Arrows and Churches - Leon Kennedy x Reader (Fever Saint Part 2)
Summary: Leon finally makes it to the church. He finds more than just Ashley Graham.
Masterlist
The moment he steps into the front door of a church, he narrowly misses an arrow flying at his head.
It slams into the wood of the doorframe next to him, wood splintering and cracking under the sudden sharp force. Immediately, his head whips around, trying to identify the threat.
There’s no person. Instead, there’s a rope, connected to a makeshift crossbow. It’s rigged in a way to where the moment the door opened, the arrow would fly loose.
It’s done too cleanly to be made by those cultists.
No, this was done by someone who hadn’t lost their minds to false gods and parasites.
The other agent.
His eyes steel, observing the church around him. It’s grand but not massive, with ornate stained glass windows and varnished pews. Several pews had been dragged against the side entrances. Not randomly, but angled carefully to funnel movement into narrow choke points. He recognizes the tactic. It’s military thinking, not thoughtless panic.
Candles are burnt unevenly, with milky colored wax dripping down onto the floor. On the floor itself are muddied bootprints, stretched far apart like someone was in full sprint as they came in. The tread is recognizable. It’s tactical and military grade, similar to his own.
The prints lead up to three dials, and a stained glass window. The sun rains through it, making colors stretch across the floor. It’s beautiful, even in a place as horrific as this.
Near the altar sits an overturned bottle of alcohol, beside bloodied gauze and a sewing needle blackened by candle flame. A setup for improvised stitches. The sight makes Leon’s jaw tighten slightly.
His feet inch forward slowly, eyes scanning the room for more traps. There’s tripwires stretched across the room like an intricate spider web, each one hooked up to another improvised crossbow. A few of the wires are even connected to hand grenades, rusted metal barely visible in the low candlelight
He sighs bitterly, “Damn, it’s going to be a long day.”
Readying his pistol, keeps moving.
.
.
.
“Ashley Graham?” He creaks the door open slowly, eyes peaking through before his body physically moves, “Ashley Graham, are you in here?”
Though there’s no physical response, he can hear heavy, panicked breaths somewhere within the room. The noise sounds too young and scared to be here, bouncing around the hollow walls like gunfire.
The moment he steps inside, he sees her.
Ashley is against a wall, a heavy metal candlestick in hand. She’s brandishing it like a mace, drawn close to her body defensively. Her green eyes are frantic and scared, wide like a young fawns. Instinctively, his hand comes up, like he’s trying to calm a frightened animal.
“Calm down. My name is Leon Kennedy. I’m here on the president's-”
“Ashley! Run!”
The feminine scream startles him, body snapping towards the noise. He narrowly avoids the wooden board being swung at his head, old wood coming so close to him that he can feel the air move and smell the wet rot.
The second strike comes faster. Leon barely gets his forearm up in time before the board slams against it with a sharp crack. Pain jolts up into his elbow, the force enough to shove him back half a step across the stone floor.
Whoever his attacker is, they hit hard.
“Ashley, go!” The voice shouts again, voice ragged and unwavering.
The girl doesn’t hesitate. Leon catches a blur of blonde hair darting past the doorway behind him, boots slipping against old stone as she runs. A moment of panic spikes through him.
“Wait-! Ashley!”
The board swings again before he can move after her. This time, he catches it. Wood smacks against his palm hard enough to sting, fingers immediately tightening around the splintered edge before they can wrench it back. Up close, he finally gets a proper look at his attacker.
A woman, somewhere around his age.
Your face is heavy with exhaustion, eyes emphasized by dark, heavy bags. Rainwater and sweat cling to strands of hair, stuck against your forehead. There’s dried blood smeared along one sleeve of your jacket, and beneath the adrenaline in your expression, he catches the unmistakable tightness of pain.
Injured.
You try to rip the board free again anyway.
“Let go!” You snap. There’s rage in your tone. A frantic desperation. Your eyes are flitting between him and the door that Ashley ran through.
Leon twists sideways as you suddenly drive your shoulder into his chest instead, trying to throw him off balance long enough to break free. The movement is sloppy. Not untrained, just exhausted and overworked.
He feels it immediately. You’re running on fumes. Still, you fight like someone cornered.
The board tears halfway loose from his grip before Leon shoves forward, knocking it sideways against the nearest wall with a loud crack. The impact rattles through the church.
“Stop!” he barks. “I’m not one of them!”
“Yeah? That’s exactly what they said before they started growing tentacles!”
For one brief, insane second, Leon almost laughs. Instead, he uses the moment you overextend to wrench the board fully out of your hands and fling it across the room. It clatters loudly against stone. You stagger back immediately, breathing hard, eyes wild as you search for another weapon.
Now that you’ve stepped back a bit, he can observe you closer. Your shoulder is sporting a large gash, the skin around the wound red and swollen. It looks hot to the touch. He’s seen enough wounds to know an infection when he sees one. The sides of the cut are held together by neat, even stitches, each one looped perfectly. But, unfortunately, perfect stitching doesn’t fix sepsis.
“My name is Agent Leon Kennedy. I am not your enemy. I’m here to rescue Ashley Graham. Baby Eagle.”
At the mention of the codename, your face falls. Recognition flicks across your features. With the relief, the pain you must be feeling seems to hit you all at once, your hand coming up to your wound with a tired hiss. You look almost in disbelief as you scoff, “And here I thought that they wouldn’t send anyone after me.” You straighten, still looking at him like she’s not sure he’s real. “I’m Y/N.” Stepping past him, your head tilts as you call out, “Ashley! It’s safe. You can get back here.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then hurried footsteps, light and uneven, echo from the corridor outside the room.
“Ashley!” your voice snaps, sharper now, all remaining adrenaline redirected outward. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”
Leon doesn’t lower his guard immediately. Neither does he take his eyes off you. Because “okay” is a relative term in a place like this. No one would truly be okay until everyone was home safe.
The footsteps hesitate.
A shadow appears at the doorway first, hesitant, trembling at the threshold like it’s afraid of what it might find inside. Then Ashley steps back into view.
She looks worse up close. Her breathing is still ragged, cheeks flushed with panic, fingers clenched so tightly around her makeshift weapon that her knuckles have gone pale. But she stops when she sees Leon still standing there, and more importantly, when she sees you upright.
Her expression shifts in a way that isn’t relief yet. Like she’s making sure the world hasn’t changed again in the last ten seconds.
“I- I ran like you said,” Ashley says quickly, voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t go far, I just- I hid in the hall like you told me.”
“Good,” you cut in immediately, sharper than intended, then soften a fraction. “Good. That’s exactly what I meant.”
Leon finally lowers his pistol just slightly. Not enough to be casual, but enough to hopefully appear as less of a threat.
His gaze flicks between the two of you. The dynamic clicks into place in his mind almost instantly. Have you been keeping her safe for this whole time? Since you found her? Since you lost contact with Hunnigan?
Even with your injury?
His eyes move back to your shoulder. Yes, it’s definitely infected. Though the majority of your shoulder is still covered with your shirt, all of the skin that he can see is an angry red, clear fluid slowly weeping from the wound. That had to hurt like a bitch.
But you somehow had kept Ashley safe anyway.
The thought makes his eyes soften as he speaks again, looking over to the younger girl, “I’m Leon. Your father sent me to rescue you.”
She looks towards you for a moment, eyes uncertain and features guarded. When you nod reassuringly, she finally speaks again.
“Are you the backup?” The words leave her as a breath, shoulders dropping in relief, “Please tell me you have a way out of here.”
The words make the ghost of a smile form on his face. He chuckles, “Hopefully. But I’ll need you to follow me.”
Ashley looks between the both of you, like she’s unsure of who to follow.
The smile you give her is gentle yet firm. “Well, what are we waiting for, then? Let’s get the fuck out of dodge.”
Hey!! I have a request! Could you do a lo’ak x fem!reader where the reader was going underwater exploring in the Metkayina village with lo’ak and some others but got lost and got attacked by multiple sea animals like when lo’ak got attacked and saved by Tulkun, and she loses her breath under water and sinks as she drifts off she sees lo’ak coming to save her! I live for worried lo’ak
A/N: My heartt🥹!! Thank you so much for requesting.
I really hope this meets your expectations, I enjoyed bringing your idea to light!!
Still breathing — Lo’ak x Reader
⤷ Lo’ak x Fem!reader, Angst with a happy ending, mentions of blood, injury aftercare, oneshot, rescue, protector Lo'ak, sfw!!
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
Group bonding, that’s what you all called it.
The parents never really had an issue with it—at least you were out together, getting along.
Riding ilus, hunting, swimming until your lungs burned, listening to the songs of your tulkun brothers and sisters echo through the water.
It was routine. Familiar. Safe.
Or at least, it always had been.
Today, the sea is calm—but not kind.
Sunlight slips through the water in sections, breaking apart as it reaches the reef, and the deeper you swim, the quieter everything becomes.
Lo’ak glides ahead of you, effortless as always, twisting through coral like the sea's answer to him alone.
He slows just enough to glance back.
“You keeping up, skxawng?” he signs, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth before he darts ahead again.
One of the others laughs, nudging your shoulder as they pass, and Lo’ak immediately takes that as permission.
“Careful,” he signs again, teasing now. “Don’t get lost.”
He circles back, flicking his tail just close enough to splash your face, then points at you—then toward the reef ahead—like he’s daring you to try harder.
The water shifts.
Not suddenly. Not violently. Just… curiously.
The reef grows darker, coral rising taller around you, shadows stretching into places where the sunlight no longer reaches.
The sounds of the group fade, laughter wears down until it’s nothing but distant echoes.
You don’t realize how far you’ve drifted until something curls around your ankle.
The current tightens.
And begins to pull.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
Your first instinct is to not panic—after all
your whole life you’ve trained for situations like this.
You try to remember what you’ve learned.
Breathe. Deep breaths.
As you search for a way out, those three words loop in your mind.
Breathe. Deep breaths.
The water pressure is changing, you can tell by how hard it is to breathe now.
A pressure coming down your lungs.
You’re drifting just a little too far, following the shimmer of sunlight , when the water around you feels… heavier.
Not the current. Something else. Something watching.
A shadow flickers beneath you. Quick. Sharp.
Your heart stutters. You kick harder, but the water resists.
Another shadow—larger this time. Something fast. Something hungry.
Your arms flail, claws of fins grazing your shoulders. Sharp teeth flash in the murk. The first reef predator comes at you, snapping at your leg.
You twist, narrowly avoiding its bite, heart hammering so hard it hurts.
And then another—another—joining the first.
The predators circle. You kick, swipe, twist. But the more you struggle, the more the current and the shadows work together, pulling you down.
You swim away as fast as your body would let you—hiding in a corner small enough the reef predators won’t be able
to reach from.
You look at it, really look.
Everything about it is dark, teeth sharper than knives, the way it’s just waiting there—waiting for you.
It’s tracking you with its eyes. After a while it turns away, like it was about to leave.
Escape. Escape. Escape.
But how?
You find a hole, maybe a way out. You slowly start inching towards the exit.
You’re running out of air. Gagging as you try and move forward.
Your leg gets stuck.
Now you’re panicking, you’re running out of oxygen.
You finally managed to get your leg out, tearing the skin. Blood flows out slowly.
But then, everything starts to blur. The water presses against your chest, your lungs screaming, your vision fading at the edges.
You’re sinking. Slowly. Unstoppable.
Your body is giving up.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
“Guys, where’s y/n?” His eyes wide. Focused. Fear carved into every line of his face.
Lo’ak dives back down, he can’t find you.
You’re sinking.
Not fast. Not dramatic.
Just enough that fighting feels pointless.
The pressure in your chest dulls, the panic thinning into something quiet, something heavy.
And then—movement.
A shape cutting through the blue like it refuses to lose you.
He’s cutting through the water, straight toward you. Arms out, fingers brushing your arm as he fights through the predators.
Tulkun fins slicing through the current. A guardian appears from nowhere, massive, protective. The predators scatter.
Lo’ak grabs your wrist, pulling you up, up, gasping as the sea roars around you.
Your lungs scream for air, your chest heaving.
Finally, you reach the surface.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
Salt stings your eyes, your hair floats in a halo of sea and sunlight, and Lo’ak holds you tight, just long enough for both of you to realize—you’re alive.
He doesn’t tease. Not now. Only worry.
“What the fuck y/n—why would you ever go that far down,” he whispers, brushing water from your face.
He doesn’t let go as he hauls you onto the Ilu, muscles tense, jaw tight. His hands hover over your leg, inspecting the gash.
“Breathe,” he mutters, voice low but firm. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You wince as he gently presses a hand to slow the bleeding. His touch is careful, deliberate, but every movement radiates urgency.
“You could’ve died, y/n,” he says, eyes dark with worry. “Do you know what would’ve happened if I hadn’t found you?”
You try to explain, but the words catch in your throat. He huffs, exasperated, like he’s both relieved and furious.
“If you wanted to go that far down, you tell me next time. I would’ve gone with you. I would’ve protected you.” His voice softens slightly, lips brushing your temple as he adjusts your position so he can properly analyze your leg.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
When you guys reach the island again, Lo’ak is restless, muscles tense, jaw tight.
His eyes flick between your face and the gash on your leg, heart hammering.
“Stay with me,” he mutters, voice low but firm. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
Before you can protest, he’s off the Ilu, sprinting toward the Tsahik’s mauri in the village. His movements are quick, almost frantic, yet deliberate.
You watch, chest still heaving, as he grabs clean cloth, the
Tsahik’s herbs, and bandages. Every second he’s gone feels like an eternity.
When he returns, the worry on his face has deepened, jaw set, eyes sharp and focused.
He kneels beside you, hands already inspecting your leg, pressing gently to assess the bleeding.
“Stop moving around. You’ll only make it worse,” he mutters, dipping a cloth into the antiseptic herbs and pressing it carefully against your wound.
His hands shake, but he pauses to steady them for a moment.
You flinch at the sting, but he doesn’t hesitate, wrapping the clean cloth and bandages around the gash with precise hands.
Every movement is protective, gentle, his thumb brushing your skin lightly to reassure you.
“Careful,” he whispers, almost softer now, voice thick with relief, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re reckless.”
He finishes wrapping your leg, hands lingering a fraction too long as if checking you again.
His jaw is tight, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—relief, frustration, something softer.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” he mutters, voice low but trying to sound stern.
He taps the bandage with a finger, then looks away, pretending not to watch your reaction.
He stands, brushing water from his hair, and crouches beside you.
Lo’ak snaps his gaze to you, eyes dark and flashing with exasperation.
“Can you stand?” he asks, voice low, controlled—but you catch the edge of worry in it. “If it’s too much, I’ll carry you.”
You straighten, teeth gritted. “Lo’ak no, I can—”
Your legs tremble almost immediately. The moment you try to shift your weight, your knees buckle, and you slump back into the sand.
Lo’ak bursts out laughing, the sound breaking the tension like a wave. “You’re so stubborn," he mutters, shaking his head with that crooked grin you know all too well.
You groan, cheeks burning, but he’s already there, hands under your arms, lifting you carefully.
He wraps an arm securely around your waist, holding you close against his chest.
“Lean on me,” he says, voice low, almost a whisper. “I’ve got you,” his tone is soft, full of affection and relief.
You rest your head against him, letting your breath settle, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
His other hand supports your legs, careful not to mess with the bandage.
“Promise me you won’t try any warrior stunts alone again, I need you back to me in one piece.” He murmurs, carrying you effortlessly.
You smirk, teasing despite yourself. “No promises,” you whisper.
Lo’ak huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Then you’ll just have to deal with me breathing down your neck the whole time,” he mutters, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as he carries you back toward the village.
please see copyright and universal warning in the masterlist.
a/n; ever wondered how hyunjin became a mafia kid?
postscriptum. this barbie suggests reading this first to learn about all the boys and their specialties. see you soon then🤎✨.
"dohyun." hyunjin whisper yelled, "do get down!"
dohyun turned his head and it would be the last thing he ever did before a rip of bullets shredded him open. he dropped like a sack of potatoes, his head snapping to the side as it smacked the ground, rebounding sickly like a flat basketball. dohyun's open, lifeless eyes stared at hyunjin mockingly, as if to say, 'i'm down.'
hyunjin slapped both hands over his mouth, muffling the shriek clawing its way up his esophagus.
"please." hyunjin stumbled back into the crates behind him, feet pushing against the floor frantically. "do please get up."
dohyun's dead gaze followed hyunjin as hyunjin crab walked himself backwards away from his friend's body.
hyunjin's fingers slipped against some of the blood spray. "oh God."
hyunjin couldn't breathe, bile hot in his throat. the bullets were not stopping. hyunjin was staving off a panic attack, hyperventilating as his ass slid against the concrete until there was nowhere left to go.
they'd been set up, that much was clear now.
hyunjin's eyes were filling with water as he looked all around for somewhere to hide, or something to defend himself with. hyunjin was kicking himself. kid had told him earlier that she'd had a bad feeling. dohyun had joked that she was just being an overprotective big sister. she'd rolled her eyes and reminded them both that hyunjin's nickname for her notwithstanding, she was still their senior. but hyunjin had brushed off her concern, he'd been a cocky little shit as long as kid had known him.
youthful arrogance personified.
well, that arrogance had just gotten dohyun killed; and, as hyunjin heard footsteps and saw shadows closing in, he was next.
"fuck." hyunjin cursed tearily, reaching out to grab what looked to be a broken chair leg. one end was spearlike and the other end was blunt. it would have to do. hyunjin was gonna die, but he didn't have to make it easy for them. his fist tightened around his last stand, the splinters already embedding into his skin. he held his breath and rose his arm, ready to strike.
"ahh!" hyunjin yelled as he swung the chair leg in the hair.
"Jesus!"
hyunjin's eyes were crazy as he rose the weapon again at the man who had just ducked and jumped back, narrowly avoiding hyunjin's attack. "you want me? come get me."
"no offense jagiya, but you're not exactly my type." the man's head tilted to the side with a carefree smile, "although-"
"jisung enough." another man stepped into view and hyunjin blinked rapidly. what in the fuck was going on? "hyunjin-"
"h-how do you know my name?"
"i think it's better if we just skip past whatever cliché questions you have in this moment, and you can go ahead and assume there's absolutely nothing i don't know about you."
hyunjin stared wide eyed while the man called jisung just grinned at him.
"so cute, i looked exactly like you when channie hyung found me."
"c-channie hyung?"
"guilty." the other man rose his hand. "now let's go, we don't have a lot of time."
"i'm not going anywhere with you murderers the fuck, michesseo?" hyunjin was still wielding the chair leg.
"because your hands are clean right?"
hyunjin flinched at that. it was true after all, many a "dohyun" hadn't made it back to their loved ones because of him.
"bangchan." jisung's tone was chastising as he tsked and shook his head at his friend, and bangchan had the sense to look contrite when he met jisung's gaze.
bangchan then looked at hyunjin and sighed. "look i'm sorry. i'm not passing judgement trust me. and i will answer every question you have. it's just we really do have to go. we are not the ones who set you up. and we are not the ones who killed your friend."
"yeah plus the bounty was insultingly low, you're worth at least double." jisung scoffed.
"han for fuck's sake." bangchan rubbed his forehead.
jisung shrugged, "just saying hyung. his file speaks for itself, plus look at his will to live!" jisung gestured towards the splintered wood.
"yeah yeah, han's law number 1."
hyunjin's eyes had been pingponging between jisung and bangchan, trying to understand what the fuck was going on. "h-han's law number 1?"
jisung nodded with a smile, "yup, everything's a knife if you stab hard enough. and when i rounded the corner, you really put your weight behind that sucker."
"w-what is- i-i mean who are-?"
bangchan shook his head, "like i said, no time. not to be all terminator, but please, come with me if you want to live."
hyunjin's lip quivered, a tear falling as he looked past jisung and bangchan to where he could still see dohyun's blood splatter.
did hyunjin want to live? did he even deserve to?
"i can't just leave him." hyunjin's voice cracked.
jisung's eyes softened and he stepped forward cautiously, putting a hand on hyunjin's shoulder. "then we won't."
bangchan nodded, "we don't leave each other behind."
hyunjin watched as bangchan tapped his earpiece and uttered a few quick commands in korean. after a brief exchange bangchan looked back at hyunjin, "it's done. we'll bring dohyun's body home too."
bring dohyun's body home. his friend, one of his best friends in the world. closer than blood. dead. reduced to a body. and somebody they'd trusted had wanted him that way. enough to pay. maybe kid was somewhere riddled with bullets too. and when they found out hyunjin was still alive, they'd come for him again.
he'd never felt so alone.
the chair leg shook in hyunjin's hand, suddenly the weight of it feeling like an anchor trapping him. the air pressing in on him like the weight of the ocean. hyunjin jerked, dropping the hunk of wood to the floor like it stung him to keep holding on.
"i-i," his legs wobbled. "my adrenaline's gone, i'm gonna go into shock now."
"hey whoa." jisung surged forward and put his arms around hyunjin. "diagnosing yourself mid crash, you are as good as they say."
hyunjin's eyes were dazed as he held onto jisung's shoulders. "who says?"
"i'll tell you later." jisung smiled, supporting hyunjin's weight.
"we're moving." bangchan rose his gun, ready to lead the three of them out to the waiting suvs.
hyunjin looked at jisung, another tear tracking down his face. "jisung, i-i can't feel my legs."
"that's alright." jisung smiled empathetically, "i've been there."
hyunjin's cheeks were full on wet now and his voice fractured. "i don't think i can do this."
"so don't think, i never found much use for it myself." hyunjin let out a wet laugh despite himself and jisung smiled a bit. "you're okay. it's just a little panic jinnie, it'll pass."
hyunjin tried to steady his breath, bloody fingers squeezing jisung's arms for stability as he saw two men enter from the corner of his eye. they went straight for dohyun, handling dohyun's body with the kind of care that shouldn't've been extended to a stranger. hyunjin looked back at jisung who was still holding him up, handling him with that same care.
who were these people?
"we gotta move now." bangchan's voice was firm and he started walking.
"copy you." jisung replied but he was still looking at hyunjin. and hyunjin got the sense that despite his affirmation, jisung would disobey bangchan and stand there for however long it took hyunjin to be ready.
hyunjin closed his eyes, tears still pushing through. when he opened them again jisung was still there. "okay."
jisung nodded once, "okay."
jisung gave hyunjin's arms a single squeeze and then guided hyunjin to lean on him. hyunjin clung to jisung as they followed behind bangchan and jisung rubbed his arm.
"you can relax now jagi, we gotcha."
don't be a silent reader. interaction is a writer's life blood. love you, mean it.💋
may i request caitvi kid reader play fighting with her mama vi pls?
PLAY FIGHTING
Caitlyn x Vi x kid f!reader
Synopsis: Another day of chaos started with play fighting mama Vi, but when you didn’t win, it turned into a session of comforting a fussy kiddo.
Request: Anon 🤍
A/N: Part three of Motherly Love
The living room was a battleground, and you were determined to win. Pillows had been piled up like barricades, and blankets draped across the couch like strategic cover. You crouched behind one of your pillow fort walls, your small but mighty frame poised for action. Bunny, your ever-loyal companion, sat tucked into the pocket of your overalls, ready to observe the chaos.
Across the room, Vi stood tall, hands on her hips, a cocky grin on her face. She cracked her knuckles dramatically, her pink hair tousled and wild. “Alright, squirt. You think you can take on the champ?”
You puffed out your chest, fists on your hips in perfect imitation of her. “I’m not a squirt! I’m the Dragon Slayer, and I’m gonna win!”
Vi smirked, crouching slightly to meet your height, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh yeah? You got moves, Dragon Slayer? Let’s see ’em.”
“Vi, don’t break the furniture,” Caitlyn’s voice floated in from the kitchen, where she was sipping tea and watching the chaos unfold with thinly veiled amusement.
“Relax, cupcake. This is all under control,” Vi called back before turning her full attention to you. “Alright, kiddo. Give me your best shot.”
With a high-pitched battle cry, you launched yourself at Vi, tiny hands swiping at her in what could only be described as the most dramatic attack in history. Vi laughed, dodging and weaving like a prizefighter, her movements exaggerated to keep the game fun.
“You’re quick, I’ll give you that,” she teased, narrowly avoiding your swipes. “But you’re gonna have to do better than—”
Before she could finish, you managed to land a soft slap on her arm. Gasping, she stumbled back, clutching her chest like she’d been mortally wounded. “Oh no! The Dragon Slayer strikes again!”
You giggled, proud of yourself, while Vi dramatically collapsed onto the couch, her legs flopping over the armrest. “You got me, kid. I’m done for.”
“Victory!” you declared, climbing up onto the couch to strike a triumphant pose. Bunny peeked out of your pocket like he, too, was basking in the glory.
But just as you turned to Caitlyn to announce your win, Vi lunged, scooping you up into her arms. “Gotcha!” she laughed, tossing you lightly onto the pile of pillows.
“No fair, Mama!” you squealed, trying to scramble back up.
“All’s fair in love and play fights,” Vi quipped, pinning you gently with one hand.
“Vi, don’t gloat,” Caitlyn warned, though her tone was more amused than stern.
You squirmed and wiggled, trying to escape, but Vi’s hold was unrelenting. “Say ‘I tap out’,” she teased, grinning as she held you in place.
“Never!” you huffed, your bottom lip beginning to tremble.
At first, you didn’t even realize your frustration was building. Vi’s teasing grin, her effortless strength, and the fact that you couldn’t wiggle free all piled up until you felt the lump in your throat.
Your bottom lip wobbled, your cheeks puffing out in an attempt to hold back the flood. But it was no use. The tears came anyway, welling up in your eyes until they spilled over.
“M-Mama,” you sniffled, your voice breaking.
Vi froze instantly, her grin vanishing as panic set in. “Oh no, no, no, kiddo, don’t cry! I wasn’t— I didn’t mean— Aw, man.” She scooped you up, holding you close as you let out a wail.
Caitlyn appeared in the doorway, her brow furrowing as she crossed the room in long, quick strides. “Vi, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Vi protested, looking genuinely distressed. “We were playing, and then—” She gestured helplessly at your tear-streaked face.
Caitlyn sighed, taking you gently from Vi’s arms. “Shh, darling. It’s alright,” she cooed, cradling you against her chest. She rocked you back and forth, her soft voice and warm embrace chasing away the sting of losing. “Mama can be a little too rough sometimes, can’t she?”
You sniffled, burying your face in Caitlyn’s shoulder. “She cheated,” you mumbled, your small voice muffled.
Vi gasped, clutching her chest again, but this time with real offense. “Cheated? Kiddo, I would never!”
Caitlyn shot her a look, though her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile. “Perhaps it’s time for a rematch. With a little assistance.”
You peeked up at her, your tears slowing. “Really?”
“Really,” Caitlyn said, her eyes sparkling with a promise.
With Caitlyn holding you securely in her arms, you felt invincible. Bunny had been moved to a place of honor on the couch, watching the proceedings like the referee of a great battle.
Vi stood across the room, hands on her hips, trying not to laugh. “Alright, alright. Two against one, huh? You think that’s fair?”
“Absolutely,” Caitlyn said primly, shifting you slightly so you had a better view of Vi. “Are you ready, darling?”
“Yeah!” you cheered, your confidence restored.
“Then let’s get her,” Caitlyn said, and with that, she charged.
Well, it was more of a dignified jog, but to you, it felt like a full-blown cavalry charge. You stretched your arms out toward Vi, your tiny hands aiming for her sides.
“Tickle attack!” you cried, Caitlyn guiding you as you latched onto Vi’s waist.
Vi yelped, doubling over in exaggerated defeat. “No fair, cupcake! You’re helping her cheat!”
“Consider it justice,” Caitlyn replied smoothly, her grip on you steady as you continued your assault.
Vi finally collapsed onto the pile of pillows, laughing uncontrollably as your tiny fingers poked and tickled her sides. “Alright, alright! I give up!” she wheezed, holding her hands up in surrender.
“Victory!” you shouted again, this time with Caitlyn’s support.
Caitlyn set you down gently, kneeling beside you as you climbed onto Vi’s chest, your small hands on your hips. “I win, Mama. Me and Mommy are the best team ever!”
Vi looked up at you, her smile soft and full of love despite her supposed defeat. “Yeah, yeah, you got me. Guess I’ll have to train harder if I want to beat the Dragon Slayer and her sidekick.”
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Sidekick?”
“Uh, I mean, team captain,” Vi corrected quickly, winking at you.
You giggled, leaning down to press a kiss to Vi’s cheek. “I still love you, Mama. Even if you’re a bad guy.”
Vi’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a bear hug. “Love you too, squirt. Even if you’re a cheater.”
“She is not,” Caitlyn said, smoothing your hair as she stood. “Now, let’s clean up this battlefield before dinner, shall we?”
By the time dinner was ready, the living room was back to normal, and the three of you sat around the table, laughing and talking like always. Bunny had been returned to his rightful place by your side, his ears slightly more crumpled than before but no worse for wear.
As Caitlyn served dessert—your favorite cookies—you couldn’t help but smile, your heart full and warm.
“Best day ever,” you declared, holding Bunny up like he agreed.
Caitlyn leaned over to kiss the top of your head. “Every day with you is the best day ever, darling.”
Vi ruffled your hair, grinning. “Yeah, even when you kick my butt.”
You giggled, leaning into their love. In your little world, there was no better place to be.
A/N: Sorry this was so short, I tried to finish it up during Christmas (hope you guys had a good Christmas btw!)
"There was a .... Minor mishap in the mission ..."
💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜
Brimstone: immediately stressed, texting back multiple times. He would be pacing and calling multiple times.
Once back, you show him Reyna , who is absolutely furious since she somehow got a whole bucket of paint spilled on to her from the janitor's closet they were hiding in.
Phoenix: "what?? What???!" immediately pacing, impatiently waiting for your return
Once back, you gave him back the gun you borrowed from him, now scuffed and scratched. He was just mostly relieved you were fine, not giving two craps that his favorite gun was fucked.
Sage: "where are you?"
Unphazed, already prepared to heal and or resurrect if necessary.
Sova: "And were you following the team? 🤨"
You were not. You decided to ego peak and got hit. Sighs of dissapointelment and just pushing you to med bay
Viper: "not my problem."
She was pretty busy anyways with paperwork and lab work- Sage could take care of it for all she cared.
Cypher: "I know. I saw it."
He watched the entire thing go down on the cameras; and he most definitely saved the video to get a good laugh.
Reyna: "unsurprising."
Despite her annoyance she would still go give a hand if necessary. But you do get scolded pretty bad.
Killjoy: "Shiza, did my bot do something wrong?!"
It did. One of the Bot's malfunctioned and quite literally tore through half the clothing you were wearing. The mishap was more of a wardrobe issue at this point.
Breach: "if you're in jail that's not my problem."
You weren't, but Yoru was. He got sidetracked and went to beat up a civilian for God knows what reason, and of course he ended up in a local jail. Breach just laughed even harder.
Omen: "..."
No answer, but not even a second later he's already teleported directly beside you. The man goes on a whole rampage, then casually escorts you back.
Jett: "wrong person, I told you to tell brimstone!"
She was the reason there was a mishap.
Raze: "good or bad? Cuz if it's good I want in!"
The moment you were back, completely scuffed but holding random scraps from various bots or mechanical stuff for her, her main concern was getting the 'loot'. And then after that she brings you too medbay.
Skye: "🤨 what happened?"
When you dragged back an injured Jett, skye just sighs and reluctantly starts healing. Just a very disappointed look on her face.
Yoru: "don't care."
Yeaaah he really didn't give a shit. But since he decided to be an asshat, you kept the knife you found during the mission, one he didn't have for his collection. Pissed him off even more.
Astra: "oh no, is everyone alright?"
You came back, phoenix was completely drenched since Harbor mistook him for an enemy and nearly drowned Phoenix- and harbor had a massive head wound that looked like it was burnt. Astra was busy laughing so hard and it took some time before a healer came by.
Kay/o: "👍"
That was about it.
Chamber: "If you tell me you broke your custom gun, I'm not making you a new one, chérie."
Even worse, you accidentally took his gun, not yours. The outcome ended you in medbay with Sage having to heal you from a near death.
Neon: "OH GOD WHERE ARE YOU IM COMING I'M COMIIING"
She nearly electrocuted her own teammates on her way there, narrowly avoided hitting you but generally got the sticky situation handled with panic and too much energy.
Fade: "awe :( I will bring nightmare to cheer you up."
While you were in recovery she brought over the little black cat named nightmare to keep you company.
Harbor: "I told you: you should have learned how to swim 😑"
You nearly drowned, on a mission on Lotus you accidentally fell into the lake behind attackers side, barely getting fished out by another teammate.
Gekko: "ARE YOU OKAY?!"
He had all four of his critters running behind him with various things, wingman bringing a boba, thrash had a neatly folded blanket on her back, dizzy had a small plushy and mosh had a single dinosaur bandaid. Gekko brought the snacks for the recovery.
Deadlock: "Are you okay? Are all your limbs intact?"
She was relieved to see the mishap was that a narrowly avoided knife to the head had just sliced your hir very crookedly. She tries her best to make a decent haircut afterwards- definitely not the best but already much better than just having half a chunk gone.
Iso: "who do I have to kill?"
No one, you simply had gotten a copious amount of enemy blood on his white hoodie- which he didn't bat an eye at. He already had all the stuff to get the stains out, fault of wearing white hoodies.
Clove: *was the mishap
She "died", and then scared one of her own teammates shitless when she jumped back up to life, just casually springing back up as if nothing happened. Due to the jump scare, the teammate misfired and hit her again. One hell of a chaotic scene.
Vyse: "Good job."
That was very sarcastic; and honestly she didn't care all that much. But you did find a metal rose on your desk in your room.
Tejo: "And what did I say about rushing in?"
You got a lot of scolding from his part, though it did come from a good place as he was just mostly worried.
Waylay: "Good! Stupid should hurt!"
Of course she would initially just repeat that, but nevertheless she was there to help you through the recovery, not making much more comments about it.
summary: “Y-you’re hurt, Astarion,” you insist with far less emphasis than you had intended, tearing your eyes away from his face with difficulty and looking towards the vials that still sit untouched nearby. “The potions – you should –”
Astarion silences your protests with a kiss as his lips crash into yours, his fangs grazing your lower lip as he gives you a playful nibble.
“Was,” he corrects with a growl. His lips move softly against your mouth, reluctant to part from you for even a moment. “I assure you that I'm feeling quite… invigorated now, darling. All thanks to you, of course. And what a delectable little treat you are.”
──────────
Astarion goes down in a fight. Back at camp, he has some... ideas about how you might help him recover.
AO3 ┊ masterlist
The sounds of battle echo all around you, a flurry of steel, magic, and claws. The air sizzles with the distinct tang of the Weave as you cast spell after spell, hurtling bolts of fire and ice at the pack of gnolls that has descended upon your small party.
The four of you had quickly been overtaken and separated from one another; Gale and Shadowheart are somewhere out of sight, but you've managed to fight your way back towards Astarion, felling no less than ten gnolls in the process. The ground is littered with corpses; it's no small miracle that none of them belong to you or your friends.
The final gnoll wails as your flames sear its fur and singe its flesh, nearly burning to ash as its body finally gives out and succumbs to its injuries. Astarion's profile finally comes into focus, as does the massive gnoll he's currently face to face with.
The leader of the pack, from the looks of it.
You can't quite hear what Astarion says to it from this distance, but his expression twists into a grimace as he bares his fangs, daggers eager to slake their thirst with its blood.
A peal of laughter tears itself from the gnoll’s throat, a high-pitched, chittering sound that rings harshly in your ears. It bares its yellowed teeth back at Astarion, lips stretched thin over its stinking maw.
With its paw raised, you watch as the gnoll takes a single swipe at him; Astarion's reaction is immediate, one of his daggers arching upwards in a flourish as he deflects it with expert precision. The beast rains blows down upon him in quick succession, and Astarion staggers back towards the edge of the cliff face behind him each time his blades glance off its claws.
The gnoll rears up once more, but Astarion has already anticipated the trajectory of its next attack. Its paw sails over Astarion's head as he sinks into a crouch with all the grace of the nimble predator he is, and he slices into its matted fur just as it stumbles backwards and narrowly avoids a more fatal wound. It snarls, undaunted, as it waits for another opening. One wrong move could send them both tumbling into the abyss below.
Panic grips your heart like a vise. The bolt of fire you summon in your palm sputters weakly, the last dregs of your magic all but exhausted. You will it to burn as hot as you can, and the flames lick your skin as you cradle it protectively in your palm.
You must aim carefully, you know, or you risk hitting Astarion.
Your footfalls are light as you approach the gnoll from its blind spot, downwind and creeping low to the ground as Astarion had taught you. Locked in its battle with Astarion, it doesn't seem to notice your approach – until the telltale cracking of a branch beneath your boot alerts its sensitive hearing. Its ears swivel in your direction, head whirling around to spot you no more than twenty paces away.
The lapse in judgment is all Astarion needs, and he slips a blade cleanly between the gnoll’s ribs with a single thrust, puncturing its heart. It howls in agony, the sound of it slicing through the air as easily as Astarion's dagger. As it stumbles back to claw at the dagger in its chest, Astarion's eyes meet yours for the briefest of moments, and you see your own relief mirrored in his expression.
Relief that fades the moment the gnoll surges forward and rakes its claws across Astarion's armor, shredding through the leather as if it were nothing more than paper.
You watch in horror as Astarion teeters forward and drops to his knees, bloodstained and broken. The effort of holding his body up is a task he no longer has the strength for, and he collapses into the dirt, motionless.
Rage explodes within you, white-hot and all-consuming. The fire in your palm is extinguished when you clench your fists and break into a sprint, manifesting what's left of your magic to get you to Astarion as quickly as possible.
With the aid of Misty Step, you blink into being behind the gnoll with a burst of crackling Weave, snatching Astarion's second dagger from the ground. It twists around on unsteady feet to face you, but its strength is already waning. The force of your initial blow buries Astarion's dagger into its flank, but it's not enough to quench your anger. Blood sprays into your eyes as you wrench the dagger free, blinding you momentarily before you wipe your hand over your face. Another blow to its chest earns you another wretched howl of pain; a third, which you aim at its throat, is what permanently silences it.
The blade slices cleanly across its neck, and a twisted sense of satisfaction takes hold of you as you watch it topple backwards, its heart finally giving out as it collapses into a crumpled heap at your feet.
Your lungs burn as you catch your breath, the adrenaline coursing through your body finally subsiding. It's then that you realize that Astarion isn't moving. You fall to your knees beside him, tears pricking your eyes.
Beneath what remains of his tattered armor, you can see how deeply he's been wounded, blood pouring from the gouges on his chest. The rich red of it looks ghastly in contrast to his marble skin.
“Astarion,” you plead, shaking him. “Astarion, stay with me!”
Your first instinct is to look for Shadowheart, and your stomach turns when you spot her far across the battlefield, back-to-back with Gale as they fend off a trio of smaller gnolls. There isn't enough time to get to her, and the thought of leaving Astarion, even for a moment, is unthinkable.
Reaching into your pack, you retrieve your last remaining healing potion, uncorking the bottle with your teeth as you tip Astarion's head back. His mouth falls open, and you bring the potion to his lips, trying not to dwell on the exceptionally pallid color of his complexion.
The crimson liquid sloshes over the lip of the bottle and into Astarion's mouth, and although he appears to swallow some of it, most of what you pour out spills uselessly down the side of his face.
Because he doesn't need to breathe, you can't tell if you've already lost him. You don't know if he's colder than usual or if it's simply a cruel trick your mind is playing on you. A sob bubbles in your throat, but when your eyes sweep over your trembling, bloodstained hands, an idea sparks to life within your frantic mind.
Blood.
Your blood has saved Astarion before – in far less perilous circumstances, of course, but that doesn't stop you from reaching for one of Astarion's daggers and wiping it clean on the front of your robes. The blade gleams like a silver tooth in the sunlight, poised to bite into your skin as you hold it over your open palm. You inhale a breath as you drag the blade across your skin, hissing through clenched teeth as a line of bright red blood blooms in its wake.
“Please,” you whisper, appealing to any god who might be listening. A few drops of crimson splash over Astarion's lips as you bring your hand to them, letting your blood flow into his mouth. You watch him, stilled by an overwhelming sense of dread. An ember of hope kindles in your heart as you feel his tongue sweep across the wound on your palm, his throat bobbing as he swallows your offering to him.
“Astarion?”
You call his name softly, watching for the moment his eyes finally flutter open. You've never been so happy to see those deep, swirling pools of ruby red as he looks up at you, exhausted but alive. You can't stop the tears that finally spill over your cheeks, embarrassed to be in such a state after everything that's happened. But none of it matters because he is still with you.
With shaky fingers, reach for his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Astarion's expression flickers across his face, settling somewhere between relief and amusement.
“Hello, darling,” he murmurs, voice cracking with the effort it takes him to speak. He licks the rest of your blood from his lips. “What did I miss?”
────────────────────
By the time you return to camp, freshly washed and dressed in a clean set of robes, the sun has already begun its descent over the horizon.
Most of your companions are busy milling about, attending to their nightly rituals, but Shadowheart’s absence must mean that she is still with Astarion. As you approach his tent on the far edge of the clearing, you hear a pair of familiar voices within, bickering loudly with one another.
“Will you – ow! Must you be so rough?” Astarion gripes, and you spot the distinct glow of Shadowheart’s magic through the dark red canvas. It dances like a moth around a flame, presumably guided between Shadowheart's hands as she attempts to heal Astarion's wounds.
“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were actually trying to finish me off.”
Shadowheart sighs audibly at him.
“Don't tempt me, Astarion,” she grumbles back. “Gods know it would spare us from your bleating.”
You can practically hear Astarion seething at Shadowheart from inside his tent. Overhearing the commotion, Karlach claps a hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to muffle her snickering laughter, and even Gale seems to be having himself a chuckle as he watches the cookpot by the fire.
If Astarion still has the energy to complain, his wounds must be far less serious than you initially expected. Your shoulders relax, the tension ebbing away when you sigh with relief. You hadn't even noticed how worried you were until your jaw unclenches, leaving you with nothing but a lingering ache.
Shadowheart greets you as she slips outside Astarion's tent, her exhaustion evident in the dark circles around her eyes and her wan expression. What little energy she had left had likely been expended tending to Astarion, and you smile warmly in thanks.
“I've done all I can for tonight,” she tells you. “He's stable, but make sure he drinks the potions I've left him. I’ll see to the rest of his injuries in the morning, once I've recovered my strength.”
Fortunately, the rest of your companions have been spared a similar fate, bone-weary and bruised, but intact. You flex your fingers, the last vestiges of pain from the wound on your palm hardly more than a memory now. Shadowheart's braid whips around her shoulders as she turns towards the fire, enticed by the smell of whatever Gale's prepared for supper.
“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you say. “I know Astarion appreciates your help, even if he's not the best at showing it.”
She nods curtly but says nothing more, leaving you alone outside Astarion's tent. Here on the outskirts of camp, the atmosphere is notably dreary.
You feel unexpectedly on edge as you lift back the tent flap and slip inside, uncertain what you will find. Seated on his bedroll clothed only from the waist down, his eyes soften somewhat as he glances up at you. Most of his chest is wrapped in fresh bandages, but their pristine condition tells you that his wounds must have closed by now. His movements are a little stiff, but beyond that he seems no worse for wear. There are a few remaining nicks and scrapes scattered across his shoulders and the bridge of his nose, but those, at least, are largely superficial.
You kneel quietly beside him, smoothing your skirts.
“How are you feeling?”
Astarion studies you for a moment before he leans back on his hands, head tipped playfully to the side.
“Were you worried, darling? How cute.”
You narrow your eyes at him and scowl, huffing a sigh through your nose. Astarion finds your indignation highly amusing, a single fang flashing from behind his lips as a wide grin spreads across his face.
“I saw what you did to that gnoll, you know,” he says casually after a moment, a blatant attempt to redirect your attention. “Before I lost consciousness.” There's a strange sincerity to his voice, but the moment is gone when he sits upright and leans towards you, resting his face in his hand and balancing an elbow on his knee.
He looks exceptionally mischievous when he says, “I admire your enthusiasm, but I must say, your form was terrible. Might I suggest mastering a butter knife before you try wielding a real weapon?”
“I'll remember that the next time I'm saving your life,” you quip back, waving your hand at him dismissively. But his easy smile disarms you and diffuses your anger as it always does, and you find it hard to stay mad at him for long. If anything were to happen to him, you'd miss his teasing – a fact that you don't plan on sharing, lest it turn him into more of a menace than he already is.
A quiet calm descends over you both, and you feel Astarion watching you as you glance around his tent, purposely avoiding eye contact.
“Come here for a moment, won't you?” Astarion asks suddenly, patting his thigh. You shoot him a questioning glance but climb into his lap nevertheless, mindful not to touch him any more than you need to. He inhales sharply when you put just a little too much pressure on his chest, and you quickly apologize before resting your hands politely in your lap. His intentions become clear the moment he sweeps your damp hair behind your ear and exposes the smooth column of your throat. His fingers ghost over your skin as if he's appraising you, delicate and cool the touch.
“May I, darling?”
Your heart flutters like a caged bird beneath your ribs when he slides his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, nails dragging slowly over your scalp. His fingers weave through the soft strands, causing a shiver to run down your spine.
You angle your neck for him, baring the faded twin scars that mark you as his.
“Yes, of course,” you tell him. “Take as much as you need.”
“Wonderful.”
Although Astarion typically enjoys the prelude to the bite as much as the act itself, tonight he's in no mood to be patient. His mouth slots over your pulse point, the rush of warm blood just beneath your skin coaxing a low groan from his cool lips. When his fangs pierce your throat, your breath catches, but he's ever-so-gentle with you as his tongue darts out to collect the first drops of blood that well to the surface.
You feel a change in Astarion's demeanor the moment he tastes you, the hand cradling your head tightening its grip and tugging you closer to him. He inhales sharply, face buried in your neck as he takes several greedy pulls of your blood, feasting like a man starved. Your whole body resonates with the groan that erupts from his throat, the wet glide of his tongue over the puncture marks in your skin coaxing a wanton noise of pleasure from your own.
Your bodies are pressed so closely together now that when his hips roll forward, you feel the unmistakable glide of his clothed cock as he ruts against you, seeking pleasure in more than just your blood. The full length of him swells against you with every swallow as your blood courses through his body, a fact that he is clearly eager to draw to your attention.
Your mind reels, overcome with sensation.
“Really, Astarion?” you admonish him, hands trailing gingerly over the bandages that wrap tightly around the sculpted muscles of his chest. “Right now?” But your voice is strained, despite your best efforts, a thinly-veiled protest at best.
“Why not?” Astarion murmurs salaciously against your neck, lapping at the last trickles of blood that spill down towards your collarbones. “I know you want this too, darling. I can taste it in your blood.”
Another quick thrust of his hips between your parted thighs almost makes you reconsider, but your errant thoughts snag on whatever modicum of sense you have left.
“That's not the point,” you remind him tersely, trying your best to look stern. Your face feels hot with the flush that slowly creeps up your neck and stains your cheeks a bright pink.
Astarion pulls away from you with one last press of his tongue against your flushed skin, purposely dragging a slow, wet stripe along the column of your throat. It's clear from the look on his face, all confident smirk and arched brows, that Astarion doesn't believe a word you've said.
“Isn't it?” he hums with a click of his tongue. An idle hand works its way beneath your skirts, and you lose all composure as his fingers dip between your thighs to find you wet and wanting. He can feel how soaked you are through the thin cotton fabric of your underwear, teasing you with purposely slow strokes of his thumb. You press your lips together into a thin line, but you can't hope to suppress the helpless little whine you make for him.
His eyes pin you in place, wine-dark and hungry. You're left with no option but to look at him as he watches you carefully, considering. “Or are we going to pretend that you're not aching for my cock already?” His voice is honey-sweet, rich and thick and sinfully decadent.
“It would be such a shame to waste all this blood, you know.”
His cock twitches eagerly against your stomach. You picture the way it would feel, buried inside your cunt as he thrusts up and into you, over and over again, the way he always –
“Y-you’re hurt, Astarion,” you insist with far less emphasis than you had intended, tearing your eyes away from his face with difficulty and looking towards the vials that still sit untouched nearby. “The potions – you should –”
Astarion silences your protests with a kiss as his lips crash into yours, his fangs grazing your lower lip as he gives you a playful nibble.
“Was,” he corrects with a growl. His lips move softly against your mouth, reluctant to part from you for even a moment. “I assure you that I'm feeling quite… invigorated now, darling. All thanks to you, of course. And what a delectable little treat you are.”
It's hard to argue when his tongue is doing such wonderful things to you, slipping into your mouth as he takes his time savoring your taste. He uses the hand anchored in your hair to tilt your head to the side once more, giving him better access. Satisfied with your compliance, he lets that same hand glide over your body, trailing first down the back of your neck before finding its way over the curve of your ribs and into the dip of your waist beneath the bulk of your flowing robes.
Warmed by your blood, his hand leaves you searing wherever it touches, little embers of desire flaring beneath his deft fingers as they dance across your skin. You are nothing more than kindling, ready to erupt.
The timber of his voice changes with the noise that rumbles in his throat, low and practically primal. Your body responds on instinct, hips rocking forward against the hand he still has pressed against your swollen clit.
The friction renders you delirious as your entire body sings in pleasure. The needy little whimper that tumbles past your lips only serves to strengthen Astarion's resolve, tugging the corners of his mouth into a wicked grin.
“Now,” he purrs, “be a dear and indulge me. Or don't, and leave both of us unsatisfied.”
You answer him not with words but with actions, capturing his wrist at the same time you claim his mouth in a clumsy, passionate kiss. He returns the gesture as you guide his hand up and over your chest, sighing with relief as he deftly unbuttons the front of your robes and palms your bare breast beneath. The fabric pools around your waist as Astarion slips the garment off of your shoulders, and you feel your nipples stiffen into peaks in the cool evening air.
Astarion takes his mouth off of you only for a fleeting moment, bending down to encircle a single nipple with his lips and flicking the taut bud with the tip of his tongue. His hands too, are busy bringing you pleasure, one tugging your underwear aside to allow him to slip a finger inside your waiting cunt while the other massages your unattended breast.
“More?” he asks with a voice like velvet, delighted by the whimpering moans that tumble unabated from your open mouth.
“More,” you repeat, arching your back in such a way that pushes you further still into both his hand and his mouth. A second finger joins his first, slipping past your entrance as he buries himself deep. You cry out, throwing your head back as pleasure wracks your writhing body.
Your hands fly to the laces of his trousers, fumbling to untie them. You lack the grace of his experienced fingers, but you manage well enough, hand wrapped around the base of his cock as it springs free from its confines. Astarion shows his appreciation by biting down on the tender part of your breast, hissing through his teeth as you begin to stroke him.
“Eager little pup,” he laughs. “Shall I tell you what I plan to do to you?”
“Gods, yes,” you groan, admiring the way he feels in your hand, heavy, warm, and so deliciously hard.
“I’m going to fill you with my cock,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers out of your soaking cunt before pushing them back inside, purposely slow as he stretches you wide. “Just. Like. This.”
You see stars when he crooks his fingers inside you, teasing your most sensitive spot. His cock jumps in your hand when you moan his name, precome spilling over your fingers as you increase the pace of your eager strokes.
“And then,” he whispers against your ear, “I'm going to fuck you. Would you like that, my love?”
Your entire body is on fire, drunk on the scent of his perfume, the sensuality of his voice, the feel of him in you and on you. You reach for his face to kiss him again, equally desperate to lose yourself in his taste.
“Yes,” you assert, running your tongue over a pointed fang. “Yes.”
Astarion’s fingers are moving inside you again, plunging deep within your heated core. Your cunt flutters around him, the inevitable precipice of your unraveling imminent. You mirror each of his thrusts with a stroke of your hand over the full length of him, mounting your pleasure together.
Through the haze of your delirium, a thought occurs to you.
“Wait,” you plead, “not yet.” Astarion's eyes find yours, narrowed beneath his lashes as he struggles not to bring you to the release both of you know you need.
“Bite me again.” Your voice is husky and dripping with desire, a flicker of mischief in your expression. “You said before that you can taste it, right? How badly I want you?”
You watch as his eyes flick to the puncture marks on your neck, ringed with the faintest trace of crimson from before.
“Don't you want to know what I'll taste like when you make me come?”
The hand Astarion slips behind your back crushes you against his chest, face buried against your neck to muffle his languid groan. Whatever pain he feels from his injuries is drowned out by the wave of desire that washes over him.
“Gods, above,” he hisses. His fangs graze your skin, a heady concoction of pleasure and pain. “Wicked woman.”
“Drink, Astarion.”
He sinks his fangs into you once more and you feel his tongue as it eagerly moves to gather the first trickle of your blood. His fingers resume their relentless pace, teasing that sensitive spot inside you with every upstroke. You release his cock, requiring both hands to steady yourself as you throw them around his shoulders and grind your hips desperately against him.
“Astarion.” Your voice is thin, strained from the effort of speaking as you find yourself once more on the precipice, an inferno erupting within you. He groans your name between pulls of your blood, the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.
When at last you let go, you release a strangled cry, dragging your nails down the expanse of his back as your cunt clenches tightly around his fingers. You can tell the moment he tastes the change in your blood, his body stiffening as he drinks more greedily than he ever has before. His Adam's apple bobs with every swallow, the blood loss heightening your euphoria even as you slowly come down from your high.
When your movements finally slow, Astarion retreats from your neck, chest heaving with shuddering little breaths. Your eyes catch his, soft and round and reverent, as he takes your face gently in the palm of his hand.
“That was…”
“Incredible?” you prompt. “I know. It always is, with you.”
It's rare to see Astarion at a loss for words, and you huff a satisfied little laugh, leaning forward to taste the remnants of your blood on his tongue as he slowly kisses you back. He tastes of salt and iron; in a word, intoxicating.
“Your cock,” you say drowsily, hand slipping between your sweat-slicked bodies. “You promised–”
Astarion whisks your robes away, lifting you by the hips and positioning you directly above his eager cock. His fingers glide over your skin, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear as he pulls them over the swell of your backside. You lift your legs to assist him, and he laughs affectionately at the dizzy little way you sway back and forth in his lap.
“My love,” he begins, hands holding you firm. “Are you certain this is what you want? We can always –”
Stubborn indignation surges within you, and you lean precariously to the side and swipe one of the potions Shadowheart had left for Astarion, uncorking it dramatically before downing the entire vial in seconds. The bitter taste makes you grimace, but you immediately feel your strength returning, a newfound vigor returning to your weary muscles.
“I don't want to wait if you don't,” you murmur softly against his lips. “And I want to make you feel good too.”
“You are insatiable,” he says affectionately, pressing tender kisses against your lips and the curve of your jaw, coaxing a long, satisfied sigh from you as you relax against his chest. “Very well, then.”
With your senses sharpened by the healing potion, the glide of his cock through your slick folds is the sweetest pleasure. Your wetness spills down your thighs, and you tremble in anticipation as Astarion's eyes rake up the length of your naked body and settle on your face. They flare like the fires of the hells themselves as he enters you, every delicious inch of his cock stretching you open.
Astarion goans as your pulsing heat envelopes him, mouth falling slack. With his hands on your hips, he seats himself fully inside you, reveling in the way your body molds to his shape.
“Hells,” he huffs, raising your hips up before slamming you back down onto the full length of his cock as he surges up to meet you. “I had… almost forgotten…” he mutters, near incoherent between thrusts, “how tight you are.”
“It hasn't been that long,” you laugh, your composure held together by little more than a single thread as he thrusts himself hard and deep. “Are you sure you didn't hit your head back there?”
Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically, but the wide, lopsided grin that splits his face betrays his true thoughts on the matter.
“I think I liked you better when you were helplessly moaning my name, darling,” he chides, sing-song as he rolls his hips deliciously against you. The blunt head of his cock repeatedly brushes over the spot that makes you whimper, and your eyes go wide before you throw back your head with a guttural moan of pleasure.
“That's more like it,” Astarion gloats. “Much better.”
Your hands meet the solid wall of muscle beneath his bandages when you push him away, and Astarion lets out a disgruntled yelp as his back hits the bedroll. You lean over him, smirking triumphantly.
“And I think I like you better on your back.”
Astarion opens his mouth to retaliate, but he gets no farther than that before you give your hips a languid little roll, his eyes immediately transfixed by the way your breasts bounce when your back arches forward.
“Keep doing that,” he hisses, hands digging into the softest part of your thighs, “and you can have me whichever way you'd like.”
You want to rest your palms on his abdomen to give yourself more leverage, and Astarion spots the way you hover your hands hesitantly over his stomach. Now that the light in his tent catches his body just right, it's easy enough to see he's still bruised beneath the bandages, and the last thing you want to do is cause him any further injury.
Astarion makes the decision for you, reaching for your hands and interlocking your fingers with his. With Astarion as your anchor, you set an easy pace, guiding yourself up and back down the length of his cock, with only the sounds of your soft moans and the wet slap of skin-on-skin between you. His eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, and you're not even certain he realizes how serene he looks beneath you, the softness of his smile and the affectionate little way he keeps squeezing your hands.
“You're beautiful, Astarion.” It's an effortless admission, as true as it is simple. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen, made even more astonishing by the way he gives himself to you so completely.
“Tell me something I don't know, darling.”
He's deflecting, of course, still uncertain what to do with such an honest declaration. He's heard it a thousand times before, but never as sweetly as the way you tell him.
“I mean it.”
Astarion's lips are still warm when you kiss him, and his hands slip from yours to cup your face. His forehead is sticky with sweat, pressed so gently against your brow as he sighs contentedly into your mouth. The journey to the swell of your hips is something he knows by heart, and he holds you firmly in place as he thrusts up into you, unwilling to deny himself the pleasures of your body for any longer.
Braced with your forearms on either side of his head, you let him piston into you, your entire body trembling as his cock slides home again, and again, and again. Astarion can feel the tightness in your core, the same way he can feel his own approaching release. When his fingers mercifully find your clit, you come for him again with a shuddering moan, face buried in his neck to muffle the sound of it.
Astarion tumbles headfirst after you, unable to hold himself back when the slick walls of your cunt contract around him. He spills himself inside you, pulling your body down on top of his chest to feel the rapid beating of your heart.
When both of you have stilled, you push yourself upright, sitting back on your heels with his cock still fully seated inside you. Astarion's expression widens at the sudden concern on your face, his eyes following the path of your gaze to the blood that's begun seeping through his bandages.
“Well, that certainly can't be good,” Astarion sighs, wincing slightly as you prod lightly at the open wound. “You're not helping, darling.”
“I did warn you, you know,” you remark. “It's a shame you never listen to me.”
“If I had listened to you, where would you be?” Astarion counters with a fanged smirk. “Sprawled in your bedroll with a hand between your legs, lamenting that it wasn't my co–”
“All right, all right!” you shush him with a hand over his mouth, heaving a sigh. “I'm sure Shadowheart will be thrilled when she finds out.”
“You wouldn't dare,” he blurts. There is genuine panic in his expression now. He sits halfway up as if to stop you from marching out of his tent and announcing your sins to the entire camp, but you don't bother stopping him when he rests his hands on the small of your back.
“If you're trying to buy my silence, you'll have to try harder than that,” you tease, poking him directly in the chest. “And my services don't come cheap.”
“Oh, darling,” Astarion purrs, rising to the challenge. He twists the pair of you around so he has the advantage, pressing you down beneath him as he climbs over your body and leans down to kiss you again.
Would've had this out last week, but our cat Mephistopheles decided that was the perfect time to give us all a free heart attack with a health scare that turned out to not be an emergency after all. Thanks, bud. Thanks for that. (Long chapter incoming)
Cleanup took months.
Mother Weaver...donated...a great many metalhead carcasses and skull gems for trading — how aware of their monetary value she was, no one was certain. Daxter was convinced that the colossal spider merely operated on the basis of hu'mens seeming to like vaguely shiny things — and some loose chitin for construction materials before deciding it was time to shepherd her Wastelanders back up to the mountains.
Mother Weaver preferred the close environment of the tunnels. Being exposed in open air was far from her ideal vacation.
She disliked being out of her cave and she disliked her Tiny Noisy Things being out of her cave.
The occasional party left the caverns on adventures, but never this many at once. It threw Mother Weaver's daily routines off and she Didn't Like It.
When she'd tired of the ruins of Main Town, the towering arachnid rose from her temporary web and plucked a strand. A deep, reverberating note rolled over the ruined district like the sound of a harp. And almost as one, every volunteer left from Foothills stopped what they were doing and turned to face the colossus. Almost as one, they hummed or whistled or sang the note back to her, bringing their feet down in a thunderous stomp.
Weaver raised a limb delicately and touched another thread, releasing a higher note.
Again, the mountain Wastelanders echoed it back to her.
"What are they doing?" Jak asked, unable to look away.
"Communicating," Damas answered aloud. Even his amplified voice was hushed.
"I'd heard stories about this. I never thought I'd actually witness it."
This time, the Foothills clan sang first, accompanying three notes with a chorus of feet against stone. The spider seemed to be responding to the vibrations of their feet more than their voices. But she repeated the low-high-low trio, and then settled into an intimidating crouch.
Jak had been just as concerned as Keira to see all eighty Foothills clan warriors hurry to the Inevitable's sides to just...clip carabiners to spider silk and hang onto massive, segmented legs. Seventeen younger warriors who didn't want to hang on actually scrambled up onto her back rather than go home on foot.
"Uh-? Should they be doing that?" Keira had nervously asked.
The only answer they ever got about it was a Longstump woman grimacing and saying, "Foothills rushes in where Precursors fear to tread."
No one was sure if the River-Elk's wrath had been satisfied, but thus far he hadn't left the water again. Nobody was eager to go check and see if he was still angry, or if he had a new corpse-light flickering miserably on his back. But it was enough for the lowland clan to resume business as usual, at least.
The occasional group from Longstump's outer villages came up now and then with food for the disaster relief efforts — run by Brutter, considering Tess's...predicament.
Being two feet tall and covered with fur wasn't the part that threw her off. Learning to balance with a tail was a bit tricky, but finding out she couldn't lift more than two of her beloved custom guns anymore?
The remaining two ottsels from the core narrowly avoided needing divine intervention to save them from the wrath of the gun-mod hobbyist.
Torn and Ashelin weren't much help, they had their hands full with explaining spirits to a city that had kept them out for generations. And Veger's plot. And the whole matter of the House of Mar still being active.
After the initial screams and panic upon seeing Damas’s transformed state — barely tempered when the man wearing feathers did...something that reduced the deposed king's height down to a respectable seven feet tall — there had been an effort by a few neighborhoods to restore him to the throne.
He'd politely but hastily turned them down.
Some ten years of training in diplomacy — of a non-Wastelander variety — allowed him to decline with grace. But everyone who really knew him could tell he was actively restraining himself from saying something like "you couldn't pay me to run this place again".
Instead, he'd cited existing responsibilities to family, city, and allies.
"I'm sorry, I am not the kind of leader you are looking for. I bear you no ill will, I know all too well how few of you had any say in the way I departed this city before. But I've built a life of my own, free from the constraints of bloodlines and inherited roles. I earned my place among my people. I encourage you to find a leader who can do the same."
The remnants of the Grand Council did not receive anywhere near as gracious a farewell.
"I wash my hands of your foolishness. But if word should ever reach me that any of you had knowledge of what Praxis did to my son and did not intervene, you will see me again. And on that day, this city will be no haven for you, nor will you find shelter beyond its walls."
The Spargans left a small detachment to provide security for the relief efforts and the purification of the former "metal town". But after that first week, Jak was headed home. And he wasn't going alone.
"I'm never leaving home again," he groused as he settled into the air train.
Phaeng scoffed.
"Yeah, lets see how long that lasts."
"Didn't say I was never leaving the citadel again," Jak argued, "I said I wasn't leaving home! Plenty of places to explore on the island still."
"If your father lets you out of his sight for six minutes," Asa countered.
"If my father lets me out of his sight for six minutes," Jak acknowledged with cheerful signs.
Keira twisted her goggles into knots as she watched the easy back and forth between the two Wastelanders and Jak. He was open, lighter in a way she wasn't used to. She told herself it was because the war was finally over, and they'd all survived. But Keira suspected Jak had changed long before that.
"Bowl cut is Asa," Daxter whispered helpfully, "The guy with the prosthetic eye is Phaeng. They were part of Jak's...I guess training cadre out in the desert. Some of the only ones to survive a um. A wolf attack on a training mission. They ended up pretty close."
Keira didn't need to know about the Blood Wolf yet. She had enough on her plate just coming to terms with her decision to distance herself from her father, let alone the existence of spirits, good or evil.
"Anybody hear from Roth yet?" Jak asked.
"Last I heard, he was back home, getting Lara down to Ward Two under the Arena during the main invasion."
"Children's hospital?" Asa gave Phaeng an odd look that quickly morphed into shock. "Oh Frith! Is she in labor?! I thought D.J. wasn't due for two months!"
"No!" Phaeng waved his hands quickly. "Not in labor! Just avoiding stress and evacuating kids down into the shelter."
Jak made a face.
"Evacuating Spargan kids? That's like the opposite of avoiding stress."
Phaeng rolled his eyes — the LED light in his left eye making it all the more dramatic.
"How bad could it be? It's not like you're there."
"Y'know what-"
Jak started to get up, but Daxter yanked him back down to the bench — a testament to how tired he really was.
Keira snorted.
"So...Phaeng and Asa, right?"
The young men made perfunctory greetings, and she lifted her hand in return.
"I'm um. Keira."
Asa cracked a smile.
"We kinda guessed. Hey, it's gonna be chaos when we get home, so if I don't get the chance to say it before then, thanks."
Keira blinked.
"For what?"
"For what you did for Damas," the scout answered. There was a quiet sincerity in his eyes — something mirrored in the faces of several of the Wastelanders in the air train.
"They uh, some of the Longstump guys said you yanked his soul back into his body with an Inevitable class breathing down your neck."
"More or less true," Tess yawned, having woken up in time for the latter half of the statement.
Quetzaleh had waited until Damas’s first harsh gasp for air before partially revealing himself. That was, frankly, a mercy. Keira wouldn't have been able to concentrate on healing her friend's father if she'd known that was hovering over her head.
"Is he...going to come into the city?" Keira asked.
She didn't know if she hoped the answer was yes, or no.
"I hope so," Tess said nonchalantly, "I like him."
Jak looked down at her with very wide eyes.
"You saw him mostly unshielded."
Tess bared a newly sharpened canine in an unsettling grin.
"And I had just gotten turned into an ottsel and hit a deity with a stick. Your great-granddad was not the weirdest thing to happen that day."
Jak was suddenly very worried about what Tess might get up to on her first moonless night in Spargus. They needed to get some paw-sized gun parts to distract her with.
After two hours, Jak needed to stretch. He walked back and forth in the passenger hold a few times, then squeezed through the cramped passage to the head. Not that he had any particular need to use it, but there was a window across from the narrow door. Jak leaned against the hull and looked out into the cloudbank. He could barely make out a rippling shadow, a flash of azure now and then when a scale caught the light.
It was a little difficult to comprehend Grandfather's true size. Just as he couldn't really grasp how big King Owl truly was after having only seen two of his claws. The only Inevitable Class he'd seen in her entirety was Mother Weaver, and she was massive already.
Even the River-Elk had been shrouded by the fog when he came for Veger. Jak didn't know what his body looked like, and he suspected he didn't want to know.
How could beings so massive exist on this planet? Even Metalkor would only have been the size of Grandfather's skull and first two vertebrae!
A bright light erupted in the clouds like a fireball, and for a moment, Jak tensed. Were they under fire?
Then the light vanished, only to appear again.
I sssee you.
The Wind-Serpent's whisper in his mind carried a playful amusement.
Getting bored, sssnakelet? Or jussst sssaying hello?
...yes?
The fireball curved into a half-moon shape that was pretty easily interpreted as a smiling eye.
Hello to you, too, sssnakelet, Quetzaleh chuckled — an incredibly bizarre sensation in Jak’s brain.
Baba ssssaysss hello, too.
Jak couldn't see Damas through the clouds. He knew his father was somewhere on the Wind-Serpent, his back or his skull or something, but he wouldn't have had the slightest idea where to start looking.
What are you going to do when we get home?
Sssunbathe, probably. While ssssmaller. It would be rude to crusssh any houssssesss.
That hadn't been what Jak meant, but he supposed he couldn't fault him for it. He wasn't sure Quetzaleh actually qualified as a reptile in the traditional sense, what with all the shapeshifting. But snakes did like to sun themselves, didn't they? And he'd been trapped underground for fifty years! If anyone deserved some time to just soak in the sun, it was Grandfather.
Jak frowned. Something about that thought was nagging at him. Something about the old stories-
Grandfather, is Frith real?
Primarily dormant, but yesss. Grandfather'ssss father isss real.
Oh F-
Wait.
Jak stumbled back a step, back hitting the bathroom door with a thud.
"Sonnovacob," he whispered, "You've got to be kidding me."
There was a dormant...entity...in the sun?! What was that thing's internal temperature if that was his preferred habitat?!
Something else occurred to him, tempering bewildered shock with something more somber.
You...haven't seen your father in fifty years?
Quetzaleh didn't answer at first. The fireball vanished, and for a terrible moment, Jak was afraid he'd offended him.
Then turquoise feathers brushed past the window, scraping along the hull. An eye the size of a tire appeared on the other side of the glass; Quetzaleh had compressed himself again. Jak knew it was for his sake that the colossal spirit was doing it. He almost felt a little guilty.
No. I have...missssed him. He ssssleepsss, but we ssensssed each other.
A translucent membrane slid over the eyeball for an instant.
I did not want you to know the ssssame pain, sssnakelet. I am...sssorry that I did not recognize you at firssst.
Jak shrugged and managed a bittersweet smile.
I didn't even recognize me when I saw the kid.
His smile fell into more of a cringe.
So I'm...guessing I need to stop saying...uh, use- using your dad as a cuss.
The slit pupil narrowed playfully.
No, go ahead. It wakesss him up and hisss griping amusssesss me.
....ah.
Jak really had no response for that. No fireballs had rained down from solar flares, so presumably Frith wasn't too upset about it — or maybe he was like Mother Weaver and just preferred not to bother. But it was incredibly unnerving to think about a life form that old still existing.
Of course, in that vein, how old was Grandfather?
Jak...needed to sit down.
What was he supposed to tell Daxter about this? "Bad news, sun-god's real. Good news, he's apparently retired"?
Oh blistering rot, that was the Wind-Serpent's father. Which meant he was Jak’s great-great-grandfather. What the rot.
He found himself hoping that the next iteration of him lived in a world where Damas got to be a farmer or something. Where maybe their ancestor moved out to the Wastelands to raise a sprawling family across the archipelago. Sure, they'd still have certified Weird Blood, but it had to be less complicated than this.
