#it feels as though there is nothing but misery surrounding me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonstruckme · 8 months

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Doting

summary: you feel needy for wanting support after a hard day. Your boyfriends set you straight

poly!marauders x reader ♡ 1.4k words

You sit on the couch, surrounded by all the love you could ever want, and do your best not to sulk.

In the kitchen, Remus hums as he makes dinner, and Sirius and James are playing cards on the coffee table in front of you while you pretend to read.

“I’m out,” James declares proudly, laying the last of his cards on the table as Sirius throws his down with a huff.

“I’m done playing with a cheater,” Sirius says with faux malice, turning around to look at you sweetly from where he sits at your feet. “Y/N, gorgeous, want to join me for a game?”

You paste a smile on your face. “Thanks Siri, but I’m busy.” You hold up your book as evidence, and he pouts but turns back around, reshuffling the cards.

You notice James studying your features, and you do your best to look content, normal. After years of being around the other two boys and their silent misery, James has gotten very skilled at detecting a dismal mood, and you don’t want to ruin everyone’s night. In truth, you’d had an awful day. A customer had yelled at you at work, and then you’d been stupid enough to cry while driving, almost getting in an accident due to your distraction. You’d arrived home shaken and upset, and had barely had time to pull yourself together before Sirius had come in the door a few minutes later, Remus and James following not long after. You don’t enjoy being so delicate that having any amount of anger directed at you reduces you to a sniveling mess, and you’d resisted the urge to lock yourself away in your room in the hopes that acting like everything was normal would eventually make you feel normal.

So far, it isn’t working as well as you’d hoped.

If anything, it feels odd to be the dark cloud of such a joyous space; with Sirius and James laughing and bickering in front of you, Remus humming just around the corner, and the delicious smell of whatever he’s making beginning to waft toward you from the kitchen, you feel unappreciative and embarrassed for being unhappy. Beyond that, you know you have the sweetest boyfriends in the world, and they’d drop everything if they knew you were upset. Frankly, you don’t deserve their kindness when you're wallowing in self-pity over something so silly. You’d only be dragging them into your sorrow with you, and there’s no sense in all of you being down there together. You can handle it on your own.

But James’ too-perceptive gaze seems to find some fault in your placid facade, and though you will him desperately not to, he asks, “You alright, angel?”

You give him a different smile this time; it’s smaller, a bit more honest, but a smile nonetheless. “Yeah,” you say, in your most placating tone. “I’m good, thanks Jamie.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

James’ eyes are slightly troubled, but he nods, directing his attention back to the cards. It’s too late, though, because now Sirius is turning back towards you, something in James’ tone or yours tipping him off. He sets down the deck, pulling himself up onto the couch to sit beside you, his eyes level with yours.

“What’s going on?” he asks in that rare no-nonsense way that lets you know he’s serious.

You hate when they tag-team you like this. James may be good at picking up on your moods, but he also knows when you want to be left alone. Sirius, on the other hand, prefers to root out any bad feelings and beat them into submission.

“Nothing,” you say, no longer under any impression that either boy believes you. Still, you take Sirius’ hand, squeezing reassuringly. “It’s okay.”

Sirius is undeterred, searching your face like it’ll come clean when you won’t. You can’t take the intensity of his stare and drop your gaze, but he only stoops to follow it. You’re trapped.

“Hey,” he says softly, his thumb stroking your hand cajolingly. “What’s your deal, huh? Talk to us, baby.”

It's the pet name that gets you, and the first tear leaks from your eye just as Remus comes in with dinner.

He stops short at the new, sullen atmosphere of the living room, but rushes over once he sees your face.

“What’s going on?” He sets the plates aside, seating himself on your other side.

“We don’t know,” James says, moving to sit on the coffee table, his knees brushing your legs where they’re curled up under you. “She hasn’t said.”

“She’s right here,” you joke, but no one smiles.

Remus takes the hand not currently claimed by Sirius. “What’s wrong, love?”

You press your lips together to keep them from wobbling, blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to reverse the course the evening is taking.

“Honey.” His tone is admonishing, but still unbearably sweet, and you crumple, more tears falling as a gasping sob escapes you. Remus pulls you into him as though he can make you a shelter out of his own body, and you go willingly. “Was it a bad day? Is that it?”

You can only nod, not trusting yourself to speak. After a beat, Sirius asks, “Are we going to have to beat someone up?”

You laugh, and it’s awful and pitchy, but it loosens some of the pressure in your chest. James’ hand finds your shoulder, squeezing encouragingly before starting to rub slow, soothing circles into your upper back.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out.

“What the hell for?” Sirius asks, and you open your eyes in time to see Remus give him a harsh look. Sirius ignores him, reaching for you. His thumb is gentle as he wipes under your lashes. “You know you can tell us these things, don’t you?”

“I just—” You take a shuddering breath. “It was so embarrassing, and I didn’t want to ruin everyone’s night.”

“Sweetheart,” James coos. “We don’t care. We’d so much rather know you’re upset and be able to help than have you suffer in silence all night. Besides, don’t you think you deserve the same treatment you give us?”

Shame washes over you, and you tuck yourself further into Remus’ side. “You guys never ask as much of me as I do of you.”

James’ eyebrows jump nearly to his hairline and Sirius makes an incredulous sound, but it’s Remus who speaks. “Dove, are you serious? What about when I had a migraine last month, and you stayed home with me all day?” He maneuvers you in his arms until you’re facing him, looking you in the eye. “Or the last time James had a bad day, and you went on a run with him so he’d have company, even though you hate running? Or just last weekend, when Sirius got too wasted—” You can feel the glare Sirius is shooting him from behind you, but Remus continues—”and you stayed up with him all night holding his hair, and then in the morning you brought him gatorade and cleaned his sick out of the carpet?”

“Don’t act like you’re so needy,” Sirius says, and you turn towards his voice to find his stare just as piercing as you left it, “and we’re all perfectly self-sufficient. You’re not the only one who needs help sometimes, so if you have a bad day, we wanna hear about it.” He’s looking at you like your silliness astounds him, and James grasps your shoulder with a small smile, giving you a little shake as if to reprimand you.

You look helplessly towards the plates Remus had brought in only a few minutes before, discarded on the edge of the coffee table.

“Dinner’s gonna get cold,” you say mournfully.

Remus shrugs. “I’ll microwave it. And if you wanna talk, we will, and if you don’t, you can pick us a movie to watch, yeah?”

You look at the three of them, gratitude and love both so huge and warm in your chest you can’t tell which is which. “Okay.”

“Good.” Sirius tugs you out of Remus’ arms and into his own, planting a kiss on the side of your head. “Merlin, you’re tough to get things out of. Think you could go a bit easier on yourself in the future?”

“Yeah,” James pipes up. “Be nicer to our girl, she’s had a rough day.”

You hide your face in Sirius’ chest, flushing, but at least this time, your smile is real.

3K notes · View notes

moondirti · 11 months

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animalic (6)

← chapter five // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 4k summary: misery makes good company warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, angst, i mean it guys, miguel o'hara is really not nice in this one, fighting, death/extinction, morally questionable characters, weapons of mass destruction, implied drug withdrawal, reader is given a backstory notes: apologies for what's to come. it's okay if you hate me after

“Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.”

There’s a warm hand cupping the back of your head, callused fingers spread to steady the junction between it and your shoulder. It’s the first thing you notice when you wake; that, and the breath fanning across your face.

You think it odd. Signs of life pound beneath you like the febrile concoction of a dream, burning hot in emphasis that you’d survived. A heavy pulse behind your brow, the headache pinching at every sense until they all dim to conductive static. Your tongue, pasty on the roof of your mouth. The hind of your arm itches, the urge running bone-deep, humming from flesh gracelessly torn apart by a gutter. When you shift to examine it, a fire roars up your neck, the smouldering pain robbing you of any effort.

(The only other time you’d been this uncomfortable, you were bitten by a spider the third month of your internship with Alchemax. The puncture site didn’t burn so much as the delirium that followed.)

“What did I just say?”

And, there’s that voice. You find it difficult to discern its more unique attributes, words muffled from behind the wavering pane of your lucidity – yet, even still, it stands as the most tangible thing present. Deep, resonant. Smoked with a ruggedness you can feel in your teeth. It doesn’t occur to you why it seems so unfamiliar; perhaps it’s the fact that you catch it through its source, your ear pressed to a muscled chest. Or, that’s it’s whispering.

You’ve never heard him whisper. Not to you.

The need to retaliate swells once you realise who holds you. It’s nothing productive, not the string of questions you should be asking – what’s happening, where are we; but it’s the only natural instinct that overcomes you. When you attempt to make good on it, though, the clutter of jokes, gripes, and snubs tangle in your throat, emerging as little more than a groan.

And the act wears you more than it probably should, exhausted tremors wracking your frame. A tender ache ripples from a point on your ribcage – separate from the area you’d fractured at the quarry. The pressure here is more centralised, a focused bruise you locate the source of with a wriggle of your elbow, when a rock comes loose and clatters to settle underneath you. It joins a mound of similar rubble, a pseudo-cushion of chalky cement broken off the larger slabs surrounding you.

You assume they do, at least – based on what you can tell of the terrain behind your back. In reality, you have no means to confirm your circumstances. The space around you swims in ink-blot darkness, the type that is almost material, where sheer absence of light could be considered an element of its own. You squeeze your eyes shut, then widen them, and find that there’s no difference between the two.

So – dark, dusty and… cramped. You’re positioned across Miguel’s lap, his legs running under and perpendicular to yours. Neither of you can stretch them to their full extent, however, forced to cross and bend in unwieldy ways, tangling further in each other's limbs. Your clothes are worn out enough to allow you to detect when any surface of his body – tense abdomen and thick thighs – twitches, thrumming with a molasses-slow tension that starts to diffuse through you.

Not a scenario of his own choosing, then.

But the turn of events that might’ve converged to this are lost on you, white noise fluffing the space they’d evacuated. Last you recall, you were staring down a cop car, the lingering comfort of a child’s trust filling you with a remarkable sort of purpose, that which you cannot place. Had you acted against that convict? Or left it up to the man cradling you?

As if on cue, he speaks.

“You’re trapped under a collapsed building.”

He says you like he’s not a confounding variable in this equation. You know it’s meant to single your blame in this, stranding it somewhere where you can brood without cross-examining him or why he’s here too. It nests on a well of guilt you keep suppressed for good reason, irking you in a particularly special way.

“Figured that out for myself, thanks.” Despite the trouble you put into getting the retort out undisturbed, it ends up sounding more unconvincing than not. Miguel waits for the coughing fit you have afterwards to subside before pitching in his acknowledgment.

“Did you, now?”

Little shit isn’t even trying to hide his sarcasm.

You ignore him, continuing with your scepticism. “I’m just wondering why we’re still here.”

Because it’s a genuine conjecture. While you’re not a part of the educated camp in spider-hero abilities – being so clueless to the extent of your own – you’re far too familiar with that infamous super strength. You’d sensed the difference for yourself; your increasing aptness in carrying hefty weights, the fluidity with which you cruise through life, physically unperturbed. And you’ve been on the receiving end of the spectrum too, your skin littered with scars that point to the sheer power of your companion.

A few tonnes of demolished concrete should be a walk in the park for him.

He clicks his tongue like it’s obvious. “I pulled under a steel arc in time for the debris not to crush us. If I disturb this pocket, or try to rearrange a tunnel, then I run the risk again.”

The logic makes sense, as much as you hate to admit it. Of course, that doesn’t stop you from picking at the contrivances in his language. It was you when discussing what went wrong, and now it’s I when it comes to the out. You realise it’s probably unintentional. Somehow, that makes it worse. He must truly believe you’re nothing beyond a malevolent fuck-up; some villain willing to sacrifice herself for the greater demise.

(The latter might have its validity. It’s the former you hold issue with.)

Likewise, you also ascertain an easy fix to all this – on account of your spectral properties. And, if you were a better woman, it would’ve been feasible. Phase out, crawl through until you breach the open, get help.

It’s long since been established that you’re not that person, though – and you’ve come to accept your own incompetence. You don’t mean to die here; you’re not sure if you want him too either, for all your ire. But your immateriality is a fickle thing, recurring at the most inopportune times, in the smallest increments – a potential problem for the doubtlessly long crawl it’d take to escape. You don’t want to imagine what would happen should you solidify within the walls.

Resignation seems easier than tempting it.

Miguel must recognise the option as well. As it stands for him, he can’t afford to let you go, nor is he desperate enough to trust you yet despite it. You don’t bring it up then, maintaining the upper-hand by his misunderstanding of your capacity.

(Maybe you are evil.

Or, just tired.)

“That’s okay. I think it would be funny if we passed like this.” You pitch, nudging your cheek to urge the smile clearly lacking in your tone. There’s no humour behind your choice of phrase, and it’s a jarring step back from where he’d been, expounding himself. You suppose it might be a clumsy distraction from the exact gravity of your predicament, yet even that rolls over in your brain, not quite satisfactory to dissolve as truth. “It’ll make a nice story for the people who dig us up.”

His chest puffs, filling with an irritated inhale. In the same movement, his fingers constrict onto your cranial base; it has the adverse effect of bracing your neck for the sudden shift, minimising the soreness triggered by any activity. You decide to take it as the warning it’s meant to be instead.

“Eres patética.” He murmurs, sinking back down. You wince when his clutch weakens, pain flaring. “And whiplashed.”

You purse your lips, critical. “I’ve had worse.”

“Sure.”

“My arm–”

“Will be fine.” As if to punctuate, he reaches for the wound. A clink sounds when he taps it. “Used the nanotech off my suit as a bandage.”

You should have caught that it doesn’t sting like it would’ve if exposed. Similarly, his hands are gloveless. Bare – while the rest of him isn’t. You’d felt the dry surface of his palm, the fixed warmth it emanated, but for some oversight, you hadn’t considered that he was touching you. Skin-to-skin, the simple size of his fists dwarfing you in every measure.

A stone lodges in your throat.

“Did– How’d you know?” You pry, referencing the perpetual tenebrosity you’re suspended in.

What he replies with shouldn't shock you, not as much as it does. But the air’s shifted to a nuanced degree, a hesitation substituting loud anger. It's the awareness that he's just as tuned in to you as you are him, sympathetic to try and redirect you off the brink of death. Or, more likely, it’s the poignant impression of his fangs, wedged in your flesh, his tongue lapping up the very same path.

(And the wanton moan it’d triggered.)

“I could smell the blood.”

Oh.

Truthfully, you’ve no clue whether you respond aloud or keep your contemplation close to your psyche. He admits it almost… awkwardly, like it’s a condition he’s not so fond of himself. Yet it’s one that reverberates in the strained silence, plucking at taut strings that stretch with every passing second. You play it on repeat, stewing over the way in which he spoke; the diction, the stressors, the slight roll of his accent.

I could smell it. I could smell you. The blood.

Your life on the run hardly ever allows for moments like these. Over the past year, stress has anchored itself by the dock of your being, streamlining a flow of cortisol to every major organ. Continuity hinges on an alertness to the forces propelling you, and while the occasional wisecrack can alleviate some effects it has on your health, you don’t have the luxury of sinking into whatever fear bolsters it all.

It’s with him, though – hanging from a crane, or cornered in a pen of his own design. Only ever with him are you slapped with the resounding, festering distress of your own weakness. It consumes you, gnawing on your gut with its brutal teeth, tearing away the indifference you’d built around your systems. How dissimilar the two of you are; a girl unwilling to fight for even herself, and a man capable of wrapping a slash in the dark.

(He could smell it. And he can probably see, too.

By just how much does he outmatch you?)

“You’re welcome.” Miguel growls. You scold yourself for your elongated reticence, the pace of your heart overtaking the anxious torrent of thoughts that pump through you. It’s good practice to thank the man who’d saved your life four times over. Be that as it may, does it really count if he’s the reason it was necessary to begin with? He’d dropped you off that crane, he’d swung you a hundred feet high. Him, him, him.

You curl your tongue, desperate to quell the barrage of resentment that escalates at his prodding. Despite it pulling you from your rapid dissociation, your fight-or-flight peaks, forcing you to face a confrontation you don’t need. There’s nowhere to run – presently, you’re moored into place, his physicality and unique provocation blocking the possibility all together.

You scoff to placate the spiralling desire to argue.

It doesn’t work.

“For what?” You hiss.

All too quickly, his legs spread, creating a trough for you to slide down into. When your ass hits the unforgiving floor, you involuntarily cringe at the contrast it poses to his leg. A calculated effect, you’re sure – so too is the newfound freedom of his grip releasing your head, the crossing of his forearms pushing you away from the post his pecs provided.

It’s what you wanted, to distance yourself from his overbearing stature. And he manipulates it to his own favour; you’re made to bear your burden, the agony of your injured state tripling as if to exclaim: ‘see?’

Touché.

Nevertheless, it palliates your memory. The chill of the earth under you spikes your nerves, clearing the brume overcasting your day previous. You’d driven a car into that symbiote based on a groundless hypothesis; bold, any scientist would tell you. Yet, as far as your perception extends, it worked.

“Selfish.” He announces, far from discrete. It’s so unlike him that it smites the ego beginning to coagulate at your remembered success.

Your eyes snap to where you assume his face is, squinting like your glare makes any difference. “Excuse me?”

Undeterred by the threat inherent in your tone – that which is all talk – he persists. “Who do you think you are exactly, Wraith?”

The interrogation holds a dangerous quality; again, it feels out of place, a spirit tugging at the strings of his hollow self.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? What would you prefer? Anomaly, banshee? You drag death behind you like it’s a curse, only you’ve opted into it. I told you it wasn’t our place to interfere, and you had to push it–”

He can be jaded, or subtle. Oftentimes, he’s dismissive and passively rude.

But Miguel O’Hara is never heedlessly hostile. Not like this.

“That wasn’t my fault, asshole. I fucking glitched!”

“¡Órale, estás bien pendeja! Nothing ever is, of course! Has it never occurred to you to take a good look in the mirror?”

The irregularity scares you. Your voice breaks with it.

“O’Hara–”

“Because I’ll tell you what I see; a girl who can’t face what she’s done.”

“You don’t know me.” You shake your head, tamping the stiffness in your shoulder. It does nothing to exercise the sharp unease that flays you alive.

“A self-serving criminal who refuses to listen.”

“I d– I tried.” Hiccupping, the edge worsens.

“You’d have gone back home–”

“There’s nothing left for me there!”

“Like there is anywhere else? You’ve devastated them!”

“Stop it–”

“Wrecked entire worlds! I’ve been the only one holding it all together,” He yells, pushing his knees closer to one another. You’re slowly crushed in the process, thighs drawing up to press against your torso. “You’re no victim. You’re no hero.”

“Stop it!”

“Tell me I’m wrong!”

Feverish tears slice down your cheeks, spouting to escape the pressure that balloons within you. Your lungs tighten alongside it, heart aching. It’s progressed past the point of prevention – no longer do you retain control of how this turns out. All you can do is drift; a feather, seized in this tempest, stirred by a disembodied man.

When you don’t respond, preferring to preserve your energy for the sobs that rip from you, he inches closer. You sense it when he repeats himself, his hot breath lining the shell of your ear.

“Well,” His claws sharpen, grazing the small of your back. “Am I?”

His lisp is more pronounced like this, fangs extended to affect the natural position of his mouth. It warps the undertone, like a pool does light, and sends it back more viscous than ever. He’s uninhibited – an addict missing his fix.

It’s almost impossible to choke the admission out against the hatred churning your stomach. When you unhinge your jaw, it’s a credible wager that you retch all over yourself instead.

“No.” You manage to warble, a mixture of snot and wet misery streaking down your chin. Your wrists stay plastered, allowing the mess to mask your countenance, tucking between your legs in a childlike attempt at comfort. Cruelty crackles – self-propagated now – assaulting your faux-confidence until it plummets to a fraction of what it was.

Cursed. A wraith – haunting the multiverse with her unfinished business.

There’s nothing left to declare as his impressions are confirmed. You both mark it, this changed, spoken into existence by your divulgence. By some miracle, if you were to slip his capture, it’d be no more of a victory than the gore crusting your fingernails. Proof for his belittlement; that you truly are so inconsiderate as to further endanger the lives of millions.

(Would you be able to live with yourself?)

You relapse, agonising over the past week. Not a victim – you’d taken advantage of him with a kiss for an unsure opportunity. Not a hero – you’d punched a robber and gotten a civilian killed in the process. You’d run over a murderer and buried several under an early grave.

(Can you live with yourself?)

And home–

Trapped, you boil in a pond of your transgressions. It’d been a long time coming – your fault, in fact. You should’ve noticed the water was gradually heating.

There’d been a dam of careful construction at this bank, stacked tirelessly over the several nights you’d been given to think on what you’ve done. To prevent your clear culpability from catching up to you, to blind others to it too. He’s right, but not about all things. You’ve memorised your reflection at this point. Put it in a line up, and you’ll point your place in hell with facile certainty.

So, there’s no need to admit anything else. Regardless, his sabotage compels you to. Here, loitering purgatory with the one person who’d never understand; what harm could confession do? His opinion of you skims rock bottom, and you’ve no hope at seeing a priest before you rot.

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

“I’m not innocent.” You start. “Never have been.”

Alpha Centauri, that was the goal.

Located only four light years away, it’s the closest star system to Earth; with suns Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman and Proxima Centauri forming a trinary network. All main sequence stars – like humanity’s very own Sol – orbited by suspected habitable exoplanets. With the average chemical rocket, it’d take upwards of six thousand years to get there.

There lay alternatives, of course. Nuclear fission, with an energy yield of almost zero from its original mass. Fusion, ten times as efficient – still, not nearly enough. Ion accelerators, sunlight capture. Interstellar arks were of no interest; no, you’d wanted to achieve extrasolar travel within your lifetime. Warp drives and hyperspace – all theoretical.

As an undergrad, you’d settled on matter-antimatter collision.

The latter, antimatter, exists as an inverted twin to ordinary subatomic particles, with flipped states on every front. Antiprotons – negative protons with oppositely directed magnetism, and positrons – positively charged electrons. When the two meet their counterparts, their entire mass is converted into energy. And, when such annihilation is modelled within engines, a ship can accelerate to ninety percent the speed of light.

Therein subsisted your only chance to touch the stars.

Of course, like all hypotheticals, it came with its own array of issues. No natural reservoir of the substance is known, and producing at least one tonne would take more power than mankind has used in all its history. Moreover, it’s near nonviable to store. Any container that has ever touched regular matter would only cause preemptive decimation.

You wrote papers and studied computer-generated prototypes. You argued with professors, and attended pro-conferences. Months worth of minimum wage were blown on trips to Argentina, where the neighbouring system can be spotted through a telescope, winking above the horizon. When it all started to appear fruitless, you caught wind of Alchemex’s exploits within the field.

It was a young company, hobbling on its feet after a rocky merger with Oscorp. But they were daring, and rich, endeavouring into categories that most deemed nonprofit. You’d applied for an internship, waited months to hear back. By some cosmic karma, it turned out to be good news when you eventually did.

They were already working on manufacturing the antimatter. It was your suggestion that encouraged them to use magnets to store it within a vacuum.

It looked auspicious. It had been.

Then, you were bit.

The spider was from another division – radiation, you suppose. By some breach on account of a more negligent temp, the critter had found its way into your improvised cubicle. And so the story goes; it’d champed down on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger, before promptly suffocating under the cup you’d snared it in. The area stung for a while, venom having directly found your veins. Yet, by the time you’d returned to your dorm, your immunity seemed to have diluted its effects.

Until, you’d gotten sick. The hysteria was slow to consolidate, starting as a sore throat. You’d used your one day off then, ignorant to just how bad it could get; because the fever only deepened, lesions on the lining of your oesophagus oozing ichor into bile. Your doctor waived the possibility of tuberculosis, mistrusting the notes your instructors sent with you, complaining of in-class fainting bouts.

You couldn’t miss work, though. Never. Not when you were so close.

So you stuffed sheets of pills in your pockets and braved each shift with trembling joints. You’d no friends to notice your suffering, and for such an ambitious company, overtime was expected. Sweating through multiple layers of clothing, you kept an eye on your poster of the galaxy and lagged on those long nights. At the rate you were going, you genuinely dreaded a life cut short before you could realise your objective.

If nothing else, it urged you to work harder.

Your first milestone came at the one kilogram mark. A party was hosted to celebrate, billionaires invited to gather around the vessel which held such a revolutionary feat. Despite your interloper status, you’d been summoned too, to play big girl scientist and present Alchemex’s future course of action. Your affliction was improving, and you were the inspiration behind the project’s advance. It felt like the biggest night of your career.

(‘Magnets! What a genius solution.’ From a nobel prize runner up.

‘That ambition will get you far, mark my words.’ The CEO’s cousin.)

In truth, it was the last.

Because the antimatter had taken centre stage, security slackening with its continued stability. So long as the magnetism wasn’t tampered with, so long as the vacuumed vessel remained airtight, things looked to be fine for your speech. You’d cycled through every known variable, staring down the container, a champagne flute tucked in your sweaty palms.

Your skin prickled.

The glass smashed to the floor. In your embarrassment, you’d brushed it off as clumsiness prompted by the perspiration – notwithstanding your recount, having seen the drink fall through your mass. Did it matter, though? You couldn’t put it past your illness to cause such hallucinations. It was impossible, a trick of sight.

The festivities progressed, yet the tingle of your nerves didn’t subside. Anxiety – you chalked it up to common apprehension. So, when your boss announced your name for all to hear, and the agitation flared, it wasn’t alarming. You could think of nothing else anyway, honed in to the address you’d practised all morning.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Your gut flipped. Your vision blackened.

The steps lost depth; you stumbled up them with all the grace of a hunted fawn.

Today–

Your skin prickled once more, and you collapsed. Through the antimatter’s vessel, through the floor.

There’s nothing to recall after that. Not for a long while.

“I don’t become intangible.” Your brow bone rests on the curve of your knee, body curled in a foetal position. “My particles merely… find the best way through something.”

Miguel has remained eerily quiet throughout your chronicle. You try not to let it dissuade you.

“So–”

“Some came in contact with the antimatter.”

“Yeah.” You murmur, moved by an unnamed emotion. “It detonated, naturally, with a force roughly equivalent to a nuclear bomb. Wiped out everyone in the city upon discharge, then everyone in the state with its impact. Or– maybe, I don’t know. I was discarnate for weeks – the explosion had no effect on my immaterial self, and the radiation couldn’t hurt me when that spider damn well sought and failed at it already.”

You hug yourself tighter.

“I only witnessed the winter that followed. The blast was large-scale enough to trigger firestorms and a global climate cooling – similar to the one they scare you with when talking about nuclear warfare. Crop failure, famine. Millions died and my home devolved into cataclysm. It was mass extinction,” You school yourself, waving the snivel crawling up your nose. “Because of me.”

An end by starvation or infection, confined to this tomb, seems a perfectly fitting penance.

“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?”

chapter seven →

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thedreamlessnights · 5 months

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Hi! I’ve got a request for Astarion and Dark Urge Tav. Like they got together through act 1 and 2 and confessed their feelings for each other, but when they go to see Gortash become Arch Duke Tav realizes that she used to be lovers with Gortash before her memory was wiped. Queue angst and hurt/comfort and fluff and hhhhh Gortash loses plssss

I absolutely loved this concept and had so much fun writing it! Dark Urge's route changed me as a person, and I honestly feel like it's a perfect match for Astarion. Thank you so much for sending this in, and I hope you enjoy!

Aching (Astarion x F!Reader - Dark Urge)

Warnings: Major spoilers for Act III of Baldur's Gate - particularly for the Dark Urge playthrough. Mentions of blood, killing, death, and suicidal ideation. Dark Urge being Dark Urge. Hurt/comfort, self-loathing, angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 4.6k

Like so many other things, the sight of Lord Enver Gortash tugs at a painful spot in your skull.

You’ve come to differentiate them: the gaping, aching tug of your lost memories and the sharp, swift yank of the tadpole. Somehow, his presence pulls at both of them in equal measure. There’s something on the edge of your tongue, but it won’t be said. A memory behind your eyes, but it won’t be seen.

One thing is clear enough - you know this man. For better or worse, the two of you have met before.

Karlach clears her throat behind you, and you return to yourself: not lost in the dark void of your memories, not consumed by the itch for blood. Wyrm’s Crossing.

Gods, you’d nearly forgotten. You’re in the middle of a throne room, surrounded by dozens of people, here for the coronation. Wyll’s father stands in the center of the room, all but a meat puppet under the Absolute’s control.

The Absolute, which Gortash is a part of.

The soon-to-be Archduke sees you, and something shifts in his gaze. His expression softens. Given all the trouble you’ve been causing for him, that expression comes as a shock - but what he says next is jarring to your core.

“Dearest patriars, but a moment,” he requests. “I must greet a most important guest.” He strolls toward you, arms spread wide as he steps forward, and smiles. “Crawling back from her bloody disgrace - it’s my favorite assassin! Gods, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

And suddenly, you are two pieces of a whole. One longs to step forward, knowing him, wanting him. The other longs for nothing more than to jolt away from him - from the misery you know he’s been causing. Not only to you, or even Karlach, but to your home; Baldur’s Gate.

“Hang on,” Karlach says. “What? You know each other?”

As if you could have possibly known that. As if you’d been willfully keeping it from her. As if your amnesia is a silent betrayal.

“We have important matters to address,” Gortash says dismissively. “My reunion with Karlach can wait.”

Gods, it’s all too much. You’re trying to think, but your mind is swimming in front of your eyes. Your skull throbs. Your heart thuds unevenly in your chest. Something in you is fundamentally disrupted.

“Don’t talk to me,” you manage to spit out. “Talk to her.”

After all, she deserves it. Ten years in Avernus, a flaming engine in her chest, a slow, painful oncoming death that none of you can prevent - or at least, not while she’s refusing to go back to the hells. She deserves a talk with the man who betrayed her. More than anything.

But Gortash won’t be swayed so easily, it seems. “No offense to my old friend,” he says, not even bothering to look at Karlach, “but it’s you I have been dying to see. After all, you abandoned us some time ago, leaving a rather uncomfortable hole in our plans.”

Fond. His expression is unmistakably fond.

You don’t know what plans he’s talking about, though. What to say to him? Should you treat him like a friend, exploit his familiarity down to the hilt for the sake of the information you might obtain? Should you be honest and find out more of your lost self? Do you even want to?

As it turns out, it doesn’t matter what you’re planning to say. Gortash sees your face, and that’s enough. “Oh, I’d forgotten,” he remarks, “your memories are quite lost, aren’t they? Orin told me she’d made a fool of you.”

Orin. A picture flashes in front of your mind. Warm blood, oozing from a gash in your head, streaming down into your eyes. A sharp, fierce tug of betrayal that digs into your chest, sours in your mouth like milk.

Then, another image. A recent memory: Orin. A gruesome suit of skin. A bloodthirsty tongue. The Netherstone in hand.

But Gortash is still talking.

“To think you and Karlach traveled together all this time, and she hadn’t the faintest you were one of my nearest and dearest,” he’s saying.

Karlach tenses, and you suddenly feel sick. Your hands go slick with sweat, and you can feel, not see but feel, the others silently fuming behind you.

All of this is adding up to one big, horrific picture. A conclusion you despise but can’t deny. Something affectionate in your chest. The admiration in his gaze. The way he’d greeted you. Nearest and dearest.

Lovers. You and Gortash were lovers.

The walk back to camp is the most painful of your life - that you can recall, at least. You’d rather be feral again, tied up like an animal on your bedroll, attempting to bite Astarion.

Part of you wishes you’d decimated Gortash the moment you’d laid eyes on him. If you had, all of this could have been avoided. The swirling guilt in your stomach for something you don’t even remember. The sting of reproof from nearly every single one of your companions. The betrayal in their eyes.

You’d done this. All of it. The Absolute, the march on the city, the tadpole now squirming around in your brain. You and Gortash had planned this out, and now you’ve fallen victim to it.

It seems like a disconnected idea, a person you can’t imagine being. The further you go on, the less you recognize your old self. The more you despise it.

Gale had certainly chewed you out. Karlach isn’t talking to you. Gods, even Shadowheart is angry. Shadowheart, who should know more than anyone else what this is like.

Astarion, at least, doesn’t seem as upset as the others. He’s liked his tadpole for the most part. Is some odd part of him grateful for your role in this? For the power it’s given him? You can’t tell.

You should be able to tell, shouldn’t you?

When the silence becomes unbearable, you grab a bottle of Berduskan Dark as a peace offering and join him at his tent, crawling through the entrance and sprawling yourself over his various pillows. “Do you hate me tonight, too?” you ask lightly.

He raises a brow and rolls one of his shoulders, feigning annoyance. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his tone teasing and casual. “It’s not often I find out the woman I’m with is behind a horrible, malicious scheme to control an elder brain.”

Your words of penance fall flat even before they’ve touched your tongue, so you pour him a glass of wine in response.

He smiles. “Trying to win me over, darling?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’ve caused quite the commotion around camp, you know. Gale is positively furious.”

That sensation of guilt comes again, but this time, it’s overpowering. It makes you want to crumple in on yourself, to erase the horrid, evil parts of you that are left like bloodstains on a white shirt; things that won’t be scrubbed away, present and never-escapable.

“I didn’t know,” you start, firmly but barely kept together. “I swear, I had no idea-”

“Relax, dearest,” Astarion says. “As you know, me and the tadpole are the best of friends. No need to explain.” He pauses. “Although,” he says, suddenly becoming very interested in inspecting the brim of his glass, “you and Gortash seemed to be old friends, too.”

You know what he’s asking you, and you don’t have it in yourself to lie to him. Instead, you slowly nod, pouring yourself a glass of the wine, too. Gods, do you need it.

“We were lovers, I think,” you finally answer. “I can’t remember anything about it, but… the way he talked to me. It seemed like we were more than friends.”

He pulls a face. “Well. I certainly hope he won’t be serving as my competition. You can do so much better.”

You stare at him: the sudden tension in his shoulders, the pasted-on, confident smile that plays on his lips, the dark glint to his gaze.

“You’re jealous.”

He scoffs. “Jealous?” he exclaims, laughing a little. “Of course I’m not jealous. Honestly - it’s hilarious. A Bhaalspawn and Bane’s chosen. In another life, I would have been rooting for the two of you.”

But there’s a crease between his brows, and he won’t quite look at you. You reach out for his hand, and his expression softens. He playfully rolls his eyes, but he takes your hand all the same. “And what is our vicious little mastermind thinking about?” he asks, leaning toward you.

“I’m thinking,” you say, “that Lord Gortash could never compare to you.”

“Oh?” he asks, moving in a little further. He loves preening for compliments, and you love treating him to them. “Do go on, dearest.”

You trail your thumb over his knuckles. “Well, he’s clearly nowhere near as handsome as you are.”

Astarion tilts his head. “Of course he isn’t. The man couldn’t hope to compare with a… world-endingly handsome vampire.” He squeezes your hand, lifting a brow. “Anything else?”

You can’t help smiling now. “His taste in clothing is awful. Didn’t you see his boots?” you ask. “Tacky.”

He scowls. “I did. Horrendous, honestly. And at his coronation, no less,” he remarks, tutting. “Well. I’m glad to see your standards have improved, darling.”

“As am I.” You take a sip of your wine, swirling it in your hand, enjoying the feel of Astarion’s grasp in the other.

With him, you can almost forget the worst parts of yourself. The others, as much as you love them, only make your crimes seem so much worse. There’s a constant forgiveness sought with each conversation, a debt you can never repay that lingers underneath the way they see you. But not with him.

He mirrors you. He sees you. What you really are, not what you were, not the echo of your old life. All your past grievances, well… those don’t matter to him. Everything you’ve done, he considers himself worse.

Part of you thinks - if the two of you actually make it through, that is - that bit by bit, you may actually heal. Maybe, you’ll actually have a life with him beyond the tadpoles, and beyond Baldur’s Gate. Maybe, the two of you will build something far beyond those who once controlled you.

And then the night comes.

You leave Astarion in his tent to trance, telling him you mean to sleep even though you have no intention of doing so. You never rest well, but it’s aggravated, lately. The Urge is always at its worst during the night. The shadows reflect your darkest self back at you, and your fingers itch for blood. Your mind becomes a haze of gore. Your teeth fix on a tender part of your cheek and press down until you taste iron.

You’d like to say that this part of you is a clean split from the other - that it’s easy to tell where the Urge ends and you begin - but it’s not. Your thoughts so often drift. You’d been the one feeling that sickening sense of satiation when Alfira lay dead at your feet, her blood drying on your skin. And it’s you who feels a strange tug toward Gortash - some lingering yearning that won’t be scrubbed away.

And you try. Gods, do you try. You take a rag and sit at the river and rub until your skin is raw, trying to get the metaphorical blood off your hands, trying to cleanse yourself of the want that pulls at your chest when Gortash slips into your thoughts.

But it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work at all.

The way you want Astarion feels different. It’s grounded. Natural. Being around him feels as easy as breathing. Gortash, though: there’s something so very strong there, something ripened with time and obsessive, almost. Something that wants him no matter what you tell yourself.

You want to win this. You want to look at the faces around camp and tell them that their faith in you is not misplaced; that you are capable of what they want you to be. You’re more than the monster in your thoughts. When you’d resisted killing Isobel and Astarion despite your butler’s commands, you’d thought there was a chance for that to happen - for you to become something outside of your murderous tendencies.

Now, you’re not so sure.

Your role in the creation of the Absolute has changed things. This feels… unforgivable. Not that Alfira’s death wasn’t already unforgivable, not that you haven’t already sinned enough, but… it’s tallying up to a truly heinous amount of perversion that you can’t fathom anyone here tolerating, much less accepting. Astarion, maybe, but he deserves better than this.

You’ve already tremendously ruined things, and on top of that, you find out you were responsible for turning all of the people you care about into thralls?

It’s enough to shake you to your core. Enough to sow doubt in your mind, spreading like a slow poison through the veins of your thoughts, slowly choking them away, slowly consuming you.

You really might lose.

Gods, are you strong enough to win the long-fought battle against yourself? Do you have it in you to completely turn away from your past? You won’t give in without a fight, of course, but what chance do you have against Bhaal when he’s in your very mind, rooting himself into every inch of you?

In the days, you have hope, but in the nights, when you’re alone, you feel certain you’re doomed. That perhaps, this side of you will take over, and you’ll be absolutely helpless to stop it.

The true question is this: when the darkness takes over, will you still exist; forever trapped in the body you once had control over? Or will Bhaal’s presence ravage you, body and soul, and leave nothing of the thing you once were?

You really can’t decide which is worse.

You’re used to your hands shaking, by now. Your fingers have often trembled around the hilt of your blade, itching to drive your knife deep into sweet, bleeding flesh.

This is different.

It’s fear that takes your body, not the Urge. Fear that compels you, not Bhaal. Are you afraid to lose to Orin, or afraid of what you might become?

Astarion stands behind you, observant but tense. The two of you have come so far now that it almost seems foolish to think of losing. He’d defeated Cazador. He’d resisted the Ascension. If he’d found it in himself to turn away from his darkness, can’t you?

Yet, some part of you still thinks you might disappoint him. Some part of you still fears the monster that lies within yourself.

Astarion rests a hand on your shoulder, knowing you all too well. “You can do this,” he says, lightly squeezing. “I know you can.”

And the sheer, beautiful belief in his eyes - belief in you - is enough to have a little hope again. Not much, but some. You can do this.

You step into the center of the circle, hands around your blade, and you believe.

It all goes by in a blur.

Orin is a viper, tightening her strokes around you, striking fast and hard. Her movements are rapid and graceful, her dance lithe and experienced. Even in her slayer form, there’s a deadly beauty to her actions. Every slash, every wound she inflicts on your skin, is a vicious reminder that she’s nothing but practiced in this regard.

Perhaps she’s forgotten, but you are, too. And, this time, your pride doesn’t blind you to the threat she poses.

Your body moves instinctively; for once, you let the Urge guide you freely. You leap out of the way of her claws, dig your blade into her side. When the scent of blood hits the air, you rejoice. When you feel pain, you bask in it.

Flashes of your past echo in front of your eyes - being in the pod, blood gushing into your eyes. You remember the agony of her betrayal, the fear as you’d smashed your skull into the glass again and again and again. Anything to escape what she’d done.

It’s despair that takes over you, not fear. It’s your fury that deals the final blow, not the Urge. And when Orin finally falls, your blade in her ribs up to the hilt, you feel no relief, no satiation.

Only grief. Nothing but grief.

You don’t know what you mourn for - your old self? The life she’d robbed you of? No - no, you despise your past. You despise who you were. So what tugs at your chest this tenderly? What force brings you to your knees?

For just a moment, you almost forget about Bhaal.

Of course, he won’t be forgotten - not here, not in his own domain. Not when you’re his creation. Sceleritas Fel is in front of you, applauding your victory, calling you the Chosen One.

“He is near,” he says. “He comes for you.”

Fear flutters through your chest. Bhaal’s Chosen. It tempts you, even now. The Urge has slithered into the very heart of you, kept somewhere in your ribs, so dark and alluring that you can barely breathe.

It salivates at the sight of the blade slicing through your butler’s chest, sways at the sight of his blood. His body rises, limp and lifeless, and it’s all you can do to stare, still breathless from the fight, still silently devastated, as more blades cut through the skin one by one - impaling him until his blood seeps onto the stone below; dark, crimson liquid shining over the cold floor.

And in his reflection, you find Bhaal.

He is everything you’ve felt in the Urge and more - the sweet whispers of death in your ear. He’s the honeyed tone that compels you to serve him, compels you to bring forth destruction in his name. In chaos, he triumphs, and in blood, he revels.

This is a gift. An offering to you, his Chosen.

You could accept. You could stop fighting against your destiny, against this thing you were born to become. You could do what he asks, and wreak beautiful havoc on this world. You’re exhausted. Every muscle in your body aches - not from Orin, but from this never-ending fight against yourself.

How strong you could become, remedied of these burdens. How well you would please your father. It would be so easy. All you’d have to do is accept…

And then you see Astarion.

His face is paler than usual, a tension in his shoulders, a quiet exhaustion in his eyes. You see him now, as he is, and you see him as he was in the ritual chamber: the temptation of power right beneath his grasp, begging to be taken. He’d sacrificed so much. The light of the sun on his face. The relief of hunger. The burial of his shame. All of these, he’d refused, but he’s finally free. He wants that for you, and you want it, too.

No matter the cost.

So you refuse. You look Bhaal in the eye and refuse his gift, knowing what it will mean for you. And when he threatens your life, you refuse again. No matter the cost, you think. Death is freedom in its own way.

The sudden agony that wracks through your body is unlike any you’ve ever known. It boils through your blood, singes body and soul, brings down you to your knees with the very force of it. Your chest seems to cave in on itself, expelling your inheritance to Bhaal with every beat of your heart.

Even when he lifts a hand and raises you into the air, you feel crushed - suffocated. Your teeth grind against each other, your skull throbs in agonzing waves, blood flows steadily over your tongue. Your heart slows, your essence fades. Sharp, blinding pain overtakes your vision until all that’s left of you is the shallow, scraping breath in your lungs.

All at once, everything fades, and you’re left in darkness.

And in the darkness, there is finally peace.

Being revived feels like a cruelty. Death is sweet and calm and simple. Emptiness. Oblivion. It is silent, and you are grateful.

Until you’re not.

You’re not, because you’re no longer dead. Something rips you from your painless sense of stillness - throws you back into the misery of life. You fight against it, but it’s pointless; you have no say in this, and it will take you where it desires.

You find yourself in flesh again, find the familiar sensation of your tender skin. You find yourself before Withers, bruised and broken, but reborn.

He’s a sight for sore eyes, but there’s something else that lies in your chest. A silence that hasn’t been there since… since before you’d woken up on the nautiloid, confused and alone, not a memory to be found aside from meaningless scraps and a face you didn’t recognize.

The Urge is gone. All that’s left is you.

It feels empty.

This should feel heroic, this return of yours that leaves you panting with the throes of death, covered in blood and on your knees. You’re back, you’re alive, and gods, you’re glad to see your friends and your lover, but it’s empty.

You deserved to die, didn’t you? It was your horrible knowledge, the one you kept tucked away even from Astarion. That never-ending guilt. After your crimes, after all the horrid things you’ve done with these hands, this body, before you’d lost your memory - you’d most certainly deserved to be put down.

You don’t dare look at Astarion, but you look at Withers. Surely, he must know what you are. Surely, he must know what you’ve done.

“I deserve to die,” you tell him, your voice shaking as much as your body. “For all the evil I have done.”

Withers stares at you, his expression unchanged. “The sole way to atone for thine actions is to do better, in a new dawn,” he says - and gods, he smiles. He’s proud of you, you realize. Proud of your resistance. “That dawn has come,” he announces.

And if he will not be swayed, you suppose you won’t, either. You’re alive, whether you like it or not. Whatever pieces are left of you and the life you might live, you’ll put them together. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.

The important thing is that you’re finally free.

“Bhaal tried to extinguish thee,” Wither observes, “but his wrath is imprecise. He only succeeded in killing the part of thee he knew. The Urge that drove thee to terrible acts. The spark of brutality that made thee his. But there is a new part of you that hath grown during thy travels. That part, Bhaal could not extinguish. And so, instead of destroying thee, he hath made thee anew.”

“You get to start over,” Astarion says. He gazes at you, a mixture of leftover fear and relief and care. “To be the person you want to be. Not what someone else made you to be.”

And gods - even in the worst of yourself, you know that he sees you - wants you, all the same. If you’re at his side, you’re sure you can do anything.

“Greet the bloodless dawn, child of none,” Withers says, and for once in the shabby remembrance of your life, the guilt that haunts you finally sweeps away.

Gortash knows you’re coming, you think. After your stint at the Iron Throne and the foundry that now lies in ash, he must. Your memories are mostly lost to the aether, but you do know this - he’s no fool.

Still, when you see him again, there’s that strange, leftover twinge of your past. It’s dead now; whatever warmth there was in his presence has become ice. Your old self has died along with your Urge, rotted away like your need for blood. After all, the part of you he cared for was maniacal. Brutal. Not as bad as Orin, perhaps, but deranged. It sickens you to know he cared for someone like that, when you’ve despised yourself so.

It sickens you even more to know that he knows no guilt for his actions. How much have you suffered over your own deeds? How often have you awoken in sweat, drenched from head to toe with the fleeting remnant of your past deeds tainting your mind?

And here he is, smug and so sure - of himself, of this path, of Bane. And he knows no regret, or guilt, he makes no apologies. A part of you may have once loved him, but no more. Whatever he’d once seen in you, it no longer remains.

You wonder if he can tell. After all you’ve done to him, after the havoc you’ve wreaked on his plan, does he realize that the person he cared for no longer exists? He seems not to. Not until Karlach launches at him and you draw your blade, willing to kill when it’s necessary but not craving an ounce of blood more.

The fight is long and brutal, but it’s familiar. You have your friends at your side, people you trust even more than yourself. It flies by in a blur, only ending when Karlach’s axe sinks into Gortash’s gut and he crumples to his knees, letting out a final rush of air before he goes still.

Like so many other events, this should feel triumphant, but it doesn’t. Like so many other things, this isn’t fair. Gortash is gone, yes, nothing more than a body on a floor, but there’s no celebration, no relief.

Karlach has gotten her revenge, but she will never get her life back. She will never regain what he took from her.

You have the Netherstones, yes. But gods - that doesn’t stop the sickening feeling deep inside.

You head home with nothing but grief and an aching body, your hand held tight in Astarion’s, and you finally allow yourself to fully mourn the life you’d lived - the things you’d done, and the people who no longer live because of you.

With Gortash finally gone, the air of the camp changes. You’re so close to your goal, but there’s an underlying tension that fills the air. It has you making your way to Astarion, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and nuzzling into his neck.

He holds you close, his thumb trailing over the nape of your neck, and the action slackens the tension out of your muscles.

“So,” he starts, “how are you feeling, now that your old lover is gone?”

You huff, shaking your head. The action brushes your nose with his skin, and you can smell him all over you. The warmth of brandy, the sharpness of rosemary. “I don’t remember any of it,” you say, words soft. “I… don’t really feel anything.”

You recall his numbness after Cazador. Dame Aylin’s emptiness after smiting down Larroakan. Karlach’s grief after killing Gortash. Even after your fight with Orin, there hadn’t really been relief. Just… a sense of loss.

He gently takes your face in his hands.

You’re scared, really. You’re so close to succeeding, so close to getting the tadpole out of your mind, and yet, you’re terrified out of your wits. What the hells are you supposed to do, now that failing holds the most weight?

“Do you really think we’ll win this?” you ask him. Your fear slips into your voice and breaks it, and you wince.

“Of course I do,” he says. “I don’t know about you, darling, but I have no intention of dying again.” He presses his lips to your forehead, the gentle touch soothing away your fear. “We’ll get through this. Trust me.”

And, despite the fear, the pain, the loss - despite every curve that life continually throws at you, every defeat you muster through, you know he’s right.

You’ll get through this; just like you always do.

#astarion x reader #astarion #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #astarion x dark urge #baldurs gate 3 x reader #mywriting

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kkami-writes · 7 months

Text

waiting for us — chapter fourty. sunrise wc. 665

You are very much NOT a morning person, so it’s practically a miracle that you are in fact up at 6:30 am, before the sun is even out. The things you do for these boys. The coffee more than makes up for it and the fact that you’re pretty sure all those boys know your order makes your heart swell.

You had never thought that driving could be hot but to be honest you were starting to change your mind as you had watched your soulmates drive. You had no idea what it was but they had all looked rather attractive while driving. Again, this was something you were going to pack away and pretend you never realized this. The playlist Chan has playing is rather soothing as you find yourself slowly bobbing your head to the music.

It only takes around twenty minutes to reach your location, a small little vantage point with a great view. It’s still dark outside, but slowly getting lighter as the sun comes out.

“Can you give me one minute? Just chill in the car,” Chan gives you that breath taking smile and the only thing you can do is nod your head. You can hear him opening up the trunk, rustling noises that make you curious but you stay put, keeping your head forward not to ruin the surprise. That’s not to say it doesn’t make you antsy, squirming slightly in your seat with anticipation.

Chan seems to notice this and puts your out of your misery, coming back to open the door and offering his hand to you. “Mi’lady” You snort but take his hand, letting him help you out of the car. He leads you to the back of the trunk, now decorated with little fairy lights surrounding a blanket, some pillows and a plate of fruit and pastries. Your mouth opens wide at this cozy little setup. Chan has parked the car backwards so they could sit comfortably in the trunk, while the sun slowly rises.

The lack of words coming out of your mouth seems to make Chan nervous. “Um, do you? Like it?” You can hear the anxiety in his voice but you just turn around and throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his wide shoulders.

“I love it! It’s so sweet,” You reassure him.

Slowly the sun starts to rise, painting the sky in an orange glaze, the two of you sat in the trunk curled up. You don’t know why but your emotions feel a bit haywire and you can’t help the small tear that falls down your cheek. Even though you’re pressed against Chan’s chest and he can’t really see your face, it’s like he can sense something wrong.

“What’s wrong?”

“No, nothing! I just- fuck, this is so beautiful? And this whole set up is so romantic and sweet. I’ve never…really experienced anything like this and. I don’t know I feel so? Amazed that you guys would do stuff like this for someone like me. Honestly? These last few weeks I feel more alive than I’ve ever been. I really can’t remember the last time I had felt this happy. This free,”

Chan’s grip around you gets tighter, moving his head so it rests on your shoulder. “I’m so happy you have no idea. While the guys and I have been happy, all of us have been waiting for you for so long and you complete us so well. We all feel it, our little missing puzzle piece,”

You turn around in his small embrace and kiss him square on the mouth. Chan seems a little surprised but eases into the kiss. You keep it short though, a little embarrassed at how your practically threw yourself at him.

He only grins at seeing the flush across your face, coming to cup your face and pressing about a thousand more kisses to your lips.

You definitely knew you were going to easily get addicted to their kisses.

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#stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids smau #stray kids social media au #skz #skz x reader #stray kids fake texts #skz smau #skz social media au #skz fake texts #stray kids fluff #stray kids imagines #stray kids fanfic #stray kids imagine #stray kids scenarios #stray kids reactions #skz texts #skz scenarios #skz imagines

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4ln-stay8 · 2 months

Text

Home <3

>summary: Bang Chan is on tour and you miss him a little too much

>author’s note: its been a while since the last fic… I also decided to write fics for other fandoms… It’s technically my first one of this kind so bare with me… its most likely bad, I can’t say Im a writer let alone a good one, but I’m bored and I have ideas sometimes

>warning: fluff, fluff, lots of fluff, Bang Chan, mention of Changbin

>pairing: bang chan x reader

It’s public knowledge that Chan was simply a walking green flag, a flag so green that the red dots that stained the material were simply unnoticeable. He was simply perfect, with all his flaws and all his qualities and you considered yourself the luckiest girl in the world to be able to call him yours.

You stared out of your apartment window, the city lights twinkling below. The loneliness in the room echoed the ache in your chest as you scrolled through old photos of you and your boyfriend, Chan. You couldn’t shake off the longing that grew bigger with each passing day he was on tour.

You traced your finger along the outline of his face in a picture, as if trying to bridge the distance between you.

Nothing felt worse than being away from the one you loved the most. The pain that you felt in your chest every time something reminded you of him, which happened constantly, getting stronger and stronger every time.

As much as you were thrilled about Chan being on tour, knowing how happy he is being in his element surrounded by his beloved stays and members, you couldn’t help but hate it with the same passion you loved it with.

You hate not being with him, not being able to hug and kiss and see and touch him, you hated it all. You hated going to sleep in the cold empty bed, waking up all alone and cold, getting home in the evening to an empty apartment. Everything was lonely, but as much as you missed him, you still wouldn’t change a thing.

Even though there were times when you were away from each other, not being able to see each other for weeks, the moments when you were together were all worth it.

You found yourself sitting on the edge of your bed one lonely evening, a mix of determination and excitement in your eyes. The realization that you missed Chan a little too much hitting you like a wave.

In that moment you realised that late night facetime calls and a few text messages a day weren’t enough for you to hold onto anymore. Thats why you just landed in the country he was supposed to perform in a few days.

As you get in the taxi you feel your phone buzzing in the back pocket of your jeans. You reach for it while you tell the driver your hotel address and check your phone screen to see a message from your beloved pop up.

When you raised your eyes from your phone you realise that you are in front of the hotel. You pay the driver and take your bags out. You take your phone to text Changbin, who helped you pull the entire thing off.

You picked up your bags and went to the hotel lobby where you waited for Changbin. Soon after you got there you see Binnie walking out of the elevator.

-Hi Bin! you said excited to see your friend and one of the reasons you were actually here

-Hi Y/nnie! It’s really nice seeing you! said Binnie pulling you in a hug

-Its great to see you too Bin, I missed you guys! Now can you please give me the key? I’m dying to see him! you said blushing, your smile as big as possible

-Sure you simp! Go pull him out of his misery! He misses you like crazy! said Changbin in a teasing voice giving you the spare key he stole from Chan

-Thank you Binnie! It means the world to me! you said and pulled him in another hug

Changbin led you to Chan’s door. He put your bags down and right when you were about to knock you feel your phone buzzing again.

You hear footsteps approaching the door and you wait there nervous and excited to see him again. You see the door slowly opening and you are met with a very surprised Chan right in front of you.

-Hello my love! you said smiling, your eyes staring to get glossy at the sight of your lovely boyfriend who you have missed deeply

- H…hi! Baby… What are you doing here? he said confused yet excited to see you after so long, getting your bags and pulling you inside his room where he launched himself at you, hugging you like there’s no tomorrow

- I wanted to see you! I missed you so much! you said, your face buried in his chest as you pulled him closer to you

-I missed you too babygirl! But I thought you were going home? I didn’t expected to see you here! he whispered not really sure if this is real or it’s just a daydream

-I was going home. I am home Channie! you said smiling at him…. You are my home! you whisper loud enough for him to hear as you pulled him in a kiss full of love and desire

-You are my home too babygirl! he whispered back as you both pulled apart

You never thought that you could love someone this much, but here you were. You always thought that love was a hard thing, that it was something that it wasn’t meant for you. You convinced yourself that love won’t be a part of your existence but then, Chan came into your life and proved you wrong. Loving him was as easy as breathing. Loving him was like the fresh smell after the rain. Loving him was like a glass of cold water on a hot summer day. Loving him was like sitting in the comfort of your home in a cold day, but yet he was your home. He really was your home.

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lonely-cowboy · 4 months

Text

future of us

pairing: connor (rk800) x f!reader

summary: after finding a box of home videos, you're overwhelmed with thoughts of the future. only connor can ease your worries.

word count: 2k

warnings: panic attack sorta, good ol' daddy issues, a 6yo (and a however old you are)yo having an existential crisis about death, i actually don't know what this is i just felt like writing it, rushed ending

author's note: yes i was complaining about my angsty gameplay in my last post and yes i am posting angst after saying i needed more fluff to feel happy. what about it. i like the angst, it makes me feel smth.

masterlist ⟡ requests

The television flickered in the dim living room, the shadows shifting like otherworldly creatures. The heavy rain pounded against the windows combined with the quiet whistle of the winds. You would think that with such advanced technology nowadays the intense weather wouldn’t affect the power. Apparently, that hadn’t been a priority during this era of technological breakthroughs. But you didn’t mind. The flickering screen and hissing static were comforting, reminding you of the days Hank still had his old-fashioned television.

In the peaceful hours of the early morning (or late night depending on who you asked), you sat huddled on the couch with your eyes glued to the television. Wearing one of Hank’s old sweatshirts that was far too long for you, you hugged your knees tightly.

You watched the screen as a little girl sat bashfully at the head of a long dining table, kicking her feet giddily as a birthday cake with six blazing candles was placed in front of her. She was surrounded by loved ones who looked at her fondly, singing in unison with enthusiastic, booming voices. One voice– the cameraman's– overpowered them all, his voice uncharacteristically jaunty and cheerful. As the singing reached its end and the little girl blew out her candles with a big breath (and a lot of spit), the cameraman squished himself into the frame with a wide grin.

And there was Hank Anderson. A younger, much happier Hank, but Hank nonetheless. He grinned at the camera, calling the little girl’s attention. They both smiled brightly into the camera, ignoring that it was a video and not a picture. Hank and his goddaughter. Hank and you.

You were honestly surprised when you found the box of old VHS tapes. Yes, VHS tapes. No, you weren’t that old, far from it actually. Hank was just always old-fashioned; he never had a knack for technology. So any videos from your childhood were found on VHS tapes that Hank had kept for all these years.

You found them when you were organizing his garage. The entire day, you had been cleaning around his house with Connor’s help because his drunk ass could never do it. You hoped that maybe by giving him a clean environment he might be able to clean up his act. You weren’t too sure about that, but the thought was there.

When you found the tapes, it was already well into the night. Hank had passed out hours ago, and you released Connor to recharge not long ago. That’s when you decided you were deserving of a much-needed break, dragging the hefty box of VHS tapes into the living room for your viewing pleasure.

Only you hadn’t realized the experience would be the exact opposite of pleasurable. The more videos you watched, the more your misery grew.

You couldn’t exactly explain why you were so upset. All you knew was that your chest was heavy with dread, your eyes forlorn as you watched video after video.

You were so distracted by the video of your sixth birthday (Hank was now interrogating you about the differences between being five and six, ever the detective) that you hadn’t heard Connor’s light footfalls. Though you probably wouldn’t have heard them anyway. Androids were scarily sneaky like that. You didn’t realize Connor was even in the room until he was standing right beside you, his figure nothing but a shadow in your peripheral vision. You had almost forgotten he was here, simply resting (or whatever it was androids did) in Hank’s spare room.

Your attention snapped to him, fumbling for the remote to pause the video. With only the light of the television to guide you, you struggled to find the pause button. By the time you finally found it, your cheeks were unbearably warm with embarrassment.

Watching videos of your childhood self to remember the good times with Hank before he practically cut you off completely, dried tear stains on your cheeks and fresh tears welling in your eyes? Pathetic.

With your face buried in the baggy sleeves of Hank’s sweatshirt, you tried to casually wipe away your tears, but you knew it was too late. Connor had already seen them. And even if he hadn’t seen them, you were sure he could guess by the shaky tone of your voice.

“Hi, Connor,” you greeted weakly.

Connor was silent for a moment as his eyes trailed over your figure, surely analyzing you. His LED circled yellow for a long time. Even when he sat down beside you, it continued to show yellow.

“Are you alright?” Connor asked softly, reaching a hand forward to rest on your knee and giving it a loving squeeze.

You were so surprised that he didn’t offer some kind of thorough analysis of your current mental state that a guttural laugh escaped your lips. The sound confused even Connor, his eyebrows furrowing at your impromptu reaction. You covered your mouth sheepishly, flashing Connor a look that said “I’m-sorry-I-don’t-know-what-that-was-either-kindly-ignore-that.”

Connor was silent again as he considered what to say. His eyes flitted to the television screen that had paused on a frame of you shoving your face into the camera with a toothy smile. You were missing two of your bottom teeth.

“Is that you?” Connor inquired. He was only being polite. You both knew that with a simple facial scan he had already determined that it was, in fact, you.

“Yeah,” you answered lamely. “My sixth birthday.”

Connor’s hand that was resting on your knee moved to your hand, slowly pulling the remote out of your grip. He unpaused the video and sat stiffly, his eyes darting from you to the screen like he didn’t know which to watch. The television showed you as you flaunted your missing teeth before pulling back to answer another one of Hank’s questions.

“Alright, last question, kiddo,” Hank said off-screen, his tone teasingly serious. “We gotta hear the final verdict… d’you like being six?”

Your little self squinted her eyes in consideration, lips pursed into an extreme pout. For added effect, you put a finger to your chin and tapped it thoughtfully.

“Hmm…,” you thought loudly. “No!”

“No?” Hank repeated with a hearty laugh. “Why not?”

“I don’t wanna get old,” you admitted innocently as if it was the easiest answer in the world. “Getting old means I’ll die.”

You snatched the remote from Connor’s hand and hurriedly paused the video again. All of a sudden, your breaths were coming out in sharp pants as your body was filled to the brim with an inexplicable panic. You needed a distraction, you didn’t want to think about any of this.

Connor was calling your name calmly, his voice a steady, grounding force. Your wide eyes snapped to meet his, hands moving to clutch both of his. As you latched onto his warm gaze, you felt an odd imbalance. You couldn’t tell if you were comforted or stressed by his presence.

“How can I help you?” Connor murmured, allowing you to grip his hands as tightly as possible.

“I don’t know… I don’t know,” you stammered. “I’m scared, Connor.”

“What are you scared of?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay… okay,” Connor whispered soothingly.

Freeing one of his hands from your grasp, Connor’s hand snaked to the back of your head and pulled you forward until your forehead was resting against his lips. He pressed light kisses against your skin, murmuring comforting words as tears started to silently spill from the corners of your eyes. You collapsed forward until your face was buried in the crook of Connor’s neck. His lips moved to your head, kissing along the top of your head.

Why were you crying? Why were you crying? Why were you crying?

You didn’t understand why you were so overwhelmed, you just knew that you were. You had felt it so suddenly that there hadn’t been time to ask why.

“Are you scared of… losing Hank?” Connor questioned.

No, that wasn’t it. Well, yes, you were. But that wasn’t the cause of your unexpected anxiousness.

“Are you scared of… dying?”

Yes. Yes, that was it. That was it. Sort of, at least.

Too broken to speak, you simply nodded against Connor’s body.

“Can you tell me what scares you about it?”

Could you? You thought about it, blinking furiously to slow the tears. Why were you scared? Sure, death was scary in general, but there was something else. There had to be something else because your heart was still pounding furiously.

“I… don’t know,” you croaked.

“Okay,” Connor said patiently. “That’s alright. You don’t need to know.”

With his hands still on you, Connor carefully pulled away from you to meet your gaze. The corners of his lips were raised in a loving smile as he studied you, his thumb absentmindedly running along your knuckles.

“I want you to know that you’re safe with me,” he continued.

You matched Connor’s smile hesitantly, feeling your heartbeat slow to a resting state. Your attention was drawn to Connor’s spiraling LED as it returned to its usual blue.

That was it.

Your smile vanished quicker than it appeared. Your eyes were now fixated on the LED at Connor’s temple, a constant reminder that he was an android. And you were only human.

“I’m going to lose you,” you whispered hoarsely.

A puzzled look crossed Connor’s features, the crease between his brows returning. His LED blinked yellow again as he realized you were still in distress.

“You won’t lose me,” Connor promised, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can’t lose me.”

“That’s the problem, Connor,” you sniffled. “Someday, I’ll die. And you’ll keep living.”

The tension in Connor’s face eased as he realized the root of your sadness, though he didn’t look at ease himself. His LED quickly turned to a solid red. He looked so… sad. As if it hadn’t occurred to him until now the inevitable future of the two of you.

The look on his face made you want to apologize profusely. You were sorry for ever putting that thought in his head. But you didn’t have the words to speak. You were frozen, just as he was.

Connor broke your suspended state by inhaling slowly, nodding his head as he thought to himself. You noticed that his grip on your hand was tighter as if he was afraid to let go. His other hand had moved to rest on your upper arm, rubbing it soothingly. It seemed to be a calming gesture for both you and him.

“Maybe that is how it will be,” Connor muttered, his eyes finding yours again. “Or maybe there’s another way we don’t know of. But that… that’s far in the future. That’s not something we need to concern ourselves with right now. Right now… is right now.”

Your tears had stopped falling long ago once there were no more left to cry. You resorted to chewing your lip worriedly, ignoring the bead of blood that infested your tastebuds. Connor’s hand moved to caress your jaw, running a thumb across your lips to stop you from hurting yourself.

“Right now… I’m holding you. On this couch. Because I care about you,” Connor continued, though his voice was still slightly frazzled. “And that’s all we need to worry about.”

Either way, his words did do something to calm you. You nodded along as he spoke, leaning into the warmth of his smooth palm. Your fear wasn’t gone, not completely anyway. But it was certainly less than it was before.

You moved quickly into Connor’s arms, pushing him back so that he was lying on the couch. Your head curled against his chest, holding the front of his shirt tightly. You never wanted him to leave. His arms naturally fell around you and lightly rubbed your back.

It wasn’t necessary for Connor to breathe, but you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. You knew he was doing it for your sake. You followed the pattern of his breathing until you finally felt a sense of peace for the first time that night.

“Will you keep holding me like this?” you mumbled.

“I’ll hold you like this, right now and forever.”

#detroit become human #connor x reader #dbh connor x reader #rk800 x reader #dbh connor #connor rk800

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yeoblurbs · 5 months

Text

[11:48] Wooyoung x Reader

when Wooyoung breaks up with you, you find yourself at a loss.

love seemed so unattainable on days like these; while you laid on your bed with your head smushed on the pillow beneath you, love seemed as though it were a mere dream, and nothing more. with a hollow heart and tear-stained cheeks, you sniffle through the piles of soaked tissues that surround you on your bed. disgusting, some might say, but heartbreak tugs at the strings that are intertwined within you, playing your love as though it were a broken harp as you begin to lose sight of yourself.

your empty eyes stare into nothingness as your mind traces back to the events that led you here; alone and miserable. alone and bitter.

and the bitter truth is exactly that; bitter. you cry through blubbering words that leave a sour taste on your tongue. you are bitter and miserable. misery, you suppose, is an emotion that makes you feel as though you dropped your favorite drink on yourself, staining the fabric that coats your skin as it sticks to your flesh like a leech. what a fool you are, drowning in bitter misery as you scream for help, pointlessly clawing your way up yet only sinking deeper.

your ringtone breaks you out of your self pity, but you ignore it. but then it rings again, and again. and suddenly you have to face reality again. you lift your head, wiping your cheeks as you check your phone.

your heart skips a beat.

it’s Wooyoung.

you aren’t sure what he wants, nor are you interested you are interested. he broke up with you, for what reason you aren’t sure yourself, so why would you grant him the opportunity to speak with you now?

it was angering. the idea that he got to say his piece as he broke things off but you hadn’t gotten a moment to speak for yourself and communicate how you felt.

but then again, here you were crying over him for the nth time this week. your breakup was fresh; just two weeks ago you were happy and together.

you breathe in heavily; heartbreak was exhausting.

your doorbell rings, causing you to lift your head as you check the time on your phone; 11:56pm, it reads. you are scared to check who it is that is at your apartment so late. you walk with soft steps, careful as you grab a knife from your kitchen and peek through the hole. but what you see isn’t a stranger; it’s Wooyoung.

you place the knife back, taking a deep breath before you open the door.

“What the fuck, Wooyoung?” you ask flatly.

he sniffles, hand moving to wipe beneath his eyes as he looks at you. he looks like shit, you notice. his hair is tousled, his cheeks look flushed and his eyes are red rimmed. you want to scoop him up and provide him all the love you have to offer.

but the reality was that this was your ex. you had to ask what he was doing. “Hello? Wooyoung?”

“Y/n.” he croaks. the sound of his voice makes your legs tremble and you ache to pull him in a hug, but you refrain.

you figure you can’t leave him out there so late. “Come in, Wooyoung. Don’t just stand there.”

he takes a step forward, slow and hesitant, until you gently grab his sleeve and tug him in. he takes a seat on the couch as you prepare a hot green tea; you weren’t sure what else to serve in the middle of a wintery night.

you hand him the cup and he takes it with both hands, sweater paws covering the majority of the mug as he blows on it. he looks so small and vulnerable, you almost feel bad, until you remember he was the one who broke up with you. you had no idea what he was doing in your apartment here tonight.

“I don’t understand, Wooyoung. What are you doing here at this time?” you ask, voice as steady as you can possibly manage.

he places the mug down, fiddling with his fingers. “I wanted to talk.”

your brows furrow, “Talk about what? I thought you said everything you needed to?”

he shakes his head, sniffling once more. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I’m selfish and I missed you, so I decided to come here.”

he looks up at you with wide eyes, “Do you want me to leave?”

your heart breaks, and what little resolve you had to be firm is gone. because the truth was, you were extremely soft for Wooyoung.

you shake your head, “No, but what do you mean you missed me? You broke it off, remember?”

his eyes fill with tears as he wipes them uselessly. he fists his hands, digging them into his eyes as you take steps forward and tug his hands away. you crouch down in front of the couch, “Talk to me, what’s wrong?” you ask softly.

his behavior is concerning, and you find the fragile demeanor to be heart rendering. because yes, you too, were heartbroken right now, but he looked just as bad, if not worse than you.

“I’m sorry, you deserve better than me but I still can’t help but love you,” he cries as he speaks, choking on the soft sobs that escape his lips. you shush him quietly, rubbing his back.

“What do you mean, baby? What are you talking about?” you run a hand through his hair, heart melting as he leans into it.

he tugs at his lip with his teeth, “You deserve someone better than me. So I left. But… M’ a selfish idiot who still needs you.”

he looks down at his lap, hiccuping as tears stream down his face, “You deserve someone like Jaewon. He’s perfect.”

your legs begin to hurt from the position, so you move to sit next to Wooyoung. you gently place your hands on his face, positioning it to face you. “Baby, who told you this? Was it Jaewon? I’ll beat the shit out of him right now.”

Wooyoung’s eyes go wide, an abrupt smile taking over his face, though it vanishes just as quickly. the sight makes your heart stutter, however you are still wondering who told him that you deserve better than him.

“Nobody told me, I just know.” he says quietly.

you tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, “Okay, well that’s just not true.”

you take a deep breath. “I have loved you for a while now, Wooyoung. You have given me the love I didn’t know I wanted; I needed.” you wipe a tear that falls from his eye, “It’s not fair for you to make the decision yourself on what I deserve. I want you, so who are you to deprive me of that?”

more tears cascade down his cheeks, “You still want me?”

you nod your head. “Always and forever, my love. If you’ll have me.”

he cries, throwing himself into your arms as his body shakes with his sobs. tears fill your eyes as you hold him close, running your hand up and down his back, before raking it through his hair as you kiss the top of his head.

the two of you lay on the couch for another twenty minutes, before you force him up and into the bathroom to change into an old pair of clothes he left over. you clean up your bedroom, tidying the bed as you wait for him to finish up. he emerges from the bathroom as he rubs at his eyes tiredly. you smile at the sight, walking to him and kissing his cheek. his face turns pink at the action, causing you to giggle at his shy look.

you get ready for bed next, somewhat rushing as you’d like to be in bed and sleep well for the first time in two weeks.

when you step out of the bathroom, you look to see Wooyoung drowning in the covers. he looks small, and you sigh at the sight. you walk to the side, turning off the light before sliding beneath the covers. he pokes his head up at your appearance, eyes drooping as he gravitates towards you. the moment his skin touches yours, he dives into your chest, arms wrapping as closely to you as possible.

you smile at the action, patting his head softly as he succumbs to sleep. “Love you, Y/n.” he slurs.

you kiss his head in response, “I love you too. Now, sleep.”

the two of you still had lots to discuss tomorrow, but you find comfort in knowing that he was there and not going anywhere. in the end, you suppose, love was not unattainable.

unedited drabble except I can’t write angst without adding a happy ending.

@scuzmunkie ;>

#ateez angst #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #wooyoung x you #jung wooyoung x reader #wooyoung angst #wooyoung fluff #wooyoung x y/n

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littlerosetrove · 27 days

Text

I think the show is going to start doing better by Eddie in upcoming episodes, and I desperately hope I’m right. Some critical thoughts incoming because I just want better for Eddie.

My focus of this post is about Eddie being in a romantic relationship, although there are absolutely so many potential storylines to delve deeper into with Eddie. Trust me, I know.

I do get why Eddie was with Ana, I do. That man was still repressing so much trauma for starters, and (even now) Eddie was also feeling pressured by society and his upbringing to “give Chris another mom.” It was something Eddie felt like he should do. And hooboy does Eddie still need to work on issues surrounding things he often feels like he “should” do. We all know that Eddie stuck it out with Ana far longer than he should have (Ana is guilty of this two, cause it takes two to tango). An apt description for Eddie is that he’s “the architect of his own misery.” ← Idk who originally said this phrase, but I got it from @yramesoruniverse, and it’s true.

Speaking of misery. No matter how the show tried to paint it as something cute and good, there is nothing actually good about Marisol and Eddie. Let me explain and bear with me.

Let’s be real. The show during 6B treated Eddie’s loneliness and his subsequent desire to date as a joke. Maybe not 100%, but even 1% is too much. That montage of Eddie going hiking, playing golf (??), and hanging out at a fucking country club (?????) to find a date? That was played for laughs.

Now at one point, Eddie had a genuinely great heart to heart with Bobby. I can’t recall their conversation exactly right now since I haven’t rewatched season 6 since it aired, but I know Bobby basically said Eddie should find someone who will sit with him during the hard times (please correct me if I’m wrong).

But then the show tried to frame Eddie running into Marisol - someone he met on a call - as this spark, this magical moment. Let’s remember that in season 6 Eddie was wistfully reminiscing on his and Shannon’s beginning and called it magic. And so again, the show tried to say, “Hey look! Eddie bumping into Marisol (no last name) is meant to be. This is magic!” Then we jump into season 7 where we’ve gotten no development on Marisol still, and zero development on their relationship, unless you want to call Eddie admitting to using Marisol as a babysitter as some development. Hell, we don’t even know how Chris feels about her. With all of this in mind, to me this just looks like Eddie had grabbed onto the first person he could so he wouldn’t be lonely. If the show wanted us to care an iota about Marisol or their relationship in any capacity, they would have. But they haven’t. And that’s just heartbreaking for Eddie. All they’ve given Eddie is a surface level, nothing of a relationship.

It’s clear Eddie and Marisol are going to break up in 7x7 at the latest, and… for what? 7x5 will definitely have to do some backfilling on where and why their relationship isn’t going to work (it doesn't appear Marisol will be in 7x6). Even still, what was the point of it all?? Before anyone says it, yes Eddie is allowed to date, even casually, but GD there’s been nothing to grasp onto, you know? No reason to feel even remotely excited or happy that Eddie’s dating, specifically not with Marisol (and the actress is a shitty person) who ffs doesn’t even have a last name. Just having two attractive people in the same room does nothing for me, sorry.

To try and conclude this, this *gestures at everything I just said* is why I want better for Eddie and Ryan. I really really hope we’re going to get something of substance for Eddie as a character. Yes it’s been great to see Eddie so much happier in season 7 (thanks to therapy, though he needs more, and Buck and Tommy lbr), but, and to stick with the relationship aspect of it all, I want better for Eddie. Idk if Eddie will have or needs someone like Tommy for himself, or if Eddie is just going to work on himself before the next relationship he’s in will be Buck. We’ll have to wait and see, but yeah…. Eddie just. deserves better.

(this post was inspired by a recent conversation I had with @elvensorceress)

#911 spoilers #9-1-1 #911 meta #Eddie Diaz #my thoughts #gosh I hope this all made sense #I read over it a few times but yeah...

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emotionallyattachednerd · 7 months

Text

Unforeseen Reunion | TP Ratchet x Drift/Deadlock | NSFW 18+

Word count: 7000+ 😲

Warnings: Smut ( valve and plug interfacing ), mentions of violence, near death experiance and angst. NSFW 18+.

Notes: So yeah, I lost complete control of myself. Holy crap, I'm impressed with myself. I decided I wanted to go with Prime universe as that's what my hyperfixation went with. I didn't completely focus on canon just so everyone is aware. I had way too much fun with this and I'm so obsessed with these two. Enjoy this work of art you beautiful sinners. 🥰

The crash landing was the sign that his luck had run out. Deadlock had been travelling for far too long, isolated in his barely hanging on ship without contact, that's until he managed to receive a transmission from decepticons. He should've been pleased, yet he didn't feel it, just emptiness.

It wasn't until he hit the earth's atmosphere that his ship decided it had enough, power shut off and he came plummeting towards the earth. He tried gaining control but that failed so he tried contacting the decepticons requesting assistance, but even that was a deadend. No help was coming for him.

Bracing for impact he thought he might have a chance but the rough landing was much harsher than expected, throwing him around and a sharp piece of metal punctured through him, slicing his fuel tank and severed a fuel line. Terrific.

Deadlock manages to get himself out of his piece of scrap ship and take a few steps forward, only to collapse onto the ground with a pained grunt and look down at his servo that held his wounded area to see a lot of energon was leaking from him. He can't help but let out a vented chuckle, convinced this was going to be it for him.

Only managing to get a short distance away from the crash site he couldn't walk anymore and slid his back down against a tree, venting out heavily as if a pressure was lifted from him. He knew though, his systems were struggling, warnings flashing before his optics, it won't be long before he shuts down and slowly offline from bleeding out. One more time he tried making contact but got nothing in return. Either his com links weren't working or they didn't care about him.

There used to be someone in his life who was very dear to him. He saved his life after getting himself hooked up on circuit boosters, gave him a chance, and he stayed with him. He loved him with all his spark, then the war started and that's where it all went wrong.

Eventually he would make choices and every choice has a price. Whether it was worth it or not, Deadlock never wanted to answer that himself.

He was one of Megatron's favourites. He's the one who gave him his new name and grew from that back on cybertron. He thought he was making the right choice, but he was wrong, and he's had to live with that all this time. He became emotionless, making him willing to kill when needed or ordered, leaving a trail of horrors behind which was enough to make any autobot and decepticon worst nightmare.

Now, he was dying, alone. Just as he deserved.

Leaning himself against the tree all he could do was observe his surroundings, take in what might be his last memories. Everything grew weaker, more burned out as his fuel tank pumped harshly to get energon through him, only for it to leak out.

His audios managed to pick up some sounds of a ground bridge. Had they finally decided to show pity and come for him? He onlines his hazy optics only to be met with the end of a blaster and an autobot symbol.

"Oh just my luck." Deadlock manages to say between harsh vents. "An autobot gets to watch me die in my final moments....or, you can take the shot, put me out of my misery?"

"Is that what you want?" Arcee keeps her guard up and weapons ready, not wanting to give him any chance to attack if he was faking.

"Does it matter what I want?"

"No, it doesn't." Bulkhead comes up behind, forcing Deadlock to move his helm up to look at him.

"Well you're a big one." He casually smirks through his pain. "So, what's it going to be? What's the...autobot thing to do?"

Arcee and Bulkhead had been sent to investigate the crash sight after it made impact. They knew it was a decepticon shuttle but weren't sure if it was occupied. Upon arrival it's confirmed. Neither wanted to let their guard down just in case he had any tricks or if the decepticons might show up.

"What do you think?" Bulkhead asks Arcee, unsure what they should do. Letting him die without them helping didn't seem right, but he was a con.

"Let's call Optimus, see what he has to say." Arcee answers.

Deadlock heard the autobot leader's name causing him to let out another vented chuckle. "Your big boss is here? Huh. Alright, call him, see if he has mercy on a filthy con." He was just talking, it's all he can do for his final moments.

While Bulkhead makes the call Arcee keeps her optics on him with her blaster still drawn. "You got a name?"

The big ask. "If I told you...you're going to wish you pulled the trigger." He decided to not say his name. If she found out, she might just pull the trigger on him without hesitation, not that he cared.

"I don't recognize you. You're not someone I've bumped into before, and I remember every bot I have. So who are you?"

"How about you tell me your name first?" Deadlock manages to tilt his helm to the side as he meets her optics, letting out a smirk when all she gives is silence, his pearly white dentas and sharp fangs pressing over his bottom lips. "Yeah...that's what I thought."

Deadlock notices Arcee say something else but it all goes deaf to his audios. He's lost a lot of energon and he knows he's in trouble as things in him start slowly shutting down. He manages to activate his audios again and this is when he hears more voices and steps coming closer. If he was to survive, he wasn't even sure what he'd do next, not anymore.

A part of him did want to be offline. It'll end everything for good, and perhaps give him some peace of mind, not that he deserved it.

"Hey, you still with us?" Bulkhead taps the top of his helm to bring him back, causing him to let out a groan and online again.

"Sort of..." Is his only honest answer.

"Well, today is your lucky day con. Our medic is going to come and patch you up. Try to remember this moment that we helped you." Bulkhead adds firmly for him to think about.

"I'm jumping with joy." Deadlock chuckles dryly, a little energon drops from his mouth as he tastes it flooding in his intake. Yeah, he felt it was too late.

"Drift?"

That voice.

He manages to move his helm back up and his amber optics flickered as he meets the gaze of the ghostly familiar figure standing before the ground. Ratchet. His Ratchet.

"You know him?" Arcee was surprised to hear Ratchet say the decepticons name. But Ratchet couldn't answer, he was frozen, as if he was petrified or enthralled by the very sight of what he thought he lost those years ago.

Deadlock, his given decepticon name, lets out a softly dry laugh that lingers longer with a smile, disbelief and sadness overwhelming his struggling processor. He finally found him.

"Perhaps I am lucky." He says with his wide smile, sharp dentas glittering in under the sunlight. "It's good to see you Ratty."

Under Optimus' orders Ratchet came to patch up the new decepticon before sending him on their way. He was a medic, he treated the wounded, but treating a decepticon was different. He's done it before of course, but not often. Ratchet felt his servos shake as he stood there. Hearing the old pet name made his vents hitch a little and his own emotions boiling up, completely deaf to Arcee as she questions him.

It's not until Deadlock slumps against the tree that Ratchet finally acted. Hurrying forward he came to his side and started to work on him. His wounds were bad, he knew this already just simply looking at him from afar.

"How do you know him?" Arcee repeats coming to the medics side.

"Later." Ratchet's focus was on him. "Let me work."

Neither Bulkhead or Arcee have ever seen Ratchet like this before. Sure, they've seen him sad, angry, annoyed, happy, but this is different.

When he feels his servos against his frame Deadlock lets out a shutter, both relief and pain. He tilts his helm up to get a better look at Ratchet and manages to hold a soft smile that feels foreign to him, he hasn't smiled like that in a very long time. There was a deep history there, and the two went through a lot together, right before he hurt his Ratty. He didn't deserve to be saved, or given a chance. Damage was done.

"Saving your life, again." Ratchet mutters mostly to himself, his own emotions rattled. "Reckless. Stupid. All this time and you're online, still. I'm out of my mind. I should hate you, no, I do hate you, but my spark is aching for you." His voice is low as if he's whispering to himself but Deadlock hears it. "Why did you....How could you...." His words break apart and that hits Deadlock hard.

"I'm sorry." Is all he can whisper, touching Ratchet's working servo and gaining his attention. "I'm sorry....I'm so sorry." Apologising won't fix the past or his choices, but it's the first time he's ever said it to him.

As much as Ratchet is hurting he knew he couldn't lose him again. Whatever happens next will be whether it was too late or not.

"Kids, stay back." Bulkhead hurries through the ground bridge first and warns the kids all hanging around the raised platform along with Agent Fowler and June.

"What's going on?" Raf asks curiously, noticing his worried expression.

"Optimus, he won't listen. Can you talk to him? This is crazy!" Arcee is next feeling enraged about Ratchet's decision.

Ratchet comes through next, carrying a badly wounded Deadlock in his arms with strength no one else had seen him with for a long time.

"You brought a Decepticon back here?" June raises her hand over Raf and makes sure the kids stay behind her. "Ratchet the kids are here!"

"Don't like it, find the door." Ratchet barks back, taking many of them off guard. He ignores everyone and places him on the medical berth, quickly gathering tools to start stabilising him.

Deadlock was hanging close over the edge, everything in him hurt and his processor was swimming wildly. He had no idea where he was, only that Ratchet was with him, and that's all that mattered.

"So cool." Miko comes closer to get a better view. Jack tries to stop her.

"Miko-"

"No way I want to watch!"

Optimus comes closer but stays out of Ratchet's way and stares at the decepticon brought in, his optics widening a little as if something clicked in his processor, and Arcee notices this.

"You know him too. Ratchet called him Drift. Who is that?"

Optimus is quiet before looking at his comrades. "Ratchet knows him. Let him work."

"But-"

"Please, Arcee." Optimus knew just how sensitive this would be for his old friend, and can't imagine but he must be feeling right now.

Arcee finally backs off but that doesn't mean she was alright with this. Most of everyone wasn't. Miko sits on the edge of the lower platform as she watches Ratchet do his magic on the decepticon, a fascination. June only manages to keep Jack and Raf away, still not liking that a decepticon was near the kids base.

"Prime, is this safe?" Agent Fowler questions him quietly. "I get that he's a friend of Ratchet's, but that doesn't change he's a decepticon."

"I understand your concern. But please, I'm asking you all to let Ratchet handle this." Optimus didn't want to explain everything in that moment, respecting Ratchet and hoping everyone will follow the same.

Deadlock was in and out of it for a bit, gold optics flashing repeatedly as Ratchet tried to stop the bleeding and keep him stable. Everything hurt through him, but not as bad as the ache in his spark that throbs with grief for his Ratty. He was saving his life yet again, trying to at least.

"Are you still with me?" Ratchet's tone is more gentle as he hovers over him once he manages to stop the bleeding.

"Ah huh..." He manages to say between heavy vents.

"I need to repair the damage and get energon running through you again. Try to keep still, you're at the start of a long road recovery."

Before he could say anything else, Ratchet had gone to get a few things. Deadlock tilts his helm a little to the side and through his flickering vision he spots something, or someone. The pink is what catches his attention first and gives himself a moment to adjust his vision before it clears up almost.

"Well, you're tiny." He manages to say softly through a short chuckle.

"I might be small, but I can rip your spark out." Miko doesn't hold back.

"I better...stay on your good side than. What are you?"

"What am I? I'm human. The names Miko. You've never seen a human before?"

"Nah, you're the first, Miko."

"What are your first impressions?"

"Well...you did threaten to rip my spark out...so I'm fearful of you." He only meant it as a joke and Miko knew this, and she gave a small smirk at him. She didn't like cons, but this one seems different.

Even Ratchet didn't seem bothered about his interaction with her. June slowly comes closer, Jack and Raf right behind her, still being careful.

"You're Drift, right?" Miko leans her chin against the railing feeling a bit more comfortable to stay.

"Yes." It's Ratchet that answers quickly before Deadlock could. He understood. Meeting his gaze there was that firm and serious blaze he knew all too well from his Ratty. It meant there was going to be no further mention about it.

"Yeah...I'm Drift." Saying the name again after so long felt weird, but guess he'll adjust to it again.

Suddenly, he jolts and groans in pain through clenched dentas as Ratchet wields something into place. It hurts a lot, but at least it doesn’t last too long.

"Could you give me a warning next time?" He vents once it stops.

"Nope." Ratchet answers simply.

He understands.

"How do you two know each other?" It's Raf that bravely asks, mainly both of them.

"We...go way back." Drift answers, optics shifting at the medic at his side. "Ain't that right Ratty?"

"Hm." Ratchet doesn't answer much after hearing his old nickname.

"Ratty?" Miko can't help but smirk at the medic.

"Only he is allowed to call me that." He tells her. No one else ever did.

"He hates it, but I get away with it." Drift smirks lightly before wincing again. "Frag..." Optics manage to cast over at the other autobots standing together outside the bay and staring, most of them looking not too happy causing him to vent out. "Stop."

Ratchet does but only because he's confused. "What?"

"Just...stop. Just...you shouldn't be helping, you know?"

"Do you want to be offline?" Ratchet hits his tool against the table causing the humans the jump and gives an intense stare at Drift. "Do you just want to give up?"

"Your friends don't want to waste resources on a filthy con...I don't deserve it. You...you shouldn't be helping me."

"Well, too bad. You don't get to have a say in what I do, we're well past that. Perhaps you're right about not deserving to be saved, but the only one that gets to decide your fate is me." Ratchet leans closer to Drift, optics burning, before he erupts. "The only way you will be offline is if I allow it, because I'm the only one who has every right to let you bleed out right now! You don't get to decide your fate! I do! Is that understood?!"

His outburst is heard by everyone. Even the humans shrink away a little, never seeing Ratchet this angry before. Something deep was there, but no one knew just how deep.

Drift doesn't flinch. He takes it, accepts Ratchet's rage. He's right, only he has the right to decide what happens next. All he can do is let him do what he wants, he is no longer in control of his fate.

"Understood."

Ratchet lets out a heavy vent and goes back to work on him, only to look up when he feels everyone staring. "What?" He snaps, bothered that everyone was just staring.

"Everyone, let's give them space." Optimus finally says. "Ratchet has work to do." He'll give that privacy to his old friend without distractions.

June leads the kids away and Miko follows to let Ratchet work. Only Optimus understands what Ratchet must be feeling, he knew what Drift meant to him, and knew just what they've both dealt with over the years. The others all had raising questions but at least they weren't hammering either him or Ratchet with them to get answers, and respected what Optimus had said.

It is a long recovery for Drift. Weeks go by, but he is doing better. Ratchet worked hard to repair the damage he received from the crash and make sure his fuel lines were pumping correctly. He worked his magic and did a good job on Drift, never giving up.

"Alright, follow my digit." Ratchet was doing simple tests, everyday he did them, and Drift obeys as his optics follow the moving digit in front of him, clearing and without struggle. "Good. Better today."

Drift was feeling better, both physically and mentally. After being by himself so long it was going to take time adjusting to have others around.

Not the autobots, mainly the humans kept him company. Drift was curious about these organics. Sure, he's come across them before, but not humans. He doesn't mind them.

"Does this mean I'm off bed rest?" Drift asks as he straightens his back. Ratchet shakes his helm with a short chuckle.

"Yeah right. You're clear when I say you're clear. Just because you look and feel better doesn't mean you're fit for duty."

"Duty?

Ratchet stops and looks at him, optics unreadable before venting softly. "You're staying, right?"

It hasn't been something they've talked about really. Drift had no idea what to do next honestly. Since finding Ratchet he didn't want to leave him behind, not again.

"You're here, so I'll stay. Don't think your friends are going to like that though." He didn't think they would welcome him into team prime. "Does that mean I've got to become an autobot?"

"Don't worry about them, I'll handle it. They don't know your decepticon name, yet. I don't want to hear that name ever again. And yes, you'll become an autobot, because I said so."

Drift understands. "Alright." He was willing to do whatever Ratchet wanted. All he wanted was to have him back in his life again, to not throw away his second chance.

"Good. Now, let's have a closer look."

Drift feels Ratchet's servos touch both sides of his cheek platings, examining him further and making sure he didn't miss anything. But Drift slowly leans into the touch, purring, and reaches up to touch them both under his own. The action gets Ratchet's attention and they both stare at one another, the fondness slowly growing as the medic's optics soften.

Ratchet does like the purrs Drift makes, he always did, and hearing it again makes his knees feel weak. Such a strange effect it gives, yet so addictive. It's been so long since he last heard them, causing his feelings to stir wildly. As much as he hated him for his choices, he never stopped loving him.

Neither did Drift. He has a lot of regrets, but the one he'll always carry is he hurt Ratchet. He'll always carry the weight of that.

Leaning closer, Drift presses the front of their helms together, savouring the moment for as long as he can as his optics shutter closed. Ratchet doesn't lean away and lets it happen.

Drift wants to kiss him, and he tries to do this by leaning closer towards his lips, but Ratchet stops him. The moment is gone.

"It's too soon." Ratchet can only whisper, trying to keep his emotions from pouring out. "You left a deep wound, one I could never repair."

Drift knew he deserved that.

"Your injuries aren't the only recovery you'll be going through. There's a lot....between us, that needs time to heal. Won't be simple, but I need time to adjust to this, to trust you again."

"So there's a chance?" Drift held onto that hope.

Ratchet vents softly and caresses his servo against his cheek plating again, running his digit under his optics gently. "I hope so."

That's all Drift needs. "Take your time then."

Optimus gathered everything, even the humans, so they can all listen to what Ratchet has to say. Drift was resting and took this moment to explain some details to his friends. They've all been very patient.

"How's he doing?" It's June that asks, the only one who was kind enough to ask about Drift.

"Doing better. Still recovering, but he's making good progress." Ratchet answers.

He looks up at everyone who stares at him, all focus and attention. His optics glance over at Optimus who was there for him through this. It's time to reveal it.

"Drift and I have a long history, all the way to the time before the war started on cybertron. He hasn't made the best choices in his life, which is why things are messy between us, but he wants to change, make better choices. I'm willing to give him that second chance."

"I understand your concerns." Optimus then jumps in and speaks to everyone. "We both do, but I trust Ratchet to take charge of him, and I believe there's hope for Drift, to become better."

"So he's becoming an autobot?" Jack asked curiously.

"He will. It's a lot to ask but it would be a great help if everyone treated him fairly, so he can settle into this life. He's been alone for a long time without contact, it has affected him, but with time he'll adjust and do better." Ratchet explains.

"Is he like your best friend?" Raf asks innocently.

The medic gives himself a moment before finally saying it. "Drift is my conjunx endura."

"What?' Arcee quirks quickly in surprise.

"You never said you had one!" Bulkhead is just as surprised while Bumblebee lets out a bunch of whirls and beeps along with them.

"Ah, sorry, humans are confused here." Agent Fowler raises his hand. "What's a...conjunx endura?"

"Well, for humans to understand, we're married." Ratchet clarifies.

"What?!"

Ratchet knew this was going to be a shock to everyone, and he'll silently admit he was trying to avoid this moment, but knew that wasn't going to last forever. They had a right to know what Drift meant to him, and what happened.

"Drift comes from a troubled life. He got himself addicted to circuit boosters, drugs for humans to understand, lost himself, and Optimus found him, or at the time he was Orion. He brought him to me where I had my own medical centre, doing what I could for those who were considered lower classes. I saved his life there, and I saw just how lost he looked, so I gave him a choice to stay and help me out, or he could leave. He got clean and stayed, few of the smart choices he's ever made. Over time we grew fond of one another and...well, we ended up together for a long while, fell in love, things were good and we were happy." Ratchet remembers those fond memories with him before he close his optics.

"Than the war started. Megatron approached me, offered me a position as his head medic officer, but I declined. I thought that was it, but I was very wrong. Megatron got to Drift, manipulated his mind, gave him false hope, and he fell for it. The next time I saw him he wore the Decepticon badge. He was already convinced I was going to join him, but I refused. I got angry, expressed my disappointment loudly. The Drift I grew to love left that day and he became stone cold. Megatron gave him the order to destroy the medical centre and he did it, leaving me in ruins. Megatron gives him a new name..." Ratchet went quiet. He couldn't say it, and looks at Optimus, who understands

"Deadlock."

The name rings through the autobots. They all knew that name all too well. The horrors they've heard, the carnage left behind by the same bot that was now in their base.

The humans all take notice of their reactions. "You've heard of that name?"

"The very name that a lot feared." Arcee says to them, voice full of dread. "I never bumped into him, only heard what he had done, and it's nothing good."

"Drift is Deadlock? The very con that Megatron favoured?" Bulkhead struggled to process this.

"Why did Megatron favour him?" Jack sounds worried.

"Because of his lack of emotion, no empathy, and did as he was told without hesitation." Ratchet adds through a shaky vent. "But...he's coming back around, the Drift I know. After what happened, I joined Optimus to try to do what I could for the autobots, all the while trying to silently mend the damage done to my spark. As much as I hated Drift, I never stopped loving him, and always held on some hope he might come back."

"And he did." June says softly, moved by the story he told everyone to have a better understanding of what just happened. Though they were concerned about his past with the decepticons, they understood what Ratchet must be feeling to get his lover back again after so long.

Ratchet lets out a shaky vent and looks at everyone. "I'm willing to forgive for his mistakes, because that's my choice. I need to ask you all to respect our privacy, our past, and for there to be no further questions about Drift's time with the decepticons. Please, don't shut him out, give him a chance, get to know him. He might not be the smartest, and he's made terrible choices, but there is good in him."

"I don't like cons, but he seems...different." Miko perks up, looking over at Bulkhead. "I've gotten to know him a little, he's not so bad. Just have to ignore that history part with the cons."

Bulkhead groaned in displeasement but knew there wasn't really going to be any other way around this. Drift was going to become one of them, so they might as well start opening up to him.

"We'll do that." Arcee then says through a soft vent. "For you Ratchet, we'll give him a chance."

Ratchet feels himself relax a little hearing this. He had a pretty good team here. "Thank you."

Drift is up and walking. He then finds himself facing the autobots and humans, all looking at him as Optimus and Ratchet approach. Least they didn't have weapons drawn on him, it's a start.

Optimus is first to speak. "Drift, we've all talked to one another and Ratchet has informed the others about your bondage with him. It is Ratchet's wish to give you a second chance, for you to leave behind your past with the decepticons and to become one of our own. I ask for you to have zero connections with any decepticon and to prove yourself among our team here."

Drift looks at Ratchet who gives a simple nod at him. This was his chance to fix what he tore apart between them, to show he could be something better. He wanted that.

"Thanks, Optimus. I'll do whatever Ratty says, I don't want to let him down again, or anyone for that matter."

"Ratty?" June can't help but repeat through a small smile.

"None of you are allowed to call me that." Ratchet points at everyone with a firm glare.

"Only I can." Drift sends him a smirk knowing he was right about that.

"I'm going to lay down a few things as well." Ratchet starts as he steps closer towards him. "You'll follow our rules, our ways, no arguments or whining about it. You'll treat everyone here with respect and you'll be treated the same in return. Everything is going to be stripped, your model, colours, nothing that will give any decepticon a hint who you used to be, a complete new look. Understood?"

Drift listens and doesn't hesitate to nod. Like he said, whatever his Ratty wanted. He was in his control now. "Sure, alright." He gives a smile, sharp denta's lightly exposed.

Ratchet stares before pointing. "I'm removing those modified dentas." Drift's smile slips and goes to say something but Ratchet raises his servo. "Nope! They're going. They look ridiculous on you."

Drift vents heavily. Complete new look. "Alright...whatever you want."

"Wow, who are you and what have you done with Drift?" Miko asks the completely new looking robot sitting in the medical bay. She had just arrived with the others. It seemed Ratchet was very serious.

Drift sends the girl a soft smirk, sharp dentas now back to their default model along with most of his amour, colours neutral grey, ready for a new scan and colour.

"Ratchet wasn't kidding." He answers through a gentle chuckle. "But hey, I think it will be good to have something different."

"Something calm." Ratchet points out as he sets up some programs for Drift to scan and choose from. "Soft, nice, you know? Nothing dramatic."

"Ugh, such a control freak." Miko comes up onto the ramp along with the others.

Drift can't help but snicker. He liked humans. They were different, had a lot of character, he grew to like them very quickly in his short time there.

"What colour, Ratty?" Drift asks as he looks through some models.

"That's for you to decide."

"I want what you want."

"I want you to pick yourself. I'm sure you can't mess up on that." Ratchet doesn't mean for that to sound harsh, but it did. Drift shifts his amber optics at him, looking like a wounded feline, and Ratchet vents softly, lowering his voice. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine." Drift doesn't want him to apologise, so he forces a smile. "I'll pick myself." He says trying to sound positive.

Ratchet nods and leaves him to it.

"Ouch." Miko whispers while hanging over the railing.

"Are things alright between you two?" The youngest Raf asks kindly.

"It's not simple, but it's progress." Drift answers honestly.

For a moment he scans through the new designs before looking up at Ratchet talking with Optimus. His optics scan over him and he smiles. He's picked a colour. Adding the program he scans the new look, his armour shifting colour and shape right in front of the kids to watch, astonished by the change happening before it finishes.

Drift looks at his reflection and smiles more. He looks good, very good. He now holds a very similar colour matching with Ratchet.

"It's a good look." Jack praises.

"You and Ratchet got matching colours now. That's cute." Miko beams.

Drift shifts his optics at Ratchet who is looking at him now, a lingering enchantment holds in his optics as he stares at Drift. They both do indeed share the same colours, a similar design, with Drift only being more slender framed.

"It is cute." Drift sends Ratchet a wink.

Ratchet has to try to cool himself when he sees Drift. He wouldn't say it, but he feels himself heat up at the sight of his long lost mate looking like that. He likes the new look. Clearing his vocals, he nods simply. "Very nice."

Drift doesn't miss the pink hue at his white cheek plating.

Laying on his berth in his given room Drift finds himself staring at the ceiling and letting his processor run over everything that's happened. He was now an autobot, one of team prime. His servo runs over the new symbol over his chest and lets out a soft vent.

It's not that he was disgusted by it, but it does feel foreign still. All this was going to take time to adjust, to move on from his troubled past and do better for him and for Ratchet.

All that time ago, when he hurt him, he lost himself. He became something dark, horrible, one of Megatron's favourites because he did anything he was told. All those memories will forever haunt him, but he hopes he can move past all that and start over with Ratchet. It's all he wants.

The sudden knock at his door jolts him out of his thoughts and goes to open it. He stares at Ratchet who stands on the other side.

"Did I wake you?" Ratchet asks through a soft tone.

"No, recharge is...it's not easy these days." Drift admits.

Ratchet nods lightly. "Can I come in?"

Drift feels his spark thump rapidly as he nods, allowing him to enter and closing the door behind. He watches as Ratchet turns to face him, and there's that struggling look he held, when he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Drift comes closer, calmly stepping in front of him and trying to look into his optics. He can feel the heat radiating from his charris that he wants to touch, but holds back.

"I wanted to see you." Ratchet manages to say. "I...I just want to be with you." Hearing this makes Drift smile, only for it to slip away hearing his next words. "But I'm scared you're going to hurt me again."

"I know." Drift knows he hurt him badly, he'll never forget that. "And...I'm scared you're never going to stop hating me."

"I don't hate you. I'm just trying to trust you again."

"What can I do?" Drift doesn't know himself. "Tell me what to do."

"No." Ratchet shakes his helm, face hardening. "I want you to decide for yourself, not what I or anyone else tells you." On his own free will, not in control.

Drift gets it now. So, he does that. He touches his face plating, running his digits across and savouring the warm feeling, before closing the distance and kissing him gently.

The kiss is simple and short, but it's what Drift wants, what Ratchet wants. It's broken for just a mere moment before Drift dives in again, slowly deepening it as he slides his servos across Ratchet's shoulders and running behind his neck. Without holding back anymore ratchet consumes the kiss they share and backs him back against the berth, leaning over and pressing himself between his thighs as their lingering heated moans fill the room.

"I've missed you." Ratchet manages to whisper between kisses. "Primus...I've missed you so much."

"I'm here, I'm right here, and I'm never leaving you." Drift says before he retracts his panel, revealing his already soaking valve and the housing opens for his spike to throb out. "Please, Ratty, I need you inside me."

Climbing up over him, Ratchet retracts his panel and his throbbing spike emerges from its housing. He rubs himself against Drift, sliding between the lips of his valve, catching his sensitive node with each thrust. Drift throws his helm back against the berth and wraps his legs tightly around his waist, tugging him close and eager to get him inside.

Finally, Ratchet sinks in, groaning lowly as his spike fills Drift, feeling every ridge running against his inner walls, all the while Drift arches his back as he's filled so perfectly, mouth open as he mewls lowly. He missed this, he missed Ratchet.

Ratchet holds himself up as best he could over Drift before he sets a pace, thrusting his hips against Drift while grunting and venting heavily.

"Ratty, so good, so fragging good!" Drift chants as he holds onto him, clenching his valve around his thickness while running his servos along Ratchet's arms.

However, Ratchet makes a blunt noise, as if he's trying something but is struggling, right before he stops moving and lets out an annoyed heavy vent.

"What's wrong?" Drift vents densely as he feels Ratchet's hesitation and tries to avoid his lingering stare, removing himself from his valve as he backs up. "Hey, hey, Ratty, talk to me. D-did I do something wrong?" He touches his face plating and watches as Ratchet's optics shutter closes and leans into his touch.

"No, no, you did nothing wrong. It's me."

"What do you mean?" Drift shifts closer, placing his other servo over his shoulder and listening to whatever he might want to say.

"It's embarrassing." Ratchet rolls his helm a little. Though he knew Drift wasn't going to let this slide, the concern hanging over his face causing him to vent once more. "I'm old. My stamina isn't what it use to be."

Realization hits Drift. So that's it. He can't hold back a smile.

"Don't you dare laugh." Ratchet warns but this only causes Drift to giggle lightly. "It's not funny."

"I'm not laughing." Drift only fails as he continues to giggle.

"Stop that, you're still laughing."

"I'm not, I'm not." Drift forces himself to calm down and bit back his smile before caressing his face. "Ratty, it's alright. Don't worry about it." Leaning close he kisses him gently. "How about you let me on top? Let me take care of you."

Drift gently pushes Ratchet onto the berth and has him lay down before straddling his lap, thighs trapping against his waist while his exposed valve rubs along Ratchet's throbbing spike, causing soft moans to leave from both of them. Drift hovers closer towards Ratchet's face with a tender smile.

"You always took care of me, now it's my turn to take care of you." Leaning closer, Drift kisses him, letting it linger before gently pushing his glossa inside, coiling with Ratchet's.

Positioning himself he sinks back down onto Ratchet's thick spike and starts to ride him, rolling his hips slowly, rocking himself and riding his spike slowly.

Ratchet moves his servos to his waist, gripping his digits into his soft armour while keeping the kiss deep between them, letting out short moans and feeling more comfortable like this.

Drift vents softly into the kiss, letting out short muffled moans as he sucks at Ratchet's glossa, clenching in sync with his movements as he rides him. He moves his servo between them and he starts to stroke himself, rubbing his tip gently before pumping his servo over, arousal and pleasure quickly boiling between them.

"Drift...Primus....you're so tight." Ratchet gently praises between heated moans against his lips.

"Ratty, oh Ratty! I feel so full, filling me so good." Drift presses his forehead against Ratchet's, keeping close while riding his thick spike buried deep in his valve, rubbing against his ceiling node while Ratchet takes over to stroke Drift's cable then.

Moments like these were dreamed between the two over their time apart from each other. So much war, hate, and now reunited, lost in the moment as if nothing happened.

Drift holds a firmer grip, throwing his weight down over again more firmly, clenching around the perfectly ridged spike throbbing in his valve and rubbing against his inner walls. Moans grew more feral between the two as Ratchet kept his moving servo around Drift, feeling ever twitch and transfluid coating his digits and along the length, wet sounds growing more louder as fluids start to build and pool

Tossing his helm back, Drift lets out a louder mewl, crying out in bliss as he rides Ratchet's spike more densely. "Frag, Ratty, frag, I won't be able to hold it back!"

"Do it, let yourself go." Ratchet gives the all clear between heated vents, because he too wasn't too far off from overloading either. "Let's do it together, same time."

Drift beams warmly through the intense pleasure boiling through him as he grinds himself down over again, venting and gasping sharply, soon muffled as Ratchet kisses him firmly and feels his spike suddenly erupt deep within him, thick ropes of fluids coating his inner walls with some dripping out. Within a moment he bites his lips and gasps out sharply as his own transfluids coat between him and Ratchet, a pink glow covering over Ratchet's digits as well.

Taking his servo, Drift lifts it up to his mouth and sucks at his digits to clean to fluids, tasting himself and letting out a delightful hum around each of them. Ratchet is always heated and flushed, he didn't think it would be possible to be even more, but he was wrong when Drift did this.

"So beautiful." He whispers, allured by the delightful sight as his cooling fans kick in along with Drift's.

"You're just as pretty." Drift whispers through a luminous smile. "I love you, Ratty. I never stopped loving you. My spark will always belong to you, my beloved."

Ratchet feels his very spark jump at his words. "I love you too, Drift. Always have and always will. We'll make this work, I promise."

Drift ends up snuggled up against Ratchet, tangled under his embrace as he purrs gently against his charris. Ratchet missed that purr, a soothing vibration and sound he always cherished.

"We'll be alright, won't we?" Ratchet asks as he caresses the back of Drift's helm.

"I believe so." He hums lightly, giving him a gentle nuzzle. "You've never loosing me ever again."

"Good."

Neither will ever be apart again.

#transformers #ratchet #drift #valveplug #idw #prime #deadlock #ratchet x drift #dratchet #canon x canon #smut #fanfiction #writing #sugarrusheag #this is long #6k words #not sorry

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moonlight-prose · 1 month

Text

FIRST LIGHT

➛ #01. ETERNAL DARKNESS

a/n: this fic has been shoving its way to the front of my brain for months now. so i finally decided to sit down and write the first chapter. tommy miller somehow snuck up on me in 2023, and now there's really no going back with this man. i love him and all his agonies. this is a fic that i'm really connected to and terrified to post actually. it's also a level of angst i've never put out before so i'm handing tissues to y'all now.

summary: tommy miller never thought he would end up alone. not when he had family behind him - a life that wasn't perfect, but good enough. yet there he was, kneeling on the cold forest floor - bloodied and bruised - asking to die. until light streams through the trees, and he sees you.

word count: 2k+

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, grief, angst so much angst it's actually painful, tommy wants to die, tw suicide mention, blood, death, grief, the horrors of living through an apocalypse, IF YOU DON'T VIBE WITH A TON OF ANGST THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

There was no light in a body split down the middle. A body filled to the brim with splinters and jagged edges. With a hollow emptiness that created an opening—a chasm.

He could feel how the darkness soaked in, filling the spaces where light once belonged—where hope used to be. But nothing could exist if pain—grief—reigned free. A wild ruthless thing, cracking apart whatever remained. Feeding off the shine that once thrived there.

There was no light.

Not anymore.

He ran through the woods, the heaviness of his boots snapping twigs and branches as he went. The cracking echoed through the air, sharp and loud, accompanied by the heaviness of his breaths. Each one, more painful than the last. His fingers clenched around the ripped leather wrapped around the blade’s handle so tight his knuckles went white. At one point it was brand new, perfect. A birthday gift from his brother. He called it special—once.

Now it dripped red.

Wild eyes darted around the surrounding area, his breaths coming in slower—an attempt to slow the erratic beat of his heart. He could still taste it. The pungent sting of copper that built up in the back of his throat like bile. He couldn’t tell the difference at this point. They burned all the same.

Sucking in a breath, he felt his chest tighten, his eyes red with exhaustion. The nights were desolate, sleep no longer a priority when nothing but memories of a past he couldn’t get back to plagued him. What he wouldn’t give to go back. Maybe then he could save himself; end it before it even began.

Birds no longer chirped the same. He noticed that three days into being alone. As if nature had taken her beauty away; an act of punishment for the selfish behavior of humanity. They took her for granted. Used her up until nothing remained; until her grounds ran red with blood. And this was their consequence. An eternity of misery, of reaping what they sowed from her poisoned grounds.

He stopped breathing, stilled every limb of his body, and listened. For the signal of people coming after him. Or something worse. For a blissful numbing moment, he wished for the latter.

At least then he’d have an excuse.

His palm was warm, slicked and sticky with the color of crimson that stained his skin. A red right hand for the man filled with nothing but regret. If he could feel anything, he might have laughed at the sheer irony. Once upon a time he wanted to save the world. Now he was ready to watch it burn.

Silence spilled out of every corner. A deafening echo he yearned to find relief in. His body had other ideas though.

Clambering forward, he pressed himself against the nearest tree. The bark scraped his palm as he clutched it, tight enough to draw blood. But the bile had built and built and he could feel his body beg for something other than pain. Tilting forward he went dizzy as he dry heaved. His stomach was empty—the food he stole burned a hole in his pack.

Would it set him on fire?

Would he turn to ash here in the middle of the woods?

A sickening hope entered his chest. As thick as tar and black as night. Yet for a man who had nothing to cling to—this was enough. This would have to do.

He’d take what he could get. In a world ruined by death, a bitter hope was all he could carry. He would continue to push this boulder of grief up the hill paved with the souls of the past. The ones who could no longer sustain the heavy weight of their own heart. Some days he wondered if he could keep going, yet every morning he still woke up.

A bit more numb than the day before.

But still alive.

He used to feel hopeful at the realization. Now all that remained was bitter disappointment.

He bit down on the inside of his right cheek hard to stave off his pained shout. Copper flooded his mouth, but this was familiar. As if his body recognized a taste it’d grown to know. Clutching his thigh and waist, he stumbled away from the tree. There was nowhere to go, no place to hide, but the drive to keep moving kept him alive. The need to be anywhere but here.

Blood coated his once white t-shirt, his jeans a darker hue of blue as the wound on his thigh continued to drain out. Tommy knew he didn’t have long—spots of darkness peeking into the corners of his vision. The threat of oncoming blackness.

“Fucking shit,” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut as the burn of pain spread through his veins.

Images of the man flashed behind his eyelids. Blood, so much of it, filled his senses. He could still smell it, the hot flush against his skin as he pressed down on the blade hard enough to sever that link between life and the human body. How ruthless he’d been was sharp in his mind. And for the first time in a long time, Tommy was afraid of himself.

He killed the man with his special knife. The engraving Joel placed there—a reminder that his brother was always with him—glared back. I’m proud of you, coupled with the offset reflection of a man he didn’t recognize. There was no life in his brown eyes, no light. Only a thrill he’d seen before—a darkness he locked away the second it crept to the surface.

A piece of him that wasn’t human.

He bit down harder on his cheek, tearing through the flesh with ease. Would Joel be proud of him now? Would he look at him with the eyes of a big brother? The promise to protect him lingering in the brown Tommy knew better than his own. Or would he leave him alone all over again; claim he was a lost cause. After all, there was no use in saving the soul of a man this far gone.

Tommy’s breaths came in short, quick little gasps as he fought to stay upright. To push his boulder a little further.

But what was the use? What did he have left to offer the world? The man’s blood began to dry to his skin, into the grooves and lines of his palms. His fate line, heartline, and everything in between now coated in the essence of another being. A reminder that what he had done—what he’d taken—would remain with him until the end of his lifeline.

Being alone wasn’t new to him. Not when his only sibling had to grow up faster than he expected, leaving Tommy behind to figure out shit on his own. But this…the aching pit of isolation was something he didn’t know how to handle. He could still see Joel’s face, the lines of disappointment suddenly deeper than when he was younger. Pity in the brown that once used to shine with hope.

They both changed. They had to with the way things shifted so quickly.

Except Tommy never thought the only thing keeping him sane—the only tie he had to his past—would leave him alone.

He felt that overwhelming despair begin to swell in his throat, clawing to his chest like a beast starving for more. There was no one here to see him fail. No one here to save him from the darkness.

There was no one here to watch him die.

“Please,” he breathed, his voice ragged and raw from not needing to use it. As days came and went he remained silent. His words, trapped in the empty cavern of his chest.

There was no reason to speak when no one would hear his agony.

“Please.”

The beg morphed the longer he stood there, repeating it softly. Swaying on his feet. He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to. Who his plea was going out to, but Tommy didn’t care anymore. The pain that he tried to control—keep at bay for as long as he could—finally began to seep into his mind. Cracking the final pieces of his soul off like a bottle shattering on the floor. He begged for the release of this anguish, for time to turn back, for his brother to return to him.

He begged for death on a silver platter.

Unashamed, unabashed, and unafraid.

His knees slammed against the forest floor as he fell, his body sagging forward slightly, hands clutching onto his waist as blood spilled down his leg. If he didn’t patch himself up and chose to remain this way, he’d eventually bleed out. Right here on the dirt. He’d return to the Earth, become one with the moss that would eventually grow over his body.

Even that seemed like the better choice than this.

Fighting to live without end. In a world that would be happy to see him get snuffed out like a candle. Entirely blown away with nature’s breath. Her viciousness finally coming to fruition.

He gasped for a breath. Hot tears spilled over his scraped cheeks, his blood split lip from fighting now burning with the salt. Only this time he didn’t try to stop himself, sober his emotions and gather his surroundings. This time, he sunk into the darkness that ate away at his soul, consuming him bit by bit like a decadent meal it wanted to savor. He was its sustaining life force.

Until there was nothing left of him.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking from the strain of the truth.

Tommy had never known an emotion quite like this. He never knew what welcoming death meant. Although he supposed a man would never know until he was faced with its truth; until something pushed him far enough.

He’d seen Joel go through it. Watched as his brother grappled with the decision to stay alive, and he would have joined Sarah soon enough. If Tommy hadn’t shoved his hand out of the way. Joel claims he flinched, Tommy knew the truth. He didn’t flinch, he stood still as stone with his eyes closed…he never saw Tommy’s hand coming.

But Joel would never know the truth.

A soft grin played on his lips as memories of his brother and niece flashed behind his eyes. Like a movie reel playing in a lonesome theater. He was the only person sitting there, transfixed to the screen. And Tommy would have spent the rest of his life there, watching. At least there he felt joy, hope. Emotions he thought he’d never have again.

“Please,” he sighed, his eyes fluttering open to see the light that filtered through the branches.

It fell on the floor like a spotlight, playing along it like water, and he found himself breathless to its beauty. Nature was extending her hand gently, offering him the last bit of beauty he’d get to witness. Placing a small amount of peace at his feet in retribution for what he’d gone through; what he was giving up. Tommy’s wounds continued to bleed, but for that brief moment…he didn’t feel a thing.

No pain, no hurt.

Just peace.

Something cracked in the distance, a twig breaking under the boot of someone, but he felt no need to react. The blade lay on the ground beside him, still bloody, still tainted with his guilt and regret. But there was no use picking it up now. He was already too far gone. Another helpless soul lost to a world on fire.

He could see it now. The sunlight illuminated behind their body, a soft voice echoing in the distance, and his lips curved into yet another smile. Was this nature? Had she come to lead him? Tommy gasped in another breath, forcing his eyes to focus, and yet all he could see was a blurred sight of this being. They practically glowed as they approached quicker than before.

“Hi,” he murmured, eyes wide yet unseeing.

Soft warm hands cupped his face, tilted his head, and replied something he couldn’t hear. But the light was too bright, too welcoming, and Tommy was so fucking tired. More words came, questions. He heard nothing. Just the softness of their touch, the gentleness of their nature, until it all faded. And nothing remained.

#catch me hiding for a WEEK after posting this #to all the tommy girlies i formally hand in my apology now #joy? i don't know her #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x f!reader #tommy miller #tommy miller fic #the last of us fic #my writing

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daizymax · 1 year

Text

these wicked delights | psh (m)

summary: in the dead of night, a sinful creature visits you, penetrating and encompassing your mind, body and soul…

pairing: seonghwa x fem reader

genre: incubus!au, smut

word count: 3.4k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: incubus!seonghwa; supernatural elements; vulgar language; degrading dialogue; not your modern day dirty talk because seonghwa is thousands of years old; the reader is legally an adult but seonghwa calls her a child because, again, he’s thousands of years older; very slight religious elements; graphic sexual content; situations of dub/non-con; dom/sub themes without discussion of boundaries / safety / safewording; dom!seonghwa; rough handling; sensory deprivation; vaginal fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; unprotected penetrative sex (no condom use, no established birth control method in effect); mirror sex; brief mentions of blood; creampie; an unreal amount of cum; no proper aftercare

author’s note: reuploaded from my old blog and rewritten featuring seonghwa now. no changes to the content itself though. please take extra care to heed the warnings on this one, this is not like my other fics.

( click here to read on AO3 instead )

---

This is how it begins: with a curious tingling sensation at the beginning of your spine, right at the base of your neck. It gradually builds into a dull burn that travels southward, growing warmer and warmer as it goes, until eventually your whole body is awash with white-hot pinpricks.

Yet you are not even sure that you are fully conscious. Sleep’s shroud still clings to you as tangibly as the comfortable cotton sheets draped over your body. Your closed eyelids may render you blind to the surroundings of your bedroom, but they do nothing to block sound.

“Good evening, pet…” drawls a guttural voice, manifesting out of nowhere. It sounds decidedly otherworldly from the way it resonates in the air.

A throaty groan of acknowledgment is all you can manage in your fright.

I’m dreaming, you think, hoping it is true.

“Does this feel like a dream?”

Something inhumanly strong clutches your covered ankle. The sudden gesture startles you, but your body does not - cannot - flinch. Not even your lips break apart to let out the squeal trapped in your throat.

Wh-what is this?! you panic silently. What have you done to me?! Who are you?!

The visitor, whoever he is, seems to hear your unspoken thought.

“A more apt question would be what am I,” he answers cryptically before soon elaborating, “My name is Seonghwa. I am an ancient being well-learned in the ways of copulating with females of your species. As for your paralysis… it is only temporary. There is no need for you to be mobile tonight. I am the master, and you are the pet. You are not in charge here, not even of your own limbs and tongue.”

The claw around your ankle tugs swiftly at the sheets blanketing you, leaving you naked and bare. One long, sharp fingernail drags its way slowly from your foot to your calve to your inner thigh. Your leg may not be able to move, but neither is it numb to the sensations drawn on your nerves.

W-what are you d-doing? Even in your mind, your voice sounds woefully weak.

The jagged end of the bony finger pauses on the outskirts of your exposed entrance.

“Engaging in foreplay,” he - it? - answers matter-of-factly. “You are a lonely, miserable, pathetic little thing, starving for physical attention. That is why I have come.”

His words ring a sour note because of the harsh truth they carry. You have been wallowing in lonely misery for quite some time. Nearly a year has passed without so much as one lousy date or meaningless hookup.

“Hmm, do not despair, child,” your uninvited guest coos almost soothingly. Was his voice this melodic before? “It is that very nature of yours that attracted me to you. Your fragile little mind called to me so sweetly, I had to oblige. You should consider yourself quite fortunate I am here. You will never find another who can stimulate the delicate flesh between your legs better than I.”

Your cunt tingles in recognition from the foul words, and the creature senses your body’s involuntary reaction.

“Yes, I can feel your carnal desires. Shall I begin satisfying them?”

You gulp in apprehension. Would he really stop if you said (thought) the word ‘no?’ But before you can ruminate further, this creature named Seonghwa resumes his earlier movements and tickles the folds of your center.

“I can sense your hesitation, pet,” he says. “But beneath that, your body and your subconscious are screaming for me to continue. I can feel the vibrations of your lust pulsing from you. Would it relax you to know that I desire this, too? Your body is quite exquisite… for a human. I would be delighted to plumb its treasures, starting with the sweetness about to drip from your genitalia.”

With that said, his gnarled finger glides easily into your surprisingly wet cunt. Your gasp of shock and pleasure goes in through your nose as a deep breath. The action encourages the creature to curl the digit purposefully, as if to beckon another reaction out of you.

This is wrong… you fret with what must be the last vestiges of your sanity. I didn’t ask for this…

“No, but your kind is rarely granted the things for which they ask. And many things that are or seem wrong often feel too good to deny,” Seonghwa counters. “Millions of your species give in to their wicked and morally corrupt ways every hour, child. You frail little thing... why should you be any different?”

I’m not a child, your mind argues, latching onto the word with offense.

A deep chuckle reverberates against the walls. “You may be considered a mature adult amongst your species, but I have more than a thousandfold years on you. Now stop this pitiful, stubborn attempt at righteousness and submit to me.”

The boom of his voice is terrifying, but as he adds a second finger to your heated core, you find yourself powerless to resist. You absently wonder if he is casting some sort of spell over you to force your obedience, but the burning arousal in your loins does not feel like a trick. Could you really be so desperately depraved as to want this to happen?

In any case, the demon hums his approval at your compliance.

“There’s a good pet.” He withdraws his hand and uses it to lightly pat your pussy appreciatively, only to immediately plunge his fingers back into place inside you.

His long fingernails graze your g-spot, but rather than being painful or uncomfortable, the sensation is oddly gratifying. Every brush against your deepest recesses serves to torment you in the best way. If you could gyrate your hips, you would, but the best you can do is allow a soft moan to thrum inside your chest.

“Enjoying yourself already?” Seonghwa muses. “How weak you are indeed. And so soft…”

His other hand skims along the side of your body, following the curves from your hip to your breast. He grasps the fleshy mound and squeezes with surprising tenderness.

“Perhaps I should loosen my hold on you,” he wonders. He gives your nipple a pinch and clarifies, “Not here, just over your lips. I am an admittedly vain creature. I would very much enjoy hearing your uncensored cries - in full volume - when I bring you to the height of euphoria, over and over, until your voice is utterly shattered. What do you think, pet?”

As he speaks, he wiggles his fingers and digs the heel of his palm into your clit determinedly, while the hand on your chest moves to your other breast to caress it with the same attention as the first. The stimulation is positively electrifying.

I… you plead vaguely, unable to string coherent words together.

“You what, child?” he urges. “Speak freely now. Tell me what you so desire.”

Your freed tongue pokes out to wet your lips, then you say unabashedly, “I want to come so badly.”

“Do you?” he teases.

Seonghwa’s pointed thumb begins strumming against your clit with the faintest touch, and this time your gasp is much sharper when able to be inhaled through your mouth. Again, you lament the inability to rock yourself against him. The light stimulation is not enough.

“More…” you rasp. “I need more.”

“Is that any way to speak to your master?” he states coldly. His thumb lifts away from your bud, and his fingers draw back to the start of your opening and stall there. “Try that again. Ask me nicely this time, pet.” He spits the last word to reiterate your role in this unnatural union.

“Please… m-master,” you stutter over the uncomfortable word. “Will you p-please make me come, master?”

“That’s better,” he approves, then begins shoving his hand into you repeatedly.

A third finger joins the first two, and the thick stretch has you groaning incessantly. His thumb descends back onto your engorged clit to rub skilled circles into it. Every little twitch of his hand pulls the knot inside your belly tighter and tighter.

“This silky cavern of yours is taking my fingers so well, pet,” Seonghwa purrs, and you mentally preen under his praise in spite of yourself. For reasons you can’t explain, you’re honored to please him.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for your orgasm to wash over and pour out of you. The inability to hunch your back or even curl your toes makes it feel all the more powerful, and the high-pitched whine that squeaks out of you is unlike any sound you have ever produced.

Seonghwa continues undulating his wrist until the spasms of your pussy subside and the overstimulation on your clit nears the point of becoming painful.

“Such a messy little thing,” he tsks. The squelching sound when he removes his hand from your center alerts you to just how much wetness you released. “Open your eyes now and look at the mess you have made.”

You blink your heavy eyelids open and let your pupils adjust to the darkness. From the moonlight streaming through the curtains, you can definitely discern a distinct sheen running along the back of his hand, but what really captures your interest is the hand - claw - itself. It is even larger than you imagined. The skin is alabaster and smooth, but the pointed nails are black as moonless midnight.

You raise your eyes upward to look upon your visitor for the first time and are immediately captivated by his piercing crimson gaze. His eyes are quite literally glowing, illuminating the pale face sculpted from the same ivory marble as his hands. Thick, silver hair frames his temples, brushing just above high cheekbones.

Oh… he is so beautiful…

The thought is automatic and also instantly heard, as Seonghwa’s wide grin indicates. His teeth are blinding white in the dark and noticeably sharp.

“Of course I am beautiful, child. If I am to take the form of a wretched human, only the best will do. Although some appendages have remained unmodified, as you will find out,” he informs you. “But first, let me see if you taste as delectable as you look.”

With that, he parts his lips and snakes his sharp tongue out to catch his dripping fingers. He sucks them thoroughly before releasing each of them with soft pops.

The verdict is rendered as: “Delicious,” while he continues to grin down at you devilishly. Then he decides, “I think I would like a taste straight from the source now, if you don’t mind.”

Without actually giving you a choice, he drags your body down the mattress without touching you and kneels at the foot of your bed to bring his face inches from your sensitive pussy. Before you have time to marvel (or cower) from the magical action, he is on to the next thing, which is yanking your immobilized knees apart. His claws dig into the supple flesh of your thighs possessively.

When he dips what can only be his tongue into the folds of your cunt, the muscle feels strangely scaly and clammy. It soon becomes clear he is quite skilled with it, however, and its reach far extends that of all your previous lovers.

He licks along your slit tantalizingly without heed for your still-throbbing clit. Then he delves his tongue in and out of your tight hole at a steady, rhythmic pace.

“Such sweet syrup you have stored inside you, child,” Seonghwa murmurs huskily. “What a shame to have it bottled up for so long. It is a good thing I am here to release it for you.”

You would say plenty of it has already been released, considering the stickiness seeping down into the crack of your ass, but you doubt your imposing ‘lover’ would appreciate such a quip. And truth be told, you are flattered that he seems to be enjoying giving you all the pleasure… so far.

He suddenly digs his tongue into your clit, directly under the hood. A jolt frizzles along the nerves of your frozen body and escapes past your lips in the form of a whimper.

While his mouth is attending to your nether regions, his hands creep back up along your abdomen until he finds your breasts again. He fondles both of them rather gently, occasionally rolling and tweaking your nipples to send a pulse of electricity below. Your moans become louder the longer he carries on lapping and stroking and pulling you to the brink of madness.

Your second orgasm crests every bit as high as the first, and although your limbs still cannot move, you can feel the aftershocks in your very bones.

“So easy to unravel,” Seonghwa comments as he resurfaces from the drenched juncture of your thighs. You watch as that red, serpentine tongue outlines his coated lips to capture every lingering drop of your essence.

Your eyelids droop in exhaustion, but the unholy creature has not yet finished taking its fill.

“You are not the only one in need of release, child,” he tells you. “It has been ages since I have visited upon one as enticing as you, and I do not intend to waste this opportunity.”

Again, he uses his otherworldly power to manipulate your body to his will, this time flipping you over onto your stomach. Your startled yelp is muffled against the sheets when he manually yanks your bottom half into the air, fully presenting your ass to him. His hands roam over your backside slowly.

“I am going to penetrate you now, pet,” Seonghwa says in a low tone; it sounds like a warning. “The fit will surely be excruciating for you. I suggest you take a deep breath and exhale it as I make my entrance.”

The unmistakable head of his cock presses against the petaled lips of your pussy. The circumference of it is wider than any you have known, and your mind balks when your muscles cannot flinch. It has not pushed inside of you yet, but you know without a doubt it will rip you apart.

Before you can voice your concerns, your lover is speaking to you again.

“Shh, stop your fussing,” he growls. “Your anatomy is made to birth infants larger than my genitals; you will be fine. I will guide you through this. Breathe, child.”

You obediently suck in a gulp of air.

“Good girl. Now let it out. Slowly, now,” he instructs next.

You allow the air to slowly leak from your lungs, and Seonghwa begins the plunge of his turgid cock into your core. As wet as you are, it is a struggle to fit even the tip of him inside. It spears through your walls agonizingly, tearing the sensitive skin just as you predicted, and you cannot even twist your fingers into the bedspread to help cope with the pain.

“You are doing well, my pet. Very well,” Seonghwa assures you, conscious of your pained state. “But we have a way to go yet. Keep breathing.”

Each breath comes in shakier and rushes out whinier as inch after inch locks into place inside you. Your walls stretch to their limits around his rock hard shaft, and still he continues to push until eventually he meets the resistance of your cervix.

“There we go,” he announces quietly, not sounding nearly as affected by the tight fit as you are.

He reaches up and fits one of his hands between the side of your face and where it rests against the bed to cup your cheek lightly for a moment, then glides his fingers slowly around to the back of your neck, across your shoulder blades, down your spine, finally coming to a halt at your hip. His delicate touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His other hand finds purchase on the other side of your waist, and his hold becomes bruising.

“Now, stay just like that and let me do all the work,” he commands, as though you have a choice.

Seonghwa withdraws his monstrous cock until only the mushroomed head remains, then thrusts back into you sharply, causing you to utilize the only parts of your body with mobility by parting your lips to groan loudly and squeezing your eyes shut tight. He gradually builds a steady pace, driving himself to knock against your g-spot relentlessly. The punishing blows make your eyes roll back in your skull.

“Is that what you think, child?” Seonghwa questions suddenly without interrupting his movements.

“W-what?” you ask shakily, unaware that you had even been thinking of anything specific for him to pick up on.

“That you are being punished?” he specifies. “You are not being punished, my pet. If it feels that way, you are mistaken. I am not ruining you. I am ushering you into paradise. Don’t. You. See?”

He punctuates his last few words with especially hard snaps, and you choke on a moan. Your pussy is clenching repeatedly around him now, signaling an impending third climax, even without stimulation to your clit.

Seonghwa jerks the top half of your body upright with a claw hooked around your throat, and the unseen force he wields is used to plant your palms firmly into the mattress to help keep yourself propped up. The mirror of your vanity dresser magically floats through the air to lean against the headboard of your bed. The reflection shows only yourself situated on your hands and knees, breasts jostling lewdly from the consistent pounding you are taking from behind. Your lover is nowhere to be seen in the glass.

“Look at yourself, child,” Seonghwa demands. “There is no use denying that you enjoy being ravaged like this.”

You are unable to tear your gaze away from the crazed eyes staring straight back at you. They are your own, but they are also a stranger’s. You moan wantonly in a broken voice.

“You can be louder than that,” the demon spurs. “Let all the heathens in Hell and all the seraphs in Heaven hear me taking over your body, mind, and soul.”

He speeds his thrusts even more to help earn the noises he so craves, and you do not disappoint. Even if the damned and the higher beings cannot hear you, your neighbors surely can through the walls of your apartment.

“Yes, my pet, yes. That’s it. Give in once more to the primal needs inside of you. Do it for your master.”

And you do. You shut your eyes and feel your pussy quake as it releases one last sinful gush.

Seonghwa pierces the flesh of your hips with his nails sharply enough to draw trickles of blood as he tumbles over the edge with you. His massive cock balloons even more at the moment of his impressive climax. The grunt he lets out sounds like a clap of thunder as he discharges a gratuitous amount of cum, drowning your insides overfull. Even with his cock still lodged within you, it does little to plug the boiling liquid; it drips out around his wide length, down your pussy, and onto the sheets below in thick, copious rivulets.

When it is over, he removes himself from your gaping opening with a cringe-worthy slurp and releases all hold over you. Your used body crumbles in a heap.

“I believe I have sufficiently satiated you now, sweet pet,” Seonghwa says rather calmly. Even after pounding you like a jackhammer and unloading what felt like liters of cum inside you, he is not the slightest bit breathless. “It is a shame I cannot visit you again for a while. The toll it would take on your fragile soul is not to be taken lightly, after all.”

You give no indication that you have heard him, but he does not seem to mind. With strong arms, he manually lifts your limp body and tucks you into your sheets with care. You are too tired and too out of it to realize they are totally dry.

Or that your sore hips are not actually bleeding.

Or that the mirror has returned to its rightful place over your dresser.

“Sleep now, child… Or perhaps you truly have been sleeping and dreaming this entire time…”

An amused cackle echoes against your eardrums, and you slip into unconsciousness with one last vision of his wicked grin to haunt you.

---

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m-y-fandoms · 7 months

Text

COMMISSION: Nagito Komaeda Dating Head-Canons + Small Drabble Sections

Word Count: 1.7K Words

Details: SFW requested and pretty gender-neutral. Established relationship, not just a crush or pining.

Path 1 - Despair/Island Killing Game:

Nagito definitely holds your hand or clings to you as you explore the island from the jump. If the Killing Game hasn’t started yet, he tries to make excuses for his neediness and desire to be attached at the hip. He senses the danger, that things are a little too peaceful, but he doesn’t want to weird you or anyone else out or spread a panic quite yet. Once it’s been announced and Monokuma arrives, he insists on escorting you to lunch and breakfast, on poison-testing your food. He cares very little for his own safety.

Definitely stalks you around the island and keeps to the shadows if you mention wanting space or insist you will be safe on your own every once in a while.

The illusion of choice would be a huge issue with him in the Killing Game setting with an S/O. It may not be healthy, but even when you think he’s out of sight or not plotting any crazy schemes/ideas,, rest assured he is already two steps ahead. He would do anything to make sure his bad luck cycle affects anyone but you and works over time, sometimes into the early hours of the morning to try and find Monokuma’s creator and the “traitor” that is surely among you all.

He insists on sleeping in your cabin or you in his. He feels better in yours, though, convinced his terrible energy and the dangerous aura that follows him around like a shadow has probably sunk into every corner of his own domicile. Anywhere he can call his own surely has to be haunted with misery and blackened with terrible omens of what’s to come. He feels at peace when he enters your safe space: your cabin decked out with items that are personalized to your talents and hobbies. He feels less alone, less burdened by the energy that surrounds himself.

When you blush and explain to him that it may not be appropriate for him to stay the night in your cabin, he brushes it off. He’s not even thinking about that kind of stuff, about the implications of a student sleeping over at their lover’s cabin. He wouldn’t even see himself as worthy enough to be more intimate with you in the first place. When he would hold your hand or cling to you like a human shield it was always for your good, not his own pleasure or to sate his own touch starvation.

“W-what do you mean?” Your face flooded with a warmth when he first suggested (more like insisted on) it. Your cheeks felt hot to the touch.

“Huh? Why do you look so flustered right now? It’s no big deal, really!” He displayed a crooked, paranoid grin. It was only your third night on the island and he’d already reached his limit. Watching you go into your room alone every night was stressful and tore away at him. How could he protect you if someone snuck in from the opposite side window, or if he couldn’t hear an altercation through the walls? The distance and limited time for reaction were just too risky.

“Nagito… I mean… you don’t think the others will, I don’t know, maybe judge us?” You put a hand to your face in contemplation, unable to meet his eyes. “Maybe they will think it’s weird… or that something inappropriate is going on here… usually two students aren’t allowed to spend the night together… if this were a regular school-“

“Oh well if that’s your concern, I can sleep on the ground! I was going to suggest laying in the bed with you, but that may have been presumptuous of me! If you’re uncomfortable-”

“I think you’re missing the point!” You cut him off, heart beating wildly at the thought of your boyfriend just crawling into bed with you every night. You’d never done more then hold hands, now he wanted to snuggle up in the dark wearing nothing but your bedclothes? It was a huge step. You feared the judgmental smirks of people like Hiyoko, the lectures on proper behavior from your more uptight classmates. People would whisper for sure. Some would confront you and want the details. Nagito was the black sheep of the group after all. Nobody was as close to him as you. You could already hear Ibuki and Akane teasing you, making up crazy scenarios of what they thought happened when you and Nagito spent the night together.

“O-oh, if you’re that worried about what our peers would think, I can understand! I would be embarrassed to be dating someone like me as well, but I will make sure they know nothing unbefitting of a ray of Hope like you happened! I’m just here to keep watch. I wouldn’t dream of trying anything!” He flashed a cheesy smile, holding his hands up in submission. It seemed like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer this time. You sighed deeply in resignation. He already stands outside the bathroom when you shower, so this wasn’t really that much further of a stretch.

He spends hours thinking about how he wants to kiss you, how he wants to touch your bare skin to his, even in the most ticklish or innocent of ways. He lets his mind stew over it, fantasizes, but never acts on his desires. He believes his filthy hands - cursed with bringing harm to others in order to bring luck to himself - could never defile your perfect skin, never dirty your soft hair. Even to ask for your consent to do so would be pathetic, embarrassing. Someone like him lived to serve, please and protect a glowing source of Hope such as yourself. This was bigger then him. You needed to survive, to bring change and Hope to the entire world.

If one day by some miracle you asked, begged him to touch you, to give you more the a vice-like hand-holding session, he could never deny you that request. The last of his restraint would break. His hands would shake, afraid to mess it up, to upset you. His mind would race. Even a small kiss would set his pale, clammy skin on fire.

It would set into motion another hyper-fixation, an addiction… obsession. He would know what true Hope tasted like when your lips touched his.

Nagito is definitely the type to kill others for the sake of his S/O. In canon, he offers to help the blackened, sets up traps and tricks to get people caught or assists in trials, but if he had someone to truly love him and love in return, I think it would set his crazy into overdrive. I would expect he would actually get a bit sloppier, too focused on your safety and happiness above all else that he doesn’t even care if he gets caught or slips up. It’s kind of like how some people in powerful positions or criminal organizations don’t want their family known or easily accessible. That’s an easy hostage, easy leverage. You have something to lose, and therefore you are weaker.

Path 2 - Hope’s Peak Academy School Life/Normal Non-Despair:

Nagito is constantly staring at you, taking in your beauty and radiance. He’s obsessive, constantly adjusting the buttons on your uniform or fixing a pleat that is out of place. He doesn’t even notice when his own tie or collar are loose.

He offers to do your laundry, fold your clothes, clean your dorm. Little favors that make your life easier feel like an honor to him.

When he does your laundry, he dives his nose into your dirty outfits and breathes deeply of your scent. He can’t help himself. Your aroma is like a natural pheromone to him. He will feel guilty, disgusting as he tucks a sock or pair of underwear into his backpack or pocket. He swears to himself he will return it to you… someday, once it’s lost its potency.

There’s a shrine of sorts to you in his own dorm room, which he never lets you enter. He always has an excuse: it’s dirty, it smells in there, he doesn’t want anyone seeing you enter such a lowlife’s room. He fears that if you see the extent of his love for you, his unhealthy obsession, that you’ll be scared away.

The shrine consists of strands of your hair, things he’s swiped from your dorm room without you noticing, photos of you printed out and framed (some photos, he was even blessed enough to be in with you!)

He plans at least one date night every single week. As soon as classes are over he spares no expense on taking you out and letting you pick whatever activity you’re in the mood for. He’s just happy to be there.

He dismisses your worries about him spending money on you, reassuring you every time that he has more money then he knows what to do with.

He’s of course made sure his class schedule lines up with yours perfectly. You think it’s just a coincidence that you get to spend so much time together! You knew he purposely picked some of the same elective classes, but didn’t realize the extent of his influence over his own class schedule.

He sometimes gets a little jealous of your classmates spending time with you, but lets those feelings be released in private. He doesn’t want to scare you away or ruin the privilege of being with you. He knows others deserve to bask in your brilliance and overwhelming energy too, knows that he can’t expect to hoard such a glowing Hope all to himself, but it bites at him. Of course everyone else wants you too. He’s delusional about your importance in the vast universe because he’s totally blinded by love. He will misinterpret someone letting you borrow a pencil as flirting or being partners in gym class as something more. He lets this manifest as sadness or trying harder to please you. He may sabotage the “competition” sometimes, but never let you catch on to his meddling.

He could listen to you talk about your hobbies and interests forever. He wants you to show him how to do it, tell him all the backstory, lore, origins of your hyper-fixations or passions. Spending nights on your dorm room floor listening to your favorite musical artists and just eating ramen would mean the world to him.

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