#still feels like being doused in ice cold water

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 18: Unleashed

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.7k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

CW: Chapter gets dark - please be cautious

A howling tempest is whistling in your ears, muffling your ability to think clearly. A biting frost permeates your body, seeping into your bones and desiccating and fragmenting them. Although it’s agony, there is a peculiar pleasure in the descent into exile. The wraith strums a ghostly lullaby, like harpies enthralment, that encourages you to close your eyes and float away in the cyclone. 

Your lashes flutter as you resist the temptation to let your dimming eyes shut. Icy vines braid and curl up your spine and caress your brainstem, coercing you to allow yourself to be devoured. 

It sounds so easy, so serene, like the bottom of that dark lake where everything was wondrously still, still, still. 

It starts slow, snowflakes fluttering through the irises of your dying eyes, each one descending to your soul. The first flakes melt and sizzle like drops of water touching a hot surface, but the barrage increases, and the fire within cannot sustain the onslaught. 

Your very spirit is being doused, and it throbs as your psyche is pelted with sharp hail, chilling you to your very core and numbing you of your will to fight. The melody of violent winds, ice, and snow is rapturous, a perverted sonata that you long to get on your knees and recite. 

You want it to sweep you away, sedate you, and submerge you gently into that final eternal night. It promises to remedy the heavy emptiness, and you pine for the feeling of not feeling at all. There is no drowning it out, no resolve to struggle, and the glacier you’re tripping on has cracks. There are tears creeping out of your eyes, turning to ice pellets as they hail down your cheeks.

Yes! Yes! The voice warbles as everything goes dark. Let go.  

The crevice between your feet collapses, and you’re plunged into the frigid abyss. You fall down, down, down, until you find yourself in a barren whitescape with nothing but snow in all directions. Jagged icebergs the size of mountains jut impossibly high into the grey-blue sky and drift erratically with surreal speed, making them look like teeth trying to saw through the horizon. 

The cold is lethal as it forms ice crystals in your lungs when you try to breathe, and even though your breath is as cold as death itself, it billows in misty clouds when you exhale. You try to suppress the urge to breathe so the biting cold can’t nip at your throat, lungs, and nostrils, but it’s hard when your jaw quakes and you’re nearly crippled by shivers. 

You wade through the waist-deep snow in this hellish, frostbitten land. It’s difficult to form coherent thoughts as you feel yourself freezing to death. Your ability to move is quickly being confiscated as your limbs stiffen. Your skin is wind-burnt and blistering, cracking like dry firewood. 

You will die here, or perhaps you’re already dead — you do not know. 

An enormous shadow passes over the landscape, blotting out the meager light the dark, cloudy sky provides, but your neck will not crane to look up. 

The terrain shudders under your feet as something immense lands just out of sight. Powdery snow is belched into the air like a puff of wafting smoke. When was the last time you were able to blink? Your eyes cannot focus quite right. The muscles in your face strain to war against the thin layer of ice accumulated on your skin.

A looming figure takes shape in the snow drifts, coming toward you, making the ground under your feet tremble with every step. It seems to shake an iota of sense back into your senseless body, and you find yourself taking steps toward the silhouette. 

A dragon emerges from the squall; five chromatic heads in all colours rear up on regally serpentine necks to evaluate you. Their nostrils flare, shooting vapour into the air with every breath. The scales reflect the low light and appear almost prismatic, with strips of bluish-green, purple, and grey, glassy-smooth, running down the massive body and merging into a bronze that covers a long tail, tipped with a stinger. 

Each head moves individually, sinuously slithering through the air until each one is poised close to your body. They are massive, each with maws twice the size of your body and flaming eyes of all different colours that examine you intently. 

Their jaws open, revealing long, tapered teeth and forked tongues, and their hot breath wreathes you, dispersing the ice in your veins and biting frost in your muscles. 

Although the figure does not seem to speak, you hear an alluring voice in your head. It is bewitching and gently ethereal. “Do you know me, child of night and dragons?” 

Why you recognize the voice and why it soothes you is unclear, but it awakens your soul, sparking the white-hot blaze of your being roaring back to life with a vigour you have not felt for what feels like centuries. 

“Tiamat.”

The dragon’s lips pull back, baring her teeth in a viscous smile. She opens her mouth and blows her scalding breath over you. “You do not belong in this realm, night stalker.” 

The ice accumulated on your hair melts away, leaving it limp, wet, and sticking to your cheeks. Drops of water rain from your scalp, down your face, dripping off your lashes. 

“I am lost. He is lost. We are lost.” 

“Lost, thou say?” Timat’s laughter sounds like a celestial chorus that the stars themselves dance to. “Thou hast just been found. Wake, bloodkin, return to your realm, and seek the Lord of Lies. He shall hark thy plea.” 

Tiamat rears her scarlet-scaled head, unhinging her jaw like a snake, with the ominous white glow of Hellfire scintillating in her throat. You reflexively take a step backward, putting your hands up to shield yourself as the white, molten flames burst. 

Nothing survives Hellfire. 

Her voice serenades. “Burn bright, child of night, blood of dragons. 

The flames swim through the air with a crackle, enveloping you in a tornado of light so bright that you wonder if your eyes will be reduced to ash. You’re thrust off your feet, plunging you back into the abyssal depths you fell into, and careening directionless at an unfathomable pace. 

You see yourself floating in a black, bottomless netherworld. The impression of movement halts you horizontally above your lifeless shape. Wake up; you want to scream, but you do not have a voice.  

You must claw your way out of this watery grave.

Reaching toward yourself, you find that the other version of you mirrors your movements. Your fingers touch, and her eyes — your eyes — snap open and glow white. The Hellfire swirls around you both and flares out like ghostly, liquid flames in the shape of wings that curl around and fuse into you. 

In a rush, you’re shot like a meteor, rocketing through planes of existence and bending time itself. 

Your eyes flick open to see Rhapsody poised above your chest, the polished silver blades glinting in the candlelight. With a hard, inhumane scowl on his face, Astarion's lifeless eyes are fixed on you, the light obliterated by insanity. Rhapsody whistles through the air, plunging straight for your static heart. 

Something beckons you to wield it — something new yet ancient, both familiar and unknown. When you reach out and grasp it, a blinding light is released from you in a destructive shockwave. Astarion cries out, staggers back, and rubs his eyes furiously. 

“You petulant little shit!” He barks, his voice oozing revulsion and vitriol. “You will not leash me — you cannot leash me! I created you, and I will destroy you!” 

Try as you might, you cannot get your feet to move as your mind fails to construct a viable strategy. You will not survive a battle with him, and you can’t imagine you will get too far even if you flee. Astarion shakes his head, blinking rapidly. His eyes coast around the room, unfocused, and his arms reach out, fingers grasping blindly. 

He cannot see.

It’s only a matter of time before he heals, but it does give you a chance. You must make a decision quickly. Astarion cocks his head, growling like a feral animal with his lips pulled back in a snarl, trying to listen for your position. As soon as you move, he will be able to pinpoint your location. 

You know what you must do, but you don’t want to do it. Furthermore, you don’t know if you have time to do it before he regains his sight. 

Casting Misty Step, you bolt into your room, rifling through your drawers until you come across the scroll you need and stash it. Astarion is in the hall, and you quickly cast Gust of Wind to push him off balance and snatch Rhapsody from his grip before he has time to right himself. 

“Fool,” he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as he lunges toward you. “I need no implements to end you. I will tear your limbs from your body as easily as wings are torn from a fly.” 

You cringe at his tone — so cold, so unfeeling, so full of loathing. You sprint to the door, throwing it open and hurtling down the streets. Glancing back, you make sure Astarion is following you. His eyes remain aimless and restless in their sockets, and he moves erratically and only when he hears you. 

“Astarion!” You call out, making sure you’re far enough away that you have time to make it to the next target in this death race. 

He barrels toward your voice, fingers clawing through the air as you reappear at the next point, calling out again and again and again, keeping yourself always just out of reach, until the Crimson Palace looms out of the darkness. 

You sprint for it, throwing yourself through a window. The glass lacerates your skin, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Astarion scents the air and races toward you. You tense your muscles like Astarion has taught you, roll back onto your feet, and dash through the halls toward your target. 

Astarion is quickly gaining on you, hunting you through the halls with the finessed movements of an apex predator. His movements become more fluid, and you know he’s starting to get his sight back. 

You are running out of time. 

Veering left and hurling yourself down the steep staircase, you narrowly avoid his clutch. 

“Oh, I have missed this, my little treat,” he taunts. “Chasing you around these halls, teaching you all sorts of delightful lessons. Do you remember my lessons, pet? Oh, how I loved the way you screamed.” 

Of course, you remember his lessons vividly. The tortures and torments he subjected you to in the name of taming his unruly spawn, making you a perfect, pretty arm piece to dazzle and delight his opponents while he carried out his twisted ambitions.

And oh, how you screamed and begged for death. 

And oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed. 

The corridor is like running headfirst into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. The air is musty, and the only sounds are your battering footsteps and the drumming of Astarion’s rapid heartbeat. Your eyes skip over the wall, searching for the invisible wall, and whirl, running through the illusion and into the dank, stone-brick room. 

The kennels.

Your prison stands empty and desolate — the cage he had constructed just for you.

He had been so proud of himself when he commissioned this cell to be built with its chains, restraints, and locks too complex to use Knock on. You swallow thickly, forcing the memories down as Astarion enters. 

“Ah,” he smiles menacingly, strolling in casually. “It’s good to be home. Isn’t it? I must say, I’m surprised that you would lead me here of all places. Did you miss my expert administration? I shall remedy that.” He tsks, clicking his tongue as if chastising a child. “I can deny you nothing, after all.” 

Luring him into the cell was an easy enough feat, but you’ve run out of time. Astarion can see, but by the way his eyes are narrowed, you don’t think completely. 

“Astarion.” Tears slip out of your eyes as your fears well up. “Please come back. Don’t make me do this.” 

He sneers with a wide, eerie Cheshire grin. “I am Astarion no longer, but you know that, don’t you? He drowns.” Astarion points to his head. “In here. I am devouring him, making him rot from the inside out until the pest is conveniently lost. I will exhaust his light. He slips away from you, even now.” 

You lash out with the Weave, casting Hold, but he dodges your attack with a fleet movement to the side and slams into you before you have time to recover. You’re thrown to your stomach on the stone floor, his boot pressed into your back, leaning his weight on you. 

“Stay,” he commands, and you’re immobilized as the compulsion branches out in your mind and twists through your muscles. You cannot see the self-satisfied smile on Astarion’s face, but it’s evident in his voice as he purrs. “Good girl.” 

Astarion leans down, grabs Rhapsody from your hand, and chuckles. “We could have had it all, love. Power, wealth, pleasure — if only you would have just fallen in line, been obedient, but you were always an obstinate little cunt, weren’t you?” 

Astarion lowers himself, sitting on your legs and squeezing your arms to your sides with his knees settled on either side of you. You cannot speak, and the only sounds that make it out of your mouth are strangled whimpers. 

The pointed tip of Rhapsody presses into your back, not yet hard enough to break through skin, and you think you know what’s coming. He will plunge the dagger into your heart.  

There would have been a time when your imminent demise would have brought you a sense of peace and relief. You’d sought an end to this nightmare often enough in the past year. Now, it’s only fear and the overwhelming feeling of failure that nestle in your chest. 

You try to conjure up happy memories. Astarion’s face lighting up in camp when you walked toward him, the walks through the forest in the dappled moonlight, the way he would slip into your tent and cuddle you when he thought you were fast asleep. 

You try to remember his eyes when he proposed, so vividly crimson, wistful, and happy. In that moment, you could have been just another madly in love couple. It all seemed so ordinary, so beautifully human, that you didn’t think about all that opposed the bright future he was offering.

I forgive you, you think, though the connection between you is sealed. I forgive you.

Thoughts move sluggishly through your head, as if getting caught on the sticky threads of spider webs. The cold metal bites into your skin. Slow and steady, Astarion carves into the flesh of your back with precise movements. The shock hits you first, realizing that he’s mimicking Cazador’s torture, and the pain soon follows. It feels obscure for a moment; your brain not able to conceptualize what’s happening. 

The shock wanes, and the sensation strikes with an intensity that makes you almost lose consciousness. Your limbs itch to scramble as your brain wails at your body to thrash. When your muscles don’t comply, everything swims around you as your psyche dissolves. 

“Ah-ah,” he tuts flatly as he focuses on the canvas before him. You can hear the blade cutting through your clothing, tearing and rending skin and muscles alike. “Stay with me, darling, and no going into shock either. I want you to feel the art of it.” 

Astarion’s compulsion takes hold, and you’re alert, all your nerves aroused and buzzing back to life at his behest. It is a mind-obliterating kind of torture. If you were able to writhe, you’re not even sure your body would, as you lose sight of the ability to consider how to get it to stop. A bone-deep nausea overwhelms you, and your mind is seized by the white-hot agony mutilating your flesh. 

He mumbles as he whittles away at your back. “I may not be the same man, but I do have most of his memories. Do you want to know a secret he keeps from you? Do you remember the first time we had sex in that forest? He loathed every second of it. Every one of your pretty little moans made him want to retch. It disgusted him — you disgusted him. How easy you were.”

The pain frays the edges of your mind as your husband, your lover, sketches a tapestry of heartache into you with his words and dagger. Every drag of the blade is like an artist's brushstroke, and your blood is the watercolour of his unspeakable masterpiece. 

“Oh my,” he croons with feigned empathy. “Wherever are my manners? You may speak, my love.” 

As soon as your lips are no longer stitched shut by his compulsion, an insensate wail erupts from your throat. It rebounds off the walls and echos, cutting through the silence like ghosts lamenting the torture this room has been witness to over the centuries. 

Astarion still talks, but his words are just another hum flowing over your ears but never sinking in. 

You don’t know what prompts you to laugh, but you do so bitterly and madly. Your own laughter is so hollow that, at first, you’re not sure if it is you until words start to form between the hysterical mirth. “I am fucking coming for you. I will defy the Gods to save him, and I cannot wait to make you choke on my light.” 

The dagger punctures deeper, through muscle and into bone, you’re quite sure, and another hoarse, harrowing cry is loosed from your lips. 

 “Yes, sing.” 

For me.

He’s said this to you many times in this room, a haunting mirror of Cazador, and you wait for him to finish, but nothing comes. The knife carving your back stills, and Astarion’s heartbeat goes from being steady and rhythmic to clattering with such intensity that you cannot tell if it’s skipping beats or beating so rapidly that the sound just merges into one thundering call. 

“Illyria?” The blade buried deep in your muscles begins to tremble, no longer the steady-handed glide, and you wince as it vacillates your raw nerves. It clatters to the floor abruptly. “By the Gods. What have I done?” 

Astarion throws himself off you, his back thudding into the back wall of the hellish cell so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs in a wheeze. The compulsion pales, receding from your mind, and your body shakes uncontrollably as shock starts to set in.  

Your mind wants to slip away, your eyesight blurred by the tears welled in your eyes that you were unable to shed without permission, but you force yourself to focus. The muscles in your arms tremble violently as you aim to push yourself up to your feet, but you only make it to your knees before the pain makes your body wrack, dry heaving between fitful sobs. 

A noise between a croak and a gasp hiccups from Astarion. When you look up at him, his eyes are wide with horror. His hand covers his mouth, and his still-flickering eyes brim with tears. You stare at him, wanting to speak and tell him it’s okay, but instead you ravenously take in every feature of your Astarion to try to rid yourself of the cold countenance of the man who flayed your back. Your eyes focus on every soft feature, on the lustre of those wide, mortified eyes and the rampant fear in them. 

You have not yet decided if you want to run from him or crawl into his arms, kiss him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, but his eyes still rock between dimness and lucidity. 

“Stay with me, Astarion,” you choke out, begging him not to go, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Oh Gods. Oh Gods.” His voice breaks, cracking and tight with emotion. 

Astarion looks around frantically, and you see the recognition of this room, but also the confusion with the concrete walls and barred door surrounding him. He may never have seen this cage, or if he did, you imagine he would not know what purpose it served. 

He’s unsteady on his feet as he reaches for the shackles hanging from the wall and snaps them around his wrist, clicking each padlock into place with a hiss as the silver manacles burn his skin. 

“You have to get away from me. I will kill you. The darkness, I cannot walk away. I am—“ 

You see the moment he loses himself again, the flickering light in his eyes dying out like a cooling ember. You grab the dagger, stumble out of the cage, and slam the door closed. You remove the scroll from your pocket and unravel the parchment with shaking fingers, leaving bloody prints all along the edges. 

The incantation flows quickly, but precisely, off your tongue as you recite it. The words glow golden, float into the air, and the scroll vanishes. The blue-white shimmer of Arcane Lock encompasses the cell door. 

Astarion hauls on the restraints, testing their strength with a calculating look at the locks. The shackles are made for you, thick chains braided together to make sure you could not escape, and locks too complex for any spell. The silver in the manacles is meant to weaken, but there’s no knowing if it will affect him in the same way it did you. He observes the incandescence pulsing around the door. 

His deathly, cold eyes peer at you through the darkness. “Clever, clever girl. What���s to stop me from just compelling you to dispel it?”

“You’re welcome to try, but it won’t work. Only a Wizard has the ability to suppress this spell.” Your silver tongue lies perfectly and effortlessly. 

A silence stretches out between you for what feels like an eternity before he sinks into the darkness of the cell. His voice is unnerving. “It’s only a matter of time before I get free. Enjoy what little time remains of your life.” 

You nod curtly and stride out of the room. Closing the door to the kennels, you bolt through the halls to Astarion’s old study and pull out all the drawers until you find the ring of keys that he kept well away from you. You descend the stairs back down into the hall, terrified that you will see Astarion standing in the dark, but it remains empty. You shove keys shakily into the lock until one finally spins with a satisfying click. 

It’s a pointless endeavour. If Astarion escapes, he can break the door down, but it gives you some small sense of comfort to know there’s another barrier between you and that monster wearing Astarion’s face.  

You’re not sure what you will do if he gets curious and compels you to let him go. There was no time to plan quite that far in advance, but for now, he seems to have accepted that you cannot dispel it. 

You can do nothing but pray that his ignorance of the arcane arts still holds true. 

The walls themselves seem to brood at your presence and press in on you. You drop to your knees on the floor, and the open wounds on your back flood you with fresh agony with every movement. You would whimper, perhaps scream, but the thought of giving Astarion the satisfaction makes you grind your teeth and dive deep into the solitude and silence. 

The silver shackles burn your wrists and ankles and drain your strength. The rough stone blocks grate at the skin on your back like sandpaper, but at this point, it’s almost a welcome sensation.  

How long have you been shackled now? Weeks? Months? You cannot seem to keep your grip on reality these days. Sometimes you think you hear voices outside of your cage in the darkness. Seven thousand souls tell you that you deserve this, that you brought this upon yourself, and that you should rot in here for eternity as they will rot in the Hells. All true, true, true, you think, and you let it hurt until that too stops.  

Hunger has become an all-consuming, mind-numbing pain. Bloodlust is such a complex patchwork of sensations. It is a pain of pressure, of maturing, of constantly growing larger, larger, larger until your limbs cramp and jerk. You want nothing more than to die before your body can twist itself into excruciating positions and lock up on you, and even then, the hunger grows.  

You cannot die from starvation any longer. This pain will only ever increase. Every second, the burbling acid in your stomach seems to burn hotter in the pit, an agony that often makes you whimper and weep.  

At least you are not entirely alone. You can hear the bugs, feel them clambering against your naked skin. Sometimes they are light; others are heavier, with chitinous shells and legs that prick. They chitter and clatter their pincers together. Sometimes they bite between your toes, climb over your face, and through your hair. You don’t have the energy to brush them away, and so you don’t.

You have not yet decided if you might try eating them.

You haven’t moved — not so much as a twitch of a finger — in what must be weeks. It goes on and on and on until you’re very sure that this is all you will ever know for the rest of your immortal life. 

Hunger, pain, loneliness, and bugs.

And then you hear the lock click, and you squint your eyes against the dim light of the candle that is set just out of your reach. You smell brandy and rosemary, and your lower lip quivers. You bite it to stop it from giving away your emotions.

“Don’t do that.” Astarion says, “Is that how you want me to see you for the first time in weeks, pet? Weak?”  

Weeks… Is that all it’s been? It felt like years. 

You hate that you are relieved to see him, happy to hear the devil's voice, and smell home, even if this home burns down around you even now.  

Astarion grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces you to look into his dead eyes. “I bet you’re starving. Hm?” He grins sadistically, turning it into a fake pout. “I do not like to see that look upon your face. Worry not. I’ve brought you dinner.”  

He twists and grabs a silver bucket, turning it over and letting a dead, decaying rat splat on the floor beside you. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of it. It’s been dead for some time, and you can see and hear the maggots writhing underneath its rotting pelt.  

But Gods, you are so hungry.  

When you don’t immediately go for the rat, Astarion grabs your restraints and tugs hard, making your raw, blistered wrist light ablaze, and you whimper. “What? Not good enough? You ungrateful bitch. I lived on this diet for two hundred years.”  

He kicks the rat forward. “Eat it. Now.”  

“Please,” you croak weakly. Your voice has not been used in a while, and it sounds odd in your ears. “Please, Astarion. Don’t do this. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you want, but please.”  

“I said.” Astarion grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in the mushy corpse, rubbing your nose in it like a pup who has had an accident in the house. “Fucking eat it.”  

With its putrid guts already spread across your face, you sob as you bite down into it, your fangs sinking into fetid flesh and stinking muscles, and feed.  

It is worse than you thought it ever could be. Your mouth is filled with bits of congealed blood, but mostly puss and death and decay, and you swallow it down because you have no other choice.  

“Gods,” Astarion grunts with his lips curled in disgust. “Hush now. You are terribly ugly when you cry, darling.”  

You don’t dare trance and instead remain still and soundless, with only the pain igniting your being keeping you company. Fear keeps you rooted to the floor on your knees. Fear that if you leave, he will not be here when you return. Fear that if you dare move, he will strike from the shadows. Fear that you wasted too much time, and he is truly gone. 

Fear. Fear. Fear. 

Fear so sharp that you can feel it enclosing around you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it feel incomprehensibly thin. Even though you do not need it, you try to gulp it down in shallow breaths, but there is no relief from the fear or the depravation that still strangles you.

You long to feel the connection with Astarion so you can stop feeling so boundlessly empty and alone. How easily you can get used to having another presence always at the back of your mind. It was comforting to know he was always there, nothing more than a thought or feeling away, but now that comfort too has been ripped away.  

Sometimes you think you feel him touching your mind, but the sensation is fickle, like the wings of an insect tickling with soft, fluttering whispers. 

There is no time to remain in this state of dejection, and yet you wallow in it. Perhaps you should not have told him, and this is your fault, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. 

Nothing good ever seems to last.

You need help, but anyone who aids you will be in grave peril. Getting to your feet is a monumental effort; the scabs of the raw mosaic on your back split and reopen anew. You wonder what he sculpted into your flesh. What scars will you carry for eternity? It’s not like you will ever be able to see them, but maybe that’s a blessing. 

You let yourself back into the kennels and force yourself to face him. There is a fleeting hope that when you light the candles, your husband's warm scarlet eyes will be what you see, but that, too, is another disappointment.  

Astarion’s eyes remain almost matte, like once-polished rubies forgotten and dulled by the patina of time. 

He sits on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, and watches you with a keenness that makes you shudder. You hold his stare. You will not be shy or meek. You cannot afford to show such weakness. 

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse, clipped, and unsteady. 

“Why what, pet?” 

You ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind since you walked out of this wretched place — since he allowed you to walk out of this place. “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

“Last night?” He snickers. “I wanted to hear your angelic cries once more before I—“ 

“No,” you bark, cutting him off. “Not last night. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had every opportunity. There was no one here to stop you.”

Astarion leans forward, making the chains rattle. There is a gleam in his eye, those perfect lips pulling back into a cruel smile. “Because I love you, of course.” 

You almost want to laugh, as if he’s just told you a hilarious joke, but there is a resoluteness in his voice, a matter-of-fact intonation, that tells you that this is a truth to some extent.  

Even this version of him, this soulless, fragmented rendition, loves you in his own twisted way. 

It also indicates what you fear most: that this monster before you is still Astarion, and the only thing that stands between your Astarion and this one is the tattered remains of whatever is left of his soul. 

If you fail in your quest and run out of time, this hateful, power-hungry savage will replace the man you knew. What would you do? Every atom of your being longs for him. If you cannot be his saviour, will you languish in the dark with him if only to keep him company? Would you be capable of hating him — killing him — if need be? 

You wish to believe yourself resilient enough to roll your betrayal, sadness, and anger into loathing to release you from this self-flagellating love, but you know you will never be able to. There is still a soft part of your heart harbouring hope that if you keep getting up every time he knocks you down, if you keep fighting, there might be a happy ending at the end of this cluster fuck. 

Or perhaps it is only your ending that awaits you at the finish line. 

“That was quite a fancy trick,” Astarion drones, tearing you away from your thoughts. “Blinding me.”

You don’t bother answering before leaving him alone, locking the door uselessly behind you once again, and making your way to the main floor of the palace. The dust has settled in a thick blanket on the furniture, with cobwebs stretching out in every corner and between the slender candles in their opulent candelabra. It makes the atmosphere of this palace of nightmares all the more foreboding. 

“Mizora!” You call out, knowing the cambion is ever watchful. 

The air heats, smelling of sulphur and brimstone, and the oily blot opens up on the floor. Mizora’s fluid form arises, wings unfurling with her usual flair. 

“That was quite the show last night.” She smirks with fangs peeking out of her lips. “Stupid, pet. Very stupid.” She sports a faux pout. “I thought you much wiser.” 

“I’m not interested in your chastisement.” You cross your arms and immediately regret the way your shoulder blades stretch your injured skin, bringing fresh tears to your eyes. “Tell Shadowheart to meet me here.” 

“What do I look like to you? A messenger pigeon?” Mizora tsks haughtily. 

“If you want me to kennel Mephistopheles, you’re going to do as requested.” 

Mizora huffs indignantly, stretching her wings out and jutting her chin up. You stare at her unyieldingly, not allowing your face to display your uncertainty, pain, or fear. 

“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, waggling her clawed fingers at you. “I will fetch your darling little Cleric.”

Once Mizora disperses, you head straight for the library. It’s one of the bigger rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases that are brimming with all kinds of tomes and books, ranging in age from new to ancient. Your fingers and eyes flit over the titles as quickly as you can, looking for anything even remotely related to infernal contracts, deals with devils, the nine Hells themselves, or arch devils. 

The knock on the palace door makes you jump, and you are cautious as you make your way through the latticework of halls and corridors, trying to light candles as you go so that the palace is less oppressive.

Unsurprisingly, it does little to help. 

When you finally tug the door open, you stay carefully behind it because you’re not sure if your sun protection has been rescinded, and you’re not interested in finding out. Shadowheart is waiting with her armour and weapons, arms crossed, and tapping her foot in the way she does when she’s either irritated or worried. 

“You sent Mizora to fetch me? What in the blazing Hells is going on?” She strides into the palace, dropping her pack at her feet and putting her hands on her hips. “Why are we here, and where’s Astarion?” 

Once the heavy door is shut and locked, you come out of the shadows where you’ve been hiding it. Even though you try to swallow them, tears weep from your eyes. “Astarion is downstairs. He’s locked up in the kennels.” 

“Locked in the kennels?”

Shadowheart finally turns to look at you, and her stern expression vanishes. Her brows round, her eyes widen, and she pulls you into a hug, unaware of the wounds on your back. You wince as her arm folds over the barely healed lacerations. Shadowheart tries to jump away when she feels the cool wetness of your blood against her hand, but you mutter pleas to stay. 

Eventually, when the bloodlust threatens to overwhelm, you let Shadowheart go. She stares at her blood-dappled hands and back at you. 

“Show me.” She instructs, but you hesitate. You don’t want to show her this. She might not be able to forgive Astarion, and if that’s the case, she might be more likely to try and kill him than help you save him. “Turn around, Illyria.” 

You do so slowly, with your head hung in defeat. Shadowheart’s heartbeat increases, and she gasps. 

“By the Gods! Did he do this to you!? Did that monster finally show his true colours?!” 

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault. It’s not him.” 

“We have to get you cleaned up, and then I’m going to fucking kill him.” 

“No!” You yell, grasping her forearms and falling to your knees to beg. "Please, before you make any judgments on him, hear me out. Please, Shadowheart.”

“I... Ugh. Fine. Take off your shirt. We have to clean your wounds. Do you have any clothes here?” 

“Astarion might,” you mutter. “I can go look up in his room for something.” 

Shadowheart helps you carefully pull your shirt off, but it seems almost melded to your body, and it peels off some of the formed scabs as well. You can feel the blood dribble down your back. It scents the air with a coppery perfume, which makes your bloodlust surge. 

Shadowheart is quiet while she works on patting your wounds as gently as she can, trying to clean them, and using her healing magic again and again and again.  

You don’t have the heart to tell her which blade these were made with and why they will not heal. 

“These are not healing well.” She comments, almost perplexed. 

“They will heal in time.” 

Shadowheart accompanies you to Astarion’s old room, and you pull out drawers only to find most of them empty. The various wardrobes are the same, but you do manage to find one shirt that still resides here, apparently not good enough to be packed and taken with the others.

His old camp shirt. 

You slip it on; at least the fabric is soft and does not get caught on your wounds. It is, of course, much too large for you and likely looks beyond ridiculous, but it’s something at least. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Shadowheart says softly, her usual prickly demeanour nowhere to be seen.

So you do. You explain it all from top to bottom and back again. You tell Shadowheart about the way his mind sounds if you use Detect Thoughts; tell her about the version of him that lurks within; and about Mizora and Mephistopheles. 

You conveniently leave out the marriage proposal.

“Hells!” Shadowheart rubs her face. “I knew there was something we didn’t know about that godsforsaken Rite. Fuck. We were such fools. So the man in the kennels, the man that did that to you, is not Astarion?” 

 She means that you were a fool, but it matters not.

“He is Astarion,” you answer. “But he’s a version of Astarion that’s been corrupted. He’s not the Astarion we know.” 

“I want to see him - this version of him.” 

“It’s not a good idea.” You shake your head. “I don’t actually know how long it will hold him.” 

“How are we going to get our Astarion back?” Shadowheart says. “What’s brought him back before?” 

“Me,” you say, sitting and combing your fingers through your hair. “It’s usually me, but this time seems different. He came back for a moment, but he was gone again quickly.” 

“We’ll get him back, Illyria.” Shadowheart says it with a smile, but it’s forced. She squeezes your shoulder. “We will find a way, or he will.” 

You nod, “Until then, we need to learn everything we can about infernal contracts and how to negotiate them.” You rise from the chair with renewed determination. “I pulled some books from the library already. We can start there unless you know where to acquire more specific books.”

“What do you mean negotiate them?” Shadowheart retorts with her brows pinched. “Don’t we want to destroy the contract? I very much doubt Mephistopheles will be willing to renegotiate if it means putting a muzzle on him.” 

“Who said anything about Mephistopheles?” You grin wolfishly. “I’m going to negotiate new terms with the Lord of Lies.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's been a while since we’ve seen this version of Astarion... We need our Astarion back!

Tiamat - Real or hallucination?

Lord of Lies - Bad idea? Most likely...

Posting a day early because it's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm not sure how drunk I'll be by the end of the day 🤣

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg #astarion bg3 #fangs and fractured hearts #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion x named tav

[danse--macabre]

I know lingua ignota's caligula is about abuse in the context of sexual relationships, but so much of it feels applicable to durge & orin's relationship (both pre- and post- tadpole)

#i'd usually feel apprehensive to explicitly compare that album to anything but i think in the case of durge & orin #so much of it is mediated by violence & abusive cults & and the cruelty of a god #that it feels appropriate #anyway i'm listening it to the first time in a few years and god. do you doubt me traitor #still feels like being doused in ice cold water

[hier--soir]

heart to heart

john price x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: john takes you away for the weekend, and nestled in a cottage on the countryside, you show him just how much you've been missing him. warnings/tags: long term boyfriend!john, john price never finishes his cigars, explicit smut, a little body worship, oral [m receiving], fingering [f], unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms [m], some overstim [m], come eating x2, brief cock warming, idiots in love, porn with minimal plot. word count: 4.4k masterlist a/n: this was born out of me being physically unable to stop thinking about that middle picture being john price, so here we go follow @hier--soirupdates if you’d like to be notified when i share my writing

It hasn’t rained in six days.

Late autumn spins the countryside in its grasp; a warm cloak that sends the leaves golden and the grass dewy. In a small, unfamiliar kitchen you drop teabags into mugs and gaze out the window. Admire the vast acreage that surrounds the cottage, and the marshland beyond that.

The early morning rays are bright and cool, turning the cabinets a washy yellow colour around you as you wait for the kettle to boil.

Everything is quiet, calm. If you listen closely, past the sound of birds chirping and water bubbling, you can hear John’s heavy snores down the hall; still catching up on sleep after a long few weeks away.

When he came through the front door two nights ago, you’d been quietly surprised to see him home so soon. After not hearing much for almost a month, you’d resigned yourself to getting on with things in his absence. A fairly covert operation, you knew, so you’d spent your days waking to an empty house. Working and eating and showering alone and never exceeding the appropriate number of messages you could send him in one day without stirring worry. Little Angus with his long orange tail and his soft whiskers your only company in John’s stead.

Home at last, he’d wrestled out of his heavy boots and draped himself over where you lay on the couch. Soap opera long forgotten on the tele, he’d slipped an arm around the back of your head, held you to his chest and said, Let me take you somewhere.

The kettle whistles and you pluck it from the stove, still smiling at the memory. Douse the teabags in boiled water and watch as the windows cloud with steam. You leave his black, just the way he likes it, but soften your own with sugar and milk. Your toes are numb against the cool tile, and you rub them against your calf in search of warmth. Inside, your body is at sleepy old war with itself. One half longing to be back in bed, or perhaps to have not gotten up at all yet; the other half taking great pleasure in the mundanity of doing things like this for him again, after so long of not. Tap tap tap of an impatient finger against the counter until his tea turns the perfect colour, and then you’re on your way back to the room.

Leant amongst paisley patterned pillows and white linens, John looks a little out of place knuckling sleep from the corner of his eyes. A little too rough around the edges, too big, too hardened for such soft surroundings. In your brief absence, he’s drawn the curtains and nudged the window beside the bed open a crack. A long arm stretches out toward the sill, ashing a cigar onto the small dish he’s balanced there.

Naked as the day he was born, he lifts the cigar to his lips and blinks drowsily at you. Stretches his legs out, the muscles in his thighs straining, curled toes skimming the end of the bed. Eyes wandering, you kick the door shut with your foot and slink to the end of the bed, holding out his mug.

“’Morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. Accepts the tea with a soft smile, the skin beside his eyes crinkling as he watches you crawl in beside him. Hands full, he twists an ankle around yours, face pulling up at the feel of your cold skin against his. “Jesus, you’re like ice. I’ll shut the window.”

“Don’t move,” you hush, nestling your head against his shoulder. “You’re right where I want you.”

John laughs softly, warm body vibrating against yours. “Is that right, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” You watch him tap his cigar against the dish, sipping your tea and trailing fingers through the dark hairs on his stomach. Enjoy the way his body draws tense beneath your cool touch, goose flesh sprouting across his skin. “Middle of nowhere… unfamiliar town… no one will ever find you. You’re all mine out here, Price.”  

“M’all yours everywhere,” he says, abandoning his cigar in the dish so he can tug on the neckline of your—his—t-shirt. “This proves it, yeah?”

“I suppose,” you smile, lifting your mug to hide behind a sip. He watches you move, calculating and quiet as he sips his own tea. You fidget beneath the intensity of his stare, painfully aware of how well he knows you. That your want, your need, must be painted across every inch of your face.

“Love you in my clothes, sweetheart, I do.” John’s fingers curl beneath the hem of the shirt then, rough callouses tickling over your collarbones. “But you’re makin’ me feel awful naked.”

Heat flares in the base of your stomach and you chuckle, matching smirks splashed across your faces as you sit up and drag the shirt over your head. He watches as you flick it to the floor, gaze darkening as he looks over your body, focusing on the thin grey panties that cover the skin between your thighs. A thick arm curls around your waist, tugging you back onto him, and as you settle there his fingers slip down to fiddle with the band of your underwear.

“Cute,” he comments airily, middle finger dropping under the band to caress the skin beneath it.

Mug discarded off the side of the bed, you put both hands to his stomach now. Tickling his soft skin, playing with the hair there as you lean in and press a kiss to the centre of his chest. And then another, and another, with John simply humming, palm flattening against the small of your back to hold you against his side.

Your lips part, tongue dancing lazily against his nipple. Soft strokes until the flesh is stiffening and you’re practically purring against his skin, drifting across to the other one. You hear the soft clink of his mug hitting the side table, and then John’s hand falls against the back of your head. Thick fingers twist through your hair, playing as you kiss and lick over his collarbones, and the little tugs he gives have a low throb starting up between your legs.

“Feelin’ needy this mornin’, hey lovey?” John asks. His fingers come to the front of your face, cupping your jaw and forcing you to look up at him. Big blue eyes watch you pout, cheeks squished between his fingers as you nod.

“I missed you,” you say, turning to press your nose into his palm and inhale the smell of him.

His eyes soften, and all sense of teasing seems to slip out the window. “I know, sweetheart, m’sorry. Come here’n give us a kiss.”

His lips are soft against yours. Warm, and familiar, with a hint of Darjeeling. Pulling you up to straddle his waist, he coaxes your chest down against his and huffs into your mouth at the feel of your nipples against his skin, teeth sneaking out to smart at your bottom lip.

“Thought about you every day,” he mumbles against your lips. “Missed you every second, love, always do.”

You feel something hot and sharp spark behind your eyelids at those words, and flick your tongue against the seam of his lips, pushing it away, not now not now. You go soft and pliant against him; let him guide you through the kiss, coaxing your mouth open with his long tongue as his fingers dance down your spine. When his hand reaches the round of your ass he grips your flesh there, kneading it between his fingers and pushing down so your clothed cunt comes flush with his cock.

“Feel that?” John says, pulling away an inch to nose at your cheek. His cock is heavy between your legs, thick and stiff where it presses against the gusset of your panties. You gasp as he rocks his hips up, grinding against you until the damp fabric slips between your slick folds and rubs over your clit. “That’s how much I missed you, sweetheart.”

As he talks, the hairs on his moustache prickle against your lips, and you find yourself opening your mouth. Breathy moans spill as you roll your hips against his, lathing hot opened mouthed kisses over his jaw.

“Looked at your picture every night,” he continues raggedly, breath hitching as you suck at the hollow of his throat. His cock twitches against you, the slide only getting smoother as more slick spills into your panties. “Thought about comin’ home ‘n’ never leavin’ again, just so I could play with this pretty little cunt whenever I like.”

Your hips stutter into his and you whine, a tiny glimpse of an orgasm fluttering through you just from those words.

“S’yours,” you whisper against his skin, the words he spoke moments before dancing through your mind. “All yours everywhere.”

Faster than he can stop you, you’re slipping off his lap and settling beside him on the bed. Continuing the onslaught, you lick hot, messy kisses over the skin of his neck, across the broad span of his shoulders.

“My big man,” you say tenderly, fingers itching their way across his chest. You skirt your teeth down the middle of his sternum, squeaking a little when he murmurs in enjoyment and presses a hand to your ass again. “I missed your body so much.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me then,” he goads lightly, grunting around a smirk when you sink your teeth into the soft flesh over his ribs in response.

His fingers toy with the material of your panties as you drag your tongue over the dip of his belly button, and when you kiss the soft curve of his lower stomach, nose buried in the dark hairs above it, you feel him grip the fabric tight. You can see his cock in your peripheral vision. Swollen and heavy against his hip now. The tip has turned a pretty shade of dark pink, accented by little streaks of white where pre-come oozes from his slit and glides down his throbbing shaft. With your mouth on his belly, you reach out and wrap your fingers around him.

“Fuck,” John grunts, head lolling back against the pillows.

You smile, stroking him slowly as you drag your nose through his thick happy trail, all the way down to nuzzle against the dark thatch of curls above his base. Insistent now, his fingers push beneath the edge of your panties and drag through your slick seam.

You whimper, forehead resting heavily against his skin as he slides two fingers through the wet mess of you. Lewd sounds of your arousal fill the room as John traces featherlight circles around your clit, and your face heats against his stomach, fingers returning to their lazy pace around his length.

The throb between your legs has become a second heartbeat now, so strong that you’re sure he must feel it beneath his fingertips. If he does, he just sighs softly. Lets the thrumming of your cunt sync with the pulse in his fingertips, heart to heart, and murmurs low encouragements as you tilt your head to the side and begin mouthing at his cock.

“Missed my cock.” Your voice is low and unfamiliar in your ears, mouth overrun with desire and spilling your guts before you can stop it. “So pretty, John…”

Circling your entrance with a thick finger, he just says, “I know, love, s’yours. Go on.”

As slow as you can bring yourself to be, you lay gentle kisses down the entire length of him. Wetting your lips and gliding them over his warm, silken skin, before dipping lower and sucking his balls between your lips. A harsh grunt sounds behind you, and, as if in retaliation, he sinks two thick fingers inside you. You moan around his sensitive skin, holding his balls in your mouth and jerking him off until he’s trembling beneath you, broad thighs straining as he tries to hold himself together.

“That’s good, love,” he murmurs softly, almost speaking to himself as he curls his fingers inside you, humming when you grind into his hand. “Need ta get my fuckin’ mouth on you.”

But you just shake your head. Let his balls slip from your mouth with a soft pop before sticking out your tongue and guiding the weeping tip of his cock towards your mouth. Hasty, too needy for your own good, you slip your lips around him and try to take him deep on the first pass. Out of practice after weeks away, your throat constricts and you choke a little around him. So big, so overbearing, you’re too eager to be filled by him that you push and push until you’re gagging and sputtering. Cheeks hot and eyes downturned, you draw back, skin prickling as you hear him say something past the rushing in your ears. Take a moment to catch your breath and ground yourself, fingers tight on his thigh as your tongue swirls around his tip.

“This what you missed then?” he’s saying, collecting your hair in his fist to keep it off your face. “Hm, missed bein’ all full of me?”

“Mhm,” you hum around him, pulling back with a gasp only to press his head against your cheek. Eyes closed, you rub his ruddy tip against your chin, your lips, painting your skin with his precome. Feel the weight of him warm your skin and sigh in quiet delight. And when he groans, exhaling a heavy, ragged breath, you press your mouth around him again, desperate to hear him make that sound over and over again.

“Easy, darlin’, lemme see you,” John chokes out, thumbing sliding over the apple of your cheek. “So pretty with your lips around my cock.”

Heat floods your chest, and you drool around him. The words seem to trigger something in your mind, some insatiable desire to please, to make him feel good, because you’re relaxing, sinking your mouth down further on him. A low, drawn-out curse falls from his lips, fingers curling in the hair behind your ear.

Gaudy sounds of sucking and slurping fill your ears, and you would be self-conscious if it weren’t for the way John’s growls met them in the air. Wordlessly, he slips a third digit inside and the stretch brings a dull burn that has your mouth slowing against him.

Your eyelids flutter as his thick fingers stroke at your walls, searching for the spot that makes you spill every time, but your wanton cries of desperation are muffled by the heavy weight of him on your tongue. In slow, measured movements, he begins to shift his hips in time with your head. Feeding his cock to you and grunting when he feels your throat go soft and easy around him, letting him slip further in until your nose buries in the hair at his base.

John watches you, the blue in his eyes almost entirely swallowed by desire fattened pupils. Rakes his gaze over the way your lips stretch around his thick cock, tears dancing on your lashes as you take him in your throat. The heady taste of him is intoxicating, and you can only hold his gaze for so long before your eyes are rolling back, stomach pulling tight as you swallow around him.

Stuffed to the brim with John, John, John. He’s everywhere, filling your mouth, your aching cunt; it sends your heart racing, thighs trembling as your orgasm begins to crest.

Molten heats swims in the base of your stomach, curling and bubbling there as he you ride his long fingers, moaning his name around his cock. But just as you feel everything begin to go tight and tingly, John’s pulling on your hair and dragging you off him.

A thin strand of spit dangles between his tip and your mouth and he snarls at the sight, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip.

“Fuck, c’mere,” he huffs, squeezing insistently at your shoulders. “Wanna feel you on my cock when you come for me, yeah?”

Mind a hazy blur, you let the weight of him fall from your mouth, the hinge of your jaw still burning as you peel your underwear down your legs and spread yourself over his lap. John doesn’t pull his hand away though. No, he keeps his fingers between your legs, pumping them in and out, slowly, as you hover over his cock.

“My girl,” he says, eyes focusing on where the puffy lips of your cunt almost touch his cock. “My filthy, sweet girl.”

“John,” you puff his name, abdomen tensing when he rubs his thumb against your clit. Balanced on your knees and the tips of your toes, your legs shake a bit. Fingers dance forward to touch his shoulder, desperate for an anchor.

You frown a little, swollen lips parted in a torturous mix of desire and confusion, but he just offers a filthy grin and says, “Tell me you missed me again.”   

“Oh, fuck off,” you smart instinctually, lips twitching when he barks a laugh and slips his fingers from your wet clutch, grasp drifting to your waist. “Please.”  

“There she is,” he rumbles, jaw tensing as you glide his tip through your folds, coating him in your slick. A heavy rush of air spills from his nose. “My impatient girl.”

Once he’s got you on his cock, it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart.  

He lets you keep having it your way for a bit. Watches, gaze heavy, as you bounce on his cock, hands gripping his shoulders for leverage. You squirm on him, face twisted up as you adjust to the thick stretch of him after so long. It burns and aches between your thighs, but you can’t help but keep coming back for more, sinking down on his length faster each time. He tilts his head forward to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, moaning against the plush of your breast when you arch your back, crying out at the feeling of his teeth on the sensitive bud.

After a while he slots his greedy lips against yours. Presses hot, sucking kisses to your mouth, swallowing down every gasp and moan that crawls its way up your chest. The bristles of his facial hair scratch at your cheeks, your nose, and you love it. Have desperately missed the way it warms your skin as he presses his tongue inside your mouth and tastes behind your teeth.

Using his hold on your hips, he rolls you against his lap. Meets you thrust for thrust until you start to soak his length, jaw going slack as he growls into your open mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell, love, that’s it,” John groans, fingers tightening on your waist as your cunt pulls tight and hot around him. Thighs shaking, you let your forehead fall against his chest and ride out the flood of your orgasm. “I know, darlin’, I know, I’ve got you.”

Fingers fly up to grip the back of your neck, his other arm snaking around your waist as he continues fucking up into you. His cock presses hot and heavy into that soft, gushy spot deep inside you and you shudder against him, helpless little moans slipping from your parted lips. Face smushed against his hairy chest, you drool a little. Feel it pool between his pecs and smear across your cheek as your eyes roll back, dopamine pounding in your veins as he pushes you relentlessly through the high.

“Gonna let me fill you up?” he’s panting, feet planted on the bed now as he bucks into you, hips stuttering as he sinks closer and closer to his end. “Fuck, I’m gonna make a right mess of you, darlin’. That’s it, lovey, show me that pretty face.”

“John,” you mewl, toes curling against the sheets. “Shit, oh shit.”   

“Christ,” he grunts when you meet his eyes, jaw pulled tight. “So tight, m’ gonna come—”

“Wait,” you mumble suddenly, senses sharpening despite the way your thighs still shake against his hips. John stills immediately, grip tightening on your waist. “In my mouth, I want you in my mouth.”

His face crumples at that, a guttural noise sputtering from his lips as you lift off him and slip down to rest between his legs. He nods, brushing hair back off your face as you sink your mouth down on him, slick tongue hungry on the underside of his pulsing cock. He mutters your name, tells you how perfect you feel as he rocks his hips forward, tip nudging the back of your throat with every careful thrust.

“My sweet girl, doing so good for me,” he breathes, a coy grin on his face and a firm hand at the base of your skull. He holds your head in place as he fucks your mouth with slow, steady strokes. Groans every time you swallow, warm wet throat drawing tight around his swollen head.

“Look at me, let me see those eyes,” he mutters urgently, tugging on your hair until you’re blinking, focusing blurry eyes on his face. He thumbs at the teary streaks on your cheeks and gives a rough, prolonged groan as he begins to spill down your throat. “Fuck, fuck.”

You bob your head as his cock twitches and jerks against your tongue, sucking until he’s filled your mouth with warm come and it starts seeping from the corner of your mouth, dribbling down his shaft. You catch the spill with your fingers, swallowing his thick spend down and then licking what’s left from your trembling hands.

John watches on, chest heaving, and tuts fondly when you whimper, head spinning with the salty taste of him on your tongue.

“Bloody hell,” he exhales after a moment, dragging his knuckles over his face. “We’re never goin’ home.”  

You laugh, drowsily nuzzling your cheek against the inside of his thigh as his cock softens against his stomach. John cards his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, legs still twitching and eyes drifting closed as he tries to catch his breath. Lips slick with spit and come, you lay soft pecks along his sweaty skin. Smile when he shudders, fingers tightening against your scalp, but doesn’t pull you off.

There’s a hot flush of red splashed across the skin of his neck, his cheekbones, and his stomach is still warm to the touch when you reach out to graze his soft flesh. Sated and sleepy, he wets his lips and continues to play with your hair. Lovingly curls strands of it around his fingers and tugs gently before letting go, only to pick a new strand and do it again.

Overcome with emotion, and unable to stop yourself, you lean forward and take his soft cock back into your mouth.

John hisses through his teeth in surprise, eyes flashing open.

You don’t do anything crazy yet. Just let him feel the warmth of your mouth around him, the soft glide of your tongue against the ridge around his head. When he doesn’t pull you off after a second, you give him a little suck. Not hard—just enough to make his hips flinch down into the mattress and his legs pull tight at your sides.  

“Fuck,” he exhales, face pinched. His hand trembles against your head. “Fu—hang on, fuckin’ hell, love.”

You peer up past his stomach to where his mouth hangs open and his eyes are shiny and wide. His nails scratch against your scalp. Needy little nudges that blur the line between too much and not enough. You hum in pleasure around him when a choked sound falls from his mouth. Feeling a little mean, though, you pull back, licking your lips and smiling apologetically.

“Sorry,” you murmur, face hot as you squeeze his thigh. “Just want to love on you a little longer, that’s all.”

He hums deep in his chest, brow creasing a little as he brings his big hands to cup your face. His thumb swipes at your chin, smearing the saliva there, and you part your lips for him. He makes a sort of pained sound as he slots the digit into your mouth and watches you hollow out your cheeks out around it, swirling your tongue and sucking like you’d done to his cock just moments ago.

“Christ,” John breathes. Something needy and desperate glints in his eye, and he slips his finger from your mouth. Grips the back of your neck and gives a short nod. “Gonna be the death of me, ain’tcha?”

Guided by his hand, you take him back in your mouth and sigh in relief. Your eyelids flutter closed, and you rest your face against his hip, taking deep breaths through your nose and just holding him like that for a while. You can hear the way his breathing goes haggard above your head; short sharp bursts of air huffing from his nostrils. Sensitive as he must be, John lets you have your fun, shivering and spiting low curses as your touches get increasingly needier. And when you begin to suck softly at his length again, he seems unable to help the way his strong legs writhe against the mattress.

He says your name, rough and urgent, when you pull back only to snake your tongue out against his slit. Eyes fluttering open, you look up at him as you lathe your tongue down his length, smiling at how red his face has gotten, at how he seems to be holding his breath. John’s cock starts to swell and stiffen beneath your touch.  

“D’you want me to stop?” you whisper, tracing the blue vein that pulses down the side of his length with your tongue.

“No,” he pants, head lolling from side to side. “Fuck no, gorgeous. Just go easy on me, yeah? It’s ohh—” he winces “—s’a lot.”

You nod understandingly and press a kiss to his tip, smearing the fresh pearl of precome there against your lips. He’s fully hard now, throbbing when you wrap your fingers around his thick base and wrap your lips around his head. A guttural sound rips from his chest and he’s tugging at your hair. For a moment you pause, unsure, but then he’s pushing a little on you. Nudging you closer, further, so you take him deeper and deeper until his tip is nudging against your throat.

“Fuck,” John gasps, hips stuttering against your palms, sensitive cock twitching against your tongue. “S’too much, love, it’s—oh fuck.”

With a ragged grunt his cock pulses in your mouth, and a little spurt of come dribbles from his head. You moan, eyes closed, and swallow tight around him, milking every last drop of spend from his cock until he’s winded and clumsily pushing you off of him.

Breathless, you fall flat on the mattress beside him, feet dangling off the end of the bed. John’s broad palm cradles the back of your head still, a comforting weight as you wipe your face against the sheets.

Ears pricking, you realise it’s begun to rain outside. Soft patters of liquid that knock against the window, thin rivulets that drip down to splash and splutter against the sill. Long forgotten, his cigar sizzles and dies beneath the spray.

“Another tea?” you murmur finally, pushing up onto your elbows.

But with a soft, startled laugh, you find that John’s eyes are closed, chest rising with steady breaths; already back to sleep. Shaking your head a little, you smile fondly at his lax form, and consider closing the window. You settle instead for pulling the duvet from the corner of the bed. Curled against his thick side, you settle the blanket over the two of you and lay an arm over his stomach, content to have a proper lie in after such a busy morning.

thanks for reading, i'd love to hear what you thought x

#my writing #fic: heart to heart #john price x reader #john price smut #john price fanfiction #john price x you #john price cod #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price smut

[wqnwoos]

it’s 11:58pm when seokmin knocks on your front door.

you don’t have to check to know it’s him. he has a certain pattern to his knocks; and besides, he’s the only person who’d show up to your place at this time of night. he’s done it every year, once a year, for the four years you’ve been best friends — for your birthday.

there’s a fondness that pulls up your lips, when you crawl out of bed to unlock the door — but his voice, muffled from the hallway, stops you from opening it. “wait! there’s still a minute left. don’t open.”

the problem with seokmin is that he doesn’t realise just how captivating — how enchanting — he is. and the problem with you is that you have realised. for about a year and a half, something you refuse to confront head-on has been dwelling inside you, tightening your ribs with every smile seokmin sends you, sending your stomach churning every time he grabs your hand.

in other words, you’re in love with your best friend.

“you don’t have to do this every year,” you say, through the crack in the door, but the smile on your face has seeped into your tone. “you know that, right?”

“i know,” he says simply. “i like doing things for you.” a pause. “you know that, right?”

you don’t have time to respond; seokmin’s pushing the door handle down himself, now that you’ve unlocked it, and he swings it open to reveal himself. armed with a candle-studded cake and one of those gorgeous smiles, and for the millionth time, you feel yourself falling that little bit deeper.

“happy birthday,” he says softly, and there’s a moment, where he hovers uncertainly in the doorway and you lose yourself in your feelings, something intangible suspended in the space between you, and then —

“officially ancient,” he adds, and the moment is shattered with joint laughter, as he lets himself in. seokmin moves around your apartment with an easy familiarity; he knows the place as well as you, fishing spoons and plates out the drawers, telling you about the struggle of lighting the candles as he does.

you’re just about to blow the candles out when he joins you — but he claps a hand over your mouth before you can, voice tinged with distress. “make a wish first!” he demands, eyebrows furrowed. “don’t you have things to ask for?”

you feign a smile. if only he knew. and so you make a wish, the same wish you made last year — even as you think it, you figure it’s useless. but still, there’s always a tiny, warm spark of hope that lingers.

once the candles have been extinguished, and the cake is divided, seokmin speaks again. “so…” he waggles his eyebrows. “what did you wish for?”

your cheeks grow hot almost instantly, and you avoid his gaze, shovelling more of the cake in your mouth. it’s your favourite. you shouldn’t be surprised: he knows all your favourites. he has a note on his notes app dedicated to your go-to orders and favourite snacks.

“can’t tell you,” you mumble, around a mouthful of icing. “or it won’t come true.”

seokmin sighs, disappointedly. “you’ll tell me when it comes true, though, won’t you?”

you glance at him, noticing how his eyes are round, inviting pools of honey brown — you feel like you’re sinking into them. “yeah,” you breathe, voice quietening without your permission. “i’ll, uh, i’ll let you know.”

neither of you look away. it’s another of those moments, fraught with some sort of lingering tension: both of you are frozen. too far to go back, too nervous to go forward.

his gaze flicks to your lips.

you barely catch it — one tiny split-second of weakness, maybe. blink and you would have missed it. but you don’t.

maybe you’re emboldened by the sugar, or the high of being treated as well as he treats you, or maybe it’s the late hour dulling your rationality, but whatever it is, it means you’re darting forward, placing the most delicate, fleeting kiss on his icing-covered lips.

you pull away. the regret seeps in, dousing you in cold water, and you open your mouth to apologise, to explain, to tell him to forget it, but suddenly seokmin’s hands are cupping your jaw, he’s moving impossibly closer, and he’s kissing you. with a gentle intensity that warms you from the inside out, long and sweet, and better than you could ever have imagined.

seconds or minutes or hours later, you break apart. his cheeks are tinged with rose, your leg is bouncing, but both of you are smiling — positively beaming, even. and you cast a glance at him, tentative, shy, breathless, and tell him, as promised.

“my wish,” you break the silence softly. “it came true.”

an / requested by @glowunderthemoon !! hope u like it bb 🫶🫶🫶

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon @wondering-out-loud @graybaeismytae @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @doublasting @yepimthatonequirkyteenager @qaramu @weird-bookworm @phenomenalgirl9 @lightnjng @strnsvt

#seokmin fluff #dk fluff #dk x reader #seokmin x reader #dk comfort #dk fic #dk fanfic #seokmin fanfic #seokmin fic #seokmin comfort #seventeen fic #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen comfort #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #seventeen scenarios

[a-mint-bear]

Your Secret Admirer

Female Yandere x Reader

Part 2

Late one rainy night, you help a young woman on your way home from work, but she seems strangely familiar...

[tw: knives] no blood mentioned

Part 1

===========

It was late. You should've clocked out hours ago, but your jerk boss made you stay to cover for his nephew. Who, of course, was "sick" again. Which was code for: "Too hungover to come into work, just like every other Monday."

It was pouring when you reached your stop, but luckily, you'd remembered your umbrella like a responsible adult. There was a chill in the air that made everything seem just a little bit more miserable, but you trudged on anyway. Changing out of your work clothes and into your comfy pajamas always helped you wind down after a bad day.

The streets were about as empty as you'd expect from this time of night, save for the occasional car that rushed by threatening to douse you as they hit every puddle. You were about halfway home when you noticed something... odd.

There was a woman standing on the sidewalk, facing the road. She was soaked from the downpour, her long, dark hair clinging to her face.

At first, you barely paid her any mind. But the closer you got to her, the more your mind started racing. Why was she out so late at night? Why was she letting herself get so drenched? She wasn't really dressed for the weather either. She had to be cold... Did she have nowhere to go? Was she... trying to do something? She was about halfway to the curb... was she waiting for the right moment? The thought doused you like ice water, the fear and doubt somehow colder than the rain.

You were almost face to face with her when something was eating away at you. Guilt? Sympathy? A weird sense of responsibility for this stranger?

But the strangest thing nagging at the back of your mind was...

She looked... familiar?

You couldn't stop your body from stopping in front of her, doing your best to have your umbrella cover her, despite the fact that she was already soaked.

You always had a bit of a soft spot for helping people, even if it wasn't always the smartest idea.

You ask her if she's alright. She doesn't react.

Your mind kept racing. Was she homeless? She seemed well taken care of, her clothes looked nice if soaked through. Was she running from something, or someone? She looked maybe about your age, but... If she could go home why hadn't she?

You tried again, hoping she just hadn't heard you over the rain hitting the fabric of your umbrella. When she finally lifted her gaze to yours, that same feeling of familiarity kept on poking you in the side while you were trying to focus on the scene before you.

She stared into your eyes, and her breathing seemed shaky.

She needed help, maybe, but what could you do? You told her that your phone was almost dead, but you could walk with her somewhere safer. Somewhere she could call someone? Maybe you could walk her home? You offered, hoping she had somewhere to go at all.

You could feel your back getting wet from trying to cover her more than yourself. She smiled, but it seemed off, almost... bitter. When she finally spoke, it was almost drowned out by the downpour hitting the concrete.

"You're... being so nice."

You smiled back, trying your best to comfort her, still running through possible solutions you could offer... What you could do for her...

Would it be nuts to take her back to your apartment? You wonder. To offer a warm shower and a change of clothes while you throw hers in your dryer? She was a stranger, sure, but she obviously needed help. It was only a couple blocks away... she could get dry and then you could get some real answers out of her to figure out what to do next.

You end up making the offer and wordlessly, she agreed. All with that same sad look in her eyes. She clung to you all the way home, holding onto your arm with a death grip.

You fiddle with your keys at the door, all too aware of how the welcome mat is getting soaked. Hurrying in, you go to grab her a towel.

She followed after you, trailing water all the way. She didn't make a move to take it from you, so you took a chance and carefully draped it over her shoulders, starting to work it against her hair. You watch for any sign of discomfort or sign that she'd want you to stop, but no such sign ever came.

You guide her to the bathroom, handing her more towels.

You tell her if she hands you out her clothes, you'd be happy to throw them in the dryer. After a hot shower and a set of your clothes for her to change into, you pass them through the crack in the door, telling her you're leaving to make her a warm drink.

"No!"

She'd grabbed onto your wrist so tightly. The desperation in her voice, her breath hitching as she trembled, all of it made you pause, unsure what to do.

"Sorry, I just..."

She let go with a tired sigh, her face appearing the in crack of the door. Her hair clung to her face as steam rolled out into the hall, you quickly looked away when you saw a hint of the white fluffy towel below her bare shoulders, her hand clasping it tightly to her chest.

"Stay... I mean, would you p-please... stay close? " she stuttered, her eyes cast to the floor in... shame? Embarrassment? "Just... in the hall? Outside the door?"

Was she scared you would leave? Or had you become the barrier between her and whatever she was running from? You promise her you won't go go anywhere, and she seems to relax a little. You keep your back to the wall beside the door and your eyes forward, not wanting to betray the little trust she'd decided to put in you.

You couldn't lie, she was pretty, and the sight of her in your clothes didn't hurt that AT ALL. But she was trusting you. To be thinking of her like... that? It was neither the time nor the place.

She sat on the couch beside you with a hot mug of tea, and she looked down into it with that same sad expression.

"Thank you. You've been so... nice to me. I never thought that I'd be treated like this."

By you? By anyone? You don't notice her hand reaching for yours until her fingers brush against your own. You didn't think of it as anything but her looking for safety, but the look she was giving you was telling you otherwise.

You told her she doesn't have to do that, trying to be vague enough as not to embarrass her. But she just smiled that sad, bitter smile. She set the mug down on the side table, her fingers gently caressing yours.

"... All I ever wanted was... someone to see me. Only me. What they saw or how they felt about me, it didn't really matter. But you're so... worried. So... thoughtful."

She sounded almost... upset, the last word weighed down with so much regret, it threw you.

You asked her if that was a bad thing, and she just smiled.

"When I see you... it's like everything just... makes sense. Like my whole life has just been cold and dead. No one... sees me."

Before you could ask what she meant by that, she squeezed your hand, bringing it up as she gently pressed your fingers to her lips. You couldn't help but feel a little flustered, your face getting warm.

"I knew..."

She caressed your face, and you froze, unsure where any of it was going. Or if you wanted it to.

"I knew that when you finally saw me, it would be everything I ever wanted..."

She spoke like... she knew you? But that didn’t make any sense, you'd never met her before.

Right?

Something felt...odd. Alarm bells were ringing and you couldn't tell what had set them off.

The necklace she wore sat comfortably on top of your shirt. Soft, tiny white flowers trapped in resin, encircled in gold on a delicate chain. Something about it... About her.

You'd seen those eyes before... staring at you from the edges of your day-to-day life but never really in full view. The feeling you dismissed when the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, the same feeling you got whenever you found those weird gifts all over.

The trinkets and treats, the love notes that ranged from awkward confessions to clumsy retellings of fantasies you starred in...

And her necklace... the same tiny flowers were dried and pressed in a bookmark you'd found in the book you'd been reading one day.

Your eyes went wide, and she let out a shaky gasp. A wide, warm smile spread on her face as she got to her knees on the couch, swinging a leg over to seat herself in your lap.

"You see me now, don't you?" She smiled sweetly, holding your face in her hands. "I'm right here..."

You couldn't look away. All you could ask was the obvious question: Was it her?

A dark blush spread across her cheeks, her hands still holding your face to look only in her direction. "I needed this... I needed you to really see me. You stopped paying attention to my gifts, my notes... Did you like them? Did it... scare you?"

Your heart was beating too fast. You tried to move, to avert your eyes and figure out what to do, but she turned your face back, pressing into you, her thighs squeezed yours almost painfully.

"Tell me. Please, tell me... " She was breathing funny again. She hadn't blinked, like she didn't want to look away for even a moment.

You felt something pressing under your jaw, and it didn't click what was happening until you felt something sharp bite into your skin.

When did she get a knife? Was this her plan from the start, or had you done something to set her off?

You couldn't stop the fear that flashed across your face. But her reaction was somehow odder.

Her gaze on you softened as she bit her lip, blushing as her eyes glazed over. She let out a sweet, content sigh as she cupped your cheek in her hand. The pressure of the knife on your skin relaxed just a bit, but not enough to try and make a move.

You try to diffuse things, being honest with her. You didn't know who any of the stuff was from. You had no way of saying yes or no to her feelings, so you were waiting for her to show up in person. It felt rude to leave her a note back with something so serious, you wanted to do things right.

"But you ignored me..." Her face was suddenly calm, the blush and soft, adoring eyes went back to the cold stare she'd had in the rain in an instant. "You looked right at me and you saw nothing... I was nothing..."

You try and reassure her, telling her that it wasn't true, if only to calm her down. Her fingers worked into your hair, the sensation giving you goosebumps you couldn't fight. Your startled gasp choked into a hiss of pain behind your teeth when she yanked you closer by your hair. Her face was so close to yours you could feel her breath on your face.

You glared at her before you could stop yourself and that look was back. It was like she was completely smitten with it, with you.

"When you see me... really see me... I can't stop myself. It's so... wonderful. I've been empty for so long, but that fear in your eyes... How much you just despise me... Your smiles and laugh, all of it's a part of you."

She leaned to whisper into your ear. It sent chills down your back.

"Little pieces of you filling up that empty space... You can't take it away from me again..."

Her long, dark hair spilled onto your shoulders, it smelled like your shampoo. You close your eyes, tucking your chin into your chest in a desperate attempt to pull away. It was all too much.

"No... no, please. Don't..." You could hear her plead, her voice wavering with fear and desperation so intense it haunts you. "Love me, hate me, anything! Just don't look away. I can't go back to how it used to be... Please..."

You open your eyes again, afraid what would happen if you didn't. She smiled, it seemed so sweet and gentle, coldly contrasted by the knife in her hand.

"There you are..." she let out a little gasp, pressing her forehead to yours. "I don't really want to hurt you, I promise. I'd be... all alone again. Everything about you... good or bad, it's all so, so precious to me..."

She kissed between your eyes, her lips lingered there too long. Your face felt warm, the fear in your gut was getting entwined with something else... Your thoughts were jumbled, all of it was too much. She sat up, looking down at you... Something about all of it, how close she was... her warmth, her words... She had a hold on you, and you didn't know what you wanted to do.

"I can be anything you need me to be."

She brought your hand to her lips, kissing the palm of your hand, all the while staring into your eyes. There was a devotion there that you'd never seen in your entire life. You couldn't breathe.

"Just..."

The knife pressed under your chin to lift it, but your gaze was already locked with hers.

"Look at me."

===========

shout out to @magical-grrl-usami who wanted to be notified when part 2 came out, hope you like it :o

#i don't know if this came out good but here it is #female yandere #yandere girl #yandere #yandere imagines #The Secret Admirer #female yandere x reader #female yandere x y/n #genderless y/n #genderless reader #i am ace as hell so pardon if certain parts read weird #i debated including any quote unquote violence #but yanderes gonna yandere i suppose #lady yanderes need an edge sometimes #badum-tish #tw: knives #tw: knife

[yeeterthek33per]

Careful (Steph Catley x Caitlin Foord x Reader)

A/n requested

It was hot.

That was an understatement.

It is fucking hot.

The heat wave that'd hit London just a day earlier was predicted, and yet it was still a lot. Even for an Aussie such as yourself who'd grown up in the gross heat of Brisbane.

The warmups were a nightmare, and it was prediscussed by the officials that there would be set water and ice breaks for both teams.

For whatever reason, you'd forgone having much water after warmups, leaving you stuck feeling a little dehydrated during the first twenty minutes.

The game was rough, which certainly didn't help either. The late afternoon sun was beading down heat on your slightly bloodied up shins.

Unfortunately, you were one to wear your socks low, so you copped more studs than either of you girlfriends liked.

That being said, it feels like your blood is being cooked under the radiation from above.

Running around the field in a black shirt and shorts made you question everything, that's for certain.

The moment the whistle for the water break is blown, you duck into the shade by the bench, immediately grabbing an ice towel and a cold bottle from the cooler, dousing yourself with the cooling liquid.

Katie plonks down next to you.

"You alright?"

You nod.

"About as fine as it gets on this lovely thirty-seven degree afternoon. You?"

"Sweating my non-existent balls off, but what else is new?"

You laugh at that, clapping her on the shoulder before standing again. There's a little whooziness from the sudden movement, but you brush it off.

You join the noticably distanced huddle, standing beside Caitlin who shifts to let you in to the circle.

"Alright ladies, we're doing well out there, but we need to take more caution with those midfielders. They're wedging themselves between you, and that's not what we want. Make sure you're tight on them. Don't let those through balls get to them so easily. Strikers, I need you back when you can be. Leave those extra leads for when we're one hundred percent certain we can break that defensive line. That's the only way we're beating them today. Other than that, perfect work, all of you. Remember to track back where you can, watch that mid, keep it tight. Team on three."

"1.2.3 Team!"

You all disperse, tossing the now warmed ice towels to the sideline and running back out onto the pitch, the sun immediately returning it's assault on all of you.

What you don't notice is the concerned glance from Steph, who now sees the paleness of your face. Your sweating was a concerningly low amount, especially in this heat.

Regardless, the game plays on.

Half time can't come quick enough in your opinion.

You start feeling like the world is spinning a little... differently than what it should. Regardless, you shake your head and press on.

The number of times you hit the ground increases as it gets closer to the end of the first half, leaving you to struggle more and more to get up after each tackle.

At one point, you have to accept the hand up from Kim, who gives you a mildly concerned look as you stumble a little trying to jog back to position, but you wave the older woman off.

Thanking god for the whistle, finally blowing for half time, you make your way off the pitch, hoping the wave of nausea that came over you about two minutes ago would go away.

Making your way into the heavenly air-conditioned locker rooms, you find yourself collapsing a little heavy-handed onto your cubby chair, water bottle in hand.

The noise attracts a few concerned eyes, but you quickly straighten up, avoiding meeting your girlfriend's gaze, who stays watching you for a little longer.

You know Steph's just worried, but you can't help not wanting her to be. Especially not during games.

What you couldn’t see was the exchanged look she shared with your other girlfriend, who had seen your pale face when you'd stood in the circle next to her during the drink break earlier.

You weren't sweating nearly enough for it to be healthy, and they hadn't seen you pick up a drink after warmups when everybody else had, but they'd both brushed it off thinking they'd just missed seeing it.

Now though, they were worried you hadn't been careful with this weather.

Avoiding slouching too much, despite your exhausted muscles' protests, you take slow, small sips of water, not wanting to completely kill your stomach, especially not when the nausea was starting to lesson off now that you were cooling off again.

Your head was starting to hurt now, too, a heat headache setting in. Using the supplied wet cloths, you tried your best to keep away throbbing in your temples, which seemed to worsen the moment you were all told to head back out to the pitch.

A hand on your shoulder makes you jump as you walk out onto the pitch again. You relax a bit before tensing up at the look she gives you.

"You doing alright, puddin?"

You nod, covering a wince as the pounding worsens at the movement.

"I'm doing fine. Let's get back to it, yeah?"

Jogging back to position, you shake off the jelly feeling in your legs, brushing it off as just lactic acid setting in and push it down like everyone else does.

It's just twenty minutes later, after a much more scrappy start to the second half, you realise, oh shit, maybe this might be bad.

Struggling to get up for a third tackle in four minutes, you stumble to your feet again, waving off your now slightly fussing teammates, your girlfriends in particular.

"Y/n... maybe you should go off -"

You shake your head no immediately.

"I'm fine, it's only twenty minutes left anyway, I'll be fine. It's just muscular exhaustion setting in, I can push it."

Turns out, you could not, in fact, push it.

Just five minutes later, after receiving a wayward pass from the backs and turning to send it into the box, you're wiped out from behind by one of their midfielders, earning a free kick for your team.

Unfortunately, you hit the turf a little harder than you expected, and it completely winds you.

You take a second to get up, stumbling to your feet to move so Katie can set up for the free kick.

Before you can make it back to your full stance though, the nausea and woosiness come back full force and you collapse like a sock of rocks, vision blurring heavily as you fall, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist stopping you from hitting your head, but your vision still goes dark for a few moments.

A frantic whistle blowing and several bodies surrounding your own is what brings you back, the pounding in your head far worse as your chest rises and falls with laboured breaths.

The moment you went down, Caitlin and Steph are beside you, frantically calling the ref and medics over, and that's where everything goes dark again.

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

Everything feels like a blur to you, and you don't fully come to for a long time. Which scares the crap out of your girls. It's not until you're laid on a bed in the paramedic's office of the stadium that you fully regain consciousness.

You feel like absolute crap. Everything feels limp and achey as you shift on the cheap cushioning.

Both of your partners are sat on stools beside you. The doctor is sitting at the desk, writing on some paperwork.

"How you feeling, baby?"

"Like shit, what happened?"

They both frown at that, and the team doctor's head perks up at your answer.

Steph cautiously takes your hand.

"You don't remember how you got here? Or what happened?"

It's a little fuzzy and strain as you might. You don't recall anything that might indicate why you're in a doctor's office. You just feel like shit and are wondering why you couldn't remember anything past getting up again after being tackled.

You wrack your brain a bit more, realising you'd felt like you were practically melting under the heat. Was that why? Had you collapsed? Or had you been taken out? You remember copping a few tackles during the game.

"I- not really. Did I get knocked out or something?"

"Uh, no Y/n, it was heat exhaustion. You collapsed during the game. Can you tell me what might’ve happened beforehand?"

He moves to stand by you as well, clipboard in hand.

Furrowing your brows, you try to think back, but the pounding in your head makes it difficult.

"Not really, I just remember copping a few bad tackles. That's it, really. That and just feeling, I don't know, hot? It's just fuzzy after half time."

The doctor's brow creases slightly in thought, leaving a worried expression on both of your girlfriend's faces.

"That's alright, we can try again later, we'll keep you on watch with the medics at your training centre overnight in case anything comes up."

"In case anything comes up? Is she gonna be okay?"

The question out of Caitlin's lips makes him look up with a reassuring smile.

"It's perfectly normal for people who pass out to not remember the incident itself for a bit. It's just as a precaution. She should be fine."

She nods, and you let your head rest back on the pillows.

"Keep drinking water for us, I'll be back in about twenty to check on you. As for you two, I recommend you both go wind down from the game, take your showers, do what you need to do."

They both go to protest.

"Or if you wanna take turns, your bus will be leaving soon. We'll arrange for her to get transported back to the training centre."

Reluctantly agreeing, Steph moves to go shower and change first, Caitlin stubbornly still gripping your hand.

"I'm alright baby, you can go clean up."

But try as you might, she still refuses.

"I'm not leaving you here on your own."

You smile softly, thumb caressing her hand gently, though it turns into a slight grimace. Having your eyes open at this point is a bit of a struggle.

"You wanna tell me what happened now, or am I wrestling it out of Kimmy later?"

Caitlin shakes her head.

"Hush baby, at least wait until Steph gets back, and we'll tell you. Just rest your head for now."

You hum softly, letting your eyes fall closed again. You must drift off for a moment because it's Steph who gently shakes you awake again.

"Hey, no sleeping just yet, baby."

A soft grumble leaves your lips.

She runs her fingers through your hair, gently massaging your scalp, and it helps relieve the throbbing a little, to the point where you fully lean into her touch.

Pouting when she pulls away, you grab her hand and put it back again, which makes her chuckle softly, moving to sit next to you the bed.

"Still bad?"

Nodding slightly in response, you tuck your head into her lap and turn onto your side, letting her continue to comb through your hair.

"So, do I get to know how it happened?"

"We've gotta see what you remember first, baby. Let the doctor do his thing."

The whine from you makes her sigh softly.

"I know, but I wanna know what happened, though."

"You'll find out later, babe."

You look up at her, wincing at the blinding light of the office LEDs.

"But-"

She gives you a stern look but her tone remains soft.

"Patience, Y/n."

Huffing softly, you cuddle back into her lap, nose buried into the skin of her stomach where her shirt's ridden up slightly.

Her hand continues its ministrations while you wait for the doctor and Caitlin.

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

You do end up staying at the training facility. As the night progresses, and the pain lessens slightly with mild painkillers, the event comes back a little fuzzy, but not entirely. You vaguely remember actually conversing with your girlfriend's in the doctors office for a while before you fully came to.

That's probably what had them so concerned in the first place that you weren't fully with it. They end up allowing one of your girlfriend's to stay while the other goes home to rest, but, knowing Caitlin, she'd be up pacing a hole in the floor anyway, most likely texting Steph the whole time.

Being woken every two hours with a killer headache until eight the next morning wasn't pretty to witness. Your girlfriend winced every time the medic received a grumpy swipe as they woke you to quiz you in the middle of the night.

You would later feel bad, knowing they were only doing their jobs, but your beauty sleep is your beauty sleep, dude.

It's about nine the next morning that you're allowed to go home under the condition that if you nap at all, you're to be woken every two hours and if anything worsens, you're to go straight to a hospital over the next few days.

Your girlfriends are also under strict instruction to make sure you actually drink water for once.

You do get a visit from the girls over the next day or so, making sure you're alive still and not going totally batshit crazy. You also do eventually find out what happened.

"God babe, you just crumpled. Like, you got wiped the fuck out and when you tried to shrug it off and get up ready for the set piece, you just fell again. Lucky McCabe caught you or it would've been a worse head injury I reckon."

"Really? What happened after I passed out? Because I don't remember anything after that, just vaguely some conversation in the doctors office before he assessed me."

Steph's hand rests on your leg from beside you, squeezing softly.

"That's what was a little scary. You were talking to us. Conversing with us. You complained you were feeling way too hot. But then you kind of, I guess, come to a bit more. It's like you weren't even awake before."

Caitlin nods.

"You know you really gave us all a heart attack out there."

Sighing softly, knowing you'd been too stubborn to admit it, maybe you needed to be subbed off.

Steph rubs your shoulder.

"You just need to be more careful, babe, especially in a heat wave like this. We hadn't even seen you drink water when you should have after warmups."

There's a guilty look on your face.

"It was just a minor mistake, that's all."

The incredulous look you receive makes you wince slightly.

"Okay, minor mistake, slightly less minor consequences, yeah, I know."

They both shake their heads, Caitlin moving to sit beside you, arm around your shoulder, Steph moving her arm around your waist.

"Look, baby, we know you were trying to push through. But we love you, and we don't like seeing you hurt. Just be more careful, yeah?"

You nod your head in agreement and let it fall to rest on the brunettes shoulder, her hand tightening on your waist, to which you squeeze her leg comfortingly.

She was right. You were a dipshit at the time and totally put your life at risk because of some stupid game time. And you scared the life out of your family and friends whilst you were at it too.

They couldn't bear to see you like that. Neither could you frankly.

Never again.

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

#woso #woso imagine #woso imagines #woso x reader #caitlin foord imagine #caitlin foord imagines #caitlin foord x reader #steph catley imagine #steph catley imagines #steph catley x reader

[kvthgok]

Cooler Idiot | Miguel O'Hara x Teen Spider Reader (Platonic)

Warnings- none

Summary- Its roasting in the HQ and your literally dying while Miguel makes fun of you for it.

Side note- not proofread!!!! This was such a random ass ideas it doesn’t even make sense tbh 😭

It was the time of the month everyone dreaded.

It was summer.

Summer in the HQ.

Everyone is roasting in their suits dying of heat It didn’t help that we’d still go on missions.

I groaned loudly as I was dripping in sweat, it was wayyyy too hot. “Someone put an end to my misery”

“Your fine. Suck it up.” Miguel chuckled.

I rolled my eyes and tried my best to stay focused. The heat was killing me.

I looked over to Miguel and saw him completely unbothered by the scorching heat. Why is he fine, while I'm melting here? I wondered. “How are you literally not bothered by the fact it’s like Satans butthole in here?”

"What? I don't feel a thing," Miguel replied nonchalantly.

I stared at him, completely baffled. How was it possible that he was unbothered by the heat?

"You're not sweating?" I asked.

"Not at all." Miguel shook his head. I let out a deep sigh

"I swear I'm gonna pass out from this heat," I grumbled.

"Oh come on now, you're just being overdramatic," Miguel chuckled.

“Over dramatic?! It’s 119 degrees Miguel!” I shouted

"It's not that bad," Miguel replied unfazed.

I scoffed, "Maybe for you. I'm literally dripping in sweat."

I was getting frustrated with Miguel's nonchalant attitude towards the heat.

I looked around and saw a water bottle across the room. Using my webs I grab it and bring it towards me, opening the cap I dump it on me to cool down. I was so desperate.

"Smart thinking," Miguel said as he looked at me. "It's only temporary relief. You'll be boiling again in no time."

I felt like running towards him and dumping a bucket of cold water on him. Unfortunately, there were no buckets of ice water lying around.

I looked at Miguel, who was still staring at me as if I'd grown two heads.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" I accused.

"Maybe," Miguel taunted, still unbothered by the heat. "The heat is getting to you, isn't it?" Miguel asked me slyly.

"Shut up," I snapped back. I felt so yucky in the heat and wanted to escape.

"Aww, poor baby. Can't handle a little sweat," Miguel chuckled.

“I swear to god I will snap your neck..”

"Oh calm down, I'm just playing with you," Miguel said as he continued to mock me.

My temper was rising. I couldn't stand to be in the heat anymore and I was starting to lose my cool.

"Shut up! It's so damn hot in here!" I snapped.

Miguel continued to laugh at me.

-Skip few minutes later-

I had had enough of Miguel, who was still laughing at me and teasing me about the heat.

I lost my cool and decided to douse him in a cup of cold water. He let out a loud shout as the water hit him.

"What in the hell?!" Miguel yelled.

I laughed

"W-what were you thinking?!" Miguel shouted angrily.

I shrugged, "I thought you might want to cool down." I replied sheepishly.

Miguel looked at me angrily as the water clung to his hair and suit. "I hate you," he growled.

I continued to laugh my ass off.

Miguel was getting tired of me laughing at him.

He marched over to me and grabbed me by the shirt collar. He put his face in mine and said in a menacing tone.

"Stop laughing."

"Or what, what are you gonna do?" I asked, trying to contain my laughter.

Miguel glared at me. Despite how angry his expression was, it was hard to take him seriously with how drenched he was.

He grabbed a towel and wiped off his hair.

"You're an idiot," he said in a low tone.

"Yeah," I replied sheepishly. "But at least I'm a Cooler idiot."

#atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #spider man 2099 #miguel x y/n #spider man: across the spider verse #miguel x you #spiderman #fanfic #miguel o hara #2099 #across the spiderverse #x teen!reader #teen reader #spiderverse #teen!reader #summer

[aurumacadicus]

Something something parallels blah blah blah.

--

Steve doesn't need to be held. He doesn't need anyone to protect him, to put themselves in harm's way for him. He can take care of himself. He doesn't need anyone to do it for him.

Still. He knows he needs to let people he loves do things they want for him sometimes. He doesn't really understand why Tony is so adamant about washing his hair while they relax in the tub, but Tony so rarely asks for things, especially if someone has the power to turn him down. If he was brave enough to ask, Steve can't help but reward him for it. He doesn't understand the appeal--it's just hair. He used to take a bar of soap to it until Tony firmly put a bottle of shampoo in his hand while they showered together. Maybe this is sort of like that. Maybe he thinks Steve is still somehow washing his hair wrong.

Tony has him lean back on his chest. Steve isn't used to being the small spoon. He's uncomfortable with it. He worries he'll be too heavy. But Tony doesn't complain, even pulls him to lean more weight against him. Tony is strong, he reminds himself, leaning his head back against Tony's shoulder. Tony regularly moves machinery around his workshop. Steve across his chest when he wants him there probably isn't a hardship.

Tony uses the shower wand to douse his hair. Steve closes his eyes against the reminder of sea water on his face. The water is warm, smells like lavender. It's nothing like the Atlantic. He lets out a slow, shuddering breath as Tony threads his fingers through his hair to make sure it's saturated. Fights the urge to tip his head back into his hand.

Tony turns the water off, hand still cradling his head, and Steve feels shampoo being squeezed onto the top, wet and cold against his scalp. It smells sweet, too. Not like lavender, but floral still, maybe. Tony seems to like florals. 'They're supposed to be calming,' he remembers Tony saying. 'And I need all the help I can get.'

Steve's breath hitches in his throat as he feels both of Tony's hands threading through his hair now, gathering up the shampoo and lathering it up. He lets out a shuddering breath as Tony begins scrubbing, fingertips rubbing gentle circles against his scalp. It loosens something in his chest, something that had been sitting there like a block of ice, wrapped around something he suddenly realizes was withering without his indulgence. He leans more fully on Tony, wanting to close his eyes but too afraid he'll simply fall asleep under Tony's tender care. He doesn't want to miss a moment of it. He wants to remember this.

Tony scrubs for what feels like hours. Steve loses himself in it, the gentle circles and quiet murmuring of Tony explaining the history of aromatherapy and why he thinks chamomile is a better option for him, not as cloying as roses or potent as lavender. Steve sinks further against him, breath shuddering again as he realizes how much thought Tony has put into this, into him, knowing that the serum makes him sensitive to scents and doing his best to accommodate his needs. His throat feels tight. His eyes burn. Tony just wants to take care of him. Why does he have such a hard time letting him?

Tony finally, heartbreakingly, pulls his hands free of his hair, dropping them to rinse in the bath water before he reaches for the shower wand again. Steve closes his eyes to savor his fingers threading through his hair again as he works all the shampoo out. Wonders how he can ask Tony to do this again after he'd obviously been reluctant this time. He's never felt like this before.

"Conditioner?" Tony asks, and Steve hates conditioner, hates how slimy it feels in his hands and on his hair, but he dips his head in a short nod anyway. He thinks it'll be fine if Tony does it, and he wants Tony's hands in his hair as long as possible, massaging his scalp, cradling the weight of his head.

It's over too soon. Tony uses the shower wand to rinse the last of the slick conditioner from the back of his neck, his shoulders, then sets it aside, arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Steve can't bring himself to speak, throat still feeling tight with emotion.

"...Steve?" Tony asks, and he sits up, leaning forward to look at his face with a concerned frown. He must not like what he sees, because he immediately goes pale. "Steve! Are you okay?! Did I hurt you!?"

Steve has no idea what he's talking about until he tilts his head, the angle making him suddenly aware of the tears still rolling down his cheeks. Weeping, his mind supplies as he lifts a hand to wipe them away. He's weeping.

"Steve," Tony says, eyes sad, and reaches out to cup his cheeks, hesitating before they reach him, as if Steve's tears might be his fault.

But they're not, Steve realizes himself as he grabs Tony's shoulders and drags him into a kiss, open-mouthed and wet, teeth clacking with how desperate he is to get their lips together. It's not Tony's fault that Steve forgot what it was like to feel cared for. His only regret is he can't pour even an ounce of how intimate it felt into their kiss. He felt more whole having his hair washed by someone he loves, someone who loves him, than he's ever felt in his entire life, and he doesn't know how to tell him that, find the words to make him understand.

"Steve," Tony whispers against his mouth, tender and hurt, and he thinks maybe Tony understands, as Tony wraps his arms around him, lets Steve pull him close, kissing him until all Tony can do is pant against his mouth. Maybe Tony understands that Steve is never going to be able to thank him enough for it except to ask for it to happen again. He tries to convey how much he loves and appreciates Tony through his kisses, through his hands moving over his body, and he knows it's never going to be enough.

But he'll keep trying. Steve will keep trying every day to show Tony how much he loves and appreciates him for making him feel cherished. Because he may not need to be taken care of, but God, he wants to be.

#ideas #stony #i read one (1) story of a man weeping because his girlfriend washed his hair #and he wasnt used to the simple intimacy of it #and it's stayed in my mind since

[imaginethezeldaverse]

🥺🥺🥺 Of course, Anon. Oh gosh, the big lug would be so worried about you too. Okay, okay, I got you. Daruk taking care of sick reader (and getting some help from his friends along the way!):

A large hand descended gently on your forehead. He always ran warm, but the way you shivered and shook under those pelts he thought was normally reserved for cold weather responses - and yet here you were, burning up even on his skin. Daruk's long, white eyebrows turned up in concern. His biology being so different from yours, he didn't understand what exactly what was wrong at first. Thankfully some travelling Hylians managed to clarify once Daruk explained to them how you were feeling. You were dealing with a really bad cold - which would make sense to you having just come from the Hebra mountainside two days ago and running out of spicy elixirs about halfway through your trip. The temperature swap from bone-chilling cold to sweltering heat within that timeframe had caused you to get pretty sick. So much so that you were reduced to a weak mess, groaning from the febrile chills and body aches that plagued you. A message had been sent out to Princess Mipha, directly from Daruk, asking for a healing potion that would hopefully fix you right up; having seen her heal people constantly, Daruk figured she was the best person to ask. Upon feeling his hand on your forehead, you stirred at the contact, a pained wince escaping you. Daruk didn't mean to wake you, but seeing as you were now, he carefully rummaged through your pack. Pouring some water into a small bowl, he kneeled next to you, "Up you go, sweetheart," as his hand came behind your head to prop you up. Your whole body felt akin to lead and ice, but you did your best to lift your head regardless. Daruk touched the bowl to your lips, gently leaning it back as you drank. When you'd had enough, you settled back under the pelts, shivers wracking your entire body in horrid waves. The Goron champion made his way to your kitchen, pulling a rag from your pack on the way; he doused it with water, remembering the words of those Hylian travelers who explicitly mentioned that cool cloths would help bring your temperature down. Before long you felt the touch of a cool, damp cloth lay across your forehead. An involuntary whine escaped you, "Shhh, I know, I know, I'm sorry," Daruk cooed, gingerly dragging his thumb down to carefully caress your warmed cheek. The soft strokes on your skin were comforting, and even though you couldn't see him because your eyes refused to open, you knew his touch meant 'I'm here'. The stoney stalwart was admittedly terrified to see you in a such a state. Gorons weren't prone to getting sick like this, and with his knowledge being next to nothing on Hylian illness, he felt almost helpless. Knowing what he does now, he was determined to stay by your side until you were completely better. He'd learned to make some porridges as an easy meal to help you build your strength back up. At one point he'd heard your weakened voice call for him, "Daruk..." you croaked through your shivering, eyes barely half open. His worried expression carried over in his voice, "What's wrong? Are you in pain?" Try as you might, you couldn't find the words to ask him what it was you wanted, so instead you used the very little strength you had to push yourself into his arms - which in actuality ended up with you barely being able to drape your arms over his crossed legs. However, Daruk had caught onto what you wanted, picking you up as gently as he could, and holding your tired frame close in his arms. You snuggled into his chest, relishing the heat his body gave off. He pressed his lips to your temple, frowning at how warm your body still was - but he understood that what you wanted was comfort. Daruk held you that way for a while, rubbing your back as you shook in his hold and kissing away any of your pained whines and moans. When he finally got you back to your bed so you could rest some more, he'd heard a gentle knock at the door. The airy woosh of wings sounded outside of your bedroom before Daruk had finally made his way to answer the commotion. A blue scarf, much like his own, had caught Daruk’s eye. "I assume this little bottle isn't for you, is it?" came the smooth voice of Revali, his Rito champion companion. "’Fraid not," answered Daruk, who quickly looked back at your bedroom door, just as you groaned from your aching. Revali held out his wing, “You’re lucky, I happened to be at Zora’s Domain picking up some fish - Mipha had asked me to drop this off,” he dropped the bottle into Daruk’s hand, “She said to add some of the hot spring water you have here in the mountains.” Daruk slowly curled his fist around the glass, a grateful smile gracing his face, the spring water would be perfect to help you feel better, that he was sure of!  Turning on his talons, Revali gave a short ‘hmph’, “Normally I wouldn’t waste my time to go out of my way to Eldin,” he turned halfway toward his comrade, a small smile barely peeking through his beak, “...But I suppose it’s different when it’s your friends that are in need.”  His Goron cohort chuckled, “Yer alright, Revali,” Daruk swiped at his nose, “And ya have my thanks.” Wordlessly the Rito champion took off with Daruk shortly making his way to the nearest hot spring to gather a bit of it into the bottle and shake up the concoction. It turned an earthy red, a familiar color he’d seen on the battlefield before when training with his fellow champions not too long ago. He wasted no time waking you once more to sip the potion, your face screwing up in disgust from the aftertaste. But as soon as you did, you felt your shivering start to diminish, the pelts covering you comfortably now instead of barely keeping in the warmth you constantly sought.  Large fingers held to your forehead once more, a rumbly sigh of solace sounding just above you. Your eyes fluttered open, “Daruk...?”  His smile was warm, dark blue eyes filled with relief and contentment. A hand cradled your back as he helped you sit upright, “Ya almost had me in a panic there, sweetheart...never seen ya that sick before.” You eased yourself into his big arms, “I’m sorry, hunny, I didn’t mean to make you worry so much.”  Kisses were pressed into your cheek and forehead as he held you tight against him, “I’m just glad you’re feelin’ better.” It was your turn to give him a kiss, though yours was one of gratitude.  “Knowing I’ve got the great Daruk to take care of me, I was bound to be better in no time.” Daruk couldn’t stop the wide grin that stretched across his face, happy as ever to see you feeling like yourself already. He’d have to remember to thank his friends for the timely assistance. 

#tloz #tloz: botw #the legend of zelda #the legend of zelda: breath of the wild. #breath of the wild #daruk #champion daruk #goron champion #daruk x reader #sickfic #sick!reader #the legend of zelda imagines #zelda imagines #daruk imagines #fluff #comfort #fluff and comfort #friendship #revali #zelda fanfiction

[my-soupy-brain]

heatwave thoughts. Skiving off work with ted cause it’s simply too hot outside. Turning all the fans on, spraying him with the garden hose (bonus points if it makes his white t-shirt all wet 😁😁🤭🤭).

I don't know if the heatwave broke there or not, it's still here in the U.S. but I love this idea and also playing in water when you're an adult feels like being a kid, and Ted is all about it. Let's gooo!

---

Relationship: Ted Lasso x reader

Warnings: Lust and light smut ahead

---

This heat was just not conducive for the team to practice. It was too hot, too dangerous, and Rebecca and the coaching team agreed that it was time for a day off.

So when Ted waltzed back through the door of your shared flat, you were more than happy to see his face again.

You wore as little as you could. The window a/c unit you had wasn't cutting it. A lightweight tank top and your underwear would have to do for now.

While Teddy was gone this morning you'd put all the fans you could find on full blast, your feet propped up on the coffee table with a glass of iced sun tea in your hand.

As soon as he walked in the door, he was sweating.

"Good golly, Miss Molly! It's miserable out there!" he shouts over the whir of the fans.

"I know! So far the bedroom is fairly cool but the rest of the house is sweltering!" you shout back. "Want some tea?"

He looks at you and nods, stripping off his polo, then his khakis left only in his boxer briefs and t-shirt where he sits next to you on the couch.

"No one better come to the door today," you joke, taking a sip of te a.

Ted looks at the two of you, practically matching in your white tops and navy blue underwear.

"Yeah but we look like one of them old-school Gap commercials, too" he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

When you pop up to refill your tea, he taps your bottom.

"I don't mind the view though," he shouts from the living room, making you chuckle as you bring the pitcher into the living room.

"I don't either there, UPS man," you joke with a wink, making him tilt his head.

"You're carrying a big package there," you add to explain it, and he chuckles and blushes.

As you enjoy the fans and tea, you get an idea.

"I think I know another way we can beat the heat!"

Ted takes a sip. "Yeah? How's that?"

You hold your hand out to get him off the couch and lead him to the garden.

"Garden hose."

Ted laughs. "What, like we're kids again? You gonna spray me with that?"

When you twist the dial on the spigot, you aim the hose at yourself first, drenching yourself in the cool water.

"Ohhhhh yeah, this is where it's at!" you shout, running it through your hair.

Ted watches the water soak your white tank top, your nipples reacting to the cold temperature. It's like a slow-motion 80s hair metal music video, watching you douse yourself with the hose.

Before he can react anymore, uh, physically to what he's seeing, you're aiming the hose at him.

"Ready, Teddy?" you ask with a smile, and he looks down, his cock tenting his underwear. Well, the cold water will help.

"Hit me, baby!" he shouts, and your thumb hovers the hole of the hose and sprays him.

And oh, Lord. You didn't know that wet, white t-shirts worked on men like it does on women. You can see his pecs, his chest hair, his tummy, all sticking to the white undershirt.

Was this cool water really working? Or are you heating up for another reason?

"Here, I have an idea..."

You attach the hose to a sprinkler attachment and lay it down on the lawn, letting the two of your stand in the stream of water as it moves.

Ted holds his hand out and pulls you to his chest, your bodies wet and sticky, but smiling as it drips off your noses and hair. You lean in to kiss him.

"Mmm, garden water," you smile to his lips. "Always tastes fresher than any other water."

Ted laughs, leaning his lips to your neck and sucking the water off there.

"Yeah, yeah it sure does."

His hands run down your body, over your tight nipples, down your hips and then to your ass. Your hands take their own journey across his broad shoulders and chest.

"You like this?" you whisper and he nods, kissing the water on your neck again.

"Mmm, it's the perfect way to beat the heat, darlin'..."

...

After frolicking in the garden, Ted walks you to your bedroom -- the only cool room in the house -- and strips you of your wet clothes, while he does the same.

You pull each other into bed, under the covers, enjoying the chill of the room while your bodies tangle in the sheets to make heat of your own.

---

Ha! This was so fun! So much fun. Ted would so play in the garden hose, and be all about it. I loved this so much. Thank you so much for the prompt, friend!

#ted lasso x reader #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso smut #ted lasso fluff #ted lasso x you #playing with a garden hose with ted is just ultimate fun

[purefandomonium]

It's The Thought That Counts Chapter VII

Rody needs a minute—several minutes… No, half a century to compose himself and get his racing thoughts under control. He stands braced against the sink, knuckles white from how tightly he’s gripping the edges. His mind is a tornado, wild thoughts spinning out of control and wrecking anything coherent in their path.

Just what in the hell was that?

Everything Rody thinks he knows about Vincent has been shattered and he doesn’t know what to do with all the tiny pieces. The stiffness in his joints becomes too much and he releases his death grip on the porcelain in favor of dousing his face in ice cold water. He pays no heed to the mess his careless splashes make. The water does little to soothe him—rather, he groans in annoyance at the feeling of wetness spreading across his collar while drops fall from his hair. He musters up the strength to lock eyes with his reflection and is relieved his face is no longer flushed red.

‘Does this mean Vince… Ugh, no, what am I saying? He…’ His face and hair aren’t getting any dryer as he stares into his own soul so he grabs a handful of paper towels to remedy that. It’s much easier to focus on drying himself than it is to ponder Vince’s reasons for ‘helping’ him like that. Unfortunately, life has hardly ever allowed the waiter to take the easy route, and this is no different. His mind refuses to still as it conjures up all sorts of what-ifs and questions about the chef that he really doesn’t want to think about now, or ever.

Rody spends another long set of minutes attempting to corral his thoughts before returning to the kitchen. He finds Vince putting the finishing touches on the cupcakes and internally winces. ‘Does this mean he’s mad at me?’

Vince freezes over the final cupcake, strawberry slice suddenly weighing more than it should. ‘Will he be upset I did the rest without him?’ He couldn’t take standing around waiting any longer. His body grew restless with the need to do something and the cupcakes were right there. He had started thinking that Rody had snuck out and wasn’t coming back, so seeing the slightly damp waiter before him is quite the shock.

The silence stretches on as the two stare at each other.

“Um…” Rody rubs the back of his neck and ends up wiping excess water on his pant leg. The fabric of his trousers is suddenly a fascinating discovery and he stares down to avoid Vince’s sharp gaze. His mind boils over with thoughts of what he can do to fix this. Should he apologize? For what he’s unsure but, as usual, he’s managed to ruin yet another something with his stupidity. Maybe he should be upset? No, that doesn’t feel right either. He’s not mad… Is he mad?

Rody ponders that for several seconds before coming to the conclusion that he is not the least bit upset about Vince’s actions. The question of whether or not he should be mad hardly even makes it through the barrier of introspection. Rather, he’s wondering if Vince is the one who’s upset right now. As always, all he can do is worry about anyone other than himself. Rody’s done nothing but slight the man’s kindness left and right, and despite Vince always being willing to let it slide, he can’t help but think he’s gone too far this time. The air is thick with unresolved tension. He needs to figure out how to apologize for this.

Vince’s analytical gaze doesn’t let up as he stares down the waiter. Despite Rody typically being an open book with his emotions, the chef can’t discern any thoughts from Rody’s expression or body language. If he has to guess, he’d say the other man is apprehensive. Who wouldn’t be in this situation? He needs to say something to fix this, something that can downplay his previous actions. Vince isn’t a fan of jokes but if he knew one that would allow them to laugh this whole thing off he’d tell it.

‘Just… Say something. Anything,’ he thinks, willing the words to form. If he keeps staring at the waiter perhaps he’ll stop ignoring him and the eye contact will motivate his voice to function. Yet there’s no movement from Rody. ‘He won’t even look at me.’ 

He’s really, really messed this all up. How could he have been so stupid? He’s only now realizing that Rody’s previous lack of reaction to his efforts was more than likely stunned surprise. The other man had simply been too astonished to move. He probably just thinks they’re friends—hell, the whole thing with the lessons is probably just them casually hanging out to him! And here he is, making things weird.

Vince internally curses at anything and everything he can think of. Why does it have to be this way? Why did he have to get so attached to Rody of all people? Why in the hell couldn’t he have put some more fucking thought into this?! He grits his teeth at the lack of answers to any of those questions. Fuck, he’s an idiot. He should have known better.

Even now, Rody still isn’t looking at him and it makes him want to grab the man’s collar and force his eyes to meet his, if only so he can attempt to read what’s going on in that thick head of his. He wants to close the distance and do exactly that, but keeps his feet planted where they are. After all, he’s created this mess by making rash decisions without considering the pros and cons. Now’s the time for him to take a step back and think. If only so he can focus on anything other than Rody’s reaction to everything. 

A deep cold settles within his bones, one brought on by his worst fears. He briefly thinks back to how warm Rody’s hands felt against his own before banishing the thought from his mind.

Rody’s own mind isn’t any calmer than the chef’s as he continues to stare at the floor despite the growing ache in his neck. ‘You can’t stare at the floor forever, Rody. Just… Look at him. Look at him and say you’re sorry.’ He takes a deep breath to steel himself and slowly brings his gaze back up. He passes Vince’s shoes, rising up his black slacks before catching the first glimpse of pale skin in the form of his hands. His eyes zero in on the lone strawberry slice forgotten in his grasp, the red a stark contrast against Vince’s fingers.

Before he can stop himself, “Can I do the last one?” That is decidedly, without a single doubt, the most idiotic thing he’s ever said. He’s about to take the words back when the fruit is suddenly offered to him. He hesitantly meets Vince’s eyes as he takes it, before silently moving to place it atop the final cupcake. He must have been hiding in the bathroom for longer than he thought considering the sweets had time to cool and be frosted.

They look nice and he’s stunned he made them practically by himself.

“Do you… want to try one?” Vince asks, hands in his pockets in an effort to drive the nervous chill from his fingers.

Rody blinks at that. Vince doesn’t seem all that upset. At least, not at him. “Sure,” he says to the stiff figure beside him. He takes the one he placed the strawberry on and carefully peels the wrapper off. He takes a decent bite and savors his mouth being able to do something other than try to form a sentence. The cupcake is the perfect level of sweet, the frosting complimenting it nicely. He’s once again taken aback that these were made by himself if he doesn’t account for Vince’s helpful guidance.

His mind unhelpfully supplies the memory of his hands in Vince’s as the latter guided him along, and he chokes on the final bite of dessert. He keeps his back to the chef as he tries—and fails—to fight back the dusting of red blooming across his features once more. Dammit, he can’t keep doing this. It’s only gonna make things worse.

Vince doesn’t miss the odd change in demeanor. Telling himself it’s now or never, he forces his voice to work. “Rody-”

“Vince-”

“I’m sorry,” they both say simultaneously. The two of them stare at each other, incredulous.

Vince doesn’t know what to make of the apology. What in the world does Rody think he has to apologize for? He’s beaten to the chase when the other man speaks first.

“I, uh, I’m sorry, Vince.” He folds his arms across his chest and frowns.

Despite the alarms ringing in his mind, Vince keeps his face mostly neutral, if a little surprised. “For what?”

“For…” He really doesn’t know, but just like the night he broke down over his ex, something feels ruined and he’s the cause. Seeing the concern and confusion across Vince’s features makes him feel worse somehow. He sighs and throws his hands up. “I don’t know! For everything, I guess?” He’s such a screw-up. Just this once why can’t he be as put together as Vince? Why’s it so hard to get his mind in order and speak it? Everyone else seems capable of figuring out their own feelings so why can’t he?!

“Wha-” His composure is lost at the words and he drops his mask to reveal just how surprised he is. “What the hell are you saying, Rody? You haven’t even done anything.” ‘I’m the one who’s screwing things up, not you. If anything, I should be the one asking for forgiveness here.’

Here Vince is again, so willing to forgive and forget. It makes his stomach twist with how easily the man lets him off the hook. He hasn’t done anything to warrant this and Vince should know that. “Yes I have! I always mess up orders and stuff, I’m not professional at all, every time you try to do anything nice for me I ruin it. Just-” Ugh, this is so difficult. Apologies are never easy but even when he was with Manon he never felt this awful about his mistakes. Disappointing Vince makes him feel sick and he hates it. He side-eyes the cupcakes on the counter. “I can’t even slice strawberries without you holding my hand. Literally.” Vince’s kindness can only be because Rody’s incompetent and nothing more. He feels pity, that’s it. That’s the easiest conclusion to come to, so that’s what he’ll believe.

This is not at all what Vince imagined happening. “I… Rody, what are you even saying? You haven’t… A few mistakes here and there aren’t the end of the world.” He has no idea what to say. Emotional confrontations have never been his forte and he’s starting to get a little scared. He’s never seen the waiter like this and he thinks he prefers Rody crying to… whatever this is. Is his self-esteem really that bad?

Rody wants to laugh at Vince’s statement but doesn’t in the fear it’ll come out unhinged. “Seriously? We both know how you handle ‘mistakes’, Vince.” ‘What makes me so different?’ he wants to add, despite fearing the answer. Instead, “I’m sorry.”

“Ugh, stop saying that.” This is his worst nightmare. He doesn’t think he’s ever suffered such a loss of control over a situation. Just as he’s about to give in to the urge to reach out and grab Rody’s arm, the waiter is moving away again.

“I’m sorry, Vince. I need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He needs to lay down, he needs to eat dinner, he needs to think, and he needs an answer to all this. He just… needs some time to sort himself out so he’s ready for it.

Vince stands numbly in the kitchen, at a complete loss. It’s going to be another long and restless night it seems.

#it's the thought that counts #dead plate #fanfic #my writing

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

I'd love to hear more about Not a Soulmate AU

Not a Soulmate AU is a Geraskier fic where most people are born with soulmarks the color of their soulmate's eyes on their face. Jaskier is one of the very few born without a soulmark, which makes his aspirations of becoming a bard challenging. People don't take him seriously when he sings about love and romance, since the cultural perception is that love between soulmates is the only kind of True Love.

And then he meets Geralt, the first person he's ever met who also doesn't have a soulmark. (Most witchers do have soulmarks; Geralt is an outlier.) The fic is kind of stalled at this point, because I wrote the first 5K words in a rush, got to the point where Jaskier and Geralt meet, and realized that I hadn't actually figured out a plot yet. I know I want Jaskier to kind of desperately imprint on Geralt at first, since he thinks this might be his only chance at True Love, before he grows up a bit and gets to know Geralt as a person, rather than an ideal. I just haven't figured out how they get to that point yet or how long it will take.

Snip under the cut, since it's kind of long.

“Had this composition been handed to me by any other student, I would think I was looking at the work of the greatest bard of the decade.”

The warm little glow of pride in Jaskier’s belly is doused as surely as the time Valdo woke him by dumping ice water on his head. “What?”

Professor Weiss puts aside the parchment. “Julian, you must understand. People don’t just want a pretty song, they want to feel something when they hear music. Love, lust, anger, sadness. No one will listen to a bard with no soulmark sing about romance and believe a word he’s singing.”

“I can sing about romance.” It’s a child’s protest, Jaskier knows, as useless as when he promised Priscilla that he really did love her, that his lack of soulmark meant nothing compared to what he felt for her.

The old man sighs and shakes his head, pale blue eyes filled with pity. “Perhaps, but the people of the Continent won’t see it that way.“

Jaskier opens his mouth, remembers that he has months to go until graduation, then closes it.

“You still have options,” Professor Weiss says kindly. Honestly, Jaskier would prefer if he were a bastard about it. “Professor Andersen is searching for a new teaching assistant. I’d be happy to recommend you. Many talented songwriters make good coin writing songs for other bards to perform.”

“No.” Jaskier’s hand twitches towards his composition, like he can shield it from the very suggestion. The thought of those words—all the grief and loneliness and longing—being sung by another bard makes him feel nauseous.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Professor Weiss says. “But no court on the Continent will employ a bard without a soulmark. I’m sure you know better than anyone that those without soulmarks make people… uneasy.”

“Then I won’t sing at a court.” Jaskier feels angry tears prickling the corners of his eyes. “I’ll travel the Continent, sing for the common folk.”

The professor heaves a sigh. “And you’ll consign yourself to a life of hungry, cold nights.”

Jaskier doesn’t want to sit here anymore and listen to this, especially when he can’t help but fear that the old man is right. “Thank you for the advice, professor. If I may go?”

Professor Weiss nods his permission.

Jaskier makes it two steps towards the door before the professor says, “Julian?”

Jaskier turns, swallowing back the bitter taste in his mouth. “Yes, professor?”

“I’ve taught at Oxenfurt for nearly fifty years,” Professor Weiss says. “In that time, I’ve seen six students without soulmarks pass through the bardic college. Their names were Agata Snyder, Simon Ludvic, Kristoph Meyerhoff, Mikhail Johansen, Lydia Kovac, and Gregor Friedrich. Have you heard of any of them?”

Jaskier shakes his head.

“That’s because not a single one of them made it as a bard. Lydia took orders at the Temple of Melitele and Kristoph had a somewhat successful career writing songs for other bards. The others tried their hands at being bards. None made it. Most went out on the road and were never heard from again.”

Jaskier swallows hard. “That won’t be me.”

He can tell from the look on Professor Weiss’ face that the old man doesn’t believe him. “I genuinely hope that’s true, Julian."

Ask me about my WIPs!

#the witcher #geraskier #ask games #ghost's writing

[corrodedcoughin]

headcanon that won’t leave me alone

One day Eddie is late for a group hangout. This isn’t unusual, god knows his van can be temperamental and sometimes he just gets so caught up in whatever he’s doing he doesn’t realise this time. It’s coming up to an hour after everyone else has arrived and still. no. Eddie.

Nancy calls it and decides they’ve waited long enough to start the movie when a loud electric guitar solo can be heard from the car speakers entering the drive way and Eddie bursts through the door, manic energy in his eyes and a smile bright enough to power Hawkins for a full week. He stumbles into Robin who he quickly saves from being knocked into the wall. He’s antsy and laughing loud and just can’t contain himself. before Steve knows what’s happening Eddie has pulled his tshirt up right infront of robin’s face and she yells in delighted surprise, hand out and aiming for his chest. Before she reaches him Steve shouts out a loud and rapid ‘hey’ and that. That is when Eddie turns towards him and Nancy, tshirt still pulled up in his teeth and the biggest grin on his face.

There, shining in the light, practically mocking Steve is a metallic silver barbell going through the centre of Eddie’s right nipple. Still red, and as Eddie tells it, pierced just 15 minutes ago. He’s still riding the adrenaline high, Steve can see it, can sense it coming off him in waves as Eddie flits around the room looking for mirrors. After he’s had his fill they start the movie, Robin and Nancy sharing an armchair, Eddie and Steve sitting on opposite ends of the couch. And Steve? Steve feels like he’s been stuck by lightening, been doused in ice cold water, had every nerve ending electrocuted and tuned in to every single one of eddies movements. The man opposite keeps readjusting himself, the fidgeting isn’t new but the knowledge of what is causing his hands to readjust his tshirt, the sharp but quiet intakes of breath is rotting Steve’s brain.

He has no idea what the movie is about but he does know that every four minutes Eddie needs to change position of his shirt and every four minutes and five seconds Steve’s overwhelming need to rip this man’s tshirt off and just stare almost wins against his impulse control.

This might be the longest night of Steve harrington’s life.

#steddie #this is utter nonsense I’ve never written anything in my life and suddenly I think I can join in and have fun??? #RIDICULOUS! #this was really fun though #another thought is Eddie gets his hair done pretty like the elves in lotr but they weren’t released yet #idk this is silly I just want to have fun and make Steddie/stranger things pals #ronance #well it’s implied anyway #we are doing it for the theys the girls and the gays

[firesofdainix]

October 27: Fear of Water | Bridge

Here’s your daily scheduled Morrotober angst! Four more days to go!

@morrotober

AO3 Version

*

CW: suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, self-harm

*

The rainy season had been, initially, one of his favorite seasons back when he was alive before he was cursed to become a spirit that feeds on resentment and envy. It was simply a lot more comfortable than the hot, dry, and sweltering summer days, relying more on the solace of having to damp their sheets and hang them outside so that the hot summer air could be converted to cool air. He’s seen Wu do it a few times before during the days in which it was, unbearably, quite hot to the bone, his skin prickling with sweat. He was unmotivated to train due to the hot weather, the sun angry at him for some reason, his green eyes watching Wu dampen their bedsheets with cold water before hanging them outside of the monastery walls.

A suitably valid disadvantage is how cold it feels, the wet drops turning to frost to signify the deadness of winter coming to their abode, ice cracking on walls as snowdrops once there is no drop of water left to pour down on their region. He’s never felt cold with his master, who occasionally busies himself with buying charcoal from those who have been bold enough to journey to their thousand-step mountain, all so, in their kindness, offer them charcoal for a humble exchange of money. He places the charcoal on the irori, moving their table near it so their food will be warm in the rainy season and, by extension, during the winter as well. Morro would help as well; storing hot coal onto the censer which they have, using it as a way to warm his cold and stiff limbs, never having to worry about almost freezing to death again.

He also found joy in frolicking in the rain, running on the slippery, cobblestone floors of the monastery despite Wu’s concerns, as he could feel the drops of cold rain on his skin. The pitter-patter sounds give him a sense of calm, as it collides with the hard-edged ceilings of the monastery, creating a soft cadence.

Yet, when he returns to the human world, he finds himself abysmally deprived of the things that had once kept him happy and sated.

Gone was his skin that can withstand the fluidity of water, the cold drops of rain eliciting laughter and a surprised but pleased shriek. Instead, all he could feel as he found himself in the midst of a rainstorm was his final wish before he was doused by the sizzling rain.

It wasn't like he objected to dying to rainfall since it was the only thing that can kill him and rid him of the world he has come back to haunt.

He didn't think that something he once loved so much would become his biggest adversary, followed by Lloyd Garmadon, the actual Green Ninja.

Yet, while there are some hints of animosity and a sense of caution when they are around him, they, much to both his confusion and frustration, continue to involve him in activities he considered rather extraneous to his form and his sense of being. More particularly, the more… outdoors type of activities was something he could consider himself awkward in. Simply put, he hasn't truly immersed himself with the companions he was forced to spend time with and befriend. Befriending was a task that was foreign to him as well— he's always had to do it alone, never entertaining any sort of company outside of Wu, who was always ready to give him answers to the things he wanted. And there was this certain feeling in his gut when he meets up with the others to complete and prepare for the journey ahead, as he continues to pretend he was an invisible shade, observing them and seeing how close they are.

There is a certain pit in which these feelings are reserved.

Jealousy.

He shouldn't be feeling jealous, however. It was his responsibility and his alone.

It still doesn't seem to help with his crippling guilt.

He should stop watching them, but it was a concerning addiction, in which he uses his ghostly powers to observe them from a distance, knowing that he can only be able to see how natural they are as a family and team without his interference. He did not want to attract cold gazes when he just wants to watch, thank you very much.

Especially when Master Wu was involved. Specifically when his master is involved, enjoying his time with his own students.

He feels a sudden feeling of pain at the sight of his master smiling the same way he did with Morro. But… he felt happier, even when he was older than he’d been in the years he was taking care of Morro as if he’s finally found the sun to his eyes.

Jealousy swirls in his stomach, and Morro wishes he could be them.

He knows that it was all a futile attempt and dream. His dreams were always stuck in a fictional world in which he finds himself often breaking with his own hands as if he were hammering the glass until it shatters.

He wants one day. One day with his master, to reimburse the idea that they were still family.

Today was both a family day and additionally, a rainy day.

So, knowing these two things, he is, by default, not quite allowed to partake in the activities.

Okay, since when was he ever?

He was the rogue ghost that was given another chance at life — which he is failing spectacularly — not a part of their already tight, intrinsic family.

He was an outsider, and that will never quite change.

He hears them before he can see them.

Thankfully, they stopped him from having another one of those conscious dreams in which the context was never an option, but he isn’t sure he is fond of the alternative even less.

Sounds of rain coalesced, fusing even, with laughter and a few yelps and satisfaction between both parties. He rises from his cot to see what is happening outside, despite his wariness over water. It was a fear he wished was not there, of course, but… it is a fear he must have to live with, like an unpleasant constant in his life.

He walks among the corridors, his mind filled with what could possibly be giving them joy he could not even placate within himself. The background noise was the following noises of laughter, the empty static of rain, and someone talking about how the rain is plentiful this time of the year. Which is, in Morro’s book, a little insensitive towards the only ghost in the house. Or, maybe, that was just his pride talking.

When he exits the interior of the monastery and walks into the engawa, mindful of the drops of rain, avoiding them so he won’t have to feel his corporeal form boiling because of the death trap, he finds the ninjas dousing themselves in the rain.

Not only were they dousing in the rain that could spell doom to Morro if he ever so carelessly touched it, but they were also having fun, too. Well, that is to be expected. The rainy season is fun for those who aren't dead and will be sent back to where they came from at the sight of water. Unfortunately, he's the latter.

"Lloyd!" Kai, who looks as if he wasn't stressed and is dealing with life in his own fiery and bright way, gives his younger brother a small smile filled with mirth. He was holding up his sword in a careless manner, and Morro assumes he was drunk because, even if he knows Kai is, in any form, reckless, he wasn't stupidly reckless like he is currently now. "You better catch this!" Then he throws something that is, to Morro's relief, not a sword.

Lloyd expectedly catches it with his own two hands, laughing as the rain continues to drench and soak his hair and clothes. Morro internally cringes over how Lloyd looks happy in spite of how his clothes must feel sticky and wet on his skin, and how the breeze was frigid and cold. He laughs and Morro feels as if this was the only thing he's been deprived of in his afterlife. He was laughing, delighted despite the fact that being drenched with rain can lead to unforeseen consequences such as flu or sickness (he's started to become wary of rain as well, and the effects of it in the environment negatively). The young man looks happier than the times Morro has been in the same room as he is— no skirting around and looking nervous, not being so tongue-tied, all the work whenever Morro is in a room as if he is practically restraining himself with a subconscious rope.

But that rope is untied, unknotted, even, in the face of being in the company of his friends, and his family.

Morro’s eyes roam, and he finds Wu under the heavy downpour, happy and laughing at their antics. The Wu he knew was still there, just slightly dimming over the years as age creeps up on him like a frivolous parasite.

His sadness reaches him again, begging to be let go like a dying animal. He tries to contain it, replacing it with anger. A futile attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

Then, that is when his mind must have started to wonder.

Wonder of what, you may ask?

How water would feel if he just… let go of all the fear in him.

Would it still feel like water is burning down his entire shape like a fire that has raged throughout all the forests? Will it sting like a bee? Will it… will it pass? Can he get to hold it and feel as if he is drenched by its actual property instead of dying?

His lip trembles, but he tries not to give in to sadness. It is unbecoming for someone like him. He's supposed to be strong.

But how can he be strong when he is standing in front of his weakness?

He stares up at the clouds, not letting his corporeal form spill into the vastness of the surroundings, the smell of petrichor making him dizzy.

He is still wary of this… of what is supposed to be a fragmentary harmless thing. It's what happens when you're a ghost of his prestige.

He holds up a hand. It was green; so unlike the many shades of green that litter around this place, however. It was disgusting that this was what his color resembles now, after years of yearning for the Green Ninja title.

Morro doesn’t know what he was thinking as he stares up at the skies once more, as gray as his own view of the world, having the inability to see the beauty of this world that’s been so cruel to him.

He extends a hand.

Before he can even see his own palms evaporating at the sudden contact of the cold, but sizzling rainwater, he feels it first. The drops of rain collided towards his palm, and, rather than the dreaming, longing feeling of wanting cold to drip across his skin, all he feels was something boiling. Like he was currently splashed by hot, steaming water that will leave his skin with burns he will certainly feel for hours. Then as the rain continues to patter on, an abundance of water drops towards his open palms, stinging at first, until he furrows his brows as a sensation of burning is upon his form, like he was currently being burnt alive at the stake, the fire around him dancing in the throes of his imminent death.

Morro gasps in pain, and he knows that his arm has been marked with holes due to water, but he could not bring himself to withdraw it.

That is, until he feels something warm, like the embers of a flame touching him, take his hand back.

He must have been so out of it that he’s forgotten he’d been watching the ninja and their master enjoy the first drop of rain in the season. Now, they’re the ones watching him like he almost attempted suicide. And, judging by the context of what he’d tried, they probably weren’t off the mark. He may have if he was in autopilot mode.

Morro’s eyes turn to look at green eyes, holding his hand. If he wasn’t recovering from another one of his unconscious moments, he would have scowled and taken his hand away. Yet, here he is, as frozen as ice at the sight of his — former — worst enemy.

Those eyes were filled with worry and shock, and it was also written all over his features as well. As if he was actually horrified that Morro would try something like that. Honestly, his time in this world has been extended long enough. “Morro,” he begins in a breathless tone as if he ran all the way to the engawa and took his hand away from the rain. He looked like he was on the verge of tears too. “What were you doing?”

Morro shrugs, unable to produce a coherent, presumably not very concerning answer. He stares at the rain like it was the most enticing thing in the world.

He thinks about his fear of water. How… he wasn’t afraid of water, actually.

He was afraid of the limitations he’d been granted.

He finds his voice and his answer. He looks away. “Sometimes I wish… I can enjoy the rain with you.”

#manji wips #morrotober #morrotober 2022 #morro ninjago #morro wu #lloyd montgomery garmadon #lloyd garmadon #ninjago #lego ninjago #inspired by an insta post and cupid by jack stauber

[n-odious-tropy]

//Short story about Odious overcoming his fear of using the rift generator I wrote while I couldn't sleep

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the pad of his thumb circled the button on the remote control planted firmly, almost too tightly in his hand. His fingers flexed, squeezing the box as if it could somehow keep him steady. Electricity hung in the space between him and the devilish machine. His very skin prickled, trailing down his chest into the rock that had solidified in his gut, weighing him down. To stand here alone was so contrary. He was both heavy as sin yet as light as the air around him. Frightened as a baby bird but with wings spread, ready to fly, ready to fall.

Odious swallowed thickly, trembling. He knew he had his hand on the trigger in this standoff, this battle of wills for which he was the sole participant. It was now or never. This invention could either be his greatest creation or his worst nightmare. He would no longer allow it to fill both of those roles.

He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes to prepare. The countdown had begun.

10...

The sound of his heart in his ears drowned the world out.

9...

His clammy hands stuck to his thickly padded gloves, twitching anxiously.

8...

A spark. An ember. Then fire, explosive, hungry. It devoured all within it's grasp. It patterned the back of his eyelids.

7...

He nearly lost his nerve, catching himself with a step backwards as memories of fire engulfed him.

6...

A tingling had begun in his legs where his knees should have been. A phantom of the past come to claim him once more.

5...

It would pass. It would not pass easy, but it would. He grimaced, clenching his jaw hard enough to ache.

4...

He willed away the pain. He doused out the fire with a single tear rolling down his sharp jawline. This was different. The past would not repeat itself.

3...

2...

1...

All it took was one press of a button and the machine rumbled to life. Odious stood frozen, paralyzed by the whirring of the generator and watching as the lights one by one flickered from red to green. In the center of the circular chassis of the rift generator hung a small dot of light, near blinding and perfectly white. Slowly the glowing sphere swelled to about the size of a baseball before bursting outwards in rapid combustion and settling into a formless plane of shimmering green encompassed by the arch of the chassis.

It was the single most terrifying and thrilling experience of his life. The rift had been opened. It was open and nothing had gone horrifically wrong. Odious stared in awe at the magnificent shape swirling lazily around and around. He still wasn't sure what to call it. Certainly not a liquid, but perhaps a plasma. His feet carried him forward, one falling numbly in front of the other until he stood close enough to the rift to feel his ribcage tingling from the energy. Tentatively Odious's hand lifted and stopped just shy of the rift, fingers unfurled to allow the tip of his index finger to penetrate the surface. It phased effortlessly through, no resistance, just a familiar biting chill prickling under the skin of his finger. Odious flinched away from the rift as if he'd been burned, but his hand still hung tensely in the air.

He hadn't come this far just to give up now. With a quick hiss through clenched teeth, the man clenched his fists and barreled into the rift like he was prepared to start fighting it. A bitter cold vacuum was what welcomed him. Brief as it may have been, it felt like being suddenly doused with ice cold water. It was nothing but cold and silence until he suddenly felt very warm. Odious risked opening his eyes at last and was briefly blinded by the sun. Once his vision returned to him, it was worth noting that there in the sky faintly surrounding the sun were three pale moons in a myriad of pinks and golden hues. Underneath those three pale moons he stood and laid eyes upon the land only to find that he had seen this place before.

It was that place. The one he'd seen the very first time he'd tested the rift generator. He'd nearly lost his hand to gain such a glimpse into paradise. Before when he was still young and naive he might have given up even more than just a hand to achieve what he has today. The sky was placid, untouched by life, untainted by even a single cloud. A small breeze caressed his still damp cheek, drying the streak left by that singular tear. Odious realized he'd been standing by a field of lavender overlooking the precipice of an inky black ocean that stretched past the horizon. It was ethereal.

The whole experience left him utterly breathless.

Odious tried to inhale deeply of the atmosphere but found only a tightness in his chest. The air filled his lungs like liquid fire, scorching his throat and swelling his tongue. It hurt to breathe. Weakly he gasped and clutched at his coat.

He *was* breathless.

It all happened in slow motion. Abruptly his feet were no longer under him and the world was a blur. Odious's stomach writhed like a tangled ball of worms. He plummeted through the air, a hand raised as if somehow those three pale moons could reach back for him.

Terror. Exhilaration. Falling. Flying. Inevitable. *Freedom.* Odious found himself smiling up at the sky while the wind whipped mercilessly at his back.

Just before he reached the ocean, he pressed the button on the remote once more and a rift opened under him and he fell through. Due to the velocity in which he teleported, he was shot into the lab as if from a cannon, directly into his desk. His notes exploded, sending papers flying in every other direction and falling like snowflakes onto the laboratory floor. The landing was anything but soft, having put a sizable dent in the metal and feeling as if he'd bruised a rib or two. Despite the pain and the mess he'd caused, Odious had a dopey grin plastered on his face and his once dull eyes now glittered with stars.

#Anecdote

[nonhumen]

@giftandguile : fyodor's eyes are squeezed shut, eyebrows knitted like he's having an argument. his lean body trembles from the inside out, pale limbs like ripples in water as he grasps at empty sheets next to him. " нет... нет! ангел... Пожалуйста...!"

sometimes being fucked out of his mind doesn't chase all the monster away. sometimes dazai still lies awake going over memories he wishes to forget. sometimes not even the arms around his waist are enough to save him from himself.

to dazai's credit, he leaves to get a drink of water. he stands in the kitchen, eyeing the cutlery like he's about to do battle with it as he nurses the glass of cold water. his throat feels raw from screaming his lover's name and that pain grounds him enough in reality.

it's the sound of that same lover's voice that douses dazai in ice. the glass is left forgotten on the counter as he's drawn to fyodor's wails. his eyes widen, staring at the tortured soul who writhes like a caged bird. he's asking for him. calling for him. his angel. dazai has never felt divine until he was in fyodor's presence, when the man prays with kisses against his thighs and asks him for salvation. ah, this must be what he needs saving from.

he reaches out to place a sure hand within growing black locks. dazai is almost taken aback by the thing that roils under his touch. it fights back, vicious and cold like plunging into a frozen lake. it claws at dazai, trying to tear him apart. but it doesn't get the chance. nothing ever gets the chance. no longer human pins it down with it's unrivaled strength and snuffs it out like a candle losing oxygen.

" i'm here now, fedya, " dazai promises. his touch does not leave him as dazai slips back into bed. he pulls the man close in something comforting and protective against his chest. " if i can quiet gods then i can silence devils too. "

#giftandguile #𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 : ALL AN ACT / IC #𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 : THE ONES WHO SAVE ORPHANS / ADA VERSE #mmmm delicious