#I might write fan fics but I might not

[k1rad0esart]

y’all, I made another blog so I can write stuff :3 it’s more for a project I’m working on, but ye- here’s the tag :3 @kimkimwritesstuff :3

[roach-master]

my personal theory about Vox’s death

cw: discussion of mental illness, transphobia/homophobia, typical 1950s shit

also i am very tired rn so this might be confusing as hell xD

So Vox died aged 30-40s, during the 1950s. I’m going to start this off by saying that if Vox was a fit young man in those times, he likely would have been drafted into WW2. Now you could say he died then, but the war ended in 1945.

So my first assumption is he was deemed unfit (due to mental illness or the fact that he is bisexual), or he is a transgender man (that’s mostly me projecting, though).

For the sake of this I’m just gonna say it went both ways.

I think during life vox was a television broadcaster of some sort. Since WW2 opened up opportunities for more genders to work, he could still have been quite famous.

However, he was also greedy, selfish, a huge attention seeker, and overall pretty unhinged. He might have gone and tried to kill someone who he saw as a rival. And that, along with how queer people were treated, could have easily gotten him thrown into a mental institution.

Now, asylums in the 1950s were absolutely awful. They were overcrowded, the patients were experimented on, etc. just generally NOT where you wanted to be back then.

They used (and still use, although it’s much safer now) a treatment called electro convulsive therapy (ECT). During these times though, they were unmodified, which is now considered unethical. Now, ECT is a treatment that involves essentially shocking the brain, forcing a seizure. My theory is he died from that, and thus ended up in Hell.

I think this would explain his general paranoia, and need to keep his true, more evil personality secret. He clearly tries to appeal to the public as much as possible and fears imperfection. He doesn’t show his true side, not even to his apparently closest friends. He’s scared of being seen as crazy.

Vox is incredibly smart. He knows that nobody in Hell is a good person (Fuck, he would probably use that as an excuse on why he doesn’t need to genuinely change. He’s still evil, after all.) but he’s terrified of what might happen if he doesn’t present himself as perfect. People might reject him, and of course he doesn’t want that. He craves attention, his worst fear is being worthless, irrelevant, and tossed away like nothing. Just like he was before he died.

But that’s just a theory. A VOX THEORY (im sorry)

[twinksintrees]

thinking about chuuya seeing dazai at the ada

and he’s fucking thriving

and he should be happy for him. he should be happy he’s in a better place now. and a part of him is, of course, but more of him is hurt.

hurt that he’s not with chuuya anymore.

hurt that he’s thriving, and chuuya isn’t in the picture.

hurt that he gets to go off and leave him and there are no repercussions. he gets to be happy, he gets to be healthy, he gets to do all the things he never could in the port mafia.

he gets to feel human.

and chuuya is stuck. watching from the sidelines, like he always is.

he watched as dazai destroyed himself in the port mafia. he watched as he destroyed akutagawa. he watched as he wasted away in a cold dark shipping container, alone, for two years. he watched as he left, was abandoned yet again. and now he watches as he lives, truly lives, his life to his fullest extent.

he hates himself for feeling this way. he should be happy. he should be glad, proud, over the moon, feel something other than this sickening twist of envy in his stomach.

he opens a bottle of wine when he gets home. he was never taught how to handle his emotions, and the alcohol hadn’t steered him wrong yet.

god what he would give to feel normal. to feel normal, real, human emotions.

instead all he has is anger, and guilt, and jealousy, swirling in his gut.

hopefully the wine will wash it all away

[i-suc-at-art]

Ummm.. I really love this fic

*hands @basilf1res this gently*

Any ways go read project “GH05T” it’s really good :)

[runespoor7]

I think when JYL and JZX were courting, JC was delighted to provide JYL with an alibi. I think when JZX visited JC found an excuse to be on the other side of the house for the entire afternoon training disciples if his sister wanted to show her betrothed around.

I think he covered the entire situation with being a socially acceptable chaperone and then only chaperoning by making it so JYL could see her betrothed without causing a scandal. It was their house and he was there, and as her brother and sect leader everything went fine. I think if she hummed and said it was too late for JZX to return to Jinlintai he asked her if she'd told the kitchens. I think JZX's room was close to JYL and if anyone had anything to say about it JC would just stare and frown and go "yes?..." slowly as if whoever was making that point had clearly not has enough to sleep last night.

The main obstacle to JYL getting laid when she's betrothed to JZX and assured that he loves her and she loves him is JZX's awkwardness about entering a sexual relationship with a girl, because: *gestures JGS, which JZX is much too filial a son to do* only a cad would toy with the honor of a lady (all women are ladies to JZX), and it's much more dangerous for a lady than for a young master, oh no, he doesn't want to endanger Yanli or to hurt her!!

JC for aggressively letting-his-sister-manage-her-love-life-how-she-wants.

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

I’m tweaking I need someone to recommend me Javier fan fics where he isn’t some suave perfect man but he is actually a fucking idiot.

[puhpandas]

What's an average conversation between Evan and Gregory like?

(also inspired by an instagram prompt about a flashlight duo sickfic)

Burrow-Nest-Fort

(2,922 words)

Gregory gets sick overnight, and Evan, who stayed over, gets sick as well. They hang out in their little quarantine together with no worries whatsoever.

Gregory groans, long and miserable as Evan takes the thermostat he found in the bathroom out of his mouth. "100.4." Evan says.

"Whyyyy..." Gregory asks aloud, bags under his eyes and completion pale as he sprawls out under his comforter. "I didn't even do anything."

"Nobody gets sick on purpose." Evan smiles a bit, putting the thermostat down.

"You slept right next to me like, all night." Gregory points out. "Do you feel sick at all?"

Now that Evan's thinking about it, he does feel that little prickle in the back of his throat that's the universal sign of an incoming sickness. "...Yeah."

He'd spent the night after coming home with Gregory after school on a Friday like he usually does. Throughout the night, he and Gregory had shared his bed, and Gregory had woken up this morning sick as a dog with no fanfare whatsoever.

Gregory groans again, the roughness in his throat accentuated by the dragged out line. "Great." He frowns, and the stuff clogging up his nose is evidently heard in his voice. "I get sick for no reason and now I make you have to deal with it too."

"Its okay." Evan says genuinely. "Its not like you wanted me to get sick. It's my fault for needing to get in bed with you when I'm too much of a baby anyway."

Gregory just narrows his eyes at Evan at that, his already sunkissed tan cheeks redder from the fever. He just sighs, letting his head fall back against his pillow. "I'm not even responding to that. You know what I'd say anyway."

Yeah. He does. The same thing Gregory's been telling him the past multiple months every time Evan feels sorry for himself. Evan himself sighs, feeling sorry for, well... feeling sorry for himself. "Yeah."

Theres a short spurt of silence after that, but its broken by Gregory. "Whatever." He sucks in through his nose, trying to breathe through the gunk. "Hey, since you're already gonna be a prisoner like me, come here."

Evan raises a brow. "Why?"

Gregory reaches at the foot of his bed to grab his laptop that has ten-thousand stickers on the back. He opens the lid, patting the empty space on the bed next to him. "Let's watch TV, or something. If I don't do something other than lieing here I'm gonna explode."

Evan giggles. "You look like it, too." He says, looking at Gregory's extremely red face from the undoubtedly harsh fever. "You better stop talking until you get a drink or your throat will feel awful later."

Gregory let's his head tilt back against the pillow as he shifts to get more comfortable. "Is my Dad home?"

He takes a look outside the window and sees the white van in the driveway. "Yeah?"

"Go tell him about our predicament." Gregory tells him. "I'd rather get the smothering over with before we get in the middle of an episode."

Evan smiles instinctively at that. "Okay." He replies. "But I'm about to be sick too, okay? It's almost my time to be bedridden too." He says on the way out of Gregory's room.

"Then hoard the snacks while you're down there!" Gregory calls at him, his voice sounding like death.

Evan only says the keywords 'Gregory' and 'sick' before Freddy is thundering up the stairs with Evan struggling to keep up with an armful of junk food.

He only gets to the door seconds after Freddy, but he's already doing said smothering. Somehow, three new throw blankets and a few pillows have appeared out of thin air, and are being tucked around Gregory like a nest of fluff and plush.

"What happened?" Freddy asks, ever worried. "Did something cause this?"

Evan watches Gregory shrug from his bed as he walks around the other side of Freddy, dumping the snacks onto his bedside table. "I dont know." He says, sniffling. "I just woke up sick. And he probably will be too."

Evan knows Gregory must have pointed at him because Freddy is smothering him the next time his brain catches up. "Do you feel alright, Evan?" Freddy asks him, crouching down and feeling his forehead and his temples. "Or should I quarantine the both of you."

Evan laughs slightly, and cringes at how the prickling is steadily getting worse. His head begins to feel a little warm. "Quarantine, I guess." He smiles. "I feel it coming."

"I am sorry." Freddy looks apologetic, despite him doing nothing. He pats Evan on the arm, and hes at the door in an instant. "Get comfortable, you two. I will make you both some soup and orange juice and get you some medicine later."

"Thank you!" Evan calls out half-hazardously as Freddy leaves the room. Gregory pats the little empty space in the next Freddy built for him and hoists his laptop on his knees. "We gotta pick something to watch."

When Evan finally sits down and gets settled with at least two blankets wrapped around his shoulders, he checks the laptop screen to see Gregory browsing an array of TV shows on some streaming service.

Gregory wrestles a hand out from underneath the blankets to point at one. "That one okay?"

Evan laughs at bit, making a miserable noise when his nose begins to clog up. "Yeah. Watching a baking show when your aunt isnt home and we cant get out of bed to make anything is a great idea."

Gregory huffs, and Evan cant see his face, but he imagines he's making one. "No I wont." He says. "My aunts cupcakes are better than any of these people could make."

Evan wiggles a bit, letting his body relax fully into the bed. Gregory's shoulder is pressed against his, and a bit of his hair is touching his forehead. "Stop." He laughs. "You're gonna make me want some."

Gregory laughs, pressing play and clicking on the first episode of a random season. When the episode starts playing and introducing contestants, he makes grabby hands at Evan. Evan just pulls his arm out of the blanket cocoon hes wrapped in and hands him a bag of chips, grabbing crackers for himself.

"This is a Halloween show." Evan points out. "Its January."

"This one is funny though." Gregory replies on the other side of the pillow, sniffling. "They have to carve stuff out of big pumpkins for like, a setting for their food."

Evan's brows raise. "Oh."

Theres this girl that says shes in the show because shes alone and wants to win the prize money for herself and to show everyone that she can do it. Shes one of the only people in the roster who doesnt have a partner or kids at home. Evan thinks hes rooting for her. Theres another guy who looks like hes fresh out of school and says he wants the prize money to start his career and open his own location.

"I'm rooting for him." Gregory says after munching on a handful of Lays. "I want to see how far he gets."

"You just pick the ones that look like theyll struggle so you can feel bad for them." Evan points out.

"I pick the ones who might struggle to watch how they fare against everyone else." Gregory corrects. "Its fun. The skill of watching reality TV is one you havent yet learned, Evan."

Evan scoffs a bit, laughing, and Gregory shifts next to him. "You'll learn as you watch." Gregory tells him. "Trust me."

So after that, Evan just stays quiet and watches. Gregory makes comments now and then, and then later complains about how his throat feels like sandpaper. Evan watches people rush around the kitchen and sketch elaborate sets for their food to be showcased in and carve faces and bodies and animals into pumpkins.

The judges are harsh and kind at the same time. A team's food gets burnt. Some come out perfect. A team gets pounded by the judges and the team the the guy Gregory is rooting for is on is the same the girl Evan's rooting for is. Their team wins the challenge and gets an advantage.

By the end of the first episode, Evan thinks he understands why Gregory watches so much. "Wow." He says just above a whisper, the prickling throat having finally set in all the way. Having nothing to focus on and away from how crap he feels makes him groan in misery, and Gregory isnt far behind him to follow.

"Anthony needs to step it up to impress the judges." Gregory manages in-between sipping at the bottle of water by his bed. "He almost screwed up the decoration."

Evan rolls his eyes, and thinks about how proud winning a challenge made the girl he's rooting for proud of herself. It makes him happy.

"I just want to see what happens next." Evan says, smiling. "I've never watched a lot of TV like this."

"You're missing out." Gregory replies. "Its fine. We can catch you up during our little quarantine."

Their little quarantine. Evan smiles outwardly. That sounds fun. Even if being sick sucks.

Its right before the second episode that Freddy returns to Gregory's room, a big piping bowl of chicken noodle soup in his hands with about two entire hand towels wrapped around the bottom and two spoons stuck in the bowl. He puts a tall glasse of orange juice on the bedside table next to Evan, and the other on the window sill next to Gregory.

Evan unwraps his sore limbs from the cocoon and sits up on the bed, pushing his head with a pillow as he and Gregory use their legs as a table. "Thank you..." Evan says to Freddy, grateful but not without the layer of guilt underneath. "I appreciate it."

"Its no problem, Evan." Freddy smiles in that kind, genuine way of his that's never ever made Evan feel on edge or nervous. Evan grins when Freddy pats him on the head, and Gregory smiles when he does the same to him. "Now I'm sorry, you two," Freddy trails off, pulling a bottle of cough syrup out of an invisible pocket. "But medicine before food, please."

He and Gregory both make ick noises at that, making faces. Freddy laughs at them while he pours the medicine into individual spoons for the two of them, and Evan watches with a twisted lip. "It will make you feel better."

"It better if it tastes like that." Gregory sticks his tongue out. "They're trying to kill us."

"Quite the opposite." Freddy shakes his head, holding out the spoon for Gregory to take first. "Its better to just get it over with, Superstar."

Evan watches as Gregory twists his face into the most dreadful expression hes ever seen, and he cant help but smile in amusement when he makes a show at swallowing it down and making disgusted noises.

Evan takes his with much less more fuss, but his eyes water at the awful fake quote unquote 'grape taste'. He cant help the way his face scrunches up, and both Gregory and Freddy laugh at him.

"Evan," Freddy begins suddenly after capping the medicine and taking the spoons back. His voice sounds more serious, and Evan "I'm going to have to tell your family something about why you aren't home."

Immediately, Evan's stomach drops to his feet.

He must have reacted outwardly, because Freddy frowns. "I know." He says. "But it will be alright. I'll tell them exactly why you're staying over, and--" He cuts himself off, and Evan dares to acknowledge the faint clench in Freddys jaw. "Surely if anything they would not care more than they would be upset."

And Evan finds that Freddys right. He's so used to Michael being in his face all the time that he forgets that his Father is at best neglectful and at worst barely present in his life. If his Father were to react in any way other than a quick 'alright' to the call, it would be a thanks that Evan is out of his hair for at least a few days.

The thought alone tends tears to his eyes. He ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut when the tears make his nose that much more clogged and his face from the fever that much more unpleasantly hot. "Just tell them that I'm staying the night instead of being sick."

Better to not say he's sick in case his Father suddenly catches onto the maybe lie and thinks more than Evan wants him to. Besides, he could deal without the extra attention from Michael.

Freddy looks like he wants to say something about that, but he doesnt. When Evan peeks up through his home-cut accidental bangs, Freddy just nods, choosing not to linger.

"Alright, Evan." He smiles reassuringly. "Do not worry about it, okay? I'll tell them exactly what you told me to. Just let me handle it."

Just let me handle it. Something about that lingers to him, and it sticks to the walls of his mind.

He's never had anyone to handle it for him before. He's never had someone to take the reigns in regard to his dad and brother to the point where Evan isnt involved. Where he went have to worry about it.

He nods after a few moments, and Evan almost tears up again at the patience. "Okay." He says simply, his voice cracking and rough. He swallows, and ignores the gravelly feeling. "Yes, I would... I would appreciate that. A lot."

Nobody says anything after that, but the silence in comfortable. Freddy just grabs the back of Evan's head and holds it to his chest in a hug, and does the same to Gregory. Gregory snakes an arm around Evan's back and holds him close.

They stay that way for another minute until they break apart, and Freddy smiles that comforting smile at him that's like a weight taken off of his shoulders. "I will handle it." Freddy says again, jerking his head towards the soup. "Now finish your soup, boys. It'll be good for your throat."

Then he shuts the door, and the room is silent. The only sound is Gregorys table fan he always has running and the faint sound of cars outside. The heater kicks on in the house, and the sunlight spills through the open window and casts onto their little bed nest as the only source of light.

Gregory leans back into the bed and gets comfortable, dragging Evan back with him when all he's doing is picking at a roque thread in the hem of his shirt. When Evan looks up, Gregory is smiling with dry, cracked lips, and despite looking like death, its warm.

He doesnt mention anything that just happened. He doesnt try to guess what Evan's deal is and try to help him like he usually does, and Evan's thankful. Gregory seems to understand that now isnt one of the times to do that.

So Evan let's it go. And when Gregory gestures the the soup and nudges Evan's spoon closer to him, Evan just starts eating.

They're back to commentating the show in now time. The soup is only warm instead of hot now, but it still soothes their throat, and the steam clears up their sinuses some. Gregory keeps cracking jokes about the contestants and making fun of the corny host, and Evan laughs along with him, drinking orange juice when his throat prickles.

They marathon the season until the sun passes over the house and all that's left is the dim white sky of winter. The team with both of their favorites makes it to the finale.

The two teams fight over the biggest pumpkin. One of them is uncoordinated and theres a heated argument. Their pumpkin falls and breaks. The other splits up and finishes the pumpkin set in record time and completes their concept with no forks.

By the end, the team they both ended up rooting for wins, and Evan watches as the guy Gregory was rooting for gets his career started, and the girl he was rooting for talks about how she'll open her own bakery and she has friends for life now.

The soup is gone and the orange juice drained by the time the season is over. Gregory says theres eleven more available to watch.

Gregory puts on another season, and Evan burrows further into his little burrito and this time picks a contestant after the team's are decided to be against Gregory.

They watch a whole nother one, and halfway through, the sky outside darkens early like it does in winter, but despite the exhaustion from being sick, Evan wants to go another few hours.

Eventually, right near the finale, Evan and Gregory are forced to leave their blanket armor because Chica apparently came over at some point and baked them cupcakes as a suprise. She brings hot chocolate with her with peppermint sticks in them for their throats, and they eat through them like beavers with wood.

They dont move all day. They only get up to go to the bathroom at the end of the second season (Evan's team won, by the way) to brush their teeth, then they're back in their burrow-nest-fort without asking Freddy to get the air mattress.

Evan still feels like crap when he smushes his face into Gregory's pillow, but it's alright because they're in their little quarantine, and he's out like a light either way, looking forward to another season tomorrow.

ao3 link

[0x1000]

Any more fics coming soon? Love your work!

I'd like to say "yes", but I kinda don't have any... Aside from a few thousand words worth of a sequel to TAS that I ended up not liking or finishing. =| SIGH.

I have ideas for fics all the time, certainly—but I struggle writing these things without a unique concept to impart... I need, like, a thesis to defend. Which is a really funny thing to say when being asked about your robot porn. But it is true, at least for me. I require stimulation both sexual AND cerebral. Cranking it straight up sapiosexual style.

Written erotica is far stranger of a beast than visual erotica—it requires both lurid context and lurid detail. It's a lot less immediate, and that's sort of what I struggle with. That's why I inevitably pen thousands of words of preparatory preamble before nary a penis has the chance to appear, let alone penetrate.

Basically, my problem is that I think I've already gotten across most of what I'd like to convey...? Regarding ULTRAKILL, at least. And what I haven't would be much better expressed after some loose ends are tied up in canon itself, once the game is complete. I fear redundancy—and while I doubt one would describe any one rhythmic thrust in the sequence of sex as "repetitive" or "trite", I'd just prefer to wait until I have something I'm confident in the quality of.

... That being said, I was contemplating writing a new fic as recent as "literally yesterday". So I mean. Who knows!

But! As compensation for your kind words, here's a BUNCH of passages from the TAS sequel that I kinda scrapped:

[nectorbruise]

I know I just posted shh! (Warning: imma bout to rant)

Last year, I said I wanted Logan to have a possession situation due to a deal struck with the orange side, similar to Ford and Bill from Gravity Falls. That’s still cool to me, and is probably whats gonna happen in the finale, but I like the idea of Logan simply being the orange side in the first place. Patton and Logan are the only sides to share a color; is it really so hard to believe that Logan is not dark blue? We watched Janus silence the other sides, we’ve seen Patton censor them, and we’ve built major conflict surrounding suppression. Logan being suppressed, who Logan honestly is, being suppressed by the other sides (namely Patton) would be quite interesting.

All of the sides look to Thomas for approval and how he thinks of them changes their level of influence. By that logic, Patton should, in theory, be a lot stronger than the rest. Maybe Logan had…crossed a line.

Idk, I just want him to lose his mind a little bit

[sheonlywanted]

I’m Cold - Suna Rintaro

summary: Since the brutal murder of her older sister, the only family she had left, Reader is plunged into a world of cold and raw need for revenge. She takes over the work her sister left behind and begins to realize the world is far more dangerous than she could have ever imagined. When she crosses paths with a brooding, mysterious vampire, her body and mind are torn between her grief and desire. Caught in a web of secrets and heartbreak, which one will tear her apart first ?

content/warnings: dark themes, heavy angst, profanity, explicit smut, gore, and triggering content ( murder, sexual harassment, blood )

chapter summary: Reader returns home one night to find that her life has changed in a matter of hours. The cruel image of her sister’s battered body tattoos her brain, permanently burying itself into her conscious. With the last of her family being taken from her, she vows to avenge her sister by hunting down the one responsible. No matter what.

6.5k words

a.n- in a world where cigarettes aren’t gross as fuck.

chapter 1 - digest

Drip, drip, drip.

The constant noise does nothing to dull the incessant ringing in my ears. No other sound disturbs the heavy presence in the air, stealing all remnants of warmth, if there was any to begin with.

My breath stills as I try to focus, something akin to fear chains my feet to the ground where I stand. Preventing me from moving.

Dread wraps around my spine when I call her name and get no answer.

My hand trembles as I nudge the parted door even further. The edges are beaten and dented as if someone forced their way in, and it’s quiet, too quiet. Cold sweat trickles down my back as my breathing hitches, the smell is horrid.

The closer I walk the more my lunch threatens reappear, and I have to put a gloved hand to my nose to keep from retching. An unnecessary amount of blood is splattered along the wall and floor, trailing along the mattress in the center of the room.

I turn and kick the bathroom door so hard I can hear the distinct ‘crunch’ of the wall behind it caving in. ensuring that I- we are alone. A pit forms low in my stomach, my brain trying to keep from disassociating as it takes an excruciating amount of time to turn back and face her.

At the edge of the bed, the body of my poor, beautiful sister lays a few feet away from me. Her lifeless eyes bore into my soul, taking my heart and squeezing. Blood covers a large portion of her pale, drained skin. Her arms are bent at an unnatural angle, and I can see the ropes tearing into her wrists from where stand.

Her hair is in a disarray and stuck to her face. The gaping wounds on her neck and breasts are covered in a horrifying amount of body fluid and crimson, still dripping onto the floor in a slow drip, drip, drip taunt.

Her wide, dull eyes stare at me. Forcing me to come to terms with what I’m seeing. She’s been maliciously violated and butchered, left to rot like a fucking animal.

A guttural cry rips from my throat as my lungs struggle to refill with oxygen. My entire body seizing with pure, cold, denial that my sister is dead.

I drag my feet to her broken, beaten frame, softly lifting her head into my lap like I would a delicate doll. Tears blur my vision as her cool skin rests against my rigid hands. Who would do something like this? Something this vile and cruel? Something so fucking evil?

I peel the sticky hair from her face and take my time really looking at her, because I know it’ll be the last.

Her defined cheekbones, the fading tint in her thick eyebrows and lashes, her once unblemished skin is now decorated with bruises and cuts that match the purple nail polish she always wore. I trace my shaking fingertips over the gash just above her right eye, down the bruised slope of her broken nose, and finally, over her large, vacant eyes.

My entire body racks and tremors with the sobs I refuse to let out. I hug her close to me as I gently rock us back and forth, her tied arms falling limp behind her. I hold her so tight her bones threaten to crush under the pressure, but at this point there’s not much left to break. Her unmoving body feels heavier and heavier as I brace myself.

“You know what you have to do,” A voice whispers in my ear, and a mental lock clicks in place.

I startle back, whipping my head in the direction I think the voice came from. But when I look, there’s no one there. My eyes glaze over as thoughts race in my mind. My breathing stutters as I come to a clear realization of what that voice- my mind is telling me.

Rage slowly creeps into my vision, replacing my sorrow in a hurried rush until it’s all I can feel, all I can taste. All traces of what could have been disappear in the blink of an eye, and a stranger slips into my body like a wolf in sheep’s skin.

Numbness coats my body in a different form of torture. As if holding my abused sister in my arms isn’t enough.

When my senses finally come back to me, I rush to turn around as everything I ate during the day forces its way out of my body. My mouth salivates as I jerk uncontrollably, and I have to put a hand to my stomach to ease the painful clench of my abs. When I’m done, I grab a shirt to wipe my mouth before crawling back towards the body.

Ripping the ropes around her wrists loose, my hands aren’t mine as I position her into a sleeping position and start preparing. I nearly stumble over broken glass as I abruptly come to a full stand, haphazardly trying to get myself together. And just barely escaping a panic attack.

Emotional unavailability for the fucking win.

The sharp sting of winter flows into the room, providing a chilling difference to my body temperature. I take a long, shaken deep breath and catch myself in the small mirror that is somehow still hanging above her smashed desk.

Dried blood streaks across my face and leather jacket from where I was clutching my sisters dead body, my hair is mussed and frizzy, and a sheen of sweat sticks to every inch of my body.

I’m disoriented as fuck. Considering tonight’s events, I can’t really blame myself for looking like a train wreck. But then again… my eyes trail back to her. I violently shutter.

The moonlight reflecting off of a shiny surface catches my eye, distracting me from wherever that was going. I squint, trying to get a closer look at the pointy tip of a blade that glints back at me. Covered in blood all the way down to its hilt, with a small soaked piece of fabric wrapped around the handle.

I carefully lift the heavy blade and peel back the drenched cloth. My head tilts as I try to read the red-stained initials embroidered on the handkerchief. ‘R.S.’

What the hell?

The terrifying weapon is heavy and lethal in the palm of my hand. Words are dutifully carved near the base of the hilt in a language I don’t understand. I quickly wipe off the blood and sheath it beneath one of the pockets in my jacket, along with the handkerchief.

I grab and load up everything I need to survive on my own, checking her work desk for anything valuable and packing it. I’m going to need all of the information I can get if this is going to work.

I won’t stand idly by and let my sister be murdered without consequence. She was the only person I had in this world and I’ll be damned if she dies in vain.

They left her here for me to find, and if a reaction is what they wanted, a reaction they will have.

With one last look at our life, I stand in the doorway of what we called home. Memory of her smile brings tears to my eyes as I hold a lit match in front of me, staring into the flame like it will give me all of the answers I need. I let it fall from my fingers and turn away without watching the raging flames consume the one person that held my life together.

And whoever constructed, committed this unforgivable crime will fucking burn with her.

****

“There’s another job tomorrow if you want it.” Hiwaki says from behind his desk.

My knife flings into into the center of the target directly above his head as he ducks into his drawer to collect my pay.

“No.” I don’t work tomorrow. He knows this.

He drops the small duffel bag onto the table, putting a hand on top as I go to reach for it. My eyebrow lifts and I step back, giving him the go to speak his mind.

“I think you should go, Q. The man you’ll be in charge of knew your sister.” He looks deep into my eyes, searching for something I don’t care to give him.

Hiwaki is an older man with salt and pepper hair, he’s my boss and the middle man of the ‘company’ I work for. He’s also the only person besides myself that knows about my sister, and how I found her that night.

He was her boss at one point, and he’s my boss now. So he knows my name isn’t real, but doesn’t question me about it.

Since that night six months ago, I’ve been tracing my sister’s steps back from the beginning, and this is where she started. Killing for Tony Hiwaki, in the roguish city of Wovren, the city with no rules— literally.

The law enforcement here is dog shit. The participation in illegal activities is basically an average workday. It’s why I keep my knives on me at all times, and have little to no trouble killing my assignments on a day-to day basis.

That aside, it wasn’t difficult to get to this point, she trained me in combat from the time I had enough strength to lift a knife at the age of eight, to the night I found her bloodied and beat on her bedroom floor.

I nod and reach over him, pulling my blade from the target and snatching the duffel bag before turning to walk out. “Send me the details.”

Just as I reach the parking lot at the back of the warehouse, I toss a look over my shoulder as someone calls my name. Here we fucking go.

“Q, there you are,” Cole, one of Hiwaki’s body guards catch up to me as I start up my motorcycle, ready to go the fuck home. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

His tan hand rests on one of the handles, like he’s scared i’m gonna flee at any minute. A valid fear.

“Busy.” I drawl, my voice dripping with boredom.

Cole knows I have no interest in him, I have no interest in anything other than ripping the throat of my sister’s killer from their body. Plus, he’s always been a little too touchy touchy, but he would die before he ever got the chance. Hopefully he knows that.

And I think he sees the threat in my eyes, because he raises his hands by his head in a surrender and takes two steps back.

“Well, me and some of the guys will be at a bar tomorrow night if you want to join us.” His eyes look hopeful, and I can’t help but to want to crush all those hopes underneath my leather boot. Terrible I know.

“No, thanks. I have a job tomorrow.” I put my helmet on and kick the metal rod into place, ending the conversation.

“Yeah, okay. Good talk!” He shouts over the revving engine as I turn and speed off into the night.

***

The punching bag groans as I land a swift kick to its tough leather exterior, the impact causing the smallest amount of movement.

I slump down in exhaustion, out of breath from the amount of hours I’ve been training. I’ll admit, my height and size put me at a disadvantage for hand to hand combat, but they also give me the upper hand when I need to move quicker or stay hidden. Besides, my knife skills do more than make up for what my body can’t give me, so I don’t complain.

I move to the duffel bag I brought with me and collect all of my knives to sharpen so I can start target practice next.

I’m in one of the personal gyms on the third floor of Hiwaki’s warehouse. He granted me unlimited access to it when I first came to work for him, his reasoning being that my sister used the same one when she was under him.

Having checked for any secret cameras or mics and coming up empty, I couldn’t find any ulterior motive he might’ve had, so I accepted it. I needed a place to keep my body sharp anyways.

‘Always be ready. No one should ever have the ability to catch you off guard.’

Her voice appears in my mind and my thoughts trail off to the first time she said those words to me. I was twelve years old and easily distracted, as most twelve year olds are, and happen to catch the gaze of a cute boy walking on the other side of the window of a gym we were sparring in.

All she needed was that sliver of an opening before she swung a leg under my feet, successfully making me land flat on my ass. It hurt like hell, and she did eventually help me up… after she’d had her fill of laughing right in my face.

“You’ll have plenty of time for that,” She said, eyeing the boy who was now walking away. “But right now you need to focus.”

Focus.

My head snaps to the to the sliding door just as Hiwaki reveals himself. He strides into the room and sits in a chair with the posture of a father trying to hang out with his son, but I know better than to take his visit as anything other than some sort of ploy.

I continue sharpening my knives as he finds his words, the sound of metal against metal fill the silence. It’s always something with this man, especially since he knew my sister. And I can’t find it in me to stop my brewing irritation every time he speaks.

Nonetheless, I patiently wait, standing to line up at the red mark several feet away from the human-sized wooden target.

“Q.”

“Hiwaki.”

“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you to call me Tony.” He says, his eyes following the blur of metal that lands in the middle of my target’s chest. “Your sister called me Tony.” He adds when I stay silent.

He always says weird shit like that, it’s starting make me uncomfortable as fuck. It makes me wonder if he was more than just her boss, the possibility gives me a headache.

“I’m not my sister, Hiwaki.” I drone, hoping he gets the message. “What did you need?”

He sighs with exasperation, “I came to warn you about the man you’re dealing with tonight.”

“What about him?”

“As I mentioned before, he knew your sister-” He pauses when my next knife splits the wood at the head.

“You did.” I respond.

“He’s a drunk asshole that may not come off as dangerous at first,” He walks in front of me, making sure he has my full attention. A dangerous move might I add.

“-And he’s not. But he has dangerous friends, so keep it clean and quiet.” His serious tone makes me consider his words for a second, he almost sounds nervous.

I always knew my sister was involved with dangerous people, it wasn’t exactly a secret. If training me to kill a man at the age I was wasn’t the revealing hint, then I don’t know what was.

“Who are these dangerous friends I should be worried about?” I question, noting the way he looks at his shoes before looking back at me.

“Don’t worry about that for now,” He attempts to smile and put a hand on my shoulder, both ultimately failing when I step out of arms reach.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you had a specific goal when you came to this room.” I state, side-stepping him to hurl another knife.

“I-“

“And surely you wouldn’t have come here to ‘warn’ me about these dangerous people if there was nothing to worry about.” His jaw clenches as I turn back to him.“But I could be wrong, hm?”

He chuckles, taking his time before stepping closer to me, his shoes just barely touching mine as he looms over me. “Clever girl, aren’t you?”

He’s so close I can see his freshly trimmed mustache and smell the scent of burning wood off of his clothes.

His eyes trail over my covered collar bone, up the expanse of my neck, and finally, back to my eyes as his crinkled ones crease with every movement of his face.

The action causes my hands to ball into fists to keep from breaking his nose where he stands. One second he’s caring and pitying, and the next he’s acting like a two-faced bitch with secrets.

I’m suspicious of everyone around me, have been since that night. But people like him make my fucking skin crawl, like I’m missing something that’s right in front of me.

He studies me for a moment longer, before leaning back to rock on his heels. The look on his face vanishes, a sweet smile taking its place. “Just stay on your toes, Q. Your sister should have taught you that, hm?”

I watch as he heads back the way he came. Anger thrums through my veins like electricity as my fist collides with the mirror behind me, the contact splitting the skin on my knuckles.

Though he’s given me no reason to kill him yet, I have a feeling one of my knives will be the reason he ends up six feet under.

—

The rest of the day goes by in the same blur as all the others. I train, I gather information bit by bit, and attempt push out every grieving thought that comes my way. Being able to keep food down or sleep for more than thirty minutes is a luxury. If the dark circles under my eyes give any indication.

One thing I did find after getting settled into my new place near the outskirts of the city, was that the words carved onto the knife I found are in japanese. They translate to the phrase, ‘When one takes an eye, you take their head.’

I couldn’t agree more.

I also discovered that the entirety of the blade is custom made. No blade smiths in the city had ever seen such intricate material tailored onto a knife, and I met a lot of them, even threw a few empty threats in to see if they were covering for someone. Still, nothing.

So the person that had it made is either dead or nonexistent— neither of which I’m willing to except.

The handkerchief is lost on me too. I can’t find any popular family names or establishments that have the initials ‘R.S.’ I even asked Hiwaki if he had any knowledge on the subject, even he came up clueless. Or so it seems.

And yes, I am aware that using his ‘sympathy’ or whatever you want to call it to get the information I need is messed up, and I really don’t give a fuck.

Everyday I look at the stained cloth as a reminder of what I’ve lost, and sometimes it feels like I’m going insane. Searching for someone I know nothing about, blindly trudging through an unknown water I don’t know the depth of with an endless need of making it to the other side.

A certain hunger consumes me, a ruthless craving that won’t detach its self until I take the life of the one who stole my sister’s. Hell, I can’t even say her name without having the sick urge to run around killing everyone around me. I might have to get that checked once this is all over with.

But that all goes over my head as the warm body beneath me temporarily relieves my current troubles.

His rough hands grip my waist as I grind down on him, a long groan escaping his lips as I get myself off. My hands are flat on his chest for balance as I leisurely roll my hips over his, his toned muscle rippling beneath my fingers as he struggles for air.

I lean down, capturing his mouth in a heated kiss, our tongues fighting for dominance. The cool metal of our piercings bump against each other when his teeth scrape along my bottom lip, causing a loud moan to rip from my throat.

“Fuck, baby.” He moans against my mouth, his long fingers sliding down to rub tight circles on my aching clit. Oh fuck.

I hide my face in the crook of his neck as the pleasure threatens to snap that tightening coil in my lower abdomen. I lick and bite the skin of his neck, letting my nails carry bright red lines down his heaving stomach. The vivid marks match the vibrant color of his hair, and my hands itch to pull on the strands, so I do.

When my legs begin to buckle, he flips us over so quick I don’t have time to react, before he’s sliding in and out of me at a brutal pace. The sounds of skin against skin fill up the small space around us, and It hurts so good.

“Holy shit,” I moan, clutching the strands of his fire-like hair even harder. His mouth forming an ‘o’ when my nails scratch his scalp.

His right hand clasps my upper thigh and throws it over his shoulder so that I’m taking him even deeper. Oh my god. We’re so close I can hear the tiny whimpers that slip from his mouth.

I might’ve told a little white lie when I said I wasn’t interested in Cole for obvious reasons, but I’m just not into Cole.

He can’t give me the much needed distractions like the man above me can, can’t make my back arch like the man above me can, and sure as hell can’t make me wet like the man above me can. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

Speaking of-

“Mmm~” His heavy breathing clouds my senses once again as we tip over the edge together. His large hands hold my ass with a bruising grip I know will be visible tomorrow.

“Ughh,” I loop my arms around his neck to ground myself.

His hips deliver a few more slow strokes before he slouches on top of me, his thumb rubbing small shapes into my skin as we both come down from our high.

Once he’s calm and collected, he moves off the bed to grab his clothes. I was so busy ripping them off when he first walked through the door that I hadn’t had the chance to see what he was wearing. How does the simple combination of black on black look so sexy?

I lay there, watching him get dressed with a satisfied grin on my face, he looks just as good as he fucks. It’s a rare duo.

He catches me staring, and his eyes travel down my exposed body before crawling back onto the bed towards me and settling in between my bare thighs. His seductive gaze almost makes me want to go another round.

When our noses are just inches apart, he closes the gap and kisses me long and hard. His tongue slips into my mouth in a gut twisting motion, stealing my breath before he pulls away, both of us breathing hard by the end of it.

“That was good, Q.” His mumbles, his eyes flickering down to my bruised lips.

“Yeah, it was.” I breathe, my mouth softly brushing against his, and I’m tempted to bite him again. “I trust you can let yourself out?”

“Of course, call me when you need me.” He winks, and I fight the roll of my eyes as he heads to my front door.

He has to be the only decent thing in my life at the moment. Both of us want the physical relationship with out the labels or commitment, and it’s perfect.

I needed something to take the edge off without all of the extra shit, and he checks all of the boxes.

After I’m done reminiscing about our amazing sex, I head to the shower to get ready for tonight’s mission. The gears in my mind immediately shifting into a weapon.

—

Nighttime rolls around in a timely fashion as I dress in my usual black leathers. All of my blades are sheathed and concealed from sight as I head out of the building to meet my client for tonight.

I don’t like using guns, they’re too loud and too noticeable. Having the ability to catch someone by surprise right before I watch the light leave their eyes gives me the stealth and reputation of a fox. It’s probably the another reason Hiwaki treats me so well, I’m one of his best assassins.

If not the best.

The intel stated that the man would be at an exclusive bar in the heart of Wovren. It’s the weekend so it’ll be busy, but easier to get him alone. He apparently also has a weakness for any woman he lies eyes on— like most of the men I’ve dealt with— soo bingo.

When I walk in, the bass and volume of the music threaten to bust my ear drums. I scan over the crowds of people filling the two story club, specifically searching the two main bars for bright blonde hair. There are people everywhere, ranging from naked strippers to drunk birthday girls and suspicious looking business men.

Booths in every corner are filled up with people who seem to be having a good time, a really good time. My eyes squint as I notice the glazed over look in their eyes. And yet the waitresses don’t break a sweat getting the alcohol from table to table. It’s like walking through a circus.

As I continue to observe what’s around me, a sudden chill dances down my spine. I have the urge to look behind me but choose to ignore it when I think i’ve found who I’m looking for.

Surely enough, across the room on the second floor, a buff, middle aged man with hair the color of his skin sits alone at the bar. The pink tint on his cheeks let me know this won’t take long as I start up the stairs in his direction.

I slide smoothly into the stool beside him and order a glass of whiskey, neat. I pretend to mind my business, paying him no mind when I feel his eyes on my side profile, taking a long, slow sip before gently setting the glass on the counter and chancing a glance in his direction.

I must say he looks good for his age. I’m not one for older men but there’s no concerning amount of wrinkles or yellow teeth —I’m almost impressed. He’ll be easy to seduce, which makes my job a hell of a lot easier.

He continues admiring my figure so openly that I can tell he’s undressing me with his eyes, and I might just puke. I’m sitting right fucking here. What a pervert, the audacity that men have will forever astound me.

“Are you going to keep staring at me like a piece of meat or actually attempt to flirt?” I question, draining the rest of my glass and waving the server over for another, turning my smooth gaze on him.

A drunken smile creeps onto his face before he turns to drain the last of what’s in his glass too. “A bit under dressed for such a place hm?” He replies, lifting a pale brow at my choice of outfit.

There’s a slight slur to his words, I should get him out of here before I have to carry his ass out myself. I do a once over of his white button up and grey slacks, faking interest as I take my time responding.

“I could ask you the same,” I say, looking to the side and biting my lip before looking back at him. “But I take it you’re not one to talk much.”

I think i’ve always been one for dramatics. Just a little. I will say my flirting could use some work, but these things never last long enough for me to actually practice. Which I don’t particularly mind-

Everyone in here is either drunk or on some kind of substance. Not to mention the couples’ in the booth across from us have forgotten they are in a public place. My nose scrunches in disgust. I’ve barely been here an hour and would already like to leave.

“-From the way you’re looking at me, I could say the same.” He sets his glass down and stands— well, tries to.

I’m happy he’s already done me a favor and gotten drunk enough that killing him will take me barely lifting a finger, especially with how big he is. But how exactly am I supposed to get answers out of him if he’s already stumbling over his own feet?

He sways a little before taking off toward the back exit of the building, he waves a hand over his shoulder indicating for me to follow him. So I do.

As soon as we step into the cold air I take a deep breath, my lungs taking advantage of the fresh air.

The moment is short-lived when he roughly pins me against the brick wall of the alleyway, the harsh surface digging into my back as his heavy body presses into me. I look towards both entrances of the alleyway to be sure that we’re alone, and my fingers itch to grab hold of my knives as he gets himself off.

So much for foreplay.

“Kinda’ glad you came,” He breathes, rutting his hips into mine. His big, meaty hands hold my waist still like I might suddenly take off. Another valid fear.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I don’t even attempt to hide the disdain in my voice or try to sound breathless underneath him. He wouldn’t notice even if I did.

It goes on like this for a while as I allow him to get comfortable. He slurs some more sentences that I don’t understand, nor do I try to. His breath reeks of alcohol and cigar smoke, the strong smell making this interaction damn near unbearable.

Slipping my right hand into my breast pocket, I pull out the small photo I carry everywhere with me.

Shoving it into his face, I knee him right in the balls —hard. Almost smiling at the pathetic mewl that escapes his lips as he crumbles onto the wet concrete.

‘Yeah, thats enough buddy,’ I think to myself as I dust off my jacket.

I crouch down to his level, fighting the laugh that bubbles through my lips at his twisted face. Get it together man.

“Do you know this girl?” I grip his hair with my free hand and yank his head back so he can see it clearly.

When he doesn’t answer, instead choosing to spit on my leather boots, my very expensive leather boots, I lift him up even higher and ram the same knee right into his nose, listening for the distinct crack.

“-Fuck!” He shouts, grabbing his crooked nose with both hands. “You broke my fucking nose!”

For such a large man, I fear Hiwaki was right about him being a weakling. It’s unfortunate, really.

“Yes, that was the point.” I respond, grabbing him once more to show the photo of my dead fucking sister.

“Do. You. Know this girl?” I repeat, venom lacing every word.

His eyes widen as he actually looks at the picture this time, his brows furrowing in contemplation. “Who are you?” He utters, blood pouring down his face as he talks.

I sigh like he’s my biggest problem in the world and unsheathe one of my knives, flipping it up in the air before trailing it down the front of his slacks, tapping it right on his most prized possession.

He gulps before opening his mouth to speak again.

“-Choose your words carefully.” I warn, catching the way his eyes light up for a split second. He recognizes her.

“Yeah I know her. Used to see her all the time over at Blood Moon.” He says, his tone hushed like that’s all he’s gonna say.

I wait for a beat, then two. Then look around us before looking back at him. He’s about to pull some bullshit I know it.

“Great, thanks-”

“Fucked that bitch like the whore she was-“ I shove my knife into his left eye, effectively cutting him off.

Like I said, the audacity.

His screams are melodies to my ears. I grab him by the collar of his jacket and haul him up just enough to see my face clearly. Well, as clearly as he can with one eye and get real close to his gushing face, so close I only have to whisper for him to hear me.

“You see what happens when you don’t listen ?” I ask, tilting my head in a pitiful manner. “Hiwaki sends his regards.”

His good eye widens one last time before I push my blade further into his socket through his skull, letting it touch the back of his brain, and then ripping it out and letting his body fall to the ground with a satisfying thud.

“Shithead.” I mutter, reaching down to wipe his blood off my blade, sheathing it on the outside of my thigh this time.

So much for keeping it clean and quiet.

I neatly tuck the photo back into my breast pocket as I come to a full stand. Blood Moon. He said he’d seen her at Blood Moon. Is that a club? A bar? I never knew her workplaces, she’d always insisted it was too dangerous for me to know anything. So dangerous it got her killed. And what did he mean by ‘was’? Did he know she was murdered? Did he know who murdered her? Fuck, maybe I killed him too early, but if I can find out what and where this ‘Blood Moon’ place is, then-

My body freezes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at an alarming rate, and my hand hovers over the knife I just used to kill a man. My spine straightens on its own accord and I can feel sweat beading along my hairline. This alleyway was empty just a moment ago, but I don’t give myself time to think about that as I slowly turn around.

A tall figure leans against the end of the wall opposite of me, watching me with what looks like curiosity. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, the material revealing a striking contrast to his unnaturally pale skin. His short, charcoal hair comes to rest just beneath his ears, framing his piercing gaze perfectly. His lips form a thin line, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he taps the excess ash off his cigarette.

He doesn’t seem disconcerted by what i’m positive he just watched me do, he might’ve even enjoyed the little show, considering the small smirk on his face.

My head spins as I struggle to figure out my next move. I could go back in the way I came, or simply walk past him, but something keeps me from moving. It’s like his presence has stolen my free will.

“A little gruesome, don’t you think?” His keen eyes are back on mine, and I realize i’ve been blatantly staring at him.

I blink a few times before looking back down at the body that slumps at my feet. I tilt my head, searching for an answer.

“I think I would’ve preferred a little more blood, actually.” I state, slowly walking towards the end of the alleyway where he stands. “His tongue was too loose.”

For some reason the closer I get the more my body no longer deems him a threat, even though I was scared shitless two minutes ago, it’s my mind that makes sure I maintain my distance.

Something in his energy tangles with mine, drawing me closer as my common sense screams for me to stop, or run the opposite direction, anything to keep me from doing something stupid.

I come to a stop in front of him just as he takes another drag, a dark eyebrow lifting at me as he extends the cig to me.

As if i’ve known this man all my life, my fingers skim against his as I take the burning joint to my lips. The cool wave of nicotine works against the adrenaline I’ve built as I stare at the intriguing stranger, his eyes trailing my every move like a cat with a ball of yarn.

With the few feet of space in between us I get a waft of his cologne, and he smells divine. An intoxicating mix of vanilla and sage invade my nostrils, and I swear to all there is my knees almost give out when the wind blows it in my direction.

I can also see the distinct features of his face more closely, my eyes memorizing every prominent slope and line that is his face. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, the moonlight does nothing to stop him from looking unreal.

“M’, too bad you didn’t let him live long enough for such entertainment,” He drawls, his bored tone shifting into a teasing one.

His words snap my attention back to reality.

“But it is like you said,” He takes one large step towards me, plucking the bud from my lips and tossing it behind him. “I did enjoy the ‘little’ show.” He whispers, leaning into my space.

My mind is completely blank, and my words abandon me as I peer up at him through my lashes. My body heats at his close proximity, and I have to press myself into the wall to keep from doing something I’ll regret.

His observant eyes take me in once more, as if he can see all my darkest secrets like words in a book, before wordlessly turning and walking away.

It takes me a full ten minutes to recollect myself before my self dignity finally comes back to me. Then something that he said hits me. ‘I did enjoy the little show.’

I don’t remember saying that out loud.

[melovrs]

girlhood is taking your finals and getting ideas for a fic halfway through

[miss-spookhead]

thinking about a Blast From the Past steddie au tonight. like, think about it for a second--steve as the sweet, well-meaning himbo raised in a fallout shelter and eddie as the cynic who shows him the world as it is:

The year was 1962, and an atomic bomb had just dropped on top of the Harrington household.

Okay, not really. It was actually a fighter jet that suffered a mechanical failure just above the little plot of land the Harringtons called their home, but Walter Harrington took it differently. Far differently.

See, the thing was that the man was living in a state of paranoid delusion over the Cold War--terrified of the possibility of an outright nuclear holocaust over the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Soviet Union. He had been carefully building a fallout shelter under his home for his wife and possible children to live in with the works--canned food, running water, and even a working television.

And one day they went in and simply never left. The explosion right when they closed the door was tangible proof that the nuclear war was happening right above them.

A few years later, around 1968, a baby boy was born in a fallout shelter with no one but his mom and dad to keep him company.

They raised Steve the best they could, even if Walter Harrington was a mad genius and Madeline Harrington was a borderline alcoholic. Even if the boy was living in a perfect little time capsule of the fifties and early sixties. Walter made sure to educate him right and teach him how to be a sociable gentleman--even if he had no idea what swear words or the concept of sex were. That was for another time. Although, twenty-four years came and went for Steve Harrington, his father still owes him 'another time'.

Steve Harrington grows twenty-four years in perfect seclusion, but that changes at the flick of a switch.

The year is 1992: supplies are dwindling Walter is growing sick, and Steve is tasked to bravely set foot in the nuclear fallout to retrieve more material. (The only reason why Walter assumes they can even get more stuff is because he observed the outside world when the shelter unlocked and mistook it as a post-apocalyptic mutant society.)

The moment Steve made it outside his little bubble, he was utterly fascinated by the world--how different the people were outside of his television and his little books, how bright the sky was outside, how the irritable man on the bus wouldn't accept the money he tried to give him, how the bus moved and didn't fling him right off his seat.

(He even saw an adult bookstore. Dad told him that those things were filled with poisonous gas. How were they even to operate if they were filled with poisonous gas? That's dangerous and totally inconsiderate of the general public's safety.)

Anyway, he tries to follow the grocery list that Mom and Dad gave him the best he can, stocking up on poultry and tissue paper and the works. But by the end of the day, he doesn't know where he came from. Not a single sign or building or person can give him a single clue where to go.

After a few hours of wandering, suitcase in hand, he comes across a store with WE BUY BASEBALL CARDS written on the window.

Golly, Steve loves baseball cards--could look at Dad's collection for hours, and with the collection he has, he could make a pretty penny selling them for supplies. Despite the little hobby store being beside an adult bookstore with poisonous gas, he scampers right in.

"I see you're looking to buy baseball cards," he says breezily to the gruff, scary-looking man behind the counter.

"That I am," he replies.

Steve pulls a few from his jacket's inner pocket. "Well, these are a bit old, you see, but I was hoping you still might be interested."

The gruff man yanks them from his hands, a spark in his eye. He looks delighted to see them, and it fills Steve with an excitement he hadn't felt at all today. Nobody has been this happy over something he's done today. "Woah," he gasps, then covers it with a cough. "Mickey Mantle rookie season...how much do you want?"

"I was hoping to sell all of my cards, actually!"

The man sputters incredulously. "All of 'em? Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not sure what that means, but all I have are hundred-dollar bills and I need something smaller. Like, uh...ones, tens, fives..."

"Tell you what, I'll give you five hundred in small bills for all you got."

Steve smiles brightly. "Oh, that would be wonderful, sir--"

"Five hundred for a case-full of rookie season Mickey Mantles, Rick, are you fucking joking?" A deep voice cuts through Steve's thanks from the other side of the small store. He turns around to find a man leaning against a magazine rack, arms folded sternly.

The man is unlike Steve's ever seen before. Long, long limbs and big brown eyes that look traced with black and smudged around the edges. Pretty lips, too almost girl-ish, in the way they were big and plush like the women he'd see on the television. The strangest thing about him, though, was the curly hair that tumbled past his shoulders.

He looked mad, though. Madder than mad.

"Tell the poor guy you're fucking with him," long-hair-pretty-lips says to the man behind the counter, who bristles.

"Were you raised in a fucking barn, Munson? Who told you to interrupt on business?" Rick counters. Steve was really not appreciating the amount of f-words dropped in the conversation, it was uncouth.

"Sure I was!" Munson saunters towards the counter and Steve's eyes follow him like a moth to a light. "But my morals go past your business practices at this point. You remember the ninth commandment, yeah?"

"You shut your Goddamn mouth--"

"Excuse me sir, but I really don't appreciate how you're using the Lord's name in vain like that," Steve says firmly.

"See?" Munson smiles. It's like sunlight. "He gets it."

He plucks the baseball card from Rick's hand and holds it over his head when he tries to reach for it again. "See this little thing?" He says to Steve sweetly. "This guy costs six grand alone."

"Get out of town! Really?"

"Oh yeah, big guy. Selling the thing would give you a small fortune, and Rick over here is trying to con you out of it."

Steve frowns. "Is that true?" He asks Rick.

"Nothing but," Munson says in place of him. He slips the card back into Steve's hands and gives them a pat.

"The Hell is even keeping you here, Munson?" Rick sneers. "Did the gig you won't shut up about fall through like they usually do? Better to bum it out here than in your shithole apartment? Stop loitering in my damn store and make like a fucking tree. You're banned."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Munson says rolling his eyes. He looks at Steve, then the door, gesturing at it with a flick of his head. "I'll see you out, Beaver."

He walks them both out the door, stopping to gesture at Rick strangely--hands balled into fists with only his middle fingers up--before stepping outside onto the sidewalk.

"Well merci, Monsieur," Steve says appreciatively, because Dad taught him French was always to be used on such occasions.

"What, you're French?"

"Oh no, I'm"--he thinks back to what Dad told him if a mutant asks where he's from. Gosh, he thinks he's supposed to be--"out on business."

"And you don't even have a clue about the little business trick that Rick tried to pull?"

"No...no, I--"

"Yeah, doesn't matter." Munson shrugs. He smiles sympathetically at Steve before turning on his heel and walking off. Oh boy, what would he do without him?

He follows him like a lost puppy, that's what.

"...You going the same way?" Munson asks incredulously. Steve shakes his head.

"Well, I'm following you."

Munson stops in his tracks, blinking, and Steve almost runs into him in his state. "Me?"

"Well yes! Where are we going?"

"We?" Munson asserts. "I'm going back to my shithole apartment, and judging by that jacket you're wearing, you should be taking the next left and hop-skipping straight to the barber college."

"Oh, I'm lost, though."

"Aren't we all?"

"Say, did you just get banned from that hobby store because of me?" Steve says to change the subject.

Munson sighs. "Seems like I did, sailor. The place was shitty anyways, with that dickhead running the operation. Wayne could get better cards from a different joint."

...dickhead? Steve's never heard that leave the seams of anyone's lips before. "Dickhead?"

"Yeah, he's a real fucking loser. A walking talking penis capable of human speech."

Steve gets queasy at the image he's concocted in his head. He leans against the nearest brick wall, his suitcase tumbling to the ground as he drops into a contemplative squat.

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

"Well, the mental image that I..."

Munson's eyebrows scrunch before he reaches out a hand to Steve. He takes it, letting the man haul him upward. "Look, man, where'd you park your car?"

"I came by bus."

"Aren't you full of surprises."

"I am?"

"Okay look." Eddie raises his hands, palms splayed in the air. "It's your first time in Los Angeles, right? Everyone wants a taste of it, I know, and you're out for business and fucking famished. You got the opportunity to see the great big world outside of your little bubble and you got excited--but you took a bus and got mixed up in the middle of San Fernando Valley without a clue in the world. Am I correct?"

Steve listens in wonderment. So far, Munson's been correct in a way. He's convinced he might be psychic. He nods slowly and seriously just to see Munson flash that lighting-strike smile.

"Great, great. Which brings us to here. Correct again?"

"Oh yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

Nowhere, at the moment. Steve opens his mouth to say so, but Munson interrupts quickly. "Holiday Inn?"

"Yes, the Holiday Inn!" Steve says totally truthfully.

"Okay, cool. Cool." Munson claps his hands together with finality and starts walking. "The nearest bus station is a couple of blocks away if you take a right--"

"Don't you have a car?"

Munson stops in his tracks again. He turns to face Steve once again. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Something warm pools in Steve's gut at the pet name. Something about the way those pretty lips form that word sends blood rushing to his cheeks. "Steve," he says.

"Alright, Steve." Oh boy, his name sounds even better when Munson says it. "Rule number one in Los Angeles? Never let a stranger drive you anywhere."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve says sweetly, "I don't have a gun."

Munson pales, then starts running.

"Hey!" Steve cries and makes haste to follow him. "I must've said something wrong, please forgive me!"

"Nope, nope--get the fuck away from me, man!"

He grabs Munson's wrist to pull him back, which is a bad move since the man starts writhing around in his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, sir!"

Steve drops Munson's hand and raises his in surrender. "See?"

"...Just let me get to my car."

"I'll give you a Rogers Hornsby if you take me to my hotel," Steve reasons.

Munson stills. "...That's like four grand, don't bullshit me."

He pulls the card from his jacket and presents it as evidence. "See? I was holding it back." He wants Munson to feel safe. "I got two." He reaches for the other cards in his pockets and pulls them out. "And-and all these other ones, too!"

"Okay, okay. You'll give me four thousand dollars if I drive you to your place?"

"Uh-uh!"

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"And I don't have to give you a quickie in the backseat or anything?"

"Yes sir--wait, what?"

Munson blows past his question like it didn't even leave Steve's mouth. "Can you stop with the sir crap?"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir--"

"My name is Eddie."

Eddie...Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Wow, what a name. It's almost like something he's heard on the television.

"Why, it's nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Tolerable to meet you too, Steve."

Steve smiles shyly, then asks, "So are you a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well it's just your hair...it's so long." Steve points at his as an example. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Dude, it's 1992, every other guy looks like this--have you been living under a rock or something?"

Something like that. Steve shrugs.

"Well guys having long hair doesn't mean that they're girls, Steve, that's a given. It's not 1962 anymore." Eddie backtracks. "Well, I mean, dudes can have long hair and be chicks and chicks can be dudes too but that's not--"

"Oh, wow, my dad told me about one of those the last time he went here!"

"Oh that's fantastic, sweetheart," Eddie says, sugary-sweet. "But how about I drive you home?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Eddie."

[fivefeetfangirl]

its that time of the year again

[flowerful-doodles]

Biggest kudos to those fanfic authors who write those crazy long multi-chapter fics bc omg it is so hard

I'm working on one rn and I'm like 8k words deep and it's been kicking my ass to come up with the inspiration I need to word everything right

Y'all are like superheroes fr

[egginround]

A Nice, Simple Plan

Astarion has a plan to woo Tav. A nice, simple plan that backfires. [or perhaps, he never needed one anyway]

Astarion x Stoic!Tav (she/her) - 3.5k - No CW - Fluff + Astarion learns the power of apology lol - Part of the Elfsong Tavern's 2024 Valentine Exchange for the lovely @leftoverdinosaurbones :)

A wisp of hair curled around her ear. A flex in her fingers as she massaged her knuckles. A near imperceptible twitch in her wrist.

From his tent, Astarion was watching Tav as she sat by the campfire. A book laid open on his crossed legs, the pages smooth as he flicked through them absent-mindedly. The rise and fall of her shoulders, the strings fraying from the bottom of her shirt. Tav was listening in on a story by the famed Blade of Frontiers – one that their tiefling companion couldn’t seem to get enough of. Though the leader of their merry band, she remained quiet, opting to let the warlock do most of the talking.

Barely into his whirlwind of an adventure and peace continued to escape Astarion. Unpleasant wriggling at the back of his skull often kept him distracted at night – but not as much as the fear that dragged down his spine when he thought of Cazador. Astarion quelled his quickened breath. Now was not the time – it was imperative to lure Tav into keeping him by her side. As the unlikely prism-bearer, Tav’s fate was bound to his whether he liked it or not. The fire flickered as she stretched out the day’s toil from her body.

The vampire’s scarlet eyes darted between the members of camp. The wizard was rummaging through his own tent, no doubt finding some cure to his woefully expensive condition, as the Githyanki warrior sharpened her steel nearby. The incessant scraping nearly did Astarion’s head in. Turning back to his target, he caught scrapes of the daring heroism recounted over the fire. Tav’s relaxed demeanour and silence may have made her seem disinterested, but there was a quiet sparkle in her eyes. She must have been engrossed. Maybe self-important tall tales were the key to gaining her trust, he mused.

It was critical that he would be the one to capture her, Astarion reminded himself, and he was willing to do all it took to do so. It would be easy – a mark like any another. He saw the way that Tav lingered around him, the stares she thought he doesn’t notice. Astarion knew it all. He would have her in the palm of his hand and in his bed before long. A strange tightness coiled in him, but he gave it no mind. It didn’t matter – he shook the thoughts away before they had the chance to form. What mattered right now was his revenge and his long-deserved freedom. He refocused his gaze.

The stretch of her shirt across the back of her nape. The glow of the fire on the side of her face, the curve of her cheek, the small quirk in her smile whenever her eyes drifted over to him.

Upon his lap, his book remained unturned.

It had been a draining day. The sun beat down on their backs as they explored the areas west of the Emerald Grove. If there was a single more complaint from Lae’zel about a crèche, Astarion might seriously burst into flames – tadpole included.

To make matters worse, the dusty road they followed was littered with fresh and foul corpses up ahead – and not even of the human variety! The stench of hyena blood hung heavy in the air as the sun seemed intent on intensifying it. Astarion lamented his luck.

“Chk, another distraction in the search for a crèche,” Lae’zel spat out. If she hadn’t mentioned the same thing several times before, Astarion might have been more inclined to listen.

Instead, he lagged back behind the Githyanki, falling into the same pace as their sorcerer leader. If Tav noticed anything, she certainly didn’t say it. Then again, it seemed rare of her to say more than needed. In that respect, she and Lae’zel were strikingly alike.

“It’s a rather sunny day, darling,” he drawled, turning to her. “One spent far better on a sandy beach than on a dry mountain road, no?”

A non-committal hum.

“Ah, well,” Astarion endeavoured, jaw ever so slightly clenched. “Maybe our dear Tav prefers something a bit darker.”

He dragged down his voice to a low whisper for only Tav to hear. “A night under a canopy of stars perhaps? The luxury of a stolen evening away, sharing secrets in the shadows - maybe even a sin or two…”

That seemed to have grabbed her attention. Astarion looked at her through his eyelashes – oh so close to chipping at this near impossible facade when -

“Hold up, soldiers!”

Karlach shouted out, rushing to drag Tav to the forefront of their group. “Something gave these lot a right beating. Something not entirely, hm, natural. Let’s smash it!”

The tiefling’s words begged yet another incoming fight, and Astarion felt the internal sigh building up in him finally give way. A sick cracking of bones rung through the air, and a hells-damned gnoll decided to pop out to ruin his day even more. At least he was able to take out his frustrations in battle.

Crouching to the side, Astarion readied his daggers as he blended into the shadows. Both Lae’zel and Karlach sprung to the front, as they were oft to do, whilst Tav summoned the sorcery that swelled through her blood. The air snapped and crackled, and wisps of her hair warped in the winds that swirled around her. It was strangely captivating. Astarion inched forward to find the perfect opportunity to strike when suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He smelled the fresh gnoll behind him before he could see it.

Astarion whipped his head around. Its rancid breath hit him like a ton of bricks, knocking out whatever thought he had in his mind. He barely had a second to raise his blades in self-defence when a bolt of lightning shot straight out – hitting the gnoll squarely in the back of its head. The splatter of blood on his cheek was all Astarion could register as the dead body thumped onto the ground, its singed flesh sizzling. He panted as he tried to regain his surroundings. A ringing in his ears. A shaky breath. A small quirk in that damned smile of hers.

Astarion tore through the rest of the pack.

It was pretty much a unanimous decision to camp for the night after their encounter. Though lovers of all things violent and bloody, even these adventurers had to take a break. This particular night found most of them taking time in their own tents. Astarion was no exception.

Nearly a few weeks now, and the snail’s pace of progress with Tav had him nearly tearing his hair out in frustration. It was never often that he had to wait more than a few days to lure someone back for Cazador. And even if it was, he was more likely to find a different victim instead. He took a breath and tried to stop his pacing across the front of his tent. Anymore, and Shadowheart might pick up on his worry – or even worse, share it with Gale.

A frown pulled his eyebrows together. It wasn’t that she didn’t find him attractive … right? Surely not.

An odd feeling burrowed into his mind, uncomfortable and slimy. No, Astarion knew his arsenal of weapons extended past his dexterity with blades and lock picks to his looks, his charm, his way with words. He just had to be patient, that’s all.

He dug around for his sewing kit. It couldn’t hurt to patch up every now and then.

“Looking for something?”

He mentally cursed. Of all the times for Tav to catch him, it just had to be now. Astarion was getting rather fed up with being caught off guard. Regardless, he cleared his throat, ready to entice their favourite sorcerer once more.

“Not now that you’re here, darling.”

She snorted loudly at this. Astarion paused for a moment, taken aback before noticing the wine sloshing around in the goblet she held. Ah, the explanation for her more relaxed demeanour.

Tav took a seat on one of the cushions outside his tent, nursing her glass a little more. The hair she usually had swept up had lost its hold throughout the day. Astarion poured himself a glass from the many stolen bottles of wine they horded before sitting nearby. He settled himself into a more comfortable position, as Tav watched a stray comet streak across the sky. Thoughts in his mind raced as he tried to come up with what to say, but the day’s exhaustion seemed intent to keeping them in disarray.

“Fields,” Tav finally said, out of the blue.

“Um, usually a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ starts a conversation, my dear,” he huffed back. He’s all for a bit of mystery, but Tav often took rather too much liberty. Said cryptic turned to him, eyes peeking over her cup.

“I prefer a grassy field than a beach on a sunny day. Too much sand in the wrong places, harder to remove than blades of grass.” She fiddled with the frays on her blouse.

“Ah,” momentarily stunned, Astarion processed her sudden chattiness before replying. “A sage choice. The quiet of a forest is hard to resist.”

“Mm.”

They fell back into a weird silence.

“What -” Tav cleared her throat. “What do you like?”

She pointedly looked away, her glass now permanently attached to her lip, hiding her face from his discerning eyes. Astarion felt almost tempted to laugh, but the weariness of the day – not to mention the frustrations of their whole predicament – had him feeling strangely raw.

“I like the city,” he opted to reply. “Cesspool of a place, Baldur’s Gate, but it’s one I’ve known my whole life. The way the sun sparkles on the water by the port – it’s a sight that I, um, missed.”

“Hm, I can understand that.”

Tav rocked the dark red wine back and forth in her cup. Above them, stars twinkled through the clouds. A beat passed before Tav stood up abruptly, nearly knocking Astarion back in her haste, as she began to leave. Before she went, she stiffly called out to him.

“We’ll get there. I promise.”

And with that, Tav strode off. His eyes lingered on the covers of her tent flapping shut before he settled into his own. There was a new lightness to his shoulders that soothed itself into his weary bones.

A weird tenseness hung between the two of them after that, one that had him feeling stripped raw. Astarion discovered a strange prickling of his skin whenever he was around her, but a gnawing at his bones when he was not. Distancing himself from her (a tactical retreat, of course), Astarion tried to ponder on these feelings from afar. In battle, he made sure to snipe any long-ranged archers that could interrupt Tav’s spellcasting. During travel, any pickpocket that got close to her was met with a warning glint of a danger and a sudden disappearance of coin. For every step he took away, Tav took one closer. It was now common for her to seek him out at night for a chat about their pasts, or to simply watch the sky above. Whatever felt constantly lodged in his throat seemed to give way during these moments, only to return the morning next. The plan Astarion had felt completely derailed.

It must have been Tav’s weird behaviour throwing him off his balance, he finally concluded. Whenever they spoke, there was always that rocky feeling in him, as if the wind had picked up all his breath in a gust and left him in its wake when she went. Whatever it was, it was time to push it out his mind. He needed to focus on securing Tav’s favour - no matter how foreign the idea now tasted on his tongue.

Astarion abhorred the goblin camp. Inane bickering, mud everywhere, and the stench of worg dung, unwashed goblins and Hells know what else heavy in the air – distaste was rolling off Astarion in waves. The only saving grace this infernal place had was that he had the chance to destroy it all during their rescue mission of the archdruid Halsin.

Halsin. Tall, bulky elf with a deep voice and apparently enough peace and love to fill the whole bloody universe. Said druid now stood by Tav, thanking her profusely for his rescue, whilst Astarion was still wiping goblin guts off his knives. Whilst he did take glee in slashing and carving his way out of the goblin settlement, the exhaustion and lack of blood to feed on was starting to take its toll. If that wasn’t bad enough, the rescue mission ended up useless as they were still no closer to controlling the tadpoles in their minds.

“Really darlings,” his voice dripping with irritation as everyone gathered themselves after the gruelling fight, “next time, let’s not go galivanting through the entirety of Faerûn, saving whichever poor fool so much as bats their eyelashes at us.”

The irony was not lost on Tav.

Astarion dragged himself through the rest of the deserted camp, looking for valuables to plunder before they left. A necklace, a ring or two. Out the corner of his eye, Shadowheart was busy casting healing spells on a particularly nasty gash left on Wyll. Tav herself stood by the warlock as her hand pressed tight to a long wound winding down her arm. Astarion kept an eye out for healing potions as he dug through the rest of the chests.

He was in the middle of examining a silver pendant when he spied Halsin approach Tav. The druid’s hands glowed a soft warm light as he ran them over Tav’s wounded arm, standing surely too close than necessary. A slam rang through the courtyard when Astarion shut a chest a touch too hard.

“Can we get going?” he complained. Frustration was oozing out of him. His usually precise control over his words seemed to have evaporated over the course of battle. A sneer seemed permanently etched onto his face.

The only indicator of a response from Tav was a quick huff. If any words swelled on her tongue, she bit them down before Astarion could hear them. A bitterness was now seeping into him.

“Not longer now,” Wyll sighed out, relief colouring his voice at Shadowheart’s healing.

“Please, we’d be here all day if you all could help it,” Astarion bit back. “Probably saving a squirrel from a tree or some other inane charity.”

Tav gave him a warning glare, stoking the fires that had been simmering in him for far too long.

“The balance of nature requires constant vigilance,” Halsin replied smoothly, still way too near to Tav for any efficient healing he thought. “I hope that you all could come see what we do at the grove.”

Astarion huffed, “Like I’d ever want to see nonsense in such a waste of space.”

“Astarion!”

The look on Tav’s face was thunderous. The air crackled around her, a tell-tale sign of the heat rising in her veins. She stormed over to him, clutching her newly healed arm. Whatever remorse panged in Astarion was smothered by the resentment that broiled in him.

“There’s no way we could’ve let the goblins continue,” she argued. “Stopping them was important.”

“For what? To protect some irrelevant grassy hill so these - these idiots can frolic in the forests and roll in mud till the end of their days?!” Astarion snapped. “In case you haven’t noticed, my fate is lying in the balance. All of ours are! And yet you want to play saviour for what? A round of applause?”

His chest heaved, fangs bared in the dim light of the dungeon, sneering. “How droll.”

Pain flashed across Tav’s face. Poison seemed to pour out of every pore in Astarion’s skin as he waited for her reply. Indignation flashed across her eyes, like lightning across a dark grey sky.

“You don’t like it? Fine!” the final tether in Tav snapped as gusts of wind blew around her. “All of us have been trying so, ­so hard. I’ve been at the end of my rope for weeks – doing who knows what just for a semblance of peace in this gigantic mess we’ve landed in. You don’t like that – then fine!”

Tav pointed her finger straight into his chest.

“But don’t you ever – ever – dare accuse me of doing this for damn applause.”

Shoving him aside, she stalked off into the forest. The rest of the companions were stunned, having never seen such an outburst from their stoic friend. Exasperated, Astarion ran back into the Selunite temple, itching to find anyone, anything left to fight.

It was nightfall before Astarion finally left. Nothing was in the temple but dust and abandoned chests, to his chagrin. Irritated, tired, hungry. All these emotions brewed in his stomach – but there was one that stood out the most. Loneliness. He, of all people, felt … alone? The thought made him want to puke. He survived years in Cazador’s torment with no-one but himself. So why did he long for company now?

His previous anger was dying down to an ember. It was slowly being replaced with an absolutely terrible desire to return to camp and see his companions again. To see Gale learning with Lae’zel. To see Shadowheart gossiping with Wyll and Karlach. Try as he might, he was too exhausted to even smother his desire to see Tav. To maybe even apologise.

He groaned.

Kicking the dust up in the path, he made his way back.

As he predicted, the reception upon his return was less than warm.

The campfire crackled, and Gale to his credit was more than happy to see him return. Shadowheart seemed less than impressed at his outburst, but other than that, everyone seemed weirdly alright. There was no yelling at him, no threat to kick him straight out of camp. It seemed a near normal night, or as close to normal as they could get. Wanting to avoid any awkward conversations, Astarion made a beeline to his own tent, determined to spend the rest of the night in silence as he worked through the thoughts that hounded him recently.

He was surprised to see Tav waiting there for him.

She was startled at his return, and there was a small spark of satisfaction in him at catching her off-guard.

“You’re back,” she remarked.

“Yes. I am.” Astarion didn’t have much to reply either.

It seemed the outburst had taken as much a toll on Tav as it did on him. She seemed even more taciturn than usual, as if anything she had to say had been dragged out of her already. Tiredness was creeping onto her face. Astarion spied the unsightly scar running down her arm, and the words spilled out of him before he could stop it.

“I’m,” the words feel silly as they tumbled out, “sorry. I’m sorry.”

“O-oh.” Tav was speechless. Astarion stood up a bit straighter, desperate to shake the awkwardness off. The feeling of vulnerability was if a grip on him had finally been released – pain that gave way to a rush of something unknown.

“Under Cazador, I never really … needed to work with anyone else,” his hands spun randomly as he tried to explain himself. “I had to survive first. I had to be my own priority. I was terrified that anyone I ever got close to would bolt the second they knew who I really was - or worse, be made an example of.”

Tav took in his words, quiet as she always was, but now? It was for him. This space, this time to talk – it was all for him. The mere thought sent a giddy laugh bubbling through his heaving chest. Whether it was from nerves or happiness or just sheer relief – he neither knew nor cared. It sent an equally silly laugh through Tav.

“I could never be with anyone else, much less enjoy my time with them, you know. Things like sharing a glass of wine or waking up in the morning knowing I was safe with someone – it’s – I – I never knew how much it could mean to me. I didn’t realise how much … you could mean to me.”

Tav let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. “Astarion …”

She took his hand in hers – blissfully unaware to the pickup in his undead pulse – before smiling at him. “I’m just very glad you’re safe. And back with us. You said some awful things.”

“I know,” he laced their fingers tighter together, squeezing, “I’m sorry.”

It was a testament to their bond that she understood the words he hadn't the strength left to say, seeing past the bluster and fake charm. The fear he felt daily, the mask he wore, the scars of his past.

“I know it’s hard,” she whispered. “It’s hard for all of us, but we’ll get there. I promise.”

Astarion pulled her into the first genuine hug he’d had in years. He felt her hands wrap around him and nearly melted into the floor.

“Thank you,” he breathed out, feeling her heart thud against his. “Thank you.”

thanks for reading! :)

[bloodiedrogue]

the urge to keep participating in fandom vs. the experience of knowing it no longer sparks joy anymore