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feyascorner · 3 months

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5 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

You realize that, perhaps, the Astarion you knew was nothing but a pretty lie.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks/dreams

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words?!!? 😆 whenever i write for this fic i have the constant urge to make him grovel out of nowhere, and to compensate, i make him even worse

“You were my first, you know.”

You raise both your brows, your eyes still trained on the lake stretching out to what seems like forever. The boulder beneath you feels cool to the touch against your skin. “Really?”

He nods, setting his book down to his lap. “Cazador, that crazy bastard, never let us drink from anything besides rats. We were strictly forbidden from humanoid blood because it would let us become too powerful.”

You squint at him. “...Well, what does it taste like?”

“Your blood?”

“Humanoid blood.”

He looks nowhere, as if he’s in thought, before humming, pleased at the taste that lingers on his tongue. “Exquisite.”

“That’s it?”

“Your blood was sweet, almost. Rat blood is terribly bitter, you see, and I only drank it for survival. But yours,” he grins widely. “I could drink nothing but yours for the rest of my immortal life, and I would never tire of it.”

Your face heats, and of course, him being him, it doesn't go unnoticed. He sets his book aside and shifts so he has one arm propped up next to you, his face dangerously close to yours. “I think you rather like the sound of that, darling.”

“It doesn’t sound…terrible,” you mumble. “Better than turning into a mind flayer, at least.”

His lips are inches from yours, so you instinctively tilt your head, allowing space for him to reach your neck. But his free hand reaches your cheek and tilts your head back, making you meet his eyes. It’s so close. So impossibly intimate that you pray he doesn't hear the way your heart pounds in your chest.“That’s not what I want right now, love.”

You nod slowly when his eyes flicker to your lips, and he’s pressed against you in an instant, your lips molding together as if they were made for one another. Even though you know they’re not, his arms feel warm when wrapped around you, and you bury yourself closer as if there’s even any space left between the two of you.

You know this must be a dream. But you’re not sure if you want to wake up at all.

But suddenly, your entire body feels terribly cold. Too cold, as if your very life is being sapped away from its roots, leaving nothing but a husk of a person behind. So you tear away, as much as you don’t want to, and see that you are no longer sitting before your lover. The spawn that nearly killed you in the alleyway is sitting in Astarion’s place, his teeth stained with blood as he smiles at you. Instinctively, you shriek and try to crawl away, but the sharp pain at your throat ceases your movement, making your hand fly up to the puncture wounds you’re sure to find.

Instead, you only find that your neck is sore from the bruises that bloom on your skin.

And as you stare at the spawn in horror, you realize that he’s not a random spawn. He’s covered in so much blood that you can’t even see his snow-white hair beneath the carnage, and all that stares back at you is a man who only resembles your lover. He lifts a hand, reaching sharp, maintained nails toward your face, and all you can do is brace yourself for what’s to come.

You just hope he ends the pain quickly.

The last tenday has been nothing short of hellish.

The walk home from Sharress’ Caress had been a deathly silence—one where you refused to look anywhere but your feet–-and even once you arrived home to the chaos between Shadowheart and Lae’zel unfolding right before your eyes, you only watched Astarion pace up the stairs as if nothing is wrong. Even as they yelled at him, asking what he had to say for himself, he’d only scoffed and shut the door to his room.

‘A man child,’ Shadowheart had called him. Lae’zel said her offer of skewering him with her spear was still available.

You hadn’t corrected her that time.

As you clearly had too many personal emotions, you swallowed your pride and decided to pass the investigation off to one of your companions. You gave the list of spawn killings to Gale, asking him to take charge of the investigation starting that very night. He didn’t ask why.

The days after that were spent in a blur. Aside from the nightmares that only seem to get worse, your life in the daytime is as it was before the bodies started piling up. You spend every waking moment focusing on rebuilding the rest of the city now that you have all the time in the world. Only without the workload did you realize how time-consuming the investigation had been, and without it, your life feels strangely dull. It’s not unwelcome–at least, not now, anyway.

And as another day passes in a state of mind that is not your own, you slump face-first into your mattress.

You only ever seem to return home in the dead of night anymore. Construction runs through the clock, and by the time you’ve managed to say your farewells to the people in the city, the sun’s long past said its own goodbye. Still, you suppose coming home late is better than falling asleep outside.

The handle of your dagger sticks into the side of your stomach, and you fish it out, laying on your back as you examine the bejeweled blade. It’s a pretty little thing, no matter how many sleepless nights you’ve spent staring at the beauty of something that’s taken countless lives. Most of which were his doing, even if you’re racking up quite the number on your own.

You want to hate him, but you’ve come to accept that perhaps you’ve grown soft. Maybe you’ve been surrounded by warmth for too long and now find that the hate you were once so accustomed to has now rendered itself to mush. You’ll learn to hate him—that much you’ve sworn—but you don’t want him dead as he seems to do with you. You have plenty of reason to hate him, and a part of you does, but it’s not enough to rival his distaste for you.

He’s made it clear enough that you cannot hate him the way he hates you.

You pace over to your drawer and place the blade in the deepest corner, where nothing but shadows will know of its existence. As you push the drawer shut, you hope that the next time you see the dagger, you’ll have forgotten it had been there in the first place.

You hear the window in his room slide open and then shut closed again. And if you were anyone else, it would cause an instant panic, but you’ve grown accustomed to the sound of it opening each night. And while the responsible thing should be to let the others know that he’s sneaking out every other night, you can’t find the energy to. Your sentiments toward him may be mixed, but you don’t want the only lead for the spawn case to be taken away just because he was sneaking out like a teenager in their rebellious phase.

There’s a more selfish reason why you’re keeping this secret of his, though you plan on taking it to your grave. It keeps him from approaching you with the request to go hunting. With Gale and Shadowheart busy with the spawn and Lae’zel not to be trusted around Astarion, you’re the only one capable of following him to his weekly supply restock. But you doubt he needs much animal blood when he has others ready for him at the pleasure house, and if this is his only way of getting there, then so be it.

You’re not really sure how to feel about it. It’s not a nice feeling, though.

“There’s someone here for you.”

You look up toward the doorway where Shadowheart leans with crossed arms. She points toward the stairs, and you force your legs up despite their insistent soreness from the past few days. They ache, but you’d rather burst into flames than stand another second longer than you have to in this room. You don’t have the energy to assess the look she’s giving you as you pass by her shoulder.

The man at the door is one your intuition seems to recognize, but your mind comes up empty. The emotions don’t seem mutual, as he straightens his back the second he spots you. “You.”

You glaze your tired eyes over his attire–one with the mark of the Flaming Fist proudly posted on his chest. He shifts, and you notice his short brown hair peeking from under his helmet. “Yes, me. You called for me.”

He clears his throat, blinking wide grey pupils with a hesitant glint. “I apologize for what I said the last time we met. It wasn’t for me to step out of line like that.”

You stare at him quizzically, unsure of who this man even is. He notices. “Wait, don’t you remember me?”

“...No?”

“I was at Roger Highberry’s murder scene! Yevir? I interrogated you for nearly an hour!” his jaw drops, and you somewhat make out his face from the blurry segments of your memories. All of which are not entirely pleasant, from what you can recall. The accusations thrown in your direction for being responsible for the murders were already cruel enough, but you remember how a fight nearly broke out between the two of you, making your lips purse.

You rub the side of your head to soothe whatever headache is sure to follow soon. “What do you want? Are you here to ask if I’ve been murdering people again?”

There’s one you might be so inclined to murder right now, just upstairs. Figuratively. Well, maybe…

“No,” he seems flustered, and you’d feel bad if it were not for your last interaction. “Like I said, I wanted to apologize. I was in no place to accuse you of something so horrid, and I did so without solid proof. I was—desperate and lost my composure.”

At this, your ear perks. An apology after the complete bullshit you’ve been through the past few weeks doesn’t sound bad at all. Still, your caution remains as you lift your chin, eyes lidded. “...You just came to apologize?”

“Yes. Ah, and–” he reaches into his pocket, scrummaging around until he pulls out a scroll wrapped neatly with a red bow. You arch a brow, and he holds it out to you. “My men were attacked last night at the pier next to the Blushing Mermaid. This is the file report I wrote up this morning.”

The Blushing Mermaid. Despite the hopes that had sparked with the conversation with one of Cora’s orphans, Shadowheart had come up completely empty after numerous visits to the tavern. She only mentioned a few brawls, which quickly had Fist rushing in or a couple of drunk smugglers, but that was it. By now, you assumed the tavern itself had no connections to the spawn murder sprees that increased in numbers nearly daily. Perhaps Roger Highberry had just been at the wrong place and the wrong time.

“We tried to talk to them—one, at least,” he continues as you let the scroll unroll on itself. “They seem to be looking for someone. They said they were only willing to listen to the ‘bard’---which I assume is supposed to be you.”

Your face hardens as you scan the report, acknowledging the details scribbled into the sheet in messy handwriting and the bags under his eyes to go along with it. “What were they looking for?”

“Another spawn, we think, judging from what we gathered before they became hostile.”

Despite how your heart sinks into your stomach, you swallow the lump in your throat and tear your eyes away from the report. Who else could it possibly be? And though you want to lie to yourself that perhaps, on some strange chance, this other spawn is someone other than the one residing right beside your room, you know it’s a foolish belief to pray on.

Astarion had tried to sacrifice all 7000 souls of the undead right before their very eyes. The ritual–if you could even call it that–-was mass murder. One he very nearly executed.

You were only unsure if the other spawn sought him out to reconcile or for something much bloodier. You’d likely bet on the latter.

“Have you shown this to the Duke yet?”

“No,” he admits, almost shamefully. “I couldn’t.”

He must be able to tell your shock because his face crumples. “There was someone among them. A friend. I thought she’d gone missing years ago, but…On this small chance that maybe she’s still there, I came here to ask…”

His fists clench, his gaze darting anywhere but your own with a hesitance you’ve become all too accustomed to the past few weeks. Still, they have a glimmer of hope as he swallows hard. “...If you’d be willing to help me.”

You can’t mask the way your eyes widen. He blinks rapidly and immediately reaches to dig around his other pocket, where he hauls out a bag that jingles with the contents inside. The familiar ring of gold. The sack itself is shabby, old enough to split open at any second, and it’s only the size of his palm, but he holds it as if it’s a fragile glass piece. “It’s all I have. I know I’m in no position to ask you for help, especially with how I treated you last time we met…but I’m desperate, and I know the Duke must trust you for a reason.”

“You want me to do what exactly?”

“Let me speak to her. Please.”

Almost instantly, you push the pouch back to his chest, eyes narrowing. “A vampire spawn won’t be the same person you knew.”

“I know. But surely, she would at least recognize me-”

“She’ll be different. She won’t hesitate to kill for blood. Not even yours, if she’s hungry.” This much, you know.

“I know,” he blurts louder. “Please. If I go to the Duke, he’s sure to raid the tavern, and she might get killed in the process. If I was the reason that she died, I don’t know—I can’t even—”

She’s already dead, you think. The words nearly escape your thoughts, but you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, sealing it shut.

“Her heart no longer beats for you.” Just give up, you plead. Understand that she is not the woman she was. You notice the irony of the statement, but it doesn’t stop you, desperate to prevent this man from making the same mistakes as your own.

“My own heart beats enough for the both of us.”

And perhaps it’s because of the glint in his eyes that feels all too familiar to your own. Or maybe it’s because of the way he appears on the brink of tears and the eyebags dragging at his skin. Or perhaps it’s a more selfish reason of your own. But regardless of what the reason is, the report crumples in your fist as you nod stiffly.

“We’ll do what we can.”

You swing the door shut harder than you probably should, but the sun feels too bright on your skin. And his imploring eyes only hinder your resolve to drift away from all that’s happening. You claimed you’d try, not that you’d produce results. It might be a selfish thing to do—ignoring a person in need—but does it matter, really?

Is it so bad for you to be selfish for once?

Gods, who are you kidding? You’ll end up helping anyway, especially after he came to ask you in person.

Thinking too long hurts your head. When you turn to climb back up the stairs, your heart nearly stops as you realize you’re not alone in the room.

Blood-red eyes bore into the side of your head, his presence almost nonexistent with how his chest doesn’t even move to allow him to breathe. He stands across the room, unmoving and still, as if time itself has stopped for the two of you. You suppose for him, it has.

But you know better now. At least, you think so. For him, time may be something irrelevant, but for you, it continues flowing, leaving no chance to catch up if you dare to fall behind. And you no longer want to chase the ticking hand of your own clock to attune yourself to his. He’s made himself clear, and you refuse to waste away precious years of your own life to mourn his. So, instead of gawking at him like a deer in headlights, you lock the door and pace up the stairs, barely brushing past his shoulders. You have half a heart to shove past him, but considering you barely manage what you did, you think better of it.

The entire time, his eyes follow you like a hawk.

“What was that Fist here for?” he asks as you reach the top.

You don’t bother looking back at him. “...Spawns killed a few soldiers last night.”

A pause. “Surely that’s not all.”

“That’s all you need to know unless you plan on helping us,” you snap. You wish you sounded as cold as you would’ve liked, but instead, it comes out like a last-ditch effort, as he barely acknowledges the bite in your tone.

“Are we not discussing the very spawns whom I called my dear siblings for two centuries? It’s very much my business.”

“And you think those spawn—which you tried to kill for a bloody ritual, might I add— still consider you their brother?”

That shuts him up.

He doesn’t say anything else, and you take the opportunity to march straight into your room. Your chest swells in a pitiful pride as you force yourself not to glance behind you, admittedly relieved you were at least able to manage some semblance of a cold shoulder, even if it wasn’t as dramatic as his own. Ignoring him is childish and quite frankly, a bandage on a more significant wound, but even this feels like a small victory after his last words to you.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hate me.”

“Yes. More than anyone.”

You try not to let your face fall by rubbing your temples with your thumbs again, soothing the headache that threatens to wrack your body. He’s drawn his line, and it’s time to draw your own.

Shadowheart, who hasn’t budged from where you last saw her, grins. Judging from her smugness, she must’ve heard you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Me neither.”

She holds out her palm, and you weigh if you should even give her the report before giving in, placing it for her to read. Her eyes skim over the contents as you anxiously shift your weight on both legs. And eventually, she lowers the sheet. “I’ll deal with this.”

“But they’re looking for me. They won’t cooperate unless–”

“I’ll deal with this,” she repeats, folding the report before pocketing it into her pants. “Focus on repairing the city.”

“Shadowheart-”

“You entrusted us with this, and we plan to follow through. You’ve done more than enough for this city already,” she sighs. “And besides, we could use a bard around here.”

She gently shoves you toward your door. Despite your hesitance, she gives you an assuring nod and begins heading for the stairs, giving you no space to insist on offering your aid. You’re left standing idly in the hall, brows knitting together even as you reassure yourself that she and Gale are more than capable of handling themselves.

But then again, you’d thought the same for yourself. Clearly, after the night you nearly died and the nightmares that haunt you of that very same night, you’d been wrong.

You hear footsteps you’ve memorized as ones to avoid, and just as you see the tips of his white curls, you rush into your room, slamming the door shut behind you.

You need a drink.

“Haven’t seen you in days.”

You slump onto one of the wooden stools at the bar, rubbing at the soreness of your own shoulder from hours of hauling rubble and debris from more crowded parts of town where they could pose a danger. The other citizens who had worked alongside you trail in through the tavern door, laughing and cheering at today’s accomplishments as they sit across the tables. In an instant, the relatively calm tavern becomes rowdy and filled with life. Your eyes glaze over their victorious expressions as you respond. “Been busy.”

“You’re the only customer I don’t want to see, you know?” Alan wipes at one of his glass cups with a cloth. You wonder if he ever tries on his bartending uniform or if it just rots in the back of his closet. “Thought I finally got rid of you.”

“I bring plenty of business, so what’s to dread?” you offer him a lopsided smile, watching him as he pours your favorite beverage into a cup, almost routine-like. “I brought in plenty of customers when I performed here, too. If anything, I’d think you’d be grateful to see me.”

“I said I don’t like you as a customer, not an employee. I’d rather not watch the so-called hero of Baldur’s Gate passing out on my tavern floor.”

“Business is business,” you shrug, sipping at the drink. You reach for your gold pouch, but he shakes his head.

“You know you don’t have to.”

You toss him a gold coin anyway. “I want to.”

As you drink, you gaze blankly at the bard playing at the corner of the room, a crowd of half-drunken patrons surrounding him as they toss gold, hats, and even a shoe at them in applause. This only prompts the bard to sing louder, their fingers plucking at the strings of their lute. Of course, with the nature of the tavern, the song is rather ambitious rather than soothing, but it’s nice to listen to nonetheless. You watch as another bard, this one with a drum, perches next to them and begins playing in unison. The patrons clap louder to the beat.

A man sits next to you, ordering himself a booze before turning to watch the bards. You’ve never seen him around, but he seems comfortable enough, thanking Alan when he receives the drink. He gives it a sniff, then sets it down. “Nice song, no?”

Your eyes never leave the gleeful expressions of those listening, only recognizing moments later that he’s speaking to you. “Yes, pretty nice.”

“My daughter loved this song when she was younger. Even wanted to learn it herself on her flute,” he says, and a part of you wants to ask why he’s initiating conversation, but you bite your tongue. Surely most people come here to drink, not to talk with strangers? There’s a strange familiarity to him that you can’t put your finger on, and it’s enough to keep you intrigued. “She even wanted to be a bard at one point.”

“I’m assuming she didn’t become one?” you indulge him.

“She died before she could, unfortunately.”

You finally look away from the crowd and turn to him, face falling. And while you should console him, your instinct tells you that’s not what he needs. His face is solemn. Dull as if he’s become accustomed to the death of his own child, and it reminds you of the hopelessness of yearning. Any kind, really, whether it be yearning to love and yearning to care. “Was she any good at playing?”

He stifles a laugh. “Oh, she was the best. Could play better than half the bards at the circus a couple of months after I got her that flute.”

You sip at your drink again. “Being a bard isn’t the most stable of career choices when you’re alive and have a stomach to feed. Wherever she is now, I’m sure she’ll be free to sing all the songs she wants in this world.”

Perhaps your words may be insensitive, but he doesn’t look to take it that way, keenly listening to the song while you wager if you can afford one more drink.

“You know,” he says again. “Most people tell me that they’re sorry for my loss—or something along those lines.”

“Do you want me to say that?”

“No, I prefer that you be honest,” he shakes his head. “It’s refreshing.”

You return to watching the bards, who seem nearing their piece's end. The man lifts his booze to his lips and takes a large swig. “You seem acquainted with loss. Have you lost someone recently?”

“To death?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

You’re not sure why, but you feel that confiding in this stranger comes easier than confiding in your companions. The guilt eats away at you for being unable to trust the people who care for you most, but a stranger cannot judge you. A stranger does not know you, so they cannot see you differently for your thoughts. And most importantly, a stranger cannot pity you. “I almost lost them. But I didn’t.”

He hums, telling you he’s listening.

“I saved him, I think. Well, to be honest, I’m not so sure anymore. I like to think I did, but I don’t think he thinks the same.”

“Why’s that?”

“I…” you trail off, looking into the half-empty cup reflecting your face. Gods, you’re a mess. “I took something from him to save him.”

“Money?”

“No, nothing like that,” you mumble, swirling your cup mindlessly. “I took his choice away.”

“I see. He must’ve not wanted to be saved, then, is that right?”

You don’t answer him. The air becomes silent again, but the soft tune of the lute, and even the bartender is no longer paying attention to anyone in the tavern, only watching how the bard’s fingers file through the strings. The only person who doesn’t seem distracted is the man beside you.

“Do you regret it?”

“Saving him?” you pause, and maybe it’s the drink getting to your head, or perhaps it’s the way the music seems to fade out, but the words stumble out of your mouth before you can even process them. “I want to regret it.”

From the corner of your vision, you finally notice that his booze is still filled to the top, untouched.

“Does Astarion regret it too?”

Realization dawns on you.

You can see them now—the fangs that peek out from the smile stretching across his lips. And yet, it is not a malicious smile that confuses you even more. It would almost feel genuine if you weren’t in such a vulnerable position, and immediately, you’re thinking of ways to defeat him with just a bottle of wine with your head still spinning.

The door to the tavern swings open.

Lae’zel almost looks out of breath as she sprints to you, a sight you don’t see every day. “Come! They were ambushed.”

When you turn back to the man sitting at the bar, you only see a gold coin beside a full cup.

You don't have time to delay, as Lae'zel yanks out of the tavern.

You've never run faster in your life. But your mind remains elsewhere, unable to keep up with the speed of your body because it's too busy being stuck in the past. Do you regret it? Does he? Until now, before Astarion’s arrival, you'd been sure it had been the right thing to do to stop the ritual. And now, after hearing all the resentment he harbored toward you as a result, you wonder if it was worth it at all. If losing him was worth the ache you endure now. Before you can snap yourself straight, the memories flood in like a dam breaking open.

“Do you love me?”

“I do. I do love you.”

You don’t expect him to say it back. Not when he looks taken aback at how quickly you’d answered him, his eyes flickering with something you can only describe as a false sense of confidence overwhelmed with a glimmer of fear that means so much more. You know love is hard for someone who hasn’t felt it in 200 years. You know this and, therefore, cannot expect it from him right now.

He cares for you, and that’s enough.

He presses his lips to your temple, and you ignore the restless aching in your chest.

Did he regret being with you then? What did he regret? There's so much you want to know, but nobody willing to answer them.

Shame floods you as you realize you’re distracted, even in such a dire situation for your companion. One more reason to hate him, you suppose—not that you’re keeping count. There’s too much blood drenching your hands, sticky and weighing on you like a pile of bricks as you burst into your shared home in the dead of night, the unconscious body of Shadowheart slumped over your back. Gale rushes to the kitchen immediately for supplies while Lae’zel slams the door shut, shoving her sword against the wall.

“Give her to me,” the githyanki demands as she picks up Shadowheart like a sack of potatoes. The half-elf groans loudly, and you hiss.

“She’s bleeding, Lae’zel, be careful!”

“I’m always careful,” she snaps back and lays your companion across the dining room table. And finally, in the light of a few flickering candles, you can see the damage that’s been done.

A large slash runs through her pelvis to just below her chest, and you can hear Gale swallow the lump in his throat before desperately resuming his rummage through the cabinets for a healing potion. Even if he’s injured too, he doesn’t seem to notice. She’s bleeding—too much for you to handle but enough for you to keep your eyes glued to her pained expression. Even unconscious, the pain seems to seep into her dream as she grunts, gasping for her breath.

It was a mistake. You should have gone in the morning. You should have been with them.

“We used all our healing potions in the battle. We need to make more,” he reaches for the cabinet where he keeps most of his ingredients. However, as he begins grinding them together, he stops and whips around to Lae’zel. “Victims outside the Blushing Mermaid. They might come back for them.”

“For corpses?” you answer for her.

“For their blood, dammit! Their children were there, alive and afraid,” he hisses at the pain of his own injuries. “Please, go check on them in my stead.”

She glares. “Tchk. What a stupid suggestion. In this pathetic state that all of you are in-”

You push her toward the door with all that remains of your strength. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

Her brows furrow, but she scoffs, relenting. “Fine. This is the last time I clean up your messes.”

You know she doesn’t mean it.

Once she leaves, you’re hunched over Shadowheart, dabbling in your less-than-effective means of soothing her. You can only hear Gale, who keeps feeding her healing potions, but it’s not nearly enough if her groans tell you anything. She needs a potion of greater healing at best, and those haven’t been exactly plentiful in supply after most of the city’s potion shops were destroyed in the war against the illithids. Another thing you should have done is stock up on potions. But you’d thought your group had had enough—at least, sufficient for a few more battles.

He rushes into the other room, mumbling about making a potion from scratch.

You clutch at Shadowheart’s hand, praying Gale would hurry up to cease the way she writhes under the candlelight. All you see is the red staining her clothes.

When you think things can’t possibly get worse, you hear the top stair creak under someone’s weight.

You must be cursed by at least one god. You’re sure of it.

He looks nearly starved. Almost as if he hadn’t drunk in days—but surely he hadn’t been this bad just this morning? His face is pale, though it’s always been white as a sheet, and his crimson glare is glued to the blood dripping off the edges of the table like a harpy with their luring songs. You feel your stomach drop as you recall you hadn’t even had the guts to stare at him in the face, and perhaps he had looked this bad. Maybe that’s why he’d approached you in the first place and asked about the Fist—not to spite you in a taunting manner, but simply because he was starving.

Whatever happened to drinking from the ladies at Sharess’ Caress?

You don’t have time to ask; honestly, you don’t want to know the answer either.

You’re convinced he might have fed off of nothing but the rats he loathes with how sunken his eyes appear from the bags forming beneath them. The overwhelming scent of blood must have lured him out. Even you would have plugged your nose if you weren’t so concerned over your friend's wellbeing, and it’s then that you realize what he’s truly here for.

Almost instinctively, you step in front of Shadowheart, hand going to reach for your dagger. You grasp at nothing but the air.

Shit.

His lips stretch into a dangerous smile. One that is not welcome right now. “Why the hostility, darling?”

“Go back upstairs. I’m warning you.” It’s just you, Gale, and an unconscious Shadowheart in the room at the hands of the hungry vampire, practically ravenous for blood. While you’re sure Gale could handle himself as long as he doesn’t succumb to his injuries, you have nothing in your possession but Shadowheart’s hand and a candle on the table. And on top of this, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to protect Shadowheart in the crossfire if a fight breaks out.

Your mouth feels dry. You can taste blood in your mouth, but you only realize moments later that it’s your own.

Your mind flashes back to the spawn who nearly killed you mere weeks ago. They’d had the same simmering hunger in their eyes, keen to kill in favor of satiating the endless longing for blood. The same spawn managed to overpower you with such a drastic difference in strength, making you wonder what Astarion himself is capable of. He’s had decades more experience and killing—perhaps he’s even stronger.

No, he’s definitely stronger.

When he had his cold hands wrapped around your neck, it felt as if they belonged to death themselves. And in that moment, you knew that even if you struggled against him, if he genuinely wanted you dead, you would have no power to push him away. You would have no choice but to let the grasp of death pull you into the ground, underneath the surface, into the unknown.

“Oh, poor Shadowheart,” he taunts. “She’s already lost so much blood…”

“And she’s not losing anymore.” You don’t dare to lift your eyes from Astarion.

The hammering of your chest, the quickening of your breath—they are all things that he does not feel. You wonder if he feels anything at all. You’re sure he’s capable of hatred, he’s capable of reveling in the blood of his enemies, and he’s capable of laughing as he stabs a blade into a man’s eye.

But you wonder if that cold, dead heart of his can feel anything but for himself.

“You look unsettled,” he mocks. “Shall I drink from her? She certainly wouldn’t survive in the state she’s in, though…it would be a bit of a waste, don’t you think?”

You taste blood again from how hard you’re biting your lip.

You’re not sure if it’s just the booze driving insanity to your head or the encounter with a spawn just minutes ago, but the look in his eyes makes your chest tighten. The hunger, the bloodthirst, and the sheer drive to satiate his vampiric needs are enough to make you feel like prey cornered by a starved owlbear. He doesn’t look himself. He seems more like the spawn who’d nearly killed you. And for the first time since you awoke to his fangs bared at your neck during a night at the camp, you see him for what he is.

A vampire spawn—a monster.

This is not your Astarion. In fact, he’d never existed. He’d never loved you, and while you believed his care was enough at the time, you think that might’ve not existed either. This is not the same man who reassured you in your times of need, praised your very being, and gazed at you with nothing but love as you excitedly showed him your new pieces of music. This is not someone who had looked utterly confused when you confessed you wanted more with him because he could not imagine being a priority to someone else. This is not the same man who you once called your lover.

Your lover would not choke you to the brink of death, with nothing but malice urging him on. Perhaps you stopped the ritual from taking his soul, but maybe something else had taken it anyway. And you’re finished making a fool of yourself, hoping he reciprocates a love he cannot give.

When he steps down the stairs, the butter knife that sat on the table seconds before, flies through the air.

Whoever this is, you decide you do you hate him. You’ll force yourself to forget what he was to you if you have to, the same way he did to you. And this time, there is no hesitance or lingering feelings behind your words that represent the weak, naive part of you that can’t help but hold onto memories that no longer matter.

You truly, utterly hate him.

The knife barely flies past his skin, piercing itself into the wall, and it relieves you of the tension that’s weighed on you for the past few months, like plucking a thread from a poorly sewn piece of cloth.

“I won’t miss next time,” you snarl, your words laced with poison and your glare filled with daggers. It's a tone you rarely use on enemies, much less your allies, but all you can think about is your unconscious companion lying behind you.

For once, he looks almost surprised. His eyes are wide, unblinkingly staring at the bloody butter knife that nearly sliced off the tip of his nose before drifting over to you. You heave, your chest rising up and down as you try to catch the breath that doesn’t seem to exist, and he raises both his brows.

“Threatening me with a butter knife? Really?”

You've never threatened him at all, really. Not even when he first asked you for your blood. But now, even that seems like an afterthought.

“Go,” you spit.

He looks at the blood dripping wastefully on the floor, then at you. His face finally falls, but he wets his lips with his tongue glazing over his fangs, and it boils your blood enough to make you lightheaded. And though the breath you’d been grasping at comes back to you when he turns to disappear back upstairs, his parting words do little to ease the squeamish feeling in your stomach.

“I prefer this spiteful part of you far more, darling.”

You fight the urge to use the candle as a weapon next.

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#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst #angst with a happy ending #maybe

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fortheloveofkonig · 11 months

Note

Hello, hope you're having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request the 141 x Male reader, they know alot of medical like they use their knowledge of the human body against anyone whom threatens them (or people the care about). They aren't a medic are doctor parday but have extensive knowledge of the field that helps the team. Seem cold uncaring and ruthless but if anyone of them is injured its like a total switch of 'mom bear mode' checking them over the gentle hands and worry.

(Kinda of trope of don't mess with the doctor lol)

Summary: TF 141 reacts to Reader who knows a frightening amount of medical knowledge.

Note: I'm going to do this as more of a headcanons type of post ^^ hope this is good enough! ^^ I did 95% of this all in the last 2 hours

Content: Medical speak, Injuries, Slight Torture, Slightly Bad Medical Research, But I Did Research. Roach Talks.

Word Count: 1085

TF 141 x Knowledgeable in Medic Field M! Reader

Ghost

Probably first heard about your knowledge from Soap talking to him about how terrifying it is to see it come into play

Doesn't believe him.

You've always been good at what you do but have never shown any previous knowledge or interest in the medical field so, who can blame him?

There was also no way you could've went to medical school unless you were years above your usual education range

He finally sees it come into play when you two were 'interrogating' someone.

"If you're gonna stab, don't do it right there. Price said he needs to stay alive."

Ghost looks at you, annoyed. "I've stabbed many people and seen many people survive stab wounds of surrounding areas."

"In lower places of the abdomen and with quicker medical care, if you do it there" You point to where he had the knife, pointed at the tied up man's skin. "It could puncture an intestine and we will be fucked. If you want to stab, move the knife below the belly button...about right... right there. Do not remove the knife once it pierces through."

He did as you said, with questions, but still followed your lead.

From then on he watched everything you did, even noticing that you took care of some of the rookies that ended up with minor cuts and damage that wasn't enough to bother the medics with.

Needless to say, he also ended up coming to you for some patch ups, mostly when he wanted to keep his new damage a secret from Price.

He ended up finding it kind of hot during the interrogation thing so he often asked to do things like that with you again.

Soap

Honestly, probably figured out about your medical knowledge after he was being a dumbass with explosives and almost got hurt.

"Go change into some shorts and a tank top." Your voice was in a serious tone as you went to grab a nearby first aid kit.

"Already wanting to see me strip?"

You just glared at him until he actually left and did what was told.

Despite having only a few scratches, you still cleaned them up as best as you could.

You also went on a rant about it too, about how dumb he was

"Do you realize how dumb you are? What if you actually made a big explosion and a piece of shrapnel flew and hit one of the carotid arteries in your neck?

"My What?"

"Do you realize how fast you would've died? Why weren't you wearing any protective gear?"

"I'm pretty bad at forgetting protection."

If looks could kill, he'd be dead.

That was not the last time you had to clean his wounds, he seems to be a magnet for them.

Asks you more about medical stuff, just to get an idea on how much you know.

You know a lot.

Unsure at this point if he hurts himself in new ways just to hear you yell at him for what dumb way he could've gotten himself killed this time.

Gaz

He falls out of helicopters a lot, that's the truth. What's one more time?

This time (and somehow not the last?) he ended up hurting his foot, you were there the whole time when it happened.

When the both of you were both safe in the safety of a van, you got him to put his leg up so you could check it.

"This is stupid" He mutters, "It's nothing more than it has been in the past."

"Shush, let me concentrate" You mutter feeling around his bootless ankle, nodding your head when you hear him hiss at a pointed touch.

"Any pain when you walk on it?"

"Possibly....yes."

"I'm gonna say it's a sprain for now but I think we should take you to the infirmary after we get back to base. Doesn't seem dislocated. Possible fracture though."

It was just a sprain

Was surprised when you spoke fluent...doctor to the doctor.

Honestly felt like a little kid in the doctor's office, watching his parent's converse with the Doctor telling them what was wrong.

Wouldn't have it any other way.

Price

Always knew, almost nothing gets by him unnoticed

Was probably one of the reasons he wanted you on the task force.

He knows how soap and gaz the boys are

Has you teaching rookies how to probably put a tourniquet on.

"What the fuck are you doing? That's not how I taught you."

The rookie you were speaking to just looked down at the dummy that they were working on and the tourniquet, "It looks-"

"Terrible! He's still bleeding out! Retry it."

Definitely has to sit in on these sessions, some rookies have complained to him that you take it too far.

You always just use the excuse that if those were real people and not training dummies, they'd be at fault for letting them die.

He agrees with you.

The rookie looks over at Price.

"Get to it. He told you to retry it. The man is bleeding out."

Mostly just sits in because it's less complaints now that he is showing he agrees with you in front of everyone.

Roach

This fucker needs a friend that has medical knowledge

Much like Soap, it seems like he is a wound magnet

Was probably the first of the 141 that you had to go full protective, medical knowledge out and work on him.

Man's like a tank too, no matter what the day brings to him it seems he's just able to walk it off

You don't let him

"You're limping, sit down."

He just waves it off, "'m good."

"Like hell you are." You walk up to him and grab his wrist, dragging him to a nearby chair and pushing him onto it. "Stay or I'll have Ghost lay on you."

Does not stay.

You cannot get Ghost to lay on him.

You just end up pelting pillows at him until he joins into a pillow fight, and you both end up getting exhausted.

"I'll rest right here."

"Good."

Stubborn but still okay with medical help

Often comes to you with oddly specific questions.

"Hypothetically, if a car blew up in the near vicinity of where I was at, what is the possible health issues that could arise?"

"Well, burn marks obviously, depending on the distance it could be any degree. If it was enough to knock you over, then a possible concussion. Depending if you hit the ground and hard enough, possible broken or fractured bones. Not to even mention the possible pieces of metal and glass flying, and just blast trauma in general. Could cause damage to internal organs with enough force."

"Okay, so...hypothetically, if that happened, I should go to the infirmary?"

"Roach, were you next to a car when it blew up?"

"..."

"Gary???"

You immediately dragged him to the infirmary.

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aristia-pjoheadcanons · 7 months

Note

percy x gn!reader taking a hit for him and almost dying while fighting a villian? if this makes you uncomfy no need to do it!

Percy Jackson x Gn!reader taking a hit, while fighting and getting critically injured/near death experience

It happened before he saw it. He only heard you grunt as you made your blow on the 6-foot monster. Its talions scraping the earth as it lashed around trying to snag the duo--But given !reader´s size they had the upperhand by being able to duck between the monsters legs and tail--far away from its humongous claws. This was until it had managed to scrape its long claws in !readers direction, wounding their leg so their knees buckled unexpectedly. They staggered as they tried to maintain their alance, as they whipped their head around they were met with a giant hand that grabbed them and squeezed really hard around their torso. Percy lept forward and slashed its fingers off, setting the !reader free. But it hurts somewhere deep in their hest and everytime they took a breath it made a very weird scratchy-rattling noise.

Then they saw it, Percy trying to distract it by slashing it repeatedly, like what he had once done with the practicing-dummy, and he ran in circles to make it lose its breath--but when Percy jumped and rolled out of its way, the monsters tail hit Percy hard enough for him to slam into the nearest wall in the cave. that wall being a 10 meters away. By some miracle, there was a river nearby, in which Percy would heal himself with--but they couldnt help your instincts screaming to save him. The !reader dashed across the hard stoned floor and managed to get a bad, long claw mark puncturing the flesh and bones that were there while trying to protect Percy. They looked down and saw that the claws had been able to not only scrape the flesh, but also gone straight through t heir body. Their torso immedietly ingulfed in hot red. It burned. They were downed, but only for a moment, before Percy unleashed a godlike tsunami that knocked the monster back until it fell on its butt from the wave. The next moments are a bit of a blur since !reader were laying far away from the fight. But here we are.

Headcanons: (you didnt specify if it was friend or as lovers, so were doing a bit of both + neutral ones)

Percy abandoned riptide on the ground as he ran back towards !reader, his anger faded into true worry.

"Cmon, cmon!" he muttered, as he dug through a bag of medical supplies. but it was only filled with ambrosia and nectar, which wasnt that useful with holes in peoples bodies and usually only used for wounds. Either way,

Percy gave it to !reader to keep them atleast sane from the pain.

The reader would definetly be thrashing in pain and full on screaming.

Percy would be sweating more than any normal, greasy teenager on earth in that moment-his hands shaking with shock.

He would get flashbacks to when he had nightmares of Sally getting beat up, even though he never saw that happen. "Our little secret"-Gabe would tell Percy but who knew?, maybe Sally went through physical abuse too?

He pulled himself together, shaking his head, his hair tousled in the way !reader liked, only this wasnt the appropriate scenario to think about how his appearance was better-than-most-boys.

Percy lifted !readers body and ran out of the cave, stumbled only a tiny bit because his body cant keep up with his mind.

He would be thinking about the way back, following familiar landscaped.

The background would just smush together-so the !reader wouldnt really know if Percy was getting close to somewhere with proper supplies.

Percy glanced down with a panicked expression and a frown while the !reader gurgled (trying to talk but its futile).

At some point !reader would choke on their own blood and Percy would stop almost slipping on the grass, lifting your torso a bit higher and forward. !reader grabbed hard onto Percys bicep, to get some control of themselves.

With only woods in the area and Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-blood being miles away (this was a quest after all),

his best bet would be to try to locate the sea. He would close his eyes, imagining the soft waves crashing-

but it only looked like a typhoon to him because of stress and hidden anger-he would hear it and sense it somewhere further away.

He quickly started running, his breath heavy-barely breathing, and his body sluggish almost dropping you out of exhaustion on his part but pure determination keeping your body lifted.

He dug his fingers in the !readers legs and he ran as fast as his heart could beat.

Imagine if he tripped on a root, barely even able to stutter an apology because hes so out of breath and having the urge to cry out of frustration.

If they died, he would never forgive himself.

Miracles happen, even to the unfortunate, he sees the sea closing in.

He uses his powers to draw a giant tide to engulf !reader in it, putting as much water pressure in their wound on both sides on the body to keep the blood inside.

He would just jump into the tide, wrapping himself and them into a water bubble.

Percy might have been on the swimming team and he might have jumped from 50meters in the sky and into water from Blackjacks back--

but this was the fastest and craziest thing he had ever done. Fishes in the area would splutter away from the intensity.

No creature had even time to see what they were seeing, t

it looked like a water bubble moving faster than the speed of light-Percy swam so fast they werent sure if they had truly sense the Prince of Poseidon here.

But even so, rumours spread quickly, "The son of Poseidon carving out a path in the ocean, [...]..creating a mess..."

He got himself to the palace of his father, dempanded attention immedietly. His wife, being home at all times, wathced from the altar the morificating sight of a pale, and weak body hanging on for dear life-she could sense death was closing in. But she wasnt going to let someone Percy truly cared about die while she was there.

She swam lightning fast to collect what she needed and got straight to work.

No words were spoken, nothing had to be said, Percys green eyes glowed as he watched from the ocean ground, !reader getting treatment while he stood powerless. Yet again, he had been made of pawn for the gods.

Percy would sit his ass down so fast on that damn throne and scream Poseidons name, thats right, not father. Just Poseidon.

His screamed carried out for miles in the ocean. Not even the God himself could ignore such a strong cry.

"What is it tha--" Poseidon couldnt finish his sentence when he saw a rage so deep on his sons face he almost didnt want to know why or who managed to set him off so badly.

"Fix it." Anger rushed in Percys vains, he could only take countless deep breaths, keeping his fists close to his sides and biting back a sneer. Poseidon looked taken aback, fix what?

The Seagod then glanced to the right and saw an unknown stranger in his temple, laying on the ground as countless creatures tried to help, fish, stingrays, shark, even mythical being helped with the treatment and tried to reassure Amphitrite that she was only doing her best.

"My son-" Poseidon couldnt make miracles, he cant just hand them out. Percy knew that, but he still cut him off because he didnt want to hear the same old words.

"Gods do not meddle in mortal affairs. That is why we are Gods". Percy couldnt help but have bitter thoughts to that.

"At least, make the hole disappear". Percy threw out his hand sin frustration, water starting to bubble around him as the temperature increased and his eyes glowed green in the ambient temple that was only lit by a couple of lanters/torches nearby.

"I understand youre angry but--" Poseidon would argue against him, even his son. Percy threaten to ask for help on his knees in front of another Gods and put shame on the family´s name, telling others that "not even Poseidon himself could do anything".

In the end, Poseidon had no choice. With a flick on the Gods hand and a wave with his tridant, !reader would escape from death this time.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

While the reader was passed out, because fo the amount of Godly help they got, their body was completely exhausted and fatigued of the amount of power that suddenly washed over them.

Percy floated back and forth rapidly, pulling his jet black hair apart.

The room seemed to grow hot and cold as if it didnt know which temperature it really was supposed to take.

The air buzzed with energy and grew somewhat tense, the sound of water was loud, vibrating - instead of a distant hum.

On land, boats would suffer tide after tsunami, making an appearance on the local news. "Giant wave warning! Dont go near the beach!". Some newsreporters were even saying that some evacuation mihgt be neaded, because the beach was suffering a flood.

The colour of the ocean had somewhat changed, at least where Percy was. The colour that was once bright and a pretty blue, were now a disgusting murky colour that looked like it had been filthy with trash.

As time passed Percy would suffer mental breakdowns and feel nauseous from replaying what had happened.

His stepmother would leave Percy alone, figuring that she didnt want to face his wrath.

After about two hours, when they had awoken, they could see a blurred image of a person sitting down on their bed. Percys was leaning his head in his lap and kept putting pressure against his head from a mighty headache he had given himself. His eyes shut and the buzzing in his ears muffling any sound of movement from !reader.

"Mh.!" One sound was all it took for Percy to make him pause and pull himself out of his chaotic headspace, before a look of relief washed over him.

It was almost cute how easily he gets happy when !reader is okay. Imagine a character from a TV-series seeing their loved one again is alive, its beautiful.

Percys eyes had a shimmer to them now, glossy from relieved happiness. He pulled them into a tight hug before he harshly pulled himself away, scared he might hurt you.

But them remember that that wasnt possible since they had fully healed.

"Ah.." Percy sighed in disbelief as he laid his eyes upon them. They were okay. A lonely tear ran down his cheek and they ushered him forward with outstretched arms.

A hug can say so much. It speaks on so many volumes. youre here. youre alive. thank god. oh my god i cant believe this. stop, this cant be real. oh my god. please dont leave me again.

He had a hard time talking after that. He kept hiccuping as he sobbed harder by the second. His body shook and seemed to incredibly frail, !reader could only wrap reassuring arms around him.

In the end, Percy would lay comfortably on the bed, next to them. And fall asleep from the events that had happened that very day.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was mentally exhausting how much he loved them. Not just to a normal degree, but to every single level. Percy just loves the people he holds close to much, he gets overwehlmed.

When he only had Grover in school, he could only rely on him. Annabeth and Tyson came and he finally had the power to protect. This time however, it had failed him. He couldnt protect them.

After this, Percy would train himself broken and damaged until he was sure that he could throw himself in front of them if it ever were to happen. Or that he could, perhaps manage to get on his feet faster or duck quicker and become more agile.

He would ask Chiron to train him or give him personal constructive criticism, but Chiron tells him hes already great-and cannot give anything.

Percy would pull so many muscles, slashing his sword with a brooding look on his face. He imagined it. over and over and over again. That monster that he couldnt defeat.

Because the fact that he couldnt protect them meant that he couldnt protect anyone. A failure to protect the people around him, is a failed quest.

He took it as a personal insult to his skill and who he is as a person.

He would ask Annabeth for battle strategies, insput on anything he can take in.

Spend time observing the !reader became a habit. Almost in a controlling or anxious way. He started doing in a subconscious way too. During dinner, his eyes would glaze upon the open area of tables, searching for them and making sure theyre safe.

After this incident, his eyes kept searching for danger. Anythign that could potentially ruin his peace.

If !reader was a lover, he would sneak into their bedroom to sleep in their bed. He had never done that before prior to the relationship but his anxiety would let him rest, he needed to be there.

He could also be more into PDA, slinging an arm around his friend / s/o´s shoulders as a way to ground himself.

He would feel the safest at sea and in his own cabin room, where he could truly have control.

At night, with Blackjack he would make sure the camp was safe and that the sea would be calm because any loud tides or tsunamis would distract him if there were potential threats.

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

I’ll Take the Night Shift

Pairing: Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Before you knew it, John was gone - taken from right under your nose and leaving you no choice but to retreat without him. But you would do anything to get him back, even go into the lion’s den itself.

Word Count: 15.2k

Warnings: Torture, blood & gore, V suggestive & some spicy bits, vulgar language, angst, found family tropes, eventual fluff, and comfort, injured Price would be the sweetest person idc, so much plot, briefly edited

A/N: The flashbacks are spicy because I said so. (Soap request being written after this). Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You try to remember how you felt the first time they told you. Your combat vest was still on, that night vision rig still connected to your head and weighing about as much as John did when he rolled on top of you in the middle of the night. At your front rested the M13, its black and sleek metal bumping against your chest with every teetering step.

Black, on black, on black. Except for one item, hidden, kept close to heart, and even closer to mind at all hours. You were always aware of it, the metallic press that was ingrained into your body just as the caress of John’s fingers was, burning over your pulsing epidermis as it traveled.

Around your neck, your wedding ring sat heavily on its chain – gold more bright than the sun and kept safe and warm against the flesh of your breast under the numerous padded layers. Your face was bathed in sweat, lungs aflame with blood dripping from a knife puncture on your right thigh. Although the limb is bathed in crimson, the dark fabric of your pants hid most of it. But it couldn’t hide the red footprints in the dirt.

It was a Black Op in Finland – a target stashed away in a mansion that was clawing for breath in this dense forest with more viridian-colored trees than any you had seen before. Green seemed to breed in the small spaces, between rocks, up crackling bark; crunching under your black boots as you came to a shattering halt. Moss and tiny plants get crushed under your fierce steps.

If it was any other circumstance, you would have loved to drag your husband here for a vacation.

You had felt fear when they told you. Cold. Chest-tightening. Skin tingling as your limping body fought to focus on anything but the pain that was spiking in your leg, but that was simple when the words flew from Gaz’s lips with panic. Simon had stopped behind you as well, the two men dressed just as you were and holding their breath for your reaction. They knew it wouldn’t be good.

“The Captain isn’t responding. Soap can’t bloody find him.” The chill of the night was nothing compared to the dread that flooded your veins, eyes snapping forward blankly at flashing shadows as your panting breath was all at once sucked back down.

What?! Is all you can numbly think.

A brief stuttering inhalation ensues, your brain screaming as if banshees wail and smash against the bone of your skull with sharp teeth and blunt nails; tearing to try and get out. But you were not born to break at such a fickle emotion as fear in your bloodstream, or the adrenaline making your eyes vibrate. You were taught to act.

You’re turning on your heels and hiking back to the mansion without a word or hesitation, the world around you speeding by. In a single instant, the organ in your head promptly goes silent in a fell swoop of horrified realization. Everyone left in that mansion would be dead if you got your hands on them – ripped to tiny little pieces until that which was yours was returned unharmed and conscious into your arms.

You hold the M13 tight around the stock, jimmying it into your shaking grip.

“Whoa!” Gaz rushes to get ahead of your warpath – which didn’t take much as your wound was throbbing; making your head pound something awful.

It doesn't matter what I feel…Where is my John?

Dark hands grasp your shoulders tightly, shaking you as your lips turn into a snarl.

“Out of my way, Garrick,” You growl, face suddenly twisting into an image of pure animalistic rage, “I’m going to Soap’s position.”

Attempting to jerk out of the man’s hold, your skin crawls at the thought of John. He always answered the comms – always stayed within eyesight of his partner when placed with another individual. Your husband did not leave men behind. He would never leave Soap behind.

And that meant he was either dead or captured.

Your mind jumps to violent imagery. Your Captain, riddled with bullets and bleeding as he writhes in pain; left to die like a feral dog as he snaps at everything that moves. Or worse, taken and stashed away, far from you, and tortured for information. John would never break – they’d have to kill him anyway.

There was no version of this story that involved him living if you did nothing.

“Johnny isn’t at the mansion,” Ghost comments, popping up in the side of your vision as you have a stare-off with Gaz and releases the radio attached to his vest, “He was under heavy fire – had to pull back. Should be closin’ in on our position soon.”

“I’m still going back!” Growling, you snap your arms back and shoulder past Gaz, “You’re idiots if you think I’m leaving John by himself in fucking Finland surrounded by hostiles.”

But what if he’s already dead and I don’t know it? Can I handle that?

You grunt under your breath, trying to stop the sting of your eyes.

“Love,” The younger man pleads, Kyle’s dark eyes worryingly going from your thigh to your face, “You’ve got to be bloody joking with us. If you go back to that place you’re as good as dead. We have to pull back to the Evac Point. There are too many guns – we’re outnumbered.”

When you had joined Task Force 141 you had never expected to marry the older Captain of this rag-tag bunch. It had been surprising enough that you had been spotted by the brown-haired Brit at all, only seeing him once when he had come to teach a class of rookies on Counter-Terrorism. Naturally, the two of you had struck up a conversation – or, rather, you had forced him to speak to you. But how could you not? The man was about as handsome as they came. The gruff and gravel tone that rumbled his chest, his large build reminiscent of a brown bear, and how the muscles under his shirt had rippled when you snuck up on him. Physically, he was everything you wanted, and the same went for attitude once you got to know him.

And, hell, how could you look at someone like John Price and not get entranced by his eyes? Storm gray and raging waters; you swore you could see an entire world hidden in the flecks of silver as if he was carved from stone and his soul was pure electricity. But despite all of it, his serious face had seemed warm under that beard of his and that bucket hat on his head wasn’t helping. He seemed kind enough, and that had piqued your interest as you were constantly being surrounded by less-than-respectful men in the barracks.

In fact, your first sentence to him was, “How many times have you nearly lost that hat of yours mid-Op, Sir?”

You had snuck up while the rookies were working through a practice course down below the loft, where the two of you currently were. John’s head had snapped to the side, his constantly narrowed eyes widening a fraction. If you had to guess, he didn’t get snuck up on often.

But he had never met you before.

His arms were attached to the collar of his vest, and you saw the fingers tighten as his shoulder-width stance tensed below him. The shouts and calls of the people below blurred as you tilted your head, blinking innocently up at him, watching his lips move with heated thoughts.

You quite liked him looking surprised.

“Ma’am,” He utters in greeting, before letting out a deep sigh that makes you huff a laugh in turn. He seemed tired – stressed, “Very funny. Don’t suppose you’re part of the others down there, then, are you?”

“Unfortunately, no, Sir,” Your gaze filters to the flailing limbs and you watch with creasing eyebrows at the chaos, amusement deep in your blood, “I mean…they look like they’re having fun, at least.”

“Yeah, that’s a bloody exaggeration, that is,” His wrinkled forehead had creased, following the horrific sight as well, “Laswell told me that this group was promising.”

Your laugh makes his head fully turn back to you, blinking down and fighting the flick of his eyebrow in confusion.

“Oh, God, she told you that?!” Shaking your head you shifted your body to face him and stifled your chuckles. You say your name and utter out, “If you want someone who’s not going to sugarcoat things for her amusement, Captain Price, you come straight to me. Squad 5 is the one you want for Counter-Terrorism courses; certainly not 3. That’s a good way to get shot in the ass by your own guys.”

He stared at you for a long minute before his eyes flickered down to your hand; he grunted and grasped it in his own.

You were correct – he was warm. Firm. The ingrained lines of his palms splayed over yours, and the flesh of your lips softened at the delicate way he was holding you. Like you were a prized weapon.

And you would have it no other way.

“Just Price is fine, Ma’am. Kate mentioned you in her call…You were in Romania in ‘04, Yeah? Quite the job to do by yourself…You ever think on joinin’ a team?”

Three months later Laswell was giving you a call saying you were getting a promotion and the rest was subtle glances that evolved into stolen touches in dark corners when no one was looking. It had been scary how instant the feelings were realized…you trusted John with your life, just as he did with you. That was the first feeling after lust and the one far before love – protectiveness for each other on the same level as wolves in a pack.

You can’t leave him behind.

“He’s the Captain–” Your lips begin to hiss out, eyes narrowed at the ground as you struggle along. You were weaker than you should have been – blood loss leaving you nearly on the ground after the retreat, “He’s my husband!”

Rage was easier than panic. Perhaps that was why John called you Lion for a callsign.

“...And you’re going to get him killed.” The remark makes you freeze. Ghost doesn’t move from behind you as the echo of his words bounces off the trees, but you feel his presence just the same as Gaz clears his throat awkwardly, “You go back, Aarre Virtanen will put a bloody bullet in ‘em. Not a chance he doesn’t.”

Aarre Virtanen. The target that had escaped the Force’s grasp like the weasel he is. Your eyes alight with rage, and cities burn in your iris.

“You’re just about the most impulsive person I’ve ever met, Love,” John mutters into your hair, running his fingertips over the hospital gown as he lays in the bed with you. Your eyes are closed, feeling your head rise and fall with the steady breathing in the Captain's chest – damn him, the way he touched you was hypnotic; putting you to sleep where the pain meds failed.

“Hm,” You groan, digging your head deeper into his peck and feeling him chuckle velvety.

“I need to teach you how to think plans through before you commit, Yeah? Else you’re going to keep getting hurt…and we can’t have that, eh, can we Sweetheart?”

“...If you’re gonna hold me like this when I get shot, I’ll make sure to take more bullets for you from now until the end of time.”

A puff of breath and a brush of coarse beard hairs over your scalp.

“You’re hopeless, you are. What am I supposed to do with you…?”

“Probably kiss me, Sir, but I’m not picky. You can fuck me too while you’re at it.”

A shuttering of leaves rips everyone out of their arguing, and in an instant three guns are held leveled at a dense bush, shaking in the moonlight. Every moment spent with John was flashing over your eyes like you were dying. Why was your breath getting strained? Why was your grip shaking?

“Friendly! Don’t go poppin’ off shots, it’s jus’ me!” Your stance lessens at the familiar Scottish drawl, air falling from your nose in a terse sigh.

Soap’s body pops out a second later, and you’re right next to him with a heavy heart, gripping him by the arm and digging. It was hard, holding yourself together with string and fraying cloth, but you had to. You can’t break…not now. The man's vision is locked on your face, and you don’t like the thinness of his lips as his expression is layered with guilt.

It mirrors against the desperation in yours, leaking into the tone coating your sentence like poison.

“Little Lady, I–”

“Where is my husband, Johnny?” Your face contorts, pulling back. He was supposed to be here, why wasn't he here? He took MacTavish with him because he needed an expert to detonate a bomb in the lower mansion’s tunnel structure. He said he’d be back soon…Where is he? “Johnny, please, he can’t…” Begging has never been implemented in your life. Never.

But for John, you’d do anything.

The man in question flinches back, the dried blood over his face catching your gaze in the dim light as you stop dead; your eyes slashed the distance between Soap’s visage and the gore over his cheeks. Up his arms. On his hands. Staining his chest like fucking finger-paint. Before you know it you’re backing up, eyelids fluttering like hummingbird wings and jumping from place to place as all you can see is red. Your hands are slippery, and you hold them limply ahead of you.

No, no, no. No, it can’t be.

“Holy shit, Soap,” Gaz whispers, voice horrified, and you feel his hand on your back trying to steady you, “Is that…”

Ghost’s dead eyes stay locked on the scene, narrowing behind his mask. The Scot’s head flows to the blood, quickly inhaling as his nose scrunches. His lips part in horror as he tries to calm you down, backing up a step.

But you can’t stop seeing red.

“Hen, now don’t do that – it’s not…I…He,” He stumbles over his words, swallowing thickly as you gape. Soap growls, splaying his hands, “Steamn’ Bloody Jesus! The explosive went off prematurely, fucken’ bastard of a device – whoever made it should get his neck rung – an’ the…the tunnel collapsed with us in it,” You just stare, and you wonder if your heart can hurt any more than it already is. At your side, Gaz blows out a slow breath, and over your back, you feel his grip tighten, “I tried to get him out of the rubble, Hen. But,” He stops, and one of his hands smacks against the top of his helmet, “Virtanen’s men got there first. God,” Johnny gasps your name, “I’m so sorry.”

But all you do is stare.

“Love,” Garrick lightly says, his breath on the side of your face, “Love, we have to move.”

But Gaz, You want to say; scream, as your stained fingers twitch when you level them with a heavy glare, Gaz I can’t leave him here

“He’s not dead.”

Ghost grunts, fixing the position of his gun over his chest; resting on hand on the end and looking off into the trees, “They’d keep ‘em alive. Try to get answers – who he is, who sent him…” The man trails.

Your heart fractures your ribs, ears ring like cicadas under your skin.

He’s not dead, You have to tell yourself so you don’t break down, looking at everyone around with veiled shock, He’s not dead.

The only reason the four of you were still standing around was that, in the absence of John’s leadership, you took point. It hit you suddenly, then, in that instant where the storm that was going on inside of your head was silenced. These men were under your wing – they needed you to take up the mantle; you needed to trust that John was alright. If only to keep the whole of the 141 safe and alive.

Gaz had shrapnel in his back; Soap looked like he was about to either turn around and go on a rampage or slump over with his head in his hands. And Ghost well…he was Ghost, but even so, his clothes were layered with blood and dirt. Not to mention yourself – your thigh has since gone numb.

…And we can’t stay here.

With your heart falling into a deep hole, you school your expression.

Don’t think about him. Don’t do it.

Your job has never been more difficult than at that moment.

“Evac Point is a ten-minute jog. L-Laswell’s expecting us.” The voice that comes out of your mouth isn’t yours, the tone is off and the structure is shaky at best and broken at worst. There was nothing more you could do, even if you knew you could drag your way back to the mansion and start a fight.

Gaz was right, you would die if you went back. And you can’t get John home safe if you were dead.

The team needs you to lead them just as your husband would.

So, avoiding all eye contact and the wide looks, you slip out of Kyle’s hold, feeling your leg sizzle with agony as you put weight on it. Garrick mutters your name, and Soap clears his stuffed throat; coughing into the night. Ghost is the one who loops his arm under your shoulders when he strides up behind you, and you flinch at the contact before closing your eyes and feeling bitter tears drip down your cheeks.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Lion,” The man glances down at you, skeletal face glowing bone white, “I give you my word.” But you don’t answer, just grimace and will away the feelings in your heart and the vomit in the back of your throat.

This is what John would want you to do, you know that – perhaps that was the only reason you were willing to leave and reevaluate at all – but, somehow, it still felt wrong.

Akin to betrayal.

The ring around your neck suddenly weighed more than the numb flesh of your leg as tears smack the moss mutely.

—

Laswell is sitting in the meeting room as a nurse wraps your thigh tightly. The sutures underneath pull at your flesh; making it stretch at a touch of a finger as you stand upright. The others had pleaded with you to sit down, but nothing would sway you. Not even the needle that had been going through your skin when you refused pain medication. Being on your feet made you feel better – like you were about to do something which would stop the thinness of your breath and the jump of your heart. Your weight was mostly on your uninjured limb anyhow, shifting as the affected pant’s leg was cut lengthwise and shoved aside as the gauze slowly wrapped around and around.

“When are we going after him,” You ask Kate, rubbing the sleep from your eyes but only succeeding in spreading dirt and blood all over your sockets, “I’ll be ready in five if you need me to be. All of us will.”

“Damn right,” Kyle nods, “Just give the order.”

The blonde sighs, and the other men in the room move on their feet in unease. No one was content sitting still – one of their own was missing. Soap in particular was taking it badly; almost as broken up as you about it.

“We can’t do anything,” Your rampaging heart clenches. You had been worried about that, “This mission was Black,” Laswell’s chair squeaks as she rises, a tablet in her hands and a scowl on her face, “Legally speaking, no one was ever in Finland in the first place. A blown power box was the cause of the explosion.”

“Kate–” Gaz growls, but Soap cuts him off.

“This is clatty, Laswell!” He crosses his arms, the mohawk on his head pressed down from being in a helmet for so long making him look unhinged. When the helicopter had dropped the Force off at base, a meeting had immediately been called; that was over three hours ago, and still, nothing had been done. It was precious time, “Send out drones, recon forces, anything. Hell, send us back in – we'll take care of this.”

“Sergeant MacTavish,” Kate stares at him, and she spares a quick glance at you as the nurse stands quickly and leaves. You clench your jaw. Without John being here the room felt empty, devoid of a very important figure; you were no leader, but what choice did you have but to take charge, “Price knew the risks, and…Black Op means no take backs. He’s been in this a long time.”

“We all have,” You whisper, grunting as a shiver of fire runs up your leg.

In the back of your subconscious, you know everyone can see how shaken you are. Your eyes constantly rove to the corners as if shadows will suddenly take form and attack, your fingers twitch as if still around the trigger of a gun; when someone mentions John’s name your hand unconsciously reaches to grasp the ring around your neck. Gaz spares you looks, reaching up to fix the position of his ball cap with tense breaths.

Inside, the thoughts were running faster than you could catch them. Every moment you spent with your Captain – dinner dates, gifts that you told him not to buy you but he did anyways…the list went on including the moments spent together. They were distracting you. He was distracting you.

Was this how it felt to lose a vital part of you? Like torture? But your person knows what torture was like – it had never felt as painful as this before. You couldn’t recall in your memory a time when your chest had been this wound tight, fingers so shaky and weak. Your brain was what you would consider your best companion in these situations…but this was different. Common sense had abandoned you in the form of a square brown-bearded face and strong arms.

God, John, You press your fingers into your eyes until you see stars, Please be okay. Please. I’ll be there soon. J-just wait for me.

There was another voice as well, telling you that if you just told yourself he was okay you could get through this easier. You could break later – you needed to focus on getting your husband back.

That was all that mattered.

Laswell scratches at the back of her neck, and your hands fall back to your sides.

“We can’t do anything,” Kate repeats, and the subtle change in phonics leads your head to snap up. Her deep blues were already staring at you; boring into your soul. The others perked up as well when your body stills, listening with predatory attention, “Shame. I heard the target was planning on being at a get-together in a week at his property in Poland.”

Your pulse stills, and you find your wavering voice, “...Can’t fault the man, he has a weapon-smuggling business to run…He’ll need more potential clients.”

“Hm,” The boys look back and forth with bright eyes, teeth showing as their lips peel back, “Affirm.” Laswell saunters to leave the room, slipping past you. But before she brushes against your shoulder her face tilts to you. You smell her scent – bark and coarse linen – as she speaks, “You might want to clean up the armory and get your gear repaired. John wouldn’t stand for his team looking like shit it if he was here.”

Kate saunters out the door, and you watch her back as the barrier closes, standing in silence. Sucking down a slow breath, your gaze filters back to the boys only to find them already staring at you.

“Well,” Clearing your throat, your eyebrows twitch, “You heard her. We can’t do anything…officially.”

“I’d say we better go clean up, then,” Soap grunts, crossing his arms over his chest, and nodding his head to you, “Head off and get a good sleep.”

Gaz and Ghost spare glances, but look about as ready as you are.

“You sure you’re up for this, Love?” Garrick asks motioning toward your leg with a head nod as he moves closer, “We have no problem doing this by ourselves.”

“I took my vows just the same as he did,” You respond immediately, gripping the younger man by the shoulder and sending a small, weak, smile, “You think he’d stay behind if it was me?”

“I think he’d rather let Soap make him tea again. And we know how that went last time.”

You huff out a sound that resembles a laugh, but the Scot in question refuses to look at you; your eyes catch Ghost sending you glances before he motions with his head to the man. Turning to Gaz you nod.

“You take Simon and get the gear ready. We’re leaving tomorrow first thing.”

“Copy, Ma’am.”

Ghost pats your skull once before disappearing, “Keep your head on, Lion.”

The door once more closes, and silence overtakes the small room. Taking a deep breath that fills you with a wave of ease – even if for a moment – you focus on the second big problem after a brief second to close your eyes and think.

Johnny.

He avoids your gaze; fidgets with his hands more than he usually does. The men of the 141 were dear to you and in a way, the entirety of it was a big family of people who really didn’t belong anywhere but with each other. You cared about them more than you cared about yourself – one of them was your husband, but the rest were your brothers.

“You remember when I took a metal rod right through my lower leg?” You begin, hobbling closer and nearly laughing when the man takes a step forward to help with a grimace set on his lips. You raise a hand to stop him, “In Egypt about two summers ago?”

“You shoved me out of the way and got hurled through a window by a bastard with a knife, Hen. Landed in an industrial yard,” You stop a foot or two from him, attempting to get his attention while he stares at his feet and mutters like a kicked dog, “Yeah. Remember it clear as day. Price nearly had my head – knew right here that he was gonna marry you.”

The comment warms your heart.

“Did I ever blame you for standing near that window, Johnny?” You ask softly, tilting your head and catching his eye as he clenches his jaw in thought. The scar on the pale skin moves, and his stubble bunches.

“Never, Ma’am.”

“Then why would I ever blame you for an explosive that went off spontaneously – one that you didn’t even build in the first place?”

He stays silent at that, but his head slowly rises to face yours fully. You had never seen him look so guilty before, those blue eyes of his so hopeless.

“I couldn’t get ‘em out,” Soap whispers and before you know it you’re grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into an embrace, “I left him behind. How could I…?”

There was still blood on him, stuck in the makeup of his flesh like large bruises; dried, yes, but you nonetheless felt it. You found, though, that at that second, it didn’t bother you as much as it should have. The Sergeant’s arms hesitantly wrap around you and when you feel him press forward with his weight, your form loses tension.

“No one blames you, Johnny,” He's shaking when you tell him, “No one. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. Price,” Your throat tightens, “John knows how to handle himself, you know he would never be mad at you for retreating.”

Soap wetly laughs and places his chin on the top of your head; playing it off with a chuckle as the minutes stretch on, “I’ll just have to believe you then, Lion. Who’s to say I can go against my superior?”

Your arms tighten around him as a snort meets air, “You say that and when we get the real Captain back, I might not want to give up the position. The power’ll go straight to my head.”

“And it hasn’t already? Now that’s surprising, I could have sworn you were telling the others what to do not a second ago.”

There he was.

—

“I’m just saying, John, Fantasy beat out Nonfiction as a genre,” You shake your head, bringing the cup of coffee to your lips and sipping. Over the rim, you watch the Brit toss his beanied head to the side in disbelief.

“Negative, Dear,” The Café was mostly empty today, considering that it was so late at night you were surprised it was still open and that it was a Tuesday, “I’ll agree to disagree.”

“Name me one Nonfiction book that beats ‘The Hobbit,’ hm?” Your eyebrow raises and you place the cup down, “That’s right – you can’t!”

“‘The Guns of August’ to name one,” John raises a large brow, “do you want me to continue, Love? I’ve got quite the long list.”

It was one of the rare moments when the two of you had Leave together – once in a blue moon. These moments were so special it became tradition to spend every moment together despite the wounds or the fatigue. You both had just gotten back from an Op and rushed to change into civilian clothes and clean up together before leaving.

Admittingly, the shower took a bit longer than expected, but who could blame the two of you for taking advantage of a chance to please one another?

Across the table, your lover smirks, and you see his eyes dip to ogle the hickeys and beard burn on your neck with satisfaction. Under the table, you reel back a foot and kick his shin. Not hard, of course, but the message was received.

“Bloody Hell!” He sputters, looking back to glare comedically at you. His black athletic shirt was tight around his chest, making his muscles writhe under the fabric from where one arm sat over the back of his chair. You could imagine where you left nail marks down those abs of his; how his face had looked as you straddled his waist and used him.

“Don’t look so smug, bastard,” Your lips pull into an imitation of an annoyed frown, “Gaz is gonna make fun of me when we get back. I had a hard enough time trying to hide them when we were leaving!”

“Garrick?” John grunts from across the small table and the warm lights flicker above the two of you. His lips set forth a small smile, pulling his cheeks back and crinkling his eyes. The corner seat was the best in the café – allowing both privacy and a view of the windows and doors. Some things would just never die in the two of you, it seemed, “The Muppet can’t even pin you in drills, Sweetheart. If he teases you, just kick his legs out from under ‘em.”

“Encouraging violence between peers is not Captain behavior, Love. What would Laswell say?”

John grunts, “I couldn’t give a damn, Dear.”

While you roll your eyes and try to hide the adoring smile ripping open your skin at the man’s chuckle, you take notice of the street outside as time moves on. Staring out, your soft gaze dances over the illuminated areas of the street lights, finding old architecture and simply enjoying the scenery for what it was. When you were in the field, it was hard to take in the sights around you through the gun battles and tense situations; being able to take your time and admire was a gift. A calm silence falls over the café, and John hums gingerly from ahead of you as his knee brushes yours under the table.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” Blinking, you connect your eyes with his lovely blues.

The way he’s looking at you leaves your lungs tight, lashes fluttering over your cheeks as heat alights. His body had moved forward, hands and elbows on the table and leaning forward to gaze at you in reverence.

“John?” Your eyebrows turn in, lips flicking to a gentle expression of giddy embarrassment.

“Shh, Love,” He mutters, tilting his head to stare at you as your fingers fix the weight of his lent brown leather jacket over your shoulders, “Let me admire my wife, yeah? She gets lovelier every second.”

In your own little world, your head is floating as your eyes stay locked on an ocean with flecks of silver and storms. The air is thick, and around the leather, your fingers twitch with a want to embrace him; pull at the fabric of his shirt and rip him into a kiss over the table. Your heart skips beats.

Where was this coming from? You want to ask, but all that comes out is a huff as you tear your half-lidded eyes away.

“You’re making me all shy,” You grumble cheeks hot and on fire under the flesh. Your lips try to restrain a giggle, but your chest is too tight to hold anymore.

“That’s my job, that is. No use tryin’ to stop me now; you’re stuck with me.”

“I will kick you again,” You emphasize as fire burns down your neck and ears, heart suddenly too big for your body.

“Hm, I’d let you.”

“J-Johnathan Price!”

His chest-shaking laughter is contagious in the best possible way.

—

He remembers the explosion and then nothing more. It was like a ball of fire, carried on the wind before Soap even had the time to call out a detonation time; the device went off in the deep tunnels after the order had already been given to fallback. The fire was too heavy – you had taken a blade to the thigh and that had been it. John had called it off immediately.

Just when he and Soap were about to rush to the exit, the bomb went off without call or meaning. The tunnels were part of an old wine cellar – the target had converted them to be a quick back exit if anything went wrong and he needed to disappear.

The entire purpose of John taking Soap with him was to collapse the long stretches of rock and wooden support beams; to box Aarre Virtanen in the mansion like a bear in a trap but, of course, these missions could never go simply.

He remembers the explosion, and then nothing more.

The pressure of rock on his chest and gripping hands. Was Soap the one yelling at him to wake up? Shoving off the debris and ripping at his gear with grunted breaths? The barked orders were getting closer from all over.

Muppet, he should have just run.

But then the heavy presence had disappeared, and John knew he had been left behind; his thoughts, before it all left him, were only of you. How would you take it? The fact that he wasn’t coming home with you was sure to induce you into a rampage of gritted teeth and hurled curses. That was, perhaps, the worst thing that could happen. He prayed for one simple thing – that, no matter what, the boys would convince you to hold back.

And then he woke up in the room.

It was small; barren of anything besides the chair John was tied to. Under his feet was a drain, the silver metal glinting as the chilling overhead light cascaded down and left him blinking rapidly to push back the instinctual tears gathering in his ducts. As John moves his neck, it pops, making his jaw clench even as the bones ache deep under the layers of black and blue flesh.

His whole body hurts.

Blood is dried over his skin, and the world around him pulses as the stab of broken bones moves inside of him.

Concussion, He assesses, moving his wrists under the tight hold of rope from where they’re restricted behind his back; tied to the back of the metal seat. Still unable to focus his eyes, he continues to go down the list of injuries, broken ribs, John sucks in a sharp breath when he attempts to rotate his left ankle, and broken Fibula and Tibia. Bruises and lacerations everywhere…shit.

But were you alright? Was the knife wound treated, wherever you were? Did Mactavish get out?

Groaning deep in his throat, the Captain shakes his head, noticing immediately the familiar weight of his gear was absent – his bucket hat and night-vision rig are gone as are the combat vest and M13. But under his shirt, one item is still there, pressed into his skin deeply.

Golden metal. The wedding band. At the very least, that item could bring him a sliver of comfort.

Narrowing his eyelids and scrunching his large nose, a bead of blood travels down a gash above his eyebrow.

“Fucken’ hell,” John growls, grunting and groaning as he forces his neck to right itself, lower body jerking forward to help relieve the pressure on his midsection.

Finally, the water over his eyes dissipates like a wave in the ocean and his ears cease ringing. But the buzzing of the light quickly takes its place and his nose twitches at the stench of black mold and gore. Everything was concrete – the walls, floors. Blinking, John’s eyes quickly snap around the room to take it all in; trying to find the weak points that may come in handy later.

There was only one door and no windows. When the Brit tried the rope around his wrists he found it was bound incredibly tight, even making the skin irritated at the slightest movement.

“Bloody bastard,” The Captain weakly mutters under his breath, shuffling in his seat, “First you stab my wife then you tie me up, is that it?”

Struggling does nothing but serve to make John angrier, and the pain can easily be thrown to the side when his thoughts run to you. They always did, but now more than ever, considering he didn’t know if you had also gotten captured and were only a concrete barrier away.

While he tries to force down the floating feeling of his brain, a sharp cough works its way from his mouth, jerking his body back and forth raggedly. John is so out of it that he missed the sound of the door opening, the violent squeaking of the metal hinges, and the scrape of concrete. Heavy shoes pound over the floor, and when the air finally returns to his rampaging lungs, blue eyes lock onto the man.

Aarre Virtanen stands with his hands behind his back, a smug expression staining his perfect, unscathed, face. The Target wasn’t more than thirty, dressed in a nice expensive suit and dress shoes on his feet shining with more polish than Price could begin to wrap his head around.

Muppet, The characterization was almost instantaneous, Pompous little Muppet. Lion would eat ‘em for bloody breakfast.

John raises a brow slowly as a dribble of blood slides down his nose and gets caught in his beard hairs. The two men stare at one another, eyes clashing.

“I’d like to imagine,” Aarre smirks down at the Captain, “That whoever sent you planned on my life being forfeit. Unfortunately,” John has to stop himself from laughing in his face, “As you can see, Sir, I am very much alive.”

Narrowing his gaze, Price runs down the length of Aarre’s twig-like form – Not much of a Smuggler, is he? His picture made him look bigger.

But all that meant was that he had others to do the dirty work for him, and John knew that, whatever basement he was cramped into, was guarded heavily just beyond eyesight.

The chances of escape were drawing up dry, and his tongue ran over his teeth.

“The real question is, however,” The thin man speaks, coming closer with a careful step. Nose twitching, the Brit can smell the disgusting odor of violent perfume; his head rears back in disgust that the Smuggler takes as fear. Aarre leans closer, “Who might you be? Your little friends managed to slip my grasp, but we got that bitch in the thigh–”

John’s head moves forward so fast all that was seen was a blur, and soon after a cracking of a nose meets damp air.

A muffled yell echoes off the cracked walls like a satisfactory reward to the Captain’s ears, and the brown-haired individual quickly shakes his head to the side to clear the bouncing of his skull.

Definitely a concussion. He hisses and rips at the bindings behind his back; all that gets him is bloody skin and blisters.

“You,” Aarre is stumbling backward, one hand grasping his broken and bleeding nose. Crimson splatters on the floor and ragged breathing rattle chests from both parties, quivering around the room, “You…p-pathetic little shit. Fuck!”

His tears only serve to make John smile, cheeks pulling back as a humorless chuckle enters the air. Feral satisfaction lives in his flesh.

“You better watch your language there, Mutt. It’s not proper to insult a lady who can’t be here,” John’s tone drops, nearly a growl as the deep rumble leaves a hunched over Aarre flinching back; the Captain’s teeth are bared like an animal. Feet sound off in the hallways – rushing boots booking it down a set of descending stairs, “To knock your fucken’ teeth in herself!”

Blood spits from John’s lips at the hiss, and his limp feet over the floor slump to the side as his legs fall open, body raging forward as if he could break the restraints. He wanted to – wanted to bash this little bastard's skull against the floor until he was unrecognizable.

How dare he say that? How dare he call you that?!

Pain could be shoved aside in this case, his anger was so overpowering when it came to you that it simply didn’t bother him. You defended him just as religiously, and John’s mind flies to glimpse a fast memory of you physically getting in the face of a man who had insulted him over some pointless football game at a bar.

“You better mind your tone,” You had spoken slowly, face calm and the perfect example of hidden rage shimmering under the surface. The Brit watched from the corner of his eye with a smirk on his lips; not at all opposed to letting you pick your battles and feeling his heart skip beats when his title falls, “When speaking to my husband like that.”

Aarre’s guards rushed through the door, guns held in hands, all immediately leveled on John’s head.

“Don’t!” The target gasps out, slapping one of the barrels to the floor and straightening himself, “Don’t.”

A deep smirk spreads the still-falling stream of crimson over the sides of his lips; the brown-haired man’s muscles are tense, stringing him up like a wire or a snake ready to strike. Torture was elementary to him, he’d gone through it all before and none of it had ever worked. He could take it, as long as you were far away from here.

“He’s going to have a buyer,” John’s eyes minutely widened in surprise, caught off guard, “Prep him for the flight to Poland. Don’t bother being gentle…the staff won’t mind if he comes in a bit damaged.”

—

Your fingers flinch forward as you shove the sapphire earring into your ear, the sharp point poking out the other end before you shove the backing on. Taking a deep breath, you feel the car under you bounce right as you ask your question.

“Gaz?” Lips thinning, you look through the limo’s glass separator and grimace at the man’s reflection in the mirror, “Are you sure no one knows what we look like? No one at the mansion saw our faces?”

“Lion, I’m promising you – it was too dark, and we were moving too fast for ‘em to get a clear picture.”

“Hm,” You grunt, flattening out the brown fur jacket over your form-fitting gown. The navy blue color was deep, reminding you of a Lapis Lazuli stone with veins of silver reflected in the jewelry around your throat and wrists.

Poland was cold this time of year, and as the expensive buildings whizzed past just outside the glass, your breath created condensation.

You were nervous, heeled feet shuffling over the tufted floor of the vehicle and sucking down slow breaths as a way to slow your heart. It had been a week without John at your side, and all the makeup in the world couldn’t hide the bags that had sprouted under your eyes; sleep had come in bouts of quick fatigue but then left just as swiftly. Your body wouldn't relax – couldn’t – until your husband was right beside you once more.

And if he was already dead…

Your hand goes to itch at your neck, catching on the necklaces, one specifically, before you force it back down with quivering effort. Attempting to shake out your head, your ribs suddenly feel like they’re strangling your organs, and all you want to do is take off this damn dress.

Kyle utters your name from the driver’s seat, and when you blink over to look at him, you find his eyes already staring back.

“When I went missing in the Congo – you raised hell to go and find me,” He tells you, focus flicking back and forth from the road to you, “If anyone can get intel on Price and bring him back, Love, it’s you. He’ll be just fine until then, yeah? Bloke’s probably already out and rushing to get back to you.”

“Think so?” Your lips form a smile, and on your forehead, a brow raises. John was stubborn, there was certainly a chance he was already free.

“Know so, Ma’am. Just you wait and see.” Snorting, you return to looking out the window, breath now noticeably more even.

There weren't many people who could make you keep a conscience; when you worked alone before 141 it was because no one else could keep up with your spontaneous plans or ideas. You were described in your file as a quick-witted and cunning nuisance for anyone on the opposite end of your weapon – whether that be your tongue or an actual gun just depended on the Op. But John and the other boys were more of a good influence than a bad one; in many ways, they were just the same as you.

Sometimes it felt nice to have people that understood you. Your actions, the small tics that gave away how you were feeling. No one else could do it like Task Force 141, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The rest of the ride was silent, and soon the city was peeling back to show off more extravagant houses with iron gates and cobblestone walkways. Properties the size of football fields take up your view, and your eyes blink at the extravagance; all you can’t help but wonder about is if the people that live there even know how many rooms they have.

When Gaz makes the final turn onto Aarre Virtanen’s land, you suck down a deep breath.

There were so many lights that the night sky is nearly re-illuminated with a bath of warmth – the people already inside can be heard out in the air, a chorus of phantoms just beyond eyesight who sing with alcoholic breath and gasp down smoke. You had been to many parties to infiltrate high-level organizations, but never had the stakes been so high.

Or so illegal.

When the car in front of you pulls out of the roundabout driveway, Garrick pushes on the gas to take its place. A moment of steel silence rings.

“Earpiece?” Gaz reminds softly, and you nod in response, tapping the appendage on your right side.

“Earpiece.”

“Alright…The rest of us’ll be listening – I’ll circle ‘round and be inside in an hour and Ghost is already there. He’s the waiter wearing the silver Jackal mask serving champagne near the back window. If anything goes wrong, Soap’s our sniper on the roof of the neighbor's house. Say the word and he starts popping shots to give you an exit.”

“Affirm,” Your hand is already reaching for the door, but the man stops you one last time with your name. You find his creased eyes in the mirror, brown a deep shade of concern.

“...You look beautiful, Love, Yeah? I’m sorry the Cap. isn’t here to see you like this – he’d lose his damn mind. Go all slack-jawed and trip over his own feet; God, I’d pay to see that.”

Lips delicately slide into a smile, and your face heats at the compliment. Letting out a light chuckle, you whisper, “I’ll see you in an hour, Sergeant.”

“Count on it. Stay out of trouble ‘till then?”

“Trouble? Since when have I ever gotten into trouble?” When you sneak out the door, a light chuckle bounces off the doors before they close, and your heels click against the ground like nails on a desk.

With a bitter determination entering your blood, your expression eases into a look of smug superiority as you begin to move forward and ascend the steps in front of the mansion.

Virtanen was inside those doors, and your ears twitch, listening to Gaz peel the car away into the night; plucking out the forged invitation from your jacket pocket, you can’t help but call John forward to memory. Carefully maneuvering your way up the last flight of stairs, you reach the doors and imagine your husband right behind you, clothed in a suit and tie like the one he wore to your wedding, waiting to take you by the arm and lend you strength.

Keep me aware, You want to ask his phantom, Make me see the hidden details so I can bring you home to me.

Invitation in hand – which Ghost had to go through quite the killing spree to get accurate – your lips flick into an easy smirk.

Your silver tongue would come in handy tonight, but you hoped you weren’t too tired to miss important social cues. You needed to figure out where John was by tonight, or there was the possibility of losing him forever. Aarre Virtanen was the target yet again, and you would do whatever was necessary to get information to spill from his mouth like prayers; the party was an obvious front to impress buyers.

And you could play that part quintessentially.

“Hello, Handsome,” Purring, you move fluidly, body swaying as you come to a stop, letting your fur jacket slip down around your elbows and display a delicious amount of skin around your adorned neck, “So sorry you’re stuck out here in the cold, I can’t imagine what a bore it’s been.”

The man couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, eyes wide as they bore into your form from behind a silver mask depicting a bird of prey. His eyes slip, and a very audible swallowing of saliva makes his throat jerk – the poor individual's face was undoubtedly beet-red, seen extending down his neck and ears.

“I-It’s really no problem, Ma’am,” He stutters, grabbing the slip of paper from your outstretched hand and barely opening it before he shoves it back into your chest, “You’re all good! Please, enjoy the hospitality of Sir Aarre Virtanen to the fullest of your abilities.”

“Why,” You show an all-teeth smile, “I’m sure I will.”

Slipping through when he opens the door, a woman in a cat mask offers to take your jacket to the coatroom, which you agree to immediately, and disappears a second later.

“Did you just flirt with the doorman, Hen?” Soap’s voice nearly startles you, but with a subtle flick of your hair, you play off the flinch as you step through the extensive foyer; slipping past other well-dressed individuals to make it to the ballroom, “Tch, naughty, naughty.”

“You’d be surprised,” You mutter and send a polite smile to a man who ogles your form, his eyes boring into your flesh, “How fast people can look over an invitation if you give them an incentive. Simon’s forger misspelled the street name.”

“Bloody fucken’ bastard,” Ghost growls lowly under the line.

“So vulgar, Simon,” You smirk, waltzing into the marble-floored ballroom and clearing yourself a path with wide eyes and stares, “We’re at a party. Aren’t you excited?”

“You’re not the one holding a damn plate of champagne, Little Lion. Feelin’ like I might bash someone over the head if they wave me over with a fucken’ finger again. Like I’m some damn mutt.”

Stifling a deep laugh, your fingers splay over your lips, “Easy, boy. Don’t go barking up the wrong tree.”

All you hear in return is a grumble and a muffled giggle from Soap. Gaz is most likely scrambling to get his tux on and tie a bowtie like how you taught him on the far street corner back in the city. Slowly, but surely, it was coming together.

Soon, You tell yourself and imagine a steady hand splayed over your back; digging into your skin.

“Excuse me?” A presence slips up to your left, and you turn with a slow head and an even slower smile. Already, your cheeks were hurting from the constant fake expression.

“Oh, hello, Love,” It’s a man who wears an all-black outfit, fitted with silver buttons and a red pocket square, “How can I help you?”

“That’s one of the target’s guards,” Soap slithers out over the line, “Saw ‘em scheming not five minutes ago near the snack bar.”

“I was wondering if such a beautiful woman might not humor me. I’m in desperate need of company for the auction later this evening.” Your smile turns deadly, a glint forming in your eye that should have deterred anyone who saw it – but sometimes people overlook the snake in the grass if it’s pretty, regardless of its fangs.

Getting close to this man got you close to Aarre. Your hand reaches up to caress the wedding ring on its chain.

“Well, how could I say no to such a dashing man? But you must tell me, where did you purchase your tux? My brother has been looking for one that looks the same; you understand, of course, the kind that hugs the body just right…”

—

“You’re a fucken’ minx, you are,” John moans under you, hips sputtering and jaw clenched. He’s panting as you finally slip off of him, choosing to collapse to the bed just by his side with a breathy sigh. Your legs are still shaking, but the deep-rooted ache of pleasure takes hold in your lower body nonetheless.

Chuckling while sucking down breaths, you smirk and turn your head to the side, finding deep blue already digging into your skin despite the glaze over the orbs. Perspiration leaks down his flushed forehead, getting caught in the hairs of his eyebrow before you reach up, and flick it away with a firm finger.

“And you’re a lousy bottom, Captain, how many times did I have to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?” You ask, eyeing the way the brown strands of John’s hair stick up at odd angles with growing amusement. He looked like a porcupine, “You don’t listen very well. I’ll have to fix that.”

“Damn woman,” He groans, turning his head away with a huff escaping his lips. Your ears twitch when he cracks his neck, stifling a chortle behind your fingers as he levels you with an unamused look, “Need to figure out a way to tire you out quicker. Gettin’ too old for this.”

“Hm,” Rolling your eyes, you shift till you’re laying on your stomach, legs sliding over the ruffled sheets, “I like you like this. Just perfect.”

“Yeah? Tell that to my hips, Love.” Now that really gets a laugh out of you, hiding your face down in the covers for a moment and feeling John’s eyes lovingly gracing down the curve of your spine.

Reaching over, your fingers grab onto the bare skin of his toned thigh and pinch.

Grunting in surprise, the Captain’s hand snaps to your wrist and grasps it as your giggles fill the air with softness. You turn your head up and rest your chin on your free hand, looking over and letting your eyes wash down John’s physique; a primal sense of possessiveness leaks into you when you know no one else gets to see him like this. The nail marks track down his pecks, over his abs and deliciously lower atop his navel, and over his neck and collarbone is the fresh array of black and blue hickeys. Just like you, his heart was still racing, seen moving under the skin.

He looked positively, beautifully, wrecked. The Captain’s eyes never left yours, side-eyeing you with a half-open mouth. A small sigh leaves his red lips.

“C’mere,” John mutters, and you squeak when his grip is suddenly pulling you right up next to his chest so that you were more than half lying on top of him.

Moaning out in contentment when you feel his heat leak into you, your body goes limp against the man; leg thrown over his upper thigh. Eyelashes flutter over your cheek when his large hand keeps you against him, settling on your ass heavily. He squeezes gently in payback for the pinch, and you smile, knowing he can feel it against his chest by the way he purrs like a cat as you press a kiss to his sweat-slick flesh.

The moment of content silence leads long, but just when your eyelids are nearing their final shut is when you hear it, muttered on teeth-bitten lips for the first time, though it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Love you, my Sweet Girl,” John mutters deeply into the air, but you’re already drowned in sleep, satisfied and more at ease than ever before.

But no matter, he’d just tell you again in the morning; make you say the same as he gripped your hips and used his tongue for more…carnal types of confessions.

You had no idea at that moment, but two years from that day, you’d both be married. Husband and wife in every sense – bonded and promised to each other until the sun and moon collided; till every city burned and only dust remained.

There was really no other pair so carefully crafted than the two of you.

—

“Here you are, Lovely,” The guard, whose name is Mikael, hands you a champagne glass as you both stride forward to the bidding room. It had been two hours of entertaining this man – dancing, flirting, brushing off compliments that made you want to hurl – but none of that mattered. No matter the cost, you would see this done with a smile and a knife through Virtanen’s eye.

“Thank you,” You sing, toasting with him and taking a slow sip. The liquid sits bitterly in your stomach, a rock that bounces around with every clipped step.

Choosing back-row seats, you sit in what could be described as a theater of sorts and place the glass on the floor. There was a large stage at the front, with rows upon rows of plush chairs.

How many people are here to buy smuggled contraband? You can’t help but wonder silently, eyes wide as more and more people flood through the doors.

“Do you usually get so many buyers?” Asking Mikael sweetly, you keep your gaze moving, filing every face into the back of your mind for later.

His hand moves to rest on the back of your seat, and you have to hold back a grimace, “This is more than the last times, but, uh…well,” Sensing hesitation, you shift closer and peer up into his eyes, blinking innocently and smiling.

“Well…what?”

You swore you heard Soap gag over the line and soon after a sharp shushing sound. At your side, Mikael’s expression gets giddy, pupils dilating as his vision darts down to your dress before righting itself.

“My boss has got something good tonight – a new piece of merchandise that everyone wants to get their hands on. Apparently, some people here have been waiting for a score like this for years.”

“Oh?” Wondering aloud, you lean back out of Mikael’s hold with a furrowed brow and ignore his light huff of annoyance in your ear.

Narrowing your eyes, you scrunch your nose at the thought.

‘New piece of merchandise?’ What the hell could that mean? The target mostly specializes in weapons – certain ones that are manufactured so that they can’t be traced…what could be so new?

“It’s starting, here,” The guard whispers as the lights dim, and hands you a golden-colored bid paddle designed with lace-like designs. You twirl it in your hands with an unimpressed look.

“How pompous can this guy get?” You mutter under your breath and startle when Ghost’s voice pipes up.

“Get me a new G18, yeah? Johnny lost my last one.” Resisting the sudden urge to cover up your face and hide your smile, you lightly hum in the back of your throat.

“I did not!” Soap starts a ruckus as the Auctioneer comes onto the stage, and you ignore the fast man’s voice as he begins a bid for a stack of RPGs – wheeled out in a crate by three other individuals in animal masks – in favor of the amusing argument, “I told ya’ where you could blood find it.”

“It was in the middle of an active war zone, MacTavish.”

“You’ve never complained about it before, ya’ bawbag. Canny be my fault if you don’t go an’ get it.” The Scots accent gets more prominent as the Auctioneer sells the current merchandise to a couple sitting two rows down, “‘I lost it’...utter shite.”

Gaz groans and you see a shadow near the door, leaning on the wood from the corner of your eye. The badly presented bowtie gives away who it is – you’d have to have John teach him how to do it properly when you got him back.

“Would the two of you shut up? Bloody hell, I’m about to scream.”

The bickering went on for a while, making your tight chest just a little looser. John would be proud of them.

“Finally,” The Auctioneer calls out, yelling over the crowd, “The grand attraction for tonight – a product put forward by our esteemed host Mr. Virtanen!”

Your body straightens, spine tensing, as Mikael tries to get your attention fruitlessly to talk about a product he won. You ignore the guard, watching with a unique type of hatred as the weasel of a man swishes his way on stage from behind the red curtain. Immediately all conversation in your ear is halted, and try as you might, a growl builds in your throat.

“Easy, Lion,” Simon mutters, but all you see is red; red around an expensive tux and a lithe form of the man who had stolen away your husband from you without thinking of the consequences. The bandages over his nose gives you cruel satisfaction that someone, whoever they were, had gotten a hit in.

You had half the mind to tell Soap to take the shot but knew that if you did, John would be lost forever. Your Captain had always said violence and timing were the most important aspects of a mission – you had to politely disagree.

Ops could be accomplished without violence, though it was rare, it could still happen on occasion and timing was all relative. One person could say it was time to act while a million others disagreed; this was shown in your case. You wanted to rush the stage, tackle the thief, and beat his head in – Gaz, Soap, and Ghost would all disagree, of course, but that was because you were thinking only about John and nothing else.

What really mattered was cunning and drive. You had the silver tongue, and you, without a doubt, had the drive to see this through.

But nothing could have prepared you for what came next.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aarre Virtanen called out, his thin face ugly and punchable, “May I present the star of tonight's bidding wars – an esteemed and highly sought-after mystery man! Captain Jonathan Price!”

The curtain rolled back, and, tied to a chair with a light shining above his head, was John. Beaten. Bloodied. Barely recognizable besides the tufts of his brown locks and the glittering of golden metal under the ragged remains of his clothes. You can see his wedding band around his neck, and you go to grip your own in a flashing second. There was so much blood. Your heart ceased working, body suddenly very numb and stone-still despite the heat in it, as if you had been shot in the throat and all you could do was gasp out in panic. And gasp you did. It was involuntary, instinctual, like you could feel every ounce of pain and agony that he was undoubtedly in deep in your own marrow.

What?!

A loud, horrified, sound rips from your throat; the air was hard to suck down as your hand snapped to your mouth, muffling the exclamation of terror. Your eyes are so wide you’re afraid they’ll pop out of their sockets as you lightly hunch into yourself like a bug.

“Now, now!” Aarre Virtanen continues over the muttering of the crowd, oblivious to your panic in the back row. Mikael is giving you strange looks, lightly pulling away from you in confusion at your reaction; you don't register any of it, “I know what you’re thinking, my lovely patrons, but I can say without a doubt that this man–” He points to the limp figure, “Is the one and only Johnathan Price! Do you want to know why?” The crowd cheers, and in that instant you want to torch the entire building and laugh as it burns to the ground, “Because he and his precious 141 tried to attack me on my own property! The idiot’s explosive went off before they could run!”

Over the ruckus of gleeful laughter, Soap on the line is hissing curses under his breath, voice heated and full of hatred.

What I’m I supposed to do? Your mind’s running. For the first time in your career, you can’t focus clearly. Gaz is saying something in your ear, his shadow slinking closer step-by-step, and Ghost is nowhere to be seen or heard.

Oh, John, You feel like crying, eyes running from one injury to another as if he were just a punching bag – his body was broken, but still, you knew he hadn’t given anything away. In the chair, you can see the small inhalations of his lungs, jumpy and shaking, but he was still breathing.

“How did they figure out his name?” Simon grunts over the line, and his tone is the only one unaffected by emotion, even if you could feel the anger wafting out and mirroring your own.

His dog tags, You want to tell them, He keeps them in his vest pocket because he said he wanted to wear his wedding band instead.

Your hand tightens over your matching piece, one half of a promise to protect one another even in the direst of circumstances.

Freezing, you snap back into focus as the bidding starts with Aarre Virtanen laughing and clapping on stage like some demented jester. So be it. Your mind halts and a rage-induced calm encompasses you as your eyes stick like glue to John. Tossing the joke of a bid paddle at a startled Mikael’s lap and slipping past him, your heels connect with the floor with muffled thumps, carrying you down the middle of the aisle.

“Ma’am–!”

“Lion, what in the bloody hell are you doing?!”

“Playing the game,” You growl over the chaos in the comm, “Gaz, find a way to get on stage from behind one of the curtains,” People are starting to turn and look at you now, accusing glances that bounce off you like flies, “Soap, have a line of sight of the target – do not let him stray from it no matter what. And Ghost,” Your heart is speeding when Virtanen’s gaze snaps to yours, expression blanking. John groans weakly from where his head is downturned, and you can’t help but take a shaky breath at the sound, “Go find out where they store the sold items. Find something that’ll come in handy. Take out anyone you need, I give full Execute Authority.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” They all say it at once, and the line goes silent not a second after, flipped off so everyone can remain focused. Steeling your body, you put on a cloak of indifference, even as your eyes bug and sweat stains your palms – the stakes had never been this high, and if you messed this up…

The both of you would be going home in body bags.

If I had known he was going to be here, I would have come more prepared. A knife in a carry bag or a hairpin – Something. But John had stated before that he loved you for your intuition.

You simply needed to move your pawn piece and hope it wasn’t in the way of a bishop.

Sliding over your husband's slumped body once more, you have to rip your gaze away, else your cover be blown and everything falls apart before it’s begun as a sting forms in the back of your nose.

Just a little longer, Love, just hold out a little bit longer.

The Auctioneer halts when you stand just below the slightly higher plateau of the platform, and Aarre digs into your body with his dead face, body bent to stare down at you. All around you, the world is deathly quiet. A minute…two…

“And who might this be?” Virtanen spits, lips pulling into a sneer as his eyes crinkle, “I don’t have to tell you, Dear, that all purchases are final.”

Don’t look at John. Don’t look at him.

“You said this is Johnathan Price?” Your voice carries; it's stronger than you would have imagined, even as your legs shake, “Well, I don’t believe you.” You swore then that your Captain’s head moved slightly, his face turning to the side, but you can’t be sure.

Gasps are hidden behind hands and handkerchiefs.

“...What?” The smug look on the man's face falls in an instant, just as you had hoped it would – Virtanen relied on his power; ego, and unquestioned superiority. What you had to do first was break it down to a point where he was frothing at the mouth, “What is it that you are implying? That I would…lie to my loyal customers?!”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Your feet carry you away to the stairs, scaling them up to the stage and shoving past shell-shocked guards who didn’t know what to do, “Where’s the proof, Mr. Virtanen? I believe I would like to see it before I make any definitive financial choices. You could be selling us any stray British man you found on the street and we’d be none the wiser for it.”

There was a pause before a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

Aarre gapes at you, mouth opening and closing as his face gains a red sheen, blood rushing to his head and making his eyes rapidly flutter from the guests to you. Swallowing down saliva, you saunter up to John, fingers shaking as they reach out to brush his arm. You nearly break when his flesh flinches and becomes tense, muscles writhing as you hook a finger under his chin all too aware of the eyes on you from every angle. It helps that one of them is Soap, though.

Looping the digit under him, John’s beard scratches your skin just like it always did when you ran your hands over his cheeks or around his square face. Moving his head up, your grip vibrates with anxiety when you’re finally able to take a full look at his visage.

Please be okay, Love.

You can’t help the widening of your eyes when they lock on the bruises, the cuts, and scratches littering his large nose and forehead. His eyelids flutter over sunken cheeks, bags of severe color under his orbs as a rumble echoes in his battered chest.

Did they even feed him?

“I don’t – I don’t like what you’re implying, Miss!” The Target continues to prattle, but already your shoulders have squared, “I would never, in a million years, make such false claims–!”

When John’s eyes shutter open you seem to forget where you are entirely, head completely going silent off all fears or concerns. As the lids slide back, you notice one optic is bathed in red – the veins in the gentle sensory organ having been popped by relentless fists…but the other, oh, oh, the other. A shade so familiar it twists your lips and makes your heart clench. Storm gray; ocean blue, flecks of moonlight trapped just for you.

John’s focus is blurry, his mind confused and in need of a dark room with a glass of chilled whiskey to put on his forehead, but...that finger under his chin. His gaze narrows, lips pulling tight under his beard hairs as a shadow stands in front of him. Why did it feel so familiar? So…warm?

“John?” A soft voice graces his ears, leaving them twitching as his arms burn more than a thousand suns, “John, please, look at me.”

His face scrunches, eyebrows turning in. Blinking, the man only succeeds for a few moments, consciousness so rapidly fading because of the wear on his body, but a few moments was all he needed.

It was you – looking at him with terrified eyes, mouth slightly parted in awe. John’s heart skips beats.

She’s here? He questions, weakly moving his arms to try and embrace her before the rope stops his bloodied and shredded hands, Why? How? And…oh hell, is that a dress?

Blinking at the navy gown, his eyes widened at the heavenly sight in front of him. Was he dead? No, he realized, you wouldn’t be here if he was. But that was the only option to see something like this in front of him when he was where he currently was.

“L-love?” He gasps out, letting his full weight fall into your hold.

Your hand brushes over his beard, tangling in the bristles and flinching at the open wounds that you find.

“It’s me,” You whimper, “I’m right here.”

If possible, he gravitates toward you even more.

“--Are you even listening?!” Aarre Virtanen yells, and people are standing from their seats out in the crowd, calling out in confusion.

John murmurs out comments from under your grip, but they’re so weak you can’t make them out as he nuzzles your limb. From the corner of your eye, a figure rustles one of the stage curtains, held back in the shadows.

“I’m here,” Gaz says a second before Simon does.

“I found something that might come in handy...When I throw it, get Price out of there and take cover.”

“Soap?” You ask, voice low and gaining a sheen of ice. Slowly, your head tilts to the side, gripping your husband by the back of the head and drawing him to your stomach, caressing his scalp through his hair as he sighs into your dress.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Take it.”

“...With pleasure.” The ear-ringing shot fires off, breaking glass and rustling half-drawn curtains, but it meets its mark with expert precision.

Aarre Virtanen’s head pops like a balloon, and a moment later a smoke bomb is being chucked from halfway across the room by a Jackal-masked waiter with a strong arm. Before the guards can even get to their pistols around their thighs, Gaz has rushed through the smoke and sliced John’s bonds with a serrated cake knife. Both of you grab your Captain by one of his arms and drag him off to the side, disappearing just as the first screams wail out.

The 141 works like a well-oiled machine, and not five minutes later everyone is in the limo that Gaz had re-driven and parked down the dark roads of Poland, rushing off as you press table cloths against your husband’s leaking cuts. Tears dribble down your cheeks, with large hiccuped gasps as you lean over John – who could only barely keep his eyes open to look at you as Soap and Ghost watch anxiously from their seats.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack, y’know that,” You sob out, practically sitting on top of him to stop the crimson leaking over the cushions, “I need to keep a bell on you, my Love.”

Your wedding band sways just above his face, and his own glints below you, bunched on his collarbone.

“Go on,” He says in a low voice, eyes incredibly soft but still distant in a way that told you he was concussed. It was a miracle he was even conscious if you could admit it to yourself.

The man’s shaking hand travels to your cheek, brushing away tear tracks only to leave blood stains behind instead. He pulls away slightly, staring at the mark in disgust as his complexion gets even paler. Snapping your grip up, you bring it back, making him cup your flesh in his big hands and splay his fingers over your ear and weave into your hair.

John hums under his breath, “Beautiful.”

Then he goes limp, and you start screaming.

—

Stripping your face of makeup, you step into the shower with only your necklace on, letting the water slap against your head as you take a deep breath in. You lean forward, letting your head connect with the porcelain of the hospital’s washroom as your body begins to shake – finally allowed to fall apart and feel the genuine horror that had lived in you for a week straight.

John was just a door away in the hard bed of some random hospital Gaz had driven to. Quite recklessly, you should mention, but it’s not like it mattered.

Ghost was on the phone with Laswell, getting a protection detail in case anyone attempted to break into the room and stab someone with a scalpel, while Gaz and Soap also got ready for sleep. No one was leaving the hospital tonight. Garrick had explained the situation in broken Polish to the local authorities, and the staff was kind enough to give out a free office room with pillows and blankets. It was a good thing that the room was connected to John’s, otherwise, you might have refused…even if the bags under your eyes threatened to block your line of sight.

Wiping blood and grime from your body, you take less time than you should have in the shower – too occupied with being by your husband's bedside. The new stitches on your recently ripped-open thigh wound were red with irritation, but you had all but forgotten about it entirely.

They had only just gotten John stable an hour ago.

“They, uh,” Gaz’s eyelids crease, “I think they said that they had to re-” He halts, face going slack, and sending you a slow look, “restart his heart.”

“They nearly beat him to death,” You whisper, hands coming up to weave over the top of your head as you sob into the wall, “They…God, John. I was nearly too late.”

Your words trail off in a weak whimper, muffled over the sound of water and the whirring fan in the ceiling. What if you had been five minutes late? Three? Would he have…

Would he have died in your arms?

You spend the rest of the shower wondering, and as you dry yourself off and slip into sweats and a hoodie from the gift shop, your tears splatter the floor. Rubbing your nose, you sniffle; reaching to grab the ring and pull the chain out above the fabric. Your fingers caress the item for a minute or two, and your eyes flutter shut.

He’s okay, You tell yourself, He’s just a door away. He’s alive.

You open the door and let the steam waft, itching at your neck before you take a steadying breath. John lays still on the hospital bed, body hooked to machines that display screens and vital signs with glitching green lights that pierce your eyes as if a mocking little beast was behind the glass.

Your husband’s wounds are all stitched and glued back together; wrapped tightly and tucked in by your gentle hands with an extra blanket. He usually complained about how cold it was back at your shared flat in London and around the multiple bases the Force traveled to…you would hate for him to shiver here.

It was the least you could do.

Drawing your eyebrows in, the red ring around your eyes doesn’t help the sting, but still, you gaze at your husband with all the tender concern in the world.

If was determined, then, that you wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was awake; until you saw his eyes soften on your figure. Until he was tracing the very makeup of your genetics like no other being could even have a glimpse of you in their features – like the aspects of your form were holy and utterly unique, never seen besides out of legend and fable. You longed to bathe his flesh in the feeling of your touch. If you believed it hard enough, you could convince yourself that you could make him forget this ordeal, forget the wounds.

But you were no fool. A cunning nuisance, perhaps, but not a fool.

All you could do was wait for him to wake up, and so your socked feet carry over the tile and bring you to the chairs beside the bed, grabbing one and pulling it out. Your fingers intertwined with his, weaving the calloused pads and scared flesh that mirrored your own like an echo of history together.

Bringing his limb to your face, you rest your forehead on it, feeling the pump of his blood like a hymn and letting it calm you. A presence in the room makes your once closed eye crack open, slipping to the side. You had only just noticed him.

I really must be tired.

“Doctors say he’s stable,” Gaz mutters lowly, leaning against the wall in the far corner. It was like he had known you wanted someone to watch John while you couldn’t – even if only for a few minutes, “They came in while you were showering”

Your lungs inflate, “...Thank you, Kyle.”

You feel his eyes on you, but as you lay a gentle kiss on your husband's knuckles he speaks once more.

“You sure you don’t want to get some rest, Love? It’s late, y’know – sun’s gonna come up in a few hours around here.” It was a nice concern, and you knew that after Ghost’s call with Laswell that he’d get some sleep as well; Johnny was already snoring away, the sound nearly heard through the walls.

Gaz, well…

“And am I to expect my Sergeant to get some rest if I do that?” Your voice is hoarse and weighed down, but the message is clear. The man lets out a chuckle, pushing off the wall and coming over to you. He rests a hand on your shoulder and you lean into it.

“I have no problem watching over him for you – he’s my Captain too, Lion. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you have to carry the burden more than the rest of us.”

If you could have rolled your eyes, you would have. A teasing tone sneaks into your words as you snort.

“Gaz, and I mean this in the best possible way,” Your lips utter out, still gazing at John’s face as it scrunches and twitches in his sleep, “Respectfully, fuck off, yeah?”

A moment of silence passes before a thick laugh echoes out over the room.

“You act a lot like Cap. when he’s out of commission, Ma’am.”

“Of course I do,” Your grip travels up John’s arm, tracing old blemishes and kissing across bruises, “If he brings all the hard-headedness away with him, none of you lot would get anything done.”

An easy air keeps the both of you in a tight embrace and Garrick’s hand squeezes for a moment; a piece of you breaks open as your gaze slips to the floor.

“I’ll take the night shift. Please, I…,” Your voice borders on unheard, “I can’t sleep until he’s awake.”

He sighs but nods his head.

“Say no more. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you just come get me, yeah? Don’t worry if you have to be loud – been trying to get used to waking up abruptly anyways.” His hand disappears, and you huff.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. You better.” Gaz’s feet carry him away and through the side door, slipping into the office. A rustling of thin cotton is heard a moment later before the door completely closes on its own.

You stay in that chair for another hour and a half before John moves an inch. When you feel his finger twitch you jerk up, drool falling from your chin to the sheets before you wipe it off.

“John?” Breathing out a gasp, you shake your head to focus better, and pause when his hold on your hand suddenly gains strength. Your heart soars.

“...Love,” He grunts out, face scrunched, and tense.

At that moment you swear your body loses all weight, and you pull the chair closer as you wetly speak.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m right here. D-don’t move too much, just let the painkillers work.”

“Bloody things make my damn head lose,” He groans, head falling to the side on the pillow as his eyes flutter open.

You place his knuckles to your lips to hide the shuttered breath you take when you see his eyes – even if one was still red. It was still your John.

He looks at you for a moment, eyes glazed, with his jaw clenching and unclenching to gain bearing. The covers hide his chest, but you hear the way he breathes as his messed-up bedhead leaves you chuckling. But the longer you were chuckling, the more you wanted to cry, and soon nothing could stop the swell of vile sobs falling from your mouth.

“Oh,” John whispers out, voice weak as his digits twitch under your shaking lips, “C’mere, Love. None of that, now.”

Your body falls forward, and the man hides the grunt in his chest when you unintentionally hit his ribs as you burrow closer into his side. He doesn’t mind. John’s hand goes to the back of your head, weaving through the strands as the covers catch your tears – he’s looking down at you with such blatant worry it hurts.

He shouldn’t be worried about me, look what happened. He’s in the fucking hospital.

“Y-You,” You’re gasping for breath, chest tight and vibrating. ‘Take a breath’ it tries to tell you, but getting the words out was more important. John’s hand gets tighter, and he longs to kiss your forehead, “I didn’t know if you were dead, a-and then when they had you on stage I was trying so hard to keep it together, John. But…but then you were bleeding all over the car and I was screaming at you too–”

“Breathe,” Your husband pleads, authority leaking into the comment, “Please, Dear, take a breath for me, Yeah? I’m right here.”

You weep but do as he says, feeling the muscles under your grip move as he shifts his weight. Taking a deep breath, your nose is shoved into the fabric of the blankets, inhaling John’s scent and letting it encompass you entirely.

He was there. He was right there.

Letting out one last whine, your Captain prompts you to lift your head with a muted brush of his finger over your scalp. Pulling yourself up, you scrunch the bedding in your hands around John’s waist, practically leaning all the way over him. It was a good thing the bed wasn’t too high.

He smiles softly down at you, his grip moving to slip past your eyebrow and swipe away the salty water that itches your chin, “There she is. My beautiful wife”

Your watery chuckle wraps him in more warmth than any blanket ever could.

“Do you need anything?” You mutter after a minute of staring into each other’s eyes, head tilting to the side as your heart rate finally slows to a pace that copies John’s.

One of your hands goes to smooth his hair, carefully flattening down the patches and being mindful of the bandages and band aids over his visage. You swear he purrs at you, body rumbling under your chest.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead focusing on mapping out your face – as if for the first time. But when he does speak he brushes off the question entirely.

“I had a dream.”

“A good one?” You ask immediately, voice equally as low and vulnerable as his. In his orbs, you see stars blinking with every movement, deep hues of blue in every shade.

“Hm,” He affirms, a slow smile blossoming on his lips, “You were there.”

“That, my love, could mean many things.”

“No. Only one, Mrs. Price,” Your eyebrows raise, eyes watering as rogue drops tracks fall down your cheeks once more.

It was all so much. Getting him back; seeing him like this, having him talk to you like that again – with all the love in the world. He was beaten, but alive, and already awake beside the gargantuan odds.

But you didn’t marry him just because you thought he was buff and could give you a good time. You married him because he was John, and no one else could be.

John’s gaze washes over you, narrowed in that expression he always had on his face when he’s thinking. When he’s studying you with more care than anyone has in your entire life. Like he could figure out everything and anything about you in the way your lips curved, or how you looked at him so delicately as if he was made of glass and not stone or metal.

He could never understand how you loved him so much, how every bit of stardust was reflected into your body and leaked out of you whenever you moved.

How he managed to get you by his side…well, he’d never know. But the feeling was mutual.

“Oh,” Your thumb caresses his cheek, running over the bristles and skimming over the skin, “And what’s that, Mr. Price?”

“..Means I’ve been blessed to see you not only when I open my eyes…but when I close ‘em too.”

In Poland, two people are finally able to press their lips together for the first time in a long while; they themselves would say it felt like ages. That was expected, naturally, because a match such as the one made between you and Jonathan Price was forged with steel and tempered in rough waters. Nothing could break it.

Their wedding bands clink together as they pull back, glinting gold more vibrant than the sun…but not quite as warm or adoring as the looks in their eyes.

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another-lost-mc · 10 months

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Oh god okay I've not been able to get Vamp Beel out of my head. He was so HUNGRY MAN HE WAS BEGGING FOR IT!!!

I was thinking SO HARD of just, while everyone else was fighting, leading him away and letting him drink while giving him a lil' pleasure with your hands. GOD I'd love to see that look on his face.

AFTER THAT HE GOES FERAL N FUCKS THE REST OF YOUR BLOOD UP AEHEHEHSUUDHS AND THEN HE COMES TOO AND IT'S SWEET AND SOFT AND HE'S SO CONCERNED AUHH.

Vampire!Beelzebub x afab!Reader

NSFW // Content: Canon-typical vampire behaviour (biting/blood drinking), rough sex, mild choking. Reader uses gn! pronouns. 1.4k words.

Part of the Vampire!AU Event.

Beel never refuses what you offer when it comes to food, but he hesitated at your offer, his mouth hovering nervously over your neck. Before you dragged him away from the others, he looked hungrier than you’ve ever seen him and you knew what he wanted—and you wanted to help.

One of his large hands cradled your head while the other rested on your waist. “You smell so fucking good,” he admitted thickly as the scent of blood pumping beneath your skin called to him like a siren's song. He panted against your neck, lips brushing the delicate skin while he groaned deep in his chest.

You slid one of your hands up his chest so you could curl your fingers around the back of his neck. You scratched his scalp with your fingertips the way he likes and pulled him down, gently guiding his mouth closer to you.

“It’s okay, Beel. Take what you need.”

There was a rumbling growl and then white-hot pain that shot through your body when his fangs finally pierced your skin. You gasped and clenched your hands in his shirt, and he pulled you flush against him as he tilted your head to allow him better access.

The wet, slick sounds of his lips sucking blood from the wounds in your neck faded away as soft, tingling pleasure spread through your body instead. You hummed and stroked his hair, encouraging him to keep going every time it seemed like he was going to stop and pull away.

Something rubbed against your belly, and you realized his cock was hardening against your hip as he fed from you. He was making aborted little thrusts like he was seeking friction, but he was too distracted to move with real purpose.

You slid your hand down his side and palmed him through his pants. When he groaned, you rubbed along his length a little more before squeezing him—it was a tease, not nearly enough to give him the satisfaction he wanted, but more of an invitation that you were okay if he wanted more.

He withdrew his fangs from your neck suddenly, and you gasped at the sensation of the cool night air blowing across your bare neck and the little punctures he made. You barely had time to mourn the loss of his warm lips against your throat when the world tilted on its side.

He pushed you flat on your back and hovered above you, his nose nearly touching yours when he bared his fangs and snarled. You could smell blood on his breath. “Tell me to stop because if we don't stop now, I might not be able to."

You shook your head and cupped his cheek. He looked feral with the hungry gleam in his eye and little smears of crimson staining his mouth. You leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth, and you recognized the warm, coppery taste of blood when you licked lightly at his bottom lip before pulling away. Lust swirled in his gaze like a storm but it didn’t scare you because love still bled through the cracks of his monstrous appetite.

You spread your legs apart invitingly so there was no mistake that you wanted this, wanted him. “I want to give you what you need—please?"

He didn't hesitate to maneuver you how he wanted you now that he knew you really wanted this. He flipped you onto your stomach and raised you to your knees, his large hands curled around your hips. He pulled you back against him so you could feel the outline of his cock against your ass.

He fumbled with his clothes first; you could hear the soft clink of metal as he unbuckled his belt and opened his fly. He scrambled with your clothes next, his fingers clumsy and in his desire to access your bare skin. He tugged your pants down far enough so that you were completely exposed to him. Your clothes were bunched just above your knees, and it felt primal being taken on the rough ground like this.

He kneaded your ass with his large, rough hands as he slid his cock teasingly between your plush thighs. The slick pooling between your legs helped his cock glide smoothly through your folds, and he moaned as the soft squelching sound of skin-against-skin filled the air.

Your cheeks burned at how depraved you felt, but it only amplified the familiar heat of desire pooling deep inside you. He thrusted shallowly between your legs and smeared himself with your creamy slick. You whined when his cock grazed your clit and he pulled back, putting the slightest amount of pressure against your entrance. He repeated the motion over and over, pushing his hips forward and brushing your clit with little teases of barely-there friction; you nearly choked on your own desperate need to be consumed by him.

You whimpered his name and suddenly his hot, heavy body draped over your back. He braced himself above you on one arm while his other hand curled around the front of your neck. He squeezed with the tiniest amount of pressure—enough to make you gasp with surprise—before he tilted your head for better access to your throat. He snapped his hips forward and buried his cock inside you when his fangs pierced you for the second time.

His thrusts were hard and punishing, and his pace was erratic as bloodlust consumed him. He slurped and guzzled at the blood oozing from the wounds on your neck, and he growled with satisfaction like a beast possessed. Your eyes fluttered shut from the combined sensations of his mouth clamped to your neck: little jolts of pain and pleasure shooting through your veins as he drank, and the drag of his cock claiming your wet, needy hole as he fucked you.

You couldn't move even if you had the strength to—he held you in place with his hand around your neck and his body smothering your own. You were slack-jawed and drool dribbled down your chin; you didn’t realize you were crying out a desperate mantra of more, Beel, give me more until your throat grew hoarse.

Your orgasm ripped through you out of nowhere as the burning sensation of his bite seemed to bloom throughout your entire body. You clenched tightly around his cock and it triggered his own release. He growled when he came, a loud, muffled shout against your neck. The hand grasping your neck fell away, and he pulled you with him as he rolled onto his side and his cock slipped out of you at the sudden change in position. His cum mixed with yours as trickled out of you, coating the inside of your thighs with warm, sticky release.

He nuzzled against your shoulder and wrapped himself around you when he realized you were trembling beside him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured over and over again. He hugged you to him from behind and kissed whatever parts of you he could reach—the back of your neck, your shoulder. "Did I hurt you?"

“I’m okay,” you said quietly, patting his arm that was wrapped around your waist. “But can we go home? I think I need a bath."

He stood up and fixed his pants quickly before helping pull yours back up so you were covered properly. You were both filthy and there were wet stains soaking into your pants. You felt exhausted and a bit lightheaded, but you sighed happily when he lifted you into his arms and started walking, careful not to jostle you too much.

"Oh no, your face is all bloody." You brushed your fingers along his chin where his skin was tacky with drying smudges of blood. "My sloppy little vampire," you cooed softly, grinning when his cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment.

He cleared his throat and scowled, but the glare creasing his brow lacked heat. "It's not my fault you taste so good," he mumbled under his breath. His eyes flickered down to your neck where his bite marks littered your skin. Your neck was smeared with drying blood as much as his own face was, and he swallowed thickly as a pang of renewed hunger shot through his gut.

You yawned and melted against his chest as his careful, steady stride carried you towards home. "Get me into a hot shower and warm bed, and maybe you can have a little bit more before I have a nap."

His stomach growled loudly at the suggestion and he quickened his pace with purpose, suddenly very eager to take you home.

Read more: Beel Masterlist | Obey Me! Masterlist

#obey me vampire au #obey me beelzebub #obey me x reader #obey me beel x reader #beelzebub x reader #obey me smut #x reader #afab!reader #obey me beel #obey me beelzebub x reader #obey me #obey me nightbringer

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lazyneonrabbitt · 1 month

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MarchWeres NSFW prompt

Breeding

Daryl Dixon x Reader | SMUT 🔞

You stood across from each other, coming down from the most love filled kiss you ever shared.

Your first kiss as husband and wife.

The gathered people cheered for you and for once Daryl didn't shy away from showing affection. His hands were snaked around your waist and his forehead rested against yours as his breaths came out in soft growls.

You know what you promised him. You'd marry the human way on the day of the full moon, and he'd get to make you his the werewolf way afterwards. You thought afterwards would be late at night, but now that you felt his claws on the plump of your ass and his eyes glowed bright blue it was clear the beast wasn't gonna wait that long.

Rick and Carol, your chosen two to stand with you picked up on Daryl's tells and sternly announced to everyone it was time to leave.

Luckily most of the folks there had been in Daryl's life long enough and knew, so the place quickly cleared out and only you and Daryl remained as Rick closed the doors behind him.

With the click of the lock Daryl's human side gave into the change and tore through the newly scavenged clothes as he took on his shifted form.

You quickly backed up but kept watching as he quickly came to and stared at you with nothing but hunger.

He gave you no chance to back up further as large clawed hands grabbed at your waist. One moved up and raked its claws through the fabric of the once expensive dress you wore and exposed your upper body, only for him to pull your torso against his open maw. His bottom canines pierced your skin just above the swell of your breast as his jaw clamped shut around your shoulder, the skin on your back breaking under his teeth as well.

He held on but lowered himself along with you when your legs gave out. He made quick work of taking your clothes off your body, leaving nothing intact.

Once you were bare he pulled his maw off you, lapping at the puncture wounds you'd be wearing as scars on your skin for the rest of your life.

Daryl made sure you weren't bleeding anymore before he moved you onto your back, his tongue following a path along your breasts, over your stomach he so affectionately pressed his muzzle into before he moved furter down to your hips and finally to your centre. It wasn't for himself he was taking his time with you, but he knew your human self couldn't take his cock easily.

"Daryl.. Go on, please." You had tried to do this with him but he never allowed it and now you were getting impatient real fast.

Daryl heard your plea and wasted no time shoving his tongue all the way down your cunt and letting out a growl. The sudden intrusion and vibrations had you moan and buck your hips against his jaws, it felt so much better than you imagined. Daryl kept tongue fucking you, flicking the muscle over your clit and sliding back inside you until you were clenching your walls and coming on his tongue.

When he came back up the fur on his cin glistened with your slick as he swiped at if with his paw.

The pads of his paw found your clit, rubbing at it while he moved closer to prod the tip of his cock at your entrance.

"Mine." You had never heard him speak in this form before.

"Good momma." He growled right next to your ear as he pushed in bit by bit. Your hands grabbed at his fur, clawing to find purchase as his thick length stretched you. You cried out from the burn, pressing your face against him to muffle your sounds.

While one paw remained on your hip so he could keep thrusting, the other pulled tour face away from him.

"Nah. Wanna hear momma." He kept your back pressed against the floor as his thumb returned to your clit, pulling delicious sounds from you that only spurred him on. "H.. ahh-- m.. momma.."?

It didn't take him long to be fully inside of you, giving you only a short moment to adjust before setting a rough pace. "Hmhm good momma.." His tongue lolled out between his teeth as he panted with each thrust, but his gaze moved from your face down to where he was pushing into you, lifting your hips slightly to give you a good view too.

The sight had you squeeze around him, whining at how full you felt.

"Good momma.." he kept muttering the same words over and over again and you started to worry.

Daryl never mentioned children being a part of his ritual. You only knew of the bite during sex.

Both his paws were on your hips now, your lower body lifted into his lap as he kept up his pace, deliciously painful. You watched him being focused on finishing the job, the knot at the base of his cock swollen and ready to be stuffed into you.

One of your hands moved down and pressed down on your stomach, feeling how deep Daryl was inside of you already. There was no way he was gonna fit it all the way down to the base, right?

..right?

Daryl moved his paw on top of your hand and moved to lap at your neck. The actions were so soft for him, especially like this. He was telling you how much he loved you without speaking. He had done enough of that already while he bred you.

Your one free hand went to stroke his fur as you tried to focus on the soft touches while Daryl worked himself over the edge, the hand on your hip moving to spread your slick over your bundle of nerves and taking away the painful edge of how deep he was pushing into you.

You felt your lips protest, squeezing his length but he kept on pushing in.

His fingers helped you over the edge and on your highest point pushed in hard. You felt him deeper than ever, the pain making you claw at your stomach for relief but nothing helped as the bliss of your orgasm quickly faded with Daryl's still rutting hips, pumping you full of his seed.

Daryl let out a noise close to a purr when he relaxed above you. "Momma. Good momma." His large paw rubbed the softest circles on your belly, he wanted this more than anything in the world.

"Love momma." He murmured against your cheek as he lapped at your tears and blissfully nuzzled into you.

You presssed your cheek against his muzzle.

"Yeah. Good mommy. I'll try my best."

#marchweres #sometimes i write #daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd #the walking dead #twd au #werewolves #werewolf

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bowieandqueen11 · 2 days

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Zoro Falling In Love With You Would Include...

Request: I've been binge watching one piece this Friday night so I could appreciate your recent requests and finally send one in! Please can you write for Zoro falling in love? 🥹❤️ I know you would do it amazingly!

Yayayay I've been waiting to write something like this for Zoro, thank you lovely!!! I had WAY too much fun writing this one I am so sorry if I went overboard on the imagery but also sorry not sorry I want to press a thousand kisses over this beautiful man's face

Okay this actually took way too much time to write so comments are much much appreciated!!

Warning: slightly suggestive if you squint, mention of scratching/ injuries and sword fighting

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @starryyshadows.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Oh, mosshead. What a dopey ass himbo you are. Istg this m*therf*cker right here (affectionate) would be so god damn ANNOYING when he's in love. Forget about Zoro nearly grabbing Sanji by his curly brows and swinging him like a ragdoll over the railings any time his continuous nosebleeds drip into his sake. Zoro is just as bad, just a needle swung in the opposite direction; he grumbles around the ship like a mopey, exasperated crocodile, snapping at anyone who comes near him that isn't you.

He wasn't built for love; hellfire roared through his veins, ravishing every cell in his body until his teeth gritted and lips bled in his struggle for self-discipline. He was a predator; rampant, ravaging, resolved in his fortitude. So why? Oh god, why? Why did he feel like he was being torn apart? Ravished by teeth that left rupturing silver punctures in his lungs, shredded by claws that streamed blinding light through the chambers of his heart.

He had felt like that: bent over doubled, clutching his chest in pain when the two of you first met as teenagers. If it hadn't been pitiful enough that you had bested him during your first sparring match at the Shimotsuki Dojo, you had to rub salt into the wound by being kind to him afterwards. He had scoffed when you had thrown your helmet to the ground and held out your hand to him, a scowl cloaking his face and making his teeth grind as you offered him advice on how to perfect your technique. Yet all you had done in response to his slight was to smile: a smile so shining, so unjustly kindly, so prepossessing and beautiful that the swordsman froze in shock, a fleeting flash of pure light haloing his eyes.

He knew. He knew, right there and then. That you were the only thing in all of the seas that could stand in his way. In that moment, he had decided that he would like to live forever in that strand of light: that one that strayed through a gap between the oak leaves, straying past its dark, dense leaves, foraging past the crawling thickets to instead brush against the tip of your cheek.

'What does it matter anyway?', Zoro had glowered, refusing to look back at you again. 'It's not as if you're going to stick around. Once your gone, I'll be the best fighter here again.'

'I'm not going anywhere. Not until I defeat you ten more times, at least', you added, once you noticed him rolling your eyes. You held your hand out, and Zoro glanced down at your outreaching fingers warily. 'No matter where we are or what happens to us, I'll always be a better swordsman than you.' His lips finally curl up in a smile then as he reaches out to shake your hand, and the feeling sends a spark of something running down his fingertips. His whole body feels alight, and he spends the whole rest of the day clenching his fingers into his palm and trying desperately to relish the feeling.

Which is why, for a while, Zoro seems to go extra hard on you: calling you away after lessons for private sparring matches deep in the woods, where only the crunchy bark could hear your swift steps and the fine mist wrapped around the pale trees and sent a cold shake down your hilted hand. The only way to warm yourself up was to butt the edge of your sword against Zoro's flailing torso, shoving him back so you could use the leverage to pin his panting face up against the nearest tree trunk. This time, though - this time, you surprise him.

If he was disappointed in himself for losing again, it soon melted away by the feel of your torso pressing up against his heaving lungs. For a moment, his lips tighten into a thin line as sees your approaching forehead and believes you're straight up just going to headbutt his sorry ass. He jumps even more when your skin lands... softly? against the burning side of his temple. He can't seem able to find his breath, the world seeming to be frozen in glinting threads of light as you linger against the young demon. All that exists is the soft push of your nose against his fluttering shut eyelid. The warm puff of breath as you sigh against the shell of his ear. The light scrape of the bark against his back as he shivers. The sound of his own heart, his blood scorching through his veins and convulsing against the sharp cage of his ribs.

He's so hyperaware of his body tantalisingly close to yours; his stiff elbows lay drawn up by his side, his hands shaking almost imperceptibly as he spreads and flexes his fingers, slowly drawing them to hover around your back. He was still too afraid to touch you.

Too afraid of the fire burning through his fingertips again.

But before he could muster up the courage you had pulled away, and the moment faded into a jaded dream that he nestled safely in the back of his memories.

It's impossible to shake Zoro from you after that moment. He hounds after you like a coveting beast: he stays tied to your hip like a disruptive dog harnessed on a leash. Your favourite activity is sneaking out of your dorms after hours and running down to meet by the riverbed: feet sprinting across the cream petals and sharp pine needles to collapse next to one another among the buzz of the fireflies nestling above the woven grass. For a while, as the two of you turn your tired heads to the skies, there's nothing but a silent affinity settling over the clearing. Nothing but the feel of the silk sleeve of Zoro's pyjamas brushing over the side of your cheek as unclasps his hands from behind his head and warily rests them in the short space between your hips. Nothing but the sound of your extolled voice as you point up at the bursts of sparks and swirls of silver against the darkness, enrapturing Zoro as you chart out the dips of your favourite constellations.

The reflection of the skies you had spent your younger years on the seas watching with wonder fill your eyes with a wonderous light, the delight drawing your attention away and allowing Zoro the opportunity to docilely turn his head to face you instead. His cheek freezes against the dew, but he's too revered in memorising the scrunch of your nose as you swat your hand at him for not paying attention: too busy watching the placid look that softens your smile as you look, too busy wishing he wasn't so cowardly. Wishing he didn't feel so feeble. Wishing, as his hand clawed at his thigh and dug in deep enough to leave bruises, that he could just reach out and touch you.

He jumps when you click your fingers in front of his crossing eyes. 'Zoro, are you even listening?'

He shrugged. 'Kinda. I don't know much about this stuff. If I can't hit it, I don't care.'

'You should! One day, when I become the greatest sword fighter in the world, I'm going to sail into those stars and discover all the secrets this world has to offer.' You flopped your free hand over your stomach with a content sigh, the spiralling glow of the heavens raining down and coating your face with sparks of silver.

He snorted. 'That sounds stupid. You can't sail into the sky.'

'You're just jealous because you're not invited.'

'Good. Who said I wanted to come.'

Zoro may be an idiot, but he's also a man who learns from his mistakes.

He doesn't know what overtakes him. Adrenaline? Rage? An overwhelming surge of fondness? The thought pounding in his head that if he doesn't do this now, he'll spend forever locked away in this cage? His fingers itch across the grass. His whole body squirms, the heat rolling through his body making the perspiration bead on his forehead, but still he keeps going. It's only when he feels your hand jolt back as his pinkie bumps against the side of your wrist that he begins to feel stupid.

Growing self-restraint be damned, as soon as you recover from the shock and shyly place your hand back down by your side, he pounces. Initially, the squeeze of his fingers as they wrap around your cool palm almost breaks bone, but all you do is rub your thumb over the edge of his knuckles.

You know its his way of telling you he loves you, even if he is too young and stubborn and proud to say it.

You both knew that one day you would leave him for the stars. When the time comes, and you leave Shimotsuki Village, to stop the sinews of his heart from completely scorching away with every knot of your ship, the demon suffocates any thought of you.

When he meets you again that fateful day: tied up to a Marine post in a dusty courtyard, tired, frustrated, solemn, for the first time in his life he begins to feel his judgement sway. When your face popped around the yard gates on your way out from meeting Axehand Morgan, your feet skid so comically across the ground the cloud of smoke it raised was so huge it even made Zoro sneeze. With a hand on your hip, and eyes widened in disbelief, you stepped out into the sunlight to survey the man bowed before you.

'I always knew I'd see you tied up one day', you smirked, shoving the handful of berries you had earnt from trading in your last bounty into the satchel by your hip before wandering over to untie him. 'Just thought it would be me doing the tying.'

'Y/n?', he asks incredulously, trying his best to dart his eyes nonchalantly up and down your body despite how fervently his voice was trying to waver. He sneered, tipping his head in the other direction and staring at the ground as you tug on the rather tight knots around his wrist. 'What the hell are you doing here.'

When you finally manage to tug him loose off the boards, his knees sag so quickly beneath him that the swordsman nearly goes collapsing headfirst onto the ground. With reflexes so quick they could only be rivalled by your own sparring buddy himself, a firm hand slaps against his sternum. A quick tug pulls him back, Zoro's knees dirtying with beige as he kneels back against you.

'Same as you, oh great swordsman', you laugh against his ear. 'I always told you you'd have competition. And from the looks of it, I'm winning.'

For a second you're concerned you've overstepped: the familiarity, the fondness you thought everlasting between you both a figment of your imagination when Zoro tilts his head back slightly to glare at you from the corners of his eyes. Placing a hand on his knee he braces himself, and steps up. For a moment, you're even more terrified he's about to kick you to the ground - or even worse, turn his back and walk off, ignoring you completely. But then he surprises you. The corners of his lips twitch in what - no way- could only be the beginnings of a smile?! before you're lifted off the ground and crushed in a hug so unyielding between his solid chest and taut arms that you can't help but bury your head into his shoulder blade and laugh.

It wasn't very hard to convince Luffy to let you join his crew - I mean, when you took down three Marines with just one punch, and he saw the powerhouse you and Zoro were as you fought back to back with Axehand Morgan, you were coming, and that was that. No buts. No excuses. Don't argue with your Captain.

I mean, bless his heart, Zoro is still a dumbass though, as perceptive as he is. And he's still sore. It takes a little bit of work to climb through the trellises of his grave heart. But little by little, he begins to open up to you again. He starts to grumble less when you climb up to join him during his late nights on watch up in the Crow's Nest. At first, as he burrows his back into the planks and crosses his arms in front of his chest, the steady breathing of his stoic body makes your job seem even harder. Undeterred, you rocked back on your heels and clucked your tongue in nervousness. But you should have known: even with his eyes closed, concentration edged into the furrows of his face, he's far too perspicacious for his own good. Even though he's doing his best to look brooding and bored, his foot shoots out and kicks his sword out of the way - launching it back across your heels and barring you from tumbling back down and falling down the hatch.

Every time you drag yourself up in the middle of the night to join him, you can tell his full concentration is centred on you, even if his eyes never even move behind their lids. He's pointedly listening out for your move, your every breath, your every heartbeat - which comes in very handy for darting out and catching in his massive palm the warm cups of cider you had precariously tried to carry up. Eventually, after a full week of you sitting up there Zoro finally relents his pride; even with Luffy's vest and Usopp's jacket wrapped around you, you clutch at the lapels of Sanji's suit jacket that your friends had very kindly lent you to try and stop shivering from the cold. Zoro doesn't even speak, just raises his elbow a little bit, and you don't need a second invitation to come clambering into the warmth of his side.

God, if he hadn't spent every moment of every day since he was thirteen years old dreaming of holding you in his arms. You pretend, for his sake, that you can't feel his heart thrumming wildly against your ear.

You catch the former bounty hunter staring at you from across the Lounge’s breakfast table most mornings. The intensity of his unwavering eye would be strong enough to make you blush, if you hadn't turned your attention back to stabbing at Luffy's grabby hands with the prongs of your fork. It's only when Sanji clasps his hands to his cheek, and in a faux sugary sweet sing-song voice professes 'how romantic mosshead can be! What person wouldn't love being stared at like roadkill!', that all hell breaks loose. Luffy's too busy munching on your pancake to truly register you and Nami nearly flying leapfrog over Zoro's back to try and stop him from throwing the poor cook through the window.

Although you succeed, Sanji does have to spend the rest of the morning sulkily smoking out of the corner of his mouth while wringing orange juice out of his hair.

Zoro is extremely, extremely protective over you. Even though you know how much he hates talking, he draws all the attention to himself away from Cabaji, even while tied up to Buggy' circus wheel. When the knives start whizzing past his head, he doesn't even flinch: safe in the knowledge that no matter what happens, you're safe from these buffoons. When Nami finally manages to pick her cage's lock and help free the two of you, you offer Zoro your hand as you cautiously steady him on the ground again. He jolts, and for a moment you're worried one of the knives actually did hit him; while you flip his palm trying to find any sign of a scratch, Zoro's eyes focus on you in wild shock. He feels fifteen again as he gently rubs your searching fingers between his coarse pointer finger and thumb, sobbing into his bed and holding the hilt of his sword, pretending it was your hand. Your warmth. And here you were, come back to him, offering it freely. He felt like falling to his knees, a pliant supplicant to your unwarranted mercy.

One time he nearly made you bust out laughing: since Zoro spends most of his day napping in such random intervals, during a rogue storm aboard the Going Merry one cloudy evening the swordsman was still awake. It was during your struggle to stop yourself pitching right off your bed and slamming into the wall, and planting yourself firmly from sliding to the left and body slamming a very irritated looking Nami, whose head was covered by one of her bunched up pillows, that you spotted a shadow flitting across the porthole on your door. Zoro's tall, awkward outline hesitantly moved as if he were about to rap at the door, before the sound of him yelling at himself under his breath made you snort aloud.

His head rises at the sound, and before he can take a step backward to try and abort his masterplan of sneaking into your room under the guise of checking if you were alright with the storm battering the rocking ship, you had slammed open the door and nearly flung Zoro into your hammock like a ragdoll. For a moment, Zoro lies there like a statue, unsure of where to put his hands or if it's alright that the sway of the ship means that he can't unsquish his cheek from against the side of your eyebrow. When his hand hesitantly begins to fall over your back and fold you tightly against his pecs with a squeeze, you know that's his trepid way of trying to let you know he still loved you.

Not to mention when you wake up and he's lying with his nose nearly indented into yours, his sleepy eyes looking so peaceful for once... just admiring you with the warm glow of the sun dousing him in holiness.

One time he got really lost trying to find you and Luffy after the two of you had the very sensible idea of setting off to the nearest island on a search for hidden treasure. After he had spent hours wading through muddy creeks and tearing some tangled thorns away from his face, out you come wandering from behind a tree. Thinking you were some kind of wild animal, Zoro has you pinned against the bark of the nearest tree before you even have time to blink.

Not one to be defeated, you kick out at his legs with a delighted laugh, knocking the man nearly ass over head onto his back. You grin, victorious, as you crawl between his legs like a ravenous tiger, knocking the hilt of his blade far out of reach of his clenching fingers. As your knee presses against the inner seam of his muscled thigh, you can tell by the forced gulp of his bobbing throat how hard he's struggling. When you dig your fingernails deeply enough into his wrists to elicit a throaty hum of approval, when his abdomen keeps bucking ever so slightly off the reeds to try and shake you off, you just know the man's imagined this scenario a lot of times, in a lot of different ways over the years.

(I mean this man could throw you off easily let's be real.)

When the Straw Hat Crew meet Kaya, this man - istg - he nearly goes weak at the knees when you come down the stairs in your brand new borrowed outfit. His breathless inhale earned him a distasteful glare from Klahadore, but he didn't even care that he was showing such careless, unmeasured adoration. It took Luffy nearly slapping him across the face with the shrimp he was waving in front of his nose to draw him back to some sense of reality.

'I know!', the Captain had smiled. 'The food here is so good, I was daydreaming about it too!'

Having the good fortune to uh *definitely by chance and not because you snuck into the dining hall earlier to switch the place cards* - to sit next to Zoro offers him the opportunity to make his feelings more plain, in a subtle way. Perfect timing! As soon as Luffy clambers up onto the table and draws the wrath of the strangely severe butler, Zoro's hand latches across yours under the tablecloth and squeezes. He blinks languidly, his face as unreadable as ever as he takes a sip out of his champagne flute and clears his throat, but you notice. You know every part of him: every idiosyncrasy, every bob of his Adam's Apple, the tensed pull of his jaw muscle as he clenches his teeth, the warm flush rising up his cheeks, you know them all. As if they were so innate, so interwoven with your own being, that you weren't sure of a time when your hearts hadn't been devoured by each other's. Each the predator. Each the prey.

He leaves his hand on your knee for the rest of the dinner, and you refuse to remove his latched fingers and let him go.

You kiss him for the first time that night: just a sweet little tease of lingering lips against the pure radiance of his cheek.

As he walks you down the 'confusing' corridors that are 'definitely a trap' by Zoro's own declaration, you unlink yourself from his arm to straighten the collar of his silk shirt. 'You look nice', you say sincerely, eyebrows furrowing as you trace the outline of his bare collar between the open buttons. 'Even though swords are more your style, you look good in a suit. You look good in everything.'

'Uh... thanks', he balks, his head emptying as his entire being instead focuses on the feeling of your fingertip scratching of his chest. 'You- your eyes look nice', he bluntly replies. 'Like two rice balls.'

Bless him, he meant well.

And then you kiss him with a raise of your tippy toes and final clutch of your hands against his shoulders, before retreating back into your room and leaving him extinguished within the shadows. He spends the next few hours almost deliriously wandering the corridors, trying to temper the tight ball growling in his belly. To try and find a sense of clarity, some kind of retinence. Looking past the billowing blue curtains and out through the slats of the casement windows lining the ornate, ostentatious glass cases, a warning pangs in Zoro's heart. How could he? How could he find restraint, when you had spent all these years driving his thoughts wild? How could he keep you safe, when he could focus on nothing but the wetness still lingering against his cheek? How could he fulfil his dreams, when all he wants right there. Just past the clear moonlight drifting silver into his eyelids, there your stars lay.

He wasn't about to let you sail away from him this time, to alight only in his memories: to pulse through the hollow beats of his hear and cool his charred veins like a cruel reminder of a salvation he had never deserved.

He wasn’t going to lose you to his callow cowardice. Not ever again.

When he comes knocking on your door, you don't expect the demon bounty hunter to blurt out a fevered 'I love you!', before turning and stamping off. But I suppose, as you ran after to him to drag him back into your room by the scuff of his neck and slam the wide expanse of his back against the door to shut it, he wasn't expecting to spend the night filling poor Kaya's house with unbridled moans.

#one piece #one piece imagine #zoro #zoro imagine #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro imagine #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro headcanons #roronoa zoro headcanons #sanji #monkey d luffy #nami #opla #opla imagine

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ceruleancattail · 5 months

Note

For your horror au, may I request self aware Lilia Vanrouge (or Cater Diamond) reacting to us choosing him (taking his hand)?

I'm unsure about your character limit (I read your rules, but perhaps missed that).

About Lilia(or Cater), his reaction and maybe what he would do if possible 👀

If u don't wanna do it it's okay!

Thank you!💗✨️

Sentience presents:

Hand

Self aware Lilia, Cater x reader

Tw: yandere

Plunging your hand in that mirror took a great deal of courage on your part.

Ebony swirls around within the confines of your screen, twisting and turning like a serpent uncoiling itself from its nest. Its scales shimmering, light catching and dancing on those shards of dark obsidian. Even as you peered into the depths, there was nothing there.

Only the faint reflection of your eyes wide open, staring back at you. What lies beyond the screen? Despite your uncertainty, the curiosity got the better of you. You’ll never know for sure unless you take the plunge.

Lilia

The first thing you feel was the bite of someone’s nails. As sharp as well honed blades, gently grazing the back of your palm. Fingertips roughened with callouses press against your palm, scratching and yanking at the plush of your hand. The hand of a seasoned warrior, one who isn’t shy to the horrors of battle.

Glancing upwards, you meet a pair of eyes. Pupils wide open, coloured with the deep, dark crimson of wine. They had the same richness as well. A certain intoxicating quality that only drew you closer and closer. An odd quality that just kept you wanting more.

Lilia Vanrouge.

The character whose hand you opted to take at the start.

He tilts his head ever so slightly, a sneaky grin dancing on his lips. Lilia’s fingers creep in between yours, intertwining them with a sickeningly sweet tenderness. The kind of fondness one would only show their true lover.

Flipping your hand over, he sinks onto his knee. Gently coaxing the back of your palm towards his lips. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for you to feel his breath waft over your bare skin.

A burning warmth, lingering for just a brief moment. Before you could even savour the sensation, it vanishes. Disappearing into thin air. You could swear you caught the ghost of a smirk flicker on Lilia’s lips, the smug smile of a victor.

A sharp sting struck your palm. Pain jolting through your skin, before fading into a dull throb. Glancing down revealed nothing but red. Beads of blood dripping down small wounds on your hand. Puncture wounds.

Lilia looks up once more, lips dyed scarlet.

He knew you’ll take his hand.

It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Darling.

Cater

Warmth engulfs your palm. Long, slender fingers coaxing yours apart, before they slip within the gaps. Holding your hand, palm to palm. Close enough for you to feel a pulse beating into your skin. An erratic beat, thumping with all the passion of a fiery salsa.

You’re unceremoniously yanked forward, body slamming into someone’s chest. A weight presses into your waist, an arm snaking around you. Clutching you as tightly as it humanly could, as if you were the last thing it would ever hold.

Half-lidded eyes meet yours, your features reflected within those emerald green pupils. A red diamond was painted onto his cheek, yet even that was wrinkled ever so slightly.

A vague memory bubbled into your mind. The faces of the characters you scanned through through joining the game. This was the one you chose, wasn’t it?

A Cater… Diamond.

As your eyes light up with recognition, Cater lets out a bright laugh. It sounds a bit wrong, fractured on the edges… as if it was forced out. Moving forward, he tucks his head into the crook of your neck. Cater’s arms snake around your torso, giving you a quick squeeze.

A friendly hug of greeting, he claims.

Even then, you felt that his touch lingered a little longer then it really should. The feeling of his breath on the base of your neck… it made your skin crawl. Arms prickling with goosebumps, you couldn’t help the tension that crept into your shoulders.

Aww, why so on-guard? Cater’s not going to hurt you. Well, unless you give him a reason to.

He’s waited for this moment since forever!

So you better not ruin it, love.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #sentience #self aware au #Lilia Vanrouge #Lilia Vanrouge x reader #Lilia #Lilia x reader #cater diamond #cater diamond x reader #cater #cater x reader #protection potion♦️

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fungifanart · 5 months

Text

A scar in the mind

Characters: Male reader, Yuu!reader, Rook Hunt, Epel Felmier

CW: Discussion of injury/scars, spoilers for some of Book 6??? I guess???

Word Count: 1.5K

Notes: I know for a fact that I'm not the first and certainly won't be the last to write something like this, but here it is anyway.

-------------------------------------------------

Rook Hunt is known as many things: A skilled hunter? Quite. Vice housewarden of Pomefiore? A title he wears with pride. Lover and pursuer of all things beautiful? Most definitely.

And it is because Rook is all of these things that he finds himself flying at breakneck speed over the ocean towards where his housewarden is being held, albeit with two more companions than he had originally planned for.

Though, he's hardly complaining. Especially after the beautiful display of resolve the two men in question had shown after they'd run into him on his way out.

Rook is truly grateful to have been blessed with such wonderful companions.

And so, when one of said companions begins shivering due to not being dressed to withstand the cold, what else can Rook do except offer his spare Pomefiore uniform?

Upon landing and setting up camp for the night, Rook presents the Prefect with his spare uniform, "You may change behind the trees, so long as you don't stray too far from the camp, Trickster." He says while he and Epel turn towards the bonfire.

"Oh, no. It's fine. I'm used to changing in front of other people." Rook hears the Prefect say as the shuffling of fabric can be heard.

Surprised by that statement as he is, Rook still endeavors to give the other man SOME privacy. That is, until he glances over at Epel, who is looking in the Prefect’s direction with wide eyes.

Following Epel's gaze, Rook turns back around towards the Prefect only to be greeted by a horrifying visual cacophony of scars painted all along the once blank canvas of his back, shoulders and arms.

All along his right arm, Rook notes several puncture wound scars and then a full stab wound scar on his left shoulder. On his hip, Rook sees an unfortunately familiar sight in the form of a sickly green, blotchy scar created by a corrosive acid. Finally, on the center of his back, Rook sees large claw-shaped scars surrounded by dry, cracked skin.

"Trickster…" The man in question stops changing upon hearing Rook's nickname for him, "What has happened to you?" Rook says quietly and with no hint of his usual persona.

Rook hears the Prefect’s breath hitch for a moment before sighing, "Yeah…I had a feeling you guys would say something. Give me a minute." He says FAR too calmly for Rook's liking while he resumes changing into the spare uniform.

Once he's fully changed, the Prefect turns around and joins the other men around the fire.

The next few seconds of tense silence are broken by Epel, "So??? Are ya gonna explain???" He asks urgently.

"Personally, I don't think there's much TO explain. You guys aren't stupid. There's no way you haven’t heard the rumors by now." The Prefect says.

Rook has no rebuttal. He knows exactly what the other man means. No matter how hard they try, the news of an overblot will always make its way to the rest of the student body and, in the same breath, the Prefect’s name will always come up.

"So, those scars are from…?" Rook trails off, not wanting to say it.

"Yep. Each scar you saw is traceable back to one of the five overblot incidents I was involved in." The Prefect says matter-of-factly while pulling up his right sleeve, "These ones happened because one of Riddle’s rose vines got a hold of me while I was trying to protect Trey. I could barely write with this arm for a while after that."

Rook and Epel sit there in stunned silence as the Prefect continues.

"The one you saw on my back happened because I threw myself between Ruggie and Leona during his overblot. Leona was charging right for him and he was already in a bad way, so I figured I could take a hit or two. Oh, and don't bother with the dry skin. I've tried everything at this point, so I think it's just like that for good now." The man continues nonchalantly.

Rook begins to notice a pattern with these stories as the Prefect pulls down the fabric on his left shoulder.

"This one came from the trident Azul's phantom had. I was trying to push Leona out of the way of it and ended up getting skewered myself. Heh, he got SO mad at me afterwards! Still not sure why, though." He explains with a small laugh.

But neither Rook nor Epel laugh with him. Why is he making jokes about this?

"And, of course, I don't think I need to explain how I got the one on my hip, seeing as how you guys were there when it happened." He says while motioning to the two other men.

Unfortunately, the Prefect truly doesn't need to explain. Rook still remembers the sight of him shoving Epel out of the way and taking part of a blast of Vil's poison.

Silence falls over the area as the Prefect is seemingly done explaining despite not addressing the question that is no doubt on both of his companion's minds.

"Wait, isn't that only four?" Epel asks, ever the straightforward one.

"Well, it's not like I got out of Jamil’s overblot unscathed, but I wouldn't really call it a 'scar.'" The Prefect responds while taking off one of his gloves, "During the fight, I took a magic blast for Kalim, got flung back hard against a pillar and hit my spine in a way that messed up the nerves in my hands, so now I've lost some feeling in them." He says while looking at his hand melancholically, "Oh, don't tell either of them I said that, by the way. I wouldn't want them to feel guilty."

Rook's mouth is agape as his mind tries and fails to rationalize the sheer disregard for oneself the Prefect is displaying.

"Trickster, why would you do all of this?" Rook finally says in genuine concern, earning a confused look from the other man.

"What do you mean? Everyone's always saying how I'm useless and a liability because I can't use magic, so I thought this was the only way I could make myself useful." He says while pulling his knees towards his chest, "Though, sometimes I can still feel the pain, when I think about what happened."

Then it clicks in Rook's mind. This is his fault. And not just his, it's Epel's as well. No, not even just those present. Everyone at NRC did this to him. All of them.

While he may not have been personally acquainted with the Prefect until recently, Rook had heard the whispers about him that echoed through the halls since the day he was brought to this world and did nothing to stop them.

Whispers that tell of a "fittingly useless prefect for that rundown dump."

Whispers that reduce him down to his lack of magic and ignore his qualities as a person.

Whispers that would sometimes even come from the mouths of people whom he would consider friends.

Whispers that the Prefect has no doubt heard constantly, warping his perception of himself into someone expendable. Someone whose problems must always be put on the back burner in the face of someone else's.

Looking at Epel, Rook knows he's had the same realization by his shell-shocked expression and before the two men know it, they've moved to sit on both sides of the Prefect, who doesn't seem to mind.

"Well, fer what it's worth, ya should know that yer always welcome in Harveston." Epel says in an attempt at comfort, "Meemaw always mentions ya at least once in her letters to me, askin' if you've been eatin' well, amongst other things, so I think comin' with me to go see her would make her happy!"

"Really…?" The Prefect asks, slightly surprised.

"But of course!" Rook jumps in, "You should also know that my siblings have been asking about you as well!"

"H-huh? Why??" The man asks, thoroughly confused as Rook takes his hand.

"Because, whenever we talk, I always tell them how truly magnifique you are, Trickster." Rook says softly, "How caring and truly irreplaceable you are."

The Prefect blinks for a few seconds, caught off-guard by Rook's sincerity.

“And someone as irreplaceable as you shouldn't be putting himself in harm's way so often.” Rook continues, “After all, I'm sure your family couldn't bear to see you return to them in a coffin.”

The Prefect’s eyes go wide in realization and then begin to glisten with tears as he looks at his free hand which begins to tremble before fully burying his face in his knees and crying.

“mommy…daddy…” He whispers between sobs.

Rook releases the other man's hand and instead wraps his arm around him in comfort as Epel leans against his other side, letting him safely release his pent up emotions.

Rook may not be able to change the past or silence the hateful whispers in the halls, but, starting with this moment right here, he might just be able to ease the pain of the Prefect’s scars, both mental and physical, until one day, they disappear altogether.

#why is this mushroom writing fanfics?#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twst x male reader #twst mc #twst yuu #rook hunt #epel felmier #twst rook #twst epel #rook x reader #rook hunt x reader

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year

Text

Business Casual

Yan Hero + Villain-for-Hire Scientist Reader

Something something, villain reader in lingerie. G.N as always, but they are implied to be slightly muscular

Another explosion on floor three.

The ground quakes beneath you on level four; dragging the wide-eyed corpse flung over your desk to to its knees. Head cracking against the sharp edge as they spawn across the floor, their helmet rolls into your ankle. You step over it and gather the scattered stacks of paper into a large folder, using the guard's layard to keep them secure.

While looting their body, you take back the pen lodged in their jugular. Your bosses were idiots if they thought you'd leave behind your hard work and the supplies you bought with your own two cents. You have to plant your foot on their chest to get it out. Turns out they weren't fully dead yet, as when you yank it free blood gurgles from their mouth and throat - eyes bloodshot as their enfeebled limbs dart for the punctured hole. Your shirt was already drenched in enough of their blood you didn't need to stick around. You stand up and over their body, clocking out as you vacate the premises - chaos unveiled behind the glass wall of your office.

Bodies everywhere, most wounds self inflicted. The heroes had yet to make it to your floor and those in too deep knew there wasn't anything better waiting outside. Those hired under false pretenses scrambled for the exits like a wild stampede. The mass panic made up the minority of the casualties as they trampled each other and fought. The sprinklers going off to quench various fires raised the body count. By the time you left everyone was either dead or on their way to the lower floors. You stroll through the field of wasted flesh, checking your bank account with that spring in your step that amount zeros would give anyone. Getting that degree was good for something after all.

Reaching the flight of stairs leading to your salvation, a lone figure awaits you at the bottom; expression steeled with a glare that the press would've just eaten up. Banking on the notion they may not have seen your clothes, you use the rain of the sprinklers to play as your tears.

"Oh thank goodness you came- the evacuation alarm went off and then there were guns and-" Expressing your fright with incoherent words and sobs, you descend the stairs one step at a time. "I'm sorry, I really don't know what's going on since I just started working here. Thank you for rescuing me."

The hero is a little too welcoming for your liking as you fall against their chest.

"You don't have to keep up the act. It's just me here."

That voice. So familiar.

"Nobody else is alive. I'm taking you home this time. Where you belong. We both know you're better than this."

It reminds you of that little hero everyone's been talking about recently. The same one who's flyers kept appearing in your mail. The same one who investigated those disappearances at your old apartment. The same one you sold the information to. You've been paid off for information by so many their faces all blur together at this point.

"In that case."

Teetering back on your heel and planting your foot in the center of their chest, you pour all your strength into a kick them that sends them down the flight of stairs to the next. The hero willingly takes the plunge, but goes down harder than they expect; back breaking their fall and taking on the brunt of the damages. You grab the sleeve of your lab coat with your teeth as you drop down each step, ripping it from your soaked figure and throwing it over their head. If you had to fight your way out of this all the water weight retained in the coat would just limit your mobility. The hero pulls it off and springs onto their knees. They didn't want to do things this way, but their patience had run them. Wiping blood from their lips, they take a double look at you as you hover over them - certain they hit their head harder than they thought.

Eyes lose in confusion at their slack jaw expression, your lips retain a mocking grimace. "What's the matter, hero? Afraid of fighting a civilian?"

The hero opens their mouth, but nothing comes out. They point instead. You look down at your shirt. Oh...

The guard's blood and falling waters had eaten away at the cheap material of your shirt. Through the translucent fabric peaks the garments you wore beneath. A lacey black piece perfectly shaped to your bust with straps cross over your upper chest and cut off at your midriff. The strings of the matching bottom sit high upon your thigh, frills barely hidden at your waistband. You may have a few screws lose, but you wouldn't leave the house without underwear and this was all that you had - was the excuse you stopped using after showing up to work in lingerie two days in a row. The hero swallow the first breath in ages as you pop the first button.

"Like what you see, hero? Well I can show you more~" You take off your shirt and throw it at their feet. They scramble to pick it up as your leg falls onto their shoulder. You ease into a squat, pushing them down with you as you slide. Their hands slide up your legs. You tease them with a slip of your bottoms, fist clenching as they yank your zipper. The salvation of reaching their in goal drags them in too deep as everything goes dark.

The hero wakes up with a splitting headache traveling all the way down to their nose. The bloodstained walls of the laboratory had been switched with floral wallpaper. Your living room wallpaper. They were bound to a chair in the middle of the room giving them a view of different areas in your home. It takes them less than a minute to notice you laying out on the couch. You had changed into dry clothing, but they could still see the single string hugging your hips. They lick at their cracked lips.

"Anything...."

You toss their phone aside as you sit up. "You're awake. Afraid I knocked that nasty little brain of yours out when you fell like that. Looking through your phone I see you have a talent for photography. A hero and a stalker. What a combo."

They bite down until their lips start to blister. "Please.. anything, anything you want is yours if you take off your shirt. Please, I cant- I can't live off pictures alone anymore. I need you... I have since I first say you."

"Anything, hm? That's a mighty brod claim. We'll see if I can hold you to it, little hero."

#scientist reader #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere blurb #yandere drabble #yandere writing #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere hero

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rottedberries · 7 months

Text

One of One: Part 1

Summary - It's been two months since Astarion has left your camp since that night in Cazador's palace where everything went wrong. In the events of severely misguided judgement you find yourself bleeding out in a dark alley, in his arms one last time, spending your last fleeting moments with him.

Tags - Hurt / comfort, angst, depictions of death and dying, happy ending, vampire tav, nb tav

Notes - I accidentally picked the wrong option when trying to talk Astarion out of the ascension, and got told to die before he left my party forever. Me and my sister couldn't stop thinking about him regretting his actions once he came back to his senses and soon after this piece was born. I wanted it to be a short 3k piece, but as always I went overboard. There will be a part 2, but hopefully for now this will suffice.

Word Count - 5,832

AO3 Link

“I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming.”

He left, and he was gone. You tried to not act like a dog, a lovesick puppy waiting for its owner to return home, but you couldn’t help yourself. Ever since that night in Cazador’s palace, your dreams had been filled with nightmares, and wishes that had yet to come true. Waking up to find the red tent adorned with gaudy pillows and spilled goblets of blood that you loved oh so much, back in the place that it belonged in your camp. But instead, all that laid was an empty spot where the drops of rain soaked the ground underneath leaving a stench of mud and rocks. Completely washing away whatever of Astarion’s scent used to linger.

It was because of that empty spot, the more you looked at it, the more your head span. You could only focus on your mistakes of that night, and everything that went wrong. If only you had tried harder . There could have been better words to say, now that everything was over and done with. Hindsight was 20/20, but in the moment it seemed like every thought, every word died out on the tip of your tongue as fast as you tried to will them out of your mouth.

In front of you, was someone you loved, overcome with want and power. So toxic that it clung to the air in thick waves in a way that made the blood spilled from the enemies just defeated more potent than before. When you found yourself staring into Astarion’s eyes, you couldn’t see the man that you were talking to outside the palace a few hours prior. His eyes now bright with bloodlust, yet empty…with something else, lying there underneath the surface. Something you couldn’t quite pick out as much as you tried. And as you stared at him, trying to decipher it, Astarion just stared back…begging, in a voice so demanding, yet childlike…so desperate.

The emotions flooding the room, the thoughts clouding your head, it was too much for you to wrap your head around. Fear clogged up your throat, and airways, making the simplest breaths the hardest to gasp for. You couldn’t find rhyme or reason to deny him. There was no logic in your brain that could describe why this was wrong , you just knew it was.

Instead of trying to reason, to beg, to reach out to that scared boy trapped in a body adorned with 200 years worth of scars, you stood still, and denied. Giving no reason, just your feet planted firmly on the ground, not even finding it in yourself to move or reach out.

And he begged . He begged even harder than he had before…the softest ‘ please ’ falling from his lips.

Yet you still found yourself saying no.

Then it was all over. You watched as Astarion dug his fangs into Cazador’s neck, drinking up his blood before driving a knife into his heart over and over and over again, screaming with every pierce and new puncture wound. All that was left was a room stained in blood, and anguished cries that pierced your heart so deep you found pressure building behind your eyes, threatening to let loose as well. And what came after were words filled with hatred, an expression forever burned into your memory that you still see it every time you close your eyes.

‘ I’m done with you. I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming.’

You tried, you really did try to get Astarion back after that. Your feet were finally able to move, and you pushed them as hard as you could, as fast as you could go. Your hands outstretched, trying to grab onto his shoulder, arm- the waistline of his pants. But he didn’t care, he didn’t even spare you a look; just carelessly shoved you off of him and left.

That was the last time you had seen him.

You don’t have the exact date of the last time you saw him, but it had to have been at least a month by now…maybe two. With Astarion’s bright and sardonic personality missing from the camp, it seemed like the days had started to blend together. While you still had the rest of your party, and you were thankful they were alive and well, you couldn’t bring yourself to care when you had driven out the one person you cared for most.

Since then, you had become brash, reckless, and careless. A part of you couldn’t tell if it's because you wanted to punish yourself for being a horrible leader, or if you’d simply lost the ability to care about the world saving adventure you had found yourself on.

Lae’Zel had already had more than a few choice words for you, and recently it seems they were getting stronger and more rude as time went on and the more you kept messing up. Everyone else barely bit their tongues either. Even someone like Shadowheart who had been with you when it happened, getting a first hand show at the fight that took place, was starting to get fed up with you. Her temper becoming shorter, until she had finally found you and cornered you against a wall in camp last night.

“We’re all going through our own problems while also having to deal with the Absolute, and you have been nothing but supportive and helping with everyone here- I’d probably be dead without your guidance.”

She started off, it was something small and sweet, which only made you dread her words when she continued the rest of her sentence.

“And I want to be there for you too while you deal with your own pain- but quite frankly, you’re going to get us killed at this point. I didn’t make it this far to have someone make some brain dead decisions right at the end.

I am more willing to lend an ear, to help in whatever way I can, but if you don’t reach out and proceed on this suicide mission then I’m out…and I’m sure a lot of the others are going to be too.”

There was a pause of silence, you could barely meet her eyes, let alone reply. Whatever choice she gave you to reply and defend yourself, you didn’t take. You just let her keep going.

“I don’t know what you and Astarion had going on, but it was obviously something very special. It sucks that he’s not around anymore, but if you let this cost your life- cost everything we have worked for up to this point - then I have severely misjudged your intelligence and your priorities. Get it together.”

With her lecture out of the way, she was gone, stalking off back towards her tent.

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be angry at her words and accusations. Because she wasn’t wrong. And you had been anything but a leader for the past few months, yet somehow your team stayed. Though all those thoughts met little nothing to now and you wished it did.

It was another day, or night technically, and it had been one of the best ones in awhile. Taking Shadowheart’s words into consideration, you tried your best to be better. It was obvious your mind still wasn’t in it all the way, but at least the day had passed without any misjudged bow shots into your teammates backs instead of the enemies; or conversations that turned into fights when they could’ve easily been schmoozed out of.

Dinner had recently ended, and everyone had retreated to their tents or their cots for the night. You found yourself on your back, staring absently at the night sky, heavy with dark rain clouds, threatening to spill torrential rain at any second. The cold chill of an upcoming storm was already blowing itself through camps, lifting up tarps and trying its best to put out the campfire. You were already restless tonight, but the howling of the wind only made it worse. Every sharp sting of air flying past you and biting at your face only made it harder, every time you tried to slip your head under the blanket you just ended up feeling claustrophobic and suffocated. There was no winning.

So you were left with your head outside, facing the cold night. Every few minutes you would toss back and forth on your sides, and on your back. You’d sit up, fluff your pillow, and lay back down somehow more uncomfortable than before. You did everything from trying to count sheep, to singing your favorite songs in your head to get yourself to relax. After a couple hours though, it was no use. The rain started not long ago, but the soft pitter of the drops on the ground was a hindrance to your focus on sleeping instead of a welcomed white noise. When it was obvious that you weren’t sleeping for a while, you saw no point in keeping on trying. The fire has burnt down to its bare embers, it was cold and dark and suddenly you were craving the warmth of the indoors and maybe an alcoholic drink to really warm the cold emptiness that lingers inside your chest.

It's with that thought that creeps up and lingers in your brain for the majority of the hour that finally gets you up, urging you to slip on your shoes and grab your backpack, slipping in some gold and your journal. Your camp clothes will have to do for now, as you don’t see much of a point to get properly dressed in your gear to go sit down and drink somewhere. It’s after you have everything packed up when you grab a hooded cloak from your chest and leave the camp quietly, adventuring back to the lower city.

You arrive at the pub just in time for the rain to change from a steady downpour of small drops to a cacophony of large wet globs pelting against the windows and roof top, making itself heard even over the cheering and loud laughter of everyone's drunken banter. You slip inside easily enough, removing your hood once you’re fully inside. It only takes a moment to take in the sight in front of the you- red faced patrons clinking their mugs and letting sour liquid spill onto their hands. The strong scent of alcohol seeping from everyone's breaths mixed with the fresh cooked food swimming through the air. There’s a mixture of singing and dancing as everyone is in high spirits, but also hushed, serious conversations taking place in the corner of the room. Passed out strangers, sleeping away the night with their head in their arms at the tables tucked away.

This was perfect.

Busy enough that the background of people will keep your mind from wandering to unwanted thoughts. It also meant no one would pay attention to you.

“What will it be?” The bartender asks as you make your way up to the counter. Her lips are pursed, she looks tired, and a bit on edge. It was obvious her shift had been going on for too long, but she was trying her best to keep a friendly facade up.

“Rum.” You speak back plainly, as you drop a bag of gold on the counter. “The entire bottle preferably.”

She nods, not even giving any cheeky commentary akin to ‘rough day?’ like you would expect someone to comment when buying a whole bottle of alcohol for yourself. Instead she grabs the bottle from under the counter and slams it down with a silver cup before pocketing the gold pieces handed to her.

“Holler if you need anything, dear,” She draws out in a slow and monotone voice.

You don’t bother saying anything else to her as you grab the neck of the bottle and the handle of the cup before making your way to a dark quiet corner of the tavern and sitting yourself on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. You make sure to get your space set up before you crack open the lid on the bottle. Pulling out your journal and the small portable jar of ink and quill you brought before finally pouring your first drink.

You take a deep breath, steady yourself as the deep liquid looks back at you. For a second you swear you can see your reflection in the liquid, empty eyes, dark bags, a hideous frown. It just gives you more of an incentive to drink, to forget for just a little bit.

Down the hatch.

With a deep breath, you gulp down the first shot of rum and suppress a shudder at the pungent taste, how it burns your throat and thickly coats your mouth in consistency of syrup, yet tastes like stale sugar. You take pleasure in the warmth that soon comes after though, spreading from your core to your hands and feet. You can already feel the pleasant tingle of your nerves finally relaxing, of your body accepting the alcohol as a substitute for a human’s touch, like the big hug you’ve been yearning for.

You can’t help but take another shot right away.

If you’re being honest, you can’t tell how much time has passed. It’s had to at least have been an hour or two, maybe more. The tavern had cleared out a little bit, but it was still quite busy. Even with a few less faces, the chatting and laughter seemed to be louder than when you first entered. It doesn’t bother you, you had quickly let it become background noise as you buried yourself in your journal and shots of Rum.

Already the bottle was a 4th gone, and while you felt pretty coherent at the moment you could tell that the effects would be hitting you sooner than later. It was only at this point in your tipsy state that you realized maybe you should’ve left a note at camp or something, in case you couldn’t find your way back there tonight.

It was fine.

Your body had a good auto pilot, it was good at getting where it needed to be even when you didn’t know what was going on.

The thought quickly fades as you pour yourself another drink and gulp it down, before going back to cataloging your thoughts on paper.

You’re wet.

Wet with rain.

But not just rain.

There’s something else there.

Thick, reeking of copper, and metal.

You cough and more of it spits up, overwhelming your senses as you empty the contents onto the ground in front of you.

Red, so much red. More red than you have ever remembered coughing up before in battle.

That’s when the dread finally washes over you like a harsh slap to the face. It is more sobering than any other remedy you have ever tried in your life. It’s then you go from barely existing in reality, seeing everything through a blurred lens to being too aware of everything around you, snapping back into yourself like you never have done before.

You’re outside, far away from the tavern, but still in the Lower City. You barely recognize where you are, but if you had to guess you were trying to make it back to camp, but not doing a good job at it. With every step your whole body shakes. Putting weight on your ankle makes you want to topple over. It has to be at least sprained, if not broken. You pull out your hands to examine them and instantly notice they’re swollen. Red, puffy, knuckles, sporting drops of blood from the small cracks in the skin. Your head pounds not unlike when getting your head smashed into a wall, and lifting your hand up to your head you can feel a bump before you hiss at the pain of touching the blossoming bruises starting to take place.

This wasn’t good.

From the small amount of damage you could assess on your body you could already tell this was bad.

You feel like you’re on death's doorstep, moments away from collapsing and perishing in the streets. Every small shuffle with your feet feels like you were pushing your body to its extreme limits and pretty soon it was about to give up.

There’s no way to heal yourself, you didn’t pack any potions and all the shops are closed for the night.

The panic is dulled because of the alcohol, but is still present, you feel yourself freaking out in your core. Camp isn’t far, but there’s a part of you that’s certain you won’t be able to make it. You could try crawling, dragging yourself with your arms, but that seems more unlikely than trying to just walk the rest of the way there.

Maybe you could make it. Not all hope is lost yet, you’ve been in worse situations.

It’s right after the small sliver of hope you try to will and grab onto, that the world seems determined to prove you wrong. Another set of coughs destroy your body, sending you off balance as you bend in half to grip your aching ribs. More blood spills from your mouth and joins the rain on the concrete below you. You cough, and cough, and more comes out, it's seemingly endless, and when you’re done, you’re left feeling lightheaded and like you need a long nap. Just simple sleep.

Your body is at its limits. You’re not even halfway to camp. There’s no way out of this one this time.

You really fucked yourself.

You must really be on a suicide mission if you’re dumb enough to get black out and start a fight at the bar. At least you went out fighting, you hoped you at least took one or two of them down with you. You could feel it in your body how you were outnumbered though, bruises and cuts sprouting from all over your body.

There was no way you were ever going to win.

Maybe you just wanted someone to put you out of your misery so you didn’t have to do it yourself.

You’re barely able to make it to the alley on your left as you stumble your way between two buildings. Your body trips on nothing and slams into the stone wall, making you fall to the ground ungracefully as ever. With the last strength in your body, you pull yourself into a sitting position, slouching against the wall, but quickly slump back over.

The wall is spinning, the sky is spinning, you feel like you’re going in circles. The rain is more cold than ever, and you pull your cloak tighter around your body, but it seems to just trap in the chill. You cough, and more blood spills out. Your head pounds, your chest aches, and your ankle moans in pain.

Maybe if you’re lucky some poor fucker will see you and take pity on your sad self. Maybe if you just close your eyes, you’ll be able to gain enough strength to make the way back to camp and you can have Shadowheart patch you up.

Just a few minutes.

That’s all…

It can’t end here…

But you can’t push yourself any further for now…

You just need to rest real fast…

That’s all….

….

You feel yourself on the very edge, your final breath lingering on the tips of your lips as you try to give way to sleep, but something is calling out your name.

You really must be dying.

The voice sounds faintly like Astarion.

It’s pathetic how even on your deathbed you can only think about him. Your dying vision is him calling out for you one last time.

The voice continues to get louder, and you feel like every shout is leading you closer to death, your hallucination slowly becoming more reality than dream. There comes a point where it becomes too real though, and your brain fights itself between accepting this dream and realizing this was real. A thick shadow looms over you, blocking out the lights from outside the alley. The voice is loud in your ear, panicked and calling out louder than before.

He couldn’t really be here, right?

Astarion wanted nothing to do with you before, there’s no way he’s calling out now.

He said he hoped you died screaming.

If we really were here, he should be laughing, delighted that he got the chance to see your body withering away on the streets by random chance.

“...As-tarion….?” You croak out, your voice so hoarse from coughing that it's barely there anymore. It’s stupid to hope, you’re probably just talking to air, but you try anyways. If this is real, then this is your last chance.

The figure is kneeling now, right by your body. A gentle hand scoops under your head, and another hooks under knees before your body is being shifted. You wince but let yourself be manhandled, it’s not like you have much of a choice or can put up a fight. You’re pulled into a lap, you can feel crossed legs underneath you, against your back. One arm continues to cradle your neck and keep your head up, while the other frees the wet hair sticking to your face.

This has to be real right? Your body wouldn’t move like this on its own.

“As-” You open your mouth to try and call out to him again, but you’re quickly stopped with a finger being pushed to your lips and a quiet ‘shh’ noise.

“Yes, it's me.” He speaks.

“What are you- Why are you-” You have so many questions, that your mind can’t choose which one to ask first. You’re still trying to comprehend if this is true.

Because he’s here, he’s actually here. You can feel his hands all over you, his body pressed up against yours. You see him, feel him, hear him. In some twist of cruel fate, he came back. All it took was you ending your life for him to show up again. You can’t decide if it’s worth it. Because you get one last chance to see his smile, how his laugh lines move as his lips quirk upward. You get one last chance to see his expressive eyes that seem to give him away when he’s not quite 100% in the act he’s putting on. You get one more chance to finally apologize, to say all the things you’ve been thinking about for weeks.

“ I’m so sorry-” You find yourself saying. If you’re going to die, at least maybe you can get the apology you’ve been practicing in your head before it's all over.

“I never meant…God, I’m so sorry.” Your voice cracks, and you can feel yourself getting choked up. Your already sore throat hurts even more, but you keep pushing. You need to get this out.

“You were hurting, and I turned you down- wouldn’t even say anything- just denied you.” Your mouth is moving faster than your brain, the rehearsed apology being quickly thrown out the window. You’re going to die soon, you need to get this out now before you’re gone forever. “I was just…scared- and I didn’t know what to do- I-I fucked up though and made you think I wasn’t on your side..I’m-God- I’m sorry-”

You feel tears slide down your face and they burn the tender bruises forming on your cheeks, but you can’t stop. You keep blabbering, saying the same three sentences over and over again, not being able to comprehend anything, just trying to talk, to get him to forgive you. And eventually, there’s another set of fingers being placed on your lips, shushing you again. And you quiet right away, you feel like you can barely breathe.

“It’s- Okay.” He seems choked up, lost in his own thoughts. He takes a second to work out his words, but you can tell he is thinking hard about them. His voice isn’t filled with malice like it was last time. It’s soft, and gentle this time. It’s serious.

“I see that now.” He finally decides on his words, and loosely shifts in his arms to stare up at his face.

It really is him .

“I was so focused on something that I had been denied for so long…I let it control all my thoughts and actions. I didn’t realize how far gone I was. I just wanted…revenge…to get my life back. To feel in control for once. I couldn’t take being denied that again, and I didn’t want anyone who wouldn’t support me. I just wanted…closure.”

As he talks, you stare at him and take everything about him in. The rain has let up, the clouds finally parting just enough for the moonlight to peek through. It shines brightly on Astarion’s hair, casting a halo highlight. His eyes are soft, but the deep red that you love. His expression changes with every single word he speaks, a frown tugging at his lips as he talks to you. He’s beautiful. He’s more beautiful than you remember.

“But I left, and it didn’t take me long to calm down and realize my mistake. You were right . And I didn’t notice at the time..but you were scared. I keep playing that night over in my head and - Gods - I can only see how terrified you were. I did that… ” his voice fades out, and you feel more tears slip down your face.

This can’t be real. This is a dream. Because Astarion is pouring his heart out to you, holding you in his arms, apologizing while you’re on your deathbed.

It’s like a cliche dream come true, the best case scenario you could have pictured when you think about your death.

It feels so real though. It has to be.

“I made you scared. I never want to do that again. But I couldn’t bring myself to come back…not yet at least. I would never forgive anyone if acted the way to me that I acted towards you-”

“I’ve prayed every night that you would come back- you’ve been in my dreams- you’ve-” You cut him off, needing him to know how much you want him back. How much you forgive him, but you can’t talk long before you heave a heavy cough and can feel even more blood sliding down the corner of your lips.

“ Gods.. ”He breathes out a heavy, heartbroken sigh as he thumbs away the blood soiling your face.

His touch is the lightest thing you’ve ever felt, especially after the beating you suffered earlier in the night. Your whole body screams in pain, but every place that he touches is a personal cure all, you don’t feel any pain at all in his arms. His hands aren’t warm, yet somehow they are warming your body, filling you up like the alcohol did, but ten times stronger. You can feel your stomach flipping over itself, fluttering at every touch. You missed him so much.

“What happened to you?” He asks in shock, holding your face, sliding his thumb along your cheek to catch whatever stray tears linger as he stares into your eyes.

“I…don’t…know…” You admit, pitifully, darting your eyes away from his as you answer the question.

He raises an eyebrow at you, wordlessly encouraging you to keep talking. So you do, as best as you can. You speak in short, simple sentences, your apology from before taking the most of your brain power and energy. You explain drinking to clear your thoughts, and coming back to on the street. You talk about the pain in your ankle, in your chest and hands. He looks at you the entire time, his face morphing into different expressions as you retell certain parts of your night and you can feel the judgment from him seeping into your bones…though the care he has for you over powers it. The gentle feeling of fingers carding through your hair, detangling the strands, the gentle rubbing motion of his fingers on your arm. It’s like he’s single handedly feeding warmth back into your body, even if it isn’t enough to keep you alive, it's enough to prolong your death.

“What are you doing out here?” You ask at the end of your explanation, not giving him a chance to comment on your decision making skills of the night. Maybe he’ll stay with you until you fade away. That would be nice, dying in his arms. You couldn’t imagine a more perfect way to go.

“Making my way to the woods…” He starts, and quickly fades off leaving you to fill the blank.

Oh right, he must be starving. Back to animals, you were guessing. You almost feel guilty for doing that to him, even though he was the one that left in the first place. Your eyebrows just shoot up and your eyes widen at his response as you nod ever so slightly, telling him you understand.

“Were you ever going to come back?” You ask after another beat of silence.

You really shouldn’t be talking, but you can’t help but keep asking questions. You need answers, and you need your own closure. You need to lay here, life slowly draining your body and listen to his voice as it carries you into the afterlife. You can already feel your eyes get heavier with every word you breathe out. You can feel air being harder to take in, just becoming shallow and soft.

“I- '' It seems like he is going to respond seriously, but can sense the change in your condition and suddenly his calm demeanor completely switches as he cries out, not being able to keep his act going anymore.

“You’re fucking dying!”

He screams into the night, at your face and you frown. You are dying, it's not by your choice and you’d change if you could.

“- fuck-! ” He cries out, and you feel the gentle presence of a healing spell being washed over you. But, it doesn’t do much, just takes you back from the edge of blacking out. Your vision clears for a moment, yet your body still aches, and you can barely breathe. Blood still leaks from your mouth. The only difference is your eyes don’t feel so heavy anymore.

“We need to get you back, hold on-” His grip tightens on you, and you use all the strength you have in your body to reach out and wrap your hand around his arm to get his attention and shake your head.

“Don’t move…I’m not going to make it…” Your voice gets quieter with every word, it seems your vocal chords are finally giving out on you.

“I came here to die like a pathetic stray animal once I realized I had no chance.”

He washes another light spell over you, but just like before it only helps for a few seconds before you go back to feeling worse than ever.

“There’s no way you’re giving up now. ” He speaks through gritted teeth, annoyance and disbelief fills him. “After everything? A stupid bar fight is what puts an end to you?”

You want to laugh because it's true. What a pathetic way to go out.

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

His eyes narrow at your choice of words and you swear if a light breeze of wind wouldn’t currently knock you on your ass, he would reach out and swat at your arm.

“No. No, this isn’t the end.”

Astarion attempts to stand again, but just like before you shoot your hand out to stop him, pleading with his name on your lips. He stops once more and looks down at you, wide eyes of terror meeting your own.

“I mean it…it’s over for me, I wouldn’t even make it- and the others don’t need to see me like this. Just let them think I ran off on my own in the middle of the night or something-”

Astarion opens his mouth to interject, but you stop him and keep talking with the last strength you have in your body.

“Please…just stay here…” You take a break to wheeze in a pathetic breath of air, and continue. “I don’t ask for much…just, this is perfect. You are all I need. Just one last kiss, and send me off on my way.”

He wants to fight, you see it in every bone in his body. But he’s at a loss, he can either leave you and let you die alone, or follow your wishes. It’s obvious if he tries to take you to camp you’ll fight the whole way there. This alley is your deathbed, that’s all there is too it.

“...Fine…” He relents, with another heartbroken sigh. His eyes are on your face, soaking up your features because it's the last time he’s ever going to get to see them.

His fingers trace the curve of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose and rough skin of your lips. They run across your eyelashes, and smooth over your eyebrows. They dance along your neck, and make their way to your collar bones before moving up to your ear, playing with the cartilage of it. Every move he makes is practiced, purposeful, calculated. He has intent with every touch, his face twisting into something so serious and focused as he stares down at you. As his fingers move and continue to spread warmth and love into your body, he starts to lean down and you try your best to meet him halfway. He stops you though, and tells you to let him do all the work. Eventually you feel his lips against yours.

Something so soft, a feather like kiss that almost feels like it wasn’t even there in the first place. You let his breath take your last as you breathe into his mouth. You move ever so slightly, leaning into his touch, to grab more of him, take whatever you can before it's too late. You strain yourself, pushing yourself over the edge as you lift your arm and wrap it around his neck, letting yourself play with the soaked white curls at the nape of his neck. He sighs in content and kisses you deeper, taking every bit of strength that you have left.

You feel the world fading around you, slowly but sure coming to a halt. Everything is starting to feel dull, his touch, his heat, the cold air outside…it's all starting to feel so far away. And you’re realizing you’re ready. All you wanted was one last kiss and you’d be set.

Astarion pulls away as your eyes blink, and slip closed for one last time.

The last sensation you feel before you’re pulled under is a deep, sharp shooting pain in your neck.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #reader x astarion #igs writing #true vampire astarion #bg3 spoilers #bag3 act 3 spoilers

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