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cassiefromhell · 2 years ago

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Lollipops

Post-War: Levi Ackerman x Reader

wc: 4.3k

warnings: SPOILERS. im so serious guys. SPOILERS. if you havent watched/read to the FINALE, do not progress. you've been warned. also theres a little tiny bit of gore.

a/n: this is self-defense writing to protect my sanity after the last ep. im so not okay with it being over. also requests are open, i'll write anything! also, this is written in flashbacks. but never fear, the flashbacks are separated from the present by dividers, so you'll know when it switches.

“You two are like a fairytale couple,” a young girl giggles, hugging a pink-covered book to her chest. “Like a damsel and her prince.”

You smile, pulling a lollipop out of your box — and then another, handing them to her. “Take two for sweet-talking me. But remember that true love isn’t perfect by any means.”

She grins, nods, and takes her candy, sprinting off into an old woman’s arms. You sigh softly, looking up to see that the line of children coming to receive candy from Paridian heroes is momentarily empty.

“Not perfect, huh?” Levi asks from beside you, shifting in his chair.

You roll your eyes, gently flicking the side of his head. You crouch down to be on his level. “You’re saying that we had a fairytale romance? That you swept me off my feet and carried me away from danger?”

“Yes. I would. Now get your ass up, I don’t need you to get down for me,” he scowls, his eyes flicking over your kneeling form.

“I would get down on my knees for you anyti—”

“Up.”

You grin, but listen to him and stand up, picking up your box once more. “Fairytale, huh? So what are you, the savior?”

“I’d say it’s even. Although, I remember saving your ass much more often than you saved mine.”

You scoff, putting your hands on your hips. “Name a time!”

“Get your ass up, scout!”

You groan, shoving yourself up onto your elbows. “Just a sec,” you manage between heavy breaths, coughing and coughing.

Hoofbeats approach and you whimper, knowing that if that’s the captain you think it is, you’re about to get the beating of a lifetime.

“Why, exactly, are you laying in the dust?” Captain Levi Ackerman asks, tone cold and voice sharp as a knife. “You’re a transfer, not a cadet. From the MP’s, even. I expected better.”

“I’m recovering from an injury, Captain,” you wheeze out, pressing a hand to your side and shoving yourself up onto your knees. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You’d better be. Now, up. On your feet, or be left behind.”

You pull one foot under you, then the other, and nearly collapse. His arm shoots out to grab your bicep, effectively keeping you up as your side screams in protest, ribs aching and tears springing to your eyes.

“What kind of an injury?” he asks, his grip tightening. “Why on earth would you switch to the Survey Corps while injured?”

“Ribs,” you hiss, gripping your side. The doctors have said that nearly all your ribs on your right side are either bruised, fractured, or completely broken. “And I had no choice. I had to leave.”

He narrows his eyes, but slowly releases you, making sure you’re not going to fall over the second he lets go. “You’re in no condition to be training, and I don’t need you getting worse. I have no interest in crippled soldiers. Go inside and get yourself assigned to kitchen duty for the next two weeks, on Ackerman’s orders.”

Your eyes slowly shift up from the ground to him, and you get your first good look at him.

And holy shit, the rumors of Humanity’s Strongest did not mention how mouth-wateringly attractive he is.

You give the dumbest nod you’ve ever given and turn on your heel. You hobble your way inside, and then immediately lean against a cold, stone wall, repeating to yourself in your head over and over again:

We are not falling for a captain.

You open and close your mouth, then shrug. “Okay, but of course you were going to save my ass a lot while I was training. I’m sure it got better once I was a captain.”

“Did it, though?”

You elbow him, scowling. A smirk dances on his lips.

A woman grinning ear-to-ear starts your way, and you narrow your eyes. “She’s too old for candy.”

“Reporter,” Levi grumbles, looking down into his box, as if not making eye contact will stop her from approaching.

“Hi!” She shouts, giving a big wave. “I was hoping to ask you two a quick few questions, while you’re not too busy.”

“We’re quite busy,” Levi drones.

“Ah! I had heard about that grumpy attitude!” The reporter laughs, then looks at you. “And you must be his sunshine!”

You scratch the back of your neck, shrugging. “Something like that.”

The reporter whips out a pen and paper. “Now, all sources say that tog two have been married for quite some time, but nothing ever tells me when you two met, or how! Do tell.”

“We met in the service,” you start, rubbing your chin. “I had just transferred to the military police, so I was starting fresh in the Survey Corps.”

She quirks a brow. “Why did you transfer?”

The air simply won’t come to your lungs. You can’t breathe. The night sky doesn’t help, the fresh cool air is only suffocating you more.

You drop to the grass in the courtyard, one hand on your healing side and the other around your throat. Tears pour down your face, and you cough, and cough, and cough, and gasp.

It was just a nightmare, you tell yourself, but it doesn’t help. You can still remember what really happened, his hand around your neck, boot in your side, the bruises along each ridge of your spine from being tossed into a wall.

Your ribs may have been almost fully healed now, after two months being a Scout, but you still can feel each kick he gave you just for telling him no.

“Breathe.”

You sputter, looking up to see Captain Levi kneeling in front of you. He grips your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Breathe, come on. Take a deep breath.”

You try, you really do, but you only end up sobbing harder. Your hands clench the grass.

He sighs heavily, scooting over to your side and awkwardly patting your back. “Breathe.”

You manage to slow your breathing, and take a few good deep breaths. Then you immediately stumble to your feet. “…Sorry. I’ll head back now.”

His hand is around your wrist before you can even register that he’s gotten up. “Why are you out here so late, crying in the damn courtyard?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream, you murmur, tugging your hand away from him and heading back inside.

You feel assessing eyes on your back as you walk, and you can’t help but look down at your hand, that hand that you wore a ring on for a year and a half.

You’ve fallen silent, chewing your lip and looking off to the side. The reporter tilts her head, raising a brow.

“She just needed a fresh start,” Levi answers for you, placing a hand on your hip for reassurance. “And that’s what she got.”

She accepts that answer, writing down the words. “Now, how did you two end up together? Was it live at first sight?”

Levi scoffs. “Far from it.”

You glare at him. “Well, I liked you.”

“No, you hated me. You just wanted to fuck.”

“Thank you, Hange,” you grin, folding up the card again and tucking it back into the envelope, which reads ‘Congrats, new Captain!’. “I really appreciate it.”

A year in the Survey Corps flew by fast, and you had shown immense skill in the craft, therefore earning the title of Captain of your very own squad.

But your skills weren’t the only thing that had developed. You and Levi tolerated each other now, even if he thought you were loud and chaotic and you thought he was grumpy and sad, like a lonely old man.

And yet, you were drawn to him. He was handsome, and every once in a while you’d say something that would make his mouth tilt up, and… that mouth. It would be the death of you.

Hange heads out, leaving you alone in your room for the first time in hours. Everybody had been in and out, offering congratulations and words of advice.

You sink back onto your bed, yawning. It’s been a long day, and now you just want to sleep—

But a knocking comes on your door, and in walks Levi.

“I could have been naked,” you grin as he strides over, dumping a pile of paperwork on your desk.

“Captains have more paperwork than everybody else. I’ve been assigned to show you how to fill it out.”

“I bet you were hoping I was naked” you tease, but get up anyway, running a hand down your face as you stand next to him.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re boring.”

“Boring? Really?”

“Yeah.”

There is a short silence, with Levi sorting through the papers. And suddenly, you are very aware of the fact that you are in your bedroom, alone, with Levi Ackerman.

And apparently he’s aware of it too, because he gives you a look.

And then you jump on him.

The reporter laughs and scratches a few things down on her pad of paper, her eyes crinkling around the edges. “And what year was this?”

“We met in 846, and then started seeing each other romantically in 847,” you explain. You open a lollipop and stick it in your mouth.

The reporter only stares at you, a brow lifted and eyes narrowed.

“Eleven years ago,” Levi says, and then she nods and writes it down.

“What—”

“Different years,” Levi murmurs, shaking his head. “They’re in the damn 1900’s, remember.”

You flush, blood rushing to your ears and cheeks. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been with the rest of the world, you always forget that years are different and you can take a plane somewhere and getting a papercut doesn’t mean you might die of sepsis.

For you, it’s still 858.

“Did you two personally know Eren Jaeger?”

You crouch by the bars, tilting your head as you examine him. Just a child. Skinny. He couldn’t hurt a fly.

“This is the titan child?” You ask, squinting. “He’s, what, fifteen?”

“Yes. Please step back,” Levi says. “You don’t need to be that close.”

“He’s like a fleck of dirt in a crop field. I need to be this close to see him. Are you sure he really—“

The chains on his arms rattle, and you skitter back, slamming into the wall beside Levi.

“Careful,” he scowls, brushing dirt off of your shoulder.

“What… happened?” The boy asks, rubbing his eyes.

Erwin launches into a full explanation, and by the time he’s done the boy looks completely lost.

“You’re… the commander of the Survey Corps,” he looks at Erwin, “…And Captain Levi, and Captain {Y/N}… where am I?”

“A dungeon—”

Erwin keeps speaking, but a thump near the staircase catches your attention. You stride off, past the MP guards, and peek around the corner.

There, struggling against a guard, is the young girl that you’ve been told is Mikasa.

You scowl, shutting the door behind yourself and storming up to her.

“Calm down,” you whisper, taking both her wrists in one hand and pushing her up against a wall. “Do you realize what you’re risking here?”

“You don’t understand, I need to see him—”

“Shut up. You’re risking his freedom by coming this close. Go back upstairs.”

She glares at you, damn near baring her teeth. But you hold firm, and she slowly nods.

“Good, now go.”

You release her, and with one final glance over her shoulder, she trudges up the stairs.

You run a hand through your hair, thinking to yourself: these new scouts are going to be an issue, aren’t they?

“Yes,” you say, nodding. “We knew all of the kids.”

“All of them?” she asks, furiously scratching down your words.

“We were both captains when Eren’s year entered the corps — we trained them. Of course we knew them all.”

“On my squad,” you read off of your paper, speaking to the large crowd in front of you — all the scouts that will be on the next expedition. “…I am pulling in an extra scout. Mikasa Ackerman will join me in the center ranks.”

Whispers run through the crowd, and you step off of the stage, taking your spot next to Levi in the captains line. Erwin picks up a speech, talking about the squad formations.

A tap on your shoulder makes you turn, and your eyes widen as you’re met with your favorite chaos trio: Jean, Sasha, and Connie.

“Get into your formation,” you hiss.

“But, here’s the thing,” Jean whispers. “I’ve been really great during training. What do I have to do to get on your squad?”

“Jean!” you narrow your eyes. “You are not getting on my squad.”

“I would bring you food every day,” Sasha pleads, putting her hands out in a prayer position. “Please! We’d be the best squad ever.”

You actually pause to consider that for the food, but Levi stomps on your foot. “Ow— Uhm, no. Now return to formation or I’ll bump you down a squad.”

They skitter off, moving through the crowd. You just hope that they’ll go to the right place this time.

You sigh, facing forward again. You’ve already heard everything that Erwin has to say, so this is all repeat to you.

You brush your hand against Levi’s, and his pinky touches yours. You lock them together, resisting the urge to just lean into his warmth.

Pinkies locked, you wait out the rest of the assembly.

“Would you say you were close with any of them?”

Levi shrugs. “They respected me. They loved her.”

“Oh, they loved you too,” you grin, patting his shoulder. “Loved you enough for Historia to smack you the second she was legally allowed to.”

“Have there been any hardships?” The reporter cuts in.

You pause. Levi pauses.

“Of course,” he murmurs, voice softer now. He brushes his fingertips against your thigh.

As soon as you make it in through the gate, Levi is at your side, pulling his horse up next to yours.

“Let me look,” he murmurs, beckoning with his hand.

You shake your head, cradling your messily bandaged hand to your chest. “No.”

“{Y/N}. Let me look,” his voice is more stern now.

You know the damage. You found a cloaked figure up high in the trees, you went for the attack, and they were faster than you. It was a clean cut. Your index and middle fingers are gone, as well as a chunk of your thumb.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I can’t take it off ‘till I reach the medics,” you whisper back, turning away from him. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

But he doesn’t leave. He stays by your side, silently. He rides with you all the way to the scout headquarters, silently. He walks with you to the medics, without a single word.

The medics take one look at you, and, having heard that you were coming in, usher you into a private room.

There are three medics with you, which means they consider your injury a serious one.

The lead medic closes the door, and then turns to you with a pitiful smile. “Let’s take a look, alright captain?”

You cradle your hand closer to your chest. You feel like a child, not wanting to accept what’s happened. But it’s… your hand… this is forever.

Levi gently touches your arm. “You don’t have to look.”

You can’t remember the last time Levi was so soft with you. You’ve been with him for years by now, but he’s just not a soft person.

Nevertheless, he pulls your face against his shoulder, stroking your hair. He carefully pulls your wrapped hand away from you, holding it out for the medics.

You feel it immediately when they start pulling the bandages off, and you bury your face into Levi’s shirt, whimpering.

“You’re alright. They’ve almost got it off,” he murmurs, holding your face against his chest.

The wrapping falls away, and there’s a soft gasp from one of the medics, followed by Levi stiffening.

“Is it bad?” you moan, crying out as someone prods something painful.

“Do you want me to lie?”

“No.”

“It’s not good. But it’s a clean cut, so they’re going to clean it and stitch it up for you. You’ll be fine.”

You fist his shirt. “…Please don’t go.”

He pulls you a little closer. “I won’t. I won’t leave your side.”

The next thing you know, they’ve stuck your hand in alcohol, and you’re screaming.

You tuck your half-hand into your pocket, out of the reporter’s watchful gaze.

“But you two are married, correct?”

Levi nods. “Yes.”

“When were you married?”

You look to Levi, smiling softly. “Well, twice. Once in Paradis, and they don’t acknowledge Paridian marriage licenses here, so we did it all over again a couple years ago.”

“When was the first time?”

Your hand has become a focus for you.

Just as you lay in bed now, holding your two and a half fingers above your head. The stitches have been taken out, leaving you with pinky and ring fingers, two little nubs cut below the first knuckle, and half of a thumb. It’s still healing, but this is pretty much what your hand will look like. Forever. Till the day you finally croak.

The door swings open, and you immediately feel Levi’s cold, calculating gaze. “Are you picking at it again?”

“No,” you roll your eyes. “Just looking. Y’know, at least I still have a ring finger.”

“Why does that matter?” He asks. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up, then sits on the bed beside you and starts on his boots.

“So one day I could wear a wedding ring.”

He pauses. You pause, realizing what just came out of your mouth.

He turns to face you, leaving one boot on and the other half off. “You’re interested in marriage.”

Suddenly your face feels hot. “…Yeah.”

“To me?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really what you want?”

You nod, chewing your lip.

“Then marry me.” His face stays completely blank.

You sit up slowly, eyes wide. “You— you wanna marry me?”

“You already know that I love you. If you want marriage, it’s only logical that—”

You cut him off by tackling him, sending the both of you tumbling off the bed. Levi twists so that he’ll hit the ground and you’re just land on him, but you have no time to ask if he’s okay between all the kisses you’re showering across his face.

He scoffs. “Enough, woman.”

“You wanna be stuck with me!? Really?!” You grin, sitting up to be straddling his waist.

“I guess so.”

You throw your arms over your head, starting to sing to yourself. “You looooove me, you wanna maaaarry me, I’m gettin’ maaaarried,” you snap to your own little beat, dancing on his waist.

You look down at him, beaming, just to find him watching you with soft gray eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers.

The reporter smiles and nods, then looks over her notes. “Well, I just have one more question, and then I’ll leave you two be.”

Levi looks quite ready to be done, so you speak up. “Just make it quick.”

She nods, looking up at you one last time. “Did everyone else know you two were together?”

You sigh, reaching behind you and pulling your hair out of its ponytail. It’s been a long day, and all you want is to refill your ODM fuel for tomorrow and go to bed.

You approach the supply closet, but pause when you hear voices. You peer in, eyes widening at the sight.

Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Reiner, and Bertholdt all crowd around a table, coins in piles. But there are no cards. No game.

“Listen,” Connie says, throwing up his hands. “It’s just gotta be someone in the Survey Corps. There’s no way it’s not!”

“But wouldn’t we know if it was?” Jean adds, rubbing his chin. “There aren’t too many options.”

“Miche?” Mikasa proposes, spinning a coin in her fingers.

“What? No,” Eren scoffs. “Absolutely not. Armin, what do you think?”

Armin lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “I already lost my money on the bet that Captain {Y/N} would stay single. I thought she was the type to not want or need a man.”

Ah. So they’re betting… on my love life!?

“Well, she’s wearing a ring, that’s for sure…” Sasha rubs her chin. “What if it’s Levi?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Everyone in the room erupts into laughter.

“Ha! Her and Levi? When pigs fly!” Eren laughs, banging his fist on the table.

“You’re such an idiot,” Connie grins, shoving Sasha. “I’d say she’s a lesbian before that!”

You smirk and roll your eyes, walking away from the room. You just know that they’re gonna be knocked off their feet when they find out.

“No, no, it took them quite a while to find out,” you laugh, shaking your head. “They couldn’t have guessed it if they’d put all their little brains together — and believe me, they did.”

“So, how did they find out?”

“Alrighty, Armin,” you sigh, running a hand over your head. “Let’s get this transformation done. The area is cleared for miles, so just give me a few minutes to get out of dodge, and you’ll get the smoke signal to go ahead.”

He nods, chewing his lip.

“Hey,” you pat his shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

With that done, you turn, shooting your grappling hooks into a tree and soaring off into the forest.

After a few minutes, you’re damn near in the safe zone.

Near.

And then the sky lights up like a Christmas tree.

As expected, a massive explosion sounds behind you, and your ears immediately start to ring. More concerning, however, is the shrapnel made of trees and dirt and rocks flying your way.

You shriek, turning forward once more and zipping your way through the trees. Except, you have to hold your left sword in a weird way because of your hand, and then a gush of wind hits you and—

The branch you’re swinging from snaps, and you’re sent tumbling to the ground, unable to right yourself.

The grass gets nearer and nearer, and you fumble with your swords. But you won’t make it. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, and accept your fate—

Until you collide with Levi’s chest, and his arms are around you, and you’re zipping towards the safe zone.

“Holy shit,” you wheeze, coughing on stirred up dust. You grip his shoulders, shaking from all of the adrenaline rushing through you.

You’re back in the group with the others in no time, and Levi immediately puts you on the ground. But you don’t get a hug and a ‘thank god you’re alive.’ No, Levi puts his hands on your shoulders and shakes you.

“Are you crazy?” He hisses, gripping your jaw with one hand. “I’ve told you to hold your swords upside down like I do, so this wouldn’t happen. You almost died, and all because of your idiocy—”

“Levi—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it. You cannot go dying on me, you hear me? I will not lose you.”

You bite your lip, putting a hand on his chest. “Levi…”

“You are such a fucking idiot. I cannot believe I married someone who would risk her own life like that. You need to value yourself, damn it! You cannot leave me here alone—”

You shut him up with a kiss, rooting your hand in his hair. He kisses you back without hesitation, his hands flying to your waist.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you murmur, pulling away. “You saved me. You caught me. And I’m confident that you always will.”

His jaw clenches, a muscle feathering, and he opens his mouth, but a voice from the right interrupts whatever he had planned to say.

“Did I, uh… miss a chapter?” Jean asks.

You look over to find almost all of Eren’s friend group standing there, dumbfounded. Hange sits up in a tree, grinning ear to ear, but they’ve known about you two for years.

You grin, shaking your head. “The money goes to Sasha.”

“AND YOU ALL CALLED ME STUPID!” Sasha shrieks, throwing her hands up in the air.

“That’s all I need,” the reporter nods, and closes her notebook, tucking away her pen. “Nice meeting you two, heroes.”

She leaves with a wink, and just in time, because a little refugee boy has approached, hands behind his back.

You give him a soft smile, kneeling to be on his level. “Would you like a lollipop?”

The boy nods, giving a shy smile.

Levi reaches into his box, holding out a blue lollipop. He gives the child his softest smile, and in that smile you see it all.

You see the man that saved your ass more times than you can count. The man who presses a kiss to your temple when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. The man who blushes when you run your hands down his chest. The man who doesn’t give anyone that soft smile of his, except for on very rare occasions.

Your man.

The center of your universe.

The boy takes his lollipop, bows at the waist, and then skitters off with a mumbled ‘thank you.’

You watch him go, and then you turn back, met with Levi, holding out a lollipop to you.

You press a kiss to his scarred knuckles and take it, giving him your own soft smile. “I love you.”

“Yeah, you too, brat,” he chuckles, turning back to the box of candy.

And you remember the nights you spent eating sweets he brought back for you from town.

You remember every night with him.

Because Levi is your world. Your one and only.

And he always will be, from now until the end of time.

@jeannineee be proud of me bitch <3

#fanfiction #aot #levi aot #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfic #attack on titan fanfiction #levi ackerman #captain levi #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #second person #2nd person pov #post war aot #cassiefromhell

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ladylaviniya · 2 months ago

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Devotion Under Duress Part 3

Part 1/Part 2

Story Synopsis: Ever since Apollo made you his bride, you have been at odds with the jealous Hyacinthus. Apollo decides that his lover and his wife need to make amends. He commands you both to have sex with each other while he watches and guides.

Word Count: 4k+

Pairings: Reader X Apollo X Hyacinthus

Story Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Vaginal sex, Oral sex (both m and f receiving and giving) Humiliation, Enemies to Lovers Cunnilingus, Ancient Greek God Mythology., threesome, hate-fucking.

Authors Notes: If you practice Hellenism, please know this writing may not be your cup of tea and you may feel a misrepresentation of the gods you might follow/show reverence for. I am writing this from the perspective of *Blood of Zeus Characters.*

You blinked, “What?”

Apollo’s smile thinned, “You heard me. Say something kind. Say something honest. Or I’ll throw you both from Olympus, and you can rut in the mud like pigs.”

You froze.

The silence screamed louder than anything you could say.

Compliment him?

You’d rather bleed.

But your body trembled, aching, split between denial and desire. And Hyacinthus, Hyacinthus hadn’t looked away. His jaw was set, but his eyes burned with something hollow and desperate, something that mirrored your own.

You swallowed the last of your dignity and let the words drag their claws up your throat.

“His face is perfect, his lips are soft, and his hair is so soft… His tongue is made of warm light inside of me, and I don’t know if I will experience something as good as that… not even from you, Lord Apollo.”

The admission was like tearing your skin off.

Hyacinthus flinched like he’d been struck. His hands flexed against your hips, “Fuck,” he whispered, more breath than voice.

Apollo’s grin turned feral.

“Your turn,” he said, turning to Hyacinthus, “Say something. Or I’ll bind your cock in gold and leave it pulsing for eternity.”

Hyacinthus’s throat bobbed. He didn’t look at Apollo.

He looked at you.

“A gloriously wet cunt to fuck and claim and fight a war over.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him, at this beautiful, infuriating boy who had once been your rival and now lay trembling beneath you, not from fear, but from the weight of truth.

And gods help you, something twisted in your chest.

Apollo stood away from the bed and folded his arms over his chest as he walked around the rounded bed, observing you both from all angles.

Your hips rocked without meaning to, and both of you gasped.

Apollo laughed, bright and sharp, “Good.” His voice dripped like honey over flame, “Now again.”

Because of course he wasn’t done.

Because neither were you.

“Again,” Apollo barked.

You barely had time to catch your breath.

“Compliment him again,” he continued, circling around the two of you like a lion around a pair of bleeding deer, “Not just flesh. Not just fucking. I want something real. Something you’ve never said out loud.”

You swallowed hard, rage scraping the inside of your throat.

“No.”

His footsteps stopped behind you, “No?”

You could feel the smile in his voice.

“Do you think this is a choice?” His fingers trailed up your spine, warm, gentle, deceptive, “You’re both so eager to prove how unbreakable you are. But you already obeyed me once. That’s all it takes. One fracture. The rest comes easily.”

You shivered.

Hyacinthus’s hands clenched at your waist, his voice low and dangerous, “I’d rather die than tell you.”

Apollo chuckled, “How dramatic. Is that what this is?” He crouched besides you now, his voice a velvet threat against your neck, “Do you think your love is noble just because it’s poisoned with hate?”

You flinched. The word hit harder than it should have.

Love.

“That’s not what this is,” you spat.

Apollo hummed, “No? Then why do you keep looking at each other like the pain is personal?”

He reached forward suddenly, gripping Hyacinthus’s jaw, forcing him to look at you, “Go on,” he whispered, “Tell her how it feels. Being inside someone who loathes you. Is it everything you hoped for?”

Hyacinthus’s breathing went ragged, “It’s worse.”

“Good,” Apollo murmured, “That means it matters.”

He turned to you, “Your turn, little thing. Tell him something he’s never heard before. Something you swore you’d never say.”

“I don’t owe him that.”

“You don’t owe me,” Apollo corrected, his thumb brushing the base of your throat, just firm enough to remind you that you weren’t in control anymore, “But you’ll give it anyway.”

You bit your lip, hard, willing the tears of frustration not to rise. You wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

But the silence grew heavier. The ache inside you is unbearable. And that voice, that damn voice, kept pulling you deeper.

“If you don’t tell him the truth,” Apollo said softly, “I’ll know. And I’ll make sure the next time he’s inside you, you’ll feel nothing. Not heat. Not pressure. Not released. Just emptiness.”

You weren’t sure if you would ever touch the flower god again. The thought tasted bitter, metallic, like copper pennies against your tongue. But Apollo’s decree, cold and final, splintered something deeper inside you than mere want. It fractured you.

A sound ripped itself free from your throat, too wild to be a sob, too broken to be a snarl. Raw, desperate.

“That’s cruel,” Hyacinthus murmured, his voice fraying at the edges.

“No,” Apollo corrected smoothly, voice wrapped in silk and steel, “that’s mercy.” He circled you both, a golden orbit of authority, “You don’t get to tarnish something sacred and treat it like a battlefield.”

You were trembling now. Every muscle quivering, each breath a battle between humiliation and something worse: vulnerability. Stripped bare, not by touch, but by the truth clawing its way to the surface.

Your gaze lifted, throat tight with unshed agony. First to Apollo, who loomed like a god carved from sunlight. Then lower, to Hyacinthus, whose body strained beneath yours, a taut wire ready to snap.

And there, you shattered.

“My curse,” you rasped, voice gravel-thick and unwilling, “is his charisma.” The words fought you, scraping up your throat like glass“. He draws every gaze without trying. He laughs, and the world leans closer. He’s funny, charming—beautiful.” Your voice softened as you shifted, the confession no longer for Apollo but for the man beneath you, the one buried inside your body, “And I know I lack it. I know I’ll never be that. And gods help me, I hate how much I want you to see me anyway. To notice me. To touch me, like you touch Apollo.”

The words, once spoken, left you trembling, naked in a way flesh could never be.

Hyacinthus’s face collapsed. For just a breath of time, a crack split through the marble mask he wore. Vulnerability flared, and it nearly undid you.

Apollo’s breath, rich and indulgent, fanned your cheek. His knuckle traced the curve of your lower lip, featherlight, “See?” he crooned, with a satisfaction that made your skin burn, “That was beautiful.”

He straightened, folding his hands neatly behind his back, a golden judge presiding over your ruin.

“Again,” he commanded.

And now, you understood.

This was the real offering. Not your bodies; those were already Apollo’s. No, he wanted the deeper sacrifices: pride, secrets, and the trembling confessions you would never have given willingly. He would flay you with truth, peeling you apart layer by fragile layer, until all that remained was unvarnished devotion.

And worse still, worse than the ache between your thighs, worse than the humiliation tightening your chest, was the knowledge that you would let him.

Because now you needed to know what he would strip away next.

Apollo’s eyes turned to Hyacinthus, gilded irises sharpening, “You,” he said, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath, “You act like you're the one resisting. As if I haven’t already seen you trembling beneath her. Seen the way you ache, not just for her body, but for the ruin she could make of you if you let her.”

Hyacinthus’s muscles coiled, every line of him taut, his breath uneven. You could feel it, the fraying tether, the desperate resistance.

Apollo tilted his head in mockery, all golden cruelty, “You pretend you’re here for conquest. But you’re not. You’re here because when she hurts you, with words, with her eyes, it wounds deeper than any blade. And you need it, don’t you? That pain. That reminder you’re alive.”

Hyacinthus bared his teeth, a snarl scraping from his throat, “You think you know me?”

Apollo chuckled, low and dark, a sound of omniscience, “I don’t think so, boy.”

He moved, a shimmer of light and danger, circling behind Hyacinthus. One hand dragged, slow and deliberate, down Hyacinthus’s spine, tracing each vertebra with maddening precision.

“Your pride is a gaudy costume,” Apollo said, voice dipping into something almost tender, almost pitying, “A desperate thing stitched together to hide how hollow you are. You look at her like she’s the enemy. But I see the truth. I see the hunger.”

Hyacinthus’s breathing was ragged now. Sweat shimmered at his temple. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Wouldn’t meet Apollo’s either.

So Apollo forced him.

A fist knotted in Hyacinthus’s hair and jerked his head up. His hiss of pain was sharp, real.

“Look at her,” Apollo ordered, his voice curling around the words like a noose, “Compliment her.”

Hyacinthus trembled. Truly trembled. For the first time, you saw fear, not fear of pain or death, but fear of being known.

Slowly, his gaze turned to you, and there was no rage there now. No disdain.

Only shame. And longing.

“She…” His voice cracked. He swallowed, hard, and the sound was painful, “You. You are so loyal. So… impossibly devoted. You carry yourself like a queen, sweet and untouchable. You care for Apollo, for everyone, even those who would spit in your face. You…” He faltered, breaking, “You wish me a good day. Every day. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You blinked, stunned, unmoored.

Hyacinthus’s mouth twisted, each word wrenched from somewhere deep and hidden.

“I hate it,” he whispered, “I hate how much I admire it. I hate how your kindness is a fortress I can’t breach. You’re everything I know I’m not: kind, resilient, and good. And gods, I loathe you for it. Because if you can be all that, what does that make me?”

You froze, your heart a wild, thrashing thing in your chest.

Apollo released Hyacinthus’s hair, stepping back with a smile as sharp as a sword’s edge.

“There,” he murmured, pleased, “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Hyacinthus’s chest heaved. His hands, still clutching your hips, trembled with the effort of restraint. One wrong move, one whisper of a slip, and you would both tumble over the edge without Apollo’s leave.

Apollo rose to his full height, immaculate, untouchable. He dusted his hands, as if wiping away the last remnants of your dignity.

“Do you feel it now?” he asked, his voice a quiet thunder rumbling low in your bones, “What am I carving out of you?”

You did. God help you, you did.

The tension had shifted, tectonic and unrelenting. It was no longer about lust. No longer about rage or defiance.

It was something far more fragile.

Something real.

Apollo’s smile sharpened, “Now that the truth has been told…” His gaze flickered between you, molten and merciless, “Let’s see what happens when I set you free. No begging. No pleading. Just the ruin you’ve both been craving.”

He stepped back, and the invisible leash snapped.

Your bodies moved, not from command but from the shattering absence of it. You rocked together, frantic, desperate, instinctive.

Because the only force greater than denial…

Was permission.

Hyacinthus’s voice broke the silence, roughened to something low and tender, softer than you had ever heard it.

“Did you mean it?”

You swallowed against the knot in your throat, your body still trembling from all that had come before, “All of it,” you said, voice raw and unflinching.

The effect was immediate.

His face, once so guarded, so carefully arranged into a mask of indifference or disdain, cracked wide open. No rage. No smirk. Nothing left to shield him now. Only something bare, exposed, and vulnerable in a way that undid you more completely than any cruelty ever could.

And then you leant down.

Forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the narrow space between you. Neither of you moved to close that final gap. Not yet. It was enough, in that trembling second, to simply exist, not as rivals or enemies, but as something unspoken, breath to breath, heat to heat.

Hyacinthus exhaled shakily, like he was breathing real air for the first time in years, like your skin was the only sanctuary he had ever known.

“I hate how much I care what you think of me,” he murmured, his voice a threadbare whisper meant only for you.

A small, hoarse laugh slipped from you, brittle but real, “I hate that you say things like that and make me want to forgive you.”

His lips brushed the curve of your jaw, featherlight, reverent, “I don’t need forgiveness,” he whispered, the words trembling on his mouth, “Just… don’t go. Ignore every stupid thing I ever said. Just don’t leave.”

You reached for him then, not with claws or cruelty, but with a gentleness you didn’t know you were capable of. Your hands cupped his face, fingertips mapping the strong lines of his jaw, the delicate tremor in his skin.

Finally, finally, not to wound, but to feel.

When you moved your hips next, it wasn’t to provoke or punish. It wasn’t a contest or a battlefield. It was tentative, careful, and an offering.

Hyacinthus groaned, head tilting back, violet eyes fluttering closed as if the sensation was too much, too pure.

Your name slipped from his lips like a prayer, cracked and reverent, “Pythia.”

Behind you, Apollo chuckled, the sound bright and amused, cutting through the heavy hush like sunlight through mist, “Finally,” he drawled, golden and smug, “I was beginning to think I’d have to glue your souls together myself.”

Hyacinthus didn’t react. He couldn’t. His mouth was too busy dragging along the column of your throat, each kiss a confession, each murmur a surrender that made your heart pound harder than any insult ever had.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered against your skin, his voice wrecked and trembling, “So soft. How could I have been so blind?”

You gasped softly, smiling despite the burn in your chest, “Because you spent all your time pretending I was the enemy.”

His eyes opened, violet and shining and too bright to look at for long, “You never were.”

You rocked your hips again, slower, deeper, and the moans spilling between you shifted, no longer frantic, no longer sharp with need. They were softer now, gentler, edged with something that tasted like relief.

Behind you, Apollo sighed dramatically, but even his theatrical exasperation couldn’t hide the fondness woven through his voice, “Look at you two,” he mused, “Precious. I’ll be weeping before the hour’s out.”

You didn’t care. You didn’t even hear him anymore.

Because Hyacinthus kissed you then, not with hunger or dominance, not with the heat of a fight, but with something truer. Something that anchored you. His mouth moved against yours like he had found the one place in the world he didn’t have to hide.

And when you kissed him back, you realised you hadn’t lost anything.

You had found something you didn’t know you were searching for: a home.

Hyacinthus’s kiss was slow, almost tentative at first, as if he feared breaking the fragile thing between you. A claiming not of body or pride, but of something sacred. Something final.

Your lips moved against his like a promise, a surrender, a beginning.

His hands, still braced on your hips, gentled, no longer clutching you like a prise but guiding you. When you sank down into him again, hot and full and aching, it wasn’t a power play.

It was an invitation.

You gasped into his mouth, and he moaned into yours, the sounds blending into a private language only the two of you could understand.

His forehead pressed to yours. His breath fanned your lips as he whispered, “You feel like something I was never meant to want.”

Your heart stuttered, “And now?”

His mouth curved, a fragile, ruined smile, “Now I think I’d destroy myself to keep you like this.”

You rocked against him again, deliberately slower, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hands tightened, but not to control you, but to keep himself from flying apart.

“Fuck,” he gasped, the curse drawn from somewhere helpless. He thrust up into you, meeting you now not in battle but in surrender. The slick heat of your bodies sliding together was no longer frantic. It was desperate in a different way, honest. Necessary.

You pressed your palms to his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heart. Wild and unguarded.

“I hate you,” you panted, the words trembling, “for making me want this.”

He laughed, short and gasping, “I hate that it took me this long to see it.”

You smiled, despite the tremble in your legs, and ground down onto him harder. He cried out, a beautiful, wrecked sound, and his hands clutched at you, desperate now.

“Gods,” he groaned, “you’re perfect. I can’t—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

You leant over him, lips brushing the corner of his mouth in a kiss that was all tenderness, all ache.

“I want to come with you,” you whispered against his skin.

The words shattered whatever restraint he had left. His hips bucked up, helpless and frantic, and you moved with him, matching him, chasing that edge together.

Pleasure coiled low in your belly, a hot, heavy burn that grew with every thrust, every whispered word, every breathless kiss.

You felt him throbbing inside you, thick and full and desperate.

Your walls clenched around him, and he nearly sobbed.

“I’m close— fuck, Pythia—”

You pressed your forehead to his again, feeling his breath shudder over your lips, “Then let go with me,” you whispered, voice breaking, hands clutching at him.

“Say it again,” he begged, broken and gasping.

“Let go with me,” you moaned, moving faster now, riding the edge with him, chasing it down with reckless abandon, “Please, Hyacinthus. Don’t—don’t release without me.”

His hands crushed you against him, hips snapping up, movements ragged and desperate.

And then —

It hit.

Your orgasm tore through you like lightning, sharp and glorious, blinding and holy. Your cry caught in your throat as your body spasmed, clenching hard around him, and Hyacinthus followed you over the edge with a shout of your name.

His hips jerked up once, twice, buried as deep as he could get, spilling inside you with a helpless groan. You felt all of it. Every pulse. Every tremble. Every raw, sacred second.

You collapsed against him, panting, boneless, and dazed.

He held you like you were something rare.

Behind you, Apollo clapped, actually clapped.

“Well done,” he purred, “How very poetic. Enemies to lovers to… puddles.”

You didn’t have the strength to glare at him.

Hyacinthus’s lips brushed your temple, “Ignore him.”

You hummed, still catching your breath, “Trying.”

And for once, Apollo didn’t push. He only smiled, golden and smug, as if this, you, had been his masterpiece all along.

He’s basking in the glow of a story well told.

The world was soft now.

Your breath had evened, skin still slick with sweat, limbs tangled with Hyacinthus’s beneath the thin silk sheet Apollo had conjured with a snap of his fingers and an eye roll.

Hyacinthus lay on his back, one arm draped lazily around your shoulders, the other resting over his eyes like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You lay curled into his side, boneless and warm, cheek pressed to the rising and falling of his chest.

You were both quiet.

Not awkward.

Just peaceful.

It was the first time since you’d met that silence didn’t feel like a threat between you.

“Gods,” Apollo drawled lazily from the edge of the bed, biting into an apricot, “I deserve a statue for this.”

You didn’t even flinch.

Hyacinthus groaned, muffled under his arm, “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Would you really want me to?” Apollo said, licking juice from his fingers, “Who else would narrate your emotional unravelling with such flair?”

You tilted your head just enough to look at him, draped in gold and smugness, lounging in a chaise he definitely hadn’t conjured before your climax. His robe hung loose around his chest, sun-warmed curls tousled, as if he’d been through the same storm and come out untouched.

“I thought you were going to leave,” you said, voice hoarse but content.

“I will,” Apollo said, “eventually. I just thought I’d stay for the cuddling.”

Hyacinthus moved his arm to squint at him, “That’s not a thing gods do.”

Apollo raised a brow, “Please. I’ve inspired every great love song ever written. You think I don’t appreciate the postcoital sighing?”

You laughed, tired and soft.

Hyacinthus’s fingers stroked along your shoulder, slow and absent. You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t want to.

Apollo smiled when he noticed, “There it is,” he said, gentler now, “the peace. Finally.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder, “Is this what you wanted?”

Apollo’s grin was wide, unrepentant, “No, little Pythia. This,” he said, gesturing languidly to the two of you, now moving together not like enemies, but like a symphony, “this is what you wanted. I merely… expedited the inevitable. A little nudge.”

Hyacinthus muttered, “A divine shove.”

Apollo snorted, “And look where it got you. You’re both glowing.”

You pressed your lips to Hyacinthus’s collarbone. He turned his head and kissed the top of your hair.

Apollo sighed dramatically, “Honestly, if you start whispering sweet nothings, I’ll have to write a poem about it. Something tragic. With olives.”

You rolled your eyes and snuggled deeper into Hyacinthus’s side, “Go write it, then.”

“Mmm,” Apollo mused, swirling the pit of the fruit between his fingers, “I think I’ll stay a little longer. Watch over my beautiful disasters.”

“Your disasters,” Hyacinthus muttered.

“Mine,” Apollo said firmly, “I stitched your hearts together with teeth and confession. I own this happy ending.”

You and Hyacinthus shared a glance. For once, there was no venom in it, only something like amusement. And affection.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Apollo blinked. Then smiled.

And for once, it wasn’t smug.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, “Just make it worth the story.”

The warmth between you hadn’t faded.

Not entirely.

It lingered like honey on your skin, like the last rays of sunlight before dusk. Hyacinthus’s arm was still wrapped around you, his lips brushing your hair every now and then, like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t wanted to.

And Apollo?

He was still lounging nearby, still radiant and lazy, but there was something new in his gaze.

A quiet hunger.

A curl of something darker beneath his golden amusement.

He rose from his chaise, slow and graceful, walking towards the bed like a god admiring a masterpiece, “You know,” he said, fingers dragging lightly along the edge of the silk sheet, “I could leave you two here in peace. Let you curl up and whisper things in the dark.”

Hyacinthus didn’t respond, but his grip on you tightened just slightly.

Apollo’s voice dropped, “But I don’t want to.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was closer now. His eyes were no longer playful; they burned.

“I’ve watched,” he said, voice low, “I’ve guided. I’ve waited.” He reached out and brushed a knuckle down your cheek, reverent, “But now, little Pythia, I want to feel.”

Your breath caught.

Besides you, Hyacinthus stirred. He looked up at Apollo, then down at you, and you felt the shift, the weight of shared desire reigniting between them.

Hyacinthus’s hand slid up your spine, “You okay?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, already trembling.

“I want both of you.”

Apollo chuckled low in his throat, “She asks like it’s not already written in the stars.”

Clothes disappeared like breath. You didn’t even see the magic happen, just silk sliding off skin, muscle, and sun, and need laid bare before you.

Apollo moved first.

He climbed onto the bed behind you, kneeling between your legs, dragging his hands down your back, and kissing the nape of your neck, “Lie on your side,” he whispered, coaxing you gently, “Let me in.”

You obeyed.

You always obeyed.

Hyacinthus slid behind you, spooning close, pressing warm kisses to your shoulder as Apollo guided one leg up, spreading you open. You felt him press forward, thick, perfect, stretching you slowly with a groan against your throat.

“You take me so well,” he murmured, his voice velvet, “like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, full, pulsing, already climbing again.

Then you felt Hyacinthus press behind you, his breath shuddering as he kissed the space behind your ear. His hand slid down between your thighs, stroking where Apollo filled you, spreading slick warmth over your tighter entrance.

“She’s so soft,” he breathed, “so ready.”

Apollo smiled against your jaw, “She’s ours.”

You gasped as Hyacinthus began to press in behind you, slow, deliberate, and careful. The stretch made your eyes roll back. You clutched at the sheets, at Apollo’s shoulder, as both of them filled you, deep, divine, perfect.

Apollo groaned low in your ear, “That’s it, little thing. Gods above, you take us like devotion.”

Hyacinthus was trembling behind you, already panting, “She’s squeezing so tight, fuck, I can feel you through her.”

Their rhythm built slowly, together. One thrust, then the other. Apollo grinding into you from the front, Hyacinthus rocking behind you in perfect sync. You were weightless between them. Worshipped. Ruined. Reborn.

Hands everywhere, on your breasts, your waist, and your throat. Kisses scattered along your shoulder, your jaw, and your temple. You could barely tell them apart anymore, just pleasure. Just heat. Just love, wielded like fire.

“You’re ours,” Hyacinthus growled.

“Ours to ruin,” Apollo added.

“Ours to keep.”

The pressure inside you built faster than you could breathe.

You couldn’t speak; you could only beg, the sound barely words, “Please, I’m so close, don’t stop, please.”

Apollo kissed your lips. Hyacinthus bit your shoulder.

And they fucked you through it.

Until your body convulsed between them, until your orgasm broke you open with a scream you didn’t recognise. You clutched around them both, shaking, sobbing, undone.

And that was what pushed them over.

Hyacinthus groaned deep and buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a desperate curse. Apollo followed with a sigh like prayer, hips grinding slow as he poured into you, warm and endless.

The world blurred.

All you knew was them.

The way they held you. The way they whispered to you. The way they didn’t let go, even when your body went slack and your mind went quiet.

You weren’t just filled.

You were claimed.

Apollo smiled against your hair, one arm tucked around your waist, “That,” he whispered, satisfied, “is the kind of worship I don’t need temples for.”

Hyacinthus kissed your shoulder, “You’re staying between us. Forever.”

You nodded, dazed, glowing.

You were home.

#blood of zeus #apollo blood of zeus #apollo x reader #Hyacinthus x reader #Hyacinth x reader #reader x apollo #reader x Hyacinthus #reader x hyacinth

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

Text

Title: Ownership.

Pairing: Yandere!Wanderer x Reader x Yandere!Childe (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Hybrid AU, AFAB!Reader, Non-Con, Rough Sex, Overstimulation, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, and Unbalanced Power Dynamics.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Childe’s grey ears twitched, his shoulders squaring as he tightened his grip on your thighs. He spread your legs further, settled deeper between them, his broad tongue lapping over your pussy and his nose bumping clumsily into your clit, but Kuni (the most recent name you'd settled on for him, because Kunikuzushi was a mouthful and you couldn’t get away with calling him your ‘little wanderer’ forever) only scoffed, his tail beating against your mattress in irritation as he watched Childe work. That wasn’t surprising. He was always annoyed, when Childe was around. You could count the number of full days he’d spent in your apartment after you brought home that hyper-energetic husky hybrid on a single hand, and when they did spend time together, it usually ended with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a new scar on Childe’s cheek. You couldn’t imagine when they’d decided to do this, how they’d come up with this plan when they could barely talk to each other. You couldn’t imagine why they’d do something like this, why they’d be so cruel to you after you tried so hard to be so kind to them.

You couldn’t imagine how you could’ve let this happen, when Childe and Kuni were supposed to be your pets.

From where you were laying, your head in his lap and your legs thrown over Childe’s shoulders, you watched Kuni reach out, tangling his fingers in Childe’s hair and forcing him to bury his face deeper in your cunt. There was a throaty groan, a wagging tail, and then his tongue curled around your clit, suckling the bundle of nerves and pushing your already fried nerves to their limit. You weren’t sure what Kuni wanted. You’d already cum on Childe’s tongue more times than you could count – a mix of his saliva and your slick already running down your thighs and staining your sheets, your mind already made useless by the fog of exhaustion and the pain of overstimulation. You’d stopped thrashing the first time you came, stopped crying by the tenth, but Childe never seemed to run out of energy and whatever Kuni wanted, he clearly hadn’t gotten it yet. It reminded you of how he’d acted the first few times you had to go to work after bringing him home, how he’d follow you from room to room with his ears plastered against his scalp while you got ready, occasionally knocking something over or digging his claws into your legs whenever you failed to give him the attention he was looking for. You used to think it was cute, the inconvenient but adorable insecurities of your formerly stray kitten. Now, it just felt dangerous.

Childe’s tongue slipped inside of you, stretching you open and brushing against something soft and over-sensitive, and your body tensed up, going rigid as you came undone with a long, fractured moan. This time, Childe didn’t try to draw it out, raising his head in spite of Kuni’s best efforts to hold him down and letting out a pitchy whine. “Is it time yet, kitty? Can it be my turn? Please?”

Kuni rolled his eyes. “If it’ll get you to shut up and stop assaulting my ears, you can do whatever you want.”

Immediately, Childe lit up. You could hear his tail start to wag faster, see him push himself onto his knees and take his cock in his hand, hastily lining it up with your entrance. He didn’t tease you, didn’t hesitate – just pushing himself into you with a rough groan, only stopping when he couldn’t possibly force himself any deeper. There was another sound, too ragged and too guttural to be called human, and a pair of massive, padded hands curled around your hips as started fucking into you properly. He was big, even for a canine-based hybrid. It felt like he was splitting you open, tearing your cunt apart with little more than erratic thrusts and tiny, airy whimpers. The curve of his knot knocked against your entrance, threatening to slip inside of you and stretch you even further, and Childe threw his head forward, his blunt claws digging into your waist, his—

“He’s so fucking gross.” Kuni shifted, drawing away from you and leaving you unsupported and alone. While Childe was busy between your legs, he straddled your chest, glaring down at you with a fanged scowl. “That’s what you get for bringing a mutt home. All he’s ever going to want to do is—” He let out a sharp growl. “—stick his dick in whatever he can reach and drool. You’re lucky I’m willing to teach him this much.”

Childe lurched forward, resting his chin on Kuni’s shoulder and licking a stipe up his cheek. Kuni cringed, but didn’t move, didn’t swat him away. Rather, he took you by the hair and jerked your head forward, pressing your lips to the head of his cock. You tried to keep your mouth shut, to ignore the beads of pre-cum dripping down your chin and past your jaw, but he dug his claws into your scalp and, when you opened your mouth to scream, shoved his cock past your teeth and down your throat. You gagged, fresh tears forming in the corners of your eyes, but he didn’t seem to care, a loose smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he bucked his hips.

“Maybe next time, you won’t be so eager to bring your stupid mutts home.” If Childe disagreed, he wasn’t in a state to protest, and to be fair, neither were you. A dark film spread over your vision, and before you could hope to hold yourself together, your eyes fell shut, your last tether to consciousness snapping. Again, if Kuni cared, he didn’t find it concerning enough to stop. You felt him start to fuck your throat properly as you faded into that dark, empty void, with only the sound of Kuni’s voice for company.

“Maybe next time, you’ll remember that you don’t need anyone but me.”

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shini--chan · 2 years ago

Note

May I request headcanons about Yandere Kaneki please?

Of course, here, have a character sheet. I got a bit carried away, since it has been so long since I wrote somthing for Tokyo Ghoul.

Yandere Character Sheet

Ken Kanaki

Trigger warnings: implied/references murder, humans are eaten, imprisonment, emotional/psychological manipulation, delusional behaviour, references to depression and suicidal ideation

Attributes - What sort of Yandere is he/she?

One of the cornerstones of Ken's yandere tendencies would be his protective urges. Few people aside from him know how dangerous and wicked the world can be. A person doesn't have to be a particularly sadistic ghoul to revel in bloodshed after all. There are so many ways you could hurt yourself.

In the beginning, he would be haunted by scenarios of all the ways harm could befall you. He would wake up from nightmares of you dying and feel his heart clench at the thought of you being wronged. Thought of how you could be harmed drives him half-insane with worry.

After his time with Agoiri Tree, these tendencies would only skyrocket. You are his Elysium, an island in a stormy sea, an oasis in the scorching desert. Do you really think he could let anything happen to you? What had once been an unbearable anxiety, uncomfortable like centipedes crawling under his skin, would morph into outright bloodlust. The harmful element would wind up as a blood splatter on the ground.

Of course, part of these protective urges would be based on how strong you are. If you're just a fragile doll, then Ken would want nothing more than to wrap you up in the finest silk and hide you away forever. If you have your own back bone of steel, then he would be relaxed enough to allow you more leeway and time outside. However, even if you are strong, even more powerful than him, then he would still feel protective over you. After all, even the most talented and effective people have weaknesses and openings, even they sometimes make stupid mistakes.

Aside from that, Ken is sweet and often very considerate. He takes note of your wishes and desires, even taking the effort to remember the little things - a book that you offhandedly mentioned that you wanted to read, how you like your coffee, the route you take to work in the morning. If you do, he doesn't even take physical notes, rather dedicating it all painstakingly to memory. That way, you would take a long time to catch onto the red flags, to how he seems a bit too dedicated, too desperate for it to be healthy.

Yes, he would be desperate and dependent. At night, he tries to tell himself that he would be happy just by watching you from afar, by ensuring your safety while remaining just another face in the crowd. He is too broken to be with you after all. But it is exactly because he is broken that he can't stay away from you. You put him at ease - your mere presence is balm to his fractured psyche and thus he would only grow more dependent on you the longer he would be a ghoul.

There would be days when he would practically be attached to you by the hip, for once ignoring all your protests and trying to drink in your presence as much as possible, as if you are some healing draught. Lie down with him, card your fingers through his hair and sooth over all his rough edges and your wish would be his command (of course, as long as it would be within reason). This is also one of the reasons why it would never be able to let you go - you’re his source of strength, the reason he clings to life instead of falling to his suicidal ideation. In a way, you’re what Rize (the figment of his imagination, that is) is to him and everything that she can’t be - supportive, yet not as harsh and biting, present and not in his head. You are something more than just a representation of one of his facets.

Though, there are still times when he is fractured, when even you aren't able to consolidate the parts of him. Then, he is rash and paranoid and so very restrictive. In some ways, he projects his mental state onto the outside world - when he is particularly fragile and conflicted, then he would see his world as endangered. When he is plagued with doubts, he second guesses your words and reads between the non-existent lines, constantly fearful that you are just putting up an act.

Entwined with that, is the way he flips between delusional and lucid. Thanks to his rather mild temper and selfless nature, he probably will have developed a somewhat normal relationship with you before his yandere tendencies would really emerge. At times he recognises that what he is doing is unhealthy and even toxic and that all the hurtful words you hurtle at him are warranted. Then there are other times when he isn’t sure of his own identity, or how the world really works. As a coping mechanism, he turns to you and ignores any misgiving you have about your relationship.

Kaneki is also very much obsessed with you. At night, he dreams about you and during the day he sees you in his inner eye. You come to mind when he imagines what true beauty is supposed to look like. Whenever his mind dares to wander, it wanders to you. His thoughts revolve around you to the point where he finds it difficult to think clearly, unless he is in a fight or you are close by. And having you in his arms is by far the more preferable option.

Cornering - How would they get you?

Ken doesn’t kidnap you. Not unless he would see that as the only option to keeping you safe. Instead, he tries to approach as he would a friend. With some luck on his side, he is his co-worker or a classmate; that way, it is expected that the two of you interact with each other as it is. Even with his character development over the course of canon, he is still clunky and shy when it comes to you. Well, if things start out as a professional relationship where he is mature and kind and helpful. However, as soon as matters would get more personal, then he would find himself floundering.

Perhaps you find his clumsiness when it comes to his emotions for you adorable, perhaps you first have to warm up to him (which he would manage to his helpfulness and persistence) but in the end, when you are together, he couldn’t be happier. It doesn’t have to be an official relationship either, it can just be you growing closer and closer, you not even being fully cognisant of the extent of your feelings, or of his for that matter.

Either way, Ken Kaneki does his best to wrap you up in a normal relationship before the going gets rough. It isn’t really his intention when the nature of your relationship starts to change; it just happens. There is this constant itch under his skin, these constructs in his mind mocking him that he’ll end up losing you. Thus, he pulls you closer and closer, drawing up all the more rules that you have to follow.

It would start with him being more prying than usual on where you are going and being all the more inquisitive on how your day went. Then it would transition to a tracker in your clothes or one your phone and locked doors at night. And it would end with you only being let out of the house with him as a chaperone or with a person that he particularly trusts.

Expectations - What do they expect of you?

Ken doesn’t have that many expectations of you, since he has a rather wide pallet of people that would check his boxes. Nevertheless, there are a few things that he looks for in a person and a few things that are absolute no-gos for him. One of those things is a strong sense of justice. He wouldn’t be able to bear a person that is psychopathic and sees other people as cattle or ants to be trod upon. After experiencing so much suffering, as well as seeing so much suffering being inflicted upon others, he requires somebody that can look at the world with kind eyes and not want to hurt others out of some sense of twisted glee. If you are an idealist that somehow wants to turn the world into a better place, then he would be all the more interested in you.

Tying into that, you better not be hedonistic. While there is nothing wrong with wanting to indulge in the few joys life has to offer, there is something off putting to him about a person that makes their life revolve around chasing pleasure and drowning in it. There is much more to life than a set of actions or experiences that make your brain release endorphins, and you not acknowledging that would just seem cowardly to him. He wouldn’t have anything against you being naive and sheltered - to him there is a difference to being that and willfully blind, or even sadistic.

Be sweet with him. He doesn’t mind a tsundere, but having to deal with a cynic (even if he is one at times) would just wear him down. At times, he just wants to put his head in your lap and have you card your hands through his hair. Surprise him with preparing coffee for when he gets home, and even if he can’t really eat the cake you bake for him, he would appreciate the sentiment. Aside from that, I can see him falling for somebody working in medicine and if you know that he is a ghoul and maybe go out of your way to smuggle out a bag of blood for him, he would be over the moon.

Besides that, he has a huge competence kink. There is just something about you being very good at something significant that warms him with pride and adoration. If you write, then he wants to read everything that you bring to paper, and lose himself in descriptions of other worlds. Good at singing and/or dancing? He has countless videos and audios on his phone. Should you dance with him, then you’ll have the privilege of seeing his cheeks flush deep red as you guide him through the motions. If you have a particular talent for something else that isn’t tied to entertainment, then he could spend hours listening to you talk about your field of expertise. He doesn’t even have to understand it to be enraptured, your passion and competence is more than enough to entice him.

Faded - Would they let go of you in any way?

You could scream and shout your throat raw at him, he would just nod along and prepare some warm milk with honey for when you’re finished with your tirade. He does his best to act unaffected, though your words are the equivalent of rubbing powdered glass over his skin. If you would continue for long or hit particularly sensitive nerves he would break down and cry. But still he would never let you go, as he would tell you. Because don’t you see, none of this is for him, it is all for you!

So no matter what you do, no matter how much what you say amplifies his self-hatred, he would keep you by his side. That being said, there are still two circumstances where he would let you go.

The first is if he comes to the conclusion that you are safer away from him rather than by his side. This would be due to you being endangered by proxy to him. The last thing he would want would be for you to die in the crossfire in a fight with the CCG or another ghoul faction, or, heavens forbid, be targeted as a means to hurt him.

The second would be him forgetting you. When Ken Kaneki becomes Haise Sasaki, he forgets you, at least when it comes to conscious memory. Though watch out! As soon as he would smell you or see you again, he would find himself drawn to you again.

Punishment - How would they proceed if you do something they disapprove of?

On average, Ken isn't big on punishments. He sees himself as your protector and guardian, and what sort of protector would he be if he can't protect you from himself? Perhaps as the Centipede he would more deliberately punish you. Else, in his mind he only takes measures to protect you, and if they are harsh, then so be it. It is clear that you are too reckless and naive and optimistic so you need a minder that isn't reluctant to make tough choices.

If you are too carefree and prone to venturing around, he'll imprison you in your shared apartment. Hanging out with people he doesn't approve of? Suddenly you are hearing stories of how they are terrible, good for nothing people. He'll lock away all the knives and anything you can hurt yourself with if you try to fight, and baby you if you self-harm. After trying to escape, he'll forbid you from watching TV or reading books, citing that your overactive imagination caused you to do something so foolhardy.

Protest will seem to fall on deaf ears. Sometimes they will but other times they'll be carefully filed away so that he can lose sleep due to them. You are always on his mind, after all, the good as well as the bad.

Reaction - How would they react to you escaping?

Panic, full blown panic. That is what he'll experience at first and the younger he is, the longer the panic attack will last. He'll dash around your shared living space, just hoping his panic is unwarrented and you just hid yourself away in one of your tantrums. His searching becomes more frantic and destructive the longer you remain undiscovered.

Eventually, he'll force himself to make a cup of coffee and sit down. Kaneki will do his best to piece together the various variables: When did you leave? What did you take with you? Which places are you most likely to run to? Are there any people from your past life that you still place a lot of trust in?

He will try his best to put himself in your shoes in order to anticipate your past, current and future choices and thus successfully track you down. Depending on which phase of his life he is currently in, there will be differences.

The shy Ken Kaneki that he is in the beginning of canon handles it like a teenage boy looking for his crush or friend. Checking social media, asking around, quietly loitering around places where he thinks you'll pop up. The Centipede is far more violent and far more desperate to get you in his grasp again, therefore the police and the CCG will find a lot of corpses, courtesy of his quest to find you again. As Haise Sasaki, he has far more resources and is calmer. In that case, he can cook up an excuse to have you very officially hunted down and dragged before him.

The end is always the same - him fussing over you like a mother hen, obsessively checking you for injuries and chiding you. After that incident, he’ll vow to keep a closer eye on you. You’ll be kept on an even shorter leash, with him being far stricter about rules and such in comparison to before your escape attempt. In his eyes, it came to you running away because he was far too lax with rules and vague about his intentions.

Turnabout - Scenario: You have the upper hand? What would be different from their usual MO?

Actually, not much world change, on the surface at least. In some ways, he wouldn’t mind you taking the steering wheel and allowing you to play the dominant partner in the relationship. If anything, being taken care of and having to relinquish control to you would be a new yet not unwelcome experience for him. At first, he would be worried and nagging, wanting to wriggle his way into being the one that takes care of you, the one that makes sacrifices yet he would slowly learn to enjoy taking the back seat. That is, of course, if the two of you would stick to being in a romantic relationship. However, don’t think he’ll allow you to get away. If anything, he might become so used to being taken care of, that he’ll not allow you to get rid of him.

On the other hand, if you become his captor and he your captee, he would have a lot of mixed feelings. In many ways, he would understand your urges to harm him and restrict his movements. After all, he had wronged you and in retrospect, he would realise that he might have been too harsh and condescending. That would make him vow to learn from his mistakes and treat you with more dignity, should he manage to turn the tables again. Because even if you would harm him, he would still continuously forgive you, because you forgive the people that you hold dear, or not?

Vengeance - What would they do in the face of competition?

Ken is insecure as it is and having a rival would only make this worse. Though it wouldn't have the intended effect of making him back off, rather it would make him all the more determined. Though, depending on which stage he is currently in, there are vast differences on how he deals with rivals.

As Ken Kaneki, the original, shy and timid Ken Kaneki, who has just become a ghoul or will soon become one, he’ll be much more shy. There is something all too tragic about the way he pines after you, in the manner a mediaeval knight would have pined after a lady of noble standing, a love that could never be mutual and fulfilled. Though, at times the depth of his passion will even spur him to action! It is surprising to everybody, even him and therefore he has a lot of plausible deniability in the case law enforcement comes knocking. It would sicken him to the core what he does to have you, and all the while he carries the heavy regrets in his heart, but it is all worth it as long as you are safe. Though, that is just when his emotions get the better of him, an absolute last resort. Else, he will try to convince you with shy words and texts in the middle of the night that your current paramour just isn’t compatible with you and that you deserve better.

As The Centipede, he is far more ruthless. After all, he does know what is best for you at the end of the day. So when he determines that the man that is currently in a relationship with you, or is bringing you flowers and chocolates every other day in an attempt to woo you, is bad for you, then the unlucky fellow must go. If he is feeling particularly frustrated and just must get the point over to you, then he waits to kill the offender right in front of you. Of course, that is if he can’t talk to you about his issues with you. Else he expects you to know that his arms are the safest to be it, and for you to reject any advances. It just might be that the one or the other is particularly pesky and persistent and needs to be taken out.

As Haise Sasaki, his plans are more complex. He has a reputation and a hell lot of resources to fall back on. As such, he tries the easy route first and foremost - talking to you. Of course, you might very well not be convinced by his word alone and then he’ll do some digging to drag the skeletons that certain person has in their closet forth. Maybe he’ll get other people to talk to you, to offhandedly mention and discuss the various flaws of his opponent with you. As much as he might want to kill his rival, he can’t make it too obvious. Perhaps that person will then be sandwiched between two warring parties and wind up as collateral damage, or be the victim of a violent crime in a far away city, or are found dead by a suicide hotspot. It takes much to get Haise to take his rival into a back alley or out into the country in order to make short work of them.

In all scenarios he feels a twinge of guilt, but does his best to stamp it out with thoughts about you - your safety, your love, your happiness, you, you, you.

Art is not mine: from Irina Vinnik and other artists

#yandere ken kaneki #yandere tokyo ghoul #yandere character sheet #x reader #yandere

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 3 months ago

Text

“Crossfire” pt.5

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The glow of neon signs cut jagged shadows into her face as she pushed open the doors to 79’s. The music hit like a punch to the chest—thick, thrumming, alive. She hadn’t meant to end up here.

But when she’d gotten off the transport, alone and empty-handed, with the kid now a ‘Republic asset’ and Palpatine’s cold praise still ringing in her ears, this was the only place her feet knew how to take her.

The clone bar was alive with movement and noise, filled with off-duty troopers trying to forget the war for a few short hours. They laughed, danced, drank like their lives depended on it.

She just wanted to disappear into it all.

The bartender handed her something neon and stupid. She drank it fast, then another. And another. The buzz settled in her limbs like comfort. Like numbness.

He was just a kid. Force-sensitive, and full of light. And I handed him over to Palpatine.

She tried not to think about it. So she drank more.

And then—they walked in.

She saw them before they saw her. Cody, in civvies but still too clean-cut, golden-brown eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t turn off the commander inside him. And Rex, just a few steps behind, his shoulders broad, jaw tight, wearing the weight of command like a second skin.

She blinked slowly, trying to decide if this was real or just the alcohol playing tricks.

It was real.

They saw her. Stopped short. Eyes locked.

And then they came to her—Cody first, Rex just behind.

“You’re alive,” Cody said, voice low, controlled, but his gaze moved across her face like he was checking for wounds.

They were both staring. They weren’t angry—not really. They were trying to hide the storm of questions behind their eyes. She didn’t owe them anything. But that didn’t stop the guilt from slinking down her spine.

“So…” She lifted her drink lazily. “What brings the Republic’s golden boys here tonight? Hoping to find someone to help you forget how screwed everything is?”

“You were gone for months,” Rex said quietly. “And you didn’t answer a single comm.”

Cody added, “You could’ve told us you were alive.”

She glanced between them. “Why? So you two could fight over who gets to scold me first?”

That stung. She saw it in Cody’s jaw, the twitch in Rex’s brow. She hadn’t meant it. Or maybe she had.

The music shifted to something slower, darker. The kind of song that made people sway too close.

Cody surprised her by offering a hand. “Dance with me.”

She laughed, bitter. “Feeling sentimental, Commander?”

He didn’t smile. Just held out his hand again.

She took it.

On the dance floor, Cody kept one hand steady on her hip, the other barely brushing her back. He was tense—like he didn’t trust himself. She moved closer, body brushing his. Just enough to test him.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers.

“You like trouble,” she shot back.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rough or desperate. It was slow—cautious. Like he’d waited too long and didn’t want to screw it up. She kissed him back, lips brushing his softly, dangerously, until someone bumped into them and she stumbled, heart suddenly pounding.

She pulled away. “I need air.”

She didn’t look back as she weaved through the crowd and pushed out into the alley.

The night air was damp. She pressed her back against the wall, tilted her head up, breathing hard. The buzz in her chest had turned sharp now. Fractured.

“What was that about?” a voice asked behind her.

She turned.

Rex.

Of course.

He stood in the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“Jealous?” she asked, half-laughing, half-daring him to admit it.

He stepped closer. “You shouldn’t play with him.”

Her smirk faded. “I’m not playing.”

“You kissed him. After months of silence, you show up drunk and just—”

“What, you mad I didn’t kiss you first?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re not okay.”

Something cracked in her.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to do any of this. The war, the kid, you. I never signed up for this mess.”

They stared at each other in the quiet.

Then Rex crossed the space in three strides and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire. Frustration. Longing. Everything unsaid between them. She clutched his shirt, fingers tangled in the fabric. When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

“I’ve been thinking about you every damn day,” he said.

Her heart slammed in her chest. “Then why didn’t you come find me?”

“Because I didn’t want to find you dead.”

The words dropped like lead.

She stepped back, swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to hurt either of you.”

“You still did.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He left her standing there, alone in the alley, unsure which kiss she regretted more—and which one she wanted again.

⸻

“You kissed her?” Cody’s voice cut the dark like a vibroblade.

Rex didn’t even flinch. “You did too.”

Cody let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. I did. Because I’ve been worrying about her for months. Because I thought she might be dead. Because when I saw her again, I felt like I could finally breathe.”

“She kissed me back.”

“She kissed me back, too,” Cody snapped. “You think this is some kind of pissing contest?”

Rex stepped forward, voice lower now, rawer. “No. I think it’s too late for either of us to play noble.”

There was a pause—long and quiet. Neither of them looked at the other.

“She doesn’t belong to us,” Cody said, jaw clenched.

“No,” Rex agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to.”

Cody nodded slowly. “Then we’re both idiots.”

“Yeah,” Rex muttered. “But we’re in it now.”

Silence.

They didn’t say anything else. They couldn’t. There was no answer—no right move. Only damage done and more to come.

⸻

Her head was trying to kill her.

It had to be.

The pounding behind her eyes felt like someone had set off a thermal detonator inside her skull, and her mouth was dry enough to make Tatooine jealous. She rolled over, groaning, pulling the blanket over her face.

And then she noticed it.

Breathing.

Not hers.

She froze.

Lifted the blanket.

And there—laying on top of the covers, one arm behind his head, the other holding a data pad, perfectly at ease—was Kit Fisto.

She bolted upright with a groan, clutching her temples. “Please tell me we didn’t…”

Kit set the datapad aside. “No. You were very vocal about not wanting anyone in your bed unless it was Commander Cody or Captain Rex.” He smirked, just slightly. “You said, and I quote, ‘If I can’t have both, I don’t want either. But I do want both.’”

Kit’s lips pulled into a serene grin. “You passed out the first time halfway through crying about your crops.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I found you stumbling through the lower levels, completely smashed,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “I walked you home. You insisted I stay because the ‘walls were conspiring against you’ and also because you thought I was ‘probably the only Jedi who doesn’t want to vivisect you.’”

“…Sounds about right,” she muttered.

“You also tried to get me to do a dramatic reading of your bounty logs.”

She groaned again. “Kill me.”

“I would’ve, but then you started crying again.”

“Okay!” She threw the blanket off and swung her legs over the bed. “Thank you for your public service, Master Fisto. You may go now.”

Kit rose with Jedi smoothness, unfazed. “You told me you trusted me, last night.”

She paused.

“And you said you didn’t know if you trusted the others anymore. Not even yourself.”

That sat in the room for a beat too long.

She turned to look at him, eyes bloodshot but suddenly sober. “Did I say why?”

He shook his head. “No. You fell asleep on the floor halfway through telling me about a defective hydrospanner.”

She let out a weak laugh.

Kit stepped toward her, not close, but close enough to offer peace.

“I don’t think you’re the enemy,” he said softly. “But I do think you’re lost. And I think you’re trying to keep the war from turning you into something else.”

She stared at him, the noise of last night crashing down like static. Rex. Cody. The kid. Palpatine. The Council.

Kit stood and poured her a glass of water. “You cried. You yelled. You kissed one of the clones on a dance floor and kissed the other in an alley. And then you tried to fight a waitress because she wouldn’t give you more shots.”

Everything was bleeding together.

“Why didn’t you just leave me in the gutter where I belonged?”

“Because, despite my early concerns, I don’t think you belong in a gutter.”

She sipped the water. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her a nod. “I’ll leave you to sleep it off. But… maybe don’t wait too long to talk to the people you care about. This mess? It only gets worse if you let it rot.”

“I should’ve stayed gone,” she whispered.

Kit didn’t argue. He just nodded once and said, “But you didn’t.”

And then he left.

Leaving her alone in the echo of too many choices—and a very, very bad hangover.

⸻

Silence took over the apartment, broken only by the kettle still screaming on the stove. She didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling. The weight of the night was heavy. The confusion heavier. Every memory came in splinters—Rex’s hand on her waist, Cody’s voice in her ear, the heat of lips, the taste of regret.

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral.

She froze.

It knocked again. Three times. Familiar.

She crossed to the door and opened it slowly.

Rex stood there, hands in the pockets of his civvies. No armor. No helmet. Just tired eyes and a quiet storm in his chest.

“…Hey,” she rasped, voice still ruined from alcohol and heartbreak.

He gave her a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.” She stepped aside without another word.

He walked in slowly. Glanced around like he was expecting someone else. “You alone?”

“Kit Fisto left an hour ago. He was just being decent.” She watched his jaw twitch. “Nothing happened.”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared at the empty bottle on the counter. “Everyone’s talking.”

“I know.”

He finally turned. “You kissed me.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Then you kissed Cody.”

“…Yeah.”

He took a breath, like he’d been holding it for too long. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. Like he was searching for something beneath the haze and the jokes and the armor she wore.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t keep hurting us while you figure it out.”

“I’m not trying to,” she whispered.

“Then stop running.”

Silence.

She didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Rex turned to leave.

But at the door, he paused. “When you figure it out… when you really know—come find me. If it’s not me, I’ll live. But don’t kiss me again unless you’re sure.”

Then he left.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t want to run.

She wanted to stay. And clean the pieces she’d scattered.

⸻

Whispers traveled fast in the Temple.

Faster than transports.

Faster than truth.

By the time Master Kit Fisto stepped into the Council chambers, most of the senior Jedi were already seated—and they were looking at him with measured, expectant expressions.

Even Master Yoda’s ears twitched a little too knowingly.

Mace Windu’s stare was sharp as a lightsaber. “We’ve heard some… interesting accounts of your whereabouts last night.”

Kit didn’t blink. “Then I assume you already know I spent the evening ensuring a very drunk bounty hunter didn’t choke on her own regrets.”

Murmurs among the Masters. Ki-Adi-Mundi’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t the first time she’s been seen involving herself with members of the Republic.”

Luminara’s tone was clipped. “Nor the first time she’s manipulated proximity for influence.”

Obi-Wan folded his arms, but said nothing.

“She didn’t manipulate anything,” Kit said evenly. “She confided in me. The kind of honesty we’ve been demanding from her.”

Mace tilted his head. “And?”

Kit looked at him directly. “She’s in love with both of them—Commander Cody and Captain Rex. But that’s not what concerns her most.”

Now Obi-Wan stirred. “Go on.”

Kit’s voice was low. “She’s terrified of the Chancellor.”

Yoda’s ears perked. “Hmmm. Afraid, she is?”

“She didn’t say it directly. But I could hear it. She’s afraid of what she knows… and what he might do if she doesn’t play along.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous,” Ki-Adi-Mundi warned.

“It means she’s been alone in the middle of a political war, with no clear side to stand on,” Kit replied firmly. “We sent her into the shadows and now condemn her for adapting to them.”

“She took a child from a warzone,” Luminara said. “Lied about how she got him. Hid from the Republic.”

“Because she was ordered to,” Kit said, sharper now. “And when that order changed—to something unthinkable—she defied it. She saved him.”

Silence followed that.

Windu was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you believe her loyalty lies with us?”

Kit hesitated. Then nodded. “I believe her loyalty lies with the people she cares about. And right now… that includes two of our most trusted commanders and Captains.”

Obi-Wan finally spoke. “The Chancellor won’t like this.”

“No,” Windu agreed, standing. “But he doesn’t get to dictate how we perceive loyalty. Or love.”

Yoda’s voice, gentle but sure, followed: “The dark side clouds much. But clearer, the truth becomes. Watch her, we will. But trust her, we must begin to consider.”

Kit bowed his head. “Thank you.”

As the Council slowly began to adjourn, Windu approached him quietly.

“You’ve changed your mind about her.”

“I have,” Kit admitted. “Because I stopped looking at her record… and started listening to her heart.”

Windu nodded once. “We’ll see if that heart leads her back to us—or away for good.”

⸻

She had just finished showering off the night—physically, anyway. The emotional fog still clung like smoke in her lungs. Her clothes were clean, the kettle quiet, and the apartment smelled faintly of burned caf.

When the knock came again, softer this time, she already knew who it was.

She opened the door, and there stood Commander Cody. Arms crossed. Still in his armor minus the helmet. His posture was less “soldier on a mission” and more “man at the edge of patience.”

He gave her a once-over. “You look better.”

She gave a tired smile. “You should’ve seen me this morning.”

“I did. In the alley.”

That shut her up.

He stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him. He didn’t bother walking further in—just stood there, facing her like she was on trial. And in a way, she was.

“You kissed me,” he said flatly.

“I did.”

“You kissed Rex.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Do you want us to fight over you?”

“No.” Her voice cracked like old glass. “Never.”

Cody tilted his head. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He stepped forward. His tone was low—not angry, not accusing—just tired and honest. “You know exactly what you’re doing. You run when it gets too real. You lie when someone gets too close. You play both sides of everything so no one ever gets close enough to hurt you.”

She looked away.

“I don’t care who you choose,” he said, voice gentler now. “Rex, me, no one. I care that you keep lying. You keep manipulating people. You keep running. You say you care about us, but you treat us like we’re temporary. Like we’ll disappear the second things get hard.”

She stepped back, eyes welling up. “I’m trying, Cody. I didn’t mean for it to get this complicated.”

“Everything gets complicated with you.” He uncrossed his arms. “And I can handle complicated. But I won’t be your second choice. And neither will Rex.”

Silence.

Her throat was raw. “You’re not a second choice. You’re… you’re Cody.”

“Then stop treating me like a backup plan.”

That cut deeper than she expected.

He moved toward the door, then paused.

“For what it’s worth… I don’t regret kissing you. I’ve wanted to for a long time. But if it’s not real—don’t do it again.”

The door opened.

“Cody.”

He stopped.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he said softly, not turning around. “So am I. But we don’t get to use that as an excuse forever.”

Then he was gone.

And she stood there, in her too-clean apartment, surrounded by silence and the scent of burned caf, wishing she could burn away the shame just as easily.

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mjonthetrack · 2 months ago

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shadow

Chapter Eighty-Nine Venom-Laced Promises

The cool night wind teased at the hem of his sweatpants and ruffled the loose edges of Serena’s shirt—the one she’d stolen off his back hours ago. Still damp in the collar with his scent. Still warm from her body, though she moved like a storm contained in silk.

She didn’t look back at him when she said it, but her voice cut the silence like a poisoned blade:

“Let’s get the fuck out of here. If I have to hear his mouth one more time, I’ll use his jugular as a bendy straw.”

Malik’s chest rumbled with a sharp, unfiltered laugh. Low and real. “You’re mad mad,” he said, walking up beside her. “You ain’t even tryin’ to fake it anymore.”

She turned to look at him now. Her eyes gleamed—not fully human, not entirely snake, somewhere in that dangerous middle where her truth lived. The slash of light from the mansion windows caught the gold specks in her pupils. Her fangs hadn’t dropped, but the way her lips curled made it clear they were ready.

“Why should I fake it?” she asked, crossing her arms under her chest, his shirt stretching across her curves like a flag of conquest. “They don’t like me, and the feeling is violently mutual. Only thing keepin’ me from gutting Scott Summers like a trout is the fact that it’d be messy. And you know I hate blood under my nails.”

Malik nodded slowly. “Right. That’d be inconvenient.”

“I’m serious,” she said, brushing past him, hips swaying with lethal rhythm. “I’m one more comment away from showing him what my venom does when I actually mean to hurt someone.”

He walked with her now, matching her pace as they moved past the hedges into the back paths that sloped toward the gates.

“You know,” he said, voice low and thick with accent, “You’re not half as scary to me as you are to them.”

She cut him a sideways glance. “That because you like scary.”

“No,” he said. “That’s because I know what’s behind it. You’re not dangerous for the sake of chaos. You’re dangerous ‘cause they never gave you safety. So you made your own. That shit? That’s survival, not savagery.”

Her steps slowed just a bit. Enough that her fingers brushed his. She didn’t hold his hand. But the touch lingered. Familiar.

And when she looked back toward the mansion, the whole place lit by hallway lights and security beams and too many ghosts pretending to be saviors, she exhaled something heavy and whispered,

“Let’s just disappear for a bit.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pretend to play diplomat.

“Then come on, queen,” he said, voice thick with quiet hunger. “Let’s vanish.”

And with that, the two of them walked off into the night, leaving behind fear, fake peace, and every bastard too afraid to love a woman who had fangs.

Chapter Ninety Shadow-Bound & Unhinged

The cold air hit them first—brisk and biting, the sharp scent of magnetized earth thick in the atmosphere. Malik barely had a second to take in the towering structure ahead before Serena’s mood shifted again—lightning-fast, sudden, electric.

She threw open the great metallic doors of Magneto’s compound as if they’d wronged her personally.

“Father!” she roared into the marbled dark. The sound echoed, carried down the long vaulted corridors like the opening of a war cry. Her voice was chaos incarnate—fractured glass, fire, and suppressed wrath all wrapped in silk. “I’ve brought my shadow with me! I’m hungry and pissed off!”

Her bare legs cut through the shadows like blades, Malik just steps behind her, tension radiating off him in waves. His jaw clenched, every sense hyper-aware—not of danger, but of her. He could feel the storm of her energy before she spoke, could smell the spike in her scent—feral, untempered, clawing for outlet.

“I can tell,” came the low, unimpressed drawl from the shadows. Magneto materialized from the far end of the hall, long cloak whispering over the floor like a sermon in motion. “Do you always announce your cravings this... dramatically?”

Serena didn’t slow. She stomped forward, black hair wild around her face, her iridescent eyes flashing like slit pupils under moonlight. “Only when I’m in a mood to break shit.”

“She means it,” Malik muttered as he trailed behind. “Somethin’ shifted.”

Magneto looked Malik up and down, the way a father might assess a soldier returning from war. His eyes paused on Malik’s bare arms, the fresh bite marks dark against his throat, the flushed pink still cresting his cheeks from being dragged through Serena’s heatstorm. And then he smiled—but it wasn’t kind. It was knowing.

“You’ve mated,” Magneto said, gaze sharp now. “Properly.”

Serena didn’t deny it.

“I’m still deciding whether or not I regret it,” she snapped, stalking toward a room that Malik realized was likely hers. “If another man with laser eyes tells me how dangerous I am, I’m going to pop his fucking skull like a grape.”

“She’s been dealing with Summers?” Magneto asked dryly.

“Yes,” Malik answered. “Poorly.”

Serena turned at the doorway, her eyes locking with her father’s. “I’m staying here for a while. I’m not in the mood to play peacekeeper for a bunch of hypocritical, trembling mutants who think my scales mean I’m unfit for love or loyalty.”

“And him?” Magneto asked with a slight tilt of his head.

She glanced at Malik. Her expression softened—but only a little. “He stays.”

“You sure he’s ready for that?”

Malik stepped forward, arms folded over his chest, jaw tight with promise. “I’m from Brixton. If I wasn’t ready, I wouldn’t have survived her.”

That made Magneto chuckle. He waved a hand. “Then settle in, both of you. But be warned—if you break my walls or bleed on my floor, I’m not cleaning it up.”

Serena turned into the dark room like it was hers by birthright. “Don’t worry, Father. The only thing I’ll be breaking is backs. And maybe one more heart, if I’m bored.”

Malik followed her in, door swinging shut behind him like the end of a long, violent chapter—and the start of something far more intimate and volatile.

Chapter Ninety-One What the Blood Owed

Serena stilled in the threshold.

The corridor behind her was hushed, the shadows falling long across the compound’s polished floors. For a moment she didn’t move—her pupils dilated, tail twitching under her skin, lips parted like she was listening to something that wasn't entirely in this dimension.

Then, with a flicker of something uncharacteristically soft passing through her face, she turned.

Her steps were fast—light but deliberate. And before Magneto could brace himself, Serena leapt into his arms like a child who’d just returned from summer war.

“Father!” she whined theatrically, arms coiling around his shoulders. “I’m sorry for wanting to rip your artery out of your throat the other day—I only semi meant it.”

Magneto, who had not been bodily tackled in at least two decades, made a noise caught between grunt and laugh as he caught her. His hands settled on her waist like he still wasn’t sure how to cradle something this dangerous, this adored.

“I suppose that’s the closest I’ll get to a genuine apology from you,” he murmured.

“Only because I like your throat,” she purred.

Behind them, Malik tried not to look amused—but Serena’s presence had softened the compound, somehow. Her chaos was loud and cracked like fire, but it also made space for strange affection, even if it was spiked and sharp.

Then—

Shift.

It came like a drop in barometric pressure—far away, but echoing through the skin.

At Xavier’s mansion, Jean Grey’s hand froze over her teacup, her breath catching so hard it whistled between her teeth. Logan was across the room near the bookshelves, but he straightened, sniffing the air like something had just shifted in the soil of the Earth itself.

Scott was ranting—still—about protocols, about the threat Serena posed, about how Malik had broken command and—

“Shut up.” Jean whispered, voice distant, eyes beginning to glow.

Scott blinked. “What—?”

“I said shut up,” Jean snapped louder, finally standing.

Everyone turned. Storm’s expression tensed. Rogue glanced from Logan to Jean. The energy in the room had dropped, thickened.

“She’s anchored,” Jean said slowly, her voice eerily calm. “Serena. She’s fully locked now… bonded. And it’s… massive. Like a second psionic sun just appeared on the grid.”

Logan nodded grimly, pulling a cigar out and not lighting it. “Yeah, I can smell it too. Ain’t just sex—it’s instinctual now. Territorial. Dangerous.”

“She mated him?” Scott exploded.

“No,” Jean snapped. “She chose him. And that bond is older than any of us. Older than you. Older than this place.”

“And I warned you,” Logan said, finally stepping forward, his eyes drilling into Scott. “You pushed her. You disrespected her. You tried to leash a goddamn apex predator. What the fuck did you think was going to happen?”

Scott’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Across the mansion, down below where Cerebro hummed in its cradle, the map of mutant energy signatures flickered.

Two lights blazed too brightly now—one obsidian, one shadow-gold—twined like they’d been born for war or worship or both.

Back at the compound, Serena was still wrapped around her father’s neck, smirking.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” she whispered in Magneto’s ear. “What I am now. What we are.”

Magneto exhaled like a man acknowledging a dangerous peace treaty. “I do.”

Chapter Ninety-Two Fallout and Firelines

The war room at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters had not seen this much foot traffic in weeks.

Jean paced like a caged lioness, her eyes flaring and dimming in slow waves. Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the unlit cigar shifting from one side of his mouth to the other. Storm stood at the window, silent, arms folded, lightning occasionally cracking across her irises. Rogue sat near the edge of the table, eyes wide but grounded—watching everyone, especially Jean.

And in the center of it all: Charles Xavier.

He’d wheeled in quietly when Jean’s distress call reached him. Now his fingers were steepled, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, the grim concentration on his face unmistakable.

“She’s fully bonded,” Jean finally said, her voice low and vibrating with certainty. “Not just physically. Psychically. Primally.”

“You mean Serena?” Charles asked.

“Yes,” she nodded. “And Malik.”

Logan grunted. “It’s more than a ‘bond.’ That ain’t some romantic coupling. That girl’s species—whatever the hell Sinister turned her into—it mated. She’s not just choosing Malik. She’s claimed him.”

“Claimed?” Rogue blinked.

Jean’s eyes flickered toward her. “If anyone so much as looks at him wrong, touches him without her consent... they’re at risk. Serious risk.”

Scott Summers scoffed from where he stood—bruised, bitter, bandaged, and unrepentant. “And we’re just going to acceptthat? She bites someone, they become her property, and now we have to walk on eggshells around them both?”

“Shut up,” Jean hissed.

Scott blinked, genuinely stunned by the venom in her tone.

“She’s right,” Logan added. “This isn’t the time for your ego, Summers. You already blew this up once.”

“I was trying to keep us safe!” Scott shouted, pounding his fist on the table.

“And instead you almost got someone killed!” Jean snapped back. “You made it personal. You let your petty control issues guide your actions instead of your leadership.”

Xavier’s voice cut through the room like cold steel.

“Enough.”

Everyone stilled. His gaze settled on Jean first. “You say it’s permanent?”

Jean nodded. “Yes. The psionic threads are fused. If you try to separate them now, it could break her. Or worse—trigger a biological response none of us can contain.”

“Like what?” Rogue asked softly.

Jean hesitated. Then: “Like slaughter.”

Storm finally turned from the window. “She would level this mansion before she let him go. You all feel it, don’t you?”

Even Scott didn’t speak to that. He did feel it. Something was different now. Not just about Serena, but about Malik too. His energy had shifted. His temper was sharper. His power had grown—quietly, but undeniably. He walked like someone who could hurt you now, and would, if it meant getting back to her.

Charles sighed. “Have they made contact?”

“Not yet,” Jean said. “But I doubt they will. She’s retreated to Magneto’s compound.”

Scott scoffed again. “Oh great. So now the serpent bitch is off playing house with Erik?”

That was the moment the silence changed.

Logan’s head lifted. Rogue slid off the table. Storm turned full around, her expression unreadable.

But it was Jean who moved.

In one blink she was at Scott’s side, two fingers pressed to his temple—not hard, but firm.

“Say it again,” she murmured, her voice low enough to raise the hairs on the back of everyone’s neck.

Scott stiffened. “Jean—”

“Say it again, Scott. Call her that one more time and I will show you exactly what she’s capable of through your own mind.”

He yanked away from her hand, red lenses glowing. “You’ve all lost your minds.”

“No,” Xavier said, his voice final. “We’ve finally seen the truth. She’s not the monster here.”

And as the room pulsed with the weight of what that meant, the screen behind them blinked alive.

It was a security feed.

In it: Serena.

Walking with unmistakable calm through the gardens of Magneto’s stronghold, barefoot, wearing Malik’s shirt again and little else. Her hair was wild, regal. Her tail trailed behind her like a shadow ready to strike.

And walking beside her, shirtless, tattooed, arms folded and jaw tight, was Malik.

They didn’t look like a threat.

They looked like prophecy.

Chapter Ninety-Three The Calm in the Storm

The stronghold Magneto had long claimed as his sanctuary was quieter now—oddly so. Even the sound of Serena’s bare feet on the stone path was hushed, swallowed by the lush weight of old gardens and ironwork twisted with wild greenery. The dusk air was warm, fragrant with sweet pollen and a touch of ozone, lingering like the scent of change itself.

Malik walked beside her, hands in the pockets of his loose sweats, his bare chest still streaked with fading marks from their earlier union. His jaw worked slightly, like he was chewing on thoughts too heavy to spit out. Yet, he stayed close. Close enough that if she stopped, they’d touch.

She didn’t speak for a while, her attention drifting to the sky. Her body, now re-balanced from the edge of heat that had overtaken her for days, moved with regal ease. The iridescent shimmer of her scales had retreated beneath the illusion of smooth brown skin, but Malik could still sense them—like armor beneath silk.

She paused beneath a crumbling archway of twisted vines and steel beams. A low breeze stirred her curls, and her slitted pupils flicked toward him with something softer than mischief, deeper than desire.

It was a smile.

A real one. Gentle. Unforced.

He noticed it immediately, blinking as though the gesture was unfamiliar on her face. Like he was still learning this version of her, the one that wasn’t snapping her fangs or lunging with claws. And maybe that’s what confused him. His dark brows pulled together slightly as his head tilted, the smooth British lilt of his voice low, “What?”

She blinked once, still smiling—softer now. “It’s nothing,” she said, almost shyly.

He frowned, but not in irritation. There was something stirring in his chest again, something that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with her.

“You sure?” he asked, stepping a little closer. “’Cause you don’t smile like that unless you’re plotting or… thinkin’ heavy.”

Serena tilted her head in return, eyes glinting. “I guess I was just…” she glanced toward the open field, the skyline beyond Magneto’s estate, then back at him. “...grateful. I never thought I’d have someone I could just… exist next to. Quietly.”

Malik nodded slowly. “You ain’t gotta say thank you for that. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I know,” she said, voice quieter now, almost like a confession. “That’s what terrifies me.”

He didn’t reply, not with words. He reached out instead, long fingers wrapping around hers. Her palm was still warmer than it should’ve been, like there was still fire in her veins. She didn’t pull away.

“I think Magneto’s gonna try to talk politics soon,” she added after a pause, her smirk returning slightly. “He’s been holding it in.”

“Let him talk,” Malik murmured. “We’ll listen. Then we’ll do what we do anyway.”

“Shadow and serpent,” she whispered, nodding once.

He squeezed her hand. “Always.”

And for a moment, in the ruins of a world trying too hard to tame them, they stood steady—two storms caught in the eye of their own peace.

Chapter Ninety-Four Two Kingdoms, One Storm

The dining hall of Magneto’s compound was as lavish as it was haunting—gothic iron chandeliers swaying gently from vaulted ceilings, the stone walls lined with tapestries bearing the tangled history of mutant-kind. The long table was draped in heavy velvet, silverware that could slice a throat with the right wrist flick, and dishes seasoned like someone still remembered the old world.

Serena sat on one side of the table, unbothered in his shirt still, her posture regal despite the disarray of earlier chaos. Her hair, artfully messy, was swept back like she hadn’t lifted a finger to tame it, and yet it framed her face like a crown. Malik was beside her, relaxed but observant. Shirtless still, in dark sweats, his tattoos scrolled across his chest and biceps like war runes, his stare calm but alert—like a lion who’s already eaten, but could kill again if provoked.

Across from them sat Magneto, with a glass of deep red wine turning in his hand like blood in a chalice. The elder mutant’s face was unreadable, expression carved from patience, intellect, and dangerous memory.

To his right, Xavier had been invited under uneasy diplomacy—Jean and Storm flanking him, with Rogue seated not far off. Scott, bandaged from recent “interpersonal disagreements,” sat near the end of the table, scowling like he’d been fed raw lemons.

The air was thick. Not with rage. Not with shame. But with the unsettled weight of what came next.

Magneto leaned forward finally, voice smooth and steel-edged. “The world is shifting beneath our feet again. And while Charles wants to hold hands with those who’d burn us at the stake, I see no reason why a new kind of evolution—born from you two—should be treated as anything less than divine.”

He didn’t say “mating,” but the room felt it.

Jean’s eyes flicked toward the couple. Storm said nothing. Rogue cleared her throat, clearly the only one not interested in confrontation.

Xavier’s hands steepled. “We don’t yet understand the full ramifications of their bond. There may be unforeseen effects—psychic, biological, societal.”

Scott broke the silence with a derisive snort. “Yeah. Like if she doesn’t get dicked down every morning, we all die.”

The fork in Magneto’s hand twisted, metal warping in his grip. Serena didn’t even blink.

Malik didn’t either.

They both sat still. Quiet.

It was Jean who gave Scott a warning look. “Enough. You’re not helping.”

Storm exhaled deeply. “We’re not here to attack them. We’re here to understand.”

Magneto spoke again, this time with deliberate calm. “You’ve all felt the shift. Those of you with power sensitive enough know it. Something ancient now walks among us again—and it walks with her.” He looked at Serena, then to Malik. “And him.”

Still, they didn’t respond.

No clever remarks. No snarls. No growls.

They ate in measured silence, bodies aligned like a shared fortress.

Scott tried again—baiting, with a smile like a cracked mirror. “What? No snappy comeback? Not gonna hiss at me this time?”

Malik just lifted his glass, took a drink, set it back down with precision.

Serena, with her head tilted slightly, gave a single blink.

Then Jean’s head snapped to Scott. “Do not provoke them.”

Magneto leaned back, clearly entertained by their restraint. “Fascinating. True strength doesn’t need to bark.”

Xavier looked between the leaders, then to the couple. “You’ve bonded in a way that may challenge the equilibrium between us all. We’ll need… time to determine how that should be handled.”

Malik’s voice was the first to break the long, loaded silence. It was low, polished by his Brixton roots and steel-heavy: “You’ve had time, Professor. What you lacked was respect.”

Serena wiped her mouth delicately, looking Xavier dead in the eye. “If you all want a war, just say it.”

“No one wants a war,” Xavier said tightly.

“Then stop acting like you’re afraid of one,” she said coolly, then turned her head, her gaze softening only as she looked at Malik. “I’m done explaining myself.”

He gave a faint nod. So was he.

Outside the Compound — Later

Wind swayed through the garden trees under a moonlit sky. They walked together, hand in hand, saying nothing.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop talking?” she asked finally.

“No,” he murmured. “But we don’t need ’em to. Let ‘em watch.”

She smirked. “Maybe I’ll wear your shirt again tomorrow.”

He glanced at her sideways, lips curving. “I’ve got plenty.”

And as they disappeared beyond the garden path, their silhouettes remained close—undeniably bonded, unquestionably united, the storm and its shadow forged into one.

Chapter Seventy-Five: Iron and Bloodlines

Magneto stood alone in the higher corridor of the compound, half-shrouded in the moody shadows cast by its stained-glass windows. His gaze, ever calculating, had long since shifted from being merely concerned to something heavier. Something paternal. Below, across the courtyard, Serena and Malik walked quietly side by side, their bodies brushing with the ease of two entities who had already decided they belonged to one another.

It unsettled him.

Not because he didn’t approve—he’d seen enough in Malik to trust him with the most dangerous thing he’d ever loved. No, it was because he had not expected her to love. Not like this.

His daughter.

Born of ruin. Raised in secrets and chambers. Taught to weaponize her beauty and wield her serpentine form like a sword. She had never been made to love, only to command. To dominate. To become the sharpest blade in a blood-drenched legacy.

And yet, here she was.

Eased. Vulnerable. Mortal in a way she’d never dared be before.

His fingers curled into a fist by the window’s edge. He had bred her to survive. Molded her through pain. Shielded her from the world’s sentimentality. But now he could see it—this boy, this Black man with steel in his eyes and warmth in his voice—he’d touched something primal in her. Something even Magneto, for all his genius, could never engineer.

Was that failure?

Or evolution?

Behind him, one of his trusted aides approached cautiously, “Sir… you’ve been standing here a long while.”

Magneto didn’t respond at first. He simply watched. Watched the way Serena laughed softly at something Malik murmured. How she leaned into his side—not with possession, but with trust.

“She has chosen,” Magneto said finally. His voice was quiet. Stone heavy. “And in that choice… she may become more dangerous than ever.”

The aide blinked. “You mean… because of him?”

“No,” Magneto murmured. “Because of herself. A serpent in love is not a tamed thing. It is a sovereign creature. And sovereignty—”

He paused, lips curling with something akin to admiration.

“—is far more terrifying than power.”

Chapter 76:

It happened between one breath and the next.

Magneto had always believed he understood power—its weight, its seduction, and the responsibility it demanded. But nothing could have prepared him for the kind of silence that bled into the room like a toxin, subtle and suffocating.

He had been in mid-sentence with Malik, discussing security protocols for the compound, when the air shifted.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t mutant.

It was absence.

“Serena,” Magneto called gently, his hand pausing mid-gesture.

She had been by the window just moments ago, one leg curled beneath her, sipping from a dark ceramic cup. Her wild curls cascaded down her back like liquid shadow, her posture relaxed—until it wasn’t.

Her cup slipped from her fingers and hit the floor.

The sound was deafening.

Malik was on his feet instantly. “Oi—Serena?”

She didn’t move.

Her body was rigid, locked upright with an unnatural stillness. Her pupils dilated—no, not dilated, Magneto realized. They were gone. Her eyes were like obsidian marbles. No reflection. No recognition.

Like a corpse that had never belonged to her in the first place.

“Serena,” Magneto said again, this time with the gravel of warning in his voice. He stepped forward, metallic energy humming faintly around his shoulders like a storm behind his skin. “If you’re playing—”

“She’s not playing,” Malik said, barely breathing. “She’s gone stiff, bruv. Something’s wrong.”

And then she moved.

Not the way Serena moved—fluid, animalistic, deliberate—but like something was winding her up from within. Her feet turned. Her limbs followed. Every joint was mechanical. Like she was being walked from the inside by another soul entirely.

It wasn’t rage Magneto felt. It wasn’t panic.

It was grief.

“No,” he murmured.

The temperature dropped. Her scent was wrong, stripped of heat and musk and the thunderous passion that made her Serena. She was cold. Hollow. Walking in perfect, silent steps toward the grand hall entrance.

And then—

He appeared.

Sinister stepped from a shimmer in the air like he was never meant to be real. Tall. Composed. That cruel smile curled with victory as Serena stopped before him, unmoving, unblinking.

“My wife,” he said, his voice syrupy and serpentine.

She blinked. Once.

And then lifted her pale, slender hand and placed it in his.

Like it belonged there.

Like she belonged to him.

Malik surged forward but Magneto caught him, metal dragging up from the floor to form a barrier between them.

“Let go of me!” Malik roared. “She’s not his fucking wife! That’s my girl!”

“She doesn’t know who you are right now,” Magneto said, voice grim. “She doesn’t know who she is.”

Sinister tilted his head, as if admiring his prize.

“She was always meant for me,” he purred. “But you let her forget. I think it’s time she remembered who created her, don’t you?”

Then, in a blink, the two were gone.

And all that remained was Serena’s cup on the ground—still warm, still spinning in a lazy, fading circle.

Chapter Seventy-Seven First: Malik’s POV, then Magneto’s

Malik didn’t sleep much—not after the way she’d gone still.

He sat upright in the chair beside the cot where she should’ve been curled, tucked into the safety of their heat-drenched exhaustion. But Serena wasn’t there. She hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t blinked. She’d just… stopped.

It began like a glitch. Like something had short-circuited in her mind. One moment she was Serena—sharp-tongued, scent-heavy, languid in his lap—and the next she was still as death, sitting with her eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like she might speak, but no words came.

He’d called her name. Once. Twice. Touched her face. Nothing.

Then her body jerked. Her limbs moved not with her usual serpentine grace but like a puppet being pulled on strings, joints snapping into place one by one as she rose without warning.

"Serena," he said again, rising to his feet. "Baby, talk to me."

But she didn’t. She didn’t even look at him.

She started walking.

Malik cursed and followed fast, stepping in front of her, blocking her path, grabbing at her wrists—nothing. Her pupils were blown out, soulless. Like no one was home. No heat. No presence. Just muscle and movement, the body of a woman he knew better than his own skin, carrying itself like she had no memory of who he was.

And that was when the air changed.

It bent. Pulled tight. And before he could say anything else, before he could yell for Xavier, for Beast, for anyone—the room went icy cold.

And Sinister was there.

Manifested from nothing. Dark suit tailored sharp to his unnatural frame, those silver eyes glinting with triumph. And when Serena saw him, her movement changed again—no longer stiff, but fluid. Mechanical in a different way. She stopped in front of him and blinked once, slow.

Then she reached out.

Not shaking. Not struggling.

Her hand, so small and delicate, slid willingly into his.

Malik’s stomach dropped. "No. No the fuck you don’t—"

Sinister didn’t even look at him. His grin widened as he curled Serena’s fingers tighter in his own, his voice velvet and sickening:

"My wife."

Magneto's POV

He felt it in his bones.

It was like the air had snapped out of key. Like the earth tilted wrong on its axis for a moment.

One breath ago, the compound had been quiet—an odd sort of tense peace humming under the surface. Then, thatsensation. The type he hadn't felt since the fall of Genosha. Since the night he’d watched death take form.

He was down the corridor when it hit. That chill. That pressure. The pull of his daughter’s energy warping unnaturally.

Not flaring.

Not distressed.

Gone.

He turned sharply on heel, metal humming at his fingertips instinctively, prepared for war.

And that’s when the alert came.

Beast’s voice, shaken, on the comms: “Something’s wrong with Serena. She’s… she’s unresponsive, and we think Sinister—”

Erik didn’t wait to hear the rest.

By the time he reached the control hall, Xavier was already summoning the others, Jean trying to pinpoint Serena’s consciousness—and failing.

“She’s not there,” Jean whispered, face pale, hand pressed to her temple. “It’s like something wiped her mind clean. I can’t even feel static. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

And Erik—Erik felt it.

The fury. The helplessness. The dread of a father who’d known loss far too well.

He’d raised her. Protected her. Taught her to survive what no one should have to. And somehow, Sinister had reached past all that.

Not just to harm her—but to claim her.

Again.

He looked to Xavier. Voice quiet. But lined in steel:

“Track him. I want coordinates. I want everything.”

Xavier met his eyes. “And when we find him?”

Magneto’s fists curled.

“Then I remind that bastard what happens when he tries to play god with what belongs to me.”

Chapter Seventy-Eight “No Bark, Scott Summers?”

It started so normal.

Serena appeared just before dawn. No alarms triggered. No breach alerts blared through the school’s perimeter systems. She didn’t crash through a wall or land from the sky.

She simply walked in through the front gates.

Quiet. Composed. In full human form—hair tamed, expression neutral, a light sway in her hips like she'd just finished a morning stroll. Her eyes were warm brown, her skin soft with light, like she’d never left.

It was eerie how perfect she looked. Like a dream reassembled from a broken memory.

Jean was the first to feel it. A distant fog where Serena’s thoughts should be. Not blank, but veiled—as if something else were standing in front of a two-way mirror, watching from within her.

Rogue stepped forward. “Serena, honey? You alright?”

Serena tilted her head, offered a soft smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Malik had been sprinting the second the security system flagged her reappearance. He tore through the east wing in nothing but joggers and boots, calling her name with a voice already raw.

“Serena!”

But it wasn’t him who reached her first. It was Scott.

Of course it was.

He stormed down the steps, scowling like it was his religion, already snapping the second he saw her. “You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve showing your face around here again, freakshow.”

Serena didn’t stop walking.

Scott scoffed, turning just enough to keep pace beside her. “What, you gonna hiss at me? Maybe spray some pheromones, see if you can bend everyone to your—"

He didn’t finish.

The moment he passed her, Serena stopped. Her posture shifted with a snap. The light in her eyes vacated. One blink, and the warm brown irises turned ink-black. Pupil swallowed the color entirely. The tilt of her head wasn’t human—it was cold, clockwork, wrong.

Her hand darted out faster than any of them could react, gripping Scott’s throat with an ironclad force.

He yelped, arms flailing, feet leaving the ground.

Jean gasped. “Serena—”

But the voice that came from Serena’s mouth wasn’t Serena’s.

It was hollow. Almost glitchy. A fragment of something spoken through an intercom from another world.

“No bark, Scott Summers?” she said, her head still tilted to one side like a crow studying a carcass. “No last words?”

Scott’s eyes widened in panic as he struggled against her grasp, choking on his own indignation. She hoisted him higher, expression unreadable, lips parted ever so slightly.

And then—she smiled. But it wasn’t hers.

It was his.

Sinister’s.

Chapter Seventy-Nine “Static in the Soul”

Malik skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs just as Serena hoisted Scott by the throat.

He’d seen her fight. He’d seen her bleed, spit, snarl. He’d seen her love with abandon and rage with divine fire.

But this?

This wasn’t her.

This wasn’t his.

Her body was stiff—movements jarring, puppeted, as though something else moved her limbs and peeled her smile into place. The moment her fingers wrapped around Scott’s throat, Malik felt the cold slide of dread pool low in his spine.

“Serena!” he shouted.

She didn’t flinch.

Jean acted fast, fingers pressing to her temple, eyes glowing.

“I’m going in—something’s wrong, deeply wrong.”

But the instant Jean’s psychic touch brushed the wall of Serena’s mind, Serena snapped.

Like a tripwire, her entire body convulsed—then froze.

A terrible silence followed.

And then, like a marionette forced into motion, she whipped her body, flinging Scott’s weight like a ragdoll straight into Jean, the two of them crashing through three solid walls and into the west hallway with an earsplitting roar of breaking stone and steel.

Malik moved.

But he was too slow.

She turned her head—no, swiveled—and locked those pitch-black eyes on Ororo Munroe.

Storm stood her ground.

“Serena—what is this? Whatever this is, fight it! I know you!”

But Serena didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.

She moved like a reaper.

In the blink of an eye, her hand was around Ororo’s throat. Not clawed, not fang-bared. Flat-palmed. Surgical. As if measuring the divine woman’s neck for a noose.

And then—they lifted.

Lifted.

Straight through the roof.

No warning, no build, no jetstream. Just a violent shattering of glass and structure as Serena dragged Storm into the skywith a force unnatural even for mutants.

Malik screamed her name, tearing after them—but by the time he reached the hole in the ceiling, all he saw was the trailof them streaking into the clouds.

His chest rose and fell with furious desperation.

Magneto appeared beside him like thunder, metal groaning around his boots. He said nothing, just stared into the broken sky.

Malik turned to him, breathing hard.

“…What the fuck is happening?”

Magneto’s jaw tensed.

“It’s not her mind anymore,” he murmured. “It’s his.”

Malik didn’t need to ask who he was.

Because deep in his marrow, the truth screamed:

Sinister had come back for his wife. And this time, he’d brought a leash.

#aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre fanfic #xmen fanfiction #romance #x black oc #mature fic

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minteayoongimakesmewoozi · 2 years ago

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oh no..... had a thought about the au where tanjirou is giyuu and ayame is sabito.........

tanjirou and ayame face the hand oni, but they're both so unprepared for it. tanjirou's rib is broken, his forearm is probably fractured and he's been limping since they managed their escape. it's almost too dark for ayame to see where they're hiding in the cave, but she can feel the terrible tremors of the hand oni as it hunts for them.

the terrified expression on tanjirou's face is what makes her decision for her.

the hand oni said "sweet little fox".

maybe if he sees the fox mask and cloud jinbei and nothing else, then they might have a chance.

or, well, tanjirou might have a chance. urokodaki-san would be sad if he didn't return. urokodaki-san doesn't have anyone anymore.

ayame tears the jinbei off tanjirou's shoulders, replacing it with her kimono while he's still disoriented. she pulls it loose around her, then snatches the mask off his head.

"what - ayame, what - ?"

"stay here," she says quietly, her expression hidden behind the mask urokodaki-san carved for him. "i'll lead the oni away. don't make any noise, then make your way down to the wisteria trees as soon as the coast is clear."

"the mask - "

"tanjirou." her voice is solemn. "whatever happens... tell my shishou i was always grateful for everything."

she disappears from the cave before tanjirou can demand answers.

murata finds tanjirou and helps him through final selection. there is only one casualty for final selection that year.

kamado tanjirou is the water hashira, and he wears a dark blue seigaiha haori, the pattern dyed red. he's the water hashira, so no one wonders why he wears seigaiha. the charcoal half of his haori is hard to explain, but no one will ask.

when sabito is faced with the boulder, a girl in a fox mask appears before him. she holds himself the way a master swordsman does, and her strikes are swift and merciless. she knocks him out in ten seconds and doesn't bother to wait for him to wake up.

he begrudgingly admits that the way she moves is beautiful.

another girl, also with a fox mask, but with the mask resting against the side of his head, is the one who greets him when his eyes open.

"sorry about ayame-san," she says with a rueful chuckle. "she isn't very patient."

ayame-san, sabito learns early on, doesn't speak much if she can help it. she doesn't linger, even if sometimes he feels like he's being watched when he's alone. she continues to use a bokken while he wields a live sword, but it doesn't matter; she is always the one who deals out the first strike. often the last one as well.

"ayame-san doesn't want to show off too much," hikari says as she braids a flower crown. "she's a bit different from the rest of us, that's all. she doesn't stay for urokodaki-san after all."

"then who does she stay for?" asks sabito.

hikari's smile is secretive as she rests the daisy crown in her dark hair. "one of these days, you should ask her, sabito. you might be the only person she answers."

three months later, ayame stands before him with a steel katana at her hip. she draws it slowly - almost reverently. sabito notices that the curve of it is slightly different; it's steeper, the kissaki almost menacing.

"so," she says in a measured voice, "after six months, you can finally face me as a swordsman. hikari-san did well training you."

"you had just as much to do with it, ayame-san," hikari calls out from the side.

sabito snarls. it pulls the scar on his cheek, making him look more dangerous.

"today is the day i win," he declares, unsheathing his own blade.

ayame tilts her head. he wonders if her lips follow the same downward curl of her mask, or if she smirks at him like he always imagined she has.

"then you'd better hit me with everything you have, sabito."

time slows around him. his nose twitches, picking up a strange scent. it's metallic and sharp, like a freshly polished katana. it winds through the air, and he finds his blade following its arc.

for the first time since they met, his blade reaches ayame first.

there is a moment of stillness.

sabito can't believe his katana sliced downward first. her arms are still raised, and she doesn't move as her sleeves fall downwards, exposing the kumihimo cords she has wound around her left wrist.

the fox mask splits in half - sliced vertically in a perfect line. when the wood falls to her shoulders, sabito is shocked to meet shockingly blue eyes.

ayame's lips are parted in surprise. as he watches, her lips curl into a small smile. the slightest twitch of the corners of her lips is both happy and sad.

"sabito..." she murmurs.

sabito can never catch ayame's scent. for the first time, there's a hint of charcoal and something floral lingering in the air, muted by the scent of a summertime rain.

"you did great. remember what you just did, ne?" her voice lowers. "win, okay, sabito? beat that guy too."

sabito glances at hikari in disbelief. she smiles at him encouragingly.

"ayame," he hears himself say, "who do you stay for?"

surprise flits across her features.

"hey," she chuckles sadly, "next time you see tanjirou, be sure to say hi to him. he's so gloomy nowadays."

sabito glances at hikari, but she's disappeared. when he turns back to ayame, she's gone too.

the only thing left in the clearing was the boulder, sliced in half. exactly the same way he had sliced ayame's mask.

#me as a writer #mind drabbles #fog in the summertime #fits #fits au #fits ayame as sabito au #fits hashira au remix #higuchi ayame #sabito #kamado tanjirou #amano hikari #fits au headcanons #i wrote hikari as makomo first #then i remembered she's nezuko in this au #tanjirou has long hair in this au too #but fashions it in a low ponytail like ayame's #my boy has so much trauma #zenitsu is sanemi and inosuke is probably obanai in this au #might have to write this down properly

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dr-aashish-arbat-pune · 1 year ago

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Hip Fracture

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#Why is a Hip Fracture So Dangerous?#Hip Fracture Treatment #Hip Fracture Symptoms #Hip Fracture Types #Hip Fracture Surgery #Hairline Hip Fracture Treatment #Worst Type of Hip Fracture #Hip Fracture Treatment Without Surgery

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arianna-irwynarn · 11 months ago

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Part seven.

Sorry for the wait guys, I've been dealing with work and pain from my fractured knee. But here it is and I hope you like it.

Rei

Sfw

“Might need to get shadow heart to fix that though.” Karlach poked lily's cheek. A pain shot through her face. An arrow had brushed her face but managed to split her cheek open, she hadn't noticed due to the adrenaline.

“Oh!” Now she was aware of it, the pain started up. Raising a hand to her cheek she could feel blood running slowly down the side of her face from karlach’s poke.

Thankfully everyone else was unscathed. She quickly pulled out a potion, chugging the contents of the small bottle she felt her skin knitting back together.

“I thought we’d killed all those bastards already?” Karlach mused.

“It's just like goblins to hide when they see they are at a disadvantage.They couldn't run back to the goblin camp.” Wyll commented as he placed a pair of daggers into his haversack.

Lily made her way over to Astarion.

“Oh, hello and what can I do for you?”

“Uh, thank you, for rugby tackling me out of danger back there.”

A charming smile graced his face.

“Well I couldn't let our shy little leader get an arrow through the chest now, could I?”

Lily tried to keep her composure as she looked up into his ruby coloured eyes.

“Also for bringing me back to camp last night.”

“Well someone has to keep an eye on you and the others said I had to. As punishment for not revealing my true nature.”

He said it so flippantly, waving his arms around in a dramatic fashion.

Lily felt anger surging inside.

“Well I'm so sorry for being such a punishment for you. I guess you didn't like that ‘gift’ after all.”

With that lily turned on her heels and stormed off in the direction they were going, tears stung her eyes, another thing that had followed her from her human life. Did they all see her like that? Someone to make a mockery of? If that was the case then why even follow her? She would prove them all wrong.

The shadows were beginning to stretch like tendrils of darkness across the forest path. It was then that she saw something truly beautiful and horrifying. A shadow shaped like a nightmare passed through her, her silver eyes tracked the shadow upwards and her mouth fell open. A dragon, a real life dragon! It was a majestic beast the colour of blood, the wingspan was like that of an aeroplane. Sat atop was a Githyanki, his armour glinting in the late afternoon sun.

It told her that a big fight was on the cards if they continued that way.

The camp was set up quickly and as discreetly as they could make it. Everyone was inside their tents, except for lily who sat next to the camp fire reading a large book.

Monsterous creatures of Fae’run

An A-Z of most documented species.

V is for vampire.

“Darling, if you wanted to know about vampires you could have come to me.”

Lily snapped the book shut and placed it on the bedroll. Astarion looked down at her, a look of mock offence on his face. A laugh escaped lily's lips.

“My, have I offended you? My most humble apologies.”

She stood placing her hands on her hips. Wondering what he wanted.

“Well, actually, I wanted to… apologse for what I said. You aren't a punishment.”

His pale cheeks showed the slightest hint of colour. He was blushing! Apologising clearly wasn't an easy thing for him.

She couldn't help the soft smile that graced her face.

“Thank you.”

She wanted to hug him but something held her back. The memories of Cazador. That monster who turned him then sent him out to seduce people. She needed to respect his personal space.

“Why are you still up? The others went to bed ages ago.”

Astarion pretended to flick something off of his billowy cream shirt.

“Oh, well we were all so busy today and time positively flew by. Next thing I know everyone has gone to bed and I never got the chance to feed.”

His crimson eyes lingered on lily's pale throat as he spoke.

“Astarion, you can’t go hunting. Not here, there’s a red dragon and gods knows how many Githyanki roaming around.”

“Darling I didn't know you cared,”

‘of course I do.”

She lightly grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, careful not to touch him as she gently pulled him down to sit beside her.

Astarion had never really paid any attention to lily's tent before. It was cramped with two candles creating small circles of light. An old bedroll was laid out and the books they had found in the blighted village were in a pile. It bothered him, their leader sleeping in such conditions. She could have taken over any of the group's tents for herself. But she didn't. In fact she never complained once.

Lily weighed up her options silently. Astarion broke the silence

“You never complain do you, you're in this crappy tent with the rattiest bedroll I've ever seen and yet you could make it much better. I couldn't dream of living in such…” His voice trailed off, memories of that palace of pain and suffering, of Cazador beating him mercilessly. The feel of his blade as he carved into his flesh. The taste of bile reached the back of his throat, he swallowed it back down. He almost jumped when he felt the warmth of lily's touch on his hand.

“I'm going to go with you. If you have to go hunt, I'll be your uh, hunting wingman.”

Lily quickly released Astarions hand not really even meaning to touch him at all.

“You want to do what? Darling you are hardly the stealthiest warlock. I'll stand no chance of hunting anything with you following me.”

Her cheeks flushed but her face held a look of determination and stubbornness that was almost cute.

“This is not up for discussion. I am coming with you and that's final.”

A sly grin appeared as he looked down at her.

“All right but if I should come up empty” he leans down to whisper in her ear “you'll have to pay the price.”

#bg3 fanfic #bg3 tav and astarion #bg3 astarion x tav #bg3 community #baldurs gate 3 tav #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction

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littlemourningstarr · 1 year ago

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Maelstrom

Pushed to their breaking points, the party has finally reached Thorm Mausoleum. But what awaits within, and below, will change the course of their lives irreversibly. For some, it will shake the very foundation their lives have been built on.

Read below or on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Transmasc tav

Part of the Eternally Yours series!

Tags: Transmasc tav, violence, gore, plot heavy, alluding to past SA, everyone is tired and angry

The Thorm Mausoleum loomed in the dark, imposing as it sat atop a slight incline. The air felt thinner here, colder somehow. Sekh swore he could nearly see his breath. Behind him, Shadowheart was walking very close to Karlach, attempting to leech as much heat as possible from her.

Deciding to fracture the group had been a hard decision- but they finally agreed it was best for some of them to stay back, with the Harpers. Whatever this relic was they were looking for, once they had it they would have precious little time to strike.

They began ascending a set of uneven stones, used in place of stairs, when a voice spoke out from ahead, “Our hero thought but a treasure ahead.”

Sekh paused, glancing around. Gods above and below he knew that voice.

“Did not consider the peace of the dead.” Raphael stepped into view, as the group finished ascending the stones. He was masquerading as a man, but Sekh could just smell the sulfur buried under cherries and musk. Having seen him, even just once, in his true form, Sekh could never stop seeing it, as if Rapheal’s edges blurred, flitted in and out of focus.

The devil continued, quite obviously loving the sound of his own voice. The speech was showy, flippant and unnecessary. Furthest back, Sekh was sure Karlach was grinding her teeth.

When the devil finally stopped- did he ever breathe? Did devils need to breathe?- Sekh folded his arms, inclining his head slightly. “A warning,” he mused, “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, Raphael.” Not that Sekh believed for a moment the devil truly cared about their well-being for any altruistic reason-

But it was fun to tease. Besides, he preferred whatever games the devil played with them to the countless unknowns of the stranger in Shadowheart’s artifact- Astral Prism. Devils were almost predictable, there was always a catch.

But that stranger? Sekh didn’t know how to read them- he just knew they sent a chill down his spine. Yet he hadn’t killed them at Vlaaktih’s command-

Frankly, he’d do almost anything to spit the wretched lich queen.

“Merely protecting my…assets.” Raphael held up his hand, traced a curve in the air, as if he knew the shape of Sekh’s hips, the dip of his waist. The drow didn’t need to glance to his side to know Astarion was frowning over that. “I’ve grown quite fond of you, in my own way. And I felt it only right to warn you of the dangers ahead.”

“How very sweet.” Sekh unfolded his arms, lifted his dominant hand, let the air crackle with the chill of death as he pulled at his necrotic magic. “I can handle myself, Raphael.” Especially with the company he kept- Sekh had little fear when any of his companions were with him. He trusted them with his life, with his death.

“Oh, I’m sure you can, little dark dweller. If I needed reassurance on that, I could simply ask your little vampling.” Raphael turned his glance to Astarion- and why was Sekh not surprised that Raphael knew about them? Why did he have a feeling Raphael knew the moment Sekh had first bedded Astarion?

Damn devils- bloody know-it-alls.

“It would be pointless to try and bar you from entering- you’re far too willful to listen. Honestly, Astarion, is he as much of a handful in bed as he is in simple conversation?” Before the vampire could answer, Raphael continued- obviously not actually caring for the elf’s input. “Instead, let me give you a bit of advice. Because I am oh so fond of you.”

Sekh felt a sudden sting, radiating from his left hand, his middle finger- the ring. He didn’t dare glance at it, lest he give Raphael any more information about him than the devil already had. He could only fathom that the discomfort was stemming from Astarion’s own.

Sekh shifted slightly closer to him, dared to move his hand slightly, trail a finger along his hand. He didn’t dare grab it- he wasn’t interested in any further commentary by Raphael- but he wanted to let the vampire know it was alright. This would be alright.

Lost in his own voice, Raphael didn’t seem to notice. “There is a creature that lurks, in silence and shadow. A creature who, like me, is very much of the infernal persuasion. Should it make its way out of the doors you are about to brazenly swing open, you’ll have unleashed a pestilence upon this realm.”

“So, are we talking an ex-lover?” Karlach spoke up, the sneer on her lips dripping into her words.

Raphael leveled a glare at her. “It is carnage incarnate. Should you meet this devil, do not hesitate, take no other course of action but to kill it. And kill it quickly.” Sekh waved his hand in the air, motioning for Raphael to give him more. Besides, Karlach’s question wasn’t unfounded. Raphael frowned. “You try my last nerve, love.” He took a step closer, and Sekh could tell he was squaring his shoulders, puffing out his chest.

It was laughable that he could be in a pissing contest with a damn devil.

“It would be in my best interest as well, should the creature remain in the dark- or conveniently misplace its head. So strike fast and strike true- and perhaps the next time I see you, you’ll be wholly intact.”

Lovely parting words, although Sekh did appreciate knowing there was something infernal lurking below. He was glad to have the devil take his leave, when Astarion stepped forward, in front of him. “Wait. Before you go, I have a proposal of my own.”

“Astarion?” Sekh asked, not even able to whisper. A proposal? He had been so adamant about not taking Raphael’s assistance with their parasite- not that Sekh disagreed- that the drow couldn’t fathom what the vampire could want from Raphael now.

Unless…

“A proposal? If you’re hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern whiskey.” Raphael gently twirled his wrist, as if he was swirling wine in a glass, to appreciate its aroma.

Astarion frowned, his brows knitting in frustration. “This is serious business, devil.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “My old…” and two words in, paused. The word master must have tasted like the most vile poison, Sekh was sure. “A long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. I’d rather like to know what they say.”

“Runes?” Karlach asked, sounding quite fairly confused. Sekh had kept his word to Astarion and told not a soul about his scars. As far as he was aware, Rolan was the only other person to have seen them, to know they existed.

“It’s something of great important to your master. But- is it a love letter?” Sekh could see Astarion tremble, a tremor traveling down his spine. He had never asked for Astarion to elaborate on the details of how Cazador mistreated him- he didn’t want the vampire to ever relive even the memories- but he had a terrible, sinking, gut wrenching feeling that thoughts he had always hoped were wrong were far too true. “A warning, perhaps? Or a deed of ownership? Oh, I can give you all the gory details, Astarion.” Raphael reached out, gripped Astarion’s chin, forced him to tilt his head back slightly. Sekh reached out without thinking, grabbed Raphael’s wrist and squeezed, feeling bone grind against bone.

The devil merely chuckled, as if Sekh’s gesture was cute, and held not an ounce of threat.

“And I will- once the beast that lurks below is vanquished, and sent back to the hells.”

Astarion pulled away from Raphael’s touch, his voice sounding rather calm, despite the unwelcomed touch. “A fairer deal than I expected.”

“You wound me spawn! I always deal fairly- especially with those I find so… endearing. But I am glad that we have an… understanding. Scars often tell such wonderful stories. I think yours might be truly… exquisite.”

Raphael chuckled then, snapped his fingers, and dissipated into little glittering sparks of fire. The wind carried them away quickly, and Sekh turned to face Astarion as Karlach and Shadowheart both spoke at once-

“What scars are we talking about?”

“Astarion you had better not have just contracted us into a devil’s debt!”

Astarion frowned, but didn’t answer the others. He did meet Sekh’s gaze, however. “Do you trust a deal with him?”

“I’d trust a devil over a vampire anyday,” he said, folding his arms- looking rather sullen. “Besides, what other options do I have? Whatever Cazador carved into me is only a fragment of something bigger- and considering the other spawn aren’t here for us to line up nice and neat, I need someone who can decipher it despite the missing text.”

Sekh nodded. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Shadowheart yelled, pushing up close to them. “Sekh we are indebted to a devil!”

Sekh didn’t blame Shadowheart for her concern. They had all been very adamant to avoid Raphael’s first deal. But Sekh also knew these scars were clawing at Astarion, tearing him open with their mysteries. He deserved to know the details of whatever that rat bastard had done to him.

“To kill another infernal,” Sekh pointed out. He turned back to Karlach. “At least one devil dies- right Karlach?”

The tiefling thought on it, before shrugging a shoulder. “You’re not wrong. I’m happy to spill any devil blood. And if it will help Astarion…" She cast a very fond look at the elf. “Then I’m in. I just wish you’d clued us in sooner, fancy boy.”

Astarion looked away, but Sekh could see a smile, trying to pull at his lips. The relief, that it wasn’t just Sekh willing to take a risk for him.

Shadowheart sighed, hanging her head. “I hate you all so much,” she muttered, before taking a deep breath and straightening back up. “Okay. So we find Ketheric’s relic and we kill a devil. Completely reasonable and plausible actions for us, with little to no chance of failure, injury, or untimely death.”

“That’s the spirit fringe!” Karlach slapped Shadowheart’s back, grinning, and Sekh tried to stifle a chuckle. Even Astarion was smiling now- and Sekh hoped the vampire realized that he could have opened up to their companions earlier on. That they were all here for him.

The mausoleum smelled of dust and old bones, the air still, cool to an unpleasant level. Each footstep the group took seemed to echo- and they all nearly jumped out of their skins when a skull began talking to them.

A message, from Balthazar.

“I don’t relish the thought of making his acquaintance,” Astarion admitted, as Sekh stepped up towards the large sarcophagus in the center of the chambers. He read the encryption outloud. Thorm’s late wife.

“Seems even the most annoying of men can still be loved,” Shadowheart mused, adding, “but I suppose Astarion is proof of that as well.”

“You wretch,” Astarion teased, smiling with his fangs in full display. Sekh rolled his eyes and left them to their playfight, heading further into the structure. He heard Karlach call out to him, found her standing in front of a large room with a broken open tomb-

Well, that didn’t bode well.

“Buttons- under the pictures,” she noted, nodding towards one. Sekh scanned the room, noted the three- a simple flip them in the right order, it seemed. Meaning there was far more to this room than what they were seeing.

It took some digging about, flipping through dusty books and nearly rusted shut drawers- but Shadowheart found a clue, and they were able piece together the story Ketheric wanted painted- tragic, truly.

Sekh hoped no one would ask why they shed no tears.

They stepped into the now open passage, the grand entrance to something far more than just a family tomb. With no other options, they settled on the large disk- Sekh losing his footing when it began moving and landing painfully down on one knee. He was sure that was not a sign as to how this would go.

Once it had settled, Karlach hoisted him up, and they stared for a moment at the grand, echoing cavern-like tunnels. Smooth rock, polished to perfection- even if it felt like whatever this was had slept for years upon years, beneath the shadow cursed lands.

Deeper into the structure, the lights began to fade. They were faced with a large statue, and Sekh swore he heard a voice, echoing in the dark. He glanced at his companions, hoping he wasn’t crazy- and noted that Shadowheart seemed to be staring ahead in wonder.

“Shadowheart?”

“I cannot believe it,” she whispered, “But this… this must be the gauntlet of Shar. It would make sense that Ketheric would house it, since he was once devoted to the dark lady. And that,” she gestured to the air, to the voice that had rung in all of their heads. “That is Shar herself.”

Sekh frowned, glanced away from Shadowheart, caught Karlach’s eye. The tiefling looked just as uncomfortable as he felt. Shar wasn’t a deity any of them were interested in being acquainted with.

And after the talk Sekh had just had with Shadowheart, after the House of Healing- well, he’d thought-

“She loves me,” Shadowheart said, voice wispy, airy, light, “she must. She protected me from the shadows- she’s given me the chance to prove myself in the Gauntlet. My life’s biggest desire- she is willing to see if I can truly be a Dark Justiciar.”

“Shadowheart,” Sekh said again, softer now, but she ignored him.

“I should never have faltered in her name.” She straightened up, held her head high. “I will prove myself, in her name.”

Shadowheart moved forward, leaving the rest behind. She was allowed to reach the statue of Shar in the center of the room without any hindrance, pressing her hand to the glimmering stone in front of her. The door across the room opened, the air moving in a cold breeze, like an exhale.

Sekh, Astarion, and Karlach had no choice but to rush to keep up with Shadowheart, who moved with a purpose now. She walked as if this temple were her own- like it was her birthright.

It set Sekh’s stomach to uneasy knots. But all he could do was follow her, in the hopes that her fanatical love would die to reason.

They reached and ascended a large flight of stairs, only to be abruptly stopped by-

Gods, were those skeletons?

The rattling bones were quite demanding, and clearly unhappy at the intrusion. They felt strange, a consciousness pulled between them- somehow there were tadpoles trying to react to Sekh’s, even though these were bones and dust.

“What are you?” he asked, before a tremor shook the room. He extended his arms, bracing himself, caught a glimpse of Astarion tipping over into Karlach, who caught him in a firm hold. The skeletons looked about, before one yelled,

“Stupid worm-infested cockhead!”

Well, that was one that Sekh’s mother would have been proud of.

“You have awoken the shadows. Rally on me! A wall of bone and blade against the shadows!”

The room quaked again, this time sending Sekh back down onto his knee- which ached upon impact- as seething masses of black and violet shadows erupted around them. Crawling from their maws were heavily armored undead, all masked-

“Dark Justiciars,” Shadowheart said, and then, dejected, “why would Shar’s dead attack? Am I being tested?”

“Not the time sweetheart,” Karlach said, hefting her large axe. “Kill first, contemplate later.” Without hesitation Karlach turned, swinging her axe into one of Shar’s dead, cleaving the thing clean in two. It fell to the ground with a clang of armor- and if anything had been inside it, it was nothing bust dust now.

Sekh noted the three shadow masses, each birthing new undead as quickly as Karlach could cut them down. They needed to take those down first.

“Karlach, Astarion,” he called, “you two take care of the undead- Shadowheart, you and I need to take care of those shadows- or we’ll drown in the undead.”

Thankfully Shadowheart gave a nod, turning to the closest and calling down a brilliant sphere of radiant light. The shadow shrieked as if it was living, and Sekh let loose a blast of his own shadow magic, letting it coil around the shadows writing in the light. There was a loud rush of air, as the darkened mass burst-

And didn’t return.

Okay. They could definitely do this.

Sekh and Shadowheart turned their attention to the next summoning portal, Shadowheart dropping low as one of the long dead Dark Justiciars swiped their sword clean through where her neck would have been. Before she could retaliate, Karlach was burying an axe in the thing’s back, snarling, “Do not touch my cleric.”

Sekh got goosebumps over the sheer power of her voice.

He trusted Shadowheart to right herself, and Karlach to ensure she stayed in one piece. He focused on the swarming shadows instead, trying his necrotic magic this time, to see if it had more effect.

The shadows growled, he swore, seeming to try and devour the death magic. It flickered, but didn’t go out- and he knew, the shadows it was.

He pulled on Syl’s powers, felt the shadows on his face swarming, hot, stretching along his neck, beginning to curl over his shoulder. The blast he released nearly knocked him back a step, a stream of shadows blacker than night swarming the summoning portal, engulfing it entirely. He tightened his fist, could feel his shadows choking the life out of Shar’s.

They had to be her shadows, right?

He could feel Syl laughing in his mind, enjoying exerting her own power over the goddess. Nothing but shadows herself, he knew Syl thought very little of the goddess of loss.

He didn’t disagree.

The portal screeched, before collapsing. Sekh’s shadows dissipated with it, and he turned, saw Shadowheart was already working on the third portal- thankfully, the last. It had been left dormant long enough, unfortunately, that it had quite the number of undead crawling out, twisting in ungodly ways as they righted themselves.

Astarion, having finished with a straggling Dark Justiciar from one of the other portals, rushed over, leaping into the air and kicking one of the undead in its hollow chest. His landing was a bit rough, as he went down on his knees- but as the Dark Justiciar stumbled, he dropped his daggers, grabbed one of his single handed crossbows, and fired into the opening between armor and mask.

A second and third shot sent the shade collapsing into nothing but rusted armor.

Sekh focused on the portal, Shadowheart already raining golden light down upon it. He joined, letting his shadows mingle within her light, creating a dizzying cascade of brilliant golds and a sheer black void. Both were gritting their teeth, concentrating, until the portal let out a resonating crack and dissipated.

Shadowheart and Sekh stumbled back, both sucking in a breath, as Karlach kicked one of the undead away from Astarion, shattering its bones with the force. It crumpled to the ground, as just as suddenly as the mayhem began, a silence fell over them.

For a moment, they were all still, coiled tight, waiting for anything to happen. Yet when it didn’t, after a minute, Astarion pushed himself up off the ground, stowing his crossbow, before gathering up his discarded daggers. Karlach settled her axe away, placing her hands on her hips and looking at the piles of bones and armor.

“Well, that was a warm welcome,” she mused. “Shadowheart, mind asking your goddess to lighten up on the hospitality just a little bit?”

Shadowhear frowned, folding her arms, as Sekh crouched down by one of the piles of bones. He poked at the skull, hand recoiling as a tadpole flopped out of the eye socket, wriggling. It was dying.

“Ugh,” Astarion managed, fighting back a gag. “I would rather not be reminded of what those worms look like, thank you.” He kicked a pile of bones, before jumping back, another tadpole dislodged by his action, being shot a few paces forward to land on the ground in a wet splatter. “I am going to be sick.”

“No time for that soldier,” Karlach said, though she pointedly did not look at the dead tadpoles. “How the fuck did someone worm a damn skeleton?”

“No idea,” Sekh admitted, standing up and brushing dust from his hands. “But there’s necromancy at play, serious necromancy.” He planted his hands on his hips, forcing himself to not focus on how cold it seemed now. As if the life was being drained from the air around them.

“So, like your magic?” Karlach asked, as she moved closer to Shadowheart, seemed to be checking the cleric over for injuries. Shadowheart tried to bat her away, but there seemed no stopping Karlach from fussing over her.

“No,” Sekh admitted. “No, I… I’ve never had the skill for necromancy. My spells are simple death magic- but I’m not reanimating the dead. My mother couldn’t even do that- hells I don’t think anyone in my line has been able to for generations.”

“But they could once?” Karlach asked, looking intrigued. Sekh simply shrugged a shoulder- he’d heard his mother say they could, once. But the magic dwindled throughout their bloodline, as they turned more to brute force.

Hence, his mother’s shortsword.

The matter dropped as they weighed their next options. There was another disk, just ahead of the room’s large entrance- but it seemed dormant. The strange pedestal in front of it had a small indent, as if it needed something.

Progressing right led to a broken staircase, while left was actually attainable. They went that path, passing at the landing. Another set of stairs, or a long, shadowed hallway. Sekh felt the air moving, swore he heard a murmur, and Shadowheart was turning quickly, moving into the hallway. Past a large statue of Shar, she pressed her palm to a door, pushing as the rest of the party caught up with her.

The door creaked as it opened, as if it hadn’t been touched in one hundred years. The room was nearly pitch black, the faintest light creeping in. Set a few paces back, a statue of Shar stood, over a large stone bowl. Sekh and Shadowheart moved towards it, Sekh noting the dried blood caked within.

“These are her trials,” Shadowheart said, the awe back in her voice. “She needs a blood offering.” She turned to Sekh then, eyes pleading, “I need to do this. I need to know I’m worthy.”

Sekh bit his tongue. He was terrified of what this would do to Shadowheart- but he also had to respect her desires. He had to trust her.

He moved for one of his daggers, knowing he was possibly the most acclimated to bleeding at this point- but Shadowheart placed a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Let me,” she whispered. Sekh nodded, stepped back as Shadowheart pulled out a dagger, gave her arm a slice, grimaced as her blood dripped slowly into the bowl- a vibrant crimson compared to the long dead blood of her predecessors.

The gentle splash of her blood broke the silence, and then the creaking metal gates moved, cracking open, providing multiple entries further into the room. Shadowheart pulled her sleeve down, stowing her blade.

“I have to do this alone.” She glanced at Karlach and Astarion, both a few paces back. While the vampire seemed rather indifferent, Karlach was frowning.

“That’s not a good idea, soldier,” she advised, but Shadowheart only shook her head, turning to Sekh. He sighed, shoulders slumping a little.

“I trust you,” he said, and something seemed to spark in Shadowheart’s eyes. “Come back in one piece, okay? We need you.” She nodded before turning, examining the open doorways, before proceeding through one.

Sekh took a step back, falling closer to Karlach and Astarion. “Was that… was that a smart idea?” Astarion asked, and Sekh couldn’t answer. No, it wasn’t- but he couldn’t deny Shadowheart. She was free to make her choices. She was free to face the consequences.

A few minutes of silence passed, before Karlach grew antsy. She shifted from foot to foot, before she began pacing. Astarion had long since abandoned staring at the doors, was poking around the room- though there seemed to be little beyond dust and bone. Sekh could tell that Karlach wanted to charge in- and while he did as well, he was ready to push back if she tried-

Thankfully, there was a sudden break in the air, tendrils of a glorious purple, space ripping open. Shadowheart stumbled out, one hand clutching something tightly. “Hells,” Astarion exclaimed, watching with wide eyes as reality stitched itself back together behind her.

Shadowheart straightened up, then grinned. “One trial down,” She opened her hand, showed her companions the small orb she was holding. “I think this will fit by the disk back up the stairs.” She stowed it away, before walking briskly through the room, back out to look for the next door. Sekh, Astarion, and Karlach had no choice but to rush after her, watching her step into the next room over.

Inside was the same statue, the same cracked stone bowl. Without hesitation Shadowheart dug her knife, deeper this time, into her arm, bleeding for her goddess. She had barely gotten her knife away when the doors opened, revealing the chamber was much deeper than it originally looked.

Shadowheart strode through, chin high, and the party followed quickly after. The room felt colder than the others, and Sekh swore he could see ice forming, on parts of the floor.

He distinctly did not like the feeling the space gave him.

“I don’t like this,” Karlach said, as Shadowheart began up a set of stairs. She barely crested the top when a bolt of radiant light struck down, missing her by mere inches. She jumped back, as a flickering shape descended the stairs, turning the corner and grinning wickedly.

It was Shadowheart, except… not. She was made of shadows, wisps of purples and blacks, her features faded.

“We are our own greatest enemy,” Shadowheart said, just loud enough for the rest to hear- as more shadows stepped out. Once to mirror each of them.

There wasn’t a moment to think, to speak. The party leapt into action, charging up the stairs to avoid having the low ground. Sekh leveled a shot of necrotic magic directly at the Shadowheart facade, as Karlach took on herself. Movements blurred, and Sekh lost track of where everyone was, his opponent seeming to constantly shift.

At one point, he was dodging a sneering Karlach’s axe.

Another, a wicked Astarion was trying to bury both his daggers into his belly.

And then he himself was reaching for his own throat, wanting to chill his bones beyond death.

Sweat trickled down his spine as he pedaled back a step, his other self missing his neck by a thread. He swallowed thickly, drew his shortsword, as the shade studied him. It didn’t speak, thankfully- Sekh wasn’t sure he could stand having a conversation with himself.

He struck out at him with shadows. Sekh dropped to his knees, crying out slightly because they ached with the impact so intensely. They would be all bruises, he was sure. But he stuck out with his sword, got the shade in its leg. It stumbled, and he dropped his sword, grabbing at its thigh and pulling it down, mumbling over and over again as necrotic magic surged forward, enveloping the shade.

It shrieked- a bastardization of his own voice- and began to convulse. Sekh let go, wanted to grab his sword, but even in death throws his other self reached for him, grabbed him and pulled him down into the mess, rolling them over. The shade was twitching, nearly foaming at the mouth as he straddled Sekh, put both hands around his throat and squeezed.

Sekh grabbed at the shade’s arms, his neck aching as his air was cut off. He tried to focus on his magic as his legs thrashed- but his mind spun, black speckles taking shape. He could just feel a chill in his fingers, and if he focused a bit more, he could get his magic back-

The shadow above him jerked suddenly, hold going slack. Sekh’s eyes darted, and he noticed two daggers sticking out of its side, Astarion looming over, face twisted in a sort of rage Sekh wasn’t sure he’d seen on the man before.

Astarion kicked the shade and it slumped off of Sekh, who sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to sit up. He coughed, his lungs burning, as Astarion reached for him, began to pull him up. Sekh tried to thank him, but his voice was rough, and Astarion’s look alone was enough to shut him up, for the moment.

They weren’t done.

Karlach’s shade was the last to fall- it took all four of them to take her down. By the time she crumpled to her knees, they were sweaty, dusty, and a bit bloodied- but all alive. All in one piece.

Shadowheart stayed focused, immediately searching the shade corpses for another gem. Sekh left her to it, rubbing his throat, before Astarion was pulling his hand away, examining it. “I’d rather never kill you again,” he said, and Sekh could hear a faint tremor to his voice.

“Promise I won’t make you.” Sekh’s voice was hoarse. He swallowed, watched over Astarion’s shoulder as Karlach pulled a small arrow from her shoulder, throwing it onto the ground.

“Can we be fucking done with this now?” she asked, as Shadowheart returned, stowing the second gem. “We came here for a relic- and I love a good time, but this is beginning to be a bit much. Besides, we’ll still have Ketheric after all of this.”

Karlach was right- no one could argue that.

Still, when Shadowheart left the room, seeming to ignore everyone, they all followed. Thankfully, the next trial wasn’t a battle, and was Shadowheart trusting herself to walk on the shadows. And all they found after that was a library that seemed to suck their voices from their lungs, but nothing more.

They headed back up the gauntlet, but moved forward instead of fully retracing their steps, up the second flight of stairs. The room that opened before them was massive, set with an old alter, candles still burning-

And more of these god forsaken skeletons. The air stank of necromancy.

“So the shadows didn’t swallow you,” one spoke, voice a hiss of stale air. “Come, before-” the words broke off as an all too familiar sound of the air ripping open, shadows bursting forth in a booming birth. “Rancid donkey scrotum!”

Alright, Sekh liked one thing about whoever was behind this necromancy- and it was their colorful vocabulary.

“Again?” Astarion asked, head swiveling between the summoning portals. Karlach screamed oh bloody fucking hells and simply launched herself at one, cleaving her axe through the shadows. It shuddered and dissipated.

Good to know that physical force worked as well.

Chaos erupted within seconds. The portals began to birth Dark Justiciars from the temple's abysmal, fetid womb. Karlach hacked away at each one she found, arms straining with the sheer force of effort she was putting into her swings. One cracked the floor, beneath a portal.

Sekh fired shadows from one hand, necrotic magic from the other- trying to split his focus before they were overwhelmed. He had to dodge the Dark Justiciar’s attacks- as the possessed skeletons were little more than a one time use bone shield.

Sekh gritted his teeth, sweat trickling down his spine, along his hairline. He was exhausted, yet it seemed each time a portal broke, a new one arose.

“We can’t do this forever!” Karlach yelled, as she grabbed Astarion as he ran past, swung him forward and launched him into the air. The vampire laughed as he landed, daggers first, into one of the portals.

“I don’t know, I think I’m having fun!” the vampire yelled, before he was knocked flat onto his ass by a Dark Justiciar. He grimaced, glared up at it, and bared his fangs. “Nevermind- not having fun.”

Sekh sent a bolt of shadow directly through its chest, barely able to spare a glance at Astarion to ensure he was in one piece, before he turned back to focus on the portals. He trusted his lover could handle himself.

His palms began to burn from the sheer amount of magic pouring out of him. It felt like they were all trapped within a sordid, violent dance- constantly shifting, focus split between the never ending growing portals and the wretched undead they spewed forth.

By the time the portal growth began to ebb, Sekh’s legs felt like they might give out. He swore even Syl felt exhausted, in his head- so much of her magic channeled to him. His party was a chorus of cursed and panted breaths, fatigue gripping everyone tightly.

Still, the last portal fell beneath Karlach’s axe and Shadowheart’s light, a burst of thunderous noise that gave way to, once again, a bone chilling silence.

The silence lasted but a moment, not long enough for words to even be exchanged, before a large door was opening, revealing an inner sanctum, private like chambers. A single glance between the party, and they moved forward- there was no other direction to go.

There was no turning back, at this point.

The room reeked of rotten flesh- a stench so foul that Astarion covered his nose, actively gagged and tried to silence the noise. Sekh stayed close, reached out to rest a hand on his back as they walked, fighting down bile in his own throat. The large stone table- alter like- in the center of the room was littered with body parts- old bone showing, rot clinging to limbs, blood so congealed Astarion would need a fork, as he had joked once, what felt like lifetimes ago.

The man who greeted them had a voice that seemed to echo, as if it sucked in the noise of the shuffling undead in the room and turned them to sheer silence. He was short, his eyes glowing from beneath his hood, face crossed in scars that looked as if he had freshly opened them- many times.

Sekh didn’t need to be told that this was Balthazar. His chambers back a Moonrise had given the group a similar sickness, had boasted the same horrid stench.

Sekh wanted a very long, very hot bath- he worried he’d smell like decay for months.

“I could put those limbs to work,” Balthazar said, sizing up Sekh, the party, as if they were simply hunks of meat, after his curt greeting. Sekh gritted his teeth, very much over this necromancer, after only being in his presence for moments. His pompous, arrogant, sorry little face-

“Oh I’m so done,” Karlach said, and Sekh didn’t even glance back. He raised his hand, and without hesitation, shot a shadow at one of the ambling ghouls, clean through its chest. Fuck their exhaustion, they’d grind themselves to bone if it meant not listening to this bastard prattle on.

“We’re done playing nice,” Sekh said, against the sound of Astarion drawing his still bloodied daggers. Before Balathazar could speak, Shadowheart rained her radiant light down on the hulking Golem behind him, knocking it back a few steps. Sekh jumped up onto the table as Blathazar turned, running further into the room, trying to get behind the recovering golem, to use him as a flesh shield. “I’ll kiss whoever kills him!” Sekh announced, feeling delirious from exhaustion.

He watched Astarion run at full speed towards Balthazar at that- and he wanted to laugh at how ridiculous this all felt. As if the vampire needed to earn a single kiss…

Karlach moved past the table, leaping to dig her axe into the Golem’s shoulder. It stumbled, blackened blood leaking out in disgusting, thick rivets. The smell was noxious, and Astarion stumbled as it hit him, causing him to miss Balthazar. The necromancer laughed, a noxious cloud forming at his hand and spilling over Astarion.

Before Astarion could right himself, a ghoul lunged, tackling him to the floor. Balthazar was laughing now, a sucking, wet noise that made Sekh grimace.

He drew his sword, leaping off the table, taking a few running steps and skewering the ghoul atop his vampire. It squealed as he freed his sword, kicking it off Astarion and grabbing a hold of his armor, dragging him out of the growing, sickening cloud. They were both coughing by the time they cleared it. Astarion pushed himself to sit up, looking paler than usual.

“Stay here,” Sekh said, even as he couldn’t catch his own breath. He heard the vampire argue- but he stopped listening, focusing on the fact that Balthazar seemed to be trying to summon more of his skeletons. And while they were nothing but a one use bone shield- they were still annoying.

Sekh shot his shadows at him, but the Golem intercepted, throwing Karlach across the room and taking the hit itself. It roared- gods above it really roared- but didn’t stop. Sekh coughed so violently he swore he tasted blood, felt his knees giving out. He fell down, gritting his teeth, a hand splayed on the floor as he swore his insides were caving in.

The golem charged, was only a few steps away- and Sekh watched as an arrow sliced clean through the air and into one of its eyes. Its head jerked back, before another pierced the center of its neck.

Sekh managed to glance to the side, and Astarion had both his crossbows in hand, looking pissed.

“Fuck off,” he said, firing a third shot, into the creature’s other eye. It went down, just in time for Karlach to be back, dripping sweat and blood and looking like the hells themselves. Her axe bit into its neck, the sheer force carrying the blade all the way to the floor.

The golem’s head rolled away, lifeless once more.

Sekh managed to push himself into a standing position, sucking in a painful breath. They needed to cut out the rot, the cause-

As soon as the thought occurred, he heard a bone rattling screech from Balthazar. He turned, watched as Shadowheart pulled back her mace, covered in blood and brain matter, the necromancer going down on one knee. Half his skull was caved in.

She brought the mace down a second time, light exploding upon impact, blinding Sekh. He reached up, shielded his eyes- and when the light faded, Balthazar was left motionless on the floor. As lifeless as his creations.

Karlach dropped her axe, the sound of metal an echoing clang around the room. Beyond that, all Sekh could hear were everyone’s panted breaths and his own pulse pounding in his skull.

“Gods I need a bloody drink,” Karlach finally managed, wiping sweat from her brow. Sekh couldn’t argue that, even though they were far from done.

He didn’t know how their bodies were going to hold out.

He heard Astarion stand up, the vampire groaning with the effort. He managed the few steps to Sekh, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to turn around.

He looked… well, still pissed.

“Don’t ever tell me to stay back,” he said, voice laced with an anger Sekh had never seen directed at him before, “when you are in danger.”

He squeezed Sekh’s shoulder so hard it ached, but the drow didn’t push him off. “You were in bad shape.”

“And you weren’t any better.” Astarion bared the tips of his fangs, and Sekh squared his shoulders. He knew, down in his gut, that Astarion was allowed to be angry, even if he felt justified in trying to protect the vampire as well. That the elf was angry at the situation.

But gods, he was too exhausted to truly think.

Before he could open his mouth and say something he’d regret, Shadowheart was guiding Astarion’s hand from Sekh’s shoulder. Despite the exhaustion in her eyes, she seemed in good spirits.

“I believe I won something,” she said, and Sekh stared at her, confused- before Astarion barked a laugh.

“Utterly ridiculous,” he said, even as he relaxed, the anger beginning to ebb. “Bloody hells Sekh, kiss her so we can be done with this place and move on.”

Sekh turned his eyes back to Shadowheart, and felt himself relaxing a bit. He reached up, cradled the back of her head and said, “You asked for it.”

Kissing her was quick, playful. He almost laughed into the brief touch, before they broke apart and she was stepping back, laughing into the back of her hand. “That felt like what I imagine kissing a brother is like,” she said, “never again.”

Karlach had picked her axe back up, was shaking her head at them, as Sekh felt Astairon move back into his space, not quite touching but close. Sekh glanced over at him, took a breath- “I’m sorry.”

“For kissing Shadowheart? Please, I do believe she earned it. Besides, it’s not as if I have competition.” Sekh sighed, turned fully and took Astarion’s hand, toying with the ring on the elf’s finger.

“No, you ass.” He lifted Astarion’s hand, kissed it softly, watched the vampire almost blush. “For upsetting you.” Astarion shifted a little, before he took his hand back, mumbling that they didn’t have time for this.

Flustered, but no longer angry. Sekh would gladly take that.

Battered but victorious, and with nowhere left to go but broken stairs or a waiting disk, and with a devil still needing to meet their demise, the party decided to at least attempt to finish exploring the temple before following whatever path the disk, powered by the orbs Shadowheart had earned, would take them.

It felt like luck- or a very obvious trap- when they noticed a Displacer Beast, prowling at the bottom of the stairs. Aside of the rats, it had been the only sign of real life within the temple. Sekh refused to refer to Balthazar or his creations as life.

Sekh jumped into Karlach’s arms, clearing the gap in the broken stairs. The tiefling grinned, looked like she wanted to hoist him up like a cat- but instead let him down, moving next to help Astarion.

Sekh watched the displacer beast round the corner, before moving into another room. Even back here, there was a faint whiff of sulfur, displacing the scent of ancient dust. Once the party had all crossed Sekh followed the displacer beast’s steps, entering a room that had him pausing.

Carnage, everywhere. Bodies strung up, piles of bone and old gore, blood so black it threatened the shadows. Sekh wrinkled his nose. “Gods, what happened here?” he whispered, as the overs glanced around, none seeming eager to move into the room.

Was there a single room in this gods forsaken temple that wasn’t gore splattered and reeking of stale death?

Finally, Astarion said, “I’d wager Raphael’s little friend,” before he slipped past Sekh, continuing brazenly into the room. Sekh was impressed that the smell of all that old blood and gore didn’t have the vampire gagging-

But he was determined.

Sekh hurried after, Shadowheart and Karlach a step behind. He could feel eyes on him in the room- they were being watched.

A low chuckle broke the silence, and the party turned, staring up to find a colossal devil watching them, a sparking crossbow that seemed almost comically small in his hand poised right at them.

“What have we here?” he mused, hellish eyes boring into their very souls. “Fresh entertainment? You’ve burrowed too deep, little rabbit.”

Sekh took a single step closer, to be shoulder to shoulder with Astarion. The devil seemed ready to speak more, before he sniffed the air, his brows furrowing.

“There’s a stink of the surface to you, but something else as well. Musk, cherries, and… sulfur. Raphael!” The crossbow shifted slightly, aimed directly at Sekh’s head. “Where is he?”

The devil’s voice boomed, shaking the bones suspended around his strange, bastardization of a throne room. It was then Sekh noticed other shapes coming into view. They were far from alone.

And considering the beating they had already taken, he didn’t think they would survive another.

“You’ve had dealings with him too,” Sekh said, “talk to me. We have no love for that devil.”

The devil- an Orthon Sekh would later learn from Karlach, chuckled, but did lower his crossbow just a notch.

“Bargaining won’t help you, little rabbit. The last man who tried watched me eat his young, before I fashioned his skull into a codpiece. If you’ve had dealings with that trickster, you know there’s nothing to discuss.”

Dealings- did the Orthon have a contract with Raphael? Sekh felt a presence in his mind, Syl watching through his blackened eye.

He was a warlock, and even if his contract with Syl was different, he still knew how they worked. And there was always a loophole.

“Show me your contract,” he said, caught Astarion whipping his head to glance at Sekh, confused. So quietly Sekh could barely hear him, the vampire mumbled we’re supposed to kill him.

Sekh reached for Astarion’s hand, teased his fingertips along it. He didn’t like to use the parasite, but he focused on his companions for a minute, echoing trust me into their skulls.

Astarion said nothing more.

The Orthon dropped the arm holding his crossbow, and much to Sekh’s surprise, began singing- or, as close to singing as the creature could get. Spoken word, really.

“Your contract is a song?” Sekh asked, rolling the lyrics over in his mind, trying to buy time.

“Parchment can burn, oral agreements aren’t worth the tongues they’re wagged on- but a song, it sticks in your mind.” The Orthon lifted his crossbow again, aiming it back at Sekh. “Now little rabbit, enough stalling.”

And then it hit Sekh. “An audience,” he mused, before adding louder, “You’ve always had an audience.” He gestured towards the Merridan who had formed an unnerving ring above them.

“The Merridan? There isn’t a single thought between them.” The Orthon paused, and Sekh could tell he was considering it. “Kill yourselves,” he said, after a moment- and without hesitation the beasts tore into each other, dying silently.

The devil growled.

“I still bloody hear it, endlessly.”

“Your displacer beast,” Sekh said, not glancing at the beast that had kept a watchful eye on them, since they entered.

“Nyssa?” The Orthon looked struck, hurt at the thought. “Raphael would demand such a sacrifice.” He turned towards the creature, but didn’t lift his crossbow. For a moment Sekh thought the devil might change his mind, might choose to skewer the drow’s skull with an arrow. “Stay still, my beauty.”

The Orthon leveled a single shot at the displacer beast, and Sekh refused to turn and watch the beast die. Necessary, yes, but he didn’t have to like it.

The Orthon bared his near tusks. “I still fucking hear it!” His voice sent the bones around them to clacking together again, and Sekh could tell his companions were tensing, ready for another fight. He had been able to level the odds, at least-

But he wasn’t done.

“You know there’s still one person who has always heard the song.” Sekh folded his arms, and in his head, Syl was giggling, mischievous. Her presence made this easier.

The Orthon looked at Sekh, perplexed- but the moment he made the connection, Sekh saw the light in his eyes. He stowed his crossbow, pulling out a blade instead. “If you’re wrong about this,” he said, eyes staring at Sekh, and Sekh alone, “I’ll claw my way from the hells and skin you alive. You’ll scream as I pluck each nerve out of your broken body.”

Sekh shuddered. He didn’t doubt the threat.

The Orthon turned his blade on himself, pressed it at the edges of his ribs. “Well played Raphael. Bastard.”

With no hesitation, he drove the blade into his own body. He toppled forward, falling from his perch and shaking the ground when he landed, dead on impact. He’d hesitated more when faced with dispatching his displacer beast.

For a moment, all four stood in silence, before Shadowheart said, “That silver tongue if yours is impressive.” Sekh smiled, rather proud that he had pulled that off. Before he could speak, however, Astarion was turning him, arms going around his neck as he jumped onto him, locking his legs around his waist. Sekh stumbled back as the vampire kissed him, not seeming to care that the drow was too exhausted to support their combined weight.

Thankfully, Karlach stepped in quickly, grabbed at Sekh’s waist, just under Astarion’s legs, and held them up. It was utterly ridiculous, and Sekh tried to say so, but he couldn’t form a full word, Astarion refusing to give him a chance.

He gave up, got his hands on his vampire’s waist, and enjoyed the kiss for what it was- filled with such strong excitement that Sekh swore he could feel it vibrating, in the vampire’s lips, in his touch, his fingers-

It was the ring Sekh realized, when Astarion finally let him breathe. “You beautiful man,” the elf said, “that tongue of yours is too talented.”

Shadowheart made a face. “Oh I don’t need to hear that from you, Astarion.”

The vampire ignored her, leaning in for another kiss, biting at Sekh’s lips. Sekh could almost fall into it, before Karlach cleared her throat. “Astarion, mind climbing off your man? Holding you both up does get a bit tiring.” Astarion pulled from Sekh’s mouth with a frustrated little noise, glancing past the drow at Karlach. Then, with a sigh, he got back to his own feet.

“That had better count as us killing him,” Astarion said, as Sekh leaned back against Karlach still, breathless, almost dizzy. If killing things for Astarion was going to always elicit that reaction, he could really get into the blood trade-

“I think it counts.” Shadowheart turned away from the group, heading for the dead displacer beast. Sekh watched Astarion walk over to the Orthon, toe at his body, as if checking that he was truly dead.

“You still with me soldier?” Karlach asked, as Sekh finally supported his own weight. He nodded, watched as Astarion returned to his side, now holding the Orthon’s crossbow. Sekh raised a brow, must have given him a look, because Astarion scoffed.

“What? The beastie’s dead, he won’t be needing it.” Karlach took it from the vampire, looking rather eager to examine it. “Now I just need Raphael to resurface.”

“Who knows where that’ll be,” Sekh mumbled.

“Wherever he feels like it- my own bedroll if he sees fit.” Astarion scrunched his face up at the idea, and Sekh couldn’t resist-

“I’m really not looking for a threesome with Raphael, but if you’re that eager-”Sekh was cut off when Astarion pulled him in for another kiss.

“Please do not finish that sentence,” he said, when the words were well and truly dead on Sekh’s tongue. The drow grinned, and Astarion rolled his eyes at him, but kept his little smile. And as exhausted and weary to his very bones Sekh felt, it was always worth it for just one of those smiles.

The orbs that Shadowheart had been harboring did prove to move the disk that had been dormant. It carried the party into the sheer depths of the temple- and they couldn’t even fathom how deep it truly went.

The remaining orbs opened a door, revealing a towering statue of Shar, presiding over a large pool. The water looked crisp, so clear that Sekh could make out the details etched into the stone floor beneath it.

“We made it,” Shadowheart said in wonder, looking up at Shar’s likeness. “Only by her grace. I need to pray.” She settled down onto her knees, bowed her head- and the silence that fell was deafening. Sekh could hear each of their breaths, his own heartbeat- and something else, like a bated breath, an almost whisper.

They weren’t alone. But he wasn’t sure they had ever been alone in the temple.

He stepped forward, into the pool, the water sloshing against his boots. He could feel its chill, felt goosebumps rising on his arms, along his back.

“Don’t rush in without me,” Shadowheart said, standing up then, wading into the pool herself. It lapped at her calves, then her thighs-

And she walked, ready to let the depths swallow her.

Something seemed to shatter then, pull them into the frigid, watery embrace. The breath choked from Sekh’s throat, and for a moment he was suspended in water that should have been ice, felt it stabbing at his lungs, his eyes, his throat-

And then it was gone, and he was left coughing up water and spit, laying on the ground. He heard his companions around him, all seeming to be in a similar state. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, winced as he took a breath and it felt like daggers were residing in his lungs.

Around him, everything was different. The ground they were on was just a hunk of rock, suspended in the air. The sky was rolling purples and blacks, above and below.

“The Shadowfell,” Shadowheart said, as they all began to stand up on unsteady legs. “We’re in Lady Shar’s domain.”

Sekh glanced over the edge of the rock, noted that everything seemed endless. As above, so below, it seemed.

In the far distance, they could see a larger stone, ornate seeming, with something in the center, bathed in a pale light that seemed wrong in Shar’s realm. Shadowheart, without hesitation, leapt off the side of the rock, landing on one below. Seemed they would need to make their way down and pray for sure footing.

It took time, with too many slips, Shadowheart the only one who seemed true in her step- but when they reached the final landing, Sekh realized it was a person bathed in light. A tall, sturdy built woman, in rags as old as the dust in Shar’s temple. Despite this, despite the dirt smeared along her face and hands, she radiated a sort of vigor Sekh wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before.

And when she spoke, her voice felt as if it would move mountains.

She addressed Shadowheart directly, ignoring the party- and it took only moments to realize she was Kethric’s “relic”. Her captivity was what granted his immortality.

She was the Nightsong.

She was what every Sharran dreamed of ending.

Shadowheart’s eyes were near rabid, focused solely on the Nightsong. When she spoke of a spear, she held out her hands, and as if a gift from Shar herself, one materialized.

“Your death, your silence, is everything my goddess has ever wanted.”

This felt wrong.

“Shadowheart,” Sekh said, moving to take a step closer to her. The cleric whipped around, looking at the drow with eyes he barely recognized. The blackest shadow seemed to be encasing her irises, leaving an inky blackness not unlike those bloody summoning circles they’d faced, all day. “Is this what you want?”

To kill a captive who couldn’t fight back? To kill a victim?

“This is my life’s work,” she said, but he could hear it, a moment of falter, in her voice. The Nightsong heard it too- Sekh could see it on her face. She knew her life rested on Shadowheart’s decision.

“But is it what you want?” Shadowheart was quiet, and Sekh closed the gap, reached out, placed a hand over one of hers on the spear. “Is Shar really what you want?”

He thought of her reaction, at the House of Healing. He thought of how radiant she always was, how her magic was a warm bathing light, nothing like the shadows Shar graced.

She was the antithesis to what a Sharran should be.

“I want you to be happy,” Sekh said, meaning it. “I can’t make a decision for you, but neither can Shar. You need to do what you feel is right.”

Shadowheart looked past him, stared at the Nightsong, before she ripped away from Sekh’s touch. And for one, agonizing, numbing moment, Sekh was sure the spear was going straight through the Nightsong’s heart.

Instead, Shadowheart pivoted on her heel, threw the spear with all her might so that it clattered to the edge of the platform, rolling until it fell into the abyss below.

“I can’t believe I did that,” she whispered, looking at her hands. She was visibly shaking. “Shar will disown me.”

“You were never hers, child.” The Nightsong was looking at Shadowheart fondly. She got down on a knee, bowed her head. “You’ve vanquished your wolves, little warrior.”

“What did you say?” Shadowheart’s voice was broken.

“Lay a hand on my shoulder, in friendship, and free me. We will vanquish the blight that is Ketheric Thorm, and I will illuminate the truth.”

Shadowheart reached out, hand trembling, and rested it gently on the Nightsong’s shoulder. The woman smiled, pounded her fist into the ground, cracked the stone, before the light intensified.

She was beholden, resplendent, when she was fully visible again. Fully armored, winged like a feathered dragon, she was sheer glory.

Her smile felt like moonlight, her eyes like stars, before she was gone, ascending into the air and disappearing, leaving in her wake a rush of golden light that pulled at Sekh, at the group.

A way home.

“We need to leave,” Shadowheart said, sounding terrified. “We cannot be in the Shadowfell now.”

Sekh nodded, took her hand firmly in his, pulling her towards the portal. Astarion and Karlach flanked them, felt like a protective wall against the shadows that seemed to be closing in, trying to devour the light the Nightsong had left behind.

They stepped into the blinding light, enveloped in a warmth that seeped into their blood, their bones. Sekh felt some of the exhaustion leaving him, the aches in his joints dissipating. He felt rejuvenated, mended.

Stumbling out of the light, the shadows of the cursed lands felt cold. Sekh managed to hold his balance, could see the light of Last Light in the distance- and the stark, brilliant golden-white streak of the Nightsong, as she flew through the sky.

He glanced to his side, found his hand was empty. He glanced around him quickly, found Karlach and Astarion both orienting themselves- but Shadowheart was missing.

He opened his mouth to speak, alarmed, when suddenly she was flung from the light, before the portal closed, leaving them in darkness. She rolled a few paces on the ground, stopping nearly limp.

Sekh was at her side, saying her name over and over and over before the others could move. She opened her eyes, looking up at him with this distant, sorrowful look.

“I’m abandoned,” she whispered, as Sekh cradled her head.

“Never,” he breathed, “never Shadowheart. You have us.” Karlach and Astarion reached them next, the tiefling gently pushing Sekh aside, carefully scooping Shadowheart up into her arms, cradling her against her chest.

“We’ll be whatever you need,” Karlach said, her voice softer than Sekh had ever heard it. She held Shadowheart so close the drow thought Karlach might simply absorb her, absolve her of the sins in Shar’s eyes with her hellfire.

“The Lady of Loss does not like losing,” Astarion remarked, mouth set in a firm frown, looking just as displeased as Karlach and Sekh. No one needed Shadowheart to elaborate on what happened- Shar had kept her, and whatever punishment the goddess had inflicted-

Well, it was best they didn’t know the details.

They hurried through the dark, Karlach never once losing her grip on Shadowheart. Last Light was a chaotic, seething mass, most of the Harpers and Flaming Fists gone.

But Isobel was still there, seeming to try and keep some form of order. When she saw the party she hurried over. “What was that, in the sky?”

“An immortal,” Sekh said, and while the look of shock and disbelief on Isobel’s face was compelling- there wasn’t time. “The others?”

“Jaheira led them to Moonrise. I swore we heard the world scream, before the… light.” She glanced at Shadowheart, frowning. “What happened?”

“Shar.” Karlach said, her voice laced with venom. Isobel beckoned her closer, motioned for her to set Shadowheart down. The tiefling only held her tighter, unwilling to let her cleric go. Isobel didn’t push further, but set her hands on Shadowheart, closing her eyes. Her hands glowed with iridescent moonlight, the light seeping into Shadowheart, snaking through her veins.

Shadowheart’s eyes opened, as Isobel was still pouring the light into her. She looked over at Sekh, and in that moment she was raw, open, everything and anything.

Sekh lifted one hand, waving his fingers at her, and mouthed- I’m here. He always would be. They all would be. Next to him, Astarion reached out, brushed some of the cleric’s bangs off her forehead.

“You almost had me worried about you, Shadowheart.”

Isobel stepped back then, and Karlach carefully helped Shadowheart to her feet. The cleric rolled her neck, before nodding a silent thanks to Isobel. There would be time for explanations later.

For now, Moonrise called.

The fortress was in sheer, tumultuous horror by the time the four reached it. Jaheira’s Harpers were ripping through cultists, a ferocity to them that Sekh hadn’t envisioned.

It did help that Lae’zel was at their forefront, bloodied and grinning.

“Thought you’d miss all the fun!” Wyll said, as the party ran into the fray.

“Never,” Sekh said, drawing his shortsword as Karlach rushed passed him, revitalized from the moonlight gift the Nightsong had left them. He scanned the scene, took in how quickly the Harpers were making ground-

And spotted an all too familiar, growling face. Z’rell. Astarion’s eyes followed Sekh’s stare, before he bared his fangs. “Oh, I’m going to have fun killing her,” he declared, before he rushed her, pulling his daggers out. Sekh hurried after him, watched him narrowly miss embedding a dagger into her side.

“True Soul,” she spat, glowering at Sekh, seeming to ignore Astarion. “What have you done?”

“What we always planned to do.” He leveled his sword at her, adding, “I’m going to enjoy killing you, if I’m honest.”

She smirked, lips tugging along her large tusks. “Have you wanted that this whole time? You hid it well. But I don’t die easy.” She moved before Sekh, but the drow jumped to the side, avoiding her strike. She had her eyes firmly trained on him, ignoring the rest of the battle.

It would be her quick downfall.

“You know,” Sekh mused, as Z’rell flexed her hands, readying herself to cast. “You really shouldn’t ignore my starshine.”

She looked confused- and before she could turn Astarion was on her, leaping from behind. He wrapped his legs around her body, held tight as he sank his fangs deep into her neck. Sekh took advantage, closing the gap and shoving his shortsword directly into her belly.

“He gets quite peckish when he’s feeling ignored.”

Sekh pulled his sword free, and Z’rell collapsed to her knees. Astarion unwound his legs from her, supported himself on the ground as he drank quickly, deeply, letting her life drain directly into him. Sekh left him to it, knowing if he watched Astarion feed for more than a second he risked forgetting the world around them. And most likely, risked losing his head.

They secured the ground floor quickly, the companions heading up to the roof in a storm of blades and seething, crackling magic. When they burst into the cold, perpetual night air, Ketheric was glaring at them, the lines around his eyes deep in his anger.

“What have you done?” he asked.

“You’re mortal again,” Halsin said, his eyes dancing with a threatening light. Sekh knew he was ready to give into his beast and devour the man whole, for what he had done to the land, to Thaniel.

“No.” Ketheric looked at his hands, before he glanced up into the sky, saw the brilliant, dancing light of the Nightsong. “You freed her.”

“Ketheric Thorm!”

The Nightsong landed with enough force to shake all of Moonrise. She was imposing at her full height, the breadth of her wings threatened that of a small dragon. She was ethereal.

“Face me you coward!” She drew her sword, and Ketheric, for a moment, looked less imposing- for just a heartbeat, Sekh saw a tired, old elf, who had seen too much. Maybe had lost even more.

But it was gone, steeled behind an iron resolve. Whatever remnants of humanity might have clung to the strings of his consciousness was smothered.

The man was gone.

Ketheric raised a fist, the air screeching at his command, as bones began to knit together around the roof. The stink of necromancy was thick, as the skeletons began to rush at the party before they were even fully formed. The air kicked up with bone dust, felt blinding- and then a thunderous crack, as the whole structure shuddered.

Breaking the chaos was a large, wet, pulsing tentacle. Sekh’s face twisted in disgust, as he heard Astarion mutter oh hells. It lifted from where it had slammed into the roof, leaving thick, viscous strings of off white, not quite translucent fluid.

Sekh felt his stomach roll.

The tentacle wrapped protectively around Ketheric, swallowing him up into the depths of the fortress. The Nightsong flew after him without hesitation, diving into a large, organic tunnel left in the disgusting thing’s wake.

There was only one thing for the party to do- and with a round of nods, they charged forward, leaping down into the abyss.

Being inside an Illithid colony was not something Sekh had ever thought he’d experience. And now, walking through the organic, pulsing flesh like prison- well, he would’ve been quite happy to have missed out on this experience.

“This is disgusting,” Astarion mumbled, as they passed what had to be doors, but functioned like fleshy sphincters, opening and closing like an esophagus.

“For once, we agree,” Lae’zel said, her sword drawn. She was tense, each muscle pulled so taut Sekh swore he could see them, under her skin.

“Find Ketheric, kill him, and never think about this again,” Sekh said, a mantra more to himself, but the round of nods he received was proof enough they were all just as tired, just as ready to leave this horrific mess behind them.

The followed the throbbing, seething hallways through the colony, making their way across its breadth. When a door finally opened for them, they were struck by the sight of rows of pods- the same pods that had held them once, on the Nautiloid.

Sekh recognized the Flaming Fists uniforms as they walked past them. He could just see, at the end of the room, an opening to another. A brine pool was barely visible, but it's salty stench was all too apparent, even from this distance.

Sekh paused, as some of the party continued- Sekh was sure looking for whoever Mizora had set them up to rescue. Instead of following, he looked around at the pods again- his heart aching at so many victims. Some were still unturned, while others were already slumbering mindflayers, waiting for their command to awaken.

Sekh turned his head, studied a strange Illithid device by the doorway. Its center was glowing, tendrils pulsing and squirming in the air. His tadpole moved eagerly, pushing against his skull towards the device.

He had a feeling he could make it listen to him, whatever it was. He looked back at the pods, before making a decision, consequences be damned. He had to hope it did what he assumed.

“Don’t touch that,” Lae’zel hissed, as Sekh reached out to the pulsing Illithid device, its tendrils squirming excitedly now, opening to allow for his hand. “Sekh’met.”

“Darling what are you doing?” Astarion asked, echoing Lae’zel’s nerves. He looked fidgety, fingers twitching towards his daggers as the tendrils closed around Sekh’s hand. The light was warm inside them, seeped into Sekh’s mind, open to his command.

“We can’t leave them.” He closed his eyes, as Lae’zel yelled at him to stop-

He ignored it. Gods be damned he wasn’t leaving anyone to a fate worse than death down here.

Release.

He thought the single word, and the system bent to his authority. The pods opened, spilling forth a noxious fluid and a mix of victims and Mindflayers.

Sekh opened his eyes, found a familiar face- Zevlor- standing up slowly, sucking in deep breaths. Whatever had happened in the shadows, he knew there had to be more to the story- and he wouldn’t have left the disgraced Paladin to die.

The device released his hand, and Sekh turned fully, saw with horror that the Mindflayers that had been released were up far before the unturned victims- naked and slick with whatever amniotic-like fluid they had been cradled in.

There were maybe three seconds to think. None of the party chose to use them- they simply moved. Lae’zel charged a Mindflayer as it raised those long, clawed fingers, and Sekh instantly felt his mind cramping, crumbling in on itself. He fell to his knees, grabbing at his head, his breath catching. He swore his skull was splintering-

It stopped, when Lae’zel drove her sword through the Mindflayer’s neck with a scream, her rage palpable. The creature’s head tumbled to the fleshy ground, rolling away as the body crumbled.

Sekh’s mind instantly cleared, and he didn’t hesitate- he lifted his left hand and called on Syl’s shadows, aiming for the closest Mindflayer.

It was sheer chaos- screams of rage from his companions, commanding shrieks from the Mindflayers- the desperate yells of the now freed captives. A hellstorm that ended just as suddenly as it had begun, when the last Mindflayer fell, and the room descended into an eerie silence, except for ragged breaths and the off putting, constant wet pulsing of the colony around them.

“You could have gotten us killed!” Lae’zel yelled, turning and storming towards Sekh. “What were you thinking, releasing ghaik?”

“I wasn’t going to leave anyone to die,” Sekh yelled back. Lae’zel tossed her sword down, got directly in his face, so close he could feel her breath.

“Any sacrifice is worth making if it means ghaik death!” The tension in her muscles hadn’t rescinded in the slightest, and Sekh knew she was a moment, a few words, from striking him. He’d never move in time, he was physically no match for Lae’zel, he knew that.

He spoke anyway.

“The fucking Mindflayers died anyway Lae’zel, and we saved people who would have been forced into our same fate. I’d do what I did again in a heartbeat. Have some fucking compassion.” The words were spat, volatile, and Sekh knew in his gut that he wasn’t enraged at Lae’zel, and she wasn’t enraged at him.

Again, they were all simply so bone deep tired.

Lucky for Sekh, Wyll approached before Lae’zel could knock him completely on his ass, settling a hand on the Githyanki’s shoulder. “Calm down the both of you,” he said, “what’s done is done. While you were out here considering tearing each other apart I… may have made quite the discovery.”

The discovery being Mizora, trapped in a pod. Free now, the devil was long gone- but Wyll’s pact had a termination date, now. Freedom was within his reach.

At least that was one good outcome.

Sekh stepped away from Lae’zel, heading for Karlach, who was speaking with Zevlor. The man looked tired, bags under his striking eyes, new lines along his well aged face that hadn’t been there upon their first meeting.

Sekh was caught up quickly, regarding the disaster that struck the tieflings upon entering the Shadow Cursed lands, that led to the deaths of many, the capture of more- and Zevlor’s time in the pod.

“I cannot undo my mistakes,” Zevlor said, his voice solemn, “but I can atone to the best of my abilities. I will search for any survivors, and I will find and free them.”

Sekh nodded- even though it would have been nice to have the Paladin within their ranks, when they faced Ketheric. But he didn’t want to risk any more casualties- and he knew they couldn’t stay to look for more. He didn’t want to risk splitting the party, and splintering them further.

The party left the chamber, able to navigate back into the pulsing living halls of the colony. It was accidental, when they stumbled into a large chamber, boasting a fleet of nautiloids.

Lae’zel swore, and for a single moment, Sekh saw a spark of fear, in her eyes. It was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen.

“How many have the ghaik turned?” she breathed, “how far have they spread?”

“Too far,” Halsin said, voice deep, far too calm. Despite his serious look, Sekh swore he could feel the rage rolling off him in hot waves. The Druid was as close to a breaking point as the rest of them.

It was Gale who discovered the edge of the englave was in fact a disk that could move. And with no other options, they all climbed on, riding down further into the depths of the beast.

Before the disk could properly land, their tadpoles began to squirm, excitedly. Sekh gritted his teeth against the feeling, felt Astarion lean against him as the vampire reached up to clutch at his own forehead, baring his fangs at the discomfort. Despite his own headache, Sekh slipped an arm around him, helping to keep him standing. “I take it everyone’s tadpole is excited,” the drow said, through gritted teeth.

The chorus of groans from everyone except Halsin was all the answer he needed.

When the disk settled, a sick, wet, suction sound alerting them that it was stable enough to dispatch from, the group made their way towards another large, muscle like door. Larger than the rest.

In his gut, Sekh swore they were standing on a precipice. Something was beyond that, something large, something final. He glanced at the group, but everyone’s eyes were locked ahead, serious, stone like.

Now, or never.

Creeping in with such a large group was difficult, but not impossible as they disbanded, flanking half the room. Ketheric was at the center, raging with a phantom of a woman and a well dressed man. Sekh didn’t know either of them- but as they spoke heatedly, it became sickeningly clear that Ketheric was far from working alone.

That this was bigger than him.

Sekh didn’t recognize the man at first that the woman was sitting on- but when he noticed Wyll, across the room, nearly launching himself forward, only stopped by both of Karlach’s arms around his waist, he had an idea. It was confirmed when he was sardonically addressed as Duke Ravengard. Wyll’s father.

“That crown,” Gale breathed, from where he stood with Sekh and Astarion. The drow chanced a glance at Gale, and his eyes were sparkling, utterly transfixed by the heaping adornment on top of the Elder Brain. Gods below, this was so much more than any of them had ever expected.

Gale swallowed thickly, his hands clenching.

“To have it, to hold it.” He took a steadying breath, closed his eyes. “I’ll never know. Mystra gave her orders.”

Sekh fully turned then, reaching out for Gale, grasping his biceps. “Gale,” he exclaimed in a hushed voice, “you’re not… you can’t be serious about using your orb?”

Gale opened his eyes, and when he looked at Sekh he looked sad, resigned to his fate. “It’s Mystra’s will.”

“Fuck her will,” Sekh said, gripping tighter, “Gale, what about your will? Are you ready to die?” There was a flicker of hesitation, in Gale’s eyes, and Sekh’s heart broke. The man wasn’t ready to die, not yet. But he would because his wretch of a goddess deemed it a necessary casualty.

The amount of contempt Sekh had for the gods was infallible.

“Don’t, Gale,” he whispered, “don’t do it. Trust us, trust yourself. We’re going to go up there, we’re going to kill Ketheric, and we’re going to end the Absolute. And you’re going to walk out alive.”

Gale stared at Sekh for a moment, silently, before his shoulders sagged slightly. “Damn you,” he said, though the vigor was gone from his voice, “for making me want to live. Damn all of you.”

“Damn us or thank us later, it matters not,” Astarion said, reaching for Sekh with one hand and guiding him away from Gale, trying to get him to turn around. “Right now we have more important things to focus on.” Sekh fully turned, and knew Astarion was right. The brian, along with Ketheric’s counterparts and the Duke, were leaving.

Leaving him alone.

It was time to act.

The towering man didn’t seem shocked when the party stepped from the shadows. He looked bemused, but tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent than the first time Sekh had met him.

“There you are, as predicted.” The exhaustion from his eyes had crept into his voice. He seemed not the least bit shocked to be surrounded. “What is it, I wonder, that draws one toward death like a moth to light.”

Sekh narrowed his eyes, leveled his stare at Ketheric, but didn’t speak. Let the man have a moment of his own voice- it gave them a chance to orient themselves with their surroundings. As Ketheric spoke about how they could have absconded with the prism, Sekh noted the clanking undead, the swarms of Intellect Devourers-

But mostly, he noticed the Nightsong, struggling against chains that glistened with magic. Chains that held her in place, seemed to silence her- he could see her mouth moving, could imagine her screaming- but the only sound was Ketheric, drawling on.

She was the key to Ketheric’s enigmatic vitality. Bound, she would feed him immortality. But free, as Sekh had seen earlier- her life was her own again.

He reached next to him slowly, dragged his fingers along Astarion’s hand. The vampire glanced at him, only those sanguine eyes shifting, before they moved to follow Sekh’s glance.

He stared at the Nightsong, and in silent understanding took Sekh’s fingers in his hand and squeezed. It was enough- Sekh would trust her fate, and their lives, to Astarion.

“Perhaps you hoped to learn your place in history before you are erased from it.” Sekh’s attention returned solely to Ketheric, brows knitting together as he frowned at the older elf.

“And what is my place, Ketheric?” he asked, venom seeping into his words. Sekh let the anger take hold, let it burn in his crimson and abysmal eyes. Let the fire be stoked by all of the anguish he had seen, over his years- over recent weeks, within his companions. “Please, enlighten me. What will history have to say about me? About us?” He held his arms out, gesturing to his companions, as he took a step closer. Ketheric’s eyes were trained on him.

Good.

“And tell me why I should give a fuck?” Another step closer, putting dangerous space between himself and his companions. He trusted them to know what he was doing. “Tell me why I should care about history, about fate, when all I’ve seen for nearly seventy years is misery?” He reached the edge of the platform Ketheric was standing on, and reached up, taking hold of the fibrous, organic roots and hoisting himself up.

Ketheric let him climb, unobstructed, so Sekh could stand level with him. Or, as level as their height difference allowed.

“Enlighten me, Ketheric, on what divine bullshit you think will be written about any of this, when we’re all stale blood and rotten bone.” Sekh moved closer, close enough to smell the faint whiff of rot that clung to Ketheric, the gravedirt tell tale scent of necromancy. “Tell me what all this suffering was for- give it a purpose.”

For a moment, Ketheric remained unreadable, his stoic face giving away naught a single emotion. But then, there was just a flicker in those eyes- annoyance, at something Sekh had said.

“Whatever my Lord Myrkul deems necessary is what will be written- I’ll make sure of it. He has given me what no other god could grant- my daughter’s life, returned.”

Sekh fought to keep his face neutral- but a daughter he hadn’t expected. They had found Ketheric’s wife’s tomb, but the only other one-

Had been an open grave.

“Myrkul has never had a more devoted follower. For her life, I would grow his cult, and then seize it.” Ketheric fisted one large hand, as if he could squeeze the life from whoever his cohorts were, in a single, vice-like grip. “I have fought many, many wars, great and small, for other gods- but for Myrkul, I would condemn all of Faerun.”

Sekh couldn’t fight off the twinge of disgust that crept onto his face at the mention of the gods. Myrkul rang only the faintest of bells in his mind, but even knowing the bastard claimed divinity was enough for Sekh to despise him without a second thought.

“So your place,” Ketheric said, reaching for his hammer and hefting the mighty thing in his hands, “is to die. To be forgotten in the pages of fate and history, as nothing more than a pebble cast at my lord’s greatness.”

He raised the hammer, and in an instant everyone moved. Sekh stumbled back, lost his footing and fell, the hammer falling directly between his knees- could have caved his skull in, had he not stumbled away.

He heard shouting- Gale, casting in every direction as Ketheric’s undead charged, as the intellect devourers clawed their way forward in quick, jerking motions. Sekh couldn’t spare a glance- Ketheric had already raised his hammer as he scrambled back a few inches, boots not catching purpose on the flesh-ground.

The hammer could have found his chest, caved all his ribs into pierce his lungs, his heart, had Lae’zel not leapt up onto the platform, her shoulder digging into Ketheric’s weight and dislodging his footing just enough. His hammer faltered, and Sekh was able to scramble back another pace, as the elf stumbled.

He stared at Lae’zel with wide eyes, and she gave him a stern stare that simply said get up.

Sekh didn’t hesitate. He pushed himself up, drew his sword, and circled Ketheric with her, as the chaos continued to erupt. There was the shriek of a Mind Flayer, Wyll cursing- and then an enraged scream that could have rattled the very hells themselves.

Shadowheart, letting out some of the rage and ire that had thickened in her blood, since forsaking Shar.

Sekh crouched down, shot a shadow at Ketheric as his hammer just missed him. It hit his hip, yet the man didn’t even seem to notice, pivoting instead to intercept Lae’zel’s strike with his shield. He managed to push Lae’zel back a step, putting his weight behind his hold on the shield.

Sekh stood up, charged Ketheric, blade ready to pierce into him. His hand was crackling with necrotic energy, the magic seeping up the blade, encasing it-

But the moment the blade hit his armor, Ketheric stood fast, the groves and ridges catching Sekh’s sword. The drow gritted his teeth, pushed- and felt the metal give.

The tip of his sword fractured, splintering off, leaving the edge jagged and uneven, as Sekh pitched forward, nearly falling. Ketheric ignored him completely, eyes focused on Lae’zel, and Sekh stared at the now broken sword. The room closed off around him, his pulse echoing so loudly in his head that it drowned out every other noise.

His mother’s sword. The sword she had kept at her side for years and years, before his birth- before she had even met his father. The sword she died with, gripped in her hand, fighting to her last breath. The last thing he had of her.

Shattered. Shattered.

Sekh dropped the blade, was moving without knowing, the rage inside him boiling over, burning his veins like a caustic, noxious devil’s brew. He snarled, threw himself on Ketheric, wrapped his hand around the man’s throat from behind and squeezed, pouring every ounce of magic inside his body into the man’s throat, trying to plant a seething, writhing, death worm in his fucking veins.

For a moment, Ketheric ignored him- but then Lae’zel sliced into his arm- and suddenly the man was stumbling, the arm that had been holding his shield severed, falling to the ground with a heavy thud.

Ketheric stumbled to his knees, gasping for air as Sekh bared his teeth, panted, squeezed and continued to pour magic into him. Against his raging pulse, he heard a cry, enraged and saddened, fueled from a hundred years of betrayal, echoing around the room-

And then the Nightsong, in all her glory, landing heavily in front of them, her sword drawn. Sekh released Ketheric’s throat as the aasimar spat the elf’s name, let himself stumble from his hold on the elf, daring to look back, across the room.

Astarion stood where the Nightstand had once been chained, one of the heavy chains in his hand, grinning wickedly. Triumphant in the silent task that, had he failed, would have condemned them all.

Sekh loved him so fiercely in that moment, it quieted his rage, for a single heartbeat.

He stood up, watched as the Nightsong placed her foot on Ketheric’s chest and shoved, sent him falling back, over the edge of his hellish stage, into the churning, fiery depths at its center. For a single moment- a heartbeat- it all seemed quiet, over.

And then the room shook, trembled in a rage that seemed to terrify Ketheric’s minions. They scrambled, faltering, as a huge mass of bone began to rise, speaking in a voice what wisped like a final breath, a death rattle.

They were staring at a god. Divinity itself, taking the form of bone, Ketheric fused into his mass like a writhing, beating heart.

“Bloody fucking hells.” It was Wyll, speaking against the silence. And to hear the other warlock speak in such words, such a tone- well, it should spell death, for each of them.

“I am the smile of the worm-cleaned skull. I am the regrets of those who remain, and the restlessness of those who are gone. I am the haunt of the mausoleums, the god of graves and age, of dust and dusk.” The creature was huge, hulking, its vice growing to encompass hundreds, thousands of dead, echoing its every desire. “I am Myrkul, Lord of Bones, and you have slain my chosen.”

Sekh took a step back, reflexively, the air acrid with the scent of old bones, the stale stench of rot gone to dirt and dust.

“But it is no matter, for I am death. And I am not the end- I am a beginning.”

It struck done with its hefting bone-scythe. Sekh jumped, having to leap off the platform, crashing down below on his shoulder, feeling bone grinding into bone. He grimaced, bit back a cry of pain, as he heard the sounds of Lae’zel and the Nightsong’s swords cracking against bone.

“On your feet soldier,” Karlach said, pulling Sekh up, ignoring the way his face twisted in pain. “We need you.”

They could only manage this if each of them were present. Only as a single, enraged entity did they stand a chance against a god.

He bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood, but he nodded, moving to try and climb up to the platform behind her. His arm felt like lead, he could barely raise it- and he realized in horror there was no way he could make the climb.

But he had to.

Sekh hoisted himself up with his good arm, feet digging into the soft webbing, and pressed his chest tight to it, bit at the flesh to keep himself steady as he reached up as far as he could with his good arm. The flesh tasted of decay, had bile rising in his throat- but he swallowed it down, as he pulled himself up again, against the noise of bone, steel, the stench of magic and fire.

When he reached the top, settling on his knees, it was hell incarnate. Every party member, each glorious person he had learned to love, over these weeks, was bloodied and snarling, enraged, throwing themselves without regard for their own well being at the Lord of Bone. Giving everything they had, to tear this monster of a god down.

It would be a dishonor to them to not give the same.

Sekh stood up, screaming his throat raw as he held out his good hand towards Myrkul, letting loose not only whatever necrotic magic remained in his core, but also Syl’s shadows, wrapping around the blast, acting a shield to guide it directly into the cracks within Myrkul’s ribs. The force of it burned like a freezing fire, his skin prickling as if punctured by a thousand needles.

He had never combined the two. But with his other arm useless, he had no other option.

The sheer ferocity they rained down on the god, the divine hulking mass of bone and hate, was unlike anything Sekh had ever seen. Every breath, every heartbeat, every thought and hope and prayer they each had within them was given to this very moment. Bloodied, broken, it seemed none of them cared as they continued to rain blow after blow into the divine bastard- blades and arrows and magic enough to quell an army.

And when the bones began to crack, they only drove harder. Splinters began to fall from Myrkul’s body, sharp shards of bone that broke skin, yet no one cared. Their own pain was fuel-

Fuel that fed a fire, culminating in a sudden true death rattle, shaking the room, as Myrkul collapsed, body sundering into dust and nothing at all. His ribs spat Ketheric out like a parasite, left the man’s corpse to the party, as Myrkul sank into nothingness.

And then, there was silence, except for the ragged, desperate breaths they all clung to.

Ketheric was dead.

Sekh collapsed onto his knees, feeling his energy draining him. He heard weapons falling, as the strength they had exhausted left them. He sucked in a breath, his lungs aching, entire body throbbing.

But it didn’t matter, none of it mattered. Ketheric’s body was there-

And suddenly, the prism was as well, having pulled itself from Shadowheart, glowing like a sun. It seemed to open the air around it, and out stepped that golden paladin, that dream figure-

Hazy, edges blurred, a figure that wasn’t fully real. Sekh wondered what the others saw- if the figure was the same to all of them.

“How are you here?” It was Karlach, standing closest. The dream visitor spoke, a brief reprieve and nothing more- and then began to speak at length about the dead man in front of them, and the god they had slain.

As they spoke, Sekh felt a hand on his back. Astarion knelt down next to him- bloodied but looking intact, despite the worry lacing his face as he noted Sekh’s limp, left arm. Sekh said nothing, as in the distance the visitor droned on about gods, The Dead Three, about a man named Gortash that had Karlach screaming, an unknown woman-

A magical hulking crown that had Gale nearly vibrating out of his skin.

“Take his stone,” they said, gesturing towards Ketheric. At the center of his armor an amethyst like stone- cut in sharp edges- rested, radiating a heated power, a pull. Sekh realized, after a moment of hesitation, that they were all looking at him.

Expecting him to pry it free.

He swallowed thickly. “I can’t,” he admitted, nodding towards his useless arm. He wouldn’t have the strength in the other to pry it free. He shifted his stare to Lae’zel, said her name, but left the rest of the request silent.

She nodded, walked over to Ketheric’s body, crouching over him. With a dagger she was able to work the stone free, standing once it was in hand, the dream visitor looking at it with lovestruck eyes. Sekh didn’t care for the stare. “Remarkable,” they breathed, before their edges began to blur more. Their presence was fading.

They blinked out of sight, but left in their wake a shimmering light, breaking reality. A portal, out of this hellhole.

Sekh went to stand, was thankful when Astarion was up first, helping to pull him up. Sekh bent over, gathered up his mother’s sword- but then Astarion took it from him, holding it firmly in one hand so Sekh could cradle his lifeless arm.

And slowly, broken, exhausted, feeling half dead yet victorious- the party stepped into the light.

Sekh leaned his head against the wall, gritting his teeth as Halsin’s large hands moved along his shoulder. He knew this was going to hurt-

He couldn’t bite back the cry as Halsin popped his shoulder back into its socket, the sick, bone crunching noise making his stomach churn. He felt tears prickling the corners of his eyes, and was thankful that the druid didn’t call him out on it. Instead, Halsin’s large hand rested soothingly on his shoulder.

“Try to move it,” he said, his voice deep, a timber form his chest that could have lulled Sekh to sleep. He was bone-dead tired and couldn’t wait to rest. When Halsin moved his hand away Sekh rotated his shoulder. It was stiff, sore, but his arm was functional again. “Good.” Halsin stood up, offering a hand to Sekh and pulling him up, as if he weighed nothing. There were bandages wrapped up along one of the druid’s arms- nasty bitmarks from the undead that had gnawed into his bear flesh.

They were all battered and bandaged- but back at Last Light. And the shadows were already thinning- the air was beginning to lose its lung piercing chill. They had prevailed.

Yet it didn’t feel like enough. They all knew it- their worms still wriggled and writhed in their heads. And now, thanks to some explanation from Withers, before they had made the trek back to Last Light, they knew they were up against the Gods of Death themselves.

Fuck the divine.

He was too exhausted to hide the displeasure on his face. Halsin hummed, moving for Sekh’s good shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “We may not be done, but we did a lot of good. Don’t lose sight of that.” Sekh nodded halfheartedly, and Halsin moved to brush the hair from his face, tuck it behind one of his ears. The man’s touch was far too gentle for his size- and for the carnage he could invoke. “Your speech to Ketheric was quite the good distraction.”

Sekh barked a laugh, wholly unattractive but real. “I can lie my way out of a lot of things. Had to learn how to over the years- most folks don’t take kindly to drow.” He tried to roll his injured shoulder, and Halsin helped with the motion.

“So was it all a lie?”

Sekh settled his arm again, shook his head. “No. Definitely not. But I can say, my years with my family were quite nice. But why bother with the math for that bastard anyway?” Halsin nodded, bemused little smile on his handsomely lined face.

“You’re still quite young,” he said, “don’t let yourself think it always has to be this.” With that, Halsin gestured towards the door, urging Sekh to get out and get some rest.

Sekh walked out of the small room that was serving as an infirmary, was accosted nearly instantly by a few Harpers offering him wine to celebrate.

He politely declined with a smile, left them to their merriment as he headed outside. He hadn’t seen Astarion since the moment they’d stepped within sight of Last Light- and all Sekh wanted to do was curl up with him and let his bones rest.

Those thoughts were quickly derailed when he saw Shadowheart, standing with the Nightsong- no, Aylin, he had learned- and Isobel- gods, Ketheric’s once dead daughter.

He was convinced he could never make an uncomplicated acquaintance.

He walked towards them, pausing a step back when he heard the hushed tone they spoke in. His concern for Shadowheart was outweighed by a desire to give her privacy- but Aylin caught sight of him, and Shadowheart turned. The exhaustion in her eyes faded just a little, and she smiled.

Gods, it was the sort of sight Sekh sorely needed.

She held her hand out to him, and he took it, felt her fingers lace in with his as he stepped into her space. As he did so, there was a tingling, in his mind- her parasite, reaching out to his, wanting to show whatever Aylin was about to share with her.

Sekh let her in.

The woods, dark, a wild, terrified heartbeat- masked strangers, a wolf- and then a man. A man that Shadowheart’s very soul recognized, even if her mind couldn’t seem to place him.

Sekh watched the scene unfold, when the Sharrans first took Shadowheart from the woods, until it faded to black, and he was back, in the present. “Who was that man?” Shadowheart asked, and Aylin’s eyes softened.

“You know, little wolf, in your heart.” She reached out, placed a hand firmly on Shadowheart’s shoulder, as Shadowheart whispered my father. “He lives, as does your mother.”

Shadowheart brightened at this, eyes wide, staring into Aylin as if she was the moon, and this was Shadowheart’s first night topside. “But I was told they were dead-”

“And by who?” The silence was enough of an answer. “They yet live.”

“Then I have to find them.” Shadowheart’s mouth fell to a determined line, and Sekh squeezed her fingers.

“You won’t be alone,” he said, and she glanced over at him. He’d die before he let her lose her parents a second time- he knew losing them once was more than enough. “We’ll find them.”

Shadowheart pulled her hand free, reached out and wrapped her arms around Sekh’s neck. He pulled her flush to him, clutched at her back, found they were rocking slightly as he pressed his face into her neck.

“Thank you,” Shadowheart whispered, as Aylin and Isobel took their silent leave, to give them space. Sekh lifted his head- his question evident on his face, as Shadowheart added, “For believing in me.”

He smiled, his chest warm, aching. “I always will,” he said, and Shadowheart leaned in, pressed her lips softly to his forehead. “But you got yourself here.”

“I would have killed her,” she admitted, leaning back slightly. “If you hadn’t asked me to truly think, for a moment. I would have done exactly what Shar wanted, because it meant I didn’t need to think, I could just do what I’d been told would make me happy…” She shook her head. “I would have thrown away so many lives.”

“I think you would have faltered, in the end. I think, no matter what I said, you would have let Aylin live.” Shadowheart looked ready to disagree, but her eyes caught sight of something, over Sekh’s shoulder. Sekh turned his head, saw Astarion weaving through the Harpers clamoring about, eyes scanning around him quickly, quite obviously looking for something.

And the moment his eyes caught on Sekh, they never left him.

Shadowheart stepped back, giving Sekh a little smile, as Astarion closed the space quickly, reached out and curled an arm around Sekh’s waist, pulling him close-

And pressing the sweetest kiss Sekh had ever known to his lips. Sekh melted, felt his knees wanting to give out, as he clutched at Astarion’s half discarded armor. The world fell away, for one sweet, blissful moment- the pain radiating in his joints, the aches in his bones, everything was gone-

Except Astarion.

Astarion’s other hand found Sekh’s shoulder, gently traced along the tender skin as he pulled back- despite Sekh chasing him, slightly, never wanting the kiss to end. “Your arm-”

“Halsin popped it back into place.” Sekh offered a smile, but knew he wasn’t fooling the vampire. “Hurt like hell.”

Astarion nodded, before he looked over at Shadowheart. “I believe I interrupted something…”

“Oh no,” Shadowheart waved him off as she spoke. “Trust me- Sekh has said more than enough.” She smiled at them both, reached over and brushed some of Sekh’s hair back, behind his ear. “Get some rest- both of you. Morning will come far too soon- and it seems we’ve got a lot more work to do.”

Sekh nodded, watched Shadowheart slip away, before he turned back to Astarion. The dark circles under his eyes were bruise-like, his skin pale enough that Sekh swore he could make out some of the veins, under that porcelain skin. Astarion was beyond exhausted, just like him.

And he was still the most beautiful thing Sekh had ever seen.

Astarion tipped his head slightly, spoke in a low voice, asking almost hesitantly, “Can we go to bed now?”

Sekh smiled- and despite the torrent of misery this day had been, the smile was so large his cheeks ached. “Nothing would be sweeter, Starshine.” Astarion’s cheeks flushed, slightly, and Sekh’s chest utterly burst, burning moths and butterflies, fireflies of hellish heat swarming inside him, igniting his veins. He had never in his life felt like this, around anyone. He had never loved someone so fiercely that he could explode into the stars themselves at just the sight of them.

Love.

Sekh swallowed the word down, was content to cross the camp with Astarion, walking so close they were nearly touching. They were moving towards Astarion’s tent, Sekh presumed to rid the rogue of his remaining armor, when the air shimmered and sparked, the scent of cherry laced brimstone wafting through.

And then Raphael was there, a smug, pleased little smile on his face.

“Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?” His voice seemed to shatter the very air, and both Astarion and Sekh paused, as Raphael approached them, speaking at length about how they return to the Hells, how the Orthon they had displaced for him returned to his House of Hope for some reeducation.

Sekh could tell Astarion didn’t give a single fuck about what sort of sordid reeducation Raphael had been enjoying administering. “We delivered the devil,” he said, his impatience thick in his voice, his exhaustion rendering him unable to mask it, “now I want what I’m owed. We had a deal.”

And the sooner they knew the truth, the sooner Raphael would be gone, and they could finally find respite, find peace, for just a blink in time.

Raphael chuckled, as if the vampire’s annoyance was nothing more than a small child’s pout. “Oh, indeed we did, little vampling. And I discovered all there was to know about those precious scars, so experectly and devotedly carved into your ivory skin. It’s rather grim, even for my tastes.” Yet as he spoke, there wasn’t a hint of disgust on his face- simply ill-hidden amusement.

He was enjoying this. It made Sekh want to grind his teeth together.

“You house part of a contract between your dear master-” he began, stressing the dear so achingly lovingly that Sekh felt his own stomach roll. Astarion didn’t even try to hide the look of disgust that crossed his face. “-Cazador Szarr and the archdevil Mephistopheles. Or, former master, perhaps. You do seem to be such a free spirit now.”

Sekh wondered what Raphael would look like, choking on his own severed tongue, drowning in blood pooling from a fractured skull. He felt a bristling in his mind, and let Syl have his sight, welcomed her even. With her distaste for devils, she would probably have some lucious and vulgar ideas to add to the fantasy.

“In full, the contract states the Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been enacted.” Raphael dropped the act of trying to hide his glee, and outstretched his arms as he proudly announced, “The Rite of Profane Ascension.” Sekh felt a cold chill, clawing up his spine. Astarion shifted, slightly, and Sekh wondered if he had felt it too. He knew he had, a moment later, when he felt a chill in his hand, radiating from his ring. Shared discontent. “It promises to be marvelous, very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and oh so diabolical.”

“As lovely as your usual flare is, Raphael,” Sekh managed, working hard to keep his voice even, “please cut to the point.”

Astarion didn’t deserve to have the truth dangled in front of him, like it was the putrid blood of a rat and he’d been starved for weeks. The man had been tormented enough.

“You wound me, my little dark dweller. A sordid and horrid thing such as this deserves true showmanship.” He moved closer, the scent of cherries making Sekh nauseous. He swore Raphael was going to ruin the fruit for him.

The devil reached out, dared to grip Astarion’s chin, force his head up slightly- examining him like one would a bitch for breeding. Like he was livestock. “If Lord Cazador completes the rite, he will become a new kind of vampire- something far beyond what his kind has ever dreamed. The Vampire Ascendent.” He squeezed Astarion’s chin, before letting him go. The vampire reached up, rubbed at his jaw- then looked disgusted at himself for the silent admission that Raphael’s touch had even registered.

“He’ll retain all the strengths of his vampire form, even find them amplified- and yet, the hungers, the arousals of man will return to him as well. And, unlike you dear Astarion- he will have no need of a parasite to shield him from the sun. The ritual, of course, has its price, as all worthwhile things do. Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his precious spawn, if he is to ascend. Imagine how he felt, when his darling Astarion went missing- when he was but so close to the end.”

This time, Astarion shuddered. Sekh wanted to reach out to him, but feared that even his touch would be unwelcomed, in that moment. His fingers flexed and curled into his palm, resisting the urge. Astarion’s face was unreadable, in that moment.

“You, Astarion, are all that is missing for Cazador to complete the ritual. Your scars bind you to it, and your soul will set off a very wave of death unlike any this plane has ever seen- giving Cazador his true life.” Raphael flicked his wrist, smiled as sparkling embers burst in the air- unable to resist just a bit of drama. “Our deal is done, my little vampling. Now, I have other pressing matters that require my attention.”

Another snap of his fingers, and Raphael was gone, against the smell of smoke and burnt sugar. Astarion hummed, folding his arms, and Sekh turned to him, still couldn’t read the look on his face. “You’re quiet,” Sekh said, softly, as he felt Syl severing the connection with his eye- giving them unrequested privacy.

He appreciated it.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Astarion admitted. And then, in a single instant, the wall that seemed to have built crumbled- Sekh saw anger, fear, and even betrayal in those gorgeous eyes, along the lines that framed Astarion’s mouth.

Sekh reached out then, offered his hand. Astarion unfolded his arms, took it, accepted the touch. Sekh laced their fingers tightly together, took a step closer to Astarion. “Cazador is a vile, worthless, rat bastard.” Astarion almost smiled, almost, and Sekh reached up, brushed some of his falling curls from his forehead. What he had to say hurt, but he said it anyway. “You’ll never be free so long as he lives.”

Astarion closed his eyes, took a single, deep breath. “I hate how right you are,” he admitted, through gritted teeth, bared fangs. When he next opened his eyes, they burned with a hellish fire, an ire ripping its way up directly from Astarion’s soul. “I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone, even when I was just another wretched toy for him to play with. But if I’m the key to this power he craves,” he paused, took another breath, “why, he’ll hunt me to the ends of Faerun. I’ll never be rid of him.”

Astarion turned, pressed his mouth to Sekh’s palm, then his wrist- felt his pulse, beneath his chilled lips.

“I need to take the fight to him,” Astarion whispered, “and I need you to help me.” Astarion closed his eyes, pressed his cheek to Sekh’s warm hand, let the drow cradle his face.

Sekh let go of his hand, wrapped his arm around his waist, pulled Astarion flush to him. “Always,” Sekh promised, “whatever you need, Starshine. Only ask.” He paused, swallowed thickly. “And it's yours.”

Astarion opened his eyes, looked up at Sekh through thick, silver lashes. The drow’s heart hammered in his chest, ached, and he knew Astarion could feel the spike in his pulse from just a single look. “Is that a promise?” he asked, softly, and Sekh nodded.

“I swear it, Astarion. Whatever you need of me, you’ll have.”

The vampire hummed again, before he closed his eyes, content for a moment to focus on Sekh’s warmth. The drow held him, knew that it was true- he would never be able to deny anything Astarion asked of him.

He loved him so much, he would burn the world, himself, for him. He’d blot out the sun in blood, forsake any divinity, let himself be torn asunder and burnt in the hells, if it meant that Astarion could have his freedom, the life he deserved- one he could be fond, even proud of.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #sekstarion #sekh'met #tavstarion #astarion x tav #astarion/tav

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