#and another thing about the word dissociate | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kylobith · 21 hours

Text

Memory Lane

Characters: Astarion, Tav, Rolan, Wyll, Astarion's parents, Karlach, Shadowheart, Gale, Lae'zel

Tav: Gender-neutral/Non-binary Half-Drow Sorcerer

Tropes: Angst, Friendship, Platonic Relationship, Found family, Healing

Word count: 10,605 Read here on Ao3

Summary: Now that Faerûn is saved from the Absolute and everybody is learning to resume their lives, Astarion is submerged by a desire to recover memories from his past. Before Cazador, before his transformation. And Tav is determined to help him.

Could it be that there is somebody out there still waiting for him?

(Inspired by this post by @a-darling-thing)

Everyone is safe.

The streets of Baldur’s Gate bustle anew in the late hours. Taverns and inns have long been rebuilt as havens of peace after the narrowly avoided end of the world. Some have complained that their restoration has been privileged over the many homes lost. Others claim that it is a question of boosting morale amid darkness. No matter your opinion, if you venture the streets of Baldur’s Gate, you will hear cheers and songs belted out by souls who have seen too much gloom. Most lost dear ones. Most looked death in the eyes and got to live another day.

Everyone is safe.

There has been word from other lands that life is resuming and prosperous. The Shadow-cursed Lands were given breath again by the light of the Nightsong, and a small group has been working relentlessly to make it liveable again. No good-hearted soul should be barred from settling there, they believe, and they know that, soon, children’s laughter will fill the air again along birdsong.

Everyone is safe.

But not all are sane.

Sat in one of the red armchairs of Sharess’ Caress with his gaze empty, Astarion drowns his boredom and anguish in exquisite wine. Swirling the rich burgundy nectar inside his glass, he lets out yet another sigh, not bothering to acknowledge salutations from grateful survivors who recognise one of the city’s saviours.

There is a dimness to his ruby eyes that has not faded since he was rid of the tadpole gnawing at his brain. Shadowheart has never questioned him about it—she was never one to pry, after all. How could he even put the words on this ache that has seeped so deeply within him that it planted its claws into his bones?

No matter how often he has attempted to clear his mind for a good rest, it creeps back in and churns his guts with an uneasy anguish. It has been weeks since he last tranced for a full day or night. Most of the time, he finds himself staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open.

And he drinks.

Drinks again.

Until the feeling becomes somewhat dulled.

But not quite.

Around the corner, a silhouette enters the corridor, passing by the few groups of talkative people. It heads straight towards Astarion, and he deliberately ignores it. He would recognise the aroma of this blood in a crowd of thousands. As they sit in the empty chair beside him, he sighs and chugs the rest of his wine. He tosses the empty glass onto the table and decides to take full swigs from the bottle instead.

Screw appearances. For once.

‘You look like shit.’

Astarion scoffs.

‘Good evening to you too, darling,’ he muses sarcastically.

Tav rolls their eyes and leans back into the armchair, drinking from a foamy mug of ale. Since the vampire does not utter a single word, uninterested in carrying out this conversation if it started this way, they decide to take the matter into their own hands.

‘Astarion, you look like you haven’t had proper rest since the Nautiloid. What’s going on? Really going on?’

At last, the pale elf casts a cold glance towards their former travel companion. He wants to play coy as he always does, sweet talk his way out of this conversation and possibly make his way downstairs to pay for company to warm his sheets. After all, that has always been the only way for him to not feel. Ministrations betwixt the sheets always do the trick. Dissociating would perhaps allow him to sleep soundly at last. Lose touch with his hurt by twisting the dagger into old ones whose pain he has long grown accustomed to.

But his tongue burns with the will to spill out all the words entrapped in his silent heart. That lump that has been occupying his throat for weeks now threatens to rupture.

Tav is safe. He tries to remind himself of that every so often when he catches himself spiralling with nightmares and terrors that leave him in dire want of a friend to vent to.

When has Tav ever let him down? Without them, he would not have fed properly for the first time in two centuries. He would never have survived the tadpole on his own. His hubris and unbridled cockiness would have caused his death at the first encounter out of the Nautiloid. But Tav has never minded.

Tav accepts him. Perhaps too blindly at times, truth be told. But they give him the space he needs to explore his newfound freedom. When sewer creatures and rats fail to fill his belly, Tav always offers some of their blood to keep him alert and healthy until they can find something better on the surface. They buy books in the city to keep him company when the sunlight makes his city hostile to his very existence. They often keep him updated on life out there, and even on gossip they could not care less about, but they know will keep him occupied for a few hours.

In other words, Tav is the only person he could ever express his distress to. Only they could understand.

Astarion groans and slams the empty wine bottle on the table, making the toppled glass quiver.

‘I know it’s stupid, alright?’ he starts with a disgruntled expression etched onto his refined traits. ‘Ever since we saved the city and killed Cazador, all I’ve been craving is to move on. To start over, I suppose. But…’

Attempting to find the right words to express his angst, he clicks his tongue.

‘Now that almost all is possible, that I’ve got eternity ahead of me, I can’t stop thinking about who I was before it all. Before the Gurs attacked me that fateful night and Cazador found me.’

Tav wipes some foam sticking to their upper lip with the back of their sleeve, which, honestly, makes Astarion want to screech considering that their garment is made of silk.

‘You mean your past when you were still alive?’

‘Is that not what I said?!’ Astarion snaps, before exhaling slowly. ‘My apologies. I’m still trying to figure out what I want.’

His friend listens attentively and considers his words. It does not surprise them in the least to hear this plea of his. If anything, they have been wondering when he would eventually voice this desire to uncover his past. As much as the vampire strives to build a secure and comfortable future for himself despite his predicament, he is somebody who inherently lives in the past. Nobody can blame him for that. Tav certainly does not.

‘What is it you want to know about your past, exactly?’

Astarion’s eyebrows raise and crease his forehead. In all honesty, he has never thought about that. The lack of memories is usually what he broods over, but never has he thought of questions he would seek answers to if, suddenly, all his memories could be restored. Would he like to know what his favourite dish was? Would he rather remember his usual schedule and routines? Or, perhaps, would he prefer to reminisce about what made him feel alive then?

As one of the waitresses passes in the corridor, Tav orders another bottle of red for him. Before long, an uncorked bottle of elegant Waterdhavian spirits is placed in front of him, beside a clean cup. Without waiting for him to reach out, they serve him a glass and bring the chalice to his hand.

‘I think I want to know about the people who raised me,’ he mumbles with a frown. ‘It’s silly, I know, but I wonder if I still have family out there.’

Tav smiles and gently clinks their mug against his cup.

‘It’s not silly at all, Astarion. They could tell you stories of your youth, and help you remember. And I’m sure that they would provide for you and introduce you to members of your clan whose births you missed.’

Astarion exhales sharply out of his nose with a corner of his lips raised. His eyes roll towards Tav.

‘You’re indulging me again.’

‘Indulging you in what, exactly? Supporting you in wanting to rediscover your path is hardly indulging you. It’s not a far-fetched wish, I’ll have you know.’

They grin at each other and drink.

‘Even if I wanted to go down this road, I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, my situation doesn’t quite allow me to investigate either.’

With a shrug, Tav sets down their ale on the table, belching before leaning back.

‘I could look for them for you. Tell me anything you remember, and I’ll work from there.’

Astarion cocks an eyebrow again and stares at them for longer than he thinks.

‘You would do that? For me? But what’s in it for you?’

‘If you still think I do stuff for you for my own gain, then what’s our whole adventure been for? Perhaps I just want to see you happy, ever thought about that?’

‘Hah. I don’t know if I want to be happy myself. There wouldn’t be anything left to improve.’

‘I suppose. But your heart would be lighter,’ they insist, poking his arm. ‘Come on, Starry, let me help you. Do you remember anything?’

The pale elf sighs and chugs his first cup of Waterdhavian red, exhaling as it coats his tongue and drops down his throat.

‘Ancunín.’

It is the half-drow’s turn to eye him curiously.

‘Sorry?’

The vampire runs a hand through his hair, still staring into emptiness.

‘Ancunín. It was my surname, once.’

‘A pretty one at that.’

Amused by the compliment, he clicks his tongue again and playfully rolls his eyes. He tosses a leg over the other and shakes his foot.

‘And I’m the smooth talker?’

‘Most of the time,’ Tav responds with a snort. ‘Ancunín, then… Very well. I’ll start from there.’

The next morning, when the city rouses from its slumber, Tav is already out and about, determined to find anything about Astarion’s family. Since a part of the city’s archives have been displaced until the building in the Upper City is fully rebuilt, their first instinct is to head to one of the centres of knowledge in all of the city.

As they cross the threshold of Sorcerous Sundries, they are welcomed at the reception by a familiar figure.

‘Welcome to Sorcer—oh! By the gods, Tav, it is good to see you here!’

Tav grins and embraces the tiefling, who leans over the counter, nearly climbing on it.

‘Good morning, Lia. Everything still going smoothly for you in the city?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the bubbly young woman chimes, ‘Cal and I bought our first house in the Lower City. It isn’t much, but it’s quite an upgrade compared to the rocky road!’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Lia beams with joy and Tav can see her long tail whipping the floor excitedly behind her. It seems that the tiefling is truly happy to see them again.

‘But I assume that you aren’t here to talk about the house,’ she whispers. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Is Rolan available? I would like to ask him something about the part of the city’s archives that was brought to Ramazith's Tower.’ ‘Oh. Well. He should already be up, I believe. Go upstairs, third portal.’

‘Thank you. Send my love to Cal for me, will you?’

‘Will do!’

Without further ado, Tav climbs up the stairs above the front desk to find the upper floor, where four buzzing portals offer passage to different locations. The contraption is identical to the riddle that Lorroakan set up with the Nightsong, but there is something so incredibly Rolan about it.

The plaques which bore the different answers to the simple question that helped Lorroakan narrow down the flow of visitors to only let the serious ones in have long been tossed into a broom closet and forgotten. None of the portals bears a riddle of any kind, and passage to the wizard’s tower is left to chance. The fear of what is on the other side of each threshold is enough to deter any visitor and leave the tower secluded in its own peace and quietness. Zero is precisely the number of visitors that Rolan loves.

Following Lia’s instructions, Tav steps through the third portal and finds themself transported to a brightly-lit observation floor. Astronomical instruments and tools are posted at each window, ready to be manipulated and appreciated. Between a few richly ornamented bookshelves bearing nothing but volumes on the universe, the sky and celestial bodies, there is a mahogany desk illuminated by the lofty arches of the balcony. Piles of scrolls and open tomes bear witness to an ongoing, arduous research.

Tav glances around, hoping to find somebody. Anybody. But there is no soul in sight. Since they do not wish to impose, they are retracing their steps towards the portal, when a grunt resonates in their back.

‘Ugh, Lia will really let anyone in. Excuse me!’

Before leaving him a chance to begin one of his numerous grumpy monologues, Tav turns around and waves. The other tiefling gasps in surprise.

‘It’s you! I was wondering if you even made it out alive! Mh. Should I be surprised that you did? Not that I care.’

Tav snorts and approaches him. Despite the animosity that the wizard has often held against them, he allows a smile to play on his lips, wrinkling his amber eyes and creasing his freckled nose.

‘Morning, Rolan,’ they chime. ‘Love what you did with the place. You gave it a homely feeling.’

At the compliment, Rolan’s orange-red complexion darkens around his cheeks.

‘Thank you, Tav. What brings you here after weeks of not hearing from you?’

‘I was wondering if one needs any special permission to have access to the city’s archives that were brought to you.’

The wizard gestures towards a seat in front of his desk, while he sits behind it, ignoring the mess.

‘Not that I know of. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m trying to find anything about Astarion’s family and see if, perhaps, there are any survivors in the city.’

‘Ah, yes. Him.’

Upon the mention of the vampire’s name, the wizard scrunches up his nose. Nevertheless, he seems to give it a thought, folding his hands before him.

‘I do have some records from previous censuses. Would that be of any help?’

‘Most likely.’

‘What information do you already possess? I have some free time on my hands, I can help you look,’ Rolan adds with a smirk. ‘For once, it is you who needs my help, after all. How could I sleep on this opportunity?’

Tav shakes their head in amusement and takes out a crumpled piece of parchment from their pocket, handing it over to the tiefling. He grabs it and peeks inside, only to find a single word scribbled on it.

‘Ancunín?’

‘That’s his surname. All I know and all he can remember is this name, and the fact that he grew up in a noble family.’

‘Mh. Researching noble families from the city should not be a daunting task. Crests, acts of inheritance and the like should be kept within the archives. I would not be surprised if all records from the nobility are kept together. Hopefully, it is the case and our research will be all the quicker thanks to it.’

He drags himself out of his chair and beckons Tav over as he walks away. They follow him, avoiding small talk as they quickly realised during their adventure that it is one of Rolan’s pet peeves. Talking to say nothing? It makes his skin crawl.

The wizard leads them to the lower floors and into one of the high-security vaults where he has been keeping and guarding the documents entrusted to him. Memorising the orthography as well as the archival system used by the authorities, he begins to browse the collection, his clawed fingertip grazing the worn-out back of the numerous volumes on a shelf.

‘I see a registry of Upper City families here. Look for an Ancunín family in there while I keep looking. There is a desk in the corner.’

Tav grabs the heavy tome that Rolan hands them and carries it over to the unoccupied desk in the corner, supporting it with their hip. Despite their attempt to be careful, they inadvertently slam the book on the table—earning a disapproving glare from their host—and open it. Their outstretched finger trails down a pages-long list of clan names, hoping to find the only one that matters. In the background, the flipping of pages and the weight of books sliding onto the shelves make for the only distraction available.

‘So, any luck?’

They look up and close the tome with a shake of the head.

‘I don’t see Ancunín in there. Perhaps he didn’t live in the Upper City.’

‘Mmh. Let’s keep searching, then. Bring the volume back, I wouldn’t want to lose any of the archives. The authorities trusted a tiefling to guard their belongings, I would not want to waste this opportunity.’

When Rolan instructs them to do it, they are already halfway through the room with the volume in hand. They place it back carefully and join the tiefling in the search for other possible traces of the Ancunín family. As they peruse the archives together, Tav eyes the wizard with a lopsided grin.

‘Busy with research, I noticed. What wonderful things are you studying?’

Rolan drops an arm by his side, flattening his heels against the polished floor and flicking his other wrist.

‘It is an incredibly fascinating subject, really, so much so that academics from all around Faerûn gave it its orthodox name, “None of Your Business”.’

Tav rolls their eyes and snorts, resuming the task at hand.

‘Always a pleasure to talk to you, huh? Well. At least you learnt sarcasm on your journey.’

Their comment is welcomed by a grunt, followed by a good-humoured chuckle. A few seconds later, they find two volumes compiling deaths in Baldur’s Gate for the past three centuries and take a seat at the desk to go through the lists together.

‘The death certificates are kept separately, from what I know,’ Rolan declares while opening one of the volumes and flipping through the first pages, ‘but if Astarion technically died in the city, his name should be recorded in there.’

They start reading the names, careful not to touch the pages too much considering how old the ink is.

‘Mh,’ the tiefling breaks the silence again, ‘from what I gather, each deceased person has the death certificate number written in the last column. If you find Astarion, you should write down the number and visit the part of the archives that is guarding certificates and official documents. Perhaps the names of his relatives are stated on it, although I suspect that you are more likely to find this information on a birth certificate. I’m not sure how bureaucracy works here, exactly.’

‘It’s a mess, that’s all you need to know,’ Tav sighs. ‘Hopefully, I can get my hands on a possible birth certificate by finding his death certificate?’

‘Possibly. I imagine that they are kept together.’

For the next hour, they go through the lists of deaths occurring roughly around two hundred years ago. Since Astarion did not give Tav a precise date—either out of forgetfulness or by omission—it only makes the search trickier for the both of them. Before either of them grows frustrated, they agree to broaden their focus by a span of sixty years around the two-hundred-year mark. Rolan agrees to research prior dates and Tav, later ones.

Without fail, another hour later, Rolan taps the page he is reading.

‘There he is.’

Feeling excitement well up inside their chest, Tav drags their chair over to sit next to the tiefling and have a look at the line that he is showing them.

In elegant calligraphy, typical of official records, the vampire’s name is squeezed between countless others.

Astarion Ancunín. Born 1229. Dead 1268. 39. Exsanguination. Buried (LCNE). 0181901781413

The mere sight of his name among all of the others makes Tav’s heart tighten. They bow their head almost in solemn reverence as they read it, despite knowing that they will find Astarion in the sewers later to inform him of their findings. Even with the excitement of having found a clue in the puzzle of the pale elf’s past, it is quite odd to find him in such a register.

For the first time since vanquishing the Absolute, it occurs to them that this simple entry in the record could have well been definitive, had the company failed their mission. While some of their former companions still had people to mourn them, who would have shed a tear for Astarion? Everybody thought him dead already. Even Cazador was no longer around to brood over the loss of the remaining piece of his black mass.

Tightening their fist against their thigh, Tav vows to themself that they will find at least one person from Astarion’s family and reunite them. Even if that means having to dig up a body in the middle of the night and cast Speak with Dead.

Rolan nudges the piece of parchment with Astarion’s surname on it against Tav’s other hand. He hands them a quill, already dipped in ink.

‘Write the certificate number down,’ he speaks gently. ‘You will need it.’

They obey mechanically, copying the number from the register and the dates of birth and death. When they hand the quill back to the wizard, they scrunch up their nose.

‘Exsanguination. Bullshit. Beat up and left for dead!’

‘Don’t get sentimental, Tav,’ the tiefling’s firm tone scolds at once. ‘Records can be deceitful and they sometimes embellish facts, even if we believe them to be models of truth. Besides, the causes of death omit gruesome details as much as possible so they can be standardised. Just… rejoice in the fact that he’s still undead and well, I suppose.’

‘You’re right. Sorry.’

Rolan furrows his brow and gently pats their hand, before standing up and collecting the books.

‘Now, your best bet is to go to the city’s archives directly. Ask them where they keep the certificates, if they’re still on-site or if they’ve been displaced.’

‘I wish I could. Don’t they require special authorisations to visit the archives, now? It will take me weeks before I can have one. If I ever do.’

Once the wizard has placed the registers back in their spot, he pats the dust off of his hands and turns around to face them with a shrug.

‘Didn’t you travel with the son of the Grand Duke? The devil with one eye?’

Tav snaps their fingers with a gasp.

‘Wyll! You’re right! And, if that’s not enough, Grand Duke Ravengard does owe me for saving his life.’

‘Didn’t he already pay that back by fighting against the Absolute?’

‘That was… the right thing to do. But still, surely, he can put in a good word for me.’

‘Mh.’

It is not until the next day, when Wyll has found a window in his schedule, that Tav meets with him. Escorted by two members of the Flaming Fist, they are brought to the Blade of Frontiers’ shiny new office in the Upper City. Upon entering, the familiar figure of their former travelling companion, now devoid of devil horns, stands up from the chair and the guards are dismissed with a simple order.

Wyll beams with joy at the sight of his visitor, and he wastes no time bypassing his desk to approach them with his arms wide open.

‘Tav, my friend! Ah, what a sight for one sore eye!’

The warlock lets out a hearty laugh and the pair joins in a tight embrace, patting each other’s back.

‘I’m so happy to see you, Wyll,’ Tav chimes. ‘Look at you! You look amazing! And look at this office! Who knew that you were cut for bureaucracy after all?’

‘Ah, nevermind the office, I am hardly ever here,’ he responds with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘They deemed that I should have one for my administrative tasks, but truth be told, I am never happier than on the field itself.’

‘Not surprising. But I thought that the Fist had their headquarters in the southwest?’

‘Most of the building is under maintenance due to the Nautiloid shellings. This is all temporary.’

Tav nods and glances around, genuinely impressed by the office in itself. But before they can truly admire it, Wyll clears his throat.

‘What can I help you with?’

‘I was wondering if you knew of a way to have access to the city’s archives. There is a document I wish to consult, and possibly related ones if I can find them.’

‘What sort of document, if I may ask?’

There is no use lying to Wyll, they realise. Not only could he be the key to the archives, but he is a friend. A dear one at that.

‘Astarion wishes to know whether he still has family in the city. From before his transformation, that is. I found a register at Ramazith's Tower with the code on his death certificate, which, Rolan said, is probably kept in the Upper City.’

‘I see. Well, as an esteemed member of the city’s bureaucratic system and the son of Grand Duke Ravengard, I can escort you to the archives myself and give you access.’

Tav’s eyes widen.

‘Really? Would you mind?’

‘Not at all! Hopefully, it won’t take too long. I do have an appointment with a recruit later on. You have the reference, you said?’

‘Right here,’ they answer, patting their breast pocket.

‘Then, shall we?’

Wyll grabs the keys to his office and locks the door on their way out. As they head towards the archives, they share news of their life now that the tadpoles no longer writhe inside their heads and danger is out of the way.

He reveals that his father, upon regaining his position as Grand Duke after Gortash’s death, named him a Blaze of the Flaming Fist. Most of his time has been spent learning the methods of the company, ensuring the proper logistics of his unit, and then filling in countless forms that left him drained by the end of the day. Despite appearing incredibly busy with his new tasks, with a bit of prying, Tav makes him admit that he has started to court a noblewoman from the Upper City and that they sometimes meet when he does not need to work for promenades through gardens or along the coast. When they ask him whether he loves her, he merely clears his throat and averts his gaze, which twinkles strongly enough for them to catch the hidden meaning behind his shyness.

As they almost reach the archives, Wyll turns to them and grins.

‘You know, I think it is a beautiful thing, what you are doing for Astarion. I knew you to be selfless, but this further proves the kindness of your heart. Not that I needed convincing, mind you.’

‘Don’t give me too much credit,’ they respond with a brief chortle. ‘I don’t even know if my new mission will succeed.’

‘But, still, this is a beautiful gesture. By the way, how is our vampire friend doing?’

‘He lives in the sewers and only comes out at night, now that he is vulnerable to sunlight again. Sometimes I bring him provisions and entertainment during the day, or we go out at night, depending on his mood.’

The new Blaze shakes his head with a sorrowful expression.

‘It breaks my heart that he can no longer enjoy the sun. It is the least that he deserves, after all of his ordeals. But I am glad that he’s got you. I wish I could visit him from time to time, but I doubt that he’d be willing to see me. He never really warmed up to me.’

‘In all fairness, sometimes it doesn’t sound like he’s warmed up to me either. But I think that, deep down, he would appreciate it. He still sees Shadowheart sometimes, but now that she has moved away, their encounters become rarer.’

‘Mh. I suppose.’

At the main gate, the guards instantly recognise Wyll and his uniform and they instantly salute him. When he explains the purpose of his visit, they clear the passage and let them both in. Inside the building itself, they are guided by one of the recordkeepers to Tav’s desired section and search for the certificate with the help of the reference number they provide from the parchment.

In no time, the librarian returns with a folder under their arm and beckons them over to one of the reading tables, illuminated by rows of candles. Settling the folder on a cushion due to its old age, she opens it and reveals the original copy of the death certificate. But, as Rolan suspected, there is no mention of Astarion’s parentage.

‘Sorry to bother you again,’ they say to the archivist, ‘but do you know if the birth certificate for this person still exists? He was born in 1229 in Baldur’s Gate.’

‘I will have a look for you.’

Tav and Wyll patiently wait for her to return, sitting at the reading tables and eyeing each other every so often, sharing awkward smiles as they refrain from chatting and disturbing those working nearby. Thankfully, it does not take long before she comes back with another folder.

‘This is the birth certificate of Astarion Ancunín,’ she whispers to them, unveiling the document. ‘If you are looking for his parentage, their names figure right here, but time has faded the ink, I fear.’

‘It remains quite legible, I believe,’ Wyll responds as Tav squints to read the handwriting. ‘The mother’s name seems to be Arallia…’

‘And his father, Elaith Ancunín,’ Tav completes the thought. ‘Is there any way to find out if these elves still live?’

‘I can peruse the latest census,’ the librarian answers, ‘but you must keep in mind that it is nearly three years old. With the attacks on the city, who knows what became of them?’

‘I would greatly appreciate your help, ma’am.’

Before they know it, Tav is back in the sewers, shuffling their feet while holding up a lantern to guide their own steps to Astarion’s latest hideout. But even before they reach it, they hear a soft whistle coming from their side. In the darkness, two bright blood-coloured irises shimmer and invite them in. Yet there is no fear. As menacing as these appearances look, they know that it could only be their friend.

‘What are you doing here?’ Tav whispers as Astarion presses a finger to his lips.

‘Minsc was looking for me again.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that he, maybe, very maybe, cares about you?’

‘Darling, do not take me for a fool!’ his grumpy tone emerges. ‘If I let him in, he will never leave!’

Tav rolls their eyes and follows him to his new lair. Once inside a makeshift shed, they both sit on the same bedroll that he travelled with during their great adventure. Despite having known mud, rocks and fungus, the thing is now smelly, stained, and rotten. Perhaps they should remember to get him a new one, one of these days.

‘So, any news of the search?’ he inquires, trying to play coy yet betraying his excitement with a nibble on his lower lip.

‘I have some, indeed.’

They smile at him and pat his shin.

‘I found your parents.’

Despite the reveal, Astarion’s reaction remains lukewarm. He huffs and crosses his arms with a crinkle of the nose.

‘Let me guess… Dead, I presume?’

‘No, actually. Very much alive.’

Within a heartbeat, Astarion’s arms loosen and his eyebrows shoot so far up his forehead that Tav worries that they will go past his hairline. There is a candid look in his eyes, a remainder of innocence in the gaze of a man who has so often relished in killing various creatures and would have been willing—more than once—to slaughter many more. It is as if his inner child has pierced through the thick armour that his hardships have driven him to forge for himself, letting himself known after being kept buried far into the depths of his person for over two centuries.

Astarion takes a moment to digest the news. How thrilling. How exciting! How so, very, frightening.

‘Do they still live in the city?’ his hushed tone inquires, almost afraid to ask.

‘I found their address in a census from three years ago. We don’t know if they survived the assault on Baldur’s Gate, but we could try. Would you like me to make contact?’

After long seconds of internal deliberation, the pale elf nods. And if his heart has long stopped beating, he can perceive the ghost of a tremor.

Three days later, Tav and Astarion find themselves on the doorstep of a grand villa in the Upper City, once the sun has mostly set and is hiding behind clouds. Dressed for the occasion, adorning fine embroideries on silk garments, the vampire cannot stop adjusting his clothes every few seconds, making himself look messier than he originally did. Swatting his hands away this time, Tav fixes his collar and sleeves for him.

‘Stop fidgeting!’

‘I’m nervous, alright?’ he hisses. ‘I don’t even know what I’m going to tell them. How do I even greet them? How did I usually do it? I can’t remember a damned thing!’

‘Calm down. Let me take the first step, maybe. And, in doubt, let them approach you first. And don’t behave like a cat if they hug you.’

The door opens and one of the servants of the house bows to them.

‘You must be Tav. We have received word of your visit. Our masters await you in their sunroom. Please, follow me.’

With one last shared glance, the pair follows the servant, and Tav discreetly slaps Astarion’s hand as he attempts to fix what does not need fixing in his appearance. Before he can protest, they raise a finger to shush him.

The maid walks them through the lavishly decorated home of her masters. The walls, adorned with elvish art and family portraits, are far from Astarion’s taste when it comes to interior design. In fact, he finds their choice so similar to Cazador’s that his stomach tightens the longer he stares. Yet, as they pass a gallery of portraits, he recognises none of the faces. And worse even, he does not see his own.

For an instant, he starts to doubt that Tav found the right people after all. The research went so quickly, he thinks to himself, it is bound to be a mistake. Perhaps they found somebody related to him but from a completely different branch of the Ancunín clan. Maybe they coincidentally have the same names. Mayhap they are not related at all.

He has no time to spiral further down in his doubt, for they now both stand at a door, whose glass is elegantly ornamented by the wooden motifs found on every other door they have passed. As the servant opens it and bows to herald their arrival, Tav places a hand on Astarion’s back, handing him a handkerchief.

‘You’re sweating,’ they whisper.

‘Thank you.’

As he quickly wipes his forehead and upper lip and sees the maid returning, he shoves the handkerchief into his pocket and straightens up. She beckons them over.

‘My masters are ready to see you. May I serve you refreshments?’

‘That… will not be necessary,’ Astarion responds, forgetting that Tav might be thirsty or hungry for mortal sustenance.

The maid steps aside to let them into the sunroom and Tav enters first to ease both parties into the reunion. They face two figures sitting stiffly in broad armchairs. On the left, a tall man with long blonde hair watches their display with an air of unspoken disdain. He pinches his thin lips, accentuating the wrinkles around his mouth and his natural frown. At first sight, they can already tell that he is no social animal. His fingers incessantly pick at the brass upholstery nails marking the border between the forest green velvet and the mahogany frame.

Beside him, a woman around his age squints at Tav. With her hands joined on her lap as she keeps her knees tight together, leaning away from her husband, her pose itself communicates that she is the judge in the home and the decision-maker. Her gown, closer to a court garment than to a lounging robe, suggests that she is often the one to speak to guests and visitors, while her husband remains in his own bubble or mulls over information conveyed to them before they deliberate in private and come to a mutual agreement. Or what he believes to be a compromise.

The cascading waves of silver-white hair shielding her pale blue eyes add an air of mystique to this woman. She is a painting come to life, blessed with the elegance and poise of the moon elves. Any glance cast towards them is stolen by her ethereal appearance, and it can be asserted, without a shadow of a doubt, which parent Astarion takes after.

Tav instantly understands that if they want the reunion to go smoothly, they have to impress her.

‘Lord and Lady Ancunín,’ they greet as they bow. ‘I sincerely thank you for accepting to receive me in your grand home.’

‘Your letter came as a surprise, I must say,’ Lady Arallia Ancunín speaks up in a cold tone. ‘Now, speak of your intentions.’

Within a heartbeat, and despite the fog that has long occupied his memories, Astarion recognises them. His breath hitches at the realisation and his eyes widen. Here they are, in the flesh; the two people he used to call ‘mother’ and ‘father’.

Tav does not need to introduce him. Arallia instantly peeks over their shoulder at the taller man standing behind them, and she hardly shows any surprise.

‘Oh. It’s you.’

All eyes turn to Astarion and, for once, he is at a loss for words. His usual cockiness and insolence are long gone in the face of his family, and if anything, it is as though he is shrinking from the attention.

With a supportive grin, Tav simply nods, giving him the strength and courage to step forward. As they did before him, he bows.

‘Lord and Lady Ancunín.’

Arallia scrutinises him without as much as a twinkle in her eye. She inspects every fold of his clothes, driving him to the brink of insanity as he becomes self-conscious over the way the light even reverbs on the embroideries. Do they insult her eyes?

‘I was wondering when you would come to our door.’

‘Who is this, dear?’ the man whispers to his wife.

Tav frowns in sheer disbelief. Perhaps the man they thought to be Elaith Ancunín was another man after all. It is possible that Arallia remarried after all this time. But the shape of his jaw still leads them to believe that it is his father. He has to be.

Arallia clicks her tongue and turns her head towards her husband without truly looking at him.

‘Oh, it’s um…’ she mumbles with a distracted wave of the hand. ‘Ah, what was his name again?’

Astarion’s world collapses in less than a second. She recognised him, yet forgot his name. Her own son, her flesh and blood. He expected shock since he has—literally—returned from the dead after more than two centuries, but oblivion? No, that was never one of the prospects. How could one forget their child? He never sired any, nor would he ever be able to, but he is sure that even a millennium after their death, he would have remembered everything about them.

All the worst scenarios flood his heart and Tav’s heart shatters at the sight. His shoulders slouch and his face falls.

‘Astarion,’ he sighs. ‘My name is Astarion.’

‘Yes. That.’

The vampire lowers his head and stares at the ground, a much more welcoming sight than his parents are. Tav squints and shifts their attention back to their hosts.

‘You said that you expected to see him again?’ they ask. ‘So, you knew that he wasn’t dead?’

‘Everybody knows, now. The mighty saviours of the Sword Coast! Among which my son, can you believe it?’

There is no hint of pride in her voice, nor of admiration. Merely contempt. Unabashed derision. As Astarion discreetly takes a step back, shaken by her reaction, Arallia raises an eyebrow.

‘Why the long face, child?’

‘Nothing, Lady Ancunín.’

She scoffs and stands up, crossing her arms against her midriff.

‘What did you expect when you showed your face here, boy? That we would cry and hug you? You are not a toddler anymore.’

‘N-No, I didn’t—’

‘You had two centuries to visit us, to let us know that you were alright. But you never came. As far as I am concerned, this ship has long sailed!’

Elaith rubs his upper lip with a finger, humming to himself.

‘It is no surprise. The boy has always been trouble,’ he declares without as much as a look towards his child.

‘Do you remember how needy he was, dear?’ Arallia adds with a short gasp. ‘Always begging for attention. Constantly! He would do anything just to get us to talk to him. I cannot handle people like that. So very impolite and embarrassing, really. It is just as well that he remained with his nanny.’

Astarion’s eyes darken and Tav gently holds the cuff of his sleeve. They cannot believe it. They are acting as though their guests are not even here, as if they are the audience of a play unfolding in that damned sunroom.

‘And now, look at him,’ Arallia continues, her upper lip curling up in a snarl. ‘A saviour of Baldur’s Gate! A hero! But I see you for what you are, boy, do not blind yourself with fantasies. I see your red eyes; I see your fangs. You are nothing but a monster.’

This is the last straw. Astarion spins around on his heel and shoves the door to the house open, storming off past the flabbergasted maid. Tav calls his name but hears no response. They turn to glare at their hosts.

‘With all due respect, Lord and Lady Ancunín—and there is none on my part—you are the only monsters in sight. You should be ashamed of yourselves and the disgrace you are to your son. He has brought nothing but honour to your clan’s name.’

They give the outraged elves a mocking bow and withdraw from the home, whispering a ‘thank you’ to the maid who showed them in. Once they slam the front door of the villa, they frantically look around, but there is no sign of Astarion. Cursing under their breath, they sprint towards the flashy sigil on one of the brick walls past the heavily guarded Baldur’s Gate. They reach out for it with their destination in mind and vanish from the surface of the Upper City.

When they emerge from the portal into the sewers, they search the countless corridors, nooks and crannies for the pale elf. They run until they are out of breath, scanning each side and calling out his name until their voice cracks and turns hoarse. Inside their chest their heart maddens, tightening at the idea of Astarion suffering alone, wherever he is. All they hope for is that he is not about to do something drastic.

Under their short breath, they pray that he is nowhere near water. They beg fate that he is keeping as far away as possible from particularly sharp objects. They despair at the idea that he might be drinking his sorrows away for the night on the shore, waiting for the sun to come up again. He would never do such things, would he?

Gods, if Astarion’s misery successfully leads him to such lengths, what would they do?

They come to a halt in a narrow corridor, whose end is nothing but a cramped chamber with a rotten wooden plank leaning against the wall. They lean over their knees, gasping for air, pressing their body to recover quickly enough so they can find their friend as quickly as possible.

But just as they start walking away, a soft whine resonates from behind the wooden plank. They snap their head around and slowly approach it with their dagger in one hand and the other outstretched in caution.

‘Hello? Is someone there?’

No response.

‘I’m pushing the plank to the side.’

As they do it, the dim light of a nearby torch reflects on the huddled-up silhouette of a man rocking himself back and forth. With his elbow resting on his knee and his fingers woven through his hair, his widened eyes peek through the gap between his forearm and his bicep.

‘Go away.’

Tav sheathes their dagger and kneels, reaching out their hand.

‘Astarion…’

‘I SAID GO AWAY!’

With a surprisingly strong shove, he topples them off their legs and glares at them as they fall into a puddle of dirty water. When they look up, all they see are the cheeks drowning under the salty tears and the look of unadulterated agony in his eyes. His traits contort and scrunch up as a strangled sob leaves his throat.

‘This is all your fault,’ he scolds. ‘You couldn’t stop yourself, could you? Being a hero, a helper, as always, without thinking about the consequences! Helping gets you off, doesn’t it? Well, I sure hope you’re happy.’

Tav’s brow furrows and they crawl up to him.

‘Hey, it is not me you should be after, it should be them. Redirect your anger at them. You were miserable and you couldn’t move on so long as you didn’t know for sure if you had a family. I searched for you and found them. They decided to be awful.’

Astarion scoffs and buries his head into the crooks of his elbows, shielding his head as though the weight of his torment is threatening to come crashing down on it. His weeping is muffled by his sleeves, but its intensity does not go unnoticed.

‘I knew it,’ he gurgles. ‘I have never been loved. I am unlovable.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You heard them! So needy… Always demanding attention… That is why I have always been alone. When I was a slave under Cazador’s yoke, I was lonely, but I least I found comfort in the idea that once upon a time, I was held and loved.’

He roughly rubs his eyes with the palm of his trembling hand.

‘But I have always been lonely. It is in my nature. I remember it all, now. Calling my mother and reaching out to her, but she would never pick me up. And my father… He would shrug and walk away as if I were nothing but a stray dog on the street.’

The vampire glares at them.

‘And that’s all I am, now. A filthy beast in the sewers!’

As he raises his fist to punch the wall, Tav swiftly catches his hand and resists the force he puts against their palm.

‘Astarion, you are none of these things,’ they speak softly, hoping to make him see reason. ‘Gods, they are the beasts, not you!’

He rolls his eyes with a scoff and drops his hand on his lap. Despite knowing that he has never been comfortable with promiscuity, they sit beside him and enfold him in their embrace. Gently rocking him from side to side, they fail to see the shock on his face.

‘And by all that is sacred, you are loved, Astarion. Shit, I never thought that I’d say this out loud, but I love you. I’m not sticking by your side out of pity, or out of obligation. I do so because I want to. Because you’re worth the effort it takes to bring you everything you want from the surface.’

‘How can you say that?’ he whimpers. ‘You’d be better off without me.’

‘Nonsense,’ they grunt, before pressing a brief kiss on the top of his head. ‘I was so scared when you disappeared. I was afraid that you’d gone and get yourself hurt, or worse. I know it hasn’t been easy on you, living here on your own and never seeing the sun again. And now, this. I swear to you, if I could ease that pain singlehandedly, I would. I would carry it with you.’

Astarion clings to them and cries on their shoulder as they clasp one another. Tav gently rubs his back, feeling tears sting their eyes in turn.

‘Losing you would’ve broken me, Astarion. Don’t you dare think for a moment that you’re unloved.’

Another moment passes where they give the vampire the time to exteriorise their pain and process the failed reunion with his parents. When, at last, he regains some of his composure, he pulls away from their embrace and leans back against the wall.

‘I never thought it would end like this,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t know what I did wrong.’

‘You did nothing wrong, Astarion. All of this is way more telling of them than it is of you. Do you want me to tell you what I found out about them at the archives?’

He eyes them curiously.

‘They are drowning in debt. Your mother has been cast away from the Grand Duke’s court for cruel comments, and most noble circles are barred from even speaking to them. Your father lost his livelihood a century ago and he relies entirely on your mother. But you? You risked your life and sanity to save the city that has been so hostile to you. Perhaps that wasn’t your goal at first, but you couldn’t bear to see your home defaced in the name of evil. You could’ve run away at any given moment, but you didn’t. You saved them, and you saved all of Faerûn. Your parents do not even hold a candle to your achievements and your growth.’

If blood could still flow through his veins, he would blush at the sincere praise that Tav presents him. It surprises him, to say the least. While they are never afraid to give compliments, they never pay them lightly. Certainly not to flatter anyone. He relaxes against them and slowly leans his head until it rests on their shoulder. ‘Without you, I would never have made it,’ he confesses. ‘You saved me from myself, more than once. You saved me from my blindness. I could have sacrificed seven thousand souls for my own gain, and sometimes it still haunts me that I didn’t. I wouldn’t suffer so…’

‘You would have lost yourself in that power. Nobody remains intact when such ambitions are given to them. Honestly, between you and Gale, it was hard to juggle,’ they add with a brief laugh.

Tav links their arm through his and gently grazes their fingertips along the sleeve in a comforting gesture. A bashful grin tugs at the corners of Astarion’s lips as he finally gets his thoughts in order.

‘What I mean to say is… Thank you. For everything.’

‘You don—’

‘Ugh, accept my damn thanks, will you?’ he groans. ‘It is not every day that I say it. Hold it against me for that one time, if you so wish!’

They look into each other’s eyes and crack up. Tav runs his fingers through his hair, and while they did anticipate a rejection, Astarion does not move. The tension in his shoulders alleviates.

‘Come live with me.’

‘What?’

Astarion frowns and stares at them, unsure whether he heard them well.

‘Come live with me. I mean it. I have enough money to buy a small house now that I sold all the armour I gathered during our journey and all the weapons I’m not using anymore.’

They shift to face him.

‘Think about it. It will be more comfortable than the sewers, and cleaner, and you can receive as many visitors as you want. It will be your home as much as mine.’

‘Darling, I cannot picture myself ducking whenever I want to pass a window to avoid sunlight.’

‘You wouldn’t have to! I can make sure to buy one of those homes with a large cellar, and that could be your flat. We’d have a common space on the ground floor, then I could have my room and a washroom upstairs, that’s all I need. We can build direct access to the cellar from outside in case you ever wish to bring some conquests.’

‘Conquests?’ he repeats with an eyebrow raised and a smug smile. ‘Darling, please, it’s less embarrassing to say “lovers”.’

Tav smirks and shakes their head.

‘It would be home, Astarion. I can still provide for you. You’ll never smell the sewers again and you can decorate the place as you like. I’ll give you full permission. Even for my bedroom.’

‘This is a dangerous game you’re playing, you know that?’

‘Maybe. But I trust your taste.’

Astarion considers the offer for a few seconds, then nods.

‘I… would like that. If you are sure that it would not be a bother to you, then…’

‘You’ll never be a bother to me, Astarion.’

The vampire and the half-drow share a smile. Tav holds out their hand, and he stares at it for a moment, before shaking it. They both entertain hope for the future. Perhaps things will be alright after all.

‘In the meantime,’ Astarion coos, pulling out a small frame from under the flap of his blazer, containing a painted portrait of Arallia he snatched from the lobby on his way out, ‘would you be interested in a game of darts?’

It takes quite a few weeks before Tav manages to purchase the small house they promised for Astarion and themself. Located in the bustling centre of the Lower City and within walking distance of the Elfsong Tavern for his entertainment, it contains almost everything that they compromised on during further discussions on the matter. It stands tall enough to overlook the bay, with a covered balcony for late-night contemplation and drinks.

Tav claimed the attic for their bedroom, not requiring more than that for themself. After years of moving from home to home in the Underdark back in the day, elementary comfort has always felt more familiar and safer than a bunch of lavish rooms, which they would not have known what to use for.

The front door stood at the top of the outside stairs leading to the middle floor. As agreed, this part of the house hosts common facilities, including a basic kitchen, a living room, and a washroom. Another enclosed space brought them much strife when it came to finding a use for it. Then, after a long brainstorming session, they decided that it would become a small library for the both of them and that they were free to borrow books from each other. He has read all of them already anyway.

As for the lower floor, at street level, it is dedicated to Astarion’s comfort. A private and spacious bedroom with an en-suite bathroom is hidden from view at the bottom of the stairs, behind antique doors that clash with the rest of the place, but which he has already grown fond of. On the other side, a walk-in closet enables him to store and cherish his clothes, with enough space for him to mend them if he wants. Only, the floor is not underground, as Tav promised, and the sight of the windows permanently barred by shutters pains the vampire. But for now, this will do.

On the day of moving in, they gather his clothes and belongings in crates and carry them to the house in the middle of the night. Within a few hours, the place is squeaky clean and each of their possessions has found its place within their humble abode. They spend the rest of the night bringing furniture in from the nearby Guildhall and designing the future improved dressing room for Astarion, drinking wine and laughing over the simplest things.

When daylight shyly pierces the windows of the living room, Tav quickly shuts the blinds. Astarion sighs; he did not think that witnessing the sunrise yet missing it at the same time would be so difficult.

Around midday, they drop everything they are doing and stretch out their sore limbs. Tav’s attention is drawn to the frame above the front door, still bearing Arallia’s portrait, but pierced by darts and riddled with empty holes.

‘Astarion, when is your birthday?’

Sprawled across the couch, he lifts his head and raises an eyebrow.

‘I don’t remember. Why do you care?’

They shuffle their feet towards him and place their hands on his hips. He has never looked so comfortable and at ease since they met almost a year ago. And they were incredibly proud to witness it.

‘I’ve been thinking. Since you don’t know when it is, do you think that today, since it is the start of your new life, could become your new birthday?'

Astarion kicks his legs off the cushions and sits up, dumbfounded by their question.

‘Mh.'

A smile plays on his lips.

‘I would like that, actually.’

‘Oh, perfect.’

‘Why?’

Tav trots up to their cloak, hanging from a peg by the entrance, and reaches into the breast pocket to take out an envelope, which has already been opened. They play with the paper for a second, enjoying the gentle crumpling sound it creates, before facing him.

‘Follow me.’

Utterly confused, Astarion hoists himself up and walks over to them, shrugging and eyeing the envelope. They open it and carefully read its contents, without letting him see any of it. Then, they shove the paper into their pocket and beam with joy.

‘May I cast a spell on you? It will not harm you, and it has been tested. No danger here.’

‘Uh… Sure. I suppose. As long as there is no wild magic outburst that brings our house down before we have even lived in it.’

They nod and concentrate for a few seconds to summon the Weave into their fingertips. As their hands glow with a powerful light, they utter an incantation and touch Astarion with their palms. Swirls of coloured light wrap around his limbs and then vanish as quickly as they initially appeared.

Astarion looks down at his body, expecting to feel different, but he does not.

‘What is it supposed to be doing? Nothing’s changed.’

As a sole answer, Tav unlocks the front door and opens it. Astarion yelps and frantically steps back, stumbling over his own foot as he flattens his back against the opposite wall, wanting to avoid the intruding sunlight threatening to reduce him to ashes.

But then, there is a cheer. He cracks an eye open and sees Wyll, Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, and a simulacrum of Lae’zel on his doorstep. Although the Gith is not nearly as excited as the rest, they all chant in unison.

‘Happy birthday, Astarion!’

With his jaw slacking, the pale elf stares at his former companions.

‘What are you all doing here?’

‘We’re here to celebrate your new life,’ Shadowheart responds with a grin.

‘A new house! I’m so proud of you, soldier!’ Karlach squeals, jumping up and down.

Tav comes over to Astarion and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

‘How about we head out to the tavern?’

The vampire scoffs and rolls his eyes.

‘It’s midday, Tav.’

‘Try it.’

‘I-I can’t.’

Wishing to show him that it is safe, Tav slips away from him and crosses the house’s threshold to stand among the rest of the group, right under the sun. Astarion shakes his head nervously, with anger pooling in his guts.

‘Now what kind of sick joke is this, Tav?’ he growls.

‘Come to us, Astarion. It’s safe.’

Tav smiles and holds out both of their hands. Hesitating at first, the pale elf slowly peels himself off the wall, staring at the inviting hands awaiting him. His whole body is trembling. His teeth are chattering. What is going on?

He cautiously steps into the halo of sunlight, but nothing happens. Forbidding himself from crying victory, he tells himself that it is not direct exposure. The real thing would reduce him to cinders. Yet, as he continues his progress, the star’s warmth gradually enfolds the skin of his outstretched hands.

Then, before he knows it, he is standing outside, surrounded by his friends, and, right above him, the sun welcomes him within its glow. Nothing is burning. There is no pain. Nothing.

He is outside. And it is warm.

He stands there for a long moment, speechless, while the others affectionately squeeze his shoulders and arms.

‘Welcome home, Astarion,’ Gale murmurs.

He turns around to face them all.

‘H-How?’

Tav pats his back.

‘Rolan, Gale and I have been devising a spell to protect you from sunlight for weeks. It is not permanent, so no hasty behaviour, please. Whenever you want to go outside, I will cast the spell on you.’

‘You—’

Words escape him. Refuse to linger even a second longer on his tongue. As tears well up in his eyes, the group gathers around him to share a tight embrace. Despite his contempt for physical contact, knowing after all this ordeal with his parents that he is free at last and loved overwhelms him. He would almost grow sappy from the sensation if he were not so… Astarion.

As they pull away from him, Shadowheart presents him with a beautifully decorated hammer.

‘We all pitched in to commission this hammer for you,’ Wyll says. ‘The designs engraved on the sides were inspired by that mirror you carried around at camp.

‘I drew the designs and I had Gale replicate them so they could use it,’ Lae’zel’s projection explains. ‘I do not see the beauty in those motifs, they are nothing but primitive, but they said that you would appreciate it.’

Astarion picks up the hammer and admires the craftsmanship, albeit with astonishment.

‘Why a hammer, though? That was never a weapon I really used.’

‘We found your headstone in the graveyard of the Lower City,’ Karlach adds, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Wanna go smash it?’

He adjusts his grip on the hammer, weighing it in his hands, then smirks.

‘It’s show time.’

The whole group cheers and descends the stairs, while Tav stays behind to lock the house. Astarion looks over his shoulder at them and shakes his head.

‘You sneaky little thing!’ he muses.

‘Why, are you complaining?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

They walk side by side, already laughing at the banter that fuses among the group, now that everybody has gathered again. Astarion spends his time with his head tilted back to embrace the sun on his face, sighing in relief.

‘How did you even manage to get Rolan on board for that spell?’

‘I might have promised him a date.’

‘You devil.’

Tav throws their arm around his shoulders and soon, they all enter the graveyard.

Everyone is safe.

The soul cast out from the light against his will has taken his first step back to bask in its glow.

Everyone is safe.

And Astarion is loved.

16 notes · View notes

therewillbenoromance · 25 days

Text

does anyone else just

"oh i havent drawn [character] in a while!! i should do that rn!!" *opens drawing application or wtv*

"alright gonna draw [character]!!!!!"

"..."

"who was i gonna draw again"

#then you dissociate for three seconds and go “oh yeah that character” and continue like nothing happened #and another thing about the word dissociate #my brain automatically fills it in as disassociate because of that fuckass lemon demon song #so. yea #art #ethan's yapping again

4 notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 5 months

Text

Still thinking about Nikto, and that anon ask I answered just a bit ago.

Content: Dissociation/Depersonalization, Unhealthy (not harmful) Coping Mechanisms, Codependence, Trauma/PTSD symptoms, Sexual Themes

After the hallway incident you’re a bit shaken. A life of a heavy burden, but your shoulders are used to the weight; you’re a medic. But what Nikto offered you in the hallway — no, not offered, but gave, devoted. It makes it hard to breathe.

You’re not sure if what he’s seeking (or perhaps found?) is solace or penance. You don’t think you have much say in the matter really. If God asked His disciples to stop worshipping, would they?

The comparison feels too bold, even in the privacy of your own mind. Smacks of narcissism and ego. You don’t feel powerful. You feel scared. Of what it means to hold this broken, burdened man in the palm of your hand, trying to keep all the pieces together without cutting yourself on them.

Don’t be so careless with your life, you told him.

He’s taken those words as religious creed. He doesn’t storm around corners, guns blazing anymore. Doesn’t drop from heart-stopping heights to stamp-sized targets. Hes not the first one out nor the last one in anymore — though he never lets you get out first or hop in transport last either.

Suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise.

He cares for his wounds now, too. Cleans and changes them regularly, doesn’t over exert them before they’ve healed. You’re so dizzy on pride in him that you kiss the front of his mask one day, telling him “thank you”.

He grunts in something that sounds almost like shock and shakes his head at you. You figure he doesn’t feel he deserves praise for doing as you’ve told him. You do it anyway.

Things start to settle into this new normal.

Until you can’t find him anywhere. He’s become your new shadow, another limb, and suddenly he’s gone like so much smoke. You’re both fresh off a rough, but successful mission. You’ve just finished a stint in the infirmary and your debrief. Usually hed take that time to clean off and change in privacy, back before you could miss him.

Where is he?

You find him bleeding in his room, trying to care for his own wounds. Mask off, shirt gone, a new knife wound added to his macabre collection. You scramble to his side and collapse at his feet, snatching the needle from his shaky, slippery hand.

“Don’t you ever—” you choke on the words, unusual tears welling. You’re a medic; you’re not allowed to cry during treatment. But all you see if Nikto and blood and—

“I am okay,” he says in that low, crackly voice. Gravel in a blender. “It is not bad.”

You swallow and don’t answer, can’t because you’ll start weeping into his wound. Just stitch him up, hands steady even as you sniffle and the rest of you trembles.

When it’s done, you start wiping away the excess, prepping a bandage. He’s so silent you can even hear him breathing, but you feel his eyes like a physical touch. Finally make yourself look up at him meet his piercing eyes.

“You come back to me from now on,” you say. Quiet, firm, fervent. “I don’t care what it is, you return to my side always.”

The silence stretches and stretches, and he just stares with that unfathomable gaze.

“Understand?” you insist.

“Yes.”

Those two commandments become that basis of his new existence. Nikto once thought he survived it all because he still had work to do. He was wrong; it was because he still hadn’t found his purpose at all.

He’s found you now though, and you are a demanding god. But not a cruel one

Your first commandment is atonement. This vessel requires so much work. Food and water and rest. Maintenance for every abrasion, upkeep to stay strong enough to stand at your side, to protect you. It is endless, bitter work. He doesn’t care for the labor itself, but it must be done.

It is made bearable with you.

Your second commandment is salvation. Your quiet chatter during meals, the lingering taste of your mouth on his water canteen. Your kind hands mending tears and holes, keeping whatever he is now whole and hale. Your company in the gym, on sparring mats, at his side at the gun range. The smell of your sweat past the mask, your laughter goading him into another round.

You let him sleep in your bed. Let him wake you with nightmares or memories. Keep him warm because this thing he inhabits doesn’t always remember it’s not dying anymore. You are so very alive, the realest thing in any room. Your touch is the only thing he can feel sometimes.

It takes him a long time to realize that his body (because it is a body you tell him, a living one that needs care) reacts to you.

That some mornings the press of you against him is especially sweet. That there’s more than relief and pride when you pin him down. That, at most points of the day, his body wants your touch for more than just grounding.

He’s hard most times that he’s with you, simply for the fact that you are there. And he is with you almost always.

(That it is not actually always grinds at him, niggles in the back of his mind. A sticking point. He wants it to be always, you with him at all times. Like when he used to wear a cross pendant.)

You notice, of course you do, sensitive to your most loyal devotee. He can’t tell if you’re offended, but you haven’t sent him away. Sometimes you flush and he thinks he’s certainly upset you, but for all he’s survived it would kill him to break your second commandment. And so he stays, even if he waits to be told to leave.

“Nikto?”

You never need to call his name, he is always listening. He likes the sound of it anyway. These syllables and sounds that have a meaning, that you use for him.

“Do you… want to do something about that?” you nod to his crotch. There’s a blatant bulge pressing at his tac pants. At some other time, he would probably would have found it uncomfortable.

“Do what?” he asks.

You shrug. “Get off? I could leave—“

“No.”

You blink but don’t seem surprised. “Do you want to just ignore it then?”

He shrugs a bit. There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes. You like when he makes gestures. He tries to remember common ones, and when to do them, and tries them out for you. Though you never seem to mind his stillness either.

“It does not bother me.”

You hum, look like you’re going to go back to your tv show.

“Does it bother you?”

Your eyes dart up, mouth parting in surprise. You didn’t expect him to continue the topic. Neither did he.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you reply, tilting your head. “But if you want to do something about it, we can.”

We.

“We?”

“If… if you want me to do something… I would.”

He couldn’t ask that of you. Not ever. He’s not allowed to want anything of you when you’ve given him everything.

“No,” he says quietly finally. “Just ignore it.”

“Okay.” You smile at him, touch his hand. It is bare, mangled tattoos on display. He wishes he could feel it more. “Come snuggle in?”

Snuggle in.

Such a quaint turn of a phrase for a creature in your room, wearing a man’s face. He climbs in, shoes gone, mask gone. You wedge yourself against his side and he stares absently at the screen as you continue your show.

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #nikto x reader #cod nikto

1K notes · View notes

autistichalsin · 7 months

Text

Astarion and Halsin's traumas were meant to be foils

When characters are foils, there are two components: first, there's a shared background, event, personality trait, etc. But how the characters act from then on are diametrically opposed, allowing us an insight into the various ways people can act or respond to one core "element". In this case, I would argue that Halsin and Astarion are meant to be foils in their responses to sexual slavery.

Both Astarion and Halsin were denied their freedom and agency, raped and abused. Both were very young when this happened; Astarion was in his 30s, which is before elves reach their majority, while Halsin's age wasn't specified, but he goes out of his way to mention "youth" many times. In other words- both were young enough for this to be a formative memory for them. Both carry deep traumas from their experiences. Both are incredibly physically attractive, and allude to or outright say that their looks played a part in their captivity; Astarion was used to seduce others for Cazador, while Halsin notes that his Drow captors "took an interest in him" and saw him "as a novelty"- most likely for his looks as much as for his race. Both were enslaved by people of high social status- Cazador a wealthy influential figure in Baldur's Gate, and Halsin's captors high-ranking Drow nobles. That is what they have in common.

But their responses to their traumas are complete opposites.

First, just the nature of how they express their traumas. Astarion is loud about it. He expresses it all openly; he is traumatized. And he knows he didn't deserve what happened to him.

Halsin buries it. He pretends it was no big deal. He victim-blames himself, saying it was his fault for being a "foolhardy young Druid" intent on seeing the Underdark.

Astarion despises Cazador; he wants revenge. He will do anything to get revenge on his abuser. This need for closure is the core of Astarion's entire arc, to the point that of all the scenarios I can think of where Astarion leaves the party, most of them involve his journey to kill Cazador.

Halsin has trauma bonds to his captors. He speaks kindly of them even when describing their abuse. He says he feared for his life, but he "did some things that were less than necessary," making it sound like he was complicit in his own rape. He can't even bring himself to call them captors (except for one option in the post-patch 5 dialogue), nor himself a sex slave; instead, he was something "between a guest, prisoner, and consort."

Astarion is (in most cases) ultimately allowed closure; he kills Cazador. In the bad path, he then joins the cycle of abuse by killing the other vampires and subjugating a romanced avatar; in good scenarios, he only kills Cazador, and then has a cathartic, tearful breakdown after.

Halsin never had (or seemed to want) that kind of closure; he escaped while his captors were fighting another noble house, and his freedom was all he wanted. Whether his captors lived or not, he doesn't care. All he wanted was his own freedom.

Astarion is younger, and his trauma a shorter time ago, yet he has processed what happened more; he is both further ahead and further behind on his healing journey than Halsin.

Halsin is older, and his trauma longer ago, but he hasn't processed what happened to him; bouncing from trauma to trauma and being forced into a leadership role caused him to have to bury it. He is both further behind and further ahead on his healing journey than Astarion.

Astarion makes a point of avoiding intimacy, and he only has a few exceptions with the player. (Ascended Astarion becomes much more confident, but that's a bit different.)

Halsin is incredibly sexually open. He enjoys sex of all kinds, finding it comforting, and the only way he can openly express his emotions after having to stay in control as Archdruid all the time.

Astarion dissociates during the Drow brothel orgy. He is miserable and uncomfortable, but doesn't regret it; he needed to take the step to explore his sexuality on his terms. Even if it triggered him, he still wanted the experience, and indeed, finding what one's triggers are is an important step for many survivors.

Halsin enjoys himself during the orgy, and even seems pleased after, but then he lets the cracks show, talking about how he was held as a slave. He enjoyed the orgy during, but after, the thoughts started creeping in, as he was reminded of his captivity.

Astarion will respond to cruel player comments about Cazador with a massive hit in approval, and possibly breaking up with a romanced player, like when they say they have a kidnapping fantasy about him if he's kidnapped by the spawn in act 3.

Halsin, in the post-patch 5 dialogue options, doesn't seem to react that much even to cruel comments; when the player threatens to sell him back into slavery, all he has to say is, "you would be unwise to attempt it, trust me. In any case, the house of my captors is long-extinct." (Followed by him having an epiphany that they WERE his captors) He never gets angry at the player despite the absolute evil of this option; as with nearly every other mean thing the player says to him, he simply shrugs it off, clearly sad but brushing it off as always. Being the "bigger person", literally and metaphorically.

Astarion was left with scars all over his back, symbolizing how this is something he'll never break free from entirely.

Halsin was left with no scars, his only prominent one being from an unrelated incident, symbolizing how much work he puts in to hide his traumas.

It's understated, so a lot of players aren't going to think about it much because of this, but I think it's worth bringing up as a note on characterization!

#astarion #halsin #bg3 #baldur's gate #halstarion #should i tag it as that? it's not explicitly shippy but it kind of counts

2K notes · View notes

reallyromealone · 2 months

Text

Title: oh hey a mate(s)

Chapter: one

Fandom: obey me

Pairing: demon brother's x male reader

Warnings: suggestive themes, readers got truama, internalized gender hatred, anxiety, panic attacks, mentions of being a breeding tool, self hate, reader doesn't really understand sex, sexual themes, omegaverse, male reader, mentions of mpreg

🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

"HE STOLE THEM FROM ME!" (sisters name) Screeched out in a rage as she threw things around "they were supposed to be MY mates! And he stole them! That whore stole them!" She was hyperventilating at this point as her body shook, feeling robbed of her alphas.

Of her life, the thing she wanted more than anything.

"I know sweety but maybe we can set you up wit--"" I don't want someone else! I want the princes!"

And she was going to get them.

She swore it.

'fuck you (name)'

Holy shit this place was big.

God he felt under dressed, especially beside these alphas who were dressed so fancy and perfect.

The floors were marble and two grand staircases winded on each side and paintings that had to be centuries old hung on the walls "we will have one commissioned for you soon enough... Maybe one with us all" Belphegor yawned as he wandered the halls "for now, let's get you settled in" he said and looked to a nervous looking Leviathan who nodded.

(Name) Was nervous as he walked beside the demon who seemed to want to be anywhere but here "I-im sorry if I wasn't who you were expecting... I'll try and not step on your toes" (name) whispered, anxiously fiddling with his fingers and looked down "i-i dont-- fuck... I'm really nervous and anxious and just I don't really talk to omegas often so I'm just--" the demon seemed panicked and (name) felt relief flood through his veins as he pumped out calming pharamones for the Alpha "hey... I get it, if it's any consolation... I'm not great with people either-- hell I think this is the first time I ever left my families property!" He laughed a bit but Leviathan was shocked at his words "you never been into the capital or even your home town?" He asked genuinely and (name) shook his head "nah, my parents didn't trust me going out there-- you know how troublesome an Omega can be"

What the fuck? That's all Leviathan could think as he looked at the Omega worried "I- you're not troublesome?" He whispered and (name) just smiled "I try not to be" (name) giggled a bit as they continued to (name)s apartment, the Omega expecting a quaint bedroom but...

"I think we went to the wrong room.... This is awfully big" (name) said softly to the envy demon who looked confused "you like your apartment?" Asmodeus popped out from nowhere and pulled (name) close with a flirty grin "we had the butlers being your things in, don't worry we didn't let them unpack... Pharamones and all that ~" he pulled (name) into the apartment and (name) felt overwhelmed by all this "there's a nesting room there~ if you need help don't hesitate to ask"

"A-are you sure?"

"Sure of what?"

"That this is for me?"

"You are to be our mate, I personally wanted you with me but Luci wanted you to have your own space... Something about acclimating" his words teasing and (name) chuckled but cut short when his stomach growled and the two demons looked curious "oh yeah! Humans need to eat for survival!"

(Name) Felt embarrassed as he silently cursed his stomach for exposing him like this as the demons looked at one another in a silent conversation.

They were definitely having a sibling meeting later.

(Name) Dissociated during the rest of the evening, eventually ending back in the rooms he was given, the size of his old house if not a bit bigger...

Everything was pristine as he took out his belongings, his prized possessions and small hobbies to occupy him.

A few heirlooms and books and his childhood stuffed toy 'this will go in my nest' he thought as he looked at the nesting room doors, two ornate doors in a rose gold shade, the apartment all light colors unlike the rest of the palace.

It was a strange contrast, almost like they didn't know what to expect so they just made what they thought humans liked. It was funny really, demons trying to understand what humans wanted or needed as he was doing the same, wondering what these demons wanted or liked.

Getting up he went to the nesting room and was overwhelmed by the nesting supplies he was given, piles and piles of blankets and pillows and soft things, his purring could probably be heard from outside the apartment as he snuggled into them, a sense of safety he wasn't quite used to washing over him.

He was excited to make a large nest, spending half the night making it perfect for him to rest in and just not think about the fact he was to be mated on his next heat to seven strangers that were also fucking royalty! Well there goes not thinking about it because here he was!

Also his sister! Holy shit she was mad! And like at his wedding she will be there! Fuuck!

(Name) Was just sitting there head in hands as he processed the fact that within 24 hours he was now engaged and now in the public eye!

(Name) Curled up closer into his blankets and let out a shutter of a sigh, he wondered if he would be able to do the things he enjoyed before... Would he be allowed to garden? Would he have to dress more Omegan? Or would he be able to wear clothes that were comfortable?!

He needed to walk, movement to process this.

Getting up he walked out of his apartment and into the hall, dark and grand, ceilings at least 15 feet tall and paintings lined, some he recognized as the siblings and some unfamiliar as he walked around curiously.

Somehow he made it to the kitchen "I hope they don't mind..." (Name) Whispered as he sliced an apple, careful and gentle as his stomach growled a bit.

"Can I have some?" A voice startled him out of his thoughts causing him to slice his finger "shit!" The voice said and (name) looked to see Beelzebub who in turn looked a bit startled as he took (name)s bleeding finger and put it in his mouth, the Omega looking thoroughly concerned as Beelzebub sucked on the blood "I feel like this is incredibly unsanitary" (name) whispered worried and beez released his finger "demons saliva can heal amongst other things, depends on the demon really"

"Oh " (name) said dumbly as he looked at his wet but healed finger "what else does your saliva do?" He asked curiously and Beelzebub smiled at the others cute and curious expression "ah, well besides healing my saliva can work as an aphrodisiac if ingested!" (Name) Looked concerned and Beelzebub laughed "don't worry, it only works if I were to like make out with you or eat your ass!"

And now (name) was flustered as the gluttony demon kept laughing at his embarrassment "so why are you up so late?" Beelzebub asked after calming down and sealing some apple slices and cutting up some more, handing (name) an orange "just... It's stupid"

"Oh please!" Beelzebub pushed and (name) sighed "I'm just... I'm having trouble processing this stuff, it's stressful and like-- I never left my property let alone this! My sister wanted to be with you guys and she's already insufferable, this is just worse! I'm just paranoid that you guys are going to realize that like this was a mistake and reject me and like the fear of being an Omega in general! Will I be able to do the things i enjoyed before? Will I be a breeding tool?!" He was hyperventilating now as Beelzebub panicked "hey hey, calm down! It will be alright and-- no we aren't making you a breeding Omega.... shhh" beez tried to calm him as footsteps quickly made their way to the kitchen.

"What is happening?" Lucifer and the others seemed startled as the smell of distress was heavy in the kitchen "he's worried we will strip him of his rights and make him carry our young" Beelzebub explained as he lifted (name) into his arms and set him on the counter "were demons but we aren't monsters" Satan said disgusted and Asmodeus smiled "we would never do that unless it's what you're into~" he teased the Omega as they crowded him "I know it's an incredibly hard adjustment but know we mean well, it's literally impossible for us to not fall for each other" it's true soulmates would eventually fall for one another due to the bond "and we are sharing one mate so that means you have seven people to love you" mammon said in a rare moment of genuine care "what do you mean?"

"Oh yeah, he knows basically nothing about secondary gender or soulmates" Levi said softly and the demons looked horrified "well I know what we are doing tomorrow" Satan said simply and (name) looked ashamed and couldn't meet their eyes, feeling stupid for his lack of knowledge.

"Well his town is backwards" Belphegor yawned and wandered off back to bed now that the problem was solved "goodnight...."

(Name) Was led back to his room by Beelzebub and Asmodeus and looked confused when they put sweaters in his arms "the smell of your alphas will calm you~" Asmodeus said simply and the two wished him a good night.

And for once?

He sleped peacefully.

(Name) Spent the next few days learning about soulmates and secondary genders, the two interlocking "when your heat comes, it will be dangerous for you to not mate with your soulmate" (name) read the book in his off time, the book explaining how the bonding is key to not cause rejection symptoms or a drop, he definitely didn't want that. Fuck how does he have sex? Fuck.

Time to go figure that out, he really felt behind on this shit.

(Name) Made home in the library as he looked for any books that would aid him "Hmm? Looking for sex books ~ didn't know our omega was like that" Asmodeus seemed to love just appearing out of thin air and scaring (name) who dropped the book "i-i it's not like that!"

"Hmmm? And what is it about? Oh you're so cute when your flustered!" He cooed and (name) huffed "I am trying to figure out like, how sex works and stuff... I wasn't exactly taught... Just put on suppressants so my family could avoid it" he just constantly felt ashamed with them, their faces of realization and pity as (name) tried not to cry "well, if you like I could teach you~ don't worry I won't touch you where you don't like" Asmodeus could get used to his omega so flustered as he got closer, his alpha giddy at his mate being untouched "the first thing one should know is their body after all~"

"I- uh... I'm not sure..."

Asmodeus let his lips barely touch (name)s as he caged him against a bookshelf and smiled, his tail flickering and (name) seemed a bit startled by it All as the demon gently kissed him "that was... Uh.." "your first kiss?"

"Yeah..."

"Did you like it?"

(Name) Could only nod as the lust avatar giggled sweetly at his adorable Omega "oh, you're going to fit in nicely here~!" He doted on (name) a bit "don't worry darling, we won't do anything your not ready for but if you're willing... To experiment a bit, I'm always a summon away" and with that he was gone, (name) left with nothing more than the smell of his pharamones, sweet Jasmine and warm vanilla.

It wasn't till after lunch that Lucifer brought him to the gardens, a small greenhouse and a garden plot stood "we had it cleaned up, you said you liked gardening" he said simply and looked down at (name) who looked like he was given the potion of youth "really? Thank you so much..." (Name) Was releasing the happiest pharamones and Lucifer kept composure but god damn did that boost his ego as an alpha, making his mate happy.

"Just clean yourself off after you finish" Lucifer said calmly and (name) beamed at this "of course!"

(Name) Puttered in the greenhouse and began planting things, thankfully it was early in the season so he had time to make a nursery for plants "oh, sor--" (name) immediately shut up as he saw Belphegor sleeping in a sun beam, cozy and calm. Looking around (name) found his cape that Satan had made for him and covered the demon with it "it's still chilly" he whispered and went back to work, unaware the demon was awake and watching intently at the Omega who was carrying heavy pots and sacks of soil around.

(Name) Kept quiet for the Alpha, he must be so exhausted to fall asleep in a greenhouse of places so it would be best to let him rest! Eventually (name) moved outside, it was less chilly but a slight chill but movement will keep him warm! Using twine he found in the greenhouse he sectioned spots of the garden plots for various things like carrots and garlic amongst others, they were still in the nursery but it's good to get things ready now, he reasoned with himself.

"Your Highness! It's quite cold!" A servant panicked as she saw (name) in nothing more than a shirt and pants and apron, dirt on his cheek "don't worry! I'm alright!" He reasoned but she was not having it and removed her cape "it's not good for an Omega to be cold like this!"

Before she could drape the cape on (name), he felt fur on his shoulders as Mammon smiled with a warning "don't worry, he's warm" his eyes telling the servant to leave and (name) looked confused "oh hello!" (Name) Smiled at the demon who felt annoyed at how sweet the other was, his bond making his heart beat fast "Luci wanted me to take you into town so get ready" he grumbled and (name) nodded, a simple smile on his face as he wandered to the palace "where's your cape anyways?! It's freezing for mortals!" He chastised and (name) chirped "Belphegor was sleeping and I wanted him to be cozy!" (Name) Couldn't explain why he felt so calm and comfortable with the princes but they made him feel safe, even if they were sometimes like angry chihuahuas.

"You're weird" mammon said with no bite as they walked to (name)s area.

The tailors and seamstresses worked tirelessly to put together some clothes for (name) and his new class, the maids commenting about how the seamstress always kept embroidered sleeves on hand as the brothers always tore clothes during training--- well save for Asmodeus and Belphegor who couldn't be fucked to do stuff like that.

(Name) Felt regal, a beautiful vest made of silk and embroidered with birds and roses and a linen powers shirt and nice pants and expensive boots "you look wonderful your Highness!" A maid commented, (name) growing fond of his personal maids who cheered him in, them all being mated and married betas.

(Name) Was curious as he looked around the city, never really interacting with so many people who looked at he two in awe, the guards keeping a fair distance as he looked at stalls "you seriously never been in a city?" Mammon said incredulously and (name) looked confused "no? It's not right for an Omega to be by himself around alphas, I would be a temptation" reiterating his parents words and Mammon was horrified at the omegas genuine belief that HE was the problem and not alphas who couldn't keep their hands to themselves "well we are unpacking that later"

He didn't even want to get into the family thing, remembering the chat he had with his brothers when (name) had his meltdown and the acceptance that their Omega came from a very problematic living situation but he seemed to be acclimating well.

Or at least he hoped.

Mammon was confused as (name) handed him a stuffed bunny "what is this?" He raised an eyebrow from behind his circular sunglasses "well we didn't get to actually court because of being soulmates so I got you all courting gifts" he chirped out innocently, remembering what he was taught by Lucifer and deciding to put it in action though he seemed to have gotten it backwards as it was supposed to be the Alpha who gave the courting gifts.

"I- uh... Thank you?"

(Name) Seemed pleased as they continued their walk through the cities market, a giant hub of the equally giant city as Mammon stared at the bunny that was made of fabric the same color as his eyes, a small detail that made him flustered.

He noticed (name) budgeting, a soft smile on his face "you know we have basically endless money, right?" Well mammon didn't, he was cut off and put on a strict budget but (name)? He still had his money privileges "that's your money, this is so much!" To (name) it was a lot of money as he did the budgeting of the house back with his family, this was ten times of what they made in a year! "I am fine with this"

Hell, how did they get the exact opposite of them?!

A nervous Omega who was innocent and naive and sweet as honey!

"Oh you are absolutely precious!" Asmodeus cooed at the stuffed rabbit that fit in his hands "I hadn't even thought of courting!" He said with exaggerated sadness and (name) watched the others alphas reactions, though it wasn't the fanciest courting gift, it was a genuinely thoughtful one.

"He was worried about spending the money, he literally budgeted it" mammon groaned and Lucifer snorted "you could do well to learn that" he said as (name) seemed reminded and handed him back the coin bag, the Omega barely dented it "I got a few things for my hobbies but I brought back the change!" He said sweety and Lucifer had cute aggression at that moment as (name) looked at him with so much pride "you know you could have spent all of this right?" He said a little slow, (name) nodding "but that would be rude, I'm spending all your money without care... I don't like that"

Seriously, how did they manage to be fated with the sweetest Omega?!

"He didn't even but himself actual things for himself! He bought things to make us things!" Mammon groaned out but they all knew he equally swooned at the fact their Omega was so sweet.

But also he didn't buy himself anything, Asmodeus has had to bring him to eat and Beelzebub would put food on it.

"Rural Omega culture is different than cities, they're treated more as a commodity" a maid explained to Asmodeus one night as she helped him get ready for bed, she herself being an alpha from the boonies "an inconvenience would be a better word though, everything your saying shows he was treated like how my love got treated, need to make them feel genuinely valued" she went to explain how omegas need regular scenting and assurance to keep mentally regulated and (name) probably never had that.

Which would explain why he seemed like he was constantly waiting for the next shoe to drop despite growing used to them.

Like it was all going to go away.

His dreams were often that, every night he dreamt of waking up in his old room as his sister lived the life she wanted and he was stuck in that musty bedroom where he would rot.

"Your dreams are noisy" Belphegor mumbled as he crawled into bed with (name) and held him close, pumping out pharamones as he thought smugly about the fact he's technically been in bed with (name) before the others. (Name) Snuggled in his chest and physically relaxed, chirping in his sleep as he clung helplessly to him and he was hooked.

He wanted this more and was already annoyed he would have to share with his brothers.

(Name) Let his mates to be plan the wedding though he and Beelzebub thought of food together, the demon horrified at how little foods he got to experience and made him try everything for the wedding and smiled at his happy face with good food "these are mirangue cookies! Like eating plaster that loves you!" He exolained and (name) basically melted at now delicious it was.

Beelzebub was more than happy to share food with him, his alpha wanting the Omega to be well fed to carry his pups after all.

They were all anxious for mating, their bond slowly making them VERY intense about (name) who after weeks, finally sat close to Satan as he read with him though (name) did struggle a bit "omegas being taught to read is laughable, I taught myself as much as I could" he explained and that's when Satan decided he would read for (name), the two spending an hour or two in the library reading together like how Lucifer spent his time teaching (name) new things when he wasn't busy or just dragging him along with things.

(Name) Was always well behaved, he thought of (name)s family and how they were... How did this come out of THAT.

But now, (name) had one worry...

Would he invite his family to his wedding?

#obey me x male reader #obey me x reader #demon brother's x reader #demon brothers #male reader #x male reader #omegaverse #omega male reader #obey me omegaverse #anime x male reader #anime x reader #Asmodeus x male reader #Lucifer x male reader #Beelzebub x male reader #Belphegor x male reader #Leviathan x male reader #mammon x male reader #satan x male reader #reader insert

1K notes · View notes

talesofesther · 7 months

Text

what once was mine | ch 4

Loki x Reader

Series Summary: When watching what once was supposed to be the rest of his life, in an empty room in the TVA, Loki sees someone he can't recognize; a girl who's all tenderness and loose smiles, and most importantly, she was smiling at him.

A/N: Not sure if I'm completely happy with how this chapter came out, but I hope you still enjoy it.

Masterlist | Read ch 3 here

Loki had watched through a checkered screen how you held onto his hand as if he were your whole world. He had watched the love in your eyes and the smile on your lips, all directed at him. And now, he watched as you, in flesh and bone right in front of him, walked away.

There was a foreign feeling consuming his heart the more you distanced yourself from him. It was akin to loss, but how could he lose something that wasn't even his?

He was about to make the mistake of going after you when Mobius finally returned from the storage room he had been talking to you in.

"What happened?" Loki asked with a hint of urgency, his brows furrowed.

Mobius took in a long breath and then let it go past his lips. "She said she wants nothing to do with you."

Loki's frown only deepened, his eyes shifting between Mobius and the place you had disappeared into. If anything, he looked slightly offended. "Why?"

"Well, it's pretty obvious that she watched her Loki die, right?" Mobius gestured around, sounding a little fed up with all of this. "So it's a delicate subject, give her time, don't get on her face, don't be obnoxious, and she'll likely come around and be willing to answer whatever it is you wanna ask."

Loki blinked at the words, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "I'm not obnoxious."

─── ·❆· ───

"Stop looking at me like a lost puppy," you grumbled with a scowl on your features, gripping tightly onto your food tray.

Loki, who stood right beside you, scoffed. "I am not. I'm looking at the rice you're standing right in front of."

You breathed in, slowly, holding yourself back from rolling your eyes. It's been three weeks since Mobius tried to reintroduce you two, and for the past two weeks, you've gained a new shadow. He doesn't talk much; or interacts much with you at all for that matter. But he's always there.

TVA's cafeteria was usually bustling with people this time of day, which was exactly why you always came by at least an hour earlier; but today you got caught up with work and there was no other option than to brave the crowds, otherwise, you'd stay without lunch.

When you'd picked up everything you wanted to eat, you turned around and surveyed the spacious room for any vacant tables. By the corner and near the railings that overlooked the city—or, what you would call a city here in the TVA, because to be honest, you still weren't sure what to name most of the things in this place—stood the only vacant table left, small and round, with two lonely chairs.

You closed your eyes and mumbled a curse under your breath. You made a beeline for the table, and you didn't have to look behind you to know that Loki was following your steps.

You settled into a chair and a few seconds later Loki made himself comfortable beside you. It was… strange, having him around. The racing of your heart every time he was near you was inevitable, but you were doing the impossible to dissociate any feelings from it. He was just another variant, that was it, nothing more. You just wished you knew what his obsession with you was all about, so what if he saw his would-be future with you? That was not yours or his life anymore.

"Your food is gonna get cold."

Loki's voice caught your attention, you glanced toward him with a frown, only now realizing that you'd been poking your food around with your fork for a while, lost in thought. For a heartbeat, you held his gaze, you allowed yourself to drown in those ever-familiar bright eyes that you'd missed so much. But before you could lose yourself in the ocean, you swam back up. This wasn't your Loki, no; you had to remind yourself of it, time and time again. For your own sake, you had to believe in that lie.

For the last couple of weeks that he'd been following you around, more and more you noticed the same glint in Loki's eyes, a mix between expectant and lost. You wondered if even he knew what exactly he wanted from you.

The only answer you gave to him was a low hum.

─── ·❆· ───

The days inside the TVA blend together easily, that was something you learned in your first few weeks here. In all fairness, it's what one would expect for a place out of time. Sometimes the day they captured you as just another variant felt like ages ago. Sometimes, it felt like just yesterday.

It had been difficult when you first arrived here, nearly unbearably so. In the blink of an eye, you had lost your entire life, everyone you still loved and held dear became unreachable. It was either starting a new life here, or ending your life altogether. For some reason, you still felt like living.

The TVA kept you busy then, enough for you to not succumb to panic. As days went by, it became easier; as time passed, or as Mobius would tell you, as time passed differently, you became almost numb to what you'd lost. Almost.

A sigh went past your lips as you ran your fingertips over the paper. Mobius usually had you go over each file reporting a possible new Loki variant. Finding patterns and creating connections they otherwise wouldn't have noticed. You tried not to dwell too much on the fact that you had to use your connection to the person you once loved as a form of work.

Your desk stood by the edge of the library, away from too much commotion, a cozy little space you'd given your own personal touch to over the time you'd been here. A few books here, a small cassette player there, a snack drawer, a sketchbook, a purple desk lamp; small things to remind yourself you were still human.

As much as you could, you made a new home here.

A shadow suddenly appeared over the paper in your hands, you straightened your posture on your chair before looking up.

Loki stood before you, in his dress shirt and dark jacket with the word variant on the back—you'd worn one of those too on your first days here, now that you recall. He held a fresh stack of papers in his hands that already had you internally groaning.

"Mobius sends his regards," Loki smirked as he dropped the papers on your desk.

"Great," you mumbled, sarcasm dripping from your words, "it's not like I wanted to sleep tonight anyway."

A beat passed and you could feel Loki's gaze still lingering on you. From the corner of your eyes you watched as his fingers nervously tapped the wood of your desk. You hated that you knew this habit of his oh so well.

"Maybe I could assist you." Loki pulled a chair from the empty table to your left, setting it on the edge of your desk so he could sit down. But before he did so, he said, "If you'd like."

He was giving you an out from spending time with him, even if that was clearly what he wanted. You nearly took it. Your lips hung open, ready to say something like; I work better alone, or go bother someone else. But your eyes suddenly had a faint burn behind them, your chest squeezing tight around your heart—the heart that still bled and missed him every day. "Knock yourself out," you found yourself saying, without looking up from your paperwork.

Loki sat down on his chair beside you, took a few of the papers in his hands, and for a good few minutes, the silence that lingered between you was, surprisingly, somewhat comfortable.

Stealing glances at you was inevitable. As Loki read the files in his hands, the words started to blur together, and he found his gaze drifting to you. He observed the way you'd frown slightly as you read over the lines, sometimes scoffing or mumbling something to yourself.

You were quite annoying, Loki had to agree with Mobius on that. Stubborn, closed off, and hard to read. If it were anyone else, Loki wouldn't even consider losing his time of day, but each time he saw you, his heart jumped and stumbled inside his chest, he grew short of breath, cold hands turning clammy. It was inevitable. His body acting against his will, as if his soul ached to touch yours.

He had to know why.

"May I ask," Loki began, hints of hesitance in his words.

Your eyebrow perked up a little, but you still refused to look at him.

Loki pursed his lips before speaking, "Mobius mentioned you've been here a while, that he found you could be useful. But he never went into detail." He let go of the papers in his hands, "how did you get here? Why didn't they prune you?"

You visibly tensed. Jaw setting tightly into place as you took in a short breath through your nose. For several moments, you kept quiet, eyes fixed on the same words in the file you held as you considered whether to humor him or not. You weren't sure why you answered, the words simply rolled off your tongue; a subconscious reaction to the sound of his voice.

"It was my fault, I tried to travel through time when I knew I shouldn't. They caught me pretty much immediately." You chuckled humorlessly, stealing a glance toward Loki only to find his eyes already focused on you. You nearly drowned again. "They kept me around because…" You hesitated, and then merely gestured to the scattered papers on your desk; "I know a lot about Lokis," you shrugged, "and they needed help with that."

A small frown came to Loki's features as he weighed your words. He twirled one of your pencils between his fingers. "Why would you travel through time if you knew you shouldn't?"

Immediately, Loki knew he'd touched a nerve. Your whole demeanor changed, it almost felt like a curtain had fallen over you and a whole new person sat beside him. What little you had began to open up, was back under lock and key.

You didn't raise your voice, you didn't lash out. You simply cleared your throat, turned away from him, and said; "I thought you wanted to stay to help me work. So either do that, or leave me be."

Loki's lips hovered, ready to retaliate with a quip of his own, but he bit back any words he might want to say. Give her time.

He nodded to no one in particular, and indeed went back to work.

Later at night, when the TVA was strangely quiet, and most people had already turned in for the night. Loki glanced beside him only to find you drifting into sleep; one hand holding your cheek and the other loosely holding a pencil that had scratched a weird, faint line into the file on your desk.

It felt unexpectedly intimate. Loki glanced from one side of the dim-lit library to the other, as if looking for a clue on what he should do.

Carefully, almost comically so, he took the pencil from your delicate hold and stacked the file you had with the small pile he'd created.

The desk lamp right beside you cast a faint glow over your features, shaping your cheekbones, nose, and lips. Loki couldn't help but notice, that the light also shaped a thin but rather deep scar running from your forehead to the beginning of your left eyebrow; from the look of it, it appeared to have been there for a while now.

Without giving himself too much room to overthink, Loki reached out and gave a single push to your shoulder. His fingers tingled from your warmth.

You stirred awake, gasping softly as soon as you opened your eyes. You blinked several times, willing your mind to focus back on reality.

"I suppose we're done," Loki told you, keeping his voice just an octave lower as he turned his gaze to the small stack of papers. "If you're quick, you can still grab a few hours of sleep before the new day starts."

"Right," you breathed, running a hand through your hair. Eyebrows still furrowed as you processed what was happening.

You tidied your desk in silence, and Loki put the chair he had borrowed back in its place. He turned to you then, half expecting you to simply turn around and walk away. You didn't, and maybe it was a trick of the light, or the fact that he could visibly notice your eyes dropping from tiredness, but your features were the softest he had ever seen them be. A quick glimpse of the girl he'd first seen from the life he was supposed to have.

Loki held his breath. He wasn't sure why, but he did.

"Thank you for the help," you gave him a tight-lipped smile, refusing to hold his gaze for more than a second, "see you around."

With that, you turned around and left. Loki's heartbeat kept the same rushed pace until he reached his own small bedroom.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 5 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Loki’s taglist: @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @justaproudslytherpuff @justanotherkpopstanlol @chronicallybubbly @chaoticqueen33 @7minutes-tomidnight @uncle-eggy @oliviaewl @dd122004dd @tani725 @lokihaha34 @levanneisdumb @innebulae @mochminnie @mayemperess @alyeskathewave @buginktsworld @cremebruleequeen @wyvernthekriger @cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson @avengersfan25 @mischief2sarawr @yokolesbianism @arunabrak @athenasproverbs @h-l-vlovesvintage @princess-ofthe-pages @daisy-the-quake @talesofadragon @rainbowsocks @alexandra-001 @mary-jinx @stevenknightmarc @falconxsoldier @ladymercury8 @shirukitsune @ladymischief11 @starkzdaughter @navs-bhat @creat0r-cat @cinnamonbambii @anundyingfidelity @creationcitystreet-em @or-was-it-just-a-dream

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #loki #marvel #loki series #loki x you #marvel x reader #loki x female reader #imagine #fanfic #angst #fluff #what once was mine #loki fanfic #my story #loki laufeyson x reader

789 notes · View notes

allfearstofallto · 3 months

Text

Dandelion Wine

Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem! Reader x Yandere(?) Childe

Forced Marriage AU

Word Count: 4.1k

Synopsis: No crush is simply harmless when married to Scaramouche, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And what he doesn't see won't affect him, so what's the harm in putting on a little show?

TW: Yandere, obsessive themes, forced marriage, mentions of abuse/violence/punishment, reader mentions dissociating during sex, dub-con, unprotected sex, finishing inside, voyeurism, infidelity, masturbation (m. & f.)

Scaramouche believed that dinner should be eaten in silence with only the sound of the silverware and plates clattering. Hence why he rarely spoke at the table. He also believed that the same morals he applied to himself, were for you as well. Your sweet, plump lips that he kissed and sucked constantly, were to be shut and devoid of noises, only eating during meal times. The food that was prepared was meant to be savored, every bite of it tasted and appreciated. Because of that, dinners felt long, quiet, and worst of all, extremely tense.

The only times things were different, was when Childe came to visit. Number eleven as your husband called him, and Ajax as the orange haired man insisted he wanted you to refer to him as. His cheeky smile and big, blue eyes practically lit up the room, he was practically the epitome of visual charisma. And there was his incessant chatter, Scaramouche would say, his non stop talking about something or other. You never had the heart to tell the man you married that Childe actually talked a normal amount and that he was abnormally quiet.

“Have you ever seen a piece of mora straight from Liyue,” he asked rather loudly while holding up the coin, “Shiniest you'll ever see one. Man, those Liyue natives have no idea how lucky they are!”

You smiled alongside the man, also finding the topic interesting. The coin was indeed shiny, the only impurities on it being the fingerprints from Childe's hands. Other than that, it glimmered, making you realize how old and dirty the mora you must've had before was. Scaramouche wasn't impressed at all. He wasn't even paying attention. Quietly sipping his miso soup at the head of the table, his eyes only focused on his meal.

“Want it?” Childe asked you and you tried not to perk up too much, but your excitement was palpable. Seldom did Scaramouche entertain you with conversation or fun gifts. The only thing he'd bring you back from his travels was a single flower and maybe a regional tea to try together, but nothing you typically enjoyed.

“May I take it, my lord?” Pleading eyes looked at your husband who seemed more irritated than usual.

He let out a sigh, dropping his chopsticks in frustration, “Will it make the both of you shut up?”

Harsh words were nothing new to you, but you had to admit that those eyes of his made you freeze up like stone. No matter how many days you spent married to him, you never grew less afraid of your husband. And you definitely never found yourself coming to love him.

“Yes, my lord,”

He nodded to Childe and the coin was dropped into your hand. You held it as if it were fragile, not wanting to stain the shiny metal anymore than it already was. Your lips formed into a weak smile that you gave to Childe, then another one to Scaramouche who merely nodded at your display of joy, seemingly disinterested.

His chopsticks were picked up, a sign that he wished for dinner to continue on. You picked up yours as well. Your months of living with your spouse meant you had plenty of time to practice. Little leeway was given to you when it came to what you ate with, and despite the fact that you were originally from Mondstadt, you were given chopsticks with every meal. Time and practice made you grow accustomed to them, that and the fact that Scaramouche wouldn't allow you to eat with anything else. Learn to eat with them or starve, he told you. And you did grow terribly hungry.

Childe was more of a special case. He apparently lacked dexterity in hands. You saw it in the way he struggled to use the bow he was hell bent on learning and in the way he struggled to use chopsticks. Throughout the course of the meal, he'd already dropped three pairs, fumbling them dramatically like a character in a comedy play. Each time he'd lose a pair to gravity, leaving the wooden sticks on the floor, he'd look at his barely touched meal. The tragic, almost hopeless look on his face would elicit a laugh from you, followed by Scaramouche shooting you a very knowing glare. He'd sent you to your room without dinner many times before and for much less. Those glares were a good warning to shut up.

“Man! I can't seem to figure out how you eat with these things,” the orange haired male was holding one stick in either hand, instead using them to stab through the food and bring it to his lips. You held back your laughter again, instead forcing yourself to swallow more of your meal.

You had a crush on Childe. Maybe it was because of how kind he actually was or maybe it was because he was the only man you'd seen outside of your lawful husband in a year, but you did like him. He was funny, strong, and most importantly very attractive. Blue eyes and orange hair, a smile that could make a girl swoon with perfectly straight, white teeth. His voice was sultry, smooth like fine dark liquor, but he also knew when to be funny. His sense of humor was more comical to you than Scaramouche's dry humor or snide remarks. You liked Childe. Way more than you wanted to admit.

After dinner was a free time for you. From the time the plates were clean, until it was time for you to go to bed, you were allowed to wander the manor and do what you want. During this period, Scaramouche would be off doing what he pleased. Typically leaving the house to enjoy his night walks, where he'd be gone for hours. It was truly your only time of peace in hell he called home. It was also the only time you could talk to Childe when he came to visit. The two of you would spend the hours just telling each other whatever, it was mostly just you listening to him tell of his travels across all seven nations as you longed for the perceived freedom he had.

Much to your dismay he was nowhere to be found after dinner. You felt stupid searching the house looking for him. The interest towards him was likely one sided and on the slim chance it wasn't, you knew that nothing would happen between the two of you. Yet you looked for him. He was still good for conversation.

Find him you did, at the end of the second floor hallway, but not in the way you thought you would. Steam clouded around the door as he exited the bathroom, a towel was wrapped around his hips, orange pubic hair peeking out from it. His bare chest was covered in scarring, some old and healed, some visibly fresh. His skin was still moist with bathwater, his hair clinging to his face and dripping more down on him. He looked like a piece of art, a statue standing at the end of the hall, toweling his hair with his eyes closed. But then they opened.

You tried to turn on your heels and walk away before he spotted you gawking at him, but quick reflexes were expected of a harbinger. He saw you before you could even manage to take one step back.

“Oi! I was looking for you!” He called, stopping you in your tracks. You did everything in your power to avoid looking at him. That toned, firm body of his was practically begging you to gaze upon it.

“Please find me again when you're more decent, Lord Childe,”

He immediately recognized the forced stiffness of your words and scoffed, a look of disbelief forming on his features, “Since when do you refer to me as Lord, huh?” he was still smiling. Despite his undress, he wasn't the least bit shy.

Your mind shifted to your husband. Unwilling of a bride as you might have been, he made sure you were fully committed to him. He once commented on how much you smiled at his fellow harbinger and your blood went cold. Of course he noticed. Scaramouche was nonchalant, quietly observing everything around him, but he wasn't stupid. You know better than to think your little crush was well hidden, he was just giving you a warning in advance.

“I think we should start being more professional around each other,” you strained the words out, watching his face fall from his normal smile. It felt painful saying these things to him, but it was better for your safety and his.

“So we're not having our talks anymore?” He whined cutely, even pouting his lips a little, “I was looking forward to telling you about my stay in Mondstadt,” it was as if he knew exactly how to hold your attention. Lingering on every single syllable to make sure you knew he was speaking of your home, convincing your already weak will to falter, “and the wine I brought with me.” If he had you on his hook by mentioning Mondstadt, then the notion that he'd brought wine with you was all he needed to reel you in.

Hailing from the city of freedom, you were no stranger to a good drink. You remembered your first glass better than you remembered most things in your first kiss. Your first drink was like a rite of passage for Mondstadt and typically, the first liquor you tasted, became your vice. You were no different than your mother or your grandmother, the drink handed down from generation to generation, and your fondness was felt for dandelion wine. A sweet delicacy only found in the city of freedom, an unassuming drink that'd knock you flat on your ass if you didn't take it seriously enough.

But Scaramouche wasn't a fan of sweet things. He wasn't a fan of much, seeing as very little could even get a smile from him, but he had a special hatred in his heart for anything sugary. His taste leaned more towards the bitter, which was like hell for you.

Sake was never your drink of choice. There was plenty of it in Mondstadt, if there was one thing that your city could do right, it was import drinks from all over Teyvat. But just because it was there, didn't mean you ever drank it. Sake was a drink that tasted wrong to you. The harsh, bitter flavor left a terrible feeling inside your mouth that wouldn't leave no matter how much you tried. So of course, it was the favorite of Scaramouche. The disgusting taste matched his disgusting personality. And when you were permitted to drink, which was rare, you were given sake.

“Dandelion?” You questioned hopefully.

“Dandelion,” he affirmed. He was still using his hands to hold his towels, instead using his head to gesture to his room door, telling you to follow him inside. And you did.

You were tense as you sat down on his bed. Tense when you were handed a cup and told to hold it while you waited for him. Tense as he stepped into his closet to dress himself, still coming out in only pants, but no shirt, telling you that his hair was still wet to wear one. But all that tension melted away when he pulled that familiar green bottle from his bag, pouring you a glass of that rich, yellow wine.

The first sip took you back to your family's home. To a festival in Mondstadt, which was just one of the city's many excuses to drink more. The second took you back to a bar you favored, drinking competitions were held through the night, you always won. There was a part of you that just wanted to down the whole glass, drink it all as you'd done before and request another glass before that sweet taste ever left your tongue. But you saw that he'd only brought one bottle, you had to savor this glass.

“It's yours, if you want it,” Childe spoke softly while holding the wine up, he hadn't even poured himself a singular glass of it, “You just have to do one thing for me.”

Big, doe eyes looked up at him as you practically pleaded with him, “What?”

“Tell me how you really feel about me,”

He could've asked you to do a handstand on the roof of the house during a thunderstorm and that would've been much easier. For so long, your feelings for Childe were just thoughts. You could push them to the back of your mind and pretend they didn't exist. If they weren't real, your husband wouldn't hurt you. He wouldn't punish you. And knowing Scara's jealousy, if he knew you had feelings for another and not him, no one would be safe.

“I won't tell,” he spoke again, a gentle hand coming down and stroking his cheek. His fingers were still warm from his bath, still slightly damp to the touch, the way they cling to your face was assuring.

“I'm married,” you said, “Not just to anyone, but your superior. He's nobody that we should be toying with like this.”

“Who says I'm ‘toying’ with anyone? I wouldn't be asking if I didn't have feelings for you as well,”

Your quick beating heart stilled in your chest for a moment, you lingered on every word. Did you make it up? Did he really say what you thought he did? Silence fell over the room as you contemplated what he said. If he liked you as well, he never showed it. Yet, he'd have no way to. Scaramouche seemed to be around every corner.

“I…like you,” saying the words solidified it. His hair, his smile, his voice, even the way he smelled, you liked it all.

You liked him so much you let him place the bottle of wine in your hands. You let him lean over and place a hand on your shoulder, so close to your face his still dripping hair was wetting your forehead. You let his nose brush against yours, you let him sigh against your lips, you let him close the distance between the two of you and sink into a kiss.

Your mind was a blank, empty room as you kissed Childe. You really kissed him. Kisses with Scaramouche felt like he was trying to swallow you whole, trying to own you, not cherish you. But Childe's admittedly cold, chapped lips were caressing yours. His hand that managed to slither around your waist, holding you like he didn't want to let you go, his other hand squeezing your chest. You wondered if he could feel your heart beating. If he could, you wanted his to be beating the same way.

A bell made you break away from the kiss with a gasp like you were about to be killed. Because you were. That wasn't just any bell. It was the chime of the bell above the main door. The one that signified that it was opening. The one that meant Scaramouche was home.

Biting back the urge to throw up, you tossed the wine on his bed and raced from the room. You didn't want to look back at Childe once. Not after the mistake you'd made with him. Lust was clouding your mind, it had to be keeping you from thinking properly. That was the only excuse you could make while you cursed yourself mentally, simultaneously begging that he wasn't aware of what you'd done.

At the foot of the stairs, his large hat still on his head and a grimace on his face, was Scaramouche. His indigo eyes looked you up and down, noticing the way you trembled and panted like you’d run a marathon.

“Where were you?” He asked, tossing his hat to the side. It fell to the floor with a clatter and was easily ignored by him, “Have you forgotten your duties? You know when I'm supposed to be home.”

“I apologize, my lord!” You tried to stop your voice from shaking.

“Well?”

You looked at him dumbfounded as he walked past you up the stairs.

“Aren't you going to tell me why you were late and huffing like a fool at that?”

“I fell asleep, my lord. And once I noticed I was behind, I raced to try to meet you at the door, but it appears I was too late,”

A mere hum from him was your response. Which was good enough, it meant he had nothing harsh to say. As the two of you entered the privacy of your room together, you felt him hug you from behind. Little did he touch you meaninglessly, which meant he wanted to go farther, his soft lips kissing the back of your neck told you enough.

“I'm only so hard on you because I care about you,” he whispered into your ear. Him being sweet you felt worse knowing what you did with Childe just a few short moments earlier.

But still, you ended up lying back on the bed, naked and nestled in the mountain of pillows. Scaramouche thrusting into your hole above you, eyes clenched shut in pleasure. He was fucking you into a mating press, your knees against your chest, causing you to only take shallow breaths. It was a personal favorite of his since it meant he could sink every inch of his cock into you, while still watching your face.

You kept silent as he fucked you, only letting out a few gasps or whines as he hit particularly sensitive spots inside you or thrusted too deep. You didn't enjoy sex with him, it was always something you didn't want, and he wasn't going to make you pretend. Scaramouche was going to do it with you regardless, it was about his own pleasure.

During the act you'd normally be lost in your own world, trying to pay attention to anything, but the way he was rutting his hips into you, it made the time go by quicker. The closet, the clock on the way, the way the bed squeaked, the crack in the door. The crack in the door where Childe stood, watching in the darkness of the hallway.

It took you a moment to realize what you were seeing and you had to convince yourself still that you weren't imagining it. Orange hair, deep, blue eyes, shirtless and strangely with a tent growing in his pants. Childe stood in the doorway watching, out of view of Scaramouche who either has his eyes closed or stayed focusing on your face.

You went to cover yourself, but realized that that would draw your husband's attention to the other man. You couldn't say anything, not without fear of Childe getting hurt in the process. You felt scared, neverous, a little violated, but when you saw him slide a large hand down and palm his growing length through the fabric of his pants, you began to feel almost aroused.

Sick. Sick in the head, you called yourself mentally as your eyes stayed focused on the man watching from the hallway. But you still placed your hands on your breasts, tweaking your nipples and mewling out softly. You didn't know what came over you to make you do such a thing, but knowing that Childe could see you made you want to do more than just lie there. Scaramouche was immediately surprised by you making any noise of pleasure at all and quickened his already brutal pace. But it felt good for once. It felt nice. You could feel yourself growing wetter, your cunt finally sucking him in and welcoming him.

“You're rather receptive tonight,” he grunted out with a smirk and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his confidence.

“I…I suppose it feels better than usual, my lord,” you locked eyes with him, until he clenched his shut from the pleasure once more. Then you looked back at Childe. He'd long since freed his cock from his pants, stroking his long thick length. It was big. That was all you could think as you watched him, how you wished that it was his big cock inside of you, but you could pretend. Pretend that it was him on top of you instead of your husband.

Mewling and moaning louder than you ever had before, making noises you didn't even know you could, your legs were pressed harder against your chest, opening yourself up for him to go even deeper. You were dripping at this point, your wetness sliding down to your ass. But Childe was dripping as well. His cock was leaking precum, coating his hand in a lube that he was using to stroke himself at the same pace that Scara was going inside you.

“Ah! Yes….yes! Fuck me harder!” You'd never begged for more like this before, but who was he to question it, he'd never know that your cries were for another. He was enjoying how wet you felt around him, how you were moving your hips to match his pace inside you. He merely panted and did as he was told, his cock thrusting into you in deep, long, hard, strokes, each one having you see stars.

“I'm finishing inside, my love,” he cooed, pressing a kiss against your lips. You nodded, locking your legs around his hips. A move you'd never done in all the times he'd slept with you and something that made him gasp out in pleasure.

It only took a few more thrusts before he held his cock balls deep inside you, you could feel the length twitching as he filled you with seed. Each shot of his hot ejaculate hitting your walls and making your whimper. Light kisses were pressed against your forehead as the two of you were locked together. His cum and your honeyed wetness dripping from your hole.

When he pulled out, you kept your legs up a little longer, making sure Ajax saw every drop of his cum dripping from you. Your still needy twitching cunt, filled with a load, your delicate fingers rubbing your clit in slow circles while he watched. Your soft gasps and pants, trying not to draw Scara's attention while he was cleaning himself up in the connected bathroom. Both of you, putting on a show for each other. Him stroking his length from the base to the tip slowly, extenuating every inch and you dipping your fingers into your filled hole.

He continued jerking his cock while he watched you, nothing was said or spoken between you two, but your eyes conversated enough. This was pure desire. It was need. And when you came, it was for him. Your hips stuttered and bucked off the bed, toes curling almost painfully.

Childe came with you. Watching you finish while looking at him was more than enough. His hand was pressed against the door, scratching at the wood, begging to be let in so he could finish inside you as well, like he knew you wanted him to. But he didn't. His cock sprayed rope after rope of cum onto the floor of the hallway in front of him. His toned chest heaving as he watched himself make this mess.

You longed to lick it up, not just the cum, but his still aching cock. You wanted to clean it with your mouth, to suck it the way your husband made you. You knew he wanted more. But Scaramouche was already out of the bathroom, a towel in hand. He began cleaning you up between your legs, eyes seeming a little softer than normal while he did. A look that wasn't normal for him.

“You did well tonight,” he praised you. Fond words you'd never heard from him before, but likely because he had no idea why you were putting on such a show.

“Thank you, my lord,” you replied sheepishly, looking back up to the crack in the doorway, Childe was gone. It was better this way though. Better that he leave now than accidentally get the attention of your husband.

“I'll think of a reward for you tomorrow, but rest for now,” the candles were blown out and he laid next to you. A protective arm was wrapped around your waist as you lay on your back, trying to regulate your heartbeat.

Realization hit you like a truck, forming a sickening pit in your stomach. It was only now that you'd realized what you'd done and fear and worry were taking over. If Scara were to find out, he'd kill you. He'd do worse than kill you you supposed, ending your life would be much too easy

And you could only imagine what'd happen to Childe next.

You lay on your back in that inky black, pitch darkness, eyes trying to adjust to the light. You were feeling regretful, but you'd also never felt such a thrill in your entire life. Not since you got married.

#genshin #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere x you #genshin impact #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere smut #yandere imagines #yandere #tw smut #smut #mdni

541 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 9 months

Note

hi okay hi you’ve probably seen me in your notifications for the last twenty minutes because i am absolutely obsessed with the way you write poly!marauders.

i was wondering if you could write something about the (fem)reader who slowly starts dissociating when things get tough and she’s not really present and while they’re concerned, they just show their love for her through caring until she comes back to herself. it’s completely okay if you can’t!!!

Thanks honey, I'm so glad you enjoy my blog! Love the pfp btw, I personally think that was Spence’s best hair. I know everyone experiences dissociation differently so I did some research and I hope this is alright! Many apologies if it’s not accurate

cw: dissociation, brief mention of sexual assault

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 910 words

You’re grateful to Sirius for defending you. You are, but the man’s hand on your ass had caused some deer-in-the-headlights glitch in your brain, and the yelling that ensued only made you retreat further into yourself. You know, distantly, that it’s Sirius’ voice, and that he’s yelling for you, not at you. But it’s all noise to you, a ruckus that means danger, and then there’s movement, and more hands, and everything that would be too much if you weren’t so far away.

You feel like you’re sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool, everything above the surface of the water muffled and distorted. What happens up there doesn’t concern you. It’s peaceful down here, even if there is a certain wrongness to it. You know you don’t belong here, not really, but you can hold your breath and try to make it last.

“Baby?” a voice says. “Hey, you okay?”

“Don’t shake her, that’s not going to help.” You can’t tell if it’s another voice or the same. The comfort it brings you doesn't change, and you can’t force yourself to care either way. You can’t care at all, really, about anything. You wonder if you should be worried about that, but feelings are something out of your reach, and maybe it’s better that way.

“Something’s wrong with her.”

“I can see that, love. We’re almost home.”

“You don’t think she’s hurt, do you?”

More hands. You want to flinch away, but it’s like you’re moving through a thick sludge. “You’re alright, dove, I’m just checking that you’re okay. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Why isn’t she talking?”

“I don’t know. I think…maybe she’s just overwhelmed. I don’t think she’s bleeding anywhere.”

“Fuck. Shit, is this a panic attack? Do you think she needs a doctor or something?”

“Let’s just give her a few minutes.”

There’s more talking, but you give up on trying to decipher it. After a while, something cushy comes up underneath you, or maybe you go down onto it. Your hand is warm, and then it’s pressed to soft fabric. “Feel my heart going in there, baby? Can you focus on that for me?”

You’ve made such a cozy home for yourself in your head that it takes you some time to realize everything around you has gone quiet. There’s a persistent bumping at your palm.

“Don’t tight hugs help with panic attacks?”

“We don’t know if that’s what this is. What if it scares her?”

“Hey, angel, can you hear me? Come back to us.”

The wrongness of where you are is starting to set in, the voices at the surface louder and more insistent. You think that maybe your chest is starting to ache.

Something moves your feet, and then you're touching something interesting. Soft and a bit rough, familiar. Carpet.

“Breathe, honey. Good. Again. We’ve got you, take your time.”

You’re conscious of your breaths first, the effort it takes to fill and empty your lungs. Then the plush material under your thighs; you’re sitting on something. Awhile longer, and you realize you’re blinking, your eyes intermittently dry and then not. Eventually you register your hand, pressed to a beating heart. Sirius’ heart.

You don't try to speak yet as you take in your surroundings. You’re home, on the couch, and someone’s taken off your socks and shoes, your feet bare on the carpet. You don’t know how any of that happened, which is unsettling, but the realization that you can feel unsettled comes with a sharp relief.

Sirius’ finger swipes over your wrist where he’s gripping your hand to his chest, and your next exhale is shaky.

“Dove?” Remus’ tone is cautious.

“Sorry,” you say croakily. “I don’t know what that was.”

Sirius sighs, letting your hand drop from his chest, and Remus grips your ankle from where he sits by your feet, stroking his thumb over your achilles’ tendon in a way that you suspect is as much for him as it is for you.

“Fucking scary, is what it was,” James says, voice thick with tears. “Can I hug you?”

You nod, and his arms come around you with his usual eagerness, though you notice his hands trembling just a little. You squeeze his shoulders tightly.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no sorries, okay?” Sirius says, though even he sounds exhausted from what you’ve just put them through. “You obviously couldn’t help it. Do you feel alright now?”

“Yeah,” you say, though you’re unsure. You feel relatively normal at the moment, but the knowledge that you can slip into numbness that easily doesn’t allow for much comfort. “I’m just…really tired, for some reason.”

Remus hums. “I think your brain was doing a lot of work just now. Makes sense you’d need a rest.”

James releases you from the hug but only sits back far enough to see your face, his hands lingering at your waist like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he lets go. “Want to cancel dinner and have a night in, sweetheart?”

You nod, your throat closing as warmth rushes to your face. “Yes, please.”

“Hey,” Sirius says at your tears, voice lightly chiding but full of concern, “what’s wrong? You sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m okay,” you promise, swiping under your eyes. “Just, thank you guys for helping me. That was really scary.”

“I know,” Remus says, palm sliding up your leg as he rises to give you a hug of his own. “I know it was, honey, but you don’t have to worry. We’ve always got you.”

1K notes · View notes

shalotttower · 6 months

Text

Fractalize (part 1)

Title: Fractalize

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Summary: Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness.

Word count: 3700+

Characters: Chrollo x Reader (female)

Notes: yandere Chrollo, kidnapped, depressed and miserable Reader, Reader is dissociating a lot, morbid pondering, suicidal thoughts, explicit/triggering language/words, Reader's thoughts on possible sexual assault in future. Part 2

Fractalize - making things into smaller copies of themselves over and over again.

Sometimes you stand in front of a mirror and try to picture yourself in another timeline. One where your life didn’t take this specific turn. You try to imagine a different setting, a different apartment - perhaps the one you had before Chrollo started moving you around like a luggage bag. Maybe living in a cottage by the sea or an old farmhouse. Someplace rural, peaceful. With a garden and fresh air, far away from the city noises.

It's difficult at first, your reflection keeps slipping through your mental fingers every time you think the image is set in place. But with practice it becomes easier, sort of, so you can now see yourself clearly as you brush your hair - not here.

A blue dress on, made for nights at parties with friends. Laughing until your stomach hurts and eyes become sore. Making silly faces over alcoholic beverages. Or you can wear your favourite jeans with a high waist and head out to the pub, the same one with crooked stools and a broken sign. Drink cheep bear, eat greasy peanuts from a little bowl, listen to some small band play unknown and unheard songs.

Leave intoxicated, and everything is too fast and vibrant and wonderful until you're back home.

It's your favourite pastime now: imagine, remake and slip.

Imagine. Remake. Slip.

You don't quite remember the last time you laughed, a month ago maybe. Maybe more. Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness, dull, cold, you would compare it to a winter plastered all over your insides, but it's almost colder than that. It freezes everything and turns it into icicles hanging off the roof.

Remake, slip.

You have new vocabulary now.

"Mm" - is for when he asks you if you like a dress or a top and it doesn't matter how you actually feel about it, because it's going to end up being worn anyway.

"Okay" - is for when Chrollo sets another fancy meal for you on a dinner table and "Eat, don't be shy".

"I'm not hungry" - doesn't work with him, even if it's the truth. You always eat what's put in front of you, that's the rule, because he's not above shoving the spoon into your mouth, so you spare yourself the tears and sobs that will probably come with that. It's so bizarre: how much effort he puts into keeping you alive when you're anything but.

"Whatever you want" - is for when he asks you something that requires a choice, between two or three options usually. He's not one for an extensive list.

"If you say so" - for everything else.

You used to delude yourself with the idea that if you managed to appear pleasant enough, pleasant-talking, pleasant-listening, smiling a bit here and there, it would gain you some privileges and perhaps a bit more freedom. It did. But never where it really mattered. Those little things were absolutely inconsequential in the grand scheme. Yes, you can have that sweater, dear. No, you can't have your own bed. Yes, you can come shopping with me, if you give me a kiss. No, you can't take walks without me holding your hand.

Yes this and no that.

Those moments were fragile and so very takeable that they didn't give you any sense of accomplishment, just a short respite and bitter aftertaste that made you feel pathetic.

Wasn't worth it.

***

"Do you like animals, dear?" Chrollo asks out of the blue one day. He's reading something on his tablet while you're curled up on the couch, watching TV.

It's a new series that's been on the major channels for a few weeks, a mystery drama about a girl who moves into a house she inherited from her grandfather. The picture provides a distraction enough to have you forgetting where you are for a brief period three times a week.

You pull the blanket higher. "I do."

He knows it.

The girl on the screen finds a mysterious box hidden in the attic. Perhaps there's something valuable inside. Or information about her grandpa; your fingers tug on a loose blanket thread without much thought.

"What kind?"

Or maybe it's just a time capsule with photos and postcards and random objects collected over the years.

Or-

You had a cat before he took you. A foster grey ragdoll with blue eyes who liked to rest on your belly and bump her head against your chin. You called her Miss Whiskerton and kissed her little nose, because she did act like a proper lady - poised, dignified and entirely too proud to eat food mixed with medicine. The worst enemy Miss Whiskerton has ever had in her cat life was the corner of your couch. When you weren't paying attention, she would dig her claws into the fabric and leave thin lines. You hope that someone took her in.

She probably thought you abandoned her.

"Cats."

Chrollo hums in acknowledgment and continues scrolling through whatever he's looking at - maybe news or auction listings, you don't know nor do you really care. You shift under the blanket, pulling your legs closer to your body.

"We can get one, if you'd like."

"No."

Your answer is immediate and short, without thinking. You know it, you know him by now - there's nothing Chrollo does out of spontaneous generosity, it always benefits him in some way. And you've studied him enough to figure that any pet would only be a tool to keep you tamed and compliant. Puppies make life better. Happier, lighter, with goofy smiling faces and wiggling tails. Cats make life better with soft purrs and paws stomping on your chest. They're too easy to love.

"Why not?" There's a sound of tablet set on a wooden surface.

The girl on the screen is trying to solve a combination lock on the box when the TV switches off and your little world of carefully shot scenes and scripted lines vanishes. You don't need to turn around to guess where's the remote.

She almost had it, but now you won't know what's inside until Thursday evening.

Your reflection stares back from the dead screen, blank-faced and with a blanket pulled up your nose. It tickles a bit. "Because I don't want one."

A chair creaks. "Why?"

You close your eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. This is tiring. Always probing, digging, pushing. Trying to find chinks in your armor, but all you're wearing is just a flimsy dress with thin straps and a blanket you wish could swallow you whole.

"Don't need it."

"You said you like animals," Chrollo sits next to you and places a hand on top of your covered legs. He squeezes your thigh and you stare ahead, wishing he would just leave you alone tonight.

"I do." Your fingers twitch under the blanket, nails scratching at the fabric.

Strange. Sometimes it feels like he understands perfectly that you want to be alone, have time for yourself and don't want his constant physical presence. At the same time Chrollo brushes this all aside like old tin foil wrappers - insignificant. He pulls the blanket down and you cling on it stubbornly for a few seconds before letting go. His thumb and index finger grasp your chin and turn your face towards him so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

There's such still intensity within him that made your skin crawl whenever he looked at you with this much focus and attention. You don't know what he saw there most times, it used to be fear or anger or sadness - right now it's none of these things. Everything inside you feels jammed and stiff.

"We should get a fish then," he continues, brushing hair out of your forehead. "You can watch it swim around, wouldn't that be nice?"

Chrollo talks to you like this sometimes, as if you're a child who needs to be convinced to eat veggies or take medicine. Like you're simple-minded and he's reasoning with you out of good will. It's sickening. You hate it.

"I don't want a pet," you repeat the words slowly. "If you're going to give me something only to take it away, then I don't want it."

His finger leisurely stroking your chin pauses at the edge of your bottom lip. Something flickers behind his eyes, it's barely noticeable but you've become good at catching those minuscule shifts. He smiles, yet there's nothing joyful about it. "Take it away? Why would I do that, dear?"

"Because that's what you do. Because that's how you are." You don't try to pull free from his hold, he'll only tighten it; not enough to hurt, no, he is too suave and polished for that - or wants to appear so - but enough for you to feel trapped under his palm.

There's something off about you, you can tell, but are not quite able to discern what or where. It sits in the very structure of your bones and eats away with ravenous appetite. An imbalance in the gut. Fever-warm body, cold fingers. Thoughts like potholes.

"And how am I exactly, according to you?" His voice is light, playful, a stark contrast to his eyes that study you with unnerving precision. Chrollo rarely loses his temper and never gets violent with you (yet, you correct yourself), but he has other ways of expressing displeasure, and they're petty, ugly and cold.

"Cruel," the word rolls off your tongue so effortlessly that almost frightens you; it's easy to tell the truth when you're this numb.

He looks taken aback for a split second, and the smile freezes. His hand stops midway to your hair. Then everything's gone.

Chrollo releases you and leans back into the cushions, almost thoughtful, like your observation is something that requires careful consideration.

"I suppose, it depends," he says finally.

"On what?"

"On how you choose to see things. Your perspective is bound to be biased, dear."

You don't respond.

To continue this conversation would be pointless and circular, like running on a treadmill, like everything else between you and Chrollo, really. He simply has too many answers to any possible argument, and no matter how convincing you manage to make them sound, he'll poke holes into each one. You don't want a fish. Or a cat. Or a dog, a bird, anything that moves and breathes and looks at you with big, trusting eyes.

Chrollo is cruel. Not in a way that's straightforward and brutal. Not in a way of someone who'd tear your limbs apart or rip off a fly's wing to see it wiggle. You have no doubt that he is capable of such a thing, but that would be uncouth. Cruelty in his case is a quieter, more delicate affair - in a way of a sculptor who'd chisel off everything unnecessary and unneeded, no matter the size or significance, to produce something entirely his.

His hands are soft, his voice is always composed, and he wears well tailored clothes. But the rest is sharp, clean and merciless.

"I think I'll go to bed," you say and push away the blanket.

"It's early."

"Mm."

He takes your hand just as you're about to slide off the sofa. Chrollo's always faster than you, always ahead and always observing, and that little realization while bitter is not so shocking anymore, more like another fact that you file away from your interactions.

You watch him. Wait.

"You're distraught," he says. "But you should know by now that there's no need for that."

Your hand remains in his grasp, limp and heavy.

"I don't enjoy seeing you upset, dear. Even more if you make false conclusions."

You turn to see the expression on his face - and there isn't one, at least not the type that most people would make. There are no frowning eyebrows, no clenched jaw that would indicate irritation, nothing like that.

"You're giving me too little credit," his tone is quiet as he runs his fingers up and down your wrist. "My intentions are not to hurt you. They are much, much sweeter than that."

"But you would," you say quietly and lean closer, ignoring the obvious implication behind his words. There is a hollow sensation inside of your head that prompts you to speak, everything is hollow - body and mind, heart, the space in your guts, your throat. "You would hurt me, if that's what you thought was necessary. Rip me apart and leave me deformed beyond repair, to fit into whatever framework you've laid, you would do that."

You're not being deliberately cryptic or fatalistic. These are your observations, based on a period of months spent together. They take root in no one being there for you anymore, in your phone which is long gone, in your closed accounts, your missing laptop and old clothes, the entire previous life in the city that has been discarded for something new. Chrollo was very methodical, you can give him that.

He doesn't listen, he studies your responses. Every single word. He has a talent for that, for absorbing everything about you while hardly ever letting you glimpse his interior - all that you know about him are tiny slivers which you picked up through living together, observation, accidental bits.

You expect him to contradict your statement, to offer a logical explanation why you're wrong, but instead Chrollo brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. The touch is light and dry.

"You're not entirely wrong, dear," he says and moves closer until you can smell his aftershave, something fresh.

His proximity is uncomfortable, it always is and probably always will be.

"I'm right then," you say.

"No," he keeps your hand in his grasp. "But you're not entirely wrong either. That's what makes you interesting."

There's a strange kind of fondness in his voice, it's subtle, yet undeniably present. You've never felt less interesting in your life, in a dress with thin straps that's too fancy for a lazy day at home and your bare feet and tangled hair.

"If you say so," you respond and slowly tug your hand free. "I really want to sleep now."

You get up, and he lets you go without another proposition. The blanket falls off onto the sofa, and before you slip into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, he says,

"Not beyond repair. But I like to believe we can both agree it doesn't have to come to that."

***

The drive feels endless. Houses and streets blur in a mix of colors, shapes and people, which soon change to an empty highway with greenery on both sides. Trees and fields, tall grass swaying gently in the wind and rare cars passing you by. Chrollo's hand is resting on your leg; he hasn't moved it since the car started, but you choose to ignore it in favor of your regular pastime, the one that's made of imaginary worlds and places where the timeline stretches differently.

Mostly it's just you and the layout of your fake apartment.

Imagine, remake, slip. Repeat the steps until it becomes muscle memory.

You have this daydream on loop now. Wooden floor and wide windows, lots of sunlight. Books everywhere, comfy clothes and not a single skirt in your closet. A cup of tea with honey in the morning, and Miss Whiskerton curled into a soft grey ball on your lap. You feed her salmon in a shiny bowl, occasionally she catches a lizard outside and drops the tail on your doorstep as an offering, looking immensely proud of herself.

A smile slips on your face without meaning to, a wobbly thing; you promptly wipe it off.

It would be a crime to show such blatant joy. This fantasy has become so sweetly personal that every fiber of your being resists even acknowledging it in front of Chrollo. He can sense a stray happy thought from miles away, like a hound, and will never stop prodding until everything is raw and tender. You've learned to say less in his presence, especially if it's something that has you invested. Chrollo knows how to pick things apart.

You lean your cheek against the glass. This world would never happen, never in a million years, but dreaming doesn't hurt anyone, does it?

Your grandma, wearing an apron, sets a tray filled with fresh pastries on a table, because she's amazing like that. She fusses and worries and pretends to scold you. For not calling enough, for not coming sooner, for not eating well. For leaving.

"Dear."

You almost jump.

Chrollo's voice brings you back where his hand is heavy on your leg, you're wearing a dress above the knee and aren't allowed to use scissors or knives.

"Mm?"

"That frown of yours," he says, turning into a small road. The surroundings change again, it's quiet here, not a soul in sight. "It's been there for fifteen minutes now."

You sit up straight and move your hair out of your eyes. Chrollo's a perceptive one, so this is a reminder not to sink too deep around him, unless you absolutely need it.

"Was just thinking."

"You do it a lot lately," he states and looks at you from the corner of his eye.

True, but you have no intention to confirm it. First, he won't like the reason behind these thoughts. Second, he will dig and try to worm his way in. No. Most of what you've been fixating on, staring out of the window like a mindless drone, or reading and rereading pages that you barely grasped, would fail to create anything more complex in his heart than desire to pull it out.

For whatever twisted reason, Chrollo cares for your well-being, or, more precisely, your acceptance of his advances. Yet his way of caring isn't nurturing in any sense.

Chrollo's interest (you don't dare call it love) is crushing, too heavy to carry - he'll find what troubles you and "fix it" in way that will twist it into something pathetic. Something that shows how you have nothing else to cling on but him. You're not stupid enough to keep falling into this trap. Being a slow learner doesn't mean you don't learn at all.

He's done it before. He'll do it again. So you reply, "I haven't noticed."

His thumb rubs circles on your thigh; you press your shoulder against the car door as if hoping it might open. It doesn't, much to your disappointment.

"What was on your mind then?"

Something you shouldn't tell him, that's for sure. Chrollo's watching you, even if his eyes are trained on the road.

"Random stuff," you say. Half-truths, half-truths are safe. "A weird dream I had this morning."

If you bothered to look, you'd see a raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth. You don't.

"Tell me."

You hate when he does that.

"It was boring."

"I'm interested in anything that made you so pensive."

Chrollo likes conversations with you, even if they're short. You can tell that he does, or he wouldn't be trying to make you talk and getting subtly frustrated when you choose not to. It never shows outright, Chrollo is very gifted at keeping his calm exterior, but there are certain giveaways like the slight tightening of his hand, an emphasized "dear", a pause here, or a quiet exhale through the nose. You could make a list out of these.

If you ignore him, he gets quiet and handsy or petty enough to throw away the only dress you feel comfortable in. Stop bringing you new books. Take you to places you hate.

It's always the small things that kill you, not the big, dramatic ones. The devils in the details.

"There was a lizard," you begin, and he hums in response, prompting you to continue. "It was cute with brown spots and a tiny tail."

Lies weave themselves easily, intertwine with truths and turn it into something that resembles a story.

"It was sitting on my windowsill and I wanted to pet it. A cat came out of nowhere and almost ate it, then I woke up. It's a silly dream."

There. Nothing to dissect here, not that you can see. Just a nonsensical dream, filled with random happenings and strange emotions.

"And that's why you frowned for fifteen minutes?"

"Yes, I got sad."

Yes, you think. Yes, Chrollo. I frowned, because I care for the damn lizard that doesn't exist, an animal from a dream. A stupid musing, nothing special, a very mundane and simple thing, because people do have silly dreams sometimes, and it's not a crime. It's not a crime and has nothing to do with that fact that I have a whole dream world where I'm not with you in my head.

"How peculiar. You never struck me as the type to get upset over something like this."

"You never asked," you respond flatly and Chrollo's hand on your thigh moves an inch.

It brushes up, closer to where you really, really don't want it to be, so you squeeze his fingers hard and redirect them to the curve of your knee.

"True," he says after a pause, not sounding too bothered. A month ago you would've brushed his hand off completely, probably that's why. Chrollo is convinced that with enough patience and effort he'll be able to close that final barrier between you both. Time, coaxing, a dose or two of endearment, some carefully calculated touch - but you'd rather stick a knife through your ribs than have sex with him. Or his patience will simply run out and he'll rape you. You're not delusional. Not a fool. "Well, that can be fixed. I'll make sure to ask about your dreams more often, dear."

You lean back into the seat and stare ahead, this time without anything pleasant on your mind. Of course he will. Of course he'll take this as a sign to dig deeper and invade that small bit of solace, Chrollo can't simply co-exist. He wants it all.

"Mm," you say.

Your new vocabulary is such a handy thing.

#hunter x hunter #chrollo lucilfer #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere #hunter x hunter fanfic #chrollo lucifer x reader #shalott fanfiction

668 notes · View notes

wonysugar · 5 months

Text

sorry | yoo jimin

synopsis : her hands were always warm.

pairing : childhoodbff!karina x fem!reader

genre : all of us are dead au, angst (i’m sorry), childhood friends to lovers (?), high school au?

tags : zombie apocalypse, spoilers to the show?? it’s better if you watched it, so you get the refs ykyk, flashbacks, the entirety of aespa are in this, only karina is relevant tho

warnings : blood is mentioned, injuries are mentioned, implied dissociating i think, gross zombies, eating humans and stuff, you get it

word count : 2.4k

a/n : this was so self indulgent LOOK I FINISHED THE SHOW TODAY AND I SOBBED I NEEDED TO GET IT OUT ONE WAY OR ANOTHER💔💔also not proofread uhm looks around if you see any mistakes no you don’t! :]

“y/n, barricade the door.”

you stared at aeri as she yelled from across the classroom, fighting off another braindead zombie, barely winning and almost getting bitten. as a result, ning groaned, gathered up her courage and threw a chair at the walking dead that lunged at her friend. then, she stabbed the being’s neck before it got the chance to get up.

eventually, once she was spared a few moments to inhale and exhale, the japanese girl’s gaze met yours, eyebrows immediately furrowing afterwards.

“what are you staring at— barricade the fucking door, you dumbass?” she yelled, somehow louder this time, before having to stab another zombie in the neck with her pocket knife.

as if snapping out of a trance, you mentally slapped yourself, quickly looked around and rushed to grab the nearest desk, despite struggling to pick it up. then, you pushed it towards the sliding doors of the classroom afterwards. minjeong, the incredibly athletic girl she is, while also having heard the dozens of zombies running towards your location, quickly slid the other door shut and stacked another desk on top of the one you put.

you both reluctantly backed away, glancing at each other as if to seek reassurance from the other’s stare. you both listened closely for the sound of the impact from the zombies hitting the door, then unconsciously sighed from relief when you did hear it.

“thanks, sports girl.” you teased the short girl, snickering when she hit your shoulder playfully (which kinda hurt considering the strength she had, despite being seemingly petite.)

you felt the tension in your body fade away with each breath that was taken, you crumbled to the ground and allowed your body to get rest.

“also,” minjeong turns to look at aeri before addressing her, “you didn’t tell me you knew how to fight, who taught you?”

the girl in question runs her fingers through her hair as she groans, seemingly annoyed by the stupid question, before cheekily smiling, “i guess when you have to fight bitches every once in a while, you end up learning a few things.”

you all laughed, glad to be finally able to breathe and take a break from the constant amount of attacks you’ve endured up until this point.

“wait—“ placed ning before any of you said anything, readjusting her glasses nervously as she stumbled on her words,

“where’s jimin?”

“fuck fuck fuck fuck—“ she mumbled to herself in panic as she ran at full speed through the different hallways of the school, carrying the hard metal rod she found on the ground as a weapon whilst also escaping the army of things chasing after her, occasionally hitting unexpected obstacles left and right as hard as she could.

she felt her legs slightly giving out on her as she sprinted, the numerous injuries on her body bringing her a clear and not at all appreciated disadvantage. in a normal situation? she’d probably be limping and be annoying about it, asking her friends to carry her to class and whatnot,

however, this was a life or death situation, about 15 different zombies were behind her trying to devour her and half of her friends were probably a part of that same pile,

limping and being annoying to her friends wasn’t really an option right now.

“what do you mean she’s still out there???” you shot up, your blood running cold upon hearing that your best friend might’ve ended up being a 5 star course meal for the zombies, “you couldn’t have made sure she was with us before closing the door??”

“i couldn’t have done anything, genius, calling out to her while she’s trying to draw the attention of those fuckers from the other side of the school would just defeat the whole purpose.” sternly said the japanese girl, giving you back the same energy, also panicking for jimin in the process.

you walked back and forth in the room, pacing and trying to figure out where she possibly could have went, eventually groaning and stopping in front of the mean girl again, grabbing her shoulders, “so what?? she’s just dead now?”

“look, y/n, she’s probably just hiding in some classroom safe and sou—“

“i’m going after her. i’ll bring her back, you guys stay here.” you declared, immediately rushing to the backdoor.

“no, y-y/n—“ is what ning said, stuttering, before you bolted out of the classroom at full speed.

“okay well.. she’s definitely dying.” concluded minjeong before getting hit by a worried ning. “don’t say that—“ responded the latter.

“die you stupid fucking bitch diediediedie—“ exclaimed jimin, hitting the zombie that was clinging onto her foot and hissing at her with the same metal rod that she was carrying for what felt like several hours, grunting desperately with each hit, using every fibre of her body to kill it, until all of its blood splattered onto her.

after a while of it being unresponsive, she shakes its hand off of her shoe and watches its lifeless hand hit the ground. then gripping onto her femur injury trying to stop it from abundantly bleeding, shutting her eyes closed in hopes of making it somehow less painful. somebody on the level below her was screaming for their life, so all those braindead whores were away for a while. she was contemplating on how to run if they ever came back faster than expected, now that her brain has actually acknowledged the pain in her limbs, it was gonna be harder.

during that time, jimin couldn’t help but think about you, wondering if she was gonna be able to see you again, wondering if you were even alive. wondering if—

“jimin?”

that was your voice.

she recognized it better than her own.

“y/n.”

she immediately turned her head to look at the source of the noise, not being able to keep her flinch contained upon hearing it. then, upon realizing that you seemed fine, she couldn’t help sighing from relief.

but then she noticed that you were crying.

and you noticed that she was hurt.

rushing towards her, you quickly put your arm under hers for support and help her walk to near safety before the undead figured out you were here. you could think about the rest later, all that mattered was that she was okay.

walking into a seemingly empty classroom, you waited until something potentially jumped at you. after watching out for a couple of seconds, you set jimin down onto the ground carefully as you closed the door behind you. before you could even turn around, the older girl spoke,

“how did you even know where i was?” she asked, still huffing from the sprinting she’s been doing while trying to survive.

“your shoes are covered in blood, footsteps are not hard to follo—“

her nose.

blood.. was dripping from it.

it was bleeding.

her nose was bleeding.

she curiously raised her eyebrow at your sudden change in expression, “what happened? did a zombie scare you or something? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” she giggled.

“j-jimin?”

“what? seriously y/n, you’re scaring me. what is it?” she continued giggling only nervously, this time, in hopes of making you feel better, whatever it was that suddenly got you like this.

“y-your.. your n-nose..” you said, your voice barely above a whisper,

“it’s.. bleeding.”

“oh come on.. tell mee. your secrets are safe with me, i promiseee—” she pleaded with you, making a joking hand rubbing motion as you subtly laughed at her unfunny attempts to try and win you over. you could never let her know that she was funny; her ego would be too flattered.

“we’re in the middle of some sort of a zombie apocalypse and you’re still somehow managing to be annoying.” you joked with her, to which she pouted in response.

“ugh you’re no fun..“

“sorry that i’m trying to survive, jimin??” you said back using a sarcastic tone. she groaned and rolled her eyes before speaking again,

“look y/n, we’re probably gonna die anyway, okay? might as well die knowing everything about the other, don’t you think?” she tried reasoning with you, and yeah, while it did make a little bit of sense why she’d think that way, just in case you did survive, you had a dignity to keep.

you couldn’t just tell her that you’ve had a crush on her ever since you were kids.

“…what?” she said, her voice suddenly matching the volume of yours. blinking at you as her smile drops, distraught from the piece of information you just gave her, you can see a small nervous smile forming again as she approached her hand to her nose. “come on, you can’t make jokes like that they’re not funny at all man—“

red.

was that blood?

no, no, it couldn’t be. of course it wasn’t.

right?

when she looked back up at you, she noticed that you slightly backed away from her, still staring at her with nothing but pure fear in your eyes.

you weren’t scared of her, were you?

why would you be?

“man that doesn’t even taste that bad.” you affirmed, still not done chewing the fresh bibimbap, the taste of the absurd amount of wasabi you put on it not having fully hit you yet. she simply looked at you with hooded eyes, nodding at your claims like they completely made sense. she was patiently waiting for it, she was waiting for you to jolt at the actual taste.

and god was it funny when you did.

“f-fuck?? jimin oh mai fuck— jimin wawer— path me the wawer oh my—“

the sound of her own laughter resonating in the food court, everybody was staring at you two like you were crazy, and it was fortunate you physically weren’t able to laugh.

cause your two laughs mixed together sounded like one incredibly loud laugh, people knew you for it.

“next time, maybe don’t claim to tolerate something spicy when you’ve never even tasted it, got it?” she advised you, digging her hand into her bag as she looked for her water bottle, watching you eagerly nod. at that point? you needed to consume something that wasn’t wasabi.

“y/n i swear i didn’t get bitten i promise you it’s— it’s probably my blood pressure. yeah! m-maybe it’s too high or something i’m— i’m sure running was the c-cause.“

you quickly grabbed her hand as she was still sitting down.

cold.

it was cold.

“why are your hands always so fucking warm all the time? like— it could be -10 degrees celsius outside and your hands would still be warm.. i just don’t get it.” you questioned, holding onto her hand and observing it like it was some sort of rare object that needed to be analyzed.

your hands were always cold, it was no fair.

“maybe it’s just cause i have a really warm heart.” she said in a dramatic manner, naturally making you roll your eyes at her. then, when your eyes went back on her, you noticed something.

“hey jimin?” she hums in response, indicating you to continue, “where’d your name tag go?”

she chuckles, “oh, i was supposed to give it to someone, but then i ended up just losing it somewhere.”

you giggled as a reply, “fucking idiot.”

you choked back tears as she tried justifying herself, backing away further as she eventually got up from her seat on the ground. you heard the bones in her limbs slightly crack in the process, and you know she heard it too,

she just wanted to pretend like she didn’t.

tears rolled down her face as she stumbled on her words and her steps, the struggle to get air in her lungs growing bigger by the second, “y/n i swear— please listen to me i— i’m fine i-i just—”

how did she get infected? she didn’t even get bit.

“i-it’s impossible.” she thought aloud, “i didn’t—“

then she remembered,

the blood that splattered.

the injury on her leg.

fuck.

“jimin.” you whispered, the tears that you were holding back finally dripping down your face as you saw her. her veins slowly popping out as blood came out of her mouth, slightly drooping.

you saw her turn right in front of your eyes, and there was nothing you could do.

you just had to leave her there.

her eyes were bloodshot by this point, and she was fighting back only god knows what to not let her neck crack in front of you. she couldn’t see anything anymore, the only thing she thought to do at that moment, before anything was too late, was to reach into her skirt pocket, grabbing something small, you couldn’t tell what it was. you didn’t know what it was,

until she deployed it onto your palms.

“oh stop it.. not my fault nametags are so small, it’s a pain in the ass trying to find something so tiny, so i kinda just stopped looking for it.” she tried justifying, but you just kept laughing at her.

“who were you even planning to give it to, anyway?” you added, trying not to seem too hurt about her having a crush. you had to be supportive, because jimin wasn’t just the person you loved,

she was also your best friend.

“now you’re doing a little too much.. i’m so obviously not telling you that.”

“w-what are you..?”

yoo jimin.

“m-my nametag. it’s yours n-now.” she said, eyes twitching from the pain she felt, her bones cracking with each movement she made.

what?

her nametag?

what?

“i’m s-sorry i couldn’t— t-tell you sooner.” she stuttered, clutching onto her bloodied up shirt like it was gonna help her feel better. “i p-pussied out.” she giggled, still sobbing.

“sorry.” was the last word she could muster up.

you stared at her.

and she stared at you back, smiling before leaving the room and sliding the door shut behind her.

it all went by so quick.

you didn’t even get to say goodbye.

wasn’t this all just a bad dream?

you were gonna wake up right?

the zombies running, they weren’t running.

the screams in the hallways, they weren’t hers.

they weren’t even real to begin with, right?

the zombies weren’t eating her.

you stared at her bloody nametag, tears falling down onto it.

yoo jimin.

the zombies don’t even exist either, do they?

you made all of it up, right?

right?

“ugh lame.. i’m your best friend, you should be telling me.. booo tomato tomato..”

she laughed, hitting your shoulder playfully before laying her eyes on you, smiling tenderly as she watched you pout.

“sorry.”

#kpop gg #female reader #aespa #aespa karina #karina aespa #aespa angst #all of us are dead #all of us are dead au #karina x female reader #karina aespa x female reader #yoo jimin #yoo jimin aespa #yoo jimin x female reader #i’m gonna cry #i felt so fidksodkkwdk #writing this

672 notes · View notes

ghouljams · 5 months

Text

Build Me a Castle of Memories Rating: M Word Count: 6.8k Tags: hurt/comfort, christmas fic, Ghostxf!oc/f!reader, background Pricexf!oc, dissociation, anxiety, grief, 09 Ghost's backstory, Ghost reconciling with his past, dad!Ghost, baby oc Summary: Ghost has never had what you would call a happy Christmas, but you have and that chafes more than he wants it to. He wishes it didn't, but he doesn't know how to stop it. Maybe he was doomed from the start.

“Simon, wake the fuck up, we got chores.”

Ghost folds his pillow over his ears and rolls over, away from the pounding of your fist against the door. There’s nowhere to escape the noise in the little one room house, but damn if he can’t try. He presses the pillow more tightly against his ears, squeezes his eyes shut. He feels like a kid again, your insistent knocking filling in holes in his memory he’d rather forget.

His father banging on the door, screaming as he tries to shield Tommy. His mother’s voice attempting to pacify him. The crack of skin against skin, the soft shocked noise that comes from being struck. A sharp yelp, a plea, but the banging on the door doesn’t stop.

Ghost jerks awake again. His mind struggling to disconnect from the past and focus on the present. How long have you been trying to wake him? He tosses the quilt off and grabs his mask. He needs to get away from this memory, and you’re just in time to help. The mask is pulled on as he goes to yank the door open.

You stare up at him, unapologetic for the early hour. Actually you look a little annoyed it took him so long to get up. Your eyes drop down, and Ghost leans against the door frame to let you look. One nice thing about Texas he supposes, it’s still warm in the winter. Warm enough he doesn’t need more than a pair of shorts to sleep in.

Your eyes pull back up to meet his and he cocks a brow.

You’re cute in an oversized jumper and shorts. He wonders if you’ve started chores, must have since your boots already have mud on them. “Is it a Ghost day today?” You ask, referring to his mask. He hums.

“What do you need, Princess?” He’s already tired of the direction this conversation is taking. Better to keep you both on track and avoid unnecessary topics. December is starting to chafe despite the climate. The feed store had giant candy canes out front the last time he passed it, and a tree lot has already been erected by the church. Must be a merry time of year, not that Ghost’s ever enjoyed it.

“Momma wants the Christmas tubs, and I need another set of hands with the trailer.” You explain, dangling the keys from your fingers. Ghost hums again, you shouldn’t have trouble with a few boxes of decorations, not enough to need his help at least. It’s a good excuse to grab some time alone with you though, one he’s happy to take.

You’re always a welcome distraction from the tightness in his chest.

“Lemme get my boots,” He grumbles, turning back into the house. He leaves the door open for you, knows you’ll follow him in and make yourself at home. It’s charming, you’re charming, if a little annoying.

Sure enough the door clicks shut behind him, and he hears you fussing in the kitchen with the kettle. Ghost is tightening his belt when you offer him a to-go mug of tea. It always tastes better when you make it, the thermos is warmer, the bitterness a little softer, the sugar a little sweeter.

He burns his tongue on the scalding liquid as you pluck his hat from the coat rack by the door and settle it on your head. You toss a smile over your shoulder at him, and it’s like a sunrise over the hills.

The darkness of memory scurries back where he can lock it. The house feels gentler somehow, he feels gentler. Softer around the edges when he rubs his thumb against your cheek.

“Come on ya big softy,” You laugh, patting his chest, “The quicker we get started the quicker we get done.”

Ghost huffs, “They’re Christmas decorations, how long could they take?”

Ten tubs in Ghost decides your mother is insane.

The shed that they’re all in seems dedicated solely to Christmas decor. There are light up reindeer and inflatables, boxes overflowing with lights, and tubs. Tubs upon tubs of heavy ass decor. You hand him another box to find space for on the trailer and Ghost is forced to reconcile with the fact you’re hardly breaking a sweat. You give a soft noise of effort when you lift a tub from the floor or pull one off a tower, but otherwise… Ghost spends a fair amount of time on the walk between the shed and trailer thinking about it.

Maybe they’re not that heavy.

He comes back to the shed to see you stripping your jumper off, the dark tank top underneath hits him like a train. You fold your jumper neatly and place it on top of the tub you lift off the ground with a huff. You blink at him when you turn to take it to the trailer, and a smile creeps over your face.

“Pick your jaw up baby, you’ve seen worse than this,” You tease, shouldering past him just to bump his arm with yours. Baby. You could call him anything you wanted and he’d have to stop himself from following after you. How can one little word make his chest swell and tighten?

How could he ever want to raise a hand to someone that made him feel like this?

Fifteen tubs, nine light up reindeer, and more lights than Ghost has ever seen. He boxes you in as you’re locking up, leaning heavily against his arm on the shed door. You turn to lean against the rough wood as you tuck the key back into your pocket. He holds your chin with his fingers, thumb rubbing against your skin as he takes you in. You give him a confused sort of smile and settle your pretty hands on his chest.

“You ok, big guy?” You ask, your voice light to disguise your concern. Ghost tips his head, quiet. It’s the season, he wants to say. It’s bitterness and resentment that creeps in every year at this time. It’s the smiles of kids swinging their parent’s hands and chattering about santa. It’s the sun shining and the wind blowing without a chill, like it would hate to ruin a perfect December with snow.

“Fine,” Ghost tells you. Your brows twitch down like you don’t believe him. He kisses you quick before you can ask again.

“Swear you got more of this stuff every year,” Price gripes back at the house, his smile telling Ghost he truly doesn’t mind. Your mother eagerly pops the lids off each tub to inspect the contents before telling Price where to take it. It’s a slow process, slower than the initial loading, but easy enough. Ghost takes a huge tub from you, this one clearly labeled “garlands.” It’s unwieldy, but not too heavy. He shifts it up over his shoulder to get it up the steps to the farm house’s front door.

“Thank you for helping Simon,” You mom smiles at him, her hand light on his arm. Something about her touch sears against his skin, her smile chokes him, he’s glad for his mask as he holds her gaze. He nods and continues into the house.

Outside he can hear your mom arguing with you about something. A well meaning sort of tone that carries through the air without yelling, never yelling. Your huffing and whining hardly seem to break the atmosphere. No harsh words, no physical altercation, no familiar ending.

Price passes Ghost on his way out and pauses. His eyes dart to him as he brushes past before he’s out the door again. Ghost sets the tub in the living room with the others. He pats the top, stares at the red lid, pats it again. His stomach twists. He pats it again.

Why can’t he move away?

He pats it. Job done. So why is he still standing there?

He pops the lid off the tub and stares at the pine green garlands, nestled in with fake snow and little red baubles. Christmas-y. His fingers skim the fake needles. Plastic, of course, crushed and bent in places from years of wear. Where do these go? Ghost glances around the room, it feels smaller with all the tubs. The first garland has been lifted from its place by the time you wander by with your own tub, and your jumper on.

“Better leave it, Momma’s particular about her decoratin’,” You tell him, setting your box on the dining table. Despite your warning you tug your tub open and pull tablecloths and centerpieces free. Apparently you’re allowed to help past moving boxes.

Ghost drops the garland back into its tub and presses the lid shut. He goes to grab another box.

For how many tubs there were, the actual decorating goes fast. “Plenty of hands,” You mum, Duck, she told him to call her Duck, tells him with a smile.

There’s a heavy weight on Ghost’s chest, something too large to wrap his arms around. He doesn’t say much as he helps get reindeer plugged in, and fluffy cotton snow tucked around ceramic houses. He finds himself outside with a cigarette between his fingers more often than he’d care to admit. The choke of smoke in his lungs is more familiar an ache than the other one. Nameless, because to name it would mean acknowledging it.

Ghost watches the wind rustle through the dry grass, his eyes trained on the wide horizon. He wishes he could change the shape of his shadow, knock off the parts that dig into his skin. He’s tired. Maybe he should find somewhere to go for the next few weeks, get away from the festivities. Just for a while. Just until it stops hurting. The screen door knocks against the frame behind him.

“You’re quiet,” You lean against the porch railing, eyeing him. You’re so damn observant it kills him. Ghost snubs his cigarette on the ashtray next to him and lets the last of the smoke leave his lungs.

“So I’ve heard.” He tells you, turning to push past you and back into the house. If he stays around you too long he might say something he can’t take back. It’s better like this.

Price is busy enough with the upstairs decorations that Ghost doesn’t feel bad making a beeline for the living room. Red and green cover the place. The mantle over the fireplace hosts a christmas village, the couch boasts flannel throws and christmas pillows, miniature christmas trees in various styles are set on every horizontal surface. Somehow the room feels warmer, the twinkle of fairy lights giving everything a soft glow.

How could he have anything to say around this? All this- Fucking hell why do you have to be one of these families? A happy family. You don’t even have a proper tree yet but there are already presents set in the corner Price partitioned off as the “tree spot.”

Ghost rubs his thumb against one of the garlands hung up around the entryway. So this is where they went. Your- Duck waves him over when he makes eye contact, offers him a baby of a hammer and a few tiny nails.

“Make yourself useful and tack up the cotton,” she smiles at him. He gives a short nod and follows the line of her fingers to the line of cotton circling the room, nestled neatly over a thick garland. Duck surrenders the step ladder to him and Ghost is quick to take over. He tucks the cotton into place and pushes the little nail into it, taps it with the head of the little hammer.

“We have to re-plaster every other year or so,” Duck says behind him, filling the silence with her voice.

“I can tell,” Ghost grumbles, eyeing the little holes that dot the wall. He tacks another length of cotton snow to the wall, squishes it up against the ceiling and drives the nail in. He looks back down at Duck and holds his hand out for more cotton. She’s already holding the next batch of it, apparently well versed in this whole decorating business.

“You should’ve seen the wall before we started fixing it,” She hums, “years and years of holes.” Ghost says nothing. These holes are nothing. Years and years of holes knocked into walls, covered by picture frames and curtains. “Most of these decorations have been in the family for years,” She tells him, background noise to the drone of his thoughts, “We still use my mom’s plates for Christmas dinner.”

“You ever broken one?” He asks, feeling his throat tighten as soon as the words are out. He squeezes his fist, the points of the nails digging into the meat of his palm.

“Of course,” Duck’s tone is alien to him, it’s all alien to him, “that’s what happens with old things, but I don’t need the plates to remember her.”

Ghost stares at the wall, the plastic needles of the garland, the red bows and white cotton. He bounces the weight of the hammer against his fingers, unseeing. There’s something at the edges of the statement that feels targeted, that speaks to an understanding he wishes she didn’t have. You don’t know me, it says, but I know you. Something wet tickles his fingers, he can feel the warmth of it dripping from his grip.

Remember when you had things you could carry with you? He asks himself. Pictures, smiles, something more than a memory? When’s the last time he visited their graves? Are they clean? Has anyone brought them flowers?

“They’re just things Simon,” his memory whispers, voice watery, like it doesn’t want him to see it cry.

Someone touches his arm, and asks, “Simon?” in a voice so close to his mother’s that he jumps, and nearly topples off the step ladder. A pair of hands press to his back to keep him steady.

“I’ll be alright,” his memory finishes, like a hand stroking his hair. He feels small. It hurts.

He drops the nails from his hand, lets the hammer fall free as he grips his wrist with a shuddering breath. Shit. Small puncture wounds dot his palm, nails still clinging to the meaty base of his thumb. He focuses on his breathing, pushing the pain down into its tightly lidded container as he steps down off the ladder.

Duck grabs his hand before he can shoulder past her towards the bathroom, inspecting the damage. Damn doctor. She clicks her tongue, the same way you do when you’re upset. She spreads his fingers out, opens his hand as she prods around the blood.

“Doesn’t look like any permanent damage done,” She smiles up at him, a mother’s smile where he’d hoped to see a doctor’s, “Just needs cleaned up.” Simon swallows.

“Let’s get it over with.” He responds, the same way he always does to medical.

Ghost studies his bandaged hand in the quiet of his bathroom, water patters against the tile of his shower in the silence. Plain gauze and bandaging, the same as it always is. No stitches needed. No permanent damage. Just plain gauze. And bandaging.

He rubs his thumb against the rough bandage, feeling its familiarity.

He sighs and leans back against the sink, presses his hand over his eyes to block the buzz of the overhead light. How much longer does he have to wait before it all stops hurting?

Things quiet down after the house is decorated. The holiday lulls into something almost palatable. You’re over less. In the week following Ghost finds himself sleeping alone three days in a row, finds himself unable to sleep when he does have you in bed with him. You hug close against his chest, your legs tangled with his and your breaths soft and even. He can’t lose the time he has with you to sleep, his lips press against your forehead as he feels like an outsider in his own skin.

“You should come stay in the main house,” You offer over your coffee, “until the holiday is over.” Ghost hums.

“Wouldn’t want to disturb the Christmas cheer,” He sips his tea, scrolling through the news on his phone. Never anything good, never anything that makes him happy he left the service.

“I want you there,” You press, “we want you there.” You always do that, make it sound like you aren’t enough to convince him, like he needs more than you to ask for something before he grants it.

“I like my space,” He looks up from his phone, and his heart twists at the sadness in your eyes, he fixes his eyes back on his phone, “I’ll think about it.”

“Maybe closer to Christmas? I know it’s not-” You hesitate, he hates hearing you hesitate, it doesn’t sound right to his ear when your confidence wavers, “With my parents around, I know it’s not ideal, or romantic, but-”

“I don’t like sleeping alone either,” Ghost finishes for you, swallowing his own feelings down, “I’ll think about it princess, promise.”

“Ok,” You smile, and kick your feet up into his lap under the table.

He spends the whole day thinking about it. Spends the day thinking about sleeping in a guest room, about seeing Price in the morning outside the bathroom, about family meals, about waking up surrounded by cheer when he feels anything but cheerful. He walks into the kitchen to grab lunch and finds the counters covered in unfrosted Christmas cookies, sprinkles and colorful icing laid out with joyful care. It makes his chest tighten uncomfortably, his memory working overtime to remind him of the clatter of baking sheets and the shouting that comes after the smell of burning flesh.

He skips lunch.

There’s something broken in him, Ghost knows that better than anyone, but he can’t stop the sharp edges of it from cutting. There’s something angry clawing at his ribs, licking his scars until they itch, choking his throat with dirt and earth. He snaps at Price while the cattle files past, and wishes his captain wasn’t so damn sturdy. “I know son,” Price tells him easily. It hurts more than it has any right to. All of it hurts more than he knows it should.

He holds you in bed at night and stares at the wall, tracing the path of the moon by the light it casts through the windows. He just needs to make it through the holiday.

Easier said than done.

Christmas seems to take over the ranch the closer the holiday gets. Presents appear piled under the tree, cookies tower on plates just out of reach of the dog, carols seem to always be playing, and the television happily hums with every holiday movie he could think of. You catch him under a mistletoe and Ghost feels like he’s quickly reaching a boiling point. Your joy, usually so infectious, now seems tailor made to destroy him.

He’s not mad at you, he knows he isn’t, knows exactly what this feeling is. It’s the same feeling he had in primary school watching other kids excitedly chatter about Christmas plans. Jealousy. Why did the universe see fit to give everyone else a happy family but him? He was just a kid. Kids don’t deserve that. Why did he have to go home to hell when you came home to Christmas carols and twinkling lights?

He tried so hard to be good,

And it never mattered.

Still, he doesn’t want to ruin the holiday for you. He follows you around town while you Christmas shop, smiles when you smile, offers you new jokes to hear you laugh, stops to look at the little display in the antique store window. Somehow it cheers him up, buying you a gift. It feels small, but genuine. He tucks the little felt lined box into his pocket and rubs his thumb against it when his thoughts start to drift away from you.

You squeeze his hand, your fingers intertwined as you walk. It feels reassuring for the first time in days.

With your gift in the back of his mind Ghost finally feels like he’s getting a handle on the whole Christmas situation. He can do this for you, he can give you a good holiday. You deserve a good holiday, even if he feels like a recruit getting pushed into action without so much as a vest. It still chafes at him, but Ghost has gotten good at ignoring uncomfortable feelings over the years. He shoves down the green eyed monster, and tries to throw a tarp over the old wounds that threaten to reopen.

He ignores the twitch of your mother’s brows, the clench of Price’s jaw, your hopeful smile. It’s strange how… easy it is to join the holiday, like you’d been waiting for him, holding a place for him to slot into. The warmth of it sinks into him, wraps around him gently where he’d thought it would try to pierce him.

He still hasn’t worked up the courage to take you up on your offer. He can’t look at you when he leaves, can’t see that tinge of disappointment in your eyes. It feels colder when he goes back to his little house. You’re so busy with your family, and he’s been holding himself back from you. He’s never been a coward before, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than letting you know how hurt he is, how broken he is to be jealous of your happiness.

Ghost tugs the towel off his mirror and stares down his reflection. His fingers squeeze the edge of the sink, knuckles white as he leans against the porcelain. It’s the season, he tells himself for the hundredth time, but it isn’t, is it? There’s a piece of his father lodged in his soul, dark and cloying, desperate to get out of the cage Simon shoved it in. The little voice in his head that asks why anyone else should have something nice if he didn’t get to.

He grips the sink tighter, keeps his eyes focused on their reflection.

The world is unfair and cruel. That’s why he joined the military, to even the scales. It’s his mum’s fault really. He swallows the lump in his throat. God she would have loved this, loved all this Christmas bullshit, pushed him to enjoy it, pushed him to stop holding you at arms length. She would have loved you, and you would’ve gotten on with Tommy like a house on fire.

The sink cracks under his hand.

It’s shallow, but he hears the break like a bell. It pulls his attention from the mirror as he rips his hand away and inspect the damage. He shoves down the guilt that tries to bubble to the surface. This is exactly why he’s keeping his distance. He wouldn’t be able to survive hurting you, can’t stomach the thought. He’s not his father, he can give you a good Christmas. He’s going to give you a good Christmas.

He’ll kill himself before he puts you through the sort of holidays he had.

Christmas eve creeps up without Ghost realizing, and all of a sudden he can't escape the warmth of the main house. There are no chores for him to do, you and Price having gotten up early to finish them. There's no help he can offer, Duck shoos him out of the kitchen. Every time he attempts to leave you drag him back to the couch. It's suffocating. Price follows him out to the porch to smoke, and he realizes he hasn't had a moment to himself in hours. Ghost can't turn a corner without bumping into someone. You're all just… hovering.

And yet no one has said anything. That almost makes it worse. The atmosphere inside the house is warm and festive, but Ghost can't help being reminded of a funeral. It's the sort of long dirge that seems to have no end in sight covered in a Christmas carol. There's plenty Ghost can ignore, but this is pushing it. He's both scrutinized and ignored.

You laugh and make jokes, Price snags cookies off the plate, Duck asks about santa. The dog is handed a bone and jumps around excitedly. The lights twinkle and carols ring through the house. Ghost doesn't think he's said a word in an hour, there's no point. “Big family syndrome” Soap had said once, “makes ya louder even when there's just the two of ya.”

It's too loud. It's too normal. It's too happy when he feels like he's going to break. All of the anger and hurt in his chest that wants so desperately to explode only makes it that much worse. He can't do this.

Ghost pushes back from the table when you settle your hand on his knee. He balls up his napkin and tosses it onto the table, turning to leave as your chair scrapes against the floor. He hardly hears when you call after him.

He just needs a minute of silence, a moment for his grief. He just needs two Goddamn seconds where he doesn't have to pretend he didn't lose everything. Where he can hate Christmas in peace.

Ghost presses his hands against his eyes, he can’t stem the stream of anger and hurt that pounds at his ribs. Why? Why can’t he push this down like he always has? Why does it feel so much bigger, so much meaner? It's never been this bad before, he's never had grief boil like this.

He doesn’t raise his head to the crunch of hay underfoot. You’re coming to try and comfort him, he supposes. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

“Go away princess,” He grits, as you take a seat next to him.

“Oh that’s cute,” You mother hums, “she is like a princess isn’t she.”

Ghost looks up from his hands, glares at Duck to try and dissuade this line of conversation. Somehow this feels worse than if you or Price had come after him. He doesn’t know your mother well enough to anticipate her script. Open water without a life vest.

“I like to come out here when I’m upset too,” Duck smiles, looking out the open barn doors. The texas sky is darkening, the first pinpricks of starlight starting to make their appearance. Somehow it feels like Christmas, even without the cold.

“I’m fine,” Ghost looks towards the doors too, clasps his hands together where he leans over his knees. Duck hums again, quiet and patient. So assured that Ghost would spill his heart to her that he almost wants to. When he glances at her again she isn’t looking at him, her eyes watching one of the barn cats sleep with a soft smile.

“You know the first christmas I had with John was two years after Goose was born,” She tells him, “he was still in his fatigues, fresh from the airport, and I was so mad at him-” She laughs, “-because he didn’t want to hold her for a picture.” Something in her smile strikes Ghost as sad, he can’t take his eyes off of her. “He said he didn't want to get blood on her, and I-” a shaky breath “-I don’t know. Eight months in combat and he couldn’t touch his daughter, I just wanted to make him forget about it.”

“That’s your sob story?” Ghost raises a brow.

“That’s why our Christmases look like this,” Duck turns to him, “I’m sure your mother had the same thought.”

“You don’t know my mother,” Ghost grits, squeezing his hands tighter, “There wasn’t any- We never had a happy Christmas, the old man wouldn’t have allowed that.”

His father always felt so big. Always stood so tall and hit so hard. He was impossible to go against, impossible to ignore, the threat of him always hanging over Simon’s head. Christmas especially he seemed to haunt, a monster around the corner ready to pounce. He delighted in others' misery, it was no wonder he seemed to take such joy in destroying the holiday.

There was no father Christmas, no meal good enough, no decoration that didn’t end up destroyed. Good china smashed and ornaments shattered. Just things, his mum would say wiping snot from his nose, not worth the tears.

“It couldn’t have all been bad,” Duck tells him quietly, “your mum wouldn’t let it all be bad,” her grip on his hand tightens, “I wouldn’t.”

“It was all shite,” Ghost assures her with a harsh chuckle. “Just about the only Christmas that went well was-” Ghost stops, frowns as he stares out of the barn. Duck is quiet next to him, letting him sink into the memory. The first Christmas after he kicked his dad out. The first Christmas after Tommy had Joseph, his pudgy little fingers reaching for the shiny ornaments on the little tree they had. His mum had baked cookies. It was the first time she’d actually managed to get them all iced without anyone storming in to scream at her, or throw the tray on the floor. They’d sat on the floor playing Father Christmas, passing out presents with smiles. It was warm, and quiet. Just how he’d always wanted it to be.

Duck’s hand cups his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek with a startling gentleness. Simon looks at her and she smiles at him, something warm and watery in her eyes. He feels the tightness in his throat reflected back to him, feels the wetness tracing lines over his cheeks brushed away with care.

“You two would’ve gotten on like-” He shakes his head, looks away from the ache in his chest, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“She would’ve been proud of you,” Duck says, and it hits him like a bullet through the heart, “I am. We all are.”

And he realizes where you get it from, realizes why you change your ‘I’s to ‘we’s. It’s not a worry that you won’t be enough, it’s an assurance that he has more than just you.

Simon looks at his hands, unclasps them to rub his thumb against the pinprick scabs that dot his palm. It hurts, the ball of grief in his chest bounces around hitting nerves and making everything feel bigger and scarier than it is. It eclipses everything, impossible to ignore. Duck settles a hand on his shoulder and grief presses too hard against his throat. His vision swims, and a tear falls into his hand. Duck squeezes his shoulder, an ever present warmth at his side as Simon tries to stem the flow.

“It gets easier,” Duck's voice is soft, sympathetic, “but the good times always hurt worse than the bad ones.” Simon shakes his head, and looks at her over his shoulder, she swallows down the sadness in her smile. “I'm sorry baby,” she tells him, her sincerity hitting him the same as Price's, “I'm so sorry.”

Simon nods, he feels small and far away. He's too big to want to be held like a child, too old, yet Duck pulls him into her arms and he can't do anything but curl into her grip. His hands grip her jumper tight, keeping her held in place as he takes the offered comfort like a starving child takes grapes from the pale man’s table. There’s no judgement as tears stain her sweater, no harsh words or calls for him to “be a man”, only the quiet of the barn as Simon lets himself feel the grief he’d been avoiding all month. For years really. Ever since he found his family dead, felt the cold grasp of understanding wrap around him that he’d never have the sort of Christmas normal people have.

Not when his gifts were soaked in blood, not when he burned the last good things in his life.

“Why don’t you stay with Goosey tonight?” Duck offers, cutting through the tears, “The guest room is a mess, and I know she won’t mind.”

Of course you won’t, you’ve been trying to hold onto him all month. Trying to pull him out of the past as desperately as he was trying to avoid it. The first good thing in this chapter of his life. He should’ve been holding onto you, not pushing you away.

“You’re a good man Simon,” Duck mumbles, her voice quiet enough that he almost doesn’t catch the end of her sentence, “they wouldn’t blame you.”

He says nothing, just curls a little closer, and imagines it’s his mother saying those words.

The house is quiet when he and Duck walk back inside. Price sits on the couch reading, and opens his arms for his wife when she wanders over to him. His captain pulls her onto his lap and brushes her hair off her forehead, a quiet moment of affection in front of the fire that speaks to years of familiarity. He can only hope to have that with you someday, but first maybe an apology is in order. Simon bypasses the happy couple to go upstairs, following the lights to your room.

He pushes the door open as quietly as he can, watches you look up from where you're sitting on the edge of your bed. Your eyes water, but you smile for him. Simon steps inside, and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

“Momma finally convince you to stay here tonight?” You ask. Simon hums, and holds his arms out for you. It's entirely too endearing how quickly you rush into his hold. You press your head against his shoulder and Simon does the same, burying his nose against your neck to breathe in your familiar scent. Somehow it settles in his bones like coming home. God, he missed you. Missed the way you feel in his arms, the way you melt against him with a sigh like he’s all you’d ever need to be happy.

“You were waitin’ on me,” Simon says looking at the still made bed. The room is bathed in the soft glow of Christmas lights, and you stare up at him with a funny sort of smile, the kind that makes him think he’s said something colossally stupid.

“I’m always gonna wait on you,” You tell him, like it doesn’t mean the world to him. Always, you tell him, and Simon wonders again how one little word from you can make his heart feel like it will burst. You reach to cup his face, stroking your thumb over his stubble with a fondness he’s never seen before. It makes him want to tell you he loves you.

“I have something for you,” You say before he can spill his heart. You lean out of his arms to swipe a present off of the dresser next to you. You hold out a flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper with a neat red bow. It’s simple, but the way his name is written carefully on it, far flung from your usual chicken scratch, speaks to the care put into it. He lets you go to take it gingerly, turning it over in his hands to check the seams.

“We’re more of a presents on Christmas family, but I thought you might like this early.” You explain as Simon carefully slides his finger under the tape holding the paper together, gentle not to rip it as you watch him. He turns the picture frame over in his hand and freezes.

Grainy and just barely colored is a photo of Tommy’s wedding. The happy couple smiles up at him, with Simon and his mother standing at his brother’s side, while their new in-laws stand with Beth. His fingers trace the smile on his face, the way his mum holds onto his arm, happier than he'd ever seen her. He looks up to meet your eye, your unsure smile.

“Where did you get this?” Simon asks, looking back at a life he'd buried years ago. You step closer, settle a hand on his.

“I called a couple genealogy places in Manchester,” you explain, “figured your mom might've put an announcement in one of the local papers. They faxed a couple photos over.” You pause, unsure as Simon looks at the photograph. He looks back at you when you've been quiet a moment too long. “I have one of Joseph under the tree, I can go get it.” Your nerves bleed into your voice, your tone softer than Simon's ever heard it.

“I gotta have something to open tomorrow,” He tells you, wrapping his arm around you, pulling you close to his side and kissing your forehead. “Thank you.” Simon feels quieter, you wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze.

“I know it's not much,” you murmur, and Simon cuts you off.

“It's perfect.”

Somehow looking at the photo makes his heart feel lighter. It’s tangible, physical proof of the life he lived, and of the people he lived it with. He wonders if it was really so easy to find, you must have gone through a lot of effort to find this picture. The kind of effort you only put in for someone you love.

“Got something for you too,” He sniffs, settling the picture back where it had been.

“You do?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Simon flicks your forehead, and you swat at his hand. He grabs the little hinged box from his coat pocket and tosses it to you. You barely fumble it, popping the lid open with a smile. He almost worries you hate it the way your face screws up, your lips pouting and your nose wrinkling.

“I love it,” You tell him with a wavering voice, pulling the necklace free of its velvet prison. The little porcelain charm hangs gently from the silver chain, a tiny white goose with an orange beak and a blue scarf painted on it. You hold the charm in the palm of your hand, studying it. “Can’t believe you got me jewelry,” You joke, trying to cover the water brimming at your lashes, something Simon is happy to brush away with his fingers.

“Thought it was cute,” He supplies, you nod.

“It’s perfect,” You unclasp the clip on the chain, and hold it out to him, turning so Simon can pull the two ends around the back of your neck.

“I ever tell you that the bartender no-showed the reception?” Simon asks, helping you clasp the necklace. You laugh, trying to keep your voice down.

“No time like the present,” You smile over your shoulder at him, the sun peaking over the mountains just for him.

Simon holds his daughter up in front of the family Christmas tree, her little pudgy fingers reaching for the shiny ornaments as her eyes reflect the lights. She kicks her feet excitedly, cooing at the display and letting out eager huffs as she attempts to escape her father’s arms. He’s never seen anyone so excited about a few decorations, but the glee that radiates off of the baby is enough to lighten anyone’s mood.

“Don’t let her grab anything,” You call from the couch. Simon pulls Mary back into his arms and steps closer to pull a little fuzzy teddy bear ornament off a branch. He jingles it in front of her grubby little fingers with a smile.

“This one’s yours,” He tells her quietly, “don’t tell your mum.” Tiny fingers wrap around the soft toy, and pull it close. It’s amazing how different the holidays feel with a baby, it’s like experiencing everything for the first time all over again.

Mary holds onto the little bear and Simon holds onto the ornament hook, keeping it out of her mouth as she gums at the ornament’s ears. He’s almost tempted to let her keep it, except that the baby has more presents under the tree than any of them. The perks of being less than a year, he supposes. Having doting grandparents helps too.

Not that Simon can blame them. Mary smiles at him around the bear’s arm and his heart melts a little. Christ, how did he ever make something this perfect? “How many of these did you say you wanted?” He asks over his shoulder.

“As many as you can carry.” You hum. Simon bounces Mary in his arms, and pulls the ornament from her grasp when she switches her focus to him. Tiny fingers reach for his face, soft baby skin feeling over his stubble and giggling. He catches her hand and presses it to his lips, feeling the way Mary squirms in his arms, her chubby legs kicking excitedly.

“They’re all going to be good,” He promises her, “every Christmas-” he kisses her hand again, “-and every birthday-” another kiss, “-and everything in between. For the both of us.”

415 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Text

TOWER OF BABEL (VII)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VIII

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 7.4k

WARNINGS: Angst, intense stalking & stalking behavior, talks of death/injury, toxic modeling standards/expectations, dark implications, symptoms & descriptions of dissociation, scar descriptions, etc. (Series 18+)

A/N: This is where some of the more serious/dark aspects come into the story involving Seraph's job and the pressures that are put on her. It's only implied in this chapter, but in the next, it'll be talked about more. Just to let you all know.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The day after your meeting, your gifted clothes came to the lobby of the penthouse.

You’d gone down with Nikto and picked up what you could, bags and bags of designer goods including purses, makeup, and jewelry. It was excessive—like Fedorov was trying to buy your silence; buy your affection so you’d cozy up into bed with him.

This job tried you every day, but that was a line you would never cross. Never.

Still, the items needed to be taken and packed for the trip regardless. Eyes would be on you from the moment this adventure from hell started until it ended in what hopefully was a peaceful fashion.

But you severely doubted it would be anything close to peaceful.

You take another gray dress and slip it into the garment cover, legs folded on the floor of your living room as you hum under your breath. Music wafts out from your record player, and you’re desperately trying to focus on the task at hand. Nikto reads from the couch.

“Have they called you yet?” You ask, not looking up as you slide the cover’s zipper, missing it once as your hand shakes unexpectedly.

The Russian responds with a slow and even, “Нет. No calls.”

You sigh, licking your lips.

No one had been telling you what was in that last gift at AMA—not even your mother. Aly had said it was probably nothing when she’d been briefly over to assist with the clothes, on a tight break in her schedule, but you weren’t too sure of that.

Pale eyes blink slowly, and a page turns. “No use thinking. Pack.”

“You make it sound like it’s that easy,” you huff, body leaning back and spine resting against your various rugs. The penthouse was warmer today, and you wear comfortable loungewear; shorts, and a dark baggy t-shirt. Your head shifts, arms out beside you. “How are you so calm about everything? My heart feels like it’s constantly going to break out of my chest.”

Your phone goes off on the coffee table, a short buzz that has to be either your mom or Alyona. Rubbing a palm into your right eye, you hear the bear grunt and close whatever he was reading, finding it pointless to try and focus if you continue to speak to him.

He stares for a moment, hidden face a mystery you long to solve. With a tap of his finger on his thigh, he explains.

“Training,” you blink, intrigued. Nikto seems to notice, tilting his head and looking down at you. “You are scared, Woman, yes?”

“Of course.” You had no trouble admitting it. “Anyone would be.”

“In military,” the air of the penthouse moves with the weight of his broken words, the rough bleed of vocals. You really did like his accent—it just added so much to his already intimidating form. Just a stack of bricks being constantly grated against one another. “We were taught how to become used to it—the adrenaline. Fear. In the end, it held little over many; failure was the only fear that never left.”

Your brows furrow, lips frowning. “You fear failure, Nikto?”

You expected a blunt refusal, quick words. But the man had been softening to you over the time you’d known him—if that was your own doing, or something more, you can’t quite tell anymore. Any talk on soulmates has feld you like a rabbit in a dark wood to shy away from the looming presence of something bigger; parties and scorned maniacs.

You still wonder if ignoring the gifts was the right thing to do. Would that make it worse? You think you’d read about that somewhere.

A trigger. But the stalker had already pushed one of those, hadn't he? What could he do that was worse than killing three men? Mutilating animals?

Nikto surprises you.

The man blinks, not looking away from your pleasing eyes—even now, your pupils were small with anxiety; he’d noticed how you adamantly avoided social media and the news, plastered with your pictures and the case. The window had never been opened fully since he’d been here, only a creak of natural light slipping from the crack of the half-risen blinds.

For a gruff beast of action, his eyes missed nothing.

“Yes,” he grumbles, blinking away for a moment before his attention returns. “But it is…lesser than what you feel. Незначительный. Minor.”

A small smile flickers your lips, skull to the ground even as it aches slightly.

“I like it when you speak to me—it helps,” you mumble honestly. It wasn’t flirting, not really.

The Russian looks slightly confused at your sentence, but that doesn’t stop his shoulders from minutely tightening. You chuckle, shifting your head to the ceiling where your little bits of painted glass hang.

“Nikto,” you point upwards. “That one—the bird. What color is it?”

This was a game you’d taken a fast liking to. You’d point and ask the color; Nikto would answer.

“Red,” is his monotone reply after a glance. Eyes from behind his mask shrouded in dark paint. You doubted the face grease could come off anymore, the chemicals already bone deep.

“I thought it was orange,” you sigh. “I still can’t tell the difference.”

“Obviously,” is the dryly amused response, with you glaring without venom and putting your hands to the ground to help push you back up.

“Hey,” you try to hide your teasing smirk. “I’m getting better at it—”

Your voice is strangled off as a sharp inhale, eyes blinking rapidly, and your vision blurs in a moment of ricocheting pain flaring in the base of your skull. Snapping one hand to the back of your head, you strangle down a small scream, reducing it to a whimper of utter agony.

Neck bending forward, your mouth fills with saliva as your spine pulls in, yet you can’t even focus on that. You feel like if you even have a single thought, your brain will explode out of the back of your head.

Nikto startles, eyes widening, but he doesn’t waste time on shock. Feet already rush over at the slighted change in the air, a hand grasping the base of your neck tightly, attention snapping into place. Your breath puffs as your frantically moving face tenses and eyelids twitch. Your nerves were on fire.

The Russian watches, confusion and a certain unease striking him through his pounding heart. What had happened? One second you were speaking and the next your body was so steel-like it shook harder than he’d ever seen it.

“Seraph,” he barks, face close to your head, looking at the spot you grasp at with your visible knuckles, the sound of your gasping pants leaving his throat echoing with reverberations of unease.

Nikto pulls at the skin of your wrist, peeling your hand back before you draw blood, trying to assess what to do. He only sees it then.

It’s a rabid-looking thing, the scar. With your hair as such, your fingers stuck in the knots, they’re pulled back just perfectly to see it. Pale blue eyes stare unabashedly, struck dumb for a moment in their concerned sheen.

It spans from the base of your skull upward, a jagged bulge of healed tissue and fissures—the shade of skin is different there, hyperpigmentation just as Nikto had. Halfway up the back, the rough line breaks into two places, creating a ‘Y’ with the one nearest to the right stopping sooner than the other.

But it was deep. Deadly-like. An indent lives at the middle point.

For someone so in tune with the ways of the body, Nikto was horrified and fascinated at the very implication; how had you…survived this? Your entire skull might have been broken open from the force of whatever had happened, judging by the strength needed to achieve such brutality. Was this the injury that you’d been speaking about?

An overwhelming emotion takes him by the lungs.

Your body had scars just like his did.

Form curling even farther forward, your legs pull into you, and Nikto finds that at the moment, none of that even matters.

“Seraph,” he orders again, equally as urgent but noticed less sharp. His thumb curls your wrist to trap itself at your pounding pulse; running as if being chased by whatever nightmares he hears you whine from in your sleep.

You swallow down your bile with a clicking of your throat and a small cough, eyes stinging.

“Burns,” your lips whisper, lids closing firmly. “God, my head burns.”

It’s a brief thought—a small moment of slip-second thinking that had saved his life many times.

A chilled palm spreads itself over the back of your head, directly over the broken fracture of flesh, without an utterance of a word. The effects aren’t immediate; you don’t just calm down and stop panicking. But it helps. Like a light in the dark, it helps.

After a minute, the chill seeps into your bones. It goes deeper and deeper, the large grip of Nikto’s fingers stuck into your hair perhaps a little harder than they needed to be, but you weren’t about to complain at the pressure. After two minutes, your panting slows to a small ragged wheeze—feeling like a sick duck as your beady eyes finally open. You see the unblinking pale orbs directly to your right almost immediately after the abyssal dots go back to wherever it was they came from.

He doesn’t speak; you didn’t expect him to. Nikto was arrogant, prideful, but he never spoke unless he knew he had something he needed to say. A blunt hound who never hesitated to bark, but only when he could see something was up in the tree.

When you’ve seemed to calm down, the hand on your wrist leaves with a brush of rough gloves to the skin, making you shiver. You notice the hastily tossed material of the matching product, belonging to the other limb, near your knee.

Cold fingers. Cold hands. A corpse would be jealous, but you’d never felt so thankful.

Nikto studies your face rapidly, and your raspy voice levels out a meek, “Sorry.”

Barely visible brows furrow tightly, almost disgusted. You perhaps misinterpreted that expression the wrong way, because just as you’re about to rush into a wild explanation as to why, how, and every excuse you can give, you’re once more taken off guard today.

Bulky arms circle your waist and under your vibrating knees.

With a sluggish reaction, you blink rapidly as you’re settled against the hard Kevlar of his chest—kept firm in his grip. Your legs hang, hand stabilizing yourself on Nikto’s pec.

“What did I say?” He asks heavily, looking down at you as your shock bleeds away to focus on how to calm your heart. “Seraph?” Nikto prompts, his fingers digging into your clothes.

You try to think, stuttering, “You don’t like it when I apologize.”

“So do not,” the Russian grunts, clenching his jaw out of sight. His words are low, and he rolls his shoulders. “That is the end of it.”

He sets you down on the couch, sinking into the multiple plush pillows. You feel weak—limp. Not looking into the man’s eyes, you curl your hands around your waist, leaning back and being careful to not hit your head on the back.

Nikto watches with hidden concern.

“Explain,” he utters, not moving an inch from in front of you. It’s a minute or so before you can find the words. All the Russian does in that time is shift his arms over his chest—fix the stance of his feet. You can feel his eyes like a knife, but you can’t feel how his brain is on high alert; vigilant to any pain that may be hidden from him.

“Happens sometimes,” you whisper, one vibrating hand coming up to lightly run over the back of your skull. You trace the scar softly, feeling the pulse underneath. “It’s just… sensitive.”

Nikto’s eyes narrow.

After a pause, where it’s obvious you feel some sort of embarrassment judging by your avoiding gaze, the great beast sighs long. A slow blink makes his dark lashes up and down.

He hated how he despised that look on your face.

Moving, Nikto sits beside you, leaning back with a grunt and extending an arm behind you on the hardwood of the couch’s frame.

“Tell me. I want to know.” You side-eye him, knees pulled up to your chest. It has a distance to it, your focus. Everything feels like it’s underwater.

“It’s not a good story,” you force a broken huff, smiling wobbly. Numb eyes don’t waver over the lines of your face.

“No,” Nikto bluntly says. “I did not expect it to be. Nonetheless…” he trails. “I am asking if you are willing to answer.”

It wasn’t like you were against saying what had transpired, but there was a lot of history there—so much. The event had happened when you were young, so many years had passed to a point where the mental pain of it had dimmed to all except the consequences. The aftermath.

This was a give and a take; you consider yourself a fair person.

“How did you lose part of your finger?” You turn it around, licking your lips and staring at his neck. The man’s body stills at the question.

Nikto slowly loosens a grumbled scoff. But it isn’t a feral thing. Perhaps he was even impressed that you had the forethought to gain something of his story when you’d already told so much of yours.

He reminds himself once more, not dumb.

“Very well,” Nikto’s head tilts like a wolf, his knee hitting the place where your feet hang over the edge of the cushion. He looks you up and down as his finger taps the wood behind your head. “Second year with PMC. Operation in far-off country—we do not care to remember which anymore.” You listen, heart calming with every scrape of vocal cords. Nikto explains slowly, thinking over every word carefully as his vision trails to rest at your nose. “Hostile hiding under floorboards.” The Russian rolls his shoulders. “I was reaching down to grab at the hatch; it confused me because it was partially open.”

Your body lightly turns his way, the side of your skull meeting the hard build off the inside of his forearm. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, getting everything under control again one second at a time. As if a book, you turn the pages of Nikto, painting a picture of his tale, oblivious to the way his eyes are stuck on your face. His arm stays completely still for you.

He longs to look at that scar again, and he can’t understand why.

“...Large knife came up through the wood. Cut it off and damaged the others near it. It is numb most days. Barely can tell I still have finger. Very inopportune, but all was not lost.”

“What wasn’t lost?” You hum, sighing, and open your eyes again. The Russian’s gaze darts away.

“I killed him,” he says numb-like, a vicious smirk in his voice. “In the end, it was only us who could tell the story, yes?”

“Does it hurt?” You change the subject back to his scars, liking how his forearm acted as your pillow. You could feel his tendons as they pulled.

“Sometimes,” Nikto shrugs at your quiet question, thighs over the couch cushions. “Like all the others. Natural.”

He doesn’t need to ask if yours do.

You dwell on what he insinuates about his body—the scars you already thought he’d have; why he wears that mask.

“I fell,” you share, not letting a long silence linger. Nikto’s feet shuffle on the floor, but otherwise, like a waiting cat, he was completely beholden to your soft voice. “Far. Cracked my head open on a rock.”

There’s so much more to it—but this is the version you always tell everyone. It’s less…complicated. Gets you less looks of pity, even if you’re not sure Nikto is the type to do that.

The large man hums, nodding. He wants to know more; he’d have to look into it further on his own. “You are lucky to be alive after an injury like that.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, lips twisting. “Lucky.”

Your skull pulses.

“But, anyways,” you wave a hand, locking gazes. “Thank you.”

Nikto’s knees crack as he stands, moving away; his heat leaves. Hands situating themselves at the collar of his vest, the Russian’s throat rolls with a noise of acceptance.

“It is my job. Do you require anything?”

“I think I’m okay,” you admit, feet delicately moving to the rug on the floor. It’s back to packing, pushing this to the back of your mind just as you do the remembrance of his fingers tight in your hair; tight at your wrist. Nikto’s hard voice in your ear, saying your angelic title.

Your throat clears itself, blinking, as you stand.

The man takes it as lightheadedness, one foot moving closer. Your hand raises, and he stops. A small chuckle moves out of your mouth, side-eyeing him with a crinkle to your lids.

“I’m okay, Nikto. Trust me, please.”

He sighs, fingers twitching. But he doesn’t grumble any blunt vitriol, he just watches. Always watching.

Your spirits are lightened by his presence.

Brushing down your t-shirt, you close your eyes and shove away the memories, tiny tingles of pain still present as they go up and down your spine.

“Now, we have to get to work,” you brush past the episode, used to them. “It would be helpful if you lent a hand, Big Guy.”

Your joke leads to a huff, fingers taking back their book from the table—all in Russian script, so you didn’t know what it was—and a roll of eyes.

“That is not my problem. Your clothes, your parties.”

“The parties you’re going to have to go with me too,” you smirk, eyes glimmering as you grasp your phone, flipping it over to turn it on and look at the text you’d received. “I hope you like suits.”

Pale eyes widen before a growled Russian sentence wafts over the music from the recorder. You laugh, already knowing the contents of curses and refusals. He was so much like a child sometimes it takes you aback. A brute, utterly refusing what was in front of him and owning a short fuse.

“Oh, calm down,” you blink, signing into your phone. “I’m good at finding clothes as long as you tell me colors and shades. You’re in the best hands in the business, Nikto.”

“Do not say it like that,” he barks, eyes narrowed and his body moving forward to pass you, most likely to go back to your bookshelf and return the book, seeing as he’d get nowhere with it now. “I do not want your hands, Whelp.”

“You’re saying that now,” you tease, pointing with your free finger. “Everyone says that before they have a taste of—”

“Quiet.”

You laugh, spine lightly bending forward, and Nikto’s back turned to you to where you can’t see his face soften at the sound. His body unconsciously loosens, orbs gaining a distance that has nothing to do with his condition. Your existence is a curse to him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

It’s only after you’re able to calm down, the Russian putting his book away with a large hand, when you finally look down at the text you’d gotten.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

‘I sent you a gift and you didn’t even open it?’

Your face freezes mid-smile.

‘I’m giving you everything you wanted—you didn’t open the letter I gave you in the grocery store, either, did you? I waited for hours for you to show up! Hours for you! I’ve waited YEARS to be near you! I love you more than anything in my life and you’re ignoring me? How can you do that when I’ve risked so much? Please, Seraph, I love you but you’re breaking my heart—I’m trying so hard to be kind to you. Please, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Это любовь с первого взгляда! Я не могу жить без тебя!

I’m trying to forgive you, my Сладкая, I promise. I’ll always forgive you, but let me show you how much you mean to me.’

Images pop through, scent quickly as your glee stiffly drops like glass to the floor. You’d never felt yourself go so still as when you’re halfway through the block of text and you see yourself at the grocery store, alone, and Nikto’s shadow disappearing around the aisle. More—so much more. You in AMA...in…in the photoshoot wearing nothing but the lingerie, skin on full display.

Your eyes flood with tears, jaw open.

He had been in that fucking room. He’d been there when your manager had brought in the dead birds—he, he had…

He’d been right there.

You can’t speak, you’re only looking down at the continuing barrage of photos.

Outside of the Consulate building, walking down the street, talking with Aly on a girls outing from months ago. Your phone vibrates with every one, quivering hands already moving but now more so. Like a rabbit being hunted down. It shows an escalation—the more you see the closer this freak was getting in each, slowly slinking with vile intentions until the last.

An image of the direct back of your head, a hand reaching, and almost touching, exactly where your scar lives.

You’re going to vomit.

The entire device is snatched by gloved fingers.

Nikto glares in confusion, ears twitching at every buzz of your phone. “What is wrong with—”

The man is suddenly more wound up than a dog under a noose.

Rushing past, you only reach the kitchen trash can two seconds before your bile rocketed from your mouth, heaving what little you’d managed to eat of Nikto’s cooking into the bottom with a tight sob.

Nikto’s hand holds the thing—reading, looking, with dead eyes. Dead eyes that gradually become enraged with a certain type of anger that breeds in silence. The skim, a ruthless finger tapping the screen and dragging the conversation back to the top before he stares. He stares and stares and stares at the pictures. At you.

The way you live your life, oblivious to the threat right behind you. Stalking closer.

Nikto can’t remember a time he’s felt so angry at an enemy before. Not just an enemy, no, an animal. This wasn’t like the rules of war, this was for pleasure; for a selfish need. He knew how to keep himself separate—had to for his sanity—but this was something no one could not get wrathful at. Even him.

He hears you wretch, vomiting into the trash just below the island where he’d made the both of you lunch, the choke of your sobbing breaths. The sounds make his hands tighten over the phone, to smash it to pieces like a toddler with a block castle.

And then the device buzzes one more time as Nikto silently finishes reading the first text you’d been sent.

‘Don’t worry about the bodyguard, Seraph, I can take care of him, too. We can finally be together, just like it’s supposed to be.’

Nikto is hitting the call button before his brain catches up to his finger.

Slotting it to his covered ear, he breathes like an afflicted hound, eye buggy and chest rattling with air. Panting echoed from behind his mask, the hot breath moving back to warm his slashed and burned flesh.

It picks up on the second ring, but nothing is said. No words from the other end.

In the corner of his eye, Nikto sees you hyperventilating. The former soldier speaks entirely in Russian, slipping back into his native tongue as easily as he slips into violence—it is nothing more than a slide of sandpaper.

“I am going to watch the life bleed from your eyes,” he grinds out. “And then I’m going to make your corpse wish it had been set on fire instead.”

Nikto hangs up, tossing the phone to the coffee table and making a mental note to get Yaromir and Galina to trace the number. Stomping over to you, your body was away from the trash now, hand to your mouth.

“I’m okay,” you say hurriedly, tears tracking your cheeks. “I’m okay.”

“You are not,” Nikto wishes he could go to the shooting range—wishes he could spar and slam someone down to a wrestling mat. He needs flesh under his fingertips.

The Russian’s chest is wide and rising with the pulse of untamed lungs. The bulge of his pecs stuttered over their course and the old scars he carries itch under the barrier of his gear.

Growling, the man clenches his eyes shut, shaking his head to the side firmly.

But there was something about the implication of you being threatened that made Nikto need to feel the weight of his service weapon in his grip. To feel the recoil of a bullet being sent into someone. A nameless figure; a silent phone call.

Nikto scoffs, rolling his neck and shoulders.

Thinking like this was making him reckless.

“I guess I should have told you about the letters, then,” you taste bile on your tongue, images swirling in your head—paranoia was firm. Suddenly, every memory was tainted. You gag on your saliva, coughing.

Nikto doesn’t respond to the self-deprecating comment.

Once more today, hands move to touch you, pulling at the space under your arms and lifting. Blinking, you’re moving around when your feet are flat on the ground—hands going to rest on the edge of the counter behind you.

Nikto’s hands stay stuck at the meat of your limbs, great head tilted. Eyes lock on the tear tracks spreading down your skin, and he pauses.

A thumb slowly pushes at them, spreading the liquid along your flesh as your blurry vision stays at his neck. With a shuddering inhale at the unneeded attention, your head lightly sags forward—connecting with Nikto’s chest.

He tenses, looking down at you from the corner of his eye.

After a minute, his nose releases an unheard sigh, and his arms lower to his sides.

Nikto lets you rest there as long as you need.

—

You’re in the bath tonight, and Nikto listens to the water sloshing as he pushes the envelopes around from inside the lockbox.

It was safe to say you hadn’t gone back to packing.

That woman, Alyona, was here—she’d made a big fuss about the texts before she’d taken you with her and led you into the bathroom to clean yourself up. You were both in there now—talking. Nikto wasn’t going to act like he wasn’t eavesdropping; he didn’t care if your friend or you knew it. It was mostly about the parties, the talk, and the Russian could understand that Alyona was trying to occupy your mind.

His mission was more important.

You’d passed him the box and watched as Nikto had retrieved the letter from your coat pocket. The former soldier had already called the investigators and promptly told them to arrest Sergi, or they would have him to deal with—there hadn’t been time to respond before he’d hung up and smashed his phone to the nightstand of your rented room. The resounding echo had made both parties in the bathroom go silent for a minute before hesitantly starting back up.

And now, there was the scratchy English script of a stalker in his hands. He felt disgusting even touching them; he was glad he’d put his gloves back on. A permanent sneer was stuck to his hidden face like a curse, eyes narrowed.

Standing, the man trades weight from his thighs as he reads the letter that had been stuck in your jacket.

‘My Сладкая,

This is the one-hundredth letter I’ve written to you, though you haven’t been sent all of them yet. I’m still waiting for you to notice me, and I’ve grown disquieted by your response to the way I disposed of your three guards. Was that not what you wanted every time you looked at me?’

Nikto’s hand comes up to rub at the fabric over his neck, digging until he feels the bulge of his scar against his fingertips.

‘I thought you would be thankful, but now you have that man following you everywhere. He took your doves from you—the doves that were supposed to make up for the misunderstanding about the dead men. You looked beautiful with the red fire moving over your face that day, you know? It caught every curve and the softness of your skin perfectly. Here—I even took a picture for you to enjoy as I thoroughly have. I hope it brings you the pleasure it brought me to run my lips over your holy image.”

Fingers crumble the side of the letter, creasing it. Not once do they delve into the envelope to look for that picture. If he had the choice, Nikto would rip this entire thing into little bits.

‘I think it’s time that we meet—alone, Сладкая. I’ll be waiting tonight at the café for you, so we can run away together. And start this life together. I think it’s time. Yes. I will ravage you with all of the beautiful things in life; jewelry, dresses, makeup, my body. It is mine, isn’t it? You? You’ve told me with your eyes, so why are you still ignoring me? You look at me every day. I look back—you love me! I know you do! Why are you still being such a—’

It falls off into nothing but rabid script; illegible even to Nikto’s best abilities. The letter is saturated with something—spots of the paper pulling in on itself with droplets off…

Nikto stills, disgust and insult moving in his gut. There wasn’t any DNA on the box, but they certainly had some here.

Dropping the letter into the lockbox on the nightstand, the man takes the top and rams it shut with a rattle of the nesting dolls on the upper shelf. Nikto removes his gloves and tosses them into the garbage bin.

Stalking to the bathroom door, he moves on instinct. Ever the animal.

Knuckles rasp to the wood. Conversations halt once more.

“Seraph,” he eases, accent tight. “You are well?”

A bead of silence, the moving of water.

“Yes, Nikto,” your voice is still shaky, but it comes out from under the door.

Nikto stares at his feet, blinking. With a grunt, his feet shift and he forces out, “Good. You will call if you need us.”

It wasn’t a question.

Moving back, he nods to himself firmly, shaking out his right hand—he can’t seem to stop being on edge. Every creak, every shadow of your decorations moving, made his eyes dart to them, honing in as if behind the scope of a rifle.

Nikto brought his hands to the side of his skull, pushing in. You were messing with his head, he tells himself again. The moments of dissociation were becoming more frequent as of late, and he could feel it in the back of his mind even now. A glaze over his brain that made everything feel like it was worlds away from him—it was sharp and sure of itself. Words jumbled, ‘I’s came out as ‘We’s, things were lapsed from his brain; important things. Moments of confusion—aggression. Leaving you behind in a grocery store at the flip of a coin. Snapping at you in real anger when you were just curious.

He can’t do that. He can’t lose his grip.

From inside the bathroom, your eyes stay locked on the door, your head resting on the wall behind you as your skin soaks in the claw-footed tub.

“I don’t know if this is good for me, Aly,” you confess lowly, eyes shifting back to the wall ahead of you, a little black and white ceramic fish on a shelf. Candles let off the scent of linen and pine.

Alyona sits on the stool a few feet away, watching your face worriedly.

“Солнышко,” she starts slowly, “we both know it isn’t. It’s going to pass—I can’t hope for more than that.”

It’s like a repeating record—It’ll be okay, just keep strong, push through.

It wasn’t Aly’s fault; she’s involved in this too.

“Is Nikifor worried about you?” The woman’s head perks, her lips twitching as the orbs inside of her head soften.

“Seraph, you don’t have to change the subject—”

“Truly,” you move a hand up from the water and rub at your face. “Really, Aly, I need a distraction. Please, just…talk. You know I love to hear about the two of you.”

She sighs, looking to the wall. After a moment, she chuckles, head tilting down. “Yes, he’s worried. He worries about you as well. You have a home with us, little Солнышко—I want you to know that, yes?” Alyona brings a hand to your cheek, pinching in good nature.

You shuffle away in mock annoyance, lips twitching.

“...I know, Aly.”

“Good,” she huffs. “I would not be a good friend if you didn’t. At least that brute is taking care of you, it seems.”

“He’s a good cook,” you ease out. “You should try it sometime.”

Gray eyes blink at you, shocked. “He got you to eat a meal?”

“You’re saying it like I never do,” you chuckle, eyebrows pulling in as the dimmed overhead light shines down on your avoidance of the problem at hand.

“No, it’s not that,” Aly’s eyes rove with unseen emotion, her concerned heart gaining a smidge of affection for the man outside of the door, whose shadowed feet can still be seen pacing. “I am…glad, Seraph. Food is always the way to someone’s senses, eh?”

Your lips twitch, but the weight on your chest remains. A tense pause grabs the both of you.

“I wish you were coming with,” you have to admit on a stiff tongue. “Ever since I first got here, you’ve been with me for all of it—the parties especially.” Your open mouth stutters. “Aly, I don’t think I can do it again by myself. All of those people; what some of them expect from me, it…it’s just…” Getting choked up, you move a hand to your mouth, covering it. From behind the flesh, you mutter, “I can’t do it again, it’s just the same as staying here, as a matter of fact, I think staying would be better.”

“You need to think rationally,” Aly shakes her head, getting closer to take your hand in both of hers. She squeezes, her top shiny in the light as it moves. “Nothing is worse than staying in this city. The man outside the door agrees. It is the safest option for you, even if,” Alyona closes her eyes, looking away as she opens them. She never finishes her sentence.

“I don’t want to,” you fight a whimper. “Aly, we tried so hard to get out of them sending us like meat.”

But there’s nothing that the woman can do to you when you say it like that, and even her expression gets far away. Alyona’s eyes blink fast, getting glossy before they avoid your eyes for the rest of the night.

“I’m sorry, My Seraph. I’m so, so, sorry.”

And that’s all that can be said.

When night comes, you don’t think you sleep at all, and by Nikto’s pacing of his room, the occasional pause to peek his head through your doorway, neither does he.

—

The time to leave came far quicker than you could anticipate as the days blended. Chelyabinsk was nearly a three-hour drive if you went the fastest route, and in the time before it, you and Nikto hadn’t spoken much about the letters. They’d been taken by the investigators the next day, along with your phone, for testing and tracking. While you’d been given a new device, it was a tiny thing that died more times than not; you had three contacts—Alyona, Nikto, and your mom.

You’d been assigned a driver by AMA for the trip, and thus, the all-black vehicle had arrived in the small hours of the morning as you had finished a hurried call to your matriarch.

“I’ll be back soon, Mom,” you’d explained. “Business. I’ll keep me busy.”

She had said it was a good idea like everyone else. Aly and you were the only ones to know the truth. Dread was a fishhook in your throat, but the fear of staying here was just as prominent. Those pictures haunted your mind.

“Nikto,” you ask, grabbing one of your suitcases on the street with a grunt. “Can you…?” The item is taken and easily lifted into the trunk. “Thank you,” your voice breathes out a sigh into the early morning air.

You hadn’t been to Chelyabinsk in a long time. Your brain knew that it would be most of the same—you needed to be careful of who you spoke to and how you did it. While regular crime was only moderate, corruption and bribery was your main problem when entering the place. You were on Allurement’s payroll, would your CEO’s influence be enough to stop anyone from trying anything with you?

If you stuck to where you were told to go, you should be fine.

Along with yourself and Nikto, photographers and media know-hows would be tagging along; makeup artists and stylists. A team of people who mostly refuse to look at you at all, only a few familiar faces among them.

But, thankfully, only you and your guard would be in this car.

“You can get in,” Nikto comments, blinking at you in the dark street, the lights of the car and the penthouse behind you all you have to differentiate between shades of black and gray. Your eyes had been constantly narrowed so you could try and see better. “I will load the rest.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” you smile sheepishly, “I’d like to stay out until we leave. I get fidgety when I’m in the car for too long.”

His shoulders shrug, taking another of your bags from the ground. “Very well. You will eat on the way there, then.”

Your eyes blink, attention pulled back from the shadow of a man walking across the street, raising hair on your arms.

“What was that?” You tilt your head.

Nikto huffs. “Eat. On the way there.” He raises a brow. “You need breakfast.”

“Oh,” you at your neck slightly. “Sure, yeah. But what about you? Do you want me to turn around or something so I won’t see your face?”

“No need. We ate as you dressed. Packed the remaining for you.” You’re brushed past, the purse around your shoulder connecting with Nikto’s thigh as his boots clop over the concrete.

Your lips twitch, expression still worried but the tease sneaking out instinctually. “I need to start calling you Mother Bear, Nikto.”

“It will be the last thing you do, Whelp,” he grumbles, eyes looking over his shoulder as he packs the last suitcase away. Amusement is like liquid stone inside of them.

So the trip ensued.

You entertained yourself by staring out of the window as the cityscape rolled back, already missing the sanctity of your penthouse as you fiddled with a small stuffed bird in your grip.

“I spy…” you mumble twenty minutes in, trying to be normal again. “Something tall and gray—”

“Tree,” Nikto grunts, trying to read one of the books he packed.

“No,” you say, defensively. “It was,” your mouth opens and closes, scouring the passing scene but finding nothing. “Fine, yes, it was a tree.”

“I spy something blue.”

“That’s not even funny.”

“I believe it was funny. Perhaps you do not have a good sense of humor, Woman.”

You glare, throwing your stuffed bird directly at his forehead and watching it bounce off. Nikto doesn’t even look away from the words on his page, flipping to the next with a deep chuckle in his neck.

Rolling your eyes, you groan and slouch into your seat.

You had to say, though, that as the city disappeared, so did your anxieties. It felt good to be near dense croppings of trees again—only an open and uncrowded highway and Nikto beside you. His pale eyes would watch you every so often, and you would do the same, studying each other as time passed and a gradual silence fell.

“Can I use you as a pillow?” You ask with only an hour left on the trip.

Nikto’s halfway through his book, and up until now, you’d kept to yourself, lost in thought.

“I am not comfortable,” he utters, leg shifting. He glances, but his numb eyes don’t do much until they move back to where they were prior. “And my Kevlar is hard. It will aggravate your head.”

You had to wonder how fast he caught onto that fact about you. A smile grows on your face, and you shift to grab your jacket, folding it and tossing the item onto Nikto’s thigh. His head darts down right as you move to rest there, body sideways and legs folded against the door.

“I like it when you worry—it’s cute,” you stifle a yawn, ignoring his digging eyes. “Wake me before we get there?”

Your ears don’t wait for an answer, your fatigue from missing an entire night of sleep catching up where Nikto’s never would. He watched you rest for the remainder of the ride, hand hovering over your shoulder until it slowly slipped down to rest on it with a grumble of exasperated Russian under his breath. But the man had noticed the bags under your eyes—unable to be hidden by makeup. He found it in himself to let you sleep, even if the infection of your warmth made his head go loose; how your slackened face looked peaceful.

The knowledge of what you’d just experienced was still with him, even as he linked his feelings together as pointless. This was a waiting game, and everyone else seemed to have time except for you.

He didn’t like it. There was a nagging in the back of his gut—instinctual understanding as a hired gun who’d gone through many deployments. This was bigger; something was going to happen soon. A tipping point.

Nikto had a feeling you felt it too, as your head nuzzled his thigh in your sleep, shoving yourself into your jacket as tiny grunts moved from your lips; eyebrows furrowing.

Bad dream, the Russian clocked immediately, his book long placed at his side and his one elbow against the window frame.

Pale blue eyes watched for a moment, looking at your deep red blouse and the long back skirt that lightly cascaded over the side of the seats. His hand at your shoulder—hard and immobile, twitches as it tries to keep you steady, feeling the muscle under your flesh writhe.

Only when you can’t seem to calm down does he do anything at all.

Nikto can easily stamp an expression of annoyance on his face, of bored numbness, but instead, a sliver of something that could be considered softness bleeds from behind his eyes; something that even if he were to look into a mirror, he couldn’t name himself.

A finger brushes up your neck, scarred and broken, most of a finger missing and the nearest ones fuzzy with nerve damage. It hovers, steady, before his hand moves to massage along the base of your scar. It’s an awkward angle, no mistake. After all, he was practically grabbing the side of your neck to reach, but it was all he could offer short of waking you.

When he couldn’t sleep, he’d do the same to himself; it helped, he thought, feeling skin on skin—a caress that eases aches. Call it pathetic, but the sensations he was feeling doing the same to you were nothing short of trance-inducing. To understand the pulse of your heart—your breath returns to a slow puff; brows settling back down at only his circling thumb.

A bit of that infectious pride trickles into his eyes; smug.

Nikto grunts, and leans back into his chair, continuing his work to settle you, and smirks softly under his mask.

Only roughly half an hour to go, and then it was back to guard duty. But perhaps he could close his eyes and rest as well.

You made for quite the distraction.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

494 notes · View notes