm body pressed so close behind her that she doesn’t think to move her hands away from where they’ve been placed in the scenario that Yelena is made uncomfortable by it. Except, hadn’t Older Kate said… what was it? Really make her blush?

Kate comes back into herself just enough to peer at her girlfriend, and the blush coating Yelena’s face is bright and hot enough to radiate from her skin. A sense of cocky self-satisfaction settles into her chest, but it’s quickly replaced with her own flustered bewilderment when Older Kate ghosts a gentle hand over the right side of Yelena’s neck. Her eyes are focused for the first time since they got back to the apartment, and she carefully watches Yelena’s face as if trying to gauge her reactions as her touch moves over her skin. “And, if you…”

Kate watches silently, her eyes wide, lips parted, and that strange feeling bubbling back up in her stomach as Older Kate reaches a spot on the junction on Yelena’s neck and shoulder that makes the blonde stiffen even further, her lips quivering. That makes Older Kate smile almost wolfishly, and it feels like an out-of-body experience when the archer gently rests her palm on the back of Kate’s head to guide her closer to the assassin’s neck.

“See that cute little freckle right there?”

Kate nods almost numbly, every ounce of control focused on not melting under the older woman’s touch, even though it’s not even directed at her. She sees what she’s talking about- a small freckle that graces Yelena’s skin above the edge of her clavicle, one of many.

“If you kiss right there, she’ll react so nicely.” The older archer’s voice is almost a low rumble, her tone holding a teasing quality that makes both Kate and Yelena weak in the knees. Yelena, because she was not used to any version of Kate Bishop talking even in her general direction like that, and Kate, because- because…?

”How do you…?” Kate starts, but she stops herself quickly, already knowing the answer to her unfinished question. Of course this Older Kate would know what made Yelena tick- she had been dating the assassin much longer than her younger self at her own point in time.

Older Kate says nothing, but her eyes are imploring, and because it’s her own gaze staring right back at her, Kate knows exactly what she’s silently telling her.

“Yelena…?” she whispers softly, her lips pressed to the assassin’s ear. The woman is still trembling slightly, heat coursing through her body from the overwhelming sensation of two fucking Kate Bishops. Right there. Pressed up against her. Oh my fucking god.

“It's okay,” she responds back, her voice tight and embarrassingly high pitched. “You can.”

Older Kate’s hand is still resting on the back of Kate’s head, whether she even realizes it or not, and it’s doing weird things to her body. She takes a moment to just breathe before carefully pressing her lips to Yelena’s neck, right over the blemish on her skin, and the blonde’s reaction is instantaneous.

Her head tips back slightly, her bottom lip pressed sharply between her teeth and her eyes fluttered shut. Kate is emboldened, kissing a little harder, and she likely would’ve kept going had the pot not chosen that exact moment to boil over and splatter scalding water over the stove.

All three of them yelp and jump back, and while Yelena distracts herself from the heat in her stomach by tutting and taking care of the mess, Older Kate seems to fully realize how close she had been to the two women who actually belonged in this reality, and she heads back to the couch, shaking out her hand with burning cheeks. Kate watches her go with a slack jaw and dazed eyes, unsure of what to do about the thoughts swirling in the base of her skull.

< Prev — Next >

[nonexistent-introvert]

Confessions

Pairing: Stephen Strange x f!reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Content: Confessions, angst, idk rlly, fluff

A/N: Another one from drafts. I remember this was inspired right after I finished watching the k drama "start-up" so you may spot a few familiar lines from the show

   You changed your breathing, your movements were swift and quick. The trainee panicked, fighting defensively when you swept your leg, knocking him clean off the floor. You let out a smile as you held out a hand for the trainee to take. The man thanked you before quickly leaving for his next training. 

    “Hey!” You wiped the sweat off your forehead as you turned to the source of your name being called. “I told you, she came back just a few days ago and she’s been training. Why would I lie?” Wong’s voice sounded throughout the field. Your eyes drifted to the taller man with blue robes and his signature cloak over his broad shoulders. You felt your heart pace, he was the reason you left Kamar Taj after all.  With panic overwhelming you, you opened a portal, waving to them hysterically as you tried to casually enter the portal and disappear from both their sights 

   It happened a few more times after that. You almost suspected Stephen spent more time around Kamar Taj these days but you dismissed that thought that he was there for you before you could get your hopes up. You had already gone through the pain of that when you had let yourself hope. One time, you were entering the library when you spotted his back and immediately shut the door again when he was supposed to be your training partner but you went to practice different spells instead lastly when he had sat next to you for lunch, you stuffed so much food into your mouth, you couldn’t even talk to him and then scurried off. 

  You let out a sigh, your hand covering your eyes as you lay on the bed. It had been years since that incident, for all you knew, Stephen already forgot about it, the day he had brought you to Christine’s wedding. 

   You remembered feeling out of place. You weren’t even one to dress up and now you were stuck in a stifling outfit with people you didn’t even know. Stephen was by your side, but it was obvious that man had another person in his mind, his eyes followed her, a longing inside him. The whispers about Stephen bringing a fake date, someone that wasn’t even in his league and the pitiful looks that accompanied you were evident no matter where you went. The worst part of it all was the fact that they were right, you definitely weren’t in his league. You hated crowds, you closed your eyes trying to calm yourself down in a corner. You hated how you were trained to listen to every small detail that day, even if this same skill had saved you on multiple occasions. Because of this skill, you heard the conversation between Stephen and Christine. One that sparked you to leave without him.

   “Are you ok? If you wanted to leave you could have told me. I would have left with you.” He started when he had found her in the kitchen of the sanctum in the late night. You drank your water, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “You didn’t need to. You should enjoy it.”You replied. He scoffed a little, “ And enjoy the boring questions about my new occupation?” You forced a smile, then smiled bigger to crinkle your eyes, hiding the glistening in your eyes when his worried look scanned you. “It was just overwhelming. Big crowds and all. I’m fine.” You assured with a shrug. Stephen nodded, “Talk to me next time ok? Don’t just leave me.” You pursed your lips, trying to walk past him when he stood in your way. “You’re crying.” He realised, You looked away from him. “You’re seeing things.” Your voice broke near the end. He let the silence hang in the air while he stood in your way, waiting for you to open up. 

   “I can’t Stephen. I can’t talk to you about this.” 

  “You can.” He insisted 

   You met his eyes. “We can’t be friends anymore Stephen.” Stephen stumbled over his words, shock overcoming him at your sudden words. “Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry-” He immediately apologised, trying to find out the problem. You shook your head, “I can’t see you as a friend anymore Stephen. I have feelings for you, for a long time. I thought it would go away but it didn’t. I’m sorry- “ 

  “I-” Stephen started. You inhaled a shaky breath, cutting Stephen off. 

  “You only had eyes for Christine all this time, but I still wanted to stay by your side even just as a friend. Because I thought that maybe you’d look at me the same way one day. That you might notice how much I like you and start seeing me for who I am. I really thought that and I’m now realising foolish I was.” 

  Stephen was at a loss. He knew there was nothing he could do to help his best friend. So he had to just let her go, let her leave. The last time he saw her was when she smiled at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and announced to Wong and him that she was leaving to ‘do what she always wanted to’

    You were deep in your thoughts. Your eyebrows furrowed as you buried your nose in a book. 

   “Shit, Sorry.” You apologised when you bumped into someone just as you were leaving the library. However your nose remained buried in the book as you tried to find the text that provided you with the information needed. The man you bumped into cleared his throat and that’s when the scent radiating off him registered in your mind. 

   You scrunched your face, closing your eyes while you cursed internally at yourself . Thinking of ways to be able to brush him off without coming off as weird. 

    Instead of just letting her past, Stephen leaned forward which caused you to back into the library again. Upon entering the library, he closed the door behind him and you silently contemplated climbing out the window which was 3 levels above ground. Maybe breaking a few bones was better than having an awkward conversation with Stephen. You doubt neither you or Stephen were good at talking about these type of things anyways.

   He stood before you, his hands planted at his hips. 

  “You’re avoiding me.”

   You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and snap back at him with a “no shit Sherlock.” All kinds of emotions whirled past you and maybe you stayed silent for abit too long. You awkwardly shifted your hands around, not knowing where to put your hands. 

    “I- it’s been years you don’t need to give me an answer. I sort of know- I mean- it’s okay I don’t need your answer-“ You rambled on, the last time you had a conversation with him was before you left.. Stephen stood closer to you, scoffing slightly, “you’re avoiding me because you’re scared of my reaction to your confession?” You winced, that proved the fact that he still remembered. “I mean it was pretty memorable although I do have photographic memory so most things are-“ he stopped when he saw the smile tugging at her lips. “Show off” You muttered, his grin grew wider at the familiar nickname. 

   “Why do you not want my honest answer?.” 

   You flinched slightly, “because I know what you’ll say.” 

   “What would I say?” He questioned. 

   You swallowed, “Like I said that day Stephen, you have no space in your heart for me.” You laughed coldly, tears welling in her eyes. “I always thought I could act cool in these situations. Laugh it off with a joke and tell you that I’m fine with your decision but it turns out I’m just another lovesick loser after all and I’m not okay. But if I felt okay now, that would mean I didn’t actually like you that much.” Your lips quivered, you bit on your lips but a sob soon escaped you nevertheless.. Claspong your hand over your mouth you turned around away from him. 

     “I just thought it wouldn’t hurt so much. But it hurts- it hurts so much even after these years.” You clutched your chest where your heart is. The voices inside you screaming at the pain. Stephen stood rooted to the spot, his heart breaking for you, feeling his own tears when he realised that he was the reason for her pain. He wiped his glassy eyes and with a determined stride, he pulled her into his arms. 

   “I’m sorry it took me so long to give you a response.but I want to correct you.”he pulled away from you, placing a palm on your cheek while keeping his other hand on your back. “You’re Right, i didnt have space to love you in my heart. But now, my heart is filled with you and you only. I love you and I’m sorry it took losing you for me to realise how my love for you runs deep in my veins.” You glanced up at him, pulling away fully. Chuckling, “This is what I always wanted to hear Stephen.” He grinned at her but he could hear the ‘but’ coming. 

   “But I-I’m a mess. I can’t give you an answer now. I want to do this, with a smile on my face.”

   “I’ll wait for your answer, no matter how long you take because my heart will always be yours.” Stephen replied in a beat, You laughed. “You sound like a fictional romance character.” “You do like those don’t you?” He raised his eyebrows.you grinned, “ a man after my own heart.” 

   “For you? Always.” 

[darsynia]

🔥 Stephen Strange x Female Reader (or if you feel like it, one of my OFCs 😉)

"I swear when I planned this, it went much more smoothly than how this turned out!"

Please and thank you 😘😘

So uh. I like this one SO much, I hope you love it! (I chose Stephen/Reader) Thanks for requesting a blurb for BLURB WEEK! Credit to @doctorstrangegifsparadise!

Summary: The bad guys Stephen has been warring against have finally caught up with the two of you at the worst possible time, and neither of you are going to stand for it.

Length/Warnings: 1,618 / LANGUAGE, haha.

Ruin Your Day

Stephen looks from the flower crown in your hair, the colorful sundress you’re wearing, and the flimsy sandals on your feet to the iron shackles around your wrists and says, “I promise you, this was not the way the afternoon was meant to play out.”

He’s just an astral projection, so you can’t do anything more than glare at him. “I thought you said they couldn’t find us! Are you okay?”

“I--” he starts to say, then looks over his shoulder. When he turns back toward you, his expression is fearful. “I’ll be right back.”

“Stephen!” you hiss, but he’s gone.

It’s cold in your new dungeon habitat, which is just cinematic, at this point. You and Stephen have been dating for just over eleven months, six of which have involved his fight against a pair of interdimensional travelers in search of the green stone he always wore around his neck. You’d taken to never saying its real name even in your head, Voldemort-style, not that this had ended up making much of a difference. 

Today was meant to be a break, an escape from the stress of those battles, a chance for you to finally see the sun. You’ve been holed up in a suite of rooms at the Sanctum for months, for fear of a mole at Kamar Taj.

At least today’s turn of events has made it clear that Stephen wasn’t being overly cautious by keeping your existence secret.

Well, Stephen wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

You take a deep breath and clear your mind, connecting yourself to the fount of power all sorcerers draw from when they use the Mystic Arts. Your boyfriend doesn’t know that you’ve spent every free moment studying the texts in hopes of unlocking the abilities he uses with such ease. It was hard, and you’d only made the breakthrough a few weeks ago, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to play Damsel in Distress to these thieving, kidnapping assholes.

You’re not playing your hand early, either. In order to keep your abilities secret, you’d focused more on the subtleties of the Arts, things like eavesdropping, Far Sight, and the like. Honestly, if he’d waited another ten minutes, Stephen would have found you in seeming repose, your consciousness having gone walkabout.

As you pull yourself free of your mortal body, the thought that you haven’t actually practiced this very much occurs to you, but what are you supposed to do? Wait to be rescued??

Don’t be absurd.

Stephen has been counting to calm down for a good five minutes now, with no calming in sight. The necklace he’s wearing may be what his adversaries are seeking, but there’s another piece of jewelry in his pocket that’s just as valuable to him, and he doesn’t appreciate his plans being disrupted.

It took far too long to recognize that they’re in Sokovia, and even longer to contact Wong to gather an attack force. He appreciates the fact that he was able to connect so easily to you, and thus find the place you’ve been taken, but though that validates the question he’d intended to ask today, it doesn’t help the cavalry show up any faster. The whole building is warded fairly heavily, and the anti-portal provision stretches miles in all directions.

Either Wong’s going to need to call in the Avengers to borrow a Quinjet and a few supersoldiers, or they’re all going to walk to the rescue. He doesn’t know which is more insufferable.

Stephen drifts through a wall and finds a meeting, which is both useful and extremely insulting. There isn’t even a guard outside your ‘dungeon’ door! Safe in the knowledge that they can’t see him, he floats angrily around the table, swiping his incorporeal hand on the back of a few necks from time to time, just to make the (ahh yes. HYDRA. Completely unsurprising) goons in question feel uneasy. Once he’s finished gathering all the information there is to glean, Stephen makes his way back to a safe place so he can rejoin his body-- and runs into your astral form, on the way.

Your eyes are wide and surprised even though your jaw is set at a defiant angle, and god, he loves every infuriating, beautiful, inexplicable inch of you.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Marry me?” he blurts out, right there in the middle of a HYDRA base, while you’re both incorporeal and very fucking busy. “And, for the love of Cagliostro, get back to your body so I can rescue you!”

“Goddamnit, Stephen!” you whisper-roar, throwing your hands in the air and sighing like he’s just demanded you invent time travel. “Yes, of course, but you haven’t heard the end of this!”

With that you float off in a huff, as if the two of you are in the Sanctum arguing over whether to order your favorite takeout again and risk someone figuring out where you are thanks to how specific your fucking food order is.

It takes Stephen a second to gather himself (was it ‘of course I’ll marry you’ or ‘of course I’ll head back to my body??’) --and then he can’t find you.

“First things first,” he mutters to himself, and heads over to his body as quickly as he can. Once he gets there, he does the thing he’s done every single day since he’d put the ring box in his pocket: feel for it, to make sure it’s still there.

That sends him into a Moment, as well. If he could, he’d draw on all the power that there is, draw it all into himself, and destroy everything and everyone that’s threatening you, molecule by molecule. Except, he knows if he does that, his own chemical makeup will be so compromised, he won’t be the man you love anymore.

That’s not acceptable.

“All right. We’ll do it the old fashioned way.”

Your astral form is busy drawing on little bursts of power to completely fuck up the electrical system in your captor’s rather quaint castle in Sokovia when a thunderous voice sounds from seemingly everywhere.

It’s Stephen.

You may think you are safe because you are numerous. You are wrong. Give me back what’s mine, and I will be merciful. Harm her in any way, and you’ll wish you’d never been born.

You fucking love it when he gets possessive.

It takes a little more effort than you should expend at once, but you manage to finish your task of complete electrical sabotage ten seconds after Stephen’s reverberating voice fades.

The only catch? You can’t see anything either. You roll your ghostly eyes in the dark and lift yourself up into the air, intending to float around until you find a window, and search for your barred dungeon room from the outside.

Unfortunately, the energy you spent affecting the real world in your astral form was too much, and you lose consciousness with just enough time to curse yourself for forgetting to read the warnings.

The power cuts out so soon after his speech that Stephen instinctively knows you had something to do with it. It reminds him of something he’d said three months into your relationship:

‘I never thought disobedience was sexy until I met you.’

He can’t wait to see you again, but it’s a toss-up whether he’ll yell or kiss you quiet. Probably both. Probably more.

Stephen doesn’t have time to contemplate in exactly which order he’ll punish you, or how much he’s going to enjoy it, because as he stands in shadow outside the castle waiting to hear from Wong, an aerial armada appears overhead.

The Avengers aren’t any more inclined to be merciful than he is.

You wake up in your bed in the Sanctum, weak as a kitten and almost as blind. You’re immediately filled with terror-- has your careless, untrained use of the Mystic Arts harmed you permanently?

“Shhh, sweetheart, I’m here, you’re safe,” Stephen says, his comforting hand brushing your cheek seconds before his lips press against your forehead.

“If you made that threat before backup showed up I’m going to kick your ass,” you say weakly.

“I would expect nothing less, darling,” he says placatingly. The fact that he doesn’t sound the slightest bit defensive tells you volumes about how worried he’s been about you. 

That prompts you to get emotional, and to cover it up, you dredge up your most indignant voice as you say, “Did you save me anyone to vanquish?”

“You’ll have to take that up with the Avengers, I’m afraid.”

“Jerks,” you sniff.

There’s a long silence, during which the two of you communicate mostly in hand squeezes and caught breaths.

“I’m proud of you,” Stephen says, finally.

“You shouldn’t be. I was reckless.”

“That’s just the thing. You weren’t constrained by me. I have a lot of power. I don’t want a subordinate. I want you to fight back. I want you to feel safe to get angry at me. I want--” He breaks off, and you use all of your strength to roll over and open your eyes. Stephen is sitting beside you, eyes bright with emotion, both hands clasped around yours.

“I love you too,” you whisper, “--but if you even dream of proposing again while I’m this much of a mess, I will marry Wong just to spite you. He’ll do it.”

The smile Stephen breaks out into is as relieved as it is bright. “He would, the asshole.” He pats his pocket and nods soberly. “Point taken. Maybe I’ll let you choose the spot, this time?”

“As long as you’re there, I’ll be the happiest woman in any dimension. Even if something else tries to ruin our day.”

[versatileginger]

HIDDEN | CHAPTER 3

Billy Russo x OC (Ava) 

Warnings: Not canon, violence, weapons, stalking (not MMC), murder, everything you'd find in The Punisher universe, no betrayal. 

Summary: Billy meets someone that piques his interest. Did he mention she carries a knife?

A/N: Chapter 3 everyone, I hope you enjoy! Feel free to hmu with recs of your own!

Billy's day began with the early light seeping through the curtains, signaling the start of another meticulously planned morning. It was a routine etched into the very fabric of his being, a well-practiced ballet of discipline and determination.

He stretched his lean frame, the cool sheets slipping off his body as he rose from the bed. The hardwood floors felt cool beneath his feet as he moved with precision, his steps silent and purposeful. His home gym beckoned, a sanctum of sweat and effort where he'd sculpted his body into an instrument of power and resilience.

Entering the gym, the weights stood ready like old friends, solid and unyielding. An intense workout followed, each repetition a reminder that amidst the chaos and danger that often consumed his life, this was the one sanctuary where he had absolute control.

Emerging from his workout, Billy's attention shifted to his phone, the screen lighting up on a nearby bench. A notification caught his eye, the sender's name sparking a playful grin:

"Mr Russo.’’

Unlocking his phone, his eyes scanned the text message. A smile tugged at his lips as her playful, teasing tone came through the words.

'’If only I had known I was dealing with the CEO from Anvil…’’

Billy couldn't help but smirk at Ava's message. She had a way of cutting through the seriousness of life with her playful tone. He quickly typed a reply, his morning immediately getting better.

'’And what would you have done differently, Ava?’’

Billy continued with his morning routine, heading to his walk-in closet to get dressed for the day. As he selected a crisp shirt and a well-tailored suit, his phone buzzed with another message from Ava.

'’Well, Mr. Russo, perhaps I would have prepared a PowerPoint presentation for our pool hall meeting. I could have dazzled you with colorful slides and pie charts to discuss our adventures! ;)’’.

Billy couldn't resist the opportunity to engage in Ava's playful banter. As he prepared to leave for work, he swiftly typed a reply to her message.

'’Ava, I'm quite intrigued by the idea of a PowerPoint presentation. Let's make it happen, shall we? I'll bring the pie charts if you handle the colorful slides! How about tonight? ;)’’

‘’Sounds like a plan, my place? I have some fun games laying around.’’ Ava replies.

With a smirk on his face, he texts her he’ll be there at 8 and tucks his phone into the pocket of his suit jacket. The thought of their playful exchange lingered in his mind as he headed out the door, ready to face another day at the helm of Anvil, but now with a touch of anticipation.

Across the city, Ava's morning was infused with a similar anticipation. The sun's warm embrace through her apartment window seemed to mirror the warmth she felt for Billy, their recent interactions adding a spark of excitement to her otherwise routine life.

As she dressed for work, Ava's thoughts drifted towards Billy, She was really looking forward to later today. Anticipation fluttered in her chest as she headed out, the cozy coffee shop her destination of choice.

Upon entering the café, a tinge of disappointment washed over Ava as she scanned the room. Billy was nowhere to be seen. Instead, her gaze fell upon her coworker Mark, engrossed in a book at a corner table.

With a slight adjustment of her expectations, Ava approached Mark, a friendly smile gracing her lips.

"Morning, Mark," she greeted, taking a seat opposite him.

Mark looked up from his literary world, a pleasant surprise evident on his face.

"Ava, what a lovely surprise! You're not usually here this early."

Ava chuckled, "I could say the same about you. As a matter of fact, I haven't seen you here before, I believe."

"Always up for trying something new," Mark replied with a casual shrug.

"So, Mark, what book has captured your attention this morning?" Ava inquired, her curiosity piqued.

Mark proudly displayed the cover, revealing a science fiction novel titled "The Time Traveler's Dilemma."

"I'm a sucker for stories that explore the concept of time travel," he explained. "It's fascinating to ponder the possibilities, don't you think?"

Ava nodded in agreement, her interest sparked. "Absolutely! Time travel is such an intriguing concept. It's amazing how authors can transport us to different eras and make us question the boundaries of time."

Mark smiled, appreciating Ava's enthusiasm. "I couldn't agree more. It's like escaping into another world, even if just for a little while. A great way to unwind after a long day."

Ava couldn't help but notice Mark's enthusiasm, however a small voice in the back of her mind reminded her of the peculiar encounters she had been having with him lately.

As they chatted, Ava couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. She discreetly scanned the room, searching for any familiar faces, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Brushing off the uneasiness, she refocused her attention on Mark.

"So, Ava, anything exciting happening in your life recently?" Mark asked, breaking her train of thought.

Ava hesitated for a moment, "Oh, just the usual routine. Work, coffee, and the occasional unexpected surprise," she replied, giving Mark a playful smile.

Mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Unexpected surprises, huh? Care to elaborate?"

Ava chuckled, deciding to keep her encounters with Billy a mystery for now. "Oh, you know, just little things that brighten up my day. Life has a way of surprising us when we least expect it, don't you think?"

Mark nodded in agreement, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Indeed, it does. Well, I hope these unexpected surprises continue." Mark replied with a big smile.

As their conversation continued, Ava couldn't help but wonder if Mark knew more than he let on. She pushed the thought aside, thinking to herself that he couldn’t know.

As Mark continued to chat with Ava, he couldn't help but wonder if the "unexpected surprises" she mentioned had something to do with him. Her cryptic responses and the spark in her eyes when she spoke made him question if there was a connection.

"You're being rather mysterious about these surprises," Mark observed, his tone laced with curiosity. "Are they related to work? Or perhaps someone you know?"

Ava smiled mysteriously, playing along with Mark's inquiries. "Oh, Mark, you have quite the imagination," she replied with a teasing glint in her eye. "Let's just say some of them might involve people I've met recently."

Mark's mind raced with possibilities, and he couldn't help but wonder if Ava was referring to their own interactions. He decided to tread carefully, not wanting to make any assumptions.

"Well," Mark said with a subtle smile, "If you ever decide to share more about these surprises, you know where to find me. I'm always here to lend an ear."

As their conversation continued, Ava couldn’t help but feel as if Mark knew more than she thought he did, but decided to brush it off.

‘’Will do.’’ she replied.

As their conversation came to a close, Mark rose from his seat, carefully sliding a bookmark adorned with dried flowers between the pages of his book.

"Ready to head to work?" Mark inquired, his gaze shifting to Ava.

Ava, savoring the last sip of her coffee, responded with a nod and a warm smile. "Sure thing," she said, rising from her chair and deftly tossing her empty cup into the nearby trash bin.

The morning's hustle gradually eased into the afternoon rhythm, hours slipping by as Ava navigated the demands of her work. Deadlines ticked away, presentations received their final polish, and the office buzz provided a constant hum to her focused efforts. Yet, amidst the whirlwind of emails, meetings, and spreadsheets she couldn’t help but wonder who the flowers she received on her doorstep were from.

As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the cityscape, Ava's phone chimed, signaling an incoming text. It was from Billy, his playful tone evident even through the screen.

"Ready to get your ass kicked tonight?"

Ava couldn't suppress a grin, her fingers flying across the keyboard in response.

"Don't underestimate my skills, Mr. Russo. And besides, I'm not sure you've had enough time to practice between your CEO duties and keeping that physique up-to-date."

She hit send, a smile on her face. She did appreciate his physique, she had eyes after all.

Ava refocused her attention on the glowing screen of her laptop. With a few swift keystrokes, she saved her work, a sense of accomplishment washing over her as she closed the lid. Rising from her desk, she grabbed her bag.

As her phone chimed another time she picked it up from her desk, a notification right there at the top of her screen.

‘’;)’’

MAIN MASTERLIST HIDDEN MASTERLIST CHAPTER 4

[ellekhen]

No Hard Feelings

Chapter 10 - A Dragon's Vow

Chapter Summary: Despite Wyll's trepidation, Irva leads their party down into the Dragon's Sanctum to awaken Ansur, the Heart of the Gate. As complicated as things get, love turns out to be one of the few things that comes easy for Wyll and Irva these days.

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

Pairing: Wyll x Female Tav Rating: Explicit Length: 38K+ words; Chapters 10/12

Excerpt below:

Finally, they entered a vast, echoing cavern — again glimmering with luminous crystals, but these were of relatively massive proportions.

“I’m here,” Irva breathed in awe. “I’m… finally… here.”

“To think this has been beneath the fortress this entire time… mere meters beneath a prison,” Wyll marveled. “We are not the first to attempt to seek out Ansur, judging by those skeletons, but still… it seems so easy.”

“Perhaps we are blessed,” Irva murmured thoughtfully. 

“Oh dear. Is that… him?” Gale asked. 

Wyll knew that Ansur would be long dead, and yet nothing could prepare him for seeing the massive skeleton of the Heart of the Gate slumped upon the ground further down the path. His bones still glittered with the remnants of what was likely his magnificent bronze scales. There was a haunting beauty about it all, and he felt an unexpectedly somber weight about it all in his mind. 

It wouldn’t be later until he realized it wasn’t his. 

Wyll reached forth to touch Irva in reassurance, but she had already stepped forward — drifting down the path as if in a dream.

“Irva!” he hissed. “Be wary, I don’t know what awaits us here…”

“But I do,” Irva replied, shooting him a tight smile over her shoulder. “Everything I learned… everything I am… has led to this moment. Finally, after seven years…”

“So, this dragon is dead, isn’t it?” Astarion asked loudly, gesturing down at the enormous skeleton crumpled at the heart of the chamber. “From what you told me you needed five others like you, including some kind of necromancer to raise it. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be a blood sacrifice… again. We’ve had enough of that already,” he added in a reproachful mutter.

Irva finally stopped as Wyll’s hand fell upon her shoulder.

“My love,” he reminded her with forced calm despite his anxious heart. “They don’t know what you told me.”

“Ah,” Irva huffed a laugh, turning to the others. “I’m touched, but none of you need to worry. A blood sacrifice of that scale was only necessary to control a dracolich.”

“Was the control necessary?” Gale asked curiously.

“Yes,” Irva shrugged. “Ansur was a bronze dragon. He would have opposed the return of Tiamat, but we needed his power. His knowledge.”

She gestured towards the skeleton, raising a hand to urge her companions back. 

“If we are merely asking Ansur to fulfill his duty in protecting Baldur’s Gate, then there is no need to compel him,” she explained with far more confidence than was actually reflected in her eyes. “We simply must awaken him.”

She drew out her dragontooth dagger.

“A sacrifice may still be required,” she admitted. “But nothing Shadowheart can’t heal.”

“I hope you’re right,” Shadowheart muttered. “Healing is one thing, revival is another.”

Irva took the dagger, unwrapping its grip to reveal the five glittering gems embedded in its grip.

“I have a theory,” she explained — mostly to a terrified Wyll. “One I’ve mulled over the years. When I used these the first time, my hands were… covered in my own blood. I have not had a real chance to use them again to test this theory, but I felt them activating every time I had those rings on and bled onto them…

“The thing is, I didn’t have any gray hairs before I fled the Well of Dragons,” she said quietly. “Using these… took something out of me. The second time I used them…” she shuddered. “I got more and… Mabel died anyway — although not before she told me never to try again.”

She gulped, eyes drifting down to the dagger. “But this… surely she would make an exception for this, if it meant saving the city.”

“Were they wishing rings?” Gale asked in thrilled incredulity.

Irva shrugged. “Nothing quite that powerful. I believe they simply help to empower one’s magical ability. No incantations or components needed, simply the will and, well, blood.”

She gestured at the dragon’s skeleton with her dagger.

“I can still recall the spell to raise a dragon from the dead,” she said matter-of-factly. “I will cast it, and… hopefully… raise us a powerful ally.”

“Irva! Hang on,” Wyll hurried up to her, latching onto her dagger arm. “You said it ‘took something’ out of you. Whether it’s years or strength or… anything else, we can’t afford that,” his eyes were wet as he implored her, “I can’t bear for you to see you suffer, even for this.”

“Wyll,” Irva said quietly. “You were ready to give everything to save your home. This won’t be everything, but it will be enough.” She placed a hand over his. “While this isn’t my home, trust me when I say: This is worth it.”

Wyll’s eyes flicked between her and the dagger.

“Something’s not right,” Shadowheart whispered aloud to herself. 

“Wyll,” Irva beseeched him. 

Wyll reluctantly loosened his grip, and Irva’s arm slipped from him with a wan smile. 

“All of you be ready to move!” she called, pulling off her glove and bidding Wyll to help roll up her sleeve, however reluctantly. “Nothing returns from death calm and collected.”

“Don’t I know it,” Astarion muttered under his breath, knocking an arrow. Wyll doesn’t miss that it’s one particularly designed to burrow beneath hard scales — ideal for dragon-slaying. 

He prayed to the Triad it wouldn’t come to that…

Irva closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she extended her bare arm. 

“Stay back, Wyll,” she warned him specifically. “If Ansur lashes out I’ll need you all to cover me.”

He nodded, squeezing her shoulder once. And then he leaned in, pressing a lingering, gentle kiss upon Irva’s lips, parted in surprise. 

“I am right behind you,” he reassured her. 

Irva watched him retreat, her smile sad. And then, with a steady hand, she approached the dragon skeleton and adjusted her grip on her dagger. Wyll fought with all his might not to follow her. 

He trusted her, he told himself. Over and over again. 

Irva set her shoulders back, clearing her throat before growling in harsh, guttural draconic. Through their tadpoles, she shared a rough translation for her companions. 

“Great Ansur, Heart of the Gate,” she intoned, eyes and tattoos shimmering green. “End your sleep. Rise and claim your deathless dream!”

She raised her dagger —

— but before the blade could even meet her skin, she froze, the ceremonial dagger dropping from her hands with a clatter. 

“Irva!” Wyll cried out, stumbling hesitantly forward. Was this part of the ritual?

He watched in horror as Irva convulsed before falling backwards, her body limp as she hovered in the air, her mouth falling open into a perpetual scream as her eyes glowed with burning blue light — the same light that suddenly began to burn within the dragon’s skull. 

“No!” Wyll cried out, racing towards her. He reached her body but as he attempted to grasp her, electricity rattled through him, blasting him back into Gale’s hasty telekinesis. 

Irva’s mouth began to move, but the voice that came out was not hers. 

“I am Ansur. Heart of the Gate. Butchered in flesh. Risen in spirit.”

Wyll could see Irva’s fingers and eyes twitch as she struggled against the dragon’s hold. 

“Answer me, faessi,” he intoned through her straining throat. “Why have you come?”