#and then a baby in the height of his grief

[vampire-superstar]

Full Age HC time (Human Years) (As of the og game)

Lucifer is definitely close to his mid fifties. I'd safely say he's 53 and I promise you'll see why in just a moment. Also old man Luci supremacy. He has grey hair and his bones snap crackle and pop.

While you may think I'm going to say Mammon is like 40, you're wrong. Mammon is the key defining factor in their ages. Lucifer and Mammon show a significant maturity gap and a bond not from two individuals close in age but close experience wise leading me to believe Lucifer played a part in raising his younger brother while he himself was still young. Mam is around 35

Adding on, Levi and Mam have similar maturity level, meaning they were likely both raised by Luci. Also I'm pretty sure it's canon that Luci got him into anime. He's 34

Asmo once more shows a gap in maturity though not as large as Mam and Luci. Likely he was cared for by Levi and Mam when Luci was busy, explaining their "Ew, love you though" relationship. He's like 27 at the least

The twins are pretty easy honestly. Definitely 25. No explanation needed. They act like babies in one way or another

Tan is hardest to pin because based on what you believe, he was born during or after the Celestial War. Personally though, he was born after in the grief and wrath of loss. In addition my clues for this placing include the fact that the twins were old enough to not only know Lilith but understand the gravity of her death. That the youngest they were like 6. Therefore I'm pinning Tan tan at around barely 20. It kinda fits the way he acts in game too

In conclusion, Satan is a fortnite kid.

Some of the ages are a little wonky but they're wonky and in my heart being so honest, Satan and Luke are close in age. He's like 9 personally but I wanted to be nice to all the Satan Simps

[itsabouttimex2]

What do you think would make Odysseus a yandere?

I think it would happen right after he drops Scamandrius from the walls of Troy.

That little baby, already so loved that he had inspired a nickname from his father, his people- “Astyanax”, detailing what he; as the firstborn son of Troy’s heir apparent, was set to become- king, ruler, overlord.

And Odysseus kills him.

Not because he wants to, but because he is, at the end of the day, just a man. A selfish man who loves himself and his soldiers and his home, but not nearly as much as he loves his son and his wife.

The only thing that breaks him from the harrowing thought that a like-minded man might be doing the same thing to his own son miles away is a broken wail cutting through somber silence.

Odysseus turns, feet heavier than his heart, hesitant to see not what, but who he already knows is behind him.

Andromache running towards him. He sees her, wrapped in loose white robes, arms held close to her chest, tears running down her face, closer and closer to him- barefoot and broken.

And realizes that she’s not coming at him, not coming for revenge or catharsis or some measure of score-settling, but instead she’s headed for the rim of the stone wall that her son was dropped from, intending to plunge the same misty heights and fade into the swallowing vale below.

She leaps in a blitz of white silk, looking so much like an angel descending that Odysseus nearly misses his chance to reach for her in a sort of awe- though her enthralling beauty pales in comparison to his Penelope, it spurs him to try and catch the grieving wife, mother, queen.

The Itchacan king reaches for her hands and snags a bundle of white instead, accidentally tearing it from her grasp and leaving her to plummet without whatever had been so dear that she would take it to the grave held against her heart.

And after the shock has worn off, after his soldiers have moved from wide-eyed gasping and into solemnly shaking their heads at the waste of good life, after Polites calls for him to please come down and come back to the ship, Odysseus takes a moment to unwrap that little bundle with a heavy heart.

Another child, even younger than the first, blissfully asleep in spite of the carnage and ruin around them.

This time, there’s no god or soothsayer or prophet to chime in his ear an order or command, leaving Odysseus on the edge of a very welcoming ledge, contemplating his decisions as the soldiers below grow anxious at the grief in their captain’s eyes.

Polites coaxes him down again, this time even more gently, so the king wraps you back up and heads for the stairs.

His second-in-command waits for him at the beach, having paid last respects to both Andromache and her beloved son, both wrapped in a tattered sail and covered in rocks to keep all but the most determined of predators away- he and his brothers-in-arms did what they could, and even now spill wine in the sand around them.

It’s not much, but they did their best. That’s all any man can do in this situation.

Eurylochus doesn’t like the haunted look in his captain’s eyes, how his fingers twitch around the bundle of cloth, how he can’t bear to look at the impromptu grave of two innocent souls.

Nobody does.

But the deed is done, the blood is spilled, and dawn breaks soon. There’s no time for questions, no time for further delays. Home is waiting.

Six hundred families are waiting for six hundred tired soldiers, hoping to welcome them with open arms and settle for boring times.

So there’s no hesitating or comprehending or deciding. The bundle doesn’t protest, and neither do his men. No one questions the impromptu addition to the crew.

A living reminder of all the children they orphaned, even if indirectly. Bringing you along is a form of penance that none confess to wanting.

Odysseus holds the infant close as he returns to the ship, wood creaking under the boots of soldiers boarding in lockstep, heavy as his conscience and heart.

…he’ll need to think of a name for you.

[lvmimis]

cw: heavy angst, talk of children, childbirth and death, grief, bakugou is miserable tbh, izuku has an unnamed wife

a/n: sorry lol. also repost.

Izuku’s infant son looks disturbingly just like him, Bakugou realizes.

A bit small for age height-wise, but chubby nonetheless, with a shock of green wavy-curly hair. Large, green eyes. The freckles haven’t settled in yet, probably because he’s still too young, but the features are nearly the same. 

The kid also won’t stop kicking as Katsuki tries to fasten his diaper, and he’s getting a tiny bit frustrated. At least he’s not crying - thankfully, he doesn’t appear to have inherited the excessively soft disposition from his dad.

“You’re gonna have to be faster than that,” you joke from behind him. Bakugou finishes up securing the diaper, then glances at you and scowls. “Next time he’ll pee on ya!” you giggle while Bakugou gets the baby’s onesie back on then carries him so that he rests on his chest. He makes his way towards the bottle warmer - the baby isn’t crying now, but based on the guide Izuku’s wife gave him, this is about the time for his next feeding and he’s got a pair of lungs on him. It also doesn’t help that the toddler keeps nuzzling his face into his chest as though he’s trying to find a nipple to suck on. 

He does have to admit the little kiddo is cute.

“Did you check the temperature?”

You watch him carefully as he shakes warm milk onto the back of his hand, perched on the counter and swinging your feet gently. Bakugou doesn’t keep his eyes off of you as he checks, child cradled in his left arm.

“I know what I’m doing, princess,” he asserts. He has a little pout instead of a scowl instead, the one you’ve always thought was cute, where he communicates his disappointment that you’re underestimating his skill.

“Of course you do, love.” You smile widely, sweetly, as if you weren’t just micromanaging him. Not that he minds - when you hop off the counter and walk towards him, hands reaching upwards to caress his face gently, he can feel his face growing warm, even if your hands are disturbingly cool to the touch. 

You make your way to the couch first, nearly gliding along the linoleum that lines the kitchen, then along the impeccably clean wooden floorboards into the Midoriyas’ living room. It’s odd that you know this house so well, but you and Izuku’s wife had long been friends and spent many a night together in this very home when he and Izuku had been wrapped up in high grade missions and wouldn’t be home for days to weeks on end.

You flop onto the couch and point the remote to the television, even though it is already on, set to the news. Bakugou holds the baby in his lap as he sits down behind you and starts to feed him. You rest your head on his shoulder and to Katsuki, you are as light as a feather. 

“We haven’t had time together in a long while,” you whisper. 

Bakugou’s head tilts ever so slightly so that it rests against yours as well.

“You’re right. I’ve missed you,” he insists. There’s a quiet silence between you. It really has been a while that you’ve been able to sit together like this, despite being husband and wife.

“Are you fine with babysitting?” you ask. “Izuku was worried about asking you in the first place according to ___, and she had to convince him it was okay despite everything, insisting that it would be good for you-”

Katsuki interrupts your rambling with a kiss on your forehead.

“It’s fine,” he says, gruffly. Your lips pull into a sad smile.

“I’m sorry, Katsuki, I wish things had been different,” you say anyway.

Katsuki can feel his heart breaking, and instead focuses on the child in his lap, monitoring his progress on the bottle. He had wanted a child. He had wanted a child so badly, one that looked like him and you, and what had it brought him? 

The memory of you haunting him constantly, always there, but not really there.

When he looks back at you again, your form is starting to dissipate, as it does whenever he starts to remember you’re no longer on this plane of existence.

His hands are full so he can no longer cling to you - plus this has happened so many times before that he’s now nearly used to it - so instead he watches you go, numb, tears no longer falling from his eyes. After all, just for today, he has someone else to take care of, even if it’s for a short period of time. 

The kid is falling asleep in his lap now, and it’s just the two of them as Bakugou watches, but doesn’t really watch the shifting pictures in front of him. Being a godfather feels like an incomplete substitute for being a father at times, but it’s valuable all the same.

“Guess it’s just me and you, kid,” he whispers as he rises to put the baby to bed.

When the Midoriyas never return, and Bakugou signs the last of adoption papers, it rings again true.

The child laughs a little more now, unaware that his godfather now turned legal father sees three figures that aren’t really there instead of one now. Bakugou smiles as he throws the kid up in the air, realizing that misery might have helped him mourn you initially, but won’t keep the two of them safe.

“Guess it really is just me and you.”

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the taste

buttercup, chapter four

a/n: the smutty smut has arrived, folks!

summary: “look, all I’m saying is that he likes you, a lot. He’s never let himself be with anyone like you, anyone who truly made him happy, anyone he actually had a fighting chance of getting a stable and healthy relationship out of.”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, smut, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, kissing, over the clothes fun, dry humping, fingering, dirty talk

word count: 2419

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

masterlist | join my taglist

It had been the end of June when your parents passed. You didn’t recall much from that summer, most of your memories had just kind of faded away as the brain occasionally does when it’s faced with trauma, but one thing that you’d never forget was the feeling of Howard, each and every morning, gently lifted you out of bed and attempted to let you sleep a little longer, holding you like a tiny baby bear against him, as they went to open up the bakery. 

School was out, and at only nine years old, you couldn’t just stay at home all alone, not with their long hours and especially not with the overwhelming grief you were dealing with. So, they brought you with them.

It didn’t take very long before you forgot about your toys and activity books in favour of just watching the magic that went on in the kitchen. Soon you were running around the place doing all matter of little tasks they could come up with for you and when they noticed the missing glint it brought back to your eye, they began to teach you and truly made you fall in love with the meditative craft. 

At the end of that summer when the next school year rolled around, you didn’t wanna leave. You’d grown up here, you’d healed here, the doorframe into the small lavatory in the back even had little chicken scratches documenting your height. This place was your home.

Sweeping a damp cloth over the steel tabletops, the music emanating from your phone that rested on the dark windowsill suddenly stopped as it buzzed with your ringtone. Putting it on speaker, you kept on wiping the surface down. 

“Matt, hi!”

“Hey,” his deep timbre filled the dim kitchen of the bakery. 

“I’m just about to lock up, if you’re still up for a little company.” 

“Yeah, about that,” he puffed out a heavy breath, “I’m still at the office.”

“Oh,” your moments froze a moment, “is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just swamped with this case prep.”

“Is it just you there?”

“No, the others are here too.”

“Well,” you exhaled a smile, “if you’re gonna burn the midnight oil, maybe I could come over with some of the leftovers from today to keep you guys going?”

Still in the doorway, your arms enclosed around Matt and the stuffed brown paper bag in your hand hung over his shoulder. 

Eyeing the goods, Foggy’s voice found your ears, “is that the–”

“Yeah,” you simply extended your arm in his direction, “here you go, take it.”

“Oh my god,” he snatched it out of your grasp and opened the crinkly bag up, nearly drooling as he glanced through the selections, “Karen, could you–”

“Get some plates? Yep,” the honey-haired woman then moved into the small kitchenette and grabbed some paper plates and napkins. 

Drawing back from the fleeting embrace, Matt then asked, “how was your day?” 

“It was fine,” you shrugged, your eyes briefly flickering over his attire, the tie tugged loose around his unbuttoned collar and his sleeves were rolled up past his burly forearms, “I kinda like it when I get to do the night shifts all alone. It’s so quiet–, oh, and I get to have full control over the music choice. It’s great,” a slight grin brightened your features, “how about you, huh?” you grabbed his hand in yours, “what’s this wild case about?”

A deep sigh flowed from his lips as he squeezed your hand, “uh, it’s this kid who–,” his phone then abruptly began to buzz in his pocket, “oh, sorry,” he fished it out, “I gotta take this.”

Letting go of his fingers, you said, “of course,” and watched as he ducked into his own office and answered the call. 

As you gazed at his visage still visible through the glass, Foggy’s words stirred you from your daydream.

“He’s happy.” 

Turning to blink back at him, you hummed, “huh?”

“You make him happy,” Foggy smiled from the humble conference room, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him smile that much with anyone else, but then again, you are quite different from his usual type.”

Passing over the threshold into the space, your brows furrowed, “I’m not his type?”

“No! Oh, that came out wrong,” he winced, “Matt just has a tendency to get involved with the wrong kind of girls. You’re just different,” hastily adding, “in a good way.” 

“Oh…” you sank down into one of the chairs, wondering tensely if he was still dating others since you’d never had a conversation about how exclusive you were or how serious this thing between you even was, “does Matt date a lot?” 

“I wouldn’t exactly call it that, since it never really lasts that long,” Foggy said, though when he noticed the look on your face, his features soured in regret, “wow, I’m really screwing all of this up, aren’t I… look, all I’m saying is that he likes you, a lot. He’s never let himself be with anyone like you, anyone who truly made him happy, anyone he actually had a fighting chance of getting a stable and healthy relationship out of.”

Just then, you heard Matt’s footsteps entering the room from behind you, “hey,” he called Foggy’s attention, “you mind going down to the station tomorrow morning, check if Brett can get us any files that might help?” coming to a stop just behind where you were seated, his touch grazed the back of the chair. Reaching back, you caught one of his hands and briefly craned your neck, bringing his palm up to your lips to press a small peck to his calloused skin. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go buy some more cigars,” Foggy sighed, briefly turning his attention back to the computer before him, slumping slightly as the intimidating and tangled laws still flashed back at him on the screen from when he’d looked them up earlier, he then blinked back up at you, “hey, Y/n?”

“Hm?” you hummed, meeting his eye as you weaved your fingers with Matt’s. 

“Have I ever told you that my mom wanted me to be a butcher?” 

“Oh,” you heard Matt sigh dramatically behind you as Karen too bit down on her lip to suppress a smile, “not the butcher story.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry to break the news,” you said light-heartedly as you chewed on the taste Matt had offered you of his curry, “but I definitely picked the better one.”

With his tinted glasses resting on the coffee table beside where your takeout container of Thai food rested, a smile twitched on Matt’s lips, “well, you do work in food, so it does make sense that you’re better at ordering.”

“Here,” you filled your spoon up with the red soup, catching one of the floating pieces of tofu, before bringing it up to his lips, “give it a taste.” 

An airy giggle bubbled out of you as a drop of soup clung to the corner of his lip and you instinctively reached out to wipe it clean, his chuckle swiftly mirroring your own. Though when you then froze, fingers staying close, your laughter faded. The fluorescent light that streamed in through the tall windows of his apartment illuminated his features as you watched him swallow the small taste. Ghosting your thumb across his skin, you traced his bottom lip. You weren’t sure who moved first, but the next thing you knew, you were locked in a kiss. 

You faintly heard him place his dinner down on the coffee table before his palms came up to cup your cheeks. You fumbled a bit, trying not to tip anything as you laid down the spoon in your grasp. 

A yearning whimper seeped from deep within your chest when you felt his tongue faintly ghost against your own before he breathlessly eased back a bit to utter, “you’re right,” stealing a soft peck before he went on, “It does taste really good.” 

Tilting your chin, you fervently captured his lips once more, your touch crumbled up his shirt till it found purchase in his already loosened tie, playing with it as your tongue danced against his. 

When he buried his hands in your hair, his short nails soothingly scraped over your scalp and a small moan flowed from you and vibrated against his kiss. 

The clear pulse that rocked throughout your body accumulated between your legs in a dizzying throb, an enchanting sensation that swayed you to get even closer and crawl into his lap. His wide palms dragged down the length of your spine in a way that caused a shiver to follow along.

Tangling your fingers in his hair as you kissed him back, your hips then instinctively sought to scratch and satisfy the itch that had grown so immense by rocking down against him and the noticeable hardness that tented his pants. 

Breathlessly in between kisses, Matt said, “you wanna enjoy the food before it gets cold?” offering you a gentle escape in case you needed it.

Ghosting the tip of your nose against his, you uttered, “I don’t mind popping it in the microwave,” deliberately rolling your hips against his once more, “do you?”

Sharing his hot breath, you were so close that your lips nearly crashed into one another once more, but they didn’t as your pelvis kept up their slow and teasing grinding. Matt’s eyes fluttered shut a moment as he let out a low groan, “no,” his touch slid further down and dug into the softness of your bottom, “no, I don’t mind.” 

Capturing your lips once more, he slowly began to grow more confident in his touch, though some weariness still lingered as he began to aid your movements. 

As his lips migrated down the length of your neck, you let out a moan, “fuck,” your frame shivering from the pleasure, “oh my god,” yet also out of a deep desire for more, “Matt…” 

“Yeah?” his low voice vibrated against your throbbing pulse on the side of your neck. 

“M-Matt–,” your eyes fluttered shut as he rocked you down harder against him, “oh, holy fuck… could you–, would you–”

“What?” the sound of his words made you feel dizzy, “what do you need?”

“Touch me,” you uttered hazily, head enchantingly tilted back. 

“Yeah?” he reeled back a bit as one of his hands scooped up to find your cheek. 

“Please,” you downright whined, “please, Matt.”

Keeping one hand fast in your hair, the other one moved to caress the soft peaks of your tits. 

“Here?” 

You let out a filthy whimper as he palmed you, “uhh, ngah–, lower–…” his hand teasingly complied, “lower…” till he finally cupped you through your pants. 

“Here?” he pressed down against the seam, “huh? Is it here, Y/n?

“Y-yes!” you shuttered on top of him as he rubbed your thrumming clit so perfectly through your clothing, “oh, f-fuck, you’re good at that–”

He stole a short, yet sloppy kiss from your lips before your head tilted down and buried itself in his neck. Your moans were muffled against the crook of his shoulder as you then glided your own fingers down along the length of his arm, feeling the muscles of his forearm tense beneath your touch as he worked you. Eventually, your hand found what it was looking for, your palm rested atop of his, almost like you were holding his hand as you felt it move beneath yours and stroke you silly. 

Your fingers then grasped his tighter as you plucked it further up and stuffed it into your waistband, guiding his reach all the way down till you soaked his digits. 

“Christ, you’re wet,” Matt groaned as your touch, ever atop of his, begged him to swirl your puffy pearl, “fuck…”

Without the barrier of clothing, your frame swiftly began to crumble from the ecstasy. Your right leg gave out and slid across Matt’s lap to where your other limb was. Your head drifted down as well as Matt’s arms only tightened around your slumped form, keeping you flush against him as you hid your features in the mass of his arm as your free hand clutched onto it. 

Curling into him as he cradled you, the way he petted your pussy nearly made you vibrate, “don’t stop, please,” you unintentionally kept wiggling down against the tent in his pants. 

“I won’t,” he breathed heavily as he kept on caressing you, occasional moans also flowing from his lips, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

His long middle finger then slid down to tease your leaking hole before just shyly sinking in, just barely, keeping everything so light, before fluttering up to circle your clit again and then dropping down to repeat the motion till he had you on the edge. 

When you tumbled over, both of your hands joined at his bicep, digging into it as his name shined through your lewd moan.

Catching your breath, his fingers gently slipped out of your pants. Sluggishly, you clung closer and snaked your arms around him. 

“You okay?” he hugged you tight. 

“Mhm,” you hummed into his warmth.  

Planting a soft peck on your hairline, he then moved to readjust your embrace, lowering you both till you were lying on the leather couch. 

After a moment, your fingers twisted in the southern material of his shirt close to his belt, “do you want me to–…”

“No need,” he shook his head. 

Tilting your chin up, you glanced at his soft expression, “really?”

“Yeah,” a bright smirk tugged at his lips, “just the way you sounded was beautiful enough to do the trick for me.” 

Grinning wide, you felt your face grow hot at the compliment, haven not realised the power he had over you apparently went both ways. 

Cuddling him closer, you lifted yourself up a bit and pressed a slow kiss to his lips. 

When you laid your head back down, he asked, “do you want something to drink?” his warm palm drew slow and soothing patterns all along your spine, “some more to eat maybe?”

“No,” you blinked up at him, utterly spellbound, “could we maybe just stay here like this a little longer?”

“Of course,” he relaxed further beside you, “we can stay like this forever if you’d like.”

A smile then crept up on your lips as you pointed out, “forever’s a very long time…”

Chuckling lightly, Matt nodded, “it is…”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[luvrodite]

ok wait i need to say something about the dick grayson thought i've been turning over in my head for a bit.

i unfortunately do like readers that are a bit tragic and don't get a happy ending. it's like poking at a bruise idk it's cathartic in its own way. anyway. i know the age difference between dick and jason isn't really that big but i think it's big enough for this to work?

anyway i'm thinking about the relationship you have with dick when he moves out of the manor. you guys fuck, sure, and sometimes you go out, but you're not his girlfriend. not really. it's casual, except it isn't at the same time because dick comes with a plethora of his own issues and for some reason you can't quite fathom, he's decided you're the only one that gets to see that side of him.

you see him like nobody else does. you get the good, the bad and the ugly. you hold him through his nightmares. you brush his hair back from his forehead when he stares at his phone a little too long. you come by when it's been a few weeks and you haven't heard from him.

somehow you kind of end up playing intermediary between him and the kid brother his dad/guardian/mentor/older brother picked up along the way. jason is sweet. and you can tell he longs for a relationship with dick but he's got so much going on. it doesn't matter. jason takes what he can get.

you wonder when you started getting involved in your hookups' lives. but then it feels reductive to call it that. what the two of you have spans beyond that. it's so much more than that. dick touches the lives of all that he meets and you aren't special for it, but you feel it. maybe to the others he knows, in their weird, dysfunctional world, it's normal.

but you're a regular citizen. you go to work. you come home and do the dishes. you cook, you clean, you curse out your landlord when he puts off fixing the heating for the nth time. dysfunctional relationships are alien to you – the weight of all dick gives you, it has to mean something. fuck the forehead kisses, it stopped being casual when he held your hand through a doctor's visit and the fibers in your pillowcase swallowed his tears after a run in with bruce.

you play intermediary. jason sees more and more of you than you think he should, but he doesn't complain. you even grow used to the little bugger. you don't have much in the way of your own family, and he becomes something like the kid brother you never had. you grow used to the inappropriate humour that shocked you the first time it came out of his mouth, blue eyes shining up at you mischievously.

his height gives off the impression he's more youthful than he is and sometimes you end up babying him a little more for it. sometimes, he lets you. you brush a hand over his curls like you do his brother and keep a hand on his shoulder when you go to the corner store. you tell him to pick out whatever he wants, and that it's on you. he looks up at you like you got him the moon when you toss him a copy of his favourite book after a while of not seeing him – yours is all beat up, kid, pretty soon you won't be able to read it anymore.

you don't know how to deal with it when he dies, not long after you and dick break things off.

15. only a baby.

it's violent. you get the news from the papers and the picture of the blast zone makes you stop breathing. dick doesn't pick up the phone – why would he? and you're not even sure if you're allowed to reach out.

the last you'd heard, he'd been pretty cosied up with a new co-worker of some sort. red hair, pretty eyes. more than you'd ever gotten from him. sure, you'd known dick – you knew him. you were the closest he'd ever been to anyone, but it had simply been because there was nothing to lose with you.

you hold his grief, hold his heart in your hands, but you are nobody and you will not ask for more because he sleeps in your bed and sometimes, he holds your hand in public when you're walking through a crowded street. you guys have good days and it's something.

but he’ll is not yours – will never be yours, not fully, not like he belongs to bruce and gotham and the titans and his team. you’re a girl who he comes to because you’re safe.

but his brother dies and he's gone and you're left with not only the heartbreak of losing something never named, but the grief of a real tangible friendship, the death of a brother.

you are nobody and nothing – you're not the one that gets the guy and you are not the one that gets to mourn. you see him at his lowest and love him at his worst but he is not yours, and neither is the little boy that dies much too young, alone and scared.

you fall between the cracks. nobody stops to think about the girl who'd sometimes been mentioned in passing at the dinner table, on the rare occasion dick ventured back home to the manor. how can they? not when bruce is driven near mad with grief, not when dick is god knows where and it's all that alfred pennyworth can do to keep his charge and himself together.

i don't know. i just think about how it takes you months to muster up the energy and courage to visit your friend's grave – because jason was your friend, too. the baby brother you'd never had, a kid you'd felt responsible for, like he was your own. the visit leaves you exhausted and it's of course then, that on your way out, you bump into the second half of your troubles.

dick stares at you like he's seen a ghost and all that happened between you lingers in the air, the weight of it oppressive in the cold winter air. frost in the air, frost clinging to your lashes, heartbreak colouring you blue.

you look at him and think of it – how much you had put up with from him. how dearly you'd loved him. stupid, to catch feelings, but you'd gone ahead and done it. worst of all, he'd known it, too.

there'd been a time, not so long ago, when you would have let him do anything he pleased. lay me down, strike me, hurt me, i will bear it because it is at your hand. and he'd known.

he'd known it was wrong but he was hurting and it’d been easy with you because you didn't ask for more than he’d give but you did hope. and he could see it in your eyes that you hoped he’d give himself wholly over to you but he just wasn't there. perhaps he never would be. and you deserved better but he couldn't let you go. his regret, one amongst many, is that he had not done it sooner. shielded you from more pain at his hand.

once, dick had something of a god to you. now he stands before you and you see him as he is, a mere man. a tired, grief-stricken, man.

the only mercy he grants you now, is to let you walk away.

blank blogs dni. minors dni. have your age in your bio otherwise you will be blocked!

[bwobgames]

It’s 10:50 pm

“Hey, how did it go. Are you alright with the kid or do we need to sleep with one eye open?”

“We’re good now”

“Although now I owe Sebastián a favour”

“Huh? Was he there?”

“Ah, well, he cleared some of my points”

“Man, perhaps I really should hire you as my social situation interpreter”

“Oh baby, for you it’s all free”

“You’re insufferable”

“Eepy time, then? Two Mimir? Did you brush your teeth on the way? I’m already done with my skincare routine”

“Heehoo”

“Yeah…”

He puts on his pyjama and sits for a little while.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah, nothing. I just… been thinking”

“About your dad again?”

“About the house.”

“Did you… feel something?”

“No but, what if this is, let’s say, some kind of evolution?”

“A sneakier house?”

“Maybe.”

“Remember when we analysed the doctor’s investigations? The feeling we proposed it might be?”

“Grief.”

“I fear that. If we or our friends or the other passengers or by accident…!”

“If someone breaks the current purpose, could we…?”

“Could someone accidentally give it a new one with their grief?”

“Are you thinking of someone specifically? Nina, maybe?”

“Ah, well, this thing is hosting a ton of people so, possibilities are not zero”

“Oliver. Do you think you…?”

“No.”

“No. I have nothing to grieve for. It’s been plenty of time already.”

“It’s not even been a month”

“I know. But by any means, I shouldn’t be grieving”

“Grandma lived a long and fulfilling life. She had her chickens. She had her family. She had just enough to be happy.”

“She never had to worry about the city life, content with the wonders of the south”

“Everyone got to see her at the hospital. And she died in her sleep. The most peaceful way to go”

“You even got to meet her. To talk to her. To know her. And she liked you”

“She liked you enough to ask to come by next year...”

“Oliver…”

“And she would’ve hated for us to be sad. She would’ve wanted us to throw a party instead of a gloomy funeral. To remember her as she wanted to.”

“By all means, I have no reason to be sad.”

“…But then why it still hurts so much…?”

The pressure in his chest, silently present since that day, grew tenfold.

He felt his as if his heart was painfully pumping tears out of his eyes.

It hurt. Even deeper than his chest. His heart. His soul.

For a second, he feared getting completely engulfed on it.

Until

A heart next to his, separated by a pair of ribcages.

“It that happens. I’ll fix it”

“I’ll buy this whole train if necessary. I’ll live in it. I’ll change it.”

“Grieve as much as you need. I’ll take care of the rest”

“So, don’t bottle this up any longer, okay?”

He thought he couldn’t cry any harder. He was wrong.

Grasping into Ángel, as if trying to completely unite their hearts, he let himself feel.

He misses her. He misses her. He can’t visit anymore. He doesn’t know what happened to the animals. He wishes he did more.

But the pain doesn’t eat him whole. There is a warmth to it.

A warmth embracing him, shielding him, applying a new pressure. A welcome one.

When he looked at that sunrise, he imagined a bright future. A perfect future.

One where Mozilla didn’t get sick. One where he wasn’t afraid of heights. One where he didn’t have nightmares.

One where everyone he loves lives forever.

Accepting reality used to be easier. When he wasn’t fragmented.

When he wasn’t haunting any buildings.

He should’ve spent more time with her.

He should’ve known, more than anyone, the importance of time.

He feels a kiss on his temple

“We’ll visit her, yeah? Every year. We’ll bring the prettiest flowers”

“She gave me her lemon pie recipe. I know I’m not the best, but”

“I’ll do everything to make it perfect”

This is the reality he lives in. And it’s the best it has ever gotten.

His pain might never pass. Part of him doesn’t want it to.

But it will always be cushioned around strong arms.

Accompanied by another beating heart, two ribcages away.

One day the pressure will be lighter, accompanied by joyful nostalgia. That day is clearly not today.

But he will look at the sunshine once more. Even if it’s cloudy.

He can be brave.

Because he knows that there will be times where he doesn’t have to.

His tears are not yet done with him, so he stays.

Ángel gently sways him side to side. It makes him sleepy.

Who could’ve thought that a busy day travelling and emotional turmoil would make him tired?

He closes his eyes and dozes off.

It’s 11 pm

<PREV START NEXT>

[swanlakex]

Hi! New to tumblr! Got really bored one day and decided to write a beginning to a little regency slow burn enemies to lovers with Anakin Skywalker 😭 Lmk if you would be interested in some more! This isn’t super historical accurate, either. I’m just writing along.

(Also sorry for the horrible layout idk how to use this app)

CW: death

The sound of your mother’s weeping flooded the porcelain castle halls. The servants looked around in horror and apprehension, some full of grief, some in fear of the future of their land. A land without a king.

You stayed in the hallway outside of your father’s chambers. He had been sick for some time, and despite the endless remedies and dozens of medics and apothecaries, his condition only festered throughout his body. Now, at nineteen, you stand outside with your siblings, nauseous with grief, to say goodbye to your father. A man that was nothing but strong, wise, discerning, and loved. By all his people. By the rich, the poor, the nobles, subjects, jests- all.

Your baby sister, Therese, shrunk to the floor beside you. Her hands shook as she buried her face in her handkerchief. Your brother, Louis, who always stood with height and honor, placed himself in front of you and Therese. Trying to shield you all from the horrors of life without the direction of your father.

Suddenly, a guard opens the door from the room your mother and father shared throughout all these years. “Come in,” he speaks softly, a foil to his strict training and brash uniform. “His majesty is ready to see you all.” With that, he turns and marches away.

You help Therese up as Louis creeps in ahead. Behind him, you see your mother sat next to Father on the bed, acting as his shroud. On top of the covers, her dress spills around the mattress and its frame as she rests her hands upon his arms. He’s awake, sat up, yet pale. Weak.

“Oh, Father!” Therese yawps as she runs to his side of the bed, knees falling as she throws her arms around him. She cries into his tunic, face buried.

He gently embraces her, careful to keep his strength. “My Therese,” he calls. Again and again. Louis and you walk up to him. Uncertainty paints your faces blue. “My children. My beautiful children.” Father reaches a hand towards you and Louis, you take it as Louis kneels beside him. Leaving you- the eldest- the one standing at your father’s deathbed.

“I have done many, many things in this life of mine. I have served my duties as a soldier, and carried prospects in the fruition of my throne. I have brought this country through famine and war to a renaissance and a golden age of art, peace, and freedom. But I leave you all with this- the very best thing I have ever done in this world is you all. The most rewarding act I’ve received is loving each of you, watching you grow. Seeing the noblemen and women you have bloomed into. I am so very proud, my children- for you have cured all afflictions, and carried the whole of my triumphs. And I-“

His voice croaks at the effort of speaking. Your sister and mother sob. Louis winces, his eyes boring into his father’s, like he is trying to remember each and every detail of his father’s face. “…I love you. All. With each synapse and every vein in my person. Being your father has been the greatest blessing and shining achievement of my living.”

Tears pour down your face. What is a life without your father? A life of doom- you expect. Who will heed the family? Who will heed the country? You begin to brace yourself for a life of risk, uncertainty, and despair. You will have to be married off, Louis must take the throne. At fifteen- he will become the country’s youngest king. He’s strong, you think. But young. He’s just a boy. He knows not of death, of war. Of power. What will come of the kingdom? Of you?

Oh, Father. Please come back to us. You beg to an empty sky.

Chapter One: l’appariement

You stand in front of the looking glass, clasping a necklace around yourself. Tears well up in your eyes as you look at the unrecognizable figure that stands before you. It is about to be the hardest day of your life since Father died- courting.

Of course, you detested the idea to your mother. To your siblings. To everyone in the castle that would listen, but you knew it had to be done. Despite being the eldest, A boy must rule. And that boy would be Louis. Before your father got sick, you put off the task of courting. I’m busy with my studies, Father. You would say. I’m too young now, we can always wait until next season. And he would. And the season after that. And the one after that, too. Because that’s the kind of father he was; he would support your education, even though it was labeled as taboo. He knew you were destined for something great.

But now, you knew it was time to stop putting it off. As much as you despised the idea, as the eldest, you had to honor your family. Especially now.

The least you could do is try.

So you inhale, you exhale. You make a point to think of your mother, your sister, your brother. And you leave your chambers, headed for the ballroom full of lousy, old suitors.

It’s not that you weren’t pretty. On the contrary, you had been told from a very young age that you were striking, graceful, captivating. No, your suitors were only so unfortunate because you made the decision of books at a young age instead of boys. In your culture, it’s customary for a royal daughter to begin seeking for a hand in marriage at fifteen. And here you were, nearly twenty years of age, five years late. All the so-called “distinguished, promising” men had snatched up the younger girls.

You always thought of it disgusting, the age gap of men to girls in your country. Girls- not women. It made your skin crawl. It’s unnatural, predatory. You almost were grateful that those kinds of men had already been wed, yet here you were, presenting yourself for.. let’s face it.. divorcées, the unfortunate looking, or distant , poor, far-off dukes who probably didn’t even speak the same language as you. You wanted to kick yourself at first, but you take pride in your intelligence, as you know it’s the most powerful weapon a woman can use.

To get to the ballroom, you first walk through the sitting room. There’s a few men in there already, and all conversation lulls as you cascade down, your gown slightly trailing behind you. Heads turn, but you keep your eyes down and quickly make your way to the ballroom doors. You only see shoes of men. Some tapping, some spread while sitting on chaises and loveseats, even some pacing in suspense. You finally slip out the door, and you are met with your family, your father’s army general, and your maid, Esme.

“You’re late.” Your mother scolds. “We’ve been waiting for almost ten minutes.” You just shake your head and look down as you sit at the head of the room. “Forgive me mother, I’m not exactly giddy for these sorts of arrangements.” Therese giggles at your boldness. “Hold your tongue, dear. We will see how today goes.” You look over to your brother next to you, he looks bored out of his mind, but he sits up straight and tries to appear respectful. He will make a fine king one day. You just worry. Then, the orchestra begins. You and your family rise in anticipation for the first suitor.

A man of you assume the age of 45 comes in, holding an array of flowers.

“Good morning, Your highness. My name is Philip Artemis Sissone XI.” Esme takes the flowers from him and sets them on a long table, the gift table you assume. This will take all day. “I have many aspects that will be of use to you- one including the gift of song.” He chirps. Oh God, you think. Before you can stop him, Philip reaches behind himself and pulls out a fiddle. He immediately plays with relentless vigor and passion, so much so that his tongue sticks out and his knees bend to the melody. With Philip lost in his own trance, you look over to Louis. He’s holding back a laugh. You both chuckle once you make eye contact, but your mother’s sharp look makes you stifle your laughter.

Suitor after suitor, this goes on for hours. By the end of the day, the gift table is so flooded that Esme had to start adding gifts underneath it, flowers and various spices spilling across the floor. Finally, the last man finishes his “gift”, a poem about your eyes. Was it good? No. But the sentiment is appreciated, you try to think.

You start to stand up, believing that this torture is over, but your mother’s voice interrupts you. “Y/N, we have one more. Please have patience.” You groan, slipping back into your seat. You straighten up as the doors open, and what meets your eyes almost rocks you to your core. A man, one who only must be a couple years older than you, dressed in a military uniform. Medals and badges adorn his chest and shoulders, and as you inspect him closer, he is striking. Beautiful, even. In his hand, he holds a small, singular lily. You stand, and he bows. “Your highness, My name is Anakin Skywalker.” He addresses himself incorrectly. Informally. You know by his uniform he is a war general, probably a royal one at that. He hands you the lily and you curtsy, thanking him. Despite his captivating face, his eyes are cold and distant. He tries to avoid eye contact with you, and when he does look at you, his eyebrows furrow. He speaks again. “I am sorry for the loss of your father. He was a great man. I, like many others, looked up to him. We mourn with you all.”

He gestures to your family behind you. You’re thrown off, he was the first man to even mention your father today. A wave of grief washes up against you. Just the act makes you want to tear up, but you push the feeling down into yourself. “Thank you, Sir Skywalker.” Your mother calls from behind you. He nods, his lips forming a thin line. There’s a moment of silence hanging in the air, and he breaks it. “Well, thank you for your time, your highness. Good day, Miss Y/N.” He says coldly as he bows again, and turns around to leave. You watch as he slips out of the door, frozen with confusion, yet also his beauty. You twist the stem of the lily in your hands, turning back to your family.

“How strange,” Therese says. “He barely even looked at you!”

“Marie Therese!” Mother calls out. “Leave her be.”

Later that night, relegated to your room, you stare out the windowsill. Esme had packed up and done away with most of the gifts, but you kept the lone flower on your armoire. You were confused by the man’s distant behavior. Just my luck, the only agreeable man I meet wants nothing to do with me. You sigh as you fall back onto your bed. You worry for the future, and for when you must actually pick someone’s hand. It will be quicker than you think, and your head spins at the responsibility you hold for your family. If only Father were here..

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: tyler owens x male reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: years ago, you broke up with him for his reckless lifestyle. now, when he's come back without changing a bit, you don't know why you let him back into your life.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.65k

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: angst, death is mentioned and tyler gets close to it not explicitly, kissing, swearing, baby as a nickname for your lover, lot of made up family members + names

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: cowboy slang vocabulary, yes it's 11pm, yes I wrote this in a day, yes I'm in bed, yes Glen Powells is hot

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Tyler Owens likes to live what others might call a dangerous life, although he much preferred to call it a life of thrill.

He started it off as a bull rider for a rodeo, and though by the end of it he was regarded as the star bull rider and sometimes even the star of the show, there was a big learning curve that ended him with a couple (something closer to four dozen, really) kicks on the ol' noggin. Luckily, none of it sprouted within him either physical or mental problems by the time he decided he wanted to move on; his mother always said he had a thick skull, anyway.

After the less dangerous, still excruciating years in university, he came out with a meteorologist degree. And what did he do with it? He became a storm chaser.

A peculiar fact that came with it was that even after landing a more dangerous job, he sustained less injuries than bull riding by a substantial amount. Suppose the thing is that the moment he gets his first serious one, he's likely done for.

You've been through it all.

You met him before he even started this life, in high school; your first kiss was at his bedside after a particularly harsh fall and kick, you persisted through the busier university schedule, and you supported his dreams to be a storm chaser.

But at the height of it all, after the first scare when the anchor mechanism on that old truck of his failed to stop the car from turning onto its side, you decided you two were over.

It was definitely selfish. You didn't want to be close to him when, and you said when, he died. You decided it would be a lot less grief on your end, and you know what? He understood you.

For years, you've been grateful for him. As much as you've been his anchor, he's been yours...but he'd have made you a widower, even if you were married or not, and you just couldn't take that possibility.

If you're caught in the disastrous thunderstorm he'll leave behind, you're not sure you'll ever make it out.

You hope you'll never find out.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

"Get your ten commandments out of my soup!"

So why did you let him walk back into your life?

"I'm sorry! Hey, don't hit me with that ladle!"

You're not sure.

You point the utensil at him as threateningly as possible, although it's practically the same thing as pointing a spoon at him. "I don't need you for a taste-tester, Owens, you best take note of that."

"Yeah, yeah," Tyler's body is shaking with laughs, even as he lifts his hands up in surrender. "yes, sir."

You roll your eyes, bedrugingly turning your back to him to keep chopping vegetables. Tonight, you'll be sharing this soup with the whole family, and you're currently trying your damnedest to make it good. That means avoiding whatever seasoning boiled Tornado Wrangler digits will bring.

Tyler leans back to admire you, no he's not looking at your ass, work away. It feels oddly domestic, even if he's sitting down like a useless husband watching TV on his recliner.

That feeling of domesticity is piled on further when he hears the sound of innocent laughing outside.

"You sure that kid's not mine?" Tyler suggests for the second time, gesturing out the back door with his head.

"Haha." You laugh sarcastically, not even giving him the satisfaction of turning his way. "No, my sister just so happened to marry a blonde. Even if she was somehow ours, I would've never kept you from her."

Of course you wouldn't have. You're too good for that.

The kid outside is your niece, a twelve year old girl shipped out of bustling New York City to the backdoor of America for being "too addicted to her phone", as your sister says. Despite her self-proclaimed hatred for the outdoors, she's actually having a lot of fun with the ranch dogs, who indulge her when they're not working.

Even though he's in no way related to the kid, and even if you and him could never biologically create anything together, he swears she looks just like if the two of you had a love child, which makes his heart swell all the more when she sees her.

"If we could've had one," Tyler begins, standing up to begin a slow, silent walk towards you. "would you have rather they be a boy or a girl?"

"Don't ask me that." You say with a laugh, meaning you're refusing to answer only because you don't want to have prejudice.

"Okay, fine, then." He settles behind you, pressing his chest to your back. "Huh."

"Huh, what, cowpoke?"

His hands are settled on the edge of the counter on either side of you, trapping you in. "I thought you'd flinch."

"I learned to expected the unexpected around you, Tyler Owens. Never a day went by that you didn't surprise me, so I decided I'd simply never be surprised."

Tyler sputters out a laugh. "Oh, hobble your lip!"

"It's true." You reply, offhandedly, fully concentrated on chopping some carrots, and Tyler hates that because you're not giving him attention.

So he opts to do something you'll obviously never expect and prove you wrong. He leans down to press his nose against your neck, and you think he's only going to kiss it, but instead...

Thbptttttt!

"Ew, Tyler, you did not!" It's a miracle you have the self-restraint to put the knife down, let alone only push him away and not slap him on the face. You clutch the spot where he just blew a raspberry and instantly regret it, recoiling away from the feel of his saliva like it's acid.

Tyler laughs. Despite your best efforts to push him away again as he approaches, he only dodges your hands and traps you against the counter again. His plan is accomplished, as he now has you facing him.

"You asshole." You snarl.

Tyler only smiles. "Yours, all the same."

He leans down to kiss right where he'd blown that raspberry, collecting most of his own spit on his lips and saving you the trouble of cleaning it himself.

Even when you wipe off the rest of the spit you'd previously touched on his sleeve, he laughs.

"What am I going to do with you?" You sigh, cupping his cheek and tilting his gaze towards yours.

He's a damn bastard, having the audacity to grin at you as if he's won some kind of victory. "Kiss me."

So he's a puppy, then. Licking you like it's a way of kissing and expecting a proper kiss back. "No, you don't deserve that."

He rolls his eyes, though his eyes find yours immediately after. "Yes I do. Kiss me."

You don't know why you let Tyler Owens walk back into your life like nothing happened. You don't know how you let him kiss your neck, or how you let him even ask to kiss you, or how you're even being friendly with him.

Scratch that, actually. You don't know why he kissed your neck, why he wants to kiss you, or why he's being friendly with you.

You walked out of his life, for God's sake. You walked out of his life because you feared dealing with the aftermath of his death.

He's a tornado. Tyler Owens, the tornado wrangling cowboy, is a tornado. He's a fire twister, even, the worst of the worst, a category F5. The damage he'll leave once he dies out won't be devastating, it'll be incredible.

That's what you're trying to avoid.

"What's wrong?" Tyler's smile has faded, his expression sobered up. Of course he can still tell when you're lost in your own thoughts.

"Nothing." You shake your head, wipe your nose to hide your sniffle and thus let go of his face. "Hey, how about you go check up on Sophie? My sister would kill me if she got hurt."

"Right, sure." He can sense something's wrong, but he withdraws anyway, respecting your decisions. He always does that, and you hate him for it, because he's so good.

You watch him head out the back door, and even as he closes it, you watch on.

He's too good for you.

When the distant sound of the boiling soup catches your ear, you inevitably tear your eyes away.

Right, let's make the best soup there ever was.

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Tyler had unknowingly picked the right time to show up at your front door when he did.

"Aww, come on, you didn't have to make such a big fuss," Your great uncle speaks with those sloppy dentures of his, but even with the wet sound of his gums and lips, he sounds entirely endearing. "Tyler's back! This party should've been his."

Tyler's always been the life of the party ever since you brought him home for that first Thanksgiving (his "trial", so to speak), and that apparently hasn't changed.

"Oh, no, no, you're kiddin' grandpa!" Tyler only raises his glass from where he's leaning against the punch table. "It's your birthday! Hell, I didn't even bring a gift!"

"Your fine ass is all you needed to bring." Your famously single aunt grins and sends a wink, holding a glass full of wine she snuck in despite all the children around.

Tyler directs his own glass towards her to thank her, his smile never waning. "Oh shush, aunt Delilah."

As Tyler greets the family one by one, all of which clearly miss him, you're in the corner of the room pointing out each of them to your niece.

"Those are your cousins...I think. They're your mom's cousin's kids, and well...whatever, they're Jonas' kids. Becky, Jake, Bean–"

"Bean?"

"Sorry, his name's Nick, we just call him Bean 'cause one time as a toddler we found him sitting on a sack of raw beans, shovelling them into his mouth."

"That's crazy."

Even after you've named every face in the room and sent Sophie away with a pat on the head to mingle with her...cousins, Tyler's still talking to everyone.

Your heart burns like you've had some of uncle Dick's famous dripping fried chicken at the sight of it because nobody's ever like this when it's just you.

It's not even about the fact you're forgotten, it's a big family and you have your own close group of cousins in the middle of all of them, it's the fact that they missed him.

While you're distracted, your mom pulls you down to sit beside her on the couch, where your dad is telling another story of his. Many of your aunts and uncles and distant cousins are gathered around him, listening intently, but as you actually hear the contents of his speech, your attention fades away. It's one of those stories he always tells, about how the crop cycle was ruined until he had this eureka idea.

Distantly, you hear Tyler droning on about his whole tornado wrangling cowboy thing, explaining his latest feat like it's nothing but a regular Tuesday. He's got a lot more people gathered around him than your dad; not to discredit your dad, as he's doing his best trying to compete against Tyler in storytelling, but you know how that will end.

You kiss your mother on the cheek and stand up to find your more amicable cousins, only to be interrupted by your aunt Sissy, Delilah's sister.

"Hey, darling! How've you been?" She calls you over and immediately slings an arm around your neck, holding you close and rubbing your cheeks together in greeting.

"Good, good." You say immediately, an instinctual white lie as you wipe her transferred makeup off your cheek.

She doesn't even notice you're lying to her, maybe doesn't care enough to notice, before she's nodding her head towards Tyler and his crowd. "I'm so happy you're back together with Tyler, he must have so many new stories to tell."

"Um, actually, auntie," You try to correct her, then bite your lip, pausing suddenly to think. It'd probably be a lot better if you let her believe you were back together, but you've already dug yourself into saying actually. "we're–"

"Hey, auntie Sissy!" Tyler suddenly appears beside you like he wasn't just across the room, leaning down to gracefully accept the cheek kisses in greeting. He somehow comes out of it without getting stained. "How have things been? The old cat still slinking around the neighbors' yards?"

The two of them exchange a few words before he's slinging an arm around your shoulder, "Can I borrow this one real quick? It'll just be a sec."

"Sure, sure!" Whether an insult to your presence or a compliment to his coercion tactics, she's more than happy to let the two of you go. "Don't let me hold up your fun."

You're grateful for him steering you away from the party and out onto the front porch, but you're also dreading being alone with him after the whole thing in the kitchen.

Tyler doesn't seem too far off.

"Whew, I did not miss being around your family." He breaths out, leaning against the porch's railing.

The whole dread fades into confusion as he says that, and you lean against the spot beside him. "You didn't?"

"No...well," He shakes his head, "I missed hanging out with them. I did not miss having to tell them every single detail about where I've been since I've last seen them."

"I thought you liked telling them stories." You hummed, turning your gaze from the scenery ahead to him.

"Eh...I much prefer intimate crowds." He sends a wink. You flush and try to turn away, but he catches your cheek and stops you.

Tyler knows something is wrong, has known since you discreetly pushed him away earlier today in the kitchen. Looking into your eyes only further convinces him.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

His eyes narrow. His stupidly beautiful blue-green eyes narrow at you, and you know you can't lie anymore...but you can deflect.

"Did you know your eyes are blue and green?" You ask, lightly tapping his hand that sits on the railing.

"(Y/N)."

"Blue rim. Green...center? No, that's not the word, the inner? God, I don't know." You shake your head, and despite the movement, his hand doesn't leave your cheek.

"(Y/N)."

"They remind me of the classic scenery." You hold a pointer finger out. "Blue sky, green lawn, right? Or the Windows default wallpaper. Both are iconic."

His other hand leaves the railing and takes your other cheek. "Baby, look at me."

Baby. You used to hate it when he called you that, you weren't some baby, but now...now, how you've missed it.

You sigh, closing your eyes momentarily to collect yourself. No more deflecting and no more lies. You actually had to talk about your feelings now.

It had taken a lot of courage the first time, telling him: yes, I still love you, I'm just selfish and think that if you die, you'll take me down with you; no, I know you won't actually kill me, but you'll take my soul with you, and that's practically the same thing, isn't it?

"You don't have to tell me anything." Tyler speaks up before you do, beckoning your eyes open. "You just have to tell me to go away again, if that's what you want."

"No," You instinctively say.

"No," You say immediately.

No. No, how could you? You did once, and you're not sure how.

"Stay." You say, because you want it, you want him to stay.

"Okay." He says it easily, and his hands fall to his sides. He's willing to take that, just that, because...you don't know, maybe he still loves you. You're not willing to admit that.

You're not willing to accept that he still loves you after you told him you wanted to break up.

You take his hand before he can walk back into the party. "Why'd you come back?"

"I..." Tyler almost shrinks back, but you intertwine your fingers, and now you're the angler reeling him back in. "My car got flipped onto it's roof."

"Baby." You breathe out, pulling him in, pulling him closer to you, almost like he's not living flesh in front of you and you need to make sure he's breathing by feeling his chest heave against you.

"I was in the hospital for a little while...just some cuts." He assures first, to not worry you. He grabs both your hands, presses his nose to the knuckles, inhales the scent of their sweat like it's that of an apple pie, and it's weird but he needs it. "The glass broke, obviously, all of it, and some of my equipment, and, well, fuck, it was worse than a couple cuts."

"Ty."

"I'm okay, you see? Not scarred. I'm tough." He lets go of your hands momentarily to do a little twirl for you. He looks just the same as you left him.

"You almost died." You say anyway.

"Yeah." He doesn't deny it, he can't lie, because he can see through your lies as well as you can see through his. "I wanted to see you again, because...I wanted to see you in case the next time I got into an accident, I actually died. And you know what? I feel selfish for it."

"What? No." You shake your head, step closer. You're about to say more, but he starts first.

"You told me to stay away, but I came back into your life and I acted like nothing happened. You know, the life you're living? It's kind of what I wanted for us. A little ranch, some cows, some dogs, a farm. We get our own milk, our own eggs, grow our own food, and it's just the two of us..." His fingers climb up your arm like a little spider, and his gaze follows it absentmindedly. "Until we decide to adopt a little girl. You drive her to school, I drive her back home. We're happy, raising her. We teach her not to be like us, and she still turns out an exact replica of us, anyway. She's our princess."

"Sophie?"

"Sophie."

He sniffles. You tear your hand away from his only to cup both of his cheeks with your hands. "I'm so sorry, Tyler."

"No, I–"

"No, shut up." Despite the severity, you laugh, and he does too, until you're speaking again. "I shouldn't have left. I should've stayed right there with you. I'd have been right at your bedside, you know? I'd have kissed you like the first time. Remember what I said?"

He laughs again, "That my breath tastes like cow shit?"

"Yeah, that." You grin at him, and he loves to see you grin like that again. "I was selfish."

"I understood you completely, though. I thought I was saving you the grief." That's why he let you leave so easily, and you realize it now, looking into his eyes. "You were right. You always are."

"I'm not, Tyler. I was wrong." You shake your head, "I thought it worked. Weeks went by when I didn't think about you, because I fought the memories of you back. A year after, it settled in that I wouldn't be seeing you, so I thought I wouldn't even think about you anymore, but...the memory of you, your smile, your kisses, your warmth resurfaces every month, and god, I missed you. And missing you without the possibility of having you is just grieving you."

"...and now I'm here." He leans a bit further away, and you see all of him. You see the way his blue-green eyes are glassed over, and you've no doubt yours are the same; you see the familiar way his hat is perched above his head and how he still wears the top two buttons of his shirt undone and how his smile is just the same.

"And now you're here." You nod.

He places his hands over your wrists, holds them, presses his nose against yours. "I missed you too."

"Mhm?" You hum. Your breaths mingle with his, pressed this close together.

"And I love you, too. Still do."

"Fuck." You laugh, a teary little thing, but it's real and genuine and not a figment of his imagination. "I love you too."

And then you kiss, and he's missed it so much, and you've missed it so much, the two of you. You're slotted together, like pieces of a puzzle. You're not you without him and he's not him without you.

When you part, you wipe a couple stray tears off his cheeks, and he does the same for you.

"Should we..." He chokes a little on his words, then shakes the nerves off. He has you back, and his smile returns. "head back?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we should." You find yourself leaning back in, anyway.

You share another kiss, maybe two. If he'd brought a friend or three along, he'd have signalled them to light the fireworks in his truck to add a little magic to it, even if it already feels like fireworks are going off between your lips.

You could spend eternity like this.

When you've had enough of each other for the moment and finally head back in, your great uncle raises his spoon at you and laughs. "There you are! This soup is amazing, kid!"

Or at least that's what he would've said, had his dentures not gotten stuck in a hard carrot and splashed right back into his bowl.

One of the carrots which you added last, thanks to Tyler's distraction earlier today.

The tornado wrangler of a boyfriend you've regained is laughing his ass off beside you, while you cringe. So much for the perfect soup.

"Come on, (Y/N)." Tyler wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, and you're so happy he can do it casually again.

"Let's get us a bowl."

[hunters-vigil]

The Archon's Baby - Chapter 19 - This is War

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Warnings: pregnant!reader, topic of death, mentions of loss of limb (may be slightly graphic?), grief, revenge, presumptive character death, trauma, mentions of blood, poor writing of emergency trauma medicine.

Fic under the cut, don't repost my stuff on other platforms, i have ao3. Reader is not the traveller. Reader's adoptive sisters are Chasca and Chuychu.

Chuychu always worried about Chasca losing control, and not just because it scared you, or her. But what Chuychu worried about didn't matter anymore. Chuychu was gone, you were gone, your baby-Chasca didn't want to think about it, the abyss whispering in her ear as growls escaped her lips.

"Chasca? Where are your sisters? Chasca, are you alright?" Paimon's voice couldn't break through, the floating silver creature pausing as The Traveller put their arm out to stop Paimon getting any closer.

"Can you tell us what happened?" The Traveller asked carefully, golden eyes carefully watching the grieving eldest sister.

Chasca's fists were clenched, each breath a struggle as she fought back from the brink of losing control.

"It came out of the sky, right in front of us. Chuychu tried to grab her, then she tried to shield Chuychu. They both went over the edge. Traveller, they don't have anything to help them fly. They… they couldn't have survived that drop unaided." Chasca forced her eyes away from the cliff edge, meeting the Traveller's gaze.

The Traveller took a step closer to the edge, shielding Paimon's eyes as she gasped at the bloodied boot, spotting something that Chasca hadn't… the boot hadn't fallen off of Chuychu's foot. Her foot was there too…

"My little sisters are gone…" Chasca gasped, tears falling down her face like a waterfall, "the baby… the Archon's… my baby sisters, I was supposed to protect them-" she sobbed, gasping for air, not seeing a faint glow descending from above her, until it wasn't able to be unnoticed any longer, as someone emerged from the light.

"How unfair life can be… she's had the odds stacked against her from the very beginning, and each step forward has been an agonising one. Maybe she would have been better off embracing her pain…" Menilek began as he chose his tribe's hero of this generation, standing closer to the Traveller, to give Chasca that time to grieve, "but her journey goes on, and one question looms in her mind: if she could rise above the pain, and ascend over the dark clouds in her mind… what then would she find?"

Menilek looked up to the sky, "maybe the glorious light of the sun, or maybe a dark empty void… there is only one way to find out. She needs to spread her wings and fly to new heights… that is the true meaning of life."

The Traveller's question went ignored, but yes, Menilek was from 500 years ago, as he walked over to Chasca, "my life's suffering shall become my epitaph, to remember the pain I endured, and finally transcended." The warrior faded immediately after, leaving Chasca heaving for air as she took a grip of her ancient name. Vuka, meaning transcension.

She was silent as she turned to the two, the Traveller only nodded in understanding as their eyes met. Eventually, Chasca returned with the two to the stadium, not speaking to anyone as she walked besides them. Whispers immediately began as people took in the sight. Chasca left the stadium with her younger sisters, but she returns alone.

Mavuika's heart dropped as she spotted Chasca walking in, supported by the Traveller with Paimon floating next to them. Where were-

"Chasca?" Mavuika's voice was desperate to waver, but she held strong, digging her nails into her gloved palms.

"We will recover their bodies once this is over. We still have- we still have more important things to do. If we want to honour what my sisters stood for… Mavuika, we need to hurry." Chasca held her hand over her heart, feeling a warmth flood in from Mavuika's body. A fiery warmth of rage and revenge.

"This war ends now." Mavuika clenched her fist, her fingernails digging into her leather gloves. She could not give into her grief now, there was no time for her to mourn what the abyss had stolen. She needed to avenge you, the love of her life, avenge your twins, her babies, and avenge her would-be sister-in-law…

Mavuika's fire burned angrier than ever, her hair almost spontaneously errupting into flames as she and her six heroes made their way into the arena.

///

What Chasca didn't know would hurt her. The last thing she heard was her sisters screaming, falling to their presumptive deaths, the young iktomisaur screeching in distress as she fell too… but often in nature, when a baby cries out, an adult will come to the rescue.

The last thing you felt before falling was Chuychu, wrapping your arms around her, pulling her in to shield her, shield your belly. You buried your face in her shoulder, missing out on seeing the elemental shield surround you both as you ended up on the ground, everything going dark.

You only awoke feeling something soft nudging you, cooing in your face. "Mhm… what?" you groaned, your hands immediately going to your belly as your eyes opened, meeting your older sister's tired green ones.

"You're okay, your babies are okay…" Chuychu whispered, wincing in pain as she moved her hands from where they'd been checking on your bump, to her foot… or lack of it.

"Where's your foot- ow!" you grimaced, holding your head as you tried to sit up too fast.

"Easy… you need to slow down… no wonder you kept up with Mavuika so easily, you're so stubborn that she'd be wrapped around your finger, how did none of us see it sooner?" Chuychu grumbled, trying to fix her tourniquet herself.

"A lot of lessons from what I can only describe as Mavuika's PR team, or is it HR? I can never remember, but they've probably all quit by now," you replied, carefully moving your hand over to tighten the tourniquet for your older sister. Your older sister who was missing her foot, and losing far too much blood… was that ice trying to cauterize the wound?

The cooing caught your attention again, turning your head to almost get a mouth full of adult iktomisaur fur, spotting the infant iktomisaur you'd kept with you curled up, sleeping under the adult's wing.

You were both alive, for now...

[sailorgoon13]

Theodore Nott

Basics:

Full Name: Theodore Nott

Nickname: Theo

Gender: Male

Date of Birth: 4 November, 1979

Heritage: English/ Italian

Blood Status: Pure Blood

Wand: Blackthorn, Unicorn hair, 11 3/4", Slightly Flexible

Appearance:

Hair Color: Dark brown, a bit fluffy

Eye Color: Striking baby blue

Skin Tone: Olive

Height: 6'

Body Type: Lean and athletic. Tall, well proportioned

Style: Well-fitted jeans or chinos paired with a crisp button-down shirt or a cashmere sweater. Accessories are key to his look, with luxurious touches like leather loafers, silk scarves, and perhaps even a designer watch or cufflinks. His color palette leans towards darker tones like charcoal, navy, and deep burgundy

Features: Confidence, Mysterious aura, Sharp wit, Distinctive voice, Leadership

Personality:

Traits: Reserved, Loyal, Manipulative, Intelligent, Emotionally Complex

Likes: Privacy, Fine literature, Refines tastes, Debates, Chess

Dislikes: Arrogance, Lack of ambition, Betrayal

Hobbies: Quidditch, Reading, Playing Piano

Fears: Vulnerability, Rejection, Turning to the Darker side

Family and Friends:

Father: Mr. Nott

Valued Pure-Blood status

Supporter of Voldemort's cause/ Death Eater

Mother: Mrs. Nott

Died when Theo was young

Instilled his love for literature and fine art

Taught him Italian

Friends: Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Lorenzo Berkshire, Mattheo Riddle

Magic:

Special Abilities: His father taught him darker magic when he was young, though he doesn't like to use any of it. Particularly good at charms and hexes

Boggart: A memory of when he witnessed his mother dying

Patronus: Fox

Polyjuice: Would look velvety black with sparkling flecks of gold and silver. Smell like earthy Italian herbs and leather books with a hint of roses. It might taste like dark chocolate infused with hints of espresso and blackberry, with a subtle undertone of smoky oak and vanilla

Amortentia: Bergamont, Sandalwood, Freshly Brewed Coffee, Dark Chocolate

Backstory:

Theodore Nott was born into a prestigious pure-blood wizarding family, his childhood filled with the enchanting landscapes and rich cultural heritage of Italy. His mother, a talented witch with a passion for art, literature, and music, imparted upon him a love for the finer things in life. She taught him how to speak Italian, play the piano, and appreciate the beauty of the magical world around them.

However, Theodore's childhood took a tragic turn when his mother passed away, leaving him with a profound sense of loss. Compounding his grief was the revelation that his father, though also deeply devoted to his family, had been a follower of Voldemort. With Voldemort's downfall, Theo's father met his demise, leaving Theo with conflicting emotions and a sense of isolation.

Despite his father's past affiliations, he distanced himself from his family's dark legacy, choosing instead to honor his mother's memory by embracing the values she had instilled in him. He found comfort in the company of his friends, particularly during Christmas vacations and over the summer, when he would often stay with classmates Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Mattheo Riddle, and Enzo Berkshire.

Throughout his years at Hogwarts, Theodore excelled academically and athletically, distinguishing himself as a talented and ambitious student. His keen intellect, strategic mind, and refined tastes set him apart from his peers, earning him both admiration and envy. Despite facing teasing and discrimination for his softer side and Italian accent, Theo remained resilient, drawing strength from the bonds of friendship that sustained him.

He discovered a passion for Quidditch, becoming the star keeper for the Slytherin team. With each dive and save, he felt a sense of freedom and exhilaration, leaving behind the weight of his worries and losses, if only for a moment.

Academics:

Best Subject: Charms

Favorite Subject: DADA (But he won't tell you its really Astronomy)

Favorite Professor: Flitwick

Worst Subject: Ancient Runes

Least Favorite Subject: Divination

Least Favorite Professor: Slughorn

Student Life:

Academically excels in his studies, particularly in subjects like Potions and Charms

A regular fixture in the Hogwarts library, spending hours poring over ancient texts and refining his magical skills, teaching himself a new language, (Or really just hiding behind a romance novel)

Respected by his classmates for his intellect and admired for his cool demeanor, though some may find him enigmatic or intimidating.

He enjoys spending time in the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, honing his skills as Keeper

He also indulges in his love for art, literature, and music

Girls at Hogwarts are drawn to Nott's confidence, intelligence, and refined tastes, finding themselves mesmerized by his cool demeanor and mysterious aura

While he remains discreet about his romantic interests, there is no shortage of girls vying for his attention and affection.

Template: @hazyange1s

[syndrossi]

October Trick or Treat Fill #8: Jaehaerys receives word of the twins

This time we have a trick! Which in this case means "something that wasn't on the prompt list." Though it could mean something entirely different next time it appears as a poll option, so be warned...

This fill won't make much sense unless you've read Fill #7 aka the first part of Regnal AU aka "consummation babies" as it's a continuation of that, where we get Jaehaerys's POV of receiving Baelon's letter sharing the happy news.

x~x~x

Father,

I bring joyous tidings from Runestone: our family has grown by two! After a day’s brave labor, my good-daughter brought forth a pair of screaming babes, furious at being parted from the safety and warmth of the womb. Though the birth came one moon early and they are yet small, their lungs are quite healthy indeed, and the maester assures me that they are as healthy as can be.

Your heart would swell to look upon them, as mine has. The name of the eldest is yet to be decided, as it is a matter of fierce debate between Daemon and Lady Rhea, but the younger is to be Aemon. He is the very image of my brother. I swear that I can see him in his eyes—not only the color, though that too they share, but the manner in which he studies me, as though he knows things that I do not. His hair is strikingly light of color, just as Aemon’s, though the maester has reminded me that it will yet darken, perhaps to something more like mine own. Selfishly, I wish otherwise. 

And the eldest! Daemon is insistent that he should be Baelon, after my own name, while Lady Rhea favors Hubert or Rodrik, after her great-uncle. He reminds me of Rhaenys at birth, hair dark like his mother’s. His eyes are as a field of lupin clouded by storm, and it is already plain to all that he has a warrior’s heart. If his brother is out of his sight for but a moment, he howls his displeasure at the world, whereas his brother Aemon howls whenever he is given into Daemon’s arms, much to my son’s dismay.

Words cannot describe how it is to hold them. I feel as though a piece of my own heart has been returned to me, and I am certain that they are destined for greatness. You may discount such as a proud grandsire regarding his first grandsons, but it is more than that. You will understand when you meet them.

All of this to say that it is my intention to remain at Runestone beyond the original moon I had planned. I beg your indulgence in this matter. The realm is peaceful and we are at the height of summer, in a time of plenty. Should that change, I shall of course hasten back to your side, but Daemon is yet young to be a father, at only seven-and-ten. Although he has made great strides as a husband since the wedding, I would offer him whatever guidance and wisdom he needs. It is quite a thing, after all, to suddenly find oneself a father twice over!

Please give my love to Mother and sweet Gael. They will adore the twins as surely as I do. I only wish our family could meet them sooner! It is the maester’s recommendation that they remain at Runestone until their first year has passed. As such, I seek your guidance on the matter of dragon eggs for their cradle. I know that you have forbidden that any be taken outside of King’s Landing, but it is good for the health of the babes. I implore that you consider it. If you are amenable, I shall gladly fetch and safeguard them myself.

Your son, etc,

Baelon

Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a celebratory sip of wine as he reread the missive from his son once more. It was far cheerier in tone than anything his son had written in the years since Aemon’s death, which was heartening on its own. He had hoped that his son’s first grandchild might grant him reprieve from his grief, but his joy at Rhaenyra’s birth had been fleeting. That he had named the younger child after Aemon, however—that spoke to a healing all its own. Merely hearing his brother’s name spoken would on occasion plunge him into despair.

Twins. Jaehaerys looked out the window of his solar, into the warm morning sun piercing through. Was it a good omen, or ill? Rhaella and Aerea’s birth had been heralded as a blessing, yet his sister’s family had come to sorrow and ruin. Aerea’s death—

He set his wine cup down, mouth tightening at the memory of it, even after all these years. It had been a thing of horror, but best not let himself fall into the trap of superstition over reason. He had watched his line dwindle over the years, sons and daughters claimed by death, one by one, to Alysanne’s everlasting grief. The holdfast stood nigh empty, save for Baelon, Gael, and Viserys’s small family.

His sons had given him but three grandchildren, and from them, three great-grandchildren.

For Daemon to have nearly doubled that number was encouraging, and made suffering his grandson’s bitter protests over his match with Rhea Royce more than worth it. Rasher than his father, and with an arrogance not matched in deed. Fatherhood can only improve him.

Would that he could swap Daemon’s success for Viserys’s lack. The match between Viserys and Aemma had been more than fitting, and yielded a great-granddaughter, but his granddaughter had suffered four miscarriages already, which did not bode well for future children from his eldest grandson. And yet it was Viserys who would take the throne someday, after Baelon’s reign.

Even so, the birth of two great-grandsons was to be celebrated. At not even nine moons past the wedding, they could very well have been conceived that very first night. If the gods are good, it is a sign of things to come.

That the children had been born at Runestone was unfortunate. It meant waiting for their presentation to court, though that could also be for the best. He was no stranger to sons who never reached their first name day. But if Runestone’s maester insisted they were in good health, despite the twins’ early birth, then that was encouraging.

I could send Allar to attend at Runestone, Jaehaerys mused. Doubtless a house of Royce’s standing would have a capable maester, but royal children deserved the very best of care. And then there is the matter of the dragon eggs.

There was a reason his son’s letter had taken on a wheedling tone. He greatly misliked the thought of any eggs leaving the care of the Dragonpit or the well-guarded holdfast. Elissa Farman’s theft was not so distant as to have fallen out of memory. There would be those who might expect dragon eggs to find their way to Runestone, and seek to steal them.

If they are as healthy as the maester claims, then they have no need of them. When the babes were old enough to travel, they could be brought to King’s Landing and have dragon eggs placed in their cradle then. Doubtless his wife would petition Baelon every moon to have them brought here.

His eyes fell once more upon the one paragraph that had drawn his attention. I am certain that they are destined for greatness. Baelon was inclined toward excessive pride in his children, as he had been with both his own sons’ births. But for him to insist upon it, to have already found such solace—

Jaehaerys sighed, feeling his bones creak with the motion. Baelon’s dark mood since Aemon’s death had been a matter of concern for years now. His son attended to his duties as Hand with diligence, but little satisfaction. Jaehaerys had begun to fear that the Iron Throne would be the same for him, a burden rather than an opportunity. It was not a fear he would have had a decade before, when his sons had been eager with possibility.

If anything happens to the babes, it could plunge him into despair. In that, his son was far more alike Alysanne than him. Precautions would be needed, but perhaps the prospect of Baelon finding new purpose outweighed the risk of dragon eggs falling into the wrong hands. After all, no dragons had come of the eggs lost before.

He may have his dragon eggs, but I cannot fathom what he is thinking in allowing Lady Royce to entertain such names for a Targaryen child. That must be quickly settled. Daemon’s stubborn pride is of some use here, at least.

Jaehaerys took up his quill. It will be a pain to be without him for a time, but Hightower has been agitating for his younger brother to be appointed to some role within court. He can take this opportunity to prove his usefulness in Baelon’s absence.

[malice-ov-mercy]

Din Evigt,

Pairing: vampire!Jolly Karlsson x Nicholas Ruffilo

Content Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH(S), 18+, mentions of alcohol and smoking (weed and cigarettes), age gap (bc vampire), blood, gore, grief and loss, killing/murder (vampires gotta eat), mentions of dead body(s), handjob

Word Count: 10.9k

A/N: I spent 6 months writing this. This is my fucking baby, my fucking pride and joy. There’s definitely probably some inaccuracies (looking specifically at the Swedish meatballs bc apparently those were introduced to Sweden in the 1700s), but this is fake. We can pretend everything is Right and Correct. And in case it I didn’t make it obvious enough, this is supposed to be set in the late 1960s/early 1970s.

Translations can be found at the end. Google translate is only so reliable.

bat & drip divider by @adornedwithlight

Jolly Masterlist

Ruffilo Masterlist

Centuries. He’d been alive for centuries—watching the world change so rapidly yet at a snail's pace. A lifetime’s worth of tragedy and an equally amassed infinity of happiness. If one could call it life, Joakim thought his immortality a blessing and a curse. Despite every attempted stake, misplaced blame for the Black Death, and horrific, blistering boils from days of sunlight, he persevered—outliving every one of his enemies and spitting on their graves.

Throughout his travels, Joakim outgrew the need of a conscience, having lived up to both the terrifying fables and the saccharine romanticizations of his kind. Trial and error shaped his morals more than any judgment ever could. He killed. He loved. He hated. He did what he needed to survive.

Even now, swimming unnoticed through a sea of bodies under the influence and a rhythmic buzz vibrating in his bones, Joakim saw an endless feast. A younger, immature him would have caused a scene without regard. Sometimes he missed the havoc and chaos, but he enjoyed his freedom more.

Though a quick drink wouldn’t hurt, he thought.

Joakim could afford himself the luxury of being picky. The night was young and there was no shortage of bodies. He took a moment to observe the crowd, searching for one sound of mind. A woman who looked about his age—well, his age before he was turned—caught his gaze. Her head was completely shaved and she was very tall, though he’s unsure if the height is hers or from the clunky black boots that disappeared under her long black dress. She stands out but in a way that makes it seem on purpose. Two men, one half her age and the other about the same age as her join her side, the older of the pair greeting her with a kiss.

Joakim’s been many things, a homewrecker and more in every sense of the word, and that part of his life is long ago and buried with the last family he tore apart.

To his right, a movement catches his attention. He spots a man fully engrossed in the men on stage, a joint and cup in one hand, the other pushing back his long raven locks. Joakim watched him for a long moment, admiring the way the lights dance across his face and paint his features in color. He can’t tell the color of his eyes, but he can see they’re light.

As if the man felt his gaze, he looked in Joakim's direction. His first few glances missed him but when he eventually found the man staring him down, Joakim felt his breath hitch. If his heart still beat, he’s sure it would be racing. Unkempt scruff lined his jaw. The color of his eyes was still a mystery to him, so unique and unlike anything he’d ever seen in his long life. It made him all the more striking.

The man fixed him with a small smile and nod, lifting his drink and joint in greeting. Joakim returned his smile then turned his attention back to the stage, pretending he cared about whatever raucous and offensive this cacophony called music was. Always a lover of the arts, though this new fangled genre coined metal was harsh on his ears. Joakim wasn’t much of a fan.

Time passed. Each song sounded the same. Joakim couldn’t focus on the music if he tried. His mind was occupied with what he could only describe as silver eyes. He missed the warmth that spread through him every time the man tried sneaking a glance. At some point, he disappeared and Joakim felt colder than ever. He almost decided on leaving, checking a less crowded space for a meal until something nudged his side.

The man from earlier stood beside him. He offered Joakim one of the cups with a friendly, polite smile. Joakim stared for a beat, taken back by the gesture, before accepting with a smile of his own. He declined the joint, never finding the pleasure in the stuff.

It was hard to hear over the heavy bass and pounding of drums, but he learned the man’s name was Nicholas. He wished was able to clearly hear the sound of his own name coming from him. He’s sure he’d like that infinitely more than the assaulting barrage of noise in the air.

Quickly, Joakim found himself enamored. He wasn’t particularly fond of small talk. It was always dull and drab but somehow always necessary. However, with Nicholas, it flowed easily. Joakim wanted to know every little detail no matter how mundane—if he liked cream and sugar with his coffee, if he preferred the quiet solace of night or the refreshing exposure of the sun's rays in the morning. Did he find beauty in dreary rainy days? Could he see horror in the clearest blue days?

The abrasive music faded into the background the longer they talked and before either of them knew it, the show concluded and the inebriated crowd began dispersing. So lost in his conversation with Nicholas, Joakim forgot all about his hunger until Nicholas offered to buy him a late night meal. The last real food he’d eaten was a mystery to him. It was sometime before the turn of the century and was certainly nothing to write home about.

Truthfully, human food was the last thing he wanted, but it was an excuse to spend more time with Nicholas—and how could he possibly turn him down when he looks at him so expectantly?

Joakim agreed.

“Great!” Nicholas beamed, not even bothering to mask his elation. “It’s not a far walk, but I’d rather take my Mustang.”

Happily, he followed Nicholas closely, falling in step with him and just as eagerly listening to him excitedly ramble about the show. His enthusiasm was endearing and the way he spoke of the musicians so highly made Joakim wish he cared even the littlest about the style. When asked, Nicholas was shocked Joakim wasn’t a fan. He explained he simply wanted to experience the brash environment and give the music a chance in a live setting, learning rather quickly that maybe it just wasn’t for him.

So engrossed in conversation, Joakim hadn’t noticed they’d arrived at their ride until Nicholas grandeurously gestured to a contraption on four wheels.

A car, not a horse. Sleek, black, and well taken care of. It was real nice, a real beauty and probably highly desired, but Joakim hated cars. Too fast, much too loud, and dangerous. He missed the days of horse and carriages.

Joakim scowled at the glorified metal death box, giving Nicholas pause as he reached for his door.

“Something wrong?” He asked, voice laced in genuine concern.

“This is… not what I expected when you said mustang.”

Nicholas huffed an amused breath. “What were you expecting? I think it’s a rather nice car.”

He crossed his arms and leaned on the open door, waiting for Joakim to reply.

“Ah—“ Joakim didn’t know how to tell him he expected a horse. Though, thinking about it now, he’s even less sure why he expected one to begin with.

Slightly embarrassed, he quickly stepped around Nicholas and settled into the passenger seat, ignoring his amused smirk as he shut his door. The inside smelled heavily of smoke, a mix of both nicotine and weed invading his nose. Despite the unpleasant stench, the interior was just as pristine and clean as the exterior—mostly black with some wooden trims. The seat was more comfortable than Joakim expected. There wasn’t much of a center console, just a large thing and a stick separating the passenger and drivers seat.

Nicholas offered him a smile as he slid in. He stuck a key into a slot by the steering wheel. Joakim watched curiously as he slowly pulled a small knob. He turned the key next, and the car rumbled to life. Joakim tensed. It was loud and a touch unsettling.

They sat idly for a moment with Nicholas occasionally pressing one of the other pedals to make the car louder. Eventually, he pushed the small knob back in place and reached for the stick while pressing down on the smallest of pedals. Nicholas moved the stick and craned his neck to look out his window before pulling away from the curb.

The ride was silent apart from the rumble of the car and a static ridden conglomerate of music and voices emitting from the radio. Joakim was fascinated by the fluidity of Nicholas’ movements, how synchronized his feet were on the pedals and the stick. He certainly made it look easy.

What Nicholas promised to be a short ride ended up taking longer than expected. For the time of night, a surprising amount of traffic made it difficult to get anywhere. He had to take an unexpected detour that added on another few minutes. Once the diner came into view, he apologized profusely for the long drive. Joakim assured him it was fine.

Nicholas once again opened his door for him and held the diner door for him. Joakim appreciated the gesture.

Stepping inside, he was immediately greeted by so many divine aromas—the unmistakable smell of burgers and fries, freshly brewed coffee, hints of cinnamon and various other sweet treats. Stomach growling, he followed Nicholas to a vibrant, shiny red booth with an equally obnoxious teal table in the center. He glanced around, taking in the busy black and white checkered tile floor and big wooden counter wrapping around with bright red stools to match the booths.

A young waitress came by to hand them menus and get their drinks. Nicholas asked for coffee, as did Joakim. Nicholas knew what he was ordering but decided to wait until Joakim looked over the surprising amount of dishes—though his choice was easy when he saw something that reminded him of home.

Köttbullar.

He thought it peculiar for a diner to serve and would be an awfully heavy meal to have this late, but there was no way he could pass it up.

Nicholas ordered for them when the waitress returned and handed her the menus with a smile. When she was out of earshot, he struck up a conversation.

“I don’t mean to come across as rude by asking,” Nicholas took a sip of his coffee, “you’re welcome to ignore it, but you’re not from here, are you?”

Joakim offered a light chuckle and smile. “You’re correct, though I’ve been here for a while.”

“How long have you lived here?” He inquired further.

Joakim thought for a long moment, uncertain how to answer honestly. It’d been… a long while. Close to one hundred years maybe? He arrived a few years after Lincoln’s assassination, but he couldn’t tell Nicholas that. It was always a struggle to age himself appropriately.

“Twenty years or so?” That seemed okay to Joakim, but with the way Nicholas’ eyes widened, he feared it was too much.

“Okay, next question. How old are you?”

That was something even Joakim couldn’t remember. He experienced a lifetime's worth of changing seasons and couldn’t pinpoint an exact date of birth, let alone month. Some time in spring is all he knew.

Joakim decided to turn the question back on him. “How old do you think I am?”

Nicholas tapped his coffee cup and squinted as if he were studying Joakim’s appearance.

“Hm, well, would you be offended if I said around thirty five?”

“Not at all.” Joakim smiled.

Before Nicholas could ask more, the waitress returned with their food. Nicholas’ plate was piled high with fries and a sizable burger. Joakim’s meatballs were nestled neatly in a puddle of gravy on a stiff looking mound of mashed potatoes. Despite the less than appealing appearance, they smelled amazing.

Admittedly, he didn’t have high hopes. He’d yet to find anywhere as good as home, but he was profoundly mistaken. Joakim closed his eyes in bliss, unable to contain his satisfied groan. It wasn’t quite like home, but similar enough to make him a little homesick.

“Good?” Nicholas asked in between bites, an amused smirk on his face.

“Very.” Joakim replied. He shoveled more into his mouth, not caring how unattractive it may have been. “Makes me miss home.”

Nicholas perked up. “Home? So you’re Swedish?”

He nodded. “I miss it.”

His stomach turned. How long has it been since he’s been home? Joakim was gone before the country even claimed independence. He didn’t even know where his family was buried or how or when they passed. Much like the rest of the world, he knows it’s changed drastically. He doubted his childhood home still stood. Could he even really be homesick if he didn’t know what home was anymore?

Appetite spoiled, Joakim picked at his plate.

“I miss home sometimes too.” Nicholas said. “It’s not quite the same distance, but I drove cross country from Virginia the moment I turned eighteen. No plan, a half full suitcase of clothes, and a few hundred bucks to my name.”

Joakim looked up from his food. Nicholas smiled sympathetically.

“You drove that thing here?” Joakim gestured to his car outside. Nicholas laughed lightly.

“No. That’s new. The shitbox I drove here is at some junkyard now.” He popped a few fries in his mouth. “Though, I do wish I would have opted for the automatic instead of manual.”

Joakim furrowed his brows. “‘Automatic’? Does that mean it drives itself?”

He shuddered at the thought.

Nicholas blinked, then laughed wholeheartedly. “Some people would say that, but no. It means I don’t have to manually shift.”

Confused still, he listened intently as he could while Nicholas explained in the simplest terms. Even having watched him do everything, it sounded unnecessarily complicated to Joakim. He complimented Nicholas on how easy he made it look. A bashful smile and soft brush of color spread across his cheeks.

Silence settled over the table as they continued to pick at their food, small bites taken here and there with quick glances at each other. The waitress swung by to refill their coffees and ask if they’d like dessert. Joakim declined, ignoring the siren call of the large cinnamon rolls on display. Nicholas ordered a strawberry shake to go.

“Is there somewhere you’d like me to drop you off?” Nicholas finally spoke.

Joakim shook his head. “You may leave me here. I will be able to find my way home.”

Nicholas frowned. “Are you sure? I can take you wherever.”

“Positive. You’ve been more than kind to me.”

Nicholas stared at him, contemplative and curious. In the diner light, his eyes lacked the silver hue Joakim noticed before. Their color was still a mystery, impossible to distinguish between grey, green, or even blue. Maybe Nicholas could spare a few hundred years for Joakim to figure it out.

The waitress returned with the bill and Nicholas’ shake. He didn’t allow Joakim the chance to pay, hastily snatching it with a quick grin. My treat, he’d said. Who was he to argue?

Nicholas lingered to finish most of his coffee, idly chatting until the conversation naturally fizzled.

“Thank you, Nicholas, for the meal and company.” Joakim held the door for him. “I do not get out much like this.”

He grinned. “You’re quite welcome, Joakim.”

The sound of his name caused his brain to stutter and left him rooted in place. He watched Nicholas walk to his car, feeling a pang of sadness in his chest. A few hours together wasn’t enough for him; Joakim wanted more—a day, a year, a lifetime even.

As Nicholas started his car, he glanced in the rear view mirror, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Joakim, hoping he would get a chance to meet him again—but was met with nothing. The only reflection was the diner entrance. Odd, he thought.

Confused, he turned to look out the back window, finding the spot where Joakim stood empty.

Weeks elapsed and Joakim couldn’t pluck Nicholas from his mind. He’d crawled in and made quite the nest, inhabiting every fold of his brain. Joakim longed to see those striking eyes again, smell the unique blend of his cologne, nicotine, and weed. With no last name or place of work to search in a phonebook, Joakim relied solely on chance, hoping, praying to whatever God that had not condemned his kind that he would see Nicholas again.  

Many nights were spent wandering the streets around the diner in search of his car. He ventured to the venue where they met just as often and left more disappointed each time. Hope began to slip through his fingers like sand and he desperately tried to grasp handfuls of the piles collecting at his feet. 

The search for Nicholas may have been fruitless, but he found no shortage of unfortunate souls scattered around, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. Hidden in the dark of night, Joakim feasted. Perhaps he was being gluttonous and profoundly greedy, but he needed to eat just like everyone else. If he gorged blood now, he could go longer without later. He tried to prey upon those who wouldn’t be missed, the ones who society deemed “unloved” but were only dealt a terrible hand at no fault of their own. 

Blood was blood, and Joakim needed it. Morals were difficult when one has to kill to survive. 

He knew he should be more careful in his hunting. Frequenting the same area was bound to raise suspicion, but the diner was like a buffet. And Joakim was but a man, susceptible to falling into bad habits. 

But a familiar rumble of an engine stopped him in his tracks, sparing the young couple from becoming blood bags. 

Quickly, he abandoned his hunt, returning to the shadows to quietly search for that car. Frantic eyes scanned the street. So many black cars, but none of them were the right shape. Somewhere. Nicholas was somewhere close. His legs carried him of their own accord, weaving through the late night crowd. A few disgruntled glares paired with colorful language meant nothing; Joakim needed to see him more than he needed to feed. 

He found himself in front of the diner once more, and moments later, a familiar head of raven colored locks caught his eye. His plain, almost drab outfit made him stand out in the crowd: a lone dark spot in a sea of color and patterns. 

Much like the first time, Nicholas scanned the people around him, searching for the eyes burning through him. Even with the distance, Joakim could see that he’d shaved since their first encounter. He looked so much younger, but still just as captivating. 

The same set of emotions swelled inside of him when his striking gaze finally found him. A bright, joyous smile spread across his face, lighting up the air around him. Joakim returned the gesture—though he’s certain it wasn’t near as pretty as Nicholas’. 

He waved cheerfully at Joakim and beckoned him over. Though he hadn't had a real heartbeat in centuries, he could remember the feeling well, like a phantom ache. 

“Funny seeing you here!” Nicholas beamed. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was…” Joakim trailed off. Definitely not about to make a meal of an unsuspecting couple. “Hoping to see you again.”

He didn’t necessarily mean to admit it, but it tumbled out before he had a chance to think. And if the surprised expression and blush on Nicholas’ face were anything to go by, Joakim could safely assume a mutual feeling. 

“Oh, well—“ Nicholas chuckled nervously and averted his gaze. “You’ve seen me. Now what?” 

Joakim glanced towards the diner. The booth they sat at last time was empty and the siren call of cinnamon rolls was just as loud. 

“I skipped dessert last time.” Joakim began. “Would you perhaps join me in getting a cinnamon roll?” 

Shoulder to shoulder, a walk through the nearby park was a perfect way to end their evening, dimly lit but illuminated by the full moon. The surface of the large pond shimmered under its radiant white glow. 

Each time Joakim stole a glance at Nicholas, he found himself enamored by the way the moonlight caught his eyes and how ethereal he looked. It was as if he was the sole focal point, like it was shining special for him, as if they were constructed of the same bits and pieces. In the centuries he’s survived, even among the royals and prestige he’s mingled with, Joakim’s certain he’s never been more blessed to witness such incredibly rare beauty. 

And as discreet as Joakim thinks he’s being, Nicholas knows he’s staring. For as heavy and intimidating his stare is, Nicholas didn’t mind; there’s a curiosity in the way he watches him that he found endearing. 

“You know, Joakim,” Nicholas turned his neck to look at him, not at all surprised to find his eyes already on him. “If you take a picture, you could look at me whenever.” 

Joakim quickly looked away, causing Nicholas to chuckle lightly. 

“I’m only teasing.” He said. “You can look at me as much as you want.” 

Nicholas broke into a full laugh as Joakim sped up. Before he went too far, Nicholas grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He wrapped his arms around it, preventing Joakim from straying. 

Taken back by the sudden proximity, Joakim kept his eyes trained in front of him despite how terribly he wanted to look at him. When Nicholas timidly rested his head on his shoulder, he stiffened again, breath hitching. 

Their walk continued in comfortable silence, quietly enjoying each other’s company. Joakim finally allowed himself to relax and soak in the warmth Nicholas unknowingly offered. He was grateful he fed recently because Nicholas took a chance and wove his fingers between Joakim’s—fitting together perfectly like long lost puzzle pieces. Joakim decides in that moment he wasn’t ever letting go. 

“Jolly.” Joakim said out of the blue, disturbing the quiet surrounding them. 

“Hm?” Nicholas lifted his head and gave him a curious look. 

“A name friends call me.” 

“Jolly.” Nicholas repeated, as if he were trying out how it felt on his tongue. “Would you rather I call you that?” 

He smiled. “Either is fine. I just like hearing my name coming from you.”

Bathed in silver light, a delicate flush of color tinged Nicholas’ cheeks that paired so wonderfully with his small smile. Jolly mirrored his expression, having half a mind to kiss him, but restrained. Still, his gaze wandered to his lips, wondering how soft they were, if he could grow to like the taste of nicotine. 

Nicholas made the choice for him, stepping up to quickly yet softly peck his lips. Jolly stared wide eyed at him, completely caught off guard. His eyes flicked between Nicholas’ equally surprised eyes. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I don’t know why I did that. I didn’t mean to assume. That was—mph!”

Jolly silenced him with a kiss of his own, hearing and feeling his breath catch. He slipped his hand to the side of his face, thumb resting just below his eye and his ear nestled between his index and middle fingers. Nicholas’ cheek was hot under the slight chill of his hand. What of it was his natural body heat or his blush, he wasn’t sure, but Jolly whole heartedly welcomed the warmth seeping into him.  

He pulled Nicholas closer, just enough for him to stumble and tighten his grip on his arm. He could taste the sweetness of the cinnamon roll and the bitterness of his decaf black coffee on his breath, blending together almost seamlessly. There was no rush or urgency, a simple melding of soft lips and even softer breaths. If Jolly were staked, he would die happy—content that he was allowed a brief moment in time to know Nicholas. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and Jolly sensed a presence far away, but too close for comfort. Abruptly and reluctantly, he broke the kiss. Nicholas’ dazed expression and dazzling eyes almost tempted him, but there was danger lurking. 

Jolly was blunt, “We’re being followed.” 

Nicholas tensed at his words. He attempted to look around, but Jolly stopped him by wrapping an arm low around his waist and pulling him flush. The worry swimming in his pale colored eyes tugged at his heart. Nicholas was safe, but Jolly wasn’t. 

A juvenile mistake, he thought to himself. No self respecting hunter would be found out so easily. But the inexperienced ones were a far bigger threat than those who spent the better halves of their lives honing their skills. The rookies had less morals than the most vile of his kind.  

“Take me to the nearest public accommodation.” 

Nicholas looked at him confused. 

“Ah, public restroom. Bathroom.” 

He nodded curtly, stepping out of Jolly’s embrace. He tightly laced their fingers together and guided him in the direction of the bathrooms—which happened to be towards the hunter. 

How unfortunate for him. 

Jolly instructed Nicholas to stay inside the restroom until he knocked. He tried to argue, but quickly shut up at the intense warning look he received. Nonnegotiable, it said. 

It wasn’t long before he grew restless, however. 

Eerie silence hung in the air as Nicholas stepped out, the calm and comfort of the night nothing but a memory. Gone was the mild temperate, replaced by a chill that easily bypassed his sweater and penetrated deep in his bones. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the subtle shake of his hands as it slowly spread through the rest of his body. The only sounds were his shallow breaths and his heavy footsteps as he retraced their steps, but Nicholas saw no sign of Jolly anywhere. Where could he be? 

Defeated, Nicholas plopped down on a bench and stared disheartened at the shimmering water. In good conscience, he couldn’t leave until he knew Jolly was safe, but it also did him no good wandering about aimlessly.  

Movement across the pond caught his eye followed by a startled shout that cut out almost as quickly as he heard it. Every hair on his body stood on end. The worry turning his stomach quickly began to bubble over, flooding his blood with panic. Rooted in place, Nicholas was unable to will himself to move—until it dawned on him that the sound could have been Jolly.

All at once he leapt off the bench, ignoring every blaring alarm ringing in his ears. Nothing else mattered other than Jolly. Nicholas had known him for less than a moon phase, still practically a stranger, but he couldn’t live with himself if something happened to him. In part because he was a good samaritan, and selfishly because he wanted more of Jolly; more of his time and endearing nature, his chilled hand in his and delicately caressing of his cheek, the tickle of his facial hair against his skin and the plush softness of his lips. 

Nicholas rounded a corner, heart pounding against his ribs, lungs burning with every breath. In between the rush of blood in his ears, he heard a very distinct, almost sickening slurping. It made his stomach twist. His eyes frantically scanned for the source of the disturbing sound, but was unsuccessful, until— 

A body laid just off the sidewalk with another body kneeling down beside it. Nicholas stared horrified.

Bathed in pale moonlight, Jolly pulled away from the body and sat back on his legs. His head dipped back, a satisfied sigh leaving his body. His eyes were shut in bliss and Nicholas could see the unmistakable hue of crimson staining his mouth. It disappeared in the hair on his chin then continued down his neck. Jolly sighed again, eyes opening to gaze upon the bright full moon. In a twisted way, he looked ethereal.

Nicholas dared a glance at the other body and was unable to stifle his gasp.

Dead, blank eyes staring into the sky and a gaping hole in their neck. A few inches away, he saw what he assumed to be a chunk of their throat. 

Nicholas hardly had time to process anything before Jolly appeared in front of him with inhuman speed. He grabbed a fistful of his sweater and yanked him forward. 

“Why are you here?” There was an edge in Jolly’s voice that chilled Nicholas to the bone. “I told you to stay.” 

“I got worried.” He replied quietly. 

Pits of black stared back at him. Nicholas couldn’t tell where his iris began and his pupil ended. There wasn’t any warmth in them, just cold black. 

“You’ve put yourself into a very precarious situation, Nicholas.” 

His breath caught when he felt Jolly press two fingers directly on his pulse. His nails were much longer and sharper than he remembered. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Jolly said. “Please don’t give me a reason to.” 

Nicholas’ heart rate spiked. He was unsure if his words should be comforting or worrisome. 

“What… are you?” 

Jolly’s face twitched unpleasantly. “An abomination.” 

The vitriol in the way he spewed the word made Nicholas frown. He didn’t think him an abomination, even if he stumbled upon something he wasn’t meant to see. He wanted to tell him as much, but couldn’t get his mouth to move.

“Are you scared?” 

Nicholas blinked. “What?”

“Your heart’s racing.” Jolly stated. 

He should be scared; he was scared, but not in the way he should be. 

“Maybe?” 

Jolly hummed. “Mine doesn’t function, but you make me feel like I have a heart again.” 

Nicholas chuckled nervously. 

“That’s a heck of a thing to say to someone after a second date.”

The corner of Jolly’s bloodstained lips curved up ever so slightly. 

“‘Second date’?” He titled Nicholas’ head back and brought his lips dangerously close to his. 

The scent of blood was overwhelming and unpleasant, but he found himself curious about the taste. Nicholas couldn’t help his eyes from fluttering, however, he didn’t dare make the first move. 

“Would it be inappropriate of me to ask for a third?”

Nicholas looked to the colorless, lifeless body crumpled on the ground. The gaping wound where his throat should be stared back—a disgusting sight, but difficult to look away from. The only dead body he’d ever seen was back home floating in the crick behind his house. He ran crying home to his mother while his friends poked at it with sticks. 

“Don’t… look at him.” Jolly firmly yet gently grabbed his jaw. Nicholas noted how much warmer his touch was compared to earlier, almost like he was… alive. “Look at me.”  

Crimson. All Nicholas saw was crimson. Crimson on his lips, crimson dripping from his mustache, crimson staining his teeth.  Crimson. 

“What… does blood taste like?” Nicholas asked timidly. 

Jolly purposely breathed hot air against his mouth, an almost sinister smirk tugging at his lips. Nicholas caught a glimpse of sharp teeth. 

“Would you like to find out?”

The thought terrified and excited him all at once. Was there something wrong with him? He just witnessed the aftermath of a murder. Jolly murdered that poor man, tore his throat out with his teeth, and sucked every drop of blood from him. Nicholas should have ran the opposite direction, but instead, he willingly allowed this… thing, this make believe creature to crowd him, stake claim of his personal space. Here he was wondering about the taste of human blood. 

There had to be something wrong with him, because he agreed, giving his consent with a weak nod.

Nicholas’ knees buckled the second Jolly captured his lips, his mouth wet and slick against his. The taste turned his stomach—salty, metallic, bitter—and invaded his nose, but also sent an exhilarating rush through him. He lost himself in the unfamiliar and unique flavor, craving more, wanting to lick Jolly’s mouth clean. It was as if he were floating, like his limbs were lighter than air. All the oxygen in his lungs disappeared, leaving him immensely light headed. He clutched fistfuls of Jolly’s black coat, desperately seeking him to stay grounded. 

Jolly trailed his lips along Nicholas’ jaw, delicately kissing down his neck and enjoying every silent gasp that he made. He could sense his heart racing and feel him trembling in his grasp. His hand slithered to the nape of his neck, softly grabbing a fistful of his raven locks at the base of his skull. Nicholas’ breathed hitched as Jolly turned his head to the side, followed by the unmissable sensation of his fangs grazing his skin. 

He froze and held his breath, waiting for Jolly to end his life as well.

”Do you realize the danger you’re in, Nicholas?” Jolly pressed a kiss on his neck. “It would be so easy to sink my teeth right here—“

What Nicholas intended to be a gasp resembled more of a pathetic and breathy moan. Jolly pressed his teeth a little more into his skin, against what he assumed to be an important vein. 

“—and end you.”

Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact—but it never came. Instead, his head was being pulled away, and Jolly was staring down at him intensely. 

“But I quite like you,” Jolly confessed. “And you look ravishing in red.”

Jolly was awarded a third date—and a fourth, and a fifth; before he knew it, months of dates flew by. And he was grateful Nicholas didn’t scare easily. He never meant for him to discover his true nature the way he did, but it saved the potential rejection and heartbreak he feared. By the fourth date, Nicholas already offered him sustenance. He declined every time despite how badly he wanted to know how he tasted. 

On the fifth date, Nicholas invited him home with the intention of sex, only to lose his nerve in the build up. Nicholas lacked the experience of being with a man, having mostly been with women. He’d dated men, been public with them and kissed a few, but slept with even less. It was still new territory for him, but Jolly was so patient and infinitely more understanding than previous partners. He found himself falling hard and fast. 

He enjoyed having Jolly’s hands caressing him, memorizing every dip and curve of his body. He loved having his mouth wetting his skin, feeling the scrape of his sharp teeth along his jaw and grazing his nipples—but the lower he kissed, the closer he got to where he desperately wanted, Nicholas struggled, fidgeting and squirming in a way that concerned Jolly. 

Nicholas felt awful for not being ready and “wasting Jolly’s time”, but Jolly assured him it was fine. He harbored no ill will, he wasn’t upset. He was perfectly content going at whatever pace Nicholas needed. That night, Nicholas fell asleep in Jolly’s arms, feeling the most secure and safest he’s ever been. 

Eventually, about the time they decided to go steady, Nicholas’ nerves melted away, and Jolly got to take tremendous and delicate care of him. He meticulously picked him apart, exposing every nerve in his body until all Nicholas could do was pant. Never in his life had he experienced such world altering pleasure. After their first intimate night, he was hooked, accidentally confessing those three little words on a breathless and desperate gasp of air. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation from Jolly.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Perhaps too soon for a conventional couple, but by no means were they conventional. 

It took longer to convince Jolly to feed from him. Nicholas understood Jolly had to eat as well and knew what he was doing, but still he worried. He was a willing vessel, Jolly didn’t have to hunt. Jolly often compared his hunting to pets and working animals—he would grow bored, weak, and his instinct would suffer, leaving him vulnerable. It was a muscle that needed to flexed, lest he end up lame, or worse, staked. 

There were times when Jolly’s resolve almost broke. It was hard to resist when Nicholas begged so pitifully with eyes devoid of everything except lust. Many times he pressed his fangs to his neck, hyper aware of his sanity slipping each time Nicholas whined. Little purple bruises often bloomed in the wake of his grip on Nicholas. Sometimes Jolly wound his fingers so tightly in his thick, raven locks, he expected to see clumps of black in his hand. 

But after six months, Nicholas finally got his wish. With the help of their anniversary, an authentic Italian bottle of wine from Jolly’s personal collection, and Swedish meatballs delectable enough to rival his mother and grandmother’s, he found himself stark naked in Jolly’s room in front of his mirror. 

Though Nicholas couldn’t, Jolly kept his eyes focused on Nicholas’, enjoying how he struggled to find something other than himself to stare at. 

“You’re so gorgeous like this, my darling.” Jolly rasped in his ear. “So exposed and in pleasure.” 

Nicholas desperately wished he could see Jolly touching him, see his large hand gripping his jaw, see the desire in the calm brown of his eyes. He felt rather bashful staring at his body in the mirror, watching the rise and fall of his chest as Jolly slowly dragged his nails across his skin. 

Jolly brought his other hand to Nicholas’ lips; his fingers gently tugged at his bottom lip until he opened his mouth. A small, quiet breath escaped him as Jolly slipped his fingers inside. Nicholas let his eyes flutter closed and enjoy the feel of Jolly delicately thrusting his thick fingers in and out. He bobbed along with the movement, a soft little moan accompanying sometimes. Each little noise prompted Jolly to grip Nicholas’s jaw just that more tight. 

With a whiny pout, Nicholas attempted to take Jolly’s fingers back inside his mouth, but only got an amused huff in response. 

“Another time, beloved.” Jolly pressed a faint kiss to his neck. 

He desperately wished he could see Jolly. 

“For now,” Jolly spoke, voice low and deep, “I would like to watch you unravel.” 

A lighter touch than the kiss, Jolly trailed his fingers down Nicholas’ front, his skin prickling with goosebumps. Lower his hand traveled, until he gripped his cock with the spit slicked fingers. Nicholas shuddered. He stole a glance down, wanting to see just how much of him Jolly could hold and found his cock fit perfectly in his hand. 

Jolly squeezed both his jaw and dick lightly, causing his eyes to flutter shut with a breathless gasp. Jolly gently nudged his head, drawing Nicholas’ attention back to the mirror. 

“Eyes forward, Nicholas.” 

He obeyed. He sucked in a short, sharp breath as Jolly began languidly stroking his cock. He brushed his nose along the nape of his neck, softly inhaling his scent. Jolly moved his hand from his jaw down to his throat, and softly pressed his thumb against  Nicholas’ erratic pulse. Goosebumps speckled Nicholas’ skin. 

“Your heart’s racing.” Jolly whispered in his ear, his breath scorching hot. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“No.” Nicholas breathed. 

Sharp teeth dragged down his neck, blemishing the skin with bright red scratch marks. Even if Nicholas wanted, he couldn’t suppress his gasp and shudder.  

“You trust me?”

“Yes.”

Jolly’s lips curled. “How very brave of you, my dear sweet Nicholas.”

He accentuated his last words with exaggerated slow strokes, gently twisting his hand along Nicholas’s length as he spoke his name. Nicholas arched into the touch, sinking further against Jolly’s chest. 

“How I wish I had more hands,” Jolly slightly tilted Nicholas’ head back and to the side. “Two isn’t enough; I need to caress every inch of your skin, steal your warmth all for myself.”

Nicholas moaned, soft and quiet. He watched his disheveled, blissed out reflection, the steady and deep rise and fall of his chest, the way his cock appeared to be moving on its own. He couldn’t fathom how much more Jolly could make him feel; wholly and utterly consumed in him already. 

Precum dribbled from his tip. Jolly swirled his thumb over it, making a mess of it. Nicholas reached for the arm holding his neck and grabbed hold and leaned most of his body weight against Jolly. His legs felt weak and Jolly was much sturdier.

With a quiet, breathless gasp of his name, Nicholas thrust into Jolly’s hand, a desperate plea for more. Jolly hastened his pace and Nicholas rewarded him with another pleasured moan of his name. 

“Joakim, please.” 

The hand on his neck tightened and Nicholas could feel his fangs daring to pierce him—but Jolly wouldn’t. 

Not yet, anyway. Even with explicit consent, Nicholas doubted Jolly ever would. 

“Again,” Jolly breathed. “Beg for me again.” 

A haze swirled in Nicholas’ head, making him blissfully unaware of his pathetic begging. He was on the cusp of ecstasy, desperate and willing to do anything Jolly asked. 

All at once, everything became too much for him and he crumbled. 

At the height of his climax, Jolly plunged his fangs deep in Nicholas’ neck. His body trembled as he drank deeply, divulging in an essence he’s craved since their first encounter—bitter in the way of his favorite spirits and liquor, but divine all the same and just as intoxicating. 

Nicholas grew lax in Jolly’s embrace, the sensation of being feasted upon blending deliciously with the endorphins coursing through his blood. He moaned, loud and depraved. It was difficult to breathe thanks to Jolly’s tightened hold on his throat. He felt his grunting more than he heard it, the subtle yet deep vibrations spreading through him in shockwaves. 

Blood loss and lack of oxygen left Nicholas dizzy and lightheaded, but he couldn’t muster the strength to signal Jolly. He could feel his consciousness slipping with each second. He hadn’t realized he’d been pressed against the mirror until he felt the cool surface on his red hot skin. 

Equally hot breath fanned across his cheek and the unmistakable scent of blood flooded his nose. 

“Du är mer frestande än synden själv.” Jolly’s voice was rough and raw. “Jag skulle kunna dricka dig torr.”

He grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back. Nicholas saw the deepest pits of black staring back at him. The last time he remembered them being so dark was the night he found out—only now it was because of him. It sent a shiver up his spine. 

“Do you want to taste?” 

Nicholas wasn’t sure if he actually nodded or if he imagined it.

Jolly’s mouth was on his in an instant, devouring him in a flurry of feral, animalistic desire. It could hardly be called a kiss, but Nicholas felt fluttering in chest all the same. He still wasn’t quite used to the taste of blood, but his own tasted far better than any other he’s had second hand. 

“By everything holy and sinister, you will be the death of me,” Jolly rolled his tongue over the two pea sized wounds in his neck. “And what a bittersweet demise it will be.”

Nicholas reached back for him, and Jolly whispered in his ear. 

“To live and love you is the world's greatest pleasure.”

He’d been alive for over six hundred years. That’s an insurmountable amount of love and loss to live through. He watched his friends die time and time again, had his unbeating heart ripped from his chest more than he can count. Physical and mental torment formed an armor so thick, Jolly thought he’d grown immune to the feeling. For the last one hundred years, he was alone in the world, not getting too close to anyone unless he knew they were like him—vampire or other. 

But now, with a barely breathing Nicholas in his arms, Jolly found his armor useless. It was cracking, falling away with every shallow breath Nicholas struggled to take. He was looking at him, but his eyes were out of focus, the blood loss starting to take its toll. A blank lifeless stare in one that used to be so full of life and shimmer like every sea and ocean. There were few instances in his long life where he felt hopeless, and none came close to how distraught he felt at this moment. 

The weak grip on his hand shattered his resolve, a broken sob ripping through his throat as Nicholas tried to give a smile, as if he was trying to comfort Jolly, like he wasn’t the one bleeding out. 

Centuries he lived through. Jolly couldn’t bear another alone. Having experienced a literal lifetime's worth, he couldn’t bear another loss. 

“Do you trust me?” Jolly whispered. He placed a hand on Nicholas’ cheek, his chest aching at his paling skin and the rapid declining warmth. 

A cold hand settled on his. 

“Always.” Nicholas managed to croak, a faint smile on his face. 

So close to death, the potential of failure ran high. Perhaps it was selfish. They never discussed it. Nicholas never showed any interest—but Jolly had to try. If it failed, nothing would change. Death would still have its claim and Jolly would have saved him the agony of bleeding out entirely. But if he succeeded, his eternal life wouldn’t be so lonely—that is, if Nicholas could forgive him. 

Jolly never forgave the one who stole his mortality, eventually killing him. If the same fate befell him, well, he hoped Nicholas’ eternal life would fare better. 

A pained gasp of Jolly’s name escaped Nicholas as he carefully maneuvered his body closer. There was no give when Jolly sank his fangs into his pulse, and barely a thrumming of life. So much of his essence had already drained. Jolly feared there wouldn't be any left to salvage. 

Rancid, rotting blood coated his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing at the unmistakable and putrid taste of death filling his mouth that would linger days after. Despite the immediate urge to recoil, Jolly fought off the creeping sensation of wanting to vomit, powering through the horrific ordeal. He did his best to offer Nicholas comfort in an otherwise uncomfortable situation, stroking his hair softly as he tried to salvage his love.

When he no longer sensed life, Jolly unlatched, immediately biting into his wrist and bringing it to Nicholas’ mouth. He didn’t expect him to be able to drink; he silently hoped the slow drip of his blood down his throat would be enough. 

He waited with bated breath as seconds turned into minutes. He hated the feeling of a dead lover in his arms, especially one as special and rare as Nicholas. It was never a pleasant experience. 

By the time a half hour rolled around, Jolly assumed the worst. The unbeating heart in his chest twisted violently, threatening to rip him apart. Despite rooting grief, he rather quickly accepted he’d lost Nicholas. His lip quivered as he stared down at him—unmoving and pale. Even in death, Jolly still believed he was the most beautiful and stunning creature he’s ever laid eyes upon. He was even more honored to have been able to call him his. 

Choked with tears, Jolly cradled Nicholas close, burying his face in the crook of his neck and his hand in his soft, thick mane of hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” 

Over and over the apologies repeated, like they were the only words he knew. He squeezed Nicholas impossibly closer, both of their bodies shaking with the force of Jolly’s sobs.

”Jolly…”

He didn’t hear the weak call of his name or feel the even weaker shifting of the body in his arms. 

“Jolly.” The voice said a little louder. 

His ears must be playing tricks on him… 

Jolly slowly pulled his face from Nicholas’ neck, terrified of what he might see. 

Dazed and barely open seafoam eyes stared back at him. Red tinted lips parted as if they were going to speak but no sound came out. Jolly blinked in disbelief. 

“Vid gudarna—!” Jolly exclaimed, clutching to Nicholas desperately. Nicholas exhaled a small noise of discomfort. “I thought I lost you.” 

Relief washed over him and he was unable to control his sobbing. Nicholas weakly wrapped his arms around Jolly, offering him as much solace as he could. He had no idea where he was, what happened, why his neck ached, or why there was a distinct metallic taste in his mouth. All he remembered was falling asleep in the comfort of Jolly’s embrace. 

Nothing mattered other than getting to Nicholas. The remainder of his entire life depended on making it home. 

Jolly leaned entirely on the front door, staining it with crimson as his limbs grew too weak to carry his weight. He struggled to breathe past the burning stake plunged in his chest, his shallow breaths exacerbating his dizziness. There wasn’t enough air in the world to fill his lungs. 

He waited an eternity for Nicholas to answer the door. Maybe he wasn’t home. What a thing to come home to: your lover bled to death on your front step. Perhap Nicholas could see the humor in it. He always liked a good laugh. 

He’s unsure where the gasp comes from, but he knows the unmistakable feeling of falling. 

“Jolly!” 

Oh. Nicholas. He is home. 

Nicholas barely managed to save Jolly from face planting onto the floor. He stumbled back, ultimately breaking his fall with his own body. A pained sound escaped him. 

Pure horror chilled his already cold skin. There was so much blood oozing from him—and the stake, plunged right into Jolly’s heart. 

Jolly attempted a smile but couldn’t seem to get the muscles in his face to work. Those bright, seafoam eyes he loved so much pierced into him, frantic and filled to the brim with tears. Jolly didn’t understand why Nicholas looked so… worried. It was unlike him. 

“Why… are you crying?” He croaked. 

Why do I sound like that? Jolly thought. Why does it hurt to talk? To breathe? 

“Jolly…” Nicholas placed a trembling hand on his cheek. He hated how unbelievably lifeless his skin felt. “Joakim, what happened?” 

He tried his best to remember, he really did, but everything became so fuzzy. All that came to mind was Nicholas. All Jolly wanted was Nicholas. He needed him. 

His mouth wouldn’t move to speak and his eyelids were so heavy. Surely he could rest them just for a moment, perhaps maybe even jog his memory. Nicholas wouldn’t mind if he took a quick nap. 

“No. No.” Nicholas shook him gently. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me Jolly, please. Please look at me.” 

But Jolly was exhausted. He’d been awake for so long. He needed to sleep. The world felt like too much. 

Despite his pleas, Jolly’s eyes remained shut. Nicholas kept shaking him, begging him to stay awake. Not even patting his cheeks stirred him. He felt Jolly go limp in his lap and a cry tore through Nicholas. The front door was still open, and he’s certain the whole neighborhood heard the raw, agonized and grief stricken wail that erupted from his throat. 

He cradled his body close, buried his face in Jolly’s neck and sobbed uncontrollably. Hopeless and heartbroken. Just last week they had the promise of forever; tomorrow would have marked their first year together, only for a cruel twist of fate to rip it away. 

Empty, yet the house was still immaculately decorated. Cold, yet every room was stifling. Silent, yet the worn wooden floors creaked with every step. Thankfully, Jolly’s blood didn’t soak through the rug and stain the wood; it just seeped into Nicholas’ clothes and stained his skin. Thick layers of dust settled on the shelves, coating the books and little trinkets Nicholas found no value in. Cobwebs began to form in the corners of the high ceiling, some reaching out to cling to light fixtures. 

Nicholas felt like a ghost walking the familiar halls. The home once so cozy and homely, now… nothing. He spent many hours in the parlor, sketchbook in hand trying to replicate the intricate floral wallpaper. Dirty dishes from that day still littered the sink. It smelled terrible. But even now he couldn’t be bothered to clean or throw them out.  

It’s the realtor’s problem, he told himself. His only concern was gathering paperwork and anything he or Jolly would have deemed important. A few pictures, some shiny knick knacks that looked irreplaceable, countless books that spanned centuries—first editions and supernatural tomes as old as Jolly—plus a small collection of guitars. Nicholas wished he had space for the piano. 

His chest twisted seeing it sit there, neglected and unplayed. He spent just as many hours there filling the house with beautifully haunting melodies while Jolly sat beside him, glass of wine in hand and stealing kisses every time Nicholas paused. Sometimes Jolly would join, singing along if he knew the words, or making up his own. Nicholas often frequented a devastating tune that Jolly taught him. He told him it was written by a being even older than him, a song for an ancient and long forgotten deity. 

Dust coated his fingers as he ran them over the fall board. He lifted it, the pristine white keys the only brightness in the room—and his life, really. Nicholas sat on the bench and hovered his fingers over the ivory. Much like the rotting dishes, the piano remained untouched. He was scared to, fearing he’d forgotten how to play or that it would crumble under his hands. 

Delicately, he hit a key, a lone, solemn note shattering the silence. Nicholas situated his feet at the pedals and adjusted his hands, fingers stretching uncomfortably across the keyboard. He pressed down and an out of tune, grating chord rang. He grimaced as he played another, the sound equally as unpleasant. 

His movements were awkward to start, but eventually he found his way, slipping back into the motions with practiced ease. Melancholic, out of tune melodies filled the stagnate space, slowly spilling over into the next room and the next, breathing a familiar life into the old home. It wasn’t quite the familiarity Nicholas sought, but after months in the dark, wallowing in grief and depression so profound that it changed every component of his cells, it was welcomed. Counseling only did so much to tend the leech that was  loss. 

Time ticked away; the antique clock in Jolly’s study upstairs chimed, its deep sound reverberating through the house. Twelve strokes. A little over an hour elapsed. 

Nicholas sighed, his chest feeling a little less tight and limbs a little looser. The bench cushion gave its own sigh as he stood. Carefully, he replaced the fall board and ran his hand over the dusty wood, clearing it of the grime. 

“I’m sorry I can’t take you with me.” Nicholas pressed his lips into a line. “I hope you can forgive me.” 

He spared one final moment with the beloved instrument, admiring it for the last time and silently thanking it for the lasting memories it created. He closed his eyes and brought his fingers to his mouth, then placed his hand on top of the piano, bidding a final farewell. 

The respite he felt was short lived, the ever present dark clouds and gloom swiftly devouring the sliver of sunlight as he treaded up the stairs. 

Jolly’s study was the last room Nicholas needed to recheck. He rummaged through the shelves and desk a handful of times, always finding something he missed previously. He could not leave any documentation of their kind behind—and Jolly possessed hundreds of them. Some unmarked, others blatant and plain as day. He amassed quite a collection of items last time, but still feared there was something he missed. 

The ticking antique clock and mostly bare walls greeted him. Light filtered through the sheer curtains covering the lone window in the otherwise dark room. The books scattered on the bench underneath the window had been cleaned up on his last visit, now  neglected like the rest of the house. It’d been Nicholas’ favorite spot to read, to scribble doodles of Jolly while he patiently attempted to teach him what he needed to know. His lessons were short lived, often ending with Jolly so sweetly and carefully taking him apart—and of course, quizzing him in between just to see how well he paid attention. 

His eyes fell to the large wooden desk in the center, a mess of papers and pens strewn about the surface. Still among the clutter was an intricate bronze jewelry box. It was the final item he needed to grab. 

He hadn’t noticed it the night before Jolly’s death, so he must have gotten it out that morning. For some reason, he could never bring himself to open it. It wasn’t very large or deep, only big enough for a small collection of valuable jewelry or important papers. 

Nicholas wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to find out what was inside. It called to him like a siren, the tempting curiosity inching him closer and closer until he stood in front of the desk. Despite the stifling heat, the metal was cool to the touch. He took a grounding breath, bracing himself for whatever contents were lurking.

Inside the box was a necklace and envelope addressed to him in Jolly’s cursive chicken scratch. The necklace was simple—thin leather like bands with a red, crystal like charm in the center, fastened securely at both ends by more leather. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t grandiose, but Nicholas sensed an immense significance. 

He carefully plucked the jewelry from the box and upon closer inspection, noted there was a thick, viscous liquid trapped inside the charm. Nicholas cradled it in his hand as reach for the envelope. 

It was sealed with wax, the color the richest and darkest blue he’s positive he’s ever seen. He removed the folded paper from the envelope and gently set it back inside the box. More of Jolly’s handwriting was scrawled on the paper. His hands trembled as began reading the letter. 

Beloved Nicholas, 

From the very moment I saw you, I was captivated. I’ve lived centuries, experienced a lifetime of tragedy and happiness that should have turned me mad eons ago—but this wretched curse may have some silver linings after all, as it led me to you. Truly, you feel like a divine blessing, something I’m far too undeserving of. You’ve shown me such unconditional compassion and love so pure, I’m convinced your existence ethereal. I’m unsure what I’ve done to be blessed, but I’m grateful beyond words. 

I’ve not always been the patient and kind abomination you know today. I’ve been cruel, done unspeakable acts I’m still ashamed of even if it was the only way for me to survive. One day I’ll share more of my colored past. When I do, I hope you still see me as the Joakim you know and love. If you cannot, I would not blame you. 

Though marriage in the traditional sense may not be in our future, it can be unconventionally. Should you choose to accept, we will be bound all the same—betrothed. 

This vial contains my blood. The utmost declaration of devotion amongst my kind. Until my dying breath, I am yours. 

Eternally yours, 

Joakim

It was like a shot to the fucking gut. He thinks being physically shot would hurt less. All the grief and depression, every ounce of anger he worked so meticulously through came rushing to the surface, drowning him once again in a sea of despair. His hand trembled worse than ever and the ice in his veins somehow seemed colder. 

Nicholas didn’t bother trying to stop the tears. He watched the ink bleed into the water droplets, words and letters disappearing right before his blurry eyes, just like he watched Jolly disappear in his arms. 

Forever. Jolly wanted forever. With him. A true forever, until the end of time, and neither of them were going to get it. 

Nicholas collapsed onto the dusty wooden floor, dropping the letter but keeping his vice grip on the necklace. He let out a visceral, piercing and agonizing cream, loud and with enough force for his ears to pop. It felt like his throat was being ripped open, like a thousand red hot knives were mutilating his esophagus. The room closed in around him as violent sobs tore apart his body, his lungs burning with every labored gasp of breath. 

He felt nothing as his fist made contact with the floor, not a crack or creak other than the old wood. Over and over he pounded, desperate to feel something other than the immense agony plaguing his shattered heart. 

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fucking fair. It fucking sucked.

Blinking away tears, he stared down at the shaky hand that held the last physical remain of his deceased fiancé. He held it close to his chest, willing his heart to beat again, but dead it stayed. Spending eternity alone sounded dreadful. 

Now more than ever it was clear—Nicholas could not live in this state a moment longer. There was nothing for him anymore. No love, barely a friend to be had, no family. Nothing. California had nothing. Surely Jolly would understand him abandoning his home—their home. 

He pressed his hand to his mouth, silently sparing a few words, namely an apology. 

With a heavy heart and limbs, Nicholas hoisted himself up. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed in his hand. Something was probably broken if the imprint in the floor was anything to go by. He stared blankly at Jolly’s desk, mindlessly scanning all the clutter—pens varying from ball point to glass dip and papers probably far older than him, tipped over bottles of ink, most of them empty. The mess was unlike Jolly, but still somehow painfully him. 

His gaze wandered to the letter on the floor. He frowned, feeling guilty for leaving it neglected. Carefully, he picked it up and set it safely back inside its box—then an idea struck him. 

Nicholas nestled the necklace beside the letter and scooted the chair closer to the desk as he sat. He grabbed a loose sheet of blank paper and a few pens. He wrote on a scrap piece, going through five pens before finding one that had ink. Nicholas scribbled furiously on the paper—thankfully he didn’t bust his writing hand—pouring out the fragments of his heart on a letter that would go unsent and unread for the rest of his days. The sentences were illegible, far from his best penmanship, but why did it matter? 

When he finished, his chest felt a little lighter, yet in the same breath felt like the wound had been torn open once again, leaving him raw and exposed in ways he detested. Nicholas studied his writing, thinking it inadequate compared to Jolly’s. If he were here, if he were alive, Nicholas knew he would love it regardless, no matter how profound. 

He chewed his thumb pad, a melancholic smile trying to form on his quivering lip. He felt the tremble in his jaw as he fought back more tears. The longer he stared, the more he felt was missing from the letter, but Nicholas had no more words to spare. His eyes went to the contents of the box and lingered on the vial of blood. 

Nicholas brought his thumb to a fang, pressing against it until he nicked the skin. He let it pool for a while, watching as the bead struggled to grow in size. It dripped down his thumb when it’s center of gravity changed. Nicholas smeared the blood across his signature, smearing the black ink. He folded the letter and nestled it alongside Jolly’s. In a way, closing the lid felt as if he was closing a significant yet small chapter of his life. 

Box in hand, he exited the study and made his way down the stairs. Nicholas didn’t spare any more final moments inside their home, simply making a beeline for the door. 

Outside, the air was lighter. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply until his lungs could no longer expand. His lungs and head ached with pressure. Slowly, he exhaled, eyes opening and immediately falling back on the box, the letters still heavy on his mind.

In another life, perhaps his would be read. Perhaps its contents would differ and Nicholas would be able to tell Jolly in person.

Min käraste Joakim, 

I owe you the breath in my lungs. Traditional or not, my answer is yes. There is no one else worthy to give my heart completely to. If you asked, I would carve it out myself and place it directly in your gentle hands. An eternity with you sounds like a dream come true. 

Who you were centuries ago is trivial. The Joakim I love now is all that matters. 

And while we may be cursed, at least we’re cursed together. Though now I truly understand what you meant. 

A piece of myself died with you that night. I feel so incredibly bitter towards the universe. To spend the rest of life without you is cruel beyond words. To have you ripped away from me not even a week elapsed after turning is the worst kind of pain. Forever is a long time to love someone, but even longer to mourn. I know you would want me to keep living, but at this moment, sitting in your office surrounded by centuries of memories I’ll never hear of first hand, it seems like hell. 

If there’s an afterlife for us, I hope to see you there.

Until my dying breath, I am yours. 

Jag älskar dig för alltid i detta liv och nästa.

Evigt,

Nicholas Karlsson

Din Evigt, - Eternally Yours,

“Du är mer frestande än synden själv.” - “You are most tempting than sin itself.”

“Jag skulle kunna dricka dig torr.” - “I could drink you dry.”

“Vid gudarna—!” - “By the gods—!”

“Min käraste Joakim,” - “My dearest Joakim,”

“Jag älskar dig för alltid i detta liv och nästa.” - “I love you forever in this life and the next.”

“Evigt,” - “Eternally,”/“Forever,”

Tag list: @shilohrosechicken @missduffsblog @poisongirl616 @ladyveronikawrites @theroyaldixon @circle-with-me @deathblacksmoke @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @fadingintothegrey @abiomens @thisbicc @romanregins-supreme @meekahy @sitkowski @darksigns-exe @Amelia-acero @th4t-emO-k1d @fadingangelwisp @geminigirlfromfinland

If you would like to be added, please fill this out!

[echantedtoon]

Guard Dog's Bane

The infamous Guard Dog of Babyls has only one weakness and it's the new professor at school.

If someone had told him a couple months ago that he would fall in love with the MOST unusual girl that had ever graced Babyls's halls...He'd have told you to never speak such nonsense to him again, probably would have scoffed, told them they were insane, and dismissed it from memory bank forever. Him, a proud Guard Dog of Babyls , with a girl like her?? HA! What nonsense...

Or was it?

Not to him right now it wasn't as she kissed him and held his hands and he found himself not fighting against it. What was wrong with him!?

It felt like a two part problem in his mind. On one hand it was as if he was betraying his loyalty to his duty and everything that it stood for, for falling for such a girl. While on the other hand it was a betrayal of his own emotions for denying his affection for her in the first place. He grew weaker by the day, losing sleep over his inner turmoil. It wasn't long before people started to notice, dark circles appearing under his eyes and his usual scowl deepening as his mood worsened. No one dared to actually ask him what was the matter, but he could feel their concerned stares and worried glances. Even so, he held out, pushing thoughts of her away as he tried to go on with his life. Just ignore her, he told himself. He would feel better once he forgot about her. But no matter what she wouldn't leave his mind or him alone. Oh WHY did he have to be plagued his existence. He once tried yelling at her to just GO AWAY!! To leave him alone because she didn't need to be anywhere near him....It ended up with him breaking down in the middle of the day crying and all those sleepless nights catching up to him finally. His work performance was slipping, he was acting like a baby, and it was ALL her fault. She wouldn't listen and go away like some stalker. After that he had passed out from his yelling fit and woken up in the doctor's office in the school due to exhaustion.....And to her crying and holding his hand. Ironic wasn't it.

And he made a noble effort to forget about that incident, but it was all for naught.

He reached his tipping point about a month into his rejection to the monster. He was exhausted, eyes sore and bloodshot, and his performance still wavering concerning all their superiors. Lost in his thoughts on the way to lunch, he heard a single word. His name. That made him stop in his tracks. His head snapping up in recognition, eyes widening. No! Not her! Not now! The last thing he wanted was the she demon to back him against the wall and talk her pretty little head off. He felt like he was suffocating. He barely slept for days. He couldn't take it- The voices were becoming so much his head was going to explode-

"Professor? You don't look so good."

That was the last thing he heard before he passed out for a second time that month. She had carried him. CARRIED HIM!! HIM!! All the way back to their village filled with worry. Don't ask him why she didn't just take him to the nurse again or just leave him there. If the Guard Dog of Babyls was just found passed out against the ground it would've been less humiliating than a girl to carry him all the way to his bed where he remained when he woke up and numbly laid there as she went off chattering again. He didn't know what he was thinking when he suddenly exploded at her letting everything out. Maybe it was his frustration? The stress and strain he was feeling from her relentless presence? Maybe the days of little to no sleep? His mind zoned out as he mindlessly yelled at her but he certainly wasn't expecting it to end up with her kissing him and him being compliant to her affections. Leaning into her warmth and all around easing the stress he was always. Good grief what did he say? At one point she pulled away and he attempted to kiss her again which ended embarrassingly thanks to his lesser height which ended up with himself missing her lips and pecking her jawline which sent her beautiful face into giggles and the soft hands cupping his already crying and red face rubbed away at the stressful tears.

"You shouldn't beat yourself over like a little crush. I would've been happy to know either way. Oh. Please don't cry."

He wasn't sure why he felt so assured or comforted right now, but for now he leaned into those soft hands holding him up with the pretty angelic face of his relief.

[deathdetermineslife]

I really don't wanna say this and sound rude but why ship with Korekiyo? Like there's so many other characters in the franchise you could have picked and you picked... that one? Maybe I'm just being an asshole but you just had to pick him?

this has been sitting in my inbox since Christmas Eve but just to be That Guy here is a long, horribly comprehensive list of reasons why I am in love with this man

—————————————————————————

he's fucking pretty

look at him. he's beautiful. pretty long hair, first and foremost. I love a man with pretty long hair. he has pretty yellow eyes and also look at his (what I assume to be) eyeliner. this man is beautiful. don't even get me started when he takes his mask off. sheesh. someone get me a fan! maybe I'm just weird but I love a man who's feminine but also masculine at the same time. not androgynous but a secret other thing. I think he fits into that category.

he's also very tall (6'2") and I am short (5'6") so we have a nice height difference. also something about a man who's built like a stake olive garden bread stick I love. I could snap him in half. I won't get graphic here but he's gorgeous and that's obviously reason number one.

another thing too is I really love his design. military inspired clothing is very cunty (iirc I think his outfit was inspired by a music video? I dunno how true this is) but either way it just suits him very well. gives off this mysterious aura which fits his character. also he wears these bandages on his hands and you wonder why, because as you can see in his pregame sprite he doesn't have any scarring or anything. my personal headcanon is that he wears them to keep artifacts he handles from getting scuffed up.

I also just think that knee-high boots fuck hard. nothing to add to that. they fuck.

he has a brain

he's smart guys. why wouldn't I love a man in academia? anthropology is very interesting. he's a yapper, talks all the time about his interests, which he's very well versed in. I want a man who I can have intelligent conversations with !!!! he fits that perfectly cmon

I could talk to him for hours and never get bored... even if I don't entirely understand what the fuck he's yappin about i still love him nonetheless!!!!! I want a man who I can learn something from. and I love anthropology!!! so every conversation is something to remember.

I dunno I just like how he's the kind of individual you could talk to for forever. he always has something to say.

he's a fuckin freak

none of you are allowed to call him a freak. by the way let's get that straight but he's so fucking weird and that makes him lovable. I'm a weirdo. this is a sentence I would say. who says the shit he says. there's a scene where another character picks up a manhole cover and his response to that is "you could easily crush a child's skull with that strength". who says that. who says that. I love him.

I want a man with this sort of off-putting pazazz that none of you could begin to fathom /silly

he's just so cunty

tell me this line isn't funny. he has a sense of humor only few can understand (autistics) and I'm one of them. people think he's not funny but he's just funny in a dry way.

also yes he may have been serious in this scene but that doesn't make it any less funny. he just has such an attitude. there's this scene after u find out one of the characters is an assassin and he's like "uhm why are we including her in this activity she kills people" babe !!! babe !!! baby doll !!! guess what You Do !!! it's funny, laugh. he just has Such A Personality.

he's relatable

"Lachlan no the fuck he isn't" HE ISSS this is the line my username is based off of. it's stuck with me for like 5 years since I read it.

he's such an interesting character when it comes to the concepts of grief and loss and how one copes with the passing of someone close to you, especially when that someone hurt you. I could probably talk for hours about how he's such an interesting case study on how grief can effect ones healing from trauma, or how grief itself is a cycle that he's destined to repeat (killing over and over again to sate the desires of the dead), or how everything about his character relates to death, just generally. his favorite story in canon is Medusa, his dislikes air conditioners because they repel spirits, he's, you know, a serial killer, and so much more. I could write an essay on him.

he's relatable to me, anyways. #trauma LMAO

hes just interesting

rapid fun facts about my husband, go!!!

like I mentioned before he hates air-conditioning, he also hates holy water. you can guess why. iirc in one of his official arts it's says somewhere that a lot of women are jealous of him bc his hair is so pretty. which, yea, me too. he also wakes up at six in the morning everyday, mainly to get ready. what he spends hours doing i don't know. there's more fun facts I could share but you probably aren't very interested in hearing them

all in all though I don't think I picked him I think he just came to me at the right time. and for the last light five years I've been obsessed and he's all I think about every day and night. that's my husband!!! I love him. not much else to add there. no other fictional character I think ever at all in any way has ever been appealing to me in the way that he is. I can't explain it that well, he's just something special.

okay that's all if you read all of this ily

[tragedybunny]

Blue Solstice

༺Summary༻

A century after saving Baldur's Gate, Astarion's family and his friends' families have grown around him. Every year they celebrate the solstice together - but this year Astarion's beloved wife Serafina is gone. Their daughter Estelle is determined to remind him of the love he still has surrounding him. The memories the holiday brings up are painful, but he takes the first steps towards healing.

For the 2025 @bg3-winter-big-bang

༺Pairing༻ Astarion x Serafina (Female Tav/OC)

༺Warnings༻ Implied/referenced character death, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort

༺Word Count༻ 8324

༺A/N༻

The art for this piece was done by the amazing @snowfolly. Please check out their wonderful writing and art.

A giant thank you as always to my partner in fanfic crimes @icybluepenguin for the incredible beta work and crying all the tears with me.

Read on AO3

Astarion was deep in his trance; lost in a warm, happy memory. It was a favorite – the morning sun was just rising, coloring their bedroom with brilliant oranges and pinks. Cuddled close to him on the bed was his beloved Sera, leaning against his chest while one of his arms draped over her shoulders. Soft singing was the only sound in the still morning - Sera sang a lullaby to the infant resting in her arms. Estelle was only a couple of weeks old and had woken both her parents with her very healthy set of lungs. 

The lost bit of trance was no matter; Sera would need to get back to sleep, but he would see to that. All that mattered to him was that the two of them were safe and happy in his arms. His wife and daughter, his whole world, the life that once he would have thought impossible for himself. 

The pleasant reverie was interrupted by a tapping at his bedroom. 

Astarion slowly opened his eyes and remembered. He wasn't in that charming room in their little house. He was in a grand bedchamber in an upper city manor; Estelle wasn't a little baby anymore. She was a woman grown with children of her own, who had procured this manor and the title that went along with it, and Sera - Sera wasn't here anymore - she was…

A strangled cry escaped his throat. 

“Papa?” The voice of that grown woman called from behind the door, her worry evident. 

With a sigh, Astarion rose from the bed and opened the door, admitting the light from the hallway wall sconces into the blackness of his chamber. 

Framed in that light, pale brows knit with worry, stood Estelle. Slender and of medium height, Estelle was a creature of dexterous grace and deadly stealth. The white curls that tumbled riotously over her shoulders could be mistaken for his own when shorter, but the shining blue of her eyes was all her mother. 

“Papa…you look awful.” 

Well, he had taught her to speak her mind. “I was in reverie,” he explained, not moving from the doorway.

“Again? Papa, that’s practically all you do. Have you even eaten lately?” 

It was only then he noticed the steaming tankard held in her hands, the scent wafting from it filling his nostrils. Metallic tang, alluring sweetness, and a certain hint of spice that came from Dalyria’s blood preservation method. Astarion’s mouth watered and his stomach panged - he couldn’t deny an offering of warmed blood, even if it wasn’t fresh. 

Wordlessly, Estelle proffered the tankard until it was securely held between his own hands. He knew her too well to think this would be the end of it, and stepped aside, allowing her into the room. 

“Ignis,” Estelle spoke and the candles in the room bloomed into flame.

Clothes lay scattered over the floor, the bedding was clustered in the center of the bed in a disheveled heap, wine glasses adorned tables and vanities, and Astarion’s personal items were haphazardly tossed about. Nothing like it would have been before the past summer. Astarion was fastidious with his space, showing great care for what was his after centuries of having nothing. It was Sera who tended to leave things wherever it was convenient at the moment. He never minded though, a little mess was a small price to pay for the life they shared. 

Estelle appraised the situation and looked at him sadly. “Drink that. We'll work on this after.” 

Warm confidence, so much like her mother. It almost hurt. “Don't look at me like that. I'm over three hundred years old, I can handle myself.” 

“Don't be prickly, Papa.” Discarding a shirt from a chair in front of her mother’s vanity, Estelle sat, and locked her eyes on him. 

Defeated, Astarion dropped onto the bed and sipped the warm blood. The sweetness of it was deep and rich, like brandy or tea with a hint of honey, definitely sentient blood. Animal blood had its sweetness as well, but it was brash and quick, sugar tossed over sour berries, too much frosting to cover the hardness of the cake. It wasn’t surprising, Estelle was a Duke now and the blood of the condemned often found its way into her cellar and the blood lab, where magic and science worked in harmony to preserve it. 

He drank deeply and sat in the not-quite-comfortable silence. Finally, he passed the mug back to her when the last drop was drained. “There, satisfied?” 

Estelle took it without rising to his bait, she knew him too well after one hundred and nineteen years of life. “Quite. Now before we get to cleaning this mess, we have something important to discuss.” 

Astarion groaned, he knew well what time of year it was. “No.” 

“Papa, we go every year. Gale will be devastated if we don’t.”

“That doddering old man probably won’t even remember us!”

“He’s Mystra’s chosen, he’s not doddering,” Estelle corrected, with patience. 

“And this isn’t every other year…”

Estelle made a little noise of disapproval before rising and coming to sit on the bed next to him. “I know it’s not, Papa. That’s why it’s important to go. You need to spend Solstice with people who love you. That’s what she would want.” Her hand came to rest over his - skin as moon-glow pale as his own, but not as cold. 

Her words made him want to rip it away. If it had been anyone else, he might have even lunged for their throat. Only Estelle had the right to invoke her, well, maybe the grandchildren as well. “Don’t, please, I can’t hear about what she would want right now.”

Beside him, Estelle drooped. “Fine, we’ll let it rest for now. Let’s work on this room.” 

Estelle was a magistrate, a politician, and a warrior; she knew when to change tactics. Astarion didn’t believe for a moment that she’d given up. But he was content with her letting it lay for now. As a compromise, he joined her cleaning efforts without complaint, following her lead while sinking back into the frozen numbness that had claimed him since summer. 

Astarion was right that Estelle had not surrendered her cause so easily. Ever since Estelle’s second Solstice on this plane, they had made the trek to spend it in Waterdeep. Astarion and Sera’s home in Baldur’s Gate was too small to accommodate the growing list of attendees, including Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s adoptees and Karlach’s growing bump - the soon to be baby Ravengard. 

But Gale's tower had only housed himself, Tara, and occasionally Dalyria. Much to Astarion's consternation, their relationship had continued, with her visiting Gale’s home, and Gale in turn taking trips to the Underdark. He hadn’t been able to sort through the strange tangle of feelings about the situation at the time, and had just resigned himself to letting it play out. So it was decided, they would all go to Waterdeep to celebrate together. And the tradition had stuck, with Estelle not ready to let it go of it. 

Knowing that more prodding about his mindstate was inevitable, he tried to satisfy Estelle by emerging from his isolation occasionally. He’d made the mistake of enjoying a book near the library fire, watching the sun dip down, behind the horizon as the early night of winter set in. 

The door behind him creaked open unsubtly, followed by the scraping of boots on wood as someone hesitated, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Astarion snapped his book shut and choked back a curt greeting. “Alright, which one of you is it, Sariel or Alastor?” he asked, though he already suspected which of his grandsons it was. 

“Alastor, grandpa.” His voice lacked his typical confidence.

Of course the older one had been pressed into being the sacrificial lamb. Astarion sighed, it would be quicker to just let him get through it. “Well, don't just linger about, then, come here.”

Alastor gingerly stepped around the corner of the chair, reminding Astarion very much of the little boy who used to try to sneak around it to surprise him. 

Whatever a dhampir and an elf made was apparently close enough to an elf. Alastor was sixty-six years old and hadn't aged since he was roughly thirty. Shorter than Astarion, he maintained an elf-like grace and lithe build. Black curls were kept cropped short, very decidedly not elf-like; they framed a face with soft features that reminded Astarion so much of Sera, and violet eyes that had been a surprise to the family.

Veriena, Estelle’s wife, was a sun elf, and it wasn't a typical color amongst that lineage. Estelle had her mother's blue eyes. It would have been logical for him to favor one or the other. 

While visiting after Estelle had given birth, Astarion had been holding the cooing little bundle, gazing in wonder at his first grandchild. Leaning her head on his shoulder, Sera had spoken in a reverent whisper. “That must be what your eyes looked like before.”

Astarion had felt his chest tighten and his eyes get wet. His eyes - the ones he'd forgotten, the ones he'd thought he'd never see again - were staring back at him from his grandchild. All of it was miraculous and wondrous. 

Those eyes now appraised him apprehensively. The hesitation was irksome and if it had been anyone else… but the grandbabies had always made him soft. Standing, he crossed his arms and waited a second more. 

“This is about Solstice, isn't it?” 

“Y-yes. It's just, this is tradition. We go every year. It won't be the same without you. And we'll all be worried about you.” 

Blast it, Alastor was looking at him with the same look Sera used to use on him. 

Besides, no matter how much he asserted that all he wanted was to be left alone to mourn, it would appear he’d never hear the end of this. 

Once again, Astarion sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, run along and tell your mother I concede this battle to her, I’ll go along but I do not promise to be cheerful.” 

Alastor’s arms were suddenly around his shoulders and he squeezed him tightly, another reminder to Astarion of his boyhood days. Returning the embrace, he let go quickly, fearing another storm of tears that he didn’t wish to deal with at the moment. 

“Love you, grandpa,” Alastor uttered quickly before leaving him be. 

Astarion sank back into his chair, resigned to being dragged along for the merry-making. 

At the very least, he didn’t need to languish in waiting for long. Once, they would have made the trek to Waterdeep the old fashioned way, along the road. The ever-expanding family had finally caused them to rely on a teleportation circle Gale helped inscribe in a study used by Estelle and Sera for arcane research. Blades and cunning had been what he and Estelle had shared, but with Sera it had been a fascination with magic. After the adventure had brought them together, Sera had become invested in learning proper wizard magic, as she called it. Astarion had been sure it would irritate her patron, Sera having a source of power within, but Titania hadn’t seemed to mind at all. 

Estelle hadn’t had the patience for that sort of magic though. Her magic came from her blades and wits, serving her well in her short time at bard college. Of course now her magic came from another, familiar source. Sera had been in the crypt for mere days when Astarion could actually smell it on her, the hint of fey magic - wild and uncanny. Estelle had insisted it had been her idea, to continue on her mother’s bargain, to keep the Summer Queen’s protection over their house. He’d despised himself for not somehow keeping his baby girl from falling into a pact with that creature but he’d barely been able to find his way out of bed. If the sun could still harm him, he might have walked into it one morning. 

But he was still here, and now he waited irritatedly with a packed bag at the teleportation circle, the first there, ready to get this over with. Alastor was the first to arrive, earnestly beaming and excited to see the extended family. Veriena was next, red hair flowing around her like a fiery halo, gold eyes still hazy from reverie. The night owl had met Estelle in one of the pubs she owned throughout the city. “Morning, Papa,” she called, voice sleepy but chipper. 

She’d left elvish society behind to become her own woman, and without a family had been eagerly embraced into theirs. Astarion gave her a nod, trying to be polite. None of this was her fault. 

Finally Estelle poked her head into the room, gazed around the faces and turned around immediately. 

Moments later, a shout echoed through the hallway. “Sariel, if you don’t get to the teleportation sigil in the next two minutes, we are leaving without you!” 

Sariel burst through the door in scant seconds, followed by a still irritated Estelle. At forty-five Sariel was still as chaotic and mischievous as ever. His red hair was escaping a long braid and his blue eyes danced with laughter. 

“I'm here, mother, see. I simply wanted a quick meal.” Sariel gestured with his flask, the scent of blood wafting from it. 

When the first of his teeth came in, Sariel had bitten into Veriena's hand as she played with him and drawn blood he happily lapped up. None of them knew why only one of the boys was born with the blood thirst but everyone had tried to take it in stride. 

“Next year I'm leaving you behind.” 

Estelle stood at the line of runes that were the house's unique signature and the rest of them huddled into the circle with her. “Invenium viam.”

A shimmering purple light engulfed them and when it had faded, they stood inside a matching circle in Gale's tower. 

“Oh, you're here!” a bubbly voice exclaimed. 

A young woman with a curvy silhouette leapt up from the desk she'd been reading at, the only furniture in the room. Blonde curls bobbed around her head as she beamed at them, green eyes bright.

“Little Sera?” Sariel gaped before recovering and affecting a charming smile. 

Internally Astarion cringed at her name - some grandchild or great grandchild of Gale’s bearing Serafina's name. He couldn't remember which at the moment and it didn't matter. All that mattered was his urge to run. He swallowed a breath he didn't need. 

“That's me! It's been awhile, I'm glad I'm back at Pop-pop's studying this year-” She suddenly flushed a bright red. “Listen to me going on, let's get you all settled.” 

“Please,” Astarion muttered and beside him Estelle clicked her tongue in disapproval. 

It didn't seem to put off little Sera. “Right this way!” she exclaimed, opening the door as Sariel pushed to the front of the group to walk beside her. 

“Now tell me more about what you're studying…” he said, all effusive charisma.  

Astarion quickly let their conversation fade to noise in his mind, his eyes taking in the details of the tower that he’d been to countless times before. It hadn’t changed much over the years: the walls covered by tapestries and wooden furniture, carpets laid over the bare floor - all of it well-worn and well-loved - creating an atmosphere of cozy hominess 

The teleportation circle room was towards the bottom of the tower, ensuring that there was plenty of time to intercept any unauthorized intruders before they reached Gale’s precious books and laboratory. They would make the trek up the stairs past the functional areas - kitchens, pantries, workshops - up to the living quarters. Last year, Sera had been so weak, her body failing her already, that Astarion had insisted on carrying her up the stairs. 

Gale’s areas of magical study occupied the topmost area of the tower, a place Sera had loved on their visits. She’d spent hours watching the stars from the telescope in his observatory and pouring over dusty tomes. Magic had become her great passion, after adventuring, which they had taken a break from when Estelle was young. 

As they reached the living quarters, instinctively, Astarion broke away from the group. 

“Papa!” Estelle immediately called after him, but he wasn’t of any mind to turn back. 

His bag heavy on his shoulders, he started down a hallway that was lined with bedrooms, including the guest suites. There were an obscene number of rooms in Gale’s tower, far more than should have fit from looking at the outside. 

“Fucking wizards,” he’d often mumble to himself while getting lost in the halls those first few years. 

Today though, he found the room he was looking for easily enough, the room he spent every Solstice in. Pushing through the door, the wall sconces lit at his presence, giving the room a soft glow. In the center was a cozy bed, draped in dark blue - Sera’s favorite. Rosewood furnishings accompanied it: wardrobes, a vanity, and even a bookshelf stocked just for them. The other room contained private bathing facilities that may have been part engineering, part magic. 

Tossing his bag on the bed, Astarion joined it, laying on his back to stare up at the canopy embroidered with stars. It had always reminded them of their days out on the road, the night sky they spent so much time under before Estelle and his ability to sun walk came along. Today though, it dredged up recollections of their very first Solstice, spent under those same stars.

They'd reached Waterdeep in the late fall, Gale providing several leads on possible ways for him to walk in the sun again. That had been their grand goal, so they said, but really the both of them were embracing the rambling, adventuring lifestyle. The next item was a ring supposedly located in Suzail, the capital of Cormyr. 

The days had faded into a few scant hours of sunlight, which Astarion could appreciate except for the biting cold. Neither of them could get warm and while he was merely uncomfortable, Sera would suffer so they traveled less each day. He’d asked if perhaps they should have stayed with Gale for the worst of the winter but she’d insisted they had barely been able to get started traveling, she wouldn’t give up now. 

They’d taken a rather nice break in the restored Elturel and were back out in the middle of nowhere, trudging through the remnants of a sleet storm. Time had become a slippery thing, and neither of them truly knew what day it was. The road crested up to a low ridge and suddenly Astarion became aware of singing in the distance, and an orange glow on the horizon. 

Sera could see the light, but not hear the singing yet. “I wonder what that's all about.” 

“Let's go cautiously,” Astarion had urged. The road could be treacherous, even without the potential for him to be recognized for what he was. 

It didn't take long though before the lyrics of the songs became clear and he could spot the merrymakers around what were now obviously bonfires. They were songs of thankfulness for the rebirth of the sun, after the coming longest night. 

Astarion had frozen mid-stride. They couldn't have been on the road that long. 

“What is it?” Sera asked tensely beside him. 

Astarion sighed, he was not overly fond of holidays, they usually invoked at least one deity. “It appears we’ve wandered close to a Solstice celebration.” 

While glancing down, he noticed that Sera’s lips had taken on a slightly blue tone. Those were bonfires below, and they didn’t seem to be praising any god in particular. “Perhaps we should take the opportunity for a little warmth courtesy of their good cheer.” If they guessed his nature, he was certain escape would be easy enough. He was no longer the powerless spawn he once had been. 

Approaching slowly, they called out to the group, who were encamped in a field just outside a town. It looked like the whole population of the small assembly of buildings and surrounding farms was in the field. 

Astarion stepped back to allow Sera to speak first. There was something about her that made strangers warm to her, and even bend their actions to her words. 

“Merry Solstice friends,” she greeted them and Astarion watched with pride as one bright smile captivated them. “My partner and I were wondering if two weary travelers could take some time to warm themselves by your fires.” 

An older, stout woman answered her. “But of course, on Solstice we’re all reminded we walk together through the dark.” 

With that, the town welcomed them not only to their fire, but to the wine they were drinking, and the feast they were warming over smaller fires. With a mug of mulled wine, Astarion artfully disguised not partaking in the food, while Sera ate her fill. 

Settling next to her on a bale of straw, they watched as another song broke out. He hadn’t really ever thought if a day like this would mean anything to Sera, part of his stubbornly selfish nature. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Quite the unexpected way to spend Solstice.” 

Sera laughed but it was sharp, and bitter. “Definitely not the way it would have been at home. We-” She stopped herself abruptly, glaring at nothing in frustration, and Astarion silently cursed Titania and the warlock pact that kept her silent. “Let’s just say I’m fine without celebrating. Especially in winter.” 

Sliding closer to him, Sera snuggled against his shoulder, taking a sip from her own steaming mug. “I won’t argue with the wine though.” 

Astarion wrapped an arm around her, and glanced at the horizon. They had some time before they would have to make shelter - the darkness hadn’t started breaking, and brilliant stars still dotted the winter sky. He could feel the warmth of Sera’s body, even through the layers of clothing between them, and hear the ever-present rhythm of her precious heart. 

If he had been one to celebrate a holiday back then, there wouldn’t have been any better way than that. 

The familiar stinging returned to his eyes. Gods, maybe he should have found a different room. 

Rolling over, he buried his face in the blankets, seeing only blessed nothingness, and then shut them. There was nothing he wanted more than to let the darkness take him again. He’d upheld his end of the bargain, he’d made it to this blasted place, the least they could do was let him have his wallowing. 

With enough stillness, reverie once again overtook him. But instead of Sera, the memories that came were his fall from the Nautiloid and the blinding sun. How sure he was that this was his end, and how it had only been the beginning. 

How long he’d been out, Astarion wasn’t sure. But he woke from his undisturbed rest in the same position he’d been in, face down on the mattress. His muscles felt as stiff as a corpse and his stomach burned with his cursed hunger. Gale did keep a good stock of preserved blood about, holidays weren’t the only time he and the family popped in. And Dal still came to visit on occasion, their friendship remaining even as passions had cooled. 

Using a little stealth, he could probably make it to the wine cellar where it was kept and back without having to speak to anyone. 

With effort, he heaved himself from the bed and stood in the guttering light of the still burning sconces. The flames were magical and consumed nothing, only dimming at the command word. A glance at the parted drapes of the window told him that hours had passed and it was now deep into the night. All the better to avoid unwanted company. 

Stepping softly, Astarion skulked down the hallway from his room, retracing the earlier path back toward the stairs. Not a soul in sight, though he heard muffled talking and giggling from Sariel’s room. At least they were likely to keep occupied, knowing Sariel. 

Even in the darkness of the shuttered kitchens and pantries, Astarion found his way with ease, stopping to pilfer a glass for his late night snack. A special room lay at the back of Gale’s wine stores, behind a rather imposing door. Perhaps he'd snatch a bottle of wine as well and have a nice little time with the two. 

Of course the blasted door was locked when he tried it. Maybe Gale was trying to lure him out to ask for the key. As if he didn't know Astarion at all after all these years. Though he was disappointed in himself that there weren't any lockpicks on his person, he had other ways around these. 

“Dissersa,” Astarion spoke to the lock and a loud knock emanated from it in response. 

Trying the handle, he found it opened easily enough this time. Inside shelves lined the walls, piled high with casks of blood. Astarion’s mouth watered, he really hadn't been eating enough. 

One was already tapped and waiting. Hungrily, Astarion held his glass beneath the spigot and opened it. Iron-scented intoxicant flowed into his waiting glass. He didn’t even need the wine he’d been thinking of, the blood was enough - one sip was already making his mind pleasantly hazy. 

A noise from the direction of the wine cellar made him jump, even as he filled his glass for a second round. Of course Gale was probably about to spoil his blissful solitude, it wasn’t the first time he’d snuck into his blood stores. 

It was their first Solstice at Gale’s, Estelle’s second Solstice. The previous year everyone had come to a lovely celebration at their home in Baldur’s Gate. Astarion had finally developed a taste for holidays, not for the religious trappings that surrounded them, but for the traditions and togetherness that would be part of Estelle’s life. Astarion had resolved to give his little unexpected bundle of joy nothing but the best of life. 

They’d made the trip to Waterdeep to find Gale’s tower transformed into a festive wonderland of greenery, ribbons, and tinsel. The soft snow that covered Waterdeep was the perfect backdrop for a winter celebration. Astarion had shed his irascible facade and finally allowed more of his true self to come out; it had taken years but it had finally sunk in that these were his friends and family. And so instead of rolling his eyes when Gale greeted them dressed in a red robe lined with white, Astarion laughed good naturedly. 

“Excited to host?” he’d asked as they’d all taken turns embracing. 

“Gah!” Estelle had added - her name for Gale. 

It was that first trip where Gale had shown them to their room - and Astarion knew he’d made accommodations special for all of them. They all trickled in, the makeshift family bound by tadpoles and a fall from a Nautiloid. Except Jahiera who had written that Rion would kill her if she dragged the younger ones to Waterdeep. Astarion and Sera had already stopped for a meal and gifts before leaving the city. Eventually even Dal turned up, her and Gale openly lavishing affection on one another. 

As they were waiting for dinner and settling Estelle down for a nap, Astarion felt a bit peckish. In her crib, Estelle was peacefully sleeping, cooing happily occasionally. Ever since her canine teeth had come in, she’d developed a taste for blood - proving herself most assuredly a dhampir. Dal’s preserved blood had been a life saver, even though Estelle had not taken kindly to being weaned; there were many tantrums and tears, more than he would have thought a child just over one could produce. 

Coincidentally, Astarion had learned that down in Gale’s wine cellar, there was plenty of that blood to be had. “My love,” Astarion wrapped his arms around Sera from behind as she was taking in the view from the window. “How would you like to be a little mischievous?” 

“How could I resist if you're involved?” Sera relaxed into his embrace, head leaning back against his shoulder, lips brushing his cheek. “Just make sure Estelle has her bat since I assume we're going to go make this mischief elsewhere.” 

Astarion grinned, he couldn’t have asked for a better partner in crime than Sera. At least when that crime didn’t cause any lasting harm to someone who hadn’t harmed them first. 

After checking that Estelle did indeed have her enchanted bat that would alert them if she needed them in any way, Astarion opened the door and held out his arm for Sera. “Let’s go find ourselves some trouble, my love.” 

When they had seen Gale and Shadowheart working in the kitchens, it was Sera who cast invisibility for them to make the way to the wine cellar easier, hand over her mouth to hide the giggles as they snuck about. And it was she who stood lookout while Astarion picked the lock on the blood supply, just like the old days, rewarding herself with a bottle of wine to enjoy. 

It hadn’t taken Gale long to find them, probably some sort of arcane alarm Astarion should have looked for. But he wasn’t really concentrating on things like that; he was concentrating on his beautiful wife, smiling and laughing, like they were young lovers on their first tryst. 

Astarion had made a seat out of one of the barrels and Sera had clambered into his lap, demanding to know if preserved blood compared to hers. The sound of Gale awkwardly clearing his throat from his door only made them hysterical once more, much to his chagrin.

How bright and magical the world had seemed back then. 

Now there was only darkness. 

Astarion topped his glass off and started to make his way back, stopping to grab a bottle of wine after all and tear the cork out with his claws. No need to keep them short now with no lover to caress. Dumping some into his blood, he took a deep drink, and continued the trudge back to his room.

A large silhouette loomed in the doorway before him and Astarion groaned. It wasn’t Gale who’d sought him out after all. 

“What do you want?” Astarion snapped, eager to just get whatever sympathetic drivel Halsin had to spew out of the way. 

“I am only here to check on you Astarion. I went to your room and found it empty, so I came looking. We're concerned, you didn't even let us greet you.” Despite the time that had passed, Halsin had barely changed at all, perhaps gaining some crow’s feet around his eyes, but other than that, still very much the elf they found in the goblin cage. 

Without conscious effort, Astarion’s legs began to move, and quick, sharp steps started to take him away from his concerned friend. “Did you happen to think that's because I wished to be left alone?” 

Halsin could move quickly for an elf his size, and began to match his stride. “Perhaps what you want is not what you need. You have community here, family. Sera was beloved by all of us, and is missed.” 

Turning, Astarion hissed, fangs bared, though Halsin remained implacable. “Don't you dare! Do you think a few tumbles under the covers gives you a right to speak about it? To grieve her as I do? You don't know anything about this.” 

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder as his anger faded back into the melancholy that was his constant companion. “I would never presume. But still, she had a place in all our hearts. As do you. We're here, when you're ready.”

Astarion fought back a vicious stinging in his eyes and turned away from the kind gaze that looked at him with such concern. “I just want to go back to bed.” 

“At least let me walk you back?” 

Saying nothing, Astarion just shrugged, the argument not worth his energy. Turning away, he continued on to his room, sipping his blood-wine mixture. Thankfully, Halsin was silent as he shadowed him, the only sound the beating of his great heart that Astarion could hear so clearly. 

There were times when it would have been comforting, or even exhilarating, to hear it. But like so much else, it was now an unpleasant reminder of what he lost. 

The halls remained quiet and dark as they walked, only the errant light of the moon and stars peeping through windows broke the blackness. As they reached Astarion’s door, Halsin cleared his throat. He couldn’t just leave things lay with his unending compulsion to help. “Remember what I said Astarion, we’re still here for you.”

He didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say: that none of that mattered now, that he didn’t care, that he was too lost to even try?

Instead he pushed his door open, and retreated inside. The cheery glow of the wall sconces greeted him as he returned to the bed. Despite the blood, he was even more weary. Halsin was the first, the rest were sure to follow. They considered themselves family, even after all this time, even after so many were gone. That’s what they had been for so long, an ever-growing family. 

Halsin had been the last to turn up with an offspring. By Titania’s meddling, he and Sera had been first. Halsin had been true to ways of loving wherever his heart felt stirred, but eventually one Solstice he’d arrived with Layla, a pretty human woman, and a wriggling bundle. 

“This is Tamiel,” he’d introduced the baby, while glowing proudly. 

Everyone had clamored to meet the newest addition to their group, except Astarion. He was still not one much for babies. Estelle had been the exception. But hanging back and watching, that did give him that damnedable warm feeling in his chest he hadn’t been able to escape in years. 

Even the young ones were in on it: Renik and Felle, Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s adopted twins  shoved each other to get the best look, and Caerlack, Wyll and Karlach’s daughter, snuck around while they were distracted. Morena, Gale’s oldest, wasn’t quite old enough to maneuver around the older children and her mother Ashara, a pretty drow woman with silver eyes, held her up to see the excitement. 

While Astarion allowed himself to fondly gaze upon the moment, he caught Estelle out of the corner of his eye. She was nearly eight, the eldest of the little group of hellions and often the ringleader. Now though, she froze in place off to the side, eyes wide and lips parted. Then the smell hit him - blood. 

Turning his gaze to the others, he caught a slight scratch that Felle must have given her brother in all the shoving. 

“Gods below,” he muttered, unsure when the last time she’d had sated her blood thirst,and launched himself forward. 

He made it just as Estelle had begun to lunge forward, her mouth open to display tiny fangs. Hands wrapping around her waist, he pulled her into his arms as she hissed angrily. “Estelle, we ask before we bite,” he said, voice firm but not loud, in an effort to reach her before a truly feral bloodlust took her. 

They had been on self-control since the beginning, which included keeping Eslelle on regular blood doses. But they must have forgotten in the travel rush. He’d failed her - and now everyone would think she was a monster. 

Astarion felt himself holding Estelle tighter, as the world around him seemed to fade a bit, a feeling he hadn’t felt in years. Vaguely he became aware that Sera had rushed over and was talking calmly to Estelle. There was an infant here that she could have hurt, they would all turn on her, demand they leave, and it would be Astarion’s fault. 

It was Gale’s laugh that shook him out of it. “Looks like she gets your cup then, Astarion.” 

He was already handing it to Sera who was soothing their little girl. 

“Chk,” Lae’zel scolded the twins. “Blooded battle is for outdoors.” Shadowheart cleared her throat, and Lae’zel added hastily: “And for adults only.” 

The room started to come back into focus and slowly Astarion lowered a happily sipping Estelle back to the ground. 

“Well, that was quite a moment of excitement to start us off,” Halsin said merrily. “I’m afraid Gale’s dinner might be lackluster in comparison.”

“Speak for yourself, Gale’s food is never less than perfect. Gods, I am starving.” Karlach patted her stomach, just starting to swell with their second child. 

“Sounds like we should settle in for dinner then.” Ashara gestured for them to head to the dining room. 

“You’re not all mad?” Astarion asked quietly. 

“Why would we be? Much like nature, children have storms and calm,” Halsin answered.

“Ugh, you always bring nature into,” Astarion groused and Halsin only beamed. 

As the rest of them headed for the dining room, Sera stopped him, leaning close. “Are you alright, you had that look for a moment, like you were miles away?”

“I’m fine now. I did find myself getting lost for a moment, afraid of what they would say. But they all just… accepted it.” 

“Of course they did,” Sera said like he’d just spoken the most ridiculous words she’d ever heard. “We’re family Astarion, we accept and care for each other no matter what. Now come on, before I miss Gale’s canapés.” 

And, deep down, Astarion knew they were family still. Which was why he wasn’t surprised when there was a tapping at his door the next evening. 

Somehow, he’d been thankfully left to himself the whole day, but as the sun neared the horizon, he knew dinner was imminent. It marked the start of the true festivities and he’d doubted that he would be allowed to continue his isolation. 

The knock that came was gentle but insistent, sounding twice when he tried to ignore the first one. “Fine, fine,” he answered, making his way to the door, wearing only the nightshirt he’d managed to change into last night.   

It was no great shock to find Gale there, patiently leaning on his staff. One hundred and twenty-two years had passed since that fateful crash of the Mindflayer ship, and while he was no longer young, Gale Dekarios lived on, being the Chosen of Mystra extending his days. Time had written itself across his face in wrinkles and laugh lines, his posture was stooped, and his hair was long and snowy. A proper wizard really. 

“Hello Astarion, you seemed to have forgotten to greet the rest of us yesterday.” There was a twinkle in his eye, Gale hadn’t lost any of his humor. 

Astarion made a disgruntled noise. “I’m here against my wishes wizard, you cannot expect merriment on top of that.” 

Gale’s humor vanished and was replaced by a somber countenance. “I know, Astarion. No one expects you to be cheerful, but we don’t want you to forget you still have us. And the hour for Solstice Eve dinner is upon us.” 

“How long before Estelle follows you?” Astarion pointedly ignored the tightness in his chest. 

Gale sighed. “Not long, I fended her off by volunteering to come get you.” 

“Tell her I’ll be along shortly.” He closed the door without letting Gale get another word in. 

Might as well get it over with. 

Emerging a short time later, Astarion had dressed himself in a plain black shirt and trousers, accented with silver piping and embroidery; an outfit that loudly protested he was still in mourning. Estelle hadn’t shown up so she must have accepted his word to Gale. If he ran, he could probably use the delay to get away. But she’d likely come to the worst conclusions and be frantic to find him. Despite everything, he couldn’t worry his little girl like that. Even if the thought of giving up had crossed his mind a few times. 

Everyone was already settling into their places when Astarion arrived in the dining room doorway. Gale’s dining room was like the rest of his tower - warm. The tapestries here depicted joyous celebration, the wainscotting between them was an elaborate criss-cross pattern. The last hues of the sun streamed in from great windows to one side, and on the other, a fire burned cheerfully in a hearth. The table set for less than it would be in years passed, but still it was accented with candles, green boughs, and gold ribbons. 

Gale sat at the head of the table - tradition foisted upon by all the original companions. At his right sat Ashara, lavender skin taking on pinkish hue in the sunset light, to his left was an empty seat, presumably waiting for Astarion. Down the line from Astarion were Estelle, Veriena, and the boys - Sariel making eyes at little Sera. 

Next to Ashara sat an elderly half-elf who had come to live out her final days in the tower with the Dekarios’. “Finally deigning to join us, Astarion?” Age had not dulled Shadowheart’s tongue. 

Of Gale and Ashara's adult children, Morena and Mystral were in attendance, Elminster and his brood being off in Raven’s Bluff in Vesperin. Morena was the mother of dear little Sera and two other very adept wizards. Though their mother was a half-drow, she'd married a human and the drow features were rare in the children. Mystral had no children and was not inclined to the studious wizard life, she'd wandered all over “studying nature” - Halsin's influence, Gale would dramatically sigh whenever asked. There was an enjoyable irony to her name really. 

Halsin and his current partner, another drow named Zyrm coincidentally enough, and the now adult Tamiel rounded out their group. Shadowheart's adopted twins had passed before her, and their family lines had frayed and dispersed, making it rare they joined the group. 

Astarion only nodded to them and took his place in the empty seat, overcome with a sense of wrongness. Sera was supposed to sit at Gale’s left, and then Astarion between her and Estelle. It had been that way for over a century - and this was not right. Any of it. How could it be? A whimper tried to escape his throat, but Astarion drowned it with the warm mug of blood that had been left for him in place of a plate. 

“Right, now that we’re all here.” Gale clapped his hands and a magnificent meal appeared on the table. “Let the feast begin.” 

Enchanted music played from somewhere and people fell into soft conversation as they passed the dishes around. It was though they all had forgotten she was supposed to be here. Astarion snatched a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. 

At the edge of the room loomed the doors to the parlor, concealing that which he was dreading the most, the Solstice tree. He yanked his gaze away and stared down into his wine. 

“Papa, are you alright?” Estelle whispered from beside him. 

“Does it matter?” he shot back. “I’m here, and that seemed to be the only important part.” 

“The important part was not leaving you alone to be miserable. At least you’re miserable in company,” she huffed, clearly hurt and loud enough to draw gazes. 

“I guess,” he conceded. Deep down, he knew she meant well, and it was all out of love, but it didn’t change the spiraling storm dragging him down. 

He drank, blood then wine, then blood then wine, over and over until all their voices were far away. Until he could almost feel Sera beside him where she should be. 

Then everyone was moving, rising from their seats. Astarion must have missed the call to move to the parlor. Legs shaky under him, he followed them mindlessly. 

Ashara pulled the door open to reveal the crown jewel of the celebration, a massive pine tree. It was bare of all decorations, for now. Tradition was that they all gathered to decorate it together on Solstice Eve. Sera had loved it. The minute beating of his heart felt like it was tearing his  chest apart and he pushed forward numbly. 

Sera leaned heavily against his arm, her strength was rapidly fading these days. She’d gotten sick over a year ago. It started with nose bleeds, then dizziness, then fatigue, and built to a steady bodily decline. Shadowheart and Halsin had been there through it all, fighting with all the knowledge and skill to unravel what was happening. In the end, the only answer was damage from the Mindflayer tadpole. During that whole ordeal, only when things had been desperate, had Sera resorted to tapping into the connection they offered to the other infected. But that had been enough. The only treatment was to keep her comfortable. Still, even with her deterioration, she had insisted they come for Solstice.

Dinner had just finished and they all made their way into the parlor. Crates of decorations awaited them, glowing in the flickering light of candles and a roaring fire that illuminated the room. Outside, snow fell softly over Waterdeep, wrapping the city in a glittering blanket for the festival of Simril the next night. It would have been a perfect evening, if not for the hollow dread eating him alive. 

Sera’s breath was already strained from the walk between the rooms and Astarion instinctively guided her to a plush chair near the tree. “There, my love, the best seat in the house.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded empty, devoid of any of his normal bravado or fervor. 

Sera smiled and weakly tugged his shirt until he leaned down for a kiss. “You’re the best of husbands.” 

Gray streaked through her blue-black hair, wrinkles marked the years of frowns and smiles, and her form had grown frail - yet she remained the most beautiful thing in the world to him. The one he loved, and should have had so much more time with. 

Rage bloomed inside him but with nowhere for it to go, he smothered it and instead held Sera for a moment before pulling away and forcing a smile. “Now, let's see to this tree.” 

Even in her state, Sera could still cast a spell, and from her seat, she used a mage hand to help decorate. Watching her smile and laugh with their eccentric, adopted family warmed Astarion’s heart. Estelle even stopped every so often and got her approval on an ornament placement, a tradition from when she was younger, making them both laugh as she stomped her foot over-dramatically when attention wasn't immediately given to her. He'd doubted it was a good idea to come but she needed this one last time. 

When the tree was finished, there was always a pause, a moment of stillness to admire the beauty they had crafted together. Astarion crouched down, bringing himself closer to speak to Sera and hear her soft voice. “One more splendid Solstice tree. Do you think the boys have finally grown out of trying to sneak in early to guess their presents?” Even as he was trying to be cheerful, his voice caught in his throat. 

“Astarion, love, you were the one caught doing it last year.” Sera’s humor had never wavered. 

He tried desperately to blink back tears, that wit and strength had been his pillar for more than a century. “Well you were such an awful tease about what it was.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” She laughed and kissed his cheek, like the Sera who’d just watched him pick a pocket on a street in Baldur’s Gate while they still had tadpoles in their heads to worry about. “Never change,” she added, suddenly turning serious. 

“I…” He wasn’t sure what the turn meant. 

“Don’t lose yourself, and don’t forget you’re loved. By them,” she gestured to the others, “and by me, forever, Starry Sky.”

“Sunlight.” Astarion didn’t have any more words, only tears rolling down his cheeks. 

His cheeks were wet, as he stood frozen with glass baubles in his hands. 

“Papa.” Estelle startled him and he dropped the ornaments, the sound of shattering glass deafening in the sudden silence. 

“How am I supposed to do this?” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. “Just keep going on? Living day after day, talking, laughing, reading good books, having holidays, all alone,” he wailed miserably. 

Arms wrapped gently around him, pulling him into a soft embrace. “I know, it’s hard.” Estelle’s voice wavered. “Nothing seems right without Mama around.” 

Astarion unburied his face to look into the blue eyes that were the echo of her mother’s, now wet with her own tears. Lost as he had been, he’d forgotten that Estelle was suffering too. Desperately, he hugged her back. 

“We have to try though, it’s what she would have wanted. And you’re not doing it alone, Papa.” 

“Absolutely not,” Alastor said and Astarion felt two more bodies crush against him. 

“Always have to say something first,” Sariel snarked, squeezing tighter than his brother.  

Astarion’s sobs gave way to silent tears. 

“I dare say none of us will ever let you be alone Astarion,” Gale said as the rest of them gathered around him, his oldest friends embracing him as well. 

Part of him wanted to lash out, or push them away with a sarcastic comment, but the better part of him thought of Sera, of how she was the first real love in his life. And even if she was gone, her love wasn’t. It was reflected here, in their child and grandchildren, in their friends that had become a family. He had to keep going, for that love, that would never truly be gone from the world. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, not only to those who were there, but to the woman who had gifted him all this love. 

[the-hinky-panda]

War of the Roses: Part I

Title: War of the Roses

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Bill Bevilaqua x Reader

Summary: Married at nineteen to a man you didn't even know, forced to live in a marriage that neither one of you wanted has killed any hope of a happy life. That is until a mistake in a country club coat room brings that hope back to life.

The first time Bill Bevilaqua kisses you, it’s in the coat room at a country club in Kansas City. To his credit, he thought you were the bartender that had been flirting with him all evening, because why would Cal Thresher’s wife be retrieving her own coat? He had grabbed you from behind, his mouth covering yours when he spun you around. It takes you by surprise but not for the obvious reason. 

It’s the first time in six years that you’ve felt actual passion. 

It was your sister that was supposed to marry Cal. She was a few years older, closer to his thirty-two years of age. She was more materialistic, more into the glitter and gold, the cars and the mansion. But there was some other oil baron, more established and with a larger bank account that would allow her to stay in her home state of Texas. She eloped, marrying in a beach ceremony on his private Caribbean island. And you were left standing at the altar in your sister’s dress, holding her flowers, and marrying her fiance in a small, clapboard country church in Oklahoma. 

You were nineteen. 

The terms of the marriage had been simple. Cal needed an heir to leave his estate to and you would be provided a life of comfort. You were merely an extension of his wealth and persona. Coming from generational oil wealth, you were well trained to fill that role. An arm piece for social functions, hostess for fundraisers and Christmas parties just as your mother had been. And, of course, be the mother of children that would continue the Thresher legacy. You thought you could handle it, the vapid existence and shallowness of the other socialites. You held out hope that once you had children, you would find your joy in them and not the social functions. 

Three miscarriages later and your gilded cage is quickly becoming a smothering prison. Cal’s patience is running out but there’s nothing you can do about your faulty reproductive system, especially when the doctor’s can’t pinpoint a reason for the losses. It was just two weeks after your latest loss when Cal asked you to accompany him on a business trip to Kansas City. Bill Bevilaqua, a wealthy ranch owner, was throwing a party for his latest business: growing medical marajuana. Cal had struck a deal with him, wanting to obtain a corner on something that had the potential to be lucrative, and this was the celebration of what they hoped was going to be a long and successful partnership. 

There had been a couple that had struck up a conversation with you and Cal about horses, a subject you actually had genuine interest in. The wife had three prize thoroughbreds, all had run in the Kentucky Derby at one point over the last four years. During the course of the conversation, Cal had handed you and the wife wine glasses but she had declined. 

“Sorry, none for me,” she had smiled proudly, her hand resting on her flat stomach. “Just found out we’re expecting our sixth.” 

The look Cal had given you when the couple moved on would have frozen a cactus in the middle of a desert at the height of summer. It was a knife twist to your gut, like you had wanted to lose those three babies. You knew you couldn’t get any peace in the ladies room to cry your tears so you had gone to the coat closet instead to gather yourself. You had your face pressed against someone’s rabbit fur coat, soft against your face and smelling of Chanel No 5, your mother’s signature fragrance, when Bill had interrupted you with his broad, roving hands and warm lips. 

When he leaned back and recognized you, his tipsy grin immediately disappeared. “Fuck.”

Tears were still wet on your cheeks, grief still heavy in your chest when you grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled him back towards you. You kissed him this time, tasting the whiskey that he had just recently drank, trying to memorize the way his mouth moved against yours. The way his hands returned to your ribcage, gently holding you against him. Eventually your senses returned to you, the fear of getting caught replacing the desire, and you slowly released him. 

“Fuck,” he repeats. “I’m sor-” 

You hold up your hand and smooth his jacket lapels. “I’m not.” 

“Look, I didn’t-” 

“I won’t tell Cal.” You grab your coat from the rack behind you and slip into it. “I suggest you don’t tell him either.” 

He says your name, shortly but with an edge of softness to it. It causes you to pause in your retreat from the coat room. 

“You know my name?” 

He gives you a confused look. “Of course I know your name.” 

It’s been so long since you’ve heard someone call you by your actual name. It’s always Mrs. Thresher or Ma’am. Even Cal calls you honey or sweetheart. To hear someone say your name, and only your name, reminds you that you’re still an individual. You reach out and gently lay your hand over his, your thumb moving over the large onyx and silver ring on his hand. “Please, call me that again the next time.” 

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “Next time, huh?”