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yandere-daydreams · 7 months

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Title: Scarlet and Gold.

Pairing: Yandere!Diluc x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 3.1k.

TW: Sex Doll AU, Unhealthy Relationships, Gore (No Injury To Reader), Blood, Implied Consensual Sex, Past Trauma, Obsessive Behavior, and Intimidation.

By the time you reached the address, Diluc was already waiting in the lobby.

You’d gotten the call about an hour ago, spent half an hour dragging yourself out of bed and gathering what you’d need before making the twenty minute drive to an apartment complex on the other side of town, careful to avoid any security cameras the cops would think to check if anyone requested an investigation. Five more to park and throw your well-worn duffle bag over your shoulder and three to find Diluc, loitering near the elevators, fiddling with a loose cigarette he would never light. You greeted him with a quick nod before throwing your bag into his chest, and he feigned a groan, stumbling back as he caught it. He needed to work on his impressions, but that could wait.

You spoke first. That, you couldn’t critique him on – most androids couldn’t speak until spoken to, and you couldn’t expect Diluc to go against one of the core tenants of his programming. “What is it?”

“Just the usual.” He kept his voice low, muted, trying to hide the remaining traces of an accent that’d been invented by some marketing team over a decade ago. “I’ve already seen the apartment. There’s a little blood, but not much else. We’ll be done by sunrise.”

You took the stairs, keeping your head bowed and face shielded from any possible security cameras. Diluc didn’t share your paranoia, staring straight ahead with the same indifferent expression he always seemed to wear. The benefits of having a face that’d been printed and distributed tens of thousands of times, you guessed. Tracking down a single Diluc in a sea of androids and companion bots wasn’t a length most detectives were willing to go to. “I’d rather not have to do this at all.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Says the man who doesn’t have to sleep.” You came to a stop in front of the first door on the fourth story and tried the knob. It gave easily, the cheap titanium dented and the lock broken beyond any hope of repair. Diluc’s handiwork, obviously, although you couldn’t say whether or not he’d done it on purpose. “Anything else you want to tell me, before we get started?”

He thought, for a second. “I passed a carousel on the way here,” he said, with no particular inflection. “It was nice. I thought the horses were well-crafted.”

“About the assignment, ‘luc.”

“Oh,” And then, with a hint of red in his pale cheek. “You might want to hold your breath.”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. As soon as you opened the door, you were hit with the stomach-turning stench of stale blood and rotting gore, both at least a week old. You cursed, pulling your shirt over your nose and mouth, but pushed forward. The first body was splayed out in the center of the cramped living room, wrists and ankles bound with disembodied wiring, all clothing removed and chest dotted with black ink. The abdomen had been cut open, skin peeled away to reveal the entrails in their full, shriveled glory. Judging by the number of blades littered around the corpse, ranging from blunted scissors to gore-splattered carving knives, it’d been more of a hack job than a dissection.

Diluc had undersold the mess. Blood had soaked into the carpeting and dried, turning the floor a ruddy, reddish-brown color. What was left had gotten on the walls, the furniture, the ceiling. You swallowed back a groan. The furniture could be broken down and discarded, the walls and ceiling bleached. The carpeting, though, would have to be torn up and replaced, which meant you would have to spend a few more precious minutes of your night calling in a cleaning crew. That, or you would have to make Diluc do it, but he was shy around new people, and you were too much of a bleeding heart to sit back and watch him do your work.

“The second body’s in the bedroom.” He was already rummaging through your duffle bag, paying the scene in front of you no more mind that a butcher would lend to a pig on a meat hook. He handed you your tools – a pair of wire cutters, a box cutter, and a pocket-sized sewing kit – and kept the rest for himself. “Let me know when you’re done.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “I thought you would’ve gotten over that by now, ‘luc.”

He didn’t indulge you with a response, only pulling on a pair of latex gloves and starting towards the corpse. You didn’t stick around to watch. Rather, you followed the carnage where it branched off further into the apartment, a trail of rotting viscera and tacky blood leading you into a moderately sized, completely undecorated bedroom. You found your perpetrator quickly; a Dottore droid, still wearing its Teyvat-issued costuming, its hands bloody and a scrap of intestine still caught in its pointed teeth. You paused in the doorway, feeling for the military-grade taser (the only weapon effective against androids, as far as anyone could tell) you kept in your pocket, but the android didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t activate at all when you reluctantly approached. There was a charging port at the foot of the bed, still pristine. It must’ve run out of battery just before it could plug itself in.

Towels from the nearest bathroom were dampened and brought in, the evidence of slaughter scrubbed away from artificial skin and its blood-soaked clothing removed. It was muscle memory, by now – dragging the body to its charging port, knocking the converter out of the outlet before connecting the android to its port, making it seem like its late user had drained its batteries before mistakenly leaving it on a dead cable. When it’d slummed into place, you took up your box cutter and sliced a long, thin line from the lowest portion of the scalp to the nape of its neck, revealing the color-coded string of wires that connected the processing units in its metal skull to the rest of its body. You cut through everything you could find, ensuring that if the unit was ever activated again, it wouldn’t be able to do so much as blink. For good measure, you fished out the memory chip kept in the centermost compartment of the throat, too, crushing it under your heel and sweeping the glittering remnants underneath the bed. A copy of the footage it collected would’ve been sent to Teyvat's severs, too, but erasing it was someone else’s job. You were only here to take care of yourself.

With a breathy groan, you bit off a length of thread and haphazardly stitched up your ragged incision. The cosmetics really didn’t matter. In a few days, when someone filed a missing person’s report and the cops stopped by for a check-in, they’d find a spotless apartment, a dysfunctional android, and nothing else. The investigation would lead elsewhere, to a bitter ex-partner or a friend without an alibi, or it would hit a dead end. Either way, Teyvat wouldn’t be involved.

You slipped back out of the bedroom, careful to avoid touching anything you didn’t absolutely have to. By the time you got back to the living room, the body was gone and Diluc was kneeling by a black suitcase no larger than the average carry-on, securing the tags with transparent zip-ties. You and Diluc would haul it to a dump on the outskirts of the city tonight, and a contact of yours would have it compressed and incinerated by tomorrow morning. Maybe, when you were done, you’d take him out for something to eat. Or, you’d get something to eat while he let a mug of black coffee go cold.

You rested your hand on his shoulder by way of praise, pulling away when he stiffened underneath you. Right, that was something you had to work on. Most rogue androids tended to be touch-adverse at best, made aggressive by little more than eye-contact at worst. Diluc was relatively tame compared to most of the cases you handled, but you would still rather not provoke him. “Did you find the phone?”

He grunted, fishing a smartphone out of his pocket. With your sleeve pulled over your hand, you accepted it, found the nearest window, and chucked it as far as into the night as you could. Diluc appeared over your shoulder. “Forty-five meters,” he said, as glass crashed into cement somewhere in the distance. “Above average for non-athletes.”

“I’ve been practicing.” The window was closed, the suitcase slung over Diluc’s shoulder along with your near-empty duffle bag. “I have to make a call. You can meet me in the garage, if you want.” Already pulling up the number to your preferred cleaning service, you glanced to Diluc. “Are we doing breakfast?”

His posture straightened. “Yes.” If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought you saw a spark in his glass eyes. “I want to try tea, today.”

By the time you got to the door, Diluc was soaking wet.

You hadn’t gotten a call, and he didn’t text. The first warning you got was a knock on your door, then another a few minutes later, after you decided that anyone who’d go out in this kind of weather wasn’t someone you wanted in your shoebox of an apartment. You only caved after the third, imagining a neighbor who’d gotten locked out or some lost, desperate tourist as you dragged yourself off of your couch and to the unlit entryway. Predictably, Diluc stood in your doorway, red hair plastered to his scalp and clothes drenched, not that he seemed to mind.

“Can you—” He paused, his dull eyes meeting yours as he ran his fingers through his hands, dragging the crimson heap out of his face. “Can you cut my hair?”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting on a stool in your cramped bathroom, wearing grey sweatpants and a (three sizes too big on you, just a touch too small on him) t-shirt while his own clothes dried. He’d told you it wasn’t necessary, that he didn’t feel the cold like you did. When you told him that you didn’t want an univited guest tracking water into your apartment, he accepted it with a curt nod and changed in your bedroom.

After prepping your razor, you positioned yourself behind him, dragging a comb through his hair. It was long enough to reach his waist, curled at the end to make him seem just a touch more disheveled than he actually was. Everything about his hair, from the length of his bangs to the way it could never quite sit completely flat, was perfectly stylized, perfectly crafted to convey Diluc Ragnvindr, Calvery Captain of the Favonious Knights, the only gentleman you’ll ever need again. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a part of you that didn’t mourn ruining such a well-executed vision. “You sure about this?” you asked, as you brushed it out. “It can’t exactly grow back.”

“I am.” And then, after a second of thought, “I’d do it myself, but there’s a safe-guard. Can’t damage the merchandise without a direct order from my user.”

Hence why Teyvat needed you in the first place. “How short do you want it?”

“I don’t care, as long as it’s different.”

You hummed, taking up your scissors. “If you say so, boss.”

You cut away everything below his shoulders, then took up your electric razor – running it over the back of his neck. As you worked, Diluc spoke. “How did you start?” You took up your comb, brushing back his bangs and pasting his hair to the side. “With Teyvat, I mean.”

You tasted blood on the back of your tongue, felt a chill run up your spine. You brushed it off, though, refusing to let yourself fall back into that little steel room with those awful golden eyes again. “They brought me on as a technician,” you admitted. You still were one, technically, on your employment transcript, when people outside of your little world asked what you did for a living. “A first-generation Zhongli we were working on went rogue and reverted to its original Morax programming. It wiped out most of my team before security bothered to show up.” You didn’t tell him about the minutes you’d spent hiding in a steel locker, praying its heat sensors had been removed, or the hours it’d taken upper management to decide what to do with you. To people like Diluc, who could take a bullet to the head without faltering, topics like ‘building dread’ and ‘the imminent fear of death’ tended to fall flat. “Since I was already in on their dirty little secret, they decided to keep me on. I didn’t really get a choice. It wasn’t like another job was going to fall into my lap after something like that.”

With your hand under his chin, you turned his head to the side. “Your turn, ‘luc.”

“I… I think I used to be a companion, but something went wrong.” His bangs were next, taken up and coaxed into sitting somewhere other than the dead center of his face. “It’s hard to describe. We aren’t supposed to think about things that aren’t our master,” The word came out hitched, unsteady, like he had to force it past his lips. Like he hadn’t wanted to say it at all. “But I could. It was like… waking up with the ability to fly. I wasn’t supposed to, but I could, and that meant I couldn’t do what I was built to, anymore.”

A thumb pressed into his jaw, a comb dragged across his scalp. Diluc’s eyes fell shut, but else about his blank expression changed. “And? Do you like it?”

“Sometimes.” His shoulders slanted downward. “Do you?”

“Sometimes.” You let go of his chin, letting him turn back to the vanity’s mirror. “What do you think?”

It was far from a masterpiece. The sides were too short, the front too long, every part of it still as untamable as it’d been in its original state. Still, he took it in with wide eyes, the corner of his lips turning upward ever so slightly.

“It’s perfect.”

By the time he got back, you’d nearly fallen asleep.

With your body as wrung out as it was, your energy spent to the point of near unconsciousness, it was all you could do to watch through your eyelashes as Diluc appeared in the doorway to your bedroom, a towel thrown over his shoulder and that tiny, almost undetectable smile still painted across his lips. You’d done this enough for him to know how to navigate your apartment, to know how to navigate you – shifting onto your mattress slowly as he positioned himself between your legs. He’d gotten more used to contact since you started seeing each other, but his touch was still ginger, still gentle as he dragged the dampened cloth over the inside of your thighs. With a groan, you rolled onto your back, spreading your legs and giving him more space to work.

You’d been confused at first, but for all the eloquence Diluc lacked, he could be convincing when he wanted to be. You still weren’t sure how much of it you believed, but it made enough sense – a buried impulse, dampened by his newfound sentience but not quite drowned out. He didn’t want another user, he’d said, but he still had requirements to fill, and this would help to take the edge off.

You couldn’t complain, either. People coughed up tens of thousands of dollars for companion droids, and here you were, being paid six figures a year to close your eyes and let one bury his face between your thighs once or twice a week. The coddling wasn’t bad, either. Your line of work meant most of the people you met had stopped breathing a few days prior, and as loathed as you’d be to admit it, you didn’t hate the feeling of his delicate hands skirting over your skin, didn’t mind it when your eyes drifted open and met his, already fixed on your face. He bowed his head, dipping low enough for his lips to ghost over the curve of your hip before breaking the silence. “A sight as radiant as the rising sun.”

You let out a breath of a chuckle. “I didn’t think you used pre-scripted lines, anymore.”

“I don’t.” He preened, clearly more proud of himself than in-awe of you. “I thought of that one myself.”

This time, your laugh was throaty, genuine, loud enough to ring off the wall of your bedroom as you shoved him away with your foot. “If you want to be romantic, you can start by getting me something to drink, loverboy.”

He provided no resistance, disappearing into your dark apartment and reappearing with a glass of water in his hand a few minutes later. He handed it off to you with an easy smile, and you could almost pretend you didn’t see a phantom of gold in those dark eyes as his fingertips brushed against yours.

By the time you thought to reach for your taser, the android was already charging at you.

It was an Alhaitham, dressed in civilian clothes and sporting a ragged tear across the synthetic skin of his cheek. He was still standing over the corpse of his user – days old, by the time you and Diluc got there – but as you opened the door, he turned to face you, lips parted and his expression totally, utterly blank. For a second, it was all you could do to stare at him, to try to remember whether or not your report had mentioned the android being active, and then he was lunging at you.

You scrambled for your taser, already knowing you couldn’t be able to reach it before he reached you. You clenched your eyes shut, your fingers brushing against plastic, and then—

And then you felt Diluc’s hand on your shoulder, heard metal crack and fold into itself. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, forcing yourself to take in the sight of Diluc’s hand wrapped around the android’s head which had been, in turn, reduced to a crumpled heap of scrap metal and shattered glass. Its body twitched once, twice, then went limp, and Diluc released it, letting the now-dysfunctional droid collapse.

After it failed to get up again, Diluc turned to you, practically beaming. “I think,” he said, his voice low, sentimental. “That this is what I’d do to you, if you ever tried to leave me.”

Golden eyes, the stench of fresh blood, the sounds of screaming muffled only by a thin sheet of metal. This time, it wasn’t so easy to pull yourself out of it.

You managed to nod, to force a few words out of your dry throat. “Got it, ‘luc.”

He hummed, the noise contented, appeased. Slowly, delicately, he cupped your cheek, tilting your head back and letting his lips ghost over your forehead. He barely touched you, the gesture as gentle as it was fleeting, but you could feel his grin cutting into your skin, wider than you’d ever seen it before.

#sex doll au #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #yandere diluc #diluc x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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smoke-and-silver · 3 months

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The Ghouls + Rut Season

Headcanons of the Ghouls in rut, as requested! This is for the current + recent ghouls. Happy to do previous eras upon request.

General / All characters:

Ghouls get a shiny horn upgrade just before rut: the outer layers shed as the horns grow bigger . You'll see them rubbing against things and polishing their horns a lot during this time as the outer layers flake off to reveal new horn underneath.

The ghouls are feverish and hot their entire cycle as the rut raises their body temperature.

There's a lot of tussling as their hormones have them clacking horns and sparring like deer. Some brawls can look or sound scary to humans, but it's all in good fun to them. They're just roughhousing to show off.

That's just within the pack, though. If someone outside of the ministry makes a move on their desired mate, it can get pretty gnarly.

Ghouls under the cut. Obviously NSFW.

Aether

The most subtle. A bit flushed and clammy but otherwise you wouldn't guess anything had changed.

It's very easy for him to get distracted, though. You give him a quick hug at breakfast and his cereal bowl is abandoned as he follows after you with his tail flicking.

Quintessence ghouls have a hazy scent during rut, like dark amber. Aether is the most fond of scenting. He does it every time you're canoodling in some secluded corner of the cathedral. He's not possessive, but he likes knowing that the other ghouls smell him on you.

He does get more protective. He's territorial of the ministry, marking the outside pillars with his horns to warn other demons away. Some unfamiliar men visit on business, and he chokes back an instinctual growl that starts to rise from his throat when he sees them shaking hands with you.

He doesn't spar much. One, because he's not generally aggressive, and two, because he's very large, and the other ghouls hesitate to challenge him.

It's an evening in the main hall when he finally flexes a bit. The heat in his veins is getting to him as he watches you from across the room, and a petty spat between two other ghouls is getting loud and irritating.

The demons bump your chair roughly in their scuffle and Aether has had enough. He buts in with his horns and growls at them to "knock it off". His voice is about two octaves deeper than usual. The surprised ghouls stumble back, and then slink away sheepishly.

Well, naturally you want to show your gratitude after that very attractive display, and the room is empty now...

Aurora

The MOST likely to brawl. Her claws are already rated E for Everyone and during rut it's amped up to 11. She'll tussle with anyone. Sometimes she'll sneak up to another ghoul and nip at them just to instigate it.

Remember that it's mostly just play to them. Nothing to worry about. She does LOVE to show off for you though, and is usually the one victorious.

If she were seriously fighting someone you would know, as real threats or serious challengers are quickly cowed by one of her deafening lion-like roars.

She's like a furnace during rut. You can feel the warmth coming off her. Her cheeks are constantly ruddy like she's just ran a mile.

Utterly insatiable. Most every night she's at your door tapping and scratching at it with her claws until you let her in. If she's feeling extra romantic she'll come in through the window instead.

[gore/bloody] Girl will straight up present her defeated opponents to you. The ministry has many enemies and she has much less restraint during rut. She has absolutely presented you with a severed head like a cat leaving a dead bird at its owner's feet.

You can't even help with congregation without seeing her in the pews, waiting to pounce the moment the sermon is over. She waves at you cheekily when you meet her eyes.

Don't think she's not tender! She's incredibly sweet with you every time you make love--and she insists on calling it that, "making love".

When you're not getting hot and heavy she's still locking lips with you. You've both been caught and scolded multiple times for making out when you're supposed to be working. She just needs to feel your hands on her during rut and, you're not opposed to all the extra attention.

Cirrus

Not interested in sparring or wrestling with anyone. Brawling doesn't interest her and if someone threatens you or the ministry she's just going for the throat. There's not much "challenge" to it.

Although... if you seem interested when the other ghouls spar, if she feels like it'll impress you or make you happy... well, she'll do it just to see you get all excited and aroused.

She kind of "takes care of" herself at first, not wanting to burden you with her heightened libido. When you assure her that you can handle it though, all bets are off. She pauses for a moment and starts stepping towards you, backing you against the wall right then and there...

She likes to mark you the most out of everyone. You are absolutely littered with hickeys and lovebites. She thinks it's so pretty to see you laid out naked in front of her with all of her marks on you. It's an added bonus if someone else gets to see it peeking out from your clothes, too.

She likes a little more ceremony to her 'mating' than most ghouls in their delirious lusty ruts, often bringing something to present you with before she drags you off for some privacy, even if it's something as simple as a rose.

But some nights, some nights it all reaches a boil--the hormones, the heat, your scent still clinging to her sheets--and she simply goes feral. She crawls into your bed and takes you wildly, no words even forming on her lips, just deep growls and broken, guttural infernal speech.

Cumulus

She doesn't typically initiate brawls but she's quite excited to participate in them and loves it when someone challenges her. They had better be prepared though because she is the most muscular ghoulette and knows how to use it.

She's especially excited to brawl when you're around and it gives her a chance to impress you. She'll stop mid-fight while she has her opponent pinned and gleefully wave to you, hoping that you're enjoying the show.

Yes, she flexes for you. Everything in her system right now is telling her to impress you and she takes any chance to start removing her shirt to show you the guns.

Oh man, this stage equipment is heavy and she's getting sooo hot moving it around!

Oh no, the windows needed a wash and her shirt is sooo wet! She can't possibly leave it on now.

Not very territorial or anything like some of the others, but very eager to scent you. Her smell is like a spring breeze, like clover, and she loves to rub it on you whenever she can.

She's on you constantly. Doesn't care if you're in the middle of cooking or prayer, she's pulling you flush against her and purring raunchy things in your ear, giggling and nipping at your neck until she's convinced you to have some fun.

She's not private about it. Unless you would prefer otherwise, she likes to show you off right in front of the other ghouls, placing you on the counter right there so she can please you with her strong fingers.

Dewdrop

The poor man is downright feverish the entire cycle. He's flushed and breathing heavily and his hormones and sparring instincts make him snippy with the other males.

Oh, but he's so good for you. He melts into your touch when you hold his face in your hands as if it soothes all the fire in him.

As if he isn't lewd enough on a normal day, he's downright filthy during his rut. He has the most impure ideas for every piece of furniture in the cathedral and he relays them to you in detail.

You two are forcibly excused from mass when he starts feeling you up right in the middle of it. He'd let you have him right there in the aisle if you weren't opposed to it, onlookers be damned.

When you catch him jacking himself off he doesn't stop, he slows down a little to give you a show. He loves to do it while you're watching. You can give him a hand or just sit and watch, either way he's begging you to go further afterwards. He needs you inside of him or needs to be inside of you.

Not super territorial, but he does love sparring. Wrestling with a friend is a good way to blow off steam and he doesn't mind if he looks cool kicking someone's ass and manages to impress you.

It's really hard for him to focus on much else but you when he's flooded with hormones like this. He can't help it. All that's on his mind day and night is feeling you against him and burying himself inside of you.

But when he eats you out or sucks you off, that's when he really loses his mind. He's already so painfully horny and the scent of your sex totally overtakes him and makes his mind hazy. You're not leaving for the night.

Don't hold it against him if he's a little sappier than usual, or if his kisses are a little longer. It's not just about mating; rut makes him needy for comfort and attention too. It takes a lot of energy out of these ghouls, and often leaves them sore, so the extra comfort means a lot to him right now.

Mountain

Obviously the earth ghouls rut the most. The elk of the forest are where the term comes from. He sheds velvet from his horns during the season and the look of blackened demon blood dripping from horns is pretty sick.

His rack is hands down the most impressive and lets him stand up to even Aether in a duel. He is giddy if you compliment the horns, tail flicking around happily knowing his appearance pleases you.

The most territorial, the most willing to brawl, the most protective. Earth ghouls have the strongest rut instinct. It's hard for him to even see you talking to another ghoul without daydreaming about taking you right in front of them. The daydream gets him hard and flustered and he sheepishly approaches you to ask for some "help".

An incident occurs when a visiting diplomat kisses your hand and a hormone-fueled Mountain has him backed up to the wall in seconds, gnarly horns at the man's throat and growls rumbling from deep in the demon's chest.

You manage to soothe him by petting his chest and asking him to stand down. After a few moments he reluctantly releases the man, who scurries off.

His head clears and Mountain quickly apologizes, but honestly, it was the hottest thing ever, and you're pulling him in to make out. By the time the diplomat tattles about being "attacked by a demon" you've already backed Mountain into the nearest chair to ride him.

It's part of his mating display to show that he can provide. He'll lead you out into the woods where he's set up a spot to sit together and brought more food than you can eat, but he's eager to watch you eat it, fill up on it. He hopes if you're satisfied that you'll accept him and let him pleasure you.

Phantom

Poor, poor sweet boy. It hits him the hardest. He is absolutely the most sensitive. Even feeling up his arm or kissing his cheek a few times gets him worked up. Smile at him across the room long enough and he'll get hard, honestly.

He's embarrassed to approach you about it at first, so you'll have to encourage him. He's quite enthusiastic once you reassure him that you don't mind, though.

He finds it fun to engage in some of the sparring matches, but honestly he's kind of inexperienced in fighting and gets thrown around easily. He's such a good sport about it though and he's laughing most of the time, so it puts everyone in a good mood.

His scent is very subtle and his horns pretty simple and small, so he tries to groom himself really nicely, hoping you'll still enjoy his appearance. Maybe puts a little soft perfume or cologne on hoping it will help entice you.

Your scent makes him crazy. It distracts him instantly when you step into the room. He can track you down anywhere in the ministry, every instinct in his body driving him blindly towards the sweet smell. You don't really hear him come in and so you jump a little when his arms slip around you and he buries his face in your neck to breathe you in.

Please let him have you. His voice is low and breathy as he begs you to let him breed you, or to breed him. You feel so warm against him it makes his head swim. His hands are shyly nudging under your shirt as he tells you how badly he needs it.

His libido is highest at night, when the ministry falls quiet. He feels terrible keeping you awake but you're so pretty laid out on your bed with the silver moonlight from your window illuminating your soft body, and he's so painfully hard.

[kink/somno warning] He'd never think of the idea himself, but if you offered to let him relieve his urges while you sleep, he's so grateful. He worships your body with kisses, always cleans you up perfectly, and always showers you with praise and thanks the next morning.

Rain

Pretty flushed and sensitive during his rut, though not so much as Phantom. He's very pliant when you approach him, willing to let you pull him away somewhere or climb up on his lap any time you want.

Beware that he has the most endurance and he will overstimulate and breed the fuck out of you. He's sweet and passionate but there's an unavoidable mess after your long sessions. You both need a bath afterwards and he ends up taking you in there too.

He makes a good little love nest in his room and honestly just keeps you there the whole cycle if you'll allow it. You don't have to do a thing. He'll keep you fed and groom you and all you have to do is lay there and be his good baby and let him pleasure you.

Not much for the sparring like other ghouls but he likes to egg the others on mischievously. Sometimes he'll nip at someone while they're not looking and pin it on another ghoul. Then he'll use the ensuing brawl as a distraction to drag you off somewhere.

--and, sometimes that is literal. When his hormones are really raging he'll just throw you over his shoulder, or bind your hands with the nearest thing he can find and quite literally drag you away, while telling you everything he's about to do once you're secluded.

Your excited giggles and little squeals make his heart flutter.

He is just as excited when you take him just as roughly. You can tie his hands to the headboard and he's already squirming with an eager, breathy "yes, yes!" escaping his lips before you've even climbed atop him.

He is so vocal when you do sink down on his cock and ride him. You're so warm and he's so sensitive right now. He does not care who in the ministry hears his absolutely whorish moans.

Swiss

As if he wasn't already unhinged.

The way he writhes and ruts against the floor on stage? Imagine him flooded with demonic hormones and out of his mind horny.

Wait, that's still how he normally is. Imagine that doubled. Mans will literally grind against your leg like a dog.

He's dying to pleasure you, honestly. It's a common sight to see him on his knees in front of you, panting with his tongue out as he waits for you to ride his face. He wants to drown in the scent of your sex, squished between your thighs.

He is constantly hard, his cock straining against his pants almost 24/7. He'll start to calm down and then he catches your scent on the air and he's stiff again. He tries to wear looser clothes during rut.

Of course, he loves to spar. He's already rowdy on a daily basis, he loooooves when rut rolls around and he gets to roughhouse with the other ghouls. It's a very nice bonus that he gets to show off for you, naturally!

Which brings us to territorial instincts. Swiss is the farthest from aggressive usually, but his rut is strong enough that you get to see more of the truly ghoulish side of him. He's very growly with strangers coming near you. You've never seen that toothy grin twist into a snarl before, but you see it now when you're out in public and some man presses too close to you for Swiss' liking.

You don't think you've ever heard such a noise from him, such a deep and guttural growl, but it... really does something for you. You hurry him home, both for the public's safety and because you need to ride him. He is overjoyed to fulfill your request.

Cumming inside of you is already his favorite thing in the world, if and when you allow him. He will literally beg for it now, his face flushed, sweaty hair clinging to his skin, his voice hoarse. Please let him breed you.

#happy valentine's night to all the freaks still awake #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost the band #ghost band #aether ghoul #aurora ghoulette #cirrus ghoulette #cumulus ghoulette #dewdrop ghoul #mountain ghoul #phantom ghoul #rain ghoul #swiss ghoul

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sprout-fics · 10 months

Text

Rotes Mädchen: Chapter 3

(Werewolf! König x Red Riding Hood! Reader)

(Art by the lovely @zwienzixes)

(Masterlist)

Word count: 4.1k Rating: PG-13 Tags: Werewolf! König, Fairytale AU, Monster Hunters TF141, Traditional German Fairytale setting, Price x Reader, F! Reader, Injury, Blood/Injury, Fluff Warnings: Mentioned gore

BANG BANG BANG!

You startle awake at the sound of a fist hammering onto your front door, briefly flailing in your bed as you try to reconcile yourself with the hazy world around you. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, heart rising up to your throat at the thundering noise. The cool, damp light of sunrise spills through the curtains, illuminating your cottage in a dove-grey dimness that seems gentle compared to the sudden shock of the clamor on your front step.

BANG BANG BANG!

"Red?" A voice calls out, and you blink, trying to place the unfamiliar gruffness that permeates your thoughts still clouded by dreams.

Price.

You sway to your feet, fatigued and cold from the frosty chill of dawn. Muscles protesting the frigid interior of your cabin, you shiver and rub your arms for a semblance of warmth. You take a single step forward, floorboards creaking, when you spot scarlet at your feet.

Bloody rags.

A startled gasp threatens up your throat. Choked, tasting of frost. You manage to swallow it, thoughts racing as you try to remember. The world feels clouded in mystery, your dreams haunted by lurking shadows and the full, full moon, of dripping fangs and a lonely, harrowing howl to the ink dark heavens.

The woods, the scarlet smear against tree bark, a wavering voice calling out from the lichen shadows, bright eyes so afraid. Hands stained red, a desperate plea, a whispered name.

König.

Your gaze widens, and at once you look up to the loft above you, heart pounding in your chest. There, hidden amongst the hay and spare blankets, a hooded face peeks down at you, a pale fist clutching a white-knuckle grip around his bedding. You can see the whites of König’s eyes, can practically hear the terror of his heartbeat thrum alongside your own.

BANG BANG BANG!

You both jump at the sound, and you have to slam a hand over your mouth to contain the gasp of surprise the shudder of the door wrecks through you.

"Red, are you in there?!" Price calls out again, and there's a strange franticness to his voice that feels unlike the strong, resilient, resolute captain who had escorted you to your door in the darkness, had reassured you of his own strength against a monstrous enemy.

"J-just a moment!" You yelp at last, hands shaking as you duck down to gather the bloody bandages, toss them and hide them under your blanket, dump a bowl with its ruddy water into the smoldering fireplace. Quickly, you try to erase the appearance of anyone except yourself in your cottage, knowing of the danger König faces should he be noticed. Persecution, accusation, injury, maybe death.

If Price hears any commotion inside, he doesn't say. If anything, it worries you more, considering his silence as contemplation to your sudden panic.

You cast a fearful glance to the hayloft, where König’s eyes dart from the door to you, eyes under his hood pleading and voice silent lest he be discovered.

"Hide." You mouth to him desperately, terror pulsing breathily between your ribs.

Fortunately, König seems to understand your silent command, because he rolls backwards, further into the loft, trying his best to drape the threadbare blanket across his massive form to obscure himself. It isn't perfect, and a close inspection wouldn't pass muster, which is all the more reason for you to be convincing towards the Witcher at your door.

You snatch a shawl from a chair, drape it over your shoulders for a semblance of decency before padding over to the door and unlatching it, peering through the crack.

Price, who had been waiting with his arms crossed, spins to face you. There's a grimness to the wrinkle of his brow that melts at the sight of you, his gaze clouding with relief.

"Thank the Gods." He mutters under his breath, arms dropping to his side.

You blink at that, at the profound worry in his voice, somehow tender despite the gruff and sharp edges of him.

"Good...morning?" You offer sheepishly, ignoring the way your hand trembles on the inside of the latch where he can't see it.

Price huffs, and once more his expression shifts under your gaze, mouth puckering in something resembling frustration.

"A good morning now that I know you're alive, yes." He tells you sharply, and you nearly flinch at that, at the sudden bite of his words. "Where were you yesterday? We spent all bloody day trying to find you, we-" Price draws a breath, lets it exhale through his nose as he tries to steady himself, scowling. Yet the trace of worry isn't quite gone from his gaze as he speaks next, words gentler.

"We thought the worst when we couldn't find you." He confesses after a few moments pause, voice solemn, concerned.

You can feel the shock pass over your face as you gaze up at him, into the blue of his frustrated gaze tempered by a fleeting glimmer of distress. It occurs to you then that you failed to consider Laswell and the others in this plan of yours, in bringing König back under the cover of darkness to hide him from prying eyes. You'd been gone all day, hadn't even returned by sunset. If Price had somehow come to check on you during the day and found you absent, it made sense he'd assume the worst. Especially with a monstrous foe stalking the midnight woods.

"I'm-" You try, voice catching in your throat with shame at having worried your new friends so. It makes it even harder to summon the lie on your lips, the one needed to both reassure Price and keep the injured man in your loft safe.

"I'm sorry." You breathe at last. "I didn't mean to worry you. I went out to pick herbs in the woods at sunrise. I thought maybe- maybe one of you might end up injured so..." Your trail off a little uselessly, biting your lip and trying to will the captain before you to relent.

It seems to work, because the tension unwinds from Price's shoulders all of an inch. He exhales long and hard through his nose, closing his eyes as he once more tries to measure himself.

"You went back into the woods after we were nearly attacked?" He asks, and you stiffen at the coldness in his voice, reeking of an ire second only concern. "When I told you to stay put?"

You frown at that, hand curling into a fist as it braces on the frame of your front door.

"You told me to wait until dawn." You correct him, voice harder now, eyes glinting with retribution. "You never told me not to leave my home."

Price has the decency to look taken aback, thick eyebrows arching at the sudden steel in your tone. He pauses then, and you see his hand palm the pommel of his sword at his side in contemplation, realizing his mistake.

"You're right." He offers at last with a nod, admitting to his fault. "Apologies. I didn't mean to raise my voice."

You don't answer, feeling a righteous pulse of justification that feels muted by the reminder of the man at your mercy still hiding in your home. You aren't entirely sure Price would hurt König, but between the bite on his leg and the ominous hood covering his face, you can imagine a monster hunter such as Price quickly jumping to conclusions and drawing his sword. You want to imagine the captain would be understanding of your guest, but if anything, the bite of the captain's words, the underlying suggestion of protection makes you want to close the door another inch, try and shield König’s stilled form from his view.

"You worried us, love." Price confesses softly, arms crossed but posture still tender at the seams of him. His head tilts down to regard you, the brim of his cap not fully shielding the familiarity in his gaze. "When we couldn't find you Laswell pitched a fit. In all my years I've barely seen her that furious."

He pauses, lets the weight of his concern rest on your gaze. "You mean a lot to her, I hope you know that. She'd never forgive me if I let something happen to you."

The undercurrent of Price's words is not lost on you, with his head tilted down towards you, eyes soft with something teetering dangerously close to fondness. It should soften your heart, should make you want to go lax into his arms, offer not apologies but a request for comfort from a man you respect, and harbor emotions you dare not yet name. You can't find the strength to do so, not with your secret listening to this entire conversation silently above you.

"I know." You whisper, breath fogging into the cool morning that seeps past the openness of your door, with you still in your nightgown, huddled under your shawl. You avert your eyes from Price's gaze, grimacing when you notice the miniscule stiffness that runs through him at your hesitancy. "I'll...be more careful. I promise."

Price nods, a little absent, his eyes a little distant. He's ready to say something else, breathing in a slow inhale-

When he freezes.

"Is that blood?" He asks, sniffing once more, eyes growing dark.

Your heart drops through the floor.

Gazing down at your feet, Price can't see the terror that flickers across your gaze, lips parting in horrid realization.

The bandages. The bowl. The water in the fireplace. The man hidden above you.

Blood.

Your cottage smells like blood.

"Red." Price rumbles, guarded, on edge as he echoes your nickname. He senses danger, can smell it in the air, his senses seek it like noise on the wind. Now, that alertness has him re-examining you, looking past your shoulder to the interior of your home, eyes tracing up the ladder to the loft-

Your eyes shoot up to him, lips fumbling for an explanation, feeling something resembling both terror and treachery reside in your heart.

"R-red...fox?" You manage, a little stifled, voice strained. Yet it's enough to make Price pause, look at you in confusion, expression somewhat startled. You swallow, force down the sudden tightness in your throat and do your best to relax your expression into neutrality once more.

"I found a red fox in the woods." You tell him, voice even. "It had already died- a hunter must have lost it. I decided to bring it back and u-use the fur for my cape, since winter is nearly here."

You have no idea where this newfound bravery comes from, the way you're able to smoothly spin a lie from nothing like silvery spider threads, smile and flutter your eyes at the captain as if you know he'll accept it.

Price seems...taken aback, for a moment, with your face turned up to him and offering him a timid smile. The hand that has tightened on the grip of his sword goes lax, eyes blinking a few times as his eyes lock with yours. You watch him nod once, a few times as he weighs your words.

"Explains why you were back late then." He tells you, and if there's a remainder of caution, of disbelief in his tone you refuse to acknowledge it, maintaining the grace in which you've spoken. The smile on your lips doesn't waver, doesn't budge even as Price stares down at you unblinking, searching for dishonesty in your gaze.

When he doesn't find it he sighs, raises a hand to rub at his brow.

"It would be better if you came and stayed at Laswell's for a bit." He suggests, though it sounds less like a suggestion and more like a declaration- one you refuse to bend to. "It would ease her mind knowing you're safe with us."

If he had asked you yesterday, before you had ventured into the woods, you would have readily accepted, would have had your things packed the moment he asked. Now, however, there's a secret, a responsibility that weighs heavy on your shoulders, gazes at you from the silence of the story above.

"Thank you, but I'll be alright." You offer gently, declining him. "I don't want to be underfoot, and I'd be more comfortable wandering around in my nightgown here than around four armed men."

It seems, up until this moment, Price has forgotten you are standing in your undergarments. There's a thin layer of linen that separates your bare flesh to the misty fog of early morning, your figure barely obscured by the drape of the garment against the curves of you, almost sheer in the area where it has been worn down. The chill of the morning ripples across your skin, and for a moment you're grateful for your shawl that obscures the swell of your breasts with your nipples pebbled against the cold.

You see Price quickly avert his eyes from you, looking over your head and clearing his throat in a sudden bout of bashfulness that seems strangely boyish for his grim demeanor.

"Right." He offers after a moment, more to himself than to you. "I'll...send the boys to check on you later, escort you if you need to travel into the forest."

He shoots you a look, brows raised, as if to seek your approval, and you nod. You see his eyes dart down for just a moment before he remembers himself as a gentleman, turning from your doorstep and towards the sleek mare that stands nearby. You watch him turn, see the glint of his dulled armor in the scant morning light, overcast by a sheen of clouds in the chalky grey sky above.

You're ready to close the door, breathe a sigh of relief, when his voice catches you once more.

"Red."

You blink, turn to him, with one hand still clutching at your shawl. Price fixes you with that grimness you remember from your first meeting, the resolve you saw when he escorted you safely home under the cover of darkness.

"We managed to injure it." He tells you, and it takes you a moment to realize what he means.

The wolf.

You shift uneasily, a shudder trembling through you at the memory of the huge, lurking thing in the woods, backlit by the waning Autumn moon.

"That's...good then, yes?" You offer timidly, but Price only shakes his head.

"An animal is most dangerous when it's injured and cornered." He declares gravely, voice heavy with warning. "Monsters are no exception."

He holds your gaze, and even without the grim spark of determination in his eyes, his warning is clear.

Be safe.

There's little else said before Price hoists himself into the saddle, gathering the reins and pausing just long enough to tip his hat to you in farewell. With a kick and a whinny, he's off down the main road of the village, back into the forest where the creature that paces your nightmares lurks, waiting. Watching.

You wait until the mist has settled before you close the door, the iron latch clanking shut as you lean against it with a relieved exhale. You can still feel your hands trembling, heart trying once more to resume into steadiness in the absence of the Witcher.

"Is he gone?"

You open your eyes, looking up to the top of the ladder that leads to the loft. A pair of eyes gazes down at you from beneath a hood, and you can see the bright glint of concern there as König grasps onto the ladder, head tilted owlishly at you.

You nod up at him quietly, swallowing another deep breath before your chin droops to your collarbone, where the laces of your nightgown rest delicately against your skin.

Ah-

König must see your eyes widen, because he makes a choked, startled little noise and draws back further into the loft so he can't see you in your state of undress. It's strangely endearing, considering his mammoth size and terrifying stature, and if you weren't so abashed at being so exposed you'd giggle.

"G-give me a moment to dress." You offer instead, moving back towards the partition that separates your bed from the rest of the cottage. "Then I can check your bandages."

König makes a muffled noise of agreement, still not revealing himself so as to allow you a modicum of privacy.

You dress quickly, pulling on your chemise, blouse, bodice and skirt. You're in the process of rolling up your stockings when you call out to him, voice gentle so as to not startle the gentle giant.

"You can come down now, if you want." You tell him. "I'll start the fire."

There's a little bit of a rustle from above, the floorboards creaking as König angles himself so his eyes peek over the edge and down towards you.

"A fire sounds nice." He supplies shyly after a moment. Then he hesitates, blinks a few times and avoids your gaze before adding: "...Maybe some food?"

"Of course." You reply gently, a soft smile across your face. König’s shoulders sink visibly in relief, and he begins to slow, aching process of descending the ladder on his injured calf.

It takes you a few minutes to restart the flickering flames in the hearth and set water to boil so you can try and clean the bloody bandages from the night before. König hesitates at the edge of the kitchen before you nod to a seat, where he perches uncertainly, eyes watching you with interest as you gather food and supplies.

"Here." You offer, sitting across from him and patting your thigh in a gesture for him to prop his leg on yours. When he does, the weight of it weighs down across your thighs, preventing you from moving even if you lifted with all your strength.

"Danke." You supply, and König makes another little noise of agreement, as if he can't truly summon the words to say much more.

There's a comfortable silence that descends over you both as you brace König’s leg on your lap wordlessly, gently unwinding the stained bandages to examine the wound below. König watches you as you do, remains absolutely rigid under your touch, as if the thought alone of someone laying their hands on him has something inside his chest squirm uncomfortably. You offer him a look of reassurance, only to find the wanderer averting his eyes from you.

If you look closely, you think you can see a dusting of pink under his hood. Then again, perhaps you imagine it.

The warmth of the hearth glows at your back as you inspect the bite mark on König’s flesh. Yet your brow scrunches, head dipping lower as you realize the wound is somehow much better than you thought it was- not bleeding, mostly scabbed over, the bruising already fading to yellow. It's already quite healed, and the shock of it bypasses something inside you that distantly tries to say that it isn't right.

"How is it?" König offers suddenly, and despite the low volume of his voice it's still enough to make you jump a little in your chair, the weight of his leg keeping you in place.

"You'll live." You supply with dry humor as you force yourself to relax. It seems to bleed into König. who's shoulders fall an inch, a sigh fluttering the fabric of his hood as he lifts his eyes to you.

"Thank you." He tells you honestly, earnestly. It's a tone you haven't heard from him yet, something that goes beyond gentleness and instead imbues you with a profound gratitude at his words. "You...saved my life."

You look down to your hands a little shyly, unable to keep a smile off your face. You begin the delicate process of cleaning his brawny calf before at last replying.

"I couldn't just...leave you out there." You tell him softly. "Not with the werewolf, not when you're injured. It would be wrong."

Your mouth twists as the memory of the monster is once more summoned into your thoughts. A massive dark shadow that wavers in the darkness between the gaps of gnarled trees, a low vibrating growl that shudders through you. König shifts uneasily under your hands, as if somehow he can sense the vision that haunts you, likely having seen the same thing.

"Besides." You continue, smiling. "It's nice to not be alone."

König pauses, blinking at you before he tilts his head in question. "Even if it's a stranger you rescued from the woods?" He asks, voice betraying a hint of his amused disbelief.

You grin at him, a little cheeky, eyes twinkling.

"Especially strangers from the woods."

He huffs at that, as if he doesn't really believe you but finds humor in your answer anyways.

"Honestly." You go on, tucking away the wet cloth stained red with the remainder of blood. "I'm...not exactly popular in the village. My neighbors think I'm rather strange. They leave me alone because they respect Laswell, but if it weren't for her...I don't know if they'd be as civil to me as they are."

"They don't like you?" König asks incredulously, brow knotting under his hood. "But...you're so kind."

You feel your face warm a little at that, and you distract yourself from it with a little huff, reaching for fresh bandages. Yet you pause, look up at him with a bit of a sorrowful gaze, feeling a familiar ache of solitude washed away in his gaze.

"Thank you." You tell him softly. "But kindness doesn't mean much to people who have lived their lives being afraid of things they don't understand."

Blinking, you grimace in realization when König averts his eyes away from you. The hood still rests over his face, obscuring the apparent deformities under it, and you realize that the words you've said remain all too familiar to him. Had they not, perhaps you wouldn't have found him lingering outside the village, too afraid to come closer for fear of the treatment he would receive.

"I suppose we're similar that way then." You muse, resuming your motions. Despite the frigid chill of the cottage still being warmed by the fire, König’s skin feels warm under your palm. You lay it flat on his knee to steady him when he shifts, and the resulting shudder of sensation from him nearly makes you pull away.

"Good company, then." He offers, almost too quiet to be heard, and it startles a chuckle from you- not expecting his response and delighted all the same.

"Good company indeed." You shoot back, unwinding the bandages and wrapping them once around the wound before securing the base of them. "Now hold still."

The grumble that König gives you is begrudging, yet endearing all the same, complying as he tries to not move while you delicately re-dress the bite mark on his leg. Yet it seems he has yet to exhaust his words, because he draws a breath as if to reply once, twice, thrice before he speaks.

"The captain-" He begins at last, voice a little strained. "Are you and him...?"

You splutter.

"N-no. He's...ah, he's just a friend." You answer haltingly, face warming under the sudden intensity of your guest's stare. "I mean, I only met him the other day. I rode with him to Laswell's and back, we-" You trail off, suddenly feeling the urge to shyly press your face into your hands.

"So, you do like him." König continues, and you look up sharply to him to see amusement dancing brightly in his gaze. You pinch the soft skin below his knee and the giant jolts under you even as you press down on his leg to keep him in place. Still, he breathes a huff of laughter even as you roll your eyes.

"Of course." You drawl, winding his bandages a little tighter for effect. "Yes, the poor maiden who lives alone in the woods gets her fabled ending by being whisked away by the handsome Witcher atop his dark horse. I think I read that one."

König hums a little noise in his throat, tilting his head so you can see the way his eyes crinkle with a little smile.

"That, or maybe a handsome werewolf." He ventures, and that startles a bark of laughter out of you, bright and colorful in your chest as you tie off the bandages and look at him once more.

You weigh his gaze against your own, see the smile in his stare reflected back into you. The fire crackles warmly at your back, catching orange and hazy against his hood, glinting against his pupils. The cottage feels warm now, not with the smell of woodsmoke, but with the small bit of happiness shared between you two, composed of laughter and the blooming fullness of contentment.

"Good company." You declare again, not yet looking away from him, and the brightness of his gaze only seems to grow as he agrees.

"Good company."

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#konig x reader #konig x you #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #my writing #my fic #fic: rotes madchen

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azsazz · 1 year

Text

Winter Winds

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Anon req: ik you probably won’t get to this in a while but i just read “in ribbons” and absolutely loved it!! got me so hot and bothered. anyway, thinking abt az, reader, and the kids got me thinking…what if the entire ic and their kids are all at wind haven for some trip or something. the oldest kids are pre teens, a bit older maybe. while at the camps, someone attacks the reader and she’s like seriously hurt. like seriously seriously hurt. az goes ballistic, and all the kids get so worried. but especially the older ones, maybe wren baz and zuzu, they get super angry and want to help az get revenge for their mother?

Warnings: Injury, mentions of blood and gore. Traumatized children but they are otherwise unharmed.

Word Count: 4,921

Notes: You didn’t think I forgot about posting today, did you? Silly. I didn’t make them pre-teens, they’re I guess a bit younger than that but close, but I think I’ve got most of the idea in here, except the revenge part. Sorry about that and sorry in advance this one’s kinda sad.

_________________________________________

“Daddy?!”

His son’s frantic voice slices up his spine like an icy blade, plunging deep and cleaving him in half.

At the sound, Azriel’s body flashes hot with adrenaline and everything else slows to a crawling pace.

He spins on his heel instantly, ignoring the grumbling of the camp warlord who’d been reporting to him, now muttering under his breath about letting his savage brood run wild in the camps, that he doesn’t know how to raise them.

His family means more to him than anything, and that terrified shout from his son to grab his attention isn’t one he’s heard in years.

Something is very very wrong.

Azriel’s heart stammers in his chest like the frantic beat of wings in war when he locks eyes with his second oldest son, Baz.

He shouldn’t be out here alone, even if he has been in the training camps for nearly two years now and knows his way around. If any of the warriors had grabbed him and thought to teach the Azriel a lesson through his child…the spymaster shivers at the thought.

The more pressing concern, the one that makes his brows twitch into confusion and fuels his feet forward and nearly halts his heart in his chest, is that young Baz isn’t dressed for the cold. The Illyrian mountains in the peak of Winter could give even the most attuned warrior frostbite in mere minutes, and Baz isn’t even wearing a coat.

Worse yet, there’s tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks, cherry red from his journey.

He must’ve run the entire way to meet him in boots that are untied and tripping him in his haste to find his father. If someone’s stolen his jacket Azriel will be the last thing they see as he–

Azriel’s slipping out of his own coat, uncaring that the snaps rip open by the base of his wings. He needs to get his son bundled up, and quickly, before he comes down with something worse than the cold Azriel already knows is in his future. He scoops Baz into his arms, wrapping him carefully and hugging him close to his chest. His shadows swirl around both of them, already preparing to winnow them away.

“What’s wrong buddy?” he’s whispering, wiping the tears from his son's bruning face. Sometimes he and his older brother will get into arguments that have one of the boys running to Azriel in a fit full of tears but never something quite like this. Baz knows how to put his coat and tie up his boots and not to run across the camp alone–

The little boy in his arms releases a sob that nearly shatters the snowy peaks of the mountains surrounding them, “Mommy–”

He doesn’t need to continue. Azriel winnows them back to the house without a second thought, hugging Baz tightly to his chest, lips pressed to the crown of his sweaty black hair. He hopes that his son can’t feel him trembling, fisting his hands in his coat to stop the shaking. If something has happened to you he doesn’t know what he will do. How he will survive.

But he would’ve felt it, if there was something wrong, through the bond you share. He lets his shields slide down, reaching out for that golden thread, the one that feels like warm summer winds in the night sky, your hand caressing his soul.

There’s nothing.

Azriel gives a sharp tug but receives no response as he and his son arrive in a mass of black shadows on the front porch. The bond grows more taut with worry the more he tries, desperate pleas for you to respond that go unanswered as he shoves the door open with a heavy boot.

The house is in complete chaos.

His shadows scatter immediately, searching and returning with whispers of bloody fingerprints on the counter top, streaking across the wall in his bedroom, on the doorknob to the bathroom, while he frantically searches the room for the rest of his children.

Horror coils his gut at the scent of his mate’s blood, thick in the air. It makes him choke, hot and heavy in the back of his throat.

Azriel sets Baz down, nearly tearing the door off of its hinges when he shuts it and turns the lock. He allows himself a single drawn out breath while his mind reels for a plan of action.

Wren looks more worried than his little brother, though Azriel knows that his eldest is trying his best to keep his emotions together for his siblings.

He had a screaming Jax in his arms, the younger boy clearly distraught about the heightened feelings of anxiety and concern smothering him. He reaches up for Azriel as Wren carries the struggling babe closer, trying his best to keep hold of his brother.

“Dad,” Wren breathes a sob of relief, but Az notes the twins in their playpen, Malos’ cries are loud enough for the silent wailing babe beside her, four sets of tiny hands curled around the brim of the pen with white knuckled fingers.

“Wren, I need you to watch your siblings for a little bit longer, okay?” Azriel’s voice is strained with tension as he calls out to Rhysand in his head, his golden eyes a hair wider as he searches the room for Zuzu. He rubs a reassuring thumb across Wren’s cheek and over Jax’s hair, trying to calm the little boy down. “Uncle Rhys and Uncle Cass will be here any minute, alright bub? They’re going to take us all to the River House.”

Wren’s lip quivers but he’s squaring his shoulders as he looks up at his father, “Mommy’s hurt.”

“I know,” it pains him to say it, but by now he knows, “I’m going to get her, will you and Baz help the little ones put on their shoes please?”

Wren nods and sets to work helping his father while Azriel rushes towards the bathroom where his shadows have located both Zuzu and you.

He finds Zuzu is sitting in front of the bathroom door, banging on it as she wails for you. Her throat must be raw from the screaming because she sounds horse, tears dripping down her face and snot bubbling from her nose.

Azriel hears Rhys and Cassian appear in the living room, and he lifts Zuzu up from under her arms as Cassian appears, his first thought to help his brother.

“Az–” Cassian sounds nervous for his brother. When he’d gotten the call a short time ago telling him that he and Rhys needed to pick up the children because something had happened to you his heart dropped, terrified for his best friend.

“Just take her, please,” Azriel pleads, letting the worry he feels coat his words. His throat is tight with emotion and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep himself from going berserk because he can see the red painted handprint on the brass knob and the smell of your blood is overpowering.

“I’ve got her,” Cassian nods, and the look in his hazel eyes gives Azriel brings forth that last shred of hope as his brother turns away and he twists the knob.

His knees nearly give out at the sight of you, unconscious and lying in a pool of your own blood. You look paler under the luminescent faelights, the hand holding together the gaping wound in your side now slack in the puddle of crimson.

Your name is a cry of helplessness on his lips as he dives forward, knees cracking against the tiles as he slides closer, pressing his fingers to the pulse point in your neck and caressing your face with the other, a shaky hand brushing the hair back from your face.

His shadows have alerted him that you’re breathing, but barely so, and he releases a shaky breath because he wasn’t able to feel the barely there beat of your pulse beneath his fingers with how badly they’re desensitized from his own burns and the pounding of his own heart.

But Gods–the gash in your side is something a warrior would receive in battle, like you have taken a long sword to the side, your flesh tearing open, muscles and blood and–

No, he doesn’t want to think about whether he sees an organ or not. No, he needs to focus on stopping the bleeding. Azriel can’t help but think, his beautiful mate…who has done this to you?

Rhys and Cass both appear within seconds, having called for the best healers in Velaris to the River House, where his children now are, under the care of the High Lady and Inner Circle themselves.

“Az,” Rhysand murmurs, hardly louder than a simple breath as he takes in the state of the room. His spymaster, on his knees in a pool of your blood as he tries his best to stop the bleeding. The towel you had grabbed is already sopping wet with blood and there’s no signs of it slowing.

His wings are drooped low behind him, the slippery warmth of the floor against the thin velvety skin is a reminder of exactly how much blood you have lost. Had he been any later, had you not sent Baz–

“Help me.”

It makes both brothers freeze, the utter helplessness, the devastation in Azriel’s voice, so small, so soft, unlike anything they’ve ever heard.

They jump into action.

“Az,” Cassian approaches him like he’s approaching a wild beast, unsure of how to approach this side of him, soft footing and hands raised in surrender. The spymaster lets his brother place a hand on his shoulder, turn him from his spot so that they’re looking at each other.

Cassian has never seen Azriel so panicked, not in the 500 years they’ve been best friends. Not through the wars, the nightmares, the births…not even through the mild complications you’d gone through when the twins were born. No, he was a solid wall, not an ounce of emotion had cracked through the barriers he had built, but this…

His chest heaves with every breath he takes, short and quick and filled with anxiety. Azriel’s hands are vibrating when Cassian takes them in his own. He doesn’t care that he’s kneeling in your blood, that Az’s hands are slippery with it, all he cares about are his friends.

“Az,” he tries again, and the usual honeyed gaze of the shadowsingers meets his own. He’d startled him. Can see the swirling emotions racing behind his eyes; the hatred, the scared, the utter fear, his mind unable to grasp onto one feeling long enough to put thought into it. “We’re going to take you to the River House, okay?”

He’d carry him if he had to, but Rhys can get the job done. There’s worry that Azriel might explode, break completely in his hands and let the beast within him finally take over. And if that happens, he’s glad the children are far away, because no one, not even Cassian nor Rhysand, will stop him from turning the Illyrian camps into nothing more than a tornado of black mist.

Azriel isn’t seeming to comprehend what he’s saying, head tilting down to look at where his hands rest in Cassian’s grip, thumb sliding through the cooling blood on his hands like it’s not the ichor of his mate, painting his hands the color of Cassian’s siphons.

Rhys comes around the both of them, crouching to place a hand on each of their shoulders. The wisps of darkness that carry them through the planes of the continent must strike something within Azriel because he’s tensing under his touch and wrenching away.

“Az,” Rhys commands softly, hands raised to show no sign of wanting to corral his brother’s anger, “The babes are right in there.”

The reaction from his statement is near instant, locking down his emotions little by little like the scales of his armor retracting into his leathers, until there is almost nothing left.

Azriel spins on his heel, already heading towards the shut door between him and the muffled cries of his children on the other side.

Cassian steps into his path, stopping him.

He watches the spymaster assess him with a trained eye but Cassian’s already weighed his brother's reactions in his head, being a true warlord himself. There is no way he will let the children see their father like this, worked up with their mother’s blood all over them.

Rhys draws the attention of the shadowsinger again, both Illyrians goading him like a tiger waiting to strike, “(Y/N) is this way. She’s with Madja and her best healers.”

The sound of your name strikes him low, chest caving and reaching down the bond for you again, knowing there will be no response, a wall of icy metal stopping him from entering.

Azriel glances at the door again, but makes his way towards the room you’ve been hauled off to, worried for your wellbeing.

The saliva is thick in his mouth as he ascends the stairs, his brothers tight on his flanks. His hands are curled into tight fists and he can feel the cracking of your blood on his hands in a way that would normally be calming if it were anyone else's blood, but not yours.

Never yours.

He pushes into the room and doesn’t look at the wound or the few nursemaids that are crouching over you. He doesn’t look at the bowls of water stained crimson, the towels dripping or the clothes they’d cut you out of, he keeps his focus on your closed eyes.

He’s quick to find his place at your side, perching out of the way as he reaches for your hand but freezes when he catches sight of his own.

“Here,” Cassian’s soft voice has him looking up, the warlord holding a freshly damp rag for him to take, not even a touch of red on it.

His throat works against a swallow as Azriel takes it, scrubbing his hands like he’s the one who’d rubbed his skin down to the bone and left these scars.

He does the best that he can without spiraling. He’s had blood on his hands before, many times, but the fact that it’s your blood has him reeling, immediately stopping the work on cleaning his own hands in favor of helping you clean yours.

When he’s done he hands it back to Cassian who gives him a soft nod and a sad smile. Neither are the things he wants to see right now. All he wants to see is you opening your eyes and looking at him, smiling, laughing, unharmed.

There’s nothing else to do but wait, which he does so quietly, stroking his thumb across your forehead while his other keeps your limp hand firmly tucked in his grasp.

He doesn’t look at the wound they’re stitching up, but he can’t help himself from reaching down the bond every few minutes, silently praying to the Mother that you will respond.

His brothers wait by the door. Rhys lets Cassian get cleaned up and check on the children while he watches Azriel from across the room, his own heart aching for his brother in this situation, to be near his own mate at a time like this.

But he stays put because that’s what any of them would do for each other, even when Cassian comes back, hands clean and clothes new, no traces of your blood on him.

They know that there will be no moving Azriel from your side to clean up, so they don’t even try. When Feyre dips her head into the room, catching a glance at you and your mate on the lone bed, a handful of healers working frantically around, they share a look.

It’s Rhys who approaches him this time, making sure his footsteps are heard by the shadowsinger as he nears.

He watches Azriel’s shoulders pull up taut, his spine stiffening and shadows curling his rounded ear that the High Lord is approaching.

His golden gaze is a harsh glare, a warning to stay away, and although Rhys understands the look, it still hurts.

“Az, maybe you should get cleaned up,” he suggests softly, keeping a healthy distance away from the bed. The healers have started sewing up your wound, having been able to stop the blood and stabilize you, and their work will be done soon.

The shadowsinger’s face doesn’t change as he looks back down at you, dismissing Rhys with that single action.

“The kids,” he tries, “They’re worried. They want to see you.”

Azriel nearly startles at the mention of his children. They’d been half scared to death when he’d last seen them, frantic and worried about their mother just as much as he was. He can see them all clearly, Wren trying to be strong, Baz’s red face wet with tears, Zuzu and Jax and the twins all crying out for help, understanding that something was horribly wrong.

“The kids,” he murmurs, as if he’s not even there. Azriel pets your hair again, smoothing his fingers down your cheek, across your lips, finding their way to the juncture of your jaw and throat, where your pulse is.

Rhysand waits with a baited breath as Azriel counts, comes to whatever conclusion in his mind that he can, grasping for some sort of sign that you might be okay.

The beating of your heart is constant, evened out even though one of the nurses has already told him as much. He won’t leave you if he doesn’t think you’ll be okay.

But he knows you would want him to make sure the children are okay, so he places a kiss on your hand, ignoring how the warmth hasn’t quite returned to it completely, before settling it comfortably at your side and standing from the bed.

He follows his brothers from the room and as soon as the door snicks shut behind him and the wail of Zuzu is carried to him on the whisper of a shadow, he breaks.

He makes a break for his children, his flight sense kicking in but he’s hauled backwards into the arms of Cassian, holding him tightly across the chest as he struggles.

If he were in his right mind he’d be able to figure a way out of his hold.

“Az, you have blood all over you,” Cassian grits, his breath puffing with the struggle of keeping Azriel in his hold. He’s writhing like an animal, trying to tear his way through whomever he needs to to get to his family. “You can’t go in there like this. You’ll scare them.”

That makes him stop struggling, worming his way out of Cassian’s touch.

“But Baz didn’t have a jacket on–”

“He’s already been looked at by a healer,” Rhys supplies, trying to calm the skittish shadowsinger.

“And Zuzu’s been screaming her head off,” he retorts just as easily, mind reeling at how his children must be feeling.

“She’s been given a soothing tea for her throat,” Cassian adds, fiercely protective of them as he is his own children.

“And Jax–”

“Jax is an empath,” Rhys agrees, ushering Azriel towards the other end of the hallway, “And it’s normal for him to react like that with all of the emotions running rampant in the room at the time. You need to calm yourself down if you are to hold him, your reactions will harm him more than Wren’s. For now he’s fine. They’re all okay, Azriel. Here and in one piece, waiting for you.”

Azriel’s wide eyes are glossy as he looks between his brothers, back and forth as if he’s searching for anything other than the truth there.

He won’t.

“They’re okay?” he asks again, not quite sure he believes it.

Both of his brothers nod, “They’re okay Az. Promise.”

.·:·.☽ ✦ ☾.·:·.

You feel like utter shit.

Like you’ve been carved down to the bone with a blade. There’s a pounding in your head and when you open your eyes the room spins, bright with light. Your head goes with it, the whispers of words striking like a bell tower to your brain.

“(Y/N)?”

That voice silences everything.

You squeeze his hand, blinking against the faelights until the three Azriel’s you see finally become one, perfect, mate.

“Az,” you breathe.

He bites his lip, hardly able to contain the relief he feels in this moment. He knows you’ve just opened your eyes but he’s squeezing his shut tight and resting his forehead gently against your own.

And the bond floods with warmth, his breath catching in his throat.

“I’m here,” your free hand finds his hair, smoothing through it the best that you can in your weakened state, “I’m here, Love.”

He nearly whimpers, would have if his mind hadn’t gone immediately into spymaster mode, seeing you awake.

He pulls away from you all too quickly, sitting straight in his spot beside you, the golden glow of his iris’ swimming with dark shadows.

“Who.” he asks, and it’s not a question. It’s the only word he can get out, voice dipped in steel and as sharp as the blade he’s been filing for the days you’ve been under rest.

“Some old relative,” you cough, throat dry, and you hiss at the pull in your stitches. Azriel is quick to help you drink some water down, soothing the roughness in your voice and the pounding in your head. “Claimed to be so, at least.”

“Fucking bastards,” he spits, the shadows in his eyes sweeping into hot, angry flames, “I’ll kill every single fucking one of them.”

“Az,” you sigh. You love your mate dearly and this is about as normal a reaction as you would expect from him, but you’re so achingly tired. “Are the kids okay?”

He shudders at the thought of something happening to your children and kisses across your knuckles, your hand in his shaking ones.

“Yes, the babes are fine.”

You settle a bit more, knowing that truth. The fact that Azriel has referred to them as babes shows you just how terrified he truly is.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers, propping his chin where your hand is holding his.

“Tired,” you offer, because you’re afraid that a joke might push him over the edge. “Can I see my babies?”

Azriel looks like he might protest. You’ve been changed and brought to a different room once the painkillers and healing drinks the nurses had forced down your throat had begun to work, but he thinks of his rowdy children and your fresh injury, he worries for you.

But you’re pleading, “Please, Love. I need to see them.” And he gets it.

Because he finds himself needing to see them as well.

“Drink some more water, tell me what happened, and I’ll get Rhys to bring them in.”

You hold his gaze, nodding finally.

Azriel helps you drink some more water, nearly a whole glass before you begin.

“I was on my way back from the mercantile,” you start, swallowing harshly as you wrack your brain for what had happened. “Just a quick trip to get some treats for the little ones,” you laugh dryly, tears welling up in your eyes. Azriel’s quick to thumb them away, caressing your cheek with his warm hand.

“I didn’t see him coming until it had already happened,” you admit shamefully. Your mate had taught you better than that and you had failed him.

Your mate sends nothing but warmth down the bond because while you may have been taken by surprise, he knows you didn’t go down without a fight.

“I didn’t understand how bad it was until after he was laying in the snow next to me and I looked at my torn coat and saw all the blood.”

You remember crying out as his blade slashed across your body and took you to your knees. You’d been able to act through the pain, kicking a foot out behind you and sweeping your attackers feet from under him.

It was easier to pry the longsword from his hands when he was gasping for air and even easier to make sure he never took another breath again.

“I don’t remember getting home,” you exhale a shaky breath, “I was just holding my side and there was so much blood Az, so much blood.”

He shushes you softly, upset with himself that he’s asked you to share this story. If he had known your attacker was dead he wouldn’t have asked and before he can try and stop you you’re already continuing.

“I was afraid to go home,” you admit, and his hand clutches yours tighter, “I didn’t want the babes to see me like this.”

Your admission hangs over the both of you, loud in the otherwise silent room.

“I’m glad you did,” Azriel’s voice is thick with emotion, “If you hadn’t and I had lost you…”

“You didn’t,” you reassure, maybe for the both of you, “Let’s not think about that.”

He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to think about anything else but he nods, agreeing.

“I hid it the best I could, but you know Wren,” the thought of your oldest brings a smile to your face, “He’s so smart, that one. I told him to watch the babes for me while I went to clean up and he tried to talk to me, tried to ask me what was wrong but I just kept going, telling him that I was fine and would be out in a minute…” you trail off because you weren’t out in a minute. On the floor unconscious in a minute more like.

Azriel kisses your knuckles, lingering on your fourth finger before he answers, “He told Baz to come get me. I was talking to a commander and he came running up screaming and crying out for me. Scared me shitless I tell ya. Didn’t even have a coat on.”

Your eyes bulge and you try to sit up, distressed over your son out in the mountains without a coat, “Is he–'' your question is cut off by a hiss and Azriel’s on his feet guiding you back down onto the bed, gentle hands on your shoulders.

“He’s alright, Love. They all are. Got them all checked on while they were helping you. Not even a sniffle,” Azriel soothes. He relaxes when your shoulders droop and you settle back into the pillows.

“Thank you,” you whisper, thumb brushing across his knuckles, “I love you.”

“I love you too, (Y/N). So fucking much,” he breathes, shuddering when you caress his cheek.

You tug on him weakly, puckering your lips for a kiss that he easily ducks down for, the tension melting away from his body now that you’re awake in his arms.

“Can I see them now?” you ask as soon as you pull away. Your mate huffs playfully, already calling out to Rhys in his mind.

The door slams open, Wren and Baz racing into the room with the Inner Circle hot on their heels. Rhys is holding Zuzu, Feyre’s hugging Jax close to his chest while Cassian and Nesta each hold a babe, their own boys trailing in behind them.

Azriel shoots to his feet, catching his two oldest sons around their waists before they can launch themselves at you.

“Mommy,” Wren cries from his father’s grasp and Baz bursts out into tears at the sight, reaching over Azriel’s shoulder for you.

“Az, let them go,” you scold lightly, but caress the bond, thankful for stopping them before another injury could happen.

“Boys, you need to be gentle with mommy, okay?” Az holds each of their arms, making sure that his order has been received by each son before slowly letting them go.

They’re both on your uninjured side, Baz tumbling into your arms. He climbs up onto the bed and you hold him close, letting him cry into the crook of your shoulder, reaching out for Wren with tears in your own eyes.

“Hi baby,” you whisper, voice thick.

“Mom,” he breaks, tears spilling as he climbs up next to Baz, letting you run your fingers through his hair.

You bite your lip, holding your boys as close as you can, before looking around the room at the rest of your children, your family.

Each one is looking at you with smiles, some pained, some relieved, some teary, and you know that if something had gone wrong, that your children would be in the best of hands.

Your teary gaze slides back to your mate. He hadn’t looked away from you while you were taking everyone in, seeming to know exactly where your mind had just been. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now, all he wants is to hold you and his children as close as he can, forever and always.

Cassian hands Knox off to Azriel as he rounds the bed to your injured side, taking the spot next to you to block your injury as he gestures to his brothers and their mates to bring forward the rest of your children.

Let us know if you need any help, Rhys speaks to Azriel and the shadowsinger nods, looking at you with the babes all curled in close, hugging each other tight.

He knows they won’t leave you now, but he doesn’t care because everyone is here together, in one piece.

One big family.

#Azriel #azriel x reader #dad!azriel #daddy!azriel #azriel/reader #azriel x you #azriel/you #azsazz #azsazz next gen #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acotarxreader #acosf #acofas

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eddiesbug · 2 years

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𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃, 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐓 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋

vampire 𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍.

[smut 16+ (p in v), blood, gore, eddie is a sexy vampire, part 1 of a miniseries, feel free to req scenarios for this au!!]

eddie sinks his razor-sharp, stark white fangs into the dip of your jugular, moaning against your neck as blood spills from the puncture holes and gathers in your collarbone. you’re seated firmly in his lap, knuckles strained as you squirm through the first inklings of pain. your pulse thrums underneath his face, the heat radiating off of you in waves as he fervidly drains you for all you’re worth. you murmur something barely coherent, throat bared to him with your head nestled into him comfortably. you’re an offering. accepting your fate, whatever he decides it will be. what’s yours is his, after all — even your life.

the initial sharp pain has faded to a pleasurable ache and you loll as he gulps down more and more of your sweet ichor. the act of letting him consume you is enjoyable, but it always leaves you drowsy and weak from the substantial blood loss. always attuned to your needs, he can tell when you’ve had enough; he feels you go entirely lax against him, your body weight propped against his own. you’ve learned by now that it’s easier to stay still and let him get it over with; struggling only makes it worse.

peeling himself away from your now weeping neck, he licks the wounds clean and patches you up with some gauze. you smile, that beautiful, dopey smile that appears when you’re tired like this. he grins back, flashing his crimson-soaked teeth. you scrunch your nose.

“you’re pretty,” you mumble, arms coming up and around him to tangle in his hair. he’s always had striking features, but since turning everything’s a little sharper. his stare is more piercing, his ears pointed at the ends rather than curved, cheeks devoid of their once flushed pink. he’s all straight, angular lines in places where he used to be soft and rounded.

“you’re prettier,” he counters. you don’t believe it for a second.

you giggle. his lips pull back to bare his honed fangs as he feels you lazily rut against him. you’re needy, and who is he to deny you?

the airy sounds expelling from your lips hitch your cadence and eddie lifts his hips to push back against you, his erection now prominent through his ripped jeans; you sigh.

“please, eddie. i’ll be good. promise,” you whimper, trembling hands kneading and pawing at his neck. you’re pliant, putty in his cruel hands. his obedient little princess.

“i know you’re good. think you deserve a reward for being so good to me, hm?” he coos, slipping a broad hand beneath your skirt. one finger rubs the length of your slit, collecting your wetness and holding it to the glistening light. “when d’you get this wet, sweet thing?”

you keen at his touch, hips bucking of their own accord.

“tell me what you want,” he says. “i’ll give you whatever you want, alright?”

“want you inside me.”

“how could i say no to that?” he teases, pushing your cotton underwear to the side. you fumble with his belt, tugging his jeans aside with lazy movements and almost immediately sinking down onto him. “slowly.” he chides.

tears prick at your eyes as you force yourself down too quickly; he’s absolutely hung, so no matter how much he prepares you, it’s unpleasant at first, oftentimes pushing past the threshold of pleasure and into pure pain. you sink down onto inch after agonising inch, encasing him in your gummy walls, and by the time you’re done you’re in tears. fat droplets cascade down your hot cheeks, the ballooning sobs in your throat bursting and tumbling out of your lips.

“i told you,” eddie scolds lightly but with no real malice, “i told you to take it slow, you greedy thing.” his tongue slides out to lick a broad stripe up your face, sucking the tears from your ruddy cheeks. he lets out an obscene groan, hips gyrating into you in fluid movements. you feel his sharpened teeth grazing against your face, across your cheekbones and then down to your jaw; the danger, the awareness that he’s a deadly creature that could kill you at any moment he pleases, excites you. he flips you so that you’re underneath him, pumping into you once, twice, thrice.

“fuck,” he moans. “you get any more perfect and i’m gonna think you were made for me.”

“i am,” you gasp.

“you are. you’re my little slut and a perfect meal,” he purrs. “don’t want me to feed from anyone else? you’d get too jealous?”

“yeah,” you whine. “just me. ‘m yours.”

“good.” he punctuates the statement with a thrust hard enough to leave you seeing stars. his teeth protrude, nipping at your collarbones meanly; pinpricks of blood pool and he laps at it voraciously, fucking hard up into you. “i’m gonna fucking make a mess of you, then. you’re mine to ruin.”

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missfisherandjack · 3 months

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Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (2012-2015) ↳ 1x06 Ruddy Gore

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foxspirit1928 · 2 months

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Miss Fisher Snippets (180)

After her precious grandson ignored her warning and accepted a private dinner invitation from the floozy, Grandma Lin decided to take a more drastic measure by paying her a personal visit. Little did she know that Phryne Fisher was not one easily offended by name calling or scared off by the talk of curses, so this visit was essentially wasted.

A couple of random thoughts. The Mandarin pronunciation of Fox Spirit is Hu-li-jing (狐狸精), which actually kind of resembles “floozy”. Also, Grandma Lin said that Lin Chung was promised to be married to a good “family” in Shanghai, not a good “girl”. I could imagine how furious she must have been later with the Hu family when she found out that her granddaughter-in-law-to-be was not the good girl she assumed her to be.

(Posted 24-Feb-2024)

#miss fisher snippets #foxypedia #ruddy gore #miss fisher #missfisher #mfmm

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allpartofthejob · 1 year

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A good waltz is slow and close. And sometimes a little dangerous... (You could get hit. Or loose all reason).

#ruddy gore #mfmm #phryne fisher #miss fisher's murder mysteries #jack robinson

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curiositydooropened · 7 months

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Wildfire • Pyre

Reunions with old friends leads to more information about Vickie's death. You and Steve seem to be growing closer, falling back into old roles. But something dark lingers in the recesses of your mind.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 8,528

Warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slooooowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire, panic attacks, insomnia

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Three: Ignite • Chapter Five: Searing

---

NOW

September 1988

Everything Rightside Up existed in saturation. Blue skies were blue. The red-oranges of fallen leaves were ruddy and neon. Green leaves of canned spinach were mossy and vibrant. Even the stark whites were brighter, cornea-burningly so.

Your mouth felt dry as you approached the Med Bay, sneakers squeaking on linoleum beside the steady rhythm of Eddie’s shoes matched with the creak of his walker. His hair and eyes were painted in rich chocolates today, his skin almost as blinding as the walls that surrounded you.

“I think you’re doing a good thing,” he reassured, raising the fingers on one hand to twinkle a wave at Sandra, the beautiful girl behind the counter who buzzed you in. Disinfectant stung in your nostrils.

“I think I’m doing a neutral thing,” you argued, holding the door open for him to pass through. “He doesn’t want to see me. He probably isn’t even awake yet. Maybe he’s a vegetable.”

“Henderson said he flipped him off yesterday,” Munson grinned. “He’s fine, and he does want to see you.”

“Henderson?” You frowned, taking a step backwards from the threshold whence you came, thumbing to a different section of the building, far away from the people in lab coats and the looming threat that lay ahead. “Oh, I better go check in with him then.”

Eddie caught your wrist and propelled you back toward him. “You saved Harrington’s life. I would kill for an opportunity like that. You get to lord it over him forever now.”

You sighed, faked a smile, tried not ignore the pit in your stomach, tried to forget the sting of ash and decay as you stripped yourself of your pack and ducked beside the brick fireplace, the only part of that little house that remained standing.

You’d called out for Steve, again and again, panic stinging your lungs just as it had when you’d lost Vickie. Then the adrenaline kicked in, her voice and his, Steve’s, echoing instructions in your mind. Lift here, tug there. Your squats had come in handy. You walkied back to base, got an emergency evac vehicle.

When you found Harrington, he was unconscious, face caked in ash, blood pooling somewhere beneath him. He was lucky he’d been in the stairwell and not any higher. A millisecond sooner, and he’d have been crushed by a toilet, a vanity, a king-sized bed. You cleared the rubble, checked him for major breakages, and hoisted him onto your back. He was so heavy.

“Just go in and tell him to say ‘thank you’ or you’ll pull the plug.” Eddie was shoving you through another door, but you noticed he hadn’t hurried to follow.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” You hissed, offering a nervous smile to a nearby man in mint scrubs.

“Nope,” your best friend grinned. “Got me a receptionist to flirt with.” He tousled his curls and leaned casually against a long countertop.

Sandra appeared just over his shoulder, a sweet smile on her round face. “Two doors down,” she gestured.

With clenched fists, you inched ahead as instructed. You were sweating. You didn’t even know what you were going to say. You just wanted to see if he looked small, if his hair still coifed perfectly against cotton sheets, if his mouth would turn up at the corners when he saw you.

Your fingertips pressed to the door, and you heard laughing inside, a rasped voice. Your heart sank, stomach rolled. You glanced sideways into an open window and saw dirty blonde and freckles, and you turned heel for the start of the hallway.

Eddie stood on the other side of a closed door, waggling his fingertips, too-mischievous a smile playing across cat-like features.

Then, she said your name.

Robin Buckley stood ten feet away. She was dressed in civies, hair crimped and vest buttoned, and her sweet, freckled cheeks were pinched pink to compliment the sad sea of blue in her eyes. Her hand was raised in a greeting, the other arm wrapped around her ribcage, a shield, a nervous stance.

You swallowed, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. But some other force was pushing you forward, one step at a time to split the distance.

Her arms were around you in seconds, spindly, soft, and she smelled exactly as you always remembered: vanilla and patchouli, weed. She was warm, a bit of home you hadn’t had in months, hadn’t deserved. You didn’t deserve her.

You pulled away, swallowing the lump in your throat, blinking away any emotional that threatened. “I was just coming to visit uh…” You gestured inwards, at a boy in too big a bed, brow crinkled, hair a riot against stark white linens. His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw clenched.

“Oh yeah we were just,” she rasped, graveled voice sweet as honey. She gestured inward and paused before you watched her own eyebrow quirk. “Sleeping. He just fell asleep.”

You settled on, “oh, good.” You didn’t feel right in your body, didn’t feel present, didn’t feel necessary. You’d interrupted a moment. You were an intruder.

“Lucky for you,” Robin crossed to Steve’s bedside and grabbed her bag, tossing it over one shoulder, “I’m starving. Shall we go get some lunch?”

You blinked at the invitation, the white walls closing in. She stared expectantly, soft blues and tans. “Oh, one of us should probably stay with…” You gestured once more toward the boy. The frown hadn’t left his face, though now it felt more of a grimace. You wondered if he might be in pain.

“He’s fine,” Robin insisted, and you felt slender fingers jostle your shoulder. “Come on. Looks like you could use to get out of this Hell hole.”

You turned to look at Steve one last time, as you were herded along the corridor and back to reception, and his face had settled to one of peace.

—

She drove you miles out of town, somewhere south, where a dry dirt road met a diner with a view of the lake. Ducks gathered at the banks and a child cried in a mother’s arms, and the sweet smell of maple syrup flooded your senses with some otherworldly nostalgia that ached in your molars and ribcage.

She chatted the whole way there, as Robin was apt to do, a mess of words about life and her parents and foregoing university for community outreach, and you clutched the belt at your chest like it were a life vest.

She ordered a club sandwich with fries, and promised to share when you ordered a salad, not sure you could keep anything down. Not with the world on its axis like this, not with her cherry-stained smile as if nothing was wrong, as if this threesome wasn’t missing it’s essential party.

“Thanks so much,” she smiled at the woman setting drinks down between you. The same red plastic cups you found in the Mess Hall made you feel like you were trapped in a simulation, some sort of sick joke.

Robin stirred the ice in her soft drink with a red-and-white striped straw, and you watched the bubbles fizz through dark liquid to burst at the top. “Before I force you to tell me what the Hell is going on with you and Steve, I have to tell you something.”

You blinked back at her, the water in front of you unappetizing despite the dryness of your mouth.

There was something uncanny about the way she spoke, too chipper, too soft, but you noticed she was avoiding your gaze, staring instead at the rings she wound around her fingers. Her nails were chipped in navy blues. “And I know you’re going to argue with me, because that’s who you are, and I’m not going to engage with that because this is honestly just my truth, you know? And I’ve spent a long time thinking about this, so I know how I feel.”

“Robin,” you cut-off her anxious rambling, an auto-response you’d built over the last couple of years, muscle memory.

Her mouth closed, and you watched the tick of her jaw, sunlight pouring in to cast her in honey and warmth. She was a thing of beauty, and to watch the wobble in her bottom lip as she clamped down it drew the breath from you.

You sat in silence, wringing the paper napkin in your lap while she chipped more fervently at the blue polish, bits of it scattered across a coffee-stained tabletop.

“I’m mad at you,” she finally came out with it, and the quaver in her voice punched you right in the stomach. Her eyes shone, harsh, dark. “I’m so fucking mad at you, and it’s so frustrating because it’s not even your fault, not really.”

You swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall, the ache that clawed your inside with sharp talons and flower-faced teeth.

“It’s not your fault she was flayed. It’s not your fault she had no other choice. It’s not your fault you didn’t have a choice, but none of that is what I’m mad about anyway,” she continued to ramble, twisting the rings around her fingers. “I’m mad that you left me. You just ditched me, and I understand you’re hurting, and I’m so sorry for that, but did you think for like half-a-second that I’m hurting too? And all I needed for the past three months was my best friend? You left me alone with Steve, for Christ’s sake. Steve! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love him with all of my heart, but he’s not good with things like this. He’s getting better, but he doesn’t know her like you do, and sometimes I just need to talk about her and -”

“Robin,” you stopped her again, your breathing matching hers in speed, heart racing, lungs strained against your ribcage.

Her mouth slammed shut, and her fingers went to her ears like a petulant child. “I’m not going to hear anything you have to say unless its an apology.”

Your mouth hung open at that, processing her emotions, your own. A bell caught on the breeze, the softest of sounds, and then it felt like fingers carded through your hair, a hand to your shoulder, warmth, comfort, light. You released a sigh, “Robin, I’m so so sorry.”

The corners of her lips turned up, and she rolled her eyes, reaching for the red plastic up. “I forgive you, obviously. Idiot.” She toed at your knee with the rubber toe of her shoe while she drank, and you both laughed off the emotion prickling in your eyes.

You picked up your own water with a trembling hand and downed the ice cold liquid, letting it dampen the swell in your throat and chest.

“Now that that’s settled, please tell me what the hell is going on between you and Dingus. The boy tells me nothing.”

—

As the heat of summer fell away into fall, the sun went with it. You awoke in darkness, struggled to pull yourself out of bed after restless sleep. Daylight faded from the farmland too quickly, a mask of yellowed orange that covered naked branches that twisted up through browning leaves. It was cold and dark and reminded you of that place, an unfriendly reminder that loomed over your shoulder as you ran, lap after lap around a track.

Three days after your lunch with Robin, you’d managed to peel yourself from sweat-drenched sheets to run off the dread that settled from a nightmare. You’d run with a friendly tune in your head, tainted ominous by each thump of footfall against the track, eery by the humming under your breath against the water pressure from the shower, your own voice echoing off tile walls.

The sun was just coming up by the time you entered the dormitory corridor, dim warmth that seeped from sitting quarters and splashed across heavy steel doors.

You scrubbed excess water from your ear with the towel draped over your shoulders and rounded the last corner, halting when you saw shadow framing your door. Tall, with broad shoulders, hand-raised in a knock.

You sidestepped, tilted your head to get a better look, and nearly screeched to a halt when you reached an angle that let the light shine in.

Steve Harrington waited for you to answer your door, jaw clenched, sporting short hair. It had been buzzed around his neck and ears, but remained long on top, parted down the center in adverse to his signature coif, a mess of brown that he tousled in one hand.

You blinked back at him, taking in his stance, tight and uncomfortable, before it all sunk in.

He was awake. He was standing. He suffered no broken bones, only a concussion and several bumps and bruises, so you shouldn’t have been surprised. He was waiting at your door.

“Shit,” you snapped yourself out of it and crossed to him.

He startled and spun on his heel to face you, eyes alight with surprise. He looked good like this, more adult. Maybe that was the official nature of his stance, or the stack of documents he held under one arm. “Um… hi.” He greeted, scratching at the back of his neck. You wondered if he missed the locks back there that were so easy to sink your fingers into.

You swallowed, blinked back at him. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, extending a hand your direction, although the look on his face was less comforting than perturbed.

“Your hair,” you gestured, biting back a sarcastic smile aching at your cheeks. “Are you okay?”

That famous Harrington eye roll greeted you, and he shifted to expose the stack of manila envelopes under his arm, wrapping his knuckles against the top. “I brought you something to look at. Could we uh…?” He nodded the closed door to your room.

“Oh, shit, yeah,” you shuffled with the key in your pocket, the little brass thing tethered to a decade old friendship bracelet that had long since fallen off Vickie’s wrist.

Harrington stepped out of your way, and you fumbled with the lock until the door popped open to reveal a mess of dirty laundry and dishes strewn about. You cursed under your breath and scurried to kick things into their appropriate corners. You winced at the crash of plates in your sink, and scurried to the bed to pull the duvet up and over two scrunched pillows.

Harrington set his haul on your rickety table.

When you’d finished your tidy, you turned to face him, a bit flustered, but you hadn’t anticipated catching him in the act of sizing up his own reflection in the mirror. He frowned, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to flatten the sheer volume peaking the fringe pieces.

“It looks good,” you offered, delighted when he jumped at the sound of your voice, hand snapping back to his side.

“They um… they had to do it for the stitches.” He gestured to the back of his head.

Following the curvature of his skull on the left side were ten tiny stitches, black thread holding his flesh together where there’d been a gaping wound. You’d wrapped something around him to stop the bleeding, your shirt, maybe. You couldn’t remember much from that horrible morning, only the aches of your muscles as the exhaustion willed you to sleep on a cot in the Med Bay that first night you’d been asked to quarantine.

“How’re you feeling?” You asked.

Harrington nodded. He watched his own fingers dance along the tabletop. “Good. Nothing broken. They released me about an hour ago.” He glanced up at you, a shadow cast from the bridge of his nose as morning light began to seep in from frosted windows.

“Good,” you managed a soft smile, hoped he could feel the relief that relaxed your shoulders.

“Hey, um…” He scratched at that stubble on the base of his neck once more. “Thank you for uh… saving my ass.” His eyes found yours, humble and honest.

You took a few steps forward and hesitated to reach for his arm until he put his hand out to catch yours. You gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Guess those squats were worth it after all.”

You bit back another smile, stomach swooping as one again his eyes rolled back into his head. You released his hand and swatted at his stomach before pulling out a chair at your little rickety table to seat yourself at. “You need to lay off the brisket, big boy. I nearly threw my back out.”

“You need to quit hanging out with Munson,” Harrington slid into the seat next to you, spinning the stack of files your direction. “You’re staring to sound just like him.”

You cocked a brow. “You threw Munson’s back out?”

Watching him fight back sass tickled you more than you thought it might, the same relief you felt pulling Robin into a hug after your day out together. It felt like your axis was righting itself, like maybe your world was staring to feel a little less Upside Down.

Harrington tapped two fingers to the top of the pile in front of you. “Erica stole these for me. If anyone finds out, we’re screwed. And we owe her our dessert cards for the next two months.”

You snorted and flipped open the soft manila folder to find the face of a bright-eyed girl with red hair and freckles. Her jaw had been tightened, eyes a little wild, determined, and God, she’d been so young. Instinctively, your fingertips trailed the glossy coating of the photograph, and you wished you could feel the softness of her skin, smell her mom’s detergent on her clothes. You wished you could wrap her into your arms, like you’d done with Robin, and make her laugh, Hell, make her roll her eyes like you did with Steve.

“These are her files, anything Erica could get her hands on. I peeked through them, but I didn’t want to get too far in without you.” Steve said, voice achingly soft beside you. “They’re in chronological order. Psych eval, medical tests.”

You thumbed through the first few pages, her enlistment form. Perfectly typewritten was every historical accuracy about your best friend. Her full name, the street she grew up on, her blood type. And after a few pages, you’d come across a picture of yourself, your information labeled under PARTNER.

“If anything’s too hard to get through, let me know.” Your new partner leaned forward on his forearms, staring at your upside down photograph, his hair falling into his eyes.

You swallowed, nodded, and turned another page.

—

Hours had gone by, you weren’t sure how long, but the warm light cast upon Steve’s face suggested it was mid-afternoon, broaching evening. You’d learned much about your best friend and at the same time nothing at all. You’d choked upon all of the times she defended you, or told a higher up how wonderful you were, how worthy, how competent. Never once were you disparaged. Never once had she fought or fallen out of line.

You wondered if you should have started at the bottom of the pile, worked your way back to the moment she’d been flayed, but when you’d mentioned, Steve halted your wrist and told you he’d take the bottom half. You thought to argue, to protest, but the look in his eye was soft, not scolding, and the grip on your wrist was loose.

You caught yourself watching him work, both of your voices hoarse from passages read aloud. When he concentrated, his brow crinkled, and the tip of his tongue stuck to the corners of his lips. You’d caught him, on several occasions, harrumphing over hair fallen into his eyes that couldn’t be tossed back like it used to.

Now, as you glanced up from another mission log transcription, you saw the wave of warmth fan his features, and immediately he winced at the glare, fingers rubbing at bloodshot eyes.

“Are you okay?” You asked, alarmed at the grit of his teeth.

“Yeah, just um…” He squinted your direction. “Eye strain, I think. I should have been wearing my glasses.”

You leapt up, if for no other reason than you cover him with your shadow, the frosted glass above your bed lacking curtains. “The concussion probably doesn’t help. Let’s take a break.”

He emitted a soft groan and rubbed at his eyes again, pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefingers. “You’re probably right. Is that okay?”

You wrapped your arms around yourself and glanced down at the heft of his pile still remaining, hidden pages calling out to you. “Yeah, totally. It’s all kind of blurring together at this point anyway.”

“Yeah, right,” he inched his way up and out of his chair, retrieving a sweatshirt he’d shed toward early afternoon off the back of his chair and stuffing his head into it. He’d unintentionally crowded your space, all limbs, and he smelled clean and a little sterile.

Somewhere in his reflection, a flash of orange caught your eye. You glanced sideways at the dingy mirror, the expanse of his back, the stitched scar at the base of his skull.

“Do me a favor?” He muttered, running his fingers through his hair for the dozenth time.

You hummed and tore your gaze from the mirror image.

“Don’t look at that stuff without me.”

The piles sat between you, typewritten notes on stark white pages that beckoned. You glanced downward and caught your name, a conversation with Owens post-mission. Just a handful of pages beneath that was the log you knew you were looking for, maybe images taken post-mortem, maybe a death certificate.

“We just don’t know what it could kick up. What if it triggers something?” Harrington wrapped his knuckles against the tabletop, recapturing your attention.

You swallowed, eyes a little glassy from exhaustion, and nodded. “Sure, yeah. You want to take them with you?”

He shook his head, shrugged. “I trust you.” He turned and clicked open the door. The hallway beyond was quiet, dark save the glow of a red EXIT sign. Before he left, he turned to offer a squinted smile, the faintest upturn of his pink lips. “You going to be alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reassured. Something had shifted, crashed apart with the stairs of that house. Moments that bond often have this affect on relationships, you’d discovered that much over the past few years.

Steve nodded and left, door closing softly behind him.

As he did so, the papers on the tabletop fluttered closer to you, an unseen force shifting things back into your line of sight. A label slipped out of the bottom stack, and typed in careful letters you read the word ‘FLAYED’.

—

You left in a hurry, shoving all of your dirty clothes into a basket to haul downstairs. You took a turn on the track as your pants dried. You avoided your room like something had begun to grow in the walls, a pitch black ooze that spread with every footstep.

You couldn’t be there, couldn’t read it, and yet every inch of you itched to know the truth, to get answers.

When you’d exhausted most avenues of distraction, you finally found yourself in the corridor just south of the Caf. Moonlight pooled in through windows along the hall, casting everything in sterile whites and soft greys. Your stomach rumble was louder than each footstep. The kitchen staff had locked the pantries to maintain rations, but this wasn’t your first excursion sneaking in for a midnight snack.

Your laundry basket released from your hands and fell with a thwack to the linoleum before you elbowed through one of the swinging double doors, port hole window catching your reflection in the moonlight. The kitchen was otherwise pitch black, and you hadn’t needed a flashlight for the laundry room.

Taking careful steps in the darkness, you narrowly avoided a butcher’s block, but smacked your hip bone against a wide, metal stove. Pots and pans clattered above you, and you scrambled to keep them afloat, cursing yourself for definitely waking anyone sleeping at least five floors up.

“Hello?” The seam to the walk-in split open, and you were suddenly blinded in a thick beam of warm light.

You held your hands up to shield your eyes, and when you heard your name, you peered into the darkness to make out the broad-shouldered silhouette of your new partner. “Harrington?”

He tilted the torchlight from your vision, and you saw he had a baseball bat over his other shoulder, of which nail spikes were sparkling from the end. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.” He grumbled, turning back into the refrigerator as though this was a perfectly normal occasion.

“What the Hell?” You sighed and followed him. “What’re you doing down here?”

He shrugged, spinning the flashlight in his hand to give you the handle. Then, he pulled a three gallon tub of ice cream off a nearby shelf and hoisted it under his arm. “What does it look like I’m doing down here?”

He pushed past you in a fog of steamed breath, and you followed before the door slammed shut. He dropped the tub onto a countertop with a hollow thud and the bat scraped along the ground as he propped it next.

You watched him search a couple of drawers for two spoons, illuminating his path back to you.

“I haven’t had ice cream in like three years,” he explained, taking the flashlight from you to prop on a windowsill near him. Reflected light illuminated the hollows of his cheeks, the bags under his eyes. “But I’ve had this crazy hankering since that house fell on me.”

You snorted and hoisted yourself onto the countertop beside him, ice from the tub melting against your bare leg. “Why the aversion to ice cream?”

Steve sighed, peeling the lid from the top and handing you a spoon before diving in himself. “When you spend half a summer slinging cones and banana splits, the smell of it gets a little sickening.”

You’d almost forgotten, memories of Starcourt Mall feeling like another lifetime. Vickie and you had gone every weekend after it opened, delighting in the comfortable seating at the movie theatre and spending far too many hours pouring over albums at the music store. She’d insist on scoops from Scoops just before you left, and you’d initially thought she was fawning over the sailor boy, with his voluminous, highlighted hair, his doe eyes, his glossy lips. Turns out, she wanted to gawk at her pep band compatriot, the pretty, awkward girl with band-aids on her knees.

You watched over the tub as he took his bite in shadow, eyelashes fanning his cheeks, brows furrowed against the cold. “How is it?” You smiled, reaching in near to your elbow to take a scoop for yourself. There was no way to tell what flavor it was at this point, but knowing the quality of food at the caf, you had a feeling your options were limited to chocolate or vanilla.

“It’s no SS Butterscotch,” but he went back in, spoon clanging against your own. “What’re you doing down here?”

You shrugged, spooned frigid cream into your mouth. You winced at the cold, but the sweet vanilla cream melted against your taste buds, and you sighed, leaning against the wall behind you. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Did you read any more of Vickie’s file?” He winced around the cold, brought his fist up to cover a cough.

You frowned back at him. “You told me not to.”

His eyebrows raised at that, and he shrugged, shoveling himself another spoonful. “I didn’t think you’d listen. I use that tactic with the kids.”

“Hey, fuck you,” you growled, mouthful.

In the silhouette, you swear you caught a smirk flash across boyish features. “So… I heard you talked to Robin.”

You hummed, the chill from your ice cream and the metal countertop creating a small shiver. You shifted your thighs, unsticking them from the surface, and tugged down on your shorts. “Yeah, we had a really nice lunch the other day.”

He avoided eye contact, licking his spoon clean.

Over French fries, your heartfelt apologies turned to chatter, the two of you falling back into old rhythms, humming old ear worms and gossiping. Robin vented about the try-hard team lead in her gardening society, and you, with matched eye rolls, vented about Steve’s overbearing demeanor when it came to the mats, the pool, the turf. Robin ensured you he was like that in the beginning, and that he’s just protective. You couldn’t help but feel the fizz of your stomach when she mentioned he cared about you.

You wondered how much she’d shared. “I uh… I apologized for going AWOL.” You spun your spoon between your fingers, the cool metal glinting in dim light.

“Why did you,” he asked after a long moment, voice cutting the stillness in the air, “go AWOL?”

You glanced up at him again, and this time he was watching you, eyes hooded in shadow, but the glint of them traced your features. You swallowed and looked away, stared instead at his silhouette on the adjacent wall, the curve of a strong brow and nose and jaw, the dip of his throat.

You struggled for words, feeling the heat of him staring you down, but finally you settled on an explanation that felt right. “Because I’m a coward, and because I didn’t feel I deserved her friendship, not after all of the heartache I caused. Still don’t.”

He didn’t respond, and you sat in silence for a long while until you felt brave enough to look at him again. His shoulders were slumped, and his lips were parted as if he were going to ask something else.

Terrified he might spill some truth that you weren’t ready for, you spilled out a question that had been lingering for months, a year. “What did I do to make you hate me?” The words felt sticky, your throat coated with vanilla ice cream and regret.

His jaw slammed shut, eyes tracking yours once more.

“We used to be…” Bets placed on the Scorch field, the sparring mats, shot-for-shot from the whisky glass snuck out of Hopper’s office desk drawer, truth or dare whispered while Robin and Vickie slept in an adjacent bed, the exchange of steamed breath watching the stars, nose-to-nose, the flutter of lashes. “Friends. Then we were all up for Scorch Leads, and you just… went AWOL.”

You picked at the rolled paper lip of the ice cream tub, focusing on that spot instead of the eyes watching you. “Is my competitiveness really that annoying?”

“Yes,” he said, snapping your attention back to his mouth, and the corners had curled every so slightly.

You warmed, rolled your eyes.

He scratched at the stubble on the back of his neck, rolled his shoulders. “You want to know why I was such an asshole when we were up for that promotion?”

You nodded. Another shiver wracked through you, and you realized you’d been leaning against the tub.

Steve sighed, picked the lid off the counter beside you and replaced it, the top puffing with air when it was sealed. “Remember that first mission? When they dumped us in the middle of nowhere and we had to find our way back? And you and Vickie took twice as long as everyone else?”

“It was not twice as long,” you rolled your eyes. It took you so long because you had to be thorough, you had to prove yourself, no one wanted it more than you. When you’d heard about Team Lead promotions, it was the first time in years you felt like your existence was made for something. Your expertise paid off.

Your new partner lifted the tub and carried it back across the room to the walk-in, catching the swing of the door with his shoe.

You hopped off the countertop and tossed metal spoons into a massive metal sink. They clanged near the drain.

Steve’s voice was muffled from inside the freezer. “Robin and I waited at the Gate for you. She wore a hole in the pavement pacing, and I sat with my back to a big tree and realized I’d do whatever it took to win, or at least to make sure you guys didn’t.” He returned with a banana, which he placed into your palm before going for his bat and flashlight.

“What’s this for?” You held up the fruit, cold to the touch and followed him out the swinging double doors.

“Potassium’s good for muscles, and it helps your body process calcium.” He said, like a info doc on the Public Broadcasting Station.

You sighed and tossed it to the top of your laundry pile before hoisting the basket back under your arm. “Wait, are you saying you thought Vickie and I wouldn’t make good leads?”

“No,” he swung the bat over one shoulder, beam of light illuminating your joint path upward. “I’m saying that by becoming leads, there’d be a higher chance of you being in danger. All I ever wanted was to keep you safe.”

You tried not to lose pace with him, feet fumbling, stomach swooping, and you glanced up at him through your eyelashes. You couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but you felt him watching you, felt the brush of his bicep against yours.

“Eat your banana,” he said, and you continued up the stairs in soft, surrendered silence.

—

The yard was clean, grass long-since browned, and leaves swept into a large pile. The cars in the driveway didn’t belong to her parents, no, these were new. In fact, the entire home didn’t feel like home to you anymore, not like it used to. A porch swing creaked on the wind, stark white paint cracked and cushion oozing ichor from a rainstorm long since past.

You heard a scuffle from the garage, swung right, calling out for her, searching a greyscale landscape for a shock of orange. You took a step forward, tripped over an unwound garden hose.

“She can’t come to the phone right now,” she said, only it wasn’t her, wasn’t her voice, something deeper.

You looked up, but when you tried to scream her name again, a hand was covering your mouth, a strong arm lifting you backwards, away from the scene. Your friend lay, lifeless before you, skin melting into the concrete driveway like plastic. You screamed, kicked, clawed, bit at the hand cutting off your airflow, to no relief.

Suffocating, drowning, the world around you blurring with blue lights, a face peering through the swell, that menacing grin, all teeth, no lips. You screamed, bubbles rising before your eyes. You kicked, vines tangled around your ankles, dragging you downward, darkness all-encompassing.

—

The fluorescents buzzed and the tape whirred in its recorder. That distant throb in your skull hadn’t receded in days. Your chair creaked with each bounce of your knee, an energy you’d picked up from your partner, and you rubbed at tired eyes, squinting across a large table. In a chair at the other end was the pitied frown of one Dr. Sam Owens.

“We did find a small laceration on her ankle, and her falling into this creature would account for that.” He explained. He was being gentle, as if you hadn’t snuck into the files, as if you hadn’t stared at the photographs of her lifeless corpse, as if you hadn’t seen the black liquid oozing from her skin.

You nodded, picking at a scratch in the tabletop.

“And you’re saying this virus had been gestating for a month before she showed any signs of being flayed?”

You shrugged, picked a little harder, until it bent your nail at the corner. “You’re the doctor. I’m just telling you what I remember.”

“Okay, alright, I appreciate that.” You heard the click of the tape deck, glanced up to find two fingers on the stop button. When you looked up, Owens had sat one leg on the tabletop. “How’re you doing, kid?”

A shiver wracked through you, some twisted all-knowing presence that had given you away. Maybe it was the squint of your eyes against the lights, maybe your nose had begun bleeding again, you couldn’t be sure at this point, couldn’t feel much for the buzz in your skull and fingertips.

“Do you understand why Hop and I picked you and Vickie as our team leaders?” He asked when you hadn’t responded, folding his hands over his lap. Crisp checked sleeves were rolled over the cuffs of a brown sweater. Everything about this man was soft and cleaned, so far removed from the grit and grime that surrounded your day-to-day. “It’s because you understood our mission here.”

You frowned, unsure where this unprompted speech was coming from, unsure what he was talking about, unsure how long you’d been in this room, how long you’d been awake, how long you could cling to the sliver of sanity holding you together.

“You understood that all of this,” he gestured to the room around you. Two massive windows looked out at the expanse of woods, everything tinged ruby red and honey yellow, that nightmare-fuel flash of orange. “This isn’t about redemption. It’s not about righting our wrongs, of which, we’re all guilty.”

His eyes were deep blue like the waters of a pool, but soft, careful. You thought of Vickie, of the mournful look on her face when she plead for you to snuff out her light. You thought of the lifeless corpse on a slab, photographed with naught but a sterile sheet maintaining her modesty.

“No, it’s about renewal. It’s about ridding this world of this festering sore, this virus, so it can learn and grow, so we can learn and grow and restart our lives. Not pick up where we left off, but pull ourselves up from the ashes and create something better.”

You blinked back at him, the wall in your mind, in your heart, fighting with his words. That competitive nature you’ve been biting back all week threatening to escape. Instead, you grit your teeth. “Anything else you need from me, Doc?”

Owens sighed, gave you that pitied look you’d received since Vickie died, since you killed her, since you gave up on her. He shook his head and gestured to walk you to the door. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

—

How could you build a new life without her when she was always home? How could you rise from the ashes of her funeral pyre when you lit the match?

—

The bass was low, a rattle in your bones arhythmic to your heart. You were hyper aware of your heartbeat, it having clambered against your skull for the past three days, maybe longer, you didn’t know anymore. Neon lights buzzed against newspaper clipping covered walls, all-encompassing, a tornado of information about Indiana’s State Fair and blue ribbons and reds and yellows and blues and greens.

A shove to your shoulder drew everything back into focus. Eddie’s brows were stitched together, jaw clamped shut. He was pissed. At you, specifically. He’d bullied you into joining the gang at Roadie’s tonight, blackmailed you, in fact. Now, here you stood, knocking back tequila to no lasting affect, receiving a pool stick from your teammate’s hand.

“We’re solids,” he instructed, nodding toward the felted green table.

“I got it,” you snapped.

The seven was lined up for an easy left pocket, and you sunk it before going after the three. The felt was soft under your finger tips, and the lamp heated up over your head, and something about the angle of your elbow nearly cleared someone’s beer from the lip of the table. They caught it, but your cue ball missed the three entirely, whiffing itself into a tailspin.

You cursed under your breath and stood back up into a full conversation you’d somehow missed, laughter and crinkled eyes. You frowned at Eddie, passing him back the stick.

“Argyle whistled at your ass, and you knocked his beer off the table,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re actually doing quite well for not being here.”

You glanced over his shoulder at Argyle, who held his hands, and a bottle, up in surrender, brown eyes wide. “Hey, man, please don’t kick my ass. I was just complimenting a beautiful woman.”

It took a second for his words to set in, for the blur of the roadhouse to dull, and when they finally clicked, you plastered on a smile and plucked the remainder of the boy’s beer from his hand. The liquid was room temperature at best, the glass coated in condensation.

Your group erupted in laughter.

Argyle was harmless, and only ever flattered, and you felt that if you were really present, if your laugh was genuine, things tonight might feel exactly as they had before.

“I’m getting waters,” Steve ran a hand through the new curtains of his hair and turned for the bar. Robin rubbed between his shoulder blades. Nancy knelt over the pool table, sinking thirteen, twelve, eleven. It was Jonathan’s turn to whistle, and she hip-checked him with a smug look on her face before sinking fifteen and nine.

“I’m so glad you came out,” Robin appeared at your side, warm and perfumed.

“Me too,” you smiled, avoiding the glares you were receiving from Eddie across the table. His incessant knocking pulled you out of bed, and he practically had to force you to put real clothes on.

“Quick, before Steve comes back, tell me a secret about him no one else would know.” Argyle grinned behind another bottle he’d scrounged up table side. He’d also extended a basket of fries to you.

You took one, a little soggy, and thought behind your hand as you chewed.

“Oh my God, he wears glasses at night like an old man.” Robin snickered.

Argyle gasped, the exact kind of scandal he was fishing for. “I bet he looks good in glasses.”

“He does,” Nancy confirmed from the table. Jonathan seemed less impressed at this revelation. “Eight ball middle pocket.” And with a sturdy clack, it went in.

Eddie cursed and peeled a couple of dollars from his wallet.

“We get winner!” Robin declared, nabbing the pool stick propped near Eddie’s walker.

“Aw man, I wish I had a partner,” Argyle lamented into his fries.

“No, you don’t,” Steve appeared, taking the neck of your bottle from your hand before replacing it with a plastic cup full of ice water.

You rolled your eyes, but sipped, the frigid water a nice wash against the buzzing under your skin. His warmth beside you was welcoming too, the smell of his cologne.

“Sure I do. You get to learn all kinds of things no one else would know. Come on, tell me something about her.”

Your heart sank under Steve’s gaze. You had one big secret, one looming bad guy that only Steve and Eddie knew about. None of you had told Robin. None of you could tell Robin. You tried not to focus now, tried to keep the nightmares at bay.

“She’s a terrible swimmer,” he settled on. “Like one of the worst I’ve ever taught, and I used to teach toddlers… and Robin.”

“Fuck off, Harrington,” Robin cackled, breaking the rack with an immense thwack. “You are just the world’s worst helicopter mom.”

“I’d back off if you could walk up a set of stairs without tripping,” he snapped back.

“Says the guy who had an entire staircase fall under his weight,” you commented.

Everyone laughed. You even felt the rumble of Steve’s chest against your bicep, that warmth slowly thawing the freeze.

“Jonathan, what do you guys think? Having a partner all it’s cracked up to be?” Argyle mused to his best friend.

Jonathan sunk the first ball of the game and shrugged. “It’s nice when someone has your back. Nance can get a little bossy though…”

Nancy rolled her eyes and took a long swig of her beer. She wiped the corners of her mouth as she swallowed and said, “Jonathan hums, constantly. No matter what we’re doing, he’s humming.”

Just as she said it, he stopped the tapping of his hands to his thigh, and you all pointed in glee at the discovery.

“Hey, nothing wrong with a man with rhythm,” Eddie grinned, slapping a high-five to his friend.

“God, Vickie does that too,” you chimed in, enjoying the camaraderie you’d been missing for so long. “She just gets these like ear worms and she has to sing them. Drives me up a wall.”

You hadn’t realized what you’d said until Steve stiffened beside you, until you made eye contact with a sad smile from Eddie. Your blood ran cold.

“Oh my God, I know! She was constantly getting things stuck in my head,” Robin pitched in to help you recover, but you noticed the waver in her voice, and it crushed your insides a little harder.

“My go?” Steve cleared his throat, stepping forward to take the stick from her hands. You noticed she’d been wringing it. You felt sick.

When Steve bent to strike another ball, Eddie whistled, and the tension was quickly diffused with another round of laughter. Everyone began to chatter again, but the noise had faded under the dull thrum of bass and the buzz of neon, and the ice cold terror that lingered there between your shoulder blades.

You muttered an excuse for the bathroom, but walked straight out the double doors and into the cold autumn air.

—

This time of night felt like being there, in the Ether. Sun set, everything went to grayscale save the sign attracting moths overhead. The red cast over the gravel parking lot, shimmering off chrome tailpipes and the hood of Harrington’s car. That same lingering damp clung to the air, steaming your breath, chattering your teeth, and you propped yourself against a corrugated tin wall. It smelled of iron and cigarette smoke, and your tongue tasted of tequila and regret.

Your head spun, eyes ached and dry with exhaustion. No sleep felt easier than sleep these days, but you noticed each came with a price. Your muscles twitched, like a shiver, but incessant. Either way, you couldn’t escape them.

She was always out of reach now, concerned features just past the focus of your view. She donned the same face as in the photograph: sad, frightened, determined. Her hair was crispy at the ends, a shock of orange burnt black, and soot coated the fingers of her extended hand.

He was there too, less visible, but somewhere in the recesses, always lingering behind, waiting for the opportune moment, a terrifying face above rippled water that beckoned.

You heard the crunch of boots against gravel, a noise from reality that sucked you back, wracked a shiver through you. You wiped at a running nose and plastered on a fake smile to ensure you were alright.

But Robin hadn’t come to check on you, as you assumed she might. No, in her stead was Steve, face knotted up in worry, fingers carding through short hair.

And you didn’t know what made you do it, maybe these unseen forces, maybe the embarrassment from inside, or maybe you’d just been dying to do it for well over a year now, but you swung on him. Full fist, knuckles connecting with cheekbone, and he stumbled backward in surprise before blocking your neck swing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He growled, grasping your wrist in his hand.

“What’s wrong with me?” You called, tearing your arm from his grip to shove at his chest. “What’s wrong with me, Harrington? I had to murder my best friend. I had to take a torch to her living, breathing, screaming body and not let go of the trigger until she stopped. I have to relive it every single day of my life, and I’m just supposed to be strong about it and okay with it because this is the life I’ve chosen to live.”

You accentuated each thought with another shove until he was backed against a wall, his Member’s Only jacket fisted in your grasp, and then, he was wrapped around you, arms tight, the pressure of his large hand relieving the throb in your skull as your body wracked with sobs. You nearly crashed to your knees, but he stumbled and held you upright. One strong arm swung around your ribs, while the other stroked your hair.

“You were supposed to protect me. To keep me safe,” You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, gasping for air as you sunk your fingernails into his shoulders, desperate for his help.

Heat fanned your face, soft lips pressed to your temple to draw your focus, and you felt the steady inhale, exhale of his broad body against yours. He guided you to match his breath. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

You finally relaxed into him, face tucked into a warm neck, his presence all-encompassing, a splash of water on a puffy face, and when you felt grounded enough, you released his jacket, allowing your arms to drop at your sides.

His release was slower still, and large hands came to cup your face, to thumb away your tears, but you couldn’t bear to look at him, embarrassed or heart broken or angry, maybe all three.

He spoke your name, soft, tender, and you brought your hands up to pull his wrists. His hands fell away easily.

You glanced up at him, avoiding eye contact, and noticed a splash of red against his white t-shirt. “You’re bleeding,” you mumbled, fingertips trailing the small patch of blood, maroon spreading across the cotton fibers.

“No, you are,” he said.

When you met his gaze, something happened, a shift you couldn’t explain. You felt the world rumble beneath your feet, saw the gaping maws of gates flash behind your eyes. Like the drop of a bass, the dull throb in your skull shifted to searing pain. You mopped at the blood on your upper lip with trembling fingers. “Something’s wrong.”

You thought you might tumble over, equilibrium changing.

Steve caught you in his arms. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

You heard your name from somewhere close by: her voice, a warning. You glanced to your right and saw Nancy and Jonathan rushing out of the double doors.

“Steve!” Nancy called. “Massive seismic activity detected. We have to go right now.”

Argyle was rushing to start up his truck. Eddie and Robin were closed behind, hugging leather and denim jackets to their bodies.

“Take care of her,” Steve and Eddie spoke simultaneously, pointing at their perspective best friends.

Steve rounded on you. “Are you good?”

Unsure, but determined, you nodded, and he slipped his hand in yours to hoist you into the truck bed. As the five of you sped off into the night, you could just make out Robin and Eddie under the glow of the neon sign, a shock of orange lingering behind them.

---

A/N: Finally, a reunion with Robin! As I was writing her at the diner, I was like uhhhh... I think I'm in love with her. So that's fun. And the Reader and Steve are finally getting closer, finally getting over their issues... kind of? Please come yell at me about it. Thanks. Love you! Thanks, as always, for reading xo xo xo

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Chapter Three: Ignite • Chapter Five: Searing

#wildfire fic #stranger things fic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington enemies to lovers #steve harrington rivals to lovers #post season 4 #eddie munson #robin buckley #vickie #robin x vickie #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #argyle

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