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covetyou · 10 months ago

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when we begin again

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: dub-con (reader was paying a debt, less so now), oral (f receiving), fingering, masturbation, thigh slaps (three small ones), small description of a hand injury, cumplay/cumshot/cum marking, praise kink, maybe Joel has a bit of a pain kink idk, possessive slutty Joel, derogatory names ("whore"), drug reference, unspecified age gap word count: 4.1k summary: He wasn't one to lick his wounds, but after a deal gone wrong Joel finds something he'd much rather put his mouth on.

A/N: and here we be, the first of the SWAT oneshots that serves as a sort of bridge between the main series and the few ideas I have brewing and ready to go. This is a whole re-write in less than 24 hours because the original fic I was almost finished with felt too me and not enough SWAT. no one needs sad girl monologuing about life and death and grief with their porn. you're welcome.

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"Hrrrmph!"

Joel's lips crash into yours the moment you step inside. One moment he's running an anxious hand through his graying hair, and the next he's making quick work of the space between you, striding across the floor to grab you and plant his lips firmly on yours.

It's not what you'd come here for, funnily enough. You wanted to talk and, glorious as it was to have your lips against his, you couldn't talk like this.

Wretching yourself away is stupid. After everything you know it's stupid, yet you do it anyway.

"Joel -"

Cupping your head in his hands his lips find yours again before you can get another word out, teeth knocking together as he licks into your mouth, and you briefly lose yourself, turning to putty in his arms, ready to sculpt into whatever he sees fit that day. Before the bonelessness takes hold completely, you pull back once more.

Searching his face you look for the sudden need, the sudden rush, the desire to kiss you and have your face in his hands that hadn't been there any other time until now. You see nothing, his dark eyes refusing to meet yours as his hands find themselves at the front of your pants, deftly unbuttoning them before you can even question him. Before he can unzip them, your hands find his, holding him gently in place.

Joel freezes, hands stilling on your zipper, and he pulls a small, sharp breath of air in through his nose as if you hurt him, wounded him by daring to slow him down.

"You want me to stop?" he growls.

"No, I just -"

"Then quit your complainin'."

You do. Briefly. Until the zip snags as he pulls on it again and he curses in frustration.

"Let me do it." Until last time, which wasn't really like any other time, he'd always asked you to strip yourself, made you strip in front of him before he touched out. His clumsy hands on your clothes felt alien, and as it was he was being too slow, even in his desperation.

"You not want me to touch you or somethin'?" he snaps, frowning down at your pants now as he fiddles with the zipper, trying to get it to budge.

"I never said that."

"Then quit your fuckin' complainin'."

And this time you really do when you finally see the tremble in his hands and the blood on his knuckles, and it occurs to you that maybe you did hurt him, that grabbing his hand to stop his frantic movement caused him pain.

Joel hadn't been in a rush before you got here. He'd been the opposite, pacing the floor, willing himself to slow down, calm down. And it had been working - each turn he could feel himself relaxing, all the pent up energy from a deal gone to absolute shit steadily leaving his bones. But your delicate knock on the door had sent his blood boiling in a different way. He'd fought with himself to ignore it, to tell you through the door to fuck off for another day, but the idea of something warm and wet and compliant to soothe his aches and pains was too enticing to pass up. Making you in particular moan and writhe and give in to him was even more impossible to let go. In the end, the door had practically let you in all on its own.

So when his hands pull at your zipper again, yanking it in frustration, you will it down, beg with your mind for it to not snag again, and you sigh with relief when it doesn't.

In one fluid movement your pants are unceremoniously pulled to your knees, and Joel is crowding you back against his dining table, rough and aching hands on your hips to guide you. Your exposed ass collides with the solid wood, and he's pressing into you, the hardening lump in the front of his jeans poking into the softness of your belly. You can feel the frustration in him and how it twitches through his fingertips, swells in his cock, and each time you feel how the need wins out over frustration as he grinds into you, latching him onto you as his veins hunt for some kind of relief.

Another yank of your jeans and he's pulled them to your ankles, stepping on them as he pushes you to sit on the table. Your jeans stay behind, dragging your shoes from your feet with a dull thud, and Joel kicks them away. Winters in Boston are bitter, none moreso than this one, and your frozen ass barely registers the feeling of the wooden surface as you sit on it, still kitted out in your hat, coat and gloves. When you move to pull them off his hand pushes between your breasts, knocking you back onto the table. A second later there's a harsh scrape of a chair across the floor and, just as you manage to tug one glove off, he's yanking you down the table toward him.

You sit up and look down where he sits between your legs, enraptured by the softness of your skin beneath hands that glide up and down your thighs, gripping and squeezing the soft flesh more gently than the wounds on his knuckles suggest he's capable of. He's holding off, you realize then as you watch his hands, trying to slow himself from taking what he needs.

Tossing your hat to the side you lift your hips, shimmying your panties down just enough for Joel's fingers to work them down the rest of the way. Sitting back in his chair he looks between your legs, and you know that he can see what you've been feeling since you stepped onto his street. By this point, the response was Pavlovian. Each step closer to Joel's apartment you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, your cheeks feeling hotter and hotter. You wonder if one day he'd stop having this affect on you, or if he'd stop responding to it exactly how you knew he would, but with a knowing quirk in his brow, you know that day is not today.

"Fuck me, sweetheart. You sure no one else been down here today?"

Shaking your head, you manage one more look at him before he's pulling your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders and diving into your slick folds with a firm lick.

"N-no," you gasp, bucking slightly into his face with your legs spread over his broad shoulders. He should know that you haven't, that you wouldn't, but you think he just needs to hear the confirmation, needs to know that this thing in front of him right now is just his for the taking, and so you let him have it. "Haven't even touched myself today."

He moans into your cunt, cold nose pressing into the softness of your mound as his tongue laps and laves you. With a slurp, having cleaned up the arousal that had leaked out of you on your way here, he looks up at you, ticking his head to the side and nodding down to your bare pussy. "Well, shit, looks like all o' this is just for me, huh?"

There's no air left in your lungs for you to respond when his tongue circles your clit and makes you groan into the cold air. Whatever he needs, if this is how he was going to take it, you were damn well going to let him take everything you had.

And so, pinning you to the table he begins to devour your cunt, licking messily all over you, coating you in his saliva. He pulls you open with his arms hooked over your thighs, spreading your lips further for him. The chill hits you for just one second when you're fully spread to the cold air, but his mouth soon descends on you and all you can see are his eyes and the curve of his nose, his mouth hidden as he buries it into you.

You shuffle your jacket off, the room suddenly feeling much warmer than when you first entered it, and earn yourself a small slap to your thigh, making you squeak out a yelp of surprise, when Joel's mouth involuntarily pulls from your cunt.

"You gonna keep still? Or you gonna keep fuckin' wrigglin'?"

You shift again, biting your cheek as you test him. Channelling his energy into eating your cunt is working wonders for him and he seems calmer already, but that doesn't stop him lightly slapping your thigh again, shooting a warning look up at you.

"Got a way to keep you still if you can't fuckin' do it by yourself, sweetheart," he warns and, as if sensing you're about to test him again, he unhooks one arm from you and pushes a finger straight into your wet heat.

You moan, gasping again when he sucks your clit for good measure.

"Huh?" He's coaxing you, trying to get you to wiggle again and earn yourself another surprise. Not one to push your luck you simply moan, letting your back arch slightly when he begins to move his finger inside you. "What was that?"

"Fu-nothing. Just - fuck - so good."

You mind is liquid, seeping out of your ears and making a mess of your jacket when he licks you again, dancing the tip of two fingers around your entrance before sliding both into you. If it hurts him, he doesn't let on, but you can tell it does something to him by the groan he makes into your cunt as his fingers curl in you, making your walls clamp and twitch around his fingers.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Like gettin' this pussy ate, don't you?"

"Mm."

"Thought so. Needy fuckin' pussy. Not just your mouth that wants to be kissed is it, she needs it too?"

"Oh god, yes please, she needs it too."

And you can feel it, the moment he switches from eating your cunt to kissing it. You know the shapes, the trails he kisses, the way his tongue dances. You'd committed it to memory the past week, made yourself come at the thought of his mouth, the scratch of his beard, the feel of him beneath your fingertips, touching him as much as he was touching you. His mouth and the memory work together then, bringing you so impossibly close to coming you can feel as your moans leave you more high pitched, how you push into him, chasing and chasing that feeling that's right there -

"See," he says, stopping your orgasm in it's tracks when he pulls back, a knowing smile on his face. He pushes another finger into you too, watching as your legs twitch open wider to take him, the rim of your pussy spreading across his fingers with slicked up ease. "Don't even gotta stuff your mouth, just gotta keep this thing right here stuffed and suddenly you're actin' all nice and polite."

There's a brief hope in you that he'll go for a fourth finger, stretch you out across his sore knuckles and ready you for his hard cock, but the hope fizzles away, cast to the side and forgotten, the second his mouth joins his hand back between your thighs.

You're almost there again already, the crest of the orgasm he stole from you a moment ago barely behind you. His tongue laps rhythmically, never ceasing, and his breaths come in heavy, fanning across your folds as he feasts on you, fingers pumping so deep you're sloshing around them. You're hot, so impossibly hot in spite of the cold. You want to shed more layers, bare yourself for him, but you're so close and he's getting you there fast, goading you on with each satisfied groan into your cunt.

"That's it," he mumbles into your twitching pussy. "Fuck that's it sweetheart, come on my fingers."

You can feel it build, Joel's mouth engulfing you and lapping at everything you have to give. The beginnings of your orgasm start to shudder through you, your legs stuttering with every flick of his tongue. Your back arches from the table, toes curling in thick socks as your heels press into his back, pushing him into you. And then it hits you.

The coil in your belly snaps, letting loose an orgasm that swamps all your senses. Held down by Joel's muscular arm and pinned by the fingers hooked in you, you buck into his mouth. Quivering thighs have clamped around his ears, attempting to draw up and pull back as you squirm in his firm grip. You're screaming too, you think, a breathy high pitched shout of his name that you just can't hold back, that gets shakier and shakier the longer it goes on.

And it does go on. Joel doesn't stop, determined to wring from you as much as he can. His fingers are locked inside of you, forced to stillness by the pulsing in your pussy. Still, he can flex them, curling his pruning fingertips into you while he tongues your clit, groaning with each twitch of it beneath his tongue. You know that sound, how it's gotten deeper and more desperate as he's devoured you. It's a sound that tells you he's hard, that he needs relief and will be desperate for it the second he pulls away from you. That thought only makes you come harder, and by the time your cunt has stopped its erratic pulsing around Joel's fingers and you've fallen limp, deaf, and winded against his table, he's already standing, pushing the chair back and letting it crash to the floor.

Dragging his fingers from you he pushes between your legs, pulling his jeans open as best he can, wincing when he rasps his knuckles on the fabric a little too harshly. You reach for him, wanting to help, wanting to be a relief for him like he is for you.

"Let me -"

But he knocks your hand away, tugging down his jeans a moment later, his cock springing free and knocking into your thigh before he can capture it in his fist. It's hot against you, burning and dripping, likely feeling as achey as his knuckles do.

You expect him to plunge into you immediately, to take advantage of the position between your thighs and your pussy still fluttering with want at the sight of him, but he doesn't. Instead you watch for a moment as he strokes himself, the bloody scrapes on his knuckles contrasting harshly with the smooth, solid plains of his cock.

"Your hand, Joel, I can -"

"Fuck, my hand," he growls, resting his unmarred hand on your though to hold you still.

Your legs fall open further, his touch light on your thigh barely applying any pressure to open you up for him. Still, he doesn't take the clear route in, and you're rocking forward trying to notch his tip on your entrance just as the rough scrape of his knuckles drags across your sensitive inner thigh.

"Please put it in me," you finally beg, needing to feel the deep stretch of his cock as it pierces you.

"Nuh-uh, sweetheart, you get what you're given and you be grateful. You gonna take it?"

"Yes," you say quickly, following on with a small, "Please."

He groans at your eagerness to please. Making a man like Joel desire you so much he can't help but moan, just with small words and gasps of your own, makes you feel a power you've never had before and your eyes just about roll back in your head.

"Use your hands, show me that hole," he demands, giving you a little space to reach down and spread yourself for him. Your pussy is leaking, still, you can feel the slick spread on your fingers as you spread yourself for him. "That's it, hold yourself open. Fuck she's still twitchin'. Fuuuck. That's it."

His strokes become longer, more fluid, as he stares at your aching, empty cunt. You still want him inside, would do anything to get him there, but the desire in his eyes tells you he's getting exactly what he wants right now, and you almost want that more.

Tilting his head back as he strokes his cock with pussy drenched fingers, his bruised knuckles rub against your cunt with every stroke. Holding yourself open is easy, but keeping your legs from snapping shut each time his fist rubs your clit feels almost impossible. As if noticing, Joel pulls back, looking down where your cunt is spread open for it.

"That's it, keep it open. Good girl."

You know you're glistening for him, he'd eaten you so fiercely his saliva had been dripping from you, mixing with your own slick as you came on his tongue. He can see the evidence of it now, and the evidence of what his words do to you at the tell tale twitch of your cunt at his praise.

You can't take it any more and you beg in desperation again. "Please put it in, please."

It does nothing but earn you another soft slap to your thigh, which he rubs, grabbing the meat of you and squeezing in his large hand as his cock twitches and drips in his damaged one.

"No," he grunts, breath coming in more ragged now. "Want you to fuckin' wear me. Know who's pussy this is?"

"Yours."

"Fuck," he hisses. "Yeah it is. Pussy's mine, sweetheart. Mine."

Gripping your thigh tighter he moves in closer again, his hand bumping your sensitive nub as he jerks so closely you slick up his knuckles, soothing the soreness and jerking your clit in tandem.

"Oh fuck, that's it, sweetheart. Keep it just like that, show me that pussy. Show me," he's saying, over and over as he watches you.

A second later he's looking up, staring straight into your eyes and pinning you there on the table with them. You nod, words stuck in your throat when all you want to scream is for him to come, to cover you in it, to claim your pussy just like he needs, just like you want.

The sneer on his lips tells you he wants it too, and before you know it his tip is pressing firmly to your clit, jerking it with every frantic movement of his fist, his hips thrusting minutely into it like he can't control it, can't hold it back any more. And neither can you. The pressure and the movement on your clit is too much and you're coming again, so soon after the first it brings tears to your eyes.

"Ohhh, f-Joel, pleasecomeonme."

Looking down where he's pressed to you, he hisses a breath in through his teeth, holding it for just one second until it pushes out of him with a deep, shakey moan, cum exploding out of his tip and coating your folds, dripping through you until the last spurt coats your mound and he's left breathless.

You flop onto the table, grateful for the padding your coat offers your bones as you collapse into the wood. He's leaning over you, finally releasing his grip on your thigh and running a thumb across his mouth, cock still in his aching fist. Using the oversensitive tip, he smears the cum into your bare cunt and the insides of your thighs, catching your eyes just in time to watch them turn from glassy to rattling in your head, your mouth in a small O when he jerks your clit with his head, making you both gasp.

"You did say this pussy was mine," he says, letting a small wry smile tug at his cheeks. He pulls back then, letting go of his spent cock to run his fingers through your cum covered folds, scooping up a drop with his thumb.

Leaning leaning over you, he swipes his cum slicked thumb against your lips. You suck on it, tasting him, salty and bitter and sweet and Joel exploding on your tongue all at once. You want to thank him for it, but he pulls your mouth open with his thumb and pushes two fingers in, making you clean them with broad soothing strokes. You're careful not to catch him with your teeth, still aware of the wounds on his knuckles as you taste yourself off of his cum soaked fingers. If his hand looks like that, you wonder what the person on the receiving end looks like - the thought shouldn't make your cunt twitch, you know it shouldn't, that it's likely sick and twisted and wrong, but it does, and you moan around his fingers just has he pulls them from your mouth.

When your eyes flick to his lips, he smirks, knowing what you want without even asking. Cupping your face with his bruised, wet fingers, he makes you look at him, waits for the desperation in your eyes to ramp up to the point of frustration before he gives it to you.

Just a peck, that's all he gives, soft lips and the tickle of his facial hair so fleeting you could have blinked and missed it, before picking up the chair with a groan and settling back in it with a deep sigh, inspecting his wrinkled fingers. They'd spent so long buried in you the tips are starting to pucker, the ache that your warmth had soothed slowly crawling back down his knuckles.

Your mind is slowly pulling itself together, slowly crawling back into your ears and taking root in your skull again. Joel's eyes scan across you before finding something apparently considerably more interesting on the floor by his dining table.

"Where the fuck you shoppin' this late in the day?" he says with a frown, and you sit up, following his gaze to the floor.

Your pants are in a tangle, a sprawled mess on the floor with your shoes from where Joel had dragged them from your body and there, next to them in a messy pile, is a small stack of cards that you'd brought with you.

"Oh."

Right. You came here to talk to him, to renegotiate your arrangement, before Joel had needed more from you than a chat in that first moment through the door and pushed all thought of conversation from your mind. You clear your throat and square your shoulders, pushing away the last haze of orgasm and look back up at him. "I'm not. They're for you."

With a groan, he bends to pick them up, counting them as he stands and then raising them to you with a question on his lips.

"What're these for?"

"For the pills," you say, like it's obvious, like you hadn't been using your body as payment for months.

"I've already taken my payment," he says with a look to your cum coated cunt. "'n' if you wanna pay me for your daddies pills, you know it's more than this, right?"

"I can take 'em back if you don't want 'em. I just figured we can pay a bit now and, y'know... I wanna come here because I wanna come here, for me, not just for pills all the time." It sounded better when you rehearsed it in your head this morning, but coming out of your mouth now it sounds ridiculous.

He looks at you for a moment, taking you in, sat pantsless and dripping on his dining table.

"Y'know, there's a simpler solution to this than dumpin' cards on me without warnin', right?" If there is, you haven't thought of it. "Stop only comin' by when you need pills." Oh.

"If you want somethin' else, you know where I am. Now, if you don't wanna whore yourself for meds anymore, if you wanna be respectable, then that's fine. I'll take your cards. But I ain't takin' all of 'em. I'm keepin' these," he says raising a few cards up to you. "And you're takin' these," he pushes the remaining ones into your hand along with a small bag of pills he slips out of his pocket and you frown. You already weren't offering him enough.

"Now I get a nice respectable, good girl to fuck, and you get to pretend you're not a whore. Win-win."

"I'm not a whore," you insist, rolling your eyes, even though you know it's not exactly true.

Joel simply shrugs, shaking out your jeans and throwing them on the table next to you before placing his hand by your ass, thumb stroking delicately along the soft skin there, and leaning down toward you. He tilts your head up to face him, his nose catching yours as your eyes meet his.

"Whore or not, sweetheart," he smirks. "Pussy's still mine."

You weren't going to argue with him there.

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller/reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #fic: SWAT #coveted fics

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hotchfiles · 10 months ago

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❝ [IN THIS HOUSE OF MINE] ❞ — a 'cuz you're a natural sequel ; MDNI!

pairing: aaron hotchner x rossi!reader. summary: he vowed not to make a move on you, he never promised not to reciprocate yours. content warnings: yeah this one's smutty. fingering. oral (f! receiving). unprotected p in v. foul language. age-gap if you read part one. not proof read. 18+. MDNI. word count: 1,6k. a/n: i'm not a smut writer, hotch just fucks up my brain chemistry.

It's late when Aaron gets home, you shouldn't know that because you shouldn't be there. You had made him the favor of watching over Jack while Jessica had some medical appointments. You didn't mind, Jack was a good boy and the place smelled like Hotch. He told you it was only for a few hours and as soon as she picked Jack up, you could leave.

But you didn't, you stayed, and you waited. And almost scared him to death as he noticed the front door unlocked, hand going straight for his gun, a loud sigh of relief when he noticed it was just you. "Why're you still here? It's late."

You kneed on the couch, looking at him as he put his keys and suitcase over the table. "Want me to make an excuse? Lie?" You ask, completely straightforward, the time for the little games, the hunt, the flirting... Put behind you the moment he showed you interest weeks before. You were just waiting for the right moment, and there it was, presented to you on a silver platter.

He wasn't necessarily speechless, but rather weighting his options, debating the outcomes of each of his answers. He vowed to himself to not make a move on you, to not act on it. But there you were, on his house, knees to his couch, eyes glued on him. He glances your lips for few seconds, licking his own in the process. "I don't do lies."

Now you're the one thinking about your answer, how crass should you be? Should you tell him you're there still because you want to see him? To touch him? To hear him? Or should you be a bit more daring? Show him you're not playing games...

He's still some steps away from you, you're still in control, your voice won't crack, you're breathing completely fine, so you decide to use that in your favor while you can, going for the last option, "I'm still here because I want you to fuck me."

Aaron is a bit taken aback by the weight of your choice of words, but he's still him, so he only sighs, his thumb and middle finger going to his eyes, as if he was dealing with some sort of nuisance and not a gorgeous, fun and bold young woman ready to give him everything he craves and needs so much.

His hesitance should stop you, but it makes you feel like a fucking winner. He could've denied you right away. He could've been shocked, appalled. But he was neither and that makes you get out of the couch, closing the distance between your body and his, your glance up to him was challenging, defiant almost. "Agent Hotchner, you don't do lies. Tell me you don't want this and I'll leave."

Is he more aroused by the way you call him agent or by the fact he just doesn't know if you're bluffing or not? Aaron's not sure, but he's been so starved of the sort of attention you're giving him and he's so tired he can't fight his hunger anymore, he pushes you to the nearest wall as his reply, one of his hands pulls one of your legs up, placing it around his waist, the other pulls your lips to him by your neck.

The kiss is rough, harsh, he easily dominates you with it, stealing pants from you that it usually takes men a lot more to get, but you're not about to give him all the control, you were the one to go after him after all, so you sink your teeth to his bottom lip until you feel the taste of metal and Aaron moans, breaking the kiss to throw his head back, his cock hardening against his clothes. Against you.

Not that he was expecting you to be completely submissive under his touch, but your boldness was a surprise that kept on giving, you pushed him off of you, walking slowly towards his bedroom as you took each piece of clothing you were wearing off of your body, making a trail of it he gladly followed.

By the time you both get to his bedroom, only your panties are left and you lay on his bed, offering yourself for him to take. Aaron loudly groans, his shoes and his pants following the fate of your own before hovering your body, knee between your thighs giving you the friction you so desperately need. He should ask if you're sure about this, he should remind you of the consequences this could entail. He's usually so much better than this, so much more careful, but the second your hips move trying to get more from him and the moan escapes your throat the only words that leave his are not even close to what he should, "Gonna be the death of me, dear." You're glad he still has his shirt and tie on as you pull him to you with it, leaving to him to set up the pace of the kiss.

It was messy and greedy, his tongue took turns between exploring your mouth and leaving trails of saliva in between your shoulders and your chin, his hands were not much better, from your breasts to your waist, from your waist to your thighs and back to your breasts, rubbing your nipple harshly, making you squirm under him.

It doesn't take long for him to get you out of your last piece of clothing, his shirt and tie along with it, you sigh in disappointment, he could've left the tie, but you can't dwell on it much when he makes you fold up your legs and gives your folds that first slow, torturous swipe of his tongue. Your back arches and your hips buckle as he works you up, you find the only way to keep your body steady is to tug on his hair and grip on the pillow behind your head.

He's good, oh, he's so good, you can't even praise him properly, your brain going completely numb with pleasure, your voice being able to only whine his name and ask him for more, please, and he's not denying you anything as he inserts his thumb on your already slick hole, his tongue not leaving your clit, only changing paces and movements until he noticed which one made you writhe the most, your moaning getting more high pitched as you felt that known feeling of impending orgasm forming.

Aaron replaces his thumb with his middle finger and his tongue with his thumb, wanting to be closer to you, looking deep inside your eyes as you came undone for him, he kept his pace, observing your reactions, the way your hips moved trying to close your thighs on him, how your hands gripped the sheets. A thought of something he hasn't felt in a while passes through him and he tells you to move your hand to his shoulder, to his back. "Mark me." It's a demand, and you gladly oblige, sinking your nails to his flesh, scratching him and using his skin as an anchor as you started seeing white, the fastest and hardest orgasm a man has ever given you.

He helps you ride your high down, only moving his hand away when you were overstimulated by it, he sucks on his middle finger first and then inserts his thumb in your mouth so you can do the same, "Got what you stayed for?" He teases, and your hands go straight to his boxers, pulling it down so you can touch his stiff cock, already glistening with his precum.

"Not yet, agent." Your thumb barely touches his tip and he's sighing, eyes closed and lips between his own teeth to hold himself. He wants to push your head, feel your defiant mouth around him, but he hopes for another time as he takes your hand off of him, quickly and awkwardly getting his boxers completely out of his body.

Aaron positions himself between your legs, tapping your thigh as a command so you wrap them around his waist, he pumps himself two more times and shoves his cock into you, fully, no warning, earning a gasp from your lips and more scars on his back. It takes a second for you to adjust but it's not painful, sooner than he expects you're using your legs to push him deeper, to move.

You purposefully clench around his length, wanting nothing more than to see his face contort in pleasure, the pleasure you're giving him. Even if it causes him to last less, you want him to lose it, to throw his self control out the window.

He's about to tell you that he won't last if you keep doing it, but he sees your intentions clear as day by the lust in your eyes, your lips parted observing how gorgeous he looked panting, sweating for you. It makes him pick up his pace, faster and hitting harder that spot that makes you cry out his name, touching your forehead with his as he reached for his own peak. Letting out a low lingering fuck as he did so, the way his pubes hit your clit along with his pace enough to tip you over the edge once more that night.

Normally he would offer a bath once he's out of you, his seed dripping to your thighs, but he's too tired and sleepy so he just pulls you into his arms, his face nuzzling into your neck. You don't complain, wanting to enjoy this moment of proximity, hoping it wouldn't be the last.

Aaron hopes the same.

#lari writes sometimes #aaron x reader #aaron x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds x reader #hotch x reader #hotch x you #hotch imagine #hotch scenario #aaron hotchner smut #hotch smut #aaron hotch smut

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astroboots · 1 year ago

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EVERY YOU EVERY ME: ISSUE #4

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel O'Hara saves you from falling off the Chrysler building for a second time, and he's not very happy about it.

Word count: 4,400 words.

Content: Slow burn so slow we're getting a reverse speeding ticket, Spidey-boy has a lot of emotions and really needs therapy, he also swears a lot, tiny speck of angst.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

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It's shocking how fast the ground approaches from a height of 72 stories. You always imagined it would take longer given the distance. In movies, the freefall is always captured in a hypnotizing slow motion, but real gravity is brutal and unforgiving.

This time, as you fall through the sky, you don’t see the New York concrete grow wider or nearer. All you see is the vast gap between you and the crystal blue sky rapidly pulling away from you. The buildings looming higher with every second. The blinding sun reflected in the thousands and thousands of glaring windows towering above.

You can't feel your heartbeat or the wind beating against your face. There should be panic. But at the sight of familiar inky-blue piercing through your view, an eerie calm takes over until a comforting numb spreads through your limbs.

Call it misguided naivety. No one should ever place this much trust with their life on a stranger they don't even know to come and save them.

But misguided or not, there's no fear in you this time around. You don't think about how you are plummeting down to your death. Not when you see him speeding after you. Diving head-first into the vast empty space as he closes the distance between you, hand outstretched, reaching for you.

His hand catches around your wrist in mid-air. It's a firm grip like he never means to let go. He reels you in until you're defying gravity, gliding up through the air to meet him until he can wrap his arms around you.

Everything decelerates. The reflection of the rows and rows of windows no longer flashing by. It's a gentle descent as the breeze flows pleasantly through your hair, and if you don't think too hard about how you can't control the direction of movement, you can almost believe you’re flying.

The landing is gentle. He sets you on your feet with such great care that it takes you a second to adjust to the feeling of firm concrete beneath your soles.

Once again, you find yourself standing face to face with the masked superhero who has saved your life more times than you can count on both hands.

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, head tilting upwards until your neck strains, and it strikes you that you've forgotten how tall he was. His head tips down, the dark outline of his masked eyes staring down at you, and it makes the hair on the nape of your neck prickle.

Say something.

You rack your brain, trying to remember all the questions you had meticulously written down in the notepad hidden in your desk as you planned for this very moment. But they’re missing, wiped cleanly from your mind now that he's here in front of you. Your mouth parts, trying to remember how to use your vocal cords again.

Before you find it, the blue fabric recedes until it reveals his face again. You're met with cutting eyes that glow an otherworldly crimson and the bared sharp canine teeth of a predator as he growls at you.

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

The low rumble of his words scrapes down your spine and locks you in a fight or flight response. Except you're doing neither. Fixed in place, unable to move.

One of his hands reaches up to pull at his hair in frustration, as he starts to mumble to himself. He's tugging it so hard you think he's going to yank them out by the roots.

"I can’t believe you! Me estás matando. Casi me da un ataque cardíaco–"

You blink up at him dimly, confused until you realize that he's broken into Spanish. But he's speaking too low and too fast. You can only make out about half of it.

"–No puedo más! I am dying of stress. You're impossible! I turn away for one second…”

One sentence flows directly into the next without stopping for a single breath, and you're surprised he doesn't go lightheaded from lack of oxygen with how long he goes on.

You raise your hand slightly, reminiscent of a gesture you used to pull in school when you wanted to get the teacher's attention to ask a question. But he doesn't notice. Doesn’t even throw a glance in your direction.

“... and you go Anna Karenina on me. I can't with you, I can't, I can't–"

You try to follow along, looking for an appropriate break in his rant to get a word in edgewise. But like the line of tourists lining up for the Statue of liberty, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. As rude as it is, the only thing you can think of is clearing your throat, loudly, trying to draw attention to yourself, but that's soundly ignored as well.

"Me vas a sacar canas verdes–-"

One broad hand covers his face as if he's trying to scrub away the beginnings of a migraine, and he keeps going.

Listening to him makes you feel like a child on the receiving end of a scolding by an exasperated parent. Any lingering thread of fear or intimidation gives way to irritation at this man who is so subsumed by his tirade that he doesn't even seem to be aware of your presence, not three feet away from him.

"–Siempre haces esto, una y otra y otra vez–"

You don't know exactly how long he’s been going on for by now, but you know that it's long. You could even swear the shadow by your feet has shifted to the opposite end of the patch of concrete at your feet in the time he’s been talking.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he asks, apparently finally done. He stands there, arms crossed, with a condescending set to his jaw as he looks down on you.

And god, where to even start with this man? You have enough material about his difficult and avoidant behavior to make a powerpoint presentation out of it. You should block out the boardroom for three whole hours and hold a Q&A after.

How, if he had just spoken to you after you left him not one, not two, but several requests to meet with him, then things could have ended up a lot more civilized.

How, if he hadn't been hiding from you this whole time—gaslighting you— you wouldn't have had to spend over $200 on budget DIY spy crap (in this economy!) on an utterly wasted attempt to catch him. And, to add insult to injury, you’re sure you are never going to use any of that stuff ever again!

How, if he hadn't been talking non-stop and had the self-awareness to take a second to observe others, he'd have realized that you had plenty of things to say to him, if only he had paused long enough to let you.

But somehow in the face of his expectant expression, all that comes out of your mouth is, "I don't know what you want me to say."

His face falls. There's a split second of disappointment, raw and anguished, that flitters across his face. Then it's gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turns away from you. Whatever he was expecting from you, that was obviously not it.

When he speaks again, his voice has turned calm and quiet. He almost sounds resigned.

"Yeah. I don't know either."

There's a sluggish, awkward silence that lingers on the three feet of concrete stretched between the two of you. The echo of traffic below, the cab horns and chatter swarms the space. After everything that’s happened, it all feels very anti-climatic somehow.

"Can you take me back to my apartment and we can talk? I have coffee. Cake too," you say, trying to break the silence.

"I don't drink coffee." His tone is curt, severing the olive branch you were trying to extend with a sharp snap, and your shoulders sag in defeat and disappointment. But then his face tips back in your direction and meets your eyes. The line of his mouth twitches as if he’s war with himself.

"But I'll have some cake," he concedes.

Had you known that a superhero was coming over for a visit, you'd probably have done a better job of cleaning up and making the place presentable.

You would have put away the heap of unfolded, wrinkly laundry that's piled up on your bed, granny panties in full sight. Would have washed the dirty dishes stacked up in your sink like a dangerous game of porcelain Jenga. Or at least cleared out the sad looking take out box where your half-eaten pizza is still resting in a greased up spot on the table.

Still, you're not sure how impressed he would be even if you had. Your studio apartment is a standard size for NYC, meaning in most other places it would be classified as a closet. With his height, he has to duck to make it through the threshold of your door and can barely stand upright without banging his head against the ceiling. It’s ironic that the window entrance is probably less hazardous for him.

You get him a plate of cake and set it on the table in front of him, delicately placing the dessert fork on the side.

"Sorry, I don't have any cookies for you today, just coffee cake."

The sight of him sitting hunched over your Ingatorp IKEA dining table is slightly comical. The table looks like a miniature doll set against his broad frame, and as he picks up the small dessert fork in his large hand, that only adds to the absurdity of the situation. He looks like he’s playing at having a tea party with a child’s play tea set.

You sit down across from him, watching him intently, trying to gather the nerve to ask the questions you've been dying to ask since this all started. But you're hesitant and fumbling, stumbling on your words like an idiot, "Uhm, so I wanted to ask if you– if you knew why all of this is happening to–"

"No."

You frown at his interruption. "You didn't let me finish," you protest.

He leans back against his chair, waving away your protests dismissively into the air. "I didn't need you to. The answer is no. Next question."

You bite down on your lip to stave off the curse stuck in your throat, trying to force its way out. You hold it. Stemming the tide, as you focus on the task at hand.

"Who are you?"

His head tilts to the side at your question, as his hand draws up and gestures vaguely over the spider emblem of his costume draped over his chest. "Isn't it obvious?" he snarkily responds, "I'm Spiderman"

Great, he's a rude and sassy superhero. You narrow your eyes at him

"You're not the Spiderman I know of."

He doesn't respond to that. Just glares down at the cake as he pierces it with a sharp stab of the fork, making the porcelain underneath clank. Then he scoops a large spoonful and shovels it into his mouth.

God, who eats cake so angrily?

"Why did you save–" you start, but he holds up one finger, motioning for you to pause.

He cleaves off another piece of cake and shoves it into his mouth, chewing slowly. You watch as he beats the Guinness record of slowest chewer across the table from you, before you finally get to repeat your question.

"Why do you keep saving me?"

"I'm a superhero. I save people. It's what I do."

Bright irritation pings through you at his sarcastic attitude.

This is like playing the world's shittiest game of 20 Questions, except here the whole goal of the game is to see whose sanity cracks first.

Naively, you had thought that being able to sit down with him in person would mean you could finally start getting some answers. You hadn't been expecting the need to deploy strategic maneuvers, and you pause, taking your time before you speak.

You need to pick a question he won't be able to evade. You think back at the footage of the nanny-cam, that time he carried you to bed. The worry when you weren't where he expected you to be. The over-familiarity that seeps out of his every action with you as if he already knows you and that the last thing you heard as you fell off the ledge was his voice calling out your name.

"How did you know my name?" you finally ask him.

His back stiffens at the question, jaw grinding down until the small muscle there flexes with irritation.

"I don't."

Liar.

"You called my name when I fell," you remind him.

This time instead of answering, he slides the now empty plate at you across the table.

"Can I have another slice?"

You frown. It's an obvious ploy to buy himself some time to avoid answering your question. But you can't deny his request either.

With a sigh, you push away your chair to bring the plate to the counter. You cut up an obscenely big slice so that he won't be able to use this as an excuse a second time.

Turning back around, you find that the gluttonous self-proclaimed Spiderman is pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks a little worse for wear, a pained expression etched into those tightly knitted brows.

"Are you okay?" you ask, concerned.

"No. I–" He breaks off, his broad palm gripping the back of the chair, and you notice a slight tremor in his fingers. "Something’s wrong."

He pushes the chair back, trying to get to his feet, but to your surprise, he stumbles and sways.

He seems just as surprised as you are at his newfound lack of coordination.

"What the–" He looks down on his feet with concentrated effort. Then he takes another step. It's wobblier than the one before, his knee giving way, and his arm shoots out to grip at the edge of your table for balance.

Alarm bells start to go off in your head. You don't understand what's happening, but he's definitely right, something is wrong. A man that can gracefully scale down the Chrysler building from 72 floors down shouldn't be struggling this much just to take two steps back in your living room.

"Maybe you should sit back down," you suggest, looking up at him. There’s a slight sheen of perspiration that's settled on his forehead. The beginnings of a rosy flush tinting his cheeks. "Do you have any food allergies?"

"No. I don't. No. Super metabolism kind of cuts down on that sort of–” he’s stumbling over his words, each syllable slurred on his tongue, as he shakes his head at you. “No, no allergies. No food sensitivities of any kind except...."

He glares around wildly and his eyes land on the remaining slice of cake perched on your kitchen counter.

"Did you put fucking coffee in that cake?!?!"

“"Yes?” You whip around, and look at the cake on your counter, not understanding the relevance of his question. “I mean... It's a coffee cake? I told you that!"

You push aside your growing panic as you try to remember if the EpiPen stored away in your kitchen cupboard is past its expiration.

"You didn't tell me there was coffee in it!"

Is he serious?

"I said ‘coffee cake’! What else would be in there? It's in the name," you snap.

And god, you can't believe this is what you're arguing with him about at this moment.

"Okay, yeah," he concedes testily, "but coffee cake is its own thing too! Isn’t coffee cake just… cake... that you, like... serve with coffee? It doesn't have coffee in it! Why the fuck does it have coffee in it?"

Does the man even hear himself? You're trying to figure out if you need to call an ambulance, and he is arguing with you on the technicalities of what constitutes coffee cake.

"Okay, wait, but are you dying?" you ask, trying to stay calm despite the pandemonium of panic ringing in your head.

"No! I'm just intoxitac– intocita– intoshica– I'm just fucking drunk okay!?" he spits out.

Your brain stalls at his statement. Intoxicated!? When did he have time to drink? He seemed fine just a few minutes ago, but now he's slurring and about to topple over.

"You're drunk? How–"

"Spiders get drunk on coffee," he interrupts, and the flush on his cheek deepens to a deep alarming red. If you didn't know better, you'd almost think he was blushing.

"Okay, let's sit you down." You rush over, rounding your dining table as you reach for him.

At the sight of your extended hands, his eyes widen in alarm, He steps back from you, eyeing you like you're something dangerous.

"No. No, I'm–" he takes another step backwards, flinging himself away from your touch, but loses his footing in the process. He tilts over, hand grappling for the edge of the table as he goes, but instead of the edge he manages to take the cake plate with him on the way down.

There's a clank of shattered porcelain, followed by the loud thud of his body hitting the ground.

With the large size of him in your tiny studio apartment and the breaking of porcelain left and right, this feels like the idiom of a bull running wild in a China shop, come to life.

You reach out your hand to help him get up, but he doesn't acknowledge it, anchoring his elbow to the floor for leverage, only to wobble and fall flat against his back again with an angry curse.

Why is he so goddamned stubborn?

You glance down at him, this gigantic man that is lying sprawled out on the floor with the gravitas of a turtle trapped on its back. He's so huge that he's eating up half of the floor space of your entire home. If he doesn’t get up, you won't be able to take two steps without accidentally stepping on him.

Shaking your head in disbelief at the ridiculousness of the situation, you hunch down on your knees beside him.

There's hesitation etched in those otherworldly crimson eyes as you come near. But as much as he's scowling at you, baring his fangs and trying to look scary, there isn't much he can do from the floor.

"Let me help you," you insist, "let's get you in bed until it wears off. I can't have you passed out on my floor like this."

He takes your outstretched hand, and you pull backwards, trying to bring him up with you. Between the two of you, you manage to get him on his feet again. Barely.

Whoa.

You crane your head up, up, up til you meet his eyes. Yup, the man is still huge. Must be damn near 7 feet tall and heavy, and you quickly realize there's not much you can do but try to steer so that he falls in the direction of your bed.

Somehow you manage to shepherd him in the right direction, until his knees hit the edges of your bed. He lands with a dramatic thud and you hear your bed frame groan in protest.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer you. His broad arm drapes over his eyes, blocking you out.

You sigh, turning on your heels to clean up the mess of coffee cake and broken plates off your floor.

You barely manage to finish sweeping up the floor before you hear soft snoring filling your home.

Knock-off Spiderman is sound asleep, his large shape curled up on your mattress, entirely still.

You settle yourself back at the dining table, eating the leftover coffee cake as you pull up a book on your phone and wait for him to wake.

This was not how you had imagined your first extended interaction would turn out.

Honestly, you can't make sense of any of your interactions with him. How he's constantly avoiding you, yet can't seem to stay away and routinely checks in on you.

How he acts overly familiar in one instance and excessively rude and put off by you the next.

Maybe you remind him of someone else... Maybe even an ex? It feels weird to speculate, but it would explain a lot of things. His belligerent attitude towards you. The way he looks at you with eyes full of resentment, even as he's saving you from certain death. That look in his eyes like he knows you, even though you've never met him.

It doesn't explain how he knows your name though.

From the bed, you can hear him stir, shifting against the mattress with a quiet groan muffled into your pillow. He's softly murmuring something that you can't quite make out, and then he turns in his sleep again, making a pained noise that makes worry squeeze tight in your chest.

Maybe letting him sleep it off wasn't the brightest idea you've had. You probably should've called for the ambulance as soon as he showed physical signs of distress.

You're not a biologist. You don't know how a hybrid spider-human’s physiology works.

What if he's not just drunk? Whoever heard of coffee making someone drunk! And how could it affect him so quickly? There was barely a minute between him stuffing his face and falling all over the place. Some quick, panicked googling confirms that coffee makes spiders a kind of drunk, but it doesn’t say if it’s outright toxic to them.

Oh fuck, what if he's dying!? Oh god, what if a superhero dies in your bed? How will you explain this to your landlord? Or the police! “I fed him coffee cake, and it killed him, officer.” Right, that’s going to go over like a lead balloon! It’ll probably look like you poisoned him. TMZ will be swarming the place. You'll be classified as a supervillain.

Setting down the book, you make your way over to sit on the edge of your bed. You lean over his sleeping form and peer down at him, checking for any signs of physical distress.

That red flush from earlier is still riding high on his cheeks, looking like the beginnings of a fever. You reach out your hand to rest it on his forehead to check his temperature.

Warm.

He stirs at the touch, turning his face and practically nuzzles into your palm. It’s almost endearing as he buries his sharp nose into your wrist.

You hold your breath, worried that exhaling would be loud enough to wake him as you gaze down on him. Up close like this, when he's not being rude, and stubborn and defensive, he's... quite attractive.

He has the kind of sculpted face that Hollywood dreams are made of, angular jaw and a prominent nose that makes him look regal. Not to mention those chiselled cheeks of his are a fucking marvel to look at. But more than that, curled up asleep in your bed, there’s a gentle softness to his features that hadn’t been noticeable when he was awake.

Now that he’s not frowning down at you and the line of his mouth isn’t pulled into an angry snarl, you can see that his lips are full and luscious, delicate even. His heavy brows look less intimidating now that his face has relaxed from its perpetual scowl.

He looks... soft, somehow.

There's a spark of something heated in your veins that has you feeling flushed and warm. You have to turn your eyes, shaking your head and tutting at yourself, because you’re creeping on the drunk guy passed out on your bed, and it’s not a good look on you.

The commotion makes him stir, his eyes blink softly open. He looks up at you, with half-lidded eyes, and it's different from how he's looked at you up until now. His gaze is still so…. soft.

"Nena," he says quietly.

Your cheeks warm at the warmth in his voice , and you gently pull your hand away from his forehead.

"Sorry, I was just checking if you were okay," you explain awkwardly as you start to back away from him, sliding your knee along the mattress to climb off the bed.

At your movement, he darts upright into a seated position and pulls you to him, clinging onto every inch of you as he buries his face to your side.

“Don't go,” he murmurs into your neck. His voice is trembling, and you can feel the panic radiating from him as the grip he has on you tightens until it’s bruising.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he says, keeps repeating it. You don’t know what he’s apologizing for but the guilt and sadness in his voice tugs at something deep inside your chest.

Nena, he said, and you realize that even though you're the one he's holding in this moment, he's not talking to you. He thinks you're someone else.

"Please don't leave me again. I-I can't–" he chokes out the words into the hollow of your throat where he's pressed his face tight into your skin. You can't help but notice the damp wetness that gathers there. "I'm trying, but I can't– I don't know how to do this without you."

The words are raw in his throat, and despite your confusion, your chest squeezes tight with a sympathetic ache at the man's obvious heartbreak.

You don't know what's going on here or who he thinks you are. The only thing you know is that you want to make him feel better. To make his hurt a little less painful. To make the consuming guilt you can hear in his voice a little bit smaller.

"It's okay," you say.

What the it refers to, you have no idea. But the least you can do is to give the man who has saved your life over and over, a tiny crumb of comfort.

You return his embrace, circling an arm around his shoulder, matching the tightness with which he’s holding you. Your other hand slides into his hair and he shivers at the touch, face burying deeper into your neck.

"I'll protect you,” he murmurs into your skin, “I can do better this time. Keep you safe. I promise.”

"It's okay. It’s okay. I’m already safe," you reassure him, giving him the only truth you know for sure in this moment, "You saved me."

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: as always to my collaborator on this series, who helps me brainstorm, write, edit and beta-read and everything in between and over with this series. This exists because of her, and I am so grateful to her. The hours I spend shouting into her DMs and bother her on the daily since this series infected my mind. You guys don't know what I put poor @thirstworldproblemss through.

Also to @guruan who was kind enough to read through this and steer me in the right way with the spanish, but also for giving me porn that has kept my brain buzzing for days!!!

Please follow both of these insanely lovely, kind and talented people.

Author's note: the Spanish in this chapter has been left untranslated on purpose, so that it's left ambiguous whether reader speak/understand Spanish. The idea is that if you as a reader understand it, then so does the reader, and vice versa 🥰

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #oscar isaac #spider man: across the spider verse #marvel #miguel ohara x reader #spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you

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leviackermanscleaningbuddy · 1 year ago

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SKZ DRABBLE-OT8

The one where love is a death sentence. And you've just stepped up to the chopping block. Or The Twenty Fifth Installment of the SKZ!Pack Prequel Series.

Tags: Skz, Stray kids, Stay, SKZ!Pack, SKZ!abo, Poly!skz, Pack!prequel, SKZ!Pack Prequel, OT8, Skz x you, Skz x reader, Ot8 x you, Ot8 x reader, femreader, Bang Chan, Lee Minho, Seo Changbin, Lee Felix, Han Jisung, Hwang Hyunjin, Kim Seungmin, Yang Jeongin, Y/N, Skz imagines, skz scenarios, skz reactions, skz drabble, skz fluff

Genre: Fluff

Title: Half Baked

You’ve never seen Chan this distraught.

Granted, it’s not like you’ve known him your whole life or anything, but in all the time you have known him, Chan has always been the calm one-cool, collected, rational, level headed.

This is not that.

He flings open the door before you can even raise your fist to knock-you’d decided against using the pincode and letting yourself in, considering there was a very protective alpha on the other side-and when he sees you, his shoulders slump into some sort of exhausted relief.

“Hey.” He breathes out, staring at you, fingers still gripped tightly around the lip of the omega’s door.

You arch a brow and incline your head toward the interior of the dorm. “Can I come in there without you biting my head off?”

He takes in a long, slow breath through his nose, and steps back a little from the open door with one quick jerk of a nod. “Yeah.”

You step past him, and he’s true to his word, rooted to the spot, but your wolf doesn’t miss the way his jaw ticks as you pass, the way his nostrils flare, the almost death grip of his white knuckles as they tighten on the door.

You retreat to the opposite side of the small couch for safety, and watch him warily as he closes and locks the door once more before turning to you.

He takes a small step in your direction, and you tense without really thinking about it.

Chan freezes, staring at you, and you notice the wild look to his eyes has diminished since he first saw you, but the alpha gold is present and vibrant as ever in his irises, swallowing any hint of his normal caramel.

He sighs again, and reaches up to rake an agitated hand through his messy hair.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes in a whisper, voice strangled, and your wolf keens sadly in response.

You emerge from behind the safety of the couch, moving to stand in front of him.

Surprise flashes across his haggard features, but he doesn’t move, staring at you, as you study his face.

The man is tired, so is the wolf.

You dare to reach up and run a finger beneath his jaw, swiping across his scent gland gently, and his chest caves in as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, then another.

“You don’t need to apologize.” You murmur back, watching him carefully, your fingers still playing around the oozing gland at his throat.

The smell of storm is overwhelming.

“I do though.” Chan says hoarsely, his eyes meeting yours, his bottom lip going between his teeth. “I basically kicked you and Minho out-”

Your lips quirk up into the start of a small smile. “Yeah, well Minho was being an asshole, so I don’t blame you. He kind of deserved it.”

Chan huffs out something that could’ve been a chuckle if his entire demeanor wasn’t so stiff and morose, and glances sidelong, past you to the darkness of the hallway.

“Still, I don’t think my alpha has ever reacted this strongly to an omega’s heat before. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

You place your palm flat against his gland, and he leans into your touch, as if he’s a dog seeking comfort from a familiar hand.

“I think I have an idea.”

Chan’s eyes flare with surprise, and his lips gap.

You give him the hint of another small smile. “First off, I don’t think any of us have ever dealt with someone presenting before, so that’s an unknown that we weren’t really planning for. Secondly-”

You pause, watching him carefully, gauging whether you think he’s ready to hear this.

Better now than later.

“Minho wasn’t just being an asshole, though he does that often enough that it wouldn’t surprise me if he were.” You give a little laugh, and then sober up again, staring up at Chan. “He was testing something.”

Chan’s brows disappear into his hairline. “What?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “And I told him he should never, ever be a scientist, but he kind of cemented something into place for us regardless.”

Chan is staring at you, brow furrowed, expression confused.

You take in another breath, and spit it out.

“You’re a head alpha. And not just any head alpha, you’re our head alpha.”

Chan is frozen, staring at you, expression unreadable, and you suddenly worry you’ve broken him.

“Channie-” You start to say, reaching out for his hands now, as his chest heaves with a breath.

“Oh my god.” He cuts you off, his voice little more than a shocked whisper beneath his breath. “It all fucking makes sense.”

Well, he’s taking it better than you had expected.

“Yeah.” You nod, squeezing his fingers between your own. “Sorry to drop that bomb on you right now, but I thought you needed to hear it, at least to put your mind at ease a little over your behavior.”

Chan’s gaze raises to you, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Fuck, okay, I’m going to need more details on that later, but now-”

His gaze flicks past you once more to the dark hallway, and you take in a steadying breath.

“Yeah, okay. What can I do to help?”

The alpha in front of you rakes another violent hand through his hair, and you can practically see the agitated wolf pacing beneath the surface of his twisted features.

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t-”

You reach out and palm his gland again, and when he finally looks at you once more, you give him a serious, pointed look, your alpha surging forward now, ready to hear about the newest omega-your newest omega-in the other room.

Suddenly, the scent of petrichor is being drowned out by the smell of freshly baked bread, crusted in cinnamon.

“Is Jeongin okay?”

The wild look is back in Chan’s eyes, the gold molten, as he tears away from you to pace the length of the small room, movements agitated.

“Yes? I don’t know. Everything happened so fast, but I didn’t- We didn’t-”

You stare at him, trying to figure out what he’s trying to say, your wolf growling dangerously now.

“You didn’t what-?” You pin him beneath your gaze, and Chan stops, reaching up to tug at the ends of his messy curls, expression frantic.

The smell of storm is decaying, turning into something sour and rotten.

“He’s fucking miserable, (Y/N), but I couldn’t-”

He stops again, and something clicks into place in your brain. Your irritated wolf backs down instantly, purring and chuffing in comfort to the clearly distressed alpha before you.

“Channie-” You say softly, stepping toward him, trying to send soothing signals into the space between the two of you.

Chan sighs, long and heavy, shoulders slumping once more, and stares at the floor beneath his sneakers, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

“The kid’s never taken a knot before.” He sucks in a breath and glances up at you, eyes dark and serious. “And I know he’s an omega now and that his wolf biology is built for that or whatever, but fuck, that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of hurting him.”

His chin drops back down to his chest, and his fingers clench at his sides, knuckles whitening.

You step toward him, and wrap your arms around his waist, consequences be damned.

“Baby.” You breathe, tilting your head to look up at him. “Look at me.”

He does, lips pulled into a thin, tight line, stretched with worry.

You can see the war behind his eyes, the struggle.

Because Chan is worried about Jeongin, worried that it’s his first time, that he’ll be uncomfortable, and his alpha is worried about the new omega, worried that he’s suffering, that he needed a knot yesterday.

You smooth your palms down the sides of his neck, watch the way his chest rises and falls with an inhale, the way his muscles relax slightly beneath the wave you push forward of your own scent.

“Did he ask you?” You question quietly, gaze intent on his own.

His features fall a little, and he lets out another long, shuddering breath, a muscle in his jaw flexing slightly as he grinds his teeth.

“I mean, yeah.” He admits in a murmur, his expression unsure now. “But I didn’t know if that was just a physical and emotional response to being so close to my alpha now that he’s presented, or if he actually knew what he was asking for.”

“It’s probably both.” You admit gently, his eyes flicking up to your own, and you give him what you hope is the hint of a soothing smile. “However, maybe you just need to trust your gut and go with instinct this one time. Not overthink it.”

Chan lets out a little sardonic cough, halfway to a chuckle, his eyes bitter. “Yeah, kind of a hard ask when it comes to me.”

Your mouth tugs upward, and you reach up to trace a finger down the line of his nose, smoothing away the worried wrinkles currently residing between his eyes.

“Channie.”

When he looks at you once more, you cock your head and stare him down.

“You already know, deep down, you’re not gonna hurt him. You’re going to be gentle and loving and careful and give him exactly what he needs. You and I both know you’d never do anything to endanger a member of this pack, right?”

He parts his lips, as if to respond, but all that comes out is a huff of breath, as if he’s unsure how to answer your question.

“Right?” You prod again, a little more sternly, and Chan finally nods, shoulders slumping forward in defeat.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so-” You let your hands smooth over his scent gland again, your palms sticky with the leaking pheromones, and tug your fingers up through his disheveled curls, tilting his chin to make him meet your gaze. “-go in there and help our omega.”

Something resolves in Chan’s gaze, just a little, and he gives a tiny nod, lifting his chin, his gaze flickering past you and to the hallway beyond.

“Okay.” He nods again, taking in a deep breath, chest rising and falling against your own. “Okay.” He repeats, more sure this time, glancing back down to you, a fire in the back of his eyes. “You’re right. I can do this.”

“Good boy.” You grin, laughing slightly as he rolls his eyes.

There’s the Chan you know.

Something hesitant flickers across his gaze, and he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, looking anxious. “Fuck, why am I acting like a pup that doesn’t know what he’s doing? I don’t know why I’m so fucking nervous.” “Because you love him. And I know what that’s like.” You reply back with surety, so quickly that it takes the both of you off guard.

The look of shocked surprise on Chan’s face probably mirrors your own.

Because you do love Jeongin, have known it for awhile, and you know Chan knows that, but in this moment, you’re no longer talking about the newest omega down the hall, you’re suddenly talking about-

Chan stares at you, and you wish you could bite your tongue off.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He stares.

You look away.

You clear your throat in the sudden silence, and inch back from him, straightening the hoodie he wears, if only to give your fingers something to do, your eyes somewhere else to focus.

You give him an awkward little pat on the chest before you step away completely.

“So, go get him, pretty boy.”

You can feel Chan’s gaze still on you, can feel the start of something brewing at the tip of his tongue, the tension in the air between you, but you doggedly avoid eye contact, not giving him the chance, already headed for the door.

“Text me when you’re done, yeah? I gotta get out of here, the smell of cinnamon is making my teeth ache.”

Your hand is on the knob when Chan calls, “(Y/N).”

You turn back slowly, already regretting the decision.

He gives you the hint of a smile and a little wave of his fingers.

“Thanks.” You nod, biting down on your own tongue, and leave the apartment and the smell of baked bread behind.

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

“God-”

You throw another punch, your glove landing solidly in the middle of the bag.

Thwack.

“Fucking-” Another hit, another ripple of pain through your already abused knuckles.

Thwack.

“Dammit!”

Your glove connects again, and this time you let it drop back to your side after the hit, breathing hard, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your brow, body numb.

With a low whistle, Changbin appears at your side, brow arched and expression slightly amused, taking in your exhausted stance.

“Fuck, girl, if I’d known you could go that hard, I would’ve brought you with me to the gym a lot sooner.”

You give him a sidelong glare, reaching to pull the glove off your dominant hand, before you undo the other, dropping them to the mat at your feet, before you move on to ripping the tape off of your knuckles unceremoniously.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You don’t usually take Changbin up on his offers to hit the campus gym-preferring to stick to long distance running with Yeosang instead-but tonight, you’d needed something a little more than running.

Your slip up with Chan last week-and your misstep and ensuing fight with Jeongin-had had your thoughts in knots since, your body tense, and fuck it all, you’d needed an outlet.

So rather than unfairly deck Jisung in the face when he’d poured cold water over you in the shower earlier, you’d opted for going to the gym with Changbin, and the punching bag had been just what you needed.

Changbin reaches down and picks up your discarded gloves, tossing them back into the recesses of his large gym bag, before he steps toward you and takes your hands in his, inspecting your knuckles.

They’re already bruising, darkening to blue, and a little bit of the skin is split on your dominant hand, but other than that, you haven’t fared all that bad, especially considering you’d been going at it-hard-for more than an hour now.

Changbin brushes his thumb over the split between your knuckles, and you let out a hiss between your teeth, his eyes meeting yours at the sound with another knowing arch of his dark brow.

“Minho’s gonna be proud, considering how well you fared the first time you threw a punch against him.”

You glare at him, pulling your hand from his grasp, as a slight smirk comes to his lips.

“I didn’t have a glove the first time. It was spontaneous, a rage filled necessity. Minho knew he was egging me on, I just reacted. He was being a fucking dick, and I threw a punch, knuckles and proper form be damned.”

“Right, right.” Changbin agrees with a little chuckle and a raise of his hands, ignoring your sour look in his direction, as he steps over to pick up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

His golden skin is glistening with sweat from his own workout, and if you weren’t in such a bad mood, you would’ve taken the opportunity to push him into the nearest locker room and lick it off, slowly and meticulously, but since you are in such a bad mood, you silently follow him down the stairs and out the front doors of the gym.

It’s dark outside, and chilly, the sun having set hours ago, and you keep stride with Changbin easily, as you walk through the park and cut across the main field of campus, a shortcut of sorts, that will deposit you directly outside of the alpha dorms.

As you walk, you can feel Changbin darting glances in your direction, but you ignore him, striding beside him in complete silence.

Finally, he asks, “So, are you gonna tell me what brought all that on or-?”

You violently kick a pebble off the edge of the path with the toe of your sneaker, listening to it rattle away amongst the trees in the darkness, and refuse to look at him, snarking back, “What? I can’t just enjoy a good boxing session every once and a while without some dark, sinister reason? Seems a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Changbin clicks his tongue beneath his breath, dodging your warpath, as you kick another pebble into the trees, this one dangerously close to hitting his ankle.

“I mean, yeah, you can, but you don’t.” You send another rock flying with a vehement curse under your breath.

“Fucking hell, dude, just drop it, would you?”

He pivots to walk in front of you, walking backward so he can stare at you, his brow furrowed into the start of a dangerous scowl, eyes dark and flashing with warning.

“Fucking talk to me like that again, dude, and I’ll drop you.”

You don’t back down an inch, glaring right back at him and walking quicker, closing the distance between the two of you.

“Try it, I dare you. I just spent an hour improving my aim and force, and I’m dying to actually apply it in real life.”

He holds your glare for another moment, a muscle ticking with annoyance in his strong jaw, and then he sighs with exasperation, stopping in front of you so you have to stop too, lest you run smack dab into his broad chest.

Actually, that probably wouldn’t be so bad.

He stares at you, his hands going to his hips, like he’s a mother-or Minho-getting ready to tell you off, and then he blows out another breath past his teeth, his shoulders slumping, as he admits with softened irritation, “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

You feel the muscles in your body relax, if only just a bit, and your glare softens minutely at his obviously candid words.

“So I’ve been told.”

He glances up at the dark sky over your heads, the moon rising over the stark branches of the trees, and then back to you, before he says, “You know your scent has been whacked out all week right? Ever since Jeongin’s presentation.”

Your shoulders tense, but you start to accept defeat under his scrutiny, letting out a long sigh of your own in response.

“I know.” You finally acquiesce, voice slightly bitter, your words dropping off, as you glance back down at the ground, scuffing your sneaker along the sidewalk, wishing for another rock.

Changbin steps closer, you see his converse kiss the toes of your own, and then his fingers find your chin, tilting your gaze back to meet his own, eyes dark and gentle.

“Talk to me, baby.”

You blow out another harsh breath. “I think-” You start, before stuttering off again, a sudden lump in your throat.

You nip your bottom lip between your teeth and will yourself not to cry.

Changbin reaches out, freeing the skin from your grip, before he thumbs your lip softly, tracing the skin with his touch.

“You think-?” He pushes gently, eyes locked on your own, expression intent.

You swallow thickly, and glance up at the sky above you, counting stars silently to keep your emotions in check.

Fuck it, you might as well just tell him.

“I think I told Chan something, inadvertently, that maybe fucked up our relationship forever.” You give a sardonic little laugh, one that lacks all humor, and shrug helplessly. “You know me and my big mouth. And then, of course, the whole thing with Jeongin-” You sigh. “Ive fucked up-probably irrevocably-two of my most important relationships in the last week.”

Changbin’s gaze narrows in on you, and you can see him processing, going over things in his mind, reviewing the week back, looking for clues.

“Have you talked to Chan about it?” He asks you finally, and you’re glad he hasn’t asked you what it was that you said.

You don’t think you could repeat it again.

‘Love. I know what that feels like.’

“I’ve been avoiding him.” You admit quietly, your gut churning into knots at just the thought of seeing Chan, at having to talk to him about what you’d admitted.

Changbin takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing carefully over the sore, swollen skin of your knuckles, and when he speaks, his voice is gentle, but firm, “That’s the first step then. And we all need to make reparations with Jeongin. But I think you know all that already.”

You swallow, before you nod reluctantly.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

He gives you the hint of a soft smile, and pulls you with him as he begins walking again, hand still firmly in his own.

“C’mon. Let’s go home. Minho-hyung’s gonna wanna look at those knuckles.”

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

You: Hey. Innie: Hey. You: Can we talk? Innie: Yeah……cafe @ 12? You: I’ll be there.

You’re not sure what to expect when Jeongin slides into the booth opposite you, dropping his backpack with a thud and turning to you expectantly, albeit a little shyly.

God, he’s pretty.

His fiery red hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap today, a thick, wool cardigan hanging off his shoulders, a woven bracelet you vaguely remember Jisung making tied around his small wrist. His nails are painted a dark navy, matching the mood of the oncoming winter outside.

The scent of warm bread fills your nose as he leans toward you slightly, and your jaw aches in response, saliva pooling beneath your tongue.

“Hi.” He says without preamble, large dark eyes on your own.

You swallow and take in a deep breath through your mouth.

“Hey.”

It sounds lame, flat, a placeholder for what you should be actually saying.

You take in another breath and jump in without preamble.

“Look, Jeongin, I am so fucking sorry-”

His lips quirk slightly, catching you off guard, and he sits back, looking more relaxed now.

“Yeah, I know, noona.”

Your words die in your throat, and you stare at him, openly shocked.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you a grin now, white teeth flashing. “Chan-hyung told me all about it. You know, after-” His words stumble to a halt, and his cheeks flush a deep red.

Fucking adorable.

You clear your throat. “Okay, well, I just need you to know though, that you’ve always been a part of this pack, from the moment we met you, but we just couldn’t figure out how to be around you when you weren’t-”

“Presented.” Jeongin finishes for you easily, his brow quirking upward. “Yeah, noona, I get it now. It’s okay.”

Your body relaxes slightly, and you let out the breath you’ve been holding, sinking back into the booth behind you.

“Yeah?” “Yeah.” Jeongin nods back resolutely, his expression open and understanding. “It hurt, before, because I didn’t get it, but now, I do.” His dark eyes flash with affection. “You guys were just trying to protect me. I see that now. Seriously.”

Your alpha hums contentedly in your chest in response.

“Fuck.” Your shoulders slump with relief. “We went about it really stupidly, Innie, but I swear we were.”

He gives you a half smile, his lips curling up, and a wave of spiced cinnamon has your gut clenching with need.

“It’s okay, noona. Really.”

Might as well continue with the honesty, right?

“Innie-” You let the words die on your tongue as his eyes meet yours, large, and dark, and completely vulnerable. You swallow and ask, like a coward, instead, “-are you feeling okay? You know, after everything?”

His cheeks flush a subtle pink again, and he looks away, tapping his fingers on the table between you in an awkward sort of stiletto.

“Yeah-” He gives a half little shrug, and you see his throat bob with a swallow. “-I mean, I guess? I don’t really know how I’m supposed to be feeling right now. I’ve never done this before.” You reach out, stilling his fingers by placing your palm over his hand, and when he finally looks at you once more, you give him a soft, comforting smile, squeezing his hand in your own.

His skin is warm, soft and familiar beneath your hold.

“It’s okay, Innie. We’ve all been there. It’s overwhelming at first.”

“That’s an understatement.” He gives a little snort, rolling his eyes. “I swear to god I’ve never been this aware of how people smell in my entire life.”

With a jolt, you realize that you’re probably being really overwhelming right now, this close to him, touching him, your alpha pheromones oozing from every pore in an attempt to soothe the agitated omega before you.

“Oh, shit, I didn’t even think-” You start, pulling your hand from his grasp, but his fingers clench down on your own, his brow furrowing instantly.

“No, not you!” He blurts out, almost in a panic, and you freeze. He clears his throat, blushing again, and then repeats quietly, “Not you, noona.I like how you smell. I like how everyone in the pack smells.”

Your body relaxes once more, and you give him the hint of a smile as you reposition your hand over his.

“Oh, okay. That’s good. Great, even.”

“It is?” Jeongin questions curiously, before he lifts an arm, taking a sniff of his sweater, his large eyes flashing back up to your own, alight with innocence. “Do I smell good to you guys then too?”

As if his body reacts to his own question, you catch a fresh wave of cinnamon and yeast, heady and strong, and your fingers tighten around his own on instinct, your jaw suddenly clenched, aching and expectant.

You breathe out slowly through your nose, and relax your fingers one by one.

“Yeah-” You get out through gritted teeth. “-you could say that.”

Your alpha is begging you to pounce on the omega in front of you-all too big eyes and small frame, wrapped up prettily in an oversized sweater-but you force down the instinct, breathing out slowly instead, counting to ten silently in your head as Jeongin watches you expectantly.

“Noona?” He asks, a little hesitantly, and you’d bet that his omega is doing something weird, maybe alarming, in response to your obvious reaction.

“Sorry.” You shake your head to clear your thoughts, and give him a strained smile, clearing your throat. “Yeah, you smell really good to us too, Innie. It’s a pack thing, a biology thing. Especially between alphas and omegas. Nature wants us to find each other enticing, so omega scents are specifically designed to appeal to alphas and vice versa.”

“Oh.” He simply replies, looking thoughtful now, as if he’s digesting what you’ve told him.

“Anyway-” You glance at the clock on the wall behind his head, noting the time and how long you’ve both been sitting at the booth now. “-I have a lab I need to get to, but it’s on the way to the omega dorms if you’re done for the day and wanna walk with me?”

Jeongin’s eyes light up and he grins, nodding rapidly, as he reaches for his backpack and scoots out of the booth.

“I’d like that.”

You follow him out of the small, warm cafe, the winter air nipping at your nose as you step outside, slinging your own bag over your shoulder, your hands going into the pockets of your coat for warmth.

Jeongin pulls a scarf from his bag and tucks it around his neck with difficulty, the brisk wind whipping at the knitted fabric.

Without a thought, you step forward and bat his hands away teasingly, wrapping the scarf securely around his throat a few times, before you tuck the loose ends down into the heavy fabric of his cardigan.

“There.” You say firmly, finishing and looking down at him, making sure he’s completely covered. “Better?”

Jeongin stares up at you, wide, dark eyes lined with incredibly long lashes, the end of his pert nose already turning red from the cold, face tucked into the folds of the scarf.

“Yeah.” He breathes out, still staring up at you, his breath clouding in the cold air, and not for the first time, you have the fleeting thought that Jeongin looks good enough to eat.

Bread bakes between the two of you without warning, and you clear your throat, telling yourself to step back, but you can’t physically make your feet move, fingers still clenched on the soft fabric of Jeongin’s scarf.

“Fuck, don’t look at me like that.” You choke out, not able to stop yourself, glancing around to see if anyone has noticed the two of you, frozen on the sidewalk in front of the campus cafe.

No one is around.

You don’t know if that’s incredibly fortunate, or incredibly dangerous.

“Noona?” He questions softly, and your eyes flick back to his own.

“Yeah?”

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and chews it, staring up at you, and everything inside of you is begging you to free the delicate, plump, pink skin.

His cheeks are red, and you don’t know if it’s from the proximity, or from the frigid air.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hold your breath. “Of course.”

He glances away, suddenly looking nervous. “Do you-” He takes in a shaky breath, and bravely meets your gaze once more. “-I mean, would you-?”

You know what he’s asking, even without the words.

Taking a step closer to him, your shoes butting against his own, you put a finger beneath his chin and angle his gaze upward, and you’re so close now, your lips are almost brushing, the warmth of Jeongin’s breath fanning across your tongue.

You can almost taste the bread.

“Yes, little pup. I would.” You murmur, words husky, voice dropping into a touch of alpha timber in response to his body against your own, his omega practically begging for your alpha just beneath the surface of his gaze.

He sucks in a sharp breath as you let your thumb brush across the seam of his lips.

“However, if I kiss you now, baby boy, I don’t think I’d be able to stop anytime soon.”

His body shivers, and you can tell it’s not from the cold, and fuck, you really want to skip your lab, but-

You thumb his bottom lip once more, letting the skin drag beneath your touch, before you pull back.

“And I want to take my fucking time, so-” You tug his collar and scarf up around his throat once more, bundling him for the walk back to the dorms.

His eyes are hazed, pupils dark and blown, as you give him a little smirk.

“-later, hm, pup?”

He nods eagerly, and your alpha chuffs approvingly in response.

“Good boy. Now c’mon, let’s get you out of this cold.”

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

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know.”

Jisung tosses another handful of popcorn into his mouth beside you on the couch, eyes trained on the TV where a badly made action movie is currently playing.

You don’t look at him as you query back innocently, “Who?”

He snorts, stuffing more popcorn into his already puffed cheeks.

“Chan-hyung.”

“I’m not avoiding him.” You reply back a little too quickly, clearly a lie, your eyes stilling on the page you’ve been doggedly reading for the last half an hour.

Jisung snorts again. “Yeah, okay, and I’m not fucking Minho-hyung.”

“Ew.” You shove his shoulder, and he totters, steadying the popcorn bowl at the last moment so it doesn’t dump its contents all over said hyung’s couch.

He gives you a glare, throwing a popcorn kernel at your head, and missing by a margin.

“Well, it’s true! I’m just saying, noona-” His words become muffled as he shoves another handful of popcorn into his waiting mouth, glancing at the movie once more. “-ever’one knows you’re being weird all the sudd’n.”

“Yeah, okay, well-” You shut your book a little bit harder than necessary, tossing it aside as you stand. “-when I want advice from you, Han Jisung, I’ll ask for it.” You lean over him obnoxiously, blocking his view of the TV, as you take a large handful of his popcorn and shove it into your mouth, chewing loudly as you stare him down.

“Hey!” He protests, jerking the popcorn out of your reach violently, as you straighten and give him one last pointed look, gathering up your homework.

“I’m only trying to help!” He calls out as you turn to leave the living room, flipping him off over your shoulder without looking back. “Just looking out for you, noona!”

He goes up on his knees on the couch, cupping his hands around his mouth, as if it’ll make him louder, and you can’t hear him just beyond the doorway.

“Considering, you know, that he’s here right now and all!”

His words don’t register for a moment, and when they do, it’s already too late, considering you’ve just rounded the corner into Minho’s kitchen and caught sight of both he and Chan sitting, deep in conversation, at the small table.

You come to a dead stop, your stomach instantly dropping out of your shoes, and they both look up at your entrance, Minho arching a brow at what you’re sure is clear, unfiltered panic crossing your face.

His lips curve into the hint of a knowing smirk.

“Ah, sweetheart. We were just talking about you.”

Shit.

517 notes · View notes

cosmicdahlias · 16 days ago

Text

Here For You

MINORS DNI

Your stalker ex has been relentless as of late. You found a threatening note on your car and no longer feel safe at your place. Your research partner offers to let you stay with him and the two of you grow incredibly close.

warnings: abuse, stalking, HUGE age gap (reader is in their 20’s), premature ejaculation, oral, p in v, creampie, knives, blood, suicide mention, unplanned pregnancy, birth

holy shiiiit this one is long for me, over 7k!!! i included my cat in this fic, beans! he’s my darling little man who I love very much!!! his name comes from his paw pads looking like little coffee beans. obvious juno reference at the end is obvious, love that movie to death.

You awoke to sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds of your apartment window. You stretched and rolled out of bed, making your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth and shower. You dried yourself off and returned the bedroom, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans from your dresser and putting them on.

As you bent over to put on your shoes, your siamese cat, Beans, weaved his way in between your legs. You reached out to scratch behind his ears and he leaned into your hand in approval. You grabbed your keys and locked the door behind you, heading down the steps to your car. A note lay on the windshield.

Expecting it to be some sort of scam, not unlike the ones your research partner’s brother was famous for, you picked it up to inspect it. As you read, you recognized the handwriting and felt all of the color drain from your face. This was anything but someone looking to make a quick buck.

“Y/n

You can’t shut me out of your life forever. Just because you keep calling the cops doesn’t mean I’m giving up. WE HAD SOMETHING! Try calling them again and see what happens, I don’t care. Nothing is gonna come between us and if I find out you’re fucking anyone else I’ll make sure no one can ever have you again.”

This unfortunately had become the norm for you, your ex boyfriend had been relentless in pursuing you. This note however was aggressive, even for him. You had called the police so many times that you’d lost count. Due to his father being a lawyer, an incredibly good one at that, he always seemed to beat the charges. At this point you didn’t even bother with getting the law involved, you knew he would always come out on top.

You had met him in the year your research partner, Stanford Pines, was off at sea with his brother. You broke up with your ex a week before they returned, so at the very least he didn’t know where you worked. Despite being a kitschy tourist trap, the Mystery Shack was one of the only places you felt safe. You stuffed the threatening note in your pocket. If something happened, you might as well have the evidence to incriminate him.

You got in your car and turned your keys, making your way to work on the outskirts of town. The entire drive you struggled to fight back tears. As you pulled up to the shack you felt yourself begin to spiral. You slammed the car door, sat down on the couch on the front porch and sobbed. You were so exhausted and terrified. You seriously didn’t know how much more of this you could take. You began to shake when you heard the front door open and you quickly attempted to wipe away your tears.

“There you are, y/n. I was worried when you weren’t in the lab at your usual time. It’s incredibly unlike you to not be punctua- oh dear, is everything alright?” Ford said with great worry.

“I- I’m fine, it’s nothing.” You said, trying to hide a sniffle and failing.

He sat next to you on the couch.

“If it were nothing you wouldn’t be crying like this. Now tell me, what’s wrong?”

“It’s- it’s just… my ex again. I found this on my car this morning.”

You handed him the note and watched as his eyes scanned the words. His face fell, expression serious.

“Y/n this is horrible, you need to go to the poli-“

“You know nothing ever comes of it! His fucking lawyer dad gets him out of it every time!” You said, beginning to sob again.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. I know firsthand what it’s like to have someone you once loved turn against you, threaten to hurt you for breaking things off. I promise I’m here for you.” He said, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“I- I don’t know what I’m going to do. He knows where I live and I can’t just move out, I don’t have the funds for that. What if he decides to do something? What if he hurts me or, god forbid, Beans?”

He took his chin in his hand, thinking. You could tell he was trying to come up with a solution. If there was one thing you knew about Ford it was that he was a fixer.

“How about this? You can stay here for a while. He never got to know that you work here, right? Tonight after we finish up in the lab we can head to your place and I’ll help you pack the essentials.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had secretly harbored a crush on Ford for quite some time, since the day you first met. So the idea of living with him, possibly growing closer, seemed like an incredibly shiny silver lining.

“That sounds grea- wait, what about Beans?“

“Of course he can come with you! I’ll have a word with Stanley if he tries to give you grief over it, but I’m certain once I fill him in tonight on the situation he’ll understand.”

That night you drove with Ford to your apartment. Thankfully your ex was nowhere in sight. You led him up the stairs and unlocked the door, as you swung it open Beans greeted you with a long, loud meow. Ford smiled.

“Ah, so this is the little scoundrel I’ve heard so much about.”

Beans circled his legs and rubbed his head against them. Normally when men came over he acted incredibly aloof, so to see him be so affectionate, especially a man he’d never met, did something to your heart. You already felt safe with Ford beforehand, but now even more so.

“Alright, let’s get started!” Ford said, rolling up his sleeves.

You finished loading the last of your things into the trunk of your car. Beans sat in his carrier in the backseat.

“Are you sure you have everything?” Ford asked.

“Positive.”

“Good, let’s head back.”

You made the drive to the shack along winding, pine tree flanked roads. When you arrived Stan was waiting on the front porch. He and Ford helped move your stuff into the room their niece and nephew shared when they came to visit.

You let Beans out of his carrier, he laced himself between Stan’s legs and any possible hangups you might’ve had about staying in a house with two old men quickly vanished.

“Heh, you know I used to have a cat once, Freeloader. Found her digging around in my trash.” Stan chuckled.

“Alright, Stanley, let’s give them a chance to settle in.” Ford said.

They turned to leave the room.

“Give us a holler if you need anything, kid.” Stan said as Ford shut the door behind them.

You flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Beans hopped onto you, sitting in a loaf on your chest. You gave him his favorite thing, a scritch behind the ear and he purred happily. Between the gentle rumble of your cat and finally being able to relax in a place that felt safe, you began to drift off. You awoke an hour later to a knock.

“Y/n?” Ford’s voice called from behind the door.

You made a motion to get up, Beans leapt down and you crossed the room to open the door.

“What’s up?”

“So, there’s a documentary about Yellowstone that’s going to start in a few minutes. I know it’s something that would be interesting to you and I figured it might be a good distraction from the unpleasantries of this morning. Just a suggestion though.”

He fidgeted with his hands and looked at the floor… was he blushing? You smiled, taking him up on the offer.

“Sounds good.”

He smiled back. “Perfect.”

You both descended the stairs to the living room, Beans trotting behind you. Ford gestured to the recliner.

“I figure you deserve the better seat.”

“A gentleman as always, Ford.” You said, sitting down.

He pulled a chair from the nearby table and sat next to you. Beans jumped into your lap and curled up. You leaned back into the chair as the documentary opened with a scene of wolves hunting in the wintertime.

As time passed your mind began to wander to memories of past relationships. Sadly, men like your ex were a pattern in your life, you always seemed to attract the worst of the worst. You wanted so badly to just have a happy and healthy relationship like all of your friends. Yet no matter how hard you tried to find a decent one, they always turned out to be awful. Tears started to fall as these thoughts ran through you. Ford could see it out of the corner of his eye. He turned to you, face full of concern.

“Y/n? What’s the matter?”

“No, it’s stupid.” You sniffled.

“Whatever it is, if it’s making you feel this way, then it’s not stupid.”

You took a breath, looking down. “I just… I feel like no matter what I do I bring horrible men into my life. I try and try so hard to make sure I find one that’ll treat me right, but just as I start to feel safe they betray me in one way or another. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. It feels like I’m cursed. Maybe I just don’t deserve any of the good ones.”

He took your cheek in his hand, wiping away your tears with his thumb and turning your head to face him.

“Hey, look at me. Don’t ever think that you’re not worthy of a good man’s time. You’re incredibly brilliant, creative, and compassionate. You have a fantastic sense of humor and your beauty is breathtaking.”

You turned bright red.

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Absolutely, without question. Were I a younger man I would’ve-“

You leaned in and cut him off with a kiss, he pulled back.

“Wh- what are you doing?”

“Ford… I like you, so much. I think I always have.”

“I- I have too, but… I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. You’ve been through so much lately, I feel like I’d be giving you whiplash.”

You set Beans down on the floor, standing and moving to straddle Ford’s lap. You felt him grow instantly hard against you. He stared at you, eyes filled with a primal need. He was doing everything he could to hold himself back, keeping his hands at his sides.

“I want this, Ford.”

“N- no you’re so much younger than me, I feel like I would be taking advantage of you. You don’t want an old man like me.”

You laced your fingers in his hair, kissing him far more passionately than before. He didn’t pull back this time.

You whispered into his ear. “But I do though. I really, really do.”

He let his hands travel to your back, bringing you closer. He pressed his lips to yours and moaned softly into your mouth, then broke away to pepper kisses into your neck.

“Oh, Ford.” You moaned.

He returned his lips to you and began testing the waters with his tongue when he heard a loud clearing of the throat. Both of you turned your heads to see Stan in the doorway.

“Look uhhh, I’m happy for you two and all, but… c’mon get a room.”

Ford huffed. “Stanley, there is such a thing as looking the other way.”

“Hey! I live in this house too!” Stan retorted, crossing his arms.

Ford shot him a look that said “I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Fine, fine. Just try not to make a mess on the furniture.” Stan grumbled, waving a hand and turning to leave.

Ford waited until Stan was out of sight before picking you up underneath your thighs and moving to sit in the recliner with you in his lap.

“Now, where were we?” He purred.

He kissed you deeply and you slipped your hands down to the hem of your shirt, beginning to lift it up. Ford put his hands to yours.

“No, not now.” Ford said between kisses.

“But… don’t you want this?”

“More than anything, just not tonight. Making love with you is something I want to work up to.”

“You’d be the first man in my life to do so.”

“Well, no offense, but I think I can do far better than the brutes who dared to think they were worthy of your affection. Someone like you deserves respect.”

You kissed him again, grinding against the bulge in his pants. He buried his head into your neck and whimpered.

“Oh god- ah- it- it’s been over 30 years since I’ve been with someone. Even just feeling you against me is almost t- too much. Hhhnh.”

You leaned down and bit his neck, this was apparently more than what poor old touch starved Ford could take. He cocked his head back, giving an exceedingly loud moan and bucking his hips as he came.

“Ford… did you-“

He turned beet red, putting a hand to his forehead.

“In the name of- I’m so sorry. Like I said it’s been so long and you’re incredibly gorgeous, I couldn’t help it.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, I’m kind of flattered that I could work you up this much.”

He kissed you and stood, lifting you up and setting you on the recliner.

“Well… I need to take care of this. I’ll be right back.”

A week and a half had gone by with you and Ford growing incredibly close. On this particular early spring afternoon Ford led you on a hike to one of his favorite spots, a meadow that lay at the base of the mountains. The sun hung low in the sky, turning it a mix of orange and pink. Ford pulled out a blanket from his rucksack, unfurling it and setting it in the tall grass. He sat and patted the spot next to him and you sat next to him as he pulled out a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Ford Pines, look at you being a romantic.”

“I spent 30 years away from all possible comforts of another human being. It gave me a lot of time to think about how I would treat my love should I ever have the chance again.”

You put a hand to his cheek and kissed him.

“I’m glad to be yours.”

He uncorked the bottle and poured it into both glasses, handing one to you. You clinked them and as his eyes met yours you couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked in the light of the golden hour.

After you finished your glasses, Ford moved in closer, kissing you passionately, the sweet taste of wine on his breath. His hands wandered up and down your body. You had become very familiar with his touch in the short time of living with him, but this time the way he moved his hands on you felt different, a strong feeling of desire.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you wanted to do more than just drink wine.” You said.

“Why do you think I brought you out here? With Stanley in the house we’d have to be quiet. But here?” He said between kisses. “Here you can be as loud as you want. That and I’ve always wanted to make love in the beauty of nature.”

“Stanford Pines, how dare you have an ulterior motive!” You said, playfully swatting him on the back of the head.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ve been planning this for days, since that first night we shared. I wanted things to be perfect for our first time.”

“You? Having meticulously thought out plans? Never would’ve guessed.” You teased.

Ford’s hands wandered south and began to tug up at your shirt.

“Is this okay?”

You nodded.

“Good girl.”

You turned bright red and Ford gave a devilish smile.

“Oh? Do you like that?”

“I may or may not have a praise kink.”

“Duly noted.”

He lifted your shirt over your head and wrapped his arms around your back to unhook your bra. He slid the straps off your shoulders and stared longingly at your chest.

“Dear moses, your breasts are incredible.”

He took one in his hand, stroking your nipple with his thumb. You moaned softly at his touch.

“Does it feel that good?” He asked.

“No it’s not that, I’ve just wanted your hands on me like this for so long. You don’t know the things I’ve imagined about you since we met.”

He kissed you deeply.

“I think you’ll be pleased to know our fantasies aligned. Not long after we met I would spend my nights stroking myself to the thought of you. God, there were times you’d be down in the lab and you would unintentionally brush up against me. I’d grow hard instantly and have to head upstairs to my room to take care of it.”

“So that explains why you’d come back down all breathless and red-faced.”

He chuckled. “And I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it.”

Ford returned to undressing you, sliding your shorts down your legs. He traced the delicate lace of your panties with his fingers. He hooked his thumbs underneath them and slowly pulled them off you. He looked down, you were dripping.

“So wet for me already, dear god you’re perfect.”

Ford lowered himself down your body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. He reached your pussy, his warm breath felt incredibly good. He locked his lips around your clit, licking it, somewhat ineptly, with the tip of his tongue.

“You taste so good, far sweeter than semen.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his choice of words. He stopped, looking up at you.

“W- what? What did I say?”

“Just you and your need to use scientifically accurate terms.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“Would you prefer I used ‘cum’?”

“Well quite frankly if you say ‘I’m going to ejaculate’ later I think I might never fuck you again.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough, princess.”

He returned his tongue clumsily to your clit for a moment before pausing again.

“Am I doing okay?”

“I mean… to be blunt it seems like you don’t have much experience with this.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. This is all new to me. It’s embarrassing to admit at my age, but you’re the first person with female anatomy I’ve ever had sex with. So quite frankly I have little idea of- mmf!”

You silenced him by gripping is hair and shoving his mouth to your clit.

“You’ll find it’s pretty intuitive. Just treat it like the head of your cock.”

He heeded your advice, sucking and swirling his tongue around your clit sloppily, you shuddered in pleasure. If the first thing you knew about Ford was that he’s a fixer, the second was that he’s a fast learner. He growled against your clit and you whimpered loudly, tightening your grip on his hair.

“Did that feel good, love?”

“Dear god, t- the vibrations.”

He sucked furiously, rolling his tongue against you. You arched your back. The pleasure started to feel overwhelming, you weren’t going to last much longer. You started to buck your hips against his mouth.

“Good girl, cum for me.”

His words of praise completely undid you, cumming all over his face with a loud moan. He didn’t stop, coaxing a second orgasm from you, then a third. You shook, completely overstimulated.

“Oh jesus, F- Ford.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve read the female orgasm can happen in multiples and I couldn’t resist testing it for myself.”

You giggled. “I’d expect no less from a man of science.”

Ford stood and removed his trench coat and sweater. Scars covered his body, you assumed from a mix of Bill’s abuse and years of trying to survive in different dimensions. Somehow his scars made him hotter. Ford noticed your eyes wandering back and forth along his scarred torso.

“Sorry, I know it’s not the most appealing to look at with all of the damag-“

“No, no! I like it actually.” You interrupted.

He blushed.

“Y- you do?”

“It makes you look tougher.” You purred.

“God, you know just how to make this old man feel attractive.” He said, returning to taking off his clothes.

He undid his belt and slid his pants down his legs. His cock strained in his boxers, from the outline alone you could see he was huge. He slipped his thumbs into his boxers and pulled them off. You couldn’t help staring at his cock, you bit your lip. Ford sat and pulled you onto his lap, kissing you. You could taste yourself on him. He laid back on the blanket.

“Ready? I know I can be kind of big for some, so take it slow. I don’t want you hurting yourself.” He said softly.

You nodded and lowered yourself slowly on his cock, letting your pussy adjust to being stretched by his intimidating girth until you reached the hilt.

“Oh dear god, I’ve n- never felt anything like this. You feel incredible, stardust. So warm and- nnnnh- wet.”

“Did you just call me stardust?”

“Do you not like it?”

You leaned down and kissed him.

“No, I love it.”

You began to move yourself on him, lifting and dropping your hips.

“A- ah yes, that’s it, good girl. You feel so perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Ford let his hand travel between your thighs, stroking your clit with his thumb.

“How does that feel? Good?” He asked.

“U- uh huh.” You whimpered.

You rested your hands on his chest, moving in a motion to slide Ford’s cock fully in and out of you. He tilted his head back.

“G- god, you don’t know how long I dreamed of this, of you.” He whimpered.

“As have I, and… I have a confession to make. I used to touch myself while thinking of you too, I did it the that night after we met. And I- oh god, this is so embarrassing- I ah, stole one of your sweaters once. I’ve always loved your scent and I would make myself cum while taking it in.”

He chuckled. “So that’s where that went, but it’s good to know I wasn’t the only one unable to resist the urge of touching oneself to the sole thought of their research partner. You drove me absolutely wild, you still do.”

You started to move faster, your breathing becoming shallow. Ford could sense you were close, so was he.

“M- may I cum in you? Will you cum with me?“

“Please.” You said through shaky breaths.

He tightened his grip on your hip and began to buck into you while increasing the speed to your clit. You felt the pressure within you build, you were right on the edge. You cocked your head back.

“Oh god, I’m gonna- hhnnn.”

He reached up to cup your chin and tilted your face down to look at him.

“Look into my eyes. I want to see your eyes when you cum.”

You looked down at him at the exact moment you felt your body ignite in pleasure. The feeling of your pussy spasming around Ford’s cock immediately sent him over. He released your clit, both hands holding firm on your hips as he slammed you down on the full length of his cock, shooting every single drop of cum inside you. The warmth flooded your insides.

“Oh god, y/n!” He moaned.

His hips slowed, the only sound either of you made was heavy panting as your pleasure subsided. Ford pulled you down into a kiss. You got off of him and laid with your head against his chest. You both lay in silence until you remembered something he had said minutes ago.

“Ford, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, anything.”

“You said I’m your first person with female anatomy. So… who was your actual first?”

Ford smiled, you could tell the question had brought back memories.

“It was so long ago. He was my old college roommate, then years later became my research partner. It seems I have a habit of developing feelings for my coworkers.” He chuckled.

“Wait, McGucket?”

He laughed. “Yes, you wouldn’t know it now, but back then Fidds was quite the catch. I’ll have to show you a picture sometime. We experimented heavily during college, neither of us willing to admit that we wanted something more. Then, after he came to work with me on the portal, we were mature enough to confess our feelings to each other. It was perfect, just the two of us, but then I-“

He let his words fade, looking off into afternoon sky. His eyes seemed wistful.

“I don’t know… between how I treated him at the end, most likely being the straw that broke the camel’s back in his marriage, and sending him down a spiral that would destroy his sanity… I still harbor a lot of guilt. Bill was using me, but I used Fiddleford too. I know he and Emma-May had been on the rocks for quite a while, yet I still feel responsible. After Weirdmageddon we rekindled our friendship and I apologized for ruining his life, but I live with knowing I can never undo the damage I caused.”

He turned his gaze to you, taking your cheek in his hand.

“Y/n, I never want to hurt you like I hurt him. I want to be a better man, a better partner than I ever was for him.”

You kissed him.

“Ford, I trust you. I can sense the effort, and that’s all I could ask for.”

He kissed you back.

“What did I ever do to deserve someone as perfect as you?”

Two weeks had passed. You were once again spending a late evening with Ford in the lab. He set down his pen and stood from his chair, coming behind you and putting his hands on your waist. He kissed your neck.

“So I was thinking we could call it early tonight. There’s supposed to be a meteor shower. How about you and I hike to the nearby hill where we’ll have a good view of the event?”

You turned to face him and smiled.

“Sounds perfect, Ford.”

“Fantastic. You can head outside and wait for me, I just need to speak with Stanley about something first.”

“See you shortly, then.” You said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

You made your way up the stairs, walking through the shack and out to the front porch. You stared up into the night sky and caught a glimpse of a few bright streaks. You couldn’t have asked for more perfect weather for something like this.

You smiled and thought to yourself. “For all of the chaos I’ve been through, things are finally starting to look u-“

You froze as a dark figure crept out from the side of the shack.

“Thought I wouldn’t find you, huh? You’ve been busy, whoring yourself out for some old man. It’s fucking pathetic. You know what has to happen now, I warned you what I’d do if I found out you weren’t being faithful to me.” Your ex threatened, brandishing a knife.

You wanted to run, but your legs wouldn’t move. You did the next best thing and screamed.

“FORD!”

He pounced on you and sunk the knife into your chest, you tried to scream again, but all of the air in you left. He had punctured your lung.

Ford stood in the empty gift shop with Stan. Soos counted the day’s profits at the till. The brothers were in the middle of a discussion.

“Yes, but what I think is important is that-“

“FORD!”

Stan and Ford looked at each other, silently agreeing by your tone that something serious had happened and booked it outside, Soos followed. Ford swung open the door to see you collapse to the ground, your ex boyfriend standing over you. He looked up at Stan and Ford in the doorway, but before he could turn to run both men were on him. Stan managed to land a punch square to his jaw before he and Ford tackled him to the ground.

“What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?” Stan barked.

Your ex spat out a tooth. “What that fucking bitch gets for being your brother’s whore.”

Stan shoved your ex’s face into the gravel and turned to Ford.

“I got it from here, sixer, this scrawny kid ain’t going nowhere. Go make sure y/n is okay.”

Stan turned to Soos who stood in shock on the porch.

“Soos, call 911!”

“O- on it, Mr. Pines!”

Ford hurried quickly to you. You lay motionless on the ground on your side, struggling to breathe. He could tell by the pool of blood that it wasn’t good. He gently turned you over on your back and his eyes widened at the sight of the knife stuck in your chest.

“Y/n! Y/n!”

Your eyes struggled to focus.

“F- Ford?” You murmured faintly.

“I’m here, y/n. We’re going to get you some help, it’ll be okay.”

“It h- hurts.” You gasped.

“I know, just try to breathe.”

“I can’t, the knife.” You struggled out.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, but if I remove it you’ll bleed out.”

“They’re on their way, Mr. Pines!” Soos shouted.

Your attempts to take in a breath were becoming increasingly labored and shallow.

“Stay with me, y/n, just hold on for a little longer!”

You put a hand to Ford’s cheek.

“Ford, I-“

Your eyelids became incredibly heavy, your hand fell to the ground and you went limp. The last thing you heard was Ford calling your name.

Your eyes slowly fluttered open.

“Mmmnh.” You groaned.

“Sixer! Sixer! They’re awake!”

You turned your head to see Stan shaking his brother who had been sleeping in a chair next to you.

“Huh? Wha- y/n!” Ford said, taking your hand, which you noticed had an IV placed in it.

“I’m gonna go get the doctor, be right back!” Stan said, already at the door and slamming it behind him.

“Ford, what happened? Where am I?”

You made a motion to sit up, but an intense pain in your chest protested. You hissed out a sharp breath.

“Easy, stardust. You’ve been through a lot. You’re in the hospital, you’ve been in a coma for two weeks. Do you remember anything?”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to recall your last moments. It was nighttime, you were outside the shack, there was a meteor shower and then… your eyes widened as the memories came flooding back.

“Wait, what happened with-“

“It’s been taken care of. He’s in custody and from the looks of it he’s most likely never coming back out, not even that lawyer of a father can save him this time. They found a note in his apartment, he had been planning this for a while. He was going to flee the scene and commit suicide if Stanley and I hadn’t been there to stop him. From what I’ve looked up, in Oregon aggravated attempted murder can carry a life sentence.”

You gave a sigh of relief that quickly turned to anger.

“It never should’ve come to this.” You said through gritted teeth.

He looked away. “I know, I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t stayed back to talk to Stan this never would’ve happe-“

“Don’t. Don’t you dare blame yourself for even a second over this. The law failed me, not you.”

“Still, I should have known better than to leave you alone.” He said, a tear ran down his cheek.

You squeezed his hand.

“You still saved my life, I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for you.”

Stan returned with the doctor. He did a quick assessment of your vitals and asked you questions to determine if you’d suffered any cognitive impairments or memory loss.

“Well despite the circumstances you appear to be in good health. Your vitals are stable and your memory and cognitive functioning seem to be in order. However, there was something we picked up when we tested your blood. I’m just going to be blunt, you’re pregnant.”

You looked at Ford, he looked back at you and squeezed your hand. The doctor turned his attention to Ford.

“Now, are you the patient’s fath-“

“Partner.” Ford corrected.

The doctor raised an eyebrow before continuing, his eyes back on you.

“I would recommend getting yourself in with an OBGYN. If you need anything, press the call button and a nurse will be with you.” He turned on his heels and left.

Silence hung in the air for a moment before Stan broke it.

“So… I guess I’m getting another niece or nephew. I’ll uh… I’ll leave you two alone to talk.”

He shut the door behind him. You turned your gaze back to Ford.

“Ford, I- I promise I was on birth control. I don’t know how this happened.”

He cupped your cheek.

“It’s alright stardust, these things happen. What do you want to do? No matter your choice, I promise I’ll support you.”

“I- I want to keep it. I’ve always wanted kids and with the way you treat Dipper and Mabel, I know you’d be an amazing father.”

His face lit up.

“You really mean that?”

“Absolutely.”

He pressed a deep kiss to you. When he pulled away he looked at you like he wanted to say something.

“What is it?” You asked.

He took a deep breath. “I know it’s soon, but after almost losing you and now with this I don’t see a point in hiding how I feel. I love you, y/n, with every single cell and atom of my being. I will do all I can to be a good father to our child, and the best partner I can be for you. No matter what, I promise to always love you. You’re my everything, stardust.”

You were speechless. Out of all of the men that had come in and out of your life, no one had ever said anything close to this. No one had ever promised their love and utter devotion to you like him.

“I love you too, Stanford Pines.” You smiled.

When you finally discharged from the hospital Ford immediately made a trip to the library, returning with a stack of pregnancy books in his arms. He pored over the material for days.

He was very insistent that you follow a strict prenatal vitamin regimen. He became incredibly attentive to you, any complaint of symptoms was immediately met with a solution. Nausea? He’s brewing you a pot of ginger tea. Your back hurts? He’s running you a warm bath with lavender oil.

At your 18 week ultrasound it was finally time to determine the sex. You had both originally agreed to keep it a surprise, but the curiosity was too much for either of you to handle.

The technician ran the probe across your stomach as a grainy picture of a fetus formed on the screen. Every time Ford could get a glimpse of his and your child he savored the moment, not wanting to even blink as to not miss a single second. He kept the first ultrasound picture in a frame on his desk.

“Alright, let’s get a good look here.” The tech said.

Ford held your hand tightly.

“Congratulations you two, it looks like you have a girl.”

You watched Ford’s face light up just as it did when you told him you wanted to keep the baby.

“A girl, we’re having a little girl.” He said softly.

As the months passed Ford would find any reason to hug you from behind, his hands caressing your stomach. During one particular instance, he rested his head on your shoulder after wrapping his arms around you when he felt something press against his hand.

“Wait a minute, I think she’s kicking!” Ford said, completely ecstatic.

“Yeah! I can feel it!” You said, matching his energy.

Ford moved to stand in front of you, his hand never leaving you.

“Fascinating, truly fascinating.” He whispered.

Mabel, who was visiting along with her twin for the summer, burst into the room.

“DID I HEAR THAT MY COUSIN IS KICKING???”

“Yes! She-“ Ford began before Mabel cut him off by speeding over and unintentionally knocking him aside.

She placed a hand on your stomach and felt the kick of a tiny foot.

“Whoaaaaaaa, this is so cool! I mean I knew it already obviously, but there really is like a little person in there.”

After the trauma around your last hospital stay, you opted for a home birth with a midwife. Ford did extensive research and insisted on a water birth. You were hesitant at first, but he managed to convince you after stating that it reduced pain, shortened labor time, and gave the baby an easier transition into the world.

Your water broke late into the night and labor started around the same time the next day. Half a day passed with the contractions becoming longer and more intense. The midwife arrived and set up the birthing pool in the bedroom. Every so often you entered the warm water to ease the pain and felt your muscles relax. Ford held your hand in his, you squeezed it tightly enough to break it. The midwife checked your cervix.

“You’re fully dilated, it’s time to start pushing. Mr. Pines, do want to help deliver?” The midwife asked.

“Yes, absolutely.” Ford answered, moving himself in front of you.

You pushed as hard as you could, the baby slowly moved through you and it felt like you were being torn apart. An hour and a half later and you were at your limit.

“I- I don’t know if I can keep going.” You said, tears falling.

“Yes you can, y/n, you’re so strong. Breathe.” Ford said softly.

“Alright, the baby’s crowning. You’re going to need to support the head once it’s out.” The midwife instructed to Ford.

“Got it.” He said.

You screamed, your lower half might as well have been on fire.

“You’re doing so well, y/n, she’s almost here. Just breathe.” Ford soothed.

“If you tell me to breathe one more time, I’m going to fucking strangle you.” You growled through clenched teeth.

Ford took the baby’s head in his hands, guiding her out. Once the head passed, the rest came quickly. You felt two more contractions, and she finally arrived. Ford stared in awe at the crying baby in his arms.

“My god, she’s beautiful, y/n.”

“Mr. Pines? Do you want to cut the cord?” The midwife asked, offering a pair of scissors.

Ford nodded and took the scissors, cutting the umbilical cord two inches away from the baby’s navel. As he held her he caught sight of her clenched little fists. Six fingers on each hand, just like him. He looked at her in pure adoration, he would have loved her and given her the world regardless, but now he felt connected to her on a cosmic level. A childhood of being bullied was entirely worth it just for this moment. Tears streamed down his face, he was completely enveloped in a sea of love and emotion until the midwife spoke up.

“Uhh, do you maybe wanna hand her to-“

“O- oh! Yes, of course!”

As he passed the baby to you it was immediately obvious why he was so enamored with her. You held her against your chest.

“Oh Ford, she’s perfect. And you’re right, she’s absolutely beautiful.”

He leaned down to kiss you.

“I think I know where she gets it from.” He smiled.

Time passed and you handed the baby off to Ford so you could shower. As you dried off and began dressing yourself in a comfortable pair of pajamas you heard a cry from down the hall. You quickly buttoned up the top and made your way to the bedroom.

“She must be hungry.” Ford said.

You got into the bed you had convinced Ford to purchase once you officially moved in with him after you were told you were pregnant. Before that he slept on the couch and it drove you crazy. He handed your new baby girl to you and you unbuttoned your top. It took a few attempts, but eventually she latched and began to nurse.

“So, I know we’ve already settled on your mother’s name for her middle name, but we still have our list of first names to pick from. What are you thinking?” You asked.

Ford smiled. “Well I do have one that I’ve grown really fond of.”

“Me too. How about we both say our choice on three?”

Ford nodded.

“Okay. One, two, three-“

“Juno!” You both said in unison.

You stared at each other before bursting out in laughter.

“Well I guess that’s settled then. Welcome to the world my little Juno.” Ford said, holding her tiny hand.

Beans hopped up on the bed and approached Juno cautiously, sniffing the top of her head.

Ford chuckled. “Hmm, I don’t think he knows quite what to make of her.”

“That’s pretty on brand for cats. When my parents brought home my siblings, our cats were terrified of them.”

You gave Beans a scritch behind the ears and he relaxed at your touch, purring and curling into a ball on your lap. You felt complete, you had your little family all together. Juno finished nursing and you begin to grow sleepy. The adrenaline from pushing out a small human left you and exhaustion took its place. Ford noticed immediately.

“It’s alright, I can take her. You need your rest.”

Ford gingerly took Juno in his arms, holding her against his chest. You snuggled up against him as you felt yourself drift off to sleep. You awoke to Stan entering the room two hours later.

“Everyone’s favorite uncle is here! How’s my niece doing? What name did you guys end up going with?”

“Juno.” Ford responded.

“Heh, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you two nerds. Now c’mon, let the best uncle ever hold her.”

Ford handed Juno to Stan and he took her in his arms. She grasped his finger in her round little fist.

“Would you look at that, we got another sixer here!”

Stan’s phone rang in his pocket.

“I think that’s Mabel, I texted her that you had the baby.” Stan said.

You sat up as Stan gave Juno to you. He answered his phone.

“Hey, kiddo! Yeah! Yeah they’re doing great, so is the baby. Juno. That’s what I said! Oh believe me, I’ll make sure she’s spoiled rotten. Of course! I’d love to have you two over for the break! Sure, I’ll let you talk to him.”

Stan handed the phone to Ford.

“Hello, Mabel. Yes! It’s incredibly strange to say, but I’m officially a father. Correct, from Greek mythology. Eight pounds, five ounces. Oh she’s absolutely beautiful! Thankfully she didn’t inherit my nose, but she does have my fingers!”

You heard Mabel’s shriek through the phone and an excited “DIPPEEEEERRR! SHE HAS HIS FINGERS!”

Ford laughed before continuing.

“I know, all twelve! It’s perfect, truly meant to be. Caryn. Yes, after your great grandmother, she would have loved her. Y/n? I’ll let you talk to them.”

Ford passed the phone to you.

“Hey, Mabel!” You said.

“Hiiii, y/n! I already asked grunkle Stan this, but how are you doing?” Mabel asked.

“Great, exhausted, but great.”

“Duuude I bet! Giving birth to a tiny person must be like soooo crazy! Oh! Did grunkle Stan ever tell you when I was born that I punched the doctor right in the face?” She said, almost boastful.

You laughed. “Somehow that sounds like something you’d do.”

“You know, I always thought you and grunkle Ford were perfect for each other. You’re both huge nerds who like weird stuff. If you two get married, promise you’ll make me a bridesmaid!”

”Of course Mabel, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I feel like you’re already a part of the family though! You might as well be my grauntie at this point!”

You smiled. “I’m honored.”

“Oh hey, Dipper and me are thinking of visiting during winter break later this month, so hopefully I’ll get to meet my new little cousin soon! You can give the phone back to grunkle Stan, I wanna say bye. Make sure to give Juno lots of kisses for me!”

“Will do!” You said and handed the phone to Stan.

“Thanks for checking in, pumpkin. It’s good to hear from you. Say hi to Dipper and your folks for me and keep me posted on if you and your brother are coming to stay for the break. Alright, love you, bye.”

Stan turned to you and Ford.

“So I was thinking of ordering pizza to celebrate. Would you be down?”

“I haven’t eaten since I went into labor so that sounds fantastic.” You said.

“Great! I’ll give you two lovebirds some alone time with her.” Stan said, giving Ford a wink for some reason and shutting the door behind him.

Ford turned to you, he had the same look on his face as he did in the hospital right before he told you he loved you.

“Everything okay, Ford?”

“Y/n, there’s… something important I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yeah?”

He pulled a small black velvet box from his pocket, your heart thumped in your chest. He opened it, revealing an absolutely beautiful ring.

“Since the day you came into my life, you’ve fundamentally changed it for the better and I’ve loved you ever since. I promise to cherish you and stay by you and Juno until my last breath. If there is a life beyond this one I’ll wait for you on the other side. Y/n, will you marry me?”

You kissed him deeply.

“Yes, absolutely!”

He took your left hand and slipped the ring on your finger.

“Oh Ford, it’s gorgeous.”

“It was my mother’s. Many years ago she passed it on to Stanley, thinking he was me, and told him to give it to the love of his life when the time came. On the day you and I became an item, Stanley gave it to me, insisting I’d need it. He said I should do it for tax purposes.” He chuckled.

“Of course he did.” You laughed.

You admired how the stone caught the light.

“What are the odds that your mother and I had the same ring size?” You said.

“Well… about that. I may or may not have measured your ring finger in your sleep. I had the size adjusted, I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

You kissed him again.

“I’d expect no less from Stanford Pines.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and once again felt your eyelids grow heavy. Ford too felt the exhaustion of the near 40 hours of helping you bring Juno into the world. It wasn’t long before the two of you and little Juno fell asleep. Stan opened the bedroom door.

“Hey, guys, pizza’s he-“

He smiled at the sight of all three of you sleeping peacefully. He took out his phone and snapped a picture.

“Yeah, that’s a keeper. Mabel’s gonna love this.”

#gravity falls #ford pines #ford pines x reader #ford pines smut #ford pines fanfic #my fics

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kriffingstars · 1 year ago

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Johnny MacTavish; the point of no return

pairing: Johnny MacTavish x Price!Reader summary: Johnny's resolve breaks, you're everything warnings: verrrrrry slight age gap (I imagine reader to be around 20, Johnny is 26), SMUT (dirty, hot and everything in between), AFAB!Reader, MINORS DNI!! a/n: Holy hell, this is the most sensual and sinful thing I've ever written. Feedback would be greatly appreciated as I've never written smut before. Enjoy 2k of pure smut, ya dirty animals ;)

Price's Niece Masterlist

It's sinful, the way you seat yourself on his lap, pressing sloppy kisses down from the sweet spot behind his ear that he never knew he had, to the base of his throat.

The way you so easily grind your hips into his, has him seeing stars. It could just be you though. Probably is.

Maybe it's also a little bit because he knows this is exactly what he shouldn't be doing. The thrill of disobeying orders isn't lost on you either.

He lets out a feverish groan as you slip your shirt over your head as his hands slip down your skin to settle on the outside of your thighs, grabbing at the flesh and pulling you infinitely closer.

"I really shouldn't," he says, once again, as one of his hands trails upwards to grab at the barely there fabric still covering your chest.

It sends chills down your spine, he lets out a breath as he watches your nipples pebble under his touch.

You pause, stopping all ministrations as you look at the man underneath you. His pupils are blown with lust, and his hair is messy from all the grabbing, chest heaving up and down.

"Johnny," you sigh, taking his face in your hands, your voice remains quiet and even.

"If you want to stop we absolutely can, I'll go to the sofa and we won't ever speak about this again,"

The tension is palpable, the blood rushing around your ears quietens the rest of the world. It's just you and him, in the safety of his room.

You can see the thoughts running through his mind.

You're here, in his lap, giving him everything he's been thinking about in the late hours of the night. All the thoughts, he's been pushing away are real, and they're in the palm of his hand just begging to be brought to fruition.

"You're going to be the death of me,"

It's all he mutters before surging forward, capturing you in a searing kiss, whilst expertly flipping him underneath you.

It's his turn to plaster you in sopping kisses, biting and soothing as his hands slip behind you, masterfully releasing the catch of your bra, flinging it behind him to god knows where.

"Fuck,"

That's all he can groan before latching onto your nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud and palming at your more neglected breast.

His hips are grinding into your core, and there's nothing you can do to hold back the breathy moan you let out as the friction hits just where you need him.

That's all he needs to know he's making the right decision.

Before you know it, he's moving lower, crawling backwards and your skin feels like it's on fire.

He repeats the same movements, kiss, bite, soothe and you're coming undone completely in front of him.

You've ruined everyone for him because no one smells the way you do, and he's sure no one will ever satiate him the way you have and you've barely even touched him.

He's slipping his fingers under the waistband of your borrowed trousers before your brain can even catch up.

"Look at you," he mutters, you know he's not talking to you. Just babbling to himself as he savours every second before taking the front of your panties in his teeth.

The way his stubble scratches on your abdomen sends a rush of heat all the way down to your toes. They curl at the sensation as your legs tighten around his body.

His hands are everywhere, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, only adding to the electric tension between your legs.

"You're ruining me, Sweets,"

It's barely audible, but he knows it's had the effect he wants from you when his eyes meet yours.

His gaze is domineering in the best way, satiating the burning attraction you've had for him since your first meeting.

"You going to let me taste you?" he murmurs as he lets his nose graze against your pubic bone, dangerously close to the place where you need him the most.

A chorus of pleases is all that you garble out, as you find yourself drunk over the intensity of him.

His fingers stroke you through the fabric of your panties, barely bringing you any relief before sliding the fabric down your legs.

His nails catch on your inner thighs, and once again he's sending ripples right to your core.

Even in your stupor, you can see and feel how much he's getting off on how pliable you are under his touches.

"I need-"

Your words are cut off by the ungodly groan you let out as his lips meet the bundle of nerves.

Kiss, bite, soothe, flick.

One arm is slung over your hips keeping you pinned, at the other one draws deadly patterns around your thighs.

"So good for me, Sweets."

"Always Johnny," you're panting now as pressure begins to mount.

His huff of breath sends a shiver through your spine, as you arch your back, his lips meeting you with the movement.

It's not long before his fingers join his mouth, stretching you out in the most tentative of touches.

He's not fast or hard, in the way you thought he would be. He's sensual and savouring, as if this is the last time he'll ever be able to bask in the light that is you.

You feel the orgasm approaching steadily, and he feels your legs squeezing him even tighter. His hips are gently rocking against the mattress beneath him as he gets himself off of your pleasure and mewls.

It isn't harsh or fast, it's gentle and climbs gradually before it takes control of you completely. Body spasming, toes curling, breath caught, as your eyes screw shut completely.

The's no breath in your lungs left to give as he crawls up your body, engulfing himself in all your senses.

"You're going to be the death of me," he says as he breathes oxygen back into your starved lungs.

His kiss is needy, all-consuming, but not overwhelming. Your hands release the sheets you didn't even realise you were gripping, before finding purchase in the strip of hair on his head.

His hands roam once again, committing every curve, divot and angle to memory. If this truly is his last night on earth, he wants to go remembering everything about you for eternity.

He's so completely drunk on you, that he doesn't notice your leg hooking underneath him or the jerk of your hips as you flip him onto his back, his hands pinned above his head, completely at your mercy.

"Want to make you feel good," you confess as your tongue leaves a path of glossy saliva from the base of his adam's apple to the sharp of his jaw.

You feel him swallow under your lips as you pepper open-mouthed kisses over his throat.

He can't even find the words to reply to you, but you don't need his words. His pants are enough for you to know he's all yours.

It's your turn to travel down his body now, nails scratching at his broad chest as they follow your sloppy kisses.

He's just as you imagined, not that his tight t-shirts left much to the imagination. All firm lines, and hard muscle. What you didn't expect was the dark hair that peppers him, trailing off at his stomach, before picking back up just below his navel.

His sweats are already pulled down, and they're gone before he can even take a new breath.

Your face is level with the tent in his boxers and you press a multitude of searing kisses through the black fabric.

"You-you don't have to," is all he can choke out, as he finds his words again.

He can feel the heat of your breath on his skin as you gently shush him, rubbing soothing strokes along his powerful thighs.

"I want to, will you let me?" you mumble, and this time it's your turn to catch his gaze from where you lie, nestled inbetween his legs.

That's all Johnny needs to become putty in your hands, his limbs are floppy and malleable and his hands sit exactly where you left them. Spread out above his head.

His sinful groans and pants increase tenfold as you pull him from his confines, placing languid kisses up and down him as you grip him at his base.

Johnny, your sweet Johnny, is a mess, as you pull take him deeper. The buck of his hips doesn't bother you as you let the spit drip down your chin.

You feel more powerful than ever, bringing a man with the resolve he has to his knees, with a series of touches.

He's knotting his fingers through your hair at the base of his neck pulling you off of him all too quickly for your liking, crashing his lips back onto yours as he goes.

He doesn't need to drag you up to him as you're scrambling with him in a mess of spit, skin and teeth before landing on his lap.

He takes a moment to grind into you as his hands snake behind you, fingers splayed as he tenderly tips you onto your back, crawling in between your legs once again, without breaking away from your lips...

"Wait there," he grins, knowing full well you're not moving from your spot as he leans back, hands fumbling around in a draw before coming into contact with the foil packet he was after.

"You're sure Sweets? Because you need to know we can never go back after this. Can't keep away from you."

The sincerity in his voice makes you pause, you can see the affection in his eyes, and there's no doubt in your mind that this is more than just physical.

"Good."

It's all you need to say as you take the packet from his fingers, ripping it open and coating your fingers in the slick gel that covers the contents and reaching to grasp him.

You're pinned down once again as he buries himself in you, strings of garbled nonsense spilling from his lips as he praises you. Telling you just how good you are, and how perfect you feel.

"Never letting you go now."

He starts slow and deep, pulling more mewls from the depths of your chest as you hook a leg around him, pulling him even closer, heel digging into the divot on the small of his back.

It's your turn to garble now, telling exactly how good he feels, how he's ruined you and how you can't get enough of him.

The smell of skin and sweat fill your senses and you swear you're drunk off of it.

His thrusts speed up as one of his hands slip between your bodies, all he wants is to make you feel good, and he's doing a damn good job at it.

Before things home to a crescendo, you're pushing him onto his back bouncing on your knees and pulling him even deeper.

If you thought he was a mess earlier he's ruined now.

His eyes are rolling back into his head as his hand finds you again, speeding up to bring your climax closer.

The bouncing stops, as you begin to grind faster and faster.

You feel electric, as a surge of energy bursts through you, spurring you on even more.

He goes completely slack as he melts into you, and you follow not long after. Riding out the aftershocks that buzz through both of your bodies, head resting on his heaving chest as you inhale as much air as you can into your lungs.

He's reaching for you again, and pulling you flush against his chest as he mumbles sweet nothings into your ear.

The comedown is slow and neither of you feel like moving as the blood rushing around in your head begins to quiet. It's tender, and dare say loving.

"Need to go and clean up, Sweets," he whispers, as he noses at your cheek, pushing his face closer to yours, leaving chaste kisses on your temple and cheek.

His lack of presence is engulfing as he sorts himself out in the bathroom, bringing a cool flannel into the bedroom for you.

Before you know it your head is tucked under his chin, legs tangled as he strokes slow circles into your skin.

"You're something else."

I'm thinking of creating a taglist if anyone's interested, send me an ask or a dm :)

#john mactavish x reader #john mactavish headcannon #johnny mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish headcannon #john mctavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap mactavish x price!reader #cod mw soap #price!niece!reader #smut #johnny mactavish smut #soap smut #cod smut

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simp4konig · 1 year ago

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Halloweens with König headcannons 🎃🍂

Gender-neutral Reader

*Slow burn

Word Count: ~3246

*FLUFFFFFFF��😿💖✨🩷🩷💘

*Soft König☺️ (but also König is a smug bastard + asshole 🙄), Established relationship, Single mention of (ambiguous) age gap 😮‍💨

🧡Happy Halloween guys!!🧡 I don't celebrate Halloween myself , but im feeling 😈in the mood😈 so i hopw this can suffice for this ooky kooky spooky season 😰😰

Gos i wanna kms ive veen so uninspirws AAAHAHAHAHDHDHDDH this is literslly. Me rn--->💥💥💥💥💥🙂🔫 fuckijg FINALLT GOT sometjing OUT 🥳🥳 rest asusred iwont kms i need to finish my rqs first ☺️💖💖✨ i will feel SO euphoric when all the WIPS will become Completed Works !! 😍😍Im just gonna not post until i gdt smth donw bci hate giving false promises its the same as lyijg,🗿🗿

Tag List ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @abysslovesyou ♡ @puff0o0 ☆ @rustic-guitar-notes ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @reyner-lee ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance

...

König wasn't really one for Halloween.

Hadn't ever been, really, as he hadn't been raised to celebrate it.

In his household, he hadn't had much exposure to the Western "Hallow's Eve".

Besides, even if he was familiar with the tradition, his parents didn't bother celebrating those kinds of trivialities; after all, they certainly weren't going to bother wasting hard-earned money on trifles like pumpkins, just so they'd rot on the front porch, or candy that would rot your teeth, or on vulgar masks that depicted serial killers and monsters, too blasphemous to bear.

Plus, his neighbourhood didn't partake in "Trick-or-treat'ing" at all, and wouldn't leave any candy for any children — wouldn't do anything, really.

Nobody decorated their house with ghouls and ghosts, nobody dressed up as vampires or murderers, nobody jumped from behind corners to shout "Boo!".

None of that, as these ideas were childish. Infantile. Juvenile, even.

Thus, October 31st, König's Austrian villiage was quiet. So eerily quiet you'd had thought it was a ghost town had it not been for hundreds of cloaked figures in the cemetary — as, for König, "Halloween" tended to be a more sombre occasion in comparison to the American/English versions.

Instead of running around and knocking on people's doors with a broad, lopsided smile like other children ought, he was brought along to visit the graves of his family members: graves of his ancestors, which he'd be told about in detail, details of the person buried six feet under the stone slab; information and stories passed down from generations.

He would be taught to honour those deceased in his family and respect their memory, to remember those in the afterlife and what they sacrificed to get there.

Carrying a lamp, he'd light candles on those decrepit gravestones, text faded and illegible, while his parents left boquets of flowers, and pulled up their long black cloaks. Silently paying their respects.

While it wasn't necessarily a day of mourning — König never needed tissues to wipe any tears or blow his nose, and neither did anyone else in the family — it was far graver when compared to the Halloween holidays elsewhere.

However, König's memories of Halloween were few, far, and in-between.

Whenever he'd hear of other people's experiences, he was never nostalgic, as, the times that he did attend those familial ceremonies he was either too young to understand what was happening, or knew too little of the deceased[s] in question to be moved by the heavy atmosphere.

Not only that, but the time period was overwhelmingly solemn, with people flooding the burial grounds, some murmuring prayers, others with tears in their eyes.

There was no laughter, no treats, no fun costumes. Not even tricks. Just suffocating depression all around.

So, he didn't really associate the celebration with something to celebrate: what, celebrating the deaths of your family? That was quite morbid, when he thought about it, and he wasn't going to dedicate an entire month every year to remind himself of death with so many other operators around him falling on the battlefield, and having had faced the grim reaper himself several times already.

Hence, every 31st of October, he did nothing. Didn't acknowledge it at all.

But all that changed one fateful day in September. When he finally acknowledged it, all right (with a little of your help of course)!

You had asked König in passing if he had considered dressing up as something for Halloween. Maybe what he had considered doing on the evening. Or if he had plans to attend the autumn fair sometime soon.

His response? A blank look. Distant recognition.

For a quiet moment, you thought he was scowling at you, silently ridiculing your childish suggestion.

Then: "Halloween? Ah!" An amused chuckle, endeared by the child-like curiosity in your eyes, and a silent sigh of relief from you.

"I don't celebrate it, myself, meine liebe. But you're welcome to tell me what your costume is. I'd love to hear all about it, maus."

Mortified by this revelation, you couldn't let this go.

"What do you mean you "don't celebrate it"? You have got to be joking!"

Wide eyes, and jaw agape, you were in disbelief.

He simply shook his head with a strained smile. "I've just never seen it as something to celebrate, you know? No reason to."

Taking it upon yourself to prove him wrong, you wasted no time converting this skeptic into a believer. "Oh no, there is. I mean, it's Halloween! Everyone is crazy for it!"

Suddenly, your eyes lit up. A wave of adrenaline crashing into you, you tugged König's arm in direction of the couch.

"That's where we'll start! We're gonna watch Halloween! That'll surely get you in the spirit."

You winked at him, satisfied. Then, a sudden snort and a suppressed chortle, hand cupped over your mouth as you laughed at your pathetic attempt at a joke.

König cocked his head to the side in confusion, but let you hastily scramble for blankets, pillows, and to microwave bowls of popcorn, as he made himself comfortable on the couch cushions that sank in protest under his weight.

Initially, he was reluctant. Not necessarily looking forward to being forced to watch movies from the 80s–00s, over-the-top movies with subpar acting, to say that he was looking forward to it would have been a stretch.

However, seeing how passionate you were about the holiday, your interests, König didn't want your sweetness sour.

Yes, he was a little older than you, and perhaps didn't grasp what there was to fuss over, but he wasn't about to spoil your good mood, or dampen that excitement just because he didn't personally understand or was interested personally. He wanted to make an effort, for you.

Vowing to take part in your silly shenanigans, he swore to become involved in the festivities in order to see you smile. To keep seeing you smiling.

After that, every October evening you'd watch a movie — a (usually) corny horror classic, though spending most nights binging all the Screams, Halloweens, Chuckys, The Shinings, Saws, and Evil Deads, — huddled under moutains of blankets and stuffing your faces with toffee-flavoured popcorn.

Watching horror films with him was like being lectured on common-sense and taught self-defence lessons in real time, though. Not like you minded, but it really got rid of the edge and the tension in its entirety.

Instead of paying attention to the storyline, it's more likely König would catch on to the stupid decisions the characters and the shitty attempts to fight back, and he wouldn't be able to help commenting:

"Why did she leave the knife in him? In his abdomen, of all places? Now the murderer has a weapon! Should have taken it out and left him to bleed out. But noooo, nein, leave the knife there."

"Going into the forest on his own? In the night? With a killer on the loose? Mein Gott, he is such a dummkopf! Bring a friend, why don't you?"

"Liebling, why is there so much gore? Isn't this rated "15"? Wait, and why is there a lady with no shirt? This is supposed to be scary, ja? I'm very scared. Scared you'll slap me, actually, if I don't keep looking at my lap."

Angrily ranting at the television, you'd gently reassure him, that, "Sweetie, this is fiction. Sometimes, the scenes are unrealistic." "But it said "based on real events"! I swear, liebling, if I watch another ten minutes of this I'll have a headache. I can't comprehend the stupidness."

Tough crowd, that couldn't really immerse himself in the plot, but you took a note or two for the sorts of horror movies König wouldn't dislike.

Although he insulted all the characters for being stupid and ridiculed all the characters for being so brainless, he would begrudgingly admit that he enjoyed the movie, pointing out some of his favourite scenes.

Self-aware comedic slashers meant he could suspend disbelief and laugh out loud a little, while, movies with an omnipotent monster meant he couldn't criticise any inaccuracies. He didn't winge at those as much in comparison to major blockbuster films. In fact, he even preferred low budget movies, ones that were pure comedic relief and so self-aware that he wouldn't be able to help but laugh along, unable to hide his amusement.

Afterwards, at exactly midnight, you'd be huddled together in the dark under a thick blanket, gorging your mouth with sugary sweets and bite-size chocolates (also indulging in chocolates that were far from bite-size), giggling like lunatics (well, that was mostly you, but König joined in to keep you company).

Later, face serious, with a torch under your chin, you'd be whispering hushedly with a tone of foreboding, voice low, and words ominous:

"Drip. Drip. Dripping water. She had checked the bathroom taps, the kitchen taps, and they were twisted tightly closed. A leakage, perhaps? Or, perhaps, something else. As she roamed the corridor, the drip-drip-drip of liquid grew louder. And louder—"

"Ah, she should call her plumber, then, shouldn't she?" A sure shit-eating smirk that was obscured by his mask, but the way his eyes were squinting you knew he was taking the piss.

Of course, storytelling was not as haunting as you would have had liked it to be: König would interject, interrupting the aura of mystery and the medatitive atmosphere, with sarcastic remarks. It made the narrations really melodramatic in the end, and frustrated you to no end.

Still, you would groan, and, undaunted by his immature antics — as, mind you, this was a grown-ass man, a 6'10 wall of muscle messing around like this, teasing you not like the cocky Colonel he was but a snarky teenage boy — continue:

"—she walked on — despite having been rudely interrupted moments prior — and her heart sank. Blood. A puddle of it, on the floor, looking like gallons upon gallons of it had—"

"Maybe she was — ah, what's the word?" A thoughtful pause, hand where his chin was under the fabric "— menustrating? Was she wearing white pants, maybe?"

"—Menstruating, König — and stop ruining my horror narration! Now I've lost the plot! Okay — against her will, her eyes moved up the wall, following the dripping blood. To her horror, it was coming from the attic. Swallowing the heavy lump in her throat, she pulled open the hatch with jittering fingers, grip slackened by the warm sweat on her palms, knees threatening to buckle. And, when the trap door released, she gasped. Blood draining her face, she saw—"

An exaggerated gasp from König, as he clasped his hands over his mouth in mock shock. "She— she saw— your mother! Mein Gott, the horror!"

"Shut up, König!" An annoyed huff, and shuffling away. "Honestly, you're such a killjoy..."

König, scooping you into his arms when you turned around with crossed arms, pouting lips, and furrowed brows, nuzzed his masked face into your neck, chuckling heartily. You squirmed under his hold, fabric tickling your sensitive neck, and you'd desperately hold back your giggles, trying hard to keep a straight face.

"Ja, ja, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Es tut mir leid, meine Liebe. Please keep going. What did she find in the attic?"

"No! You made me forget the grand reveal, now! I forgot what was up there, anyways..."

Walking around the house, you'd have the fright of your life when a huge shadow would jump in front of you at odd hours of the day.

"Boo!" König's voice resounded, loud and reverberating.

And you screamed, damn near verging on a heart attack.

"Shoving" him in frustration — you became actually even more frustrated when the man was like a solid wall and did not even budge a millimetre — König was quick to console you.

Doting over you, a wide smile on his face that the mask couldn't hide, he would be so overly lovey-dovey with you in an attempt to win back your affection that you'd roll yours eyes so far they'd end up in the back of your head.

"Meine liebe, I'm sorry for scaring you. I couldn't resist. You'll forgive me, won't you? You will, right? Please say yes."

You insisted you would, seemingly unassuming, then schemed to startle him at odd hours of the night as payback for losing your dignity in that moment.

At one point, you had even waited half an hour in the wardrobe while he was showering, only to jump out and see König in only a towel.

Yeah, you were the one that got jumpscared instead, face erupting in red despite you two being together for months at that point. You gave up trying to spook him then, bitterly accepting defeat.

Though, going along with your silly little activities, like going shopping for Halloween decorations, made König's heart swell seeing you bounce around excitedly and point out all the ornaments.

He didn't quite consent to you buying a life-size skeleton to call him Greg and place him in your shared bedroom. That was one step too far.

Still, seeing the wonder on your face, in awe of all the masks, costumes, decorations, and animated mannequins that'd cackle after triggering their mechanisms made his steel-blue eyes soften, melting into pure love and devotion for you.

So, to humour you one day, and to lift your mood after scaring you that one morning, König made two eye-holes in a white blanket, running after you around the house, almost tripping over it in his haste.

"Ooooo-ooo!" he moaned in over-dramatised agony, voice low yet playful. "This is not König, but his ghooost! Run, liebling, or you'll be neeext!"

Hearing him say that in his Austrian accent was so hilarious that were tears running down your cheeks from how hard you'd be laughing, and your sides splitting with the laughter, struggling scramble away, giggling.

Those moans of agony would become genuine cries in pain when he'd accidently hit his head on the doorframe when he forgot to duck in his excitement. The one time that bulky helmet of his could have come to use.

Despite all that, you'd be cornered against the wall, with nowhere to run, and König would pounce, tickling your sides viciously.

That broad smile on your face and the expression was worth fooling around and making a fool of himself.

He even didn't mind having you coo over his "injury" just like how he had when he was doting over you, because he loved you so much.

And, he loved you so much, that he even allowed you to "decorate" his gear. "To make it appropriate for the spooky season!" you had insisted, and he'd comply, not wanting to dull that sparkle in your eyes.

So contented with painting an intricate monster on his mask with fluorescent orange paint, you didn't notice König watching you hunched over the desk from behind, leaning against the doorframe with a loving smile on his face.

You hadn't expected that he'd wear that gear on base — veil, knee pads, helmet, and all — strutting his stuff. Just to remind everyone that their Colonel had a lovely spouse back home.

What you hadn't anticipated was how quickly König would start enjoying the season. Unexpectedly, he became obsessed with Halloween — his favourite tradition, second only to Christmas.

Carveling hollowed-out pumpkins of all shapes and sizes was one of his favourite past-times.

You'd think that with his size he'd struggle to cut through the orange crust without crushing it into pumpkin-coloured mush in his fists, but you'd be forgetting that he was skilled with a knife.

That said, König wasn't artistic. At all. The best he could produce would be a lopsided smiling caricature of... something. A nondescript creature, which you had complimented him on being so cute, only for him to angrily insist that it was an evil monster, and not cute at all.

Still, you would snap a picture before he could object, and give this pumpkin the spotlight on your front porch, soon many more following suit. Jack'o'lanterns illuminating your front step, glowing gold.

The sweet scent of cinnamon, ginger, and vanilla extract filled your house, new freshly-baked treats from the oven laid out on the kitchen island daily.

Delicious aroma of sugary pastry, homemade banana bread with small hints of vanilla and sprinkled with icing sugar, candied oranges and sour, sherbet lemon cakes, crunchy cinnamon sugar pumpkin seeds ("Made from the pumpkin guts!" you exclaimed with a smile of pride, König's eyes smiling in delight of your enthusiasm).

Crumbly shortbread in the shape skulls and bats, round cookies with orange and black icing resembling pumpkins, sponge cakes that oozed thick raspberry and strawberry jam when you bit into them ("Because they were bleeding blood," you proclaimed, a devilish smirk on your face — or, something like it, as to König you were the cutest angel he'd had ever been blessed to be around), and so, so, so much more.

So much that your weekly trips to the supermarket became biweekly, until you two found yourselves stocking up on sugar, flour, eggs, and butter far too often to keep track of.

The house was so inviting, especially to little ones from the neighbourd, that their mouths were agape and their eyes sparkled as they passed your "haunted house", holding the hands of their parent(s).

Mentioned in an earlier post that König has a soft spot for children, he'd stock up on Halloween candy and treats, and lug bucketfuls of sweets on the doorstep for any little ones that'd knock on your door to cheerfully cry out in unison, full of glee: "Trick or treat!"

He'd welcome them with open arms, but, with most of them being so little, they'd point with bulging eyes the giant on the doorstep, to be harshly reprimanded by their mothers and fathers for their ignorance and rudeness.

Few would say much after seeing König the giant, and after daring to scoop a handful of confectionary, bowing their heads and avoiding his eyes would mumble a shaky "...Th-thank you, s-sir—!"

One of them, however — a little girl with rosy cheeks donning white stockings and a gold tinsel halo — beamed brightly, albeit shyly, at König, thanking him for the treat and his generosity. An innocent, toothy smile that made her squint from how high it reached her eyes, her front baby teeth missing.

When she had her back turned to you two, she ran as fast as her chubby little legs could take her, and exclaimed, "Mommy! Mommy! That giant is a big and friendly one! A big, friendly giant. Can we go again, please? Please?"

It was only when you nudged König with your elbow, grinning, when she had skipped happily away, that he had realised he had tears in his eyes.

Moreover, maybe the memories König had of Halloween weren't so cheerful, or ones even worth remembering in the first place; after all, his childhood wasn't so cheerful. Joyless, and with little life.

But, with the way that Halloween was shaping up to be, he was already looking forward to the special celebration.

So full of life the you two were, you would laugh at the irony — animated and living the dream, while celebrating the day of the day. It brought you two to more laughter.

And, with you, König could make new ones, ones that you'd look back on fondly years from now, and those grueling months on deployment.

...

Note: Went off experience here for the beginning, guys🫡🫡 for the mowt part i have never celebrated Halloween😰 only a couple times in Poland, and once in England when i drank tomato juice and prwtended it was blood and i was a vampire🤪,

, but I Googled "Halloween in Austria" /Germany" to clarify whether I wasn't just speaking outta my ass and König here would have celebrated it differently to how I had in Poland 💀cuz, yknow, im not egocentric ajd the world doesnt celebrate things the same way Poles do 😘...

...And, no, I wasn't !☺️✨✨(... sort of😅... As far as I know, Germany has adopted the West's Halloween, ans theres pumpkin carving competitiomsn stuff, while Austria does indeed celebrate it slightly differently) .

Because I have no fuckijg idea of König's nationaloty anymore as it KEEOS CHANGING, I got the vest of both worlds 🥲🥲

Also been really busy guys😰😰😰by busy i mean stressing out ovee not writing then proceeding to NOT write bc im stressed❤️❤️🥰 you know jow it is!! 🤗(🔫) its ok tjo❤️(no it isnt) ill work tjis oit somejow🥹(no i wont im gonna kms) 🥰🥰

Have a very spooky halloween guys<3Feel bad foe those that are buying candy bc not onky is it smallwe than last uear but its more expensive 💔😟

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munson-blurbs · 11 months ago

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Day 4 of TUI-Mas

Warnings: pregnancy, lots of crying and worrying, we're basically just an emotional mess, Eddie tries his best

WC: 1.1k

Divider credit to @saradika

April 1999

Emotional is a word you’d previously used to describe yourself in the three or four days leading up to your period. Patience thinner than a thread, eyes misting at movies you’ve already watched a thousand times over—that was par for the course.

And it didn’t hold a candle to pregnancy hormones.

You’re dusting the bedroom furniture, the air fragrant with lemon Pledge. You spray the cleaner onto Eddie’s nightstand, carefully wiping down the wooden surface and twisting the rag over the knobs. Perched in a silver frame is Harris’s school photo from September. He’s sporting a huge grin that looks much different than his current smile; for one, his two front baby teeth are long gone now, his permanent teeth not yet pushing through his naked gums. His hair has grown out from the fresh cut he’d gotten just prior to Picture Day, the curls once again wild and untamed. Though you can’t see it in the picture, you know he’s a few inches taller. Compared to the little boy in the still image, he seems so…grown up now.

Your heart lurches when it dawns on you that you’ll never get those months back. Harris is seven years old now, closer to the beginning of second grade than first. And in just thirty short weeks, he’ll no longer be the youngest Munson.

A single water droplet plops onto the glass covering, magnifying one of his big brown eyes. Another lands on the frame, and then another, and you realize that you’re staining it with your own tears.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” you mumble under your breath, using your shirt’s hem to wipe the glass clean. You see this photo every day, but it suddenly has you choked up, nostrils stuffy as you try to stifle your crying. Thank God no one else is home to witness you being a sniveling mess over something so trivial.

It doesn’t even occur to you that this newfound influx of intense emotions may be due to your pregnancy until a few evenings later when Eddie brings home a VHS copy of The Lion King from Family Video. Your fingers reach for the butter-drenched popcorn, dropping a few kernels in your mouth and crunching down as Scar taunts Mufasa from above.

Harris sits on the sofa between you and Eddie, his hands clamped over his eyes in anticipation of the inevitable wildebeest stampede, as though eliminating his sense of sight will keep Mufasa alive somehow.

Ah, childhood innocence, you think, a wistful smile gracing your lips. You watch as he parts his pointer and middle fingers, peeking between the gaps. One day, he’ll be able to watch this scene without hiding. He’ll be catching movies at the Hawk with his friends, and then on dates, and he won’t want to hang out with his parents anymore…

The tears trickle down your cheeks just as Scar loosens his grip on Mufasa’s paws, watching his brother fall to his death. His brother—what if Harris and the new baby grow up to despise each other? What if Harris resents them for taking the attention away from him? What if the baby develops that younger sibling syndrome where they feel they can never measure up?

“Sweetheart? What’s going on?” Eddie’s concerned voice captures your attention. You turn to him with glassy eyes, noting the amused smile twisting his lips. “Animated lions tuggin’ at your heartstrings?”

Anger surges through you as though a switch has been flipped. You’re bearing the weight of emotion on your shoulders, and he’s on the verge of laughter?

“Is this funny to you?” you snap, rage searing each word. Before he can answer, you’re on your feet and marching into the bedroom, fists clenched at your sides.

Eddie’s right at your heels, one hand grasping at your waist while the other quietly closes the door behind him. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, brushing the moisture from your cheeks. “I’m sorry I laughed at you. I…we’ve seen this movie before, and you’ve never gotten this upset.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you blurt out, prompting a new round of sobs. “It’s sad, but not this sad, and all I could think about is Harris and the baby hating each other like Mufasa and Scar.”

Your husband tucks his lips into his mouth, poorly stifling another giggle. “You…you started crying because you’re worried about a sibling rivalry that doesn’t even exist?”

You can’t help but laugh along with him when he phrases it like that. “Shut up!” you manage through a foreign combination of laughter and tears. “It could happen! They could grow up, become enemies, and—”

“And organize a wildebeest stampede to overthrow the other as King of the Jungle?” Eddie pulls back when your palm meets his chest in a playful shove. “Okay, okay!” he chuckles, holding up his forefinger. “Just one more question: which one of our kids gets trampled?”

“I hate you.” You pluck a Kleenex from your bedside table and dab underneath your eyes, a burgeoning smile quelling your frustration. “My hormones are out of control, and you’re over here having the time of your life.”

He dramatically throws his arms around you, lips pressing to your temple while he chuckles into the kiss. “My emotional little baby mama,” he teases. “Don’t worry, Sweetheart; I think it’s cute. Terrifying, but cute.”

You nod, lacing your fingers with his as he leads you back into the living room. Harris is still laying back on the sofa, fully invested in Timon and Pumbaa’s on-screen bickering.

“Har, where’d your bowl of popcorn go?” Yours and Eddie’s bowls sit on the coffee table awaiting your return, but Harris’ is nowhere to be found.

“Oh, yeah. I ate it all, so I put the bowl back in the sink.”

He says this nonchalantly, eyes never leaving the TV set; regardless, nostalgia washes over you. When you’d first met him, he could barely even reach the sink. Now he’s placing his dishes there on his own without even being asked?

“Don’t worry, Mommy; you don’t need to cry. This is a funny part.” He furrows his brows when your lower lip trembles in response. “You wanna do the breathing?” He inhales and exhales for three seconds each, just as you’d taught him on that fateful Halloween afternoon over two years ago, watching as you do the same. “Better?”

“Mhm. Better.” You kiss his mussed curls, settling back into your original position to watch the movie; of course, not without sobbing when Simba speaks to Mufasa in the stars.

Note to self, Eddie thinks wryly, rent a comedy next week.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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artistsfuneral · 1 year ago

Text

Jaskier meets Death at a forked path. He has never seen them in person before, their face - although incredible kind looking - is not one he's familiar with and yet he instinctively knows who is in front of him.

It's quite the idyllic picture to be honest. The path Jaskier has been following for the past few hours is lined with rough stone walls, the ones that are keeping flocks of sheep from straying too far. The sun is out and shining through the tree's leaves, creating a kaleidoscope of dancing shadows on the fresh grass. Death sits under one such dancing shadow-patch, surrounded by napping sheep. Their left hand is idly petting the spotted fur of a guardian dog, with their right, they're waving Jaskier over to join them.

He silently wonders if he should be scared. Others certainly would be terrified upon seeing Death waiting for them, but Jaskier has always been easily intrigued. Besides, Death is hardly looming over him, it's more like they're waiting for him - like one may wait for an old friend. It could be a trick of course, he muses as he walks over to where Death is sitting, then again it feels like the two of them could have met many, many times before and in much worse situations than this. So who is Jaskier to question Death?

The closer he gets the more he is able to take in. They're tall - taller than anyone he's met before, Jaskier thinks - and incredibly pretty. Not in the perfectly manicured kind of pretty, like some of the most beautiful darlings at court tend to be. No, Death carries a natural loveliness that can only be found and never created, like a special constellation of freckles, an off-center nose, or a small gap between your teeth. Death is everyone Jaskier ever sung of combined in one person, which makes him wonder if they always look like this or if they changed their appearance to please Jaskier's eyes specifically. If the latter, he'd surely feel flattered.

"Come sit with me, sweetheart," Death says and Jaskier is delighted to hear their voice. It's a very nice voice. He wants to hear Death laugh, he realizes as he sinks down next to them on the grass. Their eyes meet his and Death sends him the kindest smile, "It's been a while since I've seen you, sweetheart, I'm glad to see you happy and healthy." Jaskier grins, because what a funny thing for Death to say, but he can hear the honesty in their words. "Oh you know, just the usual aches and pains of my slowly progressing age. Nothing you haven't heard a hundred times before, I'm sure," Jaskier happily chatters back in the same familiar tone. "It's a lovely day, isn't it?" He asks and reaches for his pack. Might as well take his lunch break now, while the fruit he bought earlier this day are still fresh. Death answers his question with an agreeing hum and oh yes, Jaskier might just fall in love with them right then and there.

He focuses on his lunch and wills his foolish heart to calm. "Would you like some?" he asks Death, because his Mama raised him well and eating alone is never quite as enjoyable as sharing a meal. Death looks at him with amusement in their eyes. "I can not eat, but I appreciate the gesture."

Jaskier sighs, "What a pity."

"A small price to pay for a life like mine."

"You're alive?"

"I am here, am I not?"

He looks at Death wide eyed, a hundred thoughts stumbling through his mind at the same time. "I have so many questions."

"And I have a favor to ask of you, sweetheart," Death retords not unkindly. Throughout their short conversation the amusement never quite left their eyes and while Jaskier would normally feel patronized by such a look he somehow knows that Death is simply enjoying his company.

"Are we doing this right? Doesn't this whole asking for a favor thing usually go the other way around?" Death laughs and Jaskier's heart does a little jump, his fingers itch to write a new song. "You read too much, sweetheart."

"I don't believe there's such a thing as reading too much."

"The words of a scholar and a poet."

"At your service."

"Of course. I always get what I want," Death says knowingly, shoving yet another metaphorical box of Pontar towards Jaskier. Lucky for him he has long since learned to not think about these kind of things too much. It does feel a little bit like Death tricked him, though he loves a good repartee. "I have to admit, I am curious indeed. What could I possibly offer to you?"

Death turns their head away from him, looking at the dog in deep consideration. "I need..." Death pauses and Jaskier almost wants to think of it in a hesitant way, "to win a bet." The bard's shoulders drop immediately. "Ah," he says, because the hesitation now starts to make sense. Surely Death must know this of him. "I don't do bets, I'm afraid. It never ends well for the poets caught in between."

"I know," Death agrees easily and not very reassuringly, as a matter of fact. "But I am in need of a song. A song to bring the gods to tears and neither can I write nor sing. What I can do, is offer you my protection."

Jaskier's mind floods with thoughts.

Protection from Death.

The two of them stare into each other's eyes, the world around them timeless, everlasting. Finally, it is Jaskier who breaks the contact and returns to his bundle of food. He bites into a fruit, it's sweet juices run down his chin and drip onto his chemise. "I will make the gods weep," he declares and watches Death smile full of warmth.

#the witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier #witcher #mini fic

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alkaline-wtr · 8 months ago

Text

WE WILL SURVIVE

- - CHAPTER 2 - -

Ghost x reader Description: Reader and Ghost make there way towards the city in search of supplies. Genre/Warnings: zombie apocalypse AU, Ghost x fem!reader, survivor!reader, angst, gore, violence, explicit language, weapons, mentions of death WC: 2.6k

My Masterlist

**I finally finished chapter two!! I am awful at starting stories I find it difficult to push passes the mundane slow set up portion of fics but, I think I hit a decent point here in this chapter where it started to flow together. It took me way longer than I wanted to finish this one. Hopefully, the length makes up for it and from here on it should get a bit more interesting. Enjoy. (started a tag list at the bottom)

<< PART 1

You and Ghost make your way between houses looking for anything useful. So far you had found a few bottles of water and a bit of food. You secured yourself a pocket-knife but still have yet to find a suitable weapon.

You glance over your shoulders anxiously as Ghost pried a board out of the fence for you to cross through the next yard.

"Go on," he demands.

You don't even stop to think as you slip through the gap. Ghost following closely behind. You pause letting him get in front of you.

You continue through the backyard. A nice suburban area filled with an eerie silence.

Ghost scales the back wall of the house peering through the windows to check if it's clear.

You are lost in thought looking up at the tree house perched in the large oak in the corner of the yard.

Ghost works at opening the sliding glass door. He gets it open and glances your way. He clears his throat gaining your attention once again.

"If you're going to stick with me then keep your mind right."

He scolds. You give a small nod and follow him into the house. Ghost's gun is at the ready as he peers around each corner in a loose stance, ready for anything.

You stand back waiting for his okay like you had the many houses before. You couldn't help feeling like you were walking on eggshells with him.

Ghost re-emerges from the living room letting his gun fall to his side.

"Downstairs is clear. Raid the kitchen, I'll check upstairs."

You follow Ghost's orders heading straight into the kitchen. It is quiet as you search through the cupboards. There were just some plates, and cups in the first few above you so you decided to check the lower ones.

As you were crouched below the sink you heard a shuffling come from behind you.

You suspected it was just Ghost coming back down.

"Anything good?"

You ask still rummaging through a cabinet of cleaning supplies.

There was no answer.

A cold, wet, hand places itself on your shoulder. You turn, faced with the corpse of an old man. His bloodshot eyes and greying skin left your stomach in knots.

You let out a scream falling to the linoleum floor in panic, scrambling back away. You tried to grab the knife from your pocket but had no time before the man lunged forward his weight falling over you. You put your hands up defensively, pushing the man's shoulders back trying to keep him at least an arm's distance away from you.

He snarls, snapping his teeth at you, his limp body squirming over you.

You let out a frustrated cry, using all of your strength to keep the corpse at bay.

Heavy footsteps bolt down the stairs, Ghost, having heard the struggle, comes quickly to your aid. His eyes were dark and focused. He pulls the mall up by the back of his tattered tee-shirt sinking the blade of his knife directly into the corpse's skull.

The old man falls lifeless to the floor. His body hit the ground with a thud.

Your chest heaved as you attempted to calm your panic. Ghost seems irritated.

"Were you Bit?"

He asks. His eyes search your body for any signs of harm. You shake your head.

Ghost seems skeptical about your response for a moment but quickly accepts it.

"This is exactly why I can't keep you around. You're clumsy and unfocused. It's a wonder that you've lasted this long."

The anger is evident in his voice. As harsh as it was Ghost was right, you weren't cut out for survival. You had no skills, no strength, no awareness.

In your mind, you look for an escape from this reality. Which sooner or later will get you killed. You need to learn to stay present and be prepared. Ghost could be the one to teach you that.

"That's why I need us to stick together."

You explain. Ghost shakes his head in pure annoyance.

"Please! I won't make it out here without you. I will do whatever takes, I can do better, I will find a way to be useful."

Ghost can hear the desperation in your plea. Ghost had always been the lone wolf type. Especially throughout these past months.

He shakes his head in frustration giving you no verbal response. Before all this, Ghost made a living saving people, sacrificing for the greater good. Things were different now, so why did he still care so much?

The both of you had continued in silence. Searching the remaining houses in the neighborhood.

You were upstairs in a master bedroom. The room was nice and put together, almost like the couple who occupied it had just gone off to work for the afternoon.

It was hard not to imagine those things. What had happened to the people in these houses that day? Who were they? What was their daily life like and what were they doing when the outbreak started?

You took a breath and made your way to the bedside table. The drawer opened with ease, everything inside the drawer was clean and untouched, unlike the rest of the room which was coated in a light layer of dirt.

You shuffle through the pile of papers, not finding anything useful. You shut the drawer and sat on the edge of the bed. There was a photo on the nightstand of a man and a woman on their wedding day, looking lovingly into each other's eyes.

Ghost comes into the room,

"I found you a pistol. The noise would draw too much attention so, you should only use it in necessary situations."

You don't respond to Ghost. He waits a few moments before coming around the bed.

"Y/n?"

His voice was soft. He seemed concerned, which was strange considering how unemotional Ghost had seemed.

"Please,"

The words are hardly audible. You turn to face him eyes glassy with tears.

"Don't leave me to die."

Your voice cracks on the last word and the flood of fear and sadness wash over you. You had been referring to an earlier conversation with Ghost.

He watches you with a sigh as you sniffle, feeling guilty but, Ghost kept his ground. He hadn't begun the outbreak alone, and he wasn't going to be responsible for anyone else's safety again.

"Y/n, we talked about this. Once we are past the city, I will help you get settled and be on my way. If I was leaving you to die, I'd have taken off by now."

Each word built up the annoyance inside him. He was tired of arguing with you about it and felt he was being fair in helping you for these few days. Ghost didn't appreciate how guilty you had been making him feel when he was trying to do the right thing by preparing you for survival.

You shake your head and stand up. Up until this point you'd kept quiet hoping you could change his mind by obeying but, it was clear now he had no intention of budging. Ghost had made up his mind and it was starting to piss you off.

"You're pretending like you're doing me a favor when in reality, you're only helping yourself!"

Ghost's jaw clenched under the mask.

"You only got this far because I helped you." He retorts, "I could have let those men back there shoot you! Is that what you prefer? Being dead on the road?"

You cross your arm over your chest and roll your eyes looking up to the ceiling like a teenager being scolded by a parent.

Ghost scoffs at the child-like attitude.

"I am giving you a chance to live. Nobody in this world owes you a goddamn thing, I know I sure as hell don't. So, if you feel like this is a waste of your time then get through the city yourself."

You felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.

"W-what?"

Ghost eyes narrow.

"You heard me y/n. I'm done. I tried to be nice I tried to help you, and you have done nothing but be unappreciative. I was alone for a reason."

Ghost looks down at the pistol he had found, he clicks on the safety before tossing it on the bed beside you and turns to leave.

You watch in disbelief as he stomps out of the room and down the stairs.

The front door closed with a thud and panic ensued. You bolt to the bedroom window watching Ghost continue down the street.

Overwhelming fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, you hadn't felt like this since the outbreak began.

You were quick to pack up your things and pull your backpack over your shoulders.

Although it was rather useless to you, not having any knowledge of how to use it, you grabbed the pistol carrying it in your sweaty hand.

By the time you were out of the house and crossing the front lawn Ghost had already disappeared out of the neighborhood.

Your eyes darted around. Keeping on high alert, you began to walk down the street. You swapped the gun in your hand for the knife in your pocket as you continued, hoping to catch up with Ghost.

The fear made the situation feel surreal, you didn't want this to be happening, and you couldn't be alone again.

You hoped and prayed to any possible higher power that Ghost would change his mind, that he'd come back and apologize.

The sun was getting ready to set as you reached the outskirts of the city. It was apparent to you that it must be late afternoon by now and you hardly had a clue where to go from here. Without Ghost and his map, survival skills, and ability to navigate, you were sure you'd be dead by dusk.

You looked around for signs, anything that could tell you where you were or give you any sort of direction.

It seemed you were across from a shopping center, which you knew from any movies you'd seen of these types of survival situations, was a death wish. Yet so was the city. On foot at least, you figured a better bet would be the freeway.

You kept walking until you reached a freeway on-ramp. At this point, you'd accepted that Ghost was gone. It was impossible for you the assume which way he'd gone, where he'd stopped, and even if you could have guessed correctly what were the chances he'd still be there?

The freeway was surprisingly empty and quiet as you'd made it to the end of the ramp.

As you continued, your mind wandered to Ghost and the argument you'd had. You started to wonder if Ghost was right. Had you been that ungrateful? Were you anything more than a burden to him?

It wasn't long until you reached the long lines of abandoned cars. The eerie silence sent a shiver down your spine, you started to weave your way through the cars silently.

The area seemed to be safe. You glanced through widows as you passed hoping to find anything useful.

Finally, you stopped next to a smaller, silver car. Through the back window, you could see a couple of grocery bags. The front window was cracked, and you were able to push it down low enough to open the back door.

You sat on the edge of the seat and leaned in to search the bags. You were disgusted to see the rotten fruit and moldy loaf of bread but were relieved to find a few nonperishable items as well. You gathered what you could and continued looking.

The sun was almost set, and you had made it a few miles along. The lanes were still packed with abandoned cars.

With the sky getting dark you were getting nervous. The night would soon consume you leaving you in complete debilitating darkness. You had survived this way before, walking along roads allowing them to take you wherever they happened to end. But that had been then, in the rural parts of your small hometown. Where dangers were sparse and easily escapable.

You had been checking cars here and there for supplies as you moved forward. You had hoped by now you would find, at least, a better flashlight than the small one Ghost had given you but had no such luck.

Finally, you'd come across a pickup truck. It looked as if it had belonged to a company of some sort. In the back was a large toolbox.

You climbed up and over the tail end and into the bed of the truck. The toolbox was large and mounted onto the back end of the cab.

You lifted to heavy wooden lid and searched it.

With the last bits of remaining sunlight, you were able to make out the shape of a large hammer. Not the best weapon, but still infinitely more useful than a small knife.

Keeping the hammer in hand you pocket the knife and climb back out of the truck.

With darkness overtaking the road you decided it would be best to keep to the edge rather than in between the cars.

Your pace had become slower as you tried to keep as quiet as possible.

As you came to another passenger side window you could see the glistening of a flashlight on the dashboard. Your eyes widened, pulling at the handle frantically.

The door was locked. You slipped the hammer into your belt and walked around to the driver's side door. To your surprise, the driver's door opened with ease.

Unfortunately, the car alarm began blaring. Your heart pounded in your chest. Panicking you reached across the center console and grabbed the heavy metal flashlight.

You turned it on and searched the floorboards with the dim yellow light. There were no keys anywhere to be found.

You heard distant groans and snarls. If there was anything around right now, they were surely going to come directly to you.

You pulled yourself away from the driver's seat and began to run. Weaving again through cars. The dim flashlight hardly leads you through the road without tripping and bumping into the askew vehicles.

A corpse reached out to you from the back window of a car as you passed. Startled, you lost your balance and fell to the ground.

It fought its way out falling through the window and landing on the pavement beside you.

You reach up with a shaky hand feeling for the door handle of the car beside you. You swing the door open and climb into the back seat.

The door slams leaving the corpse to grasp desperately at the metal door with its bony fingers. Your chest heaves with panic but your feeling of safety is short-lived when a weak hiss comes from the driver's seat.

A skeletal hand reaches back between the front seats. You crawl to the other side and slide out of the car trying to steady yourself on your feet.

With the flashlight gripped tightly in your hand and the car alarm still blaring behind you, you continue to run. The weight of your backpack is starting to hurt your shoulders, but you push through the pain.

You fall to your knees, back pressed to a car. Your mind raced but you needed a plan. Where could you go from here?

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of gunshots ringing through the air. A part of you was grateful someone was here to help. The other part of you feared whoever it was and prayed that it was Ghost. Although, you knew that was unlikely.

The shots continued. You turned off the flashlight and kept crouched along the cars as you moved forward.

The shots ceased and moments later so did the alarm. You froze in place crouched against the hood of a van. Footsteps approached, the crunch of glass and gravel beneath a pair of heavy boots, getting closer and closer.

There was a snarling, then the squelching sound of a knife entering flesh.

"Shit!"

Exclaimed a man's voice. A body thudded to the pavement and the footsteps continued.

That voice wasn't Ghost.

A white light shines on the ground beside you and you know you'd been caught. Your breath was caught in your throat as a pair of boots stopped on the road beside you.

This was it.

PART 3 >>

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@itsthealice

#cod au #zombie apocalypse au #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod angst #cod x reader #cod fanfic #ghost x female reader #cod x female reader #cw: gore #zombie au #ghost au #mw2 fanfic #cod mw3 #alkaline writes #☑��mstlst

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fettuccinealfred0 · 9 months ago

Text

Til Death Do Us Part | Part 9

Series Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 12.5k

(CW: SMUT 18+, brief descriptions of gore, vampire biting/blood drinking, unprotected p in v sex, cunnilingus)

Summary:

“You turned me into a vampire?” You practically shriek at Astarion. You keep your palms pressed firmly into the ground, fighting against your instinct to immediately rip his throat out. It’s hard to restrain yourself. You feel like a wild animal.

There’s a flash of panic that passes over Astarion’s face before his brows knit together in confusion. “You’re angry?”

You huff out a humorless laugh, eyes turning up to the sky to check if this is some sort of cosmic joke. “Yes, I’m fucking angry, Astarion! What did you do to me? You killed me!”

“Raphael killed you!” He shoots back defensively. “You were dying! I didn’t have a choice.”

Read on ao3 here

You can’t focus on anything other than this hunger.

Oh. If this was how good blood tasted, how did Astarion ever manage to pull himself away from you?

You want to fall into him and drown. You want to devour him whole.

The aftertaste of his blood sticks heavy in your mouth when he finally tears his wrist free from your tight grasp. You need more. You never want to stop.

“More,” you croak out and your throat feels like it’s burning.

“There are bodies everywhere, my love. Take your pick,” Astarion says. You’re cradled in his arms, and you can’t even think to question how you got there because your entire being is consumed with this burning desire for blood.

After freeing yourself from Astarion’s arms, you crawl on your hands and knees to a downed guard a few feet away. He’s still alive, but barely. You can smell the blood pouring from the gaping wound on his thigh and can hear how it rushes under his skin. You salivate.

It’s too much work to pull off his gloves to get to his wrist, so you go straight for the gap between his helmet and his chest plate, digging your teeth into his neck. His blood is sweet and rich and so good that you can’t think straight.

The whole thing is messy and crude and violent. You can’t even bother to care right now.

You hear yourself let out an angry growl when you’ve drained that man. More, still more. You crawl a few feet to the next body on the floor. This one is dead and their blood is stale. And still, you drink until there is nothing left.

The more blood you consume, the more your mind clears and the sharper your senses become. Has the world always been so loud? So bright?

When you finish draining that man, still on your hands and knees on the floor, you look up to the rest of the group. You can feel the blood running down your chin and neck, staining the front of your dress. There’s blood all over you, in various stages of drying- the rusty tear tracks running down your face from the energy wave Raphael had unleashed, the thick clumps of your hair that are matted and still wet with blood from when your head had been bashed into the wall.

Everyone's faces are painted with varying shades of displeasure and horror. Shadowheart has big, sorrowful eyes and Wyll is looking down at you as if you were a rabid animal.

All except Astarion, who is kneeling on the ground and staring at you with a wide smile on his face, like this is the embodiment of his wildest dreams.

You had just died and he had the audacity to be happy about it?

You burn with an anger that doesn’t fully belong to you. It’s uncontrollable. You’re scared of yourself. Everything is too much; your emotions all feel too big.

What sort of monster had Astarion turned you into?

The two of you had agreed that you would get to decide when you were turned into a vampire- that you would pick when and how, and it would be a lovely memory that you would get to cherish forever.

This is most certainly not that.

“You turned me into a vampire?” You practically shriek at Astarion. You keep your palms pressed firmly into the ground, fighting back against your instinct to immediately rip his throat out. It’s hard to restrain yourself. You feel like a wild animal.

There’s a flash of panic that passes over Astarion’s face before his brows knit together in confusion. “You’re angry?”

You huff out a humorless laugh, eyes turning up to the sky to check if this is some sort of cosmic joke. “Yes, I’m fucking angry, Astarion! What did you do to me? You killed me!”

“Raphael killed you!” He shoots back defensively. “You were dying! I didn’t have a choice.”

There’s genuine sorrow in his voice as he practically pleads with you to understand. And you do. But there’s something itching at your throat and you just died and you’re angry and you’re upset.

It feels like you are watching yourself react, trapped away in a haze. There are tears rolling down your cheeks and desperate, heaving sobs choking their way up from your throat that have you curling in on yourself to weep. Astarion must have come to sit by you because you feel his hand run soothingly down your back. You wrench your body away from him.

You did not want comfort. Not now.

“You took away my choice, Astarion! Again!” You yell at him between your sobs, too aware of the way each tear feels as it rolls down your face. Everything was just too much. Everything felt wrong in your body. “My whole life, I knew I would have little control over who I married. But you took away the choice of whether I lived or died!”

“You were human, we would have gotten to this point eventually. We had already talked about turning you.” Astarion’s hands have fallen in his lap and he looks at you with such melancholy. It makes your skin itch, to think he pities you in your current state.

“It’s about autonomy, Astarion! It’s about choosing what happens to my body and when that happens. You of all people should understand that!”

If you were thinking clearly, you would never have brought up his past. The part of your mind that is still you and not this monstrous new version of yourself shatters as you watch his face scrunch in pain and anger.

“So, you’re allowed to always be angry at me, but I’m not supposed to have my own feelings?” Astarion asks. “I’m just supposed to immediately forgive you and forget the fact that you invaded my privacy by reading my diary? Am I not allowed to be scared after I just watched your skull practically shatter in front of me?”

He struggles in vain to steady the underlying shake in his voice. “Was I not supposed to do everything in my power to save you? Please, do not treat me like I have been completely unreasonable or like you have never done anything to hurt me. You know as well as I do that you would have made the same choice if I were the one lying in a pool of blood in front of you.”

And you simply sit there, powerless, as the person who knows you most intimately in the world calls your bluff.

He’s right. He has seen right through you in the way that only he can. You had made that same exact choice when he returned home from a previous trip with that gaping wound in his side. You had not thought, you had not hesitated when you cut your hand open and fed him your blood. In that moment, all that mattered was saving Astarion by any means necessary.

“Well, if you would have told me everything, we probably wouldn’t have even been in this mess in the first place, would we?” You shout back, trying to deflect from how Astarion had just exposed the flaws in your anger.

To be fair, only you can comprehend the full weight of your question. Astarion still doesn’t know that you have the final gem. Nevertheless, it rings true. The communication issues have compounded on themselves. If Astarion had let you help in his search, you would not have read his diary and he would not have sent you away to be kidnapped. And if you were not kidnapped, you would not have had to fight Raphael. You would still be alive.

Astarion’s crimson eyes flare with anger because he knows that you are right, too. You both just stare at each other, challenging the other to back down. In the background, you hear someone awkwardly clear their throat, but you and Astarion stay fixated on one another. Apparently, a side-effect of vampirism was unwavering focus.

You break first, though, when you begin to grow impatient.

“You say that you are not allowed to have your own feelings, but the minute you set your mind on something, my feelings on the subject become completely irrelevant. It’s all you, Astarion. It’s always about you and how you feel,” you snarl. “I have given you every opportunity to listen to me and to be honest with me and you have fought against me at every turn.”

Astarion opens his mouth like he is going to interrupt, but you cut him off.

“No. Even when you promised that you would tell the truth, you still carefully selected what insignificant information would placate me without giving me any of the meaningful details. How am I ever supposed to trust you if I doubt every word you say?”

“I have never once lied to you,” Astarion defends, his jaw locked tight.

“A lie by omission is still a lie. Evading my questions with half-truths is still half-lying,” you point out, “Astarion, I don’t know how I can be with you if you’re unable to understand why your actions hurt me.”

“Are you-” Astarion stumbles on his words, unable to even finish the thought. But his eyes betray him, asking are you done with me?

“No, never. I-” you cut yourself off, bringing your hands up to cover your eyes and block out all the too-bright lights. Have candles always burned so brightly? “I think you were right. I think we need some space so we can both process for a bit. I need time to be angry at you. I need time to adjust.”

“My love, I’m so sorry, but that can’t happen.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful. His hands wrap around your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from where they shield your eyes from the overwhelming, flickering candlelight. You can tell Astarion wants you to be looking at him while he speaks and his eyes are soft and round with concern. “You need me now more than ever. You’re going to be hungry, going to need to feed. There’s so much I need to teach you.”

“So you’re making this decision for me, too? That’s wonderful.” You rip your hands out of his grasp.

Why does he keep insisting on reaching out to touch you? Does he not see you struggling? Does he not remember how disorienting it was to first wake up all those years ago? You’re so aware of everything and it makes his touch against your skin practically hurt.

Some distant, detached part of your mind reminds you that he is probably looking to ground himself. Touching. Always touching. Astarion needed that comfort and you weren’t able to provide him with that right now.

You feel guilty and angry at yourself that you somehow keep hurting Astarion without even trying. You’re mourning your life and the loss of everything normal that you once knew. And you hadn’t even begun to fully process the fact that you had just killed people. It was all a blur when you had jammed your knife into Raphael’s throat but his blood was caking uncomfortably on your hands and that poor man who you had just drained on the floor might have been at the brink of death, but it was still you who killed him.

You lean over and throw up. Bile and congealed blood force their way up your throat and leave a dirty, metallic taste in your mouth. Astarion reaches out again, and this time you let him hold the hair away from your face as you vomit on the floor. Over the sounds of your sobbing and heaving, you faintly hear a discussion before everyone leaves the room.

And then, it is just you and Astarion and it’s finally quiet. Astarion whispers soothing words to you in a smooth, low voice that doesn’t make your eardrums feel like they’re splitting open inside your head.

When your sobs eventually diminish into little sniffles, Astarion lets go of your hair. He makes a motion like he’s going to stroke your face before he hesitates and pulls away.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly. “The transition can be… a lot. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. It’s been so long since I was turned.”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” you ask.

Astarion’s face falls. “Is that really what you want? I’ll leave if you tell me to.”

“No,” you say, almost immediately. You look at your hands in your lap, stained an ugly, rusted brown. Your first instinct isn’t repulsion, but rather that you want to bring them up to your mouth and lick them clean, even if the blood is stale and dry. You feel disgusted with yourself. “What happened to me?”

Astarion seems at a loss for words.

“I want to go home,” you say.

Let there be some comfort, some sense of familiarity, in this tidal wave of foreign sensations.

“We can’t yet,” Astarion says. His voice is so forlorn, as if it is hurting him to see you like this. “It’s about to be daybreak and we can’t travel in the sun.”

It’s yet another reminder of everything you have lost.

“Great, just what I needed,” you scoff.

“There’s an inn across the street. The others went over to get us rooms.”

So that’s where everybody else went. How long ago was that? How long had you been curled in on yourself on the floor, weeping and sick and desperately craving blood?

Astarion must have been trying to give you privacy. Even now, he was still taking care of you- allowing you to grieve without the other’s prying eyes and helping to take away some of the overwhelming stimulation in the room.

“I can go tell Shadowheart to prepare a bath for you, if you’d like me to?” Astarion asks, almost as if he can sense that you are getting lost in your own mind again. He offers you a little smile, “I find those help.”

Those words sounded so familiar… It takes you a moment to place that you had read them in his diary. Astarion had not meant his jab as a jab but it still makes you painfully, acutely aware of how cruelly you had betrayed his trust. You want to start sobbing again.

You simply nod at Astarion, accepting his offer, unable to find the words to say anything else. He seems reluctant to leave you, but he finally pushes himself up from the floor.

“I’ll be back in just a minute, okay?” His hand stretches out awkwardly between the two of you and when you don’t reach out to grab it, he drops it. With a shake of his head, he turns on his heel and leaves.

“Wait-” you call after him and Astarion turns to regard you curiously. You look down at your hands in your lap, feeling a bit silly that you don’t know the first thing about vampirism, despite all the months you spent married to one. “Will I need more blood? I don’t- how do I even know when I’m hungry? I don’t want to accidentally hurt someone.”

“You won’t, little flower, precisely because even now, in the peak of your bloodlust, you are still aware enough to worry about others.” Astarion’s eyes soften. “Though, it is probably a good idea for you to drink a bit more while I’m gone. Can you promise me that you’ll try?”

You nod and Astarion gives you one last fleeting smile before he is leaving the room.

And for a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself sit in nothing but darkness. You sit until you can no longer deny your unquenchable thirst. You don’t even need to look, don’t even need to open your eyes as you drag yourself to a new source of blood.

Only, when you open them again, you are met by Raphael’s cold, dead stare and the deep gash in his throat, nearly severing his head from his body. That is not an image you will ever forget. You fall backward on your hands in horror, trying to back away from him as quickly as possible.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you pull your knees into your chest. You are too aware of the devilish body sitting just a few feet away from you. Raphael’s face stays at the front of your mind. His eyes had not even been that different than when he was alive, looking at you with pure nothingness behind them, like you were so insignificant that you did not even deserve to be seen.

But you had promised Astarion that you would try to drink something and the idea of blood is slowly consuming you, pushing away that horrible image. You scan the room and find another dead guard to drain.

And you do feel marginally better after drinking some blood, so you finally pick yourself up off the ground. It feels too cold in the room. You hadn’t even realized that you were shivering.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the familiar shimmer of one of the green gems, still encased in glass on their pedestals, completely unharmed by the commotion.

You step closer to them, reaching out a hand to press against the glass covering. From this close, there’s no shred of doubt in your mind- your mother’s necklace had contained the final gem all this time. But why? How did she even get one?

It seems foolish to just leave them there when Raphael had gone through so much trouble to find them. Lifting up the covers, you slide the gems off their pedestals. You’ve just tucked them into your skirt when Astarion’s voice surprises you.

“Are you ready, darling?”

You try to gauge whether Astarion had caught you slipping the gems into your pocket, but he simply leans against the doorframe on the other side of the room.

When you come to stand a few steps in front of him, Astarion asks,“Did you treat yourself to a snack while I was gone?”

You nod but you can’t help the way your gaze darts nervously over to Raphael’s body at the mention of a ‘snack.’ His dead eyes feel like they have followed you as you walked across the room.

“Oh,” Astarion’s smile drops instantly. He holds his hand out to you. “Come, let’s leave. We never have to look at him again.”

You know Astarion means to be reassuring but you fear the image of Raphael’s cold, dead face has been burned into your retinas.

Attempting to clear your mind, you give your head a little shake and take a deep breath before reaching your hand out to grab Astarion’s. You do not miss the subtle way he squeezes your fingers, as if he is afraid that you will drop his hand again.

When you finally leave the room, it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. With your hands laced, you let Astarion lead you through the maze of Raphael’s house to the inn across the street, where a warm bath is waiting for you. Astarion shows you to a room. Shadowheart is there and when she sees you, she gives you the same melancholic little smile that had been painted on Astarion’s own face all night and it makes you want to roll your eyes in disgust. How long would everyone insist on treating you like you were made of glass?

“You’ll tell me if you need anything?” Astarion asks. He’s trying to keep his voice measured but there is a pleading, desperate undertone. You know he is only trying to help, but that is of little comfort to you right now. You just need time by yourself.

You nod stiffly at him and he awkwardly clears his throat, finally dropping your hand.

“I love-”

“Don’t,” you cut Astarion off. “Please, don’t do that to me right now.”

Astarion’s brow creases in displeasure and he turns on his heel to leave immediately. You stare after him, watching his figure retreat to the room next to yours. He shuts the door with an angry slam.

Where there would normally be a heavy ache in your chest, there is nothing. Just a deep dread settling in your stomach.

When you close the door to your own room, Shadowheart’s back is turned. Seizing your opportunity, you quietly tuck the gems into a drawer in a dresser. You aren’t entirely sure what possesses you to keep them a secret, but after so long of being kept in the dark by Astarion, it’s only fair you get to have a secret of your own for a while.

Shadowheart helps you peel off your dress, which is stiff and hard where the blood has dried into the fabric.

“I sent Gale into the city to get us all new clothes. I fear this dress is beyond repair,” Shadowheart says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Hopefully, he’ll come back with something at least somewhat presentable for you to wear on the ride back. You never know though. It is Gale, after all. He only ever wears purple.”

There’s a small smile on her face and you can tell she is trying to raise your spirits. It was usually easy to goad you into poking fun at Gale. But this time, you just hum in response. The idea of laughter seems too foreign, too impossible right now.

In the tub, you let her scrub the dried blood off your skin as you numbly stare ahead at the wall. The water surrounding you turns an unpleasant shade of red.

After your skin has been cleaned, Shadowheart gives you a towel and instructs you to stand behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. She calls upon some of the workers from the inn and they refill the tub with fresh, clear water.

You climb back and sink into the warm water, watching the steam curl around the edges of the tub. Shadowheart lets you sit there as long as you want and you stay until long after the water has grown cold and started to make you shiver.

Shadowheart helps you into the dress Gale brought back from the city (which is indeed a rich, deep purple). You’re too aware of the way the once-soft velvet scratches uncomfortably against the skin of your arms.

It’s only after you’ve dressed and Shadowheart has put your hair into a simple braid down your back that you pass by a mirror. You don’t see yourself. Immediately, you try to conjure the last glimpse of yourself that you had gotten in the mirror before you left on your trip. Even then, the image in your mind is fuzzy- you had not been paying attention to details. You had not known it would be the last time you would ever see yourself.

Tears begin welling up in your eyes again.

“Let’s just cover that, why don’t we?” Shadowheart says, turning the mirror around to face the wall.

You spend the rest of the afternoon just sitting in your room in the inn with the curtains drawn and the lights all turned off. It should be silent and dark. It isn’t. Somehow, your new senses cause you to hear every creak and groan of the building. You can hear the mice in the walls, smell the blood of all the other bodies moving in the building.

How did Astarion manage to live like this?

Eventually, Shadowheart knocks on your door to let you know the sun has set and it is time to leave. You follow her outside, down the cobblestone streets of the city to a stable on the outskirts of town.

Everyone else is standing together. They all look better- washed and free of grime and dressed in fresh clothes. You would almost be relieved to see them if they didn’t all immediately fall quiet in your presence. It makes you feel murderous.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better.” Halsin breaks the silence with a friendly smile.

“I may look like it, but I certainly don’t feel better,” you hiss back, even though you know Halsin does not deserve your anger. “Just because I am no longer vomiting blood on the floor doesn’t mean that I’m not in constant agony.”

Everyone’s eyes dart around nervously, like they’re unsure what to say in such an awkward situation.

Astarion laughs, with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, stop being melodramatic, you’re perfectly fine. You’re adjusting.”

Of course, Astarion looks beautiful in the moonlight. His hair is silver and incandescent, shining brightly against his dark, black coat.

“You don’t get to tell me how I feel!” You snap at him, crossing your arms over your chest in defiance.

“So, what?” Astarion asks you. “You’re just going to keep behaving like a-”

“Ehem,” Gale interrupts. “Not that… this isn’t fun to watch and all, but we need to leave if we want to make it back by sunrise.”

You and Astarion lock heated gazed for a moment longer before you’re shoving past him to the rest of the group. Everyone else is standing next to horses, which have been saddled and prepared for the ride back to the Ancunin manor.

“Horses,” you say, a bit surprised.

“They were quicker than carriages,” Astarion answers, coming to stand by your side. His gloved hand brushes against your own for just a moment. “I wasn’t about to leave you with that vile man a second longer than was necessary.”

“There’s not enough of them for me or Shadowheart to have our own,” you observe.

“You’ll ride with me and she can ride with Lae’zel,” Astarion says, as if the answer was so obvious.

“No, I will not be riding with you!” You look at Astarion, incredulous. “You’re not allowed to make decisions for me anymore.”

Since Shadowheart already has a riding partner, you turn to your next closest friend, Halsin. “Can I ride with you?”

To put it bluntly- you’ve never seen cool, collected, go-with-the-flow Halsin look more uncomfortable and unsure in his life. He obviously doesn’t want to be in the middle of your and Astarion’s argument. Astarion is glaring daggers at Halsin. That selfish, monstrous part of you which has grown louder since your turning feels a bit vindicated that Astarion is jealous.

Halsin clears his throat nervously. “I’m truly sorry, my lady, but propriety dictates that you can’t ride with a man that’s not your husband.”

Of course. Silly you, thinking that a friend would be willing to help you in your time of need. Could this day get any worse?

You turn to your backup plan- the only other woman who does not already have a riding partner.

“Karlach, please.”

“Not a good idea.” Astarion interrupts. “We don’t know if you can control your bloodlust, darling. I’m the only person here you can’t hurt.”

Selfish bastard. Why does he now suddenly feel the need to control even the most minute details of your life, like who you ride on a horse with? Does he no longer love you enough to offer you this small sense of comfort in what has been an obviously distressing time?

“Please,” you ignore him, begging Karlach again.

“Alright,” she agrees warily. “But if I catch you staring at my neck for too long, you have to get on with him.”

“Deal,” you say, reaching out to shake her hand.

Which, maybe, is not the most sensitive thing to do the day after you had just resolved Astarion’s deal with a devil. He shoots you an annoyed look.

The first half of the ride is quiet and contemplative. Every time you turn to look, Astarion’s eyes are already on you and he’s got this distant, faraway look that tells you he’s a bit too lost in his thoughts. You can feel everyone else watching you carefully, as well, like you are a ticking time bomb bound to explode at any moment.

It does not occur to you until hours into your journey that perhaps Astarion had been so insistent on you riding with him because he is worried that you are going to leave him the moment that you get home. In his mind, perhaps he was simply trying to spend one last moment with you. Perhaps he even believed he could convince you to stay. It was just the kind of foolishly insecure thing that Astarion would think. He should know better by now- you were not so easy to chase off, even if you had complicated feelings about him at the moment.

And the ride continues in silence until eventually, Karlach nearly bursts with the need to talk. The two of you start chatting, with others joining in occasionally. Everyone seems to start relaxing around you, now that you have proven that you are not completely feral.

Ultimately, the ride home is uneventful. Karlach talks and by the end, her mood is so infectious that she even gets you to laugh a couple times. You’re so grateful for her humor, it was just the amount of levity you needed.

You’re sure that you’ve never been more happy to be home before and you're desperate to be inside. As you walk from the stables back toward the manor, you find yourself fantasizing about how wonderful it will feel to lie down on your bed, even if you don’t need sleep anymore.

Lifting your foot, you move to step over the entryway. Except, you’re stuck. It’s as if there’s some sort of invisible wall barring you from entry.

Of course, because vampires can’t enter a residence without permission.

Astarion’s got a little smirk on his face as he stands in the hallway, looking back at you stuck outside.

“I’m waiting for you to ask nicely, little flower,” he teases.

“Can I come inside?” You spit out through gritted teeth.

Astarion looks like he’s considering it for a minute before he frowns. “Not nice enough, try again.”

“Oh, beloved husband, can I please come into our house?” You ask, voice dripping with sarcasm. But you plaster a sweet smile on your face at the end and Astarion seems to have had his fun with you, anyway.

“Welcome home, darling. Please, do come inside. You’re keeping everyone waiting,” Astarion says, sweeping into an overdramatic, elegant bow.

You make sure to shove his shoulder with your own when you pass him.

Shadowheart has already drawn the heavy curtains for you when you enter your room.

The first thing you do is carefully tuck the gems away in the hollowed out book on your bookshelf. You could deal with that problem later. For now, it was time to wallow.

For hours, you lie in bed, staring up at the mahogany panel on top of your four poster bed. It all feels wrong. You’re so tired, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t will your body to sleep. You wish you had some book, like Essential Knowledge on Being a Vampire, to teach you how to solve this issue.

Later that evening, there’s a knock on your door and you open it to find Astarion.

“I have something for you,” he says, producing a jar of sloshy red liquid from behind his back.

“It’s not fresh,” you say with a twinge of disappointment.

“You’re too spoiled, pet.” Astarion laughs. “I lived on nothing but rats and bugs for 200 years. I assure you, many vampires would kill for stale human blood.”

You pout, hoping that trick still works and Astarion will give in to you. “Why can’t you just call up one of your snacks for me? Why do I have to drink it like this?”

“Now, now, darling,” Astarion reprimands you as he finally steps past you into your bedroom. “It took me a very long time to curate such a wonderful collection of vintages. The last thing I need is for you to drain one of them dry and scare the rest off.”

“So, I’m stuck with that then?” You ask, pointing to the jar of blood in his hand.

“Or drinking from me,” Astarion shoots you a flirty wink. “I’m more than happy to drink enough to sustain the both of us.”

That hungry, lustful part of you runs wild with the idea. You and Astarion could spend your nights wrapped together again, but now it would not just be him biting you. Now, you could bite back. You could finally taste him.

But that doesn’t seem like a good idea with the current state of your marriage- it would just add confusion and more unnecessarily complicated emotions.

“I don’t want anything else from you, Astarion.” Your harsh words aren’t filled with the normal tenacity behind them.

It’s all too much, the constant smells and having to hold yourself back from sinking your teeth into everyone around you. You collapse into a chair in the corner of your room.

“I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep,” you confess in a quiet voice.

You know Astarion heard you. Now that you are a vampire, you understand the sensitivity of vampiric hearing.

Astarion places the jar of blood on the table next to you. You’re reminded of so long ago, that first day you were here, when Astarion kept sending you food even though you were determined not to eat. He was too good at this- at caring for you even when you were determined to be difficult.

“That comes with time,” Astarion assures you, sinking to his knees in front of where you sit. He looks unsure for a moment before he reaches out, grabbing your hands in his own and pulling your attention to him. “I know that you’re stubborn and impatient and you just want everything to go back to normal, but things have changed. It will take time. I have learned the hard way that you cannot just rush past all the hardships in life, no matter how desperately you wish to.”

Astarion’s thumb traces soothing circles on your hand as he continues speaking, “We’re both here and we’re both safe. And I know you need time to be angry at me. And though I know I will forgive you, I’m still hurt by your invasion of my privacy. So… let’s just… spend some time apart. And know that whenever you decide you’re ready, I’ll be waiting for you, okay?”

Astarion reaches out, ghosting his thumb along your cheek as the corner of his mouth quirks up in a half smile. “And don’t rush, we have all the time in the world, my love.”

You nod, unable to speak in fear that tears will start welling up in your eyes again. Gods, was this some sort of horrible symptom of vampirism that you just kept crying all the time? If so, you need to figure out how to deal with that quickly, because these constant tears were a nuisance.

Astarion gives your hand a little squeeze before he’s rising from where he kneels on the floor, turning to leave your room.

“I- thank you, Astarion,” you say when he’s in the doorway. He pauses but doesn’t peek over his shoulder to look back at you, as if he knows that will cause you to lose the nerve to continue speaking. “I don’t say that to you often enough, but know that I am very grateful for all that you’ve done for me.”

—------------

The next evening, there’s another gentle knock on your door but no one is there when you open it. The only thing you see is a leatherbound book propped up next to your door.

It looks remarkably similar to Astarion’s diary and it must have been left by him, but there was no way he was just… giving you his diary, right? Not when it was still such a sore subject between the two of you.

What, was this some sort of weird way to test your loyalty?

You debate whether you should ignore the gift completely but as usual, your curiosity gets the better of you. After grabbing the book, you curl up on your bed and open the front cover.

The first thing you see is your name, your actual name, which Astarion called you so rarely. It’s written in his beautiful, looping cursive and it nearly pulls the breath from your lungs when you see it.

Underneath your name, the first page is a letter to you.

My dear wife,

I know that you are inquisitive by nature and I am sure you are filled to the brim with questions about being a vampire. It seems unfair of me to turn you into one and then send you off into the metaphorical dark, so I thought I might offer you some advice. As you have learned, I have grown to find writing rather cathartic, so I thought it fitting to write to you about my own experiences as a vampire. I hope this will help ease your transition.

Please, forgive me if I have forgotten anything. I have tried hard to think of everything you might ask and I like to think that I know you very well, but I am not nearly as creative in my curiosity as you are.

With all that I am, know that I love you.

Your husband,

Astarion

When you turn to the next page, a loose sheet of folded paper flutters out. There are only two sentences scribbled hastily on the paper.

I told you I would give you your space. I intend to honor that promise.

Oh, how unexpected and perfectly timed. Just yesterday, you had been wishing for a book exactly like this. It was as if your husband, Astarion, had read your mind.

Your insides feel warm and fuzzy as you hold the book to the chest, over the spot where your heart used to beat. For the first time in a long time, you have hope that everything will be okay again, that your anger will fade and love will bloom in its place, a love that was far more radiant than ever before.

—------------

Slowly, you lose track of time. You spend a little time feeling sorry for yourself and a little time feeling sad. But mostly, you spend a lot of time not really feeling anything at all. There’s just numbness and staring at the hypnotic, swirling patterns of the wallpaper in your bedroom.

Time moves. You don’t.

You feel dead. Guess that makes sense.

You settle into a new routine. Sometimes, you and Astarion bump into each other around the manor and you’re both cordial and polite, scared of intruding in the other’s space.

You miss him. You spend your evenings rereading the book he had written for you, tracing your fingers over his lovely handwriting. But at times, the anger inside you still flickers back to life. You do not dare to approach Astarion until you are sure the flames of anger within you are long dead.

“You know, he could have turned you into a spawn,” Shadowheart says one day. It’s enough to finally shock you out of the monotonous routine of self-pity that you had found yourself in.

“What’s the difference?” You scoff.

You were faintly aware of the difference between true vampires and spawn but the subject had not been discussed in any great detail in the book Astarion had written for you. You know this is due to the traumatic nature of his own life when he was a spawn.

“He gave you his blood,” Shadowheart answers. “You’re a full and true vampire. You aren’t bound to serve him; you aren’t forced to obey his commands.”

Shadowheart is purposefully avoiding your eyes while she continues to braid your hair.

“You know, I thought he was going to make you a spawn,” she says. “Trust me, I’m happy that he made the right choice and didn’t. But for a second, it really looked like he was considering…” She trails off and sighs. “Well, I guess I didn’t think he would be able to resist guaranteeing that you could never leave him.”

“Why are you bringing this up now?” You ask. “Are you just trying to point out that my life isn’t as bad as it could be?”

“No, stop being difficult,” Shadowheart punctuates her statement with a tug on your hair that is a bit rougher than what is necessary. “I’m just trying to paint a full picture for you. What you do with that information is up to you.”

She falls into a contemplative silence for a moment before she finally says, “Though, it is rather annoying when the two of you are fighting. I have to go out of my way to avoid two places. When you’re together, I only have to avoid one room.”

You roll your eyes at her comment.

“Something still feels wrong,” you confess. “It still feels like he’s controlling every aspect of my life. He decided we would be married. He decided that I was not allowed to know any details of his past or about his deal with Raphael. He was the one who decided that we would go on the trip which got us kidnapped. He decided to turn me into a vampire. He confined me to this house and made me a prisoner of the sun.”

Shadowheart sighs. “Have you tried telling him any of this? Tried explaining how you’re feeling? Have you asked him what he’s been thinking and feeling?”

“I already made it perfectly clear what I think.”

“No, you yelled at him,” Shadowheart says. She finishes braiding your hair and moves to lean against the vanity to look down at you.

“How do I explain…” She looks off into space as she thinks for a moment before she turns back to you. “Look, Astarion has had a long and traumatic life. Have you really not noticed how he shuts down when people raise their voices around him? Same as how you start spewing insults you don’t always mean. You fight, he flees. Neither of you are capable of listening to the other in that sort of state.”

Damn her. That’s a good point. When did she have time to notice all this about the two of you?

The realization washes over you like a wave- for all your anger about Astarion never listening to you, you had neglected to see that you had been ignoring Astarion’s needs, as well.

This intervention from Shadowheart was good. This was what you needed- someone to shake you awake from the haze you had been trapped in so you could finally see all the damage you were causing.

“Oh gods, I’m a horrible person, aren’t I?” you groan, letting your head fall into your hands. “I’ve been a terrible wife.”

You hear Shadowheart’s twinkly laugh and her voice is amused. “Stop being so dramatic all the time. You’re just as bad as Astarion.”

You shoot her a look of warning between the fingers covering your face, even if you secretly relish the fact that she brought up your and Astarion’s similarities.

“And you’re not a horrible person.” She pats your back in a comforting, reassuring motion. “You’ve been through a lot of very big life changes in the last year. You’re adapting. You’re learning. And I wouldn’t even say you’ve been too harsh on Astarion. He can get a bit too full of himself. He needs someone like you to keep his head screwed on. The two of you just need to talk and actually listen to one another for once.”

“You’re strangely wise, when you want to be,” you tell her.

She shrugs, but you see her smile.

—-----------

Astarion’s faces away from the door when you approach the study, focused on the stack of books next to him. For a moment, you silently watch him hunt along the different rows in the bookshelf before he places a book and grabs a new one from the stack. He must be reorganizing.

You reach out and knock on the door to draw his attention.

“You don’t need to knock if the door is open, Gale,” Astarion says, annoyed. He doesn’t even bother to turn around.

“Oh, I- I’m not Gale,” you stutter out nervously. You fear that he will be disappointed when he sees you- that the beautiful smile that used to light up his face whenever you entered the room will be gone.

But instead, Astarion’s head whips around to look at you. He nearly drops the book that he’s holding, but he manages to catch it before it clatters to the floor. It’s a clumsiness that is so uncharacteristic of Astarion, who always moves so gracefully and elegantly. You have to hide your smile.

Here’s this man, this vampire- so powerful and so strong- and your mere presence makes him so nervous that he nearly drops everything he is holding.

“And thank the gods for that. One Gale is already bad enough,” Astarion jokes and you manage a soft laugh at that. The smile on his face is lovely and you’re struck by the urge to just stand and watch him for hours, to study him how you used to. He tilts his head a bit to the side, in question. “What are you doing here? I thought you still weren’t speaking with me.”

“I came to apologize,” you tell him.

“Whatever for? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well, that’s not true at all. I’ve done plenty wrong. And I’ve actually been a bit of a tyrant as of late.” You laugh, though you are sure Astarion made his comment earnestly. You were starting to realize that he viewed you as far more infallible than you actually are.

“You’ve been going through a big change,” Astarion continues to defend your actions.

“Please, don’t make excuses for my bad behavior. Will you just hear me out for a couple minutes?” you ask. “After, you can tell me to leave or stay or say whatever you’d like but right now, I need you to be quiet and let me speak, okay?”

Astarion nods.

You take a deep breath and ready yourself for the speech you had prepared in your head. You had been working on it for the greater part of a day, trying to sort through your thoughts and figure out how to vocalize everything in a way that could be easily understood. You had even forced Shadowheart to listen to you practice it earlier, though she was a rather unwilling participant.

“First of all,” you begin. “I’m sorry I read your diary and I’m sorry I haven’t given you a heartfelt apology yet. That diary was yours and I know that I never should have touched it. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. And I kept giving excuses to justify my actions rather than actually apologize, but I fully recognize that any frustration I felt about you not being upfront with me never warranted invading your privacy. I truly, sincerely apologize. It will never happen again.”

Astarion surveys you curiously, though his face remains soft and open. It’s a good sign, at least, that he seems receptive to your apology.

You continue speaking. “And when you confronted me, rightfully angry, I got upset and yelled at you because I felt guilty. I need to stop doing that- I need to learn to take a break when I feel myself getting upset. I know that I can be mean when I’m provoked and I lash out and hurt other people. It happened when you tried to distance yourself from me, it happened when you found me with your diary, and it happened again right after you turned me.”

“I won’t apologize for what I said after you turned me. I stand by all that. I’m allowed to be frustrated and angry at the world. But I am sorry that I took that frustration out on you. That wasn’t fair of me.” You can feel yourself growing more and more impassioned the longer you speak, so you try to tamper yourself down to a calmer level.

“I promise that I am going to do better at listening to you Astarion, but I need you to promise me that you will do the same. I need to see changes,” you implore. “I feel like I have made it perfectly clear by now, but let me be overly explicit for a final time- I don’t like when you make my decisions for me. I know that it is supposed to be my place as a woman to defer to your judgment, but frankly, I think that’s stupid.”

The corner of Astarion’s mouth tilts up in a grin- he always did love your pluckiness.

You feel a phantom heart beating in your chest as you continue speaking. “I have a mind and a will of my own and it is unfair to make me do things that I don’t want to do. A part of me will always be sad that I wasn’t able to enter into our marriage or choose to be a vampire of my own free will. I don’t want my memories of you to be tainted by that. I value and respect your opinion, but please, trust me to be the one to make my own choices from now on.”

“And lastly, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You look up to the ceiling, trying to force down the tears that you feel brimming in your eyes. This was the part of your speech you had been dreading the most, the part that you had not rehearsed with Shadowheart because it felt too personal. But if you had ever inadvertently contributed to Astarion’s pain by being too forward in your intimacy, you needed to apologize to him. “It’s not a valid excuse but I didn’t know about your past, Astarion. You have to believe me. I know that I probably pressured you into uncomfortable situations because I was so insistent. Please know that there will never be enough words to tell you how sorry I truly am.”

“And… I miss you, Star. I can’t tell you how many times I've reread the note at the beginning of the book you gave me. I think I practically have it memorized at this point.” You breathe out a shaky laugh. “Okay, that’s… I think that’s everything I wanted to say.”

You pull your gaze back down from the ceiling to gauge Astarion’s reaction. He just looks stunned. Which is fair, you did just dump a lot on him.

And then Astarion just keeps staring at you, like you have broken his brain completely. The longer you wait, the more nervous you get and eventually, you have to close your eyes, terrified of the rejection that you are certain is coming. You can feel yourself start to panic a bit as you prepare for Astarion to tell you to get out and how could he ever love someone as weak and stupid as you?

Instead, you feel his arms wrapping around you. You cling to him, burying your face in his chest and letting the tears that had been building finally leak out.

He’s so much warmer than you remember.

Astarion tilts your chin up so he can look at you and he brushes away the tears that have fallen down your cheeks.

“I don’t know where to start,” Astarion says, at a loss for words. He gives you a sweet smile. “For what it’s worth, I already forgave you long ago for reading my diary.”

The crushing weight that had been sitting on your chest for so long finally lessens. You feel so light now that you can breathe again.

Astarion’s thumb continues tracing along your cheek and his eyes watch the motion, rather than stare into your own. You are too familiar with the fact that it can be easier to get your feelings out without the pressure of eye contact.

“I see now that I was wrong, too. I’m sorry that I didn’t fully trust you. It’s just-” Astarion huffs and his brow furrows, “How do I explain this? You saw me as the man I am now, detached from all my trauma and background, and you loved that person. And for so long, I was scared that if I admitted my past to you, you would no longer see me as the man you knew and loved. I didn’t want to ruin the illusion for you. I realize now that I was mistaken.”

You’re stunned, partially because Astarion just admitted he was wrong and that was a minor miracle in itself. But also, you had never considered that Astarion might have been afraid that his past would make you see him differently.

And you do, but not in any way that matters. He just feels like a more complete person now. All those little reactions and details you could never place finally make sense.

Astarion wipes away another stray tear rolling down your cheek. “And I need you to trust me, little flower. I need you to hear me when I say that I love you and I want you. I like having sex with you. Believe me, I don’t do anything that I don’t want to anymore. I’m past that point in my life.”

And with his words, Astarion continues to quell any shadows or doubts in your mind. It feels wonderful to finally speak so freely with each other.

“And now, it’s my turn to apologize,” he says. “You’re right. I haven’t been listening to you. Throughout our whole marriage, you’ve basically been shouting from the rooftops that all you wanted was to make your own choices and I kept making them for you in fear that you might choose to leave me. That’s not fair of me, either- I need to trust that if you love me as much as you say that you will choose me.”

Astarion pauses, sighing gently, “And I’m sorry for the circumstances surrounding your death but I won’t apologize for the outcome. You know that I am a deeply selfish man. I wasn’t going to lose you- not now and not ever. I will not apologize for what is done, only that my actions have caused you pain. I know nothing I can say will make this… right. And it probably wouldn’t help you feel better, anyway. But know that I am here with you, every step of the way; as a mentor, as a friend, as a lover. However you want me, you have me.”

“What about as a husband?” You tease.

“Well, that can certainly be arranged,” Astarion says as a devilish grin splits across his face.

“I love you,” you tell him. “Thank you for waiting for me. Ever since you caught me with your diary, all I’ve wanted is to go back to how it was before.”

“I don’t think we ever will be able to go back to how it was before,” Astarion says, and his words fill you with a deep sadness. Your face falls but Astarion is still smiling. A real one, not a performative one. “It will be better this time; we’ll be true equals.”

“Equals. I like that.” You smile back at him. His knuckles stroke lovingly along your jaw.

“And now I should probably tell you that I actually kind of like that you get a bit nasty when you’re angry,” Astarion says with one of those smirks that makes you want to get into all sorts of trouble with him. “Maybe just direct that at other people in the future.”

You laugh. “Just point and I shall destroy your enemies with my vicious mockery.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, please.” He giggles in delight. “That sounds wonderfully entertaining.”

And it feels so good now that everything is out in the open. Like you and Astarion are truly seeing each other for the first time as you embrace, grinning like love-struck fools.

“How have you been?” Astarion interrupts the moment, his voice turning more serious. “I feel like I’ve hardly seen you.”

“Um, it could be worse, I guess? I could be dead.”

Astarion frowns at your joke. Note to self- don’t joke about your death with Astarion.

But you’re not sure how exactly to explain the fog that it feels like you’ve been trapped in for the past… Actually, you don’t even know how long it’s been since you’ve been turned. You lost track of time. Has it been weeks? Months?

Now doesn’t feel like the time to unload all that on Astarion. You had just gotten him back, you weren’t about to go chasing him away again with new issues. You would wait until later. Maybe even bringing it up as you cuddle in bed so you do not have to watch how his pretty face twists with worry at your confession.

You deflect by turning the attention back to him. “Thank you for all that you’ve done for me. You must have been pretty busy trying to get all that blood for me.”

For a moment, Astarion looks like he wants to pry into what’s on your mind, but he resists. It was time to trust each other and that involved having faith that the other person would bring up issues when the time felt right for them.

“Ugh, you don’t even know, pet. It’s more work than I’ve done in years,” Astarion complains. “I have to think about what I want and then go and ask Gale for it and that always takes forever. I was made for looking pretty, not for organizing blood draws.”

You giggle at his theatrics. “Well, if you’re going to be so dramatic about it, I’ll go offer my thanks to Gale instead.”

You move to pull away from Astarion but he catches your wrist and pulls you tighter against his chest.

“Don’t you dare.”

Is this Astarion initiating?

He’s looking at you with hungry, red eyes and the way his hand rests just a bit too low on your back isn’t entirely innocent.

You chew on your lip, debating in your mind whether you should just lean forward and kiss Astarion. You haven’t fully adjusted to the new sharp fangs inside your mouth and you found yourself forgetting them constantly. You let out a little hiss at your mistake and your finger comes up instinctually to dab away the bead of blood from your lip.

You stare at the drop on your finger, entranced, former train of thought completely lost. The room fades away and for a moment, there’s only blood.

And then, Astarion reaches out to grab your wrist and he sucks your finger into his mouth with a moan that should send him straight to the hells. Your brain goes blank, yet again, as you watch how he slides your finger out his mouth, never breaking eye contact with you.

Your whole body feels like a live wire. Reaching out, you tug Astarion down by the back of his neck to press your lips against his. You had been without him for so long and now, you’re ravenous.

This isn’t one of those sweet, loving kisses that you and Astarion share so often. There is nothing loving about this kiss- only hunger. As if you can make up for lost time by consuming one another whole.

Your lips crash against his, two sets of fangs ripping and tearing into one another’s skin. There’s blood everywhere- coating your lips and electrifying your taste buds and trickling down your chin.

And just for a second, you hesitate. Did he want this? You hadn’t checked. You had pulled him down and kissed him and, sure, he had kissed you back, but that doesn’t mean he wants more. Despite his words earlier ensuring you that he enjoys physical intimacy with you, your doubts are still present. You aren’t sure how to act anymore.

Astarion, sensing your moment of hesitation, pulls away immediately.

His voice is low and hoarse. “What’s wrong?”

You try to find the right words. “I just- I’m sorry. I should have asked. Did you want me to kiss you?”

Astarion chuckles. “I always want you to kiss me. But please, no doubts, my love. I promise I’ll tell you if I don’t want to do something. But this-” His hand traces along the curve of your ass as he moves his lips down to brush against yours, “this is me initiating. Trust me, I’m nearly out of my mind with how badly I want you.”

His words send a shock straight to your cunt.

“Get back here, then,” you practically growl, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt.

Your lips collide again and the world closes in around you- there is nothing but you and Astarion and this impossible need to be closer. You can’t think past the hunger itching at the back of your throat and the molten fire pooling in your cunt.

You urge Astarion backward until his back is pressed against the bookshelf. You must overestimate your own vampiric strength because a few books are knocked off the shelf and Astarion lets out a little exhale of ‘oof.’

“Sorry,” you apologize into his mouth, not bothering to fully separate your lips from his.

“Don’t be, pet,” he says in a breathy pant. “I like when you lose control.”

Fuck, you need to lose control more often if it makes Astarion talk like that.

Your hands move down, untucking Astarion’s shirt from his trousers and you ghost your fingers over his abdomen. It’s still shocking how warm his skin feels now that you have become a vampire. You had grown so used to the cold.

Astarion separates his lips from yours only long enough to pull his shirt up over his head and throw it somewhere in the room.

There are hands everywhere. Your hands move down the planes of Astarion’s chest, continuing downward to trace over the outline of his cock hardening in his pants. And his hands pull you so tightly against him- one follows the curves of your body and the other comes up to thread through your hair. He gently tugs at the roots, tilting your head back to give himself easier access to lick into your mouth.

Eventually, you part from his lips and they’re all swollen and bloody and wet. His beauty will always stun you.

Gods, and how does he smell even better now?

You run your nose along the column of his throat. There’s bergamot and rosemary and underneath that, the intoxicating scent of the blood sitting still in his veins. He must have fed recently. You can’t even bother to be jealous that someone else got to experience the ecstasy of Astarion drinking from them because he smells so good.

“Go on, little love. You can have a taste,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. He’s a bit breathless, as if he can’t contain his excitement at the idea.

You take his permission and bite into Astarion’s skin, careful to pick a spot far away from the twin scars on his neck. This was meant to be a new memory, separated literally and metaphorically from the struggles of his past.

His blood is so fresh after so much time of only drinking blood from the jars stored in the cellars. Astarion lets you swallow a few mouthfuls before he guides you back up, crashing his mouth against yours again and chasing after the taste of himself in your mouth.

Astarion continues kissing you, but he presses forward, forcing you backward until your back hits the edge of his desk. You raise your hips to sit at the edge, widening your legs so he can slide between them.

He fiddles with the buttons on the back of your dress while he continues to kiss you senseless and you sigh into his mouth, picturing his wonderful hands at work.

“There’s too many-” Astarion cuts himself off with a growl and you hear a sharp ripping noise as he tears open the back of your dress. “Too many buttons.”

“I liked this dress,” you huff and Astarion leans down to press a kiss to your collarbone in apology as he begins bunching up your skirts.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, as he helps pull your dress over your head. He presses his lips to yours again, slow and sweet and a complete shift in tone. He leans his forehead against yours, “I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

It’s a sweet sentiment. You’ll appreciate it more later when you can think clearly again.

Taking a moment to appreciate the sight of Astarion before you, you try to commit this moment to memory. You try to memorize the way that the rivulets of blood running down his chin highlight the lovely blush staining his cheeks.

And over his shoulder, you notice that the door is still wide open.

“The door’s still open,” you squeak out. You don’t love the idea of someone barging in on you and Astarion’s private moment, but you hate the idea of parting from him long enough for one of you to shut the door more.

Astarion must have a similar thought because he chuckles, deep and dark, as his hands grip the back of your neck, pulling your gaze back to his face. His thumb runs down the hollow of your throat and you feel yourself gulp. Astarion watches your throat move, entranced. “They all know better than to interrupt us. And if they don’t… Well, I wouldn’t say no to a snack, would you?”

The idea of draining someone dry with Astarion makes you salivate. Something to look forward to in the future.

Astarion kisses you again, pushing you to lean back at an angle on the desk and distracting you from the lovely images that you had concocted in your imagination. His mouth moves down to nip at your skin and kiss along your collarbones.

“You still have to get past my corset,” you tease. “Can’t rip your way through that one.”

“I can try,” he practically growls, one of his hands coming up to trace menacingly along the boned seams.

“Don’t,” you grip his chin and turn his gaze up to yours. His eyes light up at your command.

Astarion listens and helps you remove the rest of your clothing. Miraculously, your corset and chemise make it off your body without being destroyed like your poor dress.

The cool wood of his desk against your bare skin makes you shiver but you’re quickly distracted when Astarion brings your wrist to his mouth. His eyes lock onto yours and he presses a kiss to your skin before his teeth sink in. You had missed that rush of coldness when he first bites that sends electricity shooting through your veins and it’s almost obscene as you watch him. He drinks from you slowly and sensually and his eyes burn into you the whole time.

As he drops your wrist, a fresh streak of ruby red runs down his chin and you lean forward to lick it up, greedily pressing your mouth against his again.

You fumble with the buttons on his trousers, pushing them down so you’re able to free the hard length of his cock and wrap your hand around it. He groans as you pump your hand up and down his length.

“Missed you being inside me,” you whisper. “Missed how good you fuck me.”

“Then what are you waiting for, pet? Take what you want.”

You guide him into you and he lets you adjust for a moment before his hips are snapping against yours at a ruthless pace that betrays his desperation.

You had missed this- this closeness, this feeling of being whole and one and loved.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you,” Astarion promises, and he grabs the back of one of your thighs, lifting your leg up to wrap around his waist. It has him hitting that much deeper inside you with each thrust of his hips. Your eyes practically roll back in your head.

Astarion brings his lips down to ghost against yours before he teasingly pulls away. “Look at us. I belong to you just as much as you belong to me.”

You moan at his words, losing yourself in the sentiment and the feeling of Astarion moving inside you. Just him and you, like how it was meant to be. He is yours and you are his.

“Say it,” he commands, pulling your attention back to him. It sends a lovely shiver down your spine. You’d do anything he asked if he kept talking to you in that rough, low voice.

“Yours. Only yours,” you breathe into his mouth, chasing after his lips. He gives you a gentle tug on your hair that pulls you back so that your lips are still just a hair’s breadth away from his.

“And I’m yours,” he says, before he finally kisses you.

And Astarion’s hands are everywhere. As if he is determined to memorize your body by touch alone. It makes you smile. Touching. Always touching. You doubt that Astarion will ever let you out of his grasp again. Nor would you want him to.

The way he fucks you somehow feels even better, even more wonderful now as a vampire. All your senses are tingling and hyper-alert and it only serves to make you that much more aware of how Astarion feels pressed against you and how he moves inside you.

It’s carnal, it’s feral, it’s utterly vampiric.

His hand reaches down between your bodies, his magical fingers moving against your clit in a way that sends sparks through your cunt. It has you reaching the precipice far sooner than you had hoped. That aching desire pools low in your stomach, rising into an inferno.

You come and it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Every nerve ending in your body is molten fire.

“So tight, so good,” he pants against your mouth. You whine at the way his hips keep driving into you at a pace which feels so good it’s almost painful. “Can you come for me again, little flower?”

Oh, this man was going to the death of you, wasn’t he? You nod frantically, unable to form words. Astarion presses open mouth kisses along your throat before he’s biting down again. The sudden shock of cold has you gasping for air and digging your nails into Astarion’s skin. You feel that coil tightening deep within you again, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Astarion keeps moving his fingers against your clit.

You come.

Astarion manages a few more frenzied thrusts before he comes, too, spilling inside you.

And thank the gods you’re already dead because that second orgasm might have just stopped your heart entirely.

You’re just coming back to your senses when you Astarion sinks to his knees in front of you, lifting your legs over his shoulders. He’s staring at your cunt like it’s a four-course meal and you eventually have to tug at his beautiful white curls to pull his attention back to you.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“You’re dripping all over my expensive desk,” Astarion says. “I’m going to clean you up.”

Your brain is already a bit slow after two overwhelming orgasms and the sight of Astarion on his knees before you, offering to lick away the traces of his come leaking out of you, has you practically feral with lust. Astarion squirms under your gaze the longer you continue to stare down at him, his confident facade dropping.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

You sigh out a breathy ‘yes’ and he’s back to smirking arrogantly at you. Astarion’s arms wrap around you so he can shift your hips to the very edge of his desk.

He devours your cunt. His tongue is everywhere- lapping at your inner folds and dipping deliciously inside you. You lean back on your hands to steady yourself, but that does little to help when Astarion moves to suck on your clit and your whole body trembles with ecstasy.

You aren’t entirely sure how this is helping to ‘clean you up.’ It seems much more likely that Astarion got distracted by all the noises that you are surely making and is trying to drag this out into some sort of religious experience.

“One more, please,” he practically begs, like it’s some big favor to him that you should orgasm another time. His chin is glistening with your wetness and he sounds practically breathless. “You’ve no idea how badly I missed watching you come.”

His words send another spark of heat straight to your cunt and you let out a surprised, strangled whimper. Astarion’s mouth quirks up in a haughty grin, so you simply reach out to tug his head back toward your cunt.

You feel Astarion’s laugh before he begins feasting on you again, sucking and licking and rolling his tongue in some unholy way that has you seeing stars.

For a moment, there is nothing but the white-hot waves of pleasure that roll through you as Astarion coaxes yet another orgasm from your body.

His mouth continues moving against you until you are shaking. He presses gentle kisses to the inside of each of your thighs before gently lowering them from where they sit on his shoulders and the small, caring act brings a goofy grin to your face.

How is it possible to love someone more with every passing moment?

Astarion surges back up to press a final kiss to your lips. It’s slow and deep and you can taste the combined taste of your releases on his tongue. Astarion gently traces down the column of your throat with his thumb, over the spot where he had bitten you just a few moments ago. You can tell your skin is already healed.

“No more marks.” He looks genuinely forlorn. “A pity.”

“I’ll always have this one,” you remind him, holding up your wrist. Astarion brushes his fingers over the twin bite marks on the inside of your wrist from when he had turned you.

You watch him study the marks and you wish you could hear what he was thinking.

“Speaking of which,” Astarion finally breaks the silence. He leans over you to pull open a drawer in his desk, shuffling around in it blindly. He gives a satisfied little smirk when he finds whatever he was looking for.

“You might want this back,” he says. When he opens his hand, your wedding ring is sitting on his palm.

“Give me that.” You feel the smile light up your face as you snatch the ring from him and place it back on your ring finger. “Are you still wearing yours?”

“Never took it off.” Astarion proudly displays his left hand as proof. Sure enough, the gold band glints enchantingly when it catches the candlelight.

“I love you,” you tell Astarion.

The way he’s looking at you can only be described as awe. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth so he can press a lingering kiss to the spot where the ring now sits comfortably on your finger, once again.

“I love you, too.”

Somehow, you manage to smile even wider.

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Notes:

So next week, we wrap up the plot (since we still have that pesky Crown of Karsus hanging around) and then the final chapter is the epilogue. I'm actually kind of happy that I decided to move things around a bit because now I get to add in an extra smut scene that I was originally planning as a fade to black since the epilogue was getting too long.

I loved seeing everyone's reactions to last week's chapter! Can't wait to see what you all think as we start wrapping this bad boy up!

As always, huge thanks to my beta-writer AliensNSuch on ao3.

Taglist: @ayselluna @idkbrodontaskme @maruichio @fanfic-share @the-littlest-bruja @asterordinary @divineknightmare @fandomarchiveilyd

Feel free to let me know if you would liked to be added/removed from the taglist for future chapters!

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion bg3 #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion ancunin #x reader #til death do us part

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 9 months ago

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Day 19: "Please Don't" / Adrenaline Crash

@febuwhump prompt: "Please Don't" @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Adrenaline Crash

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Hunter, Omega, Wrecker, Tech, Echo (Did you read Day 5: Rope Burns / Bound & Gagged and Day 12: Semi-Conscious / Over-the-Shoulder Carry? This is a continuation! Follow the links above to catch up on the story so far) Word Count: ~3005 Click here to read on AO3 Also available in Russian (with thanks to @tech-o-mania for the amazing translation!)

Synopsis: Hunter loses control as he hunts down the mercenaries who captured and injured Omega.

Art by the awesome @collophora of my gorgeous Feral Hunter! Thank you so much for this beautiful pic and letting me post it with my fic, everyone go view collophora's original post HERE and tell them how great they are! <3

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Omega swings her legs as she sits on the edge of the table, watching as Tech methodically extracts embedded strands of hessian from the wound on her left wrist. Her right is already swathed in bandages, the bacta gel bringing a soothing numbness that dulls the pulsing pain to a background throb.

She draws her breath in as a hiss though her teeth at a particularly painful pull, and Tech glances at her to check she is okay. He doesn’t continue until she nods to give him permission to do so.

The com at the engineer’s wrist crackles to life. “Come in, Tech.” It is Wrecker’s voice, low and urgent.

Tech pauses his ministrations to answer the com. “What is it, Wrecker?”

“I need backup.”

The big clone’s voice over the com is deadly serious, none of his usual joviality.

“What is your status?” asks Tech, his voice taking on a more clipped edge.

“It’s Hunter.”

Tech quickly looks up at Echo, and Omega doesn’t miss the alarmed look that passes between them.

“Will you and Omega be alright by yourselves?” Tech asks, putting the tweezers back in the medkit and standing.

Echo nods, resting a hand on Omega’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about us. Go help Wrecker.”

“Help Wrecker with what?” asks Omega, getting to her feet and looking first at Tech, then Echo. “Are they in trouble?”

“You are still in need of treatment,” says Echo firmly, trying for a smile which comes out too tense to be reassuring. “I’m sure Tech will manage without us.” He gestures back to the table. “Sit back up, and I’ll finish your wrists.”

Tech is gathering his equipment, and Omega leans past Echo to see him set his pistol to stun.

“I want to go with Tech,” she protests softly. “I want to check that Hunter and Wrecker are okay.”

Echo and Tech exchange another look. Omega is getting pretty tired of the unspoken conversations they share with their eyes.

“Finish attending to Omega’s wounds,” says Tech eventually. “Then you may follow… carefully.”

Hunter’s pistol is in his left hand, balanced on his forearm which is crossed in front of his body, vibroknife held blade outwards. The hum of adrenaline is in his veins, pulse pounding, slowly building to a tense knot of pain at the base of his skull which will surely become a migraine later.

Two more mercenaries up ahead, just out of sight. He can hear them.

Hunter doesn’t have to think about softening his footfalls. The predator’s stealth comes naturally to him.

In moments he is around the corner and the two men are ten paces ahead, weapons out as they scout the corridor.

They don’t know that death shadows their movements.

In his ear, the com pings. Hunter shakes his head, shutting it off irritably. Not now. Whatever his brothers want, it can wait.

He rolls to his toes, picking up speed. Closes the gap in a sprint.

One shot with his pistol. The laser-burn eats through the first man’s skull. The second turns but Hunter is on him, and the vibroknife tears out his throat before he can cry for help.

Hunter pauses for a moment, surveys his work. That makes four of them he has eliminated now. Four of them who harmed his Omega. Four of them who will never threaten her again.

A high-pitched whine, like tinnitus, sets up in his head. He pulls his helmet off, rubbing his ears, trying to chase away the source of the sound.

His helmet is dropped to the floor, forgotten, as he sets off to find the rest of his quarries.

Tech tilts his datapad towards Wrecker. “I have picked up the bounty hunters’ com channel. They seem concerned that they cannot raise a number of their companions.”

Wrecker looks up from fitting binders to the two mercenaries he has captured. “Hunter won’t waste any time,” he says gruffly.

“He may have deactivated his com, but I can still track his locator beacon,” says Tech. “Leave these two here. We must catch up to Hunter as soon as we can.”

Hunter crouches on the narrow gangway, watching the knot of mercenaries in the hangar below. Five left. Their conversation drifts to him but it is just noise. He can’t make his head understand the words.

It doesn’t matter what they are saying. Hunter will be among them soon, and their words will give way to screams and then they will be dead. He plans to make sure of that.

The migraine closes its vice-like grip on his consciousness and Hunter pulls his bandana off, trying to ease the pressure at his temples. A faint aurora halos his vision, sparkling in the periphery. His back teeth ache.

He creeps along the perforated metal walkway, feeling it sway a little from the suspension cables that keep it aloft. He holsters the pistol, curling the fingers of that hand around the rail instead. His right hand continues to clutch the vibroknife like it is an extension of himself.

Almost directly above them. From here he can drop onto the group, break his fall with one of their bodies, before wreaking his vengeance.

Hunter climbs silently to the railing. Leans over the edge, gravity pulling at his body, braced now on the outside of the walkway.

Ready to drop.

Echo spots the pair of bodies before Omega does. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder and ventures forwards cautiously, already knowing what he will find.

He is surprised to see the half-skull of Hunter’s helmet staring up at him from between the fallen mercenaries. He scoops it up and checks the wiring. The com is undamaged. It has been deliberately disabled.

Behind him he hears Omega.

“Tech, come in. Did you find Wrecker and Hunter?”

She has her bandaged hands pressed to her com, trying to raise her brothers. Echo hurries back to her, Hunter’s helmet in hand. Omega’s eyes go wide as she sees it.

“Is Hunter okay?” she asks in a fearful whisper, reaching out to brush the side of the helmet. The fresh bandages across her palms come away stained red.

“Don’t worry,” mutters Echo, “it’s not his blood.”

There is a moment of confusion before the meaning of his words dawns on Omega. She leans past him to peer down the corridor. Two bounty hunters. Not unconscious. Dead.

“Oh,” she says in a small voice. Then, looking up at him with a determined frown, “We need to find Hunter.”

Wrecker and Tech press tightly to the door-frame, one on either side of the corridor that has brought them to this hangar. Tech’s datapad says this is where Hunter should be, but all they can see are the clustered mercenaries.

Wrecker is the first one to look up. His hands move in a quick signal sequence, drawing Tech’s attention to their brother in his ambush position.

“Hunter,” breathes Tech. And as though it is a command, Hunter drops.

The chaos is immediate. Hunter is amongst the mercenaries, pistol forgotten, knife indiscriminately biting through cloth and armour into flesh. Panicked cries answer his sudden appearance. Blaster fire greets him.

Tech and Wrecker recognise Hunter’s grunt of pain like it is their own. They take a single moment to share a nod, and then they too join the fray.

Wrecker charges in, shoulder down, crashing into a mercenary and knocking him away from Hunter. Tech skirts the edge of the hanger, diving into a roll to evade a stray blaster bolt. He comes up with his pistol ready, gaze flitting over the knot of combatants before choosing his target. He knows this is the quickest way to end this.

Omega’s voice comes over the com but doesn’t answer. He needs all his considerable wits about him if he wants to take down his younger brother.

He steadies his aim.

He fires at Hunter.

Somewhere beyond the roaring in his ears Hunter is dimly aware that he is injured. There is a lingering trace of heat as the laser-burn crawls against his skin, softened from deadly to merely painful by the layer of his armour. It slows him, but he doesn’t let it stop him.

He ducks a wild haymaker meant to knock him to the ground and comes up inside the man’s guard. The mercenary yells as Hunter’s forehead connects with his nose, blood gouting from the broken cartilage, and Hunter winces at the shout pierces his already tender headache.

The migraine is stabbing behind his eyes now, his vision winking in and out in bright flashes. He has to finish this fight soon, or he won’t be able to.

The sudden jolt of a stun blast catches him in the back. He feels the sensation ripple forwards across his chest, electric, followed by numbness. The blast threatens to short out his enhanced senses.

With difficulty he fights the blackness that follows the stun bolt, dragging his awareness back to the fight. Two others still standing. To his surprise, he realises Wrecker is one of them.

Then Hunter feels an attacker leap onto his back. He howls in panic and anger; instinct directs him to dip his body, rolling the assailant over his shoulder. He grabs them and slams them into the floor, a blow designed to stun.

Recognises the helmet. The goggles.

“Tech?” he slurs in confusion.

And, “TECH!” The shout is echoed by Wrecker, scooping up their fallen brother.

The final mercenary takes advantage of the distraction. Two blaster bolts hit into Wrecker’s back, staggering him, and he clutches Tech to his chest protectively. Hunter watches as the bounty hunter retreats, fleeing for the bikes they came in on.

His prey's footsteps are still reverberating at the edge of Hunter’s enhanced hearing when others approach from behind him. He whirls, sees Echo and Omega.

“What happened?” demands Echo, crossing to Hunter. With one hand he pushes Omega behind him, making sure she doesn’t step round and see the Sergeant. Doesn’t see the feral gleam in his eyes, the sharp and dangerous expression of his open-mouthed panting.

“I’ll find him.” Hunter’s voice is a subhuman growl. “I’ll end it.”

Omega paces anxiously, glancing towards the farthest exit to the hanger. Tech is conscious but dazed, propped up against a storage crate as Echo checks his pupils. She worries for Hunter, but she has been told to stay put.

Wrecker finishes restraining the still-living mercenaries and rolls his shoulders, easing out the stiffness of the injuries he sustained. His own blaster is loose in his hands, still set to stun.

The bodies have been hidden to one side, smeared trails of red marking the route they had been pulled. So much for out of sight, out of mind. Omega curls up over her injured hands, rubbing at her wrists through the bandages. The rope burns itch under the healing bacta gel.

“Tech will be fine,” reports Echo, “but one of us should stay with him. Omega?”

“I’m going after Hunter,” she announces, before she can be asked to play medic. She turns and looks at Echo with her mouth set in an unhappy line.

Echo calmly meets her gaze. “Hunter won’t want you to see him like this,” he says softly.

“Hunter needs me.” She is the embodiment of stubbornness. “I know it.”

Wrecker’s big hand touches her shoulder gently.

“I’ll keep her safe, Echo,” he says, voice strained with an ache of worry. He pushes his helmet back down onto his head, the snarling skull hiding the concern in his eyes.

“Let’s go, kid.”

Hunter is exhausted, muscles trembling as he forces them to continue. He has to do this. The image of Omega’s injuries is burned behind his retinas, the scent of her fear cloying. He failed to protect her once. He won’t do so again.

One more mercenary, and the job was done. There would be no-one left to threaten her. And if this group didn’t return, perhaps whoever was hunting them would think twice before sending more agents to kidnap her.

Protect Omega. Blood pounds in his head. Every footstep is a hammer-fall on the anvil of his overwrought senses.

Protect Omega.

A blaster shot hits his right hand. The vibroknife is flung free of his grasp, spinning into the air and embedding in the wall above his head. Hunter startles, the pain in his hand almost enough to stop him from evading the follow-up shot aimed for his heart. He twists at the last moment, the blaster bolt grazing his chest-plate.

Then his feral instincts are back, taking over, shutting down the thoughts that are distracting him and driving him forwards into the fight.

Hunter lunges, closing the distance to his would-be ambusher in a burst of speed that belies his injured state. He doesn’t remember that he has a pistol. Instead he barrels into the man, tackling him to the floor. The two of them roll, fighting for dominance, and Hunter comes out on top. Slugs the man. Pain explodes in his knuckles but he doesn’t stop. Again. And again.

Under the onslaught the mercenary’s face is transforming to a swollen, bloody pulp. He writhes and bucks under Hunter, throwing the sergeant off and scrambling for escape. Hunter leaps after him and they are back to brawling, only it isn’t a brawl. The man is sobbing, arms over his head, trying to shield himself from Hunter’s incoming blows. Pleas dribble with bubbled blood from broken lips. The man weeps for mercy.

Hunter’s onslaught continues. One more mercenary, and the job is done.

Protect Omega. Protect her at all costs.

Omega and Wrecker round the corner and Wrecker pulls them up short. Hunter is locked in combat with the final mercenary, the sickening sound of fist hitting flesh and the crepitus of broken bone reaching them across the otherwise empty room.

Omega recoils, watching the scene with fascinated horror. The brutality makes her sick to her stomach, but she can’t look away.

Hunter’s hair is loose, missing the bandana that usually tames it, and hangs lank and sweaty about his face. Blood streaks his fists and spatters his armour. The air is punctuated by his soft grunts and laboured breath, and the moans and whimpers emanating from the figure that is huddled beneath his fury.

Wrecker lays his hand on Omega’s shoulder, trying to coax her away. “Omega,” he says, and his voice quavers. He crouches in front of her, interposing himself between her and the brutal scene, and pushes his helmet back on his head to lock gazes with her.

“What is he doing?” Omega whispers in horror, brown eyes wide as she searches Wrecker’s face for answers.

Wrecker merely shakes his head. “You should get outta here, kid. Head back to the Marauder, wait for the others.”

He stands and turns away from her, dropping the blaster and moving towards Hunter with his hands held up defensively. It is like he is approaching a wild animal, wary of attack.

“Hunter, stop it. Please, vod. He’s down, he surrendered. This isn’t right.”

If Hunter hears him he gives no sign. His punches keep flying, sluggish but solid. His victim lets out a single broken sob.

Omega’s com chirps.

“Omega, are you alright?” It is Tech, his voice weak-sounding as he recovers from concussion.

“We found Hunter,” she whispers, riveted on Wrecker’s careful advance.

Wrecker nears Hunter and his victim, one hand extended. “It’s me, Hunt,” he says, softening the brash edge of his voice. “Time to stop. Okay, vod?”

Hunter doesn’t hear him. Or ignores him. It is hard to tell.

“Is Wrecker able to handle the situation?” asks Tech.

Omega shakes her head. “No,” she says, voice trembling with determination. “But if Wrecker can’t make Hunter stop, I will.”

“Be careful, Omega,” Tech warns her, and she steels herself for what is to come.

She steps past Wrecker, ducks to evade his grasp as he tries to stop her. On shaky legs she closes the distance. Hunter, her Hunter, is a creature she does not recognise. Ruthless, bloodstained, no glimpse of gentleness or mercy.

Hunter leans back, winding up for a huge hit. Omega darts in front of him, catching hold of his fist, levelling her intense brown-eyed stare into the wildfire of his fury.

Omega positions herself directly in front of the exhausted sergeant. Hunter is on his knees, tattooed face glazed in sweat and blood that almost certainly does not belong to him. His shoulders heave as he gulps in great lungfuls of air.

“Don’t,” she says. A plea. A command. “Please don’t.”

For a moment Hunter’s eyes turn glassy and unfocused, pupils trembling with rapid dilations before he eventually blinks and manages to fix his gaze on the girl before him.

“Omega?” he croaks weakly, and staggers to his feet. He sways a little, then replants his feet and braces a hand against her shoulder to steady himself. “You’re meant to be with Tech.”

Unexpectedly, he retches. Omega takes a startled step back as Hunter heaves bile, his whole body trembling. When he is done he wipes his mouth slickly on the back of his hand, glancing round in confusion.

Wrecker steps forwards, caution still written in his posture. “Hey, Hunter,” he says softly, a greeting to his brother as he returns to his senses.

Hunter sags against Omega, his arms going round her in relief, and she can feel the uncontrolled quaking of his body as adrenaline fatigue truly sets in.

Quickly Wrecker steps in to support him, taking some of his weight from Omega. But Omega wraps her arms tightly round Hunter’s waist, pressing her face against his chest, ignoring the scent of blood and blaster-fire as she feels his trembling hand run through her hair.

“I forgive you, Hunter,” she whispers, fingers digging into the cracks of his armour as they both cling to each other with equal ferocity. “I forgive you.”

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joshsindigostreak · 1 year ago

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I See Hell in Your Eyes

Chapter One

“Touching you makes me die inside”

Josh Kiszka x Vampire!Reader

Notes: I haven't written fanfic in literal years (let alone published anything) and this just popped into my head while on a road trip and I just had to write it down. Huge shout out to Kait @gretasmokerising and Anna @sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine for being my soundboard and encouraging me to flesh it out instead of just being an idea in my head. Love y'all so much!

Warnings: not much other than descriptions of blood.

Word Count: 2520

The bar was unusually crowded tonight, a detail you always preferred on nights like these. On nights you only had one thing on your mind. Nights when you needed to feed. It was a chain sports bar, which was a rule of yours: never go to local bars, the smaller the establishment the more likely a local turning up missing would be noticed. Bartenders and owners always notice when their regulars stop showing up. But no one bats an eye when a sports fanatic in a sea of matching jerseys slips off into an alley or stumbles down the street away from the fray, that’s just Friday.

So there you were, sitting at the far end of the bar where you could get a better view of the room, your finger circling the rim of the vodka RedBull you pretended to drink. Human alcohol was alright, and the concoctions they’d come up with were cute, but it wasn’t anything compared to blood. Nothing compared to blood. You started salivating at the thought of it, your teeth begging to extend from your gums in preparation, but you shake your head and focus once again.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in the bar, sweeping through the loud and obnoxious patrons hoping to find a target that would satiate your thirst for a few nights. That’s when you heard it, this loud, jovial belly laugh from the corner of the bar. You snapped your eyes towards the source, and you saw him. Big toothy grin, with a gap between his front teeth, the sides of his head was shaved down to the skin, the rest of his hair was curly and clearly picked to death to make it as tall as possible. Poolstick in one hand and the other playfully slapped the arm of the man next to him who was playing with him. You took a sip of your drink as you observed him closely, gauging how drunk he was. Not that it mattered too much, men were easy pickings amongst humans.

Your heightened senses let you hear what he was saying, and you almost switched your target to someone else when you realized how much of a motormouth he was. But you sighed and continued to listen, fighting the urge to roll your eyes at the inane things he was rambling off. Yeah, you were going to enjoy shutting him up later. If your stomach could growl anymore, it would have several times by now from the sheer amount of time it had been since your last feed. You were bored now, and needed to set the scene for your graceful exit and hopefully delicious dinner.

The human turned his head to a person on his other side as they were speaking, and you got a clear view of the side of his sharp jawline, and more importantly, his neck. The only visible scars on him was a small scar on his cheek, the rest of his visible skin was unmarked, unblemished, and that excited you more. It was almost too pretty for what you planned on doing to it, and the visual of his blood running down his neck into his shirt, staining it while the scent filled the air had you nearly launching yourself off that barstool to sink your teeth into him right then and there.

You shook your head a little to center yourself, you were too old to give into sloppy desires like that. Downing the rest of your drink, you hopped off your stool and quickly plastered a cheerful grin on your face when the bar erupted in cheers at one of the teams on the screen scoring something. You didn’t care what it was, who was who, or what idiotic sport these humans cared about, but you needed to blend in. Raising your arms, you let out the silliest “woooo!” you could muster without embarrassing yourself, while quickly making your way to the other side of the bar where your target remained parked by the pool tables.

As you got near that end of the bar, you pretended to completely ignore him and his friends. You pretended you didn’t see how his vision snapped to you as you walked by, or how he barely blinked while he watched you stare at the old school jukebox in the corner, looking over the options. You pretended you definitely didn’t see how his grip on his beer tightened as he checked you out. Men were so fucking easy like this, even the undead ones you knew personally. They’d never changed in the three centuries you had been alive.

You threw a look over your shoulder at the crowd behind you, matching the energy of the room and letting out an airy laugh at what was happening on the televisions. As you turned back to the jukebox, you saw your target walking towards you, nearly stumbling over his own feet to get to you.

“You’re awfully happy for a girl whose team is losing miserably.” He mused at you with a playful tone in his voice.

You turned to him, slightly confused until you looked over his shoulder at the score and looked down at your shirt. Shit, he was right. It was nothing you couldn’t recover from however, “oh it’s ok, I just like the energy going on...” That was stupid, but he seemed to buy it.

“Whatcha drinking?” He said pointing to the empty cup in your hand.

You let out another light giggle, “oh just a vodka RedBull…”

He immediately turned to the bartender closest to him and ordered you another drink and another beer for himself. As he turned away from you, you noticed the multiple ear piercings in his ear, and tried to check out the metal to see if they were silver or stainless steel. You hoped out of convenience they were stainless steel or even white gold, because silver of any kind burned a Vampire's skin. While it would take a significant amount to hurt you, it was still annoying to avoid minor burns while enjoying a simple meal.

He turned back towards you, dagger earring swinging as he did so, “I haven’t seen you here before…”

“You haven’t? You must not have been looking hard enough.” Your mouth twists into a smile, not only to make it seem like you were flirting with him but because you could hear his heartbeat hammering in your head. He wasn’t even trying to keep calm in front of you.

At your reply he started grinning too, giving you a front row seat to a tooth gap that for a human was adorable. You briefly wondered if he was aware of how cute it was but you shook that thought off, you needed to get this done. You looked him in the eyes, just then realizing how intense his stare was. Those big brown eyes of his bore into you, the wheels were turning behind them and you wondered what he was thinking about. It was almost a crime you’d never be able to see how they looked in the sun. You’d never see how the sun would highlight every swirl, every minuscule difference from his left and right eye, all the dimensions of color you could never see in person because of the one thing that could kill you. His eyes were sweet, in a genuine way you weren’t used to seeing in human men. If you hadn’t been starving you’d almost let this one go, and find a legitimate douche to feed off of. But then again, sometimes the sweetness from human nature translated in their blood. It was probably a Vampiric placebo effect, but sometimes you could almost taste someone’s nature in their blood, and this one, this man right here, made you want to test that theory to know for sure. Maybe he wasn’t as annoying as you originally thought while listening to his conversations earlier. Maybe.

Someone scored, a home run, touchdown, they won the points but you didn’t care, because everyone in the bar except you looked at the TV and cheered. You used this distraction to make eye contact with him once more, it was time to use your Persuasion, it was time to get out of there. With him.

“Hey…let’s get out here…” as you spoke, you felt your power come from within you and follow your words to him. He blinked once or twice, and nodded slightly and took your hand at once. You realized just then you hadn’t even gotten his name. Good. You didn’t need to get attached to this one with a name. Nearly losing your nerve over his fucking eyes was enough. You hadn’t been a teenager in over 300 years but for a brief second, you felt like one as his hand gripped ours and led you through the thick crowd.

The two of you made it to the back door, slipping out into the night easily. The door led out to an alley, as cliche as they were to feed in, they were easy to leave humans behind in with no memory of what had transpired. The only light was from a single flickering light bulb fixed above the back door. There wasn’t even a moon out that night.

He seemed highly amused at the fact he was alone with you, and spun around to face you as soon as the door shut, a toothy smile plastered on his face once again. “I live nearby. We can walk if you want…”

You held his gaze once again, using your Persuasion once again to your advantage. “No…this is perfectly fine…” Grabbing his hand this time, you led him down the alley, further into the dark. There were a few dumpsters on either side that made a perfect barrier hide behind.

Another round of cheers sounded off in the distance. The bar would be busy for at least another hour judging by the game time when you left, which was more than enough time to feed and get the fuck out of there. You looked up and he’s still looking at you with a dopey grin, the effects of your Persuasion still in effect.

He looked at you, going from your eyes to your lips, and you did the same to him. You leaned forward, lips softly brushed against his, eyes closing on instinct. The next thing you knew you were getting backed into the wall, the kissing getting messier and more passionate by the second. His front teeth nipped at your bottom lip, a slight noise escaping you at the action. You wanted to reach up and tangle your hand into his curly hair, but he had a firm grip of both your hands at your sides. So you just rolled with it, enjoying making out with this human before feeding on him. And you were about to pull apart to use your Persuasion again to get him in position, to even tell him it wasn’t going to hurt so he wouldn’t scream or be in pain. That was until you felt something-

Burning.

Hot.

Fucking heat.

Your wrists were suddenly on fire and you broke away to look down at your wrists being bound by silver fucking handcuffs. The target tightened them down on your wrists as tight as they could go, and when you looked up at the bastard you felt another burning sensation on your neck.

He was holding a silver knife against your throat. This mother fucker.

“What the fuck?!”

“Jesus Christ, I thought your file said you were supposed to be over 300 years old and you fell for that?!” He almost laughed as he pressed the knife flat against your skin, the sound and smell of sizzling flesh wafting through the air. Of course he had a fucking file. Humans love their stupid paperwork. You were fucked.

“Yeah your little trick of batting your lashes at me to get me to do what you want didn’t work. Not once.” How in the fuckedy-fuck did it not work?! He was glaring at you now, the sweet grinning man you found in the bar was gone, at least on the surface. Those big brown eyes of his looked nearly black now, the grip he had on one of your wrists tightening even more as if he was trying to click the cuff even tighter, burn even deeper into your flesh.

He was one of them. For every supernatural creature there were humans that hunted them. And this wannabe Dean Winchester clearly hunted vampires. It had been awhile since you had run into a hunter. At this point of your undead life you formed your own set of rules to keep you out of trouble. However, you played them all to a T tonight, and yet here you were, up against the wall being subdued by the supernatural equivalent to a boy scout.

The adrenaline was rolling through your body as you narrowed your eyes, and if you had had the strength you would’ve strangled him already.

“Fine. Fine! Just let me go and I’ll fucking leave the city and no one has to make a mess out here.”

“You think I’m letting you go anywhere when there have been bodies piling up left and right between here and 3 counties over?” He snarled out, leaning even closer to your face.

Bodies? You hadn’t fully killed anyone around here. Not yet anyway. To the brink of death, sure, you weren’t a saint and shit happens, but you definitely hadn’t left a trail of bodies anywhere. What the fuck was he talking about? But you didn’t care that much, you needed to get the fuck out of there before anyone saw.

“Listen you’ve got the wrong Vampire here I-“

“The wrong one? You were literally about to feed off of me. Don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing for a second. As soon as you walked into that bar I knew what you were. Your kind isn’t very subtle, especially the older ones. You have to work on that act of yours, sweetheart. It wasn’t as convincing as you’d think.” The grin was back, but it was cocky now and paired with an obnoxious dimple in his left cheek. This asshole.

The cheers erupted again, causing you both to look up at the sound. This was your chance. You still had enough strength in your legs to stoop on his foot with your full weight, causing him to lose grip on the knife and for you to knock it out of his hand with your useless hands and to skirt around him. You took off as fast as you could. Not as fast as your typical speed would allow, but faster than a human. Faster than that dickhead.

You had to get these cuffs off of you as soon as possible, and you had to make sure you never saw that douche again, or else you might actually kill him this time.

Part 2?

Tag List: @lightmylove-gvf , @dannyandthekiszkas , @gretasmokerising , @sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine , @wideminded-dreamer , @runwayblues , @wildbluesorbit , @llightmyllovee , @rhythm-of-space , @sacredthefran , @writingcold , @alwaysonthemend , @wetkleenex-gvf , @josh-iamyour-mama , @lightsofthe-living-gvf , @gvfcinema ,

#josh kiszka #josh kiszka x reader #I see hell in your eyes #my fics #enemies to lovers #slow burn #josh gvf #greta van fleet #🩸🖤

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