#touchstarved reader fic

[softagenda]

favors amongst friends (kuras)

kuras x reader(f)

injury / interlude in the clinic

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

He must have noticed the lights on, and yet Kuras still strode undaunted into the examination room. His gaze alighted on you immediately, and a gentle smile curled his full lips. “Ah, my favorite patient.”

You smiled back, a little sheepish. “Your most consistent one, at least.”

_____________________

The clinic was cold and quiet when you slipped inside through the back door, lockpicks stowed safely in your coat pocket. As you shook off drops of rain from your hood and dropped it on the coat stand, the lantern on the counter sparked to life, filling the room with a white, clean glow.

The stool where the good doctor usually perched sat empty. You tugged at the doorknob to his office, found it firmly locked, and listened at the hinge of the door for a moment. No soft shuffle of papers, no dainty chimes of bottles kissing as concoctions passed between them.

He’s out, then.

You hesitated, before inspecting the gash on your arm. A soulless had taken a cut of flesh on your return to Eridia, nearly catching the bag of valuable potions ingredients you’d brought back to sell. There were a couple things in there that you thought Kuras might be interested in buying: thalus roots, spotted sunshrooms, a particularly thick undu stem that could be stored and siphoned from for months before it’d run out. You’d intended to trade treatment for a discounted rate, but perhaps you should try your luck elsewhere. 

Distaste hollowed your stomach at the thought. The local clinics had a habit of prying whenever you’d been forced to visit, finding excuses to try and remove the bandages wrapped around your hands. 

Kuras never pried. As patient and steadfast as a saint, he would wait, golden eyes soft and alluring, an effortless grace that seemed to coax others to open themselves up like flowers to the sun.

Though you’d rather seek treatment here, you might be short on time. Blood continued to drip sluggishly from the wound and, from within the open gash, the muscle and tissue inside seemed to be darkening, pink flesh graying like rot.

Poison or a curse, you couldn’t be sure.

Just as you prepared to shrug your coat on and brave the storm, the front door opened with a tingle of bells.

He must have noticed the lights on, and yet Kuras still strode undaunted into the examination room. His gaze alighted on you immediately, and a gentle smile curled his full lips. “Ah, my favorite patient.”

You smiled back, a little sheepish. “Your most consistent one, at least.” 

“How may I assist you this evening?” he inquired graciously, his hand gesturing toward the exam bench. 

You huffed under your breath before placing one boot on the stepstool and lifting yourself onto the edge, the sheet crinkling under you. You looked him over as he turned toward the counter and swept a few papers neatly into a leather book.

Kuras had clearly been out in the storm for some time. Rain had soaked into his hair and coat, the edges dripping fast onto the tiled floor. His long mane of hair stuck wetly to the coat, a few curling locks caught in the gilded plates of his coat. His face looked dewy soft, his fan of lashes thicker with moisture. Drops trailed perilously slow down his thick neck, skirting the edge of that high collar.

Heat pooled in your stomach, a strange restlessness harrying your limbs.

You cleared your throat and glanced down. “Ran into a soulless on my way back today. Turns out, not all dark, mysterious strangers are happy to see me,” you quipped.

“A fault on their part, I assure you.” He approached and leaned over you, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over your lap. “May I?”

“Will I need to strip down this time, doctor?” You asked, striving for innocence but struggling to keep your mouth from trembling into a smile.

“Rolling up your sleeve should suffice, from a medical standpoint,” he replied smoothly, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. His golden eyes narrowed in mirth. “Though I certainly wouldn’t be opposed.”

Flushing slightly, you tugged your sleeve to your elbow and offered it up. As he craned his neck to inspect the wound, a couple raindrops fell to your skin. 

Kuras frowned. He straightened up and murmured, “just a moment.” Two strides of his long legs later, he had vanished into the back room. A moment of silence passed before he returned.

You sucked in a quick breath. 

The massive, white coat that draped his form was gone. 

Smooth, coffee skin was laid bare on his shoulders. His sleeves cinched around his biceps with gold cuffs, the fabric thin and see-through to the forearm before wrapped in flowing white silk. His hair, before flowing freely down his back, had been tied back simply with a leather thong.

He looked so different in that moment - so much more open and unguarded and tangible - for all that he’d only bared his shoulders, that the sight took your breath away.

“My apologies for the lack of courtesy and the delay,” he said, producing a clean towel from his pocket and dabbing carefully at the spot where the raindrops landed.

“Kuras, you’ve sewn this same arm back onto my body,” you said with a short laugh, still grappling for equilibrium. “You could drip acid on it, and I’d still be grateful.”

His brow furrowed more. “While there are valid applications of acidic substances, I would consider them a last resort.” He folded the slightly damp side of the towel inward before using the folds to carefully hold your arm and inspect the injury. “It would be most abhorrent to risk tarnishing your skin.”

A flutter of feathers stirred in your stomach. Still, you joked with an edge of bitterness, “Yes, my precious, corpse gray skin that drives people to insanity. Can’t risk that, or I’ll never trap a partner.”

Kuras paused. He looked down solemnly at you through his fan of lashes, the gold of his gaze molten and bright. “Beauty lies within the eye of the beholder,” he replied, his voice low and achingly gentle. “You have always been beautiful in my eyes.”

The intensity of him - his voice, his gaze, the way his body seemed to curl around you, a shield against what would harm you - each word genuine and strong, as though he spoke a undeniable truth of the world, cut you to your core.

Your head turned, eyes lowered, flinching against it even as your chest grew warm and full. 

For a long moment, you struggled to reply, your jaw clenched tight as your heart pounded in your chest. 

Kuras seemed to sense, as he always did, the riotous feelings inside you, because the next moment he had retreated to the counter and begun pulling various ingredients from the shelf, his head lowered to give you a moment of privacy.

The gratitude that welled up inside you threatened to boil up through your throat, tears stinging at the back of your eyes. 

“There does appear to be a venomous residue within the wound,” he murmured, deep and scholarly in tone, his mien serene as a moonlit pond. “I have encountered a similar substance before with other patients. Certain species of soulless grow mutations that secrete toxins into the bloodstream of prey, in their claws or fangs, not unlike the parotid salivary glands of snakes.”

You listened quietly as the frantic race of your heart settled, letting his velvet voice lull the storm inside you. Rain pitter-pattered against the window and battered the roof above, occasionally subsumed under a rumble of thunder.

Calmed once more, you faced him again, your gaze lingering. 

Without the coat, his large, willowy form was in full view: his broad back tapering to a slender waist, prim ass, and impossibly long legs. Dark, curly hair trailed down his back, still wet and soaking into his silk shirt. The lamplight shone around him, tracing his body in an edge of white light even as his shadow encompassed the room.

His head turned, the gold hoops at his ears sparkling, and surveyed you for a quick moment before gliding closer. In one hand was a bowl of smooth dark green paste, in the other fresh bandages. He set them on a metal table by the exam table by a bowl of clean water and a pile of cloth before reaching within a box and withdrawing a pair of white silk gloves. 

As he perched on the stool, his body leaned into your space. Heat rolled off him, as though he had swallowed a star.

“We will apply this poultice for now, monitor for infection, and then reconvene to sew the wound closed.” Kuras pulled on the silk gloves and, after a quick, searching look of your face, took your arm in hand and began cleaning the wound.

You held still and breathed through the pain - at times a dull ache, others pinching and acute. Rinsing the wound brought searing heat that had your teeth clenching tight, trapping any sound that attempted to escape up your throat.

The doctor’s treatment, from the outside, looked more like a dance than medical practice. He did not coddle or cajole, nor castigate or belittle, as was the style of other doctors you’d seen - instead, Kuras worked with utter silence and composure, all of that overwhelming intensity focused on the task at hand. Each movement was efficient, graceful, and imbued with an exquisite gentleness that would endear even the worst of enemies to him. 

Each dab of poultice like the brush of a master painter. Each stitch into flesh the weaving of a master dressmaker.

Poetry in motion. Medical practice envisioned in art form.

The treatment seemed to pass quickly and effortlessly. One moment you were gripping the side of the exam table as he smoothed the creamy poultice over the wound, the next your inflamed, gray skin had been wrapped comfortably in fresh bandages.

“How does that feel?” Kuras inquired, removing the gloves with a small flourish.

“Good as new, doc,” you replied with a sigh. 

He smiled, his eyes thinning with pleasure.

“Excellent. Then your next priority should be a good night’s rest.” His large hand curled around the side of your arm, his palm feverishly hot even through the thick bandage. “Allow me to escort you back to the Wick.”

He rose from the stool and began to pack away the poultice bowl and bandages.

Your left hand replaced his, holding that fading heat to your skin for a little longer, as your gaze wandered to the window. Rain continued to batter the window panes, the sky outside an endless abyss.

It was tempting to ask if, rather than venture out in the pelting rain, you could remain there, in the clean, cozy atmosphere of the examination room. You could lie back on the exam table, draw your cloak (or his) over your body for added warmth. You’d bet all the coin in your purse that you’d sleep like the dead.

But you couldn’t intrude on his hospitality any more than you already had. Heavens knew you’d arrived in the middle of the night. You’d probably delayed his own well-earned rest before the next endless line of patients would arrive at his door at dawn.

“I’ve got some things for you,” you said, rising from the exam table to grab your satchel.

Kuras gave you a bemused look over his shoulder. “You know well that I require no payment for my services.”

“Not payment,” you denied, well used to this debate. “Favors amongst friends. You mentioned a few days ago that your stock was low on a few items.”

One thin, dubious brow rose, but he inspected the haul you offered from the satchel with the calculating interest of a man well-used to haggling in the market for prime ingredients. “I will purchase them from you.”

“They’re a gift,” you insisted.

Kuras’s eyes narrowed, his full lips frowning. “The value for the undu stem alone would fetch you a generous price. More than enough to lease a private residence in Lowtown.You cannot think me so crass as to take advantage of you in this way. ”

You hid a smirk. For all his manners and professional admiration for Leander, his quiet but strong dislike for your current accommodations grew more obvious by the day. 

“Never,” you replied easily, adding, “Neither so crass as to thrice refuse a gracious gift from an appreciative friend.”

Kuras held your gaze for a moment before a cat-like smile curled across his lips. “I seem to have been out maneuvered.”

“Out mannered, more like.”

“Then I concede and accept your gifts with gratitude,” he said, his voice velvet smooth and mirthful. “I will endeavor to use them well.”

“Do as you will,” you quip. “Roast them for lunch, it’s your choice.” As long as they’ll be useful to you.

He took the ingredients with careful hands. The undu stem, which took you both hands and significant strength to lift, he took in one hand. He carried them into the office and stowed them away properly in glass containers before returning his coat draped over his arm.

“Shall we?”

You watched him take the shoulders of the coat in hand, preparing to sweep the heavy fabric over his back, before stopping him.

“Wait.” You hesitated, licking your lips. “Won’t that be uncomfortable? With your hair, I mean.”

Kuras paused, his eyes wide, before that gentle smile reappeared. “You need not concern yourself with me. We’ve only a short walk, after all.”

“It’ll get tangled, though.” An offer sat on the tip of your tongue, enticing enough to embolden you to speak it. “I could braid it for you.” You cleared your throat and fought the urge to stare down at your boots. “Nothing - nothing fancy, or anything. But it would help.”

“Your injury…” he trailed off, his brow furrowing.

“It’s fine, really. I’m not in any pain, and this would be - nothing.”

Kuras seemed to mull that over, his face inscrutable.

After a long, tortuous moment in which you wished you’d kept your mouth firmly shut and resolved to keep it shut for an eternity, Kuras nodded. “Then I accept.”

Your jaw dropped. “Really?”

“I must admit my surprise, but the prospect intrigues me.” That cat-like smile returned with a vengeance. “Unless you would like to rescind the offer? But surely, my friend, you’d never be so crass to do so.”

Oh, you - 

Flushing hotly under your clothes, you squinted at him. “I seem to have been out-maneuvered.”

“Out-mannered, I believe, was the term you used, and just so.” 

With an air of smug satisfaction and humor, Kuras draped his coat over the exam table, then crossed the room in two strides to withdraw an antique brush from a drawer. He perched once more on the stool, one golden eye glancing over his shoulder. 

You take the brush, looking it over. It’s a beautiful piece, comprised of gold filigree and a stunning mother of pearl inlay on the back. The bristles were soft but firm, scratching lightly against your palm as you tested the feel. The gold handle was a cool, easy grip, its engraved markings depicting flowers, feathers, and what looked like an eye pressing against you through the veil of your bandages.

Gripping firmly, you surveyed the waterfall of dark hair in front of you, your heart beating fast.

With a fortifying breath, you gathered the heavy, silky length in your hands and started from the ends of his hair, stroking the brush as gently as possible. Despite how wet and woven the strands were, there were very few knots to tease out.

Kuras sat peaceably for several minutes, still as a statue in prayer, before he asked, “Have you done this for others?”

You paused, now smoothing the hair at the middle of his back. You thought about what to say for a moment, but the truth seemed easiest. “My mentor. She had long, red hair that would frizz at the slightest spit of rain. Every morning, since I was old enough, I would tie up her hair for her.” It had been a small but daily act of care that, with time and distance, you had eventually realized she never reciprocated.

He hummed softly but said nothing more.

When you reached his neck, your hands danced with delicate caution, holding his earrings out of the path of the brush. Kuras seemed to stiffen ever so slightly whenever your fingers brushed his skin, but soon relaxed back into his posture. 

Once you had brushed smooth from the crown of his head to the dusky purple ends, you set the brush down on the exam table and began to braid.

A rhythm soon developed, your fingers twined the hair into five sections and began weaving them together, each pull drawing to the very tips of the hair to prevent bunching at the bottom. The movement was made effortlessly easy as the hair was still damp and content to be handled.

All the while, Kuras sat patiently, his hands clasped in his lap. When you finally reached the end of the braid, now well past his waist, he finally broke from his vigil and held a black leather tie from the crook of his finger.

You tied the braid securely before letting your hands smooth down the braid, testing for any loose sections. The braid itself looked immaculate: neat, tidy, his dark hair gleaming in the soft lamplight. “Is that comfortable?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. A heavy sigh followed, his shoulders drooping, before he rose to his feet. He turned around, his hand drawing the braid across his shoulder and inspecting the work. 

Somehow, his face seemed different than only moments before. A tension you hadn’t known existed in his bearing had been smoothed out: his brow clear, his lips parted, those captivating golden eyes softer than you’d ever seen.

Then, he met your gaze, his musician’s hand stroking down the braid, and smiled. “Thank you. That was… truly an experience I will not soon forget.”

You froze, still caught, the world narrowed in on that single, sweet smile.

He draped the coat over his shoulders, showing particular care with his braided hair, before gliding forward. With a firm hand on your waist, the heat of him radiating through your clothes, Kuras coaxed you toward the back door. 

“Now, let us step into the night.”

________________________________

a/n: thank you for reading!

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

✬'Look at me'- how the TS LI lift your chin✬

A/N: this is my first work for this fandom! Hope someone will like it!🖤

✬Preference✬

✬Vere:

"Why so shy all of a sudden? What is it? Can't even look at me in the eye now?"

✬Ais:

"I'm right here, little sparrow, right in front of you...why don't you look at me?"

✬Leander:

"Eyes up here... Let me see those beautiful eyes of yours"

✬Kuras:

"Look up... open up with me,please. Tell me what's wrong"

✬Mhin:

"Let me see you. Don't ever hide your face from me. "

My 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔢𝔡 materialist here

[ronearoundblindly]

fic title: we've come so far

From this ask game. I don't know if it's cheating to write for an established series for these, but your title was too perfect 💜 and turned out to be WAY more than the small description this game asked for, whoops! ***You do not need to have read any of this series to enjoy this, though you won't necessarily understand how "far" Steve has come without it.***

touch-starved (or is he??) Nomad!Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings for smut. Yo, this is flat out just Steve really embracing his horniness, okay? That's it. MINORS DNI. This one is not safe for all ages. WC ~there's... uh... some heft to her... probably 1.5k?

Steve likes to do his morning run through the hiking trails. He rarely passes anyone out there in general, but as today is rainy and overcast, he is guaranteed not to. Also, he wakes to exercise at the ass-crack of dawn or earlier.

Though he no longer needs to hide his face, Steve likes the baseball cap now. He wears it when helping do anything outside, but there will be no gardening with this weather.

He thumps up the porch stairs and rips off his hat to shake off the droplets.

"Beautiful," he declares, and from your spot on the bench, you certainly don't see it.

"It's kinda gross out, Stevie..."

He's staring at you when you pry eyes up from a steaming mug. "Wasn't talking about that," he smiles, crossing the last few feet to you and bending down. He kisses your cheek. "What's on the agenda for such a gross day, Tops?"

You shrug.

They're lazy, all of them, ever since the motel closed. It's just you, him, this house, and the trees, yet you are never lonely.

Steve exhales dramatically as he sits beside you. "I could draw."

"Mmm," you grunt, sipping.

"Or prep a nice dinner," he offers.

That causes you to smirk because they're all nice. Steve quite enjoys cooking even the simplest meals.

"So...same as yesterday."

His fingertips invade your view over the railing into the woods, circling the rim of your drink and gently pulling it away to set on the tiny square table.

"Am I boring you?" Even his voice is smiling while he grabs your waist and thigh, hauling you up over his lap, chuckling at the squeak of shock escaping you. "Ma'am," he prompts, settling your arms below his to cup your face, "are you bored?"

You shake your head, still sleepy.

Steve shifts one hip and then the other, shimmying beneath you slightly until you sit nestled just right atop him. He leans forward to kiss you, not shy about starting deep and dirty, his tongue leeching the caffeine straight from yours greedily. He reacts immediately to your move to hold his shoulders, you body rolling and grinding over his.

"Heaven forbid, I bore you, sweetheart," he husks, merciless in his grip and glide, desperately palming over your ass and back.

Your fingers lodge in the damp strands of his golden hair. "Never," you gasp with a whimper of "you could never."

His hands wander beneath your shirt to play at the soft, tender skin. He's sure to take your lips again when he pinches your nipples to taut peaks. Steve loves to swallow your moans, keep you breathless and pliable, work you into an undulating frenzy before pinning you harshly to him so his calculated thrusts nudge you just right, throwing you over the edge.

He especially loves to hump at your limp and floating form till he comes with a groan and a meaningless curse.

He nuzzles your face where it lies tucked into the crook of his neck. "I think we might need to clean up, beautiful. How 'bout a bath?"

Through your sleepy, near-boneless haze, you manage to whisper a 'yes' but fight with him not to carry you to the bathroom. You want to walk. You want to drink your drink. Steve snorts in approval, calling you cute and telling you to meet him upstairs. He shamelessly struts inside with a dark, wet spot on his sweats, worse than any drizzle of rain could make.

Your bottoms peel away from the mess he made of you, eliciting a hum of satisfaction when Steve undresses you beside the filling tub. He makes no moves to step in with you at first; he simply kneels down on the mat, splashing warm water strategically over your shoulders and chest, lingering over your breasts when you hiss.

It doesn't hurt. You're just sensitive, and his touch is achingly welcome all the time.

His hands roam, searching all the usual spots for the most intense reaction until you beg him to get in, too.

"Yeah?" he teases like there's an actual question of your desire while his fingers circle your clit and his other hand cradles the nape of your neck. He wants a few more 'pleases' for his trouble. Then, and only then, does he stand with a devious smile and disrobe.

Steve was never shy of his body, but over time, he's embraced showing off his body's reaction to you. Your lustful gaze alone makes him hard, day and night and every minute in between.

He climbs over the high lip of the tub, telling you to open up for him, pushing your thighs wider as he lowers. After sloshing around trying to find a position to enter from, he laughs, refusing to let you strain your neck to lift your pelvis high enough.

He thinks...you'll just have to turn over and get on your knees.

Luckily, that solves all the logistical problems. The water bucks about a bit with the force of his fucking, but holding the bulk of you above the rim lets your slick guide his cock perfectly in and out, no displacement, no mess on the tile floor. Steve's considerate even when his hindbrain takes over.

He plants his thick, corded forearm along yours, holding onto the porcelain with his index finger laced around your pinkie, torso molded to the curve of your spine, igniting, soothing, and igniting more flurries of stimulation all over.

Steve slows once he gets close this time, dragging his length casually through the arousal now dripping down your legs. He finds your clit again, muttering filthy, loving things against your arched back.

"Could stay buried in you all day, beautiful. Wonder if we could break our record like this. Should'a rolled you over before my run, feels so good."

But the simple words I love you repeated over and over are what do you in. He sounds lost and yet found in this haze of typical passion. He never tires of loving you, of loving you, of loving you, and like this--delightfully knitted together and pulled tight enough to snap--you feel all his love. It fills you until that balloon of pleasure pops, crashing you back against him, shoving him deeper as he crests, too.

His thighs shake behind yours in the slippery bath, hand splayed across your low belly to keep you upright as Steve whines with each rope of cum that leaves him, that he gives you, that you take from him.

He relaxes but holds you steady, heart beating like a drum against your skin. For a long moment, he's lost, then he finds his reality, delicately maneuvering to flip and seat you, crashing his lips to yours. He starts brutal then tapers into chaste, short pecks while he gets his legs under him, finally submerging past his hips.

The sky may be gray and dark, but the sparkle in Steve's blue eyes shines with megawatt clarity. A dopey smile breaks through his coarse beard.

"Shit," he breathes, carding through his still-dirty hair, tossing his head back with a wispy chuckle, "we might need a shower, too."

You suppose, perhaps, even Steve's laziest days aren't really lazy at all. He finds ways to fill the time just fine.

[Main Masterlist; Fic Title Only Asks; Hideout Masterlist]

Nahhhh, I'm excited enough I'm tagging e'erybody lol:

@mrsevans90 @lemonadygirl @umadirectioner @mrschandlerbing @as-white-as-snow-love @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bitchy-bi-trash @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

[eggroll-sama]

Who’s My Roommate?

The Touchstarved cast are at a hotel and can’t decide who will be their roommates. Some are against certain pairings. You don’t really care, but they seem they’ve got a few colorful opinions || Touchstarved LI x reader. All of them have a crush on you, but you’re oblivious. I had this in my drafts for a while but I finally got the motivation to finish it. Just light-hearted shenanigans. Sorry if there are any typos!

__________________________________________

“I don’t want Leander,” said Vere, his arms crossed and glaring at the man across from him.

They didn’t think deciding on rooming buddies would be so hard. There were exactly three rooms, side by side, and anyone who knew basic math understood there would be two people per room. The problem was, who and who?

Vere and Ais were the first pairing that came to mind. But then Mhin complained that they didn’t want to hear them having sex at two in the morning. You and Kuras could sympathize so argued that, no, Vere and Ais cannot be together in the same room. Vere was angry, Ais was indifferent. He preferred Vere’s company over others, but as long as he didn’t get Mhin he was fine. He found the idea of Mhin aiming a knife to his neck fun, but in the end he didn’t want to deal with them pestering him like a fly.

And then there was Leander. If they went off the reason of not wanting to hear someone having sex, then Leander was tough. He had had sex with half of the members in the group: Ais, Mhin, and (maybe) Vere. You still didn’t really know if they did it or not.

“I wouldn’t mind sleeping in the same room as Leander,” you said. Everyone stiffened except for the man in question, who had a cocky smile on his face. Secretly, everyone wanted to room with you, but they didn’t want to admit it.

Kuras stepped in before Leander could make a comment, and steered the conversation to possibly drawing sticks so it would be fair for everyone and well, not everyone was happy with their partners. Vere got Leander, Mhin got Ais, and you got Kuras. You weren’t against Kuras being your roommate; he was a gentleman and minded his own business. He didn’t seem like he was against rooming with you either. The others were not so happy with their results.

“I’m not rooming with a monster,” Mhin spat, venom lacing their words, glaring holes in the back of Ais’ head.

Ais ignored them, while Vere rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah, well nobody wants to deal with an annoying midget like you. I think you forgot to pack your booster seat.”

Vere snickered as Mhin’s face turned red from anger.

“Hey hey now hold on, MC said that they were fine with rooming with me, so why not just leave the two of us out of it?” Leander said, arms snaking around your shoulder.

“No, you soft penis numbskull. You’re not rooming with MC.” Mhin stepped in. When the others looked at Mhin curiously, they coughed nervously and looked away.

You tried to lighten the mood with a joke, “Ais and Leander are best friends. We should room them together.”

The corner of Leander’s smile frayed at your joke. Ais narrowed his eyes at you. At least Vere was laughing, probably at you for your failed attempt to lighten the mood, but at least he laughed. You drew into yourself. You’ve forgotten the others were getting quite annoyed by the arguing. This was serious business that might mean life or death.

“How about we draw sticks again?” You suggested meekly, trying to move past the awkwardness.

“No, it’s just a waste of time,” intervened Vere, “we all clearly have our preferences, so how about we list anyone we don’t want to room with? I go first. I hate all four of you, fortunately, so I’m going to room with Ais or no one.”

“I don’t have a preference,” said Leander with a blush.

“We know,” Vere rolled his eyes.

“At this point let’s just room the two people that are the doormats of this group, Leander and Vere. It’s the easiest way to deal with them,” said Mhin.

“Or how about we room Leander in one room and Vere in the other one, and then we all share the last one,” you suggest. At this point you were running out of ideas and throwing them out randomly hoping you would hit a jackpot.

“I’m not invited to the foursome? That is unfortunate to hear,” Vere said.

“It’s getting too complicated. Room Vere with MC, Mhin with Leander, and me and Kuras. That should be good,” suggested Ais, getting impatient.

“I’m afraid that would be endangering MC’s safety,” said Kuras coolly, ignoring Vere’s exasperated reaction.

He quickly switched to his flirty demeanor, a coy smile on his lips, “Oh, but I don’t bite. Unless they ask me.” Mhin scoffed in the background. Kuras was expressionless. If he reacted to Vere’s tasteless innuendos, he would give the fox exactly what he wanted. So he stayed quiet and didn’t let his face give anything away.

“I agree with Kuras on this one. A bloody, mangled corpse is the last thing we want to deal with,” said Mhin. Though Mhin said this, you knew that they cared about your safety.

Ais sighed in defeat, pulling out a cigarette and a match, “I’m going out for a smoke.” You couldn’t blame him, they’ve been arguing for the past thirty minutes. Ais walked off to the entrance of the hotel.

Seeing Ais walk off, Vere waved their fingers before sauntering off in the same direction.

“The dog went to take a walk with it’s owner. Good grief,” said Mhin.

“We still need to get this rooming situation settled. I’m sure the others won’t mind if we decided without them,” said Kuras.

He sighed, “From what I’ve observed, the best rooming pairs seems like the fox and Ais, Mhin and MC, and Leander and I. We’ll take the middle room, Mhin and MC take the left, and Vere and Ais the right. That way Mhin wouldn’t be disturbed from any unnecessary sounds at night.”

“I could live with that,” said Mhin.

Leander didn’t seem too pleased with the end-result, but he wasn’t going to complain, “Alright. Guess I get to room with the good doctor tonight. Hey, maybe we can finally get some dinner, you and I.”

“Perhaps,” said Kuras, but from his indifferent expression and hollow tone it sounded more like a no.

“Ah,” was all Leander said. You could see the cogs turning behind his eyes. Then, he pulled out a deck of cards from his pocket, “I brought cards with me. Anyone wanna play Poker in an hour or two, our room?”

You smiled, “I like Poker. Bet I could beat you,” you nudged his shoulder teasingly.

“Sure.” Leander said with a laugh, but the way he said it almost sounded…condescending? You raised your brows, but before you could fully process it, Leander had already started speaking, “Would the doctor like to join as well?”

Must’ve been my imagination.

“I suppose if you are going to play in our room, I could join for a game or two.”

Kuras reply seemed to brighten Leander’s mood from the thinly-veiled rejection for dinner a few seconds ago.

“Great! How about you Mhin!”

“I’m tired.” Mhin grabbed their bags and started heading for the elevator, ignoring Leander’s invitation. You saw Leander’s smile falter.

“I’ll try convincing them,” you whispered to Leander who gave you an appreciative smile.

You had the keys to the room, so after saying goodbye to the other two, quickly followed after your small companion.

“I’m glad I get to room with you, Mhin,” you said while waiting for the elevator with them.

Mhin huffed at your words, turning away, “Right.” In the corner of your eyes you could see their pale skin get pinker just a tad. You smiled to yourself at their reaction. You weren’t really sure what the rest of the day will entail, but at least you were able to get through the hurdle of deciding who will be your roommate.

[consistencynevermether]

Hellooo I absolutely love your writing and Vere series!! I was wondering if maybe you could write Vere reacting to the MC getting pretty injured?? From a Soulless or otherwise? Thank you so much!! <333

I'm so glad you like the series!! this fic got a little long, its just so much fun to write vere dialouge. Thank you for the ask!

content: vere x gn! reader, SFW, cannon typical swearing and mentions of serious injuries, 2.5k words

52. That's how many tiles you had counted on the ceiling of Kuras’s clinic so far. You had woken up about an hour ago, your shoulder bandaged, laying in one of the beds in Kuras’s clinic, with Vere standing on the other side of the room, pacing back and forth. When you woke, he barely spared you a glance and continued to pace, the clicking of his heels was the only sound in the room. 

You were in trouble. Big trouble. 

You tried to piece together your memories of what happened earlier that night. Your head was pounding, but the memories returned to you easily enough. 

You had been working at the clinic earlier and Kuras had asked you to deliver something to Ais. You had plenty of time to deliver the package, but you got caught up talking to Ais and petting Princess. By the time you were out of Ais’s territory, it was already sundown. You weren't too worried about it though. You had killed a few soulless since getting to Eridia, and you had the dagger Mihn had gifted you strapped to your thigh. But this one was different. It was bigger, stronger, faster than any of the other soulless you had thought before. You put up a good fight. You were smart and dodged when you needed to, struck its weak points with the dagger, and gave the fight all your focus. But this soulless was simply out of your skill range, and all it needed was one chance to latch on, and you were down. The soulless had found an opening and taken a massive chunk out of you, its rotting fangs sinking into your shoulder. 

Everything after that was just darkness. Until you had woken up in one of the clinic rooms about an hour ago. You don't know how you got there, but Vere was there when you woke up, and clearly not happy with you. 

You wanted to fix this before it became a problem. Vere had a nasty habit of being upset with you and instead of telling you why he was upset, he would simply avoid you, and you would have to track him down. The last thing you wanted was to try and track him through Hightown with an injured shoulder, so it was best if you talked this out now, while he was pacing back and forth in your room.

“Hey,” you cautioned. “So uh, I don't suppose you know how I got here?” you asked. 

Vere looked down at you, his mouth twisting into a combination of a cruel smirk and a grimace. 

“Oh you mean how did you end up at the hospital? The hospital run by the most insufferable person in all of Eridia? With half of your shoulder missing? Is that what you mean? Is THAT what you're asking me right now? Or MAYBE your asking about the part where I found your stupid ass half dead and bleeding out in the filthy fucking street, and had to drag you all the way here.” 

A tight, fake smile was plastered on Vere’s face as he spoke, while rage stormed in his eyes. You don't know what you said wrong, but it was most certainly wrong. You had never seen Vere so pissed at you before. 

You cleared your throat, not yet ready to throw in the towel and give in to Vere's anger. You could still talk to each other like the civil adults you were.

 “Well, thank you for-” you started

“THAT’S WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? THANK YOU?” Vere bellowed, looking more unhinged by the second. 

Welp, so much for civility. 

“Well, what do you want me to say, Vere?” you snipped, annoyance bleeding into your tone. You already had a headache from the blood loss; you didn't need someone yelling at you, either. 

“Oh no, you do not get to have an attitude with me.” Vere snapped back. “Can you even comprehend how lucky you are? The only reason I found you was because the Sinobium had been getting complaints in Lowtown about the soulless. If not for that, I would be in Hightown right now doing jack shit while YOU would be a corpse cooling in the grime.” 

“I'll be more-” 

The words caught in your throat. What you wanted to say was “I'll be more careful”.

But you had been careful. You were alert, you traveled on all the best-lit roads, and you were armed. You had taken every precaution. And you had still nearly died. You couldn't hold back the bitter feeling at how outclassed you had been, especially since if Vere saved you, that meant he had probably killed the soulless that had taken you down with barely any struggle. There was nothing you could have done to have made that fight go any better. 

“What do you want from me, Vere? To just hide in my room two hours before the sun even begins to set to ensure nothing ever happens?” 

“Yes?!?!?” Vere responded as if it was the most obvious answer to exist. 

“Vere, I have work to do. That's obviously not feasible. And even if it was, I won't live my life in fear of the darkness.” you countered. 

Vere threw his head back and gave a bark of laughter.

“You know what, you're so right.” Sarcasm dripped in Vere's voice. “What is the worst that could happen after all? It's not like there's a risk of you DYING IN THE STREETS.” 

When Vere got mad, it made you more aware of the monster he was. When he yelled in rage, you could see all his fangs. When he waved his hands around in exasperation, you could hear the claws whiff against the air, as if they were sharp enough to cut through even oxygen. His ears were pressed flat against his head, and there was a snarl to his voice. This changed nothing to you, of course. You always knew what he was. He was just so good at disarming people with his charm, it was easy to forget he was built to be a killer. Even you, one of the people closest to him, were not immune to his disarming act. 

You opened your mouth to counter, but the words died in your throat once again. He made a good point. It wasn't a feasible point, but you understood his rage. You were really just arguing with him to avoid the shame you felt at how absolutely outclassed you felt. You couldn't just hide away from the world, you were working on top of trying to find a way to cure yourself and free Vere. You couldn't afford to just hide away and live in fear. But with that being said, if you had been in his position tonight, you would be just as upset. 

Damnit. 

After a long pause, you finally spoke again. 

“I'm sorry. I can’t put my life on hold because of this. But I will be more cautious when the sun sets. And I will keep training so next time I can get away. That's the best compromise I can offer you. And I am sorry Vere. I didn't mean to upset you. Or almost die.” 

You tried to give the last part of that sentence a lighthearted tone, in an attempt to lift the mood.

You expected more yelling. But instead when you looked at Vere, he was just quiet. After a few more agonizing moments of silence, you half expected him to walk out right then and there. Or throw a chair at your head. 

But to your shock, he simply hung his head and sat down on your bed.

You quickly scooted over to make room for him. 

He let out a long sigh and unceremoniously leaned down to flop his head on your chest. After a few moments, you felt like it was safe enough you could start gently stroking his head. 

You lightly petted the base of his ears and ran your fingers through his hair. For a moment, everything was calm.

And then your fingers hit something wet and sticky in Vere's hair. You looked down at your hand, and your fingers were red. 

Blood.

Shit shit shit shit. Did he actually get injured when he saved you from that soulless? You hastily pushed Vere’s face off your chest and grabbed his chin, roughly tilting it to your line of sight to look for injuries. 

Vere looked shocked for a second, but easily removed your hand from his chin like it was nothing. 

“What exactly was that for?” he questioned, irritation noticeable in his voice.

But you couldn't answer. You could only focus on the fact that he was covered in blood. It was obvious. How the hell did you not even notice until now? The blood didn't really show on his black clothes, but red was splattered on his face and had matted half his hair, making it look wet. Vere did already naturally have a very red pallet, and it wasn't uncommon to see him covered in blood at all. But still, how were you so focused on arguing with him you hadn't even noticed that he was covered in blood?

You could feel a pit of guilt and fear well up inside you. 

“You're injured, I'm getting Kuras” you firmly stated. 

Kuras and Vere may not like each other, but you knew Kuras wouldn't turn away anyone. And if Vere was too proud to ask for help, you'd gladly do it yourself. 

As you stood, you felt a pair of clawed hands wrap around your waist and pull you back down onto the bed. 

You tried to twist around and squirm free, but it was useless. Vere wasn't hurting you, but his grip was firm enough that you wouldn't be able to force your way out. 

“Vere don't be childish, y-”

You heard a sigh from behind you as Vere rested his chin on your shoulder.

“This is your blood, not mine” he mumbled.

Ah. you once again tried to squirm out of Vere's grasp, and this time he released you with another sigh. 

You sat down on the bed properly and faced him. Your blood was everywhere. It splattered across his face and completely coated the right side of his chest. Drip lines of blood ran all the way to his knee on his left side and both his arms were coated in red.

You subconsciously moved to touch your shoulder, it was a little sore and stiff, but other than that fine.

Of course, you then remembered how Kuras had reattached your arm that first day in Eridia. You were on death's door then. So how badly injured had you been tonight? 

You tried to remember the details of your absolute pummeling, but it was mostly a haze. 

Not good, you could imagine. Judging by how much blood was on Vere, and how upset he was, you probably actually were on death's door when he brought you here.

But he had brought you here. Despite his hatred for Kuras, he had forgotten his pride to help you. Damnit, now you really felt bad for arguing with him earlier. 

You shifted in the bed again, this time you rested your head on his shoulder, and he easily adjusted, laying his hands behind your shoulders and lightly drawing circles on your back with his fingers. It tickled a little. 

“Vere” you mumbled into his chest. “I really am sorry.” 

There was a pause before he responded. It felt like a lifetime.

“You're just so vulnerable.” He finally whispered after a few seconds of silence. 

Once again embarrassment welled up inside you for being taken down so easily, but you knew Vere wasn’t trying to tease you about it. 

Besides you, Ais was his closest friend. And no soulless could touch Ais. And everyone else he knew, whether they be allies or enemies, was also strong. Or at least capable. Most of them could have probably defeated the soulless that took you down. It’s not that you were weak, it’s that you were new. You didn’t know this city like they did, and you didn’t have the experience they all had killing creatures like the soulless. You were painfully aware of how much you needed to improve. But now, you were also aware of how uncomfortable this probably was for Vere.

He wasn’t used to having people around him who could just die over "nothing", so you couldn't blame him for reacting poorly. He'd never had to worry over another person's life like he had to do with you. You must have seemed so delicate to him, like a glass sculpture. You could almost understand why he wanted to keep something so fragile under lock and key.

But you weren't made of glass. You were a person. You could evolve. You would get smarter, stronger, more skilled. And you would do just that. Because you didn't want to die in the streets. And you didn't want to upset Vere again. 

You leaned in closer to Vere, catching the scent of lavender on him. It was calming. Grounding. You could feel your eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. 

“Vere,” you mumbled. “Tomorrow, come to my room, I’ll brush your hair as a thank you.” 

“I can’t. The Sinobium has me booked for the day” he replied. 

“That's fine.” you yawned. “I can wait till you get off. For now, I can wash some of the blood off you.”

As you said this, you began to lazily move towards the basin and sponge at the side of the bed.

You could feel Vere hold you a little tighter as you tried to move away. 

He didn't say anything, he didn't need to.

“Oh. the Sinobium wants you to go back to work right now, don't they?” you questioned. 

“Mhm,” Vere responded. “I've pushed their grace limit as it is, staying for this long. But I'll stay for just a little longer. Go to sleep.”

“You won't be here when I wake up?”

“No.” 

“But you will come to see me when you're finished, right?” 

“You'll probably be out working.”

“So wait for me. You don't need a key to get into my room. You made that evident with how much you come in uninvited. You didn't even need to steal my key that day we met.” You insisted.

Vere chuckled lightly at the memory and continued gently tracing circles on your back. 

“Vere?” 

“Mhm?” 

“You will come to see me right? You're not still mad?”

“I'm still mad at you,” he confirmed. “But I’ll be there.” 

Satisfied with that answer, you allowed yourself to finally drift off to sleep. When you woke, it was just you alone in that room. 

You weren't worried though, you knew a certain fox would darken your doorstep very soon.

[machveil]

Do you have any favorite König fic recommendations? Love your art BTW 🩷

yes, anon… yes I do [gets choked up] come with me, I’ll show you some

I’ll share sfw and nsfw ones - nsfw below the cut! ALSO, please support the writers!! send them some love! likes, reblogs, comments, get up in their business about how good they are🎀✨ they deserve so much for writing amazing works

SFW (I’ll preface by saying PLEASE just go binge @gremlinmodetweeker’s blog, I’m begging you):

gremlinmodetweeker’s König of the Icks series is actually my favorite Tumblr series and I really recommend it: part 1, part 2, part 3 - I regularly go back and read these

I have a bias on how gremlinmodetweeker writes König in general so here’s some rapid fire suggestions: König having a big appetite, movie nights with König, König’s quirks, general König notes, and their general König Dump

from @notsomellowarchiveofchaos I suggest König with a stutter (poor man) and König making you a blanket

OKAY @writersdrug absolutely blew mind with early mornings with König, but also! their random König headcanons!

@tacticalprincess’s version of dry texter König is top tier

from @konigsblog, calling König cute and König’s lisp

please make sure to read content warnings (CW) and/or trigger warnings (TW)! your comfort comes first, check the fic before you read it<3

NSFW:

back to writersdrug! I have a handful of fics to recommend: König fucking you to sleep, random König headcanons, kissing König, period comfort, and riding

a handful of fics from konigsblog: König giving head (absolute top tier post), König’s stutter, boxers or briefs, Loser!König getting a hug (poor man), and König’s oral fixation

oh my god, also follow @ghostsangel because, oh man, they always hit. anyways, some of my favorites are on the kitchen floor and TouchStarved!König (oh my god)

@evilgwrl only writes bangers so… slobbery König (jesus christ) and Neighbor!König

last, but certainly not least, the wonderful @rowarn! tired König, König helping you after a rough day, overstimulated König absolutely going through it, back at it again with another overstimulated König post, and a double whammy to end it off on, König using you as a fidget toy and you using König as a fidget toy

[uneducatedraccoon]

You called

Summary: Ais told you he'd always be there if you needed him.

No use of y/n, gender neutral, trigger warning of violence but nothing too extreme imo. Probably a misuse of how the Seaspring works with Ais and the hivemind.

Authors note: uh I'm not a writer, just usually a enjoyer of fanfic but I had this idea in my head like a little brain worm and I had to get it out. Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated because I need validation :').

Your POV

Ais had once told you 'If you ever need me just shout. I mean it, I'll come find you wherever you are.'

At the time you had just laughed it off, rolled your eyes and told him you'd be sure to remember that for future reference, or something equally as dismissive. It wasn't until you found yourself in a dark alleyway with some guy twice your size, who apparently didn't appreciate your 'shitty attitude' as much as Ais that you even thought about the conversation. Furthermore, it wasn't until you had been thrown on the ground, and your left knee curb stomped that you thought to test it out.

"Ais!" You screamed as pain radiates up your body in sharp waves, "Ais I need your help!" Your voice escapes in a hoarse scream as you fight the urge to throw up from the feeling.

The asshole had the audacity to laugh at your desperate cries and gave you another kick to the ribs knocking the air out of your lungs. You saw stars as you fell to the side, your body trying desperately to find air that wasn't there.

Ais' POV

He had eyes everywhere thanks to the Seaspring, it connected him to everyone who had ever drank from it in a sort of hivemind. Something most wouldn't know was that there was near constant input from everyone else who drank from the Seaspring too, sights, sounds, smells, it was always there, a constant live feed. For the most part Ais had learned how to tune it out, making it background noise in his head so he wouldn't go insane. But something caught his attention, a familiar voice yelling out his name. It caused it him to stop immediately and focus in on the sound, identifying where it had come from.

A woman had heard the cry and from her eyes Ais could see his familiar companion laying on the ground crying in pain. He watched through her eyes as they yelled his name again and begged for his help, the woman watching turned and ran. Rage boiled up inside him alongside fear, he watched as she ran until he saw enough to know where they were. Without a second thought he severed the connection and took off.

Your POV

You were going to die, you were sure of it. At least one of your ribs had to be broken based off how hard it was to breathe and pain was burning through you, making it feel like your nerves were on fire. It was hard to tell where you weren't injured, a warm trickle of blood working its way past your lips. The man responsible for this situation sneered down at you, letting out a low chuckle.

"Still think your friend is coming to help you?" He asks, his voice thick with disdain and unbridled arrogance.

"Fuck you," you sneer back not willing to give him the satisfaction of breaking you.

"You little-" he didn't get to finish the sentence as one moment he was above you, the second there was just the dark sky.

Well...that's unexpected... you think to yourself. Maybe this was your body shutting down? Trying to protect yourself by imagining the night sky as you die instead of your would be killer. But that can't be right, everything still hurts and you're pretty sure death doesn't look like...wait Ais?

There's suddenly a new face above yours, this one is the familiar face of your favorite demon.

"Ais?" You croak your eyes widening with disbelief, he came. He actually came.

He scoops you up gingerly into his big arms, a cry escaping past your lips as a wave of pain so intense it causes black spots to swim in your vision before it slowly subsides.

"I'm so sorry," Ais says softly, "I should've been here sooner, I came as fast as I could. We're going to get you to Kuras and he'll have you good as new, Sparrow." He promises his voice soft as he gently maneuvers your body so your left knee is supported but not straining on his arm.

As he walks so carefully it's almost like he's floating, you can't help but bury your head into his chest, the familiar scent of smoke and blood oddly comforting.

"How?" It's all you can manage to ask as the adrenaline slowly loosens its grip on you like your body realizes you're now safe.

"You called," is his only response, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he looks down at you with a mixture of concern and helplessness.

Each blink feels longer than the last, at first you're staring at the swirling ink on Ais' chest, next time your eyes open you're in front of the clinic, the third Kuras is looking down at you with a reassuring expression. The next time you open your eyes you're in the Seaspring, still tucked against Ais' chest as he whispers reassuring words into your hair, eyes drifting shut once more as you fall asleep.

[trappolia]

FEELING HUMAN, HOOKED ON YOUR BREATH ── leander + gn!reader, 430

leander is painfully aware of his reputation; knows that you've heard rumours of how the corner room you currently occupy in the wet wick was once exclusively for him and his one-night-stands, vere's little quips of him getting some action with a stranger or two in dark alleys, and he hasn't exactly been subtle with the way he looks at you in the candlelight when you're huddled together in one of the booths. he knows that you're no fool, that you're not deaf to the warnings to stay away from him lest you fall too deep into his spell of dark magic—

but you stay anyway.

perhaps it is because he is one of the few to offer you some semblance of comfort in the unfamiliar streets of eridia without asking for anything else, or because he is the only one capable of touching your bare hands and remain sane enough to see the exact shade of your pretty eyes, but whatever the reason, he finds himself unable to care. he finds himself doing a lot of uncharacteristic things since you've come around, actually.

leander does not believe in god, has never even entertained such thoughts of a divine entity existing with the sort of life he's led since birth, but he thinks that despite your curse, you are the closest thing to an angel he's ever met. leander feels bad about it, really; the thoughts that plague his mind when he lets you trace the grooves and scars of his calloused hands, your darkened fingertips ghosting upon the skin of his forearm like a dancer from the amaryllis district. he feels guilty, as if he's taking advantage of your trust like this, even if you're the one who's touching him, but it's outweighed by that something that leander still can't name even after all those nights of laying awake in night or nursing his nth bottle of rum in the wet wick at some ungodly hour of the night; something about how you touch him like he's the only solid thing in the world, the look in your eyes when you find your fingers wandering over to the scar on his face.

there is no such thing as heaven or hell, just the monsters (soulless and mortal) that linger in the space between, but your touch is divine, and for the first time in his life, leander wants nothing more than to repent for his sins, to whisper his confessions against the warm dark-gold of your knuckles as if he could find some semblance of forgiveness in your skin.

© trappolia 2024

[lu-dao-writes]

Me remembering that Kuras is literally the first person to see us/the mc naked-.

[eridianfic]

✧heaven is a place I know✧

You come home after a long, long day of work to find a locked door and no key. You'd go to Leander... but it seems like he'd enjoy that far too much. Maybe Kuras will take pity on you?

Pairing: Kuras x Fem!MC Length: ~10,000 words Tags: fluff, hand holding, domesticity, bad cooking, eating, medicine, female mc, bedtime story

a/n: I wrote this for an art exchange in one of the touchstarved discords:) title references this song. Ao3 link here

It’s always nice to head back after a long day of work to privacy. You’re exhausted and smelly after hours of cleaning and frying fish for the vendor in the street and some time alone is just what you need. You’ve finally gotten your own place (too small to truly be called an apartment) but it’s yours all the same, and safe behind lock and key. In the past couple weeks you’ve been saving up money for the deposit by helping out local shopkeepers, running a few Bloodhound missions with Leander, and more days than not, gutting fish - entrails and bones twisted and morphed into shapes that feel inexplicably alien. Cleaning fish isn’t the most enjoyable work, but it pays your rent better than secrets and you get a meal out of it, too. Plus, you get to meet the people of Eridia. You hear what weather the grandmas forecast, rumors of infidelity, and sometimes, a snippet of something more: gossip about the Senobium, or the Abbess, about becoming a student… and you lean in, straining your ears to listen as closely as possible over the sound of fish frying in oil. Leander makes sure to drop by for lunch on days you work there, (had come by just today, in fact), grabbing a quick bite to eat and a side hug. He only reached for the embrace on days you’d escaped most of the fish guts. Though the best you could offer was a minimal amount of slime - even the gloves you dons at work each day over your bandages fail to prevent the scent of fish from seeping into your pores. But today, you’d been pretty tidy, so he squeezed you good and proper and left with fish in hand and a cheery, “See you around, I’ll be at the Wick later if you have time for a drink!” 

You had worked late, staying through the dinner rush of people hurrying to get a meal before darkness fell. You, too, had to be diligent about coming home to your room before dusk. You’d been lucky enough to survive your first (and second) brush with the Soulless and you planned on avoiding rolling the dice again. Third time’s the charm, and all that.

You’ve cherished the two weeks you’ve been living on your own. Staying at the Wick hadn’t been bad, exactly - not if you overlooked the raucous laughter that found its way into your room from the bar below, hardly diminished by the solid stone floor. Or tried to ignore the way your belongings would be in a slightly different location than you remembered leaving them last. Or if you brushed off the number of times a drunk couple would press against your locked door, fumbling at the handle for far too long and giggling until they would (at last) realize that their room was the one next to yours. Ok, maybe it had been pretty bad.

So you’d been all too eager to sign the lease that the disinterested landlord shoved at you after you saw the property. It was really only a room with a bed, fireplace, and washbasin, but it was all you could afford. At least until you were able to find more consistent work or decided to give up more of your secrets. Leander hadn’t let you move out without making a fuss. The conversation was still fresh in your mind.

“I’m still going to come by the Wick all the time,” you had said beseechingly, gesturing at the tavern around you.

“You’re sick of me already?” he’d pouted, face falling. “I can give you more space if you need it-” Despite your resolve to leave, guilt had nagged at your conscience. “It’s not that, I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me out-”

“Are you confident that you are going to be safe? Allmother knows you didn’t even make it to Eridia in one piece. What if something happens before I can get there-”

“I managed on my own just fine for years before I met you, as long as I’m not out at night there’s nothing to worry about-”

“-So is it the Bloodhounds, then? If they’ve been crowding you, I’ll have a word with them, just let me know who-”

“No, they’ve been perfectly polite to me.” You had huffed out a breath, holding out your hand to stall the next question quick on his tongue. “Listen, I just… If I’m here, on your coin, it doesn’t feel like this is my home. It’s as if I’m just visiting for a while, like at any point I’ll have to leave… like everything could be pulled away from me.” 

Stability. Something that had been so hard to come by for you. Everything lately has been in so much flux. You hadn’t been able to say the rest to him - that if you stay in the bustling community of the Wet Wick, there’s a greater chance that your curse would become common knowledge. That you’d be cast out of the city, feared by the very same Bloodhounds who have been friendly to you.

Something in him had softened, and he relented at last, concern shining in his pale green eyes. “Fine. But don’t be a stranger. I’ll be keeping my eye on you. if you need anything, or if your new place turns out to be a moldy, rat infested corner of the city, you come right back, understand?”

“I looked it over when I got the key to the place and didn’t see any rats, Leander.” you had said reproachfully. “It’s cheap but it’s not that bad.”

“Well, that’s how they get you, right? The landlord goes through ahead of time and bangs some pans together, scares all the rats away quick right before you arrive, wipes the mold away-”

“I’ll be fine.” You’d given him a small smile. “Really. I’ll come back if there’s any big issues.” Despite his protestations, he had put up less of a fuss than you’d expected. Perhaps you’ve proven to him that you can hold your own - adapted to the city better than he expected.

And so, you had moved your meagre belongings inside and taken the first long breath since moving to Eridia. You had a place where you felt truly safe. For a beautiful, independent, cozy two weeks.

But it’s on the other side of the door. You stall in front of it, feet aching from your long day at the fish stall, pulling your coin purse out of the front of your shirt and fumbling in it for your key. The key. The key that should be tucked right here in your coin purse - safe from foxes with wandering hands. But, as you jam your fingers into the lint filled corners of your bag with increasing desperation, it’s just not there. You check every possible place you can think of, hands fumbling through pockets and folds of fabric time and time again. There’s nothing there. Nothing but your coin purse (with a few grimy coins inside) and a handkerchief, slightly disgusting from where you’ve used it to wipe your brow as you bent over the hot oil. 

You stand on your own doorstep, mind spinning. Maybe it fell out, somehow? You couldn’t remember anyone getting close to you today, no one of consequence. I better retrace my steps. 

The conditions weren’t in your favor. The evening was late, sun low on the horizon. It bathed the city in a warm light, turning the buildings a rosy color. Flowers sat open in the setting sun, clinging to buildings and draping from hanging planters, fragrance wafting on the balmy evening breeze. It would have been quite a romantic view if you had any time to look at it.

Instead, your eyes were firmly planted on the ground, scanning for your key between cobblestones and the contents of upended chamber pots. As the light falls, your hope does too. Dread weighs heavy and sick in your gut. It’s not safe to be outside. You need to find a place to hide out, and quickly.

The Wet Wick is a little ways away from your winding path back to the fish stall. Should I go there and meet up with Leander? He said he’d be there tonight. But honestly - a part of you rankles at returning to Leander so soon after putting up such a fuss about being independent. And you might still find your key. 

But there’s no key on your route. Nothing but dirty stones beneath your feet. You stand, forlorn in front of the now abandoned fish stall, and the sun starts to slip behind the rooftops of those rosy (now crimson) buildings. It’s about time you made up your mind. You run the rest of the way to the doorstep of Kuras’ clinic. The line has finally dispersed. No one in poor health can afford to wait out in the open when Soulless might drop by and turn their poor health into no health at all. You knock on the door with uncertainty, realizing you aren’t sure if Kuras is at the clinic this late. Does he live here…?

To your relief, the door opens and Kuras is before you, golden eyes wide in surprise. You lean back a little on your heels as he appears. He’s wearing his doctor’s uniform and the light from the room behind him illuminates the soft curls around his face like a halo. Though you’ve seen him a few times by now, you can never prepare yourself for how handsome he is. It’s like jumping into a cold pool - even if you try to prepare yourself for the chill, the plunge will have your heart pounding and skin tingling just the same. 

“...Good evening.” You flush as he takes in your harried expression, your rumpled clothes, the anxiety that you fail to conceal behind your bright smile. “...Are you well?”

“Yes! Well - I’m well enough, I suppose, only - I seem to have misplaced the key to my place. It’s not that far from here, and it was getting dark, so… I thought I’d see if you were in. I’m rather invested in keeping my arms attached, didn’t want to waste your hard work.”

“I would hope your investment in your health would be centred around the importance of your own wellbeing, not on my behalf,” he chastises, ushering you into the clinic with a wave of his hand. “But if it’s what encourages you to prioritize your safety, I’ll accept it for the time being.”

As you look around the room, you realize that you’ve never actually been in the front room of Kuras’ clinic. Well - that’s not entirely true. You might have been carried through it when you were a breath away from death. But you’ve only seen the room you woke up in, and the hallway that led out to the back door. 

This part of the clinic is minimalist but inviting. It’s a small room, with wooden chairs set along the wall and a vase of small white flowers sitting on an end table in the corner. A light, fresh herbal scent fills the air. The chairs are unpadded, the floor is stone and the rug at the center of the room is a rich brown. You try not to think about the practicalities of such a spartan design, how often there might be various fluids spilled here. A door across from you leads to what you assume is the rest of the clinic. Candles flicker in sconces along the walls.

You wrap your arms around yourself, nerves still frayed from your walk here at dusk. “Do you run this whole place by yourself?” 

“Mostly. There are a few who will lend me their aid from time to time. But it is primarily a solitary pursuit.”

Despite the inviting warmth of his personality, it’s awkward as you regard each other. You haven’t been in such close proximity to Kuras since he saved your life. It’s messing with your head a little bit that he’s standing right in front of you, close enough to touch, with all of his attention trained on you. He looks down at you, concern drawing his mouth into a line. “You’ve misplaced your key?”

“Yes - I could have sworn I had it with me when I saw Leander at work this afternoon. It must have slipped out of my coin purse somewhere along my walk home. I retraced my steps looking for it but it was getting dark and I -”

There’s an intensity to his expression as you speak, brows furrowed as he considers you, but it only lingers for a moment before he’s raising his hand towards you in a calming gesture. “Worry not. My clinic is meant to be a refuge for anyone who needs one. You are welcome to stay until the morning.” He looks at you with mock sternness. “Besides, as you’ve stated yourself - I didn’t heal you just for my work to be destroyed so soon.” You laugh at that, jittery. “I intend to cherish it, trust me. Thank you so much for allowing me to stay here. I wasn’t sure if you lived here, or maybe, if you’d be attending to patients at this hour… I can just sleep wherever you have space - the floor is fine, honestly, I don’t really need all that much. I’m just thankful to not be outside at the moment.”

He turns to face the doorway at the back of the room, hand raised to his face in contemplation. “I have no empty cots available at the moment, as I have some patients who are recovering here overnight. Nothing too severe - but they require a night’s rest before they will be well again. Come. We’ll find an option more hospitable than the floor.”

He leads you through the threshold to a hallway lined with doors that you assume lead to rooms with recovering patients, and up a staircase at the end of the hallway, pausing to unlock a large wooden door.

You step into the room after Kuras. It’s a wide, open space that’s somewhere between a storage room and an apartment. There are open shelves along the wall that contain ceramic and glass containers, each marked with an old, browning label written in a spidery scrawl. Other sections of the walls have unmarked wooden cupboards that reach the ceiling. Tightly bundled medicinal herbs hang above the high arched windows across from you. Bookshelves intersperse the storage shelves, leather bound tomes sitting side by side with colorful, flimsy paperbacks. The right side of the room has two closed doors. The floor is covered by an ornate cherry colored rug, light pink magnolia flowers with winding branches twisting around the perimeter. There’s a long couch in front of the windows, mahogany arms curling down into a scroll shape.

A worn leather armchair sits at an angle across from it, crescent-shaped eyeglasses resting on its arm. A table with a chair at either end is placed near some of the shelves, written papers atop it stacked next to pitchers of water. Colorful glass lanterns hanging from the walls illuminate the space. A lit fireplace, with hooks inside for hanging cooking pots on, stands on the left side of the room, adding to the glow. You hadn’t prepared yourself for how intimate it would feel to see such a personal space. You slip off your shoes and stand hesitatingly behind him, unsure if the heat of the room is emitting from him or the fire. There’s an urge within you to examine everything in the room - but it’d probably be poor manners to scrutinise anything too closely.

“I originally demarcated this section of the clinic as a personal space where I could keep supplies or rest on the rare occasion I happened to have a patient here late at night. However,” he continues with a wry smile, “with the poor health of Eridian citizens…that soon became most evenings.” I wonder where his house is, then, if he has one?

Kuras regards the furnishings critically before gesturing at the couch before you. “I believe this is the best solution to your problem.” He meets your eyes, lips curving into a smirk. “Of course, should you find it too uncomfortable, I have a bed in the other room.”

You inhale sharply and cough, eyes darting away from his amused gaze only to trail unbidden down the long line of his body. Images flash through your mind. The warmth of Kuras’ chest pressed against your back as he cradles you in his arms. His hand, firm and warm, spanning the curve of your hip. Both of you, sleeping soundly, beneath a ridiculously downy comforter. “Th-The couch seems really comfortable, I’m sure it’ll be perfectly fine,” you say, wheezing. 

He raises his eyebrows, expression still playful. “Do not mistake my intentions. I would rest elsewhere if you were in my bed. I do not require much sleep, and I have a few tasks that will occupy me for much of the night.” 

As you become more familiar with him, you’re increasingly certain that misunderstandings like the one you just had are precisely his intention. In his bed. Fuck. You’d been worried about the Soulless… but maybe you should have been worried about him.

As you stand close together in the room, you are suddenly reminded of the fact that you probably reek of fish. “I’m so sorry, but is there any way I could freshen up a little? I’d planned on doing it when I got home, but, well… I didn’t get the opportunity.”

“My apologies, of course. I’ll get you a change of clothes for the night as well, as you weren’t able to bring anything yourself.” He hurries right back down the stairs, and you’re charmed by how sincerely he’s looking after you. Perhaps he’d do the same for all of those under his care - but it feels special to be attended to like this. 

He returns and presses a bundle of loose clothing into your hands, along with a washcloth and a pitcher of steaming water, and leads you to one of the closed doors on the right side of the room. His bathroom. There’s a basin atop a table with a mirror behind it, with drawers and a small bar of herbal scented soap in a ceramic dish. Beneath a pointed window lies a low, long clawfoot bathtub, and a hamper off to the side. The wash basin stands far higher than comfortable for you (around chest level), and only your eyes and forehead are visible at the bottom of the mirror. You shut the door and dip the washcloth into the steaming water, sighing happily as you press it against your skin. You’re finally starting to relax. Frankly, you’re starving, but at least your stress and fear from your difficult day melt away with the oil and sweat. The bread, cheese and fruit you had waiting for you in your (locked) apartment will just have to be tomorrow's dinner instead of the meal for tonight. Carefully, you clean the grime from your skin with the hot water and soap, leaving it flushed and shining. You strip out of your clothes and into the baggy, comfortable sleepwear he’s provided for you. Am I going to end up naked every time I’m here? 

Though you’ve finished getting ready, your curiosity is piqued by the intimate domesticity of being in such a personal space. Moving quietly, you slide open one of the drawers in the wash basin stand. There’s a stack of neatly folded washcloths, a tooth brush, and a small vial at the back, filled with an amber liquid. You falter for a moment before grasping it, examining it closely. A faint smell is emitting from it - golden and resinous, warm and rich. A perfume oil. Your fingers shake a little as you hastily put it back into place, pressing the drawer closed. You stare blankly out of the window above the bathtub, mind whirling. Who does he wear that for? Special occasions, dates… Fleetingly, you think about how the scent would bloom on his skin - how it would smell with your face pressed into his neck, his hair wild around you. How it might linger on you after he left, or in your sheets the next morning - You frown, trying to collect yourself, but your gaze has slid down to the bathtub and it’s as if you can see him before you, water glistening on his bare skin, hair dark and clinging damply to his face, gaze burning as hot as the water as he beckons you closer -

Tearing your eyes away from the tub, you glare at yourself in the base of the mirror. You point your finger accusingly at your reflection. Pull it together. You give yourself one last steely look before gathering your clothes in your arms and yanking the door open abruptly. “All done.”

He looks up from where he’s seated in the worn armchair, book in hand with the pair of semicircle glasses perched on his nose. “Better?”

“Yeah, I definitely feel refreshed. The hot water was nice, thank you.” And it’s definitely the only reason why your skin is flushed. Your stomach twinges again, voicing a complaint, but you do your best to ignore it. It’s too uncomfortable to ask him to make you a meal. You take a seat on the couch across from him, legs dangling above the floor. “You don’t have to look after me, I’ll be fine on my own if you need to go check on patients or do anything else…”

“Sporadically I work from daybreak to daybreak, when my rooms are filled with those near death.” He closes the book in his hand and sets it on the low table by his side, crossing one long leg over the other. “But tonight is not one of those nights. The most serious malady downstairs is a difficult case of influenza. I will spend the evening here, with you.”

You nod, happiness creeping through you like a tendril of smoke. “So do you mainly see people who are struggling with serious illnesses? Or maybe…acute cases of dismemberment? Or are there people that come by just for checkups every so often?”

He fixes you with a pointed look. “Are you inquiring because you’d like one?”

“I-I don’t mean to impose, I’m fine! I was just curious, really.”

“Hmmm.” He contemplates you for a moment, looking at you over the top of his glasses. A catlike smile plays around the edge of his lips. “In my expert opinion, I believe I should examine you further. I would like to be certain you’re not suffering any further complications from the Soulless attack. Do my due diligence, and conduct a thorough checkup.”

Despite the teasing lilt to his voice he picks up a notebook and pen from the table at his side, scrutinizing you with a professional demeanor. “Do you have any conditions that run in your family?” His eyes shift towards your arms and you blanch a little, blindsided.

“Not that I’m aware of. Truthfully… I’ve never known my family. So, I suppose I could have a lot of conditions that will suddenly appear when I’m forty that have been passed down through generations.” You grip one hand with another, bandages taut against your knuckles, unwilling to discuss your curse. Not yet. Even though he’s seen your hands already. But he doesn’t linger or press for more information, passing on to the next question with a smoothness that can only occur after years of habit. “Have you noticed any recent changes in your appetite, weight, or sleep patterns?” You heave out a sigh. “I have. Appetite and weight are fine but I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve had nightmares for a while now but they’re so much worse lately. I keep finding myself in the wastes. Bleeding out in the mud, with no one but Soulless around.” It’s more honest of an answer than you had expected to give. You don’t tell him about the other parts. How you feel the Soulless tug and rip at your limp body. Or see the faces of each person you’ve met since arriving in Eridia twist, one by one, into madness. He tilts his head slightly, gazing at you evenly. You find it refreshing that he lets things go - accepts what you’ll tell him without peppering you with questions or discomfort coloring his face. “It’s fairly common to experience nightmares after such a traumatic event. I have a few items that may be able to aid your sleep, if you would be so inclined.” “Sure. It’d be nice to not wake up flailing around every day.”

“Let’s start with a medicinal tea, and if it doesn’t diminish their frequency or intensity, we can discuss alternatives.” He jots down a note, nodding to himself. “How has your arm recovered? Any changes in functionality?”

“No, it’s been right as rain ever since you stuck it back on.” He lifts one eyebrow at your response, sly smile returning. “Would you allow me to examine it briefly?”

“A-Alright-” And before you know it, he removes his glasses and approaches you, kneeling down on the rug at your feet. His hands, warm as the water he had brought you to wash up with, trail feather-light over the tidy stitches at your elbow. He’s incredibly close to you and it’s so difficult to look at him, his presence as stark and blinding as the sun. His fingers knead the line of stitches gently, pressing into the give of your skin. Every part of you feels hot from embarrassment and the inescapable focus of his unadulterated attention. “Hmmm. Healed perfectly.” His voice is lower now, soft as velvet in your ear, and you realize he had no doubt in the quality of his work or in your arm’s healing. That he chose to do this not because of a doctor’s duty but rather due to his interest in you, desire and curiosity merely laying atop the facade of a checkup. The realization sends heat pooling into your stomach, treacle-thick and aching. He slides his hand to the edge of your bandages and your arm jerks, years of instinct filling you with alarm -

“Shhhhhh.” He calms you like you’re a spooked horse, motions slow and gentle. Kuras smooths the top of the bandages, fingers burning like a brand against the edge of cursed skin, straightening one where it’s twisted. There’s a reverence in how he touches you. And a thrill inside as you realize that he can touch your skin without fear, that he must have done so when he healed you the first time; when he gathered your lost limb with his own and rejoined it to you. Your eyes dart between the angled lines of his furrowed brow and where his long fingers rest on your arm.

“Flex your fingers for me.” His breath puffs faintly on the side of your face. You ball your hand into a fist and then open it, fingers stretched wide. “Good.” Praise, from him.Your breath shudders as you exhale. Good. It makes you ache for more, yearn to hear it again, to do what he asks. To be so very good for him. Kuras’ hand glides down the rough lines of your bandages to your palm, thumb rubbing small circles in the center of it. The rest of his hand wraps around the back of yours, cradling it in his own. Your heart pounds and you pray he can’t feel it, that the bandages offer you some kind of protection from his observation - Allmother, his hands are so big-

“Any issues you’ve noticed with your heart or lungs?” Your hand feels so hot in his, trapped between the weight of his grasp and focused attention.

“N-No, um, everything has been normal-”

Kuras tuts at you, impeccably calm. “I find myself doubting your judgement.” Your heart pounds traitorously within the firm press of his hand. He slips it up your arm to lay on the side of your neck, where your heart beats furiously in your throat. His other hand rests on the sofa next to your hip, caging you in. “I need no medical instruments to detect that your heart beats so much faster than is normal. Or to notice how your breath comes so quickly from between your lips.”

You freeze, hyper aware of the blood rushing in your ears as it thunders by. And how your breath stutters with each teasing word.

His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, and you look at him desperately. Desire burns in you as hotly as the sensation of his fingertips on your skin. His face is level with yours, eyes dark despite their golden hue. Heat emits from him in waves, sweeping over you. You can see the delicate way his bangs fall on his skin, the way his eyelashes lower as his gaze falls to your lips. “Unless you would tell me that these are not chronic conditions, but rather very recent developments…?” 

Your hand rises of its own will and holds onto his wrist like a lifeline, unsure if you want to hold him still or tug him closer. Your voice is soft and breathy, throat dry. “...Recent. I seem to be suffering from the most sudden affliction.”

You look at his lips, the way they turn up so gently, and gather your courage, leaning forwards toward him, brush softly against the curve of his nose -

Grrrr.

Your stomach growls obnoxiously, shattering the moment. No, at a time like this?! You laugh awkwardly and pull away, cheeks red.

Kuras, truthfully, looks horrified. 

His hand falls away from your face and he lurches to his feet in alarm. “My most sincere apologies!” He runs a hand through his hair hurriedly. “I-I have been a dreadful host. You must have not had the opportunity to eat any dinner.”

Your shame is quickly overtaken by your amusement. Wow, this is the first time you’ve seen him… embarrassed?

He turns on his heel and strides quickly to the cupboards on the other side of the room. You watch as he opens them, one by one with increasing speed, pausing intermittently to peer at the top shelves, or to extend his arm into the dark recesses. Even though most of the shelves are obscured from your view by the broad span of his back, the slivers you can see appear completely barren. You rise and come to stand by his side. If he’s going to make you something to eat, it’s only polite that you’d offer to help. But it's increasingly difficult to not feel apprehensive as you stare down at the eclectic assortment of items he’s setting on the counter. As he finds each one, he places it next to you with marked relief, brushing dust off it before burrowing back into the cupboards, head barely visible. You can hardly believe your eyes. It appears that the menu for the evening consists of only the most matured items: a jar of jam, label so worn and faded that it’s nearly impossible to tell what type; a clear glass container of some pickled vegetable, green faded through time into a murky brown; a singular apple, skin slightly wrinkled, and lastly, a much newer, pumpkin-sized sack, with “Nutrient Fortified Oats,” printed boldly across the burlap material. 

The doors clatter as he closes each open cabinet and comes to stand by your side. Any remaining hope that he’d find something more palatable quickly vanishes. So… that’s it, huh. “If I knew you were this low on groceries, I’d have brought you some fish earlier. Missing key or not,” you remark, craning your neck to smile up at him. He frowns, looking down at the pile, his hands clasped behind his back. “It has been quite some time since I’ve been to the market.” You raise your eyebrows. Eons, maybe. Kuras hums contemplatively. “I thought I had some asparagus hidden away, but I haven’t been able to locate it.” You peer at the murky mystery vegetable, lifting it up to get a better look at it in the lantern light. “I think… this may be the asparagus,” you say, squinting.

He stoops to take a closer look at it. “Ah, that it is!” he declares brightly.

“Though, um, asparagus is not a vegetable that I’m overly fond of,” you hazard, looking at the jar with trepidation. Some of the stalks inside appear to have lost their shape, partially dissolving into the brine. You actually enjoy asparagus, on occasion. But you desperately would like to avoid eating this kind. “I think oatmeal sounds perfect.” It’s certainly a safer option than trying either of the items in the jars.

“A wise choice. It’s quite heartening - I prepare it for patients who have been at my clinic overnight. It seems to give them the strength to go on their way.” He retrieves a gigantic pot from next to the fireplace and hesitates. “How much would you like?”

You look at the huge pot with wide eyes and then back at him. It’s almost big enough that you could sit in it. “Oh, um, just a bowl amount would be fine…” As he starts to pour the entire pitcher full of water into the pot, you ask hesitantly, “...are you having some too?”

“No, I’ve already eaten.”

You watch silently as he adds a second pitcher of water into the pot. He tosses in a couple cups of oats and hefts the huge pot onto a hook in the fireplace, suspending it above the flames. It appears more as if he’s making an oat-based tea than it does oatmeal. He hangs a kettle on a hook next to it. Frankly, the pot contains probably about eight times as much water as you would have used yourself. But it’s his kitchen, and he’s already done you the tremendous favour of allowing you to spend the night. So you bite your tongue and think longingly about the meal you have waiting for you in your apartment. The two of you take a seat at the dining room table. “The oatmeal takes a good while to cook,” he says, handing you the slightly withered apple. That’s probably an understatement, if he normally boils it in this much water. 

You take an apprehensive bite. It’s not too bad. It hasn’t gone mealy, and still has a tart brightness to it. "I saw you were reading a book earlier." You lean forwards, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. "What's it about?"

"It is a story about uncovering a criminal."

"A mystery novel?"

"Of a sort." He looks down where his hands rest along the edge of the table. You can hear the gentle sound his ring makes as he presses his hand against it. "It's one I have read countless times before."

"Is it a favourite of yours?"

"Not exactly. But it is one I find myself returning to, from time to time."

"Sounds like it's worth hearing about." You take another bite of the apple, leaning back in your chair.

He smiles a little at that, inclining his head in admission. "There is a kingdom ruled by a wise king, who is well liked and increases the prosperity of all. As he reaches the very beginning of old age - an age where he might still have some twenty years ahead of him - he falls ill. It begins as a cough that grows worse by the day. The entire castle can hear him as he coughs through the night. But one day, he falls into a dreamless sleep that no one can wake him from and eventually wastes away.”

He continues, voice measured and gaze focused far off in the distance. “The land mourns - but none as much as his firstborn son. He had hoped to learn more from his father before it was his turn to rule over the kingdom. As a testimony to the wisdom of his father, the young prince keeps all of his father's advisors and court, to guide him as the new king. Of note, there is the lead of the palace guard, a few lords of the lands within the kingdom, a royal physician, a royal magician, and the head of the palace staff. The years pass peacefully once more as the new king has much of the good sense that his father possessed. The lands are so bountiful that he selects members of the court to send to neighboring kingdoms as envoys to form alliances. He sends much of the court, including the court's magician. The new king marries and has a beautiful daughter."

The kettle whistles, and he rises, pouring the boiling water into a teacup and adding a bundle of herbs. “For your nightmares,” he says gently, placing it before you. 

You sniff it warily, but all you find is the friendly and familiar smell of camomile. "This story doesn't seem like much of a mystery yet," you muse, taking a sip and settling back in your chair as you prepare to hear the rest. The tea settles warmly in your stomach.

"The base of the mystery is there already," Kuras remarks, with a twinkle in his eye. "The new king is cautioned by his queen that he trusts too easily, for she had come from a land where betrayal was common. He begins to doubt the death of his father and the sudden way in which he fell ill. He watches the remaining courtiers more closely and asks those whom he had sent away to return, out of fear that they might be swayed by gilded promises to turn against him. His daughter grows into a young girl. The magician had kept a small garden before he left as an envoy, in which he grew various plants for potions and natural remedies. He had always kept it well tended and forbade others from entering, stating they would trample the flowers. But in his absence, it begins to grow unruly. New plants spring forth from the earth, the plants in the garden diversifying without his watchful eye to weed out newcomers. One day, the princess is found in this overgrown garden - in the same, unending sleep that the king's father died from. Perhaps poisoned when she was out of view."

"Is there an assassin in the court? Or maybe someone from one of the neighboring lands?"

"The king suspects as much. He brings each member of the court into the throne room and interrogates them. It seems as if the same person who killed the king has laid in wait all these years. Lord Lautier is the leader of the largest section of the lands in the kingdom, and the king suspects tyranny. He was a lord when the former king passed. He threatens and pleads with him to tell him how to wake the princess, but Lord Lautier has no answers for him. So the king casts him into the dungeons in disgust. Next, he speaks with the head of guards, fearing a coup, but the man is earnest and forthcoming. Still, he sends him to the dungeon out of mistrust. The king even begins to suspect the queen. Perhaps she had so often spoken of treachery because of a guilty heart. And so, she too is locked away. Each person has words that appear earnest at first glance, but for the king, they ring false. His paranoia follows him like a shadow. He begs the court physician to heal his daughter, and the physician tries remedy after remedy, but nothing wakes her. He brings in every healer he can find in his desperation - but no matter what potion, spell, or medicine - the princess remains asleep. The magician is the last to arrive at the castle from his duties as an envoy. When he hears word of the sleeping princess, he grows pale and rushes to his quarters, crafting a potion. It works - it wakes the princess. The king promises the magician whatever he wants in return, but he will not accept a reward."

Kuras pauses, hearing the dull rumble of boiling water. He lifts a ladle from the wall and scoops the oatmeal into a large wooden bowl, setting it before you with a spoon. It looks abysmal. The oats float, unmoored and swollen, in the cloudy hot water. It’s more something that you could drink than eat. You dip your spoon into the, well, oat broth, and gingerly place it in your mouth. Oh, you think grimly, he didn’t season it at all. Or… maybe he did, but it got diluted by the water? 

You swallow quickly and try to find another question to ask about the story. You need to buy time so you can decide how you’re going to get away with only eating a tiny portion of the food when you were so hungry earlier. I bet his patients could get better even faster if he wasn’t feeding them such a depressing meal. "So, who tried to assassinate the princess?"

"The king's fear turns to anger now that his daughter is safe. He will not rest until he discovers how his daughter became afflicted. He goes nearly mad with rage, ordering torture upon the imprisoned members of the court. One day, as he interrogates the court physician, convinced that perhaps he had not truly tried to heal his daughter, the physician speaks. How strange is it, he says, that the magician was able to cure his daughter when no other could? The king's gratitude turns to suspicion, and he orders the magician to be jailed like so many of the others. But before the magician is taken away in chains, he confesses." 

You twirl your spoon in your bowl, watching as the oats spin. The room is pleasantly warm (from Kuras just as much as the fire), and drowsiness is seeping into your bones. You take another bite, hiding your grimace with a gulp of the herbal tea. "So the magician was a traitor the whole time?"

"Years ago, when the aging king fell ill, the magician had done his best to find a remedy that might ease his sleep and allow him to heal from his sickness. He read ancient texts and cultivated a flower that would aid in rest. But in his inexperience, and the king's weakened state, the undiluted flower was far too potent, and the king could not be woken. When he died, the magician lost his king, as well as his honesty. If anyone learned of his potion, he knew he would be executed. The palace grieved in the years after - but none so much as the magician. He did trial after trial and came up with a remedy to this endless sleep - though it was too late. He banished the plant from his garden and swore to never tell a soul what he had done. To live a life in service to the new king as his penance. When he was sent to a neighboring kingdom, in his absence, those soporific flowers bloomed once more. Some seeds had lain dormant in the soil despite the magician’s efforts to eradicate them. And the princess, fancying herself a florist, found them after they bloomed and inhaled their pollen. At last, the magician had a chance to use his remedy and alleviate his guilt. But in doing so, he exposed his original sin."

You glance at your tea before glaring at him in mock suspicion. “I hope that is a fictional flower. I may have nightmares but I’m quite fond of my ability to wake up. There are some unsettling parallels that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore -” 

Kuras laughs in surprise, holding his hands out in supplication. “A mere coincidence, I assure you.��� You yawn, waving his sentence away. “I’ll believe you, I suppose. No point in the alternative. I’m already sleepy, so if you’ve doomed me to eternal slumber, I’m probably already beyond saving. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” You mull over the conclusion to the story, listening to the soft crackle of the fire. "Was the magician executed, as he had feared?"

Kuras steeples his fingers together and regards you with a long, searching look."Yes."

You slouch in your chair, pulling your knees to your chest. "But the magician didn't mean to harm anyone. I mean, he was only trying to help the king, and then he spent the rest of his years trying to make it right. Wouldn't you have pardoned him?"

Kuras sighs. "Does his remedy for the princess erase his former mistake? Can his guilt and shame bring the king back to life? What of the members of the court who were imprisoned and tortured - does the magician hold no blame for their treatment, when he could have ended it by breaking his silence earlier?" 

You shake your head slowly, eyes fixed on the way his mouth twists as he speaks.

He continues, voice firm. "I do not believe atonement can be merely crossed off a list. There is no endpoint where one's good deed has nullified the initial transgression. Perhaps… the magician is right to live in service to the king as penance, just as the king is right to take his life." 

It doesn’t entirely feel like the two of you are only talking about the story now. “Hmmm,” you yawn, drumming your fingers against the surface of the table next to your (mostly still full) bowl of slop. “I think good deeds can eventually outweigh the original crime, if there’s enough of them. Sure, it might not erase the initial mistake. But people learn a lot from messing up and it can motivate them to go out and do great things. I guess intention and effort matter to me, when I consider… when I consider whether someone should be forgiven.” 

You rub your hand over your face, sleepiness weighing down your eyes. Despite Kuras’ promise that your tea isn’t going to put you into an eternal rest, you find yourself doubting him. There’s a desperate craving to find some warm cozy corner to curl up in that has spontaneously appeared. “It sounds like I’ll have to read the story myself. To see if I agree with you.”

Kuras seems, in that moment, older than he appears. As fixed and enduring as a wizened tree, burls formed by years of growth around one wound. His golden eyes are fixed, once more, on that distant point far beyond you. “Absolution,” he murmurs, nearly lost in the crackle of the fire. “Who can give it, save for those whom were wronged? And in their absence…” 

But the moment is lost, and the man you recognise is back before you, levity glinting in his eyes.”Yes, I’ll lend it to you. Let me know whether your opinion is altered upon completion.” He rises and crosses to your end of the table, frowning at your nearly untouched meal in disapproval. “Eating well is the foundation of health,” he chides, taking your full bowl away just the same. 

Your drowsiness is becoming impossible to ignore, weighing you down like you’ve been submerged in sand. “That’s why your cupboards are empty,” you mumble, laying your head across your folded arms on the surface of the table. “You eat up everything and make a h-huge monstrous breakfast or something so you can be the strongest.”

He breathes out a huff of laughter as he sets your bowl down on the counter. You continue dreamily, exhaustion making you bold. “It’s why you’re the picture of good health. Shiny hair and skin that’s so glowy and also - it’s the reason you’re never cold, I bet.”

You hear his steps pause over your shoulder, close behind you. “It appears that it’s time for you to turn in,” he says, amusement as warm in his voice as the coals in the fireplace. “And maybe next time we’ll steep the tea for a little less time, hmm?”

You close your eyes, head feeling as heavy as a boulder where it rests on your arms. It’s childish but you can’t resist. “Don’t wanna move. Bring me a blanket and I’m comfy cozy riiiiight here.” 

He gives an exasperated sigh. One of his arms slides beneath your knees where they rest on the edge of your seat and his other cradles your back. He lifts you high into the air like you weigh nothing, and you hum happily, pressing your face into the warmth of his chest. The room sways gently with his steps as he carries you across the room to the couch. “Mmm. I could sleep juuuust like this.” 

He laughs and you can feel the deep rumble of it, sense the soft exhale of breath against your forehead as your hair stirs. 

“You’ll be thankful in the morning that you slept laying down.” He places you down on the couch so gently that the transition blends together, the strong support of his arms transforming seamlessly into the plush give of the cushions. 

You keep your eyes closed and roll onto your side, facing the front door. Everything feels so heavy and comfortable. You hear the soft sound of his footsteps as he crosses the room. “Are you leaving?” you ask plaintively.

The sound of his voice is immediately reassuring. “I’ll return in just a moment.” 

He’s true to his word. There’s the soft click of a door opening and closing before you feel the gentle weight of a blanket being draped around you. “Head up,” he says quietly, sliding his palm against your head to lift it and place a pillow beneath it. You nuzzle into the surface. It smells like him. Like that fragrance you found in the bathroom. Though your eyes are closed, you can feel him, standing before you. Hesitating. 

Then he’s stooping, brushing the hair back from your face where it’s fallen across it. He presses a kiss to your temple, featherlight and gone in a heartbeat. 

“Stay with me?” you murmur. You’d kick yourself in the morning for being so clingy, if you’d remember it. But for now, you yearn for his companionship. It’s been so very long since you’ve had someone with you while you slept. So long since you’ve felt safe enough in someone’s company to sleep with them there.

“I have some paperwork to attend to.”

And there’s a small part of your heart that wilts at that, mourns the end of your night, where morning will come and end this time together, but it feels unfair to ask again. You pout a little, turning your face down into the pillow. You hear the soft rustle of pages, his footsteps padding across the carpet, a light metallic scrape, and then - the firm weight of his back against your knees. You crack open a bleary eye in surprise. Kuras is seated on the floor in front of the couch, peering through his glasses at paperwork balanced on his knees before him. He leans against the front of the couch, pressing against your legs. He glances to the side, meeting your eyes. “Go to sleep,” he scolds you affectionately.

That pang in your heart dissipates, replaced with blossoming joy. Joy that he chooses, still, to be with you. Chooses to stay despite the childishness of your request. “You work really hard,” you mumble. You almost miss his reply as you spin into sleep. 

“I must.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The soft sound of clanking metal wakes you, and as you blink your eyes open, it almost feels as if no time has passed at all. The sky through the windows is speckled with stars and the room is still dark and lantern-lit. But a new fire has been started in the fireplace, wood not yet blackened. And Kuras is there, bowed before it, ladle stirring the pot hung once more over the flames. He looks the same as he did when you fell asleep, and you wonder if he slept at all. 

As you stretch, he looks over. “Any nightmares?”

“None,” you yawn, cracking your neck. It’s the most refreshed you’ve been in months. “I guess the tea works!” 

“I am glad to hear it,” he says sincerely. “I’ll parcel some out for you to keep at home.” 

To your surprise, your clothes are folded neatly over the arm of the couch. “How long have you been up?” you say groggily, sniffing them when his back is turned. There’s no fish scent to them, only a faint scent that you’re starting to associate with him. 

“I rise before the sun so I can prepare the clinic for the arrival of patients,” he replies, taking a seat in the armchair nearby. “I’ve already seen my overnight patients this morning, they should be well enough to leave in a few hours. Breakfast is ready if you would like some.”

You head to the bathroom to change back into your clothes but stop in your tracks when you pass the fireplace and see the same murky, oat water from the night before in the pot. Oh no. He must have fed some of this to his patients already. You waver on the threshold of the bathroom.

“I’m good without breakfast today, Kuras. But thank you so much for thinking of me.” “Any coffee or tea?” Normally, you’d have tea or coffee to push back your exhaustion from your lack of quality sleep. Today, you don’t need it. Still, it seems wise to allow him to give you something - lest you have to eat leftover oatmeal. “Whichever is great!” you call back, shutting the door behind you.

When you return, he offers you a steaming cup of coffee, the scent wafting through the air. “It’s good you woke up when you did. I would like to accompany you to the Wet Wick in a few moments when dawn has broken. Leander and his Bloodhounds have a certain… luck for finding lost things in the city. It would serve us well to see if your key has been turned in. And if we leave shortly, I should be able to return to the clinic before any patients arrive.” 

Despite the casualness of his words, his voice is controlled and stiff. There’s something so stern about him, so commanding, that you finish your coffee quickly, gather your belongings (with the addition of the tea and the book he’s lent you), and fall in step behind him without a word like a meek schoolchild. He walks so quickly to the Wet Wick that you have to break into a jog every few steps to keep up. Despite the fast pace, it’s enjoyable walking with him. When you’re by yourself, you have to be constantly watching for the few landmarks you know. Not to mention dodging wheelbarrows and carts in the streets, puddles full of the contents of chamber pots, and vines that seem to grow out of the gutter with the sole intention of tripping you. 

With Kuras at the helm, you can simply trail behind him as a passenger, taking in the flowers, the beautiful stonework on the buildings, and the incredibly enjoyable way his broad shoulders narrow into his waist and muscular thighs. Yes, you’ve always been fond of sightseeing.

The Wick in the morning feels innately wrong, like a vampire came along and sucked all the life out of it. All the dust and grime show up in the harsh light of the rising sun. The many tables and chairs are deserted and the room is unsettlingly silent, save for the soft sound of birdsong. The innkeeper stands behind the bar, her face puffy with sleep, bent over a ledger. As she sees the two of you approach, she nods, and heads upstairs - no doubt to get Leander.

You stand by Kuras’ side, fidgeting. It’s awfully strange to be here so early. When you’d lived here there had normally been a few people playing cards or eating breakfast by the time you got up. Leander thuds down the stairs hurriedly. He looks even more exhausted than usual, hair tousled. Kuras, meanwhile, is the picture of composure, hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Leander.” 

“Kuras! I didn’t expect you to be here so early.. and look who you’ve brought along! Thank goodness, I was so worried!”

Kuras frowns at him, and there’s an intensity to his gaze you’ve rarely glimpsed before. “Why is it that you were worried?”

“Because I found her key, of course!! Where in the world did you spend the night?” His eyes move from Kuras’ to yours, and he grabs you by the shoulders, scanning every inch of you. “I’m so happy you’re safe.” He pulls you, bodily, into a hug. You pat his back. You hadn’t meant to worry him. 

“She was with me.” Leander stiffens, brow creasing as he pulls back. 

You nod, smiling awkwardly. “Yes, Kuras was kind enough to extend his hospitality while I was locked out of my place. I made it to his door just in time.”

“You spent the night with him?” Leander pauses, examining you for what, you aren’t sure - before continuing. “In Kuras’ clinic? That’s no place to sleep! You’ll be lucky if you didn’t catch anything, spending time around all those sick people.” He runs his hand through his hair raggedly, distraught. “The Wick was open all night, you know you always have a room here, don’t you? I didn’t sleep a wink, I was so worried about you!”

Your eyes widen, guilt growing. Maybe you should have just come to the Wick instead. Did he really stay up all night out of concern?

Kuras’ hand falls to your shoulder, steadying you. It feels unsettlingly like you’re caught in a battle between the two of them. “The key, Leander,” Kuras grinds out, patience wearing thin. 

“Of course, I’ve kept it right here on me. I wanted to make sure it was safe and didn’t get lost again.” He pulls it from his pocket and hands it to you, eyes sympathetic.  

Kuras feels as resolute as a stone pillar by your side. “Yes, quite fortunate that luck was on your side and you were able to find it. Let us hope that, after today, luck directs itself towards keeping keys firmly where they belong.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Leander replies tersely, mouth downturned. “I’d prefer if she didn’t have to rely on luck to keep track of the key, too. If she lost it from her coin purse, where can she keep it where it won’t fall out?” He turns to you, hand on his hip. “It’s not safe to live on your own if you’re going to end up on the wrong side of a locked door with no way to open it.”

You clench the key tightly in your hand. “I’ll keep track of it.” Your coin purse. The one that’s tucked down the front of your shirt, imperceptible except for a thin cord around your neck. How did he know where you kept your key? Nervously, you brush your bandaged hands over the numerous pockets around your waist. There’s some in your pants and cloak - even in the top of your boots.

Leander looks at you skeptically. “As long as you remember that the Wick is open at all hours. Besides,” he says, gesturing at Kuras. “He’s not at the clinic every evening. It’s risky if you’re counting on him being there.”

“Yes, there are a few rare evenings when I’m not at the clinic.” Kuras nods at him, voice colder than usual. “I will show her my primary residence so she’ll be able to locate me in moments of crisis.”

“... And I’ll keep an eye on my key,” you say nervously, trying to dispel the tension. “That way everything will be fine.” You glance between the two of them. “I lived through the night, ok? I’m thankful that both of you are so generous and want to look after me.”

Your mind shifts again to your coin purse. Leander’s the only one who had gotten close to you yesterday. When he hugged you at the fish stall. Your stomach churns. “Well… I had better drop this off at home and then head to work,” you say, raising Kuras’ book in your hand. “Thanks again to the both of you. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble or worry.” 

“It was no trouble at all,” Kuras says smoothly, warmth returning again to his voice. “And please do drop by later to let me know what you think of the story, when you’ve finished it.”

“I’ll see you at lunch,” Leander says, searching your face. 

You smile back at him, but you’re not certain it reaches your eyes. “Of course.”

Your feet follow the route back to your apartment mindlessly, key in hand and thoughts spinning. It’s mystifying how your key found its way outside of your coin purse. Perhaps Leander had seen the outline of the bag beneath your shirt, or deduced that you wouldn’t keep it in your pocket. There’s a layer of guilt that lays across your thoughts like grease. He’s been so nice to you, and had looked so intensely relieved when he saw you were safe and sound. It feels unreasonable to suspect him of any misdeed. Swiftly, you drop the key into the top of your boot and kick your leg until it rests solidly against the sole of your foot. You’ll try this hiding spot for now. Until your doubts fade. At least the sharp discomfort of it beneath you will be a reminder of the fact that it’s there. You’re thankful, now, that you thought to visit Kuras’ clinic instead of going to the Wet Wick. Like Leander clearly had wanted.

You’ll have to read the book Kuras lent you quickly. The memory of his warm touch, the tenderness with which he treated you, and the heat that lingered in his gaze… yes, you desperately want to see him again. You want to learn why it is that he’s so inexplicably harsh when it comes to redemption. You want to smell that warm, resinous scent that clung to his pillow again. And, if he’ll let you, you want to teach him how to make his patients something other than disgusting oatmeal.

[softagenda]

fortune's expensive smile (leander)

leander x reader(f)

first meeting / leander's pov

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

“Now, who could use some good luck?”

Leander spun on his heel, surveying the tavern with a grin as his hounds cheered, slapped their hands on tables, jostling bottles and glasses, some leaning in and tugging at the end of his cloak to plead with him. He resolved to pick a recent client to further the good tides from good business when an unfamiliar face peered up from the crowd.

Once he’d met her gaze through the dust and dusk of the tavern, a strange charge had settled in the air. 

Luminous magic clung to his fingers, the lilies born of his magic curling toward her as real flowers might toward the warmth of the sun. The green light washed over her face, brushing away the shadows of her hood. Bright eyes peered back, embraced by thick lashes and a faint sense of wonder. Silken hair tumbled from the side of her neck and down her chest.

Leander felt his breath still for a moment, until he caught his stride and said, with a slow smile, “How about you?” He held them out to her, as a suitor might for a new love.

In all honesty, she likely could use some luck. 

Bruises beneath her eyes, mud slicked boots. A weight and slump to her stance, as though she had shouldered a heavy burden long enough to steel her spine and chip away at her soul. He breathed in the air around her, and beneath the smell of the bar that pressed against his senses like the misty fug on a brimming pint lay an unmistakable, acrid trace of magic. Old magic.

She hesitated for a moment. Then a slender hand reached from beneath her sleeve. Bandages wrapped every inch of her skin. His stomach lurched at the sight, an old ache echoing from inside him pricking a tenderness with pity and curiosity.

Her fingers touched the flowers. Instantly the magic faded. 

At her surprised look, he shrugged easily. “That’s the problem with flowers. They don’t last long, but they leave an impression, right?” He grinned, clapping his hands to diffuse the remnants of magic clinging to his hands. His willowisps drifted upward before dissipating, little more than twining spirals of dust beneath the light.

The stranger paused, her brow furrowed. 

Then a small but sweet smile spread over her face, softening her features and the edge of grief that dogged her steps.

Leander’s heart gave a sudden, strong thump against his ribs at the sight.

Well, hello there . 

______________

He watched the stranger from the corner of his eye, his curiosity growing. 

Her eyes seemed older than her appearance would suggest, perhaps hewn from a hard life or misfortune. At the same time, she stalled at even his gentlest of flirtations, as though unused to the idea or uncertain how to respond to them. She’s careful with her drink and her distance, drinking a tall glass of water and curling her shoulders away from him at the bar. Less so with her words.

Uttering the word Senobium in the Wet Wick had earned scores of men and monsters broken bones, cracked teeth, and a thousand pleas for mercy ignored. His hounds were better trained than most, but he knew that many nursed a grudge where the institute was concerned. He’d helped sort many of them himself. 

They’d calmed at his words, but he led her from the bar anyway, after finishing his beer to wash the sour taste from his mouth. 

Out in the alley, Leander turned and asked, in a low voice, “Kuras didn’t send you here for help with the Senobium, did he?” Though he had yet to pry the doctor’s pristine shell apart for the pearls within, he knew the other man well enough to know he’d never turn someone with a genuine need to the institute’s door. 

She glanced away, frowning. “He suggested I find an alternative.”

“Yet here you are, asking about them anyway,” he continued, folding his arms over his chest and appraising her. “What do you need the Senobium for?”

Her mouth tightened. Her reticence was obvious. 

The first thing that had clued him in to her recent arrival to Eridia was the openness of her expressions, how easily he could stare into her eyes and glean her thoughts. Well, that and her looks. He hadn’t lied - he couldn’t imagine ever forgetting a face as stunning as this.

“Well, I see you’re already aware of the city’s currency. Information’s worth its weight in gold here.” He gaged her expression once more before adding, “Kuras told you the truth. The Senobium’s dangerous. Get on their bad side and they’ll imprison you if you’re lucky, or torture you if you’re not.”

The image of a sulky, sneering fox broke through his thoughts in a vision of fiery red hair and black leather, before he shook it off.

Her face fell. “But the Senobium’s supposed to be a place of learning, a sanctuary…”

Leander grimaced. “That’s what they want you to think, but things that seem too good to be true are often just that.” If he felt a pinch of guilt at the words, he forced it deep down inside. Clearing his throat, he clapped his hands to dispel the bleak thoughts. “But as I always say: there’s a solution to every problem, and alternatives to every solution.”

She was watching him warily, her shoulders slumped. Clearly the hard truth about the Senobium had come as a low blow - he could only imagine the hard journey that had brought her all the way here, only to be told that the institute was a facade.

He smiled, eager to turn the mood around. “That’s why Kuras pointed you to the Bloodhounds.” He leaned his head to the side, glancing humorously at the posters plastered all along the alley way, his own face grinning back at them. “Let us help you. Whether it’s hunting Soulless, finding people, or recovering stolen valuables, we can do it all. And free of charge.” … at least, in terms of currency.

Even as he delivered his speech, she shook her head. Her hood fell back to her shoulders, exposing her hair to the gaze of the sun. His eyes followed the slow unfurling of a lock down her neck, teasingly slow as drizzled honey.

Her mien was far from sweet, though. “Listen, I appreciate the offer. But my problem can’t be solved by a group of good samaritans.”

Leander nodded, sorting through the information with quicksilver decisions. “Then your problem must be fairly serious. And if the Senobium’s your first choice… you’re searching for a magical solution, aren’t you?”

Her face once again gave her away, all wide eyes and slack jaw. 

He straightened, rolling his shoulders back and lifting his chin. “I’d be happy to help you out. That is, if you tell me what ails you.” 

She seemed torn for a long moment, her teeth biting the corner of her mouth as she stared hard at the cobblestones below their feet. Either she would confide in him, or she would seek her answers somewhere else. He would support her either way, though he’d prefer she take a chance on him and let down those stiffly high walls a bit.

He gave her room for her thoughts, taking his own time to allow his gaze to inspect her cloak, the dagger strapped to the curve of her hip, shapely legs that hinted of lith muscle. 

Then a whisper stole across the silence. “... I’m cursed.”

The admission seemed to cost her dearly. 

“Cursed?” he echoed, now inspecting her with a more clinical mindset. “Oh, now I’m very curious. Something ancestral or more recent?” 

“It’s your hands, isn’t it.”

Her immediate flinch was answer enough. She curled in on herself, her hands stowing away in her pockets, shame twisting the gentle eves of her face. His beautiful stranger forced herself to continue, short and hushed, “My touch is dangerous, it changes people, hurts them –” 

He tugged his glove off his right hand, stretching his fingers after their release from the sticky leather. An anticipation settled over him as he recalled that scent around her in the bar, that taste of magic that lingered on the back of his palette. 

“Let’s see it,” he coaxed easily, offering his hand as he cast his strongest protection spell over his body. Exceptionally few enchantments or curses would be able to break through this one - Vere had been gracious enough to test that for him several months ago. 

She balked immediately. “I can’t. Believe me, this isn’t an ordinary curse.”

And I’m no ordinary mage, beautiful . “I’ll be fine. Perhaps where you came from, your affliction was strange and one of a kind. But spend a year in this city, and you’ll see a thousand curses and thrice as many cures.” He frowned slightly as a thought occurred to him. “Do you really think Kuras would send you here if I couldn’t handle it?”

She shrugged. “How should I know? I only met him today.” 

Ah. Leander took a breath and calmed himself. He wasn’t used to this much resistance to his offers of help - and perhaps his and the good doctor’s notoriety had gone to his head in some ways. 

Still, he tipped his chin up with pride and said, “I’m as good as any mage in the Senobium. Better even. If they can help you, so can I.”  And he’d do it without a sanctimonious lecture to boot. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” 

Her eyes watched him as though from a great distance. Leander recognized that look for what it was - a lifetime of suffering, enduring, loathing oneself to the point of desperation. He knew that feeling all too well.

The thought of freeing her from that hell was compelling. Dangerously so.

“I’m asking you to trust me,” he murmured. 

His stranger looked from his hand to his face, caught in between hope and fear. Leander smiled to set her at ease and waited patiently. 

With a barely audible sigh, she began to unravel the bandages from her hands. “Fine. But if you lose control, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Lose control ? Leander bit the inside of his cheek and replied, “You can tie me up first if it makes you feel better.” His face heated at the thought: strapped down on a bed, bared and open, at the mercy of a gorgeous stranger…. He’d certainly been in worse situations.

She ignored him, her face grim. Whatever she’d experienced as a result of this curse, she clearly wasn’t one to crack jokes about it.

He watched, fascinated, as each inch was revealed. 

Her skin flowed a murky gray from the tips of her fingers and up her arms, the color of summer storms or puddles of rain forming eddies on the street. More strange than that was the rivers of gold etched across her skin, forming gleaming branches across her wrist, hand, and fingers. Ebbing, seeping, as though flowing like veins under her skin.

He’d never seen anything quite like it.

His stranger lifted her hand above his.

“Ready when you are,” he said softly. She seemed liable to startle at any loud sound or sudden movement, like an animal toeing around a spring-loaded trap.

Scant inches hung between them now as she hesitated. Leander studied her expression, the sweat studding her brow, fear shadowing her eyes.

“Three… two… one…” she said, barely above a whisper.

Her fingers dipped down another inch. She hesitated just a hair away, even as he surged forward, his hand wrapping around hers.

The effect was instant.

A wave of magic broke across his shield, torrential, overwhelming. Leander braced himself against it, his smile falling in concentration as he fought against the invading presence. Something snaked around the edges of his senses, flowing over the surface of his magic as though searching for entry. She’d been afraid of this power - physically afraid, flinching even - to the point that he had expected pain at her touch, but this was - this was worse.

It was pleasure. 

Blistering, tingling, syrupy sweet. Whispering into the back of his mind, sultry as smoke, to touch. To consume . The power pushed at the hot blood inside him, sewing lust and temptation into his veins as though those same gold rivers across her hands now flooded into him. 

He’s hard as stone in his pants. His hands ache, as though the urge to touch her was a physical need . His gaze bored into hers, saliva pooling in his mouth, spell-bound by her quickly paling skin, her wide eyes, the bob of her throat.

He let his spell of protection weaken just slightly so that he could analyze the feeling, a shudder running down his back as the curse tried to push deeper. 

Leander had assumed it would be a fairly powerful curse. Otherwise, Kuras might have handled it himself. This was unexpected, though. Powerful. Old. Wild and beguiling and singing to primal instincts. Almost… ancient in nature.

“Leander?”

She’s tugging at her hand, trying to pull away - her words brush like a breeze across his mind. She’s closer than before - no, he’s closer than before, his arm rising without conscious thought. Her voice, trembling, terrified, broke the fog like the swift cracking of an egg. 

His magic barreled up from within him and bit back at the curse until the golden fog receded from his mind.

His stranger flinched away from his hand. “No, you’re - “ 

“Just fine,” he reassured her with a gentle smile, dropping his palm on her shoulder. “Interesting! That’s one hell of a curse.”

Her body trembled, at the precipice of fear that had quickly dissolved into a shaky relief. 

Bright eyes stared into his face, searching, so intense that he had to glance away when heat rose in his cheeks. His grip on her hand softened, just enough that she could move, and move she did. 

Gray fingers, surprisingly tender and achingly gentle, began to map out the lines of his palm, brushing along the curves of each finger, before tracing up his wrist and forearm. Her thumb smoothed across each fingernail and lingered at the pulse pumping fast beneath his wrist. So careful was she that Leander felt himself growing hyper aware of the feeling, her touch almost ticklish, drawing goosebumps across his skin.

There’s something like awe in her face, earnest and pure and wondrous - so opposite to the lustful thoughts circling the back of his mind that he felt like a wolf allowing a lamb to brush and play with his fur coat. 

He wanted to bite, a little.

He could still feel the electric hum of her power, each gossamer touch seeking to land a hook into his mind. Even at his strongest shield, it pressed fervently against his defenses, not enough to overtake and control him but enough that he could feel the insidious presence.

Little wonder that she kept her hands so tightly bound. He could see now, how a simple brush of her bare skin would drive a man completely mad. 

He watched as her hands travel curiously up his arm, fingertips dancing over the edge of his scar at the edge of his sleeve. Quicksilver eyes flicked up to his jaw, to the matching band across his cheek, before dropping once more to his skin. He’d feel like a lab specimen, except for the almost reverent way she touched him, as though this were a wholly new experience.

Leander paused at the thought before venturing to ask, “Am I the first person you’ve been able to touch like this?”

She froze. “...so far.”

Warmth settled in his stomach. He couldn’t deny that the thought was strangely satisfying, filling himself up with a heady, eager buzz like a stiff drink. “I’ll admit your touch does make it somewhat difficult to stay level-headed. But not due to your power… “ 

Leander grabbed her hand again and twined their fingers together, before drawing them up by his pin.  “Look, we match,” he joked softly, hoping to ease the tension. 

His stranger stared at their clasped hands before another shy, genuine smile appeared. His heart gave another insistent leap in his chest. 

When she drew her hand back, he felt the loss in the cold air seeping back over his palm, the sound of the busy street behind breaking into the quiet solemnity of the moment. She wrapped her hands absentmindedly, more habit than anything, and adds in a small voice, “I can’t believe that worked.”

Leander nearly offered his hand again immediately, possibly forever, but managed to hold on to his air of mystery and dignity. 

He offered her another slow smile. “You were right to hide this from me. That curse of yours… it’s unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with. I can tell you’re discreet, but you’d best not go showing that off to anyone else.” 

“I didn’t plan on it.”

“Are you staying in Lowtown?” At her shrug, Leander clapped his hands and guided her back to the Wet Whick with an open arm. “Let’s get you settled then. Bloodhound rates.” 

As she led the way back into the inn, the door opened with a flood of oak, sawdust, grease, and beer-stained air. Just beneath that was the delicate scent of her, herbs and leather, and that faint bite of magic. 

Leander paused on the threshold, his eyes lingering on her form as she glided swiftly through the tables, her hair tumbling down her back, candlelight dancing across her face. His pin sparked, his skin tingling where she’d touched him. His stomach seemed to hollow for a second.

He felt… strangely empty, hungry. Alive in a way he hadn’t been just hours before. 

Eridia never slept, never stalled - the city was always changing, always adapting. Mysterious strangers were a dime a dozen. 

And yet, this felt different. She felt different. 

Leander curled his hand into a fist, hoping to stretch out the prickling sensation, to no avail. It was as unsettling as it was addicting.

He wondered how he might convince her to touch him again. 

Soon.

___________________

a/n: thank you for reading!

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

ℑ 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔳𝔬𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢...

「 ✦ 𝕿𝖔𝖚𝖈𝖍𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖉✦ 」

𝖂elcome to 𝕰ridia...You were born cursed. To survive in a decaying world entrust your fate to 5 monstrous strangers.

Who will you entrust?

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ 𝕲𝖆𝖒𝖊 | 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖚𝖊 | ▶︎𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝐿𝐼 ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

・┆✦♱ ༻*✮:ʚ𝕻𝕽𝕰𝕱𝕰𝕽𝕰𝕹𝕮𝕰𝕾ɞ:✮*༺ ♱✦┆・

▶︎ "Look at me" - how the LIs lift your chin

・┆✦♱ ༻*✮:·ʚ 𝐿𝐼𝖘 𝕱𝕴𝕮𝖘 ɞ·:✮*༺ ♱✦┆・

▶︎ 「 ✦ 𝓐𝔦𝔰 ✦ 」 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫 𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔤𝔞𝔡𝔢

Works

▶︎

▶︎「 ✦𝓥𝔢𝔯𝔢 ✦ 」 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔫

Works

▶︎

▶︎「 ✦𝒦𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔰 ✦ 」 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩

Works

▶︎

▶︎「 ✦𝓛𝔢𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯✦ 」 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔦𝔠 𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔢

Works

▶︎

▶︎「 ✦𝓜𝔥𝔦𝔫 ✦ 」 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔯

Works

▶︎

© dreamingkitsunewrites. Please don't repost my works and dividers without permission.

Thank you for reading my fics! Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated 🖤

[ronearoundblindly]

Hideout (4.2)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Horny Teen, part two (see previous or series)

Summary: A late-summer heat wave hits you and Steve hard.

Warnings for smut (kinda unprotected sex, momentarily--guess that's dubcon to be safe--fingering, lots of foreplay things and dirty talk but Steve can't actually talk dirty, so...hot talk? IDK, gang, I 'bout died writing this. Prepare thy loins, babes). MINORS DNI. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this series is not for you! WC 3.1k

A/N: This part contains a cannibalized version of the original idea for this series, but since we've developed differently to this point, it is very different.

He calls ahead. For the first time in a year of visiting, he calls ahead and knows you aren’t working the night he’ll be here.

You work in the garden as long as you can stand before hopping in a cool shower. You aren’t even wrapped in a towel when the trill of your room phone—extension 14, as Steve now knows it—blares through multiple closed doors.

He’s checked-in, and in Room Two, but no pressure, if you want, if you don’t have plans, he’s here. It is the most adorable and awkwardest conversation of all time. It also never gets old to hear him scramble for the simplest of sentiments.

Translation: I’m excited to see you.

Your heart soars then immediately stalls in the stifling weather.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes,” you chuckle.

Of course, he opens his arms for a bear hug the instant the door labeled ‘2’ swings wide. Steve has fewer troubles with platonic affection when alone, that’s for sure, but who could blame him? You’re elated he’s here under any circumstances.

Record-setting heat this late in the summer has left all the AC units taxed to the brink, running constantly, and even with the in-room thermostat set stupidly low, a tank top and shorts is too much.

This means another first: both of you, in bed, naked.

Nothing’s happened, mind, because the swelter of the day zapped energy out of every creature for miles and miles around. The ice machine can’t keep up with eight rooms and your family needing relief from the blaze. From the bright stripe of red across Steve’s cheeks and his earthy musk, he was outside plenty. He’s wiped, too.

You wonder absently when the last time he wore cologne was and what it smelled like. Perhaps he never used it. Perhaps he misses small luxuries more than he ever realized.

Steve looks on the brink of heat-stroke, so you inched yourself onto one side of the bed to start, thinking skin-to-skin contact might be unwelcome. You barely got your palms on the sheets before he pulled you to him. You did not fight it.

It’s meant to be a profound comfort—your weight atop him—and it is.

Your cheek settles on his chest, eyes watching through the sheer curtains as dusk takes over the sky, a happy man stretched like a cat beneath you, smiling, heart beat slowing in your ear. So strong, so steady, so secure.

He’s safe. He’s comfortable. That’s all that matters.

You peer up from your perch. The thin worry lines on his forehead have relaxed. He seems younger. Freedom looks good on Steve Rogers, just as good as it looks on Captain America, maybe better.

You fall asleep straddling his hips, one knee hitched so the crook of your ankle drapes his thigh, slowly pushed up and down by his deep breaths.

You’re drifting, rocked gently by powerful waves in the nothingness of your blank mind, free like him, blooming in the warmth of a bright sun embracing you.

The glow continues until Steve gently shakes you awake.

The room is pitch black, the lights of the parking lot too muted to pass through the gossamer layer over the window.

“You’re…you were squirming a lot. Thought you might be having a nightmare,” his rough timber booms close to your ear.

“No, I—“ you wipe at your face “—I don’t think I was dreaming.”

Steve’s not so relaxed under you now. His abs quake slightly, and those slow breaths have become stunted, shallow with control.

“Did you?” you ask, looking towards his face, useless in the dark but your drowsy brain hasn’t caught up yet.

There’s a shuffling noise above you.

“Is that a ‘yes?’ Did you have a nightmare? You alright?”

The shuffling repeats, accompanied by a strangled “yes,” and you lift your arm to brace on his chest. It unhooks your leg from his, and the hard length of his erection moves from its perch at your ass, nudging the joint of your hip and thigh from below.

“Not—not a nightmare,” he whispers. “Just ignore it.”

Steve’s voice is husky, his grip on the back of your knee tight and unyielding, keeping you from trapping him between your legs.

Your impulse is to soothe him, to tell him he is fine and it is okay to be turned on, generally, when naked and pressed to someone you find attractive—hell, you definitely are—but if he wants you to ignore it, if he’d rather not, if it’s too soon or too hot (metaphorically, physically) or just too much right now, then you respect that. None of this has ever been about making him feel like how he chooses to receive affection is wrong.

Without moving any limbs, your fingers retract and relax, a gentle, nailless scratch to his broad pec beneath your hand, and his cock twitches, tapping your leg.

“Sorry,” Steve huffs.

“Do you want me to get off of you?” You suppress the urge to make a minor edit in that statement because it’s very close to what you want to do.

The shuffling noise sounds different.

“No,” he says softly.

You slide your hand up his chest to his neck and around the back of his head, petting the corner of his bearded jaw just below his ear, careful to use as few muscles as possible.

His cock taps you again anyway. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

You ignore it, as asked, and continue scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Hey,” you start in the darkness, “is this comfortable?”

You run your fingertips over his features while he nods, following his jaw up and down. 

Unable to see, this paints the most vivid picture of Steve’s reactions. You feel the vibration of a hum through his cheek, the draw and release of his brow as you skate over his forehead. You hear his short chuckle when you brush ever-so-gently across his long lashes and boop his nose. Finally, you trace his open-mouth smile with the edge of your thumb, his ragged exhale rushing over your palm.

Tap.

“Sorry.”

“Comfy though?”

His voice is deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “Yeah.”

The drag of your fingers past the edge of bristly stubble and down his throat makes him shiver.

Twitch.

“Sorry.”

You flutter across his collarbone, wondering if that means he’s ticklish on more than just his sides.

“Comfy?”

He hums. You feel it rattle your cheek as much as you actually hear it in your ears.

You continue. His corded muscles giving only slightly to the pressure of your touch. His arm, his chest, down to the hand he keeps on your leg.

Several more breathy apologies sound above you. Steve’s other arm is draped over your waist, and with every pulse of need that betrays him, his grip tightens just a little. His fingers now dig into your soft flesh absently.

It’s hard to hide how desperate he’s made you, but the issue is mutual based on how his abs won’t stop tensing, searching for attention where he denies it. 

You flatten your hand to his chest and make to move.

“May I?”

Steve’s swallow is louder than the ‘okay’ he returns.

You are careful not to push him in any weird angles as you raise up to your knees and straddle him, pinning his erection beneath you, not directly between your folds but nestled at the apex of your legs, just so he won’t have to worry about every involuntary poke. 

With such fresh contact, he clenches his ass hard in response, lifting your whole weight completely before he settles again. The surge of heat to your core has you biting your lip to muffle a moan.

“Comfy?” you rasp at the same moment Steve offers a strangled “sorry.”

The low, constant whine of the air conditioner fills the hollow space around your cocoon of anticipation.

“New plan,” you laugh, relaxing your fingers to splay across his warm skin, “both of us stop doing that, huh? You have nothing to be sorry for, and I’ll trust you to tell me if you aren’t comfortable.”

“So…” Steve shuffles on the sheets, but whatever he moves doesn’t affect your position. “Can I touch you?”

You bite your lip harder before answering, your voice dropping to a sweet reassurance. “Yes. Of course you can, Stevie.”

You keep your pets of his chest and arms light, trying not to tickle him. He’s always so hesitant; you’re worried the tiniest misstep will send him back into his head—not in a good way.

The silence now feels purposeful, dense with possibility, and then rough fingertips land like a foreign explorer who’s braved months at sea solely to experience this moment.

A calculated inhale and exhale rock your pelvis, a wave of nerves foaming in your gut.

He starts innocently enough, mapping your thighs, muttering something about how soft they are, but you don’t dare lean to hear him better. No sudden movements. None. Even though your skin lights up as explosive as those 4th of July fireworks you missed.

Since there’s nothing to see in the room, you feel everything.

He keeps to the periphery of you at first, abandoning your legs to brush the same arms touching him, running fingers together, separating them just as quickly, caressing your palms gently, and dragging his short nails up your wrists without pressure.

You stiffen in pleasure, fighting not to shrink away from the purest intimacy you’ve ever experienced.

His long arms reach the curve of your shoulders, flit across your collarbone, and you’re doing your damndest to keep it together, leaning your head back in lieu of talking.

Don’t scare him.

It can’t last; you’re only human.

Steve’s hands slowly descend over your breasts, middle fingers catching your peaking nipples, and a lewd and aching cry tumbles from your bitten lips.

The force of it surprises you, but more surprising still is him, unfazed, encouraged to linger.

In that low timber, he growls.

“You like that… Knew you would.”

Your body throbs, pulsing with need and emptiness.

That means he thinks of you. He’s imagined this. He’s wanted this.

Stunning electricity shoots through your body as he pinches and twists, squeezes and kneads. Nothing too harsh, but he’s highly motivated when you purr and gasp atop him.

What else does he think about doing? How long has he fantasized? Is this as good as his imagination?

Yours aren’t the only noises now. He sounds tortured with little pleas and whimpers escaping before each guttural moan.

Arousal pools at your folds, and without realizing you started to move, the shy momentum of your hips has nudged his length to lay flush with your dripping center. His tip glides over your clit.

Again and again.

Again and again.

A hot pressure builds in you, faster than ever, kerosene dumped on your wet-dreams and burned to life, a spell manifest in the night.

Steve shakes beneath the palms you brace flat on his chest, the heels digging into his diaphragm.

He moves to grip your thighs hard.

Fire spreads beneath your skin as you two pant and gasp, his whole cock slick and slotted so close to where you truly long for him.

“Wait,” Steve groans, but you can’t understand.

No one could imagine how good this feels, how much you need this, how—

He sits up to stop you, accidentally notching himself at your entrance, your residual motion sliding the thick head of him past the that first, tight ring.

Steve’s lusty moan is barely eclipsed by your own, and you’re too close to halt sheathing him within you, arms instinctively wrapping his shoulders. Desire winds the coil in your belly too taut, the thought of losing this climax unbearable.

“N-uhhh god—“

He’s too sensitive though. He flips you both so your back crashes to the soft sheets and digs his grip into your side, his other hand thumping to anchor on the headboard. Steve sucks air through his teeth like he’s afraid the faintest smell of sex will set him off.

“Don—don’t move,” he orders in thick command.

It makes things worse.

You’re so close, vaulting off the ground and suspended by legs clamped around his waist, dangling on the precipice of ecstasy. You whine and clench, totally unable to control yourself, your nails digging into his back.

Steve cries out, choked at the hilt by your desperation and lost to his own finish.

His hand races from your side to your ass. He pulls out of you only to slot himself there and thrust his cock between your cheeks, cum shooting on the sheets below.

Mindlessly, you ride the cut of his abs, his course pubic hair adding almost enough friction to keep ascending toward your own end, but the void left behind is too consuming. The fire sputters and dims.

Steve buries his face in your neck, breath cooling the sweat lining your skin as he curls away from you, overwhelmed.

“Swear I was gonna wait,” he confesses to the tender spot behind your ear. “I swear.”

“Please,” you croak, tears prickling your eyes in lament for your ruined orgasm.

“Was gonna be better. Swear I’ll do better for you.”

You grope and claw at those thick arms which hold all but his face far away. “Please,” you beg pathetically, “fucking touch me, please.”

A drawn out grunt vibrates the column of your throat.

“Y’shouldn’t have ta beg...”

He shifts to his forearm, caging you in as you plead over and over. He kneels to hover, and your thighs weakly squeeze at his own to emphasize what you need.

“Sounds so pretty when you do…”

Something between a screech and a snarl erupts from your chest.

Steve shushes you, smoothing a big hand across your damp cheek, and quietly, he commands you, “show me what to do.”

Your quivering hold guides him by the wrist down your body. Words to instruct him won’t form in your sex-steeped brain. As luck would have it, he doesn’t need specifics.

“Next time I’ll taste you.” One finger teases your folds in search of his entrance. “Next time you’ll have to beg me to stop.” Two fingers drive forward, displacing a gush of your shared juices. “So wet,” he groans, agonized to silence when you jerk his hand to thrust faster.

“More.” 

He sets a loving and delicate pace, the heel of his palm working your clit. 

Too delicate.

“More,” you gasp.

He obliges, muttering how good he’ll be to you from now on. You’ll always be first. He promises.

The fire takes over again.

“More, Stevie. Please.”

You grind down on him to prove your point, and he marvels that this isn’t too rough for you.

Each strangled breath ties your moans together in a crescendo worthy of Carnegie Hall.

“God,” he rumbles by your ear again, “I know that sound. You’re close, aren’t you?”

Steve’s pumping fingers bully your body farther and farther up the bed, using only a taste of his real strength.

Your chant of ‘yes’ catches in your taxed lungs. He doesn’t need an answer though.

The super-stretched band snaps, a plateau of peace and weightlessness tipped at the vertex until—crash—nerves are razed all along you like a carpet-bombed battlefield.

“Uhnn, is that what you’re gonna feel like around me?” He sighs at the thought and stills his hand just to commit the ripple to memory. “How’m I s’pose to last?”

You slap a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to hold in your yelp of relief.

That mouth…that fucking mouth of his is a weapon all its own.

Tiny explosions wreak havoc on you, body and soul, as his fingers greedily coax you to keep coming—just a little more—just for him—one last rush—give him everything.

His lips open in your palm, but you grip his face harder.

You can’t. You can’t listen right now. You can’t hear one more dangerously sexy, completely innocent thing fall from his beautiful mouth.

Steve lets his hand go lax but doesn’t take it away from your clenched and spasming thighs.

He tries to speak again then gives up, waiting.

Finally, before you can collapse boneless to the bed, he hooks his arm behind your leg so you don’t land on the cold, cum-stained sheets.

He shakes off your forgotten grip of his jaw.

“Tops?” he whispers, patience personified in the long pause before you hum acknowledgment. “Can I kiss you?”

That fucking mouth…

There’s barely enough breath in you to make a sound, but the instant the ‘ye—’ forms in the back of your throat, Steve’s lips are on yours.

It's your first real kiss, of all the ways, after all this time, following all that.

You’d laugh if you weren’t smiling, suffocating in the gentle press that becomes deep and adoring. He kisses you thoroughly after each frantic gasp for air, savoring you, even in the reckless passion of the moment.

Steve rolls to lay you atop him again, more intimately than before. He keeps his face close, sharing breath even in the heat and stench of sex in the room, your wetness now smeared from his navel to his knee.

Turns out, he is a very good kisser, focusing on the act of physical connection. Not only do your lips touch, but he likes to nudge you into whatever minutely different position with his nose. He likes to nuzzle his beard on your sensitive skin until you giggle and squirm. He relishes you like you relish him. 

He whispers things too soft to make out at first. It takes him a while to find his voice, to push past his insecurities, to find his confidence, but eventually, you hear it.

He mumbles how he should have been better, more prepared.

You weave all your fingers through his hair, propped on his chest by your elbows, smiling so he’ll be able to tell in your tone.

“Take the win, Cap.” 

You freeze.

You’ve never called him that, and Steve stays silent for an excruciating beat.

“Sorry,” you offer in the dark, air conditioner churning out sobering drafts of reality.

Steve runs his knuckles gently in patterns across your bare back. There’s a short huff and an amused snort, you mind scrambling to plan some explanation as to why you’d haul the drama of out there into his safe space.

He guides you to settle against him again, tucking you into his strong hold with his chin resting on your forehead.

After what feels like an eternity, he simply asks, “comfy?”

A/N: In case you were wondering...

[Next part: Desperate Man, part one]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @mrsevans90 @lemonadygirl

[consistencynevermether]

Hi! I absolutely love your writing style and can't wait to see how your Vere series develops. Don't know if you take requests but I was wondering if you could write from Veres point of view with him realizing he's falling in love with MC and him just being like "... oh, oh no >:l"

Cue him being frustrated with himself as a result snippy at MC

this took me a WHILE to get too, school got absolutely insane sorry yall. finally locked in on a flight and took a crack at this request! thank you for asking! this is a shorter minific but i hope i was able to accurately portray veres pov.

content: vere x gn! reader, sfw, 1k words, tried to keep it as in character as possible (aka vere is a bitch)

You didn't become a problem to him immediately. 

When Vere first met you, you were nothing but a mangy worn down traveler. If he was lucky you might be a mildly interesting playtoy for a day or two. Toys aren't problems.

Then, when he learned a bit more about your origins, and more importantly your skills, you became a tool. You were desperate enough to align yourself with him, in a mad attempt for a cure on whatever infliction you had that you refused to tell him about. But having someone help him with the sinobium wasn't something he could turn his nose up at, so now, you were a tool. Tools aren't problems.

Then, to his initial amusement, he found out you were a fun tool. You engaged with him when he teased, either attempting to sass him back, or find some snippy comment to shut him up (you never succeeded on that front though). After a while you had been upgraded to an amusing tool. Amusing tools weren't problems.  

The problem came when Vere found himself sulking when you declined to join him for a drink at the Wet Wick (he had sauntered all the way to lowtown and you wouldn't even have one drink with him? Fucking rude.)

The problem came when he started to see red the first time Leander had put his hand on your back to catch you when you had nearly tripped on a loose wood plank when you were wasted at the Wick. And the relief he felt when you thanked him yet quickly and politely moved his hand away from yourself. And the smugness he felt when you obviously weren't impressed by his magic or winning smile. 

The problem came when Veres' claws nicked your shoulder while he was trying to be playful and before he could even think, the word “sorry” was on his lips. And he actually meant it. 

You became a problem when he realized he'd been drawing you from memory in his room, a page of paper completely filled up with light sketches of your side profile, your smile as you leaned your cheek against your palm, that stupid fucking smirk you gave him right before telling him the dumbest plan hed ever heard. 

You became a problem when his dreams of freedom from the sinobium started to include both of you burning that shithole to the ground, and you sticking around after he was free. Amusing tools were not meant to stick around. They weren't meant to be fantasized about. That was when Vere realized you had become a problem. 

And it was getting worse. 

Just yesterday he had felt his face heat when your bandaged fingers brushed against his own clawed hands. It was just bandages for fucks sake. He was pissed at himself for getting so damn affected by it. He wasn't some doe eyed pining maiden. People were supposed to pine over him dammit. And yet there was something about you that he couldn't shake. 

Maybe it was the way you had gifted him an amaryllis flower because you saw a sketch of one in his room.

Maybe it was the way you weren't afraid to make fun of both yourself and him. You had laughed when he had purposefully smeared neon green paint on your face and got him back by taking some orange paint and leaving handprints all over his forearm.

Maybe it was the way you never left him. Oh, the two of you fought, make no mistake. Sometimes he pushed too hard. Made an innuendo that finally pissed you off enough to flip him off and leave him standing in the streets. Sometimes you pushed too hard. Got frustrated at him keeping secrets when you did the exact same thing. Or tried to pry about his chains too soon. But no matter what arguments, you always came back. Sometimes that was in the form of you actually going out to find him and apologizing. Sometimes it was letting him find you, so he could apologize to you. He never feared that your next fight would be the last. 

No matter the reason why Vere liked you, it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to deny that fact.

This is probably why he was in a snippy mood today. He had all these complicated feelings, and it was all your fault. So naturally, you would be the one to deal with them. 

And to his immense anger, you did. You didn’t stop talking to him because he decided today he was going to act like a bitch, but you also didn’t take it lying down. Business as always really. He was dealing with all this internal conflict, and you seemed completely normal. How the fuck is that fair?

He couldn’t drive you away even if he wanted too, and he couldn’t bring himself to get closer. The two of you were stuck pretending neither of you felt anything more than friendship. Vere couldn’t cross the line into being something more, but gods save anyone else who dared attempt to cross that line with you. 

One day, the two of you would figure it out. Not today though. Today Vere was going to dump soup on your head and you were going to strangle him. Today you were going to make him smile and forget for a second that he’s nothing more than a prisoner to people far weaker than him. 

Part of him was very aware he was acting like a brat. When he purposefully ignored you when you waved hi, when he antagonized you by pulling on your hair while you were trying to read, and just generally being more annoying than usual. 

Yet you took it all with a grimace and usually a retort. Through all his bullshit, you never changed. You never once thought less or more of him no matter how he acted. You simply always saw him as he was. It was a terrifying thing, to have someone see him so clearly. But also comforting in a way, that you saw the monster he was, and never faltered in caring about him.

One day, he would be able to admit what was obvious to everyone but him. One day.

[winterwhisperz-blog]

Was going through my poems and came across one that instantly reminded me of Vere X mc and even probably Kuras X Mc OR KURAS X VERE

So !! I thought i’d share beeeeeecaaaaause !! Be cringe be free yeehaw

Warnings: just slight religious imagery—it’s not huge but just in case !

Oh if you love me, devour me dear

Take my heart, you be Adam and I’ll be the apple

Bite me and rip me open

Laugh or scream in terror at what you’ll find in me here

Carve your name in bold letters in my neck

So every time I see your face I’ll choke, on my desire on my breath

Oh you’ll make my longing so biblical

A disaster of fire and plague, a song of death

But your fangs catching my skin makes me bleed like a priest

Turn this bed into an alter I’ll sacrifice myself to you

Oh love you are so angelic and diabolical

Beautiful, you are so beautiful, as a god, as a beast

A sin so bloody, but love holy and true.

[toxintouch]

hii!! I just read cold spots and it was AMAZING!!! Im not sure if you wanted to continue the fic, but if you don’t mind could you continue with Veres part? I don’t know what you would write about but I just feel like that fic has so much potential to be a little 3 part series or something 🙏

<- Cold Spots TYSM ANON!! I put the Vere End at the beginning for ease of reading. For the sake of folks who would like to read this as a stand-alone... I think u can? With the knowledge that the premise of Cold Spots is that Mhin and MC/Sparrow went ghost hunting. Vere is said to have been responsible for a handful of local ghost stories, so…of course he makes some mischief.🦊 Also MC needs some Winter wear, stat.  A very light Possessive Vere warning in this btw, though perhaps in a roundabout way.  Plausible deniability is so important to him.

You putter around in your room at the Wet Wick as you go about your nightly routine. The occasional cheer or thud from below only accentuates your nervous energy, punctuating your reluctance to settle down and get into bed. You smooth the covers with your bandaged hands and fluff the pillow before extinguishing the lamplight. You tug the bedding up above your shoulders, fighting to get comfortable. As your eyelids finally start to droop, the flicker of a shadow catches your attention.   It dances and sways and bends and grows until suddenly it is right in front of you.  On top of you. Silken, blood red drips down onto your face, a knife gleam smile too close for comfort.  You breathe in a gasp, wondering if you should scream. “Vere, what–” “Shhh,” he coos, pressing a finger lightly to your lips.  His breath is hot against your skin. “I only came to keep you warm, pet.”

Heat Signature

“Poor thing.” Vere purrs.  “Your lips are so cold.”  He leans ever closer, his mouth hot over yours–hovering.  His other hand reaches for your face as well, nails trailing against your cheek in a teasing caress.

You feel even the thought of being cold leave your body, replaced instead by the unusual thrill he commands, that strange enthralling sway.

That heat you’ve come to associate with Vere; sweet tendrils of want that nestle in your bloodstream.

You squirm a little, though you can’t move much with him looming over you.

(You should probably do more to protest his intrusion into your room, you think to yourself, though, the majority of you is–curious, daresay even far too eager to–)

“Whatever trouble did you get up to that left you in such a state?”

At this you scoff, tilting your head back into the pillow and effectively knocking Vere’s finger from your lips.  

“As if you don’t know,” you accuse.

Vere looks entirely unperturbed by you shaking him off, his lithe fingers traveling freely along the newly displayed skin of your throat, making your pulse jump.

Vere chuckles at that, dark and silky.

“Being tight lipped about your adventures, hm?”  He angles your face just so, ensuring you meet his sharp eyes, his nose brushing up against yours.  “Not that it matters.  It so happens I do know what you’ve been up to.  Trespassing in places that don’t belong to you.”

“...It was an abandoned building.  I don’t think it really belonged to anyone.”

“And that’s where you’d be wrong,” Vere says, “everything in this city belongs to someone, darling.  You just don’t know what belongs to who yet.”  He peers down at you with laughter in his expression, though there's a distinct edge to it that you can't quite place.

“So, you're here because that building belongs to you...?”

“Hmm, amongst other things.  However shall I make you apologize to me for this most egregious offense?”  He asks airily, shifting until he’s beside you rather than perched over you, resting his cheek in his hand and letting his eyes slip closed. He's the absolute picture of unbothered leisure.  

(You’re not fooled–he’s simply waiting for you to let your guard down before he pounces.)

You open your mouth to deny any debts on your part (though, if your ghost hunting spot was indeed Vere’s hideout, you really do feel guilty) but Vere cuts you off before you can speak.

“Alas, I suppose it’s not mine anymore.  Within a week it will reek of wet dogs and cheap booze. It's a lost cause now that those drooling reprobates know it's inhabitable.  A pity.  By Eridia's standards it really was divine in its heyday.  Good wine, music, dancing.  There was this portrait artist who would paint the performances…”

His tone remains light as he reminisces.  But the look he pins you with is dangerous: his eyes gleaming bright, his canines bared in an irreverent grin.

“I had such hopes and dreams of reviving the place myself.  Some of the dances were very scandalous.  You never did share with me your stance on dancing, did you?”

You stumble out an approximate answer.  It’s…harmless information to give, isn’t it?

Though, judging by how pleased Vere looks, you wonder if you should have refused to say.  He looks positively wicked as he ponders your answer aloud.  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of talents to share.  In another life, perhaps I'd have put you on stage.  Though, I admit.  I find myself partial to a private show.”

And–as expected–the moment you let your guard down, he's in your space again, crowding you.  Heat and proximity and the softest brush of his lips against yours, light enough to send a thrill down your spine, curiosity and a want so deep it surprises you.

“Well?”  He purrs.  “Care to audition?”

You can't hide behind the excuse of supernatural sway or charm or the thrall of hypnotic sunglo eyes.  It's not Vere's power that controls you. It's your own gnawing desire; starvation and longing that draws you to him despite all sense.

Kissing Vere is heady.  Dizzying.  

Kissing Vere is like being in conversation with Vere–a constant of giving and taking, being chased after and running to keep up.  It’s enticing and alluring and decadent and never quite enough, over too soon even as you feel yourself losing air, the rush of blood and sensation threatening to overwhelm you.

He gives a parting nip to your bottom lip as he pulls away.

Then another one, playful, to your jaw.

When he presses his face into the side of your neck, you expect him to bite again.

What you don’t expect is for him to nuzzle into you, inhaling deeply before heaving a great sigh, his tail flopping lazily to land across you with a thump.

He’s officious as he rearranges the covers, ensuring your arms are tucked carefully away from him before he’s willing to fully settle into the bedding, pulling the blankets up around the both of you like a den.  He hums something low in his chest as he tucks himself up alongside you, long tail curled around your waist. 

It’s rhythmic–

purring.

And it’s…soothing, actually.

The weight of him, the warmth.  The incessant lamplight of the Amaryllis District, shining ever present through your window, is dim–tolerable, even, courtesy of Vere's magnificent shadow manipulations and the blankets sheltering you. 

The constant noise seems to fade away as well, obscured by the sound of purring. “Falling asleep when you have me in your bed, pet?  You really do try your luck…”