#Khy's OCs

[khyvehes]

This started out as a study and ended up just being a lil sketch page for him <3 muah

[ladylike-foxes]

Rook holding hands with Bellara, cause she probably is the only teammate capable of accepting casual shows of affection without seemingly being on the verge of exploding or vomiting 😅 Also, Rook & their Beloved

[nortsmedley]

dnd pc Blythe is back with a vengence

i love herrrrr

[khyiratw]

ᴏᴄ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴡ/ ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ <3

ʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʙɪᴏ! ɢʀᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴꜰᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴏʀᴋ-ɪɴ-ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴇꜱꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ. :ᴘ

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ, ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴄ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇ ʙɪᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇꜱ ꜱᴏ ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪ ᴇxᴘʟᴏᴅᴇ- /ʜᴊ

/// ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ \\\

🐻 ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ᴀᴍʙʀᴏꜱᴇ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪʀ ᴏʀ ʀᴇɴ. ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ʀᴏꜱᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ.

🐻 ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱɴᴇʏ ᴠɪʟʟᴀɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɪꜱ ᴍᴏʀ'ᴅᴜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʙʀᴀᴠᴇ. ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ᴍᴏꜱᴛʟʏ ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ɪɴ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴏʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱᴛᴏʀʏ. ɪ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴇꜱᴛᴀʙʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴀ ʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ, ʜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡʜʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ.

🐻 ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ʜᴇʀ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀᴍʙʀᴏꜱᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʀꜱᴀ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴀᴍʙʀᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 63ʀᴅ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀʀɪꜰʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰʀᴇQᴜᴇɴᴛʟʏ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴍɪꜱᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ.

🐻 ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ-ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴀᴛ ɴʀᴄ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ɴʀᴄ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀʟʟ-ʙᴏʏꜱ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏ��, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ, ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ʏᴜᴜ/ᴍᴄ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀɪᴍ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʏ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴍꜱʜᴀᴄᴋʟᴇ ᴅᴏʀᴍ ᴀʟᴏɴɢꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ʜᴀᴅ ꜱʜᴇ (ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪᴠᴜꜱ' ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ) ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴꜱɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴀᴍꜱʜᴀᴄᴋʟᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ꜱᴀᴠᴀɴᴀᴄʟᴀᴡ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

🐻 ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ʙᴇᴀꜱᴛᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ (ʙᴇᴀꜱᴛᴍᴇɴ? ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴜᴛ-ɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ɪꜰ ɪ'ᴍ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴛᴇʀᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ɪꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴀꜱᴛᴍᴇɴ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ, ᴏʀ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴏʟᴏɢʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ;-;), ʙᴜᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴀ ʙᴇᴀʀ ʙᴇᴀꜱᴛᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰʏ ᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʙᴇᴀʀ, ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴀꜱ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀᴋɪɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ.

🐻 ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴍꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴄʜɪᴇᴠᴏᴜꜱ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ɢᴏʟᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴀɴᴋꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏꜱ ᴍᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ; ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱɪɴɢʟʏ ꜱᴍᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪʟɪɢᴇɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴡʜɪᴍꜱʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ. ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ (ɴᴏ ᴘᴜɴ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ) ʙᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜱᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴛᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʙᴜʀᴅᴇɴꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴜᴘ ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ.

🐻 ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ. ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ'ꜱ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ᴀʙꜱᴇɴᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇʟʟ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟʟʏ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʜᴇ ʟᴇꜰᴛ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴇꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ. ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴʏ ɪʟʟ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ. ᴀꜱ ᴜɴʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ, ꜱʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ.

🐻 ʜᴇʀ ꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟ ɪꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴɢᴅᴏᴍ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟ ɪꜱ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴀ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏʀ'ᴅᴜ'ꜱ ɪɴꜱᴀᴛɪᴀʙʟᴇ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ'ꜱ ᴋɪɴɢᴅᴏᴍ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴜ��ᴀɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʜʀᴀꜱᴇ "ʙʟᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪɴɢᴅᴏᴍ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ". ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʜʀᴀꜱᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪꜱ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴅᴇꜱᴛʀᴏʏᴇᴅ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴇꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ'ꜱ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟᴛʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴜɴɪQᴜᴇ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ʟᴀʀɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ ɪɴᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɢʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʏᴇʟʟᴏᴡ ᴇʏᴇꜱ. ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴜʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟ, ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ'ꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅ ɪꜱ ᴇɴʜᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛʟʏ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇꜰᴜʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴏᴡ ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟ ᴜᴘ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴜᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴏᴅʏ.

/// ꜰᴜɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛꜱ / ᴛʀɪᴠɪᴀ \\\

🐻 ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱʜᴇ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪꜱᴇꜱ ɪᴛ, ꜰʟᴏʏᴅ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ, ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇʟʏ ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ, ʀᴇꜰᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʙᴜᴍʙʟᴇʙᴇᴇ ꜱʜʀɪᴍᴘ.

🐻 ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴇᴄʜ ᴛᴡɪɴꜱ, ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ɪꜱ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ʜᴏʀʀɪꜰɪᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴏᴛʜ. ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴘʀᴇꜰᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴇᴇʀ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ʏᴇꜱ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜɪᴅᴇ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴛꜱ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɴᴇᴀʀʙʏ. ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ꜰʟᴏʏᴅ.

🐻 ᴠɪʟ ʜᴀꜱ ᴇꜱꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴅᴏᴘᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀꜱʜɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴛÉɢÉ ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ. ɪʀᴏɴɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ꜰᴜᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜰᴀꜱʜɪᴏɴ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴠɪʟ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ʜɪꜱ ᴡɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.

🐻 ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴄᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ'ꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴀᴛ ɴʀᴄ, ʜᴇ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʙᴇꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ. ʜᴇ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ "ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ꜱᴄᴏᴏᴘ" ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ɪɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ, ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ, ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄʟɪᴄᴋꜱ ᴏɴ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀᴍ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴄʟɪᴄᴋꜱ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴅᴇɴʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ.

🐻 ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴʏ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇꜱꜱ. ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴜʟꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴᴇʀ. ɪʀᴏɴɪᴄ, ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɴᴏᴛ, ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ.

🐻 ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ꜰᴀɪʀʟʏ ʙʀᴀᴠᴇ (ᴘᴜɴ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ), ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴍɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ ꜱɴᴀᴋᴇꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀᴛʟᴇᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɴᴀᴋᴇ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴏɴᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʙɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʙʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴋɪᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ.

🐻 ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴀʙʟʏ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ; ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴛᴀɢᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰʀᴇQᴜᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇꜱꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴘᴀʏʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴇʀ ꜱʜᴇɴᴀɴɪɢᴀɴꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇʜᴏᴡ, ʀɪɢʜᴛ? ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀʀᴍ ʀᴇꜱᴛ, ʀᴜꜰꜰʟɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɪʀ, ᴏʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴇ (ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴ), ᴋɴᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴏʀ ʙᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ, ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴀɴ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴜᴘꜱᴇᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴊᴀᴄᴋ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɪᴛ.

🐻 ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄʟɪᴍʙ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴀʟʟᴇʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴇꜱ. ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜ��ᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ. ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ʜᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴀᴜɢʜꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱᴇʟʏ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ᴘᴀʏʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀꜰᴏʀᴇᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ.

🐻 ᴍɪʀʀᴇɴ ɪꜱ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴇꜰᴛ-ʜᴀɴᴅᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴍʙɪᴅᴇxᴛʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ɴᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ʜᴏᴡ ᴀᴍʙɪᴅᴇxᴛʀᴏᴜꜱ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ, ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴄʜɪᴄᴋᴇɴ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ.

🐻 ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ᴀꜰꜰɪɴɪᴛʏ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴʏ ᴋɪɴᴅ. ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀɴ ᴏᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴜɴɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀʏ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇꜱꜱᴇʀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴏʀ ɢᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ʙᴀᴋᴇʀʏ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴘʟᴜʀɢᴇ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʀᴇᴄᴇɴᴛʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʙᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ʏᴇᴛ.

ᴄᴀɴ ᴡᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱɪʟʟʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙᴇᴀʀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴛᴏ ʙɪᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇꜱ? </3

ɪ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ ᴡɪꜱʜ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢᴏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴘʟᴀɴ ᴏɴ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ. ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ʟᴏɴɢ ɪᴛ'ʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴛᴡꜱᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀɪɴ ʜʏᴘᴇʀꜰɪxᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ. :')

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ, ᴀꜱ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ! ᴛɪʟ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ! <3

[xxnashiraxx]

So

If you like having your entrails ripped out and wrapped around your neck then being set on fire, this is your story 🩷 This was honestly the BEST FUCKING ASTARION FIC IVE READ LIKE, EVER.

Truck ran me over, I feel like i need to throw the towel in. This is insanity. This is SICKENING- ITS BEAUTIFUL AND SO GOOD, PLEASE READ IT I FEEL SO HOLLOW WITH EMOTION AND AMAZEMENT. GAH

❛ pairing: Astarion/f!OC (Ysera) ❛ word count: 8.6k ┊ ❛ rating: 18+ MDNI ❛ tags/cw: angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, emotional sex, PIV sex, mentions of trauma and abuse, references to Astarion's past, blood, blood drinking

▸ preview: He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.

Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach.

Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.

--

OR: Sometimes all it takes is a little darkness to expose the light. AO3 ┊ masterlist

The shadow-cursed lands are easily the most depressing thing Astarion has seen in weeks. Descending into the Underdark had been awful enough (the bioluminescent mushrooms were, after all, a poor substitute for the warmth of the sun), but here, amidst the pervasive scents of death and decay, the darkness is nothing if not suffocating.

There's an unsettling weight to it, the way it bears down upon them all with an almost crushing force, as if it seeks to drag them down into some endless abyss.

Even when he had prowled the streets of the Lower City, he had found some refuge in the stars that dotted the night sky like so many glittering jewels, or the inviting glow of one of the city's many taverns and brothels.

It's hardly strange, then, part of him almost misses it. Here, where all traces of light have been snuffed out. Had he ever truly been content amongst the shadows, or was it just another of the many lies he had told himself over the years?

For this place is naught but shadow, the kind of creeping, carnivorous darkness that devours everything in its path. It's burrowed beneath his skin and made itself at home in his very bones, like an itch he can never hope to scratch. He would tear himself apart before ever hoping to purge it.

He hasn't felt like this since…

In the farthest recesses of his mind, he hears the scrape of stone-on-stone, recalling the hopelessness he'd felt when the last slivers of light he would see for an entire year refused to be sealed away with him.

Astarion shakes his head to rid himself of the memory.

A soft sigh leaves his lips as he swirls the wine in his glass, fingers wrapped around the delicate stem as he lifts it to his mouth and takes another sip. 

He needs a distraction.

His eyes drift lazily across the bar at the back of the Last Light Inn, searching for her as they always seem to these days.

Astarion's only salvation sits no more than fifteen feet away, but even her light has dimmed in this wretched place. It's evident in the way Ysera slumps her shoulders, the weary fatigue she conceals behind a put-together facade. Her tail hangs limply over the back of her barstool, as still and lifeless as his unbeating heart.

The rest of them might be fooled, but Astarion has worn enough masks to know when someone is playing a part. Watching her is like watching some unknown entity puppet her body, guiding her through the motions without any real respect for the craft. To say it unnerves him is an understatement; he'd find more life in a corpse.

As she takes yet another hearty drink of whatever she plundered from behind the counter, Ysera entertains the bard they met back in the grove with a strained smile and a hollow laugh that echoes harshly in his ears. Astarion remembers her name is Alfira, but only because Ysera had greeted her so fondly the moment they were reunited. There's nothing else remarkable enough about her to retain his interest for more than a fleeting moment.

One after another over the course of the evening, he has watched from afar as the tieflings that had survived the journey to Last Light have circled her like vultures, taking what they needed from her – reassurance, hope, a promise to ensure their safety. Alfira is but the latest scavenger, coming to collect the final scraps.

And Astarion is furious. At the tieflings, for being too weak to carry their own weight. At Ysera, for letting them use her without a second thought. And at himself, for being no better than any of them.

After all, had he not been the first one to take more from her than he was owed?

The stem of the wine glass cracks beneath his fingers, and Astarion pushes it aside before sliding gracefully from his seat. He hears Ysera echo the same empty promises she'd given the rest of the stragglers from the Grove, vowing to secure them safe passage to Baldur's Gate, as if any of them have any say in the matter. 

Alfira thanks Ysera profusely and excuses herself when she notices Astarion approaching. Lost in her thoughts, Ysera turns back to her drink, and Astarion watches her expression turn grim. She downs the rest of the alcohol in a single swallow, teetering on the barstool as she swipes another bottle and upends half its contents into her glass.

The subtle notes of vanilla, smoke, and cinnamon assault Astarion's senses as he draws nearer to her, but not before Ysera has gulped down most of what he assumes from the way she scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue must be a rather strong batch of whiskey. Hardly his preferred drink, but it's done its job of getting her thoroughly drunk.

When she raises the glass to polish off the rest of it, she only manages to lift it halfway before Astarion intervenes and lays his hand over her wrist to restrain her. She whirls to face him, fire burning in her eyes as he pulls the drink from her hands.

“All right, darling,” he says gently, “that's quite enough of that. I'm not sure what you're hoping to find at the bottom of that glass, but I assure you it's not worth the headache.”

Ysera regards him with sullen fury, and her tail twitches irritability.

“Oh, don't spoil my fun.”

She lurches forwards to steal the drink back from him, but her movements are uncoordinated and slow, and Astarion lets out an amused chuckle as he holds the glass above her head while she swipes helplessly at it. When she finally gives up, he returns it to the counter behind her, well out of reach.

“This is what you consider fun?” he asks incredulously, raising a single brow. “Drowning yourself in cheap spirits? You look positively dreadful. ”

“Thank you for noticing.” Ysera huffs and folds her arms over her chest, and Astarion is quite certain from the look she fixes him with that she's imagining his perfectly arranged curls going up in flames. “Don't act like you're not just as miserable as the rest of us.”

For a moment Astarion hesitates, caught off guard by the truth in her words. But he decides in the end that it's just a lucky guess and shrugs his shoulders dismissively while brushing a stray bit of dirt off of his armor.

��Speak for yourself, my sweet; some of us are flourishing. In fact, I rather find myself quite at home here.”

Shadow, shadow, everything is shadow, he can't get out, there's no way out –

“Liar.” Her voice is slurred but rings in his mind with alarming clarity, ripping him from the memories that refuse to remain buried.

“You haven't come to my tent in days, and I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.”

Ysera's temper flares, red-orange fire licking her palms before she clamps them shut to extinguish the flames. He can't decide if she's worried for him, hurt by his absence, or something else entirely.

“Listen, darling,” he starts, “you're hardly in any state to –”

“To what?” she shouts. “To stand by and watch you starve!?” Her body shakes with what might be a restrained sob, and something about the way she looks at him twists like a knife in his chest.

“You know I can't do that, Astarion! Let me help you.”

‘Please!’ His fists beat mercilessly on the stone, fingers scraped raw and bloody. ‘Someone help me!’ 

No one comes. 

The anger that's been simmering inside him erupts, and his eyes flash in warning. But she meets his ire with determination, either too drunk or too stupid to realize what she's done. The memories she's pulled to the surface, long since locked away.

Only then does he notice the staring. Half a dozen tieflings watch them with bated breath, eyes wide and curious. Even some of their companions have noticed the commotion.

Astarion schools his expression and twists his lips into a bitter smile.

“Fine.”

Ysera opens her mouth immediately, ready to refute his remarks, but she clearly wasn't expecting this.

“Wait… that's it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes as she peers up at him in disbelief. “Seriously? After all that, that's really all it took to convince you?”

Astarion responds with another shrug and a tilt of his head.

“Come now – do I really seem like the kind of person who would lie just to get out of an uncomfortable conversation?”

Ysera snorts audibly.

“Astarion, you are exactly that kind of person.”

A smirk flits across his face, silver brows arched as he leans in towards her. Ysera's back hits the counter as she retreats, and Astarion watches her nostrils flare as she breathes in his scent, caged beneath him with no intention of escaping. 

Her eyes travel to his lips, and there's little more than a hair's breadth between them when his hand closes around the handle of the glass behind her, and he withdraws suddenly from her personal space. 

She masks her disappointment well, but her eyes spark with a passion he hasn't seen in days.

Well, at least there's still some life left in her.

Astarion swirls the rest of the whiskey in her glass and swallows it. It tastes like ash in his mouth, but it's well worth the venomous look she throws his way. He sets the empty glass down beside her and saunters away with a flourish of his hand.

“I'll see you tonight, darling.” ————

The air here is stagnant as ever, but Astarion swears he feels a chill snake its way down his spine as he walks through their camp. There's enough distance between his tent and Ysera's for him to dwell on what she'd said to him earlier that afternoon, and no one around to stop his thoughts from wandering.

‘I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.’

She's right, of course. The first night they’d arrived here, he'd snuck away from camp in the middle of the night and stumbled upon the body of a dead bear, lying peacefully on the side of the road as if in slumber. 

He'd sank his teeth eagerly into its fur, retching when its putrid blood had burned like acid in his throat. The same inky black ichor had oozed from every other creature he had come across, each less appetizing than the last.

By the third day, he was ravenous.

He'd slipped into Ysera's tent well after everyone had gone to sleep, but she'd looked so frail and cold beneath her blankets that the thought of drinking from her had physically repulsed him.

Each time he'd considered asking her again, the treacherous voices in his head had condemned him for his selfishness, filling him with an unfamiliar guilt that he still isn't quite sure what to do with.

Worse still, he feels plagued by that same guilt even now, even after she has all but demanded he come to her tent and feed from her.

Astarion hesitates for only a moment before he thrusts open the flap of Ysera's tent, startling her from where she sits in front of her mirror to brush out the tangles in her hair. It's gotten significantly longer in the month and a half since they've been traveling together, cascading over her shoulders in satiny pink waves as she turns to face him.

Her face falls when she sees his conflicted expression, but she scoots towards him anyway and invites him to sit with a sweep of her hand.

“I was starting to think you were going to stand me up again,” she murmurs quietly, twisting her hands in her lap.

Relying on instinct has gotten him this far; Astarion finds himself settling back into familiar routines, letting a seductive smile play across his lips as he kneels across from her. He cocks his head to the side and clicks his tongue, purposely dragging his gaze over every curve of her body.

“And waste another moment without enjoying that delicious blood of yours? That simply won't do.”

Her heart leaps in her chest, a blush staining her cheeks. It's almost too easy, her concern for him seemingly forgotten in an instant.

He wants to feel proud, confident that he can still get what he wants from her when he wants it.

But the only thing he feels when he looks at her now is shame. It sprouts like creeping, twisting vines, suffocating him from within.

She hasn't bothered to light any candles, and Astarion suddenly finds himself missing the way her golden eyes glimmer like warm amber in the firelight. Ysera crawls towards him and settles comfortably in his lap like she's always belonged there, and Astarion instinctively inhales her scent, swept up in the aroma of roses and springtime that make him yearn for the sun.

He hasn't had the time to remember what it feels like to be cold, but everywhere she touches him breathes new life into his frigid skin, caressing him like the kiss of a nascent flame. She sweeps her hair obediently over her shoulder to expose her throat to him and waits for his instruction.

When Astarion lifts his hands to grip her waist and thread his fingers through her unbound hair, he's trembling.

Not in anticipation, but with anger. 

Astarion holds her more tightly than he should, and Ysera's spine immediately straightens. The racing of her heart suggests that she is afraid, and yet she still does not refuse him. 

How many years had he suffered, trapped in an endless cycle of misery under Cazador's cruel thumb while the buzzards stripped him bare? How hard had he fought to claw back even a modicum of freedom, only to watch her willingly submit to the whims of complete strangers whose lives were ultimately insignificant? To him , when he's done nothing but take and take and take?

With every poor, worthless fool she helps, she makes a mockery of him.

His rage is a volatile thing, barely leashed behind the fangs he presses into her throat. A soft whimper escapes Ysera's lips, and she clutches at his shirt. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind, he realizes he's hurting her, but the rush of blood that pours into his mouth as he punctures her neck without warning washes the thought away on a current of red. Her pulse pounds in his ears, and with every swallow he can feel his own strength returning.

He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.

Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach. 

Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.

Ysera yields without protest when Astarion bears down upon her, pushing her roughly onto her bedroll. He pins her beneath him, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of her blood as if in a trance. When his fangs dig deeper, she lets out a strangled sob, and the sound of it wrenches him out of his stupor just in time to realize just how close he'd come to losing control of himself completely.

Astarion refuses to look at her when he tears himself away from her throat, pointedly avoiding the ghastly wound he's left behind. The air is thick with the smell of her blood, and the drops that run down his chin bloom red against the white fabric of her nightshirt.

His stomach tightens. All this time, he'd fooled himself into believing he was the one in control.

But no matter what he does, he can't escape the one simple truth that he is weak. The only question now is who gets to hold his leash: Cazador or Ysera?

“Astarion?”

Ysera's voice sounds so fragile, timid and uncertain as she calls out to him. He grimaces when her hand cups his cheek with more tenderness he deserves, compelling him to look at her. He knows what he'll see when he does: revulsion, fear, betrayal.

But when Astarion forces himself to meet her gaze, the look of concern writ across her face fractures something deep within his chest, and he gasps for breath he no longer needs. 

“What's wrong, Astarion? Are you alright?”

The softness of her expression cuts him like a knife, and he pulls himself away as if he's been burned. 

“I should go.”

“What? I don’t – Astarion, wait!”

He's halfway on his feet by the time she reaches for him, hands just brushing past the collar of his shirt. 

Don't look back.

This was a mistake.

You gods-damned fool.

Another sob bubbles in her throat, and he keeps his back to her, certain that looking at her now would ruin him. He doesn't want to know what she looks like, broken and abandoned not by some nameless foe, but by someone else she trusted not to hurt her.

But it's worse than that, because he is afraid to know.

“Please… don't go.”

Astarion clenches his fists and walks away.

Their camp is still quiet as Astarion stalks back to his tent. He's halfway there when he sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to see Gale and Shadowheart engaged in a hushed conversation together.

They glance at him from across the campfire, and their expressions grow stern as they survey the state of him. It likely doesn't take them long to piece together what has happened. The hand Astarion wipes across his mouth comes away red, stained with the remnants of Ysera's blood he hadn't had the time to clean up before he left her tent.

Astarion deflects their silent accusations with a scowl, daring either of them to speak. But they say nothing, and Astarion turns up his nose in defiance before returning to his tent.

They don't understand. None of them do.

The moment he returns to the privacy of his tent, Astarion wastes no time peeling his clothes off and throwing them to the far corner. Her scent clings to him anyway, and even after he's cleaned the blood from his mouth, it's all he can think of. 

He pulls on a fresh pair of trousers and makes himself as comfortable as he can, settling into his bedroll. The same one Ysera had insisted he keep once she found out he was trancing on nothing more than an old wooden board.

What must she think of him now, he wonders?

Astarion sighs and closes his eyes. He half expects her to come after him, but with each passing minute, he realizes it's nothing more than wishful thinking.

When he finally slips into an uneasy trance, all he sees is her face, twisted in grief.

————

Isobel's moonshield glows bright white and ethereal as Astarion slips through it like a phantom, his skin prickling as he emerges on the other side of the barrier.

He had been told Ysera had come this way not long after they had returned from their preliminary visit to Moonrise Towers, though he doesn't quite understand why she would choose this of all places until he spots her.

She's sitting on the flat top of the rock that extends over the lakeshore, and Astarion watches as she grabs a loose stone from the spot next to her and throws it as hard as she can into the water. Her tail thumps against the ground, and he can overhear her muttering about the drow they'd met shortly after coming face to face with Ketheric Thorm himself.

She grabs another rock and hurtles it farther than the last. Astarion finds it all rather amusing, and anger certainly looks far better on her than sorrow.

He clears his throat as he approaches, and she makes a noise of surprise when she turns to face him, scarlet coloring her cheeks.

“Astarion! Uh… hi. How long have you been –?”

Astarion gestures to one of his pointed ears and smirks through his fangs. “Long enough.”

Ysera's already buried her face in her hands when he sits next to her, and she inhales sharply before letting out a frustrated groan.

“It’s just – I don't – I can't believe that woman!” she seethes. Her teeth are halfway bared behind her snarl, body bristling with magic. She fixes her gaze on Astarion, expression softening when her eyes rove over his face.

“I can't believe she thought she could speak to you like that.” A string of Infernal curses tumbles from her mouth, and Astarion watches as she opens her palm and ignites a brilliant ball of white-hot flame.

“I still think Gale should have let me incinerate her.”

He hasn't seen her this upset in weeks, and an unexpected thrill of pleasure courses through him at the fact that it's all on his behalf.

“And that, darling, is why we leave diplomacy to the wizard.”

Ysera pouts at him. “Oh, come on. You would have enjoyed it too, and you know it.”

Without Gale's interference, Astarion has no doubt that their encounter with the blood merchant would have gone awry. The look of terror on Araj’s face when Ysera had summoned her magic and threatened her had been extremely entertaining, and he hadn't been the only one to be disappointed when Gale had intervened.

“True,” he says wryly, "but I hardly think the great General Thorm would have appreciated us attacking one of his little minions.”

Ysera snorts and rolls her eyes.

“He might if he knew how much of a bitch she is.”

Astarion throws back his head and laughs. It's the best he's felt in days.

“What?” she mutters indignantly. “We'd have been doing him a favor! Whether or not he deserves it is irrelevant.”

This time, when Astarion fixes her with a mischievous grin, it's completely genuine. His influence on her is evident; even a month ago, she never would have suggested such a thing.

“Well, there's always next time. And if she should happen to find herself in the way of a blade –”

“– or a fireball,” Ysera interjects, tail swishing excitedly back and forth. Astarion simply nods in agreement.

“It would be such a shame, of course, but accidents do happen.”

They look at each other for a moment, and despite the familiar ease Astarion can sense returning between them, her face remains inscrutable.

“In all seriousness, though…” Ysera says after a moment, “I'm sorry about what she said.”

Astarion stares out across the water and dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

“Don't be. What's done is done.”

What hadn't surprised him was the way Araj had spoken to him, intent on using him to indulge her strange fantasies. It's nothing he isn't already used to, and instead of feeling angry, the only thing he'd felt was numb. 

That Ysera would be against the idea was another given, but it was the ferocity with which she had defended him once he’d expressed his disinterest that he had found the most intriguing. 

Especially considering what had occurred between them only two nights prior to their visit to Moonrise. 

He still doesn't understand her, or why she insists on being so kind to him. Somewhere, some part of him that he thought long dead stirs to life, the part of him that dares to hope that maybe she might actually care for him.

The same way he's been too scared to admit he cares for her. The people he cares about don't survive for very long. She deserves better than that.

He's never really had someone to care for before – someone he could truly call his own. Everything he had had been ripped away from him the night Cazador turned him. Little by little, she had worked her way into his cold, dead heart, so quietly that he hadn't even noticed it until it was already too late.

“That doesn't mean I have to like it,” she's saying now, looking at him with more of that righteous indignation. “I promise I'll never ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, no matter what we're offered in return.”

A weight lifts from his shoulders. There's freedom in her words, the closest he's felt to it since waking up on that beach so many days ago. He reaches for it tentatively, as if it will slip through his fingers if he isn't very, very careful.

“Thank you.” 

He lets Ysera lay her hand over his, and together they listen to the waves break against the shore in silence. If they survive this, he vows to himself that he will confess everything to her, before he leaves. He'd thought it would be better to slip away quietly, to pretend like nothing had ever happened between them, but as she leans against his shoulder and strokes the back of his hand with a fondness she reserves only for him, he knows that he can't go through with it.

The best he can do for her now is try to convince her to stand up for herself so this doesn't happen again. Him. The tieflings. All of it.

“You'd do well to heed your own advice, you know.”

Ysera lifts her head from Astarion’s shoulder and looks at him in confusion.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Astarion huffs a dry laugh, and she furrows her brow.

“Only that I haven't seen you smile once since we came to this place,” he says simply.

“I mean… yeah, just look at it. Do you blame me?” she counters, throwing her arms wide. She must expect Astarion to commiserate with her, but he only looks at her sternly.

“I'm talking about the tieflings, darling,” he says sourly. “You don't owe them even half as much as you've given them.”

“I…” Ysera bites her lip and looks away to avoid meeting his gaze. “It's fine.”

“Is it?” he presses.

She draws her legs close to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. For a moment Astarion thinks she won't respond, but she sounds so small when she finally tells him:

“My whole life, all I've ever done is hurt people. My parents are dead because of me.” She traces a hand over the jagged scars that mar her face, and Astarion remembers the sordid tale of how she got them.

“So is the man who gave me this.”

Dead by her own hands, after he'd carved into her face as a punishment for hurting him.

“And you too.” Astarion glances down at his chest, eyes following the path of the mark she'd left seared into his armor the last time her temper had flared, hot as the forge in the Underdark.

“I just…” Ysera sighs and hugs herself tightly, eyes downcast. “I just want to help people, if I can. I don't see anything wrong with that.”

At last, he thinks he understands. In her desperation to feel wanted, to convince herself she isn't just a mistake, she's destroying herself in the process. He sees his own self-loathing mirrored back at him like some vile, twisted shadow, always there, always whispering in his ear that no matter what he does, nothing will change.

“You'd sacrifice your own happiness for people who are more than willing to take advantage of that kindness,” Astarion observes dryly. “Doesn't seem like a fair trade to me.”

He knows she can't refute the truth. The seconds turn into minutes; and there's something deeply sad about the way she smiles as she finally turns to look at him again.

“And what about you?” she asks quietly. “Is that what you're doing, Astarion? Taking advantage of me?”

————

The next evening, Astarion finds himself outside Ysera's tent once again. He tells himself it's the hunger that has brought him to her proverbial doorstep, because it's more convenient to lie than it is to admit he feels the need to set things right between them.

That still doesn't make him any less anxious as he slips quietly into her tent. He finds her tucked under a pile of blankets, thumbing through one of the terribly written romance novels she's picked up from one merchant or another. When she hears him enter, she looks up at him and sets her book aside without a second thought.

Astarion has come to her tent enough times now that they have long since established a routine, and even though his visits have been infrequent as of late, she still seems more than eager to accommodate him.

Neither of them speak about what happened the last time he paid her a nighttime visit.

He leaves his boots by the entrance and makes himself comfortable amidst the pile of blankets she's used to line the floor of her tent.

“Back so soon, Astarion?”

“What can I say? I've missed you, darling.”

The truth slips through his lips like water through a sieve, even though he hides it behind a well-placed smirk.

Ysera combs her hands through her hair, tying it back and out of the way. Astarion's eyes follow the shape of her jaw before reluctantly settling on the bite marks on her throat. They've healed since their previous encounter, but it doesn't stop the memory of her, bloodstained and trembling, from resurfacing in his mind like a festering wound.

Yet when she crawls out from beneath her blankets and into his lap again, she does so without hesitation. There is no trace of fear in her golden eyes, and although her smile is hollow, she holds his face in her hands with a gentleness that cannot be anything but sincere.

Blazing heat follows the path of her fingers beneath his chin. Under her direction, Astarion lifts his head to meet her gaze. There is an emptiness there now, a cold detachment made all the more haunting in the flickering light within her tent that casts her face in shadows. The tenderness of her hands as they sink into his hair sends a chill down his spine, and despite himself he leans into her touch.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know,” she says, twirling a stray lock of his hair around her finger. He hums thoughtfully in response.

“Do you want to know what I really want, Astarion?”

The shadow-cursed lands have stolen something from each of them, but they have taken the most from Ysera. Gone is all her reckless optimism and carefree laughter, her last and only defense against the darkness that dwells within her own mind. The woman in his lap may wear her face and speak with her voice, but it isn't her.

Astarion swallows thickly and nods.

“I want to think about something other than this place, or these worms in our heads,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Or why can't I sleep without these godsdamned nightmares.”

The dam breaks, and her body shudders with a quiet sob as she presses his face against her neck in a silent plea.

“You're the only one who’s ever made it all disappear,” she whimpers. “Help me forget, Astarion.”

He knows it is an impossible request. He's been trying to forget for two hundred years, long enough to know the weight of what she's asking of him. But he presses his fangs into her flesh like a balm all the same, soothing her as she sags against him and rakes her nails across his scalp.

He cannot make her forget, but he can distract her. He owes her at least that much. And for the first time in a long time, when he sinks his fangs into her neck and lets his hands slip beneath her nightgown, everything feels right.

Astarion’s hands drink in her warmth with the same eagerness he swallows her blood, roving over her curves and dragging his nails against her bare skin. She shudders at the contact and moans softly, pressing his face even more firmly into the curve of her neck.

“Astarion…”

When Ysera accidentally brushes her hand over the shell of his ear, Astarion groans into her throat, grabbing her by the hips and positioning her over the growing bulge in his pants to let her feel the hardening outline of his cock as he rocks his hips against her. She responds beautifully, grinding down against him the moment he pulls away. His tongue swirls around the puncture wounds on her neck, coaxing more delicious sounds from her before he pauses to admire his handiwork.

When he unlatches from her and sits back on his calves, a trickle of wine-dark blood spills over her collarbones, staining her skin with crimson as it disappears beneath her nightgown. Astarion’s fingers glide smoothly up her torso, yanking the garment down as her breasts spill into his hands. Her hips jerk forward again as he brushes over her nipples, pinching the taut buds between his thumbs and forefingers.

Ysera sighs softly when he presses his nose against her chest, and she tastes just as heavenly as he remembers as he runs the flat of his tongue across her flushed skin, following the trail of her blood. The marks on her neck entice him to drink more, but instead he nips a teasing path along her throat and across her jaw, breath fanning out against her ear as he drops his voice to a pleasing growl.

“You've told me all about what you want – now tell me what you need .”

“I–”

Her breath hitches as Astarion’s fangs press into her skin, and her hands fumble blindly for his laces.

“I need you,” she whines. “I need this .”

A laugh rumbles low in his throat, and Astarion rewards her with another nip. “Very good. You need my cock, darling? It's all yours.”

As Ysera works at his laces with trembling hands, Astarion braces himself for the familiar sense of dread that has been his constant companion during their nights together. But her touch is gentle, almost reverent, as she frees him from his trousers, and he finds that he doesn't hate the feeling of her hands on him perhaps as much as he should.

But Astarion smothers the thought as he catches a glimpse of her eyes, smouldering like golden embers beneath her lashes. 

At last, she's come back to him.

With one hand braced against her back, Astarion steadies Ysera as she lifts her hips, maintaining eye contact with her as she watches him expectantly. He pulls aside her underwear, exposing her quivering cunt as he lines his cock up with her entrance. 

“Are you ready for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers.

Astarion understands the language of pain – what it means to finally feel something after feeling nothing for so long. He can see it now in her eyes, pleading for something she doesn't quite know how to ask for.

So with a quick snap of his hips, Astarion sheathes himself inside her in a single, harsh thrust. At the same time, his fangs pierce her neck again, blood running thick and warm down his throat. Ysera cries out and whimpers his name, but the way she throws her arms around his shoulders and clings to him tells him everything he needs to know.

Ysera rolls her hips each time he drives his cock inside her, letting him bottom out with each thrust. She's tight, pulsing around his cock as he works her open, and even though it must hurt she begs for more, more, more . 

Kneading her breasts in his hands, Astarion encourages her to keep moving, whispering words of praise into her ear when he's taken his fill of her blood.

“That's it. Good girl. Focus on me.”

Sparks ignite between them when their eyes meet, and even through her half-lidded gaze he can feel the intensity with which she watches him, devoting herself to memorizing every detail of his face, the way he holds her, and the fullness of his cock, warmed by her body and her blood as he maintains a steady pace inside her.

“More,” she sobs, bucking her hips and throwing her head back on a broken moan. “Please, Astarion…”

As much as he finds he enjoys the intimacy of having her in his lap, it makes things unnecessarily complicated. He misses the warmth of her body and the scent of her skin the moment he lays her back against the blankets, reaching for the nightgown bunched around her torso and pulling it over her head. Ysera waits patiently for him to reach for her underwear next, smooth fingers hooking beneath the waistband before he slides them down her legs and tosses them into the darkness.

She looks up at him, pupils blown, swallowing as Astarion gently spreads her legs and seats himself between her knees. Slicking his hand over his cock, he takes in the sight of her, pleased by the gentle curve of her mouth and the way her heart flutters beneath her ribs. He slides his length through her slick folds, gathering her arousal.

“Wait.”

Astarion pauses, confusion coloring his expression as he wonders what's gone wrong.

“I…”

Even in the darkness, he can see the flush that stains her cheeks, plush lips parted as she pants softly.

“I want to see you too.”

She smiles sheepishly when he rolls his eyes, and he huffs dramatically before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. The rest of his clothes join hers in the same half-forgotten pile, and Astarion quickly returns to his place between her legs.

“Better, darling?”

“Uh-huh.”

It's difficult for him not to preen beneath her attention as he eyes travel over the sculpted planes of his chest and shoulders, but Ysera anchors her gaze instead on his face, studying him as though it's the first time she's seen it. 

He wonders what she sees when she looks at him, what she's searching for with those brilliant golden eyes. Ysera's breath hitches when he enters her again, hands on her waist as he seats himself fully inside her. He pulls almost completely out of her and pauses, waiting for her to whine in frustration before he slams home again. He does it again, snapping his hips forward with enough force that it nearly lifts her off the blankets.

The sound of her languid moans sounds like a symphony as he sets a feverish pace, grunting through gritted teeth as he fucks her hard and deep. Hands tucked beneath her knees, he gives her everything she'd asked for, taking pride in every whimper and moan that tumbles from her mouth.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asks. The lewd sound of their bodies moving together fills the silence between them while Ysera struggles to find an answer to his question, and she barely gets out a single word before her eyes slam shut and she buries her fists in the blankets.

“You.” 

He hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her and she cries out in pleasure, gasping for breath. “You, Astarion. Always you, always, always…”

The admission pleases him more than he cares to admit. He's seen the way some of the others look at her, and with every thrust of his hips he makes sure there will never be room for anyone but him.

The thought of her sharing this kind of intimacy with anyone but him is nearly enough to drive him mad. Her secrets, her hopes, her fears, all of them are his and his alone.

But what, then, does that make her?

Yours.

His mind rejects the obvious answer.

It's strange, he realizes, that even as his mind wanders, it remains fixated on her. He wants to remember the way she looks beneath him, trying so hard to keep her eyes focused on his face. He wants to remember the feel of her in his hands, the way she moans and whimpers only for him.

He wants to remember, because for the first time in so many years, he finally feels like more of a man than a monster.

Astarion adjusts his position and leans over her, and Ysera takes the invitation to gather his hands in her own. Their fingers lace together and she squeezes tightly. He can feel her magic brimming just beneath her palms, undulating in time with the steady drumming of her heart. Her eyes shine with the ferocity of a supernova, a dying star scattered into the cosmos.

He feels the tether on her power snap taut, and her body trembles with the effort it takes to restrain it. Ysera's throat constricts with a sharp gasp as Astarion drives his hips forward again and again, coaxing her closer and closer to the sweet oblivion he knows she needs with each delicious thrust.

The air crackles with magic when Astarion pins Ysera's arms above her head, lightning dancing between her outstretched fingers. She arches her back and writhes each time he thrusts into her, his pace unfaltering as he banishes any lingering doubts from her mind.

Her fingers flex and she looks away, a frightened animal in flight. Astarion grabs her chin between his fingers and tilts her head towards him to capture her mouth in a tender kiss. His tongue slides across the seam of her lips and she yields to him without hesitation. He greedily devours every delightful little sound she makes for him, kissing her in just the right way he knows will produce the exact response he wants from her.

“Don't run from me,” he says softly. It's more of a request than a demand, but she complies all the same. 

Her gaze returns to his face, albeit reluctantly, and Astarion doesn't know what comes over him when he smooths his thumb across her cheek and cradles her head in his hand. “I’ve got you.” 

The gentleness of his own voice surprises even himself.

Ysera has always been afraid of herself, but never of him. He can't understand why. He's hurt her. He can't be certain he won't do it again, before everything is over. Whatever monster dwells within her must be truly terrible if it would convince her to seek solace in someone like him, no matter how much he's come to crave her affection.

She clings to him like so many others before her, legs lifting to encircle his back to keep him close, tail coiling tightly around his leg. An instinct to beg for more of the only thing he has to offer her. 

But what he can't dismiss as instinct is the way she looks at him, bright and warm as the first rays of the sun as dawn breaks over the horizon. Mere inches separate them, and Astarion can feel her breath fanning out over his lips with each sigh and gasp she makes beneath him.

“Astarion…”

His name sounds like honey on her tongue. Despite himself, Astarion recoils from the longing in her voice, his expression impassive despite the terror that takes hold within him and encircles his unbeating heart like a fist.

He remembers so few of his victims, but there is one he will never be able to forget. The man he had refused to condemn, the one and only time he had rebelled against his master’s orders. He had looked at Astarion the same way Ysera does now, had spoken his name with the same yearning that it had doomed him to a year of starvation and suffering.

No , he wants to scream, don't say it.

This isn't what he wanted.

But it's no use. He watches, helpless, as her mouth falls open and her hand raises to brush a stray curl behind his ear.

“Astarion, I lo –”

He crushes his mouth against hers, swallowing her confession with a desperation he hopes she will mistake for affection.

Astarion understands love the way a scholar understands facts and figures – from a distance and with cold indifference. He's grown adept at mimicking its trademarks, the mannerisms of genuine devotion, to be used as a means to an end but never to be indulged in.

Because allowing himself to hope for anything more would be to invite his destruction.

And yet, as Ysera kisses him back and murmurs the words against his lips again and again, Astarion can't stop himself from reveling in how good they sound. If he must be weak, let it be for something worthwhile.

I love you, Astarion. I love you. I love you.

He doesn't respond, his mind a whirlwind of contradictions. If it bothers her, Ysera doesn't let him see it. Instead, she winds her arms behind his back, touch featherlight as she traces the scars carved into his flesh. With each pass of her fingers, she erases the pain he'd been made to feel when he'd received them, if only for a fleeting moment.

Astarion doubts she's even aware of what she's done to him, that each time she touches him with such gentleness it makes him want to abandon centuries of habit and believe that they might actually have a future together. Tonight was supposed to be about her, but in everything she does, somehow she still prioritizes him.

“Ysera.”

He tests the feel of her name in his mouth, spoken with the same devotion she's given him. Her entire body shudders in response, and Astarion finds that he rather likes it. The need to please her becomes an all-consuming thought in his mind and he lowers his head, taking the peak of her breast into his mouth as he continues to roll his hips into hers at a pace that brings them both immense satisfaction.

Ysera lets out a keening whine when Astarion pinches her nipple between his teeth and flicks it with his tongue, mirroring the gesture on her other breast with his hand. The hands on his back instinctively tighten, nails pressed into his skin.

“I wonder if I could make you come for me like this,” he groans, voice low. “Would you like that, Ysera?”

She murmurs something immediately that sounds like “yes”, but Astarion considers his options. She'd probably agree to anything he said now, if she thinks it would bring her the relief she seeks. And he can give her so much better than that.

“Perhaps some other time,” he says, chuckling when she whines in protest and writhes beneath him.

One hand slips beneath her, cupping the base of her tail while the other drags a torturously slow path down her stomach towards the place their bodies are joined. Ysera sucks in a breath, trembling in anticipation. She lets it out on a strangled shout when Astarion circles her clit with his thumb; at the same time he caresses the underside of her tail, sending tremors of pleasure throughout her body. 

Her eyes fly open, hazy with arousal. “Again,” she pleads, canting her hips to press herself against the hand on her clit.

A single fang gleams behind Astarion’s lips.

“I thought so,” he purrs. He alternates his strokes, teasing both her tail and her clit between every thrust of his cock inside her. Her cunt tightens around him and he bites back a moan, watching her fall to pieces in his hands. 

“Astarion. Astarion. ” She says his name like a mantra, clinging desperately to him as he guides her to the edge, keeping her just on the precipice. He knows her body well, enough to build her pleasure to a roaring crescendo, and only once she begs for release one final time does he finally give it to her. With one last pass of his hands and thrust of his cock, Ysera finally lets go, gnashing her teeth and arching her back off the blankets as she shatters beneath him. Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath, riding the cresting wave of her orgasm as Astarion increases the pace of his thrusts and follows her quickly over the edge.

His hand comes away from her cunt slick with her arousal, and Ysera watches him slowly lick his fingers clean, enraptured by the sight of it. Astarion pulls out of her with a sigh, fixing his hair and bushing away the curls that have fallen over his eyes.

Ysera glances between Astarion and the entrance of her tent; he can tell that she's afraid he will leave. On any other night he would collect his clothes and go, but he can't bear the thought of abandoning her again, not after everything that has occurred between them.

He feels her relax the moment he takes the liberty of laying down beside her, and although his back is turned he can still hear the way her heart skips a beat as she sighs in relief. She settles in beside him, and they slip into a comfortable silence.

Is this what it would be like if they were together? Enjoying one another's company without obligation or expectations? The emptiness he feels now has nothing to do with what just transpired between them and everything to do with the fact that she isn't still in his arms, sharing her warmth with him.

Astarion feels her hand hovering over him, hears her reconsider before rolling over onto her other side and drawing the blankets up to her chin. They lay together in the darkness, but the silence soon becomes suffocating.

Astarion’s mind races, a thousand different thoughts waging war within him. Guilt wraps its way around his heart like strangling vines, each pricking thorn gnawing away at his already fractured composure. He moves before his brain has time to remind him it's a bad idea, rolling over to face her.

Ysera makes a muffled noise of surprise when Astarion slips his arm over her torso, tucking her tightly against his chest. He holds her close enough to calm the tempest raging inside him, indulging more than he should by burying his nose into the nape of her neck and inhaling the scent of her. 

She deserves to know the truth. And tomorrow, he will tell her everything. But for now, he grants himself this small mercy, entertaining the fantasy that this could be forever, that he could be the one to bring back her smile. Because when she finally lets him go – and she will, once she learns of his deception – at least he won't have to wonder what it might have been like to be hers.

————

Astarion has been awake for hours by the time he sees Ysera emerge from her tent, hair disheveled as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. He'd been loathe to extract himself from her arms earlier that morning, but the longer he let it carry on the harder he knew it would have been to go through with what needs to be done.

Ysera smiles softly at him as Gale passes a plate of food into her hands, and she brushes Shadowheart off as the cleric fusses over the fresh bite marks on her neck. Shadowheart skewers him with an accusatory scowl, but her temper cools when she notices the soberness of his expression. Whatever she thinks happened between them, she doesn't press any further.

When breakfast is finished and the plates have been cleared away, Astarion grabs Ysera's attention and leads her away from the others.

He doesn't want an audience – not for this.

She follows him quietly to the edge of camp, and they come to a stop just before the barrier of the moonshield. She seems to pick up on his stiff posture, and her reaction to his expression when he finally turns to face her seems to confirm her worst fears.

“Do you have a moment?” he asks. “I… I think we need to talk.”

[khys-treasure-box]

✦ 𝘚𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘐𝘯 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘋𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. . .

★ ── Khyira / Khy | She/They | 21 (07.28.03) | Multifandom | SFW/NSFW | Main Blog | Carrd

Asks/Requests: OPEN! | Reblogs Appreciated!

Rules | Fandoms/Characters | Masterlist

Name's Khy, and I think a lot about a lot of characters, so why not have a place to dump all those thoughts? Could I just do that on my main blog? Well, yea. I could have, but I decided it'd be best for me to quarantine make my ramblings about characters I explicitly had no hand in making to a separate space! In other words, this blog exists to help me keep my main focused more on my own characters and content.

(If you want to see me yap about my OCs though, then I'd very much love if you'd check out my main blog! I've been a bit inactive there recently, but only because I've been working on so many new characters all at once. Hard to focus on writing things related to the ones I already have when I've got 6 new ones, and a 7th soon to be in the works. ^^')

Please note that while I will generally have asks/reqs open (If I ever close them, then this post will be edited to reflect that), I am doing this for fun! It is entirely possible that my posting will be inconsistent as is, therefore answers to asks and requests are equally likely to be inconsistent. That said, I would appreciate it a lot if those of you interacting with this blog would be respectful and not put loads of pressure on me!

★ ── Navigation / Tags

✦ #khy thoughts | For SFW posts!

✦ #khy thirsts | For NSFW/smut posts!

✦ #khy offtopic | For non-writing related posts!

✦ #khy recs | For reblogs of/boosting fics made by others that I enjoy and would recommend reading!

✦ #khy replies | For ask responses!

P.S: If anyone recognizes the song I used lyrics from as the post title for this, I love you <3 /gen /lh

[itemcrash]

[yoshi voice] awawawa

[jazencrou]

also this. you wouldn’t know it because I don’t draw him much anymore, but Khyfer is my absolute baby

[khyiratw]

We love Reika in this household!!!!

Here’s my oc :3 Reika

[theheroof]

the Khys siblings: Ce’ra and Rian

I wanted to make cathar characters alright? XD

[khyvehes]

OC sketch from the other night :3 i made Khy's arm too short but im too lazy to fix it ehehe <3

I rlly need to make proper ref sheets 4 both of them... i love my ocs so much I love drawing them and writing about them and talking about them and

[ladylike-foxes]

My two children. Halie’s hair makes up like, 25% of their height difference 😅

[kuuhaiyu]

read my “my spirit academia” au

(click for captions)

[khyiratw]

ꜱʜɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴡ/ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ & ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ <3

ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ? ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ? ᴡʜᴏ'ᴅᴀ ᴛʜᴜɴᴋ ɪᴛ? /ꜱᴀʀᴄ /ʟʜ

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ, ᴀꜱ ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴡ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴇ ɪꜱ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴏᴄ x ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢꜱ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴏᴄ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ɴᴇᴄᴇꜱꜱᴀʀʏ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ, ɪ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ʟɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ. ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴇᴀꜱɪᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴜɴꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇxᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴꜱɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ꜱᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ. ^^'

ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴍᴏᴏᴅʙᴏᴀʀᴅ ᴍɪɴɪ-ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ, ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ ɪɴ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴏᴄꜱ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ, ʜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀ 3 ᴏᴄ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ʟɪɴᴋ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴏᴄ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ!

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʟᴏᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏʀᴇ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʏᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ꜱᴏᴏɴ. ;)

/// ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ \\\

🌑 ᴅᴇꜱᴘɪᴛᴇ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ, ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏ��� ꜱᴇᴇꜱ. ᴜᴘ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴇɴ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ʙᴇꜱᴛ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴇᴋᴋᴏᴜᴋᴀɴ'ꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ʙᴏxɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴏᴅɪɢʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ' ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ; ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴ ᴀ ɴᴇɢᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴀɴɴᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ. (ɪʀᴏɴɪᴄ, ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ, ꜱᴏ ᴛᴇᴄʜɴɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅɪᴅ.)

🌒 ɴᴏᴛ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴊᴏɪɴɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴇꜱ, ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ, ᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ, "ʙᴏxɪɴɢ ꜱʜɪᴛ, ᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ". (ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴀꜱꜱʏ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ, ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ɢɪʀʟ ᴇxᴛᴇʀɪᴏʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʏᴇᴛ.) ᴛʜᴀɴᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ɪᴛ, ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴀᴛ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ᴄʟᴀʀɪꜰɪᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜʏ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴏ ɪɴꜱɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ, ʜᴇ ᴜʟᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ. ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴɪɴɢ ᴡᴀꜱ, ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱɪɴɢʟʏ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴋᴇ ᴏꜰ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴅ ᴜᴘ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴡᴇᴀᴋ ʟɪɴᴋ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ᴅɪᴅ. ᴡᴇʟʟ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇʟʟ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴏᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪɢʜᴛᴇʀ. ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɪɴ ꜱᴇᴇꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ? ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴀʟ. ɪᴛ'ᴅ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʜᴏᴜʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇꜰᴇɴᴅ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ɪꜰ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ. (ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴꜱ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴅᴇꜰᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ʟʟ ʜᴏᴘᴇꜰᴜʟʟʏ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴇxᴘʟᴀɪɴ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ.)

🌓 ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ, ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴀᴛ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏxɪɴɢ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴅᴀʏꜱ, ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴀꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇQᴜɪᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪʟʏ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ. ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴘɪᴄ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀᴛ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ, ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴜᴍᴏʀꜱ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴘʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ꜰᴀꜱᴛ. ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀᴍᴇꜱᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ꜱᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ. ᴀᴛ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴏʀᴛᴀ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴀᴛ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ. ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅʟᴇꜱꜱ, ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ; ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴇ ʀᴜᴍᴏʀꜱ ᴏɴᴄᴇ. ɪᴛ, ᴜɴꜰᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ Qᴜɪᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏꜱꜱɪᴘ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.

🌔 ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ. ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ꜱᴇᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ʟᴏᴏꜱᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴ ᴇxᴀɢɢᴇʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴀʀɪᴄᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰꜰ. ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ. ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴘᴜʀꜱᴜɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ꜰᴜʀᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ (ᴀʟʙᴇɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴꜱ), ʙᴏᴛʜ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴄᴇɪᴠᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴀʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏᴜᴛ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍʙɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀɪᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴜʟᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅʟʏ ʙᴏɴᴅ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ꜰᴏʀᴍɪɴɢ.

🌕 ʟᴏᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴜɴᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɪɴɢ. ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪɴ ᴅᴇɴɪᴀʟ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ꜱʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ (ᴍᴏꜱᴛʟʏ) ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ, ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴘᴜꜱʜ. ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʜᴇ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴏᴅᴅʟʏ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. ᴊᴜɴᴘᴇɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀʏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴏꜰ "ᴊᴏᴋɪɴɢ" ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ ᴏɴ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ. ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴅᴇɴɪᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴠᴇʜᴇᴍᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜɪꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ, ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʙʏ ɴᴏᴡ (ʜᴇ, ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ, ᴅɪᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʙʏ ɴᴏᴡ). ᴏɴʟʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀɪɢɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴘᴀᴛᴛᴇʀɴ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴇʟᴇᴠᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴅɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴛ ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ. (ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅᴇɴꜱᴇ, ᴏᴋᴀʏ? ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ɢᴜʏꜱ. :((( /ʜᴊ)

🌖 ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴅᴇꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴜɴꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ. ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʜᴏᴜʀ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴇɴꜱᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴡᴏʀʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ. Qᴜɪᴄᴋ ᴛʀɪᴘꜱ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ɢʀᴀʙ ʀᴀᴍᴇɴ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ. ʙᴜᴍᴘɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ᴇᴍʙᴀʀʀᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ɪᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ. ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱɪɴɢʟʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀʟʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʙʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅ.

🌗 ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏʀᴅᴇᴀʟ. ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴇQᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʀᴇ, ꜱᴏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ, ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ. ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴏ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴀᴄʜ ɪᴛ, ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ꜰɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴꜱᴇᴄᴜʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏʀ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ. ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴄʟᴜᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʜᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴊᴜɴᴘᴇɪ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ'ꜱ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴏ, ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏᴢᴇɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄʀᴀᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏʀɴʏ, ʀɪɢʜᴛ? ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.

🌘 ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪɴɢᴍᴇɴ, ᴏʀ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ, ɪɴ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ'ꜱ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ, ᴀ ᴡɪɴɢᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ. ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴊᴜɴᴘᴇɪ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴀʏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ʙᴇ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴛᴏ ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɢɪʀʟꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ ʏᴀᴋᴜꜱʜɪᴍᴀ. ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ꜰᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ. (ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄɪɴɢ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. xᴅ) ᴀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʏᴜᴋᴀʀɪ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜʀᴀɢɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢᴏ ꜰᴏʀ ɪᴛ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ. ꜰᴜᴜᴋᴀ ᴅɪᴅ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄʜɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜʀᴀɢᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇɴᴛʜᴜꜱɪᴀꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀꜱ ʏᴜᴋᴀʀɪ'ꜱ. ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɢᴏᴛ ʏᴜᴋᴀʀɪ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜɴᴘᴇɪ ᴛᴏ ᴡɪʟʟɪɴɢʟʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴄʜᴇᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱᴋ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴘʟᴀɴ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴇɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴅᴀʏꜱ, ꜱᴏ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ.

🌑 ᴜʟᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇʟʏ ʙʏ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴜɴʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ. (ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴇᴛꜱ/ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇxᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ'ꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ʟᴏʀᴇ. :ᴘ) ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʟᴏᴡ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ, ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀʏ ɪᴛ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ. ɪᴛ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟꜱᴇ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙʀᴜꜱʜ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ɪᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʜɪᴍ ʙᴜᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪᴍ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴏʀ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ. ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʜᴜɢɢɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ, ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛɪɴɢ.

/// ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ \\\

🌑 ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ꜱᴀʏ ɪᴛ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ, ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴅᴇᴍɪꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟꜱ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ, ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʙᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏɴᴇ. 

🌒 ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀʀʟʏ ʙɪɢ ᴏɴ ᴘᴅᴀ ᴀꜱɪᴅᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ʙʏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱɴᴇᴀᴋ ᴀ ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴏʀ ꜰᴏʀᴇʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ɪꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴘᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ.

🌓 ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴄᴏᴏᴋ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴜꜱᴇꜱ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴇxᴄᴜꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱɴᴇᴀᴋ ɪɴ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴋɪꜱꜱ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ "ᴀᴋɪ, ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴏɴ, ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ". ʜᴇ ꜰᴀʟʟꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ɪᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪᴛ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ɢɪɢɢʟᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴀʙʟᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ꜰʟᴜꜱᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜᴇ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ.

🌔 ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ᴍᴏɴᴛʜꜱ, ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱʜᴀʀɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜰ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛ, ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜᴇʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄᴏʟᴅ. ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜʀᴀɢᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴅʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴘʀɪᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ, ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ꜰᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴇꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴀɪᴅ, ʜᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ꜱʜɪᴠᴇʀ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ. ʙᴇꜱɪᴅᴇꜱ, ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴇxᴄᴜꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ.

🌕 ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴀ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴇᴀᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴄʀɪɴɢᴇᴡᴏʀᴛʜʏ ꜱʜᴇɴᴀɴɪɢᴀɴꜱ, ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴜʟᴛ ᴛᴏ ɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʟᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴇɴᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴀᴜɢʜɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀᴡᴋᴡᴀʀᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ʜᴀꜱ ᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ. ʜᴇʟʟ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴍɪᴍɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀᴛʟᴇᴀꜱᴛ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱʜʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.

🌖 ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴄʜʀᴏɴɪᴄ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟᴇʀ. ꜱᴜʀᴇ, ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ ꜱʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴇᴀʀ ɪɴ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ? ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ. ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴏʟᴅ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀꜱ ᴘᴀᴊᴀᴍᴀꜱ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ, ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜɪᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʟᴏɴɢ. ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ, ꜱᴏ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ʜᴇʀ, ɪᴛ'ᴅ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ʙᴇ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ.

🌗 ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʙꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇʙᴜɢꜱ. ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴜɴɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ, ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʟʟ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ᴀɢᴇꜱ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ; ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ.

🌘 ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ʙᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ. ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇꜱ ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴇʏᴇɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴘᴀɪʀ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀʀʀɪɴɢꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴜʏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ? ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴇ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ. ꜱᴜᴢᴜᴍᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀʜᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɢʀᴀʙ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɴᴇᴡ ᴛʀᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴇQᴜɪᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ? ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ. ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴄʏᴄʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ɢɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.

🌑 ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇʀ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴠᴀʟᴇɴᴛɪɴᴇ'ꜱ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪꜱ ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴀɪᴍᴇᴅ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴍᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴊᴀᴘᴀɴ, ᴀᴋɪʜɪᴋᴏ ɢᴏᴇꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ. ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ'ᴅ ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ, ꜱʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴏʟɪᴅᴀʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴅᴀʏ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴀᴄᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟɪᴅᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ᴏʀ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ, ʜᴇ ʀᴇꜰᴜꜱᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇʟʟꜱ ʜᴇʀ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛᴏᴍᴏʀʀᴏᴡ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴꜱɪꜱᴛꜱ.

ɢᴏᴅ, ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴜɴ. ;ᴡ; 

ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴛᴇʟʟ ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ꜱʜɪᴘ ʟᴏʀᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴏᴄ ʟᴏʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴍɪɴᴅ. ɪɴ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀʟ, ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙʀᴀɴᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀʀ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ɪꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴏ ʀᴇꜰʀᴇꜱʜɪɴɢ. ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴏᴄ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ, ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴛɪʀɪɴɢ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ; ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴘᴏꜱᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴄᴇɴᴛʟʏ. :')

ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ- ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ, ᴀꜱ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ! ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ʏᴇᴛ ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏᴄ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱʜɪᴘ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ, ɪ'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜱᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴜʏꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ᴅᴜᴍᴘɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ! 'ᴛɪʟ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ! <3

[umbralundertaker]

Istg. Is the way she meets Khys also similar to homestuck.

NO

its just the name thing. Sorry to diminish your hard work creating an oc im just like. I KNOW THAT GIRL

[tf-stuck-in-slow-motion]

do you want to explain how you get pronouns for everyone? I'm trying to figure out additional pronoun options for an au, so I'm curious how other people go about it

Oh, lovely Nonnie... I don’t know how to tell you that most of the time I just make shit up.   

In some cases, I use my own neopronouns. - Sey/sem/seir/seirself will be used for Wavecrash, an OC of mine who appears later - Tor/tors/torself I have tacked onto Pharma because unwilling hyperfixiation my abhorred   

In others, I’ll take the neopronouns I see other people use, like - treb/treble/trebles/trebleself for Rumble - thon/thons/thonself for Absolute Zero   

in others I’ll snatch some from other original continuities, mostly @rogue-seeker​ , who gave me - kha/khy/khyr/khyrself for Blackarachnia - sha/shi/shis/shiself for Starscream   

Most of the rest of the time, though, I just think of shit, which comes in three categories. There's "using the name", examples including - mu/mus/muself for Transmutate - wav/wavs/wavself (pronounced ‘wave, waves, waveself’) for Shockwave   

There’s “based on something that relates to the character”, things like - aur/aurum/aurus/auruself for Swindle (based on the Latin word for ‘gold’ because of course) - cam/cams/camself for Rewind (from ‘camera’) - lun/luna/lunaself for Moonracer (moon-themed neopronouns)   

And then there’s “Veev just thought of shit”, which include - tep/teps/tepself for Knockout - siv/sivs/sivself for Misfire - em/emer/emers/emerself for Chromia   

Hopefully that gives you insight into my general process - I use quite a few sources, even as a nonbinary person myself I have nowhere near the neopronoun smarts to know one to give to every character.