#and the answers will come within the story!

[sarahreesbrennan]

Quick Evil Note

To all my wicked darlings, I have now received rather a lot of messages asking me about the influences of Long Live Evil. And I wish to get messages about LLE and truly appreciate the ones I do get! And I wish to answer them. But answers about influences are tricky.

The book has been out in the US for a little over two weeks, and it’s going so well so far, I couldn’t be more delighted and appreciative about its reception.

But also I’ve been informed (not asked) that two of my characters are obviously somehow both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy of Harry Potter, and Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji of Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation. (Very puzzling as I don’t think these pairings - and one isn’t a pair - have much in common with each other or with mine. Vague hostility against a vaguely academic backdrop for a bit? For the record… in the book everyone is an adult and I don’t even have any academic backdrops to be vaguely hostile in front of…) This hasn’t happened to me in a long time, because I haven’t had an original novel out in a long time due to illness, and it is upsetting to always be discussed differently than writers who didn’t openly link their real names to their fan identity.

I have very different feelings and new appreciation for fandom than I once had. It’s been amazing to see and meet people who have stuck with me for decades. People are generally way more open and affectionate to and within fandom than they once were. Love matters to me a good deal more than hate. But getting death threats in your early 20s for excitedly telling your Internet friends you were going to publish a book does mark the psyche, and so does having your characters dismissed as other people’s characters.

And we can say there is nothing wrong with fanfiction or writing fanfiction and there isn’t! Fanfiction is great and can be genius. Terry Pratchett wrote Jane Austen fanfiction, and didn’t (and shouldn’t) have people saying Captain Wentworth = Captain Vimes. Still, when a TV show is discussed as ‘like fanfiction’ or when Diana Gabaldon said she didn’t like fanfiction and many said ‘YOU write fanfiction’ it isn’t intended in any kind spirit, even when it’s fannish folk saying it. And it’s just generally odd to have everyone call your apple a tomato, and has had professional consequences for me in the past.

However! All the asks I’ve received have been very kind, and I do want to answer them. I do want to talk about my influences because they are manifold and because I actually think it’s important to always talk about influences. I don’t believe stories exist in isolation - we tell tales in a rich tradition, and also a story doesn’t come alive to me all the way until it’s heard or read.

Long Live Evil is a love letter to fandom: it’s chock full of references to many many stories I’ve loved, to fairytales, myths and legend and Internet memes and epic fantasy and meta. My acknowledgements are endless partly for this reason. I do owe a great debt to many portal fantasies and archetypes and musicals and jokes about genre and plays through the ages, though I do think of my characters as themselves and nobody else.

I was frankly tempted to go ‘Yes I stole EVERYTHING! Bwhahaha!’ But while I am thoroughly enjoying and finding great freedom in my villain era, I do want to talk sincerely to you all as well, especially when asked sincerely interested questions.

But I’m a little scared to do so and have people say ‘AHA! Now we know what it’s fanfiction of’ (it’s happened before) or ignore me and go ‘we know the truth!’ (it’s happened before) and to feel like I’ve injured my book. Long Live Evil means more to me than any other and I really want to get talking about it right, and make sure it has the best reception I can give it.

So. Questions on all Evil topics very very welcome but answers to influence questions may come slowly. Bear with me. I am working on this!

[brain-rot-central]

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 9

A/N: *YELLS "GOOD LUCK, BABE!" FROM THE ROOFTOPS*

WE MADE IT TO THE GALA, HOLY SHIT

Thank you to every single person that has liked, commented, sent anons, or showed any kind of support in any form for this silly little story. These last two months have been some of the shittiest of my life and I'm so happy be here with ya'll. I love you all so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Rating: Explicit (due to the themes, really. No smut this chapter.) Word count: 9.9k (I love you guys SO MUCH I'M SORRY)

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Tav (DU, named)

Warnings: 18+, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, pregnancy, implied alcohol abuse, trauma, past abuse, PTSD themes, depictions of physical abuse, unhealthy relationship, death mention, depictions of murder and gore

Summary: It's the night of Wyll's charity event. Will Tav receive the answers she seeks from the Duke, or will more present themselves?

♥ Previous Chapter

♥ Link to Ao3

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They descend the master staircase, Tav drawing in a shallow breath as she hits the final step. As they turn the corner, arm in arm, she realizes how unsettled she is. Astarion was so close to saying it. Admitting to what they both know to be true, only to tear himself away at the last moment.

Her throat feels tight as she tries to swallow. Should he have said it, there's no doubt in her mind as to how the night would end up. Possessed by the urge to say it back, over and over, spending half the evening wrapped in each other's arms, making up for lost time. She'd guide his hands to her stomach, foreheads pressed together, and speak softly against his lips of what lay within. Of what will be, soon enough.

None of that will happen, now.

The thick aroma of the hors d’oeuvres being served wafts through the air, pulling Tav from her thoughts. The subtle sweetness of wine is complementary, surely free-flowing like waterfalls into the mouths and bellies of those gathered within the grand hall. She can hear muffled chatter from within the ballroom, along with the occasional clinking of glasses. Drawing in a breath, Tav dares herself to stare ahead.

Astarion turns to her, and she catches him from the corner of her eye. But as Tav raises her head to meet him, he quickly adverts his gaze. He’s silent for some time beside her, save for a conveniently timed clearing of his throat. Finally, he asks, “Are you ready, my dear?” Although he continues facing forward, Tav catches stolen glances from his periphery. 

She's still so very raw from their earlier bout, and the booming depth of Astarion's voice causes a shiver to run down her spine. Despite its seriousness, Tav can hear the concern laced within his tone. Her body jerks involuntarily as her nerves alight. “Yes,” Tav replies, forcing a smile to materialize on her face. She now dares herself to look upon him.

Astarion simply grunts in acknowledgement, refusing to meet her. He can't even look at me, now? she ponders to herself. A pit forms in her stomach, alongside a sharp cramp that leaves her wincing. She rests her free hand over her lower abdomen, closing her eyes as she draws another breath through her nose. Pursing her lips together, Tav breathes out. The tension pitted high within her chest unravels as the breath leaves her lungs.

But when she looks at Astarion again, she's awash with emotion once more. His jaw is taught with tension, threatening to snap. There’s a sheen over the reds of his irises, highlighted by the dull light of the candelabras lining the hallway. Tav knows this look. And as much as she'd like to blame the drink that lay heavy on his breath, she knows that isn't the only cause. 

He looks far away. 

Astarion only wears a distant expression when he's desperate to remove himself from the current. When his mind is elsewhere, shielding him. Protecting him until it’s safe to come back out. As if a switch has been flipped – the mask of the entertainer, the people pleaser, is falling into place. The actor is almost stage ready. To give the people what they came here to see.

The dissociation is taking root.

He's uncomfortable. Tav’s entire body shakes from the realization. What's worse is that he's forcing himself to do this. Putting himself on display for everyone, strutting around like some proud peacock for all to fawn over. Astarion once told her that a handsomely crafted face can open any number of doors. She wonders how many times he’s been forced into opening those doors. What prizes lay behind them.

Tav shutters again at the thought of all he's been made to endure. A deep ache settles within her chest, her gaze falling to the floor in front of her.

It's obvious now that Astarion was hoping for a better outcome to their earlier discussion. Perhaps a kiss or two, maybe even something more. Anything to help soothe the ache within him, knowing he was sending himself out to perform. Instead, he got the complete opposite – Tav backing him into a corner, pushing him to admit something he clearly isn't ready to share. 

Doubt begins to rear its ugly head within Tav’s heart.

Maybe she should have gone easier on him. His history is complicated. Of that, she knows. There are things Astarion doesn't understand due to two centuries of indentured servitude, like emotion, and how to coexist alongside another. Perhaps she should have been more patient with him. Perhaps she shouldn't be so demanding of him. He’s trying, afterall. Isn’t he?

Her heart skips heavy in her chest – a defiant thud, then a pause before resuming its normal rhythm. Pressure mounts once more and she suddenly finds herself choking back tears as her vision clouds.

No, Tav reassures herself, screwing her eyes shut. 

Astarion isn’t an innocent child needing protection behind her skirts. He’s taken lives – many, to be frank. He, himself, has died. He understands the delicate balance between the life before and thereafter, better than any mortal being could ever dream to. When Tav reopens her eyes, she lifts her head and looks straight in the direction of the ballroom. All sound drowns out from her ears. She clenches her jaw.

I deserve more. He should be more.

It's been a process, learning to give herself the grace to truly feel. Tavaria has taken the lives of so many people without second thought. Faces that are no more than blurs behind her mind’s eye, barely able to decipher one from the other. All she recalls is the incessant chanting within her mind. Scleteras’s shrill voice echoing, encouraging her to kill, kill, kill. The voices only grew louder when she found the others. Daydreams of what pretty corpses they'd make.

Especially Astarion. 

She'd gotten close, one night. Did her best to warn him before the urge took her completely. All Tav remembers is writhing against her restraints as Astarion looked on. Concern clouded his visage, mixed with the smallest drop of fear. Visions danced behind her eyes, of how beautiful his flesh would look laid out within the palm of her hand as she fileted it clean off his bones. How delicious his blood would taste on her tongue. Would it run hot, she wondered? Smell of rot and decay? She'd bathe herself with his entrails, feeling impossibly close to him, but not before successfully copulating with him. A high offering to her Father, securing the next generation of cursed Bhaalspawn.

Bhaal must be furious, looking upon her now.

But that was all months ago, and she rejected her birthright. Refused to be her Father’s vessel of chaos and murder. The day she turned her back on him is the day Tavaria chose life. And to her surprise, the chanting stopped. The urge stopped. She could breathe for the first time in what was likely years.

Since then, Tav has tried her best to walk the path of redemption. She can never bring back those who have fallen victim to her sins. The young tielfing bard’s face haunts her daily, smashed beyond recognition. But she's vowed to do better with however much life she has left. To be kinder. Show the compassion she was never given to others.

She’s chosen to be a good person. That should be reason enough as to why she deserves to hear him say it. To hear from his own mouth that he loves her and not have it be a figment of her imagination. 

And it's perfectly fine that she does. There's no reason to feel guilt for wanting what you deserve.

At this very moment, Tav stands next to a man that feels more like a stranger to her than ever before, all while their child grows within her. A man who wears the same face of the one she loves, yet acts so foreign to her.

She deserves to be loved in a way that is befitting of her, and she will not settle for anything less than what she deserves.

Without so much as another word, Astarion steps forward. Tav follows almost seamlessly, their arms still interlocked. They cross the threshold into the ballroom and are immediately greeted by copious pairs of prying eyes, all focused on them. Music swells from the band as they travel to the middle of the room, neither of them missing a step. 

As Tav looks out into the crowd, she recognizes a few faces from her short tenure in the City Watch – noblemen and ladies all dressed in their evening best. Their silk dresses and velvet frock coats are dyed in various elaborate colors and patterns. Jewelry adorned with precious gems hangs plentiful from their ears and necks. She nods and smiles as she passes, catching more than a few people ducking their heads after making brief eye contact. Their lips move in silent chatter to one another, but Tav can imagine their conversations: one of Baldur Gate's most eligible bachelors arriving arm-in-arm with the city's hero. The same hero who left him at the moment of their triumph.

How terribly poetic.

The band suddenly cuts out as they reach the middle of the room. Astarion retrieves his arm from around hers rather swiftly, and Tav steps back. The vampire takes a quick breath, wiping his head up. Applause rings out as he then turns to address the crowd. Astarion bows repeatedly, each time in a new direction, the reception growing louder. Tav again surveys all in attendance and decides to clap in tandem, all the while retaining her best face. 

The vampire lord then raises a hand – a gesture to signal the quieting of the crowd – and the applause slowly dies off. A smile is etched across his face, but it isn't his usual smile. Not the one he reserves for her. Tav shivers.

“Thank you all for such a warm introduction!” Astarion exclaims, boisterously. His open-mouthed smile stretches now across his face from ear to ear, the tips of his fangs gleaming in the light. 

Do they know of his true nature? Tav wonders as his teeth catch her eye. It's a question that hasn't dawned on her before this moment. He’s not necessarily trying to hide it. Many in the city knew of Cazador, but only as an aristocrat, bred from a long line of wealth. If they do know the truth about Astarion, it doesn't seem to bother anyone much. 

Tavaria again looks out among the crowd, studying them intently. Many of the ladies have fans covering their faces, though the ones who do not, Tav easily catches the barest glint of a blush sitting upon their cheeks as they watch Astarion swish about the floor. A single thread of what must be jealousy pulls tightly within her. It fades as quickly as it comes, dissolving into vapor as she releases the breath she’s holding.

Signs of Astarion's vampirism are so obvious to her, now that she's looking at him. Pointed fangs just peeking over his bottom lip as he smiles, ruby red eyes that glimmer in the light of the chandeliers, Cazador's bite scarred into the column of his throat. His complexion used to be ghastly, like that of one raised from the dead. But since the ritual, he's as pink as any mortal being. He blushes, even. 

And, gods, is he handsome. More so than any other man in existence. The sharp lines of his face, the subtle bump along the bridge of his nose. Tavaria understands all too well why the women, and even some of the men in attendance, look upon Astarion with such hungered stares.

Astarion clasps his hands together. He turns again to the crowd and says, “I'm sure we all know why we're here tonight, yes?” He gives them a moment to murmur an audible response before continuing, “And, no, unfortunately it's not just for my handsome face.” The room erupts into laughter. The vampire then raises a sharp brow, mouth curling into a sly smirk.

A horrid realization comes over Tav: These people could easily be sacrificial lambs, ripe for Astarion's picking. And he knows it. Worse yet, loves it. Loves having fools wrapped around his finger.

This is Vampire Lord Astarion, the entertainer. The socialite. The deceitful. Pulling from his past life as an at-will aristocrat; as many times as his master made him perform. It's such a well-practiced act that Tav can hardly tell when her Astarion ceased and this version took over. The transition occurred seamlessly right before her eyes. And if she didn’t know him better, she’d be thoroughly convinced that this is what he truly consists of. Tav watches in awe as Astarion flits across the floor, continuing to address all before him. Not a drop of worry remains present on his face, his countenance bright and inviting. 

It makes her gravely uneasy.

He lets the room swell for a moment, continuing his speech once it dies back again. “My dearest Lords and Ladies,” Astarion’s tone sends another shock wave down Tav’s spine. He speaks with the same sweetened vitriol as when they first met. Bile builds near the back of her throat, her mouth turning bitter.

“We come together tonight to celebrate one man who surely gets the job done,” the vampire continues. Astarion looks out into the crowd, lifting a hand to wave one finger. Tav follows his eyes. “One man, who puts honor and duty before all else.” Suddenly, he halts, having found his intended target, and he extends his hand. And as Tav traces his arm, she finds the man in question on the other end.

“Esteemed guests,” Astarion boasts, “it is with great honor that I introduce our man of the hour.” Astarion hesitates for a moment, the room eerily silent. He glances toward Tav; her breath hitches. She can see the contempt within his eyes, but he continues, loud and prideful. “Wyllyam Ravengard, your Grand Duke!”

Thunderous applause erupts from the crowd. Wyll, surrounded by the other members of the Watch, tilts his head politely in acknowledgement, giving several small bows. Servants then descend upon the guests, holding silver trays lined with glasses of sparkling liquid.

“And as such,” Astarion says, choosing a glass off the tray a servant presents to him, “may I propose a toast to our young Duke, who does oh so very much for his belovéd city.” 

Tav retrieves a glass from a servant, giving the contents a quick whiff. Champagne, and a damned good one, too. Astarion then holds out his glass, those in attendance following suit. Silence befalls the ballroom – the only audible sound being the fizzling of champagne. All eyes are on Wyll, who stands with his own glass, ready to receive his due.

“To Wyll,” begins Astarion, “for I could have not asked for a better traveling companion during our plight against the Absolute.” His eyes are thin slits as he speaks, expression forcibly strained.

He's lying. And so brazenly.

Astarion despised Wyll during their journey. Teased him about being the golden boy, only agreeing to be a dog for Mizora due to a subconscious desire to bed the she-devil. Some, if not all in part, influenced by Tav and Wyll’s short-lived romance. Astarion’s quips escalated in intensity not soon after, and remained sour right up until the end of their adventure together.

It's unsettling to her just how easily Astarion can slip into the mask of a perfect gentleman. Play any hand to his advantage, win over even the most suspicious of individuals. Is that what he's been doing to her this entire time, she wonders? Playing a game? Is there even still a line between what's real and what's for show?

Who is this man that wears the liar’s grin so unashamedly? He wears her lover's face, but this is not him.

Unless… their dynamic has changed? 

Tav finds that difficult to believe, but perhaps they've come to an understanding. Perhaps she shouldn't be so quick to judge their relationship. The men are partners now, after all. That demands some level of mutual respect.

…Right?

Raising the glass to his lips, Astarion drinks his champagne. The other occupants of the ballroom soon follow suit, as if following orders from a leader. Placing the glass to her lips, Tav tips it back just enough to make contact with her mouth before bringing it back down. She quickly scans the room – hardly anyone is looking at her. Likely no one has realized she didn't truly drink, and she sighs in relief.

Wyll then steps forward, glass still half full. He wears a white satin full suit with golden trim. His long locs are pulled back behind his shoulder in a low ponytail. A rapier sits upon his hip, swishing gently as he steps forward. “My sincerest gratitude, Lord Ancunín,” he says, taking his place by Astarion's side. The ballroom is silent again as the men stand eye-to-eye. Only the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat travels through the air. 

“Truth be told, I had my doubts about Astarion when we first met.” Wyll then turns toward the crowd before continuing, “but now, through his gracious donations towards the restoration of the Lower City, I can tell his heart lies in the exact same place mine does.” He begins nodding his head, as if agreeing with himself. “The abundance of love he has for this city and her people rivals my own.”

The patrons begin clapping and Tav furrows her brow. Idiots, she sneers to herself. Astarion would sooner watch this city burn than save it, especially if it meant protecting himself. How can Wyll not see that? How can they not see it?

“And so I also propose a toast,” Wyll exclaims, holding his drink up in the air. “To Lord Astarion Ancunín, the rogue-turned-hero. An undeniable asset to this city, and someone I am grateful to call a true ‘friend.’” His face is tightly guarded, wearing a well-practiced expression. Diplomatic in nature.

The room tips their glasses once more to their lips, and Tav does the same. Again she only allows the liquid to grace her lips for a moment before bringing it back down. Her stomach lurches as she watches the two men then embrace one another. 

The discontent on Astarion's face is clear to her: He wishes for nothing to do with Wyll and this entire affair. And then Wyll – precious, gracious Wyll who makes the best out of every situation – smiles brightly, genuinely welcoming of the vampire's embrace. If Wyll has any reservations surrounding their current situation, they're well hidden.

The men separate, eyes locked to one another, and Astarion raises a hand to Wyll’s shoulder. He gives it a pat, and then the two men turn toward the crowd. Applause rings out again and Astarion speaks, “I say it's about time we start this thing!”

Wyll nods, taking a quick sip from his glass. “Agreed, friend.” Their voices are loud and echo throughout the room. “Everyone!” Wyll states, “Please, enjoy the festivities! This is a night for all! Thank you!”

Astarion's hand then slips from Wyll's shoulder and he departs, but not before managing to squeeze out another smile. The band resumes playing, chatter resuming within the ballroom. Tav loses sight of the silver-haired vampire as he blends within the crowd. She bites at the inside of her cheek – Astarion is unhappy. But she can't worry entirely about him, at the moment.

Her eyes find Wyll as he crosses the room, back to the small gathering of people he was initially with: Marceline, a half-elven paladin of Lathander; Oliver, a human fighter like herself; and Lester, a high-elf who is a cross between a fighter and a mage. Together, they make up Wyll’s personal division of the City Watch.

Admittedly, Tav had found Lester’s skill quite peculiar. ‘I'm somewhat of a battle mage,’ she recalls him saying. Tav had initially laughed at the insinuation, though she soon found it to be true. One afternoon, Lester used his magic to hold his enemies in place, and then proceeded to bring his mace down hard over them. Needless to say, Tav found a new respect for the man, after that.

Tav places her still-full glass of champagne on a tray held by a servant, then smooths out her dress. Astarion had suggested speaking to Wyll, should she wish to know more about their arrangement. And as she makes her approach toward Wyll, Marceline is the first to notice.

“Tavaria!” the half-elf exclaims. She bolts over to Tav, raven hair lifting off her shoulders from the momentum. Marceline hugs her, warm and tight, nuzzling her face against her hair. Tav returns the hug, raising her arms to encircle the woman. As Marceline steps back, she says, “Gods, we were all so worried about you!”

Tav raises a brow, allowing Marceline to take her by the hand and lead her back toward the group. “What ever do you mean, Marceline?” she asks, curiously.

Marceline stops, as does Tav. As she looks at her, Tav can see the slight pull in her bottom lip. “...You didn't show up for work yesterday, Tavaria.”

Tav’s eyes grow wide with surprise. “I… I what?”

“We were going to send a patrol to your flat,” Marceline explains, resuming her initial course, “but Wyll refused to grant it.”

Tav feels herself being brought closer to Wyll; watches as his eyes land on her. Though, her mind is a million realms away. Has she really been so preoccupied that she forgot her duty?

…Has she forgotten herself?

“Ah, there she is!” Wyll states jovially, a smile stretched across his face. His demeanor is warm and welcoming. It hints nothing of him being cross with Tavaria, despite her most recent transgression.

“Your Grace,” Tavaria says with a bow. “I am so–”

“Oh, Tavaria, please,” Wyll interjects, huffing out a laugh. “We know one another far too well for formalities. Please, speak to me as you would a friend.” He brings the champagne glass to his lips. “That is what we are, yes?”

A calm falls over Tav. One would think she'd grown used to it by now, but Wyll's patience and understanding always surprises her. “Of course, Wyll,” she agrees, giving him a smile of her own. “But I am still so very sorry for abandoning my post yesterday.” She shakes her head. “I fear that I don't know what's come over me, as of late.” Not necessarily a lie.

“You ’n this fancy lord fella have history, don't ya?” asks Oliver, outwardly. He's a stoutly man, bald and fills out his dark blue suit with hardly an inch of give. His words are slurred, his cheeks red and flushed. The tone he uses is somewhat accusatory, though Tav knows him well enough to be certain he means no harm.

Despite herself, Tav cocks a questioning brow in his direction. “We do… but how do you know about that?”

“Aye, Tav,” Oliver answers with a haughty laugh, “there are sonnets written ‘bout the two of ya.” He points his glass in her direction. “Down in the brothels, the bards sing of a young woman fallin’ in love wit’ an evil prince.” Oliver nods his head. “Pre’ty sure that’s you ‘n lover boy, no?”

A scowl settles on Tav’s face. She can feel the anger rising within her. It's on the tip of her tongue to inform the man that Wyll was once the closest thing to an actual devil, though she manages to hold off. No reason to throw him under the table. “Oliver, they've sung for ages about that,” Tav bites back. “I doubt it's just Lord Ancunín and myself they refer to.” 

Lester then snickers quietly, turning away as he brings a hand to his mouth. The blond is a man of few words, a stark contrast to Gale and other mages she's met. Yet when he does speak, his words carry heavy meaning. He and Tav share a sly grin. It's obvious to both that Oliver is full of drink and hardly worth the argument currently mounting.

“It's more than fine, Tav” says Wyll, finding an opportunity to break the tension. “I figured you needed a day off. You haven’t been yourself, as of late.” Wyll takes another sip from his glass. “But what I didn't expect,” he says, lowering his glass as he tips his face up toward Tav, “was to find you here.”

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Gooseflesh breaks out over her arms, quickly glazing around the room. This isn't a conversation she wants to have out in the open, especially with Astarion lurking about. Tav dips her head and asks quietly, “Wyll, may we speak privately?”

The group exchanges glances, their expressions flat. They then nod to one another, and soon Marceline, Oliver, and Lester depart toward the refreshment table at the far side of the room, each giving Tav an uptick of their head as they walk past.

“Why are you here, Tavaria?” Wyll asks sternly once the others are out of earshot. He turns his whole body toward her. “I can only assume this means you're both–”

“It's complicated,” Tav answers, quickly. Wyll’s face then falls, an exasperated sigh escaping him. She feels her stomach nearly drop through the floor. She should have expected slack from Wyll about this. Or, really… from anyone.

“I see,” he remarks, placing a hand on his hip. Wyll chokes back the rest of his champagne just as a servant passes by, and he places the glass upon their silver tray. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks Tav, nodding politely to the servant as they depart. “Should I remind you of what he's done?”

Tav meets the questioning gaze of the servant looking back, and they quickly duck their head. Astarion has eyes and ears throughout the entire manor – not a detail she's forgotten. Though, she screws her eyes shut and draws a deep breath in. 

Wyll speaks of the ascension. 

The moment Astarion, the rogue, fell and Astarion, the vampire lord, took his place. Tav still hears them, even now – the shrieking of over 7000 souls perishing from this realm, banished to the depths of the Hells.

She remembers the fire behind Astarion's ruby red eyes as he rose, as if born anew. The manic laughter that tumbled forward from his chest as he confronted Ulma, slitting her throat. The pulsing artery of her carotid bathing him in blood, flowing freely into his mouth. 

She remembers the moan he let out as the woman's blood hit his tongue. The gurgling noises arising from her throat as she grew limp, falling into his arms. His body rocking in time with her twitching form as he finally sealed his lips over the wound, drawing more and more blood into his mouth.

And within moments, it was over. Ulma grew still, and Astarion dropped her to the floor in an unceremonious heap, completely lifeless. Astarion stood still for what felt like ages. The Gur who arrived with her soon fled when Astarion finally lifted his head, vowing to return with stronger numbers. And all the vampire lord did was laugh.

In the immediate aftermath, Tavaria and the others were horrified. The chance of Astarion turning on them next ran through each of their minds. Wyll vowed to stake him through the heart should he draw closer; Gale promised to cast spells to hold Astarion in place. Tav had never feared Astarion up until that point. Even with his fangs seated deep within her neck, she still trusted him to take just enough. Though, as he turned to face her, blood smeared across his face, dripping down his chin… A chill ran through her heart.

His smile is what did it. Wide, almost goofy. It was as if he expected her to be as proud as he was. Finally, after two centuries of horror, he was now the cat who got the clotted cream. And, by the gods, did it feel good.

“I remember well enough what he's done,” Tav remarks solemnly, opening her eyes. She shifts her gaze away from Wyll. “And all he continues to do.”

Wyll cocks his head upward, narrowing his eyes. “So you know?” he probes, cautiously.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Tav confirms, moving her head in agreement. “In fact, that's the entire reason I stand before you now. Astarion suggested I speak with you about what happened.”

Wyll is stoic for a moment, unwavering. Tav questions for a moment if she somehow misread the situation, but Wyll bursts into a sudden fit of laughter, placing a hand on his chest. The duke then shakes his head. “At least he's still a character,” he says, continuing to laugh. His arms fall back down to his hips. “But petty, no less. The man doesn't even have the common decency to wear a suit.” He then gestures toward Tav, hand waving up and down. “Though, he made sure you look the part.”

Heat floods her face. “H-how do you know I didn't choose this myself?” Tav argues. How embarrassing, she thinks, for it be so obvious that Astarion clothed her. Like his personal doll.

Though, much to her relief, Wyll only chuckles. “Tavaria, you are capable of many things,” the Duke says, reassuringly. “But this?” He waves his hand up and down her form again. “I don't think you'd ever choose this for yourself.” And just as Tav's heart begins to sink, Wyll adds, “It's not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Wyllyam!” she scolds through gritted teeth. Tav then scans the room, silently praying no one is eavesdropping on their conversation. “Mind yourself, please!” She can feel how brightly her cheeks now burn, and before she turns back to Wyll, Tav catches Astarion's scowling at them from across the ballroom. “I-I’m your subordinate, Wyll,” Tav states within a hushed tone. A cold chill passes over her, and she finally meets the Duke's gaze once more.

Curse Astarion's attuned hearing. He's likely heard everything they've said.

“Of course, of course,” Wyll agrees. “My apologies; I may be a bit deeper in the drink than I realize.” He shakes his head. “Right. You're here to talk about my agreement with my lovely friend, Astarion.”

A jolt of pain shoots through her chest as she feels her cheeks flush. Their performance earlier was exactly that – an act. There's still no love lost between the two men. However, it sounds even more strained, now.

Tav gives Wyll a sullen glance. “I'm sorry, Wyll. When I found those men laying in the crypts below, I demanded answers from him.” She clasps her hands over her stomach, looking down. “But he refused to tell me everything.”

“Of course he did,” Wyll is quick to remark. He shifts his weight onto one hip. “Because your opinion of him is the only one he cares for, just as it's always been. Wouldn't want to sully that, now, would he?”

Tav raises her head to meet Wyll. How much of what Astarion told her is the truth? Perhaps she knows nothing at all. Would that be so out of the realm of possibility? “Wyll, what happened that night?” she asks, plainly. “Why was Astarion even with those men?”

Wyll sighs, casting his gaze to the floor before looking back up. He clicks his tongue, placing his arms over his chest. “When I became Grand Duke, I knew one of the first things I had to do was keep an eye on Astarion.” He wags a finger in the air. “The Szarr family has been around for centuries, and is considered one of the wealthiest in all of Baldur's Gate. For Astarion, in all of his unpredictability, to inherit such an estate, alongside boundless physical powers…” Wyll seems lost in thought for a moment before he continues, “...It’s a recipe for disaster.”

Tav nods in silent agreement. She knows he isn't wrong to assume as such. Only minutes after ascending did he test the boundaries of these new abilities, much to everyone else's horror. Mere hours after the ritual is when he demanded her mortal life be given to him. Wyll was absolutely correct to not trust Astarion. A fact that's difficult to argue against.

“So,” Wyll explains further, “I invited him to Wyrm’s Crossing one afternoon and proposed an agreement: Astarion aid me in cleaning up Cazador's morally questionable affairs, and I give Astarion his privacy. No meddling in his records, nor his personal business. And he agreed.” Wyll then smiles. “But only after I made good on my promise to position patrols outside of the palace, ready to move in should I give the word.”

Tav’s eyes widen in shock. “You would have laid siege upon him?” she asks, voice quivering.

“Without question,” Wyll answers, sternly. “Tav, I know of your history with him. I can only imagine how complicated it is now.” He leans in closer to Tav, nearly face to face. “But heed my words – the man is a devil masquerading as a man.” There's a sharp bite to his words that sends a shockwave shooting down her spine. Wyll shakes his head again. “He is not the Astarion we knew. Not even close.”

“...How can you be so sure?” Tav’s lips pull into a quirk. Astarion can't be all that horrid… Could he? Surely, she would know by now.

Wyll draws a deep breath in, releasing it with forced effort. “Cazador's depravity ran deeper than I thought. I knew the man would be involved in terrible business, but never did I think it would include the trafficking of humanoid creatures.” The Duke swallows, taking a moment of respite before adding, “I used this as leverage to broker a deal with Astarion. He'd continue business as usual, gathering sensitive information to help me build a case. And I stay out of his other affairs.”

“You used him?!” Tav exclaims, worriedly. “And with slavers, no less? Wyll, that's low! Even for you.”

“Is it crueler than Astarion forcibly taking half the city as his spawn?” responds Wyll, coldly. “I needed an in, Tav. Surely you can understand why.”

Just then, the leader of the band speaks, welcoming all to gather for their next song. Tav meets Wyll’s eyes, and he gestures toward the dance floor, holding out his hand for her. Reluctantly, Tav accepts, and they both head toward the floor.

They stand before one another, one set of hands interlocked adjacent to their waists. Tav's free hand rests atop Wyll’s shoulder, while he places his on her hip. The band then kicks in – a slow, melodic song – and the two begin to sway. Tav remembers the night they danced around the campfire together. A soft smile comes to her face, but it’s short lived. 

“I'm the reason Astarion was present that evening,” Wyll continues. “But I never instructed him on how to act.” The two part as Wyll stretches out their conjoined hands, and Tav twirls under both of their arms. She returns to him, and the two spin as they glide across the floor, the hem of her skirts swaying as they go.

“He told me he had no choice but to kill them,” says Tav within a broken breath. “That they would have gotten him first.”

Wyll then chuckles, throwing his head back. “And I'm sure he's expecting me to tell you the same. But that would be too far from the truth.” Wyll then separates from her again, releasing their hands to lay his palm flat against hers. Tav then follows his lead, moving so their bodies are parallel to one another, and they walk in a circle together. “You're a smart woman, Tav. I know that as fact,” Wyll states, confidently. “Do you really think the vampire ascendant is so defenseless? That he’d find himself trapped?”

Wyll then drops his hand, holding up the opposite, and Tav does the same. They mirror their previous formation, circling now in the opposite direction. “He had every chance of escaping, had he any desire to do so,” Wyll continues, facing Tav.

Tav meets his eyes, her body almost on autopilot. A chill runs down her spine as her mind makes sense of Wyll's inference. “Wyll, are you implying–”

“That he murdered those men on purpose?” Wyll interrupts, almost emphatically. The band then slows, music winding down, and Wyll comes to stand before her. “Yes, Tavaria. That is exactly what I'm implying. Because that's exactly what happened.”

Applause rings out around them as the music cuts out, but Tav can hardly hear it over the sound of her heart hammering away in her ears. Her blood runs cold. 

Wyll speaks sense; Astarion always had control of the situation. His life was never in danger. He killed those men for no reason other than he could. 

A game. A way to test his new powers.

The smell of iron dancing beneath her nose pulls her violently from her thoughts. Saliva pools thickly in her mouth as she scans the room, desperately searching for the source. She gasps aloud when she finally finds it.

There, in the far corner of the ballroom, stands Astarion. His eyes are fixed on her as he raises a silver goblet to his mouth. They share a glance long enough for Tav to watch the goblet then fall away, a small bead of crimson liquid dripping down his stained lips. Astarion is quick to snatch it up with the side of a finger, bringing it to his mouth.

The smell is intoxicating, and Tav’s vision grows fuzzy. She's suddenly hungry, starved for something she knows not what. It's what happened to her at the butcher shop, but it’s worse. So much more intense now than it was then.

Astarion's tongue darts from his mouth to envelop the digit, swiping the liquid from his finger. His eyes have yet to leave hers, and Tav feels an enigmatic pull overtake her.

Is that… blood?

The urge to lick the essence from his lips swells within her. To bury her tongue as deeply as possible within his mouth, savoring every last drop of blood. To swap their tainted saliva back and forth, until the taste all but fades into nothing.

Astarion then smiles, as if privy to her thoughts. Her mouth falls open with sudden realization.

…Has she grown a hunger for blood?

“Tavaria!”

Her concentration is broken as Wyll’s voice bellows in her ears. She whips her head in his direction, staring wildly. “I'm sorry,” Tav says, rushed. She sucks in a sharp breath and screws her eyes tightly. “My mind was elsewhere.”

Wyll’s gaze shifts to the far corner of the ballroom, where Astarion stands. The two men exchange deep scowls. “I don't want to get between whatever business you have with him, Tavaria,” he says, shifting his eyes back to her. “But if I were you, I’d run.”

Tav huffs out a laugh. She then looks to Astarion and finds that despite the women who have now joined him, he's still focused entirely on them. “What do you mean?” Tav asks innocently, turning her head to Wyll. “I don't think Astarion would ever harm me.”

“You have no idea who Astarion is anymore. None of us do.” Wyll states with finality. “And I'm deeply concerned by what may become of you should you stay.” He lifts his hands then to Tav’s shoulders, and she shudders under his touch. “There will come a time when he grows bored of this game.” Wyll tightens his grip. “I don't think I have to tell you what happens next.”

Tav’s eyes grow wide.

It's… a game. Their entire dynamic is a game of cat and mouse – who can outsmart the other first. How could she have been so blind? There's no love in this. No, this is about possession. Control. Deep down, a part of her always knew that. But she didn't think it was evident to anyone else.

“Your neck, Tav – I see it.” Wyll's eyes draw tightly together, his voice dropping an octave as he tilts his head. “He's already marked you.”

Bile pools in the back of her throat again as a sudden wave of nausea rushes forward. A hand flies to her neck, covering the remnants of Astarion's bite. 

Tav wants to vomit. She wants to run, scream, forget she ever let Astarion back into her life.

The realization dawns over her that Wyll is right: Astarion will inevitably force her hand, should she stay long enough. He will never let her live out a mortal life. Tav will become his puppet, his trophy. His most prized possession, completely dependent on him for sustenance. Astarion will keep her sealed tightly within this palace, never to see the light of day again. She will be expected to lay with him as he commands, satisfy him as he commands… To become completely subservient to all his desires.

She was right, and has been right this entire time. Astarion has only given her the illusion of choice, hoping that she gives into him willingly.

She feels hollow.

Tav stares blankly at Wyll, placing both of her hands over her lower belly. Her mouth struggles to form the words racing through her mind, unable to grasp them. She wants to tell Wyll everything. About her and Astarion, about the baby. He could hide her, far away from Astarion's reach. So that he could never find her or their child ever again. She knows he would.

But the aroma of a certain spiced cologne distracts her, and as Tav turns her head toward that particular corner of the ballroom again, she sees Astarion drawing closer.

Panic grips her throat, and almost instinctively she's ripping herself away from Wyll. “I–I need some air!” she shouts in his direction, briefly looking back. Wyll moves to speak, but Tav is beyond earshot. 

The urge to run consumes her, but to where? She scans the room desperately, tunnel vision beginning to set in. Finally, she finds large window pane doors leading out into the garden.

Tav dares to look back and finds Astarion now chatting with Wyll. Their expressions are taut, strained – she can see Astarion's fangs under the curling of his upper lip. Her heart skips strongly within her chest, and she looks again to the French doors.

It may be futile, as Astarion can simply sniff her out should he choose, but anything is better than staying here. She may as well try. With that logic in mind, Tav makes a desperate dash towards the doors. 

—----------------------------------------

Bursting out into the courtyard, Tav barrels down the stone steps. She runs into the hedges, stopping just short of a rose bush. The sound of tearing fabric rings in her ears, but she doesn't care. All that matters is keeping away from him right now. 

Fearfully, she dares herself to look back to the top of the stairs. Astarion soon comes into view, surveying the garden. Though, he makes no effort to follow her. Instead, he turns, wine glass in hand, and heads back into the ballroom.

A choked sob then escapes Tav's throat. Her body is overcome by violent shaking as she drops to her knees, clutching herself. How could she have been so blind? Was she charmed? Has Astarion been whittling away at her subconscious this entire time?

Just as she feels her resolve begin to shatter entirely, Tav catches the silhouette of another standing where Astarion just was. Brown hair tied into a high bun atop the man's head, the rest flowing down his shoulders. Mauve and midnight blue evening dress, complete with a vest and jacket. He seems to be searching for something.

“Gale?” Tav questions tentatively, poking her head from beyond the bushes. “Is that really you?”

The wizard looks out into the garden, his face lighting up as he finds her. “Tav!” he exclaims, running down the steps to meet her. “I knew I saw you talking to Wyll earlier! Though, I must ask…” Gale then extends a hand to her. “...are you hiding?”

Tav pouts as she takes his hand, letting Gale pull her up. “It's a long story,” she deflects, patting herself down. There's a small tear in the dress just below her left breast, and she scowls. “I'm surprised to see you here. I wouldn't think of Astarion inviting you.”

“Well, fortunately for you, the guest list wasn't his to command.” The magician places his hands on his hips, staring intently at Tav. “But really, why are you out here? You all but ran from Wyll.” Gale then searches her up and down, bending forward and sideways. “Are you hurt? Did he say something unkind?”

Tav sighs and shakes her head. “No, no. It's nothing Wyll said.”

A blatant lie – it's everything Wyll said.

“I just needed some fresh air, that's all.” She tries her best to put on a smile, but she knows Gale doesn't buy it.

“Tav,” he states, sternly. “What's wrong? You look beautiful, yes, but I can also see that you're shaken.” He dips his head to stare up at her from under his brow. “I'm your friend, Tav. You can talk to me.”

She looks at him. Emotion swirls within her chest, and she begins to heave with heavy breath. Tears well up within her eyes, and it's not long before Tav rushes forward, throwing her arms tightly around Gale’s neck. She sobs, heavily, messily, into his shoulder.

It's cathartic – like a dam finally giving way after keeping a rushing river at bay for far longer than ever intended. She feels arms encircle her and realizes they're Gale's, prompting another rush of tears to flow down her cheeks. For the first time in months, she feels safe. She hadn’t realized she'd forgotten what this feels like, until now.

By the time Tav lifts her face, the shoulder of Gale's jacket is horribly stained. She must look like a child's painting right now, make-up askew. But Gale simply gives her a reassuring look, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a handkerchief. “Here,” he says while holding it out for her. 

And for a moment, Tav wishes she could have fallen in love with him instead.

Tav accepts his offer, muttering her thanks as she lifts the kerchief to her eyes. “I'm sorry for not having answered your most recent letters.” She then blots the skin over her cheeks, scowling as her foundation stains the cloth. “There’s so much I have to tell you, Gale. So much has happened in such a short period of time, and I've no time to process it.”

“I'm here now,” Gale states triumphantly, placing his hands on his hips. “No better time to start than the present.”

She gives a soft laugh, sniffling before she says, “I suppose you're right.” She swipes the handkerchief under her nose. “Well, for one… I'm pregnant.”

Gale doesn't answer. Instead, he cocks his head slowly to the side, eyes growing wide with surprise. “...Whoa,” he musters. “Well… That's… certainly one way to start.” He then rights his posture, shifting his weight to one side. “I… wasn't aware you were with anyone.”

“That’s because I'm not.” Tav stares at the ground, sticking out a foot to run her shoe mindlessly over the small stones that make up the garden’s pathway. “At least not officially.”

The wizard crosses his arms over his chest. “I see. Is it someone that you know?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Tav answers quickly. “We both know him quite well.” She then pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, adding, “Or, we did.”

“I think I'm beginning to understand,” says Gale with a snicker. “I can see how tensions may run high in your line of work.” Tav quirks a brow but remains silent, curious as to where Gale is taking the conversation. “And how your superior may seem like the best person to relieve them with.”

And then her mouth hangs open for a moment, dumbfounded, though she quickly gathers her thoughts to argue. “Gale, I don't think you–”

“You know,” he continues, sticking up a hand to wave a finger, “when I was at the academy, I had a professor who–”

“Gale!” Tav shouts. Heat floods to her cheeks in embarrassment. “Gods, no! It's not Wyll!” Placing her face in her hands, Tav begins to pace back and forth. A groan escapes her as she drags both hands across her face, further smearing her make-up. “Why does everyone assume I'm still infatuated with Wyll?”

Gale shrugs his shoulders. “I don't think he's that hard on the eyes.”

“He isn't!” Tav shouts again. “But, sweet Hells, he's my boss!”

“Alright, alright,” Gale holds up his hands in defeat, then crosses them over his chest. “So, if not him, then who?”

Tav sucks in a breath through her nose, exhaling slowly through her mouth. Her heart pounds against her chest as Astarion's name dances across her mind. She wants to say his name, but her mouth won't cooperate. Instead, she slowly lifts her hair, turning her head to expose the healing bite mark on her neck to Gale's curious eyes.

“That… looks like a recent bite wound,” comments the wizard, pupils dilating.

“And you would be correct,” Tav confirms, flatly.

His squints, leaning closer to Tav, then stands upright. “Judging by the spacing of the marks…” Gale says, hesitantly, “...I would say that's the bite of a vampire.”

Tav nods, lips drawing into a thin line. “Right again.”

“Huh,” huffs Gale. “But, there's only one vampire we both know.”

Her heart is pounding again, so loud it's drowning out any sound in her ears. “Indeed,” Tav agrees, willing herself to continue despite her discomfort. “And we happen to be standing in his garden.”

She watches Gale's face as it contorts, the phases of acknowledgement written clearly for Tav to see. The magician's face ranges from confusion, to shock, to acceptance, back to shock again. “Oh, Nine Hells,” Gale mutters. “...How? When?!”

Tav throws up her arms, laughing to herself. “Not sure, Gale! Because if I did, I certainly wouldn't be in this mess!” 

Shame settles in. Tav’s face burns again, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. Hearing these words said with her own voice somehow makes this real. Makes the empty hole within her chest ache, once occupied by Astarion. The desperate desire to be held by him, to disappear into the night and fall in love all over again.

“Gods, Tavaria… I don't even know what to say.” Gale lowers his arms to his sides, holding one hand to his hip. “How did he react when you told him?”

The air is knocked from her lungs, and Tav sucks in a desperate breath. “...I haven't,” she says, quietly.

“What?!” exclaims Gale. “Tav, you have to tell him!”

She glares at him, balling her hands into fists, shame quickly warping into anger. “Gale, if I tell him, you can kiss ever seeing me again goodbye.” She's shaking now, emotions boiling over.. “I will be his, forever, whether I want to be or not! I will no longer have a choice!”

“Oh, poppycock,” says Gale with a wave of his hand. “If there's one thing we both know about Astarion, it's that he'd never let any harm come to you. Especially by his doing.” Gale moves closer to Tav, voice dropping in decibel. His gaze remains glued to her. “Is this what you were discussing with Wyll? You know how he feels about Astarion, Tav,” says the wizard.

Tav swallows thickly. Her jaw is clenched tightly, teeth grinding against one another. “Gale, he's not the man either of us think he is,” she states, boldly. “Not anymore.”

Gale leans back with a laugh. “I somehow doubt that,” he argues, raising a hand, then both. “Sure, he's grown to be a bit of a recluse over these last few months.” With a shrug of his shoulders, Gale adds, “And the Gods only know how familiar I am with such a state. But it doesn't seem his heart has changed, when you're concerned.”

“What are you talking about?” Tav retorts in frustration. Does he mean to mock her? It's unlikely, but still infuriating how wrong he is at this moment. “Gale, he had fucking bodies in the crypts, what are you–”

“Did you ever think that perhaps Astarion sought you out again because he knew he was losing control?”

Tav’s eyes grow wide, shocked by the wizard’s declaration. “...What?” The whispered sound that escapes her throat is foreign to her. “I don't…” She shakes her head slowly in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“You're the only one he's ever felt safe with, Tavaria,” explains Gale.  “Astarion never spoke to us the way he spoke to you. You two had a language all your own.” 

…He’s right. Tav’s gaze wanders off toward the French doors of the ballroom. Astarion confided in her like no other. Spoke to her in a tone that was reserved strictly for her. His hardened edges gave way to a soft, pale underbelly after a time. And never to another.

The panic in his eyes as Cazador rendered him utterly helpless, entrapped within an enchantment. Desperate pleas to free him ripping through his throat. Astarion shook violently within her arms as she broke the spell, his body collapsing against hers. His nails nearly pierced the thick leather of her armor from how tightly he gripped her, and when it came time for them to separate, Astarion refused to let go.

‘Please,’ he cries softly, pupils blown wide. He's shaking something fierce, as if reliving the worst moment of his life on repeat. He clings to her forearm as she tries to stand. ‘Please, I can't, he's going to, to you, he's going to–’

‘Hush now, Astarion,’ Tav coos, trying to soothe him. She runs a hand gently through his hair and kisses his sweat-soaked brow. ‘We’re here. He can't harm you.’

Astarion turns to her. He lifts a trembling hand to her face, cupping her jaw. ‘...I don't care about what happens to me,’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘I don't want him to have you.’ His jaw cinches tight, spitting through gritted teeth, ‘He has no right.’

The magician sucks in a deep breath and brings a hand to his face, exhaling as he begins stroking his beard. “Look, if Astarion wanted to harm you, he would have done so already.” He then tosses his hand to the air, lips molding into a soft pout. “I think he's asking for help in the only way he knows how.”

Heat crawls across her skin, and suddenly the air is too hot. Tav draws in a deep breath, fanning herself with her hands. Her eyes sting from the threat of fresh tears and she once again begins to pace back and forth.

“I never wanted any of this,” she admits to Gale, looking up at him each time she passes. “Gods, sometimes I wish I chose my Father.” Tav chokes back a sob. “At least then I would never have to think or feel again.”

A moment passes before Gale says solemnly, “Pain, happiness, sorrow, bliss – emotions remind us that we're alive, Tavaria.” He shakes his head. “To deny them is to deny life itself.”

“I don't wish to argue that,” Tav replies. “I just mean–”

The words die in her throat as her eyes catch a glimpse of someone standing by the French doors. 

At the top of the marble stairs is Astarion, glass of wine in hand. As he descends the steps, Tav swears there's an additional button undone on the crimson dress shirt he wears. The fabric ripples across the pale plane of his chest, moonlight glinting off the golden amulet hanging around his neck. He reaches the bottom step and takes a swig of wine before sauntering over.

“The Wizard of Waterdeep!” Astarion bellows, almost mockingly. “Fancy seeing you here.” As he comes to stand next to Gale, Tav can smell the alcohol on his breath and notes that his eyes are slightly glazed over. He fidgets to find a comfortable pose, inevitably settling on leaning to one side with his free hand on his hip.

He's… drunk. Reminiscent of the night he helped himself to a cave bear within the Underdark.

“Astarion,” Gale replies with a nod of his head. “Good to see you, too. Love what you've done with the place. It feels so much more–” Gale rolls his wrists, as if to stimulate a response, “–alive, than it did before.”

The vampire gives a soft grunt before saying, “Well, yes. That was the entire point, no?” His eyes then land on Tav, and she feels the small hairs on her arms and neck stand on end. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything?” Astarion inquires with a grin. 

The ruby red of his irises burn into her despite their sheen. “Not at all,” Tav manages to reply, turning her head to Gale. “Gale and I were just catching up. I've admittedly been a poor friend,m neglecting to answer his letters.” She makes sure to give a laugh after her sentence; Astarion is studying her.

The magician’s gaze flits momentarily between Astarion and Tav before settling on Tav. “Oh, no, of course you're not,” Gale says with a chuckle, “it's no issue, really. Just happy to know you're doing well.” Tav gives him a small nod of her head, thanking him for having taken her lead. Gale returns the gesture.

“Splendid,” Astarion states flatly, albeit sarcastically. “Then I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I borrowed this lovely lady?” He brings his glass again to his mouth, throwing the rest of the wine back. As the cup drops from his face, Astarion meets her eyes again, brow drawn tightly together. “I’ve been looking for her.”

Again Tav and Gale share a look, and Tav nods approvingly. “N-no, of course not,” Gale stammers. “I think we're sufficiently caught up.”

“Indeed we are,” Tav comments, moving closer to Astarion. “It was a pleasure to see you, Gale. I'll do my best to be better about answering your correspondence.” She then slips her arm around the vampire's, only to feel Astarion flinch against her. “Shall we?” she then asks Astarion, giving his forearm a pat. He's tense alongside her, though he returns her gaze.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Gale,” Astarion says to Gale, turning toward the palace. His voice edges on bitter, but there's still enough pleasantry about it to be considered cordial. 

Tav waves to the wizard, then follows Astarion's lead back toward the ballroom. Her stomach is in a mess of nerves and her heart is practically in her throat. Drawing a deep breath in, she manages to blink away any hint of tears forming within her eyes. The signature scent of Astarion's cologne envelops her and she clings tighter to his arm as they ascend the stairs.

Before entering the ballroom, Astarion gives Gale one final glance as he ushers Tav beyond the French doors. He then follows swiftly behind her.

“Huh,” is all Gale can mutter to himself.

[steddiebang2024]

I was a teenage dirtbag  |  Mature  |  75k

Author: @hellfireloserclub

Artist: @academic-clown

Beta Reader: @kaypie91

[Link to fic]  |  [Link to art]

Pairings: Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington

Characters: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington , Erica Sinclair, Dustim Henderson, Nancy Wheeler. 

Tags: Slowburn, Future Fic, Year 2000, Post-season Four, Bisexual Steve, Bisexual Eddie, Comedy /angst, Long distance friendship to lovers, Radio Host Eddie, Hairdresser Steve, Wedding fic.

Trigger Warnings: Sex, Alcohol, and Recreational drugs

↳ Keep reading below for a summary!

“So…” Dustin started.

“So what?” Eddie asked, fixing his eyes on the side of Dustin’s face, trying to work out what way this interrogation was going to go.  

“I don’t have my own ringtone, Wayne and Mom don’t, but Steve does?” Dustin avoided looking at him, staring at the overhead signs pointing to the short stay parking, acting like they weren’t at the airport at least twice a month with the family coming and going. 

“I thought it was funny,” he said in his own defense. 

“And I totally believe you.” It sounded like a question. 

“But?”

“But are you sure there's not more?” someone shouldn’t look so smug as they reverse in a multi story, yet here was Dustin excelling at it. When Eddie didn’t answer he cut off the engine turning to look at him, all signs pointed to the next few minutes being incredibly uncomfortable.  

“Spit it out, I have to get to the gate,” Eddie grumbled, he felt like he was under a microscope, his little brother's eyes boring into him.

“Are you sure there's nothing going on between you and Steve?”  Eddie wanted to yell- yes, I just don’t know what? But he bit it down, this wasn’t the time to trigger a Dustin intervention. 

“Just because you can't procreate outside of the close knit circles you were dragged up in, doesn’t mean we all have to hook up within our little friend group.  You gotta stop trying to pair us all off dude, it's not cool. Remember when you used to keep trying to pair off Steve and Robin? How did that work out for you?” Eddie questioned. 

“In my defense-”

“No. Say less. Stop. I broke up with Yumi two weeks ago, I don’t need you to help, I don’t need your psychoanalyzing me with Max over the phone. I don’t need you to try and set me up with a rebound. I’m a big boy alright. I’m going to Boston to get stupidly drunk with Steve, talk shit about you all lovingly, and lament the fact that both me and him are probably gonna die old and alone.” He reached over the back of the seat and grabbed his duffle bag, before reaching over and tapping Dustin on the cheek. “But look at the plus side, if me and Stevie don’t bring a plus one to the wedding that will save you two meals and a headache with seating plans.”

“You make my resolve to not meddle in both of your love lives impossible, you know that right?” Dustin asked, leaning over the center console. 

“Cause you were doing an absolutely stellar job of it before this conversation?” Eddie closed the door behind him. “Dusty, I love you like you’re my own flesh and blood. But please, let this one go?” 

Dustin looked poised to say something else but Eddie didn’t have time for it. “If the words curiosity journey come out of your mouth, I’m not speaking to you for a month.”  Dustin snapped his mouth shut. “That’s it, save it for Applejack, I don’t want to know.”

Eddie gave the car a courtesy wave as he went through the doors of the airport, but he didn’t look back. He was pretty sure Dustin had hit the nail on the head with his observations, but as far as anyone was aware Steve was just his friend, and letting go of any control on that narrative was like letting a fox off in a hen house. It would be chaos. Although Eddie was starting to think it was a lost cause. This was so much easier when he and Steve hated each other, enemies to fuck buddies was a much easier story arch, with a lot less emotional baggage.

[novella-november]

Not to harsh your joy regarding your personal project, (which does sound awesome!) the fact that you keep answering the "can I do fanfic?" questions with "technically yes, but have you considered not doing that?" does not actually *feel* very fanfic friendly. (Especially for anyone who enjoys fanfic as a hobby and isn't also an ofic writer. For example, I personally write almost exclusively character studies that are an explicit reaction to canon; there is no real way to write that sort of thing except as fanfic.)

Which is just a long-winded way of requesting that you maybe consider less of a caveat with the FAQ if you make one, please.

oh that was definitely not my intention, thanks for the ask! I think it was mostly just because I got that same question a few times in a row from various anons within the same time span (including some that were not published publicly), it just happened that I was thinking of my own project(s, plural now) in the last day when I answered those two, for those who want an extra creative challenge.

There's a reason my own original thing has been in my head for the last ten years without me actually writing it while I've written and posted tons of fanfiction, and even now some of my original works are going to be based on Arsene Lupin, so they'd technically be considered fanfiction since they're based on and use an established work for the characters and settings --

--writing completely original fic *is* harder, and that's exactly why I'm *suggesting* (not requiring!) that people consider taking 1 out of short story 4 challenges to look at their work in a new light.

90% of what I read and (until I actually start and finish my original works) 100% of what I've written in my life is fanfic. I have nothing against fanfic, otherwise I woudn't even be interested in creative writing.

But its also not a diss to say "Would you consider looking at your [fanfic] writing from a new angle and try to figure out different ways of going about it?"

Honestly, being able to even consider this option *as a fun extra challenge* is meant to help improve your writing and creative skills; it's not meant as a cheap shot at people who choose to write fanfiction because I my self write and read tons of it,

it's me saying "if you want even more practice at creative writing during these monthly challenges, try branching out a little bit from your comfort zone, you may be pleasantly surprised."

People who write and read fanfiction already have tons of creative experience, and if people like me and many other fanfic writers who one day dream of being published authors, want to broaden our horizons and seek new experiences, one of the easiest exercises is to take something we're planning on writing or already wrote, and see what we would change to make it brand new and standalone--

-- something that not only helps you come up with new ideas, but also will help when it comes time to *edit*, which can be, depending on the length and complexity of your story, can be a complicated process:

whether that means having to delete scenes entirely,

changing what a character says,

altering an aspect of the worldbuilding to fix plot holes

, re-writing your character so they're not overpowered because it was ruining the stakes and tension,

changing the POV of chapters because it was ruining the flow of the story,

etc etc etc.

I love fan fiction.

I love reading it and I love writing it, and for many people who take on monthly writing challenges, it is a way to test ourselves and gear ourselves up and prove to ourselves that not only can we write x amount of words, but it proves to ourselves that we are *capable of creating*, and for many creatives, that ultimately leads to crafting our own unique stories;

if you're already taking place in a monthly writing challenge, why not push the bounds a little bit *if you're so inclined* and test the waters? Especially when you're surrounded by a community who is cheering you on, every step of the way?

Every Nanowrimo I ever won was fanfiction. Heck, even not during November I once did 40k words in two weeks for a fic.

I always stalled out when I tried to write original works;

it is much easier to start small with a single short story than it is to try to write an entirely original novel, and my encouraging people to try baby steps by *experimenting* with one short story out of four in a month is not meant to be a diss against fanfiction,

but an *encouragement to those like me* who were so eager to write original works but floundered when I tried to jump into the deep end and felt disheartened.

Many fanfic authors aspire to write original fics, and thats who that challenge is for, for the people who want to write original works but are too afraid to fully commit; I'll still be writing and posting fanfiction even if I become a published author, even If I just have to come up with a few new pen-names to post them under.

There's absolutely no judgement on anyone who wants to write fanfiction for these challenges, my "caveat" as you say, is only there as encouragement to those like me who are afraid to take the first step, or uncertain of how to even *begin* that first step, not any kind of condemnation.

TL;DR:

I did not mean for my responses on the "can I write fanfiction" to come off as rude or looking down on fanfiction, its meant to be an encouragment to all the people like me who love fanfic and started out writing fanfiction, and dream of writing original works to take the first step, with a community of like-minded people all taking the same challenge.

Like every other challenge aspect of these events, taking a fanfic idea and turning it into an original short story is completely optional and meant as inspiration, just like following prompts for events is not mandatory, and even completing the 30k word goal is not mandatory; the goal for this month is to create, get in the habit of creating, and having fun with it!

[gibbysoup]

🌙 𝓗𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓼 🐈‍⬛

Chris x reader

“Oh come on, it’s just a bunch of hocus pocus”

Chapter 2

The cold October wind blew in y/n’s face as she followed the boys to the Sanderson Cottage. Nick and Chris seemed to be arguing as they didn’t agree on which way to go.

“I told you, you idiot we have to go this way, it’s quicker and not totally in the woods..” Nick argued at Chris.

Chris shook his head as he listened to Nick yap about not going the right way. “Whatever man..besides we’re gonna end up on the Forrest anyway…” he told him.

Nick eyes practically rolled to the back of his head with Chris’s response. “Whatever, hope you get a fucking tick well you’re walking through all that tall grass.” Nick shot back.

This caused you to snicker, and Dani to look up at you. “So, which one do you think is cute again?” She asked y/n. “It’s Chris right?”

Y/n’s eyes widened as she looked down at her sister, hoping that the boys were too caught up in arguing to notice the two girls behind them talking. But non the less y/n shushed Dani. “Would you keep it down a bit?” She asked, but then answered her question. “And yeah..it’s Chris.” She said.

Dani shrugged a bit. “I think nick is my favorite..he said he liked my costume..and he likes purple.”

—————

Y/n, the triplets, and Dani walked up to the outside of the Sanderson cottage. Dani grabbing her older sister’s hand tightly as they approached it.

“Legend has it that the bones of a hundred children are buried within these walls.” Matt said, taking the keys from his pocket and going to unlock the door.

That definitely didn’t help Dani’s worries at all. “Oh, great.” She said. Before they entered, Chris went up to y/n and Dani.

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna let anything happen to guys okay?” He said, glancing down at Dani to assure her that she was gonna be okay. He then caught a glimpse of y/n. “I’ll protect ya..”

“Well, I don’t think anything is gonna happen in there, but thank you for offering your services..” she told him, a slight smirk on her face as she still held her disbelief for the supernatural. She knew she had to play it cool.

Matt was finally able to get the door open by jamming his shoulder into it. “Alright, it’s open..” he said, signaling the others to come in.

As the four teens and on child enter the collage, it’s pitch black. “I can’t see a thing.” Dani stated, her eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.

“Well there’s a light switch around here somewhere.” Matt said, carefully trying to find his way around the place.

Y/n found a display of lighters and picked one up, flicking the light on, giving them a small glow so they could see a little. “I found a lighter.” She said, going over to Matt to help him find the light switch. Once it was found, Matt turned it on.

Y/n blinked a couple times and let her eyes adjust to the bright lights of the cottage. “That’s better.” She said, flicking the lighter off then pocketing it.

As the group looked around at the Sanderson sister’s old things, unbeknownst to them, Something watches them from outside the house, watching every move they made. Almost as if it was guarding the house.

“Here’s the original cauldron, and upstairs is where they slept.” Nick said, playing tour guide as he pointed to each thing. They move over to where the ‘book’ is in a display case.

“This is the spell book of Winifred Sanderson. It was given to her by the devil himself. The book is bound in human skin and contains the recipes for her most powerful and evil spells.” Nick explained. It was obvious he was the most knowledgeable about this stuff, so Chris and Matt let him play the lead. He just got so excited about this stuff.

Dani on the other hand, seemed to be a bit freaked out by all the which artifacts. “I get the picture.” She said. As Nick continued to explain the stories to her, a certain candle caught the attention of y/n.

“What’s that?” She asked, looking at Chris.

“Oh.” He said, the leaned into y/n and whispered. “that’s the black flame candle.” He said, trying to freak her out a bit.

She went over and read the sign by the candle “Black Flame Candle. Made from the fat of a hangman. Legend says that on a full moon it will raise the spirits of the dead when lit by a virgin on Halloween light.” She then pulled the lighter out of her pocket. “So let’s light the sucker and meet the old bats..” she turned to Chris. “Wanna do the honors?” She asked him.

“No thanks.” Chris said, immediately shaking his head. Nick turned his head and looked over at y/n, who was standing by the candle and messing with the lighter.

“Hey don’t go messing with that are you crazy?” He walked over to her as she was still holding the flame a little too close to the wick of the candle.

“Oh so you’re saying I shouldn’t put it any closer?” She egged on, moving to light the candle, but then her arm was immediately attacked by a black cat. She shrieked in shock and pain as the cat’s claws scratched her.

Chris immediately grabbed the cat and was able to get it off her, then putting them down, making them scurry away. “Where the hell did that come from? Jesus are you okay?” He asked, walking over to y/n to see if she was alright. He took her arm into his hands gently, seeing the claw marks on the sleeve of her jacket.

She couldn’t help but feel her cheeks heat up when he touched her, but it wasn’t just that he was touching her, it was the genuine concern that he had for her that was making her fall for him more than she already was.

She snapped out of her thoughts and nodded. “Yeah..I don’t think they drew blood so we’re good.” She said, catching her breath a little. He nodded, taking his hand away from her arm.

Dani, on the other hand, was now slightly panicked. “Okay, y/n, you’ve had your fun. It’s time to go. Come on, guys..” she said to the group.

The boys looked at one another and seemed to agree.

“Y/n, she’s right, let’s go.” Nick said.

“Yeah and we’re technically not even supposed to be here..” Matt interjected.

Y/n scoffed, flicking on the lighter once more. “Oh, come on, it’s just a bunch of hocus pocus.”she lights the candle and the flame turns black. Her face immediately dropped. “Uh oh.”

Suddenly the flames of the chandelier pop. The floor boards under their feet begin to move as a green light shines from below. Suddenly it stops. Once it was quiet, everyone looked at each other, unsure of what to say next.

“What happened?” Y/n asked, wondering if this was all just some sick prank, that the boys had set up.

“A virgin lit the candle….”

Taglist: @keerahsturn @fratbrochrisgf @izzykinzz678 @st7rnioioss @jamiesturniolo @v33angel @kaisturni @valkatriee @sturnschrissy @moonk1ss3d @bsham14

[hellfireloserclub]

I was a teenage dirtbag | 75k | M

Author : @hellfireloserclub Artist :@academic-clown ( @acaademicqueer if it ever gets un nuked) Beta : @kaypie91

Sorry it's late ! Ao3 was out!

Nothing but love for the wonderful artwork @academic-clown has done for this fic. The detail and the love in this art is wonderful.

And thankyou kaypie for the wonderful beta work.

“So…” Dustin started.

“So what?” Eddie asked, fixing his eyes on the side of Dustin’s face, trying to work out what way this interrogation was going to go.

“I don’t have my own ringtone, Wayne and Mom don’t, but Steve does?” Dustin avoided looking at him, staring at the overhead signs pointing to the short stay parking, acting like they weren’t at the airport at least twice a month with the family coming and going.

“I thought it was funny,” he said in his own defense.

“And I totally believe you.” It sounded like a question.

“But?”

“But are you sure there's not more?” someone shouldn’t look so smug as they reverse in a multi story, yet here was Dustin excelling at it.

When Eddie didn’t answer he cut off the engine turning to look at him, all signs pointed to the next few minutes being incredibly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, I have to get to the gate,” Eddie grumbled, he felt like he was under a microscope, his little brother's eyes boring into him.

“Are you sure there's nothing going on between you and Steve?” Eddie wanted to yell- yes, I just don’t know what? But he bit it down, this wasn’t the time to trigger a Dustin intervention.

“Just because you can't procreate outside of the close knit circles you were dragged up in, doesn’t mean we all have to hook up within our little friend group. You gotta stop trying to pair us all off dude, it's not cool. Remember when you used to keep trying to pair off Steve and Robin? How did that work out for you?” Eddie questioned.

“In my defense-”

“No. Say less. Stop. I broke up with Yumi two weeks ago, I don’t need you to help, I don’t need your psychoanalyzing me with Max over the phone. I don’t need you to try and set me up with a rebound. I’m a big boy alright. I’m going to Boston to get stupidly drunk with Steve, talk shit about you all lovingly, and lament the fact that both me and him are probably gonna die old and alone.” He reached over the back of the seat and grabbed his duffle bag, before reaching over and tapping Dustin on the cheek.

“But look at the plus side, if me and Stevie don’t bring a plus one to the wedding that will save you two meals and a headache with seating plans.”

“You make my resolve to not meddle in both of your love lives impossible, you know that right?” Dustin asked, leaning over the center console.

“Cause you were doing an absolutely stellar job of it before this conversation?” Eddie closed the door behind him. “Dusty, I love you like you’re my own flesh and blood. But please, let this one go?”

Dustin looked poised to say something else but Eddie didn’t have time for it.

“If the words curiosity journey come out of your mouth, I’m not speaking to you for a month.” Dustin snapped his mouth shut, “That’s it, save it for Applejack, I don’t want to know.”

Eddie gave the car a courtesy wave as he went through the doors of the airport, but he didn’t look back.

He was pretty sure Dustin had hit the nail on the head with his observations, but as far as anyone was aware Steve was just his friend, and letting go of any control on that narrative was like letting a fox off in a hen house. It would be chaos.

Although Eddie was starting to think it was a lost cause. This was so much easier when he and Steve hated each other, enemies to fuck buddies was a much easier story arch, with a lot less emotional baggage.

[sadhours]

the diner - part two

billy hargrove x fem!reader

cw: 18+ minors dni, stalking, murder, toxic relationship, trauma, hallucinations, flayed!billy, peeping Tom, horror

He survived. Somehow— someway. Billy survived. Took care of what he should have so long ago. But that monster lingers, still alive within him.

You’re an innocent girl who works next door to him and he can’t help himself. Could you help him or is he too sick?

part one

read on ao3

Billy is his name. It’s embroidered on his coveralls. He’s caught your attention but there’s something very off about him. You’ve grown up here. People don’t move here but he did. And you can’t figure out why. But there has to be a reason. He’s trying not to be found, he’s got to be escaping something. The guy looks like he’s hiding. No one can offer much information about him. The folks who have talked to him can’t pull any from him.

It seems as if he keeps to himself. He shows up at places you go but he’s always alone and doesn’t really talk to anyone. Like, okay, the bar. There’s one bar in this town and you’ve seen him there several times. While you’re chitchatting with locals, he’s sat at the bar. Smokes and smokes and downs beers and shots but he doesn’t fucking talk. You try hard not to watch him but you look. And he’s always staring at the bar, mess of blonde curls hiding his face. His hair is long, choppy layers but it’s past his shoulders and kind of big. It’s confusing because… the dudes handsome. Has a real pretty face though he always looks exhausted— like he’s seen horrific things. You’ve begged the bartender, Lacey, to tell you the conversations they’ve had but she insists he doesn’t talk much. She has told you that he comes in a lot. And even those nights when it’s just been him and her alone in the bar, he’s quiet. But he plays music on the jukebox. You asked what he plays and it tells you something but nothing of substance. The guy likes his hair metal and Hendrix.

And one time she asked him to kill a spider. But he didn’t. He laid out his hand, let the spider crawl onto his fingers and carried it outside. You like that story because you think it gives you insight into the stranger. Tells you something he or no one else can’t.

The owner of Route One Garage is a close friend. Your dad’s buddy, named Pete. He comes into the diner daily but he can’t give you anymore information. Tells you only the things everyone knows. That he’s from California and he’s really good with cars. Pete says he’s quiet, keeps to himself and that he doesn’t talk about himself— ever. Offers opinions about superficial stuff. He likes Marlboro Reds and Ole’ Colonial beer. Says he used to have a Camaro but it was wrecked in an accident. Won’t give any details of the accident.

Other than that, Manuel Gomez says he frequents his restaurant— that he loves Mexican food, and asks for the extra spicy stuff. Manuel says he even knows some Spanish, but if he’s from Southern California, that makes sense and isn’t really helpful in getting to know the stranger. And you’re really trying not to obsess over it, but he just has you so incredibly curious. You wonder if he’s lonely. You are and this own town is like family.

He comes in kind of early. 10 pm instead of after midnight. Something tells you to dig deep. So when he sits, lights his cigarette and stares down at the table, you slip into the booth across from him. You grab the menu and open it, purse your lips as you look through it and as you glance up at him, he looks uncomfortable.

Billy asks you, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to decide what you’re gonna eat today,” you answer with a shrug but you’re determined to learn more about him. Even if it’s through food. “You like sandwiches?”

“Does anyone not like sandwiches?” he replies, but he’s fidgeting— like he’s uncomfortable.

You nod and meet his eyeline, “Yeah. Some dudes get offended when I suggest sandwiches.”

“How is that possible? It’s like, the least offensive food.”

“I don’t like eggs,” you shrug, “Everyone has preferences.”

Billy’s face looks cute. Looking at you with his brows knit, bright blue eyes all confused. “You don’t like eggs? Why?”

“They’re bouncy and they stink,” you offer easily. You’ve despised them your whole life.

“Your job must be real difficult if you don’t like the smell of eggs,” he responds and he still doesn’t exactly meet your eyes.

You make a face as you flip the page of the menu, “You’ve got no idea. If they’re not drowned in cheese, I have to try really hard not to gag.”

“My dad— I can’t eat them scrabbled because that’s the only thing he knew how to cook.”

Aha. Information. He has a family. But he said knew not knows. Maybe his dad is dead.

“Noted, I don’t know if over easy is any better though,” you tell him as you scan the menu. “Our pot roast is pretty good.”

“It’s the morning. Do people usually eat pot roast for breakfast?”

That’s a good point.

“Do you like pancakes?” you ask, then.

Billy shrugs, “Yeah, I mean they’re fine but they’re not healthy.”

“Okay, so you’re health conscious but you chain smoke cigarettes,” you laugh softly. “Maybe some oatmeal and yogurt?”

He sighs, snatches the menu from you and closes it. “How about you get me the breakfast I always get? And how about you don’t fucking question it?”

The shift is brutal and you’re suddenly really embarrassed about sliding into the booth and trying to get to know him. You slide out without another word and put in his order. Fill his coffee cup without a word. Serve him his breakfast and don’t say a single thing to him. You’ve learned from this— learned his a fucking asshole.

You’re relieved when he leaves. Recount the story to your coworkers but they excuse him.

“Yeah,” Becky scoffs, “The guy’s a fucking weirdo. Why are you trying to talk to him?”

“He comes in literally every time I work,” you argue, “Why wouldn’t I try to like, talk to him?”

Becky’s face grimaces, “You don’t think he’s a weirdo? He’s dirty and he doesn’t make eye contact. Besides… I think he’s pretty creepy.”

Creepy isn’t a way you’d describe him. And based off what Becky says next, you think she could read your face.

“He’s moved here suddenly, doesn’t have any friends— like seriously, he doesn’t talk to anyone. He works in that place and then what? He’s probably a serial killer or something,” Becky’s face is contorted in disgust.

You chew on your bottom lip, “I think he’s kind of cute…”

“They thought Ted Bundy was hot,” Becky argues, “Seriously. He’s not hideous but he’s a weirdo. He’s definitely got skeletons in his closet— literally.”

—

That night, you go to the bar. You have tomorrow off so it’s routine. You meet your friends there. And like clockwork, Billy walks in about thirty minutes after you get there. You can feel his eyes on you and you think maybe he’s still upset about earlier today. So after a round of shots, you approach him.

“I’m sorry about earlier. That was weird,” you rush out, feeling the heat from the tequila, “I don’t usually sit with patrons and pry like that— but, like, this is a small ass town and we don’t have people move here. I know everyone here, so I was just trying to get to know you.”

His response is cold, “You don’t wanna know me.”

And it’s so far from reality. But it feels like a warning. You look down and see how his wrists have these deep scars. Purple and red rough skin, wrapped around the limbs. He notices, pulls down the sleeves of his denim jacket to hide them.

Snarls his teeth and tells you, “Get lost.”

You wanna push him off the barstool, tell him he’s the one who needs to get lost. But you don’t. You swallow the lump in your throat and retreat. Get back to your friends and try to the into the pretty, blonde stranger with a bad fucking additude but you feel his eyes on you. And you do your best to ignore the dreadful feeling that sits in your stomach, try not to recognize it as fear. It feels charged suddenly and you’re scared. So you drink, down another shot or two until it fizzles out. Play some pool with your friends.

As the night goes on, one by one your friends leave until it’s just you and Billy and Lacey. But he doesn’t talk to you. You converse with Lacey for a while until you get sleepy. After saying goodbye, you stumble to your car and can’t help but feeling like you’re being followed. Ignoring it, you make your way home. Lock your doors when you get inside and bypass the bathroom, too tired and go to your bedroom. You lay down for a beat, eyes glued to your window. That feeling— being watched is heavy on you. And you get up, rush to the window and pull up the blinds. Cup your hands on the glass as you peer through. See the eyes watching you, then the person runs. The harder you look, the more you can make out the blonde curls.

—

Billy doesn’t come into the diner. Which you’re glad. The day after you were certain you’d seen him peeking into your window, you’d sat on the couch. Unable to sleep. Held yourself in fear, panicked as you kept checking all the windows. And you know you should tell someone but for some reason, you don’t.

As you work, you keep looking towards the rundown mechanic shop next door. Some part of you expects him to be standing at the big window, staring back at you. But he doesn’t.

You’re confused and scared. You decide it’s best to stay at your parents house for the next two weeks. But you lie to them, just say there’s an issue with your plumbing. And when Billy doesn’t come into the dinner for those two weeks, you figure it’s fine to return home.

[gilverrwrites]

Have we discussed Roman’s separated wife hooking up with Bruce Wayne? You and Bruce have always been cordial, so when Roman doxxes you, Bruce lets you stay at the Manor and cry on his shoulder until the wine bottle is empty. He’s so nice and his hand is so warm on your cheek and oh Lord, it’s bigger than your face and you can’t remember the last time you felt safe while a man was touching you. You try to make a move, but Bruce knows he’s overindulged you (partially to get info about Roman but he’ll feel guilty about it later), so he stops you…but promises he’ll be more than ready and willing when you’re in your right mind and decide you still want this. You wait anxiously the entirety of the next day, until Bruce shows up at your door in the sluttiest t-shirt and sweatpants you’ve ever seen, his ginormous hand finding its place on your face again while the other one is slipping under the hem of your shirt.

Slutty top? You've hit a nerve anon, cause now all I'm thinking about is Brucie in a slutty little crop top, like sir put that washboard away before I bite it! Honestly, feral for anyone of any shape and size in a crop top, just show me your belly, please. Yeah, that would work on me.

But to answer your question, no we have not discussed this but we certainly can!!!!

Like, I can say earnestly, when he invited you to stay with him, sleeping with you did not cross his mind; he was purely thinking about;

Helping you get out of a bad situation

Good for the Brucie Wayne image (so long as the press don't get wind of it until you've found somewhere permanent to move too)

(as mentioned) Chance to get info on Black Mask

But the moment you flash that perfectly poised smile, even though you’re clearly on the brink of tears, he's thinking ‘Uh oh. I'm in trouble.’

He never thought much of you while you were with Roman, if maybe a little bit sorry for you. The extent of your relationship was occasional networking with Bruce at events, and Batman peeking through your windows at night to check on you when Roman was at his worst or imprisoned.

It helps that he thought you were pretty.

But now, as he's getting to know you on a personal level, seeing that you're stronger than he'd thought, and smarter. You're letting down walls and actually relaxing, and in his domain at that! It stirs something within him.

And for you, like Roman and Bruce are the same age, from similar backgrounds, similar personas for the public (charming and rich) but it's crazy to see how different they really are.

When you talk, Bruce isn't just waiting for his turn to speak, he listens.

There's no coercion when you set a boundary, he just respects it. Which funnily enough makes you more willing to share. He's just so easy to trust.

When you ask about interesting pieces around his house, he doesn't brag about where it's from and what it costs. Instead, he tells you stories about his parents or his kids interacting with it.

He's funny, and respectful, not at all what you'd expected.

And did you mention handsome? Oh, he's very handsome. That dark hair and those blue eyes. The chiselled jaw and the dimples and he smells good too, you find that out after you bury your nose into his chest while he's carrying you to bed that first night. You're tipsy, and his house is a maze, he's just trying to help and not at all showing off his strength.

The same way he's just dressed so casually the following day when he comes to find you, this is what he always lounges around. He's totally not subtly flexing his glamour muscles as you open the door.

Now, Roman is by no means bad in bed. He's just, shall we say, selfish? He has a set way in life and sex that he expects you to live up to.

Bruce though? He's a giver. He can take, when appropriate, but right now, he knows what you need.

You need those big hands on your waist as he chases you into the bed with his mouth. You need them soothing your tired body, massaging all the stress out of your aching body. You need his thumb to rub circles into your inner thighs while he kisses, and sucks, and laps at your hot, wet sex. You need his long hard fingers pumping into that sweet little hole, again and again until you cum all over them.

And that is just the start.

But you know one other really important thing you need? Some goddamn aftercare.

He knows it straight away, shouldn’t have been surprised. But when your body immediately falls limp after he rolls off of you, when you look at him confused as he asks if you need anything he knows your life has been lacking kindness for so long that you barely even recognise when it's extended to you.

He's not good at the emotional stuff, at comforting words but he reasons that you probably don't need to hear it right now. Don't need to be reminded of your mistakes, of your past.

Instead, he pulls you into him, wrapping his warmth around you like a giant weighted blanket. Holding you until you accept his affection and melt into his arms.

Meanwhile, the False Facers can't breach Bruces security, can't get a good look into the Manor. Which means they don't know what you're doing there. But they know you're there, and that means Roman knows you're there.

And Romans not stupid, you sneaky, no good, selfish whore.

He gave you everything, and this is how you repay him? You nasty little bitch. And with Bruce Wayne of all people?

Don't get comfy, because the moment you step outside those gates, the second you let your walls down, he's going to rock your shit. You're going to pay for all the crap you've put him through, tenfold.

[writerwrabbleswords]

The worst (Part 2) | [Worst] Wolverine/[Male Iron Man variant] Reader

So many thoughts, and each one makes him feel worse.

  Quick Notes :  Hello! Here is a continuation of my [Worst] Wolverine/[Male iron man variant] Reader drabble/oneshot! This one was a bit harder to figure out the tempo of, especially considering the first one was only about 800 words, but I believe I made a satisfying continuation! There is room for another continuation set after this one, but I think I will only continue this story if it is requested. Simply because, I want to focus on other possible drabbles/oneshots without fully leaning into one idea. Of course, if a continuation is requested, I’ll write it!

  Story Details :  Roughly 1200 words, Deadpool & Wolverine spoilers, Male Reader is referred to as ‘You/Your,’ implied tragedy (Reader), Cliffhanger ending

You didn’t want to join the resistance’s efforts in attacking Cassandra. Logan knew why, of course - to lose the people you cared about twice over would drive anyone mad. He’d watched you for most of the night within the void - watching as you fiddled with your repulsor gauntlet - until at one point, Wade woke up. The mutant waking up caused both you and him to sigh heavily, but at least you didn’t outwardly show your annoyance. 

  With Wade awake, he quickly attempted to drag you into the resistance’s scheme, but you shot him down so quickly and harshly that even Logan was surprised.

  “I’m not going. You can face Cassandra with the others,” you stated bluntly, your fiddling coming to a stop as you flexed your fingers within the gauntlet you wore. They moved slightly, drawing the mans’ attention as he watched your face twist into one of bitterness. There was more to the story, and both he and Wade knew it.

  Of course, this was Wade, and that meant both you and him were well aware that the mutant wasn’t going to leave you alone. A scowl etched your lips, the repulsor gauntlet covering your hand letting out a sudden spark when you moved to clench your hand into a fist. You sighed heavily, and for a split second, Logan almost felt bad enough to try and help. He didn’t, of course, but he thought about it for longer than he normally would.

  “Come on, you’re a Stark, aren’t you?” Wade piped up from beside him, the mutant suddenly well aware of how close they were as he tried to keep his focus on you - on your reaction to the mans’ prodding words.

  What you said next, however, wasn’t what Logan would have guessed. Hell, if you’d given him a million years he couldn’t have guessed what you’d say.

  The scowl on your face deepened, your free hand picking up the screwdriver once more as you tried to force it between the plates,

  “Not anymore.” Bitterness coated your words like honey, though they were anything but sweet, “I don’t claim the name Stark, and I never will after being dropped in the void.”

  Logan felt his eyebrows raise, his gaze flickering to Wade as he noted the fact that his fellow mutant looked just as surprised as him. When Wade moved to open his mouth, he cut him off,

  “There a reason for that, bub?” 

  You paused, your hand stilling for a brief moment before returning to its task of pulling apart your repulsor gauntlet and shoving wires back into place. It was clear you weren’t keen to discuss your reasoning, your movements jerking as you tried to keep the anger clearly simmering below the surface at bay.

  Instead of answering Logan, you turned away in your chair, resting your gauntlet on one thigh as you dug in between the metal of it. The base fell silent once more, Wade glancing at him before patting him on the shoulder in some sort of silent bid; Logan shrugged his hand off.

  Both the mutants could sense you were done with the conversation, and reluctantly, both Wade and himself chose to depart to their designated sleeping areas, exchanging glances that said more than words could. Logan had spent most of the night speaking with you - learning every little thing you offered him - and an odd pang quickly filled him when you’d all but dismissed his question. He knew he shouldn’t take it personally, he was similar in that way, but he couldn’t help it. The desire to know why was all that seemed to bounce around in his mind.

  Logan didn’t get much sleep that night.

  When the resistance departed the next morning, you remained at the base, still working on that infernal gauntlet like it was the only thing left for you. He wanted to say something, anything to convince you to come along and help, but the mutant knew it would be useless. A trait carried across Stark’s was they were stubborn - even if you didn’t claim that name anymore - but it showed loud and clear in everything you did. You were stubborn, already half a genius if Logan had to guess, and from the small things you’d told him, you knew your way around the void more than you let on. He wanted to make you come along, but he knew better.

  Logan tucked himself into the trunk of the car, giving the base one last glance before the door was closed. From one window, he could see you watching, the look in your eyes one of eternal hatred - or perhaps a sense of bitterness - before you turned away and returned to your spot at the table. 

  Electra’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, the woman adjusting her weapons before the car lurched forward and the group was off.

  “He’s always been like that, you know,” Logan looked towards her, noticing Wade’s glance as well, “He’s been here for years, and he never leaves the base. We’re lucky if we can get him to go find food.”

  A frown tugged at her face, Electra’s brows knitting together in some unnamed emotion; Logan couldn’t tell what it was.

  “He’s always working on that damned repulsor gauntlet, and I don’t think any of us have seen him with his full suit before,” Blade added coolly, cleaning the rocket launcher he held in his lap.

  Logan gave a quiet huff of annoyance, his gaze focusing on the quickly fading base. What kept you from leaving? More importantly - at least in his eyes - why were you the worst Iron Man? He knew he was the worst Wolverine, that had been made abundantly clear by the fucker from the TVA, but it was hard to believe an Iron Man could be the worst at, well, anything.

  “He got a reason for that?” The mutant asked after a pause in the conversation, leaning back in the trunk as he crossed his arms, “Or ‘s he just rough around the edges?”

  None of the resistance spoke, and that was answer enough for Logan. 

  His thoughts drifted back to when he’d met you the night prior - when you’d been almost obsessively tearing into your repulsor gauntlet - how you hadn’t told him your name, only the term you’d been called. It made him wonder who’d called you that enough for you to seemingly believe it. The thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably, much to his annoyance. 

  Logan zoned out from the conversation Wade was having with the others, unable to hide the vague worry that had begun to fill his chest. He shouldn’t be worried about you - he barely fucking knew you - but the feeling just wouldn’t go away. Before he could mull on it further, the mutant was pulled from his thoughts.

  It was show time.

[dollgxtz]

Okay I couldn’t stop thinking about this so I gotta ask, why DID Sylus take so long to rescue her? Was it like a sort of mental game of letting her suffer a bit outside so she realized how she had it better back at home with him, and then Sylus only stepped in right before things got too far? Or was he genuinely spending all that time traveling to her location after Mephisto tracked her and just so happened to be there right before she almost got attacked?

I don’t why I assumed it was the first option since he did mention last chapter that “he heard her call for him” , which made me think he was waiting for the pinnacle moment to step in and save her. But then I realized how genuinely fcked that would be since that would imply he was watching the attacker repeatedly fail to do what he wanted with mc.

You don’t gotta answer if there’s no actual canon context behind when Sylus appeared, I was just wondering!

THE STORY IS AMAZING SO FAR THOUGH I LOVE HOW YOU FRAME EVERYTHING 🥹❤️

This story’s always the highlight of my week <3

Hi Anon!

I feel so bad that people think my version of yan!Sylus was just letting her attacker do whatever he wanted until the right moment. I realize I wasn’t very clear on the timing, since it was from the reader’s perspective, but here’s how it would have played out from his point of view:

I imagine Mephisto would report back to him the audio of reader screaming and struggling with Reese and that man. But because Yan!Sylus was out of the N109 Zone dealing with urgent business related to a threat to Onychinus, it took him several days to return and save her. So the few-day sequence with her in the basement aligns with this. Mephisto would’ve been guarding the house from afar, listening within its walls and reporting back to Sylus.

He did let her run off, with Mephisto following her to see how long she could survive in the N109 Zone before she came crawling back. Someone else had already guessed correctly that part of this was to show her how good she had it with him, but I haven’t delved into that plotline yet. 😅

Lastly, to clarify (even though it’s a bit of a spoiler), he arrived at the house, heard the struggle, and noticed a hatch in the floor. Saw Reese freak out and try to run off and sent the twins after him. He rushed to the hatch and just as he was about to open it, he heard reader call his name.

This is partially my fault as the author for not being more detailed initially so can see how it looks that way. I just haven’t explored his perspective yet in the story, it’s all coming 🥲🙏

Despite having to spoil a teeny bit I think it’s important to clarify this one detail as people keep asking me about it and I feel so bad people think Yan!Sylus would let reader be almost raped :(

[trancylovecraft]

I've been thinking about the blood of an unwilling covenant constantly since I first read it and just wanted to tell you, also saw you mention that you probably weren't going to explain the situation with F/Ns parents in fic and wanted you to know I am VERY curious as to what their deal is

EGEGHJIRUGHRHGUI IM HAPPY TO HEAR THAT YOU ENJOYED THE FIC SM!!! I'll be happy to answer, Mostly because if I do a one-shot or smth on it, it may be a while-

AND I KINDA REALLY WANNA RAMBLE.

OK SO. Before I explain I suggest you read the translation of The Official Blue Exorcist Side Story: Bloody Fairytale. You can find a translation here done by @29rynoah which I have read sEVERAL times over. I highly recommend it as it's one of my favourite stories from AOEX.

However if you wanna skip that, Tis cool.

[F/N]'s mother is Maria LaMorte from Bloody Fairytale, Who had given birth to [F/N] during her imprisonment within The Vatican.

[F/N] herself is probably the oldest of the exwires, Her birthday being sometime within early January.

Now here's the million dollar question, Who is the father?

Shiro Fujimoto.

During the events of Bloody Fairy-tale- Maria is in the middle of completing her rather grandeur goal of trying to turn the town into naberius' and other adjacent creatures. Of course, This doesn't go to plan though, When Shiro and Johan show up unexpectedly within the invasion.

Maria of course, As the story goes, Plays the victim and pretends that she had no idea what's going on.

Shiro, Johan, Maria and the rest of the townspeople barricade in the church as normal. The story continues on however there's a switch in the story.

Shiro approaches Maria who is leaning over on the balcony. Of course, Shiro keeps up his demeanour, Already aware of Maria and her intentions. They get to talking and Maria herself is attracted to Shiro despite not recognising her own feelings.

Though, Maria herself DOES recognise seduction as a way of manipulating others.

So of course one thing leads to another and suddenly you have the both of them climbing out of the same makeshift bed. Maria came out of this with much more complicated feelings than she had thought she'd have.

But on the other hand?

Shiro himself is at the point in his life where he's much more dark and gritty than the one we see raising the twins. This is an average thing for him, He's a player, He sleeps with women left and right. He knew very well that this was an attempt to manipulate his feelings.

But to be honest? He doesn't care.

The story plays out like normal afterwards. Shiro exposes Maria's plan and she gets sent off to the Vatican for Life imprisonment. Shiro and Mephisto get in the car and they drive off as normal.

However this time, Maria comes out of it pregnant with [F/N].

She was born almost one year before The Blue Night within a holding cell in The Vatican. Her birth was completely unexpected from both the guards as well as Maria, Who was one of the rare cases of not showing at all during a pregnancy.

[F/N] was born fragile and weak, Both doctors and guards believing she would die soon after birth. And on records? That's how it went.

According to The Vatican, The baby died a few hours after being delivered. Shiro was told of the baby's existence while he was caring for the twins.

Of course, At this time he's a different person from who he was a year ago (Post-Blue Night) and now feels shocked and a bit of regret for not knowing of [F/N]'s existence.

However, There wasn't much he could do now.

The baby had died, He couldn't change that.

However despite what the records have said. Some of the staff that were employed to help deliver the child had sworn that they saw a tall man carrying away a baby in his arms. His identity unknown, Hidden by the darkness of the night.

[F/N] was left on the doorstep of the youth centre in Japan without a single note or any clue as to where she came from. The youth centre, After having no parents claim the child, Took her in and raised her within the adoption system.

It's still unclear where her penchant comes from, Though the leading theory is the mixture of demonic influence from both sides of her parents (Maria's being her association with undead demons, Specifically Kin of Astaroth. Shiro's being the fact that he's a clone as well as a bit of satanic influence lingering on him. So much so that in some aspects, You can consider [F/N] somewhat related to Satan in a sort of 3rd parent situation.)

Perhaps you can even consider her not entirely human. Though, That part is up for interpretation.

But as it stands? Her two birth parents are Maria LaMorte and Shiro Fujimoto.

-TML

[oftenwantedafton]

wither | steve raglan x female reader

rating | explicit

part 3/?

words | 7.1k

cw | graphic blood and violence

ao3 link

The being calling himself Steven Raglan grips the edge of the doorframe until the wood rimes with frost.

He exhales and his breath clouds before his mouth, puffs of smoke that finally register and force him to draw back from the brink, reeling in his power. Normally he’s able to keep it in check without even consciously thinking about it, but tonight is a different story.

Tonight you are in his home. In his bed.

You would not be his first indulgence; he has given himself over to carnal desires before. But you are the most innocent one that has come under his wing, unsuspecting of his true nature, trusting him to guide your fate.

It only makes him want you more.

He could take you right now; lay you soft and warm and bare beneath him. Even his cold hands would be made hot inside the furnace of your body.

His fingers rest on the doorknob, beginning to turn it. You’d welcome him inside. He’d seen the desire in your eyes. So what’s stopping him? What causes him to release his grasp of the brushed nickel handle and step back, staring at the wood paneling as if he can see right through it to where you lie?

He has no immediate answer for this.

He remains standing there as if paralyzed for long moments, considering. Perhaps it would be too simple. He likes the thrill of the hunt. This potential conquest lacks challenge.

Or maybe, just maybe, he actually likes you.

The notion is startling enough to grant him freedom of movement again. He returns to the spare bedroom, undressing until only an undershirt and boxers remain, the glasses folded and set on the dresser. The room has never been used. He does not invite guests. You are the only person he’s ever allowed inside his home.

And why is that, precisely? Because you pose no threat? Because you are naive and innocent? Because for the first time in countless years, he might actually feel something that isn’t bloodlust or anger or contempt?

What a strange little ache this is. Foreign. Frightening.

Steve considers his appearance in the mirror on top of the dresser. At the streaks of white mingling with platinum in his beard and hair. The pupils still dilated, hungry with want. The sclera threaded with spidery crimson lines. This human form needs rest. But what dwells within shuns this notion. It drives him to scorn the bed and return downstairs, because there is no sleep to be had; not when he’s like this. Passing by the master bedroom door tests his resolve once again, but he manages the task. Now he is seated in the living room, occupying the couch close to where you had been sitting. He can smell your perfume; detect your heartbeat, rabbit fast on the floor above.

You’re not sleeping yet, either.

He closes his eyes and he imagines you padding barefoot down the stairs. Hovering beside his seated form, your fingers fussing with the hem of the borrowed shirt that kisses the top of your thighs. Climbing onto his lap, straddling his legs. Digging through the layers of his hair, tugging his head backwards. His hands caressing the curves of your buttocks. Your mouth shy and uncertain against his, until passion overtakes you.

Fantasy imagery that crashes through his mind, restless like the unrelenting sea, until dawn.

***

You awaken to find yourself in unfamiliar surroundings.

It takes you several moments to remember where you are. What had happened last night. The club. The alcohol. Yeah, Steve had been right. You do have a headache. You mouth is dry. You feel a little queasy.

Steve.

You sit bolt upright. You’re in his bed. His bed, of all things. Wearing his shirt.

And you’re not alone. Your guidance counselor is sitting beside you, lounging on top of the comforter, his back resting against the headboard, those long legs crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing dark jeans and a long sleeve shirt the color of an evergreen pine.

“Good morning,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to be waking up in his bed.

“Hi.” There’s a pleasant aroma in the room. He’s brought you a breakfast tray, you realize: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice. Water and a couple of pills you’re sure are pain relievers, too. The scent of the food is enticing. Okay, maybe you’re stomach isn’t thatupset.

“Hungry?”

“Maybe. You actually made me breakfast in bed,” you murmur in disbelief. You’ve never enjoyed such a thing. That was something you’d only seen in movies. A gesture young children did for their parents as a treat or spouses did for their partners on an anniversary or romantic occasion. It’s considerate of him, you think.

“Sure. Why not? Haven’t you ever had it that way?” He seems amused by your reaction.

“No,” you say, adjusting your position so he can move the tray from the nightstand onto your lap. “How long have you been up? You’re dressed already,” you observe.

“A little while. How are you feeling?”

You take a bite of eggs and a sip of your juice. “Headache. Thirsty. But not terrible.” Your head is actually splitting, even with the dimmed light in the room due to the curtains still drawn over the windows. But you’re not going to admit it. He’s smug enough as it is. And you’re more than a little embarassed. You hope you hadn’t done anything too stupid last night. You don’t think you did. You wonder how long he’d been sitting beside you in bed with you slumbering, unaware. The food is still warm so you suppose it can’t have been all that long.

“You’ll feel better after you eat. You need to stay hydrated. Keep drinking water today.”

You point at him with a slice of buttered toast. “What about you? Aren’t you going to eat something?”

“I’m fine for now. I’m not much for eating at this hour.”

“What time is it, anyway?” There’s an alarm clock on the nightstand beside you but you’re too occupied with consuming your gifted meal to spare a glance.

“Around seven.”

You sample the bacon and sigh happily. Crisp without being overdone. Everything is just the way you like it. “You’re a good cook,” you praise.

“That’s generous. I would say adequate. But I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

You hum over the last bite of food. You’ve completely cleared your plate. “So what are your plans for the rest of the weekend?”

The guidance counselor tips his head back to rest against the quilted headboard. He reaches up to massage the bridge of his nose, bumping the Aviators out of place, and you think, for the first time since you’ve met him, that he looks weary. Almost fragile.

Then the moment passes and he’s facing you again, looking confident and put together as always.

“Nothing for today. I’m working tomorrow evening.”

“You’re lucky you’re off tonight. I have to work. And tomorrow afternoon, too.” You readjust the silverware on your tray, just to occupy your hands while you think of something else to say to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you actually like your jobs? Either of them?”

A faint smile ghosts his lips. “They have their benefits.”

“Such as?”

“Well, if we’re talking the guidance position, influencing fates. Shaping destinies. Aiding decisions that will determine the course of an individual’s future. It’s a powerful ability.”

“I still don’t know what I want to do with mine.” You empty the glass of juice, swallowing the pills and chasing that mouthful with a gulp of water. Even that’s good. Filtered, not from the tap. “What about being a security guard? What’s good about that?”

“That’s more in line with my enjoyment of the evening hours. And the aforementioned people watching.”

“What do you look for when you people watch? What catches your eye?”

He tilts his head, considering. “It’s less to do with physical appearance and more with their, I guess you could call it an aura.”

“But you said you’re not psychic. You can’t read people’s minds. So how do you know? How do you see someone’s aura?”

“It’s not something I can readily explain.”

You frown, not sure if the older man is being serious or not. “What do you see when you look at me?” You challenge. It’s not the first time you’ve asked. He hadn’t responded before, that first day in his office. Maybe now he would.

“Someone with potential.”

“For what? That sounds very vague.”

“Intentionally. You’re not getting out of that assignment. There’s a reason I issued it. Working your way through it is part of the process. Are you finished?”

You nod and he lifts the tray and sets it back on the nightstand. Of course he always manages to bring everything back to that task he’d issued. You really don’t have the faintest idea what career path you’d like to pursue.

Now that there is no longer the meal to occupy you, you find yourself feeling uncertain again, the sudden lull in conversation dragging uncomfortably. Your gaze flits back to find his eyes regarding you solemnly and you wonder what is going on in that strange mind of his. “What am I doing here, Steve?” You inquire softly.

“You asked me to bring you here.”

“Yes, but…that’s not what I mean. I don’t mean why I’m physically here, I mean…What do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you?” His lips twitch in amusement and you feel your cheeks flushing. “At present, I’m enjoying your company.”

“You don’t think this is strange? Bringing a student home to your bed?”

“Strange is a relative term. Given the circumstances of last night, it seemed the responsible thing to do. I could hardly leave an intoxicated, provocatively dressed young woman alone at a nightclub she’d entered illegally, could I?”

“Provocatively dressed?” You repeat. “Seriously?”

“It’s not meant as a criticism or an insult. Just an observation.”

“Might as well say I was dressed like a slut,” you mutter.

“No. That’s something quite different. The allure isn’t in one that openly advertises with the certainty that, if you’ll pardon the crude suggestion, they’ll ‘give up the goods’. It’s the obvious innocence and naïveté that appeals to the wrong sorts.”

You wonder if he counts himself as one of the members of that latter group. His words and his behavior don’t always sync. You shake your head in frustration. “I’m just confused.”

“By what I’m doing?”

“By what you’re not doing,” you correct. “I don’t know how to read you.”

“So what is it that I’m not doing that you expect me to?”

“I don’t know,” you sputter in frustration. “It just seems like, if you’ve already crossed all these other lines, why not just commit to it fully?”

“You’re circumventing what you really want to say very neatly.”

“Steve,” you groan in exasperation.

“If you can’t even say it, then you’re certainly not ready for it.”

You rake a hand through your hair, inwardly cringing when you feel the distinct disarray of what must be horrible bedhead. “Fine. I’m wondering why you haven’t tried to put the moves on me yet.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yes.”

“You think I don’t want to?”

“I…” You hesitate, mentally tripping over that query. “Do you want to?”

The blue topaz eyes sparkle. “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

“Only if it was the truth.”

“Then: yes.”

“Oh.” You’re a little overwhelmed with all of this verbal sparring. Your head is still throbbing. You want to brush your teeth. Take a shower.

Be pinned beneath him again. Helpless.

“The reason,” he says, casually shifting a hand from where it’s been folded with its partner on his lap down to the narrow space between you, “is not simply because it is considered wrong. Immoral. Improper. I don’t truly care about any of those things, even though I’ve taken great pains to maintain an image of decency up until now. This role I’ve adopted is comfortable. Convenient. Entertaining at times, even.

But the deeper reason, you see, as you peel back the layers,” he elaborates, his fingers curling into the fabric and tugging, jerking the blanket off of your thighs, eliciting a startled gasp from you, “is because once I begin down this path, I won’t stop. There will be no further discussion. No debate. No denial. And I don’t think you’re quite ready for that yet.” His tone is still light, almost playful, but there is a heat in his eyes that makes you wither.

You gulp nervously. “Oh.” The sound barely issues from your mouth. A bare flick of his fingers and he’d been touching your skin. His borrowed shirt barely extends past your underwear. Had you really been parading around in front of him wearing this last night?

It would be so easy for that hand to move. To skim beneath the ebony fabric. Travel such a short distance to the place you need him most. You want, and the desire makes your mouth flood with saliva. He’s so close. He’s right there. He said he wants you.

He also said he won’t stop. You know what that means.

“Am I correct in that assumption?”

His voice startles you from your musings. “I…I guess so,” you stammer. Coward. Your hands clench into fists. One word. One word is all it would take. Would he be gentle? Rough? Quiet? No, not him. The man loved hearing himself talk. You imagine there would be quite the discourse. Comments. Praise. Bragging. Probing questions during the throes of passion. Promises. Filth. A tirade of words whispered and growled and purred and crooned into your ear. That wicked mouth breathing hot against your skin as he claimed you.

Those deft hands would know exactly how to take you apart.

“You guess so?”

The good humor and patience seem to have evaporated in a hurry. There’s something acidic in his tone. Impatient. Displeased.

“You’re right,” you manage, forcing the words out. They’re not the ones you want to utter. But they’re safer.

Steve’s tone instantly lightens and the intense expression on his features gentles, so swiftly that you wonder if you hadn’t imagined it had been any other way. “So, whenever you’re ready, I’ll bring you home. You can borrow some sweatpants to wear on the way if you don’t feel like getting back into that dress. You’re out of luck for the shoes, though.” He flexes his feet, the dark sock covered toes waggling. Large feet. Like his hands. Maybe like other things, too. You’re blushing again.

“I can wear the dress home,” you mumble.

“Fine. I’ll leave you to it, then. Just come down when you’re ready.”

The bearded man stands, pausing a moment to stifle a yawn and stretch, eliciting a few pops as his arms reach impossibly far before he exits the room, taking the breakfast tray with him.

You slip out of bed as soon as the door closes, quickly getting changed in the bathroom. Your appearance in the mirror after you’ve shucked off the older man’s shirt and pulled your dress back into place confirms what you’ve already suspected: your eyes are bloodshot, and your hair is a tousled mess. You look, quite frankly, like shit. Certainly not like some hot young seductress wavering about whether to begin a torrid fling with her guidance counselor.

You are so out of your depth here.

You retrieve your boots from where they’ve been stashed, resolving to put them on after you’ve made it downstairs. You find Steve seated on the couch in the living room, one arm draped leisurely across the back.

“How come you made me walk upstairs in these last night?” You gripe, tugging the first boot on after you sink down beside him, keeping one cushion width of distance between you.

“Because you wanted them. And that means accepting what comes with them. The good and the bad.”

“Another lesson?” You do a half ass job on the laces but you don’t really care. You’re feeling rather bitter about the entire experience suddenly. Embarassed. Regretful. You should have pushed harder last night. Been more flirty. Blamed your behavior on your intoxication. Now you’re sober and you feel lousy and you’re nervous and still sexually frustrated to top it all off.

“Perhaps I was expecting you to stumble. Hence why I was just behind you to catch you if the need arose.”

You pause, glancing at him. “So you wanted me to fall.”

“Is that so terrible?” You shake your head, beginning to work on donning the second piece of footwear. “Want some assistance?”

“No.” You actually do. You want him kneeling in front of you again. Those careful fingers on your calves. But you’re not going to admit it. You wish he wasn’t being such an infuriating gentleman. What kind of a man brings a young woman home to his bed and does absolutely nothing? Doesn’t even attempt to take advantage?

He’s just being careful, you reason with yourself. If you changed your mind, if you confessed to someone…the repercussions would be severe. That has to be why he’s leaving the ball in your court.

“Every action has a consequence. You wanted to wear impractical boots, hence the struggle. You wanted to drink, hence the headache.” When you straighten after finishing tying the final boot’s laces, you find the man suddenly much closer to you. He’s somehow shifted across that center cushion without you even noticing. “You wanted to draw pictures of me in your notebook. Dance with me. Get in my car and ask to come home with me. Sleep in my bed. And then dare to ask why I’ve not defiled you when you yourself admitted you’re not actually ready for that. It’s not me you should be upset with; it’s yourself.”

You stare at him open mouthed. “You’re really going to turn this around on me? I’m a teenager. A high school student. You’re an adult. You’re supposed to know better.”

“Knowing is one thing; doing quite another. You’ve got a habit of shifting blame to others, I’ve noticed. Expecting me to be your conscience.”

“I don’t do that,” you protest.

One eyebrow raises. “No?”

“If you think so little of me, why are you even wasting your time with me?”

He tilts his head to one side, considering you. “How many people do you suppose I’ve invited into my home since I moved here?”

“What? I don’t know.” You shrug your shoulders, irritated by this abrupt shift in conversation topic.

“None. You’re the first. The only I would even consider. Let that sink in for a moment.”

“So I’m supposed to be grateful?”

His features darken, his tone suddenly severe. “Yes. Yes, you should be. When I allow you to come here. When I intervene on your behalf. When I protect you—”

“—Is that what you consider this? Protecting?”

“You’re the one who rejected me. Not the other way around. So this hostility is uncalled for.”

You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rapid, deflated rush. He’s right. And you absolutely hate it. “I didn’t reject you,” you respond quietly.

“What would you call it, then?”

“I don’t know, Steve. I’m a little overwhelmed here, okay? I’m not used to this. Any of this. Going out and drinking and dancing and then crashing at a guy’s house and, you know, spending the night in their bed and being told I’m desired and it’s up to me to decide when boundaries we’re not supposed to be crossing get trampled over,” you finish in a breathless rush.

“That’s part of being an adult: making difficult decisions that result in very serious consequences. If you’re going to act the part, you need to own up to that.” His voice is suprisingly gentle, and it makes everything feel so much worse. You’re guilty on top of everything else. You feel like you’ve let yourself down. Let him down. And you’re not sure which is worse.

“You know what’s really pathetic? I don’t have any close friends. Any friends at all, really. I don’t fit in anywhere. I’m not popular or athletic or pretty. People usually ignore me.”

“Those people are fools,” he replies, the disdain clear in his voice. “Do you imagine I’d prefer someone like that vapid cheerleader classmate that sought to embarrass you? That level of immaturity and pettiness holds no appeal for me. And even if it did; you cannot exist based solely on other people’s perceived impressions of you. They’re not your personal mirror. Don’t worry about what others think. Be the person you want to be.”

You pick at a piece of lint on your dress. “It’s easy for you to say because you don’t have to worry about this kind of stuff anymore.”

“You only have a few months of high school left. Trust me when I tell you that none of these people are going to matter in your future endeavors. They’re merely fellow travelers until you part ways and begin the next cycle of your life journey.”

You groan. “Now you really sound like a cheesy guidance counselor.”

Steven grins. “Sometimes the job bleeds through into personal life. Just think of it as a bonus that doesn’t detract from your classroom time.”

“I’d rather get out of class. Especially if it’s US History. Speaking of which, I have a test on Monday to study for,” you realize out loud.

“Then we should get you home soon, hmm? Especially since you have work this weekend as well.”

You sigh and nod. “I’m ready to leave now.”

***

In the past, there had been rules that governed the reaper’s actions.

A predestined list of those who were to be vanquished. An ordinance to follow. And he had served those instructions dutifully. For countless years.

Until he hadn’t.

Until he’d decided to become his own boss and make his own commandments. Choose who he wanted to grace with his powers. A rogue killing machine. Terrifying in its concept, but he is not quite as reckless as he might otherwise be. He considers his victims carefully. Waits until he finds a suitable one and then strikes when the opportunity is right. It is all very controlled, orderly, calculated.

At least it had been. Until his most recent deviation. Exacting revenge on your behalf. That was very unlike him. Making the killing slow. Personal. An exception in his own rule book.

He will take another life soon. Create a violent end. Bloody. Get his hands dirty. A return to something viciously primitive. He’ll stifle his powers. Dig into flesh. Carve until he’s satisfied.

Steve leans back in the office chair he’s seated at, his eyes sweeping the security cameras, and he thinks about your body pressed against his. Beside him. Beneath him. Those flushed, parted lips. So inviting. Tempting. Yet somehow he’d resisted taking things any further. He still isn’t entirely certain why. What it is that makes him so hesitant, so protective of you, when every instinct urges him to take what he wants.

He pushes back from the desk and rises, heading out to do rounds through the department store. The walking soothes some of his restlessness. There are a group of girls he’s noticed near the cosmetics. Shoving items into purses, thinking their actions have gone unseen. They haven’t.

He approaches silently. The talk and laughter dies down as the first member of the group catches sight of the security guard.

“If you’re going to steal, at least attempt to take something of value.” He inwardly smirks at the startled, guilty expressions mirrored on each youth’s features. Hands dig nervously back into purses and return items to the display shelves: eyeshadows, blush compacts, lip tint. He folds his arms across his chest, glaring. “Get out of here. Next time I’m not going to be so generous.” They depart the aisle at lightning speed.

Not the prey he’s searching for. But he’ll find someone suitable.

He always does.

***

You finish unloading the last of the returns from the shopping cart and glance at your watch. Nearly five. Quitting time.

Your weekend being home alone had gone by quickly. After Steve had dropped you off, you’d managed to actually get some homework done. It wasn’t easy. You’d still been feeling hungover and you’d been more than a little distracted by the events of Friday evening and Saturday morning.

But you value good grades and you’re not about to surrender your high GPA now just because you’re lusting after your school guidance counselor. So, your nose has been dutifully buried in your textbooks, even during your break at work.

You pull your smock over your head and hang it inside your locker. There isn’t much you store inside there. Your school one is where you add stickers and magnets and mini posters. Hang little charms. This one is bland and utilitarian. Devoid of personality.

You retrieve your backpack and shut the door, securing the padlock before exiting the break room. You doubt anyone wants to take your required work attire, but old habits die hard.

Your parents would be home soon, finally returning from their weekend trip. You’d made a little effort to do housework that morning. Ran the vacuum around. Made sure the dishwasher was empty. At least when you got home you could just relax. Mentally prepare yourself for your exam tomorrow. For being back at school. Where Steve would be, too.

No matter how hard you try to focus, the older man keeps invading your thoughts. You hadn’t slept well last night. Restless limbs. Wandering thoughts. You’d punched your pillow and flipped it to the cooler side and you’d thought about being back in the career counselor’s bed. If only he’d spent the night in that bed with you. If only you’d climbed into his lap while he’d been sitting beside you the next morning. So much regret, tempered with fear. Uncertainty.

Your parents’ return finally manages to pull you free from those memories. Perhaps you’ll sleep better tonight, now that you’ve enjoyed take out and gotten caught up and even watched a movie together. You return to your room that evening feeling full and satisfied, until your eyes fall on the dark garment draped over the wicker chair in the corner of your bedroom.

Your dress smells like Steve’s cologne.

You’d noticed it once you’d gotten home the previous day. Instead of putting it in the wash you’d left it on the chair, not quite willing to part with that scent just yet. Now it’s clutched in your hands. You shut your eyes and inhale deeply and you ache deep within.

He wants you. All you have to do is say yes.

You realize you’re not going to sleep well tonight, either.

***

Finding his next victim proves even easier than Steve had thought it would be.

He stops by the mall Saturday night even though he’s off from work simply to keep an eye on you, and it’s good that he had. He doesn’t like the look of the middle aged man loitering behind you while you’d walked across the parking lot, oblivious to the fact that you had not one, but two admirers.

Tonight he’s using the vintage car. No need to sully that new prize of his.

The back seat is currently occupied with the unconscious body of your stalker. A bit of a challenge incapacitating someone in a crowded place, but not impossible by any means. The stairwell to the second story parking had provided ample cover. People rarely used the stairs anymore.

That suits the killer just fine.

The section of the woods he drives to are especially thick and dark. He’s forced to abandon the car and drag the man deeper inside the forest. His eyes glow with a supernatural light that pierces this gloomy veil, making travel as easy as if he’s simply walking in broad daylight over familiar ground. The reaper finally releases his prey, arranging the unconscious man and straddling his supine body. He unsheaths the knife he’s brought. It’s his favorite: old and solidly crafted and very, very sharp. A personal possession he’s kept for many years, when numerous others have been cast aside and replaced. So many memories cast in that steel; seated in that handle. Now it was time to slice into a new one.

Whatever startled protest his quarry might have made is quickly silenced following the choked gurgle of blood as his vocal chords are severed. After that the murderer takes his time. The blood looks black on his skin, inky like his surroundings. The crows have gathered again, smelling blood. Wolves, too. One howls and another answers. They know better than to disturb this particular visitor to their territory. He hears their approach, cautiously circling and watching and waiting for whatever spoils he will leave behind, tongues lolling, breath panting. He tosses an appetizer, a torn chunk of flesh that’s origin is no longer recognizable. A snarl and a warning growl fills the air. One of the beasts has laid claim to the fresh meat already, fighting off one of its brethren.

Steve raises the blade again.

***

The desk beside yours in US History class on Monday afternoon is vacant.

Your cheerleader nemesis is absent, and you might not have given it much thought, except that it’s an exam day, and you know she’s already in trouble academically. Skipping a test doesn’t seem like a bright move.

Your final class of the day is gym. Not your favorite, although if you had to choose one activity to participate in during physical education, archery would definitely be the one.

It’s not that you’re any good at it; far from it. It’s just a welcome pace from gymnastics and basketball and the other activities you struggle with. Besides, it’s a great time of year to be outdoors. You find yourself lingering after the other students have followed the instructor back into the gymnasium, a large structure separate from the academy itself, set back a ways from the five storied building where you have your other classes. You’re enjoying the feel of the spring sun on your bare arms and legs. You’d actually gotten to unpack your shorts bearing the school’s logo and use them for the first time this season. A warm, drowsy feeling makes you contented and your mind wanders in a sort of blissful kind of oblivion. You remain standing on the neatly trimmed lawn that’s getting greener by the day, the all but forgotten unstrung bow braced against the ground, and you simply enjoy your surroundings.

It’s then that a sort of awareness whispers in the recesses of your meandering thoughts, becoming louder and louder until your reverie shatters and you realize you’re not alone.

Steve Raglan is walking across the field towards you, stopping to retrieve your arrows from their lodgings in the straw filled target before reaching you. You accept the offerings shyly. You haven’t seen or spoken to him since he’d dropped you home on Saturday morning.

“Hi,” you greet the older man, readjusting your hold of the bow.

“Hi. How was the exam?”

“Not bad. Glad I studied extra, though. Heather wasn’t in class today. Vapid cheerleader,” you clarify when he gives you a blank look.

“Ah. Well, that’s unwise.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” Your eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

The guidance counselor barks a laugh. “What, make a student get sick and be absent from class? Hardly among my many talents.”

Many talents. God, he was so arrogant. You nod but you aren’t convinced. If anything, quite the opposite, though you can’t even begin to imagine how he might have had some influence in that regard. An image of a freshly dug grave flickers in your mind. You’d believed his innocence then, too. This feels exactly the same. Something not quite right; a sixth sense whispering another warning, but that smile he offers pulls at something deep within you and you stifle your misgivings once again.

“How was your parent’s trip? Back home safe and sound I trust?”

“Yes. They had a good time.”

“Do they do that a lot? Take off for weekend getaways?”

“Sometimes. It’s no big deal. I’m used to being home alone a lot.” You realize as soon as the words leave your mouth the implication there: the potential for future dalliances with no pesky parents to interfere. Steve surely does too, judging by that new little smirk on his lips.

“Interesting. Well, do you have time for another round? I don’t mind offering some pointers. I’m a decent shot myself.”

“Why am I not surprised?” You mutter. “Class is over.”

“Yes, officially it is. But you know me. I can’t pass on the opportunity to instruct a youth.”

“Uh-huh.” More like you can’t resist showing off, you think. “Okay, go ahead.”

He removes the bow from your hand and steps between the string and the flexible wood, leaning his weight and bending it into an arch while quickly sliding the cord back into place. An arrow is knocked and with barely any hesitation he draws and lets it fly across the field. It lands directly in the center of the target with a soft thud.

“I knew you were going to show off.”

“And teach. Here. Change your stance. Like this.” He guides you into position, his touch cool as always. There’s nothing improper about it, but you blush anyway, your eyes darting around quickly to see if there are any observers. It seems as if you are truly alone. “Hold the bow like this. A little higher. Good. Keep your arms relaxed, you’re not ready to fire yet. Concentrate on aiming. Sight down the line of the shaft. Envision it extending all the way towards the bullseye. Got it? Now close your eyes.”

You glance at the bearded man doubtfully. “Close my eyes? Really?”

“Trust me.”

You shake your head but aquiesce.

“Visualize the target in your mind. The only adjustment you’re making is drawing backward, building momentum. Everything else is already lined up perfectly. Draw back, now. Steady. Breathe in. Out. A little longer. Release.”

You obey his command, your eyes flying open to watch your arrow land well shy of the center, but closer than you’ve ever gotten before. “Hey, not bad!”

“It takes practice, that’s all.” He retrieves the last arrow from where you’ve dropped it onto the grass. Lining himself up with the target, he aims, then very deliberately turns his head and looks at you while simultaneously releasing. The arrow lands directly next to the first he’d fired.

“You really can’t resist, can you?”

He grins as he unstrings the bow. “Just proving my point. Once you’ve sighted correctly, all that’s left to do is provide the momentum to reach your target.”

“Is this another one of your life lessons, too?”

“Maybe.”

That smile was going to be the death of you. Those dimples. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners. You feel yourself succumbing to his charm all over again.

“Alright. Well, I’ve got to bring this stuff back inside. I guess they’re leaving the targets up for the rest of the week for the other classes.” You begin walking towards the target and Steve joins you, easily catching up with his long legged stride.

“You want a ride home?”

“Okay.” You’d halfway been hoping he’d offer. It’s a struggle to remove the arrows that the guidance counselor has launched. They’re embedded much more deeply than your own, the metal tips buried beneath the surface of the colored center circle.

Steve’s fingers wrap around the shaft and he removes the first arrow with ease, the next quickly following. You keep forgetting how strong he is; how much power lies in those large hands of his. He really could destroy you, all innuendos aside.

He hands you the remaining arrows, and you swear he can read your thoughts despite his protests to the contrary, another little smirk creasing one corner of his mouth. “I’ll go get the car. Meet you out front.”

You nod, trudging back across the field to the gymnasium.

***

Steve pinches the filter between his fingers and lights the end of the cigarette, taking a grateful drag while waiting for you to return to him.

The interior of the car is warmer than he cares for, making him wish he’d opted for the Mustang today instead; at least that has air conditioning. This vintage sedan was too old for that. The vents don’t do much but push around the interior’s stale air. He’s already got the front windows rolled down, but it’s not helping much.

You settle beside him and he instantly feels even warmer.

“Ready to go?”

You nod and he shifts gears. He sees the surprise in your eyes when he diverts off the main road and instead aims for the all but forgotten dirt path through the woods, the one that runs parallel to your usual route through the forest nearby. It’s a relief to be away from the blazing sun. The leaves have begun filling in nicely. He despises the light nearly as much as the heat. Soon this place would be properly shadowed again.

“I was thinking,” he begins, glancing over at you, “that maybe we could do a movie night. Get popcorn and candy. Rent some trashy horror flick. What do you think?”

“You mean watch it at your house?”

“Naturally. I doubt your parents would be keen on the idea of your guidance counselor on the couch in the dark with their adolescent daughter.” His teeth flash in a grin. He’s in a very jovial mood today. That death the other night had sated him. He needs to start making it more routine. He’s well established enough now. Time to return to his true purpose.

Of course there will be exceptions. Like spending time with you.

“When should I come over?”

“That’s a yes, then? Excellent. Well, it wouldn’t be on a school night. Can’t have interferences with that. So let’s say a Friday night when you’re available?”

“I guess I could say I was working. And you could pick me up at the bus stop,” you murmur thoughtfully.

“That sounds perfect. Oh, and just one other thing: maybe wear a skirt. You know, just in case.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as your eyes widen in surprise. “I’m only joking. It’s not a requirement. Although,” he says, the humor leaving his voice, “I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it.” His eyes flick to the shorts that reveal more thigh than he’s accustomed to and he sees you flush and squirm in your seat, his lips curving into another smirk briefly before his features grow more serious. “I want to show you something.”

He laughs again at the expression on your face, realizing the implications of what he’s just stated. “Nothing improper, I promise. It’s a location I discovered while walking the other day that I think you might enjoy. Want to go for a bit?”

You still seem skeptical but you nod and he pulls the car off the path soon after, neatly threading the vehicle between two maple trees before exiting. Car keys tucked away securely in his pants pocket, he takes your hand and leads you forward into the woods.

“Do you go walking around here a lot?”

“Yes,” he says. “I find it soothing.”

“Me too. It helps me unwind.” Your head swivels to survey your surroundings. “I don’t recognize where we are, though. This is further in than I usually go.”

“I thought as much. I didn’t expect to find anything other than more trees, perhaps another road, but instead, I found…this.”

Steve halts just short of a crumbling house. There is little left of the structure beyond a cracked windowpane of the first level, an empty doorframe and a few clapboards covered with peeling, faded paint.

“What happened?”

“Hard to say. Maybe a storm caused structural damage once upon a time and it was too extensive to warrant spending the funds to repair. Watch your step. There’s still a lot of broken glass and boards with rusty nails scattered around. What I wanted to show you is actually behind this.”

You allow yourself to be led past the abandoned building, cautiously weaving between piles of rubble. Steve hasn’t let go of your hand yet. He likes holding it; likes guiding you towards this forgotten place he’d found. Sharing another secret with you.

“Good. They’re here.”

“Who? Oh…” Your hand drops from his.

A slatted, decaying fence that may have once been white borders the rear of the property, and just beyond that, an apple orchard. The gnarled, kinked branches bear buds that will soon blossom into flowers. Between these trees are a group of horses of various colors milling about, nosing at the ground, trotting back and forth, whickering and neighing softly, still unaware of the presence of others invading their territory.

“They’re wild?”

“Yes. Probably descended from some domesticated ancestors that lived on this farm once upon a time.”

“They’re pretty,” you say appreciatively. “They look healthy. Happy.”

“They do,” he agrees, leaning on his forearms against a section of the top railing that looks sturdy. “Fending well for themselves. Probably better off without human interference.”

“I’ve never gone horseback riding. Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you have. Probably an expert at that, too,” you grumble.

“Your words, not mine.”

Your eyes meet his and you tilt your head to one side, as if trying to conjure an image of that activity in your mind. “I can picture you doing it, actually. With some goofy cowboy hat on.”

“No. I’ve never been fond of hats.”

“Why? Because they mess up your hair?” You take a step closer and your hand reaches cautiously to siphon through the tresses at the far end of his side part. “Never a piece out of place, is there?”

His fingers catch your wrist, trapping you. “Sometimes it gets wild,” he whispers roughly. He can feel your bounding pulse beneath his fingertips, equally as startled by how brave you’ve suddenly become. Touching him of your own accord. He straightens, tugging on you, bringing you against his side. “I’ll show you.” You swallow loudly and your eyes shy from his and he smiles softly. “One day. When you’re ready. I’ll take you home now.”

It takes every ounce of willpower to lead you back to the car and deliver you safely to your residence; not to keep you pinned against him and crush your lips with his own.

Soon, he thinks. He’ll learn their taste soon.

[duckprintspress]

Help Us Pick the Theme for Our Next Explicit Anthology!

Ever wondered how Duck Prints Press picks our anthology themes? The answer is…we don’t! Our Patrons do! Any backer on our Patreon, from $3/month on up, gets a say – and the current poll to pick our next theme is running right now!

Our twelfth anthology will be the second erotica collection. Our first, Many Hands: An Anthology of Polyamorous Erotica, crowdfunded over the summer and we will be completing campaign fulfillment within the next week, with the book to become available to the general public in mid-fall.

For this new set of short stories, we first chatted with folks on our private Press Discord, then the Press staff narrowed that down to a few specific ideas, and now we’re at the last step – where everyone who supports us gets a say!

No matter the outcome of the vote, our next anthology will feature…

stories about explicit sex with non-human creatures, monsters, and the like;

fully consensual liaisons;

unconventional genitalia (not required by highly encouraged);

happy endings; and

queerness!

But that’s not narrow enough to make an interesting thematic collection of stories, so that’s where our backers (and, perhaps, you!) come in. What are the choices for specific themes that are being voted on?

cottagecore (but explicit and with monsters!)

courtship and mating rituals (“how to woo your human”)

underwater settings and underwater creatures

your friendly neighborhood cryptid

ye older high fantasy monsterloving (fairytale/folklore/mythology-inspired encouraged!)

Honestly, I’m glad I don’t have to pick, because it’s a damn tough choice – they all sound awesome. But pick we must, and one will become the theme for our next anthology.

Already a backer? Don’t forget to vote! Not yet a backer? Become one today!

[alynnl]

It’s been fun coming up with all sorts of fanon ideas for TGAAC/DGS (head canons, AUs, theories, plot bunnies) but I have to stop and remind myself that I’m not finished with canon yet. And it would probably be good to continue with it before I get too carried away with my wild speculations.

[carlyraejepsans]

for real WHERE does the idea that [utdr humans] are nongendered so that "you can project on them" come from. their literal character arcs are about NOT being a blank slate to be filled in by the audience

i think i understand the assumption on some level for undertale, because there is a very intentional effort to make you identify with the "player character" in order to make your choices feel like your own (the beating heart of undertale's metanarrative lies in giving you an alternative path to violence against its enemies after all, and whether you're still willing to persue it for your own selfish reasons. YOUR agency is crucial).

of course, the cardinal plot twist of the main ending sweeps the rug from under your feet on that in every way, and frisk's individuality becomes, in turn, a tool to further UT's OTHER main theme: completionism as a form of diegetic violence within the story. replaying the game would steal frisk's life and happy ending from them for our own perverse sentimentality, emotionally forcing our hand away from the reset button.

i think their neutrality absolutely aids in that immersion. but also, there's this weird attitude by (mostly) cis fans where it being functional within the story makes it... somehow "editable" and "up to the player" as well? which is gross and shows their ass on how they approach gender neutrality in general lol.

but also like. there's plenty of neutral, non PCharacters in undertale and deltarune. even when undertale was just an earthbound fangame and the player immersion metanarrative was completely absent, toby still described frisk as a "young, androgynous person". sometimes characters are just neutral by design. it's not that hard to understand lol.

anyone who makes this argument for kris deltarune is braindead. nothing else to say about it.

[withinthecode]

Do you have any snippets for Carwyn and Seren? or Obirah?

Carwyn:

There are very few times that Carwyn has truly scared people. But the setting of their jaw and the dead look that entered his eyes at the news of his Favi’s death was enough to set off warning bells. The SURGE droids that they came across for the next few months were completely destroyed. Nothing was left. Not with his acids. It wasn’t until the others figured out how to rewire the SURGE to free them that they weren’t completely destroyed by him. Even then, those that were captured by them were permanently disabled and disfigured. They watch as their cousins flinch when they walk by, and yet he cannot regret anything he did.

Seren:

Seren rarely goes full out in a fight, ze has trained too long, learned too much, to give a fair fight to anyone. There’s a reason ze managed to become Glitch’s most prized student. The only one to beat it in a fight. The one time ze truly has, its ended with zem being Vtet.