#scarves log | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

velvetm00light · 1 year ago

Text

Snowed In

photos: pinterest dividers: @benkeibear, @mariariley, @haerinism

Word Count: 4.4k

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: The entire BAU team decides to take a vacation to snowy Vermont. After a day of traveling together and being the last of the team to show up to the cabin, Spencer and y/n are exhausted and in need of quality time with their friends. When alcohol and games are mixed, Spencer decides to get y/n worked up before sneaking into her room that night to show her what can happen when the sexual tension between them finally snaps.

Warnings: smut, choking, alcohol consumption, others in the house, teasing, sneaking into her room, fingering, oral (female receiving), sexual tension, games (Twister).

A/N: I know it's freshly November but that's close enough to Christmas for me. This idea has been plaguing my brain for literal days now so I just couldn't resist the itch to write this. I also don't want to keep a masterpiece away from you guys especially since I probably won't be able to write for a week after this :(. But, as always, I hope ya'll eat this tf up like I did while I was writing it. <3 Also, I think I like the 3 pic banner so much better than the gifs so I might start doing that :)

THE ICE THAT COATED the sidewalk became a mirror, the concrete beneath twisting into the twin of the gloomy, gray sky above. Y/n's frost-bitten fingers tremble against the ebony wool coat she was wearing tightly wrapped as close to her body as she could possibly pull it. The unrelenting wind bit at her cheeks, her skin raw and burning.

She and Spencer had decided to walk through the cabin's yard rather than risk slipping on the glassy ice, which proved rather asinine as both of their boots and luggage wheels caked in packed snow and mud the deeper into the yard they hiked, slowing their pace. She peered ahead at Spencer under her heavy hood. His chestnut boots a bit more worse for wear than hers, considering he's worn the same ones probably every day of his life.

One hand shoved into his pockets, the other gripped onto the handle of his suitcase so tightly his knuckles blanched. His head dipped against the sharp wind. If she had any energy left by the time they finally reached the cabin's wooden front door, she was going to one hundred percent rub it in his face. They had a negligible argument prior to arriving at the cabin - Spencer completely hellbent on not needing a winter coat, and y/n explaining that Vermont's climate is completely paradoxical to Virginia's at most times of this year.

When they had left Virginia, the sky had been a meager blue, and the wind had grown a bite to it, indicating the impending winter but not intense enough to warrant them to avoid being outside at all costs yet. Temperatures had called for slacks and the usual sweater under a proper coat during their last few cases prior to their very welcomed vacation time. She just wanted to laugh in his face at how right she had been proven in the 5 minutes since they'd parked their rental car in the snow-packed driveway.

When they finally reach the cabin door, Spencer fumbles with the brass knob, his frozen fingers barely able to grasp it enough to twist and open. The door opens without difficulty and y/n almost slams into Spencer's back in an attempt to flee the harsh cold of Vermont.

Y/n hastily shut the door behind her. She and Spencer didn't bother unwrapping any scarves or unbuttoning any coats until they could feel their extremities again as they made their way into the expansive living room, leaving their suitcases by the door. A fresh pine tree lay decorated in lights and garland in the far right corner, the smell of pine welcome in her nose, a large window hiding behind it, climbing halfway up the logged wall before stopping and becoming more logs, with a smaller window on top, shaped to a slope to match the cabin's sloping ceiling.

JJ, Emily, and Penelope sit perched on the chocolate-colored couch to the left of the pine tree turned Christmas tree, wooly sweater sleeves pulled over their hands as they gently hold warm mugs of hot cocoa, most likely.

"You're finally here!" Penelope calls, setting her chipped mug gently on the coffee table just a leg lengths away from the couch. Emily and JJ copy Penelope's actions as they rush over to greet the two latecomers.

"We thought you guys might've gotten stuck or frozen to death or something," Emily explained, engulfing y/n in a hug so tight she thought her lungs might have to escape her body entirely to relieve the pressure.

"With the way Spencer drives, I think we almost got stuck like 4 times," y/n teased, resulting in a malicious side eye from Spencer but giggles from the women in front of her.

"To be fair, we only actually got stuck once. We made it in one piece so I don't see the issue."

Y/n rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, the rest of her energy spent on the single ridicule, her mind unable to continue the back and forth.

"The rest of them are in the kitchen," JJ explains, leading them through an archway embellished with fake leaves and fairy lights.

Rossi's back is to them as he pulls a steaming mug from the microwave. When he finally turns to spot y/n and Spencer, the last two team members to make it through the treacherous countryside of Vermont, he places the mug on the kitchen island. "I was just making you guys some cups of cocoa, but it's the packet kind. I would've made it from scratch if I thought I could survive another trip outside."

The team erupted in chuckles, "Yeah, I wouldn't suggest going out there, Rossi. You might freeze on the spot," Morgan laughed.

"Hey, I'm old, but I'm not that old."

Spencer reached delicately for the mug resting on the kitchen island, sliding his fingers through the handle and carefully lifting it as to not spill it over his hand. He turns to y/n and holds out the cup for her.

"I'll take the next one," he smiles. She gives him a sweet smile back as she takes the hot cocoa from him, "Thanks, Spence."

Y/n rose to sit upon a marbled counter, her hot cocoa clutched into her hands, greedy for the warmth it brought to her numbed fingers. Her legs swung, feeling restless despite the exhaustion that weighed her entire body down.

Vacation had began to seem like a myth considering serial killers never cease to kill and each and every person in the kitchen with her had the same mindset when it came to their work. People need us. She can't remember the last time one of her coworkers had taken a vacation or even just a day off as if they were avoiding it like a contagious disease.

She had to admit, it did almost make her feel uncomfortable to think about taking a vacation. She didn't hold much trust in others to do their jobs for them. But, nevertheless, she was grateful to finally have some time to spend with her favorite people doing nothing but watching cheesy Christmas movies and playing board and card games like she was a child again.

With all her might, she pushed down the lingering guilt she always seemed to feel when she wasn't working towards catching a bad guy. Villains always need their heroes, and she didn't like the idea of letting the villains run rampant for too long.

Her internal battle must have shown on her face because Spencer laid a secretive hand over hers as he leaned against the countertop she sat upon. He tilted his face upwards to look at her, silently asking her, what are you thinking about? Spencer seemed to be the one person who could read her like a book, despite y/n keeping the book of her life and emotions locked, shut, and completely hidden away from everyone else.

She shrugged, not important. She diverted her gaze from his, the weight of his causing her mouth to part slightly, wanting to spill everything running through her mind - but she clamped her mouth shut because that is definitely not something she wanted to do in front of her entire team.

She could feel his gaze still on her, reading the emotions on her face like a book, as if he looked long and hard enough, her thoughts would display themselves above her head. "Stop profiling me, weirdo," she whispered, just loud enough for only him to hear.

He rolled his eyes at her, the corners of his mouth threatening to turn up into a smile.

"How was the drive, Spence? It seems like you guys got the worst of this incoming storm," JJ stated, her mug had been retrieved from the living room coffee table and now rested in her cupped hands as she rested her elbows on the kitchen island.

"Dangerous," y/n muttered. Spencer playfully elbowed her. "Hey! You can't tell me you didn't fear for our lives at least once during that drive."

Spencer didn't bother responding, knowing she was right. The drive hadn't been the worst it could've been, but the snow had began flurrying as they arrived to the airport, y/n's hood pulled so far over her head she kept her eyes locked on Spencer's boots in front of her to lead her. The roads were slick with snow and ice, and the winding strip of road leading up to the isolated cabin had not been the easiest or safest to navigate.

"It's a good thing you guys got here before it got too bad, we might have to really get comfortable with each other considering we'll most likely be stuck here longer than we want," Emily suggested. The team nodding in agreement. Y/n was grateful she had remembered to bring every card and board game she could get her little hands on - Monopoly, Cards Against Humanity, even Twister. She couldn't wait to get the team drunk and convince them to play Twister.

"Speaking of, I think it's time we whip out the alcohol and the games," Emily smiled, as if reading the thought directly from y/n's mind, taking a bottle of top-shelf Tequila by the neck and wiggling it in the air.

"Best idea I've heard all day," Rossi stated.

Y/n and her team made their way into the living room, spiked hot cocoa in hand. She relaxed in the middle of the couch after grabbing her Cards Against Humanity box from her suitcase by the door, Spencer to her right and JJ to her left. Rossi and Hotch taking the two reclining chairs and pulling them forward to reach the table. Emily gracefully sitting on a pillow on the floor, Morgan settling for sitting directly on the carpet, and when Spencer attempts to offer Emily his spot, she dismisses him with the wave of a hand and a suggestive glance towards y/n.

Spencer repositioned himself again on the couch, the meaning of Emily's glance fully understood.

Y/n takes the liberty of pulling the cards out of their designated box and separating them into piles scattered across the coffee table, making sure every has access to a pile of white cards. As she finishes, the conversation about who goes first and random rules to add immediately sparks. Considering the instructions clearly read that whoever pooped most recently was to be the one to start.

The conversation turned argument continued on longer than any thought necessary, laughter filling the cabin to the brim. "Well if we're really trying to have a good time, all the losers each round have to drink."

Once in agreement, the team finally quieted as Hotch reluctantly grabbed the black card on the top of the stack in the middle of the table and read it aloud.

Y/n's head began buzzing as they were a fourth of the way through the stack of black cards, the game no where within bounds of stopping. Her limbs finally felt loose from being curled up in a plane and car seat for hours, trying to avoid looking at the snowy danger they had to travel through.

The entire team shed their worries, stresses, and found it in themselves to be in the moment. Everyone had equal amounts of pain lacing their chests and stomaches from laughing too hard at cards played and also equal amounts of disgusted faces and a little bit of gagging after the rules began to increase the more alcohol consumed - they had began ranking everyone's answers by the fourth time around, the person in first being exempt from drinking anything, the person coming in last being required to take a shot instead of a sip of their drink. Y/n seemed to be on a losing streak.

Luckily, her team was too engrossed in the game to notice when she took smaller shots than she was supposed to. She didn't want to be totally inebriated in the first few hours of her first vacation in God knows how long.

Spencer's arm was outstretched on the couch behind her, his other hand holding his cards secretively, knowing that y/n would a hundred percent be trying to take peeks now and then.

Once they had almost completely blown through most of the black stack, y/n ceased the opportunity. "I brought Twister!"

The entire room cheered, and she stumbled over to her suitcase to grab it out. It was quickly set up within a minute and to her distress, they decided to make teams and compete, obviously.

The girls split into a group and the boys into another. Emily and Hotch started first, Emily easily more flexible than Hotch, his leg unable to twist towards the red dot in the corner, resulting in him falling over and a chorus of laughter echoing off the logged walls.

"Spencer, Y/n, you guys should do it next!" Penelope gasped. "You're both so lanky, it'll be a close match."

Y/n's heart beat against her throat and she felt the rush of heat bloom in her neck and rise towards her still raw cheeks. She took a deep breath, not willing to show how much of a reaction she had at the thought of being tangled up with Spencer.

JJ and Rossi finish their round, JJ sneakily leaning into Rossi enough to knock him over, giving the girls a 2 point lead. Y/n and Spencer stroll leisurely towards the edges of the Twister map. An arched brow climbs her forehead, "I hope you're ready to lose."

"In your dreams," he smirks, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

As Penelope spins the pointer, she begins to call out body parts and colors. Within minutes, y/n and Spencer are a heap of tangled limbs, her back resting against Spencer's chest as she's bent over to reach her left hand to yellow, Spencer's hand next to hers on green. Her hair obstructs some of the view of the colored circles beneath them but the look of Spencer's flexed, muscular forearm on the side of her head does little to ease her rapidly beating heart. His breath is hot on the nape of her neck, coiling a heat in her middle she desperately attempts to push down.

"I think I enjoy you being under me," he whispers onto the skin of her neck, sending shivers rattling down her spine. As Penelope calls out left hand blue, she racks her gaze around the mat beneath them.

She can practically hear the rush of blood in her ears when she finally sees the blue between her strands of hair. The closet blue dot is down towards her legs, considering her right hand was already on the blue next to her left, requiring her to bend her hips upward. She takes a deep breath and reaches her hand to the spot, her ass rising upward into Spencer's hips.

She can hear the catch of his breath as she tilts upward to get into her position. The next color is called too soon after, resulting in Spencer's right leg moving to the left side of y/n's body, their bodies no longer touching in the way that spooled heat further into her center. Their limbs fight for purchase on different colored spots as the game continues, their teammates shouting at both of them, the game obviously riveting from above, but completely distracting between the two players.

After a few more minutes of twisting her body in ways she never knew she could, her arms trembled as she reached towards a yellow. Refusing to let a man who probably weighed the same as her beat her in a game of Twister, she fought through the shaking of her body and painful stretch of muscles she probably haven't used in years.

She could feel Spencer's body tremble underneath her, placed in almost the same position as before, just on the opposite side this time. "I think I enjoy being on top better," she whispered in the same way Spencer did to her.

His body tensed under hers before he dropped to the floor, crowning y/n the winner of quite literally a battle to exhaustion in a drunk game of Twister.

The women on her team cheered and hugged each other before reaching out a hand to pull her from her spot on the ground in which she collapsed onto right after Spencer did. "That was probably the longest game of Twister in the history of Twister games," Penelope laughed.

Y/n and Spencer plopped onto the couch together, content to watch Penelope and Morgan go against each other from their comfortable spots on the couch. As Emily called out colors and body parts and the teams cheering on their teammates, Spencer leaned over to y/n's ear. "If you're gonna be on top of me I think it'd rather be able to see you."

Her pulse quickened, the heat that as been building inside her since the start of their Twister match is beginning to come to an edge. Get a grip, she chastised herself. They were on vacation with their entire team for crying out loud, now was not the time for flirtatious advancements or sexual tension.

"In your dreams," she murmured, trying to keep the want in her voice caged down, but with the way that Spencer's lips lifted in a smirk told her she didn't do a very good job at it.

"Certainly."

She couldn't get her eyes to leave his face, lowering them to his mouth, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth to keep herself from saying anything stupid.

He noticed her do this and his expression turned hungry as he watched her work her bottom lip between her teeth. It was one of the things that always set him off without her even realizing. Her nervous tic could be taken as flirtatious by someone who doesn't know her. Even though Spencer knows better, it still causes tension inside his pants every damn time she does it.

"If you keep doing that I'm not going to be able to stop myself," he growled lowly.

The sexual tension between y/n and Spencer was almost palpable as the team said their drunken goodnights and stumbled to their respective rooms. Y/n climbed into her bed, pulling the quilt atop her closer to her face. Her thoughts swam, unable to stop them from completely consuming her with thoughts of Spencer - of his body on hers, his breath on her neck, and god damn the stupid comments he made, knowing they were working her up and torturing the hell out of her all night as they continued to play other games with their friends.

Her thoughts fell away, like birds falling out of the sky, as she heard a low sound. She sat up in her bed, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness swallowing her room, in attempt to see what the noise was. Her door opened gently and a figure quietly stepped through the threshold and shut the door behind them, obviously trying not to wake anyone up.

"Hello?" Y/n called out softly, at first she thought it was Penelope, coming to tell her some new gossip she overheard somewhere. But, it wouldn't make any sense of her to sneak in if she thought y/n was asleep. It most definitely wouldn't have been Hotch, Rossi, or Morgan and the only reasonable explanation for any of them to be in her room is if they mistook her door for a bathroom, but she doesn't believe they'd be that quiet about it. Emily was so inebriated she almost didn't make it to her bed by herself.

A nervousness began in her chest as the figure stalked closer to her bed and didn't answer her. Before she could react, lips met hers hungrily. She gasped into their mouth, an opening they took to their advantage as they slipped their tongue between her lips and battled hers for dominance. She supposed that if this was someone trying to kill her, they wouldn't have kissed her first and damn it was a good kiss.

She allowed the kiss to overtake her senses, small moans rising out of her throat as her bottom lip was taken in between teeth and tugged. When her bedroom intruder finally broke their kiss, they were both panting. "I did warn you I wouldn't be able to control myself," the voice growled. Oh.

"Spencer?" Y/n whispered, "What are you doing?"

"Well I wasn't going to wait for you to come to me," he murmured, dipping his head to her neck, trailing sloppy kisses downward to her collarbones. Her fingers tangled into his soft curls, a moan slipping from her lips as he teased her sensitive skin.

"Shh," he shushes her, his voice vibrating through her entire body. "You don't want anyone to hear, do you?"

"Spence..." she whimpered.

His fingers played with the hem of her tank top, only the thin fabric separating him from her breasts.

"I can't get you out of my head and it's been driving me insane," he muttered against her bare skin, his fingers trailing lightly over her exposed lower abdomen, sending goosebumps over her skin. "I can't stop thinking about that pretty little mouth wrapped around me, or the sound of your moans that I coax out of you in every possible way I can, or the sound of you screaming my name as you come."

Y/n feels breathless at his touch, the skin beneath his lips burning with heat. "Are you okay with this?" He asks after y/n's silence.

"Absolutely," she whimpers. "Don't stop, please."

As if that was his undoing, he tears her tank top from her skin, y/n almost unable to raise her arms up in time to get it over. As soon as her tank top is thrown to the floor, his lips latch onto her peaked nipple and a cry of pleasure gathers in her throat but she clamps her lips shut, not wanting to let anyone hear. He continues to work her nipple in his mouth, using tongue and teeth, mixing pain and pleasure.

Her fingers grip his hair tighter, her back arching to bring his mouth as close as it could possibly get to her exposed breasts. Without budging from her nipple, he removes her pants swiftly, gripping her hips with his hands to swing her under him.

Her eyes can just barely make out his face in the dark hovering above her, her body begging for more. She squirms underneath him, hardly able to contain the desire coursing through her blood. His smile turns feral as he realizes just how badly she wants him to keep going.

He lowers himself antagonizingly slow, leaving soft kisses along her naked body until he reaches her inner thighs. He settles himself comfortably in between her legs as she widens them to give him complete access.

He slides his tongue gracefully through her folds and she lets out a gasp. "I've been aching to taste you," he groans against her center, gliding his tongue from the bottom up again. "You taste fucking delicious."

His pace starts out tame as he saviors every whimper that leaves her mouth and the taste of her on his tongue. Another gasp escapes her as he slips a finger in, wasting no time in gently sliding it in and out, curling it upwards to hit her sweet spot just right. She bucks her hips, riding his tongue and finger as her pleasure builds in intensity, her breathing ragged.

Suddenly, his tongue and finger abandon her and she lets out a whine of disappointment. "Someone's needy," he chuckles lowly. "I'd rather make you come with me buried deep inside you."

Spencer quickly undresses himself and gently lines up with her center. He slides the tip through her folds, making her arch her back towards him, her silent plea.

Without hesitation, he slips inside her and releases a groan. "You're so wet for me," he smirks. She can barely see his face, but she knows he has a smug look on it. It's as if he's known how crazy he makes her, how she has fantasized about this very moment before.

His thrust starts out delicate, like he's afraid he's going to break her apart. She wraps her legs around his waist, an attempt to pull him as deep as possible. "Careful," he growls against her neck as he teases her skin once more. "I don't want to let loose just yet and hurt you."

"What if I like it rough?"

"Tell me how you want it, then." A challenge.

"I want you to fuck me dumb."

"Your wish is my command," he smiles against her skin and immediately latches onto her neck, sucking and pulling on her delicate skin. His hands grip her waist to keep her steady as he pounds into her, the sound of his bare thighs hitting hers. He places a hand on her throat and gently squeezes, as if he knows exactly how she likes it.

"Fuck.." Spencer growls, unhooking her legs from his waist with his available hand and using his weight to lift her legs above her head and driving in deep. Y/n claps a hand over her mouth to keep her screams in, her other hand gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles turn white. "You're taking me like such a good girl."

"Fuck, Spencer," she whimpers under her palm.

"Say my name again."

"Spencer..."

"Louder."

"Fuck, Spencer!" She cries as he hits home, her pleasure reaching it's breaking point hastily.

"Open your mouth," he demands. She releases her palm from over her mouth and opens wide, Spencer wasting no time in sticking two fingers on her tongue. She closes her lips around his fingers and slides her tongue over their length. He groans in pleasure as she continues to tease his fingers.

"Come for me."

Those words were her undoing as she falls over the edge, Spencer following her over and her body releasing the pent up desire. Her entire body trembles as ecstasy floods her.

He releases her legs but stays positioned inside her, face hovering just inches above hers. Their panting breaths tangle with each other in the air between them. "You took me like such a good girl," he coos, cupping her cheek gently and rubbing her heated skin with his thumb.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Y/n whispers, trying to control her wildly racing heart.

"Of course."

"I've thought the same things," she confesses, pulling him by the hair to meet her lips again. "And I hope you're not too tired for another round."

An animalistic smile grows on his face as he pauses their kiss, "I'm going to tear you apart."

556 notes · View notes

going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 9 months ago

Text

Don't cry. || Nikto

[MASTERLIST]

Rating: E Words: 3K~ (this one got away from me) Pairing: rogue asset!Nikto x civilian!Reader cw: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT., bad/incorrect medical care, injuries (described), being held at gunpoint, verbal and physical threats, blood and gore. other tags: you/your pronouns. fat/chubby!reader, no russian. Summary: A stranger takes you hostage in your own home and demands medical care... But you might have gotten more than you can chew. a/n: YES, Nikto’s voice actor is only 5ft10 but he’s 6ft5 in my mind, and I’m in charge sooo.

It's cold as all fucking hell in your small town. No. Not as all hell. Because you're pretty sure hell is supposed to be boiling hot.

Why did your family have to come from this small town in bum-fuck-nowhere Russia? And more importantly why did you decide to move back here after college?

Oh, yeah. The house. The little home that your grandma lived in since she was a child, that was fully paid and required no rent, and had very low property taxes due to it being ancient… And was left to you in her will.

Well, in days like these, you can't help but despise the stupid fucking house.

The pipes are frozen, which means you've resorted to getting water from the local firehouse every morning, as do the rest of your neighbors. Plus, it's freezing even with multiple layers of clothes and socks and scarves on. You sleep in front of the fireplace all winter and still fear you'll be dead in the morning.

Every year it's the damn same.

Maybe going to study in Moscow and then doing your master's and doctorate abroad softened you up. But you didn't remember it being so fucking cold.

Having as much meat on your bones as you do, it really shouldn't be as difficult as it is to withstand the cold. Sometimes you wonder if all those damn studies about how fat helps preserve body heat didn't apply only when people had heat to preserve.

Those are the thoughts in your head as you throw your last log in the fireplace and realize you need to get more from the woodpile outside. "Mother fucker goddamn piece of shit..." You complained.

Throwing on a winter coat over your robe, you stuff your double-socked feet into your winter boots, cover your head with a beanie and wrap yourself in a scarf.

Then you venture outside with the flashlight from your junk drawer, to illuminate the way. The wind outside is biting and the snow is tall, causing you to almost trip over your own feet.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck... cold." You grumble under your breath.

Sticking the flashlight between your teeth, you grab a few logs of firewood and slip them vertically into a black milk crate at your feet, trying to hurry so you can go back inside.

As soon as the box is stacked as full as you can carry, you bend at the knees and hurl it up by the handles, gritting your teeth against the flashlight between your teeth.

That's when you feel something hard press against the back of your head... and you hear a muffled voice. "Don't scream. Don't look back. Just move." The command chills your spine more than the -17ºC weather outside.

Your eyes shoot wide open in a panic and you have to force yourself to resist trying to look back. Instead, you nod and wobble your way along to the backdoor while carrying the heavy crate of firewood.

Once you slip inside, you set the crate down in the kitchen floor and take the opportunity to look out of the corner of your eye at the the stranger that held you hostage.

He slams the door shut behind you and deadbolts it shut, then he rushes to the window, ripping the curtains shut.

He's wearing a flight suit and military gear but it's all in a navy color that you don't recognize… Maybe the Navy? But what would a Navy soldier being doing here alone, in the middle of the woods in your land locked town? Plus, he's clearly armed, carrying a pistol in one hand. The other wraps around his midsection and he's leaving a trail of small blood droplets on your floor.

His face is covered by a mask that looks more like a bunch of denim patched together than anything, leaving only his eyes showing. It’s even bolted to itself to not be easily removable.

“Where?” He asks you, eyes and gun trained on you as you straighten up and show your hands in innocence.

“Where… Where what?” You ask in confusion. Your body trembles all over and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to piss your pants if he keeps staring at you like that and barking vague orders at you.

“WHERE?!” He insists, raising his voice in a growl that sounds more animal than human. “WHERE. ARE. WE?” He adds, his voice boiling with anger and condescension.

“P-Provrsk!” You shout the name of your town as you flinch away from his own raised voice. Your gaze is locked onto him, taking in his mask and the blue eyes that stare at you from behind them.

You’ve never had to worry about a masked intruder in your home, ever. This is a small town, this sort of thing doesn’t happen here. Especially not one that looks like he’s deserted from the FSB.

“DATE?” He shouts at you again, making you flinch once more as your whole body tenses and curls into itself in fear.

“8th of February… Thursday.” You reply, your eyes beginning to well up in tears. “Please… don’t hurt me…”

You’ve never been the crybaby type, in fact, you’d say you’re pretty good at staying contained in your day-to-day life, even when life is beating you down… But something about a 2 meter tall man in your kitchen shouting at you while waving a pistol around terrifies you to your very core…

With a deep breath, he leans himself back against the kitchen counter and another animalistic growling escapes him as his left leg straightens and twitches under him, his knee likely weakened. He’s still clutching his side with his hand and more blood puddles at his feet, dripping between gloved fingers.

He looks like he’s immeasurable amounts of pain and considering he seems to have walked here with an injury that’s still bleeding, you can’t help but wonder if the adrenaline isn’t starting to wear off.

The sight of him is pitiful… And for a moment he’s not some terrifyingly “You need… a doctor?” You ask him, more in a tone of affirmation than of question. He needs a doctor and you know it.

“No doctor.” He replies sharply, showing he still has all his mental faculties in place… Somewhat.

“You’re hurt.” You remark softly. “Bleeding all over my floor.” You add. You’re trying your best not to shake and cry and you’re not quite sure you’re succeeding.

“No doctor.” He insists as he shifts his weight around on his legs and hisses. "Needle, thread and alcohol." He demands of you and you’re not stupid enough to disagree with the armed man.

“In the upper cabinet behind you… The metal tin.” You instruct while barely pointing your finger at the cabinet door on his left side for fear that any more sudden movements will cause him to take you as a threat.

He sets the gun very carefully on the edge of the counter so that his free hand can reach up and over, patting at the cabinet, throwing the door open and feeling around inside for the aforementioned metal tin.

He’s been smart enough to put your small kitchen table between you either way, preventing any sudden lunging activity from you.

He never once turns his back on you, not even his face. His eyes are still locked on you, sending shivers down your body, making sure you don’t try anything… Not that you’d be stupid enough to dare.

He finally grabs the repurposed butter cookie tin and sets it next to him on the counter before grabbing the pistol once more and aiming it at you. “Metal spoon.” He demands.

“Over there… second drawer from the left…” You point discreetly at the drawer by the stove.

“Get one.” He demands again and so you do, hands raised, taking very tentative steps across the kitchen, your heavy snow boots thudding against the floor.

Carefully, you lower your hand and pull open the drawer. Before you can even try to grab a spoon, you hear him bark at you again. “Only a spoon. Don’t try to grab a knife.” He warns you.

Nodding very slowly, you reach inside the drawer and retrieve a metal table spoon and show it to him. “Stove.” He orders you again.

“Heat it up?” You ask softly and he grunts in what you assume is confirmation as he nods curtly at you. “I need matches.” You point at the drawer again and very slowly fetch the box of matches before closing the drawer.

Turning very carefully toward the old stove, you turn one of the knobs and strike a match, lighting the burner before extinguishing the match. “Heat the handle.” He demands and you nod in understanding as you peek at him sheepishly.

Slowly, you grip the spoon by the bowl and hold the metal handle over the flame, moving it ever so slightly to ensure an even heating up of the tip, your eyes locked on the flame and the slowly reddening type of the metal spoon.

While your back is turned, you can hear some rustling and a heavy thud on the floor. You assume he’s getting rid of his heavy gear in order to patch himself up… “Hurry up.” He barks.

“I can’t speed up the fire.” You reply softly, too afraid to speak too loud.

“Watch your tongue, or else I’ll cut it off.” He adds, his voice grunted through as you hear some more rustling. His threat was enough to send chills down your spine and sent you back into muteness.

Another minute or so later, you can feel the heat spreading across the whole spoon and even the bowl is too hot to hold. “It’s ready.”

“Move, quick.” He demands and you turn to face him, finding him still in the same spot, across the kitchen, leaning against the wall. He’s shed his plate vest, and undone the zipper of his flight suit, removing the sleeves and leaving it to hang around his hip. That exposes his torso completely, per lack of any undershirts or other layers. You wonder how he hasn’t frozen out there in just a flight suit…

The sight of him is so shocking and… disgusting. You feel your stomach turning, the warm meal you had an hour ago threatening to come out the way it came. He’s covered in scars, his chest speckled in patches of red skin or pale, melaninless skin, something you can only assume are burn scars.

The right half of his torso is covered in dried blood, sporting a hapharzard, thick suture that you can only assume he did a few days ago considering how swollen and red the skin around it is… Infected.

And, of course, the pouring, wet, red blood that escapes from his left side… It looks like he took a gash on it… maybe a gunshot, maybe an explosion, who’s to say… But he’s definitely got a hole and he’s leaking like a faucet.

“MOVE!” He barks at you, causing you to jump, startled out of from your shock-induced trance and you quickly rush over. He grabs the spoon from you with more aggression than you expected and shoves you away with a swift elbow to your side, to force you away from him. You fall on your ass, grunting softly upon landing.

When you were younger, kids used to joke that all your fat would serve as an airbag in the case of a car crash, but the truth is, as you landed on the floor, you ass and legs hurt… As did you side from the elbow you took to it.

Your eyes well up in tears at the soreness on your body, as well as the sound that escapes him and reverberates through your kitchen as he sticks the red-hot spoon handle onto his open wound, gritting his teeth behind his mask as he cauterizes the wound shut. The sound is terrifying, like a gurgle mixed with a shout and an animalistic growl. (find the scream inspo here)

You don’t want to look. But he’s doing this inches away from your face. You can’t help but watch in horror.

HIs legs shake underneath him and he struggles to keep himself upright but succeeds by landing his elbow and forearm on the edge of the counter. The hand that’s holding the pistol, the left one, flexes around the handle, fingers trembling with the pain. He struggles to stay on his feet as his right hand keeps softly twisting the spoon handle in his wound before pulling it out.

He grunts as he lets the bloody spoon fall on the floor at his feet and his head falls back with a couple more grunts and huffs, resting on the upper cabinets, his right hand clutching the wound again for a moment. You’re sobbing on the floor. Something about the sight you just got broke your resolve for a moment. You’re afraid… Very much so.

Just as you’re trying to calm yourself down, crawling backward over to the table to use a table as support to stand up from the floor, the sewing supplies tin crashes onto the floor at your feet with a ruckus so loud you can’t help but squeal.

Looking up at him, you notice him glaring at you. “Suture.” He demands angrily.

“I-” You attempt to speak but you can’t. Too afraid and too choked up to succeed in more than a light stammer.

“SUTURE!” He repeats his demand, his voice loud and sending chills to the innermost part of you as he leans forward a bit to look at you.

“STOP YELLING AT ME!” You shout in return through whimpers and whines.

“Stop crying. You have no reason to cry yet.” He warns you, his voice bitter and mean.

Your whole body quakes as you sob and scramble up on all fours, to grab the tin of sewing supplies from the floor. You pop it open with shaky hands and rummage inside, searching for your pink pin cushion and, upon finding it, you plucked out a needle.

“You’re scaring me…” You were able to get out through trembling lips as you grab a spool of black thread.

“We will do much worse than scare you if you don’t start moving faster.” He tells you. “Do not test my capacity for violence.” He adds. “Now move.”

Slowly, you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You’re so close, you can smell him… And he smells gross… He reeks of sweat and piss, which mixes with the metallic scent of his blood, and gunpowder that lingers on his flightsuit which he now wears as pants only.

Your trembling form makes you struggle to thread the needle but after a few attempts, you succeed and unfurl much more thread than you’d realistically need. While you do so, his pistol changes grips and his right hand holds it aimed right at your head.

Slowly, you push the needle through his skin, grimacing at the wet noise it makes as you drag it through and you hold back a gag and a sob as you try your best to suture him shut.

You don’t know much about medicine… But you’re pretty sure you’re supposed to do a ladder stitch so you can pull the thread taut at the end and ensure the injury closes… So that’s what you start doing, trying your best to not tremble all the way through it.

He’s holding himself surprisingly calmly through it as you stab his skin/wound multiple times… You risk looking up at him, your eyes still teary, your lips trembling, your face red from holding back tears and a gag.

All you find is a pair of soulless blue eyes staring down at you through the two holes of that mask. They seem as cold and unforgiving as the snow outside… They’re bloodshot and the pupils are dilated. And he seems to be looking at you with a predatory gaze that makes you feel small and insignificant.

"Who are you...?" You ask tentatively, surprising yourself at how small your voice sounded, how meek.

"Nobody." He reply as he leaned the pistol against your temple. “Finish.” He demands.

Gulping and nodding, you finish the stitching and pull it taut, which earns you a hiss from him. You tie off the thread and snip it off with a pair of little scissors from the sewing supply box.

Just as you’re about to pull away from him, the needle between your pointer and middle fingers and your hands raised in an act of peace, he pistol whips you across the temple.

You squeal in pain, and throw your hands on the floor to support yourself from fully falling on your side, losing the needle somewhere in the tile floor of the kitchen. Your eyes are cloudy with tears again as you whimper in pain, unaware of what caused that violence.

Is he going to kill you? Steal from you? Make you prisoner in your own home?

“Don’t move.” He demands. “It’s not finished.” He warns you as you struggle to get back on your sore knees.

You watch in horror as he shifts position, to no longer be kneeling on his elbow on the counter, and instead straightens up. His right hand continues pointing the gun at you and, very slowly, the left inches his flight suit down some more.

Slowly, you’re exposed to the sight a large gash across his left thigh, that draws down diagonally to his left knee which is swollen red and bruised…

As well as an obvious lack of underwear and a semi-hardened cock laying against his right thigh, the hilt surrounded by bushy blonde pubes. Your eyes double in size and you have to once again contain yourself from gagging and crying in disgust.

“Get back to work.” He demands as he points at the wounds on his leg. “And don't you dare cry." He adds. "Or else I'll give you other reasons to cry about.” He warns as his hand glides over his cock.

This is fully inspired by the beautiful work written by @391780, gotta love all the nikto ficlets and all the fat!reader stuff! Also wrote this a bit as a request by @ms-rayray who asked me for fat!reader stuff, and also a shoutout to @xxshadowbabexx and her eternal love for nikto.

#ikea writes 💚#cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #nikto #nikto cod #dark fic #cod nikto #nikto x reader #call of duty nikto

298 notes · View notes

starsofarda · 9 days ago

Text

Christmas with the Feanorians

I would like to thank @erendur for giving me enough rope for my shenanigans.

Tolkien, ILU but sometimes I need to take everything less seriously.

Of course TIS THE SEASON and I am in my transformation in a Christmas Elf, whilst my SO is becoming the Grinch.

Anyway, possible modern AU, the Feanorians and Christmas, stemming directly from this post.

So, we know how Feanor could be ©Extra™, but what would he be like during the Christmas holidays in a modern AU? Well, LOOK NO FURTHER.

I am basically copypasting my brainstorming session and expanding on it.

Unfortunately Feanor is a "go big or go home" guy when it comes to decorating for Xmas, figure the outside plastered in luminous deers, trees, elves, santas and all the works. You can spot his house from at least two miles afar. He will dress up as Santa*, show up with like all sorts of trinkets, hand-write "Santa's response letters" to his children. The inside of his house is cobered in holly decorations, Yule logs, xmas trees, xmas music all over the place. the guy is extra.

*or Father Christmas, your choice, regardless of who he dresses like he's gonna look like Jack Skellington from The Nightmare Before Christmas, he is very tall, very lanky and he's not gonna be a fat old man delivering gifts.

this also prompts several arguments over the xmas dinner with Fingolfin, cue Finarfin trying to be the peacemaker, all the "not in front of the kids", the "language" and all. In the meantime every single one of the kids, regardless of who's the father, is a different flavour of terror. Nerdanel is with her SILs and nieces, at a certain point Aredhel just starts a treasure hunt with Celegorm and his dog Huan. It's chaos. Maedhros is with Fingon and maybe Maglor, if Maglor and Finrod are not playing Guitar Hero. And so on. Also did someone mention "ugly sweaters"? Yep. All of them lovingly crafted by grandma Miriel (in this AU she is alive, just very divorced from Finwe, but alive). Grandma Indis supplies the wreaths. Grandpa Finwe is sitting by the porch and enjoying some eggnog.

All is good. Feanor and Fingolfin will keep arguing till the end of time. As it was pointed out, this definitely looks like National Lampoon's Christmas holiday.

Now, some clarifications.

THE ELVES They are indeed Feanor's apprentices dressed as Father Christmas's elves. They take turns. They are low key enjoying the attention. Speaking of. I rectify myself, it's not Santa, but Father Christmas and his assistant polar bear - reference to Tolkien's "Letters from Father Christmas". I know Tolkien would have hated it, but this is a modern au. Whatever floats my boat. As for the ugly jumpers: Ofc Feanor has the Silmarils surrounded by snowflakes, deers and red robins. His jumper is red. Maedhros has got a green one with winter gnomes and a "happy yuletide" in elegant lettering. Fingon has a blue one with an icy mountain and penguins with silver scarves and hats.

So. The apprentices don't really mind being hired as Christmas Elves, Feanor pays well and it's all fun and games. They basically get to be up to any shenanigans they can conjure up, because in Feanor's forge not only he is Extra, but his apprentices are the Least Chill on Arda. They will cause problems on purpose, only rule is "be nice to the children" and "don't damage property in a significant way", but everything else is game. They get to dress in fun outfits as a plus.

Miriel and Indis are both there, mostly ignoring Finwe and doting on their daughters in law.

As for the jumpers.

Grandma Miriel lovingly embroidered and knitted them all. Any bad look has been met by Feanor's death glare of "accept my beloved mother's gift or die painfully" and every year they are a must have, especially if the party is at Feanor's house.

So far this is what I have.

Ofc Feanor has the Silmarils surrounded by snowflakes, deers and red robins. His jumper is red. Maedhros has got a green one with winter gnomes and a "happy yuletide" in elegant lettering. Fingon has a blue one with an icy mountain and penguins with silver scarves and hats. Also if Mae has a green one with gnomes, then I envision Fingon with the same but in yellow/golden, but do feel free to envision whatever :p Celegorm has one with like a poodle with a christmas hat and scarf, the poodle looking very much like Huan. Maglor has one with like hollys and singing red robins. Caranthir has one with xmas trees all over. A&A have matching ones, both with snowmen wearing sunglasses and like a cheeky line. Curufin has one designed to show the jacket of a xmas elf and celebrimbor has one with the design of the ribbon of a xmas present.

There will be more as soon as I think of something else.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #feanor #feanorians #sons of feanor #christmas #modern au

38 notes · View notes

mushroomates · 1 year ago

Text

samwise gamgee headcanons:

enjoys doing the dishes and folding laundry

love language is quality time or acts of service

likes to give sprouts and seedlings to friends and neighbors

nerd about mushrooms and has a mushroom log growing in his closet

keeps a hoard of ladybugs to deploy at any time

windowsill is lined with old jars and bottles, filled with clippings for propagation

he gives the best slices of pie and best baked cookies to others. will keep “defects” for himself- they taste just as good

favorite cookies are “everything but the kitchen sink” where he throws a bunch of stuff into the bowl (fruit, pretzels, nuts) and puts it into a cookie

has like 80 pillows on every couch/bed/chair

in addition to the 50-something blankets also piled high

“please, have a seat” he says. ha, no. any surface you could possibly settle onto is adorned with elaborate spreads of throws and such.

has a fruitcake that is legit an heirloom. it’s so stale it’s a brick. you can use it as a doorstop, stepping-stool, or a bludgeoning weapon. (note: has been used for all. he once chucked it at a late night visitor. this is how he learned frodo takes late walks at night. this is also how frodo learned that sam has an arm on him)

his great aunt made it forever ago and honestly he doesn’t know if it’s still good. he keeps it around because it’s been with him so long he feels bad throwing it out.

likes pecan pie! goes nuts (pun intended) for it.

roast his own chestnuts, pecans and walnuts. has a strange grudge against macadamia nuts. (almost choked on one as a child)

very cozy. has scarves and mittens and even slippers (GASP) at the ready

likes to watch the rain with a cup of tea for hours on end

takes his tea with honey, two sugars, and cream. it barely counts as tea.

enjoys bubble baths.

guerrilla gardening. sam is a force to be reckoned with on this front. he is a strong advocate for native plants and will gut someone over deforestation.

carries a salt shaker filled with seeds everywhere. kind of just. shakes it around empty plots of land.

has a hostile land grab once a month and slowly expands the baggin’s garden by an inch, until it takes up nearly the whole estate.

has a great misconception about the appropriate amount to discuss you garden with someone. this is because:

he tends to talk about this to frodo, who will listen, good naturedly

frodo also prevents anyone from talking over sam or changing the subject

most hobbits are to polite (passive aggressive) and don’t have the skills to subtly change the subject in a way sam understands

and if he does recognize the effort he will avoid it

likes to try new recipes but at the same time never follows them

knows a great deal about farming hemp. this is because merry and pippin recruited him into their pipeweed shenanigans and now sam has unintentionally created a strain of the good stuff that has hobbits traveling miles to get their hands on

loves his houseplants like children. they have names and backstory and a rich inner life that he has created that could fill a book

is fighting a battle with english ivy at the moment and only slightly loosing it. it’s suffocating the tree outside his house and he’s not very happy with it.

213 notes · View notes

thisisallthehattersfault · 1 month ago

Text

Project "If Oda Won't Give The Rest Of The Whitebeard Commanders Personalities And Backstories I'll Do It Myself" continues

Blamenco is fourteen the first time he meets a pirate.

He’s also fourteen the first time he kills a man, since the second thing happens about a minute after the first. It’s hard to say who’s more surprised by this, Blamenco or the pirate, but later he’ll look back and figure it was probably himself, on account of the pirate was dead, and dead men can’t be surprised. Dead men can’t be much of anything, really. That’s sort of the whole thing about being dead.

Here’s how it happens: He’s in the woods gathering mushrooms with Lana, the pretty daughter of old farmer Scratch. Supposedly Scratch ain’t his real name, but Blamenco’s never heard nobody call him anything but, and usually when folks get an odd nickname they like to tell the tale of how it came to be. Blamenco’s never heard that neither though, so he figures probably the man’s name really is Scratch and folks just say it’s fake to give him a hard time for it.

Anyway. Scratch’s youngest daughter is two years Blamenco’s senior, pretty as a daisy, and sick as a dog more often than not. Seems every time the seasons change or the the rain comes down too hard or a pig farts within a hundred miles of the Scratch house poor Lana’s laid up in bed wheezing and coughing into her handkerchief. Makes her unfit for field labor, but she finds other ways to be useful. Old Scratch comes to the family farm once or twice a month to make trades and get drunk on the porch with Grandpa, and most times he’ll bring baskets and scarves and all sorts of other things Lana made while she was holed up in bed. Grandma sends him back with fabric and good thread and any leftover rattan or willow they might have laying around.

On the days when Lana is feeling well enough to move about she likes to find herself chores to do, and she’s real stubborn about it and won’t listen when her family all tell her she aughtn’t push herself, so it’s happened once or twice that Lana went off on her own to gather herbs or berries or to check hunting traps or what have you and then didn’t come home quick enough and a whole search party had to be whipped up to go and find her wherever she’d collapsed all fevered and exhausted, and that’s where Blamenco comes in.

It’s improper for a boy and a girl to be off alone in the woods like this, but their families have been friends for a good long while now, so nobody’s looking sideways at poor Lana for tromping through the woods with Blamenco at her heels, and he’s big and strong enough to pick her up and carry her back home if the need arises. Stubborn enough to make her take breaks and rest, too, which is more than can be said for Lana’s own brother, who’s bigger and stronger than Blamenco by a good bit but who’s too soft on her by far.

Blamenco doesn’t mind it. The weather’s nice out, all cool and crisp this time of year, and for all he and Lana can hardly seem to be in the same room together without bickering he likes her company, and she likes his. One of these days he’ll even get her to admit it.

So he’s following her through the woods, holding her foraging basket for her and giving her a hand when she needs to hop across a creek or climb over a log or lift up some heavy thing to check underneath. They’re playing Would You Rather, spinning silly choices out of the air to pass the time, and Lana’s got him stumped between licking peanut butter off a hobo’s foot or getting locked in a cage with hungry tigers, and he’s so focused on trying to decide which of those awful things he’d have an easier time enduring (he’s leaning towards the tigers) that it takes him a good while to notice the heavy footsteps tromping through the woods towards them.

He doesn’t think much of it, at first. It’s clear from the sound that whoever it is ain’t used to these woods — branches are crackling and crunching all under their big clumsy feet — but there’s hardly a reason to assume the worst of somebody just for doing some exploring, or maybe the poor fella got lost and is wandering confused trying to find his way back to the path, so Blamenco slows and Lana does too, and they both turn to see who it is causing all that racket.

And then, well. Blamenco knows for sure the man must be lost, ‘cause he certainly don’t look like the sort who belongs in the woods. He’s dressed all fine in a yellow frock and gold rings on all his fingers, and his hair’s even got gold chains braided into it. Damn near every bit of him is sparkling with some kind of pretty thing when he comes all stumbling past the tree line and lands flat on his face on the ground. Blamenco doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many fine things all in one place before, and certainly never all on one person. Lana’s eldest sister Marnie got married to the tailor’s son at the start of the year, and she looked like a real princess at her wedding, but this man probably could have bought her whole dress with just one of the baubles in his ear.

So of course when the man shoves himself upright again Blamenco bows, ‘cause that’s what you do with royals and nobles and rich folk, and says with all his best manners “Good afternoon, sir. Are you lost?” at the same time as Lana bursts out laughing.

Lana don’t mean no harm, but man gets all puffed up offended by it, and Blamenco’s not sure what she’s laughing at anyhow until she points to the ground and Blamenco looks and sees the man’s fancy brocade boots all caked in mud. “Sorry!” Lana gasps, not sounding as sorry as she probably should. “Sorry, just — your nice things are all ruined, sir! What are you doing out here? You didn’t wear hiking boots?”

It ain’t just the boots, ‘neither. The man’s got sticks and leaves all in his hair, and his pretty frock coat is torn like he’s snagged it on something. Blamenco can see why Lana’s laughing about it, all those fine things all done-in by a walk in the woods. They crawled right through a blackberry thicket to get to this clearing, and other than some snarls in Lana’s long hair neither of them are the least disheveled from it. Fancy things may look real nice, but they don’t seem to be all that practical.

That’s about where it all starts going wrong. The man doesn’t seem to take kindly to being laughed at, even in as harmless a way as Lana did it, and he looks angry. Angrier maybe than Blamenco’s ever seen just about anybody who wasn’t the bad sort of drunk. “No,” He says, all seething through his teeth about it. “I didn’t wear fucking hiking boots, you bumpkin!”

He’s slurring a little when he says it, and when he comes stomping closer Blamenco catches a whiff of strong rum off of him, so maybe he is the bad kinda drunk. It’d explain why the man is stumbling confused through the woods in the first place. He comes to a stop in the little clearing and gets his first proper look at Blamenco and Lana and his face does something Blamenco doesn’t like. Something kinda like how the tailor’s son looks at Marnie, ‘cept instead of all warm it’s cold. Cold and hungry.

The fancy man stands up tall and tries to brush some of the debris off himself. It don’t work well — he’s got prickers all stuck deep in his yellow coat, those ain’t coming out without tweezers and a good sharp little knife. He swaggers a step closer, and stumbles a little one the next. It’s early in the day for a man to be this drunk, but maybe nobles don’t have to worry about their chores getting done like working folks do. Either way, he misses the first time he reaches for Lana’s face, which is good, ‘cause Lana doesn’t much seem like she wants him touching on her.

“Hey now,” Blamenco starts. The man talks like didn’t even hear him. “Well well,” he says, all deep in his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, lovely, I didn’t realize I was speaking to such a beauty.”

Treating somebody nicer or worse based on how pretty or ugly they are is a dumb thing to do, but Blamenco maybe only thinks that ‘cause he’s ugly. Lana never talks much about looks — her own or anybody else’s — but she’s probably the prettiest girl Blamenco’s ever met, and she turns plenty of heads when she’s feeling well enough to go to town. When Blamenco goes with her to carry her bags and hold doors for her people laugh at the way they look together, with her all slender and beautiful and with her long dark hair looking like spun silk and him all pale and fat and following behind her like a troll. Lana always gets real angry when she hears people talking like that, and then she yells at them and tires herself out and has to go lay down with a cool damp rag over her eyes, but Blamenco’s never minded it much. He knows how he looks, and he’s not one to get all bent out of shape at being the butt of a joke. Folks like to laugh, and he’s an easy thing to laugh at. He laughs at himself too most days.

Still. There’s something about the way this man calls Lana beautiful that Blamenco doesn’t like, and that’s unusual. People are always calling Lana beautiful, and Blamenco’s always agreeing, but the fancy man says it like he means something else and more and more Blamenco’s starting to wonder if maybe he aughtn’t just scoop Lana up and take her home, even with this man still lost in the woods and her mushroom basket only half-full.

The fancy man says “What’s your name, pretty?” He tries to touch Lana’s face again. Lana backs away this time, and Blamenco gets a hand on her arm and pulls her behind himself. The fancy man blinks like he’s just remembering Blamenco even exists, and he looks at Blamenco with his face all twisted up and sour, but people look at Blamenco like that all the time, so he doesn’t take it to heart. He hopes Lana won’t try to yell at this man like she yells at the people in town, though.

This fella doesn’t seem like he’d take it well.

#One Piece #whitebeard pirates #Whitebeard Crew #Blamenco #One Piece Blamenco

33 notes · View notes

wyrmguardsecrets · 2 months ago

Note

I log into Warcraft and select my male human rogue. I hop on my transmog yak and select my finest scarf and tabard. I walk over to my favourite bar, the Slaughtered Lamb, and order a pint of whiskey. I don't know what top shelf whiskey looks or tastes like, so I make sure to specify getting the cheapest kind. Once ordered, I take my pint of whiskey outside to peruse the single ladies and light four cigarettes. I'll make sure to note in my trp that I smell like tobacco.

All the ladies seem to be talking to loser early bird men wearing their scarves. That's fine. I chug my whiskey (I drink it all the time so it doesn't bother me) and insert myself into the nearest conversation, mocking the men around me so the girls know I'm alpha. One of them pulls out a gun and tries to shoot me. Lol? It says right in my trp I only resolve fights with world of Warcraft PvP. I emote easily dodging and breaking his hand before vanishing. I would have done more, but his vixen walked away before I could pull out my finishing moves.

It's okay, I'll just find her on the map and try again later.

21 notes · View notes

pherelesytsia · 2 years ago

Text

Coming Home before Christmas

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/wife/Reader

Summary: Thomas returns home and is surprised by his children worrying the Grinch will steal the sweets.

Warning: just pure Christmas fluff

Word Count: 1.1k

a/n: Requests are open!!!

Thomas Shelby Masterlist

Christmas carols, old and heard for the hundredth time, playing on a continuous loop, filled every corner and flooded the deserted rooms of the house at the end of the world, oozing with joy and the purest form of delight a heart could feel.

Blue eyes, the beauty of a summer's sky, sparkled. Charlie and his sister, dressed in jumpers with laughing reindeers and grinning snowmen sledging down the hills, tried to count the variously sized ornaments with glittering elements adorning the tree. Light wooden figures were lurking between the ornaments in reddish hues. Fairy lights twinkled like stars and rising flames gnawed at the logs.

Feet dangled from the sofa covered by dozens of pillows and fluffy blankets, hidden in a box in the attic during the warm months. The children stared impatiently at the screen, but no complaint crossed their lips. The door slammed into the lock, and a bunch of keys jiggled. Charlie, threw the blankets aside and jumped followed by his sister off the sofa, ran past the kitchen island and Y/N looked after them as she poured the warm, not boiling liquid into the almost identical cups with rows of red flakes, dots and dancing snowman.

Joyful voices greeted the returned father. The heavy, dark leather bag fell to the ground. Thomas laughed, felt arms wrapping around his leg and he lifted the young girl from the ground, pressed her tight to his chest and ruffled the boy's hair. Snow was thawing and gossamer waterfalls danced over his face. His eyes, once dull, sparkled, forgot the past, the cruel word beyond the thick locked wooden door, and noticed the knitted jumpers.

"We have been waiting. Come. Everything's set! We have picked out a movie. And if we are not nice, the Grinch will steal our cookies." the children sang out almost in sync as if they had been memorising the sentences on the sofa for several hours as if it was a poem.

The Shelby chuckled and settled his daughter down next to Charlie. The burden of everyday life disappeared. His right hand slipped into his coat pocket and, with the push of a button, he turned the sound of his smartphone off.

"I'm here, Mister Grinch will not steal your cookies. Where is mom?" Thomas inquired.

The dark-haired man leaned to the side, hoping to catch sight of his wife leaning against the door, but the soft hum of a melody crossing her lips accompanied by the sound of clinking spoons let him know she was in the kitchen.

Hands reached for him, clutching his firmly and the children pulled the father still dressed in the coat into the depths of the house, past reindeers with reddish scarves and saluting nutcrackers. They ignored his complaints, wishing to finally find themselves on the sofa and turn on the fairy tale.

Entering the living room, the scent of Christmas, oranges, apples, and chocolate greeted him. His eyes slid across the richly decorated room. The reindeer pulling the swan carriage next to the nutcrackers in uniforms saluted and protected the snowmen family on the window seat, and Thomas wondered how he could have disliked Christmas, almost loathe, the merry time. The thick, indestructible layer of ice protecting his heart like a shield of silver and steel melted away. Once he would have called the reddish pyjamas with snowmen and nutcrackers childish and idiotic, something a grown woman should not wear, but it looked better on his wife than an evening gown. Her hair falling in gentle waves framed her features, touched by the soft light. The children released his hands and told him to follow swiftly, but the father didn't listen as they ran back to the sofa.

Y/N exhaled, turned, and faced her husband. He remembers, Y/N thought to herself, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was still before seven, knowing he had been thinking of them, trying to keep the promise he had made to at least try to arrive earlier to spend time with his family.

Grinning, Thomas cast his gaze over his shoulder and glanced after the chatting children. He took off the coat and threw it onto the bar stool. Thomas flashed his wife a smile, stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her waist, placed his hands on the small of her back and breathed a feather-light kiss on her lips.

"I missed you," Thomas whispered, barely audible, but Y/N heard the words loud and clear.

"I missed you too. How was your day? Are you tired? We waited but we can watch the movie tomorrow. You are probably exhausted. Arthur called and told me you might arrive later, that your day was rough." Y/N spoke.

Thomas chuckled, lowered his gaze to the cups with whipped cream, colourful sprinkles and chocolate flecks.

"I'm not tired. You don't have to worry about me. I am fine. Nothing a cup of coffee can't fix and we should join the children if we want cookies." Thomas answered.

Y/N didn't have to look at the table, heard the giggling children tampering with the round white and silver plates, searching for the most delicious biscuits and devouring them as if they hadn't eaten in days.

"You should have seen them in the afternoon when they came from school and kindergarten. You might have noticed, but the gingerbread house is gone. I was in the shower, maybe ten minutes gone, and when I returned, the house was gone." Y/N breathed.

Astonished, Thomas turned and noticed that instead of the gingerbread house was a reindeer on the mantlepiece.

"I noticed the sweets were missing." Thomas laughed.

"The gingerbread wasn't even soft. It was hard as a rock. But they didn't mind. They drank at least a litre of milk to soften it. And now they are planning to build a new house and I am surprised that their stomach doesn't ache." reported Y/N.

She leaned her head on his chest. His fingers sank into her hair, brushed through the light waves, and breathed lovely words into her ear. The children switched off the lamp and the only source of light was the dimly glowing Christmas tree, and Charlie called out to the parents, gazing into each other's eyes like love-struck lovers.

660 notes · View notes

cloverdaisies · 1 year ago

Text

➸ GINGERBREAD MAN ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑

DAY 1 OF TBZ ADVENT CALENDAR ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 {🧣 } ➸ description: a late night stroll through the xmas markets with boyfriend!younghoon, carols being sung in the distance, the smell of freshly baked gingerbread men and children building snowmen nearby; the feeling of christmas. ⋆⁺. ︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶ ₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚

➸ member: younghoon x you ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚.

➸ genre: fluff ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚.

➸ word count: 800 approx. ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚.

⋆⁺. ︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶ ₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚

♫ it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas, everywhere you go… ☕️ ₊❅⋆ ⛸️ ♫

Snow fell from the sky above like soft stars drifting down to the ground, glistening over the pavements as a choir all wrapped in wooly scarves sang songs of a traditional christmas with ruby red noses and jovial smiles. The bakers had lined up goods from christmas cakes to mince pies, as small businesses brewed hearty soups and sold hot chocolates to a crowd smothered in whipped cream and marshmallows.

You looked up at Younghoon, the cold air nipping at his cheeks making them glow with a shade of rosy pink as his eyes lit up with the rows of fairy lights reflecting his dark brown iris. He’d noticed you staring, turning to look at you with a smile and a laugh - his breath turning to a white smoke in the cold air.

“You put that whipped cream to shame.” He poked fun at you admiring his features, squeezing your hand in reassurance as he made the horrendous joke.

“That is possibly fighting for the worst thing you’ve ever said.” You choked on your words in shock, at just how appalling his jokes were, despite you secretly loving how cheesy they could be.

Younghoon quickly took a diversion spotting a particular small cabin-like stall amongst the rows of similar builds, selling snow globes that lit prettily. He tended to have an eye for things that were sentimental, littering your home with decorations that reminded him of your favorite times together.

“We can put this on the mantelpiece.” He smiled at one that depicted father Christmas and his reindeers flying soundly above a small village - when he shook it the houses lit up and snow whirled around the scene.

“We can!” You laughed at how cute the gesture was, he took so much pride in the mantelpiece above the log fire where he’d bought expensive frames for all your pictures and placed them all neatly divided.

Once he’d bought everything pretty he could find from each stall, picking out everything you’d looked at twice - despite you telling him not to. He took your hand and brought you to the small café that had been set up. There was a wood burner fire set up in the corner next to two armchairs, where you both sat with hot chocolate warming your hands around the sides of the ceramic material.

“So I was thinking, home alone 1 and 2 when we get back in?” Younghoon asked causing you to look up from your prettily decorated cup, you couldn’t help but noticed the dot of whipped cream sat on his nose and giggle. He looked at you confused, before you reached across to wipe it off as he chuckled in embarrassment.

“I think you’re the one that’s whipped now pal. Anddd… absolutely.” You both laughed at the joke before letting a comfortable silence fall across the scene, as you both looked at each other across the table.

He looked at you across the table with a smile, his hair parted in perfect curtains and his smile lighting up the entire room with a pure kind of joy that couldn’t easily be replicated. The blues sounds of Frank Sinatra filled the room, the blissful lyrics filling the cozy room. Everything was just perfect this year, he was perfect.

He leaned across the table gently gesturing a kiss on the lips, reminding you of how unrescuseably in love you were with him. Younghoon was your place of safety, your feeling of home. As the snow feel around you, the room filled with laughter and joy, everything just felt as if it froze in time - for just a moment as your lips touched his, light as a feather it was if the sound of a camera snapping in your mind preserving the memory forever.

At home you’d build the Christmas tree and listen to all the iconic festive tunes from over the decades, as Younghoon swayed and hummed along to the music - not forgetting to lift you up so you could put the star on the tree. You’d watch both the good home alone movies and cuddle warmly beneath the blankets until you both felt sleepy and eventually fell asleep sprawled out across the couch as the credits rolled in the background. It was moments like these that made Christmas so special. He made everything so special.

⋆⁺. ︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶︶꒷꒦︶ ₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚

a/n: hello festive daisies! it’s been a while since i’ve written some absolutely disgusting fluff & writing this made me feel so warm stg deserving of day 1 of my tbz calendar! ik very short but if im gonna survive 24 days this what we’re going for <3 enjoy!!

72 notes · View notes

ritco · 1 year ago

Text

woah, I see AO3 is down today! normal total users is like 120-160 a day for S&C.

#scarves and coffee #S&C #85 klainers klaining right now #pretty neat!#scarves log

2 notes · View notes

gamerwoman3d · 1 year ago

Text

Listen, if Ed Boon asked me to write official tie-in novel filth for Mortal Kombat, I would. I don't care if he sends a studio note that says "If you make Sub-Zero any gayer I'll rip your fucking head off," I'd still work for him. Who needs a head anyways. Love that guy.

Anyways here's a wonderwall of filth.

[🔞🔞🔞Check below the cut🔞🔞🔞]

Explicit, Spicy, Juicy, and definitely🔞🔞🔞past this point

I should mention- You can actually read all of my writings directly on my masterlist without logging in to tumblr.

◜Sub-Zero, Smoke, Liu Kang options - Please Be Bi-Han 🙏◞

Just use any browser app and type in mk1erotica.netlify.app in the browser's address bar to access my masterlist from anywhere on any device.

Yes. Any device. This may even work on an Apple watch, on the Parrity browser. You can probably ask Siri to open a browser and navigate to the masterlist. You can use any browser. You can use Safari, Chrome, Brave, Firefox, Microsoft Edge. It can work on a Roku if you have a web browser like Web Browser X or Xfinity. It will run on ųBrowser or Opera. But I recommend DuckDuckGo!

Multi-Character Choose your own MK1 Adventure

Reptile [Syzoth, MK1 Version]

◜ mk1 men using their powers in the bedroom part 1 of ?◞

Sub-Zero [Bi-han, MK1 version]

Neck tattoo imagines parts 1 2 AND 3

◜ mk1 men using their powers in the bedroom part 2 of ?◞

◜I Need Attention◞

◜mk1 Sub-Zero: sexiest angst trope?◞

Johnny Cage [MK1 Version]

◜ mk1 men kinks & darker motivations part 2 of ?◞

Scorpion [Kuai Liang, MK1 version]

Beta Tester [Can be read as Hanzo if you're imaginative]

Bloody Horny Kuai Liang Scorpion - https://www.tumblr.com/gamerwoman3d/737285442221801472/%F0%9D%9F%B9

BONUS MATERIAL

Skins That Would Be in MK1 If I Had A Voodoo Doll of Ed Boon [Fun, Sexy skins for Kenshi, Scorpion, Kitana, & Sub-Zero]

The Gollum Test [Essay about writing better x readers]

Sub-Zero Long Hair Posts[linked without box because of tumblr post limitations]

Part 2 : Sub-Zero Long Hair Posts[linked without box because of tumblr post limitations]

Other horny drabbles [separate list]

About This Blog [links to post about guidelines reqs etc]

[Need more MK1 smut? Check the pin 📌]

Permissions summary: YOU HAVE MY EXPRESSED PERMISSION TO USE ANY SCREENSHOTS, GIFS, ASSETS OR CONTENT THAT I HAVE MADE OF THE GAME MK1 [MORTAL KOMBAT 1 (2023)]. EVERYONE has my enthusiastic consent. You don't have to make something I *enjoy* with those assets. You're under no obligation to please me with your content, even if it's made with bits of my content. Enjoy yourselves, go wild! Any MK1 screenshots or gifs that I make can be used for your fanworks as long as you have the legal rights to do so. [I'm pretty sure you all have the legal right to make any fanart/icons/reposts/headers/photo edits/collages/parody that you like, but I do not know every single law for every country. You're on your own to research whether you'd get in trouble for SubScorp art in Indonesia or the PRC or Alabama or wherever you are where all the rules get weird. But as long as you're not getting punished for using my MK1 gameplay in your work, go nuts! You have my permission to use the assets I've made from the game.]

124 notes · View notes

avocado-writing · 1 year ago

Text

Kinktober 16

16. Speech/Movement Restriction, Body Worship (Genitals), Vampires/Werewolves

“Aziraphale? Crowley?”

“In the back, love.”

You walk into the bookshop’s kitchenette and find your angel making a cup of tea. As if he knew exactly when you’d walk through the door, he passes you a mug of oolong and a kiss at the same time.

“How was your day, my dear?”

“Atrocious. Every day it feels like we’re fighting for our lives. Do you know how bad off museums are with that witch in power at the moment? Honestly I’m glad to just be home with you.”

You step into his open arms and bury your face into his shoulder, sighing in happiness as he presses his lips to your neck.

“Anyway, are we still on for the theatre this evening, angel?”

“Absolutely. I got us front row seats for the opening of Phantom of the Opera tonight!”

You grin at his excitement, then notice a distinctive lack of complaining about, well, going to the theatre tonight.

“Hang on, where’s Crowley?”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, a devilish grin creeping over his face, “he’s been naughty I’m afraid. You’ll find him upstairs.”

You take your cue to go and have a look. You find Crowley tied to the bed, spread out and tied with silk scarves to each of the four posters. The gag in his mouth makes it impossible for him to speak and he grunts, half in irritation and half in desperation when he sees you. You approach him and remove it, allowing him to talk.

“Finally. I thought you’d never get home.”

“And why are you all trussed up like this, eh?”

“All I said was that I didn’t want to go and see Phantom, and Aziraphale—”

“You didn’t say you didn’t want to see it,” Aziraphale calls, “you kept going on about it all day, at length, until I got fed up with you.”

“Aah, I see,” you hum. Crowley opens his mouth to keep going and you use the opportunity to shove the gag back in place. He baulks and tries to keep talking, but finds himself unable to. You cross over to the bedside drawer and pick out your newest vibrator; take your time to rig it up to press against his tight arsehole and switch it on.

Crowley shrieks against his gag. You’re sure he’s swearing beneath it.

“Aziraphale, shall we go out for dinner too?”

“Oh that sounds lovely.”

You leave Crowley thrashing in the bedroom. You won’t keep him there all night, of course… but a couple of hours should teach him a lesson.

@bootlmoth @elleofdragons @angelic-anarchy27 @yeethaw13 @candlewitch-cryptic @kwyn-q @rat-that-writes @buryustogether @letthenightingalessingagain @ltlthetrifecta @angiestopit @purplefrog1sblog @wereallbrokenangels @angelspathway @clarina04 @belilwen @chaospossum @eightsdoctor @oo-delallymrcrow @silcosmoke @climbingivy97 @live-logs-and-proper @project-sad @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @imagination-phantom @anonymously35 @corgis04 @peytonpenguin37 @catlynharper @unabashedgentlemenpirate @wolfe-houler @darktealrat @mxxny-lupin @willbedecided @detectiveapparatiagreen @shadowluna25 @kaylinelizabeth4004 @xquinn-bartonx @blue-bell22 @foolishprincipalitee @fandomawesomeness @eweweweewewe @latersgaters-steven @llamaproblem @night-affiliate @randompost18 @hunterispunk @jessica-laufeysdottir @uxcaran @bunnymallowo @jae-michael @jelly-terror @larkiesparkie

#aziraphale x reader x crowley #crowley x reader x aziraphale #Fic: the light the dark and the spaces inbetween #avo’s kt 23

86 notes · View notes

thebigbiwolf · 1 year ago

Text

Starvin' Darlin - Chapter 2

Pairing: Not quite friends to lovers Astarion x OC/F!Tav

Chapter Summary: Seeing Evelyn with Gale stirs up some unfamiliar and VERY unwelcome feelings in Astarion. And for some reason, she graces him with a midnight visit. I'm terrible with summaries but here's what's in store for you:

* A bit of possessive!Astarion if you squint

* More pining

* More biting

* Deep DEEP emotional constipation (my personal favorite)

Fic Tags: Minor spoilers for Act 1, The Bite Scene, Emotional slow burn, Angst, Teasing, Frottage (god I'm sorry), Pining, This is my first ever fic so idk how to tag things appropriately but you get the gist.

Fic Warnings: Eventual Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubcon (I cannot stress this enough), Bloodlust/Loss of control, Mentions of blood, lmk if you need anything else tagged.

Read on AO3: Here

Word Count: 5k

A/N: School and life have been kicking my ass but I finally got around to finishing this chapter and I couldn't wait to post it! I'm having so much fun writing in Astarion's POV. Huge thank you to my bestie @imaginarydromedary for being the best beta ever and for your endless patience with me.

The morning that follows that fateful night in Evelyn’s tent goes rather well, all things considered.

She approaches Astarion first. A pleasant surprise, considering they could hardly look at each other after he ravaged her the night before.

He looks over the novel he had been skimming, Shanties for the Bitch Queen . Admittedly, not one of his favorites, but reading material was scarce these days. He closes it with a soft thud and rises to meet her, all pleasant smiles and perfectly coiffed hair.

“Good morning.” he says, a curious tilt to his head.

She looks a bit more pale than usual with faded, grim circles forming underneath her eyes. Her bun is a bit unruly, some strands falling into her face and parted by the wine-dark bone of her horns. She either didn’t sleep well or is still reeling from the anemia.

The bruise he administered had spread and darkened, plainly visible even under the black ink of her tattoos. It seems she found no use in hiding it, then. Very well. It’s not like they keep extra scarves laying about the camp, anyway.

“How do you feel?” he asks, gently. He doesn’t mean to provoke her, but his curiosity is getting the better of him, and the slightest hint of shame is beginning to burrow its way into his conscience. Ugh . He thinks he prefers the tadpole.

“A bit woozy.” She responds, “I woke up this morning with the intention of asking you how one usually fares after being drained, but then I remembered,” she stops herself when she realizes what she’s about to say: I was your first. Unspoken, but lingering between them . It makes him want to laugh; A woman with a reputation such as hers acting so bashful .

“It’ll pass,” he reassures, “Just be glad I’m not a true vampire. A bite from one of them and you might wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self. All of a vampire’s hunger, but few of their powers.”

“Speaking of hunger,” Evelyn says, realizing she’s famished. She turns from him and begins making her way towards the campfire. Finding that only charred logs and old cinders remain, she runs the black tip of her boot through the ashes with the intention of stoking the fire back to life, dust clouding, then dispersing before her.

He follows closely behind, observing. She seems well, all things considered. A bit out of sorts, but nothing a bit of rest couldn’t cure.

“You know, I had considered bringing you an apple,” Astarion starts, hovering by the pit, “Leaving it by your bedside before you rose for the day - ever the gentleman, but,” he clears his throat.

That newly recognizable twinge of something is curling its way back into his chest, causing him to squint in discomfort.

In truth, he didn’t know how she would react to him encroaching on her space. Not after that dreadful attempt on her life. He is a monster, after all. That, and she had already been so insufferably forgiving. Such kindness is likely to reach its end sooner rather than later.

“I - erm, didn’t want to disturb your rest.” is what he finally settles on. Polit , he thinks, Best not overdo it.

“That would have been nice of you.” She says it quietly, more to herself than to him.

“Oh, darling, you have no idea how nice I can be.” The flirtation sneaks its way out of him on an impulse. He’s about to apologize, something he seems to be doing a bit too often for his taste, when out of the corner of his eye, he catches one of their companions making their way towards them.

“It appears we have company.” Astarion sneers, “And here I thought I was going to have you all to myself this morning.”

To the elf’s surprise, most of them were quick to come around to the idea of a vampire spawn slinking about. Especially once they found themselves in the middle of an ambush, and Astarion very quickly made good on his promises to her.

Newfound strength coursed through his body, her blood weaving threads of heat through his veins as if it were his own. His speed was unmatched, cutting down half a dozen goblins before they had a chance to wail.

It was exhilarating .

The day flew by in flashes of red. Despite the many unnecessary stops Evelyn insisted on making to help undesirables, Astarion’s emotional high managed to remain relatively intact. That was, until their group settled in for the night.

As most of the others retired to their tents, the elf prepared for his nightly ritual: sifting through his collection of tomes and selecting one to read under the stars - his favorite way to end the evening.

It was supposed to be perfect. Uneventful. Quiet .

But, there was Gale: lost in thought and muttering to himself, or maybe to the conjured image of some woman’s head floating above his hand. Astarion may have been able to ignore that in itself, but the sound of light footsteps drew his attention.

Evelyn was approaching the wizard.

He scoffs. Of course Gale was showing off in hopes of procuring her attention. The man was practically putting on a damn light show in his desperation. It’s not enough that the wizard eats valuable items they could be using to pawn for coins, but does he really have to be such an unbearable distraction as well?

“Pretty,” he recognizes the word as it leaves her. The sound of their chatter was too faint for it to carry its way to his beautifully pointed ears, but he could just barely read Evelyn’s lips at this angle.

Gale startles, dropping his hand along with his focus. The woman’s visage vanishes. He looks embarrassed, shifting uncomfortably as he no doubt explains himself in some horribly mundane fashion.

Astarion returns to his book, scanning over the page, but the words refuse to settle in his mind. He stares at the ink, willing the sentences to fill his head with anything other than the nonsense unfolding in front of him, but his focus stubbornly remains on the chattering pair.

Gods, he’s talking her ears off.

At any moment, Evelyn will dismiss the man, embarrassing the hells out of him, which will make for an excellent show. That in itself is enough reason to keep watching. But the longer this goes on, the less he’s sure.

She seems to be enjoying their chat, nodding in agreement at Gale’s words, listening to him without so much as a hint of impatience. Gale then steps behind her, a bit too close for the likes of an average, friendly conversation. His chest almost touches the woman’s shoulder as he moves into her space, the cloth of his nightshirt just barely grazing her.

Something within Astarion begins twisting in protest. His thumb runs over the long-forgotten page in circles. The rough texture reminds him that yes, he was supposed to be reading, or at least attempting to look disinterested, but he can't will himself to turn away.

Gale smiles softly down at her, then begins to move his arms in a way that could only be described as a poor imitation of a wounded bird. Purple light emanates in front of the two of them in response. More magic tricks. Of course. As if that would be enough to impress the woman who’s supposedly been at the receiving end of every imaginable courting attempt in Faerun.

Astarion rolls his eyes, content to continue his chapter of The Realm According to Bumpo, before he notices Evelyn following suit, imitating the very same motions. She, however, has a grace about her, unlike the bearded beast at her side. Her movements are quick and decisive, abandoning all flattery for precision. The burst of light emanates from her palms, just as it had for the wizard.

She looks pleased. Elated, even. This is the first time he’s seen her smile since she made a fool out of him in her tent, caressing his body and reveling in its reaction, like he was some sort of toy. Though her expression looks different to him now. He can’t quite place his finger on why.

He swallows, attempting to alleviate the tightness in his throat.

A purple aura starts radiating around them, dancing and swaying in waves, as if the two were surrounded by a flowing channel of lavender, smelling of rosewater; the sun setting over a dark ocean. Even from a distance, the sight pulls at something inside him. An unwelcome ache settles within his chest.

Evelyn turns to the man next to her, unaware that they’ve been drawn closer by the magic enveloping them. She tilts her head back to meet Gale’s gaze. The way he’s looking at her, the flecks of gold in her irises locked with his: deep, brown, and moving, makes Astarion’s skin itch.

He finds himself wondering what color his own eyes were before his transformation. Were they so seemingly honest, so trustworthy in their melanism, before they became what they are now? Sharp, red, and tinted by bloodlust. Wouldn’t they be boring?

“You’re staring.”

He’s pulled from his brooding by the sound of Shadowheart’s observation. He hadn’t noticed her approaching him, distracted by that sickening, sweet smell. “Or has the tadpole gifted you with the ability to telepathically commune with books?”

“I’m simply admiring our wizard’s talents.” Astarion says, dismissing her with a wave, “Making sure all those expensive boots and rings haven’t gone to waste. It would be a pity, wouldn’t it? Unnecessarily sacrificing clothes that may have suited you while you’re having to traipse about in a tin can?”

The cleric snickers, “I see. Is that why you look like a kicked pup? Or, are you upset that your master’s replaced you with a new lapdog?”

He slams the book closed. The sound surprises Evelyn, and the magic surrounding her and Gale dissipates.

He doesn’t dignify Shadowheart with a response, nor does he spare a second glance at the others before retreating to the quiet solace of his tent.

”That wretched little…” He grumbles to himself as soon as he closes the entrance, tossing Bumpo atop the other novels in his collection, all piled haphazardly on the small desk occupying a corner of his living space.

This type of reaction was unusual for him. Astarion would normally be happy to engage in petty banter. The more scathing, the better, but Shadowheart had somehow weaseled her way into a tender area. It left him feeling exposed, and a bit nauseated at the idea of allowing someone so clearly beneath himself, at least in terms of wit, to get the better of him.

Taking a deep breath, Astarion focuses on releasing the tension in his jaw. Best not to let this ruin his entire night, he reasons, before lighting several half-melted candles littering his quarters. Their flames emanate a soft, golden glow, and the process is meditative enough to finish soothing him.

He doesn’t have watch tonight, so he allows himself some extra comfort, removing his shirt before sinking down into the soft furs of his bedroll. Astarion closes his eyes to trance, thinking the extra rest will do him some good, but the image of Evelyn rushes back to his mind - the way her soft lips parted in surprise, realizing her and Gale’s close proximity, and how his gaze flitted down to her mouth in return..

The wizard should be wearing a damn collar around his neck with how she commands his attention. It’s pathetic.

It couldn’t be a matter of coincidence, surely. She must know the effect she has on the man. If Gale harbors feelings for her ( yuck ), even if it were the result of close quarters, Evelyn could use it to her advantage. She had just revealed the effectiveness of similar tactics to him last night, and a powerful wizard would be a powerful ally.

Whereas, Astarion is just… a vampire spawn. Not even a true vampire. A slave. A nobody.

He rubs his face in frustration. The Sharran did have a point. Astarion may have an insatiable appetite, happy to receive all matters of attention from whatever suitors decide to shower him with it, but what about her? What if Evelyn found him less interesting, less worthy of her time and, subsequently, her protection?

No. His ego balks at the suggestion.

Besides, he had felt her lust for him not 24 hours ago. It moved through him as though it was his own, and the taste of her still lingers on his tongue. He heard the hitch in her breath - felt it under his own lips, and reliving the memory still stirs a familiar hunger within him.

Though, they still haven’t spoken about it.

The usually quiet, insecure part of him wonders if she’d just rather forget it altogether. He could empathize with that, at least. It’s easy enough for him to imagine their last encounter may have left her feeling disgusted, used.

Guilt worms its way back into his mind, cozying up right next to his tadpole but oh, so much worse .

He hasn’t felt like this since the beginning of his servitude. He assumed the emotion had been neglected long enough to be left entirely behind him, overshadowed by the threat of whatever new, interesting ways Cazador would think of to torture him at the mere suggestion of disobedience. But here, in the thin veil of safety he’s allowed himself to believe shrouds him, he aches.

It’s unbecoming.

Instead of resting as he should, Astarion isn’t quite sure how much time he spends ruminating on ways to quietly rid the party of Gale, before he hears the faintest rapping at the canvas of his tent.

At first, he believes he imagined it, and gives the noise little consideration before settling back into his trance. But then, he hears it again: quick, rapid tapping. A knock.

It surprises him. He hurriedly moves to stand. In the faint glow of the candlelight, the shadow at his doorstep dances against the closed fabric, smaller than himself and horned. A visit from Evelyn at this hour? Strange.

He undoes the ties and opens his space to her.

Her hair is undone, dark waves falling over her shoulders and obscuring the marks he gave her. She’s wearing the same clothes she wore to bed last night, the very same black breast band. It smells as if it's been washed, though, with no lingering scent of her blood. Her loose, matching trousers settle high on her waist, just above her navel. She looks exhausted.

Being run ragged by the events of the day while also having to contend with a missing pint or two of blood may have had more of a negative effect than anticipated.

Evelyn doesn’t say anything at first, but he catches her eyes glancing at his bare chest before retreating back to his own, cementing themselves there. He raises an eyebrow at her, smirking, and thinks about teasing her. The temptation threatens to get the better of him, but he refrains, not wanting this unexpected visit cut too short. “Need something?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Her stare is unwavering, a commitment worthy of admiration.

“Right this way.” Astarion bows slightly towards her, an arm raised behind him to gesture her inside. She steps past him, careful to not brush against his exposed skin. He closes the entrance behind them, shutting out the ambient noise and drowning them in silence. His space is large enough to accommodate himself and his essentials quite comfortably, but it's infinitely smaller with her here.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you.” there is a hoarseness to her voice. She must have woken up just before making her way over.

“No, actually. I was just catching up on some reading.” Not entirely a lie. He had been reading at several points tonight. “What is it you want to discuss? I’m assuming there’s a reason this couldn’t wait until morning, not that I mind.”

“It's about you.”

Oh. No midnight gossip, then.

"I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to continue feeding you.”

“You’ve been up all night tossing and turning because you're concerned about my eating habits?” he responds, unamused, and crosses his arms.

“I have not been tossing and -” she’s about to argue with him, he thinks, but her exasperation causes her to lose her concentration. She breaks eye contact, distracted by the toned curves of his biceps, then snaps her gaze to the floor. “Would you please put on a shirt?”

“Ha!” His laugh is humorless. “I’d like to think we’re well past the point of propriety. Besides, you're in my tent.”

Evelyn pinches the bridge of her nose. “I knew this was a mistake.”

“Come now, darling. Why are you really here?”

She sighs in frustration, as if he should already know.

“I wanted to talk about last night.”

“Ugh, I’ve already apologized. What more do you want?”

A moment passes in uncomfortable silence. He can practically hear the gears grinding in her head as she searches for the right words, and he'd give anything to reach out with his tadpole and take the unfiltered thoughts from her mind. Instead, he takes pity on her.

“Unless, you’re looking for another nibble?”

It's a joke, a way to clear the tension from the air. Entirely unserious.

She doesn't laugh.

Instead, she looks around the room: first at his assortment of decorative pillows, then to the empty elixir bottles piled in a corner, anywhere but himself. "Well, I - I don’t know.” She clears her throat. “I just figured after today’s performance, it may be for the best.”

Wait. What?

He stiffens, so taken aback by her suggestion that the elf almost believes he’s still mid-trance.

“What?”

“I may be willing to help you again, when necessary.”

She has to be joking.

“You’re joking.”

“No. I’m serious, if it would help.”

“It would.”

“Then, yes.”

They stand almost toe to toe, Astarion once again absorbing her warmth. He hadn’t noticed their height difference the first time they did this, too busy devouring the poor woman like some deranged beast, but it's notable here, on equal footing. Peering up at him, her nose aligns with his collarbones.

"Tonight, then?" she asks.

"Eager, are we?"

She shrugs with indifference, "Just in case we run into any trouble at the goblin camp tomorrow."

The very picture of practicality. What else did he expect?

"Alright, then."

"Alright."

That nagging sensation begins to tug at him again - the very same one he felt as he had stepped out of her tent last night. A weak but unshakeable tension, like a magnet, uncomfortable as it is alluring. The force of it draws his body closer to hers where she stands, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

Underneath her calm exterior, Evelyn’s heart is pounding. Though her breaths are steady, controlled, he can hear it from where he stands. For a moment, those are the only sounds filling the space between them, until the tiefling speaks up.

“You’re tall, for an elf.”

An oddly-timed observation, but a true one. His brother, Petras, was always outwardly envious of him for it. Though, he's not sure why it sounds so flattering coming from her lips.

“How kind of you to notice.”

She scans the room, searching for something, until she spots the table. Her fingers run along the dark ringlets in the wood, tracing the hardened puddles of forgotten wax, until they reach his heaping pile of books. She taps her fingertips on his leather bound copy of Bumpo .

“May I?”

He nods, unsure of what’s been asked of him.

Evelyn gathers the novels in her arms before piling them carefully onto the floor in a few leveled stacks, clearing the space. ”That should be enough room for one of us to sit,” she says, evenly.

Then, there is a heavy silence; anticipation. It hangs in the air thick as smoke, twice as suffocating. She's only taken a few steps from him, but it’s as though she’s crossed an ocean. The distance between them begins to develop its own gravitational pull, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

“Whatever’s most comfortable, dear."

The tiefling nods, then plants herself on the table’s surface, legs hanging over the edge. Evelyn is now eye-level with him, her irises glossy; catching and reflecting what little light dances off the few remaining candles beside her.

She tilts her head at him, expectantly. Her face remains neutral - practiced, as though she feels nothing at all; as if she isn’t trying to drive him mad.

She’s back to playing her little games.

Fine.

Astarion’s posture straightens as he strides towards her, confidently closing their distance. He places his hands at her sides, not quite touching her, but still close enough to feel the heat emanating from her body, even through her clothes.

“Now, where would you like it?” The question sounds innocent enough, but the double meaning is not lost on her.

Her grip tightens at the table’s edge, knuckles whitening.

His head tilts downwards, looming over her like a predator, and the scent of vanilla invades his nostrils. The sweetness settles on his palate before spreading across his tongue, coating it with a rum-like burn. He runs the flavor over the sharp edges of his teeth.

"I could do it here," he whispers, dipping his nose and running the tip of it along her nape. He quietly revels in how she prickles beneath him, her body betraying her feigned indifference.

"Or, here." One of his thumbs trace the flat of her wrist in slow, circular motions, causing the pulse beneath it to flutter.

"Or…" His other hand slides atop her knee, fingers gripping and parting her thighs just slightly…

She snaps them shut.

"Just do it, dickhead."

He hums a laugh.

“As you wish.”

The cool brush of Astarion’s lips on her neck has Evelyn’s heart racing, a frantic drum beating against his ears. It’s just as intoxicating as he remembers, threatening to muddle the edges of his mind. “Just try to keep still for me.” he whispers.

The warning is sincere, but the stubborn woman misinterprets him. Thinking he’s toying with her, she opens her mouth, intent on insulting him, but stops short, whining pitifully when his fangs break the surface of her skin. Her body flinches at the initial discomfort, but otherwise remains virtually motionless; compliant.

Drinking from her now feels like an entirely new experience. This time, he anticipates the raging current - knows how to find his footing. Rather than being ripped under, it feels as though Astarion is floating, enveloped in warmth unlike any he’s ever known. At best, he would imagine it similar to a hug, had he ever been on the receiving end of one.

He begins to lap at the wound to keep it from closing, the press and drag of his tongue drawing out a few small, involuntary twitches from the girl. She’s being so good for him, staying put like she’d been told; fighting her own restlessness, the urge to squirm in place.

If only she would allow him to reward her, to offer his body in exchange for this endless parade of favors, he would take the chance in a heartbeat. It would be so, so easy with her, unlike any miserable encounter he’d been forced into partaking in the last few centuries. He knows he would enjoy her body, along with all the lovely little sounds she would make for him; the temporary bliss.

And it would be a fair price to pay for keeping him safe, fed, and warm .

The mental image has Astarion’s hand moving without his knowledge, too engrossed to notice his own palm caressing the side of her face. His thumb traces the edge of her cheek as he holds her there, allowing the weight of her head to rest against his fingers. Dark strands of hair brush against his knuckles, bringing him back to the present.

He thinks Evelyn hasn’t noticed yet, believes himself safe to correct the mistake without any mutual discomfort.

Which leaves him infinitely more overwhelmed when her smaller hand grazes up the length of his arm, wrapping it around his wrist to keep it in place. Her body relaxes into his touch, seemingly more grounded.

The intimacy is like a punch to the chest.

She’s suddenly too close for comfort. It’s claustrophobic - suffocating, strangling him along with whatever sense he had left, apparently. That damned vanilla, the dizzying scent of her blood -

Air, he thinks, I just need some fresh air.

Astarion pulls away from her, readying an apology and an excuse to swiftly dismiss the woman.

But when Evelyn meets his gaze, the words die prematurely.

She is a vision , freckles dappling her skin like star-covered porcelain, now flushed red from nose to cheeks. The whites of her eyes have gone glossy, dazed and dream-like, tempting him further into her space.

Her tongue darts out to wet her parted lips, the small gesture commanding his attention. He finds himself entirely fixated on them, as if it would take another life-altering, unnatural disaster to pull his focus away.

Evelyn’s lashes flutter in recognition, then she quickly releases his wrist. The residual heat fades before he can appreciate it, leaving him cold once again.

“Oh, sorry.”

“My apologies."

Their speech overlaps, then silence fills the room again, and they are left to stare at each other. His hands suddenly feel much too idle at his sides, itching. He throws on a polite smile, a familiar mask, but the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Astarion has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. His hunger is sated, and he should feel satisfied. He should feel like a new man.

So why, then, does he only feel this intolerable weight in his chest?

Why does his stomach turn at the idea of her so carelessly offering herself up to any vampire spawn, let alone himself , despite the obvious danger?

Why is he so deeply frustrated by her lack of self preservation?

Isn’t this exactly what he wanted; to have her crawling back for more?

He can't help but wonder if this sudden apprehension is part of her little plan: to confuse him, drive him to distraction, then bring him to his knees like every other unfortunate man she’s had in her sights before robbing them and tossing them aside.

Out-seducing a vampire would admittedly be an admirable feat, but why? What could her angle be, when Astarion has nothing to offer her?

“Are you alright? You look… lost.”

He blinks back to the present.

“I - ” He coughs, " Ahem . Yes, dear. Of course.”

Hot, crimson streaks drip down the sharp bone of his chin. He springs into action, away from her unfavorable concern, and grabs his nightshirt from off the floor behind him. He has just the one, beautifully embroidered and sewn back together countless times by his own hands, now being used in place of a common napkin.

Evelyn gasps. The sound is like ice, piercing his chest when he realizes his mistake. The devil’s never seen him without a shirt on before now. Meaning, she had never bore witness to the elaborate poem carved into his back - ugly, raised scars painting his flesh and soiling his otherwise perfectly sculpted muscle.

He regrets not humoring her request to redress earlier.

The elf plays off the noise as if he hadn’t heard it, turning to hand her the clothes and hoping she knows better than to mention anything of it. She silently takes the garment from him and places it where he had bitten her. A blooming red stain soaks into the pale fabric. He’ll have to work on getting it out for the next several days, if it decides to come out at all.

Evelyn finally moves to stand, teetering a bit from lightheadedness. Astarion reaches out to steady her, but she shakes her head, declining.

“I’m okay.”

He retracts his hand. The damned thing’s gotten him into enough trouble tonight already.

“Well then, you should get some rest.”

She scoffs, “Wow, not even a thank you?”

He lowers his voice, practically growling at her, “My dear, if you’d allow me to properly thank you, you wouldn’t be leaving this tent. Maybe not for the next week, if I’m feeling generous.”

A pretty little flush once again spreads across her face. He’s rather pleased with himself, thinking he’s finally stunned her.

“And if you weren’t feeling generous?”

Rising to meet him, then. She is playing a very dangerous game.

Astarion closes what little distance there is left between them and grabs her face by the jaw, grip firm . The force has her stumbling, the back of her thighs meeting the hard edge of the table. Wood digs into her skin as the legs grate loudly against his decorative rugs, shifting from the sudden push.

Evelyn’s eyes shut, brows furrowed and panting as she clutches his forearms to steady herself.

To his wicked delight, she does not pull away.

His thumb drags over her bottom lip. The effort she’s expending not to whine at his gentle touch has him reeling. Her skin burns beneath his palms.

“Then, I’d strip you, tie your limbs to this desk,” he murmurs against her lips, before tilting to whisper his confession hot in her ear.

“And you wouldn’t be leaving this tent. Ever . ”

He abruptly releases her, turning away and waving her off.

“Now, go. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Not sparing the woman a glance, he begins gathering his books and setting them back onto the table beside her.

She says nothing in response, but he hears her tear open the entrance to his tent and step out into the night.

#bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 astarion #bg3 oc #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate oc #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion romance #astarion x tav #astarion acunin #baldurs gate fanfiction #astarion fanfic #evelyn

84 notes · View notes