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notquitecanon · 4 months

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Insufferably Admirable // Astarion x Reader

Summary: After a restful day turns into a bloody night, your unspoken yet painfully obvious dedication to Astarion has put you in what should be a harder choice. Once Astarion realizes just how far you'd go for him, he has to begin to confront the feelings and realizations he's been ignoring for a while. OR that time You figured out the most effective way to heal a vampire and Astarion got emotional about it

Set at the end of Act 1, but not quite act two. Pre-confession but it's obvious they have some sort of feelings for each other

TW: canon typical violence, blood & blood drinking(obvi this is an Astarion fic), no use of Tav or (Y/N), one use of technical self harm (c*tting) but not in a self mutilation way??, mentions of manipulation obvi, reader might be a little too willing to help (totally not be projecting what???)

this is my first time writing anything for Astarion after hyper fixating on him for a month so please be gentle. I know it's a bit all over the place. (yes I could have completely left out the first half, but there isn't much actual dialogue in the second half and I like to put this guy in situations)

"Remind me again why you insisted on coming with me? I figured you’d be ripe for a day to lay around camp and let us do all the heavy lifting." You grumbled, scanning the crowded streets for a merchant. The goal was simple: get to the nearest village, sell off the extra weight, use the gold to stock the necessary supplies, and whatever the gold couldn’t buy… well, acquire it by any means necessary. No matter your path, through the shadows or the Underdark, you'd need to be prepared.

Gale had gone to pilfer for useful scrolls and maybe an enchanted item to snack on. Lae’zel and Shadowheart to a blacksmith for specialty arrows, useful armor, and any other weapons that caught their eyes. Karlach had carried the two trunks and barrel of items you had collected from your adventure thus far, finding you a wheelbarrow before heading back to camp to help Wyll with his preparations. Halsin… had taken his wild form and disappeared into the forest. Originally, you had intended to do your tasks alone, until-

"My dear, I’m always ripe for a lay." Astarion twisted your words with a smirk, easily dodging the hand that reached to swat his chest. With a short laugh, he answered your question, his theatrics only increasing to more you argued, "To begin with, Someone- my fabulous self- had to make sure you didn’t get the whole group wrapped up in another laundry list of side quests- who knows what trouble you could have found if you were left all by your lonesome? A gnoll den? A kraken in the pond? an old woman’s wagon with a broken wheel? a kitten up a tree? An orphanage with a leaky roof? Another cult for us to dismantle? Another temple to drop on me? Where would it end? You’re incapable of turning people away, it’s one of your insufferably admirable qualities."

"It’s called being kind, you dramatic elf." You grumbled, not prepared for the in depth analysis of your character. Trying not to focus so much on the fact he’d called something about you admirable.

"Second, knowing you, you’d sell all this off and still manage to come back to camp with them full. Honestly, pet, how have you managed to collect this much junk? You don’t even have a bag of holding." Astarion scoffed, using a single pale finger to peek under the lid of the barrel. It was just barely containing the countless daggers, goblin bows, pairs of leather armors, and dusty sandals. Your cheeks burned hot- maybe you had a habit of being overzealous in how eagerly you pilfered through all the crates you came across, checking bodies for anything valuable, and demanding the vampire to pick every locked chest the party uncovered. Hells only knew the thrill you got when you would find a buried chest.

"You never know when you might need something!" You reasoned, but swatted him away to hastily shut the barrel before the contents could spill out. It had taken you the better part of the night to pack it full of all the things your companions had convinced you to get rid of. The pale elf rolled his eyes, brushing past you so gracefully you didn’t feel his fingers in your pocket.

"Really, my sweet? When, pray tell, might we need the collection of rusty necklaces you’ve amassed." Astarion held the bronze and silver necklaces up to the light, the red and blue stones sparkling despite the rust. His voice always like velvet, ruby eyes alight with teasing, "Far be it from me to criminalize accessorizing, but that darling neck of yours is tempting enough already."

"Astarion!" You cringed, hearing your voice almost whine. Damn him for having that effect, so you cleared your throat as you snatched the jewelry back, "They are useful when we can sell them for gold."

Astarion, having gotten the reaction he wanted, let you shove the necklaces back in a pocket before glaring at him, though it didn’t hold much actual malice, "Well, come on then, let’s sell the sandals for all the riches the village has to offer us."

—

An afternoon later, you were smiling smugly as you watched Astarion grumble. Between all the goods and six different merchants, you were leaving with an additional 9,000 in gold, not to mention the additional 3,000 Astarion had managed to pickpocket while you bartered, and the items the two of you had managed to swipe. You felt particularly vindicated as he complained about the weight of the coins in his pack.

"I’ll buy you something pretty in Baldur’s Gate." You cooed teasingly, to ‘appease’ him. Astarion spared you a deadpan glance before standing to leave, only making you giggle all the more, "Let’s get back to camp."

Astarion caught your eyes once more, scowl softening out at the sight of your bright smile. He was just about to say something sickeningly sweet and perhaps more than a touch vulgar when his eyes flitted up to something, pointed ears twitching at something you couldn’t quite hear. Until you could.

The door of the jeweler you had swindled burst open, a strangled voice shrieking, "THIEVES! SOMEONE CATCH THEM!"

Astarion must have been rubbing off on you, because for a moment you tried to feign confusion, looking around for the ‘culprits’ as if the dwarf wasn’t pointing directly at you. Not that it did much good as several passerbys began to circle around the two of you.

"Everyone’s so touchy about their personal belongings these days." The rogue scoffed. Astarion grabbed your wrist and tugged you to him, so that your back was pressed to his and no one could sneak up on you. In his other hand, a dagger had already appeared.

You sighed in defeat, taking your bow off your back, "No killing."

"No promises."

Compared to the goblin camp or fighting through the githyanki creche, disarming and incapacitating untrained townspeople and barely trained guards was barely a warm up. Still, Astarion never left your side, an increasingly common occurrence when you found yourself in tight situations. Together, it didn’t take long to put distance between yourselves and your attackers, managing to get far enough to escape to the fight. Deflecting one last blow as the two of you passed by an open tavern, you incapacitated a rather pitiful guard with a blunt thunk from the pommel of your dagger. Taking one relieved breath, you tried not to focus too much of the trail of bleeding, unconscious bodies you and the rogue had left behind in your escape attempt.

"Best we stick to the shadows before we attract more attention." Astarion mused with a cruel smirk, grabbing your sleeve and using it to wipe the blood off the corner of his mouth, his fangs glinting in the afternoon sun. The rogue only chuckled at your curses, giving some inane quip about the crime of dirtying his ensemble and how blood someone always looked better on you, "Now, believe what I said about you finding trouble? Back to camp before you find more."

Before you could wrench your arm back or remind him that he was the only who got caught stealing, he pulled you off the main road into the alley adjacent- unaware of the attention that had already been attracted from inside the tavern.

____

Ambushed in the night.

A whole hunting party of Gur hunters. Willing to purge your party as they slept.

And they were calling Astarion the monster. Fortunately, Scratch was an excellent guard dog. Waking the entire camp when the hunters tried to creep where you slept. Just as fortunately, there wasn’t a soul in camp that didn’t sleep without at least a dagger under their pillow.

Your camp had become a bloodbath in the dim glow of the campfire. You had used the book you had fallen asleep reading as an improvised weapon, throwing it so hard it broke the first hunter’s nose. Lae’zel was single handedly mowing through three hunter with her long sword. Spells and incantations sent flashes of light from Gale and Shadowheart’s part of camp, and fire and brimstone lit up Karlach’s. There was yelling and cursing echoing in the cool night air, orders to take the vampire spawn alive and to kill the rest.

And Astarion? Their target?

He was where he always was during a fight these days. Right beside you, like a pale, snarky shadow. He had been the one to press your sword into your hand so you’d have more than just your dagger. With him, you slashed and sliced anything that came near. Until the bastard appeared out of no where, squeezing in between you and the rogue. You would have applauded (more likely cursed) the near perfect use of an invisibility charm- had it not been for the poison-dipped stake raised against Astarion.

This hunter was different, you could see it in his eyes. They were somehow devoid of life and yet also simmering with rage as they trained on your snow haired companion. This hunter didn’t plan to take Astarion back to Baldur’s Gate, not alive at least. He didn’t care about whatever orders they had, or what consequences would come for disobeying them. He only cared about driving the stake into Astarion’s heart.

Astarion’s eyes went wide as well at the sight of the stake, realizing as you did that this was no longer just a kidnapping, it would be an assassination. Your thundering heart stuttered, blood going supernova in your veins before freezing to ice as your mind whirled through a hundred different possibilities and also went blank. Your own opponent, along with years of learned strategy, were instantly forgotten as blind instinct took over. Every ounce of strength and speed you had was directed into a desperate lunge. In your desperation, you really weren’t sure if your goal was to tackle the hunter, grab his arm, tackle Astarion, or maybe even take the stake to your chest instead- you decided to choose along the way, as long as it ended with Astarion alive(ish) and well.

You managed to close the distance, one hand planted firmly to Astarion’s chest shoving him further and the other clamping onto the leather of the hunter’s gauntlet, the same arm poising the stake. With a feral sounding shriek, you pushed his arm so his aim was off. At the same time, your original opponent, frustrated at being forgotten, cast a wave of thunder that sent all three of you flying.

Astarion, the Gur, and you flew backwards a good fifteen feet, the thunder shaking you to your very bones and splitting your ears. The breath was knocked out of you so hard you thought your poor lungs might collapse and you weren’t able to tell if it was the spell or the impact that did it. You didn’t have time to contemplate, the moment you were able, you scrambled onto your knees. With the same feral tenacity from earlier, you grabbed the hunter by the front of his leather armor, nails leaving scarily deep tracks as you hauled him off your vampiric companion. With your new opponent, you rolled both your bodies until you were on top of him, knee to his chest. Seeing the look in your eyes, the rage left his own, pure survival instinct taking over. You didn’t even feel the sting of the slicing blow across your shoulder, too consumed with a singular mission. It was Astarion’s dagger you had snatched from the ground on the way that delivered the quick death blow. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You expected to hear something from Astarion- a snarky comment about your lack of technique, a snide remark about his assailant, or even just a stream of petty curses- but he was silent. You turned back to him, only to have dread flood every cell in your body.

Nothing else mattered anymore, not the fight, not your injuries, and especially not your forgotten original hunter. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You barely noticed.

The moment you’d disposed of Astarion’s assailant, you were scrambling back towards the rogue, who was laying all too still. At first, you hesitated to even touch him as if that might make it worse. You called his name once, and then again when you were able to gingerly lay hands on him- one hand to his chest and the other pushing some curls out of his eyes. The stake, what should have been an almost useless weapon against anyone else, was still buried in his chest, piercing his favorite frilled collar shirt.

"No… Astarion-" Your voice was breaking, thick and raw. Your eyes couldn’t rip away from the stake, protruding from his chest, the poison staining the white linen of his shirt a sickly green. The hand on his chest balled into a fist, bunching the unsoiled fabric in your grip, but something caught your attention. The tiniest candle light of hope in the rapidly encroaching darkness of grief.

Your hand was directly over his undead heart. Anytime you touched him, your hand always fell directly over his heart. When you teasingly swatted at his chest, when you needed to steady yourself against him, when you needed to catch you balance… you always sought out his heart- subconsciously, instinctually, always his heart. Your hand was over his heart, and that gods-damned stake was four inches to the right. A tiny light, but a light none the less. It was then you realized you were calling the wrong name.

"SHADOWHEART!"

None of your companions had ever heard your voice that desperate, that scared. All their heads snapped to where they had last seen you, finding Astarion pulled to your chest as you wrenched the stake out of the spawn. Astarion stirred only long enough the let our a gurgling shout that fizzled into a groan at the pain, and you could only hope he heard your soft apologies before you started barraging the vampire with healing cantrips. You didn’t stop until the words held no more magic, your supply of magic tapped for the night.

The night air had changed, no longer fueled by adrenaline and challenge, now it was thick with urgency and fear. Each of your companions starting fighting towards the two of you, and when you locked watery eyes with Shadowheart you found her clearing her path with her spear. She had stopped using magic to fight, saving it all for Astarion.

"I’m coming! Hold on!" She promised as Karlach fell in beside her, battle axe taking over and sending two hunters to the grave together. Scratch and the owlbear cub had taking a lesson from Halsin and formed up beside you, growling into the night with hackles raised and feathers ruffled.

"Just hold on, Astarion." You relayed to the vampire, who was completely limp against you his back to your chest, head tilted back against your shoulder which bared his neck to you, showing the fang marks on his pale skin. If you were capable of humor, you would have laughed about the reversal of roles, it was usually you baring your veins to him. But at the moment, his lack of movement wasn’t particularly amusing, so instead you laced his fingers through yours, hoping the warmth would bring him some comfort. You pressed your cheek against his white curls, using your other hand to brandish his dagger just incase anyone got too close, and whispered all the reasons he was going to be okay. And that’s how you stayed until camp quietened and Shadowheart slid to a stop in front of you.

___

Hours later, Shadowheart had used every healing and restoration spell she knew, not stopping even when she began to sway and sweat. Halsin had offered his magic and healing herbs, Karlach made sure there was always a bucket of hot water and a stack of clean rags available, and you hadn’t missed Gale trying to hide the scroll of reviving from you as he slipped it to Shadowheart. Everyone in camp had been quick to gather all the healing potions, depositing them at the entrance of Astarion’s tent. Wyll and Lae’zell had slipped into the tree line to make sure the ambush was well and truly taken care of.

And you? Their appointed ‘fearless’ leader? You had gone uncharacteristically silent. Your heart hadn’t left your throat, clenching painfully every time they jostled the rogue. Your hands were shaking too much, both from fear and white hot rage, to really help the two more experienced healers of the group. And the thought of being too far from Astarion made your stomach turn, so you kept rooted like a tree. But, you were grateful, truly, for all of them. Even if in the moment, all you could do was sit beside Astarion and pray to any God or Devil that would listen. You felt like a wild animal in a cage and a helpless child at the same time, your insides very well might vibrate out of the body if you didn’t melt into the soil first.

The vampire needed all the help he could get. Aside from the occasional heartbreaking groan of pain or agony driven writhing, Astarion was eerily still. Barely breathing, less so than usual. His already pale, chilled skin had taken on a stony complexion, almost gray. And despite the inability to run a fever, there was a sheen of sweat over his face, clammy and uncomfortable. You hadn’t allowed them to undress him all the way, but part his shirt had been cut away to reveal the stab wound. It was deep, weeping Astarion’s already dark blood, and stretching out from the injury were black, twisting varicose veins that afforded you the cruel visual of the poison spreading. You wanted to take Gale’s revival scroll, use it on the hunter, and revoke the kindness of your mercifully quick death.

"It’s like the effect of our magic is being dampened." Shadowheart huffed, hands glowing as she cast another restoration spell. The sweat on Astarion’s brow subsided briefly before returning. Halsin nodded beside her, taking a deep sniff of the stake.

"His lack of blood isn’t moving the potions or antidote through his body fast enough, and this poison isn’t doing any favors." The druid thought aloud, taking some of his herbs to make a paste, "It doesn’t matter how many we pour down his throat if his body can’t absorb them."

Shadowheart’s worried gaze flickered to you for a moment, before settling back on Halsin, "We’ll figure something out."

You knew she was saying that more for your benefit, but you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge the pity. Instead, your grip tightened on Astarion’s hand as you swiped a clean rag to dab at his face. There was one more round of healing incantations and one more bottle of healing potion nursed into Astarion’s mouth. Your jaw twitched, watching most of it fall from the corner of his mouth. The same trail your own blood usually made after he fed.

"I’m tapped." Shadowheart sighed almost ruefully, the glow around her flickering and then fading, falling back on her heels. Halsin stood, stooped slightly in the low ceiling of the tent, turning to you.

"We’ve done everything we can do. We’ll try again with fresh minds in the morning. For now the best he, and we, can do is rest." His voice was calming, as if he thought you might start screaming again, but you just nodded, muttering something along the lines of thanks for trying, and not meeting either of their eyes as they ducked out of the tent.

Since you had belligerently refused any of their magical attempts to heal your shoulder, Gale had done a rather pitiful job of wrapping it, taking some pointers from Karlach along the way. The wizard offered you a tight smile and a gentle hand on your uninjured shoulder before pressing a bottle of healing potion into your hand, "This one is for you. You’re no good to him if you bleed out all over the floor of his tent. We all know how Astarion feels about waste."

"Yeah- fancy boy will be starving when he wakes up." Karlach’s chipper voice was still laced with a sting of concern. The tiefling didn’t touch you for fear of burning you, but did leave you with some roasted meat and a carafe of water from earlier in the night, "And it wouldn’t hurt for you to eat something either, soldier."

Then you were left alone with your thoughts, hunched next to Astarion’s side, tired eyes examining the bottle after confirming the rise and fall of his chest. In your hand, the potion glowed slightly with the subtlest warmth, the scarlet liquid seeming to have a mind of its own as it swirled in glittering patterns behind the glass. Your injuries were meager, this little bottle of healing would have you as good as new. Bitterly, you flicked your eyes to the numerous empty potion bottles in the corner that had barely slowed Astarion’s bleeding. Your hand closed around it as you cast another look to the Vampire spawn beside you. His breaths were shaky and shallow even after Shadowheart and Halsin had exhausted every last bit of magic they'd had. Now in the quietest parts of the night, or maybe the darkest hours of the morning, your thoughts swirled, desperate for any sort of plan to latch onto. You had to do something.

For you, Gale had said, No good to him if you bled out… He’d be starving, Karlach had been joking, His lack of blood wasn’t moving the potions enough to be effective, that had been Halsin’s hypothesis.

Blood. He needed blood.

The revelation was like being dropped into a freezing lake, determination razing the fearful lethargy out of your soul. With your teeth, you pried the cork out and downed the first circular bottle, the overly sweet taste a stark contrast to the somber mood of the night. For good measure, you did the same with a potion of superior healing and two bottles of general poison antidote, slamming them down so fast you had to ignore the churning in your stomach. You’d loot twenty more goblin caves to make up for the dent in supplies if you had to, in that moment you just didn’t care. You waited a moment, begging the powers that be for your ragtag plan to work, not so patiently watching the bruises on your wrist until they started to fade.

You felt it, the moment that you had been completely healed and there was no where else for that magic to go. And then, you wrapped your arms under Astarion’s, heaving him against your chest. You bared your neck, letting gravity gently swing Astarion's nose to meet your pulse point, his silvery lashes tickling your jaw. He stirred slightly, groaning at the movement, pressing himself into your warmth before stilling again. Was he too far gone to realize what was being offered?

Realizing you’d need to play into his vampiric insticts, you huffed, shattering one of the empty vials against a stone, struggling to do so and keep his deadweight in place. Taking a shard, it wasn’t hesitation but a moment of stilling your shaking hand before you pressed a shallow cut to your neck, right above where his lips rested.

You hissed at the haphazard sting, not as gentle as the pinprick of his fangs were in the night, feeling the blood instantly pool at the seam, a single red ribbon dripping before the potion healed the scratch, "C’mon, Astarion-"

The moment his name left your lips, or maybe it was the moment a drop of your blood hit his, regardless you could feel his instinct, that sanguine hunger, take over. The soft lips at your neck were replaced with dagger sharp fangs digging into where the small cut had been. The sound you let out was somewhere between a gasp of pain and sob of relief as you barred him against yourself, fists clutching into the back of his shirt like it would keep both of you rooted to each other. Somewhere, in the back on your mind, you thought about the irony of the position, being so afraid to let him slip away, like a rabbit latching onto a snake for fear of the serpent starving. Even if it meant being consumed.

In that moment, you were so relieved he’d started feeding that you didn’t care that his fangs dug in deeper than they ever had before, much more animalistic than his usual polite nibble. You didn’t dare flinch or wince, in case that might break the spell. Instead, you focussed keeping the both of you upright, one of your arms wrapped under his own, your fingers splayed across his ribs, and your other hand cupping the nape of his neck. The angle had his silvery curls dusting your fingertips and your thumb caressing the sharpest part of his jaw. Never had you been so happy to feel that throbbing numbness in your neck. Astarion’s chin prodded further into your neck, deepening the hold he had, and with his own shaky breath, he swallowed the first mouthful of your blood.

The hand at his ribs clenched, pulling him impossibly closer and twisting his shirt into your grip again as your pulse began to speed up. The increase of your heart rate only seemed to encourage the vampire, teeth sinking ever deeper to draw more blood flow. Clenching your jaw, you forced your muscles not to tense, it would only make it hurt more. This mouthful was quicker, Astarion seemed to be actively drawing it out of you instead of just waiting for it. He swallowed again, gaining the strength to snake his arms around you. It wasn’t a strong hold at first, but one arm snaked around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head, those long fingers finding their usual place in the locks of your hair. You couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped, relishing the cool touch. Your voice stoked another fire in him, provoking another instinct, your blood provided the strength for his grip to harden, becoming more cage like. As if he needed to worry about you trying to escape.

He swallowed again, and the numbness spread, not just in your neck but into your cheeks and across your chest. Blood was racing, coursing through you and into him, and with it all the magic of the healing potions. You could feel him getting his legs underneath him, untangling himself from you. At the same time, it was getting harder to hold your arm up, the numbness had reached your fingertips leaving them fumbling at his curls before falling to his shoulder. Another long drink and you found your eyes starting to flutter, everything was starting to feel cold as a shiver shook your body. Astarion, against two centuries of vampiric instinct, started to pull back, and you didn’t stop him, but didn’t let him go far either. He was mostly supporting himself now, which was a relief because a fair bit of focus was freshly delegated to preventing yourself from swaying.

"Take all you need, ’Stari-" You meant for your voice to be assuring and strong, but it came out breathy and slightly slurred. Astarion pulled away, the movement bringing you mostly out of your stupor. His ruby eyes were as sharp as ever once again, even if the shadows under his eyes were still too dark for your liking, and they stared into your own half lidded eyes. Other than the deep purple shadows, the ashen complex had started to even out, the sweat on his brow had faded away, and when you dropped your gaze, you noticed the twisting black veins were starting to recede and fade. Hells, you could get up and dance (very briefly before you passed out).

Even, with a foot in the grave, more dead than usual, and covered in both of your bloods he was unfairly beautiful. His eyes narrowed on your dopey smile, as if he your relief was a symptom of too much blood loss. If that was the effect of four swallows, just a little more would flush out the poison completely, "I can take it, love, just please let me help you."

Astarion never considered himself to be someone that had to be coaxed into receiving a gift, and you were offering him one so sweetly, practically begging him. After 200 years of rats and spiders, you had put literal magic in your veins for him. Magic that was bringing him back from death to his usual state of undead. He could feel it bringing his strength back, allowing all the magic the cleric and druid had poured into him to finally take some affect. Your blood, his first thinking blood, was always delicious- sweet and metallic, a delicate blend of all the good tastes, something so intrinsically you. With the potions infused, though, if Astarion was to hazard guess what sunlight tasted like- this would be it. How could he refuse?

Before he went back in, he placed a reverent kiss to the marks he had left in your neck, gingerly lapping at the wounds before sinking his fangs back into your tender flesh. This time, it wasn’t a gasp or sob, but a mewl, your frigid fingers once again digging into the flounced collar his shirt. If you both lived until morning, you were sure he’d gripe for hours about all the wrinkles you’d put in his favorite (only) shirt. Probably throw a proper fit about the stake hole.

Now, as the potions effects dwindled in your own body, you could properly feel the drain. The coldness crept up from your extremities but didn’t counteract the burn in your muscles, making it harder and harder to suppress the shivers. Your breathing was quick almost a pant, but you still felt like you weren't getting any oxygen. If you were thinking rationally, if you hadn’t gone through the brief grief of thinking you’d lost him, you would have realized you need to push him away, that you were approaching your limit. But you weren’t thinking rationally, no. You still were too busy grinning- as your hand had fallen from his collar, it grazed across the wound, now fully closed. Just a little more, you promised yourself. You felt him swallow more, he held himself up completely on his own allowing you to lean into him.

Astarion was okay, more than just on the mend, he was alive and strong, the potions and magic were working, were the thoughts that were reverberating through your head as things started to feel farther away. Your desperation had melted away, leaving a grateful smile in its wake. It wasn’t completely on purpose, but you let Astarion take on more and more of your weight, barely aware of his fangs in your neck anymore, not quite hearing Scratch and the cub whining outside, the shivering even began to subside as it seemed to take too much energy.

Earlier, you had drug him to you and held him against your chest almost crying. But, as more of your blood flowed through him, it had become juxtaposed. Astarion held you in place, leaning over you for the best angle at your neck. It was his arms that kept you from falling over, his firm hand that kept your head from lolling too far back. His bite became less fervent, his grip less cage like and more affectionate. His survival instincts started to give way to civility and charm. You barely noticed as he twisted himself so he could slowly, gently lay you down onto the bedroll that had moments ago been his sickbed. He laid you on your back, onto the generous stack of pillows he kept in his tent. He tangled his fingers into yours, just as you had done for him, his knees holding him in a predatory crawl over you, all without breaking from your neck.

Barely registering the softness, it was the thud of your other hand against the floor that roused you, just a bit. It was also what drew Astarion’s attention, it took everything in him to withdraw his fangs. He gave each puncture would a diligent cleaning with his tongue before pulling away completely, lest he lose control and dive right back in. (Really, how could one person be that tempting?)

But, you had arguably saved his life, it’d be terribly impolite of him to kill you. When Astarion’s eyes met yours, your gaze was more than half lidded as you watched him- what little of your eyes he could see were glossy and fighting to stay focused, he could hear your heartbeat markedly fainter than he was comfortable with.

You were watching him as intently as you could. In the dim lantern light of his tent, surrounded by potion bottles and bloody rags, Astarion was up and moving and breathing again. Revived and strong, his eyes practically glowing scarlet, and, if you really focussed, you could make out the tips of his ears becoming pink. Something that only happened when he was freshly well fed, nothing was left of his stab wound but the hole in his shirt, the frayed edges dyed from the poison and his blood. He could have looked like a angel, complete with the fire’s reflection creating a halo effect on his snowy curls, had it not been for the sheen of sticky blood drenching his chin and neck. Your blood- the blood that gave him enough strength to heal. How could you not smile?

Astarion tried to come up with a snarky comment, but for once, nothing came to mind. Instead, he kept glancing between your intertwined fingers, glassy eyes, and that idiotic little smile. Your giddiness was beginning to unnerve him, had you been charmed or perhaps taken a hit to the head? With the parasite, he reached out briefly into your mind. His brow twitched when he was only met with waves of relief and gratitude, you were too tired for structured thought, but too relieved to give into the exhaustion. How could someone on the verge on exsanguination look so happy? And why in the nine hells did it seem to be directed towards his well being?

The vampire was stricken, taking count of everything you’d truly done that night alone: fought beside him, tried to take the death blow in his place, comforted him, held his hand, cleaned him up, hadn’t let the others undress him anymore than necessary, stayed with him, circumvented his vampirism to find a way to heal him, and had genuinely tried to bleed yourself dry for him. Hell, you’d cut your own neck for him- not even metaphorically, but literally cut your throat for him. He could feel your warmth, your kindness and everything good about you settling into his very marrow. Something uncomfortably… gooey… stirred in his chest, something more and more worrying common as of late, when it came to you. Had his manipulation really worked so well? A feeling too close to sharp guilt gnawed at that warm gooey feeling. Was it really manipulation anymore? Gods, your morality was infecting him.

“This is that Insufferabe admirability I was talking about ." He muttered into the tent, shaking his head as he watched your chest rise and fall, using his free hand tame some of the hair at your crown. It was then Astarion realized your eyes had slipped shut, your fingers, now just as cold as his, going limp against his. Weeks ago, he would have polished off the last of your blood and left you behind. But at present, he felt the sickening need to return even half the care you’d shown him. He’d have to dissect his emotions later. The rogue was glad the other companions had left supplies within arms reach, as it meant he could gather them without dropping your hand.

"Ah, ah, ah," He called quietly, gently pulling you back to the real world, pleased to watch your scrunch your nose in the exertion of waking back up. Finally, that contented little smile on your face slipped into a frown, a protest against his interruption of your sleep. Astarion’s smile was almost apologetic as he helped you into a slightly more upright position, "Not quite yet, little love. It’s your turn. No sharing this time."

Another healing potion was pressed into your hand and opened for you, and you allowed Astarion to guide it to your lips, his pale hand guiding your own. This time, the warmth of the elixir was welcome, a comfort instead of a taunt, assurance instead of a plea. Astarion carefully watched you as you swallowed the potion down, noting how you shivered less and a bit of color returned to your face. When the potion bottle was empty, he traded it for a small cup of water, keeping a guiding hand on the silver chalice he’d nicked from a tradesmen weeks ago until you had enough strength to hold it.

Though still exhausted and dizzy, you had the energy to throw him an obstinate look. Astarion feigned a dramatic sigh but kept a firm enough grip on you that you couldn’t lay back down, "All this for me, yet you won’t even let me give you water?"

Ignoring how it made the dizziness worse, you rolled your eyes, taking a few sips of the water at a time even if it was mostly just so he’d let you lay back down. Astarion was in one piece and you were exhausted, you couldn’t bring yourself to think about anything else. But, Astarion seemed very pleased with himself, squeezing your hand once again, "Good girl."

If you weren’t on the verge of blood loss, you could have choked on the water. Still, there was a part of you that whispered in relief he must be better if he’s back to teasing you. Astarion watched you take a few more sips before you sagged back against the pillows. Your eyes closed again, but your breathing was deeper now and the hand he held didn’t feel as cold. Outside, Scratch and the cub seemed appeased at your improvement as they stopped their pacing and whining to settle at the tent flap.

This time, he didn’t pull you back up, instead muttering to himself as he gently tilted your head to the side, exposing his bite marks. No wonder you seemed so tired, they were much messier than usual. Vicious, was the better word. Not only had his two fangs pierced your delicate skin, but his bottom canine teeth had punctured through as well, and he could see the outline of his other teeth in the deep bruising grooves they had left behind. In unfortunate addition, it seemed in the height of his blood lust he’d made more than one bite, leaving your neck littered in marks. Astarion grimaced, it really was more of a mauling, “Apologies, darling, I’m not typically so brutish. Forgive me?"

Astarion pointedly ignored how his heart lifted at the slightest nod you gave him, instead focussing on cleaning you up as gently as possible. The potion had stopped the bleeding, and he watched as the wounds themselves were slowly closing. Each swipe of the rag was feather light, almost not even there. The elf noticed you give back into sleep, this time not bothering to wake you again. Instead he kept working and fussing until the only sign of his feeding was the stained neckline of your shirt. Then, he gently ran a clean, wet rag over your face and hands, taking away the evidence of your tears and worry. Finally, he threw a cloak over you like a blanket, to hopefully ward off the last of the shivers from the warmth he’d stolen from you.

Not stolen, he reminded himself, though the truth somehow felt more dangerous, it was freely given to him. The vampire settled in, laying across from you, the only part of you he could touch was the hand still holding his. Though, already in your sleep you had shifted towards him. Astarion frowned, eyebrows furrowed, the more he came to know you, the more he knew that you would give and give and give. Truly, he knew that he didn’t need to manipulate you anymore, maybe he never needed to, and for the first time in centuries, he didn’t want to just keep taking. He didn’t want to bleed you dry and loot you for all you were worth. Astarion was surprised to find he wanted give something back to you. He just needed to figure out what.

The nights events caught up to him once again as his eyes closed, listening to the evermore familiar sound of your heartbeat as it became steadier and the even sounds of your breathing as you slept, letting it guide him towards meditation.

Gods damn you and your insufferable admirability.

___

Part Two Here!

Again this was my first time writing for Astarion. I also tried to balance things into being equal parts in each persons perspective. I just love when two lovestruck idiots have to confront their own feelings about being in love.

#me when I can use both literal and metaphorical vampirism as an allegory of being consumed by love.#astarion x reader #astarion x you #Astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion fanfic #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav #bg3 fanfic #Astarion self insert

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promptfairy · 2 months

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❥ 𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐒 [ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 ] .

designed for ships, but can be used for a variety of relationship types. change gendered language/add context to your needs. happy roleplaying !! ♡

❛ it feels so good to be bad. ❜ ❛ it really makes me wonder if i ever gave a fuck about you. ❜ ❛ give me something to believe in. ❜ ❛ i don’t believe in you anymore. ❜ ❛ i wonder if it even makes a difference to try. ❜ ❛ so, this is goodbye. ❜ ❛ one day i’ll wake up & it won’t hurt anymore. ❜ ❛ it’s like i can’t even feel after the way you touched me. ❜ ❛ you’re everything that i want, but you don’t want me. ❜ ❛ am i a regret, yet? ❜ ❛ was it worth what it costed? ❜ ❛ you make me nauseous. ❜ ❛ you’re overrated. ❜ ❛ when i think of you, i just want to throw up. ❜ ❛ all my friends say that you’re toxic. ❜ ❛ why does love suck? ❜ ❛ love hurts whether it’s right or wrong. ❜ ❛ i can’t stop, i’m having too much fun. ❜ ❛ you can’t save me, baby. ❜ ❛ you never call or listen to me anyway. ❜ ❛ where were you tuesday, october tenth? ❜ ❛ how is your jacket covered in blood? ❜ ❛ how was the party? did you have fun? ❜ ❛ i fell in love with the warning signs. ❜ ❛ the only time i feel alive is when i’m touching the warning signs. ❜ ❛ if you tell me to stay away, i’m gonna dive in again. ❜ ❛ my favorite color is red like the flags you fly overhead. ❜ ❛ well, i should have known. ❜ ❛ didn’t you see it coming? didn’t you see the signs? ❜ ❛ i’ll break your pretty face. ❜ ❛ bite your tongue & choke yourself to sleep. ❜ ❛ you can hold my hand if no one’s home. ❜ ❛ do you like it when i’m away? ❜ ❛ you’re a pond & i’m an ocean. ❜ ❛ all my emotions feel like explosions when you are around. ❜ ❛ i am a wreck when i’m without you. ❜ ❛ was it something i said to make you feel like you’re a burden? ❜ ❛ tell me, is it worth it? ❜ ❛ she’s a lady & i am just a line without a hook. ❜ ❛ do what you want as long as you stay here. ❜ ❛ you’ll change your name or change your mind & leave this fucked up place behind, but i’ll know. ❜ ❛ if you ever try to leave me, i’ll find you, [name]. ❜ ❛ i’ll be the bad guy, now. ❜ ❛ i couldn’t be there, even when i tried. ❜ ❛ seasons changed & our love went cold. ❜ ❛ i knew that this was doomed from the get-go. ❜ ❛ you thought that it was special, but it was just the sex, though. ❜ ❛ it’s only me; what have you got to lose? ❜ ❛ you should take it as a compliment that i got drunk & made fun of the way you talk. ❜ ❛ you should think about the consequence of your magnetic field being a little too strong. ❜ ❛ you’re so cool, it makes me hate you so much. ❜ ❛ you’ve ruined my life by not being mine. ❜ ❛ you’re so gorgeous, i can’t say anything to your face. ’cause look at your face. ❜ ❛ i’m so furious at you for making me feel this way. ❜ ❛ if you’ve got a girlfriend, i’m jealous of her. but if you’re single, that’s honestly worse. ❜ ❛ you’re so gorgeous, it actually hurts. ❜ ❛ you make me so happy, it turns back to sad. ❜ ❛ there’s nothing i hate more than what i can’t have. ❜ ❛ guess i’ll just stumble on home to my cats. alone … unless you wanna come along? ❜ ❛ you look so happy when i’m not with you. ❜ ❛ i don’t know why i run away. ❜ ❛ take me back, ’cause i wanna stay. ❜ ❛ i kept my distance ’cause i know that you don’t like when i’m with somebody else. ❜ ❛ i couldn’t help it; i put you through hell. ❜ ❛ i realize that it’s much too late, & you deserve someone better. ❜ ❛ i’m not the best at breaking up. ❜ ❛ i like my alone time, but i want somebody to hold. ❜ ❛ i get what i want. i keep it for a minute. then i let it go. ❜ ❛ i hate it when you’re there for me, but i like it when you hit the spot. ❜ ❛ i don’t do fake love, but i’ll take some from you tonight. ❜ ❛ i don’t expect you to understand. ❜ ❛ i’m ready to die holding your hand. ❜ ❛ i can’t hide how i feel about you inside. ❜ ❛ i’d give everything up tonight, if i could just have you be mine. ❜ ❛ i’d give up everything for you. ❜

#sentence starters #sentence meme #rp starters #rp meme #rp prompts #roleplay meme #roleplay starters #roleplay prompts #small text is no longer a thing on this blog bc tumblr makes it impossible to format long lists like this with the stupid #character limit rule so enjoy this normal sized text <3

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dcxdpdabbles · 2 months

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Master Posts Links

All the dabbles I have posted on my DC x DP account. Under a read more due to how long it is. Broken into three categories:

Multi-parts - Dabbles that have more than one part written.

One-shots- Dabbles with only one part written.

Requests- Dabbles written for the requests of readers. (Note: If a request is for a continuation of the other two categories, they will be filed in Milti-parts)

Master Post 1 Link

Master Post 2 Link

Please read the indexes to determine which master post each au is filed in.

As of 02/10/2024: The newest stuff is inside of Master Post 2. If there are many parts from Master Post 1, they will remain on that one.

MASTER POST 1 INDEX:

Multi-parts:

The Royal Consort,

The Bakery is a Front!...right?,

Child Support

Alfred's Boy

The Adoptive Son

Phantom's Number 1 fan

Passion for Fashion

Danny and The Fan Blog

Congratulations! It's Triplets!:

Ghost King Summon dare

The Dauntless Matchmaker

One-shots:

The Assistant

The Ghost Trio's Food Trip

Legal Compensation

Love Among Fans

Lex Luther's Youngest

Misplace Baby:

The Infinite Realms Hobby Store:

Obsession Runs in the Family

Farm Hand

Vague Threats

Game of Deadly Love

Retired-Rouge

The Real Blood Son

The Kid of Candles

Magic Older Brother

Keep The God Kid Busy!

Dog walker

Clockwork's Cookbook

Respawn and Relive

The Summoning Conditions of the Ghost King

Finders Keeper

What's the rule again?

The Contact, the Butler and the Sly Time Lord

Big Fish in Gotham Pond:

Immunity system:

Wrong Number:

Timeline Prevention Squad

Requests

The Masters are Aliens

Ghost Zone Read

Red Hood's Snow

Jason Sees Dead People

Ghost Dad

Wayne Manor Ghost

The Siren of Iceberg Lounge

Single Dad

The Orginal

The Ghost King's Fibs

Red ParentHood

Woo thy Butler, My Lord

Jason's Doll

Cass the Halfa

Double Vision

Dealeyed Soulmates

Rescue Mission

Danny's Online Persona

Practice makes perfect

Alley Boyfriends:

Demon and Angel Brat:

MASTER POST 2 INDEX:

Multi-Parts

Cave Boy

Cass the Halfa

Danny's Grill

Freelance Inventor

The Audit

One-Shots

Red Yummy

It's all Fun and Games Kids!

Professional Protector of Love

The Backroads

In 30 Minutes or less

One hell of a good bellhop

Mr. Flavor

Danny Fenton's Ex

Corporate Rivals

Requests

Why Ten?

Batman with a gun's lover

IRS's boogie man

Super Robin

Dear Elder Brother's mistakes

The Undead Florist

Pit's Merman

Dullahan is my roomate

Cluster of Cores

#dcxdpdabbles #Master Post Links #Master Post index #Mun speaks

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loveinhawkins · 8 months

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Steve doesn’t think anything of it when he says it.

He’s lying on Robin’s bed, squished between a diverse collection of childhood teddy bears. Robin’s sat opposite him up by the headboard, her feet knocking against his knees; she’s massaging Pond’s cream into her elbows, and the room smells of cocoa butter.

Steve breathes in leisurely.

He thinks back to just a few months ago, when he’d first gotten the job at Scoops Ahoy—when he’d found out that his only co-worker was going to be a Robin Buckley: who the hell is she? he’d thought with a familiar carelessness, an echo from his junior year. Before the monsters. Before…

“Hey, Robin,” Steve begins. The words come slowly, like he’s wandering through the thought. “Do you ever think that, like… that it’s kinda crazy, y’know, how we ended up here?”

Robin pauses in her massaging. She gives him a dry look. “This is a pretty standard Sunday evening for me.”

Steve snorts. “Not like that, dickhead.”

Although maybe it is like that actually.

Maybe it’s about how he now watches Murder, She Wrote in the Buckley’s living room without Robin’s parents batting an eye; how they said he could join them for dinner beforehand, and then he kept showing up earlier and earlier to the point where him and Robin just spend the whole day together, and it’s never awkward, there’s no quips or whatever from her dad about them secretly being together; and maybe it feels sorta like a fairytale in the best way; maybe he feels a little like Laurie except he doesn’t want to propose to Jo.

And maybe it’s that the whole thing is just insane: that the entire goddamn trajectory of his life somehow took this wild turn, has made him land here, of all places, and he doesn’t even mean it in an asshole kind of way.

He means…

“Guess I’m just… just thinking. Like, it all kinda worked out, y’know?” Even as he says it, he knows it’s a risk—because they’ve not talked about Starcourt, not really, they’ve just talked around it, but this hardly counts, right? It’s just a joke, it’s just… “Yeah, I, um, got my head knocked around, but, it, uh, it meant I ended up here, so.”

He wants Robin to laugh—or at least, he thinks he does.

She doesn’t. She just goes very still.

He feels something twist in his gut; she’s got this way of looking at him, like he’s accidentally said more than what he thought he did.

“Steve.”

Robin crawls forward, clumsy and urgent. She grabs hold of his wrist. He feels the grease of body lotion as her thumb moves in tiny circles against his skin.

“That didn’t need to happen,” she says so seriously, and for some reason that’s almost the thing that does it, the thing that almost gets him to break on a slow Sunday evening in October, because whenever his stupid brain brings him back to July, to blood and pain and a deep, unimagineable fear, he tries to remember how it felt: how he laughed through it with Robin in a bathroom stall, and it would almost be enough to soothe the sting, that he could endure it, could endure anything so long as he could have this, please just let me have—

“We could’ve had the most boring summer of our lives,” Robin says, with a smile that’s a little sad, a little wistful, but always kind. “And I still would’ve…”

He hears them again, those words he’s been clinging to.

Listen to me, Steve. It's shocked me to my core, but I like you. I really like you.

“It just would’ve taken longer,” Robin finishes. Her eyes dart all over his face, and he suspects that he knows part of what she’s seeing: the ghosts of bruises. “Okay?”

For a moment, Steve can’t speak. “Okay.”

Robin shuffles up next to him, sitting right on top of one of her bears—“You’re squishing him,” Steve points out, to which Robin just snorts—and then she’s hugging him, maybe tighter than he’s ever been hugged before.

He lets his head fall forward and breathes.

They break apart eventually. If there’s a wet patch on her shirt, Robin doesn’t point it out—just says there’s cake for dessert, and she doesn’t move back to her spot, so her elbows are practically always in danger of catching Steve in the ribs.

And God, Steve tries to believe it: that he could have all of this without… That he could’ve always had it.

He tries.

#sometimes love is looking someone in the eye and saying: you don’t need to hurt to have me #you never needed to hurt to have me #steve and robin #steve and robin ficlet #steve and robin fic #steve harrington #robin buckley

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storiesoflilies · 1 month

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Of Angels and Curses

Synopsis - In a world where Angels and Curses are locked in a never ending war, an unsuspecting seraph becomes entangled with the very thing she is fated to eradicate.

Pairings - Curse!Toji Fushiguro x f!Angel!Reader. Curse!Ryomen Sukuna x Reader. Angel!Satoru Gojo x Reader.

Warnings - Descriptions of violence and injuries, eventual smut.

A/N - What is it with these Zenin boys, huh? They’re just too beautiful hehe. All the big players are finally making their appearances, enjoy!! Ko-Fi.

Next part - interlude (ii)

-•-

Chapter 6

The twins had fussed over her far too long, and it was starting to make Y/N jittery.

“Nanako, you’ve styled her hair too flashy!” Mimiko exclaimed, giving her sister a pointed look.

Nanako dismissed her with a wave of her hand, engrossed in meticulously placing sparkling diamond clips in her hair. “Y/N is practically our queen,” she retorted. “We need to dress her properly!”

“Girls, let’s not fight,” Y/N interjected softly but firmly. “You’ve dressed me perfectly. Thank you.”

On the other hand, it was a blessing that the twins took charge of dressing her, as Y/N doubted her ability to chose something suitable herself. Nothing she could have come up with would have been appropriate for such an occasion – a gathering among the Kings of Hell; convened to strategize and pool resources for the war against Heaven. So far, it seems she would have been underdressed if left to her own devices, as the twins – Nanako – adorned her with even more of Geto’s diamonds. Y/N understood the necessity of this opulence, as did the twins. She and Geto were two pillars of strength, preserving and upholding their dignity with their own hands, against others who would surely seek to bury them in filth and squalor.

Of course, the prospect of seeing Toji again would only have added to her indecisiveness.

Several weeks had passed since her and Miguel’s bloody execution of justice against the traitors, and Y/N had hoped Toji would have paid her another secret visit to her balcony, wanting more than just fleeting whispers of him through their bond. Yet, he had remained almost silent, and her patience had dwindled like a fire burning its last embers. What was the point of a soulmate who never bothered to see her? While the rational part of her understood his need for distance, to protect their bond and keep her safe, another part of her just didn’t care. If anybody dared to come for either of them, then let them cast their own dice in the gamble of death.

The twins nodded and stepped back, allowing Y/N the space to stand and walk over to admire herself in the long mirror. They had chosen an elegant black silk kimono, its fabric elegantly draping over her body. Diamonds decorated her wrists, hair, and neck like stars in the midnight sky of Heaven. She felt luxurious, unable to resist indulging in a moment of vanity, as she savored her almost holy reflection.

“This is perfect,” she complimented, and they both beamed. “Would you girls mind seeing us off?”

They nodded eagerly and trailed behind her as she made her way from the bedroom to the throne room. Gone were the days when Y/N would get lost like a child in her brother’s palace; every corridor, doorway, and secret passageways was committed to memory, each one as familiar as treasured gold. She especially loved the courtyard she had designed with Geto, her own personal sanctuary, where she could find solace and tranquility whenever she wanted to.

It was eerily beautiful; trees with ebony bark and velvety-black blossoms lined the perimeter of the stone pathway, their gnarled branches adorned with swinging lanterns. Nearly trimmed bushes with blood-red blossoms were dotted throughout the courtyard, particularly around the gazebo standing at its center. There were ponds of stagnant opaque water, where koi fish lazily swam, yet these were no ordinary fish – they were Curses, created by Geto himself to dwell there for purely aesthetic purposes.

Her brother was already waiting for her, seated on his throne with legs crossed over. It struck Y/N just how perfectly he belonged here, to be a King of Hell and ruthlessly pursue his ideal world.

And now, she was a part of that ideal too.

Suguru raised an eyebrow at her, amusement twinkling in his warm eyes as he judged her appearance. “Took you long enough,” he teased. “Should I expect a wedding by the end of the day?”

Y/N barked a laugh and snorted, “Surely not. He hasn’t seen me for so long.”

Geto’s eyes darkened ever so slightly, his gaze flitting over to the twins. “Thank you, girls. You may leave us now.”

They nodded, and Y/N smiled softly at them as they left. Her brother’s eyes remained fixed on her with an unreadable expression, but Y/N knew Suguru was analyzing her, contemplating every scenario and outcomes of the impending meeting. She shifted on her feet, mentally preparing herself for the inevitable warnings he was about to impart to her like age old wisdom.

“I trust I don’t need to tell you to keep your emotions in check with Fushiguro around,” Geto said lowly, almost threateningly, as if he was the one she really needed to be wary of.

She almost rolled her eyes at that and muttered, “I won’t even look at him.”

“Good,” Geto said, voice raising an octave. “We have no allies to fall back on, not even him. No matter what the others say or do, you do not react to anything. Because of who we are, the others will look for any excuse to pounce on us. So stay quiet, and try to avoid drawing attention to yourself.”

He sighed. “Although, I’m sure Naoya will have something to say, given the way you look.”

Y/N stuck her chin up, and declared defiantly. “I’m not changing.”

Geto’s gaze softened considerably, and within a second, he stood beside her, looping their arms together. “And why should you, sweet sister? We’re both beautiful, and there’s no shame in that.”

A portal sprung to life in front of them, revealing a dimly lit, oppressive corridor beyond. Without waiting another moment, her brother strode through it, and Y/N almost stumbled as he pulled her with him.

Choso’s palace served as the standard meeting place between all the Kings – a neutral ground, as the half-Curse chose no sides in the wars within Hell. It was nowhere near as grand as Geto’s, exuding an air of shabbiness with walls once vibrant now dulled with time and neglect. There was a distinct lack of refinement or class; the sparse decoration left the place stark and devoid of life. It certainly wasn’t what Y/N had expected for a gathering of the Kings of Hell, simply because it lacked the grandeur she would have associated with such an important meeting. She would have thought that the Kings of Hell would demand only the finest and most grand of places to gather. However, she supposed it served its purpose well enough.

Y/N couldn’t deny her growing curiosity about Choso. Geto had told her that the lowly King was born while his mother was still an Angel, and Y/N wondered how she hadn’t been immediately turned into a Curse following her sin. She guessed that Choso’s conception wasn’t in accordance with the Holy Principles, and the resilience his mother must have possessed to avoid turning against God, given her circumstances, astounded Y/N more than anything. She hoped that perhaps she might have the chance to speak with him, although Geto had warned her the half-Curse was elusive and prone to melancholic moods.

Geto led her down the corridor, their footsteps softly thudding against the faded carpet. He stepped forward to open the twin doors of a chamber lit by orange-flamed torches; a pit of vipers they had willingly walked straight into.

In the center stood a large round stone table in the center of the room, where three Curses were already seated. One, a handsome blonde, had his head leaning casually on his hand, smirking at them as if he was privy to all their secrets. To his right sat Jogo himself, his unmistakable volcano head towering over them like a domineering crown. Almost directly across them sat a dark-haired Curse with his hair scraped into two messy high-ponytails, a curious black line across the bridge of his nose extending to both sides of his face – Choso Kamo himself.

“Ah, the Fallen is finally here,” sneered the blonde Curse. “I thought you seraphim were supposed to be punctual.”

“I see you’re early, Zenin,” Geto retorted smoothly, taking a seat beside Choso, and motioned for Y/N to sit beside him.

She couldn’t help but notice the segregation already taking shape. Jogo and Naoya were seated together, scrutinizing Geto with a mixture of disdain and haughtiness. Choso sat with a hauntingly empty look, his purple orbs fixated on the table as if lost in thought. Y/N ignored the unease settling in her stomach as he met her gaze, exhaustion evident deep within his eyes, and focused on maintaining her composure as she took her seat.

Naoya grinned at her, and purred with words dipped in honey and sugar, “And who might you be?”

“My sister,” Geto stated firmly, his tone protective.

Naoya’s interest seemed to dissipate as quickly as it had appeared, and his lip curled slightly in disgust, while steam started to hiss out of Jogo’s head.

“Oh, another Fallen at this table,” the Zenin sighed, observing her with a bored expression. “How… quaint.”

Y/N didn’t know whether to feel relieved or offended, but remained passive, as Geto remained unaffected by his comment. Choso also remained quiet beside them; he must be so used to their insults and remarks over the centuries.

“Where is the rest of your retinue, Jogo?” Geto asked, swiftly changing the subject, and redirecting their attention from Y/N to him instead.

“On their way. You needn’t worry, little King,” the mountain hissed, his voice as sharp and painful like a spitting fire, his charcoal-black teeth flashing as he smiled darkly.

Her brother’s lips fell into a thin line, refraining from biting back at the insult. As if on cue, a portal appeared, and from it stepped a tiny figure with snow-like hair, which instantly reminded Y/N of Gojo until she saw the red strip of hair running through the back of their head. An uncomfortable chill settled in the room as the Curse raised their head to observe them, moving into the corner of the chamber and blending into the shadows as if it were their natural home.

This had to be Uraume – the only direct connection anybody had to the King of Hell and all Curses. Was it wrong to be so twistedly fascinated by them? Y/N struggled to tear her gaze away, captivated by the mystery and legend that they were attached to. None of the other Kings seemed outwardly perturbed by their presence, as if being watched over by Uraume was the most normal thing in the world, and perhaps it was.

And then, the doors swung open with enough force to command attention. A giant Curse strode into the room, with long thick branches in place where its eyes should have been, and a blooming red rose growing from its left shoulder – decidedly feminine, and grotesquely beautiful. It reminded Y/N of how beautiful the gardens in Heaven were.

And emerging from the shadow of the colossal Curse was Mahito, his face lit up with a delightful expression.

Y/N’s heart dropped.

Dread crashed over her like an avalanche.

How?

Geto stiffened beside her, his hands flexing beneath the table.

Mahito locked eyes with her, his grin stretching wider and eyes gleaming madly. Jogo smirked at them both, clearly relishing in their discomfort and the fact he had the upper hand over them. He stared Geto down, daring him to buckle and show weakness.

He knows… they all know.

Her heart raced so fast she feared it might burst from her chest. Desperation clawed at her like a trapped animal, and Y/N’s fought the urge to reach over the table and slice them all into shreds before they had the chance to hurt her or Suguru.

The two Curses took their seats next to Jogo, who cleared his throat before speaking. “Some interesting information has recently been shared with me, Zenin.”

Naoya stopped inspecting his nails, and raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Oh?”

“This little Fallen King has been hiding a secret from all of us. Mahito here has been imprisoned for having knowledge of it,” Jogo said, tapping his fingers against each other, tilting his head towards the silver haired Curse.

Mahito sighed wistfully, feigning a look of pain on his face. “Yes, it was a horrible situation to be in,” he said, his tone dripping with insincerity.

“I don’t care what happened to you,” snapped Naoya, narrowing his eyes at Mahito. “Spit it out.”

“Y/N here…,” Mahito whispered, ignoring Naoya as his eyes sparkled with the thrill of holding everyone’s attention. “Is Fushiguro’s mate.”

It was silent, and then Naoya started to howl with laughter. Y/N shrank into herself, despising her helplessness in this situation. Geto remained silent beside her, likely questioning how Mahito had managed to escape and just how many of the secrets within his kingdom’s secrets were now public knowledge to their enemies. Meanwhile, Uraume stood like a statue in the shadows, unmoved by the events unfolding before them.

Toji… where are you?

“I said you were special,” Mahito murmured to her, his eyes dulled and sad as his mood shifted like the wind. “Why didn’t you save me like I saved you?”

“And so you betrayed us?” Y/N whispered, barely audible amidst the booming of voices, but he heard her words falling from her lips like it was his salvation.

“Not you,” he answered, just as quiet, and it almost felt like they were the only two people in the room. “But your brother just isn’t like us.”

Naoya stopped laughing, wiping away an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “Now, Geto, how could you keep such a secret from us? Are we not all allies here?” he asked with mock innocence.

Absolutely not.

“Fushiguro and I decided it was best to keep it between ourselves,” Geto stated lowly, his voice dangerously thin. “My sister had just Fallen, and was still vulnerable.”

“Hmm, she still seems ripe for the taking to me,” Naoya smirked, his interest in her renewed as he gazed at her with hunger. “My cousin obviously hasn’t claimed her if she isn’t with him.”

“Why would Fushiguro taint himself with the likes of her?” Jogo sneered, venom lacing his words, reducing her to nothing.

“They are mates; they are one and the same. But, she is just as pure as me,” Mahito whispered, as if he had a say in the matter, his eyes still locked on Y/N as he defended her in his own way. Naoya looked at him sharply, a strange glint in his piercing eyes.

“So you say,” Jogo said dismissively, as if the notion of soulmates was something foul and he didn’t believe in. “My question to you, Geto, is how do I know you won’t exploit Fushiguro’s power to invade my kingdom?”

“You needn’t worry about that, Jogo, as long as you refrain from stealing from me again,” Geto replied, eyes flashing. “I have no need for his strength.”

“Tch, it’s not my fault if my soldiers happen across an opportunity. You should have better control over your own people,” he hissed, flames spurring from his head.

Y/N tuned out as the both of them went back and forth in a heated exchange, choosing to avoid Mahito and Naoya’s heavy stares by staring at her lap instead. She was disgusted with how much fear had gripped her, but with their secret out, she was no longer safe. Her and Geto needed to get out of here and fortify their defenses, and time seemed to be stretching out agonizingly slow.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Naoya started, sickly sweet sugar words returning, and she reluctantly looked up at him. “What does Toji feel like?”

She wouldn’t answer; she refused. Any form of a reply would be a betrayal to herself and to Toji.

His smile faltered, replaced by a dangerous glint of annoyance. “Did Geto not teach you that you cannot refuse to answer a King?”

“He taught me I always have a choice,” she finally spoke, against her better judgment, her voice as cold as ice.

Naoya hummed thoughtfully, but she knew he was really toying with her. “It seems my old cousin shares the same sentiment. If I was him, I would have taken you with me by force.”

“It’s a good thing you can never be me then, cousin.”

Toji.

He stood beside her as if he had been there the whole time. How had she not felt his approach? Was it his unnatural speed? It didn’t matter, she could feel his emotions clearly now – pure white-hot rage emanating from him like the rays of the sun burning against the Earth. And yet, his demeanor remained level-headed, calm, and almost bored. Naoya pulled back in surprise, and the rest of the room fell silent as they all registered his presence.

“Good, we can begin now,” Geto said, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere as Toji took his seat beside Y/N.

Her arm closest to him tingled with anticipation at their proximity, and Y/N craved his skin to brush against hers just a little. She could feel his warmth radiating from him in a delicious caress, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the chaos of writhing snakes, and his nearness stirred a potent cocktail of restraint and desire within her. She couldn’t look at him – she mustn’t look at him.

A chair scraped beside him, and Y/N glanced over him to look at a female Curse who had taken a seat beside Toji. She had ice-blue hair braided in two intricate twists, with one long braid cascading over her face like a veil. Y/N didn’t need to see her face to know she was beautiful. The way she sat with her legs elegantly crossed, her skin-tight black dress accentuating her slim build, and the rhythmic drumming of her long red nails against the table all added to her allure. Yet, her beauty was unsettling, for it seemed to mask something as equally dangerous lurking beneath the surface.

Who is she? How come she’s with Toji?

Y/N’s mind began to race, an unfamiliar sting of jealousy prickling at her senses, causing her to shift uncomfortably in her chair.

“You think we’re finished with this conversation?” snapped Jogo, glaring daggers at her brother. “Fushiguro, tell me that I don’t need to worry about you turning on us for these Fallen.”

He said it so disgustingly, as if the word itself left a bitter taste in his mouth, and Y/N clenched her jaw.

“You don’t,” Toji agreed simply, his green eyes narrowed.

Both Naoya and Jogo looked at him with just a hint of surprise, as if they were expecting a completely different response. Y/N would be lying to herself if she didn’t think the same – Toji’s unexpected stance felt like abandonment, leaving her and Geto to completely fend for themselves in this precarious situation.

Naoya cleared his throat, resuming his air of arrogance. “Of course not. Now, let us discuss how we exterminate these seraphim once and for all,” he declared with bone-chilling casualness.

-•-

Y/N trailed her fingers back and forth through the water, watching the black and white fish swimming curiously towards the ripples she created. Even as she sat in front of the pond, she couldnt shake the sensation of Toji’s rage pulsating through their bond. He was in Geto’s throne room, presumably letting out his grievances, and she felt a pang of sympathy for her brother, knowing he was Toji’s prime target.

“King Fushiguro expects you to be ready for him,” the ethereal woman had announced without a care in the world, as she strolled through Geto’s court like they were all beneath her.

Y/N bristled at her presence, feeling a surge of tension ripple through Miguel and the others as they seemed to instantly become defensive. Geto sat atop his throne, his anger simmering quietly and deadly; like a volcano on the verge of eruption. He had been unnervingly quiet on their way back from the meeting, and she knew he was ready to blow and unleash his fury at the slightest inconvenience.

“Careful, Mei-Mei,” Geto hissed. “Even crows need to show respect, especially when showing up unannounced.”

Mei-Mei, that was her name, Toji’s second-in-command. Was she considered his queen the way Y/N was Suguru’s? Y/N didn’t bother to ask anyone, instead opting to ignore and walk straight past her on the way outside towards the courtyard. Y/N didn’t want to be in her presence, or anybody else’s – not even Toji’s for that matter. Being in quiet solitude was safe; nobody could hurt her if she ensured she alone. Besides, her soulmate had made it clear that her and Geto were alone in the coming war against their enemies.

Did he really think just a little bit less of Geto and her – because they were Fallen?

Y/N felt so very stupid and naive, realizing how cocky she had been just that morning, about not caring if the others discovered their bond. Reality proved starkly different to fantasies, but it was always be a shock to discover that notion. She’d been too caught up in her newfound power as Geto’s second and her ability to command and rule – a mistake she wouldn’t be repeating again.

A crow cawed loudly from a tree in front of her, and Y/N almost jumped out of her skin. She didn’t know why, maybe it was Geto’s comment echoing in her mind, but she was certain that the crow had everything to do with Mei-Mei, and she resented its presence. Y/N struggled to articulate why she already harbored such a strong dislike towards Mei-Mei, and she didn’t really care to explain it either. The bird continued to watch her closely with its beady eyes, and she glowered darkly in response. It had shattered her sense of solitary safety.

Footsteps tapped against the stone pathway behind her, prompting Y/N to instinctively grab the hilt of her katanas and leap to her feet.

Toji stood there, his usual attire abandoned for a dark blue haori instead. His expression was inscrutable as he regarded her, not saying a word. The crow flitted about in the tree, and his sharp gaze locked onto it. A faint twitch played at the corner of his lip.

“Nosy bitch,” Toji muttered, and within a flash, he flung a small, deadly knife at the bird. It made no sound as it landed lifelessly on the ground.

Y/N said nothing, unfazed by the bird’s death, and ignored Toji as she resumed her previous sitting position, gazing at the koi. She heard him sigh, and a shiver trickled down her spine like water running down a tree. His robes rustled as moved and crouched beside her, his warmth palpable as their shoulders almost touched.

How could he be so dangerous and so intoxicating at the same time?

“Your brother make these?” Toji grumbled, his words still tinged with anger like flint sparking against steel, nodding his head towards the koi.

She nodded wordlessly, and Toji grunted in response. They fell into an uneasy silence, and Y/N felt the urge to break it, even if she didn’t really know what to say to him. What could she possibly say that wouldn’t risk angering him further? And yet, she deserved an answer to the question nagging at the forefront of her mind; would he would ever see them as equals? After all, it was his fault that she had become a Fallen – a fake Curse in the eyes of many.

She just didn’t think his eyes were among those.

“Are you… alright?” Toji asked suddenly, uncertainty lacing his words, and Y/N frowned in response. Her resolve slightly softened when she glanced at the genuine look of concern on his face.

“Not really,” she whispered, her head hanging low.

Toji shifted, as he settled into a reclined position, leaning his weight against his hand. Their fingertips hovered near each other, almost touching, a tantalizing and forbidden electric charge crackling between them.

Y/N swallowed nervously.

“They’re going to come for you, you know?” he said, his voice deep and solemn. “You’re the only thing that could unify me and Geto, so they’ll do anything to stop that.”

A flash of annoyance coursed through her, and she sighed exasperatedly, “I know that.”

Toji exhaled heavily, head thrown back to look at the dark sky as he huffed, “I can’t stop a war that’s inevitable.”

Frustration… at himself?

“I never asked you to,” Y/N murmured, adding perhaps somewhat childishly. “You made it very clear that you wouldn’t stoop so low and help the likes of us.”

“I’m not putting my people at risk for someone else’s war. I’ve said that from the very beginning – me and your brother are not united. I’ve only agreed to leave his kingdom alone, but it has nothing to do with you both being Fallen.”

Someone else.

So she was just someone else then, even if she was the root of all the ensuing violence and death.

Y/N suddenly felt quite foolish.

“I see,” was all she could manage to say, as her face flushed with the heat of embarrassment.

He grunted, “I don’t give a shit about all that you know?”

“You seemed to before,” Y/N snapped, her anger surprising even herself.

Toji rolled his eyes, and droned, “Have you ever heard of lying, little angel?”

“Don’t call me that.”

She felt such crippling shame for being a massive burden on her brother, and for being the cause of the war creeping menacingly closer towards them. Why had he even come if he was just going to be an ass?

A flash of hurt…

A small part of her felt guilty, but it paled in comparison to what she was already feeling, and to how he had added to her turmoil. They sat beside each other in uncomfortable silence, but Toji’s hand remained stubbornly where it was beside hers. Y/N felt only slightly more at ease, finding solace in his silence, until she was abruptly reminded of the crow lying beneath the tree. A gnawing question clawed its way out of her throat, disrupting the fragile peace between them.

“What do the crows have to do with Mei-Mei?” she blurted out, torn between wanting to know nothing about the sly Curse and her insatiable curiosity.

Toji’s brow furrowed as he replied slowly, “She controls them; they’re her eyes and ears.”

“Her spies, then.”

“Hers, mine, same thing. Why do you ask?”

“I just… want to know who she is to you.”

“She’s my second in command, just like you are to Geto. Her crows go anywhere I tell her to send them, and in return, I pay her in gold, diamonds, whatever else she wants.”

“Whatever she wants?”

“Intelligence is everything. I keep her in my pocket so she’s not in anyone else’s. What are you trying to imply?”

Y/N knew Toji was fully aware of what she was really asking, yet she still asked anyways. “Is she anything more?”

Toji gave her a sharp and pointed look as he growled, “Are you sure you want to know if I’ve fucked her or not?”

Y/N blushed furiously at his brash language, feeling so exposed by how easily he was able to pick her apart and read her like a book.

Toji smirked, but it was cruel and cold, and snorted dismissively, “I didn’t think so. Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to. My past is no-one’s business, and don’t think for a second I owe it to you.”

Oh.

She moved her hand away from him as his words stung her deeply as if he’d actually bitten her. Y/N realized Toji’s anger never truly dissipated; it lingered beneath the surface, always ready to strike and unleash itself like a viper in the shadows. He was a stormy sea, untamable and unpredictable, and she realized he had absolutely no desire to be anything other than exactly that.

This is who I nearly died for.

Nanami died for me to have him.

Gojo died because of him.

“What’s the point of this, then?” Y/N said softly, almost to herself, her voice barely above a whisper as the waves of loneliness and shame washed over and completely drowned her. “I think you should go.”

Toji’s expression turned inscrutable, and his eyes dulled from their usual intensity. Wordlessly, he rose from her side, the loss of his heat causing prickling goosebumps to appear on her arm. Without so much as any sort of a goodbye, he disappeared straight into a portal, leaving Y/N alone once more.

He never even looked at her.

Her solitary haven didn’t feel so safe anymore.

-•-

Geto came to visit her later that night.

He had immediately noticed her glossy and tired eyes, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I should have checked on you first.”

“It’s ok Suguru,” Y/N assured, as convincingly as she could manage. “There are things that need to be done.”

“May I come in?” he asked politely, offering her a small, yet tight, smile. Y/N moved over to to the side to let him in.

Geto took a seat in the padded chair in front of the crackling blue fire, and sighed deeply. “He came to see you then?”

She took a seat in the chair beside him, and nodded. “Yes, not for very long though.”

“I assume it wasn’t a very pleasant conversation.”

Y/N shook her head, and Geto seemed genuinely saddened by this. “I’m sorry to hear that, I thought perhaps I’d bore the brunt of his anger before he met with you.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. What did he discuss with you?”

“Well, that I should have been more careful with ensuring Mahito could never escape, and he was right.”

“We all underestimated him.”

“So it seems, and we’re paying a heavy price for that now. I should also mention that he demanded I convince you to stay with him.”

“What, really?”

“Oh? He didn’t ask you himself?”

“He… well, no.”

“How interesting, so what happened then?”

“I asked questions I shouldn’t have, let’s just leave it at that.”

Suguru leaned forward in his seat, his eyes comforting and warm, urging her to continue. “Tell me anyways, sweet sister.”

“It’s not worth it Suguru, none of it is anymore,” Y/N huffed, tears prickling her eyes, embarrassed at repeating the incident out loud. “But, I… I did ask him if he and Mei-Mei ever…”

“Oh, Y/N. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know, Suguru. I just… I don’t know what I was looking for exactly.”

“I don’t know either. But I do know that Fushiguro is definitely not still a virgin after eight-hundred years of living in Hell.”

Y/N’s face burned, and she looked away from Geto, who softly chuckled. “I’m not that naive, brother,” she snapped.

“Good. I’d be worried if you were,” he said, still chuckling.

As her brothers laughter faded away, the atmosphere turned serious, and Y/N tensed as Geto asked gravely. “Do you need me to stay here while you sleep?”

“What? No, Suguru.”

“I’d understand. I’m not going to be sleeping much for the foreseeable future.”

“Neither am I, so there’s no need for you to hover.”

“As you wish.”

Geto stood up from his chair and leaned over to softly kiss her hair. “I’m sorry for not protecting you better,” he whispered, his voice cracking ever so slightly.

“There’s no need, because I wouldn’t have gone with him even if he’d asked me to,” Y/N said firmly, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Geto appeared visibly gladdened at this and bade her goodnight as he gently closed her door. Y/N wasted no time in moving to quickly to lock it and then ensuring the balcony doors were also secured. She checked to see if her katanas were within reach beside the bed, placing a hand over her hip to make sure the hidden dagger buried beneath her robe was still there. The paranoia threatened to consume her alive, like maggots buried deep within her bones, burrowing out from within to devour her flesh, and she felt powerless to stop it.

But now wasn’t the time for weakness; she had to steel herself for battle, as she had done a thousand times before. Despite the comforting inner mantra that she repeated to herself, reminding her of past fights and the resilience she knew she had within her, Y/N couldn’t shake the jarring thought that she had at least gone to bed knowing that she was safe. Nothing could have harmed her in Heaven, under God’s protection, and Y/N was so acutely aware of how vulnerable one was when they were dreaming.

God…

Would it be… wrong?

And yet, there couldn’t be anything that felt more right. Despite the paradoxical nature of it, Y/N knelt at the foot of her bed and clasped her hands together.

And prayed to God.

-•-

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 22 days

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 13: The Fallacy of Power

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Word Count: 6.5k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

TW: Astarion's past abuse under Cazador is mentioned/visited in this chapter.

She has been cold and withdrawn since their discussion when he refused to say what she wanted to hear. She avoids him if possible and ignores him unless he directly speaks to her. When she walks around the manor, she is like a phantom gliding, lifeless and vacant, the ghost of a ship long ago wrecked at sea that still wanders the waters wayward with no purpose. So far, he’s left her alone in her misery. Should he be trying to cheer her up? His heart tells him he should, but his head tells him it’s unbecoming of the Vampire Ascendant to postulate himself in such a way. He should not have to seek her attention. She should give it to him willingly. If she wishes to wallow in her desolation, so be it.

He’s missed her in their bed, against his skin, and on his lips. Her silence is as deep as demise and simultaneously deafening. He misses her laughter, happy giggles, and his name on her tongue in her sweet, musical voice. Hells, he would even take a scolding from her right now as long as she’s speaking and more expressive than this wall of dysphoria. He will take anything but this pale apparition of surrender and hopelessness. He’s tried to goad her into arguments if only to get a rise from her, but she does as he requests without question, challenge, or emotion.

She wants a real relationship, but what does that mean to him? What kind of relationship is he capable of giving her? That presence in his head bids him to control, claim, and make her belong to him with or without her consent. It encourages him to give the command to make it so. The Vampire Ascendant does not request love - he simply fucking takes it because he is entitled to it. He is entitled to have anything and everything he wants, including her.

No.

There his thoughts go again, getting away from him, towing him down like quicksand. He must be careful not to let himself be cast down that ungodly rabbit hole. He may not get the chance to surface. Astarion’s hands rack over his face and through his hair. He needs the physical sensation that often interrupts the slow descent into madness.

Astarion. He reminds himself. I am Astarion.

She does not acknowledge his presence when he enters the library. Her sullen eyes are moored to the book lying in her lap, and she flips the pages idly. She did not even bother to light any of the candles, scones or oil lamps. She sits in the shadows like a lone lily, white and fair, against a pond reflecting dusk.

He clears his throat to get her attention, “I need you to attend my business meeting with me today. It may put you in a position where you are… uncomfortable, but I will be there to protect and stop you if needed.”

She closes the book, staring straight vacantly, not bothering to look at him. Her voice is as whisper quiet as a catatonic echo, “You’re taking me to a business meeting?”

“Yes,” he replies softly, making his voice as warm as a summer day as if he could warm her with it. “I need my consort by my side.”

“I am not your consort, Astarion,” she shakes her head with a despondent expression. She is so cold it makes him shiver. He’s used to flames veritably leaping off her tongue when she speaks. This... He has never witnessed this in her, but he recognizes it. This is how he was when he all but gave up after a few lashings, “I will go with you if you need me, but I am not your consort.”

Please, don’t give up on me... just yet.

“If you do not like the word consort, that is fine,” he crouches and takes her hand. It remains limp, and she still does not look at him. Astarion gently cradles her cheek and walks her eyes to him. They seem to look through him instead of at him, and his heart seizes in his chest. “Tell me what you would prefer. Partner? Girlfriend? Soulmate? Bride? Hells, wife? Just tell me what you want me to say. Please.”

The words scour his tongue like steel wool. Can his spawn truly be his partner, girlfriend or… Good Gods, he said wife, didn’t he? Where in the Hells did that come from, and why does the notion fill him with genuine joy? Will he be able to see her as an equal? He is the Vampire Ascendant… No one is his equal, and no one could ever be. But he is also Astarion. Which him does he want to be? Does he even have a choice?

He stares at her, trying to discern how he views her. When he looks at her, does he see an equal? Or does he see his spawn, his puppet, his favourite little toy to play with? He views both versions in parallel spaces of his mind. He cannot ascertain which one is him and which is the Vampire Ascendant.

“Consort. Partner. Girlfriend. Soulmate. Bride. Wife,” she repeats hollowly as if she’s saying the words without thinking about them, just a recording being played back, “None of them because we are none of those.”

“Perhaps not yet,” he retorts with a plea clinging to his voice. “You said you want something real, and I agreed to try and give you just that. Let me try.”

“Are you capable of love,” she whispers, eyes drifting down to the floor.

“I… don’t know,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re view of what love is may differ from mine, but perhaps we can meet in the middle?”

“When do we leave?” She asks dryly and slips her hand out of his, “And what do I wear?”

“I had something made for you,” he smirks. “It’s in your room. Wear it or don’t. The choice is yours.”

“You’re giving me a choice?”

"Darling," he drawls in an unemotional infection, “I admittedly do not know much about relationships, but I don’t think forcing you to wear something would be very… nice. You are free to dress yourself in whatever you wish.”

“What if I decide I wish to wear a burlap sack?”

“Well…” he cringes. Gods. He would not put it past her doing just that to prove a point. Would he let her do that? Could he? His skin crawls just thinking about it. “You would look very foolish, but if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

Hells below, he hopes she does not wear a sack.

Truthfully, he does want to control what she wears, where she goes, and even how she does her hair and makeup, but he does not understand why he is so drawn to it. He does not recall feeling the need to be so controlling when he was a spawn. He must quell those desires and untoward thoughts if he has any hope of showing her that he can be what she wants and needs.

Because he needs her…

He’s almost afraid to look when she walks down the hall, scared she’s going to see if he truly means what he said, but he’s elated to see she decided to wear the ensemble he had fashioned. An extravagant, high-necked navy-blue robe with delicate golden lace sleeves and a bodice embellished with dragon wings with gleaming rose-gold scales to match hers.

His coat is very close, except it is raven black, inlaid with deep purple and golden embroidered dragons revolving around his arms. His chest is embellished with dragon wings expanding across the breast.

“Dragons?” Her hand glides down the breast of his coat, “I thought you were fonder of bats.”

“It seems I have become rather smitten with dragons as of late,” he winks. He feigns puzzlement, bringing his finger to his lips, “I wonder why.”

She gives him some semblance of a smile. It’s the first time he’s seen any emotion in days. It fades quickly, and her face is once again a smooth plane of vacancy.

“What do you mean I will be uncomfortable?” She mutters, eyes fixed straight ahead as if looking at him pains her like staring directly at the sun. “You promised you would not put me in a situation I cannot handle.”

“And I won’t. You have my word.” He bows slightly, “There will be people around. If you need to leave, you say the word, and we will go. You know I could compel you not to feel that hunger…”

She scowls at him and hisses, “Do it, and I will walk out that door. I will not return.”

Well, even anger is better than emptiness.

“It is just an offer,” he nods curtly with his hands up. “I would not do it without your expressed permission. Shall we go?”

You follow Astarion, twisting down alleys and paths in the Lower City. You refuse to hold his hand and are attempting to use pure willpower to ignore all the tasty citizens scurrying about. They smell good, and it’s making your mouth water. No matter how much you eat, bloodlust is insatiable, unquenchable and never fully slumbers. There’s always this stitch in your side and a dryness to your throat that will not ebb. When you smell blood, you are immediately starved, and your stomach pinches in your belly. It could easily send you into hysterics. Astarion always keeps a close eye, sticking by your side and matching your pace instead of his usual elongated strides.

You recognize the alley with the guards and the secret door, “The guild?”

“The very one,” he nods with a cunning smirk.

“Lord Ancunin,” the guard bows low and stiff. “I see you have brought a guest.”

“Lady Ancunin,” Astarion drawls, confident and poised. If your heart was beating, it would surely have skipped beats and possibly stopped. “She is to be treated with the same respect as I. You are to follow her orders as you would follow mine. Is that clear?”

“So you command, so shall it be,” the guard bows low before you. “Lady Ancunin.”

You stare detached past the guard, barely noticing the reverent display before you. A welcome numbness has incorporated itself into your psyche. You felt so much, and now you feel nothing. You’re not sure which is worse.

“Come,” Astarion gestures to the stairs.

The Guildhall has been rebuilt with more extravagance. The walkways are now properly constructed and far less shabby looking with richly coloured wood. It is organized, not the haphazard mess you remember. There are so many hearts beating the chant of life. Their blood smells like Elysian fields teeming with ichor blossoms. Pressing your eyes shut, you try to tune out the thump, thump, thump assaulting your ears. You clutch Astarion’s hand and squeeze as hard as you can.

Yes, this will be a challenge.

Astarion senses your apprehension and squeezes your hand reassuringly, “We can leave whenever you want. I do not have to be here long.”

“You operate the Guild now?”

“Yes and no,” he grins, devilish and handsome enough to make you melt despite your discomfort. “Nine Fingers still handles the mundane day-to-day. You know I have never been a details person.”

“How did this come about?”

“Simple,” he smiles wolfish and sly. His eyes glint mischievously. “If you know the right people to coerce, anything can be taken. Grease a few palms here, blackmail some merchants there. You know how it is.”

“Coerce or kill?”

“Well, negotiations don’t always go as planned,” he chuckles with a cavalier shrug. “But I do not go around killing everyone, just those who need killing anyway. Gods. What do you think of me? I’ve been manipulating people for 200 years. This was hardly a challenge.”

“Ah, Lord Ancunin,” Nine Fingers strides up with a tight look as if she’s working hard not to frown. “How nice of you to bless us with your presence. I do not believe we have a meeting scheduled for today.”

“I’m here to make sure you’re running my,” Astarion accentuates the word with a low, threatening growl, “Guild befittingly. I received reports of your idiot pickpockets getting caught by the authorities and inconsistent yields. Do I need to appoint someone more suitable for such a role?”

“Lord Ancunin,” Nine Fingers snickers, and you wonder how he hasn’t killed this one yet. She was always snarky. “The pickpockets have been dealt with. They did not even make it to prison. As for the yields, I’m looking into it. You will not find anyone more proficient at running your guild than I.”

Astarion and Nine Fingers continue to talk business. Boring. You walk away, down the stairs and watch the people flitting about, ledgers in hand, counting shipments of what looks like silk from Cormyr and imported liquor. Others with clearly stolen pieces of art and other antiquities. The bottom of that cesspool pit has been cleaned up, and it appears new tunnels have been put in place, with more still being constructed.

You catch bits and pieces of a conversation between a short, rotund man in a burgundy coat speaking about a shipment being lost or damaged. Leaning on a railing, you watch the conversation play out with a shrewd eye for a while before you make your way over there. The closer you get to people, the harder it is to control yourself, but you’re getting better.

You sit close to the conversation so you can listen and watch. Nine Fingers sits beside you, “I remember you. Jaheria’s friend, right?” she gives you a scrutinizing once over and then her eyes finally settle on yours. “I remember you being much more… alive the last time you were here. The lords doing, I presume.”

“I wanted it,” you growl through your clenched jaw. “There is nothing further to discuss on it.”

“I’ve seen his little compulsion trick,” she says sourly. “It’s not a stretch to believe-“

You cut her off by grabbing her by the neck and pushing her up against a support beam. The rhythmical pulsing of her vein is felt on the pads of your fingers. Good Gods, you are tempted to take a nibble. Just a little sip...

No. You throw her away from you before you lose your precarious control.

“Watch your tongue,” you snarl, baring your teeth. “I am just as deadly as the lord.”

“Deadlier even.” Astarion chuckles, leaning close to your ear, “Are you okay?”

“I’m managing…” you whisper. Raising your voice, you point to the man, “Who is that?”

“A local merchant. He caters to the aristocracy.” Astarion arches a brow, “Why?”

“You were talking about inconsistent yields,” you watch the man circumspective, who now stares at you wide-eyed. “I think you will find he is the reason for some or all of your inconsistencies.” You sneer at the little fleshy liar, “Won’t we?"

“No,” Nine Fingers interjects. “That can’t be. He’s been working with the Guild for many years and is well-known and respected by the patriars. He’s an invaluable asset.”

“Silence!” Astarion orders brusquely, making her flinch. “Your superiors are having a discussion.” Astarion’s fingers come to his chin. “Go on, darling. How do you know?”

“His speech pattern is all over the place. He does not make direct eye contact. He’s fidgeting nervously. I can hear his heartbeat kick up from here every time he has to alter his story, and he’s sweating like a pig,” you smirk. You are good at this, and it feels natural. You give the man a grin as you virtually hear his heart sink, “You are a terrible liar. I think you’ve picked the wrong business.”

“Well,” Astarion cocks his head while watching the man as sweat rains down his face, “Let’s find out, shall we?” He points at the rotund traitor, “You. Come here.”

“Y-yes, Lord Ancunin.”

Astarion hauls the man into the air by his coat with an eerily cordial smile, “You’ve been stealing from me. Come clean now, and I will consider allowing you to keep your pathetic life.”

You expected to hear the anger in Astarion’s voice, but it’s matter-of-fact and impassive.

“My lord,” the man’s eyes widen, and his feet kick uselessly in the air. “I would never dream of it. Honest!”

Astarion’s eyes glow that wicked crimson of compulsion, and he brings the man close to his face, “You will tell me the truth. How long have you been stealing?”

The man’s eyes become glossy as the red tendrils of compulsion twist around him and into his mind. His body becomes limp. “I will tell the truth.” He repeats hollowly. “I have been skimming off the top for years. I misconstrue reported earnings and inventory, record shipments as lost or damaged and keep them for myself.”

The man continues spewing his transgressions, and you can see the rage start building in Astarion.

“That wasn’t so hard. Was it?” Astarion smiles manically. His eyes start to flash as he draws his dagger.

You put your hand on his shoulder, “Astarion…” You soothe and request the connection with his mind. You do not want to undermine him, but you need him to stay in control. He opens it, and you wince at the pain that splits through your head. It feels as if your skull has been cracked open. You push through it and roll your thoughts over the bridge, “His death will not gain you anything, Astarion. Hold onto yourself.”

His muscles strain under your fingers, and sweat starts to sheen his skin, but he answers in your thoughts, “His death would serve as a reminder to these insolent fucks that no one betrays the Vampire Ascendant and lives.”

“Astarion, please.”

“I am the Vampire Ascendant!” He bellows in your head so hard you wonder if your ears are bleeding, leaking your brain matter.

“Is that all you are? Is that your entire identity?”

He growls viciously aloud, snarling and turning his head to look at you with violence humming in his flickering eyes. With a pained grunt, Astarion throws the man on the ground and hisses, “Leave. If I ever see you in my city again, I will kill you and your family.”

Astarion whirls, taking your chin roughly in his fingers, bringing his mouth to yours, savage and hungry, with enough force to split and bruise your lips. You can hear that tittering in his head, straining against his control, trying to claim him. It bites like a serrated blade at your mind, and Astarion tries to close the connection to save you from that pain, but you rue against it.

“Don’t,” you think. “I can be your light. I can help you, but you have to let me.”

His fingers curl into your hair, and his tongue laps at the blood smeared across your lips, sucking on the cut gently. Your fingers caress the back of his neck. You’re not exactly sure how you do it, but as if on instinct, you flood Astarion with every iota of your love, light and fire into his psyche, upending the darkness and silencing his demons.

His body relaxes. His fingers no longer grip aggressively but embrace, and he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on yours as he pants. As your senses return to you, so does the angelic chorus of beating hearts and the enticing smell of blood, and you clench your jaw as your stomach does cartwheels in your abdomen. Your fingernails incise your palm.

“I’ve got you, my treasure.” Astarion interlocks his fingers with yours to stop you. “Hold onto me.”

Astarion turns to Nine Fingers. She’s staring at you with a speculatively arched brow, “We will be taking our leave now. I expect to see improved totals on your subsequent report, or we will have a very unpleasant discussion, and if any more pickpockets get caught, you will not be calling yourself Nine Fingers any longer. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Lord Ancunin,” she nods curtly with a twisted mouth and narrowed eyes. “Do bring your spawn along more often. She is incredibly useful, it seems.”

Astarion roars, slamming Nine Fingers against a wooden column, splitting it. He bellows when he speaks, making sure everyone can hear him, “No one is to call her “spawn.” If I hear anyone utter that word in reference to her, I will hang them from the rafters by their intestines while they still draw breath.” Astarion looks around with a frightening scowl, verifying everyone is paying attention, “She is my right hand, and you will treat her with due respect. Any orders from her should be treated as if they are coming from me directly.”

“Astarion,” you whimper, scratching lacerations into the top of your hand to keep yourself grounded. “I need to go.”

He releases Nine Fingers, spins and grabs your hand. He keeps a tight hold on you until you’re back in the alley. He orders the guards to stand further away. You sprint to the dead end and grip a fence as hard as you can, taking in large gasps of air to try and quiet the bloodlust ravaging your mind, bullying you into mania. Astarion’s hands come to the rail on either side of you, caging you in with his chest pressed against your back.

“You did well in there,” he purrs. “Controlling the bloodlust.”

“You could have warned me that I would want to eat everyone with a beating heart,” you groan, leaning into him.

“I suppose I could have been a tad more forthcoming,” he chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “To be fair, I was a young spawn centuries ago. It’s not exactly fresh in my mind.”

“How did you learn to control it?” you sigh. You’re falling into him again, slipping into that blissful completeness that melts that icy numbness keeping you sane.

There’s a quiver of torment that dithers across the harmony. “Cazador…” he starts, spoken with a desolate undertone. He folds his arms around you, holding you close, and he trembles, “Cazador would starve me and then have people stand in the kennels while I was chained or caged. He would cut them, small at first, but gradually worse. They would get progressively closer. If I made a move or lost control in any way, I would be punished. Severely.” He pauses with a sigh, and his brows turn down at the sides. “I lost control a lot.”

By the Gods. You would not have been able to understand how torturous that would be without being a vampire yourself. Bloodlust hurts, a physical pain that progressively gets steadily worse until you are nothing but a writhing, rabid animal with no semblance of sentience.

“Astarion…” you turn to him, wrapping your arms around him. “That’s… Gods, there are no words. I’m so sorry.”

“Come,” he clears his throat, uncomfortable with the emotion as if he does not believe he deserves your empathy. “Let’s go home.”

“Thank you for telling me.” You murmur, hoping you’re not overstepping, “About… him. I know you don’t like to talk about it.”

“Partners talk about this type of stuff openly, yes?”

“I…” you balk at the question. It seems so out of character for him. You expected him to ignore you or scold you for bringing it up further. “I suppose they do, but-“

“Yes,” he cuts you off. “I know what we aren’t. You keep reminding me every chance you get. You requested real and real you shall have. I never wanted you to see that side of me.” Astarion sighs and looks at the setting sun reverently, his face softening, a glimpse of his former self, “Cazador is no longer an off-limits topic for you.”

What?

Can you trust him not to fly into a blind rage when you speak of his former self, the pathetic spawn he is so genuinely disgusted with? Perhaps this is not the time to test the limits of this newfound freedom.

“Lady Ancunin?” You quirk a brow at him. “That’s not my name.”

“Not as of yet, it’s not,” his arm wraps around your waist, and a smile flashes over his face like wintry sunshine. He whispers, “You bear my name beautifully, my love.”

Your eyelashes flutter open, and you’re shocked to be in the familiar halls of the Crimson Palace, but it does not appear as you remember it. Everything is washed in a drab sepia tone, and you blink, trying to clear your vision. The walls and floors appear to wave as if they are an illusion. Servants blink in and out of existence as they flit around. You try to walk in the way of them, waving your arms to get their attention, but they pay you no heed, blinking out and reappearing behind you.

A scream you would recognize anywhere reverberates through the ghostly halls, shrill and bone-chilling.

Astarion…

You sprint toward the sound, descending the dark staircase two or three steps at a time that appears to end in a black well of nothingness. You’re trying to grip the weave and call on your magic, but when you reach for it, you find nothing but a yawning void where it should be. Staring at your palm, you shake it, confused, as you burst into the hall leading to the spawn quarters. Another cry echoes. You forget about your lack of magic as horror grips your heart, and you sprint around the corner and halt dead in your tracks.

Astarion stands in the hallway. He’s hunched over with hands pressed against the doorframe as he stares distantly into the room before him - the kennels. He is the only thing in undulled, vivid colour. It’s a stark contrast to the atmosphere of mousy undertones.

“Astarion?”

He jolts, whirling and staring at you with a disoriented tangle of sorrow and perplexity. His jaw tightens, and his eyes shift quickly from side to side, “No,” he mutters, shaking his head, “No, this isn’t right. You would not have been here.”

“What’s going on?” You sputter, voice breaking. “I don’t understand.”

Another strident shriek. You are stirred into action, dashing down the hall at full speed. Astarion’s eyes widen as he gauges your target, and he takes long steps to cut you off. His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you backward from the open doorway.

“No, darling,” he coos, trying to swath his voice in velvet. “You don’t want to go in there. Please, trust me on this.”

“What?” You’re panicked, clawing at him, trying to push his arms away. “I can’t just stand here! Let me go!”

“You can’t help him… Me. You can’t help me.” Astarion rasps. His eyes are sad, but he tries to smile. “This is long over and done. It’s a memory - my memory.”

Anguished wailing reverberates, making the walls appear to shudder. You can’t take it, you can’t fucking take it, and you push out of Astarion’s arms and charge into the kennels.

The scene that greets you makes tears instantly flow down your cheeks, and you can’t help but dry heave as your stomach shoots into your throat.

“That’s right, my boy.” Cazador snickers, compulsion glowing in his eyes, tendrils stirring the air. “Sing those sweet, sweet cries for me.”

You try to grab Cazador, screaming in anguish, but your hand swishes straight through the apparition. Arms come around your waist, hauling you up and out of the room while you reach and clamber, trying to do something. Anything.

Astarion sets you down, folding his arms around you, “Shhh, little love,” he purrs. “It will be alright.”

“Astarion,” you sob, knees quaking. Astarion braces you against himself, “What in the Hells is happening?”

“I’m not entirely sure. We are tranced, in the manor, I think. This... it already happened long ago. So long, I cannot even recall the colours anymore.”

His thumb clears the rivulets of tears storming down your cheeks so sweetly, like the whisper of a fairy dream. His eyes, so intensely crimson, are doting, inviting you to get lost in them.

Another soul-crushing outcry discharges from the room, and you can’t help but scream with him. Astarion firmly but gently places his hands over your ears, trying to provide you amnesty from the howling cries.

You lean into him and beg, tugging on his clothes, “Make it stop, Astarion. Good Gods. Make it stop. Please. I can’t… I can’t… Wake us up.”

“I’m trying,” he breathes faintly, pressing harder on your ears as another jarring yowl rolls over you, and you start slipping to the floor in a puddle of sorrow.

Everything dissolves around you, turning black and silent, and you’re pitched into a bottomless void that makes your stomach lurch.

You thrash in your bed, convulsing so violently that you throw yourself to your hands and knees on the floor with a discordant shriek. Your bedsheets and clothes are soddened with sweat, the delicate fabric clinging to your body, and you tremble so turbulently that you can barely push yourself to your feet.

You blink rapidly, trying to see through the distortion caused by unshed tears. Your chest heaves in quick, rapid breaths as you sprint into the hallway. Astarion is already running toward you, and you slam into his arms as your legs give way.

“It’s okay,” he comforts you with a soft, deep baritone, a salve to your pain. “Everything is alright.”

Your mind sees that gruesome vision, a ghostly layer veiling the man before you. Your stomach twists and knots. Saliva floods your mouth. Pushing out of his hold, you scramble away as far as you can, and your liquid dinner is a sanguine spill spreading across the floor. Astarion holds your hair back and rubs your back as you continue to dry heave between your rapid breaths.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out between sobs.

“It is I who should be sorry,” he sits on the chaise, beckoning you into his arms. You curl up in his lap once the wave of nausea eases, desperate to be close to him. Astarion strokes your arm, “I left the connection open. I did not know you could get transported into my dreams. I will not make that mistake again.”

You look up, cupping his cheek in your palm and searching his eyes. That beautiful face is calm and carpeted with earnest affection but otherwise unfazed while he sweeps strands of your hair behind your ear, “Are you okay?”

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he kisses your palm. “I have relived many of my memories hundreds of times over. There are only a few that truly disturb me anymore. Thank you for asking, but I am fine.”

“Okay...” you breathe deeply, unsure if your mind can accept how undaunted he is. The last remnants of your weeping shudder through your body, “I’ll clean that up.”

Pushing yourself away from him is a monumental task. He is warm like sunshine and comforting like darkness. You hate him a little for being so… him.

“Will you come to bed?” Astarion looks at you longingly. “ Our bed, I mean.”

“No.”

“When are you going to stop punishing me?” He laments, following you while you grab a rag and bucket of soapy water from the rarely used kitchen.

“I’m not punishing you for anything, Astarion.”

“Bullshit.” He exclaims sourly. “Do not think me blind. You’ve been ignoring and avoiding me purposefully. I- I miss you.” Astarion’s arms fall limp at this side, “Tell me how to make it right.”

You hand Astarion a cup, “Break this.”

His brows pinch as he turns the cup over and over. He looks at you, confused, but throws it to the floor, shattering it. “What was the point of that?”

“Now, fix it.”

“I have many mind-blowing abilities,” he stares at the shattered pieces strewn across the floor, brows pinched. “Fixing broken goblets is not one of them.”

“Because not everything can be fixed."

You start wiping up your sick in the tense muteness between you and Astarion. He sits on the chaise, just watching with a grief-stricken expression that makes you want to weep.

“I can run up walls, walk upside down on ceilings, turn into a bat and mist, among other things. All this power…” A low laugh rumbles in his chest, crestfallen and mournful. “All this fucking power,” he clenches his fists, craning his head to look up at the ceiling, “and I still cannot have the one thing in the world I want most.” He sighs, shaking his head. Astarion cocks his head to look at you and smiles bleakly, “Sleep tight, my love.”

Astarion disappears into his room, and you bite your tongue to stifle your crying. After you’ve finished cleaning up and are back in your bed, you toss restlessly. How long will this harrowing purgatory go on? You take deep breaths, but it does not even begin to fill the void in your chest. You are fragmented without him in your head or against your skin. As if you’re soul has deformed, warped and splintered into a mangled husk.

This is why you’ve been avoiding Astarion. His words tear your heart open, dissect it, and then you must stitch yourself up anew. How many times can your chest be torn open and your heart ripped to pieces before the scarps are too small to glue back together?

I don’t care.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

In the hall, you jump at the sight of Astarion halfway up the long corridor. He halts, and you stare at each other in reticence. His hair is a disarrayed jumble of soft silver curls. The moonlight streaming in from the windows brilliantly sets the ivory skin of his bared chest aglow. His shoulders are slumped in a disconsolate stature you’re not used to seeing on him. The iron countenance and steely confidence he oozes are absent.

“Love,” he whispers wearily. “Lay with me tonight.” Astarion gestures toward himself, splaying his hand on his bare chest. Desperation clings to his voice, “Be with me. We can workshop the details as we go.”

“Tell me you love me,” you say, moon-eyed, lips quivering.

“I-I,” he pauses. Anticipation clenches your heart in your chest. Please, you think, please just fucking say it so we can stop playing this game. You think he just might until he grimaces. “I can’t.”

“No. Of course, you can’t,” you mewl. You wrap yourself in your comfortable cloak of numbness to preserve your sanity, “Because how could you love a lowly spawn like my good self?”

He does not answer, and that is answer enough.

You’re crouched low in a dark alley, skulking around in the shadows in the Lower City. Astarion went out to deal with some business you were not invited to, so you’ve taken the chance to survey the tavern you last saw that purple-haired bitch at - Elowyn. Your intuition tells you she has something to do with the Gur attacks, regardless of Astarion’s assurances that she’s harmless. The earth-shatteringly handsome man can be blinded by his overconfidence at times.

You’re not sure what Astarion will do if he gets home and you’re nowhere to be found, but you left him a note saying you went for a walk. He probably won’t tear the city apart looking for you. You’re not a caged bird. You can come and go as you please.

... Right?

You’re about to give up for the night when you see her. She glances out the tavern doors, askant, surveying her surroundings before pulling up her hood and slinking down the street. Elowyn takes an oddly winding route, up and down dark alleys and paths, often doubling back. She strolls confidently but takes acute notice of her surroundings. She is practiced and methodical in the way she observes. You should have eaten her when she cornered you with her singsong voice and dainty little face, spewing filth and lies. Maybe you should eat her now…

No, no. You can eat her after you figure out what she’s up to. You smile sadistically at the promise to yourself, licking your lips. You will eat her when you’ve ascertained how she means to harm your master.

Gods. Where did that thought come from?

Elowyn turns abruptly down a side street. Casting Misty Step, you appear on a roof, crouch at the edge and watch her intently. She walks up and down the pathway, looking in all directions except up, much to your delight.

Hardly anyone looks up.

She leans down and opens the entrance to the sewers, climbing down and replacing the cover. The sewers… You fucking hate the sewers. It’s the last place you want to follow her, but nothing can deter you.

This place is a maze of tunnels and run-offs. It’s an arduous task to track her with any degree of certainty. The rayless, glum passageways look similar, but you glimpse her here and there. Her course is consistent with the streets above as she makes arbitrary turns left and right, retracing her steps before continuing. It makes you question if she spotted you and is just taking you on a wild goose chase for shits and giggles, but it’s doubtful. There is purpose in Elowyn’s steps, even if you’re not quite able to understand it yet.

Elowyn steps onto the wooden platform, pulls the lever, and floats up the nauseating river of excrement and contamination. You recognize the area she is going to by smell alone. She’s heading into the lowest floors of the ruined temple under the Crimson Palace. You frown. You’ve been all through those lower, ravaged corridors.

You used to try and hide from Astarion down there, but he always found you. You shudder at the memories of playing some sick, twisted version of hide and seek, where the consequences were more dire than being tagged “it.”

What could be down there that’s of any interest to her? Does Astarion know? Is that where he set the Drow up to do her assessments? Unlikely. He would not want Araj that close to home.

There’s a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere. The chilled air starts to warm unnaturally, embers floating around. Your skin prickles as the hair on the back of your neck and arms rises. You smell the smoky stench and pollution of sulphur crawling through the air. It stings your nostrils, twisting in the back of your nose and down your throat, choking you. A liquid black maw opens in the stone before your feet, and the inky, viscid silhouette emerges from the gaping orifice, taking shape and wings stretching with a boastful flare.

You jump backward, filling yourself with the Weave, heating your palms and skin with spells dancing on your fingertips and primed on your tongue.

“Darling,” a toothy grin greets you. “Now, now, Sorceress. Put those spells of yours to rest. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Mizora.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's never a good sign when Mizora shows up. We are getting into the thick of it now :)

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts

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bettyfrommars · 9 months

Note

hi hey hello i am here to humbly request a sexy lil stevie blurb where he’s getting his succu bussed by demon babe.

go nuts. go wild. maybe steve is a good catholic boy maybe he’s not i dunno the evil power is in your hands.

goodBoy!Steve x demon!fem!Reader

18+ONLY - MDNI - smut, Steve falls in love, unprotected p in v, hint of dubcon but only for a moment, demon sex, oral for all, hints to religious trauma, heaven and hell, mention of demons, curses, star-crossed lovers. wc: 2.9k

Good Boy

Steve Harrington was on his knees that night, praying at the foot of the bed, waiting for the all too familiar rustling sound to come from inside the closet. He prayed louder, faster, but he knew you were coming for him, just like you had every night since he found The Book and accidentally summoned you.

He’d tried to throw the book out the window, he’d tried to burn the book, but every night it returned to his bedside table, right where his bible used to be. His family farm had fallen on hard times; the dirt was dry, and the crops were dying, and an old woman in town sold him a book with a spell inside that would bring life back to the land. Steve had always been a very good boy; he worshiped at church, and he worked from sunup to sundown on the farm. He had sexual relations with women before, of course. Once right out of high school, and a couple times with his first girlfriend, Dora, but she always told him he was too big, and it hurt. Steve didn’t want to hurt anyone, and so he’d been saving himself for marriage ever since.

That is, until, that first night the demon came to claim him.

It’d been 7 unholy days full of sins unimaginable since the night he drew the symbol on the floor, dripped blood from his pricked finger, and recited the spell from the book. 7 days since the rains came and the diseased crops glowed ripe and plentiful like an overnight miracle. The book itself was tanned leather, made from some type of skin, embossed with three symbols on the spine but no other distinguishing markings. At first, he cursed the day he was stopped by that old woman in the street, peddling her wares in a pushcart.

Her wrinkled hand snaked out from under her black shawl to take his wrist with a touch that was hot with fever. “You’ll never know if you don’t try it,” she rasped, hunched over, her face in shadow. “Many people have been cured by my spells; many roses have bloomed in my wake. A good boy like you deserves to be rewarded.”

He didn’t even remember buying the book, but suddenly it was clutched under his arm, wrapped in newspaper, and he was on the other side of the street. He looked around, searching for the old woman, but it was as if she’d never existed. He adjusted his glasses, lip curled in confusion, running a hand through his unruly hair. When he unwrapped the paper to see what he had, he realized the pages in the book were, indeed, not the word of God, and so he threw it away in the nearest garbage can.

That was the first time it ended up back on his nightstand. He tossed it out the window and into the pond, only to have it materialize minutes later. He recited the lord's prayer and begged for God to remove the book, but it was no use.

That night, he lay in bed shirtless, one hand behind his head, kept wide awake by the compulsion to perform the spell in the book the old woman had told him about. In a half hour, the spell was done, and he was wiping the chalk and blood off the wood floor, shaking his head, sucking back tears at the idea of a lifetime in purgatory.

But, the next day, he realized the spell had worked, and maybe the woman was right: good boys deserve to be rewarded, and Steve was a very good boy.

That night, after an afternoon of celebration at the farm for the miracle that had clearly been a gift from God himself, Steve crawled into bed with a smile on his face. Under the covers, he jerked himself off, riddled with shame as he did so, moaning a bit to himself, worrying his parents would hear him downstairs. Blind in the dark without his glasses, he reached for the box of tissues with his cum-covered hand, and touched The Book instead, wiping his seed across the symbols on the spine.

That was the first time he heard the noises coming from the closet: a swoosh, and then a stomp, and then the rattling of the doorknob as something worked it open from the inside.

When Steve snapped the light on, there you were, standing at the end of the bed. Looming formidable, smooth red skin tight against your muscles, two horns curled on either side of your head like that of a ram, eyes wide and glossy black. You wore a harness on your neck, breasts bare and firm, nipples hard. From the waist down, there appeared to be dark fur, as if you had the hips and legs of a goat, complete with the glimpse of a hoof just before it morphed into a human foot, and a human leg.

Steve scrambled back against the headboard, too afraid to even scream, struggling to get his glasses on.

“Begone demon!” His voice quivered. But why did he like what he saw so much? You sauntered around the corner of the bed to get closer, long, pointed tongue flicking out to touch your cheek. There was a purring, or a clicking noise happening in the back of your throat

His cock was rock hard, the tip sticky against the inside of the blanket.

“Do you want me to help with this?” You asked, in the same tone a snake might speak with, finishing with long S’s.

Steve gasped when you pulled back the cover to reveal his generous length curved tight up his stomach above his white boxers. You sat down on the bed near his leg, the springs squeaking, and his cock twitched, aching as he watched every flick of your tongue. With a snap of your fingers, the bedside lamp went out, so now the moon through the thin curtains was the only witness to the weight of Steve’s desire.

Your teeth were sharp, but your lips were soft, and it was all Steve could do not to buck his hips in his eagerness for you to take him. This had to be a dream, and in dreams, you can’t be held accountable for the things you take part in. Maybe he’d even forget it by the time he woke up. He kicked the blanket all the way down with his socked feet, and you ran your pointed nails along his hairy shin, all the way up to the hem of his shorts, making him shiver. You scratched at his balls gently with the tips of your nails through his boxers, tapping tapping, causing more pre-cum to dribble from his tip.

“Are you…” Steve stammered. Sweat shining on the skin under his chest hair. “...what do you want from me?”

“I want to taste you,” you told him, eyeing the tip of his cock hungrily. Knowing full well you could take him even if he said no, Steve nodded, bracing his hands on either side of him.

You bent over but kept your black eyes on him, dropping your long, pink tongue down to taste the sweet skin of his shaft and the fresh juice from his hole, concentrating on the ridge under his flesh tip. You wrapped your lips around the head, moaning as you did so, softly grazing the skin with your teeth. Steve threw his head back, his balls aching to do their job again. Your mouth was so wet, your tongue like velvet. He really did not want to like this, but dreams were funny that way.

"I need more,” you swallowed, rubbing your lips together. “You're such a good boy, so patient.”

“I- I- I don’t want to hurt you,” Steve stuttered as you pulled his boxers down and made your way onto the bed to straddle him. He was concerned with you taking the generous nature of his girth.

The sentiment made you close your eyes, roll your head back and growl, imagining the seed of such a good boy feeding the darkness inside of you. You took his hand, bringing his fingers to the slick slit between your legs.

“Holy moly,” Steve gasped. “Is that…because of me?” His eyes were so innocent when they found your dark orbs, it made you line his cock up with your hole and sink down, pinching the tip with your tight inner muscles, hovering there.

“Remember what I told you?” You waited to hear him whimper with need before you sank all the way down. “Good boys deserve rewards.”

The speed and strength with which you rode him had his eyes rolling back so that only the whites were visible, neck muscles straining when he turned his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Look at me,” you told him, demanding. You took one of his hands. “Circle your thumb right here,” you brought it to your clit. “Rub it fast, just like that, so I can cum too.”

“Wait, women can cum? Like men do?” Steve blanched in between grunts of pleasure, raising his hips in jerky movements to meet the way you pounded down on his cock. “I don’t think I’ve ever been inside anyone this deep before.” He frowned in concentration, rubbing your clit like he was told, experiencing waves of pleasure he never thought were possible.

“You fill me up so good,” you assured him, bottoming out and then rocking back and forth. Every time you rose, you milked him with your tight walls.

Steve barely had time to bark a warning that he was cumming before the whip cracked inside of him and he was pumping all he had inside of you.

“Oh good boy, good boy,” you repeated, thighs making a smacking sound as you helped him ride his high. “All of it, give it all to me.”

You waited until he was done, head back breathless on the pillow, before you slipped him out of you and got on your belly to lick him clean. Your tongue worked under his balls, tickling at his ass, thinking you’d like to stick more in there one day, enjoying his moans as he discovered sensations he liked but had never explored before.

Steve wasn’t sure what you were doing when you moved up to straddle his head, positioning your dripping pussy above his face. But, then you lowered yourself to his mouth and he understood, throwing his tongue around in your folds as best he could while cum dripped out of your hole and down his chin.

You wanted to fuck that sweet mouth until the end of time. Grabbing the headboard, you cursed in your ancient language, cunt rippling against his full lips as you came. You let out a growl that was animalistic, and Steve realized that the sound triggered a lust deep inside and turned him on, just like everything else about you.

The day after that, Steve had a spring in his step. The best sex of his life had been with a demon in his dream, but still—he felt as satisfied as if it had happened in real life. His parents did say they heard him up late walking around his room, and swore they heard a coyote whining right outside their window, but he brushed it off after he apologized profusely for waking them.

But, that very next night, he was forced to come to the cold, hard conclusion that, not only were you real, but he was starting to have feelings for you.

Fully dressed, Steve took his glasses off and threw water on his face in the bathroom sink, trying to wake himself up when you appeared out of the closet the next night. “No way, no how, no sir,” he shook his head. “There’s no way this is happening.”

He faced you and jabbed his finger at the book, water dripping from his hair and nose. “God will smite me if I continue to fornicate with you, and this book is to blame.”

You were not forced to fuck Steve because of a curse. That first night, yes, he had inadvertently summoned you. But, after that, it was your own free will that had you polishing your horns and sharpening your claws, wanting to look good for him. Steve had free will too, and he could’ve told you at any moment that he didn’t want you there, but he never did.

On that second night, the two of you kissed for the first time, and then you sucked him off, swallowing him deep inside, making his legs shake and his knees buckle. Every night was a new sexual experiment, a new avenue of lust to pave Steve’s way to hell.

On the fifth night, you were next to him in bed, silicone strap-on harnessed in place, still slick with lube, and he took your strong, red hand in his. “You know what? If you’re in hell, I don’t think it would be so bad.”

You turned your head on the pillow. “There’s something I should tell you.”

The sound of your voice made Steve afraid. He turned on his side to face you, tucking his hands under his head like a pillow. “I’m listening.”

You kept your gaze to the shadows of the ceiling. “I’m only here for seven days,” you swallowed hard. “And then I have to go back.”

“Back? Back where? In the closet?” Steve pressed.

‘Back…where I’m from,” you said softly.

“Wait, back to hell?”

You gave a crooked grin. “If that’s what you want to call it. But I am not of your world, clearly,” you used your hand to gesture to your body and your horns.

“I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he offered, sincerely.

You blinked a few times, almost shy under his earnest gaze. “There’s a portal in the closet and it’s going to close on the seventh night,” only as you said the words did they start to sink in for you. “We’ll never see each other again.”

The two of you sat in silence for most of the rest of that visit, trying to come to terms with the weight of your realities.

On the seventh and final night, there were tears from both parties. You let him see you that night, in your actual half human, half beast form, and he did not turn away from you. Steve filled you up while on top of you, kissing you, missionary style. It was the most vanilla of all of the positions, but it was quickly becoming your favorite as you wrapped your furry legs around him. You drifted in and out of sleep in each other’s arms; you could only stay till midnight and Steve wanted you there until the last second. You’d had plenty of lovers in your day, back in your world, but none of them had been as tender as Steve. You worried that you cared about him enough to make the separation very painful.

“What will happen if you don’t go in?” Steve asked, holding your hand outside the closet.

“I’ll probably cease to exist,” you shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”

Fair enough, Steve didn’t want to take any chances. If he could summon you once, he could summon you again, and he’d work every spell in the book until he figured it out. When the time came, there was one last tearful look and hand hold before the door shut, but just as it closed flush with the wall, Steve flung it open again, needing one more kiss from you.

But, you were already gone.

You were not the only thing missing. To Steve’s horror, he realized he was no longer in possession of The Book. There was an empty space on the nightstand, and it was not under the bed or in any of his drawers.

The next morning, he tore his room apart, rummaging through the tiny closet, groaning in frustration, flipping shoe boxes over his head and ripping coats off of hangers.

“What’s going on up there, Stevie? We’ll be late for church.” His mother’s voice called from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m not going!” Steve barked, but then he collected himself. “My apologies mother. I’ll be right down.”

The sermon by Pastor Wilson was particularly long and torturous that day for Steve in his button down shirt and tie. He desperately wanted nothing more than to go back to his closet and find a way to get back to you. Pastor Wilson asked the congregation to stand for a hymn and that was when Steve caught sight of a familiar sight out of the corner of his eye: it was the hunched over figure of the old woman he’d bought the book from. She was standing outside the church window, looking in, her black scarf over her head, bracing against the wind.

But, she was moving now, turning and walking away.

Steve followed, excusing himself, he pushed through bodies as fast as he could without knocking people over while the congregation sang about begging for holy protection from satan.

Steve broke through the church door and out into the daylight just in time to see the older woman disappear around a street corner, shuffling her cart with her. Steve ripped his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt, preparing to run the distance to catch up with her.

“Leaving now?” An elderly man shouted after Steve from inside the church. “You’ll go to hell for that, son.”

“God, I hope so,” Steve barked over his shoulder, arms pumping as he lit out across the street, running toward the devil with all his might.

#Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington smut #Steve Harrington oneshot #stranger things smut #oneshot #demon #monsterfucking #monsterfucker #monster fuqqer #monster smut #joe keery #steveharringtonsm #steve smut #sh

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caramel-maveeato · 5 months

Text

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇʟʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢᴇꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ♡˚₊。。。

❧❤ SYNOPSIS: sacrifice is inevitable if victory was yearned for… ♡ Pairings/Love interest: So Mun x Fem!reader ♡ Genre: sight fluff, angst, hurt/slight to no comfort ♡ TW: blood, crying, wounds, gore, cursing, death, self-harm, spoilers for ss2 ep12. ♡ word count: 2.1k

Note: All characters originated from “The Uncanny Counter/Amazing Rumor” except for Y/n.

English is not my first language!!! Sorry in advance if I make any grammar and vocabulary mistakes.

A gentle glimpse of sunset snuck through the window, bathing in his entrancing eyes like a pond of honey: “‘Til death do us part. I mean it.”

“Damnnn, you’re so cheesy today!” You snorted, nudging your shoulder against your boyfriend's, who was quick to retaliate with a playful flick on your forehead.

“Oh shush. But I’m serious. I won’t die, and you won’t die, and everyone on our team won’t die. That’s it, I’ll make sure we all survive no matter what.”

Despite his lighthearted tone, you could tell So Mun was beyond sincere about keeping his promise, and so were you. No matter how deadly it is waiting on the future path, everyone will make it out alive.

“Um-hm, am I that dear to you?”

He scoffed, but there was no sign of mockery or ridicule, only playfulness emerged: “Yes, you are. First time knowing?”

“Please, I’m almost sick of how many times you said you unequivocally adored me, like everyday morning alarms, y’know?” You giggled, wiggling your index finger out in front of his face and quickly withdrawing it when he faked biting you: “But I still want to hear you verify it one more time, is that too much of a request?”

“After you had the audacity to say you’re getting sick of it, I’m sorry to announce your request has been declined.”

“Noooo.”

“Yeeees.”

“I take back what I said, I could never get sick of how many times you express your cheesy little lovey-dovey words for me. Like everyday morning alarms, but that means I can’t wake up and function normally without them.”

“Switched up smoother than I expected.” His effort at holding back a laugh evaporated: “That’s it? You just gotta be all sweet again after the “damage” you’ve caused? Your attitude is getting out of hand.”

You snickered, swiftly stealing a peck on his cheek to demonstrate an “apology” you knew he’d happily accept: “Verify it one more time and I’ll shut my attitude up.”

“I’ll do what you asked, but don’t shut it up.” A honeyed kiss pressed down on the top of your head. His arms closed around your waist a little tighter, enfolding the intimacy of your afternoon cuddle session to its fullest: “When hell freezes over, that’s when I’ll let go of you, satisfied now?”

You grinned, not acknowledging a dusting of pink already saturated across your cheeks. No matter what your level of lactose tolerance was, his “cheese” was always perfect for you in terms of ingestion: “Satisfied.”

The group portrait tranquilly sat on your desk, smiling at you two through its frame with the same encouragement. You and So Mun were the only ones in the room, yet the sense of security it conveyed still made you feel complete.

“Everyone in this picture will make it until the end.”

“I already did my part, what about you? Still determined to be stubborn and not say it back?”

Confronted by a tilt of his head, which was one of his ridiculously adorable tactics to persuade you. You eventually let out a frisky sigh and laid your head on his shoulder, eyes closed under the serenity of being with your beloved other half:

“Alright, ‘til death do us part. I mean it too.”

‘Til death do us…

‘Til death…

‘Til…

Too many things happened in just a short span of time, but all enervation departed as the unrelenting battles now came to an end. Knowing he had brought such miracles summoning Hwang Pilgwang, the overwhelming pressure intruding on his heart finally rested.

For the first time in months, So Mun could finally escape the hushed corridors of his own mind.

Finally.

As much as his teammates adored him, they weren’t dramatic people. Yes, it was a near-death experience for all, but the entire team knew they had succeeded, so there was absolutely no reason for them to give him such pained looks. His random thought contorted into an affirmation that they weren’t crying because he remained passed out longer than supposed.

The revolting metallic smell in the room sickened him to the core, yet it stood no chance against how atrociously nauseous So Mun felt being greeted by teary faces as the first thing after he woke up.

For years he was never this afraid of his own voice, afraid of asking a question that might assemble answers he didn’t want to hear: “What’s wrong…?”

Only suppressed sniffles responded to him.

The ambiguity only added more confusion to his already fuzzy sight. As much as he tried to deny it, something within him had already enclasped the possible truth he’d choose death over knowing.

Why was everyone crying? And why were you lying there on Hana’s lap, eyes closed, unmoved?

“Noona, she, Y/n…” Fright clogged up inside his throat, making words stumble. The more he tried to stay calm, the more his composure shattered like a sand castle under ruthless waves: “What’s… what’s wrong with Y/n, why is she…?”

He could feel Jeokbong’s hand supporting his back as he lunged over to your side. The sudden outbreak of panic was dizzying, yet he paid no attention to it.

Reddened eyes of his teammates all ran away from him, obscuring themselves from a cry threatening to burst. So Mun inhaled shallowly, his own lungs betraying him with how torturously aching it was with each breath taken upon seeing your body now completely motionless.

The welcoming warmth of your fingers was replaced with a vague, yet disturbing coldness, benumbing his skin when he grabbed your hand. The shock he felt appeared no different from receiving a thousand strikes at once, inside his ear rang a quiet shriek of nothingness: “Ms. Chu, please tell me…”

At her name being mentioned, all the anguish she bit back for long unleashed in a choked snivel—a realization to So Mun that this wasn’t just some cruel, twisted nightmare he thought he was having.

Time seemed suspended, sealed within the shadow of horror.

This is not a dream.

“No, there must be…” He stammered, squeezing your hand as an expectation that you’d return the gesture like you’ve always done: “Ms. Chu, there must be a way to save her. You can heal her, right? Y/n is strong, with your help, she’ll wake up in no time.”

His voice died down when the woman closed her eyes, letting hopeless tears pour down her bruised face. He looked at Motak, then Jangmul, then Hana, then Jeokbong, one by one, desperately searching for a gleam of the dullest light he could at least clutch onto.

Nothing worked. What happened had already happened.

He took a closer look at your face, only to be pierced by a blade of emptiness. He had always loved to admire your sleeping face—so relaxing, so gentle, so peaceful. But not like this. No matter how loudly he called your name or how hard he shook your shoulders, you still lay there like a soulless doll, so close to him yet horrendously out of reach: “Y/n, wake up…. We won, we finally won…”

Calloused fingers stroked along your cheeks, looking for the slightest hint of miraculous movement. He was known to be good at performing miracles, but at the moment, even his miracles were impotent to save you.

So Mun had never felt so fucking useless.

“No, she will be okay…” The facade of incredulity crumbled and he found himself seizing you into his arms, clinging onto the thin thread of fictional faith despite already noticing your body lacked the familiar warmth he fell in love with: “Y/n will be okay. She—she promised me she’ll be fine, she’s just taking a nap.”

Hands patting on his back like a call to the truth and cries eventually broke out, yet So Mun was too senseless to care about any of them. His mind was too busy hunting for your heartbeat, but all he received was the echo of silence.

He pressed his hand on the side of your neck, eyes sore and fingers trembling lamentably at the absence of life. But the growling heartbeat of his own gave him hope—he could feel its rhythm through his digits. That could be your pulse, right, that must be your pulse, he can feel it.

“She will be okay, we’re okay. I promised all of us would—”

The mutters of your name sank in the weight of disbelief, of false reassurance. His own tears wracked his body, dropping and dampening a piece of your soiled tracksuit like rain that slowly blasted into thunderstorms.

He stared blankly into the lifelessness you were holding, dirt stains and blood-dried cuts of yours dyed his fingers with monstrous pain. Suddenly, his own existence felt alien, as if he were an outsider peeking into a world he didn’t belong in.

So much for “everyone will make it until the end,” now what?

He is a liar.

He is a fucking liar.

For one of the rarest times in his life, he regretted trying. So Mun knew exactly what it felt like to regret. Each time, there was an explosive outrage at the injustice that had befallen him. But this one was the most destructive.

Maybe Ma Juseok was right—what was the point in risking his life to save others? He tried so hard and worked so hard just for fate to repay all of these fucking efforts by destroying everything he had.

A lie. Maybe it really was a lie.

Maybe this goddamn self of his was a lie.

His distorted reflection spun and spun and spun like an annoying bug that kept buzzing despite numerous attempts to kill it. He had no idea where he was or how much time had passed, but it felt like an eternity knowing you hadn’t reached Yung. Just where are you? You didn’t vanish from the final battle’s impact, did you?

So Mun needed to see you again, or he’d go fucking crazy.

The palpable heaviness in the air suffocated him. So Mun never hated his own reflection before, not until right now.

Colors deformed into the entrance of an abyss he wished to just jump into—black of darkness, white of Yung, muted grey of guilt.

And red, too.

“So Mun! That’s enough!!”

Frightened yellings and sounds of falling glasses slashed on his ears. Yet So Mun couldn’t quite hear or feel anything, not even the hideous pain he just put himself through.

Footsteps congested the bathroom he was in, tears that once dried up erupted again. Hana grasped his wrist tightly, almost fearfully, and god, the warmth exuded nearly drove him mad with how much he missed yours.

“Stop hurting yourself, you know it doesn’t change anything! She’s gone!” The crack in Hana’s voice flooded his eyes. They couldn’t even pronounce your name around him, afraid of how much it might trigger him.

Jeokbong’s cries in the distance and Ms. Chu’s pleas were helpless to distract the profound grief, more like a bargain for fate to rewrite itself: “Let it out, but please, you know it also hurts me to see you like this!”

The woman emanated a green radiance to envelope his hand, trying to console the blood-soaked skin he created himself from a brutal contact made against the mirror, tiny fragments of sharpness punctured on each of his knuckles. Shards warped together with flesh in a grotesque mess, crimson swathed the once-tidied floor and the paleness of his skin. It hurt his eyes. It hurt everyone's eyes.

You used to say he looked good in red. Red tracksuits, red hoodies, red blazers. But you hated it when he was covered in the redness of blood. Does this mean he just failed you again?

“I’m sorry…”

Was he saying this to his teammates or to you? He had no fucking clue. But the only thing he could recognize was how much effort it took to breathe, he didn’t feel like himself inside his own skin anymore when everything around him seemed fulminated.

Strong arms whooshed him into an embrace, cramming So Mun’s hot tears and muffled sobs into a reliable shoulder. No words were spoken, but Motak’s bellowing heartbeat was already a silent bawl.

Losing a loved one was like having life’s chapters torn out, leaving an unfinished tale with ragged ends that never fully fit in tandem. It can recover, and he can heal. Just not at the moment.

Shattered pieces of blood-drenched mirror reflected a history that repeated itself. Again, again, and again.

Winter was just gone by, hell didn’t freeze over. But the reality So Mun cherished still collapsed on that day.

[Tag List]✿⌦ @slytherinshua (feel free to notify me if you want to be on the tag list)

Thanksgiving is near so here’s angst I guess 🫶🏻 FLUFF AFTER THIS I PROMISE

#the uncanny counter x reader #the uncanny counter #unncanny counter #so mun x reader #so mun #do hana #chu mae ok #ga mo tak #na jeok bong #choi jang mul #kdrama x reader #kdrama #pookie please come home 🏠

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

Text

DEVIL BIRDS (VII)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VIII ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader.

WORDCOUNT: 5.3k

WARNINGS: Various crimes & illegal activity, paranoia, angst, mentions of death, trauma, inner turmoil, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You supposed that grabbing a hat would have saved you from having to worry about being seen, but you’d been too caught up in trying to sneak out as quickly as possible. Jacket flapping, your legs move fast over the open field of your estate, sprinting through the garden beds and past the thick copse with its willow trees and pond. The pathways were overgrown and you nearly trip over upturned pieces of rock.

But you can’t stop giggling.

Your face pulls in a fast smile, eyes alight with eagerness. You feel like you have a purpose for the first time in years.

“Alright,” you whisper under your breath as you chart your course to the town. Maybe you could even catch Hector closing up and snag a coffee off of him. “Museum. Dad’s old office.”

At your steady pace, you enter the beginnings of the businesses as the streetlights slip over you like water, bathing you in the glow as your breath puffs out. The air was cold, and you keep your jacket tight to your form as your shoes travel forward, slowing.

In your pocket, you twiddle your coin and wonder if you should have snooped in Gaz’s things for your penknife, lips thinning at the idea.

You were stubborn, but not stupid; you knew this wasn’t a good idea.

But…it’s too late for that now.

Shadows grew long as your eyes darted to open alleyways to the dull wind, glee dimming the longer you walk alone. After a moment you peek behind your form and nearly forget that Kyle wasn’t there with a flinch in your step.

Have you really…grown used to having him follow you around?

Why did it feel so threatening when he wasn’t there?

Your body tenses as a bottle across the street falls from the sidewalk to the asphalt with a clattering ping, rolling in the way that glass does as you watch. Clearing your throat, you continue on as your heart spreads blood throughout your veins.

“Keep it together, you’re fine,” you hiss to yourself, not liking this new way of thinking. Sure you were considered a recluse—didn’t enjoy being out more than you had to in loud places—but…hell. You can’t start relying on Gaz for comfort.

But he saved you. Your mind slashes to the shooting in the park and you sigh as you get closer to Hec’s shop.

Kyle had been kind to you, he gave pieces of himself like leaves from a tree to try and make you soften to him. The watch and the story, the stitches that still live in your hand. Soft words. Your gut bunches in your abdomen.

You weren’t one to push past hurts—you lived with them, carried them like a parcel of goods at a picnic. The gun, the kidnapping, the…darkness of it all. If the Sergeant was capable of all of that, well, you weren’t sure it was in your best interests to allow him to carve a piece of your soul out with his bright smiles and amused smirks.

Soon the rest of the One-Four-One would be done with their missions overseas hunting down Yaromir Osipov and Mala Kham and it would all be over. You could go back to living in your mansion, alone, with the lack of lights and the sub-par meals. The ghosts. The covered furniture and the dead memories. You press the coin deeply into your palm.

…Why didn’t you like that thought?

Hector’s place came up as you stew in your confusion, seeing the low lights spilling out over the empty streets. You hum before pushing open the door, hearing the call from the back kitchen.

“One minute!” That Jersey accent is the same as it always is. Your body takes you to the counter, shuffling out your wallet and tossing bills to the wood before sneaking a ten into the tip jar. Everything for a moment slips away until only coffee and baked goods remain. “Christ, you folks don’t sleep, do ya?”

Hector comes out from the back, pausing before locking onto your blank face.

“Holy shit!”’ He laughs brightly. “Hey there, Kid! It’s been a bit, how’s it all going? I’ll admit I got a little worried when you stopped showing up.”

“School’s been tough,” you lie easily, shifting a smile to your lips. The man gets going on your drink immediately as you explain. “Thought I’d go on a walk and stop by. I’m heading into the city.”

Hector stills momentarily, fingers twitching as he pours your drink into a cup. His throat hums out slowly, “The city? Ain’t it too late for all of that? What’re you going there for?”

“Just,” you pick up your addiction and let the warmth seep into you. What was the harm in telling him, after all? Hector was the closest thing to a friend you could have right now. “Wanna head by the museum. Feeling sentimental, I guess.”

You almost hated how easy it was to lie to everyone.

“Ah,” the man nods and you stare at his neck before blinking at the sound of the phone ringing. “Shit,” Hector darts, and you had seen his heart dashing in his breast. “That’s me, Kid. Gotta take this.”

He slips a hand into his pocket and disappears back from where he came from.

“See you,” but Hector’s already gone and you sigh out, “...later.”

You turn on your heels and leave, something akin to confusion in your chest. Strange, not even a goodbye. If Hector was one thing, it was usually casual.

“Whatever.”

The train ride is silent as you sit in the back, stiff in your seat and not enjoying the eerie silence at all; sipping on your drink. Every time you look across to the emptiness you’re stuck with a great bout of unease but every time tell yourself that this was the only way to get answers. Your father’s office had to have answers, even as small as a single word.

There just…needed to be something. There had to be.

When you step off into the station and lightly jog away, you pep yourself up with this thought as you drop your empty cup into the trash.

If you find information about your dad and his dealings, maybe Kyle won’t go absolutely ballistic if he finds out you left. You almost cringe at the thought of his tight jaw and clipped words; his silent broodiness wasn’t in your control. That was what terrified you.

Like a cat you slinked along the streets, recalling the route you took so often when you were younger—the bookstore across the road, the Irish bar you’d have to pass as you slide left. Skyscrapers and planted trees, fast cars with their lights on. It was all familiar, and in that fact, you took the smallest comfort.

Despite it all, there were still remnants of a time long passed. There were still pieces, and the museum was the biggest piece of them all.

Your eyes dig into the dark and blackened building with its white pillars; two sets of stairs leading up and up. It’s wider than it is tall and set apart from all other buildings or stores like a sentinel of history. The parking lot is bare besides a handful of cars far out into the open area of plotted greenery, and your vision seeps like water from one place to another. Your father’s old workplace is large and imposing—a giant of cream stones.

After a minute or two of hesitation, you take the long walk around the museum to the back across its nine acres, climbing up a chain-link fence.

Now was really when the anxiety snuck in.

Fingers shaking, you know there are exactly five night guards on duty; had even met a few before the accident. The problem was getting in with the front door locked and sneaking into the employee-only section. Obviously, this amounted to breaking and entering except for the simple fact that…

“Shit,” you let the rare curse growl out of you, staring at the steady blinking light inside of one of the many back windows.

Cameras.

When had they added those in this section? Your mind jumps from one thought to the next, straining.

“Okay, okay,” you calm yourself and rub your neck. “Think.” Blinking, your gaze slows itself on the maintenance ladder leading to the roof, eyes slowly widening. Perhaps with all of these horrendous ideas you’re cooking up like five-star meals, you might end up killing yourself before anyone else can. “Save everyone else the trouble, at least,” you grumble under your breath.

Your foot hits the first rung when you slowly stride over and you take a breath, hands sweaty as they quiver before you grab the metal. At the side, the bright sign burns into your retinas like looking directly into the sun. It was embarrassing, really.

“NO TRESPASSING: VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.” Red and white mock you in their color scheme.

“Kyle is going to lock me in the storage closet,” your mouth mutters, but you only shake your head and push upward with the thought process of everything you’d done so far wasn’t worth giving up on.

Surprisingly, you had less reservations about all of this illegal activity than you rightly should have—a sort of distance from it. As if everything was being seen through the lens of a photographer spreading linen over his equipment before snapping that picture. Already in your head, you were counting the charges that could be levied against you with a blank face.

Trespassing.

Your hands and feet take you higher, the steady creak of your weight on the old metal.

Breaking and entering.

Breath puffing out, you get to the top after a tall vertical climb, pulling yourself over the edge and slapping to the roof of the left side of the museum. Flat concrete holds the bodies of roof ventilation turbines, AC units, and electrical equipment all shades of gray and sun-bleached yellow. Flopping on your belly, you scoot forward until you’re able to shove with your arms up from the roof.

“...Burglary,” you huff out, frowning. But was it really stealing if it belonged to your dad?

Kyle’s crossed arms and his tight lips slash through your head like the pissed-off angel on your shoulder.

“Shut up,” you growl out to his image, stalking forward to figure out your next plan of action. “If I wanted your opinion I would have asked.”

After a minute or two of snooping, your only option came in the form of a ventilation shaft jutting out of the museum; a monster of silver metal and roaming sections like a large snake. You blink at it and play with the coin in your pocket, tapping a foot.

The problem was the grate.

Twiddling your fingers in your pockets, you bite at your lip and furrow your brows, knowing how much time you’d already lost. At most, you could stay here maybe twenty minutes before you had to rush back to the mansion.

Is that enough time? After all, you didn’t even know what you were looking for.

Taking out your coin, you roll it over your knuckles while glaring at the grate—eyes burning into the small ‘+’ of the Combination Head screws set into the four, shining, corners. Above, the moon was letting your shadow lay long over the roof.

Halting your fiddling, you get the spark of an idea while you catch your coin, the things blue and bronze color subdued in the darkness. Looking down at it in your bandaged palm—dried blood stuck in the old gauze—you run a thumb over the engravings and slowly look back to the screws.

“Maybe,” your voice whispers out. Flipping the metal object, you walk and slot the side of your precious coin into the head of the top right screw, jimmying it in with a growing smirk as it sits in a straight line.

Jiggling it, the small fastening of the grate squeaks before its body gets slowly twisted to the side by your tight-knuckled grip, skin thin as it struggles to turn. A small noise of victory leaves you when the rust under the bond flakes off, the screw now quickly moving outward for you.

You didn’t want to blow your own horn quite yet, but this was going smoother than you could have hoped for.

When all remaining screws were on the roof and your coin was back in your pocket, you were staring at the gaping wound that is the entrance to the ventilation shaft. For the first time in the night, you wondered about the consequences of acting like this. Your father had preached honestly when he was alive—telling you that the best thing a person could be was true.

The phone in your pocket was like a brick as your heart stampeded.

“C’mon.” He speaks blankly, whatever sly teasing and amusement from earlier today completely gone. “Exfil point is a block away—we need to move.”

You can’t do much more than follow, your head screaming at you.

“B-but what about…” Wanting to ask about the people who are back in the park, not quite understanding the horror yet.

Sensing this, Kyle knows it’s better to respond briefly.

“They’re dead.” You flinch at the truth, hearing the bitter reality settle in coupled with the man’s bluntness.

Dead. Row, the others, your father. “But if I find the answers,” you try to steady yourself, leaning closer to the inky duct. “Maybe all of this can go away. No one else has to die. I have to…” You push forward, “I have to do this.”

Gaz’s words had touched you in the kitchen. His willingness to speak to you. No one else ever bothered. He’d be more than angry—furious with this, but how could you explain that this was so much more to you than a price on your head? You felt he already knew, truthfully, but you’d never been good at listening much less looking into his eyes to see if he’s being genuine.

There was a piece of you that had wanted to glance up at him while you were against the island, just a swift peek. You’d shut it down just as quickly as it had come, but, still.

The thought had been there.

Knees hitting the metal, you crawl far into the vent, enclosed on all sides except forward and backward. Not once did you think about how you’d get back out as you start taking the twists and turns of the chilled metal square, on a mission in your own right. Taking shallow breaths, you pull and slide your shoulders through, getting to the first dip and slipping down as your hands squeak.

“Woah,” you hissed to nothing, your voice bouncing off and echoing back to your ears. “Christ.”

Your form clanks along, trying to be as quiet as a mouse but only being successful if that mouse was being rapidly slammed against a wall. Along the way, you would have to make decisions about which way to go—right or left—and you would have to imagine yourself walking around the museum as if you were inside it.

Paleontology down there, your head is bent to the left and you huff and feel sweat dribble down your forehead. I need to be near Botany.

You take the right with a bit of worry set into your veins. What if you got lost in here? Would they find your body years later? You shiver and grimace.

“Nothing will go wrong—!” Your voice cuts out as you plummet down a decline, face ricocheting off the metal with enough force to rattle your brain. You groan long and low in your throat as blood fills your nose. “...One thing can go wrong…” Your sleeve presses into your nostrils as you shuffle on slower and steadier.

You were never making it back to your estate on time.

It’s fifteen minutes of bumbling and cursing, to your mother’s horror, before you turn to a thick grate at a dead end. Across your position, you’re able to make out a plaque on the far wall by straining your eyes through the darkness; you lock on the white letters of the self-designated ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ area.

Your bloody lower face peels back in a breathless smile as you pant.

Hands pressing into the ventilation grate, you prod with all of your strength and bite into your lip as you do; lungs tight with exertion. Just as you start to feel a small movement in the metal, whistling hits your ears.

Immediately stopping, you hold your breath and lock your eyes on the slowly walking form of one of the security guards. A great frozen feeling overcomes your bones—nearly the same that had hit you when you’d been behind that garbage can with Gaz in the park. You stare wide-eyed and open-mouthed, heart in your ears.

The guard was clothed in white and black, keys at his belt jangling and a flashlight in his hands as he spreads a tune. Large and bald, he paused across the way and turned his head in your direction. You tense and stifle a sharp inhale, ducking just the slightest bit back.

But he doesn’t bother looking into the vent while he takes out a tissue from his pocket and proceeds to blow his nose as you watch, flinching at every loud snort.

“Gah,” the guard rubs at his nose, “...gettin’ too old for this. Should be back at home already. Need to have Jerry give me that raise…”

Tossing the used tissue into an adjacent trash can, the man moves on with a bend to his spine, showing his fatigue as his free hand rubs at the back of his neck.

You put your fingers over your mouth, blinking incredulously as he turns a corner out of sight—whistles tune getting smaller and smaller.

“I’m going to have a heart attack,” you grunt, waiting a minute more before taking a deep breath and placing your shaking grip back into the grate. “Kyle, you should have tried to make me stay home harder.”

Your digging words hit no one, and you gasp as the vent cover pops off with a slide of metal. You snatch a hand to grab it, panicked, but the thing fully slips from your fingers as your heart gets stuck in your throat.

The sound when it hits the bench right under and then finally slams to the floor is enough to make you get bile in the back of your throat.

It echoes over the museum like you had just chucked a glass bottle at a man’s head in the middle of High Mass—louder than a thunderclap. The silence that follows after is just as violent.

It’s like you count the seconds as your hands extend from the dark square, face lacking blood and chin loose.

Did that…what just…

When the quick, hard, footsteps start running back in your direction, you’re scrambling out of the vent faster than you can think about your limbs moving. Feet slipping and hands latching onto the edge of the opening with a thinning of your pupils as you shove yourself out.

You land on the bench and clatter to the ground just like the vent but quickly recover against the roving pain on account of pure adrenaline.

“Shit, shit, fuck!” Your mouth snarls, vulgar curses slipping out as you snatch the grate into your arms and push through the Authorized Personnel door with a loud shoulder shove. Darting to the side of the opened door, you slip behind it into the corner; mind running a mile-a-minute. Think!

Running would only make it worse, the guard would hear you and follow after. You look down at the metal in your hands as a shout rings just feet away—panting breath and the jingle-jangle of keys.

“Who's out there?! Show yourself!” Your lips thin, thinking over those possible changes again and adding in another.

…Battery.

When the guard walks through the door and takes a few steps in, wildly flashing his light back and forth, you slowly raise the vent grate in your hands. Taking a small, shaky breath, you tighten your grip and whack the man in the back of the head.

He falls with a large thump, body hitting the ground as you stand above him with wide eyes and a guilty conscience, bones rattling in your flesh.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” he’s groaning, stunned, as you swiftly place the grate on the wall and run back past him. “It’s nothing personal, really. I…you're going to be fine—a…a bruise, that’s it.”

Dashing down the hallway, you leave him behind, but only after you steal his keys and begin to read each name tag on the walls, searching for the familiar title of your father at lightspeed.

Theft.

“I’m such an idiot!” Quietly barking out, you take a left and skid to a stop finding the exact door you needed to get into—the one at the very end as well as the largest and most fancy looking. You could have easily picked the lock with a stray bobby pin and a stick from one of the fake plants outside in the hallway, but now with the keys…

You push through the hundreds on the chain, palms sweaty and breath not slowing down. You’re muttering to yourself in a frenzied state, feet trading weight.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, hurry up!” You find MD carved into the metal and stick the key into the door, twisting and hurrying through. Closing the door behind you loudly, you let your body pant as you hold it shut, palms to the grain; it’s a second before your forehead meets the barrier and you groan lowly.

Rubbing at your scalp, you stand up straight and turn to the room.

Except there is a suspicious lack of boxes along the carpeted floor.

“What!?” You yell, before you slap a hand to your mouth. “What?” Your lowered, repeated, question is strained and aggressive, but in reality, you should have expected this. It had been three years, after all. Maybe you had yet to realize the entire world hadn’t stopped just because yours had.

Jogging over to the computer, you slide the keyboard out from inside the desk and tap the spacebar to wake it up, growling to yourself. You knew they had kept your father’s things, but you didn’t know where they put them—you were supposed to have picked them up during the first year but…well, you know how that year went.

You grimace and shake your head, restraining yourself from touching your coin.

If you could hack into the CIA database, this was a piece of cake; it took no more than a minute, already looking at the wallpaper of a woman named Lorena Bennett with her pet cockatoo on her shoulder. Immediately you head to the emails.

“Okay, Bennett,” you say, “I need…” Typing in your father's name into the word search, you come upon one of the first emails from only a month after he’d died, eyes slipping from one word to another. “Here.”

Dear Mrs. Bennett,

Due to the unfortunate passing of our prior Museum Director, you’ll find the office assigned to you still filled with his belongings. If you would be willing, please pack up what few personal belongings he had and send them down to Eastern storage—his daughter will be here to pick them up at a later date.

Thank you, and I wish you well on your first day,

Member of the Board, Mr. Shaw

“Eastern storage,” you huff, fingers twitching over the keys as you nod rapidly. “Alright, okay. I can do that.” You couldn’t do that.

Sweating, you close out the email and power down the computer, putting it all back where it was. Was it wrong for you to want Kyle here with you? You could do with his steadfast patience at this point. Might even applaud him for putting up with you for this long if he could take point on this.

For doing far more stressful things for a living, you were sure this was easy as cake for him. If anything that pushed you on. Leaving and locking the office, you carefully step over the unconscious guard and utter another apology, watching his back rise and fall with his lungs like a balloon.

Sneaking through the halls, you pass displays and stay close to the walls, listening with strained ears as your breath seems to be the loudest thing in the museum. Rubbing at your sore nose, you make your way across multiple sections of the building, knowing every turn as if you’d lived here forever.

“Now,” your father’s voice guides you along and you almost feel his hand on your shoulder as you slip behind a case full of ancient cat furs in the Mammalogy section. A second guard's flashlight slips above you and you crawl on the floor as she passes. “If you ever lose sight of me, I’ll head right to the place between Mammalogy and the Bone Hall. Just follow the arrows and I’ll be waiting for you, alright? I’ll always find you, Little Love.”

You steady your breathing and slink around another display, heart constricted at the sudden need to hear your father’s voice again. You’d forgotten it after all of this time—the way he would reassure you was only a series of words without flow; a knowledge of the memory but mixed with the desperation to truly feel it. It was just…empty.

Getting out of Mammalogy, you lock eyes on the direction map placed on the wall as the stolen keys sit in your pocket, muffled metal clinking against the coin. Looking at it, you’re hit with a wave of sadness, brows going downturned, and a rueful frown coming to your lips.

“Guess not, Old Man.” You mutter to a ghost, shaking your head and pulse spiking when the female guard resets her path and begins to come back. Your body dashes away into memories and shadows with nothing more than a harsh sigh.

—

You stand at the bottom of the long staircase, breathing heavily and staring at the double doors of the museum storage room, grimacing but internally celebrating that you’ve gotten to where you need to go. There were multiple close calls with security, plus the unconscious man near the offices that you had to go back to.

But here, now, you finally were able to get somewhere.

Inserting the needed key into the door, you push through one and find rows upon rows of Archival storage boxes and cupboards all in pure white and gray. Blinking, you let the door close behind you as you huff out a scoff.

“I swear if these aren't in alphabetical order…” Your dim eyes go from one to another, but you grunt and go to find the labeled letters on the sides of the cupboards, the temperature dropping multiple digits to help the items preserve better.

Fingers twitching over the boxes, you slide them along as you read, muttering to yourself. A few moments into your search, the familiar name of your dad comes into view and you smile softly.

“Here we are.” Hand reaching out, you peel the object out and place it on the floor, taking a deep breath before popping the top and gazing inside.

There were two visible objects—a laptop and a journal.

Intrigued, your hands delve inside and take out the black leather journal with careful hands, feeling the bulk of crinkled, written-in pages. As you hold it up and tilt it over, something falls out and clatters to the ground; the clink of plastic making your eyes widen in surprise.

“And what do we have here?” A USB stick meets your bandaged flesh as you pick it up, sutures under your skin raw and tight. You pay no mind to the second pulse in your flesh and stare intently at the navy blue tone of the small object. “USB stick…? What were you doing in there?”

Your face goes curious, head tilting as you move the stick around in your hand. With a hum and a serious edge to your brows, you hide the object in your jacket’s pocket and quickly take up the remainder of the belongings. Putting the box back where it was, you high-tail it back out the door, lock it, and dash up the stairs.

This had to have everything you needed in it—a full laptop that with any luck was still intact, a journal, and a USB stick. The stick alone could give you swathes of information, and the journal…you hold back a yell of victory.

Your dad was sure to have something in all of this mentioning the donations and the moniker. The documents with the same date and printed red ink. There was something there; on the cusp of a great discovery like an anthropologist on a dig site. A pressure in the back of your mind—incessant ringing.

Something.

Getting back was easier now that you knew the places to avoid, and as you slip the keys back onto the unconscious guard's belt, you take back up the grate in one arm. Going back, you stand atop the bench below the vent, huffing as you shove your father’s things up first.

“What would Gaz do?” Your voice questions, hearing the long groaning from the downed security behind you. Sighing, you leave the grate on the bench, climbing back up with your muscles straining. It’s a slow crawl back to a section where you can actually turn your body around and at that point, you’re annoyed with the tightness of the vents.

But you do it, regardless, dangling your arms out of the square to twiddle your fingers above the grate before you finally claw it back up and twist it around, flesh pinched as you handle the long slats to manhandle it back into position with a defining pop of steel. Like a kangaroo, you slip the journal and laptop into your jacket, zipping it up and letting the objects hang as you shuffle backward—able to turn back around one more time as you begin retracing your steps.

You’re sure you're going to be sore tomorrow from all of this activity.

“If,” you bonk your head and hiss, glaring at the ceiling as you climb upward. “If Gaz lets me live that long. I’ll be lucky if he even makes me dinner anymore.”

There’s a part of you that realizes the effects of what this might bring. A small portion of unease and…fear. But there were things that you had to do alone, and this was one of them. It was your father that had been wronged, and it fell on you to finish this story, for ill or for better.

When you finally make it to the roof, you heave a breath of fresh air, basking in the open land. The grate screws back on easily with the help of your coin and hiking your father’s items higher in your grip, you speed to the ladder.

Even without checking your phone, you know you have missed calls—missed messages that number in the hundreds. It was far past midnight; you were stupid to think you’d be back on time.

“At least let me come up with a good excuse before I see him.” But still, you’re filled with a sense of elated accomplishment, your body quivering with adrenaline and happiness as your mouth opens in quick chuckles. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I did it! I’d like to see him hold a grudge against this.” Feet moving quickly, you get to the top of the ladder and bend down, smiling wide and cheeks pulled back with glee.

You looked over the edge of the roof, irises sparkling like gems as your throat holds giggles and puffs of excited breaths. Only you don’t lock into the ground feet below.

Instead, brown eyes like tree bark glare up into yours with hidden fury.

And then the black vehicles pull up with a screech of tires.

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credince--writes · 2 months

Text

Deep In Those Woods- Chapter 7

Keegan P. Russ x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6- Chapter 7

AO3

You find a strange man in the woods, no doubt running from the federation. He seems, well, in simple terms beat to shit. May your act of kindness not go unpunished.

A/N: Womp Womp Taglist:

@dindjarinsmeshla @tessxq @ladyvlolypop @tiny-kasper

@biggiecheeselover @konigsleftkidney @mykneeshurt @katsufairies @noname0756 @brain-has-left @vinithechocolatevampire

The sun was hot on his face, glaring down and heating the sand crusted onto the exposed skin of his face. The sky was clear- no moisture- not a cloud in sight.

Keegan was in the desert.

He was in his own personal hell.

Sandviper.

His eyes glanced down to his hands, filthy in dark red tones and crusted over too many times to count with layers of filth and flesh, blood, and dirt. Driven so deep into the crevices of his flesh that he wasn’t sure where the filth ended and his skin started.

There’s a dull blade grasped in his hand.

A man leaps from over a pile of sand- knife drawn throwing his body forward ready to fight to the death. Keegan bares his teeth like a rabid dog. Because that is all he is. A wild animal, ready to bite and tear flesh, feels the splatter of blood against his skin. The dust crusted onto his disgusting form and built upon it like a trophy.

The warmth of the blood soothed his chilled skin in the cold desert nights, and cooled his skin in the hot daylight sun. The blood tacking up, soiling the dusty sand under him. Ponds of blood against the dirty yellow sand.

He’s grinning, knife dug into the neck of the man below him. Twisting his knife until the viscera of blood pops in a horrible, twisting, snapping, and schlepping of tendons veins and gore. Flicking the dulled blade as he’d done what? At least seven times that night, he looks up to see the sky has turned dark. The full moon illuminating the hellscape he’d metamorphosed from.

Your corpse, torn open with brute force and dull metal, staring up at him with tears running down dirty cheeks.

Eyes unfocused up at him, cloudly, dead.

And God, do they look beautiful shimmering in the moonlight. The warmth pooling from your neck warming this tips of his fingers- reaching in to cup the wound. Hold it in-

Please-

He’s sitting on the couch next to the window, dozing as the afternoon sun radiates against his face.Jolting forward and wheezing, lungs screaming and heart rate pounding in his ears. He glances down, to assess his hands and frowns at the dark smudges of dirt against his knuckles. Mentally chastising himself as he closed his fist and squeezed, nails pushing in against his palm in a near-satisfying twinge of pain. Keegan was angry at himself in a way he had trouble defending. Here he lay, on a couch in some woman’s home after getting injured. Stranded without contacting his team- he was sure that Logan would be worried sick over the lack of his check-ins.

And here he was sunning himself, content and full, like some kind of civilian. He’s not. As much as he could play- he is just a rabid dog, looking for its next hunk of flesh to tear into. Your eyes, dull, unfocused.

He needed to leave.

He needed to get his radio working- or at least get back into contact with base to let the other Ghosts know he was alive. Lurching forward, forearms against his thighs he leans as far as he can until the creak in his ribs almost forces a whine from his lips. As subtle as he can, leaning back and resting his head against the cushion.

He needed to get out.

The more he thought of hiking his ass out and away, he found his eyes trailing over to the window.

Then trailing over to you.

He frowned, forcing himself to stand before rubbing his fingers against his temples.

He needed to leave.

He was a soldier.

He had a mission.

This was no time for weakness.

And that's how you found him. Standing in the center of the room fully kitted back up- vest pulled back over his bruised chest, his pants with freshly mended holes from the wear and tear they took out in the woods. The same clothes you’d found him in and peeled off of his cold body- mended together, washed, and hung out on the line.

It almost felt like an insult, staring back at him dressed in his gear. You’d mended him back together, and he would just…

Leave?

“Where is my mask?”

His voice was cold.

Detached.

So far from the soft and meek mumbles in his sleep, the breathy moans of pain as you lifted his back off of the floor and sat him up as you fed him.

“I’m leaving.” Your brother spoke, detached and cold as he turned on his heel and left.

“You can’t!” You yelled, hand gripped onto the doorframe as he picked up his bag and a jerrycan of fuel. The tips of your fingers screaming against the pressure on the wood, joints creaking. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I can’t just sit here and hide anymore!” Your brother lashed out, screaming- the rasp in his throat as the words cracked like thunder against the quiet of the field.

The chickens startled.

“Then let me come with you-” You begged.

You pleaded.

You wept. “I won’t risk it.” He bit back. “You’ll be a liability.” Was he right?

Were you a liability?

Could you face the consequences of your existence? Of your choices?

“I-..” You paused, hand releasing from the doorframe and dropping to your side.

“I’ll be back soon. I just- I have to see. The fires, they mean something.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

And he left.

Without looking back.

He needed to compartmentalize. Put this fucking cabin in a little box, and lock it up and stick it somewhere it’ll never be opened up again. There was an ache in his ribs that wasn’t from the injury- a tightness in his throat as he pulled on the armor, his second skin.

His armor.

His hand reached up, not yet donning his gloves, and rubbed the side of his face. Feeling the stubble long since grown out, feeling wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be there- that long. At least it shouldn’t be- he shouldn’t be in this situation.

He took a deep breath.

It would be fine. He needed to get out of this damned cabin- he needed to get his gloves on, mask on, toss his gear over his shoulder even if he body screamed against it. He needed to get out and get a radio and get out of here-

His mask-

His mask?

Where is his mask?

He rummaged- looking as quietly and efficiently as possible for the damned thing while you weren’t paying attention. Stalking room to room with silent footsteps and sharp eyes. Hand hovering over the knob to your bedroom, staring.

Debating.

He’d-

Well.

Maybe?

No.

He’d rather rip his arm off than be caught dead rummaging through your bedroom- Rather poke out his eyes than cross a boundary like that, even if there was the possibility of you stowing it away in there.

He’d just have to ask-

“Where’s my mask?” He’d slipped into this before- the body of a soldier. Maybe he never really left it- he was what he was after all.

A Ghost.

Ghosts can’t change, they are what they are. The remnant of what someone once was,

Is,

Could’ve been.

But deep down, the tone of his voice surprised him- the change- it ripped away any warmth that he’d clung too. Anything he’d foolishly accepted thinking that it could become the norm.

He didn’t deserve it anyways.

“You’re leaving.” Your voice was quiet. Small.

Small like you.

Fragile.

Frail.

Small.

He simply nodded, silent.

You shrunk back, stepping to the side and striding across the building. Tearing open the door to your room- the sound of something clattering against the floor. And in a flurry- you rushing out and throwing the piece of fabric at him. The threads spreads across his fingertips, tilting the mask to the side- where the paint was starting to fade, where a rock had torn through the fabric and stabbed into his skin.

Fresh stitches mending the fabric together.

"I just..." You trailed off.

"Want to make sure he's ok?" Keegan finished.

"Yea." You nodded. "Or at least have some closure. Sometimes just knowing- as much as it'd hurt. To know he is dead, would be better than to wait- to expect."

"I'll help you." His voice was soft- quiet. As if his words came out just above a whisper.

"Why?" You questioned.

Keegan stared, mouth opening and trying to speak but nothing coming out- his mind rushing a million miles a minute.

"Because you owe me?" You teased.

He releases a breath. "Yea, Princess. Because I owe you."

“Yes.” He breathes out- shattering the semblance of control he had on his firm, cold tone.

Your eyes are like fury- hatred, malice. Pain. “You promised.” You say it with such a conviction he nearly flinches back. Blinking once, twice- anger and bile rising back up in his throat.

Could you not see he was saving you? Blessing you? Fulfilling your stupid little promise? “I never said you’d come with me.” He replied.

He was saving you from him.

He can see the glassy haze on your eyes, putrid, vile, hatred.

The glint of your cloudy eyes against the moonlight. Gritty sand trapped in your eyelashes.

He pulls the mask over his face, and leaves without looking back.

#call of duty #deep in those woods #Keegan russ #Keegan p. Russ #keegan p. russ x reader #keegan russ x reader

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lilac-5ky · 8 months

Text

Roommates from Hell, pt.7 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 7: Stockholm Syndrome

A/N: Sorry for disappearing, y'all! Hope this lengthy chapter compensates for my absence.

You were early.

You knew that, not because you’d been checking the time every two stops—doubting your being on the correct railway line even as the voice in the speakers called out Inokashira Park—but because it was still bright when you got off the train platform.

Normally, you were good with those things—time. Having juggled both school and multiple shifts across Tokyo at some point in your life meant you knew exactly how long it took to get from one district to the other, and under no circumstances did Shibuya to Kichijoji amount to three hours worth of travel time. You could’ve left home half an hour earlier and made it in time, but all sense of normality died the moment you agreed to go out with Toji.

It was 3:37 p.m., and you were indeed early. Two hours and twenty-three minutes early.

You’d gone out with him hundreds of times. As friends, as family—as people who dealt their meals and loneliness evenly, yet never as anything beyond that. You didn’t know what a date entailed—or rather, you pretended not to, because the possibilities made your head spin.

This was just an ordinary hangout, and that was why you’d opted for the unimpressive combination of your overworn jeans and cardigan, in spite of casting every article of clothing out of your closet and onto the floor.

The yellow ribbon in your hair—that was hope.

You were meeting at the park’s east entrance, which coincided with the railway’s west exit. The only thing you’d agreed upon was the time and place. Everything else was entirely up to him.

The tracks ended where the grass blades began, out-of-bloom hydrangeas paving the path toward Inokashira Park’s infamous pond. In the winter, the park looked like a shadow of its former self. Desolate and bleak, as opposed to the final spring you visited with your father.

The fragrance of the freshly bloomed cherry blossoms he’d help you reach atop his shoulders lingered ever so vividly in the air, along with the essence of humidity that clung to your skin after every ride on those enormous swan boats. But with the trees stripped bare and the waters stilled by the cold, your memories had also lost their vibrancy.

You felt no joy reminiscing about the past. It was more like an old wound you scratched open to test the pain, except the blood was all dried up. You’d mourned your father before he’d even passed and before your sister finalized the news a week ago. This was just killing time.

You had two hours to waste and were already considering phoning Toji to reschedule. He didn’t have much to do during the day. If he wasn’t at the diner, then he typically loitered around one gambling den or another. Unless he was caught up in one of those shady businesses that earned him entire briefcases full of cash. To think the day would come when you’d be dating a hitman—

—only you weren’t dating. Because this wasn’t a date.

Your plans were put on hold as an elderly woman shoved about a dozen shopping bags inside the public phone booth you’d been eyeing, and you decided not to wait around for it to be freed.

Two hours isn’t all that horrible.

A class of children returning from a field trip to the park’s aquarium passed you by, some of the kids clutching onto different types of marine life plush toys. You walked away from the procession. You weren’t keen on showing jealousy over the little girl with the cute turtle-shaped backpack, and thus you detoured to a quieter path away from all the jeers and cheers. You checked the time again. One hour and fifty-five minutes left. God.

The park’s visitors dwindled the further you strayed from the main attractions, until it was just you and a man who had his back turned all the while he stared off into the unknown. A man whose broad shoulders and discreet slouch seemed more familiar the longer you studied him, and when his jade eyes fell on yours, you reached an epiphany. This was a date.

“You’re early.” You gasped softly, your lips expelling a white cloud of heat.

His gaze hardened below his arched eyebrows—a mix of unfeigned surprise and borderline annoyance as he processed you from head to toe.

You regretted not going the extra mile. Toji wasn’t dressed to the nines either, but his choppy strands were somewhat combed, and the forest green of his sweater brought out his eyes. Even his usual sweatpants were replaced by a fitting pair of black jeans, and at that point, your palms began to sweat because Toji was an objectively good-looking man, and when he took care of himself, he was a real head-turner, while you were just… you.

“You’re the one who’s late.” He shifted the blame without second thought, tempting you to dig your beeper out of your pocket to prove your innocence, but you spared him the embarrassment. After all, he made no comments about your blushing cheeks or shuffling feet either.

One minute and countless beats of awkward silence later, Toji tugged himself from the wooden spikes that ringed the pond’s perimeter and moved closer, his attention instantly drawn to your ribbon’s loose ends.

“Your hair—”

“Looks weird?” You cut him off.

He shook off his scowl, the rough pads of his fingers making light contact with your skin as he flipped the string over your shoulder. “Nah. Just…” and it was no exaggeration to say you were hanging on his lips up until he grabbed you by the hand and dragged you forward—his calling you cute an uncertain figment of your imagination.

Trapped in a never-ending daze of billboard signs and city lights that faded past the passenger’s window, you miserably failed to make out your whereabouts. It’d been a while since you left Tokyo behind, and your last clue was your entering National Route 127 about an hour ago. You were well into Chiba prefecture—home to Japan’s biggest fishing industry, Disney-themed parks, and, of course, peanuts.

As for where in Chiba exactly, your best bet was connecting the passing exit signs in the hope of them helping paint the bigger picture. Kisarazu to Kimitsu. Kimitsu to Futtsu. Futtsu to Kyonan.

Since that final sign that read “15 kilometers to Minamiboso,” you’d gone off the map, and the closer you came to approaching the sparsely planted minka houses on the mountain side of the highway, the further your destination seemed. You didn’t expect this to be a kidnap in the literal sense, but while Toji hadn’t taken your ability to speak or look away, he still refused to let you in on his plans.

He drove quietly, his vision tunneling to the open road while his hand occasionally ironed out the knots of muscle around his neck. His mouth opened solely for his yawns, whose sheer number and frequency would’ve been concerning if Toji wasn’t the one behind the wheel. You trusted he wouldn’t kill you both off. He wasn’t the double-suicide type.

After your seventh unsuccessful attempt at prying out information, you brought out the big guns.

“What’s this?” Toji glanced at the 1000-yen bill you discreetly placed on his lap, his lips twitching into a slight smile. “Little low for ransom, don’tcha think?”

You rolled your eyes. “Just tell me where we’re going and why it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Hmm.” He pocketed the bill. “Wouldn’t be a kidnap if I told ya, would it?”

You leaned against the window, bandages soaking up moisture from where you mindlessly drew figures in the fog. You’d think he’d be less frustrating to deal with now that he’d gotten what he wanted, but he’d instead turned shrewder. He didn’t even let you contact your sister or drop off Kenzo’s waffle cones. The two were left alone at your empty apartment, probably thinking you’d migrated to the North Pole for ice, when in reality you were off playing budget Thelma and Louise.

Maybe he really was trying to kill you—speed toward the next cliff and throw you both into the depths of Tokyo Bay, where you’d spent a comfortable eternity sleeping side by side with the fish.

You were spelling the words Save Me when Toji spoke again, this time on his own accord.

“Someplace we can continue where we left off.” You could hear the smirk rolling off his tongue.

Someplace we can continue where we left off, you mentally repeated. Someplace we can continue where we left off. Someplace we can—oh.

You quickly smudged your cry for help with your shoulder and fell back on your seat, cheeks as red as beets. If he wanted to take things to a love hotel, he should’ve just said so. It wouldn’t have taken much to persuade you to hit one in Roppongi. No need to waste all this gas and worry everyone sick.

Come to think of it, the phone hadn’t rung once since the beginning of your little country escapade—not from a call, and not from a text either. You were positive he hadn’t turned your phone off when he confiscated it, and his was still on him.

That crafty witch. Her lack of concern just about confirmed your suspicions. Your sister wasn’t searching for you because everything was moving according to plan.

“Can I at least make a call?” You batted your eyelashes and smiled at him with your eyes, watching his wariness dissolve instantaneously as his glance shifted to a stare. Men.

“A call, huh?” Relying on his inhumane reflexes, Toji lowered a hand from the wheel to your knee, rubbing his way higher up your thigh.

The part of you that wasn’t used to letting him touch you so freely almost flinched, but ignoring it was starting to become easier. You enjoyed the way his palm cupped your flesh. You liked how supple your skin seemed between his fingers, and you loved how firm his grasp felt—bold and reassuring. It took your mind off your question and his attention off the road as a honk from a passing truck forced you to recoil away from each other.

The unprompted filth that poured between the two rolled-down windows colored both your ears. He was the one in the wrong here. It was his fault that the car zigzagged into the fast lane, and while he wasn’t going to let it spiral out of control, the other driver didn’t necessarily know that.

Once he was done spitting nails, he turned back to you, impatience burning in his eyes to the point where you wouldn’t be surprised if he cut your destination short and pulled over to the nearest rest area for a breather.

“Can’t focus when ya gimme that look.” Toji huffed.

“What look?”

“Like you’re begging me to fuck you on the highway.” He answered with the same ease with which one would talk about the weather.

“Toji!” A red deeper than the one on your ears spread to your face.

He licked his lips together and tipped closer to your seat, audaciously asking, “What?”

You didn’t have a reason good enough to push him away anymore—at least not one that related to how you felt about him. Hiding behind your finger was useless when all your cards were laid out on the table. He counted on you staying still for his lips to brush over yours—a mere tingle of electricity before you remembered you were in a moving vehicle and swatted his face away.

“Eyes on the road.” You whipped out a smile, lest he misunderstand, but it was too late. Toji was already looking at you as if you’d committed an unimaginable sin; a frown riveted to his face even as his focus resumed on the highway.

“Just lost your phone rights.”

“Seriously? Cause I’m watching out for our safety?”

“You heard me.” He grumbled. “Now shut it.”

“Well, forgive me for not being up for a second near-death experience less than 24 hours after the first one.” You said as you fixed your shirt over your knees and coiled closer to the window.

His knuckles grew white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, a deep exhale flaring his nostrils. Be it out of guilt or regret, he didn’t talk back, but you weren’t willing to call a truce just yet.

“You know, none of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t run off on your own last night. Or if you’d asked me whether I wanted to be stuck in a vehicle with your grumpy ass for hours. Putting up with you at home is enough as it is.”

The blinker flashed as he turned left to the next exit, whose name you didn’t catch until a second sign at the intersection welcomed you to Tomiyama. You weren’t even sure if that was your actual destination or if he pulled off the highway on a whim, and you knew next to nothing about the area other than hearing it mentioned in some politician’s speech about recreation.

The car slowed down behind a navy blue sedan, with Toji drumming his fingers against the wheel while waiting for the lights to turn green. You took the chance to look outside, unable to figure out a damn thing in the dark. There were trees on both sides of the road, but you couldn’t tell what kind of trees. There were more cars parked by the sidewalk, but you couldn’t determine their color, let alone their brand. There was a large body of water up ahead, but you could only make out the faint sway of the riptide under the moonlight, a light breeze teasing the pungent scent of the sea.

“Didn’t seem you were putting up with me last night.” Toji interrupted. “Or when ya sucked my face in the middle of the street.”

“Hey!”

“Not that I hated either.”

He didn’t sound half as mad as he seemed, and for a brief moment, you wondered what you’d started this for. You always gnawed at each other like beasts trapped in a cage, each getting a kick out of pushing the other’s buttons into madness, yet you rarely fought for a reason. It was more so out of habit than spite, because that’s what you did best, and it almost felt intimate—affectionate in a way others could never comprehend.

“Go on.” Toji prompted, definitely amused. “That can’t be all. What else ya got?”

“You ate my ice cream!” You almost laughed at your own absurd statement, biting down the chuckle Toji didn’t bother withholding. “You ate it in front of my face and didn’t offer me a single bite!”

“Poor baby can’t use her hands?” He cooed, curling a finger near your cheek.

You dramatically waved your reasons for being incapacitated. “Can’t even use them. Plus, they itch like hell.”

“Pft, don’t pin that on me.” He scorned. “Curse barely touched you, and you spent the whole night cryin’ like a baby.”

An exasperated sigh puffed in your lungs. “I can’t believe you drew a mustache on my face. You knew I was awake, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” He asked with a knowing smile. “So what? Think I’d pussy outta kissing that cute little face just ‘cause of two extra lines?

“Still got ‘em, by the way.”

You manically scrubbed your lips with the back of your bandaged fist before coming to terms with the spotless reflection in his rearview mirror.

“There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

The car was again put into motion as Toji switched gears and accelerated—much to your delight—toward the seashore, with no intention of stopping even as the village houses got replaced by palm trees dug in the sand; your final accusation being, “What kind of psychopath drives without music?”

“This is just noise.”

His snide remark had you dropping the stack of cassette tapes back at the discount stand and rushing to his aid.

The store-provided headphones appeared comically small compressing his skull, with the metallic wire bent into a taut arc that promised to snap any minute now. Their wearer seemed displeased, which, honestly, he always did, but this time you could hardly blame him. He was out of his element, and if it weren’t for that sliver of curiosity ushering him into the record store by the station, then he wouldn’t be standing there like an absolute idiot, polluting his ears with… pirate metal?

You managed to withstand about ten seconds of incoherent German slurs and Arrrgh’s before you hastily ejected the tape and shoved it back in its case. An entire music library at your disposal, and he’d possibly come across the single questionable track. Even a sniffer dog would envy his ability to nose anomalies out.

“Must be ‘cause you aren’t used to it.” You glanced around the shelves for a gap. “For all we know, this could be a masterpiece.”

“Yeah, right.” Toji kicked at the rolling step stool. Your heel caught it before it had the chance to crash into the vinyl stand, which led to him scoffing. Again.

He was the one who insisted on this date yet acted the exact opposite of his intentions. All that gloating about his past conquests was plain rubbish. He’d planned nothing for your date—your first date—and was disagreeable toward your every suggestion. The new crepe stall was too flashy for his tastes. The regular sukiyaki place was suddenly too expensive. The attractions at the park were tourist traps. You’d purposely led him down the thrift shop packed-alleyway just so he wouldn’t have a reason to complain, but he exceeded your expectations.

If he was having such a bad time, then why bother asking you out in the first place?

You returned to your corner, rummaging through the rows for something even Toji could potentially appreciate, when it hit you: you had no idea what kind of music he liked. Two years of acquaintance, and you’d never discussed preferences.

“Hey, Mr. Nitpicker.” Your nails clicked against the plastic to draw his attention. “What’s your favorite song?”

He gawked at you as if he’d been presented with a complex quantum physics equation, furrowing his eyebrows and tilting his head from one side to the other like a metronome.

“It’s… that one.” You expected him to point at either a cassette or a vinyl, but his hands remained sheathed in his pockets.

“What one?”

“The one that goes like…” You again expected him to hum to the rhythm of the supposed song, but he didn’t. “Ya know, that one.”

Your eyes darted between the tapes in your grasp and the insistence in his expression. He didn’t sound convincing in the slightest. It was when he lied that he acted most certain.

The only argument working in his favor was the inconceivable notion that a person in the growing age of media and technology could do without a song blasting from their car speakers or one they recorded with all the ambient sounds of a cafe tainting the chorus—because you didn’t know how music was treated in the Zen’in household; how whatever didn’t feature a koto or a shamisen was outright rejected; how it was considered a women’s sport—an activity slightly more refined than idle gossip in the shadows of the shoji doors.

“That’s not very helpful.” You sighed.

“Whatever.” He frowned, reclining against the one wall that was equipped with neither shelves nor framed records.

The conversation was over, and you resumed your hunt for affordable hidden gems in the 80s section. They used the word vintage for songs you’d grown up with, which everyone knew was a code word for old. Your twentieth birthday was months away, and you were already deemed old—correction: vintage. In no time, you’d join the club of people who called those below their age kids and constantly reminisced about the golden days of their youth.

“What’s yours?” Toji caught you off guard with how he’d both peeled off the wall and hunched over you without you taking notice.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth, yet you already felt yourself stuttering. He was intimidating—not in a piss your pants kind of way, but in a way that tinkered with the distribution of fluids in your body. You didn’t want to answer his question. You’d rather he bent a little lower and kissed you, because sharing your second kiss at a record store sounded exhilarating.

But sharing that tidbit of information wasn’t.

Flustered, you flipped through the cassettes sorted by the letter ‘A’ to find Anri’s Timely!! mixed between the ‘C’s. You were supposed to ask for permission before trying out the non-samples, but the store clerk clearly didn’t mind, or else he would have stopped you four tapes ago.

You searched for the appropriate track and pressed play once the headphones were back on Toji’s head. He kept a serious face all the while Anri begged for her loneliness to stop, the upbeat instrumental contrasting—without concealing—the sobriety of the lyrics. You heard every word loud and clear, mentally repeating them down to the third chorus, where you got lost in the sentiment.

Love is like a small storm. Both friends and lovers get swept up by it.

The song went on about the end of a relationship, while yours hadn’t even begun. You were one step ahead of being friends, yet a lot more steps behind being lovers. You didn’t want to jinx the outcome of your date but couldn’t stop musing over the pain of a breakup. You’d only experienced loneliness in the form of missing—never in the form of losing. If you let yourself be swept up by this emotion, would you wind up hurting more than you did before he stepped into your life?

The music came to an end of its own, and Toji pulled the headphones from his ears, declaring with a victorious grin that this was his favorite song.

“You can’t be serious.” You snatched the Walkman from his hands. “That’s my favorite song!”

“And?” He tapped his foot against the tiled floor. “What’s yours can’t be mine?”

“We aren’t married.” You wished you could press rewind and write over your own words, replacing them with something far less embarrassing.

“Like I’d ever marry someone this bossy.”

You groaned as you traded the tape for one by Takeuchi Mariya. “Fine. When the time comes, you’re free to marry someone without any backbone, but now, we are finding you a song.”

He groaned back while you repeated the same process of skipping to a specific song, gauging his reaction, and then moving forward while he pig-headedly stood by his first choice. You tried more artists—Matsubara Miki, Akimoto Kaoru, Sugiyama Kiyotaka. You thought Hamada Kingo’s midnight cruisin’ would be it, but it wasn’t. The single thread your patience dangled from finally snapped, resulting in your rising to your toes and forcibly holding the headphones down against his head.

“You aren’t allowed to not like this one!”

You formed the words slow enough for him to read your lips over the climax of first chorus, the song feeling nothing sort but an unconventional confession with how you viciously stared into each others eyes.

Every time I wish, to monopolize your love/Every time I wish, that would you be mine/I want all of you.

There was a change in his expression, a flicker or a speck of something that convinced you to step back before the song reached its conclusion. You called a draw in your staredown, both turning to a different direction, and you weren’t sure if Toji was remotely capable of feeling shame, but his cheeks were tinted a subtle pink when your eyes next met.

“Okay.” He conceded. “Keep your stupid song. I like this one better.”

You walked around the shops hand in hand. It was for precaution, so you wouldn’t get caught between the hordes of starving office workers invading the local Konbini in search of nutrients—his words, not yours. Toji didn’t know lunch breaks were a common breadwinner’s luxury, considering most of these people overworked themselves until it was time to go, but you didn’t mention either. His hand felt too warm to let go, and whenever he spoke, heat radiated from his lips.

You wished he’d kiss you.

He’d missed his chance at the record store, but plenty of other opportunities had since turned up: the giant Christmas tree that sprouted in front of Kitaguchi station; at the back row of some B-rated horror movie screening; behind the arcades on Motomachi Street. Even right where you stood, he could trick you into thinking there was a rogue eyelash he meant to pinch from your cheek, only for his lips to land on yours instead.

It was a given that it would happen. It happened in every single Hollywood rom-com, without exception. You just didn’t know when or where.

The cassette tapes rattled like wind chimes in the paper bag you carelessly swung around. You didn’t intend to charge him with a bunch of impulse purchases, but he told you not to sweat it because you’d be buying lunch. It fascinated you how the richest and poorest people you knew met in Toji’s face. He could afford things beyond imagination, yet he never seemed able to afford the essentials. It was easy to write him off as cheap, but you didn’t want to be in love with someone cheap.

You wondered whether he’d ask you to be his girlfriend or if you already were.

You suffered through a much harsher rejection as you returned to the very same crepe stall that Toji previously dismissed with a simple “no,” this time demanding you treat him to an actual meal. You were more upset about not having crepes than you were about bleeding cash on him.

The sun retired prior to your food quest’s conclusion, parting from the sky in a murky shade of blue. It was getting too cold to be outside, and hiding your shivering came at a price. You clung to his arm as if he were a portable heater, but when he asked if you felt cold, you stupidly claimed to be fine. Really stupid.

Soon, the streets were emptied. Every sensible passerby holed up in the cozy izakayas that lined each side of the pavement. You were the last two sociopaths testing their courage at a UFO catcher outside a greasy Thai restaurant. The aroma of drunken noodles stirred something in your stomach that made you forget all about the crepes, and the Yoshi plushie Toji pledged himself to win on your behalf. You shouldn’t have told him he was your favorite. You’d be stuck here until the morning light.

“Didn’t you swear off gambling for the remainder of this year? Thought you were saving your luck for 1995.” You tried to dissuade him, eyes meeting through the hazy glass. He’d tasked you with inspecting the left side of the machine while he took stock of the prizes on the right. “How’s this?” You pointed at a Yoshi near the corner of the prize pit.

“That’s hardly gambling.” Toji slapped the glass with both his hands and forehead, reviewing your choice. “Nah, won’t do. ‘Tis too far from the center. Switch with me.”

You traded sides, with Toji focusing on the Yoshis while you focused on him. He seemed to know what he was doing, but he wasn’t fooling you. He’d lose, pin it on either the rigged machine or the maintenance guy, and then he’d have you drag the Thai manager out.

On second thought, maybe if he caused a big enough scene, you’d be compensated with a plate of warm food.

A smile of utter triumph emerged across his lips once he got his sights on a target. You still had your doubts, especially with how tightly the machine was packed, but refrained from voicing them. He wouldn’t listen anyway.

“Got any coins?”

You handed him your wallet, and his eyes almost widened as he shook it around like a maraca. “You work a side-gig at the mint or something? What’s with all these coins?”

“Many drops make an ocean.” You moved to the side for a better view. “Spend ‘em all, and you’ll be buying your own lunch.”

He pulled out a mere 100-yen coin and dropped your wallet on top of the machine. “Don’t need more.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve heard those words before?” Your sneer wasn’t enough to shatter his confidence.

“Ya say that cause you weren’t there in ‘87.”

“Why—what happened in ‘87? And where exactly is there?”

“Won three of these with a single draw.” Toji not-so-subtly bragged, at last taking hold of the joystick.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Anyone can win if they bribe a kid to loosen the thing for them.

“Better be if ya want me winning that damn turtle of yours.”

“Yoshi is a dinosaur…” Unsurprisingly, that earned you a glare.

You gestured a zipper over your mouth and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up as he slotted the coin in. The 15-second countdown began, with Toji maneuvering the claw over the plushie by the 10-second mark and Yoshi flying over the hole five seconds later. You watched with bated breath up until the claw unlatched from Yoshi’s nose and propelled him down the machine’s entrails, a series of metallic thuds promising Toji’s irrefutable success.

“You won?” Your gasp turned into a genuine shriek of excitement. “Holy shit, you actually won! Shit, I mean—wow, you’re good at this!”

He snorted, kneeling to retrieve the prize. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, I am.” You admitted. “Never seen you win before.”

“Don’t be. It’s annoying.” He pretended to bash your skull with the plushie, only to softly dab it at your wincing, hands raised in defense. Cute. “Have your big-head. He looks like you.”

A tight-lipped smile curved itself in place of his lips, the rest of his features also softening while he took in yours. Looking like a green dinosaur had its perks. You didn’t feel as cold anymore. All you felt was the tenderness with which he cupped your cheek like the most precious treasure—and he did treasure you. First with his eyes, and then with his fingers, though he treasured you the most when he was kissing you on your open mouth, your impatience dissolving into a wish come true.

“In my next life, I’ll buy myself a house here.”

Your toes sank deeper into the sand, struggling to remain hidden as the sea foam tickled away their concealment. Shards of the moon sparkled like stardust in the ocean, every ripple mirroring another star fallen from the night sky. If magic existed in this world, this was proof of it.

In the end, you were glad Toji brought you out there. Tokyo was smothered by water to the point where you feared it might swallow you whole, but things were different in the countryside. No skyscrapers blocked your view of the quaint horizon. No traffic sounds filtered the sound of the waves crashing to the shore. No exhaust fumes tainted the salty air that filled your lungs.

Even for a moment, you broke free from the shackles of everyday life and stepped into a picturesque world straight from a postcard. Your life could end then and there, and you’d jump to the next one without any regrets.

“What keeps you from doin’ that in this life?” Toji asked, seated a little further from where you stood. You didn’t understand why he’d chosen the beach when he wouldn’t dare dip his feet in the water, let alone feel the crunch of sand. His slippers would get dirty, one way or another.

“Money, for starters. Work, too. Life, maybe.” You mused.

“Bullshit. You can make money anywhere.” He retorted. “And anyone can do your job. Not like serving brick patties takes special skill.”

“Think I can do your job, then?”

“No fucking way.” You chuckled at his honesty. “You’d stab your leg right in front of your fucking target.”

“Right?” You glanced down at your fingers. He’d peeled off the bandages so you wouldn’t get them soggy, but you didn’t need them anymore. Your cuts would heal on their own as long as you didn’t get salt in them. “Then, you think we should only do what we are meant to do?”

“I think we should do whatever the fuck we want.”

“That’s easy to say…”

“Even easier to do. Now get your ass over here.”

You turned around, beaming with a smile he’d find irritating a minute later. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then suit yourself.”

His apathy lasted until he sprung from his seat and scurried over to you, his arms seizing your waist before you could run away. Your back was pulled flush against his chest, with your ribs silently crying over the ridiculous strength of his biceps. You’d been subjected to more squeezing this weekend than your body could handle.

“That’s how ya do it.” Toji breathed in your hair, his chin comfortably propped on the crook of your shoulder. You were immobilized, but your heart still raced for escape, your cheeks shimmering a rosy pink.

“Actually, you wanted me to come to you, which means you just proved yourself wrong. Meanwhile, I wanted you to come here, which means I—ugh, put me down!”

Water splashed everywhere as Toji hoisted you high above the ground and carried you across the sand plains, your feet pedaling an invisible wheel until you were dropped off like a sack of potatoes. Non-organic at that. Organics received greater care and respect.

“Happy now?”

Choking on a miniature sandstorm, you fought to get your tangled hair off your mouth, inevitably tasting some of the very coarse grains you coughed out.

“How can I be happy when I’ll be shitting sand for days to come?”

“You’re just bein’ dramatic.” He brushed the hair from your face, giving your head a rough pat.

“And you’re being an asshole.” You sighed, recalling your words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Wouldn’t matter if ya did.” Toji hurled one of the few pebbles at the sea, watching it detonate in a firework of water. “Heard worse.”

“But I really didn’t. You used to be more of an asshole; now you’re just a little bit. A tiny bit, really.” You smiled softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I’m glad we are here. And whatever your reasons for moving in were, I’m glad you did. I love our life.”

A wry smile appeared on his lips. “Better remember that next time you nag me about the dishes.”

“Water alone doesn’t remove grease. You need soap to—” You paused at his groan. “It’s fine. So what if there’s melted cheese stuck at the bottom of the pan and I can taste last week’s dinner in my glass? You are trying your best!”

“I got a job.” He cut in.

An unpleasant taste had you grimacing into his elbow. It’d been a while since you’d last cleaned up after his mess in the hall, but the foul smell of metal was unforgettable. Blood—and although it seldom belonged to him, you weren’t any more comfortable with the idea that the day would come when somebody else would scrub Toji’s blood off their clothes.

“When are you leaving?” You asked in a quiet voice.

“Not that kinda job.” Toji thought a title made a story, not details. He reached for another pebble to throw, but his hand turned out empty. Then he continued. “A shitty 9-to-5 job like all others.”

“Doing what?”

“Office stuff—how the hell should I know? Ask Kong; he’s the one who arranged it.”

“Shiu?” He shrugged rather than nodded. “But why? I never asked you to.”

“You think I’d get a job simply ‘cause you asked?” Right. That’d make no sense. “Can only off so many sorcerer brats per month to make ends meet. Rest of the year I’m left hingin’ on capital control.”

“So it is about me.”

You were dragged down against his body as Toji laid you both on the sand, his one hand draping over your shoulder while you rested your cheek on his chest. His heartbeat resonated like the sound of the ocean in your ear. Soothing and slow. A sound only you had the fortune to enjoy.

“Is that where you went last night?”

“Mhm,” he mumbled, combing through your hair to distract you from the palm that shamelessly climbed down your butt. “Interview.”

You felt his fingers burrowing into your shorts, his touch innocent as far as groping was concerned. “Does this mean I’ll get to see you in a suit?”

“Like hell you are.”

“But you’re gonna have to start wearing one if you wanna make a good first impression. At least a button-up and a tie.”

“Like I care about impressions,” he said, adding a beat later that he didn’t even have one.

“When do you start? We can go shopping on Thursday, I have the day off; we could hit that store in—what are you doing?” You questioned his flipping his phone open and typing something on the screen.

“Quitting.”

“Don’t you dare!” You slapped the lid with such force that the phone bounced away from his hands and wedged into the sand.

Dusting the sand off, he packed it back in his pocket, his arms falling at his sides with no intention of resuming their activities. “I’ll just do it later.”

Silence stretched thin as the two of you gazed at the sky, long enough for you to forget you weren’t astral bodies yourselves until your own mindless admission went through.

“In my next life, I want to be a turtle. They carry their houses on their backs and don’t have to deal with rent or taxes.”

“What a sly way to say ya want me off your back.” Toji quipped.

“Something tells me you’d still find a way to stick around. You are like gum in hair. I’d need to shave my head to get rid of you.”

“Turtles don’t have hair, stupid.”

“Shh, don’t ruin my analogy.” You protested. “And why do you always call me stupid?” Your chin rolled on his chest. “I went to college. I’m at least smarter than you.”

He let out a snort. “Goin’ to college doesn’t make you any smarter. It proves you’re a nerd.”

“But you’re also pretty,” he added once you were about to sit up, the smirk you mistook for a smile forcing you to drop your guard. “Pretty stupid.”

“That’s it—you’re not coming back alive!”

Planting both knees on each side of his torso, you attempted to smack the smugness out of him, only for your wrists to be pulled forward and your head violently brought down to his level—every thought of retaliation stripped away by the proximity of his lips.

“Scary.”

What was scary was how easily you were tricked into kissing him; your feud nothing more than a pretext for Toji to lure your tongue inside his mouth. Your hands slipped from his grip to his cheeks, gently thumbing at his scar, while his palms wandered behind your back and settled on your butt, making you feel just how hard the press of your thighs had gotten him.

To someone who only knew affection in the form of sex, kissing was merely the prelude to fucking your brains out in the sand—and when you started grinding your hips against his crotch, he was convinced he’d finally catch a break.

“T-Toji,” you breathed out, following the expanse of his arms down to where his fingers fumbled with the waistband of your shorts. “We are not doing this here.”

Your warning didn’t seem half as compelling as the little moans that spilled from your agape lips, the friction between your bodies clouding your judgment. “Toji…” You tried again, slotting your fingers in between his knuckles. “Don’t want sand in my vagina.”

“I’ll suck it out.”

It took a third Toji to kill his aspiration of having the entire city of Chikura learn your names. His frown grew in an instant—an improvement to all the previous scowls he’d worn, maybe because he’d gotten further than every previous attempt and had the confidence that success lurked right around the corner.

He retrieved his hands and pieced them behind his head, hooded green eyes having yet to rid themselves of the lust behind them. “Then stop grinding on my dick already.”

You parted from him with a peck he almost denied and sat up on your heels.

“What do you want to be reborn as, Toji?” You tried to change subjects.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“One life is enough to suffer through.” He shrugged.

“And you call me dramatic,” you mumbled. “Then you don’t believe in reincarnation? I thought the Zen’ins were all pious.”

He rolled on his side, staring at the parked vehicles. Yours was not the only car around, but you hadn’t seen a pedestrian since you’d stopped for gas in the previous town. People in the country had an actual bedtime, as opposed to those in Tokyo.

“They serve religion when it serves ‘em back. Not me. Don’t believe in any of that.”

“Why not?” You pressed.

“Cause I don’t wanna be reborn as a damn turtle.”

You took a moment to process what he’d just said, blinking between “He can’t possibly mean…?” and “No way he just said that” at least a dozen times before you scooted closer, nudging him to flip toward you with a hand on his shoulder.

“Ya think turtles fuck a lot?” Toji broke the temporary silence.

“I… haven’t had the chance to ask one,” his sigh prompting you to add, “They do have a lot of babies though, so maybe?”

“Yeah… maybe.”

You fiddled with the hem of your shirt, your eyes inadvertently drawn to the bulge in his pants. You felt less self-conscious about the damp patch in your underwear and the continuous pulsing between your thighs, both of which begged you to reconsider your answer. A few rounds of the most glorious sex you’d ever have were worth weeks of excruciating pain and gynecologist visits.

“I want my shirt back,” Toji suddenly said.

You peered away from all the dirty thoughts and shifted your gaze to his shirt on your body. “Now? You want me to take it off right now?”

His lack of response served as confirmation.

“But I’m not wearing anything underneath,” as if that could possibly dissuade him.

“Nobody’s looking.” He gestured toward the houses that surrounded the coastline, none of them with a light shining through their windows. “And I certainly don’t mind.”

The obvious choice was to dismiss his request as a corny joke and keep your arms pinned over your chest for the rest of the night. But with your mind so far gone and your heart (read: pussy) assuming office, you were pulling the shirt over your head before you could fully mull things over.

You shaped the cloth into a rough ball of fabric that you tossed at him, your adrenaline peaking to new heights as the realization of your breasts dangling in plain sight settled in. Toji didn’t even try to hide his gawking at them, his eyes blown with surprise. He’d underestimated your guts, and you’d overestimated whatever half-baked confidence carried you this far.

“I—I’ll just return it when we get home.” You hurriedly picked up the shirt from where it’d landed on his lap, trying your best to cover yourself up. “It n-needs a good washing too—my, look at all this—”

You halted as Toji caught your hands and slowly tugged them off your breasts, the shirt falling in an empty pool between your bodies. “Can’t believe you hid these from me.” He whispered, absolutely mesmerized by what was quickly becoming his favorite sight in the world.

His touch posed a question that a reluctant nod answered, your face burning hot and your heart thrumming loudly as Toji’s fingers made their way from your stomach to your chest, goosebumps erupting across every inch of velvet skin they traced. His palms stopped short of their destination while he sized up your reaction, half-expecting you to run off into the ocean and butterfly-stroke back home, but you remained uncharacteristically docile, bearing the intensity of his eyes for the sake of being touched.

Without any further delay, his fingers wrapped around your breasts and squeezed at them, feeling out the weight of the supple flesh in his palms before coming to a conclusion. This was worth the wait.

“You’re so pretty.” His thumbs rubbed your nipples in clockwork order, light pinches perking them up. “So damn pretty.”

“Not pretty stupid or anything?” Your smiles turned joint amidst a soft kiss.

“Nah, I’m the stupid one. You’re plain beautiful.”

“Don’t beat yourself over it.” Your breathing grew heavier as he began to kiss the corners of your mouth. “It’s the extra college years.”

“Fucking nerd. Come ‘ere.”

Toji pushed you to the ground and climbed on top, his knee parting your thighs while his hands kept true to their goal of kneading your breasts, playing with your sensitive peaks to draw the sweetest sounds from your throat.

“Y-You agreed to take things slow, remember? Only kissing.” You tugged at a tuft of hair, not minding that your actions contradicted your words—head tilted back and limbs closing around his waist as you rubbed your heat against his clothed cock.

“Relax.” He nibbled at your earlobe, his lips straying lower and lower with every word he mumbled across your skin. “Promise I won’t fuck any sand into your pussy. I’ll wait till ya beg me to fill it up with somethin’ else.”

A sly idea manifested as an equally sly smirk as Toji unlatched himself from your jaw to stare into your eyes. “How ‘bout this?”

He followed his question with a trail of kisses that led down your neck, searching for permission once his breath inched closer to your nipple, his tongue teasing its perimeter.

“This qualifies as kissing, right?”

“Is this seat taken?”

You lacked the willpower to lift your head from the untouched bowl of chao that lay before the vacant chair—the final chair left on the table aside from yours, all previous ones given away to those with an actual use for them.

The image spoke for itself. A girl who kept twisting her neck in the direction of the door, expecting someone who wouldn’t come, all the while dismissing the waiter’s discreet attempts to free the table. You got stood up, but instead of feeling anger, you only felt worry. Almost an hour had passed since Toji shoved you into this Vietnamese joint on the outskirts of Musashino and promised he’d be back after checking on something—and while Toji definitely was the type to leave without notice, he wasn’t the type to leave free food waiting.

You finally glanced at the young man, who patiently awaited your answer. He was more or less your age, stemming from a group of guys in baseball jerseys, all with a beer jug in hand. College athletes. The kind of people you both envied and avoided.

“You can have it.” You replied at the same time he asked whether you wanted to join their table.

He probably wasn’t a bad guy, and he wasn’t so hard on the eye either. At least that was your impression until he stated his reason for inviting you: because you were cute. There was room only for one sordid womanizer in your life.

Muttering an apology in a hushed tone, you pushed past him and walked outside, the cold wind inviting every hair on your body to stand in ovation. With your hands desperately trying to generate some degree of heat over your forearms, you dashed to the closest phone booth and shut the door behind you. You emptied a few coins in your palm and picked up the receiver, holding it to your ear while you dialed his beeper’s number and pressed 2.

“Hey, it’s me. I just left the restaurant and wanted to say, Hah! Your loss, loser. You really missed out. Don’t even think of asking me to pay for lunch again. That ship has sailed—you blew your chance.” A pause. One long enough for the voice in the speaker to ask you to deposit more coins to continue recording.

“That’s not all. What I wanted to say is, I—um, had fun today. I’m not mad that you went away—well, not that mad, anyway. I understand. There are things you can’t go into detail over, and—yeah, I guess that’s it.” You shook your bags near the phone. “Thank you for the Yoshi and the tapes. You should come over whenever you have time to listen to them together. Promise I’ll spare you the boring trivia.

“Actually, the trivia isn’t boring; you are the one who doesn’t appreciate it, and—damn, I’m ranting again. Just gimme a call, okay? Let me know you’re alive. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I really like your voice. If something bad were to happen, I’d miss hearing it. Maybe if my voice was as nice, you’d listen to me more, but I’m not complaining. I really like it, and I really like you.”

Your cheeks felt hot as you awkwardly chuckled. “You can’t laugh, okay? Don’t you dare laugh, ‘cause I know you like me too. I hope you do. Whatever. You’ll never hear me say this to your face, but I really like you a lot, Toji. Everything about you. I love every single thing about you. Thanks for being my friend and family.

“I’m running out of coins, so I’ll end this here. Talk to you soon. Take care.”

You placed the earphone back in its place and opened the door, banking on the negative fives to cool down your body’s elevated temperature. You managed three steps before the phone started to ring. Without second thought, you threw yourself back into the booth, apologizing as you realized the voice on the other line didn’t belong to the one you thought it would.

You were ready to hang up when the stranger’s words made your heart plummet in your chest. He wasn’t the owner of the beeper, but the device had temporarily fallen into his hands. He claimed to have found it in a manhole four kilometers away from Takaido station, and while there were a lot of gaps in his story, you agreed to meet up at a cafe a few blocks from your current location.

Meeting with a man whose face you didn’t know was risky, but the streets were filling up, and someone had to retrieve the beeper in Toji’s stead. It’d be fine.

“Alright, I’ll see you in ten to fifteen minutes, Mister Kong.”

Your footprints chased closely after you on the way to the car, two separate trails merging every few meters when Toji would lean down to press a kiss on your lips. His kisses tasted salty after that many hours on the beach, though you wouldn’t have it any other way. You wanted to cherish those moments before they crumpled and you woke up back on your couch with the memories of a dream you’d never truly lived.

In this dream, where a tomorrow had yet to dawn, he suggested that you one day return with a towel to finish what you’d started. You talked about trying out the local specialties and staying at a nearby ryokan—because in that dream, your shift didn’t start for five hours and you could afford to break the bank.

Your last stop occurred in front of the passenger seat’s door as you dusted the sand off your clothes. He wasn’t thrilled with your covering his artwork—little pink love bites and light purple bruises lacing your collarbones and breasts—but he let you wear his shirt indefinitely this time.

“Good?” You performed a small twirl, hoping that you’d gotten all the sand off your back.

Toji gestured for you to turn around again, his palm smoothing out the fabric until it landed a muted thwack on your butt. “Now ya good.” He grinned, walking over to his seat.

You held off getting in the car, stealing a final glance at the tranquil landscape before it faded away. You said goodbye to the sand, the pebbles, and the waves, leaving the trees for last, when the outline of something crawling among some rocks attracted your attention.

The creature in discussion had eight long limbs and a seemingly liquid head it dragged behind it, bits of seaweed sticking out of its coral complexion.

“Is that a curse?” You pointed at the horizon, forcing Toji to peek outside the window.

“That’s an octopus. Probably hitchhiked on the riptide.” He fixed the right-side mirror and closed the door. “Not everything’s a curse, dummy. Ya might not see another in your life—best forget it ever happened.”

He was right. You’d lived twenty seven years without a curse making a move. There was no reason to believe they’d suddenly start swarming you as if you were dipped in honey.

Once you were both inside the car, he twisted the key in the ignition, only for the engine to sputter and then immediately die. You knew the bare minimum about cars, so you assumed he knew what he was doing when he stepped outside and popped the hood to take a look at the machinery. You even thought the kick he gave the front wheel was part of some ritual to fix the failure, until he opened your door for you and, with an irritated smile, declared you weren’t going to believe this.

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