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[cabyll-ushtey]

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Posted: 22:53 UTC February 6, 2025

[prettyboykatsuki]

ANOTHER WORD FOR HOMESICK (I WANT TO SAY YOUR NAME AGAIN) | M. BACHIRA

☼ tags ; omegaverse, afab + fem!omega!!reader, alpha!bachira, childhood friends to lovers, established reader backstory, coming-of-age, romance, mutual pining, implicit sexual content (virginity loss to an oc), explicit sexual content ft. bonding, knotting, penetration, oral (f!recieving), fingering, praise, lovey dovey dirty talk, petnames (mostly baby) 18+

++ notes: readers appearance is mostly non-descript but they are shorter than bachira and have several piercings and a tattoo which are explained in story.

☼ content warnings ; lore applicable sexism, sexual harassment of reader as a minor (details in authors note, explained further in extended authors note), lore applicable homophobia, implied bisexuality + referenced mutual queerness queerness, underage drinking, heat / estrus as a symptom of puberty

please thoroughly read content warnings and tags before clicking read more.

THIS IS PART ONE. CLICK HERE TO HERE PART TWO.

☼ ao3 link | extended authors note | fics for gaza

☼ wc ; 16.4k / 33.2k

☼ a/n ; sorry for the incredibly long wait. as always i got extremely carried away. but cheers for fujoneet reader coming after this! written as part of the @ficsforgaza intiative

as mentioned above, there is a scene in this part of the fic that has reader experiencing their first heat as a minor omega during their heat.

they are being sexually harassed underage. if you find this content may be too triggering to you - the scene starts at the the [ THIRTEEN ] subheader and ends indicated with ***.

☼ synopsis ; you can't decide on how you feel about alphas, but your resentment or discomfort around them grows stronger over time as an omega who presented particularly young

maybe that's why you feel so devastated upon hearing the news that bachira, your childhood best friend, had been hiding his alpha status from you your whole life.

PART ONE: MAY THE BRIDGES I HAVE BURNED..

[ NINE]  

A car speeds past you when you turn the corner. Too fast, you watch it skid to a stop at a red light and feel your face grow flush. You tuck your chin into the collar of your coat, cold numbing your senses.  

The mailman is at your door by the time you walk home. He smiles courteously and hands you the mail directly when you approach your front gate. You bow to him politely before taking it, the cold making your eyes water.  

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” He says. Nakamura oji-chan has been running mail to this route since you were a little baby. Mama said he has a grandchild now so he works less hours. You’re glad to see him. “You’ve grown so big. What year are you in now?”  

You hold up four fingers. “Fourth year. I’m nine,”  

“You’re growing up well, then huh? That’s good.”  

You’re not tall enough to reach the kitchen cabinets at the highest height and still losing baby teeth but other than that you think it’s pretty okay, so you nod. He laughs before turning to leave, and you make sure to stand in front of the door before he goes to be polite. 

You shuffle through the mail as you walk inside. Warm air makes your face tingle. There’s two letters for you today. They’re addressed to your parents, but they’ve got your name on them so you think it’s okay to call them yours. One letter is from the hospital, but there’s another one too.  

You don’t know what it is. It’s in a separate black envelope with a raised seal along and government postage. There’s some stuff for nii-chan and mama - plus some coupons that papa gets from a subscription service.  

You announce yourself loudly once you’ve looked through it all. Only papa’s brown shoes are in the rack which means he’s the only one home.  

 Slipping your shoes off, you slide your feet into brand new Doraemon slippers and prop your bag up against the couch in the living room before finally hanging up your coat. Your tummy rumbles after you regain feeling in your fingers, and you decide the nap can be pushed back till after snack time making your way towards the kitchen.  

You make sure to take the mail with you. Mama always tell you to leave it on the counter so she can take a look when she’s home. You’re good at remembering this.  

Papa is working at the dining table when you come in. He works on a fancy computer from home some days. He smiles when he sees you, bright eyes pointed toward you. You decide to hand him the mail directly.  

“Hey, sweetie.” His smile is soft. Ripe oranges sit for you on the counter, cut evenly on your favorite plate. Papa nudges them towards you with a smile. Quickly, you run to wash your hands and sit adjacent to him upon return. You start snacking on your oranges, wondering if he sliced them for you or just to eat. You sit folded up in the dining room chair as papa pats your head per routine. “How was school?”  

You look down. “It was okay. We learned about praying mantis bugs. My friends thought they were scary but I thought they were cool, at least a little…” 

Papa sits and waits for you to say more expectantly. You shrug, unable to think of anything more to say.  

“They are, aren’t they? They’re really important to our eco-system.” Papa says. You nod. He starts to explain more to you about praying mantis bugs and you do your best to listen even as you feel your eyelids start to droop. You get sleepy early in winter because it’s dark so fast.  

Even though you’re not listening too closely, you notice papa stops talking half-way through a sentence. You peek at him through your lashes. He’s holding the special envelope from before. Papa is very quiet when he reads it.  

“What’re you reading?”  

His eyes go wide. You wonder if papa is also tired, since he seems so surprised you’re there. His brows are furrow - putting the letter face down on the dining room table. He’s silent for a long time, though you don’t fuss to ask again. 

“We got some important news in the mail,” Papa says quietly. He seems a little different somehow. “We’ll sit down when and talk about it when mama gets home, okay?”  

“Am I in trouble?”  

He smiles at you like normal this time but he still seems a little sad. “Not at all sweetheart. It’s just an important talk so I think we should be all together. Is that okay?”  

“Yeah, that makes sense.” You tell him, looking down at your lap trying to figure out what to say so he stops seeming sad. “It’ll be okay, papa.”  

Briefly surprised, he smiles again, using his hand on your face to pull you close to him wet kiss on your temple that you take in stride. You’re glad he seems to feel better. 

“That’s right, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”  

_ 

When mama comes home, her and papa sit and talk for a long time in the kitchen. They send you to nii-chans room. Predictably, he turns you away when you knock on his door and goes down to complain to your parents. You think that whatever happened must be more serious than you thought, since he comes back up and lets you sit in his room without complain upon return. 

 Nii-chan rarely invites you to do things with him by yourself, so you’re surprised when he invites you to his lap so you can watch him play games.  

Mama always says he’s just going through a phase when he’s being mean. You think that makes sense. You’re happy when he’s nice, though.  

After a while, papa comes to get you. Him and nii-chan talk in whispers about something and take not-so-subtle glances.  

Papa starts to explain a little to you as you go down stairs, holding his hand. He squeezes it tighter than normal. 

“Do you know what an omega is, sweetheart?”  

 You nod. You’ve got a vague understanding at least. Nii-chan is an alpha, papa is an omega and mama is a beta. It was hard for mama and papa to have you, so they consider you both miracles.  

“Well, today, we got news about what you are,” Papa says. He tries to smile. “And you’re an omega like me.’ 

“Oh,” You say. You look up at him as you walk down the stairs. “Is that bad?”  

He shakes his head when you ask, but strangely doesn’t end up saying no directly.  

__  

After you find out you’re an omega, nii-chan walks you to school for a few weeks.  

You find this to be very strange for several reasons.  

For one, nii-chan doesn’t really like school and he doesn’t seem to like spending time with you either. He started going this year, you think - something mama had said about getting his life sorted. Either way, he clearly doesn’t want to be going at all.  

So, it doesn’t make sense when he starts accompanying you even a little. 

“I can walk to school by myself,” You say, not really meaning anything by it. He stares down at you. You aren’t sure why he’s so mad. Nii-chan always seems a litle bit mad at everything. You wonder if all alphas are like that.  

“Don’t be annoying,” He says, harsh. You bite your tongue and turn your gaze to the sidewalk under your feet.  

“I’m not being annoying,” You clutch the straps of your bag, because you’re not. He’s the one who suddenly decided to walk you, which makes him the more annoying one. Plus, he’s always causing trouble at home anyway, not you. 

“Didn’t they explain to you that you’re an omega?”  

You look up at him confused wondering why it matters. He stares at you for a long time, and even gets angry again before scratching the back of his neck. His hand comes down to the top of your head and you flinch, expecting him to mess your hair up but he pats it instead.  

“Stupid brat,” He sighs after that. You huff but try not to let it show. “Worry about yourself and shut up.”  

__  

[ TEN ] 

 There’s a playground near your house that’s a few minutes walk. It has a rusty swing set but a nice slide. Most importantly, there’s a patch of concrete you can jump rope and draw on. You like going there most of all with Miki-chan. Not today though. Miki-chan is out of town to visit her granny in Osaka. 

Nii-chan offered to take you but you usually refuse him. It’s not to be mean, but just because doing things with nii-chan always makes you a little sad.  

He’s moved from home now, but you still feel weird when you see him since he hasn’t liked you all this time. Mama tells you not to hold it against him - and that you’ll understand him better when you’re older. You hope that’s true. You try not to hold it against him.  

But it doesn’t mean you want him with you at the park.  

(You feel especially dejected when nii-chan acts cold to you but you can’t be sure why. Papa says it probably has something to do with your hormones, since nii-chan is an alpha. Something about packbonding. You don’t quite get it.  

It’s starting to feel like every problem you have is because of being an omega, but you try to keep that thought to yourself so you don’t make papa sad.)  

You bring your jump ropes and chalk along with you. The sky is half-blue, half-grey. You wonder if it might rain on your way there or if it’ll be blue and warm all over by then. You like the rain, but you’d prefer sunshine today so you can draw with chalk.  

You think of things to do. You’ll sit on the swings first then jump rope, thenn draw. Or maybe it will rain and you’ll have to run home. You hope you didn’t jinx yourself.  

Your neighborhood is small so you know the names and faces of all the kids there. Even the little ones who are in the grades beneath yours. Mama tells you it’s important to know your neighbors. You aren’t really trying to remember for that reason, though. It’s more like it bugs you not to know. You’re always like that.  

Papa uses the word meticulous to describe you. Meh-tick-you-lus. It’s easy to say but hard to spell. 

 (Nii-chan says you’re just acting like an omega when you do things like that. This makes your parents upset, especially papa. You never take nii-chan seriously when he complains though. He complains about everything.)   

When you arrive at the playground, there’s a boy on the grass playing with a soccer ball by himself. You’ve never seen him before. He’s got big wide-eyes and a shock of yellow hair underneath which is super cool. His hair is long, just a little shorter than yours and he even has bangs. You wonder if he’s an omega too, since you’ve only seen omega boys be that pretty.  

Your heart beat fasts. It’d be nice to make a new friend, though you’re a bit unsure what to say. You’re a little nervous to approach him but you reason it’d be stranger not to.  

“Hi,” 

The boy stops playing with his ball, doing a trick to kick it up into his hands. He’s cool. Or at least very interesting. His eyes are bright, dark brown with a touch of yellow like his hair. You wonder if grows like that or if he’s allowed to dye it. He stares at you for a long time wordlessly. You shift your weight on your feet. 

“Hi,” He says back.  

You smile.  

“What’s your name?”  

“Bachira,”  

He asks for yours and return and you give it to him.  

“How old are you?”  

“I’m ten,”  

“Really? Me too,”  

“Do you know how to play soccer?”  

You shake your head. “My nii-chan plays it sometimes at his school, but I dunno how. I prefer jump rope. I can do some tricks with a jump rope.”  

He lights up when you mention your nii-chan plays soccer, eager to ask you about it. “Is he good at it?”  

“I think so,” You reply honestly. You ended up going to a lot of games when you were little. He used to practice lots in your backyard too and stayed after school. The memory makes you a little sad “He wanted to play it more but he got hurt. We went to a lot of matches when I was a baby. He has some trophies and stuff.”  

“That’s so cool,” Bachira gushes. You shrug because you don’t really feel like agreeing. “Do you think he would play soccer with me?”  

You shake your head dejectedly, eyes cast to the ground. “Probably not. He barely plays with me so I don’t think he’d play with you.”  

You feel a little bad telling him that given he seems so excited, but it’s true. Soccer or not. It’d also be a little unfair if he played with Bachira, you think. Bachira visibly deflates.  

“Oh,”  

“It’s okay. I don’t think I’d be good at soccer but you can tell me about it.” You say, because Bachira seems fun to be around. He doesn’t seem interested but you go on. “The thing you did with your ball earlier was cool.”  

He lights up again and you smile softly. “Really? I know a lot of other tricks, too. I’ll show them to you!”  

You nod. “Okay. I’m gonna draw on the concrete while you play.”  

You sit on the nearby patch of concrete and set your jump rope besides you as you open up your box of chalk - all brand new. You came in deciding to draw a cat or bunny, but decide to draw a soccer ball as a peace offering to your new companion.  

“Okay! But you have to look up when I tell you or you’ll miss my tricks.”  

“Sure,” You tell him.  

As soon as you sit down down to draw, Bachira starts talking a mile a minute about soccer. He took your words to heart it seems like. You think he must really like soccer, maybe even more than you like jump rope and you really like jump rope. But you don’t mind listening to Bachira talk. He kind of reminds you of Miki-chan, who also talks a lot. It’s good since you prefer not to talk much.  

“So the tricks and cool stuff you do with your feet is called dribbling?” 

He brightens at the fact you put it together without him saying “Yeah!” following it up with “You’re really nice.”  

Your brows raise in surprise as you shake your head. Embarrassed, you direct your gaze down towards your lap.  

“Not really. I’m just normal.”  

He doesn’t say anything else, just grins as he keeps going. You decide to keep drawing instead of talking, listening to Bachira ramble. He tells you to draw for a while he practices his tricks, so he can show you the best ones and you agree without any hassle.  

You look through your plastic box of chalk, smiling as you choose a color. You decide to draw with dandelion yellow.  

__  

Bachira brings you home to meet his mom after he runs out of tricks to show you.  

On the way there, he tells you more about her and himself. She’s his only parent, and she makes art so he thinks you’d like meeting her. Mama usually tells you not to follow strangers, but Bachira doesn’t feel like a stranger. He’s your friend and you find you really like him.  

When you get there, Bachira’s mom seems very happy to meet you. She’s pretty and smells like paint. She asks you if you know your parents numbers, since they might be worried about you disappearing and you give it to her, even though you know you’ll get scolded.  

It takes mama and papa twenty minutes to come over. Mama scolds you about doing something dangerous by yourself. You tell her it wasn’t dangerous because you were with Bachira and you really like Bachira.  

They don’t scold you again after you say it. 

__  

(Bachira becomes apart of your daily life as easy as breathing. Despite going to different schools, you always walk to and from school together after meeting. You’re close friends, maybe even closer than you and Miki-chan who you’ve known since you were a baby.  

Bachira always comes to pick you up anyway, and you walk home from school together every single day. He always has one hundred things to tell you but you like to listen to each and every one. You like how much Bachira has to say about everything.  

On the way home, you play rock-paper-scissors on who’s house to go to. You like it best when Bachira comes over, but if nii-chan is home, you normally go over to his. Sometimes, you wish you went to the same school. Being with Bachira is always fun.  

It’d be nice if you could be together all the time. You think if you were always with him, you’d never be bored. You wonder if it’s too much to hope Bachira feels the same. ) 

__ 

“So, you’re an omega?”  

Bachira and you are playing in the yard today. Your room is getting renovated. According to otou-san, it should’ve been done a while ago to accommodate your nests but it’s getting done now instead. You’re in the backyard with a book, staring up at him as he joins you under the shade. It’s the end of summer break and everything is too hot.  

You look at him. “Uh-huh. Otou-san is too.”  

He stares at you for a long time before joining you in the grass. You feel weirdly self-conscious of the space he occupies next to you. You’ll be eleven soon enough. Bachira drapes his head in your lap as you sit, staring up at you. You don’t bother moving him. He’s always like that.  

He puts his hands up and shades his face from the sun. His eyes glow yellow gold just like always.  

“Does that mean you like alphas?”  

The question is embarrassing somehow. Makes you feel weird because you can’t answer right away. You cast your gaze away and shrug, pretending to read your book but finding it hard to focus with Bachira’s eyes on you.  

You read in a book that alpha and omegas fall in love most naturally. Sometimes they like betas. But you’ve always felt sure you like omegas, and you don’t want to lie to Bachira so you don’t.  

“I don’t know,” You say truthfully. “I’m supposed too,”  

“But do you?”  

You can’t answer him right away. You scrunch your nose and think of nii-san, the only alpha you know personally. The idea of dating someone with any similarities to him troubles you, even though you know he’s not a bad guy. You shake your head.  

“I don’t know. Alphas are too much,” You say after some time. That feels like the right choice. Sometimes, you see older kids and alphas and they all feel that way. “And they’re scary.”  

“Then what about omegas?”  

That feels easy to answer. Bachira stares at you intently and you flush, turning away and covering your face with your hand. “I like them…they’re pretty and smell nice.”  

“Hm,” Bachira says. His expression is hard to read. You make a face at him, head tilted asking the same thing. “I think I might like alphas. I dunno though. I don’t know what I am,”  

A pang of disappointment makes your chest ache but you bury it and smile at him. Just barely, corners of your lips lightly upturned. “That means we’re opposite.”  

“But in a way it means we fit together right?” Bachira says, same as usual. Expectant. Content. Like it’s not a big deal at all. You nod and cast your gaze down to your lap again.  

“Yeah. Right.”  

__  

[ ELEVEN ]  

Fifth year students have special lessons for secondary sexes, before a secondary health examination.  

In your fourth year, you learned about the characteristics of your primary sex which is most important for betas. Most people are betas, so you guess it makes sense they spend so much more time about it. Still, it’s a little surprising how little your teacher really discusses…anything at all.  

You try to pay attention to the lesson but keep tuning out, finding it boring and most of all - not very useful. Otou-san had this conversation with you already. It’s not anything new.  

You don’t mean to sound like a know-it-all of course, but with the way otou-san quizzes you on it, you’re pretty sure you know more than most of your classmates and maybe even your teacher. 

You find your teacher leaves out a lot of important details about alphas and omegas, though you don’t feel you can or should correct her. During your lesson, you start to understand why Otou-san insisted on making you learn at home.  

Reflecting on it, you think being an omega is a hassle. Sometimes it seems scary. Most times though, it just feels inconvenient. When people find it out about you, they always act like they know you. But they only know you’re an omega, so you doubt that’s true.  

 Your first heat hasn’t come yet since you’re on lots of medicines but you get all the same growing pains. New, tiny fangs are already forming in your mouth and your scent is stronger than most kids your age. Your body is already changing, growing and you have to get more check-ups than other people.  

 Okaa-san says that’s normal. That you’re normal. But it doesn’t really feel that way. You notice otou-san never uses the word normal, only says that you’re perfectly healthy. 

 You wonder if it’s something so strange that you’re teacher can’t discuss it. If your disposition is something so offputting. Omega’s are uncommon but not unheard of, right? So why does everyone seem so hush-hush?  

You don’t know how to explain the feeling. It’s lonely. People know you’re an omega, but you don’t even know what that means. Don’t know what it means to feel like an omega either. But supposedly it dictates so much of your life.  

You keep yourself from sighing as to not disturb your class. The led of your pencil snaps from pressure as you write in your work-book.  

__  

[ TWELVE ]  

You return to the classroom early after health examinations.  

It’s the start of the sixth year of your elementary. Most people are finding out their secondary sex for the first time today, but since you already know yours - you’re given a pass to go back and read quietly in the classroom until it’s over. Some people have already developed with strong, obvious scents but getting the official results require a medical check up.  

You want to linger a little more so you can talk with all of your classmates but your P.E. teacher shoos you out of the room before long.  

After you change out of your gym clothes and back into your uniform, you traverse down the hall and take the long way back. It’s April. The sun is out, peeking through the leaves as warm shades of spring bloom outside your schools windows.  

The hallway is unusually quiet. You try to keep your steps light so the hall monitor doesn’t write you up for making noise and causing a disturbance.  

You haven’t been able to shake the strange feeling since morning. Such an important day, met with anticipation - but you exist entirely outside of it. You almost feel noting towards it at all.  

You’ve known you were an omega for nearly three years now and you’ve already heard rumors about you in relation.  

It is isn’t all that important to you. But it is, at the same time since it seems important to other people.  

Maybe it’s because you already know yours, but it makes you kind of uncomfortable to hear how your classmates talk about it.  

You’ve never liked talking about being an omega, even though it’s not a secret. You pretend not to hear them when you’re in earshot but you always do.  

Omegas are weaker, more annoying, too emotional. The only thing they have is attracting alphas, and most people want an alpha to take care of them. Alphas are bound to be successful, and they’re good at sports. It’s great that they have easier chances of seducing them and betas, too. They’re easy and weak so naturally an alpha will want to take care of them.  

You’re used to hearing it, and rarely bother to correct them no matter how wrong they are. Sometimes, you want to point out to them you’re one of those things at all - but then, you wonder if that makes you weak and emotional so you never do. You’re not weak, nor annoying, and you rarely show your feelings to anyone.  

You can’t make sense of whats expected of you and why your classmates laugh you off when you mention you like omegas, either. You’ve always preferred omegas and their company. They’re comfortable, understanding, easy to be with and smell nice.  

There’s something exhausting about the idea you need to be with an alpha. All of it is tiresome. You can’t help but get the impression that from here on, it’ll only get harder to deal with and you don’t want that. You don’t want it to matter. You just want to be yourself.  

Lost in thought, you arrive at the classroom. One of your friends seems to have arrived at the same time. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of her.  

Akemi-chan is one of your good friends. She’s beautiful. She has long, straight hair and cut-across bangs and always smiles. There’s a mole under her eye and her scent is ripe and summery like peaches. She smiles when she sees you.  

She’s so pretty and she stands to close to you - an arm around your waist with a comfortable laugh.  

“Guess what!”  

“Did you find out your secondary sex?”  

She grins, brightening several degrees. “I’m an omega. And,” Her voice drops suddenly. “Chiyo-san is an alpha!”  

“Ah,” Your voice drops.“Did you like Chiyo-san?”  

She nods. “Now that I know she’s an alpha, I like her more, I guess?” 

You try not to look sad, and try to quiet your heartbeat at the way she shows you affection she wouldn’t had you not both been omegas. She doesn’t pull away from you despite knowing you like omegas, so you still feel grateful. Akemi draws her cheek against yours gently. Scents you in the way friends do with her wrists.  

You nod listen to her. The listless melancholy of whats forward draws your attention outside.  

You notice storm clouds coming in as Akemi looks alongside you. It feels different.  

It feels a little too early in spring for such stormy rain.  

__  

“I didn’t get the results of my secondary sex exam,”  

You’re on your way home back from school when Bachira blurts this out to you. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, turning to look at him so you can understand his feelings better. Given how quiet Bachira’s been today - you figured something was wrong.  

You look at him, unsure of what to make of it.  

“Does that bother you?”  

Your question surprises him in return. It’s not unheard for people to present later. It manifests in everyone eventually, even betas. You don’t remember all the terminology though it has something to do with a specific hormone.  

Bachira thinks on your question before looking down at his shoes. He shrugs. “Mm. Dunno. Guess it just makes me feel even more different.”  

You think about what Bachira seems to go through at school and feel your heart tug. That makes sense you think.  

You shake your head, with new and sudden resolve. “I think it’s fine. It kinda makes sense. I got mine early so you get yours late. We’re always like that, right?”  

You hope the attempt to comfort him reaches him. When you look over and see him smiling, you feel unimaginable relief. The world feels more colorful when Bachira smiles. He pauses in the middle of the street, throwing an arm around your neck with a grin that feels like himself again. 

“Yeah. Right.”  

__  

[ THIRTEEN ]  

You can’t tell it’s your heat right away.  

 A fever breaks along your skin in a cramped train car. sweat clinging to your skin underneath your middle school uniform, a heat rash making your whole body itch. The noise around you becomes static, cottony as your heart starts thudding against your ribs.  

Your ears are ringing. Time slows down around you as the speed of the subway seems to double underneath your feet. Your knees buckle as you try and hold yourself upright as the intense and unfamilar feeling of desire violates your senses. Too intense for your body. It doesn’t feel like you. You’re not in your right mind.  

 It’s too early. Most people’s heats don’t come for another year or two at least. You feel so unlucky as the pain flares, mixed with something burning between your legs.  

You try to focus your thoughts elsewhere. You take the same train home every single day at the same time. Plenty of students take it, but clubs keep you later than most. 

Bachira often comes with you just like he has today, so you focus on him. His middle school is a short-distance from yours so you try and walk home together when you can. A small promise that means the world to you. If you can’t go the full way, you always meet up at the intersection and walk the short distance together instead.   

You focus on Bachira as he stands next to you. He’s watching a game of soccer on his new phone, turned sideways with a single headphone in. You watch it over his shoulder. You try too. Your skin scorches, hot like something crash-landing through the atmosphere as a tension grows between your legs. Sweat breaks out around your collar and the small of your spine. You feel out of your body - floating just outside of it. Your neck throbs, scent glands suddenly aching. Both wrist and neck, all of you—aching.  

You can barely make any sense of your surroundings anymore. Your breathing is erratic as you grip onto the metal pole tight and try to make sense of your surroundings. You want to hold out until you can get to a stall. You’ve had a plan for this for as long as you can remember.  

You just need to keep it together until the train stops.  

There’s a man behind you. You don’t notice him until you do. You’re still wearing your uniform - short skirt rolled up to combat the heat of the season. A calloused hand reaches underneath the fabric. You think it’s an accident until it sticks between your inner thigh. It slides up slowly, getting closer to where it shouldn’t be. Your breath hitches. You shiver. Your body is hot.  

“Are you an omega?” An older man, the one behind you murmurs. His voice is crass, grating and dark against your skin. Your stomach twists with fear as your gaze freezes you into place. Unable to find your voice as he touches you, you try not to recoil. Disgusted at your body reacts to the involuntary arousal that spikes in result of it. He’s an alpha. The acrid, overbearing nausea of an alphas scent drives itself into your center like a stake. You hate it so much it’s unbearable but every is so hot.  

You have no control. Over anything. You’re terrified and barely there.  

Fear makes you jump. Your conscious mind slowly loses its grip as you feel your skin dampen with increasing heat, skull throbbing. Your heat is coming and it’s coming fast. You breathe heavily in a pant, trying to ignore the sensation. Trying to ignore everything, just to drown out the oppressive scent of alpha invading your lungs as you tuck your chin.  

“You’re a little young to be presenting like this. Having your heat on a train like this,” His voice weighs down on you oppresively. Your heart is so loud, clamoring noisily behind your ears as tears prick at your eyes. His hands go further and further and you flinch. Brushing where you don’t want to be touched you jolt.  

our jolting makes Bachira look up from his phone.  

“Are you trying to tempt an alpha?” 

You’re not very conscious. You’re disgusted. You know this is normal but it feels wrong. You feel wrong. The horror is grounding in it’s own right. Fog clouds your mind, makes your senses sharp. You feel split at the seams. Fighting with your own consciousness, you can’t think of anything except trying to suppress your instincts. But it’s painful, so painful - and something sticky is running down your legs. It’s not you, it’s your body. It’s violating.  

Your instincts want an alpha. Your body wants something you can’t understand to the point it aches inside of you, aches between your legs and makes you want to throw up. 

Before the man behind you can get any further, your shaken awake by the sound of him practically shrieking. Bachira appears in the corners of your vision.  

You’ve never seen him so angry.  

You can see his hand reaching behind you. Your eyes gloss over as you stare at Bachira. The hand touching you is gone and you feel immediate comfort. You ground yourself in the warmth of his eyes. You try to find his face amidst your tears. 

“Bachira-kun,” Your voice is a whimper. You tuck your head against his shoulder. “I’m scared, I’m so scared, it hurts,”  

He stiffens and then his voice comes. It’s soothing, sounds just like him. High and soft. He hums a lullaby to you like nothings wrong. When his hand rests on your lower back, it doesn’t make you feel like crawling out of your own skin.  

“It’s okay,” He whispers. “It’s safe. You’re safe. I’ll protect you, promise.”  

It’s weird to see him this calm. The loud Bachira you know is never so poised, but he holds you steady. You whimper as he pushes you against his scent glands. He smells sweet. You huff it involuntarily. Bachira doesn’t tell you to stop.  

When the train comes to a slow, you let him move you through the station and take you to the bathroom. Your knees are weak. He’s not the type to worry but you’ve made him so concerned.  

He opens a stall and sets you gently on the toilet. The cool linoleum sobers you enough to look at Bachira. His worry, his concern, his care. You whimper.  

“Hug me,” You practically beg. He hesitates, clicking himself into the stall alongside you as you let yourself drape around his waist. It’s not very different from how you usually are, is it? Bachira is always so affectionate, yet it feels so different.  

 He rubs the scent glands on his wrist on your neck.  

Above you, Bachira is on his phone. Your brain is too hazy to make the details, but you think you hear your fathers voice on the other side of the line.  

“Ji-chan will be here soon,” Bachira says. You clutch the back of Bachira’s uniform. It’s the first time he’s ever felt so broad. “Don’t worry.”  

“Meguru. Thank you,” You say in a half-sob.  

“Anytime,” He says, his voice small and high and so familiar. “I’ll always protect you. Promise. No alpha will touch you again.” 

*** 

__  

The reality of your first heat should be what you expect. You know these things happen. Otou-san has told you to be cautious everywhere you go for the last four years without fail. 

 But when it happens to you, it’s the first time you feel resentful about your secondary sex. Anger towards your body first, for not being able to control itself. Angry at the world next, for making you feel as if it’s your fault.  

You grow averse to alphas in the after math. You try not to be. You try not to let your discomfort show and try not to become the sort of person who makes judgements on secondary sex  - but for a long time, just the thought of being around them makes your bones chill.  

The only thing that keeps you from being all negative is Bachira. His anger for you when discussing that day is enough to ease the burden. Bachira bears your hurt like its his.  

You start calling Bachira, Meguru when you call him after he stays with you during your heat. It’s the last bridge of closeness to cross - the last barrier between you. He calls you by your first name too, sometimes a nickname if the mood suits him.  

You find yourself so thankful to be his friend some days it makes you want to cry.  

You find yourself even more grateful when he tells you he’s an omega. It comforts you. You think, he’s too good to be an alpha and too goo to be with one but you never tell him. It’ll happens someday and you think you’ll be sad.  

But for now, you’re happy being by his side a little while longer.  

__  

[ FOURTEEN ] 

Miki-chan invites you to celebrate her fourteenth birthday with a visit to the mall.  

There’s a huge mall a little over half an hour away from Chiba that she’s been dying to visit since forever agp. Her nee-san takes all of you in her nice car, even letting you spend money on her card within reason. She’s a lot older than all of you, twice your age with a big girl job in Tokyo. She’s stylish and kind and always has fun nail designs because she works for a famous fashion magazine.  

Otou-san has also given you an excessive amount of pocket money after you told him about your day-trip. You really weren’t planning on getting anything, but you’re glad to have something in case Bachira wants to make a purchase.  

You’re stopped in for frozen yogurt, following Bachira as Miki-chan and another mutual friend, Sasaki-san wait for you to come up front. You watch amusedly as Bachira piles his frozen yogurt with more toppings. You’re pretty sure he’s not even going to finish it.  

You peer at his cup from over his shoulder, watching him pile gummy bears onto his already loaded cup of frozen yogurt, wrinkling your nose in distaste.  

“What flavor of froyo did you get this time?”  

“Sea salt chocolate. For balance,” He says, dead seriously.  

You smile involuntarily before brushing past him, spooning yogurt chips into your own cup. You get different things depending on your mood but always keep it simple. Since it’s hot and humid, you’re getting a coconut flavor with shaving, yogurt chips, fruit and strawberry sauce and sprinkles for good measure.  

“You’re too much,” You move past him and wait for him to finish up at the counter. “But if you’re happy,” ��

“I’m always very happy. I have no place for sadness!” Bachira replies.  

You give him another crooked smile, turning to where Miki and Sasaki are chatting.  

“I’ll pay for Meguru-kun,” You announce. His frown is instant. 

“Eh? No way, I brought money though? That’s why I put so much stuff,”  

He’s pouting. You wonder if all omega boys are that cute naturally or if it’s just Bachira.   

“Buy something with it later.”  

He pouts, swallowing his complaint as he knows it’ll fall on deaf ears.  

“Fine,” He huffs, placing his alongside yours on the weight. The cashier gives you two a knowing smile that you miss as she rings up, sticking a color-changing spoon in each before passing it back along with your change. “I’ll get you back for this.”  

You don’t say anything as you watch the weight counter.  

“Over one thousand yen…. you’re such a glutton,”  

“I’ll split it with you as thanks,”  

You make a face of disgust that makes him cackle as you both sit down and join your other friends. Bachira drags his chair to sit as close to you as possible, fully inserting himself into your personal space per usual. You eat a spoonful of your frozen yogurt, unconcerned. Sasaki stares at you for a bit. Your eyes meet and you tilt your head in confusion but she turns away.  

“Miki-chan, is there anything else you want to look for?”  

“New shoes, maybe.” 

You glance at her then shake your head. “Pick something else.”  

“…Okay. Thank you in advance, I guess,” Miki-says with a laugh. You smile a little.  

You look over at Bachira who’s very enraptured in his fro-yo.. You lick your thumb as reach over and wipe the corners of his mouth - stained with chocolate.  

“You eat like a kid,” Fondness unmistakable in your voice.  

He shakes his head sagely. “Eating something delicious is supposed to make you eat like a kid, you know? And we are kids. This is what it means to be free citizens of the world! Of this great nation!”  

“Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it, but clean your mouth at least.”  

Bachira looks at you with smeared mess of chocolate, worsened by another sugary bite. “Why should I worry about it when you’re here to do it for me?”  

You give him flat look. Despite yourself though, you use a napkin from the middle of the table to wipe his mouth off. Miki scoffs at you both.  

“If you’re too spoiled, she’ll get sick of you,” Miki-chan says bitterly.  

“She’d never get sick of me. You on the other hand,”  

You shake your head as the two of them hiss at each other. You’ve been friends for years and they still argue. It’s hard to say they’re oil and water. If anything, they’re so similar it baffles you why they don’t get along better then they do you. After a minute of glaring, she  sighs and goes back to thinking of her shopping trip.  

“Well if shoe’s are out of the question, maybe some new earrings. Oh! And we should get you some makeup you can wear at school.”  

You shake your head. “I told you I’m not interested.”  

“You’re wasting your beautiful omega looks. I won’t allow it,” Miki pouts at you even as you shake your head. “I promise it’ll be easy stuff. I just think it would look nice on you.”  

Bachira doesn’t even look up. “You’re pretty the way you are.”  

“Don’t say something that embarrassing,”  

“It’s not embarrassing if it’s true,” He voices, sing-songy. His insistence only worsens your frown.  

Sasaki glances between you again, you think. It’s too brief for you to catch but the weight of it lingers even when she pulls her gaze.  

“Please? Just a little? I’m buying it for you so it’s fine right.”   

“I know you said you want to practice on me but it’s not just that, right?”  

Miki smiles at you, coy. “Eh… maybe? I want to max your potential more like. You’re not seeing my exquisite vision but I will make you.”  

You shake your head, and sigh - pretending to be more troubled than you are. “Fine. We’ll go after. I want to go to another store too. For stationary,”  

“You’re too much of a bookworm. Boring. Nerd!” Bachira says automatically. 

“The one time we agree on something,” Miki replies.  

You frown at both of them. “It’s important that the world has boring people. How else would we have laws?”  

“Even you thinking about laws is so boring,” 

You shake your head, displeased.  

Conversation flows more steadily between you, Miki and Sasaki. Bachira tunes out, draping himself all over you once he’s done eating. He fidgets with your hands, resting his head on your shoulder. You adjust so you can eat while letting him.  

“Pee,” Bachira announces abruptly. He stands up, arms over his head as his shirt slides over his belly, exposing skin. “Need to pee really bad. Pee time,”  

“Do you want me to come with you?” You ask.  

He looks down at you and smiles widely before shaking his head. “Mm, no. I’ll be fine. I can do it by myself. I’m no longer a kid!”  

You give him a raise brow in reply to say can you? that makes him stick his tongue out. You chuckle at that. “Go pee then. Don’t get lost.”  

“Yes, ma’am!”  

Bachira does a salute before scurrying off to find the closest bathroom. Sure that’ll occupy his time, you smile to yourself as take a spoonfuls of your melty frozen yogurt - careful not to spill any as you put in your mouth and go back to conversation.  

Sorry about that. What were you saying, Sasaki-san?”  

She stares at you for a long time. “Are you two… like… together?”  

You blink.  

“Sorry?”  

“You and him,” Sasaki reiterates. Besides her, Miki snorts.  

“What a good question,”  

You shoot her a unimpressed look. “Ignore her. No, we’re not.”  

“What?” Sasaki says. The genuine disbelief shocks you a little. You’re used to Miki teasing you but not this. “Seriously? Even though he’s like that?”  

“Oh, what? Like touchy?” You reply, starting to understand. Miki interrupts you.  

“Don’t bother, Sasaki. It’s a lose cause.” She shakes her head.  

“Again. Ignore her,” You emphasize, shooting her a glare. “Anyway no. We’re just childhood friends and he’s always been sort of clingy like that.”  

“With everyone?” Sasaki says pointedly. “Or is it just because it’s you…?”  

You pause.  

You’ve never… considered that. You rarely have time to feel overly conscious about what Bachira does or doesn’t do with you. In the first place, he’s not the sort of person that’s easy to predict. He’s got more quirks than you can keep track of but all of it is Bachira. It makes no sense to question his idiosyncrasies this far in. There’s nothing he could do to make you think of him differently. Bachira doesn’t have many friends outside of you to begin with.  

 You blink a few times, considering it. “No, I’m…sure it’s just with anyone he feels very close too,”  

“But to that extent? He was letting off his—“  

Miki shoots her a look and shakes her head. You catch it but find yourself unable to ask, lost in thought. Too hung up on what feels like the edge of an epiphany.  

There’s a long bout of silence until you shake your head.  

 Even if it’s only you, it doesn’t make a huge difference. 

“Bachira is only interested in alphas,” You reply, remembering. Sasaki seems surprised by that for some strange reason. “It really doesn’t mean anything,” 

Before long, Bachira returns to the table. He takes as long as you predicted, but you find you’re a little relieved to see him acting the same. He drops down and places his chin on your head, waiting for you to look up at him.  

“Didja miss me?”  

A sweet, familiar scent. A soft, high voice. A wild look. You look up at him, reassured by your own reminder of his sexuality. You grin mischievously.  

“Not at all,” You say with fake nonchalance. He gasps.  

“Rude!”  

Yes, it’s fine. Still the same old Bachira.  

__  

[ FIFTEEN ]  

“Oh,” You can’t mask the surprise in your voice as your older brother sits at the dining room table. “Nii-san.”  

Your oldest brother has recently started at a real office job. It’s closer to your childhood home then his apartment, so some nights if he’s too exhausted - he’ll drop in and sleep in his old room. It’s rare you come across him though, since he’s usually home and asleep as soon as it’s night time.  

He must’ve come from the office. He’s still wearing his dress shirt and tie, though he has the suit jacket he wears to the office laid over the back of a dining room chair. You try to get used to him looking like that, but the version of him most strongly in your head is all the years he spent as a delinquent.  

His straightened out appearance is unusual for you no matter how often you come across it now. You mostly keep in touch through socials and sparse texts, and he sometimes calls you. His hair is dyed a natural color now and he only has his piercings in on days off. The few tattoos he used to show off are now well hidden under his clothes.  

But his manor and demeanor are largely the same when he’s relaxed. The way he spreads out when he sits makes him look like the average delinquent. The familiarity of it is comfortable albeit funny.  

“You’re home late,”  

“I had student council,”  

He taps his fingers against the table, a silent gesture for you to sit.  

“You’re in student council? Since when?”  

You shrug, setting your bag down to join him in the kitchen. “Since school started. I was roped into it,”  

“Then are you in other clubs?”  

“I’m in a volunteering club. We help the elderly and read with younger classes and help out around school.”  

He pinches the bridge of his nose, tipping his head back. “We’re complete opposites somehow…” 

You purse your lips, faintly amused as you open your fridge up. There’s more pudding then when you left in the morning, but you decide against asking as you take one and open a drawer for a spoon. “You were already skipping class and stuff by then, right? I remembered because you and kaa-san used to argue while I was doing homework.”  

“You heard all of that?”  

You open the plastic peel off lid and dip into the flan-like texture, nodding indifferently as you sit in the dining room chair across from him. “Uh-huh. Kinda hard not too.”  

“It didn’t scare you?” 

“Nah,” You tilt your head. “You glaring at me whenever you saw me did though. A little.”  

His eyes go wide before sighing. “Sorry. I was a knucklehead back then.”  

“It was fine. It made me a bit sad but I’m fine now. And I hope you don’t hate me any more?”  

He gives you a half-hearted laugh, still feeling guilty. You’re mostly teasing. Nii-san has only grown increasingly over protective, though you still don’t know what he’s thinking. He also gives you allowance now, which is nice.  

He leans back. “Nah, course not. How could I hate such a good kid?” 

He reaches over to pet your head as you eat your pudding, giving you a smile you can’t really read. “Your birthday is soon right?” 

“Uh-huh.”  

“Got any plans?”  

“I’ll probably drag Meguru-kun around to the bookstore.”  

He makes a face at you. “That brat,”  

“Don’t call him that.” You frowb. “I don’t get why you hate him so much anyway.”  

“Because he’s always hanging around you and he’s—“ He shakes his fist aimlessly, unable to find the words. They’ve had arguments with each other for as long as you can remember. “Whatever. Fine. Just. Don’t marry him,”  

“He likes alphas,” You say with ease. He looks at you incredulous, before shaking his head.  

“Sure. Even if that changes don’t marry him. Don’t date him either. Settle down with someone nice,”  

“No offense, nii-san but that’s not really a lecture I wanna hear from you,”  

“See? He’s already rubbing off on you.”  

__ 

“Huh? The two of you already broke up?”  

Bachira lays on your bed on his stomach while you sit at your desk, his legs swinging up in the air. Predictably, he’s watching videos about dribbling on his phone.  

You haven’t seen him in a few days but it makes sense that he wouldn’t have heard about it. Your relationship with Inoue wasn’t very public to begin with, at least not on her end. Aside from that, you always got the impression that things would turn out this way.  

You’re sure that your own pessimism and detachment is part of the reason. 

You busy yourself with the derivatives taunting you on your graphing paper, making an affirmative noise. “A couple of days ago,”  

“Ehhh? Wasn’t she totally clingy with you, though?”  

You shrug indifferently. 

Inoue-san was the only other omega in your grade who likes other omegas. There’s rumours about Suzuki-kun who’s a second year and some other third years you don’t really know. Of them, Inoue was the only one you knew personally. You sit next to each other in class and joined the same clubs coincidentally.  

A conversation in the club room making flyers devolved into one about secondary sexes and sexuality. Eventually, you landed on the topic of being an omega. You commiserated about it then, shared some words of camaraderie about the social woes of being the perceived weaker sex and became a little more comfortable with each other. You aren’t sure what thread of conversation exactly led to the talk of you both mutually preferring omegas.  

Inoue-san confessed too, that unlike you who couldn’t figure out what you felt towards alphas, she knew with some certainty she didn’t like them at all.  

Another few weeks of friendship and the steadily closing distance between you, one thing led to another. Inoue-san confessed to you first in a sort of abrupt and out of the blue way. It was a semi-impulsive decision to date her, but you thought she was pretty and nice. A puppy crush worth something, a youthful love affair.  

So after summer break, the two of you started dating.  

It was a short lived relationship. A break in routine. You dated for three months and broke up just this last week. The first month of your relationship was nice. You ate lunch together and texted a lot. The second month you went on dates. The third month had been fine for a little before everything seemed to rip at the seams and fall apart.  

Inoue-san was nice to be with when you were alone. In the sanctity of storage rooms or her childhood bedroom - where there were no eyes to leer at either of you, she was everything you liked about being with an omegas. Soft skin, pretty eyes, an intoxicating scent that made your brain go alight when you touched her. She was comfortable to be with during your pre-heat, easy to touch and hold and caress.  

It made sense to be with her in the way you always thought it would.  

Fundamental differences in your feelings about being omegas in a relationship would appear sooner rather than later though. You’re sympathetic, which is why you don’t think you’re as hurt as you should be. 

“I kinda knew. In the back of my mind, I guess,” You click the end of your pencil to push out more led, scribbling out some more numbers. “She always avoided crowds. Seemed paranoid about people finding out in general. So I thought it might be something like that.”  

“You don’t seem very sad,” Bachira points out. You give him an amused smile from the corner of your eye.  

“What kind of best friend would want me to be sad?”  

“Nooo,” He whines at you, tossing a stuffed toy at you that you reflexively duck a way from. “I was just worried about you, jeez. Plus, I didn’t really like her, you know?”  

There’s no way you couldn’t have known. Bachira being hesitant towards people in your life isn’t anything new. He’s never been fond of any new friends you’ve made, always openly jealous and always asking for assurance that he’s still your number one. Sometimes he’d go as far as doing it in front of them, which you reprimanded him for.  

Sometimes.  

You roll your eyes. “Oh I know,”  

He grins. “I was being so nice this time,” He pouts, rolling onto his back with his arms crossed over his chest. He turns his face to your bedroom wall instead of you. “You should praise me. I wasn’t even mean to her face! Not once,”  

“Pfft,” You laugh behind your hands. “Yeah, good job. Still, I didn’t think Inoue-san was that bad. She didn’t do anything to me,”  

“She was ashamed of you,” Bachira says. It’s weird. A strangely serious sentiment that makes your eyes go wide.  

“Not of me,” You correct. “Of us, maybe. I think she was being sincere when she said she liked me but I mean. I get it. It’s not something I go around telling people either, though I’ve been out for a while,”  

There’s some impulse he bites down. It’s not like you’re defending her, but Bachira takes it as such and takes it personally as he does most things. You give him a small smile as you notice, so attuned to his moods. Even his petulance doesn’t shake you. Selfishness comes as naturally to Bachira as breathing.  

“I wouldn’t be ashamed to be with you in public,” He bites his tongue again and you want to ask what could be on his mind. He’s intending the words to be lighthearted, but there’s weight there. You aren’t sure how you’re meant to hold it. “If were ever to fall madly in love with each other, I would tell the entire world.”  

You try not to let it mean anything. The numbers on your page blur together so much you have to start a problem over. It takes you a second to pull the shake out of your voice.  

“If you like something, don’t you usually tell the whole world anyway?” You say sardonically. Bachira frowns, huffs, turns his head away. His ears are pink.  

“Yeah,” He says back and leaves it there. “Usually keeping it in makes me feel like I’m gonna explode into a million little pieces. Bleh,”  

He slumps back onto one side of your bed and keeps watching his game. The sound of your pencil scratching along the paper makes up for the empty space.  

__  

[ SIXTEEN ] 

On the field, Bachira shines brighter than any star in the night-sky.  

You’re the only one here for todays game. His mom usually comes to whichever one she can, but she has an important exhibition on the other side of the country today. Bachira didn’t show any disappointment about it. You’re not sure how he feels but you doubt it affected too much.  

When it comes to soccer, he becomes completely single-minded.  

The soccer Bachira plays is a reflection of him. Golden yellow and free, like a shade only he can color with, that touches everything and makes it shine in its path.  

The Bachira you know—the Meguru you’ve known your whole life is different when it comes to soccer. Soccer is the precedence of his entire existence. For Bachira, who enjoys being completely and entirely uninhibited, there’s nothing as freeing as the square PVC frames of a net.  

He splits his life in two ways. Soccer and everything else.  

The field are still mildly damp today. It lingers in the air, cooling on your skin as you watch him from the stands in utter awe. Rays of light spill through gaps in the thick clouds over head, shining down on the field and making each move vibrant.  

The game goes on around you bustling endlessly. Noise from all sides. Whether that be in the stands with people talking amongst themselves, the shouting of coaches, or the players talking to one another. It’s loud all around, blurry movements of team mates passing the fall back and forth make up the scene. Guarding and passing, taking each other into consideration as all team sports encourage.  

The soccer that Bachira plays is different from the soccer everyone else plays on the field. Selfish, ego-centric, enigmatic - you find that you can’t take a single breath or you might miss something. It’s antithetical how team sports are played. Eye-catching and flashy as he dribbles the ball along with his feet in a movement like a dance.  

He’s mesmerizing. Despite all the things happening around you all at once, your gaze is fixated completely and utterly on Bachira. So bright it outshines everything else, everyone else, without feeling apologetic. Without reason or rhyme, without strategy. A soccer that demands to be seen.  

This is a game with many players, but to you - it is simply the stage in which Bachira shows off his talent in it’s rawest form. Even in a place not well suited for it, Bachira shines. You’ve never seen anything so brilliant. It’s been years since you last attended a game and seen this applied version of himself.  

It’s the first time Bachira has ever felt so close while feeling so far. It’s the first time you can’t hide from him, pinned underneath the honey-viscous weight of his presence.  

He dribbles the ball between his feet and kicks hard into center stage, scores a goal so beautifully unpredictable the whole crowd roars in cheers and Bachira laughs like he’s delighted.  

You love Bachira. You realize this as he stands like a center piece in the field.  

Like the moon loves the sun. Like the sand loves the tide. Like shadows love light. Bachira is more beautiful playing soccer than you’ve ever seen him, and it occurs to you it’s taken you sixteen years to find this out.  

He’s so beautiful you can’t tear yourself away. Can’t run from the realization.  

His eyes find yours in the crowds of people, elated with his brows raised. You can practically hear him where he stands, lips curled around the words. Did you see that? Did you see the goal I made?  

You break the neutrality of your face and grin wide, uncharacteristic as you chant his name. “Go, Meguru!”  

Bachira laughs again as the game goes on. Your shining star, your ego-centric sun. Your heart is beating loud enough to crush your ribs.  

What an incredible view.  

__  

(Namikaze highschool wins that round of their inter-high bracket. The team goes to celebrate. They never invite Bachira.  

Today, though, Bachira has you. After the game, Bachira wraps you in a hug so tight it could break you. You wonder when he got so strong. His scent, overwhelming and sweet, mixes with the scent of sweat and deodorant. You like it. You hug like that for a while, suddenly aware of your lack of proximity.  

A comment Sasaki-san made about you two years ago pops back into your head but you still don’t think to let him go.  

After he showers and changes back into his usual attire, you and Bachira walk to the 7/11 around the corner of his house.  

You sit on the curb, legs out stretched. The sun is in full bloom, sky painted an pastel orange melting into pinks and blues. You hand Bachira his soda water from your bag, and split the melon flavored popsicle you bought in two halves.  

You give him the bigger half. Unusually, it’s very quiet between you two.  

“I’m going to become the best striker in the world,” He says. A repeat of a dream you’ve heard before, but said with amazing conviction. You look at him for a long time. Wet hair and brown eyes. You tuck a piece of hair behind his ear to look at him better then smile.  

“I know you are,”  

His grin brightens. “Right! Right, so when that happens,” His voice drops, feather soft. “When it happens, make sure you’re watching me. Don’t look away or you’ll miss it. ‘Kay? You gotta promise.”  

He holds out his pinky for you. Were his hands always so calloused? Were they always so big, you wonder. You look at Bachira and suddenly he seems so much older. You nod your head.  

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Meguru.” ) 

__  

[ SEVENTEEN ] 

“Come over,” Bachira demands on the other side of the line. His voice is nearly a screech. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him so excited in your entire life and that is saying a whole lot. “Come over, now. Like right now! You have too, you absolutely must,”  

You pull your bag up on your shoulders as you pull the phone away from your ears. “Jeez, jeez - alright. I just got back from my supplementary lessons, so give me a second.”  

“Are you on the street in front of my house?”  

“Huh? Yeah, I am.”  

The phone line cuts off, going completely silent as you stare at your phone in a mix of confusion and disbelief. Your fingers hover over the call back icon for a second before a tremendously loud shout and even louder footsteps sound in your ears. 

You’re too surprised to laugh as Bachira comes barreling towards you in minutes flat. You steel yourself preparing to catch him if he lands face-first, but he manages to pull back in record speed skidding to a halt. You blink at him rapidly. He feels like an illusion.  

“You ran here,”  

“Yes. I did. Because,” He grabs both of your hands and starts to tug you into some kind of spinning dance in the middle of the sidewalk. “I. Have. News!”  

“News? What about?”  

His eyes widen and shine brilliantly. “Bluelock!”  

__  

The act of disappearing requires a lot more work than you could’ve imagined.  

You’re being dramatic. Bachira isn’t disappearing. Not forever, at least. He’s just going away for a while, abruptly doing the thing that he would’ve done regardless because it’s not like he can become the best striker in the world in Japan alone. It’s something that was bound to happen eventually.  

And, it’s not like you didn’t get any warning. The letter came months beforehand. Bachira was set to leave towards the end of November, which meant he about a month to prepare. Which means you’ve had about a month to be with him.  

It’s not a big deal. You have other friends. Other people. It’s good that Bachira is going to be in a place that he can play the soccer he’s always dreamed. Even as his best friend, there’s some things you can’t do for him. It’s the happiest you’ve ever seen him, which is saying more than you ever could.  

Rationally, you know there’s nothing to worry about. Emotionally, you’ve found out that you rely on Bachira more than you thought. Even the thought of him leaving temporarily is making your heart wrench. You’ve asked him a million questions.  

It’s not like you to be so anxious about anything. You ere on the side of calm. But it’s Bachira. Your Meguru, so you can’t help but worry.  

Bachira, dense as he is about other people, sympathizes with your concerns without asking and doesn’t get mad when you answer. It’s easy for you to forget that he understands you in his own way. 

 Bachira depends on you because he cares about you and you take care of Bachira because you are about him. It fulfills a mutual sense of purpose.  

This is a normal part of growing up. You’ve been repeating it to yourself constantly. It’s not like you won’t see him ever again. You’ll see him afterwards, at least for a little while. You won’t be able to call or text him while he’s in the facility but that’s not forever. And even while he’s in there, he wants to hear about your boring life. So he says, anyways.  

Rationally, you know it’s fine. Emotionally, you’re growing a keen sense of awareness about this being the end of your so-called youth. It’s not you’re adults, but you’re not kids either. You’re going to be eighteen next year. You have to think about entrance exams. You have to think about life and where Bachira will go without you.  

Time is passing by you whenever you hesitate. Eventually, it’ll catch up to you and Bachira will be somewhere so far out of your reach. There’s no one you can think of more perfect for center stage. No one’s soccer will every shine as brilliantly as Bachira’s.  

But it’s lonely. In it’s own right. To think about how far he’ll go. He’ll dribble himself to the ends of the Earth eventually.  

At least for another week though, he’s within your reach. You have so many pictures together in your room per his request over the last few years, but looking at him now you kind of wish you had more.  

“Aren’t you wanting to practice?”  

“Ehh?” He frowns. “I can practice later. But I can’t be in your room all the time you know. I want to burn it into my brain. I thought we should do something special to commemorate but I couldn’t figure anything out.”  

You hum. A thought strikes you. It’s incredibly out of character, but maybe that’s why it does. “We could drink together.”  

Bachira laughs at first, definitely assuming it was a joke. When he realizes you’re dead serious though, he gasps, scandalized. Your lips quirk up at the corners.  

“Who are you? An impostor? A shadow clone?” Bachira grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly. “What did you do with my uptight best friend?!”  

You laugh helplessly. “Don’t act like that. I just know where my parents keep bottles of shochu cold in the basement and thought maybe. I’ve never touched it before. It’s the weekend right? So if we get too drunk, you can sleep here.”  

Bachira dramatically places a hand over his mouth in shock. “Have you really been replaced by alien clones…I can’t believe my ears.”  

You shake your head. “Do you want to drink together or not?”  

“Ehhhh?? Of course I do!” Bachira says, absolutely enthused at the idea. “We should get so drunk together.”  

You consider it. “My parents are visiting relatives. I guess I can text and see if nii-san is coming home.”  

“Are you saying it’s okay to get drunk if he isn’t planning on coming?”  

You nod. “He’d probably be easy on me but I don’t want him to lecture you,”  

Bachira squishes his face to yours, rubbing his cheek on yours with unabashed affection. You try not to laugh. You can feel him so close, smell him so close it makes you a little dizzy. Bachira doesn’t let out his scent more than necessary, but he is now just barely - scent glands brushing against your skin.  

He smells sweet, but in a strange way. It was comforting and familiar. A little unusual for an omega given how strong it was but it’s not like Bachira is very usual in general.  

It’s a little intimate for friends, but it’s Bachira and who knows when you’d see him next. You let him do as he pleases.  

“Hurry and text your brother,” Bachira huffs, then brightens back up again. “Then lets drink! Yay!” 

__ 

You bring the bottles of shochu back up to your bedroom as a pre-caution. Nii-san is is a couple hours away for a work trip, but you can’t get over the lingering paranoia of him appearing back home and trying to fight Bachira as a result so you figure it’s probably better to drink in your room.  

You bring two glasses up with you along with juice and soda water, unsure about the taste. Bachira likes soda water as is so maybe he can use it as a chaser.  

You sit across from each other at the small table close to the floor in the middle of your room. It took a while to get the bottles open.  

You’ve smelled it before but it’s a little weird having it available to drink. 

“I can’t believe you’re drinking with me. Underage. You, of all people.”  

You pour a little shochu into each of your cups with a roll of your eyes. You’ll save the mix-ins for later, but you’re interested in tasting it on its own. You’re sure your parents have other stuff too, sake, beer and wine but you don’t know where they keep it. You read the labels of the bottle before drinking it.  

You brush past what Bachira has said. “Fourty-three percent seems like a lot.”  

“That’s basically half right? Doesn’t that mean this is gonna make us super drunk? Ohh, think I’m gonna throw up in your room? I haven’t done that since we were ten!”  

“Please don’t throw up in my room.” You say, shaking your head. “I don’t know actually. It seems like a lot. Guess we’ll just have to drink and see.”  

You shrug. You pick up your glass, signaling Bachira to do the same. He lets out a loud kanpai as you do, making you laugh a little as you bring the glass up to your lips. The scent itself sort of burns, you can’t imagine what drinking it is gonna be like.  

You watch aghast as Bachira knocks the entire glass back and nearly hacks up his lungs coughing. His eyes are wet when he recovers with a fit of laughter that he can’t seem to get control of.  

“Ahhh, it burns! It burns so much and it tastes weird. But it was easier to drink at once.” He says dramatically laughing, nearly retching in the process.  

You stare at him in disbelief before taking a sip of your own drink refusing to partake in the same foolishness. He’s right that it burns. You always heard that but feeling the acidity in your mouth is different. It feels like all the moisture from your mouth is going along with it. You try it a few more times in short sips.  

Are you some sort of masochist?  

“I kind of…” You blink. Your eyes water as you look up at Bachira. “I kind of like it…?”  

Bachira takes the bottle into his own hands that time and pours more of it straight into your glass and less into his. You’re sitting but you feel woozy. He pours soda and juice along his own before picking it up again, smiling with a friendly cheers.  

__ 

Hours pass.  

You and Bachira drink two entire bottles and talk to each other about nothing in particular. Mostly, it’s Bachira telling you how excited he is to go to Bluelock and you listening. You like listening to him. You love his voice.  

You’re not sure when exactly the distance between you had disappeared entirely. You’re used to Bachira. To his body heat, to his presence, to his weight. You know how to carry him. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the drawn out feeling of loneliness making you feel self-conscious.  

You don’t know what it is exactly. But there’s something about him at this proximity you’re having a hard time with. Wrapped up together, tangled on your bedroom floor while you both reek of liquor. He smells like burnt honey and he’s… handsome. More than he is pretty, you think. Still pretty though too.  

He’s so unusual in every way. Your love for him sort of simmers underneath you in a pleasant but difficult way. You blink. Your eyes are bleary. He talks so much, but it’s the first time you really think about kissing him. The first time you wonder about how it feels.   

You’re staring. Bachira pauses halfway as you’re tucked against him and stares back, mouth curled into familiar chesire grin. He drops his voice down to a whisper.  

“What?” He says. He’s being teasing. He does that occasionally.  

“Nothing,” You say and want to shut your eyes. “Keep talking. ‘s fine.”  

“It’s not nothing,” He whines petulantly. “You’re not listeninggggg,”  

“Sorry.”  

He hugs you, an arm slipping under you and squeezing you. Was he always so strong? You figured his legs might be but there’s muscle in his arms too. “I’m not actually mad, dummy.”  

“I was sorry, though.” A beat of silence. A heartbeat. “I’m gonna miss you.”  

“Really?”  

You look at him incredulous. “Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t?”  

“You’re hard to read sometimes! Even for me.”  

You decide not to apologize again. Bachira would complain. You desperately want to tell him you love him. They’re the only words on you mind. But even this wasted, you can’t bring yourself to do something that pointless.  

“You’re the most important person in my entire life,” You opt for instead. “And I hope you find someone who can play the kind of soccer that’s fun for you.”  

Another minute of silence passes before you hear the familiar huff of Bachira crying. He cries often but he hasn’t done it in front of you for quite some time. He tucks himself against your neck and shoulder, shifting to press against your scent glands.  

“I was doing a good job not trying before this,” He mutters. You rub his back soothingly, smiling a bit. “Gosh…don’t be so sappy like that randomly. It’s bad for my heart!”  

Your own throat feels thick but you keep it down. Manage to swallow the tears away. You want to tell him so badly it’s making it hard to breathe.  

Bachira looks up after a while. You do him the courtesy of wiping his tears away with your thumb, brushing them away from his face.  

You don’t realize how close your faces have gotten until you nearly brush against his nose.  

You think the alcohol is making you hallucinate when you feel a kiss.  

Your eyes are still open for it. It’s not clumsy but it’s not smooth either. You blink. And you feel it again, and it lingers a little longer until you close your eyes and kiss back.  

You kiss him so hard it feels like you forget how to breathe.  

__ 

You don’t talk about it.  

When Bachira wakes up the next day thoroughly hung-over and much in the same condition, treating you exactly the same - you assume he’s forgotten about it unlike you. You try not to let it weigh on you by writing it off as one of Bachira’s many quirks. Maybe you’ve gotten practice at repressing your emotions better than you thought since it works perfectly.  

The week passes by easily. At the end of it, you see Bachira off along with his mom and the rest of your family who insisted on waving him off. The thought of not knowing the next time you’ll see him is painful but you manage it with the feeling you’ll see him eventually.  

Though you don’t know how long it’ll be.  

__  

The next time you see Bachira’s face is on T.V.  

It’s the first time you’ve ever sat in your living room to watch a game of soccer. You had wanted to attend, but tickets had only been alloted for family. You settled on watching at home, though Bachira’s mom had promised she would relay any messages she could from Bachira to you through text and otherwise.  

You’ve never been into soccer. Despite your many years spent along side it for one reason or another, the sport itself has rarely ever been of any interest. You’re sure this is partly to blame on the fact you are hilariously unathletic albeit perfectly healthy.  

When the U-2o match gets announced and you hear Bluelock will be playing, your ears perk up like a dog. You’re glad Bachira isn’t around to see how you announce to your entire house and tell them the T.V. and living room will be totally occupied during the duration of the match. You invite Miki-chan who pretends to want to refuse but comes over to watch anyway. Your nii-san joins you, which isn’t a surprise since he liked soccer to begin with.  

You know whats happening well enough since you’ve had it explained to you hundreds of times.  

You see several people on the screen during the match. Bachira’s team mates. Team mates he gets along with. There’s another player named Isagi on the field and him and Bachira have such tangible chemistry you feel a little jealous watching them.  

In the short few months Bachira has been away at Bluelock, you can see how he’s changed. How much his soccer has transformed and improved in so little time.  

Most of all, you can tell that Bachira is having the best time of his entire life. You can deal with the mild envy if only he gets to be that happy forever. 

The U-20 games end in a victory for the Bluelock team and several interesting characters appearing. That guy, Isagi, announces to the world that he’s going to be the one to lead the team to victory. You think to yourself that you understand exactly why Bachira likes him.  

The next time you see Bachira in person is not long after that. Apparently as a reward for their win, they’d been granted two weeks of free time.  

It was only a few months, but it’s easy to tell how much Bachira has changed. It was all over him. He carried himself with more confidence, more electricity, more buzz.  

He was still himself while being completely unrecognizable at the same time.  

You were happy Bachira was happy, elated to hear all about his life and new friends. You couldn’t keep track of all of it, but you’ve been spending the last few days attached at the hip now that he was back in your hometown.  

He’d had another day to visit friends already out in Shibuya that you couldn’t attend. Not that you really wanted too. You were happy he extended the invite but being around that many athletes and no doubt many alphas sounded like a nightmare.  

 You figured he would have another day or two like that as is, so when he texts you again that he’ll be meeting with some Bluelock friends, you’re content to let him go and not tag along despite yourself. As much some whiny part of you wanted to monopolize him completely (an omega part of you, you can admit) you feel it’s more important for Bachira to nurture his newer relationships on his own.  

And again, being around that many alpha athlete teenage boys is mildly nightmarish to you in particular.  

So you invited Sasaki to the mall to talk about this and that to keep your time occupied.  She’d started dating some guy at school and you have yet to know the details.  

You weren’t expecting to run into Bachira with his friends at the same mall.  

You catch Bachira’s eye from across the way in the middle of the mall, along with a group of boys you know to be his new team mates. You honestly think it’d be better to avoid them for now. Not that you’re not happy to see Bachira, but there’s no way this won’t be incredibly awkward for you. 

Sasaki nudges you though, not caring in the slightest at your visible distress. “Isn’t that Bachira-kun?”  

“Yes,” You hiss, trying not to be obvious. “Let’s go the other way.”  

“Huh? Why?”  

“Because—“ 

You turn around to leave but don’t really get a chance as you hear a voice shout your name.  

You flinch as you turn around. Sasaki gives you an amused look that you elbow her for immediately, feeling yourself jolt. After she makes fun of you, she holds your hand with an affirming squeeze and comforts you in a way only betas can - a soft citrus scent washing over you. You squeeze her hand back sighing, thankful as the group of boys stalk over to you.  

Bachira runs more than he walks, skidding to a halt in front of you. “Ehhh? What are you doing here?”  

“Came to gossip and walk around with Sasaki-chan,” You say with a shrug, pointedly ignoring the three pairs of eyes on you as you talk. “And buy books.”  

“I thought you said you couldn’t come,” Bachira pouts at you, giving you a pointed look. You smile lightly.  

“I didn’t say that,” You reply softly. “I didn’t want to intrude, that’s all.”  

“You’re not intruding! Even if you were, I wouldn’t really care.”  

“But you should,” You insist, shaking your head. You turn to his friends, getting a better look at them. Two alphas and one beta if your nose is right. You look at them apologetically. “Sorry about interrupting your outing.”  

The one of them with pink hair and the prettiest features you’ve ever seen talks first. You’re sure people mistake him for an omega, but his scent is too alpha like for that to be the case. It’s strong enough and distinct enough for you to identify from this distance. “Not at all. I’m Chigiri. This is Nagi,” He says, introducing the other alpha next to him. “And I figure you already know of Isagi,”  

You smile a little at that. “Ah, yeah. I do, actually.” You glance at Isagi. He’s a beta in the way he feels like the pinnacle of peace and safety off the field. It’s a little funny how different he seems. They all seem, really.  

“Stop getting so buddy-buddy with them,” Bachira bemoans. You frown at him.  

“Sorry about him,” You introduce your name first, then Sasaki. “We’re all childhood friends. It’s nice to meet all of you. Sorry to disturb your day off.”  

“You’re not disturbing us,” Isagi says serenely. You think he seems a touch smug but can’t tell if you’re imagining it. 

“You’re welcome to hang out,” Chigiri says next. He and Isagi share an unreadable but obviously conspiratorial look. Your eyes widen at the offer, shaking your head with your hands up.  

“Ah. No, we don’t want to intrude seriously.”  

“Why are you deciding for me?” Sasaki cuts in, making you shoot her a very sharp glare. “Shouldn’t you at least ask?”  

“You’re not intruding,” Chigiri assures, an incredibly disarming smile on his face. “We’d be bound to see each other again if we’re both here anyways. May as well, right?”  

You feel yourself sink, glancing at a very Bachira and thinking of the complaints you’re going to receive as soon as the two of you are alone. Your shoulders slump as you reluctantly smile, lips pressed into a flat line. 

‘That’s true. If you’re sure you don’t mind, then alright.  

__  

For alphas, you think Bachira’s friends are pretty nice.  

Nagi barely speaks, but he’s weirdly been engaged in conversation for the entire duration of you knowing him. He’s got the imposing looks and vibe of an alpha but precisely none of the aggression - at least from where you’re standing. He’s been considerate of you in his own way, especially after Bachira had announced the general discomfort you had felt towards alphas over all.  

Chigiri is similarly nice. You can tell he grew up around omegas and are not surprised at all when he informs you he has omega sisters in his house. He’s extremely friendly for an alpha, and you’re sure another omega would be foaming at the mouth at how polite he is.  

Of his friends though, you still take preference to Isagi. He is a beta through and through. Adaptable, friendly, easy going while having a sort of snark you find incredibly entertaining. Him and Bachira get along like a house on fire, but not in way that’s entire negative. You do feel a little envious seeing how close they’ve gotten in such a short period of time, but you’re mostly happy for him. Their bond is obviously special.  

The rest of your group left a few moments ago, leaving you and Isagi to a much bedgrudging Bachira. You’d gotten food from the food court but it wouldn’t require so many people to go wait so you and Isagi have been securing a spot. You aren’t sure how to be alone with him, never been all that good with strangers.  

Isagi is good at making conversation though, so you haven’t had to do much leg work.  

You end up at the topic of Bluelock and Isagi practically beams at the chance to talk about it. It’s kind of cute in it’s own right. You know some stuff about it, but the logistics have been lost on you. Bachira tends to talk about these things more with onomatopoeias than with words. 

You fiddle with something on the end of your bag as you engage in conversation. 

“How does the facility manage like… having omegas and stuff in there?” You wonder. You voiced the concern to Bachira before leaving too but he had assured you it’d be fine. You kind of feel nosy asking.  

Isagi shoots you a confused look. “Hm? Bluelock doesn’t have any omegas. It sucks but they considered it too high risk so only betas and alphas were admitted.”  

Your turn to look confused. “Sorry? But Bachira is enrolled in it no…?”  

Isagi stares at you. “Uh,” He scratches the back of his neck. “Bachira is an alpha, though? Like, a pretty strong one too. It’s hard to tell from his scent from what I hear but he’s prescribed the really high dose medications that the other alphas take. Part of the rut management and everything.”  

You blink.  

“…That’s…” And then you look up, completely unsure of what to say. “..Are you sure? Like… really sure?” 

Isagi looks at you sympathetically. His voice is soft and comforting. “Yeah. I’m sure. Sorry,”  

You shake your head. “No it’s,” You feel your eyes start to well up, chest feeling especially tight. “It’s okay. It’s not like you did anything wrong.”  

“You’re a nice girl, huh?” Isagi says, voice tender and easily sensing your sudden distress. It makes your lip wobble. You want to cry into a strangers arms even though you absolutely can’t. “I’ll scold him for you.”  

You give him a thankful look. “I’m gonna uh,” You swallow. “Go to the bathroom. When Sasaki comes back tell her to text me. And Bachira, uhm. I guess just tell him I went home.”  

Isagi smiles. “Sure.”  

You thank him again picking up your few things hastily and bolting in the opposite direction.  

You don’t really know what you’re supposed to do or how you’re so suppose to receive the information. It’s not a sense of betrayal you feel welling up inside of you, but something closer to  a sudden deep remorse and regret. And so much shock you can barely make sense of anything. You feel the sorry in your bones, and you feel the paved memories of your entire lifetime begging to shake under your feet.  

Bachira is still Bachira. 

But he’s an alpha. An alpha who likes other alphas, in the same way you’re an omega who likes other omegas. He’s like you. You shared this your entire life, but you never knew not once. You didn’t even have any idea.  

What kind of friend does that make you? What kind of friend have you been to him all this time? Was it bad enough that he couldn’t share it? When you’ve depended on him so much?  

You don’t know how you end up in a bathroom. It’s in such a far away part of the mall. You feel out of body, moving on autopilot as you shuffle into the empty stall and sit on the toliet with your bag and your things.  

You’re reminded of your first heat on the train back from middle school. An old memory but not old enough you easily forget. Hesitance turned to frustration and disgust towards alphas. You’d avoided after that for years and still do now. Was it then?  

Despondent, you aren’t sure what to do with yourself. The echo of stalls, the noise of people loudly outside, the forceful beat of your heart. A reminder that you’re really living through this realization so late. It’s weird. It hurts so much you can barely think through your thoughts and come upon any answers on how to go on.  

It’s not hard to understand why. Bachira is selfish but he’s also loyal. You’re sure that sometime ago, to protect the vulnerable version of you who was already so distrusting of alphas, Bachira had kept it from you as to break your perception any further. You can’t blame him for that, especially when that distrust towards alphas yet to dissolve completely. Of course he wouldn’t be comfortable telling you.  

You can’t bring yourself to hate him over it and never would. You’d spend the rest of your life trying to unglue the fused parts of yourself with him, the memories and you’d never see the end of it if you attempted.  

What hurts you is that he never told you. Not ever. Not even when you voiced your worries about his heats in Bluelock. Not even as you drank together. Not even when he kissed you. 

Was he never going to tell you? 

Did he never trust you enough to tell you? 

That hurts most. You only have yourself to blame. The thought makes your heart wrench. Your eyes water as you focus in on the ground and try to breathe. 

The door of the bathroom itself opens and shuts all of a sudden, familiar footfall making hundreds of alarm bells go off at once. You already know it’s Bachira, but for the first time you don’t know what you’re meant to say to him. The feeling is so complex you can barely put it in words for yourself. How were you meant to face him?  

“Meguru,”  

You can hear him whimper on the other side of the stall door, fists hitting it in a dull thud.  

“I’m sorry,” He’s crying. You want to open the door and comfort him so badly but shame stops you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry - it’s all my fault. Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me.”  

You hate hearing him cry. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to keep your voice steady. “I don’t hate you at all.”  

“You’re lying. You won’t even open the door to look at me.”  

“I just can’t,” You say, not really know how else to explain it. “But nothing could make me hate you.”  

“But you hate alphas, don’t you? You’re uncomfortable with me now. We can’t be close anymore, right?”  

You don’t say anything to that. You want to deny it. You want to tell him nothing could make you want to stop being his friend.  

But then, you remember that Bachira is destined for unimaginable greatness. Bright like the sun and even more interesting, more talented, more cool than you could ever be. He’s an alpha to boot. You think of the future of your life and how you’ve always pictured it to be quiet and functional, because that’s who you’ve always been. Bachira is—was a star crash landing in your life, anyhow. You think of all of that, along with everything else - and all the ways you’ve betrayed him unintentionally.  

You’ve used up all of your luck. Inevitably. Eventually, it was always going to end with a gradually forming distance. You knew that before he left just like you know it now. And nows as good a time as any to put it to rest.  

“Meguru,” He’s your first friend. You’re sure that’s why he’s so shaken up. Distance would be better. “You have to focus on becoming the best in the world, right? I’ll uh,” You try to breathe. “I’ll be watching from a distance no matter what,”  

“Please don’t leave me,” He whimpers. You wince.  

“It’s not like that. There’s a lot of people who are beside you now.” You say warily, trying to comfort him. If you were a more selfish person, you would want to be friends. You love Bachira. You’ve loved him your entire life. You probably always will. But you think if he’s had to keep this secret from you so long - you don’t deserve any of that. “It’s fine. You’ll be fine,” 

Without me. You’ll be fine without me. You want to tell him that, but can’t bring yourself to say it.  

You won’t be, you don’t think. Not for a while. But this is the least you can do for your relationship. For your best friend who you haven’t paid enough attention too.  

“I’ll stay with you until you stop crying,” You offer. “And when your eyes aren’t red, we can both just go home. Okay?” 

Bachira sniffles on the other side of the door and doesn’t reply. 

__  

[ EIGHTEEN ] 

On your eighteenth birthday, Bachira’s mom calls you at midnight.  

Yu-san is like a third parent to you, so you pick regardless for the reason she calls. She sounds relieved when you answer despite the sleep in your voice. You’re up late studying for your driving license exam which you’ll finally be eligible to take starting now.  

“Ah. Hello?”  

“Hey, kid. Thanks for picking my call,” She sounds like she’s doing something. It’s a Sunday so she’s probably painting. “Don’t sound too confused. I just called to wish you happy birthday. Meguru always called you at midnight, didn’t he?”  

You look down at the papers on your desk, twirling pen in fingers. “Yeah, he did.”  

“You two still aren’t talking, right? But knowing Meguru, he’ll feel sad later on when he realizes he didn’t wish you because he was upset,” She hums, nonplussed. You smile a little. Yu-san is just like that, you think. Even after being aware of you and Bachira’s fights, the way she’s treated you hasn’t changed. “So I thought I’d do in his place.”  

“It’s alright, Yu-san. But thank you,”  

“Of course,” She says. You hear the faucet running and the familiar clicking of paint brushes on the other side of the line. “Come over when you have some time. I brought ingredients for your favorite. We can go pick up a cake together, too. I bet you’re too busy studying and forgot to make plans, right?”  

You flush. “…I did.”  

She laughs good-naturedly. “Right? I thought so. I know it’s just you in the house, but feel free to invite Sasaki and Miki-chan, alright? And don’t stay up too late studying.”  

You feel tears well up in the corners of your eyes. “Thank you for always taking care of me, Yu-obasan,”  

“Oh, don’t be silly. That’s a given right?”  

“Right,” You sniffle. “But still, thanks.”  

“Of course. Oh! And, happy birthday.”  

[transformativeworks]

OTW Website and Donation Form Are Down

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[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part i

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: later chapters get smutty. reader has some physical description: mentions of her having very curly hair and a more curvy body.

content warnings: a royal affair between queen reader and guard jisung. the king is a violently abusive man. this chapter contains a scene of physical violence and attempted sexual assault against the reader who later has a panicked reaction. reader also believes sex is not pleasurable (but learns different to say the least).

please proceed at your own discretion.

chapter word count: 5100 words.

-

There is no groom at your wedding.  Your betrothed is too hungover to attend the ceremony.

You are disappointed but not surprised.  Last night, your father hosted a welcome banquet but your husband-to-be ignored the lavish festivities in favour of drinking himself into a stupor.  It did not matter that banners were hung in the great hall, that a feast was prepared, that the palace glittered in anticipation of his arrival.  It did not matter that you were made a vision, resplendent in ivory and pearl, prepared and perfected just for him. 

The house, the money, the bride.  It did not matter at all.     

Such insult would not have been tolerated in a man, but he is a king.  Only the heavens can issue him orders, just as he commands common blood like yours. 

Your family is wealthy but your father’s land sits at the border.  Many at court consider you foreigners in all but paperwork.  Regardless of that status, your family owns the most prosperous land in the kingdom – a kingdom with coffers long since drained from an overseas war that reaped nothing but blood. 

This arrangement will save the kingdom and your betrothed knows that, but he is not happy to marry for money when his bloodline is better.  The king holds nothing but disdain for your union and last night it moved like a poisonous mist through your home. 

There was nothing you could do.  You sat and watched your royal betrothed make a crude mockery of your arranged marriage.  He travelled to your lands with a contingency of courtiers and they filled your house with his contempt.  He spent the night belittling your family name, sneering at you, and pawing at the servant girls between drinks.   

The king drank.  The courtiers laughed. 

Only one group extended any civility towards you at all. 

“His Majesty sends his regards,” the leader speaks to you now. 

He is in black robes, a sword at his hip.  Bang Chan is captain of the holy kingsguard, an ancient order sworn to defend heaven’s earthly sovereign.  There is nothing holy about the degenerate king but his kingsguard is an ordained ministry nonetheless.  They surrender all earthly goods and fortunes, devoting themselves to service and soldiership.  That includes a vow of total chastity so they are the only men permitted to perceive the future queen prior to the ceremony. 

What little remains of the ceremony.   

The soldier informs you the ceremony will now be conducted by proxy.  The king is bedridden today, but the wedding cannot be delayed as he is needed back at court and the return journey is long. 

Chan is polite and respectful.  He does not mention that the marriage cannot be delayed because the king wants money now.  You are certain your betrothed’s condemnation of his otherwise worthless bride was rather more unkind.   

You remember the cold eyes of his courtiers, his even crueler sneer, and you blink back tears.    

“I understand,” you say.  You are practiced at maintaining grace in the greatest adversity.  “Thank you, soldier.” 

Chan wears a pitying expression.  It looks like he wants to say more but he knows his place.  The kingsguard is the strictest order in the kingdom.  Only the most devout are granted the black cloth and silver sword. 

“Your Majesty,” he says with a bow. 

You are not a majesty yet.  You have weddings vows to swear to a stranger first.

Until then, you are just another woman.

-

You made the wedding dress yourself.  You have always enjoyed the craft of needlework, even where certain jobs could be passed along to a seamstress.  Growing up, you spent more hours alongside the working women than at your mother’s table, a behaviour that was indulged until the war. 

You run your fingers along every familiar stitch, tracing the embroidered floral patterns down your forearm.  You always wanted a spring wedding but it was not meant to be.  You enter the hall with the hot summer sun pouring over the crystal and marble. 

It is an ostentatious ceremony.  The king could not afford such a spectacle.  It makes you think he absconded on purpose.  What better way to wrestle back his dignity than to disregard the expensive ceremony?  He kept decorum and travelled to collect his bride only to snub the household in the end.   

The king’s absence is felt more than your presence.  It turns the grandeur of the hall into a theatrical farce.  Courtiers giggle behind their hands, the traditionalists casting you looks of disapproval. 

Your own family smiles and you smile weakly back. 

For all their faults, you love your family.  They thought they were doing something good by arranging this marriage.  A small, childish part of you even hoped they were right, but that hope is gone now.  You have resigned yourself to the sad reality of the world.  Life is a dreary grey save what small bits of colour one dares sew into its seams. 

There are flashes of black cloth around the hall.  Chan is not among the present kingsguards as the leader stays close to the king, but a handful of the regiment has been spared to witness the proxy vows.

You recognize a soldier named Hyunjin, standing apart for his beauty as much as position.  Several of the ladies tittered about him last night, lamenting that such a handsome form was sworn to a chaste life. 

You do not recognize the other two.  One is shorter and stocky.  The other has silver hair and a freckled face, smiling at you from the far corner.  You stare back at him, taking the proffered comfort of that open sweetness. 

You finally reach the front of the hall.  You step onto the dais.  The minister rises and a hush cascades down the congregation. 

You worry your pounding heart can be heard in the highest arches of the hall. 

The first words of the ceremony are a name. 

“Han Jisung,” the minister says.  It echoes with a swinging reverberation. “As an ordained soldier of the kingsguard, you have been called upon by His Holy Majesty to stand in proxy for the swearing of the vows.”

Footsteps break the silence, beat by beat.  Someone ascends the dais. 

You do not look at him.  You cast your eyes up to the arches of the great hall, tracing the grandiose architecture.  It carries cultural traces of the borderlands.  The art of this place is home to you, though it draws ire from the courtiers behind you. 

You think that you may never feel so at home again, that you will never gaze upon such beauty, then you turn and catch the warmth of deep brown eyes.  You see the man who will receive your vows on behalf of the king. 

Your racing heart stumbles over itself. 

Han Jisung.  You did not know his name until now.  You recognize this soldier from the banquet last night.  

The stranger stands beside you.  His nails are painted black, stark where he rests his hand on the silver hilt of his sword.  His hair is as black as his midnight robes, his brown eyes darkly lined, but his intimidating shadows are softened by the gentler, roundish shape of his face.  There is a raw and open tenderness, even where he tries to stifle it with appropriate solemnity. 

Your eyes are drawn to his lips and you remember his smile last night.  Jisung strode into the banquet with a sword at his hip and a guitar on his back.  It is not unusual for the kingsguard to have a bard, someone who can conjure a flattering song at a whim, who can perform as if the gods speak through his guitar strings.  That is Han Jisung.    

Last night, while people danced and drank, you sank further and further into yourself.  You smiled prettily but all the spring blossoms in your heart rotted as the summer sunset turned to a miserable black gloaming.  Torches were lit and the cackling faces on spinning bodies looked like demons in the lamplight.  The king ignored you so everyone else did the same. 

Jisung, armed with a guitar, was enchanting a crowd of courtiers and some local palace residents.  You watched from a distant seat.  You could not help but stare, captivated by this stranger, this combination of soldier and musician and holy man.  His glowing face in the torchlight was a solitary beacon, his smile more intoxicating than the ever-flowing wine.  His laughter rang out like a symphonic chord, travelling the air to touch your ears where you sat alone. 

The man was no one to you, just another stranger in your home, but there was such a simple, honest delight to him. 

He just seemed so alive.   

You were not prepared for the moment he met your gaze.  His black robes swished as he jumped, his dark hair bouncing. His eyes seemed to flash gold in the firelight.  He stood on a chair above the crowd and said, “A song for the future queen!” 

He sang about the springtime, not even knowing you cherished it so much.  Perhaps the gods truly spoke through his guitar strings.  He sang of new beginnings and hopeful seasons and cherry blossoms. 

You smiled.

It was your first real smile all day. 

He looks at you now, a flicker of something kind in his dark eyes.  You see that twinkle only briefly because he dips into a respectful bow.

You unravel at the sight. 

You imagine truly marrying this man, swearing oaths to him and not some wretched figment he serves.  You imagine the promise of laughter.  You imagine those warm eyes seeking you across the room.  You imagine a song every spring. 

You know it is a fantasy.  This man is a stranger and that version of him is a fabrication.  Your heart breaks because that version of you – the girl who is happy for the rest of her life – is just as much an impossible fantasy. 

Jisung looks up while bowing.  He meets your gaze as a tear trickles down your cheek.  No one else notices, just like one else noticed you last night.

As he straightens, his polite smile falters, his brow furrowing with thought. 

You jump when he flicks his wrist as if batting a fly.  The discreet sweep of his thumb across your cheek is so fast that you only know it happened because the tear track dries. 

“In the name of the gods,” the minister speaks, “the ancient and the almighty, we gather here today to unite in matrimony the holiest of subjects.  This couple has been brought together through heaven’s all-knowing divine intervention.”   

You bow your head.  There is nothing else you can do.  You listen to the recitations and make your oaths when prompted.  You swear before gods and men to serve your husband, to obey him, to always be pure and faithful to him. 

“The gods grant you to speak on behalf of the divine blood,” the minister says to Jisung. 

You look at Jisung.  He is already looking at you.  His gaze darts down your dress, across the floral embroidery, and lands at your feet. 

Your breath catches when he slowly gets down on one knee, keeping his head bowed and eyes down.  A gentle murmur disturbs the congregation but there is no outrage.  The king would not have bowed before the queen but the genuflection of a proxy is arguably appropriate.   

“I swear,” Jisung says, his theatrical voice replaced with a gentler rasp that tingles up your spine, “I will honour you as a wife and a queen.  I will revere you as the gods’ chosen consort.”   He looks up, his lashes long and dark, his brown eyes so big and warm.  You think he is so beautiful and it makes your heart pang.  That ache deepens when he smiles and says,  “I will be your protector.  Until the day I die, no harm will ever come to you.”   

He stands.  Blessings are made.  The minister pronounces the union has been sanctified by the gods.  The congregation kneels in genuflection, respectful of the rituals even if they do not like you.   You stand on the dais above them all, maintaining a stoic expression.

You are a wife and a queen, though your husband is nowhere in sight.  Your eyes stray to a head of dark hair, bowed with the rest of them. 

Jisung looks up, a bit of that hair falling over his eyes.  He flashes a smile. 

Your heart picks itself up and starts running again. 

You cannot do this. 

You thought you could try for the sake of your family.  You thought you could try for the sake of the gods.  You thought you could try for the sake of the kingdom and all the innocent people within it. 

Then the king came to your chamber.  He did not attend the wedding feast, just as he did not attend the ceremony.  It was a fair excuse to make an early departure so you returned to your room while the music played and wine flowed.  You were exhausted, emotionally weary, and your face was sore from so many false smiles. 

You discarded your elaborate gown.  You were in a shift, sitting at your vanity and removing jewelry, when the king arrived.  He did not announce himself or knock.  He threw open the door and marched inside like a conquering force.  He looked over your room with a scrunched face of displeasure, grimacing as if he was standing in a barnyard.  He looked at you with the same hateful distaste.     

Your throat closed up as if you inhaled poison.

You stood on shaking legs.  You had practiced a speech for this moment.  You thought perhaps you could convince the king to regard you as a decent friend if not a cherished wife.  You were willing to compromise on happiness. 

He backhanded you without hesitation.  No one had ever hit you so hard.  It felt as though he struck you with hot iron, your cheek a stinging welt.  Bells seemed to drown out the music downstairs.  

“Sire,” you said, your voice shaking worse than your legs.   

You found you could not look at him directly.  Your eyes burned just turning towards him. 

“Get on the bed,” he said.  “Wife.”  He might as well have said whore as the word was spat.   

You never expected to enjoy your wedding night.  Women know there is no pleasure in acts of copulation.  This was something worse.  You approached the bed like a deer skirts the edge of the woods.  One wrong step and you knew you this hunter would attack. 

He grabbed you from behind before you could sit.  You slammed your eyes shut, curled your fists tighter.

In the darkness, you heard music, a distant voice belting some sweeter tune.  You recognized Jisung, his crystalline voice soaring above the bells. Your heart chased the sound, a desperate stampede up your body.  It seized control. 

Before the king could do more harm, you blurted, “I’ve started my monthly bleeding.”

He stopped, the hem of your shift in his fists.

“Just – just so you know,” you said. 

It was a lie.  You braced yourself for the worst.  If he chose to disregard it, if he chose to take you anyway, he would quickly see there was no blood and you were trying to deceive him.  He had rights as a husband and it was sinful to deny him. 

He made a sound like gagging.  He shoved you forward. 

You collapsed in a heap on the bed.  You are not sure if he looked at you again because you hid your face in the blankets.  Hiding like a child hides, as if the world could disappear by not seeing it. 

“I will not have you on the road,” he said.  “You’re filthy enough as is.  When we reach civilized society, you will be made as appropriate as you can be.  You will be cleaned, you will lose weight, you will be made to look halfway respectable, not like some borderland animal laying in its own filth. I will have you then without exception.  Wife.” 

You shuddered when the door slammed shut. 

The sun was still setting when he left.  It has long since vanished from the sky but you have not moved.  You fear if you lift your head, he will be there, waiting to strike. 

After a long, long time, you surface.  Your room is empty.  The lavender light of sunset is gone, leaving behind a puddle of moonlight.  It trickles between the curtains, pours down your back.  You shiver.  You touch your cheek and find it is still tender. 

You try to pray but there is no answer.  Even the music has ended. 

In the ringing silence, you stand.  Your body is sore from curling up for so long.  It takes some pacing to straighten fully.  Back and forth, across your room.  Back and forth, in the silence. 

I cannot do this.  Back and forth, the same thought, again and again. 

Disobeying the king is unlawful.  Abandoning him when you have sworn an oath is treasonous.  Even the kingsguards are bound to their vows for life.   If a soldier breaks his oath, he is put to death, swift and sure.  The punishment for a disobedient wife is the same. 

The silence is agonizing. 

You know what you have to do.   It will not be easy.  The risks are great but you would rather die a swift death than suffer the slow poisoning of contempt. 

You have to try for sake of yourself. 

-

Your adrenaline pounds.  You pack all your jewelry in a sack to sell.  You bring some clean clothes.

There are servant clothes in a stack by the unlit fireplace because you mend their worn garments during the busy seasons.  They are always appreciative and you like helping people. 

You don a pageboy’s garb and tuck your hair into a hat.  The king commented on your build and you grant it gives you away, built with your mother’s curves with a cascade of your father’s curly black hair.  You hide all your prominent features as best you can. You will be more inconspicuous as a roaming servant boy. 

You tip-toe into the corridor, uncertain if the hallway is guarded.  The palace is usually safe but you are a queen now, so maybe the king sent guards.  Protecting you was in his oath, after all.  The king is beholden to oaths sworn to the gods.

At least, he should be held to his oaths.  

The hallway is empty but you are hardly aggrieved.  You seize the opportunity and let your racing heart carry you away. 

Down the hall, down the winding stairs, through the kitchen, past the door.  You slow to a nonchalant canter when passing other servants, making sure to turn your face down and keep to the shadows.  Everyone is either busy, drunk, or tired, so you manage to slip past without notice. 

Once you are alone outside, you break into a run.  You do not leave yourself a moment to think.  If you begin to doubt, you will falter, and this will all be over. 

You are panting and sweating by the time you reach the stables.  You are not exactly in the habit of great exertion.  You take a moment to catch your breath while scanning for guards because there must be some.  The courtiers have their animals in camps around the palace but the king’s horses are stabled.  The kingsguards have alternated shifts to keep an eye on the king’s property.  

There are no guards to be found.  You approach the stable with cautious steps and slip inside when no one appears.  A lit lamp is swinging near the door as though it was recently bumped, but no one is there.  The horses shuffle and sweep their tails but it is otherwise silent.     

You step to the first stall.  Your heartbeat is erratic and it pounds harder when you find a horse already bridled.  Did they forget to remove the saddle?  This is one of your father’s horses and that is unusual, but you do not question it. 

You lead the horse out of the stall and into the middle of the stable.  You speak gentle nothings to him.  You have not often ridden this horse as he is one of the faster animals, but you will need that speed tonight.   

Perhaps the gods are on your side after all. 

You take hold of the saddle.  You are about to hoist yourself onto the mount when a zing of metal slashes through the silent night.   The tip of a sword touches your shoulder.   

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

You recognize that voice. 

Of all the kingsguards to find you, of course it would be Han Jisung. 

You are so startled  that your adrenaline turns from fire to ice.  You freeze solid. 

“Hey! Little boy!” He lightly jabs you with the sword, just enough to scratch the material of your stolen shirt.  “A kingsguard asked you something.  Answer me!  Now!”

Your hands are still raised when you turn around.  It is a slow, begrudging reveal.  Your eyes are on the hay-spattered stable floor.  You look at his black boots, the silver sheath hanging at his hip.  Up, up, up, your eyes slowly lift. 

You meet his gaze.  His brow is furrowed with frustration but it smooths when he recognizes you.  Shock replaces irritation.  The sword wobbles and he takes a startled step back. 

“You—” he says.  He looks at you, slack-jawed, then rubs his eyes as if he cannot believe what he is seeing. 

Finally, the sword lowers to his side. His long black robes swish with the movement.  His shock gives way to panic.   

“What are you doing?” he demands, his voice breaking on a harsh whisper.  He swiftly sheaths the sword and takes several determined steps closer to you.  “Are you crazy?  Where are you going?  And what are you wearing?”

“I’m leaving,” you snap back.  The burgeoning panic in your chest begins to putter, making you indignant in your desperation.  “And I’m obviously in disguise.”

“Oh.  A disguise,” he says dryly.  His face is theatrical by nature, brows jumping and eyes widening.  “Yeah, no one could recognize you like this.  Except for, oh, I don’t know—”

Audaciously, Jisung snatches the hat off your head.  You yelp, throwing your hands up to grab it, but he pulls it away faster than a blink. 

Your hair tumbles free, curls even messier than before.  You slap your hands over your head, frantically smoothing them down.  Your arms start to shake, all that panic and adrenaline bubbling, needing somewhere to go.  You feel as though you are going to burst, a screaming firework shooting through the roof of this stable. 

“I would have been fine with the hat,” you snap.  “I made it this far.” 

“Only because half this house is drunk,” he replies with equal verve.  “Look at you, your hair, your face, your – your body.”  He stumbles over that one, eyes flicking down your form and up again.  He clears his throat and shakes his head.  “You would have been caught immediately.  You were caught immediately.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you say.  “I know my way.”

“There’s no way a girl like you has ever ridden anywhere past your family’s land,” he says.

You are flushed with heat and aggravation.  You want to argue but he is not wrong.  You know the general direction to town but you have never ridden there alone. 

“I know my way,” you say again. 

“Do you?”  He takes a step closer.  “You go north – I assume you know which trails are occupied by bandits?  And the east –  you know which path to take to avoid the mountain lions?  Or the west – if you go over the border and the men who live in those woods discover you alone—”

“Stop it!”  You throw your hands up over your ears.  All that panicked heat simmers and spills.  It turns to tears. 

You sob.     

He’s right.  You know he’s right.  You let your desperation and your adrenaline carry you this far, but you are not prepared for an arduous journey.  You have a sack of jewels that are a greater liability than asset on dangerous roads.  What would you have done if they were stolen?  What would you have done if someone hurt you?  You have nothing.  No map, no direction, and no hope.

Jisung’s shoulders drop.  His own passion tempers itself, his frustration cooling in the face of your tears.  He was also carried away but you don’t blame him.  He is a kingsguard.  He is duty-bound to protect the king and the king’s property, which you are. 

He found you committing treason.  You are lucky he did not hold a sword to your throat and drag you to the king. 

His sword stays sheathed.  He looks at you, expression morose.   

“I’m sorry,” he says in a soft voice.  “You know I can’t let you go.” 

“I know,” you whisper, gasping through your tears. 

If you were not so miserable, you might have laughed at the look on his face.  You are certain this man has encountered many adversaries, but never a sobbing woman.  He would have been happier dealing with a real thief. 

His hand lifts and falls as he wars with himself, evidently debating whether he should touch you or not.  You stand there, sobbing into your hands while he watches helplessly. 

When he does touch you, it is careful.  His fingertips are light on your shoulder, then the slow curving touch of his palm as he gently squeezes.   It is the first kind touch in days and it sends a shiver down your spine.  You look at him, eyes wet with tears, imploring with no words. 

His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak.  A breath stutters past his lips.  Slowly, he takes back his hand and curls his fingers into his palm.   He swallows. 

You stare at each other in the dim lamplight.  You are not sure how long you would have stood there but you are interrupted before you can find out. 

There is a soft knock at the stable door and Jisung jumps as if it was thunder.  His head whips around, looking between you and the door. 

“Fuck,” he says.  His brows leap and he covers his mouth.  “You didn’t hear that.  Quick.” 

You have no opportunity to ask questions.  He swiftly ushers you into the empty stall, closing the door behind you.  He races to the stable entrance to greet whoever is there. 

You hold your breath, hiding in the shadows as someone enters the stable.  Jisung and the intruder speak in hushed tones that you cannot decipher.  You inch closer to the door, peeking through the slats of wood.    

It is another kingsguard.  He was not at the festivities but you recognize him from the ceremony.  He is the silver-haired one with the face full of freckles, the one who smiled at you so kindly.  You would recognize such a unique face anywhere.  For some reason, he is dressed in civilian garb even though the kingsguard is not allowed to wear anything but their black robes. 

You can hear better as they step further inside.   

“Thank you again,” the silver-haired man says. 

“Don’t thank me yet, Felix,” Jisung replies.  “I still think you’re crazy, man.”   

“Still,” the man, Felix, replies.  “Not everyone would have helped.  You didn’t have any problems?”

Jisung is adjusting the saddle on the horse.  His eyes lift and meet yours through the slats.  You duck further into shadow. 

Jisung sighs and shakes his head.  He tightens the reigns then hands them to Felix.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Jisung says.

Another figure steps into view, one who has been silent this whole time.  You watch as the person draws back their hood, revealing a woman around your age.  By the style of her gown, you can tell she is a courtier from the capital.  She smiles at Jisung. 

“Thank you, Han Jisung,” she says.  “The gods will reward your courageous heart.”

“Ah-ha-ha.”  He giggles nervously, scratching the back of his neck.  “I already have everything I need.  Some of us—”  He casts a withering look at Felix, though his tone is light and teasing, “—can keep our chastity vows.  I don’t need anything more than service.” 

Felix chuckles.  He holds out his hand to the woman and she hurries into his arms. 

“If that’s your path, I hope it will make you happy,” Felix says. 

You watch as they help the woman onto the horse.  Felix swings up behind her.  They both pull hoods over their heads. 

Jisung reaches up, offering Felix his hand.  Felix clasps it.

“Brother,” Felix says. 

“Crazy man,” Jisung replies. 

Felix smiles.  They drop hands and Felix takes the reigns.  With an expert click, he marches the horse into a swift canter and rides out the open stable door.  Jisung strides forward to watch them leave, craning his neck to see further. 

Now you know why there were no guards and a horse was prepared.  Felix and Jisung must have been posted as guards and took the opportunity to sneak Felix away.  Felix, who has evidently committed treason, breaking his vow as a kingsguard to ride off with a woman. 

You doubt this was a whim.  You wonder how long the trio has been planning this.  If there was ever a time for a guard to steal a horse and sneak away, it would be in the busy chaos of a wedding week.  Like Jisung said, most of the household is drunk.  Others are tired and resting.  A long journey back to the capital begins tomorrow and it cannot be diverted. 

It is a journey you will have to make. 

You nudge the door open.  Jisung’s shoulders jump as if he forgot you were there.  He regards you warily as you step forward. 

“So,” you say.  “It’s okay for some people to commit treason.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Jisung answers quickly.  “Felix can handle himself out there.” 

You have both witnessed the other commit a treasonous act.  You could rat him out to the king, just as he could drag you back and do the same.   Instead, you stare at each other, your gazes measuring.  You meet in the middle. 

“Do you think we understand each other?” he asks. 

He holds out his hand in offering.  You remember his quick but substantial touch at the ceremony, the moment he wiped the tear from your cheek.  For all that darkness circles the periphery of him, there is something warm at the centre of his character.  It compels you to trust him. 

You take his hand. 

“I do,” you say. 

[ccwpidsblog]

SAINTS AND SINNERS — iwtv

SUMMARY : Edmée Heart, the dutiful daughter of a pastor, lives a sheltered life bound by rules and expectations. But her quiet world begins to unravel when she catches the attention of Louis de Pointe du Lac and Lestat de Lioncourt, two enigmatic men with dark secrets. Drawn to Edmée’s innocence, Louis and Lestat vie for her affection, each offering her a taste of freedom and danger.

RATING : 18+

CONTENT WARNING: season one spoilers, not entirely accurate to the show but we’re all grown here it shouldn’t matter much, eventual polyamory, heavy religious themes, daddy issues, more to be added

CWPID NOTES 🏹: this is a great way to come back and show how much my writing has improved. redeeming myself from the trash fiction i was writing before. ON A03 N WILL ONLY BE UPDATED ON AO3 (if im not being lazy)

Edmée remembered the Sundays before Louis de Pointe du Lac avoided the sun, somehow, he’d managed to arrive at church after a long night of sin. He was always late, slipping through the heavy wooden doors just as her father’s booming voice began the first prayer. From her family’s high pew, she could see him moving down the aisle, the faint scent of booze and perfume lingering on his clothes—a sinful whisper of the previous night’s indulgences.

He’d take his usual seat beside his brother, his strong frame settling heavily into the creaking wood. His head would bow, his eyes would close, and for the rest of the service, he remained still. Unmoving, like a statue carved from marble. At first, Edmée thought he might be sleeping, but there was something too deliberate about the way he held himself, his hands clasped loosely on his lap, his expression unreadable.

She couldn’t stop watching him. From her elevated view, she memorized the way the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across his dark skin. He looked ethereal, caught between shadows and light, the kind of beauty that left her breathless and guilty all at once. She tried to focus on her father’s sermon, but her gaze always drifted back to Louis.

At the end of every service, as her father stood by the doors shaking hands and offering blessings, Louis would rise with a graceful ease. He’d move through the small crowd, a charming smile on his lips, and when he reached her father, he always made a point to praise the sermon. “Your words speak straight to the soul, Pastor Heart,” he’d say, his voice like velvet dipped in honey.

Then he’d turn to her mother, taking her hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles. “A vision of grace, as always, Mrs. Heart,” he’d say, his words smooth and effortless.

But when his gaze finally reached Edmée, it changed. He wouldn’t kiss her hand, wouldn’t offer a compliment. Instead, he’d nod at her, a playful, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. That smile—the one that made her feel like the only girl in the world and completely invisible at the same time. If her skin had been any lighter, she knew she would’ve turned as red as the pew cushions beneath her.

In passing, he treated her the same. A quick nod, a flash of white teeth. But she noticed how he greeted the other women—the kisses, the murmured words that made them laugh and fan themselves, the lingering glances. With her, there was none of that.

Only a nod. A smile.

And it made her stomach twist with jealousy. The last time Edmée saw Louis was at Grace’s wedding. The church was packed, and the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the murmur of joyous chatter. Louis was everywhere that day—his laugh echoing above the music, his face alight with a rare kind of happiness that made him seem untouchable. He was glowing, his usual quiet intensity replaced by something brighter, freer. Edmée stood by the punch table, nervously clutching a glass, when he approached her. She didn’t see him coming; one moment she was alone, and the next he was there, his presence commanding and electric.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Maybe even more beautiful than the bride.”

Her breath caught, her cheeks burning.

“Don’t tell Grace,” he added with a wink, leaning in just enough that she caught a whiff of his cologne—a mix of cedar and something darker, richer. Edmée could only nod, her voice stolen by his closeness, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

Months.

Many months without seeing him.

The pew Louis shared with Paul and his family remained empty every Sunday, a silent memorial to all that had unraveled. No one dared to sit there now, not after everything. Not after Paul’s tragic passing, not after the whispers.

The whispers.

They followed Louis like a shadow, stretching long and dark through the town. The women at her mother’s so-called “Bible studies” spoke of him in hushed tones, their voices dripping with scandal and sanctimony. “Dancing with the devil,” they’d say, the words lingering in the air like smoke. Edmée would sit in the corner, quietly stitching or polishing silver, her ears pricking at every mention of his name. Her brothers were no better. On Thursday nights, they’d gather in the attic for their card games, their voices low and conspiratorial. Edmée wasn’t allowed to join, of course, but she’d found her own way around that rule. If she sat at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, her father wouldn’t scold her.

There, she could catch snippets of their conversations, each word painting a more vivid picture of the man she hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“...seen him with him again...” “...spends his nights where no decent man would...” “...more dead than alive, if you ask me.”

The words made her chest tighten, her heart ache. She couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Louis de Pointe du Lac, the man who nodded at her with that secret smile, who complimented her at Grace’s wedding, couldn’t be what they said he was. Could he?

But her father’s rules were ironclad. She couldn’t ask, couldn’t go looking for answers. The world outside their home was a forbidden one, especially now. Edmée’s days were measured in prayers and chores, her nights spent reading scripture or mending clothes by candlelight. Her father had made it clear: the streets were no place for a proper young lady, especially after dark. The world out there was dangerous, filled with temptation and sin. But tonight, as she stood by the forbidden window, the temptation was unbearable.

The house was quiet, her family long asleep. The window, a heavy thing with rusted hinges, had always been forbidden. “Nothing good comes from looking where you shouldn’t,” her father had said countless times. But tonight, Edmée couldn’t help herself. She pressed her fingers to the cool glass, peering into the moonlit street below. At first, there was nothing. Just the empty streetlamps and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. But then, she saw him.

Louis

He was walking slowly down the cobblestone street, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his head slightly bowed. The gaslight caught his face, illuminating its sharp angles, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked different—thinner, wearier, as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She pressed closer to the glass, watching him with the kind of hunger she didn’t dare name.

“Not tonight,” Louis said, his voice low but sharp. Another figure emerged from the shadows. He appeared with a startling grace, stepping into the lamplight as if conjured from the darkness itself. His hair gleamed like spun gold, his sharp, angular features both striking and unnerving.

There was a wildness about him, a dangerous energy that made Edmée’s heart race in an entirely different way.

“Louis,” Lestat’s voice purred, low and teasing, the sound carrying up to her window. “Out for another pensive stroll, are we? Tell me, do you plan to sulk your way through eternity, or is this just for tonight’s entertainment?”

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Lestat,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with frustration. “Oh, but you never are,” Lestat replied, stepping closer. “And yet, here I am, devoted as ever. You should be flattered, mon cher.”

From her perch, Edmée couldn’t look away. The two men stood in stark contrast—Louis, somber and grounded, and Lestat, all sharp smiles and restless energy. Their connection was undeniable, charged with something she didn’t quite understand but found utterly captivating.

Lestat reached out, brushing an invisible speck from Louis’s shoulder with a flourish. “And speaking of devotions,” he said, his tone turning sly, “you’ve been spending an awful lot of time on this street. Seems that you miss the little church mouse lately? What’s her name again? Edmée?”

She could see the shift in Louis as he seemingly snapped, finally turning to face Lestat. “Leave her out of this,”

Lestat’s grin widened. “Oh, mon ami, you wound me. I only meant to say she’s... enchanting, in her own way. So innocent, so untouched by the world.” He tilted his head, his gaze flickering upward as though he might sense her watching.

Panicking, Edmée ducked away from the window, her heart pounding in her chest. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to steady her breath.

Had he seen her?

Had they seen her?

Who was he?

What was he to Louis?

As she sat there in the dark, the questions swirled in her mind, each one more troubling than the last. And though she couldn’t explain why, she felt as though she had glimpsed something forbidden, something that would change everything if she let it.

[aureatelys]

snowflakes in my stomach

pairing: aaron hotchner/non-bau!reader rating: teen+ w.c.: 3k summary:

You work as an elf during photos with Santa at the mall and you spot the extremely attractive man with his son in line.

cw: christmas! fluff! christmas fluff! meet cute, jack hotchner being cute and a little shit, some language, age gap as reader is mid-20s, mentions of haley, working retail, no y/n

also posted on ao3 or below <3

“Where the fuck is Santa?”

You try not to roll your eyes, and you turn from where you were staring at the giant candy cane statue that’s nearly falling apart near Santa’s chair to the man standing several feet away, held back by a red velvet rope barrier. He’s starting to turn red in the face, fists clenching, while his daughter that looks almost way too old to still be taking pictures with Santa is tapping away on her phone.

It's the day before Christmas Eve, thus the last day of Santa and his elves taking pictures with screaming children at the mall. You were already working part time at the mall while you’re in classes and your manager somehow convinced you to help out with the photos for a couple of weeks. Although it was nice to get away from working in retail during the holiday season, you’d much rather be folding clothes for a table you just fixed up 5 minutes ago than deal with these annoying rich parents and their children.

It's nearing 8pm, which means only about 30 minutes left until you’re finally free and can go the fuck home and get out of these ridiculously itchy tights.

“Sir, please don’t curse in front of the children.”

The man’s daughter scoffs at that, barely throws a glare at you, before focusing back on her phone.

You try not to pointedly glance at the other people behind them in line. Since it’s almost closing time, there’s only a couple of people left who are starting to get just as antsy. There’s a woman with a boy who looks about 2-years old and a group of teenagers. What really catches your eye, however, is the older and extremely handsome man at the back of the line with possibly the cutest little 6-year-old boy.

He's very overdressed for the mall; a white dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up, an expensive-looking tie, and a suit jacket thrown over an arm, so you assume he just got off work and rushed here after scheduling last minute. He’s tall, nearly towering over everybody else, intimidating, and has dark and stern eyes as he glances at you and the man at the front of the line, eyebrows pinched in concern.

“That doesn’t answer my question! We’ve been waiting here for 15 minutes!”

You grimace. He does have a point.

Your Santa went on break 15 minutes ago, claiming he was taking a 10-minute break, and you tried not to notice the photographer had skipped to follow him. You definitely tried not to notice the obvious ass-grabbing that Santa did on the photographer either.

You try not to sigh too loudly and put on that well-practiced customer service voice and smile. “I’m sure Santa is just taking a cookies and milk break! He’ll be back soon.”

If possible, the man’s face gets even redder. You could almost see the steam blowing out of his ears if you tried hard enough.

“Well, can I get a refund or something? I had to pay a direct deposit on the website and I’m not waiting another 10 minutes,” he gripes, nearly shouting directly in your face.

Your ridiculous elf hat is falling down into your eyes, but that fake customer service smile doesn’t budge. “You’ll have to contact the North Pole for that, sir.”

The man stares at you in disbelief. You smile at him, years of practice of working in retail coming in hand. Customers like him don’t bother you anymore, especially since you are definitely not getting paid enough to wear pointed shoes that are too small for you and jingle every time you move.

You hear a cough from further down the line and when you peer around the man who is absolutely fuming now, you see that older handsome guy cough into his fist, something like a smile quirking at the corners of his pretty mouth. He looks at you then, makes eye contact with you over the head of all the people in line, and quickly looks away due to his son tugging at his sleeve to make him lean down and whisper something in his ear.

You feel giddy all of a sudden. You made a cute guy laugh, and not only that, you can tell just by looking at him that he doesn’t hand those out very often.

Get it together, you’re at work, you think to yourself.

You clear your throat. “I’m sure Santa will be coming back any minute now.”

And because you have no choice until you were done with the very last person in line, you wait.

The Christmas music blaring throughout the mall has faded into white noise at this point. You’re staring at the ridiculously large Santa chair and wishing you were sitting in it, giving your knees and back a break after standing for several hours, and wondering what you’re going to have for dinner tonight when you feel a tug on your dress.

You spin around, about to have some not-so-nice words for that angry man if he’s putting his hands on you, when you look down and see that cute blonde boy peering up at you with pretty brown eyes. He’s dressed in a red and black checkered flannel with his hair sleekly done in a way that you can tell he’s just itching to mess up.

You blink down at him before bending your knees so you’re at his height. You ignore the very audible crack. “What can I do for you, little man?”

“Why aren’t you at the North Pole?” he asks, so innocently that it warms your heart and definitely not stirring up the baby fever you’ve been trying to ignore for the past year.

You genuinely smile at him because, well, how could you not? “Well, Santa wanted me to work here this year, plus I get to see some of you kiddos!”

“My uncle Derek said all the short adults have to work at the North Pole, so why aren’t you there?” he blinks at you.

Before you could react, the little boy is being lifted up and tucked into the arms of his dad. There’s a light dusting of pink on his stern face, softening it, and a comical panicked look in his eyes.

“Jack!” He reprimands, before turning to you. “I’m sorry, he knows better than to repeat things his uncles have said to him.”

His voice is low and deep, almost mesmerizingly so, and your knees almost buckle at the thought of him whispering in your ear. You have to crane your neck up quite a bit to look at him from where you’re still squatting. You put your hands on your knees to stand back up straight, only grunting a little bit from the effort.

“It’s no problem,” you say. “It’s nothing I’ve heard before.”

Even standing to your fullest height, this man towers over you. He’s much more handsome up close, with some loose strands from his gelled hair falling into his forehead, creases at the corner of his eyes, and the sharp slope of his nose. You can barely detect the hints of his cologne, something clean and like sandalwood.

“It’s a good question,” Jack says, surprisingly very sassy than he looks.

His father seems to huff a laugh, like it escaped him before he could control it. It’s a very nice sound, something you would be fine with hearing over and over again.

You nod. “I’m sure it’s not Jack’s fault since he’s around very tall people all the time, right?”

Jack nods emphatically while his father looks exasperated but extremely affectionate at the same time. He bends to put Jack down, now sure that he isn’t going to cause any more trouble. The glint in the boy’s eyes tells you otherwise.

You break your gaze from the way you can see the older man’s biceps flex underneath his sleeves, his forearms because holy shit, and notice that everyone else in line besides Jack and his father were gone. Even the infuriating angry guy.

The last-minute Christmas shopping crowd has started to dwindle down as well, with some stores even starting to close earlier than usual so the employees can assumedly escape the traffic and spend the rest of the night at home.

And yet, you’re still here wearing striped leggings that you are sure is what’s causing your rash on your thigh, a green dress that is absolutely doing nothing for your figure, and a stupid fucking elf hat. Standing next to probably the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in your life.

“I’m sorry about the wait,” you say, because honestly this is getting ridiculous. How long can they be fucking for?

The extremely hot man looks up from where he’s tapping away a text. You try not to ogle at how his hands dwarf his cellphone and instead try to make polite eye contact. He has warm golden-brown eyes that make you feel only a little stupid.

“It’s fine. As long as we can get his picture still taken.” He nods towards Jack, who is definitely starting to look a bit restless by the way he’s shifting his weight back and forth and wringing his hands.

“I’ll make sure we stay and get you guys, I promise,” you say, despite the fact that you have no authority to promise or make everyone else stay late. You’re feeling a little flustered, okay, you can’t help it.

You’re thinking that this guy is going to go back to his phone or completely ignore you to talk to his son, do something that shows he’s not interested in talking to a 25-year-old wearing an elf costume, so you’re awfully surprised when he gives you a devastating handsome smile and showing off an equally devastatingly cute dimple and says “Jack’s been waiting for this all month.”

“Oh yeah?” You smile down at Jack who looks suddenly shy. “A family tradition, I assume?”

The little boy nods, making some pieces of his hair come loose and fall against his forehead. “Daddy always makes sure we don’t miss it ever since Mommy died.”

Oh.

“Oh,” you say. You flounder a bit because, although you understand that kids at this age are unapologetically blunt and you’re used to customers oversharing while working in retail, you were not expecting to learn about this family’s trauma today. “Well, your daddy must love you a lot then, huh?”

You look up to see his father looking absolutely horrified, embarrassment clear on his face. There’s a faint shade of pink again on his face that disappears underneath his shirt collar and you almost feel bad for him, however you can’t deny that he’s cute when he looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“Yep,” Jack responds cheerfully, and then is instantly distracted by that damn horn blaring through the mall, signifying the arrival of that godforsaken eyesore they call an indoor train. It takes up nearly the whole walkway of the mall, causing him and his father to scoot further in line and closer to you. The back of his hand brushes against yours.  

“I am,” the man says again, slowly, as if he was in pain, “so sorry.” From the expression he was wearing, you would probably think he was.

You wave his apology off with a jingle. “Really, it’s fine. I know how kids are. You’re just lucky he’s so cute.”

The man says nothing; however, you can see the mortification melt from his face as both of you watch Jack’s eyes slowly following the train as it wraps around the area roped off for pictures. He’s nearly jumping from how much he secretly wants to ride the train, a smile wide across his face and sparkling eyes that match his father’s. Oh, you need to get a grip.

“So, any plans for tomorrow?” you ask and nearly cringe at your awkward attempt to make conversation. It’s getting late, Santa is who knows where, and you’re basically holding this attractive man and his son hostage at the mall.

His gaze breaks from where he was watching Jack, the fatherly warmth and smile on his face still lingering. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at you. You try not to squirm under his scrutinizing eyes. “We’re just spending time with some family and friends, something small.”

You feel a bit envious. Of course, this man has a family and friends to spend time with for the holidays, he probably has a life as opposed to you. You definitely don’t have plans, unless you count staying in your pajamas for two days straight in front of the TV to watch bad Hallmark movies a plan. You almost wish the mall was open so you could work and keep yourself busy and not think about the aching loneliness you feel every year.

“The more people you see at Christmas, the more presents, right Jack?”

“Right!” Jack says, attention captured as the train disappeared out of view. “And I’m seeing Santa right before he comes to the house so he can’t forget about me!”

You laugh, because he’s just so stinking cute. “And what are you wanting this year?”

Jack immediately starts rambling about how he’s hoping to get a Spiderman action figure with the matching racecar, a scooter, a nerf gun, and other toys a typical 6-year-old would want. You nod along and pretend to take notes on the prop clipboard you were given.

You ignore the older man’s curious stare you can feel boring into the side of your head. You thought it wasn’t noticeable that you clearly avoided saying what you were going to be doing for the holidays, though when you finally meet his eyes, you have a feeling that nothing gets by this man.

You jump at a sudden clatter to your left, and when you tear yourself from the man’s pretty eyes, you see your Santa and the photographer stumbling through the props and knocking over the fake presents stacked on top of each other. Santa is thankfully wearing all of his costume; however, his beard is crooked, and the photographer’s clothes are inside out.

“That was a long milk and cookies break,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes.

Jack squeals when he spots them, jumping up and down and tugging on his father’s hand. The man gives him that affectionate smile again and you just want to melt.

Santa, you call him because you don’t remember his name but also you definitely shouldn’t call him by his real name anyway, fakes a deep and hearty laugh. He sits down at the comically large armchair and discreetly fixes his beard. “I just had a big ol’ craving. I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Jack ducks underneath the barricade and starts running at Santa, leaving his father flustered and jogging after him.

“Sorry about that,” the photographer whispers to you and doesn’t even wait for your response before she’s behind the camera stand and adjusting the settings.

It doesn’t even matter, because you’re watching Jack hop onto Santa’s lap, already continuing his rambling about what he is wanting for Christmas. He’s clearly ignoring his father’s gentle suggestions on how to pose and to fix his shirt, altogether sounding very endearing and fond.

You watch as his father ultimately gives up, surprisingly looks at you with an exasperated smile, and takes out his phone to take his own pictures of Jack. The boy eventually finishes what he has to say, almost looking out of breath, and gives the camera the toothiest and silliest smile you have ever seen.

“Great job, buddy!” you exclaim and then feel your heart being squeezed when Jack runs up to you and gives you a hug around your shins.

“I hope you have a good vacation after Christmas,” Jack says seriously. He looks up at you, death grip on your legs unwavering. “You’ve worked hard this year.”

If Jack wasn’t clearly talking about you working as an elf at Santa’s workshop, you probably would’ve teared up.

Instead, you give him a smile and a pat on the top of his head. “Thanks, Jack. Merry Christmas.”

His father is behind him a second later, folder in hand with Jack’s prints. He’s looking at the both of you now with that soft expression you’re starting to become familiar with. The love he has for his son is clear as day. “Hey buddy, we gotta get home.” 

“Can we get pizza on the way?” Jack gasps excitedly, letting go of your legs to reach a hand out for his father’s.

He hums and pretends to think about it. “We’ll see. I just have to talk to our new friend here.”

And then he’s stepping closer into your space and meeting your eyes. You get a whiff of his cologne again and you feel like you’re about to combust on the spot.

“I’m Aaron, and this, obviously, is Jack. I wanted to see if wanted to go out for dinner or a coffee sometime? After Christmas?”

You stare at him, a million emotions and thoughts racing through your head all at once. This man, who is at least 15 years older than you and is way out of your league, is interested in you, a college student who has no friends and is currently wearing a frumpy green dress and red and green striped leggings?

Aaron doesn’t break eye contact with you, most likely to indicate to you that he’s being sincere, however you can tell he’s blushing again. Nervous.

You stammer out your name, though you can barely hear yourself over the rush of blood in your ears. “I would love that.”

You watch as Aaron nearly sighs in relief and the action, the thought that he feels relieved because you’re showing equal interest, is exhilarating. He hands his phone to you and you punch in your number. You’re almost tempted to add your contact info as something silly or funny, but instead just adds a smiley face at the end.

Aaron chuckles when he spots it and pockets his phone. The softness and want in his eyes are almost overwhelming, and the way more of his hair flops against his forehead makes you want to put your hands all over him “I’ll call you?”

“Sure,” you breathe. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Both of you pointedly ignore Jack’s giggle as he watches.

[randomshyperson]

Heal - Scarlet!Wanda x Vampire!Reader - Kinktober #08

Summary: By freeing an imprisoned immortal from the Darkhold Castle, the Scarlet Witch did not expect to gain a friend who would help her heal the woman she tried to bury in the temple's wreckage. In return, Wanda might help you face the demons from your past that were locked away with you.

Warnings: (+18), service!top reader, praising, intimate smut, blood-feeding, vampire and witchcraft lore, and a lot of plot, implied depression and self-harming tendencies, really soft smut with explicit consent, mutual pining, friends to lovers | Words: 9.671k

A/N-> My only vampire reference is TVD, so expect many similarities to the show’s lore. And I repeat again that there is a sinful lack of stories that deal with the status of wizarding royalty of which Wanda is part. Please, she literally has the title of Queen of Chaos, her family has inherited the magic of chaos for generations, we need to talk about this. I hope you guys like this one, this story ended up having more depth than I expected and it was quite fun to write it.

General Masterlist | Kinktober Collection | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

After destroying a thousand-year-old castle and not getting out of the impact zone, Wanda definitely didn't expect comfort. In addition to the pain of recent events, from realizing that she had finally become a villain, and was closer to the people who had destroyed her life than to the friends she once lost, she also had to see the clear fear in the alternative versions of the children she missed. So she put an end to it all, more tired than anything, and waited for the pain to go away. The blackout from the impact put an end to it, of course, and just like years before when she turned to dust after losing the only person she still had left, she breathed a sigh of relief into the darkness.

But Wanda woke up. And to her complete surprise, comfort came in the softest sheets she had ever felt, perhaps even more comforting than the expensive cloth Tony Stark had once bought for the rooms in Avengers Tower. The bed she was lying on could easily have been mistaken for royalty, and Wanda barely had time to become alert before a slightly unfamiliar face entered her field of vision.

"You." She gasped in surprise, her voice a little hoarse. Now conscious, she was aware of the pain around her body, but she could also feel her magic doing the hard work and taking the sensation away. You smiled gently and, without leaving your sitting position on her bed, waited for her to adjust to the mattress. Wanda frowned. "But why?"

You sighed, shrugging slightly. Now sitting up, Wanda realized that your lap wasn't empty. A breakfast tray was waiting for her as if you were aware that she would wake up soon and had brought the food just in time. The item was leisurely placed next to her, but Wanda continued to look at you, waiting for an explanation as to why someone who had disappeared almost the second after the first meet, reappeared to save her from the wreckage of her mistakes.

"I know you're confused, but please eat. You've slept for days, miss." It's your comment, but the witch shakes her head.

"Don't worry about it. It's... nowhere near the longest I've gone without food." The quiet confession about the period of darkhold abuse makes you sigh sadly, and Wanda feels a curiosity rise in her chest. You don't know her, so why do you care? 

Your hands move to the toast you've prepared for her, and Wanda bites the inside of her cheek as she finally notices the tray with your movements. Your breakfast choices are just right - delicious foods stare back at her. And you busy yourself with adding some jam to the toast that makes Wanda's mouth water.

"Forgive me for taking so long to find you, I was a bit overwhelmed upon returning after so long." You then declare, handing back the now-filled toast to one of the smaller plates. You push the item towards her as an invitation, but Wanda glares at you.

"Why did you bother coming back?"

Your eyes are kind in her direction. "I owe you my freedom."

Wanda chuckles short and incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous, I didn't even know what I was doing." She retorts immediately. "I saved you by accident, you don't owe me anything."

But you gesture to the food, and Wanda sighs in defeat, finally giving in. At the first bite, she feels the delicious jam on her tongue and sighs in satisfaction. It's amazing, she lets you know. You smile.

"It doesn't matter if our meeting was accidental, Wanda Maximoff." You state. "Your magic broke me out of my prison. If the idea of a debt doesn't please you, we can act as if upon rescuing you, I made us even."

Wanda hums with her mouth full, slightly distracted by the food. You look away, waiting for a moment, and she finishes chewing before speaking again.

"I didn't want to be rescued."

"I know."

She looks at you again, but you continue to stare straight ahead into the room. "Do you?"

You smile briefly. "Nobody who wants to live knocks down a castle on their head, miss."

The chuckle that escapes her is short, but it's the first sincere one in a long time. It's so dark, to joke about something so serious, yet she feels completely at ease doing it with you.

Wanda finishes another piece of toast before speaking again. "Do you remember the sorcerer who was with me before, when I freed you?" You meet her gaze, nodding in agreement. Wanda looks at you curiously. "He nearly shit his pants when he saw you running away from the temple. He tried to lecture me about it, and I dragged him out of there for it. But the point is... what did you do? He only told me your name. What was so terrible that your escape scared him so much?"

You sigh, getting up. Wanda imagines that she has offended you by asking and that you will leave without telling her the whole truth, and considers spying on your mind to find that out, but you just walk to the nearest drawers on the other side of the bedroom. When you return with an object in hand, Wanda wipes away the toast crumbs before accepting the item you hand her.

The old photograph makes her eyes widen. "Holy shit." She sighs impressed, getting a short laugh out of you.  Your picture wasn't a surprise, but the date from over three hundred years ago faded by the bottom. Wanda flipped the item to see the back, but your name there didn’t really explain how you were standing in front of her, as if no time had passed.

"Humans call us Vampires, but I've always liked the sound of Immortal better. Of course, the term vampire beats being called a demon or a bloodsucker." Wanda doesn't laugh at the joke, as she raises wide eyes in surprise at you. She continues to hold up the photograph, and you swallow. "I promise I won't try to harm you." Finally, she chuckles softly. You sigh in reassurance, even though the witch has just mocked your strength.

"I can't believe vampires exist." 

"Said the witch who traveled through the multiverse a few days ago." Wanda smiles, handing the photograph back to you. 

"Fair point." She murmurs. Restless, you wonder what you can do to improve her mood. She seems so sad.

Perhaps your stories could distract her. 

"I was imprisoned in Darkhold Castle a few centuries ago." You tell her, attracting her curiosity again. Your hands go into your pockets so that you can regain some ground over the full attention of such beautiful and mesmerizing irises. "There are other mystical authorities, apart from Kamar-Taj and its mages. In particular, a council of vampires. I disagreed with some traditions and was sentenced to imprisonment, but my capture was not quiet. Let's just say I earned that tomb you rescued me from, Miss." Wanda nodded in understanding, offering a small smile that ensured she wasn't judging you. It would be comical to do so, after everything that had led up to this moment. Adding to the count of her own crimes, she apparently unleashed an immortal mass murderer.

Wanda looks around, sighing softly. "I presume this place is yours."

You nod but look away from her. "Many of my properties were lost with my imprisonment. Taken back by the Council, or even stolen by other creatures. I'll deal with these usurpers later." The comment made Wanda bite the corner of her mouth. She'd never seen a vampire fight, and you seemed so sure of your own strength over anyone who stood up to you. It was attractive somehow. She pushed the thought away faster than it came. "Of course, you're welcome to stay as long as you need, even if I'm not around."

The statement makes Wanda chuckle in surprise, her cheeks slightly warm. "What? I can’t accept that. I will certainly not abuse hospitality-"

"Don't be ridiculous." You repeat her previous words with an easy smile, and the casual comment sounds different from your formal attitude so far that It's so charming that Wanda has to look away awkwardly, surprised by her own perceptions. "It's a pleasure to have you as a guest. And honestly, it's nice to have someone around after so long." The sincere confession makes her smile. Wanda understood loneliness well. You sigh. "There's enough room in this house. You can stay as long as you need."

Wanda nods. "How exactly did you get me here? And where is here exactly?"

"Northern Europe, but I'm not sure if the country's name remained the same as it was three centuries ago. And I didn't want to carry you so far from the castle, and I figured you didn't intend to return to Nepal and their Kamar Taj’s mages as well."

Wanda grimaces. "What do you mean with ‘carry me’?"

You chuckle slightly. "You were unconscious, Miss Maximoff. And buried under rubble when I found you. We don't have the same magical abilities,  so I can’t use the power of the mind to move objects or people. I picked you up, and brought you with me."

She needs to see this, and the invasion in your mind caught you off guard. Flashes of memories turn clear in your head, your figure pushing rocks out of the way until you find Wanda unconscious. You actually picked her up in your arms and started moving. At some point, you found a car, but good kilometers on the ice at high speed were walked.

Wanda leaves your mind with a sigh, and for the first time, you look upset.

"Please ask next time."

She's still coming to terms with the fact that you ran through the snow with her in your arms to apologize. "You walked half a continent for me?"

You shrug. "I ran, to be fair. Don't worry about that, it wasn't any trouble. My kind has enough strength and speed for a journey like that."

But the ease didn't detract from the significance of the attitude. Wanda could hardly remember the last time anyone had done anything for her - not even Vision, who was her partner, seemed to share any guilt when signing accords that wanted her in jail; And now a stranger was rescuing her at the end of the world just to bring her to safety, without expecting anything in return.

Her silence makes you clear your throat. "I'll give you some privacy. There's more food if you want it, and this is a suite, so the toilet is through that door. I've also taken the liberty of ordering clothes in your size while you’ve been asleep, they're all in the closet. The whole property can be explored, please feel free to do so. There’s a library and art rooms. And please, if you decide to leave, say farewell first."

Wanda smiles tenderly at your request, and you turn away. She finally realizes that you look very tidy, and calls out to you before you can leave the room.

"Are you going out?"

"Just for a few hours." You answer, frowning at the way her expression falls. "Is something wrong?"

Wanda sighs. "I just… don’t wanna be alone."

Despite the sympathy in your eyes, you hesitate. A hand on the doorframe. "Forgive me, miss, I promise I won't be long and that we can spend the rest of the day together." 

Wanda waves your concern away, starting to stand up. "Relax, I'll be fine, I wouldn't want to get in the way of your appointments. I'll explore the house while you're gone."

But despite her casual attitude, you call out to her with a certain seriousness that makes Wanda look at you again. There's something in your expression that makes it clear that you didn't buy Wanda's act at all, and that you can clearly see that she was being serious about her loneliness. Your eyes had a guilty aspect because you couldn't stay. 

You sigh, looking away as you explain: "I must feed myself, Miss Maximoff. Please don't think I'm avoiding your company."

She is slightly surprised by the confession and doesn't know exactly what to say about it. She decides to just nod, without the courage to question you further on the subject even though she's dying to know exactly in which way you're going to feed yourself.

And when you leave her alone, and she wanders around the huge rooms of that mansion, she can't help wondering where you are, if it's like in vampire stories, and you're in some alley cornering an unwary human, or if hunting animals is enough. She becomes so absorbed in her own doubts that when you return, she hasn't even finished seeing the whole place.

"Having fun?" Your question startles her slightly. She smiles, turning her attention away from the art paintings in the room and meeting your gaze again.

"You move silently."

"A talent we share."

Wanda chuckles and waits for you to approach her completely. Side by side, she is the first to speak.

"Everything here is very beautiful." She says softly. "And I may not be centuries old, but I'm no fool. It sounds too good to be true. Be honest, Y/N. What do you hope to get from me?"

You frown, taking one hand out of your pocket to gesture a little. "You have a suspicious nature, Miss Maximoff."

She snorts softly." Y/N..."

But you smile, and Wanda gasps softly because your hand moves to her face, a gentle touch to move a strand of hair out of the way of her eyes. "Not everyone wants to take something from you, Miss. Some people just want to give." Wanda ignores the intensity of your gaze, the quickening of her heartbeat, and raises her hand to grab your wrist and interrupt your intention to stroke her cheek straight away. Her eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion in your direction, although your smile never falters. "I could just force you to talk."

"There's no need for that, we can talk over dinner."

She hesitates, aware of the heat on her cheeks. You seem to have a personal victory and Wanda lets go of your hand immediately. 

"Wipe that smile off your face, it's not... that kind of dinner. We don't even know each other." She mutters embarrassedly. You return to your previous position, relaxed with your hands in the pockets of your dress pants and Wanda crosses her arms annoyed at the way her stupid brain keeps finding you more attractive every time she looks at you. 

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, miss." You retort humorously. "It's a strictly professional dinner."

She rolls her eyes, turning away to hide her smile from you.

"Just introduce me to the rest of the house."

"It's funny, all witches are always bossy." You comment, letting her gently pat your shoulder even though you could easily escape the gesture if you wanted to.

-&-

"I didn't know vampires cooked."

You chuckle, without taking your eyes off the knife cutting the vegetables. "Have you met many vampires?"

Wanda bites back a smile, rolling her eyes softly. "No, you're the first." She says, watching from the counter stool as you masterfully prepare dinner. "But I thought you guys didn't need to eat."

"We don't, not food at least." You retort gently, even though the implication makes Wanda's eyes sparkle with curiosity. You, despite being busy preparing the meal, notice the slight excitement and give a soft laugh. "If wished, my body can imitate all the biological functions it had before I died. This includes food." To illustrate, you take one of the cut pieces of carrot into your mouth, chewing and swallowing as you finish chopping the vegetables. Wanda bites the inside of her cheek, gathering the courage to ask you what she wishes to know.

When you pour the cut vegetables into a pot, she clears her throat. "Would it be insensitive if I asked how it happened?"

"Very." You smile back. Wanda sighs slightly, feeling like a little child trying to be liked. 

Please, please, notice me and talk to me.

The fire is lit, you wash off the excess vegetable stock and wipe your hands on a tea towel. You speak again.

"It's 2024, which means that in the winter it will be 320 years since my transformation." You begin a little nostalgically, your hands resting on the counter behind you. "Twenty was the age at which I died."

Wanda frowns. "You were so young."

"Yes, I was." You agree with a sad smile. "I used to work here, right in this mansion." Wanda adjusts herself, curiosity taking over completely. "I was raised by this family all my life, and when I fell ill, they decided there was no longer any place for me here."

The witch swallows dryly but doesn't interrupt your story. You look down, bringing your hands in front of your stomach to turn the larger ring you're wearing between your fingers.

"Sick servants would be sent away, so as not to spread the disease to the rest of the house. I died on the road."

Wanda frowns slightly. "Who bit you?"

"Bit me?" You retort in confusion. 

She chuckles awkwardly. "Yes, that's how it works, isn't it? Vampires bite humans and turn them."

It's your turn to laugh, a little impressed. "What? No, by the gods! Imagine how many of us there would be out there if every time a vampire fed, he turned someone? No, no, it's a bit more complicated." You comment casually. "You see, there's an immortality spell, created by the same author of the book that was with you when we met. Original vampires are made by ancient magic, and these can have bloodlines. Weaker vampires are transformed by their blood. And others can be created, even weaker by their descendants. The trick is to die with magical blood in your system so that your soul will be trapped by the magic and will not leave your body. It is then reanimated a few hours after we die. To complete the transformation, we must feed."

She absorbs your words for a moment. Until she finally asks: "Who transformed you?"

You lick your lips, shifting your eyes to the pot as if to confirm the cooking time, before turning away from the counter. "Come with me, I want to show you something."

She follows you around the mansion, way past the kitchen to another level. The entrance hall extends into a long corridor with many old paintings. Finally silver doors at the end.

"This is the main suite of the mansion." You clarify, fiddling with a bunch of keys kept in your pocket until now. Apparently, the only locked room was that one. "It's been adapted, moved from the upper floor to here on the lower level since, at the end of her life, the owner couldn't take the stairs."

Once unlocked, you push the doors open with both hands, exposing the immense royal suite inside. Wanda thinks it looks a lot like fantasy books and is busy admiring the decorations when she comes across a painting on the wall that knocks the air out of her lungs.

"What...?" She approached with uncertain steps until she was touching the painting with her fingers, groping for the drawing of a face that could easily be mistaken for her own. "How is that possible?" She demanded to know, turning to you.

You were still standing in the doorway, your hands in your pockets. "This is your ancestor."

"And why the hell does she have my face?"

"Heritage?" You retort good-humoredly, but Wanda snorts incredulously, advancing towards you angrily. You quickly raise your hands in surrender, a nervous laugh escaping as you see the fury in her eyes. “I’m joking, dear lord! I didn't mean to upset you. Let me tell you the whole story!."

"It better be a very good one." She retorts, watching you intently as if expecting a kidnap attempt.

You sigh, nodding before turning your face to the photo. "Her name was Elizabeth. She's gone if that's not obvious. This painting was done over four centuries years ago when your family was still known as the Maksymovs. They lived well, your ancestors, as you can see from the amount of gold in this manor. But sorcery and witchcraft were never very well-liked anywhere, and just like the rest of us, your family was hunted down." You say, stepping aside to open the curtains and light up the room. Still, on your back, you continued to talk. "I was just a little girl when Lady Maksymov took me in, Elizabeth’s mother. I cleaned and cooked, and I was lucky enough to be allowed inside the mansion. To share the room with the family. All due respect to their memories, but my Lady was not a decent person. She was cruel and harsh and preferred to die on the mountain of money than give a little to the children she watched depart for this place. I stayed here because I had no other choice in life, and when the neighbors began to question what she was doing in the basement, she was taken away just like her children.  And unlike her mother or any of her siblings, Elizabeth was not a very talented witch. Her magic was dormant. That poor woman, always so sad under the cruelties shouted at her by her relatives. She could never master chaos but it got better when she gave in to the darkhold's allure. Unfortunately for the servants, her gentle personality was gone once her magic control was improved. I remember her dark fingers chastising me every time I failed to fold the sheets correctly."

Wanda swallowed at the anger hidden. Your posture was enough for her to believe your words.

“Why did she turn you?”

You smile sadly. "I was just a means to an end." You reply. "Elizabeth was what they called a Siphoner. Although descended from a powerful witch lineage, she couldn't generate her own magic. She could only steal it from elsewhere, either from a magic book or from a vampire." 

Wanda sighs as she understands, and you chuckle in upset. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You weren't even close to existing back then."

She moves closer. "Still, on behalf of my family, I'm sorry." The witch says as gently as she can. "I can hardly imagine how painful that probably was."

You shrug, trying to be casual. "That was a long time ago, Miss Maximoff." You mumble before sighing. "And it didn't work out the way she wanted either. Elizabeth didn't intend to use me as her magical reservoir for so long. She wanted me to transform her. Make her a heretic, a vampire-witch hybrid so that she could steal magic from her own nature. And like a good servant, I did just that."

Wanda could feel the force of your painful memories with her telekinesis, flashes of vivid images in your mind begging to be relieved. A personal torture. 

"Let me guess, that was the rule you broke that put you in that tomb."

You lower your head, looking very upset all of a sudden. "No, Miss Maximoff. I was loyal until I wasn't anymore." Wanda frowns in confusion, but you sigh and stare at your own reflection in the window. "The abuse of the Darkhold destroyed Lady Elizabeth. Not even the spell of immortality could heal her, remove the rot from her soul. We traveled the world, searching for potions and creatures and anything we could find to help her, but I knew that the slaughter she was doing in the name of her own health had to be stopped. When our last trip ended, I told her I wouldn't help her anymore."

Wanda can see clearly now; the wrathful recollections of a witchy lady with an almost demonic appearance. The hold of the Darkhold on Elizabeth's soul. How you're only trying to defend yourself when you strike back.

You sniffle, turning your face away, and Wanda blocks your memories from her mind immediately.

"No greater dishonor than ingratitude." You mutter. "I shouldn't have turned my back on Elizabeth. She died alone in this empty mansion, taken by her illness. I returned to a rotten land wracked by dark magic. I restored every stone and raised the mansion to its original state. I lived as a vampire for a decade before I was captured. Elizabeth, in her last vengeful act, left a letter denouncing all her family's crimes to the magical authorities of the time. A lineage who survived the witch-hunts, chased by their own kind like animals. I wore the same coat of arms and slept in the family mansion, so they didn't care that my surname wasn't the same. But I wasn't a witch to die, and the darkhold refused to show the executors exactly how to kill me. The solution was a prison."

You're surprised that Wanda reaches for your hand, but you don't pull away. She also gives you a small smile.

"Three hundred years is too long to punish someone who had no choice." She says, the gesture of her thumb caressing your palm making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Definitely too long without touching someone was messing with your head. Little did you know, Wanda was going through something quite similar. Starved for physical touch. "Is that why you're being so generous? Do you think you owe this family a debt?" You swallow, nodding, and Wanda sighs. " Sweetheart..."

"Please let me serve you." Your tone is almost desperate, Wanda shakes her head. "Please-"

"This isn't the 1700s, Y/N. I won't be your lady." She assures you, her grip tighter. "You're a person, not a property."

"I'd be dead if it weren't for Elizabeth-"

"She was cruel and selfish, and she used you to your last breath. And beyond!" Wanda interrupts, not losing her composure when you huff impatiently and pull your hand away. "You can grumble all you want. I'm not going to honor the memory of some slave owner, family or not. You're free to go."

"But I don't want to leave, Wanda." You snap, almost pleading. "This is my home. Serving your family has always been... my purpose. Turning my back on it made me lose everything. And then you saved me, and for a second, I thought I could see Elizabeth again. I ran to this place, and I realized how much time had actually gone by." You sniffle, your hands going to Wanda's shoulders. "Please. Caring is the only thing I know how to do right."

Wanda sighs, her hands finding your wrists. "This isn't caring, Y/N, this is servitude. I would never ask this of you." Your expression falls as if you're being rejected. Wanda stops your hands from moving away. "But I could use a friend."

Your face lights up, and Wanda smiles too because she thinks you look so beautiful now. "Oh, that... is really very sweet. I'd be honored."

The witch chuckles. "You're adorable. Come, our lunch should be ready soon." She doesn't mention that you two walk into the kitchen hand in hand, and you don't mind, so you don't say anything either.

-&-

"I can't believe you don't know what McDonald's is."

"And I can't believe you've never been to the Opera, but here we are."

Wanda chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief at your response. You're sitting on the living room floor, or rather on cushions on the carpet because you refused to sit so informally and she was still working on getting you to relax into the casual way of living life in that century. 

Weeks into a roommate routine, your activities consisted of having meals together and talking about everything and nothing at the same time. You'd spent 300 years imprisoned, and Wanda had a multitude of things to introduce you to, while you'd been raised by the ancient witch family of the ancestors of a woman who knew little about her origins. You had as much to tell as she did.

Most days when you two would leave the Mansion, you would experience things that you had never experienced before. Restaurants, food trucks, and even the invention of cars or electricity. The Mansion needed to be restored too, but Wanda was happy to know that it hadn't been abandoned.

It was magically hidden, and she had distant cousins from very old marriages in her distant line. It was one of the best pieces of news she'd ever received - to know that she wasn't the only Maximoff left.

The Manor had been cared for over the centuries by escape witches, some of whom, like Elizabeth, had their powers dormant and lived normal lives under that roof. Until the place was finally inherited by her great-aunt, Tatiana, who was living in New Orleans, and Wanda would visit once the work on the mansion was finished.

She had no idea where you got the money for a whole restoration team, and you laughed when she asked, offering as an answer only the information that vampires can persuade people.

That's how you ended up on the living room floor, finishing gathering old belongings that needed to be protected from the paint restoration and set-up of that chamber.

"It's nice that some things have been preserved so well." She comments, stealing a quick glance at your figure distracted by sorting letters. You look good in this century's clothes that Wanda helped you pick out. The barely buttoned plaid shirt makes Wanda hold her breath every time she catches herself letting her gaze fall to your collarbone. 

"Rich families often treasure stuff." You retort with an easy smile. You stack a few letters before opening the next box of items and gasp slightly when you find something very valuable inside. "Look, I think you'll want to keep this."

The small item is placed in her palm: A gold button with an "M" engraved on it. The family crest. Wanda doesn't know why, but it makes her eyes water, and she gives you a tearful smile as she thanks you.

But despite this balanced relationship and pleasant routine, there was still the elephant in the room.

Every evening, you went out to feed yourself. For almost two months, Wanda didn't ask any questions. Even though she was dying to know exactly how, or even who.

But she didn't want to be invasive or even sound like someone obsessed with your fangs.

She would wait for some casual moment to bring up the subject. Perhaps at the next dinner party, with a joke, and then she would ask if you could show her how it was done.

Luckily for her, another witch was even more interested in the story.

Tatiana was an expert enchantress. She lived in an apartment in the heart of New Orleans and had a very busy pub, and to no surprise, frequented mainly by mystical beings. It was Wanda's first time in a place of that kind.

She was so excited to meet another member of her family that she almost forgot her last worries. It was her aunt, in between many colorful drinks after an afternoon of introduction, who brought up the subject again.

"So tell me, sweetie, all this work to restore the Maximoff household. It must be exhausting even for a vampire." Tatiana began with a smile. Her curly hair fell in waves down her back, and for the third time that night, Wanda noticed that green eyes were probably the only physical feature that most of the Maximoff women shared. Her aunt has a dangerous smirk on her lips as she looks in your direction, and Wanda swallows dryly as she realizes that it's the flirtatious kind. "We allow feeding in these parts."

You're taken aback. You chuckle awkwardly, aware of the two witches' attention in your direction. The crowded bar seems to get even smaller.

"I'm fine, Tatiana, don't worry." Wanda thinks you're lying. You can never maintain eye contact when you do, and she also often finds it charming how a vampire can be so bad at telling lies. "I had some blood before I got here-"

"By Morgana, that was several hours ago!" Tatiana cuts in, gesturing excitedly to the waiters. She was very happy to meet Wanda too and had been drinking since early morning in celebration. "You know, I used to date a vampire back in the last century. He had a restricted diet of animals and always looked pale and hungry. Are you one of those vegetarian vampires too?"

The question is rhetorical, she doesn't even hear your confused mutter "I don't think vegetarianism works like that". She's busy with the waitress, whose irises redden as soon as Tatiana speaks to her. The girl is younger than everyone else there and is clearly bewitched.

"There you go, dear, you can have a taste." Offers the woman, to which you choke in surprise.

"What? H-here? But..."

"Now, don't you act like a good Samaritan, Miss L/N." Tatiana retorts in a provocative tone, resting her chin on one hand. "I know what you got up to before you were imprisoned. Feeding off a waitress is nothing."

You're immediately crestfallen, your face flushing with shame. Wanda looks at her aunt with irritation.

"Don't talk to her like that." The younger witch says sternly. "'She's already received enough of a punishment.

Tatiana chuckles wickedly, tilting her head gently. A very familiar gesture indeed. "Let's get a few things clear, Wanda. The only reason I didn't rip that usurper vampire's head off the moment she set foot in my town was because she brought my niece back to me. The fighting separated our families, I never knew I had nephews. Do you think you would have joined that group of dressed-up Americans if I'd known you were a genuine Maximoff? No, dear, I would have raised you. Restored our coven, taught you magic, as it should have been. As it would have been if this ungrateful little blood-sucker had fulfilled the role she was given. Every spell has a price, and she didn't pay for this one she so boldly displayed for a decade of fortune-raising."

"I regret it very deeply, miss-"

"No, you don't apologize for any of this." Wanda interrupts you with a gentle squeeze on your wrist under the table. With a serious expression, she faces her aunt. "Let's actually get things straight, Auntie. You don't talk to her like that. Ever. You're not going to use something that happened three centuries ago against someone who has spent all this time imprisoned in a tomb, paying for crimes she didn't commit alone. It seems that witches, especially from this family, have a habit of evading accountability. I know that well." Tatiana gives a little smile, clearly aware of Westview, or what came after. Wanda doesn't hesitate. "She's my friend. And she's been through enough. All she's done since she came back is look after me, and I'm not going to accept this kind of treatment from anyone, not even my blood. And considering history, especially my blood."

Without contradicting, Tatiana nods in understanding, busying herself with lighting one of the cigarettes on the corner of the table. The colorful smoke wafted upwards as she finished a long drag.

"As you please, Scarlet Witch." The elder woman finally replies, and you swallow dryly, stealing a glance at Wanda to see if she might lose her temper at the slight challenge in her aunt's tone.

Damn, you'd forgotten how the Maximoffs had a rather dangerously weak ego to offend, especially if challenged.

But luckily for you, Wanda forced a smile, and the tension at the table eased. Tatiana dismissed the waiter with a nod and went back to talking about business in the city as if nothing had happened.

For the rest of the evening, Wanda drew patterns on the palm of your hand under the table.

-&-

Around midnight, when the desserts were finished but the bar seemed livelier than ever, you felt really hungry.

The witches were engaged in animated conversation about the times in Sokovia, how Tatiana missed the opportunity to find out about the Maximoffs after the surname grew more common around the country for a few years before disappearing again, and you used the opportunity to escape for a few moments.

A quick snack, just to satisfy your hunger. After all, you always kept yourself full around Wanda; you'd never forgive yourself if you lost control around her.

You make your way through the crowded bar, taking one last look at the back table before making your way to the exit. You're almost at the door when someone purposely bumps into you.

"Hey, better watch where you're going." Warned the corpulent fellow; he was at least ten centimeters taller and had a strong distinctive smell that caused you an instant anxiety. 

Wolf scent.

"Sorry, I didn't see you." You mumble, ready to bypass him, but he steps in your way again. 

"We don't like strangers around here." He informs you with a small smile, showing off his canine fangs. "You're lucky we have our orders, miss."

You sigh slightly. "Who are you again?"

"The name's Victor Creed, but everyone calls me Sabertooth. You know, because of these little beauties here." He points to his fangs with conviction. "They grow much bigger during the transformation. I once ripped the head of one of your kind with them." The story is clearly told to intimidate you, but your unimpressed expression makes the man clear his throat. "Don't go wandering around, Tatiana can't protect you on the outside."

You force a smile. "I can take care of myself, wolf, don't worry." You move around him to finally leave, but even with his back turned, Sabertooth laughs.

"Alright then, go for a walk while I introduce myself to your little witch. Do you know if the Scarlet Witch is looking for better watchdogs? If she's as stuck-up as the rest of the family, maybe I'll write to Kamar Taj about where she's been hiding."

The thing is, maybe you've spent too much time with the Maximoffs all your life. And your temper is just as bad as theirs.

Victor has barely finished his teasing, and you've already grabbed him by the arm, mashing him into the ground like a lump of flour. The commotion immediately attracts the attention of everyone around, but until the crowd fully identifies what's going on, Victor has already used his wolf-like speed to get to his feet and advance on you.

He's so confident about his own strength that it takes him a whole moment to realize that your fist has already gone through his chest.

"Give me one good reason not to spread your guts on this floor, Mr. Creed." You say with an unwavering expression, your hand clenched around his barely beating heart.

Victor chokes on his own blood, his muscular hands try to push your shoulders back, but you don't move an inch. He grunts in pain.

"I-I take it back." He gasps, but you squeeze a little harder.

"That's not a reason."

The man breaks down in a sob. "P-please. I'm begging you. I wasn't thinking-"

It would be so easy, just to kill him. Rip the heart out of that arrogant wolf and let him drop. You never forgot the feeling, the predatory hunger for blood and violence burning in your veins. Nor Elizabeth's disappointed look every time you ended up covered in blood and it didn't do any good.

Letting go of the heart, and pulling your hand out, you saw Victor's wound heal immediately. A full moon must have been just around the corner for a wolf to heal so quickly.

His release drew your attention to the rest of the pub. All those people, watching the scene with mixed expressions of horror and disbelief on their faces. Some clearly recognized you, others seemed surprised to witness a werewolf of that size being beaten so easily.

Vitor's blood stained the blouse Wanda gifted you, and you swallowed down the urge to vomit.

While you were trying to recover from the interaction, a duo cut through the crowd, and Tatiana's short giggle made you wince.

"Keep her in line, Wanda. We don't make a mess this close to humans in this neighborhood." The witch warns but Wanda is staring at you in complete mesmerization. You shake your wrist gently, letting the excess blood drip onto the floor before you start to move.

The adrenaline of the confrontation has starved you.

-&-

You barely enter the first alley before Wanda catches up with you.

"Where are you going?"

But you don't answer the question, you just keep walking and retort: "Go back inside, I won't be long."

For a moment, you think she'll obey, but how foolish of you. Wanda was probably the most stubborn Maximoff you've ever met.

She almost gives you a heart attack when she appears in your path, making you jump backward.

"What the hell...?"

"You're shutting me out." She declares, frustrated. You swallow dry, shaking your head.

"No, I'm just going for a walk to clear my head. See you at the apartment-"

"Taking a walk is what you're calling it now? I'm not an idiot, I know you're going to feed." Wanda interrupted annoyed, getting in your way and stopping you from fleeing. "Why do you keep trying to hide this part of yourself? I don't care that you're a vampire."

"Wanda, please, just move."

"No."

"Wanda."

She crosses her arms. "I wanna watch." 

You choke, chuckling nervously. "Excuse me?" 

But she doesn't lose her cool, nodding. "I want to watch you feed on someone."

Wanda imagined some reactions to the suggestion: anger, indignation, mockery. She didn't think you'd turn so clumsy, with rosy cheeks and unable to look her in the eye.

"You're a very odd individual." You mumble shyly, and she has to giggle confusedly, losing her serious pose to adjust the collar of your blouse. 

"Pleaseee." She stretches out the word, liking the way a smile breaks across your lips or especially the way you stare at her mouth when she talks like that. "I'll behave. I'll just stay put and watch. I've never seen it happen before. Please, honey? Just once."

You sigh in defeat, and Wanda taps her hands before jumping on your neck, and hugging you excitedly. It's a very difficult struggle to keep your fangs away with her so close.

It doesn't even last half a minute, but it feels like an eternity because you want to feed and everything always moves slower if the vampire focuses on hunger. 

"It's not going to be anything special, I don't want to cause a scene in your aunt's neighborhood." You let her know, thinking you need to talk a bit to push the dizziness away.

Wanda smiles excitedly. "Anything will be great, darling. Come on, I'll be right behind you."

It's easy to find prey in a place like New Orleans. You end up deciding on a restaurant waiter, isolated in one of the alleys. He's a young adult, distracted by chores, and you almost give up because of the smell of garbage so close by. But it's a very good isolated opportunity to waste like this.

Your fangs are already out when there's a noise behind you.

Wanda has bumped into something, loud enough to attract the boy's attention, who is startled by the two figures in the alley. One glimpse of your vampiric appearance and he's stumbling frightened away before starting to run.

You sigh incredulously, and Wanda appears in your field of vision.

"Sorry, it was..." She falls silent, surprised that you haven't gathered your usual looks and absorbing every detail of your face now. From the fangs to the completely darkened eye sclera. When she speaks, her voice is much huskier. "An accident."

"It's okay, it actually tastes better when they're scared." You shrug. "The adrenaline and fear accelerates the heart which pumps fresh blood throughout the body. That's why so many vampires prefer to hunt at night. People are more afraid of the dark than they think."

Wanda chuckles, looking at you in a way that makes you forget about the boy's footsteps becoming too distant to distinguish from the other sounds of the city.

"You're kind of a vampire nerd." 

"I don't know what that word means." You give a confused laugh and Wanda moves closer.

"It means I think you're really cute." She retorts, making you gulp dryly. Her hands find your shoulders, and Wanda gets close enough for you to count her freckles. "And I'm dying to know how these little ones feel, darling. Do they hurt?”

She's too close for you to focus, but you make an effort. "Hm, just a little, when they come out. They usually only bother me when I'm really hungry."

Wanda's fists cross together behind your head, and she's definitely too close for you to think about anything other than her.

"And how hungry are you now?"

"Very, Miss Maximoff." You confess hoarsely. Wanda smiles mischievously, tilting her neck in your direction.

"Well, I think you should have a little taste."

"God, Wanda." Your eyes close on instinct, your face falling forward so that you sink into the gap in her collarbone. Wanda shudders, as affected as you are. Her hands-free themselves so that she can stroke your arm, as a reassurance that everything is all right, and also caress your hair because apparently everything so far hasn't been maddening enough for her.

Every cell of your spirit begs you to sink your fangs into the warm skin in front of you, to drink every drop until Wanda faints against you, but you fight nature itself with her help. Her soft sighs in your ear, assuring you that she trusts you.

"It'll only be a little bit, I promise." You assure her, licking the spot gently and drawing a deep sigh from the other girl. It's the sound you focus on before you take the first bite.

Wanda tenses at the slightest hint of pain, but another sensation takes over elsewhere. Her cheeks burn with the betrayal of her own body, and she finds herself unable to care about the mild pain while she's throbbing between her legs.

Her nails dig into your biceps, and she starts to squirm under you, surrendering to the sensation of your bodies so close together. You hum in satisfaction at the soothing of your hunger, and Wanda drops her hand to your waist.

"Enough, baby." She whispers the request, her nails scratching the hair on the back of your neck. "I'm starting to get dizzy."

You hold on a little tighter, and Wanda softens against your body. Her heart is pounding, and she is aware of her pathetic underwear situation. Your body heaved forward, and Wanda didn't have the strength to resist any pull. She feels her back hit the wall of the alley, and whimpers at the feel of your leg pressed between hers.

She doesn't think she has ever been so at someone's mercy as she is now. She just wants to tell you to help her relieve the pressure between her legs, but every time she tries to call you, what leaves her lips are needy moans.

And you kept feeding and the surroundings began to darken. Wanda only realized that she'd been grinding herself on your thigh all this time because her climax approached at high speed, and falling off the edge brought a momentary recovery of consciousness.

"Oh, God, detka!" She meows, spilling herself on your thigh. Her body spasms softly, and you tense up, stopping your feeding immediately. Wanda falls limp in your arms, trying to fuck herself stupidly even after the orgasm she's just achieved. Your arms are the only support keeping her upright. "Do that again."

You shake your head, pushing her sweaty hair out of her face. "No, I took more than I should have." You retort softly, and Wanda has to blink a few times to realize that your appearance has returned to normal. "What a terrible idea that was, Wanda. So dangerous… I was starving."

She gives you a dreamy little smile. "How do I taste?"

"The best I've ever had." You assure her before adjusting her to hold her in your arms just in time for Wanda to lose consciousness.

She dreams of the same feeling of being carried but in a place much colder than New Orleans.

-&-

She wakes up just in time to see you putting her to bed, all the way to the borrowed room in her aunt's empty apartment.

Wanda grabs your wrist before you can pull away after putting the covers over her.

"Hey." Your voice and gaze are so sweet that she almost forgets everything that has happened so far. But Wanda actually remembers very well, and the lingering sensation of your body against hers makes her shiver. 

"Hey... sorry for blacking out on you." She murmurs, her free hand coming up to your face. You bite your lip, still hovering over her body and uncertain what you should do next. Should you pull away? Lean in and kiss Wanda like you've been dreaming of doing for weeks? She seems to be able to see all the hesitation in your eyes, and offers a reassuring smile, her hand caressing your cheek. "What's wrong?"

Wanda is definitely teasing you, but you don't mind, smiling too as you steady your hands next to her body on the mattress, face to face, the two of you waiting for the other to make a move first until the tension is almost unbearable. But you also remember what brought you there, and let out a small sigh.

"You shouldn't have baited me like that, Wanda. It's dangerous, I could have... lost control."

Her expression becomes almost mischievous, a smile threatening to break out on her lips. "I've survived much worse, darling."

You sigh in frustration. "Wanda..."

"It's the truth." She chuckles even though you move away to sit down properly. Wanda also mimics the gesture, looking for your hand on the bed so that you stop grimacing and look at her. "Hey, come on, don't be upset."

"I'm not."

"Then why the pout?" She leans in, kissing your cheek and you snort away, unable to stay angry with this adorably charming witch. "You have to trust me, sweetheart." She whispers, kissing your jaw. You sigh, squeezing her hand gently.

"I trust you with my life, Wanda." You let her know in the same tone, intertwining your fingers in her lap. Wanda smiles against your skin, chaste kisses trailing from your jaw to your collarbone. "I'm just scared... that one day, I'll lose control and hurt you. I'd never forgive myself."

She pulls away a little to look you in the eye. "I meant it what I said before." Starts the witch. "I've been through much worse. You weren't there to see... what I did to reach that little girl. You don't have to worry about hurting me, because it doesn't matter, I'll always heal." With your hesitation, she pulls further away to push the collar of her shirt aside and let you see the place where you fed on her a few minutes ago. "Look, it's gone. You have to trust me, darling. I know that the idea of anyone being stronger than an original is hard for you to accept, but believe me, I'll be fine. I'll always be fine, even if you are starving and out of your mind."

You grimace, adjusting yourself so that you can hold her by the waist and place her on your lap. "Just because you're going to heal doesn't mean I can hurt you. You deserve kindness, Wanda. I can give you my best." Your mouth meets hers, it's not a hungry kiss but it's a hot one and it takes Wanda out of her orbit. It's been a while since the last time, and well, it's never really been like this. She struggles a little to find her rhythm, for a short moment just panting against your experienced tongue, until she finally responds in an equally passionate way that makes you sigh and press your body to hers. 

Wanda likes the sound. Wanda likes you.

"Can I take off your shirt?" Your request comes between one kiss and another, she hardly answers because her mind is clouded with arousal, and if she could be honest, she would have been out of her clothes a long time ago. 

"Yes, please." She gasps back, anxious hands tracing your back. Wanda is restless under your touch, shy about your gaze once the clothes come off. But you do everything with an unbearable slowness that leaves her squeezing her thighs together in search of relief. 

She had sex before - For the first time in a war-torn adolescence, an experience that was forgettable and almost regretted. And then with a machine man who could pretend but never had the biological need to do so. 

This moment right now was like no other, being with someone who worshipped her body, who was as breathless as she was, who reacted to her touch and was practically at her mercy when she touched the right spot.

And Wanda finds that she loves it. Having you touch her and touch you back, and feeling your fangs scratch her skin every time she thrusts her hips into yours.

Pinned against the bed, naked as you are, your legs entwined together like your bodies. Sighs of pleasure mingle with the dance of your hips, and Wanda digs her nails into your back as your fangs press into her collarbone. 

You drink less than last time, but her legs still tingle. Or maybe it's the orgasm hitting her hard.

This is different from the first - the whole bed vibrates with the wave of magic that escapes the witch with her back arched. You hold Wanda, even though you're also shaking with the force of your own climax. She initiates the next kiss this time, moaning into your tongue as she spins your bodies around with ease. Your hands entwine together at the top of your head, but Wanda lets go, lowering herself and getting a confused sigh from you.

"What are you up to, little witch?"

Then it occurs to her with your expression that you are four centuries old and have spent much of this time as a prisoner and that perhaps you haven't been so confident because Wanda is your first lover.

She looks back up, sitting on your hips, breathing out of rhythm but now with a new excitement shining in her eyes.

"Babe, be honest... have you ever been with a woman before?"

Your face gains a deep color, and you turn your gaze away. Wanda falls hard, even if it doesn't occur to her yet.

She giggles softly and you're even more embarrassed, but she doesn't let you move away, her firm legs holding you in place.

"Don't make fun of me." You mutter, and Wanda snorts softly.

"Never." She assures you, even though she already has a new dozen antics memorized. Her mouth kisses your jaw and goes down like her body. The color in your cheeks is for another reason soon. "I love being your first. I want to make you feel good."

You hesitate to hold her when she's stimulating you, worried about losing control of your own strength. The sheets are destroyed when Wanda flicks her tongue over your breasts, smiling with delight at the sight of you squirming.

She goes lower and you gasp for air. "What... are you doing?" You ask mortified. It's not the 1700s anymore, you have to remember. Female pleasure is, well, taken into account. Wanda bites the inside of your thighs, watching the muscles twitch for a moment.

"You'll love it, I promise." It's the only thing she says before diving in, her hot mouth pulling all the air from your lungs. It's the most wonderful thing you've ever felt. Wanda's tongue works on your most intimate part, teasing your entrance before she starts to eat you out hungrily. You grip the headboard, your eyes closed tightly. Wanda holds your legs open, and the knot in your stomach starts to become impossible to contain. 

The witch seems to like it too. She moans for your taste on her tongue, and the new vibration pushes you over the edge. Wanda holds your spasming body without difficulty, you think she uses magic for that. And still calming down, it takes you a whole moment to stop seeing stars.

Wanda licks up every drop of your pleasure, moaning softly before meeting your gaze again. You can't hold it, and end up covering your reddened face with your arm while ignoring the smug giggle of the witch who begins to climb your body again.

"Don't be shy... you look so pretty when you moan my name." She praises you provocatively, and you can't help but smile, feeling completely relaxed. Wanda waits for you to look at her again, her arms resting on your shoulder so that she can look at you closely. "Hi."

Your hand finds her cheek. " Hi, yourself." She leans into your touch, her smile filling your chest with warm happiness. Wanda sighs.

"Can we stay like this? Just for a moment." She asks quietly, and something in her gaze tells her that the question isn't just for today. Wanda wants to know if you can be with her.

You would. Forever if she wished. "Of course, little witch. For as long as you want."

[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 Four - Hamster ball

See? The last update wasn't a fluke! :) Bit of a more easygoing chapter compared to the hecticness I've been subjecting our poor omega to. Bit more background on our girl. Give her a bit of breathing room before hopping back into more chaos.

Also: I've added a change to the reader's physicality. There's a reference to being underweight for medical reasons so I'm sorry if that takes any of you out of the experience. I try to not mess with that aspect, but I just felt it necessary given everything I put this girl through.

Trigger warnings: angst, depression, customer service, malnourishment

The dog survived.

Life had apparently decided against throwing you any more curveballs on your way back to the apartment – slushy roads and bad drivers notwithstanding (honestly, how could this many people forget what front wheel drive did on black ice and wet pavement?).

Densely populated areas gave way to suburban life as you drove the twenty minutes it took to escape the city center and arrive back into a world a little less crowded.

The area you resided in could generously be considered lower middle class. The crime rate was on the lower end of the spectrum though still a tinge too high for most members of polite society. Nothing too terribly outlandish; juvenile gang violence typical of a sizable city and the occasional asshat who decided the stuff in your car now belonged to him. But there was a police station a few blocks down the road from you that ran frequent patrols and the low level violence kept the rent at a decent affordability. 

There were less and less brownstones the further east you traveled, row house opulence giving way to multi level apartment buildings interspersed amongst a smattering of mid century moderns. Grass became a thing again, but only in long strips running parallel with the sidewalk – unless you were fortunate enough to own a modest front lawn on a small corner lot. Not that it was visible beneath the eight inches of snow that’d accumulated since it started falling late yesterday morning. 

It was only late afternoon by the time you were back in familiar territory, but this close to the impending holiday the local residents left their Christmas lights on 24/7 it seemed. Most abodes were adorned with at least humble decorations. 

Community members wrapped battery powered twinkle lights around the sparse barren elms, evergreen garland candy caning down metal street lamps, interlaced tinsel glimmering from passing headlights. Cheap vinyl stickers of cartoon snowmen and Santa's little helpers splattered across glass windows and sliding balcony doors in haphazard childish fashion. Mesh reindeer lawn ornaments and creepy animatronic statues recreating Saint Nick’s undertaking in kaleidoscopic – if not positively garish – displays. 

Muddied coir welcome mats proclaiming ‘Blessed Yule!’. A giant inflatable dinosaur taking up way too much space and spinning an oversized dreidel. You even gave props to the guy with a grinch head popping out the top of his chimney, smirking deviously at the passersby down below as if they were in on the secret. 

All walks of life celebrating the winter season in their own special ways. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you bothered to hang a simple wreath.

You were fortunate enough to find decently close street parking as you pulled up to the curve, grateful the black Kia behind had left space enough for more than just a clown car. A group of rowdy boys bundled snug in thick mittens and hand-knit toques called for a ceasefire, taking your nearby arrival as an excuse to catch their breaths and stockpile more ammunition for the fierce battle they waged. Childish insults flew from behind snowy barricades as you stepped out of your car and onto the icy sidewalk.

It was a more than usual hassle making the trudge inside your apartment building. Normally you kept your grocery list light; manageable for the haul up three flights of stairs despite the fully functioning elevator. But with the previous week’s illness eating into more of your food supply than normal you’d been forced to compensate for the barren cupboards. 

Could you make multiple trips? Sure. Did you want to be outside in the blustery cold for longer than necessary? Nope. Hence the sight of you iron-manning your way through the building’s exterior entrance, clusters of bags biting into your arms even through your heavy winter coat, overstretched plastic really field testing its weight requirements and lumbering your already lethargic pace.

You were grateful that you’d remembered to double bag some of the heftier items, having almost made that same mistake the month prior if not for the shredding sound alerting you to the seam's fatal flaw. That’s all you needed was to be spending your evening on hands and knees mopping up shattered glass and pickle juice from grime-laden steps.

There's a sense of accomplishment as you haul the purchased goods over the threshold to your apartment, carefully depositing the burdensome load on the tile in front of your refrigerator, far too many to overwhelm your bite-sized kitchen table with. Doubling back to re-check the numerous door locks and deadbolts, you finally let loose a sigh as you kick off your snow boots and shuck the weighted material from your weary shoulders, hanging the ratty scarf on the hook next to it and giving your neck a chance to breathe again.

Rubbing the irritated skin hurt more than it helped. The damn thing was sensitive to abrasive material – only concealing it when absolutely necessary. Winter was easy; warmer months made the task trickier. Thankfully most people didn’t stare much at an omega with a patch of gauze taped over her neck. Newly bonded designations wore it as a badge of honor, proudly proclaiming to the world at large that they’d finally found their place amongst the upper echelons of packdom.

You, meanwhile, would have to be more careful in the future to wear turtlenecks if bombshell interactions were to become a normal occurrence. The last thing you needed were prying questions from nosy alphas.

A half gone tube of medicated ointment called your name from the bathroom counter, but the inflamed mating mark would have to wait until after you got the bulk of groceries put away. Canned items and other non perishables could be dealt with tomorrow. There was only so much strength left in your bones after a day like today.

The knock on your front door would have startled you worse if not for the preceding text message hailing the arrival. 

‘Paranoid’ would be the appropriate term. Practically overnight you found yourself turning into one of those god awful annoying conspiracy theorists that hide in the dark cobwebs of the internet, spouting schizophrenic ravings of lunacy and government surveillance, too wrapped up in their straight jackets for oxygen to reach their corrupted brains. 

It was hard not to be distrustful to any and all intruders of your dwelling, knowing full well the consequences that come from letting your guard down in a stunning display of naivety. The pinched tether on your bond reassured you of his distance, but he was far from being the only ill-intentioned alpha in a thousand mile radius.

Pulse fluttering like a baby bird and fingers flexing into trembling fists, you creep up to the peephole with all the finesse of a one-legged cat – despite knowing the face that would greet you on the other end. Per usual, the kind beta didn’t take it personally when you opened the door with barely enough space to let her inside, squeezing through the gap provided and scooting out of the way while you relatched your pacifying security measures.

All she offered was her usual glowing smile and a box of double stuf oreos.

“Hard day at therapy?”

Chloe had been an unexpected addition to the chaos of your life. For lack of in-unit appliances, the apartment complex housed a small laundry facility on the ground floor – free of charge, but awfully stifling come the summer months. Enough square footage that multiple people could use it at any given time, but not enough to hold even a quarter of the residents. On the weekdays, that damn thing could be packed tighter than a dented can of sardines (and smell just as fishy). It wasn’t unusual to find your neighbors making the trek of shame back to their rooms, hefting a still-soiled bag of clothing, waiting another hour or so in hopes of trying their hand at the laundry lottery all over again.

You were embarrassed to say you avoided the place like the plague for the first month after moving in. After all, what did it really matter? 

You didn’t leave your apartment at the time. There was no need for decorum – no call to impress. And as an unpacked omega with disabling agoraphobia it sounded like the worst sort of torture porn experience. It had taken running out of febreze and being on the phone with your dads to finally venture down there at three o’clock in the morning on a random Tuesday in hopes the facility would be barren enough that your musky basket could stop reeking up your closet. 

The scream you screamt upon turning the corner and finding another human being skulking around in the unlit void had you so sure your father’s were a hairs breadth away from calling down the fucking feds.

Turns out Chloe was a skittish thing a few years younger than you. A recent college graduate, this was her first real apartment outside of campus dorm life. But where you were up at the ass crack of dawn due to an anxiety-inducing aversion to civilization, she was down there to keep from running into the cute nerdy alpha across the hall and risking mortification at him peeping her dainty underthings.

Honestly you hadn’t been sure the smell of urine was coming from either laundry basket.

Once you’d calmed down enough to pull your fathers off the edge of booking the next flight down there to rough up some nonexistent predator, you’d managed to finish your chores on opposite sides of the room, neither engaging in any conversation beyond muffled apologies of humiliation. 

What followed was an uneasy truce born out of necessity, a silent acknowledgement that this would be a weekly safe space free from judgment and criticism. Silence turned to whispered greetings, whispers became timid banter, until eventually you were confessing in therapy to eating homemade peanut butter cookies on the floor in front of the laundry machines.

Now she was the only other person in this whole entire city besides Dr. Miranda that you could go to for advice and needed companionship. 

Originally you had no intention of exhausting any more of your social battery than had already been consumed. But therapy wasn’t for another week and you had too much bubbling inside to be contained by the cramped confines of your studio apartment. And Chloe was considerate enough that she knew not to overstay her welcome, her own introverted alarm clock ringing about the same time as yours.

“If only that had been the hard part,” you replied with a sigh, taking the parcel of outstretched goods and moseying on over to your butt shaped indent on the far end of the couch.

The sound of creaky hinges and clattering plastic informed you of Chloe’s detour to the kitchen. “Has that rust-bucket jalopy of yours finally gone to the great big scrap metal in the sky?”

Everyone’s a critic.

“How about we don’t put that out into the universe thank you very much.” Shoving a whole cookie in your mouth, you gratefully accept the cold glass of milk she passes over before taking up a spot on the cushion next to you, grabbing at her own treat from the open pack.

The mess of red curls atop her head and the loud pattern of her knit rainbow sweater deceptively implied a boisterous personality. Bright green eyes. A healthy dusting of freckles. Blue corduroy pants still smudged with gold leaf. One look at her 5 foot 11 stature and you’d think she was some sort of artistic fairy, flitting about from flower to flower like a social hummingbird. In truth she’d gone to school for fine arts, but in preparation for a career in conservation – something quiet and away from the harsh critics where she could help express someone else's ideas instead of her own.

Her soft hazelnut scent matches her sympathetic smile, always patient and warm with you. “Does it have something to do with why you smell like a latte? Oh dear–please tell me no one spilled hot coffee on you today!”

You duck your head from her doe eyed worry and concerned frown of dread, focusing on the cold bite of milk on your fingers as you plunge another sugary morsel into your clear plastic cup. 

As toxic as it might have been, you couldn’t bring yourself to wash the scent of alpha from the pores of your skin.

“Chloe, I…” Here goes nothing. “I met someone yesterday…”

For the second time in less than four hours you found yourself spilling your heart to a friendly ear. 

She heard all of it. The supermarket run-in. Tantalizing lemon. Silky coconut. Devastating chocolate. Therapy. The coffee shop mishap. Being gentled by a complete stranger.

The promise kept safe in your electronic device. 

Where Dr. Miranda had broached the topic with a level-headed sense of therapeutic resolution, Chloe had all but clutched her pearls the longer your tantalizing tale was spun. She wore her expressions the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, squeezing the life out of a proffered couch pillow in a way that made you hope she didn’t have any pets at home.

“How could he possibly expect any of this to not come crashing down in a fiery hellscape of cataclysmic fury that would put Dante’s inferno to shame?”

Can you tell she went to catholic school?

“I mean… it's not like I caught him off guard technically,” you try to bargain. “Like yeah, today’s meeting wasn’t exactly on purpose, but they would’ve had a whole night to discuss things amongst themselves. Maybe they just reached some sort of weird agreement with her?”

She bites her lip to hide the sympathetic frown. “Do you really believe that though?”

No. No you didn’t.

It wasn’t hard to put yourself in her shoes considering the thick iron cable anchoring you to another. If that bond came with passion... if you knew the cloying taste of devotion – the idolatry that comes from having your molecules grafted onto a lover’s DNA – you’d shred every muscle strand in your body, tear skin from bone with bloodied teeth to keep what was coveted.

And here you were. The other woman.

Suddenly the chocolate dessert didn’t taste so appetizing.

At your lack of a meaningful answer, she unknowingly goes for the throat.

“Perhaps you should tell them–”

“No.” 

The ice in your tone brokers no room for argument, instantly regretting the bite behind it as you watch her flinch back into the cushions with a meek whine. 

Your expression softens in guilt. Chloe is just trying her best to help you navigate an otherwise impossible scenario. Her suggestion doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, only one of care. Even if it does speak of ignorance.

Not that she didn't still try.

“Wouldn’t you want to know if the roles were reversed?”

“And what good would that do?” you press far more gently this time, the acid of pain climbing up the back of your throat. “No matter what they say there’s no tangible future for us. That ship has well and truly sailed – I know that now. My destiny was signed with an iron pen and the deed says I belong to him.”

Your voice quivers on the last word, the sting of acceptance cutting into flesh with a rusty barbed wire. You never thought there could be a feeling worse than hopelessness.

“Telling them will only ensure that both parties suffer for another’s twisted scheme,” you continue past the lump in your throat, “and I won’t subject them to the burden that should be only mine to bear. I refuse to let them live with that guilt.”

Maybe it’s her beta upbringing that keeps her from fully understanding the colossal weight of putting your bonded through such inner turmoil. Chloe will never know what it means to share someone's emotions across an unwavering connection. Pack life isn’t barred from her, but the same primal urges that draw us towards our mates are nothing but strings of thread easily pruned. 

Truthfully most betas never want it. To them, we all drew the short end of the straw; being forced into subjugation by ancient instincts that never shed their skin after the last ice age. 

After the eternally looping rollercoaster that's been holding you prisoner the past four years, you can't say you disagree with them anymore.

“...maybe they chew with their mouths open.”

The huff she pulls from your chest is genuine, catching you off guard with the attempt at levity, the small roast doing its job of diffusing the atmosphere. Her extemporaneous remark reflects the giggles in her eyes begging you to play along.

“Bet they don’t wash their buttcracks either,” you add with a half-grin after a few moments of quiet, relishing in the way she covers her mouth to stifle a snort. Her energy is endearing, granting you leave to feed off the sunrays of her carefree aura, unblemished by the malice of a hateful underbelly, continuing for the next couple minutes that her presence lingers.

If only laughter was all it took to make everything better.

Consciousness greets you like a lifelong friend – one waiting to welcome you into outstretched arms, promising comfort and geniality with its disarming smile, swaddling you in a blanket so thick and plush it cradles you like a pregnant mother’s womb. It beckons with a silvery tongue, promising a joyful reunion as you give yourself over freely under the guise of a fresh start.

All the easier for it to slip a knife between your ribs. 

You should’ve known better.

Sleep hasn’t been your ally since the night before the incident. Rest is not restful; it is a time where the walls between protection and abuse are at their thinnest. Where the toxic sludge of your connection oozes through the cracks like bubbling tar and coats your insides with its virulent adhesive. It chokes you with its noxious miasma, seeping into dreams and disturbing the regenerative process vital to your health.

Each day starts the same – dealing with the consequences of life on a strained leash.

Awareness comes into focus next like a camera in the exclusion zone, grainy and crackling under the effects of radioactivity while spreading like the beginnings of cancer through the pores of your skin. It clings around the edges, lethargic in its letting go, giving way only to the melodic chiming of your phone’s alarm that might as well be set to a booming fog horn. 

Eyelashes crusty with dried salt crystals peel apart like fly paper, pupils fully dilated as the blackout curtains remove the need for constriction. The rumpled towel beneath you leaves tender spots on your back from where it bunched up in the night – a result of the fitful writhing when the nightmares your mind guards you from remembering leave your body feverful and drenched, soaking through the lightweight sheets and condensing in a thin layer of slimy moisture.

And the nausea.

God, the nausea.

The condition was a constant in your life, but its disruption was the worst during the early hours of the day.

Movement requires a delicate balance first thing in the morning. Jostle your body too much and the empty bin wedged between your bed and your nightstand gets reacquainted with the bile of your stomach (they’re apparently in an intimate relationship that you’re just sandwiched between like an awkward third wheel).

Problem is, barring the use of hefty restraints, it's impossible to know which side of the bed you’ll be waking up on. Literally. 

Some days you find yourself facing the drab interior of your studio apartment rather than covered window panes, knowing the energy required to roll over towards the small nightstand will likely result in the emptying of your insides. Sleeping on your back had potential, but your form preferred to curl in on itself for lack of anything else to bring it comfort.

Lady Luck had apparently seen enough of your mental breakdowns the past forty eight hours to grant you a reprieve, taking pity on your string of misfortunes as the first thing your eyes take in upon blinking free from sand is the heavy satin of your window coverings keeping in the dark – some lavender pattern to help match the rest of your nesting materials. They’re still fresh out the box after all these years, though the accumulation of filth would tell you otherwise, dust bunnies taking up residence on the weighted linen.

Your furnishings haven’t been bathed in sunlight since the moving van.

The well-loved bottle of Zofran sits in its spot on the corner of your nightstand, next to your still ringing phone and a robin's egg stanley, a glass picture frame shoved in the far corner on the other side of your table lamp.

Still wrapped in a thick fog of drowsiness, leaden muscles flex and groan as your arm stretches the short distance, ears taking priority and fingers tapping at the illuminated screen until they locate the damn snooze button. Popping the small oval pill comes next, chasing it with lukewarm water before burrowing back down into the soft minky goodness of your comforter. 

You're awake an hour before you need to be, but not to get anything done. No rejuvenating shower. No balanced breakfast and a half hour of yoga. Just adjusting to the abject misery your bond greets you with every day as a not so gentle reminder of the alpha you left behind. 

It’s a constant struggle to remind yourself that the suffering is worth it for the lifetime of abuse from which you escaped. Better to be tormented by a path you chose than one unwillingly taken.

About forty minutes go by before the medication kicks in enough to allow you freedom of movement, pulling yourself from the tangles of your bedding with aching joints and low fuel reserves. Walking into the bathroom, you squint against the blinding overhead fluorescents, rubbing the spots from your eyes as you take in your frumpy reflection.

There’s a photograph next to your bed that you haven’t glanced at in a few months. Six familiar faces beaming into a camera lens somewhere high in the mountains. A family vacation from eight years ago; the best summer of your life. 

That girl in the picture is nowhere to be found.

Spiritless eyes meet your gaze in the glass, early crows feet forming from periods of prolonged stress. A bone deep exhaustion reflected in your undereye bags, the dull pallor of your complexion. The frizziness of unmoisturized locks begging for a drink. Wind chapped lips and an eternal frown. 

The oversized shirt hangs baggy on your form, once belonging to your brother but now in your possession. If you lifted up the garment you could practically count the ribs, a once healthy layer of fat and muscle cannibalized by famished cells and underutilization. It's hard to keep on weight when your stomach rejects the nourishment you try to provide.

If this is the empty shell you’ve become a full continent away from him then it’s hard to imagine what lifeless husk of a creature you might’ve deteriorated into under his brand of care. 

There’s no more energy left by the time you do your business and finish brushing your teeth, knowing what few bolts remain will have to go towards the impending headache of customer service. Taming your unruly hair will just have to wait until later – if at all.

You flick the lights on as you pass, trudging on shaky legs to the cabinets above the microwave. There’s still too much unease in your tummy for your usual coffee order, opting for a mug of herbal tea to help settle the irritated organ, a spoonful of honey cutting through the mild bitterness. Settling on a sleeve of poptarts for a lazy breakfast, you lumber your way over towards the couch and the awaiting annoyances.

Opening shifts were always the worst. 

Originally you’d approached the company with open availability in hopes of bettering your chances at landing a remote job. In those days, commuting to a location had been out of the question. It took months of submitting applications – relying solely on your family for all your expenses – before someone finally gave you an opportunity to rejoin the workforce.

(You wept the day you received the offer from HR. Having even a sliver of autonomy returned to you after a tumultuous period without it was as the first melting snow of a long envisioned spring).

Unfortunately it meant you were handed the hours no one else wanted to take. Most days that was the early shifts. 

It’s not like you work a whole hell of a lot. The job itself is only part time after all and fairly easy; fourteen hours max per week. But you’d quickly learned that the later you were scheduled, the clearer your brain was to focus, the better you performed overall. 

Now if only the big wigs at corporate would allow you to update your availability. When last you’d scrounged up enough courage to broach the topic to your immediate supervisor you were promptly informed that there was no current flexibility to your role and, when pressed, sent a look via Zoom that clearly said don't push it.

So much for ‘warm family environment’.

A small rolling side table acts as your makeshift desk, the apartment too cramped for something proper no matter how many attempts to tetris the layout. One of your fathers had come up with the brilliant solution while shopping at ikea for new end tables, spotting the piece of furniture and shipping it out to your location. You’d had to brave the awkward visit of the buff delivery man for a signature – hiding behind the door jamb like a sketchy criminal – but the purchase had been well worth it for how cluttered your poor kitchen table had previously looked, a jumbled mess of pens and wires, certifiably hazardous with its lengthy extension cord.

Armed with soothing chamomile and a warm knit blanket thrown over your lap, you boot up your laptop and log onto the program that would keep you chained to it for the next six hours.

Ask anyone that deals with customers directly: Christmas is the least wonderful time of the year.

Garbled phone calls over shitty receptions. The droning monotony of preplanned scripts. Old bitties recounting eight decades of family drama. Mass hysteria around shipping delays. ‘Happy Birthday Steve’ and the audible slick of his palm. Entitled socialites for whom the word ‘please’ never came preinstalled in their gold filigree hoity-toity dictionaries. 

The fifteen minute break is almost insulting. As if anyone can decompress in such a meager timespan. It’s no wonder why people used to chainsmoke their way through the stress of their jobs.

You try to remind yourself of the before times – the trials and tribulations that came from previous employments. Long grueling hours spent pent up in bustling kitchens, the dinner rush on crab leg nights testing your arm strength and patience for slow steamers. Pushy roofing salesmen harping over impoverished neighborhoods. Car guys calling you toots and insisting on being assisted by a ‘real professional’.

This job was by far the most laid back. No fussing over business casual, no extroverted coworkers crowding your space, no bosses micromanaging for the sake of being assholes. You were living a cushy life by comparison.

But then your mind wanders to Jose on the third floor kitchen, busy doing prep work for the various departments; a kind man once he warmed up to you and found you competent enough to last. Always sneaking you tender bites of grilled meats and a bowl of creamy lobster bisque.

Nyle bringing you ladies in the office a round of Starbucks when he came in for mandatory meetings. Sharing music with Stacy and gabbing about just aired episodes of your favorite tv show. Heather bringing in fresh blueberry bear claws from the local bakery near her home.

Going to the irish pub across the street with the guys in finance that knew the owners, getting drunk off free whiskey and cider on Friday nights. All smiles and laughter as you twirl across the dance floor to a live band performing hits from musicians like Flogging Molly and Great Big Sea…

…and you realize just how much you took for granted. That there’s a palpable difference between surviving and living.

You don’t even notice you’re six minutes over break until your laptop pings from someone trying to get in touch with you, startling you out of melancholic reminiscence and bringing you back to a somber present that longs for the taste of livelihood.

That time has ended; those figures mere ghosts of a past better left forgotten in the vaults of your memory.

Now, you make a small but tidy living solving other people's problems a few hours a week. Enough to pay for personal bills, groceries, and the occasional indulgence while your fathers provide the bulk of your utilities and the sum of your rent. Your lost independence used to bother you more, but the thought of a homeless shelter quickly silenced your tongue.

Your cellphone reads one o’clock by the time you're freed from servitude, happy to be logging off as you push the rolling setup back out of the way. The air bubbles between the contours of your spine pop and crackle as you rise to your feet, ignoring the rush of lightheadedness from six hours remaining stationary. Resisting the urge to itch at the healing scab on the side of your neck, you pad into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sandwich – cautiously optimistic on the inclusion of juicy pickles – before plopping back down in your usual spot.

The acidity doesn’t seem to upset your stomach any further, allowing you to munch in peace on the simple scrapings of lunch, scrolling through the kindle app on your phone for something to occupy your time with.

There’s never much to do around here when the people in your life are busy living their own. Your family checks in on you every so often, catching you up on the goings-on in the quiet neighborhood, your father taking the opportunity to gush about his lego collection to someone other than his partner for a change. You miss the camaraderie that came with building the Death Star.

Despite living hundreds of miles away, their calls always made you feel as if you were gathered around the sectional in the warm lit interior of the sprawling living room, Christmas tree glowing by the light of the fire, a hot cup of cocoa and the merriment of family.

The same couldn’t be said for your younger brother Alex.

Ever since moving out at eighteen he'd become quite a prick, a beta complex a mile wide that only got worse when he surrounded himself with the wrong kinda crowd. The loss of his once fervent companionship had devastated you. After the accident that brought your parents to an early grave, you’d kept each other afloat through turbulent waves of depression, tidal waves of grief. Six became four, but – even though that wound would never fully heal – you still had the strength of their love to turn to when forgone memories played like black and white film.

But after that last argument…

Four became three.

It's been years since you last had any type of contact outside the occasional cheap greeting card – just another notch added to your mile long grinchmas belt come the holidays.

Fuck him. 

Shaking yourself out of that spiraling rabbit hole, you turned back to the task of entertainment at hand. Since you didn’t feel like spending any more time on the phone listening to idle chatter than you already had today, you settled for choosing a book at random from your extensive TBR, diving into a medieval fantasy where brave warriors slayed evil dragons and an honorable knight could still save a princess. 

The minute hand goes round and round.

Dinner is as simple an affair as lunch; a cheap frozen pizza popped in the oven adding an extra layer of warmth to the already balmy interior. There’s no need for a plate as you pull it off the wire rack onto the cardboard box it came in, gooey cheese bubbling hot and steamy, sizzling toppings shiny with bright orange grease, savory aromas wafting as they ride the circulation of the antiquated heating system. 

Years of battling chronic fatigue have made you crafty, cutting corners on labor with gathered tips and tricks accumulated over hours of lengthy research. There’s no need to add to your pile of dishes; no plates or utensils to scrub free of dried food particles. Just you and your fingers tearing through the saucy meal chunk by chunk.

Dr. Miranda tells you it's all about the little victories. The moments of accomplishment no matter how insignificant. Doesn’t matter how you get the job done so long as it happens. Roll out of bed? That’s a win. A sleeve of ritz crackers for a meal? Glad you got sustenance. Just because you weren’t claiming a nobel prize didn’t mean your triumphs were any less important. 

Didn’t leave much in the way of riveting stimulation though. Just acclimatizing you to existing in a hamster ball where the difference between day and night is as little as the am or pm on the clock. 

After all, it wasn’t like your body signaled a change in energy levels. There’s no ‘getting tired’ when you never wake up.

The only time you ever felt a sense of normalcy was when you started the process of getting ready for bed, pinpoint focus narrowing in on the task of fixing your nest. Logic shuts down and gut feeling takes the reins. You lose yourself in the fussing over placement of plush fleece and textured sherpa, jersey knit sheets and squishmallow plushies. Weighted quilt blankets and cloud-fluffy pillows of various shapes and sizes, the assortment of pastel pinks and lush earthy greens giving off the enchanted forest vibes held dear to your heart. 

It wasn’t large or luxurious by any means, but the few modest pieces you did have were plenty enough for the cozy space, strewn across the full sized bed in an organized haphazard chaos understood only by the omega instincts that dictate your actions. 

Only, there’s something wrong…

You lament the smell of mildew as your nose breathes in the cloth of your pillowcase, whining in dejection at the offense to your delicate olfactory senses and pawing at the material in shame. 

An omega’s nest is a vital part of the care and keeping of their fragile emotional state. Oftentimes they’re seen as a reflection of their owner's inner consciousness and a handy tool to monitor their anxiety levels on a day to day basis. An unkempt nest can not only signal deeper depression, but if neglected for too long may result in bodily dysregulation that can affect them even right down to a molecular level, throwing hormones out of whack and causing real physical illness. 

Your nest hasn’t been properly cleaned in far too many months – no doubt adding to the high levels of stress that already permeate your everyday life. The sacred space that’s supposed to be your safe haven acts as just another graphic reminder that he’s taken everything from you. There's no true relaxation in your life because of it. 

For what was the point of washing the sweat-stained fabric if there’s no stopping it getting soiled again the following night?

Pulling the musky sheets up to just below your chin, you stare blankly at the evidence of what happens when you get your hopes up, sitting plugged into the charger on the corner of your nightstand.

The phone hasn’t rang once. 

You’ve been religiously checking the screen all day. Turned the volume from vibrate to blaring. Unclicked ‘do not disturb’ mode (turns out even telemarketers think you’re a waste of time). The device went everywhere with you, whether it was ten feet to the bathroom or six inches across the couch. Your desperation might have been otherwise embarrassing, but there was no worry of judgment besides your own in the guarded solitude of your apartment.

He'd given you a thimble of hope, and you were clinging to it like the last drop of water.

Whether it be a call or text; you didn’t know. But he promised you... promised you… that you’d be hearing from him soon. Threatened you against inaction on your part. And you’d just believed him. Believed that even for a moment – some tiny fraction of oblivion – there could exist a world where you didn’t have to feel quite so fucking alone.

What exactly has he been up to? Some prior commitment that pulled him from his phone? Maybe he’s just stuck at work all day? But then surely he doesn’t pull twelve hour shifts. Not like you found out their given occupations yet. Which means he’s gotta be sick, right? The weather’s been atrocious and you hadn’t physically seen him get in a car when he left. 

Shit! He went home smelling like you. How did the pack react? 

How did she react? 

They didn’t get into a fight did they? She probably forced him to delete your contact info. God, you were so selfish putting them through this mess. But hadn't John been selfish too in wanting to keep you around? Was that really a pack decision?

The tears culminating in your eyes were pathetic. Acid rain bleaching your pillowcase in big caustic globules, seeping into the fabric and burning through the thin membrane of your cheeks. Bitter rage tainted the half formed excuses, corrupting like malware into personal betrayal.

How could you be so foolish? What part of ‘you’re not allowed to be happy’ did you not comprehend? Hadn’t you already learned not to shoot for the stars, much less the occupants of unit 2B?! 

Poor, stupid omega.

You grasped your chest as if that could stop whatever clawed beast was burrowing its way past your ribcage to dig out a hole and lay its clutch. Flicking the bedside lamp off brought you as much darkness outside as there was feasting on your entrails and gorging itself for a long unforgiving winter.

Curling up in your repugnant nest, you couldn’t keep your heart from shattering as each teardrop extinguished the sputtering flame of hope.

You never got around to fixing your hair.

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[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [1]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

you're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

[moody-alcoholic]

Special Delivery Service masterlist

Summary: MDNI +18 content, Simon x reader, retired 141. 141 retired and decided to open a delivery company. Only it's not a delivery company, it's a cover for less legal practices. Need a creepy stalker out your life? Someone owes you money? You need to disappear to a new life? Special Delivery Service has got you covered, for a reasonable fee.

AO3 link Masterlist

Part 1 - Help Wanted Chapter 1 - The Job Chapter 2 - The Secret Chapter 3 - The Ride Along Chapter 4 - The Stalker Chapter 5 - The Bait

Part 2 - Tough Job Chapter 6 - The new role Chapter 7 - The Death of Piece of Mind Chapter 8 - The New Hire Chapter 9 - The Old Friend Chapter 10 - The bomb Chapter 11 - The Funeral Chapter 12 - The Trip Chapter 13 - The Gun

Part 3 - New Normal Chapter 14 - The Morning After Chapter 15 - The New Client Chapter 16 - The Request Chapter 17 - The Show

Status of projects Banners by Firefly Graphics

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things: chapter six

Aizawa x reader fic

cw: cisfem reader, no quirks, office au, miscommunications, slow burn. full tags available on AO3 (linked in masterlist)

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

Fridays are also the only day where you don’t go directly home after work. Instead of catching the late night Orange line, you snag the Blue and take it down, down, down, right out of the city and it’s the almost surreal serenity of the suburbs. Street lights and cars turn into trees as the sun dips low. Only the ambient sounds of your music and the wheels on the tracks keep you company as you pass familiar stops, all the way to the end of the line.

From there, you walk: down the dark sidewalks, across the one lane roads, stopping only in the little diner along the way. It’s hours later when you finally make it to the doorstep. Before you can knock, the door is ripped open.

“You’re late.” The shortest woman you’ve ever seen stands there, hands on her hips and glasses shoved to the top of her nose bridge. Her scrubs are baggy, but clean, with the name of her service stitched on the pocket: UA Palliative. “I thought you were hit by a car.”

“Sorry, sorry.” you try to laugh her concerns off.

“And you’re sweaty.” Nurse Chiyo clicks her tongue at you as she hands you a face mask. “You should really let him send a car.”

A car would be faster, but you can’t justify someone footing that bill when your metro card has money on it. “The exercise is good for me.”

The woman scrunches her face and gestures to the bag you’re holding. The bottom of the brown paper is practically see through with grease. In the other, you have two styrofoam cups, taken from the diner down the road. “And that food is good for you too?”

“It’s a friday treat.”

“Just don’t feel bad if he’s not hungry,” she sighs with the weight of someone who knows. “Towards the end, the appetite tends to dwindle.”

You slip on your face mask and slip off your shoes. Toshinori Yagi’s home drips with old money; subtle detailing mixed with hints of extravagance, it's the air of wealth with none of the gaudiness. The halls are sparsely decorated, only the occasional artwork and statue to keep you company as you walk to the back of the home, past the luxurious, yet almost never used kitchen and through the abandoned living room. There, in the middle of it all, hangs an oversized picture of Yagi back in his acting days.

If it was anyone else, it might seem egotistical, but the man on the wall might as well be a completely different man, a Yagi from another universe. Bound solely in brightly colored latex, this Yagi grins ear to ear, flexing an obscenely thick bicep for the camera. The Hollywood cameras and actors are a blur in the background. It’s from the set of his first All Might movie-- the one you’ve seen hundreds of times. The longer you stare, the more jagging it is. At 55, Yagi is twice the man that he was in his twenties, but a quarter of the size. All of the important pieces are there -his smile, his laugh, his energy- but there’s a part of him, always locked away in a time where this picture was taken.

You press on into the study. This room is a stark contrast from the rest of the house; it’s cluttered, all flat surfaces stacked with magazines and printed articles. Coloring pages litter the floor, in between broken crayons and pencils.

In between it all is a stick of a man, dirty blonde hair buzzed short enough you can see the shape of his skull. He’s pouring himself over some reading, tired eyes tracing the page with a monotonous haze. He’s lost weight again; you can see it in the sharp dip of his cheeks.

“Happy Friday.” You rap on the door frame and he jolts up in surprise. Hand over heart, he laughs in delight, even though he knew you were coming. “How are you?”

“I thought-” He inhales. You can’t remember all of the details of what’s happened to him, but you know one of his lungs is practically nonfunctional and the other struggles keeping up. “You’d be celebrating your birthday.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course.” He pushes up to stand, but you wave him back down. “You should be. Out with friends.”

“I’m happy where I am, sir.” You place everything on the table in front of him and then retreat to your side, your drink still in hand. Once you’re far enough away - six feet- you take off your mask. “Chocolate Peanut Butter shake and extra crispy fries, just for you.”

It’s his favorite. No, it doesn’t have the nutrition he should be getting, but… well, he’s going to die no matter what. Let the man have a fucking milkshake. He takes it in both hands, like he’s cradling an award or a piece of gold.

The first time cancer struck him, Toshinori Yagi decided to leave acting and do something with his money. He didn’t have a family to take care of -- and his sister is independently wealthy-- so he invested in medical technology. He hired a team that knew better than him, put some of them through school, and grew a rather successful business from the ground up, no formal training of his own. Now, ironically enough, he’s wealthier than ever, and still pouring it into product development.

“You do too much.” He picks the darkest fry of the group and crunches down on it.

It’s the least you can do. Isolation is taxing; you don’t mind sacrificing a bit of time and $19.76 for a quick meeting and meal. You settle down in your usual spot- a fluffy velvet chair in the corner of the room- and take a long sip from your own drink.

“How are things with Shouta?”

You choke so hard it goes up your nose. How did he know? Did the interns figure it out and pass along the word to the whole office? How are you going to explain to your boss that you’ve sexted his colleague? Or did Aizawa tell him? Oh, what if he shared those pictures--

“Wh-what about him?”

Yagi gives you a strange, tired look, brow knitted with a kind concern. “You called me- about his employee?”

You physically sigh with relief; no one knows. Everything is good; you need to stop panicking. Aizawa won’t share the pictures; it’d ruin his career faster than it’d ruin yours. Besides, he’s apparently embarrassed of you, so why would he even show you off? “Oh, well, everything’s good. Kaminari is back in the office.”

Your boss chews a single fry for a long while. A melancholic twang stirs inside you. No, you haven’t known him as long as some people, but over the years you’ve gotten attached. He’s a fair man, a good one too. Watching him waste is… it’s hard. Plain and simple. On the books, you say that you visit for work, but it’s honestly a social call, something to quell your worries.

“He wasn’t very happy when-- I called,” Yagi draws in from his nasal tube as he talks sometimes and it cuts his words short.

“Yeah, I know.” That’s an understatement. You chew on your straw as you try to decide how to respond. “Aizawa had some choice words for me afterwards.

The look on Yagi’s face tells you that he already knew that. Word always makes it back to the big boss one way or another; even sick, he always has his fingers in every pie.

“Don’t let him-” He runs out of breath in a weird spot. “Push you around. He’s a strong personality.”

That’s an understatement too. You wish you could stomp your feet and demand for his removal, but unfortunately Aizawa is very, very good at his job. Besides, you don’t especially want him fired. Maybe just… a series of paper cuts everyday for the rest of his life. Or that his train never comes on time. Nothing serious.

“Trust me- I won’t.” You throw an arm up and flex. “I can put up a fight.”

“No fighting.” The man tries to give you a stern look, but it just looks a bit silly. As demanding as it sounds, it's like being scolded by a grandfather; there’s too much affection between you for anything to feel threatening. “Don’t wage any wars in my office.”

“No promises!” you tease. “Ready to go over reports?”

He smiles back, those hollow cheeks pulling into tiny apples. “Of course.”

…

It’s late when you finally make it home. Yagi had forced you into a car, calling it a birthday gift, and the drive was long and quiet. The driver turned on some soft music, songs with the tinkle of piano, and you almost dozed off by the time he rolled into your apartment complex.

You kick your heels off and strip out of your work clothes as you enter your apartment, letting everything stay where it falls. In the wake of Touya, your place is pretty much empty, with the carpet still pressed in spots where lamps and tables used to be and a jammed lock that won’t click closed. The less time you spend here, the better. You throw yourself onto the couch -something too big to take, apparently- and flick on the television. The usual mindless garbage you like is already on; perfect background noise as you play on your phone.

There’s nothing super new going on. Couple of group chat notifications. Nemuri had texted you to check in-- so did Hizashi. And-

Aizawa’s unopened messages stare at you. There’s no reason to read those texts, right? It’s just mindless sex talk. In fact, he probably doesn’t want you to ever see those texts again.

…Unless he said something important. Maybe he had told you to play dumb at work! Oh, that would open its own can of worms, but at least it would explain why he said to forget everything-

Wait, that wouldn’t make sense. You two were alone at that point. He could have been normal or said something like ‘wow, love your tits!’ or--

Ugh. He wouldn’t say that! Ugh!

You pull on your messaging app again. You need to get this over with.

-> I bet you looked so pretty when you came.

The preview still makes your skin prick with unwanted excitement. The lust nipping at your ankles isn’t easy to ignore as you tap the button and open the conversation. The immediate visage of your words, your drunken musings and flirtations, makes you physically cringe. Luckily, the new messages take up enough space to keep you from seeing your own nude visage.

The first response hits you like a truck.

-> Do you have any idea what I’d do to lick your fingers clean? What I’d do to smell your perfume on your skin?

The thrum of your heartbeat goes funny for just a flash of a moment and you have to shake off any semblance of arousal. No-- you do not like this. There’s absolutely nothing sexy about that thought! You don’t want the warmth of his tongue or the tickle of his breath against your pulse point, or that little bit of scruff against your lips-

The video is below the first message. It’s paused on an out of focus still, but you can make out the golden touched skin of his stomach and the blur of hand. Heat flickers in your core at that, but you tense your legs and try to ignore it.

Get yourself together. It’s just a fucking jerk off video. You scroll right by it.

-> Look at what you do to me. It’s all for you.

There’s a couple of minutes between that text and the final one.

- >I think you fell asleep. Talk in the AM.

And… that’s it. Nothing else.

That told you nothing, other than the fact that Aizawa Shouta is just like any other man: a horny freak. A sexy, amazing texter of a freak, but still a freak regardless! When you move, you can feel the wetness between your legs spread against your pussy lips.

You turn over and try to focus on the medical drama that’s onscreen. Ugh. Ugh! You're over this man and his fucking bipolar attitude and his work bullshit and his, his, his….

The click on the wall ticks away.

His kind of alluring demeanor.

You turn back to your phone. Maybe the video has an answer. Yeah.

The volume on your phone thrums with audio, low and deep, when you click the image. It takes you a second to realize it’s a groan- unabashed and loud- and you swear it resonates deep down into your own lungs.

This video is aimed a bit higher than the other and is shot from farther away, probably resting on a desk from the looks of it. It feels silly that you ever confused him with Touya. Shirt clutched between his teeth, Aizawa’s skin is a deeper color, completely untattooed, and his chest is filled out with weight. A broad, thick hand is white knuckle tight around his cock, glazed and dripping with wetness. It’s thick, oh god, it’s thick, and he’s holding it so tightly that it must hurt. Your jaw aches at the sight of it. Everything about him is wide//, from his cock to his thighs to his slightly soft middle.

A bead of precum rolls from his tip as he slowly drags his hand up and back down. His entire body jumps and twitches with the sensation, a red blush tickling down his chest and another moan on his lips, muffled by the fabric of his black shirt. He makes the same sound again, this one softer, almost affectionate--

And you realize something that feels like a punch to the gut.

He’s saying your name.

Heat flushes your body. Oh, you can barely breathe out of fear you’ll miss something. With a high, tight sound, Aizawa’s body goes stiff, but his cock kicks as he comes undone. Spend splatters down his chest and onto his black shirt, pearl string after pearl string. Just like everything about him, it’s too much.

And then the video ends.

You digest this for a long moment. Then, you watch it again. And a third time.

There's a tremor in your hands as you put your phone down. Okay, that didn't give you any information, but it- well-

Fuck, it was hot. Really fucking hot. Unfortunately, terribly, awfully, horrendously hot. You want to scream and kick and rub your clit just a little, because all you need is a little friction and you'll cum for him again--

No. You can't give that victory to him, not again. Even if Aizawa will never know about it, the universe will.

You grip the remote and turn up the television's audio, trying to shift your focus on to the interpersonal drama on the screen. You’re stronger than this. The little thing between your legs does not dictate your behavior!

You don’t jack off that night.

Or the following night.

Or the following.

No, you resist. You punish yourself for even entertaining the idea of cumming to the idea of him again.

Monday morning you are unsurprisingly cranky when you settle into your desk. Kicking off your shoes and booting up your computer, you stretch in your chair and try to pop the kink in your shoulder. Thirty must be catching up with you, because you didn’t sleep well all weekend. Every muscle in your back is bunched, but the little bits of movements seems to be helping-

“Jesus fucking christ, I'm sweating through my fucking shirt.”

Bakugo's accent slips out as he gripes, pulling his shirt collar away from his neck as he walks. It’s easy to forget that he and Izuku grew up in the same hometown, but when he’s genuinely pissed, that homecooked Southern twang comes out. You look up to see what's gotten him so aggravated before nine. Sweat dampens his hair and glitters his skin. Oh, and he's right, that white shirt is absolutely clinging to his middle, into that tight, tiny, toned, slutty little waist of his--

Oh, god. You slam your foot into the edge on your desk in hopes the pain douses whatever horny monster had overtaken you. Is this just life now? Practically drooling over every man with a pulse? Bakugo Katsuki is gay and very much not your type-

“You okay?” Izuku gives an awkward laugh. He and Denki are apparently right behind Bakugo, equally worn. Well, almost equally. Denki doesn't seem to be sweaty at all, despite his puffing. “You're like, making this weird face.”

Shit. Quick-- lie. “Cramps.”

“Damn, hate that,” Kaminari grips his stomach in sympathy. The other guys share an uncomfortable glance.

“So-” You change the topic. “Why are you guys..?”

“The elevator is shot.” Bakugo hooks a thumb behind him towards the stairs. “Had to carry this fuck ass bed up to the fifth floor for that meeting today.”

The investor meeting: even though Toshinori Yagi is wealthy, the newest bed prototype still needed outside funding. These fine millionaires require occasional proof that their money is being used well, so once a quarter they get jammed into the nicest room in the building and get a rather boring lecture from the important department heads. You usually sit in and try not to nod off when Enji starts in with the accounting information.

“The entire elevator?” You lean back in your chair and try to see. Sure enough, some technician is fumbling away at the buttons. “No one tell the ADA.”

“Actually, the ADA is a law, not a governing body,” Izuku chirps. “It's enforced by the DOJ, EEOC, and, oddly enough, the DOT-”

“How do you know this shit?” Denki says.

“Healthy curiosity,” Izuku tries to say.

“‘cause he's a fucking genius.” Bakugo says at the same time, louder and more confident. “Using that big head of his all the time.”

Izuku touches his temples with a concerned frown. “You think my head is big?”

“Massive.” Bakugo elbows his lover, all saccharine smiles. “It works for me though.”

Kaminari snorts and the other blonde throws him an icy glare.

“What? You gonna make a joke about massive head?”

Kaminari throws his hands in the air and rolls his eyes, surprisingly annoyed at the jab. “I was going to joke about his head working for you, but whatever! Ruin my fun.”

“As much as I love head jokes-” you interject. “I do need to get work done.”

Kaminari turns to you with the sweetest of smiles, so syrupy that everyone else recoils a bit with suspicion. “Like what?”

“Getting everyone’s powerpoints together, printing out our reports, putting those reports into actual human words and not engineering garbage, greeting our guests-- blah, blah, blah.” Just talking about it makes your head ache. “Plus the other daily reports and---- Kaminari, no.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”

“You were going to ask me to do your work again!” you say.

“Come on, please?” He puffs his bottom lip out like a kicked dog. “I have to leave early this week and -”

“Denki, you’re so fucking stupid.” Bakugo groans. He starts to leave and the other two follow behind. “I'm too tired for your shit today.”

“There’s a gay joke hidden in there.”

“I'm going to report you to fucking HR.”

“See you at lunch?” Izuku asks from over his shoulder. You shake your head-- you’ll probably just sneak one of the forgotten italian ice cups from the freezer when no one’s working. There’s so much to do and not quite enough time.

--

You’re solving that little frozen treat into your mouth when Aizawa makes his appearance. It’s strange to see him so late in the day; pure embarrassment must be keeping him away. His usual sunny yellow sweatshirt means you can’t even pretend not to see him when he rounds the corner.

Aizawa is as he always is; a bit scruffy and properly annoyed. His expression is neutral, if not a bit sour, but the crinkle in his brow is tighter than ever. The bunch to his shoulders only gets higher when he spots you.

This is really the guy that's been tearing you apart? Really? Why couldn't you have fallen for Hizashi or Enji or-- anyone else that isn't wearing a neon hoodie in the office.

“You should really take a proper lunch.” Those deep bags under his eyes are darker than usual, almost purple; he must be drained, but he’s been avoiding the coffee machine. A twang of sympathy hits you-- lack of caffeine might actually kill the guy.

When he walks towards you, you're reminded of how pretty he is, even without proper sleep. High cheekbones, smooth olive tone skin-

Your fighting spirit almost fades, but the post it note taped to your monitor catches your eye. Be mean. Yes, that's right.

“Well, uh. What do you want?” Your tone is a bit snappy.

His eyebrows twitch up in momentary surprise, but Aizawa recovers quickly.

“The elevator won’t be fixed until tomorrow.” He raps his knuckles against the wood once. “Move the investor’s meeting from the top floor.”

“Say please.”

Aizawa is half turned and midstride when he realizes what you said. He looks back at you, brow knit.

“Excuse me?”

“I said.” You hit the spacebar with a bit too much force. “Say please.”

“I-” You expect him to fight or argue, but he just sighs, hands on his hips in defeat. “You're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't demand things. Can you please move the investor’s meeting from the top floor down to the ground floor? Thank you.”

That was more sincere than you expected. Your stiff upper lip almost wobbles. Almost.

“No.”

He gives you the most deadpan stare you’ve ever seen. “What do you mean, no?”

“I said no.” You push back from the desk and let your wheeled chair roll away. “There’s no reason to move it. The room upstairs is already set up for the meeting-- full demo bed included. I’m not moving everything.”

A muscle tightens in his jaw. Seems like that good attitude is on a short fuse. “There's a second demo. I'll have the boys wheel it into the meeting room on this floor-”

“It’s a less finished model though, right?”

“That's…” Aizawa huffs. You know you’re right and so does he. “Yes. Sure. A less complete model, but it’s still leagues ahead of what they saw last time- ”

“We shouldn’t use it.” You have no right bossing him around, but you try to embody Bakugo and his cunt-like behavior. “They are going to see the best we have to offer. Besides, the fifth floor meeting room is bigger and nicer-- and it's already set up.”

“I-” He leans forward, arms crossed on to your desk. It’s not threatening, but rather humble, as he meets your eye. The silver healed skin of his scar catches the light differently than the rest of his face. “It’s four full flights of stairs.”

“And you can walk.”

A beat passes. Then another. Aizawa stares at you, dark eyes hooded with exhaustion.

“I have never, ever thought of you as a cruel person.” He doesn’t blink the entire time he speaks, deep, endless black eyes boring into yours. “But time and time again, you show me that side of you. “Well-” You don’t blink either. “I’ve always thought you were awful.

“Fuck you,” he grits out, quiet but with an edge. His lips are curled so high you can see his gum line.

You should let it die here. Let him walk away. Escape with your dignity.

But your teeth and tongue are sharp, and the look on his face is only sharpening their edges, so follow the instinct and go in for the kill. As you stand, you lean on to your hands and push yourself face to face to Aizawa. Unabashed, unafraid, unblinking.

“You wish you could.”

His face collapses. Then, it hardens again, even tighter and more disgusted than usual. The flat ridge of his nose is crinkled with a snarl, eyes narrowed so thin they're practically closed. When he pushes away to stand, Aizawa jams his hands into his sweatshirt and flexes his jaw, up and down like he's chewing on every insult and curse he wants to throw your way. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again with a deep exhale.

“Fine.” He says through closed teeth. “Fifth fucking floor.’

And with that, he turns and marches off back down the hall.

By the time you breathe again, you realize your hands are quaking. The adrenaline is still pumping through your veins, rushing your heart faster and faster. This must be how a marathon runner feels when they cross the finish line-- because this is victory.

Sorry, Yagi. War has been waged.

You did say no promises.

[pursuitseternal]

“The Eighth Day” 💐 S3x Pollen and political meetings in “Antics of the Newly Ascended”💐

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader| E |3.7K

🎨 by @lirotation [Full version under the cut]

For monthly prompt in the Creative Corner discord

Summary: The Netherbrain has fallen, and the Vampire Ascendant seeks to rise. Overtures of political workings are derailed for the new Ascendant when his Consort falls under the influence of some untimely pollen.

CW: sex pollen, secondhand embarrassment, uncontrollable urges, public sex, feral/needy Consort, A!Astarion is aroused and uncomfortable all at once.

Previous Ch | Ao3 link | Masterlist

💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐

“I still don’t understand why you insisted I attend too, Astarion,” you grumble as his light-touched fingers remove your cloak for you from behind.

“Well, this is my first official meeting as Vampire Ascendant,” he purrs into your ear as the fabric falls into his arms, “if I have to suffer through having some mortal Grand Duke flaunt his inferior status in my face, you’re sure as the hells are going to suffer too, darling.” He pats you on the shoulder and places a warm, breathy kiss on the scars in your neck. “Besides, I think Ulder liked you better after we saved his arse.” That soft pad of his thumbs runs over your lip as he smirks. “Wait here, I’ll be right back, my darling.” He gathers your cloak and his together to find a servant. Astarion grumbles under his voice as he walks away about how Wyll wouldn’t have let the Vampire Ascendant put up his own cloak, but his father…

His voice was audible only to your ears, even then, barely. You take in the foyer of the grand Ravenguard estate. Turquoise and blues and golds, the colors of the sea cover every wall and surface. You scan the room, the walls hung with paintings of maritime history. Portraits of the Ravenguard line span out towards the halls. And you think you even see Wyll’s from a distance. It makes you smile, if sadly.

How long had it been since you had seen him… any of them? You sigh. Looking for distraction, you note the strange looking arrangement of flowers on the entryway table. Such curious colors and shapes of blossoms, blues and teals that seem to glow. It brings your memories right back to those days in the Underdark. Thoughts turn wistful; those days on the road when your heart pounded with the thrill of oadventure, the memory of aching for the man you now call yours for eternity. You can’t help it, you cross over to those tantalizing blooms and inhale deeply.

It tingles your nose, deadens your other senses, and something burns at the back of your sinuses and throat.

And then you sneeze.

“Gods bless you, my consort,” Astarion purrs as he takes your arm in his and leads you deeper into the mansion. “I’m so glad you’re here at my side, I know that your smiling face and smoothe wit will undoubtedly leave a good first impression,” he smirks.

Your throat starts to go dry, but you swallow and simper at him. “So glad I can be of such service, Astarion,” you rasp as you wipe your nose on the back of your sleeve.

He places a finger over your lips and draws you to a quick, forceful halt. “Pet,” he chides with a tut of his tongue, “what has slipped your mind?” His eyes narrow with a hint of mischief.

“Sorry, Lord Astarion,” you croon as he nods and gives you that fanged smile in approval.

“Good girl,” he replies, “we have to keep up appearances, you know, put our best foot forward, turn every head in the room.”

Your hand laces into his, and as he leads you into the grand room before you, you realize his hand grows colder and colder by the second.

Or, perhaps you are growing hotter and hotter still.

But Astarion only marches forward with focused determination, his voice pure gold and refinement as he greets the Grand Duke with all his well-practiced pleasantries.

You glide to stand at his side, a smile on your face, but your cheeks are decidedly growing warmer to the touch. Then you hear your name from the Grand Duke. “And you, Lady Ancunìn, I trust you don’t miss your days on the battlefield?”

“Oh no,” you smile after you swallow, “there is far more excitement to my liking now as Consort of the Crimson Palace. And my Lord takes such attentive care to my… every need.”

Was that your voice, dipping into dulcet tones of seduction? It must be you, and Astarion must not approve, his hand gripping yours like a vice. You roll your shoulders and smile. “Those days of adventure and rescue do remain fondly in my heart, like our fortuitous timing when we broke that Iron Prison apart.”

Ulder’s bald brow lifts in good humor. “A fact for which I am forever indebted to you and your Lord.”

You flash him a fanged smile, trying your best to look demure and powerful, but drool collects and drips from the corner of your lips.

“Oh, darling,” Astarion croons, suave as ever, even as he pulls you to face him, eyes dark and brows furrowed in disapproval. “Have we forgotten to feed properly today? I suppose you’ll have to wait for a decent nibble until our affairs here are concluded,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb to clean the streak of drool from your chin. “Apologies for my Consort, Grand Duke, she is still new to the sort of hunger and power that comes from being a vampire, let alone being the creation of the Vampire Ascendant.”

You try not to roll your eyes at the way he says his own title. You barely manage to hold your polite smile. Astarion grabs hold of your upper arm, guiding you to sit next to him on the couch beside the fire, the Grand Duke and some of his associates sit opposite. The conversation turns to politics, to the remaining vestiges of the cults of Bhaal and Bane, to the Guild and the criminal aspects of the City…

But your blood boils, your body keens to be touched. Slowly, you scoot across the velvet upholstery of the couch until your side presses against your love.

Better, your body groans, but not enough.

You slowly bring his hand in yours from his lap to wind his arm behind you, a caress along the top of your shoulder, the heat of his skin through his embroidered silk jacket calling to you.

It’s still not enough. You need to smell him to taste him… the droning of his voice is a siren song, and it pulls you until your face presses against the veins of his neck. At last, your mouth waters as you take a loud and deep inhale.

Sniiiiiiff…. “Ahhhh…” you sigh.

“What in the hells are you doing?” he hisses from his mind into yours. “Ten seconds into public power, and you’re already a freak?”

“It burns, my love,” you reply down your bond. “I burn.”

“From embarrassment, certainly,” he grunts at you, settling you back a space from him on the couch. “My apologies, Grand Duke,” he purrs aloud, “newborn spawn can be utterly voracious. But it’s nothing I can’t handle,” he shifts in his seat, confidently crossing one ankle over his knee, a perfected air of nonchalance.

But for you, all you can see is the way his trousers cling to that outline of his beloved cock, a flawless sack to cradle his manhood so perfectly, a neat little package for his package….

“I need you,” your voice purrs, caressing his mind with your own, “now, I need you now.” Even your inner voice sounds deranged, it makes his crimson eyes flicker at you as Ulder drones on about the cost of the repairs to the City from the Illithid attacks.

“Pull yourself together, my darling. Is this all because we were in a hurry this morning?”

Nerves flood with heat, and sweat gathers on your forehead.

Astarion sniffs loudly, scenting your inexplicable arousal. “What’s gotten into you?”

Moisture pools between your thighs, soaking your small clothes and petticoats. You bite your lip, feeling more gathering as you shift your seat, sliding one foot beneath you as you lounge casually against the couch. The pressure against your folds lets you catch your breath for a moment and think. Only once have you felt something similar, though not nearly this perverse or profound. You close your eyes, instantly recalling the same fever in your blood and crying need in your sex from your travels… you picture blue-glowing mushrooms and pervasive darkness. The Underdark. “Spores…” you whimper into his mind. “Spores,” you repeat, your tongue thick in your mouth with the need to lick and suck and bite.

You look at him with pure, abject longing. Desire incarnate. And then you shift yourself over your foot beneath you. A little grind of your hips on your own appendage only makes you long for more friction…

And you whimper.

“I must apologize, Grand Duke, but my Consort is just not herself. Perhaps politics is too much for her to bear.” Then, he snaps your name at you inwardly. “Get up, and get outside,” he snarls, “now.”

You head back into the hall without further question, though you throw a glance at him, the biggest set of bedroom eyes you can muster.

“I believe she needs some air, Grand Duke, a chance for her to regain control of her hunger. Might you have a garden?” He pauses, turning his head and grimacing, “preferably once a bit more… isolated?”

Ulder quirks a brow. “Back out the doors and to the right,” he replies, “a good idea. It should give you enough privacy. Wouldn’t want blood on the antiques you know.”

Astarion maintains that veneer of politesse just long enough to leave the room, his brown darkens and fangs glint the moment he locks that crimson, predatory gaze on you. You shiver, head to toe, to have his full attention at last. Lips locked shut, you just send him your incoherent babble of need from your mind to his; a string of “please, gods, fuck me,” and “I want that perfect cock inside me,” and “ravish me, my love,” surrounded by pants and whimpers.

His eyes look you up and down. “You’re quivering and shaking, you look rabid, sick, deranged,” he shakes his head, leading you into the darkening light of the sunset as your feet skate along behind him down the pebbled path.

A few turns between the shrubbery and he pulls you up to a wide granite bench. He releases your hand, but the absence of his touch makes you whimper and whine with increasing force, just his name over and over again. “Astarion… please…”

“What in the hells has gotten into you?” he snarls under his breath, pulling out a handkerchief to ball up. “I haven’t seen you this bad off since—”

“Spores!” you mewl, collapsing to your knees at his feet, hands raking up the fine fabric of his trousers.

“Precisely, but how could you ever have gotten your nose into Underdark sex spores here?” He shakes his head, “It’s not as if this place is overrun with bright blue glowing mushrooms.”

Lips parting, tongue licking, your eyes are feral and your gaze is wanton as you drop to your knees, your hands on his waist to slam his ass down on the bench. “Hells,” he snaps in pain and surprise. “What the fuck…”

“Yes, yes, fuck,” the word sounds like music on your hungry tongue. “Please, fuck me,” you whine, your hands tugging hard at the fasteners at the side of his hip.

“Easy, easy,” he cajoles you, glancing around once to ensure enough coverage in this spot of the gardens. The bushes are thick, the roses are in bloom, and the fencing here separated the grounds and the manor. A wicked smirk on his full lips, he obliges you, freeing his cock to have you almost swallow it whole. “Gods, darling,” he grunts as he slams into the back of your throat and scrapes against your teeth and fangs. “How in the hells or in this realm did you get like this?”

A valid question, but one that faded mutedly from his mind as you started to suck him more. Logic seemed to elude him, as if drawn out by your lips and tongue until he knew the only way to unravel this puzzle was to fuck some sense back into you both. Wet, lewd sounds come from your lips, your mouth working furiously to consume him, craving his seed, knowing it’ll extinguish the fire in your veins. This suffering has wracked you before, a blind drive to purge the instant swell of lust that dictates your body’s every pulse.

And he’s recognized it, reveling in it as you bob your head with reckless abandon. Until you release him with a loud pop and whine at him from the garden path. “Not enough,” your voice cracks. “I need you, need you…” your hands shake as you scramble to your feet, hiking up your skirts.

“For fucks sake, darling,” Astarion chides you, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure. “Alright, alright,” he blocks your hands from tearing off his clothes… or his face, he’s not quite sure which. “Be a good girl,” he hisses, breath hot down your neck as he backs you up against the fencing, “and hold on tightly.”

He takes your half-bunched skirts from your shaking hands as he hushes you. “It’s going to be alright,” he consoles you. “At least we’ve endured this sort of suffering before. You are in really rough shape, my dear. Thank goodness you have me to fuck it all away, darling?”

You nod, eagerly grinding against him, wrought iron bars pressed into your back, your hand and nails gripped hard into his perfect ass.

“Oh, I’ve missed this, how needy this magic makes you. What a glorious little mishap… although you could have timed it better,” he levels those crimson eyes at you, teasing the flushed, hot head of his cock up and down your entrance. “If we didn’t need to attend to business, I’d draw this out for you, just to teach you when you shouldn’t be sticking that nose of yours into Underdark spore magic.”

Embarrassingly high pitched whimpers flutter at your lips, tears in your eyes at the thought of being left so unsatisfied. “Please, please, I’m being so good. I need you… need you,” you start to keen louder and louder.

Astarion’s warm palm covers your mouth, a laugh in his throat. “A good thing Ulder is an idiot and thinks you’re just hungry for my blood,” he sniggers more to himself than for your benefit.

“Hungry; yes, starving for your cock, my love,” you pant, salivating again, missing its hard length and warm pulse in between your lips.

“It’s alright, I’ll take good care of you… if you can keep quiet.” His hand presses against your neck teasingly as he reaches for the bars above you for leverage. “And if you can’t be quiet, then I have to resort to other measures of silence, you understand, my pet?”

You bite your bottom lip, nodding vigorously, sweat dripping from your brow to feel his cock pressed hard against your belly. Your own hand tears at your neck line, your skin too hot and flushed and needing to be caressed, a single breast loosens from your neckline. Those crimson eyes devour the sight of your swaying breast and its peaked nipple, almost as if he’s the one possessed by magic and lust.

“Gods, you’re so hot again, burning and thrumming, a warm, living body with undead power,” his eyes dilate to nearly black to feel your slit warm once more as he grinds his cock against it. Those dexterous fingers lift your thigh, and he thrusts inside you in one swift shove of his body. The iron gate creaks under the force, but its volume is nothing compared to the way your undead heart thumps in your ears, slow but hard.

“Astarion,” you whine louder, “I need more…”

“Then more you shall have my pet,” he hisses in your ear. He groans at the now unfamiliar warmth, the dripping, blistering heat that rages in your body. “Just like old times,” his voice barely audible, so husky and rough as he slams into you. Every thrust makes the gate behind you rattle, stealing gasp after gasp from your mouth, even as you try to swallow them back into silence.

His hands grip your ass in warning the moment your noises seem to crescendo. “Ah, ah,” he chides. But as those hips snap harder against you, it grows difficult to be good, to be silent and careful as he asked.

The heat is too much, the pulsing fire in your veins too demanding…. “More,” you whine. “I need it, your delicious self.” His hand flies to cover your mouth, muting your pants and stifling your noises.

“That’s it, my love,” he groans right in your ear, feeling your legs beginning to shake and your knee buckle. “Come for me, burn up that magic and purge that heat all… over… me.”

You throw your head back, banging it on the bars, hissing in pain and yet groaning in relief as your orgasm builds to bursting. You bite into his gagging hand, fangs sinking into the sides of his fingers and palm. He hisses in pain, a sound quickly overtaken by the rapid grunts of his own climax. Face pressing against your neck, he mutes the roar of his own shaking bliss, warmth dripping down your one standing leg.

The air feels cool in your lungs, your pulse slowing back to its undead dirge of a tempo in your chest. You taste blood on your tongue, and you sweep its tip to lap along the edge of his hands where it protrudes into your mouth.

Astarion musters enough strength to lift his head, his curls looking a bit well-tossed. “How’s that, my darling? Are you decent enough to make it home?” He purrs the questions in your ear, his voice partly laced with concern, equally rippling with hope to the contrary.

You give a more steady smile, master of yourself once more, for now. Your thoughts still elude you, but your body doesn’t burn with boiling lust, more of a simmer. A whine escapes as he slips from your folds, his hands adjusting your dress and stuffing his cock back inside his own trousers. “What, for the life of me, brought this on you? What have you been sticking your nose into, darling?”

“Spores,” you repeat as before. “Blue!” You add. Muttering the words again, thighs starting to clench and rub on themselves already.

“I’ll get you out of here,” his mind racing, “image is everything, and right now this… image… isn’t quite our best foot forward.” A scan of you both, and he pauses, less than satisfied. “You need more blood,” he assesses, “or they’ll never believe you were just feeding…” A swift bite to his own wrist, and he smears your chin, your lips in his scarlet essence.

Hustling you into the mansion again, he practically carries you, arm threaded behind your back. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but my newborn Consort must retire…” he stops you both in the entrance hall, his voice muted as your mind pounds, the magic in your bloodstream calling to its source as you stand near the door.

Astarions wraps your cloak around you, feeling your skin flushing again under his touch. He follows your gaze, honed in like an eagle on those blue flowers, a soft glow beginning to emanate from them as the shadows lengthen in the day…

“My dearest Consort, why don’t you wait for me in the carriage,” he bids you.

You nod, meeting Ulder’s dark eyes, wide in shock at the state of your blood streaked face. He mumbles some prayers, probably wards against the undead, such as yourself. You hear his deep voice speaking with Astarion once more.

“Oh, these flowers? Just a gift from the Myconid colony’s ambassador, a token for me and my wife…”

A low chuckle sounds from your lover’s throat. “Oh, no doubt it is, I have never seen such rare blossoms, though they do make me recall some rather fond memories of the Underdark…” your love’s voice trails off the further you walk, his purr drowned out by the increasing thumping of your cold heart against your ribs. Waves of need build once more, rapid and consuming, and you groan to haul yourself into the carriage so you can wait for more…

By the time you make it home, you’re aching… sore… and you’ve had him on almost every surface between your carriage and your bed at last. But that was yesterday. Now, knowing yourself once more, you wake to a new day. Sunlight warms your bed, your skin absorbing it now that you are corpse cold again.

As cold as the rest of your sheets, you realize. He’s gone already, smug bastard, probably with his hair extra curled from your rigorous activities and a satisfied smirk on his full lips.

Groggy and cursing, you manage to sit yourself up against the pillows, and you ring for your maid. She enters quickly, hands outstretched with a message from the Master, she tells you, who left that morning to resume acquaintances with the Grand Duke.

Your cheeks would flame red if they still drew on the heat of that aphrodisiac magic. The note is penned in his immaculate hand: “Ulder was far too easy to convince you were merely a victim of sanguine hunger. And he was far too eager to agree to my offer of coin in exchange for your gift. Don’t indulge or inhale too deeply without me.”

His signature was almost as elegant and impressive as he himself.

“A gift?” you ask, warrily, knowing all too well the sorts of gifts Astarion tends to bestow.

With a snap of her fingers, your servant calls in another, a scarf tied tightly over her nose and mouth, a silver tray between her hands. Adorning the silver lies a beautiful bouquet of glowing sapphire flowers. The very same from the Grand Duke’s manor. The source of your follies and cause for all your most embarrassing thoughts to ponder when you can’t sleep.

“My Lord is so…. Thoughtful,” you reply, abstaining from adding, ‘and selfish and arousing and cheeky and…’ You pinch your nose, just in case. “Set it carefully over there,” you flail your exhausted arm in the direction of a table and groan, seeking the rest you will inevitably require. And you smile.

[soullessdianthus]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘 | 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐔

❗ APOLOGIES for the tag list in the comments, Tumblr has an issue with tagging more than 5 people ❗

Summary: Victorian AU where you are hired by Lord Simon Riley as his housekeeper in the secluded countryside. Besides the gardener - Johnny, you barely sees anyone around the house and the strange things begin to happen around you. The manor, or rather its residents, hides a terryfing secret.

AO3 link ⟶ 𝕏

A/N: Huge thanks to @starsexplodeatnight who was so kind and sweet to help me with the fashion aspects of this fic. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Also, won't lie, @ohbo-ohno's works and Ghoap dynamics inspired me to go back to the roots and to write some darker, gothic romance with Ghoap and Reader. At least I tried. ╮(￣▽￣"")╭

Warnings: dark themes, religious themes, dubcon/noncon (full list on Ao3)

Word count: 7.6k

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐄

Lord Riley’s house seemed to be alive at times. The wind sweeping through the draughty windows fills the lungs of the great manor. Old, wooden flooring creaks and the glass strain within its frames. 

You hated how untamed your imagination was especially after nightfall, when the darkness creeped in every hollow and corner of the manor. Since the first day, every night you would leave a single candle lit on the bedside table just to ease the vivid imaginations. When you were a child your mother scolded you about reading such profanities about ghosts and curses. 

And now you knew why. If the candle wasn't lit, strange figures danced in the shadows, their eyes imprinting into your skin and if were they real, would they try to hurt you or rather warn you?

But now, as a grown up woman, those nightmares of your childhood came back to haunt you once again. 

With all of your heart you were grateful for Sir Jonathan Price, a friend of your family, who helped you get into Lord Riley’s favour. It was him who wrote a letter of recommendation to make it easier for you to find a good, suitable job as a woman of your status. 

But he didn’t mention once that the manor was so far from civilization. 

Johnny quickly became your closest confidant around here. A Scottish gardener whose brown hair reached down to his broad shoulders and sparkly eyes in the colour of clear sky. He took care of the gardens as well as master’s horses and sometimes you could find him repairing a fence or something of sort. Johnny was a hardworking man, only a few years older than you, but he was also gentle, clever and jolly.

Such an opposite to Lord Simon who was everything but what Scot was – silent, harsh former lieutenant who would rather spend his time in the solitude of his chambers. Otherwise he would go on a ride or hunt into the forest on one of his favourite studs. Simon’s face was pale as a ghost’s and covered with shallow scars, remnants of his service in the army. 

Nonetheless, the tall, portly man seemed to enjoy your presence, if you dared to assume that, purely because you were quick to adapt. Lord liked his silence and you did not want to disturb your master’s peace, wouldn’t you? 

Within a week you have learned the following pattern – each day started with breakfast, which you ate alongside Lord, sporadically noticing the presence of busy cook, Kyle Garrick, who didn’t happen to talk much. Then, you would proceed with your everyday duties. Which did not include sneaking around to go and talk with the gardener, but nevertheless you did.  

And as the evening would finally come, you were sitting in the playroom of the manor embroidering while Mr. Riley was reading his book. Even Johnny was allowed to come sit with both of you, gnawing at the wooden pipe between his teeth. It all felt so domestic in such a short period of time. 

And how could you believe such gossip about Lord’s hospitality, or rather its lacking, hearsay in the city? 

Sundays were always a day of rest. You were sitting in your bedroom on the highest floor, reading one of the novels you brought from home. Too entertained with the story, you blindly reached for the cup of tea standing nearby. The noise of ceramic pot splattering across the floor caused you to tense immediately. 

It shattered to pieces. Such a waste, it was a pretty one. 

You closed the book with a sigh and set it aside, slowly walking towards a storage on this floor. With a small broom in your hand you returned to your room only to find it oddly… clean. The staining of spilled tea on the flooring was gone just as the bits of what was left of the floral cup. 

Almost like it never even happened. 

Your eyes wandered across the chamber, searching for the mess you just made. But every little trace of it was gone. You kneeled down and looked under each piece of furniture. Still, nothing was found, a broken teapot swallowed by the void.

Slowly you retracted from the room onto the long hallway, searching for the maids or signs of their presence. It must have been one of them, right?

— Hello? — You asked with hesitation in your voice, but there was no living soul to answer you back. Not nearby anyways. 

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

Coos of the crows and rattle of their wings echoed through the old trees. And although the sky was grey and cloudy that day, no rain had yet fallen. Alongside Johnny, you went for an afternoon stroll down the borderline of the forest, enjoying a minute of break.

— How long have you been working for Lord Simon? 

— A couple of years now — the man reached down the wild grain growing on the field and plucked a single piece. He continued to play with it between his thick digits, brows narrowed as he reflected on his further answer. — He hired and gave me a roof over my head when I retired from service.

— You were a soldier too?

Johnny nodded with a simple “aye” and you smiled.

— What?

— Nothing. Didn’t think such a gentle gardener was once enlisted. 

— Yeah? Didn’t think a pretty lass like yourself would be so nosy. — He smacked the tip of your nose with the stalk he was holding. 

Your cheeks grew rosy and warm, when he paid you a compliment. Not that you were a prude! Actually far from that, but it was just that Johnny was so charming and he definitely knew how to sweet talk to a woman like you. 

— Not nosy, it’s considered rude — you explain to him, fidgeting with your fingers yet a smile is painted upon your face. — “Curious” I think suits me better. Those who spread gossip about others’ affairs and tragedies are the nosy ones. See, that’s the difference. 

Johnny stopped suddenly and took your hand into his palms. He held you gently, almost like you were made out of glass and he, with his admirable strength, could break you into pieces. What a great waste it would be to destroy such a pure soul. He leaned closer to your ear, warm breath tickling your sensitive skin and your heart almost jumped out of the ribcage. Should his closeness excite you so much? Should a grown woman be this rash?

— Only if we were seen by someone, here on the glade, alone. Scandalous — the man mocked such behaviours, while brushing a single strand of your hair behind the ear. — What would they think, hm? 

Before you took a step back, your gaze met his for a brief moment. There was a hint of curiosity and playfulness in his blue eyes. And perhaps something else, something much more obvious than you believed it was. 

Something that made men weak.

— Right, what would they say, Johnny? Who? — You asked him playfully, though your expression was full of sorrow. —  I barely see anyone around the house. I’m starting to believe those servants are some… ghouls living in the attic or they simply avert me so often. 

— Lord likes his peace, they work as if they weren’t there. Just as it needs to be. 

— It’s been some days now and I hadn’t met any of them. You’re the only person who actually talks to me. Don’t you get lonely there?

— Simon’s and your presence is enough for me. And well, it’s nice to talk to Mr. Garrick sometimes. 

— He talks to you? 

The cold breeze danced through your hair, causing you to shiver. Dry and brittle leaves crunched under your soles when the two of you continued to walk down the old pathway. 

— Autumn here is tough, lass, you should have worn a sweater. We should head back home, the nightfall is coming. 

You loathed the cold weather and how freezing the chambers got in the morning. Your first winter in England’s countryside might not be as pleasant as you thought it would be, with cold feet and no one in the manor to warm your spirit up. 

No peers, no guests, no neighbours. Just you, Johnny and Lord Riley.

You stood back in the middle of your quarter, looking at everything and anything at the same time. Each detail like a porcelain vase with flowers or lace tablecloth looked so neat, with no sign of dust it was almost impossible. Many questions were stacked inside of your head. 

Was your chamber cleaned every single day? If so, when did they do it? And why hadn't you even bumped into any of the servants of the manor? Yes, the building was large, but at some point you had to meet the staff, right? 

It has officially been two weeks since you moved to live and work here. Although using the word “work” was far-fetched. You hoped to become a governess to Lord Riley’s children, but that dream was quickly demolished as he had none. So then it was told that you were responsible for the house work, but there was no one to supervise as they were constantly hiding from you. So you were sitting there at the end of the day in a living room, chaperoning your Lord. This time without Johnny.

Fireplace was spitting long flames, popping ashes into the air. The interior was welcoming, when the wind behind the windows grew stronger. A storm was coming. 

— May I ask you a question, Sir? — You had put aside your embroidery set, before finally asking. The blonde man hummed, eyes still transfixed on the lecture he was reading. — How often do the maids come to my room?

— As often as needed. Why?

— I wanted to rearrange my quarters this morning, just to push the bed closer to the wall, but when I returned from the afternoon stroll, it was back in its primary place. 

— Then they fixed the furniture, didn’t they? 

You had a feeling that was not the case. You scratched the flooring during the first attempt, if the staff was to push the bed back to its origins, they would only do further damage. Yet, the wooden planks were brand as new. No signs of any scratches.

Were you hysterical? Was it all your vivid imagination?

— But it’s heavy, my Lord.

— And yet you managed to move it. So did they. 

Lord Riley was grumpy again, his voice hoarse and accent thick. 

You once again took the needle threaded with string into your fingers and returned to the unfinished piece, but the urge to continue pushing him was stronger. You might rather bite your tongue in the future. 

— Maybe I should talk with them and explain that I prefer it the other way. 

— I prefer when the rules of my household are followed. You wouldn’t have such an idea if you didn’t have so much free time.

Your hands dropped to your lap as you abruptly looked at him, slightly offended. And even though Lord tried to conceive this, you noticed how the edges of his lips twitched in a tiny smile. He was toying with you.

Simon was strict. Perhaps he never abandoned the military's rules and drills. He was an adamant man who valued his own comfort. That means, obeying his rules. 

— Come, I might have an idea how to keep you busy.

The Lord of the house rose from his seat. Each time you stood next to him, you were intimidated by his height and solid build. Despite being off duty, he kept his admirable physics of a Greek god. 

At least that is how the books you kept so dear to your heart described the brave warriors. 

You followed the master into his private library and patiently stood right behind him, when he was searching for a certain book. Finally he reached a thick tome in your direction – “A Mortal Immortal” by Mary Shelley. 

— Here, this may interest you — but when you stretched out to receive it, he moved the novel out of your reach. — Ah, ah. What do we say?

— Thank you. For borrowing me your book. 

— However, when I think about it, I’m worried this will only worsen your… troubled mind.

— My mind?

— Johnny told me you worry too much about some nonsense that should not be your priority in the first place. You’re letting this place and its solitude haunt you. Are you of a weak mind, girl? — You quickly understood what he was referring to, so to prove the point you denied the vile accusation. — So, I’d recommend you stop being childish and focus on your chores. Then everything will be alright, understood? 

— I’m not childish.

— Is that clear? — He repeated with much harsher tone.

You nodded slightly, barely visible, but enough to agree with the Lord.

— Now, go to your chamber, it’s getting late. 

His dark eyes carefully inspected your figure. You noticed him staring at your neckline for far too long than what was decent. His coarse hand swiped over yours when he was giving you the book. The cold metal of his signet felt like a thousand sharp stings. 

What kind of game was the Lord of Riley Manor playing with you? 

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈

The simmering sound of something powerful cracking snatched you from the peaceful dream. Every muscle in your body tensed and you sat up, holding the duvets tight when a thunder enlightened the black sky. Your heart beated fast within its cage of bones and breath shattered, anticipating.

Surely, thunderstorms can happen in late autumn, but you had never predicted it to happen this night. You felt uneasy, when another loud rumble made you scared. Then there was the banging window frame, somewhere in the long hallway and those horrible, horrible whistles of wind. They sound almost like human cries. 

At first you ducked down beneath the covers to shield yourself from the haunting sounds, thinking that the servants would take care of the open window. But minutes passed and they didn’t. 

With a lit candle on a metal holder you walked down the corridor, the flame being the only source of light. 

So when the wind coming through the window blew it off, you gasped loudly in panic – you barely saw your own hands in front of you!

— No, no, no…

You almost screamed when someone placed their hand upon your shoulder and then your mouth. A familiar figure was illuminated by another lighting. You could never mistake those blue eyes for another. 

— Shh, bonnie. It’s me — Johnny whispered, slowly uncovering your mouth. — I heard the fuss. You alright? 

— Actually, no… Did you hear those sounds?

Your hands squeezed the candle holder, when the gardener rushed to close the open window. You shivered, only a thin layer of nightgown covering your skin. You looked behind, checking if you were alone in the hallway. It certainly felt like you weren’t. It had to be the ghouls. 

— What sounds? 

— Howling, distressed cries? Wails? I-I heard them in my chamber. 

— You’re scared of the storms?

— No, that’s not-

— It’s okay to get spooked sometimes — he cut you off and grabbed your hand, slowly leading you back where you came from. — Come, let’s get you to your room.

— Oh, don’t belittle me. — You frowned upon him, yet you doubt he had seen it. You clung to his strong arm like a scared girl, not eager to get lost in the darkness again. 

— That was not my intention. Was just trying to comfort you.

When you finally reached your room, you couldn’t find the strength to let go of his hand. You interlocked your smooth and delicate fingers with his digits.

— Please, Johnny, don’t go. I’m… scared. 

— Of thunder? — He chuckled, petting the palm of your hand. 

— No, this place. Something is not right, please, I–

— It’s okay, you got scared a little, that’s all. You really want me to stay? 

You shuddered when taking a deep breath, calculating every possible consequence of this decision.

This was not right. 

— Yes.

When he stepped inside of the room, a rush of excitement flooded your veins and sank on the bottom of your stomach. Perhaps it was foolish and considered promiscuous inviting a man into your bedroom, but your body and heart desired otherwise. 

Johnny’s presence brought you comfort that you were longing for, his touch ascended your worries to the void and filled the troubled mind with pleasure. Nothing else.

Without a word spoken the two of you moved to the narrow, still warm bed and climbed under the sheets. Johnny captured your head between his hands and pulled in a gentle kiss on the lips. In his performance he was eager, sloppy yet charming. One of his palms gripped your hip through the crumpled material, just as you hooked one of your thighs over his hip. 

Foolish, foolish girl. 

— You’re so pretty — he whispered through the thick air as he pressed his forehead to yours. The curve of his nose filled your bridge as you looked at him from under your lashes. — The moment I first saw you getting out of the coach, that day you arrived, I knew I couldn’t ever let you go, bonnie.

Johnny swiftly moved on top of your lying form, holding that one thigh open. He continued the passionate assault on your lips, carefully rolling the hem of your nightgown up. 

Your body was on fire, everything inside of you screamed this was wrong, but somehow, the sinner inside of you called for him. For his touch, for his affection and his sweet, sweet nectar. 

Only when he started caressing your mound and its slit did you acknowledge where his hand wandered. And although his skin was rather tough  from all the years of hard work, his touch was gentle and surprisingly precise. You gasped lovely. It didn’t take that much of a hassle for him to make you wet and eager down there.

— Oh, Johnny… 

His name rolled off your tongue like honey, a music to his ears. It wasn’t long enough before he was grinding over your thigh with his excited and leaking length. 

— You are what we needed. A little warm sunshine, eh? 

Did you hear “we”?

But before you could ask him, he began stretching your cunt a little bit too carelessly to your liking. All his prudence was gone, as he got drunk on your scent and how you felt around him. Your hand gripped his bicep and your glossy eyes went wide like a scared doe. 

— Johnny, Johnny, slow — you breathed out through muffled whine and the man atop of you stilled. — Slow, please.

He could feel how your heart pumped within your veins. 

— I’m sorry, bonnie. Let me kiss it better — the gardener leaned down to pepper your face with kisses. And when he got to the sweet spot on your neck, you giggled — shh, we don’t want to wake him, don’t we? 

Obviously he meant Lord Simon. 

He set a steady yet bearable rhythm as his hips rolled into you in waves. His chest was close to yours, brushing sensitive nipples through the thin fabric of a nightgown. You were pushed into the cushioned pillow, hair splayed beneath like roots of the ancient tree. 

You felt so lightheaded yet so good at the same time. Sparkling, increasing sensation tickling the nerves and blinding the vision. Johnny was all you could experience in that moment. He was the only thing you could smell, touch and taste, when he was trying to steal the air from your lungs. You fell into the abyss of pleasure quickly, all the latest worries fading away.

And the horribly loud storm? Didn’t matter at that moment. All thunders quietened down and the entire world could be burning in flames and ashes, but you wouldn’t even notice. 

The man moaned deeply from his throat, when he got closer to his peak, hips frantically snapping against yours. You barely managed to entangle your shaking fingers within his brown hair, right above the nape of the lover’s neck. With one more final thrust both of you indulged sweet, sweet pleasure.

Johnny stayed until the morning came, just as he promised. With an expression of pure ecstasy and lust, you snuggled into his chest. He wrapped a pair of arms around you and for the first time since the arrival you felt at peace sleeping in the manor. The candle remained snuffed out. 

In the morning of the following day, you went to the city with Mrs. Garrick to receive the remaining letters and a few other errands. You and the cook split to settle matters quickly. 

The post office was a small place with barely anyone inside but a friendly looking old lady behind the counter. 

— Good morning, I’d like to receive the mail for Lord Riley.

You put on a polite smile, walking closer to the counter and removing the bonnet from your head.

— So you are the new housekeeper, I’ve heard about you. It’s been a while since someone got his letters, guess he still ain’t leaving the house?

— No, ma’am. Lord is rather… — you paused, searching for the right description of your employer — a private person. 

— Always had been, even before he went to war. But oh, that was years ago, I hope he softened at least a little. Such a sad and grumpy boy he was. 

There was something in the way she phrased it that made your body still. Blood got so heated up anyone that touched you could feel it on the outside. Did she mean the previous Lord, father of Simon Riley? But that couldn’t be the case, this title was newly found when he returned from the war. So what was this all about? 

— Forgive me, you said “years ago”? How long ago was it? You see, I’m not from here and the Lord doesn’t share much about himself.

— Of course he does not and do not expect otherwise — she waved with her wrinkled finger, before reaching for the bile of letters from the shelf behind her. — It was around twenty five years ago, Lord Riley was the same age as my son when he joined the Queen’s army.

— I see. 

You were confused, extremely confused. The blonde Lord with scarred face did not look a year past his thirties, how could this be that he enlisted quarter of century ago? At that moment you felt so horrified by this anomaly. 

Through the rest of the day and the day that followed, the old maiden aunt’s words echoed inside of your head:

— I am surprised anyone actually was willing to take that job. Lord Riley is a… forgive me for speaking so freely, but he’s a strange man who abandoned the word of God years ago. Why do you think he got pushed away from the post earlier? 

He was…? 

You didn’t look the same into the depths of the windows of the Manor, nor did you stare at the dark corner of the hall. Every sound of wood creaking sent shivers down your spine. They were coming. 

Oh God, have you gone mad?  

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈

You stirred the porridge over and over again, watching as the gooey mush slipped from the spoon down to its den. Despite the tremendous amount of honey you added it still tasted rather bitter this morning. 

— Did you finish?

— Excuse me?

You tightened the hold over the silver spoon when Lord’s hoarse voice brought you back to the eerie reality. 

— The book. I asked if you finished the book? — Blonde man raised his thick brow in question, curiously looking at you from his own plate. 

— Oh, yes, yes. I enjoyed it, however I found Winzy’s life quite miserable to be honest. And tragic.

— Why so? 

— Well, he lost the woman he loved so dearly and then had to continue living eternally without her. Imagine how lonely his life had to be, when he must have outlived every single friend he had made. 

— If he was so miserable as you say, then why wouldn’t he just end his suffering and join the woman he claimed to love? Maybe he didn’t really care after all. — Simon leaned back in his chair, exhaling loudly. — I sometimes wonder what his life would look like if he had given the potion to Bertha. A pair of immortals walking this earth, would they become some sort of Gods?

— Doesn’t the thought of living so long… make you feel… I don’t know, unease , my Lord?

— No. I’ve seen worse things than an old man. Those who fear death might go to extremes just to avoid their end.  

— We were not made to live forever, don’t we? We should not play God.

— There is no God, sweet girl. Only sinners and fools. Those who play and those who lose. Are you a loser?

— No, Sir. 

His dark eyes glowed in a mysterious manner as the silence fell between you two. The man was bright and had seen right through you. 

— Good. If we speak of the matter of sinners, I’d like to make one thing clear.

The Lord stood up from his seat, putting the white napkin on the table. His figure loomed closer toward his housekeeper and finally leaned on one of his hands over you. You could feel his breath on your neck, his closeness made you shiver. 

— You’ve been living under my roof and by now you should know I despite disobedience and liars. 

— I am no liar, Sir. 

— Perhaps not, but you hide things from me. Captain Price spoke of you in high regard - a well behaved woman from a respected family, yet you’ve proven yourself to be rather promiscuous. You even ensnared poor Johnny, didn’t you? 

That… was straight forward. 

— I did no such thing!

Suddenly he wrapped one of his strong hands over the nape of your neck, causing you to tense and lean away from his touch. The man began drawing circles over your skin with his thumb, almost like he tried to soothe your shattered nerves. You gasped at the sudden force he had put you in place.

— Watch yourself and think twice about answering again. 

— It was mutual.

— Mutual? — He repeated mockingly. — Johnny boy would fuck anything that moves in ten miles radius. And it just happened to be you. 

— How dare you speak like this? — You turned your head to look him in the face. When you did, you saw the insolent smirk painted over his pale face. — He is at least decent towards me, he’s kind and caring. We did nothing wrong. Why do you care?

Simon leaned down right next to your face. He continued to stare you down, his brows narrowed in deep disappointment. 

— You’ve built a wall between us, sweet girl. Yeah, you did. If there was something you ever needed, you should have come directly to me, your Lord. And I can assure you, Johnny did not give what you craved and desired. 

Inconveniently your face changed its colour to vivid blush, when he suggested such things. Your stomach felt like one, big knot twisting its way to get stuck in your oesophagus. Was that it? Was this how he perceived you? Was he jealous of the fling between you and Johnny or was he simply cruel?

Lord Riley let go of your pretty neck and caressed your cheek with the knuckles of his fingers. Just like one would touch a lover and another – a pet. 

— You’re frightened. Are you scared of me, is that it? Be obedient and you won’t have to be. Or do you really want to be punished so badly?

You quickly denied by shaking your head to the sides to which he only hummed. His weight shifted behind your back and a trail of footsteps could be heard as the Lord of the house left the dining room.

A moment passed before you caught yourself staring at the bowl of now cold porridge, slowly digesting the conversation you just held with him, your Master. 

The burden upon your poor, poor mind has overwhelmed you and the realisation of a potential madness weighed heavily upon you. Nothing made sense. Not a single logical explanation has come to light to soothe your fears. 

After those couple of weeks the staff and maids stayed in the shadows, Lord’s age did not match the tales of his youth and those horrible sounds you continued to hear at night? Ugh, they kept you awake, causing dark bags to show under your pretty eyes. 

The manor itself seemed to have poisoned you. Was that it? The reason? You knew you had to leave the house as soon as possible. You had to…

Oh God, what have you gotten yourself into? 

That night was no different to those before it. Wind blowing through the crack in the window’s frame, wheezing and whistling. Your bedsheets are exceptionally cold this time, causing you to shiver and tremble. The candle is still burning, a metal holder standing on the table. 

When you finally manage to curl up under the sheets and doze away slightly, you hear this agonising, scary wails. 

Wait. No. 

Those are no wails.

I-Is someone moaning?

You raised up to a sitting position in a half asleep state. Loose strands of hair stick to the forehead as you continue to listen for more sounds. 

Those seem to be almost human-like. Maybe they are? 

You throw the sheets to the side and crawl out of the bed. You’re frustrated and moody, close to tears from the exhaustion of not being able to sleep. Before you left your chamber, you grabbed that damn candle light and took a deep breath. 

Your bare feet left no traces behind as you walked down the dark hallway. The heart in your chest was about to burst, obviously you were still scared of the dark and what possibly lurks within it. The hem of your nightgown sweeped the wooden flooring that cracked underneath your weight. 

Then, you heard those moans again, louder. You were getting closer. Following the awful sounds you finally get to its source. You knew where your feet happened to take you to and that you shouldn’t have dared to enter this chamber. Nonetheless, you did. The shroud of mystery had to be torn. 

You slowly creeped towards the half-opened, heavy doors and sneaked inside where the darkness swallowed almost everything. Single candles had been lit across the room, creating an ascended ambience. You should have turned around and left, you understood that perfectly well. However, you wanted answers to all the secrets of the manor and its habitants. 

Behind the wooden screen there was a large bed and two figures sitting on its edge. Gardener who was completely bare and whining into Lord’s shoulder, drool leaving the corner of his mouth. Thighs spread open and eyes closed tight. And there he was – Lord Simon dressed in trousers and loose, white chemise. His big hand was tightly wrapped around Johnny’s angry cock, pulling and twisting the sensitive skin. They seemed to be enjoying themselves as Johnny whined pitifully again at the sensation. 

At least now you finally knew what those sounds were exactly – that stormy night Johnny came to you, were they also together? You couldn’t move and kept standing close to the screen, eyes transfixed at the scene you witnessed. So many emotions washed over you – were you embarrassed, scared or even jealous? The dots and the facts slowly began connecting. You had to make haste and leave this room. This house. You knew you had to get away tonight, before things would escalate. Oh God, you couldn’t properly breathe, your face and lungs felt like they were on fire!

— Looks like we have company — the coarse voice of a blonde man made your skin cover in goosebumps. He stared directly at you. — Want to join us? 

Unknowingly you made a muffled whine of embarrassment as you swiftly turned around and started to walk away in a hurry. As if you were in some kind of trance, your body going automatically. You rolled up the long hem of your nightgown not to stumble upon it as you found yourself on the corridor again. 

Christ! You forgot to take the candle with you! 

The breathing became difficult as you had to navigate somehow in the complete darkness. A part of your heart felt betrayed by the erotic scenery you just witnessed, although you couldn’t completely understand why. You and Johnny were a one time thing, why would you feel sorry for him bedding someone else? 

Probably because this “someone else” was your mutual employer.

There were heavy footsteps behind you, they were getting closer and closer. He was right behind the nosy intruder. You tried to fasten your pace, blindly going forward, hoping to find a staircase. Then it would lead you downstairs and outside of the building. But before you even made it halfway to the stairs, you bumped into a slim table standing by the wall. The vase standing on it fell and broke as the painful impact of the table's corner digging into your abdomen sent you to the ground. 

When it was clear you were within his grasp, you tried to crawl further away from him, trying to escape somehow. But Simon was faster and he collected you from the floor. 

— Come, before you’re gonna hurt yourself. — Lord Riley said as he managed to lift up and throw you over his broad shoulder with little effort.

You tried to break free by kicking like a goat and punching him with your curled fist. But how could the strength of a city girl ever compare to the former soldier’s? You groaned, you kicked and you cursed. Nothing could have prepared you for the harsh slap that Simon planted on your bottom. It stung, causing you to go still over his shoulder. And when he spanked you again you bit your lower lip, trying to confide any pathetic whines. 

— Should have whipped you long ago. Maybe it would teach you some respect. 

— I didn't mean to interrupt, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, my Lord!

— Oh, you happened to join us just in time. 

Lord Riley took you back to his bedroom and tossed you down onto his remarkably large bed. This time, he locked the doors from the inside and removed the key from the lock. You were stuck there with them. You managed to back up a little, before Johnny reached you. He sat at your side and carefully extended his hand towards your petrified face, a curtain of hair covering your pretty features.

— It’s alright, bonnie. Calm down. 

— I don’t want to be a part of this. — You stated, kneeling on the bed sheets splayed beneath. Simon stood tall with his hands crossed in front of you and the gardener. Johnny gently began to caress your back in a soothing manner. 

You were caught red handed, busted the only chance to run away and now you were more than positive he would never let you go. You tried to conceal the fears and shame, because now was the time to uncover the truth. 

— What is this? — You asked with a shaking voice, eyes transfixed on the two figures of men, going from the blonde to the brunette. — What’s going on? Please, let’s forget about this. I’ll go back to bed. I–I…

— You already are in one — Lord took a step forward and caught your jaw. He yanked your head up, forcing you to look at him. — Have you finally figured it out? I directly gave you clues. Come on, you’re a smart one. Put the pieces together. 

How could you come up with a logical conclusion? Everything you gathered through the weeks could be interpreted as a mad woman’s nonsense. But you weren’t ill, you were aware of the games going around you.

— You’re much older than you look, that’s what I know. And that you’ve done horrifying, unforgivable things during your service. Lord– Simon — you corrected yourself — what have you done? 

— Think. Harder. 

His patience was running thin. Simon spoke through his bared teeth. 

— Oh, God. Are you a part of this? — You looked at Johnny, before the blonde man caught your throat and lifted you on your feet again. 

— Don’t be harsh on her! She doesn’t know better. She needs to learn. — The Scotsman said to your defence, narrowing his thick brows and scrambling the bridge of his nose. All this time he was sitting comfortably on the bed, absolutely not bothered with his nakedness.  

— There is no God here, sweet girl, I already told you. Only me, Johnny and well, you. I’ve been kind enough to share a piece of me with you and that’s how you repay your Lord? In such childish, pathetic disobedience? Fucking nosy, aren’t we? Or just eager? 

The tall, bulky man reached with his other hand and forcefully cupped your crotch through the thin material of the nightgown, causing you to wriggle in his hold. He prodded against your slit with his finger, toying with you, testing the limits and your responses. And you were very responsive. 

In that moment you thought about the choice of literature Simon had given you. The main plotline revolved around immortality and its consequences, which would somehow explain… some things. Yet what about God? Why did Simon detest him so much?

— God turns his back on people like me and once you sin for us, he will turn on you too — he mockingly snorted, before continuing your torment. — If he didn’t already. 

You tried to tear from his hold, shaking yourself and pushing his chest away. Lord Riley stood like a mountain, not moving an inch. In a quick movement he twirled you around and took a firm hold of the nightgown material at your back. Then you heard how loudly the stitches broke and the teared material slowly fell to the ground, exposing your much alive and young flesh.

Before you realised you were completely bare and managed to cover yourself somehow, Simon grabbed your arms behind your back so you couldn’t move further. 

— I think he sent you to us as a gift — the man leaned against your shoulder, whispering into your ear. — Yeah, that’s what you are – a sweet, innocent present. Isn’t she cute, Johnny? 

Brunette finally stood up from the bed and gently caressed your hip. He was standing so close, you could feel his pulsating cock and its leaking tip on your supple thigh.

— Aye, she is lovely. 

— Have you tasted her, boy? That night you sneaked under her covers? — To which the dark haired one denied. — Well, I think you should compensate the little lady, no? Help her calm down, you know how women can get… hysterical. 

— W-Wait, wait, no, n-no… 

Simon sat down on the edge of the bed and placed you between his massive legs. One of his hands wrapped around your fragile, swan like neck and the other cupped your left breast. Meanwhile, Johnny got down onto his knees and moved closer to the two of you and before he dived between your thighs he looked into the dark irises of his Lord. Not yours. 

— He eats like I starve him beforehand. You’re gonna find out, lovely. 

You tried to squeeze your legs shut, but the gardener kept them spread wide so he could lean closer to your cunt. And when you tried anything like moving or wriggling away, Simon would pull or twist one of your nipples causing you to yelp. 

— She’s really pretty — the Scot said, parting your lower lips apart. The shame washed over you, causing your head to turn into Simon’s shoulder. — Never could have pulled such one while in the army. 

Then he flatten his tongue over your most sensitive parts and started dragging it along the slit. You entangled one of your hands within his brown strands of hair, on top of his head pulling slightly. When his lips sucked at your clit you finally moaned, releasing some tension and anger within you.

— Bird’s already singing.

Simon purred into your ear, nuzzling his eyebrow ridge into your head. The feelings and sensations you were experiencing overflowed your system. The man you trusted as your lover was assaulting your cunt with his mouth and the Lord you were supposed to work for was enjoying the show. You pressed your eyes shut, trying not to cry. But you finally broke and the salty streams began to run down your rosy cheeks. 

— You think she deserves to cum, Johnny? — To which the kneeling men nodded vigorously. — Use your words, stupid mutt. 

— Please, Si, let her. Look how stressed she is. Poor thing, she might need a few more.

— A few- Ah! M-More?! — You squealed again, when someone rolled your nipples between their fingers. 

When your peak neared, you tried to turn your head away and hide. You didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing your face in pure bliss. Simon held your head against his sternum, pressing your forehead backwards. 

You felt like you were on fire, orange flames licking your fingers, your breasts, your inner thighs. 

— That’s it, good girl. 

And when the knot finally bursted, a wave of painful, white pleasure washed over you. The orgasm was so strong, it blinded your senses for a short moment in which the men flipped you around the bed. 

Johnny was supporting your shoulders and your head, while Lord was stirring in front of you. He threw your legs over his thighs and scooped closer to your still wet with saliva crotch. And not only with that…

The new wave of panic overwhelmed you when Simon began to undo his trousers. He was taller and bigger than the gardener in every aspect, you were scared. Taking two lovers, without marital vows? Does this make you a whore? But you didn’t want this!

— No, no, no… — You weeped sadly, trying to crawl away, before Johnny began to caress your head. His grip was tight and successfully held you in place. 

— After tonight, we’ll be joined as one, bonnie. Just us, here in this house, forever. 

— But I-I don’t want this, Johnny! Please, let me go. Let me go.

You repeated as Simon pulled you by the hips closer to him. His now exposed, thick cock stiffened over your soft abdomen, leaking some precum. 

— Shh, Simon knows what’s best for us. He knows. 

When the tip of his length caved his way inside of your warm, silky walls, he was at least decent enough to take it slow. If you felt full during that first night spent with Johnny, this time it seemed even fuller. With his flesh, Simon filled you to the brim, still not even moving. The man saw your struggle to relax, so he leaned down and sucked the thin and delicate skin below your jaw. 

Meanwhile Johnny brushed your hair backwards and with the other hand he caressed your ribs. Somehow they knew how to press each individual button to make you docile enough. 

They learned how to tame you. 

Only then, Simon began to move his hips, thrusting slowly and continuously fastening the pace. His movements made you sway along Johnny’s knees. Your breasts bounced within the rhythm and your eyes searched for them through the half absent haze. 

You got lost in the moment, every breath merged with another. Hands roaming over your body, whose owners you couldn’t really assign, the burning stretch in your cunt that began to lube itself to ease the friction. 

The pleasure that crushed over your sensible thinking, put you in an almost ascended state. You were still sobbing, when Simon fastened his pace and his cock penetrated you deeper, kissing your cervix. You were still trembling, when the two men started making out above you. Their lips crushed in a vulgar exposition of their affection.

— Can’t you see that you’re lost without us, lovely? — The Lord’s voice shaken as he was getting closer to his climax. He leaned down and kissed you, almost stealing your breath away. 

— Wouldn’t last without us, would you, lass? 

They continuously somewhat mocked you and each time after they did, they cooed at you or leaned down to “kiss it better”. By the time Simon finished inside of you, groaning loudly, he spilled the warm seed inside your walls to, as Lord claim, “make you theirs”. 

— Don’t worry, we got you now. We’re gonna take care of you. Just let us… get familiar first. — Johnny said calmly, when the blonde was massaging your tense things. You knew they weren’t yet sated. 

That night you happened to lay over one of Simon’s bulky arms like a pillow. He caged your body from behind, his chest pressing tightly against your spine and Johnny laid on his side in front of you. Through a half awakened state you managed to look through the window that faced the treeline. An edge of forest shrouded in thick, morning mist. 

Tonight you finally were able to put the pieces together. However it was too late anyways.

The house seemed to be stuck in time and space, so were its residents. The wind sweeping through the draughty windows fills the lungs of the great manor. Old, wooden flooring creaks and the glass strain within its frames. Every aspect of the building stays the same, untouched and reclusive for many years to come. 

You finally let the heavy eyelids close. The sun was rising.

Obviously very inspired by Ghost's music and Crimson Peak, here is Spotify playlist ⟶ 𝕏

[khywren]

「 Oathbreaker 」

summary: Her brazen defiance of his allegations and her insistence on proving her piety has angered Astarion in a way he can't quite put into words, but he knows that the way she rejects what he knows so intimately to be true in service of her own self-preservation is maddening and incompatible with reality.

“You vex me.”

━ ◆ ━

Or, Paladin Tav's insistence on helping everyone the party comes across irritates Astarion to no end. He decides to test the limits of her virtue.

pairing: Astarion/f!Reader rating: 18+ MDNI status: complete tags/warnings: oral (female receiving), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, blood drinking, shameless smut, hate sex/angry sex, rough sex, dirty talk, biting, brief mentions of past trauma/abuse, reader insert word count: 4.7k spoiler warning: minor spoilers for astarion's past through act 1.

a/n: cross-posted as always from AO3.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ◆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s nearing dusk when the party decides to stop and make camp for the evening on the edge of the forest that they’ve just spent the last several days trudging through tirelessly. As they emerge wearily from the trees, Tav is the first to spot the small stone building at the crest of a small hill and can barely contain her excitement as she recognizes the colors adorning its walls.

“I can’t believe there’s a temple of Tyr all the way out here,” she says, finding a sudden surge of newfound strength as she bounds towards the foot of the hill. Her exhausted party follows after an exchange of disgruntled looks, lest there be some sort of ambush waiting for them inside.

As endearing as she often is, Tav is nothing if not recklessly optimistic.

The temple is thankfully deserted, and they all take a quick look inside before most of them excuse themselves to make camp. Tav, however, lingers after the others have left. As a paladin who has dedicated herself to Tyr, she is thankful to have found a place to stop and offer her prayers – and hopefully receive some blessings for the long journey ahead of them.

As the heavy oak doors swing shut, Tav suspects that she is alone, but a small noise alerts her and she turns to see Astarion not too far away, watching her carefully.

She’s surprised he’s still here.

“I didn't take you for a religious man, Astarion,” Tav says. She approaches the altar in the center of the temple, draped with the familiar blue and gold colors that represent Tyr and his followers. Overhead, twin banners frame a marble statue of Tyr himself, the fabric emblazoned with the golden hammer and scales that signify his creed of law and justice.

She bows her head in reverence, her hands clasped together in front of her.

“I'm not,” Astarion says blandly, making his way lazily throughout the open hall. “Call it mere... curiosity. But go on, don't let me distract you.”

He waves his hand dismissively, but Tav pauses what she's doing anyway and beckons him towards her.

“Would you... like me to show you how to pray?” she asks him. “You could do with a little positive influence.” The smile she offers him is kind.

“Tempting,” Astarion says, placing his index finger on his chin and pretending to consider the offer. “But I'll pass. You've already got the market cornered, I'm afraid.”

It's clear he has no intentions pf humoring her, and she heaves a heavy sigh.

“It wouldn't hurt you, you know - to be a little kinder,” she admonishes. “You can't solve all your problems with a dagger.”

His eyes gleam playfully as a graceful smirk slides effortlessly across his face. “That's what the short bow is for, darling.”

It's all Tav can do not to glare at him. She settles instead for a less enthusiastic scowl, her face full of disappointment.

“Must you always be so frustrating?”

“I prefer the term ‘pragmatic,’” Astarion quips back, not missing a beat. “It's all part of my charm.”

“Look,” Tav says evenly, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “All I'm saying is that maybe if you acted a little more heroic every once in a while, you'd realize that people are far more receptive to kindness than violence.”

Astarion huffs and rolls his eyes. “Those who claim to be heroes are either fools or martyrs,” he says simply. There is no inclination that he's being insincere with his words.

“This world is full of nothing but cruelty, and those who take advantage of that fact will always use that power to bring the weak to heel.”

It's a simple fact of life that has been ingrained into Astarion in the most painful way for the last two hundred years of his life. It is, perhaps, the greatest truth that he knows.

Tav's naive valor has always been one of her most exhausting traits, Astarion thinks grimly.

Tav, meanwhile, expresses her indignation as she turns sharply on her heel to face him, brows knit and her lips drawn tight.

“You're wrong, Astarion,” she says sternly. “There are plenty of good people out there, people like me, who –”

Astarion interrupts her retort with a mocking scoff and stalks closer to her, the soft sound of his boots across the stonework the only sound he makes. He levels a glance at her, and when she meets his eyes she find them full of menace.

“People like you?” he parrots back. “You don't seriously expect me to believe that you risk your life for every wretched soul who stumbles across your path purely out of the goodness of your heart.”

Tav has never seen him this upset before. She can practically feel the anger radiating off of him now, his whole body tense, his hands balled into fists at his sides. 

She isn't sure what to make of it and doesn't have the time to consider why this, of all things, seems so personal to him before Astarion suddenly relaxes his posture, as if he's trying to regain his composure.

Astarion narrows his eyes and regards her silently, and she feels as though he's staring right through her. The tadpole in her head squirms suddenly, and she has the inkling that he's considering trying to pry his way into her innermost thoughts to drag the truth from her if she will not freely give it to him.

Then as quickly as it came, the sensation fades, and Tav's mind steadies, though the exchange has set her on edge.

“You have something to gain, just like everyone else,” Astarion concludes. “The only difference,” he says with a wry smile, “is that you're hiding behind righteous selflessness. I, on the other hand, have no such compunction.”

Tav considers his words carefully, the accusation that she is only helping other people because it somehow benefits her own sense of self-worth cutting her to the bone.

She's angry because she knows there is some truth to what he's saying, but she won't give him the satisfaction.

“No,” she bites out, “I help people because it's the right thing to do. I swore an oath to defend those who can't defend themselves. That alone is reward enough.”

Astarion seems to sense her deception and seizes on it. The smirk on his face is nothing if not wicked as he leans in close, his brows arched.

“Really?” he says. “Then I have to wonder, how long did it take for you to become so blindly obedient that you no longer allow yourself to act on your own self interests?”

His voice lowers an octave, and when he speaks again it sends a cold shiver down her spine.

“No matter how much you'd like to do otherwise?”

He could almost laugh at the irony of his words if the reality wasn’t so tragic. The obedience he sees in her, a sick, twisted reflection of his relationship with Cazador, is enough to make him seethe with rage. The only difference is that Tav had a choice - she chose to surrender her autonomy when he never had that luxury.

Tav rounds on him now, her face hot with anger.

“That's not true! Just because I choose to follow Tyr's teachings doesn't mean that I don't have free will. I'm not a slave.”

Astarion bristles as the word leaves her mouth.

She doesn't know, she couldn't know, but it doesn't make her words any less destructive.

He's towing over her now, his expression dark. When she tips her chin up to look at him, Tav flinches at the scorned look on his face. In the back of her mind, a voice tells her to run, but she reasons with herself that Astarion, as prickly as he can be, would never hurt her.

Instead, she steels herself and gathers the courage to stare him down.

“You're wrong,” she repeats again.

“Then prove me wrong,” he snarls. “Do one thing, just one, that you want to do just for the sake of doing it. Not because you think it will win the favor of some pathetic god who probably doesn't even care that you exist.”

Tav ignores the casual dismissal of her beliefs and does something that surprises even Astarion. Fisting her hand in his doublet, she grabs Astarion firmly and tugs him forward, crashing their lips together in an awkward, clumsy kiss.

His lips are cold to the touch, a detail that she had not anticipated, and she considers pulling away. After all, her point has been made, has it not?

The kiss feels liberating, in a way. Astarion had been shamelessly flirting with her since the first night they made camp, and despite her repeatedly rebuffing his advances, it was never because she hadn't found him suitable to her tastes.

But Astarion's hand is immediately behind her back, holding her firmly against him and preventing her from escaping. He presses his mouth against her as tongue glides across her lower lip, a growl rumbling low in his throat.

When Tav parts her lips to suck in a breath, Astarion plunges his tongue into her mouth, tasting her with a hungry fervor. The hand on her back crushes her against his body, and she kisses him back, gasping breathlessly as she feels the sudden prick of his fangs.

Astarion's grip on Tav's thighs is possessive as he hoists her up onto the altar, scattering the unlit candles and other trinkets in his way. The sharp edge of the stone bites into her skin, granting her a moment of clarity. She realizes his intentions as Astarion fumbles impatiently with the leather straps of her armor, tugging at the buckles on her waist.

“Astarion,” she says, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder, “we shouldn't – it's not proper – not here.” She casts her eyes up to the statue of Tyr that looms over them, its cold marble eyes watching them in silent judgement.

“And why not, love?” Astarion says smoothly, freeing the last buckles of Tav's cuirass and casting it hastily aside. It hits the floor with a muffled thud, and his fingers quickly turn to the buttons of her undershirt.

“I can think of no better place for you to give yourself up as an offering.” 

When Astarion cranes his neck to look at Tav through half-lidded eyes, he flashes her a sly smile, his fangs bared.

“I will enjoy corrupting you,” he croons softly. “I do so hope Tyr will be watching as you come apart for me.”

The way he says it sends a tendril of searing heat directly to her core, and she feels herself growing desperate and needy. The slick arousal between her legs betrays any remaining reluctance she had left, and she gives up trying to talk him out of taking her in such a sacred place.

Astarion tugs fervently at the buttons on Tav's shirt, but he's not making progress fast enough. In a bout of frustration, he balls his fists up in the fabric and callously wrenches it open, scattering the remaining buttons as the shirt tears beneath his hands.

Tav makes a short noise of protest for her ruined shirt, but Astarion silences her with another punishing kiss and pushes himself between her open thighs.

After shrugging out of his doublet, Astarion makes quick work of Tav's shirt and her underclothes, which swiftly join the unceremonious pile with Tav's discarded leathers.

Her brazen defiance of his allegations and her insistence on proving her piety has angered Astarion in a way he can't quite put into words, but he knows that the way she rejects what he knows so intimately to be true in service of her own self-preservation is maddening and incompatible with reality.

Too many times Cazador had taken advantage of Astarion. Too many times he had tortured and used him for his own personal gain, and not once did anyone reach out to intervene. 

Not once did anyone save him from his suffering. Not until the mind flayers snatched him right out from under Cazador's clutches and implanted the godsdamned parasite in his brain.

“You vex me,” mutters bitterly, brows furrowed.

Tav regards him curiously, her expression questioning, but she says nothing.

When Astarion presses his face into the crook of her neck and his lips find her pulse point, Tav hitches a breath and her body moves of its own accord, her back arching into him as though it craves the contact. The cold from his pallid skin seeps into her body, and when his hand trails up her torso before finally cupping her bare breast, she lets out the moan she's been holding back since he first returned her kiss.

Astarion grins triumphantly against Tav's neck and presses his fangs into the soft, smooth skin above her carotid artery. 

She's no better than the rest of them. Defiant as she is, she's succumbed to him like so many others before her.

There is no true good in this world, he reminds himself. Only those who take advantage and those who allow themselves to become their prey.

The hand on Tav's breast squeezes roughly as his fingers find her nipple; when he pinches the tender bud, Tav cries out beneath him, writhing in pleasure. She grasps at him feebly, one hand tangling in his hair as the other finds purchase in his tunic.

“Tell me,” he muses, “why did you let me have your blood that night?”

“I - what?”

Tav wills herself to focus on his question, eventually realizing that he's talking about the night he had tried to bite her when everyone else was sleeping. He had asked so sweetly to let him drink her blood, she remembers. Of course, she hadn't been able to say no to him.

“Was it pity?” Astarion sneers. “Did you see me as yet another one of your little charity cases?” His tone is scathing and dripping with venom. 

Tav sees no point in lying to him any longer, not when he already knows the truth. 

“You said you needed it,” she responds flatly. “I was only trying to help.”

“How predictable,” he scoffs. “I don't need your pity.”

With his free hand, Astarion grips Tav firmly by the chin and forces her head to the side, baring the full column of her throat to him. She anticipates his bite before it happens, and when his teeth sink into her neck it feels like ice being injected into her veins.

Tav moans pitifully as Astarion's tongue laps over her skin to encourage the flow of her blood, and she can hear him swallow greedily as it surges into his mouth.

A thin rivulet of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth and Tav feels a few crimson droplets pepper her chest, causing her to shudder as they grow cold on her skin.

Desperate for something more substantial to cling to, Tav throws her arms around Astarion's body, digging her nails into his back and dragging them across his shirt, hard enough to leave marks even through his tunic. 

Astarion groans at the sensation but does not stop her.

He drinks greedily from her veins, gorging himself on her blood, feeling the warmth flooding through his body. The taste is just as he remembered, so sweet and agonizingly addictive.

It requires a great effort for Astarion to pry his mouth away from Tav’s neck. When he finally wills himself to pull back, she looks up at him through dark, unsteady eyes, her lips parted to allow her shallow, panting breaths.

He draws his thumb over his mouth and gathers any remaining traces of blood before running his tongue across it, savoring every last drop.

“Exquisite,” he breathes. “But now… I have to wonder if the rest of your sinful little body is as delectable as your blood.”

Tav moves without hesitation, unlacing her boots and kicking them off. Astarion’s hands are already at her waist, tugging at her pants and underwear. She lifts her hips just enough for him to yank them down around her ankles, where they fall forgotten to the floor.

When Astarion kneels before the altar, she lets him spread her legs even farther apart, wide enough to bare her body to him. She’s already trembling with anticipation, and she can tell by the pleased noise he makes that he’s noticed how wet she is before he’s even touched her.

“Look at you, sweet thing,” Astarion purrs. “Look how eager you are to have me. You want it, don't you? My mouth on you, tasting you, savoring every last bit of your needy little cunt?”

He drawls out the last few words in a low, possessive tone, and Tav struggles not to whimper.

“Oh gods...” she croaks. “Yes, Astarion. Yes.”

When Tav feels his mouth on the inside of her thigh, she bucks her hips, frustrated by the way he’s purposefully stalling before giving her what she wants.

“Please,” she whines, reaching to grab his hair and push him where she needs him most. Astarion avoids her grasping hands and snatches her wrists in his hand, holding her firmly.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts. “Patience.”

Astarion slowly drags his lips across her thigh as he continues to tease her, occasionally nipping her sensitive skin as he continues his torturous path. When she’s all but certain she’s going to explode, he finally gives in, releasing her wrists as his tongue slides through her slick folds and flicks against her aching clit.

“Fuck, Astarion –!”

Tav keens against him as her body ignites under his mouth, her nerves alight with arousal as he sets to work at pleasuring her, his lips and his tongue bringing her almost immediately to the edge of orgasm. He clearly knows what he’s doing, and she whimpers incoherently, gathering her hands in the blue and gold drapery still strewn across the altar.

Astarion slowly drags his tongue across the slick heat of her core, grazing her entrance. When she feels his tongue probe inside of her, her back arches sharply, and he splays his hands across her waist to keep her from moving.

“Stay still,” he hisses, digging his fingers into her hips.

When Tav appears to comply with his demands, Astarion returns his attention to her clit, using the flat of his tongue to press into her and swirls the tip in practiced, lazy circles. Before long, he presses two fingers inside of her, stretching her open with slow, languid thrusts.

Damn him for being so good at this, Tav thinks sourly, tipping her head back and indulging in the feel of him against and inside her. She knows she’s already lost whatever moral advantage she had over him, and she realizes with only a little shame that she can’t even be bothered to care anymore.

Maybe he was right. Maybe restricting herself this entire time had been nothing but folly. She doesn’t want to interrogate what that means for… well, everything moving forward.

So instead, she focuses on Astarion as he sends wave after wave of pleasure cresting over her, pulling her closer and closer to the edge. She can feel her orgasm building, and as he curls his fingers inside of her, Tav feels her legs begin to shake and prepares herself to give into him completely and let herself go.

The whimper she makes when he suddenly pulls away from her and leaves her gasping and desperate is nothing short of obscene. Astarion rises to his feet, and she searches his face for an explanation, her pupils blown wide as she tries to focus on his face.

“Why –?”

“Not yet,” Astarion answers her bluntly. “I'm not yet through with you.”

He flips Tav unceremoniously onto her stomach and grabs her around the waist, yanking her back so that her legs hang over the side of the altar far enough for her feet to find purchase on the floor. She can hear him behind her as he slips his tunic over his head and unlaces his trousers, the soft leather gliding quietly over his body as he sheds the last of his clothes.

His cock springs free and Tav feels its heavy weight against the swell of her ass as he slides behind her, trailing a single icy finger down the curve of her spine.

“Fuck you,” she grits out through clenched teeth, shifting to make herself more comfortable.

“Ahh,” Astarion says, an amused lilt to his voice as he laughs quietly. “So the little pup has a bite after all. That's good.”

He lifts one of her legs onto the altar to give him better access to her body and spreads her slick folds apart with his fingertips. Tav feels him guide the blunt head of his cock to her entrance, and she groans in frustration, pushing her hips back into him impatiently.

“Astarion... gods, just fuck me already.”

“So impatient,” he scolds her, his fingers digging into her thigh. “But very well. As you wish.”

He slams into her in a single thrust, and Tav moans loudly at the sudden intrusion, his cock stretching her wide as what was initially a sharp pain melts away into pure pleasure. He’s already so deep inside her, and she can feel his cock twitch as he adjusts to her tight, wet heat.

Astarion wastes no time setting a punishing pace, fucking into her hard and fast, coaxing a string of filthy noises from her with every thrust of his hips.

He pins her effortlessly to the altar, one hand secured around her waist and the other pressed between her shoulder blades. The obscene, wet slap of their bodies coming together echoes loudly in Tav’s ears, and she buries her face into the altar in a vain attempt to muffle her cries.

“You're taking my cock so well, pet,” Astarion groans. “What must Tyr think of you now, laid out as you are and moaning like a common whore?”

 Tav shoots a scathing glance at him over her shoulder, her teeth bared in a snarl.

“Gods, do you ever stop talking?” she mutters. “You're the last person who should be lecturing me about morality.”

“Hmm, have I struck a nerve?” Astarion asks. “My sincerest apologies.”

His tone is nothing but derisive, and Tav feels her anger rising yet again.

“Asshole.”

Astarion responds by smacking her ass roughly with the flat of his palm, leaving a bright red mark on her skin. The sting and the heat that accompanies it makes her bite her lip, even as she yelps in pain. But she holds her tongue, nevertheless, lest he repeat the punishment.

“And such a mouthy little thing you are. If I had known how feisty you were,” Astarion says, “I would have done this so much sooner.”

His hips continue their relentless pace, snapping into her with enough force to push her across the altar, and several times Astarion grabs her by the hips and pull her back again so that he has enough leverage to fuck her as deeply as he wants to.

Her body feels so incomprehensibly good, and as Astarion continues to pound into her, he feels the tension in his body start to dissipate. If only Tav could see the state she’s in now, so thoroughly disheveled and at his mercy. It gives him endless satisfaction to know that even she can be ruined in such a manner despite all her noble claims of virtue.

Presently Astarion tangles his fingers in Tav’s hair and tugs her body upright, so her back is flush against his chest. She braces herself against the altar with splayed palms, struggling to hold herself up as her aching limbs threaten to give out beneath her.

Astarion can sense her failing strength and wraps an arm around her body as he adjusts himself inside of her, thrusting up into her as he holds her firmly, his hand pressed against the base of her throat. With his spare hand, he brushes the hair away from her shoulder and slots his mouth over her skin once more, sinking his teeth into her tender skin.

Tav cries out weakly as Astarion finds himself indulging in her blood for the second time that evening, pacing himself so that he doesn’t take too much from her. He’s already had more than his fill, and yet he still wants more – he needs more. The sweat on her skin mingles with the heady taste of her blood, and he feels positively intoxicated on her, unable to deny himself the pleasures of her body.

Despite her outbursts, Astarion feels that he should reward her for being so good for him, and he slowly slides his free hand down the length of her stomach, his fingers finding her clit as he teases her back towards sweet, blissful oblivion.

“Fuck, you look so good beneath me,” he groans. “As righteous as you claim to be, darling, you will come on my cock all the same.”

“A-Astarion...” Tav moans, each syllable of his name punctuated by the thrusts of his cock inside her.

“Louder,” he commands, his fingers busy with pleasuring her as he places deceptively affectionate kisses across her shoulder blades, sending a jolt of indescribable pleasure directly through her.

“Let Tyr hear you. Let them all hear you.”

“Astarion...!” Tav rasps out his name, more audibly than her last attempt, her throat raw.

“Almost, love,” he croons.

His fingers swipe across her clit now in just the right way, and his cock hits her sweet spot with one particularly deep thrust inside her.

“Astarion!”

She cries his name with every ounce of energy she has left, begging him to grant her the release she needs. At last she finds it, her entire body shaking as she comes hard for him, her body clenching tightly around his cock.

Astarion keeps up his frantic pace as Tav comes undone around him, his fingers once again gripping her hips with a force that she knows will leave bruises behind. He buries his face in her neck once again, inhaling the scent of her blood as he rides out his own orgasm, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside of her.

Tav can feel him growing soft after a few moments, and he pulls out of her, leaving her to slump to her knees against the altar, her chest heaving as she pants heavily.

Astarion gathers the drapery on the altar and uses it to clean himself off; Tav scowls indignantly at him but he ignores her, long past the point of continuing their disagreement. He dresses silently, almost too casually, as if nothing of note had just transpired between them. With one last smoothing of his clothes, he runs his hand through his hair to style his trademark curls back into place, his face a perfect mask of indifference.

“That was… rather enlightening,” Astarion says flicking Tav a teasing glance as she gathers up her clothes and begins to make herself decent. “Perhaps I’ll turn to religion after all.” “You are absolutely incorrigible,” Tav responds with a grimace.

“Undoubtedly,” Astarion smirks, “but that certainly didn’t stop you from enjoying me, did it?”

He dismisses her angry huff with a wave of his hand and turns to leave as Tav rises to her feet and begins to dress herself. Her undershirt is in tatters, but she dons it anyway, hoping her leathers will hide the evidence of her shame when she returns to camp.

She tends to the mess they’ve made of Tyr’s altar with hurried hands – the less time she has to spend here, the worse she thinks she’ll feel about the whole ordeal.

When the pair of them rejoin the rest of the party, the group is none the wiser, too caught up in setting up their own tents and getting ready for bed. She can feel Astarion’s eyes watching her from across the camp as she does the same, and her tadpole wriggles behind her eye as Astarion reaches across the psionic bond that links their minds together.

“Sleep well, darling,” his voice echoes in her mind, smug and self-satisfied. “Try not to miss me too much.”

[applespants]

Hotel Room Service {NSFW}

Orion Pax x D-16

Read on Ao3 Here!

Word Count: 4.9k (under the cut)

Summary: Orion Pax has promised D-16 a night to remember, and D-16 makes sure that he's thoroughly prepared. (NSFW!! Minors DNI)

A/N: these robots have taken over my BRAIN!! i took some inspo from the lovely @archie-sunshine and his stunning art here for a certain part of this fic hehe but i also just wanted to write some porn for the holidays cuz who doesn't want some horny robots as a gift? LOL anyways i hope y'all enjoy this one i had a ton of fun writing it!! have a lovely holiday if you celebrate!! :D

---

D-16 walked quickly through the streets of Iacon, avoiding the surrounding bots’ optics. He was on the hunt for a gift for Orion Pax, but he could feel his spark hammering in his chest as he stepped closer and closer toward the red-light district.

Dee, I really want to have a whole night with you. Just the two of us! Orion’s voice echoed in D-16’s processor as he slowed his pace, taking in the neon lights of the street. We won’t have to worry about anyone walking in on us. We could even–

D-16 gulped as he stared down the street. There were hardly any other bots, but the noisy clamor of activity still echoed. The shop signs were almost all made with neon lights, but most were not on. He slowly began to walk down the street, then did a quick scan of his surroundings. After deciding there were no bots that he recognized or that would care about his presence, he continued down the street.

There were several couples walking down the street, arms linked, though he was not sure of the exact relationship status of most of them. He tried to avoid locking optics with any of them, looking for a shop that would have what he was looking for.

He came across the window of a particular storefront and peeked in, seeing a wide variety of different interface toys and special interface accessories. The neon sign was on above, signaling that it was open. D-16 took a deep breath and glanced side-to-side once more, then entered the store.

D-16 fiddled with his thumbs awkwardly as he walked into the store, tried to redirect his optics anywhere that did not have some sort of interface toy, and failed miserably. There were so many different colors and shapes and sizes of so many different vibrators and plugs and dildos… D-16 was immediately overwhelmed by the options.

“Hello there!” D-16’s helm whipped around and he was met with a shorter bot that was too close in his personal space. The bot grinned when he noticed the look on D-16’s face and made a gesture behind him to a display filled with a variety of dildos. “Welcome to Dipstick’s Deviant Delights! My name’s Dipstick. How can I help you today?”

The last thing D-16 had been expecting from an interface shop was customer service. He blinked and swallowed the lump in his intake, trying to find any sort of words to communicate what he was looking for.

Dipstick waved a servo. “Are you in here for just yourself or for a partner?”

D-16 felt his spark beating faster as he thought of Orion. Oh Primus, what would Orion even like? D-16 should have thought it through more before making the whole trek to the red-light district, but it was too late for second guessing now.

“Uhm… my partner…”

Dipstick nodded and held his chin with his servo. “Nice, nice… So what are you two into?”

D-16 froze. “Pardon?”

“You seem like you’re into oral,” Dipstick observed casually, making D-16’s faceplate heat immensely. “Perhaps a flavored lubricant? I have a selection of ones that sensitize the valve and node. I also have a wide variety of vibrators for internal stimulation if you’d like to stimulate your partner's valve while you work your glossa."

“I-I don’t– My partner, he–” D-16 stammered, his servos making stiff gestures as he tried to formulate a proper response. He took a deep breath. “Do you have any… uhm… node vibrators?”

Dipstick nodded, a small grin growing on his face. “We do, indeed! Our bullets are the most popular, but wands are a good investment as well…” Dipstick guided D-16 over to the selection of vibrators for external stimulation and waved a servo. “Please let me know if you need anything else!”

D-16 nodded and released a shaky breath once Dipstick walked out of sight. D-16 looked at the shelf of vibrators, but he did not dare touch any. He had done a bit of his own research before coming in, so he had a rough idea of what to get, but there was such an overwhelming variety of options that he found himself struggling to pick.

D-16 found himself drawn to a purple wand vibrator and slowly reached for it. It was still in the package, but it looked good on the cover of the box. There were a few settings and it lit up on the head, and D-16 decided it was good for what he was looking for.

D-16 glanced around the rest of the store, looking for anything else that might be of interest for himself or Orion. His optics wandered toward the back of the store, where there was a selection of interface accessories. Before he realized his pedes were moving, he was facing the wall and looking at the different items.

There were so many and most of them D-16 did not even know what they did. He saw a few floggers, some blindfolds and gags, but he did not recognize most of the other items. He did, however, find himself glancing at a pair of purple cuffs. He glanced down at the vibrator he had grabbed and noticed that it was a very similar shade of purple.

As D-16 narrowed his optics in contemplation, Dipstick popped back over, clearly having nothing better to do than provide D-16 with assistance. “Ah, those are very popular. It’s a great introduction for couples interested in bondage.”

D-16 nearly jumped at the sound of Dipstick’s voice. He nodded and glanced back at the handcuffs. “They look… fun?”

Dipstick nodded and pulled them off the wall. He glanced at the vibrator D-16 had selected as well and a knowing grin crept up his face. “They’re very fun! Tell you what, I’ll give you a nice deal: if you buy that vibrator and these cuffs, I’ll give you half off the cuffs and throw in a sensitizing lubricant for free! I might even have a purple sensitizer in the back if you’re going for a theme.”

D-16 hesitated, not sure how the cuffs would go over with Orion. He looked again at the vibrator, then the cuffs, and then made his decision.

“Can you tell me a bit more about that sensitizer?”

---

“Pax, where are we going?” D-16 groaned as Orion dragged him along by the servo, leading him through the nearly deserted streets of Iacon.

“It’s a surprise!” Orion insisted. He then grinned, gesturing to the shopping bag D-16 was holding. “If you tell me what’s in the bag I’ll tell you where we’re going.”

D-16’s faceplate heated as he remembered what was in the bag and shook his helm. Orion laughed and tugged on D-16's servo again.

“So secretive! Well, we’re almost there, so get ready!”

It was late, much later than Orion and D-16 were normally out and about. They had the day off the following day, so Orion had decided that it would be a perfect night for them to get out of the living quarters that they shared with the other miners. He had not told D-16 anything about where they were going, so D-16 was entirely in the dark. All he knew was that there was the hinted promise of interfacing, so he was hoping that Orion was not leading him to a random alley… again.

Sharing a living space with the other miners limited their privacy, so it was difficult to even get a few kisses in without someone making a comment. Interfacing was a whole other issue, although they had managed to sneak a few quickies in only semi-public spaces.

The mines had been where they first interfaced when they had managed to sneak away a few times on their breaks. The showers had been the best place so far, and part of what made it so exhilarating had been the riskiness of it. They had also, much to D-16’s chagrin, done it in an alley, which he swore to never do again. But with the way Orion was guiding him around the city, he was getting worried.

Orion, however, then led D-16 around the corner toward one of the hotels in Iacon. Orion turned to D-16 with a grin and gestured his helm to the building. “I figured it might be nice to get away for a night. We don’t have to worry about getting disrupted from recharge, and we can… well, y’know.”

D-16 could feel his intake getting a bit dry as thoughts began to swirl in his mind. He imagined all the different things they had not yet tried, and then thought of what they could do with what he had in the bag.  He nodded his helm, returning a smile to Orion. “Oh, I know. Did you already book a room?”

Orion nodded, pulling a small datacard out with a smirk. “Of course, I did! And we’re already checked in, so we can go straight up. Just you and me.”

D-16 wanted to kiss Orion immediately. D-16 wanted his dermas against Orion’s faceplate, against his neck cables, against his valve. D-16 squeezed Orion’s servo and was now leading Orion into the hotel lobby, making Orion laugh as he followed along. D-16 realized once they were by the elevators that he did not know where the room was. Orion chuckled and punched the button.

The two of them entered the elevator when it arrived, and as soon Orion punched in the button for the twelfth floor and the doors closed, D-16 was on him. Orion nearly burst into laughter at D-16’s eagerness, but he was quickly overtaken by a gasp when D-16 placed a servo on his thigh, pulling his leg up as he pressed into him. Orion hit the elevator wall and kissed D-16 back, the elevator finally going up to the twelfth floor while the two of them made out.

“Mmh, Dee– Dee, you’re so–”

The elevator dinged and D-16 quickly pulled away from Orion, watching the door. It opened, but there was no one there. D-16 was confused for a moment before he realized that the elevator had done what it was supposed to and that they were on the twelfth floor. Orion chuckled slyly and squeezed D-16’s aft teasingly, making him hiss.

“Oh, suddenly you’re shy?” Orion quipped.

D-16 grumbled. “I’m not– Don’t tease me, Pax…”

“Or what? You’ll–” Orion gasped when D-16 picked him up, one arm under his knees and the other on his back.

D-16 smirked. “Or I’ll frag you so thoroughly that you can’t walk tomorrow.”

Orion, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words. He stammered with wide optics as D-16 carried him out of the elevator and looked up and down the hallway, unsure of where to go.

“1246,” Orion finally managed to say, staring up at D-16. “The room number.”

D-16 smiled and carried Orion down the hall toward the room. When he came up to the room door, he tilted Orion slightly in his arms so that he could scan the room lock with the datacard and open the door for the two of them. D-16 pushed the door open more with his ped and carried Orion in, taking in the hotel room.

It was so much nicer than the living quarters they were in. There was one berth in the middle of the room, and across from it was a television. The berth was more than big enough for both of them, and it looked much cozier than the standing berths they were used to. The window showed all of Iacon city, which was lit up despite the late night.

Orion tapped D-16’s shoulder, asking him to be put down. D-16 shrugged and tossed him onto the berth, making Orion yelp. “Hey!”

But D-16 was already straddling Orion, kissing him once more. Orion leaned back and cupped D-16’s faceplate, opening his dermas to let D-16’s glossa in. Their glossas danced and D-16 held onto Orion’s hips, squeezing them gently as he moaned into the kiss.

After a few moments, D-16 finally pulled away, giving them both a chance to catch their breath. Orion let one servo lay against his forehelm and he stared up at D-16 with soft optics, his mouth open for more.

“Before we keep going,” D-16 hesitated slightly, glancing at the bag that sat at the foot of the berth. Orion propped himself up on his elbows, noticing where D-16’s optics were looking. D-16 shrugged. “I… I got you something. Do you want to open it?”

Orion beamed and nodded. D-16 handed him the bag and looked away as he began to open it. Orion pulled out the sensitizer first, looking slightly confused until he read the label. He grinned deviously and looked at D-16, who was still averting his gaze. Orion redirected D-16’s face toward his own, forcing him to look at Orion.

“Dee… What exactly are you implying here?”

D-16’s faceplate rushed with heat. “You are so mean.”

Orion laughed and kissed D-16 quickly. He pulled the cuffs out of the bag next, which was what D-16 had been dreading the most. Orion raised an optical ridge, but his grin only widened.

“Oh my, Dee! I didn’t know you had this kind of thing in mind. Are these for me or for you?”

D-16 tried to avert his gaze again, but Orion redirected him again. D-16 huffed. “If you keep acting like this, I’m going to cuff you to the bed and leave.”

Orion hummed. “I think you’d miss me too much.”

Before D-16 could make a proper retort, Orion pulled the vibrator out of the bag. This was where he looked genuinely surprised, glancing at D-16 with wide optics.

“Dee…”

D-16 shifted awkwardly. “I get it if it’s too much, we don’t have to use any of it if you don’t want to. I just figured… I don’t know…”

Orion shook his helm with a grin. “I’m just… Well, I’m sensing you had a certain color scheme in mind when you picked all of this out.”

D-16 put his servos to his faceplate and groaned. “Pax–!”

Orion laughed and pulled D-16’s servos away from his helm to kiss him. “Dee, you know I’m only teasing you! I think tonight is going to be fun… Where should we start?”

D-16 hummed against Orion’s dermas and pulled him in for another kiss. “Lay down and I’ll show you.”

Orion smirked and did as D-16 asked, laying back across the berth. D-16 sat above him on his knees and admired his body for a few moments, drinking in his form until Orion nudged his leg gently with his ped.

D-16 leaned down and began to kiss Orion again, his servos tracing down Orion’s chassis toward his panel, which he palmed lightly until Orion finally opened it. D-16 kissed him for just a little while longer before he began to trail his way down, kissing Orion’s neck cables and his chest. He went down his chassis, gently placing kisses all the way down before finding himself in front of Orion’s valve.

D-16 glanced back up at Orion, who was watching him with soft intent. He lifted his hips gently and D-16 hummed, turning his attention back to Orion’s valve. D-16 pressed a kiss to the inside of Orion’s thigh, one servo on the other thigh as he leaned into the space between his legs.

D-16 began to work his glossa on Orion’s valve, making his breath hitch as he let his helm fall back. He pressed the back of his servo to his dermas, the other curling on the sheets of the berth beneath them.

“D-Dee…”

D-16 gently dragged his glossa up Orion’s valve and kissed his node. Orion shivered and D-16 smiled, pressing one more soft kiss to his node before continuing to trail his glossa along his valve. Orion revved and reached a servo down to grasp D-16’s helm. He moaned softly, biting his derma to keep quiet as D-16 continued.

“I want to hear you, Pax,” D-16 lifted his head for a moment, making Orion whine.

“But what if–”

“What, suddenly you’re shy?” D-16 mocked teasingly, a small grin on his face. When Orion pouted, his grin softened to a smile. “No one will hear us. It’s just the two of us, right? I want to hear every little noise you want to make, Pax. Please…”

D-16 waited until Orion nodded. “Okay, okay… Now can you… y’know…?”

D-16 smirked and leaned back down to Orion’s valve. He kissed his inner thighs a few more times until Orion whined, then began to trail his glossa up his valve. He pressed a kiss to the node before gently lapping at it with the tip of his glossa. Orion’s hips twitched and he moaned, louder this time. D-16 smiled in satisfaction and pressed his glossa against his node, his servo gently squeezing Orion’s inner thigh.

Orion let his servos find D-16’s helm again and he leaned into D-16’s mouth, begging for more. D-16 obliged, closing his dermas around Orion’s node as he gave it a gentle suck before dragging the flat of his glossa across it.

Orion moaned softly as he held onto D-16’s helm, his own helm falling back as he let his thighs tighten around D-16. “Oh, Primus–”

D-16 gauged how close Orion was to overload by his quickened breathing, his soft moaning, and the grip he had on D-16’s helm. He kept up the pace with his glossa until Orion let out a cry of overload, then gently lapped at his valve and node until Orion had ridden the waves of it out. He slunk back into the berth slightly and D-16 climbed up over his body, nuzzling his face into the crook of Orion’s neck while his servos explored his chassis.

“I can’t wait to hear more of you tonight,” D-16 praised softly, nipping at Orion’s neck cables. He cupped Orion’s faceplate and leaned in to kiss him, separating his dermas with his glossa as Orion moaned into him.

“Mmh– Oh! Do you want to try any of your shiny new toys?” Orion chuckled, gesturing to the sensitizer, cuffs, and vibrator that sat on the edge of the berth. D-16 nodded, having forgotten about them after being caught up with Orion’s valve.

“What do you want to try first?” D-16 asked, looking at Orion expectantly. Orion sat up, propping himself on his elbows as D-16 gently rubbed his thigh. Orion picked up the vibrator, looking at D-16 with a small smirk.

“I don’t suppose you already charged this?” Orion chuckled, looking for the button to turn it on. He found it and held it down and the vibrator began glowing and vibrating at a lower speed. “Oh my, Dee! Aren’t you prepared?”

D-16 averted his optics in mild embarrassment. “How do you want to use it? I could use it on you, or… I don’t know.”

Orion rolled his optics and shook his helm. “As much as I would love it, I can’t have you pleasuring just me all night. Why don’t we share it?”

D-16 raised an optical ridge. “Share it? How would–”

Orion smirked and spread his legs, gesturing for D-16 to do the same. D-16 did so and Orion scooted closer to him, putting one leg over D-16’s hip while the other went under D-16’s other leg. His valve was pressed against D-16’s panel, which he was waiting to open.

Orion chuckled. “It would be helpful if you opened your panel.” D-16 grumbled and did so, his faceplate heating at the fact that he had not done so earlier. Orion cooed at him with a small grin. “Such a pretty valve… Next time, I want to have my mouth on it.”

“Pax…” D-16 whined, making Orion laugh softly.

Orion rubbed D-16’s inner thigh, making his valve ache with anticipation. “Do you want to use the sensitizer as well? It might be interesting to try it.”

D-16 shrugged. “If you want to try it… It was a freebie from the shop.”

Orion chuckled. “Might as well make the most of it then, right?”

Orion uncapped the sensitizer and poured some into his servo. He gently lathered D-16’s node and valve, making him moan softly at the touch. It was a bit cold, but it was warmed by Orion’s touch. Orion spread it over his own node and valve, inhaling quickly as he spread it around.

As soon as they were covered in the sensitizer, Orion picked up the vibrator. D-16 watched as Orion took the vibrator and put it between their valves, making D-16 flinch at the sudden contact it had with his node. It was a colder touch than he was used to on his node, but he was not able to think about it for long before Orion turned on the vibration and made them both gasp in surprise.

“Ah–!” Orion gasped, nearly dropping the wand as he leaned back on his other servo.

“Nghn–!” D-16 lurched forward with a moan as he held onto Orion’s thigh for support, squeezing it slightly.

The sensitizer made D-16’s node tingle wildly with pleasure, which only intensified with the vibrator. He looked up and saw Orion biting his derma before letting out another moan. He looked at D-16 and smiled, clicking the button again to speed up the vibration. D-16 gasped, letting out a moan that was louder than he expected.

D-16 felt himself getting close to overload already, but they had hardly even started. Orion looked to be in a similar state, panting and moaning as he watched D-16 with heavy lidded optics.

“Mmh– Hah! Dee, it feels– Oh–!” Orion whined, clearly close to overload as he pushed himself closer to D-16 and into the wand.

The pressure from the wand increased as Orion leaned forward, pushing D-16 into overload. D-16 let out a gasp as he overloaded. “Ah– Ah! Pax!”

The vibrator was so intense after D-16 overloaded that he almost felt the need to pull away, but he did not until Orion had also overloaded and ridden it out. He quickly pulled the vibrator away, which was slick with their lubricant and the sensitizer, and turned it off.

The two of them were panting heavily after the intensity of their overload. They stared at each other until Orion chuckled softly. “That– That was–”

“Intense,” D-16 filled in for Orion, making him laugh softly. He set the vibrator down on the berth and leaned in to kiss D-16, their legs still tangled together as their valves rubbed against each other.

D-16 gasped into the kiss, his node still sensitive and tingling after the overload. Orion hummed against his dermas, shifting his hips slightly so their valves were no longer touching, and continued to kiss him softly.

D-16 let his servos wander down Orion’s chassis and squeeze his aft when they found it. Orion whined and D-16 only groaned in response, squeezing it again.

“Mmh– Dee– Dee, wait…”

“Hmm? What is it?” D-16 pulled away, watching Orion intently.

Orion grinned sheepishly, looking down at the berth. “We still have one thing left to try…”

D-16 followed Orion’s gaze to the handcuffs and chuckled. “You still have energy? What have you been eating, Pax?”

Orion shrugged. “Not enough of you, unfortunately.”

D-16 sputtered and Orion laughed, untangling their legs and reaching for the cuffs. While D-16 recovered from Orion’s tease, Orion picked up the cuffs and inspected them with glee.

“You still didn’t tell me who’s getting cuffed,” Orion teased, dangling the cuffs in front of D-16’s face. “Do you want to wear them while I frag you? Or do you want to see me in them, laid out on the bed while you do what you want with me?”

D-16’s faceplate heated, and he felt his spike pressurize under his panel at the thought of Orion on the bed, sprawled out, ready to take him. That had been his initial intention in buying them, but he could tell that Orion was interested in both options.

D-16 took the cuffs from Orion, trying to keep his expression level as he gestured for Orion’s servos. Orion grinned, holding his servos out like he was being arrested. As D-16 put the cuffs on his wrist, he leaned forward into D-16’s audials. “Do what you want with me.”

D-16 revved. He pushed Orion back down on the bed and forced his servos above his head, making Orion chuckle in amusement. He put the handcuffs around the top frame of the berth and then hesitated around Orion’s other wrist.

“You’re sure this is okay?”

Orion rolled his optics and nodded his head with a smile. “Of course, Dee. I’d tell you if I was uncomfortable with it. Now can you finish cuffing me so you can frag me?”

D-16 nodded eagerly and clipped the cuff around Orion’s other wrist, letting his servos trail down Orion’s arms. Orion shivered and giggled softly, but D-16 continued to trace his servos down to Orion’s chest, watching him intently.

Every inch of him was so beautiful, so enticing. He could hardly wait another second before getting inside of him.

Orion, apparently, could not wait another second either. He cleared his intake with a small grin on his face.

“If you keep admiring me like that, I’m going to get all flustered.”

D-16 felt his faceplate heat, but he quickly brushed his own embarrassment aside in order to tease Orion. “It’s hard not to admire perfection.”

Orion smiled softly and averted his gaze. “Dee…”

“I’ve never wanted much,” D-16 continued, letting one servo trail down Orion’s chassis to his hip. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “But I want you so much it feels unreal that I get to have you. In fact, I think I’ve been so spoiled by you that you’ve become a need.” D-16 cupped Orion’s faceplate and pressed a kiss to his dermas. “I need you almost as much as I need energon to stay alive. I want to be with you almost as much as I need to be with you. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Orion Pax.”

D-16 could feel Orion’s faceplate growing warm, and he smiled softly before kissing his dermas once more. Orion whined into the kiss and D-16 pulled away, watching him with a small smirk.

“You can’t say all that stuff while I can’t touch you, Dee,” Orion whined, tugging lightly on the handcuffs. “It’s not fair!”

D-16 chuckled. “Well, then how about I touch you to make up for it? Where should I start?”

Orion huffed, lifting his hips slightly. “You know damn well where you should start.”

D-16 obliged. He opened his panel, his spike pressurized and already leaking lubricant as it pulsed with charge. Orion gazed at D-16 with a small smirk and shifted his hips, ready to take D-16’s spike in its entirety. D-16 placed a servo on Orion’s hip and slowly began to put his spike in. Orion stiffened slightly but relaxed under D-16’s gentle touch. As soon as he was all the way in, Orion released the breath he had been holding and D-16 slowly began to thrust.

D-16 huffed as he felt the tightness of Orion’s valve. He was slick with lubricant from his first two overloads, which made his spike slide inside him with ease. D-16 leaned down to kiss Orion while he thrust rhythmically into him, holding his aft with one servo while the other kept D-16 supported on the berth.

“Dee– Oh, oh– Don’t stop–!” Orion moaned loudly, any previous worry of being heard going completely out the window as D-16 thrust into him.

“Pax you– you feel so good–” D-16 panted, moaning softly.

D-16 took Orion’s aft and pushed him up slightly so he could angle his spike further into him. Orion gasped out a moaning cry and tugged lightly on the handcuffs, which only made D-16 want him even more.

D-16 chuckled softly through his huffing and moaning. “Still enjoying the cuffs, Pax?”

Orion whined and tugged on them. “I wish I– I wish I could hold you–”

D-16 almost laughed. “So you could scratch up my plating again?”

D-16 thrust deeper into Orion and he threw his helm back with a loud moan before he could protest D-16’s teasing. D-16 gave Orion’s aft a soft squeeze, making him whine and huff.

“Pax, I’m close–” D-16 panted as he began to thrust faster, making Orion gasp and shift his hips to be closer to D-16, wanting to take in more of his spike.

“I’m– I’m almost– Ahh!” Orion threw his helm back as he overloaded, tugging on the cuffs tightly. D-16 was overloaded soon after, his lubricant filling Orion as he leaned down beside him, panting.

D-16 slowly pulled out of Orion after a few moments, his lubricant spilling out onto the berth sheets. Orion tugged lightly on the handcuffs, still in bliss after his third overload of the night, and watched D-16 intently. 

“Dee… Can you uncuff me now?”

D-16 put a servo to his chin and furrowed his optical ridge. “Hmm… I’ll consider it… Give me a good reason?”

“Uhm… you love me?”

D-16 shrugged. “Good enough.”

D-16 uncuffed Orion, setting the handcuffs aside before falling next to Orion as he wrapped his arms around him.

“That was incredible, Dee…”

“It really was…” D-16 agreed, staring at Orion’s optics as he gently caressed his face. “We should get a hotel room more often.”

Orion laughed and nodded his helm in agreement. The two of them chatted and giggled for a little while longer, exchanging kisses and caresses until they eventually fell asleep.

[porcelainseashore]

Into the Ether (1)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Toreador! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: At the all-night events cafe you run, you’ve become acquainted with an elusive patron, Leon, though you can never remember the last moments of your interactions together. After a harrowing encounter, a love-hate relationship develops between the two of you as you grapple with your newfound status in a world of darkness and investigate the reasons behind the untimely attacks.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Resident Evil x Vampire: The Masquerade crossover, horror, mystery, romance, slow burn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, swearing, smoking, alcohol, drug references, non consensual blood drinking, blood bond, vampire turning, violence, injury, mild gore, torture, religious themes, minor character death, RE ensemble, VtM concepts.

Author's Note: Super excited for this crossover series! I’ll try to keep a regular update schedule on Wednesdays. I might take some liberties with VtM lore and mechanics to fit the story, but hope to stay as true as I can to the source material. Finally, I imagined RE2R Leon (my favorite!) in this role 🫶

AO3 Link

Chapter 1: RC By Night

You first saw him in summer, when the days were long and the nights were short, and the streets came to life again. There was the heady smell of pollen in the air and the humidity was sweltering. Just a couple of months after you and a bunch of idealistic friends from your theater school days had taken the plunge, and opened an all-night cafe in one of the cheaper, grittier areas of town, east of the river of Raccoon City.

It had been a scrappy little project, one you didn’t expect to receive a cult following and gain in popularity amongst the intellectuals and counterculture crowd. But then again, there was also the City College nearby and the events program you’d lined up each week drew them in. From comedy nights and disco fevers to site-specific and performance art, you knew what people liked and how they wanted to be entertained. A bit of kitsch, a sprinkle of avant-garde and a generous dose of unpretentious social drinking. It pulled him in too.

Him. You didn’t even know his name. The first thing you had noticed were his striking blue eyes that seemed to glow from the shadows of the dimly lit space, peering out at you. Always observing, always watching, never speaking. Sometimes he’d glance over across the opposite end of the room at another pair of companions — a rugged, broad-shouldered man with a dark crew cut bumping shoulders with a younger, spunky redhead in a matching biker jacket. They’d exchange subtle looks of recognition and mild suspicion before returning to whatever they were doing. Though they never uttered a single word to each other.

He came back week after week, ordering the same drink each time, but never touching it. One Manhattan, please. You obliged. A waitress you had sent over to pry on your behalf told you he enjoyed the cocktail, but couldn’t tolerate much alcohol. You saw him lift the drink to his nose, sniffing it as the corners of his mouth turned upwards, silently smiling to himself before he placed it back down on the table again. Strange. You shook your head and prepared a cup of black coffee, taking it over to him as his eyes lit up in surprise with your approach.

“On the house,” you explained, plonking it down on the table. He raised an eyebrow but remained tight-lipped.

Maybe he didn’t like coffee? Or how did he usually take it? “Uh—” you turned back towards the service area, as if to check that the condiments were still in place. “Would you like some creamer or sugar to go with it?”

He raised his hand to indicate it wasn’t necessary and his jaw clenched, before fixing it into an awkward smile. “Thank you.”

Those were the first words he had spoken to you. It rolled off his tongue like a swirl of mist, a sliver of a dream you couldn’t quite remember when waking up. You took another step forward to get a better look at him. He had a baby face, angelic almost, with that typical, boy next door charm your mom would have gushed at, and you imagined he couldn’t be older than his early twenties. Upon closer inspection, he seemed slightly pale, faint dark circles around his eyes that had seen more than his fair share for his age. There was a sense of weariness and jadedness behind them that made him appear older than he was.

Bringing the cup to his lips, he sipped a small mouthful, letting it sit for a moment, before swallowing it down languidly. You admired the curve of his Adam’s apple, bobbing as the liquid poured down his throat, littered with freckles and specks of moles. Something about his very presence mesmerized you, even more so than earlier. It was hard to place a finger on what it was exactly, and why this feeling seemed to grow with every second you were lingering near him.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping it on the table before offering one to you. Why not? You were a social smoker and took it as a sign to join him. In fact, there was no other place you’d rather be at the moment. You were confused, but did not question it as you took a seat beside him, noticing that he flinched each time he flicked open his lighter to ignite a flame.

His fingertips brushed across your wrist as he lit your cigarette, causing you to shiver in response, while his jaw tensed again, as if trying to rein something in. Licking his lips, he took a puff from his own, exhaling the smoke as it billowed around him and for a second you thought you’d lost him to a wall of fog. Both of you continued smoking in silence, checking in with each other through furtive glances, even though there was nothing to be ashamed about.

At some point, you followed the direction of his gaze and saw that same pair of companions he often regarded from the corner of his eye. They were frowning, giving him dirty looks as he shrugged nonchalantly in return.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” you broke through the thick stillness of the air that surrounded the both of you like a bubble, separated from the rest of the evening revelers.

“You’re observant,” he teased, his eyes crinkling as he stubbed out the leftovers of his cigarette in the ashtray. You followed suit.

“So, what brings you here?” you asked, gesturing to the suit attire sans tie that he was wearing. “Don’t get me wrong, but this place doesn’t exactly seem like the kind you types hang out at.”

“Hm,” he huffed, though your question didn’t phase him. “And what exactly is my type?”

“I’d say you were a yuppie,” you blurted out, your mouth rarely had a filter on these days. “But I can’t be sure, something about you seems…”

“Off?” he offered, smirking, yet his expression carried a hint of somberness.

“Different,” you corrected, but mumbled out a quick apology nonetheless soon after.

“Don’t be,” he grazed your hand again as he adjusted himself in his chair, and you felt like he was doing this on purpose. “At least you’re honest. It’s a rare quality to find these days.” Though the way he said the last sentence sounded loaded with a double meaning.

“These days?” you guffawed. “You’re speaking like an old man.”

He joined in your laughter though that was the end of your conversation for that night. The rest of the evening went by in a blind haze, and you found yourself in a dazed state later on in the wee hours of the morning, still sitting at the same table, but your newfound friend gone without a trace. None of your colleagues had noticed a thing. You didn’t even get his name, but you shook yourself, commanding your limbs to get back to business and clean up after the customers that had left.

The next time you saw him was when you were hosting the karaoke night of the month. Decked out in a shimmery mermaid glitter jumpsuit, hair tied up in pigtails and face caked with extravagant make up, you hopped onto the stage, only to nearly stumble on your flimsy heels when those piercing blue eyes landed on you from the all the way back. Of all the nights he could have dropped in, he chose this one.

You suppressed your embarrassment and warmed up the audience with a couple of well-placed jokes before kicking the event off with those who had registered to participate. It appeared to be a tough crowd as you only had a handful of sign ups, and would need to potentially seek out volunteers when they were done. You hoped the rackety sound system would hold up till then too.

Fortunately, when it came to the crunch — which it did — you always had an ace up your sleeve. “You there,” you called out, pointing towards the back of the room. “Yeah, blue eyes, you.” Crooking your finger, you beckoned him over, waiting in anticipation to see what he would do.

To your surprise, he bowed his head, accepting the challenge, before slowly weaving his way through the crowd, who were cheering him on with your prompting, towards the stage. He flashed you his pearly whites as he climbed up the short stairs, his floppy bangs bouncing with each step. For a moment, you thought you caught something feral in his gaze, but it dissipated when he reached out for the mic from you, his hands sweeping over yours with an electric touch.

You were in awe of him, like almost everyone else in the cafe, when he broke out in a rich tenor voice, effortlessly floating through the notes of the gentle melody, that you felt as though you were being wrapped in a serene, velvet cocoon. Enthusiastic claps and hoots filled the space when he finished. The only two people in the room who were scowling were the same pair of companions he knew from before.

“Will you join me after the show?” he whispered in your ear as he handed you back the mic. Nodding was the only appropriate response.

You were rushed off your feet for the next couple of hours and it was late by the time you called the event to a close, but he was still there, by his usual table, waiting patiently for you.

“So you decided to push me into the spotlight,” he accused with a wry smile.

“Don’t pretend you didn��t enjoy it,” you shot back. “Here.” You set a cup of black coffee down in front of him. “My treat.”

“You’re too kind.” It sounded flat, like a game that had become routine between the two of you. He took a sip from it, nothing more, nothing less.

That was all you could recall from your conversation. You didn’t get his name until a few nights after.

“Hey, blue eyes,” you acknowledged as he strolled in.

“Leon,” he disclosed sharply. “It’s Leon.”

That was the night of exchanging introductions. You named all the nights you’d spent with him under various labels, so you wouldn’t forget.

Another night, he had whipped out a flip phone and you nearly choked on your drink. “They still make those?” You stared in disbelief.

He turned to face you in amusement.

“Bet you don’t have a—”

You didn’t even need to finish your sentence for him to fish out his pager, dangling it in front of you like a toy.

“Fuck off,” you laughed. “No fucking way.”

He grinned at your outburst and it was one of those times, few and far between, where you experienced a glimpse of that youthful energy he often hid behind a calm, matured facade.

“You’re still living in the 90s dude?” you jested, grabbing the pager as you flipped it over, trying to determine if it was real. It was.

His lips curled up into a playful smirk. “Something like that.”

“Healthcare,” you guessed, squinting at him. “I heard people there still have them. You’re a doctor?”

“I wish.” He coughed out a self-deprecating laugh, before rummaging through his wallet for a sleek white card, sliding over to you. “P.I., actually.”

“Private Investigator Leon S. Kennedy,” you read the title out loud, deliberately emphasizing each word.

“Go ahead, shout it from the rooftops,” he joked.

“Don’t tempt me.” You gave what you hoped was a cheeky wink, not flirty, definitely not flirty.

A lopsided smile spread across his face, and you wondered if you were finally beginning to unravel the mystery of this man, one that he seemed to carry around like a burden.

“Well, now you know where to find me.” He winked back, taking a tiny sip of his free coffee.

That was the night of P.I. Kennedy. Soon, these nights blurred into each other. You felt like you were getting a step closer, but yet you weren’t. He always had you at an arm’s length for some reason, even though he seemed to want more. Why did he keep coming back?

He also appeared to care about what you thought of him. At some point forth, he started dressing down, exchanging his usual formal attire for a shirt with no blazer, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A fine gold chain necklace peeked out from underneath his top collar, which was left unbuttoned. “Better like this?” he asked with no context. You had to pause and consider what he meant for a while before you understood.

“If you’d like to fit in.” You shrugged indifferently. “But I don’t think you want to.”

“You know me well,” he murmured fondly. The back of his fingers caressed the side of your neck, just under your jawline, along a pulse point. You closed your eyes and sighed. It felt sensitive and tender.

“And how well do you know me?” you asked. 

There was no reply, but somehow you already knew the answer.

Another thing you were vaguely aware of was that you kept missing the tail end of your interactions with him. It was as though after a certain point in the night, you would come to, like waking up from a daydream, and he would have disappeared by then.

Your colleagues asked if you were seeing each other. Were you? You were only chatting, you surmised. Nothing had gone that far yet, at least from what you had gathered. But you liked him more than you would’ve liked to admit.

He walked you home one night, and when you reached your doorstep, you were about to invite him in, but he interrupted you. “There’s something I need to tell you…”

Guilt clouded his eyes, unmistakable and heavy. But as he was about to say more, he held back, as if pulled by an invisible thread. Then, you felt yourself overcome with tiredness, but it was pleasant and comforting. “Can you help me to bed?” Your voice sounded far away.

All at once, you felt yourself being propped up under his arm and your weight shifting under your feet, until your head touched a feather-soft pillow. He draped a blanket over your unmoving body. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never should have—” Even in your state, you could tell it pained him.

“I won’t do it again, unless you let me.” 

That was the last you heard from him for a while.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Leon couldn’t get enough of you. Believe him, he tried countless times, but it didn’t work. From the moment he had set foot into that establishment, he had damned himself. He knew it when he spotted you and smelled your sanguine resonance from afar. It was the humor of your blood, and it was stronger and more consistent than he was used to. You were just so full of life, and enjoying it to the point where he was envious. You signified all the hopes and dreams that had been dashed spectacularly to the ground, ever since becoming… what he was now.

He had to have a taste of you. A little drop wouldn’t hurt, would it? He’d been taught ages ago, by Ada, his sire, that he needed people like you to survive. If one ignored their hunger for too long, things would get worse, so much worse, and not just for himself, but for everyone else around him. It was simply the lesser of two evils to feed, and he’d never actually killed anyone by doing so. Then, why did it feel so wrong? He had gotten good at pushing down these thoughts, until they were reduced to an inaudible hum at the back of his mind. Just like many other things, he learnt to compromise. But compromising meant that sometimes, he’d lose a piece of himself. If there was an equivalent of a soul within the monster he had become, then it was fragmented, and he’d never get back the ones that had dissolved into the ether, due to the bad decisions he had made. Like the ones he would soon make with you.

Taste. Taste was something he had acquired since young. In his human life, he always had an eye for detail, an eye for what fit, what worked, and what didn’t. It certainly helped when he became a cold case detective with the police force, filled with unbridled potential, only to have that overturned, when he decided to chase after love instead of missing people and puzzle pieces. For years, he would’ve done anything for her, only for it to amount to wasted time and regret when the inevitable boredom that came with time struck, and he was tossed aside over something exciting and new. Still, he knew a delicious vessel when he saw one. You were just meant to be a special curiosity that he could pass on to the older vampire for a favor or two. At least, that was what he told himself, when you took the initial bait and he beckoned you to stay through unnatural means. That was the first lie.

When he bit into you, he was met with a burst of color, vibrant shades of all kinds of red. The flavor saturated his mouth: sweet roses, his favorite kind, their scent carried on a gentle zephyr; warm light that enveloped him but didn’t hurt; traces of nicotine coursing through your veins; and the familiar iron tang that gave it its kick. Your face, your voice, your very essence haunted him in that taste. He could see you like a will-o'-the-wisp performing on stage in one of your many plays across a lifetime, laughing with your friends in the back of a car speeding down the highway, crying into a pillow when you had your heart broken by your first love… How was this possible? Your memories came flooding through him and you were blissfully unaware of it all. He felt like a spy, listening in to all your secrets and desires, and his blatant invasion of your privacy disgusted him.

This was wrong. He shouldn’t have gotten so close. He should’ve heeded the warning glances the Redfield siblings were throwing his way. So, he tried his best to stay away, but like an addict, he kept crawling back, seeking you out like a dog with its tail between its legs. How could a mere mortal have such an effect on him? Did he taste this way to Ada when she turned him? He laughed sardonically. If only she could see him now, being so torn up over a woman he had just met.

He tried to erase you from his mind, but you were always meant to be something more. You reminded him of all the things he missed when he was living. You were the best he had ever tasted, but he didn’t want to turn you over to her, not yet. After all, he could afford to enjoy you for just one more time. The second lie had spun its thick, dark webs throughout his head. Truth be told, he would never share you with anyone else.

The third lie came when he resolved to tell you what he really was. He couldn’t keep going on like this and deceiving you, but his sire’s words bore down on him. “You don’t get attached to a vessel,” she scoffed. Wait, wasn’t he one too at some point? Her contradictory words replayed in his ears like a broken record. In any case, he wasn’t attached. He was being brave and honest, which was how he liked to think of himself. But when it came to the crunch outside your doorstep, he was a coward, finding himself unable to breach the rules of the Masquerade and gave in to his urges instead. It was then that he realized deep down, he was truly a despicable and hateful low-life.

Thump! He felt his body slam against a solid wall, as he entered a secluded alleyway round the corner from your apartment. A dull ache bloomed across his skin. After the events that had happened that night, he didn’t even bother putting up a fight. He slumped down until the brawny, older male sibling, Chris, lifted him by his collar and pinned him in place. At the same time, the slender redhead, Claire, Chris’ female counterpart, spoke, “Where the hell are you going with this, Leon?”

“Why do you care?” he spat, blood coating his teeth. “The cafe’s in neutral ground, no one’s claimed domain over it yet. I can feed on whoever I like.”

“Listen, you’re Cam scum, but you saved my brother back then, and you used to hang with us,” she hissed, jabbing her finger into his shoulder to emphasize each point. “So, I’m gonna give you a tip, but just this once.”

She brought her mouth to his ear. “There’s interest in the domain… and you’re not the only suitor vying for her attention.”

His eyes widened at the threat.

“Whatever you do, do it fast.”