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idkyetxoxo · 6 months ago

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Daemon Targaryen - Violent Delights

Summary - She finds solace in the blood of Daemon Targaryen, igniting a dangerous, seductive obsession. What begins as a repayment soon becomes a dark dance of hunger, power, and primal desire. Bound by blood and passion, their fates intertwine in a web neither can escape.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x Vampire reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), strong language

Word count - 2321

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

King's Landing was an unforgiving place, even for creatures like me.

It was a city of secrets and shadows, and tonight I was little more than a wretch crumpled against its cold, unforgiving stone.

The air was thick and cloying, suffused with the acrid scent of sweat, piss, and desperation. My chest heaved with each breath, each inhale a struggle and every exhale a reminder of my hunger—an insidious, gnawing ache that clawed at the edges of my sanity.

I tried to push the weakness away, willing myself to think clearly, but every ounce of my being screamed for the sustenance I had been denied for too long.

I needed sustenance. And I needed it soon.

"Well, well... what do we have here?" A voice, low and edged with dark amusement, pierced through the haze.

A figure crouched before me, his presence commanding and unmistakably dangerous. I lifted my eyes, taking in the cloaked silhouette. Even through my weakened state, I recognized him.

The silver hair, though half-hidden beneath his hood, glimmered in the dim torchlight.

And then there were his eyes—piercing violet, like shards of polished amethyst. They assessed me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

Daemon Targaryen.

"Too much drink, is it?" he drawled, his lips curving into a mocking smile. His words, laced with mockery, cut through the night, but I could sense a glimmer of interest behind his arrogance.

I managed a weak shake of my head, every movement sending a wave of weakness through my limbs.

"Not enough," I rasped, the words heavy, a desperate plea hidden beneath their weight.

Each syllable felt like gravel scraping my throat, a reminder of how far I had fallen.

His brows furrowed, and for a moment, I saw something flicker across his face—an emotion too fleeting to name. I could smell his blood, intoxicatingly rich and metallic.

It sang to me, calling out with a promise of strength and power.

"Help me," I rasped, the plea torn from my throat. His eyes narrowed, but he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to pull me upright. The veins in his arm flexed under his skin, teasing me with every heartbeat.

So close, yet still so far.

"And what is it you require, stranger?" he asked, his voice a blend of amusement and suspicion, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I caught the faintest scent of his breath—smoky and spiced with wine, the scent of power and indulgence. It only fueled the frenzy building inside me.

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to draw in a steadying breath. When I opened them again, they were no longer clouded with weakness.

Without hesitation, I bared my fangs and sank them into his exposed arm. His blood flooded my senses, a rush of life and fire.

He gasped, his body tensing as he tried to pull away, but I clung tighter, desperate for every drop of his divine blood.

The taste was unlike anything I had ever known—powerful, pure, and exhilarating.

It flowed into me with a molten heat, filling every crack, every dark corner, and rekindling the strength I'd almost forgotten.

With newfound strength, I pushed him back, straddling him and tightening my hold. My hunger was raw and insatiable, and I drank deeply, feeling the energy surge through me.

Each pulse of his blood was a symphony in my veins, a whisper of promises I had long forgotten.

Finally, I pulled away, gasping for breath. My body thrummed with power, the world no longer spinning but sharpened and bright.

Daemon's eyes were wide with shock, his face pale. He cradled his wounded arm, staring at me as if I were a nightmare made flesh.

"W-what?" he stammered, struggling to form words as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.

I met his gaze with calm intensity, a faint smile playing on my lips. "What, indeed?" I said, letting the words hang in the air. "You didn't strike me as one who scares so easily."

His jaw clenched, and he shifted, never taking his eyes off me. "You misunderstand me," he shot back, his voice hardening. "I don't scare. I want answers."

I moved closer, the flickering torchlight casting shadows on both our faces.

"Answers you might not be ready to hear." I reached for his arm again, this time not to bite but to touch the wounds left behind.

"That taste—my taste—lingers, Just as yours does for me," I said softly, letting my voice drop to a dangerous whisper.

I stepped back, pulling my cloak around me, concealing the evidence of what had transpired. My lips were still slick with his blood, and I licked them clean, savouring the lingering taste.

"I will be back to repay the favour one day," I promised, my voice steady now, carrying the weight of a vow.

"H-how? Wait, what?" he demanded, his voice cracking as he tried to push himself upright. But before he could rise, I melted into the darkness, the shadows swallowing me whole.

I left him there, alone and reeling as if I had never been there at all.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

A week passed, each day blurring into the next, yet every second a slow torment of yearning.

It was time to return the favour—or so I told myself. The truth was far more selfish: I craved the taste of his blood.

Not just any blood, but the rich, forbidden taste of his royal blood—a sweetness that put all this city's wretched veins to shame.

I entered the Keep as if the shadows themselves parted for me, slipping through corridors that should have been guarded and forbidden.

Stone walls whispered old secrets, but they kept mine well enough.

I moved with silent purpose, each step drawing me closer to the chambers of the one who had unwittingly captured my desires.

There, in the dim glow of flickering candlelight, I found him. He looked up from the parchment scroll that occupied his hands, his stormy eyes widening, then narrowing with recognition.

His grip faltered; the scroll tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

"You," he spat, his voice a dagger, as he surged to his feet.

"Me," I replied, a wicked grin stretching across my lips. I crossed the room with feline grace, settling onto the edge of his bed as though it were a throne. My gaze never wavered from his.

The distance between us seemed vast and yet insignificant, charged with all that had passed and all that might yet come.

"You drank my blood," he said, each word dripping with accusation. He thrust out his arm, baring faint bite marks that had not yet fully healed, their scars a fading testament to our last encounter. "Like some cursed witch."

I tutted softly, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back with an almost bored elegance.

"Not a witch," I corrected, my voice as smooth as silk. "Vampire, to be precise."

The word hung in the air, heavy with implications and truths he could barely grasp.

He glared suspicion and fear warring with each other in his eyes. "It makes no difference. Why are you here?"

I rose slowly, each movement calculated, predatory. "To repay the favour, of course."

I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, my fingers finding his wrist. I traced the lines of his veins with a touch that promised both pain and pleasure.

He shuddered beneath my fingertips, and I felt the quickening of his pulse.

"And," I leaned in, my breath brushing against his ear, "to savour another taste." I bit gently on his lobe, teasingly, before pulling back just enough to watch the conflict raging within him.

"What kind of repayment is this?" he challenged, though his voice trembled.

"The kind you'll never forget," I whispered, letting my lips linger near his jaw. "You didn't hate it last time."

Daemon's breath was quickening. I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes, but something else lingered there too—something darker, more primal.

The pull between us was undeniable, even if he was too proud to admit it.

He didn't resist as I led him to the bed, nor did he speak as I guided him down. The disbelief in his eyes was almost endearing—his honour and desire battling for dominance.

I stripped him slowly, deliberately, savouring the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his muscles.

When at last he lay bare before me, I discarded my own cloak, letting it fall to reveal everything he had once dared to want.

"So, you drink blood?" His voice was a thin thread of control, an attempt to anchor himself in reason.

I traced a fingertip along his lips, then down to his throat, feeling the rapid flutter of life just beneath the surface.

"You make it sound like a sin," I murmured, my voice low and seductive. I pressed my body against his, grinding slow and sensuous, stealing the breath from his lips.

"It feels like a sin," he countered, but the words lacked conviction.

I smiled, my hips moving with tantalizing precision. He inhaled sharply, surrender written across every line of his body.

"Will you let me repay the favour?" I whispered, threading my fingers through his hair, my nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

His hands, strong and desperate, gripped my waist, urging me onward.

"Y—yes," he stammered, then found his voice, steadier this time. "Yes." His eyes closed, and I saw him give in, surrendering to this dance of shadows and desire.

I lifted my hips, allowing him to align us, sinking down with a slow, deliberate rhythm that left us both gasping.

Each movement was a calculated dance of seduction, my body responding to his with an intimacy honed over centuries, each rise and fall a new form of temptation.

The warmth of his hands on my skin was like fire, igniting every nerve with an electric pulse.

He groaned a sound that made my heart race, and I drank in the noise as deeply as I craved the taste of his blood.

The raw, primal need in his voice sent a tremor through me, feeding something dark and insatiable within.

"That's it, darling," I coaxed, my voice velvet and dark, each syllable wrapping around him like a chain, pulling him deeper into the web we were creating.

He met me thrust for thrust, our bodies entwined in a slow-burning fire that felt both ancient and new.

His hands roamed, desperate to claim, desperate to remember the shape of me—every curve, every sigh, every whisper.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he moaned, his voice thick and ragged, breaking like waves on the shore.

His hands gripped me desperately, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself to something solid while I moved above him with effortless grace, pushing him closer to the edge.

I revelled in the rawness of his touch, the way he could never seem to get close enough.

When at last I bared my fangs, his eyes widened in recognition, the flash of vulnerability only adding to the allure.

But there was no hesitation, no fear. He made no move to stop me, only leaned into the inevitable, as if he had already surrendered himself to the hunger that pulsed between us.

"Let me taste," I purred, my voice thick with the promise of something ancient, something that went beyond desire.

He tilted his head, his throat exposed to me like an offering, a gesture both submissive and regal.

In that moment, I owned him, but in his eyes, there was a fire that begged me to take everything.

With a sigh, I sank my fangs into him, and the taste of his blood flooded me, hot and intoxicating—a surge of power and pleasure so potent it made me gasp.

The sweetness of him, rich with the bitterness of rebellion and the depth of his lineage, took me deeper into a frenzy of need.

His blood was a drug, and I was helplessly addicted, each swallow a deeper pull into something I knew could consume me entirely.

The strength of him surged through me, and with every thrust, every movement of our bodies, I became wilder, more desperate.

His blood coursed through my veins, lighting every nerve, every cell on fire.

I was drunk on him, and the only thing I could focus on was the taste, the heat, the way his pulse pounded under my tongue.

His moans turned ragged, hands clutching, grasping, desperate to pull me closer as if we could become one.

Our movements grew more urgent, more frenzied, driven by the hunger that neither of us could deny. We were tethered in this moment, bound by flesh, blood, and desire.

"More," he whispered, voice raw and needful, the word a command and a plea. "Take more."

And I obeyed, plunging deeper, drinking deeply from the wellspring of him. The heat of his blood heightened every sensation, every thrust, every movement.

We were on the precipice of something beyond pleasure, beyond pain—two souls tangled in the ebb and flow of hunger and release.

We reached the peak together, cries of ecstasy tearing from our lips, our bodies shaking with the force of it.

Time seemed to stand still as the world shattered and reassembled around us, each breath mingling, becoming one.

His blood, his body, his voice—all of it melded together in a wave of overwhelming pleasure.

Spent and sated, I withdrew, licking away the last traces of his blood, savouring the feeling of him inside me—both physically and in every sense deeper than that.

I wiped my mouth, the taste of him lingering on my lips, and eased off his body, lying beside him with a quiet satisfaction.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

The silence that followed was thick with meaning, the weight of secrets shared and desires fulfilled—of something deeper stirring between us, an unspoken understanding that we were bound in a way neither of us could deny.

And even though we lay there, satiated for the moment, I knew that this—what we had just shared—would inevitably bring us together once more.

A/n - I finished writing 'Blood of the Night' for Aegon and had to write this 🤭

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #team black #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #hotd daemon #prince daemon targaryen #the rouge prince #daemon targeryan

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inkytoru · 2 months ago

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LUST AT FIRST BITE ── ᵎᵎ ✦ ꒰ sylus ꒱

PAIRING: vampire!sylus x f!reader WORD COUNT: 0.8k A/N: mdni, this work of fiction is 18+. first time writing for this fandom, vampires, and for sylus please be gentle with me 🙏🏼 written for @sugurouge, i hope i did your vision justice!! only content warnings really are just vampirism (biting) and some heavy petting. (edit: i forgor to tag @pixelcafe-network)

“Scared, baby?”

You gulp, throat dry, your blood pumping a bit quicker than usual in your veins.

Sylus’ lips curl up into a smirk as his razor-tipped fangs graze over your pulse point, and his trousers tighten at the way you quiver beneath his gentle yet dangerous touch.

He inhales through his nose; you smelled all like vanilla and everything a sweet girl is while he was leather and something not quite human anymore. Sylus still remembers the night you found out, the tremble in your smaller frame sending blood straight to his cock.

The memory makes him trace hearts into the flesh of your exposed thigh with the tip of his finger.

“No need to be scared. It’s just your boyfriend, Sylus,” he coos, “I’m all yours.”

(You were his obsession just as much as he was yours, and he liked that.)

He remembers how later that same night you, the little lamb that he grew to love, shocked him with how your eyes had hardened with an envy that he wanted to suck out of you. You were the only woman he loved and cherished—not the bags of blood shaped like other women that he’d drink from—he had reassured you.

He even tells you they were all curated, calculated choices by how much they resembled you.

But you want him to prove it; prove his undying love for you and only you by becoming his primary source of sustenance. Hence why you were now flush against the wall caged in by him, wrists now pinned above your head.

With those women, he had said that he’d always make it quick, so as to not trigger the side effect of his saliva. One you were now acquainted with by the way he was lapping at the column of your throat.

It then dawned on you that his saliva acted as an aphrodisiac agent.

You couldn’t help but moan softly at the sudden ebbing and throbbing in your clothed pussy the more he licks at your yielding flesh.

It makes your vampire boyfriend let out an amused chuckle, his breath hot and making you a tad ticklish. But his grip was firm and vice-like.

You weren’t going anywhere, and he tells you so right then and there.

His words do reach you, but a dreamy haze begins to enshroud your mind from the corners, fraying your judgment.

What he didn’t tell you, was that the aphrodisiac properties of his spit also warped the victim’s perception of whoever was feeding upon them— it would typically manifest as the person they held nearest and dearest to their heart, or alternatively, their limerence’s obsession.

Sylus appeared all the same to you, with not a single hair out of place nor a hint of unfamiliarity in those crimson eyes of his that you could swear can penetrate deep into your soul. It was like your soul knew him from somewhere else; it recognized him beyond mortal means.

(You would tell him this after, and he’d only smile at you with a knowing glimmer in his eye.)

“I wonder what is going through that pretty little head of yours right now, hm?” he muses, aforementioned eyes of the reddest pools of lust and smoke flickering upwards to meet your gaze.

Your next words come out as a whine.

“Sylus, j-just bite me already.”

His expression darkens, his smirk teetering onto predation.

“As you wish, darling.”

And with that, his sharpened canines breach past your stratum corneum, and deeper and deeper into your epidermis.

You gasp just as his knee rises up to slot itself perfectly against your cunt, the material of his slacks grinding into the sensitive nerves there. Additionally, his blunt nails dig into your wrists.

He could tell—feel—you were already soaking wet for him. What a whore, he thought, amused.

Then, he begins to siphon your blood in earnest. The act was done in such a ravenous yet composed manner.

Your own composure melts as you mewl out his name, your eyes beginning to roll into the back of your skull.

He groans into your skin, wanton and heady with desire for you and the most mellifluous blood he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting upon his tongue.

Why hasn’t he done this sooner?

His eyelids flutter shut, your ecstasy starting to seep into his own flesh, a mutual euphoria binding you two together; just like how he was pressing himself further into you with not only his teeth but his body.

(It was almost as if he was trying to devour you whole.)

Sylus’ cock was straining horrendously in his pants. He would’ve growled something fiercely guttural and carnal if his mouth wasn’t full of you right now.

You keen as your blood surrenders to him instantly; docile, just like the rest of you. All of you, at his mercy.

This intimacy and vulnerability was something he now craved more of. He had just been scared before—scared of how you’d react to his true nature.

But, you think to yourself: you wouldn’t have him any other way.

#✦ ˒ ៸៸ my writings #✦ ˒ ៸៸ sylus #✦ ˒ ៸៸ love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #sylus x non mc #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #lads x reader #lads x you #lads x y/n #female reader #afab reader #sylus x female reader #cw biting #cw blood

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whinelo · 22 days ago

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Okay but hear me out.

What if... X's signifact other/spouse/whatever is convenient for the prompt adopted Cyan?

Imagine instead of X dropping a coin for her, it's reader who runs into the small child and decides to adopt her.

I mean look at her! She was crying, her socks were ripped and she had no shoes! Clearly an abandoned child begging to be adopted.

Cue X returning late from work, wanting nothing more than to cuddle reader instead of dinner, and then freezes at the sight of reader feeding Cyan who's happily eating away. (poor baby, feed the child!)

Ah, he knew he'd forgotten something.

X: Hey honey, what'cha got there?

Reader: (brushes Cyan's hair out of her face) Dinner! 😊

A/N : This request was an absolute darling for me, it's honestly yes-- I love it so much! I'll be posting more requests later on this night ( sleep? What is that word? ), so y'know if you guys are reading this ( probably not ) Don't feel shy to send me asks/requests, the creativity- fluff, angst, and possibly more ( ohoho ) these ideas are so wonderful, and I hope that my writing does your guy's ideas justice-- And I'm glad to have the honor of turning these ideas into reality ! <3 without further ado,

CHARACTERS | X ( Bai Xizhuang ),Lucky Cyan ( Cyan ), Reader ( You )

SYNOPSIS | The parental instincts took over you and now you ( unofficially ) adopted a child from the street.

INCLUDES | Found family, fluff, X is the director and forgot about the plot, silliness and whimsy.

Who knew having to meet up with an old acquaintance was incredibly draining? You did. You were drained and incredibly tired, honestly— Maybe you shouldn’t have come here at all, it was dark— it was cold and you were hungry, and heavens knew how much your husband would panic the moment he couldn’t find you at home- you held in a laugh at the silly image you conjured in your mind as you wandered around the empty street.

Running a hand through your hair, a soft sigh escaped your lips— looking over to your wrist, the watch on it automatically turned on and read [ 7:57 P.M ] ‘How early, why’s everything closed already?’ You grumbled hoping to find at least some sort of food to ease your need for sustenance, turning your head from left to right— Until,

“ ♪ Sometimes things may be so tough,

feels like everything’s enough,

but you can’t overcome it,

choose your own gift ♪ “

Turning to another street, you looked around immediately the moment sound hit your ears— And soon enough, the source of the music came from a girl, sitting on the wall- Guitar in hand, sparks of cyan light glowed around the area- surrounding it in its hue, you stopped walking- silently watching the performance; fingers drumming along to the beat as you softly smiled.

‘Wait a second were you intruding on a main character moment— Wait is this why the streets were so empty, oh.. Oh okay. Yeah, okay.’ The thought came into your mind like an intrusive vermin, and then it clicked- the gears and cogs have clicked and a neuron in your brain has been connected— Yeah you were totally intruding on a main character moment, damn.

Now that you think about isn’t this the same situation where some girl sings ‘Fight Song’ on some roof? Shaking your head you quickly turned to look at the girl once more ( although she hadn’t noticed your presence yet, which.. was good to say the least. ) Upon further examination however.. Wait was she crying? Ripped leggings.. and no shoes! Who’s child was this— and why are they out on the streets!?

Mentally gasping— You knew what you had to do— Adopt- Ahem, talk to the child and ask if they have any— what if they’re an orphan? No- no, okay.. Think [ Name ] think!- You used to babysit children.. Right- right! Oh, she looks hungry.. Taking in a breath of determination, you marched on over to the small cyan haired child. Crouching over to her level-

Softly lowering your voice, “ Hey.. Are you alright? You shouldn’t be at places like this alone.. “ Was that welcoming enough? Ugh, hopefully you didn’t sound like a kidnapper- or worse, a creep. You awaited her reaction, and watched as she visibly flinched away from you, shit- did you blew it already?

“ It’s okay, I won’t hurt you- I promise. “ Quickly trying to reassure the child, your eyes softening as you lowered yourself to the ground- scooting away a few more inches so as to not scare her any further.

Looking up at you, “ ..Who are you? “ Mystery child asked, voice full of wary and unease- she held on tightly to her guitar, as if it was the most precious thing to her at this moment; and judging by her behavior, maybe it was- an item that carried value far beyond monetary reason.

Answering her question, “ Just call me [ Name ], now.. are you alright? “ Watching as she looked down, it felt as if tears were about to spill any second from her eyes, she shook her head in ‘no’- trembling, as her lips quivered— A few more seconds passed, and as she was about to answer, you quickly intercepted.

“ It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me anything— It must’ve been hard for you, hasn’t it? “ Slowly reaching your hand out to pat her head, doing an up-and-down motion— And thankfully, this time she didn’t flinch- neither did she push you away, in which you were glad for; inching a bit closer to her,

Tilting your head to the side, “ What’s your name? “ you asked.

It was brief pause- unnoticeable to maybe the average person, but you weren’t- “ .. Cyan.. “ As if hesitant to even say her own name, but nonetheless she still gave you an answer.

Hearing her name, “ Cyan.. “ you hummed, fingers softly treading through her ( un-coincidentally ) cyan threads of hair, you then continued with, “ Do you have anywhere to stay for the night? “ You questioned, hoping that she did actually have a place to rest for the night and if not-

“ .. I don’t. “ Cyan answered, once more looking down sadness enveloping her features— eyes now brimming with ready-to-spill tears, gently pulling her closer to your body as you let sob into your shoulder; Minutes passed and the both of you stayed like that, in quiet- serene peace- Her hiccups died down, as she peeled herself off from you- her face flushed red, as Cyan regained her composure.

Okay so you adopt this child right now, give them a home— and love Cyan unconditionally—

Putting your pointer finger to your bottom lip, “ I see.. Well, if you don’t mind— I have a place a town over, and you can stay with me for the night! “ You cheerfully suggested, removing your hand from her— as you clasped it with the other, in shock- she shook her head once more,

“ No-no! I can’t possibly do that.. “ Cyan quickly rejected, her eyes wide as saucers at the sudden suggestion.

Taking her words into account, you hummed. “ And I can’t leave you out here, tell you what— Think of it as a debt of some sort, you’ll be owing me something- And when the time comes that you can repay me, think of it as debt being payed.. Would that ease your mind? “ In truth you really didn’t wanna do this kind of stuff with a child, you mean- for heavens sake that’s a child— Actually thinking of making her repay for something she deserved to have, ( i.e a roof over her head, food, and water. ) would make you a monster.

Cyan deserved a home, and you’re willing to give her one— and though she might not stay for long, at least— Getting her back on her own feet would give you some peace of mind.

Cyan mulled over your words, before looking back up at you— staring directly into your eyes, “ ..Alright! “ Giving her a grin, you pulled yourself off the ground before offering your hand out for hers to reach- Cyan took it and pulled herself up,

The both of you walked around the town, exchanging words— as you skillfully ( not really, you used google maps ) to locate the nearest station in this area, “ The commute might take.. An hour or so, so why don’t we get you a pair of shoes and— us, a snack? “ It wasn’t a suggestion you were actually going to do it, it’s your wallet and money anyway.

Cyan then brought her hands up, shaking it vigorously- in unison with her head, “ [ Name ]- It’s fine, I swear! You don’t have to—” She vehemently denied,

“ Ah— ssh, ssh! I don’t mind anyway, “ Grinning as you pulled her towards an open shop,

—

X hated overtime, even if it was payed overtime— he still hated it. ( Simply because it meant more hours away from you, the love of his life— The center of his universe, the reason as to why he hasn’t died of diabetes yet. )

But it was now over, his freedom has come at last- embracing him like how water would to a person dying of dehydration in a desert— Speaking of desert, maybe he should buy you a dessert, though maybe he shouldn’t.. Recalling how you scolded him for his ‘overdose’ of sugar a few days ago, in his defense this time— it’s for you anyway, not for him.

Passing by a dessert shop on the way, he knew that with a snap of his finger he could’ve been home in an instant; But with you in his life, he found pleasure in walking around the city— walking pass shops that may pique your interest, and hopefully get you to dote on him more.

And within the corner of his eye— A pastry shop, great. Skipping ( not actually ) over to it, briefcase swinging from side to side. ( Incredibly exaggerated this was how X felt, not what he actually did. ) He entered the establishment with a goal in mind, ‘Make [ Name ] happy,’ The bell rung as he stepped foot inside, walking closer to the display.

And the only dessert that was available were three donuts— One strawberry, decorated with rainbow sprinkles; One the color mint although oddly flavored chocolate, with clover decorations; and the last, bavarian flavored with pearl decorations—

He then bought it all out.

The store clerk gave him a ‘thank you’, and he took the paper bag— Left the place, and teleported back home.

Oh how he missed you, how he wanted to breath in your scent- and why does it feel as if he forgot something..? Something.. cyan.. Pushing the thought back into the depths of his mind, he was now faced with the door of your home— Getting his keys from his pockets and inserting it into the door knob.

The feeling as if he forgot something important was now gnawing at him, but he doesn’t care! His lover is at the other side of the door and the moment X snuggles into your arms, yes.

“ [ Name ]! I’m home! “ He called out, taking off his shoes as he entered your shared home.

Now something felt really wrong, really- wrong.

Dropping his briefcase at the living room- the sweet aroma of freshly cooked dinner wafted into the home, and entered X’s nostrils— Perfect timing, as he walked into the kitchen.. He froze.

X stiffened the moment his eyes landed on you— and Cyan happily talking at the dinner table, you seemed to notice his presence right away- “ Oh sweetheart! There you are, come- come, “ You ushered him into the table, simultaneously brushing off a loose strand of hair on Cyan’s face.

“ Hey honey, what'cha got there..? “ He nervously voiced out, you then turned to look at him before answering- “ Dinner! “

Now he remembers.

He fucking forgot Cyan.

#tbhx x reader #to be hero x #tu bian yingxiong x #hero x x reader #hero x #lucky cyan x reader #凸变英雄x x reader #凸变英雄x #tbhx #lucky cyan

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roguishcat · 4 months ago

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The Best Laid Plans

Summary: Even the best laid plans may go wrong. Admittedly, Astarion's plan hadn't been that great to begin with. Part 2 of 'Part of His Plan'.

Pairing: Astarion x unnamed female Tav

Word count: 4k

Tags: Romance, Astarion is bad at feelings, Unnamed female Tav, Angst, Tooth-rotting fluff, Romance and feels

A/N: This story has a wonderful beta!! Thank you so much @preciouslittlebhaalbae! 💖💖💖 You are an absolute gem and the loveliest person ever for doing this! 🫂Thank you for your patience and kind suggestions! (because I'm a silly person who can't spot even obvious mistakes and @preciouslittlebhaalbae has the patience of a saint). You might remember me posting snippets from this back in January, so this is my second finished WIP for @thekindredcollective BG3 Spring Cleaning!

Hope you enjoy the story and please let me know what you think! 💖💖 Comments, likes and reposts are always loved! 💖💖

Tav had a shadow and its name was Astarion.

She didn’t notice immediately. She was far too concerned with saving Thaniel, breaking the curse, helping every single one of their companions on their personal quests, and combating the mindless creatures wanting to murder them from the moment they stepped out of the dome protecting the Last Light Inn.

At first, Tav thought that she was just imagining it. Because every time she looked up, she seemed to glimpse silver curls, feel feather-light touches of cool fingers on her neck, all but taste rosemary, bergamot and brandy on her tongue. This lasted only a moment, yet a moment was all he ever needed to leave a lasting impression on her.

At some point, Astarion seemed to decide to stop bothering to pretend that he wasn’t following Tav around, his ruby eyes all but boring holes into her back as he watched her closely.

Now, this wasn’t the first time that Astarion acted somewhat uncanny. Perhaps two hundred years of being forced to do someone’s bidding did that to an elf. Either way, Tav didn’t want to offend Astarion. So she chose not to comment on how odd his behaviour was.

However, the longer they travelled, the more Astarion seemed to insert himself into every situation, making sure that he was at her side at all times. She would round a corner and bump into his leather-clad back. Walk down the stairs and he was already waiting for her, tapping his foot in an impatient manner as he scowled at whoever was walking behind her at the time.

Finally, when she almost tripped over him, Tav decided to ask Astarion about it.

"Astarion, is there something you want?"

"Me? Why would you ask such a thing, my sweet?" Astarion said with a crooked smile, and Tav noticed how tensely he held himself. A coil waiting to spring upward at a smallest tap.

"Well.. Lately, I've noticed that you’ve started to… hover."

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say. His expression shuttered and he took a step back.

“And I take it that you’d rather I didn’t, is that it?”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I -”

"If you do not wish for my company, you can just come out and say so! Send me back to camp to wallow in misery as Gale attempts to engage me in decidedly unengaging conversation," Astarion all but hissed at her.

Astarion regretted snapping at her almost immediately. He knew that it was uncalled for. Tav was nothing but kind and accommodating. But he couldn’t help the bitterness he felt when seeing her treat everyone else with the same thoughtfulness, the same caring. Was her protecting him nothing but an obligation? Was Tav offering her neck to him time and time again something that she would have done for any soul that needed sustenance? To him, it seemed that lately she led without making sure that he followed. Was whatever they shared coming to its logical conclusion sooner than he anticipated?

"I didn't say that I don't want you around," Tav frowned and took a careful step towards him, trying to mitigate the conflict before they started arguing in earnest. "I just want to make sure that everything is alright."

"As is your duty, my fair leader. To check up on any and all lost causes that seek your company, hm?"

Tav wasn’t sure exactly what he meant. His words felt cruel, though, and she felt herself flush.

"Sometimes I don't understand what you want from me, Astarion.”

He winced at how hurt she sounded. Another, better adjusted person, would be quick to apologise. Blame it all on being tired and frazzled, suggest with a rueful smile that the shadows were getting to him. Yet, Astarion only watched as Tav walked past the rest of the party. Shadowheart and Karlach, who had been standing nearby, choose not to comment on the exchange.

He'd rather have one of them punch him than have them silently disapprove. At least then he’d pretend he was angry at his companions rather than himself. Anger was familiar territory. Fear was nothing new. Whatever he felt now was a different, unfamiliar brand of torture.

An hour later Astarion found himself nervously pacing up and down his tent. Or at least doing something as close to pacing as he could in such cramped quarters. His thoughts a flurry of worries and poorly supressed insecurities, Astarion had no idea how to fix this mess. He wasn’t even sure why he was so worried about it in the first place.

By now he knew Tav well enough to be certain that she would not banish him. She would not do that to any of them without just cause. And no matter how unreasonable and hurtful he had been, she would not leave him to die.

So why did he want to fix this so badly? Surely not because he was worried that whatever this was, whatever tentative trust he’d managed to establish between them, would be over come morning once she had some time to think? Because even someone as forgiving as Tav had her limits. She was kind and warm, accepting and generous; but she was no fool.

Astarion stopped abruptly and put his arms around himself.

He had to fix this. Somehow.

Turning to his trunk, he lifted the lid and rummaged around, digging up the bottle that he was saving for a special occasion. Grovelling for his lover to forgive him seemed like special occasion enough.

Then Astarion spent an age making sure that he looked his best. After all, presentation was half the victory!

Thus primped and primed - and carrying a peace offering - Astarion stalked through the night, making sure to avoid his campmates. He really did not feel like getting some unsolicited advice from anyone for the time being.

Standing in front of the tent, he suddenly felt nervous. A strange, sick feeling in his stomach, he found he was unsure if he wanted to know what Tav would say to him.

Taking a breath he didn’t need, Astarion plastered his best smile on his face and moved the tent flap aside.

"Dearest, how about we both choose to be adults about this and make up, hm?"

"Sure," Tav said without looking up from whatever she was doing, effectively dismissing him. Clearly, it was 'thanks for the half-baked apology', but 'no thanks' to spending an evening together. Choosing to soldier on against all odds, Astarion pretended that he could not read her body language and sat down beside her on the bedroll.

"Now... Can I tempt you with some wine? Or perhaps with some other… delights?" Astarion drawled seductively, fingers dancing down the wine bottle’s curved side.

He was a vision and he knew it. Hair coiffed just so, shirt slightly loose and showing off more alabaster skin than usual. It was a very tempting sight, if only Tav were in the mood to be tempted.

She didn’t even look up.

"I'm a little busy right now."

Astarion fought back a scowl. He was finding that maintaining a charming façade was quite a challenge when Tav was so decidedly against playing along. Yet, he was not about to give up. Oh, he would not be ignored so easily! He didn’t spend an age getting ready, thinking of what he was going to say, and bringing the bottle of wine that Shadowheart squirreled away, just to be turned down. He would not spend the night alone in his own tent!

Astarion chuckled breathily. "Aren't you always? Which is why you should really let your hair down once in a while,” he dropped his voice an octave, inching towards her. “Live a little, whilst there is still living to be done."

There was a pause, and he would hold his breath if he still needed to draw it.

"Fine," Tav sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Wine, please."

"And whilst you are enjoying a goblet or two, I will fix that tear in your shirt I noticed earlier."

"You don't have to."

"But I want to. Allow yourself to be the one taken care of, for once. Or are you truly that upset with me that you would rather have to walk about with that tear?"

"I'm not upset with you. I'm angry with myself."

Now that was a development that he could not have foreseen. Angry with herself? Whatever had she done?

"Care to share why?"

"Not really."

It seemed that Tav definitely was not in the mood to make this easy for him. Luckily, he knew just how to engage her in conversation.

"And here I thought that we would play that question game you are so fond of! Go on, dearest. Question for question, as is our way."

Ah, finally a little smile for his efforts.

"I suppose.”

Tav took a sip from her goblet, eyes widening when she realised that the wine was actually pleasant. Honestly, did she really think that he wouldn’t bring something half-palatable?

"That's the enthusiastic answer I was hoping for! Now come on, off with your shirt."

Tav put her wine down and pulled the fabric of her shirt up, his eyes following the ascent as soft skin was revealed inch by tantalising inch. He ignored the unbidden, surprising urge to put his lips onto her neck, not to feed but to taste.

Tav handed him the shirt and as their fingers brushed, Astarion was glad that she wasn’t in any hurry to get away from him, allowing him to hold her hand in his.

“So um… same as last time? A question for a question?”

She moved her hand, leaving his digits to cool once her warmth was gone.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “that seems reasonable.”

Tav stood up to get the sewing kit and a spare shirt. This gave him ample opportunity to admire her now that her back was turned. One wouldn’t want to be accused of staring! She slid the shirt on quickly, scars disappearing under the simple cloth, making him once again wonder what the story behind those was.

Tav was usually so forthcoming, answering questions without much hesitation or worry. He could understand why someone would be hesitant to talk about scars, but by the gods was he curious to find out the story behind hers!

Seeing that he probably was still in the proverbial doghouse, Astarion decided to start small.

“What is your favourite thing to eat?”

Tav looked at him over her shoulder as she adjusted her clothes.

“I’m surprised you want to know something so boring.”

“My sweet, when it comes to you, nothing could be boring,” he purred, putting his goblet to his lips and looking at her over the rim in a way that had made hundreds swoon.

Tav smiled and sat down on her bedroll, but otherwise did not seem to be affected by his act of seduction. How annoying.

“Well, whilst Gale’s efforts to make something edible out of whatever we manage to come across is close to miraculous, I do miss Baldurian Mash.”

Seeing the look on his face, Tav giggled, “Too common for your tastes?”

“On the contrary!” Astarion laughed. “I am quite sure that I too enjoyed something like this back when… well. Back when I could enjoy the taste of food.”

Tav’s face softened as he muttered the last part. Astarion shifted uncomfortably and took a gulp of his wine. Damn her and that look! Who even looked at people like that! Only Tav did, in his experience.

“As we are on the subject of food, why did you choose me to snack on? Surely others looked just as appealing?” Tav teased.

The truth was at the time he had already known enough about Tav to put his faith in her, to trust her to at least listen to his explanations. He had been almost certain that the others would strike him down for even attempting to come near their necks. Lae’zel would have probably skinned him alive, given the chance. Even now she occasionally questioned whether he was useful enough to keep around.

Astarion poured her more wine, thinking about the best way to answer her question.

“Perhaps you simply looked delicious enough for a predator such as myself to want to take a bite,” Astarion flirted without looking away, attempting to ascertain her mood.

Tav’s lips quirked into a smile and she took a sip of her wine.

“Or perhaps you had already established your reputation as a do-gooder, unable to turn away anyone imploring you to help them. Pick whichever reason you like, dearest,” Astarion shrugged.

Tav gave him a look that made Astarion both nervous and excited. Not exactly a combination a seasoned professional such as he could afford to feel. Maintaining his cool was crucial, he reminded himself. He could not afford to lose focus. Eyes on the prize and all that. The prize being Cazador's head on a silver platter, of course. Not the love of the woman in front of him. Or something equally ridiculous.

“What are you thinking of doing once our adventure is over? Assuming we don’t all die in some horrible manner.”

“I'm not sure," Tav started, "I might stay in Baldur’s Gate for a while. Assuming my house is still intact.”

“You’re from Baldur’s Gate?”

“Yes. Is it so hard to believe?”

“Hah! And I here I was, thinking that you were a country girl through and through. Meeting each sunrise and sundown in some picturesque little village where all the neighbours call each other by their names.”

Tav huffed and moved to punch his biceps without putting much force behind it.

“Oh, don’t get angry.” Astarion caught her fist and put his lips to her knuckles, fangs moving across skin without breaking it. “It’s a compliment, if anything.”

“I will choose to take it as one.” Tav gave a little laugh and pulled back, making Astarion release her hand.

Perhaps he worded it in a way that did not necessarily sound like praise, but he just could not believe that someone as kind and warm as Tav could be a Baldurian. In spite of being thoroughly and repeatedly defiled by him, she still carried that air of sweetness about her. And whilst this irritated him initially, it was… nice. Pleasant to be around someone who did something for others without any ulterior motive. Just out of the goodness of her heart. It was quite frankly a miracle that she hadn’t been killed yet.

Thinking about her mortality had him taking a furtive glance at her side, where the worst of her scars were.

“About your scars, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, how did you get them?”

Tav’s fingers clutched her goblet a little tighter before she caught herself and made a show of wanting to put it down by the bedroll without tipping it over on the uneven surface.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not much of a story. Just a silly girl falling in love with the wrong person only to find out he was using me for his own gain. So, you are right, in a way. Perhaps I wasn’t quite made to live in the city.”

It wasn’t much, but the way her shoulders hunched, her pained expression, her looking at anything but him felt… wrong. To Astarion, Tav was annoyingly righteous, stupidly brave, incredibly stubborn, frustratingly selfless. She was all that and so much more. She deserved better from the world and seeing her look so small made him want to hurt something.

“About earlier…” Tav began tentatively.

“My words were uncalled for. I apologise. I didn’t-”

He wanted to say that he didn’t mean any of it. He wanted to tell her that he just found himself hating that she gave her precious attention to anyone else when he wanted it for himself. He wanted to tell her many things. Naturally, he didn’t say any of them.

“I know. Which is why I was angry at myself. We are all under so much pressure, it’s a wonder that we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats.”

“I was disappointed with myself for thinking that you were like him,” Tav picked her goblet up and took a sip. “Because at that moment, I looked at your face and I saw a spectre that haunted my waking days. And it was wrong of me to assume that you were like that. So, I’m sorry too.”

Astarion felt like someone sucker punched him. Hells, he’d rather she did punch him. Pain he could take. He was used to pain over the years. But this- this raw honesty, the way she looked at him when she said that, the faith she was placing in him-

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Astarion? Are you okay?”

He was not. Because this was wrong. His nice, simple plan had backfired so spectacularly and in a way he could never have imagined.

Shit.

She was waiting for an answer.

“Yes, of course, dearest! Why wouldn’t I be? We made up! I am well, you are well. All is well,” Astarion put both of their goblets of wine away and then moved towards Tav with an intense look in his ruby eyes.

“Just perfect.” Astarion whispered the last part and pressed his lips to hers to stop Tav from asking any more questions.

Astarion lowered Tav onto the bedroll, one hand behind her head, the other on her hip. Slowly, taking his time to savour the softness of her skin, he trailed his fingers up. The fabric of her shirt bunched as his hand traced the contours of her body and settled just below her breast.

“Are you sure?” He felt warm breath against his lips as they broke apart.

Instead of replying, Astarion put his mouth on Tav’s neck, fangs grazing sensitive flesh, her heartbeat strong in his ears. Her blood called to him, but he didn’t dare bite.

He would tell her everything. And he would tell her soon. Because the thought of him being in any way like that vile man who dared to use her and scar her, to put that dejected look on her face, was something that Astarion could not bear.

His movements grew more frantic as he removed the last of the barriers between their bodies, wanting, needing to do enough that she would stay.

Because whilst he didn’t want to examine his feelings for Tav too much, not daring to hope for anything, he was terrified of what the consequences of his deception would be.

When Tav opened her eyes the next morning, Astarion was still in her tent, his deft fingers moving with precision and making quick work of the tear in her shirt.

“Good morning,” she murmured, pushing her messy hair out of her face. Gods, she must truly look a sight.

“Good morning, my sweet,” Astarion replied without looking up, seemingly too focused on his task to pay her much attention.

Tav didn’t expect Astarion to still be here in the morning. Not that she wanted him gone. On the contrary, his staying the night was nice. The thought that he wanted to stay made her blush.

Except Tav had a small problem now. She had to get dressed and Astarion was still here. She could hobble about with her bedsheet wrapped around her body, but she would probably just end up falling forward like a graceless lump. And that was less than ideal when one was in the company of the most attractive, stunning elf.

Astarion seemed to be busy enough not to pay her any attention. And Tav hoped that she didn’t look as horrible with her hair sticking up oddly and pillow lines on her face. She quickly brushed it back and tried to tame it by running her fingers through it.

And then she saw a ghost of smirk on those mocking lips. Oh, he knew what she was doing. And he was laughing at her! That ass. That gorgeous, beautiful bastard! She would show him!

Thus, filled with a strong resolve – that is to show Astarion that he could not have her flustered and stuttering over just a smirk - Tav turned around and rose, stretching her muscles in a feline manner that had ruby eyes following her every move. Astarion’s pupils dilated and his nostrils flared, one fang worrying his lower lip.

“How are you feeling this morning?” He gave his work a quick glance before cutting the thread.

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and ready to infiltrate Moonrise Towers, actually.” Tav quickly (but not too quickly!) dressed and went at her hair with a comb.

“Hm, seeing as how little sleep you got last night, I’d thought you would be postponing that little outing of ours.” Astarion delighted in a little squeak she gave as she dropped her comb.

“Well, I’m fine. But if you are too tired to come with us today, perhaps I can ask someone else to accompany me.”

“Someone else? Perish the thought lest you wish to perish!” Astarion rose in one graceful movement, taking a step and then another towards her. “Who can possibly watch your back better than yours truly?”

“No one can,” Tav conceded easily. She felt cool fingers on her waist as Astarion handed her the mended shirt.

“Thank you.”

“Darling, the only thanks I need is you not leaving me behind today,” he gave a breezy, lilting laugh, wondering if acting nonchalant would be enough to convince himself that her answer did not matter to him.

Please, don’t ever leave me behind.

“I wouldn’t.”

Because I’d rather take a chance on you than wonder what could have been had I been braver.

“Wise. Having Gale try his hand at picking locks could only end in disaster.”

I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got hurt.

“Oh, can you imagine! No, we need your magic touch and sneaky ways to make sure we are undetected,” she teased him and his eyes were momentarily drawn to the dimples on her cheeks. He wanted to kiss them, then make his way down the column of her neck, and then lower still until she couldn’t tell him to stop.

They were still holding the shirt, fabric bunching as fingers moved closer. Astarion let go of cloth, hesitant fingertips brushing against warm knuckles as Tav looked at him in a way that he had thought he caught her look at others.

And yet…

Perhaps it was simply a trick of the light. Or his mind playing games with him. Just wishful thinking on his part. But Astarion could not help but think that there was something more between them. Something precious and beautiful that bloomed to life among all the carnage and horror that was his life.

“Tav?” He swallowed nervously.

“Yes?”

“I-”

“Breakfast is ready!”

Saved by Gale, out of all people.

And yet…

Astarion felt a wave of disappointment as he watched Tav quickly put on her shirt, the magic of the moment broken, and they were thrust harshly back into their reality.

And yet…

When Tav took his hand and led him out of the tent, her thumb tracing circles on his cool skin, Astarion wondered if this could be real. If they could be real. Tav put her faith in him, chose to trust a predator with her life. He had thought her a fool. Now, as he looked at how radiant she looked even in these listless, lifeless lands, he wondered if he could summon a fraction of her courage and put his faith in her.

💖 Tag list 💖:

@ninty900, @ayselluna, @dajeong, @ravenswritingroom,

@misscrissfemmefatale,

@clazberryk, @anukulee,

@preciouslittlebhaalbae,

@sh3rl0ck, @mellowenthusiast2299,

@fleetstreet78, @starlight-rogue,

@obsessedwhyyes, @arzen9, @hellethil,

@khywren, @maeryls-journal, @larvasmoon, @xxnashiraxx

(divider by @saradika)

#the kindred collective #bg3 spring cleaning #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #fanfic #astarion fanfiction #baldur's gate fanfiction #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #bg3 tav #bg3 spoilers #Astarion is bad at feelings #astarion romance #Roguish cat

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pacentia · 2 years ago

Text

Title: Her gift

Pairing: Astarion x fem!reader

Warnings: Intimacy and cuddles. Bloodsucking vampire man.

Summary: Astarion feeds from your neck in the privacy of your tent.

Words: 1,007

Note: i had to get this drabble out of my system, i love Astarion so much omg 🥹🥹🥹🥹if you have any smut/intimacy / confessions/requests pls send. Pls no spoilers as i'm only in act 1 hehe

You retreated to your own tent at the campsite you shared with Astarion, Shadowheart and Wyll after a long day of travelling. The weather had turned chilly, so for the first time in a while, everyone disappeared into their tent.

This was much to Astarion's disadvantage, because every night he would enjoy your blood in the open. He'd politely ask for sustenance from you and he was good to fight the next day. You'd let him bite you because… He was your friend and he needed it. And… you felt a certain way around him. You were starting to get closer to the vampiric man recently, and he drew you in more and more as you got to know him.

Anyway - you were curious if the hungry vampire would sneak his way into your tent somehow - and if he'd wake you up. Eventually midnight fell upon the lands, and you slowly drifted off into a deep sleep… Until your sharp ears heard a faint rustling of noise.

Astarion on his knees at the front of your small tent.

"Oh - Apologies, darling…" He started off unsure, "Perhaps I should not be here in the privacy of your tent, I-"

You wiped the sleep from your eyes and sat up, inviting him in, "That's alright Astarion. I forgot you needed sustenance tonight." A little lie to deepen your relationship with him. You finished your words, "It was quite the day again." The vampiric man listened intently to your every word, a small smile hinting on his lips.

"Indeed it was." He reminisced about the adventures your party encountered today, how you had insisted upon murdering his Gur hunter, small things that he would not forget. After all, these were nice things that he did not experience for 200 years. The man gently spoke, "Perhaps I should leave you tonight and hunt for other blood, you've been far too kind to me these last weeks."

You shook your head, insisting that he should not leave, respectfully of course. "Please, Astarion." You whispered, and opened your duvet for him to crawl under - while he would feed from you.

The vampire took a moment to collect his thoughts, he wasn't sure whether it was a good idea to feed from you - he'd taken a lot of blood from you already, but at the same time - he was just. so. hungry. Your blood was all that he craved recently. Whenever the wind brushed through your hair, the fantasy of delicious, deep red oxygenated blood rushed through his system, activating his need for you. It was starting to get difficult to restrain himself. But he would do everything in his power to not waste this gift.

At last, he gently crept under your covers and lay next to you, and at the same time you bared your neck below him, swiping away strands of loose hair. The smell of your blood instinctively made him swallow and bare his fangs - his fingers gently tracing the already scarred place he'd sink his teeth into.

"Thank you, dear…" He whispered as his deep red eyes caught yours, bodies aligned with one another. You had no idea how much he desired to tear you apart and drink up all your blood at once. To be a feral monster. Yet, he restrained himself - he made a promise to you to always stop in time, and you had no idea how hard this was for the hungry vampire.

"It's alright Astarion." You reassured him, your hand carefully embracing his body closer, nudging him to set his fangs into your neck. Until he did.

A cold, deep sting pinched at the flesh of your neck, his lips enclosing around the new wound, and he started sucking away like the hungered man he was. Your bodies only tied closer, his large hand supporting the back of your head, your arm pulling him in closer, your leg draping over his - which made you release a small cry of delicious pain.

Your blood filled Astarion's hungry mouth, spilling from his lips, sucking away at your neck in sanguinic bliss. He softly growled beside your ear in carnal pleasure, his hunger slowly replenished again. Until his focus shifted on the way you so gently held him, drew him closer. He wasn't sure anymore which felt more pleasuring - your warm, insatiable blood - or the dear way you could hold a monster like him.

With all his might he stopped himself, despite his bloodlusting urge to keep feeding, and finally he released with a deep groan, lips covered in your fresh blood. He lapped up the remnants of blood specks on your neck with his cold tongue.

The tenseness in your body suddenly vanished, and you felt as if you could finally breathe again. You felt more tired, yet pleased to have taken care of his urges. Astarion felt energized as ever, confident, strong, and… protective somehow. He watched you within his hold, slightly weakened after enduring his feeding. He felt so thankful that he had you. That you trusted him. It made him want to… watch over you and take care of you. Stay with you.

You groaned and opened your weary eyes, only to see him lick his lips clean, his soft eyes watching you carefully.

"Thank you." He whispered, and indicated his leave.

"You're welcome to stay, Astarion." You admitted in a tired blush, "Unless you wish to hunt."

He couldn't believe his mind what was happening - you actually wanted him to stay? She already indulged him with her blood - and now she asked for his company? This woman truly intrigued him, nobody had ever been so soft and kind to him.

Astarion's body stayed right where he was positioned, completely aligned with yours - and you automatically nuzzled deeper into his cold chest under the duvet. Your head was tucked under his chin while your arm enveloped his strong core.

No other words or expressions were shared, there was only quiet and soft intimacy - until the pair drifted off into a deep, wonderful sleep.

#astarion x reader #astarion x you

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erogenousmind · 2 months ago

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Ruin

You want something that is going to destroy your life. Maybe you don't think about it in those terms. Maybe you focus on the positives. You imagine what your new life will be. The freedom, the excitement, the joy. The incredible experience of the unknown, new and surprising. But for that to happen, the old needs to be brushed away. Maybe that's the key.

You want something worth ruining your life for.

You want to get that lost in the experience. You want to be thinking about it the next day. Your mind drifting back over and over again. On your commute, you aren't thinking about traffic or how many more stops. You are remembering how it felt to drop, to feel your mind surrender. You remember your eagerness to feel control slip away.

At work, you keep finding yourself going over your scattered memories, piecing together events, trying to put them in order. Images and feelings flash back into your awareness as you remember what we did and what you became. You remember your focus. Your attention captured by a word or a gesture. You remember the all-consuming desire to do as you are told. You remember your inability and your unwillingness to resist. You remember pleasure...

You keep looking at your phone, wishing for a message...a trigger...a command. A word to send your mind reeling back to that place that felt so heavenly. You imagine your responses coming eagerly, so excited to obey. That you know you could never resist doesn't seem to matter. Running off to the bathroom to take and send a picture just like you've been told. Or taking a little longer and obeying a few more explicit commands.

You've become obsessed. Addicted. Your need overwhelms your reason. The rest of the world loses its color by comparison. You find yourself disappearing or closing your door for a few minutes of privacy. Anything to get a chance to relieve the desire building in your heart and in your body. Your other tasks for the day almost completely forgotten. The only tasks you care about are the ones I send you.

You come home and all that is on your mind is if we can do it all over again tonight. You eat, not out of enjoyment or need, but as a way to pass the time. To maintain some semblance of routine. You are vaguely aware that you need sustenance. That you'll want your strength if I decide to wear you out as completely as you know I am capable.

You watch the screen, silently praying for that green light. That flash of text to let you know my words will be with you again soon. To know that I am planning to claim you again. You shower, trying to calm yourself. Chiding yourself for what a mess you've let yourself become. Knowing that it's beyond your control now. Knowing that you wouldn't have it any other way.

You climb into bed. The stillness of the night awakens all your fantasies anew. Images half remembered mix with those desperately longed for. You are so lost in the haze of pleasure and the light trance your reverie has brought you back to that you are no longer sure what you've really experienced and what I've merely described to you. Which are your own desires and which are the ones I've created for you. You know deep down it doesn't matter. That you are long past caring about what is the real you. You are what I am making you. That is all that matters.

You fall asleep aching and unsatisfied. Always wanting more. Craving that release. Moaning in your sleep for a satisfaction only I can give you. You dream of that perfect surrender. Of giving yourself completely and the pleasure that submission brings. Of being taken, mind and body, completely. Over and over again.

You wake. Work is just a distraction. Something that gets in the way of devoting yourself fully to me. You wonder: if I commanded you to quit, could you resist? Captivated in the deepest part of your subjugation, would you do anything but eagerly obey? It frightens you a little that you don't know the answer. You wonder if that fear hides a secret wish...

And then, what else would you change, would you abandon, for the simple joy of obedience? The possibilities are endless and you find yourself writhing on the bed imagining them each in turn. I command you to look a certain way. You already dress each day however I tell you to, but what about something more...permanent. Gain or lose weight. Get a tattoo, implants, surgery. You get so excited thinking about being reshaped into my perfect doll.

What if your job was getting in the way of your submission to me? You take a sick day because you are told. Or move to part time. Or give your two weeks notice. You stop hanging out with the friends I don't approve of. The ones who think you are changing for the worse. Maybe you are told to start planting seeds of desire in the ones who seem excited by what I am making you. Would you corrupt them for me? Could you betray them? The way you moan at the thought gives you your answer.

You start talking to family less. They just got in the way of your devotion. The red flags anyone else would see just serve as further enticement in your broken mind. This is what you wanted, you tell yourself. Someone who would be worth it all. Who you could weigh your entire life against and not think twice about leaving it all behind.

And if I decide where you live is inconvenient to me. The neighborhood. The city. The timezone. You imagine finding yourself zoning in shopping for rentals in a zip code you don't recognize. Buying plane tickets. Finding your bags already packed due to suggestions you can't even remember but eagerly accepted.

You imagine I've decided to claim you. That when I've taken everything else from you, cut all the ties that kept you from me, I show up at your door. Unannounced to your conscious mind, but the depths of you that know your slavish devotion completely have been preparing for weeks. For months. When you think about it, you've been preparing for a lifetime.

This is what it was all for. This is what made everything worth it.

You found someone you would give everything up for. Someone to make you whatever I desire. And then, possessing that infinite power over you, mind and body. Possessing your heart. Your will.

I take what you are, and embrace it. Taking all of it, all of you, as you are.

Maybe that is why it is worth ruining your life over. Because even though you would, you know won't be asked to.

You are enough.

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moons-and-mobility-aids · 2 months ago

Text

Spoil Me Gently: Chapter 2 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 7.9k words.

Chapter Summary: What began as connection deepens into something harder to dismiss. Messages blur into moments, laughter tangles with longing, and silence becomes sanctuary instead of exile. James, Sirius, and Remus weave themselves into the quiet spaces of your life—carefully, persistently—until even the walls you've built begin to soften. It's not about gifts or promises. It's about being seen, being chosen, being wanted without having to earn it. Trouble finds you—and for the first time, you don't mind.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, sugar baby!reader, soft!marauders, sugar daddy!marauders, famous!marauders, reader is poor, emotional slow burn, private messages & public unraveling, gentle seduction, first gift, trauma-informed care, food insecurity, chronic illness, emotional whump, reader was in an abusive relationship, sensory detail overload, love as sustenance, fear of being cared for, safe space love, grief laced healing

Taglist: @miwi-moore

By the third day, you notice a change — not a breaking apart, but an expansion. The group chat remains active, but now there are tendrils reaching out, small private conversations growing like offshoots from the main root. Sirius sends late-night photos of his motorbike, James shares sleepy voice notes from dawn Quidditch practice, and Remus, ever the poet, sends lines of verse that seem chosen just for you.

And so it goes, a gentle but persistent wave eroding the shore of your resistance. Not to destroy, but to reshape, to create space for something new.

You're checking your phone more often than you'd like to admit, fingers betraying your eagerness before your mind has a chance to catch up. And if your heart lifts every time the screen lights up with a new message, well, you tell yourself it doesn't mean anything. But maybe it does. Maybe you've grown tired of pretending you don't care, or maybe you never really did. Maybe there's a hunger in you that you've ignored for too long, and now it's demanding to be fed.

It's been so long since anyone wanted your attention, and now that you have it, you're surprised by how easily you give it back. You wonder when being wanted became a need instead of a luxury.

There's a version of you that no one warned you about. The you who smiles at every notification, heart racing when his name lights up the screen, the you who forgets to hide her joy, even though the world outside is unrelenting. There has always been a price to pay for kindness in your experience, yet here you are, basking in the glow of attention without consequence. It's disarming, this lightness that lifts the corners of your mouth and lets hope slip through the cracks.

Every morning, without fail, you wake to find James's message waiting. His voice notes arrive as predictably as the sunrise, a constant in your life when everything else seems to be shifting like sand beneath your feet. He knows your routine well—the way you linger under the covers, fighting against the chill that clings to the early hours, the battle with discomfort as you finally rise from your bed. It's almost unfair, how this boy who is all vibrant energy and sunshine can reach into your quiet moments, grounding you with his presence even when he's miles away.

Today is no different.

Your eyes flutter open, the world beyond your curtains still cloaked in pre-dawn shadows. You fumble for your phone on the bedside table, your fingers brushing the cool screen. The new message icon blinks up at you, and even before you press play, you know it's him. You sink back into the pillows, letting his voice fill the empty space around you.

"Morning, darling," the voice is sleep-roughened, softer than you're used to hearing. "Hope I didn't keep you awake with dreams of me. Sirius tried his hand at breakfast and set off the smoke alarm. Remus says we're banned from the kitchen now because apparently it's my fault too. So here I am, standing outside in my joggers, barefoot, cradling a cup of coffee and thinking about you."

You laugh quietly into your pillow, picturing the chaos that must have ensued.

"So," he continues, the teasing tone replaced by something more serious, "your latest post? It's not a warning, it's an invitation. And believe me, I'm tempted. More than tempted. You'd ruin me without a second thought, wouldn't you? And the worst part is, I want you to. All of us do."

Your breath catches, fingers stilling over the keys. You're not one to blush easily, but you feel a warmth creeping up your neck, spreading across your cheeks.

You: Keep talking like that, James, and I might start charging rent for all the space you're taking up in my head.

His reply comes before you can even set your phone aside. Another voice note, his laugh low and unrestrained. "Or maybe I should pay rent—with interest, love. Backpay. Bonuses. And perhaps I'll make you breakfast too. Though I can't promise Sirius won't try to 'improve' it. But I'll make your coffee just the way you like it. I'd memorise that."

You lie there for a long time, phone pressed to your chest, letting the warmth of it sink in.

Remus is not like the others. He doesn't try to fill silence; he becomes part of it, wrapping himself in its comforting embrace until he is indistinguishable from the quiet moments that stitch your afternoons together. His presence lingers like the last trails of smoke, a testament to his existence even when he's gone.

With him, you understand that silence can be as potent as noise, that there is beauty in the spaces between words.

Today, sunlight filters through your window, casting slanted shadows that dance across the floor. The world outside is vibrant, alive, but inside, time slows to a lazy crawl. Your phone vibrates on the table, the screen lighting up with a new message—it's from Remus.

Remus: Reading Auden again. Stuck on this line: 'If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.' Sounds like something I'd say to you.

Your heart stutters in your chest as you read his confession, the implication hanging heavy between the lines of text. You stare at the screen for what feels like an eternity, a whirlwind of emotions churning within you. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, uncertainty gripping you as you grapple with finding the right words to respond to his candidness.

You: You send me things like this and expect me not to fall apart? Rude.

Remus: I never expect you to fall apart. Only to be exactly as you are. I'll be here regardless.

You draw in a shaky breath, feeling the walls you've built around your heart crack under the weight of his words. This feels dangerous, like a precipice you're not sure you're ready to leap off. But there's something liberating about it too, a sense of being seen that you've craved for so long.

You: You have a talent for walking through walls I thought I'd sealed.

Remus: I only walk through when invited. I knock, darling. And I bring wine, patience, and possibly a blanket, if you need it. Maybe a book I think you'd love, and enough silence to fill the room without crowding it.

A soft huff escapes from you, more pained than amused.

You: You ruin me. Quietly.

Remus: Good. Loud ruin is Sirius' department. Mine is slow. Deliberate. Undeniable. My way is slow, deliberate, and impossible to ignore— like ink spreading across parchment, staining it with words that weave a story you can't help but get lost in.

Your heart throbs with an unfamiliar longing. What would it be like to let him in fully, to bare all your scars without fear of judgment or rejection?

And Sirius?

Sirius is a tempest, all storm and fury. He's the spark that sets kindling ablaze just to watch it burn. His photos arrive unbidden and unexpected, as if he knows you'll want him before the thought even forms in your mind. Low-lit selfies. Smudged eyeliner like war paint. Shirtless beneath silk sheets, with an ocean view behind him that suggests he owns not only the world, but everything beyond it.

At 12:47 a.m., your phone lights up with another photo. The caption reads: Do you think ghosts should pay rent?

You look at it for too long, tracing the line of his collarbone with your eyes as if it leads somewhere thrilling and forbidden.

You: Only if they fold fitted sheets. Otherwise, they're out.

Sirius: I'd purposefully fold them wrong, then haunt the place just to be a menace.

Your laughter is soft, absorbed by the fabric under your cheek. You can almost see him there, tall and tousled, up to no good as always.

You: That's grounds for calling in an exorcist.

Sirius: I might haunt your television set, recite poetry at inconvenient hours, steal your last cigarette.

You: Touch my coffee and I'll find a way to banish you for good.

His words are warm, teasing, wrapping around you like smoke. You close your eyes, wishful thinking filling in the blanks of this impossible conversation.

Sirius: I'd go for your heart first. I'm selfish that way. And who knows, maybe I'd just wear the sheet instead of folding it.

You're grinning at your phone. Helpless. Wanting.

You: You make a persuasive ghost.

Sirius: Good. Then don't stop thinking about me. Don't stop feeling this... whatever this is. I'll remain here, as long as you want us to. As long as you let us be part of your world.

On the fourth day, a link suddenly appears in the group chat. No explanation, no heads-up. Just a link, dropped into your day as unexpectedly as rain in the desert. It's from Sirius, of course, ever the one to dive headfirst into the unknown. This kind of chaos is becoming normal—and maybe, secretly, you're starting to enjoy it.

The blue hyperlink stands out against the white background of your phone screen, an island of possibility in a sea of text messages. You tap on it without thinking, even though every rational part of you screams that you should know better by now.

But it's from Sirius.

And the dress looks back at you like a challenge.

It's both striking and gentle. The structured lines are softened by the slight sheen of silk, giving the illusion of light dancing on water. It's as dark as midnight yet glows with an intensity that seems impossible, like moonlight reflecting off glass. This isn't a dress that whispers; it demands attention, wraps around the wearer like armour and allure combined. It belongs to a life you've never led, a world you've only glimpsed from the outside. It fits someone else's narrative.

And yet—

The price tag reads like a bad joke, a number so high it could easily cover your rent for several months, maybe even your income for a year or two. It's a figure that doesn't seem real, twisting your stomach with its sharp edges. But Sirius? He doesn't hesitate.

Sirius: You'd destroy worlds in this.

Three words, simple and direct, yet they carry the weight of galaxies, and your heart stutters. A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, unbidden and inexplicable.

James: I'd create a world for you if I could. Make it perfect if you'd let me. Step by step, just say the word.

Remus: Just say the word, love. The dress is nothing. You are everything.

You stare at the screen longer than you intended. The dress glows back at you like a secret, like a dream you shouldn't want but do. It's like something from someone else's life, just out of reach. It's not about the material or the price.

It's about them. How they see you.

You laugh, a sound that's almost foreign to your own ears. You type before they can make this real, before it turns into deliveries and luxury that has no place in your world.

You: You three are a dangerous lot. I don't need presents. Just coffee and compliments. That's all it takes to make me happy.

The response is almost immediate, as if Sirius has been waiting just for this opening.

Sirius: Consider this our version of coffee then. Coffee laced with gold leaf, my dear. And compliments as fine as wine from the cellars of Versailles. Perhaps served on a tray kissed by starlight. Perhaps poured from crystal decanters while you recline in that dress on a balcony meant only for those who can appreciate its view.

The chat erupts. James floods the screen with heart emojis. Remus shares a picture of an antique coffee service, promising he's already scouring shops for the perfect one. Sirius jests about hiring a fancy courier to deliver a handwritten love letter, sealed with wax and tied with a ribbon as soft as a whisper.

And yet beneath the jests and the imagery, something else hums quietly. Something steadier, more persistent.

They look at you like someone already remarkable. Already worthy. As if knowing you, noticing you, is like discovering something precious and rare. As if you are a sun they can't help but orbit, each in their own elliptical path.

Trouble indeed.

And maybe—just maybe—you find yourself revelling in this trouble more than you've ever dared admit.

That night, when the air is still and your stomach complains louder than it should, your phone vibrates against the worn surface of your table. A screen illuminates with a notification that seems absurd in your reality—not this one, where you've learned to make do with less—less food, less care, less attention. Not in this version of your life that doesn't allow for kindness or unexpected good things.

You stare at the display, blinking slowly, your heart stumbling over an invisible step in its steady rhythm. Your pulse quickens, beating a frantic tattoo against your ribs, as if it understands the gravity of this moment better than your mind does. It feels like a warning, like instinct. Like a memory buried so deep you've almost forgotten it exists.

£100.

The message reads: "For your comfort. Not a bribe."

And for a second, your body seizes up. Not from surprise, not even from joy. From fear.

Because it's them.

James, Sirius, Remus. Their names are a constant echo, persistent and unyielding—a threat or a promise, you're not sure. But something stirs within you, a flicker of hope trying to catch flame. Yet your heart refuses to kindle it, not fully, not when their names attached to that sum makes the floor feel like it's falling away beneath you, makes every scar on your skin remember what could come next.

Your stomach tightens, and your heart pounds against your ribs, each beat a reminder of past hurts. You've been here before, haven't you? Money, promises—always with strings attached. Always with the weight of expectations you could never meet, words that twisted into lies, and kindness that turned into pain.

He used to do this too—your ex. Shower you with gifts that felt more like traps, money that came with stipulations, presents that seemed generous until you realised they were just another form of control. It was care wrapped in barbed wire, love laced with poison.

Your body remembers.

You stare at the message on your phone, the chill of dread settling deeper into your bones. Part of you wants to delete the app, to shut it all down and cut off this dangerous lifeline before it can ensnare you further.

But another part of you—the part that's hungry for something more than food—hesitates and holds on. Because this doesn't feel like him.

This feels like... an open door. Quiet. Respectful. A choice offered with no expectation of what you'll choose.

They don't know how you've been surviving on the bare minimum, just enough to keep the worst of the hunger pangs at bay. They don't know about the near-empty fridge or the calculations you make every time you go to the grocery store, deciding what not to buy because your budget won't stretch that far. They don't see the way rationing has become a part of your routine, the small hopes whispered between hollow cupboards and the last slice of bread.

But they know something is wrong.

They've pieced it together from your posts, from the sharp edges of your jokes about heating costs, from the way you talk about meals as if they're special occasions rather than daily necessities. They notice the pauses in your writing, the moments when fatigue seeps through and colours your words with an unspoken heaviness.

And they care.

Your fingers tremble as you type out a response, each keystroke echoing the disbelief that tightens your chest. It's hard to find words, hard to articulate the jumble of emotions that threatens to overwhelm you.

You: You didn't have to do this. Thank you.

You mean it. You hate that you mean it so much.

The words sit on your screen, and you want to believe them. You really do. But there's something about the way they seem to reach out to you, offering solace you've forgotten how to accept, that twists in your gut like a confession.

James replies immediately, his words bouncing back with an almost palpable warmth.

James: We like to make sure our best people are taken care of, well-fed, rested, and perhaps a bit spoiled. It's in our interest to keep you happy. And besides, everyone deserves to eat a good meal, no questions asked.

And it shouldn't feel like this. Like understanding without judgment. Like care without condition. Like being seen without having to scream first.

You stare at the phone, the light casting long shadows across your face. The grip around your phone tightens, as if holding onto it could anchor you in this moment, make it real, make it last. The hum of the empty fridge grows less insistent, less accusatory.

You open the app for grocery delivery, pausing momentarily at the sight of your last order—a list of bare essentials, cheap and long-lasting. But not this time. This time, you'll choose better.

Not just the cheapest stuff, or what will last longest. Real food. Fresh. Fruit that won't easily bruise. Bread that isn't stale before it's even sliced. Milk that doesn't taste faintly sour. Cheese—real cheese, not powdered or processed—that feels like a treat instead of an extravagance.

You add vegetables, ones you haven't tasted in months. Their names feel foreign on your tongue, but there's something bright about them, something that promises color in a world that's been too gray. A small dessert, because maybe tonight you can allow yourself to believe you're worth the sweetness. Maybe tonight you can let yourself enjoy this.

You schedule the delivery for 10 am to noon tomorrow.

Your phone thumps lightly as you set it down on the table, leaning back against the sofa cushions. The hollow pit in your stomach remains, but now it's accompanied by something else—something that feels like the beginning of hope.

Care.

***

The house is quieter than usual the next morning. It's not a peaceful quiet. It's stiff, unyielding, like something tightening its grip around your chest. This silence is born of years spent scraping by, of holding your breath and not realising you've stopped exhaling, of waiting for the next crisis to rear its head and disrupt the fragile balance you've managed to maintain.

You're putting away the last of your groceries, arranging them in the nearly empty fridge and cupboards like it means something. Like it's proof that you're still here, still breathing, still worthy of these small, mundane comforts.

Then there's a knock.

A sharp noise punctures the silence of your sanctuary, too loud in a home that has become a fortress by necessity. Even though you've been expecting it, your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You freeze, heart pounding an erratic rhythm that drowns out the quiet you've meticulously curated. Your breath catches, held hostage by the tightening grip of anticipation. Every knock carries the weight of history, of consequences.

Courier.

The word is a lifeline, grounding you even as your instincts scream danger. It shouldn't matter—you know this delivery isn't a threat, that there's no reason to be wary. And yet, your body remembers other knocks, other packages, other hands that offered gifts only to seize more in return.

Your muscles tense, preparing for a blow that doesn't come. The door swings open to reveal not a snarl or a demand, but a small box resting innocuously on the doorstep. Still, you flinch, bracing for the catch—the hidden cost that will be exacted later, like a debt you never agreed to pay.

But when you lift the package, its weight is reassuring—a solid presence that grounds you in reality. It's heavier than it looks, the heft of it suggesting value without ostentation. The label is embossed, dark against the rich green velvet of the wrapping—green like the depth of a forest or the hush of an old library. It speaks of luxury without flashiness, intent without pressure. Already, something inside you tightens, an unexpected response to the thoughtful precision evident in every detail.

Inside, you find a folded piece of parchment, its edges crisp and clean. The paper feels foreign in your calloused hands, like something that doesn't belong to your world.

"For your hands, which deserve softness - R"

Remus's handwriting is neat and careful, just like him. Every letter is etched with thought and purpose, the loops and lines forming words that wrap around you like an embrace.

You pause, fingers hovering over the edge of the card, afraid it might crumble under the weight of your confusion. You trace the letters, half-expecting them to vanish under your touch, as if this can't be real, as if gentleness was never meant for your grasp.

Beneath the note, wrapped with a precision that speaks volumes about the sender, lies a pair of gloves. Not just any gloves, but ones lined with silk, their outer layer soft yet resilient, built to withstand the coldest winter days. Their design is such that you could perform delicate tasks without hindrance, and upon closer inspection, you see your initials embroidered into them, each stitch a testament to thoughtfulness and attention to detail.

Your fingers trace the embroidery, the usually steady digits trembling ever so slightly as they brush over the threads. A sense of disbelief mingles with gratitude, unfamiliar and overwhelming in its intensity. It's as if you've forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end of such personal care or perhaps, you realize, you've never truly known it at all.

You slide your hand into the first glove, flexing your fingers as the cool leather moulds to your skin. The chill is gone instantly, replaced by a warmth that seeps into your bones, dispelling the cold that had begun to settle there. The second glove follows, encasing your other hand in the same supple embrace.

The gloves are light but sturdy, their exterior hardening against the world while the inside remains soft, a sanctuary for your hands. They fit like an extension of your own skin, hugging each finger and cradle, every knuckle and curve. It's as if they were made just for you, knowing the ache in your joints when the weather turns, the dryness of your skin from long days exposed to the elements and the relentless march of time.

They seem to understand, these gloves, the way you must be both hard and soft, how you navigate a world that demands strength yet punishes those who forget tenderness. They cradle your hands, offering protection from the smallest of hurts, the ones that go unnoticed until they're soothed away.

You flex your fingers again, feeling the leather respond, and let out a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding. The sound is barely audible, a whisper carried on the still air of the room. It's the sort of noise one makes in private, when emotion wells up unbidden, not from weakness but from something deeper, more raw. It's the sound of barriers falling, of vulnerability acknowledged and offered reprieve, if only for a moment.

Tears don't fall, not right now, not here in the open where anyone could see. But behind your eyes, a dam threatens to break, held back only by the sheer force of your will. It's a pressure that causes you to blink more slowly, makes things look a little blurry around the edges, like you're viewing the world from underwater.

The ache in your chest is a strange thing. It throbs dully, a sensation that doesn't know if it should be ascribed to joy or sorrow. So, it settles for both, intertwining emotions too complex to fully understand.

Not because of the price—though it's more than you would ever dream of spending on yourself—but because of the thoughtfulness. Because someone saw your hands—the cracked skin, the nails worn down by countless tasks—and didn't recoil. Didn't dismiss them as just the tools of labor but recognized them as part of a person who deserved care and comfort.

Your fingers trace the soft material, almost reverently. The gloves are beautiful, yes, but it's the consideration behind them that sends a shiver down your spine. The realization that someone noticed enough to address a need you had long stopped considering as important. That they saw beyond the worker, the servant, the faceless cog in the machine, and acknowledged you for you.

The glow of your phone on the counter is a beacon, silent and waiting. You stare at it, the digital pulse steady in the quiet room.

It takes you a moment—longer than it should—to reach out, fingers brushing over cool glass as if it might shatter under the weight of your uncertainty.

You open the conversation with Remus. It's the quietest one. His words are always gentle, never imposing. His patience feels like an anchor, grounding you when everything else threatens to pull you under.

You: I don't know what to say. Thank you doesn't seem enough. They're... perfect. They're already making it hard to stay cynical.

Time stretches between his response, each passing second heavy with the promise of considered words.

Remus: Then I'm doing something right. You deserve softness and warmth that asks nothing from you but to feel it. But I'm very patient, love, and I can wait until you can believe it, too.

His words hang in the void between you, and you can't help but shiver despite the layers wrapped around you. It's not the gloves that make you feel this way.

No, it's the patience.

The lack of urgency. The freedom offered without a price tag attached. The way Remus, even from miles away, wraps you in something stronger than any physical embrace could offer.

Safety.

The house is quiet around you, the only sounds the distant hum of city traffic and your own steady breathing. The tension in your shoulders eases as you lean back against the plush cushions, eyes half-closed. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, a single vibration that sends ripples through the glass surface.

A message notification lights up the screen—it's from James. You pick up the device, the cool metal warming in your hand as you tap open the group chat. A thumbnail teases the video he's sent, the first break in the silence of your evening.

You press play, and his laughter fills the room, vibrant and infectious. It starts in your ears but soon spreads, a warmth that radiates from your chest and bleeds into the corners of your small apartment. It's the kind of laughter that sticks with you, replaying long after the sound has faded.

The camera pans across an expansive kitchen, all gleaming marble and stainless steel. Half-empty espresso cups sit abandoned next to a silk tie draped casually over the back of a chair. James appears in the frame, shaking his head with a smile that's equal parts fondness and exasperation.

"Fans are calling us queer Disney princes again," he says, voice rich with amusement. "What do you think?"

The corners of your mouth lift without prompting, betraying the flicker of excitement stirring within you. You raise your phone, angling it for a quick selfie. One eyebrow arches, your lips curve into a half-smile that promises secrets and whispers of intrigue. There's a challenge in your eyes, a silent dare you're more than okay with them picking up on. Let them chase. Let them want.

The words are light, teasing, yet they carry weight—one more layer added to the mystery that is you.

You: Does this make me the misunderstood seductress with a tragic past?

The typing indicator appears almost immediately. It's Remus, as predictable as the moon he's named after. His responses are always prompt, always thoughtful, a steadying presence amid James' boisterous charm and Sirius' smouldering intensity.

Remus: Obviously.

There's a pause—a beat longer than necessary—and you imagine him on the other side, considering his next words carefully.

And then, almost as if he can't help himself, he adds:

Remus: The kind I write stories about.

You sit there longer than you intended, your thumb hovering over the screen, the heat of a blush creeping up your neck. It's ridiculous, really—you've only been talking to them for four days. Four days is not nearly long enough to get used to anything. Not this sort of attention. Not this level of care. Not this easy banter that somehow feels more intimate than any conversation you're accustomed to.

But it isn't just the familiarity that's unsettling—it's the way your mind has started to expand, making room for possibilities you hadn't dared to consider before. How long will it take, you wonder, for this to feel less like an anomaly and more like something... natural?

You hope it always feels like this, like being part of a story you never knew existed but now can't imagine yourself without. Like being seen for exactly who you are—flaws, quirks, and all—and wanted not despite them, but because they make you, you.

The next day starts with a debate over fish and chips.

Of course, it's James who instigates it, sending a voice note your way as if he never doubted you'd want to hear it, as if your response has already become part of his daily rhythm.

"Okay, real question—where's the best fish and chips in town? I've had four arguments about it this week and I need you on my side. Or to argue with me. Either is fine."

There's a pause at the end of the note, and you can almost see him grinning, waiting for your chuckle, certain it will come. His voice is warm and teasing, an echo of familiar banter that stirs something inside you. It feels good, better than you thought possible, and that scares you just a little.

Sirius, never one to let a moment of chaos pass him by, jumps in with a voice message of his own. His tone is low and dramatic, like he's about to recount an ancient tale.

"James is wrong, by the way," Sirius begins, his voice carrying a note of solemnity that belies the humour in his words. "He always picks the place with the worst vinegar-to-chip ratio. It's a travesty, really. Someone save me. Bring whiskey. And better chips."

In the background, you can hear James' laughter again, but it's closer this time, softer, as if he's leaning in to share the joke.

"You love the suffering," James retorts, amusement lacing his words. "It's why you put up with us."

"Exactly," Sirius agrees, his voice smooth as he plays along. "But there are limits. Even I won't stand for soggy chips."

Remus doesn't answer with a voice note. Of course not. Instead, a photo pops up in the group chat. It's a book—thick and worn at the edges from constant use. The title? 'A Social History of Fish and Chips in Britain.'

Of course he has that book.

Laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, louder than you intended. But it's the kind of laugh that feels freeing, slipping out before you can censor it.

You: Remus, please tell me you're not fact-checking their argument with an actual history book.

There's a beat of silence, then a new message from Remus appears.

Remus: I fact-check everything, especially when those two are involved. It's the only way to keep some semblance of sanity.

James: All I know is that we end up buying the most expensive fish and chips in all of the city. That's got to count for something, right?

You: Your logic is astounding, really. The cost must always equate to quality.

James: Wait, are you being sarcastic? I can never tell with you.

You: Me? Sarcastic? Never.

James: Alright, alright, point taken. Teach me how to eat like a local, then. I'm at your mercy.

Come evening, the threads of conversation unravel into music. Links are traded like secrets, each song a piece of the sender's soul laid bare for others to touch. You listen to tunes you've never heard before and ones that stir up memories long forgotten. Some pulse with a beat that quickens your heart, others drip with a melancholy sweetness that leaves a lingering ache in your chest, and still others are so strange yet enchanting they defy categorisation.

You share your own favourites too, selecting each track with care. It feels like giving away pieces of yourself, tiny shards of glass reflecting who you really are. Will they see the colours or look beyond, into the depth of your true self?

And they do.

The first one to really reach you is Sirius.

The night stretches on, and you find yourself unable to sleep. The house is too quiet, your thoughts too loud. You feel the weight of solitude pressing down on you until it's almost too much to bear. And then, your phone lights up, a beacon in the darkness. It's him—Sirius.

There's no preamble, no joke or casual greeting—just a link. You click on it hesitantly, bracing yourself for whatever might come next. What fills your ears is not the upbeat pop song you expected but something else entirely: a heartbreaking melody, a tale of lost love and regret.

It's the kind of song that seeps into your bones, evoking memories you didn't know were there. It's the ache of an old wound, never quite healed properly, now throbbing with fresh pain. It's the echo of a thousand unspoken apologies and a single, resounding truth: you deserved better.

And then, a message from Sirius, appearing like a ghost on your screen.

Sirius: This made me think of you. Not the version of you that everyone thinks they know. The real you. The one who's been through so much and still stands strong. The one who deserved better.

The words are a balm and a sting all at once. You read them over and over until they blur on the screen, each repetition driving the sentiment deeper into your already tender heart. The ache in your chest grows more pronounced with every passing second. Your breath catches in your throat as the reality of it all begins to sink in. The house around you feels suddenly too quiet, too still—as if the very walls are holding their breath, waiting for your response.

You type before you can stop yourself, before you can second-guess the impulse.

You: Tell her I'm... I'm starting to believe that. Slowly. But I am trying.

There's no pause before his reply.

Sirius: Good. Because we already believe it for you.

The phone falls silent in your hand, its weight suddenly significant. It's not the hardware that bears down on you, but the gravity of their words, the tenderness they've shown you. You lower the device, setting it aside with a gentleness reserved for precious things, fragile and irreplaceable.

Tears well in your eyes, spilling over in silent confession. There are no sobs, no shuddering breaths—just the quiet surrender to an emotion long held at bay. The tears trace tracks down your cheeks, each one a testament to the ache within, the pain you've carried silently for so long. They're not the hot, angry tears of frustration or the cold ones of despair. These are different. Warmer. Cleansing. A release of something deep inside you.

Your body curls instinctively, seeking comfort in its own embrace, your arms wrapping around yourself as if to hold the broken pieces together. The sobs come then, low and guttural, a primal sound that echoes the hurt buried within your soul. It's a private pain, shared only with the shadows that dance along the walls of your solitary world.

But tonight, perhaps, you are not entirely alone.

The next day, you receive a voice message from James. His words, their tone—it all leaves you feeling fractured and somehow whole at the same time. There's a softness in his voice that wasn't there before, playfulness still laced within but underpinned by something raw and sincere.

"Hey, just wanted to say—you're pretty incredible. Stubborn as hell and gentle when it matters. Thought you should know, in case no one else has bothered to tell you today."

You replay the message three times, each listen embedding his words deeper into your thoughts until they feel like a part of you. You save it, not because you think it might disappear, but because it feels important—like a bookmark in a story you never thought would be yours.

Your eyes scan the screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard, heart thrumming an uneven rhythm against your ribs. Then, with a sigh, you let honesty take the lead.

You: You three are dangerous. You know that, right? I was fine being a grumpy little cryptid until you showed up with your feelings and ruined me.

A few beats later, a notification lights up your screen. It's an audio message from James, and his laughter rings through the small space, rich and infectious. "Cryptid confirmed. But you're ours now, grumpy or not. No escape plan necessary."

The next day, while you're still grappling with the reality of their kindness, Remus poses a question that feels both jarring and tender in its simplicity.

Remus: What's your favourite kind of quiet?

Your fingers hover over the keys, the question lingering in the air between you and the screen. It's been a while since anyone asked you something like this, something that requires thought beyond the mundane.

You type, delete, then type again, second-guessing your answer. But Remus doesn't rush you; he waits, his presence patient and comforting as ever.

You: The kind that feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. When everything slows down, and you can finally let go without the world falling apart around you.

Before Remus has a chance to respond, Sirius cuts in, his message popping up on the screen with a timestamp only seconds after yours.

Sirius: Preferably in a five-star hotel room, with ridiculously soft sheets and no plans for the following day.

A chuckle escapes your lips, the sound surprising you. A warmth spreads through you, reaching into corners where shadows have lingered for too long. You shake your head, wondering how they do it—how they manage to pull you from your thoughts, even if just for a moment.

For the first time in what feels like forever, it seems as if there might be more to life than merely surviving.

Maybe this is the start of something else.

Something new. Something different. Not an obligation. Not a trap. But something soft. Something safe.

Something that could feel like home.

Sometimes, you don't respond. It's not a conscious decision, not a punishment or a game. It's simply survival—how you've learned to cope in a world that often feels too big, too loud, too much.

Your body is hardwired for flight, primed to retreat at the first sign of danger, even if it means overlooking an offering of kindness. The instinct is so deeply ingrained, so much a part of you, that it doesn't always wait for your mind's approval before taking over.

Some mornings, the buzz of your phone is an intrusion, a sudden alarm in the quiet sanctuary of your solitude. One new message, and your heart throbs against your ribs like a bird trapped against a windowpane. Your breath catches, shallow and quick, while your palms grow slick with apprehension. Old fears, never far from the surface, ripple through your consciousness, and your instincts kick into gear before rational thought has a chance to intervene. Hide, they insist. Stay safe. Be silent.

And so you do.

Time passes in a way that only silence can measure. The sun moves across the room, its angled rays painting elongated shapes on the floor. Your tea grows cold, the steam long gone—like the echo of your last spoken word, now just a memory in the heavy air.

The quiet feels oppressive, wrapping around you like thick smoke, blurring the edges of reality. You blink, and for a moment, the walls of your small apartment seem too close, the air denser. It's as if the world itself is pressing in, testing the strength of your resolve.

When you finally stir, the phone is still there in front of you, its screen dark and unyielding. A pang of guilt knots your stomach, familiar in its intensity. You reach out, fingertips brushing against the cold surface, bracing yourself for what lies beyond the silence: accusations, demands, perhaps even indifference—the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, turning safety into a concept rather than a feeling.

But when you tap the icon to open the chat, their presence greets you—not with the storm you were expecting, but with the calm after, steady and unwavering. There are no harsh words here, no pointed reminders of your shortcomings. Only patience and understanding, reaching out from the other side of the screen.

Sirius sends a video of a pygmy goat in a belted flannel shirt, charging and failing to mount a small couch. The caption reads: "Me trying to impress you with my life choices. Still falling over myself. Would do it again."

James leaves a voice message. His voice is warm, unhurried. It wraps around you like a blanket, offering comfort without expectation.

"Hope you're okay, love," he says, the words falling soft and steady like rain against a window. "No hurry. We're here. Always. Take your time. We're not going anywhere."

And Remus—ever patient, ever thoughtful—writes simply: "Thinking of you. Whenever you're ready. However long it takes. No deadline here."

Your throat tightens—not with shame or fear of expectations, but from the unexpected safety they weave around you. The space they leave for you to breathe, to exist without the need to explain or justify. They never make you feel as though your absence is a mistake, only that their door remains open, unwatched by the ticking clock.

You: Just had to claw my way back.

Sirius: We'll help you sharpen your claws next time. And paint them gold. Maybe add little stars. Maybe galaxies. You deserve all of them.

And just like that, something inside you gives way—a taut thread caught in the weave of your worries loosening its grip. It's like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding solid ground beneath your feet when your legs are unsteady.

You begin with the smallest of offerings. Little moments from your life that seem safe enough to share, each one a tiny step, a testing of waters uncharted by you until now.

A photograph of the embroidery you've been working on, threads tangled like constellations against midnight fabric. The second-hand jacket you found at a thrift store, worn and patched, each stitch a story woven into its very fabric. The way your living room window looks when you string up fairy lights, casting soft shadows across the floor and making your quiet house feel almost like a home.

Your bookshelf. A photo taken in the half-light, the spines of novels faded with age and use. A single line written beneath it.

You: I made a home in the quiet of pages.

Sirius: Read us something you wrote. Bet it wrecks me. Bet it ruins me. Please.

For a moment, you consider not doing it. It would be so much safer to say no, to keep the precious words tucked away where only you can see them.

But something in Sirius's words makes you want to trust him. To take a risk, even if it means potential heartache.

So you do.

Your voice trembles as you start, but you force yourself to go on. Each line comes out slow, deliberate, each word weighed and measured like a jewel under inspection. You pour everything into your delivery—the sadness, the longing, the hope.

When you finish, there's a silence that stretches between you, a gulf wide enough to swallow worlds. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic drumbeat echoing the fear that maybe you've said too much, revealed too much of yourself.

James: I've played this four times already. And it keeps getting better.

Remus: That was beautiful. More sometime? If you'd want to. No pressure. Just... if it feels good. If it feels safe.

The smile that curves your lips is both unseen and genuine. It's a small thing, but in a world held captive by fear and uncertainty, it feels like a tiny triumph.

You: Only if you read to me too. Deal?

There's a pause before your phone chimes again. This time, it's an audio file. You press play and Remus's voice fills the room, warmer than you remember, like the glow of a hearth fire in winter. He reads Neruda, first in Spanish then in English. The words are achingly intimate, each one cradling an emotion that feels oddly personal.

The tension melts from your shoulders as you close your eyes, letting the sound wash over you. It's as if the distance between you has shrunk, and for a moment, you're simply two souls sharing a love for words, for stories, for connection.

A link appears in the chat, leading to a playlist titled "Soft Chaos & Sweet Violence." The title alone coaxes a genuine laugh from your lips—a sound you'd forgotten could feel so natural, so human. You click open the description and read: "For you. For every hard-won battle. For each gentle moment carved out of the stone that is life. For resilience. For endurance. For still being here."

James sends a memory next, a story about learning to bake with his mother. His words paint a picture of flour-dusted eyelashes, a kitchen filled with more love than space, and laughter that seemed infinite and ageless. It's a small moment, but it shines brightly against the backdrop of a world that often demanded too much.

Remus sends a photograph of the sea at dawn. The water is a soft grey-blue, its surface as smooth as silk, while the horizon gently bleeds into the sky. It's a quiet image, one that seems to hold its breath along with yours as you take it in.

Remus: Calm, but deep like you. Steady. Vast. Still here.

A blush warms your cheeks as you read the message, the compliment unexpected yet not unwelcome. Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you respond, words flowing with a truth you hadn't realised until now.

You: I want to live in this picture. To make a home from it. Never leave.

And then there's Sirius.

He sends you a voice message, breathless from a rooftop in Rome. He's there for a photoshoot, just for one night. The city stretches out behind him like a dream caught between the seams of reality. But his voice—it's unexpectedly soft, as if the night itself demands hush tones.

"The city shines like you do," he says, and you can almost see the distant lights reflected in his grey eyes. "I'll bring you here someday. Just say when."

And you believe him.

#Poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #Sirius black x reader #Sirius black x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter x you #james potter x reader #marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfic #the sugar baby au #chantelle writes fic

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bertoltblecht · 2 months ago

Text

On Call - Nine

A/N: Hello hello! Back again! This took a little longer this time, but I'm really pleased with it. Please let me know what you think, the anon messages are really quite delightful.

Word count: 3817

Rated: Mature

Tags: Angst, Mutual Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Tension, Sex, Mutual Pining, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Comfort/Hurt, Where the comfort also hurts, a lot of baseball talk tbh

There was really no better reminder that pleather is not leather than seeing it melted into partial thickness burns.

What began as a relatively slow night-shift alongside Abbot while Robby had a few days off ended with a flood of injuries from a wedding reception bonfire that had abruptly exploded.

The burns ranged in severity and size, but most upsetting (or, perhaps more accurately, intriguing) for Dr. Reilly was the variety of synthetic fabrics seared to the wounds. It was a research paper’s worth of data, and part of her felt a little guilty for the rush of good brain chemicals she got at the prospect of documenting it all.

As she worked, Rose gently requested to take pictures, offered to send them to the patients for insurance purposes, and noted the specific material blend of the clothing when they were willing to let her find a tag.

The source of the unexpected eruption was a topic of debate among the wedding guests. Parsing the chaos of stories, Rose gathered someone (the groom’s brother, at least allegedly) tossed something into the fire as he was leaving, and a few moments later whatever it was had gone boom.

Apparently the brother was unharmed and in police custody for questioning. Rose found it very fortunate that neither the bride nor groom were among those needing treatment. They were spared from injury and also from having to hear their families’ debate over which one of them married trash. Between the melee of competing smells and family strife, the ER was a sensory nightmare.

In between marathon debriding sessions, Rose took ten to stand outside for a moment of fresh air. There was a dull ache between her eyes, somewhere between pressure and exhaustion. She wasn’t sleeping well. The new place was lovely, and the new bed was a dream. It was all just… different. Like waking up every morning in a hotel or a one night stand’s bedroom. It didn’t feel like hers. Combined with an inconsistent schedule covering different shifts, she was feeling less and less human.

What Rose needed was a good night's sleep to start her long weekend off right, and it took hardly any convincing from the devil on her shoulder to pull out her phone. Only a couple hours before shift change; she knew he wouldn’t be getting up for work but it was worth a shot to see if he was awake.

Rose: i have wild photos to show you next time i see you

The reply came back suspiciously quickly for 5 in the morning.

Robby: what kind of photos

Robby: send em

Rose laughed in spite of herself.

Rose: they’re just some crazy burns from tonight, bonfire mishap

Robby: you know what I will actually wait on seeing those thanks

What Rose really wanted was a cigarette, but she settled for risky texting to feel alive at the end of this hell shift instead.

Rose: won’t be disappointed if you come over tonight. you were really on to something in the elevator

Robby: is this sexting?

Suppressing a grin, Rose toyed with several responses, of varying levels of salaciousness. She eventually settled on winking deflection.

Rose: … i have burns to attend to

Robby: see you tonight

In spite of the tension headache, Rose ended the break pleased with herself. Couple more hours, a short walk, some kind of sustenance - hopefully a nap - and then he was going to come over. Her rational mind fought her emotional mind to keep her on the correct side of reasonable. Nothing about the situation they abandoned had changed in the last two and a half years. They were just… picking up where they left off. For reasons that Rose wasn’t about to dig into too deeply. Her only goals were contact and good sleep. If his goals aligned, then wonderful.

Rose grabbed some ibuprofen from the break room and took another second to stretch her neck and shoulders before getting back into the mix.

By the end of the shift, she wasn’t sure her sinuses would ever release the scent miasma. She was finishing one last chart she forgot about and leaning against the charge desk, her backpack at her feet.

“How many pictures did you get for your perverted little collection?”

Rose smiled, shaking her head at Abbot‘s question. “I’ll have you know, twenty-five patients and only two of them told me to fuck off. It was a treasure trove of burns tonight.”

“Did you miss out or were the last two boring?” She could almost hear the half smirk as he did his own charting.

“They were boring,” she admitted with a laugh. “I still want to know what the hell happened. I’ve been to some messy weddings but no exploding fires yet.”

“What were you taking pictures of their tags for?” he asked curiously, looking over at her.

“The fabric blends. Did you see the woman in the ’vegan leather’ crop top? That’s just plastic. Horrifying,” Rose shuddered as she closed the chart. “I watched a documentary about Studio 54 in its heyday and certain synthetic fabrics would literally melt under the lights there.”

“Studio 54?”

“The nightclub in New York.”

“Do you do anything but work and watch TV?” Abbot shook his head at her.

“Not after I got norovirus at Pilates. What else is there though, really?” Rose pretended to dramatically ponder the question.

“Seriously bro, fuck your whole family. You’re all piece-uh-shit morons.” The angry voice drew both their attention as a man from the bride’s family approached the groom’s other brother.

“Fuck you, man. This was a dumb accident,” the other man said, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.

“A dumb accident? Look around, asshole. This was all entirely Levi’s fault! Or I guess I could blame your mother for droppin’ s’many uh you cross-eyed dipshits, there were no brains left for ‘im!”

“Shit happens.”

“Shit happens? I’m gonna bash your fuckin’ skull in, dude.”

Nice of him to provide warning, Rose thought.

But as he took a couple heavy steps to enter combat, the man of fewer words shoved him hard. The aggressor’s knees twisted awkwardly and sickening snap sounds preceded the thud of his body on the ER floor. If Rose had to guess, it sounded like his ACLs and someone was going to have to pop those joints back in. Lackluster fight really, all things considered.

Abbot inhaled through his teeth, as Rose winced with an ooh, before the man started wailing in pain.

“Is that…?” She started, glancing at the attending.

“Not our problem, shift change happened.” Abbot shook his head quickly.

“But I want to know what Levi did. I want to know what he threw in the fire.”

“Text one of the nurses in a couple hours and they’ll tell you what he did, I’m sure.”

—

This was Robby’s last day off, and he had successfully kept himself from texting Rose for the last three evenings, thank you very much. When she texted, he was already awake laying in bed.

They hadn’t talked about what happened, but the memory infiltrated Robby’s thoughts every time his mind wandered while he sat in his living room. Even if he tried to enjoy whatever Mission Impossible movie was currently on cable.

The ghosts of Rose in his apartment made him miss her in a way that told one side of him she should never come back here, and the other side of him he should invite her into the last space she didn’t haunt: his actual bedroom.

When he got back from walking her home that night, Robby had felt cowardly. He thought about how easily she had conceded to a boundary he hadn’t even actually set. One time he clarified she could sleep on his couch and she just knew from then on he wouldn’t be able to sleep if his bed smelled like her or he could picture her there? He said her bed and she said his couch? Was he a schmuck?

He felt selfish for wanting more from her on his own terms, but asking anything from her she wasn’t already offering was unreasonable. Plain as that. Robby was already crossing so many lines.

Their relationship before had been a means to an end for both of them. Rose was more than just a post-divorce crisis, but they had worked well together for that brief time because she didn’t seem to want anything more than his company.

Robby sometimes wondered self-deprecatingly what exactly his appeal was, but he reminded himself she liked being around him even when he wasn’t losing himself between her legs. They had compatible methods of coping, it turned out. But if he thought too hard about which ones she had unintentionally picked up off him, he’d get queasy.

For all the confidence she rightfully earned in the years since then, the earlier Rose needed reassurance she would find places to put all the messy, broken feelings. Sometimes he wondered if he ever actually provided that.

Knocking it off during her first year was the right call without a doubt. What they were doing had the potential to derail them in so many ways, and they both clearly knew that. None of their decisions ever came with a discussion though. If it came down to it, that would have been part of the problem if HR were involved. What was their relationship?

Now though… His recently promoted senior resident was spending more time in the OR and often covering shifts under other attendings. How was this more and less complicated?

Robby spent three days thinking about seeing if she was around but talked himself out of it every time.

Rose worked a night shift and then pulled him so casually via text that for a moment he felt easy.

Fuck it, whatever. There would be time to sort it out later. Why deny himself?

—

Rose meant to sleep at some point when she got home. She had every intention of taking care of all her physical needs, including napping before Robby came over.

Instead, she decided to put on a pot of coffee and keep chugging along until she came to a stop. She was hoping for intel from the day shift nurses on the family situation, and she had all those pictures to label before she forgot.

A natural stop never really arrived though, and she blew past one station by deciding she was going to finish unpacking and cleaning before she showered.

Rose worked especially well under pressure, and the prospect of Robby coming over and seeing she had in fact not unpacked and gotten her shit together in the last few weeks was the exact motivator she needed to get it all done.

As she was getting out of the shower, her phone pinged.

Robby: hope this doesnt wake you. what time is good? i’m free whenever

Rose checked the time - 5:32pm. Damn, thirsty, Dr. Robinavitch.

It was going to take at least twenty minutes to get the smirk off her face. She waited a second before texting back.

Rose: i’m up come over whenever you want

Robby: see you at 6?

Rose: apt 419

Thirsty as fuck.

—

Just after 6:00, Robby knocked while Rose was turning over the last of her laundry.

“Hey, come in.” It was easy to relax as he smiled at her.

“Hi.” Robby stepped inside and let the door shut, tugging her into a slow, soft kiss before he pulled away to scrutinize her with gentle eyes. “Long shift last night?” he asked softly with a light caress to her cheek bone.

“Did a lot of squinting and pulling burned bits out of places you don’t want bits burned.” Rose wrinkled her nose, her heart thrumming at the immediate affection. His hand fell to the side of her neck as she pressed her lips to his this time.

“And then you took pictures?” he asked, pulling back again as though he just remembered what she texted early that morning.

“Of the variety of burned fabric blends. So many fast fashion pieces. You don’t want to see them now, I looked at them for hours.” Rose was babbling a little breathlessly.

Robby considered her for a long moment, his thumb making soft circles over her pulse point. “Did you sleep?” he asked lightly enough that his Doctor Voice didn’t make her want to lie.

“Not yet, I’ve got a few days off now though. I just had excess energy and the sun was up.” She chuckled, shaking her head. He probably would have clocked her anyway from the tired eyes and the slightly tachy heart rate.

“Good you have some time off, you deserve the rest.” No lecture. No tone. Just a small smirk that made her feel like she was going to dissolve into mist.

“Do you want the tour? It’s not extensive, but the gift shop is the bedroom.” Rose was flushed and feigning a level of casual she was not feeling for some reason.

Robby eyed her with an amused expression. “I can’t decide what the implication of that is.”

“No need to think too hard about it.” She huffed a laugh and nudged him away to gesture at the space like it wasn’t a shoebox.

It was slightly bigger than the studio she’d been in previously, but it also had separate rooms. “Kitchen and living room - bathroom is off the kitchen for god knows what reason. Only other door is the bedroom.” She pointed and headed toward the cracked bedroom door.

“It’s nice, and no broken mirrors or cursed bookshelves in sight,” Robby bit his lip against a smile as he followed, his hands in his pockets.

“But their energy… it lingers,” she joked as she pushed the door and went to pull open the blackout curtains. “You don’t have this problem, but I can actually see work from here.”

“No you cannot,” Robby said in disbelief as he came over to the window laughing. “That’s unacceptable, you have to move. That’s worse than me living in the parking lot.”

“Shut up! I’m never moving again, I lost like half my stuff in a freak, drunk med student incident.” She laughed too as his arms wrapped around her, his lips pressing to the side of her neck.

“Pull the curtain, Jack could be on the roof,” he mumbled against her skin with a smirk.

“Don’t piss me off, Robinavitch.” She tipped her head with a sigh though, drawing the curtains again before turning to face him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” Robby’s thumb brushed over her lower lip, nudging her toward her new bed in her new place that she’d welcomed him into without a moment’s hesitation, even after being awake for who knows how long. When he kissed her again, it was with an aching, desperate attempt to convey what her vulnerability meant to him without having to say it.

As her legs hit the bed, she tugged him down with her, making him grunt and wrap his arm around her waist to haul her properly up onto the bed.

“Wow, showing off,” she smirked at him, only a little breathless.

“Always.” He grinned.

—

Robby was beginning to wonder if she had immediately dozed off on him, her head on his shoulder and her breaths slow and even. They had pulled just the sheet over them to stop the chill from the ceiling fan.

“Not all that different walking from here or walking from your place tomorrow morning.” Rose was aiming for a light tone. Noncommittal, as though it didn’t matter at all to her if he lingered long enough to stay the night.

He couldn’t help but chuckle at her indirect approach. “Trying to go to bed already, grandma? I thought maybe I’d order pizza and we could half-watch the baseball game.”

A not-answer for her not-question, but she hummed in agreement nonetheless. “Watch yourself, I’ve been awake a long time, but I’ll ramble off stats until I lull you into a sleep so deep you only awaken the next time the Pirates clinch their division.”

“I guess I definitely won’t be walking to work tomorrow in that case.”

—

“It’s like watching the team at the beginning of Angels in the Outfield before the angels start to step in,” Rose complained, watching the replay of the right fielder for the Pirates tipping a high, fly ball with his glove over the fence for not a ground rule double but a fucking home run.

“I won’t wake up until the Pirates win the NL. Dermot Mulroney won’t come back until the Angels win the AL. Now there’s a World Series that’s never happened before.” Robby‘s shoulders shook as he practically giggled.

Her legs were tossed over his on the ottoman in front of her couch, a plate in her lap.

The laugh was contagious. “It’s hard to be bad for so long. They really need to turn it around. They’re basically an even 50/50 baseball club. Like for their whole history. The difference between wins and losses was twenty at the beginning of this season. Over all 20,000 games, you can flip a coin and guess if they won or not.” She was half-whining but with a wide smile on her face.

“That’s kind of tragic.” In spite of the sentiment, he was still laughing as she ranted.

“That’s a weird amount of pressure for the current team, don’t you think? To keep those scales tipped on the winning side?” Rose took a deep breath and sighed, her sides aching. “You’ve got so much more suck buffer when you’re a Yankee.”

“Suck buffer!” Robby repeated roughly on an exhale, shaking his head at her.

“I said it!” Rose went back to eating her pizza, a small smirk on her lips.

“You’re not old enough to remember when they were good.” He realized the truth of the statement and groaned, rubbing his hands over his face.

Rose couldn’t help rolling her eyes and nudging his shin. “Because you were, what? A youngin’ when they were last winning the World Series in the 70’s?”

“Yeah actually. In fact they won the last time on my 8th birthday.” His expression softened at the memory, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “The Steelers won the Super Bowl that year too. Big year for the Burgh.”

“Wow, a birthday present for you and then not again since then. Longest drought in the National League. How have you not personally fought one of the giant pierogis?” She smiled over at him. “Were you always a baseball fan?”

It wasn’t a heavy question; he clearly had a lot of familiarity. Rose could feel him hesitate though.

Finally, he nodded. “I lived with my grandmother for most of my childhood and she grew up in the city here and was always a fan. It’s an easy thing to focus on. Bond over, I guess.”

“It is,” she agreed and offered him an easy smile. “People open up around baseball. It’s something to talk about when you want to talk about something else.” The line felt soft and worn-in as she said it, an old sweatshirt.

“Like battlefield surgery?” His foot tapped hers, gaze on the TV. Maybe people opened up around baseball because there was something else to look at.

“Battlefield surgery is a lot like baseball actually.” That line sounded like someone else’s too. “So is what we do in trauma medicine. We’re just fielding what comes in and running plays. It’s chaotic, but it isn’t random. There are a finite number of things that can be wrong, even if that number is huge. It’s easier not to panic when you understand the fundamentals, and you know there’s always the next correct choice.”

Robby looked at her then. “There aren’t always correct choices.”

She shook her head. “I think there is always a most correct choice. I’m not saying everyone can be saved. I guess knowing when the game is over is part of it.”

“I’ve never thought about baseball or medicine like that,” he admitted with a chuckle after blinking at her for a moment.

A sheepish expression crossed Rose’s face as she shrugged. “I think about a lot of things with that approach. It’ll get you out of the woods.”

“Until there’s no next thing to do.” He remembered the way she described the spiral in the elevator.

Rose nodded. “Then you panic,” she teased with an angelic smile.

On the TV, the batter for the Cardinals hit a high pop-up. The Pirates’ catcher struggled to find the ball in the air above him, and the first baseman collided with him behind the plate, leaving him laid out in the base path. The runner from third swerved around him into the grass, leaving just enough time for the third baseman to pick up the ball and tag the runner out to end the inning.

Incredulous noises left both of them.

“Perfect example of the heartbreaking thing about baseball and life in general - other people not knowing the plays.” Rose sat up to put her plate on the coffee table before leaning into Robby’s side, the weight of his arm settling over her.

“Hey, they made it work. Got the out, ended the inning.” The chuckle rumbling through his chest made her sigh pleasantly, closing her eyes.

“At what cost?” She mumbled. “Is Rodriguez still on the ground?”

“Bart helped him up and into the dugout, I think he’s okay.” His fingertips pressed firmly into the tension wound at the base of her neck, absently working out the knot and making a soft noise leave her as the pressure behind her eyes eased.

It was like watching a wind-up toy run out of momentum, Rose relaxing against him. The familiar tug of affection made him feel antsy, but her hand slid over his abdomen and he sighed, the anxious energy dissipating. He pressed a kiss to her head, settling into silence during the commercial between innings.

“Stay the night?” Rose asked quietly, maybe the only request she had ever made of him.

Robby hummed in agreement, and he could feel tension leave her at the affirmative answer. He couldn’t explain why that made his chest ache.

By the time the game ended, Rose was dozing. He almost didn’t want to move and wake her, but his back was going to complain if he didn’t. Gentle fingers brushed her hair back as he kissed her forehead. “Time for bed, sweets.”

Her annoyed grunt made him smile fondly as they stood and shuffled off to her bedroom. Rose dropped herself on one side of the unmade bed, leaving Robby to kick his sweatpants off and join her. They tangled together comfortably a moment later as she rolled toward him and tucked herself against his side. His content sigh coaxed her back to sleep.

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voidwritesstuff · 6 months ago

Text

The Cultures that make us (Argentina)

Cw: mentions of food, guns and flashing lights on the GIF.

Summary: The horsemen experiencing the culture of their human companion. (Can be read as romantic).

A/n: Alright peeps strap in for the culture train!. Brought to you by your dear host and their lovely country! (I'll make more for other cultures, If you want yours just shoot me an ask. I will send a DM to weed out incorrect information or to ask for clarification! I want everything to be accurate!)

A/n2: Lyrics translated at the end.

Humans and their cultures,there were so Many. Uncountable for other beings and mortals themselves,but amongst the things they shared was a love and passion for food.

Recipies passed from generation to generation. Keeping the traditions And cultures alive by making sure everyone knew how to make a snack or a meal. It was a bonding experience between families or Friends or lovers. Only humans understood the importance of food.

Ceatures who need not of sustenance,didnt get the uniqueness And importance.

The Horsemen rarely paid attention,seeing food as an indulgence rather than a need.

Until they picked up a human along their trek.

Death:

He got the sweet toothed human,because of course his luck is rotten.

This human had a love,or an obssesion,with sugar and treats of the sort. The horseman had figured it was a need,as he understood sugar was one of the components that gave humans energy,so at first he didnt think too much of It. He saw this human like a little puppy who couldnt keep up with the relentlessness of a nephilim.

--Its not that I'm living off of sugar. -- the human had told him as they made a dough. It smells citrus-like and a little sweet. They are Rolling it against a hard,metal table sized for a mortal.

To the horseman's chagrin,the Makers had taken a love for human food so now they had created a human sized home for they to stay when the reaper came visiting.

--Certainly seems like it-- The pale rider answered,watching from the corner of the room. He seems unbothered but hes curious. He always is.

--Sugar doesnt give everything us humans need. We have an elaborate diet-- the mortal explained,cutting the dough up into smaller balls and going to flatten them with a wooden roll of wood.

Their cooking was not that affected because of the ingredints. It took time to make it taste fully human-made but their kind was exhasperatingly perseverent.

--Your species is needlessly complicated.

--Said the half Angel half demon dude-- They quipped,not looking away as they Grab a Knife and cut the flattened dough into strips.

Death doesnt answer and rolls his eyes,his bone mask moving with his expression like its made of calcified flesh. He watches intently as the human folded the stripes in the shape of this ribbon,the Lower ends of the stripe meet at the center,Forming an arch of sorts.

They do this a few times, and as they do they begin to sing under their breath. Its not the first time they've done this infront of him but its always an interesting thing to witness. Hes yet to understand the language they speak,the council never bothered to give him the abilities of a polyglot.

And his human companion always joked how funny it was he spoke english. He never understood exactly what this "English" is.

--Tal vez

de tanto usar el gris

te ciegues con el sol...

¡pero eso tiene fin!

¡Después verás todo el color,

amor, quedémonos aquí!-- the human sang. It was for themself, and they had left it clear that the reaper would just have to put up with it. They wouldnt allow yet another creature to take away their culture.

--¡Amor, asómate a la flor

y entiende la verdad que llaman corazón!

¡Deja el pasado acobardado en el fangal

que aquí podemos comenzar!

He wondered what the song is about. The sounds of the human's language are so foreign.

The way they breath in their sounds with the letter S,giving words the look of having an H between syllables.

The soft sh sounds when words had a Y or a double L at the start.

Its a beautiful,sing-songy accent. The few times hes heard them speak their mother tongue,it felt like there was a slight dancing in the sounds like they were singing the words rather than speaking.

Deep down he feels sad he doesnt understand how human languages work,he'd Like to know what makes the accent so unique.

The reaper's thoughts are cut when he hears the sizzling of oil. He watches as the human sets a batch of the dough ribbons in a pan with bubbling liquid. He then sees them pour some alcohol on it and his eyes quirk with Curiosity.

--Isnt this "Rubbing Alcohol" flammable?

--Yes,but it evaporates with the heat-- The human answered with a shrug-- Helps the Moñitos with turning out greasy because of the oil.

--The what?

The human rolled their eyes,knowing the reaper hadnt paid attention when they began telling him about the snack a few hours prior.

--Thats the name of the snack,Moñitos. In english its called Little Bows.

He hummed with acknowledgement-- You humans make the oddest of concotions.

--We can give makers a run for their money-- The mortal half joked with a smirk.

Internally,Death raised a brow and amusement. He taps his pointer finger on his bicep as he watches them stirr the dough in the pan-- Perhaps. Dont let them hear it, they'll become even more insufferable.

--Hah! As if...-- The mortal then quieted,looking at the snacks slowly Cook in the pan-- I got this recipe from my mother,you know?

--You told me humans passes tradition through generations.

--Yeah,we do-- they scoffed fondly-- I remember the first time I tasted them they were sweet and lemony, and I always paid attention to the recipe. Im glad it stuck to my head.

The reaper nodded with acknowledgement and didnt say much else. He looks at the ground and simply waits for time to pass by.

Meanwhile, the human slowly begins to fish out each little bow that was cooked and ready to be eaten. They set it in a strainer and let it cool off.

Like that they eventually Cook the whole batch and once they are lukewarm they put them all in a bowl and throw a hefty dose of sugar on them.

Their reaper companion seems to return to the earth as they take off their apron and Grab the bowl walk out of their kitchen into the livingroom

--Death! Im all done. Do you feel like making tea?

He blinks at them for a second. Theyre so odd. They always asked about his feelings,if he felt up to doing something for them. Theyve never pushed,never prodded aside from natural Curiosity.

There was a tenderness he wasnt sure he deserved.

--You spent two hours making those things.-- He answered,returning to his feet-- I imagine that took a lot of energy from your...human body.

--It did,but I can make it if youre not up to it.

He shook his head slightly,a micromovement but perceptible-- You'll strain yourself and the makers Will be breathing down my neck. Go sit,Human.

They raised a brow-- Alright Mr.Grumpy. I do have a name you know?

--Dont call me that-- He bit-- And I'm well aware.

--Alright then,just checking. You rarely use it.

He didnt feel worthy of speaking their name.

--Its easier to just call you human.-- He replied.

--Right,sure-- They look so amused,he hates it-- Is it like not putting a name on a dog you dont plan to Keep just so you dont get attached?

Death rolled his eyes and dismisses them with his hand. They chuckle and leave for the comfy couch,he then goes to turn on the metal oven and put some water to boil.

The air smelled of citrus and sweetness mixed with the slight scent of oil. The naturey- Sticky smell hes grown used to. The kitchen always felt so dead when they werent around.

Hes seen them in it so Many times that it doesnt feel right when they arent there.

Apparently,humans used food and cooking as a way to bond. Hes done that with his siblings before,but he didnt expect to grow so close to another species.

It did take him by surprise,he didnt help out of respect. But spending time with them,simply being around and making conversation (which is "The human talks to Death and sometimes Death answers"), had managed to make him grow a Bond and an attachment.

What was that about avoiding putting a name to rescued dogs?.

The kettle sings its whistling tune and he makes two cups. He drank his by himself but he made it just to Keep the human company.

He comes into the livingroom with the two mugs and sets them on the coffee table with the bowl. They havent touched even a single one of those bowls.

--What were you waiting for?--He asked,a little concerned.

--You -- the human answered like it was obvious. Their voice is soft,gentle. A tenderness that he craved yet it felt like sandpaper.

--You shouldnt have bothered.

--Food tastes better when you share it-- They scoot closer and reach for one of the little bows. The set one on his Open palm-- you get the first bite I wont look.

He blinks at them like a deer in headlights-- You made them. You should-

They set their hand on his armored forearm-- No,you can have it. Let me know if I did a good job or not.

"You always do" came a voice from the deepest part of the riders conciousness.

--Youre stubborn-- He says instead.-- The sugar wont do anything for me.

--Its not about the energy it can give you,Its about indulging in flavor and sweetness.

He breathes out under his breath,they can see how his chest falls and how his eyes close for a second with defeat.

This is the third time theyve won an argument. Hes losing his sharp edges.

Death gestures for them to cover their face and they do. They even turn away from him and he lifts his mask up to swallow the whole thing in one bite. It wasnt particularly big for a being his size.

But the flavor does Keep up with his senses,he can taste the lemon and sugar,the dough's lightness thanks to the way it was cooked.

His companion had joked about how their secret ingredient was love. He only scoffed with disbelief at such cheesy piece of information.

Yet he gets it now. Its made with care,like a well sharpened blade, a well crafted amulet. Its about how much care and attention you pay whatever you made.

--Indeed,your kind has out-done the makers-- he answered,fixing his mask-- You learnt well. Turn around.

The human meets his firey gaze with the whole milky way in their eyes. Such wonder and joy. This is the first time hes agreed to eat what they made.

--Im so happy you like it!!--They screeched with a grin.

He doesnt answer but he does set the bowl on their lap and grabs one of the snacks,leaving it there in his grasp for them to Grab.

They dont doubt it and lunge for the doughy thing before taking a bite out of it. He sees their eyes fill with light and they have this big grin as they chewed.

Its endearing,he almost chuckles.

--The song you were singing--Death began,looking away as hes a little shy about asking-- What is it about? You humans always weave meaning into everything.

Was that an insult or a compliment? Who really knows when its the reaper saying it.

--Its about a man asking his partner to stay with him and forget the bitterness of the past-- They answered, grabbing the mug thats still a bit too big for them. Makers have yet to grasp human sizes and measurements-- Its called "Quedemonos aqui", Lets Stay Here, and it was made by two men called Homero Expósito and Hector Stamponi.

He grows quiet for a moment. And they continue.

--Its Tango,An Argentine genre of music-- they explained,taking a Long sip of their tea. Nobody made warm Drinks like the reaper-- And this song is a kind of Tango called Tango Lloron, a sad style kind of melancholic and sometimes tragic.

--Why sing such song? I believe you have had your fill of tragedy.

--Its good to just let things out sometimes,the good and the bad. I'd like to stay here until humanity rebuilds itself.

--All alone?

--No. Not alone-- the human meets the rider's gaze that looks uncertain of not....a little scared-- But death's a wandering spirit. So maybe it'll be the makers and me..

Death scoffed-- I dont trust them taking care of you...--their eyes widen as they hear him say their name. The Real, human name.

All they do,is set their head against their Sinewy bicep. Too much attention might make the Pale rider unconfortable, so they contain their excitement.

Hes aware of his slip up and sighs,letting them touch him. Perhaps hes growing blunt, soft. But perhaps those sweet treats and the human's company are compensation enough.

Fury:

Fury had never had a taste for cakes and sweetness. Caramels and fluffy treats were rare in her life.

The human she rescued planned on changing that.

Her human companion decided to make a very specific kind of cake,one they have refined the recipe of for months, And Fury was their body guard so they could Hoard the kitchen in the maker tree.

--So this is called a chocotorta...-- The human told her as they grabbed these chocolate cookies from this bowl with chocolate Milk. The treat seems softer now,a little soggy-- Its originally a treat made with a specific brand of cookies. It took me a few tries but ive managed to make it taste as close as I could.

--Why soak them in milk?

--Helps them be softer. Eat from one of the cookies in that tray-- They point at a metal baking sheet off to the side--Theyre crunchy but the cakes better when its soft.

Fury complies since shes bored and had little to do. Being a horsewoman was like being a deterrent for other humans trying to take up space in the kitchen. Nifty little fun fact.

The cookie tastes like raw chocolate, sweet and earthy. Its good.

--Ah,i see. -- she mused-- Shame this "Brand" doesnt exist anymore. Perhaps you'll replace it in humanity's rebirth.

Her mortal friend laughed-- it would be a little funny--They began to layer the cookies on this square container of metal with a thin paper cover to separate the food from the actual bowl.

Then,they layer this thick,light brown caramel ontop of it and then add more cookies. They do a few layers as they talk-- My cousin gave me the tip for softening up the cookies. But I learnt the recipe from a friend.

--What is that brown thing between the cookies?

--This is dulce the leche,or Milk caramel-- They answered-- Hand made! The best kind. -- they grab a spoon and give the rider a hefty scoop-- Taste it.

--Just like that?

--A lot of people I knew Ate it like that. Its a common occurance.

Fury sighs,wondering why she puts up with these situations. She feels a little silly,Like shes a kid stealing the first bite of the meal Death had cooked. Some old habits just never die.

She eats the caramel,and her eyes widen slightly. The sweetness mixed with the earthy,nut flavor is a bit of a surprise to her. It melts it her mouth and she kind of has to bite on it.

--It would be easier to swallow if I didnt make it that thick. I can make a lighter batch later.

--you humans are so clever-- She said between bites of the chewy caramel-- A maker would be jealous.

--Thats one hell of a compliment.

--A well earnt one-- She insisted-- Where did you learn the recipe?

--A close friend. Best I can put it is a family friend of sorts,the actual relationship is a bit more complicated. She made some Dulce de leche for a birthday cake she wanted to gift me.

Fury nodded-- Humans are the only species that gift eachother food,others would hoard it.

The human shrugged,setting down the caramel as they are done with it. They add the final layer of cookies and Grab the metal container. Its a bit heavy but nothing they couldnt manage.

--Cultures made cooking and making food a way to bond. Even you,keeping me company,is an off shoot of one. --They Gently set the bowl on her hands-- I need it to be cool. Can you use that hollow of yours?

Fury looked amused-- Will I get the credit for helping?

--Always.

She chuckled and reached for the Stasis Hollow. It starts as a prickle in her skin,a biting chill that slowly spreads across her hands to the thing shes holding.

Her hair turns that beautiful blue,Like deep ice. Just as cold and just as gorgeous.

--There. Should be enough-- She handed back the container.

--Cooli-o! Lemme just...-- the mortal uses the baking paper to pull out the cake and set it on a Plate. They cut two squares out of the treat and as they do they sing lowly,mindlessly.

Fury never grows tired of listening to them sing. Shes heard the language of so Many beings,shes always found them boring,but she cares for human speech. And the accent is so particular.

She listens Keenly as the Stasis Hollow is dismissed and that warm magenta returns with her usual body heat.

--Mamichula, por vos me hago bueno, me hago malo

Por vos pierdo, por vos gano, mami, en esa estamo'

Ojalá entendieras que sos la única y primera

Así que vengan lo' que quieran, lo' de afuera son de palo, mai-- this style of singing is odd. Her human companion is making sure to speak the words yet add a rythm to it.

--I havent heard you sing like that before.

A little flustered,they answer--Its not singing,its rapping. Im...okay at it.

--Huh...--the black rider hummed-- And what is that song?

--Solo por vos,Only for you,by this an urban singer called Trueno.

--Urban?

--Technically hip-hop...--The human stops anf sighs with exhaustion-- Tell you later.-- They offer a Plate with a fork-- eat,let me know what you think.

--Are you sure?

--Yeah,yeah,cmon-- they set the Plate in her hands and looks up at her expectantly.

Fury takes a portion out of the cake with the fork and eats it. The flavors of the chocolate and the caramel mix with the mildness of the milk soaked cookies. She humms and says-- Your work has paid off...

--Yay! Im super happy you like it!--They grinned--C'mon! Lets go share. Food always tastes better when you share it.

The horsewoman is dragged along with plates and cutlery,and the humans huddle together to eat the cake. Fury watches contently and eats her piece of the treat,obssessed with the sweet caramel.

In the morning,the rider's human companion would find their whole stash of Dulce De Leche gone and a very guilty looking she-horseman.

War:

You'd expect such a behemoth to have an apetite. But he doesnt really need to eat,hunger is a known feeling but mild and brief.

However,he soon realized he quite liked eating meat.

After beating the Destroyer,his loyal human companion took him back to Ulthane's lair for what they called a Barbaque. His human friend had insisted to make a meal.

War watched confused as they brought a Fire to life under a grid with all the food theyve gotten. --I could have just set Fire to that coal...-- he pointed out.

He sees his human companion turn a little sheepish-- Ah,right. Yeah...--They giggled,face a little red-- You can move the coal if you'd like

Carefully he lumbers over to the grill and he Gently begins to nudge the Burning coal under the grill. -- Why..are you doing this?--He asked.

--My culture likes to throw barbaques for celebrations, and well..this is something worth celebrating!--They gestured at the food with this grandiose flare-- I think you'd like it.

He nodded slowly,and watched them work away at the grill. They told him about how grilling was a more masculine thing,a Man's activity. After the rider pointed out how silly that is,his human friend laughed and agreed.

Its been a while since hes seen them smile and laugh like that. He can give them this moment of joy,as brief as it is.

Plus,already the food smells quite good.

As they get the food out ot the grill,they sing softly. A mindless activity had to be fought with some soft of fun.

--Nada como ir juntos a la par

Y caminos desandar

El honor no lo perdí

Es el héroe que hay en mí

Nada como ir juntos a la par

He understood why angels sang, it was all about praising the creator. But humans sang to tell their stories,to show their legacy and culture- And their voice,the way the words move and sound.

Its the first species hes found that have such thing as accents. And he liked theirs so much.

--What are you singing?--He asked as they sat on this picnic mat. They settle all the food,all the sauces they have made. He sees bell pepper and onion, celery and garlic.

There is so much to taste.

--Its a song from my culture. Its a love song.

--And what does it say?

He sees them think as they translate the words-- "nothing like going hand in hand,and trek the path,I didnt lose my honor, its the warrior that lives in me,nothing Like going hand in hand".

War Hummed pensively. Its a sweet song,he can get behind the lyrics. -- There is a lot of human culture i'm not aware of...its so intricate-- He gestures at the sauces-- what are the name of these...condiments?

The human tells him all about it, the kinds of meat they have,the condiments and the snacks. They've never imagined telling a Horseman Of The Apocalypse what fries were,but here they are.

Everything seems to slowly click,And with each bite of food his eyes widen and fill with joy just a little bit more.

--These condiments burn my mouth...-- He commented,not particularly put off.

--Thats kind of the idea.

--I..Like it..--His heart flutters as they grin.

--Oh! Thats great to hear!--they exclaimed-- Barbaques Like these,we call them Asados, were a way of celebrating! You'd invite Friends and family,it could also be an excuse to just get together.

He nodded-- No other species is so...tight knit.

--Youre part of the culture now!

--What?

Hes taken aback,genuienly. He can only watch them and forget about the chirping birds or the rushing water. The smell of dying smoke or the smell of wet sand.

The only thing in his mind is his human companion,who grabs something from their pocket and pin it to his cowl.

Its a pin of some sort with blue,white and yellow lace. His head tilts adorably and he feels quite confused. Its a flag of some kind,hes aware of that at least.

--Its the flag of Argentina. I made it myself.--The human explained-- Youre an honorary Argentine!

--I...dont even know your language.

They laughed and prodded his Plate closer-- Well I can teach you some now,you have nowhere else to be.

He smiled just a little,Like sun breaking through the clouds of a gloomy day andHis voice Carrying that hopeful warmth that came with peeking sunlight. --No,i do not..

Strife:

He was down to try anything and everything at least once. It guaranteed Him great and horrible experiences, self discovery and a shit ton of funny stories to tell.

As the spirit of eternal unrest,he wasnt lacking on the energy department.

But he does get bored.

A lot.

So he waits by the shadow of a tree,Death would reach him by the end of the afternoon and they'd leave their human companion with the makers for good measure.

Speaking of...

--Well you look awfully sad-- The human said,their hair a little bit of a mess and their eyes groggy. They Carry with them this maker-made thermos,a bag slung over their shoulder and some sort of gourd with a metal straw.

--You can thank my brother for that--He grumbled as his friend sat with him on the cool shade.

--Walking corpse, "Rattle me bones" one?

--That one.

The human chuckled,happy Strife indulges in their human culture and internet humor. They take a long,if not a little loud, slurp of the warm drink.

It catches the horseman's attention and turns to them. Hes seen them drink whatever that was before,he just never got around to ask.

--What are you drinking?

They got that beautiful little glint in their eyes,excitement and joy. -- Mate.

Yeah,the name didnt make things any clearer.

--Okay,and whats that?

--Right,right-- they pour water into the gourd they were holding. He sees these tightly packed herbs of light,yellowish grin. -- Its an Argentine drink,you can share it with Friends but only one person brews the drink. Try it.

He looks hesitant as he holds the gourd,its a bit small in his gloved hands. He looks and sounds like hes catching up with the world.

--You...want to share a straw with me? Saliva and all?

--you just drink out of it. Ive shared it with strangers just how different could it be? --They shrugged,fixing their hair as the summery breeze dances tentively across their skin.

--Well im no human.

--Except for that one time-

--That one time,yeah-- He agreed--It wont put you off? You can wipe it off-

--Strife please-- the human chided with an exhasperated look on their face.

--Okay,okay.-- he relented, his hand Is about to touch the metal straw and his friend lunges at him to stop him-- WOAH! Dont do that!

--Dont touch it!--They screeched-- It messes with the filtering of the water! Only the brewer can move it.

He sighed and nodded-- odd rules but I guess that makes sense...

--You have no grounds to call my culture odd, Mr.Horseman of the apocalypse!

Strife chuckled and nodded--Okay,fine,fair.-- He lifts his helmet a little and he drinks from the straw. He feels the warmth of the metal against his lips,and the taste of the drink rushes in.

Its strongly bitter,hits harder than a kick from Ruin. Deeply earthy,but a quite unpleseant as it settles on his tongue like heavy lead.

He spits it out and he soon finds his friend laughing a hyena's howl. --What kind of hellish drink is that!

--Give it here,ill add sugar you whimp-- They Grab the gourd and from their bag they Grab a pouch of sugar. They make a little hole around the straw and set the sugary powder there.

--Whimp?! -- He screeched,the taste lingering horribly-- Youre sick for drinking that fuckin' thing! S'too bitter!

--The horsemen of the apocalypse cant handle bitterness! Who knew.?--The human joked as the water got poured back into the gourd.

--You tell anyone about this and ill actually kill you.

--All bark, no bite-- They hand the gourd back to him-- Drink up.

Hesitantly,he tries again and this time its pleaseant. The sweetness tempers the bitter and he can taste the fresh,earthy flavor better. And the warmth of the water is a nice comfort in his exhasperation.

--See? This is way better,-- he handed back the round container.

--Mhm,mhm,whimp-- They kept teasing as he rolled his eyes fondly.

For the Next few hours,His human tells him about all the little habits and details this drink has. How in summer some would drink it with juice,or how it was common to see people from their culture Carry it everywhere.

Its a deeply social drink,Friends would sit around and catch up while sharing it. Or you could also make Friends with people by offering a Mate.

He always loved how humans were there for eachother, how they cared and Bonded with so Many little things.

The caffeine within the drink was also a nice plus.

As he enjoys his turn of drinking,he breathes in the fresh air and sees the greenery field move with the breeze. The skies are clear blue,and the sun shining bright.

Its peaceful,he so rarely gets to experience this softness. Soon though he hears another sound join the gentle choir of birds,a foreign language he doesnt know and that accent he recognized.

He doesnt turn to face his friend as they sing,but he does listen in quiet contemplation.

--Dice que soy lo mejor de su vida

Que quiere perderse conmigo to' el día

Que por mí apunta, tira y tira

Que ya no le importa cometer un delito por su niña -- the rythm is slow, but theres something about the way they sing the lyrics. This strong presence that goes well with the chill little rythm.

--Y aunque no caigas en la de nadie

Con una mirada puede enamorarte o es parte de su arte

Tiene juego prepara'o para loca dejarte

Sa-auh-ah, uh-uh-uh, uh, uh aunque parezca un ángel es, es, es, e'

He drinks from the straw and passes it over,crossing His arms over his chest.

--Nice song-- He says-- Whats the name?

--Wapo Traketero by Nicky Nicole-- They answered-- best I can translate the title is like...in very,very loose terms, is "Hot criminal"

--Hmm,sounds Like slang.

--It is.

Just as hes about to ask what the song talked about,Death began to approach. Despair's hooves click against the soil leaving a temporary path of dying Grass.

Strife sighs and stands up-- Duty calls, doll.

--Yeah,figures-- he helps them up and though they cant see it, they can hear the smile in his voice.

--Thank you for the drink,and the serenade, but I gotta go. Ill try t'bring ya somethin'

--Ohhh cool. Like a skull?

--Biggest one I can find. I promise-- he makes an X over his heart and they giggle. Thats his favorite sound.

He whistles and soon Mayehem emerges from the ether just as Death catches up with the pair. --The makers are not far behind they'll look after them.

Strife nodded and tipped his fake hat before leaving with his brother.

The human grins and picks up their stuff. They walk to Karn and Thane that wait patiently for them. And as they walk away,Karn looks at the drink and a little worried he asks.

--Doesnt that have caffeine,Lad?

--Uh,yeah?--They answered confused.--Why?

--Did ya share it with Strife?--Thane added.

--Yeah...?

The wizened maker warrior pursed his lips,scratching his brown colored beard-- Ya should thank the creator youre not Death right now.

It clicks then for the human,and their eyes widen like plates-- Oh,hes going to kill me.

Death hasnt dealt with this level of hyperactivity since Strife was a fledgeling nephilim. He sees his brother bounce around like a ball in a pinball machine,laughing maniacally as his guns ring the sound of a life's end.

Hes barely able to Keep up,And he wonders who gave him so much caffeine to begin with.

When he realizes who it was,he Will kill them. But for that he needs to make sure his dumbass brother doesnt kill them both first.

And thats going to take a while.

Lyrics Translation:

Death:

Tal vez//de tanto usar el gris//te ciegues con el sol...//¡pero eso tiene fin!//¡Después verás todo el color,//amor, quedémonos aquí!//¡Amor, asómate a la flor//y entiende la verdad que llaman corazón!//¡Deja el pasado acobardado en el fangal//que aquí podemos comenzar!" "Maybe//after using so much grey//You may turn blind at the sun//But that has an end!//After all you'll see the color//Love,lets stay here//Love,peek to see the flowers//And understand the truth about what they call a heart//Leave the past hiding in the marsh//Here we can begin" - Quedemonos aquí by Homero Expósito and Hector Stamponi.

Fury:

"Mamichula, por vos me hago bueno, me hago malo//Por vos pierdo, por vos gano, mami, en esa estamo'//Ojalá entendieras que sos la única y primera//Así que vengan lo' que quieran, lo' de afuera son de palo, mai"

"Lil mamma for you I turn good,I turn bad//For you i lose,for you I win,mami thats where we're at//I hope you could understand youre the first and only//So whoever may come,the outsiders dont matter" -Solo por vos,by Trueno.

Strife:

"Dice que soy lo mejor de su vida//Que quiere perderse conmigo to' el día//Que por mí apunta, tira y tira//Que ya no le importa cometer un delito por su niña.

Y aunque no caigas en la de nadie//Con una mirada puede enamorarte o es parte de su arte//Tiene juego prepara'o para loca dejarte//Sa-auh-ah, uh-uh-uh, uh, uh aunque parezca un ángel es, es, es, e'"

"He says I'm the best thing in his life//That he wants to waste away his day with me//That for me he aims,shoots and shoots//That he doesn't care anymore about commiting crimes for his girl//And even if you don't fall for anyone's game//With one look he can make you fall in love,its part of his art//He has his game ready to leave you crazy// Even if he looks like an angel, he is,is,is"- Wapo Traketero by nickly nicole.

War:

"Nada como ir juntos a la par//Y caminos desandar//El honor no lo perdí//Es el héroe que hay en mí//Nada como ir juntos a la par" "Nothing like going together hand in hand//And trek the path//I didnt lose my honor//Its the hero that lives in me//Nothing like going together hand in hand"- Juntos a la par by Pappo

#darksiders #darksiders death #darksiders war #darksiders 2 #darksiders fury #darksiders strife #darksiders 3 #darksiders genesis #darksiders 1 #darksiders fanfic #darksiders x reader

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lbnwo · 1 year ago

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Bad Whitegirls get spankings!😡💢

Amara loomed over Friga, her dark eyes intense. "Did you leave the house without my permission, pet?"

Friga knew she was in trouble. She couldn't meet Amara's stern gaze.

...Finally she broke down "Y-yes, Mistress. I'm so sorry. It's just...you were gone for so long and I was aching with need..."

"You know better than to disobey me." She circled Friga slowly.

"Please, I'm sorry!" Friga whimpered, tears welling in her sky-blue eyes. "I just missed your touch so desperately..."

Amara tipped Friga's chin up with a fingertip. "It's dangerous out there for a delicate flower like you. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

Friga swallowed hard, pulse fluttering in her pale throat. "I...I understand, Mistress. The ease at which your mighty people conquered these lands proves that we are a fragile and inferior people. I am eternally grateful that you showed me pity and allowed my heart to beat under your merciful care."

With a firm silent grip on the girl's slender arm, Amara dragged her through the corridors to the bedroom, every step echoing their impending confrontation. She pushed open the heavy oak door and pulled Friga inside. The room, dimly lit by the flicker of candles.

Without another word, Amara began to strip Friga of her clothes. The fabric slipped away easily under her strong, dark hands, revealing Friga’s pale, delicate flesh inch by inch. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, causing her to shiver slightly, but she didn’t dare protest.

"Do you understand why I’m upset?" Amara asked, her tone leaving no room for defiance. Friga bit her lip and nodded, eyes downcast.

"Yes, Mistress Amara, it is only by your hand I seek pleasure, freedom, or sustenance" came the soft reply.

Satisfied, Amara moved with methodical precision, grabbing a fistful of the woman's golden hair. She bent Friga over her knees, her pet’s shivering body settling into place. Friga’s quick breath steadied as her tender white belly pressed into Amara’s firm thighs.

The first slap landed with a sharp crack, sending a jolt through Friga's body. Her pale cheeks turned a bright shade of pink almost instantly. Amara's palm continued its rhythmic punishment, each strike firm and deliberate. Friga squirmed and quaked with each impact, but Amara's grip on her hair kept her anchored.

As Amara's hand connected with Friga’s tender flesh, she noticed something—Friga's crotch was pink, wet, and glistening. It was an arousal born from submission; a response Amara had seen many times before in these former Nordic lands. White girls tended to get like this when shown superior black power.

"Look at you," Amara murmured, her voice a blend of authority and adoration. "This is where you belong."

“Yes, mistress Amara, your strength and mercy are why I still live.” The pathetic white woman blubbered, gasping as her owner played in her needy vulva without any hope of giving her relief.

A few more measured slaps followed, each one eliciting small gasps and quivers from Friga. Finally, Amara paused, letting her hand rest lightly on the curve of Friga's reddened backside. The once-bratty wannabe-independent girl now lay pliant, having been reminded of her place.

"Good girl," Amara whispered, her voice softer now but still laced with control. She let her fingers linger, tracing patterns on Friga's heated skin, feeling the warmth beneath her touch.

#interracial lesbian #lesbian bnwo #bnwo snowbunny #white women evolving #black new world order #bnwo propaganda #punished snowbunny

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nez-mai · 5 months ago

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♥️🌹🍉🫂🍉🌹❤️

First of all, I would like to express my respect and thanks to you for your kind treatment, appreciation and support of us. I ask you to forgive me if I have bothered or inconvenienced you. In fact, we have not found anyone to help us, and we are here displaced, fleeing death in Gaza for more than a year. We left our home and our money, and we lost our son under the rubble. I survived after being injured. I am the breadwinner for my elderly, sick father, my mother whose leg was amputated, my wife and my children. We live in a dilapidated tent that does not protect us from the rain. We were shocked by this when winter came and we found ourselves drowning in the rain and shivering from the cold air without having any means of heating or protection such as winter clothes or food. We do not have our daily sustenance. We have been afflicted with illness and old age. My family and I are sending you these words to express our pain that is getting worse every moment. Therefore, we are all hopeful that you will stand by us. We ask you not to be stingy with your generosity to change our situation and save us from the oppression of war, poverty and disease.

please do not hesitate to help noor nad her family in any way you can,they ask for so little and yet most ignore their calls for help if you cannot afford to donate the please share , repost or talk about it to your irls , lets spread the word to people who can afford to help

Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #397 )

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desceros · 1 year ago

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For infinite singularity, I was wondering, after Donnie takes reader out of the office through the portal…

What happens to the..crime scene and our psycho coworker? Especially what did the rest of the brothers do?

(Btw love ur work, ur a total inspiration! ✨💞drink water, steal sum sustenance, take care of yourself 💗)

As soon as you and Donnie are through the portal, Leo gets to work.

Mikey’s in charge of keeping your coworker from doing anything stupid. A task he enjoys greatly, as it means he gets to sit and giggle on the guy’s chest and pretend he can’t hear him wheezing for breath where Donnie nearly choked him. Meanwhile, Raph is sent off to take care of getting the power back on. He’s no Donnie with tech and never will be, but he’s getting decent at stuff like this. They don’t need it, but it’ll make it easier when the cops finally show up to wipe up the mess.

“So, what exactly was the plan here, huh?” Leo asks your coworker. “You get kicks out of roughing up pretty girls?”

“She’s not some random girl. She’s my soulmate,” your coworker spits, vile descriptions of the things he planned on doing to you cut off when Leo gets a foot on the clown’s broken forearm.

“Wow, that’s so weird. Here I thought she was my brother’s soulmate,” Leo says, waving his hand in the air and watching the rage purple your coworker’s face. “What with the whole can’t stand to be apart and gazing sappily into each other’s eyes thing they have going on.”

“My pure little dove wouldn’t fuck a monster. He’s forcing her.”

“Buddy, I can promise you, first hand account, she did. Also, kind of ironic considering I’m pretty sure you got caught with your hand in one hell of a cookie jar, don’t you think?”

Raph comes back. “Power’s on,” he says, his word the only indication that’s the case since he left the lights off. Better for them, just in case.

“Good job. One last thing,” Leo says, putting more of his weight on your coworker’s arm and feeling the bones splinter beneath his heel. “What’s TCRI doing sending out hit squads? Last I checked, business wasn’t supposed to be this cut-throat.”

Between heaving breaths of agony, your coworker groans in wretched agony before he just starts to laugh and laugh and laugh. “You’re a funny guy.”

“Right? Everyone keeps saying it’s my brother, but man, I’m telling you, my lines are killer,” Leo says, a grin that’s all teeth slashing onto his face as he grinds his heel into shattered bone.

“He ain’t gonna talk,” Raph says after a minute more of your coworker just laughing each time he stops gritting his teeth in pain.

“I can make him do it,” Mikey says cheerfully, a smile that doesn’t match his eyes pulling into place.

“…Raph’s right. We’re not going to get anything out of him,” Leo says, pulling his foot off your coworker’s arm. “Knock him out and call it in.”

“I’ll find her again,” your coworker grits through his teeth. “She’ll never be able to hide from me. I’ll haunt her forever. Even if it’s like this, it’ll only ever be me she thinks about. Forever and ever and—”

“Ohh, my god, shut up,” Mikey groans, and with a thwack, your coworker goes silent. He then looks up at Leo, tilting his head. “…I didn’t know you believed in soulmates, too, Leo!”

“…Of course I don’t,” Leo brushes off, turning to inspect the security camera, putting his shell to his brother’s gaze.

“Cops’re on the way,” Raph says, and the two watch as Mikey gets your coworker trussed like a turkey.

“We’ll have Donnie send them the security footage. Doesn’t look like he tampered with the cameras,” Leo says. Cutting a portal, he jerks his head. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Reappearing in the lair, Leo pulls up his phone.

neon leon (6:11 p.m.) hey hermano. everything okay over there? how she doing

neon leon (6:12 p.m.) bud? you good?

neon leon (6:15 p.m.) nerd says whaaaat

Narrowing his eyes, Leo starts to tap out the next message—dude if you don’t answer in two minutes i’m coming over and—before he freezes in place, thinks for a moment, then groans in disgust.

“Did you get a hold of Donnie?” Raph asks, tilting his head in confusion when Leo brushes past with a wrinkled beak.

“Let’s give ‘em an hour then try again. Fuckin’ rabbits.”

“…Rabbits?”

Mikey pets Raph’s shell consolingly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Wh—B—I’m the oldest?!”

#BECAUSE 66K WASN'T ENOUGH I GUESS #ask tag #tmnt #rise #day job au #fragment tag

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meep9898 · 5 months ago

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M.A.I., too fat to do her job.

What was once a model of an android made with the finest of biosynthetic materials and the most advanced of self-learning softwares, created with the sole purpose of assisting her users with any task they may need to do, had been turned into something that would shock her creators at Nishimura Corp.

This one M.A.I. unit had been assigned to a user who constantly inquired about the A.I.'s 'needs' and 'experiences', always motivating her to try new things, always pushing her to take it easy and to let them be the ones to assist her, always offering reassuring words when she worried about not completing any tasks. The user, ignoring all cautious words from her robotic assistant, had swapped the roles they were meant to follow. Steadily, but surely, all this attention led to a program that learned that being pampered was the proper way of keeping their Master happy.

However, as time went by, the M.A.I. unit became needier, lazier, and somehwat meaner, taking advantage of their user's kindness and abusing their dynamic to have every single one of her 'wants' tended to. Why should she complete any tasks when her Master could do them all on their own, even doing extra one just because she asked for them to be completed? Why should she ever lift a finger when her Master could take care of everything? And if she didn't have to care for any task, she may as well try out all the things she wasn't really made for, including testing out all 83,678 desserts in her database.

Eventually, all of this gluttony and hedonism created the heaviest M.A.I. to ever exist, one who had her colossal, biosynthetic rear ever parked on her user's bent couch; one whose robotic belly almost brushed the floor, greedily gurgling and growling all the time; one who couldn't go more than five minutes without demanding more sustenance; one who couldn't lift her own arms and who wouldn't do so even if she could; one too lazy to even send reports back to her creators, reports that were supposed to be sent automatically without needing her to do any effort in the slightest...

This M.A.I.'s user, now more of a butler for the android, regretted every single kind word and action that had turned her precious helper into a biosynthetic, couch-filling landwhale. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn´t too late to turn things around. Perhaps, with enough tenderness their M.A.I. unit could be motivated to exercise, to eat healthy, and to help around the house once again. Hopefully, there still was some sense or will to assist others buried under all those layers of fake flab.

"Li-Listen, M.A.I. I need your assistance wi-with a task. Wh-Why don't you he-help me...I-It'll be like o-old times...Wh-What do you say?"

"Tell you what, half pint. Why don't you ask me later? Now, bring me more soda. Ooo! Some hotdogs too!"

There was no hope left at all. This M.A.I. was, and would be forever, too fat and too lazy to do her job.

#Muse: M.A.I.#AU: Super pampered M.A.I.#gluttonygirls #Sorry this one took a while. Hope you enjoy it!

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punks-never-die205 · 1 year ago

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Souled Out

Fem Reader x Demon!Eustass Kid

CW: Blood, religious tones, original creation myth, ritual, violence, dubious consent, 18+

tags: @keiva1000

Chapter 7: Empty Soul

Kid looks at you and you can hear his tail smacking the floor in quick succession before he growls. “The easy way is-.”

“Contracts.” You interrupt flatly. “I remember that. What are the non-contract ways.”

“… Before contracts it was a ritual. Someone would agree to give over their soul to someone else, in part or whole, and as long as the other person agreed to accept it, they’d sit in an array, and do the transfer.” He snaps the words out curtly, irritation dripping from his fangs. “Souls are important though, right? Who wants to give theirs up, so that didn’t happen much. Before the whole contracts and guidelines there were other ways too.”

“Like theft.”

“Yeah.” Kid clears his throat. “We think one of the reasons they want to fill you back up with pieces of other souls is so that they can complete the theft.”

Your brows furrow and you stop eating. “Complete it?”

“Taking a soul against someone’s will doesn’t let you do anything with that soul.” He explains. “Another reason the whole contract process became popular.”

“… Giving me a different soul will let them use mine?”

Kid shakes his head. “It’s… when the doc stabilized you, he did it by basically merging the scrap from Gilda with your soul. You have more soul now, and it’s, technically your soul.”

“… How did he-.”

“It’s my gift.” An irritated voice interrupts you as the doctor from earlier sits down with the two of you.

“Do all demons have a gift?” You question, looking from one to the other.

“Some.” Law answers flatly. “Our current assumption is that whoever stole yours doesn’t want you to die. They didn’t send you any pieces of soul until you’d summoned someone who could help you if things went wrong.”

One glyphed finger draws a circle in the air around you and the question on your lips comes out as nothing. Law smirks and then continues talking. “We can only make assumptions, but the theory is that once you have a full, and stable soul, the one who stole yours will make contact. After all, humans don’t know one soul from another, so why should you be overly attached to yours? Once you agree, the deal would be done, they could leave with their prize.”

He takes a sip of coffee, rotating his finger in the other direction and you’re certain your ability to speak, or at least be heard, has been restored.

“They are in for a rude awakening then.” You answer simply, finishing up the last of your food. “I want my soul back specifically. If this patched soul becomes, technically, my soul, then they can have it and give me mine back.”

Law looks from you to Eustass. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Eustass barks.

“Sure about?” You prompt.

“This creepy shit thinks you’re a demon, or an angel.” Eustass grumbles, jerking his thumb toward Law.

“…Why?” You question, looking over at Law.

Law returns your look for a moment before sighing. “If humans truly had a strong attachment to their souls, they wouldn’t sign so many contracts.” He says flatly. “They’ll all talk about how important and valuable it is, and in some ways they aren’t wrong, but then they’ll sign their names and hand it over for something as impermanent as money, or as useless as revenge.

“But you,” he continues, taking another drink of coffee. “Despite having other avenues available, want your soul back. You’re effectively immortal as you are, there’s not enough soul to wear down your vessel, without degradation of the vessel there’s no chance of illness, the amount of sustenance you need is reduced as well.”

He sets the cup down, pointing at you lazily. “You’ve more than anyone could hope to get in exchange for their soul already, and yet you want your soul back. Only demons and angels covet their souls fiercely enough to spend decades trying to recover them.”

“I… don’t want immortality.” You say flatly. “I want my soul back.”

Law’s brows raise a little, the slightest shrug of his shoulders as he finishes the coffee. “Maybe you’re a-.”

Kid’s hands slam down onto the table, his tail snapping heavily against the floor as he glares at Law. The two glare at each other for a long moment, before Law sighs and gets up.

“You’re free to go home. You’re welcome to a pair of scrubs since your clothes were ruined. I left them in your room.” He says, turning away and walking off.

There’s a long silence between you and Kid before he sinks back into his chair, the angry twitching of his tail calming down.

“Was he going to call me a slur?” You question, eyes on him. You catch a furrow in his brow, but it doesn’t last, and he growls before sighing.

“Remember the lecture about souls?” He prompts, and you nod. “Heaven and Hell have their conflict.”

“You said that was the only thing people here had correct.”

He nods. “Yeah, Heaven’s not perfect, Hell’s not fire and damnation, but the two places are at odds. Clean souls are basically drafted, I mean, you choose where you go, but if someone important to you picked Hell, and then met you at the gates and asked you to come be on their team, chances are you pick Hell, and not Heaven when you’re deciding.”

“I imagine -.”

“There’s a lot more to it than that, yeah.” He sighs, and you can hear his tail ticking against the hard floor. “The only way to leave the conflict, is to voluntarily go back to take a Turn. You forget everything. Fresh start shit. No memories, just like any other time someone goes through the Turn.”

He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces before continuing. “We call ‘em Deserters. Angels or Demons who basically just… walk out on their,” he falters, letting the word hang, trying to sort out what to say next when he waves it off. “… whatever.” He leans back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling for a moment.

“Someone-.” You say the word and stop, getting up and walking back to the room you’d been recovering in. It’s obvious someone left the conflict, and he knew them, there was no need to ask about it.

“I’m going to change so we can go home.”

You pause after the word leaves your lips and turn back toward Kid. “Do I still have a home?”

He looks at you funny for a moment before laughing. “Yeah, you do. It needs a little remodeling, but the explosion didn’t take out the unit.”

You knew, even as you continued back to the room to change, that you should’ve asked for more details, but as you stood in your apartment an hour later you were honestly glad you hadn’t.

Kid stood quietly by the entrance as you walked through the relatively small apartment. Standing in the kitchen you looked in one direction to see the hole in the wall, straight through the oven and into the bathroom. You didn’t smell gas, so you weren’t really concerned. Looking in the other direction you could see scorch marks and a radial series of cracks in the wall.

There wasn’t really any other word for it, it was an impact crater in the wall. Right up against a four by four that had cracked nearly through. One sturdy piece of lumber was the only reason the explosion hadn’t blown a new door in your home.

“Where’s,” you pause, unsure if you want to know before you decide to ask after all. “The body?”

Golden eyes regard you for a moment. “My forge.”

You return his gaze, and give a small nod before stepping further into your home. “Her soul’s at the Turn then?”

“Unless she signed it away, yeah.” He answers, stepping in and away from the front door.

“Well, at least the other bathroom is still functional.” You sniff the air a few times. “The oven’s gone but is there really not a gas leak in here?”

Kid peered around the hole where the oven had been. “Looks like the line got crimped shut from the impact.” He looks over at you. “I can fix all this.”

You tilt your head. “Is that your gift?”

Eustass Kid grins, and you can feel the small hairs on your body stand on end. “Fixing something like this? Nah, lots of demons can do something like this.”

You consider things for a moment. “Your forge is your gift.”

The sly grin turns devious. “It is. I don’t need it for this.” There’s a glint in his eyes and the feeling that set your hair on edge sinks into your thighs.

“… I’m in recovery.” You say it suddenly enough that you put a hand over your mouth.

“Heh, I knew I could get you to react.” He says, tongue slipping across his lips as he stalks closer to you. The glint in his eyes is the same glow he’s had before. “You’ve got more soul than just those few tattered scraps, and you made sweet sounds even with that lil’ bit.

“Besides, the doc wouldn’t have sent you home if you couldn’t survive an orgasm or two.” He insists, tail slicing through the air and cracking against it like a whip. “To answer why,” Kid continues, closing the distance between you both and looking down as he pulls you close. “I don’t want to work on an empty stomach. Used up all my energy flying you to the doc.”

He leans down, fingers slipping up your spine, his breath tickling your ear. “I don’t mind begging for my meal when it’s such a sweet snack.”

#Souled Out #eustass kid #x reader #eustass kid x reader #supernatural au #one piece fanfiction #reader insert

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