#-continues to scour AO3-

[endursent]

My Partner Turned Into A Cat And I Don't Know How To Fix It (2)

【 content; established relationship , fluff , humour , slight shenanigans , gn!reader 】

【 characters; alhaitham , arataki itto , baizhu , cyno , dainsleif , diluc , kaedehara kazuha , kaeya , kamisato ayato , kaveh , neuvillette , tartaglia , thoma , venti , wanderer , wriothesley , xiao , zhongli 】

【 premise; " Your partner has been struck with a curse of some sort which has turned him into a cat, you have no idea how to fix it nor how long it might take. Yet you also cannot help but be rather amused by the situation despite the uncertainty…" 】

【 note; made the genshin version... no reason for this to be like 19 pages 😭 】

【 word count; 8.723 | read on ao3 | hsr ver | hsr reader ver | gi reader ver 】

Alhaitham ;

Kaveh gaped at you when you brought a cat into the house, one that… looked eerily similar to a certain blockhead. “I can explain,” you say as you set the cat down on the floor, he doesn’t enter the house further than you do, instead sitting down by your feet and observing the interaction with… interest? Amusement…? 

  Kaveh didn’t need much to be convinced, and immediately he thanked the Archons for giving him a few days of respite. Even just a few days of Alhaitham being unable to comment on what he does or nag him is a blessing.

  For you, it’s a bit of a hassle… because he keeps disappearing! Not in an alarming way, because you find him again in the most secluded, quiet spots you would never even think of. Under your laundry, in an empty box that Kaveh hadn’t put away after getting a delivery, and even under the desk in the study—Kaveh accidentally kicked him and got a feisty scratch on his ankle. He learned his lesson. 

  He follows you around and—though he let you pick him up the first time—doesn’t let you carry him around, preferring to walk on his own… and wander off to explore nooks and crannies he has never been able to see, but he always shows up again before you reach your destination. 

  He has also claimed your pillow as his own and refuses to let you use it, loafing on top of it exactly when you thought you could get there before him. Which… in hindsight is fine, you’re not opposed to using his pillow, it smells like him after all. 

  You decided to test how much of a cat he really is, whether it’s appearance alone or instinctual as well and bought a cat toy with a whisker on the end as well as a small bell below it. You expected him to perk up and try to whack or catch it as soon as you wriggled it beside him… but his grey furred ears just lowered in annoyance and he hopped off the kitchen counter, it seems like having even more sensitive ears in this state makes his dislike for uncomfortable noises more intense. 

  He forgave you when you spent ten minutes scratching the itchy spot behind his ears after tracking him down. A small, rumbling purr left his chest as you moved your hand to scratch under his chin—he was, however, more curious about this instinctual reaction and demanded you continue after you drew your hand back.     Despite it being very much an unspoken rule between the two of you that neither of you should be disturbed ‘needlessly’ when reading or working at home, when you borrowed a few books from the Akademiya to try and figure out how to turn your partner back to normal, Alhaitham decided it would be very reasonable for him to lay down over your book… which you are very much trying to read.

  But when you ask him what he needs, he just blinks at you three times, very slowly. You’ll likely never be able to crack that brain of his, even in a form that is somehow far more expressive.

Arataki Itto ;

It’s difficult enough to keep track of him—and keep him out of trouble—on a normal day… now? You took your eyes off him for a second, and he’s gone. Shinobu split up with you to cover more ground while the rest of the gang scoured the streets of Inazuma City, at least as much as they could.

  You peek between baskets, crates and stalls, walk through tight alleys and even squint into a few windows… nothing!

  You had been very close to giving up and returning back to the meeting point by the bridge… until you heard a very distressed, very loud meowing. Following the sound, you come to a tree stretching over the gardens of a teahouse. What looks to be the owner of it stands below the tree with a basket, trying to ask Itto—stuck up on a wobbling branch—to jump into it.

  Exasperation is one way to describe what you feel as you approach the old lady, you put your hands on your hips and Itto notices you immediately. His meowing turns from frantic and panicked… to a sheepish pleading. Every movement he makes causes the branch to sway and wobble, and it looks like it could easily bend and break—and you don’t want to cause any trouble for the teahouse owner. “Itto, come on, hop down.”

  He meows and shakes his head, white fur swishing dramatically. 

  A sigh leaves you as you step closer and hold your arms open. “I’ll catch you, trust me,” you encourage him… and he finally relents, with wobbling paws, he leaps from the branch—fur shining in the sun as he practically flies in the air towards your open arms… and lands on your head. He panics and tries to adjust and not fall off, and you try to pry him away from your face as his belly nearly suffocates you—it’s a scene from a comedic play.

  Shinobu is glad for her mask, because when you return with Itto under your arm you have scratches on your face and forehead, and Itto is whining and meowing sorrowfully. 

  He spends the entire evening licking your ‘wounds’, dragging his coarse cat tongue over every spot so often that the licking starts to become more painful than the scratches themselves. But you let him, it makes him feel much better than you—and you don’t particularly need comfort, but if he doesn’t get it, he will whine all night. 

  So you let him knead your thighs and stomach even as his claws prick through your clothes and you make sure to pet him and stroke his fur when he snuggles against you… and then you wake up in the middle of the night, suffocating with his furred belly against your face when the lies on top of you.

Baizhu ;

You’re very happy that Baizhu is catching a break—something you often try to convince him to do—despite the strange way of being forced into it… however, it’s very difficult to focus on running the pharmacy in his place by yourself while also trying to make sure he doesn’t roll off the shelf he’s napping on… especially because Changsheng wriggles in her sleep and keeps nudging him closer to the edge.

  You decide it’s easier if you have them sleeping on separate surfaces and reach up to pick up your pliant partner-turned-cat. He effectively falls into your arms and blinks lazily, slightly confused by the sudden transport. “Just moving you so you don’t hit your head,” you dodge around Qiqi as she runs past you with an armful of jars and set Baizhu down on the counter, his tail sways lazily and he immediately flops on his side as a beam of sunlight sneaks through the window and directly onto his fur.

  Every time a customer comes by—with approval—they give Baizhu a small pet or scratch before leaving, as if paying tribute to the good doctor. He doesn’t seem to mind.

  Unfortunately, you’re not fit to take Baizhu’s place for consultations, and thus they all get delayed—which was a hell of a lot of work to contact everyone and change scheduling—until Baizhu is back to normal. The usual hours of consultation in the morning are therefore replaced with longer opening hours of the pharmacy and by pulling some strings, an increased stock of rarer products at a discounted price. 

  Changsheng does not let poor Baizhu catch a break, she wiggles her tail and swipes it in front of his paws, and unable to control the feline instincts harbouring his body—Baizhu chases after her tail like a kitten playing with a toy. He whacks at it and tries to capture it, but the white snake is far quicker than even you expected her to be as a sudden game of cat and mouse (snake) takes over your living room.

 The feline form, however, doesn’t come with free stamina—and Baizhu is not in good shape. He flops down on the carpet, exhausted from the play even as only seven minutes have passed. You feel a bit bad and scoop him up for some cuddling, which seems to be just the remedy he needed. 

  Baizhu is very careful around the clinic, he doesn’t knock anything over—even though he REALLY wants to sometimes, and is mindful of not getting fur or saliva on anything that could potentially be consumed by anyone with allergies. Changsheng has taken to wrapping herself around your shoulders instead, and though you’re used to her, it’s a little annoying to get a comment on every little thing you do. 

  But at the end of the day, Baizhu curls up next to you and you wake with him lying over your chest, belly to the skies and paws in the air, comfortable and content. Though you will always prefer him in his normal state, he is very cute like this.

Cyno ;

You look around the large front hall of the House of Daena, panting slightly as you try to catch your breath… that damn Cyno! Making you chase him across the entire city! 

  You spot some pawprints and squint as you look around… he’s not bringing all that dirt into the house—you were just going to rinse him a bit, but he’s run off! You finally spot dark and creamy coloured fur… perched up high on a massive decorative piece of the wall. He looks down at you with a swaying tail, completely at ease knowing that you won’t be able to catch him all the way up there.

  You almost consider inquiring about one of those massive ladders the library has to reach the high shelves, it might be long enough…

  But very well, he wins this round. 

  Once he turned into a cat, you were very excited about petting him, rubbing his ears and stroking his tail—but he’s not having any of it. Sometimes, you wonder if someone stuck a firework in his ass and lit it up, because the bouts of zoomies he gets is so frequent you wondered if there was something wrong—but you couldn’t catch him to take to a vet either! 

  After the first few days, Cyno seems to calm down… a little. He still prefers to survey the area (your living room) from above (your bookshelf) and watch you go about your day. It’s quite cute how his perked ears twitch every time you make a noise, as if he’s completely focused on what you’re doing.

  You soon find out after stepping a bit too close to the bookshelf that he might have just been waiting to strike, because he leaps onto your head as soon as you’re in range. 

  The only reason you know he’s fully conscious in that furred head is because while you were cleaning up after dinner, you spotted him sitting next to a cup of tea that was half-filled. You tense as you watch his paw raise to knock it off. “Cyno! Don’t,” you try to sound scolding.

  He looks up at you, he lowers his paw… then raises it again, making you glare at him. He lowers it again, turns away… you turn back to wiping the dishes and look over your shoulders after a few seconds—his paw is raised again!

  This back and forth continued until he finally knocked it over.

  And then he has the audacity during the next day’s dinner to sound like he has never been fed in his life while you’re trying to eat in peace. Meowing at you so loudly one would think he was terribly injured, eyes wide and mouth open. You hope your neighbours don’t think you’re trying to starve him, or treat him horribly.

Dainsleif ;

He’s not happy about it, he has things to do—places to be and investigations to make. Thankfully you’re familiar with where you were going next… but Dainsleif is very limited in what he can do. You decide to give him the task of scouting and sneaking around, something he’s used to doing anyway… but he finds that it’s much more effective to do so as a cat. His footsteps are completely silent and his senses are much sharper.

  Though, he had an instinctual need to swat at a glowing orb that you found in a strange vault half-buried in a cave in Fontaine before he could stop himself—which closed the two of you inside the vault. Thankfully he is now small enough that he could slip out between the bars and unlock it from the other side.

  It is quite cute how his ears flattened as you walked out, as if he was sorry. Though he seemed okay after you scratched behind his ears and assured him it was okay, he was here to help you out after all! His tail swayed in satisfaction to your assurance.

  You start to set down camp for the night, having just one pair of hands makes it a bit more of a lengthy process, and Dainsleif can only sit and watch as you put it together. He’s usually quite distant, even in a relationship—but as you straighten from squatting to fit something down, you feel something press against your leg and see him rubbing his furry cheek against you, then walking around your legs, tail trailing behind.

  He’s usually quite wary and alert, even during the night when you try and convince him to sleep—and it’s no different now. He sits poised and ready… for what? He’s a cat. But you appreciate the effort. 

  Surprisingly, he’s very active at grooming himself, the two of you usually have to bathe often anyway as you frequent dusty caves and muddy backwaters, but every time you make a stop, he sits down and starts licking his fur—at first you wondered if he was frustrated by something or had hurt himself, but as you picked him up to examine for any injuries or strange patches, he just blinked at you, tongue still half-hanging out.

  Dainsleif is rather laid-back when it comes to your relationship, there are times where you want to stay in a larger city for a few days or weeks in between travels, to have a soft bed and four walls around you—which Dainsleif doesn’t mind, there are places he wants to look into where he’d prefer you are safe elsewhere. He knows where you will be and will stop by to ask if you’re ready to continue days or even sometimes a few weeks later, to which you—recharged and rejuvenated—jump at the chance to follow him out of the city.

  But now, as a cat, he doesn’t leave your side for a minute—not even when you need to use nature’s bathroom. You went into a small village in Sumeru when passing through and a vendor was particularly pressing about selling you some type of perfume that you had shown brief interest in—Dainsleif had enough of you being pestered and whacked his paw at the man’s leg, hissing. He would usually be more subtle about guiding you away, but he doesn’t have the presence he usually does as he is now, so he must utilise the aggressiveness given to him in feline form. You take the chance to scoop him up and hurry away before the vendor can get upset, petting between his ears and thanking him for the help—he rubs his cheek against yours. He’s surprisingly more affectionate like this as well.

Diluc ;

Your nose itches… you try to hold back—achoo!!

  Diluc jumps, claws scuttling against the ground and he leaps from his resting spot and hops down to the floor. You sniffle and shake your head. “Sorry, it’s not your fault,” you stand from his chair and round the table to squat down next to him, reaching a hand out. “Did I startle you?”

  He makes a ‘hmph’ sound, fur red as freshly bloomed roses. Diluc bumps his snout into your palm and huffs into it, you turn your hand and pet along his back. “Aaah… you’re so cute~ so soft,” you near coo as you scratch behind his ears—

  Diluc shakes himself and ducks under your hand to walk past you—how dare you baby-talk him?! He’s not an actual cat! The scritches felt too nice, and his ears flicked when you cooed at him—it’s embarrassing…

  He sits down by the door, tail swaying lazily as a small meow leaves him. Let me out. 

  You pout, how can you not convey how cute he is? You want to rub his cheeks. But fine, you  walk over and open the door for him to slip out of. 

  Diluc likes the lounge around the fireplace in the estate, there’s not much work he can do  while you try to figure out how to turn him back—preferably without alerting his brother or any of the knights… or just anyone in general. Unfortunately, he can’t hide it from the staff of the Winery as he is a spitting image of himself in cat form, and you’ve caught more than three people trying to feed him expensive cheeses. 

  It’s only in the recent days that you’ve convinced him to settle down and use the time to rest and nap as much as he can, but Diluc was extremely restless at first, you had to trap him inside a room and trick him into lying down with you.

  One day, Jean came by looking for him, and you had to think fast to come up with an excuse while he had just leapt under the sofa to hide. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to need him urgently, so she just left a message behind and went back to her day.

  You fell asleep in Diluc’s study, trying to keep up with his paperwork—Adeline offered to help you, she’s very familiar with his work, and it’s not like it’s been a long time since he wasn’t there to do it… but you wanted to help, and as the sun sank below the horizon, you laid down on the sofa in his study next to a tall bookcase—only closing your eyes was enough to pull you into deep sleep.

  Diluc hops onto the sofa next to you, he carefully walks over your thighs and settles on the armrest where your head is. His fluffy tail sways and strokes your chin and nose—nearly waking you as you almost sneeze, you don’t have to work so hard for him, he knows you want to help. He wishes he could tell you, and he will, when he’s back to normal. For now, he rests alongside you, head leaning against the top of yours and tail tucked against your neck.

Kaedehara Kazuha ;

Kazuha is a very chill cat, he doesn’t get into trouble, he doesn’t cough hairballs on the floor and he doesn’t knock things over.

  (Instead of coughing hairballs on the floor he swats them off-deck with his paws, Beidou caught him doing it once).

  There’s not much trouble to get into on the ocean, and he’s rather good at keeping out of trouble overall on land, sticking by his side is a sureway to a boring day of exploration or lounging around—which is your perfect type of day.

  You help him into your bag as the Crux ‘boards’ by Liyue Harbour (it stops a bit away and tucked by a cliffside to avoid attention) and you make sure he doesn’t accidentally fall into the ocean as a few crewmates row to land. You’re stopping for a few days, so you make sure to use the time to relax and take in landside air and wander around the expansive Harbour. 

  Kazuha likes to take life at a slower pace, and thus your walk to the Harbour took longer than you expected… as you thought Kazuha was doing his normal meditation on a warm, sun-kissed rock along the road…

  But he was asleep, sitting up and enjoying the sun. It took you thirty minutes to realise—a sitting cat with its eyes closed and a sleeping cat in a sitting position is the exact same.

  He very much likes to people-watch, but in this cat form, he seems even more engaged—he can hear sounds more clearly and he seems even more perceptive than usual. Watching a tea maker brew a cup on a teahouse table you had sat by to rest and ordered some snacks. He sniffs at the tea as it’s placed in front of you—he’s perched comfortably on your lap, you’re surprised the teahouse even allows him inside—and seems to appreciate the detail he gets from this new perspective, af if it smells different in this form.

  He tries to taste it and your food, but you have to block his snout with your hand, you’re not sure if the food you were having would give him a stomach ache or not. 

On a walk on the outskirts of the city, you look back and see Kazuha carrying a stick in his mouth…?

  He’s not a dog, so you’re not entirely sure why he’s doing it, maybe cats do that too? The dogs that hang around the bridge leading to the southeast outside of Liyue Harbour try to approach him with the stick, thinking he was playing, but he hops into a tree to keep it to himself. You’re not entirely sure what’s happening, but he seems to be having fun.

  Kazuha wanders off oftentimes, just in his normal, usual body… so you’re not sure why you’re surprised when you suddenly find him missing from your side—perhaps it’s because he’s a cat and you’re unsure if he can defend himself as well in that form, but you hurry to look for him.

  You practically run in circles until you find him pressing his paw to a brown, crusty leaf… again and again, as if listening to the crunch of it in a rhythm. You sigh and scoop him up into your arms. “Don’t wander off like this,” you scold and poke his nose. Kazuha sneezes from the poke, but blinks up at you and nods his little furry head.

Kaeya ;

Unbothered, in his element. Kaeya sleeps in your windowsill and bathes in the sunlight all day while you scratch your head over how this could’ve happened. You try to leave for work and he practically screeches at the door, likely pleading you not to leave—he does that normally as well, except without the loud meowing. 

  Kaeya finds appreciation in the flexibility and grace that comes with this new body, he easily leaps up on shelves and dives under the sofa, he chases flakes of dust and seems to be having quite a good time—perhaps it’s because he has no responsibilities in this form, he can’t go to work like this and has no control over it. And the loss of control is strangely freeing. 

  You scoop him up into your arms and his tail swishes happily, he grabs his claws into your shirt and purrs as you rub his ears, happy and content with the additional affection. He loves all affection he gets from you no matter what form it takes, and being a cat has given him the opportunity to be pampered in ways he never could experience as a human. 

  He does need his free time as well and he uses it well while you’re out of the house—though you were very optimistic to think that closing the windows would keep him contained, Kaeya easily flips the handles and slips out of your home. He enjoys the attention he gets from any passersby, but is careful not to be too affectionate and get picked up by someone who thinks he’s a stray. 

  His usual guarded front lowers in this form, he feels like he could slip out of any situation—and he doesn’t have to be careful with his words or actions. No one expects a cat to have alternative intentions. 

  He jumps up in surprise as he hears footsteps rapidly approaching—he had fallen asleep on a ledge and the sun was already down. Kaeya blinks as you pick him up, breath heaving. “There you are, I’ve looked everywhere for you! I thought something happened when I couldn’t find you around the plaza,” you sigh a breath of relief and practically crush him to your chest. Kaeya wriggles a little but gives up and nuzzles into you, pushing his forehead into your cheek. 

  After a number of days, Kaeya gets bored, as fun as lounging around and being pampered it… he misses real food, and dragging you away from your work to have lunch—and holding you properly, he can only lay on top of you like this, which doesn’t exactly feel like holding.

  And Kaeya being restless… he gets whiny. 

  He would usually be more subtle, but now that he feels the rush of freedom his feline form gives him, he uses it to protest by loafing on your clothes after you fold them to put away, laying over your lap when you need to get up—even though he’s not really a cat… kind of, you still get the same feeling of not wanting to move him off no matter how much space he’s taking.

  But that’s okay, because he just has to slow blink at you and nuzzle into your hand and you forgive him, how could you not?

Kamisato Ayato ;

Ayato is an unreasonably pretty cat. His fur is soft and silky, he has this… smug kitty-smile at all times, and it makes you want to pinch his ears. He sits on your lap and peeks onto the low table inside his study as you go through paperwork. Just because he’s become a cat doesn’t mean his workload just miraculously lessens. 

  Thankfully, after a few days of trying to juggle his work—how does he do it?!—even with him by your side, albeit in a form that can’t properly communicate… Ayaka decides to lend a hand, she takes it upon herself to attend meetings and represent the clan and Commission in Ayato’s stead. Thankfully no one has questioned where he is yet.

  Or why there is a suspiciously similar cat trotting around the estate in his place. 

  You fish into a bush in the courtyard gardens, hand feeling around—until you find fur and yoink it up. Ayato blinks at you, tail swishing as he has a piece of grilled fish in his mouth that he stole from the kitchens. “You know… you can have all the fish you want—you don’t have to steal it,” you say as you lift him into your arms.

  His ears flick as you talk, but he eats the fish happily regardless. You shake your head in mild exasperation. Looks like he’s using the opportunity to engage in… more mischief than usual. Perhaps a different kind. 

  Ayato likes to use his newfound stealth and agility to his advantage… to torment you.

  You put away some laundry and turned to a shelf to fetch something—only to come face to face with Ayato’s cat-face, making you jump as he meows happily—as if happy to see you! He knows he’s just trying to startle you!

  He winds around your feet when you walk around the estate and purrs happily when you squint at him.

  Ayato knows the limits, he stops before you can lock him inside a room for the remainder of the day. His fur is so soft as you pet him and a rumbling purr leaves him, he knows it’s silly—he’s not really a cat, at least, hopefully not for long. But you keep petting and stroking him while he does. 

  He takes good care of himself on normal days, and as a cat, it’s no different—he grooms himself meticulously, though finds it rather embarrassing if you’re looking, so he tries to do it out of sight… it's very instinctual, but he also likes to feel clean and groomed. 

  You once passed the great hall and saw Thoma wriggling a toy with a bundle of feathers on it while Ayato chased it… it was pretty cute to watch, but you hurried along before either of them could notice you. 

  He hogs the futon, you don’t want to push him to the side and get pushed to the edge of the mattress yourself. Ayato doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. 

Kaveh ;

Distressed, not having fun, he wants to go home.

  A series of meows in varying states of distress and confusion follow behind you as you walk, you stop and turn around, peering down at the strange cat that’s been following you around since you left the Akademiya. You were about to ask what he wants… but as you squint at the cat… doesn’t it look familiar?

  Kaveh doesn’t stop when you do, he raises on his hind legs by your feet and sinks his claws into your pants, a shrill, distressed meow leaves him.

  You reach down and pick him up, holding under his front legs as you inspect him… hm, golden fur with tints of a darker, sandy brown… those big red eyes.

  “... Kaveh?” you must be crazy, there’s no way your partner is a cat, and followed you around without you realising, but you know those eyes very well. It’s him.

  Alhaitham just stares at you like you grew three additional heads, he looks at Kaveh in your arms and then back at you. “... it looks like him, but that’s not proof enough—have you asked him to write his name?”

  You look at Kaveh and he tilts his small head to look up at you. Write his name…? He doesn’t exactly have thumbs… but Alhaitham has a good point. What if it’s just a very persistent cat? 

  Then again… where would Kaveh be? He’s usually home by this time.

  Alhaitham fetches a pen and some parchment and you put Kaveh down on the table. He tries to use his paws at first but just spills ink all over the place—but as he grabs the pen with his mouth and clumsily scribbles his signature, Alhaitham just hums while you scoop Kaveh up again, holding him up. “It is you! What happened to you, Kaveh?”

  Of course, he can’t give a proper answer, he wriggles his paws around and meows in a long dialogue—but it’s entirely incomprehensible. 

  While you and Alhaitham try to figure out how to get him back, Kaveh tries to adjust to his… predicament. He doesn’t do it with any grace, though… his leaps and jumps across furniture are miscalculated and he falls to the ground or hits his head more often than you can count.

  But your worried petting and rubbing the aching area makes him purr and nuzzle into your arms.

  He does hate the heightened senses, he jumps at the smallest noise and scuttles across the room if anything startles him—and he gets startled very easily like this.

Neuvillette ;

You call his name, looking around his office… you scratch your head, he can’t have gone far, you just left to fetch some tea for a few minutes. It’s not like he can open the door or window and slip out—why would he anyway?

  You hear a very… pathetic meow, from next to you—but there’s nothing there, just a sofa. You hear it again—under the sofa…?

  Ducking down, you see that Neuvillette is stuck, he seems to have been trying to squeeze himself under the sofa, and rounding the furniture, you see his hind legs and tail flat on the floor… it’s a bit amusing. “There, I got you,” you say soothingly as you lift the sofa up a little so he can back out. Neuvillette stands up and shakes his body.

  You squat down and smile. “How’d you get stuck under there?” you hold out your hand and he presses his head into your palm, nuzzling against your skin for comfort as you turn your hand to scratch and pet him.

  He’s not very good at resisting the instincts and temptations that come with this form—you’re unsure why he seems to struggle so much, but you try to help him as much as you can, and not laugh.

  You saw him chase a shadow, there is an ornament on the raised blinds that hang above the large window in his office. It's attached to the strings that lower and raise them and it sways slightly—casting a shadow across the floor.

  Another time he was grooming his fur and struggling, he has a thick, long coat and had to lean far back to reach the end of his fur as his tongue dragged along the hairs… causing him to roll backwards off the arm of the couch and into the pile of pillows.

  Innocent, small things that make you smile, but you’re careful that he doesn’t see it.

  He loafs over a stack of court documents as you organise his desk—might as well use the opportunity to clean up while he won’t be making a mess. He doesn’t seem satisfied with his place on the desk and stands… and spots a box on the ground, it’s stacked halfway with old documents to be taken to storage… but it also looks like the perfect spot to rest. He hops down from the desk and circles a few times on the papers to get comfortable. He wriggles a little before sitting down.

  It takes him a minute to realise that he was kneading into the paper when he hears the sound of it tearing under his claws in an instinctual need to make the bottom of the box comfortable. 

  Safe to say, he was mortified to have destroyed the top four documents, but thankfully they weren’t shredded and you managed to salvage them with some memory of what had occurred as well as piecing them together.

Tartaglia ;

You look towards the window above the kitchen counter, cold air brushes into the house as Childe enters through it—with a mouse in his mouth.

  You leap up and push the book in your hand against his face and push him straight back outside. “No! Absolutely not! Leave it outside, not in the house!!” You close the window behind him and sigh in relief, brushing stray snow into the sink. When you look up again, He’s sitting there, big eyes and ears flat against his head… but no mouse.

  Sighing, you open the window a smidge so that he can step inside, where he shakes himself and tosses flakes of melting snow all over. 

  Childe sits down, tail swaying—as if waiting for something.

  You set your haps on your hips. “What?”

  “Mrrow…” he wriggles his head, he wants a pat. 

  … fine, just because he took the mouse outside because you ‘asked’, you raise your hand to stroke his head and he tilts it to lick your palm—but you pull back. “No, you just had a wild animal in your mouth, wash your mouth!”

  What is this?? He feels like a criminal, all he did was bring you a prize… to be fair, he realised how silly it was to bring you a dead animal when you leapt up to push him back out, but it felt completely natural up until that point!

  He whines and meows for forgiveness for the rest of the night, and you do eventually ‘forgive’ him and let Chile lounge around on your lap while you pet him and continue reading.

  He picks fights with swaying curtains, chases your broom when you’re cleaning and even whacked your cup of coffee off the dinner table—spilling it everywhere. He’s a nightmare in this form, because no matter the scolding, he just stares at you with excited, large eyes and a swaying tail.

  Nothing you say gets through his head. In one ear and out the other. 

  He does not give up either, if he wants affection, he will get it one way or the other, even if he has to whine and meow endlessly, follow you around—fake a limp! You shake him a bit after he worried you and you almost went out in the middle of the evening through the snow to take him to a vet when he just wanted scritches. 

  In all fairness… this is just typical behaviour, but now he has the kitten eyes to break your self control and composure within seconds. 

Thoma ;

He tries to do his job even in cat form, using his tail to sweep, he even takes his duster into his mouth and tries to sweep on surfaces he’d usually need ladders to reach, and now he can just leap to them.

  But he also has a problem…

  He has an instinctual need to create a mess, knock things over or sit on things—when he catches himself in an act of pushing Ayaka’s discarded tea off a table, he nearly leaps away to stop himself. 

  Thankfully, everyone around him doesn't mind—and it’s a bit relieving to see that Thoma retains a sense of himself. He finds time where he would usually go into town to instead nap—and the Kamisato estate has perfect napping spots. He lies sprawled across the engawa surrounding the eastern part of the estate near the back gardens, and lets the warm beams of the sun warm his belly—only to shoot up in surprise when he hears footsteps, embarrassed to be caught lounging around. 

  Ayato sometimes plucks him away to keep on his lap for hours while he sorts through paperwork, petting and scratching behind his ears while his other hand signs documents. Thoma gets a bit restless just loafing on his lord’s lap and meows in relief when you come along to fetch him. 

  Ayaka leapt at the opportunity to sew a few accessories for him, guised under the excuse of “practise for smaller bodies” and Thoma ends up with half a wardrobe by the end of the week. 

  But he prefers to be around you, you don’t trap him on your lap (even though Ayato gives very good scritches) or make him model for three hours (even though Ayaka gave him snacks). As you work around the estate, he gets tired—curse this cat body and it’s perpetual need for napping!—and you tuck him gently into your eri*. Thoma lays nestled against your chest warmly, his body light and still as you continue your work. 

  The gardens of the Kamisato estate is a disaster zone, and after the first few days, thoma knows to avoid it. 

  He had strolled past, early in his transformation—and been startled by his own reflection in the pond he passed by, the fish swimming away in a hurry as he ran across the gardens in surprise. A second time, he had spent twelve minutes chasing a butterfly while Ayato watched with a signature smile… he will likely not let him forget it. 

  Thankfully, he’s not needed much in the gardens, and he sits perched atop a high shelf in the kitchens, his tail sways as he leans forward… very much ready to leap and steal some food—before you pluck him up and raise an eyebrow.

  His ears flatten in realisation, but you rub his cheeks and tuck him back into your clothes—grabbing some leftover pears from the dessert the kitchens were making, letting him munch on it while you get back to work. 

Venti  ;

You didn’t think Venti could become even more of an airhead on a typical day as he does when he becomes a cat. He gets distracted by the smallest things and wanders off—leading to a wild goose chase where you have to ask around for a small darkly coloured cat with blue highlights on its ears and tail—a very distinct cat!—and being pointed in every direction possible.

  Only to discover him napping in a crate full of apples in an alley you walked past at least six times just in the last fifteen minutes. 

  He is also very vocal, Venti says anything that comes to his mind… which is unfortunately nothing but meowing nonsense to your ears, but you nod along as if you understand, having a halfway conversation with the lively cat. 

  Somehow, he very much likes to play and nap like he’s being paid to do it at the same time. In one moment, he’s swatting at your clothes and trying to get to play with your fingers—which he accidentally bites and scratches in his excitement, quickly rectifying it with some licks and nuzzles—and the next, he’s passed out cold in a box or on a shelf for five hours.

  He doesn’t seem embarrassed by these new catlike instincts, such as the need to groom himself—he even starts grooming you halfway through his coat, you’re sure your skin is very much clean by the time he finally turns back to himself. 

  Unlike normal cats, who move and settle down elsewhere when the person under them gets up… Venti is not happy about being disturbed nor that you’re trying to get up, he whines and kneads on your clothes to try and get you to stay a little bit longer, giving you the best big kitten eyes he can muster.

  And damn him, it works. He knows what he’s doing. 

  You had been looking for him one morning, thinking he just wandered off again and you’d find him napping in some corner of the city… when Diluc approaches you with a sheepish looking Venti-cat, holding him by the scruff of his neck. “This yours?”

  Diluc doesn’t even seem surprised that the bard is a cat. At least he isn’t an allergy risk when he’s human-like and trying to get into his wares. 

Wanderer ;

He is very aware of himself, he knows he looks stupid (cute) and that everything he does will be looked at through the lens of a typical cat and not someone stuck in its body.

  And thus, he does all he can to be as eerie and unnatural a cat as he can be.

  He doesn’t make a single sound, no meowing, no purring, nothing. He doesn’t walk like a cat—thankfully he doesn’t walk on two legs—nor does he exhibit any of their typical behaviours.

  At least, that was the plan. 

  Every single time Wanderer catches himself doing anything that could be considered “cat-like”, such as grooming himself, chasing a loose string, or gods forbid… kneading—he will immediately stop and compose himself again.

  As opposed to some others, he absolutely hates the loss of control that follows becoming a cat. 

  He can’t write properly, he can’t communicate—and if he tries, no one but you and perhaps Nahida takes him seriously—he’s always sleepy and aware at strange times… he hates it! 

  And once when he was just trying to have some grapes for snacks—you suddenly leapt towards him to stop him, taking the bowl off the table with a relieved huff when you noticed he hadn’t swallowed any of it… after you pried the grape out of his mouth. At his hissing, you explained that cats can’t have grapes. 

  He gave you the cold fur-shoulder for at least two days. 

  You brought him out one time to get some fresh air—since he’s fully aware of himself, he shouldn’t run off and get lost, or into a dangerous situation like an indoor cat might. But when you gave some other cats around the streets of Sumeru attention, he quickly meowed in protest and whacked the other cats away. 

  It’s a bit cute… he doesn’t normally act so forthcoming, and as he bumps his head into your knee afterwards, you rub his cheeks and pinch his ears despite further protest. How cute!

Wriothesley ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Wriothesley was just a “cat”. He’s huge*. 

  You put a bowl in front of him, filled with foods that are okay for cats to eat but also not… gross, as Wriothesley is very much aware in that cat-head of his. “C’mon, there’s nothing wrong with this, I even tasted it—it’s a bit bland ‘cause we can’t put any seasoning, but it’s food.”

  He leans down, and for a second you think that he’s going to eat it—but as his whiskers brush against the sides of the bowl, he lifts his head abruptly and swats at the bowl, clattering it to the ground—he didn’t mean to hit it at all, but also not this hard. 

  You scratch your head, you just can’t figure out why he won’t eat—you’ve tried everything!

  It took you several hours of back and forth questions and meowing to realise that it was the shape of the bowl that was the problem and not the food itself.

  On another day, you reach down to pet his soft, thick fur—only to get a static shock, it zaps your fingers and both of you jump back. You always have to be careful with petting him, as there’s always a risk of getting zapped at any time. Worst part is, it’s not even every time! It catches you off guard!

  He likes to climb and jump on the pipes that web around the fortress, getting into places he’s never even considered before—and sometimes you look around for him for hours before giving up… only to suddenly be leapt on from above by a nine kilogram heavy cat half your size, knocking you over.

  Siegwinne noticed that he had been brooding lately, he had been stuck as a cat for five days now and it was beginning to frustrate him. So she decided to soak a small blanket in tea mixed with catnip—after it was dry and she rubbed some more on it, she laid it out in his office…

  You watched him for a good long while as he rubbed against it, meowed and rolled on the blanket. It was unbearably adorable, but you eventually pulled him away after a while—worrying it might be too much.

  He’s so large that it’s almost like sleeping with a person, just a very furry one. He lies halfway over you and as you wake in the morning—he refuses to get up. You give in and relax in bed for a while… until he starts kneading your cheeks, leaving small scratches with his big paws and claws. You don’t stop him—it doesn’t hurt, he looks so focused, like he’s trying to squeeze something out of your cheeks. 

Xiao ;

He meows and wriggles in your arms, but you try your best to hold him until you reach the top of the inn—he swats at you and you finally let him go when you enter his usual reserved room. Despite being paws up when you let go of him, Xiao lands perfectly and immediately hops up to the highest vantage point in the room he could reach. 

  You don’t get him down by yourself, he only comes down willingly after a few hours when he’s calmed down and adjusted a bit to this form. You’re not entirely sure what happened, you had just been exploring a cave that was strangely entwined with a temple of sorts, when a bright light appeared behind you, and Xiao—who had been accompanying you—was suddenly a cat. A very small cat. 

  He loafs on the windowsill in the night, his tail wrapped around his paws as he peers towards the sky—at the slightest noise, his ears flicker towards it and he squints at the roads below that pass and surround the large inn. 

  He is unbothered. Firm. Stoic.

  … after getting wet under a pouring rain that persisted all day, he pretends not to be bothered by his wet fur and the uncomfortable existence he leads under this blanket of wet fur…

  But he can only pretend for so long. You turn away and pretend to busy yourself to allow him some privacy to reluctantly lick along his fur and smooth it down, trying to clean or groom it in a way that makes it less sloppy. 

  He hates it, this weird satisfaction that comes with this very primal instinct, and yet, he does still feel the satisfaction.

  Xiao is difficult to read on an average day, he’s very used to controlling his emotions and maintaining a front that’s difficult to get past.

  But as a cat… he’s an open book, he approaches you with a curled tail, he slow blinks at you when you drag your fingers through his fur as he loafs on the windowsill. 

  But he does. Not. Meow. 

  Except for that time you hauled his ass back to the inn… and when Zhongli makes a sudden appearance, he hops from his perched position and snakes around the former Archon’s legs, purring and meowing as he’s being petted and spoken to. He doesn’t notice his own behaviour…

  Not until the following night after Zhongli leaves, and Xiao is mortified that he behaved like an affection-depraved cat in front of Morax.

  Thankfully you sliding a comb through his fur and untangling some knots from the day distracts and calms him down in the evening.

Zhongli ;

At first, you weren’t even sure if Zhongli was actually aware he was a cat, he follows you around, sits on a bench and licks his paw to clean it while you shop for groceries… he chases anything shiny that you come across and swats at it with his paws, leaps at it and tries to capture it—usually rocks or mora people drop. Maybe he likes the mineral, maybe it’s the shine. You can’t really know.

  You try to give him some nice food, cut down nicely so he won’t accidentally choke on it… but he won’t eat it, not unless you plate it properly…? At least, when you rearranged it better and separated the meats from the greens, he seemed to like it more. Maybe he thought you were treating him a bit too much like a pet rather than a partner that’s unfortunately become a cat for a (hopefully) limited time.

  After a long day of… not doing much, Zhongli realised he had left scratches on the sides of some furniture and he tries to hide or cover them up for the time being, dragging a blanket over the arm of a divan in the living room… hopefully you won’t discover them and he can fix it after he’s back to normal before you notice.

  You do notice that he very much prefers specific textures, he doesn’t like walking on the hardwood floor of your home and instead prefers to lie down or sit on blankets or the silken sheets in your shared bedroom. 

  Despite the strange predicament, Zhongli is very calm, he’s both patient and has a good sense—if this was a dangerous curse or spell that was difficult to reverse, he would likely sense it. Instead, he considers using this time to show and receive affection in a way you haven’t been able to before. 

  He often sits by your legs or thighs, he winds around them and rubs his furry cheeks along your clothes and pretty much anywhere he can reach. Your legs when he’s winding around them, your hand when you reach out to pet him, your cheek when he stands on your chest when you’re trying to read in bed before sleeping. 

  He purrs and cuddles with you, laying in your arms or over your lap—he even hid in your bag once when you went out for the day, and you discovered it too late to take him back home (you did wonder why your bag felt heavier than usual) and thus, he has the pleasure of accompanying you to your work—something he doesn’t often get the excuse or time to do. 

  Thankfully, Hu Tao didn’t question it when you came to her and said that Zhongli couldn’t come to work for a few days (hopefully just a few days). If anything, she sighed in relief and said something about him finally using his paid time off and sick days. Then thanks you for taking him out of commission??? 

  You pour over some scrolls and papers to try and figure out how to turn Zhongli back, and he hops onto the desk in the study, nuzzling against your arm before sitting down, tail swaying as he joins you in searching for ways to bring him back to you in a more familiar form. Despite how cute he is like this. 

* eri is the collar-flap on the front of a kimono/yukata that crosses over the chest, he's tucked into it and lying on his back. if you know about the nioh cat clock scene, yeah.

* wriothesley is supposed to be a maine coon type of cat, just huge and heavy. but not wild cat huge.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Two - The aftermath

So many of you came out of the woodwork for this story and I couldn't be more grateful for all the kind words of encouragement! I'm truly flattered by the amount of love this received for being something that randomly popped in my head on a whim ❤️

I'm glad I was able to get this part out so quickly. It might be a tick before part three, but I've already got some of it worked out. I'll still try to keep chipping away at it while I work on my other series~

Trigger warnings: swearing, angst, depression

“I saw them the other day.”

“...saw who?”

“My scent matches.”

There’s a pregnant pause as your therapist of four years takes the information in, caught off guard by the abruptness of the statement but also the further implications behind the words.

Dr. Miranda has been your life raft and confidant ever since you’d first gone to your family with the appalling reality of your newfound situation. An omega like yourself; she specializes in the treatment and rehabilitation of women who've endured abuse at the hands of their packmates and the dredges of society. Highly recommended by the United Designation Resource Center for psychological trauma.

It had taken you over a week following the incident to gather the strength to confront your fathers on the thorny subject - too ashamed of admittance and too anxious of their response. And even then it was done over the phone in the most uncomfortable video call of your life, the dour atmosphere so at odds with that blessedly clear mid-afternoon sky, its temperate climate and soft summer breeze carrying along an enchanting melody of carefree innocence.

Inside, it was raining.

The wretched bond was a gravity well, sucking you down into a chasmic abyss and siphoning your once bountiful vibrancy. Responsibilities fell by the wayside, locked away in your self-imposed prison as if the globe would simply stop moving if you only ignored its rotations. Not until both your fathers made the three hour flight up north did you muster the courage to finally remove the makeshift barricade guarding your front door, talking through the deceptively difficult act with them on the other end of the phone as the two alphas supported you during the twenty five minutes it took to overcome the all-consuming panic and usher them inside.

They stayed with you for the better part of the month, taking over where depression had failed you in your efforts to function alone. Your parents allowed you space to look after yourself, clearing away the physical filth of your living quarters and, in doing so, sweeping away the cobwebs of your teetering sanity. They scrubbed at putrid greasy plates while you scoured tainted flesh under a scalding hot stream, the dead skin cells contaminated by his poisonous touch spiraling down the drain along with your tears.

The harsh truth of the matter is that there is no escape from your own body. You come screaming into this world given one to do with as you will, to mold and shape based on lived experiences with no regard for the decisions and circumstances made outside your control. There is no space to slip between the weaved threads of time, no hands to turn counter clockwise when you make a mistake. Just a grim acceptance that the life you once aspired to was forevermore out of reach.

There was only so much to be done given your situation. As much aid as your family offered, they were as helpless of bystanders as the soul in your meat suit. Chores were completed, accumulated bills paid, a hearty meal piled high on your plate combating the recent gauntness of your face. You were cherished and fussed over like the wee babe found scattered amongst family photos in your childhood home, cradled in their arms when the horrid presence came calling, dragging a hot poker through your insides and causing mental anguish at all hours of the night. 

The more time they spent around you, the more apparent it was that you could no longer stay there. The closer the proximity to your bonded alpha the more power he held to disrupt your life. 

That's how you landed in Dr. Miranda’s lap. Before you'd even set foot on the tarmac arrangements had been made for a new life in a new city on the other side of the country - spiriting you away on a mission to regain your independence, the distance easing the damage he could do even as the strained bond churned.

Initially dreading having to confess the horrors you’d endured to some random unknown, she’d worked diligently to soothe your broken nerves in both demeanor and environment. A kind omega in her early forties, the subtle crows feet and laugh lines only accentuated her cheerful personality, disarming in her ability to draw out your insecurities and work with you through the trauma in a way that didn’t feel intruding. 

Dr. Miranda was a veritable well of understanding, always encouraging of whatever pace you set, careful of the fragile boundaries constructed to guard your heart from further damage. 

She operated as part of a larger business that provided therapeutic services and catered to all designations alike. You’d been thrilled to find there was a separate entrance away from the cacophony of the common room, bypassing the headache of having to wait amongst strangers and leading directly to her office in the back right corner of the building. 

The space itself was considerably cozy, low lit warmth all plush and homely. The spacious couch against the back wall invited you to stretch out comfortably, decorative pillows available in a colorful assortment of textures - catering to a discerning omega’s personal preferences. A small diffuser wafting light refreshing mists operated as both a handy descenting spray and an emotional pick me up. Every accommodation purposeful, given special care for your emotional easement and wellbeing.

You appreciated the effort she put into making her office feel more like a living room than a sterile setting. It was easier for you to converse when it felt like you were speaking with a friend.

Bit by bit, Dr. Miranda coaxed you from the sheltered recesses in which you’d burrowed; not just a guiding hand through the concrete dust and collapsed rubble, but a mentor recovering your confidence, reminding you of the path you once walked independently and peeling back the suffocating layers that kept you from standing on your own two feet.

In hindsight, you probably could’ve broken the news of your scent match a bit less abrasively - probably should’ve led with it too. 

The pair of you had been engrossed in a topic that was moreso a follow up from your last session rather than anything of actual import. Your brain had been functioning on autopilot the past twenty odd minutes, making sounds vaguely human enough to get by without requiring proper attention. Honestly, most of her words had been drowned out by the incessant buzzing in your ear that had been slowly growing in volume, throat clenching and knuckles flexing, more aware of the sweat dripping down the back of your nape than anything she had to proffer.

Eventually the dam just broke. The words slipped out like grease, lubricated in a film of oil too slick to be contained and begging to be addressed.

There’s a struggle on her face to try and maintain some level of professionalism after the sudden revelation. Knitted eyebrows spiked before smoothing back down, jaw almost dropping until she remembered herself and switched it from an ‘o’ to a relaxed flat line. She mirrored your own position on the couch from her velvet wingback chair, sitting cross legged with an air of casualness. Her only remaining tell was her hands fidgeting in her lap as if her fingers itched to shake you down like a coconut tree or pry your brain open like a valuable specimen. 

Knowing the scarcity of scent bonding, this may have very well been the first time she’s come across this scenario - whether in her personal life or from her spot opposite you in her seat.

“How are you feeling about the encounter?” A loaded question if ever there was one, giving you plenty of breathing room to start the conversation however you needed and giving her a chance to compartmentalize. 

You tried to focus on the initial emotions, remembering that first brush of sweet alpha pheromones on your olfactory senses. The rush of endorphins as your inner omega staked her claim with that first gulp of built up citrus infused drool.

“I didn’t know I could feel like that...” There was a breathy quality to your tone as you visibly brightened, gazing at the plush rug in the center of the room without actually viewing it, a glow to your smile that was soft in your reminiscence. “They don’t prepare you for that first whiff at the Academy. It’s almost like…”

How could you explain in the span of a few sentences what the most ardent poets struggled with over the course of a lifetime? 

“It’s like when someone grows up not being able to breathe properly and they don’t even realize it’s a problem. To them it’s normal to be in a constant state of dyspnea because that’s all they’ve ever known. No one else might be complaining about it, but no one’s asked them about it either. They just assume that's how your lungs are supposed to function and carry on none the wiser.”

Dr. Miranda nodded along, ever patient as you attempted to spew out your thoughts in an at least semi-coherent structure.

“But then, one day, they’re walking behind a guy who’s fumbling with his attempt to shove a small object back in his pocket and watches as it falls to the sidewalk. They pick it up off the ground like a good citizen; strike up a conversation. Ask him about the strange contraption the guy calls an inhaler - learns there's another way to breathe. And so they go home and tell their mom what’s been going on with them and she takes them to see the doctor who gets them one of their own. And when that first dose of medicated mist gets sucked into their lungs…”

The image of a wide eyed innocent gasping in a world full of untold possibilities as if reborn from the ashes of their previous life, no longer chained down by the invisible restrictions tethering them to the globe, eyes glistening full of wonderment at how something so small can be something so cosmically life altering.

With each new breath, they soar.

You’re pulled out of your musings and back to reality as your own lungs expand, something weightless shimmering in your gaze, glassy eyed and perfectly at ease. “Now I know why they call it living.”

The words are floated around the space with a sort of reverence akin to hearing a favored childhood fairy tale read aloud at their mother’s knee. Something wistful and longing and filled with effervescent hope.

“Sounds heavenly...” Her own voice was just as breathy, living vicariously through the moment she herself hasn't experienced. Curling her legs up under herself, Dr. Miranda encouraged, “tell me more.”

“There were two of them,” you went on, smile turning playful and newly invigorated. “The first one was just this big bulk of an alpha. I mean, seriously, he was properly huge!” Animated arms opened wide for emphasis, your grin reaching almost the same diameter. “Built like a fucking linebacker or something. I can only imagine what he must do for a living. Kinda gives off scary vibes, but like… in a non sketchy way? He dresses a bit like a drug dealer, but feels more like a gym teacher. Maybe that’s just me being biased ‘cause he smells like a cupcake, I dunno.”

The energy you gave off was infectious. Dr. Miranda couldn’t help but join in with amused laughter, endeared to the way you were lighting up the room. It wasn’t often she got to see you like this, glimpsing the lighthearted woman you were before the accident. It was a welcome sight after so much negativity. “And the other?”

“Fuuuuck me, Doc.” You groaned good naturedly, head falling back to rest against the spine of the couch as your limbs went limp. “Swear to god he was the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. Gorgeous smile. Like, I’ve always been a casual fan of coconut, but after that encounter…” You shuddered. “I just wanna roll around in an entire box of fucking samoas.”

“And do these tasty specimens have names?”

Just like that, you wilted.

The temperature shifted rapidly, a violent change that dragged out of your whimsy and back into a world where life didn’t discriminate between those deserving of heaven and those who broke their way in to taint the ghosts at peace. 

She picked up on it immediately, back straightening as if you weren’t the only one in the room with a chill suddenly dripping down their spine. 

Your admission came from a voice far more fragile than she’d heard in a very long time. “...I never got to ask.”

Recounting the excruciating memory was like shoving needles underneath your nailbeds, bringing up the other person in the room keeping you from wanton bliss, describing the torture you’d endured witnessing them existing with their own omega unaware of the damage she’d inadvertently done. You relayed their moment of recognition and sympathy. The confusion on the poor omega’s face.

How you turned tail and fled like a coward from the scene.

“I panicked,” came the strained confession, stumbled out in a frantic rush that spoke volumes of your frazzled mental state. “I-I didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just waltz up to them all willy nilly and throw a wrench in whatever the hell kinda life they’d already built. I mean, she was right there! How was I supposed to fawn over the men who should’ve been mine to keep when they were never mine to begin with?!”

You flinched away from the unwanted flashback of silvery bite marks, the pale white indents plastered on her skin displayed proudly beneath the collar of her coat like an olympic medal. So at odds with the ones mirrored on your own flesh, hidden now under a thick cotton turtleneck that you fought the urge to scratch.

Dr. Miranda listened closely, keen eyes analyzing the familiar body language and monitoring your growing levels of distress. She watched as you picked apart a loose hanging thread with jittery deftness until inevitably too much unwound and fluffy white stuffing poked out between the seams of the pillow clutched like a life jacket to your chest.

“I can only imagine the hurt you must’ve felt in that moment…”

Where once your voice had been full of life, now there was only a grave emptiness. Color had been sucked from your aura the same way it had been from the room. There was no hiding from your devastation in the tiny office, the frayed threads of the cashmere pillow a reflection revealing the true turmoil roiling beneath the skin. It rotted from the inside out, exposing the vulnerable squishy interior and keeping you reliving the same brutal lacerations again and again and again.

“...I hadn’t even considered it a possibility, you know…?” 

Hadn’t allowed yourself the concept of hope. 

“And suddenly it was right there - the answer to all my problems. For a brief moment, I was shown a glimpse of a better life. A future… one where I didn't wake up with earth shattering headaches and relentless nausea and I’d actually have energy to do more than just be a useless fucking couch potato and there could be laughter and healing and–” 

You weren’t sure at which point in your stream of consciousness you’d started crying, nor when you fitfully clawed into the padded fabric, shredding the delicate material as it twisted and stretched in your trembling hands.

“I wish I never ran into them at the store... I wish I could’ve kept living in stupid fucking ignorance. At least then they could’ve just stayed made up characters in my head. Anything would’ve been better than this–” you spat angrily, chucking the mangled remains of the pillow on the ground and gritting your teeth through the onslaught of tears. “Having them ripped away from me like some sick fucking joke! Like the universe hasn’t already crushed my hopes and dreams and laughed in my face for wanting a normal fucking life!? Well guess what, gods? You win! Okay?! You fucking win! Take my heart! I don't want it anymore!”

Consoling arms encapsulated your quivering form, the comforting florals of Dr. Miranda’s airy omega scent projecting like a protective blanket and overpowering the tart bitterness of your once sweetened pear turned ashen in your mouth. 

The floodgates opened. They couldn't be stopped.

“I’m just so fucking sick of this!” Your screams of devastation become muffled against the softness of her pink knitted sweater, harsh blubbering sobs broken up by heaving gasps as you mourn the life you’ll never have. “I hate him... I hate him! I don’t wanna do this anymore! I just want my fucking life back!”

There are no words that can fix the lesions of the heart. There’s no comfort of a better tomorrow that she can wax poetic whilst drying your tears. Sometimes grief cannot be mended - only managed. And sometimes that means accepting the bad days with the learned knowledge that not all anger is made of evil. 

Holding you close, lulling you into a guarded safety with a placating purr, she grants you reprieve from the mask that you wear.

Not much more was discussed in the aftermath. The remaining time was dedicated to helping you stabilize from the emotional trauma, bringing you down carefully to avoid dropping into a catatonic state. She’d witnessed it with you before - at the start of your visits. When the grief was still too near and your triggers splayed out like a million mouse traps all primed to go off. Avoiding them was all but impossible in those early days. Three hours of your life were forever lost to time, the only proof of its occurrence the foggy aftermath filled memory of cold dampened skin and sweat soaked weighted blankets clutched tight in a dark room, uncontrollable trembles wracking your form and a bone deep exhaustion as if you’d just ran ten miles.

Dr. Miranda never once left your side.

Trudging your way back to your vehicle, the air inside the car was only mildly warmer than its outer counterpart, sinking into the rigid cloth seats and listening to the laboured clicks of the old engine grappling to turn over in the bitter cold. Snowflakes gathered on your coat began to melt as it finally gave way, puttering to life and filling the space with dense heated air.

You huffed out a loaded sigh, absentmindedly scratching at the already abused skin as you felt his presence poking experimentally across the bond. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate without him adding his delightful input, sniffing around your emotions like a trained bloodhound attuned to your melancholic brooding.

He was a spiteful thing; had been since he first opened his eyes the next morning from his drug induced stupor and found the pretty thing he’d coveted had just up and vanished. You never knew when he’d invade the sanctity of your mind. The flicker of amusement from his end was the telltale proof this was all just a sick game. 

The bonds didn’t allow any actual communication. There were no words passed back and forth, no sudden powers of telepathy. Just intense sensations - emotions conveyed as though tangible and speaking ideas down an invisible phone line. 

The whole point of a mating bite in the first place was to bring a further cohesion to the packs. As an omega, you were the fixed point in space around which all other members orbited. A mediator of sorts; it was your job to smooth the serrated edges of an alpha’s instincts, regulating their emotional needs and nurturing them to achieve a sense of balance - and vice versa. 

An omega’s naturally empathetic nature meant you were frequently prone to becoming easily overstimulated. It was an alpha’s duty to soothe your frazzled nerves. 

He liked to abuse his privileges. 

Sometimes he went days without pestering, others his tiresome machinations seemed unending. The longest reprieve had been just shy of three weeks, lured into a false sense of optimism that just maybe he’d overdosed and freed you from his haunting clutches. His return was a hot knife stabbing into your skull, grinding and drilling like a makeshift lobotomy for the clinically insane.

You were grateful for the miles between now softening the blows. Once he’d begun to feel the strain on the flight to your current city whittling away at the strength of your bond, he’d lashed out in unbridled fury. You’d spent the first leg of the trip huddled on your knees in the airplane stall, his mental punishment sawing into your ribs and expelling the simple breakfast you’d eaten an hour prior. 

Sobs of anguish turned to tears of relief as time went on and his reach stretched thin across the continent. 

The bond withdrawals came afterwards. His presence still lurked in the tether that binds you, but no more than a casual thought in the back of your mind, the quiet voice that whispers on the edge of a canyon daring you to ‘jump’.

The bond withdrawals were now the worst of your worries. It was hard to function on a day to day basis when the same distance granting you a second chance caused you to become physically - sometimes violently - ill. Instances like that, Zofran was your best friend.

Buckling your seatbelt, you waged an internal battle over whether or not to do the responsible thing of making a second attempt at grocery shopping (despite your best efforts over the past two days, you hadn’t yet figured out how to miraculously will food to materialize in your barren pantry). Statistically speaking you were most likely safe from another encounter… unless they’d pulled a you and hadn’t left with their wares either. 

But if you didn’t have the luxury before to keep putting it off then you certainly hadn’t acquired it now.

Math was on your side as you emerged with a full cart of goods and a lack of new therapy material. You’d still been the most skittish paranoid thing ever, scurrying quickly through the aisles like the CIA was out to get you, scanning your periphery and emerging quickly from the self checkout lanes to hurry towards your car. But just because you’d been successful in your venture doesn’t mean you weren’t followed along by fuzzy raised brows and curious - if not judgemental - looks. 

It was an odd notion - being terrified of the one thing that should’ve made you feel secure. It was all you could do to distract yourself from the frustrating realization that this was a game you’d be playing for the foreseeable future unless you shelled out the extra cash to bypass doing the chore yourself.

That would have to be a worry for another time. Right now, all you desired was to curl up in your tiny studio apartment with a home cooked microwaved meal and lose yourself in the diversion that was the food network channel.

But first: caffeine.

You ignored the nagging ghost of responsibility tugging at your ear as you pulled into a parking spot alongside the main road, stepping out of the warm confines of your car and hurrying inside the nestled hole in the wall you frequented a few times a week for a caffeinated boost. 

Large crowds still bothered you even with the reassurance he wasn't there, as if he could somehow physically slink out of the bond formed between you and hide amongst the chittering rabble waiting for an opportune moment of weakness to strike. Thankfully you’d arrived after the mid afternoon rush - although there were still a few stragglers with the same mindset as you eager to escape the frosty air with something warm on an otherwise picturesque snowy winter’s day.

The chiming bell above the door hailed your arrival, festive drink flavors assaulting your nose and instantly watering your mouth. Smoky chestnut praline, rich peppermint mocha, enticing caramel brulee. Cranberry laden pastries, chewy gingerbread cookies; all folded together in a Christmasy mix laced with the pleasant aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. 

Your mind zeroed in on exactly what it wanted, pinpointing the most succulent fragrance amongst the bountiful bouquet, cutting through the sea of heavy pheromones belonging to the other patrons and hitting something raw inside your weary soul. 

The veritable nectar of the gods. 

A rich shot of bold espresso. Sweetly caramelized with smooth, creamy, chocolatey undertones. It zapped your spine with a jolt of adrenaline, awakening your senses while simultaneously soothing them. The first relaxing sip of a perfectly hot beverage. The golden liquid flowed down the back of your throat and alleviated the tangled knots still keeping you on edge, settling like a sturdy hand on your shoulder and allowing you the chance to breathe easy.

Something about the blend had your inner omega preening, ears perked up and startling a small purr from your chest that had you blinking down at your torso in surprised confusion. You’d barely stepped foot inside the cafe and suddenly the craving had expanded tenfold, something ravenous and feral urging your steps towards the counter that you had to fight to withstand.

Shrugging off the intense hunger as a simple lack of shoving something slightly more substantial in your mouth before leaving this morning, you adjusted the strap of your purse more securely on your shoulder and raised your eyes level to the awaiting interior.

Right into the most alluring shade of brilliant azure - sparkling like sapphires and already fixated on you.

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[saveyourblood]

Roll the Dice (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.” You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” “Give someone a lap dance.” The one where you're best friends with Buck and Eddie, the three of you are drunk, and the topic of lap dances comes up.

Word Count: 2.4k Prompt (from @happyhauntt): buddie and reader are hanging out and drinking maybe and maybe they're watching magic mike as a joke or they had a call to a strip club earlier that day and buck asks reader who they think would give a better lapdance, buck or eddie, reader bluescreens and they both give a demonstration. A/N: This was such a fun write! Thanks for letting me steal your idea, Ollie! You can find their work on AO3 too. :^) Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays everyone! Warnings: Spice (not smut), drinking, mentions of vomiting

It started with beer. 

Well, it started with the boys drinking beer. 

You’ve never been a big fan of beer. You’ll occasionally indulge in something on tap at a fancy bar, but other than that, it isn’t your drink. And that cheap shit that Buck buys at the corner store? Absolutely not. 

So, it started with the boys drinking beer and you drinking a canned cocktail. 

See, Buck may have bad taste, but he has a good heart. He always has a 6-pack of cheap beer in his fridge, but since you started coming over, you notice he always has a 12-pack of ready-to-drink canned cocktails. You know he doesn’t drink them; he buys them for you. 

You really don’t drink that much, in terms of both frequency and amount. It takes a singular drink for you to feel a nice buzz, and really, that’s all you need. You’ve never had the desire to get blackout drunk, and more than three drinks gives you a raging headache in the morning. 

You were only going to have one, maybe two drinks, just like you usually do. 

But then Eddie found the fucking tequila. 

“Where’d you even get that?” you giggle. You'd be embarrassed by the sound if you were even a little bit sober. Thankfully, you’re halfway through your second can, and any sense of embarrassment is filled by the warm pool of alcohol in your stomach. 

“Maddie made margaritas the night I moved in,” Buck says, raising his beer bottle to his lips. 

The boys are both on their third beers, but between the lower alcohol content and their stronger tolerances, they aren’t as drunk as you are. Hopefully, the tequila will even the score. 

“Where did she buy it?” Eddie laughs as he inspects the bottle. 

It’s cheap: you can tell that much by looking at it. It’s a 1.75 liter plastic bottle — not exactly top shelf. You expected nothing less from Maddie, since she doesn’t strike you as a girl who sips high-end tequila. No, she’s more like the girl who makes way too strong margaritas and bullies her brother into taking shots in the kitchen. 

Buck shrugs. “Grocery store, probably.”

Eddie starts looking through the cabinets. “You got a blender?”

Buck snorts. “I have shot glasses.”

“I’m not doing shots,” you laugh. “Tequila shots and I have… a bad relationship.” 

Eddie gives you a look. “What type of relationship?” 

“Whatever type ends in me throwing up in someone’s sink.”

Buck tips his head back and cackles. “You did that?! You?!”

“I just graduated from the Academy and went out with some classmates to celebrate,” you explain, cheeks flushing as you smile. “It started with bar hopping and ended with tequila shots at someone’s house.”

“Sounds like it actually ended with you throwing up in someone’s sink,” Eddie points out. 

“And you’re trying to make it happen again!” You accuse as Eddie continues scouring the kitchen. “Shame on you, Diaz!”

“Hey, it would be nice to see the most professional member of the 118 get a little crazy,” Buck says. 

You snort again. “I’m the most professional member of the 118?”

“Professional isn’t the right word,” Eddie says, finally finding a cocktail shaker. 

“Formal?” Buck proposes, looking to the other man. 

Eddie hums in consideration as he fills the shaker with ice, leaving the tequila on the island. “Classy?”

Buck shakes his head. “No, that’s not it either.”

Eddie sets the shaker, now filled with ice, on the island. He then opens the fridge door and comes back with lime juice. “Proper?”

“Proper,” Buck agrees, leaning his hip on the island. His body is turned towards Eddie, watching him as he pours the ingredients into the shaker. 

“Proper,” you echo, your lips wrapping around the word as you say it. “How exactly am I proper?” 

“I don’t know,” Buck says after taking another sip. “Just… the way you carry yourself, I guess.”

“How specific.”

Buck flicks a beer cap, previously sitting on the island, at you. You try to catch it, but it slides off the table before you can catch it. You flip him off. 

“Not so proper anymore,” Eddie remarks. 

The tequila takes you by the hand and leads the three of you into Buck’s living room. You’re on your second margarita on the rocks, courtesy of Edmundo Diaz. The boys decide to take two shots each, back to back, and simply watching them kind of made you sick. 

“You are so full of shit!” you yell. 

You don’t know much at this moment, other than the fact that you’re completely and entirely drunk. Not wasted, not blackout. You’re in that sweet spot where you’re sober enough to know that you’re being obnoxious but too intoxicated to care. As someone who normally presents as ‘proper’ (apparently),  it’s a combination akin to fire and kerosene — absolutely ruthless. 

“I am not!” Buck laughs.

Buck claims he’s never had a lap dance, and you don’t believe him for a second. 

You’re not entirely sure how you got on this topic. It definitely didn’t start like this, that you’re almost entirely most likely probably sure of. It had something to do with the ‘old partners’ discussion. Or maybe the ‘craziest night out’ swapping of stories. It’s hard to tell — you’ve cycled through several topics tonight, and you’ll be lucky to remember half of them. 

“Eddie, do you believe him?”

Eddie chuckles as he raises his hands. “I’m staying out of this one.”

Like you or Buck would let that happen.

“What about you, hotshot?” Buck asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You ever had a lap dance?” 

Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly, almost like he’s sizing up Buck. It makes the alcohol in your belly burn a little warmer. 

“Once,” Eddie eventually answers. 

You turn your head to the side like a curious dog. “Oh?”

“Do tell,” Buck says, leaning forward. 

“It was at my shitty excuse of a bachelor party,” Eddie explains, taking a sip of his fourth beer. “One of my friends in Texas insisted. We went out to a strip club, he paid for it, and… that’s it.” 

“He paid for it,” you echo. “What a gentleman.” 

Sitting in the armchair, Eddie gently kicks your leg on the coffee table. You giggle, pulling both your legs back onto the couch. Buck, at the other end of the couch, puts his feet in your lap. 

“You’re being awfully quiet,” he observes. “Have you?”

You snort. “Have I ever had a lap dance?”

“Or given one.”

You press into the nailbed on one of Buck’s toes using your thumb. He yelps and pulls his legs back. 

“Half an hour ago, you were calling me ‘proper.’ Now, you’re asking if I’ve given someone a lap dance,” you recall. You turn to Eddie. “Can you believe him?”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says as he shakes his head. “...Have you, though?”

Buck cackles as you kick Eddie’s leg. 

“I’ve never given anyone a lap dance,” you answer loudly. “I almost got one, though.” 

Both the boys raise their eyebrows.

“Do you remember that call we went on a few months back? To a male strip club?”

“Yeahhh,” Buck says. At some point, he replaced his beer bottle with the tequila bottle, which he’s now cradling like a baby. “What was that place called? Thirsty?”

“Just Thirst, I think,” Eddie remarks. “The one where a dancer rolled his ankle, right?”

You nod. “One of his buddies offered me a dance for being such a great first responder.”

Buck smiles and takes a swig of the tequila, wincing as it goes down. You nudge his knee, then pull your fingers towards yourself, gesturing for the bottle. Buck’s smile looks a little more cocky, but he hands the bottle over anyways. 

“You didn’t accept, huh?”

You sip a  little more of the tequila than you should. You can’t help it — it goes down so easily, leaving nothing but fuzzy warmth in its wake. You’ll regret it tomorrow, but for now, you’re basking in it. “Not really my thing.”

“Not even for the story?” Eddie asks. 

“You don’t get to be the ‘proper’ one by doing something ‘for the story,’” you counter. 

Eddie makes a face of contemplation as he reaches for the bottle. “Fair.” 

“You are really hung up on that word,” Buck notes. 

“It was… surprising, that’s all,” you chuckle. 

Buck makes a humming noise, rubbing his lips in thought. “I could do it.”

You and Eddie share a look. Eddie is the first to test the waters. “Do what?” 

“Give someone a lap dance.” 

You can feel your face get hot. You swallow the lump that suddenly took residence in your throat. 

Meanwhile, Eddie laughs. “You’ve never gotten a lap dance, but you think you can give one?” 

Buck shrugs, leaning one elbow on his knee. “Why not? I’ve seen Magic Mike.” 

“You’ve seen Magic Mike but never gotten a lap dance,” Eddie continues after taking a swig of liquor. “That makes sense.” 

You reach for the bottle, which Eddie grants you. You take a long drink, gulping a few times. Pulling the bottle back, you use your thumb to wipe your bottom lip. “Do your worst, Buckley.”

He turns his head to stare at you. He huffs out a laugh, looking at you the whole time. “What?” 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” you continue, leaning back in the couch. You prop one arm on the back and the other on the armrest, the tequila bottle hitting the end table in the process. “You’ve never given a lap dance, I’ve never gotten one. We’ll pop each other’s cherries.” 

You’d never say any of this sober. Shit, you’d never say any of this two drinks in. You’re in so much deeper than that now; between the margs and the sips, you’ve had at least 6 shots. You can practically feel the alcohol in your blood. It’s hot, thick, and wanting. 

You're 100% throwing up in Buck's sink tomorrow.

You blink, and Buck is on top of you. His hands press into the back of the couch, holding his weight so he can be face-to-face with you. If the booze in your veins is hot, then his breath on your lips is fucking scalding. 

He lifts his hips and brings them back down in a rippling motion: he’s grinding on you. You giggle, high-pitched and shameless. You move your hands to cover your mouth. You can’t wrap your head around the idea that this is actually happening. 

Buck sits up straighter in your lap. He’s careful to keep his weight on his knees, which are on either side of your legs. He puffs his chest before rolling his shoulders forward and his ass backwards on your thighs in a fluid motion. You can feel the friction of his pants on your bare legs. You thank your past self for choosing to wear shorts. 

He gently takes your wrists, moving your hands from your mouth to his chest. He’s fully clothed, so you’re dragging your hands down his sweater. Still, you can feel the rippling of his muscles under his shirt. You throw your head back in laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it, but you know the burning in your stomach is no longer entirely thanks to the liquor. 

“Not bad,” Eddie critiques from his seat. 

You laugh harder. 

“What, you can do better?” Buck challenges. 

Eddie narrows his eyes again before smirking. He pushes himself out of the chair, shooing Buck away with his hand. 

Buck raises his hands in surrender, turning on one knee before flopping on the couch beside you. 

“This isn’t happening,” you laugh, shaking your head like you’re trying to wake yourself up from a dream. 

You’ve had a crush on both of them since the first time you saw them. How could you not? They are completely and utterly gorgeous men. When you realized how funny and caring they both are, it just sealed the deal. You never, in your wildest imagination, pictured yourself in a situation like this with either of them, let alone both of them. 

Not that you’re complaining, of course.

Eddie takes Buck’s place, only he’s towering over you since he’s standing instead of sitting. He puts his hands on your sides, trailing down to your thighs. You shudder under his touch, hoping it isn’t noticeable. The way the corner of his mouth turns up tells you that it’s definitely noticeable. 

Eddie’s hands reach your knees, which he loops his fingers under. In a swift motion, he pulls your legs up and presses his body against yours. You yelp in surprise and wrap your legs around his back, somehow pulling him closer. 

His hands move to your back, and he picks you up. You yelp again, astonished by the ease he can lift you. You shouldn’t be so shocked, considering his career. When his grasp moves from your back to your ass, though, he’s no longer Firefighter Diaz; he’s Eddie, the man you have a crush on. And the man who’s currently holding your ass. 

Eddie turns on his heel and carefully lays you on Buck’s coffee table, which makes you cackle again. Your laughter dies in your throat when Eddie places himself over you again. Your chests are touching, as are your noses. 

You look into Eddie’s eyes, and it’s as if you can suddenly read his mind. “Dancers aren’t supposed to kiss the clientele.”

Eddie smiles again. It’s the kind where only one corner of his mouth curls up, and his lips shift to the side. “Good thing I’m not a dancer.”

His lips meet yours, and it’s nothing but heat. He tastes like a mix of cheap beer and tequila, and if you weren’t already, you could get drunk off of it. Your tongues meet and separate like lovers on a dance floor. When you’re out of breath, you wonder if you could suck the air out of his lungs, just to keep you connected to him for a little longer. 

Eddie pulls away first, his chest heaving desperately for air. 

“You lose,” Buck remarks. 

“How did I lose?”

“It was a competition?” you interject. 

“It’s called a lap dance,” Buck points out. “That wasn’t in her lap.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly. They eventually settle on your mouth. “Eh, I think I won.” 

[my-my-my]

KINKTOBER DAY 6 - Somnophilia: Sosuke Aizen (Hueco Mundo) x Female Reader

Requested by anonymous

Summary: Observing people, shinigami and hollows alike, are just one of the many hobbies Aizen likes to partake in. In one of his visits to Naruki City, he decides to leave a book from his personal collection, in a used bookstore. You, a human who doesn't know any better, become fascinated by the book - never hearing or seeing anything about it before. No one knows of this book, except a stranger, Aizen, who feeds your curiosity.

TW: this is kinda angsty. Implied past somnophiliac acts (reader thinks its a dream), dubious consent, hypnotism, voyeurism, stalking.

Word count: 2491

Read on AO3 here.

In preparation of his descent into Hueco Mundo, Aizen scoured Karakura Town and the nearby Naruki City for test subjects, spiritual readings and hollow experimentation. Sometimes, it’s easier to disguise himself amongst the humans, wearing a gigai.

Aizen is fascinated by the mostly mundane tasks of human beings. They’re so incredibly fragile in his presence yet make the most out of their inadequacies. While their technology is not as advanced as Soul Society, his or Urahara Kisuke’s inventions, he’s amused by what they have made for themselves already.

Sometimes Aizen wanders through the various bookstores and libraries in the World of the Living. He observes mortals and what they decide to read. For whatever reason, today he decided to bring a book from his own collection and places it on the shelf of a used bookstore.

He watches you, with curious eyes, skimming the book. Your eyes widen from what he can see. What will you make of it? He wonders. The store owner doesn’t recognize the book at all but sells it to you for a low price.

He watches you read it in your home, on your commute and your days off. You’re in awe.

You decide to finish the book in a quiet part of the park, under a gazebo with some of your favourite flowers surrounding it. Page after page, you’re engrossed with what the book shares with you, things you haven’t heard of, concepts you had never dreamed of. You had never heard of this book before, no existence of it in the library or online copies anywhere. Yet it captivated you.

“Are you enjoying that book? It’s quite fascinating, isn’t it?” Aizen asks, as he walks into the gazebo to see you.

Today, Aizen would find you enjoying an iced coffee on the patio of a café in Naruki City. In the back of his mind, he had already begun his machinations to move you further away from Naruki City to Kyoto or somewhere else, where you wouldn’t be affected by his plans for Karakura Town and the nearby areas.

You sipped your coffee, thoroughly engrossed in a book that he had lent you. His lips twitched at seeing you enjoying something he also enjoyed, his heart quickened in your presence.

But he ignored it.

Today, Aizen donned a gigai, as he always does when he visits you. A simple white dress shirt tucked in to black slacks, the sleeves rolled up, his hair pushed back as normal. He ordered a white jasmine tea for himself, and a small pastry for you.

“Are you enjoying the book?” Aizen’s voice startled you, but you smiled at him, waving him over.

“Yes, I am, thank you so much Aizen-san! Your recommendations have been wonderful.” You beamed at him, placing a bookmark on the page as you closed the book. It wasn’t often that you bumped into your mysterious crush.

He gave you a small smile and sat across from you, taking a sip from his cup. This café is terrible he thought to himself, tasting the bitterness of the tea leaves. But you were here, and that was more than enough to finish drinking the offensive liquid.

“What brings you here today? I haven’t seen you in a while.” You asked, feeling nervous suddenly.

“No reason in particular, I was in the area and wanted some tea. I just happen to see you here today. It’s nice to see a familiar face.” Aizen said, continuing to drink his tea. He noticed your coffee was also still unfinished. “Are you not enjoying your drink?”

You laughed, then lowered your voice, “I found this place on a whim… but it’s kind of terrible don’t you agree?” To which you gave him a sheepish smile.

Aizen chuckled, nodding his head, “but I got this for you. Hopefully that’s better than our drinks.” Your eyes widened at the pastry, and you immediately thanked him for it.

You ripped a small portion off the plate and placed it immediately in your mouth. Your eyes lit up, it was surprisingly delicious. “You need to try this Aizen-san!” You immediately ripped another piece off and handed it to him.

A blush crept up your face as he ate from your hand. “It is delicious. Maybe they should open a bakery instead.” Aizen surmised, his tone calm and collected, as if your fingers weren’t near his mouth at all.

You gave a nervous laugh and immediately pulled away, “I think that’s a great idea for them.” “Ignoring them, tell me what you think of what you’ve read so far.” Aizen asked, watching your eyes glimmer in excitement.

It had been a few months now, of meeting with Aizen, whose first name you learned was Sosuke. He revealed very little of himself, but you had exchanged numbers with him. As of late, many of your meetings were more like “dates,” that ended with some kisses and heavy petting.

Yet you still didn’t know much of the man. He was a complete enigma to you. You had shared with one of your closest friends what you knew about him, but even their sleuthing skills couldn’t find anything. Was he giving you a fake name?

You doubted that, but you never really saw him around town save for when you two were hanging out. He wasn’t purposefully evasive towards you, he told you as much that he was in the area a lot (but didn’t specify where), as he had work there (but didn’t disclose what he did).

Yet even then, when you two were together, it felt like the rest of the world was gone. The two of you were in a bubble. It was strange in some cases, you thought. On days when you were having an especially hard time, something at work or something upsetting, you would find him, almost as if on accident.

And the time with him felt comforting. Your problems felt like they disappeared when you were with him, or he offered you advice and listening ear if it was too much to bear.

But still, nothing about him, nothing of existence of him. Maybe… you were hallucinating him?

That would make sense, right? Your friends never met him, and any instances of trying to have him meet them were thwarted at some point. Even when you tried to take photos, your phone’s camera would (surprisingly) malfunction.

Now you felt crazy, but the books were real, weren’t they?

You picked up the latest book he lent you. It was heavy, hard and sturdy. It felt real.

You took a photo of it and sent it to your closest friend, who responded with a question mark.

“Why are you sending me a pic of a book?” Your friend responded.

You replied with an “oh it was an accident, meant for someone at work!”

Ok, so the books were real.

Then your phone rang. Speak of the devil and he shall appear your mind thought, as Aizen’s name flashed on your screen. You hurriedly picked it up and heard his baritone voice immediately. “Are you free tonight?”

Aizen had treated you to dinner, at a remarkable restaurant you were saving up for. You savored every part of your meal, from the food, the décor and Aizen himself.

“I think…” you hesitated, wanting to choose your words carefully, “this is the first time you’ve called me for dinner, Aizen-san.”

He gave you a small smile, “it is, and unfortunately there’s a reason behind this.”

You felt your heart dropped at the shift of his tone.

“I’ll be going overseas indefinitely.” He said, “I’m not sure when I’ll be back here again.”

“Oh…” you trailed off, disappointment clear in your voice. “For how long?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it may be the last time I see you.” Aizen said, his face expressionless. He watched your face drop with sadness, while his heart felt a bit strange. But he ignored it, again. He enjoyed your company and nothing more of it would come from it. His plans were too far along now to pull you into them. It was better this way.

Although Aizen shared it was his last night, he wanted to spend the night together. It was a surreal blur to you. The two of you spent time watching the stars, discovering late night gems in Naruki City, with kisses in between, but once a yawn escaped your mouth, he escorted you home. You remember being tucked in to bed, and then waking up to find a new book on your bedside table. Aizen’s last gift to you. You thumbed the pages carefully before hugging the book to your chest.

The following morning, you sent him a text, to have it being bounced back. Calling him left you with an automated tone saying the number did not exist.

The man, Aizen Sosuke, never appeared in your life again. To your friends who knew of him, never brought him up.

At places where you two were seen together, no one batted an eye as to where your partner was. No one asked. As months went by, if it weren’t for the books lining your bookshelf, you would have wondered if he even really existed.

Lord Aizen remained unphased watching Ulquiorra share his update on Karakura Town to him and the rest of the Espada. Everything was going according to plan, plans that he thought well and hard for, plans that had contingencies running if they were (shockingly) to fail.

Ulquiorra’s voice droned out of Lord Aizen’s mind as he saw the briefest glimpse of you. Of course Ulquiorra was not privy to you. Watching you, hearing you, talking to you was only a privilege to Lord Aizen.

To which he thought, he was due for a visit to you.

Some nights you dreamt of Aizen.

Some dreams, the two of you were a seemingly normal couple, traveling the world and sight-seeing.

Other dreams he was a military captain, commanding his troops with his sword and his voice alone.

Some dreams felt real – his touch hot against your skin, his kisses deep and passionate. Your bed, his bed, some other bed – you would wake with the distant memories of moans and pleasure, as your thighs were left sticky, and your body covered in a light sheen of sweat.

Other dreams involved him in a palace far beyond, of stark white in an area devoid of light. Where sand dunes filled the landscape, with strange creatures roaming around. He commanded them, wearing robes of white, with a presence that commanding fear and utmost respect.

You never knew what to make of these dreams. Some days you loved them, to see him again, to “feel” him again. Other days you hated it, you wished you had never met him.

The dreams now, were becoming fewer and far between, and again, you weren’t sure if you were happy with that. To be haunted by him, or to forget him almost completely.

Tonight though, you were exhausted, and your bed called to you more than anything.

Once you were sound asleep, Aizen approaches. He knows you and your bed now. He knows which parts to put weight on – and which not to – to avoid waking you. It amused him some days, to hear you cry for him in your sleep, other days it made his brows furrow, his heart quickening like it did before.

Tonight he wanted you for himself. Seeing you in Ulquiorra’s surveillance update tugged at him. You called to him, both mind and body, and it bothered him. But tonight he would indulge. His reiatsu lightly fills this room, weighing on you more heavily, forcing you into a deeper slumber.

“Sosuke” you whimpered, your eyes still closed, while your brows were knitted. He kisses your forehead and watches you relax, wondering what you were dreaming of tonight.

Aizen cups your face and turns you on to your back. Your breathing is deep – your chest rises and falls to every breath you take, your breasts barely containing your nightshirt.

Aizen muses if you were made for him, as your legs spread apart. He whispers an incantation under his breath that leaves you naked and bare for him alone.

He runs his hands over your body, parts he's familiar with, places he hungers for. Deep kisses are left along your neck as he travels down your breasts, taking delicate care for each nipple.

Your eyes are still closed, but moans are freely spilling from your mouth. Aizen pushes your legs further apart, your glistening cunt in full display for him. He draws slow circles around your clit, earning a gasp and mewl from you. It amuses him how needy your pussy is for him, you’re completely drenched, and he hasn’t even put a finger in.

Aizen pushes a finger into your wet hole and relishes at how tight you are around him. Your mouth opens into a whine, “please, more Sosuke.” Although your eyes remain firmly closed.

Who was Aizen to deny you like this? Undoing a part of his robe, Aizen pumped his cock in his hand, watching you panting, and moaning for him. As if on reflex, he watches in amusement as you pinch and play with your own breasts, before your hand circles your clit, but he stops you before you can go further.

Your body was meant for him, and he would remind you of that fact.

Aizen slowly pushes his cock inside you, relishing at how your face tightens at the sudden intrusion, but slowly relaxes as you moan to the full stretch of him. Aizen brings your face to him, giving you a deep kiss as he slams his hips into you.

A part of him wants to see your eyes open for him, to watch your eyes sparkle at him, trickle with tears as he pounds you mercilessly. But not tonight. He grinds into you, forcing your legs on his shoulders as his cock is covered in your slick juices.

You chant his name, over and over again, cries for more pleasure, more of him. And of course, he would never deny you tonight. Aizen slams into your wet pussy repeatedly, as you tighten around him, before a low groan escapes Aizen, his cum filling you up as he remained inside you. He watches you in fascination as your eyes relax again, your breathing less laborious than before, slowly pulling his softening cock out of you. You let out a soft whine from the feeling, to which Aizen kisses you, as if to say he was sorry.

He undoes the incantation in your room, your shirt appearing back on your body, before fading into the darkness of Hueco Mundo once again. When morning comes, you’re left with another moment of wonder and frustration. Of sticky thighs, sore nipples and kiss swollen lips. A vision of Aizen runs through your mind, haunting you once again.

I've been in a wistful mood for Aizen as of late... and yes, more Ghost sex hahaha. Thank you for reading! This fic was set to VIQ's "Ghost".

[slytherizz]

Fight or Flight - Sebastian Sallow/F!MC

Summary: Sometimes sleeping dogs don't lie.

Two years after his uncles death and with Anne missing the last remaining Auror who scents deception requests a testimony from the only person witness to what really happened between Sebastian and Solomon in the catacombs that day. In a bid to protect those memories and keep him out of Azkaban their marriage is arranged - A marriage Sebastian is hell bent on putting a stop to.

Word count: 15,000 (remember when I said I’d keep it under 10k)

Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, 18+, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Angst, Masturbation, First Time

Link: You can find the complete fic on Ao3.

A/N: Sebastian ‘my wife’ Sallow. To the anon who requested this, I’m sorry it’s so late but it was so much fun to write.

Sebastian is almost certain he’d been on the receiving end of a lethal confundus charm. Either that or he was at present suffering a massive life altering haemorrhage somewhere amongst the sun deceptively warming his cheeks and the familiar groan of the dragon bones anchored above them, as it tilted its great head in greeting when they'd arrived in Hecate's office. Full of mysterious tombs and the lingering scent of smoke. Ash trampled so tightly into the grooves in the floorboards he doubted even the house elves could scour out the smell. 

He’d gotten too comfortable. No. Down right complacent as of late and now his psyche in a riotous act of self-preservation was giving him a blistering slap back into reality. 

Pull yourself together. 

Sebastian dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palm. He hissed at the sharp pain as he broke the skin. Felt the blood prickle hot against his sweat slicked palms as it beaded along the thin superficial wound. Uncomfortable. Stinging. And far, far too real. 

“What-?” he managed to croak around a lump in his throat. Praying to Merlin that if this wasn’t a dream it was some elaborate and albeit cruel practical joke. 

“Spousal Privileges,” Hecat repeated. Matter of fact. Her features were drawn and to his dismay betraying no hint of amusement. 

Sebastian choked violently on his own saliva. A hacked cough, raw against his throat. As if the wind had been knocked out of him by a patient and vindictive phantom.

“What this means is you couldn’t be forced to give a testimony or surrender any memories pertaining to anything to do with Mr Sallow. With his sister still missing, the only people who know what really happened in that catacomb are the two of you. If you can’t be forced to corroborate this theory that has been gaining traction at the Ministry that’s the way it stays,” his professor continued to address the witch beside him, unmoved by the blood draining rapidly from his face. 

Her eyes were fixed intently on Hecat, chin raised as she refused to meet Sebastian’s increasingly panicked eye. He shifted in his seat towards her. Turning rapidly back and forth between her and their professor. 

Waiting. A heartbeat and then more passed. Mounting up until it became a deafening drum in his ears. 

He wanted her to laugh. Let it loose. Burst the dangerous tension mounting with every second this insanity stretched on for. Most pathetically of all - he wanted her to save him. Wanted to watch her face crease with laughter at the absurdity of what Hecat was saying. Cling to some sense of normalcy, her stability by his side whilst the rest of him was spiralling out of control.

She was uncharacteristically still in her chair. As frozen as the statue of the mourning lover in the courtyard. Her fist clenched so tightly in the pleats of her skirt her knuckles blanched. A half finished braid she’d been fiddling with behind her ear hung abandoned. Not a shadow of humour remaining. 

“Why now? It’s been years since…”  she asked, with a more measured tone Sebastian felt the situation did not warrant.

She spared him a glance which did little to put him at ease. If anything the serious crease to her brow set him on a razor's edge. 

Sebastian was unravelling. The thread he’d used to stitch back together a semblance of a life was pulling apart at an alarming rate. And the only two people who had any hope of holding him back together were entertaining this insanity. 

“Some of Miss Sallow’s effects were uncovered at the former Feldcroft residence. It seems no one had tended to the home since your Uncle passed…unexpectedly. My contact at the Ministry informs me that there's only one Auror pushing for those memories. Sergeant Tuttle. Old guard. Worked closely with your uncle when they were both juniors in the department. The rest are happy to let Solomon’s memory remain as it has been for the past two years - the heroic final act protecting his young charges from a horde of uncontrollable inferi,” she paused and Sebastian felt the weight of every word. “Personally I am inclined to agree.”

Hecate’s already thin lips pulled so tight they almost entirely disappeared. Her inscrutable brown eyes peeling back the curtain seeing far beyond the truth to the crux of him. Weighing his mettle. And he wasn’t sure she’d be impressed at what she found. 

Because what he was - was careless. Sebastian supposed he could argue that his distress over losing his sister had made it too painful to return. Knowing Anne was not there, Feldcroft seemed rather pointless. 

But really all he’d been was too eager to turn his back on that hovel that had never been his home. Ivy grew thick over its stones and he hoped one day it would pull it down entirely. No one had touched the wards in over a year. Perhaps when he’d boxed up his feelings and shoved them away in his desperation to move past what he had done, he didn’t consider the possibility that there were others out there who, unlike him, may not want to move on so hastily from Solomon's death. 

Anne certainly hadn’t. 

“With you two being so close, this is the cleanest option-” Hecate continued. 

“I don’t bloody care about clean!” Sebastian broke from his stupor. Fist slamming on the table rattling the spoon from where it rested against his saucer. “Tell me the other options. I don’t care how messy they are. I’ll do them.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase,” Hecat said sharply. “This is your only option. And you’d do well not to leap to such dramatics if you want this to work, Mr Sallow. In particular I’d advise against taking such a tone with me.” 

Sebastian didn’t care. He’d already geared up to argue back against this preposterous idea when the statue of the witch beside him suddenly came to life. As if Pygmalion himself had loved her into life just to spite Sebastian. 

“We’ll do it,” she said firmly. 

Sebastian choked again, head snapping to look at her. “You can’t be serious!” 

She simply glared back at him, as if he wasn’t the only reasonable person left in the room. “I’ve kept you out of Azkaban this long-“

Their professor cleared her throat, having little patience for the squabblings of teenagers that was beginning to unfold in her office. It set Sebastian even more on edge. She’d thrown a bomb into their lives and was now regarding him as some petulant child causing a scene. As if instead while he was scrambling to hold it together she expected him to thank her for it. 

“I’d choose your words more carefully in front of an audience but I admire the passion. If you want this to succeed you’ll have to make them believe this. Believe you. You can’t cast any doubt on the reason for any of it. A young couple, so in love they simply cannot wait to be married.”

***

It was like taking a match to a forest doused in kerosine. How quickly word could spread overnight when students kept such close quarters and they were eager for anything to save them from revision. Whispers billowed up from steeped mugs. Steam laced with secrets curled around their lips. Huddled so tightly together they looked like hydras. Each set of eyes alight with amusement. Teeth bared ready to feast on their speculation. 

From the moment Sebastian had stepped into the Great Hall he’d felt it. The oppressive shift to the atmosphere that usually welcomed him each morning. Clouds dark, heavy with the foreboding rain swirled on the enchanted sky. At least it was fitting.

Instinctively he sought her out. Looked for hers amongst the hundreds of eyes turned towards him. Which he pointedly ignored instead following the remaining half who stole glances towards her. 

Blue. Green. Brown. Shifted between them assessing to see what they might do. 

She was boxed into the middle of the table by Onai and Sweeting with Reyes taking up the spot across from them. A vicious hound guarding her flock ensured even the most brazen little wretch who considered interrupting would think twice - give her wrath a wide berth. 

Reyes to her credit - snarling banshee that she was - looked as deeply horrified by the pathetic silver band on her friend's finger as Sebastian felt it deserved. 

They’d transfigured it hastily from a pair of silver spectacles once they’d stumbled out of Hecat’s office the previous evening. One she kept in an odd tangle of items in her satchel and the rushed magic had already begun to tarnish its appearance. It was a wonder anyone actually believed them with how dull and thoughtless it looked sitting on her hand. 

If her smile wasn’t so tight, or her laugh a little too airy she would be executing Hecat’s ludicrous scheme to perfection. 

Sebastian swallowed around the lump in his throat and sheepishly changed course. Rerouted himself away from the group of witches throwing his bag down on the bench and slumping into a seat at the Slytherin table. Which seemed to delight some of the onlookers. Clearly humiliation was a good seasoning for eggs, he thought as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot and took out his potions essay in an attempt to look busy enough no one would suspect exactly why he was sitting alone. Or worse, try and talk to him. Not that they would dare when his face looked as thunderous as the sky overhead. It didn't, however, stop him from overhearing their animated gossiping. 

‘Do you think she’s…you know?’ 

‘Obviously! Who in their right mind gets married a month before they leave school? Clearly they’re in a rush before she starts to y’know...’ one girl smirked with an exaggerated flourish over her stomach.

Sebastian shot a glare across to the gaggle of Ravenclaw’s in the year below. Who giggled even more loudly when they caught his eye, one turning pink from the tips of her ears to well past the neckline of her jumper. Sebastian on the other hand felt like someone had doused him in a bucket of water from the lake. 

If Reyes didn’t skin him for the insulting piece of jewellery she certainly would if she suspected he’d gotten her favourite flying partner up the kyte. 

Sebastian tried to focus on his potions essay. List even a single ingredient of ‘Felix Felicis’ which was proving to be impossible when behind him a brazen fourth year proclaimed and loudly he’d caught them sequestered away between the stacks of the restricted section - her body bent over a desk. Sebastian’s grip on the quill tensed as he strained himself to write the differing effects between wyrm and dragon scale on a potion - and not a very vivid description of what he apparently looked like on his knees buried between her thighs. Ink blotted on the parchment. 

Sod Hecat on ‘selling it’. Why did they need to go to such lengths when apparently every gossiping vulture was content to click their beak and do all the work for them? 

Surely Azkaban couldn’t be worse than this? 

Well, that was delusional - but if he overheard one more person comment on if her robes looked bigger he was more than likely going to do something that would get him thrown in Azkaban regardless. 

Sebastian had anticipated suspicion but he still wasn’t prepared for how much it would chafe. 

He knew if they were not at the centre of this farce, the two main players on the stage they would have jovially picked apart their performance too. She would have speculated over their sanity as she picked idly at her cauldron cake. Made some snide comment about being too eager to get his leg over. He’d bet her a galleon they’d see the proof in nine months and she would have snorted, undignified unladylike into her pumpkin juice. 

Being the subject of this speculation however was mortifying. 

Would that be next? Bringing a child into the fucking mess he’d made just to cover his own back? If the thought of dragging her into a marriage him feel ill it paled in comparison to the feeling of crippling dread that conjured. 

But would she want that one day? In a young witch's sacrifice to keep him had she truly considered all the things she was giving up in his stead. Things she may not know she even wanted until the opportunity had already been bartered and sold off for the price of his freedom. What kind of man was he to take the hope of any kind of family from someone who already had none to show for it? Take away the chance for someone to love her. 

Or maybe she never intended to give up on that particular dream. And Sebastian would be expected to play his part - the cuckolded husband. 

Work late until the candles burned down to the wick to give her lover time to retreat. Share her with one; or with many. 

Vow now to never let her go without. 

Even go as far as to raise her children as his own. Glamour their cheeks with foreign freckles he’d wish were inherited. Brand them with the Sallow name with ink on thin parchment but not their blood; their ties to him just as flimsy and performative as hers.

Her easy smile as she lathered honey onto her toast set his teeth on edge. Sebastian felt in that moment like he never really knew her at all. Head pounding Sebastian stuffed his ink pot and notes back into his bag. Abandoned his breakfast in a rush to get out of the stifling hall. Away from the whispers that he knew would also be deafening in her ears. Perhaps even more so.

‘I didn’t even know they were courting. It’s a shame he’s off the market.’

‘Here’s the thing - I don’t think they were. Clearly, he’s marrying her to do the right thing. Now that she’s trapped him with a baby.’

She caught his eye, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but it did not offset the rigid lock of her furious ticking jaw. Teeth set, clamped together as if Hecat had clamped a muzzle on a fucking dragon and then handed her chains to Sebastian. 

Shamefully, he couldn’t bring himself to hold her gaze. Couldn’t even bear to face her in that moment despite knowing he was the reason she had to listen to these lies spread. He should tell her he was sorry. But instead he fled. 

Complete fic can be found on Ao3.

[bettystonewell]

BLOWTORCHES, BOOTS & BUGSPRAY

Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Aussie!Reader

Blowtorches are perfect to exterminate spiders. Even Dean agrees. 1.1k words

Tags: established relationship, strong language, potentially Aussie slang (tbh, I don’t know, I just went with the flow and didn’t think too hard about my word choices this time)

A/N: If you knew me from AO3 or Wattpad first, you might be familiar with my first fic/series Abducted, and my Aussie!Reader, Glowworm. Well, this reader is her, and this is all thanks to Erwin the spider (named after Schrödinger), and his friends who think it’s okay to set up shop in my house rent free.

This is purely self indulgent - just a fun little thing to get me in the mood to write because I’ve been struggling lately so I haven’t tagged anyone.

If you happen to be feeling homesick or hate creepy crawlies or just need a Dean cuddle, this one’s also for you.

“Fuck off, you cunt!” You swatted at the large-arse spider on the wall for what felt like the hundredth time. Okay, not quite, but your arm sure hurt because of the fucker and Dean’s left boot you’d been holding above your head. 

It wasn’t the same as a thong, but it was bound to do the job better. As long as he never found out.

The little spindly legs scurried under your arms’ shadow as you launched the heavy sole a couple inches ahead of the bastard. Didn’t work, of course. The fucker seemed to sense your every movement. 

Or maybe it smelt Dean’s feet.

He’d done enough running to sweat up a storm on the last hunt, and the stench had wafted into your nose. You just ignored it.

It was his boot or a pair of yours.

Your fingers flexed over the ankle cuff and you raised your arm further back behind you. A real good swing oughta do it, if you could just find the bastard.

“Where the hell did you go?”

Your eyes scoured the walls. With so many nooks and crannies and guns to hide behind, the little shit could be anywhere. But dare you try to move them? Would Dean chuck a fit? Would you? 

You still shuddered at the thought of touching your own gun most days, much less his. And the thought of sleeping with them another night and IT would drive you mad. 

So you dropped the boot to the ground with a glorious thud and flinched your eyes back to where Incy Wincy had last been seen. 

Nope. Nothing.

“You know the spiders we have back home would put you to shame! ‘Least they have the decency to wait in the toilet or behind the windscreen. Not where we sleep!” 

Yes, you were going bonkers, talking to spiders now, but you had a point, and you reached for the closest shotgun. Damn thing was heavy, and you were extra careful, even knowing Dean never kept them loaded, least not the ones on the wall. 

And that’s where he found you some ten minutes later, taking down the last of those that remained since you’d started moving in. His prized machete in your grasp. 

“What the hell?” he said, freshly showered, hair disheveled. Half a beer still in hand. His towel held up ‘round his waist by the other. 

His eyes scanned his bed where all his toys now lay, then flicked to you and back. “What’re you—”

“Spider,” you said, a little breathless. “Little cunt.” Your fingers squeezed together to mimic its size.

“And you needed to take everything off the wall?”

“It—” Your own eyes scanned the room. You’d taken them all off and nothing, which meant he was somewhere else. 

Your fingers darted for the next thing you could reach. The old phone on the desk Dean had moved for you when you’d chosen a side. 

“You ready to take the full plunge, huh?” He sauntered to the closet, ignoring your dashes and darts to find the little shit. “Moving in tonight?” He chuckled, but you continued to ignore him.

Even the towel dropping to the floor and his naked arse-cheeks hadn’t deterred you in your plight. Sure, your eyes might’ve taken a peek, but you’d get back to him later. He could’ve been helping!

Where is it? Where is it? You shifted the chair and dragged its legs back, arousing Sam’s suspicions from down the hall. 

“What the hell’s going on?” he said, much like Dean, only without the towel.

Luckily, the latter had put on boxers and a tee by then. “She’s looking for a spider. Little cunt.” He chuckled again, and all Sam could do was scoff.

“Weren’t you gloating to Claire about our bugs being nothing?”

His attempt at your accent quirked a brow. But for the most part, you were civil. You had to find Charlotte before she started forming words with the dust bunnies you’d just discovered under the vintage desk.

Yeah, you were going through this place with a dustpan first thing tomorrow, assuming there was anything left. 

“You have a blowtorch in the boot, right?” you said.

“In the—Okay, first of all.” Dean swooped in and grabbed a wrist, pulling your back flush against him. “Don’t insult my Baby. She has a trunk. A trunk.” He enunciated slowly the second time to which you rolled your eyes.

“And second?”

“There’s one down the hall in 8B.”

“Dude!”

His chest rumbled through your spine. His arms wrapped ‘round your waist. “Relax, Sammy.” His breath tickled your ear. “Go get the bug spray, would ya? I’m gonna round up Dundee here before she hurts herself.”

“I’m not gunna—”

“You took all my guns off the wall, sweetheart.” Dean reasoned. “There’s nothing left.”

“On the walls,” you snarked, twisting in his arms to face him when you realised he wasn’t letting go. Finding his stupid grin and a peck to the lips soon after. “My brother pulled apart his whole room for a huntsman once. Those fuckers can jump,” you added through pride and a lump that tied your throat and tongue.

Not only had you completed another successful hunt two days prior, but his birthday had come and gone that week, and Dean took that clue and ran with it. You knew it by the way his brows raised, and his dazzling greens shot at yours, even in the faint lighting of the bunkers evening ones. 

“You haven’t mentioned your family in a while,” he said, and your gut did a flip. 

Hands found their way to smooth the fabric they found between you and his firm chest. Had he worn his usual flannel, you’d have smoothed your fingers over the button holes, too, but now they searched his heartbeat instead, beating steady as a drum.

“I guess so.” You nodded, finding his bare toes below you. “Just a coincidence with the spider.”

“Yeah.” The pop from Dean’s lips pouting was loud enough to hear, but he didn’t say anymore; simply squeezing your sides and pulling you in further so that your nose and no longer dry eyes could hide in his warmth.  

And like that, you stayed for a minute, maybe more. His soap and still steady heart, a comfort to your clouding mind. 

Until he had to go and ruin the moment with his soft timbre, and, “Son of a bitch. That thing just jumped.”

That thing?

“You saw him?” You pulled back and spun around to follow the direction of his gaze to his pillow and your little friend sitting smack bang in the middle of it.

“Sammy! I’mma need that blowtorch!” he bellowed, but you were too busy reaching for his discarded boot from earlier. 

The fire would get the guts out.

A/N: A lovely reader requested more aussie!reader, which led to Abducted being posted HERE on tumblr.

[stepinthyme]

The Red Means I Love You

Alice Wu Gulliver x Necromancer!Reader

Your girlfriend told you she'd be gone to finish some buisness, and you feel her death happen. You refuse to let her go.

Word Count: 1k

Content: second person, no use of Y/N, ressurection, kissing, fluff, blood and gore, Alice is naked but that is not the focus here. Reader is refered to as "girlfriend" at one point, but otherwise this could be read as gender neutral

A/N: If no one will feed me, I will feed MYSELF. I may cross post this to ao3 in the morning, but I needed to get this out of my head while it was all still fresh. This is very heavily inspired by Marcille's ressurection of Falin from Dungeon Meshi, but fuck it, if Billy's allowed to ressurect Tommy by putting his soul into another kid's dead body, then theres gotta be at least one other person able to do necromancy, and why not do lesbianism. Alice is probably a little ooc but I did this in like an hour, cut me some slack.

Today, running the butcher’s was very slow, predictable for the sleepy little metropolitan area of Eastview and Westview. It was run of the mill and average, what everyone in the town basically forced it to be ever since the scarlet witch scared half the people within a three mile radius.

You were just finishing the last of closing procedures and headed into your apartment above the shop, making a quick dinner and settling in for a simple night watching tv when you could feel it. The moment Alice's life was snuffed out. No, more like drained out of her, in a drawn out action. She had told you she was just going to finish some family related business, that she'd be back before the night was over. She'd be back before you knew it. Kissed you on the cheek and everything like she did when she'd head off to work.

Before you had even really processed anything else, you were already setting up the ritual, drawing out a sigil with chalk, placing candles in the appropriate places, scouring your cabinets for all the assorted offerings needed.

You and Alice had met because you were outcast witches. She had distanced herself from the craft after the death of her mother. And you were known as the disgrace of all green witchcraft. You were an odd duo, but you were happy so long as you were together. She had asked you a few times how you had earned your title, and you always laughed it off.

She was going to finally learn why you were called that very quickly.

You were grateful for your day job as a butcher, as you used magic to carry large cuts of cow and lamb, bones and all from the commerical freezer to the living room. plopping them haphazardly onto the sigil. It wasn't her body, but it would do in a pinch. You would deal with any consequences later. You lit the candles and got onto your knees, placing your hands on the sigil as you began the incantation you had done at least a dozen times. Your voice almost seemed to echo through the room as forbidden magics are called upon.

In a basement a couple miles away, death reaches out for a soul, only to see her violently yanked away from her grasp, disappearing from sight.

You continue to shout as the meat and bone fuse together, almost melting as it reformed itself into a human shape, features slowly refining itself to resemble the soul now bound to it. The last touches are added as your girlfriend, albeit covered in blood and naked, now lies in the middle of the circle. You nearly collapse, but you stare anxiously, hoping, praying, that it worked.

Alice's eyes snap open as she bolts upright, gasping for air. You release a breath you didn't realize you were holding as the tears finally roll down your face and pull her into a tight hug.

“Alice! Alice, I thought I lost you, I..”

You continue to squeeze her, kissing various spots on her face, not caring about the copper taste of the blood. Alice seemed to be finally coming out of shellshock as her hands found their way to tangle in your hair. Her eyes met yours.

“Is… is this real? Am I really here?”

“Yes Alice, you’re really here, I promise. You're here. I'm here.”

Without much warning, you were pulled in for a deep kiss. If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought she hadn't seen you in months with how desperate it was. Your tongues danced with no clear rhythm as you tried to get enough of each other, only stopping when you both needed air. Alice let out a huffy laugh of disbelief.

“How did you… how did you even do this? I was dead. I saw death.”

You glance away, picking at some of the melted wax on one of the candles, suddenly conscious of what you had done, how much of an overreach it might have been.

“It's. A long story, trust me. I understand if you don't want to be around me anymore after this, I just-” Alice gently takes your hands in hers, rubbing circles with her thumbs.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. Look at me?” You meet her gaze once more, her warm eyes looking softly at you.

“It's okay. What happened was weird, yes. But I think quite literally breaking the laws of life and death is maybe the most romantic thing a girlfriend has done for me. Just don't make a habit of it, okay?” You can't help but laugh at that.

“Only if you don't make a habit of it. What even happened?” Alice paused at that.

“It’s also a long story. I’ll tell you after I get cleaned up. You should probably too, considering” she gestures to your now bloodsoaked clothes, and you nod.

“I’ll take care of the cleaning in here while you shower, and I'll meet you in the bedroom later after I get washed up. If you're still awake by then, we can exchange stories. Otherwise that can wait till morning. Alright?” She nods, placing one last kiss to your forehead before attempting to get up and then immediately falling over. You stand up, offering a hand to her.

“Need help?” She takes it, and you help pull her up, resulting in a much more successful attempt to stand than the last one.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one protecting you.” You can't help but giggle at the remark.

“Everyone needs help once and a while. The usual doting can wait for later.”

You walk with her to the bathroom to make sure she doesn't fall again before even making it to the tub, before heading back to dig through the supply closet. You pull out the cleaning supplies and head back to the living room area, and the now giant stain of blood and chalk on your floor. Necromancy is a bitch, but it's all worth it now that you have Alice back with you. Whatever happens next, the two of you can sort it out together.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 11

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or: A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

We're back bitches!

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

If Feyre was being forced to live with the High Lord, she could begrudge that at least her room was a dream.

After scouring it for every hidden sign of danger—learning every entrance, exit, and hiding place—she paused in the center to marvel at the room she'd be staying in for… eternity, quite possibly.

At least it was big. Her bed was enormous, laden with ivory pillows and blankets of such divine quality she thought if she buried herself in them, she might very well sleep for a century. It was framed by four posters, with a canopy draped above them she could pull for privacy. The size of the bed alone would be more living space than she'd been accustomed to while living in the tavern, but then there was the hearth with its surrounding fur rugs and settees and the connecting chamber to the bathing room, where everything was made of porcelain and marble and the bath was large enough for an entire family.

It was luxury to the highest degree. Befitting of an empress, not a prisoner—or "servant", if they wanted to dress up the reality of her bargain. But all of the silks and velvet and elegant golden trim couldn't disguise the markings on her arm, and what they signified.

You're mine now.

Feyre burned when she stared at those markings. Rhysand lied to her. Manipulated her for his own gain. She'd done the same to him, admittedly, so why did it sting so much that he returned the favor? And more importantly, what did he want from her badly enough to trap her in this bargain?

She paced the room endlessly trying to answer that question. Rhys didn't return to taunt her about it—he'd been more riled than she'd ever seen him, and she suspected he probably retreated to brood in some dark crevice. She imagined he'd spend the night ripping the wings off butterflies, or some equally vile pastime, and would return in the morning to further her torment.

But he left the room unlocked. She'd tested it the second he was gone. There was nothing preventing her from wandering the House of Wind to find where he was and demand answers. There also wasn't anything stopping her from trying another hand at the stairs—apart from the bargain that would force her to return at his beck and call.

Feyre considered trying, anyway, just to irritate him. But her aching body begged otherwise. She was too worn out to do much else than eat the meal that the twins delivered to her room at dusk, then crawl into the big, fluffy bed and sink into the pillows until she was ensconced in darkness.

-

The world was swirling again. Around and around and around, like she was back in the stairwell, climbing up or climbing down—it didn't matter because it would never end.

"Seriously?" Asked an indignant voice. "You threatened her sisters?"

"I—" A deep voice tumbled out, then paused. The swirling continued, red liquid in a glass, a cyclone of contemplation. "I fucked up."

Someone snorted out of a sight. A female. "Majorly."

"It was the only way I knew for certain she would agree."

"Well, congratulations. She agreed, and now she hates you."

"It's… It's better for her to be here and hate me then to be somewhere I can't reach her."

There was a moment of stretched silence. Then, "You sound like your Father."

The swirling stopped. The change in motion was so abrupt, the liquid collided against the edge of the glass, nearly spilling over.

"Don't say that to me, Mor."

"Then stop acting like him. And stop taking your anger out on Az, while you're at it."

She was answered by a dark, rumbling growl. Like a storm rolling over the sea. "He's the reason I'm in this mess. If he'd minded his business—"

"You'd be in exactly the same place you were two weeks ago."

The glass clattered as it was set against the table. Feyre stared and stared into its depths, as if willing some answer to float to the surface.

"How do I fix this?"

She felt a hand on her back, sucking her awareness into a body that was larger and firmer than her own. There was a heavy, unbearable tightness in her chest.

"You'll figure it out," the female said with a consoling pat. "You always do."

"Provided she doesn't kill me first."

Her laughter was light and tinkling. "I know where I'd place my money."

-

A knock at her door hurled Feyre awake the next morning.

It was her second time waking up in the House of Wind, and yet its unfamiliarity still startled her. She wondered why her bed was so soft, why fog was floating through the open doors to the balcony, and why any of her sisters would wake her up before dawn.

And then she remembered where she was, and who that voice belonged to, crooning on the other side of the door, "I hope you're indecent, Feyre darling."

"Go away," she grumbled.

Rhysand opened the door despite her protest. "Ah, there's that perky morning attitude I adore from you."

She groaned, refusing to lift her head from the pillow. "Why are you here so early, Rhysand?"

"Would you believe I missed you?"

"More like you got bored drafting all your evil plans and decided to put one of them into action."

Rhysand chuckled. "Close enough."

He came to her bedside, balancing a steaming cup that he held out to her in offer. Feyre was grateful she decided to wear one of the more modest nightgowns from the selection in her armoire.

"What's this?" she said, holding it to her nose to sniff.

Its scent was earthier than the tea he'd served her last night, though not unfamiliar.

"Contraceptive brew," he said, a little too casually. "You don't have to take it, of course. The chances are slim that anything took. And if it did… Well, you might be less trouble if you were off your feet for 10 months."

Feyre's finger tightened around the cup. The warmth scalded her fingers, but the sting distracted her from the impulse to fling the drink into his smug face. It would be a waste, considering she had no interest in bearing his children. She was already far too entangled with him for her liking.

An enthusiastic swallow would send along that message, she hoped. The heat seared her throat, too hot for drinking, but she didn't dare lower the cup. Not when she could see Rhysand in the corner of her eye, observing her closely, ensuring she drank the contraceptive despite his proclaimed indifference.

Once she finished, she dared to ask, "Is that why you spared me, then? At the risk I was carrying your next heir?"

Rhysand shook his head. Satisfied the brew was consumed, he stalked to her armoire on the far wall. "I never had any intention of killing you, Feyre." He flung the doors open, retrieving a pair of fighting leathers from the selection of well made clothes that were all suspiciously in her size. "Nor your sisters, though I trust you've already determined that much."

The leathers slapped against the foot of the bed as Rhys tossed them over his shoulder. The reminder of her sisters made her feel as though they slapped her face, instead.

"Am I supposed to forgive you because the threat was empty?" Feyre demanded. Her throat closed a bit as she croaked, "I don't know even know where they are. Or if they're safe."

He said, without turning to her, "I have my spymaster looking for them."

Feyre snapped her head up from the empty cup. "Really?" She caught herself in her excitement, reeling it in quickly as she rationalized that Rhysand would only be looking for Nesta and Elain if he decided he had use for them, after all. She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"So that you can know if they're safe," he said with a shrug. "They can live here, if you want. Or somewhere else. The point is, I'll take care of them until your debt is paid."

"Until you decide it's paid," she corrected, not caring that she sounded bitter. "And how do I know that this isn't another lie to manipulate me?"

"Fine," he breathed, his back still turned. "I dug that grave for myself. You'll just have to wait until my spymaster finds them, and then you can see what happens."

She faked another sip of the contraceptive brew to avoid responding. He glanced at her over his shoulder, and there was something so searching about his expression that set her nerves on edge. So different from the furious, snarling High Lord from the day before.

Desperate to evade the weight of that gaze, she took to studying the leathers at the foot of the bed. They were similar in style to the clothes he was wearing, though cut for a smaller, more feminine frame. She didn't want to venture the question of how he knew her size or when he'd had all the clothes in the armoire made—she dreaded thinking about how long he'd been planning all of this.

Instead, she said, "I assume you didn't just come here to deliver my morning tea."

"Deductive as always." He grinned as he fished out a pair of lacy undergarments, then flung those onto the bed, as well. "Today we're starting your training."

"Training for what?"

"Ah," he said, "If I told you now, there'd be no fun in it, would there?"

She sent him a withering glare. "How do you train if you don't even know what you're training for?"

"By trusting me," he answered. Feyre snorted, but he continued, "There are baseline skills that every person in my Court possess—knowledge, power, strength. If you're going to be living with us, it's important you have foundations of each."

"Why?"

"Because they'll keep you alive," he said, with a note of warning that prickled the hairs on her arms. She swore the shadow he cast on the floor doubled in size, as if consuming the light around it. "There are people who would seek to harm you purely out of your association to me, unwilling as it may be."

Feyre ground her teeth together, fighting the urge to scream. "Then why choose me?" She flung at him. "Why not choose someone more qualified, someone who actually wants to be here? There must be dozens of people in the city—"

"Maybe so." Darkness swirled over his shoulders, solidifying into a pair of large, sweeping wings. He stretched them slightly, and with it, she thought she could map the change in him—how the wings functioned as an anchor, calming something restless she couldn't see, but could feel gnarled deep in her chest, dissipating as he took a deep breath. "But you're the only one I trust."

"Trust?" Her laugh was a weak, hysterical gasp more than anything else. "After I stole from you? After you tricked me into this bargain? Tell me how we're ever supposed to trust each other, Rhysand."

He just looked at her in the way that she hated. Like his eyes were talons clawing straight through to the core of her, mental shields be damned. She was reminded of the moment when their magics combined, when she'd been able to see and sense and feel every fiber of his being perfectly entwined in hers.

It was the most vulnerable moment of her life, and she was willing to bet there were very few people he'd allowed into his mind that way.

Trust. That was what they'd granted each other, and the hours that followed were testament to how well that turned out.

If Rhys was thinking the same, he only gestured to the clothes, as composed as ever. "Start with getting dressed, Feyre. We'll go from there."

She glanced again at the leathers at the foot of the bed. She suspected they were Illyrian make. The scale-like plates of leather were of fine, hardy material, and the fleece lining looked designed to weather harsh conditions. These were clothes designed for warriors. She didn't have the slightest idea why she was meant to be wearing them.

"And which of those foundational skills, exactly, are we refining today?"

Rhys shut the wardrobe, a pair of boots dangling in one hand, her socks clutched in the other. When he turned to face her fully, she was able to fully appreciate the way he was dressed.

Before today, she'd only seen him in fine clothes, the kind befitting the grandeur of his title. The contrast of seeing him in fighting leathers was startling. They suited him better, somehow. As if the politics, the finery, was all a veneer to distract from the warrior beneath.

There was nothing distracting her from it now. Her mouth felt a bit dry as she examined the tight, dark leather sculpted to his legs. They revealed every inch of corded muscle gracing his calves and thighs—muscles that she recalled, with alarming clarity, were pressed between her legs not two days ago.

It was so tedious to hate him at the same time her body craved him. Even now, she could feel an ache of longing to peel those leathers off and admire his raw beauty.

Feyre took a deep breath, pulling her mind from the fog by trying to focus on other details. Like how, unlike her new leathers, his were worn. Scratches littered the leather plating over his chest, and the pieces of armor clipped to his shoulder and forearms were equally scarred.

He fought in the War, she recalled, thinking of the papers that hailed him a hero. Those tales were always reduced to triumphs of good against evil. The Prince of Night, vanquishing the enemies of Prythian with ease. The scars in his armor didn't necessarily contradict those tales—the gory details of battle weren't nearly as palatable to the public as heralds of victory and righteousness—but she wondered how much of it was embellished.

Curiosity nudged at her. She was filled with questions that she wouldn't dare voice. Not at the risk of sounding interested in his life. And not when he'd likely request something in exchange for the answers.

Still, when he flashed her an impish smile, she could see the glimpse of the cocky, fledgling Prince who'd fought in those battles. And she decided she'd like him better than the present day High Lord, who tossed her the boots and said,

"I figured if one of these days I finally make you snap, I should at least make sure you're throwing your punches right."

-

If Feyre thought it would be satisfying to practice throwing her fists at Rhysand, the novelty wore out by the time the sun was up.

Even with the brisk temperature from the altitude, she was covered in sweat. Her throat was ravaged and her breathing was too quick, not filling her lungs the way she craved. Worst of all, her arms were trembling so badly that her punches fizzled into light kitten taps.

Rhysand lowered the sparring pad. "I think it's time for a break."

She felt pathetic. They'd only been going for a few hours, walking through the basic steps of hand-to-hand combat, and Feyre was quickly realizing she was no where near as fit and coordinated as he was.

Her knees wobbled as she strode towards the stool where Rhys had summoned a pitcher of water.

"It will start feeling easier once you build up strength," Rhysand said, filling up a glass and handing it to her. "We'll keep practicing each morning, until you can go for an hour without breaking a sweat."

"Like you?" She said dryly. It gave her an excuse to run her eyes over his muscled form. She swore Rhys straightened under her appraisal.

"I've barely been moving," he pointed out. "It doesn't take much effort to hold up a sparing pad."

"It's not as fun, either," she said, only half joking. "You should put them down and let me practice on the real thing."

Rhys grinned at the challenge. "How about a little incentive, then?" Dread tightened her gut as he reached into his pocket, and she blew out a breath when all he retrieved was a crumpled note. "Remember this?"

She snatched it from his hand when he held it out to her, unfolding the paper to neatly scrawled words she couldn't begin to decipher. But she recognized the Night Court emblem stamped at the bottom of the page, and frowned.

"This is the letter you sent me." She looked up to him, a question in her gaze.

"You left it in my town house," he explained. "Do you want to know what it says?"

Feyre stared at him, waiting.

"Land a hit on me," he said, eyes glinting. "Then I'll tell you."

"Another bargain?"

"You know I can't resist."

"And if I don't hit you? What do you get?"

His eyes flickered to her mouth. She thought she knew what he would ask for when he licked his lips. But he surprised her by saying, "You'll let me teach you how to read."

A familiar sensation of inadequacy crept up her throat like bile. She crossed her arms, snapping, "Why does it matter if I can or can't read?"

"It may come in handy later on," he mused.

"It sounds like you're going to make me learn anyway, then."

"Not if you win."

Feyre scoffed. "An excuse to hit you and avoid reading? Count me in."

She gulped down the water, relishing in the sweet relief of the cold against her raw throat. Then she set down her empty glass and followed Rhys back into the center of the ring.

Just one hit. It didn't need to be hard, or good. She just needed to land it. Should be easy enough.

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets—the arrogant prick—and said nothing as Feyre readier her stance in front of him.

"Ready?" she asked.

He grinned. "Give me your worst, Feyre Archeron."

Without wasting a second, she jabbed her right fist forward, aiming for his chest. Her knuckles were met with open air as he swayed out of the way. She pivoted, trying for two this time—left, right. One-two, just like he'd been teaching her.

As before, Rhys swerved and weaved out of the way, his body moving as if it was fluid, all while keeping his hands in those damn pockets.

"You're keeping too much weight on your back foot," he said in her ear, gliding out of the way of yet another futile strike. He tapped his toe against her heel, urging, "Try to stay on your toes. It will allow you to shift and react faster. You're going to be smaller than most of your opponents, so you'll need to rely on your agility."

Feyre lifted her heels, adjusting her weight to the balls of her feet. She did notice the difference as she turned to strike at him, smoother this time, like a bolt of lightening.

But still not fast enough.

"Is that all you got?" He crooned. "I thought you were supposed to be angry with me."

"I am," she gritted.

"Then hit me, Feyre."

She snarled as she lunged her fist where his face had been only seconds prior. He appeared behind her, so close she could feel his laughter tickle her neck. She whirled to face him, but he was already gone.

"Winnowing is cheating."

"Is it?" He asked in her ear. "Funny how that's never been a problem for my brothers."

Brothers? She could guess who he was referring to, but she hadn't heard him use that word. Didn't realize that's what he considered them.

"Your brothers," she huffed between uneven breaths, "are trained warriors."

"So you're saying I should go easy on you? Your opponents wouldn't." Dodging another blow, he lunged forward and slipped a hand from his pocket to tap her in the center of the chest. "And you'd be dead."

She lashed at his hand, grunting in frustration when he danced out of reach.

"Who's trying to kill me in the first place?" she demanded.

"You tell me. There was someone trying to kill you when we first met."

"That's because I stole from him."

"Yes, it seems you have a habit of doing that." She swore the was warmth in his voice as he crooned, "Little thief."

Again, again, again she struck her fists into empty air until she wanted to scream.

"What do you want from me?"

He appeared right in front of her face, lips inches from her own. She could taste every word as he growled, "I want you to hit me Feyre."

By the time she was grappling for him, he'd already rippled and vanished into smoke. She never wished she could winnow as badly as she did in that moment, desperate to follow after him and tear her claws into his flesh.

Feyre swiveled in the center of the training ring, trying to anticipate where he would appear next, trying to guess his next move because if she waited to react she knew it was going to be too slow.

She could picture his smug, stupid face, laughing at her as he ran through pockets of shadow she couldn't discern. But she could feel him. Through the tether of their bargain, which felt stronger now that they were bound indefinitely.

If she cast her net across the chord connecting them, she could reach the antechamber of his mind. Feel it smooth and solid beneath her talons. She scraped a claw down its exterior, to say hello, to gauge where he was.

She could sense his intrigue when a small crack opened for her.

What tricks are you up to? He purred.

Feyre lunged. Not physically, but mentally, lashing her power down the line between them.

And yelped as he closed that small opening just in time for Feyre to slam hard against his inner shield. The reverberations echoed through her as surely as if she'd rammed head-first into a physical wall.

Nice try, he said, appearing on the other side of the ring, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Sloppy, but still an admirable attempt.

He didn't move as she strode towards him, not until the last second, angling his head to the side as if it took no effort to dodge her punches.

Feyre was so tired of him always having the upper hand. Always laughing at her.

She dropped her mental shields and thought of the one thing that might actually distract him—the fantasy of dropping to her knees and taking him into her mouth.

Rhys faltered, just for a second. It was all she needed to slam her fist into the center of his chest. The blow wasn't as hard as she would have liked—not nearly as hard as he deserved—but she was still flooded with satisfaction from the sight of him stumbling back a step, before vanishing.

Unconventional, he praised. But effective.

He was on the other side of the ring, now, and in their minds, that scene was still playing out. How she'd start at the tip of his cock, licking at the arousal beading there, before mouthing her way to the bottom of his shaft. She'd start with long, broad strokes of her tongue—the same way he'd licked her. And only once he was squirming, his fingers turning to fists in her hair, would she swallow him as deep as she could—

Feyre gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as pressure mounted there, like a string going taut. Only, it wasn't her chest. And it wasn't her hand. Just like in those strange, recurring dreams, she was peering out of a stranger's eyes.

And she was staring at herself.

Flush cheeked and narrow eyed, she saw her own face glaring back, as if looking in an inverted mirror. It was startling in a way she couldn't describe. There was her father's mouth, its bow shape tighter than usual, pulled back into snarl. And there were her mother's eyes, burning as bright and cold as the stars over Ramiel.

Look at you, Rhysand said. Fierce and wicked and beautiful. Do you see now why I can't resist you?

As quickly as it had happened, Feyre was slung back into her own body, her soul left trembling from the journey.

She watched Rhys lift his head from his chest to his forehead, rubbing as if he could feel the absence of her. "How did you you get past my shields?"

"That wasn't a trick?" She demanded.

"No."

A one word answer. Evidence that he was as stunned as she was for a change.

He angled his head to the side, like she was some curiosity he wanted to study. "Has that happened before?"

"No," she said, answering too quickly.

"It has, hasn't it?"

"Only in dreams—"

He looked to be putting something together. "Ah. I had my suspicions, but—"

The wings. The hands. The voice.

"It's you," she whispered, horrified by the revelation. "All this time, it's been…" she stumbled back, recalling the last few dreams she'd had of that stranger. Of course it was him. She should have put it together sooner.

But… she'd been having those dreams long before their first bargain.

"I forfeit," she said mechanically. "You win."

"Feyre," he said, gently, moving as if he might reach towards her.

But she was already fleeing towards the door. It didn't matter where she was going as long as it was somewhere he wasn't. Somewhere she could think.

- At some point, Feyre's aimless stalking through the House of Wind was thwarted by a bone deep exhaustion.

It started in her calves, still aching from the endless climbing she'd subjected them to yesterday. The longer she paced, the more the ache spread as her adrenaline faded and the training this morning finally caught up with her.

Her knuckles throbbed from the hours she spent hammering them against the training pads. She'd kept them locked into fists at her sides, but now they were growing stiff, and she was beginning to worry they'd be stuck in that position if she didn't release some of the tension in her body.

She retreated to her room, in the end. Rhys would find her no matter where she hid in the house, she reasoned. At least she could lick her wounds somewhere comfortable until he sought her out.

It didn't take very long. By the time she'd changed out of the stifling, sweaty leathers and shrugged on a pair of billowing high-waisted pants and a matching top of a soft, peachy color, a knock sounded at the door.

Feyre stole a moment to glance at her reflection, frowning at what she saw.

Out of all of them, Elain would look the least out of place in the High Lord's palace. She had an understated elegance that would thrive beneath all these silks and frills, and they always teased that she could marry a prince, if she'd liked.

As for Feyre, she thought she just looked like a feral street cat who'd been shoved into a fancy collar.

"Feyre?" Rhys called.

Her gaze snuck around the room, searching for somewhere to hide on instinct. There was no where to go. She did briefly consider the balcony—was there another ledge close by that she could jump to?

The thought was quickly dashed when she looked down at her hands, angry and swollen. She didn't trust she would have the strength to pull herself up and even if she did, it would only delay the inevitable.

Rhysand was a persistent son of a bitch.

"I don't want to talk about it," she called.

He seemed to accept that as an invitation to enter. She whirled, anxiety spiking at the sight of him, and she knew she looked like a cornered animal when she scowled in his direction.

Those violet eyes assessed her, sweeping from head to toe. He frowned when she backed up a step.

"How are you feeling after training?"

"Sore," she groused, raising her hands to her chest defensively.

A mistake. His gaze zeroed in on her puffy knuckles, and then he was in front of her, prying them from her protective stance. Or trying to—he let go when she hissed a sharp breath between her teeth. He assumed it was from pain, and they did sting, but it was the scent of him that panicked her. She struggled to think clearly when he was that close.

"I'm fine," she snapped, scuttling backward another step. "They'll be healed in a few hours."

He stared at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "Perhaps," he said blandly. "It's up to you."

Feyre's eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you mean it's up to me?"

"I came by to give you this," he said, producing a vial from his pocket.

She regarded it with the weariness anything that came from him was owed. "What is it?"

"A tincture," he supplied. "Illyrians take it during training to slow their healing. We need calluses to grow stronger. If those abrasion are healed good as new, then you'll just get them again tomorrow. This way, you can build up a tolerance."

Feyre blinked at him. She recalled the scrape of his calluses against her thighs—she'd been distracted at the time, but now it occurred to her how odd it was for High Fae to have anything other than smooth, flawless skin. Scarring tissue was typically only left from significant wounds, but a simple abrasion? They should be able to heal those in seconds.

"Illyrians take this?" She studied the black liquid, so unassuming in the glass vial and yet… an unnatural sense of wrong clawed at her gut the longer she stared at it. "But… what happens if someone gets seriously injured during training? They wouldn't be able to heal."

It sounded completely illogical to Feyre, but Rhysand only shrugged. "Most war camps have a healer to treat the worst of the injuries. But otherwise, it's incentive not to fuck up."

She shifted, agitated at just the thought. If she took the tincture, her knuckles would still hurt tomorrow, and it would be agony to go through the same drills again.

"I'm not an Illyrian," she said. "I don't need the calluses of a warrior. The only person I've ever wanted to punch is you."

"And you landed a pretty decent hit," he said, rubbing his chest, though she doubted he felt any pain there. "Left a few dozen scratches on my back, too, if you're taking stock of your inflicted injuries." He smirked. "Not many of my sparring partners can brag the same."

Feyre had only a vague memory of scrabbling her nails along his back during that night, but she didn't think he was lying. That made the humiliation worse. With an exasperated huff, she stalked away from him, heading toward the bathing chamber.

Her hand curled over the golden handle, but Rhys stretched his hand over her shoulder, sealing the door shut with the force of his outstretched palm. He was so gods-damned closed she could feel the heat emanating off him, trapping her between the door and his much larger body.

She refused to turn around, but that seemed to work just fine for Rhysand. He ducked his head lower, his breath tickling her ear.

"I won't force you to take it, Feyre. But it will help you get stronger."

Feyre ignored him, glaring at the hand he kept braced against the door. That stupid fucking hand, which she always saw in her dreams, clutched around drinking glasses and pushing dark hair out of his face.

Why was it him?

"I owe you something else," he said. She heard a crackling noise at her back, and then his other hand ventured into view, the tincture replaced with a worn letter. "A deal is a deal. Filthy tactics aside, you landed a hit on me."

"Why are you giving it to me?" She asked, refusing to take the letter. "I still can't read it."

"Just look at it, Feyre."

With an indignant huff, she snapped the letter from his grip and unfolded its familiar creases. As she did, she felt a talon scrape across her mental barrier. Reluctance sparred with her curiosity. Feyre didn't want him anywhere near her mind again, but she was dying to know what the damn thing said.

Against her better judgment, she created a small opening for him, and regretted it as soon as his triumph oozed through the gap.

Go on, he crooned, curling around her mind like a plump, satisfied house-cat.

Gritting her teeth, Feyre ran her eyes across the page and was met with the usual surge of frustration at all of those meaningless loops and curves. Until he tugged, like plucking a string, and the words began taking shape in her mind, reading out clearly in his voice:

Feyre Darling,

Imagine the scandalous letters we could exchange if only you allowed me to teach you how to read.

Hopefully this letter will tempt you. I know it will infuriate you not to know what I've written. I suspect you will be too proud, and too stubborn, to ask your sisters what it says.

Maybe you're worried I've written something inappropriate. After all, you wouldn't want your sisters to know just how desperate you were to feel my tongue between your legs, would you?

I trust you'll keep this to yourself, and it will drive you to such madness you'll either teach yourself how to read, or seek me out for explanation.

I'm not certain which would delight me more.

Yours everlasting,

Rhysand

"That's it?" she demanded, crumpling the note in her tender fists. "That's all it was? A taunt to lure me back to you?"

He was still standing behind her, but she could feel the smirk tugging across his lips, if the smug presence in her mind was any indication.

"It worked, didn't it?"

Feyre's cheeks burned. Once again, she was being played the fool. This wasn't a reward, it was a chance for further mockery. And it was stupid, so stupid, to let his games wound her, but in the back of her mind she could hear all those dreadful things they used to spit at her in the tavern.

Uneducated, ignorant, half-breed, whore.

She clenched her jaw, shoving him out of her mind as she stared hard at the wall, holding back the sting behind her eyes. She dug craters into her palm, sharp enough to draw blood, as fought not to lose composure in front of him.

In the corner of her eyes, she saw his body, still hunched around her, go stiff.

"Feyre…"

"What do you want with me, High Lord?" She didn't recognize that voice, so small, so nearing defeat. "What's the point in all of this?"

He didn't say anything for several heartbeats, but she could feel him watching her, keeping her caged against that door with nowhere to escape.

"Maybe that would be a better prize, then, hm?"

Feyre refused to bite. Whatever it was, he would only use it as another way to poke and prod at her. She was beginning to think that was all Rhysand was capable of doing.

"A goal," he continued. "A way out of the bargain. That's what you want?"

And that… that was probably the only thing he could have said to convince her to look in his direction. He grinned, playing the spider who just discovered a fly in its web. His eyes were distant, though.

"I was thinking about this tedious little debt you owe me, and how best I should use your services to have it repaid." He leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret with her. "As fate would have it, I've been invited to attend a card tournament with the other High Lords. The prize is a magical artifact I'd like to ensure the others won't get their hands on. If you help me win it, I'll release you from our bargain."

That's it? A card tournament?

She felt anticipation twitching in her fingertips. She didn't realize her freedom would be so attainable. It felt like a trick.

"The prize," she said, licking moisture back into her lips. "What is it?"

"All you need to know is that once you help me win, you and I can go our separate ways."

"What do you even need me for?" She knew she was putting her foot in her mouth, but couldn't resist asking. "You're a better daemati than me. It's not like I can do anything you can't already."

"The difference is, everyone there knows I'm a daemati. There will be precautions in place to keep my participation fair. But you're a rogue element. They'll be so focused guarding against me, they won't even think to protect themselves from you."

Feyre drummed her fingertips along the door at her back, thinking. "Okay," she said. "When's the tournament?"

Rhys drew up, and she hadn't realized how suffocated she'd felt until she swallowed that first gulp of cold air.

"In three months," he said, regarding her through his lower lashes. "Plenty of time for us to prepare. Which is fortunate, because I think your skills still require some… refinement."

Asshole.

"What, for cheating at cards?" She balked. "I can do that in my sleep."

"Oh? And do you know how to blend yourself into High Fae society? How to address the royalty of other courts? How to navigate the laws if you get caught?"

He already knew the answers, so Feyre crossed her arms and spared herself the embarrassment of responding.

Rhysand clicked his tongue. "This isn't going to be some meager gamble with a drunk, Feyre. We're going to be competing against the most powerful players in Prythian, and many of them will have trained to protect themselves against daemati. There will be severe consequences if you or I get caught. So we need to be clever and discrete. Understood?"

Oh, she understood perfectly.

"So I get to con a bunch of arrogant High Lords and I'll never have to see your face again?" His nostrils flared. If anything, that made her grin wider. "Count me in."

[icey--stars]

You Would Never Hurt Me (Pt. 3)

Azriel has a nightmare about his brothers and Eris has to help his mate without guilt tearing him apart. - 1.5k words.

Initial Request: 16. Nightmares

Ok so I've been scouring your master list and I want to preface this request by saying you can totally ignore it if you want, because I'm afraid it might be a little repetitive but the idea was too good not to share with you:

So I was re reading the fic "You could never hurt me" that was requested by someone else (I love you whoever you are anon) and it clicked. You know how in part 2 Eris is helping him deal with the injuries. How about Az has a nightmare about his childhood cell and how he was burned by his brother's. Eris wakes him up and lights a fire in his palm to light up the dark room. Because of the nightmare Az flinches slightly and Eris thinks it's because of him when really it was a nightmare about his brothers

How would they talk that out

(again I feel after 2 parts of the fic you might be tired of writing the same story again so I just thought I'd share in case you'd ever like to write it in the future)

-💔

A/N: yall, imma be real for one sec: every time you mention the anon who requested the “you would never hurt me” fic I am GIGGLING IN MY SEAT because I’m pretty sure ik who it is and the evidence is there publically 😂. anyway, i am SO sorry this took so long. finals decided to ACTUALLY kill me this semester. but regardless, i hope you enjoy!! I decidedly enjoyed my comfort a lot this time around, but the angst HURTTT to write. my poor azris brain needed them to hug.

TW: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE/VIOLENCE (Azriel's half-brothers are stinky)

{ original prompt list } - { ao3 link }

{ Part 1 } { Part 2 }

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

Azriel shivered as the cold of the cellar-made-prison made it into his skin. He’d just barely made it back from his hour with his mother. His hour in warm sunshine. And now? Now he was stuck back in the equivalent of hell. The shadows around him seemed to curl over his shoulders. There was one very dim light source from outside the prison door, but that was all. Azriel lived in the dark, so he’d made friends with it.

His wings ached behind him as he tried to lift them to set them against a more comfortable area of the cold rock.

Well… until he heard stomping coming down the stairs into the cellar. “Oh Azzie~” One of his half-brothers purred. Onyx.

He flinched at the voice as the second one continued, “We have something for you!” Calix.

His two half-brothers came through the door, smirks on their faces. They had a  few things in their hands: rope, a container of something, and a flint & steel. “We have something for you,” Onyx repeated with a smirk, his wings mantled behind him in clear confidence. “Won’t you help us?”

Azriel eyed them hesitantly.

“Out,” Calix growled, grabbing the scrap of clothing he had on to drag him to the center of the room.

Azriel yelped and he landed harshly on his knees, reopening the wounds they’d caused last time they came down here to “give him something.” He could already feel the warm blood seeping through his tattered clothing again.

“Hands out,” Onyx purred.

Azriel flinched as Calix shoved his head to the side, but obeyed hesitantly. If he didn’t, they would grab his “father” and Azriel spoke from experience when he said that was not a good idea. He had so many scars already. Not like anyone saw them though since he was always in the dark.

The rope was wrapped around his wrists and Calix kept him sitting upright. Onyx hummed, grinning evilly.

“What- what are you going to do?” He asked hesitantly.

“Well…” Onyx mused. “I think we’re entitled to know how slowly we heal from burns since the Autumn Court is becoming more unruly. I think it’s only right that we know, after all. Don’t you agree, Azzie?”

Shit, he swore silently. “No… no, you can’t!” He protested. Onyx only laughed as he tried to struggle against Calix who was much too strong to break away from.

The container they brought was opened and he soon discovered it was oil. They poured it over his hands.

“Don’t worry. It’ll only be your hands,” Onyx said. “And don’t fucking scream.”

Onyx picked up the flint & steel and his eyes went wide in realization. Far too slowly.

The flame was set alight and he began screaming at the pain.

–––––

“Azriel!” A voice shouted as he awoke with a start. He rolled out of bed, wings flaring behind him. Where was he? His hands hurt. Didn’t that already happen though? Or were his half-brothers back and he never truly escaped them?

“Azriel,” The voice repeated and he finally turned to see who was making it. Eris.

He took a breath at last, clenching his hands as much as he could as he panted for breath.

Eris lit a flame in his hand and Azriel flinched hard, practically falling over again.

Eris’s eyes went wide and he doused the fire, instead using his magic to light the faelights.

“Az,” he breathed, worry on his face.

“Eris,” He whined, pulling his wings tight and putting his hands into his armpits in a vain attempt at easing whatever pain they were in. He thought he was healed. Wasn’t he? Or was it just residue pain from the nightmare?

Eris slowly got off the bed on the other side, coming around hesitantly. Even his mate was panting.

But Azriel needed something to ground him. He moved forward quickly and even if Eris took a step back, he wrapped his arms around his mate quickly, trying to reorient his mind.

“Az,” Eris whispered quietly, and hesitantly wrapped Azriel in his arms. His voice was shaky, but he commanded gently, “Breathe for me.”

Azriel tried and failed, practically collapsing. Eris gently moved them both to the bed, holding Azriel tightly while Azriel practically clung.

“In with me, Az. Come on,” Eris directed, taking a deep breath in. Azriel forced his body to obey, eyes screwed shut as a few tears slipped out. Why did his hands hurt?

“Hold it, baby,” Eris whispered. “And out slowly. You’re here, Az. In the Auutmn Court in our bedroom.”

Azriel struggled to breathe for a good fifteen minutes or so more before he finally just found himself slumping against Eris in relief once he felt as if he was back in control. His hands didn’t ache anymore at least.

“It was my half-brothers,” He murmured raggedly.

Eris didn’t say anything for a moment. “Are you okay now?” He asked quietly.

“More or less,” Azriel mumbled. “Sorry for scaring you.”

“You didn’t,” Eris murmured. “I thought I did with my fire.”

Azriel shrugged. “It’s not your fault,” He finally settled on and nuzzled closer. “I’d prefer you and your fire over you not being here.”

Eris hummed. “Are you sure none of it was about me… burning you?”

“Eris, I told you,” Azriel said, huffing slightly as he sat up. “I don’t blame you. You never meant to hurt me. You would never hurt me. My half-brothers on the other hand?” He chuckled, rolling his eyes slightly. “They’d have preferred me dead.”

Eris clutched him tighter at that, a small growl coming out. “I would happily hunt them down,” Eris growled.

Azriel chuckled slightly, holding his mate as well. His hands pulsed once and he huffed. “My hands are tight again,” he mumbled in annoyance.

Eris pulled back, clearly unimpressed that it wasn’t the first thing Azriel considered important to tell him. “Let me get the lotion,” He said.

“No. I don’t you to get up. Use your magic,” Azriel mumbled. His shadows came curling around his arms, wrapping around his hands again, providing a cool sensation that eased something tight in his chest.

Eris chuckled. “Let’s reposition first,” he mumbled. “I’ll still hold you close,” the male promised.

Azriel huffed, but got up hesitantly. Eris moved to the back of the bed, sitting up against the pillows. Eris then directed him to lay down with his wings sprawled out to either side of Eris. Eris was peaking over his shoulder and summoned the lotion with a brief flash of flame. Azriel didn’t flinch this time, but he could feel Eris holding him tighter anyway.

“Give me your hands,” Eris directed once he had the lotion in his hands.

Azriel sighed and obeyed, forcing himself to relax against his mate as Eris went through the familiar movements of forcing the muscles in his hands to relax and using the lotion to help the skin loosen. He’d never regain full function, but he had regained enough.

Azriel closed his eyes, humming contentedly as Eris concluded the lotion. “Better?” His mate rumbled.

He nodded. “Better,” He agreed. “They don’t hurt anymore,” he said as he flexed his hands slightly.

“Good,” Eris said, smiling softly. Then his mate went oddly quiet and tensed a little.

Azriel sighed and turned around in his mate’s grip so he was laying on his stomach. “You’re thinking too hard,” he mumbled tiredly. “Stop it.” He poked Eris in his stomach.

His mate scoffed, chuckling softly. “I’m alright, Az.”

“No, I know by now how to identify your sad puppy look,” Azriel mumbled, muffled slightly as he pressed his face into his mate’s chest, seeking the warmth, comfort and grounding it provided.

Eris scoffed. “My sad puppy look?” He repeated incredulously. “What look is that?”

“You look all mopey like Rue when you tell him off for being a nutcase,” Azriel explained, yawning right after.

Eris chuckled. “I can assure you I look nothing like Rue after he decides the farmer’s chicken coop is his house now.”

Azriel chuckled at the memory. “Why do you have the sad puppy look then?” He insisted with a chuckle.

Eris sighed. “You flinched when I tried to light up the room.”

“I’m alright, Eris,” Azriel murmured. “That flinch wasn’t your fault.”

“There’s a reason those memories are being brought up,” Eris insisted.

“I don’t blame you, fireheart. Now stop being all guilty over something you were literally mind-controlled over. It is not your fault,” Azriel insisted, lifting his head enough to meet his mate’s eyes and show his sternness in the order.

Eris sighed and leaned forward to kiss him softly. “Okay,” Eris murmured. “I’ll try.”

Azriel grinned stupidly. “I am not going back to sleep, but you are now my warmer for the rest of the night,” the Illyrian declared.

Eris chuckled softly, running a hand through Azriel’s hair. “I wouldn’t expect anything different, love,” He replied.

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

no, icey did not edit this. do they care? not really. hope you enjoyed!

Tagged in all ACOTAR Stories: @bunnymallowo, @officiallyunofficialperson, @margssstuff, @rebloggiest-reblogger, @inpraizeof, @graciereads, @eos-princess, @bubybubsters, @fieldofdaisiies, @skyesayshi, @lilah-asteria,

Tagged in all Azriel Stories: @ladylokilaufeyson5, @marina468,

@irithiadourden , @starlightandsouls :)

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 18 - Revenge

CONTINUE TO DAY 10 go read that one first if you haven’t <3

sorry it’s late again, I was lovingly kidnapped yesterday and too busy after I got back. These might just all be a day late now I don’t even know 😬 we’ll see. Also thank you to everyone who’s been reading these!! I really REALLY appreciate you guys <3 thank you so much!

Warnings: blood, violence, grief, brief mention of a dead body

ao3 link

Day 10

NEXT (day 26)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hyrule has been gone for over a week, and nobody knows why.

He just... disappeared. Gone out to grab some firewood, and then never came back.

Nobody was too worried at first, thinking of Hyrule’s propensity of getting lost, but as the hours, and then days, had worn on, nobody was cracking jokes anymore. Their search became frantic, and they’d combed the forest they were camped in, every bush and tree scoured. Twilight had even followed Hyrule’s scent as a wolf, but his trail had abruptly stopped, leaving no trace of the traveler.

There was no sign of him anywhere.

Something had happened to him, that much was plain to see. And they all knew the odds of it being something bad were high.

Hyrule wasn’t a loud presence in their group, but his absence was strange, and tensions grow the longer they go without any clues to where their traveler has disappeared to. Anxiety and worry color every conversation, heavy looks exchanged, and theories of good things that might have happened to Hyrule get passed around with shaky voices and glassy eyes.

And Legend stays silent through it all, a feeling deep in his gut that something was very, very wrong.

Heroes don’t just disappear.

They don’t stumble upon a portal until a full week after they last see Hyrule, and Legend isn’t the only one who stiffens at the sight. Nobody speaks, and hands remain near their weapons as they file through, faces lined with worry. Legend is the first to go, Wild right behind him, brows determined but hopeful.

Legend’s heart thuds in his ears as he enters the magic, hope and fear warring in his chest. The dark magic ripples like a syrupy soup as they step through, thick and disgusting, but Legend brushes it off, and emerges without issue.

And stares.

The others do the same, coming out from the portal, then stopping in their tracks, staring at what Legend saw with just as much dismay as him.

The sky is red.

They all stare up at it, eyes transfixed on the crimson sky, dark wisps of clouds curling in thin tendrils. All of them shift into defensive stances, breath catching, eyes wide, memories flickering in gazes.

Legend stares up at the sky, frozen as he takes in the deep, blood-red color, and has a horrible, awful, heartbreaking thought.

The blood drains from his face as he tears his gaze away from the sky and looks around the land they’re in, struggling but hardy plants, wild woods and tangled thickets, a castle standing proud in the distance. A particular flower catches his sight, an herb their missing member often keeps on him, and it hits Legend like a lynel’s hoof to the ribs.

This is Hyrule’s time.

And Legend can only think of one reason why it would look like this.

“No,” Wild whispers, obviously coming to the same conclusion as Legend. “No, he... no.”

“No what?” Wind asks, his expression worried and concerned at the devastation on Wild’s face. Not all of them know about Hyrule’s blood curse, but those of them that do soon remember it, and their expressions turn horrified as well as Wild sinks to his knees. “Guys, you’re scaring me, what does it mean?” Wind asks again in a panicked voice.

“It means Ganon is back,” Legend somehow manages to whisper. “And Hyrule...”

“He’s dead,” Wild chokes out.

“What?!”

Time quickly explains Hyrule’s blood curse to those unaware, which Legend is grateful for. He doesn’t think he could handle telling the story right now. Not with the pressure building behind his eyes, the denial, the first few sharp pricks of grief like freezing rain on his soul, the anger...

Legend latches onto the emotion, knowing it’ll serve him well in the upcoming days. Anger is what he needs right now. Not anything else.

He looks back up at the crimson sky and around at the forest, proof of Hyrule’s blood being spilled soaked into the very land itself, and feels his stomach harshly lurch. Everything around them already looks wilted and sucked of life, grass crackling under their feet, all because Hyrule is dead.

Dead.

Hyrule is dead.

Legend’s anger falters, an icy wave of grief shooting through his chest. He’ll never share a stupid joke with the traveler again, chastise him and Wild for running off to explore. Never insist Hyrule isn’t taller than him despite what the others say, never argue with him about magic, never hear his laughter that has an extra chime to it after he makes an awful pun.

Never tell him how proud he is to have a successor like him.

Kind, sassy, humble Hyrule.

Dead.

Legend can’t even remember what the last thing he said to him was.

“Oh Hyrule,” Sky whispers as Time finishes the explanation, still staring up at the crimson sky. His voice is nothing short of horrified, and Legend curls his hands into fists as he looks up, forcing back the sting in his eyes.

“Is he really dead?” Wind asks in a small voice. He looks at Legend, and Legend looks away.

“He might not be... right?” Four says hesitantly. “You just said his blood needed to be spilled to bring Ganon back. Isn’t it possible the ritual didn’t need all his blood?”

“And then what, you think Ganon would just leave him alive?” Legend snaps, and Four purses his lips.

“I only meant it’s possible,” he says quietly, his face pale, and Legend turns away. He doesn’t want to see the emotion on everyone’s faces, listen to anyone try not to cry. He can’t. He needs to focus.

Legend sharply inhales, and looks down at the castle in the distance instead, flags and banners noticeably absent from the walls. There’s smoke drifting in the air, signs of a battle at some point. Ganon must already be down there, probably captured both the princesses, probably told them of how he murdered—

Legend’s nails leave red crescent-shaped marks on his palms.

Ganon.

That vile pig.

A few of them had been quietly talking, but soon a horrible silence falls over them, heavy with shock and grief and...

Rage.

Legend wouldn’t say that they’re an angry bunch, but something hits them all then, a deep, righteous fury. That one of their own is dead, pulled away from them without any hope of helping him, that their greatest enemy used him to come back.

That they never got to say goodbye.

Legend unsheathes his sword without thinking, clutching the handle so tight it’ll leave dents on his palms.

“I’m not letting that filth roam free,” he whispers, and doesn’t even care how violent he sounds. “I’ve killed him thrice and I’ll do it again.”

“I’m with you,” Wild says, eyes blazing, his bow already out.

“We’ll take him down,” Warriors agrees in a voice like ice, eyes sharp and grieved.

Time closes his eye. “We’ll do what Hyrule could not.”

The sounds of the others drawing their swords rings out, and they stand in a circle, a noticeable gap in their ranks. Wind is the one who raises his blade forward, and the rest touch the tips together, bowing their heads in a quick mark of grief for their fallen brother.

“For Hyrule,” Twilight says in a voice both grieved and enraged.

Legend closes his eyes, hating the tears that escape.

“For Link.”

(...)

They hit the castle like a hurricane, striking fast and decisive.

There’s tons of monsters around, but they go in with everything they’ve got, only holding back in preparation for fighting Ganon himself. Their stock of equipment and healing supplies is remarkably full for once, and so nobody hesitates as they rush in a side door and storm the halls leading to the throne room.

There’s signs that there was a fight in the castle before now, but they see nothing alive except monsters. It worries Legend, but a part of him hopes that maybe the majority of the civilians got out before the worst of things, or are hiding somewhere safe.

His cynical side snorts at that, but he hopes anyway.

Vengeance speeds their blades, and they draw nearer and nearer to their goal. They’ve never been here before, but Hyrule had told Legend about it, eyes bright and smile wide as he talked about how his land was healing, the castle fixed up, what the princesses were like. Legend knows he’d hate what it looks like now, curtains and tapestries torn, plants dying, walls broken, bodies and blood strewn across the floor.

A vibrant, gory picture of what he failed to protect.

Oh Hyrule, Legend grieves, nearly wailing as he catches the dead eyes of a soldier slumped against the wall. I hope it was fast. I hope you didn’t see this.

We’ll fix it. I swear.

A smell in the air gradually strengthens as they near the throne room, a metallic, heady one. It reeks of blood, but the intensity of the scent doesn’t match the amount of crimson on the ground. Legend would maybe be concerned, but he’s stuck firmly in a cloud of grief and rage, and the fact that he notices at all is surprising in and of itself. The more squeamish Links look a little pale the stronger it gets, but it doesn’t quash their determination a bit.

And soon the doors of the throne room loom ahead of them, elegant wood looking nothing but foreboding in the red light from outside.

The heroes pause for just a moment, healing injuries that need it, taking stock of gear, going quickly over the plan of attack. Legend already has it memorized, and his very bones seethe with impatience despite how fast they got here, knowing the single being he absolutely, truly, hates is right behind the door.

His murderer is right there.

But the others finish quickly, and Twilight gives his shoulder a single squeeze. His expression is full of a lot of things that Legend knows will make him either cry or scream if he studies them too hard, so all he does is nod in return.

And finally they all face the door, grieving, fierce, and determined to take their enemy down.

They burst inside, and see him.

He isn’t as big as he is sometimes, probably only about half again as tall as Time. There’s red lines painted all over his skin and into his fur, stripes and symbols rather striking against the bluish color of his skin. They’re on his arms and chest, cheeks and forehead, though the biggest is a single blood-red handprint, right over whatever shriveled husk must be left of his heart.

He watches silently as the heroes run in, weapons unsheathed and ready to attack him, and looks only vaguely amused.

“Ganon,” Wind spits, eyes grieved and furious.

The monster smirks. “In the flesh.”

Legend startles a little, not having expected him to speak. But he supposes it makes sense. Hyrule fought a mindless beast, but his blood resurrected something more.

Ganon takes a long draught of the wine in his glass as the heroes point their blades, holding it with his long claws in a surprisingly delicate manner. He licks his lips as he lowers it, revealing fangs stained red, and Legend realizes with a sickening lurch that it wasn’t wine that he was drinking at all.

Someone gags behind him.

“Don’t look so surprised. The little hero’s blood is quite the energizer,” Ganon says with his smile growing, picking up on their horror. “Freshens one right up. Tastes better straight from the source, but it’s not bad a bit stale. And this castle has some very nice goblets.”

“You—” Twilight spits, a fury in his eyes Legend’s only seen maybe twice. “You vile—”

“Yes yes, I’ve heard it all,” Ganon says with a yawn, almost lazily picking up a huge trident by his throne. “You hate me, I hate you. Let’s skip the theatrics, shall we?”

“Bold words from the monster drinking blood from a wine glass,” Legend scoffs. Then he almost throws up as it hits him again that Ganon is drinking Hyrule’s blood.

Oh goddesses let it have been a quick death.

Ganon snorts, twirling his weapon. “Hero of Legend. You haven’t changed a bit.” His eyes narrow, and an enraged sneer alights on his face as his eyes lock with Legend’s. “You’ll find that I have though. And I can’t wait to add you to the list of heroes I’ve crushed. Would you like to know how it happened to your friend? How he sobbed at my feet, groveled, begged me to let him—”

“Liar!” Wild snarls, and looses an arrow straight at Ganon’s snout.

The monster simply moves his head right before it would have hit him, the arrow sinking into the wood of the throne with a loud thunk. Ganon laughs, a familiar booming sound that has nearly all of them freeze, and stands up, his face gleeful and enraged.

“He was a pitiful insect, unable to stand against my power. Weak. What a glorious legacy you’ve left, Hero of Legend.”

Then he rushes forward and strikes.

Legend leaps out of the way of the trident, prongs leaving marks in the floor mere inches away from him. The others scatter as Ganon laughs, and they try to put their strategy into effect.

Wild and Twilight harry Ganon with arrows from a distance, trying to hit something vulnerable like an eye. Four and Wind go for the legs and tail, while Warriors, Sky and Time do their best to deflect weapons and also hit his torso. Legend moves around to anywhere he’s needed, and as he strikes where he can, he keeps a sharp eye out for a weak spot. Ganon must have one.

And yet, no matter how hard Legend and all of them look, Ganon doesn’t show any signs of a weakness.

He’s fast on his hooves and dodges most of Wild and Twilight’s arrows. Something about his skin and fur is thick enough that any blows they land barely do a thing, and every attack he hits them with brims with power. He blasts magic at them that singes hair and very nearly takes Four’s head off at one point, and can even turn himself invisible for a few terrifying seconds, making him impossible to hit.

This Ganon is worse than any Legend has fought, which is saying something.

It’s Hyrule’s blood, he realizes grimly, narrowly dodging a strike to his chest. It must be. Almost all of us have beaten him on our own, and yet eight of us are struggling to land so much as a scratch.

They’re all accruing injuries too small to use a potion on, but draining nonetheless. Legend is bleeding from a scrape on his cheek, and his arm aches from how many times he’s had to shield against an attack.

The blunt end of the trident catches Time in the side, launching him sideways with a sickening crack. He’s back up in a few moments, face pale as he wipes potion from his lips, but they can’t keep taking hits like this.

Legend’s mind is whirling with plans, what items he could use, what needs to be done. The only thing that even remotely phases Ganon is the Master Sword, but he’s been exceptionally good at avoiding it so far.

Legend’s thoughts are going so fast he almost misses it when it begins, a tickle in his head, a featherlight touch of magic. It grows to a whisper, distracting him from the fight, but as Legend’s hair raises on the back of his neck, the strange feeling grows louder, forming abruptly into words that he can actually understand.

“...please hear me please hear me please he— AURORA I BROKE THROUGH IT WORKED!”

Legend jumps at the shout, and a few others flinch as well, Sky and Four looking around in confusion, Wild’s eyes gone wide. The others don’t react, but Legend isn’t focused on them.

He’s too busy finding that little spot in his head, the only place he ever hears a voice beside his own.

Legend hurriedly falls back to a safe distance from the fight, and focuses on the voice he’d heard, trying to connect to it and respond despite the way Ganon follows him.

...Princess? he thinks hesitantly, forcing the word out as far as it’ll go. Or, princesses? Is that you?

“Oh we really did reach them!” the voice exclaims again, tears in the words. “Oh thank the goddesses. Yes, it’s us, we’re in the uppermost tower, Ganon has magic trapping us here.”

“And you’re okay?” Legend asks out loud, dodging an attack. Ganon follows him, eyes narrowed like he knows what he’s doing.

“Yes, Yes we’re fine, but listen hero of Legend!” Zelda’s voice says frantically, her voice shaky but determined. “Link is alive!”

Legend freezes, heart pounding.

Wild almost falls off his perch nearby, and Sky and Four stop dead in their tracks.

“You’re sure?” he chokes out, and Wind nearby looks at him like he’s insane.

“As sure as I can be. We don’t know where, but he’s in the castle somewhere,” Zelda’s voice promises, still shaking. “I... I would feel it if he were dead. Ganon is drawing on him for power, you need to find him and break their connection.”

Legend almost falls over at the rush of emotion, and his instincts are the only thing that save him from being skewered by a thrust from Ganon’s spear.

Hyrule is alive, he’s strengthening Ganon against his will, he’s alive—

He whirls on the beast, fury and hope clouding his vision.

“Where is he?!” Legend howls, lunging at Ganon with his blade, Ganon barely deflecting the strike.

Emotion roars through him as he attacks, hacking and slicing and fighting furiously as he tries to land an hit on the beast. Ganon still avoids his attacks, and starts laughing, not answering his question in the least.

Legend is so blinded by fury that he misses Ganon charge a magic attack, and the blast hits him square in the shoulder. He goes flying backwards with a shout and sear of pain, and his world blacks out for a moment when he hits the ground.

He comes back to Warriors pressing something to his lips, and Legend swallows the half a potion with a pained groan, hurriedly sitting back up when he remembers what’s happening.

“Legend what are you doing?” Warriors asks when he tries to launch himself at Ganon again, grabbing his shoulder and giving him a concerned look. “What’s going on?”

“He’s alive, the princesses reached out, he’s here somewhere,” Legend snarls, and tears his shoulder out of Warriors’ grip. “That pig knows where he is!”

“Legend, slow down, explain,” Warriors demands, and drags him far enough away from the battle that hopefully they can actually exchange a few words.

Legend growls and explains as fast as possible, trying not to listen to Ganon’s laughter and the cries of the others as they struggle against him. Warriors’ face lightens with hope as he hears the princesses’ message, and Legend can see the gears turning in his head.

“We’ll have to split up,” he says finally, wincing at the thought.

“I’m going,” Legend says firmly.

Warriors nods. “I’ll go with you, and Wild can be our backup,” he says, looking quickly out at the battle. “This way we have fighters and someone to carry Hyrule as well. The others should be able to handle things here while we’re gone.”

“Sky and Four heard too, they’ll pass it on,” Legend says, catching Sky’s eyes across the room. The Skyloftian nods, face determined and furious, and Legend and Warriors rush across the room, looking for Wild.

“Hero of Legend,” a slightly different voice calls suddenly, the voice of the other Zelda. “Link is difficult to pinpoint, but we think he’s in the dungeons somewhere. Neither of us can reach out to him, you’ll need to free him and break Ganon’s hold, or else Ganon will remain undefeated.”

“Thank you. We’re going right now,” Legend chokes out, his eyes stinging again. He hurriedly wipes them on his sleeve and keeps going.

They finally reach Wild, the champion still shooting arrows, two and three at a time. He immediately turns to look at them, his cheeks damp and expression fierce.

“You heard?” Warriors asks quickly, and Wild nods, his eyes red.

“He’s alive. And we’re getting him out,” he hisses, shooting one last hail of arrows at Ganon’s face. “Let’s go.”

The three of them rush for the door, and Ganon howls, throwing magic at their backs. Time leaps forward and deflects the blast with his sword, knocking it back at Ganon, who knocks it back at Time.

“Four told us, go find him!” he shouts, the magic exploding onto the wall.

The three of them nod and they bolt, rushing out the door with Ganon’s roar shaking the walls behind them.

We’re coming Hyrule, hold on, please.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

ೇ save a horse, ride a cowboy ― daryl dixon .ᐟ

pairing .ᐟ daryl dixon x plus size!reader

era | season 4/pre-Governor

summary | while out on a run, you find a cowboy hat, and what was once light-hearted teasing had actually woken up something inside of you, because he just looked too damn good.

warnings | daryl in a cowboy hat (duh), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), cumming inside, oral (d. receiving), blowjobs, come eating, riding, biting (mentioned literally once), marking, established relationship, kissing, praise, dirty talk (mostly daryl's dirty mouth 'cause yes).

wordcount | 1841

۶ৎ a/n .ᐟ | uhhh it's the way this almost turned into a 2k one shot of just straight up porn?? like i shit you not i one hundred percent think i lost my self-control while writing this, but oh well, i enjoyed it and i hope you guys do too! thank you all for the mass influx of support over the last few days, it never fails to blow my mind every time. i love you all!

— links .ᐟ masterlist | ao3

You swear your intentions were pure at first; it was just you trying to shoot the shit with Daryl and a cowboy hat, but you hadn't expected him to look so… natural with it on.

Walking around the shopping mall you, Glenn, Daryl, and Maggie were scouring through, you had come across a plain black cowboy hat lying on the floor alone.

It appeared to be relatively spotless besides a little dirt and dust on it. You bent over and picked it up, your hand patting away the grime as you examined it.

You couldn't help the shit eating grin that split on your face, your eyes flaring mischievously as you made your way back to your poor unsuspecting boyfriend who was searching through the camping department. 

Sneaking up behind him, you quickly placed the hat on his head, eliciting a surprised grunt from the man in front of you. 

"There," You said with your hands placed on your hips. "Now you're a real cowboy." He turned around to look at you with a glare. "Ain' no cowboy." He grumbled, and your breath caught at the sight of him.

Every witty comeback you had been curating in your mind had suddenly died in your throat along with your ability to speak. "Wha'?" Daryl asked at your sudden silence. You swallowed nervously, "You look great, real sexy." 

“Shuddup.” He scoffed, taking the hat off and placing it on your head so that it slightly obstructed your vision. He continued further into the department.  “I’m serious!” You called out with a laugh as you chased after him. 

“Wild west movies used to really get me going, you know!” 

He didn’t see you shove the thing into your bag, or the fact that you were biting back a smirk the whole ride back to the prison. 

You hadn’t forgotten about the way he looked in it, nor the fact that everytime you passed by your bag, the hat felt like it was going to burn a hole right through the floor. You were waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring up its potential use in the bedroom until one fell into your lap - more like his.

You were sitting on his lap as he had his back pressed against the prison wall, his lower half resting on the two mattresses the both of you had pushed together to make a makeshift double bed.

His fingers dug into the skin of your hips, your hands tightly clasping his cheeks, holding his lips onto yours as you made out fervently. Your body was slightly raised above his when you remembered the cowboy hat. You pushed a finger in between your mouths as you separated with a smirk.

“Wait.” You breathed. “You okay?” He asked in concern, searching your face and eyes for any sight of discomfort. “I got something I wanna try, if that’s fine with you.” You nodded gently. “Wha’ is it?” Your smirk formed into a wide smile at his question.

He watched you with a mix of curiosity and anticipation as you leaned over and unzipped your backpack, his palms that rested on your hips continued to keep a firm grip on you as reached for what you were looking for. His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when they caught sight of the brim of that stupid cowboy hat.

“The hell?” He couldn’t help but say. It wasn’t full of disgust, but rather surprise. You laughed, “I may or may not have brought it back home with the intention of asking you to wear it while we have sex.” The sides of his lips quirk as he takes the hat from your hands. “I guess ya really were serious about wild wes’ movies gettin’ ya goin’.” But nonetheless, he puts it on, and you bite your lip. 

“Like I said, you’re the sexiest cowboy I’ve ever seen.”

He tilts his head up as your lips lock in an amorous embrace, and you grind your hips down on his hard-on. He groans against your lips, gripping and pressing your body down to receive maximum pressure from your cloth covered cunt.

Your kisses trailed down his neck, nibbling on his scruff and unbuttoning his sleeveless shirt to push off of his shoulders, which he helped you do. Your greedy hands trailed through the patch of hair on his chest, following the hair down to where it disappeared into his jeans. You unbutton them, moving your butt down a little bit so that you could take him out of his underwear.

He hissed in pleasure as you pressed down on his leaky tip, rubbing his precum around before you bent forward, adjusting your body so that your ass was raised and arched, licking a stripe from the vein on the underside of his cock to the tip, twirling your tongue around it.

“Shit!” He let out a raspy whimper, burying his thick fingers gently gripping onto the roots of your hair.

The pressure on your scalp was welcomed as you took him further down your throat, swallowing around him and fondling his balls with your free hand. Daryl desperately tried to keep himself quiet, seeing as though the walls of the prison weren’t thick, and anyone could hear him, and that was something that he didn’t think he would be able to live down.

He could feel himself nearing his climax with every suck of your devilish mouth, and he knew that you could feel him too. You peered up at him through your eyelashes, watching his shirtless chest rise and fall heavily, he looked dark as he practically gazed into your soul, the cowboy hat adding a shadow over his features that turned you on beyond comprehension.

You pressed your thighs together to desperately relieve the growing tension between your legs, and when the fat of them put pressure against your clit, you whined, the noise shooting up your boyfriend’s spine.

“Fuck, sweetheart. ‘M gunna cum.” He warned, his back arching and hips chasing your warm mouth. You only pulled off to say, “Down my throat.” Your words were heavy and breathy, but you didn’t care, taking him back into your throat and stroking what you couldn’t swallow. He gulped, allowing his head to lean back on the concrete cell wall, biting on his bottom lip so hard in an attempt to stay silent that he could’ve sworn he tasted the metallic tang of blood.

“Yeah?” He asked with a breathless groan. “‘Wan’ me to paint that pretty little mouth of yours white?” You whined at his dirty words, and he felt your noises burn through his veins like fire. He didn’t hold back from occasionally bucking his hips, his thrusts growing sloppy before he pressed your head down, shooting his load deep down your esophagus. 

You swallowed his cum, which caused him to hiss due to oversensitivity. You pulled off of him, licking your lips before sticking your tongue out to show him that you hadn’t wasted a drop. 

“God damn, girl.” He grunted as you crawled your way up to his lips to place a deep kiss on his lips, allowing him to taste himself. “Are ya tryin’ta kill me?” He asked when you pulled away. You giggled, dragging playful fingers up and down his chest. “Maybe?” You said, biting your bottom lip with a smile.

He just scoffed, kissing you once more as you avoided knocking your head against the rim of his hat. “Let me ride you, cowboy.” You heaved.

He nodded, allowing you to stand and take your clothes off as he rid himself of his pants and underwear. 

You clambered back on top of him, allowing your soaked slit to gently caress his hard cock.

“Fuck.” He cursed, the grip on your hips turning bruising due to your teasing. You mewled at the feeling of his heated skin brushing your sensitive clit, your self control slipping as you reached down and lined his cock up to your entrance, slowly sinking down due to the lack of foreplay and prep. The initial stretch of his tip hurt, your nails digging into the skin of his tanned shoulders, a silent cry leaving your lips as your head fell back. 

Daryl gave you a moment to adjust to his size, distracting you with his calloused thumb, which rubbed comforting circles onto your tiny bundle of nerves. Your muscles loosened as you moved, slightly bouncing until you found a rhythm where your ass met his thighs. He aided you in your riding, guiding your body up and down.

“So fuckin’ wet.” He grunted, rolling both of his lips between his lips as he watched where your bodies joined together, as though he was in a trance. “‘S all for you, D.” You slurred. His cock repeatedly brushed against that sensitive spot inside of your body. He was already sensitive, which made him all the more determined to help you reach your peak first.

“Put yer hands on the wall.” He rasped. You placed your arms on either side of his head, your breasts pretty much shoved in his face when his hips rose up, fucking themselves into you harshly. You yelped in surprise, pressing your palms harder against the walls as he pounded into you from below. He raised his head, his eyes searching for yours from under the hat. 

His irises swam with lust and need, but also a hidden determination that only he knew about.

“‘Gunna make you cum real good, pretty girl.” He huffed a ragged breath. “Promise.” 

“Please, Dar. I need it!” You cried. 

He looked away from you, focusing on his thrusts which were unforgiving, bruising your cervix with every slam of his tip. Your arms grew shaky as you neared your end, almost causing you to fall forward if you hadn’t laid your head on the cool rock. 

“So close,” You breathed, “‘M so close, baby, please.” You begged. “I gotcha. ‘Gunna cum with ya, sweet cheeks.” Your body flushed with relief at his words. 

Your bodies worked together to help reach your climaxes, and when you did, you held back a loud moan, and Daryl hid his in between the valley of your breasts, which lightly bit into. There might be a mark there tomorrow, but who cares?

You shuddered through your world shattering orgasm and he worked you through it, lazily thrusting into you until you muttered the words, ‘no more.’

You slowly sat back down, wincing seeing as though his softening cock was still shallowly buried inside of you.

“Holy fucking shit.” You laughed deliriously. “If I knew ya would’a been all pent up like this over some hat I would’a worn it sooner. Maybe even take ya righ’ then and there in tha’ mall.”

You smirk in amusement at his daring words, “Is that so?” You asked with a mischievous smile. “Mhm.” He hummed with a grin, his hands descending to gently massage your outer thighs whilst you cupped his cheeks, both of you falling into a blissful, giggly kiss. 

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon

[gingerwritess]

hello!

popping back in here to let you all know that i see you and your sweet messages. i reread comments, i scroll my ask box, i scour the reblogs. every single one of you who have left comments, likes, sent messages, read my work; thank you.

your words and support helped me finish writing my first novel.

i stepped back from tumblr a while ago to finish uni, travel/move, and work on my own projects, and you all helped me along the way. i’m currently editing my first novel and am beginning the query process, so if anyone is interested in hearing more about that orrr potentially beta-reading, please lmk :)

now the info you’re really here for:

for all my remaining loki loves—i hear you, you want more pre-dating idiots. i’ll do my very best to find a way to wrap that storyline up.

for my dear elucien (kqav) readers—i had big plans that may have been too big for me at the time, and for that i apologize! i’m outlining the rest of that story so please rest assured that it will be continued soon. to everyone who supported me over the last few years on ao3 with that story, thank you so so so much; i’ll do my absolute best to finish it for you.

this little community on this blog is so lovely and i will always be grateful to everyone who has supported my writing even at its very rocky beginning (and middle). I’ll try to be more active on here now because bringing you joy brings me immense joy—and nothing screams “graduated college” like reviving an old tumblr blog.

lots of love,

theo

[glossdebut]

hiatus announcement 2: calmer this time

i’ve had time to think.

i want to thank everyone for being patient with me during my silence while i’ve tried to figure out the future of this account. 

i promise you i’ve read each and every one of your kind and supportive asks and dms and replies, of which there is an overwhelming amount (on ao3 too!). i’m choosing not to reply to all of them at this time, but just know that i appreciate each and every one of you who has taken the time to reach out. 

the day after i made my initial hiatus post (since deleted), i spent about three hours at the gym in an attempt to burn off some of my anger 💀 i highly recommend it tbh. it put me in a much better headspace for the rest of the weekend to sit down and write this post. 

although i’m obviously heartbroken about the reason for this hiatus, i do think it’s coming at a good time, all things considered. i’ve mentioned before that i’m getting married in june, and i think that it’s time for me to focus the majority of my energy on getting the planning for that done.

so, here’s where i’m at: i am going to be gone until mid-june. gone meaning completely logged out of this account. touching grass to the fullest extent, because i really think it’s necessary for me to remind myself that i have an entire life outside of kpop. friends and family and a loving fiancé who all deserve my undivided attention during what is meant to be such a happy and important time in my life.

after i get married and bts reunites, i will check back in. reassess where we are re: accountability. if no statement has been made, i’m probably going to continue my silence until bts releases new music. and then i’m going to scour the credits and look for the names of anybody affiliated with vendors/yijeong. and then i will reassess again. 

bts have been such a huge part of my life since 2017. eight years! i have devoted eight years to loving and supporting these men. but it gets to a point. i have to draw the line somewhere, i have to take a step back and really look at their actions (and lack thereof) in recent years and decide if these men reflect my values and morals. that is a personal journey for me and i do not begrudge anyone for not doing the same. especially if you’re younger than me. i know that if i had been put in this position a few years ago i would’ve reacted very differently.

so, let me clear some things up from my initial post. i was angry when i published it, and i know for a fact some things got lost in translation. you can agree with me or not, that’s your prerogative—and as someone pointed out in the replies, this is a public forum. you have a right to disagree with me publicly. just know that from this point forward i will not engage. i know where i stand on this and i don’t have the time or energy to fight strangers on the internet about whether or not bts are infallible.

bts have built their careers on being capable of change. on humbly owning up to their mistakes and doing the work to unlearn their own biases. on educating themselves. on speaking out about misogyny, racism, international issues that many other kpop groups don’t dare to touch on. we have seen this time and time again. it’s what made me love them in the first place. 

but the thing about change is that it has to be consistent. it isn’t a one and done type of deal. and in recent years, they have accepted collaborations and associated with people that, in my opinion, completely contradict their message as a group. 

i’m in no way asking bts to be perfect. they are humans capable of mistakes and lack of judgement. i’ve given them the benefit of the doubt over and over again. to be completely honest with all of you, i still AM, although i’m taking a much larger step back this time around. but the bottom line is this: they work with loud and proud zionists like scooter braun and pharrell and benny blanco. jimin was featured on a song with kodak black, a convicted rapist. hoseok collaborated with don toliver, an accused rapist.

and now, they are closely associated with jang yijeong/el capitxn, whose company that he OWNS collaborated with kanye west. a nazi. on a song with a klan hood as its cover, on an album about being a nazi.

and while i recognize that hybe/bts did not play any direct part in this collaboration, i don’t think it’s unreasonable to want answers regarding yijeong’s future with hybe. especially since yoongi himself spent an entire tour cycle calling this man his close, personal friend.

for those of you who think that i’m pinning all of the blame on bts, believe me when i say that i’m not. i am unbelievably disappointed in yijeong and dmed him when his story was still up to let him know as much. regardless of whether or not he ever sees it. and before anybody tells me (again) that he has posted an apology: i saw it. if you chose to accept it, again, that’s your prerogative. for me personally, i think that a collab with a nazi warrants something more thoughtful than a “we’re sorry if we made people feel uncomfortable.” i sincerely hope that yijeong has learned from his mistakes and will make better decisions moving forward, but these are actions that i personally can’t forgive, apology or not. i was never an el capitxn stan, and i will not be supporting him from this point forward. 

when you buy a bts album, the money isn’t just going to them. it goes to the people who work with or for them, and some of that money IS going towards these peoples’ ideologies. even if bts themselves aren’t spouting zionist/nazi rhetoric, if they work with people who believe in those things, we are putting money in their pockets. whether we like it or not, the people bts choose to associate with DO say something about them, at least to me. and i truly hope they recognize that and choose to speak out. contrary to popular belief, they DO have the power to. as shareholders and partial owners of their company, they have much more power and freedom than the average idol group.

knowing what i know about yoongi as a person, it’s very hard not to give him the benefit of the doubt. in some ways i still am. but i need to hear some kind of confirmation that my gut is right. i still love him. i still love ALL of them. how could i not? i have since 2017. and knowing how self-critical yoongi can be, sometimes to his own detriment, i want to believe that he would be THANKFUL for his fans checking him about these kinds of things. the same goes for the rest of the tannies. i don’t think that i’m any less of an army for being critical of them. 

army twitter is, of course, ignoring it. letting it blow over. refusing to recognize that their influence is huge and that THEY could force a statement out of hybe if they caused a big enough stink. i’ve barely even seen any tweets about the situation at all. but whatever. i saw/SEE the way they interact with boycotters. they see it as a betrayal to bts to let their numbers go down. bts have been politically active on the international level for nearly the entirety of their career, but these army clearly don’t care about palestine, so why would it be any different in regard to any other apartheid regime?

all of this is to say, we’ll see what happens. the future of this account is unknown at the moment. and that makes me unbelievably sad, but i’m doing what feels right for me. 

this in no way negates everything bts has done for me in the past eight years. i am not villainizing them, nor holding them to a higher standard than i would hold any other celebrity i have invested my time, money, and emotions into. i am simply giving them time and space to prove that they are still the same seven men i have loved all along. maybe i’m wrong, but i think they would respect that.

i also recognize that 5 out of 7 members of bts are still actively in the military. i assume there are limitations on what they can say during enlistment, which is a big part of the reason that i am giving them TIME. everybody who loves bts is excited to see them together again! me included! i am not trying to overshadow that, but please understand that i need some clarity for my own peace of mind.

i want to close out this post by reiterating that i am in no way trying to force my opinion onto anyone. you don’t have to feel the same way as me. you don’t have to do the same things as me. you are your own person and how you view bts, how you consume their content, is entirely up to you at the end of the day. i am not here to judge anyone. 

but i feel like i owe it to all of you to tell you where i stand on all of this, agree or disagree. i’ve built such a wonderful community on this account over the past few months, and i’m not ready to let it go. thank you to each and every one of you who has read my fics and interacted with me. i love you all, and i hope to be back soon.

edit: obviously if you’re reading this after 04/28/25, you know that i ended my hiatus early (or, more accurately, shifted to a semi-hiatus). that being said, the opinions i shared in this post still stand. i will continue to share my opinion as i see fit, and if that makes you uncomfortable, you are welcome to unfollow/block!

[pocket-vvardvark]

Ty for tagging me @skyrim-forever !!

I'd like to tag: @fangsandsoftgrass @sanzas-reverie @sulphuricgrin @hircines-hunter @changelingsandothernonsense @scholarlyhermit @mavariel @madamefluffnstuff

Which NPCs in TES (all games included!) do you crush on, and why? They don't have to be marriage candidates (in vanilla), just people you find yourself blushing around. Hell, it could be a Deadric Prince if that's what you're into. Name them and say what about them you find appealing! Then feel free to tag a friend or two!

These r mostly gonna be ESO bc I haven't played Skyrim in a gazillion years lol, soooo:

1. Fennorian Ravenwatch!!!

Literally the main reason why i actually continued playing ESO lol. I just love his shyness, and how much he cares about the vestige (they fumbled in the newest chapter I stfg 🙄🙄🙄) I would date him irl idec I'm only straight for pookie <333333 I used to tweak so bad, I couldn't look at his face or hear his voice 🥴

2. Verandis Ravenwatch

Listen, he's hot and he's a dilf sooo perfect combo fr fr. Also, there's something I really like about the 'fatherly' characters, something like mentors just tickles my brain in the right way.

3. Vanus Galerion

Ok, so I'm not gonna lie, at first!! I didn't like him!! But then my brain chemistry changed when he was low key degrading us 🤤 ok ignore that, but I love that underneath all his grumpiness, is someone who's vulnerable. Also I want him to bend me over his desk :) I need more Vanus loreee, let me love pookie right

4. Abnur Tharn

When I was done with his DLC, I fucking scoured ao3 and Tumblr to lick at the crumbs left for me :)) The first time he shows up in the main quest?? Liked him but wasn't feral yet. Elsewyr?? Omfg, I love how he's changing!!! C'mere pookie 😍😍 ok, also I'm ngl but I blushed when he called us a pretty face <33

5. Iachesis

He's a hot, old, Altmer with good hair what else is there to say?? When he first showed up I was like damn, this is Vanus's dad figure?? Sign me UP!!!

6. Revus Demnevanni

He's so endearing. I love how clumsy he is, but ALSO!! He's always trying to right his mistakes which is hot ASF. Really miss him :/

7. Ayrenn

Ok, first off--HER VOICE. Her voice is sooooooo nice like OUGH, I could listen to her for hours. She's so caring, too, and I love that she's really willing to stuff for all the races in the Altmer alliance. FCK the veiled heritance fr fr.

8. Darien Gautier

I miss this man sm, guys I fucking cried during the Summerset DLC. He fucking BROKE ME. I didn't care for him that much in the beginning, but the dlc absolutely wrecked me :((. I felt like there was a real relationship there, and Darien really cared about everyone around him. I miss my knight 😭

9. Gabrielle Benele

Gabby is so cute, I love how crazy she is sometimes. But, also she cares SO MUCH. I just wanna hug her(maybe a smooch also), she's been thru sm and deserves sum loveeee

10. Divayth Fyr

Yeah, this got developed when I did cw city dlc, but um...he calls us a distraction after the trial and it fucked me UP. HELL YA I WANNA BE UR DISTRACTION DADDY FYR

11. Marcurio

Guys, this was my FIRST LOVE, NOT EVEN KIDDING. I love his stupid sassy attitude and want to break his back (or have him break mine idc). ALSO, he has this one line when you go through caves that's, like just reminding you that he's here if you're scared <33

12. Hieronymus lex

Listen, man, I didn't expect it either. I love love love him sooooo much. Playing the thieves guild quest line in high school got me so crunked up. I just love this like forbidden love between a guard and a thief like 😍😍

13. Martin Septim

I'm a Martin truther y'all, can't stop myself. I just know he's kinky ASF, ANYWAYS. He really changes throughout the whole quest line and I love that, but alsoooo Martin is so sweet. Esp when he yells at you to put the mysterium xarxes down bc he's worried <33 yes king, I am but ur humble servant 🥴 I also love knight x king type of romance yum

14. Sotha Sil

I blushed. I fucking blushed when his tall ass stepped into the psijic order. He's looking for me? FOR ME??? I was like standing there brain.exe stopped working. Also his voice is straight up butter like omggg

15. Clavicus vile

Shoot me. Do it. Skyrim version AND ESO version. I'm insane, Ik, but the deal aspect has me thinking bad thoughts 🥴 ALSO HIS VOICE SKSKSKSKWMW

16. Caius Cosades

Yup. You heard right. Listen, he's kinda brusque or whatever in the beginning, but I feel like he rlly helps you thru shit tbh. I'm dumb, so I can't see any deeper, BUT he's kinda caring and I genuinely felt so sad and lost once he peaces out 💀

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 18: When the gods choose to punish us, they merely answer our prayers.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by Shiroishi

“Sweetheart,” she called out placatingly. He scoffed and bit down on a tart, his jacket draped over his other shoulder. He’d decided he would start early today; there was little doubt going through the lower city would take some time. Ban was lounging on her throne, legs crossed and documents in hand. In his absence she would have to manage three meetings - not too horrible, especially since one of them was to finalize the turnover of the Sharran cloister to the city.

“I was just teasing!”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to scowl at her one last time, the faux-anger shifting into mirth. He shot her a wink. “I’ll try to be home relatively early. If not, well…” he waved the last of his tart, “it’ll be a lonely dinner for you yet again. Maybe you’ll miss me this time.”

The sound of her laughter was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

He and Ban hadn’t been back to the lower city often since the end of their adventure. They’d visited occasionally, but there had been no reason to of late.

Over the past week, he had sent his staff to begin searching.. So far all of the upper city had been scoured and to no one’s surprise it had yielded no results. He had also covered a fair amount of the lower city. That had likewise borne no fruit.

He had also considered… other possibilities. A Sending spell had allowed him to contact the twins in Waterdeep and inquire as to whether Vel or any of his associates had been active in Baldur’s Gate at that time. They had answered in the negative.

The morning proceeded in relative boredom. He went from house to house, knocking on each door and holding up Adrien’s portrait. A lot of them seemed surprised to see him - an elf in ostentatious clothes - tramping about lower city in all his finery going door to door about some man, but he found that he didn’t mind, as he agreed with their assessment.

He ended up at a house at the far end of a street and knocked on the door. It looked relatively well-kept, if a little old. The door creaked open, and a younger elf peered at him. Astarion cleared his throat, and began his spiel.

“Hello. My name is Astarion Ancunín.” He had avoided tacking on his title for this errand. “Have you by any chance seen or met this man?” He held up the open locket. His name is-”

The elf scratched his head. “Adrien, yeah.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open. He closed the locket, pocketing it. “Adrien Glasscraft, yes. You know of him?”

“He was my friend.” He opened the door wider. “You should probably come inside, Mister Ancunín.”

The house was quaint, even cozy, and Astarion made himself comfortable on the couch. Sprawled in his usual way, he caught the disapproving glance from the other elf as he sat on the chair opposite him. Astarion pointedly ignored it.

“My name is Lulen.” When Astarion made no response, merely tapping his knee, Lulen continued. “Adrien is someone I knew for several years, before he stopped coming by. If I may ask,” and he leaned forward. “What is your interest in him?”

Astarion’s lip curled. “He is important to someone important.” That, he felt, was as detailed an explanation as he was willing to give. Lulen fell silent, eyes fixed on a spot behind him, and Astarion waited.

Lulen scanned Astarion’s clothes. “It does make sense. He comes from a rich family, as far as I know. Some offshoot of a patriar family. He griped about it a lot.”

“Tell me what you know of Adrien, then,” Astarion prompted, “and perhaps you might be able to help me find your friend. Where and when did you see him last?”

“It was an evening, several years ago. He arrived here, angry, which was not an uncommon occurrence with him. We talked for some time, then he said he would head out and get some food, clear his head, and…”

“And?” Astarion prompted, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “Did he tell you where he went?”

Lulen shook his head. “No, but he mentioned heading to Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Astarion stood outside Fragyo’s, his scowl deepening. The sun was high in the sky, the midafternoon light harsh. There were several places to get food in Wyrm’s Crossing, and he had left this one for last, hoping he wouldn’t have to go in. The idea of stepping back into that cesspit was unpleasant; he did not relish the idea of having to relive all of his previous activities in that establishment, but it couldn’t be avoided. He’d been hoping to have his meal somewhere better, but he had lost track of time, so he supposed he’d grab something here while he investigated. Perhaps Adrien had slept over in the flophouse before he left Baldur’s Gate.

He made his way in. It wasn’t too busy at this time of day, and he headed up to the counter. The halfling custodian peered at him, seemingly recalling his face.

“You’re- you were with…”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, waiting with his arms crossed.

“With the group - the ones who saved the city!”

Ah. He was relieved to be remembered for that and not for his other, older exploits in the flophouse.

“Apologies,” the halfling - Dashkent, he remembered now, bowed. “I am not very good with faces, and so it took me a moment to remember where I knew you from.”

He scoffed, but waved his hand dismissively. Resolving to question the halfling after he’d eaten, he ordered his lunch, and then slipped into a seat at an empty table, scanning the room. He had been here countless times before, of course. They’d always kept a low profile when they’d hunted here, hunkering in corners and darkened alcoves at night, whispering those sickly sweet words, laying their traps.

He ate with disinterest - the fare here was still bland, despite having his sense of taste back - and flicked open the locket, studying Adrien’s features for what felt like the millionth time. The black hair, that jawline, those eyes…

They always stood out, those eyes. They could hardly have done anything else. They were Ban’s eyes, after all, an exact match down to the shape and shade of brown-

No… not just that. He’d seen them somewhere else.

It was a cold night, and it had begun to rain. He pulled his cowl over his head. Ahead of him Dalyria and Petras had already opened the door, heading inside. Neither left the door open for him; he slipped inside without a word.

The three split up, as was their wont. Astarion took his usual corner, mug in hand, scanning the room. Searching for potential marks was a skill he’d fine-tuned. Anyone who seemed alone, a little lost, would be perfect. Attractive, if he could manage it, but when pickings were slim it didn’t matter. Tonight, however, was a good night for hunting - the flophouse was teeming with people, the rain likely helping force them indoors. He took his time; there was no need to rush with so many options.

Dalyria slipped into the seat beside him. He rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“I told you it would be a good idea to come tonight, didn’t I?” Her eyes also roamed over the patrons. “Good pickings. I’m sure even Petras will find someone. Why aren’t you mingling yet?”

He scoffed, and took a sip of whatever he had ordered - he didn’t exactly remember. “Petras needs them blind drunk before they’ll even look his way. I’m giving him a head start.”

Dalyria laughed. “Of course you are. Astarion, the prettiest of us lot, barely even needs to try, eh?” She tried to playfully touch his cheek; he growled and shifted away.

She stood up. “Do find yourself… something. Two more nights of coming up empty-handed and you’ll be…” she bit back a laugh as he snarled at her.

The thought was unpleasant, but he did not let it show. “Worried about me? How sweet of you.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Godey has nothing new under his metaphorical sleeves, dear sister. It’ll be uneventful.”

“Judging by the way you screamed last time, I doubt that’s true.”

She drifted away and Astarion seethed, stewing over her flippant remarks.

Two weeks. Two weeks of coming up empty-handed and he’d come face to face with Godey. The door would latch closed behind him and not open again until the master was thoroughly satisfied. A date with Godey’s toys, a night of manacles and instruments and of blood, of screaming himself hoarse and it still not being enough to sate their lust. Two weeks - sometimes less, if Cazador’s whims dictated it so - until he was reminded of exactly how painful drawing his master’s ire was - not that he ever forgot. The man took what felt like boundless joy in breaking him, after all - far more than the rest. He rubbed a hand over his face, resentment bubbling to the top. Even in their shared suffering, he endured more. Far more.

Astarion swirled the contents of his mug, staring down at it absently. It wouldn’t do to fail tonight. He slipped into his thoughts, however - something he found himself doing more often lately, his mind sinking into nothingness. When someone jostled against his table and snapped him out of it, he had no idea how long it had been. He scanned the room. A fair bit of time must have passed, he realized, as Dalyria was now in the arms of a burly man.

A man caught his eye. He was seated at a table, alone, nursing a goblet of what looked like wine. Handsome. Black hair, square jaw, and alluringly dark brown eyes. Astarion sauntered over.

To his surprise the man looked up before he managed to say a word. “This chair’s free.” He tapped the seat beside him. Astarion slid in.

“You look awfully lonely, darling. Is it the weather, or something else?” Astarion sipped from his mug.

The man shot him a nervous smile. His eyes brightened as he took stock of Astarion’s face - a look he knew all too well. Tonight, that meant success.

“Something else.” The man returned his gaze to his drink. “The rain doesn’t help, I suppose. I headed out before it started. And you? What brings you here?”

Astarion noticed, belatedly, that the man had no cloak or anything to cover himself with, other than a jacket that was already soaked. He clicked his tongue. “Well, then. I’m all ears, if that’s what you need.” He would have added a coy ‘and perhaps more, if you want’, but something told him he’d have to take this particular mark slowly. He didn’t bother answering the man’s questions; more often than not people just wanted to talk about their own problems.

“It’s nothing more than common family drama,” the man said, pushing his sopping hair off his eyes. “The usual, really. I really don’t want to talk your ear off,” he chuckled, “and I’d rather hear about something else.”

Astarion found himself pleasantly surprised, but he was ready. “I am a magistrate. I’m here to meet someone, but…” he pretended to look around the room, “it seems that they have misplaced their clock.” He huffed. “Not my loss, considering that I now get to talk to you.”

“Adrien.” The man held out his hand.

He shook it, allowing his fingertips to subtly drag as he pulled away from Adrien’s grasp. “Astarion.”

Adrien nodded. “A wonderful name.” Again the man took a moment to look at his face; Astarion smiled, angling himself slightly so the light would catch his cheekbones. “Do you come here often?”

“Mm, once in a while.” Astarion took another sip of his drink. “And you? I haven’t seen you before, I feel. I’m certain I would have remembered a face like yours.”

“It’s my first time here, yes. I don’t come to this area often.” A blush crept across Adrien’s cheeks. Perfect.

“There must be a good reason then. With all the rain, and the frankly horrid state of this place… I will be very concerned if you tell me you’re here for leisure.”

Adrien laughed. “You… you got me. I was walking by to just… get my bearings, and have some dinner, but it started raining. I might have to stay the night here, and as correct as your assessment of this place is… I’d still rather be here than at home.”

“You and me both,” Astarion mused. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he supposed. Clapping his hands together to snap himself out of his melancholy, he sat up. “So. You’ve made me tell you my frankly boring reason for being here. Your turn, dear.”

“I suppose so. It’s a long tale, but I can give you the sum of it.” He wrapped his hands around his goblet and took a small breath. “My parents are shit, and I’m here-”

“To get some reprieve from them, yes.” Astarion slid closer. “While I would agree that that’s common… it doesn’t mean that it’s not important.” He waved a hand. “Like I said. I wouldn’t mind lending you an ear. Or my… company. Whichever you prefer. I’m not picky.”

A small risk, that.

The man turned to him, surprised. His lips pursed. “I would love your company, really. But I’ve already promised the rest of my evening to another. However, the first part of your offer I would heartily accept.”

Astarion groaned inwardly. He wanted to make a quick exit, but there was nothing for it. The night was likely to be wasted, anyway; the patrons were slowly clearing out as the rain began to ease off. “Of course. Please, do regale me.”

“My father wants me to be his heir. Wants to marry me off. If only she hadn’t left…” Adrien murmured angrily, and Astarion opened his mouth to ask some followup question he didn’t even give a thought to when the words died in his throat.

Petras stood in front of them, drink in hand, glaring at Astarion.

“Petras!” Adrien smiled. “Please, sit. I was merely talking to… uh…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Astarion stood up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, darling, I must be off. After all, my associate may yet still arrive. Wouldn’t do well to be otherwise occupied, as pleasurable as that would have been for both of us…” He couldn’t help that last statement, smirking as Petras resisted the urge to hiss - and failed.

“Nice to have met you, Adrien.”

He sauntered off, a little miffed that Petras, of all people, had stolen a mark off him. Not stolen, exactly, he corrected himself, but still. Petras? Over him? That Adrien must’ve had bad vision. Astarion slinked back into his corner, nursing his drink and pointedly not looking at where the other two were in deep conversation.

To his dread, the night ended fruitlessly for him. He headed home some hours later, slipping into the palace and down to the dormitory. Petras had left first, followed by Dalyria, who had also managed to bring home a victim.

Astarion opened the door to find Petras on his bunk, legs crossed and smirking. He sighed. “Of course you’re filthying my bed, Petras. Won’t you ever be anything but predictable?”

“You have to admit I was anything but tonight. Didn’t expect that, did you?” Petras shifted, and Astarion bit back a snarl as he realized his sibling was lying on his blanket.

“Expect what? A man to be kind enough to uphold an earlier arrangement, even to one as… well, to someone who looks like you do?” Astarion laughed. “A surprise, to be sure, but angels do exist. As do charity workers.”

Petras glowered, and then he flicked something at Astarion. He caught it instinctively, opening his hand to see what it was. A cufflink. “Here. A consolation gift. Gods know you’d gripe about losing to me for days. Maybe this’ll get you to shut up.”

It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

Astarion frantically reached into his pocket, pulling out the cufflink the Glasscrafts had given him. There was no doubt - this was its counterpart. Fuck.

How would he tell her? Darling, we killed your brother. He was there, that day, perhaps only a couple of rooms away. We stupidly did the rite, not thinking someone we cared about might be in one of those damned kennels. We-

He snapped the locket shut, unable to look that portrait in the eye. Her eyes. He should head home, that was for certain. There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to search for. Nothing.

Astarion’s mind whirled with the possibilities. He could not tell her, that was always an option. He could already imagine the words he’d say.

Darling, I have some bad news. I’ve scoured all of Baldur’s Gate, and there was nothing of your brother to be found. Perhaps he’s made his life somewhere else, and we’re better off leaving him to his peace?

Darling, your brother told me he wanted nothing to do with you. He shooed me away, threatened to stake me- gods, you didn’t tell me he was vehemently against vampires!

Darling-

…He couldn’t do that to her.

Oh, but it would be easy. He could simply say the words, run his hands down her body, cup her ass, slip a finger between her legs. Purr and say the right words with just the right tone, and she’d believe him, because she trusted him. Trusted him to no longer use his skills to deceive her, trusted him to be honest.

And he would. As frightened as he was of her response, he would.

The long carriage ride felt like mere seconds. He was willing it to drag out, to delay seeing her face, asking him, ‘Love, how was your day?’ How would he respond?

He wondered if she'd leave him. Likely not, he figured - hoped, but she would be beside herself and rightfully so. He had no idea how much affection there was between Ban and Adrien, but he had no doubt it was more fond than he and his own siblings had been. Would she blame him? Not unreasonable, if so - that price was paid for him, after all.

What would she have done if they’d walked past those kennels and seen Adrien? Would she have stopped the ritual, told him to find a spare to swap her brother out? Would that have been the push to make her entirely say no to the idea? What if he’d argued back? And he was sure he would have - he could still recall the ice-cold fear that had gripped him then, the smell of blood and rot so strong it had suffused his senses and clouded out all other thoughts.

They would have fought. No, she would have talked him down. No. He would have stormed off. No. They would have-

He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was little use in what ifs, especially at this point.

He felt a sudden surge of loathing and he placed his trembling palm over his racing heart as he watched the mansion come into view. The price that had been paid for it, for all this - it had never really mattered, not for him, and barely for her, but now…

He was sure some god was out there, laughing at their fate. He would have seen the humor in it himself, if it hadn’t befallen them.

Soon he was spilling out of the carriage into the courtyard, breaths coming too short, praying she wouldn’t yet be out of her last meeting for the day. Please.

He stepped into the foyer and called the chamberlain over.

“My lord?”

“Rainier, where is the lady of the house?”

The chamberlain frowned. “She is still occupied in the gardens, making arrangements with Shadowheart and the city representative. The cloisters-” he cut off as Astarion waved a hand at him.

Good. He had some time to try and at least present a solution together with the problem. That would at least ease the blow.

“A Sending spell. To Gale. Ask him to come as soon as possible. Tell him it is an emergency. Bring him to the study the moment he arrives.”

Astarion’s head whipped up a little while later as Gale stepped into the room. He was still dressed in what looked like his teaching robes. The man looked slightly harried, the robes ink-stained on the sleeves.

“Astarion.” Gale sat in the armchair opposite his. “What brings me here, in such a hurry? Did something happen? Where’s Ban? Are you both alright?” His eyes followed Astarion as he quickly shut the door, locking it.

“Ban is fine. She’s outside, in negotiations with Shadowheart and the city planner.”

“Then what is-”

“It’s about her brother.” He sat in his own armchair, then leaned forwards, rubbing his face. “We were making attempts to look for him. He disappeared several years ago, and she wanted to seek him out.”

“A brilliant idea, which I assume did not yield the results you wished for. What can I do to help?”

Astarion glanced at him, grateful for the offer. “We - or rather, I - found him.” He looked away. “Or what became of him, at least.” There was a waver in his voice, he knew, but there was no hiding it.

“What became-” Gale trailed off at the look on his face. “Astarion. What exactly befell the man?” Gale’s concern was obvious. Astarion felt some relief there; at least someone could share in this burden that felt like a stone in his heart. “If he’s dead, a scroll of true resurrection would work, provided either his body or in the absence of it, his soul…”

He shook his head, and Gale’s sentence trailed off. How would he say this? Gale had been there as well. In some ways they all had doomed Ban’s sibling.

“He was one of the seven thousand, Gale.” Astarion kept his eyes fixed to the wall. “We killed him, and damned his soul as well.”

Gale swore. “Then why would you ask for me to come, if you knew this? True resurrection would definitely not work.”

“Wish.”

“Oh, no. No.” Gale shook his head, raising a finger. “The risks involved in casting that spell… no. It cannot be done.”

As Astarion opened his mouth to protest, Gale pushed on.

“Wish is a difficult spell to cast, for one. I’m not even certain I’d be able to cast it. Then there is the issue of intent - what is your stated goal? To return Ban’s brother, yes. But by what means? Are you able to specify, down to the minutest detail? If you do not, the spell will have unintended consequences, consequences that are certain to only bring more trouble.”

“If I specify-”

“What do you specify then? Undoing the rite itself? What about everything else that came with it? What about Ban? What about the arrangement with the hells? Would they not come after you if seven thousand souls they owned suddenly disappeared? What if it undid time itself, reverted everything back to before it happened, including our memories?” Gale stared at him, and Astarion had no choice but to meet his gaze head on. “Wish is a spell that alters reality, but it does so in completely unpredictable ways. It is manageable for smaller requests, smaller wishes that wouldn’t unravel so much of the fabric of reality. But you’re dealing with something that’s on a massive scale, involving thousands of souls, Astarion. I would not risk it.”

Astarion found that he could not disagree. “If I only ask for one soul back, what then?”

“You could, but what would happen with the rite? It required each and every one of them as payment. What would the hells do, were you to renege on your arrangement and pluck one right out of their grasp? And what condition would her brother be in? Would he be a tormented soul? A spirit? He might even come back in the form of a coin, for all we know.”

“A coin?”

Gale exhaled. “When souls are sent to the hells, to demons or devils - it matters not - the soul may be used in some other manner, but they are usually turned into soul coins.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “The coins we found when we were wandering about? The same coins Karlach used?”

“One and the same,” Gale nodded, voice grim. “Now, a lesser devil might have used some of the souls for something else, made them into servants or something of that nature, but the fact that Mephistopheles was the one who received them, and received seven thousand of them in one go… it’s likely her brother’s soul is now, in fact, in a coin.”

Astarion swallowed. “And am I not able to simply wish him to come back as a whole, living being? That would circumvent his arrival as… as that, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, but yet again we do not know the consequences of it. Usually turning into a coin is a one-way process. And there’s a chance the spell would consider that as a second wish: one, that her brother return unharmed, and that two: he returns as not a coin. So you see-”

“I know!” Astarion got up, pacing. Wish would not work; that much was obvious. “Do you have any other ideas, then?”

Gale stared at him, askance. “Simply accepting what happened and mourning her brother aside, I would suggest reading up on the circumstances regarding the rite.”

Astarion froze. “And what good would that do?”

Potentially a lot of good, he knew. He still didn’t want to do it.

“Because you’d want to know the specifics of the contract. It might help with understanding or finding a means by which to retrieve Ban’s brother, if any such method exists. You could also consult a diabolist,” Gale added. “Or, Karlach and Wyll might be able to wrangle some fiends for you.”

They were all good suggestions, but right now it merely felt like meaningless words swimming in Astarion’s head. There were too many options, none of which seemed to lead to better chances of success. Then there was the bigger concern in his mind - telling Ban about it in the first place.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’d invite you to stay over for dinner, but I doubt tonight will be anything but deeply unpleasant.”

Gale stood. “I understand. I will, of course, begin researching on my end as well. Let me know if you need anything more, and I will be in contact if I find anything of use. Good luck, my friend.” He clasped Astarion’s shoulder, and slipped away, leaving him to his thoughts.

He found her seeing Shadowheart and the city planner off. She was standing by the front door, waving goodbye. Shadowheart shot him a smile from afar, no doubt thinking about her wedding present, but he could barely muster a response, merely raising his hand in farewell.

As they departed, Astarion wrapped his arms around Ban from behind, pressing his nose against the top of her head. Taking a deep breath, he held her close, hoping she would let the moment stand. He did not know what to say, or how to even begin; but he needed to seek comfort. Gods knew this might be the last peaceful moment they would have for a while. Possibly ever.

Her hands settled on top of his arm, rubbing gently. Her muscles were tense, he noted, but that thought was brushed aside. “Good evening, love.”

Ban arched her neck, and he pecked the proffered cheek. “Did your day go well?”

“Well enough. I-” He stopped himself. Not yet. She didn’t turn to face him, or ask him about what he had just tried to say. Evidently something else was on her mind. “I trust the business with the cloister has now been fully resolved?”

She pulled away from his grasp, heading back inside the palace. “It has. They’ve agreed on a lump sum. Only the paperwork needs to be signed.”

He followed her in, a step behind her. “That’s… wonderful news.”

They headed towards the dining room. If she was avoiding his gaze as much as he was hers, he couldn’t muster enough courage to ask.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The only sounds were of clinking glasses and the utensils as they ate. Neither reached out to the other’s mind - an uncommon thing during mealtimes - but neither commented on it. He was thankful for it - it gave him some time to think and consider exactly how he wanted to broach the topic.

She finally cleared her throat after dessert, the first sound she’d made in a while, and he looked up.

“Astarion,” she said, her face tight. He tensed. Did she already know? How?

“My love?” He forced a lightness he did not feel at all into his voice.

“I think it’s time you tell me how much contact you’ve actually been having with my parents.” Before he could say anything she passed an envelope to him, and he looked down at it.

A letter addressed to him, from Roderich. Ban hadn’t opened it. He fought down a flood of relief, then waved it at her. “If you were so concerned about our correspondence, love, you could have opened it. I would not have minded.”

“I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

Cold. Angry. He sighed, thoughts of Adrien temporarily pushed from his mind. He ripped the envelope open, scanning the text as quickly as he could. As expected, it was nothing of import.

“Here.” He passed the letter to her. “They are merely asking for updates, the impatient wretches.”

Ban read the letter, and then reread it. “I see. But why would they ask for updates in the first place?”

“I made an agreement with them,” he confessed. “I was to inform them if… if we found Adrien, and in return they promised to leave you both alone.”

Her eyes softened. “That… well.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “Sorry. It’s just that… when it comes to them, I… I find it hard to be reasonable.”

“I don’t blame you.” His old methods slipped back in without his conscious choice. Sidetrack the conversation, spin it into something else. Do anything, everything - just to avoid what needed to be said. “There’s little need to apologize. Shall we head to our room, then? I've yet to finish that book.”

Ban stared at him for a long moment, far longer than she usually did. He felt her eyes move from his face to his body, her index and middle finger shifting to feel his pulse.

Controlling his body language was something he could do without much trouble, seeing as he'd had to do it for centuries. Calming his pulse however, was another; he hadn’t had much practice with that. As her fingertips touched his wrist he pulled it away.

She frowned. “What's wrong?”

No. Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I’m not ready!

He spoke anyway.

“Adrien left your parents.”

She broke into a laugh. “Well, that's ironic. And also good! If he ran away, I'm sure we'll stumble onto him eventually, but there's no rush. He'll handle himself well - at least I hope.”

He made a small, strangled sound, fighting to get the words out.

“He… left, to cool off.”

“Oh.” She sat up straighter. “And then decided to run away? Impulsive as always.”

“That was my initial conclusion.” Astarion gripped the table, knuckles white.

“But there's more to it.” The smile on her face died. “What happened, Astarion?”

“He-”

A deep breath, and then another. His hand sought hers, gripped it tight. Ban bit her lip.

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Astarion didn't know whether to shake his head or nod. He felt frozen, eyes locked onto hers. “He…”

“He is.” Her voice cracked, and he hated it. Ban was never one to cry, after all. He could count on one hand the number of times she'd allowed it to happen in his presence. “Y-you don't have to say anything, I… thank you, for finding him.”

“He isn't just deceased, Ban.” He locked eyes with her, steeling himself. His jaw tightened.

“Then what? Please. I know it's bad. The way you've been acting all night, the way you haven't spoken - please.”

“By all definitions he's dead,” he managed to say. “The circumstances of his demise are, however, a matter in and of itself.”

He stared at her for a long, hard moment.

“We killed him, love. We killed him in the rite.”

[alucard-thee-edgy]

FANFIC: In Thirty Years’ Time

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Summary: The dust had settled on the corpses of Millennium’s soldiers 30 years prior but Alucard, still bound by Schrödinger’s power, remained trapped within himself. He’d slain countless souls, each one a reminder of a life he stole when he was the No-Life King. As the waves of enemies wane and Alucard’s mind clears, his body starts to fail him, finally giving in to his decades-long starvation. But just as he’s given up, Alucard must face one last demon from his past before he can finally be put to rest. A piece of the vampire’s long-forgotten human life given sentience by Van Helsing’s experiments. A part of him that was locked away along with all of Alucard’s greatest abilities: Vlad Drăculea.

Alucard panted softly as he lowered his arm, eyeing one of the humans as it died. Its body collapsed around the hand-sized hole in its chest before withering away to dust. The blood dried in an instant and flaked off of Alucard’s hand, taunting him for the thousandth - no - millionth time. He licked his lips; he could hardly remember what blood tasted like. How long had he been stuck in this wretched place? 

He raised his hand and a shadowy tendril crept out from the depths of his coat, spearing another shambling ghoul as it tried to attack him from behind. The ghoul’s cry cut through the silence, then just as quickly cut off as its body withered away. Alucard groaned and knelt to the ground, the shadow receding. He shouldn’t keep using his powers like that, not when he was so exhausted. He might need them if he encountered another horde, though they’ve been few and far between for… well, he couldn't tell how long. 

He eyed the nothingness before him, the stark white as harsh on his eyes as ever. There’d been fewer and fewer creatures for a while now, and even with his vampiric abilities, he couldn’t see or sense any other living thing within the blank expanse. He should’ve felt relieved; without a million things trying to kill him, he could finally focus on trying to find a way out of here. But after countless times scouring the vast prison, he had never found a single identifiable marking or object, much less a way in or out. 

What, then, was the purpose in all this? Why did he keep fending off these enemies? Whether human, ghoul, werewolf, vampire, animal, or any other worthless creature, what was the point in fighting them if they might bring him some sort of escape from this Hell? Or maybe he was in Hell already and there wouldn’t be an escape. That mad Major had finally killed him and this was his curse for all eternity, fighting all the souls within him. Only, he had yet to see any of his victims return to try and kill him again. Between this and the sudden silence, he had reason to believe he was nearing the end of his purgatorial sentence. 

His body was weak but his mind became clearer with each dead enemy. The power bestowed by the souls he once hoarded within himself had slowly diminished as they continued to attack him, leaving a different sensation growing in their place. Alucard felt his body flicker at times, causing him to quickly disappear and appear elsewhere without his knowledge or control. It wasn’t something he had dwelt on until now, though, and as he thought of this power again, a feeling of unease crept into him. 

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, sweeping his gaze over the endless void for what must’ve been the thousandth time. It was too quiet now, his ears ringing in the absence of noise. The groans and screams that had been ever-present since his arrival were completely gone and he still saw no sign of escape in this vast expanse. He knew it couldn’t be as simple as killing them all. He must find a way out. There had to be a way out. 

Alucard stalked the endless boundaries of his prison for as long as he could stand, every second weighing on him as the adrenaline from the fighting finally began to wear off. The feeling of unease continued to gnaw at him, growing stronger as he grew weaker. His very being felt unstable, like his soul was trying to tear itself in two. At times his thoughts wandered and it felt like he was in two places at once, his brain struggling to comprehend either in his exhausted state. Still, he tried to push it to the back of his mind, struggling against this strange feeling in an effort to focus on his escape. 

It was fruitless. When the old vampire finally collapsed to the ground he clenched his jaw, a fresh bout of fatigue washing over him. It had been a long time since he starved to death, and this time there wouldn’t be a Hellsing to save him. He would’ve laughed at such a pitiful thought if it weren’t for the odd feeling gnawing at the back of his skull. So much for killing all those souls. He couldn’t even have a moment to enjoy the mental clarity before his body started giving out.

He tried to steel his mind, gathering the last of his strength to focus on the ground in front of him. There must be a way out. He must get back to them: his Master, his servant. Alucard had longed for death for longer than he could remember, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He couldn’t die after abandoning them like that. No honor, no bravado, just turning to dust because of the antics of an insane Nazi. If he couldn’t be slain by a creature more worthy than himself and if he couldn’t make his long un-life worth something, it would have all been a waste. The thought made him sick. 

There was no telling how much time had passed since he was stripped away from the mortal realm. The moment of his disappearance still weighed heavily on him even as he lay in a heap. He wished he could tell the others how he tried to return, how he struggled against the hordes in the hopes of finding a way to go back home, but now it all seemed so hopeless. His chance for escape had drifted away into the same nothingness that swallowed up every creature he’d slain while stuck in this place. He sighed as he laid on the ground. Now, it seemed, it was his turn. 

“Are we to die like a piteous dog?”

Alucard lifted his head. The voice was his own, but different. Maybe he really was losing it.

The voice spoke again: “I’ve waited a long time to say my piece on your actions. Or rather, your inaction.”

“It’s you, then.” Alucard’s eyes narrowed. “Me.”

“Us,” said the voice, deep and heavily-accented. A silhouette formed out of Alucard’s shadow, stepping away from his body as it took the shape of his long-dead self: the Voivode of Wallachia. Vlad stood before Alucard, arms crossed, matching the vampire hunter’s distasteful look with one of his own.

Alucard’s mind was sent spinning. He knew he had recognized that feeling somewhere. Though if his Level 0 form - his ancient self - was truly here, he couldn’t be sure. He vaguely remembered something about the brain’s last-ditch attempt at survival, all its chemicals consolidating to form a vivid hallucination to help ease the body into its final sleep. Alucard’s life wasn’t flashing before his eyes now, though. Not like it had when he was first sent here. 

Alucard lifted himself up on his elbows. “So you decide to show yourself. I don’t have time for your lecturing.”

“Do you not understand yet, Alucard? Has the solitude done nothing to sharpen your mind?”

Alucard looked past him, still searching for an escape. “Can’t say I do. Fighting for your life doesn’t leave much time for ruminating.” He continued crawling along the ground, still trying to wrack his exhausted brain for any inkling of an escape. Then, another wave of dread swept over him and he gasped, his whole body feeling like he was in free-fall. Without warning, the endless void disappeared for a heartbeat and he was somewhere else. It was noisy there, the blank space replaced by a slew of sights and sounds, but before Alucard could grasp what it was, he was in the void again. He looked around and this time Vlad was far away, nothing but a speck against the endless white. 

“The Hell?” Alucard’s mind reeled as the feeling of unease slowly abated. He hadn’t seen anything like that since he’d been here. Was this place fucking with him somehow? Now that all the ghouls were gone, was he the only one subject to the void’s strangeness?  

‘Look at you.’  Vlad’s voice was in Alucard’s head, then just as suddenly, he could hear Vlad speaking from behind him: “Tattered and torn, one would think you weak for letting a few ghouls bring you this low. And to think this all could be avoided if you hadn’t given up so easily.”

Alucard glared at him. “And what help have you been?”

“None.” He grinned. “You are our source, the only one who can free us. I am powerless except to guide you to the answer.” 

“How convenient. I think you just came to waste time so we’ll die faster.”

“If you say so. Though you know you haven’t yet exhausted all your escape routes.”

Alucard swept a clawed hand at Vlad and the ancient Voivode’s form flickered, the shadows briefly warping before resuming their original shape. 

Vlad raised his eyebrows. “You’ve enough strength for anger, so you must have the strength to escape. Yet you purposefully ignore the solution that is right in front of you.”

“Convenient that all you can do is scold me.” Alucard continued crawling, his mind running through at least a dozen different ways he’d like to eviscerate the specter of his old self. The feeling of unease started to claw back into his mind again and he tried to push it aside, urged forward by his rising anger.

Vlad was silent for a long moment, then: “Are you afraid, Alucard?” 

He set his jaw. “You know already. You’re in my head.” 

“I do, but if you won’t admit it to yourself, you will continue to hold us back.”

Alucard pulled himself up onto his knees. “I didn’t know I carried a smart-ass old sage in my brain. Where was all this wisdom when your kingdom fell apart?”

“That time is past us.” It was Vlad’s turn to narrow his eyes. “If you are not afraid, then what holds you back?”

Alucard rose to his feet. “What about Radu? What about your execution? Weren’t you afraid? Where was your wisdom then?”

“We have suffered and learned from my failings already, we don’t need to-“

“ I have suffered from them!” Alucard stepped towards Vlad, jabbing a finger at him. “What about William? Arthur? Where were you then? Why pester me now?”

“I did not have a choice. The restrictions forbade me from appearing.”

“That’s never stopped you from giving your thoughts. Disapproving but never helping; your arrogance knows no bounds.” 

“I am trying to help you now!” Vlad loomed near Alucard, his figure broad and imposing with his armor.

“Your usefulness died with your army,” Alucard spat. “If all you’re here to do is wax lyrical about dying, then I’ll have to kill you, too.”

Vlad pursed his lips. 

“There’s nothing different now.” Alucard gestured to him. “One mad King without his kingdom and nothing useful to provide. It’s a wonder William allowed you to exist.”

“But there is something different. We can both feel it.” 

The words gave Alucard pause. Aside from the feeling of unease, there was something else fundamentally wrong about this whole situation. For one, his ancient self was here in the flesh, talking to him in a way he never had before. 

Vlad’s gaze softened. “The restrictions. Our Master released them before we came to this place, but they appear to have remained unlocked. Or, I fear…” 

Alucard swallowed, his dry throat sticking uncomfortably to itself. “There might be no-one left to hold our leash.”

Vlad nodded. “Of course, there is no way of knowing for sure. But we will never find out if you cannot get over yourself and try .” 

“Try what , exactly?” Alucard glared at Vlad again. “I’ve tried everything since coming here. Scoured every inch of blank space, killed every last enemy before me, and yet here you are: wasting my god-damned time!” 

“There is one last way. You felt it before, when you first came here. And again as you grow weaker. Yet even now you are too conflicted to use it, even when we may be wasting precious time.” 

“Watch yourself, Mad King,” Alucard scowled. “I don’t like what you’re implying.” 

“What? That you may not truly want to return?”

“Enough!” Alucard raised his hands, calling upon the dark powers sequestered within him. Shadows roiled around him and Vlad’s form wavered again. 

The ancient king stood his ground. “Are you afraid of what it might do to you? Or are you afraid of what you might find when you return?”

Alucard swept his hands towards Vlad, commanding the shadows that made up his body. They rose at once without a sound, grotesquely stretching Vlad’s form before splitting off to either side, ripping him in two. Alucard gasped with the effort and collapsed to the ground again, the shadows quickly retreating back towards his body. His past self’s voice no longer chastised him; Alucard was alone at last. 

Finally, some peace and quiet. He sighed again, his energy somewhat rejuvenated from the spat, but soon, the feeling of weakness began to creep over him again. His mind still toyed with the questions Vlad posed to him: was he afraid of returning? Why return in the first place? If it was to appease Integra, why bother if she might not be alive? 

Alucard shook his head, resuming his stalking through the blank expanse. After all this time, was there any real reason why he was fighting to return? Was it just an animal instinct? Had anything really changed to make him no longer crave death? And so what if he did manage to return, would they be there to greet him? Would anything be the same with them? With him? 

These questions crashed like ocean waves in his mind when suddenly, the feeling of dread welled within him again and he groaned, unable to focus his mind to hold it back. The endless void disappeared again, replaced by the place he’d visited during his earlier episode. Noise filled his ears like the collection of a hundred different conversations taking place at once, but it soon faded into a dull roar. As he regained his focus he could see a hundred glassy surfaces displayed before him, each one containing a moving image of some sort. Alucard stepped closer and he could see various people and places, each one like a self-contained moment in time playing before his eyes. The longer he looked the more he realized something was off; each place or person was connected to him in some way. People and places he’d visited or seen in the memories stolen from other’s blood were on full display. It was eerie, like a camera was always positioned overhead.

“Amazing, ja? You get used to it after a while.”

Alucard whipped his head around at yet another new voice. It was sickeningly sweet, and if he didn’t recognize it, he might even call it ‘innocent’. It was the unkillable cat-boy that Millennium cooked up, the wretched were-creature sauntering towards him as he curled a lock of his hair. Alucard’s hand twitched and he found himself missing his firearms more than ever. 

Schrödinger grinned, sitting on the ground next to Alucard. “I thought it would be boring staring at someone else’s scenery for all eternity, but yours is very entertaining!” 

Alucard narrowed his eyes but turned his attention back to the wall of moving pictures. He couldn’t tell if these were the past, present, or future, or if he was just imagining it all. What was the boy implying? Is this how he traveled to and fro, avoiding death? Was this the ticket home that Vlad oh-so-helpfully tried coaxing him towards?

“You’re the last one standing, then,” Alucard said, still not looking at the Cat. 

“Silly vampire.” He tilted his head. “I was wondering what was taking you so long. It’s no fun waiting for your turn to die.”

Alucard gritted his teeth. He scoured the wall for something more familiar than a brief acquaintance or a place he’d only visited once, trying to recognize a pattern within the chaos. He reached out for one of the visions and as he touched it, the feeling of unease clutched at his mind again, forcing him to withdraw. 

Schrödinger yawned. “If you won’t let me escape, you could at least give me a quick death. You really can’t blame me for trying to do the same to you.”

Alucard snapped his gaze towards the Cat. “What the Hell are you on about?” 

He giggled. “Aw, like a lost doggie trying to find its way back to its owner. Would you bark for me if I gave you a treat?” Schrödinger drew a finger across his neck where the knife wound still split his skin and his head lolled to the side at an unnatural angle. He stuck out his tongue. “My last treat didn’t agree with you.”

Alucard ignored him at first but then his eyes widened as a familiar smell punctuated the air. Blood. Real, warm blood. Alucard waited with bated breath for one heartbeat, then another, to see if Schrödinger would disappear like all the other corpses had, but the boy remained, bleeding all over the floor. 

The were-creature opened his mouth again but his voice died in his throat. Alucard was upon him in an instant, tearing into the boy with teeth and claws until the Cat was reduced to a pile of gore on the floor. Blood at first pooled around the body but soon retreated towards Alucard, reinvigorating him as he absorbed it. Clarity washed over his mind within seconds, making him feel as though he’d woken up from a long slumber.  It wasn't much blood, but it was much more than he'd had in a long time, and now, as he stood before the fall over reflective portals, he slowly came to realize the true purpose of the room that the Cat had sequestered himself in.

Alucard watched the innumerable moving images. One displayed a picturesque view of a nighttime city. Another, a woman decorated with white body paint. And another, the inside of an imposing Catholic church. These scenes were all initially unfamiliar to him but as his gaze lingered, the details crept up from the depths of his brain: Seattle, Washington, viewed from the top floor of The Westin. Jedda, an Aboriginal and mother to two sons. And finally, St. Stephan's Cathedral in Austria, a hallowed place even older than the King of Vampires himself. 

Alucard narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t unfamiliar with accessing memories from the souls he’d absorbed; he would commonly call upon them for missions or for his own amusement. It was, however, unusual to have them accessible all at once with such clarity.  

He looked back to the image of the Aboriginal woman. His borrowed memory told him something wasn’t right about her; Jedda’s face was older with wrinkles where there were none before and when she smiled, a few of her teeth were missing. This was all wrong; things never changed in these stolen memories. The blood of his victims could only conjure images from the past, never the present or future. But maybe this person’s memory was flawed. 

Alucard felt his gaze drawn over the other scenes, unease rising within him again - a truck rolling down a gravel road, a snow-covered car park - both older and more disheveled than he remembered. Other images flashed before him - a dark alleyway, a moaning woman, twin siblings sharing a beer - he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Munich, Zhouzhuang, Tromsø, Fort Smith - his mind was quickly filling with a cacophony of memories, none of them his own - forests, graveyards, bullets, sunlight, flowers, ho-

Alucard was in the void again. His heart ached; no, he was on that hill again, watching his final sunrise. He blinked. No, that can’t be right. He’s somewhere enclosed; he reached out into the darkness and felt the cool wooden wall of his coffin. Then, just as quickly, all these scenes began to overlay and blur together as the feeling of unease reared its head. It was like the sensation of staring at oneself in a mirror surrounded by other mirrors, each one infinitely warping the reflection until the reflection disappears into darkness. His mind and body were trying to separate from one another, each pulled in a hundred directions at once. Alucard cried out and a dozen deafening echoes followed. The pain was too much. All of this was too much. 

Suddenly, the feeling of unease abated and Alucard collapsed to the ground. Bloody bile rose in his throat and he voided the measly contents of his stomach. It took a few minutes for him to recover, his body wracked by the onslaught of information. He was still shaking and his ears were still ringing when he stood again and realized he was back in the room where he found the Cat. The moving images peeked at him from the corner of his eyes and he quickly looked away. 

What was all of that? Was this somehow the Cat’s doing?

Alucard strode away from the wall of images, and as he drew further, his mind became clearer. He could feel Schrödinger’s blood steadily permeating his body, lending him strength. He called upon the Cat’s blood, searching for a memory that might explain what the Hell any of this meant. 

The boy’s strange life flashed before him: endless experiments, maniacal laughter, the sound of boots stomping one-by-one, Schrödinger flitting from place to place at will, then… Alucard narrowed his eyes. Millennium, the experiments, the Cat’s role in his untimely downfall, all were made plain to him. So the void was a purgatory of sorts, intended by the Nazis to lock Alucard away within himself for all eternity. Clever, he had to give them that. Too bad they didn’t factor in Schrödinger surviving long enough to reveal their secrets. 

So that meant… He glanced at the wall of images. They looked so similar to the room that the Cat would use to appear and disappear at will. Was it possible that Alucard now had access to this power after killing Schrödinger once and for all? 

The feeling of dreadful anticipation rose again and he averted his gaze. These strange sensations and random bouts of teleporting were easily explained by this revelation, but it still didn’t explain the discrepancies with the memories. If the Cat were a vampire it might make slightly more sense for his powers to function based on the memories gleaned from drinking blood, but even if Schrödinger weren’t a were-creature, Alucard knew of few other vampires that were capable of harnessing blood in such a way. 

It must be something different, then. The Cat’s powers must rely on the present time, otherwise he’d be infinitely more useful as a time traveler rather than an intangible - albeit annoying - messenger boy for Millennium. A sinking feeling hit the old vampire; it was evident from his earlier excursion that time had passed, since his victim’s memories didn’t match up with what was shown in this room.

Doubt welled within him again. Would there be anything left for Alucard to return to, if time truly had passed? His memories didn’t provide any gauge of how much time had gone by, and being stuck in the endless void didn’t afford Alucard many chances to guess how long he’d been there. For the better, maybe. 

Vlad’s words echoed in his mind again. ‘Are you afraid of what it might do to you? Or are you afraid of what you might find when you return?’ The damned warlord had a point, unfortunately, but Alucard didn’t want to waste more time considering his guilty conscience’s thoughts on the matter. 

He looked back to the wall of images. His mind didn’t stir with unease this time, though the sheer amount of information staring back at him was enough to set his head spinning. He assumed the feeling of dread was somehow linked to his ability to disappear and reappear at will, given his tendency to teleport whenever his mind lost focus. Which meant he would have to be sure of himself to travel anywhere with this power, or he’d risk getting hopelessly lost amongst the hundreds of thousands of places he had within his reach. There wasn’t any room in his mind for turmoil or second-guessing. Either he would escape, or he’d lose himself to the endless void for good. 

He couldn’t be sure what would happen if he tried to use Schrödinger’s powers. He never tried to do so with any of the werewolves or other vampires he’d absorbed before, but none of them had affected him like the Cat’s had. He might create an existence even worse than his current one, stuck somewhere as a featureless thing barely existing on the edge of reality and unreality. Or, he could never try and instead starve to a point of hibernation, essentially dying within the void without anyone to resuscitate them with their blood. 

Schrödinger’s power was his only avenue for change, even if it wasn’t effective as a means of escape. No matter if there was nothing waiting for him on the other side, no matter if using these powers might leave him fundamentally changed, he had to try. Even if it killed him. 

With Schrödinger’s life-blood fueling him, Alucard had renewed energy to begin his search. He turned to look at the wall again, gradually accustoming himself to peering into the vast amount of visual information without becoming overwhelmed. He touched a hand to one image and it moved with him, shifting the others around it. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to their organization, each scene as hopelessly jumbled as all the souls had been when he unleashed them upon Millennium. Though the longer Alucard stared, the more accustomed he became to parsing through them.

It wasn’t long before Alucard found scenes directly relating to him; first it was locations in England, then the countryside, then Hellsing employees, then the Hellsing manor itself. It took him aback when he first saw it. Last he knew, the building had been completely destroyed during Millennium’s petty little war stunt, leaving nothing but ash in their wake. Yet here it stood, rebuilt as if nothing had happened. 

How long, then? How long would it take to rebuild such a structure? Months? Years? Alucard wasn’t familiar with the logistics of planning and executing such a large project but he hazarded to guess it would at least take several years for the whole ordeal. It was here where he was again faced with the reality of his situation: how much time had passed? 

Even worse, he wasn’t able to see into the manor upon first examination. It was as though a dark cloud was cast over the entire building, blocking him from entering. The same happened whenever he tried to find someone he knew. Integra, Seras, the Frenchman, all were obscured from him. He could at least tell that they were still alive, which lifted some weight from his shoulders, but it was no less reassuring that he was unable to see them. He pushed it aside for now. At least he knew that Hellsing and its occupants still stood. 

Now, with his mind somewhat put at ease, he could focus on harnessing the Cat’s powers. He looked to the opposite end of the ‘room’ where the wall of images seemed to cut off and he closed his eyes, searching in his mind for the feeling of dread that had been bugging him since his escape from the void. It seemed to hide from him now that he was actively trying to use it. The Cat’s endless annoyances now extended to the powers he’d inadvertently bestowed upon Alucard. He cursed the boy and again tried to focus on that strange feeling, picturing where he wanted to go in his mind’s eye. 

Alucard gasped, stumbling back. It was as if the Cat’s powers were controlling him and not the other way around; his body felt strained and fragmented, like it was being pulled apart again, and Alucard was losing his grip on himself. His mind felt numb, like he was in a drunken state. His thoughts wandered aimlessly; would it be so bad if he just gave into that feeling? Wouldn’t all this pain and stress disappear if he just allowed himself to stop existing? 

Then, he was falling and the room was closing in around him, everything growing dark except for a tiny speck of light at the corner of his vision. It wouldn’t be so bad to let go, now that he thought about it. At least he wouldn’t have to starve to death anymore…

His body jerked and he was suddenly himself again, his mind snapping out of the stupor that he nearly lost himself to. He looked around, realizing that he hadn’t gone anywhere, only stumbled to the ground in his confusion. He scowled and stood again. How the Cat managed to manifest and use this power was beyond his understanding, much less how its powers worked to begin with. But if he were to escape, he had to be determined to master this ability. 

Alucard continued working at it for a long while, keeping track of the passage of time by the changes he observed in the outside world. Trees grew greener, then wilted, and died a dozen times over, carrying many seasons along with them as the old vampire became increasingly frustrated with his attempts at escape. He would not leave this prison until he was sure he could harness the Cat’s powers. As much as he wanted to leave, the risk wasn’t worth it. 

Years dragged on and Alucard still found himself feeling unsure. His control waxed and waned, sometimes causing him to appear back into the void and other times causing him to lose himself entirely, making days pass by as though they were minutes wherein he no longer existed. These incidents were always the most concerning; Alucard had no recollection of the time in-between and only knew about it due to the changes observed on the wall of images. Even then, he couldn’t be sure exactly how much time had passed, only that he’d been gone for a long time. So he continued, day in and day out, working out the kinks of the Cat’s powers and trying to find a way to safely return home. 

Alucard paced along the wall more frequently, his body and mind alike starting to deteriorate as the strength afforded from Schrödinger’s blood diminished. When he grew tired of toying with the Cat’s powers he passed the time by searching the Hellsing manor again, trying to find some weak point in the impenetrable darkness surrounding the building. Then, one day, as if hearing his silent pleas, he was suddenly able to peer into the mansion as well as any other building he’d seen.  

Unfamiliar faces littered the building from staff, to soldiers, to what appeared to be Vatican agents, with the latter hurriedly leaving. Alucard’s lips pursed as one familiar face appeared within the hallway: the Frenchman, though something was very wrong. He materialized from the wall as if he were a shadow, his form wavering as he shook his wrist in what appeared to be… pain? Then, another familiar sight: Seras running down the hall to greet him, talking quickly as she looked Pip over, concern written on her face. Pip soon shook his head and the two of them shared a laugh before they went their separate ways again, Seras waving as Pip chuckled and disappeared back into the wall. 

Strange wasn’t even close to describing what Alucard saw. Concerning might be a better word. Whatever powers Seras and Pip had developed over the course of an unknown amount of time was the least of his concern at this point. For all he knew, this could be an alternate version of events, and he may not even be returning to his own home. But, really, what else did he have to go on? 

As the Frenchman melted away into the wall, a black haze came over Alucard’s vision. He glanced at one of the other images along the wall and, seeing that nothing had changed, he returned to looking at the place where the Hellsing manor once stood. Whatever these new powers were, Pip or Seras must have some ability to protect the manor if he was blocking Alucard’s view. It seemed that Alucard was not the only one who had changed in his time away from reality. 

An uncomfortable thought gnawed at the back of his mind all throughout his excursion through the manor; what was his excuse, now? There was no longer any uncertainty about the others’ survival and no uncertainty about their safety, but he still didn’t know how much time had passed, and it gave him pause. If Alucard had changed so much in this intervening time, how much more had the others changed?

He put it out of his mind for now, concerning himself with the mechanics of his return. He was able to see what the manor looked like in the present, so he should be able to travel there without issue. Of course ‘without issue’ was a loose term when it came to his newfound powers, but the trip at least shouldn’t be as difficult as it once was. Alucard now faced that same choice from years ago. He sighed: there were no more excuses, now. Time was running out for him, and if he didn’t try, he’d just rot away in this place, gone without a whisper or a care. 

He searched the wall of images as he’d done many times before, each fragment of reality now familiar to him. He couldn’t be sure he would be able to appear in the manor due to Pip or Seras’s restrictions. Hell, he had only recently been able to teleport to-and-fro within this prison room with any amount of consistency. And with the weakness creeping back up on him, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep control of this power for long. 

It was now or never, whether he wanted it to be or not. He warily eyed the place where the manor once was. If he were to try to get back to reality, he would have to go somewhere familiar. He was still unsure of how these powers would affect him if he attempted to return, and though he hated the idea of calling upon the others for aid, it might be necessary if he botched the return trip.

Alucard weighed his options and an unusual amount of emotion welled within him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed existing until now, how much he missed having a purpose in his un-life even if it was to serve the design of humans. He smiled as he recalled the first time he met Integra, protecting the fearful little girl who would grow into the proud woman he’d become so fond of. He even smiled as he thought back on the other Hellsings: Arthur, William, Abraham, each one a strong leader in their own way. Then, he thought of Seras. How proud he’d been when he watched her accept her own powers and come into her own as a fully-fledged vampire. The thought of seeing how she’d come along in the intervening years excited him as much as it tugged at his heart; he hadn’t been there to witness it. He wasn’t able to help foster that growth, even in his own begrudging way. Alucard even found himself missing England itself. Though it had been his unwilling home for many decades, he’d come to appreciate it and the people living there, along with all their quirks. 

Alucard’s smile faded as he stepped towards the wall of images, extending a hand to touch the one that displayed the grounds surrounding the manor. The image wavered with his touch but remained in place. This wouldn’t be much different from the times he teleported inside this room, or at least he told himself that. Once he was nearer to the manor, it would be simple to find a way inside, and then maybe he could finally rest… 

He drew a deep breath. No time to waste, now; he could feel his control over these powers waning with each passing second as his body strained to give him its last bit of strength. Alucard focused his mind on the image before him, his thoughts filling with a desire to go home, with a desire to see them again, to have a purpose again. Then, his hand sank into the image as if it was drawing him in, the now-familiar feeling of unease seeping into every cell in his body, and Alucard disappeared for a final time.