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star-girl69 · 3 months

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She Calls Me Baby

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Reader

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synopsis: college au, in which you slowly realize something is wrong with your girlfriend.

a/n: love this song. had to do it sorry. anyways this sucks actual BALLS but idc i just have to write something or else i will lose my empire and title as mother of clarisse tumblr ☹️

Jackie and Wilson - Hozier

warnings: NOT BETA READ, im sure this is so discombobulated but IDC!!!!!! anyways, swearing, mentions of death and the usual demigod stuff, mentions of monsters, idk pretty chill…, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

Your favorite story Clarisse ever told you is the one about soulmates.

She told it to you in the dark, in her bed, hand on the side of your face as she whispered to you like you were secret lovers.

She told you that humans once had two heads and four arms, but Zeus thought they would grow to be too powerful and split them apart. Hearts split in two, detained to roam the earth, trying to find each other.

That’s how it feels with Clarisse- like you’ve known her for years, like your bodies were born of the same speck of dust, souls grew next to each other, fires inside of you burning in the same altar for a hundred years before you met.

Clarisse approached you fast- hard and unrelenting like a hurricane. She wanted whatever she could take from you, love, comfort, a one-night.

It scared her when you wanted to give.

It was kind of crazy how easily the two of you just fit together, crazy how you both liked some things, both hated things, hated something things she liked and nice versa. It was like there was this natural balance between you, everything sort of cosmically weighed out- and it just felt so right to be with her that everything else faded away.

But it was clear that Clarisse fell head over heels for you, the way she would smile and just tell you that you were so different, so much better than her. You were everything she wasn’t, and she resented you so much for it she loved you.

You weren’t exactly sure why Clarisse loved you so much- maybe it was the way you respect her past, maybe it was the way you didn’t push- you just accepted the crazy and tried your best to save her with what little information you did have. It surprised her and you when you became the one to get greedy, to take from her, but you knew she loved the feeling of being wanted.

But lately, Clarisse has been particularly… off. It’s not exam season, so you can’t chalk it up to that. And she’s the most talented player on the field hockey team, you’ve seen her play- she’s overconfident and for good reason. She has no reason to be stressed there, unless somethings changed.

But something tells you it’s not that.

The first real concrete clue you ever got was when you first met her.

The library is where you met Clarisse. The one closest to your dorm hall, the one that’s two floors and built like an out-of-place Greek temple- it always makes you smile when Clarisse gives it a dirty look, trying to persuade you to go to any other library. It doesn’t make sense to you- why go to the one all the way across campus when this one is only a five minute walk?

She always seems on edge when she meets you in here, but she bites it back and won’t tell you no matter how much you ask. She says it’s just a weird thing she has, hard to explain, so you let it go when she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she smiles, pulling out the chair next to you. She glances around the library, not nervously, but observant. Ready, waiting. She’s always been able to do that- scan an entire room in seconds and find out everything.

“Hi,” you smile, stretching as you push your books away from you, grateful for the distraction her brown eyes and sweet voice provide.

She picks up a textbook you’ve pushed off to the side. She scoffs at the title, mumbling about how she still doesn’t know why you would choose the major you did.

“How was practice?” you ask, choosing to ignore her remarks in favor of soaking up her attention and the much needed distraction.

“Boring,” she hums, rubbing her foot up and down your leg, head in her hands. “Freshmen are pissin’ me off, they don’t know shit. Coach has to teach them all the basics over again.”

You lay your head on a thick textbook, staring up at her. “The freshmen are always shitty. Then you love them by the end of the year.”

“I don’t,” she huffs, but some of her favorite members of the team are the freshmen she hated her sophomore year. “Whatever. It’s different, they all suck. Shouldn’t be here.”

“Sure,” you say, yawning again.

“Okay, did you not sleep last night?” she chuckles.

You shrug sheepishly, Clarisse is always so adamant you sleep and eat enough, but sometimes you have to sacrifice the little things for your grades.

“I had a test this morning, stayed up a little later cramming.”

“Uh-huh, so, like, until 1 in the morning? Worse?”

You hold your breath, sitting up as you conveniently look away from her. “3,” you exhale.

She smiles and puts a piece of hair behind your ear.

“But,” you smile, sensing the lecture. “After these five questions, I can be all yours for the rest of the day.”

She pretends to weigh her options.

“Well, I do like the sound of that.”

—-

The second clue is the way she always seems like she’s running away from something.

Your rooms are blessedly only a few doors down from each other, so someone is always sneaking into someone else’s and your roommates have both learned to deal with it.

Silena, Clarisse’s roommate, only greets you with a smile as you sheepishly slip past her in the mornings- Clarisse’s shirt haphazardly slipped over you.

So, on this day, you’re slumped in bed while Clarisse promises to take care of you, and you’re all too happy to let her.

She’s already spent the last hour lying with you in bed, letting you sleep on top of her- forcing you to catch up on some much needed hours of rest with her soft voice in your ear and hand trailing up your back.

She only got up when you mentioned you were hungry, immediately suggesting the idea of ordering from your favorite restaurant, refusing to be swayed by you back into your warm bed.

So, here you were, scrolling on your phone while you waited for the click of the door and the smell of hot food. And it comes, you prepare to make some quip about how dare she leaves you for almost a half hour.

Her keys jangle in her hands as she quickly shuts the door, turning around and pressing her back against it. She breathes out, heavily, before her eyes meet yours and she studies the shocked and confused look on your face.

“Ran up the stairs,” she smiles, leaving her keys and wallet on top of your dresser, dropping the bag of food on your bed before she goes to the window, peeking out of it. “Didn’t want my princess waiting for too long,” she chuckles.

You don’t even look at the bag of food in front of you. You reach out and grab her hand, and she flinches, but pulls away from the window and into your touch.

“Clarisse,” you breathe, and panic flashes in her eyes as she quickly rips open the bag.

“C’mon, don’t let it get cold.”

“Clar… baby,”

“Wanna watch a movie? Or play a game? Anything you want, sweetheart, jus’ say the word.”

—-

The third clue is the fact that you’re 99% sure she’s seeing things.

It sounds horrible to say, and sometimes late at night when she’s asleep against you, you wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do. You’ve only met her mom a few times, never met her father- Silena and her have been friends for years, but you still feel like it all falls to you.

It doesn’t, legally, maybe not even morally- but she’s your girlfriend. You should know what she wants, you should be able to advocate for her when she can’t.

So, the best thing you can think to do it ignore it. You pretend it doesn’t concern you, you pretend you don’t see it, you pretend because you can’t even think about the idea of her not being her, of her being away from you.

You focus on the moment.

You love these walks with Clarisse, her hand warm in yours. It was moments like these where you felt like Clarisse was your sun. Yes, the setting sun was warm against your back, but nothing made you feel alive like Clarisse did. Your hands swing together, hitting your hip, and she seamlessly switches from your hand to wrapping at arm around your waist.

You smile at her, cheeks hot. You go to adjust your bag as a means of distracting yourself, but your hand awkwardly ends up floating in the air when you realize Clarisse took your bag when she picked you up from your last class.

As if sensing the awkwardness, she hikes the tote bag farther up her shoulder.

“What’re your plans today, pretty girl?”

You hum, feeling so at ease with the way she calls you that pet name, with the way she squeezes you closer to her.

“Well, I finished my big project yesterday, don’t really have anything else to do, so I was just gonna chill. What ‘bout you?”

“Ugh,” she groans. “I have practice until 8. But I’ll come over after? And spend the night?”

You smile, laughing softly.

“I don’t know why you even ask anymore.”

“It’s polite,” she smiles. “I’m a very polite person, only when it comes to you.”

“I’ll see you at 8:15, huh?”

“Obviously,” she huffs, kissing your temple. Again, you feel like cheeks heat like this is the first day you met her. It’s embarrassing to be affected by her so much, but it’s also so sweet. Only she can draw out these reactions from you, this potent all these months later. It still feels like the first day with her sometimes, but you also feel like you’ve known her for years.

She bites her lip and hisses a curse word under her breath.

“What?” you ask, snapped out of the way she holds you so perfectly, following her eye line. She stares firmly in between two cars, but there’s nothing there.

“Nothing,” she says, not taking her eyes away from that spot- not even blinking, you realize after a second. She hides the way she gets, that unrelenting focus like when she’s playing in a game, with a laugh.

“Thought I saw that bitch from my 11am.” You look at her. You don’t believe her. She knows you don’t. And it breaks your heart that something is clearly happening, and you can’t force yourself to feel bad for ignoring it, and you can’t force her to tell you. “C’mon, let’s go.”

She moves to hold your hand and drags you off forcefully toward the direction of the entrance. She squints, almost like she’s driving off something with her mind.

“Clarisse,” you mumble, squeezing her hand, feeling unsettled just by the way she’s so clearly ready for a fight. It’s like she can see something you can’t.

She risks a small glance at you, a normal looking smile.

“It’s all good, baby. I’ve got you,” she smiles, reaching back like she’s stretching, but something where there’s nothing glints in the sunlight.

—-

The fourth clue is the fight with Silena.

She asked you to meet her at her dorm, wear something nice and pretty, and you’ll go out for a nice dinner and some ice cream. She’s been so busy with practice lately, it makes your entire body squeeze the way she jumps to spend time with you at the first off day she gets.

You smooth down your pretty top, the one you know you look good in, the one you know she likes. You’re about to knock on the door when you realize it’s been left open, just a crack. That’s when their voices rise, enough so you can hear them.

“It different now, Clar!”

“It’s. Not. It’s not different, it will never be different, nothing will ever change.”

“Before, Clarisse, when you told me you had this crush on the girl in your econ class, I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t care. But, Gods, Clarisse, anyone can see it’s different. She’s not just some girl, she’s your girl, your girlfriend, and you’re totally in love with her.”

“I know that,” she huffs. “I’m the one who’s actually in love with her. I love her, and I know her. I know what’s best for her.”

“And she’s in love with you too, Clarisse.”

She laughs. “I would hope so.”

“It’s different, Clarisse. It’s been different for a while, and I didn’t say anything because I thought you would notice. But you haven’t.”

“Fuck, Silena, please. Please, just stop. I’m not puttin’ her through that. I’m not putting myself through that again. I’m not that girl anymore. I am not my father’s daughter.”

“It never goes away, Clar.”

Silena’s voice is quiet, hesitant. Clarisse has confessed to you her struggles with her emotions all her life, particularly anger. Half the reason her mother sent her to that camp she always talks about was because she had such bad anger issues. But she worked through them, and you know she’s different now, she has healthy outlets and ways to cope.

But still, Silena seems scared.

“Shut the fuck up.”

You hear her walking towards you and quickly step back, smoothing your face out into a blank slate, tempted to hit yourself in the head to forget what you just heard.

The door swings open, and she smiles immediately when she sees you.

“Y/N,” she says, sticking her keys into her pocket. You force yourself to do your best smile. “Oh, baby, you look so pretty.”

“Thank you,” you smile, letting her wrap her arms around you, letting her press a soft kiss against your lips.

—-

Clarisse made you laugh all night, made you smile, made you wonder how you ever got this far in life without her. She paid for your dinner and ushered you out of the restaurant, chuckling about how you drove her crazy and she just wanted you now-

Until she walked you to your car, opened the passenger door for you- suddenly shoving you inside and pushing the door softly closed, as much as she could get it with your foot still hanging out.

“Clarisse!” you shout, but she’s already appeared in the driver’s seat next to you, ushering you inside, reaching over and shutting the car door. She locks them with a satisfying click, finally letting her shoulder’s sink down. “What the fuck?” you huff.

“Sorry,” she smiles, hands squeezing the steering wheel. “It was the weirdest thing, a squirrel ran right over my foot, I got so freaked out…” she smiles, forces a laugh, but you only look at her unimpressed.

“Clarisse,” you sigh, letting your hands fall to your sides in defeat. “What’s going on? Please?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it.

“Just let me drive home,” she had said, and now you’re home, leading her into your dorm and she presses her back against the door.

You put your hands on her shoulders and she puts hers on your hips, she can’t look at you and you do your best to meet her eyes.

“Clarisse,” you say, a silent beg that all your suspicions are wrong, and everything and fine and she still loves you, she’s still your girlfriend.

“I’m not ready to tell you,” she rushes out. Her fingertips dig into your skin. “I’m not ready, okay? I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

“T-that’s okay,” you say after a moment. “It’s okay. I just… you can tell me, when you’re ready. I’m just scared, I don’t know why this is happening, you’re being so different-”

She hugs you and puts her face into your neck.

“Please, Y/N,” she breathes, shaky breath tickling your neck. “I love you so much. I love you more than anything, just let that be enough, please.”

You hugs you quick and hard, and you’re so shocked by it that you almost take a step back. But you can’t, really, not with her arms so tight, so right around you. And once you realize it’s just your Clarisse, you coo softly and put your hand in her hair, the other around her shoulders.

“Of course it’s enough, baby. Of course, I just want you to know that I’m here… I’m here…”

You run your hand through her hair and she exhales.

“I know, I know it’s not perfect, but you’re all I have. You’re all I have, Y/N, just be here with me, please.”

“I will,” you breathe. “I will.”

Your mind is swirling with more questions than answers, but Clarisse asks you to call her baby again and leads you to your bed. And you do, you call her baby and tell her you love her.

And the realization comes slowly, but once it comes it feels so right.

You don’t know what’s going on with Clarisse. All you have are incoherent clues strung together, but you realize you don’t care. You love Clarisse more than you’re scared of a little crazy.

And you tell her that as she lays on top of you, and she simply takes her face out of your neck, the faintest hint of tears welling in her eyes.

“I love you crazy, baby,” you murmur.

She smiles, and you feel like you’re being sucked into the eye of a hurricane.

She lets out a soft breath, like she was scared, so scared- and you’re not sure she’s ever been scared before. But she’s scared of losing you. She’s scared of losing you, and that makes you giddy like a schoolgirl. That makes you love her even more.

“I’m a lot of crazy,” she says, and you can’t tell if she’s joking, but you laugh. You laugh like a hyena, because you love her more than you love yourself.

You want to be the harbor she comes back to each night, you want to be the pillow where she rests her head. You want to be a vault for her secrets and her love. You want to be everything for her and you want to be everything to her.

You don’t believe in Greek myths, but maybe that one about soulmates was right.

—-

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#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x you #pjo tv show #pjo x reader

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pizzaapeteer · 5 months

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FU in my head part 2

Part 1 here Pairing Mattheo Riddle x fem reader

Summary Unable to forget Mattheo's longing gaze after potions, your mind lingers on the meaning behind it. When he approaches you later that night, you're left unaware of his intentions and how this would play them out.

Warnings Oral (male receiving), female orgasm, semi-public sex, facefucking, swearing, slight degrading, sadistic thoughts, hair pulling, dom/sub dynamics.

Word count 2400

a/n: I was inspired by this lovely fic written by @mrsriddlenott

And big thank you to @finalgirllx for the amazing edit of Mattheo 💜

Darkness lurks near, flames flickering in the wind, their shadows illuminating on the old stone walls. The disappearance of time was visible with the passing of chattering students on their way to dinner. Making your way across the courtyard, your skin pricked with a frantic charge, your frustration growing in need of a release.

The combination of your brimming timetable and interactions with friends had left you without a moment to yourself. Despite your aching core, you sigh in relief that you hadn't seen Mattheo since potions. You weren't sure your body could handle witnessing the attractive boy again. Just the recollection of Mattheo's amused smirk had your cheeks tinting.

Troubling thoughts formed within that perhaps you had imagined it all. Worry pulled in your chest, fear that your fantasies were becoming more visual. Overwhelmed, you quicken your pace hoping to retreat to your dorm, but Mattheo's figure emerging halts you. You jump to conceal yourself behind a nearby pillar, impatiently waiting for him to depart. Unable to resist, you peak from behind the pillar, stalking his every move fervidly. Your eyes are drawn to him as he strides confidently down the corridor. Mentally groaning, you bite your lip. How can someone walking be so enticing? Curiously you watch, pulling back hastily as Mattheo's eyes narrow in your direction.

You hold your breath in anticipation, hoping he hadn't noticed you. The air thickens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Mattheo's tall form surfaces in front of you, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he studies your expression. The scent of cigarettes and mint intoxicates your senses. You stare meekly, frozen in place, your core clenching at his intense gaze. A dark chuckle leaves his lips, his voice low, as if speaking to himself, "Finding you was quite the challenge." Your heart quickens to an unrelenting pace, a surge of heat swells in your chest. You scrunch your brows, scanning his face for an explanation. Instinctively, you step back into the warmth of the light, his body closing the space between one another. The intimacy of your bodies allowed you to admire the sharpness of his features. Glints of intrigue flash in his mahogany eyes, his lips twitching into a mischievous grin. It left you swallowing as your lips parted, your cheeks heating, head screaming. "Why were you looking for me? Did I leave something in potions?" You ramble, unable to fathom him talking, even acknowledging your presence out of class. He doesn't answer your question, meandering his gaze between your eyes and lips. His tongue glides across his bottom lip, sliding in as he bites it. "You know, Theo's always telling me, it's the quiet ones... who are the dirtiest. Is that true?", glamour soaks his voice.

Your eyes widen in alarm, jaw dropping, breath caught in your throat. Your neck prickles, a shiver running up it. Your core palpitates at his words, clear embarrassment and arousal paints your face. You'd never been so red before, the scarlet colour apparent to him as he smirks. He crowed at your reaction, watching you struggle to speak. "God, look at you, a flustered little thing." He rests a hand against the stone, flicking your ear with his finger tauntingly.

Cocking an eyebrow, his eyes intensify, longing for an answer to his previous question. When you couldn't give one, except a small, unexpected whimper. An amused grunt withdrew from his lips, smirking he responds, "So it's true, you're fucking filthy, aren't you?". Mattheo revels in your desperation, his cock twitches as he watches you struggle to conceal your arousal. Feeling flustered as being called out, your eyes fall, avoiding his gaze. A cold hand grips your chin, jerking your head to look up to him. Towering over you, he leans his body down to meet your gaze, his eyes revealing the hunger inwardly. Your mind attempts to regard what was happening. Were you having another daydream?

In a rapid movement, Mattheo's lips embrace yours hungrily. The unforeseen action startles you before your hands instinctively clasp, reaching for him. Raising your hands, your fingers snake through his curls, pulling him closer. You had only kissed one other before, and it couldn't compare to the experience of kissing Mattheo.

Mattheo's lips captured yours in a ravenous fire of passion, his hand veering down from your chin, shoving through your hair. His hand clamps the back of your neck, a sharp tug pulling your head against the hard brick. The harsh force sends sharp pains up your scalp, your mouth falling open in an ache. Mattheo, unphased by your pain, uses the clearly intended action to delve further. His tongue manoeuvres forth, colliding with yours, capturing your breath. Your head spins, your lips struggling to keep up with his expertise.

Relief consumes you, as oxygen replenishes your lungs, your heart palpitating. The moment is stolen by Mattheo's lips ravaging your neck. His hand still clasps you, his fingers squeezing your neck. His lips soft and warm attack your skin, small nips pinching at your nape. Your skin burns, body reacting as whimpers and moans leave your lips. Your eyes shut tightly as your fantasy is recreated. Unable to think clearly, your mind is blurred with desire and desperation.

His hands roam downwards, the trace of his fingertips felt through your clothes, your legs convulsing in pleasure. Your skin pricks between his grasp, his hands halting their travels on your hips. A yelp leaves your lips as your hips slamming roughly into his noticeably protruding dick. A cocky smug highlighted on his face at the marks displayed on your neck. You used this moment to rest, your eyes never leaving his. Their usual shade of brown revealed a now darkened tint, consuming a predator's stare. He thrives off the power imbalance between him and you. Your obvious craving for him fuelling his ego and his mind races with possibilities of what to do next. "Get down on your knees," he commands.

You stare at him aghast, "What?!" you hiss flustered but surprised by your own harsh tone. Blood rushes to your cheeks, taken aback by his vulgar demand.

He quirks a taunting grin, tilting his head as he clicks his tongue "Oh come on sweetheart, I know how desperate you are to please me?" His hands drift to your face, caressing it, making you feel small. His words sent a rush of adrenaline down your core, your mind drifting into a state of glazed bliss at the idea of his cock between your lips. His grins widen as studies you, watching the wheels in your head turning, contemplating.

Yet, the anxiety of being caught in a compromising position halts you as you scour the empty hallway behind him. A hint of irritation picks at his face at the slow lack of your response. He rolls his eyes before clutching your wrist harshly and pulling you into a near crevice, covering the both of you from any prying eyes. Now hidden, the clear desire of his request shone in your eyes, your cunt throbbing. The clang of his belt draws your eyes down as he undoes it, your heart pounding in your chest. In a swift motion, he tugs his pants down to his feet, following next with his briefs.

The sight of his protruding cock leaning against his abdominals makes your insides squirm. He wraps a hand around his shaft, releasing a sharp breath as he gives it a quick pump. You bite your lip as you ogle at the size of it; the tip swollen red, glistening with pre-cum. He places a firm hand on your shoulder, guiding you down in your dazed state. Your knees burn on the cold pavement, the outlines of the cobblestones moulding into your skin. "Come on now, don't be shy, open up slut," he directs with a sadistic smile on his face. He taps the tip of his cock against your mouth, dragging it over your bottom lip. Your jaw drops as he guides the edge of his cock into your awaiting mouth.

His hand slides through your hair, taking a fistful to tilt your head back slightly. Eagerness reeks off you as you lean forward, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock. You were nervous, trying to channel your anxiety into adrenaline. Your mind is still in a state of awe at the reality of what was happening. Only earlier were you daydreaming about this. You wanted to leave a lasting impression; prove to him you were a good girl, ready to be obedient for him.

You wrap your lips around his cock, the sounds of his grunts flowing directly to your core. Your legs squeeze together, easing your ache only slightly. You allowed your jaw to relax, as you continued to let him fill you up. His cock was the biggest you had ever taken, making you blink back tears. Mattheo groans as your warm mouth devours his cock. He stares down at you, admiring the pretty sight. He would never get enough of seeing desperate girls with their mouths full of him. He loved seeing tears brim at your eyes, smirking as he watched you struggle to take his size.

His hold on your hair tightens, his hips shifting forward slightly. You get the idea pretty quickly and move, placing your hands on his thighs for stability. "Such a good girl. Aren't you taking me so well? " He praises in a sadistic tone. You moan around his cock; the sound being silenced as he hastens his movements. Resting his free hand flat against the brick behind you, his hips settle into an unceasing rhythm.

Mattheo's cock thrusts vigorously, scratching the back of your throat, making your core pulsing restlessly as it clenches around nothing. The intensity of his strenuous thrusts, have your eyes fluttering closed. Drool trickles down the side of your mouth as you gag, choking around his dick. "Look at me, I want to see those cock drunk eyes," he mutters, pulling on your locks jerking your head, jolting your eyes open. Gazing up, your eyes meet his lust blown orbs, a satisfied smirk coating his face.

Maintaining eye contact, your body trembles at the feel of your approaching orgasm. Never having to withstand an orgasm so long before, your body submerges in pleasure, knocking the breath out of you. Your nails dig into Mattheo's thighs, your orgasm courses through you, your legs tremble, pressing together, to repress the movement. Unable to remain quiet, a whimper escapes you, vibrating around Mattheo's cock.

Worry sets on you as a deep groan falls from his lips, your tremors edging him on. Praying your orgasm went undetected, you sigh contently at the sight of him caught in his own pleasure, for him to notice. "Fuck you like that, don't you? Like your mouth getting used like a little slut," he mutters, his hold on your head tightening. His thrusts become sloppier, his own climax hitting. You watch enticingly as his brows scrunch, flushes of pink, warm his face, small pants leaving his mouth. A stream of incoherent words spills from his lips as he shoots spurts of cum down your throat. Unable to swallow quick enough, the excess spills, leaking, down the sides of your mouth. Swallowing, you revel at the feeling of your jaw loosening as he removes his cock from your mouth. Mattheo regains his breath, readjusting his pants, tucking himself back in.

He peers down at you, still on your knees. As you catch your breath, he reaches out, swiping his thumb to collect the excess of cum dripping down your chin. He nudges your lips open, insisting for you to lick it off. His eyes watch zealously, as you submit to his request, your lips clasping around his thumb, your tongue swiping, gathering the salty fluid. He withdraws his thumb with a satisfying pop.

Traces of lust are still clear in his eyes as he trails them over your chest. He studies how your chest rises, your hardened nipples pressing against your school shirt, the evidence of no bra worn. The sign of your immodesty takes him by surprise. How had he not noticed earlier in class? Your face flushed a crimson red, tear stains left down your face. He had never seen something so beautiful. God, your desperation to please him left his arousal at an all-time high. It was almost unprecedented, seeing you so wrecked by just sucking his dick before, unaware of your own climax.

As you stand, he notices your weak knees, his eyes narrowing in on your thighs, as a drip of cum runs down. "Did you fucking cum?" He asks, his voice sounding almost reprimanding, had it not been for the curve of his mouth lifting into a taunting smirk.

Shame washes over you at his confrontation, all traces of your confidence diminishing instantly. "Fuck, I didn't know you were this pathetic," a deep chuckle leaves his throat, his face wearing a sadistic grin. "Well, that's not true. I already knew that."

Your face pulls, frowning at his words. Your mind turns like a clock, ruminating on his words. You scan his face as you connect the dots, your expression changing into shock. "You're a legilimens?!" you splutter out. Your mind ponders endeavouring to recall any knowledge you learnt about legilimens. The art which involved delving into the layers of one's mind to extract their thoughts. Only known to be performed by an extremely powerful wizard or witch. You stare at him awaiting his answer, astonishment resting on your face.

He leans back against the wall, allowing some space between you two. He lights a cigarette. "Knew you'd figure it out, smart girl." It made sense to you; Mattheo was son to a powerful wizard, one known for infiltrating the minds of his victims. He eyes you intriguingly, waiting eagerly for your reaction.

At his acknowledgement, heat blazes your cheeks, the realisation sinking in. "You read my mind!" anger courses through you.

His eyes glimmer with amusement at your outburst, a cloud of smoke exhaling from his lips. He shrugs his shoulders, speaking nonchalantly. "Your thoughts were too obscene not to keep infiltrating." Not giving you time to interject, he adds more to the fire. "Plus, you should thank me."

You cough on your spit "thank you?!" "You're welcome." He grins at your response. You give him as threatening of a glare as you can muster. "You're insufferable, you literally still read my mind without permission." You mutter. Mattheo raises a brow, "Sweetheart, you were the one having erotic thoughts about me in class," he tuts. "I did you a favour." "Besides," he gives an arrogant laugh, "Thought you wanted to be obedient. Huh? Maybe it's time to punish you for being so ill-behaved. See how good of a girl you can be." He gives you a mischievous grin, knowing he got the last word in.

#mattheo riddle #mattheoriddle #mattheo riddle fic #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x fem reader smut #Mattheo riddle x fem reader #slytherin boys #harry potter fandom #harry potter

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pictureinme · 8 months

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kinktober day ii. HATE FUCK – jackson rippner

word count: ~700 tags: jealous/rough sex, fingering, degradation, semi-public masterlist | ao3

Slinking away from the group of guys you were halfheartedly flirting with, you head to the bathroom. Who cares that much about the stock market? Before you can even think about closing the door, Jackson’s hand snakes around your waist, pulling you harshly towards his chest.

“Did you really think you could pull that shit and get away with it?”

You bite back a subconscious moan, “Pull what? I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

“That’s what that was, huh?” his grip tightens, and you hear his breath quicken, “It wasn’t you just being a slut, begging to be fucked by strangers?”

Jackson lets go of you, only to slam the door and push you against it.

“This is my goddamn job, (Y/N),” the smell of his cologne permeates your senses, increasing your arousal. “You don’t get to have the same excuse. I own you.”

Your lust-filled eyes look up at him, and he begins to realize your true intentions.

“Oh, I see how it is. You wanted me to get all pissed, so you could get put in your place, yeah?”

His hand roughly pulls down your dress– revealing your chest to him and causing you to whimper.

“I hate seeing you with other women… I know it’s your job, but I fucking hate– ah!”

Jackson roughly fondles your breasts, enough to hurt, “Don’t try and explain yourself, you know what you got yourself into.”

Keeping one hand on your chest, he reaches the other to pull down your panties– quickly realizing you’re not wearing any. He rolls his eyes, tutting as he spreads your lips open.

You let him explore your body, taking what you both know is rightfully his.

“So wet, did those guys do this to you? Did they talk about passing you around?”

Shaking your head vehemently, you cry out, “No, no! You did this… it’s for you.”

“Hard to believe you when I saw the way you flirted with them,” his index finger enters your warmth, and you whine.

As quickly as he entered the first finger, he added two more, causing your whines to grow exponentially.

“You’re gonna take it, (Y/N), I know you need it,” his breath is hot against your ear. The constant stimulation was making you feel weak in the knees, but his hand kept you up.

“Please, please, Jackson!” You don’t even know what you’re pleading for, but he does.

He moves his hand from your breast to grab your jaw, “You’re gonna be good and quiet for me, unless you want those guys to hear?”

Jackson’s hand forces your head to nod, even if you tried your best to shake it the other way.

“You really are a whore, aren’t you?”

Trying to deny it, you open your mouth, but he shoves his fingers inside. Groaning around them, you obediently suck, despite his not asking. His fingers filling you up in two ways was making you tremble in delight, and you felt close.

He notices you clenching, and he chuckles, “Close already, (Y/N)? So desperate… I don’t think you deserve it.”

Jackson’s fingers muffle your cry of protest, but his fingering speeds up, making it that much harder for you. You begin to feel his hard-on through his slacks rubbing against you.

“Gonna make you come in this random fucking bathroom, like a real slut would, yeah?”

You moan, his fingers were unrelenting in both your mouth and your warmth. His dark eyes watched your expression, he wanted to see you fall apart, unable to resist your release.

“Dumb whore can’t even talk, can she?” You shudder violently, and he smiles.

“That’s right, come all over my fingers, you can’t even fight it…”

He groans as he feels you tighten around his fingers, spasming all the while. You subconsciously bite down on his other fingers, causing him to groan even louder. As you calm down, he pulls away, watching your heavily breathing body still against the door.

“Meet me at the car,” Jackson exits the bathroom, pushing you aside. You exhale shakily, smiling. You were really in for it.

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #jackson rippner x reader #jackson rippner smut #kinktober 2023

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revrover · 1 year

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The Stranger - Pt. 2

Part One: The Stranger

Part Three

Pairing: Namor x Reader

Word Count: 8k (lol whoops)

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Language, PLOT

Summary: Namor isn’t the only one who has been searching for his general. Thanks to you, Namora’s life was saved -- but when your connection to the two strangers brings you face to face with a hostile group of government agents, you find yourself in the crossfire of a much bigger conflict.

A/N: OMG first and foremost thank you for being here, thank your for coming back, and thank you for reading. This has taken me a bit longer to post because I’ve been pouring over it every day for a month, trying to get it just right. Comments, feedback and reblogs mean THE WORLD to me, so feel free to show some love and as always please be kind!

***I do not give permission to copy, plagiarize, or repost my work as your own in any form!

There is a growing unrest inside you.

Days have passed since your encounter with Namor after saving the life of his general, Namora. Two mysterious strangers who have left your mind reeling with questions, unrelenting and unquenchable as a flame that dares to spread like wildfire, consuming your thoughts entirely.

You repeatedly play the memory over in your head with no rational way to explain what you witnessed; her blue skin, his superhuman strength; the curious metal that outfitted both of their armor; how they disappeared into the vast open ocean.

"Something on your mind?" A fruit vendor asks, snapping you back to reality. You stand in the middle of the bustling village marketplace, doing your best to orient yourself quickly.

“Your head is — how you say…? — in the clouds, yes?” The vendor asks in her best English, smiling politely at you as she stands next to her cart, eager for you to buy something.

"Is it that obvious?" You joke with a tired laugh. "Two, please."

You scoop up a pair of fresh mangos and hand the woman some change from your pocket. She kindly accepts it with a nod of appreciation. Carefully sliding the fruit into your bag, you return a nod of your own.

You continue to walk through the market, the damp air carrying an aroma of local cuisine and sweat fills your lungs. Weaving your way in and out of aisles created by vendor carts, you feel a sense of calm as you watch the locals interacting with one another. There's beauty to be found in their sense of community.

Typically, you would gather your needed food and supplies and then be on your way back home, but today as your mind wanders, so do your feet.

Meandering down another aisle, your thoughts drift back to Namor, specifically the morning you found him on your front porch. You can practically feel the warmth of that sunrise as you imagine its light illuminating his dark eyes. You picture the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth when you asked him if he would come back, a moment you hold onto tightly. The memory gives you optimism that you will see him again someday and hopefully have the opportunity to ask him more questions.

Lost in thought, you hardly notice a small crate sticking out a few inches further than other accompanying carts in the aisle. Tripping your foot as you walk by, it nearly tumbles you to the ground. You manage to catch your balance and your breath before face-planting into the dirt. Immediately turning to apologize, you find an elderly man seated behind the crate, his back leaning against the wagon behind him and his eyes shut.

The man is slender and his head bald, save for a few wisps of hair above his ears. Most of his body is covered by a knitted green poncho, well-worn and fraying along the hem. To both your relief and surprise, he seems completely undisturbed by your clumsy collision with his crate of goods. Unsure if he’s even awake, you reach down to help reset any items on the crate you may have displaced.

Your jaw drops slightly as you see the contents on display. Spread out on a velvet brown tablecloth sits a small assortment of beautiful books, scrolls, and other documents. Admiring them, you reach out and push back one of the scrolls, revealing a gorgeous hand-sketched portrait of the island.

“Did you draw this?” You ask, impressed by the skill of it.

“Mmm,” He hums, shaking his head, "But I made very good trade with the man who did.”

You find his answer odd, though slightly amusing, considering he never opened his eyes to see which piece you were referring to. As you browse the rest of the items, a particular book stands out to you. It’s different from the rest of the collection — small and bound in leather, although the leather itself is worn and brittle-looking. You pick it up and inspect it closer. The binding is loose, the pages aged and tattered.

“Careful with that one. Very old.” The elderly man says, his eyes remaining shut. “Nearly 400 years. Got it in a trade with a visiting merchant from our southeastern sister islands."

How does he even do that? You wonder as you start delicately flipping through the pages of the book. You make it about midway through when you open to a particular page that makes you freeze, your heart nearly jumping out of your throat. Your eyes widen as you bring the page closer to your face.

It’s a crude drawing — basic, two-dimensional, and very old like the man said, but the likeness is undeniable. Depicted is the figure of a man. He dawns a grand snake-like headpiece and is grasping a spear. His body is adorned with jade and other metals. Sharp ears. Winged ankles.

"Excuse me!” you ask the elderly man with an exasperated breath, practically jumping over the crate as you lean forward and shout, “These!" You flip the book around to show him the open page, pointing excessively at the picture and the glyphs below it. "What do these say?!"

Your voice is eager and desperate, emotions you hardly try to hide.

The man's left eye slowly squints open.

“Only few are still legible.” He says, shrugging.

“Okay, yes, but the ones you can read, what do they say?!” You plead.

He sighs, opening his other eye and leaning forward slightly to get a better look. After a moment, he leans back against the wagon and closes his eyes again.

"King. Serpent. God. Monster."

You hang on to each word he tells you. Turning the book back around, you bring it back up to your face for another closer inspection.

"How much?" You ask, ready to make a deal.

The elderly man cracks one eye open to look at you for a moment as he considers his price, then wordlessly points to your arm with a feeble finger. You follow his gaze down to the small beaded bracelet around your wrist — the last reminder of your life before coming to the island. You hold your arm up to him, making sure you understand correctly. He nods politely, and without hesitation, you untie the bracelet and toss it to him.

"Nice doing business!" He says with a wide grin as he holds up the bracelet. You are already nose-deep in the book as you turn on your heels, quickening your pace as you head home where you can study more carefully.

Maneuvering your way out of the market to the outskirts of the village, you hardly need your eyes to guide your feet home. You take advantage of the remaining daylight to examine the pages as you walk, turning page after page and scanning for any information about Namor and his people. There’s little there, the book seeming to be a very old, mingled account of island history and lore. Seeing as you are not a historian and certainly not a linguist, it’s difficult to decipher. Still, you do your best to piece together what you can from the pictures.

King. Serpent. God. Monster.

The sky begins to dim. You can hear the faint roar of waves as you near the coastline. It’s too dark to see much detail on the pages now, so you carefully tuck the book into your bag as you step over the trunks of palm trees. The path beneath your feet gradually turns from brush to sand, and soon you find yourself walking along the familiar stretch of beach that leads you home. You stare out into the darkness, listening to the rhythmic pattern of ocean waves and breathing in the salty evening air. The moon hovers above the water, burning brightly as countless stars paint the sky behind it.

You continue walking in the darkness, but there’s an uneasiness building in your gut the further you go. You should be nearing home by now, but no lanterns have come into view. You always light lanterns before heading into town. They burn for hours in your absence so, by the time you return, you have light to guide you. All you see now are shadows and silhouettes that dance against the tree line, and every sound and indiscernible movement has you on edge.

It’s not until you are nearly a stone's throw away that the bungalow materializes in the night. Your stomach twists as the wind blows by you, rustling your hair and causing the snuffed-out lanterns hanging from your porch to creak as they swing back and forth. You hear shuffling, and small beams of light sporadically shine through the cracks of lumber that make up the walls of your home.

There is someone inside.

An alarm goes off in your head, screaming at you to get out. As quietly as possible, you begin backing away. Eyes fixed on the bungalow, you take one step back. Then another. Then another. Then — thud.

Your stomach flips and your throat tightens. While you pray you’ve miscalculated and miraculously made it to the tree line in three short steps instead of thirty, you feel the unmistakable presence of a body directly behind you.

“Going somewhere?” A deep voice growls menacingly. It belongs to a man, his tone gruff, although you can’t quite make out his accent. You do, however, feel the blood drain from your face as you slowly turn your head, finding what is quite possibly the largest human being you have ever seen. Dressed in black military-grade tactical gear and armed with enough ammo and firepower to take on a small army, you know there is no fucking way you are getting away from this guy.

The man grabs your arm and forcefully drags you toward the bungalow. Once up the stairs, he pushes you inside and releases his grasp. You rub your arm and look up to find another man standing in your kitchen, his back turned away from you as he stands hunched over your table. He’s dressed in similar tactical gear and has a walkie-talkie hooked to his belt. A lantern burns next to him as he seems to be pouring over some sort of map.

“Sir,” the man behind you bellows.

The man at the table straightens his posture and turns around to face you both. His hair is buzzed and his face is stubbly, with a thick prominent mustache that stretches across his upper lip. He seems a bit older, and by the ‘sir’ formality, you are fairly confident he is in charge.

“Ah, we were wondering when you would be back.” He says in a sly tone, his accent American.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” You respond in anger to the unwelcome visitor.

The man takes a sweeping look around the place, then his eyes come back to you.

“I think we can agree that “house” is a bit of a loose term.” He responds with sarcasm, a knowing look on his face. You continue to stare him down, unresponsive to his quip. The man loosens his shoulders and smiles at you. “Where are my manners? Agent Barrett.” He reaches his hand out, offering to shake yours.

You don’t move a muscle.

There is an awkward moment of silence, then Agent Barrett’s hand retreats. He turns, beginning to pace around your tiny kitchen. The room is in rougher shape than usual, clearly ransacked by whatever search was conducted before your arrival. The agent picks up a small roll of gauze from off the counter and holds it up.

“Tell me,” he says, inspecting the bandage material closely, “have you had any visitors recently?” His gaze quickly flicks over to you, an eyebrow raised.

Your pulse quickens as your blood turns to ice. Your mind immediately flashes to Namora floating wounded in the water; to Namor breaking down your door; to the two of them disappearing into the night. You put on your best poker face and shake your head.

“There’s no one around here for miles,” you explain, trying to be as convincing as possible. “You should try more inland towards the village. Most tourists, if any, stick closer to town or retreat to the far side of the island where—“

“Oh, she’s no tourist.” Agent Barrett chuckles, cutting you off. It feels insulting as if your suggestion were so preposterous it was borderline humorous.

She. He is looking for Namora.

Setting the gauze down next to the sink, Agent Barrett turns and walks over to you.

“You’re certain you haven’t seen anybody unusual around here in the past few days?”

He’s standing much closer now. Something about him makes your skin crawl. You eye the gun strapped to his hip and doubt it is for self-defense. Again, you shake your head.

Barrett sighs and gives you a disappointed smile.

“Okay.” He says softly while nodding his head. He backs away from you as the room lingers in silence. You allow yourself to take a breath, but the relief is short-lived. “Looks like we’re doing this the hard way.”

On Barrett’s cue, the large man behind you grabs your shoulder and kicks the back of your legs, dropping you hard to your knees. With his free hand, he yanks the bag off your other shoulder and tosses it to another man who emerges from the doorway to your bedroom. He catches the bag and immediately starts rummaging through it.

“Hey—HEY!” You shout, “What the hell are you—“

“A woman!” Barrett yells. “Pale blue skin. Very skilled swimmer. Four days ago, she single-handedly took down three UN-sanctioned vessels in the middle of the goddamn Atlantic! Three! Now where I’m from,” he crouches down to your level, aggressively getting in your face as he drops his voice lower, “that’s what we call an act of terrorism.”

Adrenaline overtakes your body as you feel your heart beat so intensely it threatens to break right out of your chest. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Barrett’s henchman searches your bag. He pulls out the mangos and tosses them on the floor. Then, he grabs the old leather-bound book. Turning it over in his hand, he looks at it for a moment and tucks it into his belt.

“She was wounded,” Barrett continues, calling your attention back to him, “and our intelligence indicates she washed up somewhere along this shoreline. That's where her trail goes cold. And as you said, there's no one around here for miles. No one, except you."

His implication is obvious.

“This woman, where is she?” He makes a last-ditch effort to convey a friendly tone, but you can hear his patience dwindling. "And please don't make me ask again."

You stare at him coldly, lips sealed together. You’re not telling this man a damn thing.

"Mmmm," is all he grunts, his eyes dropping to the ground. He heaves a heavy sigh as he pushes against his knees to stand up. Once on his feet, Agent Barrett stares at you for another moment before nodding his head to the agent behind you. The next thing you know, you are suddenly being pulled up by your hair, the man’s grip tight against the back of your neck as he turns and pushes you out the door.

Your hands clamor to his as you struggle against him to relieve the painful tension pulling on your scalp, attempting to release his grip on you. But the man is too strong and drags you down the stairs of your porch with ease. You make it a few meters down the shore when he shoves you down to your knees. Your legs make divots in the sand as your hands catch the rest of your body’s momentum. Hunched over, your knees and palms sting from the sand's friction.

You immediately tense up as you feel a gun press against your head, the cool metal barrel hungry to fire. Hearing footsteps approaching behind, you quickly swallow your fear to maintain composure. Agent Barrett walks past, turning to position himself directly in front of you again — only this time, he doesn’t crouch down to your level.

“Look at me.” He demands as he towers over you. His body language makes it clear who is in control. In the only act of defiance you have left in your arsenal, you keep your gaze laser-focused on the water straight ahead of you, refusing to give in to his instruction. Growing impatient, Barrett roughly grabs your chin. He clasps it tightly as he yanks your jaw upward, forcing you to make eye contact with him.

“You’re going to tell me about your friend, and you’re going to tell me where she is, right now," he growls.

You stare at him, disdain in your eyes. You momentarily scan your surroundings and count nearly twenty other men on the beach now. It’s enough to make your gaze and your heart sink straight to the ground.

Even if you wanted to tell him, you don't have the answers Barrett is looking for. His face hardens as your lack of cooperation and unwillingness to talk becomes clearer and clearer. Loosening his grip and dropping your chin, Agent Barrett looks at the agent next to you.

“Do it,” he orders, leaving you without another word as he walks back up the beach toward the bungalow.

The gun presses even harder against your temple and you hear the irrefutable sound of it being cocked as a bullet rolls into the chamber. Your heart is heavy as your eyes begin to well with tears. You stare out at the ocean, the night swallowing the horizon save it for the piercing glow of the moon that cuts its way through the sky down to Earth. It’s a better view than most get in their final moments, you suppose. For that, you consider yourself lucky.

Time seems suspended as you feel the ocean breeze blow past you, pouring over your skin and filling your lungs as you deeply inhale these final moments. You savor the way the salty air envelops you like the comforting embrace of an old friend. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try fighting back the tears. Despite your best efforts, one single drop escapes, racing down your cheek as you accept your fate.

Zzzzziiinnng!

Where you expect to hear the split-second ring of a gun firing before getting your brain blasted out the side of your skull, you instead hear a high-pitched whistling through the air and the unmistakable slice of a blade penetrating flesh. The weight of the gun barrel against your head slides limply away, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground next to you.

Your eyes shoot open. You turn to see your executioner now lying dead on his back with a spear pelted through his chest. Your eyes widen in fear, then settle on the spear itself. A spear you recognize — because it’s the same one that was held to your throat only a few days earlier.

Namor.

He's here. Desperately your eyes search the ocean line, scouring the darkness for him.

"We're under attack!" Someone yells frantically from behind you. It is one of Barrett’s men.

"Open Fire! Open fire!" Another one shouts.

You immediately abandon your search for Namor, hitting the deck and covering your head as dueling bullets and spears fly over you. Hearing anguished cries from both sides, you peek out from over your arm and watch in horror as an agent a few meters away looks down at their dart-ridden chest. They drop to their knees, then fall forward onto their face.

Your head whirls around at the sound of another spear making contact with a body and dropping it to the ground. This agent is about ten meters away from you, and while your first instinct is to get the hell out of there — run as far as you can as fast as you can — you notice your little leather-bound book tucked into the belt of the lifeless body.

You tell yourself to leave it. You plead with yourself to leave it.

“Damn it,” you mutter in frustration to yourself. You are getting that book.

Before you can give it another thought, you are already army-crawling through the sand. The sound of gunfire rings in your ears as more weapons return their fire. You scramble to the body, staying low to the ground on your chest and abdomen. Once there, you reach out and grab the book, wrangling it free from the deceased man's belt. You shove it into your waistband when something behind you explodes, causing you to duck your head and shield yourself with your arms.

The battle is deafening and disorienting. The mix of adrenaline and shock threatens to override your entire system as you try to maintain your focus.

Keep moving, you tell yourself.

You lift your head, ready to run, but your breath catches and you freeze. Mere inches from your face, you find yourself staring at someone’s feet and feel the presence of their body hovering over you. You brush the stinging sand out of your eyes, pleading in your mind that this is not the end. Not now. As your vision sharpens, you feel a surge of hope. There in front of you are two winged ankles.

Your eyes shoot up. Standing above you, illuminated by the light of the moon and the rapid sparks of machine guns firing, is Namor.

He looks down at you, his stare intense as his nostrils flare and his chest rises and falls with each breath. Gripping the hilt of the spear, he effortlessly removes it from the body next to you with one pull, his eyes never leaving yours. The ongoing battle on the beach doesn’t deter his attention from you in the slightest. From behind him, a handful of armed warriors with pale blue skin come storming out of the ocean.

“Namora!” He calls, and one warrior immediately splits off from the group. While the others continue to push the team of agents to the far side of the beach, the general comes to Namor’s side and your eyes widen as you take her in. Almost unrecognizable from when you first met her, Namora is a sight to behold. Instead of weak and wounded, she now stands strong and commanding, fully outfitted in her armor of woven jade and metal. Dazzling lionfish spines adorn her head and neck, and she wears the same mesh apparatus over her nose and mouth as before. You are astounded when you squint and barely see a seam remaining where you had stitched her up.

“K'uk'ulkan.” She answers, standing at attention.

Namor’s eyes are still fixed on you. He hands the retrieved spear to Namora and then nods in your direction.

You become nervous, suddenly uncertain if the pair of them have come to you as friend or foe, watching as Namora tightens her grip around the weapon.

“Go.” Namor urges, and a wave of relief washes over you. Friend.

“Where are my goddamn reinforcements?!!” You hear someone shout into a walkie-talkie. You recognize the voice as Agent Barrett's.

“Go NOW,” Namor commands, his eyes flicking up in Barrett’s direction. The expression on his face becomes menacing as he strides past you, his muscles rigid and his pace purposeful. He pulls his own spear out of the larger agent who nearly executed you as he walks past the body, arming himself.

Without hesitation, Namora strides forward and links her arm under your shoulder, pulling you up to your feet and yanking you quickly toward the trees. Before you can reach them, however, more men dressed in black combat gear come pouring out of the thick foliage, ready to attack.

Three surround you as the others rush to provide relief further down the beach. Instead of guns, these agents come armed with batons and other blunt weapons. Namora whips you back behind her, placing herself between you and the approaching enemy. She walks toward the agents, rotating her spear in her hand. You’re surprised by how relaxed her posture is as she waits for the men, each one at least twice her size, to make the first move.

The agent to her right makes the first advance, lunging forward at Namora. She meets him with speed and ferocity, quickly sidestepping him only to grab hold of his shoulders. She uses them as an anchor to whirl herself around him, gracefully landing and her feet and then lodging her spear into his back. The man cries out in pain, but Namora quickly delivers the final blow as she twists the spear in deeper and shoves it upward toward his lungs.

No sooner does his body hit the ground when the two other men charge at her. Like a beautifully choreographed dance, Namora drops to her knees, sliding across the sand between them to duck under their attacks. As she does so, she nimbly summersaults back onto her feet and turns one hundred and eighty degrees. Back on the attack, she runs hard at them. You watch as Namora delivers a combination of charged punches to one agent, then springs back to avoid the swing of the baton from the other. To counter the move, she kicks the man above the kneecap with so much power it sends his whole leg backward and brings him to his knees. She grabs the sides of his head with both of her hands, thrusting it down hard against her knee. You feel the grisly sound of blunt broken bone deep in your core as his skull makes contact.

As the man’s head reels backward, blood pouring from his face, Namora seamlessly transitions between her two opponents, avoiding another attack from the third agent she had previously deflected with punches. Her attention back on him, she trades blows as they fight in more hand-to-hand combat. Between kicks, punches, and counter-punches, Namora strategically inches herself backward until she’s practically standing on top of the first body she dropped. Baiting her current opponent forward, she taunts him with the tilt of her head, exaggerated by her headpiece. It works like a charm. He charges at her, and swooping under him, she wraps around his chest and pulls him over the top of her, flipping him onto his back. In one calculated motion, she pulls her spear from the body of the first agent which is now easily within reaching distance, and drives it into the second.

It all plays out in front of you so quickly when the third agent with the broken nose — well, broken face, really — groans as he gets himself up, ready to have another go at Namora. She engages, but as she moves towards him you see a fourth man emerge from the trees, raising a gun to shoot.

“LOOK OUT!” You yell to warn her, but pure instinct has your feet sprinting forward to stop him.

You don’t process any thought or consider any tactic, you just hurl yourself at him. The two of you collide, crashing to the ground with all the power and momentum you can muster. You scramble for his gun and manage to knock it away, but he barrels you over him and slams your back against the ground. The impact forces the air out of your lungs, temporarily paralyzing you as you struggle for breath. The agent straddles your body, putting more pressure on your chest as he pulls a knife from his hip. With all your strength, you fight to hold his arm back. He breaks through your grasp and takes a swipe at you, but reflexively you deflect it away with your hand. The knife slices open your palm and you cry out as you try to continue pushing his arms back.

When he raises his blade again, a blur of orange lionfish spines come streaking across as Namora flies over the back of the agent and yanks him off of you. They tumble across the sand, but she quickly gains the upper hand by entangling him in a headlock. Clutching your injured hand and still struggling for oxygen, you look on as she tightens her grip around the man’s neck and then abruptly cracks it to the side.

The sound makes you sick to your stomach, but you also feel a sense of relief. And gratitude. Your chest heaves as you finally start to catch your breath, your entire body buzzing. You turn to see the dead agents Namora has so quickly disposed of, their bodies dispersed across the sand. She unwraps herself from her most recent kill and makes her way to you with haste.

As she reaches you, you hear the chaos and fighting continue further down the beach. Then, the faint sound of a helicopter approaching. Barrett’s reinforcements.

“There are too many of them,” you say in distress as you witness more agents pour out onto the sand to fight Namor’s warriors. Even if each one had Namora’s four-to-one kill ratio, they are still outnumbered. As the chopper blades get louder, Namora looks at you intensely, reaching out her hand.

“Come,” she insists.

She’s gotten you this far. You grasp her hand without hesitation and she pulls you to your feet. You edge closer to the tree line where you hope safety and concealment await you, but as you reach the lush landscape something pricks your ears. It’s not gunfire. It’s not the chopper.

Namora tugs your arm as she tries to usher you into the trees, but your focus is elsewhere. A faint, melodic breeze moves past you like a ghost, causing your mind to become hazy. As the sound grows louder, an indescribable melody rings in your ears that is both euphoric and dreadful. You don’t even notice the tension of Namora’s grip on your hand increase as your feet redirect you toward the water, compelled by its call.

“No!” Namora yells at you as she yanks your arm. The force of it snaps your attention back for a moment, and you watch as the agents who line the beach suddenly cease fighting and instead walk undeterred paths straight into the water. Terror fills you as they wade further and further out, the water coming up to their knees, then their hips, then their chests, until they are completely submerged underneath.

You shoot a glance to Namora, petrified and confused. Whatever is happening, she seems unaffected. Your thoughts and vision begin to cloud again, and you feel like someone else is controlling your body as the ocean summons you along with the others. Every part of you feels entranced by the chorus of voices in the air as their notes overwhelm your senses and leave you disoriented. Namora grabs you, practically throwing you over her shoulder as she runs into the trees. You become hard to carry, so she pulls you both into the cove of a sheltered root system at the edge of the foliage. Huddling next to you, Namora tightly wraps her arms around your head to cover your ears with her hands.

Pupils dilated, you desperately try to hold onto any shred of active consciousness before giving in entirely to the song. Your mind becomes infiltrated by it and begins to process what you see in pieces; men in the water, drowning themselves; gunfire raining down from the night sky; Namor, spear in hand, leaping into the air, taking impossible strides toward a chopper; the chopper spinning out of control.

You feel the heat against your face as the chopper crashes to the ground, exploding on impact. The last thing you remember seeing is Namor in the distance, standing on the sand. Illuminated by the raging inferno that burns behind him from the destroyed chopper, he is fierce, incredible, and terrifying.

A god. A monster.

The haunting chorus melody continues to consume your mind. Even with Namora’s help, you feel your body shift as it involuntarily attempts to get up. Namora squeezes her palms over your ears with even more strength and restrains your movements.

"No." She whispers fiercely.

You squeeze your eyes shut, covering your hands over Namora's as tightly as possible. Blood pours from your hand down hers, trickling onto your shoulder. The noise is too much, and as you feel yourself begin to scream, everything goes black.

——

Your feet drag through the cool sand.

That’s the first thing you see when you finally become conscious again. Your head hangs low in front of you, pounding as it bobs up and down. It’s still dark out, but you find your home lit up by more lanterns as you approach the pathway to your porch.

You glance to your right and left, discovering you are being assisted by two people on either side of you — Namora on your right and a much taller blue-skinned man on your left. His shoulders are wide and his head is outfitted with an armored hammerhead skull. Arms slung around both of their necks, your body is in a state of pure exhaustion as they get you up the stairs to the door.

As you start to step with your own feet, they are alerted by your recovered consciousness. Quickly, the man unhooks your arm from around him, steadying you against Namora. He retreats as you find yourself gaining feeling back in your body. Namora patiently waits for you to get your bearings, and when you do she opens the front door for you, ushering you to go inside. You follow her instruction, and there waiting for you in the bungalow is Namor.

Namor stands against your kitchen counter, the same place you stood when he first came crashing into your home. His arms are folded across his broad chest. Although his head is down, his eyes are flicked upward toward you, watching your every move. The flame of a lantern on the table glints off his irises, illuminating the dark stare that hovers just below his furrowed brow.

“Please, sit.” He says with a stern voice, his open palm gesturing toward a chair at the table.

As you sit down, you hear the front door close behind you.

Silence.

"Those men," he finally says, pushing himself away from the counter as he stands up straighter, “they were seeking information?"

You only nod, afraid to say too much.

“It’s safe to speak here. I’ve made sure of it.” He promises, sensing your reluctance to engage in conversation.

“They wanted to know about Namora." You answer cautiously.

Namor's expression grows even more serious. He subtly shifts his weight from side to side before settling back into the center of his powerful stance.

"And even with your life on the line, you said nothing."

You are unsure if he is making a statement or a question.

"Why?" He asks through a clenched jaw.

"Why?" You repeat back to him, caught off guard by the question. "Does it matter why?"

"Yes,” Namor says directly, raising his eyebrows. “Because I need to know if I put my spear through the right person.”

The seriousness of his statement hits you like a brick. Your mind flashes back to the beach, you on your knees with a gun to your head as Namor’s spear plows its way through the man next to you. How easily, you wonder, could he have changed his aim by just a few degrees if you had decided to open your mouth and spill what little information you did know to those men?

As you think about it, you also begin to ask yourself why. Why did you keep your mouth shut? Why did you help Namor and his people?

You take a deep breath as you consider your reasons, then lift your gaze to him.

“You barged into my home, broke down my door, and threatened my life. But even then, the motives behind your actions were clear — the love and concern for your people. These men,” your eyes trail away as you feel a wave of anger build up inside, "these men were driven by self-interest and self-preservation. It wasn’t hard to choose a side.”

His face is stoic as he listens to your answer.

“Plus,” you add, “I promised you I wouldn’t say anything. Twice.”

Namor looks at you the same way he did the night you met him. The look that tells you he is debating whether or not you are telling the truth. You are a witness testifying on the stand, and Namor is your judge and jury.

“Well, that is twice now you have saved my people. Again you have my gratitude." He says with a sigh, his expression softening.

You give a small smile, but it disappears when an unrelenting ache pounds inside your head, pulling you out of the moment. You reach up to rub your temple and suddenly feel a surge of pain coming from your hand, instantly reminding you of the injury you sustained from your face off against one of the agents on the beach.

“Shit,” You exclaim, pulling your cut, bloodied palm away from your face and looking at it.

"Here," Namor says, grabbing the roll of gauze off your kitchen counter as he moves in your direction. Pulling up a chair, he sits down directly in front of you so your knees are practically touching. He gestures for your hand. “May I?"

You consider his offer as you stare at the thick veins protruding from his forearm, binding themselves to his defined muscles like vines around a tree. Eyes darting back up to his, you cautiously nod your head to accept his help while simultaneously extending your arm to him.

Namor takes your injured hand gently in his own, cradling it as if it could shatter into a million pieces. Amazed by how his hand dwarfs yours, you feel a surge of energy in your chest when his thumb begins to rub along your wrist. He takes the roll of gauze and begins carefully wrapping it around your palm.

Calmly maneuvering each layer of the bandage, Namor's brow furrows ever so slightly as he slips deeper into a state of concentration. His grasp is firm but gentle, rotating your hand in tandem with the bandage and you take comfort in his touch.

Studying his face, you admire each feature and detail closely. You see the traces of salt against the rich tones of his skin, and soon your willpower gives way to a desire slowly being coaxed inside you as you allow your eyes to trail from his face to his broad shoulders, down his muscular biceps, and finally to his strong hands as they work to take care of you.

Namor begins humming softly as he continues wrapping your hand. There's a warm timbre in his voice that resonates in your ears, drawing your gaze back up to his face.

"That song..." your voice trails off as you grow more entranced by it, unable to find the words to describe its intoxicating melody. But a surge of fear runs through you as you recall another tune, the one from the beach, its haunting cadence prickling the back of your mind.

"My people have many songs," Namor says in a tone equally rich to his humming, calming you instantly. "Each one with a meaning and purpose."

"What is the purpose of that one?" You ask quietly.

Namor’s hands stop as his eyes wander up to yours.

"It's a lullaby, meant to bring the soul peace." His eyes flutter back down as he resumes wrapping the bandage around your hand. "My mother would sing it to me when I was a child."

"It's beautiful." You say reverently.

A smile spreads across Namor's face, but there's a hint of sadness in it. He leans down to your hand and you can feel your heart beat faster as his mouth hovers mere inches above your skin. The warmth of his breath rushes against your wrist, sending shivers through you. With great care, he tears the gauze with his teeth before tucking the loose end into a fold of the bandage.

"It is," he agrees, staring down at your hand which he now holds carefully between his own. "Especially in a world where peace is scarcely found."

His voice is gentle, but there is a bitterness brewing beneath the statement.

"I have spent my life ensuring peace for my people. Protecting it. Preserving it."

Namor looks back up at you, letting go of your hand as he sits up straighter in his chair. The room is quiet as his words sink in and you drop your gaze to think. As you do so, your good free hand migrates to the leather book still tucked in your waistband, your fingers fiddling with the binding.

“What is it?” Namor asks, snapping your eyes back up to his. You swallow nervously, unsure if you should share what is on your mind. Then again, you may not get another opportunity.

Slowly, you pull the book out from against your side, opening it to its marked page before pushing it across the table to him.

“You say you’ve spent your entire life protecting your people.” You preface, hesitating a moment before asking your question. “Is that... you?"

Namor stares at the book in front of him, tracing the outline of his likeness delicately on the open page with his fingertips.

"A version of me." He answers.

"How...." you rub your temple as you do the unnecessary math in your head, already knowing the hundreds of years difference between the book and the man in front of you doesn't add up. "How is that even possible? That book is centuries old, I mean," you are at a loss trying to wrap your head around it all, coming up short with any logical explanation, “who are you?"

Namor looks up at you, then his gaze descends back onto the open book. He gives a sad smirk.

“You are one of very few to ever ask who I am instead of what I am." He strokes his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. "The answer to neither of which will be found in your book." He says, shutting it and sliding it back toward you. You reach for it, only he doesn’t take his hand off the leather cover right away.

"You must always be weary of your authors.” He warns. “The preservation of one's opinion over time does not make it fact, no matter how long ago it was written."

He relinquishes his hold, you finish sliding the book back to your side of the table. Namor searches your face as his eyebrows pull closer together, a rare look of vulnerability in his eyes.

"I wear the mantle of king and am the protector of my people.” He begins. “They are my responsibility by birthright, a charge I’ve dedicated my entire life to upholding.”

Namor proceeds to tell you the story of his people — how they were driven from their home by Spanish conquistadors, and how their gods provided a remedy for a foreign disease that led them to seek sanctuary in the ocean itself. He explains that his mother was among them, pregnant with Namor at the time, and how the remedy herb altered his very being in the womb. Mutant is the word he uses, the reason for his strength and abilities, as well as his slow aging. He then describes the horrors he had seen upon returning his mother’s body to the surface world after her death, and the vow he took to keep outsiders away from his people and his beloved city he calls Talokan.

"So you see," he says leaning forward as he places his forearms on his knees, his face even closer to yours now, "I am no god. Nor am I a man. What I am is a leader who loves his people. If that makes me a monster, so be it. I will see the world burn before I subject my people to its sins and savagery.”

It’s a lot to take in. You study Namor’s expression as his stare now lingers away from you, his mind somewhere in the past. You can’t even begin to comprehend all that he has seen or experienced, but you do feel a clearer understanding of why he is the way he is. Filled with compassion for him, you cautiously reach up and cradle his face with your non-bandaged hand.

"You're not a monster." You reassure him gently.

This brings Namor’s attention back to you immediately, his dark eyes searching your face earnestly as he takes a deep breath through his nose. The bristles of his scruff are rough against your palm, creating a warm friction when he leans into your touch. Namor closes his eyes and lets out a sigh so deep it's as if he's releasing a weight from his shoulders, one that he has been carrying for far too long. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing it deeper against his cheek.

“K’uk’ulkan,” a voice calls from behind you. You drop your hand back down to your lap as Namor glances over your shoulder. The man with the metal hammerhead skull stands at attention in the front doorway, his body so large it consumes the space entirely. Namor nods at him, then looks back at you.

"It's time," he says, pushing himself up to his feet. “More men will be coming. Namora is outside — collect what you need quickly, she will take you to a safe place.”

The realization sets in, and your heart sinks. Your home is no longer safe and you can’t stay here.

Namor offers you his hand, helping you out of your chair and onto your feet. In doing so, he pulls you into him and tucks his hand delicately under your chin. He’s impossibly close as he tilts your face upward toward his own.

"I am sorry." He whispers, a soft and apologetic tone in his voice. He gives you a remorseful look, but all you can think about is how little space currently exists between his lips and yours. Namor’s gaze flutters down from your eyes to your mouth, but the moment is fleeting as he drops his hand from your chin and takes a step back.

“Go.” He says, encouraging you to get your things. It’s his last word before walking past you and exiting out the front door.

Left alone in the empty bungalow, you make your way over to your bag still on the floor from earlier that evening. You take it and march into your room, grabbing some clothes, your toothbrush, and other small essentials. You don't have much in terms of possessions in the first place, so it doesn’t take long for you to collect what you need.

As you exit your bedroom, you get ready to leave when you look over at the small book on your table. Namor insisted it held no answers for you, but you go to retrieve it anyway, stuffing it in your bag along with the rest of your belongings.

You take one last look around your home, once an unfamiliar broken place that over time became your haven and sanctuary. It breaks your heart to leave, but you know you must.

“Thank you,” you quietly whisper to the room, hoping in some way its energy or spirit or anything can hear you. You make your final exit, walking out to the front porch just as the dawn is starting to break over the horizon. Warm hues cast shadows of orange and red across the island, and you breathe in the early morning air. As you look out across the beach, you are surprised by what little evidence remains of the night’s events. No bodies. No fires. Just large divots in the sand and some smoke along the tree line from a few singed palms.

Namora is standing at the edge of the pathway leading to your porch, waiting for you. Descending the stairs, nerves prompt you to tighten your grip on the shoulder strap of your bag as you brace yourself for the unknown.

“I’m ready,” you say when you reach her.

Namora looks at you seriously, then nods her head. Reaching up to her face, she carefully removes the apparatus from over her nose and mouth. It is the first time you have seen her whole face, unobstructed by the peculiar covering. She’s just as striking without it, and you notice a beautiful jade ring pierced through her septum, echoing Namor’s. She turns the mask in her hand and guides it onto your face, sealing it against your skin.

“Come,” she tells you, turning toward the ocean.

You take one last look back at your home, then fall into stride behind Namora as the two of you walk into the water.

-- -- --

Tag List (I think this is how you do it? Sorry if not, still figuring this whole Tumblr-thing out): @looneylikesbooks @omgsuperstarg @chixkencxrry @vainillasmil157 @demoiseller @sodonuthideout @shoutaaizawas @stany0url0calwh0res111 @hjjks @duckwithsunglasses

#namor #namor x reader #namor x you #namor x gen!reader #Namor x y/n #mcu namor #namor fluff #namor fanfiction #namor fanfic #namor imagine #k'uk'ulkan #black panther wakanda forever #namora #namor of talokan #Wakanda forever #fanfiction

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lendeah · 3 months

Text

The currents of destiny

Chapter 3: Guilt and remorse.

Summary: In his third vision, Astarion observes himself trapped in a relentless cycle of thirst, remorse, and yearning within the shadows, witnessing others moving forward while he goes back to familiar patterns of the past. Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader/Tav Word Count: 3.6k Tags: Heavy Angst, Psychological Trauma, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Psychological Torture (kind of), Emotional Manipulation, Verbal Abuse, but just chapter 2, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending.

a/n: tysm to @tinystarfishgalaxy for helping me with this chapter <3

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Astarion wept, as his body shook uncontrollably. His thoughts and emotions were swirling, Tav's agonized screams still echoed in his mind, haunting him. And those staring, lifeless eyes... they would forever haunt his darkest dreams. He shuddered at the thought of what he could have become: a soulless monster who would have used and abused Tav without remorse. The weight of guilt and regret bore down on him like a heavy cloak, suffocating and unrelenting. He wanted to kill that version of himself, he wanted to erase him from existence.

He briefly believed they were returning to the vast emptiness of space. But before he could process that thought, he was being violently pulled once more. Then, everything went black.

Astarion's heart clenched with fear as he quickly realized that he was inhabiting another body, once again a different version of himself. His mind was still spinning from the previous vision, but he forced himself to calm down and focus on his current reality. None of this is real, he told himself, you can still change everything.

The first thing he noticed was the emptiness in his head, the silence. The lack of parasite buzzing over his senses. That explained why his limbs felt heavier and slower, without the surge of power he had grown used to. He was back to being a vampire spawn.

We won, then. We beat the Nether Brain.

He would have laughed, had he not noticed the feelings coursing his body: regret and a deep-seated remorse. It was a stark difference from the empty void of emotions that had possesed him while inside his Ascended body. This version... this future Astarion, was filled with nothing but guilt. And hunger, so deep it shook his frame to its core.

He looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was crouched against a damp stone wall, his body weakened and exhausted. The putrid stench of the city sewers filled his nostrils, adding to his misery.

His clothes, ragged and wet, were clinging uncomfortably to his body. Hells, he looked like a wild animal.

Disgusting.

Astarion's senses heightened as his body caught a whiff of fresh blood, human blood. His stomach growled and he could feel the thirst coursing through his veins, demanding to be sated. How long had it been since he last fed? Judging his estate, he estimated it had probably been weeks, if not a whole month.

He hadn't felt this feral in years. Since...

Since Cazador buried him alive for a year. Have I been starving myself?

His body forced itself to stand up, legs shaky and weak from lack of nourishment. He stumbled through the dark corridors of the sewers, following the scent of fresh blood like a predator on the hunt. The sound of voices echoed off the walls, growing louder as he neared his destination. He froze at the end of the tunnel, straining to make out their words.

"There's another body. How many innocent civilians have to disappear before someone takes action?" A woman's voice said.

"I know. We're doing our best to find those damned bloodsuckers. But the Dukes seem to have other priorities at the moment." Another male voice responded wearily.

Astarion's heart sank as he realized what they were talking about. Shit, the spawn. They are in the sewers too.

From behind the corner, he could see two Fists standing outside. Their weapons of choice were stakes and swords, a comical sight if he wasn't in so much pain.

He crouched down, trying to gather his strength and formulate a plan. But before he could process everything that was happening, his body was wracked with searing agony. His vision blurred as he fell to the ground, clutching at his stomach.

Then, everything was a blur.

His body launched itself at the unsuspecting guards. The sudden attack threw them off guard, their shocked cries echoing through the darkness.

What are you doing? Stop, you bastard!

Astarion willed his new body to halt, but it paid him no mind. With ruthless precision, he sank his fangs into one of the guards' necks, and tore the soft skin in seconds, hot blood pouring all over him. The other guard scrambled for his weapon but Astarion was too fast, too desperate. He struck again. However, the guard managed to slide the sword out in the process and lunged forward. Astarion barely managed to dodge it, the blade grazing his arm instead of piercing through his heart. The pain shot through him like lightning but did little to deter him.

He buried his fangs in the man's neck, relishing in the warm rush of blood as it filled his mouth and quenched his hunger. The guard struggled against him, but Astarion was far too strong in his primal state.

It wasn't until both guards lay lifeless at his feet that Astarion snapped out of his bloodlust-induced haze.

The silence was deafening. He released the limp body from his grasp, letting it slump onto the cold stone floor. The hunger had subsided for now, and he was left with a chilling emptiness; a void that echoed with his victims’ last moments.

He felt…dirty. Disgusted with himself and the monstrous actions he was forced to commit while under the control of this abhorrent future self once again.

The future version of Astarion sat in a corner of the room, his back against the unforgiving stone wall. He crouched over the blood-soaked floor, holding his knees tightly to his chest.

A bitter laugh escaped his body. "Look at what you've become," he muttered, "A monster...a butcher." His voice was barely a whisper, drowned out by the steady drip, drip, drip of the sewer pipes.

Oh, hush, Astarion supplied inside his brain, you are just trying to survive.

Survival was indeed his main priority now. With no friends or allies, Astarion had to do whatever it took to stay alive. And if that meant giving into his vampiric instincts and becoming a ruthless killer, then so be it.

But even as he tried to justify his actions to himself, guilt gnawed at him from within. One thought kept resurfacing in his mind - Tav. The one who had shown him kindness when all others saw him as nothing more than a tool to be used.

How could he face her after what he had done? Would she still see him as someone worthy of forgiveness or would she turn away in disgust?

How did you even get to this point? he asked himself.

Astarion's future self felt a strong urge to chase after her and make amends, begging for her forgiveness and asking her to take him back. But his pride wouldn't allow such a display of vulnerability. Instead, this version of himself reveled in the anger he felt towards her for not helping him complete the ritual. After all, it was her fault this had happened. If only he had ascended, he wouldn't have resorted to killing innocent people now.

No, he told himself, you would be killing her, you idiot.

But as always, he didn't listen. Didn't know.

As his eyesight blurred and shifted, Astarion found himself in another scene. It was late at night, and he was slowly making his way to the Elfsong tavern. Astarion felt a sense of unease, concerned that future him might harm his companions. But then it became clear: he was there to beg for forgiveness at last.

He watched for a moment as his body hesitated at the entrance of the inn. From within, he could hear the sound of laughter and music spilling out into the night. Through the dimly lit window, he saw his companions seated around their usual table, their faces glowing with warmth and camaraderie. There was Wyll, spinning tales of his latest exploits while Shadowheart listened with feigned indifference. His heart ached as he saw Tav, alive and well, her eyes sparkling as she shared a story with Lae'zel and Gale, her laughter more enchanting than any song sung in this tavern.

His heart swelled at the sight of her, revealing on seeing her unharmed, happy. If he had been in his own body, he would have cried of relief. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to hold her in his arms again, to feel the warmth of her embrace. What he would give to feel it right now.

But instead, he felt future Astarion's heart sink. A sense of longing for the life he could have had if he had chosen a different path. He could have been sitting with them, laughing and sharing stories instead of being haunted by guilt and regret, like a wild animal, resorting to living in the sewers to escape the sunlight.

The weight of his shame was too much to bear, and he couldn't bring himself to ask for their forgiveness. He convinced himself that they were better off without him anyway. As tears threatened to spill from his eyes, he glanced one last time at the scene before turning away from the window. He didn't want them to witness his broken state - humiliated, reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.

And a part of him, real him, thought it was true. They seemed so happy without him, like he had never been there to begin with.

Do they even miss me?

His consciousness was pulled away once again. When he came to his senses, he found his body standing pressed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned alley. He took in his surroundings, trying to make sense of this new place. Through his future self's eyes, he sensed he was scanning the darkened streets for potential victims. His gaze lingered on a handsome young merchant, who despite his drunken state, still exuded a certain innocence. His body stepped out from the shadow, a charming smile already playing on his lips. The image was too familiar, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he had somehow traveled back in time instead of forward into the future.

The merchant's eyes, predictably, lit up at the sight of him.

"Well well, what do we have here? A handsome stranger wandering about all on his own?" he purred, trailing his finger down the man's arm. "My dear sir, it's far past bedtime for such daring adventure on your own."

The merchant blushed and stuttered something about getting lost. Astarion chuckled softly and offered to escort him back to his lodgings - an offer the man happily accepted.

His real self could only watch everything in disgust and shame; he had reverted back to his old ways. And this time, he wasn't even under the influence of his master.

Guiding him down an even narrower alleyway, Astarion couldn’t help but curse himself inwardly for what he knew he was about to do. Astarion wished he could look away as he saw his body lean in close, his voice a smooth whisper in the man's ear. He could see his blush and giggle, taken in by Astarion's false charm.

Oh, how he wished he could warn him of what was to come. But all he could do was watch on helplessly as his body continued this dreadful performance he had practiced so many times before.

I am back to being a puppet.

"Astarion?"

His body stiffened at the sound of his name, and he turned to face the voice.

"Tav," his body breathed her name. Their eyes locked, and for the first time in a year, he felt something other than the hunger that had become his constant companion. A sly smirk danced across his lips as he effortlessly masked his true emotions. "Well, well, what brings you to this enchanting alleyway?"

"I could ask you the same," Tav replied, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and shock. She glanced at the merchant standing next to him, stumbling in his drunken stupor. Her eyes filled with sadness as she took in the scene.

There was a tense silence as they stared one another down. Astarion swallowed hard, racking his brain for an excuse that would believably explain his current situation. Before he could come up with a response, Tav spoke again.

"Astarion," Tav uttered again, her voice trembling slightly. "Are you... are you okay?"

No, I am not.

"Of course, darling," he replied smoothly, flashing her a charming smile. "Just enjoying a late-night stroll with this... gentleman." He gestured towards the drunk merchant, who was now leaning heavily on Astarion for support.

Astarion's heart, however, constricted at the concern in her voice. He desperately wanted to tell her the truth, to hold her close, to kiss her breathless.

Do it, tell her. Kiss her. Save yourself.

"Are you sure you're okay, Astarion? You... you can tell me," Tav asked once again, her voice tinged with worry as her eyes flickered between them, clearly not buying his explanation. Astarion could feel her searching gaze boring into him, trying to read him like an open book.

Just as he was about to confess everything, Shadowheart appeared behind her, sliding a hand around her waist.

What?

"Love, what are you doing in an alleyway? You are asking to get murd-" her eyes suddenly locked on Future Astarion. Recognition and shock flashed across her face before it hardened into a scowl.

"Shadowheart," Astarion acknowledged her presence coldly. His gaze was caught on the way Shadowheart's fingers rested possessively on her waist; a sight he found increasingly difficult to stomach.

What is the meaning of this?

For once, Astarion felt the same way as his future self; confusion and hurt mingled with betrayal and anger. Shadowheart and Tav... together? When did that happen?

Tav turned around to look at Shadowheart, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks. "I was just..." she began nervously, gesturing towards Astarion and the merchant. "I saw..."

"Astarion." Shadowheart's voice interrupted, cold as ever. Her grey eyes looked past him to the merchant who was almost passed out at this point. "You have poor taste in company these days."

Despite the icy edge to her voice, Astarion could make out a hint of worry in her eyes as she looked at Tav. It was a concern that echoed his own, one that served only to intensify the bitter taste of jealousy creeping up his throat.

"Perhaps," Astarion finally replied, his voice filled with false cheerfulness."But at least he knows how to appreciate a good drink." He then mumbled, "Anyway, I should probably take him home," gesturing towards the unconscious man.

As he started to walk away, Tav weakly protested and broke free from Shadowheart's grasp to approach Astarion. "Hold on!" Tav interjected, still unsteady on his feet. "You still haven't answered my question."

A tense quiet settled over them as they locked gazes once more. Astarion could see the mix of emotions in her eyes - confusion, pain, and yet a glimmer of hope. His other self didn't understand, but he did. He saw right through her.

She wanted him to ask for help, because that would mean he was ready to rejoin their group. She needed to help him. To redeem herself and close the wound he had opened a year ago.

He desperately yearned to do it, to return to his friends, to her. Instead, his body betrayed him and spoke on his behalf, "I assure you, Tav," he declared with stiffness in his voice, fighting to keep his emotions in check. "I am doing perfectly well without you."

Like hell you are!

Tav's face fell at his words, her eyes widening in shock and hurt. But before she could respond, Shadowheart spoke up again, her tone sharp and accusatory. "Oh yes, Astarion. You are the very definition of perfectly well." She directed a pointed look to the boy, who was sobering up and looking utterly confused, "You should go home," she said firmly.

The boy stumbled away, casting a final bewildered look at Astarion before disappearing into the darkness. Astarion watched the boy leave and turned his gaze back to Tav. He could see the disappointment in her eyes, but he couldn't explain or apologize, trapped as he was inside his own mistakes.

Tav hesitated for a moment before talking again

"Why didn't you return? We could have searched for a solution together."

Astarion's heart was heavy with the pain in Tav's voice. However, watching them together, watching how they had moved on without him, was stirring up a sick and ugly sensation within his chest. He could feel the longing consuming him, but his future self chose to focus only on the anger instead. Focus on the pride.

"Yeah, looks like you all missed me so much." Astarion quipped bitterly, glancing between Tav and Shadowheart.

Tav flinched like she had been hit. Astarion wanted to hit himself for it.

"Astarion, we didn't mean to hurt you, I-"

"That's not what it looks like. In fact, it seems like you both have moved on quite easily without me."

"Enough, Astarion," Shadowheart snapped, her patience clearly at its end. "Stop playing the victim. You disappeared without a word. What did you expect us to do? Wait for you forever?"

Yes. Maybe.

Tav's words were softer, her face etched with worry and regret. "You could have come to us... we would have helped you..."

Astarion scoffed. "Like hell you would." His tone was bitter, but he couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes. "You were the reason I left in the first place. Your betrayal."

His body had expected to feel relief upon seeing them again... but all he felt now was an overwhelming sense of loss. The sight of Tav and Shadowheart together brought a reality crashing down on him – they had moved on and he was stuck in the past. In the same toxic cycle from his time with Cazador.

There was another tense silence between them as they stood there in the dark alleyway. Astarion could feel their gazes burning into him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes again.

Shadowheart spoke up again. "What are you going to do now?"

Astarion shrugged casually. "Who knows? Maybe I'll just find someone else who actually keeps their promises," he said with a tone of bitterness.

But that was far from the truth. He felt completely isolated and alone, with no one to turn to for comfort or support.

Tav glanced at him once more, her head shaking as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," she said brokenly.

No, I'm the one who is sorry.

The need to reach out was overwhelming. But he could just watch in despair as his body decided to keep quiet, and observe as she silently turned around and left.

Shadowheart, however, stayed put, looking at him dead in the eye.

"I thought you'd come back for her, you know?"

I almost did, he told himself, I almost did, but I am a coward.

"You know, I thought you of all people would understand why I left. How could I stay after she ripped me off my only opportunity at freedom?" Astarion responded, finally meeting Shadowheart's gaze.

He expected anger, but was instead met with deep sorrow.

"When you left, something in Tav... it broke. She cried for you, night after night. For months, Astarion."

Of course, he knew. He had seen the scene at the Elfsong Tavern. However, this version of him hadn't.

He scoffed in an attempt to hide his pain, but Shadowheart continued relentlessly.

"She suffered so much because of your selfishness," Shadowheart said, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I had to pick up the pieces, Astarion. I had to convince her not to... not to lose herself."

Astarion felt a wave of guilt wash over him as Shadowheart's words hit him like a physical blow.

"I'm sorry," was all he could manage to say, his voice breaking with emotion.

Shadowheart's expression softened for a moment before hardening again. "Sorry doesn't fix what you've done. What you said," she replied, her tone biting.

"I know," he mumbled quietly, feeling the weight of his mistakes crashing down on him.

They stood there in silence for a few moments longer before Astarion spoke again. "She's hard not to fall in love with, isn't she?"

Shadowheart's eyes opened in surprise, and the softened slightly.

"Yes. Yes, she is," she replied under her breath.

Astarion shook his head.

"Is she happy?" he asked, unable to help himself.

Shadowheart sighed. "She’s getting there," she admitted quietly. "But she won’t be if you drag her back into your mess now."

And he knew what that meant. Let her go. She is happier without you.

Astarion hung his head, feeling a familiar pain bloom in his chest. He was quiet for a long moment before finally looking back up at Shadowheart.

"I won't," he promised, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

Shadowheart’s gaze bore into him for another moment before she nodded, and finally turned to leave.

"And Astarion?" she called over her shoulder, causing him to look up at her again.

"Hmm?"

"I hope you find your happiness too. You deserve it."

And with that, she walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Astarion watched as she sauntered towards Tav, who was standing a little ways off. He could barely make out the details of her face from where he was standing but even from the distance, he could tell she was beautiful – more beautiful than he remembered.

Shadowheart gently approached Tav, her hand resting on her arm before leaning in for a tender kiss. Astarion couldn't help but feel like an outsider, witnessing this intimate moment between the two. As he watched them, he noticed the way Tav gazed at Shadowheart with such adoration and love - the same way she used to look at him.

He watched their retreating figures until they disappeared into the night. And his heart threatened to break into smaller pieces at the thought that this had probably been their last conversation.

In a flash, Astarion was once again standing in the void, surrounded by darkness. He felt a sense of unease wash over him as he waited for G'axir's voice to come through again.

See now... Astarion? G'axir's voice echoed around him.

See what? All I see are stars. Astarion asked, feeling frustrated at the cryptic messages.

Amidst the shroud of remorse and longing... lies the opportunity to redefine. Hope's whisper still lingers... in a realm unseen.

Tag list: @tinystarfishgalaxy, @imaginarypetlizard, @nanamisfriedstick, @stuckinaoaktree, @madislayyy, @cosywinterevenings, @fandom-garbage, @generalstephkenobi

a/n: I kind of hate G'axir. If I was Astarion I would be throwing hands, ngl. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the last angsty chapter! Thanks for the support! And lmk if you want to be added to the taglist☺️✨

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#astarion ancunin #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #baldurs gate fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #fanfic #astarion x you

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g1rlr0b1n · 18 days

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Yet another commission by the amazingly talented @ookamihanta!!! Go check out their page to see more art!!! Their commissions are still open so go check that out as well!!! I highly recommend them!!! 🦉

Into the Owl's Nest (Preview)

Damian's eyes snapped open and he jolted up in bed, gasping for air as if he had been drowning. His skin was clammy and his heart raced in his chest. As his senses returned, the cold, musty scent of damp stone and earth filled his nostrils. He strained to see in the darkness, but could only make out the faint outline of a room surrounding him. The distant sound of rushing water echoed through the space, causing a shiver to run down his spine. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Damian realized that he must be deep underground, and he realized where he must be. This was the Owl’s Nest.

The faint clicking of heels echoed on the stone ground, growing closer with each step. He strained his eyes against the darkness as he searched for an escape. Too late. The door creaked open and a woman glided in, her form encased in a skin-tight nylon suit, feathers adorned the top of her cape. Her blonde hair was pulled back tightly, emphasizing her fierce features, while a mask obscured her eyes. Damian maintained a stoic expression as she spoke, her words dripping with disdain, "so, you must be Talia's brat," she spat. Her eyes roamed over his form, obscured by the mask she wore. The coldness in her voice matched the chill in the air, sending shivers down his spine. Her eyes narrowed behind the intricate mask, scanning him from head to toe with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. The silence between them was thick with tension but Damian maintained his composure.

When he did not speak she continued, “your father wishes to see you.” Damian's muscles tensed at the mention of his father but he remained still, not daring to give her any satisfaction. Not even when she glided across the room, her movements fluid like a predator stalking its prey did he move to get up from the bed. With a swift motion, she pulled him up by his arm, her long nails digging into his flesh. He gritted his teeth against the pain, knowing better than to show weakness. She dragged him along, her grip unrelenting, until they reached a large open space. A wall was lined with computers and equipment, and there, behind the glow of computer screens, sat a man clad in all back. The Owlman.

The man slowly turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "I hope you don't mind," he began in a smooth, almost mocking tone, "your mother and I decided it would be best if I took custody of you." Damian felt a surge of anger rise up in the pit of his stomach, a rage that was only met by the man's cruel smile.

"You killed my mother," Damian growled through gritted teeth, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I suppose that’s true,” he shrugged carelessly, “it pained me to do so, I loved her-”

"Obsession is not love," Damian spat out bitterly, his control slipping as memories from last night flooded back. "That's not love...and when you couldn't have her..." His voice trailed off, trembling, as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. Damian had loved his mother more than anything, and this man had taken her away from him without a second thought.

The man's eyes hardened and for a moment, Damian could see the darkness lurking behind them, "let it be a lesson to you then," he sneered. "You may share my blood, but if I have no use for you, you can join her."

Damian was smart enough to know when someone was bluffing, and this man was not, he was well aware that this man would snuff him out the moment he stepped out of line. Refusing to show any weakness, Damian stood tall and pushed aside his emotions. "What use do you have for me then, father?" he asked, maintaining a calm and collected façade despite the turmoil within.

His features twisted into a smirk, “I’m glad you asked,” he stood from his chair to tower over the boy, “As you may or may not be aware, Ultraman was our esteemed leader until his most recent and unfortunate demise. His twisted obsession with his other selves was finally his downfall. Ironic.” The glint of joy in his eyes betrayed his words. “There are a few would be successors but of course I have my preference.”

Owlman paused as if waiting for Damian to ask a question but Damian knew there was only an answer he sought. And Damian was nothing, if not adaptable. “Naturally, it should be you, father," he replied smoothly. He’d play along for now, he’d tell the crazed man whatever assurances he needed to hear. Afterall, he was somewhere underground surrounded by enemies, and if he hoped for any chance of survival, he’d have to be smart about it.

“Smart boy,” he scoffed, then continued, “Ultraman leaves behind his wife and son, Lois has already begun pushing for Jor-El to claim his father’s seat but he is just a child. Barely 19. He needs…” he paused again as if searching for the right words, “a friend more than a title.”

Damian raised an eyebrow in question, “you wish me to befriend him?”

“Sure…and who knows what may happen once you two become close.” Owlman shrugged, a wicked smirk spread across his features, contorting them into a menacing expression.

Damian racked his brain for meaning. Did his father want him close to Jor-El to distract him, to manipulate him, or to kill him? Did his father even care as long as he could take power? Finally, Damian broke the silence with a slow, measured voice. “I can only assume you have some means for me to arrange a meeting with him?”

“Of course,” he motioned toward the blonde woman who had been lurking in the corner. “Beth, please ensure that Damian is presentable for this evening's introduction to the rest of the Syndicate. Make him look…enticing.”

Damian suddenly became aware of another possibility.

#posting the intro to one of my current WIPs to act as a motivator to help me finish #this is part of a multiverse series I'm working on #Earth 3 #Damian is Talon II (21)#Jon is Ultraman II (19)#Thomas Jr/Owlman is technically Bruce (not sure if that makes sense to anyone but me lol)#I disregard canon lol #damian wayne #jon kent #damijon #jondami #superdemon #cosmicbird #dc comics

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sssusuki · 6 months

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Completely unrelated to anything I have ever said or reblogged but I genuinely love the way they handled Fontaine. While some things could've been made even better, the way they handled this was so good. The fact Arlecchino was a genuine threat and Furina actually fooled EVERYBODY (including me) about her true nature is fantastic. While I know Genshin is a game that makes good looking characters for the specific factor of revenue, this fits in Furina so well and also her struggles. 500 years of fooling everybody and the only thing separating her from the common folk was she was unable to die of old age or age at all. Like, that implies she has had to work to look like a god. To act like one and fool everybody is already hard, but taking into account that Furina has to upkeep her appearance while not only stressing over the prophecy and helping her people? She had it rough. She was a genius through and through to the very end that even now people are downplaying her smarts. Not only did she have to do all of this, but also the fact she had to regularly participate in trials and oversaw all of them? This means even more research and studying into her already packed schedule and the fact she can perfect her appearance so flawlessly despite all this stress is absolutely impressive. Truly shows her hard work. It really payed off. Anyways, Fontaine in general was such a good patch and definitely a refresher from what was previous.

When Genshin first came out and they released the trailer for all the nations and Masquerade of the Guilty showed up, I was so excited for that one because it made me imagine something similar to Piltover and Zaun with Rococo fashion inspirations. Ruffles and roses alongside gears and machinations and overall a very dark premise with oil and golden lights and very much French revolution viva la revolution kinda pizzazz. Of course it's not what we got but I still love both ideas. Also, I remember seeing an idea where Furina wasn't suppose to be the Hydro Archon and she was the youngest of three and the middle became what was the giant god killing machine we see at the end. Anyways, I had a lot of ideas and honestly? Both are great and I loved how they handled Fontaine, and especially their women in the cast because we haven't seen such good handling previously.

I love how they made Clorinde a very head strong person that can keep up with Wriothesley of all people and of course Arlecchino who does bad things for the sake of her nation (and also has questionable morality because of her while child soldier business but yeah). I could go on a whole talk about Clorinde because I really like how they handled her character and also the fact she is genuinely serious about the ongoings of her nation and not someone who just cares because it makes them look good morally.

Navia I was expecting to be a bit more noble in etiquette and kind of somebody who bit off more they could chew with trying to find out who murdered her father and it's kind of her coming to a realization and growing as a person but I like how they took her character as well. How I imagined her character was someone who was sheltered and had that bubble break when their father was murdered and despite her people's wishes decided to try and figure it out. It would make sense then why she would need help figuring it out because she doesn't have experience. Sure, she has good etiquette and knows her way around society but she has never dealt with this. This would lead to scenarios where the MC/Clorinde would help her with the case and getting closer while she helps them work around high society so they can achieve their goal. It'd end with Navia coming to a realization how naive she has been while talking with Clorinde because she blames her for his death. Anyways, Navia is super cool and I'd love to see them use Navia's upperclassmen status more because that can be so funny and also sosososo stressful. Especially in a place based off of France where the fashion changed every month or so and you had to play hot potato with your words.

Also, Lyney and Lynette were such good starts with the Fontaine story. They were introductions. Bright and beautifully talented people with a very dark heart beneath. I would've liked them to be more morally ambiguous because that would've been so cool and also bad moral intrigue to the story instead of definite evil vs good but I understand why they went that route. Anyways, I would've loved to see them develop Lynette and Freminet more as children part of the House of the Hearth as well as more lore on House of the Hearth in general because Arlecchino is very suspicious with her morality right now with it and I am loving it.

Neuvillette is probably among my favorite characters because Hoyoverse actually made a strong male character who is allowed to be vulnerable and emotional?? Woah. Anyways, Neuvillette is such a good character and the way they handled him is phenomenal. I would not change anything. Actually, I'd like to see him cry more in the story it's great.

Wriothesley is certainly interesting! I was totally expecting him to take a more antagonistic role in the prison but he didn't. I would've loved to see him be more against the traveller and people above (Like Navia or Neuvillette for instance) to show that class gap because France and Fontaine both have those, do not @ me. Anyways, I would've loved to see Wriothesley go more in depth on the class divide in Fontaine as well as how prisoners are treated down there as well. However, he was definitely a good character and I enjoyed how he bounced off of Clorinde like colleagues.

I could go on on on and on but I will NOT and save it for ANOTHER DAY

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imgeekgirlfan · 1 month

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I Will Follow You Into The Dark

Pairings: Astarion x Original Female Character(Named Tav) [From Baldur's Gate 3]

Tag/Warnings : Canon Compliant, Post-Endgame, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Tragedy, Mentions of past abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, References to Depression, Angst and Hurt/Comfort

Synopsis : Astarion returned to the city of Baldur's Gate, following the final request of his beloved, who asked him to bury her next to his grave. As dawn approached, Astarion held the lifeless body of his love, reminiscing about the countless memories they shared together.

A/N : The story started when I came across this tweet: 'do you guys think your tavs/durges stayed with their love interest long term or not?'

I got the idea to tell the story of my Tav and her love interest, Astarion. What would happen to them after the end of Baldur's Gate 3? I've been thinking about it a lot and it's quite heartbreaking.

From these little headcanons, I developed this one-shot about them.

My Tav is a human bard with a noble background. So, I imagined her as the daughter of a noble Baldurian,which contrasts with Astarion's background. Their initial relationship was more of a adversaries before blossoming into love in the end.

Listening to the song "I Will Follow You into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie gave me a lot of inspiration for this couple. (At first, I wanted to use the song "Take Me To Church" as the title, but it's too popular. I thought a song that many might not have heard of would be fitting for this tale.)

Read in Ao3 : here

"Jones," Astarion whispered, calling his beloved, but she didn't respond.

Her eyes closed tightly, her body growing colder with each passing moment.

Astarion pulled her closer, hoping his slight warmth might warm her. He knew it wouldn't help, and she would never wake to look into his eyes again.

Human lives are fleeting, from young maiden to old crone, from crone to spirit.

Her entire life was a blink of an eye compared to his cursed immortality.

Once, Astarion had both disdain and curiosity about this human. A race so fragile and feeble, never wielding a sword to harm anyone, raised in a noble family, spending half a comfortable lifetime in a grand mansion in Baldur’s Gate, surrounded by obedient servants bowing to her every whim.

He couldn't make sense of her. For a vampire like him who had struggled to survive amidst enemies and a cruel world for centuries. He was nothing but a bloodthirsty creature, a servant under a master's foot who got treated worse than a common slave, struggling to sustain his life with the taste of filthy rat blood that almost made him vomit.

Astarion envies her for an ideal life in the gilded cage he could only dream of. envied the short-lived human existence. While he had no right to die willingly if his evil master didn't want him to die,

And he wondered why she had fled her high-life in the capital city of Baldur’s Gate to suffer with them. why someone so inept at fighting would risk her life battling monsters, from goblins and evil undead to even gods, to aid them and help everyone unrelated to her.

He thought Jones was foolish, and he didn't like fools.

Ironically, eighty years later, he found himself shedding tears at her death.

"I wish to be buried beside your grave, Astarion." That was one of her last wishes before she breathed her last in his embrace. This led Astarion to make the singular decision to step out of the Underdark and return to Baldur’s Gate, the city where he once hated heavily, to fulfill the last wish of his beloved.

The black sky began to turn deep blue. Astarion knew he should hurry to bury Jones properly before the sunrise. As he contemplated, his eyes caught withered flowers left on the ground near his own grave marker. For a brief moment, Astarion reminisced about the memories he shared with her. He had once brought Jones to his own grave, recounting his life before turning into a vampire. and then visualizing a future where he wished to live with her,as his past had died over two centuries ago and she was the only future he desired.

Astarion remembered his overwhelming fear that Jones might refuse him. She was the highborn daughter of Baldur’s Gate's noble families. Why would she choose to endure the hardships of life with an elf vampire like him?

Yet his fear vanished instantly when he saw the soft smile on her smooth face. She placed flowers on his grave and embraced him, accepting his love wholeheartedly.

That night was the night he died and was reborn in her embrace. Not as the enslaved Astarion, not as the villainous Astarion, but as Astarion the redeemed, never to be alone again because he would have her by his side forever.

But the words 'forever' don't really exist, especially for humans and vampires.

Still, Astarion couldn't help but secretly hope.

Sometimes, darker thoughts overshadow his mind, eclipsing all the goodness he has left. Astarion often secretly pondered that if he chose the path of power, performed an ancient ritual to sacrifice seven thousand souls to a devil, and transformed himself into a vampire ascendant, he would have enough strength to walk in the sunlight with her and enough power to turn her into a vampire like him. Then they could live together forever without the fear of death taking her away.

But it was Jones who restrained him then. She persuaded Astarion to see that these powers offered him nothing but the dark legacy of the Vampire Master, an inheritance of wickedness that would never end. She told him he could be better than Cazador, his former master, and he didn't have to continue killing others to sustain his existence anymore.

Astarion trusted her, though he couldn't deny feeling deeply regretful. And Jones sensed his feelings. She gently grasped his cold hands and earnestly vowed, "Astarion, I will find a way to cure you of vampirism, so you can walk under the sunlight with me again."

And she kept her promise. After successfully helping Baldur’s Gate city fend off the threats of the Mind Flayers and Nether Brain, she and him began a new adventure together. They journeyed across the entire continent of Faerûn, from Waterdeep to Athkatla, Neverwinter, Luskan, and even the mysterious realm of Feywild, all in pursuit of finding a cure for him.

Those times were special, building strong bonds and beautiful memories between them. They laughed together, danced together, fought together, and held each other close under vast skies and twinkling stars as witnesses.

Until Jones began to age and couldn’t continue the journey. That was when they both realized how little time they had left. And no matter how much time and effort they put in, there was no way to find a cure for him anymore.

Facing the harsh reality was incredibly difficult. Astarion had to hide his deep sorrow while he tried to persuade her to stop the adventure and live out her remaining days in the Underdark, the dark and sunless realm, the only place where he could be with her.

He knew what the near future held. Nothing would hurt as much as watching his beloved age continuously, waiting for her time to pass while he remained unchanged.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you as I promised. Please forgive me," she said during their time in Underdark. Her bright blue eyes, the very eyes he fell in love with, overflowed with guilt.

Astarion wanted her to know that he could never be angry or hate her.

The shovel still lay untouched on the ground, with no sign of being used anytime soon. While the vampire elf sat silently in front of his own grave marker, letting old memories flow through his mind once more,. Both his arms cradled her lifeless body as if she were still alive.

"My beloved, please continue to live on for me. I wish to see you happy for a long time," another of her last requests echoed in his mind. The gentle touch of her frail hand on his cheek still lingers in his heart to this day.

"Jones." Astarion whispers her name again. Tears, which he had not shed for a long time, now streamed down his pale face. "I can't do it," he murmured to her lifeless body. "How can I find happiness without you?"

A golden beam slowly crept in, chasing away the darkness from the vast sky. Yet Astarion's body remained unmoving, just like the eyes of the vampire, which refused to leave the withered face of his beloved for a second. He memorized every detail of her, keeping it in his memory as best as he could. She still looked as beautiful as ever in his eyes—always and forever.

"I wish the next life was real. I hope we'll meet again, live together, and build a family," Astarion whispered softly, planting a tender kiss on the edge of her lips. "Wait for me, darling. I'll follow you soon, no matter where you choose to go."

Finally, he tore his gaze away from her, looking up at the sky once more. For the first time in centuries, he had the chance to gaze at the nearing dawn with full eyes. As the sun peeked over the horizon, followed by the warm rays starting to seep through his skin, cracks began to form, turning his skin into tiny specks of dust.

Before his final consciousness faded, Astarion's thoughts remained vivid.

This was the most beautiful dawn he had ever witnessed.

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songbirdsanctuary · 1 month

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A Tango Tek and ImpulseSV fic

This takes place in season 7. I wrote this about a month ago.

Warnings: Self-harm(No blood, very brief)

Word count: 703

-A Tango Tek and ImpulseSV Fic-

Tango Tek always prided himself on his dedication to his projects. Whether it was tackling colossal builds or fine-tuning intricate redstone contraptions, he poured his heart and soul into every endeavor on the Hermitcraft server. Season seven had been particularly exciting, with the introduction of Decked Out and the relentless expansion of his base. But lately, something felt off.

As the days wore on, Tango found himself increasingly overwhelmed. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him like a heavy blanket, suffocating and relentless. His once boundless energy waned, replaced by a gnawing fatigue that seemed to seep into his bones.

It began subtly at first. A missed redstone signal here, a misplaced block there. Small errors that were easily rectified. But then, the mistakes grew more frequent, more glaring. Tango's meticulous designs faltered, crumbling like sandcastles beneath an encroaching tide.

His mind became a whirlwind of chaos, thoughts spiraling out of control like unruly vines. Doubt crept in, insidious and unrelenting. Was he not good enough? Was he failing his fellow Hermits? Was he losing his touch?

Tango tried to bury his insecurities beneath layers of determination, to drown out the cacophony of self-doubt with the steady hum of redstone. But the harder he worked, the louder the doubts grew until they consumed him entirely.

One particularly tumultuous night, Tango found himself standing amidst the ruins of yet another failed project, his hands trembling with frustration. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over as he fought to regain control.

That's when ImpulseSV found him.

The gentle hum of redstone echoed through the dimly lit corridors of Tango's base as Impulse made his way toward the source of the commotion. He found Tango standing amidst a sea of scattered redstone components, his shoulders slumped and his expression haunted.

"Tango?" Impulse's voice was soft, laced with concern as he approached his friend. Tango turned to face him, his eyes hollow and weary.

"Impulse..." Tango's voice cracked, betraying the turmoil raging within him. "I don't know what's happening to me. Everything feels like it's falling apart."

Impulse stepped forward, enveloping Tango in a warm embrace. "Hey, it's okay," he murmured soothingly, his words a comforting balm against Tango's frayed nerves.

Tears spilled freely down Tango's cheeks as he clung to Impulse, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to let go, to relinquish the facade of strength he had been clinging to so desperately.

Impulse held him steady, a steadfast anchor amidst the storm. He listened as Tango poured out his fears and frustrations, offering words of encouragement and support in return. And slowly, as the night wore on, the weight that had been bearing down on Tango's shoulders began to lift, replaced by a sense of solace.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Tango and Impulse sat side by side, their laughter mingling with the gentle hum of redstone. And as the first rays of sunlight bathed the world in golden hues, Tango knew that no matter how dark the shadows may grow, he would always find light in the unwavering friendship of those who stood by his side. They soon both fell asleep.

Tango woke after only a few minutes, and looked at Impulse who was still asleep. Tango felt a bit better however, as dawn approached, a lingering sense of frustration and anger still gripped Tango's heart. In a moment of overwhelming emotion, he clenched his fists and, with a primal roar, unleashed his fury upon the nearest wall. The sound of his knuckles meeting solid stone reverberated through the corridor, a stark reminder of the turmoil brewing within him.

Impulse woke will a stardled shout and watched in concern as Tango's hand throbbed with pain. Without hesitation, Impulse reached out, gently grasping Tango's injured hand in his own.

"Tango, you don't have to bear this burden alone," Impulse said softly, his voice was soothing, and his eyes already tearing up "Please.. We're here for you, always."

And in that moment, as the warmth of Impulse's touch seeped into his bones, Tango felt a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. He would be ok.

#tangotek #hermitfic #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitblr #hermitcraft #impulsesv

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sengardet · 2 months

Text

Poll Reward: Assassin Encounter (part 1)

Continued from:

Terra freed a hand from the woman’s neck to send fingernails trailing down her captive body. She traced the curves of her breasts, over her jumpy heart, and down the dip of her stomach, before sliding between her thighs. The woman let out a soft moan as Terra's fingers mingled within her slick arousal.

She couldn’t help but sit there reveling in the power she held over this deadly assassin turned pathetic whimpering creature that begged to be dominated. Terra was growing attached and that feeling made her revolt.

Terra squeezed tighter around that delicate throat, feeling the captive's pulse race beneath her dark fingers before shunting it off completely. Yet only then did this woman’s full depravity reveal itself. The woman’s thighs clamped around Terra's hand in a desperate, needy embrace. inner walls fluttered around her digits as arousal overflowed into orgasm.

Terra let out a defeated sigh, softening her grip to let her enjoy herself. Watching this fragile creature come undone was intoxicating, but Terra knew such things were short lived in this line of work.

Terra loomed over the tied-up woman, her heart racing with a mixture of adrenaline and an unfamiliar emotion she couldn't quite place. She supposed it was best to put a bullet through the woman’s heart before the euphoria settled down. Maybe then she would see this mysterious creature’s face.

"Thank you, my love," the bound woman said softly beneath the pillow, surprising Terra with sudden affection.

Terra laughed. "Is that all it takes, the first chick to choke you and we’re hitched?"

The woman's voice grew somber. "I bit the cyanide pill. You don't have to waste a bullet, but you can if you like the feeling. Otherwise… I'd like you to hold me. My name is Sophie."

Terra's heart skipped a beat, her mind reeling at the revelation. Frustration and panic surged through her as she tried to make sense of why she felt betrayed.

"Dumbass," Terra snapped "You think I wouldn't have a cyanide poison kit after all I've been through?"

She quickly got up and rushed to retrieve the kit.

"Wait, what? You were going to kill me anyway, weren't you?" Sophie asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and confusion.

"You don't get to decide when or how you die, I do!” Terra yelled through the house.

Terra burst into the bedroom, and there… Sophie lay motionless on the bed, not a shiver of a response. Terra rushed over and dragged the pale woman's limp body onto the floor. Her first sight of the woman's face. Sophie's head lolled to the side, revealing blue vacant eyes staring into nothing.

Terra hung the IV bag on the bedpost. Sophie’s pallid skin bared the delicate blue veins going down her arm, Terra picked one and plunged the needle in.

Once ready, she straddled Sophie's limp body and placed her hands on the woman's pale chest. She pushed hard and fast, commanding Sophie’s heart with unrelenting force. Sophie’s limp body jerked with each compression, her arms twitching and rubbery at her sides. held together at the wrists behind her.

Terra could feel Sophie's ribs bending and flexing beneath her touch as she pumped relentlessly. The sensation was oddly exhilarating, as if entrapping the woman yet again, pulling her back from her pitiful attempt at escape. Terra's own pulse raced as she worked to pull her back and punish her.

"You don't get to decide when it ends. Not after I gave you that little sendoff, bitch." Terra muttered in frustration.

Terra's mind flashed to their earlier encounter; Sophie's arousal still wet on her fingers. The memory sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through her veins. Her compressions intensified, driven by a primal need to maintain control.

Looking up, Terra saw that the bag was half-empty. Now was a good time to see if this pretty little thing could use oxygen.

Leaning down, Terra sealed her lips over Sophie's slack mouth and exhaled forcefully. Sophie's chest filled like a balloon and fell when Terra let go. Terra pulled back, resuming the furious rhythm of her compressions. Seconds stretched into minutes as she labored over Sophie's inert form, aware of every nuance and contour of the body beneath her...waiting for any flicker of life to reward her efforts. She would not be denied.

The blonde woman's eyes squinted shut, a slight frown crossing her pale lips.

"There we go," Terra said.

Sophie let out a faint moan in response. Relief surged through Terra. The woman was still responsive, if only barely. Terra tapped Sophie's cool cheeks, then quickly dismounted Sophie's limp form and rushed to grab the stethoscope from atop her dresser.

Placing the ends in her ears, Terra pressed the bell to Sophie's bare chest. She held her breath and listened. There it was - the soft, steady thump of Sophie's heartbeat, growing stronger with each passing second.

As Sophie began taking slow, shallow breaths, Terra allowed herself a triumphant grin. She had done it - thwarted the stubborn assassin's desperate escape into death's waiting arms. Terra savored the thought as she gazed down at Sophie's vulnerable form, color slowly returning to her porcelain skin.

"Please..." Sophie didn't know what she was begging for anymore.

Terra's full lips curved in a wicked smile. In one fluid motion, she slid her body up to straddle Sophie's heaving chest. Sophie gasped as Terra's weight pressed down, constricting her lungs.

"Shhh, it’s time for you to sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow." Terra said, covering Sophie's mouth and nose with a slender dark hand, sealing off her airways. She ground her hips slowly, sensually, feeling Sophie's rib cage flex and strain beneath her as she struggled for breath, her heart slamming in Terra’s ears as it strained beneath her.

Sophie's blue eyes widened in panic, her pale skin flushing pink as she thrashed weakly. Her oxygen-starved lungs burned, screaming for air that would not come. Terra held her fast, dark thighs clenching tight around her ribcage, one hand still clamped over her face. She rocked her hips in a steady rhythm, pressing Sophie's chest down with each undulation, forcing more precious air from her lungs.

She could feel Sophie's squished and starved heart pounding frantically against her most intimate places, the terrified muscle's vigorous thudding reverberating through her core before winding down in defeat.

The light faded from those defiant blue eyes, and Terra removed her hand allowing a hard intake of breath. She got up, and slapped the woman’s chest gently. A slow and steady little heartbeat filled her ears, one that assured her that her toy was still working...

#dark cardiophilia #resus #cpr resus #asphyxia #unwanted resus #chest sitting #pressure on chest #dark humor

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gcthvile · 4 months

Text

A shoulder to lean on

Pairing: Rei Stark x Peter Parker

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: When Rei Stark loses his beloved mother to illness, he shuts down completely - withdrawing from school, friends, and the outside world. Tormented by his grief and loss, Rei walls himself off behind closed doors, shutting even his best friend Peter Parker out of his spiral into despair.

warnings: none

When his mother first fell ill, Rei threw himself into finding a cure. He spent every waking moment in the lab, searching for anything that could help her. But as her condition deteriorated, so did his hope.

The day she slipped away was the day everything went dark. Rei stumbled home in a daze, collapsing at her bedside. He didn't move for hours, even as the medics came to take her away. His world had ended.

In the following days, FRIDAY tried to get him to eat, sleep, see others—to take care of himself. But Rei was non-responsive. He just sat numbed by grief, replying only in monosyllables.

When Peter came by that first week, worried but wanting to comfort his friend, all FRIDAY would say was that Rei wasn't accepting visitors. Peter left dejected, anxiety growing by the day with no word from Rei.

The weeks dragged on and Rei faded further. He stopped leaving his room, stopped going to classes or returning calls and texts. His father stopped by in between missions, but Rei barely acknowledged him. Numbness was his only escape from the unrelenting pain.

Tony entered Rei's darkened room without knocking, concern etched on his face. "Rei, we need to talk."

Rei didn't look up from where he sat huddled in the corner. "Go away," he muttered.

But Tony stood firm. "I can't do that, kid. It's been over a month and you're not getting any better. You have to start taking care of yourself."

"What's the point?" said Rei flatly. "Nothing matters anymore."

Tony's voice rose in frustration. "Of course it matters! Your life matters, your future - do you think your mother would want to see you wasting away like this?"

Rei flinched at the mention of his mother but still didn't look up. "Don't pretend you understand. You never loved anyone like I loved her."

"Maybe not," snapped Tony. "But I'm your father and it's killing me to see you doing this to yourself! If you don't start eating, sleeping, acting like a human again, I'll have no choice but to commit you for treatment."

That got Rei's attention. His head shot up, eyes blazing with anger through his grief. "You can't do that!"

"I can and I will if it saves your life!" countered Tony. "You're not the only one who lost her, Rei. Please, just let me help you." His voice cracked with emotion.

Rei hesitated, some of the fight draining from him at the raw concern in his father's eyes. Slowly, he nodded. "Okay. I'll...I'll try. For you." Tony sagged in relief. "Thank you. It's a start." Rei knew he had to pull himself back to functioning, even just for appearances. But internally, he still felt hollow. Going through the motions of school brought him no relief or joy.

Seeing Peter's familiar face in the crowd was almost too much. Guilt weighed on him for worrying his friend for so long with no contact. Yet he never dared to approach.

The walk through the halls to class was agonizing. Rei felt every eye on him as whispers and stares followed in his wake. He hunched into himself, hoping to disappear while also wishing for a reason to lash out.

Inside the classroom was even worse. All the familiar faces looked at him with shared sadness and unasked questions. He could practically hear their thoughts: Was he okay? What happened? How could they help?

But no one dared approach, sensing his fragile state. Good—he wasn't ready for their pity or platitudes yet. Just being there amongst them all felt oppressive, reminding him of the life he had before...before.

Rei took his seat and stared numbly at his desk, tuning out the review lecture he'd already long since learned. His gaze drifted unseeing as vacant memories played on repeat in his head: lazy afternoons in the lab with his mom, her laugh, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners...

A sting started behind his eyes but he blinked it back furiously. No more tears—he was done with that. From then on it was just...nothing. Blessed numbness to get him through each endless day.

When the bell finally freed him, Rei rushed from the room, wanting only to be alone. To escape back into the dark sanctuary of his mind where he didn't have to feel anything anymore.

In the empty corridor, Peter stood firm, hands on his hips as Rei tried to brush past.

"Oh no you don't," said Peter fiercely. "You're not avoiding this anymore. What's going on with you?"

Rei kept walking. "Nothing. Leave me alone."

Peter grabbed his arm, spinning him around. "That's bullshit and you know it! You disappear for over a month without a word and then show up looking like a corpse? Tell me what's wrong, Rei."

Rei wrenched his arm free. "It's none of your business!"

"The hell it isn't!" cried Peter. "I care about you, you idiot! I've been worried sick!"

"Well don't bother," snapped Rei. "No one can help me, okay? Just stay out of it!"

"Not a chance," growled Peter. "Not until you talk to me. You're my best friend - please, let me in."

His voice cracked with frustration and concern, eyes begging Rei to drop his walls. Rei faltered under that earnest gaze, feeling his resolve crumble, but all he could do was snap at his friend at the moment, "It's my mom, okay?! She died, Peter. She fucking died. And I couldn't save her." Rei's voice broke on the last words as fresh tears rose.

Instantly Peter's anger dissolved into sympathy. "Oh Rei, I'm so sorry." He pulled the other boy into a hug as Rei finally lost the battle and began to sob.

He held Rei tight, letting him grieve. "You don't have to do this alone," he murmured. "I'm here for you, always."

Rei gripped the back of Peter's shirt tightly as he cried, weeks of pent up grief pouring out of him. It felt like he was drowning in sorrow, but Peter's solid presence kept him tethered.

When the sobs finally subsided, Rei pulled back just enough to wipe his damp cheeks. Peter's hands moved to rub comforting circles on his back.

"I'm sorry," Rei mumbled, raw from emotion. "For....For shutting you out or whatever."

Peter chuckled softly and shook his head. "Don't apologize. I get why you did it, but that's over now, okay? No more shutting me out."

Rei nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He felt strangely lighter now that Peter knew his burden. But the memory of his loss was still fresh.

As if sensing his need for distraction, Peter took his hand gently. "Come on, let's go get some fresh air. Think you can handle the rest of the day?"

Rei hesitated, then nodded again. With Peter by his side, maybe facing the world wouldn't be so hard.

They walked in companionable silence, hands clasped tight between them. For the first time in weeks, rays of hope broke through Rei's storm clouds. He wasn't alone—and with Peter's support, maybe he could learn to heal.

Hope you guys enjoyed it!

@jackiequick @mallowbee4 @blueboirick @meiramel @missstrawbs2001 @gaminggirlsstuff

#oc post #oc rp #oc rpg #marvel #marvel roleplay #marvel oc #marvel x oc #rei stark #rei stark x peter parker

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zapreportsblog · 9 months

Note

Jasper Hale req:

His niece is getting married to Caius from the Volturi.

-Literally one of the if not the only time the "whole" vampire world has come together

Why?

her

She's alike Carlisle in she has many friends(allies).

But: she's cruel, which is why Caius asked to marry her.

Gift- She can influence people to be loyal to her.

He realizes that she's being influenced by Chelsea to marry Caius. So he has to stop it before she married Caius and officially becomes a part of the coven... IDK I tried to be diffrent(creative)

I like the idea of him not having a gift as developed as Chelsea as he is quite many years younger...😮

Chelsea | Twilight Saga Wiki | Fandom

Jasper Hale | Twilight Saga Wiki | Fandom

Idk if that was specific enough...But that's all I have...I literally brain melted then this spawned as a thought.

Here's menacing Jackson Rathbone as a treat? Idk thx <3

You tired and you delivered, it was indeed very creative

❝an unconventional union❞

✭ pairing : caius volturi x reader x jasper hale

✭ fandom : twilight

✭ summary : jasper learns that his niece is getting married off to Caius volturi at first he pays it no mind but upon learning she’s being manipulated by Chelsea he goes to stop the wedding only for things to come to light in the process

✭ authors note : this will angst with some fluff even a little joke here and there

✭ twilight masterlist

Jasper Hale, a member of the Cullen coven, stood in the grand hall of the Volturi castle, observing the preparations for his niece (Y/n)'s wedding to Caius, one of the Volturi leaders. As he watched, he couldn't help but feel a mix of conflicting emotions.

(Y/n) possessed a cruel and manipulative nature, much like her soon-to-be husband, Caius. They shared a bond built upon their shared darkness, a match made in the depths of their unrelenting personalities. Jasper understood that, in their world, such alliances were not uncommon.

Despite his reservations about their personalities, Jasper loved his niece unconditionally. He had seen her grow up, witnessed the choices she made, and understood that her nature was a product of her environment and upbringing. He did not condone her cruelties, but he also did not judge her for them.

Jasper's golden eyes scanned the room as (Y/n) descended the grand staircase, her dark eyes gleaming with a sense of power and confidence. She wore a regal black and red gown that accentuated her commanding presence, a true reflection of her strong personality.

As she approached the altar where Caius stood, a smile played on Jasper's lips. He could see the undeniable connection between them, the understanding and acceptance of each other's darkness. It was a bond that few could comprehend, but one that resonated with (Y/n) and Caius.

Jasper knew that this union would not be conventional or easy. It would be a partnership forged in the fires of their shared cruelties, a relationship that would test the boundaries of their own natures. But he also knew that it was not his place to interfere or judge.

As the ceremony began, the room filled with an atmosphere of intrigue and power. (Y/n) and Caius exchanged vows that reflected their shared desires for control and dominance. It was a ceremony unlike any other, one that celebrated their unconventional love.

That’s when he heard it, the whispers of some lowly guards in the back “Seems Chelsea did a good job on altering the brides feelings.”

“Heh, you’re telling me. It’s like she never even disagreed to the marriage to begin with.”

The priest stood at the altar, his voice resonating through the hall as he asked the fateful question, "Does anyone object to this union?" In that moment, Jasper's heart skipped a beat. His instincts, honed by years of battle and a deep understanding of emotions, screamed at him to speak up.

He couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that something was amiss, that (Y/N) was being manipulated into this marriage. His mind raced, searching for a way to intervene and protect his niece from potential harm.

With a surge of determination, Jasper stepped forward, his voice echoing through the hall. "I object!" he exclaimed, his eyes filled with concern. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him, awaiting an explanation.

Jasper took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on (Y/N). "I overheard some guards talking about Chelsea altering your feelings for Caius," he explained, his voice filled with urgency.

“I couldn't stand by and let you be manipulated into a marriage that may not be of your own free will." A flicker of surprise crossed (Y/N)'s face, but it quickly transformed into a gentle smile. She walked towards Jasper, her eyes filled with warmth and understanding.

“Uncle, thank you for your concern," she said, her voice laced with affection. "But there's no need to worry. I asked Chelsea to alter my feelings because I couldn't bear the thought of a red and black wedding. However, since it's the Volturi's theme colors and I am being welcomed into their clan, I felt it was important to follow through with it."

Jasper's eyes widened in realization, a tinge of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He had misunderstood the situation, jumping to conclusions without fully understanding (Y/N)'s intentions.

But (Y/N)'s laughter filled the air, washing away any sense of discomfort. "You were just looking out for me, Uncle Jasper," (Y/N) said, her voice filled with gratitude. "And for that, I am grateful. But rest assured, this is my choice, and I am willingly entering into this marriage."

Jasper's shoulders relaxed, a sense of relief washing over him. He had acted out of love and concern, and while his intentions were noble, he had misjudged the situation. But (Y/N)'s forgiveness and understanding reminded him of the strength of their bond.

With a nod of gratitude, Jasper stepped back, allowing (Y/N) to return to the altar. The priest, resuming his duties, continued with the wedding ceremony, the words of commitment and love filling the hall once more.

Jasper watched as (Y/n) and Caius sealed their union with a passionate kiss, their eyes filled with an understanding that surpassed conventional love. It was a moment that confirmed their commitment to each other, and Jasper couldn't help but feel a sense of acceptance.

As the festivities continued, Jasper approached (Y/n) and Caius, his expression filled with a mixture of caution and support. "Congratulations to both of you," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "May your union bring you the strength and power you seek."

(Y/n) smirked, her eyes glittering with a mix of mischief and gratitude. "Thank you, Uncle Jasper. Your acceptance means a lot to us."

Jasper nodded, his eyes meeting Caius', silently conveying his trust and vigilance. He may not fully understand or condone their darkness, but he would always be there for his niece, supporting her choices and protecting her when needed.

In that moment, Jasper realized that love came in many forms, and family bonds could transcend conventional norms. He would continue to love (Y/n) fiercely, even if he didn't always agree with her choices. After all, she was his niece, and he would always be there for her, no matter the darkness that surrounded their world.

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marketfreshfics · 1 month

Text

The Stratagem Strain - Part III

Plot summary: Arriving at Hogwarts for an advanced graduate program on the direct appointment of the Minister for Magic himself, Paisley Gallos anticipates a successful sixth year of classes. Unbeknownst to her, she is a pawn in a sinister ploy orchestrated long before the start of the school year.

WARNING: This chapter contains scenes of graphic violence, blood and gore.

Theophilus Harlow was never fond of taking orders, despite his immaculate delivery on the follow-through. Were it anything else besides this momentous occasion, he’d employ one of the handlers at Horntail Hall to check this mess off the to-do list. His compliance was bound to Rookwood's authority and reinforced by the occasional galleon payment. Thus, albeit warily, he resolved with a trademark determination to see this task through to its conclusion.

No stranger to the grittier aspects of his line of work, this assignment would undoubtedly earn him a prominent mention on his professional dossier. The honour was not lost on Harlow; he understood the weight of the curse that churned within his gut—a responsibility he considered both a gift and a source of potent authority. Every detail of the forthcoming endeavour had been meticulously planned, and he stood poised to initiate the chain of events with unwavering resolve.

Naturally, there was a sense of accomplishment. Pride and prestige for being entrusted with setting the components in motion, toppling the first domino, privy to watch as the rest of them fell on the next in line, the forward momentum of disaster and death brought on by his move. He could watch from his vantage point at the start of everything and see the fruits of his labour sprout, bud, flower, and decay in that kingdom of the beginning of the end. The prospect made his mouth swim.

Still, the idea of whetting his whistle with swill this evening fouled his insides.

“Mudblood little bitch.”

“What was that, boss?” The Ashwinder recruit piped up, tugging his snake-emblem bandana over his mouth and nose.

Harlow let out a curt groan. “Keep an eye out. They’ll be along any moment now, and I want to get the jump on ‘em.”

The recruit fidgeted with his wand, tossing it between his palms. "And, the plan?"

“She’ll be travelling with another student,” Harlow interjected with a steely edge. “Make quick work of them, y’hear? Can't leave any witnesses.”

The Ashwinder shifted his weight uneasily, swaying back and forth like a jittery pendulum in an attempt to quash his nerves.

Harlow sighed wearily, the weight of impatience palpable. “Oh come now, don’t bloody well tell me you’re one of those soft ones. You let an Ironbelly singe your arse hairs off, but the idea of snuffing out a mopey teenager is too much?”

“They’re just kids, boss.”

Harlow threw him a loaded cannon of glare.

The Ashwinder relented, throwing his hands up. “Alright, alright! I’ll get it done.”

Harlow sniffed the air, catching a faint lick of life on the barely-there breeze. Even through the slight mist, he could discern the subtle aroma of two heartbeats, synchronized in rhythm, growing more tantalizing with each step forward that carried them closer. It was a slow build to savour, a crescendo of anticipation, waiting for the wren to perch so the fox could snap it up. The sensation thrilled Harlow to the core, matched only by his unrelenting thirst.

As footsteps scattered pebbles on the path, marring the scent of blood with upturned dirt, an involuntary growl bubbled within Harlow's throat.

“Which one are you taking, again?” The Ashwinder wielded his wand, his gaze darting toward Harlow for guidance.

Harlow pinched the brim of his bowler hat, his gaze filled with predatory intent.

“The girl. Dispose of the boy, whatever means possible.”

It wasn’t every day that Paisley found herself comparing ratios of Bertie Botts bean flavours based on package size, but Sebastian seemed intent on making it a topic of debate, no doubt to help distract her ping-ponging fears. His freckle-dusted grin broadened before he popped another unsuspecting bean in his mouth, and his complacent expression deemed it savoury. “Honestly, I think the amount of bad versus good beans depends on how the candymaker was feeling that day.”

Paisley couldn't help but emit a derisive snort. “You cannot be serious.”

“There’s a kernel of truth to it,” Sebastian argued. “I’ve been a loyal customer to Honeydukes since my first year, even had the odd treat of stopping in before that when my parents were still around.”

A twinge of discomfort knotted her insides at the underlying tension there. Instead of addressing it, plenty dredged in the difficult anxiety of the present, she deftly changed tack. “Do they change flavour varieties often?”

“Nah.” His response was a chew of sound, of gelatin lodged between teeth. “They’ve been pretty consistent since I was a child, I’m guessing far beyond that as well. But I often wonder how they decide which boxes receive more good beans than bad." A sudden spark of animation lit up his features. "I swear, there was one week when I indulged excessively, and every box I opened contained nothing but delightful flavours! It felt like striking gold. Must have been a stroke of luck from the sweets-maker himself..." “Perhaps someone warmed his bedroll.”

Sebastian nearly choked on his candy. “That’d do it-”

The paradigm shifted so abruptly, so entirely, as Paisley was snatched up before her brain could detect the threat, a blur of broad, striped waistcoat dragging her into the dense cover of the Forbidden Forest. A silencing charm swiftly cut off her shrill scream, planned and executed with chilling precision.

And before Sebastian could even react, dropping the box of sweets to retrieve his wand, he was already dodging a blasting curse from an Ashwinder.

“Paisley?” The underlying silence behind the zips and thrums of spell barrages heading his way caused Sebastian's voice to become tense mid-battle. He prioritized shield charms, suspecting, correctly, that the dark wizard would employ some more unsanctioned forms of magic. A hex narrowly skimmed his shoulderblade, passing over the arc of his shield spell, and the Slytherin countered with Confringo.

The Ashwinder was fast on his feet, tucking and rolling in the nick of time, and as he took a moment to right himself Sebastian bolted off the main path, diverting towards the Forbidden Forest, sprinting along the dirt path and past the countless signs foreboding the danger within.

Caught in Harlow's overpowering grasp, Paisley found herself ensnared, her resistance futile against the immense force. She made twisted attempts to break away, but she was entangled in his sinister hold, her flailing movements a tragicomic dance of rebellion against an unchangeable force.

As Harlow's eerie laughter echoed through the air, Paisley's heart sank as she realized how far they had travelled in what seemed like an instant. A chilling sensation enveloped her as she struggled to make sense of their inexplicable journey, of the distance traversed in moments. Her logical mind desperately sought answers, even in the face of danger.

“Your little friend is trying to find you,” He looked at her with disdain, his breath fanning heat and horror on her face. She sensed the spell that had silenced her starting to weaken, her audible grunts of resistance serving as proof, while Harlow continued chiding her. “But I doubt he’ll be so friendly once he does. Perhaps he can be your first meal…”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Still confused by his uncontrollable power over her, Paisley mumbled under her breath as she writhed in fruitless attempts to break free. It terrified her, for more reasons than one.

Harlow grinned darkly at her, then leaned in, mouth open wide, targeting her throat.

“Diffindo!”

Paisley's spell struck Harlow point-blank, the abrupt impact freeing her. She took advantage of the moment to scuttle backwards, creating distance, but the outcome of her quick wandwork was nightmare fuel in itself. The spell shredded through his shoulder cap, flaying his skin, altering his silhouette. The sight of his exposed bone, with its pale pink and white hues, was disturbing enough, let alone the flesh torn asunder to reveal the pulsating agony beneath. The dark wizard howled more in shock than pain, exhaling forcefully through his flared nostrils as he glared knives into her.

“You bitch…”

It would have been an ideal opportunity for escape then, but as Harlow composed himself, Paisley observed in startled fascination as his shoulder miraculously started to heal right before her eyes. A network of muscle fibres wove around his humerus, connecting with the sinew of bone and nerves, while a fresh layer of skin and visceral enveloped it all, similar to wrapping meat in butcher paper. The bizarre nature caught Paisley off guard, and as Harlow approached, he smirked with irritation. “Well, that pissed me off.” He lunged toward her, but she managed to evade the forward motion, relying on her agility to navigate through the thick bramble around her. She winced as the thorny branches snagged on her forearms, leaving angry, red, weeping scratches on her skin. Her sole focus was to escape from his line of sight, so she could stun or maim him further.

Harlow's head twitched, the scant scent of blood piercing the veil of focus, and a snarl-turned roar ripped from his throat. In an instant, her attention shifted behind her, fully aware that his threat dug beyond the mere barrier of simple harm. With determination, she raised her wand and unleashed another spell, this time shooting Glacius with intent.

The freezing charm struck Harlow's dominant arm, fusing his wand to his palm. With determination, he clenched his jaw as he shook off the layer of frost, raising the conduit of his dark magic to hurl a stun toward Paisley, which she promptly dodged.

Engrossed in an intense exchange of magic, the two ventured further into the Forbidden Forest, the canopy of trees growing denser, the daylight diminishing rapidly. And despite how steadfast she was in her resolve, Paisley couldn’t help but sense that fate had already predetermined the predicament. She glowered at Harlow, before dodging a disarming spell, countering with---

“Bombarda!” Sebastian nearly swung a full rotation around a tree trunk, narrowly evading the Ashwinder's attack. With wide eyes, he observed the enemy preparing to cast another spell his way. Ducking each of his limbs behind the sprawling white oak, he anticipated the impact of the spell on the tree. As the fractured bark shattered and splinters flew outwards, he seized the opportunity to unleash a torrent of Incendio toward his attacker.

“Ah!” The Ashwinder yipped, evidence that Sebastian’s spell hit paydirt. The wizard shook off the stray flames, caught on his pant leg, but it wasn't enough to hinder. “You’ll get raked for that!” He hollered, but Sebastian was already on the move, rolling down an embankment to transition to an entirely different path, intent on confusing his pursuer as he ambled upright into a full sprint again. He refrained from looking back, as the audible crunch of gravel beneath his feet served as a constant reminder of the Ashwinder's near pursuit. Projectiles of red swiftly passed by in close proximity, his erratic running pattern seemingly far from foolish for how effective it proved, and at one point he observed that he managed to dodge a stray tail of green light from a spell he had never seen before--

“Petrificus Totalis!”

Sebastian's body went stiff, his arms rigid at his sides, and he collapsed to the ground, letting out a pained groan as he felt the sting of broken skin along his forehead. The shit-eating grin of the Ashwinder evolved to a guffaw, much to Sebastian's chagrin. He approached Sebastian, panting with self-assured swagger, as if he had just proven himself by outsmarting a student. “About time you stopped trying to scurry off, little rat.”

The dark wizard nudged Sebastian’s petrified form and rolled him over, rendering him face-up. He sneered down with disdain in a sordid, pathetic demonstration of authority. “I’ve got you now…” Sebastian sensed the wane of the petrification charm, though he remained motionless, not letting a single breath escape. Drawing upon his duelling experience, he awaited the moment when the unsuspecting Ashwinder would raise his wand, providing patience over power. There would be one opportunity, no more; with the incoming Expulso spell at such proximity, the sheer force of impact alone would likely stop his heart.

Once the spell manifested, Sebastian immediately flicked his wand upwards, uttering, “Protego!”

As expected, the shield deflected the spell. It ricocheted and returned to the caster, sending the dark wizard flying backwards in a somersault through the air. His cry came to an abrupt halt as he collided with the nearby cliff face, a sickening crunch sealing his fate.

Wholly unprepared to investigate after the Ashwinder remained still for several heart-wrenching seconds, Sebastian pivoted on his heel in the direction where his newfound companion had been taken away. He hoped above all else that the last of his luck had not run up just then.

Luck was not generous to Paisley. Her competencies in magic combat were remarkable, with spellwork finessed from dedication to her craft, Still, she was not prepared to take on Harlow, deftly avoiding her spells and leaving her in frustrated awe of his dexterity. He appeared to defy the laws of physics with every blurred sidestep, and Paisley couldn't help but wonder whether he had enhancement beyond what mere mortals could achieve.

“Accio!”

Paisley was abruptly pulled airborne towards her kidnapper, who yanked her wand from her dominant hand with a grin before she hit the ground. Her struggle only amused her impromptu captor, his smirk a testament to dominance.

Harlow caught Paisley’s leg, and despite her kicks and thrashes, his inhuman strength managed to keep a hold of her, dragging her through the underbrush without cause or care for the scrapes and bruises she acquired along the way. “Let, me, go!” She grit through a clenched jaw, curling her torso upright to claw his arm, anything to get him to release her or loosen his grip, but her attempts were met with cruel indifference.

“Ah, a fighter are ye?” Harlow’s snide remark sunk in, wholly entertained as he pinned her to the dirt with an elbow pushing between her ribs, forcing the air from her lungs faster than she could welcome it in. “ That’s good, you'll need it… but for now, you’re just makin’ this more difficult than it needs to be, kid.”

His mouth opened wide, angled at her neck, his intentions clear. When the realization hit, panic surged through Paisley, her cries of terror rending the air as she pleaded for salvation, her mind racing with thoughts of escape, of rescue. Had Sebastian managed to escape from that other wizard?

In the depths of her terror, Paisley clung to a desperate hope, a fervent wish that she alone would bear the weight of the impending tragedy. It was a selfish plea amidst the chaos of her ordeal. She prayed, with every fibre of her being, that she would be the sole victim of Harlow's depravity this fateful evening. For in that moment of anguish, the alternative was too monstrous to contemplate — the thought of another soul enduring the same fate, the same agony, was a burden far too heavy at this moment. And so, amidst the turmoil that harassed her hopeless soul, she clung to that solitary hope, a fragile thread of solace in the darkness that threatened to consume her whole.

His razor-sharp incisors lacerated her jaw as he missed his mark once, twice, then thrice, still a novice to feeding on something so alive and virile.

Paisley was determined to thwart his progress, writhing and coughing through the pinch point of his arm to her chest. Harlow muttered an expletive, withdrew his wand, and prodded her chin.

“Arresto Momentum!”

Paisley was rendered immobile, and her fate was sealed.

Harlow gave no pause or reprieve, finally biting into Paisley’s throat.

Suction pulled her jugular into his mouth, and he consumed her blood, her accelerated pulse practically flushing it to him willingly, as each heartbeat became a morbid offering. Paisley's final scream rent the air as the stopping charm faded, its fruitless attempt at intervention fading into obscurity, and the darkness swallowed her gargled pleas.

At that moment, Sebastian let the echo of her howl guide the way, his heart clenched with a mixture of dread and despair. The flicker of hope that sustained him faltered, its fragile flame threatened by the relentless onslaught of despair, like the first unsuccessful attempt to blow out a candle, bending the flame to near extinguishment.

“No…” A cold dread settled over him in a suffocating shroud. Sickening certainty assured him that his intervention would come too little, too late, a bitter realization. The burden of self-doubt bore down upon him with crushing force, doubling his center of gravity until he felt liable to collapse under its oppressive weight. He couldn’t manage to keep a classmate safe on a routine trip to Hogsmeade; what good was he for even attempting to cure his sister? Paisley’s already sapped strength was being let out entirely, her heartbeats slowing, her lungs rendered dormant. But for all the pain of holding on, therein lay a tranquil acceptance of the inevitable. As her life came to a close, she felt a strange sense of peace wash over her, as if the forest itself conspired to cradle her in its embrace. In the stillness of that fateful moment, the spectre of death loomed ever closer, its gentle whispers beckoning Paisley forth with a solemn invitation, and it was an all too familiar friend in the end.

And yet, amidst the darkness, a yearning stirred within her.

Oh, how she wished she could see the stars one last time…

Before she lost consciousness, she witnessed Harlow slash his finger, inserting it into her mouth, and then spreading his blood across her tongue. Fortunately, at that point, she lost the ability to taste.

And then Paisley slipped into the very last sleep she would ever experience.

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