#that was such a quick hunt i was kind of hoping it would pass time on the train for at least a few weeks

[excadrill]

"im gonna shiny hunt my starter in hgss. this is probably the only way to get me to use smthn other than cyndaquil"

cyndaquil, less than 40 resets in:

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, captive reader, omegaverse, forced bonding is implied, subjugation, some type of sexism, soft dom, but extremely patronizing

♡ fem reader

You offer to go down on him for the first time since he claimed you for himself, and his heart swells with all sorts of bliss—shock and awe, love and pride—utterly overjoyed at the pretty sight of you, so pliant and on your knees, acting like a proper Omega for a change—his cutest little mate. It’s so adorable he ought to take pictures, yet he doesn’t want to miss a thing or spoil the mood—after all, you always get so embarrassed when he brings the camera out.

So he settles for just watching—his adoring eyes resting on you, admiring how you struggle to fit all of him inside your mouth, thinking it’s the just cutest and sweetest how you try so hard for him. Bless whatever brought this new change of behavior on. He can’t be grateful enough.

It was only a couple of days ago when you’d still bite and claw and run away from him at every turn, growling and snarling like a rabid wildling and not the sweet Omega he knew you could be with the proper love and care. Maybe it’s just that—has his love for you finally tamed you? Oh, he couldn’t be more pleased if that’s it.

Look at you… trying your very best. He didn’t mind if you could only fit half of him—just seeing you try to take it all made him more than happy. The way your pink tongue slides along his veins—all teasingly and ticklish—makes him smile while looking down at you. Petting your head in smooth, encouraging strokes—reminding you to breathe every now and again.

He even pinches your cheek when you cough, crooning, “Careful now, there’s no need to rush, baby—take it slow.”

You curse him from where you kneel at his feet, trying to get it over with quickly. Despite your struggles, he seems pleased, and you think you might have managed to get yourself off the hook. That is… until he wraps his cock with one of his big hands and pulls it away from you. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says in his best attempt at sounding suave by nature, and yet, as you look up at him, you see it plain as day.

It makes your guts fold—the eagerness that encompasses him as he looks down at you with kind eyes and a smile—not completely able to hide the frenzy behind it.

No, please, you sulk inwardly—your clit is so sensitive from yesterday, you think you might die if he toys with it again today. You almost indulge the urge to scoot back, attempt to crawl away, and hide in false hope. But you know, chasing you around would just serve as kindling to his inner animal—he would take it as a game, hunting and pinning you down only to lick you clean like a dug-up bone.

You shudder at the thought and almost beg him to allow you to continue, almost insist you can do better, but all you manage is to bite your tongue and cry instead.

“You did so good, baby, don’t pout,” he coos, cradling your face and lifting it up to let him kiss it silly—chastely yet excessively—quick pecks all over, the same way you’d kiss something that’s just too cute for its own good.

It’s his way of comforting you, you suppose, or it might just be him poking fun. You can never really tell with him—if his coddling is all some act or something even more unsettling. But you suppose it doesn’t really matter either.

“Come here, baby, and I’ll do the rest, okay?” he asks, and yet it isn’t a question as he hauls you up off the floor and repositions you as he sees fit—on your back, belly-up beneath him.

His alpha pheromones are quick to overwhelm you, thick and suffocating, pouring over you in waves, drenching you in sweat and something else—something that makes everything sensitive.

The former fight you had when you were still independent has all but left you completely—siphoned from your being every day that’s passed and left you soft like the rest of those Omegas you vowed you’d never become—weak-willed with a body even more so. You feel like a stuffed animal at this point, full of cloudy cotton with a broken voice device that only knows how to squeak when played with.

He takes you beneath the knees and folds them down neatly by your head—one large hand taking both your summoned ankles in a single grip—and you’re locked in, unable to do much else other than pant—kept from breathing too much by the weight of your own thighs pressing down on you.

This had been what you were trying to avoid—this awful position which he seems to love just as much as you dread.

He whistles in awe at the pretty sight of you—all squished beneath him like that—face flushed, and your bloated lips parted with cute little draws of breath—tits bunched together, glossed in a sheen of sweat and heaving with the labored rise and fall of your chest—and that adorable cunt, wet and puffy, swollen up like a pink pillow eagerly waiting for him, a soft bed for his cock and a perfectly bite-sized slice of his favorite cake. His gut rumbles, and his mouth soaks. To think he hasn’t had a single taste all day—he’s beyond starving.

You squirm under him, and he chuckles again, this time breathily—showing more of the unsightly animal with the low growl that seeps into his voice, “Such a pretty girl…” It’s unclear if he’s talking to you as his inkwell eyes are set on something else. He sags forward, back hunched as he bows down to face the object of his desire with only a hair’s breadth of separation—breaths thick, puffed hot against you—canines bared in an eerie smile. “So shy…”

He ignores your wiggling completely—pinching the chunk of cunt where your clit hides, making it peak forth like a little button to press, and his grin broadens.

“There it is,” he licks his teeth with a raspy sigh—eyes wide and deadset. “My beauty.”

You squirm a little more, even though you know you’re not going anywhere until he’s satisfied. He doesn’t waste much more time—not allowing you to prepare. Keeping the pinch, he opens his mouth wide and takes the chub with eyes closed, tongue flattened and wide, cloaking your exposed clit with thirst. “Mmgh…”

He always gets like this—cute-aggressive and pussy-whipped. It’s as if he and your cunt have their own private affair, the way he completely ignores you. No, that’s not entirely fair—he gets like that when feeding you his tongue as well, but you suppose it’s easier making out with your pussy as it doesn’t need to get up for air. 

Neither does he, it seems.

He groans loudly and releases your clit from his pinching grip—but keeps his whole mouth on you—lips, tongue, and all—nose and chin too, buried there while his hand moves down to slip three digits inside, filling you up with little regard to the stretch.

Your breath flares and shudders with a whimpery moan, toes curling along with his fingers, biting your lip at how he hooks them right into the soft spot of your gummy walls, then fingerbangs you fast, right down to the knuckles each time.

“Fuck, baby—so, so good, always so good,” he slurs out into you, tongue otherwise too engaged to bother sounding coherent, yet you understand nonetheless, even though you can never really get used to it—how utterly unashamed he is. “Come on, baby, cum f’mo—cum on my face—” he all but happily begs, tongue out, slurping your slit brazenly.

He’s not a very classic Alpha—how he worships you on his hands and knees with a throat full of plead and praise. He doesn’t even touch himself—cock left hung and bobbing against the bedsheets, hard and strung up with a net of veins, pilling pearls of pre that all go to waste—too busy with you. 

It’s stupid how you’re the one who ends up feeling ignored as the unwanted and overwhelming pleasure manhandles you into submission.

“Cum, baby, give it to me.”

You mewl as his tongue draws something out from within you, making your clit blare and thrum with your heartbeat. You struggle to enjoy it, you always do, feeling forced to surrender, and yet the more you try and deny it, the firmer his hold gets, relentless as he sends you right over the edge. You yelp and seize up once it takes you—clenching tightly around his digits as they unknot your insides, turning you into utter putty in his palm. 

And even then, he doesn’t stop—as if he doesn’t know how—sighing with elation as you quake on his tongue. That crooked smile on his face, nothing short of predatory and vile as he maintains the motion of his fingers, moaning in turn at your cute spasming and all the wordless babble that leaves your lips as you shake your head, crying for him to leave it alone. “Plea’ no more—stop, too much—”

He just chuckles against you—you really are too cute for your own good. Silly little Omega, don’t you know what your pheromones do to him? But okay, fine, since you asked nicely. He gives the slit one last thorough lick before wiping his smile while sitting up.

You haven’t even started coming down when he dabs the weight of his shaft upon the sensitivity, cooing at the lewd little plaps it makes, all slick as he slides the length between your flustered pussylips—fucking through the fat of the mound, running over your full clit, again and again, while listening to you squeak more nothings.

He only croons, “Yeah, I know you like that, baby—this pretty pussy of yours just loves my attention, doesn’t it?" His eyes seem to glow with something sickly, his voice thin, just shy of unhinged. "Always so cute, I could die.”

He can’t get over it—you’re too adorable like this. Watching you pleasure him was a welcome surprise, but ultimately, this is how he always wants you—flipped and pinned with your cunt exposed to his every wish—his favorite toy that never disappoints.

“Your pretty pussy’s always such a crybaby, y’know that? Look how it weeps f’mo—so needy to get stuffed. I bet you want my knot, huh?” he keeps mumbling while using his cock to play with your overworked cunt without yet entering it. “Alright, baby—don’t worry—I’ll give it to you,” he rasps, drooling.

You can’t keep from whimpering when the bed jostles, accounting for his repositioning as he moves to mount you with his feet planted down flat on the bed. Your ankles are pinned passed your head at this point, tipping your cunt up higher than your head.

“Yeah—I’ll give you what you want.” His voice darkens, and so does the look in his eyes—soaked in something you don’t like—something wild and downright terrifying. “And I’ll give it to you good.”

You almost protest, but you know there’s no getting through to him—not with that expression. You hate Alphas, you hate him, and you really hate this awful pose—this mating-press pile-driving overkill where he always bullies into the backroom of your cunt, insisting on fucking your cervix as he digs his cockhead right at the mouth of your womb, knotting you and filling you up with the full worth of his load. It never fails to make you feel utterly wrecked and bedridden in the morning.

But he doesn’t care about that. You have no places you’re supposed to be anyway—nowhere aside from right here, in his bed, where you belong—his sweet Omega bride who’s going to give him lots of pups.

He lines himself up, pressing his head past the ring—watching it swallow around him and biting his lip at the sight. “Look at it, baby—look as I stuff that perfect pussy all the way up—”

He sinks in slowly, revering your cunt for every inch you receive—watching it in awe as it takes the entirety of his length right down to the base. It’s like a magic trick how it all disappears—you’re so tiny, and yet you’re built for this, to take every part of him in, hugging his shaft with velvet heat, milking him as he kneads the spot inside you that always makes you cry out so good for him.

“Yes, baby—that’s my girl—take it all,” he coos, all but sitting on your ass with his cock down your cunt. “It’s like your pussy’s made for me, isn’t it? Perfectly tight, perfectly deep, perfectly wet and chunky to feel like I’m fucking heaven itself—”

You feel no different from a toy when he does this—a squeaky toy manufactured for a Chihuahua puppy, yet mistakenly given to a full-grown Rottweiler. He straight dogs your cunt through several peaks—so soaked now that it fossettes down both the slope of your belly and the cliff of your spine. And still, he keeps going, rambling on like usual—all words that fail to reach you.

You’re so lightheaded you’re on the brink of passing out—overheating and out of strength, numb and tingly, beyond happy when you finally feel his knot swell within, propping you to take his seed. 

He keels over—his thighs pressed down tightly atop yours—panting above you—eyes half-mast and glazed, almost crying in bliss while feeding you his cum, knowing it's flooding your womb, breeding you full of warmth and love.

“Yes, every drop, baby—it’s all yours.” He keeps a thumb rubbing over your clit as he croons. Voice beyond lovesick, “Let’s make too many pups to count.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Nagi, Bachira ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[night-night-stories-before-bed]

Dirty heart

Warning ⚠️; slight smut, fluff, mention of drinking blood. 🔞

Pairing; Batman/Vampire!Male!Reader

Summary; The Justice League hit a stalemate during a mission, but thankfully, Batman knows the perfect person to help them. The only problem is that you are absolutely shameless with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Gotham was a nightmarish city. Rotten to its core and filled with corrupted souls, Gotham was the perfect playground for a creature of the night like you. You could feast as much as you wanted, no one ever questioned the trail of bodies you left behind you. Well, that was until you met Gotham’s well-known vigilante; Batman.

You remembered the first time you two met. It was a rainy and cold night and there weren't many pedestrians out. You were hunting, hoping for a quick meal when Batman jumped behind you. The battle was short-lived as you were faster and stronger than a mere mortal. But you didn't kill him, you didn't even drink his blood. You were too curious and wanted to know who was hidding under the mask, so you let him go.

Only to be able to hunt him down.

And what a beautiful mistake.

Because this time Batman was ready for you. You never expected to be outsmarted and bested by a man dressing as a bat, and yet you found yourself stuck in a cage facing the city’s multimillionaire Bruce Wayne. Thankfully for you, the man had no idea how to properly kill a vampire. You managed to pass a deal with Bruce Wayne; you could live in Gotham and feed, but only on the worst kind of criminals.

You obviously agreed and with the days and weeks passing, you slowly came to cohabit perfectly with fine with Batman. From time to time, you would join him in his nightly adventures, watching over him like an evil angel. You even saved his and Robin’s asses a few times, slowly winning over the kid.

Even Bruce got softer around you.

It was a slow process, but Bruce and you became closer. As an immortal vampire, you had amassed quite a fortune, so you could easily be part of the same gala that Bruce went to. Naturally, the papers jumped on the occasion, questioning the relationship between the two of you and so did you.

Bruce was a womanizer, a playboy, but you weren't better. Some could even call you a manwhore. It was only predictable that you ended up sharing a bed with Bruce, savouring the taste of his skin and drinking his moans. His blood became a favourite of yours and you loved biting him in the groin or leaving trails of small bites all over his body. Your own way of claiming him.

You respected each other lives too and never did you put your nose in his business as Batman, unless he needed your help. So you never once met the Justice League until now.

Bruce’s call took you by surprise, but when he said he needed your help with some important business, you immediately accepted. After all, Bruce wasn't one to ask for help. So you went to his manor and Alfred led you to the batcave.

Down there you came face-to-face with the Justice League. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash… they were all there staring at you curiously as you made your way to your lover. Sitting in front of his screed, Bruce didn't even look at you as you rested your hands on his shoulders.

- “So, what can I do for you gorgeous?” You asked, leaning down and smirking.

- “I need your help to deal with Lex Luther. Mind helping us get in one of his warehouses?” Bruce said, showing you the place on the screen. “It’s lead so Superman can look inside and it would be too risky for J’onn if there is fire. But you?”

- “Aye, I can turn into smoke and get in without being noticed. Can do that, but what is there for me?” You asked, turning your head to look at Bruce before kissing the side of his clothed neck. “I am getting hungry, been a while since I had a taste of you.”

You had whispered, dropping your voice as low as you could that Bruce would still hear you. You got a chuckle from him as he looked you from the corner of his eyes.

- “Get inside, turn off the security system for us to get in and then I’ll think about it.” Bruce replied, making you scoff.

- “Unfair! I do all the dirty jobs and I don't even know my price?”

- “Let's call it a surprise.”

- “Fine! But just because it's you, precious.”

As you let go of Bruce, allowing him to turn around, you realized that all eyes were on you. Amusement was painted on most faces, but Superman seemed a bit jealous. What a shame, the bat was yours and you didn't share. You smirked before looking back at Bruce.

- “This is Y/N, a close friend of mine. He’s a vampire and will easily get inside Luthor’s warehouse.” Bruce simply said as he got up from his chair.

- “Excuse me, are you telling me mister handsome over here is like Dracula?” The Flash asked, pointing at you with surprise.

- “Yeah, kind of, but harder to kill. I still haven't found a way yet and trust me, I tried a lot of things.” Bruce replied as you simply laughed.

After that, you accompanied them to the warehouse, travelling with Bruce in his Batmobile. Every excuse was good to spend some time with your favourite vigilante after all and Bruce wasn't complaining.

Dealing with the warehouse was a quick business for you and the Justice League got inside in no time. Bruce was the last one to walk in and you got a quick kiss before anyone else could see it as Bruce thanked you. After all you didn't just stop the security system, but also unarmed all the traps you had found. Some could have been deadly for some of the members, but not anymore.

That night you left with Bruce and went back to his mansion. Robin wasn't there and Alfred was already sleeping when you both got inside. You quickly found your way to Bruce’s bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes for Alfred to pick up in the morning.

You took your time savouring your prize, kissing and caressing every scar on Bruce’s body, from the biggest to the smallest. His body was like a piece of art that you worshipped. Soft moans escaped Bruce each time your lips and fingers brushed a sensible spot, making you smile. You loved the sound of his voice when he let all restrain go. You were addicted to the trust he had in you when he abandoned himself in your hands.

And when you both were done and your hunger had been satisfied, you cradled Bruce against you, caressing his face and body as you watched him fall asleep. You would fight your own sleepiness, wanting to stay awake as long as possible, admiring your lover sleeping and making sure no nightmares would plague him. But you would always lose and fall asleep as well, arms and body wrapped around Bruce as if to shield and protect him from the outside world.

[rockscanfly]

Random Charles Smith Headcanon's

Has probably contemplated suicide at more than one point (see “I’m here just to hurt and suffer myself. In this land I feel stuck.”)

Maybe a little vain. He cares for his clothing well, embellishes himself. 

Has auditory sensitivity. He gets very irritable with loud people.

Has never felt like he belonged, always feels cut off

Is comfortable with violence only against folk he sees as on his own level/like himself. Has little empathy for himself so has little empathy for them (hence smoking while Arthur beats a man for information, the efficient and quick kills of the bounty hunter, the poachers)

Has a STRONG sense of justice--that includes responsibility and culpability. People make choices and Charles holds them accountable for them. Sadie is a killer, so he treats her like any other ally. That German family didn’t make that choice, neither did the Wapiti. But he doesn’t have any pity for the gang.

Animals don't choose violence, hence the protectiveness over them and their dignity. 

Comes off as cold because he isn’t loud/not good at chat. He’s really just been alone most of his life. 

Okay with drinking, does NOT like drunkenness. Back to culpability. This can make him unforgiving and harsh at times.

Both he and Arthur are so used to people passing in and out of their lives that they’re afraid to hold on too tight. Then Arthur gets captured by Colm. Hosea talks to him, about Bessie and about Arthur’s dead family. 

“I’m not her,” Charles says. “Not either of them. I’m not asking you to leave your world behind, and I’m not going to wait for you in some house. We’re partners first. I’d lose the rest of it before I let you put me to the side.” 

He likes that Arthur is big enough to push him around, to hold him down and anchor him when he can feel himself getting lost. To toss him over a broad shoulder when they’re swimming around on a hunting trip and settle him down on soft pelts, to pin him and bite the lonely from his skin. 

Charles can kick Arthur’s ass and will do so on request

He’s kind and thoughtful. He’d be the one to make Arthur little presents and leave them around for him. Practical things, made special with the careful workmanship of beading/embroidery/etching. 

Can be impatient—autonomy is his norm so waiting on others both physically, mentally, and emotionally doesn’t come natural to him

Will cut slingload on people he feels don’t value him back—would not pine for Arthur or stick around if Arthur tries to protect himself by lashing out at Charles, even if he still has feelings. His father taught him that he has to protect himself because no one else will do it. Arthur. Well. Arthur’s the only person he’s trusted to have his back. Because Arthur proved it, several times over. There’s no one Charles would have used “do it for me” on other than Arthur Morgan. 

He fell into fighting again because he had begun opening his heart for the first time since he was a child, and then fate took Arthur too. Like Charles said—he was put on the earth to cause pain and to suffer himself. 

He tries to help folks, but he’s not good at talking and he can’t use his privilege to help like Arthur did. He’s everything the US government hates, even more than the Waipiti. They reach a point where his violence is no longer useful. And for a drowning, grieving, heart sick stretch of years violence is all Charles has left to him (hence going to Saint Denis, a city he hates, and fighting people for white folks' entertainment in a transparent suicide-by-cop bid for someone to end his suffering) And then Sadie gives him the option of closure and working beside John reminds him that he is a man, not a weapon, and Beecher’s Hope makes him believe he too can change. 

Charles has never tried to be anything but who he is. He and Arthur are similar in that way. What he realizes, what Arthur realized too late, is that he can change if he wants it. And that maybe he’s allowed his past pain and scars to run his life along a course he doesn’t actually have to follow. 

Brought to you by my on-going replay of RDR2 and my undying love and devotion to princess of my heart Charles Smith.

[whatswrongwithblue]

The Hunt pt. 1

Read on AO3.

Part 2. Part 3.

Summary: Alastor x Reader (reader is afab, uses she/her pronouns.) Date nights in Hell are done a little differently, especially when you're dating The Radio Demon.

Trigger warnings: Canon typical violence. Reader and Alastor in Hell for a reason. Horror with some twisted romance.

Today had been a particularly drab day.

Acid rain had been falling all afternoon and Pentagram City was shut down because of it. And you could feel yourself shutting down as well.

These bad days used to fall on you much more often. Back when life was simpler and less stimulating. When there were less options to hyper fixate on and stimulate those delightful hormones that didn’t always help you to feel happy but allowed you to . . . feel.

But today you felt that numbness creeping in; a slithering, creeping, darker cousin to boredom. You were so tired and every forced smile and polite reply aimed at the other hotel residents drained your battery little by little by little by little . . . .

You were on your fifth cup of coffee that afternoon, the bitter caffeinated beverage the only thing left that seemed to cause any kind of chemical spark in your dead gray matter, but unknowingly, you had stopped sipping it several minutes ago. Rather, you were just mindlessly staring down into it, watching the little tendrils of separated creamer swirl around the top. At least it was far more interesting than anything else going on in the lobby.

“Are we having a bit of a . . . down day?” Alastor’s voice said remarkably close to your ear and you jumped, turning to find him bent over at his waist, his head right next to yours.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, turning away from him.

He had pampered and fussed over you too many times on days like these, even when – no, especially when they became so bad you couldn’t get out of bed. But things were different now; since his return to Hell, Alastor was busier than ever and you didn’t want to bother him. The guilt would be worse than the emptiness you were currently struggling with.

“I think not,” came his sing-song reply and you shut your eyes against the enthusiasm you heard in his tone.

“Don’t I look fine?” you challenged and when he stood up straighter, his smile pinching just a little at the corners, you heard how snippy you sounded with him and sighed. There was the damnable guilt you had been trying to avoid.

“You look beautiful as always, darling,” came his quick reply. “I just thought you could use a little cheering up.”

He leaned back in, whispering conspiratorial into your ear now. “I was hoping you would join me . . . on a date . . .” His eyes glowed as he let his words sink in. “But if you’d rather sit in here and sulk the rest of the night, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Like . . . a date, date?” you asked, feeling a little bit of the weight leaving your chest as hope bloomed in you.

“Precisely.” His smile stretched ear to ear. “There is someone I need to collect a debt on and the weather tonight seems just perfect for such an occasion. I would more than welcome your company.”

You felt your first genuine smile of the day grace your features, nearly matching the wickedness of Alastor’s own features, and that little spark you had felt turned into an entire flood of dopamine.

“Where to?” you asked and Alastor took your head, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, before leading you out the front doors.

____

The prey dragged itself up the stairs, stumbling on every other step and grasping the handrail for balance as he went. Although the rainstorm had kept him from the bars that night, it hadn’t kept him from his personal stache of liquor and in his lonely anger, he had downed several gin and tonics before his stomach began to protest and he had passed out in his armchair. He’d woken up a few minutes ago, his bladder protesting the diuretic effects of the booze. By some miracle he had made it to his downstairs bathroom to relieve himself and then decided it was time to crawl into bed.

He made it to the top of the landing after a considerable struggle with the staircase and almost forgot to the turn the lights off behind him. Fumbling with the switch, he just happened to glance down the stairs as the lights flickered out of existence.

The prey blinked in the darkness, trying to adjust his eyes, as he thought he saw a strange shadow at the bottom of the stairs.

He was sure he was alone in the house and he couldn’t quite be sure of what he was seeing, so he flipped the lights back on.

Nothing.

Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes, he turned the lights back off.

And there it was again.

A shadow. Taller and definitely there.

Feeling his heart begin to race, the prey flipped the lights on, certain he wasn’t imagining it this time but as the staircase became illuminated once more, the shadow was gone.

He had perhaps had too much to drink.

One last time, he flipped the switch, inviting the darkness back in, and this time when the shadow came back, the prey swore there were faint glowing green eyes and the hint of a smile playing across its features.

And was it a little closer this time? He had sworn it was at the bottom of the stairs but now it seemed to be a few steps up.

“Now that’s enough of that!” the prey shouted and flipped on the lights.

He breathed a sigh of relief when once more, there was nothing.

Maybe it was best to sleep with the lights on tonight, just to be certain.

The prey turned away from the stairs, leaving the switch flipped in the on position, and came chest to chest with The Radio Demon.

“Good evening, Daniel,” Alastor said, smiling wider as the prey’s face turned several shades whiter. “I see you’ve changed residences.”

“Hey there, Al’ . . . I-I mean, Alastor . . . sir. M-Mr. Radio D-demon,” the prey stuttered, stumbling backwards and just barely catching himself on the banister. “You uh . . . you like my new digs, huh? Paid a pretty penny for it but you know, it’ll be good for business.”

Alastor remained at the top of the stairs, watching his prey make its slow decent down and away from him.

“And who’s business would that be? Certainly not mine, I don’t deal in real estate after all.”

“You know, ha, it’s funny you would say that because I’ve been meaning to talk to you- ”

“You made a mistake, Daniel,” Alastor told his prey, all the politeness leaving his tone, although his smile remained.

The prey swallowed audibly.

“Did you really think going to Zestial, of all demons, would save you from our deal?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re . . . talking abou- ”

“You see, Daniel, Zestial and I may not necessarily be friends, but we are colleagues. And we have an understanding. A certain level of respect for each other, if you will.” Alastor narrowed his eyes and his voice turned cold as ice. “And neither of us like having another Overlord’s leftovers.”

Daniel turned and fled, racing down the rest of the steps with a grace that only adrenaline could provide in such a state of inebriation, though he did fumble quite a bit with the locks of the front doors.

Alastor let his prey make it out the front door before he went in pursuit, though he let his deep laughter follow Daniel the whole way down, enjoying the sweet tangy smell of his fear as it spiked at the sound.

In his panic, the prey forgot all about the inclement weather and dashed thoughtlessly out into the rainstorm and ran down the deserted street. It took a minute for the effects to kick in but eventually he started to feel the itching on his skin and then the burning set in. The prey stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, beneath a streetlamp, and watched as the skin on his hands began to turn red and break out in a terrible heat rash.

With a sob, he dashed under an overhang of a nearby business and shook at the doorhandle, but it wouldn’t budge. He thought about breaking the window to get inside but then he heard that laughter again and the streetlights above flickered and then went out, one by one.

Looking down the street, he watched as The Radio Demon stepped out into view, his antlers now wide and pointed above his silhouette, and turned his head down the street, looking in his prey’s direction.

A smell wafted off of him, even from this great distance. A dank, swampy, animalistic smell. The musk filled the prey’s nostrils and burned his sinuses, and he knew it was the smell of a predator about to pounce.

“That’s alright, Daniel, go ahead and run. Please do.”

To the prey’s horror, Alastor began walking quickly down the sidewalk, completely unaffected by the burning rain.  His limbs and entire body stretched out and elongated with every step, closing the distance between them faster than previously possible, until Alastor was a towering demonic presence chasing down the street after him.

“I like my meals warmed up!” he shouted, and the prey screamed as he took off again.

It was either face the rain or be eaten and the prey chose the rain as it sprinted down the street, screaming and crying out for help but not a light flickered on in the buildings as he passed them.

Eventually the burning became unbearable and the prey darted blindly into the nearest alleyway, praying to Roo herself that there would be some shelter to hide in and protect him from the rain.

And there it was, a small overhang by a bar’s backdoor, with a conveniently placed dumpster to hide next to that blocked his view of the street.

That was where the prey found you, standing innocently by the door, shielded from the rain, and he didn’t question why you would be there on a night like this. He only fell at your feet, clinging to your legs and shaking, his hands and face now beginning to blister, his tears hot and stinging his flesh as they fell down his cheeks.

“Please! Please, help me! Let me in! Please! He’s going to eat me, please!”

“Who is going to eat you?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head as you considered the pathetic demon at your feet.

“Alastor. Th-the Radio Demon. He . . . he . . .” the prey fumbled for words, his sentence trailing off as he risked peaking up over the top of the dumpster and seeing nothing but an empty street at the end of the alleyway.

“Oh, right. Him,” you said, nodding. “Well, that’s his thing, isn’t it? Going after demons that try and break their deals. Especially ones like you, who preyed after helpless young women when he was alive. Isn’t that right . . . Daniel?”

The prey’s breath caught in his throat as he glanced over his shoulder at you, a new kind of fear lighting his eyes.

“Who . . . who are you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“That’s not important,” you scoffed. “Who was the girl you raped and left for dead in the park on the night of your 18th birthday? Or the sex workers you then tortured and killed and left their bodies out in the desert? Do you even remember their names? Do you know how many family members are still looking for their daughters, sisters, mothers?”

“I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .” he stammered, getting to his feet now.

“You did. No use denying it now, Daniel. Not when Alastor and I are so . . . very . . . hungry.”

A crackling noise, like the sound of several joints popping at once filled the air, and the prey looked up and up and up as he saw Alastor’s gigantic form peeling away from the darkened side of the building, turning from nothing but shadow into a very corporeal and deadly form before his very eyes.

Behind him, you shoved at his back, forcing him to fall onto his knees into a puddle of acid rain.

Then you stepped out from under the cover of the overhang, letting the rain soak your hair and clothes, and the prey looked up at you with renewed horror as he realized the acid water had no effect on you either.

“Please,” he whimpered and then began to scream as Alastor bent over and lifted him into the air.

You watched as the prey’s tiny body was lifted higher and higher until the rain and the shadows hid him mostly from view but you could still hear him screaming. Then there was a crunching noise and a wet sound, followed by a thin stream of blood that fell from the sky.

The screaming continued.

“This will be quite unpleasant until it’s over,” Alastor’s voice said from high above you. “But my darling companion does love the taste of demon heart.”

Another sound of stretching and tearing and then you saw it; the warm mass of your meal falling towards you, and you reached up and caught it with skilled precision.

With the prey’s heart now in your grasp, you brought it to your lips and took an eager bite, never minding the blood that ran down your forearms and coated your lower face.

The screaming above you came to a sudden halt with the sound of one final loud crunch and just as you were taking the last bites of your own meal, Alastor was standing before you.

His antlers were still larger than usual, their six points gleaming beautifully in the dim light of the alley, as rain ran down them in rivulets, soaking the red and black hair beneath them.

Alastor gave you a loving smile as you swallowed the last bit of heart.

“Feeling better, my love?” he asked.

“Much,” you said with a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”

He reached a hand out, wiping away a bit of blood from the side of your mouth with his thumb, though he had hardly succeeded in getting it all.

“You always look positively stunning like this,” he said as he brought his bloody thumb to his mouth and gave it an appreciative suck.

And there in the rain and the dark, you and your lover shared a private and tender kiss, the perfect ending to a perfect date.

Tag list for part 2? It will be smutty.

[mercillery]

Hi, I read your Frederick/Reader and absolutely fell in love with your writing style. Was kicking my feet type shi😭 If you’re willing to, could you write for Victor Grantz in the same format ? If you do my world genuinely will be complete.

Thanks and have a good one!

WARNINGS: GENDER NOT SPECIFIED + NOT PROOFREAD

NOTES: The way you worded your request was hilarious thank u so much and sorry this took super duper long…consider this my early Christmas gift to you. I hope this is the format you wanted 🥹❤️❤️❤️

Meeting Victor is like trying to pet a stray cat: approach too quickly, and he’s gone before you even say “hello.” He’s a master of the subtle retreat—one second there, the next, poof, like smoke in the wind. Victor’s shy, wary nature doesn’t just make him skittish; it’s practically an Olympic sport. He’s the reigning champion of Avoidance 101.

But don’t worry—if you come at him gently, with no sudden movements and a kind heart, he might cautiously peer out from behind the metaphorical couch. It’s a process though, so buckle up for the long haul. Winning Victor’s trust is less about grand gestures and more about the quiet, unspoken ones.

Want to impress him? Forget the flashy declarations of friendship and instead offer to help him feed the strays or—better yet—silently leave him a little note of encouragement. He’ll find it later, blush like a tomato, and spend three days overthinking how to say “thank you.”

Victor values people who respect his boundaries like they’re sacred artifacts in a museum—look, but don’t touch, unless invited. The tiniest, most understated acts of care leave the biggest impression on him.

Did you pick up a letter he dropped without making a big deal about it? Congratulations, you’re now a recurring character in the cinema of Victor’s mind. He’ll replay that scene like it’s Oscar-worthy, analyzing it frame by frame. “Were they just being kind, or did they pity me?” he’ll wonder at 3 a.m., sandwiched between anxiety and the hope that maybe—just maybe—you actually like him for who he is.

Spoiler alert: Victor is going to assume pity at first. That’s just his brand.

Victor’s idea of initiating a conversation is basically an international diplomatic incident. He’s not one to start talking, because, let’s be honest, that requires bravery, and he’s still working up to being brave enough to ask for extra ketchup at the fast food drive-thru. But once he trusts you and that’s a long journey involving more emotional hoops than the Olympics, he’ll let slip little nuggets of his inner world.

He’ll drop these tiny little gems about himself like it’s a treasure hunt, but you’ve got to be quick, because they’re easy to miss. One day, he might casually mention how a certain flower takes him back to his childhood—cue the mental image of him as a tiny, awkward version of himself, surrounded by daisies.

Another time, he might comment on how people’s faces light up when they get letters, like he’s some sort of professional mail therapist who knows the emotional impact of a good envelope. When Victor opens up, it’s like witnessing a rare bird in the wild—blink and you might miss it.

Victor is not one for blatant hints, because he’s too busy trying to avoid direct confrontation (his skill at this could be rivaled only by the world’s most skilled diplomats). So, no, he’ll never explicitly ask for your company, because that would require him to open his mouth and risk exposing his soft, squishy emotional side.

Instead, his actions do the talking—though they might need a bit of interpretation, so keep your detective hat on. Victor might subtly adjust his delivery route so it conveniently passes by places you frequent. It's almost as if he’s carefully plotting to get within a five-foot radius of you, and hey, who could blame him? Maybe he’s just really into the whole “unexpectedly running into people you know” thing.

Or, if he’s really feeling bold, he’ll linger a little longer when dropping off your mail, as if the mailbox suddenly has some profound existential meaning. If you happen to notice this and casually join him (because you are a good person who isn’t going to let Victor spiral into further awkwardness alone, right?), he’ll be overjoyed—but also extremely flustered, because admitting he wants you around would require him to admit he has feelings. And that, my friend, is a level of vulnerability he’s not quite ready for. But don’t worry, his heart’s doing the cha-cha on the inside.

Victor is a masterclass in the actions speak louder than words school of love. He’s not going to serenade you with declarations of affection or wax poetic about how your eyes sparkle like the morning dew—because, frankly, just thinking about that would make him combust.

Instead, he shows he cares in his own quiet, sneaky way. Mention your favorite tea once, and guess what? He’ll remember it for eternity. He’s got a mental file labeled Your Preferences: Highly Classified that’s better organized than the national archives.

You’ll casually say, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to read this one book,” and BAM—next thing you know, it’s magically in your mailbox with a little note that just says, “Thought you might like this.” And if there’s a stray cat you always stop to pet, Victor will casually start carrying an extra biscuit in his satchel for it.

Let’s be honest, though—if you look hungry enough, that biscuit might end up being for you. It’s basically his love language: tea, books, and snacks.

If you want to make his day, just sit next to him quietly and do something peaceful together. He’s like a houseplant—happy just existing in the same space as you, soaking up the shared sunlight.

Whether you’re tending a garden, reading side-by-side, or helping stray animals, those moments make him feel like he’s starring in his own low-budget indie movie (the kind with no dialogue but lots of meaningful glances).

There’s no pressure to talk, and that’s exactly how he likes it. If he had his way, his life would just be a montage of cozy, quiet activities with you, set to the soft plink of piano music.

Of course, Victor’s social anxiety has a habit of pulling pranks on both him and everyone else. One minute, he’s enjoying your company; the next, he’s retreating like a vampire caught in the sunlight. No explanation, no warning—just poof, gone. It’s not you, it’s him—and his brain, which likes to play a cruel game called Let’s Overthink This Until We Die.

If he avoids eye contact or looks like he’s considering tunneling through the nearest wall to escape, it’s not because you’ve done anything wrong. He’s probably just overwhelmed and desperately trying to remember how humans are supposed to behave. Give him some space, and he’ll come back once he’s convinced himself you don’t secretly think he’s the most awkward person alive.

Spoiler: he totally thinks you think that anyway.

Victor wrestles with an Olympic-level sense of unworthiness, like his brain has its own personal commentator constantly reminding him, “And here we have Victor, doubting his ability to be loved again—10 points for consistency!”

He struggles to believe that anyone could genuinely care for someone like him, especially given his arsenal of awkwardness and insecurities. Seriously, if self-deprecation were a sport, he’d have a gold medal and a sponsorship deal.

But here’s the thing: if you’re patient and reassuring, he’ll eventually start peeling back the layers of his fears. He might quietly admit to his scopophobia (fear of being stared at), his doubts about whether he’s even capable of forming meaningful relationships, or—prepare yourself for heartbreak—his lingering sadness over never receiving a letter addressed just to him. (Excuse me while I cry forever.)

When this happens, please, for the love of all that is good, don’t panic and start shouting affirmations at him like you’re his personal life coach. Victor thrives on calm, gentle reassurance, not pressure or raised voices. Your steady, quiet presence is like emotional chamomile tea to his frazzled soul.

Despite all his self-doubt, Victor is ridiculously perceptive about your emotions, even if he doesn’t always know what to do about them. He’s the kind of guy who notices you’re upset before you even realize it yourself.

Did you sigh a little too heavily or stare off into space for three seconds longer than usual? Victor clocked it. And while he might not be the type to launch into a grand speech about feelings, he’ll wordlessly show his care in his own way.

Maybe he’ll leave a single flower on your desk—no note, no explanation, just there, like a little whisper of “I see you.” Or, if he’s feeling extra sneaky, he might nudge Wick in your direction, because let’s be real: nothing cheers a person up like an adorable animal who’s clearly been coerced into playing emotional support.

One thing Victor absolutely loves is writing letters. And by love, I mean obsesses over to an absurd degree. His letters to you are the perfect blend of poetic and adorably clumsy, like he’s trying to pour his heart out but keeps tripping over the words.

One moment, you’ll be reading something surprisingly profound about how much he values your presence, and the next, you’ll find a sentence where he’s clearly panicked mid-thought and gone with something hilariously awkward. (“Your eyes remind me of… uh… really nice things!”)

But what makes these letters so special is how deeply personal they are.

They’re filled with gratitude for the quiet joy you bring into his life, written in a way that’s so uniquely him you can practically hear him fumbling through each line. Honestly, if love languages were mail-based, Victor would be your number-one postman.

Crowds and Victor go together about as well as oil and water—or Victor and social confidence. But if you casually mention liking something, prepare yourself, because this man will brave the seventh circle of hell (the local market) to get it for you.

Picture it: Victor, sweating bullets, weaving through bustling streets like a man on a mission, clutching his satchel like it’s a lifeline. He’ll return flustered but victorious, the prized item wrapped so carefully you’d think it was made of glass.

His face will be a mix of relief and pride, as if he’s just slain a dragon. (To be fair, for Victor, that is the equivalent.) Don’t be surprised if he brushes off your thanks with an awkward, “Oh, it was nothing,” while secretly hoping you’re impressed by his bravery. Spoiler alert: you should be.

Wick, Victor’s trusty dog, isn’t just a pet—he’s practically a third wheel in your relationship. And, honestly? It’s adorable.

Victor sees Wick as an extension of himself, so when Wick curls up in your lap or adorably gnaws at your shoelaces, that’s basically Victor saying, “I trust you with my soul, but, you know, through the dog.”

The moment you start caring for Wick—feeding him, petting him, or playing fetch—Victor’s heart practically bursts into a thousand sparkly pieces. Watching you with Wick is like watching someone hold a tiny, fluffy version of his heart in their hands. Wick’s antics aren’t just cute; they’re a whole bonding experience.

Honestly, at this point, the three of you are a family. Wick’s the child, Victor’s the awkwardly doting dad, and you’re the incredibly patient parent trying to keep them both in line.

Arguments with Victor are about as common as a solar eclipse: rare, slightly uncomfortable, and leaving everyone a bit disoriented afterward. Confrontation isn’t in his wheelhouse—if there’s tension, his first instinct is to retreat like a turtle into its shell.

If he’s hurt, he won’t blow up or yell; instead, he’ll quietly pull away, letting his mind run a marathon of overthinking. By the time you’ve moved on, he’s still replaying the argument on loop like a bad soap opera. But here’s the thing: Victor is ridiculously introspective.

Once he’s processed his emotions a process that may or may not involve pacing, Wick cuddles, and at least one existential crisis, he’ll write you a letter. And not just any letter—a heartfelt, soul-baring essay on what went wrong, why he feels the way he does, and how much he still values you.

Victor’s ultimate dream isn’t flashy—it’s not a yacht, a mansion, or a five-star lifestyle. No, in Victor’s perfect world, it’s just the two of you, Wick happily trotting at your heels, living your best life of ultimate domesticity.

No loud parties, no awkward small talk, just a quiet house with a cozy garden and maybe a suspiciously large collection of rocks Victor has insisted are “artistic.” The joy of daily routines—making tea, feeding stray animals, and Victor nervously handing you love letters he’s rewritten five times—is his idea of pure bliss. If this man ever proposes, it’s going to involve Wick wearing a bowtie and an “I woof you” sign, so brace yourself for maximum wholesome chaos.

One day, Victor might finally muster the courage to show you his favorite quiet spots. Each one has a backstory that’s equal parts sweet and painfully awkward.

There’s the meadow where he feeds stray animals because, of course, he’s secretly the neighborhood Dr. Dolittle. There’s the stream where he collects smooth stones, claiming they “help him think,” even though he’s just really bad at skipping rocks. And then there’s the old tree. Beneath its branches is a hollow stuffed with letters Victor was too shy to deliver as a teenager.

You’ll probably find one addressed to “That Kind Lady at the Bakery Who Smiled Once,” because he’s been like this forever. And if you’re really lucky, he’ll read one out loud, stammering through every word.

Over time, you become more than just his partner—you’re his anchor, his emotional life raft, and occasionally his human shield in crowds. While Victor still breaks into a cold sweat at the thought of socializing (his personal Mount Everest), your presence helps him step outside his comfort zone.

Maybe he’ll start saying “hello” to strangers instead of just nodding and looking at his feet, or—dare we dream—he’ll manage a full conversation without overanalyzing it later.

Knowing you’ll always have his back gives him the courage to face the terrifying world of small talk and eye contact. And when he’s feeling especially brave, he might even join you in a crowd without Wick acting as his emotional chaperone. Just don’t expect miracles—Victor’s still Victor, after all. But you love him either way, shy or not <3

CHRISTMAS BONUS

Yes, it’s his birthday, but it’s also Christmas, and let’s just say the holiday tends to hog the spotlight like a diva at center stage. While everyone’s busy decking the halls and roasting chestnuts, Victor’s birthday barely gets a whisper. Imagine being handed a gift as a kid and hearing, “This counts for Christmas and your birthday!”—traumatizing, honestly.

As an adult, he’s resigned himself to the overshadowed celebrations, but deep down, it still stings a little. But that’s where you come in.

If you acknowledge his birthday with a small, heartfelt gesture—a handwritten card, a bouquet of winter flowers, or even a slightly burnt homemade cookie—he’ll be so touched he might need to sit down. (Emotionally overwhelmed Victor is a sight to behold—think deer in headlights but with more blushing.)

On Christmas morning, Victor isn’t inside unwrapping presents or sipping cocoa by the fire like a normal person. Nope, he’s outside in the frosty dawn, feeding the stray animals, because of course he is.

When you join him, he won’t make a big deal about it, but his face will light up like a Christmas tree—albeit a very understated one. Without a word, he’ll pull out an extra scarf from his satchel and gently wrap it around your neck. If you thank him, he’ll just mumble something about it being cold, all while his ears turn red.

Wick, meanwhile, will be living his best life, barking like a lunatic and spinning around your feet in an uncoordinated display of canine excitement. Between the wagging tail, Victor’s shy smiles, and the soft crunch of snow underfoot, it’ll feel less like a Hallmark movie and more like a quiet, perfect slice of real life—the kind of moment Victor secretly dreams about but never dares to ask for.

Victor’s favorite part of the holidays isn’t the gifts he receives—it’s watching other people open theirs. Specifically, your gift. While you’re tearing into the wrapping paper, Victor is sitting there, looking like a bundle of nerves wrapped in a sweater, his amber eyes fixed on you with a mix of hope and terror.

His present is always something he’s put way too much thought into: a delicate trinket he made himself, like a pressed flower bookmark or a small wooden carving of you and Wick that probably took him hours. He’ll fidget like crazy as you look at it, practically sweating bullets, and then stammer out something like, “I-I wasn’t sure if you’d like it, but I thought, uh... maybe…”

Here’s the thing: you’d better say you love it. Not just “like it,” but full-on, scream-with-joy love it. Why? Because poor Victor will have spent approximately 400 sleepless nights agonizing over that gift. When you smile and tell him it’s perfect, he’ll just about melt into the couch with relief.

Externally, he’ll nod and mumble, “I’m glad,” like it’s no big deal, but internally, he’s bursting into a fireworks display so sparkly it could rival New Year’s Eve. Wick might sense the mood too and start barking happily, adding to the chaos.

In the evening, as the holiday buzz winds down, you and Victor find yourselves by the fire, sharing a quiet, intimate moment. He’s wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, and his hands are cradling a mug of tea that he’s barely touched because he’s too busy working up the courage to speak.

Finally, he starts recounting a few childhood Christmases. His voice is soft and hesitant, like he’s afraid the words might shatter if he says them too loudly. The stories themselves are simple—a handmade toy from a neighbor, the first time he saw snow—but his eyes glow with such quiet contentment that you can practically see the warmth of those memories written all over his face.

When the fire burns low, the two of you head out for a walk. Snow is falling in soft, lazy flakes, the kind that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath. Wick, of course, is living it up, bounding ahead and occasionally stopping to sniff a suspicious patch of snow before darting off again.

Meanwhile, Victor stays close to you, his gloved hand brushing yours but never quite daring to hold it unless you make the first move. For once, he doesn’t feel the usual anxiety about being seen. The world could be watching, but with you beside him, it doesn’t matter. He feels safe, as though the snow-covered streets and the warmth of your presence are enough to shield him from everything else.

And if Wick comes barreling back mid-walk, absolutely covered in snow and looking absurdly pleased with himself, Victor might let out the softest laugh you’ve ever heard. It’s rare, like spotting a shooting star, and it fills the quiet evening air with a joy so pure you can’t help but smile.

[lippyispunk]

When the World Is Quiet, What Thoughts Remain

Astarion x gn!Reader

Summary: Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately.

Dying.

-

A near-death experience provides Astarion some clarity.

Word Count: 3.7k

fluff, realized feelings, developing relationship

a/n: Hello all!

I wrote this to take place in Act 2, after the Yurgir battle but before Astarion's confession. I believe it is gender neutral, but if anyone finds something that says otherwise, please let me know! First time posting on here, so I apologize for any formatting errors.

-

Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately. 

Dying.

Despite the centuries that had passed since his mortality had been lost to this plane, the experience was seared into his mind. Back then, it had been horrific. The excruciating pain. The paralyzing fear of what was to come, as his body was drained of blood and his heart thumped erratically in his chest, desperately trying to keep his blood flowing- his body alive.

 

This time, the pain is ever present. He lies on his back in the mud and puddles, the yawning storm above continuing to release torrents of rain. His ruby eyes blink slowly, despite the droplets landing in them. Twin daggers have been abandoned at his sides, pale elegant hands having to hold his innards together instead. His white lounge shirt clings to his trembling frame, now dyed rusty brown and crimson red. 

 

The fear, however, is blessedly absent. His thoughts trudge through his mind like oozing honey. It’s almost peaceful. Cazador. The parasite. His never ending hunger. All seemed so far away now; the normally constant concerns looming at the forefront of his thoughts, now caught in the sticky trap of insignificance. 

He had been hungry earlier. Always so hungry. The small respite he received immediately after feeding never lasted as long as he wished it would. His condition had been even more bothersome as of late. Ever since he and the little group of misfits he traveled with had entered the Shadowlands. Prey was sparse. And any blood he lost during battle needed to be replaced somehow. That was how he found himself here tonight.

 

He had hunted further from the group’s campsite than he normally would, in search of the few living creatures that had not yet been felled by this accursed land. He had been ambushed by shadow beings, caught unaware due to his weakened, dulled senses. Their claws had cut through him so easily. His lack of armor was another mistake, but a decision made in hopes to be quick and quiet enough to catch a meal.

 

His head slowly lolled to the side, eyes attempting to focus in the direction of the camp. The monsters that attacked him had begun to slither that way before vanishing into hazy mist. His breath wheezes from his lungs, chest shuddering. Breathing wasn’t a necessity for him, but a habit nonetheless. Even now.

 

He wonders, idly, if any of his companions will be awake at this hour to intercept the attack. His muddled mind cannot bring forth who was supposed to be on watch tonight. He even admits to himself, perhaps his blood loss getting to his head, that he would not wish to see them come to harm. Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart…

 

His drifting thoughts were brought to sudden clarity. A breathtaking, wondrous, kind creature unexpectedly ensnaring his thoughts.

You.

 

Gods, how could it have taken this long for you to flit back into his mind? You were all he seemed to think about anymore lately. Your smile, your laugh, your boundless good heart. But also the confusion he felt that always seemed to twist whatever lovely feeling you inspired in him.

 

He may not wish to see the others harmed, but you… you’re different. The way he feels for you is- different. He cares for you. In a way that he cannot recall ever feeling for someone else. You understand him in ways that he doesn’t understand himself. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. The most alive he’s felt in, well, ever. 

 

But it wasn't supposed to end up this way. He’s comfortable pretending. Seducing. It’s as familiar as the back of his hand. And the facade had worked with you too, for a brief time. Until that second time he propositioned you at the tiefling party. What had you called his seductions? ‘Honeyed words’? And then the complete dismissal of his fraudulent love confession. He had recovered well in the moment; he’s used to pivoting his tactics when the occasional target gets antsy with his persuasions. Even still, you had rejected him that night. You let him down easy, of course, with a compassionate smile and a sweet whisper of ‘perhaps another time'. 

 

Later that night, when he was alone once more, he contemplated. You were on to him, in one way or another. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of his ploy, but you could tell his flirtations were… insincere. Why else would you turn down another night with him? 

 

He had expected repercussions, a growing distance between the two of you that would put all his progress with you to ruin. You didn’t seem the type to settle for this feigned romance. You'd push him away.

But you hadn’t. You were just as warm and welcoming to him as you had always been. Attentive. Friendly. Hells, even laughing at his irrelevant, snarky quips. He was surprised. And in that surprise, he found himself off guard. You still wanted to spend time with him, despite everything. Maybe… maybe he didn't have to try so hard with you. 

 

Since that revelation, Astarion had found himself just enjoying existing . He had fun around you, and the others too, he'd be loath to admit. Now that the metaphorical weight of seducing you had been lifted. But inevitably, at night when he was alone, the pesky question returned, cycle after cycle. If not his body, what did you want from him?

 

More recently, there had been the battle with the Orthon, Yurgir. Astarion was still befuddled, even now. No one in his extensive time on this plane had ever gone to such lengths for him. When Raphael had offered the deal: one very dead devil in exchange for information on his scarred flesh, there had been no question, no doubt from you. Just resolve and an all encompassing respect for Astarion and his decision making. It made his chest ache. 

 

He's not entirely sure what to call the emotion he feels for you. It goes beyond simple lust for your form or an appreciation of your personality. And Gods knows he's scared to Avernus and back of what this all might mean. But he's not scared of you. Never of you. He realizes that whatever comes, he wants to explore this. With you, if you'll have him.

 

Returning to the present from his recollections, one conviction finally banishes the wandering thoughts in his mind. You deserve better than this. These pretty lies he had been trying to feed you. This mask that he had used for so many years, so many decades. You had given him some of the most important parts of yourself. Your trust, your belief in him, your patience.  It was time he did the same.

 

Ruby irises shift skyward once more, a newfound purpose and vitality clear in his pupils. He has to get back to you. To explain. To apologize. Hells, to bathe in the warmth of your presence just once more would make this endeavor worthwhile.

 

He steels himself before his body begins to twist, rolling to his stomach ever so slowly. An agonized cry peels itself from his throat, unbidden. The fresh wave of pain that crashes over his stomach ripples through the rest of his body, leaving him shaking in its wake. He keeps one hand underneath him, continuing to hold as much pressure on his gaping wounds as he can. The other arm is bent in front of him, poised for what he must do.

 

He begins to crawl.

 

He grunts with the effort, free hand scrabbling in the mud for purchase as he drives his legs into the ground to push his form forward. This is far from the worst thing he has ever endured. But Gods, hasn’t he endured enough in this lifetime?

 

Tears spring to his eyes as he continues his plight. His beautiful white curls are drenched, flattened to his head and dropping into his field of view. His anguished gaze is so unfocused that it doesn’t matter. He’s moving on instinct now, forcing his limbs to respond by sheer force of will alone. The will to live.

 

Somewhere distantly his mind registers that his voice has become an endless stream of moans and broken sobs. Blood continues to slip stickily between the fingers clutching at his stomach. He doesn’t care. He will do anything to make it back to you. He has to. He owes it to you. Hells, he owes it to himself.

 

Time moves in slow motion; he loses all sense of it. He knows not how long he’s been dragging his body forward, just that finally, finally , he reaches salvation.

“Astarion!”

 

He hears you as if he’s underwater, but he would know your voice anywhere. His mind is fuzzy, consciousness fading from his being quickly. He stops crawling and lifts his blood-red gaze. You’re here. His breath hitches in his chest, a new sob rending itself from within. Though this one was not brought out from pain, but rather relief. He's never seen a more welcome sight.  

 

You’ve come for him, battleworn and bloody. Your feet pound the sodden land, racing toward him as you pay no heed to the slick mud. You drop to your knees in front of him, hair plastered to your cheeks and eyes wild with adrenaline and some other emotion he is unable to wrap his disoriented mind around. His eyes trace your face with his last remaining strand of focus.

Astarion had long given up on praying to any deity. What was the point? They never answered him anyway. But you- you are divine. The sight of you here, now, almost has him reconsidering his stance. 

 

“Gods, Astarion! Just hold on, okay? Please!”

 

Your hands flutter in his vicinity for a moment, unsure of where to touch without causing more harm. He watches you, the barest hint of his lip tilting up at the corner.

 

“I don’t think you can make it much worse, darling,” he breathes, tone sounding brittle in his own ears. “Just do it.”

 

He sees you wince before you brace yourself. Ever the leader, doing what must be done. Your hands rest on him gently, but firm. Warm. Comforting, despite the circumstances. He wants those beautiful, lively hands to touch him again after all this. He wants to savor it. To feel them carding through his curls. To rest gently on his arm to catch his attention. To pull him in close, a secret for him alone dancing on your lips. He wants to- he doesn’t know what exactly he wants. He just knows-

 

He cries out sharply when you turn him onto his back, the pain rocketing his thoughts out of his musings.

 

“I’m sorry,” you grimace, eyes scanning over his torso, cataloging the damage. 

 

Carmine eyes are glazed with agony, but he fights to stay conscious. He grunts when you move him again, swiftly tucking your legs underneath you. His head lays in your lap, face tilted skyward and ivory neck lengthened by the newly created slope of your legs. A healing potion appears at his lips, your hand holding firm as you tip it towards him.

 

Normally he’d have some smart comment, he’s sure. Something about being a damsel in distress, perhaps. Or maybe something about how this isn’t what he means when he says he wants to take a drink from you. But exhaustion takes hold, and he follows your lead mutely.

 

The effect is instantaneous; the healing potion is a glorious balm for his wounds. The pain numbs to a background throb, much easier to withstand. The gashes across his stomach begin to seal, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. Astarion sighs through his nose, relief radiating through him down to his fingertips.

 

The rain has abated to a lazy drizzle. It’s the only reason Astarion can hear your faint confession.

 

“You… you scared the shit out of me, Astarion,” your voice wobbles, such a far cry from the fearlessness he is accustomed to hearing from you. He blinks up at you, his gaze taking in your anxious expression as you lean over him. Seeing your expressive concern for his well being is still something he's getting used to.

 

He finishes the potion, licking the remnants from his pale lips as you pull the vial away.

“Apologies, my sweet,” his voice comes out stronger than before, but roughened from his earlier painful overuse. “You know I have a flair for dramatics. What better way to keep things lively than almost dying. Again,” he does his best to smirk, to don the mask of devil-may-care that comes so easily to him.

 

“Gods above, Astarion. ‘Dramatics’? That’s all you have to say? You were nearly gone when I got here. I was almost too late,” your voice tapers off, ending in a near whisper.

 

He blinks again, shocked. The facade slides off his face. Truth be told, your vulnerability is making him… uneasy. He doesn’t know what to say. Why are you so distressed? This is hardly the first time one of the group has come up gravely injured. He doubts it will be the last.

 

He will recover eventually, as he always does following a particularly nasty battle. It may take a little extra healing from Shadowheart, and a belly full of blood would absolutely go a long way in fast tracking the process. But regardless, his body will endure.

He’s painfully aware that his usefulness has… limitations. It extends to his body alone. His battle prowess, his dexterous fingers, his ability to deliver pleasure. But that’s it. He has nothing substantial to offer you. No worldly possessions, no powerful connections, just… himself. His biting nature, both literally and figuratively. His trauma, broken pieces with razor sharp edges. He's not even sure if you are interested in something like this with him, something deeper. No, he thinks. No one could want this. Not truly. His growing feelings for you are one sided, of that he is certain.

 

But then you throw his world off its axis again.

 

“I can't- I can't lose you. You mean the absolute world to me.” 

 

His eyes soften, rounding out as he searches your gaze. For what, he’s not entirely sure. Deceit? Twisted humor? But all he finds is tenderness along with the shine of unshed tears.

You pause for a moment, swallowing. He can see you're trying to continue so he waits, eyes rapt.

“I would miss how you always manage to make me laugh, even when I'm having a horrible day. And getting to hear your laugh in exchange when I do something you find particularly impish,” your serious expression finally gives way to a small amused smile. ”The little sweets you sneak into my bag whenever you manage to get your hands on some, just because you know I love them.”

 

Astarion's eyes widen imperceptibly. Shit. He didn't realize you knew he was the sweets supplier. It was…nice for him. To be able to provide you something you enjoy and a brief respite from all the weight on your shoulders. If only for a moment. To see the stress evaporate from your face for the few minutes it took you to chew. You'd only indulge every so often, when camp was quiet and nothing urgently needed your attention. He'd watch silently from his peripheral vision on occasion, not wanting to ruin your contentment but also needing to witness it for himself.

 

But he hadn't exactly wanted to mentally unpack what this absurd little habit of his might mean beyond the superficial. Hence, the secrecy. He was going to eviscerate whichever loudmouth at camp had clued you in. 

 

“You're there for me, in ways that I could never begin to fully describe. I know we don't always agree entirely, but I'm never afraid to tell you how I feel, or what I think. Because at the end of the day we'll still support each other,” you glance away briefly, and he sees the heated flush on your cheeks. 

 

Embarrassment. Always so delicious to him. For anyone else it means he'd get to loosen his tongue on some provoking quips. How he loves to rile people up from time to time. But now, he finds it enticing for an entirely different reason. Gods, you're beautiful. 

 

You find your courage again quickly, making eye contact with him once more. “I could probably go on, but what I'm saying is… I would miss you endlessly. I can't do this without you.”

What a novel concept. To be wanted, needed beyond anything he could provide carnally. To be desired purely for his presence will take some adjusting. But, if you truly believe everything you said about him, then who is he to disagree? Maybe there is some truth in what you say. If you can see some good in his wretched soul, then perhaps he can try too.

 

“I'm… I'm not going anywhere, my love,” he promises.

 

It flows from his lips so naturally, ‘my love'. It hadn't even been a conscious thought. Anxiety spikes in his gut at the admission, his mind already beginning to spiral. Love? Is that what this is developing into? He doesn't know how to tell; there's no past memories in his mind to pull reference from. 

 

But the smile that splits your lips at his vow is radiant, and he finds that his racing thoughts slow immeasurably. Regardless of the unintentional reveal, the moniker fits. He feels it in whatever remains of his soul. 

 

He smiles then, all honey and warmth. For you.

 

“I'll be here long after you tire of me, I'm sure. Vampires always tend to overstay their welcome, you know,” he jests softly, voice lacking his usual edge. 

 

You gasp quietly and he recognizes it as the familiar sound of you remembering something.

 

“I’m so sorry, Astarion. You've just reminded me, I can't remember the last time you've eaten,” you immediately brandish your wrist, pulling your sleeve up. 

 

He freezes, the roiling, constant hunger in his gut flaring at the sight of your wrist. He knows how close the veins are to the surface there, just how deliciously easy it would be to sink his teeth into that soft skin. His mouth waters at the thought. But he is no animal, and neither are you for that matter. He comes back to himself, muscles uncoiling and gaze connecting with yours again.

 

“I appreciate the offer, darling. But you need your strength. Moonrise Tower won't storm itself, and having our fearless leader stumbling over their own two feet along the way won't instill much terror in our foes, will it?”

 

He can't bring himself to say the truth in its entirety aloud. He truly doesn't want to weaken you before the battle at Moonrise. But it has less to do with fearsome appearances and entirely more to deal with your safety. His feedings always take a toll on you. You smile and wave him off every time, but he sees the effects. Reflexes just a touch slower than usual, stamina not quite up to par with the rest of the group. 

 

It's not your fault he's starving. He wasn't exactly forthcoming about his lack of successful hunts since arriving in the Shadowlands. And you were absolutely overwhelmed with everything going on. Between the deadly shadow curse, Ketheric Thorm, and the Absolute, it was a miracle you could ever focus on anything else. No. He doesn't blame you. He wants you to be okay.

 

He can't be the reason you become injured, or worse.

 

But you insist, your wrist gravitating closer to his plush lips and aching canines. 

 

“I'll be okay, I promise. I'll even ask Shadowheart for a little healing incantation if I really need to. Please, you need to be healthy too,” you plead, eyes doing just as much of the convincing as your words. 

 

He breaks. He might be embarrassed at how quickly he bends to your will if he wasn't so hungry. 

 

His hands close gently over you, one a little ways up your forearm and the other on your hand. You know it's to hold you steady when he bites, but the way his cool thumb runs pleasing circles into your palm sends shivers coursing through you. He presses a kiss to your inner wrist, featherlight and fleeting, but it lights a fire under your skin all the same.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs before his fangs pierce your flesh. He is as gentle as possible, retracting his canines from the wound immediately. He keeps his lips attached to your wrist, sucking in a saccharine mouthful.

 

He’s uncertain of how much time passes while he drinks, or when his eyes drifted shut, but the feeling of your fingertips sweeping his soaked curls off his forehead pulls him from his reverie. He finishes his feeding, tongue caressing the new puncture wounds as they begin to clot.

 

His irises are vibrant now, a livelier red more akin to a pulsing wound than the darkened burgundy shade they become when he is ravenous. 

 

“You're wrong, by the way,” you begin softly. “When you said I'd tire of you. I could never.”

 

He would look back on this night later on and distinguish it as the exact moment his dead heart began beating once more. But for now, he smiles up at you- one full of genuine adoration.

 

“The feeling is mutual,” he murmurs, unwilling to shatter the moment. His tone is low, husky. More sincere than he's heard his own voice sound in centuries. Despite all that had occurred this evening, he finds a bone deep contentment in himself. He could stay here for a decade in the comfort of your arms.

 

A few moments later, however, the world kickstarts back into motion, voices carrying on the wind to your positions and popping the seclusion around the two of you.

 

Your head perks up at the sound, eyes scanning through the darkness.

 

“Ah, must be the others looking for us,” your attention returns to Astarion. “Think you can make it back? I can help if you'd like.”

 

He can definitely walk on his own, the potion and your invigorating blood have him feeling almost as good as new. But the idea of feeling the curve of your body pressed into his side is too intoxicating to turn down. So he won't. 

 

He breathes deep and nods, resolve settling into his very being.

 

“Yes, I think I've had quite enough of this mud bath. Darling?” He pauses, it's now or never. “After we settle back in at camp, come find me when you have a moment. Please. I think we need to talk.”

-

a/n: Thank you for reading! <3

[lovings4turn]

୧ ‧₊˚ ☕️ ⋅ ☆ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭…

— in desperate need of caffeine, logan stumbles into the first cafe he comes across. little does he know, this will be the start of something great.

+ the first part of my whole latte love series , aka my child , so i hope you all enjoy <3 this is set in the uk , but reader isn't specified to be any particular nationality !

+ dividers from benkeibear !!

there were many sacrifices logan sargeant was willing to make in his life.

flying halfway across the world aged only eleven to pursue his dream of racing, for one. on a smaller scale, always allowing his brother dalton to ride shotgun on family trips, despite the fact that the backseat caused his legs to cramp up after a few hours.

but, no matter how late he was running, logan had promised himself he would never, ever deprive his body of a hot, caffeinated beverage before a meeting. 

on this particular morning, though, logan was running especially late. normally, the jarring sound of the iphone alarm would snap him from his deep sleep within seconds, the noise sparking an instant feeling of dread within him even when it wasn't coming from his phone. 

he’d learned that alex had a habit of setting alarms for various things throughout the day, before promptly forgetting what he’d set it for, leaving logan to go through the five stages of grief at least four times a weekend. 

but it seemed today the universe had been a little bored, and so decided to find entertainment in burdening a poor, unsuspecting american race car driver with one minor inconvenience after another. 

firstly, his alarm hadn't woken him up. correction: it had woken him up, just thirty minutes after it was supposed to.

secondly, his pride in managing to get dressed with an impressive five minutes to spare was quickly dissipated when he couldn't find his keys or wallet. the hunt had set him back another ten minutes (because why on earth would he think to check the cutlery drawer until he had run out of other possible options?).

and, for good measure, he'd tripped over his own welcome mat in his mad dash out of his apartment. so, yeah, it had been a morning, to put it lightly.

logan cursed to himself as he all but jogged down the busy street, eyes desperately scanning every building he passed in search of a cafe. he was too frantic to read any shop signs, but when he witnessed two girls walking out of a doorway clutching two paper cups, he knew he'd struck gold.

fucking finally.

logan offered the pair a tight lipped smile as he slipped past them and into the cafe, letting a sigh of relief escape his lips as the familiar smell of strong, freshly brewed coffee hit him. 

this was more than worth being late for, he decided. he'd pick up a few extra coffees, as an apology, a courtesy of some kind. who could be mad with a cup of coffee in their hand? though logan figured he was allowed to be a little lax in his timings anyways, since he was no longer in his rookie year at williams. the team would forgive him quick enough.

trainer-clad feet led him towards the back of the fairly short queue leading up to the counter, and logan took the opportunity to slip his phone out from his coat pocket and shoot a quick text to alex. he hoped his teammate wouldn’t mind bearing the responsibility of updating the rest of the team on his whereabouts. 

‘sorry, overslept. omw now though, bringing coffee as an apology and effort to keep my head’.

three laughing emojis quickly flared up onto logan’s lockscreen, and he took that as a positive sign. 

it was only when logan placed his phone back into his pocket that he realised just how close he was to the front of the line, and immediately began rehearsing his order. sure, he ordered the same thing practically every single time he got coffee, but with the day he was having, he’d probably find a way to absolutely butcher the simple order.

all he needed was his oat milk latte, a black coffee for james, and some sort of sugary, overly sweet concoction for alex. he doubted this place sold the pumpkin spiced lattes that he loved to tease alex about ordering, so he’d just have to find the next best thing.

only, when he finally stepped up to the counter and opened his mouth to order, his mind went blank.

standing only a few feet in front of him was the most gorgeous person logan had ever seen, and considering he’d travelled the world and met countless different women and men over the years, that was an impressive achievement. 

you, luckily, hadn’t noticed the internal reboot logan was experiencing, and focused instead on offering him a warm smile and greeting.

“morning! what can i get for you today?” you asked, finger poised and ready to input his order into the till in front of you.

logan barely managed to stop himself from physically shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, before pasting a crooked grin of his own onto his lips.

“good morning,” he returned, voice a little quiet before he cleared his throat and spoke up again. “can i just get a large black americano, large oat milk latte, and uh,” logan paused, eyes quickly scanning the board in front of him as he weighed up all of the different syrups available. 

vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, and oh, thank god, cinnamon. that was close enough to pumpkin spice, right?

“and a large cinnamon latte, please. oh, to take out.” he finished, finally returning his eyes to you as you skillfully rang through his order.

“ah, great choice,” you commented, your smile still never having left your lips. 

from the moment he’d opened his mouth, you’d quickly registered the accent, though opted not to comment on it despite how pleasing it was to your ears. of course there were no shortage of americans stepping into the cafe everyday, but there was something about his in particular that caused your ears to perk up a little more. maybe it was down to the person it was attached to, instead. 

“and is that everything for you today?” you continued, snapping back into following what you’d aptly dubbed your ‘service speech’, a routine that ensured you didn't stumble over your words to every customer you served.

“that’s all, yeah.” logan responded with another small smile. 

“perfect. that’ll be nine eighty there.”

"great, thank you."

logan quickly pulled out his phone to pay, though as his eyes caught the small jar sat on the counter, ‘tips’ scrawled onto a label in nice handwriting, he wished he was paying by cash. a flash of hope ran through him as he dug his hand into his jean pocket, and he had never been more relieved to feel some spare change brush against his fingertips. 

barely even bothering to count how much was there – it looked to be about three pounds, but he could have been wrong - logan dropped it into the jar, offering you a sheepish smile. he felt a little foolish, paying by card and fumbling around for some cash, but the look on your face was more than worth it. 

“thank you,” you repeated with a soft laugh. “should be ready for you in two minutes.”

logan couldn’t bring himself to speak again, so simply nodded and moved to walk to the point he would collect his drinks from. before that, though, he would grant himself one, small privilege. 

his eyes quickly found your name badge, and he scanned it as subtly as he could before he walked away, the name replaying over and over in his mind like a broken record. but, no. broken records were annoying, an inconvenience, something to fix or throw out. your name was anything but. 

not even five minutes after he’d placed his order were his drinks placed onto the counter, each labelled appropriately to save for any confusion. a cupholder had also been provided, which logan was eternally grateful for. he didn’t think the three drinks would survive the short journey otherwise. as a treat to himself, he took a small sip from his latte and almost swore. logan didn’t believe in magic, but he was sure that this coffee was somehow laced with it. never had a simple oat latte tasted so good to him.

and, he thought, a little embarrassingly, never had someone looked so good making one, either. 

“see you later!” you called from behind the till, lifting your hand in a gesture that could be perceived as a wave, but also an attempt to smooth your hair a little. 

logan nodded and gave you a smile. you would definitely see him later. he had just found his new favourite coffee shop, and he wasn’t going to give it up any time soon.

☕️ . . . there it is , the first instalment !! i loved writing this so much - and actually did so with a cinnamon iced latte of my own , as alex and i are actually one and the same ! hope you all enjoyed , and thank you for reading <3

[icarusdescending7]

Aquamarine - Chapter 5

Ao3 | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Your fiancé died seven years ago, and you joined the military in his wake to fill the void his death put on you. Now, you work with the 141 for an assignment, hunting associates of their enemies.

Their Lieutenant, however, given you an uneasy feeling. You have a vague sense of familiarity with him, but from where?

-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-

Price did throw you a mini celebration, he felt bad for missing the day. Gaz and Johnny made a crude little cake for you and everyone sat together and had a good evening. Almost everyone, anyway. Ghost seemed pretty distant the whole time, more so than usual. He would only talk when spoken to but was otherwise off in his own world. Eventually, he retired to his room for the night, leaving the rest of you to your own devices. You all ended up drinking a little bit, which was a mixed bag. Johnny was a very loud drunk, Gaz giggly, and Price the sleepy kind. Unfortunately, that left you, the sad kind, to get all sniffly with them and ramble about the things that make you sad. By the end of the night, you were crashed out on top of your bedsheets, sniffling in your sleep. 

~~~

“Alright sweetheart, I gotta go. I’ll text you in the morning and we’ll call again tomorrow, okay?” Simon said, his voice slightly muffled from the phone speakers.

“Okay, Si. Tomorrow. Sleep tight.” You said, yawning. You sniffed a little, “I love you. Stay safe, okay? I want to see you again soon.”

“You know I always am, love. I love you too. Goodnight.” He said. You both hesitated to hang up, listening to each other breathe for a moment before he hung up.

~

‘Good morning. I hope you’re okay.’

‘We still on for a call tonight?’

You texted him at 6 am this morning when you had woken up. Usually, he’d respond in a few hours, but it was almost 5 pm. It concerned you.

‘Simon? You okay?’ 

‘Si?’

‘Love?’

~

It had been a few weeks since you last spoke to Simon. This wouldn’t bother you normally, considering how busy he was with work, but this time was different. He hadn’t said anything about being unreachable the last time you called, he hadn’t sent a text alerting you to an emergency… nothing. The anxiety ate away at you, chewed at the back of your mind like a horrible migraine. You stared at your texts to him, the long string of messages from you taking up the screen. No reply. 

A few weeks turned into a few months, and you finally got a message. All it read was ‘I’m sorry.’

Wait, what? What? ‘I’m sorry’? What does that mean?

‘Simon? What does that mean?’

‘Please respond. What does that mean?’

Just as quickly as you sent those messages, they were quick to stop delivering.

~

You woke up in your clothes from the day before, your head hurting from dehydration, cheeks dried with salt. Your phone had gone dead from the countless messages you’d sent Simon, not going to bed until you passed out. You put it on the charger, getting up to shower and change clothes. By the time you got out, your phone was back on but no new notifications came in. You set it down and sighed, looking over at the wall. 

A series of pictures lined them, dating back a few years at their oldest and a few months at their newest. You and Simon were the center of each, getting stupid pictures of the two of you at the pier, in the park, at restaurants, parties, and gatherings. All of them made your brow furrow— “What did he mean by sorry?” you asked aloud, staring at the photos. Deciding to send one last text in hopes he received it, you picked up your phone.

‘Seen 3:23 am’

So he did see them. But he didn’t respond. He must have blocked you but regretted it and unblocked you when he knew you’d be asleep. 

‘Is this your way of ending things with me?’ You asked, sending the message. It went through and was immediately seen, but no reply came. You dropped your phone, grumbling to yourself.

~

A few days passed, and you were sitting on your couch staring into space. You didn’t have much energy to do anything but stare. You hadn’t eaten anything but a bag of chips, and you found yourself sipping on a warm glass of water. A knock on the door drew your attention from the nothing you were thinking of. Slowly, you got up, going to the front door and peering through the peephole. The sight beyond made your stomach drop— two soldiers stood beyond with grim looks on their faces. You hesitantly unlocked the door, opening it just enough to ask what they were there for. 

“Are you the spouse of Lieutenant Simon Riley?” One of the men asked, turning to try and peer at you through the crack in the door. You sighed, opening the door fully.

“That’s me, yes. Well, his fiancé, technically but…” You trailed off. “Sorry. Is there something I can help you boys with?” You knew the answer, even if you didn’t want to admit it to yourself yet. You knew exactly what words were going to come out of his mouth, and you were already bracing for it. Your mind blurred out all the words that he said, except a few.

“…was killed in the line of duty. We’re sorry for your loss.”

You couldn’t keep yourself upright, knees buckling underneath you as the truth hit you like a bag of bricks. One of them rushed to catch you, not letting you hit the floor as you fell. Tears flowed like a broken dam and your shoulders shook. The news wreaked havoc on your mind, sending you into a swirl of agony. 

He was gone. He was gone and you didn’t have a chance to say goodbye! He left you alone with only his memory! Didn’t people normally get the honor of getting their spouses tags? Or a uniform? Or even their personal effects? This isn’t right! This isn’t right… Memories flashed through your head, showing you the life you shared with him. The way he smiled, how bright and beautiful it was despite all the devastation he’d seen. The way he laughed, how he snorted at your jokes, how all of it made your heart warm right up even when you were low. The feeling of his hands in yours now becoming a cold memory, knowing you won’t ever get to feel that warmth ever again. You won’t ever get to hear him say “I love you” again. Or sweetheart, or love, or your name. 

Was loving him worth the pain of losing him?

~~~

You woke up with a start, shooting upright with your heart racing and your head pounding. You shook as you looked around for your phone, trying to check the time. When you found it, the time read 3:57 am. You had a new text too, from Ghost. 

‘Can you have nightmares quieter? People are trying to sleep.’

It was a fresh message, sent mere minutes before you woke up. You took a shaky breath, steading your hands as you crafted a reply.

‘Like you’re any better.’ 

‘I am. I have padding on my walls for a reason.’

‘Whatever. Means sound shouldn’t come in either, or something like that.’

‘That’s not what that means.’

‘Who cares?’

‘Not you, apparently.’

‘Correct. Anyway. Its too early to go back to bed. Coffee?’

‘Sure.’

You took another breath, a lot more stable this time. You got up to get ready for the day and clean yourself up from your hangover. Eventually, you met Ghost in the kitchen and had a short conversation before Soap came in, who took over the conversation.

[mynameisjag]

From a fic I never finished, Bruce and Damian enjoy a day out. That's it, just them having a good day.

It wasn’t often that Bruce went out into Gotham as well, just Bruce…not Batman or Brucie Wayne.

Just Bruce.

Changing into simple clothing, letting his hair air dry and just heading out like that and the public didn’t recognize him.

No slicked back hair or suits of any kind.

Just a t-shirt, his favorite throw over cardigan and what Dick insisted was mom jeans, a five o’clock shadow, and he was ready to go.

Just a quick trip to the shopping center to pick up some office supplies for his home office, a few groceries for Alfred, some snacks for the Batcave, and he probably needed to check the family chat to see if anyone needed anything while he was out.

A quick glance at his messages as he began to head out, already on his way to the garage, Dick was trying his best to convince him to get…strawberry flavored Batty-O’s with crackling and popping sprinkles…sounds horrible and right up his eldest alley…also full of terrible sugars…

Alfred would hunt both of them down if he brought this home.

He’ll just order it and have it shipped to Dick’s apartment…

Jason wanted him to fuck off…Bruce sent off a xoxo and a request to come over for tea in response to that. He got a thumbs up and a middle finger.

Tim…is either half asleep and texting or is trying to send out a code for everyone to decipher…both was possible…adding melatonin to the list…

Cass was sending happy faces, so it’s seems she’s good at the moment, sending her a heart, ballet shoes and a crown. His dancing princess.

Duke sent a thumbs up and got one back in return.

Steph was just saying she’ll just take what she needs from his place whenever…time to restock the “hidden” care packages then.

And Damian…Damian was staring him down from the passenger seat of the car…

“Damian…is there something you need that you couldn’t put in chat?”

“I am coming with you.”

“…you hate the public…”

“I will overcome my distaste of others and escort you, Father, you shall not face the scrutiny of the common by yourself.”

Aww, he just wanted to spend time together and Bruce could never refuse the baby of the family, “Of course, I appreciate your concern.”

His darling just puffed up with a smug smile, proud that he managed to get his way without any argument, “I’m glad you are agreeable.”

Look, they are communicating!

Not well, but it was a step forward!

Besides Damian even took the effort to dress more ‘civilian’, the green sweater with a little tiny bird stitched in with the words ‘just a bobbin like a robin’ was definitely a gift from Dick.

Adjusting the seat belt and getting the car out of the garage, Bruce just hummed happily, letting the silence settle between them comfortably. Mentally going back over his list, glancing over to see his son playing on an old handheld game. Something that was more then likely stolen out of Tim’s room, but with the older boy making his own place in the city, it would be awhile before it would be noticed it was gone.

Almost all his children had moved out…he was happy they were moving on in their lives, looking more into their futures but his heart hurt because his babies weren’t actually babies any more. They would have argued that none of them were ever babies with him but he would just ignore that.

He hoped this doesn’t result in empty nest syndrome…

“Baba, can we stop by the game store, I want to see if I can find more interesting games.”

“We can, after we get everything on the list, can you check my phone and see if anyone has sent in anything they want to be picked up-what in Lady Gotham is this?”

Bruce blinked as traffic was stopped to let a…small parade of Batman floats pass by…

“There are copycats out on the street, how dare they parade around as us!”

“…I think parade is the word, look at the banners…”

Batman Day!

“So they are not copycats…but worshippers…”

Bruce tried not to laugh at the thought, "I think the word is…enthusiastics…”

They both watched as a man walked past wearing a banner that said, “Priest of The Bat”.

“…and we will be investigating that later, let’s see if we can park and look around.”

“Time for some detective work, Father?”

“Undercover detective work.”

Damian was eagerly typing away on the phone, “I shall keep the others off our trail so they won’t interrupt our investigation, also according to the online advertisement, the parade will end in the park where the “Batman Day festival” will begin. They will have bat themed mooncakes at certain booths.”

“Are the mooncakes important to the investigation?”

“One must keep all possibilities open, we must check each booth for clues.”

Bruce kept the smile that was threatening to grow held down, he was sure the boy wouldn’t appreciate being cooed over his want of treats being disguised as being extra thorough, more so that he didn’t want his siblings interrupting their day. He was going to have to order everything online and have it shipped to the manor then, mundane chores could wait.

His baby wanted mooncakes.

He will get mooncakes.

It didn’t take too long to park and follow the short parade to the fairgrounds, even with them stopping and staring at the lookalikes, a man giving them a balloon with the bat symbol and the words ‘I believe in Gotham’s local cryptids’, and someone clipping tiny bat wings to the back of their shirts at some point.

Soon the entrance was in view and by that time, Damian was now on Bruce’s shoulders, taking in the crowd, head turning back and forth at the bright lights, the performers in bat themed outfits, wide eyed as a child runs in front of then in a Robin costumes.

Bruce is humming thoughtfully to himself as he eyes a group in clown makeup done up in a Gothic theme, so far all they seem to be doing is some parlor tricks for the crowd around them. Some people even taking selfies, it was a rare sight for a Gothamite to get close to a clown without violence.

He was wondering if he should text the others, surely by now they would be aware of this festival happening, Barbara had to have known…

“Darling, do you want to text your siblings?”

“I can tell them to be on alert for any suspicious behaviors while we blend into the crowd…like the one over by the dart game.”

Bruce could only blink as his head was forcefully turned toward a booth with a bunch of balloons tied to a backboard, “Dart game?”

“Yes, obviously it’s a skill test but what kind? We must investigate.”

Hmm, a skill test that totally didn’t have to do with the giant plush animals as prizes.

“I think I remember Dick saying how these games were rigged,” he watches as a parent carries off their crying kid, wincing in sympathy as the cries get louder.

“No amount of trickery could possibly stop us!”

[goldenavenger02]

you'll be alright (no one can hurt you now)

For @badthingshappenbingo Prompt: Hiding An Injury

Hakoda wasn't going to bring it up to any of the teens, but he had a sinking feeling that the week would not be as fun-filled as Aang was hoping.

If Hakoda was being honest with himself, he wasn't completely sure when he started seeing the former prince, now Fire Lord, not as an adversary but as one of the kids.

It would make sense if it had started after he accompanied his own son to save him, as well as Suki, from the Boiling Rock; Hakoda, who had to fight the urge to reprimand the then sixteen year old for putting himself in danger after finding out about the cooler.

But to him, he was more confident that it had been around the time of the coronation; when he saw just how broken Sokka's leg was and heard the tale of how the young Fire Lord had nearly died in order to save Katara's life.

Hakoda knew that he could not stay in the Fire Nation forever, nor did he want to when he finally had the chance to be with his children after the long, miserable years without them.

But he would have been lying if he had said that the reason he had postponed his return to the South Pole wasn't so he could be confident that the teenager wouldn't reinjure himself within a few days of that crown being nestled into his hair.

He should have known that he would be promoted to Head Chieftain upon his return to Wolf Cove, which ended up taking away more time from Katara and Sokka then he would have liked; it didn't make him feel any less guilty that they were simultaneously being pulled across the nations and into more danger then he ever wanted them in again despite the war being over, all with Aang by their side.

Hakoda liked Aang, it was hard not to get along with someone so happy, kind and understanding as the Avatar himself who also made time to play with the other kids in between all of the stuffy meetings that the teenager was subjected to, but he just wished that he would stay put.

And so, maybe that was why he bit the bullet and sent the letter to the new Fire Lord, extending his invitation to the South Pole; while the rest of the higher ups would want to extensively question the teenager about his priorities, he knew he was being mildly selfish in hoping that the response he received about the visit being confirmed and scheduled would be enough to get his children to stay put for more than a few days.

"Do you think Zuko has ever been penguin sledding?" Aang asked one night at the dinner table while sneaking some of the pieces of his bread to Momo, who had refused to be kicked out and curled up next to Aang's ankles at every meal.

"Do I think Zuko, former prince of the Fire Nation who had a stick so far up his as-" a nudge to Sokka's ribs from Katara, seemingly keeping him from swearing. Sokka skipped over the profanity as if it had never left his mouth, "who spent three years of his life hunting you down and is now so busy as the Fire Lord that I'm lucky if he talks to me for more than five minutes whenever I'm there, has been penguin sledding? Yeah, that's gonna be a hard pass, buddy."

"Gonna put it on the list, then."

"Aang, he's coming for work. Like Sokka said, he's been really busy."

"I know," Aang muttered, seeming more like the thirteen year old that he really was rather than the all-powerful Avatar whose very name made grown men tremble in fear, "but he's going to be here for an entire week. He has to have some free time, right?"

Hakoda could tell by Katara's nod, followed by a quick peck on Aang's cheek, that it was more of a hope than genuine confirmation.

They wouldn't end up waiting a long time for Zuko's arrival, however, when the single airship arrived in the South Pole just a few days later and out walked the Fire Lord along with two guards following behind.

"Fire Lord Zuko, welcome to the South Pole."

"Chief Hakoda," the teenager greeted with perfect posture and a professional smile, "thank you for the invitatio-ooff."

It had been going well until the Avatar himself wrapped the Fire Lord into a bone-crushing hug, followed closely behind by Katara while Sokka went around behind him and dumped the fresh snow down the back of his shirt.

To Hakoda's surprise, however, the guards didn't move despite the onslaught of "Fire Lord Hotman" from Aang, belly laughs from Katara and the snowball fight that broke out between Sokka and Zuko.

"I'm not going to tell you two how to do your job," he started, gaining the older guard's attention before pointing at the group of teenagers, "that being said…"

"I'm just glad it's snow and not leaves this time, Chief Hakoda."

"The autumn equinox in Ba Sing Se was a nightmare for the royal stylist." The younger guard added, still firmly in his post.

He had been a parent for sixteen years, and he knew that sometimes, it was not worth asking for more context.

After a few more minutes, however, the group of four seemingly remembered just why Zuko had arrived and helped him off the ground while he brushed off the excess snow from his clothes.

"My apologies, Chief Hakoda." Zuko bowed in his direction with a bright flush on his cheeks; whether it was from impromptu snowball fight or embarrassment, he couldn't tell.

"Well, that is the most I have seen my daughter laugh in a long time, so consider yourself forgiven." Hakoda was smiling as he wrapped his arm around a still giggling Katara while the Fire Lord stood up, but he could feel it morph into a frown as he noticed just how pale he seemed to be, "anyway, why don't we get some lunch?"

"Yes, I'm starving! You are going to love seal jerky, Zuko!" His son insisted as he wrapped his arm around his friend's shoulder, nearly knocking his knees out from under him due to the lack of tread on the Fire Lord's boots.

Hakoda made a mental note to review how the ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe was supposed to behave in the presence of royalty with Sokka later.

"You don't have to eat it if you don't want to," Katara added which resulted in a disgruntled sound from her brother, "where's Toph?"

"Oh, she wanted to be here, but then she found out about the climate and I told her that we needed her to keep all of her body parts, and she said, um…" He trailed off, but Hakoda had only needed to speak to the earthbender one time to have a guess what her direct quote was, "well, let's just say she made some very creative threats towards me if I dared to make her wear shoes."

Yeah, Hakoda definitely had an idea about the profanities that had escaped Toph's mouth in response to needing shoes.

"So, I know you have work to do while you're here. But, I've been working on some firebending techniques that I want to get your feedback on, and I've been making a list of activities to do in our free time!"

"Sounds like a plan." Despite the nod and Aang's whoop of excitement, Hakoda winced at just how exhausted Zuko sounded as he spoke.

He had always been more moody and reserved than the others, but now his voice had none of its usual bite now that the adrenaline from the snowball fight had ebbed away. Hakoda wasn't going to bring it up to any of the teens, but he had a sinking feeling that the week would not be as fun-filled as Aang was hoping.

…

Hakoda didn't want to be right.

The meetings had gone better than expected, with Zuko promising that he was doing his best to return all of his military personnel to the Fire Nation as soon as he could without draining the already dwindling economy, as well as helping build up the beginnings of the new trade routes.

In fact, aside from the brief moments of him rubbing at his eyes, Hakoda thought he looked as though he had been able to get some sleep the night before, which ended up being the reason why he allowed Sokka and Katara to postpone their meeting with him and the rest of the council about their specific duties to the tribe.

It wasn't like all of them had been given enough of a chance to relish in their teenage years just like he had done with Bato and Kya at their age. If they wanted to take Zuko penguin sledding that badly, then Hakoda was going to let them.

It even gave him a chance to get to know the guards of the Fire Lord better as they gave him advice about how to better security while he tried, and failed, to pry into any misadventures that his kids had pulled Zuko into.

All in all, as the sun was starting to set over the peaks, Hakoda was about to pat himself on the back for handling this head chieftain promotion pretty damn well, at least until he heard the chatter approaching the house.

"For the last time, let go of me."

"You're still bleeding, Fire Lord Hotman."

"And would you quit it with that? I'm fine, it's just a scratch."

"We don't even need Toph here to know you're lying," Katara's grumble was the loudest as the door to Hakoda's hut swung open to reveal the disastrous consequences of penguin sledding, "hey, dad? A little help?"

Katara, Sokka and Aang had snow on their shoulders and boots and flushed cheeks, but what was more concerning was the Fire Lord sandwiched in between the three of them, with snow caked on his clothes and the red-tinted snow that covered his forehead.

The guards were up before he was, the older one pushing Zuko's snow-covered hair out of the way to get a closer look at the gash on the right side of his head and the younger one asking him various questions to rule out a concussion.

"Qiang, Tao, I'm fine! Seriously, I've gotten worse than this from the turtle ducks."

Hakoda held back a snicker at the whine that interspersed itself with the Fire Lord's voice while he tried to fight off the attention of his guards.

He busied himself with grabbing a clean rag and running it under the warm water from the sink, listening in as the group of three wrangled their friend to sit down in one of the dining chairs.

"The turtle ducks made you smack your head into a tree limb?"

"Sokka, for the last time, it was a branch and all it did was take some of the skin."

"That's still a lot of blood, Zuko."

"It's a head wound, they bleed a lot more. Hold still."

"Katara, don't pull at it!"

"Okay," Hakoda finally spoke up while turning around, getting all six sets of eyes on him despite the fact that his daughter was still trying to get Zuko's hair out of the bloody gash where it had stuck, "unless you are currently in charge of part of one of the four nations, step outside," Hakoda commanded, cutting off his son's question before his hand was even fully in the air, "no, ambassador does not count."

"Damn." Sokka muttered under his breath as he, along with Aang and Katara walked out.

He really needed to review the behavior expected of someone with Sokka's position sooner rather than later.

"Your majesty?" The older guard, Tao, asked, "would you like us to stand guard outside?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea." Zuko agreed, waiting until his guards were out of the building to practically slump onto the dining room table in exhaustion.

"Are you alright, Fire Lord?" Hakoda asked as he finished wringing out the rag before bringing it and the first aid kit to the dining room table.

"Please just call me Zuko."

"Alright then, but the same goes for you. I wasn't exactly pleased to find out I had been promoted without my knowledge," Hakoda explained before using one hand to tilt his chin upwards and using the other to gently press the cloth against the sticky hair, "sorry if that stings, I just want to get any hair out before it's disinfected."

"It's fine."

"I take it that the penguin sledding didn't go as intended?" Hakoda asked after a few moments.

"What gave it away?"

Hakoda couldn't help but smile at the sarcasm as he deposited the dirty rag onto the table, "well, between the blood and my children along with the Avatar himself holding onto your arms as they brought you in here, just a hunch."

As he spoke, he soaked one of the gauze pads with the disinfectant and pressed it to the gash, unsurprised to see the teenager's knuckles turning white from the strength that he was clenching his fist, "you doing alright?"

He nodded, and stayed silent as Hakoda pulled the gauze away to replace it with a fresh, dry pad that he taped in place; he'd mention something to Katara later, but for now, he knew that he just needed to get Zuko dry now that the snow was melting off of him.

"I'll be right back," he insisted, shutting the first aid kit and picking up the dirty rag, "just gonna get you some dry clothes."

"Thank you, for all of this. If there's anything I can do to repay-"

"None of that," Hakoda insisted, cutting him off with a raised hand, "you are in my territory and you are a friend of Katara and Sokka's. More importantly, their shenanigans put you in this position in the first place. If anything, this is an apology for their actions. No need to repay me."

He quickly went into Sokka's room and grabbed a spare set of clothes before bringing them back to the dining room table only to see Zuko resting his head on his arms.

"Zuko," he called out, setting the folded outfit on the table, "I've got dry clothes for you."

No response.

This had happened with Aang too, the first night he came to the South Pole after the war had ended, only Zuko hadn't fallen asleep face first into a bowl of seaweed stew. Hakoda tried again, his voice a little louder.

"Zuko, you really need to change before you fall asleep for the night. Also, it might be best for your neck not to sleep at the table."

No response again. Hakoda sighed and laid a gentle hand on his left shoulder, "Zuko-"

He didn't expect him to sit up quickly and pull his hand away in sheer determination with golden eyes glowering right at him and fire shining bright in his right palm.

But Hakoda was unable to speak before his wrist was let go and the flames dissipated, the anger turning into deep regret as he stood up and backed away with his hands raised in surrender.

"I am so sorry-"

"Zuko-"

"I've been unprofessional. You have been nothing but welcoming and kind and I nearly-"

"Zuko, it's okay-"

"I nearly killed you."

And Hakoda wasn't going to deny that yes, he could have hurt him, but the seventeen year old had tears in his eyes as he backed himself into the corner over being woken up unexpectedly.

"Zuko, take a deep breath," Hakoda instructed, managing to lock eyes with the teenager while taking a step forward, "It's okay. No one got hurt."

"I almost-"

"Almost, not did. I'm fine, you are fine and everyone else was sent out. We're all okay," he wasn't surprised by Zuko slumping to his knees on the floor with a nod while he extended his hand towards the teenager, "you need to change and get some real sleep. Can you manage that on your own?"

He nodded again and wrapped his left hand around Hakoda's right, giving him the chance to pull him to his feet only to frown yet again when he saw the sharp wince that crossed Zuko's face.

"What happened to your shoulder?"

"I just need to get some rest."

And Hakoda so badly wanted to push further, the parental side of him desperately wanting to pull the teenager into a tight hug.

But Zuko wasn't one of his kids and, with what he had heard about Ozai over the years, he had a sinking feeling that touch would only result in the young Fire Lord spiraling further.

So he used his best judgment and let go of Zuko's hand before passing him the clothes, "there is an empty bedroom on the right. I'll let your guards know where you are and I suggest having Katara look at your head tomorrow."

"Thank you, Chief Hakoda."

Having been a parent for sixteen years, Hakoda had also learned when to hold his tongue, especially around someone who was easily startled and just nodded in response while saying, "Sleep well, Zuko."

He went outside as soon as he heard the door shut behind the young Fire Lord to be met with three sets of frantic eyes and two sets of raised eyebrows.

"The Fire Lord is getting some sleep," he started, his eyes locked on the two guards, "he's in the third room on the right." He waited until the two guards walked in, a nod given by Tao, before he turned to the three teenagers, "his injuries aren't severe, I don't even think he's going to bruise."

Aang's sigh of relief wasn't lost on Hakoda, but he continued to press on.

"Sokka, you and I will be having a very long discussion in the morning about how the ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe should act around royalty, even if they are one of your friend's. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Sokka nodded, the tone being known by his son that it was time for him to turn in before he had a chance to do something else that would be frowned upon, "come on, Aang. It's late."

The young Avatar followed with Momo settled firmly on his shoulder, leaving Hakoda with just his daughter in the snowy wind.

"You said injuries."

And in that snowy wind, when Katara looked into his eyes, he could only see Kya for a few moments as she seemingly looked right into his soul.

"I advised Zuko to come to you in the morning, so you could heal his head wound which is why I'm also going to ask you a question," Hakoda stopped to take in a deep breath, because even if he wasn't one of his, the fact that someone may do this to a child who hadn't even reached eighteen yet…"has he mentioned anything about assassination attempts?"

"For Tui's sake," his daughter cursed as she pinched his nose before a shout tinged with sadness escaped her lips, "he promised to tell me if it happened again! That no-good, jerkbending-"

"Katara," Hakoda scolded, his hands on her shoulders, "regardless of what he said, it would be best not to insult him while he is in our territory."

"He's lucky I don't go in there and ask him what-"

"Katara, that is enough. He had his reasoning, no matter what it was. More importantly, he needs to rest," he stopped to push a strand of hair out of her face, not surprised that it was wet with tears, "and so do you, my child. It has been a very long day, for all of us."

"Y-you're right," she said, wiping her arm on her sleeve before pulling him into a tight hug which Hakoda instantly returned, "goodnight, dad."

"Gp get some sleep."

She let go and made her way to the campsite she had made with Sokka and Aang when they had arrived in Wolf Cove which left Hakoda standing outside of the chieftain building in the snow and his swirling thoughts about how to speak to the Fire Lord in the morning.

…

"So, what do you think, Sifu Hotman?"

"I think your posture needs more work than your use of outdated Fire Nation slang. Straighten out your back and extend your arms, you'll get more force in it."

Hakoda couldn't help but observe the three of them from where he had exited his meeting with Sokka. It had gone well, but he couldn't help but think it would be the first of many.

Aang was eager to continue firebending, showing off the different ways he could bend the flames, waiting for Zuko's advice as he sat next to the fire pit while Katara healed the gash on his forehead.

He was confident that she had already taken care of his shoulder and probably yelled at him a great deal as well while he had been talking to his son.

It didn't take long for Sokka to join the group with Momo on his heels as he carried their breakfast to them on one of the trays and soon enough the entire group was laughing about something that Appa had done the day before.

Hakoda wasn't sure when his parental instincts had spread from just Katara and Sokka to now involving Aang and Zuko as well, but what he did know was that the biggest thing they needed right now was to be kids.

And he was going to do his best to make sure that it happened.

(Want to read the Gaang penguin sledding? Part 2 below)

[grinninmoon-and-bloodsolar-blog]

“Brother…we-no, you are not back to normal yet…why?” Bloodmoon questioned, he simply got a sigh in return “I am stressed brother…and the hunger is returning, worse than the last time we suffered it” he was stressed because he knew this hunger was returning and he didn’t have much control whenever it wafted through BloodSolar and Bloodmoon, the craving of blood and the need crack bones, to deplete the life of something. “Brother, perhaps we ask the other Bloodmoon if we can hunt in their forest” the bell of the hat jingles nervously “I am not sure Bloody…what if we get so lost in this feeling someone comes looking for us or even passes by and we attack them” she hears the grumbles from her brother “It is the only other option we have, brother. We cleared most of the big game where we usually hunt! And You need destress!” She sighs “Fine, Fine, we’ll visit Grim and Reaper’s place and ask if we can hunt over there for a bit” BloodSolar slips out of the heap of blankets with relative ease despite how massive he was in this current, terrifying form.

BloodSolar leaves a quick note before heading off to pay their favorite Bloodtwins a visit “Will they even bother talking to us like this? We look kind of…Killcode-ish” he thought aloud “It would be quite odd, but I’m sure they’ll know it is us sister…the exhaustion in you voice is always noticeable to anyone” BloodSolar snorts a bit at the jab to him as the trudge along soon find themselves at the Bloodtwins little cabin. He knocks on the door and hopes for the best.

( @escapetheslaughter )

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Hello :) I hope you’re having a fantastic day, please could I request a BG3 and Hogwarts Legacy matchup :)

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Appearance: I am 5’3, have long black hair and green-hazel eyes and I’m very pale. In terms of fashion I normally dress in black and other dark colours as black and purple are my favourite colours, I normally wear goth style clothing, jewellery and makeup (simple and not over the top), and on special occasions I dress more elegantly.

MBTI: I am a Capricorn and personality type INFJ.

Personality: I’m normally shy when talking to people for the first time and scared to approach people. When I get to know people, I am more open and hyper around them. I really enjoy testing myself and improving myself as a whole (I have low self esteem), I also like to take care of other people and make sure they’re doing okay and I really have a soft spot for animals.

Likes (at least three things): I normally spend my time watching horror movies, playing video games, reading, listening to music and I love watching anime. My favourite music genres are rock, metal, goth and classical. I’m absolutely fascinated with Greek mythology and many countries History.

Dislikes (at least three things): I absolutely can’t stand when it’s too hot or sunny outside as I much prefer the cold. I hate being forced into social situations and when people are extremely judgmental.

Extra fun fact: My ideal dates are normally visiting museums, anything historical, nature walks and visiting spooky locations.

BG3 extra

Race: Wood Half Elf

Class: Paladin/Bard

D&D alignment: Neutral Good

~~~~~ MATCHUPS ~~~~~

BG3

Astarion Ancunin

~~~~~ HEADCANONS ~~~~~

Astarion loved easy prey, and that is precisely what you were to him. Someone so timid and shy, easy to manipulate and use to protect himself.

You were also a natural born leader, yes you may need some time to warm up to your companions but once that was all in order you were a force to be reckoned with. So graceful on the battlefield.

The only issue was that you were so bloody kind to every person you guys met. You were always seeking out to help others with nothing in return. What type of person does that?

What Astarion didn't realize was that he loved that about you. He was just clouding this admiration that was blooming with hate so he could hide from his feelings.

When you saw his scars for the first time, he knew he was falling, and it terrified him. You looked at his wounds, his horrible past, and just accepted him. So willingly.

He knew there had to be a catch, so to spare himself, he became cold and distant from you. Yet you always came back, and he realized he couldn't do it.

When you two explored Baldur's Gate with the group, you two were like encyclopedias. Where Astarion could tell you everything about nightlife, you could recite anything about day life.

Though Astarion loved the sun and the time he got to spend in it with the illithid in him, he couldn't deny the moon looked gorgeous on you.

Soon after Cazador's demise, you and Astarion took refuge in a small cottage near the town. There, you two created your own gothic safe haven.

~~~~~ BLURB ~~~~~

You and Astarion had been dancing around your feelings for one another. Yes, he confessed he no longer saw you as just a bodyguard but as something more; he just needed time. You respected that, wanting to give the man the chance to honestly choose you. Making your way to Baldur's Gate is when the incident that caused him to finally confess occurred. You were gorgeous. The whole group would agree, and so would 90% of the people who passed by you on the street. As you walked along the the winding roads and through crowds Astarion noticed all the head nods and quick looks you were getting.

Once satisfied with your hunt for a safe place to sleep for the night, you guided your companions to the campground. Yes, there were tons of taverns around, but with Orin and Gortash switching sides, you would rather be safe than sorry. Taking your place at your tent, Astarion couldn't help but admire you. You had everything: the personality, the looks, and most of all, the morals that any man would be blessed to love. He knew he was the one that pushed you away, wanting to understand his feelings, but something about now in the present, witnessing all the looks you got, made him realize he could lose you. Mustering up the courage, he strode over to you, clearing his throat, "Hello, my little dove. How are you today?"

You smiled radiantly, "I am good; what do I owe the pleasure this evening, Astarion? Do you need some blood tonight?" He shook his head no before gently bending at the waist and whispering in your ear. "Actually, I would like to officially consummate our relationship; I can't bear for someone to steal you from me." You blushed darkly, giggling when you nodded, leading him into your tent. You two got comfortable under your rucksack and began discussing the future for both of you. Yes, Astarion liked the thought of that; both of you are no longer alone.

~~~~~ EXTRA ~~~~~

(You and Astarion are the only two awake at camp, watching over everyone and having a moment.)

Y/N: It's beautiful tonight, isn't it?

Astarion: I agree that the calmness of night was always pleasant when I wasn't on the hunt.

Y/N: Do you think you will learn to love the night again when we go on our own?

Astarion: I would love to relearn everything by your side, my love.

Y/N: Do you think our neighbors will snore as loudly as Gale and Halsin?

HOGWARTS LEGACY

Sebastian Sallow

~~~~~ HEADCANONS ~~~~~

Sebastian thought how shy you were when you came to school was cute. He thought the big bad fifth year who took on a dragon would be some pompous ass.

However, as he grew to know you due to the countless lessons he got voluntold to do with you, he realized you were really kind.

You were powerful, though, beyond belief, and he hoped you would willingly help him with his sister. When he told you about Anne, he knew he had to have some inkling of feelings for you.

Due to his research for a cure, Sebastion loved to quiz you on interesting facts. On holiday, you two will also explore old monuments and museums in the muggle and wizarding worlds.

Sebastian hated it when you doubted yourself. You were the most beautiful and capable witch he had met, so of course, he naturally had to help boost your confidence as much as he could.

When Sebastian confessed to Ominus how he felt for you, it was a good two weeks of torture where Ominus would start a conversation with you, pretending like he would tell Sebastian's secret.

Sebastian may be a great wizard, but he was still a schoolboy at heart, so confessing to you took a long time of contemplation.

What did him in, though, was when he took you to meet Anne. You were so kind and gentle to her, helping her with the chores and other necessities.

When his uncle yelled at him, you were by his side, trying to cheer him up like you always did.

Though Sebastian's path was wrong, you knew deep down that he was doing it for a good cause. That didn't stop you from trying to convince him to stop on the dark path he was on. After the incident, it took a long time to rebuild that trust.

Once you and Sebastian were back on good terms, it was almost disgusting to Ominus how long you two could dance around loving each other, so he had to inform everyone very, very loudly.

~~~~~ BLURB ~~~~~

Sebastian had been bested again in a duel by none other than you. It was crazy to him that you were so far behind everyone else, yet powerful and confident. Though he knew you disliked all the attention you got for your title as the 'Savior,' he couldn't help but agree with them. "Oi, Sallow, will you help me clean up this mess or what? We have our NEWTs to study for." Sebastion nodded, running up to help you clean up the practice dummies. Time had flowen since fifth year when you first appeared, being in seventh year you two went through so much together. Though he had to work hard to regain your trust, he knew he wouldn't risk losing you again this time.

After putting up the equipment, you waved goodbye and went to Professor Weasley's office. You were extremely powerful and intelligent, helping the staff understand the artifacts you found in school that would be placed in a prestigious museum soon. You had your life lined up for you, but where did he stand. He knew he needed to confess to you and was running out of time. He couldn't count how many times he and Ominus had discussed this thoroughly since they had made up. Sebastian had a brilliant idea as he went to his common room. Party in Slytherin.

The party was in full swing, and the partygoers were having a grand time. Sebastian, however, was keeping an eagle eye out for you. He knew how you hated social situations like this, and his goal was to sneak you out on a romantic walk to then confess. The only problem was every single one of your friends wanted to talk to you. Sebastian was growing impatient and leaned over to Ominus to exclaim his discontent. As he finished talking to Ominus, he saw the blind boy smirk before jumping up on the table before him and loudly proclaiming, "Oh Y/N, your lover boy misses you!". Not only did you and everyone know Sebastian's feelings, but Sebastian also learned that there was such a thing as an uncomposed Ominus.

~~~~~ EXTRA ~~~~~

(You and Ominus were watching Sebastian fight a training dummy)

Ominus: Y/N, have you ever noticed that he sounds like one of the dummies?

Y/N: (laughs) Are you insinuating that they would look and sound alike if you could see?

Ominus: Oh, it is, in fact, not an insinuation. It's a fact.

Y/N: (staring at Sebastian lovingly) he is a big dummy, isn't he?

Sebastian: I CAN HEAR YOU!

[inkedmoth]

Hunting in the Hills

For @erathene, she requested a one-shot of Aragorn troll hunting with Hathiel a fellow member of the Grey Company! Hope you enjoy ❤️

The ground was slick beneath her boots.

Rain, misty and light, had slowly been seeping through the wool of Hathiel’s cloak, flattening the fabric to her skin, soaking her hair, her clothes, her very being. Despite how cold and unpleasant it was, that discomfort was something she was accustomed to. Such was life within the Grey Company.

Padding silently across the saturated ground, she drew alongside her companion, his eyes down and locked on the tracks they’d been following for the past three days.

“Anything?”

Clear grey eyes flickered her way, before returning to the ground.

“It’s close,” Aragorn replied.

His voice was even quieter than her own, almost lost to the gentle patter of raindrops, or the swish of leaves in the breeze. He sank to a crouch alongside a rain filled divot in the muddy ground, brushing aside some leaves that had fallen over it, revealing the shape more clearly. Large, round, with five thick blunt points to one side. Only one creature this far north could make prints like that.

Troll.

“It passed through here no more than a day ago…”

At his words, Hathiel lifted her head, pushing the edge of her hood back slightly, squinting across the rolling foothills of the aptly named Weather Hills. Tree cover was sparse out here, but through the rain she could make out the darker smudge that indicated a forest.

“Nightfall’s not for a few more hours,” she mused, “if I were a troll, those trees would be mighty appealing…”

They couldn’t survive sunlight, even that of an overcast day risked stray sunbeams breaching the cloud cover. So the forest was no doubt its haunt. Unless it had managed to find a cave, but the prints had been leading resolutely south-east ever since they’d stumbled across the tracks during patrols.

“Why is it so far south…”

More than accustomed to Aragorn’s quiet musing, Hathiel knew when something was directed towards her and when it wasn’t. This time didn’t necessitate an answer, but it was a curiosity she too shared.

Had something pushed the troll from its territories? Had it run out of prey? Was it seeking others of its own kind?

She hoped not.

There were settlements further south, humans, hobbits, even elves… If the troll caught them by surprise in the middle of the night, it could do untold damage.

Without conscious choice, her steps sped up.

“Hathiel,” Aragorn’s warning tone followed her stalking.

“I’m not letting it reach Bree.”

There was no argument from her Chieftain, nothing beyond a low hum of agreement or disapproval. Even if he did keep pace with her.

Still following the large dish-like prints, the pair bounded across the rain slicked and muddy ground, and despite their haste, took great care in avoiding anything that could announce their presence. Twigs and branches were cleared in a stride, puddles were skirted, long grasses were weaved through.

Before long the forest was looming overhead.

Thick boughs, dense pine needles, strong trunks. It was dark within, gloomy and shadowed from the weak light that battled to break through the dense cloud cover. Hathiel’s pace didn’t slow, darting into the gloom without hesitation.

“Hathiel.”

The hissed warning had her steps slowing, a frustrated glance thrown over her shoulder to Aragorn. If they attacked the troll now, there was every chance they could lure it out, it was still midday –technically– if they could lure it away from the trees, then maybe, just maybe, they could trick it into freezing in sunlight. They just had to lure it out and then keep it from retreating.

Easy.

“We don’t even know if it’s here,” he pointed out, as though able to read her thoughts, “we can’t just rush in.”

“It’s here.”

That earnt her a glare, but she was quick to gesture to the prints that had continued into the treeline. Not to mention there was… an odour on the air. A troll smelled like a ruin full of corpses looked. Ancient stone soaked with rain and blood, rotting meat, musk, the smell of dank earth and foul things that hid within the shadows. A stark contrast to the scent of pine and rain…

It was here. She knew it was. Aragorn knew it was. The sooner they lured it out, the safer the region would become.

“It’s here,” she repeated stubbornly. “You know it is.”

“Then we should return with more swords,” Aragorn countered.

A huff of frustration and disbelief left Hathiel’s throat. They’d spent days tracking the blasted creature already, and now he wanted to retreat, gather the others, and then spend Oromë knew how long re-tracking it? The fell creature could be at Bree, or the Shire, by the time they caught up again.

But he was right.

Probably.

“We should at least get eyes on it,” she relented, gesturing behind her, into the dense trees. “What if it’s set up a lair? Or it has company? We can’t bring the others without knowing for sure…”

The look Aragorn gave her suggested he could see straight through her flimsy attempt to get closer to the troll. As though he knew her thoughts and her plans. He knew how much she hated the creatures that had killed her family. But she also saw how a silent sigh left his body, head shaking in resignation.

“We do not engage,” he said, voice low and hard, “do you understand, Hathiel?”

“We don’t engage,” she repeated, “I understand.”

Hathiel was many things, but she knew when to listen to orders. No matter how it chaffed.

But with that promise in place, the pair resumed their stalking.

This far within the woodland, the weak sunlight was all but banished. Movement became slow, cautious, moving in tandem. One set of eyes on the prints –now less distinct thanks to the bed of fallen pine needles– one set scanning their surroundings in constant vigilance.

Aragorn was focused, moving past her as the tracks lead downwards into a hollow, but Hathiel realised she was scarcely checking the prints beneath her feet. Instead, she was quite literally following her nose. The stench of rotting meat hung heavy on the air, so strongly that she half imagined she could see the maggots writhing on dead flesh, could see the leathery skin and dense hide, could see how the troll might be camouflaged amidst the boulders littered throughout the fores—

A boulder moved.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

It was right there. It was almost in touching distance. And she was stood between the towering trees staring blankly at it like a plonker.

Without removing her eyes from the troll, she lifted one foot and took a silent step backwards. Another step. Where was Aragorn? A third step, her feet cushioned by decades of pine needles. A fourth.

At least she wasn’t right on top of it anymore. Was it asleep? It certainly seemed somewhat curled, the rough pebbled hide of its back was curved, small movements, its head down and not visible from where she was carefully moving backwards. Maybe she could back up enough to catch Aragorn’s eye.

There was a wet crunch, and the unmistakable sound of flesh being ripped.

It wasn’t asleep. It was eating. But that meant it was distracted. She could get away. But where the fuck was Aragorn?

crik

Something snapped beneath her foot, and the sounds of eating instantly stopped.

Hathiel froze, watching as the troll’s head came up –its back still to her– the creatures hearing wasn’t great, nor was its eyesight, but its sense of smell was all but unrivalled. Would it be able to smell her over the meat it was consuming? Could it smell her beneath the rain-soaked wool of her cloak and the heavy scent of pine?

Oh by Oromë’s bow she hoped not.

The seconds crawled by unbearably slowly, but finally after a Fourth Age, the troll returned to its meal.

She didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare exhale in relief. Truthfully, she didn’t dare move either. But neither did she wish to remain in proximity to the creature for any longer than she had to—

There was a flicker of movement in her peripheral.

Dark clothes, dark hair, silent steps.

Aragorn.

Walking directly towards her. Fuck.

Silently, her hand snapped up, palm held out towards him, fingers splayed wide in an unmistakable order.

Stop.

Thank Oromë he listened. Aragorn froze, one foot lifted to step, that was lowered painstakingly slowly to settle once more. His hand drifted to his sword, head on a swivel as he tried to make out what she could see. She saw the moment he froze, saw how his clear grey eyes widened in alarm, and then snapped back to her in clear disbelief.

Her grimace was a poor apology.

Hathiel didn’t dare move, with her foot already half crushing the only Valar damned dry stick in this forsaken forest, she didn’t dare increase pressure, didn’t dare lift her foot. Maybe she could time it with the wind? Or with the sounds of rending flesh and cracking bones? Or could she signal to Aragorn to make a noise, throw something, anything, to give her chance to put distance between her and the troll…

Now there was an idea.

Looking to the Ranger, she made a throwing motion, trying to convey the slapdash idea.

The look he gave her was sincerely unimpressed, but at least he began to untie the waterskin from his belt. It was light enough that he’d be able to throw it hard, but heavy enough that it should cause enough of a commotion to draw the troll’s attention.

Waterskin in hand, Aragorn glanced to her, and made a beckoning motion, earning a nod of understanding. He’d throw the skin, she’d bolt to him, and the pair would absolutely book it out of the forest and far away from the tro—

Aragorn looked back to the troll and his face went white.

At the realisation that the eating sounds had stopped, Hathiel’s own head snapped about. The troll was lurching to its feet, stretching with a deep rumbling groan, and then before she or Aragorn could react, it turned around.

There was a pause, tiny beady eyes narrowing as it squinted through the gloom at her and Hathiel did her best to Think Tree Thoughts and become invisible. Its nostrils flared, once, twice, and on the third, its black eyes widened. Thick leathery lips curling back from thicker blunt fangs in a snarl that had equally thick spittle flying every which way.

Well… Fuck.

“Run.” The breathed order from Aragorn was barely audible over the pounding of her own heart. “Run!”

Hathiel ran.

A bellowing roar filled the forest, shaking the tress, sending droplets cascading down, pine needles and pinecones clattered and bounced through the branches, striking her head, her shoulders, her arms, her back. But still Hathiel ran.

She’d been ten feet away from the troll, and with its sheer size, those lumbering footsteps wouldn’t take long to catch her. She just had to keep ahead of it, she just had to reach the edge of the forest. Hurdling a fallen trunk, she’d barely run another three paces when there was a Valar almighty crash behind her as the troll simply ran through it. She would have cursed, would have yelled and sworn, if it wasn’t for the fact she was too busy breathing.

In through her nose, gagging on the fetid air that followed her, out through her mouth.

In, gag, out.

“DOWN!”

Aragorn’s voice cut through the forest like a sword through flesh, and without a second thought Hathiel dropped into a sliding skid. There was a whoosh of air, as a fist the size of her body whipped through the space she’d just been occupying.

Rolling and scrambling, she lurched to her feet and resumed her sprint.

The frustrated snarl at her back was far too close, the foul breath was hot on her back. Darting through a narrow gap of two trunks, there was a bellow and thud, as the troll tried and failed to bull its way through the gap. Her own steps didn’t slow, and for good reason, as a ground shaking crack filled the air.

She didn’t need to look back to know it had snapped one, or maybe both, of the trees in its path.

“Left!”

Another single word order, but Hathiel jolted to the left anyway, no matter how it might be heading deeper into the forest. A trunk hurtled through the air, the very edge of the branches lashing across her back and shoulder, almost knocking her down.

The ground beneath her feet was angling downwards into a dell, it was sparse of trees, more open, easier to move around in, with a generous layer of pine needles coating its floor. Already she could see Aragorn up ahead, also running but looking back to her frequently. His steps started to slow, as he turned about, drawing his blade.

What had happened to reinforcements? Did he really plan to take on the troll? Was he joking? No, no his feet were settling his stance low and ready. Well shit, she couldn’t just leave him here—

Something struck her and Hathiel found her body being flung.

One moment she’d been running, the next, a fist bigger than herself had slammed into her spine, her feet being lifted clear off the floor to hurtle through the air in a tangle of limbs and cloak. Her flight was rudely interrupted by the trunk of a tree, and then the unwelcome embrace of the ground.

For a moment, everything went dark.

And then things began to filter back into her consciousness.

Her ears were ringing. Blood pounding in her head. Vision flickering and pulsing in time to the stuttering of her heart. It hurt, she couldn’t breathe, it hurt, was she dead? It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

But there was yelling. The bellowing of some beast. Her name. Did she have a name? She must do, as it was being yelled with increasing panic.

“Hathiel!”

Inhaling had pain blossoming across her chest.

“Hathiel!”

Moving her limbs had pain rippling up her spine.

“HATHIEL!”

It took far too much effort to sit upright, it took far too much strength to lift her head, it took far too much energy to focus her eyes.

The troll was lurching about the clearing, meaty fists swiping at a figure who was darting and flitting about. The entire scene was oddly akin to the time she’d watched a sparrow evading a buzzard. The sheer size difference, the fleetness of the smaller, the lumbering but deadly movements of the larger. But some very disorientated part of Hathiel’s mind recognised that it was her kin being perused.

The trolls fist slammed into the ground, almost knocking him down.

Her steps were unsteady –when had she climbed to her feet? – but she moved forth regardless. She didn’t know how she’d drawn her sword either, but she was upright, she was breathing, and her steps were steadying with every pace forwards.

She’d lost kin to trolls before, but she was stronger now. It wouldn’t happen again.

The creature was hardy, with thick skin and pebbled hides, most blows would rebound, would fail to cut. But this wasn’t the first troll she’d faced. Wasn’t the first she’d had to fight. So preoccupied with Aragorn, the troll didn’t learn of her presence until her sword had lashed out towards it.

The hide might be tough, but there were weaknesses, and her blade found it.

Slicing through the skin on the back of its knee, a pained bellow was wrenched from its chest. The troll whirled, and Hathiel lurched backwards, narrowly avoiding a second strike from its massive fists.

No longer the sole focus of its wrath, Aragorn darted forwards, his own blade parting the wrinkled skin of its other knee.

It staggered, but didn’t fall.

Between the pair, they harried it back and forth, darting in to nip at its heels, slice at its weak spots, flitting away from its retaliations. Again, again, again, again. Her sword was coated in black blood, the trolls’ steps were slower and uncoordinated, Aragorn’s teeth were bared in a snarl. They were wearing it down and they were beating it back and they were so so close to bringing it crashing to the leaflitter and loam.

And then it lunged.

Her own lurch back was rudely interrupted by its meaty hand closing about her arm. There was an audible crack of bone, barely drowned out by her agonised scream.

For the second time in as many minutes, Hathiel was flung.

Thankfully it wasn’t a tree that halted her flight this time, slightly less thankfully was that she’d been flung into Aragorn.

There was a yelp and curse from the Ranger as the weight of her body sent the pair crashing to the floor, one of his arms wrapped about her waist, the other shielding her head. Tumbling and skidding across the clearing, there was a grunt as she all but landed atop him.

A victorious bellow came from the troll, leaving them no chance to recover as it surged towards them.

“Move, move!” Aragorn barked, shoving at her.

Hathiel staggered to her feet, broken arm hanging uselessly, her free hand snatching up her fallen sword. A hand at her back told her Aragorn was with her, following and encouraging her to keep going. The banks of the dell weren’t steep, but it felt so, as she all but dragged herself upwards, feet sliding and pain blazing across her left side.

She could feel the ground shake as the troll gained on them.

“Get down!”

She dropped, yelping with pain as her arm was jarred. Feeling how Aragorn had all but covered her with his own body. Feeling the rush of air as the troll’s fist narrowly missed them.

An arm wrapped under her shoulders, all but hauling her up the slope, but her legs gave out, and Hathiel hit the ground once more. Unwilling to remain prone, she rolled onto her back with a grunt, pushing with her feet until her spine met that of a tree. A moment later and Aragorn was alongside, lashing out and managing to cut across the arm of the troll.

It only seemed to enrage the creature more, rearing back.

And then it lunged.

“Sword!”

There was no choice in the matter as Aragorn seized her wrist, bracing her arm with his. Her eyes snapped shut as the troll slammed into them. A sickening crunch, a shower of fetid black blood, a long wheezing gasp of putrid breath, and then…

Silence.

Long. Painful. Crushing. Silence.

“Hath?”

The voice of Aragorn was croaky, little better than how her own might be should she have the strength to speak. But she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.

“Hathiel?”

Cracking one eye open, it quickly became apparent why, as the rough hide of the troll’s shoulder was pressed against her chest, scraping her chin. She could fee its blood soaking into her clothes, could feel her sword hand all but inside its fucking chest.

“Talk to me Hath, are you alright?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but all that left her throat was a strangled whine.

“Fuck!”

Alongside her, she felt Aragorn struggle, shoving and pushing at the troll’s body that had all but pinned them. Each jostle and jolt sent pain through her body, until finally, he broke free. Hands latched onto her shoulders and pulled.

The scream that left her was shockingly loud.

Immediately Aragorn stopped, the pressure on her body eased, and darkness flickered at the edge of her vision.

“Hathiel? Hath I’m sorry I need to pull you free.”

“Hurts…”

“I know, I know,” Aragorn said, voice strained but trying to sooth her in the same breath, one hand brushing her face, pulling limp hair out of her eyes. “On the count of three I’ll pull, I need you to push with your feet, understand?”

“Yea-h.”

“One, two, three!”

She pushed, he pulled, it hurt, everything flickered, and darkness fell.

The next thing she became aware of, was something tapping her cheek, an insistent gesture which was incredibly annoying. Her brows furrowed, head turning in a bid to get away, but a light shake had her senses snapping back into her body as pain flared through her arm, her chest, her spine, everything everywhere all at once.

“Hath?”

Prizing her eyes open once again, she squinted against the falling rain, squinted against the weak grey light of day. Aragorn was hunched over her, one arm about her shoulders, the other wiping at her face, either to clear her of the rain, or get the troll blood off her skin.

“Are you with me?”

“Ow.”

There was a harsh exhale of relief, and Aragorn’s head thumped onto her shoulder. “Oh thank Fuck.”

Despite her disorientation, despite her pain, despite the fact she’d just had the shit beaten out of her. Hathiel’s brows shot up at Aragorn’s curse.

“Tha’ bad?” she croaked.

“You’ve been out for almost an hour,” he replied hoarsely, “I thought you were dead.”

“Why the fuck’re you still ‘ere then?”

That earnt her a withering glare, although it didn’t last long as Aragorn shook his head and dragged a hand across his face, smearing the mixture of blood and troll across his skin and beard. He was sat back against a tree, she was half in his lap, half sprawled across the ground. He’d splinted her arm it seemed, and bound it with strips of a cloak.

Ah, that was probably why he’d hung around. Had to patch her up first.

“Is’t dead?”

“It’s dead,” he confirmed with a harsh exhale, “I checked. Our swords are lodged in its chest deeply enough that I’ll have to do some digging to get them out again. But its dead.”

“Good.”

It was getting hard to talk, so Hathiel gave up, letting her head thump back against his shoulder and her eyes fall shut once more.

“Something’s bothering me,” Aragorn was continuing in that tone of voice that told her she didn’t actually need to answer. “Why’s it so far south? It’s a mountain troll, and the Weather Hills hardly count as mountains out here…”

Her non-committal grunt was input enough.

“Elladan and Elrohir have reported of orcs and wargs gathering closer to the Misty Mountains,” he was continuing to muse, and Hathiel was half inclined to fall asleep listening to the rumble of his voice, “and Halbarad mentioned seeing orc prints in the South Downs… Are they gathering?”

A sobering thought.

Despite the need to rest, despite the urge to fall asleep in this clearing –no matter the stench of troll– and despite the fact her entire body was screaming in protest at the thought of moving, Hathiel stubbornly lifted her head.

“D’you… Do you think we should head to Rivendell?” she asked, “if, if they’re gathering, we’ve gotta, got to warn them.”

“You can barely breathe right now,” he countered, “I’ll warn Elrond, but for now you need to rest.”

“Can rest, in Rivendell.”

That earnt a huff of quiet laughter, jostling her head. “It’s many days walk away.”

“Bet’er get goin’ then.”

“You’ve done enough for today,” Aragorn chided gently, and very pointedly pressed his hand to her forehead and pushed her head back to rest against his shoulder once again. “Rest. We’ll figure out more come morning.”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to head to Rivendell. She wanted to warn Bree. She wanted to protect the Shire. But… Aragorn was warm at her back, his cloak was shielding her from the worst of the rain, and her body was begging for her to rest.

“Rest, Hathiel.”

For once she didn’t protest, and instead let her eyes fall shut once more. She would rest. But in the morning, there was work to be done.

[whirlwindimagines]

Hello! I hope You’re doing well

I was just wondering if i could request for a Wolfwood x gnreader who carries around a scythe and is called the reaper just like how Nicolas carries around a cross and goes by the name punisher?

I think that’d be cool :)) you don’t have to write it if you don’t want! I hope you are well and hydrated!! And that you take your time<33

Aww thanks for the kind words! I had no idea where this story was going, I just get an idea and run with it lol hope you enjoy! Also I’m like this will be short :) 1300 words later lol Also first time writing for Wolfwood so apologies

‘Fate’

Nicholas D. Wolfwood x Reader

You’ve decided three was becoming your favorite number because that’s how many times it took to intertwine your fate with the punisher. You’ve always gone through life with a sense of survival, it’s how you ended up here. Bounty hunting, only taking in targets dead, they call you ‘Reaper’ nothing but an angel of death in their eyes.

It was cruel work, but if someone wanted someone dead, or found dead you’d do it for the right price. It’s how you survived in this harsh world and you are fine with the routine of it. Until your routine was tossed to the side.

The first time had been quick, an annoyance more than anything else. You’ve been tracking your target for days, and you had finally cornered them outside of some backwater town. Scythe in hand ready to strike, the target was begging they always begged you hated this part. The nighttime air filled with the sound of crying until a gunshot rang out.

You dodged to the side unsure where the bullet had come from or where it would land. The night went still, you glanced at your target hoping they wouldn’t take this as a chance to run only to discover where the bullet ended up. Right through your target's head. 

You whipped around raising your weapon, only to come face to face with a man. He was holding a giant gun in the shape of a cross. Your blood ran cold, but you held your ground. 

“You asshole! He was mine.” 

“Relax you can have the bounty I just need proof.” He stepped closer, lighting a cigarette at the same time, his tone was casual. You stepped to the side letting him pass, you knew who he was. This wasn’t a fight you could win, so you would let him do what he needed and you’d collect the bounty.

“You’re not a ghost then, Punisher.” You don’t know why you felt the need to say it, your eyes glanced over him. He must have finished, whatever he did you didn’t want to know. He stood facing you and took a long drag of the cigarette “You’re not one either then, Reaper.”  

The two of you left it at that, you turned in the bounty, got the money, and didn’t think about it again. It was an odd night; one you’d just want to forget. 

The second time was confusing but somewhat enjoyable. You had a long day, you wanted nothing more than to just drink the night away. You found the closest bar to you and planned to hunker down for the night. People always gave space the moment they saw your weapon, and you don’t fuck with me attitude you were set.

What you didn’t expect was for someone to sit down right beside you at the bar. Annoyed you turned to the stranger, he was already looking at you with a smirk and a cigarette between his lips.

“Reaper”

“Punisher” 

You didn’t like being sought out like this; you were very unsure what he wanted from you. He orders a drink and then orders you one. “First rounds on me.” He said clinking his drink to yours. You downed the drink, “What do you want?” You figured you’d just get straight to the point nobody just sought you out for a drink. 

“What can’t drink with a friend?” You frowned at the tone, casual and that sly look on his face. You huffed looking down at your empty glass, “We’re not friends.” 

“Ah but we could be, I think we could help each other out.” There it was, people always wanted something from you. You knew not to get involved with this man; he was dangerous you were to hit you weren’t suicidal.  “No thanks.” You stood grabbing your weapon and preparing to leave until he grabbed your wrist, you glared at him. His hold was loose you could pull away if you really wanted to but you were in a trance at his dark gaze. 

“Hear me out first Reaper, I’m just looking for information if you can help me there, I’ll be out of your hair.” You sat back down, he let go of your hand and smirked. How annoying, he began to ask you a series of questions, he must be hunting someone you didn’t care to know the details of.  You answered honestly and he bought you another drink, you figured that was the end. It wasn’t. 

“It’s Nicholas D. Wolfwood by the way.” He lit another smoke; you watched eyes focused on his face. “Y/n l/n” you responded no one called you by your name anymore.  

You two spent the rest of the night talking, it was fun in the sense there were no expectations. He asked if he could hold your scythe you agreed, picking it up with one hand and passing it to him. You laughed when Wolfwood nearly dropped it, surprised at its weight.

“It’s heavy.” He said with a huff placing it back against the bar. 

“It’s supposed to be, isn’t it?” You said with a knowing look as you leaned your cheek on your hand to look at him. Taking lives came with a heavy toll, and you all had your crosses to bear, some heavier than most. Your heart raced when he met your gaze, you knew what could happen next so you needed to leave. 

Any sort of Attachment or comfort you didn’t deserve nor want to get into, you’d leave the Punisher here. Maybe next time you could be impulsive but not tonight. Well, a little impulse was okay, you leaned in by taking the cigarette from his lips and placing it between your own lips to take a drag. You stubbed it out on the bar top, leaning in once more to leave a kiss on his cheek. “See ya around.” 

You left him there and headed out into the dawn. 

The third was less than ideal, you were dying. Or you were going to die if you didn’t get up right now. It had been an ambush; you fell right for it and now you were going to bleed out on the desert floor.

You knew it would end like this eventually, staring up at the stars you felt some comfort. This was okay, it would be okay. You closed your eyes and accepted your fate. You didn’t know how long you were out; you were still alive but someone was shaking you and yelling. You couldn’t make out the words. You should’ve opened your eyes, but you were just so tired. You could hear the words ‘reaper’ over and over. 

Then another shout and more shaking, then the sound of your name, no one should know your name anymore. Forcing your eyes open, you came face to face with Wolfwood. He found you, how you didn’t know or care. Funny enough you felt safe, he was yelling at you again but you were too tired and closed your eyes again.

You awoke with a start in some dingy hotel room, you moved to stand up but your body protested the movements. Your wound was bandaged, how? What had even happened? Looking around the room you spotted your weapon right beside a familiar large cross.

“You lived.” Wolfwood stood at the doorway, arms crossed. “Guess I owe you my life then.” Your tone was light, but you were grateful just unsure to have to express it. “Thanks.” You whispered out he shrugged moving to the window to light a smoke. 

“Maybe you should stick around, it looks like your good at getting into trouble.” You rolled your eyes and laughed, “I think you just enjoy my company.”

“Maybe.” He answered, you laughed again laying down. Maybe surviving on your own was becoming too much, maybe with Wolfwood at your side you two could start living instead of surviving.

[kanene-yaaay]

The Collection (Second Chapter)

2. Hunger

Kanene's Notes: This was supposed to be posted MUCH earlier but guess who decided to add more 2k of words? :DDD Someone save from myself please uhygfdefghjk anyways it's growing increasedly harder to find pictures for the chapter so wish me luck tomorrow because I am FUC-

I offer this little humble meal for @squeaky-n-blushy, who was an amazing support for me during the entire fic but the main reason why I am crazy for those characters specifically. Hope you get crazy about them as well <3

Warnings: Suggestive Themes, nothing explicit but they are a bit deranged in some parts jhgfdfgh, Mouth Tickles, Rough and Light Tickles. None of them are the smallest bit normal about each other. Ler!Lan Xichen + Ticklish!Mingjue + Ticklish!JIn Guangyao/Meng Yao. Around 8.000 words.

[~*~]

It wasn’t only about the smiles and rarity of reactions Xichen got that fulfilled his demeanor. Sometimes, Xichen was thrilled by the adrenaline of discovery, the selfishness of holding a new kind of knowledge that would be forever his and only his, kind of necessity of seeing someone vulnerable under his care, it all mixed with his already known fondness and playfulness and created something he felt addicted to. It was followed by a different kind of hunger that filled his senses and took over his thoughts, creating strong and rare bolts of smugness and fire that graced his usual smiling face every single time he discovered another spot, another technique that would, unannounced, pry a new brand of laughter from his “victim”, something that would make them look at him with wide, half afraid, half expectant eyes.

And all Xichen could was to drink those reactions.

(...)

The blade came so close it cut a couple of strands off his hair before Lan Xichen could dodge from it, which was a completely unsatisfactory reflex and a shame to shufu’s teaching. Xichen at this point would be soon old enough to lead a night hunt of his own and he should at least be able to prevent an attack before it was close enough to deadly harm him, his distraction and confidence in being one of the very few cultivators awake in that moment was what blinded him from accurately interpreting the distinct sounds of leaves moving differently that morning since the he passed nearby the guest quarters as he followed the path to the younger juniors’ classroom with his brother.

Lan Xichen, however, couldn’t hoard all the reasons of the success of that sneaking attack, not even having time to dwell on it, quick to dodge another swipe, now aiming for his legs, before changing course to his torso, passing too close to his ribs and forcing him to jump away. The attack also gave him the perfect view of those grey, determined and excited eyes.

Nie Mingjue was really a wonderful opponent.

“Excuse me, Wangji!” Lan Xichen couldn’t even hide the smile on his lips from his voice, even though a part of him was sad for losing half of an incense's stick of quietness that always took the mountains in the early morning, sometimes he more than loved to share with his little brother before class. “For a distraction has crossed my path and is too insistent to let me get away from it.”

Quietness has been a rare thing since the arrival of the guest cultivators from all the others Four Great Sects, although, even with all the strictness and reinforced rules of the Cloud Recesses.

He heard his brother coming before he saw him, too overwhelmed by the sheer brute force (and much more agility that one would expect from his particular…muscular form) of Mingjue’s attack to stop him. The movement obligated him to stop dodging and pull out his scabbard (but not his sword, of course), meeting the next powerful strike head on, using his taller height (his growing spur appeared just last spring for his absolute delight and Lan Zhan’s contrite despair) and pull it higher and higher. Just in time, Wangji positioned himself defensively right in front of him, hand on Bichen and posture straight and coldly threatening, much to Mingjue’s confusion for the way the other blinked at the younger one and his attack faltered (but never relented).

“Lower your sword. Fighting is prohibited in Cloud Recesses.”

“I apologize, Second Young Master Lan,” Mingjue grunted, trying to make Lan Xichen stumble with a sudden change of his footwork, the Lan was quick to stabilize himself, but the movement made the younger one look even more distasteful at him. The boy was really protective. “Still, I am sure an exception can be applied when a promise has been made and not fulfilled, or at least I hope. I’ve heard only good things about Lan’s cultivators and their honor, afterall.”

Being overzealous of your own character and abilities was below a Lan (also prohibited by their rules), yet Xichen couldn’t help the spark of pride exploding on his chest for both how much adamant the Nie has been in getting them to spar together and the current tightness showing on Mingjue’s voice, his muscles straining where he continued pressing forward. It was very helpful that the older Nie master allowed his arm to be twisted into an uncomfortable position to keep the blow out of Wangji’s range. If Wangji realized that, it only served to make him even more displeased, setting himself even straighter, face unmoving.

“Xiongzhang owes Sect Heir Nie nothing.”

Mingjue quirked his eyebrow in what could be only a mix of amusement and bewilderment. Xichen felt a light heat on his ears and quickly jumped into the conversation before it could escalate even more.

(It felt good to feel pursued, however it came with the effect of Xichen finding himself wanting to impress the other more and more, lately.)

“It’s fine, Wangji.” Perhaps, when Lan Zhan got into the age of guest students, he would learn to let go a little more of their thousands of rules, it would do him good to relax a bit and have more friends. “I have truly promised Mingjue-xiong a friendly spar and unfairly postponed it several times. He is being fair in trusting my word.”

Actually, he had more or less froze when Mingjue came striding purposefully in his direction after Elder Zhang used him for a demonstration of the Gusu Lan forms with a simple sparring match, his hand locking on his shoulder with a strong grip and a wide (beautiful) smile that made him lose himself into warm for long kes until he came back to his own traitorous mouth agreeing with a smile to everything the other said.

“A spar must only be held under the supervision of a senior.”

“A spar with swords.” he countered, quickly setting his eyes on those grey ones. “And Mingjue-shixiong will be very kind to sheathe his saber again, won’t he?”

Mingjue narrowed his eyes and weakened his blow just enough to see if Xichen would keep pressing on, which he didn’t, both ending the attack until Baxia was resting on its usual place on Mingjue’s back. His voice came out gruffy, the now free hand creeping to scratch at his neck, as if he was embarrassed. It was a funny thought, to imagine someone so outspoken and sure of himself get flustered by his younger brother. “Of course, I apologize for interrupting your walk. I only now realized how rude my actions has come off to be. They do not represent the education and precepts of the Nie Sect.”

Before Xichen could smile and assure his apology was unnecessary, Wangji quickly answered for him, voice still serious and completely unmerciful at his words. “Shufu will be informed and your punishment delivered after your classes.” He bowed the exact necessary high, perfectly polite, and it took every single willpower of the older one to not snicker or, even worse, laugh out loud at the expression on Mingjue’s face.

Lan Zhan turned and stared at him with the corner of his eyes expectantly. Lan Xichen huffed and stepped to his side combing a strand of hair back to its place, much to the younger’s mortification, for the way he frowned at him and started walking away with slight pink ears.

Lan Xichen smiled and smiled, turning back to Mingjue, who crossed his arms and kept looking at him with that funny combination of terribly annoyed and astonishedly amused, the corner of his eyes crinkling his eyes as he saw, once more, the Sect Heir Lan escaping from his clutches once again. 

“Hope we manage to spar soon, Jue-shixiong.” He then turned away, a levity appearing on his step at knowing that he would keep running and dodging his next attempts for as long as Nie Mingjue kept being so kind as to chase him.

…

A hand grabbed his arm and pushed. A trill of adrenaline caught up in his throat as he twirled, using the overflowing robes and long sleeves to confuse his opponent and give him enough space to plant his feet on the other’s chest and kick with enough force to make Mingjue stagger. It didn’t make him buckle, though, and his grip only locked on his arm even tighter, refusing to let go of his advantage. At this point, both heirs were gasping breathless from the long chase that led them to this isolated camp and the following even longer spar. There were spots of dirt and blades of grass all over Mingjue’s face and robes, which kept making Xichen’s fingers twitch closer to pat them clean. Not even the heat of the battle kept the Lan from noticing how the other’s eyes kept jumping across his own askew robes and crooked forehead ribbon. Each blow, each grip, kick and touch left a bruning kind of feeling behind, pulsing from each point of contact.

When two more of his strongest blows didn’t succeed to let Mingjue go (it was no wonder that the Nie heir would be so skilled at close-range combat, his general strength was definitely not overestimated on the few humors Xichen had caught up on), Lan Xichen threw himself on the ground, using the momentum to drag the other with him, kicking both of his legs on his stomach to lift him momentarily in the air and then throw him away. 

Just as he jumped back to a standing position and fell on the other’s legs, ready to pin the Nie to the ground, Mingjue quickly began lifting his torso in an attempts to unbalance him, ready to throw him away and turn their luck in the first opportunity. In a momentarily act of effort, Lan Xichen’s hands shoot behind him, gripping the muscle to hold him down and-

And Mingjue, larger and stronger than anyone from his generation, known for his sheer force, for his direct words and unmovable opinions, he… squeaked.

Both of them froze and Lan Xichen felt his eyes fixate on the light path of color appearing on the other’s cheeks like a hawk. Something clicked right in his mind, and he turned the slight bit around to see how his hands were digging on Mingjue’s thighs, almost close to his knee, he looked forward again and took notice of the hint of a startled smile on his face.

His gruffy (embarrassed) voice cut the silence. “You just tickled me, no need to stop the sparring when I was so close to win.” The teasy remark was accompanied by another attempt of getting up again, only to fall right back to the ground when Xichen massaged circles on the ticklish spot, squeezing his thighs more purposefully and watching the uncontrollable, loud snickers that began flowing at that, following the pace of his tickles, growing louder and louder when he moved upwards to drum on the corner of his inner thighs and then growing higher and quicker as he stretched a little and spidered tickled all over it. “Xi-i-CHEN!”

Lan Xichen didn’t reply, he looked with fascination at the beginning of giant smile adorning his face, so different from his previously challenging ones calling him for combat or his smug grins after meeting one more of his blows with his own. Xicjen followed dazedly as that path of color began to grow stronger and his laughter to flow more easily, body squirming under his ministrations, trying to lift his legs and only making him dig harder on the ticklish spot or quick fruitlessly as the playful touched followed him no matter what he did, each breathtaking reaction loud and lovely as if unsashament of gathering all the attention that it deserved.

Two hands flew to hold his shoulders and Xichen moved quicker than he ever did before. In less than a ke he gathered both wrists on one hand and pulled them back to his chest with a low, growling warning of “Don’t you dare.”

He blinked and faltered, astonished with his own reaction a moment, worriedly looking into Mingjue’s expression, who simply looked back at him just as before, smile growing and the surprise on his eyes starting to be taken over by challenge. Then, his fingers brushed across a particularly bad spot when he wormed his other hand under his thigh, making Mingjue suddenly buckle and squawk, which, of course, only made him latch on it with even more scribbling and scratching.

“Tickling-” He squealed and pulled his hands, a funny kind of scoff leaving his mouth as Xichen’s grip kept unrelenting, his strength vanishing at the tickling (how much time has it been since someone dared to be this playful with him?). “-is not fair!”

“I apologize, but I don’t remember this as one of the rules we set for this sparring match, unfortunately.” The challenging tune now laid on Xichen’s voice, his playful attack not relenting for a single moment,  Mingjue only seemed to snicker and laugh even more at that, staring at his expression with nothing more than a fire spreading in his eyes, stronger as ever even as his face got more and more colored by the kes. Xichen poked a little bit of fun. “Perhaps Sect Heir Nie can add his new rule as soon as this match ends and you admit my victory?”

“In your dreams!” 

Before Xichen could reply, two knees hit his back and almost made him fall completely on Mingjue’s chest, throwing him out of balance and forcefully ceasing his tickles. For a maddening moment, Lan Xichen saw himself burying his face on his neck to listen more closely to all the remaining laughter that painted his smug, amused voice. 

However, he couldn’t unfortunately let such an attack pass.

Letting go of his wrists, Lan Xichen was quick to turn around, taking advantage of how close his knees were to latch on the spot right above them, first spidering and scratching lightly the place until high giggles were floating on the air, before unleashing a full squeezing attack on them, digging and clawing at the ticklish skin. An unusual, playful smirk opened on his face when that made the other shriek and kick his legs away, unfortunately too much late as the Lan simply used the move to pull himself straight again, following his movement with ease. It didn’t take long before Mingjue was aching his back, shrieking and throwing his head back with belly laughter

“Once more, I offer my deepest apologies, such a delightful spot should never be neglected. It’s good that it, quite literally, jumped to my attention as quick as they, allowing me to right my wrongs.” When one leg tried to pull up again, Xichen simply tormented the soft underside with prodding and scratches, which made it slam right back at the ground and let him focus again in squeezing the kneecap, which made him lift his leg again and restart the cycle again and again. “Thank you for showing me the best place to take you apart and tickle you just where you wanted, your kindness and support will not be forgotten and be rewarded with your well deserved prize.”

Mingjue was too busy losing his mind to answer, squirming and kicking every time Xichen jumped from one leg to another watching with an amused kind of fascination as his laughter went higher then lower as he switched from his upper leg to his calves, kneading on the muscle and receiving a shrieking crackle in answer. He almost threw him off a few times with his trashing, gasps, yelps and squeals kept following his tickles every time he found a new extra ticklish spot, circling it teasingly before scratching and making him descend into more laughter. Lan Xichen was more than happy to keep exploring, if only to keep listening to those sounds.

Testingly, Lan Xichen locked his legs even stronger, tipping forward boldly to spider and trace the tip of his fingers across the entirety of his calf, listening how quicker and uncontrollable his snickers changed to crackles only to go back to uncontrollable titters the closer he slipped to his ankle, drawing teasing circles around the bone only to hear those tittering giggles growing slower momentarily only to jump in a squeak when he experimentally gave a poke to the sole of his feet. 

“Is Jue-xiong already convinced of my victory?” 

“You are cheating!” It was more than endearing to hear how those words were overcome by even more snickers.

“Then I believe a little more convincing might be in order.”

Xichen sneakily taking off one of his boots to tickle the spot lightly, receiving more wheezy guffaws at this. A clear, even if laughing, voice stopped him right as he was to attack

“If you put any of your offending fingers on my feet I will no longer hold back.” Mingjue warned. Lan Xichen blinked two big and innocent eyes at him, a single finger escaping to wiggle on his sole draw a quick tickle at the place. Mingjue clamped his mouth shut in what seemed like a snort. 

“Did I just find your most ticklish spot, Jue-ge?”

The red spread quickly from his cheeks to the entire face at that and Xichen congratulated himself and kept the new acquired information in a special place in his mind, sure to use more of it in the future. 

“You did.” At the gruffy (flushed) admission, Xichen felt fireworks dancing on his soul, more than delighted to know just what kind of reactions he would pry from such a special spot. “If you attack me there, Xichen, mark my words:” 

(Xichen, Xichen, Xichen)

“Next time I will be the one to not stop until I find your most ticklish spot, and then I won’t give you any time to chat and offer mercy when I finally get to it.”

Xichen wondered if those shining eyes could see how much he was floating, how the adrenaline at the promise set every single one of his nerves on fire, how it brought a different kind of smirk into his face, how it alight a new sensation of challenge and playfulness guarded on his soul.

“This lowly one thanks his senior for such a precious warning.” His eyes crinkled and Mingjue’s furrowed in a protest that he was that old, but the Lan gave him no time to reply. “I shall not show Jue-ge any mercy, then.”

Just as the words finally setted, he attacked.

(...)

It was dangerous to be with Lan Xichen, for all the good and the bad reasons. He was wanted by the Wen Sect, a sect heir on the run and his simple existence put all the little things he worked so hard to have, his life in danger, but those were things that Meng Yao had already reached peace with himself about. However, he was also sweet, trusting, lovely in a way he thought only fictional characters of a foolish book could be, the only one besides his mother who tried to know him. 

At first, all of this had helped to keep his guards up on the first days, but as the time passed, it made Meng Yao too comfortable, too at ease and no matter how much he analyzed his smiles, his attentive gaze that made him want talk until his heart was pried wide open, he couldn’t find any hint of deceit. The more he looked, the more he investigated, the more he pried, the more he was drawn close, as if Lan Xichen was a bright candle in the middle of the night and Meng Yao was nothing more than a dark month hopelessly attracted to the flame, to the brightness, the warmth, the care, the affection. 

Lan Xichen gave it all too easily, much before he could even do anything to earn it. It made Meng Yao want to do embarrassing things, like buy poetry books so he could listen to Xichen read them out loud (even knowing he was already way too tight on budget as he could), to comb his lustrous hair and decorate with the most beautiful hairpins (what an embarrassing thought to have), to cradle him close, to always have him in his field vision and follow him like a puppy who wishes for nothing more than to lay down, bask on the attention and show the soft of his belly.

Although he had not expected to be that literally.

“A-Yao,” there were two pecks softly, so carefully, laid on his eyelids that they had Meng Yao floating. He drifted and soared high in the sky as his mind kept repeating that soft tune as if he could get drunk on it. A spark of warmth blossomed from where he touched and spread across his face, the feeling of those soft lips lingering. 

A-Yao, A-Yao, A-Yao.

“Will you look at me?”

He was hopeless to such a tiny request from someone who could ask, could demand much more from this lowly one. Meng Yao opened his eyes and watched those golden hues above him, mouth almost betraying its master and answering without his command, saying that yes, he would, he would do anything for him, he would kill and slay and spend the rest of his life prying open, cutting out and hiding his rotten parts from him if that meant never losing Lan Xichen. He would keep on hating the world, collecting every pebble of love and trust he was able to create and hoard them all into those caring, trusting hands of the Lan, giving it all to him and only him over and over again.

“Are you still comfortable?” He was floating and Xichen was worried. It was clear for the way his eyes dropped and averted away for a moment, how they travelled across his body looking for hints of discomfort, hand twitching away from him, shoulders were layered tight with tension. There was this kind of frown he did when he was preoccupied, when his eyebrows would go the slight bit downwards while his jaw set a tad straighter in doubt. 

So lost in his thoughts Meng Yao was that he didn’t even notice it before, an unforgiven mistake on his part, but he would berate himself for his negligence later. Instead, Meng Yao immediately set himself on the work to cut any doubt or fear that began assaulting Xichen’s still healing confidence. 

Meng Yao lift his arms and held Xichen’s hands on a light, soothing grip as he brought them to his own face, resting them on his bare forehead and not quite kissing those skilled, long and graceful fingers, so above from him in every sense and form (but not for long, not for long) but, since he was still a weak man, letting his lips graze them reverently. They stayed a moment like this, before Meng Yao directed them to lay on his stomach, an amused grin blossoming on his face at how such a simple action made color explode across the other’s cheekbones.

“Tickle me, please, Xichen-gege.” He said, proud how his words only made the blushing worse. 

He very pointedly refused to complete the sentence with the thoughts that haunted his mind every day and night since the moment he realized the nature of his not so pure nor controlled feelings about Lan Xichen. Ever since then, all the words about his true desire and wishes have been hanging on the tip of his tongue as he swallowed them over and over again. 

Meng Yao did not say “If you don’t make me lose myself in laughter right now, I will completely lose my mind.”

He did not point out how he wanted to “slam you on the ground and find each one of your reactions, to explore and analyze every weak part of yours until I have all of them safe and sound in my hands, until I can cradle them as close as I can.” 

He didn’t even consider expressing how he dreamed in “taking your face in my hands and swallowing your sound every sound, memorizing your every expression until I can burn in my mind all your favorite spots and favorite words.”

He did not say how if he could, he would “spend the rest of my life taking care of them, of you. I will discover your every want, your every small or big desire and take pride in giving you them again and again. Until there’s nothing I could do to make you happier.”

“So, please, pry that control away from me before I discover the best way to take away yours.” 

(The worst thing is that Lan Xichen would let him, he would let him-) 

Instead, he let each one of those words die in his lips and then, with his most calm, serene smile, he stared Lan Xichen back.

Those fingers began scribbling over his stomach, quickly chasing all of those thoughts until they were out of his grasp and far away from his mind, a gasp being fished from his mouth as he forced his eyes to stay open as per the others request, keeping them open and trusting when Xichen was fast to look over and search for any hint of discomfort, not bothering to hide or control the wobbly line of his smile.

As Lan Xichen relaxed with what he saw, he began exploring a little more, dancing fingers spidering softly up and down his belly as if he was personally tormenting each one of his nerves with tickles, circling his blunt nails around his belly button and chuckling lowly when that made him huff and his grin grow wider. Those skilled and careful hands continued to draw various and uncessant lines and forms on his stomach, prying airy, quiet sounds for the next kes they continued like this. Lan Xichen didn’t stop looking at him adorably the entire time and Meng Yao tried to not melt too much so soon, titters coming faster and faster out of his mouth, especially as Xichen began poking and prodding the sensitive spot of lower belly, scratching and digging at his hips, clawing at the bones and attacking his waist with no mercy.

“Is my A-Yao very ticklish here?”

His giggles grew stronger and flooded the entire space, shoulders trembling, chest bouncing and nerves alight with the electricity that each touch brought, Meng Yao almost jolted in surprise at the sudden mischievous tune of the other’s voice and his change of spot, only noticing then that his eyes had automatically closed again at it.

“N-not the most ticklish, I am afraid.” He snorted and held his robes in a tight grip to not cover his face away, only allowing himself to later kneel at the urge after Xichen got more absorbed in turning him into a laughing mess and stopped worrying and trying to gauge his level of comfort. “Hohohope Xichen-ge doehehesn’t mind reheceiving a few giggles fohor his efforts?”

“Any reaction, if it comes from you, then I will always cherish it, for as long as you’re willing to give me each one of them.” Meng Yao’s neck prickled with heat and words scrambled across his mind when Xichen began scrapping and running his wiggly fingers widly around his sides, sending tingles and shivers across his entire torso, pulling a quiet gasp and more strident snickers. 

He was a smooth and soft type of a tormentor, then. His soft teases and playful voice were very effective in making him feel even more ticklish than any other time before, tiny squirms coming from one side to another even as Meng Yao tried to make his own body lay as still as possible for Lan Xichen to not understand his wiggling around as something that was not.

“A-Yao, still thinking so much?” His hands were pried from where they were clued on his robes and pulled upwards until they were interlocking behind the Lan’s neck, getting too so, so close to the ends of his forehead ribbon that Meng Yao could almost feel it burning next to his skin. The very sensation of Xichen’s hands now crawling and spidering up his defenseless torso quickly vanished with that distraction. “Let me take care of this, let your brilliant mind rest for a moment in my care.”

“This lowly one-” He squeaky loudly when Lan Xichen refuted his choice of words with a poke on his belly button, wiggling and scratching the ticklish skins of its walls over and over again until more squeaks were falling from his lips and Meng Yao remembered how Xichen asked him to say referring himself as such after what he did. “I was only-” He jolted and buckled when those hands went to his ribs, touch forgiving and yet equally maddening. Xichen began scribbling and lightly clawing the bones, giving an especial attention even to the space in between each one. Tittering melting with puffs of laughter from his lips. “Only wondering if thihis talking is frohohom experiehence. Is still Xic-xichehen-ge ihihis too tickilihihish?”

Lan Xichen hummed non actually answering (which was already an answer on itself) and continued changing from each ticklish spots on his torso already explored before he could grow used to the sensation, taking his sweet time to tease each one, pressing and vibrating on them until there was much more squeaks and guffaws mixing with his giggles and his mind loosened its grasp of thoughts, leaving him relaxed enough to almost not process Xidhen’s next words.

“Maybe A-Yao will have the opportunity to find out later?” 

Out of his control, flashes of memories passed on his mind, Lan Xichen laughing with a sleeve covering his smile when Meng Yao showed him that absurd and slanderous book that promised to teach you how to grow a golden core without any cultivation, Lan Xichen stuttering and blushing when he realized only after winning their light discussion that his point meant that both of them would have to share his tiny, thin bed for no one sleep on the ground, Lan Xichen fiercely staring back, a challenging fire in his eyes, one moment before Meng Yao was flipped and lost their sparring match, Lan Xichen laughing out loud the first time since he decided to trust him enough and hide in his house. 

(Lan Xichen under him, writhing, gasping and pilant-)

“Xichehen-ge is such a teahahase.” He whined, watching as something flashed across Lan Xichen’s eyes for a moment before disappearing. 

(He would investigate that interesting detail later.)

“My life was the one who asked for it.” Before Meng Yao even had the time to properly process the words (his what-), Lan Xichen quickly lowered his head and began peppering his neck and that awfully, newly discovered (and the one that started this whole thing) weak spot behind his ears with small raspberries and tickly kisses, making silly noises and joyful humming every time a garbled sound or a bubbly protest escaped Meng Yao’s mouth, his entire body now shaking with the squeal of surprise at the sudden action elected, before his laughter was taken over by the absolute onslaught of crackling snickers and high pitched titters that jumped across the air uncontrollably and unashamed.

It only grew quicker and louder as those creeping hands got close to his armpits, drumming each finger on the hollows and making his giggles disappear with a snort. Rare jolts of tiny squeaks and airy yelps made their own appearance at every particularly mean nibble or evil tickle that assaulted his poor sensitive spots, face smushed on his own shoulder in an attempt to both bare part of his neck to the other and to hide at least a bit of his flustered state. 

As the time passed and the tickling continued, his nerves were set more and more alight with every buzzing sensation and his mind only became a puddle of mirth and joy, too busy laughing and being happy to even bother with any thoughts or problems. Meng Yao gave nothing but his pure and honest reactions, his every protest, every smile, every snickered ‘Xichen-ge’ and every squirm saying the same one thing, over and over again, eternally on repeat

I trust you, I trust you, I love you.

(...)

It had taken the two of them. 

Both Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen sandwiched A-Yao in between them during their cuddling time, each moment filled with soft cares, quiet words and light bickering that had made each second of Lan Xichen speeding through his work until he was free to enjoy his leisure time with both of them. It took a little more coaching and attention until A-Yao was finally melting in their embrace, staring at Nie Mingjue with half lidded eyes and a relaxed hum as the other pulled him closer to his chest, which resulted in him receiving a pout and an unforgiving pinch on his thigh by Xichen, who scooted closer as well. 

Only a few moments after that, as Lan Xichen was caressing Jin Guangyao’s arm with a light traces and rubs, he heard a small giggle and saw the arm twitch in a reaction that he could recognize and paint with blindfolded eyes. It didn’t took more than half a ke for the Lan start to add a couple of purposeful and playful touches, “accidentally” brushing the tip of his fingers over and over again his wrist and palm (which so far brought the best reactions) as tittering snickers started to escape from his smiling lips. 

As the tickles began exploring his already very known ticklish spots, Mingjue, with a barely-there scuffle, set Guangyao’s back against the mattress, both taking over the opportunity to hold his arms above his head in a simple illusion of restrain, since that only made Guangyao become ven more boneless at their administrations, each giggle, each titter and huff being pried from his lips resulted in him melting more and more against them, more than comfortable to indulge both in the trap that had been so careful calculated.

Nie Mingjue complained gruffly about how he couldn’t find any spot that would truly make A-Yao go mad with laughter and finally get his revenge for how much the Jin had done that exact thing with them (always full of mischievous taunts and teases about it, as well) time and time again in the past and would very much likely to continue to do so in the future. 

“Perhaps da-ge should simply try harder, then.” Jin Guangyao’s melodious and teasingly condescending tune cut his complaint, giggles filling the room even stronger than before as Mingjue stopped his tickle attack to stare at him astonished at the audacity. Xichen was more than happy to let them bicker and distract themselves and he kept exploring with light scribbles his new information. That was when the fatidic moment happened.

One of Lan Xichen’s fingers danced quickly and distractedly at the inner part of his elbow, which, for the loud squeal that immediately followed the light, curious caress of the tip of his fingers, was incredibly sensitive, and promptly made all of them freeze stunned at that reaction.

Lan Xichen pushed himself up the bedding until he moved from the cozy, comfortable place on A-Yao’s side (perfect to pepper his neck and ears with tiny, fluttering kisses that would make both spots quickly be painted in a lovely shade of red when he whispered teases upon teases on them) to look at the other, who was staring with wide eyes right back at him, face still carrying the hint of his lovely smile, now locked in place with his surprise.

Oh.

What a delightful day.

The more Xichen looked, the more A-Yao kept himself still, as if moving a single muscle would remind both of them what they had been previously doing, as if the knowledge would simply escape from his mind and the lovely discovery was never made.

The more Lan Xichen stared, the more he felt his smirk grow and grow.

It was Nie Mingjue who broke them out of it.

“Do that again.” And, between Mingjue’s dangerous light in his eyes and Xichen absolutely glee clear on his face, both painted in the same shade of hunger, Jin Guangyao seemed to be left without words. He shivered when Xichen’s warm touch found his elbow again, fingertips only resting there. The Lan watched with fascination as goosebumps sprouted freely across his arms at his action. A-Yao’s lips twitched in a wonderful, excited way and his dimples became more pronounced.

His tickles then escalated slowly, peppering the ticklish skin with the tiniest, barely there scratches that pulled another high, poorly concealed screech from his mouth before it was firmly clamped shut as the Jin tried to pry his wrists out of their hold fervently, eyes wide in a mix of adrenaline and alarm.

“Is that your death spot, A-Yao? How could you not share them with us until today?” Xichen let his face fall in the same way he did when one of the sect leaders in conferences tried to demand absurd deals or let out insulting commentaries, a sad kind of disapproval that would leave them scrambling to correct themselves and explain how they never meant any offense. Jin Guangyao, however, continued to look at him with no honey words or distracting teases falling freely from his lips and Xichen was helpless at the way his heart melted as he saw the corner of Guangyao’s warm eyes crinkle and gaze hold a playful glint, not being fooled one bit by Xichen’s theatrics and insteading pulling one of his own. Gulping down his persistent titters, he shook his head.

“Er-ge knows I am not-” His voice wavered and he narrowed his eyes at Xichen in a light annoyment as he digged just the slight bit on the spot, his scratches picking up a fastest pace for a blink and obliging him to press his lips together and squirm for maddening moments before Guangyao managed to take a hold of himself again. He coughed, a disguise for another wheezing giggle. “Excuse me. As I was saying before the unfortunate interruption: I am not that ticklish.” He tilted his head, a light hint of what could be called a pitiful pout in his face and Xichen instinctively mirrored him.

“I understand it might be…” His voice started to falter the more Xichen continued to tease and tickle that spot. “C-complicated for er-ge to understand, with how sensitive your body is, but I-HIHIHI!”

As it seems Nie Mingjue jumped to save the Lan from his provocation, like the heroic cultivator he was known and acted as. Or maybe he got tired of their playing around, not being one as fond of the entertainment of teasing competitions or tiny pokes of fun made specifically to increase one’s anticipation as both Jin Guangyao and Lan Xichen were. Besides, he was internally familiar with how long they could take in their game, being or the victim or the observer of those occasions. 

Therefore, it was no surprise when he decided enough was enough and put his hands to a good use. Or mouth, since his most effective way to distract them was to start carefully nibbling the new discovered ticklish spot, resting nips here and there on the trapped arm in his reach. 

“Da-ge!” There was a hysterical tune in his words and there was a shakiness in his arms. Lan Xichen could empathize, Mingjue’s beard was something to be truly feared during his tickle attacks. Still, they weren’t hearing any laughter in the air, which, in Lan Xichen’s humble opinion, was an insulting oversight of their part that should be corrected immediately.

Lan Xichen smiled, sighing happily and lowering his head until he could nuzzle freely on hi inner elbow, intertwining his care with soft kisses, humming (of course with his lips resting on the skin so his A-yao could feel perfectly each vibration) and trailing the trembling skin with one or two small raspberries that would leave the other jolting on the same place, each touch and tickle making it increasingly difficult to keep his crackles concealed.

“Er-ge-eeh!” A snort escaped, quickly followed by an squeak and Lan Xichen nodded in lieu of an answer, huffing softly in amusement. His now free fingers crawled up, one step at a time and stopped right under his wrist. He moved his hand that had been clutching Guangyao’s one in a restringing hold until they were intertwining their fingers instead, leaving the soft, slightly sensitive skin of his wrist free for him to attack with the lightest, softest scribbling tickles.

There was a barely aborted snortle and then guffaws were chasing each other freely in the air, louder than his usual snickers and much quicker than his giggles and a little less composed. 

“There we go.” Lan Xichen exhaled in relief, leaving a peck on his hand and closing his eyes in satisfaction, bathing in the melodious tune of the Jin’s laughter. “Feels so much better to let go, don’t you think, A-Yao?”

“Your wrists too?” Nie Mingjue may sound irritated to anyone else, but only a bit more attention to the gleam in his eyes and the teasing curve of his grin and then it would be clear just how much fun he was having with this. He and A-yao, especially, had a strong delight in breaking each other into pieces and taking their time to push each other closer and closer to their breaking point. Even if it was not really his type to engage in this kind of affection as well, it was good that they held a special thing in between themselves and Lan Xichen was happy to see each other being so carefree. As if to consolidate his thought, a bark of bright crackle escaped Jin Guangyao and left him lost in even more uncontrollable reactions. “You don’t do more than simply smile when we tickle your sides or armpits only for the reason of your fall to be your wrists and elbows?!” 

A-Yao snorted before falling back into crackles, if it was a result of Mingjue’s tease or the fact that there was a booming laughter now hiding his, it really didn’t matter when Lan Xichen ended being blessed by both of them either way. Nie Mingjue didn’t take long before following the exact contrary of his example, his touches becoming energetic and full of prodding and spidering to torment both spots, the sheer contrast of sensations pulling snorts and more hysterical laughter from him.

Lan Xichen tried to burn in his mind the cadence of his reactions, the fluctuations of his chuckles that followed delightfully the pace of each stroke of his fingers, the tittering tune it got with his playful, adoring teases and how free and quicker it sounder with each of his nibbles. When the Lan opened his eyes, he watched how Jin Guangyao’s eyes closed tightly, how big it was his smile and how his arms rested still on their grip, hand tightly gripping theirs. There was now a red hue painting his face and clear joy in each one of his  reactions were, how tight he was holding his hands. Mingjue almost wasn’t able to torment him with taunts and teases with the volume of his chortles, instead deciding to go back to lay tickly kisses and nibbles on every ticklish spot he could find. Two different kind of laughter filled the space and Lan Xichen couldn’t help but follow with his own snickers, creating the truly most melodious song.

Every and any details were collected and placed carefully in his mind so Xichen could rewatch the moment over and over again,  later, when they were back to lead their own sects and Gusu Lan nights got too quiet and his thoughts too loud to endure.

Before the melancholy could take a hold over his mind, however, Xichen decided to bask in the sunlight of both of the most trusted people.

“I want to paint this.” A-Yao’s eyes turned to him, shining in a rare mix of shyness and excitement. “You think you could continue smiling like this for me, A-Yao?”

“We could keep him like this for a few hours alright.” Nie Mingjue chuckled darkly, suddenly changing to dig and drum his tickling fingers on his armpits until a squeal escaped Guangyao’s lips. Slower snickers and giggles took over the uncontrollable laughter from before, allowing him into a giggly kind of break. “Keeping him laughing, squirming and squealing just like he is so eager to do with us. I say, one painting won’t be enough. I personally will want to commission one for my own chambers and I bet Gusu Lan would appreciate such a fine scene as well.”

Jin Guangyao wasn't even trying to fight anymore, becoming a tittering puddle in his bed, rich brown eyes watching them fondly, sharp and attentive, and yet so trusting. There was no point in trying to conceal his reactions any further, letting himself instead let go of his control in a way that only the two of them would be witness to. The strong color on his face began to spread to his ears and neck and Lan Xichen was helpless for the way that it made him want to follow its trail with tiny, teasing raspberries and fluttering kisses. So he did.

“Beautiful. So beautiful, my A-Yao.”

Said one took a deep breath and pressed in between his titters and chuckles. “Not as beautiful as my er-ge and da-ge, when they get in my position.”

His tune made it sound like a simple observation, but they were no fool. Jin Guangyao’s revenge would be ruthless and inevitable. Still, Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen were not afraid, instead doubling their efforts until the warmth and the tickling sensation were the only things A-Yao could focus on.

[~*~]

EXTRAS:

The universe put me in this world to write Xichen and Guangyao being the most deranged about each other actually. Pls image that Lan Xichen was also having the craziest thoughts while reducing Jin Guangyao to a giggle puddle <3

If you ever wonder about the relationship of Xichen with idk anyone from 2º and 3º chapter (besides the special guest appearance that will appear <3) only remember that I have no idea what is actually happening in this fic at all and those words are not bound to real life and flesh limitations

Lan Xichen tickling A-Yao for the first time: <3 <3 <3 silly time!!! so happy that Meng Yao let me do that! I Am Completely Normal About This Outcome And Am Not Having Lots of (Rule Breaking) Thoughts About All Of This :) 

Me about Meng Yao: This one can fit so much gays awakenings moments right now you have no idea

Me writing Mingjue and Xichen’s moment: and then Mingjue attacks him from behind-

Lan Zhan: And I am there

Me: What. No you’re not

Lan Zhan: *sits in the middle of the scenario and refuses to move*

Me: Please I would’ve to rewrite like 10 whole paragraphs PLEASE move. You had like half of the first chapter to enjoy with your bro, go AWAY

Lan Zhan: Hm (no)

Mingjue by mistake, while Lan Xichen is tickling him: Fuck, Xichen!Xichen, starting to undo his outer robes: Well, since you asked…