this winding labyrinth, ch6
chapter six: awakening
pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)
summary:
You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, youâre left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mindâone of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.
this is chapter 6, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-5, this won't make too much sense.
ao3 version | Spotify playlist
warnings: typical fare (canon-typical blood, violence, gore, etc.)
Your greeting falls flat in the tense air. You can vaguely hear footsteps and shouts from the other cells, but it all fades away when you meet those ever-familiar gleaming crimson eyes. For a long moment, there is nothing but horrid anticipation. Heâs forcing you to sit in this stifling silence as penance.Â
âIâve been expecting you,â Hannibal eventually hums. It doesnât take long for you to remember that Hannibal has been expecting you from the moment he turned himself in. You try to envision him rotting away behind these walls, ignorant of the developments occurring all around him. Itâs a bit hard to imagineânamely because you suspect it didnât happen that way. You didnât need to speak to Hannibal today to confirm your suspicion that someone has been feeding him information from the outside. After all, his surrender was entirely tactical. Hannibal knew what he was doing when he folded his arms behind his head and knelt before Jackâknew what he was doing when he left you with everything but an explicit promise that he would see you again.Â
Yes, Hannibal has been expecting you. And you, in some regard, have been expecting him. You werenât so foolish to think that Hannibalâs captivity would remove him from your life foreverâthings are rarely so simple. You had a feeling youâd return to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane for a house visitâyou just didnât know when. Indeed, itâs been years since Hannibalâs surrender. You idly wonder if you should be proud of yourself for how long you maintained your distance. This brutal eye contact through glass that feels far too thin; these clenched fists and gritted teeth⊠They were bound to happen eventually. Perhaps you were just prolonging inevitability.Â
You digest his words for a few moments longer, before taking a deep breath. âIâm here to speak with you about the Tooth Fairy.â You announce. Hannibal doesnât seem surprised by your statement, as he surely knows that youâre only visiting him out of necessity. There is no trace of amusement on his face, yet you can see his twisted delight regardless. He planned for thisâpainstakingly waited weeks, months, years for you to arrive. You willingly walked into this trap.Â
âDid you receive my letter?â Hannibal asks, before you can elaborate any further on the Tooth Fairy. You had forgotten how smoothly Hannibal can manipulate a conversation, steering it masterfully into any desired direction.Â
When you manage to process his words, you feel frozen in place. âI⊠did receive it, yes,â you say, wincing as youâre forced to remember what youâve spent years trying to forget. Youâre thrown back into the uncertain time following Hannibalâs surrenderâŠÂ
You hadnât spent long at your house in Wolf Trapâyou needed to get away from it all. You hadnât told anyone about your relocation except Jack, Bev, and Alana. You wanted a break from the caution tape and bloodstains. A break was what you wanted, and a break was what you got: two months of time to yourself. Just before it got to be too much, you were back at the Bureau, continuing your work. The move was a great decision overall. Perhaps best of all, it put even more distance between Baltimore and you. The further you were from Baltimore, the better.Â
Then, one afternoon, you returned home to find a letter in your mailbox. You were suspicious at the time. After all, by then, Hannibal was growing to be a popular figure in the newsâwhich had forced you into the spotlight as a result. Even despite your relocation, you occasionally received strange mail from impersonators. You convinced yourself this letter, hidden in a burgundy envelope with an elegant wax seal, was another prank. Still, against your best judgment, you opened it. The elegant cursive writing immediately threw all realistic explanations out the window. At that point, you had only read the first few wordsâbut you knew it was no prank.Â
You wanted to throw it into the fireplace and let it burn to ashes. However, the thought of never getting to see the message was even worse. You took a slow breath and moved to your dining table, laying the letter flat and reading it under the dim light.Â
My dear, Â
You need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better nor more respectful friend than myself.
I have been reading rather frequently these days. There is not much else to be done. I suppose I should instead be grateful that I am provided with books, a desk, a bed, and similar luxuries that the other prisoners do not have. Yet a gilded cage is still a cage. Â
Your image wanders the halls of my mind palace quite frequently. Even in the darkest depths of this winding labyrinth, your gleaming eyes tear through the shadows with ease. Your voice reverberates through these confines, drawing me from slumber and compelling me to take measured breaths with renewed vigor. I wonder if I have grown to wander the recesses of your mind in return, slipping into your mind palace despite your most concentrated efforts. Â
I do wonder how you are faring. I find myself looking at the night sky through the skylight often. Some of our stars are the same, after all.
Are your stars burning too? Â
Yours, Â
Hannibal LecterÂ
The signature at the end of the letter captured your attention for a moment, before your mind fell to the uncomfortable realization that Hannibal had found your new address. You moved away from Wolfâs Trap to escape your memories, to escape him. Yet he found you with ease, even when in captivity.Â
A polite cough brings you back to reality. Hannibal is staring at you expectantly, and you remember that he is waiting for an answer. âThank you for the letter,â you say, albeit with a bit more irritation in your voice than usual. You donât have the freedom to say what is truly on your mind, lest he grow disinterested and refuse to give you more information. Regrettably, youâre forced to play along.
Despite your somewhat snippy tone, Hannibal is dissuaded. âOf course,â he smiles, a sharp thing. You truly cannot tell if he is taking pleasure from your gratitude (regardless of its veracity). Silence stretches across the space once more. The two of you are assessing one another.Â
âNow, about the Tooth Fairy,â you finally manage to say, âI was hoping you could give me some professional insight.â Hannibal nods and you pull out a crime scene photograph and a picture of Mrs. Leeds, ensuring that nothing is attached to them (Chilton was very strict about that) before sliding them through the mail slot fused into the glass wall. Hannibal gets up from his chair and takes the photographs, studying them with a careful gaze. You think you see his eyes gleam brighter as he evidently looks at the corpses in the first picture and your stomach turns at the observation.
Youâre not sure how much time you spend watching him as he looks at the photograph. You get the feeling that heâs luring you into a false state of security by allowing you to look at him, and you canât get rid of the unreasonable conviction that, somehow, he is watching you right back.Â
âAnd what have you gathered so far?â Hannibal asks once he has thoroughly scrutinized the first photograph.Â
âIn terms of physical characteristics⊠heâs right-handed; has blonde hair; and has size eleven shoes.â You recall. âOtherwise, we donât have much, unfortunately. Iâm trying to establish some sort of connection between the two families, the Leedses and the Jacobis. Theyâre both white, middle-class nuclear families. Not much else sticks out, save for the special attention the killer paid to both of the wives.âÂ
âThe wives,â Hannibal repeats, his eyes now locked on the second photograph you handed him. Thereâs a strange look on his faceâit almost looks like revulsion. You know he wouldnât be disgusted by the actâheâs committed murder before and will do it again without hesitation, you have to remind yourself. Maybe his contempt is for the fact that heâs trapped, while this killer roams free? Youâre honestly not sure. Itâs been a while since youâve devoted significant time and energy to thinking about Hannibal, so you get the feeling your characterization of him may be a little tarnished and inaccurate with how much time has passed.Â
âHe found the wives beautiful,â you continue, following his gaze to the crisp print. The image is burned into your mind: Mrs. Leeds glances at the camera, shimmering hair flowing down her shoulders. Her eyes are gleaming and her lips are twisted into a conspicuous smile, as if sharing a secret with the onlooker. âHe was fixated on them.âÂ
âA sexual obsession, perhaps.â Hannibal hums. That thought had already crossed your mind, of courseâJack and you discussed it shortly before you left. Even so, an obsession of that nature doesnât elucidate all of this killerâs actions.Â
âHe exhibits a lot of the indicators of psychopathyâŠâ You break off.
âYet, he is not typical,â Hannibal finishes for you. You nod.Â
âNot from what I can see,â you admit. âPlus, he left frighteningly little evidence. The few pieces of evidence we found almost seemed to be deliberately placed.â You pinch the bridge of your nose. âHe will kill again on the next full moon,â you continue, crossing your arms over your chest. You feel strangely vulnerable standing in front of Hannibal after all this time. âWhich leaves us⊠less than a month to capture him.â
âJack must be stressed,â Hannibal intuits.Â
âOf course,â you acquiesce. Itâs a reasonable assumption to make, so you donât feel like youâre revealing any information by agreeing with the statement. A killer on the loose is never a good thing, and will cause any FBI agent considerable stress. âWe all are.â You affirm.Â
âIs there anything else?â Hannibal asks. You desperately want to deny him any more information but, damn it, you need some sort of lead on this killer. And this discussion, riddled in ambiguity and riddles and philosophy, does challenge your existing assumptions in a way nothing else has.Â
These thoughts convince you to share one more tidbit of informationâarguably one of the more important pieces of evidence. âThe killer shattered the mirrors at both crime scenes.â You answer. You blink and youâre standing over shards of jagged glass scattered across the ground. The fragments crunch underneath your feet and a twisted thrill runs up your spine, a cruel smirk distorting your face. You blink again and are abruptly thrown back to the present moment, standing across from Hannibal Lecter with only a wall of glass separating both of you.Â
âIntriguing,â Hannibal remarks. His tone is rather flat, and youâre unable to tell if he really thinks itâs intriguing or not. You think he must be telling the truthâhe psychoanalyzed people for a living, after all. The more puzzling and perplexing, the more entertaining. âPerhaps itâs born out of a sense of frustration. The killer feels disconnected. He feels as if he isnât where he should be. He may even be attempting to experience⊠a becoming.âÂ
A becoming. Thatâs an interesting way of phrasing it. âBut what is he trying to become?â You hear yourself say. Youâre not sure if youâre even asking Hannibal at this point, or if youâre just reciting your thoughts aloud. âOr⊠who?â
âI believe thatâs your question to answer,â Hannibal responds smoothly.
The smile on your face hurts and you feel it slide off within moments. You take a deep breath and try to calm your racing thoughts. Youâre not sure why youâre fighting so hard to maintain pretense, even nowâwhen Hannibal is caged behind a wall of thick glass. âThe biting leads me to believe that he thinks himself to be some sort of creature. Maybe.â Youâd venture to guess that he has some sort of physical deformation or abnormality, leading to debilitating self-esteem issues (in addition to a host of other far more pressing issues). The killer holds contempt for how others see him. Yet⊠he arranged the Leedses so that they were watching himâwatching his performance as he took Mrs. Leedsâ life from her. Perhaps he only feels whole when he is committing acts of unspeakable violence. Perhaps⊠he is striving for some sort of unattainable ideal. And the smashing of the mirror is a release of his frustration with the laborious process of âbecomingâ that Hannibal mentioned. He does not believe he has achieved his âbecomingâ yet. You need to do more research. You get the feeling you have more reading to do when you return to the Bureau.
âIâm afraid I havenât been of much assistance,â Hannibal then says regretfully. His eyes are twinkling and his lips are twisted ever so slightly, informing you that he is feeling more amused than apologetic. Youâre not sure why you expected anything different. Any other person would be weathered down by years in prison; Hannibal only seems sharper.Â
Besides, it was foolish of you to think you could get all the answers you desired within one conversation. You suppose Hannibal has given you something to think about, at least. Still, it feels as if your visit was ultimately a mistake. All you have gotten is the unnerving confirmation that Hannibal had been waiting for you to appear. He sprung a trap for you years ago, and you thought time would erode its netting. Yet you foolishly wandered right into it. It was silly of you to think of yourself as anything other than the prey.Â
Your thoughts spiraling into self-deprecation, you bid Hannibal goodbye and start walking back down the hall. He returns the sentiment, albeit with a slightly different departing remarkâlikely to imply that you will be seeing him again. You try not to think about it as you continue walking down the hall, but you canât quite stop your racing thoughts. Besides, there is merit to considering everything youâve discussed with Hannibal today. There is value in dissecting his emotions and determining his conceptualization of the killer, because it could better inform your search. He may have been withholding information, but his characterization of the killerâs actions as a journey towards a âbecomingâ is still immensely informative.
You get the feeling that his ambiguity and evasive answers were primarily for the purposes of establishing a need for future conversation. He has given you just enough to prove useful, but not so much that youâll never come back. You feel somewhat akin to a wild animal that just fell into a trap, successfully earning a reward but sustaining injuries regardless. Your pride is wounded, and your immediate recollection of the trap will succeed in deterring you from trying it once more. But, as time passes and you slowly let your guard down, you will stumble across the trap the hunter has set for you once more, and fall into it all over again.Â
You shake your head and continue walking, pretending not to notice the jeering and shouting coming from the nearby cells. It feels as if youâve been walking forever, but youâre hardly ten steps away from Hannibalâs cell. Your momentary pause in the hallway seems to tempt one of the prisoners, as he races forward and slams his hands against the bars of his cell.Â
You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. The prisoner is now almost crushed against the barrier, staring at you with enough intensity to melt through the iron bars of his cell. You make the unfortunate mistake of returning his eye contact, and he purses his lips before spitting at you. Disgusted and revolted, you wipe his saliva off of your face with the back of your sleeve. Thereâs no point in attempting to retaliateâthe guy will be confined here for the rest of his life. Besides, your momentary glance at him was enough to inform you that the man is severely unstable. Thereâs no telling if he even sees you right nowâhe could easily be seeing a shadow of his past standing under these fluorescent lights, jeering at him with venom.Â
You hear a whisper of your name in the hall, but put it down to your imagination and take another step away from the prisoner. You donât make it far before you hear your name again, and youâre forced to come to terms with the fact that someone has been calling your name. And, not just someoneâHannibal himself. You want nothing more than to ignore his remarks, but, somehow, you canât take another step. As if a puppet on a string, you feel compelled to return to your original spot in front of the Ripperâs cell. âYou have Lecter on a leash, donât you?â But youâre the one on the leash, and he is the one dragging you back. The walk back to the end of the hall feels far too quick.Â
Hannibal is standing close to the glass wall, his gaze flitting across your face. Youâre startled to recognize the fury glittering in his eyes and the rage forcing his posture ever straighter. Despite these glaring abnormalities, Hannibalâs voice is unsettlingly tranquil. âDid Miggs spit on you?âÂ
That must be the prisonerâs name. The last name doesnât ring any bells, and the man remains little more than a shadowy visage in your mind. Seconds later, Hannibalâs expectant gaze forces you to remember his question. As you process just what heâs asking of you, you realize that you really have no choice but to answer truthfully. There is no point in attempting to lie to Hannibalânot only does he detest dishonesty, but he was also a short distance away from where it happened. Heâs only asking out of courtesy. â...Yes.â You eventually murmur.
âHow discourteous.â Hannibal frowns. Thereâs a dangerous gleam in his eyes and it unsettles you. Youâre briefly satiated with the knowledge that Hannibal can do no one harm from his glass confines; yet, at the same time⊠in the back of your mind, you canât help but instinctively fear for impending violence.Â
âIâll survive,â you say, trying to smile and manifest an unbothered attitude. Your effort quickly falls flat when faced with Hannibalâs insistence. âThank you for your concern, Dr. Lecter.â You finish with a small nod.Â
âYouâre attempting to distance yourself from me by referring to me with that honorific,â Hannibal states clinically. His voice is entirely void of emotion nowâinstead laced with a professional frigidity that you havenât heard from him in a long time. His mask briefly cracks, as his expression shifts to one of mild curiosity. âIs it working?â
âNot quite.â You mutter. Hannibal must hear your answer, because his lips tug into a smirk for a moment before it is smoothed over. You pretend not to noticeâsomething youâve been doing rather frequently within this stretch of time that youâve shared with him. âGoodbye.â You remark, turning on your heel to walk away.Â
âI think we both know this isnât goodbye.â Hannibal says in lieu of a farewell. You donât bother to respond to that statement (and, secretly, youâre not sure what you could possibly say to that). But your shoulders stiffen as you depart and his voice follows you down the hall, up the steps, and out into the open night air. Even when youâre back at home under your covers, his remark sits heavily on your eyelids and repeatedly pulls you away from a peaceful sleep.
FOOTNOTES:
1. In The Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost leaves the following note for Christine: âMy dear Christine, you need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself.â Hannibal has absolutely read The Phantom of the Opera enough times to quote it from memory, and that is a hill I will die on.Â
2. Hannibal sends a letter to Clarice in The Silence of the Lambs, where he writes: âOrion is above the horizon now, and near it Jupiter, brighter than it will ever be again before the year 2000. (I have no intention of telling you the time and how high it is.) But I expect you can see it too. Some of our stars are the same.â
In the books, Hannibal sends Will a Christmas card, but I had him send the reader a letter to make it relatable for a general audience (aka nondenominational). I simultaneously do and donât see Hannibal as the type to write a Christmas card. On the one hand, itâs amusing to think about + he absolutely gives off the vibes of someone who writes messages in cursive with a nice pen. On the other hand, a Christmas card isnât always super personal and I felt that a letter is more demonstrative of the depth of the relationship between Hannibal & the reader. Also, speaking of the books⊠Miggs is somehow far crueler and his interaction with Clarice is even more unsettling (if youâve read SotL, Iâm sure you can understand why I altered the scene here).
media i've watched/read recently: texas chainsaw massacre, halloween (michael myers fic pending); phantom of the opera (may make this a recurring section in my endnotes, 'cause it seems fun)
thank you for reading!
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let me in.
peter parker x male reader.
summary: peter struggles to balance between life and work, and it's ruining his relationship with you.
wc: 6.6k.
genre: smut.
warnings: andrew!peter, college au, established relationship, brief fighting, brief injury and blood mention (nosebleed), misunderstandings, peter reveals his identity, dry-humping, over the pants (or suit) handjob, body worshipping, lots of sweat, fingering, frotting, riding, spandex fetish, reader has a thing for peter in his spider-man suit!
You were starting to feel antsy. You could feel itâthe nerves kicking in again. Anticipationâa suspension of doubtâmade your hands clammy at first, but it was the time that made your hands clutch nothing but air. You rubbed the sweat off your hands onto your pants, your knees not so comforting with their pointedness.
Acceptanceâwhen it was evident that Peter was late, again.
Birthdays have never been a big deal in your family. Sure, it was great that you had the privilege to live another year. To witness yourself grow older, to stand a few inches taller, to live a little more knowledgeable than yesterday. But growing up with parents who had to constantly work, well-late into the depths of night, it had never been more than a birthday wish that had greeted you in the mornings, and bid you slumber in the evenings. Since then, you knew not to expect anything.
If only Peter hadnât made such a big deal out of it this year.
âExcuse me?â The familiar timbre of a voice speared your thoughts; deep and tunneling as you were transfixed on the glasses of water before you. Yours had been refilled, though a little sparse compared to Peterâs full cup.
Your eyes widened with feigned curiosity, a small smile plastered alongside to hopefully negate any annoyance from the waiterâbecause you expected what he was about to follow up with.
ïżœïżœïżœHey⊠uh,â he shifted on his feet awkwardly, eye bags weighing heavier than the last time he had checked up on you. You looked around, surprised by the amount of patrons who had filled the space around you while you were daydreaming. Laughter and smiles completely lit up the room. The dim lights were practically stationed in the restaurant for decoration, and seemingly to spotlight your âdinner for oneâ status. âIâm sorry, but⊠we have no more tables to fill, and if you arenât ordering soon, then weâll have to give your table up for the next party...â
It was obvious that you werenât, you hadnât even torn into the buttery bread rolls that were piping hot forty-five minutes ago. Now, the fat had solidified into spotty, yellow clumps, though you doubt that wouldâve been enough to detract from the quality of the rolls.
âOh, Iââ You pulled out your phone to check your messages again. Nothing. Swiped down to refresh your conversation with Peter. The loading icon felt like it took forever, you half-expected that your phone was updating the thread with Peterâs messages that somehow got lost in the void of the restaurantâs spotty signal.Â
And nothing.
âIâyeah⊠uh. I-Iâll head out.â It was embarrassing. Even if the waiter had given you a sympathetic smile, you hated knowing that you wasted his time. You hated that you selfishly occupied a seat when someone else wouldâve been done with dinner by the time you exited.Â
âThanksââÂ
You hated that you had your hopes up for things to be different.
Again.
The night was dreary. Not even the wind had greeted you like the others when you stepped out. Soft and fluttering against your skin, but scolding enough to make you put your coat back on. Luckily, your apartment wasnât too far from the restaurant, a fifteen minute walk at most if you speed-walked. Shoving your hands in your coat pockets, you then ambled along the sidewalks, wallowing in your feelings with a playlist that belted in your ears once you plugged your earbuds in.Â
You didnât have the energy left to hurry home.
Once you crossed the last intersection, you felt a little bit more at ease. Seeing the familiar apartment complex at the end of the block picked your pace up a step more. You paused your music once you neared the entrance, just a turn away before you could finally bury yourself in your bed.Â
You reached into your pocket to grab your wallet. The weight in your palms instantly reminding you to deposit the cash tips sometime soon before the stretch of the leather had become unbearable to fit in your pocket.Â
Your walk slowed as your attention was fixated on your wallet, fumbling it open clumsily to retrieve your keycard. In midst, you caught a glimpse of a photo print of you and Peter, standing shoulder to shoulder with the biggest grins as Peter had a peace sign above your head, doubling as bunny ears. Honeymoon phase, theyâd call it. Where you were beginning to discover more about Peter, and Peter was beginning to discover more about you. Likes. Dislikes. Hobbies. Memories. It felt like yesterday when you two were spending every second of your day with each other.Â
Now, it would be a miracle if Peter returned a call.
With the keycard in your hand, you turned the corner, and towards the entrance, the smiles from the photo print reflecting onto yours as you could vividly hear Peterâs pleas to retake them again. The flash of the cameras always made him blink.
If only you had been focusing on where you were going instead of the still image of the first memory between you and Peter, maybe you could have avoided the collision altogether when you approached the door. You suddenly found yourself on your back, facing the night sky as clusters of stars twinkled in laughter. There was a slight throbbing to your forehead, a mark youâd reckon would appear as purple within the next 12 hours despite the painless⊠pain.
âOh godâ Iâm so, so, so, sorry! Let meââ If the beating your face took to the door hadnât snapped you back to reality already, the familiar face before you certainly pulled you out of your thoughts like whiplash once he helped you back onto your feet. Your vision instantly cleared of haze, as if his simple presence was your remedy.
â(M/N)?â Peter interrupted himself, his eyes widening. You could see the wheels turning in his head when the dim light spotlighted your features: eyes, nose, lips; flesh and bone that he was well-acquainted with.
âPeterââ You took a moment to scan him. It was like all the other times he had been late. His fringe; stuck to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and water, the latter being a last resort to clean himself up. His knuckles; bruised and torn with minuscule cuts barely able to conceal the truth behind his scars. His necktie; clumsily done with the knots coming loose. Though, whether the silk unfurled by Peterâs own sloppiness, or by the increasing frailty of his fingers that had become susceptible by even the most delicate material of neckties; it was futile to mention it to him. You knew heâd shut you down with another excuse.
âW-what are you doing here? Are you okay? I-Iâm so sorryâI was on my way to you andâOh god, youâre bleeding!â Breathless, panting, not only because he was panicking from running late.Â
But because of adrenaline. You could see it in his eyes. The alertness. The high.
âWhatââ You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, only to see a smear of blood blotted across your skin. âShit.âÂ
Another thick drop splattered in greeting.
âPeter, itâs a nosebleed. Youâre acting like I had my arm chopped off or something.â Youâve been applying pressure to your nasal bridge, pinching it tightly to barricade the stream of blood. All while you had your head tilted over Peterâs sink, in case of the blood leaking past your hold. âAnd how long does it take to find a cotton ball?â
âIâm tryingââ His one-sided game of hide and seek with the bag of cotton balls was leaning in favor of the latter. Medicine cabinet: empty. Bedside drawer: foreign coins and bills. You were watching him from the corner of your eye, a small limp to his step when the lightbulb seemingly lit up overhead and had him dashing towards the kitchen.Â
âFound it!â
Peterâs touch was delicate. Tender, like the forming bruise on your forehead. He was adamant on taking care of you, even if franklyâyou wouldâve done it much faster had it been a solo endeavor. Cotton balls were plugged up into your nose, and a warm face towel was laid across your forehead. If an intruder had the audacity to rob Peterâs apartment, youâd imagine you would find yourself lucking out. Peter joked that you looked like patient zero.
âAll done. See? Nothing to cry about.â He was joking again, the smug smile across his face a clear indication of itâand the laugh that he couldnât help but contain.
âHa. Ha. Thanks, Dr. Parker. Now, how much do I owe you? Iâm paying outta pocket.â For a brief moment, you forgot that you were upset earlier. All because of how nice it was to actually see him again. He pressed a kiss to your lips, a comforting gesture if his constant apologies werenât enough. Stay focus.Â
âSo, about dinnerâŠâ
âOh,â Disappointment softened Peterâs smile. You could see it tightening, even as he was organizing his room. Though, it was really a matter of tossing his clothes on the floor back into the laundry basket. âListen, my⊠bike got stolen andââ
âPeterâŠâ You sighed, pinching your nose bridge because you feared another avalanche of a nosebleed incoming. That, and because it helped you maintained your composure. âYou said that the last time. Three times, actually.â
âThird timeâs⊠the charm?â He was joking. Again. But even he wasnât laughing at it because heâd been cornered. Called out. Embarrassed that he thought that would even work on you. Embarrassed that he thought he could get away with it.Â
Again.
âPeter.â You called out, straightening your posture against the headboard of the bed when he sat at the end of the mattress. Shit, itâs happening.
âI⊠I donât know how toâŠâ The veins in his hands, they lined perfectly to the cuts, scrapes, and bruises on his knuckles. Clear as day now that he wasnât hidden under a dim light. âI justâŠâ
He had his hands around his face, rubbing his temples, his cheeks, his nose, anything that could alleviate the accelerating drill of his heartbeat.Â
You were hopeful to get an answer out of him. A proper explanation. But it pained you, knowing that in a few secondsâwhat he would tell you would only confirm your yearning suspicions of his strange behavior.
He doesnât love you anymore.
Heâs cheating.
Youâve become a nuisance, an absolute bore in his life.
Actually, youâre a bad influence on him.
Youâre holding him back.
He needs to let go of you to accomplish better things.
He never loved you.
Itâs happening. Itâs fucking happening. All he has to do is say those words. The dreaded five words youâve heard once from him in a nightmare.
I want to break up.
âIf you want to break up, just say it.âÂ
It sounded softer in your head, but the tears that had welled in your eyes finally bursted into droplets. They ran down your cheeks, and your voice broke during its pursuit.Â
Something commanded you to let those words slip out.Â
Maybe it was the ghost that you and him had been theorizing about since the night youâve helped him move into the apartment floor above you. Carrie; you nicknamed her, and Peter would scold you for doing so because he had the suspicions that giving her a backstory would ultimately reassess his home as a possessing ground. To this day, he swore he saw a shadow looming in the corner of his room on a perfectly stormy night.
Or maybe it was the months of frustration that you had accumulated, snowballed because of your own selfish reasons to continue being with Peter for as long as you could, even if you saw the signs, because you couldnât bear to see yourself without him. Live, when you two had promised so many futures together.
âWhat? No, (M/N), thatâs notââ He jolted up at the mere mention of separating from you. There was a chill. The room suddenly felt colder, and then warmerâscorching hot, when the glossiness of your gaze reflected into his. He began joining you by your side. âHey, hey, I would neverââ
He broke into a cold sweat. Heâd never seen you like this. And to think that he was the root of thisâof your painâit was all overwhelming.
âPeter, thereâs always something going on with you. Y-you donât text me for days. You ignore my calls. You disappear without telling me. Youâre always late. And⊠youâre always hurt? And you think that Iâm dumb enough to not notice that you arenât? How youâre limping? How youâre always bruised andâFor godâs sake, Peter, Iâm just as smart as you, we have the same GPA andââ You took a breather, a gulp because you were rambling now. Your cheeks felt hot, from your sudden outburst and from embarrassment, because the latter half of your rant immediately negated the idea of some kind of affair.
âOkay, maybe you arenât cheating, butââ You felt him tug you into his arms, but you wouldnât budge. Instead, you pushed away, edging to the other side of the bed to face him.
âI would never.â He sighed, his arms dropping as soon as you removed yourself from his embrace.Â
âThen what is it? Youâre leaving me in the dark here. I barely see you anymore, you know that?â
âI know.â He was biting his lips. Chewing, as if he was internally debating something. A decision that could either ruin you, ruin him, or both.
âThen?â
You waited. Watched his fingers fiddle with one another as he continued turning the screws in his head. Your heart would jump whenever he would open his mouth, anticipating whatever had caused so much turmoil in his life, but there was a last minute decision that kept him silent.
Crickets.
Nothing.
âI donât⊠I donât know what youâre doing. But youâre getting hurt and Iâm just⊠worried.â Your gaze dropped to his hands again. Pale, veiny, and full of life yet theyâve looked like theyâve been worn out. Torn. âAt least tell me itâs not gambling.â
âWellâin a way with my life, it kind of is like gamblingââ He thinly smiled, hoping it would at least make you crack a smile.
âPeter!â You scoffed, nudged his side with your elbow out of frustration, then surrendered when you brought your knees up to your chest, and buried your head in between your knees. âNot funny.â
âOkay, okay, just⊠you canât tell anyone.â His voice softened.
âWe all know that between you and I, youâre the one with the running mouth.â Your voice muffled in the space between your legs, hands tucked around your nape.
âIâm serious, (M/N)â Pleading now, he held your hand in hopes to get ahold of your attention again, squeezing so youâd look at him. You do.
âI wonât tell.â It was a promise. Peter didnât need you to clarify because he could see it in your eyes, honest and sincere. Determined, as if you were willing to protect him.
âOkay⊠and also, donât⊠freak out.â Peter was off the bed now, wandering in the middle of his room as he rolled his shoulders back, relaxing the muscles in his back like a wrestler preparing for his next fight. He gestured for you to follow him out to the stairway, out into the cold.Â
âWhy would I freakââ There was something around his wrist. No, wrists. You thought they were watches, but there were two devices around him. They were strapped with a similar black leather to your wallet, to Peterâs, and a red button protruded in the middle of it. âPeter, what are youââ
You stopped a few feet before Peter, watching him closely, yet afar. Afraid, yet intrigued. Concerned, because he was on the ledge of the staircase now, perched like an animal. Yet there was a grin on his face. Not crazed like a madman considering he was acting like one, but foolish. Goofy, giddy like the times heâd hide stuff from you, and wait until youâd notice it was gone.
âLike I said, donât freak out.âÂ
âPeter, what are you evenââ
With that, he opened his arms like wings that spanned across his back and flipped into the air as if the wind would carry him across city to city. As if he was recruited as a sponsor to the heavenly gods with the incredible height heâd taken off in, pursuing the clouds, the wind, the stars, and the night simultaneously all in multiple slings.
Into. The. Air.
Into the fucking air.
You raced forward with a yelp, as if you wouldâve made it in time to catch him. To catch his hand before he fell. To hold him one last time before heâd land on the ground and shatter every bone in his body.
If he had landed.Â
No, you blinked onceâtwiceâno, at least in the double digits because this was all a dream. It was all a dream, right? That you caught a glimpse of Peter somehow slingshotting himself from window to window, from rooftop to satellite, like it was a mundane day job one had to endure to put food on the table, to pay the bills.
Right?
You paced around the stairs, raced towards one floor to another, bending over the railings becauseâPeter disappeared. He was gone. If he had smashed into something, you wouldâve heard him. You wouldâve heard him in yelp in pain. You wouldâve heard the metal railings shake. You wouldâve heard him cry for help.Â
Instead, you heard the sound of wind. Whistling as it sailed leaves to the west of you.Â
As if it carried a hint along the way.
âPeter?! PeterâFuck, fuck!â You followed the sound of the whistle. The source of the pitchy sound. Fluttering when your head spun closer to the note, wavering when you were getting colder, then peaking when your gaze lifted, higher, and higher, until it landed on him.
Peter.
Peter, perched over the rooftop of the apartment complex like a bug. The moonlight framed his silhouette, emphasized the texture of his suit; protruding grids that encased him like a nest; and youâve never been more intimidated.Â
Red and blue spandex tightly-fitted over the muscles and body of the man you have been more than well-acquainted with. Youâve seen it before. It was familiar. On the news, on the papers, on the internet.
âYouâre freaking out!â He yelled out, clearly amused in your frozen state of shock.
He peered over at you with a smug grin, aimed directly at your bafflement before pulling a mask over his head. It was the icing on top in rendering you utterly incapable of stringing up any words. The lens of his mask reflected off of you, mirrored your astonishment in clear display, and you sensed that would be a memory Peter would be carrying to his death bed.
âWhat. The. Fuck.â
âOkay, so, just to clarify,â You were winded, still recovering from the heart attack Peter had nearly given you after he took you on for a stroll in the night. Into the sky.
Luckily his bed was right beside you. As soon as your legs gave out, you fell back into his mattress, and stared into the ceiling, speechless. Peter joined you after, bringing you into his arms. Heâd always been aware that touching you in any way or form brought you back to reality. âYou are⊠not a cosplayer?â
âHonestly? That would make me way more money than what Iâm making right now.â You couldnât keep your hands or eyes off of him. Peter was still in his suit, and that gave you the perfect opportunity to run your hands over the webbed texture of the spandex.
âJust a few more months until my lease is up. I can move in, and thatâll help with the rent. For both of us.â It felt like silicone, or rubber. Whatever it was, it was durable considering how thin it felt in your fingers when you rubbed it in between them.
âJust like that? Youâre not mad?â Your hands came to a halt when Peter suddenly took them, and rested your palm on his cheek, coincidentally on the cut that youâve never noticed.Â
âWhy would I be mad?â Quieter. Your voice mellowed into a whisper as you catalogued the amount of beatings his skin had taken. Caressed the marks you were too selfish to notice. Exhaustion wore on his face, and yet he never looked so peaceful as he gazed into your eyes.Â
Pretty eyes, Peter thought. Ones that could motivate him to get back up after falling. That feels nice, when you pressed a kiss to his damaged skin. A touch that made him believe there was a reason to suffer, to be great, to be all of this.
âWell, for starters, itâs your birthday and⊠I completely blew it.â Peter closed his eyes when you began brushing his hair back, knotted in cold sweats, but you fanned your fingers out to undo them until they felt somewhat tidy in your strokes. Smooth and soft. He sighed, âAgain.â
âCanât entirely blame you. How would I look if I were to complain about missing you, when youâre out there risking your life for everyone?â It wasnât a question, but you wanted him to look at you. To respond. And he does, when you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, and he returned it with a silken one, a following grin. âAll I wish for was that you told me sooner, I guess.â
âYeah,â He figured heâd save the details of the âfriendsâ he had made along the way some other time. For now, it was all about you. âWow, youâre not even going to wish for me to be safe?â
âHey, you know what I mean! Thatâs a given.â You rubbed at his chest, finding yourself quickly accustomed to the scales of his costume. The red was striking against your palms, comforting almost.Â
âStill. I want to hear you say it.â Peter rolled onto his side and slipped an arm under your back, scooting closer to you. His signature goofy grin never failed to knock a similar one out of you. And unwillingly drawn out, when he began pinching at your sides in quick snips.
âStopââ You laughed, your hands occupying themselves to defend your body from his quick attacks. But Peter was fast, avoiding your arms and hands to find another opening that youâd abandon. âStop, stop! Stay safe! Happy?!â
Closer and closer, you found yourself beneath him, framed by his body as he took your arms above your head and pinned them secured with his tight grasps.âIncredibly.â
Your legs spread open to make room for his body, only for Peter to wrap them around his waist, to press his body into you, kissing you like he was driven to steal your breath.
âThis your way of making it up to me?â You broke apart from the kiss, only briefly, before the taste of Peter, the softness of his lips reeled you back in for another kiss. Languidly paced until oneâs accelerating lust for one another had taken ahold of the wheel and shifted gears, into a weightiness that kept your mouth parted open while Peterâs impulse to explore you had become evidently clear.
âProblem with that?â Heâd been driving his hips into you, grinding his front with your own. Both clothed, infuriatingly covered, but the pressure in between your bulge and Peterâs was too pleasing to ignore. Too satisfying to make him stop. âI should take this offââ
âNo, waitââ You grabbed his forearm when he reached back to unzip his suit. To be honest, you never thought about how he even got in or out of the suit in the first place, but that was beside the point. Something about this suit, this costume, whatever you wanted to call it; it was a turn-on.Â
The way it fit snug against Peterâs body; how every fiber of muscle was stretching the material to its limit. Maybe you were just turned on because you associated it with him being a hero. For godâs sake, that was as much of an aphrodisiac one could be if you happened to be saved from a falling tower.Â
Or maybe, it was simply how Peter looked in it. Unabashedly handsome, yet himself, seemingly courting you further into his webs, as if he hadnât already from day one.
âKeep it on. I like it.â You muttered, fiddling with the collar of his suit. It was snapped on tight, but you managed to slip a finger or two past, to pull at it with a stretch.
âThen how are we going toâŠâ He abandoned the few inches he had unzipped, providing a small relief to the squeeze around his body while his broad back was bare and tense towards the ceiling.Â
âThen, youâll take it off. But for now, I just want toâŠâ One hand was on his nape, pulling him down for another heated kiss, while the other traveled south between your body and his. Further, lower, until you cupped him at his crotch. Rubbing, squeezing, and palming at the thick, growing center. âWant to try somethingâŠâ
You could feel him smiling, a crooked one flattened against your own grin when he whispered, âI shouldâve told you sooner, shouldnât I.â
âYou think?â
You were getting harder, your pants beginning to tighten around the center as you palmed him. It was a heavy handful in the beginning, but Peterâs bulge began to unfurl. It didnât take long, didnât take much of a stroke for him to unravel from his tuck and thicken into a full-blown erection towards the left side of his thigh. It pointed downwards, the plump head evident through his suit, and you were beginning to drool in Peterâs mouth at the haziest image of it.
âCome on, I need to get out of this⊠Itâs killing me.â It wasnât like Peter to beg. It was charming, cute, sexy, all the synonyms that could describe how you felt all day and every day about him, and you squeezed, because he wasnât being patient with you.
âBirthday boy gets what he wants, donât you think?â He winched into your mouth, and you swallowed him. Swallowed every ounce of breath, and breathed it back out with a kiss. Sloppy, heavy, your tongue weighing on his because you wanted to keep his lips apart, mouth open to hear his moans.
Peter grunted again once you began stroking his cock, touching him like it was a delicate plate of chin. Fingertips only, dusting him off with little pressure so he wouldnât shatter.
âWhat are you going to do about it, hm?â You continued your short, limp strokes. âJust going to take it? Hm?â Your wrist was weak, lazy as it became limp to tease him even more. Peter sucked in a breath, doing his best to maintain his composure, but it was all futile, all those attempts of sucking in his lip to chew, to hold back his moans, because youâd slap his clothed cock, grasp it tight in your hand, and massage as much as you could gather.
âFuck, babyââ You had him under your control. Even if his hands were free, you knew he wouldnât lay a finger on you. He knew that if he did, youâd stop touching him, stop stimulating the blood running down every vein of his cock, fueling his erection. His desires.Â
He couldnât let that happen. Not after the day, the week, the months that heâd been having.Â
You and Peter eventually switched places: Peter resting on his back while you sat in between his legs, marveling at the stretch of his suit. Somehow, his cock looked bigger than youâd remember. Squished and pressed flush against his thigh like this. The suit was like a magnet, inviting your hand back to his cock and refusing to let you go.
âJust relax.â You commanded him. He was watching you slouched up against the headboard, gravity weighing his eyelids lower. With his legs spread apart, he provided you excess space as you began massaging his right thigh with your free hand. âIs this okay?â
âMm-hm...â He knew you were talking about the pressure on his thigh, but the strokes over his cock remained supreme in his mind. Championed through as you pressed harder into the shaft, massaging tenderly from vein to vein. The protruding webbed texture of his suit pressed into him, rolled against cock like the inside of a fleshlight, ultimately adding onto the already gratifying pleasure.Â
It was glorious.
âMoreâŠâ Peter gritted through his teeth, a selfish need for more escaping from his lips in huffs. Grunts, when youâd fulfill his wish with two hands now, kneading his cock like dough.Â
Thick, stiff, throbbing dough.
Before the complaints could come pouring in, you shimmied your pants off in a hurry, tossing it in the corner before greedily climbing onto Peterâs lap. It was like he read your mind, perhaps another secret that heâd been hiding, because he immediately took you into his arms. An embrace, a tight one that grounded you against his bulge, pressing your body weight until it restricted the blood flowing into his erection, as well as preventing an escape.
âYouâre so hardâŠâ You marveled at how rigid heâd gotten under you, grinding your ass against the large mass, beating and throbbing with every rut.
âIâm so hard.â He confirmed, complained, and bragged all in one smile. He then took you by the nape to kiss you again. Hard on the mouth, slow with his tongue to taste you and your desires, his desires. His other hand rested on the small of your back, guiding your grinds at first before his fingers looped into your waistband, tugging once before stuffing the strap under your ass cheeks. Your hard-on was the only thing keeping the cotton material from slipping off while you continued grating your hips. âJust like thatâŠâ
To make it easier for you, Peter repositioned his erection so it was facing north, towards his navel, in its sublime mass. Your briefs had been tossed to the side now, completely bare bottomed against him while you mounted over him, and rode in needy strides. It was a sight to behold, something that Peter reckoned he should savor. He folded his arms behind his head, providing a self-made cushion for the weight of it, and watched you. It was entrancing, like a dance. You swiveled your hips to a ghosting rhythm, one that could only be heard between two hearts, two parties, between the two of you, man to man.
âLike thisâŠ?â Breathless, you unbuttoned your shirt open, but left it present on your body. Sweat formed over your neck, dribbled down to your bare and exposed chest; it was practically an open-invitation for Peter to ravish you. And so he did, with a haunting groan as he held you, contained you in the warmth of his arms as he simultaneously pulled you forward, and pushed himself off the headboard to meet you in the middle.
He kissed you on the neck, achingly hard when he sucked, and then enthralling, sweat-inducing when he bit into your skin. He couldnât contain himself. You tasted too good, and itâd been too long since he had you just like this. âJust like that. Your cock against my cock, fuck. I love it so fucking much.â He muttered hot against your neck, panting because he was sweating too. The spandex felt tighter on his skin, constricting against him with every drop of sweat.
âOh, fuckâŠâ His lips had latched onto your nipples now. Peterâs tongue worked magic on your two nubs, flicking and swirling over their perkiness until you felt swollen. Raw, when he bit, pulled, bit, and bit again. You buried your face into his hair, rocking yourself back and forth with your arms holding him close to your chest, gliding your cock against his print as if a gun was pointed to your head, like your life depended on making Peter come.
You were delirious, humping Peter without a single thought other than to get him off, and youâd reckon that was the goal lingering in Peterâs head as he began rocking back into you. It took a while for him to find your rhythm, chasing after it in slower, sluggish beats, but eventually he caught up to you, snapping his hips against your own, grinding his cock against yours like two crescent moons caressing the otherâs curvature.
âCloseâŠâ He muttered into your shoulder. Your shirt was hanging off, exposing more of your skin, but Peter made sure you didnât feel a single chill with the marks he had followed up with soon after. It was like he had done it on purpose. Made you feel safe in his arms, comfortable in the warmth of his body, worshiped with the amount of care he had given your body. Frozen, when you felt something prod at your pucker. Then enraptured, when Peter pushed a wet finger inside of you.Â
Tremors, chilling tremors ran down your spine as you took the single digit Inside of you with one determined push. âFuckââ Your back arched, chest pushed forward towards him, and your hips jolted forward in one strong, and delicious swipe against Peterâs cock. âPeterâŠâ
It was a mouthwatering display of food before him. The perky nubs on your chest, the veins in your neck, the mole on your body, the strain of your thighs on overdrive, the swollen head of your cock; Peter didnât know what to lay his finger on first, what to mouth on, what to kiss, and suck, and latch onto until youâd scream. Whichever it was, he knew you were desperate for him. Begging, sweating, whimpering, for Peter to lay a finger on you. Another finger inside of you now, and you rolled your eyes at the stretch he was providing you with, a fulfilling wish that startled your hips once more.
âYouâre so good, so good for meâŠâ Peter was staring up at you, marveling at the layer of sweat on your body. It glistened with every movement, dripped heavily with every thrust of Peterâs fingers, and tasted just like how he remembered. Salty when he licked up your neck, up your chest, against your nipples, and repeated. Your body was his, and Peter was determined to let the world know. Determined to remind you in case that youâd forgotten.
Your hands were wandering. Grabbing and touching at anything and everything that could linger in between your fingers. Peterâs hair, his head, shoulders, chest, your cock and his, his back. Everything. You couldnât keep your hands off of him. Even if he was covered from head to toe, you were touching him. Because he was yours.
âGonna comeââ You cupped Peterâs jaw to straighten his posture, to kiss him sloppily on the mouth, and he pulled his fingers out of you, resting them on either side of your hips as he joined you once again in grinding hips. The pleasure was overbearing, drilling into each individual brain until the smallest movement would render you both speechless. Panting in slurred moans of each otherâs names, of profanities that you two had rarely used in your lifetime on earth.
âMe tooâŠâ Peter pushed himself on top of you now. Your arms were tied around his neck, tighter than the necktie he had on prior, and your legs; they wrapped around his waist equally secured, if not even tighter, as he thrusted against you.Â
You were too distracted, unable to respond to Peterâs constant licks in your mouth. He was desperate for you, suckling on your tongue and chasing after it once it slipped out because of your moans. They were rattling, each breath immediately vaulted in the back of Peterâs throat because he couldnât part from you. Couldnât imagine a life where he would. And if he had to, at least heâd have a part of you inside of him. Even if it was a whisper.Â
He thrusted harder, panting into your mouth, his nose practically smushed flat against yours. He wondered if you could imagine that life, a life without him.
âP-PeteâShit, Iâmââ Your fingers dug into his nape, grounding him impossibly closer to you when that feeling had suddenly come to stun you in place.Â
It simmered hard in your stomach, then to a rolling boil as it traveled lower to your pelvis. You squeezed your stomach, clenched your toes, and your eyes widened when Peterâs hips showed no signs of faltering. Your cock swelled and your balls jolted, tightened, until you finally saw stars bursting into flames and let gravity have it come crashing down on you. Shivers had you enclose your arms around Peter, holding onto him tight as you felt yourself crumble and spill all over your chest and his suit. You came with a gritted grunt of his name, sinking your nails into his nape because you had nowhere else to channel your spasms as Peter kept rocking against you, drunkenly astonished by how you came for him. By how much you needed him.
It didnât take long before Peter came right after. He buried his head into your neck, stifling moans into the heat of your neck, clammy with sweat, yet comforting as he filled the inside of his suit with thick, large loads. You felt his cock throb against you when you reached down to help, to ride out his orgasm to the fullest. His cock pulsed as youâd imagine several thick pumps of his load would gush out and uncomfortably layer his navel. If only his suit hadnât been waterproof, because there was no doubt that he wouldâve been leaking out of it by now.
Youâve never been so jealous of spandex.
He was hot in your ear, panting, breathing you in, then breathing you out as you slowed the strokes on his softening cock. Then a sudden inhale, a jolt of his body, when you squeezed hard, to seal the deal in covering the entirety of his cock in his own cum. It was filthy. It was shameless. It was Peter.
âDriving me crazy hereâŠâ Peter sluggishly lifted himself off of you to face you, a sleepy smile plastered across his face as you kept kneading at his cock, increasingly sensitive with every second.
âNot enough to drive you away, right?â You smiled, drowsy yourself as you quickly found your high coming to a crash. Though, you mustered enough strength to hold Peterâs cheek in your palm, tenderly caressing, to which he immediately kissed as soon as it reintroduced itself.Â
Peter sighed, holding your gaze for what felt like minutes, and yet you wished it could be for longer.Â
It was different this time, the way he looked at you. The same amount of love and warmth, yes. But they no longer wavered, no longer tried to find something else to look at in case you were prying about.Â
âNever.âÂ
Instead, they stilled, relaxed the longer you stared into him, into those brown eyes of his, because you were in now.Â
You were finally in his life.
How much you needed him?Â
His question had been answered.
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
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Lesson one
Pairing: Astarion x GN!reader.
Genre: fluff.
Warning: Mention of Cazador- and that itself it's a warning. Insecurities.
Synopsis: Astarion needs a reminder that you don't want anything back.
WC: 1.2k
AN: You can thank my delulu brain at night for this one, i simply dreamt of it a few weeks ago, n just found the guts to post it.
Taglist: @sessils @spacebarbarianweird / Masterpost / Kofi / Patreon
His lips lingered on your neck, hovering over the punctures as his hands still cradled you to him.
He let out a pleased hum before he kissed the mark, quickly stealing the stray droplets of blood with his lips.
You noticed right away how his body stiffened once he had laid you down. His hand cupped your cheek as you were quickly pulled to his lips. Despite his clear discomfort he pushed himself on top of you, his hips pressing against yours as you gently pushed him away.
âAstarion, stopâ You murmured as he stared at you, his eyes full of confusion and something you couldn't quite grasp, but lacking the usual light they kept. His hands were holding the hem of his blouse, ready to be tossed away. He was doing it again.
âDid I do something wrong?â He asked with furrowed brows, as he let go of the cloth.
âYes, what are you doing?â You asked softly as you sat up, gently moving him with you until he was on his knees next to you.
âI'm clearly repaying you for your kindnessâ He smiled coy as he crawled few steps closer, one of his fangs peaking our from his lips while his dark eyes tried so hard to paint a different picture from his body. The confidence of his movements was shadowed by the uncertainty pooled in the crimson of his eyes.
You placed a hand on his cheek, softly grazing over his peachy skin. âAstarion, this is not a transactionâ You shook your head as you admonished him kindly, your hand lingering on his cheek, focusing on the tense lines of his face, that begged to be eased.
âWhat do you mean?â He asked, confusion written all over his face, either for your physical response or your logic. Regardless it was foreign to him, everything was a give and take and he had just been given sustenance, it was logical he had to repay you.
âYou don't need to repay me for anythingâ You leaned forward, kissing his cheek. âI'm doing it because I want to do itâ You explained, not missing on his confusion.
He hesitated, it was too good to be true. There was something he HAD to give back, either with his blood or his body. Cazador had demanded always something. âI don't believe you, everyone always wants something back.â He crosses his arms and sat back. âNo one is kind for freeâ In a way his harshness was like a slap to you, implying you wanted something back was by far unlike you, but then you remembered. You remembered what it when through and you understood if only briefly and theoretically.
âI never wanted anything back, Astarion.â You explained as he evaluated your words, you just gave him time to let them sink in, all the times he had bedded you, they were not because he had to do it, or because you expected him to fuck you as a payment, but because you wanted to.
âSo what am I supposed to do, just get up and leave?â He raised an eyebrow skeptic, despite understanding he still was not completely sold on the idea of taking without giving up something.
âIf that's what you want yesâ It was astonishing to him how you didnât hesitate, as if this was the norm, even though Astarion knew. He knew how the world spun and if there was something about it that he grasped effortlessly, was that nothing was free and no one was so selfless. Yet he wanted to believe you, even if just for a second.
âI-â He hesitated. He swore that if he still was alive, his chest would be thumping like crazy in that moment. âWant to give you something backâ He lowered his eyes with a sigh. âI don't have much to offer besides sex thoughâ He explained, a wave of nausea hitting him harshly. The mere thought was gagging him as he couldn't help but revive one of the countless nights he was forced to bed someone to survive. How he was devaluated to a simple piece of meat, and yet you saw him as much more than just his cock.
âOne: you are much more than sexâ You raised one finger up, admonishingly. âTwo: if you truly want to do something, then come and lay next to meâ Your voice softened, just like your body as you offered a soft smile and patted the softness of your bedroll eagerly.
âWhat?â It was Astarion only reply.
âCome and lay with me, here, under the duvet, in my armsâ You spelled out almost purring like a cat at the idea of cuddles. True that Astarion had cold skin, but it wasn't any less enjoyable, and that seemed like enough of a repayment for you.
âYou are kidding right? You want to cuddleâ He chuckled holding his stomach, half in disbelief as the previous uncertainty dissolved to give space at the new emotion.
âYesâ You nodded. âI want to hold you and care for youâ You scooted to the side and opened your arms for him.
âHow's that my way of reciprocating the favour?â He raised an eyebrow, how could something so mere even compare to giving up your blood to feed a vampire.
âYou are allowing me to love youâ You said simply, urging him to join you with a hand gesture.
âLove?â He asked taken aback.
âThe point isâ You ignored his question casually. âIâm not giving you blood for sex, I'm doing it cause I know you need itâ You gestured for him to come closer again. âand I don't want anything backâ You closed your eyes and breathed out. âas a matter of fact, if you don't wanna cuddle you just have to say it and you can leaveâ
âNo, noâ He sat up, rejecting the idea of leaving, deep down he enjoyed your company even though most of the times it seemed as if he had to put a mask on, but you knew why it was like that, didnât you? âDon't get me wrong, I'm confused, but I don't even know how to do it.. what it feels likeâ He admitted as he ran a hand through his hair.
âThen come hereâ. You simply said as you lifted the blanket to your legs and invited him in the warmth. âAnd let me show you, small spoon or big spoon?â You asked casually as he climbed next to you, unsure how to position himself as you draped him with the blanket as well.
âWhy does it even matter? I usually prefer using a bigger spoon if I have to pick, though Iâm a vampire, why would it matter how I eat soup?â He rolled his eyes as he tried his best to ignore the blush that surfaced on his cheeks once you wrapped your arms around him and dragged him to lay. You couldnât help the giggle at his sudden naivety as you guided his head on your chest as if to invite him to wrap closer with you.
âThis is..â Astarion thought for a moment as he allowed you to handle him while your warmth enveloped him. â..niceâ He hums as he snuggled closer and closed his eyes.
âIâm gladâ You murmured before placing a kiss to his temple and tangling your legs together, he didnât resist to it, he simply molded with you as you rested together.
The weight of the day slowly sunk on the two of you, and lulled by the cicadas, you were asleep before you could say anything else.
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