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thefoldedbird · 3 years

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Wolf x Reader (S6)

This was starting to become truly frustrating. You dared another glance over your shoulder. Yup. They were still padding along after you. It wasn’t often you were in the presence of other yautja, even less aboard the mothership. Apparently your mere presence was enough to invite curious onlookers.

Your yautja wasn’t great so you were only able to make out bits and pieces of conversation as you passed.

‘who let an ooman onboard?’

‘do you know who they belong to?’

The questions bothered you, sure. It wasn’t like you could do anything about it. Here you were a novelty at best. You let the broken queries roll off your back as best you could and continued your solo trek across the launch deck.

Just a ways away from you stood the tall elite you were here with. He paid no mind to his busied surroundings, preferring to keep his gaze roaming the maps he’d been handed. Not that anyone would bother him given his status.

You came up beside him but kept the distance strictly platonic. He greeted you with a nod as you pressed the data disc he’d had you retrieve from the ship into his palm.

He uttered a word of thanks before waving you away. A pang of frustration hit your heart at the impersonal display, but you had a role to fill. You both did.

“I-.”

“Wait outside for me. I will join you when I am done.”

You grit your teeth and felt the edge of your mouth twitch at the dismissal.

“As you wish.” You replied, unable to completely mash your curtness.

Before he could decide to rebuke you for your “tone” you’d made your way out of the enclave. Out of sight but not out of earshot. Idly you wished you had more to busy your hands with than your fingers.

The launch area was busier than you’d anticipated. Engineers fussed around ships and made minor repairs, several yautja with long grey tresses dressed in fine cloth and beads strolled passed in heated discussion, while others adorned in armor made of exotic metals pushed their way through the crowds; likely exhausted from battles well won.

You idly wondered if you’d get along with the engineers over a shared passion of science but they’d be more likely to laugh in your face. Yautja were prideful and dutiful to a fault. It was more likely you’d be poked fun of for your comparatively basic knowledge or be branded a nosy prick digging for secrets to share.

You were only human after all, not one of theirs.

You broke from your trance as a gruff voice spoke your name. With a sigh you peeled yourself from the wall and fell into step beside your yautja companion. While he wasn’t much of a wordsmith in his day-to-day, the level of silence you were getting from him was starting to feel a bit unnerving. You wisely decided not to comment until you’d crossed the threshold of his bedchambers.

“Holy shit, Wolf.” You couldn’t help but balk.

His quarters here were more lavish than his own ship. You couldn’t wait to explore. You managed a backwards glance just in time to catch the tail end of his pleased look.

“I am glad you find my quarters amendable.”

“Amendable is an understatement.”

You gently took hold of his arm, tracing the patterns of the muscles underneath. A low brr thrummed in his chest, questioning you.

“It’s a bit difficult acting as something I’m not around you.” You sighed.

“We have a part to play-.”

“Don’t give me the speech again.” You grumbled and pulled your hand away to fold back against your chest. “I’m fully aware of the circumstances.”

“Then why are you complaining?”

“I would hardly call this a complaint.”

“It is only for a short time.” He shrugged one shoulder out of its pauldron and dropped it on a table nearby with a dull thud. “You will survive.”

You dug your fingers into your arms as you tried not to let his dismissiveness bother you. “I wasn’t questioning my chances of survival,” you retorted coolly, “it’s simply odd to see you so cold.”

“It is what is necessary for now. There is no reason to change this arrangement while we are on the mothership.”

Despite knowing he was right your heart still flipped in your chest with an unhappy pulse. As if he could sense such a small thing he was promptly in front of you with only a few quick strides.

“Regardless of your hesitation, you did well earlier in the launch bay.” He took hold of your shoulders, sliding his hands down them slowly to take hold on your own. You shivered under his touch.

You allowed your head to fall against his chest and listened to the steadiness of his heartbeat. His chest filled with a low purr as you grasped his hips in your fingers. You rubbed circles over his skin with your thumb, unsure of what to say.

Sensing your hesitation he finally sighed and gently tilted your head up by your chin. His gaze met yours and his mandibles flexed thoughtfully.

“If it is any consolation, I do not necessarily enjoy having you play the part of my pet. It is insulting to the both of us and I am not unaware that it upsets you.” He took your cheek in his hand and traced your jaw. “Unfortunately, a human pet is a concept the clan ship’s captain finds more palatable than a human mate. But make no mistake-.” His grip tightened and his gaze hardened, “despite having a part to play I will defend you and us as necessary. Your health and safety is ultimately more important to me than the captain’s opinions.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest and you could feel your cheeks grow pink. Such declarations were extremely uncommon from him. He must have cottoned onto your discomfort more than you gave him credit for.

With a soft smile you stood up on your toes and pressed a kiss to the ridge of his brow. “You never cease to surprise me, honey bun.”

He clicked at you, playfully pinching your cheek. “Don’t call me that.”

#long post #wolf x reader #avp #alien vs predator #predator #yautja #my writing #requiem #slasher #slasher x reader #yautja imagines #over 1000 words #look at me go #haha #this is my favorite one so far

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demisexualgeralt · 3 years

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A gift for @jaskierbatey for @thewitchersecretsanta. I tried to fit as much of your wish list in as I could. Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy!!!

Geralt walked into the saloon and let the giant centipede’s mandible thud loudly on the floor. The chatter in the room stopped, except for the soft sounds of banjo strings, which belonged to a young man who either had a death wish or simply couldn’t take a hint. Regardless, the saloon owner rushed over to inspect Geralt’s offering.

“There were three of them,” Geralt grunted. “Your land should be fine now. No more disappearances.”

“And...the missing?”

“Their bodies are there. You can do with them what you wish. Though I wouldn’t send those with a weak stomach. Sorry.”

The man nodded solemnly and pulled a coin purse from his side. Geralt took it from him and counted out the coins carefully, ensuring the amount was all they’d agreed on. When he determined it was satisfactory, he nodded and turned on his heel. The sooner he could find an inn and get centipede guts off of him, the better.

The next day, he woke early and prepared to get back on the road. A witcher’s life was certainly not a sedentary one, and with so many people traveling West and fucking up the natural wildlife, it had become unusually lucrative. People were desperate and while Geralt didn’t normally like to capitalize on those too down on their luck, he was happy to take the coin of those whose own greed led them to do stupid things like building a town next to the burrowing grounds of a bunch of giant centipedes.

He finished getting Roach ready and was leading her out of the stable when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He tensed and turned, wanting to see what unfortunate soul decided to try and rob a witcher.

“Oh! That...is a big sword. I’d ask if you were happy to see me, but, ah, you don’t seem the type to buy into that kind of humor.”

“Hmm.”

“Who am I, I hear you asking! My name is Jaskier and-”

“Don’t care. Fuck off.”

He started to walk away, but heard determined footsteps behind. “You should care. I feel if we put our talents together, we could both come away very rich.”

“Not interested.”

“You seemed very interested in that coin purse earlier.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and turned to face the man. “What I’m interested in is getting paid to do my job. Not whatever hare brained scheme you’ve cooked up. I kill monsters. I get coin. There’s nothing you can do to help with that.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, witcher. See, I have acquired a good deal of stories in my time, and witchers are full of stories. But people don’t like witchers, do they?”

“If this is what being liked gets me, I’ll take my chances.”

Undaunted, the man continued. “I could help you! Spread word of your tales, sing your praises. Increase your coin. You think you got a good deal from that saloon owner? There’s dozens out there like him, just as stupid, who would pay double that for the same job, if only they had a little nudge from yours truly.”

Geralt scoffed. “You’re how old? What would you know about people?”

“Quite a lot, thank you very much! And I’m 19. But I listen. People aren’t that difficult to read when you learn how to listen.”

“And you do?” Geralt asked, leaning against the side of the stall.

“I have to. It’s part of the trade.”

“Hmm.” Geralt eyed him, taking in this strange man in front of him. Eventually, he turned back to Roach. “Fine. Come along. It’s your funeral.”

Months passed and somehow, it was not Jaskier’s funeral. Geralt assumed he would get tired of walking, of not having a warm bed at night, of only having Geralt for company, but some stubbornness must have edged out his discomfort. And Geralt knew he was uncomfortable- he complained constantly, but each night, he settled around the campfire, playing softly while rabbit or squirrel cooked over the fire and listened while Geralt told his stories in halting, sporadic thoughts.

He hated to admit it, but it was nice, having someone to share the road with. Most of the time.

Whenever they traveled into town, however, he was reminded of what an absolute pain Jaskier could be. All he wanted was a drink before heading back to the inn they were staying at and preparing for the next day’s hunt. Instead, he was treated to the sight of Jaskier making himself at home next to a group of women close to the bar. It shouldn’t bother him. It didn’t bother him. It was Jaskier’s job to ingratiate himself to whoever came along, charm them. Jaskier told him time and time again that what he had with those people was never personal, strictly business.

It was easier, then, to understand that what he and Jaskier had was also strictly business. It shouldn’t bother him. And yet, every time he saw Jaskier spend the night with another, only to return triumphant with an expensive trinket or swiped bundle of coins, he felt an ache deep in his bones.

It hurt, to be just another transaction. A means to an end. He might not pay Jaskier, or afford him any trinkets to sell or hoard, but he provided shelter, food, companionship between beds. That was all he would ever be.

He made his way over to the bar, grunting his assent when the barkeep offered him a drink. As she handed it to him, she leaned her elbow on the counter and looked at him.

“Drowning your sorrows over something in particular, witcher?”

“I’m drinking alone.”

She snorted and he glowered. Not many humans were willing to provoke him (except Jaskier), but she had clearly seen enough rough folk to not be cowed by him. “I can see that.”

“Hmm,” he intoned, hoping she would take the hint and end the conversation there. Unperturbed though, she pressed on.

“Seems you don’t have to. That one keeps glancing at you.” She inclined her head slightly and he could see that she was referring to Jaskier. He rolled his eyes.

“He’s a friend.”

“Just a friend?”

“Mmm.”

She nodded slowly. “See, I’d believe that. But I’ve tried to make enough men jealous myself to know the look.”

“Hmm.”

She clicked her tongue. “Not the chatty type. I get it. But think about what I said.” She turned back to other patrons and left Geralt to ruminate on what she’d said.

Eventually, the night wore on and he decided it was time to take his leave, before the truly unruly patrons started to act up. He glanced back at Jaskier, who gave him a smile before turning back to his latest conquests. Satisfied that he would be fine until morning, he headed back to the inn to try and get some rest.

He did not, in fact, get the sleep he was looking for, but instead sat and restlessly tried to avoid thinking about the barkeep’s words. There was no reason for Jaskier to try and make him jealous. If he wanted Geralt, he had plenty of opportunities when they were alone to make a move. He wasn’t shy about going after what he wanted. Geralt thought himself in circles, but they all led to the same conclusion.

Sometime before the sun rose, he heard Jaskier fumble in. “Geralt? Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he grumbled, despite not actually being asleep.

“Good, good. Do you want to see what I got?”

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

He sat heavily at the edge of Geralt’s bed, shoving his feet aside to make room. He smacked Geralt’s leg until he looked at him, practically punching him in his fervor to show Geralt the ring on his finger.

“Are congratulations in order?”

“No, you ass. But it is pretty, isn’t it?” Jaskier looked down to admire it. It was simple, adorned with a modestly sized opal.

Geralt sighed. “Stealing people’s weddings rings seems like a new low, even for you.”

Jaskier scoffed. “I didn’t steal them! I can’t help it that people like to give me nice things. Besides, if you’re mean to me, I won’t give you your present. Close your eyes.”

Geralt did so against his best judgement and felt as Jaskier put something small in his hand.

“Okay. Open.”

He opened his eyes and found a small gold band in the center of his palm.

Jaskier’s eyes shone. “Just think. If we wear them and act like we just got married, they might give us a free room! Or...a room upgrade at least. It’s great, right?”

Geralt swallowed.

“Or…” Jaskier backtracked. “We could melt it down? I’m sure we’d get money for the gold?”

“Fine. Whatever you want to do.”

“Geralt? Did I...offend you?” He bit his lip. “Look, I know you would never actually marry me. This is just...a con. But, if even the thought of it offends you, I’ll...I won’t bring it up again.”

“It’s fine.”

Jaskier tapped nervously on his thighs. “Geralt, please. I don’t want this to get in the way of our friendship. If you want me to go…”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. Well, that’s a relief. Then why won’t you look at me?”

Geralt sighed. He wasn’t like Jaskier, couldn’t say what he wanted to say and make it all fit together somehow. His words were stilted, difficult.

“I don’t want to pretend.”

“I already told you, Geralt, we don’t have to do that if you don’t-”

Geralt moved forward to kiss Jaskier, who just let out a surprised ‘oh’ against his mouth. He didn’t pull away though, relaxing into Geralt’s touch. After a moment, he pulled away, looking for something he couldn’t name in Jaskier’s eyes. Acceptance? Joy?

“That...yeah. We can...you want to? With me?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the wordsmith?”

Jaskier glowered at him. “The man I’ve been hopelessly in love with for months just kissed me. Forgive me for not recovering immediately.”

“You- months?”

“You didn’t know? Geralt, I’ve been making moves for months? You really didn’t notice?”

“...no.”

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “Well. Then let me make myself abundantly clear. I like you. I would like to do this and other things with you in the future. If you would like.”

“I would...like. That.”

“Perfect,” Jaskier said, leaning in to capture Geralt’s lips again.

After a while, Jaskier lay on Geralt’s chest, and Geralt felt the first threads of sleep calling him. Before he could though, he heard Jaskier speak up again.

“So, does this mean that we can do the marriage con?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“Fiiiiiiine.”

#the witcher #geraskier #the witcher secret santa #jaskierbatey

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ten-thousand-paper-wasps · 4 years

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It wasn't the sex, not exactly. Sex for Nells was entirely casual, it hardly meant anything, harmless fun. It was easy.

Morrin wasn't easy, in any sense of the word. She was caustic, irritable and derisive and she made sure he knew exactly how much he displeased her.

He loved her, the way one might love a particularly ruinous cat, or an especially difficult grandmother. She was his darling, furious counterpart.

She carried him home in her arms. He trusted her with his back in a fight, with his life. There were no secrets he would hide from her.

But evidently, the feeling wasn't mutual.

"Make it good for me, pet," she commanded, like a god to its acolytes.

And Nells, in her thrall, fell to worship.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

On the third day, he came awake to the sound of muffled sobbing. Zakurr loomed over him, eyes screwed shut, kneeling in a desperate prayer. Falk sat at his side, their hand on Nells' heart and eyes glowing with power.

The crying had to be Morrin, then.

He reached for their hands. He was okay. He was home.

He was also exceptionally tender, which was absolutely not improved by being crushed by an anxious orc and his massive, beautiful biceps. Oh, how he's missed Zakurr.

When Falk ends the spell and their eyes return to normal, Nells sits up. "Where's Morrin?"

"She went to bed," Falk tells him. "Been a long couple of days, needed some time to herself. You know how she gets."

"Was up all night again, too," Zakurr added. "She's been in a right state since she brought you back."

Falk shoots a glare at Zakurr. "She just needs space," they said. "Nothing wrong with a girl taking time to sort her feelings. Was both of you covered in blood when you got in, of course she's been worried."

"But so have we, dearest," Zakurr rumbles. Worried for both of you, we were. I thought...Nells, I thought I was going to lose you. You wouldn't wake up."

"I'm okay, really," he reassures them. "What about--"

"She told us what happened. It's far from my place to say, mind, but I suspect she's feeling a bit conflicted."

Falk glares at Zakurr again, and Nells resolves to talk to Morrin immediately.

His stomach gurgles. Immediately after breakfast.

"I made soup," says his beautiful, magnificent orc. Nells thinks, for the thirtieth time in a week, that he's in love.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Once they're on the road again, Nells asks her. "Morrin, can we talk?"

"I don't especially want to talk with you, Nells, pleased though I am that you're alive."

"See, I weren't really asking, dearest, I do very much need to speak with you." Owlsby chose that moment to skitter up his body to perch on his shoulder, clicking his mandibles together.

"Seems to be a theme for you," she spits, "asking without asking."

He's taken aback by the accusation behind the words. He'd asked her, absolutely. Made damn sure of it, he had. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, don't beg, my pretty pet, not when your mouth can be better put to use. You can call it a duty, if you like."

Falk, just ahead, whipped around. "Morrin, that was uncalled for."

"Perhaps we can all discuss this more constructively?" Zakurr suggested. "If we’re to be together for as long as we will, I'd like no resentment among us."

"Morrin?" he tries again, "Did I dishonor you?" He almost fears the answer.

"It was a duty," she eventually says. "When you have a duty, there is no want or fear, only that it must be done."

"Morrin," he whispers, horrified, "have I sinned against you?"

"It was a duty," she repeats. "I would have done it regardless. It matters not if one wants it, one simply does it."

"I'm not asking about your thrice-damned duty, you stubborn, half-spent candlestick, I'm asking--"

"You did me no dishonor, Nells, but by the flames, I wasn't ready! I needed tenderness! You fucked me, you sputtering ball of wax, you fucked me and I loved it! I loved every minute, even though it meant nothing! It meant nothing, Nells, and that is your dishonor, not that you did it in the first place!"

Morrin had tears in her eyes again, but so did he. Merciful fires of birthing, ash on the hearth, smoke on the wind. He was stupid. He was so, so stupid.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in uneasy silence.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

After dinner, which is a stew made with the rabbits Falk caught earlier in the day, Nells feels ready to try again. He did wrong by her, and he must apologize.

"Morrin? May I speak with you?"

It's another long pause before she answers. "Aye."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I pushed you, I'm sorry that I didn't consider your feelings. I'm sorry for hurting you the way I did."

She takes a ragged breath, refusing to look at him. Falk's eyes are on them, watchful and wary.

"I'm not upset that you fucked me," she said. "I'm upset with myself. It was just something I had to do, you know? A duty. I can put my feelings away for duty. It doesn't count, not if it's duty. I could do it again, if I had to."

"Look, if we fuck, we fuck. If we don't, we don't. I don't want that from you, not if you don't want it. I don't want it if it's duty."

"Nells, the plan was--"

"Ash on the hearth, damn the plan! I can't do that to you again! Next time, you overinflated gust of wind, we just fight our way out."

Morrin snorted, and he thought he saw the ghost of a smile. "A castle that big? Maybe if you brought your newest husband with you. I'm not sure I have the strength to do it, myself."

"Come now," he laughs, "Zakurr couldn't pull off that level of deception, you've seen how huge he is."

"If he were much bigger, he'd break you in half," she says, a genuine grin on her face.

They were going to be okay. Coals on the sands, they were going to be okay.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

They don't touch anymore after that.

They love eachother the way they always have, but the easiness is gone, a brittle anxiety in its place. If they lean together, they jump apart. They stop hugging. Cuddling. Even sparring together has become too much touch to tolerate.

Zakurr was worried. Falk was agitated. Morrin was skittish. Nells was just lonely and a little lost, yearning for the touch of his vicious paladin. All the molten magma of creation, what he'd give to only hold her hand again!

After three weeks of forced distance, he broke. "Morrin, I can't do this any longer."

She only looked at him, quiet as she's always been, lately.

"This has to stop," Nells insists. "I hurt you, I did harm to your person. You are within your rights to be cross with me. But this, Morrin, this silence, this distance between us, it cannot go on! Carve your price from my back if you will, only be at my side again. Be my shield, my sensibility."

"Are you truly so lost, Nells?" Her voice is rough with disuse.

"Morrin, please, let us end this--"

"Spar with me."

"You want to spar?" he asks, hopeful.

"Dearest," says Zakurr, "are you quite sure this is wise?"

"It's what he needs," she grinds out. She draws her monstrous greataxe and steps toward him, and Nells mirrors her pose with a staff.

"Then you can do it elsewhere, away from my cooking," Zakurr commands. "I'll not have you knocking over dinner in a fit, either of you."

Falk says nothing, absorbed in his stew.

Her first strike is fast and brutal, and it's all he can do to keep out of her reach. Her beast of an axe is heavy, sharp, and unforgiving. If this is what she carries every day, it is little wonder she's so strong.

He snaps out of his thoughts as the branch he's perched on snaps in two, crushed by the metal of her weapon. He jumps up, up, out of her reach and she rages on the ground below him.

Morrin is too upset to spar safely. She's out to carve her price from his back, as he'd well offered. Sputtering candlesticks.

He comes in low, moving just slowly enough to get her close, then speeds back up to make her chase him. If she lands a blow like this, he may not survive the night.

He doesn't want to think about the idea that she's planning for it.

His staff strikes her behind the knees, on the shoulder, on the wrist, and she cries out but she does not drop her weapon. She swings again and catches his thigh with the flat of the blade.

Nells grunts in pain and drops. She didn't cut him, but that was going to leave a hell of a bruise later. He leaps back up as she swings the axe again, wincing.

The fight goes on, and on, and on. Nells and Morrin roll, twist, dance around eachother, remembering the shape of their bodies against one another.

After nearly two hours of constant, vicious combat, they stop, too tired to continue. They sit and rest, back to back, and Nells tries to burn the feeling into his memory, the weight of skin on skin.

"I'm sorry," she says, surprising him. "I went too hard." If you were any slower, I might have killed you, she doesn't say, but he hears it anyway.

"I probably had it coming," he tells her, rather than admit his panic. "Are we okay?"

She takes his hand. "I think we're okay," she says, and then she looks at him with such focus, like he's the most captivating thing she's ever seen. "Nells, back in the castle, you--"

"Upon my honor, darling Morrin, I shall never besmirch you in such a way again--"

"When you kissed me, there was, I don't know, it was a feeling, and maybe I'm being sentimental, but--"

"Morrin, I swear it, you're safe with me, let me hold you." And he pulls her to him in a soft, but solid embrace, burying his face in her mane of hair.

When he finally pulls back, she's still looking at him with those beautiful brown eyes. "Nells, it is terribly improper of me to ask this of you, but I need you to kiss me again."

Candlesticks, he really wasn't expecting that. "Er, what?"

"I've been feeling a lot of things, and I need to figure them out. This is the easiest way to do it. Kiss me, please."

"Morrin, are you feeling alright? Do you have a fever? I can fetch Zakurr, just a moment--"

"Please," she whispered. "If only once, but you must, I beg of you."

This was officially the most confusing day of his life. "Alright, dearest," he said, and he kissed her.

It was long and slow and gentle, the most tender he knew how to give. He ran a hand up her back, feeling the way their mouths fit together. Her eyes were closed. He held her more closely to him, the hand on her back pressing in, and then,

She grips his shirt in a fist and opens her mouth to him, tongues pressing together, fighting, dancing. She's taking control, forcefully, and he's letting her.

When they finally break apart, she's blushing like mad. "Did you figure things out?" he asks.

"I did," she sputters. "I figured out that you're a damnably good kisser, but I'm not in love with you, and as enjoyable as it was, I don't think I want to fuck you again." She pauses a moment. "Are we okay?"

"Yeah," Nells chuckles. "We're okay.

#my writing #the wasp writes #the beastmaster series #nells #zakurr #falk #morrin #owlsby #i'm still not sure where i'm going with this #but i think i'm starting to like it #the gang is just a bunch of highly physical queers and their idiocy and their giant spider #zakurr is actually nells' second husband #the first one is still in his hometown which he got thrown out of #they're still very married and nells is still over the moon for him #but elves are poly in this series so it's fine #and zakurr doesn't care who or what nells sleeps with as long as he comes home safe #zakurr is team mom #falk is the broody teenager #i'm starting to remember why i fell in love with these idiots

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btwrites-overwatch · 6 years

Text

A Means to an End

The chemical stench of formalin had become the mad doctor's greatest sense of home in the last three months. The crackling lab was bathed in it, having become the home of his biggest success yet -- bringing the dead back to life.

Oh, yes, the Witch of the Wilds had mastered that ability long ago with her potent magic and convoluted spells, but Jamison Junkenstein had done it with nothing but his wits! He'd spent countless hours toiling over the ragged body, pumping the arteries full of humectants, reigniting the brain with electricity. And now here his lovely was, functioning fully -- though he was still a bit stiff in the muscles.

"All with due time," Junkenstein sang cheerily, preparing more formaldehyde to pump into the man's veins. "All with due time, my dear!"

He flicked the syringe, checking for bubbles, before turning to the subject sitting beside him. The man's skin had lost most of its natural color -- nothing the doctor could do there. He was now a dark, ashy green, with an exposed mandible that hung lifelessly under the bristles of a mustache. He looked as dead as he was, but his eyes -- those beautiful, electric green eyes, burning with life -- were as real as any other man's in this dimension or the next. Junkenstein could stare at him for hours.

He was his pride. He was the culmination of everything he had worked towards. He was all he had left.

His monster was resilient, but he was in no way a companion. He would protect the doctor with his life, but there was no compassion there. The monster was a lifeless being, propelled only by the functions Junkenstein had installed into him. But the man in the chair had known life. He had even known Junkenstein before his luck ran out.

The Gunslinger had died alone in a dreary forest, succumbing to injuries sustained by a chimera. Though he had passed, his good fortune hadn't disappeared completely; Junkenstein had found and recovered his body, which he worked tirelessly on until it held the man's spirit once more. Now, here he was, staring dully at the needle in his arm as the doctor gave him the one thing that would keep him from rotting away to bones.

"Don't worry, my dear," Junkenstein murmured. "Soon I'll have something to regenerate you. You won't need this awful stuff anymore." He cupped the Gunslinger's cheek, remembering the fiery fervor with which he fought several years ago. He was nowhere near as lively as he had been back then, but the doctor supposed death did that to a person.

He withdrew the needle from the grayish flesh and cleaned it, wincing at the minuscule bits of skin still clinging to it. He had to be more careful, lest his creation wouldn't last until the next full moon.

Junkenstein turned on his peg to face the Gunslinger once more, grinning giddily. "Oh! I nearly forgot. I got ya something."

The Gunslinger blinked slowly. His glowing eyes never broke contact.

"I remember you sayin' you disliked...this." He gingerly prodded the dead man's exposed jaw, the old flesh sticking tightly to the bone.

The Gunslinger nodded. A man of few words, he was, but talking must have been difficult. It pained Junkenstein's heart to see him in such a way; it served as his motivation to buy him something fetching to cover his face, at least until he was fixed.

The doctor presented his gift, a black bandanna with half the face of a skull. Jamison found it suiting for the Gunslinger, in an ironic as well as a stylistic way, and could think of nothing better to hide his soon-to-be repaired face.

Though he couldn't smile, the Gunslinger gave a quick huff that resembled a snicker. He took the bandanna and studied it, then leaned forward, sluggishly, to put it on. However, his maladroit fingers couldn't perform the complex task of tying the cloth, and the bandanna crumpled into his lap. He stared at it in apparent frustration.

Junkenstein giggled. "Ah, love, you're all thumbs. Lemme help."

He picked up the bandanna and leaned toward the undead mercenary, wrapping the cloth around his neck gently. The cowboy's skin was cool and dry, chilly enough to send a shiver down the doctor's back. His face flushed as he brushed the long, brown hair out of the way, watching the Gunslinger's eyes ease shut.

He enjoyed the intimacy while it lasted. He made sure to tie the bandanna as slowly as he could, allowing the cold body to lean against him for support. Once he was done, the Gunslinger's luminous eyes opened again, powering on like a machine.

Junkenstien smiled. He kissed what was left of the mercenary's cheek, holding the other side of his face to keep him steady. He hated to think of him fighting against the fresh batch of mercenaries the Lord of Adlersbrunn had undoubtedly recruited, but...

He had to keep in mind the entire reason why he saved the corpse in the first place. Such a powerful ally in life...he had to be just as useful in death, if not more so. He had nothing left to fear.

The Gunslinger was expendable. He was a means to an end. Junkenstein had to remember that.

He straightened up and left without a word, knowing the more time he spent so close, the more attached he would become to his creation. If he was to finally have his revenge, he would have to learn to let go.

#warm bodies [2013]#junkenstein #jamison fawkes #jesse mccree #high boom #my writing #dunno how i feel about this one #ask to tag

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kateyes224 · 7 years

Text

Freckles

Rating: PG Author: @kateyes224 Category: MSR Summary: Something I didn’t think I was capable of. Complete and utter MSR fluff. The equivalent of Shipper cotton candy. Or maybe lemon meringue? A/N: For an anon who asked me the following, and got me to thinking...Is Scully romantic in nature? We all know she'd die for Mulder but what trivial things does she do for romance?

They don’t sext.

Never have, never will. If either of them groped for a justification for this dearth of visual piquancy in their relationship, both would demur that at any given point during the past twenty-five years, any and all of their phone lines, land, cellular, or satellite, and all of their internet connections and servers, had likely been bugged.

And as any conspiracy nut will tell you, being surveilled tends to put a damper on displays of affection, both public and private.

Mulder had managed to quell his seemingly voracious sexual appetite early on, monasticized by her sudden, austere presence in his basement office and in his life. After their few first years together, he appeared to be quite willing to forego the pleasures his magazines and videos had previously sated. If he recognized that he was sexually unfulfilled, he chalked it up as a win in light of the fact that he was being intellectually nourished as never before.

Intercourse, he figured, could wait, at least until she was good and ready.

Besides, Scully had always had a rather demure, dignified sort of sexiness about her. She wasn’t often wanton. She wasn’t a screamer.

She most certainly didn’t sext.

So the first time it happened, when she was going on hour 43 of a two-day on-call stint, Mulder figured she must have accidentally snapped a photo of some indiscriminate countertop somewhere in the hospital. A pale formica or porcelain surface speckled with smudges left behind by some errant janitor. But the following text message had him scratching his head:

Guess correctly and you get a prize.

Scully said nothing about it when she came home the following morning and crawled into bed at oh-dark-thirty. Mulder figured it must have been a mistake, an accidental butt shot, perhaps. She’d butt-dialed him before. An incidental photo wasn’t that far-fetched. He curled himself around her and fell back asleep, forgetting the whole thing.

A few weeks went by, and April slipped quietly into May. The sun finally decided to come out after a long, hard winter, and spring exploded in Virginia in earnest, giving Mulder ample opportunity to clear and refertilize the garden boxes behind the house.

One sunny Sunday afternoon found the two of them kneeling side by side in the garden palming delicate, bright green seedlings that would yield squash and corn and cherry tomatoes by the hundreds into the loamy earth.

Mulder glanced over and offhandedly remarked that she’d forgotten to wear the wide-brim hat that shielded not only her face but the slim bones of her shoulders from the sun. Her skin was flushed pink and dusted with cinnamon freckles he knew for a fact hadn’t been there when she’d crawled out of bed that morning. She’d rolled her eyes and muttered something about a bottle of aloe vera he could make use of, later, if need be.

And, indeed, he’d concentrated on mapping each and every new freckle that had appeared that night, kissing his way over and across her body and putting that eidetic memory to good use.

Memorizing her has by far been the most generous and worthy exercise of this talent.

When next his cell phone buzzed, it was just after ten in the morning the very next day. This time, the photo that accompanied the text was a bit more clear, but the message itself still hazy and difficult to read.

I’ll understand if you don’t recognize these. They’re new.

The image is, yet again, the same paleish pink backdrop and the focus is distractedly blurred of the splotches that mar whatever surface she’s photographed.

Mulder scratches his head, confused.

When he texts her back with, Do you need me to pick something up at the store?, she immediately responds with, No, just tell me where these are. If you’re right, you’ll get something extra special tonight.

Mulder studies the image for hours. He brings up maps of the United States and the world, hoping he’ll recognize the spots for cities or countries or UFO sightings. He brings up images of the stars, charts of constellations and ancient maritime navigational methods. Nothing matches.

He’s settled onto the couch with a beer to watch the ball game and wait for her to come home when it hits him. He can remember three of the seven spots he’d seen from a moment years before, when he’d wrapped himself around her and nestled his nose into her hair and murmured words into the pulse point behind her ear. He’d made a study of that precious few inches of skin, her neck and her jawline and her ear lobe, and knew for certain that there was a beauty mark hiding just under the line of her lower mandible.

He grabs his phone and texts back, his thumbs typing away at a speed he didn’t know he was capable of.

Your neck, just under your left ear. I’ve kissed that spot enough times to know it by heart.

A few seconds for her to respond, but when his phone buzzes, he smiles at her message back. It’s just an emoji, the smiley face one with heart eyes.

That night, after dinner, she climbs on top of him on the couch and kisses him breathless, riding him until he’s sure he won’t be able to walk right for days.

It becomes a favorite game they play, on the nights and early mornings when she’s working past the point of exhaustion and he’s missing her so badly it physically pains him.

She’ll text him a picture of some cluster of freckles or a lone beauty mark somewhere on her body, and he’ll rack his brain to remember precisely where it is.

Sometimes it takes him a few guesses, especially during those summer months when her skin seems to tan the remembered landmarks into oblivion as the freckles join forces in dense clusters on her shoulders and chest.

By the time winter rolls around, it only takes him seconds to respond to the cryptic pictures she sends him.

He saves them all, and to this day he can pull them up on his phone and recite from memory where each one is on her body.

#my writing #freckles #absolute and utter fluff #and well-deserved

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unholystagepresence · 7 years

Text

It Began With A Sputter (Ch 3)

Title: Of Preparedness and Missing Panties

Fandom: Mass Effect Andromeda

Pairing: Kander

Summary: Sara remembers a lovely night with a very prepared Turian, and totally sabotages herself.

Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 (You’re here!) - Ch 4

The beeping from Sara's omnitool seemed to match the pounding it caused in her head, and she was incredibly grateful that it ended rather quickly.

'Pathfinder, Pathfinder Rex is requesting a meeting with you as soon as possible.'

Considering that she didn't hear an echo, Sara understood rather quickly, despite the hangover, that SAM was speaking to her privately.

“Yeah, just...gimme a few minutes.”

'Understood.'

Sara attempted to turn, but found her movement restricted by an arm tucked around her. The moment she wiggled, that arm tightened, and she felt a rather flat mouth and a pair of twitching mandibles press against the back of her neck with a huff of breath.

She opened her eyes just enough to take in an unfamiliar room. How had she gotten here, again...? It took her a bit to remember. She'd come on to Tiran (dumb), he'd accepted and they'd had drinks (great), she'd tried to leave...ah, right. Now she remembered.

“Can I kiss you?”

Sara might have been drunk, and she was certainly into the turian that had pulled her back down into her seat, but she wasn't about to force herself on him. She could be drunk and still have morals.

Didn't mean she wasn't internally whooping in triumph when he nodded, though.

“I'd like that.”

She went in first, needing to get up on her knees on the seat to reach his mouth. It wasn't quite so awkward...with her experience with turians and his with asari, it wasn't like this was their first rodeo entirely. The feeling of his talons threading through her hair at the back of her head made her sigh against his mouth, and he took advantage of her parted lips to slip his tongue past them.

It took her by surprise, and suddenly he was the one leading, stroking her tongue with his, the two wrestling within her mouth while she pressed her body closer against him. He radiated heat and tasted somewhat coppery, but with a hint of sweetness that likely originated from the drinks he'd been consuming that night.

Before she knew it, she was straddling his lap, her arms wrapped around his cowl, one of his at her hip and the other still at the back of her head. She had to give the guy credit...for someone that had never been with a human, he sure as hell knew how to kiss.

She reached up beneath his fringe and drew her nails over the softer skin there, and he rumbled out a growl that made something deep in her belly tremble excitedly.

He pulled back, pupils so dilated that she could barely see the bright turquoise of his eyes as he stared at her.

“Where did you learn that?” he asked, his subvocals purring so deep that she damn near groaned.

“I got plenty of tricks I've picked up over time.” she teased with a tiny little smirk.

His grip on her tightened and she felt a bulge pressing against her inner thigh that was giving her many pleasant, naughty thoughts.

“My place or yours?”

Sara attempted, once more, to wriggle out of Tiran's grip, but it was a moot point. She wasn't unfamiliar with the death grip turians seemed to have on their partners when they slept, but that didn't make it any less inconvenient. Luckily, enough, though, it seemed her movement had woken him, as the breath she felt against her neck was growing a bit faster.

He made a sound halfway between a purr and a chirp that sent tingles down her spine, but finally his grip loosened enough that she was able to slip out and get to the edge of the bed. “Sorry I woke you.” she whispered, in case he was still asleep. A glance over her shoulder found that was not the case, as brilliant blue eyes blinked blearily at her.

He yawned, lightly shaking his head and pulling up his omnitool. “No, it's...” he narrowed his eyes at the brightness of the holographic display, trying to read the time. “...it's about time I got up anyways.”

Sara stood, stretched muscles that were deliciously sore, and began the search for her clothing. Despite what might have been an awkward situation, the silence between them was without tension.

Sara managed to get most everything she needed...but dammit, where were her panties?

Tiran's apartment had been decided on rather quickly, for which Sara was grateful. Even drunk, she wasn't keen on banging someone in what had once been her father's quarters. Talk about awkward!

Still, his small apartment was closer, anyways, and it was difficult to discuss much when her mouth was otherwise occupied.

They only really separated when they reached the apartment, giving Tiran time to open the door. She was on him again the moment it closed, gently dragging he fingers beneath his fringe again, drawing out an excited growl.

He lifted her up, and she instinctively settled her legs in the divots of his hips, their tongues dancing together almost as if their performance had been choreographed.

Tiran finally broke the kiss to set her on the bed. “Shouldn't have worn armor..” he grumbled, causing her to giggle as he began the laborious task of removing it all.

“Tiran Kandros...always prepared, except when he's about to get laid...”

The turian snorted. “Open the drawer on your right.”

Sara did so, finding, to her surprise, a neatly organized box of condoms.

“Well, shit...you are very prepared! Should I be worried about a jealous someone coming after me?”

It was partly a joke, partly a serious question. She was pretty convinced that Tiran wasn't the type to cheat, but she certainly wasn't the type to help him do so. Even if she was, she had plenty of people already after her head for one reason or another.

“No no no, I promise you that's not even a possibility.” he stated seriously, allowing Sara to relax. “I'm just...always prepared, like you said.”

He'd gotten halfway through his armor at this point, so Sara figured she'd better get “prepared” herself. Her clothing gave her much less trouble than Tiran's gave him (it was kind of adorable how he cursed when he had trouble removing a cuiss), and by the time he was finished, she was already bare.

His eyes roamed over her curiously, but in a hungry fashion she did not dislike. Deciding to be bold, she smiled and crooked a finger, prompting his mandibles to flare. So bidden, he moved forward enough for Sara to wrap an arm around his shoulders, giving her the leverage to guide him down atop her. “Let's test that preparedness of yours, then...”

Sara continued what she was realizing was becoming a fruitless search as Tiran made his way over to the kitchenette.

“I'd offer you coffee, but...well, I don't really have any.”

He ran a hand over his fringe, but Sara simply shrugged as she stood up from where she was searching under the bed. “It's the thought that counts. I can't really stay, either way...duty calls.”

She'd just have to abandon the underthings. It'd be an uncomfortable walk of shame, but if Avitus was trying to get in contact with her so early in the morning, it must be important.

Nonetheless, the two stood, in silence, which had suddenly grown rather heavy. Sara opened her mouth to speak, but Tiran got the jump on her.

“Last night was...enjoyable, to say the least. Thank you.”

Relieved that he apparently didn't regret the evening, Sara smiled. “Definitely. I'd one hundred percent be up for a replay sometime.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself, and she was seriously contemplating slamming her head into a rather tastefully appointed shelving system nearby. 'Way to be too damn eager, Ryder!' she chided.

But, apparently fully of surprises, Tiran just flicked a mandible in a smile, eyes soft. “Yeah...I don't think I'd mind that.”

She hadn't expected that. And because she hadn't expected that, she sputtered as she tried to find some kind of reply. “Uh, I....guh, umm...yeah. Yeah, okay. You've...y'know...got my number. So, next time you're free and I'm on the Nexus, just...er,...chk chk.”

She gave him the finger guns. Dear god, she had just given him stupid, stupid finger guns.

Her omnitool beeped, she took that desperately needed cue, and in a voice that cracked from her embarrassment, voiced her good-byes.

“Work! Gotta get to work. Had a good timegottagobye!”

Entirely unaware of Tiran's amused chortle, she turned on her heel and marched out, emitting a high pitched sound of self-disgust half the way to Meridan so that she could get some goddamned panties.

#sam writes stories #kander #tiran kandros/sara ryder #tiran kandros #sara ryder #SAM #mass effect andromeda #chapter 3 #fanfiction

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