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surielstea · 27 days

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Sunshine in the Shade

Based on this request

Pairing: Azriel x DayCourt! Reader

Summary: Reader can't stay in the night court for long when she's bound to day. Azriel and her have to share a goodbye.

Warnings: minimal angst but mostly fluff

A/N: sorry this took me so long to get out, I was struggling figuring out the concept of the original req, I'm still not very happy with it but I hope you guys enjoy nonetheless :) p.s I had to repost cuz my tags weren’t working, sorry if you were notified twice lol.

2.9k words

"That's a lie!" I throw a piece of popcorn at a giggling Morrigan. "Nuh-uh," She shakes her head with a big grin. "I'm The Morrigan I only speak the truth," She shrugs and I roll my eyes, clutching my bowl of popcorn to my chest as she claims 'I'm the prettiest girl she's ever seen'.

"Shut up," I scoff as she wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me close. "I mean it," She croons. "Azriel's a lucky male, don't you think Fey?" Her arms slip from around me as she turns to look at the High Lady. "She gets it from her Father," Feyre intoned with a mouthful of chocolate cake and I rolled my eyes at the mention of the High Lord of the Day Court.

It was late in the afternoon, so late that it'd be night soon. I shake my head, trying not to think about when the moon meets the stars. I stifle a sigh and lean on the railing of the roof atop one of Rhysand's many estates, staring out at the three males who were flying around each other like boys again.

When I was seven, my father was an apprentice for spell cleaving. He had been practicing warding spells when I had come into the room with a bright grin on my face excited to show him my new drawing. In a moment of distraction, his spell had shot straight into my heart, the effects irreversible. We hadn't found out the full extent of the spell until we had been traveling to different courts for meetings and as soon as the sun slipped from the sky and night began to rule, my heart stopped beating and I was hospitalized for weeks.

So I was only allowed to leave during the day, as long as I came back right before sunrise. A rule that made it impossibly challenging to see my mate, who happened to be darkness incarnate.

I take a sip of my wine as I watch Azriel soar with his brothers, a rare smile on his face that makes adoration bloom in my chest. "That boy loves you," Amren hums from beside me and I roll my eyes, tearing them away from my mate to look over at her. "No shit," I scoff and a snarky smile curves her lips. "No, he loves you," She murmurs, eyes on the three boys as they laugh amongst each other. "I've never seen him so happy in all the years I've been around him, don't ruin that," She looks at me and it's as if she can see straight through me to my bare soul, past the flesh and bone and to my inner core that held the truest version of me. "What do you—" I begin but I'm cut off by a gust of wind as a figure lands on the railing that I leaned on. "Fly with me," A familiar voice says as Azriel bends down and cups my face in his hands, forcing me to look up at him. "You won't pretend to drop me like last time?" I narrow my eyes on him, forgetting about Amrens words now that he was here, cradling my face. "Nope," He bites at his bottom lip like he always does when he lies to me. "I know you're lying," I sing and he grumbles a curse, leaning in and pressing a kiss to my lips. "Ok, promise I won't." He smushes my cheeks together. I can't help but put every ounce of my trust in him and believe what he says. I nod and he doesn't need any further consent than that.

He swoops me up into his arms and with a few beats of his wings, we were soaring up into the blue sky. I tighten my hold around him with a small squeal. I had a horrible fear of heights, it was foolish to be terrified of a few hundred feet in the air when literal monsters were walking amongst Prythian but it's something that's always affected me. With Azriel, though it was different, he loved flying so much, and that smile on his face beat any fear I had.

"I won't drop you," He promised. "I know, but," I look down, dread filling my stomach at the long drop. We were higher than mountain peaks. He pulls me closer to him. "Hey, look at me," He said and I obeyed, eyes pinned to his. "Don't look down, keep your eyes on me," He hummed and I nodded. "Feels nice, doesn't it?" He tilts his head I swallow thickly, still thinking about the ground that was so very far away.

"Hey, look at me," He repeats with more stress on his words and so I do, I look into his eyes, at the smile on his lips, the dimples on his cheeks. I feel the summer breeze on my skin and hear the laughter of my friends still on the rooftop. "I love you," I confess, hands loosening around his neck and running them through his hair. He smiled, beaming at the words. "I love you more," He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I grin, then giggle as he dips down onto my neck, his nose tickling it. Cassian soars by with a large smile on his face. "No kissing and flying!" The Illyrian shouted over his wingbeats and Azriel's lips halted on my neck while I threw my head back in laughter, remembering the last time Azriel got too lost in kissing me and stopped flying momentarily, putting all of his attention to my lips instead. We dove for only a second before he regained consciousness. But ever since then, Azriel wasn't allowed to put his lips anywhere near mine while flying.

My head lifted back up and I looked at him with a loving smile, fingers coiled in his hair as he stared at me like I hung every star in the sky.

My breath hitched as the sun began to melt into the horizon. My smile faltered and morphed into a frown. "You've gotta go?" He asks and I nod with a pout, looking at him with saddened eyes. "The daughter of the sun can't stay in the night court for long," He murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple as he navigates us back to the rooftop, leaving Rhys and Cass.

"I'm sorry Az, I want to stay," I say. "I know, it's okay my love," He places my feet down onto solid land and even if I am afraid of heights, I'd much rather be up in the air instead of down here, signaling my exit.

"It's only for the night," He shrugs, settling down onto the railing of the rooftop though despite his reassuring words, something in his gaze told me he wouldn't be sleeping until he saw me again. "Oh, Az," I crash into him with enough force to knock us both over the railing but he doesn't falter, only embraces me back as I hug him tightly. "Why don't you come with me?" I ask and he tilts his head down at me with a frown. "You know your father will kill me," He shakes his head. "I don't care, I'm nearly four hundred years old, I can do what I want," I say. "And I want you," I cup his cheeks, analyzing his features as if I'll forget them. "Except you can't," He murmurs with a sad smile on his face, his thumb pulling slightly at my lower lip.

My shoulders slump and I wrap my arms around him yet again, nuzzling my nose into his shoulder. "Fly me back?" I asked softly into his neck. My fear of flying was outmatched by another moment with him.

"I was planning on it," He pressed kisses atop the crown of my head but neither of us backed up, just staying in that warm, comforting position until the sun got too low in the sky and I knew it was time to go.

"Bye, guys! See you in a month!" I wave to the others with a fake grin across my features. They all bid their farewells with pitying smiles on their faces. "I'll miss you," Mor tangles her arms around me, tearing me from a disgruntled Azriel. "Not as much as I'll miss you," I sing, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Well now I’m sun-kissed," She holds a hand to where my lips were and I giggle, pulling away and going back into Azriel's arms who was grumbling something about the joke being dumb, but I knew he was just jealous.

"Alright, alright, let's go," Azriel swoops me off my feet and carried me bridal style before Mor could get another word in— then took off to the skies, the cool wind nipping at my cheeks as we rose above the mountain peeks and begin navigating south, in the direction my mate's flown me countless times. "Bye Rhys!" I wave to the High Lord as we pass him. "Awe is it that time already!" Cassian whined, soaring to his brother's side with an apparent frown on his face. "I'll be back don't worry," I grin over at him. "I have no doubt you will," He sighs then turns back without another word and joins a waving Rhys.

About twenty minutes of flying later I knew the sun was too low in the sky to be excusable any longer.

"Az I gotta winnow," I say tiredly, hand cradling the side of his neck. "You have to be tired, plus you still have to fly back," I explain and he shakes his head. "I could fly you around for days." He reassured and I frowned up at him. "You know I have to leave," I huff. "I know," He nods. I lean upward and press a gentle, yearning kiss to his lips.

"No kissing and flying, remember?" He mumbles onto my lips. I smile at the recollection, pressing my mouth harder to his. "I'll see you soon, okay?" I whisper and he nods with creased brows and an aching heart.

His scarred fingers dig into my thigh, searing his touch into me in case I ever forgot it. "Don't miss me too much, yeah?" I ask and he smiles weakly before uttering, "I'll try."

"I'll see you tomorrow," I sigh. "I'll be there to pick you up," He reassured and my grin faltered, then as a silent goodbye, I pressed my lips to his, holding his face with enough delicacy you'd think he was made of glass. His lips press harder onto mine. It wasn't lustful or hungry, but it was passionate and full of pining. "Love you, Az," I whisper into his mouth, and before he can reply I winnow away, leaving his arms empty with only the weight of my absence, the bond between us wearing thin as I return back to my native court, a place that no longer felt like home when every element I had of a real home was in Night.

I had winnowed right into the dining room of the Day Palace, my plate already on my spot at the table. "You're late," My father grumbled, I tossed him a glance. He sat at the head of the table, a girl half-dressed in his lap. "Gods, seriously Dad?" I shield my eyes as I grab my plate, deciding not to eat in front of something that would easily make me lose my appetite. "In my defense, I didn't think you were coming home," He shrugs sassily and I roll my eyes at his behavior. "Yeah whatever, goodnight," I mutter, getting to the large doors leading to the hall. "Will I see you tomorrow?" He asks before I can slip out. "Probably not, Az is coming to get me in the morning," I mutter and he utters a curse. "I never see you anymore," He whines childishly, making a small smile spread across my lips. "I'm sorry but my days are promised to him," I open the door wider. "Unless you're willing to let him join us for dinner sometime?" I offer and he scoffs. "I'm not feeding someone who stole my baby girl," He grumbled. "That's what I thought," I nod. "Night, Dad!" I call before slipping out the door, closing it behind me with a soft click.

I travel down the halls of the palace made of sunstone and opalescent glass, taking bites of my food occasionally but I wasn't all that hungry since I ate with Rhysand's inner circle less than an hour ago. I breathe a deep sigh as I finally arrive at my room, entering then kicking the door shut as I make my way over to my desk, setting my plate and fork down before going over to my armoire and pulling myself out of the lightweight dress I wore, slipping into a nightgown instead as I prepared myself for bed, light still in the sky.

My sleep schedule had been all sorts of messed up, I had the sleeping habits of a five-year-old. Waking up at dawn and going to bed at dusk. It was unfair of me to have Azriel spend every waking hour with me during the day but it was the only time I got to see him, I couldn't spend nights with him, and couldn't sleep in the same bed.

I huff as I slide onto my mattress, pulling the covers up to my chin as my black-out curtains do the best they can to block out any remaining sunlight.

I rubbed my eyes tiredly and attempted sleep for at least an hour before I was finally able to drift off into a light slumber, knowing the sooner I fell asleep, the sooner I'd see my mate again.

——

I wake up to a light sound of thudding outside my window, then a drumming on the glass like someone was tapping against it. But I was on the highest point in the palace, the most protected and secured part of the entire court.

I sit up slightly panicked, but the tapping stops and I suppose it's my imagination, running my hands through my hair and blaming it on being overtired. But as soon as my head hits my pillow once more the sound returns. I spring up and crawl over to my bedside window, pulling up the blackout curtains with a confused expression.

My brows shoot to my hairline as I spot a familiar winged figure on the other side of the glass. I immediately open the window, pushing it to its highest point. "What are you doing here?" I question. "I missed you," Azriel shrugs and I facepalm. "Now scoot over, my wings won't fit with you right there," He gestures to me towards the end of the bed. "Are you insane? You're not coming in," I whisper shout and he frowns. "Why not?" He murmurs sadly. "My dad will kill you if he sees you," I grit out and he shrugs. Gods, I felt like a teenager sneaking my boyfriend in.

"C'mon sunshine," He sighs, his wings slowly flapping as to keep quiet. "We'll be gone by dawn," He reasons and I stifle a curse before moving out of the way and allowing room for him to enter. Shadows protect his wings as he pushes himself through the large window that he made look small.

As soon as he through I tackle him into a hug, pressing kisses along the side of his face. He chuckles, hand coming to the back of my neck. "Thought you didn't want me in here?" He taunts and I move away, looking down at him with a wide grin. "That was before," I shake my head, leaning down and wrapping my arms around his neck, lying atop him as if I couldn't get close enough to him. "Before what?" He scoffs. "Before you were in my bed," I reason. "But now you are and I don't ever want you leaving," I say into his shoulder and he grins brightly. "Have you slept?" I ask, twining my fingers into his hair. I feel him shake his head no and I internally sigh at his insomniac habits. "Alright, c'mon," I pull him up by the collar of his shirt, towards the pillows of my bed. He follows with a content smile, flopping down onto my mattress as I slip in beside him, pulling the blankets over us as I cuddle into his side, head on his chest, arm slung over his torso while he tucks me in close between him and his wing.

"How'd you get past the guards?" I perk up, looking at him puzzled. "I'm the spymaster, aren't I?" He smiles tiredly and I return it. "Not even the pegasuses noticed?" I say with a frown. "How are you so awake?" He asks, his hand coming to my cheek and I shrug. "I'm happy you're here," I explain and his grin widens, his scarred thumb pulling at my lower lip. "Go to sleep, I'll still be here in the morning," He reassured and I believed him.

I hadn't realized just how much I wanted this until I had it. His arms around me, shadows settling over us. We've cuddled before, on couches or daybeds, but nothing like this, not with the intention of sleeping. There was something so intimate about it, how he trusted me enough to fully fall out of consciousness with his arms wrapped around me.

I smile, a warm fuzzy feeling blooming in my chest. I lean up and peck beneath his jaw. "Goodnight, Az," I murmur. "Night sunshine," He softly replies and that was all I needed to hear before I faded into that familiar embrace of sleep.

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fanaticsnail · 4 months

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Sapsorrow Chapter 7

Masterlist Here, Sapsorrow Masterlist Here

Word Count: 8,800+

The Storyteller - Sapsorrow"Whom so ever fits the ring becomes wed to the warlord who owns it"Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope.

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Tag List: @maybe-a-bi-witch @fuzzyfestcat @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @be-good-please @little-bunnybabe @sukilovesyou @buggyenjoyer @thesailus @under-kitty @acehyacinth @andriannag @one17 @canthebest1 @khaleesihavilliard @quirkyrascal @hungrhay @sentieence @lebanese-afg-ya @captaincupio @szired @sexc-snail @alphaash99 @mfreedomstuff @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mrs-wolfwood

Notes: Thank you to @i-am-vita for her banner! Thank you for your patience, I had this chapter beta-read twice. Thank you to @since-im-already-here and @vespidphoenix for their kindness in volunteering to do that for me! Such love and appreciation for you both.

Song Suggestions: Casper's Lullaby,

Their Wedding Serendade: Turning Page - Sleeping At Last

“I will not marry him.”

Her voice held such sorrow, but her cries fell on deaf ears as her governess began to tug her hair into place with the rough scrape of a bone comb. Thrown onto her hands, pale gloves thrust up to her elbows by the hands of her ladies maids; her shoulder straps readjusted to float down her forearms like beams of radiant moonlight.

“He has heard your demands, and seen them done. You are his princess...”—her governess’ voice paused while she shook her head to rid her eyes of her own tears—“...and now you are his bride. You bound yourself to him the moment you placed that damned band over your unity finger.” The small quiver in her tone had the princess’ eyes spilling over with a fresh stream of hot tears.

Immediately springing to her feet and snatching her hair out of the firm grip of her ladies maid, she flung herself against the corner of the room. Her face was littered with tears, her eyes swollen and lip bruised from the force of her teeth clamping on them.

“My princess,” the governess spoke, her hands quivering as they reached out in an anxiety induced panic, “You have been training your whole life to marry royalty. This was a title you were born to bear. You are to be queen of your lands, ruler of your home country. With your union to the king-.”

“-I will not marry him!” She beat her gloved hands against the wall, her enclosed fists almost shattering her bones atop the cobblestone walls. Sobs rocked her shoulders, her wails echoing throughout the hallway and flooded the ceremony space with her grief. Attendees held a similar somber expression, along with royal subjects celebrating with glee at the prospect of a new queen.

“My lady,” the governess’ voice shook as she stepped closer to the shaking princess and placed her hand over her shaking shoulder, “My lady, please.”

The bloodshot eyes of the royal princess snapped up to her with a cold and frightening stare.

“What would you have me do, my governess? Wed this man who is more than twice my age? Dine with this man, consummate a union with this man? A man who already rules over these lands as king? A man who i-is-...”

Her eyes fluttered closed as a fresh surge of tears fell from her darkened orbs.

“A man who is my father?”

The princess rounded on her ladies in waiting, her eyes now incandescent with helpless rage. “What would you do?” she continued. “What would any of you do, were you in my place? The law of the land binds me to this ring. I have become plagued by an unnatural and grotesque curse-.” Her voice halted in her throat, plagued by her own revelation.

That is exactly what this was. This was a curse.

A curse on her soul to bind her in matrimony to her own flesh and blood. Where other children dreamed of fairytale romance, being spirited away into the arms of a lover, she was bound by fate to this ring.

The princess’s gaze landed on a pot of water hanging in the fireplace. As she walked in that direction, her eyes never leaving it, the water went from simmering to bubbling to boiling over. Hardening her resolve, she grasped the iron handle and removed it from its place above the fire.

“My lady! What are you-,” the calls of her ladies in waiting were silenced by a single look from the governess.

The princess’ sobs began to crack and cackle into maniacal and sinister laughter.

“I will curse you. I will curse all of you,” she booms, casting the glove from her left hand to reveal a violet ring encrusted with an array of several stones bound within a thick band. Nine stones of unique colors danced within the light, their forms melded into a large central stone in the middle. The green hue of moss overshadowed the radiance of the smaller stones, the thick band dwarfing her unity finger.

“If you are thinking of casting it into the fire, my lady,” the governess stepped closer, her hands held with palms facing outwards in defense, “The damage is already done. You are bound to marry him, there is nothing you can do.”

The princess flung the band from her finger and threw the object into the iron pot.

“In that hopelessness, I shall thee bind,” she intones in a hundred voices, at once of the deepest bass and highest soprano. The attendees within her chambers stepped back, some thrust onto their knees under the powerful boom of her voice.

“Whosoever shall find, claim or attune to these crafts, their souls shall be cursed under the plague of unity,” she continued, her hair shifting in colors and tones to several shades closer to death, “May their suffering feed my heart with gladness and life, as my suffering brings gladness onto thee.”

“-My lady,” the governess spoke, her eyes widening in fear as she witnessed the princess wither beneath her curses, “My lady, please-.”

“-And as my yearning for a love true and just shall never be quenched,” the princess’ voice hitched, her own tone dominant within the vocal strands of external forces, “I will allow the wearer to place a plague of conditions on their heart the moment the craft is thrust upon them.”

Her hair whipped in the unnatural wind, the ring now smelting down into a lava of molten gold. The gems began dancing within the pale light as smoke poured from them in hues darker than night.

“Should their conditions never be completed,” the princess continued, her heart swelling with vicious rage, “I will claim their souls and bind them to my own in eternal suffering a year from the day it begins.” She ripped a fistful of her vibrant hair, placing it within the concoction alongside her tears.

The ladies in waiting, the maids, and the governess clutched their hearts and covered their screams with their hands as the clouds of smoke spread through the chambers.

“My lady!” The governess shrieked, “Princess, please! You do not know what it is you are making. This unnatural phylactery has no place in the lands of the living. My princess-.”

“Your Queen,” her voice boomed, her pupil-less gaze snapping over to her governess. Her face contorted into an unnatural and cool gray tone, her vibrant hair lifeless in hue while whipping around her face within waves of spectral ocean.

“My queen,” the governess repeated, bowing her head to the royal witch. Her hue returned to her, the gold simmering down as she poured the liquid onto the coals below the surface. An unnatural steam rose within the flames, the vapors smelling of metallic blood mixed with the sweetness of honey.

“I-I just-...” the princess wailed in defeat, her shoulders slouched, “-I just wanted to find love, governess. I wanted so desperately to find peace with a spouse of my own choosing. I wanted a partner to court me; to woo me, to cherish me. I never wanted-.”

“Sapsorrow, your king awaits you,” A voice called from behind the door, interrupting the unnatural scene within. As the ladies glanced nervously between the princess and the door, the final words of the princess’ confession bound all but one stone within nine rings, leaving the central moss agate laying dormant, as if awaiting a final command.

“I just wanted a love that was truly mine.”

The echo of those final words plagued your mind, dancing as the concept of time began to mould from the past and spring you into your future. The repetition of ‘truly mine’ rotated and stirred within your slumber, breaking the peace you had once found for yourself beneath your bedsheets. You catapulted from your huddled pile of blankets into an upright position; your damp hair clung to your brow and sweat stuck your nightdress to your body. Your plagued slumber left you with more questions than answers.

Had the spectre wanted you to see that image? Did she have control over your mind, did your attunement to the moss agate ring bind to you? Drawing your right hand up to your face, you rotated your thumb and index finger over your temples to rid yourself of the nightmare that seemed to persist each time you lay down to slumber.

A light rap at your door had you jolting from your thoughts, snapping your head towards the wall and hastily making your way over to the interruption.

“Governess!” A hushed feminine whisper called to you, “Governess, can I come in?” Perona continued her polite rapping, the drum of her knuckles gathering up rapidity against the wood in an anxious thump. You sighed, shaking your head and allowing a small smile to dance over your features.

Collecting the iron handle beneath your hands, you open the door and immediately become overwhelmed by the embrace of your pink-haired pupil. She squealed into your ear, bouncing happily on the balls of her feet as she attempted to twirl you.

“You are getting married to Mihawk today!” Her voice squeaked with high-pitched enthusiasm, “Have you tried on your dresses? Have you written your vows? Did you read his letter yet? Have you thought about your perfume? How are you doing your hair? Are you doing it in three different styles for the three different outfits?”

The sheer rapidity of her questions had you unable to find an anchor to hold them. You fluttered your eyelashes shut, shaking your head hastily and attempting to wrap your mind around her flurry of words.

“Of course you haven’t read his letter yet, I still have it! I am scatterbrained today, my lady. I can barely contain all of the excitement!” She continued, breaking away her contact from you and thrusting a wax-sealed envelope into your hands.

“Perona-?” You began, your voice halting as she danced past you into your chambers and staring at the two mannequins in the corner of your bedroom beside your changing shield. Her voice caught in her throat, all air relinquished from ballooning her lungs. You turned to face her, holding the envelope close to your chest as a warmer smile drew itself to your features.

“O-Oh-... Oh m-my-...” Perona’s words found no harbour against her lips, all thoughts became silenced within her mind as she hovered over to the dresses. You allowed a warm giggle to rise within your throat at her fawning over the objects.

“Do you like them?” You asked her, cocking your head over to the right hand side to find a better angle to read her face.

“They are beautiful, my lady,” she whispered, reaching her hand towards the sleeve of Sir Crocodile’s creation and halting before her digits found purchase, “Can I touch them-?”

“-Don’t you dare, Perona,” A gruff, masculine voice called from the corner of the room. You snapped your face over to the doorway, noticing Zoro donned in lengthy tan sleeping trousers and a dark yukata hanging limply at the front.

“Zoro!” You gasped, drawing your chemise closer to contain your form from his eyes, “It is one thing having Perona in my personal suite, but another to have a young gentleman while I’m clad in my nightdress.” Zoro shook his head, his wolfy grin taunting you beneath his down tilted head.

“Would you change your tune if I said I have wine?” Zoro’s brow quirked up, revealing a green bottle from behind his back with a small, nonchalant shrug. You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head and removing your arms from concealing your chemise from vision.

“Have you got a saber tucked somewhere on your person, Zoro?” You quirked your own brow up in question. Zoro laughed, turning away from his lean to reveal three swords clinging limply against his hip.

“You can take your pick, my lady,” he shrugged, his hand lying on the hilt of his favoured blade. You opened your arms to him, gesturing for him to enter your suite with an elaborate flurry of motions.

“Then by all means, my green-haired pupil,” you mixed your tone somewhere balanced between absolute sarcasm and unwithheld appreciation, “Welcome to my humble abode. Shall we begin by getting ourselves ready for the ceremony, or having a drink before breakfast?”

Zoro answered wordlessly with a small smirk. Withdrawing the white blade from within its scabbard to claim the cork from the top of the wine bottle, and unlatching the wax by severing the rim with his sword. He reached towards your small dining table, upturning three of the four teacups from their place atop their saucers and pouring the amber liquid to the brim.

“You gonna open your letter?” he asked, nodding to the envelope clutched within your hands and reminding you of its presence, “We’ll do a small cheers and give you a bit of privacy to read it.”

“I hope you are both planning on giving Mihawk a similar wake-up call,” you laughed, reaching forward and claiming a teacup from Zoro’s outstretched grasp. Zoro chuckled, shaking his head as he raised his own teacup to clash the rim with your own.

“Oh, he’s been up for hours,” Zoro confessed, Perona giggling as he handed her her own teacup, “He’s been brooding in the ceremony space: hovering over the decor and pacing, last time I checked.” Perona struck the corner of her teacup against Zoro’s before meeting the edge with your own. Your brows furrowed, glancing from the corner of your eye outside your bedroom window to seek out the elevation of the sun.

“How many hours remain between now and the ceremony?” you asked Perona with a partial anxious quiver depicted within. Perona stepped forward, brushing her shoulder against yours in a small gesture of comfort.

“You’ve got two hours, my lady,” she whispered, prompting your heart to nearly stop beating and your breath to halt in your lungs, “That’s why I thought to wake you-.”

“-And why I thought to bring you booze,” Zoro added, throwing back his teacup and downing the contents in one heaping gulp, “Just to take the edge off.” Your hands stuttered, taking a small sip of the wine within your cup before setting it back down.

“I thank you both for your thoughtfulness, my dears,” you gave them a small downturned smile, your brows triangulating in the center of your forehead, “I have thoroughly enjoyed my time getting to know you as my pupils-.”

“You’re going to be our lady now, my lady,” Perona added to your thoughts, “No longer just our governess, but something akin to an adoptive mother beside Mihawk as our apprehensive father.” Your breath caught in your throat, hitching at the thought of becoming unified not only to a spouse today, but upholding a promise to chaperone the two wards at a place of higher standing.

“Don’t think too hard about it, my lady,” Zoro reassured, his brow furrowing down. Placing his mug down on the table, he reached his hands up to clasp your shoulders beneath his heavy-handed grip, “You’ve already got so much goin’ on in your head, just know-,'' his breath caught in his throat as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. He was bewitched by the charm of your melancholy and apprehensive expression, your doubts begin to spiral behind your eyes.

‘You are not good enough for this role. This is not your place. This is not a role you were born to play. This was a role that always belonged to someone of higher standing; someone of higher class-.’

“-Know we would be proud to have you as our lady, not just a governess hired to serve a role,” Zoro continued, collecting your chin beneath his fingertips to hold your gaze with his own. Perona stepped her body closer to you, weaving her arms around your waist and hastily drawing her cheek to press against your back.

“I can hear her too, my lady,” Perona whispered into your back, prompting you to break your eyes away from Zoros to glance over your shoulder. Perona’s large, dark eyes looked up at you with sorrow and understanding held within her orbs, promises of empathy propelling her utterances, “And any words she brings onto you harbouring doubt, I will smother you in nothing but kindness and love to reassure you.”

Heart swelling at her utterances, your eyes began to pool over with gladness. The mist of your eyes clouded your vision as Perona continued to sing her praises into you.

“I love you, my lady,” Perona hushed, her eyes beginning to dance with her own emotion. Her lip quivered, looking up into your eyes with true adoration and love at you, “We both do, don’t we Zoro?” At the sound of his name, Zoro’s breath caught itself within his mouth for the second time.

You trailed your eyes back over to his, breaking away from your contact with Perona, and meeting his hazelnut orbs with your own once more. No whisper of a word, nor utterance fled his lips; all emotion depicted in the slight shudder of his eye and quirk up of his lips. Sighing out, you drew your arms around Zoro’s waist, turning your head to feel his heartbeat below his warm chest. Perona continued to nuzzle against your back as Zoro’s hands on your shoulders snaked over your back and pulled you both closer to him.

“I am so glad to have met you both, dears,” you whispered, scrunching your eyes shut and deeply inhaling your insecurities, exhaling your worries into the air as they held you firmly.

“Zoro, you need a bath. You stink, and I can smell you from here,” Perona called over your shoulder, “I pity your proximity, my lady. He’s probably spilling that musky smell onto you, meaning we’ll have to bath you too- My lady! We’re running out of time!” Perona immediately broke away from the embrace, tugging at your hips to break from Zoro’s grip and leading you to the changing shield.

“You: bath,” Perona ordered, pointing her finger at Zoro, “And you,” she snapped her eyes over to you, “Moon-dress first, right?” You sighed, nodding your dismissal of Zoro with a light smile. Zoro grunted a cough, adjusting his waistband around his yukata, and nodded in return before exiting your chambers. He halted at the table, collecting the half-drunk wine bottle by the neck, before heading through the door and latching it again with a small click.

“My lady, the moon first?” Perona asked once more, taking your attention from the door to gaze into her eyes. You nodded in confirmation, prompting her to shove you behind your changing screen to rid your body of its night chemise. You folded the chemise over the door of the screen, as the variety of items presented themselves to you in order from lesser to grander.

“Perona, sweetheart,” you called to her, your voice holding an anxious laugh, “There is far too much material here for me to continue thrusting this onto my body.” Perona laughed in response, walking over to the screen and peeking over the top of the wooden frame. She inhaled deeply, a small squeak propelling her inhale. Her brows rose in excitement, her eyes upturning in glee at the first part of the assembly of the moon dress.

The bodice of the dress clung to your breasts, an ovular shape wisping in layers of tulle and smoothed satin to draw over the midpoint of your shoulders. Trailing down from its seamless layers, your back was joined with an elaborate assortment of ridges and latches. Upon investigating it initially, you were unsure of why such items were joined in bands of silver, onyx and gold to its back until it hit you.

This was truly the moon.

The silvery hue of the beams, the mystery of fluttered blues and pale whites cascading from end to end; all bound by circular divots of darkened onyx and quartz to resemble faces and craters atop the lunar surface. The many layers of skirts laid a train ending in the same ovular shape as the neckline atop your chest.

“O-Oh, my g-goodness,” Perona’s voice managed to stutter out, her soul mirrored within her expression of youthful adoration and excitement, “You look so beautiful, my lady. As luminescent and radiant as the moon in peak of nightful.” You sighed with your smile, brows upturning and weight falling away from your shoulders.

You gave Perona a small twirl, the material pooling and drifting as effortlessly as warm mercury over cool stone. She gave you a small applause and a small jittery cry of joy before ushering you over to sit at your vanity. Glancing up at your features, the illumination of the dress mixed perfectly with the tone of your skin and hair.The task had been executed flawlessly.

“Now then, my lady,” she said, shaking her head and clapping her hands, “I am going to leave you to get yourself primed, painted and dressed with the jewellery-,” Her eyes widened, “-Jewellery, my lady! I have to get the jewellery!” She hastily turned back around and fled to the door, flinging it wide and immediately cowering away from a large, balled fist descending to where wood once was.

You recognised the scent first, the smell of cigar tobacco and ashen smoke wafting into your chambers mixing with the expensive and earthy cologne of the hulking and boorish-.

“-Sir Crocodile,” you uttered as you began to rise from your vanity. Turning to face him, the intimidating aura of the hulking man hung behind the threshold of your door.

“My lady,” he nodded his head in response, his head ducking below the frame to meet the purple hue of his eyes with your own, “May I enter your space?” Perona sucked in a breath, darting her eyes between the man at the door and you in your bridal dress in a small panic. Without turning his head, Sir Crocodile’s eyes met with Perona’s through the corner of his narrowed gaze.

“I harbour no ill intent with your mistress, little mouse,” Perona pouted at his words, prompting the twitch of his smirk to pull at the corner of his lips. He cleared his voice, removing the cigar from his lips and extinguishing the flame atop the stone wall beside the door frame; an action prompting your lips to curl in a small snarl.

“As I were the means to provide you with such a dress,” his sinister smirk drew up to his cheeks, the huff of cigar smoke pooling from his lips, “I desired to be the first to see you in your radiancy. How are you enjoying your daw' alqamar-,” he shook his head in reprimand for his verbal linguistic slip, “-Your moonlight, my lady?”

Several thoughts lingered in your mind: a reprimand for using your wall to douse the burnt end of his cigar, asking him to leave your space to continue dressing yourself for your wedding, thanking him for the skill that designed and crafted the garment over your body. Elevating to your feet and walking over to the door frame with precision and grace, you halted your movement and dipped into a low stooped curtsey.

“Sir Crocodile,” you spoke in a low and stern tone, “I would offer my praises and my gratitude to you presently,” your tone twitched in subtle agitation as you rose to your feet, “But I am a bride, and my groom is awaiting me.” Crocodile hummed through his nose, his smirk continuing to hold against his lips as he stared down at you. He took a moment to stare at your bodice, his brow twitching as he cocked his head.

After taking a moment's pause, his eyes softened to a point almost unavailable to an untrained eye.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” he offered in a hushed whisper, “That dress was made for you by my means,” he stooped lower, remaining outside the threshold but hovering closer to you in proximity, “And you wear it as it you were born to don such a garment.”

At those final words, both Perona and Sir Crocodile left you in your solace to prepare yourself for your wedding ceremony. As you applied the final stroke of paint to dance atop your lips, from the corner of your eye; you spotted the parchment paper sealed with a wax stamp not dissimilar to the letter of summons from Mihawk those months ago.

Placing down your lip-paint brush, you reached for the letter and unfolded the crease and snapping the small seal holding it closed. Immediately, your eyes widened at its contents:

“My Beloved Wife,

In light of harbouring no such secrets between us; I have written the vows I desired to forge with you, and present them to you before we meet for the first time as husband and wife.”

You halted your reading, the swell of emotion elevating your heart to a risen drumbeat of both adoration and anticipation. Quickly reading through the customs he wished to claim over the ceremony, your smile broke your sorrow as you truly witnessed how much thought he placed into each declaration and decree. So many elements, so many customs you were learning held meaning for your husband to be; you found yourself awestruck.

“I have no such means for communication with you before we meet to truly know if you agree with the terms.

But know this,

I appreciated you for your skill as a governess to our wards, I found myself smiling at your playfulness as my Lost-Lady, and I am looking forward to the future that we will find ourselves forging; unified as one.

My darling, I do

I will.

And I will always love you.

Dracule Mihawk ~ Your Devoted Husband.”

A small drop soaked the page, swelling the signature lovingly scrolled ink into the bottom of the page, smudging its words. Shocked, you rose your hand to your cheek to find a damp trail of tears falling against your cheeks; completely unaware of when you had begun to cry. A small laugh flung from your lips, prompting you to sniff and shake your head before setting to the task of reapplying your paints and perfumes to the highest quality.

The final step was placing the cascading veil atop your hair and covering your eyes, sheer in material appearing to illuminate pale blue under the lights. In your hand, you clutched your bouquet of lilies, roses, and baubles of babies’ breath. Nestled into the arrangement peered throughout were small wisps of blue forget-me-nots, a small nod to your prior filterless encounter with your Farm-Hand and you as his Lost-Lady.

The halls were littered with similar flowers, illuminating the area with bulbs of roses, flurries of jasmines and hiding within the scattered arrangements: the same innocent and small forget-me-nots in clusters joined with twine. Although walking alone, you felt the presence of all guests loitering within the ceremonial space of Castle Kuraigana to propel you.

Murmurs of hushed voices, small conversations resonated within the halls and beyond had your heart beating with irregular jumps in anticipation for what awaits you behind the large, closed doors. You sucked in a breath, the trail of your moonlight dress dancing along the lengthy hallway for each movement of your feet.

‘You are truly going through with this, are you? Joining yourself to a role that you have no place in unifying with-.’

“-Sapsorrow,” your hushed voice rang into the air, the atmosphere cooling at the immediate utterance of her name. Whispers and hushed hums alerted you of her presence standing beside you in her spectral regality.

“You dare speak my name, Governess?” the voice to your side answered you, your spine and follicles standing in tingles at her tone. You rolled your neck on your shoulders, twitching your hands by your side to rid it of your anxiety as you turned to face the spirit haunting you.

Her hollowed eyes framing her pupil-less gaze found your face, her sinister smile resting comfortably against her lips. Hair swiping in a wind not present as she moved, her dress pooling at her feet like a flag within water. She was a horror to behold, but there was a deep melancholy reflected in her eyes.

“Queen Sapsorrow,” you stooped low, bowing yourself almost to the floor with your humility, “I express my gratitude to you.” You heard her spectral voice hitch in her unnatural throat, her animosity fleeing from her in the wake of curiosity. Before she opened her mouth to speak her taunts to you, you spoke once more as you rose to your feet.

“I have no parents; no father, nor mother,” you confessed to her, your eyes depicting your honesty through each word spoken, “No family to call my own, until this very moment.” You stepped closer to her, reaching out your hand to bare your right palm to her.

“I was alone in this world, drifting from place to place and finding purpose as a governess - an excellent governess,” you corrected yourself with a smile. Her uneasy and cautious expression unwavering for each parting moment you held her hostage with your words.

“You are the reason I am here, and I will forever be grateful to the future you had bound to me,” She clicked her tongue at you, scrunching her nose to reveal her snarl at you. You hardened your resolve and continued, “Two wards: a man akin to a roguish son, alongside a beautiful and delightful daughter. In this unity: I have found a love that is truly mine,” you concluded, a warmer smile drawing up to reveal your teeth to her in a kind smile.

Sapsorrow’s eyes widened, her unbeaten heart fluttering and reigniting within her chest at hearing her own words reflected from the lips of another.

“Would you care to join me as I take the walk?” you offered her, stepping closer to her and continuing to hold your hand elevated to the front of you.

“Excuse me?” Her spectral voice called, her tone somewhere between offended and bewildered at such an offering.

“Would you care to join me as I take the walk, Sapsorrow?” you again offered, gesturing to her spectral hand with your forehead, “From what I know of your history in the tale once told to me, you deserve your own happy ending. Walk with me, and I will be glad to share mine.”

“You think my curse ends with just you?” Her form faded from vision, her voice reverberating in the hall outside of the ceremony with you, “Oh, I have eight more curses to awaken, you arrogant woman-.” Her voice held source from all corners of the hallway, “-Nine if you account for the clause that stupid tall blonde placed upon the band lying around that inked doctor’s neck!”

Her sinister cackle broke her sentence, unnerving you more than the words she was speaking,“I shall start with those who aided you in completing your conditions; the easiest of the three to ensnare will be the Crocodile, for I know where his ring lay-.”

Your breath hitched at her confession, her own words halting as she attempted to stuff them back into her undead lips. A rough spectral sigh drifted within the walls, her face once again revealed to your eyes. She looked softer, almost human now. Her hair was less wild, her face less horrifying, and her eyes soft and baring pupils within them behind her thick and lengthy eyelashes. The was truly beautiful, her sorrow depicted alongside an unfamiliar warmth in her undeath.

“I will allow your happiness to lie only with you, Lady of Kuraigana. You deserve peace today,” she confessed, a warm smile rising to her lips as she leant forward to take your hand, “Enjoy the time you have with your love.” She stepped forward, pressing her left hand against your offered right, a tingle dancing against your skin at the contact.

“This is where I leave you,” she confessed, floating backwards slowly towards the high ceilings, “But I will be watching your future closely.”

“Thank you, Sapsorrow,” you offered your gratuity by slinking down to another low bow. Halting her final exit by the upper window, she turned once more and glanced at the corner of her eye at you and smirked through the left hand corner of her lips.

“The Sun-Dress is my favourite, my lady,” her small laugh propelled one of your own to dance alongside hers, “If I had a heart, I would even show mercy on Red-Hair for such a fine craft. But alas,” her beauty once again faded into the horrifying spectre you had initially seen her as, “I do not.”

Her spectral body disappeared from the window, a swell in orchestral melody commencing as soon as she departed from the space. You were once again drawn to this single moment, your heart beating now in anxiety of what your future held for you.

You were to become Lady of Kuraigana, bound to one of the former warlords of the seas. The World’s Greatest Swordsman as your beau, the Lord of this land you were now to call home. As you began to step towards the threshold of the door, the wooden barriers were pulled back by members of staff to reveal the attendees within. At the end of the ornately decorated row, your gaze immediately found linked with the honeyed hue of your beloved.

Flowers lined the pews within the large room, candles alight with warm flames to illuminate the shadowy row. All eyes snapped to you, gasps fleeing from their lips as they took in your incredible beauty dressed in an arrangement as radiant as the moon. You could audibly hear the smirk from the hulking Sir Crocodile, as praises of your dress were flung into the air with their comments and sighs.

The music swelled, a small smile drawing up to your face as you propelled yourself forward while clutching your bouquet close to your naval. You thanked your veil from shielding your nerves from prying eyes, a small blush dusting your cheeks as you shamelessly raked your eyes over the body of your intended.

His shirt was dipped into a deep ‘V’, tasteful frills decorating the hemline against his collarbone and neck. His overcoat lay open black in colour with the softest shade of mauve within the inner shield. Dark, leather pants were clasped by a golden buckle decorating his waist, the outer frame of his thighs supporting embellished embroidery in the similar mauve decorating his overcoat. Atop his head, his signature hat with his puffed, white feather dancing behind the broad brim and shielding his curled locks beneath it.

In all your time spent with Dracule Mihawk, you could safely assume you had a grasp on how to read the subtle changes in his stoic face. His lips were barely parted, his eyes only slightly widened and his face only a single shade away from his regular hue with the dusting of the palest pink. Once again, the thought hit you like a puff of cautious wind: you were to wed Lord Dracule Mihawk, become his wife and he your husband.

If his words to you were left unread and unwritten, you would have no doubt plaguing your mind at this very moment of one thing. Lord Dracule Mihawk was hopelessly, truly and deeply in love with you.

As you approached the final steps towards him, you slowly turned to view Perona standing to the side of the aisle, noticing Zoro standing beside your intended: both holding similar expressions mirroring your own. You had all been awaiting this moment with the greatest anticipation: from the moment your accidental hands toyed with the moss agate ring, to the knowledge the curse bound you now by fate.

Mihawk opened his mouth, watching as you slowly placed your bouquet he had affectionately crafted for you within Perona’s outstretched and awaiting hands. The officiant gave you a soft smile, turning to address the large number of attendees scattered amongst the pews in their most formal attire.

“Valued and adored guests here gathered,” she began, her arms gesturing outwards in a warm embellished wave, “On behalf of the Lord and Lady to be of Kuraigana, I would bid thee welcome to witness the unification of two souls in matrimony.” Mihawk had yet to tear his eyes off you, paying attention to all words spoken by the woman in front of you, but hypnotised by your presence at his side.

“There are a few elements to witness performed here. We are to leave no stone unturned nor phrase unuttered in their bonds forming,” she continued, turning away and gathering a larger twin candles within her hands and holding them to the side of her body, “Lord Dracule, you may reveal your wife from beneath her shroud, so we may witness her declarations departing from her lips.”

Mihawk rose his hands to your collar bones, his fingertips pinching the sheer material within his thumb, index and tall finger and hastily withdrawing the shield from your face. He allowed himself the luxury of the backs of his hands brushing with your cheeks as he flung the sheer fabric over your hair, a shaken breath escaping your lips at his tender touch.

As your eyes met without filter between you, his expression finally revealed more to you than a subtle tick and twitch. The air was sucked from his lungs, his eyes softening as he found his body drawing closer to you almost against his will. You smiled up at him, adoring this new and unrefined experience of adoration dancing over his face.

“I present you with two candles,” the attendee informed you, placing them out in a gesture for you to take them from her hands, “I shall alight the wick of Lord Dracule's, and he will speak his actions and their meaning aloud.” She lit his wick, gesturing for you to turn to face one another with your candles extended in the middle of your bodies.

“With this flame,” Mihawk uttered in full clarity, “I vow to light your way through all darkness that plagues you.” He extended the flamed tip to ignite your candle in front of you.

“Under its light,” you uttered with a small bow to him, “I trust you to guide me.” A small sniff from Perona, attempting as she would to halt her emotions from expressing themselves, had a similar experience rising in Zoro behind Mihawk. The two wards witnessing their Lord and Lady now unifying themselves in matrimony finally began to find harbour within their hearts in each passing moment and gesture.

Taking the candles from you and placing them within their designated dishes on the table and elevating a silver goblet and accompanying decanter. She poured the crimson liquid within the spherical container, offering to place the cool stem within your fingertips.

“Your cup may never empty,” you expressed, offering to your swordsman the container, rotating the object twice within your hands first and bowing your head low, “For I will be the wine that fills it.” His fingers brushed over yours, grasping them and taking them with him as he elevated the wine to his lips. He continued holding his hands over yours as he offered the goblet up to your own lips.

“May I be the wine that fills your cup,” his smile twitched at the corner as he added, “And may you always be satisfied with the contents that replenishes you.” A small blush rose to your cheeks as your eyes never broke from Mihawks. He elevated the wine to your lips, allowing for a small sip to pass from your lips. The celebrant reclaimed the goblet from your hands and placed it beside the lit candles, rising now a tray with two cubes of sticky honeycomb atop the surface.

“This may get a little messy, bear with us everyone,” the attendee expressed, drawing a small teetered chuckle and rise of giggle from your guests. Mihawk allowed the softness to be depicted in his face at the small giggle that fell from your lips, both claiming the sticky cubic piece of honeycomb into your fingers.

“I shall serve you in all the ways you require,” you both spoke in unison, “And may the honeycomb taste sweeter coming from my hand.” You both placed the sticky cubes within each other’s awaiting mouths, both laughing at the mess atop your fingertips. Without hesitation, Mihawk clasped your wrist, holding your hand in place as his tongue danced around your fingertips to skillfully rid them from the honey. Your shocked expression was shrouded by the presence of Mihawk’s thumb within your own lips, prompting you to perform a similar action to suck the sticky substance to rid its presence from his digits.

Small whistles and flirtatious commentary fell from the lips of the Red-Hair pirates, hooting and hollering in their support of such an unbridled expression of lust within the ceremony. Another rise of laughter occurred between you as you retracted your fingertips from each other’s mouths. The attendee placed the tray beside the goblet and returned with two thin sheets of material and offered them to Zoro and Perona.

Perona reached forward and gathered the material within her hands, Zoro apprehensively doing the same with no frame of reference as to why he was doing so.

“The two wards under the care of Dracule Mihawk will present the ties to bind you, solidifying their positions in upholding you within your commitment to one another as your chosen witnesses,” Mihawk turned away from you, as you did him, to gather the material within the hands of the wards behind you.

“May our bond continue to grow all the years you choose to remain with us in unity, Perona,” you whispered to her, prompting her to smile through her tears that began to fall as soon as your vows commenced.

“I will stay as long as you’ll have me, my lady,” she confessed in a similar tone, offering the sash for you to take into your arms.

Although you both were too wrapped to hear the conversation occurring behind you, Zoro and Mihawk had a similar moment parting between them.

“Although you are destined to earn my title as ‘World’s Greatest Swordsman’ in single combat, I am proud to call you a son under my familial name, Zoro,” He uttered with a small twitched smirk and narrowed eyes.

“I will hold both such titles with honour, Lord Mihawk,” he reached forward, his arms containing the sash and prompting both Mihawk and you to return in facing one another.

“May this knot you tie demonstrate to those present here the symbol of your unity,” the attendee uttered to you, prompting a skillful dance of fingertips brushing and hands clasping one another to tie the two sheets into a single knot in the centre. You and Mihawk both presented the unified material to the celebrant, who collected it from you by the knot in the centre. She placed the knot beside the dish containing the small syrupy honeycomb remnants, raising a box containing two bands of gold within.

“My lady, you may raise your hand to place the ring atop your beau’s unity finger and relay your vows onto him,” she gestured for you to claim the larger band within the box, elevating it to his left hand and hovering it over his fingertip.

“My beloved,” you began, glancing from his hand to dart your focus between his two honey-coloured eyes, “These are the vows of promise I swear unto you, unifying us in marriage.” He awaited expectantly his breath hitching once more as you relayed your confession of love onto him.

“I will never possess you, for you belong to none but yourself,” you smiled at him, beginning the descent of his ring slowly over his finger, “I cannot command you, for you are free.” Shimmying the object over his first knuckle, you continued to relay your vows.

“I pledge to you that your name be the one I cry into the night,” your smile cracked at the corner of your face at a small stifled squeak from Perona, “And may mine be the smile that greets you the morning after.” You slid the ring over his final knuckle, securing it to the base of his finger before interweaving your fingertips with his.

“May this ring be a symbol of my devotion to you, unifying us as one to all those who view it,” you concluded. Finally meeting his eyes once more, his glazed over eyes held such softness for you it felt too intimate for his public persona. He firmly squeezed your right hand within his left before unweaving his fingertips from yours and collecting your ring from the box presented by the attendant.

“My beloved,” he began, clasping your left hand with his right, and elevating his left hand to hover the golden band above your left finger; his own new band catching your eyes as it danced in the light, “These are the promises I swear onto you through my vows of devotion.” He slid the ring slowly over your fingertip, his eyes never breaking away from your own as he presented his words.

“I will never command nor possess you,” he ushered the ring over your first knuckle, “For your will belongs to you alone.” Sliding the ring over your second knuckle, he continued to relay his vows slowly onto you.

“I pledge your name to be cried from my lips in the night, and my smile-...” his right hand gently squeezed your fingertips as his smile drew up onto his face, “-be what greets you on the morrow beside you.” Perona stifled another squeal behind her unoccupied hand clapping over her lips, prompting a smile to break over your own lips.

“May this band unify us in matrimony, and be a beacon of my promise to all who view it,” Mihawk concluded, immediately stooping his lips to press a chaste kiss atop your knuckles, much to the detest of the celebrant. She clicked her tongue to reprimand him, shaking her head with a smile of her own.

“Given your lips can’t hold their restraint, my lord,” her warning tone playfully reprimanded him, “I will now allow for the lord and lady to solidify their unity in the sharing of their first kiss as husband and wife. You may both collect each other and seal your covenant with words left unspoken. You may now share your lips with one another.”

Mihawk immediately began his descent, cradling your jaw beneath his left hand and shepherding you towards him with his lips parted in anticipation. You hastily drew your own left hand up to his right cheek, your right hand finding purchase on his waist and anchoring yourself to him as he finally pressed his lips onto your own.

His lips were slow in movement, savouring the sweet taste of sugary honeycomb mixing with the bitter wine presented to each other earlier. He gasped into your mouth, opening it to deepen the unity between you by presenting a small flick of his tongue into you. His nose brushed with your own, his hand on your jaw fell immediately to your waist and clutched you firmly against his waist. Brows furrowed in unbridled passion, the world around you fled from memory at each press of his lips against your own.

You slid your hand up to clasp his shoulder, a small squeak fleeing from your mouth into his as he turned your body in a low dip towards the guests in their seats in the pew. This action drew you away from your lustful hypnosis, the applause and cheers of your guests gleefully erupting into the air. He hastily drew your body back upwards with the flitter of your luxurious dress pooling behind you.

“I am now delighted to pronounce, through this seal of unity,” the celebrant concluded her presentation, “The Lord and Lady Dracule of Kuraigana. Celebrate and uphold them, and may jovial celebrations continue into the night with merriment.” Mihawk clasped your hand and placed it into the crook of his left elbow, beginning his ushering of you to flee with him from the ceremony space to continue into your reception.

Several of your guests greeted you both with their offerings of congratulations and affirmations, Red-Hair Shanks prying your husband away from your arms with his arm hooking over his shoulders and ushering him into a warm embrace. You made eye contact with the first mate of the Red-Hair pirates, who offered you a polite smile and the nod of his head; both of which you returned with actions mirroring his own.

However, as soon as you became distracted by the embraces falling to your now husband, your elevated mood of joy was immediately halted as a floating and severed gloved hand clapped over your lips. You could not offer a hum of protest, nor a scream as your body was pried away from Mihawk’s and into the hallway outside of the ceremony space.

“All part of the plan, Starlight,” a soft, nasally voice reaffirmed you in your ear. You turned your head to meet with the face of the flashy-fool himself, his face painted to the highest quality. His hand rejoined his forearm with a small suctioned ‘pop’.

“I’m gonna take my hand away from your face now, alright? You gotta be quiet and listen to what I’m ‘bout to tell you,” He nodded, his eyes serious with no room for joking. You nodded in return, prompting a smile to rise to his lips.

“I’ve done some reading,” Buggy informed you, his tone apprehensive and nervous, “And there’s a custom in Kuraigana regarding weddings that sounds way too fun to be left out of ol’ Hawkie’s.”

“And what may that be, sir Buggy D Clown?” Your frown deepened the longer Buggy kept you away from your new husband. He chuckled at your apprehension, a sly smile now developing further in elevation.

“You are to be dressed in a new gown, no longer a bride but a wife under his name,” he confirmed with a nod, your understanding reflected in your own nod. “As your new dress is placed onto your body, you’re a new woman. And as a new woman,” his eyes twinkled with mischief, “Your groom has to woo you to win back your favor.”

“What are you saying, sir?” you narrowed your eyes, and threw him an accusatory and pointed look.

“What I’m saying, Starlight,” he continued, linking his arms with yours and beginning to shepherd you further away from your celebration, “Is that I’m going to kidnap you and dress you in your starlight gown,” he grimaced a small grin, “I may have had a couple of my crew break in and steal the mannequin earlier,” he quickly uttered before waving his hand in front of him to halt your protests, “And he has to humble himself and perform a skill worthy enough to win your favour.”

Your bewilderment was pictured over your face, looking from his eyes and apprehensively allowing him to draw you to the peer.

“What type of skill, Buggy?” you asked him, your curiosity peaked the longer the clown explained himself.

“Could be anything, Starlight,” he shrugged, his playful smirk pulling wider. His eyes twinkled, the paint falling within the crows feet beneath the blue and white hues, “He could dance, sing, recite poetry, he could even juggle. It truly doesn’t matter as long as you’re impressed and successfully wooed.”

You took the moment to study him. From his painted face, to his beautiful assortment of a red and yellow diamond patterned vest, to his tanned leather pants, and all the way back up to his hair braided and styled away from falling in front of his eyes. He threw his best grin at you, his lips curling in an apprehensive and crooked smile. You shook your head, stepping closer to him.

“Does Mihawk know about this?” You uttered quietly, your dress shifting behind you in your haste. He sighed out a shuddered laugh of dark glee.

“Oh, I’m certain Red-Hair is filling him in right about-...” he trailed off, thinking long and hard about his answer. As soon as your feet found the wood of Buggy’s ship, the anchor rising and sails drawn down by his crew, he gestured to the doors of Castle Kuraigana in the distance.

“-Now.”

#one piece #opla #x reader #opla fic #one piece live action #mihawk #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader #mihawk fanfiction #sapsorrow au #dracule mihawk x reader #mihawk sapsorrow au #mihawk storyteller au #mihawk fairytale au

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dogbites-puppylove · 2 months

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Hi! I’m new to your bling and was wondering How do you think Dick Grayson(Yandere) would react to his s/o being a dragon but they stay in there human form more than there dragon form because the form is too large for Blüdhaven? (If ya want to inspiration think of Drogon from Game of thrones. Black scales blood red horns and spinal plates. Red eyes. There flames are black and red?)

Dick Grayson w Dragon! Darling

TW: description of yandere mentalities and actions (obsession, possessive tendencies, stalking, etc)

Tags: Yandere! Dick Grayson x Dragon!reader

Dick Grayson is a man deprived - always craving and hungering for his darling in ways that melt his brain from his ears until they drip on the sidewalk below. He licks up your identity and devours it from your highest dreams to the blood beading your scraped knee during a spring of your childhood - everything you are is also Dick’s - just as everything he is is yours. Hiding anything from him is a task impossible perhaps even to the divine - he’s addicted to you, his high’s are your breath in his lungs and his lows are when you're just feet away. With this in mind - his darling being a dragon doesn’t so much as change his opinion then change his approach.

Dick is a man who is bound by the pleasure principle - his ultimate bliss is the idea of life and death in your arms - conjoined as if you entered this earth connected. Like Orpheus is never known without Eurydice - like the legend can never be told with only one of them - he needs this love to define him. He feels the need to writhe, the way he feels bugs under his skin that chatter into his bones - eating him hollow until you can fill it. Dragons by principle are tougher - they can take more, last longer, and bigger in every sense - and this is something Dick loathes and delights at.

He’s rougher with you - he knows you can take it - and he experiments more. What pleasure is best - what sounds can you make - how far can he push until he can see just a glimpse of what you are outside of flesh that mimics his own. It’s simply not an option to not know you inside and out - not when he rips himself open everyday to allow you inside - not when you have his organs clutched between your teeth. Don’t grow surprised when one day he comes home with a collar and a leash - but don’t be afraid he has one for himself too.

However - Dick is a selfish man, and while he loves his Darling so painfully his heart might beat his ribs raw - he can’t bear the idea of separating from you at his death. He grows far more obsessed with how to take you with him - oh but don’t be scared. It’ll be soft, sweet - like cyanide in apple seeds - he’ll coddle you through any pain. Just as he is rougher with you - he’s also more fatal. His hands begin to mimic dulled swords that sharpen themselves against your skin - he feels for soft spots and pulse points - and at night he whispers about joints graves with a devastating need. Your train ride to hell had been confirmed the moment he laid eyes on you - the moment Dick Grayson fell in love. Not even being a dragon will let you fly.

Dick Grayson is also delusional - just as strong as Nightwings ideals are. This means that Darling can physically do nothing that breaches the moral threshold of wrong - and if he must rewrite heavens law to have it ring true he shall. Dick not seeing Darlings full form is not an option - you own each other - you’ve vowed yourself to each other. Nothing must take a higher presence in your life than that, if you don’t want to move far enough to shift without casualty then death becomes far less of a problem. To put it in simple terms - Dick Grayson will consume every last part of you - should citizens and Gotham itself have to perish under your form it would be a shame - but of no consequence.

Though, the Darling should be warned to not get cocky - wings are just as beautiful on your back as they are mounted on the wall. He knows you’ll survive - and he has forever to beg for your forgiveness, so you can’t blame a starved man for taking a bite.

Author's Note: This is so out of my field and I'm so out of practice omg. I hope you enjoy it though.

#yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfam x reader #yandere dick grayson #dick grayson x reader

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bunny-lily · 21 days

Text

Tether Me - Prologue

Pairing(s): Geto/Gojo/Reader Summary: You ran.

It's what you did in life. It's all you knew how to do. You ran, ran, and kept running and never stopped, because if you stopped, it meant you were trapped, chained, a bird with shredded wings in a gilded cage.

So, how did you end up here, tucked away into a little village in rural Japan, falling into the depths of two black holes with no way to escape?

How could you run from this? From them?

…Would you? CW: No y/n | polyamory | slow burn | slice of life | alt au - no curses | fluff | light angst | eventual smut | forgive me, there's internal monologues | I like using big words... | Gojo & Geto are whipped for you | emotionally constipated reader | (most of the tags have been condensed, you can find the full list on my ao3 here) AN: this is just the prologue chapter, sort of exposition. No bois in this one (technically), but I'm posting chapter 1 at the same time as the prologue. As a heads up, my most comfortable place for posting my longer fics like this is ao3. You can find more of my blurb thoughts on there. I'm not the best at tumblr posting, so forgive me pls ;-;

Ch: Prologue | Ch: 1 | Ch: 2 | Ch: 3 | Ch: 4

WC: 9.4k

You’ve always likened yourself to a kite, but less pretty and enjoyable.

Every time you glanced at a kite in the children’s toy section, or watched as thousands flew in the sky during festivals, your eyes stung and something bitter and uncomfortable twisted in your gut. In a way, you saw yourself in them; fragile little creatures tethered to the earth by no fault of their own. So easy to snap – to break.

They were always trapped, chained down, forever bound to either get reined back in after one had their fill of fun, or to fall like tragic angels to the ground when the winds died, and they would once again be unable to travel free amongst the stars where they belonged. All thanks to the threads wrapped around their very bones, far too strong for something that looked so thin and prone to fraying.

Yet nobody ever did release the chains. Who would willingly free their prized, imprisoned bird?

Of those pretty, unfortunate kites, you lamented with them.

You, too, were pinioned to solid ground. Your wings were clipped, feathers torn from flesh one by one until you were born in a body that could no longer fly. Responsibilities, duties, relationships – they all kept you drowning in a suffocating pile of down-stuffed pillows, filled with plumes that were once yours. They progressively got heavier and heavier, locking your limbs between illusions of comfort and safety, sitting on your chest and flooding your mouth until you choked and gagged and couldn’t breathe.

You were different from kites, sure, beyond the very obvious things. You weren’t a pitifully flimsy, inanimate toy, left forgotten in some closet, awaiting the one day you’d be remembered, taken out, and allowed to taste the breath of deities themselves again. But if you could glide in the wind like they could, oh, nothing would bring you more joy, more solace, even if you were still tied down. All for just a kiss of freedom.

You ached to be detached from everything and everyone. An untethered kite, a fledgling bird learning to fly, a paper lantern that glowed its very joy from within for all to see.

Paper lanterns.

You couldn’t stand paper lanterns, because you yearned so deeply to be one. How wonderful it would be to have a warmth alight inside you as you rose to the heavens, lighter than air.

You envied them.

They made you nauseous with longing.

They made you want to stretch your fingers high and try to catch one within your palm like a cascading star.

They made you want to reach your fist past your throat and rip out your heart barehanded, just to make the accursed thing stop pounding so goddamned hard in your stomach as it sank lower and lower with each additional candle that got to join their family of stars beyond celestia.

Because, for fuck’s sake, you belonged up there, too. Free, flaring, blazing and flickering so spectacularly that philosophers would wax poetic about you for ages to come.

It wasn’t fucking fair for you to be stuck on Mother Nature’s spine like this, burdened by the neutron star in your body that just grew more and more dense, urging you to dive into the ocean and let it snare you into its depths. You didn’t choose to spawn with a spirit disconnected from the flesh that acted as its prison, you didn’t choose to be jailed like this.

So why?

Maybe that’s one of the reasons you were drawn to kites. You pitied them. You pitied yourself.

You weren’t a kite. You didn’t want to be one, to have your boundless form fettered down. But when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, that’s all you could ever see staring back at you. A kite with faded, worn out paints that barely clung to the tattered paper, feebly held together by thin strips of bamboo that had been aged and mottled from the inside out by time.

You hated paper lanterns. You hated kites. You hated yourself.

As the years dragged on, from the moment your brain snapped into your body with the sudden realization that you were a conscious, living, breathing person, those ugly feelings festered and spread like a fungus that refused to abate even a trace, just a second so you could catch a breath of fresh air that didn’t reek of mildew.

The seconds spanned on for eons without prejudice, destroying your cells at the molecular level with each passing birthday that trudged reluctantly along.

In the back of your mind, the sensation of being asphyxiated by your own feathers that had been shorn away from you etched itself deeper and deeper into your psyche. You became restless, antsy, the variegated world around you fading rapidly. Colors you once saw as a child, before you could latch the inherent sense of wrongness in your chest to a concept, gradually dulled until all you were left with was a world tinged heavily in gray.

The streets you were raised on grew denser, despite the amount of people living on them never actually changing noticeably. The verdant grass of your backyard turned into a dominating presence everytime you laid your eyes on it, unruly and all-consuming, demanding an undivided attention you did not want to give. The orange beams that hung over black asphalt instilled a sense of panic in you that wasn’t there before.

You used to be fond of walking around your neighborhood in the middle of the night, when you rightfully should have been sleeping. An inverted circadian rhythm suited you well when you were young, unaware that the crushing sensation under your sternum would only get worse.

Now, though, the thought of straying out where there wasn’t enough light to see straight ahead made sweat form on your chest and palms while your teeth clattered from a nonexistent chill.

Everything caved in on you. Not in a rush, not in a cataclysmic flood. No, you didn’t discern you were fighting for air until you were already gasping fruitlessly. Lost, terrified, unsure, you could only bear witness to the collapse of your own mind.

Then, one day, a soft voice whispered in your ear.

Run.

It wasn’t a threat, not some ominous warning of death looming over your shoulder. It was a suggestion, an offering, an olive branch towards that freedom you coveted. It was salvation.

Who were you to ignore the hand of deliverance?

The first time you changed your scenery, moved elsewhere, even if it was only a few streets away from your childhood home, felt incredibly liberating. After so long that you had forgotten how it felt, you got the chance to gulp down air as if you had surfaced from beneath the perdition sea after spending your whole existence beneath it.

Color returned to your world, excitement formed anew, everything felt right. Achromatic wastelands turned into kaleidoscopic meadows, fulgent and lucid. You savored it, reveled in it, frolicked and danced and lived.

…It didn’t last.

Not long. You exhaled, and it all vanished, sand swept away by an uncaring and spiteful hand.

Once you had become used to the environment, when you no longer had to actively remember where your flat was, or how long it took to get to the store, everything was washed out; water dumped on a painting that had yet to form defined shapes.

That crushing sensation had returned, and with it the reminder that, as much as you wished you weren’t, you were a kite. Tethered, perpetually confined, worn bamboo strips and thin paper threatening to rend under the drag.

Thus, you ran again. A new town, a new city, a new skyline. Euphoria nestled cozily under your breast like a second heart, purring contentedly as it curled up on the nest of blankets it created for itself.

New places, new faces, new people. All of it was fascinating to you beyond measure. It interested you to no end to learn about other human beings; their thoughts, their perspectives, their preferences. What they despised with grit teeth and barely restrained anger clenched in trembling fists; what they loved so dearly that they could never drown beneath the same waves that followed your heels, tide rising progressively.

They glowed from within, bright and budding and vibrant. Their eyes flickered with life, glazed so clearly that stars sparkled in the depths of their hues. You were drawn to them, a moth to mesmerizing fire.

You felt free. You rode that high as much as you could, for as long as it would allow.

Until a realization struck you with the force of a bullet train one night. A man hung onto your arm, easy laughter shared between the two of you as you let him take you home. Alcohol tinged his breath, but not enough to give him anything more than a slight buzz. He was a total gentleman through and through, and you listened with eagerness as he spoke about his upcoming work project, his excitement palpable with every word.

His hand linked with yours, fingers intertwined, his warm palm engulfing yours. There was a comfort in that transient window of time, one you held to your heart. It was so unfamiliar, so addictive. And as you stopped before your door, having completely forgotten of your lack of wings, you waited with bated breath for him to slant into you.

A pair of infirm lips, minutely chapped and tasting of wine, pressed against yours, and dread exploded in your gut.

He pulled away from you, lovestruck in the way his eyes shone as he looked into your own, and reality crashed down on you with horrors in three measures, shattering like broken glass in the vortex of your conscious thought.

When you stared at him, watched the way he opened his mouth to speak, you made the connection.

“I really like you,” he had murmured to you that night, nearly shy. Yearning. Hoping.

Paper lantern.

“I want to ask you out properly.”

Tether.

His words sank into your skin like ice, digging deep, burrowing into your marrow.

Kite.

The illusion of pellucid skies of the richest shades cracked, the lush plains you fantasized of often turned to barren heaths, and all those tormenting feelings came back to choke your breath with a vengeance. Sickly fingers wrapped around your throat, sunk into your mouth, dug past your gag reflex, wrapped around your ankles and wrists until you could barely lift your feet just to move forward.

You remembered with great disdain what you were. You had managed to sever your thread by running off from the pod you were born in, but it wasn’t a clean cut. The string hung off your fragile wooden bones loosely, just waiting for somebody to grab and yank, to shred your freedom away from you once again, to leave you knotted around a pole to sit like decoration and stay.

You were not free.

You were not a paper lantern. You did not gleam from your soul like he did. You did not pour light from your heart and words and touch.

You’d do anything to forget that, to prove that sentiment wrong, to show the world that you weren’t a rock thrown into a pond. You’d do anything to change the narrative, to force a rewrite. So, you did what you always did.

You ran.

You found somewhere else to live, blipping off the radar unannounced. One moment you were there, the next you had cut your lingering thread an inch shorter, following the wind blindly like a duckling to your next destination.

Each time you settled down somewhere, you had this silent hope: maybe this is where I’ll be happy.

You clung to that hope, fervently ignoring the screeching whisper in your ear that said otherwise. The next place was never the final one. It never would be, no matter how hard you tried to delude yourself into believing you weren’t a lost soul, unable to move on. Some pathetic ghost you’d make, if you weren’t one already.

Whenever you let yourself rest for a heartbeat too long, the rope you had trimmed ever shorter was skimmed too close by too-warm fingertips, and you fled again, and again, and again.

That’s all you seemed to know nowadays.

Perhaps proven now, as you sat on a train in a foreign country, absentmindedly watching rural landscapes race past the window. Your knuckles pressed indents into your cheek, the sensation unpleasant and nearing on painful, though you had stopped paying any mind to it a while ago. Your thoughts laid scattered at your feet, and you couldn’t be bothered to pick them up.

Rather, the white matter of your brain was being filled with the empty, buzzing tune of songs you’d heard a hundred times over playing through your earbuds at the loudest volume possible. It made things easier to manage during this grand, several-thousand-mile-long trip. The less thinking you had to do, the better. It was the absolute last thing on your bucket list, loitering just under the cutoff line, hoping to sneak in a few words you refused to listen to.

You couldn’t let yourself regret this. You wouldn’t.

Not now, not after you’d already dropped everything and dissipated beyond the welkin’s gaze. You had only one place you could go to at all now, and you were already on your way there.

So if you had to blast your eardrums out to bridle the whisper-shouting voices spurned by overthinking, so be it.

Rice paddies blurred by, blending in from one farm to the next. The sun reflected off the waters the stalks soaked in, absorbing the warmth the light provided and feeding the plants with the fruit of life. Somewhere along the way, you had begun counting each field you passed for no particular reason.

You thought it’d lull you to sleep like counting sheep, subconsciously desiring to sink into a dreamless abyss and catch up on the hours that had been eluding you every night for months up to this point, given how far away you still were from your destination. But your cerebrum was not kind to you, and your body refused to succumb to the tempting allure of nothingness.

Thus, you remained as you were, counting paddies as the day never quite moved forward. The sun dwelled high, trying to glare down on you, but it couldn’t get the angle right to invade the shade of your tiny cabin room on the train.

It stayed stuck to the center of the sky, mighty and proud. But then, after what seemed like only a few seconds, you blinked, and suddenly it was hanging off the horizon’s ledge.

With a slight jolt, you realized the train had decreased in speed, and was continuing to lose momentum as it approached an isolated station, all alone in the countryside. You checked the time on your phone, your eyes feeling unusually heavy and sticky. It was only early night, but you were worn down to your sinew.

Right. Jet lag. You had hopped on a plane and traveled to the other side of the planet on a whim, another desperate attempt to grab onto the concept of freedom you craved. It didn’t take you longer than a week to find a small house deep in the pastoral lands of Japan, where mountains wrapped around the valley like a scarf. You chose Japan, if only because you learned the language when you were studying abroad some years ago.

It resided in a town of such a low population, blissfully around 600, it was a wonder you could even find a train that took you this far to begin with. Of course, that meant the house was decently rundown, with a community small enough to consider it unnecessary to repair. You couldn’t care less. All that meant to you was that it was cheaper to buy it outright than rent a more maintained structure. Buying it was a risky move, given your track record of up and ditching the last bed you slept on without any hindrance, but, at this point, you were tired.

You just wanted to be somewhere for longer than a month or two. Maybe owning a house was contrary to your desires to be unbound, with no board to pin your tattered and thin wings to, sure, the pros far outweighed the cons.

Cheap shelter, little to no people, far, far away from anywhere you’d been before. Three for three.

It’d still be a 45 minute drive or so before you actually got to your new residence, but you weren’t in any particular rush. You chose the most isolated place on purpose. Less people, less deafening sounds, less claustrophobic, brutalist structures that loomed higher and higher.

Less chance of being tied down.

With a hiss and a loggy wheeze, the train settled into place, jostling you as you got to your feet and stretched your arms above your head. The muscles in your back and shoulders twinged from sitting in the same position all day, and your legs stung like sparklers, but it was nice to work your joints properly again. After tucking away your phone and earbuds, you tugged your luggage down from the overhead rack with a grunt.

You were hopeful that there’d be taxis outside the station, and that you wouldn’t have to walk to the village. Who knows how long that would take. You’d probably keel over after the first mile. The thought made you snort while you squeezed down the aisle, suitcase with your bag stacked on it rolling behind you, purse strapped across your torso. The conductor – a sweet, older man – nodded silently to you as you disembarked, waving a farewell to you, which you returned. He was nice, you remembered him greeting you when you first boarded.

He didn’t talk much, just a polite, “welcome aboard,” while the ticket collector pointed you in the direction of your cabin, which you greatly appreciated after hopping off a plane and hurrying your ass over to your required station. You were too spent for conversation.

Leaving the station was much easier than you expected. Unlike your home country, where you could get lost just by turning 45° to the left, Japan seemed to prefer neater environments that were easy to navigate. And, upon stepping out of the building, you rejoiced at spotting a few variously colored cabs waiting along the curb. Outside of one stood a man, roughly in his 50s or so, who waved you over.

“Need help getting somewhere, miss?” He questioned, and you nodded as you pulled out your phone, scrolling through your emails to find the one confirming your purchase of the listing.

“Yeah, could you take me here?”

He glanced down at your screen when you showed him the address and chuckled quietly. “Well, that’s a surprise. Last time I visited that house was some twenty years ago to take the owner to the station, rather than from.”

You blanched nominally. Twenty years? Had your house really been abandoned for twenty years? The listing claimed it was only ten max, that estate bastard. A sigh left through your nose. Too late to deal with that now, you figured. “I just purchased it.”

The man nodded as he popped open the trunk and assisted you in slotting your luggage inside. “You look like you’ve come from far away. It’s rare for foreigners to choose to live in such a distant location. Not a fan of the city?”

I fucking hate cities.

“Something like that, yeah,” you assented, thanking him as he opened the back door for you.

You appreciated his efficiency as he wasted no time dilly-dallying around. As soon as he was buckled up in the car, he was on the road, taking you down the last leg of your trip. The world outside the window streaked by in shades of violet and blood orange as the sun hovered on the edge of the skyline, reluctant to rest for the night.

“Ah, apologies. I’m Hayato Kazuhiko, you may call me Kazu, if you prefer,” he quickly introduced himself, and you followed suit. “Why’d you choose this little village of all places? It’s very small.”

You hummed. “That’s exactly why I chose it. I’m not a big…people-person, if you know what I mean.”

The older gentleman chuckled lightly. “My wife is the same,” he nodded as he peeked at you via the rearview mirror. “She had to visit the small town I used to live in one day, and it was love at first sight for us. She was immediately drawn to country life, and we’ve lived out in the neighboring town here ever since.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twenty-five years,” he nodded, and you could see the pure love and devotion in his eyes as he spoke about his spouse. It was wholesome, and softened your heart a sliver.

He was surprisingly relaxing to listen to. Pleasant voice that didn’t grate on your ears, a few stories shared about his wife, the occasional tale about some significant structure or location. It was calming, in an odd way. He’d point out a shrine or hiking trail you’d pass by, and offer to take you to them one day to teach you its history and meaning, and you actually considered it.

It could’ve been the harmless nature about him. Even as night descended and you could only really see his silhouette, inspecting him reminded you of your father, but…better, for lack of an accurate word. You weren’t afraid that he’d suddenly raise his voice, or take you down a suspicious road – or, hell, back to the train station to send your sorry ass right back to where you came from.

“Mr.–” you cut yourself off and cleared your throat, mildly embarrassed about slipping back into your mother tongue. Japanese honorifics were something you continued to struggle with. “Hayato-san, do you have children?”

He gave a mellow laugh and shook his head slightly. “Please, just Kazu is fine. And I do, three of them, in fact. A younger son, and twin girls about your age,” he estimated roughly.

So the fatherly air to him you picked up on wasn’t imagined. That brought you a form of reassurance you couldn’t distinctly name.

“My twin girls are all the way up in Tokyo,” he continued, chest puffed with pride, “and my son is still in highschool, causing chaos.”

“Chaos?” You raised a brow.

“Yes, but not the type you’d think,” he hummed. “He’s a gentle child, but his kind nature means he’s unfortunately quite gullible and gets himself into trouble.”

A voice, the faint echo of a memory long lost, intoned in the far reaches of your lucidity; someone shaming you for getting caught up in an issue that wasn’t even your fault. Your stomach twisted with dread, and your head snapped to peer at Hayato, expecting to find disappointment shining in his eyes when you studied them through the rear-view mirror.

Except, there wasn’t any.

Concern at most, a crease in his brow as he warred within himself between protecting and helping his kin, or letting the kid learn on his own. There wasn’t any disappointment, or anger, or exasperation. You could see him reminiscing as he stopped talking, focusing more on the twists that followed the mountain’s curve, and all you saw was just…love, and happiness.

The churning in your gut settled, instead replaced with a sense of hollowness. Not the kind that made you sick; rather, it was like you had a gap in your chest where a puzzle piece was missing, while his was filled with a perfectly fitted heart.

Bittersweet, possibly, but only distantly so. You felt happy for someone who was borderline a complete stranger to you, someone you shouldn’t even care about beyond tipping him well for driving you to the middle of nowhere in the dead of night, but you did anyway.

Maybe I could have had that too, your thoughts mutedly supplied, if I was normal.

Then again, you didn’t want that, not really. Though you couldn’t tell if that was just who you were as a person, or a result of the coals perpetually under your feet, it didn’t change your mind.

Nothing could.

You were sure of it.

Smooth concrete eventually became a densely packed dirt road when Kazu turned off the main path, the car vibrating as the wheels rolled over loose stones and gravel. It didn’t last long, thankfully, as the shabby looking pile of wood came into view, albeit dark since the stars overhead were too dim to illuminate anything much.

“Where we are, miss,” he spoke as you both climbed out of the vehicle and met at the trunk. He opened it to retrieve your luggage, and you pulled your wallet out of your purse and counted off a few bills, wondering what the right amount to give to him would be.

It was hard to translate currency worth when things were valued differently in this country. Your trip abroad was a long time ago.

“Is this enough?” You peered up at him and held out the bills.

He took one glance at them and chuckled deeply. “That’s far too much, really,” he replied as he pulled only two of the strips out of the small stack you were holding. “Be careful with your money while you adjust to the currency of this country. Do you need assistance with your luggage?”

“Oh,” you analyzed the remaining money in your hands before tucking it back into your wallet. You really hoped he took the right amount needed and didn’t undersell himself. “No, I’ll be okay. You got me here in one piece, that’s all I could ask for.”

“Are you sure?”

Your head bobbed as you inspected your suitcase and bag, popping out the handle. “Yes, I am. Drive safe, Kazu-san. Thank you for taking me here.”

His chest rumbled with a laugh. “Please, it’s my job. You are pleasant company.”

“Likewise,” your lips rounded into a smile as you bowed politely. It was small, and you were tired, but it was genuine, the first one you’ve had for a long while. “Goodnight.”

Kazuhiko waved his hand in farewell, bidding you good dreams as he climbed back into the taxi and drove off, leaving you alone.

Your lungs deflated.

The air here was crisper, stinging your throat in a pleasant way as you inhaled slowly. Faint hints of pine and sap drifted across your senses. Nothing indicated any heavy stenches of smog or gasoline or gods know what litters the streets of every downtown city you’d been to before.

It would probably take you a while to get used to, and you oddly didn’t want to, if only so you could admire the fresh fragrance every time you stepped outside. Your muscles relaxed, surprising you as you hadn’t noticed just how tense you were until you were perched outside the front gate of your brand new (old) lodging.

Turning to face it, you groaned upon the realization that it was on a hill. Said hill was tiny, mind you, but a hill nonetheless. You found you couldn’t give much of a shit right now, just yearning to lay down and pass the fuck out for a while. Maybe the rest of tomorrow, too. A few weeks, actually, if you were allowed to choose. A coma sounded wonderful.

“Home sweet home,” you mumbled to nobody in particular as you pushed open the gate and virtually jumped out of your skin at the near shriek it gave. Okay, it had to have been longer than 20 years, that was loud.

With your heart fluttering rapidly, you made a note to deal with it (and everything else) later and trudged up the incline, almost eating shit and dying when the toe of your boot caught on the edge of a stepping stone. Another thing to add to the “deal with later” list. You had a feeling it would just keep growing exponentially.

Finding the key was easy, for better and worse. It simply sat in the door knob’s lock, very safe and secure and definitely not putting your house at risk of…what?

There was nothing in there, evident when you pushed open the front door, which wailed just as loudly as the fence gate. You felt the blood drain from your face. Sure, the interior was empty, but the house was a wreck. Peeling walls, strange, crusty scent, and a sticky floor at the entrance that made you grimace when your sole pulled off it like velcro. You knew that it was custom in Japan to take off your shoes at the door, but fuck that. Absolutely not. You were not walking in any part of this house either in socks or barefoot.

Everything was virtually pitch black as you delved further in, so you depended on your other senses, and the ability to smell was one you wished you didn’t have. Your nose wrinkled as various rotting odors welcomed you, making you immediately regret going through all this.

Morning. You’d deal with it all in the morning.

Practically sneaking on your tip-toes, you explored the open space, trying to find the room that smelled the least and was passable to sleep in. Granted, there were really only two actual rooms down a hall going opposite of the kitchen besides the restroom and washroom, but the bigger one seemed decent.

At least you had a sleeping bag and wouldn’t be conking out on the bare floor. You went through the motions of prepping for bed mostly by habit, doing the bare minimum seeing as you didn’t have much of a choice. You brushed your teeth with the water from your tumbler, located and unrolled your sleeping bag, and climbed under the rustling top after yanking your shoes off, zipping it up as far as it went.

Admittedly, the setup was kinda janky, but it got the job done.

You couldn’t be bothered to change into pajamas.

With your head plopped on probably the least comfortable pillow you had found to bring with you (also the only one that would fit in with the rest of your shit, it was practically a pillowcase filled loosely with sporadically placed lumps of stuffing), you closed your eyes, and your body finally let sleep take over.

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

Morning was not pleasant. Surrounded by the musty scent of gods-know-what, back aching from the restless sleep you got from your pitiful sleeping bag and the hard floor, you were groggy beyond belief and desperate for fresh air. And a massage. And a cigarette.

You didn’t smoke, finding the heavy and pungent funk nauseating, but the temptation was there. You felt you gained a little more understanding of smokers.

Brushing the thought aside, you pushed yourself up into a sitting position and rubbed the heel of your palm against the sore spot on the side of your skull. You would have believed someone replaced your pillow with a rock if you hadn’t intimately known that lump of fluff. Or, rather, lack thereof.

Red lines, tender to the touch and tingling a little, were pressed onto the arm you laid on for most of the time you slept, causing you to hiss when you traced your fingers against them. It seemed to be barely past dawn when you reviewed what was out your window, leaving you questioning just how long you slept, if at all.

Figuring you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anyway, you shoved yourself out of ‘bed’ and groaned when every joint in your body popped and every bone creaked. Hell, you weren’t sure you’d be able to sleep tonight again. Not here, anyway. More problems for future you.

She’d certainly be happy about that. She already had so much shit to handle.

The growl of your stomach reminded you that food was something you needed to consume to continue living.

Reluctant as you were to do anything, you figured going out by starvation was 1) probably not the best idea, and 2) you wanted to be out of this dingy torture shed.

What was unfortunate was that you, like a smart person, didn’t bring anything more than snack bars and those weird trail mixes with the fruit cubes that you just threw into your bag without much care. It was really the only motivation you needed to walk your sorry self out the door.

After you brushed your teeth and changed your clothes, of course, being very careful to not let anything touch the floor.

Stepping out of your home through the shabby and creaky door with your purse slung across your chest, you were met with the grandiose sight of mountains surrounding you on every side. They rose high, aching to brush the sky and touch a star, just one, just once, just for a second. Covered in thick greenery, you figured the faint yet present scents of cedar, pine, and other woodsy tones were carried down into the valley from the steep inclines.

You couldn’t see any of these details nearly as well when you were dragging your tired ass to this place with ink covering the sky in a thick veil, but it truly was breathtaking.

Had nature always been this green before?

Having only done some cursory research on the village – namely, population – you didn’t bother giving yourself time to actually inspect photos of the tiny rural town. From what you’d seen anyway, pictures could never do it justice. A velvety breeze brushed against your cheek, prompting you to tuck your hair behind your ear and pivot towards the direction the gale came from.

Your breath left you in a silent ‘oh’, mesmerized by the incredible view of the rising sun you had. It shone valiantly and radiantly through the gaps it had carved out between the towering peaks itself, illuminating the land in shades of brilliant gold with its splendor.

For perhaps the first time in your life, you felt…nothing.

Not a sense of hollowness, nor a void in your chest, no. A peaceful kind of nothing, as if not a thing in the world could take your mind away from this newfound elysium you found in sharing the morning’s shine with its source.

Invisible fingers caressed your jaw, threading through your hair with the gentle touch of adoration, as if you were delicate.

You hated to be treated like you were easily breakable, as fragile as glass, but this sensation was consoling, rather than degrading. The wind cherished you, not akin to a brittle figurine, rather as someone who was beautiful and worthy of gentleness unsullied by pity or licentious intentions. As if you were someone to be worshipped and revered.

A mother combing her fingers through her daughter’s hair, humming a lullaby only she knew the tune of.

Perhaps it wasn’t impossible to find what you were searching for. You didn’t know what it was exactly, a question without an answer, but it gave you a place to start.

With a deep breath swelling behind your ribcage, filling your soul with air untouched by sickly city pollution you were so accustomed to, you turned and began heading down the beaten dirt path that led into the heart of the village. The early summer warmth was pleasant on your skin, not too hot given the time. It seeped into your cold fingers and made them ache a little less with each minute going by.

While the town you had chosen was visually quite a bit older in style, with smaller structures dotted about reflecting traditional Japanese designs, there were some modernities. Electricity was, fortunately, one of them.

Based on the fact that you found and bought the listing online, you figured there was likely a way for you to get your hands on some Wi-Fi here, too. You’d probably die without it.

The nearer you drew to the center of the population, the denser the structures became. Not to say they were rubbing walls, but neighbors were only a short few steps away, compared to the distance between your own house and the one closest to it.

Minka houses in significantly better condition than yours spanned either side of the road as the terrain shifted from soil to asphalt. They were beautiful, and you bet that living in that kind of house in this kind of place was either absurdly expensive, or dirt cheap, with no real in-between. You were personally on the latter end of this, which probably wasn’t a good thing.

Doomed by the narrative once again.

Off in the distance on an elevated surface, you could see what you thought was a Wayo Kenchiku temple, if you had to guess. Its overlapping roofs were a deep green in shade, nearly black. They protected the desaturated brown walls of the building, and you were taken aback by how easy the temple was to see from where you were.

It sat across a wide river, one surprisingly calm as you approached it. It rushed along, springing with glimmering waves that shimmered under the light and frothed white around raised boulders. Despite it coming across as fairly deep, you could see clear through to the bottom, with the water itself being a refreshing shade of clear blue. A bridge spanned the rift, made of sturdy wood that had dark railings protecting either side of you, matching the aesthetic of your surroundings.

The bridge whined under your weight, but didn’t shift, giving you some reassurance that you wouldn’t go crashing through the planks. It led into the most packed section of the whole area, with structures built closer together, bearing a more modernized likeness, while retaining its unique characteristics.

In truth, though you remained apprehensive, the voice that scratched at the back of your skull everywhere you went and pestered you to run, run, run, had quieted. You hadn’t registered it, the silence, too focused on taking in your new surroundings as a serene blanket covered the thoughts that usually pranced wild and free in your cranium, putting them to rest with a whispered mercy:

This feels right.

It didn’t take you long to spot what you figured was the local grocery store. The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside, peering at what products you could see on the shelves and aisles from where you stood. Being an anxious little creature, you double-checked to make sure you had your wallet, as well as the translated bills within. Last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself in a place where everybody knew everybody.

Reassured, you chose a random aisle and headed down it, skimming the products to see if any of them appeared even vaguely familiar to you. Besides cans of soup and tubes of Pringles, there wasn’t much for you to grab onto. Sure, there was ramen, but you didn’t have a way to boil water. Cereal and milk, maybe?

Shit, no, you didn’t have any cutlery or dinnerware. Unless you wanted to be a sad raccoon and eat raw cereal straight from the box, but you weren’t that desperate.

Yet.

Mentally crossing out your options as you went through them, you nearly knocked over an entire row of items when you almost ran into an older lady who stood in the middle of the strip, watching you.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” You hopped back a foot, raising your hands in front of you placatingly. “I-I didn’t see you there, am I in your way?”

The woman laughed and shook her head, her smile reminding you of a grandmother that’d sneakily give her grandkids candies while their parents weren’t watching. “You’re quite alright, I was actually wondering if you need help?”

“Oh, uh…” Bashfully scratching the back of your head, you glanced at the various bags of foodstuffs beside you and debated your choices. Say no, when it was painfully obvious how green behind the ears you were, or set down your pride and ask for assistance.

Your stomach chose for you, warning you to suck it up and get food before it began eating itself.

The woman’s chuckle was heartier the second time around, her eyes glimmering with mirth as she motioned for you to follow her. Feeling a bit like a scolded child, you trailed after her while she wove her way around her store towards the produce section at the back. She pulled a random fruit from the thunder-rain-shelf-thing (you honestly had no idea what it was called) and rubbed it against her apron before handing it to you.

“Eat,” she insisted.

You blinked rapidly, peeping the fruit, the sign for it, then her. “How much…?”

The lady waved her free hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Eat, I insist.”

You were going to argue further, but a deep cramp in your gut had you sinking your teeth into the sweet and wonderfully-textured treat. As embarrassing as it was, you borderline moaned as you chewed, quickly taking another bite. Whatever it was, it tasted divine.

This time, when she directed you to move with her, you followed without hesitation. “Thank you so much,” you mumbled as she pulled out a chair from behind the counter and urged for you to sit on it.

“It’s nothing, I can’t let you go hungry, now,” she swept away your worries. “You’re new here,” she stated, rather than asked.

You nodded through another bite, waiting until you swallowed before continuing the conversation. “Yes, I got here last night.”

“Oh? Are you visiting someone?”

“No, I moved here.”

Her brows raised. “Really, now? Who are you staying with?”

Mid-bite, you stopped to address the matter. “Oh, no, I’m not living with anyone. I purchased the house just outside the village.”

The way her eyes widened was nearly comical. “That place? Now, that’s a surprise.”

If you had a nickel.

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that now,” your lips tugged into a frown and you stifled it with another chomp into the sweet object in your hand.

At that, she simpered mutedly. “I apologize. I’m merely awed that it was still standing, let alone that someone had bought it. Last I heard, there hasn’t been anyone living there for, oh, maybe 20 years or so.”

The realtor, that dog. He did lie to you after all.

You scornfully hoped he was enjoying spending your money.

Picking at your cheek with your free hand, you looked away with a nervous giggle. “Yeah, it’s…not in great shape. I have a lot of work cut out for me.”

“You’re going to try to repair it?”

“Yeah. Keyword being try.”

“I’m not sure that’s a wise choice.”

You sighed. “Me neither, but I don’t have much of a choice now.”

The woman shook her head, smiling regardless. “You let me know what kind of help you need. There are plenty of handymen in this village of ours, I’m sure they’d be happy to help.”

“Oh, that’s very nice of you, but…I’m sorry, I didn’t ask for your name,” you pouted, hurriedly introducing yourself.

“Just call me Granny. And I won’t take no for an answer, missy,” okay, now you really felt scolded. “I won’t stand for you trying to fix up that cluster of wood by yourself, it’s far too dangerous. And you shouldn’t be staying there while it’s in that condition, either. Give me a moment, let me find someone you can stay with.”

Panic rose up in you and you waved your hands frantically in front of you. “N-No! It’s fine, I’ll– I’ll figure something out, really, don’t worry. Please.”

Granny eyed you suspiciously, her hand hovering over the landline on the wall. “Are you sure?”

“Yes! It’s fine, I’m fine, I promise.”

Her eyes remained squinted, even as she lowered her arm. “Alright, if you say so. But if you need any kind of help, big or small, come to me right away, okay?”

Relieved you wouldn’t have to interact with more strangers, you nodded and deflated. “I will.”

“Promise me, young lady.”

“I promise.”

She grinned brightly and ruffled your hair. “That’s a good girl. Let me pack you a few things to take with you so you have something to eat.”

“Ah– wait, I…I’m not very good with currency yet,” you halted her sheepishly. The prices were still confusing as fuck to you. Man, how the fuck were you going to manage this when you get a job? If?

“Nonsense, it’s on me. I won’t charge you.”

Sorry, what? Did she do that for every person she met five minutes prior?

“But– but that’s not–”

“Finish up your peach,” she asserted as she was already walking away with a bag in her hands that wasn’t there a second ago. What was it with grannies and having some weird, innate magic?

Your eyes darted down at your half-eaten peach, surprised to learn that it wasn’t some foreign fruit you’d never even heard of before, let alone tried. It was an exceptional blend between succulent and rich; easy to bite into and chew without pouring juice all over yourself.

The fuck kind of peaches have you been eating before?

Sensing you might be buying these often if they were this good, you had well-nigh inhaled the rest of it by the time Granny came back with a stuffed bag.

“Here you go, dear,” she held out the shopping bag to you, which you took graciously after tossing out the peach pit into the small trash can by the counter.

Glancing into the bag, your lips shifted downwards. It was filled with a few different fruits and veggies, a couple bags of snacks, but mostly packaged food that looked like it could be eaten as is without needing to worry about cooking it. Your guilt skyrocketed. “Granny, this is too–”

“Don’t worry about paying. Save your money for the repairs of that home of yours.”

Your head shot up, eyes widening. “I can’t–”

“You can because I say so, young lady,” Granny puffed out her chest proudly, using a motherly tone that easily put you in your place, much to your bafflement. You didn’t even listen to your own mother like this. “Come back in the evening, I’ll have something cooked up for you.”

“You really don’t–”

She made brushing motions with her fingers, shooing you off the chair. “Off you go. There’s a lovely little pergola in the park, go have breakfast there. Just turn right when you leave and keep walking straight.”

Flustered, you let her push you along out the door, your confused brain trying to catch up. “Granny–”

“I’ll have a list of handymen for you when you return,” she informed you right as she managed to get you out the door. “Explore the town while there’s still daylight!”

And just like that, she was back in her store, sweeping with a broom that you swear materialized out of nowhere. You stared at the shop for a good minute, blinking dumbly until you processed whatever just happened.

You still weren’t wholly sure. You went in, expecting to grab a bag of something random to ‘feed’ yourself with, and left with a bag full of free food from a woman who spontaneously decided to give it to you.

The fuck. She’d go bankrupt if she just kept giving strangers sustenance off her own back.

Your own feet seemed to carry you along as you exhaled through your nose and took her instructions to heart. Too late now, you’d feel bad if you went in and returned everything. It’d be insulting at this point, and you were hungry, anyway

A cooked meal did sound lovely as well, discomfited as you were. You had never met your own grandmothers – not in person at least, so you had no idea if grandmothers were simply like that or not. Regardless, you had a feeling she was going to fill that role in whether you liked it or not.

Luckily, you were drifting towards like. She did give you free food, after all, and was going to find help for you. That part you were more apprehensive about, however, stubbornness and introversion making you want to be stupid and attempt to pick up carpentry out of nowhere.

All you could do was try to accept it and sigh, taking in the sights, stores, and dwellings as you walked past them and towards the park. A couple shops caught your eye, particularly a clothing boutique, and what could possibly be a hardware store. You weren’t certain, and didn’t want to find out yet. The prospect of entering one and facing the big ass sign that said ‘you don’t know what the hell you're doing!’ was too daunting to approach for now.

It didn’t take you long to get to the park. In fact, it was such a short walk that it bemused you. A population of 600 people seemed larger on paper than it was in reality. Most of the town was behind you, granted, but the uncanniness was uplifting, in a way.

It didn’t feel claustrophobic. The trees in the park were closer together than some of the buildings outside it, and they smelled so good that it knocked you back a step. The entire wild garden carried the fresh perfume of sweet and fresh vegetation, from blooming flowers scattered about and the grass underfoot, to the rustling leaves above. You couldn’t recall the last time you were in a park, let alone one that was as vibrant and alive as this one.

The pergola was easy to find. It resided in the center, right beside a large pond that you saw was filled with koi fish when you got close.

They swam to-and-fro, carefree, intermingling, playing, and searching for food.

Your stomach twisted when you made an unintentional connection in your mind. They reminded you of kites. Pretty, ultimately trapped.

The koi fish, however, didn’t seem to mind one bit. Not that you could understand fish language. They just went about their business calmly. It perplexed you, didn’t spending their lives in a single body of water bother them? Didn’t it make them depressed?

Could fish feel depression?

Shaking your head to rid it of the peculiar journey your mind had gone off on, you set the bag down on the table under the pergola and settled into one of the chairs, reaching to dig through your options. Of the items present, you opted to munch on a sandwich Granny had tossed in with everything else, bundled in saran wrap and clearly made by her.

While you were skeptical of pre-made food bought in a grocery store like this, one sniff had you biting into it ravenously. You were way hungrier than you thought as you devoured it, trying to will yourself to slow down enough to at least savor the taste of it. Your earlier guilt and trepidation disappeared three bites in, and you were now very much anticipating Granny’s handmade cooking if this was the kind of sandwich she was capable of creating.

You questioned again if all grannies were like this, or if you lucked out. Either way, if it meant you didn’t have to struggle with food for the time being (or ever, if Granny let you mooch off her forever), you didn’t mind getting spontaneously adopted by her at all.

About halfway through your meal, the koi fish in the pond caught your attention again. They were gorgeous animals, graceful and sleek with scales that twinkled iridescently when the sun flickered over them from between the gaps in the canopy above. They had you mesmerized, sights focused solely on them as they showed off.

Maybe they had managed to hypnotize you, because you decided to tear off a piece of the ham, rip it into tiny pieces, then throw it towards the pond. There was a large splash as all the fish rushed towards the food, making you snicker.

A sort of childish glee bloomed within you, persuading you to indulge them a smidgen longer before you finished off your food. The park seemed like a sacred place where nothing could touch you, where the lands would remain lavish and healthy, and where you could let all your worries fade away.

Arcadian – that was the best way you could describe it. Placid, halcyon, grounding, mellow. You could go on and on, really, but you–

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled when you sensed that someone, or something, was watching you. Heat grazed against your nape, slow, measured breaths right behind your ear. A kiss from a pair of soft lips that never reached your skin. A demanding presence wrapped around your figure, a prey caught in the trap laid out precisely by a steadfast and salivating predator.

Ghostly fingers slid down your shoulders, crept over your forearms, and encircled your wrists, holding them in place with a deceptively lax hold. Something firm and wide pressed against your shoulder blades, keeping you between it and the table.

Your heart kicked in your throat, preventing you from swallowing anything more than a tiny gasp.

And, like the cornered quarry you were, you shifted slowly to peek from the corner of your eye, avoiding any sudden or abrupt movements. You expected to find a beast hovering over your shoulder, eagerly anticipating your reaction.

There was nothing.

Only foliage greeted your wide-eyed inspection, expansive and untouched since you came here. The feeling of being hunted on had evaporated as soon as you checked, and though uncertain of this verdict, you chalked it up to being in totally unfamiliar territory. A result of a soundless, featherlight brush of wind, a critter in the foliage envying the fish you fed, lasting no more than a sigh.

Your brow furrowed as you searched through the plant life, seeing not even a hair out of the ordinary. That dovish sensation the park carried returned like it had never left to begin with, coaxing you to let it go and relax.

Maybe that was your cue to leave.

You shook off the lingering sensation with a shiver. Everything was okay in the wooded pasture, and as tranquil as your surroundings were, you knew you’d have to face the elephant in the room eventually.

You dusted yourself off as you got up to dislodge any lingering crumbs, carefully packed everything back into the bag, and took one final look around. This place would become your safe haven, you determined. Already, you were thinking of coming back, the memory of your adrenaline spiking fading rapidly. Imagining returning here gave you that minor push you need to fill your lungs with courage and turn to head back out the way you came.

You could explore the town later. Right now, you needed to address the state of your new stead and gauge what laid ahead of you first. Maybe it’d give you at least an idea of what you required to get started on all of this, though you doubted you’d come out of witnessing it in the full glory of the sun knowing more than you did now.

Absentmindedly, the milieu filtered into your subconscious, automatically noting small landmarks here and there to assist you in finding your way around the streets while they still confused you, until you had learned to traverse them and knew every path and alley like the back of your hand.

(Just in case, you assessed the back of your right hand. You know, to reacquaint yourself with it.)

Glumness overtook. You knew you probably wouldn’t stay here for too long, no matter how much you liked it. You could fix up the house, flip it, and head off someplace else again in pursuit of something that probably didn’t exist.

It’s always been this way for you. The same old pattern, the same old story, the neverending book that looped in on itself over and over, caught in a wormhole where the exit was the entrance.

So it was easy to convince yourself to not get attached to the valley, nor the people, nor that damn sticks-on-bricks abode. Not even the grass filled with flowers and protected by tall trees you had already found yourself longing for.

It was easier this way. This was all you knew, after all.

You had it all figured out.

Didn't you?

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pastshadows · 25 days

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 14: Peril

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.3K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Time itself moves sluggishly as the spawn descend upon the petrified, screaming miscreants that share your cell. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, fighting your ribs like striking bolts of lightning. You steel yourself against the rising panic, wrapping yourself in unflappable poise and watch for your opening.

As soon as the wave of spawn crashes and parts, you squeeze Hecat’s hand to signal her it’s time to move and bound through the gap. The corridor is a catastrophe, the stones painted in fresh crimson, bodies of guards ripped open, with their raw innards spilling out like gruesome garlands wreathing the walls. Hecat pales at the sight, dry heaving, but you’ve long become acquainted with such nightmarish affairs.

You tug Hecat along behind you, bare feet smacking the stone with such force it sends jolts of pain charging up your legs as your bones shudder with the impact of every step. That is nothing compared to the acute, explosive pain stabbing your chest with every inhalation.

Hecat stops, acquiring a shield and sword from a fallen guard. The blood makes the stone slick, and every step must be taken carefully. You cannot afford to fall. A stumble will almost surely mean death. Spawn that have finished their meals are starting to take notice. Hecat deflects them with her shield, stabbing with her sword when she has an opening and keeping you safely behind her.

The passageways are labyrinthine, confused tangles of convoluted twists and turns that sometimes double back or arrive at dead ends unexpectedly. Tears are creeping out of the corners of your eyes, dallying down your grimy, red cheeks from the agony radiating from your ribs with every expansion of your lungs. Panic starts to crumble the blanket of calm, surging through you as you frantically dart through the shadowy, disorienting hallways. The angry army of thudding footfalls of the spawn in pursuit echoes through the corridors.

Bounding up a dim stairway, the hilt of a dagger peeks out from between the joints of armour, nestled into the corpse of a guard. You yank it out with a quick tug, but time is not on your side this night. A spawn grasps your ankle, its clawed fingers sinking into your flesh and jerks you off your feet. Your head bounces off the stone slab stair, peppering your vision with black sparks of dazing pain. The only thing you can see through your muddled sight is those glowing eyes. You lash out with the dagger and sink it deeply into the socket. As soon as you’re released, Hecat is already towing you back to your feet, pulling you up the stairs and into the next room.

The milky eyes and pallor of bloodless bodies greet you. The undead in this part of the prison seem to roam, unsure of their orders, but as soon as the thudding of your heart is heard, their heads snap in your direction. They swarm around you like enraged bees. Despite Hecat’s exhaustion, she is unwavering. Her sword slashes through the air, shield deflecting the snapping fangs and shredding claws.

You feel the pangs of irritation at your uselessness. Your magic, once your greatest weapon, is now a prison in its own right. The vampires press in closer, surrounding you like a pack of ravenous wolves, their movements orchestrated by an unseen hand, but they don’t move to attack further as they corral you.

��What are they doing?” Hecat pants with wild eyes, frantically searching for an escape.

“I don’t know.”

A red aura shifts around the spawn, the same one Cazador used to control Astarion’s sibling during their midnight visit to your camp. They part for a tall, pallid figure that appears seemingly from the shadows.

“Nice to see you again, Sorceress,” it speaks. You recognize that voice, and your heart arrests in your chest, sinking into your stomach.

Aldous.

Your mind reels, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. No. He is dead. You watched the life be abducted from his eyes yourself. Yet, he stands before you, pale as death with glowing crimson eyes. His face splits into that repellent smile, and his cackling resounds off the walls.

“That one.” He points at you, “She is to be taken alive. The Tiefling matters not.”

“What the fuck,” Hecat breathes.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sorceress,” Aldous laughs, hysterical and bone-chilling. “And your fanged friend. I cannot wait to drain you dry in front of him.”

A harrowing scream tears from your throat, a melody of rage and sorrow as Aldous disappears in a burst of red, drawn home by his unknown master. Grabbing Hecat’s hand, you eye a door and dash toward it with renewed vigour. The vampire’s claws and fangs pierce your skin as you burst through the legion. You stab and slash with reckless abandon, sinking the dagger into anything that attempts to halt you.

Hecat and you stumble into the room and try to close the door on writhing arms and legs. Hecat lashes out with her sword, severing limbs from bodies obstructing it until it slams shut and locks.

“Help me!” Hecat yells as she throws a table over. You help barricade the door with whatever is available.

“They want you?” Hecat snaps, levelling the sword at you, “Who the fuck are you, dragon girl, and why the fuck do they want you alive?”

You’re doubled over, hands on your thighs, trying to inhale as much air as your lungs can possibly take, but the splitting pain in your side hampers your ability to catch your breath.

“I don’t know,” you retort venomously, eyeing the sword and Tiefling.

“That one knows you,” she hisses, shifting her stance and getting ready to strike. “Who the fuck is he?”

“A dead man,” you sigh, pushing your hair from your eyes. “I killed him. Apparently, it didn’t stick.”

“You’re a murderer?!” She gasps, bringing the steel blade to your neck.

“Yes,” you growl, unbothered by the threat.

Hecat laughs, withdrawing her blade, “I would not have thought you possible of such a heinous crime.” She winks, “I like you even more now.”

You cannot help but choke out a pained laugh, but it’s more of a groan than anything. You look around. Waxy moonlight floods the room from a small window. It’s the first window you’ve seen, but bars in a crisscross pattern make escape impossible, and the wood door is starting to splinter and crack under the barrage rattling it on its hinges.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere makes your skin prickle as the dam of suppression is released, and the Weave returns to you in an overwhelming deluge. You don’t have time to wonder why or how, and you don’t much care. The Weave causes the air to crackle, abuzz with powerful energy, and you fill yourself with it. You grip the iron and allow the potency of your draconic fire to spill out of you with a daunting laugh you cannot stifle. The bars heat, whine and wail, glowing white-hot and oozing, and Hecat thrusts her sword into the gooey mess of molten metal to clear your path.

The moon hangs high in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the building, and the air is brisk as you clamber onto the roof. You cast Shatter, crumbling the stone around the window to block the pursuing spawn.

“That’s some potent magic you have there,” Hecat grins. “I’ve never seen anyone melt metal with their hands before.”

Her words of praise float over you as you eye the raging war of the courtyard below. Some guards remain alive, fighting another horde of spawn descending on the grounds. From the height, you can see beyond the solid walls surrounding the compound, and your feet move unconsciously, eyes skipping over the landscape - searching, searching, searching…

There.

“We could jump,” Hecat says hesitantly, peering over the edge.

“No,” you bark with a smile. “We fly. Follow me.”

You cast Fly, taking her hand and soar into the air. Hecat yelps at the suddenness of your movement and clings to you. You cannot quite reach your target before your feet hit the soft, muddied terrain. Spawn trample the ground, careening toward you like a blight on the land. Hecat stands in front of you, but you are muzzled no longer.

“Detono!” You howl, and the wave of crackling energy bowls the spawn over.

You cast Fireball and rain blazing death, warping the fire into flames that burn blue, bending it to your will. Your fingers dance in the moonlight, under stars that envy how bright you burn. Hecat stands at the ready, prepared and reinvigorated, but with unfathomable rage, you don’t miss. With every step, every twitch of your fingers, every syllable that brushes off your tongue, you are violence, you are slaughter, you are death incarnate.

It feels magnificent. Exhilarating. You are so wonderfully, splendidly fucking alive.

Whatever spawn remain have begun to retreat, much to your displeasure, disappearing in puffs of red mist, back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

“Kamena!” Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground, and pressing you tightly to firm, sculpted muscles. You would do anything to stay in this embrace but the pain in your ribs forces a pained cry from your lips, and Astarion jerks away from you.

Hecat screams, charging forward with her blade levelled at Astarion before you have time to explain. Astarion dodges swiftly and has one blade to Hecat’s throat and the other pressed firmly to her stomach before you can blink.

“Astarion, don’t,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “She helped me escape. Hecat, this is my friend.”

“Friend?” Hecat barks as Astarion releases her with a skeptical frown, and she reels back. “You failed to mention that your friend is also a fucking vampire.”

“Astarion is a person,” you growl. Without the adrenaline rocketing through your veins, your injuries and weariness have begun to take their toll on your body, and you stumble.

Astarion catches you, “You’re injured?”

“Her ribs are broken, I think,” Hecat replies for you. “The guards did not treat her well.”

“Shadowheart!” Astarion bellows and slightly lifts the hem of your shirt, revealing the edges of mottled blue, black and yellowing bruise expanding up your side. “Good Gods, my love.”

“I’m fine.” You bring Astarion’s eyes to yours, gazing into the scarlet sea you have longed to swim in. It almost makes it past you, but your brows furrow, “Did you just call for Shadowheart?”

A hand lays on your shoulder, and blue magic laves away the cutting pain in your side, “This was supposed to be a nice, boring vacation,” Shadowheart tuts, nose rising into the air with a snort. “I should have known better than to think you might be able to keep yourself out of trouble.”

“Shadowheart!” You pivot, wrapping your arms around her. “Gods. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” She drawls, returning the hug gently.

“Where is the wizard?” Astarion asks, “We should get her home. She smells terrible.”

Shadowheart chuckles with Astarion as you frown at them. “She really does. If I can smell her, I can’t imagine how bad she smells to you, vampire.”

“Be glad you can’t,” Astarion wrinkles his nose at you but sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing your forehead.

“Take her home,” Shadowheart instructs. “I’ll wait for Gale.”

The conversation between them starts to sound far away as lethargy drags at your mind.

“What do we do about this one?” Astarion gestures to Hecat.

“Leave her with me,” Shadowheart concludes with a tinge of threat. “She can bring me up to speed on exactly what in the Hells is going on around here while we wait for Gale.”

“She helped me,” you murmur. “Be nice, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart smirks, “Aren’t I always nice?”

“Wake up.”

“No,” you grumble, forcing your eyes open.

“Yes.” Astarion purrs with cold breath on the shell of your ear that sends delightful shivers down your spine. “You are not crawling into our bed smelling like a flophouse latrine.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body tightly to him. He tries to tug you away half-heartedly between his grunting protests, but there’s no real force behind his playful pulling.

“Now, you smell, too!” You chime as he sets you back on your feet and starts drawing a bath.

“Naughty girl,” Astarion smirks, chuckling.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror. Your hair is matted and dingy with grime. Filth streaks your face, dulling your complexion. Your shirt, once a pale blue, has been rendered brown, stained with dirt and blood that’s both new and long dried.

Movement behind you catches your eyes, whisking them away from your reflection. Bottles of oils float through the air, appearing to move on their own as Astarion pours oils into the water, and notes of lavender, sandalwood, and vanilla arise with the steam. This is something you’ve never gotten used to. Objects seemingly floating, as if picked up by a breeze and carried aloft of their own free will.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Astarion says, moving your hair and bringing you back from your contemplations.

“What?”

“No reflection.” Astarion’s cool fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, allowing him to peel the disgusting garment from your body, “Objects moving on their own, a ghost underdressing you.”

“A little,” you admit. “I just don’t understand how you always look so fucking perfect all the time.”

“Oh,” he giggles, turning you around, hooking his fingers in your waistband, and crouching. “Do go on.”

You put your hands on his shoulders, leaning some of your weight into him while he strips you, lifting one leg at a time, “I missed you."

“I missed you, too. Very much.” He says, taking your hand in his, “Come. Into the bath with you before it gets cold, and you chastise me.”

Climbing into the steaming water is like climbing into a sun-soaked dream. How very odd is it you can forget how your skin feels when it’s clean. As you slough off the dirt, blood and filth, the pads of your fingers do not recognize the buttery softness of your skin without the grainy texture.

“Tilt your head back,” Astarion instructs. He pours hot water over your head, fingers gently detangling your matted hair, lathering it with soap.

The bruise extending up your side is still faintly visible, staining your skin in hues of blue and yellow, and your fingers skate up, poking and prodding.

“What happened in there?” Astarion brushes the backs of his fingers gently down the marbled skin.

“The guards had a bone to pick with me,” you shrug, trying to cover the solemnity of the conversation with a pleasant smile. “I don’t wish to talk about it right now, Astarion.”

“Kamena…” Astarion sighs with a sullen shake of his head.

You press your fingers gently under his chin, bringing his eyes to yours. Gods. When he looks at you, it is not a glance. It is a song, a message, a constellation of promises wrapped in scarlet, and you never want to look away.

“I’m not running, Astarion.” You assure him, “I will tell you all about it, but tonight, can we just be us?”

Astarion smiles, nodding his understanding, “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Astarion’s fingers massage your scalp as he washes the soap from your hair, rinsing it until the water finally runs clear.

“Do we have wine?” You ask on a whim.

“Gale does,” Astarion grins momentarily, but his lips press into a thin line. “Is this celebratory drinking or “it’s better to forget” drinking?”

You wince at the question. You know it’s not exactly the healthiest way to deal with your problems. You are tempted to lie to him but force the truth from your lips, “A little of both?”

“I can live with that, I suppose,” Astarion nods, helping you stand and wrapping a plush towel around you, patting you dry. You smile as he dotes on you, “I know where the wizard hides the good stuff. I will go raid his cellar.”

Slipping into one of Astarion’s shirts, you light the fire with naught but a thought. It feels good to have your magic back after being deprived of it for so long. You grip the Weave, pulling the mystical essence from your blood and bones, and it feels like taking a deep breath after you didn’t realize you were holding it. Fire spurts out of your palm, and you fashion it into a ring, forcing the flames to move unnaturally as they chase each other around in a never-ending loop.

You lift the flaming ring above your head, hovering between your palms like a fiery halo, and force it to expand and contract simply because you can.

“Did no one ever teach you it’s dangerous to play with fire, Sorceress?”

“Perhaps for the untrained, Rogue,” you smirk, snap your fingers, and the halo bursts like a firework, pinpricks of fire whirling around you.

You let the fire ebb and die out slowly, relinquishing your magic with a sorrowful sigh. The Weave fills you with life, comfort and peace. Without it, you’re thrust back into a stark reality. Astarion hands you a glass, and you grab the bottle and wink as you drink deeply. The wine is a crisp white wine, buttery with hints of vanilla. It sparkles on your tongue and fizzes down your throat, and you cannot help but close your eyes at the pleasure of it all after drinking brown-tinged water for a week.

“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to keep standing in the middle of the room?”

“Gods,” you smirk, handing the bottle to Astarion and trotting over to the bed. You flop onto it gracelessly. “Let’s drink in bed! I’ve been sleeping on stone for a week, and this is lovely, but it’s missing something.”

“And what’s that, my dear?” Astarion cocks his head handsomely with a boyish smile that tells you he knows exactly what you think it’s missing.

“You!”

“In that case,” Astarion giggles and removes his shirt. He thrusts the wine bottle into your hands. Your fingers fumble to catch it, senses entirely possessed by him, “We might as well get comfortable, yes?”

“Yes,” you breathe, swallowing thickly.

Astarion saunters around the bed, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. He makes it look casual, unpremeditated, but it’s maddeningly slow.

“You’re a tease,” you mutter under your breath, sipping the wine and slipping out of your shirt.

“I am not!” He chuckles, “You’re just exceptionally impatient. Good things come to do who wait, sweetheart.”

“Do they?” You quirk a brow at him, “I’m not so sure about that. Do you have proof of this notion?”

“I waited two hundred years for you.” Astarion purrs as the bed dips under his weight, and he presses his body against your back, wrapping his arms around you.

“I love you,” you murmur, craning your head to look at him, slipping your fingers into his hair.

“I love you, too. I should not have let the wizard talk to me into leaving you in there so long. I—“

“Not tonight, Astarion.” It sounds like a whimpering plea, “Please."

“Right. Apologies,” he rasps, lips against your neck.

“Have you been eating?”

“Always so worried about me,” his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m fine.”

Perhaps he is fine, but you are most certainly not. Suddenly, you’re impacted with a deep-seated need to feel that intimacy, that descent through the branches of his veins. You want to bleed into him, your soul and his, intertwined as one. The intensity of the emotion catches you off guard.

Are you chasing the bloodless daze that his feedings provide? Are you hoping it will lay a shroud over the dread sinking your stomach? Is this another way to run?

Maybe.

But you are��so good at running.

“Would you like a nibble?” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the hint of anticipation from your voice.

Astarion jerks his head up, pushing your shoulder until you’re lying on your back and looking up at him with an arched brow. He regards you thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea tonight.”

“Why?”

Astarion rifles his fingers through his hair, “You are well aware of the effect you have on me when I feed on you. I cannot promise that once your blood dawns on my tongue, your skin under my fingertips, I won’t lose myself in the need to make every inch of you mine.”

You wrap an arm around Astarion’s neck carefully, kissing along his jaw. You whisper in his ear, “So make me yours.”

Astarion shudders amorously as you ghost your lips over the ridge of his ear to the tapered tip. He grabs your waist with a low, rumbling growl, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. His desire for you pressed firmly against your already slick sex. Astarion looks deeply into your eyes, holding you still as if trying to figure out if you’re in your right mind.

You’re trying to figure out the same thing.

He catches your lips in his, gentle at first but with progressively more ferocity. He groans into your mouth. It radiates down your spine, stealing your breath, and a chill rushes through you, settling in your core. Your heart flutters with desire, the increasing drumbeat of it making its way between your thighs.

Astarion’s hand grips your hips, undulating them, his cock sliding between your folds, brushing up against your swollen flesh. You have been so fundamentally deprived of his affection that every touch sends shivers over your skin, every slide of his tongue against yours makes you want to sigh, and every groan steals the air from your lungs.

His fingers tease the peaks of your nipples, and you throw your head back and gasp. Astarion kisses up the column of your throat, his free hand cradling the back of your head, fingers twisted in your hair.

There’s but a moment of clarity. You are running headfirst, barrelling into anything that might hope to make you numb - him, pleasure, alcohol, bloodlessness.

Astarion’s fingers glide between your lips and sweep over your sensitive pearl, and coherence is lost in a white-hot rush of pleasure. You melt, draping your arms over him and biting his shoulder to hush your cries. His lips trace along your neck, and you roll your head to the side. His fangs sink into your flesh, and he growls, deeply and lofty, his chest rumbling against yours as if thunder was rolling through it. Your essence trickles through his veins like a gentle rain as he draws in methodical sips, savouring every drop.

Your hips buck as he continues his ministrations. You yearn to feel that decedent stretch of your walls as they envelop his cock, and he knows it. Astarion encourages you to lift your hips, pressing the swollen, blunt head of his cock to your entrance, and you sink down his length as he rubs against all your ridges so exquisitely that it makes your vision blur.

You don’t even notice his fangs retreat from your neck as his lips mould to yours to dampen your unadulterated breathy moans. You close your eyes and fade in and out as your head spins around with pleasure so intense you cannot think straight. The woozy fog of blood loss only adds to your dwindling reason and logic. With every pump of his hips and every roll of yours, you are walking on the fine edge of paradise.

But there’s something not quite right in his movements. They are tactical, methodical, and too perfect. You drive your eyes open, blinking away that haze of ecstasy. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, he’s not looking back at you. He’s looking past you as if through you, but his body knows this dance well enough, and he continues to go through the motions even when he’s a million miles away.

You go rigid, halting all movement in a split second, and your heart seizes, bound by the flash freeze in your chest. It jolts him back to himself, and he blinks rapidly, almost confused.

“Astarion,” you purr, concealing the hurt in your voice. Why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he say something as he promised he would? “Let's stop.”

“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cradle his cheek, trying very hard not to move a muscle until he tells you, “Tell me when I can move.”

“I’m sorry,” he looks away from you, brows downturned, rubbing his eyes. “I want this. You. I was there, and then I just… wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”

“Healing is messy. Isn’t it?”

“You are a gift,” Astarion folds his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and you try to hug him back, but it’s admittedly awkward when he’s still inside you, and you’re trying your best to keep yourself still. He laughs, “You can move, Kamena. I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re still inside me,” you retort, almost as if to alert him to this fact.

“Yes, that’s considerably obvious, but thank you for pointing it out,” he chuckles as you relax slightly. “Do you think we could stay like this? Just for a little bit? I find it… strangely helpful.”

This is new. Not unwelcome, but definitely new, “You want to sit here with your cock inside me, and what, chat?”

“Precisely!” He chimes happily, leaning back with a grin, “I’m so glad you understand, darling. Hells. Do I have some stories for you! Do you know how hard it is to break into the government buildings here? They are locked up tighter than a patriar’s purse, but I do love a good challenge.”

You can’t help but burst laughing at his carefree attitude, the way he’s still rock hard inside you, talking about committing crimes as if you were sitting at a table sharing stories over dinner and drinks. This is not typically how you remember him reacting, but this… this is progress, and you will take it.

You groan, “Why were you breaking into the civil buildings, Astarion?”

“How do you think Gale knew where to find and nullify the device suppressing magic at the prison?” Astarion drawls, pleased with himself. “That man is terrible at stealth. Even worse than you. He complained about his knees the entire time! Gods. I am centuries older than him, and you don’t see me bellyaching.”

“How utterly annoying! I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” you giggle at how he smirks with a wily glint in his crimson eyes. He definitely considered it. “In that case, you’re going to have to take me on a date where we break into this government building that gave you a hard time. This is something I must see.”

“You cheeky little minx,” he laughs. “I would love nothing more.”

The murmur of voices, clinking of cutlery on the tableware, and smell of what is surely Gale’s cooking drift down the hallway as you approach. Astarion follows closely behind, his hand at the small of your back. He has not stopped touching you in some fashion since you returned, as if he’s worried that you might disappear.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see the back of Hecat’s head, sitting at the table, shovelling whatever gruel Gale provided into her mouth and nodding as he recounts tales of your grand adventure in the Underdark. It takes substantial effort not to tell Gale to shut his trap. He does realize that you met this person in prison, right?

Shadowheart sees you first, leaping from her chair and dashing over, sweeping you into a tight hug, “Gods. You smell much better,” she giggles when you groan and squeeze her hard enough to expel some air from her lungs, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you nod, but you haven’t been able to take your gaze, etched with skepticism off Hecat.

Shadowheart whispers, “She had nowhere else to go. Gale invited her.”

You snort, “Of course he did.”

“I’ve been watching her closely,” Shadowheart sniffs. “And I will continue to do so.”

You suppose the woman was instrumental in your escape, and perhaps, for now, you should give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Sit,” Astarion instructs, pulling a chair out for you. “I will get you some food.”

You arch a brow at him and give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head. Although anything will be better than the stale bread and dried meat the prison served, whatever Gale has fashioned resembles wet dog food, and your stomach, as hungry as it is, flops in your belly.

Astarion kisses your temple, “Trust me.”

You sit, and Astarion gathers fresh fruit from the fridge, cutting it up in deft, precise movements. He glares at the knife spitefully, assessing the edge and rolling his eyes. You would giggle, knowing he’s judging Gale for the state of his knives, if you were not so flabbergasted that Astarion is preparing your food.

Hecat’s voice breaks you from your astoundment, “You clean up nicely! I almost forgot what colour your hair was under all that crud.”

She, too, looks substantially different without dirt smudged on her face, “I could say the same about you,” you retort a little too sourly.

Hecat smiles, not catching the venom in your voice, “Your friends are very nice.”

“Yes,” you give Gale a sideways glance, and he looks bashful. “Gale is very generous and trusting.”

Gale’s face flushes red, and he clears his throat, putting a finger in the collar of his robe, and pulling it away from his neck like the garment is restricting his breath.

Astarion places a bowl of perfectly diced fruit before you. He sits, dragging his chair close to yours so he can keep a hand resting on your thigh. You don’t miss the way Shadowheart glares at him with unspoken bitterness.

“Dear Shadowheart already gave me quite the berating,” he shimmies his shoulders as if he enjoyed it.

He actually might have.

“Not enough of one if you ask me.” Shadowheart scoffs, her eyes narrowed and blazing with acidity.

Hecat arches a brow, confused at what is going on, and you’re not about to lay out your life story for some stranger you met in prison, so you push the conversation forward.

“Aldous is a vampire,” you say far too casually and are met with looks of shock and silence.

Gale and Shadowheart eye Astarion.

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my bloody doing. I am a mere spawn. I do not have the power to turn anyone. Gods,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe it possible. I disposed of him. Thoroughly.”

“Did you destroy his body?” You ask. Gale almost chokes on his tea at the indifference in your voice.

Astarion nods, “Entirely. There was nothing left.”

“Is that the man who was after you?” Hecat asks, but her eyes are not on you.

They are moored to Astarion, like a shipwreck lying on the ocean floor, irretrievably bound. Astarion doesn’t seem to notice as he typically does not, but these dew-eyed ogles always make jealously flare to life. You place your hand on Astarion, stop yourself from growling “mine,” and instead, settle on scowling.

Astarion is alerted to your discontentment by the heat radiated from your palm. He makes a show of kissing each of your fingers, slow and lingering, trying very hard not to snicker. He finds your jealousy endearing but equally foolish, and perhaps it is.

Hecat does not seem to care or notice. It drives you mad, so you crawl into his lap, placing yourself between him and her gawking orange eyes. You can hear Shadowheart chuckling under her breath. She knows your protectiveness of Astarion all too well.

Astarion remains casual about it as if it’s not unusual for you to sit in his lap during breakfast. He grabs the bowl of fruit you have yet to finish and shoves it into your hands, “Eat.”

You grumble curses under your breath only he can hear, at him and his bossiness, at Hecat, and shovel fruit into your mouth.

Astarion chuckles, kissing your cheek, and purrs reassuringly, “I only have eyes for you, thiramin.”

You know this, but it’s not his eyes you’re concerned about.

A knock on the door breaks you from your brewing hostility, and you nearly answer it as a reflex, but he holds you and shakes his head, “No. Not this time.”

“I’ll get it,” Shadowheart chimes.

Gale accompanies Shadowheart. All three of you are holding the Weave, ready to cast at a moment’s notice. There is an undertone of mumbling, and Astarion’s face transforms into a formidable scowl. His grip on you tightens, and he brandishes a dagger.

“Blackwell,” he growls.

Flames immediately jump to life across your skin, licking up your forearms and through your hair. Hecat is on her feet, her fists balled, stirred by your unease.

Gale returns, looking contrite, wracking his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, my friend, but we must hear him out.”

Astarion is the first to answer, his voice rough and grated in warning, “Absolutely fucking not! I don’t care what information he has or what he has to say, Gale. If you let him into this house, I will kill him. I promise you that. You would not want to get blood all over these lovely floors. Would you?”

“Information?” You ask, placing a hand on Astarion’s as he grips the dagger so tightly his fist shakes.

“Don’t be an idiot, Kamena,” Astarion snarls.

“My son,” you hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice as he sidles up behind Gale as if using him as a shield. Shadowheart has a tight clutch on his shoulder, bristling with fury, “I’ve made a grave mistake. I know I have no right to ask, but I don’t know where else to turn. I... I need your help.”

“Help?” You seethe, fingernails digging into the table to keep yourself from burning him where he stands, shoulders slumped, wringing his hat in his hands. “You want our help?! That’s laughable.”

“You killed him.” Mr. Blackwell mewls, “Didn’t you?”

You do not answer. No one does. Instead, you level him with a glower sharp enough to cut through mountains.

It is answer enough.

“I made a deal,” he continues. “No one would listen to me. No one cared. I was out of options, and then I was approached by a woman while I was at a tavern. She told me she could bring him back. She told me there was a spell that would return him to me. She said the only payment she would ask was that he would be in her service. I... I did not ask questions. I did not know what she was!”

“You godsdamned idiot,” you hiss, clenching your teeth so hard the nerves trill. “You made a deal with a vampire?”

“Nobles,” Hecat scoffs with a disgusted twist of her lips. “All wealth, zero intelligence.”

“I didn’t know!” Mr. Blackwell cries, slipping to the floor into a puddle of sorrow. “She said he would return to me the next night, and he did, but he was not the same. His mother let him in. She was so happy to see him she did not notice or care. She hugged him. He… He bit her! I could not get him to stop. He looks like you,” Mr. Blackwell says sullenly, nodding toward Astarion. “Red eyes, pale as a sheet.”

“I am sure he does,” Astarion beams a fanged, threatening grin at him, making Mr. Blackwell squeak like a mouse caught in a trap.

Questions are whirling through your mind. Why would a Vampire Lord take notice of you? Why would they waste resources – spawn, scrolls or otherwise? Why bother having you imprisoned, beaten, and weakened? There is always a purpose to their madness, but what could you have that they want?

“What could a Vampire Lord possibly want with you?” Gale echos your thoughts, fingers on his chin. “And why bring Aldous back? How did they bring him back?”

“Aldous is easy. Most likely a scroll of True Resurrection. I imagine they turned him because they knew his thirst for revenge would make him easy to manipulate. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Your brows furrow, tapping the table with your finger rapidly, “What I don’t understand is what use they would have for any of us. I can’t think of a single relic in our possession that would do a Vampire Lord any good.”

Hecat looks between all of you with a puzzled look. She knows too much now, adding yet another complication.

“Astarion,” Shadowheart prompts him, “You’re the resident expert on vampires. Care to speculate as to why they would go through all this trouble?”

Astarion’s brows furrow and he shrugs, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Vampires are territorial beasts, but I do not think they would go to such lengths when they could have simply attacked me while I was hunting if their concern was territory.”

You give the worn noble on the floor a once over, and you feel nothing but hatred for the pathetically snivelling man. Should you feel merciful? Gods. When did you become so callous? “Did Aldous say anything else?”

“He muttered things here and there.” Mr. Blackwell sighs letting his head drop into his hands, “Something about ruins being the key and a contract, but none of it made any sense. He seemed like he was in a haze, drunk-like.”

Ruins being a key and a contract? It's not much to go on at this point, but you suppose, it’s a start.

“Whoever this Vampire Lord is,” Shadowheart crosses her arms, “They will know exactly who we are. They will not underestimate us.”

“Indeed,” Gale agrees with a curt nod. “We must take precautions, prepare and plan for the worst.”

“Who the fuck are you people?” Hecat asks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

“Adventurers,” you trample over Gale who is about to spill your entire story, looking him in the eyes with a warning. His mouth snaps shut. “Nothing more.”

It seems your adventure in Waterdeep is just beginning.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Shadowheart ❤️

I'm dying to hear all your theories on why a Vampire Lord has taken an interest! 😁

Are we trusting Hecat?

Fucking Aldous 🤬 Hopefully we get the chance to kill him... again.

#astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion smut #astarion romance #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x oc #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #spawn astarion

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cheollipop · 7 months

Note

Ok ok ok idk if you’re still taking stuff for your sleepover (which by the way congrats on 2k omg) BUT I had a thought —

Paramedic!San who helps calm down panicky reader when they have to be taken by ambulance to the hospital for something idk but the entire time San is just talking to them and like introducing himself and keeping the reader distracted from whatever medical stuff is going on so they can calm down or won’t pass out.

Just things like San calling the reader darling or something cute like that from the second he gets to their side and talking all sweet to them or saying stuff like ‘hey just keep your eyes on me’ or like ‘I’ve got you’ just AH

I feel like it has San behavior and I just like being taken care of lol

2𝙠 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩

I remember reading your ask for the first time and full-on swooning over this omg, marian your brain....let me kiss it. this is seriously so him and writing it had me giggling and blushing like crazy bc??? personally, I'd be cracking a bone every other week if i were reader, just to have him hold my hand and calm me down. just me? okay T-T this was so fun to write, so thank you for sending this in!! and thank you for all the support, it means so much to me <33 happy reading~

pairing: paramedic!choi san x gender neutral!reader

w.c.: 0.7k

tags: fluff, reader is called pretty, tw: ankle injury, reader gets anxious about it

Echoing voices overlapped around you, and the pain in your ankle persisted as the paramedics rolled your stretcher into the back of the ambulance. You squinted under the white light, and nearly flinched away from the sudden chill on your skin as one of the responders pressed an icepack onto the swollen flesh, a hand around your calf stabilizing it to prevent further injury. Everything was happening too fast, your chest heaving with anxiety as the vehicle rolled over bumpy roads.

A dark head of hair popped into your vision, honeyed voice and delicate hands calming your racing heart, “take deep breaths for me, darling,” he spoke, a smile stretching his plush lips while he squeezed his hand around yours. “My name’s San, can you tell me yours?”

Despite its simplicity, it took you a few moments to process his question, smiley eyes distracting you from the beeping equipment surrounding you. “(Y/n),” you spoke, managing not to shiver while he maintained eye contact.

San had an intimidating face, and yet his aura emanated cordiality and benevolence, multiplying with every millimetre his lips stretched. “And what’s a pretty thing like you doing to hurt their ankle this bad, hm?”

The sudden teasing shift in his tone caught you by surprise, heat flushing your face as you stumbled over your words, attempting to explain the way you tripped over uneven ground while he kept you bound under his unyielding gaze.

“San, stop flirting with the patient,” a voice interrupted you mid-story, and San looked back at the man perched by your feet in annoyance.

“Can you ice her ankle in silence, Woo?” The faux smile he put on while talking to the two-tone haired man turned genuine when he moved his attention back to you, his fingers still wrapped around your palm and squeezing gently, easing the tension weighing down on your chest. “Ignore him, he’s just jealous I’m the one talking to you,” he winked.

So he was flirting.

Warmth tingled the skin at your ankle as soon as the paramedic pulled the ice pack away, examining the area and assessing the degree of swelling. The pain started again, and your eyes shifted down to peek at the bruising flesh, eyebrows furrowing as the anxiety threatened to close up your airways.

“Hey, hey, eyes up here, darling,” San’s hand left yours momentarily to close around your chin, guiding your focus back to him, to glimmering orbs and dimpled cheeks. “We’re gonna take care of you, alright? Woo just needs to give your skin a break from the ice,” he explained, moving his fingers back to yours.

You nodded, allowing the deep decibels to mute the pain panging in your joint, blinking slowly while his lips moved. You knew he was trying to distract you, to calm your quivering nerves, and it was working. Small talk worked. Questions about your hobbies, favourite shows—that you happened to share a few of—and his small rant about his cat, worked. And before you knew it, the ice pack was back on your skin, and your fingers had long since ceased their restless trembling underneath his own.

The ambulance slowed before stopping completely, the back door swinging open to reveal the emergency room entrance, and you couldn’t help the disappointment slumping your shoulders. San must have noticed, giving your hand a tight squeeze before moving away to help the other paramedics roll you out the back and onto the pavement. Once your stretcher fixed on secure ground, his fingers closed around your bicep to pull you up and off it, helping you into the wheelchair a nurse was perched behind.

He kneeled by your side, both his hands finding yours as he spoke, eyes wide and a gentle, amiable smile gracing his lips, “it was nice meeting you, (y/n).” He squeezed around your knuckles, his next words quieter, as though he wanted no one but you to hear them, “take care of yourself, you won’t need to sprain another ankle to see me again.”

Deep dimples sunk into the soft skin of his cheeks, a sickeningly sweet smile on his lips as he sent you off with a wink, a crumpled paper tucked into your palm and butterflies thrashing around in your lower belly.

#panda's 2k sleepover o(≧▽≦)o #cromernet #choi san x reader #san x reader #ateez x reader #choi san fluff #san fluff #ateez fluff #san scenarios #choi san scenarios #choi san imagines #san imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic #choi san fanfic

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kastlequill · 4 months

Text

iv/v. unearth without a name: the wolf that seeks always his own kind

pairing: keegan p russ x f!reader word count: 2.3k synopsis: the fourth and final time you hallucinate keegan tags: whumptober, psychological warfare, injury, brainwashing, hallucinations, amnesia, hurt no comfort, established relationship, ghost!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: canon-typical violence, torture, non-consensual drug use ao3: read here ← prev | next →

IV.

The day you finally broke started off like all the rest.

Tray of gruel, no spoon. Recreational beating, violent enough to put the ache in your bones and the blooms of purple in your flesh, but nevertheless mindful not to render you out of commission. And now, mind games with Rorke.

Another harsh knee slammed into your abdomen, bruising the spleen beneath layers of tender flesh. The blow would’ve had you in a fetal position if you weren’t currently hanging from the ceiling by bound wrists. So, instead, you twisted your hands to tighten your grip on the taut rope, hoping to ground yourself with something tangible, something real. Alas, the move only served to agitate the preexisting friction burns along your restraints.

Rorke sighed. “This little game of yours is gettin’ old, don’t y’think?”

You silently agreed with the sentiment, but your outward expression remained stoic. Or, at least, as stoic as could be expected from a half-beat, nearly-gone prisoner of war. Fatigue and exhaustion had assumed residence in your headspace, the pair thick as thieves, and you were growing weary of their company.

Thanks to Rorke breaking your orbital bone a few meet-and-greets ago, your right eye had swollen shut, so it hurt like a motherfucker to tear your gaze up from the blood-soaked floor. When he at last entered your field of view, you almost wished you hadn’t wasted the energy to do so in the first place.

“I’ll make you an offer,” he started, leaning forward. His breath reeked something foul. “Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I let you walk out that door with all your limbs still intact.”

In your desire to put an end to this prolonged bout of suffering, the suggestion briefly appealed to you. That was, until you felt the unforgiving, unmistakable heat of shame burn deeply within your gut.

The Ghosts—the guys, your guys—were depending on you. They were out there, saving the world or what’s left of it, and you were down here, protecting their secrets with your rotting mind, body, and soul, heedless to the sharp sting of their apparent betrayal. Despite the horrors Rorke had forced you to endure over the course of presumably several months, you continued to keep firm so as to buy your men the time they needed to fulfill their ultimate objective.

Hold the line, Keegan had instructed you once, hand heavy on your shoulder. The intensity in his eyes had captivated you as the team readied themselves to embark on another suicide mission.

Hold the line ‘til I tell you to fall back. Know I’m always watchin’ everyone, everything, everywhere, so trust I won’t forget about you. Just ‘cause you’re out of sight doesn't mean you’re out of mind. Is that clear, rookie ?

Crystal clear. As clear as the wad of saliva you now lobbed at Rorke’s face, landing on the dead center of his left cheek. You watched him process the small act of rebellion and predicted his ensuing streak of violence. Then, for good measure, you broke your vow of silence and whispered two words:

“Fuck you.”

You had taken Rorke for the Devil at the beginning of this whole ordeal, but the revulsion he’d evoked in you back then did not compare to the pure malignancy that now contorted his scarred face.

“Guess I’m just gonna have to beat it out o’ you,” he resolved, cracking his knuckles.

And so the torture ensued as it always did in this vile and twisted tango. Punch after punch, kick after kick, cut after cut—you somehow remained conscious through it all. Even when you finally began to black out, he didn’t for a second relent his rapid volley attacks.

At this point, fear was a distant thing. Bitter acceptance, however, had never been closer. Its arrival marked the beginning of the end.

Everything that would follow was entirely and utterly out of your control.

“What’s your name?”

“. . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I. . . I can’t remember it. My name.”

“Alright. Next question—”

“—did I do something wrong? Where am I? Is this some kind of test—”

“—how about your mother’s name? Think you can tell me that?”

“My mother? Is she safe? Is she here?”

“Her name, please. If you’re unsure of the answer, say the word ‘unknown’.”

“She’s. . . her name is. . .”

“Is what?”

“Unknown.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? I’ll show you interesting. You better start explaining why I can’t remember her name, or her face, or my own goddamn name.”

“That’s what we’d like to know as well, considering you are the one who all but short-circuited her brain and forgot everything of note.”

“. . . I what?”

“Retrograde amnesia. Quite a severe case of it, at that.”

“How’s that even possible? Just what exactly is this place? And who are you people?”

“Answer our questions, then maybe we’ll answer some of yours. Now, do you recognize the man in this photo?”

“Should I?”

“Yes or no.”

“No. I don’t know who he is. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Well, this certainly changes things. Not to worry, though. You’ve made your mind a blank slate, and we can most definitely use that to our advantage.”

“Sorry, could you repeat that last part? My ears are still ringing, and your mumbling makes it impossible to hear a damn thing.”

“It’s not important. What is important, however, is that you understand the Federation is here to support your want for revenge. We can begin training you—”

“Slow down, alright, you’re not making any fucking sense. Let’s rewind. Who’s the guy with the mask? What’s his deal?”

“That guy is Keegan P. Russ. He’s part of the terrorist organization that launched the attack that murdered your family. Their plan called for no survivors, but you beat the odds and clung onto life long enough for us to find and rehabilitate you. We extend our sincerest condolences and hope to ease your pain by helping you kill him.”

“. . . Do you hear how absolutely insane you sound? You’ve got the wrong woman. I don’t do revenge, and I’m no killer.”

“Perhaps not yet. But you will be. Of that, I am certain.”

They pumped you full of drugs and said it was to aid in your recovery from old wounds. Although that sounded like a steaming pile of horse shit, the barricaded exits and the constant stream of guards meant you had no choice but to comply.

Honestly, you didn’t much care if their words were honest or deceitful. With no sense of who you were or what you cared about, a numbness froze your heart and your mind. And with nothing to gain and nothing to lose, apathy usurped the majority of your other emotions and thoughts.

Still, you had no wish to participate in whatever acts of vengeance the Federation had planned. You attended the training sessions held by Commander Rorke because knowing how to fire a gun and how to defend yourself were valuable skills to have. Taking a life was altogether absent from the equation.

But things changed once you came across the man in the mask.

He appeared like a mirage not too long after your first dose of whatever they injected into your system. Initially, you’d assumed it was a trick of the light, but you quickly ruled out that possibility because there was simply no logical explanation for why you would otherwise be able to conjure a perfect replica of a stranger. The only sensical answer was that he had actually infiltrated the compound and was actually standing before you.

That was when you learned that the faceless man—Keegan Russ, they’d called him—was a downright asshole.

He took a liking to beating the utter shit out of you. You were certain you’d never been so sore in your entire life, given no recovery time between each show of his strength. Russ also accompanied his physical hits with verbal degradation, and with every additional insult he hurled your way, the more it stung:

Worthless. Burden.

Omen.

At first, it struck you as rather odd that no one else in the compound seemed able to discern Keegan’s presence. You’d once asked the female guard who brought your meals why she kept letting an enemy breach their supposedly-secure base, but your only reply had been a confused look and a disbelieving laugh.

Seeing ghosts already, eh? She had no sooner spoken the words before her smirk disappeared, replaced by a more serious expression. Be calm, none pass without the commander’s permission.

So, naturally, you concluded that this Keegan Russ must indeed have a personal vendetta against you, going as far as to risk his life and sneak past several defenses just to make you his very own punching bag. Upon realizing the extent of his desire to reap the life to which he still felt owed, your previous general apathy gradually morphed into a refined, pinpointed hatred. The emotional detachment lingered, but you were suddenly filled with a reinvigorated sense of purpose.

In your new unfeeling world, you couldn’t help but latch onto the one thing that had managed to reduce you to a volatile vessel of rage.

As the intensity and frequency of the beatings increased, so too did your eagerness to return his damage in full. Luckily, Commander Rorke was always there to patch you up and mend your wounds, though he was never curious about how you acquired them. Amidst your painful meetings with Russ, the commander began to grow on you slowly but surely.

However, despite your greatest efforts, you simply could not grasp why he wouldn’t just kill Keegan himself. After all, based on what you’d gathered from your conversations, he seemed to hate the guy just as much as you did, if not more.

Perhaps you should be thankful for the fact that the task had fallen onto you, because it was now the sole reason you awoke in the morning and went to sleep at night. Nothing else mattered; there was only this mounting need for revenge. It fueled you with a limitless supply of motivation, and you were determined not to let even a drop of it go to waste.

Glorious be the day you finally sink a knife into his abdomen, face to face so you can see how the light fades from his eyes.

That’s too easy. Too quick, you decided, mind elsewhere as your body remained fixed in the training room, wrapped fists ricocheting off a sparring dummy. He needs a taste of his own medicine. Maybe a few rounds of torture first, then I’ll kill him.

That didn’t sound half bad. Actually, it sounded quite good.

Still, you needed to give this some more thought. Killing Keegan Russ properly was of the utmost importance.

And you’d have only a single chance to get it right.

“Name?”

“Not applicable.”

“Not applicable?”

“I have no use for a name. My name is my designation, and I am a weapon of the Federation.”

“Understood. Familial relations?”

“Irrelevant and unimportant.”

“How so?”

“Logically, they must’ve existed at some point, but their existence has been reduced to a shadow in my mind. No tangibility, no substance.”

“And your primary objective?”

“Neutralize Keegan P. Russ. Then incapacitate all remaining Ghosts.”

“Good. Any further questions?”

“Just one—how do you want me to confirm his death?”

“It’s simple, really. Bring us his head, mask and all.”

“Consider it done.”

Harsh winds pierced the layers of your gear as it funneled through the trees encircling the cliff from which you conducted reconnaissance. A few hundred meters away, you observed four men tend to their contained campfire and watched their hound roll in the dirt to score an extra piece of meat.

The group appeared to be preparing for a confrontation. One was cleaning the barrel of his gun, and another was sharpening the blade of his combat knife. The remaining two had risen from the ground and were now engaged in conversation. Of them, the more animated speaker was bald, and the other listened as he fiddled with a pair of radios. Your stare locked on his face, or, more importantly, the familiar mask that covered it.

Keegan Russ’ mask.

Bloodlust began to take root in every fiber of your being, but you forced yourself to reduce its intensity to a simmer.

Patience, came Rorke’s characteristic drawl, so embedded into the walls of your skull after three months of nonstop training and conditioning that it seemed to have developed a consciousness of its own. An unwelcome guest capable of overriding the authority of its helpless host. You’ll catch ‘em soon enough. Act sloppy, and I’ll put a bullet in your kneecaps, hear? If those sons of bitches don’t kill you first, that is.

Flashes of phantom pain bloomed at the spot on your forehead between your brows, right where he would’ve usually flicked you for insubordination or incompetence. A fairly lax disciplinary measure, all things considered, and any irritation it sparked in you was simply redirected onto your target. Although the meek form of corporal punishment felt humiliating, you knew Rorke had only wanted to make you stronger to ensure you would survive your encounter with Keegan Russ and emerge victorious.

You heaved a shaky sigh and raised your visor before clenching your gloved hands into fists, squeezing tightly, then releasing. Coming here had been strictly for recon purposes; there’d be no contact today, much to your disappointment.

Soon, you reassured yourself, trigger finger twitching against your leg.

Soon, the task to which you had devoted yourself for months on end would be over and done with. Soon, the haunting image of a man known to you only as your attempted murderer would linger no longer. And soon, the world would reorient about its axis and start to make a bit of sense again.

Soon.

tbc.

#keegan p russ #keegan p russ x reader #keegan russ #keegan russ x reader #cod keegan #cod x reader #cod ghosts #cod #call of duty #whumptober #my fic #fic: unearth without a name

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omg-im-such-a-masochist · 9 months

Text

𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚕𝚖 (𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎?)

Summary: Bored me tries something different (because writer’s block is a bitch) during a bus ride.

Pairing: Blackpool Combat Club x Fem!Reader

Warnings: +18, adult content, semi-erotic content, harsh language, dub-con, mild psychological torture, yandere vibes.

Tags: @theworldofotps , @writtingrose , @aerynscrichton , @daddyhausen , @melissahausen , @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin , @sophiewolfheart-blog , @sultryfandoms , @new-zealand-chic , @crowleysqueenofhell , @thealliasylum , @legit9thlunaticwarrior , @adamjf , @josiewrites , @seeingstarks , @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch , @whenimakeitshine1234 , @moxkindagirl , @sunshinevirus , @im-just-a-mississippi-girl , @ripleyswhore

The youngest man was placed by the door as security, he couldn’t stop staring at her ever since the others bound her to the chair. His black hair and mischievous almond-shaped eyes gleamed underneath the blinding white lights.

She hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, adrenaline and the clarity in the room had successfully kicked sleep out of her system. She vaguely remembers the faces of two of the men, having bumped them a few times inside her father’s church, but the blonde one and the one by the door were still unfamiliar to her. She still didn’t know where she was, who these men were, and what they could possibly want with someone like her, but still, she found herself here. Somewhere at some place, with the four strangers, being held hostage for no apparent reason.

“I need to go to the bathroom”, she murmured. Red, tired eyes stared bluntly at the young man before her ears captured what sounded like a faint chuckle.

“Didn’t you just go like ten minutes ago?”

“Yes, but I need to go again”, she responded, shrinking herself in the chair when he took three steps forward.

He hovered over her, nose brushing against her perfumed hair, warm breath caressing the skin of her right temple. “What’s so interesting about that bathroom that you wanna go in there all the time, huh?” His hand pushed her hair behind her shoulder, rough fingertips brushing the skin of her neck and shoulder in the meantime. “Maybe I should go in with you to see what interesting things you’re up to”.

Her throat felt coarse and dry, and the many hours without water were beginning to affect her body. She subtly pulled herself away from the young man’s touch, the small action seemed to amuse him since his only response was to get closer to her again.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of the shy ones” He chuckled “You didn’t seem to have one single shy bone in your body when you snuck out of the church with Timmy boy”. The amused chuckle transformed into a full-out laugh as he spotted the disgusted look on her face.

“Tell me” He whispers in her ear “How far did you let Timmy boy go?” his hand grips her thigh, pushing it open until a voice echoes from behind them.

“Yuta! That’s enough” The blonde man stated, slowly walking into the room followed by the other two men. Yuta reluctantly stepped away from her and walked toward the blonde man who beckoned him closer. He whispered something in Yuta’s ear, and the young man just nodded and walked out of the room.

“I deeply apologize for this inconvenience” The blonde man pointed with his finger around the room “But dear old daddy didn’t leave us much of choice”. His eyes wrinkled as he smiled “I’m Bryan. And this is Mox and Claudio”, he pointed back and forth between the man beside him, “We promise you nothing bad will happen to you, as long as you behave and your father keeps his part of the deal, of course. But other than that, I promise you, we’re all gentlemen here”.

She tried to lick her lips in an attempt to moist the dry flesh as she spoke “Could I have some water, please?”

“Of course” The man who went by the name Claudio answered with a smirk. He grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge by the door and opened it before placing it against her chapped lips.

They all stared at her with curiosity, like tourists on a safari. Both Mox and Claudio had a knowing smirk plastered on their lips as Bryan only stood there in silent mockery. Claudio squatted down beside her, pulling the water bottle away from her lips when she began to chug on it.

“Easy there” He whispered “We don’t want you to choke, at least not on water”

When she only answered a small, confused “What?”, Claudio laughed “You’re really cute, I wonder why it took us so long to do this”. He placed small pecks on her exposed shoulder, traveling up to her neck until he reached her cheek.

“Will you be our obedient little girl? Do everything we say with a pretty smile on your face” Claudio placed his chin on her shoulder, deep brown eyes staring directly at her soul “We know you want to” He grinned.

“We’re not like christian boy Timmy who doesn’t know what to do with his little dick” Mox tugged on her hair, pulling it down until she looked up at him. “We’re men, real men” His clear baby blue eyes roamed through her features “I know you’re supposed to keep that cherry intact for your honeymoon, but kitty cat, I’m not so sure that you’ll keep it though. You know why?”

She whined a “No” before she felt Claudio pressing his semi-hard bulge against her shoulder.

Mox took her hand in his as he began “Because unlike your dear old daddy, we love you”, he delicately placed her palm on top of his growing bulge, “See how much we love you?”

A boisterous laugh resonated from the wooden stairs, loud thumps made their way down to the small room until they stopped by the door. “Everything’s ready and the engine is running”. Yuta grinned like the Cheshire cat.

Bryan leaned over her and cut the ropes with a pocket knife. He caresses her hair, places a small peck on her lips, and whispers “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

#jon moxley x reader #jon moxley imagine #claudio castagnoli x reader #claudio castagnoli imagine #bryan danielson x reader #bryan danielson imagine #wheeler yuta x reader #wheeler yuta imagine #jon moxley #claudio castagnoli #bryan danielson #wheeler yuta #blackpool combat club x reader #blackpool combat club imagine #blackpool combat club #masochist writes #stockolm series

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stargirl-writes · 6 months

Text

devotion pt ii

pairing : f! reader x anakin skywalker word count : 1.7k masterlist | ao3 link

summary

this is a second part! check out the first one here! when you decided to sleep with anakin skywalker, you have set an arrangement to keep it purely physical. but it was getting harder to repress that you've fallen for him. and tonight, you aren't sure if you can keep seeing him in like this anymore.

tags : angst, hurt/comfort, pining

warnings : violence and blood

notes : ethel cain, you're held responsible for my obsession with relating everything to my religious trauma.

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated !

"Stay" The words were so strangled, they were no more than a whisper. A plead.

Anakin's eyes fixed on yours. Rage, terror, fright, they seem to be exhibiting all at the same time.

Your fingers felt cold. Every second he remains silent, the more your chest caves in. You can't breathe. A hollow was forming inside you, like a vacuum, and you were beginning to feel yourself succumbing to it.

After what seemed like an eternity, Anakin looked away, as if he could not trust his gaze to keep his shame hidden. You can't detect a trace of triumph in him. Instead, his force signature deeply emanated an unending sort of defeat.

When he left, you were left asunder. Heart ripped away from your ribcage. A bleeding lip because of the teeth that kept biting from all the hunger. A walking being defined by her rotten desires.

It felt like you scattered in a million pieces with no hopes of ever becoming whole again.

Perhaps this was your atonement.

You have sinned the very first moment you have thought you could have Anakin Skywalker. When you thought you could defy fates and take someone for your own. When you let yourself fall for your appetite of flesh.

It was horrific. To want to tell Anakin, come closer, without the curtain of skin and bones between.

He'll never be yours.

All that devotion, twists and repulses you, for it makes you violent.

And right now, you don't have the capacity to channel it. So it implodes. All the love you are wretchedly overpouring with, transforming into something corrosive in your blood.

Your days merged into this blur of emptiness and rage.

For the first time in a while, you have found yourself at the threshold of a church, praying to the Maker, himself. Your faith had always been to yourself. But now, at the feet of the altar, you begged the Maker for an explanation. To have him carry the weight, to make it feel less heavy, to make him forgive all you've become because you no longer can.

Anakin had been your greatest sin.

He was temptation incarnated into being.

Even your Jedi training reinforces detachment because being bound by possession is the most corrupting thing. One should only learn how to submit to non-submission.

You did not see Anakin for weeks until you've been recalled by the Council to a mission together.

You could not look him in the eye. The voice in your brain was shaming you constantly.

However, every fiber of your being was pulling you to him. Something intangible, magnetic.

On the way to your mission, you pondered on the question that kept haunting you: Why?

You knew Anakin was not free of the same burdens you carry.

He has quite a large display over his attachment to materials. His quarters are decorated with things that hold no monetary value, but remain sentimental to him. Every choice he makes is informed by the fact that he was once a slave.

You remembered he once told you that he thought he'd been too old to join the Jedi. That he thought, it was too late because he already had held attachments. To his mother, to his creations. To you.

You thought it all was intensified by his past. He had been someone else's possession before. And now that he had been allowed, he is free to keep things of sentiment. And he'd hoard them all with a ravenous grip.

So, the question remains; why?

Why would he not give in to love when you both knew he would have abandoned the Jedi order for you? He once drunkenly said so, anyway.

You could almost laugh at how pathetic your ideal image of happiness was. To be somebody's property. To be Anakin's.

You did not miss how Anakin deliberately placed you on a station far away from the frontlines. Or how he used his authority to order clone soldiers around you.

You could not even channel the energy to be angry at the implication. You were capable. You can handle yourself, so it was unclear what he meant by this action.

Despite Anakin being the embodiment of the force itself, he can never escape his mother's blood. His humanness. It manifests in small innocuous ways. Like how his fingers twitched before he left. He was scared. It took every ounce of dignity to not come after him.

He's clearly pushing you away.

Wielding your lightsaber felt easier. Now, your anger can channel itself one droid at a time. You cleared your station, and you pressed on your holo comm to check on Anakin.

Then— you felt it.

A violent thrash, refusing to be left unacknowledged.

The force. Anakin. But it had been more than that: a connection, an invisible hand trying to reach out, a bond that lacks words to describe.

The urgency of it made you feel nauseated. Without a second thought, you ran to Anakin's station. Disappearing into the rapid beat of your heart and the agony that envelops it.

Your agony transforms into action the moment you see Anakin standing by himself against a platoon of droids. You wanted to be angry, he should've left with more clones. It was like he was asking for death.

But you pushed all feelings aside as you sprinted beside him, barely deflecting the blaster shots.

"[Name]!" Anakin alerts you.

You swiftly turned on your heel to deflect what was out of your range.

His expression was that of a deadly assurance. Using the force, he grabs the commando droid that fired at you. It slices through his lightsaber.

But in that moment, that brief second he focused on you, a blaster shot hits his arm.

You feel your blood drop, and a surge of adrenaline propels you forward.

Anakin's dominant hand was hit. And he extends his unharmed one to push you behind him.

Your vision was beginning to blur from tears. The panic seemed to seep in.

But in a moment of hopelessness, all the droids have fallen, sliced neatly in half. The speed of the saber becoming faster than its light.

You stood in shock, barely registering what happened. Anakin had used the force to drive his lightsaber against the platoon. Your breaths shudder, and you are only grounded back to reality when Anakin falls to his knees.

Now that the energy from the adrenaline has depleted, you feel as though you are falling into pits of the void forming inside you.

You wrapped your arm around Anakin, "What were you thinking?!" You gasped, panicking over the sight of blood running down his arm.

You heard clone soldiers march nearer.

You called for them to have the med kit ready. Anakin's palm presses on your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. "Tell me you're alright. I need to know you're okay"

His eyes were hooded. You suspected he was becoming languid from the blood loss.

Recognizing the fear in his eyes, you forced a smile "Yes, I'm alright, it's over Anakin" You try to contain your panic.

Anakin nods, then he winces, then he closes his eyes.

You did not leave his side for one second. Soon, you were back at the med-bay. Anakin sustained an injury, but luckily, nothing lethal. If he did...

You felt your own exhaustion tell you to lie down and rest, but you would not leave Anakin's bedside.

That fear you felt when you saw Anakin facing such a large platoon of droids. He could've died. You can't even begin to think what it would be like if he did.

Then, it finally clicked.

The reason Anakin keeps denying you. The reason he was so adamant in keeping you away from danger.

His past keeps bleeding into the present. He feared losing his mother, more than anything. She was the most valued attachment Anakin had. And he lost her. He's never stopped blaming himself for that. He was scared to lose someone again. He won't lose you too.

When he wakes, your anger dissolves.

You held his hand.

No matter how long you have known him, there'll always be a part of him he'll hide from you. And now that you understand the root of his fear, you'll not hold back from touching him.

This is as close to the intimacy as you can have.

Anakin's expression softens. He moves his hand to caress your cheek. This, this was familiar.

"I'm sorry" His eyes were glistening with tears.

Your breath caught. You trembled lightly.

"It's not that I don't love you, [Name]" His voice broke, and you thaw.

"I just can't... I can't do this again. I can't care for you. If I lose you, I can't take it... I won't" His voice trails as he becomes more incoherent.

You stood up and held Anakin near your heart.

It felt like the Force itself was trying to punish you both for loving.

"I'm right here, Anakin" was all you could manage.

You did not let go until he was ready.

Your faith was shaken. Some small part of you was still reprimanding you for loving Anakin so ravenously. But a larger force was commanding you Love him. Love him! And let him love you. Do you think anything under the heavens matters?

You'd lay your heart to Anakin. Blank, new. You'd let him write on it as he wishes, he's the only one you ever will.

"You don't have to fear anymore, because we'll be alright" You tried your best to ease his fear.

He looks up as if he wants to believe in it too.

"Come here" he would say, his arms open wide. Defying his fear, allowing love.

You'd already abandoned everything you've known. Anakin was offering himself up on a golden platter. There's nothing left but to open, ravage, eat.

"Stay" he would beg. And you would smile, and I would stay.

I would stay.

footnote

i was really drabbling about how anakin's enslavement as a child somehow affects how he approaches relationships and let me tell you that i was SHATTERED throughout trying to detangle it. it also reminded me of jude st. francis from 'a little life' because jude was an orphan in a monastery, and he was never afforded any possessions, so he would 'steal' inanimate objects just to call them his own. (poor baby🥹)

i also spiralled into this theory of subject-object relation. where it states that we (the subject) tend to perceive things(the object) as possession.

hence the reason, sometimes, lovers feel alienated. because the other sees the other as of service to them (effectively reducing them to an object). so in conclusion, true love is not real (it might be, i'm running on 4 hrs of sleep writing this haha!)

#anakin skywalker #anakin (ciella's ver)#star wars #sw #anakin x reader #anakin x you #star wars anakin #anakin #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin star wars #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin imagine #anakin angst #Spotify

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cyberwhumper · 7 months

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Baxter had been particularly agitated lately. Seems the old client had finally been released from the hospital and was all too eager to contact private law enforcement unless some agreement was reached. Dealing with the aftermath of one's lapses in judgment seems to not be one of his stronger suits though, as he immediately places all the blame on Whiskey.

If he hadn't started all this shit, he thinks to himself, I could be home right now.

The beatings come at random times, so often now he had opted to keep his captive's hands permanently bound so it'd be easier to string him up whenever he wanted to let off some steam. His gang mates joined him often, taking turns tenderizing flesh and spilling blood, provoking agonized screams until Whiskey had no voice or strength to scream anymore. As he had gotten weaker and weaker the defiance in his eyes faded away into resignation, and he barely reacted beyond groaning despite the ever-escalating violence.

Baxter hated him and hated the lack of response even more. He wants the man to suffer, to howl in pain and beg for his life but he never did. He wants that bruised and broken body to crawl on his feet and beg for the pain to stop, to wrap the same chain that binds his ankle around his neck and choke him with it so that he knows even in death he is at the mercy of someone else.

The rage fills his head as he brings the metal pipe down on Whiskey's body over and over again. Beg. Beg to be spared. Beg for your life, you fucker! BEG! BEG! The flesh bruises easily under the weight of the metal, he coughs up blood, bones crack. Stubborn as a fucking mule. Baxter lets his thoughts consume him, lets his friends egg him on, lets the violence escalate over and over again.

It isn't until hours later, when they cut him down, that someone finally notices he's cold to the touch.

"Oh fuck, Bax. I think he's fuckin' dead."

Tag list: @whumpsday // @demondamage // @squidlife-crisis // @whumpedydump // @cyborg0109 // @whumpfish // @astrowhump // @the-scrapegoat // @whatwhumpcomments // @dustbunnywhump //

If you’re interested in being added to the tag list, please let me know!

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elsmstrss · 1 year

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hi, love!! i was wondering if you could write something about ellie x gn! or fem! reader something g that goes like reader is found on a patrol around jackson and is brought in bc her family is dead and she’s alone. and so she meets ellie and kind of looks up to her and had a little crushy crush (like riley and ellie + their age gap). so like the reader is 15 and ellie is 17 and like ahahahhshahsjshskdjdi. they both have little crushes and eventually they have a sleepover and have a little innocent cute kiss 😭😭. so yeah basically just traumatized reader looking up to older!ellie (who’s like riley) and then they become friends with crushes and kiss!! love you lots 🫶🏼 and pls take care of your mental health before worrying about writing!

-star anon ⭐️⭐️

hello star anon <3 i have work in 4 hours but im writing this instead of sleeping because this prompt is so adorable it makes me sick !! also im gonna try and not make this too long so here's just a short blurb (edit: it definitely ended up being longer than intended i-)

When I met you

tags: ellie x gn!reader , fluff . tinsy but of angst , mentions of blood and death, teenage typical awkwardness , girls kissing , fluffy , traumatized!reader , sleepovers!! , also i didn't proofread this leave me alone it is midnight and i am falling alseep

You were horrified, trembling and covered in blood that wasn't yours. Bodies surrounded your fragile form, staining the snow red. The biting cold seeps through your pants as you fall to your knees. You barely remembered the events just moments ago, it all happening so fast.

Flashes of red, bodies hitting the snow, terrified screams, blade piercing flesh, silence. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to focus on your breathing.

You and your family had heard of a small town, deep in Wyoming. Coming all the way from the other side of the country, barely escaping with your lives many times. Whether it be infected, starvation, or the elements, death was always right on your tail.

Well, I guess your luck was bound to run out sometime.

But why now? After everything, after being so close.

The thought causes a small tear to escape your eye and fall down your cheek. You sniffle, glancing down at your blood stained hands, grip loose around the knife you had used to take down the infected that had got your parents, had almost got you.

You hear some shuffling to your right, your hand tightening around the handle of your knife. You have almost no energy left, exhaustion pulling on your nerves and bones but when you start hearing voices, quiet mumbles and harsh whispers. You're trying, god you're trying so hard. Why can't you just breath? But you can't help how heavy your eyelids droop, vision blurring.

"Hey, we got a girl! Over here, quickly!" the voices get louder. You need to act fast, get the hell out of there.

Just as you finally mentally prepare yourself, you shift your weight, ready to stand. The movement must've been too sudden because you feel an instant rush to your head. You groan, the feeling making you queasy. Finally managing to your feet, you sway slightly, causing you to look down at your feet, hoping it will make you feel a bit more stable.

That was a mistake because the second you look down, you lock eyes with the lifeless stare of your mother, a random infected burrowed in her neck with a stab wound in its own.

The sight makes the queasiness a million times worse and you're struggling to breath again. Your breaths become erratic and short, lungs burning from the bite of the cold air.

You feel a hesitant hand on your shoulder followed by a whisper. You don't hear what's said because you immediately start screaming. The sound was sharp and it ripped through your throat.

You scream and scream and scream. You scream until there is nothing left and your vocal cords are raw. You let out the very last bit of whatever energy was left and began falling. It felt like slow motion, your vision going black.

When you came too, it was all too much. You had awoken in a random building, lights dim and warm, alone. You were clean, void of all grime and gore. Your body felt like lead and you could barely turn your head to observe your surroundings. You seemed to have been in a small room, on a bed with a wooden chair in the corner. You looked to your right and saw a small table with a glass of water and small note.

For when you wake up

-Maria

It couldn't have been longer than five minutes before the door had creaked open. The noise caused you to lurch forward, hand coming to your back on instinct, only to find that your knife wasn't there.

It was a woman. She had short blonde hair and cleft chin, hands up in a defensive position. "Woah, hey there! It's alright. I just came to check up on ya. Glad to see your awake," she rushes out.

You don't say anything, reluctantly laying back against the pillows, already tired from the action.

"I'm Maria. Welcome to Jackson." Your eyes widen at the familiar name. Jackson. The place you and your parents fought so hard to find. The place your parents will never get to see. You were alone.

Your palms feel sweaty all of a sudden and your damned breathing started faltering. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands closing into fists, panic settling in. You feel like your falling again, even though your still in the bed and you want to cry but not in front of this stranger, and-

Warmth envelopes your form. Your eyes shoot open and you freeze. Maria was holding you, your head tucked into her chest.

You both stayed like that for a moment before Maria reaches over and presses something cool to your lips. It's the glass of water and it wasn't until then when you realized how dry your throat was, and so sore.

Maria smiles softly at you before placing the glass in your hands and brushing a stray hair from your face.

"You don't have to be alone here."

It's been three months since then and you've settled in to the community nicely.

After Maria showed you around and explained all the details of the commune, you became drawn to the stables. Your parents had lived on a farm together before the outbreak, always talking about how peaceful life was. How they hoped to find one for the three of you one day.

You spent every day since in the stables, reading about horses and how to take care of one. You excelled in riding lessons and was almost immediately assigned to stable duty.

You had been tending to the horses when you first met Ellie. You had seen her before. In the dining halls or even when she would come and pick Shimmer up before patrol training.

She was a bit older than you, an air of maturity surrounded her. She was so cool. And you maybe had a little teeny weeny crush on her. Ellie always threw you polite smiles and small waves but your interactions were never more than that.

Until one day, you were brushing Shimmer out, cooing and softly whispering sweet words to the horse. You couldn't help it, you found the horses just too cute.

"Aww does horsey like being pampered? Ohh yes the best gir-" The sound of a low giggle cuts you off, you flinch from the small spook and your eyes blow wide as you notice the source of the sound.

"Oh," you mumble, shocked to see Ellie herself just a few steps away from you and Shimmer, 'hello".

"Hey. Y/n, right?" you were surprised that Ellie knew your name. All you could do was nod. "You seem to know a lot about horses" she adds.

You nod slowly, again.

"Well, uh if you don't mind..."

"Oh! yeah, yes! Sorry," you back away from Shimmer, watching as Ellie saddles her up and wraps the reins around her hand.

"Guess I'll see you around?" Ellie tilts her down slightly to meet you eyes.

"Um, yeah! For sure," you swallow nervously and Ellie just smirks and turns on her heels, slightly tugging the reins for Shimmer to follow her.

You don't know why but Ellie started showing up to the stables a lot more frequently after that. At first you thought she was taking up more patrol shifts but you quickly realized she never took a horse with her when she would leave.

You quickly became close with the older girl, sharing a similar sense of humor, getting on Joel's nerves together or sneaking away to the movies.

And you told Ellie everything. How you made it to Jackson, how you think you might like girls too, how you fear being alone. She just always knew what to say, what you needed in that moment.

"Being alone is a fear I have too. I'm not sure if it will ever go away but you'll meet people who will make you forget," Ellie pauses and ruffles your head, causing frizzy flyaways to sprout from your hair. You go to complain but she cuts you off, "Like when I met you".

Your cheeks flush from Ellie's confession, shoving her hands away from your hair, fingers lingering maybe a bit too long.

Ellie had invited you over later that week.

"Bring some pajamas," was all she said before rushing off with Shimmer.

You had anticipated the sleepover all day, trying to find ways to stay busy and pass the time. You had spent lots of nights at Ellie's place but it was never for longer than a couple hours, and definitely never to sleep over.

The sun was setting when you heard a swift knock at your door. You rushed the door, reminding yourself to play it cool before swinging the door open.

Ellie was waiting there in all her glory, a little tired but she seemed excited for the evening as well. "Ready?"

You shove your feet into your shoes and scoop your backpack up that was already packed and ready at the door. "Mhm!"

You follow her back to her place, shoulders brushing and listening to her retell the events of her short patrol that day.

"Anyways I have some super fun things planned for tonight," she says over her shoulder as she pushes open the door to her room.

"Yeah? Like what?" you ask, dropping your bag and toeing your shoes off at the door.

"Top secret. Super confidential, sorry," she teases. You roll your eyes, a small smile playing on your lips because everything that Ellie says you find amusing.

The night goes as any other time you two hang out. You doodle together, or play some random card game, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. After Joel brings some food in for you both, that's when Ellie decides it's time to bust out the surprise.

"Okay!" she claps, "pajama time. Shoo shoo, go change," you sigh, slightly annoyed to be cutting your meal short but you oblige because you could never say no to Ellie.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, dressed in a huge hoodie, sleep shorts, and some fuzzy socks on your feet that Ellie had brought back from one of her patrols. It was a small gift but it always made you feel warm inside when you knew that Ellie thought of you.

"Are you gonna finally tell me what all the fuss is about?" you whine, plopping down on the bed next to her. She had also changed into something more comfortable. Seeing Ellie in her pajamas caused this overwhelming desire to latch onto her like a koala and never let go. She just looked so cozy.

"Don't know. You don't seem all that excited, maybe we should just go to sleep-" Ellie sighs, stifling a laugh at your annoyed expression.

You shove her shoulder playfully and Ellie clears her throat. "Drumroll please". You pat your thigh rapidly, the beat erratic, then Ellie whips out what seems to be some sort of comic.

Your eyes widen when as you recognize the cover, It was the sixth issue of Savage Starlight, a comic book Ellie had convinced you to read and effectively got you hooked on. It was something you both had in common and would often spend hours gushing over the story.

"No way! How did you get you hands on this!?" you reach for the comic book, rotating and examining it, grip gentle as to not ruin the obviously deteriorating cover.

"Found it a few days ago in an old bookstore. Was thinking maybe we could read it. Together," Ellie almost sounded shy. You nod your head excitedly, looking up at her.

"Yes! A thousand times yes!" you bounce a little on the mattress, smile wide, eyes nearly closed from how hard your grinning.

Ellie's can't help but feel so fond, your reaction worth almost getting mauled by an infected for the comic. Your enthusiasm dies down a bit as you notice Ellie's eyes on you. You start to feel a little self-conscious, face flushing pink.

It was that exact moment that Ellie couldn't keep it it any longer.

"Can I kiss you?"

You freeze, mouth slightly agape in shock. Did you hear her right? Ellie Williams wants to kiss me?

"Um, sure," your answer shocks you even more but you cant bring yourself to take it back because your lips are instantly met with Ellie's. Your stomach swoops, filling with butterflies as her slightly chapped lips stay pressed to your softer ones and your eyes slip shut.

Ellie is the first to pull away and you open your eyes to see she's still close, her own cheeks dusted pink. It wasn't anything but short and sweet, no longer than a peck but you couldn't help the happiness that bubbled up.

"C'mon," Ellie breaks the silence, "let's start the comic."

You glance down at your lap shyly, smile never leaving your face as you nod. "Yeah, okay."

And so you spend the rest of the night, shoulders pressed together as Ellie reads out the comic to you in silly voices, eventually falling into a comfortable slumber, head rested on Ellie's shoulder.

#is this good? idk #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #the last of us #tlou #tlou2 #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams imagine

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3-2-whump · 2 days

Text

(Re)Living a Nightmare, part 2

You're still here? Okay, it's not gonna get any better for our poor boy. Do read and heed the tags/CW.

Basic Summary if You Decide to Skip

Also please skim this chapter and this chapter if you haven't already, because they will be referenced heavily in the story coming up

TW/CW: rape/noncon, bound and gagged and blindfolded whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, knife play, neither safe nor sane nor consensual, blood (lots of blood), victim blaming, internalized victim blaming, whumpee and whumper unknowingly triggering each other, blunt force trauma to the head (face), panic

NOTE: The inner thoughts and opinions expressed within do not align with those of the author, who themself has never and would never condone such thoughts and opinions in real life. Reader Discretion is advised.

All Thomas asked of him was to change into clothes he wouldn’t mind replacing, which usually meant that whatever Khaled wore would be torn/burned/ stained so irreparably that it’d just be thrown away after. Already based on that request, Khaled could guess he was in for a rough night. He had no idea how much worse it could get until he was blindfolded, bound, gagged, and carried out the apartment and down to the cold garage, where the hard foot-well of the back seat waited for him. The car revved to life, and his restrained body lurched forward as Thomas pulled out of the garage and drove them to fuck knows where.

Eventually they came to a stop, Thomas exchanged some words with the night-shift guard at the old house, and then they kept going until they parked. Khaled slowly started to put the pieces together. They were back at the old house, which probably meant Thomas wanted to take him downstairs, which meant whatever he wanted to do to him would be too messy or too specialized to do back at the apartment. What is he planning? Khaled wondered. He’s asked me to wear my most expendable clothes, he’s tied me up like I used to be when I was recaptured, he’s thrown me into the back like when I was recaptured-

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the car door opening. He blindly tilted his head toward the chill of the night and the distant sound of frogs singing. A pair of calloused hands hauled him up from the foot-well of the back seat and slung him over a broad shoulder. “Thought you could escape me this time, did you?” his master’s voice purred in his ear.

A pit of dread competed with the chill of the early spring night in his bones as Khaled realized what all this preparation had meant. Master wants to roleplay my escape attempts. He began shivering, though not just because of the cold. A warm hand rested on his buttocks to steady him as he felt himself being carried inside, through the hallway, and to the front of a very familiar door. Reliving his failed escape attempts but with an added sexual element was one of Khaled’s recurring nightmares. What cruel irony was this, that he had begged so enthusiastically no more than half an hour ago for this man to make his nightmare come true?

The familiar creak of a door opening preceded the dusty, dried-blood smell coming from the stairs leading down into the cellar. Khaled pleaded through the rag stuffed in his mouth and the tape sealed over his lips as they descended the stairs step by concrete step. He tugged at the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles, but all that did was dig the hard plastic further into his flesh.

The cellar in the basement was the only room in Luciano Antonio Costa’s old house that didn’t get renovated when they converted the rest of it into an office space. Mainly because its purpose as a room for torture and interrogation never went obsolete. Khaled didn’t have to see it; he’d been down in the T&I cellar enough times to have the layout committed to memory. Dusty, red bricked walls arched into a curved ceiling where two overhead lamps hung by thick chains, illuminating the large expanse below. A fireplace and all its accompanying iron tools sat to the left, and a rack lined with various instruments of torture was positioned to the right. In the middle was one large table with scratch marks furrowed into its edges, and many other types of equipment were either shoved in a corner or hanging from the ceiling, suspended by heavy chains and hooks like morbid chandeliers. Partitioning a back portion of the room was a large iron gate leading to a small offshoot of the basement, much like a door to a prison cell. Not much lay beyond the iron gate besides a hard-worn bench and several opaque plastic storage tubs full of mysterious items.

Khaled squirmed as he was lowered onto his stomach on top of the familiar table. “What were you thinking,” scolded the nightmare looming above him. A faint swish of a pocket knife and cold steel next to his skin made Khaled pause his struggles as his master cut away the zip ties. “Escaping in this cold weather without so much as a scrap of clothing on you –did you even have a plan?” he taunted. “I don’t know what your plan was, or even if you had a plan, but was it really worth freezing yourself to death?”

Khaled enjoyed the freedom of his unbound limbs for only a moment until his wrists were snatched into a tight grip and gathered in front of him. A coarse and scratchy material –rope, most likely –began entangling around and in between his wrists as his master continued talking. “We have a tracking chip installed inside of you, remember? You can never escape me; I will always find you.” With a forceful tug, Khaled’s hands were pulled in front of him, then he couldn’t move his hands at all. The other end of the rope must have been tied off to the ring attachment at the edge of the table.

His ankles remained free, if only to make it easier to take his pants off.

There were some light shuffling noises before the wooden table groaned under a newfound weight. Khaled felt the body heat of another person leaning over him. The cologne Thomas wore quickly overpowered his senses as the man hovered close. Khaled could feel his master’s breath on his ear and something hard and stiff against his backside. “The last time you tried to run away, a friend of mine advised me to cut your tendons,” Thomas sultrily whispered.

Oh god no. By now, Khaled knew which escape attempt they were reenacting, and, coincidentally, it was the one he had nightmares about the most.

“I don’t want to permanently cripple you though,” Thomas sighed, “mostly because it would be even more of a hassle to care for you, but I will cripple you temporarily, at the very least...”

He could already hear the hiss of the iron.

His panicked cries took on a new pitch of desperation. Without warning, his master’s fingers pinched at the edge of the duct tape on Khaled’s mouth and pulled, making him scream in pain. The rag was quickly removed, only for his tormentor to shove his index and middle fingers past the boy’s teeth to depress his tongue. “Suck,” he growled, “because this is the only lube you’re going to get.”

“Please, no, not this one, please, please no, not this, not this,” Khaled begged around the fingers in his mouth.

The fingers quickly withdrew before Khaled’s head was yanked back by the hair and then smashed onto the table. Stars danced across his blindfold, and a faint trickle of something warm and wet escaped from his nose.

“Let’s try this again.” Thomas shoved his fingers back into the boy’s mouth, burying them to the knuckle and making the boy gag. “Suck.”

Khaled shakily worked his head up and down the length of the fingers as his tongue lapped at each digit. He started to cry. As soon as the fingers withdrew, his pleas picked up again in earnest. “Please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me-”

“Would you relax?! I’m not going to burn you!” Thomas shouted above him. “What about any of this looks like I’m gonna burn you?!” Khaled heard a frustrated huff above him as his master yanked down his pants and underwear, exposing his bare ass and legs to the cold. The shed clothing was discarded, landing with a soft whump somewhere behind them. The two digits that were in his mouth forcefully entered him below, all pretense of play forgotten as they began roughly working him open. “Besides which, weren’t you the one who wanted to do this? You asked for this, you wanted this! You said you would be good for me!”

And he was right, he did say he wanted this. He asked for this to happen. So, with a defeated sniffle, Khaled went quiet and limp.

“So, are you going to be good for me now?”

Khaled’s bruised forehead scraped against the table as he nodded.

“Thank fuck,” Thomas grumbled.

I asked for this, Khaled told himself. The darkness around his eyes became damp as the blindfold caught his tears. I asked for this, I wanted this. He repeated it like a mantra as the man on top of him replaced his fingers with his cock and steadily screwed him against the table. I asked for this, I wanted this. Something tore down there as an unmistakable thin, warm, and sticky fluid trickled past the cock pummeling his hole. I wanted this. I wanted this…

I didn’t want this.

I never wanted this. Any of this.

I don’t want this. Slowly, the new mantra gained strength, and he let the words slip between his lips with every shuddering breath. “I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this-”

“Tough shit,” his master grunted.

Khaled pulled against the rope restraining his hands as he struggled against the body pressing into his. “I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I-” Again, Khaled’s face was smashed against the table. He heard a faint crunch as a new river of blood flowed out of his nose.

“You can scream all you want, nobody’s going to hear you,” Thomas growled, “but for fucks sakes, can you please scream something less annoying?!”

Khaled kept repeating it between every sniffle, like a sad broken record. “I don’t want this,” he sobbed. “I don’t want this… I don’t want this…”

His begging finally outwore Thomas’ need to finish. “Fuck,” his master huffed, unsticking his sweaty torso from Khaled’s clothed back as he pulled out of him. Khaled collected his heaving breaths. It would be too naïve of him to believe his bitchy whining finally got through, but he would appreciate this moment while he could.

He suppressed his sobs and tilted his head to follow the footsteps and shuffling sounds Thomas was making as he tried to guess what would happen to him next. Khaled heard the faint schwing of a different knife being unsheathed. It cut through the flimsy fabric of his t-shirt as his master finally completely undressed him, tearing away the scraps of cotton the knife didn’t excise from his body. “You said you would be good for me, but you have been anything but!” A twisted strip of cloth was wedged between his teeth and hastily tied off at the back of his head. His master’s hand pinned him down by the back of the neck, crushing him against the table with the weight behind it. “You said you missed me, but you’ve only fought against me this whole time!” Khaled screamed into the gag as the tip of the knife sank in between his shoulder blades. Its blade dragged tortuously and deliberately through his skin as his tormentor continued griping above him. “You’re a fucking liar, you know that?” The knife mercifully lifted from the trough it had carved, only to be plunged into a new area of Khaled’s back. “Do you know what I do to liars, boy? I make them pay!” The raw wounds on his back wept with blood as the knife kept slicing, spilling over his sides and pooling underneath his stomach and the table below. It was hard to cry with a gag in his mouth and a broken nose full of blood. He gasped for breaths between sobs, never quite getting a satisfying breath before the pain of the knife would make him scream again. His tears slipped past the saturated blindfold and tracked down his cheeks to join the pinkish smear of saliva, snot, and blood he could feel covering the lower half of his face. “This is for Callahan!” The knife drove down and sliced another line through his skin for each name the monster dropped. “This is for Trémeaux! And Robinson, and Martinez, and Kruger, and Kościelsky, and this-” The knife dug deeper this time. Khaled bit into the gag as his nerves screamed in agony, the steel scraping something hard as it dragged against his back. “-this is for my brother; he is never coming back! Tony is never coming back, and it’s all because of you!” the monster above him roared.

It was in that moment, between the terror and the pain, that Khaled realized with a fascinated horror that his master was reliving a nightmare, too. I need to snap him out of it if I’m getting out of this cellar alive, he realized. So, he set his own trauma and pain aside and began doing what got him into this mess in the first place. The twisted cloth had loosened just enough. He pushed it out of his mouth with his tongue and started begging as if his life depended on it, because this time, it really did.

“I didn’t kill him!” he cried. “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him!” Khaled screamed well past the point his throat hurt. “Master, please, I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill any of them! I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill him, Master, I didn’t kill him…” If the knife had stopped cutting into him and the rope around his wrists had been untied, Khaled was too far gone in his panic induced catatonia to notice. “I didn’t kill him… I didn’t kill him…” he rasped through a throat torn raw from screaming.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood

#whump writing #heavy chapter ahead #tw rap3 #tw noncon #tw blood #tw victim blaming #internalized victim blaming #creepy/intimate whumper #bound whumpee #gagged whumpee #blindfolded whumpee #knife whump #neither safe nor sane nor consensual #blunt force trauma to face #whumpee just has the worst time #whumpee and whumper accidentally trigger each other #is this too dark?#is it too late to ask now that i've already posted it?

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