W.I.D

Lucy Maclean and Maximus in Season 1 of FALLOUT

Brian Van Holt as Bo Sinclair in House of Wax (2005) 10/??

songbird

the ghoul x f!reader

summary: you used to be a singer in your vault - that skill comes in handy when you least expect it, and least want to use it. but who are you to say no when cooper tells you to sing for him?

wc: 5.7k

warnings: swearing, talk of murder, blood, alcohol, gun violence, sexual tension, smut, fingering, p in v sex, biting, possessive sex, possessive cooper

You had to admit - if you and your companion didn't find shelter soon, one of you was going to drop and the other wouldn't hesitate to feast on what was left.

The deserts of the Wasteland were harsh - you had known that the moment you stepped out of your vault those months ago and you had been faced with nothing but a searing sun, sand that got stuck places it shouldn't have, and creatures and fellow people alike who would risk it all simply for a quick grab at the pack on your back. But it seemed like this past week, God or Satan or whoever the fuck was controlling this shitshow of a world was in a bad mood. The heat was unbearable, even at night when the chilly winds should have weaseled their way beneath your vault suit and cooled your burning skin. Creatures mutated by the long-settled radiation were feeling the anger of the wasteland, as well, charging without warning or provocation. To top off a less than perfect week, your water supply had run out yesterday, and unless the skies opened up and released a storm of rad-infested hail upon your head, you weren't sure you would find any more before you keeled over and kicked it.

Struggling to plant your feet stable in the mounds of sand beneath you as you made your way between the shells of buildings that had once stood tall and proud, you glanced over your shoulder at your companion. Cooper was better adapted for this kind of environment than you were, what with his hardened skin and the wide brim of his hat shielding his face, but even he looked worse for wear. When he picked up his head, seeming to feel your eyes on him, you quickly averted your gaze and set your attention back on moving one foot in front of the other.

"Fuck're you lookin' at?" he said, his voice raspy as he called out through the dry air.

"Nothing," you snipped back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of facing him again. "Just wondering if I'm going to have to carry you the rest of the way, asshole."

The heat was making you both snappy - you hated it.

Your first meeting with Cooper hadn't gone smoothly. Hell, your second or third hadn't, either. You weren't exactly sure when you had fallen into a more comfortable presence around one another, but it sure as shit hadn't happened overnight. You'd been only half a day fresh from your vault when you'd seen him scavenging madly over a mess of bodies he'd dropped where they stood, searching for a number of vials kept in their pockets that he let drip into his open mouth like a fountain of youth. When you had called out a friendly hello to him, he'd nearly shot your brains out. Cooper had taken in your shocked expression - as you'd clearly never seen a ghoul before - as well as the stark blue of your vault suit and the pack over your shoulders, then promptly told you to scoot your ass back around to wherever the hell you had come from. Of course, you hadn't. You'd followed him from a distance, watching as he'd picked his way across the dusty sands until he'd wrangled you with the lasso at his hip, told you to fuck right off, and left you tied to a number of old pipes in the basement of a nearly collapsed building.

A day later, you'd tracked his footprints in the sand to a little settlement, where you hadn't ducked away quick enough to avoid his gaze. He'd threatened to blow your brains out if he caught you following him again. He'd only half-delivered on that promise when, not ten hours later, he'd planted a fist-sized hole in the skull of a raider attempting to cut your throat for the Pip-Boy affixed to your wrist.

From then on, he'd simply chosen to ignore you as you followed behind him like a lost dog, intent on staying with the biggest, baddest wolf in the yard. After a week, he'd tossed you a part of his rations. A week after that, he'd - not too gently - invited you to sit at the campfire with him when he saw you shivering beneath your thin, vault-issued blanket a good few yards away.

Somewhere along the way you'd started to talk. Started to share - at least, you had. Cooper had simply tucked his hat over his eyes and pretended not to listen while you rattled about this and that until he physically couldn't take it anymore and told you to go the fuck to sleep.

These months later, having accompanied him all this time, you didn't hesitate to call him a friend. Maybe something more, if you let the ache between your legs when you looked at him speak for you, but you knew it was a fantasy and nothing more, so you decided to stick with 'friend.'

Back in the present, you swallowed and winced when your throat barked with a bout of pain in response. You didn't think you'd make it another mile, let alone five, which was how far Cooper claimed the nearest town was. Despite the months you'd spent adapting out here to the wastelands, you were still attempting to cope with the hardships that came with it. Vault life wasn't anything like this; there was always water to drink, beds to sleep in. Cool air to bask in when it got just the slightest bit too hot. Of course, you didn't voice these complains to your companion. If you did, you had no doubt he'd tell you to shut the fuck up and deal with it.

Just as you were about to ask if you could take a short break and get away from the harsh sun beating on your back like repeated blows from a red-hot hammer, a gloved hand wrapped around your arm and held you in place. You jerked to a stop, nearly falling back on your ass as Cooper held you where you stood. You prepared a strongly-worded question as to just what he was doing before you followed his gaze downward, to where a small handful of pairs of footprints traveled perpendicular to yours. Together, you tilted your heads to the left where the foreign prints were headed, and it was there you found a small slope leading downward into what may have once been a shopping mall. From where you stood, you were able to see that the glass dome around the center of the mall had been shattered, letting out the gentle sound of music and human hollers.

You exchanged a look with Cooper, each of you sunken from the iron-fisted heat weighing you down, then slid down the sandy slope after him when he took off toward the shopping mall.

If there was one thing you had learned about Cooper since planting yourself at his side and refusing to leave, it was that he valued silence above almost everything else. You, on the other hand, had come from a talkative vault, where gossip reached every end of every chamber only an hour - at max - after anything noteworthy had happened. Your companion had once called you the biggest yap he'd ever heard, and you would have taken it for a compliment had he not told you to shove it a moment after. The two of you had been silent nearly the entire day now, save for a few venomous barks at each other, and you cleared your scratchy throat in an attempt to lighten your shitty moods.

"I used to read about shopping malls in the magazines," you said, leaning your weight backwards as the sandy slope shifted downward. "They had all kinds of stores inside."

"Thanks for the reminder," Cooper bit back, quickening his stride. "Would have fuckin' forgot without you here."

You let your eyes roll into the back of your head as you struggled to catch up to him, your boots digging into the uneven earth beneath you. "When I was a kid, a few of my friends and I would draw pictures of clothes - because, you know, we only had our suits - and then spread them across one of our rooms and pretend to shop. It was stupid, but it we made entertainment where we could."

"Now, was this before you started pretending to be Billie Holliday?"

You gave him a sideways glance. "Who's that?"

Cooper shook his head and took off ahead of you. "Jesus fuckin' Christ."

During one of your, as your companion called them, yap sessions, you had confided in him that your vault valued the arts above anything else. Since you were a child, they had encouraged you to find something you enjoyed, as long as you were able to call yourself an artist. Painting hadn't worked out too well. Writing had been a bust. But then you'd discovered singing - a way in which you were able to express yourself without actually saying how you felt. You could drape the tunes in metaphors and similes, bump the second verse from the first, and when you were done, everyone would get to their feet to applaud as if your songs were the best things they'd ever heard. Cooper hadn't expressed much interest in this, instead taking to calling you a songbird with her wings clipped when he deemed you were at your lowest and needed to be kicked while you were down.

Of course, you hadn't shown him - you would have to be long dead for that - but over the course of the few months you'd known him, you had confided in your notebook carried in your pack all the little things you'd come up with that complimented his persona. How the gold at his heels called for you with each step he took. The way his hands, encased behind leather that creaked, held a smoke so delicately you could have imagined it was you. The rasping curl of his words when he smiled while he spoke and how each word cast a spell that made you want to follow him until the sun exploded and the earth was gone.

Cooper was an enigma you couldn't help but wonder after, and every scrap of himself he tossed to you led you on like a dog on a leash.

The music and echoing sound of laughter from deep inside the shopping mall became louder as the pair of you approached, eyes scanning for snipers on the roof or guards posted at the busted-out windows. There wasn't a person in sight, only mannequins stripped of their clothing hanging out the openings and long-shredded posters clinging to broken glass. Cooper led the way inside, picking a path across the wreckage and rubble stacked haphazardly against the entrance. You felt your pulse tick up when he produced his gun from the worn holster at his side, tapping his trigger finger against the side of the firearm in time with the music winding its way down the wide corridors.

As you followed your companion through the shopping mall, you couldn't help but ogle at the numerous attractions you passed. Shops had been boarded up and torn open again, giving you a glimpse of tattered clothes still on hangers, books tipped over on shelves, pre-war machines behind display cases that were covered in two hundred years' worth of dirt and grime. Gang signs and dirty catchphrases had been spraypainted along the walls and windows in a rainbow of colors. In the center of the long aisle you were wandering, a carousel meant for children sat neglected, still fitted with cartoonish horses who had seen better days than these.

"Did you used to come to these often?" you asked as you stepped across a mannequin missing its head.

"Shut the fuck up for a minute." Cooper raised a hand to pair with his little spat, silencing you from asking any further questions. His tongue darted out between his cracked lips as he placed his steps carefully around shattered glass and wind-up toys that would declare your position to the entire mall. He led you around a few wide corners before coming to a stop behind an old escalator, motioning for you to take cover. You crouched to peer around the other side, pulling your bag strap tighter over your shoulder. You were met with a sight that made your lips part in wonder.

Made up in the center of the mall's large atrium, directly beneath where the glass dome had been broken out, a small encampment of people had established what looked like a tiny town. Tents rested just inside nearby shop windows and winking Christmas lights had been strung above their heads. Lanterns cast shadows along the faces of the camp's locals as they milled back and forth, sharing dinners, reading from books - and dancing. Booming from a solar-powered stereo was a symphony of fiddles and guitars, harmonies of trumpets and clapping in time with the beat. A woman's tinny voice came through the speakers and she reminisced about an old lover who had gotten away. As you watched the people dance and stamp their feet along with the music, you found yourself drumming your fingers along, as well.

You were so engrossed in the music that you nearly missed what Cooper had his watchful eye on; the fridge-sized container with several spigots on its sides marked with a large piece of paper that read 'Clean Water.'

You and Cooper ducked back behind the escalator.

"Bunch of fuckin' idiots," said Cooper as he pulled a red-capped round from his bandolier and loaded it into his gun's chamber. "That shit'll attract every goddamn raider and feral within the mile."

"They're just having fun," you said, unsure of why you felt so defensive of these people you didn't even know. Maybe it was because they reminded you of your fellow vault dwellers back home. There had been a dance or performance like this nearly every night.

Cooper scoffed. "Fun like this gets you killed, little lady."

Your eyes widened as you watched him pull back the hammer of his firearm. "You're not going to just go up there and start shooting, are you?" You knew for a fact that he would. You'd seen him do it before - draw his pistol and start spinning the trigger because a raider or flock of ferals had what he wanted. But this - this was something different. Before he could do anything more, you reached out and grabbed his upper arm in a grasp so tight your knuckles paled. He flashed you a dark, dangerous look from beneath the brim of his hat, but you refused to let go. "Cooper, these people are innocent. They haven't done anything to us."

"Listen here, dollface, and listen well," he said, quickly spinning you around so that your back was pressed against the escalator. He caged you in, his gun hand still in your grasp and his other arm propped against the wall beside your head. You tried your damndest to not flush when you felt his breath on you, when his hips came just inches from pressing up against yours. "If we're goin' to be carryin' on this little arrangement, you need to learn to keep that pretty mouth of yours shut when I tell you to shut it. Now, I know you vaulties think everyone and their mama is goin' to repay that silly kindness of yours, but do not be mistaken. Keep yappin' and I will drink my fill of that there water while I make you watch, and then I'll tip the rest of it onto the floor. You hear me?"

You were at a loss for words, your tongue dry and your knees beginning to feel wobbly from the lack of water and proper rest. Just when you were about to let your eyes fall back down and accept that he was going to clear out the settlement for their water, footsteps echoed past where the two of you stood. Cooper snapped around and raised his pistol, his other arm still caging you in, and aimed down the barrel at a few young men approaching the rest of the locals beneath the glass dome. Instead of yelling, instead of dropping their belongings and begging for their lives while they pissed their pants in the presence of a ghoul, the men waved and smiled friendly grins.

"No need to hide," one said, gesturing the pair of you toward the others. "Y'all are welcome to come and make yourselves cozy. The more the merrier!"

They continued on, greeted by the other locals with shouts of welcome backs and fond hugs, paying no mind to the wide eyes and parted lips of you and your companion. Breaking away from Cooper's little cage he had created with himself and the wall - as much as it pained you to - you peeked back around the escalator. The young men pointed your way, and a number of people waved in kind and beckoned you forward. You found yourself taking a few steps toward the inviting sight of fresh water and the smell of food being cooked over one of the fires when Cooper snagged you by the back of your suit's collar and pulled you back into cover.

"Where on this good green earth you think you're goin'?" he said in a hushed tone, bringing your face close to his with a commanding grip on your jaw. Another flutter of excitement, of blood rush, bubbled to life in the pit of your stomach and began to travel south, but you suppressed the urge to lean into his touch. You didn't pull away, either.

"They invited us," you said, your eyes wandering back over to the light flickering from the lanterns and fires. "It's rude to turn down an invitation."

Cooper harrumphed and released you a little harsher than necessary. "What you've got is a one-way ticket to bein' on tomorrow's menu, sweetheart," he said, tilting his head to follow your gaze and keep eye contact when you looked away. "If you've about had your fill of the real world up here topside, then be my guest. Go and let'em fatten you up. I'll pour one out for 'ya tonight."

Deciding not to wonder if he would actually pour one out for you, if you really meant that much, you scoffed and shook your head. "You know it's okay to let your guard down every once in a while. Smile, maybe? Wave back? No wonder you're so damn bitter, old man."

Cooper stared down at you, and you wondered briefly if he was considering slamming your head into the side of the escalator. Would he drag you away with him, you thought? Or would he leave you for the strangers just around the corner. After what seemed an eternity, he hummed a short little note and nodded his head toward the camp. "You want to play friends, little lady? Go ahead. See how far that gets you before I've got to turn around and put one between the eyes of a man who's not lookin' just for the sake of lookin'."

With the faintest hint of a smile, you blinked up at him. "You'd turn around for me?" you asked in a murmur.

He matched your heated gaze, dark eyes intense and flaring a torch in your belly. "I suppose you'll just have to find out one of these days."

Swallowing thick, you took a breath, then turned and led him toward the little encampment of people. Heads turned as the pair of you approached, and you found that most of them smiled. You waved to those who offered little shakes of their hands, trailed by a ghoul stalking in his own shadow and resting the crook of his palm on his pistol. You were met by a kind-faced woman near the large tank of water, and she was forced to speak loudly to be heard over the sound of the thumping music.

"You folks just get in?" she said, already fixing two bowls of stew from a large pot simmering over a fire.

You broke yourself from the staring match you were having with the pot, the same one Cooper was still stuck in. Although, he may have been watching the chickens that roamed inside a little pen nearby as he licked his lips. "Yes, ma'am," you said over the trill of the woman's singing. You so desperately wished you knew the words so you could sing along. "I hope we're not imposing."

"Not at all!" A bowl of stew was pushed into your hands, and you forced yourself to be polite and not spoon it down your throat immediately. At your side, your companion gave the rim of the bowl a lick with the tip of his tongue before tipping it to slurp up. "We pride ourselves in being an open community. We might be small, but that just means there's more to share." The tin cups of water she handed over didn't last but five seconds before she was refilling them. "Make yourselves comfortable and stay however long you like. All we ask is that you keep your weapons holstered and don't disturb the music."

You and Cooper took seats at a dining table that had been dragged over from the cafeteria, neither of you speaking much as you both wolfed down what was in the bowls in front of you. Both of your spoons went untouched, each electing instead to drink up the strangely-colored meat floating around inside. Cooper finished much faster than you, and shucked off his gloves so that he could dip his scarred finger in to collect what juices were left. When he was finished, the bowl looked as though it hadn't even been used.

Watching him with a small smile, you let up from your own bowl and said, "I'm waiting."

"For what, exactly, little lady?"

"Your apology." You lapped up the rest of your stew before politely setting your bowl inside of his. "You wanted to -" You hesitated and glanced over your shoulder to make sure no one was too close to hear you. "You know." Then you settled a rather self-satisfied smirk over your features. "And look where we are now. So I'd like my apology now."

Cooper sucked on his finger, ensuring he was getting every last morsel of the stew that he could, and your attention was pulled down to where his lips wrapped around his digit. A part of you began to imagine it was yours. He noticed you staring and grinned wide. "And you know what I'm waitin' for, darlin'?"

"What?"

"For you to walk yourself over there and get me seconds."

You rolled your eyes, but nevertheless grabbed your stacked bowls and began to make your way over to where the woman was tending to the pot. "You'd better be thinking about your apology," you called over your shoulder. When you turned back around you nearly collided into someone retreating back to their spot with their own dinner. You jerked to the side, attempting to get out of their way first, and in doing so rammed yourself into the stereo set on a table in the center of the little camp. You watched in horror, bowls clasped to your chest, as the stereo tumbled over the edge of its pedestal and fell to the floor, where it shattered into what must have been hundreds of pieces. The camp became shrouded in a tense, shocked silence as every eye in the mall turned to face you and look upon your sin.

"I..." Your voice carried through the atrium and down the corridors of the shopping mall, sounding like an isolated cry for help. "I'm so sorry. I - I didn't mean to, I really didn't. Here, I might be able to fix it." You bent down to try and gather the pieces with your free hand, and the moment you did, a number of the camp locals drew weapons to aim in your direction.

"Now," came that familiar drawl behind you as you heard a hammer lock into place. "Are we really goin' to be killin' each other over some silly radio?" asked Cooper, and you felt some of your nerves ease slightly when you felt his chest press against your back.

A man to your right hissed. "You killed him!"

You shook your head viciously. "No, no! I - I didn't kill anyone. I'm sorry, I really am."

"You killed Sterry!" a woman accused.

"Sterry?" You looked down at the broken stereo and began to scoop up the bigger pieces you could find. "I - I can fix Sterry, I swear -"

"There's no fixing Sterry," moaned the woman who had served you stew as she sunk into the closest bench, looking as though she were about to faint. "He's dead. And you've killed us all."

You glanced back at Cooper, who wielded both his pistols now, each pointed in a different direction toward locals who had drawn their weapons. He offered a shrouded look that screamed, 'Now, didn't I tell you so, sweetheart?' You took a shuddering breath and faced the woman who had served you. "What do you mean?" you asked.

The woman placed her head in her hand as if she'd already accepted her fate. It was a daunting sight, the face of a woman so cheery and joyful such a short time ago, now deflated as though someone had let out all her air. "This place," she said, gesturing vaguely to the mall around you. "It's infested." The word was so heavy you felt as though you nearly choked on it. "Infested with creatures that will tear us limb from limb now that you've ruined everything. The music! The music was what kept them away, and now that it's gone..."

As if on cue, from the darkness of one of the long-winding corridors straight ahead, there came the bone-rattling sound of a feral hissing and snapping its weathered jaw. A few of the locals scrambled back as the creature emerged from the inky blackness, arms twisted and eyes sunken so far back into its skull they looked like they were forever pointed toward the sky. It took a rushed few steps forward before Cooper's arm rotated and he put a hole between its eyes. The feral dropped to the floor, leaking dark blood that stained the tile floor.

"Stop being so dramatic, Uma," said an older gentleman who stooped at your feet to begin gathering the pieces of Sterry. You immediately dropped to your knees to help. "We've fixed Sterry before, and we'll fix him again. It won't take long. But while we do, we'll need something to drive those creatures off..."

Your stomach dropped when, as you stood to hand over the pieces of the stereo, you felt Cooper's hands - still fitted with his pistols - rest heavily on your shoulders. "Well, then, y'all folks are in luck," he drawled, and you could practically hear the smirk playing his lips as he spoke. "I've got my very own songbird right here. I'd be happy to lend her to 'ya if, say... you filled our flasks from that there tank when the time comes for us to leave."

"Cooper," you hissed through your teeth as you spun around to face him. Singing for your vault was one thing, but singing for a bunch of strangers in the middle of an infested mall while ferals stumbled from the darkness all around you? He may as well have tossed you back out into the wastes. "You are not going to fucking trade me -"

"Done," said the old man as he sat down and began to sort Sterry's pieces. "Have your girl start singing - anything her heart desires. Just long enough for me to fix old Sterry here."

Giving the man a mock salute that didn't quite raise to his brow, Cooper shoved you onto a bench so that you stood over the rest of the camp. From this angle, they were all able to see your petrified expression and your hands shaking at your sides. "You heard the man," your companion said and smacked the back of your knee. "Get to it, songbird."

"Cooper, I can't -"

Before you were able to finish, Cooper turned, his ears pricking at something yours did not pick up, and dropped another feral that had been silently stalking the camp from the other side. A few of the locals yelped in terror, fleeing into shopfronts and tents.

"Sing for me, sweetheart," Cooper said. He sent you a wink, tipped his hat, then unleashed another round of lead into the darkness which only his eyes could penetrate.

You felt as if you were going to vomit. Sweat began to form on the back of your neck as you fisted your hands and swayed slightly where you stood on the bench. Turning your head, you met the eyes of a few camp locals watching you from their hideouts, their expressions filled with fear, anger, anticipation. They were waiting. Expecting. Needing. Attempting to push down the swelling that was beginning to form in your throat, you looked down at Cooper as he emptied his pistols of empty shells before reloading in order to fend off the ferals attacking the camp - the very camp he'd wanted to take out not half an hour ago.

He'd told you to sing for him. So you'd sing. For him, and only him.

Clearing your mouth and opening your lips, you took a breath and forced yourself to sing. "Death will come from where the earth meets the sky." Your voice wobbled slightly, rusty from having not singing since you left your vault. That, along with the fear and dehydration sitting on your tongue. "The sand is scorched beneath his step, the future decided by his eye." As you sang, the miniature explosions banging from the barrels of Cooper's pistols created a short, quick beat you unconsciously began to tap your foot along to. "He'll come for you all in the end, you'll never be free... he'll come for you all, but never for me."

Ferals shrieked in response to the gunfire, to the song torn right from your notebook in your pack, and one by one, like stage performers who had practiced this dance a hundred times, they dropped at the feet of the camp.

"Death's got a girl who croons his songs, which is why he never stays for long. He's got to run back to his lady, just as harsh as he, he's coming for you, but he's running back to me." As you sang you realized your voice was getting louder, louder, swelling until it filled the mall's atrium and every corridor far beyond. You tapped your heel along with the rhythm you'd created, closing your eyes and imagining an audience of one; a ghoul with his arms slung out across the chairs beside him and a knowing smirk playing his thin lips. It pulled you forward, pulled forth a song you hadn't realized was already in you. "He might sound mean, but I swear, he's kind. He's just got to peer into these eyes of mine. I'll ride with him, and he'll follow me, leaving behind a trail of blood far as the eye can see. Oh, my baby's got teeth to bite and a gun to blow, see his smoke and soon you'll know. Death ain't my man, he's my right hand. He'll come for you all in the end, you'll never be free... he'll come for you all, but never for me."

You had just been nearing a second verse when, from where it rested before the old man on the table, the stereo jumped back to life and filled the atrium with thrumming, pulsing folk music. It drowned out your voice, silenced you like a gunshot, and the ferals teetering on the edge of the darkness leading to the rest of the mall stumbled back into their hiding places. The camp locals slowly emerged from their hiding places, chattering excitedly about Sterry and his newfound love of life. Feeling a little stupid still standing on the bench, you climbed down and shuffled away toward where you had been originally sitting.

Taking a seat, you rested your forehead on your arms and exhaled a shaky breath. What had you been thinking? Singing a song for the man you'd become hopelessly fascinated with while he was just a few feet away, battling ferals who were intent on tearing out your throat and taking your voice with it? You were such a fucking idiot. You wouldn't be surprised if he told you to never open your mouth again.

Just as promised, your flasks were filled to the brims with fresh water before you went on your way, leaving the mall atrium and the singing, dancing camp locals behind as you picked your way back outside. Neither you nor Cooper said much as you continued your trek to nowhere, leaving a pair of footprints like echoes in your wake. Your cheeks remained flushed long after the mall had disappeared into the horizon, and long after you picked out an abandoned building to set up camp for the night. For once, it wasn't from the heat.

You sat across the lantern and what light it cast from Cooper, who stared into the little beacon as if he were watching the most fascinating flick within its glass. You held your notebook in your lap, thumb marking your place as your tried to write, but nothing would come to mind save for the things you'd sung about today. Mortification stirred like a serpent in your belly, and you briefly considered excusing yourself to get up and throw up outside.

"Let me see that book you've got there."

Your head lifted at Cooper's request - more of a demand - and unconsciously tightened your grip around your notebook. Your notebook - full of songs, melodies, lyrics. The most recent half of which you had written about the ghoul staring at you. "This?" you said, your trembling voice giving way to your nerves. You forced out a chuckle and smacked it shut. "It's nothing worth looking at."

"Why not?" he said, voice rasping lower than the baritone he usually held it at. You swore his gaze was hotter than the sun during the day and the fires at night. "You got more songs 'bout little old me in there?"

Fuck, he knew. Fuck all, he knew. You felt your flush deepen as you pointedly tucked your notebook into the bottom of your pack and flipped the top shut. "I... I don't know what you're talking about," you said, avoiding his eyes. Instead you focused on the fraying tip of your boot. "I wrote that a long time ago. Back in my vault."

"Uh huh." Cooper stared you down for so long you thought that perhaps time had frozen. Then he took a barely-there breath. "Come over here, songbird. Let me get a good look at you."

For a long, long moment, you remained still as you ever had been. What was he saying? Normally the only time he let you close to him was when he invaded your personal space to deliver a shove or to smack your knee or thigh to tell you to get a move on. Your breath hitched when you finally lifted your head and found his gaze boring into yours, heavier than a ton and white hot like a branding iron.

"I ain't goin' to tell you again, pretty girl."

As if he had you on a fucking leash - because you swore he did - you found yourself pitching forward, crawling on your hands and knees toward him. He spread his legs slightly, enough to give you room to fit between them, and hesitantly, so very carefully, you rested yourself against his front. His rough, scarred hands, free of his gloves, came up to rest on the swell of your hips as if they were made to be there, fitting like puzzle pieces against your skin beneath your vault suit. You stared up at him, backlit by the lantern light, and let his thumb drag down your bottom lip until it slipped from his touch.

"Didn't think my songbird had such desire in her," Cooper chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your face.

You relished in the goosebumps that crawled over the planes of your skin. "I... I don't..."

"Oh, you'd be dead wrong if you said that little ditty you sang today wasn't all about desire." He settled back deeper where he sat, giving you more room to settle against him between the columns of his thighs. Your lower belly rested against his crotch, where you felt the hard outline of his cock straining against his trousers. Your heart skipped a beat or three. "If you wanted to ride with death, sweetheart, all you needed to do was ask."

Cooper sealed his lips to yours without word or warning, pulling a surprised little noise from the back of your throat that he swallowed up with fervor. As the initial shock faded, you found your eyes slipping shut and your mouth moving against his, lips opening without fight when his tongue demanded to explore your own. Bracing yourself with one hand against his thigh, you reached up with your other and cradled the back of his head, knocking off his hat in the process.

Swift to get a move on, to feel you against him and swallow up more of your sounds, Cooper easily flipped you around so that you were now lying flat on your back and he was hovering over your prone form. Both tingling excitement and nauseating nerves pulled groans from your lips as he moved to pressing harsh kisses and nips to the column of your neck, licking up red spots that would surely bruise come morning time. He shucked off his duster and abandoned it somewhere behind him, at the same time, by some skill you had no idea anyone possessed, also grasping at the zipper of your vault suit to pull it down as far as it would go.

It didn't take long for you to shimmy out of the suit, leaving you in just your underwear, the seams of which he traced with his calloused finger. It sent a chill running up your spine despite the heat prodding at your skin.

"My songbird sounds real pretty when she's singin'," Cooper muttered as he sucked a bruise into the swell of one breast over the cup of your bra. "I bet she sounds even better screamin' for me."

His hand plunged beneath the waistband of your panties and began to explore your folds, pulling a long, whining moan from your lips. He ate you and your whimpers up, devouring your lips like he wanted to eat you whole - maybe he did - while his middle finger ran up and down your cunt a few times before deftly finding your clit and applying a bit of pressure to the sensitive bud. You cried out. It had been far too long since you'd seen any real action. It didn't take long before your folds were soaked, and he was able to gingerly nudge his finger past the entrance of your pussy. It felt foreign to have another person thrusting their finger in and out of you, building you up to a kind of high you hadn't known since far before you left your vault. In less than a few minutes - something he would surely tease you about later - you felt that familiar coil snap in your stomach and you soaked his hand with a loud, throat-rattling wail that escaped your lips and flew right past his.

Cooper pulled back with a self-satisfied smirk and pulled his hand from your panties, lifting his spread hand to show you to slick you'd coated his digits with. You were only able to huff for breath and watch with hooded eyes as he brought his fingers to his mouth and used his skillful tongue to lick off your cum. You briefly wondered what else that tongue of his could do, what it would feel like to have him lap up your pussy like it was the only thing to guarantee him his daily hit of medicine.

"Sweet as honey, baby," he cooed, bracing himself with one hand while the other worked on the buckle of his belt. "Well. Maybe Tennessee honey. You ever had a taste of that?" He knew you hadn't. But that didn't stop his smirk from growing in size when you numbly shook your head. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, baby. We'll get you a lick one day. 'Til then..."

Your limbs dancing with pins and needles, you lifted your hips to help him tug off your panties. "I'll just have to settle for what I've got," you exhaled with a hazy smile.

Cooper grinned wide, a smile that bordered on the edge of dark, as he tugged down his trousers just enough for his cock to spring free. He was thick - larger than you'd expected - and his member was rough and scarred like the rest of him. It made you want to feel him all the more. "I'll promise you somethin', darlin," he said as he positioned himself at your entrance and you locked your legs around his waist, heels digging into the edge of his gun belt. "I'm better than anything else you'll taste these days." With that he slid into you, filling you at once to the brim like he just couldn't wait to feel you from the inside. A loud, sharp yelp escaped your lips as your back arched instinctively, curling yourself up into him. He only waited a few moments for you to adjust before he started moving, pulling himself out to the tip before thrusting back inside your welcoming cunt. You were able to feel each and every ridge of him, every scar, and you swore you were getting drunk from just the feeling.

"Fuckin' shit, girl," he groaned, moving to press the flat of his hand to the base of your neck so that he could keep you in place while he fucked you. "Better than I could've fuckin' dreamed."

Cooper's thrusts began to increase in speed, your moans and whimpers accompanied by his low, almost growling snarls he panted against the shell of your ear. You couldn't believe this was happening. You were being fucked by the ghoul you'd been following all these months, the ghoul you'd been watching and studying and falling hopelessly for. And it felt good. It felt so fucking good, a part of you wasn't entirely convinced this entire scenario wasn't a dream concocted by the recesses of your mind.

"God, Coop," you heard yourself moan as your nails dug crescent moons into the fabric of his shirt. "Feels so fucking good..."

"Atta girl," he muttered, moving his head down so that he could suck at the junction where your neck met your shoulder. "Such a sweet little songbird." His grip on your hips tightened as his movements increased even further. "Might just have to fuck you good every night so I can hear you sing for me."

You panted deep as you felt your second orgasm of the night approaching at an alarming rate. Your hips bucked up to meet his with each thrust, the sound of skin on skin filling the abandoned building in which you had taken shelter. "Don't have to - ah! - even ask. I'll sing for you any time, Coop."

Cooper's breaths came shorter, sharper, and it wasn't long before he came with a harsh bite against your shoulder, one that spilled blood into his awaiting mouth and pulled your own orgasm from deep within your depths. You shuddered and cried for him, tugging him close and holding him there for several minutes after your highs had faded and your breaths evened.

Finally, he pulled himself off of you. A short whine escaped you when he slipped from your heat, and he chuckled low before tossing you your panties to slip back on. When you were both covered again, you sat up and crossed your legs as you basked in the afterglow of what had just taken place. Cooper dug around in his saddlebag for a moment before producing his inhaler and drinking up a shot of his medicine, shaking his head against the sudden buzz that came with it as he sat back on his elbows and stared at the lantern light.

"I..." You struggled to find the words so desperately clawing at your chest. "I hope you don't..."

Cooper reached up and pulled your wrist out from under you, causing you to fall back on the ground beside him with an 'umph.' He let his arm cushion your fall before sweeping a few strands of hair from your face and giving you that crooked smirk which made your legs fall numb all over again. "Oh, don't you worry yourself, songbird," he said. "I ain't lettin' you fly away from me any time soon."

LEAVE YOUR BOYFRIEND

character/s: eren jaeger x afab!reader

SYNOPSIS: eren isn’t very happy to sit back and watch his best friend, who he is very much in love with, date another man. everyone has there breaking point, you were his. (4.2k)

WARNINGS: 18+/mdni, cheating (not on reader or eren), slight angst, praise kink, fingering, penetrative sex, no condom (remember to wrap it up y’all), heavy cursing, a little bit of soft eren mixed with simp eren, some mean eren sprinkled in there, a dash of pining, mocking, technical exhibitionism, some degradation, i hope i don’t miss anything

A/N: i seriously don’t remember sitting down to write this, also eren finds literally any and every way to insult your boyfriend

Keep reading

Thank you so much for your Tiefling smut contributions! I am so lovesick for Rolan and wanted to request--Rolan x fem Tav at the grove party? I know it's super early in both of their arcs but I can't help but wonder. 💕

Rolan x Fem!Tav (Unnamed)

Good Night For Company

"Would you mind if I kissed you?" Sometimes you need to feel lonely before you notice the person sitting right beside you.

Tags: Fem Unnamed Tav, Kissing, Accidental Cuddling, Feelings Realization | SFW

Word Count: 5,443 [Read on AO3]

Sometimes it was lonely to be the hero, she thought to herself.

Their camp was fuller and merrier than she’d ever seen it. Every last Tiefling she’d met at the Grove had joined them for a night of celebration, bringing along every last bottle of wine and spirits they could get their hands on as way of thanks.

Unsurprisingly, all eyes in camp seemed to be searching for someone else to spend the night with. Who could blame them? Mortal peril and hard-won victories tended light a fire in people, herself included. 

Yet somehow she still found herself short on options. Everyone at camp seemed more interested in clapping her shoulder in thanks than joining her for a night of abandoned pleasure. Even her close companions hadn’t taken much interest in what she had on offer.

Astarion was the only one who had made her an invitation. She practically felt grateful to him for it. He would tempt anyone, of course—just look at him. But underneath his beauty, there was a dark edge about the elf that made her hesitate in the end. How was it Gale had described him? ‘A tiger when it purrs.’ 

Honestly, she wouldn’t have said no to Gale, either. He was certainly attractive, and there was a sad weight to his shoulders that seemed to invite comforting. The kind she wouldn’t mind giving. Yet despite the lonely shine in his eyes, he’d made it abundantly clear to her in his loquacious way that his mind was elsewhere this evening. She left him alone to his private reflections.

She at least expected their own cheerful Tiefling to be smack in the middle of the evening’s revelry. Tonight, Karlach was nowhere to be found. Only when she later glimpsed Shadowheart’s tent standing dark and noticeably empty did she put the pieces together. 

Well, good for them. At least two of their group might have a chance at a lay tonight.

No such luck for her, it seemed. She raised the bottle of Ithbank to her lips and tried not to feel too sorry for herself. The last few days had been long, exhausting, positively brutal…her muscles ached from overuse. Really, a good night’s sleep should be more than enough to satisfy her. 

And yet—how nice it would feel to be touched and held with tenderness, even if it wasn’t real, even just for one night. Just enjoy a harmless tumble in someone’s bedroll before everything crashed around them again. The thought of the long road that would greet her in the morning made her groan, and she shook the thought away. 

It hardly helped her souring mood to see Danis and Bex practically sitting in each others’ laps in the middle of camp, gently knocking their horns together with affection. She averted her eyes and took a rather resentful swig of wine as she trudged past.

“Go on then, give us a show!”

Teasing laughter came from just ahead. At the edge of camp, she happened upon the three Tiefling siblings from the Grove. Rolan, the oldest, stood flexing his hands as if preparing for an impressive feat. As she approached, she thought for just a moment that he glanced in her direction.

His brother Cal heckled him mercilessly from the rock where he and Lia were perched. “Lose your nerve, wiz?”

Rolan sighed, long-suffering. “Have you no respect for showmanship?” Not leaving time for any more smart comments, he flourished his hands upward with a low incantation.

The effect was like tiny stars, or fireflies, or some combination of the two. Sparkling lights spread and popped above their heads, leaving behind a violet mist that gently faded into the night.

She found herself smiling up at the sky. It wasn’t a powerful display, but it was lovely nonetheless. And certainly unique. She wondered how one went about inventing a Weave spell; she wouldn’t know where to begin. 

Tucking the bottle against her chest, she offered a little round of applause. Cal looked over at her then and let out a groan of amusement. “Not you, now he’ll keep at it all night.” 

"Shut it," Rolan shot at him, positively glowering. Lia was clutching her side in laughter at his expense.

Two against one; that was siblings for you. She was in a newly generous mood after his pretty magic, however, and decided to lend Rolan a hand.

"Surprised you're still here," she said, cocking her head toward Cal. "Last I heard, Lakrissa was looking for you."

Cal's neck practically snapped with how quickly he craned it around camp. Lia turned her mirth on him, aiming a punch at his shoulder.

"As if, you idiot," she chuckled. "She's only about ten times out of your league."

"You don't know that," Cal told her, completely thrown off teasing his brother as he rose to look around the party hopefully. "She told me I had a good parry one time—I could have a chance—"

As he wandered off, Lia threw up her hands and rose to follow him. "Guess I'll go save Lakrissa. Or maybe just watch what happens. Nice one," Lia added over her shoulder, grinning appreciatively at her. 

She and Rolan were left standing alone to the side. There was some awkward shuffling of feet; somewhere past the campfire, Volo launched into his third stanza of Tymora's Melody. A song to make people lucky, she seemed to recall. A suggestive choice for the night.

"Drink?" She broke the silence, offering out the bottle of wine. Relief flooded Rolan’s face.

"Gods, please." He accepted and took a generous pull.

"You certainly have your hands full with those two, don’t you." She bit back a grin at the way his brow crinkled in response.

"They are…" Rolan cast around for the word. "Challenging. But I don't have to tell you that," he added, glancing sideways at her. "We were bickering the first moment you met us."

"That's just family, though," she laughed, taking the wine back from him. Their fingers brushed together slightly over the bottle.

“Nevertheless. My thanks.” He waved his hand in a general motion, but she could tell he meant her intervention before. 

“Don’t mention it,” she told him. 

Seeking a reprieve from the merry music and voices around them, her feet idly made their way toward the edge of the fire's light closer to the riverbank. From the corner of her eye she saw Rolan follow. They settled on a log of driftwood that faced the scenes at camp. 

"So, you're finally making your way to Baldur's Gate," she said. It wasn't a question; he'd already told everyone who would listen about his apprenticeship with Lorroakan of Ramazith.

"Finally.” His eyes glowed with pure enthusiasm. "You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. The slightest delay has felt like an eternity.”

“And Cal and Lia? They must be excited, too.”

“Of course” he said, though his lips raised in a little smirk. “They’ve never been to the Gate, so they don’t quite know what to expect. But they’re just as eager.”

She watched him for a moment as she turned the bottle over in her hands. "You're quite sure of yourself, aren't you."

Rolan looked at her with a challenging expression. “Tell me, in our position, what else is there we can be sure of?"

He almost made her regret herself. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you’re very—”

“I expect most wouldn’t guess that a hellspawn could earn a position under the greatest archmage on the Sword Coast,” Rolan said before she could finish. 

His moods were volatile as a storm; turning this way and that without warning. She was never sure what to expect from him. Before she could protest his assumptions about her, he continued onward.

"We three never had much between us, you know." Rolan’s voice was abruptly low and bitter. "Somehow we've got less now than we started with. Not even our birthplace anymore. The one thing I’m sure of is my magical talent. I'm not going to deny it for the sake of being modest—" he tossed the words out with contempt. "Not when it's the one thing I always knew I had in spades. With the right instruction, I could be inimitable."

She studied his determined profile in the half-light of the campfire. Perhaps there were more layers to his self-important attitude than she'd thought. After all, without him taking on the challenging role that awaited him in the city, Rolan and his siblings found themselves in much the same position as the other refugees milling about camp tonight. A heavy weight despite his obvious enthusiasm. Who was she to judge him, or any of them?

Rolan finally caught her watching him and cleared his throat. "Forgive me, I think I've—had too much wine."

"Oh?" She gave the bottle a swirl; it was still more than half-full. "You're making pretty good sense to me."

"I don't usually speak so freely with strangers," he explained tersely, glancing away.

She pondered the comment over another sip. "Does that make us friends, then?" She asked, not sure if she was being serious or trying to tease him. He did seem like he'd be awfully fun to tease.

"That's a little premature," he said dryly, but he glanced at her with a serious look. "Though I suppose, given recent events, you've earned it."

"A roundabout way to say yes," she laughed. "But I'll take it."

Rolan only made a low, grumpy noise in his throat. But he didn't challenge her.

“I’m really glad you three stayed, you know,” she told him. “I know you were against it. It certainly wasn’t the easy choice.”

Rolan plucked a bit of dry grass from between his boots, twisted it between his fingers. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Once Lia gets an idea in her head to save some poor thing or other, there’s no arguing with her. And she knows I'd never leave her behind.”

"You say that, but anyone with eyes can see the way those two look to you for guidance. They would've followed you down either path."

"Not like us staying even made a difference," Rolan deflected, tossing the ball of grass onto the dirt in front of them. "We only lost a few more traveling days waiting around while you and your friends took care of everything. For which, I suppose, we owe you thanks," he finished sarcastically.

"I suppose," she said lightly. But she was looking straight at him.

Rolan was clever enough to realize he was being chastised. He let out a sigh, but dipped his horns to her in resignation. "Thank you."

She only smiled at him and offered back the wine in response. He accepted without comment.

Watching him tip back the bottle, she mentally fit another piece to his puzzle. "You don't like feeling powerless, do you?"

Rolan looked sideways at her. "Does anyone? Do you?"

"No," she replied, feeling a little foolish for asking. When he passed it back, she drank deeply from the bottle, grounded by the burn that traveled down her throat.

"That must make your situation difficult." Rolan was watching her almost cautiously, as if the subject should be carefully tread.

"The tadpole, you mean?" She spoke it aloud, not wanting him to feel any suspense about the subject. How the thought could fill her with dread and a kind of dark humor at the same time was beyond her. Maybe the worm in her brain was finally driving her mad after all.

"First I had to talk Nettie out of giving me a lobotomy. Then I thought the renowned First Druid Halsin might be able to heal me, but no luck. I even thought that crazy goblin priestess could have something up her sleeve." She gave a mirthless laugh, starting to feel the weariness closing around her again. "Suppose I just need to keep searching, right? Halsin thinks we might find answers in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Or maybe the cure is in Baldur's Gate. Who knows," she added, glancing over at him. "Maybe your Lorroakan could know the solution, if he's as powerful as you say."

"He is," Rolan answered automatically. His luminous eyes were sharp with enthusiasm as he watched her. "When you get to the city, come see me at Sorcerous Sundries. If a cure exists, it'll be recorded somewhere in the library of Ramazith’s Tower, I'm sure of it. I’ll even research it, if I have time."

Inwardly she hoped they'd all be cured far earlier than that. But she was touched by his sudden helpfulness, even if it was half to prove the powers of his new station. 

“Thank you, Rolan,” she smiled. “I appreciate it.”

He dipped his horns wordlessly toward her again. It was a gesture she was beginning to recognize, and grow rather fond of. She offered him their wine bottle in thanks.

From there they both let the moment drift. Seated on their log near the riverbank, she turned to watch how the rest of the revelry was progressing. Alfira had joined Volo in some kind of bardic duel; a rapid-fire melody drifted out to where the two of them sat. Lia appeared to be bravely trying her luck with Lae'zel. Judging by Lae'zel's very non-subtle body language, she was actually getting somewhere. 

And to her disbelief, she even saw Cal and Lakrissa sitting together at the fire, engaged in what looked like a very friendly, very close conversation. Was it seriously everyone's night but hers?

She glanced to Rolan's face at her side. He wasn't paying attention to her; his fingers rolled the neck of their shared drink idly back and forth.

It should've occurred to her sooner, honestly. Despite Rolan's initial bluster, she found it surprisingly easy to speak with him one-on-one like this. He had a depth she hadn't noticed before. 

And he wasn't bad to look at, either. Golden eyes set against inky black, strong jawline, lips that often curved up in a little smirk that she wasn't sure he deserved but found charming despite herself. She decided to dispense with caution and just try her luck.

"Would you mind if I kissed you?"

“What?” Rolan's head jerked around as he stared at her. "Why?"

"I don't know," she admitted. Maybe this was a bad idea; the shock on his face made her question her own boldness. But then she thought of his pretty spellwork. "Because you're the only person who's made me smile tonight."

Rolan examined her expression as though trying to tell whether she was joking. "We barely know each other," he said slowly.

She gestured her head toward the crowded clearing. "I mean, I didn’t know any of these people a few weeks ago. And now look at us. We’re practically family at this point.” She turned back toward him. "Besides, maybe I'd like to get to know you better?"

Rolan cast around for a response to that. "I suppose you're not…unattractive," he conceded. Although the nervous movement of his fingers gave him away a little.

"Know how to make a girl feel special, don't you," she laughed. "Look, Rolan, say no if you don't want to. I'm not after anything serious. It's just a good night for some company, and honestly, I’ve enjoyed talking to you."

Rolan was considering it; she could practically see his mind ticking between his options. "You're quite tenacious, aren't you?" He told her, the hint of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

"When I want something," she agreed.

Something in the words seemed to tip his decision. She watched Rolan's eyes flick down to her lips.

Taking that as a yes, she tilted forward to press them against his. His skin was warm and softer than she expected. Rolan didn't move against her, in fact was practically frozen still. She couldn't tell whether he was inexperienced or just out of practice. Regardless, she pulled away to look at him through her lashes, checking his expression.

This close his golden eyes almost seemed to blaze. She watched them move over her face, taking in her features up close. When he realized she wasn't going to initiate again, Rolan leaned in for another kiss.

Definitely not inexperienced, she decided, as his lips slid and moved softly over hers. She breathed in and smelled smoke and wine and something spiced; a pleasant warmth coiled in her stomach. He sighed into the kiss, apparently feeling something similar.

She felt a tentative hand rest on the side of her waist. Without breaking from him, she scooted sideways to get a little closer, inadvertently pressing her leg up against his. Rolan made no objection, only circled his arm further around her back.

It was the nicest feeling. Being held by a firm yet gentle touch, sharing kisses that flowed from sweet to eager to shy and back again. How long had it been? The longer Rolan's mouth moved over hers, the less she cared about remembering. 

She hooked her arms over his shoulders to keep him close. As she tilted her chin for a better angle at his mouth, she took a chance and ran her tongue along his bottom lip. Rolan’s fingers dug slightly deeper into her side, but his lips parted to allow her in.

She felt a thrill run through her as their tongues melted together. They tasted each other softly for a moment; unconsciously, she combed her fingers up through the hair at his nape.

Rolan broke away gently at the feeling. She grew suddenly shy when their eyes met again, and she cast around for something to fill the silence.

"Why do you hide your ears behind your hair like that?” She wondered aloud. “They’re lovely." As she spoke, one of her index fingers went to tuck a lock of his hair back behind the long, pointed arrow of his ear, grazing against it with curiosity. Before she could blink, his hand caught hers to pull it away.

"Don't—" Rolan said abruptly, then let out a nervous laugh to break the tension. “Tiefling ears are…quite sensitive.”

"Oh," she said. His meaning sunk in the rest of the way. “Oh—I’m so sorry, I didn't realize—" The heat of embarrassment on her cheeks could have melted her.

"It’s all right,” he told her, laughing genuinely now. “Gods, your face is almost as red as mine.”

Rolan was even more handsome with a real, true smile on his face. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen one there before. Before she’d found a response, his grip on her wrist was gently pulling her arm over his shoulder, and her body closer to him with it. 

She decided another kiss would shut up his teasing nicely. She followed his lead and then some, wrapping both arms around his lovely shoulders, melting against his lips again. He said something against her, but the words dissolved into a hum that sent a pleasant shiver down her back.

Finally, Rolan succeeded in pulling away to glance back toward the center of camp. "Sorry," he said breathlessly, and it sounded like he truly was. "I just—don't want you to face uncomfortable questions in the morning."

No doubt his siblings' teasing was another factor, but she didn't call him out on it. While she appreciated his chivalry, all she could think about was getting his mouth under hers again.

"We could go to my tent?" She suggested.

For all the cockiness he'd spouted from the first moment she met him, she felt Rolan's hands almost seize up around her.

The feeling made her bite back a grin. "I'd just like to kiss you some more," she said, tracing her thumb against his jaw. "We don't have to do anything else. It would just be more private. And more comfortable."

Rolan licked his lips, unsure. “Won’t that be even more obvious?”

“I don’t think this crowd’s going to notice much at this point…” She turned with arms still around him to look over the scenes near the campfire, and Rolan's gaze followed. The generous flow of alcohol was taking a clear effect on most of the faces gathered here and there. Around the fire’s edge, Alfira was leading many of her fellows in a rousing ballad that she didn’t recognize. Most voices were noticeably off-key.

“Come on,” she invited Rolan, rising with one of his hands in hers. He made no protests as she led him around the edge of camp, trying to stay out of the more obvious sightlines, and towards her empty tent. When she held the flap open for him, he ducked in quickly without a word, and she followed.

Inside, the light from the roaring campfire filtered dimly through the fabric walls. She watched Rolan’s luminous eyes glance around, taking in her personal effects, finally landing on her open bedroll. He swallowed hard. 

“Just sit,” she told him, guiding him by the arm down beside her. They settled side-by-side on the blankets. Somehow the mood between them was back to the initial uncertainty of before, as if they hadn’t already shared a score of kisses.

“Your tent smells like you,” he said out of nowhere.

"Really?" She chuckled, but the observation somehow made her very nervous. “Not sure if I want to ask what my smell is.”

“Balsam.” Rolan didn’t elaborate, only dipped his head swiftly to place lips under her jaw. Her laughter dissolved into a sigh of pleasure. Clawed hands snaked up around her side and down over her shoulder, tipping her torso into him. She let her head loll to the side to give him all the access he could want.

She’d forgotten all about his sharp incisors. As he kissed down the side of her neck, his warm breath sending a cascade of shivers over her spine, one of his fangs grazed her bare skin by accident. Her sharp intake of breath surprised even herself. 

Rolan pulled away to look at her, uncertain if he’d done something right or wrong. She used the moment to capture him in a kiss again, sucking and nibbling on one side of his bottom lip, letting him know how right he was getting this.

She sank sideways into her bedroll, pulling him down with her with hands clasped behind his neck, trying to be mindful of his angling horns.

Rolan's arm rested comfortably over her side, nails whispering against her back as he held her. He was so gentle like this; so unlike the way he presented himself to others. The thought that she was seeing a side of Rolan most others didn’t get to see—she liked that thought very much. She tangled a hand in his hair as their kisses turned soft, and lovely, and almost lazy.

The security of his arms around her in her soft bedroll, the alcohol making its way rapidly to her brain, the exertions of the day straining along her limbs…she felt herself drifting toward a state of relaxation almost like sleep. She roused herself, wanting to kiss him back while she had him here. She wasn't sure when they'd get a chance like this next.

But Rolan gently disentangled their mouths for a moment. "Here," he said, scooting his arm under her neck like a pillow. She leaned against him with a comfortable sigh. 

"Your arm's gonna fall asleep," she warned him, making no moves to shift the weight of her heavy head.

Rolan chuckled low in his chest. "I think you'll be doing that first."

She wanted to make a snappy response, but all that came out was a petulant groan against his lips. 

This wasn't going at all the way she intended. She wasn't supposed to doze off, she was supposed to kiss the Tiefling wizard until he saw stars, like the ones he'd conjured for her.

Because he had conjured them for her—she told herself that with certainty, whether or not it was true. The sweet thought carried her toward sweet dreams, and the memory of them behind her eyelids was the last thing she saw before she drifted.

—

The call of an owl nearby pierced through her sleep. As her mind surfaced in the darkness, the first thing she was aware of was the pleasant weight of an arm across her. She sighed and settled comfortably back into the warm figure pressed up against her hips and shoulders. The mystery arm pulled her in tighter in response.

Things began slowly filtering back to her; the party the night before, and the wine, and Rolan, and—

Her eyes opened wide then. The interior of her tent was so dark that she could only make out blurry shapes. Outside, she heard nothing but crickets and a few more distant owls hooting; it must be well past midnight. The fire hadn't been tended for hours, judging by the absence of light reaching through the fabric walls. Presumably the rest of camp had all turned in long ago. 

With the nervousness of a person who'd fallen asleep from drink, she shifted around a bit to confirm that yes, she was very much still fully clothed. Her toes flexed against hard leather; even her dusty boots were still on her feet. That answered that question, at least. She glanced down at the clothed arm over her stomach.

"Rolan?" She whispered through the dark. 

She felt and heard his lips mumble something against her hair, and then Rolan's face nestled deep into the crook of her neck with a happy sigh. The intimate gesture made her bite her lip. She could feel his steady breaths tickle against her collarbone. 

However much she might want to let him stay right there, forever, she knew she should wake him.

"Rolan," she whispered a little louder. Twisting a bit to free the arm under her side, she reached to gently pat the spot between his horns. She felt his hair rustle freely under her hand; its orderly tie must have come undone in the night.

Rolan inhaled sharply awake then. He lifted his head from her as if trying to cast around for where he was.

"We both fell asleep," she whispered, stating the obvious. She felt him tense up behind her as he took in his body's positioning: chest pressed against her back, one arm cradling her neck, the other wrapped tight around her waist to keep her pulled in close to him. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she even felt his tail twined around one of her legs.

Every part of him retreated from her at once as he lurched into a half-seated position. "I'm sorry," he apologized in a groggy whisper.

"It's fine," she assured him, wondering why he would assume she didn't enjoy the closeness as much as he clearly had in his sleep. "I think everyone else is asleep by now."

There was a long, quiet pause. Then Rolan began, “Did we…?”

“No,” she interjected with certainty. 

"Thank Gods. I mean—" He cast around in the dark for one of her hands, realizing how that came out. "We both drank a lot, that's not how I want—it shouldn't be like that."

"I know." The sweet goodness of him made her heart swell.

Suddenly, Rolan grabbed his head with both hands. "Fuck," he hissed. "Lia and Cal."

"What about?"

"They'll know I didn't come back to our camp last night," he groaned low.

"Oh—okay," she said, trying to think; her brain was still fuzzy from the night's wine. "Well, maybe they'll just assume you got back late?"

“You don't understand, they know that I—” He cut himself off, and finished, “They already tease me about you.”

“Oh." She did her best to ignore the way that made her insides do a happy flip. But she couldn’t resist teasing a little herself. “Then maybe they’ll just assume you finally got lucky?”

His head fell against her shoulder with a groan, horns lightly knocking against her. “Please,” he begged.

“Sorry, Rolan—” She was instantly contrite, holding his head close to place kisses across his hair and forehead. "Listen, we've got an hour or two before dawn. Maybe you can sneak back and they won't know how late you were out. Where's your camp?"

"The bluffs just outside the Emerald Grove, with Lakrissa and the bard."

She knew the spot; they could easily reach there in a quarter hour on foot. But first, she scooted away and undid the flap of her tent to peer out for any signs of activity.

Everything outside was very still. She watched carefully for another moment just in case; near Wyll's tent, Scratch snuffled and buried his snout further against the owlbear cub's feathers. Beyond that, there were no signs of stirring in the camp.

She ducked back inside the tent for a moment. "C'mon—"

With quiet, shuffling feet, they crept out into the quiet moonlit night. Scratch's head raised silently in their direction. She stared into his dark eyes with a silent plea, begging him to be a good boy and stay quiet. He lowered his head back down without a sound. She swore to herself that she would find him the biggest, juiciest bone in the morning. 

She grabbed Rolan's hand behind her and tugged him quietly through camp. They passed tent after tent filled with steady breathing, boots padding against the dirt in near-silence.

Once they were outside the ruined wall at the edge of the campsite, she let out her pent-up breath in relief. 

Rolan kept his fingers twined firmly with hers as they walked through the moonlight. They talked about anything to fill the air, about things that didn't matter, both trying to stave off the impending end of their short night together.

Far sooner than felt fair, they rounded into a familiar clearing, and she knew his destination was just up the hill to their left. 

"Well," she began, as they slowed to a stop.

Before she knew it, she was pulled against Rolan’s chest in a tight embrace. She folded herself into him as completely as she could manage, breathing deep and committing his scent to memory.

When they broke apart, he kept her close so he could see her face in the moonlight. "Which route will you take to reach the Shadow lands?"

"Through the Underdark if we can," she answered. "I wasn't sure about it, but we all took a vote after the fight yesterday. What about you three?"

"I don't know," Rolan said honestly. "It depends how Zevlor decides. We're all going to travel together as far as we can."

"Oh," she said. She ought to say something reassuring about how that was a wise tactical choice, but she was overcome with the realization that she might not see Rolan again for many weeks. Possibly not until they both reached Baldur's Gate.

In that moment, she fervently regretted not fucking this wonderful man into tomorrow when she'd had the chance—wine be damned. From the way Rolan was looking at her, she wondered if he was thinking the same.

Instead, she leaned in to kiss him one last time with everything she had. She wanted to remember the way his shoulders fit perfectly under her arms. Rolan’s grip closed around her middle, and in the next instant she felt her feet dangle weightless as he lifted her off the ground into him.

The kiss had to end eventually. As he lowered her onto her feet, she touched back down to dirt and reality. 

“Your hair,” she gasped suddenly. It hung loose to his shoulders, his red ear tips poking from between the locks. It was a very handsome look for him.

Rolan raised a hand up in realization himself. “I’ll figure something—” he began, but she was already tugging at the leather lace that fastened her shirt. She raised it to her mouth to bite off a short length.

Before he could stop her, she stood on tiptoe to gather Rolan’s hair behind his head the way he usually kept it. Her arms circled him as she tied it halfway back with the makeshift string. She could feel his eyes on her face, but she steadily avoided meeting his gaze. She foolishly felt like she might cry if she did.

“There,” she sniffed as she pulled away. 

Rolan only gave her a gentle smile. “Thank you,” he said, dipping his horns to her one more time.

Telling him goodbye hurt just to think about. “Good night,” she whispered to him instead.

“It has been,” Rolan agreed. “The very, very best.”

Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and the One Time He Does)

Characters:  Adrian Chase/Vigilante x f!reader

CW:  Crude language; yearning.

Word Count:  3982

Adrian Chase will tell anyone:  he doesn’t have emotions like people do.  He doesn’t feel sad or angry or embarrassed.  When Peacemaker gave him the nickname “Thimble,” he certainly didn’t cry.  When Peacemaker was sent to prison, he certainly didn’t feel lonely.  

Not having emotions is what makes him a more evolved human.

And yet, when ARGUS springs Peacemaker and sets up a black ops outfit in Evergreen, Adrian finds himself toeing the line of feelings.  He doesn’t have emotions like people do, but he comes awfully close a handful of times…until he crosses the line entirely.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Vulnerable

As the Vigilante, Adrian gets hurt all the time.  He’s become proficient at stitching up his own wounds.  His body is littered with the scars of his own handiwork.

But when Goff tortures him for information, and when the ARGUS team comes to his and Peacemaker’s rescue, he finds himself missing half of a pinkie toe.  It’s the most important toe on the human body, and he’ll probably never walk again…and no one seems to care.

Except for you.  In the van as they return to headquarters, you sit across from him, watching him as he studies his mangled foot.  You murmur something that sounds sympathetic, but he barely hears it over Peacemaker laughing at him.

At headquarters, you look at him and jerk your head in the direction of the back office.

“I can stitch you up, if you want,” you offer. 

He starts to shake his head, but the mean blonde woman—Harcourt, her name is—makes an offhand comment about your superior patch-up abilities, so he accepts your help.  He limps painfully behind you, follows you into a room that has been converted into a rough sort of exam room and budget clinic.

“Hop up on the table,” you tell him, and even though he doesn’t trust you—or any of your team—he does as you say.  It’s clumsy.  He hurts in a hundred different places:  his half-amputated toe, his electrocuted crotch, all the scrapes and bruises from the fight with Cobra Kai. 

“I won’t take off my mask,” he warns you.  “I take my secret identity very seriously.  If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you.”

“Duly noted,” you reply dryly.  “But I only need to see your foot.”

He pulls off his boot and regards his mangled half-pinkie toe sadly.  You pull on a pair of latex gloves and turn on a bright lamp, angling it at his bare foot.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say as you prod the wound gently.  “In fact, you really didn’t lose anything but a couple layers of skin.”

“The blade was as dull as fuck,” he replies. 

You wheel your stool over to a cabinet, then pull out some supplies:  needle and thread, disinfectant, gauze and tape.  Then you wheel back over to him and set to work.

The mean blonde woman was right—you’re quick, efficient.  He looks down at your bent head as you stitch him up, and he sees that your needlework is better than his own.  He doubts he’ll even have much of a scar once it heals.

But it’s the strange feeling that creeps over him:  makes his vision waver, makes him feel a little light-headed.  Your hands are deft but also gentle.  Adrian can’t remember ever being touched so gently.  Maybe when he was really small.  Maybe his mom was gentle like that when he was so small that he can’t remember it now.  It makes him break out in goosebumps.  He shudders at the touch of your warm hand bracing his foot, and you misunderstand the involuntary gesture.

“Almost done,” you murmur, and a moment later you tie off the last stitch and snip the thread.  You wrap his toe in gauze, pat his knee softly in a reassuring way.  Then you straighten up and ask if there’s any other injuries he needs patched up.

“Goff electrocuted me,” he blurts out.  “With a car battery.”

You look at him, level, but the corner of your mouth quirks in a near-smile.  “You want me to look at that for you?”

“Oh, no.  No.  No, I just wanted to mention it.  I’m not asking you to look at it.”  He’s grateful for the mask; he can feel his face heating up at the idea of taking off his suit in front of you, and the sudden flush confuses him.  Irritates him.  Something about the thought of being exposed makes his stomach churn in a way he doesn’t understand.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn back to the cabinet of supplies.  You rummage around, then pull out a small white tube that you hand him.

“Antibiotic gel for cuts and burns,” you say.   “You can put a cool cloth on…well, any burns you may have.  If there’s blistering, don’t pop them.”

“Okay.”

“And, you know…if you have any lingering side effects of being electrocuted, you should see a specialist.”

Vigilante reaches down and pulls his boot back on, but already his toe feels better.  “What sort of side effects?” he asks.

He looks up at you in time to see that same half-smile.  You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash.  

“I can imagine where you were electrocuted,” you reply.  “So if those parts don’t typically work the way you’re used to, see a real doctor.”

Adrian Chase is not good at nuance or subtlety.  “Huh?”

You blink at him before you say, “if you can’t get or maintain an erection, see a urologist.”

“Oh.”  He blinks too, behind his visor.  “Okay.”

You turn to leave the room but then glance over your shoulder before you do.  “Thanks for your help tonight,” you say.  “The mission was a success because of you.”

Neither Vigilante nor Adrian Chase ever get any thanks.  He flushes even hotter under his mask, and he grumbles in reply, uncomfortable to be seen, to be recognized for the first time.

To be vulnerable.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Embarrassed

The next afternoon, he’s at Peacemaker’s trailer, helping him clean up from when the police tossed the place.  They are blasting Guns and Roses, drinking beer…it’s like the old days, almost.

A knock at the door then, and Adrian has only a second to pull on his mask before you stroll in.

“Hey, Chris.  Vigilante.”  You nod in greeting, then reach into your bag to pull out a thick manila folder.  You hand it to Peacemaker.

“Murn wanted me to bring this by.  It’s the latest intel we got from Goff’s place.”  

You stand there as Chris takes the folder and sinks down onto his couch, already paging through the information.  Vigilante stands there too, awkward, so he crosses his arms to keep from fidgeting.  There’s a long stretch of silence once the Guns and Roses record ends, and Vigilante struggles with silence.

“I got hard last night,” he tells you.  “And this morning too.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Peacemaker sputters.  “She doesn’t want to hear that!”

“She mentioned it last night!”

Peacemaker scoffs, twists his face into an expression of disbelief.  “Yeah, I’m sure she mentioned your dick last night.  Sure.  Okay.  Fantasize much?”

“She did!”

“You seriously need to get laid, dude.  Stop making shit up.”

“He’s not lying,” you tell Peacemaker with a sheepish shrug.  “Though I mentioned it in the context of his injuries and not…some other context.”

“See?”  Vigilante says, and Peacemaker rolls his eyes, makes a jacking-off motion with his hand.

You don’t linger.  You beat a hasty retreat, waving over your shoulder as you leave the trailer, and Peacemaker gives him more hell—calls him weird, calls him annoying.

“No wonder you’ve never had a real girlfriend, dude,” he says as he turns back to his folder of intel.  “You say the creepiest shit the minute a cute girl is around.”

Vigilante doesn’t think about it much more until later.  That night, in bed, he lies awake for far longer than he usually does.  He replays that moment, tries to understand why he just blurted that out.  

He wonders if you would have stayed at the trailer longer if he hadn’t been creepy.  His face burns in the darkness of his bedroom, and his stomach twists painfully as he replays the moment over and over.  He replays his stupid blurting out about his dick, and he has no idea what it means.  He never obsesses over his stupid mouth like this.

If he had feelings like other people, he’d recognize the emotion as embarrassment.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Despondent (and Comforted)

Adrian gets himself arrested on purpose.  It’s the best way he can help Chris:  get arrested, get booked into the same prison as Chris’ racist supervillain father, then kill said racist supervillain father.

Easy enough.  It’d set Chris free and make his life so much better.  Allow him to move forward and not be bogged down, like Adebayo said.

Adrian fails.  He only manages to make things worse—clues Auggie into his plan accidentally, possibly points law enforcement in Chris’ direction.  So Adrian doesn’t just fail—he fails miserably.

He’s released that night.  He’s surprised at first, but as he changes back into his clothes and collects his personal effects from the guards, he realizes that ARGUS has its sticky fingers in all sorts of things and probably sprung him with just a few keystrokes.

When he leaves the prison, you’re sitting out front in your car.  You lower the passenger window and call out to him.

“C’mon,” you say.  “Harcourt sent me to take you home.”

He’s too upset to even feel bad about his cover being blown.  He climbs into the car.

“I think I made things worse,” he says, and he tries not to cry.  He only wanted to help his best friend (even if he’s not Peacemaker’s best friend).  Somehow he messed up, and it could ruin everything.  

“Okay,” you reply softly.  “It’s okay.”

You drive him home.  He doesn’t give you his address, but you know it—another screw-up, he thinks, getting tangled up with people who easily cracked his secret identity.  You know his name, his face, where he lives.  Some instrument of vengeance he is.  You probably even recognize him from his job at Fennel Fields.

Outside of his apartment, you park, then turn to face him.  In the half-light from the streetlamps, he can just make out your soft smile.

“This entire ops is nothing but mistakes,” you tell him.  “And yet, we’re doing okay.  We’ll figure out how to handle Auggie Smith.  Don’t worry about it.”

He nods, and something about the barest bit of comfort—paired with your smile—makes him turn to face you too.  

“I’m Adrian,” he says, even though you know his name.

Your smile broadens and you say your name, even though he knows it.  You hold out your hand and after a beat he takes it.

“Good to finally meet you, Adrian,” you reply as you shake hands.  

For whatever reason, as low as he feels, he falls asleep that night with a weird lightness in his chest—because he doesn’t dwell on his failure at the prison.  

Instead, he falls asleep with the memory of your smile, your kind words.  Your warm hand in his.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Protective

The attack on Goff’s house yielded some leads, and the team travels three hours away to take out a nest of Butterflies.  Everyone is exhausted, filthy, and bruised up.  

It’s in the van—you sitting beside Adrian—when you start to nod off.  He catches it the first few times, the way your head dips forward, the way you jerk back awake.  It’s cute, the way you fight sleep, and then it happens.

You fall asleep and you don’t wake up.  Your head drifts towards him, then settles against his shoulder.

Adrian freezes.  

He and Peacemaker—they used to go out together, looking for crimes or bitches or both.  He’s no virgin.  He fucks.  He’s no stranger to touch, and he’s certainly no stranger to women.  And yet…this feels different.  It feels new.

Peacemaker notices.  “You got a new girlfriend, dude,” he points out with a laugh.

Harcourt rolls her eyes at the teasing.  “Leave her alone.  She puts in way more hours than you, asshole.”

“I put in plenty of hours,” he replies, defensive.  “It takes a lot of time to maintain this impressive physique.  Do you know how long I work on my small muscle groups alone?”

Harcourt rolls her eyes again, then returns her attention to her phone.  Peacemaker turns back to where Adrian sits, rigid, as you sleep against him.

“If you get hard, just don’t tell her about it,” he advises the younger man.  “You’ll creep her out again.”

It’s strange, the feeling of your head against him.  It’s not sexy at all, obviously—in fact, it’s a little uncomfortable.  He doesn’t want to move you, doesn’t want to jostle you and wake you up.  Harcourt said you’re tired, and you took a hell of a beating as you fought the Butterflies.  

Adrian has always approached his work as Vigilante from a perspective of vengeance, not protection, so the feeling is strange:  how he wants to let you sleep, how he wants to protect your sleep.  How he wants to make you comfortable.

A quiet falls over the team; the swaying of the van lulls everyone into comfortable silence.  Adrian breathes in carefully through his nose, then shifts his body.  Slowly, carefully.  He leans away from you, allows you to lie against him more.  He changes the angle enough that he can get his arm out from where it’s trapped between your body and his.  He shifts again, gets his arm around you.  Gently moves you—changes it from your head awkwardly pressed against his hard molded shoulder pad to your head tucked against his chest.

You wake, a little, as he moves you.  You blink up at him sleepily, say his name—Adrian, not Vigilante or Vig or V—and your voice is husky with exhaustion.  There’s a questioning lilt to how you say his name, so he shakes his head softly.

“Go ahead and rest,” he says, quiet.  “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, then settle back against him.  It takes only a moment until he feels your breathing slow down, deepen.  He feels your body go heavy and lax against him.  Tucked against his chest, his arm holding you against him, he can smell you, feel how warm you are.  If he moves his head just a little, he can press his cheek against the top of your head.

Go ahead and rest, he thinks.  Everything’s fine.  I’ll keep you safe.

Vigilante has always been an instrument of vengeance, but this is the first time he’s felt protective of anyone.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Fear

The 11th Street Kids have one chance to eradicate the Butterflies forever:  if they can kill their only food source, the so-called cow, they will eventually all die off.  When they make their final assault on the farm, the team splits up:  Adebayo and Economos stay back, while the warriors—Peacemaker, Vigilante, Harcourt, and you—charge into action.

Whether the cow is killed or not, Adrian doesn’t find out until after the battle is over.  He fights off the onslaught of Butterflies, but for the first time, his attention isn’t entirely on his own fight.

His attention is on you, now, too.  

He manages to keep you in his sightline for the beginning of the fight.  He sees you, admires the sight of you when you’re in your berserker mode:  furious and deadly, well-fitted black suit, guns flashing as you empty clip after clip into the skulls of the Butterflies.  

Then he loses sight of you. 

His chest clenches in an unfamiliar tension, and when he finally catches sight of you again, that tight-chest feeling cedes to something else, something worse:  an ice-cold shard of fear that lances through him, settles in his gut where it sits like a stone.

When he finally catches sight of you, it’s the exact moment you are shot by a Butterfly.

One shot hits your shoulder, spins you around.

Another shot hits you square in the chest, makes you stagger backwards as the force is absorbed by your vest.

The final shot hits you low in the belly, and Adrian (who has studied your gear closely) knows you have little protection there.  The icy fear blooms in him, fills up every bit of him until it feels like it’s in his veins.

He screams your name.  He barely even feels the bullet that hits him (“oh, shoot” he mutters, and tosses a knife behind him to kill his own attacker), but then he stumbles and falls, and he loses consciousness.

He wakes a moment later.  He has no idea how much time has passed, but he manages to get to his hands and knees, then to his feet.  He makes his way to where you fell and he finds you.  

It’s bad.  It’s so bad that the icy fear turns acidic in his veins, makes him burn with fear.  With terror.  You gaze up at him but you don’t seem to see him, and each breath makes a fresh pulse of blood trickle from your mouth.

Adrian has never been very good at social situations.  He never knows the right thing to say and if he does, he doesn’t know the right time to say it.  He wishes these things came more easily to him; if it were Chris here right now instead of him, Chris would know the right thing to say.  He’d know how to keep you awake, how to give you comfort.

All Adrian can offer is what you told him the night he got out of prison, when you drove him home.  Now, as you lie under the night sky, dying in front of him, as he presses one hand against the worst wound to try and staunch the bleeding, he repeats your words back to him.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he says it over and over and hopes you believe it.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

The Time Vigilante Definitely Feels Love

You have no memory of the fight at the farm.  The last thing you remember is the drive there, but everything after is a blank.  Adebayo stops by when you finally wake up and fills you in on the salient details.  

She tells you how Vigilante—who was also shot, who had been blown up earlier in the day—carried you to safety.  How he kept you from bleeding out, how he held your very life in his hands and kept you from dying.  How hospital security had to separate him from you, once you were laid out on the gurney and being wheeled into surgery.

How he still tried to fight to stay by your side, and how he only failed because of his own injuries and blood loss.

“That man is stupid crazy about you,” Adebayo chuckles with a shake of her head.  “I don’t even think he’s really a psychopath.”

You chuckle with her, wince when the action pulls at the thousand stitches and staples that are keeping you held together.  “He’s not bad, right?”

“We’re literally the Island of Misfit toys,” she replies.  “But yeah, he’s alright.”

-----

Adrian is hospitalized too, and once he’s healed up to a point, he starts sneaking into your room to visit.  It’s not really sneaking—every time he undoes his IV and heart monitor, it sends the nurses into a panic—but after Adebayo’s press conference revealing the existence of Task Force X, the hospital staff is pretty tolerant of his harmless shenanigans. 

He helped ward off an alien invasion, after all.  You both did.

You have to agree with Adebayo.  You’ve never quite believed that Adrian is a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever.  You certainly never believed him when he said he didn’t have feelings or emotions.  The guy is nothing but a walking ball of emotions:  obvious love for his friends, a yearning to belong, a sweet desire to be liked and included.  Sure, he kills without compunction, but he seems to love in equal measure, even if he doesn’t believe he does.

When he visits you, he doesn’t talk about feelings.  He chatters endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exploits—criminals they’ve busted, ways they’ve destroyed old appliances in the woods behind Peacemaker’s trailer.  He talks about how it was when Peacemaker was in prison, how he kept calling and leaving voicemails to make it seem like everything was normal.  He talks about his job at Fennel Fields, all the terrible customer service stories he has.

He discharges himself against the advice of the doctors (he’s healed enough, he tells you), and you think he’ll stop visiting, but he doesn’t.  He visits every day still, and when you start physical therapy to build up the muscle tone and endurance you’ve lost, he sits in a nearby chair, watching you.  Cheering you on.

Adebayo wasn’t wrong.  You know Adrian has feelings for you.  You’re more socially adept than him, and you’ve had relationships before.  You’ve had crushes and been the object of them.  You guessed his infatuation early on, and you can guess that it’s only grown for him since then.

It probably confuses him, you guess.  You know what love feels like.  What a crush feels like.  All that feeling, in so many places:  the fluttery stomach, the pounding heart, the thoughts that just circle ‘round and ‘round about a single person.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have similar feelings for him.  He’s easy on the eyes, sure—but he’s earnest and sweet, a brutal killer with a heart of gold.

You can also guess that Adrian might never make a move.  This has to be unfamiliar territory for him.  You know he’s no virgin (he’s chattered endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exhaustive threesomes too), but he seems to have no relationship experience.

But your entire short working relationship with him has been give and take.  You stitched him up, comforted him when he was feeling low after his failed attempt to kill Auggie Smith.  He let you rest against him, held you gently as you slept after a mission.  He saved your life, kept you from bleeding out.

Give and take.  The best kind of relationship, in your opinion.

“Hey, Adrian,” you say one afternoon after PT.  You’re exhausted and sore, but you’re quickly approaching your own discharge.  You are healing up nicely.  You have things to look forward to.

“What’s up?” he asks, and he bounces over to your bedside like a Golden Retriever puppy, eager.

“Doctor says I’m good to go in a few days.”

“That’s great!”  His face breaks open in a wide grin that transforms him from nerdy-handsome to downright gorgeous.  “That’s good news!”

You swallow, push down the nerves that flare up.  “I thought maybe we could celebrate.”

“Yeah!”  He grins at you.  “I can call Chris—”

“I thought maybe just me and you,” you cut in, clarifying.  “Just this time.  Maybe we include Chris some other time.”

“Oh.”  The smile falls from his face, and he looks at you.  His brows are knit in confusion.  

No sense in backtracking now.  “Like a date.  Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“Oh.”  A beat.  “With me?  Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

What you’re asking him finally sinks in—a beat longer than it might with someone else, but that’s just part of Adrian’s charm.  The smile returns to his face, brighter and wider than before.

“Yeah,” he replies.  “Hell yeah, dude.  I’d love that.”

guard dog [b.heelshire]

summary: your ex-boyfriend tries to take you away from brahms. chaos ensues.

fandom: horror (the boy - 2016)

pairing: brahms heelshire x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: this is VERY DARK, please proceed with caution. death, murder, very very heavy descriptions of stabbing and blood, dark!reader, brief mentions of kidnapping, just all the gory stuff

note: i am so excited to post this omg i know it’ll probably flop but i had SO MUCH FUN writing it!!! pls let me know if u like it and as always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

“Brahms…” you call, a soft and playful lilt in your voice as you walk across the quiet mansion; you presume that Brahms is either asleep or lurking within the walls until a shuffle followed by a gurgle comes from the direction of the kitchen. A shiver runs down your spine as you follow the noise. You call out again, louder this time.

“Brahms.”

He heaves a deep, ragged breath as you enter the kitchen and you gasp softly. In front of you stands Brahms, covered in a thin sheen of blood and sweat, clutching a massive bread knife and looming over a barely recognisable corpse. The porcelain mask covers his features but you can imagine his face contorted with rage, thick brows furrowed and teeth bared in a snarl. The flush that creeps down his neck and into his chest and ears tells you exactly how he’s feeling without you exchanging a single word. You glance down at the dead body, your eyes widening slightly. You’re not surprised, per-se, but rather touched that he’d go to these lengths for you. Before you met Brahms, you were squeamish, shying away from anything remotely gruesome. But living here with him… you’ve had to adapt.

“Is that Derek?”

Derek. Your piece of shit, toxic ex-boyfriend who had an obsession with you so strong he followed you out into the middle of the English countryside to try and drag you back into his life, even if you were kicking and screaming the whole way.

“Don’t be mad,” Brahms chokes, “He was trying to take you away from me. I don’t want you to go…” He stumbles into your arms, his massive frame engulfing you. The blood sticks to you but you press yourself into him regardless, prying the knife from his grip gently.

“I’m not mad,” you murmur, “You were just protecting me, sweet boy.” He nods frantically, his body crumpling. Cooing reassurances, you lower him to the kitchen floor, raking your fingers through his dark curls. He whimpers, the coldness of the mask seeping into your skin and making you shiver. Poor thing; he’d do anything to protect you, including die. He’s really not as scary as he looks - not to you anyway. His cardigan is doused in blood but he refuses to let you peel it from his body. Sighing, you sit against the cabinet, cupping his jaw. He melts into your touch, that high-pitched, childlike voice forcing its way out of him.

“Kiss?”

You smile, leaning forward until your nose presses against the cool hardness of the mask. You lock your lips with the ceramic, eyes fluttering closed. When he whines petulantly, you cock your head, feigning innocence.

“Oh, my boy wants a real kiss?” you ask, sticky hands flying to cover your mouth in over exaggerated shock.

“Please.”

Laughing, you push the mask up just enough to expose his plump lips and press your own to them; he lets out a little grunt, the dark curls sprouting from his chest tickling your exposed portions of skin. You stroke the pebbled flesh adorning his neck and face almost reverently, nipping at the sweet spot under his ear until he’s keening.

“There y’are,” you praise, pecking him one last time before sliding the mask back into place. “Such good manners.”

“Been practicing,” he mumbles, resting his forehead on your shoulder. This new side of him is such a stark contrast from his usual petulant - and at times, bratty - countenance.

Just as he begins to settle against you, there’s a thump and a crash from the front door and Henry, Derek’s best friend, hurtles into the kitchen. Brahms growls, springing up from the floor and swiping the enormous knife from where you left it on the counter.

“Brahms, wait!” You manage to keep a firm grasp on his blood soaked cardigan, drawing him back into you. He’s holding back significantly - he’s never so easy to restrain. Not that it’s your intention to hold him back; you know Henry has to die now, you just want to enjoy toying with him a little first. You fix your gaze on Henry.

“You’re an idiot for coming here. Even more stupid than I thought.”

Henry is stock still, eyes wide as saucers and glued to Derek’s disfigured corpse.

“What did you do to him, you bitch?” he seethes, although his voice wavers and cracks. His face is pallid, brows drawn together and he stifles a shake in his hands to mask his obvious terror. You click your tongue.

“You thought it’d be easy to come all the way out here to kidnap me? Take me back?” you ask, fists clenched at your sides. Derek and his little posse did always have a habit of underestimating you. “You thought he’d let you?” you scoff incredulously, cocking your head towards Brahms. His breaths are heaving and he shakes with a rage you can only begin to imagine the extent of. You giggle at how Brahms must look to Henry. How both of you must look. Covered in blood - Derek’s blood - deep, sticky and crimson, sharp and prominent against Brahms’ pale skin, the wicked glint of the knife taunting Henry. Goading him. Begging him to fight back just so it can plunge into him, slash away until he’s as deformed as his best friend.

“Why are you laughing?” Henry snaps, “Stop that! I’m not scared of your guard dog!”

You almost retch you’re laughing so hard, clutching Brahms’ bicep as tears spill from beneath your waterline and down your cheeks. The choked sounds pouring from your lips are weak and strained as you double over, wheezing. Brahms’ hands grasp under your armpits, lifting you back up to face him. He strokes your hair from your face frantically, nimble thumbs pushing the tears and creases from your cheeks.

“What is it?” Brahms murmurs, shoulders hunched to lower him to your height. The knife dangles from his fingers, just inches from your face, yet you don’t even flinch.

“I-I’m okay,” you hiccup, swaying slightly against his firm grasp. You give yourself a moment to breathe and compose yourself before you’re turning back to Henry and whispering in Brahms’ ear. “We can’t let him leave, baby.”

Brahms is on him before he can even blink; Henry thrashes underneath his weight, grunting with the fruitless effort of trying to escape.

“Don’t fight it,” you snicker, crouching until your nose touches Henry’s and you’re sharing breaths, “It’ll only make it worse.” Pinching his cheek and smearing claret across the smooth skin, you inhale sharply, tracing his lips with the very tip of your finger. “This is the last time you try to take advantage of me.”

The knife sinks into his chest with a slick squelch. Henry screams; Brahms jerks his arm rapidly, shaking him like a rabid dog until he goes slack. Again and again and again he rears back and buries the blade into him. Blood spatters onto the white walls, the linoleum floor, every visible surface is blemished with crimson. Brahms attacks him with an inhuman quality, a deep roar erupting from his chest every time he thinks about these men taking you away from him.

“She’s mine!” he screams.

When Henry is no longer recognisable, limp and far past dead, you pry him away.

“Shh, shh. I’m yours. I’m here. We’re safe, it’s just us.” you soothe, climbing into his lap. “I have you.” His arms squeeze your waist as he holds you flush to him, almost burrowing his way into your skin. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing the slick red skin of his neck and collarbones; there’s so much blood. Is it bad that it turns you on a little? “You did so well. You protected me.”

“You’re mine.” He accentuates the statement with a sharp tug of your body, dropping the knife with a clatter and snaking his drenched arms beneath your hoodie.

“I’m yours. I’m all yours.” You kiss his head, nestling closer to him. “Yours.”

Gaz, phone recording, entering Soap's room while he's sleeping: WAKE UP SLEEPYHEAD!

Soap: ugh, what's going on?

Y/n, sitting up behind him: what the fuck man

Ghost, appearing from under the bedsheets: fuck, what time is it?

Gaz:

BRIAN VAN HOLT as Bo Sinclair in House of Wax (2005)