#and with each scar they carve into my flesh

[quinzzelx]

Shadows and Starlight

Part 2

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: It's Starfall and with Starfall come some unpleasant memories. But your excitement to finally see Azriel again wins you over. Catching up with your family, you find that the evening is approaching fast. What happens when Azriel returns and you finally see each other again?

Chapter 01 // Chapter 03

Word Count: 8.8K Well, this is a lengthy one.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Trauma, Flashbacks of Torture, Mentions of SA, A lot of Family bonding, Angst, Teeth rotting Fluff, and Sexual content. I have not proofread this yet, since I wanted to get this up as quickly as possible. A/N: Oh my god, GUYS!!! I am overwhelmed by the positivity and love you showered the first chapter with! You have honestly no idea how happy this makes me. I'm so glad people seem to enjoy it and I truly hope that this part will do the first one justice. Feel free to comment and share your thoughts. Feedback is always appreciated! Also, come chat with me in my inbox!

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As you wake up on Starfall morning, a sense of weariness washes over you, the remnants of a night spent tossing and turning, haunted by dreams of the past and the phantom pains that still linger in your scars. Despite the soft caress of your satin nightgown against your skin, every movement sends a twinge of discomfort coursing through your body, a reminder of the battles you've fought.

Tracing your fingertips over the pale, jagged carvings that mar your stomach, you're transported back to the horrors of Amarantha's trap, the allure of her twisted game pulling you deeper into her web with each passing moment. Rhys had begged you to stay home, his instincts warning him that something wasn't right about this meeting, this gathering, but something inside you knew that you couldn't sit idly by while he faced danger alone. And so you insisted on accompanying him, despite the protests and the danger it posed to you both. There were moments of doubt, fleeting glimpses of regret that whispered in the recesses of your mind.

Especially in the darkness of those colder, harsher nights. Nights when even the simple act of opening your eyes felt like an insurmountable task, weighed down not just by the heavy iron chains that bound you to the ground, but by the imposing weight of impending death that hung heavy on your shoulders.

Turning onto your side, you wince as you feel the numerous scars on your back, traces of the lashings you sustained at Amarantha's hands. She was cruel in her efforts to use you as a tool to hurt Rhys further, inflicting pain upon pain in her relentless quest for power. But despite the physical scars that mar your skin, it's the emotional scars that run the deepest, the memories of your shared trauma with Rhys threatening to pull you back into the depths of despair.

Your wounds festered, infected by the cruel hands of Amarantha, who took perverse pleasure in keeping them open and inflicting new ones upon you, layering pain upon pain with each lash of her whip. Faebane slowed your healing, leaving you vulnerable to the biting cold that seeped into your bruised body, each breath a struggle against the suffocating grip of agony. On one such night, Amarantha's rage burned brighter than usual, her fury directed solely at you. Bound naked to her bedpost, your emaciated form contorted in unnatural ways, the strain and angle of your bindings causing one shoulder to scream in protest. She carved vile curses into the soft flesh of your stomach, taunting you with each cruel stroke of her blade.

And then Rhys entered, his horror evident in the fleeting glimpse you caught of his face before the mask of stoicism fell back into place. But his appearance ignited something within Amarantha, sparking a twisted idea that would haunt you for years to come. Forced to watch as Rhys administered the next lashes, forced to endure the searing pain as he used his Deamanti powers on you, you felt a sliver of relief amidst the agony as his apologies echoed in your mind, his powers soothing the raw edges of your suffering. He tried numbing your pain, taking away the searing heat that your wounds imposed. But Amarantha wasn't satisfied with just inflicting physical pain – she wanted to break you completely, to strip away every last shred of dignity and humanity. And so she made you watch as she rode Rhys, fucking him without hesitation, with favor, your body still bound to the bedpost, blood dripping down your exposed skin, your chest heaving with shallow breaths. She got off on it, the hot tears running down your face, leaving streaks in the dried blood on your face. Even in your state then, your eyes beheld a promise of death. But never had you felt this helpless, having to watch as Amarantha used Rhys as her personal sex-slave. Rhys was your family, your High Lord! And all you could do was watch.

It was a night of unspeakable horror, one of the darkest moments of your life. And yet, amidst the despair, there was a glimmer of hope – She was this mad because of Feyre, because she wanted to break the curse. As you lay there, on the floor of your cell, embracing the cold arms of death, Rhys hurriedly came barging in. He knelt beside you on the cold stone floor, tears streaming down his face as he cradled your head in his hands, offering what little comfort he could in the face of such unimaginable pain.

"Gods, what have I done?" Rhys whispered, his voice choked with sorrow and regret. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted this for you. I never wanted any of this." His words were like a knife to your heart, each apology cutting deeper than the last as you struggled to cling to consciousness. "Rhys," you managed to rasp, your voice barely a whisper. "Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault." But he shook his head, his tears falling freely now as he pressed his forehead against yours. "I should have protected you. I should have never let this happen to you."

You reached up, weakly grasping his hand as you tried to offer him what little comfort you could. "It's not your fault," you repeated, your voice growing fainter with each passing moment. "I love you, Rhys. Please... don't blame yourself."

But Rhys's anguish only seemed to deepen at your words, his sobs wracking his body as he pleaded with you to hold on, to fight against the darkness that threatened to consume you both. "Please," he begged, his voice raw with emotion as he called your name. "Don't leave me. I can't bear to lose you. Please, stay with me." And as you felt the cold embrace of death drawing ever closer, you clung to his hand, drawing strength from the love and warmth that radiated from him. "I'll try," you rasped, your voice barely audible now. "I'll try, Rhys. I promise."

And with those final words, you drifted into darkness, leaving Rhys alone with his grief and his guilt, his tears mingling with yours as he prayed to the Mother for a miracle, for a chance to make things right.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you try to calm your mind, to push aside the memories that threaten to overwhelm you. Today is supposed to be a day of celebration, a time to put aside the pain of the past and focus on the joy of the present.

As someone knocks at the bedroom door, you groan, burying your face in the pillow, exhausted and emotionally drained from the tumultuous memories that still linger in your mind. Calling out for the person to enter, you brace yourself for the intrusion, the weight of the world pressing down upon your shoulders. To your surprise, it's Rhys who enters, his presence like a balm to your weary soul. As if sensing the chaos within you, he seems equally stressed by the preparations for the day, Nyx cradled in his arms. Your eyes soften when they land on the toddler, his small wings flapping excitedly as he spots you, extending his arms out in a silent plea to be held. Rhys sits down beside you on the bed, a gentle look on his face as he takes in your tired form. Nyx immediately pounces on you, his laughter filling the room with infectious joy. Despite your exhaustion, you can't help but smile at the sight of the young boy, his innocence a welcome distraction from the weight of the world.

"Hey there, little one," you murmur, scooping Nyx into your arms and showering him with kisses. He giggles in delight, his tiny hands reaching out to touch your face with a sense of wonder. Rhys watches the exchange with a soft smile, his violet eyes filled with warmth and affection. "I thought Nyx might help cheer you up," he says gently, his voice laced with concern. "It's been a rough morning, hasn't it?" You nod, unable to find the words to express the whirlwind of emotions that have been swirling inside you since you woke up. But as you hold Nyx close, his laughter echoing in your ears, you feel a sense of peace settle over you, if only for a fleeting moment. Rhys leans closer, his hand finding yours on the bed, offering silent support. "Are you okay?" he asks softly, concern etched in his eyes.

You manage a weak smile, squeezing his hand in return. "I'm... trying to be," you admit, your voice tinged with exhaustion. "It's just... a lot, you know?" He nods understandingly, his thumb tracing comforting circles on the back of your hand. "I know," he murmurs, his gaze softening. "But we'll get through this, together. I promise." The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, a silent reminder of the bond that binds you both, even in the darkest of times. "Thank you, Rhys," you whisper, your voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."

He smiles, a gentle expression that lights up his features. "Anytime," he says softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. "We're in this together, remember? No matter what."

As you settle into a more comfortable rhythm, the conversation shifts to lighter topics, a welcome distraction from the weight of the morning's emotions. "So," Rhys begins, his tone lighter now, "did you hear about Cassian's little mishap with the ladder this morning?" You raise an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in your eyes. "Oh? Do tell," you urge, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. Rhys chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, apparently he thought he could single-handedly take on the task of putting up the decorations," he explains, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "But Feyre and Elain had other ideas."

You laugh at the mental image of Cassian attempting to navigate a ladder while Feyre and Elain guided him from below, their laughter echoing through the halls of the House of Wind. "And then," Rhys continues, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "just as he was reaching for the top, the ladder slipped out from under him, and down he went!" You can't help but giggle at the thought of Cassian tumbling to the ground, his pride wounded but otherwise unharmed. "Poor Cass," you tease, shaking your head in mock sympathy. "I hope he's okay." The Highlord says, his smile widening. "Oh, he's fine," he assures you. "Just a bruised ego, I think."

Before you can respond, Nyx interrupts with a babble of his own, his tiny hands reaching out to grab at Rhys's hair. You laugh, gently untangling Nyx's fingers from Rhys's locks as you listen to the toddler's excited chatter. Rhys grins, his eyes sparkling with affection as he looks down at his son. "I spoke to Azriel yesterday," he says casually, shifting the conversation back to more serious matters. "He should be back today, just in time for Starfall."

You feel a surge of anticipation at the mention of Azriel's return, your heart skipping a beat at the thought of seeing him again after his absence. "That's great news," you reply, trying to keep your voice casual despite the butterflies in your stomach. "I'm sure he'll be relieved to be home." He nods, a knowing glint in his eye. "Oh, I'm sure he will be," he says cryptically, a teasing smile playing at his lips. "After all, there are certain people who have been eagerly awaiting his return."

You roll your eyes, unable to suppress a smile at Rhys's playful teasing. "You're incorrigible," you tease, giving him a playful shove. "But I'm glad Azriel's coming back. It's not the same without him." The conversation ebbs into comfortable silence as you play with the toddler sat on your lap. When you notice Rhys’s eyes glaze over, the violet of his eyes dulling just slightly, you look at him with a cocked eyebrow. “Is our Highlord required somewhere?” You ask with a small smile on your lips. “Yes, I fear duty calls.”

As Rhys leaves with Nyx in tow, a sense of tranquility settles over you, the bustling energy of the morning quieting to a gentle hum. With a sigh of relief, you make your way to the bath, the promise of warm water and solitude beckoning to you like a beacon in the storm.

Sinking into the soothing embrace of the bath, the warmth seeping into your tired muscles and easing the knots of tension that had been building within you. With each passing moment, the cares of the world seem to slip away, replaced by a sense of peace and calm that settles deep within your soul. With each passing moment, you feel yourself growing lighter, the weight of the morning's emotions gradually fading into the background as you focus on the simple pleasure of being present in this moment. Only when the skin on your hands starts to wrinkle, do you decide to leave the comfort of your bath.

After drying off, you quickly set about getting ready for the day ahead. With practiced ease, you slip into your clothes, the fabric smooth against your skin as you dress. You run a brush through your hair, smoothing out any tangles and pulling it back into a simple yet elegant style. With one last glance in the mirror, you nod in satisfaction, a sense of determination settling over you. Today is a new day. Starfall to be exact. You would not let the past control the present.

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As you make your way downstairs, noon is just beginning to unfold, the soft light of the early sun filtering through the windows of the House of Wind. The air is filled with the gentle hum of activity as preparations for the evening's festivities are underway. You take a moment to admire the decorations that Cassian had so painstakingly put up, a fond smile playing at the corners of your lips as you remember his earlier mishap with the ladder. Despite the chaos of it all, there's a sense of excitement building in the air, a unmistakable energy that sets your heart racing with anticipation.

Making your way to where Feyre and Elain were sitting in the kitchen, you exchange greetings with them, falling into easy conversation. The smell of freshly brewed tea fills the air, and you can't help but relax as you sink into a chair at the table. "So, what's on the agenda for today?" Feyre asks, pouring a cup of tea for each of you.

Elain smiles softly, her doe-eyes lighting up with excitement. "I was thinking of spending some time in the gardens," she says. "I've been working on a few new plantings, and I'd love to show them to you." You nod eagerly, honestly intrigued by Elain's passion for gardening. "I'd love to see them," you reply, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Whilst you sip your tea, the conversation turns to lighter topics, and you find yourself laughing and joking with Feyre and Elain. It's moments like these that remind you of why you cherish your time with them. Suddenly, Elain's voice breaks through your thoughts, her tone soft and earnest. "I'm so glad Azriel is returning today," she says, her eyes shining with sincerity. "I've missed him." A pang of jealousy and irritation shoots through you at her words, catching you off guard. You quickly brush it off as simple irritation, unwilling to acknowledge the twinge of envy that lingers in the depths of your chest. Elain, oblivious to your internal turmoil, continues to speak, her words pulling you back into the conversation. "And I've missed you too," she adds, her voice filled with warmth and affection.

You nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I missed you too." But inside, you can't help but feel a twinge of envy at the thought of Elain's closeness with Azriel. Before the awkwardness can settle in, however, Elain changes the subject, her eyes lighting up with excitement as she again talks about the new plants she's planted in the gardens of the Riverhouse.

"That reminds me," you say suddenly, a spark of delight igniting within you. Your eyes sparkle as you remember the gift you brought back for Elain, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a small packet of seeds. "I found these at a market stall on the continent and thought of you. They're seeds for a flower called... um...“ you stumble over the name for a moment before recalling it. "They're seeds for a flower called Moonlight Blossoms. I thought they might be a nice addition to your garden."

Elain's eyes widen with delight as she takes the seeds from you, her expression one of pure joy. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaims, her voice filled with genuine appreciation. "I can't wait to plant these in the garden. They're going to be beautiful."

After spending a pleasant morning and noon catching up with Feyre and Elain, you accompany Elain to the garden to see her new plants. The garden is a riot of color and fragrance, and you spend a blissful hour wandering among the flowers and chatting with her about her latest botanical discoveries. As you bid Elain farewell and make your way back inside, you realize that the day has flown by in a rush of activity. You quickly run a few last-minute errands for Starfall, picking up some supplies and making sure everything is in order for the evening's festivities.

Time seems to slip through your fingers like grains of sand as you hurry through the bustling streets of Velaris, the excitement of the day building with each passing moment. Before you know it, the sun is beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the city as evening approaches.

With a sense of urgency, you hurry back to the House of Wind, eager to get ready for the evening ahead. Mor had promised to get ready together, and you don't want to keep her waiting. As you enter your room, the blond is already there, surrounded by an array of dresses and accessories strewn across the bed. She looks up as you enter, a bright smile lighting up her face.

"Hey there, gorgeous!" she greets you, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Are you ready to get glam for Starfall?" You return her smile, feeling a rush of anticipation at the thought of the evening ahead. "Absolutely," you reply, crossing the room to join her. "I can't wait to see what you've picked out." Mor gestures to the dresses laid out on the bed. "I've narrowed it down to a few options," she says, a mischievous grin playing at her lips. "But I think I already know which one I'm going to choose." You chuckle, knowing that Mor always has a flair for dramatics when it comes to dressing up. "Well, let's see them then," you tease, eager to get started.

Together, you sift through the dresses, examining each one carefully and discussing their merits and drawbacks. There are dresses of every color and style, from sleek and elegant to bold and daring. Finally, Mor settles on a stunning gown in deep maroon red, its flowing skirts and intricate beading catching the light as she holds it up.

"This is the one," she declares, a satisfied smile gracing her features. "What do you think?" You nod in agreement, admiring the dress's beauty. "It's perfect," you reply. "You're going to look absolutely stunning." Mor beams at your praise, clearly pleased with her selection. "Thanks, love," she says, reaching out to give you a quick hug. "Now, let's get you sorted out. I have a feeling you're going to steal the show tonight."

As you slip into the dress that you had bought the day before, a soft sigh escapes your lips, the sensation of the fabric against your skin sending a shiver of delight down your spine. The deep midnight blue hue wraps around you like a lover's embrace, casting an delicate glow that seems to illuminate the room. The neckline plunges low, offering a tantalizing glimpse of your cleavage. With each movement, the dress seems to come alive. Mor's eyes widen in admiration as she takes in your appearance. "Wow," she breathes, her voice filled with genuine awe. "You look absolutely stunning."

A soft smile graces your lips as you meet her gaze "Thank you, Mor," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't have found this without your help." She beams at your words, her pride evident in the curve of her lips. "It was my pleasure," she replies, her tone warm and sincere. "But really, the dress suits you perfectly. I almost forgot how it looked on you overnight."

Shortly after she also put on her dress, Mor expertly braids your hair, her nimble fingers weaving intricate patterns, you can't help but admire her skill. With each twist and turn, your hair transforms into a work of art, cascading down your back in elegant waves. You close your eyes, savoring the sensation of her touch, the gentle tugs and pulls lulling you into a state of relaxation. "Your hair is like silk," Mor remarks, her voice filled with admiration. "It's going to look stunning tonight." Once your hair is styled to perfection, Mor moves on to makeup, applying each layer with precision. The dark, alluring makeup enhances your features, accentuating your eyes and highlighting your cheekbones.

Whilst the blond puts the finishing touches on your makeup, you take a moment to admire your reflection. The sultry gaze staring back at you sends a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins, the promise of the evening ahead hanging in the air. "Ready to turn heads?" Mor asks, a playful smirk gracing her lips. "Absolutely," you reply, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Let's make tonight unforgettable."

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As you and Mor descend the grand staircase, the sounds of laughter and music fill the air, signaling the start of the evening's festivities. The House of Wind is alive with energy, the vibrant atmosphere drawing you in as you make your way through the bustling crowd. Mor heads straight for the wine table, her graceful movements drawing the attention of those around her. She expertly pours two glasses, handing one to you with a knowing smile. "To a night to remember," she says, raising her glass in a toast. You clink your glass against hers, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "To a night to remember," you echo, taking a sip of the rich, velvety wine.

While mingling with the other guests, you can't help but notice the admiring glances and whispered compliments that follow you wherever you go. Cassian whistles at your appearance, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he offers a playful wink. Even Amren, usually reserved and stoic, can't help but be impressed. "Not bad, girl" she remarks in her typical deadpan tone, her lips quirking up in a rare smile. "You look good." While chatting with Cassian, his easy grin and infectious laughter filling the air, you can't help but feel at ease in his presence. He regales you with stories of past Starfall celebrations, each one more outrageous than the last, and you find yourself laughing along with him, caught up in the magic of the moment and the memories.

Amren stands beside him, her sharp gaze surveying the crowd with a mix of curiosity and amusement. She interjects with the occasional dry comment or witty observation, adding her own unique perspective to the conversation. Cassian nudges you playfully, a naughty glint in his eyes. "So, have you seen Az around yet?" he asks, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You roll your eyes at his question, knowing full well where he's going with this. "Not yet," you reply with a smirk. "But I'm sure he'll make quite the entrance when he does," you add, your tone dripping with playful sarcasm. Cassian chuckles, his grin widening as he leans in conspiratorially. "You know, I heard he's been practicing his dramatic entrances," he whispers, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Amren, who had been silently observing the exchange, scoffs in amusement. "Practicing? Please, Azriel was born with dramatic flair," she interjects, her voice dry as ever. You can't help but laugh at Amren's remark, nodding in agreement. "True," you concede, unable to deny the truth in her words. Cassian's grin widens, mischief dancing in his eyes as he leans in closer. "You know, Y/N, if you keep talking about Az like this, people might start to think you have a crush on him," he teases, his tone light but teasing. Mor joins in on the teasing, a playful smirk on her lips. "Oh, come on, Cass," she chimes in, "we all know Y/N's got it bad for Az. I mean, who wouldn't? He's mysterious, brooding, and let's not forget those dreamy eyes."

You roll your eyes at their teasing, but heat creeps up your neck nonetheless. "You two are insufferable," you mutter, trying to play it off coolly despite the warmth you can feel in your chest.

They share a knowing look, their grins widening. "Oh, don't be shy, Y/N," Cassian says with a wink, "we all see the way you light up whenever Az is around."

You sigh in mock exasperation, knowing there's no escaping this. "Fine, you caught me," you admit with a chuckle, "but can we please focus on something other than my nonexistent love life for once?" Mor and Cassian exchange a glance before bursting into laughter.

With an exaggerated sigh, you down the rest of your wine in one swift motion, the cool liquid soothing the annoyance bubbling within you. Setting the empty glass down, you grab another from the nearby tray, filling it to the brim with wine. Cassian and Mor exchange amused glances as they watch your reaction, but you pay them no mind, determined to drown out their taunting with copious amounts of alcohol.

As the night wears on, the rhythm of the music pulls you onto the dance floor, the enchanting melodies winding their way through the air and into your soul. Lost in the music, you move with grace and elegance, allowing the melodies to guide your every step. The lights overhead cast a warm glow on the dance floor, illuminating the faces of those around you as they sway to the music. Couples twirl and spin, lost in their own worlds of love and passion, while laughter and joy fill the air. You watch as Nesta and Cassian sweep over the dancefloor together, having the crowd watch in awe.

With each passing moment, your gaze darts from one corner of the room to the next, hoping to catch sight of him. Your heart beats faster with every shadow that moves, every figure that passes by, as you search for the one person who has occupied your thoughts all evening.

Dancing with an attractive Fae male, his presence envelops you, his hand warm against the small of your back as you sway to the soft, slow tunes. Despite your initial reluctance when he asked you to dance with him, you find yourself enjoying his company, lost in the rhythm of the music and the warmth of his gaze. His blond hair were neatly combed, his bright green eyes gentle and kind as they take in your facial features.

But as his hand begins to wander over your scarred skin, trailing dangerously close to where the fabric of your dress starts again, a shiver runs down your spine. The heat of his touch sends a jolt through you, igniting a familiar sensation. Just as you feel yourself becoming lost in the moment, a sudden shift in the air catches your attention. Without even turning around, you know he's here. As the music continues to play, you can sense him drawing closer, his presence casting a spell over you that leaves you spellbound and breathless. Just as you're about to step away, you sense a familiar presence behind you. The scent of cedar fills your senses, and you turn to find Azriel standing there, his tall frame looming over you.

Before you can even process his presence, he reaches out, gently touching your arm. "May I cut in?" he asks, his voice soft yet commanding. You meet his gaze, the intensity in his eyes sending a shiver down your spine. "Of course," you reply, unable to tear your eyes away from him. As the Fae male steps back, Azriel takes his place, his hand finding yours as he pulls you close. The music shifts to a slower, more intimate melody, and you find yourself swept up in the moment. "It's been too long," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the music. Azriel's gaze softens, his fingers tracing light patterns on your back. "I've missed you," he admits, his voice low and filled with emotion. A surge of warmth washes over you at his words, and you find yourself drawn closer to him. "I've missed you too," you confess, your heart racing in your chest. As you continue to dance, the tension between you and Azriel is palpable, crackling in the air like electricity. His hand lingers on your waist, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"I can't believe you're finally back," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the music. You meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. "I can't believe it either," you reply, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "It feels like it's been an eternity." Azriel's eyes soften, a hint of sadness flickering in their depths. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you when you returned," he says, his voice filled with regret. "I wanted to be the first one to welcome you home."

You reach up, gently touching his cheek. "It's okay," you assure him, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I know you had your duties to attend to." A faint smile plays at the corners of Azriel's lips then, and he leans into your touch. How he had missed it to feel your gentle reassuring touch. "Still, I wish I could have been here for you," he murmurs, his voice deep and husky. As the song comes to an end, you stare at each other. Reluctantly, Azriel releases your hand, his touch lingering for a moment longer before he takes a step back. The music fades into the background, drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, lost in each other's gaze, the world around you fading away until there's nothing left but the space between you. Then, with a soft smile, Azriel breaks the silence. "Would you like to take a walk?" he asks, his voice gentle and inviting.

You nod, a warm feeling spreading through you at the prospect of spending more time with him. "I'd like that," you reply, returning his smile. Together, you slip away from the dance floor, the night air cool against your skin as you step out onto the balcony. The city sprawls out before you, its lights twinkling in the darkness like a sea of stars.

Feeling his gaze upon you, you can't help but shift slightly under his scrutiny, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you realize just how closely he's examining you. You bite your lip nervously, suddenly hyper-aware of every curve and contour of your body that's on display in the dress. As Azriel's eyes linger on your figure, you can't help but notice the way his gaze seems to heat up, his breath catching in his throat. A thrill shoots through you at the intensity of his stare, igniting a fire in the pit of your stomach.

For a moment, neither of you says anything, the air between you charged with unspoken desire. Then, with a slight cough to clear his throat, Azriel tears his gaze away from you, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice husky with emotion. "I didn't mean to stare." You shake your head, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. "It's okay," you reply softly. "I... I don't mind."

You reach out tentatively, your hand finding his arm in a comforting gesture. "Azriel," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "there's something I've been wanting to tell you." He turns to face you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. "What is it?" he asks, concern lacing his every word. You take a deep breath, summoning all your courage. “I-“  Before you can finish your sentence, the door to the balcony swings open, and Feyre steps out, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees the two of you standing there together.

"Oh, sorry," she stammers, quickly averting her gaze. "I didn't mean to interrupt." Azriel clears his throat, stepping back slightly to give Feyre some space. "It's alright," he says, his voice a little strained. "We were just... talking." she nods, though there's a knowing glint in her eyes as she looks between the two of you. "Right, well, I'll leave you two to it then," she says, retreating back inside. You and Azriel exchange a glance, a silent understanding passing between you. It seems that fate has other plans for your conversation, at least for now.

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When Azriel winnowed into Rhys's study earlier that day, he was greeted by the familiar sight of his brother sitting behind the desk, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Rhys's gaze meets his, and Azriel's eyes widen as the scent of you fills his senses, sending a jolt of anticipation coursing through him. It wasn’t dull and faded, not like the pillows in your bedroom. No, you had to have been in this room today. Rhys raises an eyebrow at his brother’s dumbfounded face, his smirk growing more pronounced. "Took you long enough to notice," he says, amusement lacing his tone.

Azriel's lips twitch into a half-smile as he strides further into the room, his movements fluid and graceful. "I was preoccupied," he replies, his voice gruff. "But I'm here now." Rhys chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "I can see that," he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, how was your mission?" Azriel takes a moment to compose himself, his mind still reeling from the unexpected encounter with your scent. "Successful," he replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within him. His resolve snapped. "But I'll fill you in on the details later. Right now, I have other matters to attend to."

Rhys arches an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Of course," he says, his tone teasing. "Wouldn't want to keep her waiting, would you?" Azriel's cheeks flush slightly at his brother's teasing remark, but he maintains his composure. "No," he says, his voice tinged with determination. "I wouldn't."

As Azriel takes flight for the House of Wind, his mind races with a whirlwind of emotions. Excitement courses through his veins, an unexpected thrill at the thought of seeing you again after nine long months apart. He hadn't dared to hope that you would be back, hadn't allowed himself to entertain the possibility of your return. And yet, here you were, your presence filling him with a sense of longing he just started to realize he'd been harboring.

The memory of your scent lingers in his mind, haunting him with its intoxicating sweetness. It's a scent he knows all too well, one that has the power to drive him to madness with desire. Even now, as he flies through the night sky, he can't shake the memory of you, the way your scent wraps around him like a warm embrace. Only yesterday had he thought about that exact smell while fucking his hand wishing it was yours instead.

Cursing himself for his wayward thoughts, Azriel frowns, attempting to push aside the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to consume him.

As Azriel lands gracefully on the balcony of the House of Wind, he braces himself  for their reunion. He had just made his way here in record time, flying like his life depended on it. His heart pounds in his chest, the anticipation of seeing you again after so long almost too much to bear. With each step he takes, his eyes scan the crowded room, searching for your familiar form amidst the mass of guests.

And then he sees you.

His breath catches in his throat as he takes you in, his brain short-circuiting at the sight of you. You’re wearing a dress, and it clings to you like a second skin, accentuating every curve and contour of your body. His gaze lingers on the scars that trail across your back, a witness to the battles you had fought and the strength you possess. But it's not just your appearance that captivates him. It's the way you move, the grace and confidence with which you carry yourself, as if you own the very air around you. And you do, completely oblivious to the hungry and captivated stares you gain, turning heads everywhere you appear. Then his attention finally shifts to the Fae dancing with you, his hand lingering dangerously close to your exposed skin, and a surge of possessiveness courses through him. You’re wearing his colors, he realizes with a jolt, a flicker of irritation igniting within him at the thought of someone else daring to touch what belongs to him. A growl rumbles in Azriel's chest, low and threatening, as the surge of jealousy within him reaches a fever pitch. He takes a step forward, hazel eyes blazing with anger, his wings flaring out instinctively behind him.

But before he can make his move, Mor appears at his side, a knowing smirk on her lips as she nudges him playfully. "Easy there, big guy," she says, her voice low and playful. "No need to start a brawl on Starfall."

Azriel grits his teeth, torn between his desire to protect what's his and the knowledge that Mor is right. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to reign in his emotions. While Azriel briefly exchanges pleasantries with Mor, his mind is consumed by thoughts of you. He can hardly focus on their conversation, his attention drawn inexorably back to where you stand across the room. He can feel his Illyrian instincts surging to the forefront, urging him to claim what's rightfully his. Shadowy tendrils dance around him frantically, pushing, pulling, as if they too wanted him to whisk you away from the other male’s embrace.

Finally having had enough, he excuses himself from Mor's company. Azriel prowls across the room with purposeful strides. His presence alone is enough to send a ripple of unease through the crowd, his menacing aura palpable as he approaches. When he reaches your side, the Fae male dancing with you seems to shrink back in fear, intimidated by the intensity of Azriel's gaze. But Azriel pays him no mind, his attention wholly consumed by you.

His shadows whispering words of possession and desire in his ears, chanting “Beautiful, beautiful” over and over. ”Ours, ours” Azriel can hardly contain the primal urges that surge within him. All he can think about is claiming you, marking you as his own for all the world to see. And as he draws closer, the air crackling with anticipation, he knows that he won't be satisfied until you’re in his arms, where you belong. He just wants to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck. Suppressing a groan, he twirls you around, his hands easily finding their way onto your hips, softly squeezing them while leading the dance.

When the song came to an end, he felt like he was stood in the summer courts afternoon sun again. He needed some fresh air, some more quietness, and he selfishly wanted to be the sole bearer of your company.

By the Cauldron, as you made your way onto the balcony, him trailing behind you a few steps, he silently swore under his breath. Suddenly he was questioning his decision to be alone with you. Again, he asked himself why. Why have the last nine months been such a torture? Why did it feel like there was no oxygen left in his lungs when you and Mor had winnowed away and departed for your mission? And only now could he breathe again, truly breathe. And with every inhale, the scent of sweet lilies and freshly fallen rain assaulted his senses, clawing into the very essence of his being.

Only as you shifted on your feet slightly did he notice that he was straight up staring at you. Shit. As a soft blush made its way onto your cheeks then, he wanted to melt. Did you like the way he looked at you? Had the past nine months felt as maddening for you as they had felt for him? Questions upon questions infiltrated his mind as you looked upon Velaris together. And when you spoke again, wanting, no, needing to tell him something, he felt his stomach drop. Had you found someone on the continent?

When Feyre interrupted you mid-sentence solely by appearing, he didn’t know if he should curse or thank her for the disturbance. But the way your brows furrowed and how the light in your eyes ebbed out a little bit, made him feel a pang in his chest.

He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the sudden tension that had settled between you. And as Feyre excused herself again, he spoke up. "What were you saying?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He needed to know, needed to hear your words, even if they shattered his heart into a million pieces. You hesitated for a moment, the words caught in your throat as you searched for an excuse, anything to deflect from the truth. "It's nothing," you replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Just... something I've been thinking about lately. But it's not important." A lie.

He studied your expression, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features before he masked it with a small smile of his own. "Alright," he murmured, though he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to your words than you were letting on. Turning back to Azriel, you couldn't help but notice the way the moonlight danced across his features, casting a soft glow around him that made your heart flutter again.

"You know," he began, breaking the comfortable silence between you, "I never expected to find you here tonight. It's... a pleasant surprise."

You chuckled softly, the sound carrying on the gentle breeze. "Well, it's not every day that we get to celebrate Starfall together," you replied, a hint of warmth in your voice. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." There was hidden meaning in your words that he didn’t fail to miss.

His eyes softened at your words, a silent understanding passing between you. "I'm glad you're here," he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. "It wouldn't be the same without you."

Wearing a tender smile, Azriel reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against yours. "You look beautiful tonight," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. A soft blush crept onto your cheeks at his compliment, and you couldn't help but return his smile. "Thank you," you replied, your voice filled with sincerity. "You don't look too bad yourself."

He chuckled softly, the sound like music to your ears. "High praise coming from you," he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement. You laughed, a light and carefree sound that echoed in the night air. "Well, I do have good taste," you quipped, nudging him playfully.

With trembling hands, you reached out to touch him, your fingers grazing lightly against his cheek as you traced the contours of his face. His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he leaned into your caress. Every nerve in his body seemed to come alive at your gentle caress, his senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating sensation of your touch. With a shaky breath, he opened his eyes, meeting your gaze with a depth of emotion that words could not express. In that moment, he felt as though he could drown in the ocean of your eyes.

With a tender yet sure touch, Azriel pulled you into his embrace, his arms enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth and safety. The scent of cedar and winter air surrounded you, his presence filling every corner of your senses. Azriel can't help himself, his urge to feel you pressed against him. He had missed you too much, and the way you just looked at him had him questioning why the hell he waited so long to do this. His hazel eyes glint as he lets them roam over your face, examining the gentle curve of your full lips, dipping down to follow the line of revealed skin, ending where your breasts are pressed firmly to his chest. The intensity of his stare sends shivers down your spine, your skin tingling with a delicious combination of desire and longing.

With each passing moment, the space between you seems to shrink, until there is barely a breath of air separating your bodies. You can feel the heat emanating from him, warming you from the inside out. His eyes, darkened with lust, hold you captive, their intensity rendering you speechless. You can't help but shiver under his gaze, your entire being yearning for the touch of his lips against yours.

As he leans in closer, his brows furrowed in concentration, you can't help but tremble under his touch. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, a subconscious gesture. You feel the gentle pressure of his body against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin as he presses you back against the railing. Unable to contain the rush of emotions coursing through you, a soft whimper escapes your lips. "Azriel." His name leaves you sounding more like a soft whine than anything else. He inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath as he savors the way his name rolls off your tongue. "say it again." he pleads, his voice husky with longing, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "Azriel..." You breathe out again. A sinful moan escapes his lips at the sound of his name spoken by you, his head bowing forward as he presses his forehead against yours. Your hands claw at his chest, fisting his shirt.

“Can I kiss you?” Azriel’s voice sounds strained as he asks you. All you can manage is a whimpered “Please.” And that’s all he needs, as if your words just shattered his restraint, he surges forward, capturing your lips with his own. You melt into each other’s touch, lips slanted over another, one of Azriel’s marred hands comes up to cup one of your cheeks, tilting your head back slightly to deepen the kiss. You press into him more, gasping when you feel a muscled thigh lodged between your legs, the friction causing you to shake slightly. Azriel swipes his tongue over your bottom lip then, venturing further as you gasp, tasting you. Both of you, completely tangled into each other, breathe heavily when you part. Only then do you realize that the stars had begun their journey, thousands upon thousands of bright streaks flashing through the sky.

The sparkling light of the falling stars reflected in Azriel’s eyes, making them shine even brighter than they already were. You followed his gaze as you saw his orbs wander to look behind you. The night sky shone with glittering starlight, painting Velaris in a colorful bright hue. In complete and utter awe, you shift slightly, watching the stars make their way to whatever destination. “Breathtaking.” Azriel mumbles huskily and you can’t help but agree. When you turn to face him again, you realize that he was still looking at you. A soft blush makes its way onto your already flushed face.

Azriel was a warrior, the Night Court’s Spymaster and Shadowsinger, he had fought plenty of battles before, always coming out on top and alive. But as he stared at you then, his heart rapidly beating in his chest, he found himself on his knees for the first time, loosing his restraint, loosing his composure. Because when he looked at you then, face bathed in the soft lights of the falling stars, skin flushed and lips swollen, it snapped. And when it did, everything made sense.

His eyes were wide and filled with something you couldn’t quite place. As you feel his lips crashing against yours once more, any words you might have spoken are lost in the fervor of the moment. The intensity of the kiss leaves you breathless, your mind swirling with a heady mixture of desire and adoration.

When you finally break apart, your chests heaving with the effort of controlling your racing hearts, you find yourself lost in the depths of his wide, expressive eyes. There's something in his gaze that speaks volumes, something you can't quite put into words but can feel deep within your soul. "Your face is a work of art," you whisper, the alcohol lending a soft haze to your words. Excitement clouding your head, the compliment spills from your lips. Azriel's features, sharp and defined, seem to glow with an ethereal light in the dimness of the night. His hazel eyes, like pools of molten gold, capture your gaze, drawing you in.

"Yeah?" he hums in response, his hands finding their way to the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume every inch of your being. And when he inhales deeply, the scent of your Arousal hits him with full force and he snarls lowly. "Your legs should frame it then,"

Your breath hitches at his words, eyes widening at what he suggests. Speechless you try to regain your composure. Then, with a coy smile, you lean in closer to him, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "Careful, Azriel. You're playing with fire." The teasing tone in your voice betrays the longing that simmers beneath the surface, aching to be unleashed.

As the flames of desire engulf you both, Azriel's lips part in a husky whisper, his voice dripping with primal need. "I don't mind getting burned," he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck. With a trembling hand, you reach up to cup his cheek, your touch gentle yet filled with an intensity that mirrors the blaze in his eyes. "Then let us burn together," you whisper.

In a raw display of desire, Azriel's demeanor shifts, his jaw clenched with a fierce determination as he gazes at you with narrowed eyes filled with unbridled hunger. Without a word, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, his hands roaming possessively over your body as he pulls you close. With a soft gasp, you wrap your legs around his hips, feeling the heat of his body against yours as you press closer together. The sensation of his hands wandering to your ass, squeezing firmly, sends a shiver of anticipation coursing through you.

In the blink of an eye, Azriel winnows you away. The world blurs around you, the sensation of movement disorienting yet thrilling. Before you can fully comprehend the transition, you find yourselves standing in the intimate sanctuary of his bedroom. Around you, the air is charged with anticipation, heavy with the promise of what is to come. Azriel's gaze meets yours, smoldering with desire as he sets you down gently on the bed, his hands still lingering on your hips. And as he looks at you then, looking deep into your eyes to search for any hesitation or regret on your part, you speak.

“Claim me.” Your voice is confident and soft. “I’m yours, Mate.”

With a primal growl, Azriel's restraint shatters, consumed by the raw, unbridled desire coursing through his veins. He leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, a fierce hunger driving his movements. In that moment, there is no holding back, no inhibitions—only the primal instinct to claim you as his own.

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I Can't believe it!! What do you guys think? Let's just say Part 3 will be very steamy. I truly hope you enjoyed reading this.

Tag-list:

@impossibelle @paleidiot @tele86 @namelesssaviour @sstrohma @that-one-little-soybean @mybestfriendmademe @durgenyx @shinyghosteclipse @katherinejess

[flokali]

I just want to touch zhonglis horns or tail. Like they are so pretty

a/n: me too anon, me too ><

I love the image of a relaxed Zhongli who, after much coaxing from your part, allows a small pair of horns to adorn the top of his head. Well, it’s less that it’s small and more so that he’s big enough that almost anything that isn’t comically large looks small near him.

They look similar to Azhdaha’s horns in colour, earthy tones that make them look like Geo formations sitting atop their heads. However, Zhongli’s look just a tad bit neater, as if a gifted craftsman had taken the time to carve and polish them — which, may be possible considering how particular the former archon has become in regards to his appearance ever since your arrival.

His horns blend in their base with his hair, a dark brown colour that fades into a colour that looks akin to polished Cor Lapis. They sit comfortably atop his hair, curling upwards until the very tip where they finally look down. Long, thick vein-like carvings decorate them, their pattern looking much like the ones found in his pillars.

Whenever he uses his Geo element, which he rarely does whenever he allows himself to show his more draconian features, said carvings are filled up with elemental energy that glows a golden colour, instances in which they look much like rivers of gold flowing through him.

They’d probably be cold, at least whenever he’s not using any elemental energy, in which case they seemingly hum a soft warmth. But it never burns hot or freezingly cold, on the instances where you glide the pad of your finger through the, surprisingly, smooth surface it feels pleasant. Like an ointment that leaves your skin tingling, they seemingly buzz with energy native to Teyvat.

I also like to think that, when allowing more… draconic features of his to shine, Zhongli’s arms look similar to his Rex Lapis days. Back then, his arms were deep in colour with golden markings glowing - much like his horns, I’d think. Unlike before, the colour doesn’t seep into his neck, instead neatly ending near his shoulders and fading back into his human form’s flesh. But it’s just as striking, they almost look like gloves, but when you touch them they still feel like skin — the golden etchings in them, however, would probably feel more calloused, like scar tissue. In these instances, his arms run cold, much like stone. It’s only near the golden tissue that a semblance of warmth is found. During particularly hot summer days, they work wonders in keeping the heat away.

A tail… for some reason, I feel like he’d be extremely hesitant in showing it off. Only during private hours with you, where he’ll be absolutely certain no one other than yourself will see, will he show you. When he does, you notice how slim it is — only growing in size by the end, where it resembles a cloud. It’s essentially the same tail he possesses as Morax, where the end is filled with explosive colours that make it look like pure Geo energy materialising into the air.

Like any dragon, his tail is made out of scales - however his are surprisingly smooth, they blend into each other creating the illusion of there being no scales at all. They’re still sturdy, however, you’re pretty sure no weapon in existence could cut through them. His tail’s end… I think it’d be fur, long hairs combed into their position mimicking the clouds above Liyue Harbor during sunsets, unlike the rest of his body, I think it’d be surprisingly soft and, forgive my blasphemy, fluffy.

In these instances where he allows himself to be more vulnerable, showing bits and pieces of his most prominent and powerful forms, he grows to love your affection.

He loves it just as much when you comb his long, silken hair as when you detangle his tail. The feeling of your nails tracing the hundreds of scales that protect his tail make a shiver run down his spine, one that pleasures him as much as takes him by surprise every time.

Zhongli is rather secretive about his previous roles in life, which means that he has to trust you quite a lot to willingly expose traits of his that once belonged to the lives he once lived, which is why he’s so keen on keeping these attributes of his known only to the two of you.

If he so much as senses anybody coming near the room, his horns and tail quickly disappear - much to your disappointment. If anybody, much less someone like Venti, where to catch even so much as a glimpse of his more draconian features, you might need to physically restrain him lest he send them home with multiple injuries. It comes to a point where he mostly only cares about keeping a secret only between you and himself, rather than keeping his identity secret.

It’s why he treasures the soft moments where you lay in bed together, his head resting against your chest as you softly rub his horns with gentle motions. His ears are sharp, the beating of your heart is loud and clear to Zhongli, but it’s not bothersome at all — instead, it’s soothing to him, like the sound of soft rain against a window would be to some or waves softly crashing down into the sand. You’re too sleepy to notice, the warmth radiating from the man on top of you was simply too comfortable for you to resist the temptation of slumber, the soft purring that rumbled from his chest.

That was yet another feature of his you’d soon familiarise yourself with though, he still wanted to keep a few cards up his sleeve in case he felt you were drifting too far away from his embrace.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

The Scars On His Back

Just going to slowly reupload my fics...two at a time...

Summary: Astarion has a nightmare and goes out to the forest for a breather when he runs into you.

He’s back there again, with the feeling of a knife tearing into his back, carving up his flesh. Blood runs down his body, creating rivers of crimson on his pale skin and drips onto the floor, pooling between his feet. He can feel the stickiness of the liquid penetrating the gaps between his toes, the feeling sending shivers up his spine. His lifeblood drains with each moment, the pain overwhelms what is left of his soul and tears his body apart, sending screams ripping from his throat until his voice is hoarse but it never stops. The knife digs in again and again, the pain harshly dragging him back into reality each time he drifts off too far into the black void.

And then he wakes up with a start to the mess that is his tent, chest heaving out of habit and a sting in his eyes. His hands tremble as they reach up to wipe his weakness away, nearly causing him to nick himself. He presses his hands against his face, shakily drawing deep breaths.

He’s far far away from there now. He’s safe from him , with the tadpole in his head. He won’t have to bow and scrape to him as long as the tadpole remains. As long as you shelter him.

Hastily throwing on a tunic to cover up the scars, he heads outside his tent for some fresh air, to be away from the stuffiness that his tent brings tonight. The night air is cooling, a gentle breeze whistling through the still camp. Moonlight spills through the tree canopy, shining beams of silvery light upon the various tents pitched around the once burning campfire.

Quiet trills of nighttime creatures fill the silence, the smell of your blood wafting from…hold on. The smell of your blood? Ruby eyes widen and his feet move in the direction his nose is picking the scent up from before his mind can register anything. You are injured , his half-awake mind processes, a small pool of panic bubbling within his chest as he quickens his pace. How bad are your wounds? Have you been attacked? Will he make it in time?

He bursts through the trees, gaze frantically searching for any signs of an attack but all he sees was you. There is no sign or scent of enemies, only your lonesome figure sitting sheepishly on a rock, crimson liquid seeping through your fingers.

“Hi Astarion,” you smile, waving awkwardly.

“Y/N!” He hurries over to your side. “You’re bleeding.”

“So it seems,” you chuckle. “A small accident, really. I merely slipped on some wet grass and cut myself on the sharp edges of the stones.”

“You really are the clumsiest person I know, darling,” he shakes his head with a sigh, taking out some bandages and ointment. “Let’s treat this wound of yours before it gets infected. Wouldn’t want a small accident to turn into a big mess now, would we?”

You nod, biting your tongue before words that will ruin the mood slip past your lips. It’s better to keep to yourself how prepared he was to treat your injuries, and especially the fact that you could tell he was worried about you. Then an idea hits you.

“Since I’m already bleeding, do you want to feed on me?” The question sends his head shooting upwards, a quizzical look on his face.

“Feed…on you?”

“Yeah, like drink my blood since it’s leaking out of my body anyways, would be a shame if so much of it went to waste,” you can’t help but grin, “I can see your fangs peeking out, you know. Go ahead and drink, I don’t mind.”

He opens his mouth, moving it closer to your wound. The sweet scent of your blood hits his nostrils hard and they flare in response, hunger gnawing in his chest. You had offered your blood to him, what did you want in return? His body? His services?

Ruby red eyes search your face, waiting for you to lay down your conditions but you simply press your bleeding arm to his lips with a small smile, dabbing a sliver of blood on his lips.

“I mean it, Astarion. And no, I don’t want anything in return. I promise.”

A small puff of breath leaves his lips at your words and his tongue darts out, gently licking a stripe up your arm. When you don’t pull away, he gets a little bolder, sucking blood from the open wound. You hiss softly when his fangs dig in, drawing more blood from your body but keep your arm steady. He hungrily drinks it all in, the sweet flavour bursting in his mouth.

You don’t know what compels you to do it, but your other hand moves towards his hair, gently running your fingers through his silver curls, twirling the longer strands around your index finger. You carefully avoid touching his ears, knowing how sensitive they are and instead tangle your fingers in the hair at the top of his head.

He quietly purrs against your arm, pressing his tongue against the wound to staunch what bleeding he can before cleaning the wound thoroughly with a damp cloth, sending vibrations running up your arm. Gently dabbing the ointment on your arm, he wraps a bandage around the wound, pressing one last kiss to it before standing back up, offering a hand.

“Shall we return to camp before the others begin panicking? I doubt they can function without the both of us.” The smile on his face is filled with apprehension, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“Astarion –”

“Don’t you worry, my sweet. I’ll repay this debt of yours as soon as possible,” he winks, pulling you to your feet. “You won’t regret it in the slightest.”

As he turns to leave, you shout.

“Astarion!”

He stops in his tracks, turning around. Muscles tensed, he tries to cover up the fear that is thrumming through his veins with a feigned smile, hoping it’d mellow out your anger. After all, you could neve resist his smile…right?

You see the way fear flashes in his eyes and immediately regret raising your voice, even if it was out of frustration directed at yourself. Taking a deep breath to clear away your anger, you hold out a hand in peace offering.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice at you. I’m not mad at you, I’m just…” Your voice trails off. How do you even justify what you just did? You know of the horrors Cazador inflicted on him, and yet you still lash out.

“It’s quite alright, Y/N,” he chuckles nervously.

You vigorously shake your head, “I really am sorry about it. There’s no way I can justify raising my voice at you, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was really frustrated at myself for not being able to convince you I didn’t want anything in return, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Astarion searches for any sign of a lie in your words but finds nothing. You really meant it. Every word you said. Your apology, your insistence on needing nothing from him after he had just fed on you, all of it was sincere and genuine. His undead heart skips a beat and suddenly the night doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

You care about him.

Before he knows it, his feet carry him over to you once more, his hand sliding into your outstretched one. The warmth blooms from your palm and winds around his cold one as your fingers intertwine with his.

“Y/N,” he breathes.

“Will you accept my apology?” You ask softly, eyes downcast.

“Of course, dearest. I always will,” he leans in, lips hovering over your forehead. Can he kiss you? Will he taint you if he does?

You tilt your head upwards, meeting his lips with yours and he immediately melts into the kiss. Unlike his previous kisses, this one is filled with care and love, not the usual lust and passion he’s used to receiving. Your arms wrap around him, hands resting on his back where scars tell of his past and he reflexively tenses. But this time, the hands on his back mean him no harm. They lie there to pull him closer into your warm embrace, to protect him from those who seek to harm him. So he lets them rest on his vulnerable back, soaking in the strange warmness that the simple action brings.

Astarion closes his eyes, putting his own arms around you. It’s weird, hugging someone for the first time. You don’t mind his cold dead fingers resting on your back and even press closer against him, enveloping him in your warmth.

When your lips part ways, he doesn’t say a word lest his voice wavers and betrays him. He lets you do the talking, relishing in the way you hold onto his hand tightly. Not a single move is made when you lead him into his tent, only letting go of his hand to help him tidy up his bedroll. You make sure he’s comfortable before turning to leave, pausing when he calls out your name in such a gentle manner.

“Stay…with me?” He begs. Your heart aches from his tone and once more you’re reminded of how much he hurts on the inside, so you backtrack and wrap your arms around him.

“Always.”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

NOBODY'S SON, NOBODY'S DAUGHTER (VI)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VII

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 7.0k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, creepy men, talks of death, weapons, toxic modeling standards, food issues, dead animals, talks about gore, symptoms & descriptions of dissociation, scars and mentions of intense medical procedures, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you. 

Nikto stands in the bathroom connected to the library—at the very end of that train car-like set-up of your loft rooms. His fingers move to the straps of his Kevlar, peeling them off as the loud tearing sounds echo in his ears. 

He can hear you stumbling about in your room, too. Getting ready for bed. Blinking, Nikto grunts as he thinks over your comment from when you first showed him around. He hadn’t been able to get it out of his head since you’d said it. 

Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you.

The man’s vest is taken off, hitting the floor in a heap. Next follows the clips of his thigh holster, and the belt buckle in the loops of his pants. Each joins the pile with a slap of material. 

“Brain damage,” Nikto grunts. 

It wasn’t something he should be worrying about—in fact, it was at the very bottom of the long list of things that even mattered. First was your safety, then the identity of this pathetic individual who was infatuated with you. But it stuck with him nonetheless. 

He’d never had to look after someone with this affliction before. The stumbling; the shakiness. But he’d gone through worse. Yet, at the same time, it was far larger than just his assignment. In his own way, Nikto was…appreciative that you seemed to at least listen to him most of the time. And you were easy to talk to. 

There was a sort of kinship there, as well. In broken things. Maybe that was why he felt himself growing to you.

Striped down to nothing but his mask, the Russian glimpses himself in the mirror and stills. He was always struck by it. 

How something could be so brutally ugly.

Scars ran so tightly over his skin that it was indented like a fissure in the earth. Pieces boldly sliced away and chunks missing. The muscled bulge of his stomach was cut up—thighs with such horrors as cigarette burns and the remnants of tattoos that were carved away like hog’s flesh. That’s what he was, Nikto knew. A hog tied to the ceiling and ready to be butchered. 

He looked at himself now like he was through the lens of a movie, like the ones he would watch as a child—it was far away from him, the edges blurred as his reflection shifted; another being entirely. 

A hand comes up—his hand—and it presses into the material of his mask, large fingers shifting over black coloring as the pale blue of his eyes stares back. None of it felt real. Nikto’s head tilts, but he does not feel the bones in his neck move, only the acknowledgment that they had to have. 

The dark ink of the tattoo over his back peaks itself into existence, the starting of obsidian over his shoulders. Nikto shifts his top half as if seeing it for the first time, unblinking eyes taking in the visage of a snarling bear locking gazes with him. At the side of his left shoulder, the sigil of his old unit burnt his skin. 

“New,” he utters, voice tiny and hoarse. “Gotten after.”

He already knew that…why was he repeating it like he had forgotten sitting in that tattoo shop’s chair? Nikto’s eyes clenched shut, hand coming back up to his masked head and pressing over it. 

He was not beautiful, and no one would ever call him such. He didn’t want them to because it would always be a lie.

With a low growl, his fingers grip his mask and rip it off of his head. 

The thing slaps against the marble of the counter, hitting with a hard clack of the coated synthetic fiber, sliding over the top until it hits the toothbrush cup and causes it to fall on its side. 

Nikto can only stare at the person in the reflection as the sounds swirl in his ears—a world away. 

There’s so little of him left that he recognizes that it scares him. 

Grinding his jaw, Nikto’s pale eyes slip down the length of the damage. His dark hair is cut close to his head, strong bones in his nose and brow above the deep sockets of his eyes—the glare of black and blue bags gives way to his lack of sleep. The wideness of his cheeks leads to a sharp chin; a square face overall. 

But the marks. 

The hyperpigmentation.

Half of a Glasgow Smile peels the flesh back like a tear in paper, and a line is sliced staring at his right ear and curving in a half-circle down to his jaw. Into his hairline, three ragged cuts that had been very badly cauterized to stop him from bleeding out, the hair never able to grow back properly. His neck is the same—a red scar the size of his forearm wrapping from behind and crossing it, little slivers breaking out like a tributary. 

He still wasn’t sure how he survived that one, but then again he hadn’t in the long run.

Nikto’s heart had stopped after all.

There’s a knocking at the door, and the man flinches violently—head twitching to the side. 

“Nikto?” Your voice is muffled by the wooden barrier, and the Russian’s breath is ragged before he blinks away the distance in his expression. “...Are you alright in there?” 

He clears his throat, feet shifting over the plush purple rug you had on the floor as his fingers twitch with tight nerves. But your voice distracts him, fractured brain slowly coming back into focus. 

“We are fine,” his voice is harder than he intends. More snappy. 

Nikto’s eyes find your shadow under the bottom of the door, your feet moving and re-setting as they usually do. He sees you pause. 

“Alright,” your voice calls. “If you need anything, just ask me.”

He watches you stand there for a few seconds longer before your shadow moves back and disappears. Torn ears twitch to your receding weight, eyes beady like a feral dog’s. 

Nikto’s bare body is frozen until he finds himself moving to turn on the water to the hottest setting, stepping into the stream with a hiss and a snap of teeth at the burn. He only turns it hotter. Thinking. Wondering. 

Brain damage.

—

“I can never see color,” you say into the air bluntly, watching the man tie his shoes. He freezes. “Just thought you should know.”

Your eyes see Nikto blink, a silent moment passing between you two before he looks up slowly, brows pulled in and lids crinkled. 

“...Что?” 

Something swirls in his vision, a deep intrigue and another that’s harder to name. Hidden. Kept under lock.

“I can never see color,” your voice reiterates, trying to put on a show that the only reason you were saying this was because you wanted to—a sign of trust. 

In reality, it was a stepping point. 

A small test even if you felt your face heating—growing hotter by the second. “Same accident that caused my brain damage.” You smile softly, motioning a hand to your head. “Even if I find my soulmate, I won’t be able to tell. Weird, huh?”

It was two hours after your phone call with Yaromir and Galina, and there wasn’t much to dwell on from the two. You’d talked about DNA, Sergi, and why no one was taking your claims seriously. 

All they chose to tell you was that they needed more to build a case off of. Galina was still trying to get DNA samples, and without that or a large break that gave you any idea about who could do this, you were in the dark. All they had was a partial fingerprint on one of the plastic bags. 

Excuses were all you got by the very frustrating end, and your hope had dwindled on every pause over the line, your phone on the coffee table and Nikto watching silently as he placed breakfast in front of you with a firm hand. He’d been quiet today, even more so than usual. You’d even given him more tea last night, though the cup was once more washed and set back by morning. 

And he was stiff too. Tense. 

Today, you made a firm decision to go back to AMA—not because of your shift. You had no intention of staying in that building even if you knew you should; this was a quick visit. You needed to discuss a large gap in your schedule with the CEO, one that had only shown up in the small hours of this morning. 

You really hoped the explanation wasn’t because you were being fried.  

Nikto is still, watching every beat of your pulse and how your fingers play with themselves in front of you. His chest is frozen, eyes unblinking as the paleness of them is similar to a knife’s edge. In your internal fight, you hadn't noticed how long he’d just been watching you…dead to the world of the living. His gaze was so intense once you did realize, that you cleared your throat softly as an awkward uncomfortableness built on your expression. 

Perhaps today wasn't the best time to test your theory.

The man’s fingers twitch, he stands up to his full height, and then moves into the elevator without a single sound. 

Your heart gets stuck in your throat, blinking as you make a confused noise. 

“Nikto?” You turn after him. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Calling, your feet shift over the rug of your entrance, seeing the void of white as he stands with his hands behind his back and his covered face diligently forward. No words. “I thought we were past the whole lack of speaking thing?”

A chill moves up your spine slowly, and it’s enough to hide away the reason you’d mentioned your affliction in the first place. He was…so stiff again. Enough so that you partially wondered how this person could be the same that had cooked you dinner last night and barked his feral laugh into the chilled air. 

What had changed in one night?

Nikto’s eyes were more of a void than the blackness of his Kevlar. 

Apprehensiveness growing, you move and grasp at your jacket with a twist to your lips, slipping it on softly. No sentences being spoken, you shift into the elevator and stay to the far left of him, taking out your keys from your purse and slipping them into the metal. 

With a jolt, the thing begins moving slowly. 

“Y’know,” you awkwardly laugh. “It would be nice if you responded. I just told you something important to me. I mean,” your anxiety makes you backtrack with a very fake laugh, eyes glancing to the side. He hadn’t moved; was just staring at the space ahead of him. “It’s obviously none of your business,” you wave a small hand, being sly in your word choice. “But I want to be transparent with you about everything going on, especially with how I don’t know if you see color or not. It’s a disadvantage on my part and I—”

“I see color.” Is the monotone, dead response.

I know that. 

“Oh. Good,” you try to smile shakily, hand jerking as it hangs at your side with a low simmer of a pounding pulse. A shimmer of excitement runs through your spine. “That’s good, Nikto, I’m glad that you do. So, if you don’t mind me asking, who’s your s—”

A low growl. “I do not want to.” 

Tension overtakes the small area and your wide eyes stare unabashedly in shock. All eagerness utterly ceases to exist. 

“Excuse me?” You push out your utter confusion, shoulders moving higher.

Surely he didn’t mean he doesn’t want the gift of seeing color. 

No one would ever say something like that. Ever. Even those who’ve gone through Soulmate Psychosis have never stated they didn't want to see the shades and hues of the leaves—the sky or the earth. How the clouds looked when the sun was getting low. Purples and blues, colors you’d only ever be able to try and understand knowing that it would be impossible.

And what did this mean for you? You’d been banking off a confession, but this wasn’t the kind you’d expected.

“It is useless to me,” Nikto avoids your gaze. “Неуместный.”

“I have to disagree,” you stutter, slightly shifting your body to tilt his way. The crafted plan in your head is thrown to the wind. “Nikto, we’re talking about color here. Soulmates. The…the person you’re supposed to be destined to be with—how can you say that? Don’t you remember how the world looked when it was all black and white?”

A low snarl echoes, pale eyes jerking your way as a head snaps. 

“Достаточно!” You suck in a fast breath as the elevator dings, both of you arriving at the ground floor, doors rolling back to the open lobby. “We do not need you speaking to us on such things.” Nikto moves forward, your nose almost bumping into his chestpiece as the scent of rotten wood infects you. Your body takes down a swift breath, head snapping up to watch. “You know nothing!” His face is right above yours, looming, nearly bending your spine over. “Spoiled girl with pretty face—thinks she knows what she wants, yes?” The Russian scoffs, speaking low as your hands clench at the assumption. “Keep this to yourself.”

He turns and stalks away with a hostile grunt, leaving you blankly staring at where his face used to be, the image of his Kevlar mask burning in the back of your mind. A knife of hurt gradually takes place between your ribs, breeding until your lungs are ruthless in its clutch. 

This wasn’t what you had expected.

Nikto glares at Isaak, who had watched with wide eyes and a loose jaw, and not moments later, the doorman quickly averts his gaze to stare at nothing on his desk. The Russian’s pulse is roaring inside of his breast, mind troubled. 

Brain damage. Can’t see color. 

Halfway to the parked car, Nikto’s mind returns to him and he slams his fast feet to a stop. Blinking, as if something in him had changed at that moment, a second of confusion leaked into his hidden expression as he said nothing. Waiting. 

At the small, hesitant movement of shaky feet coming closer, his shoulders slowly tense. 

You come up behind Nikto and shift past, taking the car door in your hand and opening it. Moving inside, you close the barrier to the chilled outside morning with a definitive slam. Darkness, for a moment, enshrouds you. 

Face unyielding and pulled with guilt, you get a small queasiness in your stomach as the seconds pass in the vehicle. 

Maybe you’d been too forward, but Nikto’s response had been…well, explosive. And his comments about color? Who in their right mind would say that? 

“That makes no sense,” you whisper, hand coming up and rubbing at the scar on the back of your head. The one you dreamed would disappear in the small hours of the night as a teenager, remembering the beep of hospital machines and the plastic taste of the tube shoved down your throat. 

Doesn’t want to see color? Your mouth sucks down a shaky breath. I’d trade anything for only three seconds.

The world outside of the windows is gray as Nikto pops the driver's side door open, bending low with a grunt before sitting into the seat. He doesn’t apologize as he shoves the keys into the ignition—starting the engine. The car rumbles to life. 

Maybe you’d been too forward.

“You think?” You whisper to yourself under your breath, tearing your eyes away from the Russian man, grabbing and clicking in your seatbelt. 

Socially, you had grace—were used to carrying it to those horrible parties and events. But talking about more personal matters was another thing entirely from work-life. From designer clothes and when they came out, shoes, and makeup. Sex and alcohol. Everyone at AMA speaks with vanity, and you were included. You knew you were beautiful, you’d been told and retold with every pluck from your eyebrows and spread of lipstick over your mouth; ruthless petting like a cat or a doll—there was never any doubt about that. 

You could speak beauty, but you can’t speak about real love. Call you hopeless, but that was really all you ever wanted. 

Love. Romance. Care and concern. It was addictive to you in every sense—and you just kept coming back for a hit of what you couldn’t have. You’d warned yourself after Yefim, but it hadn’t even taken a month before you had found another man to fixate on; the body of the previous stuck still in your nightmares.

But there was that sliver of something in your gut every time you stared at Nikto; something that didn’t add up. You weren’t deterred—weren’t put off. There was something deeper there that you just had to get to the bottom of first. 

There had to be something he wasn’t telling you about why he can see color.

“If I upset you,” you ease out, tongue like lead and your eyes stuck outside the moving vehicle. Your hands tighten over your seatbelt in small intervals, for a moment mute of what to say. “I’m sorry, Nikto. I was just curious, I won’t pry into your personal matters again; you have my word. Just like talking about your mask.” 

“Good,” Nikto’s hands flex over the wheel. It’s all he says, and even then it’s curt. 

Small-like, you mutter, “Also…thanks for breakfast.”

It had been a small and incredibly healthy—buckwheat porridge. You’d eaten the entire thing with fruit on top and never even glanced at the yogurt in your fridge. The man’s eyes had been sneaking glances the entire time you had brought the spoon back to your mouth, but you weren’t sure if it was to make sure you were liking it, or if you were eating in general. 

It was his job to hover, though. 

Nikto doesn’t respond to your thanks, but his shoulders slightly loosen a bit, eyes blinking from the view of the mirror. 

With a sigh, you keep your mouth shut and sit in silence for the rest of the ride, pulling at loose threads from your jacket pocket. Your fingers tap something firm from the inside, and you pause, blinking down at the dark fabric. 

Your brows furrow, but whatever’s inside will have to wait, because Nikto pulls up to the sidewalk and parks the car with a huff. Like before, he opens your door when he’s outside. 

“Your investigators will come for any package,” he explains as you shuffle and stand, fixing the collar of your coat and glancing his way. It’s like he hadn’t just snapped at you minutes ago—that numb sheet was over his head once more. “You will not take them.”

There seems to be a moment where he waits for confirmation, raising a brow into the cold air that you can only partially see. 

You clear your throat and look away down the street. 

“Sure,” you say. 

…Had he really called me spoiled?

Nikto glares at you, jaw clenching under his mask. He looks you up and down quickly without moving his head, skin tight and scars pulling. Your words in the elevator had… aggravated him, even if he can’t pinpoint why. 

You were messing with his head—and that is an already very broken thing. Yet…your questions weren’t pointless. He knew you’d ask them sooner or later, like a fox to a trap, it was only a matter of time. 

He should have expected this, and while cruelty is his nature, he can’t be that to you. The Russian had snapped too violently in the lobby, and it wasn’t your fault. Even with moments of relative calm, he knew that to be fact. But Nikto was a brooding creature—he picked only between missions and guns to be his avatars. Emotions were a loser’s game, and he would not lose at anything so long as he was living. Nikto was a bloody victor holding the remnants of a fresh kill. Nikto was as much a bear as the one printed on his back.

Pale eyes close, a low snarl stuck in the back of his throat. 

You blink at the arm that gets held out to you. 

“Grab it,” the man doesn’t give away anything; his eyes are ahead and his voice is low like your ability to understand his sudden change.

Every five minutes this Russian was switching between anger and relative tolerance of you. Your brows lightly rise on your forehead, wrinkles forming on your flesh.

Your quivering hand raises and slots itself through his left arm softly, head tilting. 

“As much as I appreciate it,” you speak as he helps you up the curb with a firm pull, side-eyeing you. “I can manage. I’ll ask if I can’t.” A tentative smile. “Last-minute mascara is most of what I trust you with besides the food.”

“There will be less of the former in our future.” He grunts as you shut the door behind you. “We have no plans to do such things.”

“You said that about cooking,” you tease, falling back into seamless flirting, trying to get the man who had cooked you supper back into his skin. “I didn’t know you’d be such an attentive roommate.”

Those light orbs stay pinned to you for a long moment, twisting in like a knife with only a glint in the circles of his blackened pupils. 

There’s a click of the car locking, and the Russian is all but dragging you forward. Chuckling under your breath, you follow as well as you’re able through the front, feet only stumbling for a moment before you can lean your weight to the side and rely on Nikto to keep you straight. It helps, you admit, though he’s a bit more stiff than Aly.  

Your hand rests on his bicep, fingers moving to spread over the hard material and sensing the sinews of his flesh writhe at the action. Nikto huffs under his breath, rolling his shoulders to dispel tension.

Your scent is wafting into his nose like he’d put his head into a tank of ambrosia—your perfume addling his senses, shaming him like a venomous snake being held by a dove.

By an angel. 

“Останови это.” 

You blink and turn to him, humming. “What was that, Nikto?”

The man is tense again, eyes snapping about as he pushes at the front door to AMA, your own nerves becoming apparent, yet, having your distraction here to pull you away from that. 

“Nothing,” he monotones. “Where are we going.”

“Upstairs,” you sigh, walking past the front desk as the women look on in confusion when you don’t stop by. They hadn’t expected you to come in, apparently. It was your job. As you pass pictures and paintings in the hallways, you slowly begin to speak. 

“What color is that one,” your finger points to the frame on the far left. It was a dark shade that moved into a lighter one—Ombré.

Nikto’s feet slow, his attention moving from ahead of you to the side for a fast flash. Gruffly, and feeling his chest tighten at the sensation of you freely touching him above the corrupted flesh, he responds in a clipped fashion. “Blue and Green.”

You hum lowly. “Light blue?”

“Нет. Light green to dark blue.” 

“Oh.” You tilt your head at it as you pass, peeking over your shoulder.  It wasn’t like you could really understand that, but…a small smile pulled at your lips as you turned back forward.

Nikto blinks at it from the corner of his vision, narrowing his eyelids momentarily like a wolf. 

“... We do not understand the fascination with it,” he grumbles. “Color.”

“I don’t want to upset you,” your head shakes. “We don’t have to talk about it—”

“I do not like losing my temper at pointless discussion.” You’re interrupted, and you feel your lips part not at the behavior, but the tone at which he takes. A strange firmness that bleeds into conviction. “It was an…error in my judgments.”

It’s only when you steer him lightly to the right hallway to the elevator that your lips move into a smirk, leaning into him even more. Nikto’s eyes flash with surprise, darting down. 

“Was that an apology, Big Guy?”

“No,” he scowls under his mask, but his body is gaining heat to it. “An observation of character.”

“I think you just apologized to me and don’t know how to admit it,” you move your face close to his just as he had to you in the penthouse, nose brushing the canvas of the lower half of his face covering. You hear his breath hitch, his large frame going still and yet not pulling away. Your matching feet continue to move. 

He seems to lean closer, even, or was that just a trick of the light? 

Your lips release a chuckle, your face begins to burn and your veins pump oxytocin that Aly would be intrigued to learn about. 

You pull back after a bit too much staring into his eyes, saying breathlessly, “I’m more flattered that you think I’m pretty, Nikto.”

His large sigh is all you hear, hand releasing his arm for a moment to push the elevator’s button to the top floor of the building, chuckling under your breath. 

Nikto grumbles but responds with nothing more than a twitch of his fingers when your heat leaves him, motioning his arm again when you come back over. The sudden lapse in your pressured fingers made his spine straighten.

Kliment Fedorov’s office floor is large—very large. It takes up the entire top of the building and his influence seeps down to the very bottom like blackened oil. You’d been here before, as well as seen it from video calls, and while you could have talked to your manager about the gap in your schedule, the fact was that the man was quitting on you. 

Dead birds in plastic bags were a bit too much.

It left you only able to go to the top for any clarification until a new manager could be hired. 

“When we’re in there,” you comment to Nikto, hand going back to touch him. The Russian blinks slowly, fighting how his body wants to sag. “It’s probably best if you don’t speak, okay?” 

Pale eyes narrow, head tilting to the side.

You sigh at the movement, placating him with an explanation. “It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, but Mr. Fedorov is,” your voice trails off. “He’s very lofty if you get what I mean.”

“Lofty?” Nikto prompts as the elevator continues to move upwards. He seems confused by the word in English. 

Your free hand raises and gestures vaguely before you twist your lips and end on a simple, “Arrogant.” 

“Ah, да,” the large man utters. “I am not a stranger to such, yes?” 

It’s strange how the two of you can just slip past the small arguments that pop up—or, more of the one-sided breaking points and the prodding comments. His words didn’t bother you, and that was different; if your mother had snapped like that, it would be a different story entirely even if you, ultimately, would have let it pass like the rest. 

“Do you really think I’m spoiled?” 

But you did tend to linger on things. 

Before there’s an answer from Nikto, who grunts under his breath, the main door opens with a small ding. Sharing a glance, you shake your head with a quirk of your lips and walk out with a tiny pull at his arm. 

You lean and whisper, “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

Nikto doesn’t like how his heart constricts like there’s a vice around it—eyes snapping back. He holds back a flinch.

From there it’s checking in with the secretary and being waved in by her hand, already talking to someone else on the phone and typing away on her computer. You hum under your breath, and Nikto feels your hand jerk. He glances over as the doors get closer, calmed down at least for now. 

“You are worried.”

“Only a little,” you mutter, brushing down your jacket, feeling that bulge of something in the pocket. 

“Do not be.” The masked man looks forward after studying the layout of the floor—where the emergency exit was and the most efficient places to take cover. 

Easy for you to say, you huff. Nikto had a very stiff way of comforting people. 

And then you’re knocking on the door, and a voice is telling you both to enter.

—

“Lovely Seraph!” The CEO’s bald head is as shiny as you remember it, and those fly-like eyes are beady enough to make it seem like they move through you instead of at you. “Welcome, come, sit!” 

A hand is waved from behind a large mahogany desk, a round face nodding quickly as you smile although it’s not entirely real.

“Mr. Fedorov,” your voice is light and airy—a fake tone of elegance. It comes easily. “It’s so good to see you again. I hope everything is well?”

“Ah,” he laughs, Nikto helping to guide you along even if the room is sparsely decorated beyond potted plants and a large rug. “It is going well, my dear. Very well.” 

Eyes slip down your body, past your modest clothes. Something moves behind Fedorov’s expression, shifting. Nikto is a firm brick beside you, only letting you leave when the chair is in front of you. You slide him a thankful glance and slip away, grasping the side of the seat and moving into it with little trouble. 

“My dear, I hadn’t expected to see you in last year’s collection.” You blink, eyes darting down to stare at the shirt you wear—it isn’t anything fancy or eye-catching. But it was expensive. 

“Oh,” stuttering a moment, you try to play off a suddenly tight laugh. “M-my apologies, Sir. It must have slipped my mind this morning—”

“I will send the newest to you, don’t fret,” Fedorov smirks. “We can’t have one of our best ladies wearing rags.” 

A spike of anger levels itself at your throat like a knife, and Nikto, who had moved like a shadow to stand at the far wall with his hands behind his back, feels his pupils constrict. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you clear your throat lightly, looking to your guard quickly. “I don’t need any more presents, Sir, I promise.”

“Nonsense.” Kliment dismisses you, splaying his hands from where they rest on the desk. “You’ll enjoy them. Very nice collection this year. My gift to you for your success here.” You shrivel in at his next comment. “Your last photoshoot was…just exquisite, my Dear. Those white tones look heavenly on you.” 

Swallowing down saliva slowly, you shift your thighs and let your arms circle your waist, feeling naked as gray eyes move your frame. 

But you can’t say anything. 

“Thank you, Sir,” you push out tinily. Nikto’s temper flares from across the room, eyes sparking up in a deep display of rage. He goes to take a step forward, not even knowing what he’s going to do, but, as if sensing this, your eyes snap over and you level him with a mute command. 

Nikto’s boots still, the heel only half raised. 

You twitch your head in a fraction of a shake, and he’s settling back to the wall with a glare and a hard clench to his hands. A growl is trapped in his esophagus, and you’re surprised that Kliment hasn’t gone up in flames because of it. 

“Of course!” Fedorov laughs. “I personally arranged your schedule. I know what’s best, hm?” 

“I was here to ask about that, actually,” you try to move the subject on, feeling dirty as Nikto silently fumes. “The gap starting in two days? I’m sorry, but I wasn’t sure what that meant and I wanted to come in personally and ask.”

Fedorov’s expression sours, scowling. “Those investigators. Messing with my work—won’t let you come in, Seraph, see. Horrible people think we can’t put up with silly little boxes and mail.”

You shakily take an inhalation and chuckle, lips twisting down and eyes dead still. 

Silly little boxes. What would he do if he got a box full of dead birds or a bomb? Then again, he never would—he’d have someone else open it for him.

The CEO continues with his hand moving to grab papers from his side, sliding them to you slowly as you look down at the material with curious eyes, seeing shiny gray signatures and large looping words. The realization is as rapid as a knife to the neck.

Party invitations.

Your heart drops, bones like steel inside of your flesh. The room is suddenly far too small.

Not this again. Fuck no, not this. 

“I took the liberty of confirming your attendance since you can no longer be here all the time—you’ll be doing,” fly-eyes glint. “... crowdfunding, if you will. You remember what to do. You used to be our best seller for investments.” 

“Sir…I,” you fight the bile in your throat, the world swirling. Not again. I tried so hard to get out of it. Fedorov doesn’t care.

“It will also get you out of the main city spotlight!” He smiles. “I’ve emailed you the bookings and hotels—clothes to be sent.” Arrogant lines on his face. “The dresses.”

Fedorov smiles as you stare blankly, lips slightly parted; your fingers curl in to try and stop the shaking. 

“But!” You flinch at the loud exclamation, and this time, Nikto does take a step forward, hand brushing his Beretta without your knowledge. “That’s all I have for you today. The two days you have to yourself to pack and get ready, yes?”

What could you say to this?

You can’t say you won’t do it—you’d be out of a job and out of a stable income. Your mother would only say it was your fault, and that would be the extent of her help; with the stalker…you had to admit being away was the best, but doing parties again…

It made you want to shrivel up and die.

“If that’s what you think is best, Sir.” Fedorov shakes his head, chuckling and sending a layered smile that peels his skin. 

“I do. I know what the company needs—and what it needs is you, my lovely Seraph. Our angel from the heavens,” he smirks vilely. “Sending us down precious money instead of bread. You’ll do well away from the building for a while. Let things cool down, you see.” 

And thus it’s settled with a meaningful look and a passage of papers, your quivering hands taking them up, not missing this time, and trying not to strangle them in your palm. 

“Thank you, Sir,” you whisper, not at all thankful. Your mind already runs to times and dates—small talk and comments about your ailments. The explosion and the stalker are going to be hot topics. You would be mobbed. 

But that was exactly what the man wanted. 

“Quickly now, go home,” Fedorov motions. “Be safe—remember to limit your food, Seraph.” A glance is sent to your stomach. “Have you been following your diet?”

“We need to leave,” Nikto speaks up in a sharp bark. “Сейчас.” 

You see the CEO look over quickly as if forgetting someone else was here when looking at you. His face moves into a hard sneer at the sight of the large man. 

“And who is this?” 

“Nikto,” you explain quickly. “He’s my—”

“Yes, Girl, I know who he is.” Kliment’s voice is low. “Keep him on a tighter leash. Dismissed.” 

You nearly stumble when getting out of the chair. 

A hand grabs at the small of your back, pushing you forward quickly, though not unkindly. Nikto’s face is rigid under his mask, lines hard and eyes narrowed. Over his shoulder, he throws a heated glance at the man at the desk, but all he does is smirk like a crocodile. If he were any lesser, he’d have no problem getting into Kliment’s face—Nikto knew the man would pose no challenge to him, he couldn’t even shine a light. 

“Nikto,” you utter, putting a hand to his side. 

The Russian re-focuses, attention returning. 

Your feet skid, shoes slipping at the force he guides you along until you’re back out the door and walking back to the secretary. “Slow down.”

Immediately, Nikto’s hands leave you, and you come to a swift stop with a deep breath in your mouth. Hands out, you shake them for a moment and try to calm your heart. 

“Thank you,” you say under your breath, hand moving to rub the back of your skull. “You, uh,” trying to lighten the suffocating air, you blink at his chest. “But I told you not to speak.”

“What was that?” He growls. “You let people speak like that to you?” 

“It’s not that serious.” It wasn’t anything he could change. “He’s arrogant, I told you.”

“He’s—”

“Why do you care,” you stare at him, suddenly defensive. “It’s my job—just like yours, I can’t lose it.”

Pale eyes sizzle. “That is different.”

You laugh despite yourself. “It’s really not.” Shaking your head, you brush past him slowly, gaining back your senses. “Even if I want it to be, this is all I’ve got going for me.”

Shadows walk beside you, keeping a close eye as the secretary doesn’t look up from her work as you both pass. “It is causing you to be stalked, Whelp. It is not sane to stay.”

You’re silent at that, taking Nikto’s tactic of steel lips and a dead stare ahead. 

Beauty was all you had. He could never understand that.

“We have two days.” Uttering in the elevator, you sigh. “Even if I don’t like it—it’ll get us away from AMA. That’s the most important part, and one that even I can’t argue with.”

You don’t want to go to the parties. Not even an ounce of you was eager for it. For what was expected. 

Nikto’s hands go to grasp the top of his vest’s collar, hanging as he thinks. The Russian can’t snap at you for that, it was true. Getting away was good, but it meant he had to memorize more floor plans and re-learn routines. No matter, he could adapt if it came to that. 

He hums to himself, blinking. 

“Very well. That I agree with.” Nikto pauses. “But I do not like that man. Like…” he snarls, “bald snake.”

A shocked snort exits you, your hand coming up to cover your mouth. Silence settles for a bit between you two as you process everything. Your teeth bite at your lip, leaning toward him delicately.

“...I was thinking frog.”

Nikto’s eyes spark, looking down at you from behind the black smudge of his sockets. 

“That is better.” He comments. “Да. Frog.” You both lock eyes and you feel your lips pull in a small smile, your face losing a sliver of that fear that moves in your DNA as of late. The truth comes out as vulnerability.

“...Do you think it’ll work?” Your question makes him stare, head tilting. 

“What?”

“Leaving.” The elevator nears the ground floor. “Do you think it’ll stop him?”

Nikto had said he would never lie to you. 

“I do not know,” he speaks slowly, feet shuffling as his shoulders roll. “Do you?”

“I don’t know if I need to worry about the stalker more,” you chuff without any amusement, “or the parties I have to go to.”

Curiosity moves in his pale orbs, swirling at your confession to him. Nikto stores it for later, humming as the door opens and he moves—sticking out an arm that you easily loop with your own. 

He walks slower, now, lips open as he hesitates for a moment. As your face is far away, expression open to the world, the Russian eases out, “I do not think you are spoiled, yes? I should not have said such things about your character. Do not apologize to me for it.” 

“Everyone loves apologies, Nikto,” you joke even as your heart swells—heat coming up your neck. “It’s human nature to believe you’re not in the wrong. There’s no need to—”

“I do not like when you apologize. So do not.” He walks you forward. “Stand your ground. Speak freely.” 

“That usually hurts people’s feelings,” you state in an utterance. 

It’s a good while before Nikto answers you, and when he does you glance over to find his eyes already looking at you—but the makeup is wrong, it isn’t as dead as they always seem to be. 

They were nearly soft if that was even possible. Hidden behind a half-lidded layer of darkness. You blink, feet almost stumbling as you lean into his arm. 

Tell me, your mind begs this beast. This monster who never shows a sliver of his face—who holds scars more numerous than you can even imagine. You don’t even know why you want him, and that scares you. Tell me I’m yours. 

“Then those people are not worthy if they can not handle the truth,” Nikto grumbles, shifting his head away. 

The connection is broken.

You focus on the way you hold his arm as you both walk past the front desk, taking the weight and heat of it in little by little until you have to hold back a shiver. Even stretching your fingers, you couldn’t grab around the entire thing—much like it would be fruitless to try with his thighs. Even his waist would be difficult. 

So consumed in the thoughts of Nikto, slowly taking you over, you both walk past the front desk swiftly. 

Only when you see the flash of a square object do you begin to slow—Nikto was having none of it.

“Do not.” His arm shifts out of yours, and you startle before his limb loops your waist, nearly stapling you to his side. 

“I didn’t even move to it,” you huff, looking up at him, frown over your lips. 

“You were thinking it,” he grumbles, pale eyes sliding like water over your face. “Stay.”

“Woof, woof,” you sarcastically utter. 

You can feel the tension in him—in you. 

And then you push open the front door, and the box is left on the counter without another glance.

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[bi-writes]

idk man i was just thinking about both simon and reader carving each others flesh with their fave knives :(

thinking thinking as his pretty curvy baby steals his beloved knife and carves "mine ♡" onto his scarred flesh

tw !!!!! (18+, dark)

imagine getting on your knees in front of him, dropping low and craning your neck to look up at him. he sits with his legs wide open, relaxed against the couch, and he stares down at you curiously as you slip one of the throwing knives out of his boot.

you smile up at him, your cheek pressed into his warm thigh, and you twirl the blade between your fingers as he reaches down and cups your jaw with a gloved hand. you nuzzle into him, getting up, following his touch and climbing up and over him until you're seated in his lap and pawing at his hoodie to slip it off and over his head.

you lean closer, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath through his mask. you watch his reaction closely as you drag the tip of his blade over his heart.

he barely moves. his eyes narrow, twitching slightly, but he doesn't so much as grunt as you make the first shallow cut. paper thin, barely cutting the top layer of skin, but you know it must sting a little as you round the curve of the M.

as you finish the last letter, a small swipe of the last line to finish the E, he sucks in a warm breath, using both hands to grip either side of your ass and press you as close as possible. you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck, and when you nose his mask up and kiss him, he tastes like you.

"mine," you whisper between kisses, and you smile wider when he snatches the blade from you and runs it over his tongue to clean it off.

"my turn, swee'eart."

[iliketangerines]

Okay okay okay okay okay imagine! Reader to pregnant and tired is like "okay liu your fucking lao tonight."

Ofc liu fucks lao. Reader gives them some titty juice as a reward.

let me watch

a/n: ah liulao my beloved

pairing: liu kang x kung lao x reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), hand jobs, ruined orgasm, orgasm denial, lactation kink

you sit on the bed, face grimacing as the baby in you starts to kick again, and you sigh, irritated and tired from not having any sleep for countless days

you rub your hands over your stomach to try and sooth the baby inside of you, and you lift your weary head up at the sound of the door opening

it’s Liu Kang and Kung Lao looking at you with wide eyes and grabby hands as they crawl  into the bed and start kissing your exposed skin

you raise your hands, pushing them away lightly, and they comply easily, looking at you worriedly as you tell them that you’re too tired

immediately, they go and ask if you need anything, offering foot massages and cooked soup or whatever cravings you have, but you decline

you just need a little time to recuperate, and you notice how their pants bulge as they whine and flutter over you like a nursing hen

drumming your fingers on your chin, you tell Liu Kang to just fuck Kung Lao tonight, that they don’t have to fuck you every time and that they don’t need your permission

Liu Kang freezes at the prospect, and Kung Lao looks at you a bit surprised, a cocky smile already stretching his lips as he glances over at Liu Kang

the fire-wielder is a bit flushed at your crassness, and he looks at Kung Lao before looking back at you and asking if you’re sure

you pat his hand, reassuring him that you’ll be fine, you just really can’t tonight with how tired you are, and Liu Kang nods

Kung Lao has already moved the empty space on the bed, waiting for Liu Kang to come over, and he grabs onto the fire-wielder’s waist as soon as Liu Kang comes over

the monk gives him a cocky grin and then surges forward to press a searing kiss, making Liu Kang slightly whimper at the forwardness

the both of them had been so obsessed with you over the past few months that they hadn’t really carved any time out for themselves

and now, they seemed to crave each other carnally, missing each other’s tastes and revisiting old dips and valleys and exploring the new scars and marks

Kung Lao is more bold, squeezing Liu Kang’s ass through the thick material of his pants while Liu Kang just grips onto Kung Lao’s shoulders, melting into the kiss

you watch them lazily, eyes lidded with exhaustion as Kung Lao starts to paw at Liu Kang’s clothing, desperate to have them off as the bravado from earlier slips off

Liu Kang obliges, tearing his clothes off at full force as he starts to slip into the haze, pushing Kung Lao onto his back and reaching into his pants

Liu Kang’s hand pumps at Kung Lao’s cock slowly, and the monk pants into the air, hands scratching angry red lines into Liu Kang’s muscled back

Liu Kang doesn’t mind, instead biting and sucking hickeys and marks into Kung Lao’s neck, marring the clean flesh, and the fire-wielder grinds his hips into Kung Lao’s thigh

the monk whines, high-pitched and needy, and his hips buck up into Liu Kang’s warm hand, already close to cumming despite having only started

you see Liu Kang’s hand quick underneath Kung Lao’s pants, and you say stop, squinting your eyes at the both of them

at this rate, the both of them will still have pent-up energy by the time the both of them have come, and you want them both to be tired-out

Kung Lao looks at you with pleading eyes, and Liu Kang listens to you, hand still in the monk’s pants as he awaits for your order

you tell Kung Lao to undress first, that you want to make sure Liu Kang is doing everything perfectly, and the monk whimpers but obliges

Liu Kang peels himself off of Kung Lao and waits on his knees as Kung Lao shakily undresses himself, cock bobbing proudly and slapping against his stomach when he pulls off his pants

you tell him to get close to Liu Kang, to wrap his hand around Liu Kang’s own throbbing cock and you tell Liu Kang to do the same to Kung Lao

they do so, and they both whimper at the contact

you tell them that whoever cums first will get a punishment, and then you let them go at each other in their competition

Liu Kang is hungry, and he leans forward and kisses Kung Lao deeply as he can, thumb swiping over the tip of Kung Lao’s fat cock

Kung Lao hand jerks at Liu Kang unevenly, a little too unfocused on the way he has to win and all too preoccupied with the way Liu Kang kisses and teases him

you see the monk struggle to keep his wits about him as Liu Kang expertly keeps his cool and devours Kung Lao with his heat, sucking bruising hickeys into soft flesh

the monk’s hips jerk forward violently, a telltale sign he’s about to cum, and Liu Kang doubles his efforts, flicking his wrist to get Kung Lao to cum into his hand first

Kung Lao cries out, his free hand flying out to grip onto Liu Kang’s shoulder and dig his blunt nails into the muscle as he tries to control himself

the monk tries in vain to bring himself back to reality and pump at Liu Kang’s cock, but his hand falters much too often, grip too loose, unable to focus

it had always been his weakness, and Liu Kang was fully exploiting it, biting into Kung Lao’s neck and sending the monk over the edge

his thick cum spurts onto Liu Kang’s hand, and you raise your hand and tell Liu Kang to stop moving his hand

Kung Lao whines in vain as his orgasm sputters out all too fast, tears dripping down his cheeks at his ruined orgasm, and he begs and begs for more

you shrug your shoulders and told him the loser would have consequences before you look to Liu Kang and tell him to get Kung Lao on his hands and knees facing you

the fire-wielder obliges easily, moving the limp Kung Lao onto his hands and knees, and you can see exactly how red Kung Lao’s lips are from being bitten raw

tear tracks stream down his face, and you coo at him, leaning forward a bit to rub a thumb over his cheek

you tell Liu Kang to get the lube and the cock ring from the drawer and that he can cum as much as he wants when he wants

he excitedly gets up, moving quickly and slipping the ring over Kung Lao easily, pumping the monk’s sensitive cock to get the ring to stay

Kung Lao whines pathetically, looking up at you wet eyes, and Liu Kang kneels behind him, fingers rubbing the lube between his fingers and warming it up before spreading it on Kung Lao’s hole

the monk gasps, biting his lip and closing his eyes as Liu Kang slowly stretches him open on one finger, and you tell Liu Kang to stop

the fire-wielder lets out a small whine but obliges, stopping his movement, and Kung Lao’s eyes fly open at the loss of pleasure

you tell him that you will stop Liu Kang every time that Kung Lao takes his eyes off of you, and you signal for the fire-wielder to continue

Liu Kang nods, moving his finger in and out of Kung Lao, slowly adding in another one, and you watch Kung Lao carefully

he struggles to not close his eyes out of pleasure, and he lets out little gasps of pleasure, rocking his hips back to meet Liu Kang’s fingers

finally, the fire-wielder retracts his fingers and lines himself up with Kung Lao, tapping the head of his cock along the hole before slowly pushing in

the monk’s eyes flutter shut for just a moment before opening again, remembering your rules, and he lets out a choked groan as Liu Kang bottoms out

Liu Kang takes his time to work up a pace, his fingers digging bruises into Kung Lao’s slim waist, and his eyes are half-lidded and crazed as he stared at how his dick disappears into Kung Lao

but finally, he picks up the pace, groaning into the air as the sound of his hips slapping against Kung Lao’s ass fills the air

the monk struggles not to close his eyes, to keep them on you, but you can see them fluttering close for longer and longer periods of time

you raise your hand up and tell Liu Kang to stop, and he whines but listens hips stilling and his grip tightening on Kung Lao as punishment

he was close to his own orgasm if his loudening grunts told you anything, and Kung Lao opens his eyes and again and begs, saying that it was too hard, please

you just tell Liu Kang to start again, and he hisses as he resumes his brutal pace, needing to cum so badly

the cycle repeats over and over again, just as Liu Kang is about to cum, Kung Lao gets overwhelmed and closes his eyes, making you stop their actions entirely

Liu Kang grows tired and angry, one hand coming up to spank at the plump flesh of Kung Lao’s ass, making him cry out in pain and pleasure

you know that Kung Lao’s own cock must be flush and angry, pre-cum leaking from he tip and desparate to cum, but the ring won’t allow it

and you won’t allow him to cum until Liu Kang has had his fill

one more time, you allow Liu Kang to start moving again, and Kung Lao stares at you with watery eyes and red cheeks

Liu Kang groans, telling Kung Lao to be good, to keep watching, digging his fingers deep into the creamy flesh of Kung Lao’s waist

Kung Lao struggles, gasping and moaning and crying, and Liu Kang cums with a grunt, burying himself deep and cumming inside of Kung Lao

he stays there for a while, pumping his seed inside of Kung Lao, and you reach your hand up and forward to cradle the monk’s face as he lets wet fat tears fall

you tell Liu Kang that he can go with reckless abandon, that there are no more rules, and Liu Kang snarls, immediately moving Kung Lao to an empty space and then pushing his face into the sheets

he’s ruthless in his pace, eyes feral and crazed with how many times he had been denied because of Kung Lao’s inability to control himself

the monk lets out punched-out moans that soon dissolve into pathetic mewls as Liu Kang plows him into the bed

you can’t count how many times Liu Kang cums into Kung Lao, but you know that by the time he pulls out, that they’re both exhausted

Liu Kang crawls up next to you and collapses next to you, and you put one hand in his hair to comb through his hair

you tell him he did an amazing job, and you watch Kung Lao shakily crawl over to you, head nuzzling into your neck as he begs

your other hand removes the ring, wrapping around his heated flesh, and you slowly pump him for only a few seconds before he cums all over your hand

you make sure to let him ride it out as you slowly jerk him, and he whines out thank yous into your skin

you move your hand to rub shapes into his back and tell him that he also did a good job, that they were both so good for you

you grunt at the heaviness in your chest and look down to find stains on your shirt coming from your nipples

they both perk up in interest at your sound, and you pull up your shirt to give them their reward for being so good for you

they latch on, lapping at the sweet taste of your milk and relieving the burden in your breasts, and you sigh at the release of pressure

you were exhausted yes, but they were your boys and you wouldn’t trade the world for them

[the-kr8tor]

Where the River Flows

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 7.4k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW food mentions, TW Blood and violence, TW death, CW injury, CW guns, CW alcohol. Old west AU, cowboy AU

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 4 >>> CHAPTER 5

You haven't slept this well in years, the last time you had was back when you've last slept next to him on the same lumpy mattress of his flat that you've once called home. Your eyes blink awake, cheek pressed against a pillow, it's soft, so soft that for a second you thought it was Hobie's arm. You stare at the ceiling, a carved magnolia tree stares back. Its branches are full of blossoms, perfectly carved just like the illustrations in your books. It's so vivid that you could practically see its pinkish hue. It's weird, you think, the carving, when the rest of the room is sparsely decorated; filled with drab oak, and cheap lamps. The room smells old, lived in by hundreds of travelers before you.

A creak echoes out at the far end of the bed, prompting you to look upon Hobie's bareback. Healed bullet wounds litter all over his flesh that you once held on. Raised scars dotted along his lower back like stars, stars that were once drenched in ruby. You wonder if it still hurts, the stars, like how the hole he left in your heart five years ago. You hope it doesn't hurt as much for him, you'll never wish agony upon him; even if a part of you thinks he deserves it.

Maybe you should tell him, tell him what agony has befallen you since he left. The pile of letters sewn into your skirt remains to be read by his viridescent eyes; its wax seal remains closed, the words of longing and hate are still scribbled upon the yellowed paper.

Your eyes dart along the expanse of his skin, frown getting deeper and deeper with every new scar you find. Hobie puts on his shirt, buttoning each one, the cloth hiding his own misfortune from your weary eyes.

“You talk in your sleep.” He finally breaks his silence. Looking over his shoulder, he regrets it immediately. The simple sight of your bed head and puffy eyes brings back memories of when you'd wake up next to him.

“I know,” I've been told. You grunt as you lift yourself off the pillow, elbow propping you whilst you watch him put on his cowboy boots and clinking spurs.

He blinks, hand pausing along the buckles. “It's new, you've never done that before.”

“Just like you said, a lot of things can change in five years.” Sitting up, you place your chin atop your knees, legs tucked under the covers, arms holding your legs in place. “What was I saying? In my sleep, I mean.”

“You were mumbling…” my name, he sighs at the thought of telling you the truth. “Someone's name I think, and egg soup for some reason.”

“I'm hungry.” You ignore whose name you might've been saying in your sleep. And you think it's not his.

“We need new clothes first, people must've gotten our descriptions by now. So we need to change.” Hobie puts on his leather vest, the metals of it clinking against one another. Then the hat comes after, he stands up, walking towards his gun belt.

“Okay, breakfast after?” You fight a yawn, palms rubbing harshly on your eyelids.

“Yes, breakfast after.” He secures his belt on his hip, silver guns shining in the early morning sun. “I don't think they have egg soup though.”

You crack a small smile. “It doesn't matter, anything will do.”

“The saloon has pumpkin soup I think, does that sound good?” Hobie has no idea why he's prolonging the conversation about soup out of all the things he could discuss with you.

You nod, staring at him through fond eyes. “Mm-hmm, sounds good.”

“Good, we need something warm to eat.” He realizes that he's been standing awkwardly at the doorway. Clearing his throat, you fight a smile. “Get dressed.” With the door shutting close behind him, he slaps his cheeks to wake himself. He needs coffee, or something stronger for that matter.

Meanwhile, you watch the space he just left with hope in your heart.

—

The dress shop smells nicer than the inn, it's elegant, looking like it doesn't belong in the middle of the dingy town. Every pile of clothing is neatly folded over the other, different outfits are displayed over the windows and display cases. Both leather and cotton are the most prominent ones, but there are a few chiffon dresses, lace and silks placed alongside the rougher fabrics. They're all wonderfully made, each having their own brand of beauty in every stitch.

You watch yourself in the floor length mirror. Dark trousers instead of a skirt hangs around your waist. A nice crisp white dress shirt on your torso fits perfectly on you thanks to the friendly tailor.

“You need a vest, or you'll get cold during your travels.” She taps your shoulder, genuinely smiling at you through the mirror. “Are you sure you don't want to wear a corset and skirt? You'd look just as marvellous.” Her eyes shine just like the dainty rings around her fingers.

“I'm sure, skirts and corsets are an inconvenience.”

“Well, you've given me a proper challenge then. But is it a challenge if everything looks good on you?” Her long dark hair sways behind her as she peruses her own shop, dozens of embroidered cloth folded neatly on tables.

“You're good,” you watch her sashay along her shop, colourful vests piled on her arm. “Just as good as the tailors back at home.”

Yuri, you learned her name just a few minutes ago, returns to you with her arm full of vests. “‘Just as good?’ oh sweetheart, I'm better.” She grins mischievously at you, red lips curled into a smug smile. Yuri would be friends with Hobie, you think, maybe in another life. “Arms up, my darling.” She holds up numerous different vests upon your body until she settles for a royal blue leather vest that has hydrangeas embroidered on it. “This is it!” Gasping excitedly, you let her help put the vest on. “Fucking beautiful! If I was your husband I'd be jumping your bones.” Grasping your shoulders, she places her chin atop it, smiling at you.

Your heart thumps loudly at the word ‘husband.’ “Thank you, Yuri.” You fiddle with the empty gun belt around your hips.

“Now for a coat or a jacket befitting a glorious woman like yourself.” She winks, twisting around in search of another dozen or so outerwear in her stock.

“Oh I think this is enough.” You don't want to use up all of Hobie's money, especially when he's still in the dressing room, none the wiser.

Yuri turns towards you abruptly, hand on her chest, feigning hurt. “Enough? Do you like prancing around town in your birthday suit?”

“No—”

“Then you shall have a jacket. The best one I've got.”

You bite your lip, a nervous tick of yours that Hobie once pointed out after kissing it off you. “I just don't want to spend too much.”

“You mean you don't want him to spend too much?” Yuri saunters over to you, boots clacking on the worn out floorboards. “What are husbands good for if not for spending their money for your own gain, hmm?” There it is again, your heart thundering loudly inside your chest. “Besides, you'd look marvelous in this coat. I'll give you a discount because you're the nicest customer I've had in years.” She leans closer to you, draping the leather coat on your shoulders for you to see. You beam at her, thankful. “It's similar to the one I gave to him, you'd be matching. Well, except this one is in a lighter shade.”

The coat reaches down to your knees, cream coloured with little fringes up front right where the front pockets are. It's beautiful with its white threads weaving around its seams. If you look closer at the bottom, you see that it gets darker as it gets closer to the hem. An almost brown shade that reminds you of the oak tree back home.

You inhale, staring at your reflection that you barely recognize in the new clothes. “Do you think it suits me?” Your voice is small, Yuri watches your expression, understanding what you truly meant.

Her playful voice lowers to a softer one, hands rubbing along your arms comfortably. “Of course, sweetheart. You're more than ready for the badlands.” You smile at her, nodding along to her encouraging words.

She twirls you around to face her, you chuckle at the sudden good hearted movement. “Now, my favourite part, the boots!”

—

You pick lint off the armchair while you wait for him to exit out of the dressing room. You're comfortable in your new clothes, it snuggles you cozily, you've never felt like this in any clothing at all; whether it be silk or velvet, all the dresses back home don't compare to what you have on. You look at your dark cowboy boots once again with a faint smile, its gorgeous spider web-like design has your heart bouncing in glee. It's a stark contrast to the threadbare shoes you had on. You make the shiny spurs clink on the floor, chuckling to yourself.

“Careful, don't scruff my floors.” Yuri appears next to you, handing you a small messenger bag.

“What's this?”

“A bag, every woman needs one to store her belongings.” She gestures towards the worn out skirt on your lap. “Especially the important ones.”

“I—”

“It's on the house, just this one though.” She chuckles before handing it to you.

“Thank you, Yuri. That's awfully kind of you.” The leather is rough against your bare hands.

“No worries, darling.” She shrugs, “after all the things you've bought it's only normal that I'd give you a little freebie.”

A door suddenly creaks open, and out comes Hobie in his new outfit. A light airy dress shirt fits perfectly on his torso, the same black bandana still hangs around his neck, hiding the large scar. He fixes the fit of his dark blue vest even though it clearly doesn't need fixing. It has a typical western embroidery on it, saved for the almost invisible peonies dotted along the buttons. His gloves are the same, lighter around the palms where friction is usually present. You flick your eyes over to his coat, Yuri's right, it's almost the same as yours. The length is shorter to accommodate for the warmer weather coming in. The shade is in this mahogany brown, warm in the eyes, a hue lighter around the hem, almost as light as your own coat. Frills are lined around the arms, the silver spikes placed atop the shoulders makes it more unique. His belt buckle this time is different, a spider trapped in amber in place of the deadly scorpion. It's cradled in silver, laurels weaving around the corpse of the spider like an elegant coffin.

Your eyes shine at his handsome appearance. “My, don't you look dapper.” You drink him up, every new thing satisfying your need. Roaming your eyes downward, you tilt your head at the odd material on his legs. His boots are the same, even the spurs, but you can't quite place the new fangled blue thing around his legs. “What's that?”

Both Yuri and Hobie follow your gaze. But Yuri seems to be the only one who could form a coherent sentence. “They're blue jeans, or work pants. Much more comfortable than the old pants. Looks nicer on the behind, eh?” She nudges you, winking at your flustered expression. “Or enhances what's lacking.” Her last comment trails off as you unabashedly ogle him.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie finally speaks, his eyes avoid your form. Especially the vest that cinches you right where it matters. “Why do you have a bag?”

You stand up, slinging the bag over your shoulder. Yuri watches the whole thing with amused eyes. “For my things.”

He furrows his brows, “you don't have things, Y/N.”

Eyeing the riding gloves on the table, you cross the small distance, taking it, but before you place it inside the bag, you spot a pretty pink lace ribbon next to it. You also take it for good measure and to annoy him further. Putting it inside your bag, you teasingly smile at him. “Now I've got things.”

Yuri gives you a nod and a thumbs up whilst Hobie takes out bills to pay for everything.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” She victoriously smiles, counting the money.

“Not a pleasure on my part.” Hobie grumbles, you clamp your mouth shut to prevent a laugh from coming out.

—

The saloon is bustling with people even though it's still early in the morning. Some drink their fill next to you at the bar, some are just like you, looking for something warm to fill their bellies with to survive the rest of the day. The whole place smells of hard liquor and broken dreams. You have no idea which smells worse, the sticky floors or the lavatory at the far end of the place. The wide windows help brighten up the place at least, sunlight streaming into the carved establishment. Animal heads stare down at you, an elk’s and a buffalo's empty beady eyes look over yonder the drunkard's solace.

A piano sits just behind you, its stool is currently empty, maybe you should put all the lessons drilled into you to good use. It's better to wait for your meal there than sit right next to a stranger who looks like he's about to expel his breakfast onto your new clothes. Besides, some good music could tamp down all the drunken mumbling and the annoying scrapping of plates.

Hobie notices your heavy look, abandoning his coffee, he taps your shoulder and you almost jump in your skin.

“You still play?” He asks, eyes flicking between you and the old piano.

“I dabble, but I'm a bit rusty. I prefer gardening nowadays.” You lock eyes with him, “and shooting.”

Hobie chuckles in his seat, eyes avoiding your own smile. “You should play, I'll call you when our food is ‘ere.”

“Are you sure?” A soft smile spreads across your lips.

“I’ll watch your back, don't worry.”

Hope weighs you down again. You leave the bar stool, walking the distance towards the familiar black and white keys. Sitting down, you wrack your brain for the notes you've made a long time ago. A song that you've written yourself for the man who watches your back.

Hobie watches you intently, ears perking up at the unfamiliar music. Your hands move precisely, fingers pressing quickly as the song quickens. He smiles, glass now lay forgotten on the bar to watch you play your music. The rest of the bar quiets down a smidge, even the drunkards pause their lips at the mouth of their glass to listen to you play. The song crescendos, from a fast happy beat to a tone that is slower, a forlorn one. All in all, you play it with grace, and weaved with so much emotion.

Hobie scoffs, yet the fond smile stays. “Rusty my arse.”

The bartender appears behind him, plates in hand. “Your girl plays well.” The man places your meals on the bar, pumpkin soup sloshing on the sides of the bowl. Hobie turns towards him, not fully so he could still see you in his peripheral vision. “Is she for hire? Our player retired a few weeks ago, the saloon has never been this drab.”

“No, we're just passin’ by.”

The bartender leaves with a nod. “Too bad.”

Hobie takes his sandwich, twisting around to continue watching you. His eyes zeroes in on the sudden presence next to you. The brim of the stranger's hat hides his face, yet, Hobie knows exactly who he is based on his confident stance. Or who he was before Hobie single handedly destroyed his gang.

You finish the song with a flair, chest heaving, grinning from ear to ear.

“Bravo!” The man leaning towards the piano claps, then a chorus of scattered applause follows right after. “Amazing, sweetheart! Where'd ya learn how to play?”

“A tutor.” You smile shyly.

“Ah, what's the song called? I don't think I've heard of it before.” His long beard moves while he makes casual conversation.

“I-I made it actually.”

“Oh? I didn't know we had a composer in our humble establishment.” He taps the old piano with his gloved hand, his other hand rests on his gun belt, golden pistol shining in the sun. “What's the story behind it, eh? My ears picked up some sad depressing story through the notes.”

“I'm not a composer, a-and yeah, I made it for somebody.”

“Well, I—”

“Culver!” Hobie's booming voice echoes out in the entire saloon, everyone stops what they're doing. “You want to talk to me? Come over ‘ere instead of pestering her.” He has had enough of the conversation, and the danger that you've unknowingly put yourself into.

“Mr. Brown.” Culver says through gritted teeth, standing up straight, flicking the brim of his hat to reveal his face. “Fancy seein’ you here. You're in my territory, spider.”

You notice every single patrons’ faces turning into something akin to a person seeing a ghost, or the reaper itself. Slyly, you move your eyes over to the man, Culver, his name is familiar, you're sure you've heard of it before. Inhaling, you look back at Hobie, whose hand is placed on his gun belt, ready to whip it out if needed. He silently communicates with you, run, his eyes says, but you're paralyzed by fear when you finally remember where you heard the name Culver. It was what that old man Arthur said back then, he's the man whose men were killed by Hobie in a single night.

Heaviness hangs in the air, tension so thick that you can't even poke a hole right through it with a bullet.

“Is she someone precious to ya?” Culver says, suddenly gripping you by the scruff of your blouse, your back hitting the piano keys harshly. You yelp, and Hobie abruptly stands up, eyes aflame. The bearded man smiles, blackened teeth in full display. “She is, isn't she?” He wiggles your head in his hand. You sit there frozen, unable to even breathe. “What if I do the exact thing you did to my men, eh?” You hear chairs scraping against hardwood floors and boots frantically running towards the back exit. It's just you three in the saloon. He taps his finger in between your eyes, flaking leather on your soft skin. “A bullet in between her eyes would look lovely on her, don't you agree?”

“Your quarrel is with me. Let's take this outside, shall we?” Like a strike of lightning, Hobie cracks his bullwhip towards Culver. Dust in your eyes, the high pitched sound ringing in your ears. You then see Culver getting dragged away from you by his arm. The whip wraps around his flesh, threatening to skin him from the force Hobie pulls him towards the swinging doors of the saloon.

You inhale the gunpowder like scent it left, standing up, you quickly follow Hobie out into the sun. As the light hits your eyes, you watch Hobie cracks his bullwhip again. Culver yells in pain as Hobie releases him in the whip's clutches before placing it neatly back on his belt. He stands ways away from him, just across the screaming Culver.

“Painful, innit? This is what you did to two of my mates.” You walk to Hobie's side, he spares you a glance, roaming his jade eyes over you to check for injuries. Satisfied, he then returns his attention towards his target. “Remember that fuckin' pain, because my bullet hitting your heart would hurt much more than this.”

Culver holds his aching arm, kneeling on the muddy ground, hat fallen next to him, revealing a shiny head. “You lettin’ me go?” He cackles, you don't hide behind Hobie. “Just like that? Oh that woman has softened you up, Mr. Brown.”

“D’you want to keep talking or do you want to fuckin' start?”

You knit your eyebrows, fear encompasses you. “W-what’s about to start?” Your hand finds his bicep, holding on to him tightly like he's about to leave you. Again.

“A showdown, go to the side, love, I don't want you ‘ere when the bullets start flyin’” He watches Culver slowly stand up in the corner of his eyes.

“A fucking duel? Are you crazy?” You grip tighter.

Hobie gives you a smile, the same smile he lets you see every night before you head home. It's a boyish smile, innocence hidden behind it. “Go, I'll be fine.”

“And if not? He looks like he's a gunslinger. What if he wins and you die?”

“Then I can't burden you anymore.” He whispers, green eyes glimmering in the sunlight.

“Burden—? What are you talking about?”

“Go, I'll win, don't worry about it.”

“Hobie—!”

“Go, Y/N!”

You move without question after he yells at you. Your hands trembles, knees going weak, tears brimming in your eyes, and he can't even look at you.

As the two men move further away without turning their backs towards each other, you hold onto the saloon's pillar lest you crumble from fear of losing him. Again.

Bystanders look on, watching the spectacle unfold right in front of their eyes. Some hide behind windows, children hide behind their mother's skirts. While you have nowhere to hide. Your nails dig into the wood, Hobie squares his shoulders, fingers brushing along his holster. You spare a look towards his target, his hand already resting next to his yellow-gold gun.

Silence hangs in the air. Death waits for the loser.

Hobie squints his eyes, attention fully on the man before him. He leans back slightly, right foot stepped forward, silver gun shining in the sun; you can even see your reflection on it.

With a single breath, it's all over.

Culver was too slow to quickdraw, probably from his still aching arm. He drops his gun before he could fully draw it out. Hobie's bullet has left a sizable hole in his dominant palm, a gaping, bleeding wound that you can see through if you stare long enough.

Culver screams, a gutteral shriek that worms into your mind. He drops to his knees, eyes wide in panic and shock, trousers drenched in his own blood. Gunpowder still lingers in the air when you run towards Hobie's side. Your hands grip his shoulders, breath stuck in your throat, as you check for any bullet wounds.

“Are you hurt?!” You scream, ears ringing from the loud shot.

“‘m fine,” your wandering hands find reprieve on his jaw. “Love, ‘m fine.”

He sees fear in your eyes like never before, not even when you get punished, cheeks stained with tears from whatever they've thrown at you. You've never looked like this terrified. Scared like a starving doe caught in a bear trap.

“Remember what I told you?” You can't speak or even think. “Breathe, Y/N.” Hobie takes your hand off his skin, there's a reluctance that you're not privy to. “Just breathe, inhale and exhale.” He holds your hand, squeezing once before leaving your side. “I need to finish the job.”

You exhale and he's gone, the golden gun kicked far away, aiming the still warm barrel against Culver's head. “No…” Running after Hobie, you refuse to see another dead man. “Stop! Please.” Gripping his gun once again, you plead with him. “Don't kill him.”

“Step aside, Y/N. If I don't—” he can't fathom what Culver would do to him, to *you if he doesn't end it right there and then. The cycle must stop, he can't accomplish it if you're standing in between his gun and Culver's soft head. “Don't get involved.”

“Please.” You breathe out, warm hands placed around his shooting hand. “Take him to the sheriff, let justice take its course. He's backing down, I don't want to see you kill another one.”

“The sheriff won't do shit. Just like now,” he nudges his head towards the man amidst the crowd. “Let me do this, or he'll follow us and hunt us down.”

“I won't!” Culver suddenly yells, even louder than his painful screams. “I won't follow! I'm tired, Mr. Brown. I don't want to do this no more.” He looks up at the two of you, remourse evident on his face. “I'm sorry about your friends, I really am! But we're already even, you've taken mine too. Every single one I've got.”

“Promise to never exact revenge,” you tell the groveling man as you watch his salty tears mix in with the warm crimson.

“I promise,” Culver cries. “I promise, miss.”

You look back at Hobie, your eyes meet his own. Anger subsides in those emerald eyes, face turning soft. “He promises, Hobie.”

“An outlaw's promise doesn't mean shit—”

“You’ll have to shoot through me to get to him.” You point the barrel right on top of your chest, its warmth seeps through you.

“He wanted to hurt you.” Hobie softly says, fingers wrapping around your own.

“I’m not hurt. It takes more than threats to hurt me, Hobs.” You both stare at each other, hearts beating together. “Can you holster your gun please?”

Together, you help him lower his gun. Together, you let Culver go.

—

You need to leave town immediately. Strawberry's sheriff might've been easily placated with a good duel, but other lawmen pursuing Hobie might not be. Bucky neighs loudly at the sight of you, moreso when he sees your intertwined hands.

“Hi, Bucky.” You start to place your foot on the stirrups but Hobie stops you halfway.

“You need a horse. Might as well put your new gloves to good use, hmm?” You smile as Hobie whistles for the stable hand for help. A teenage boy with worn out blue jeans appears. “She needs a horse. Anythin' fast, or hell, anythin' you have available. What do you have?”

Their conversation drifts into the background. Your attention and breath is taken away by the gorgeous mare that stands behind a stable door. Her shining blue eyes watch you as you approach, hair as white as snow, the same hue as her body, she glimmers in the sunlight that filters through the wooden cracks. She huffs, head leaning away when you hold out your hand. You could only wait for her to make the move, watching you with peculiar eyes like she's sizing you up.

The stable boy does a double take, “wait, ma'am, that's not—!” When he says it, the white mare leanes closer to your touch. “Well I'll be. She never lets anyone touch her except my boss. She's as fine as cream gravy that one is.”

“I think she likes me.” You tilt your head as she sniffs your hand.

“That's a fuckin' arabian, love.” Hobie says breathlessly, watching you and the hot tempered horse interact like you've been her rider for years. “Can't you pick another horse that doesn't cost three horses combined?”

You laugh, feeding the mare hay. “I could, but I really think she's the one for me.” Hobie scratches the back of his neck. “I can choose another one, Hobie.” As if understanding your words, the mare nudges your shoulder. Hobie feels like he's being robbed in broad daylight. But he'll spend a million for you if you ask.

The stable boy pipes up from the side. “You can't actually, ma'am, I was just tellin’ your husband here that we only have her available. The rest already have owners you see. She was abandoned six months ago.”

“How could anyone abandon you?” You whisper towards the horse, petting her head as she welcomes your touch.

“I think her last owner died, and no one has since picked her up, or bought her. My boss is more than willing to get rid of her now to make space.”

“We'll take her, on a discounted fee of course, since she's second hand. And a saddle too.” You grin at Hobie's words.

The stable hand sighs. “At half price too I bet?”

“Now you're speakin’ my language.” Hobie pats the boy's shoulder as he negotiates prices. The mare huffs again, asking for more hay while you are distracted by Hobie's wink thrown your way.

—

“She still doesn't have a name.” Hobie finally breaks his silence, he rides alongside your horse, making sure that your ill tempered mare doesn't buck you off. His hands guide Buckeye, but his eyes are completely on your form.

The road is long and empty, save for a herd of bison roaming just below the mountain you're both trudging. There are small graves littered around the road, worn out crosses, wood eaten by termites. Etched names forgotten, lives scattered in the wind amidst the dirt and blazing sun. You wonder how they died without getting to their final destination. The sun has completely risen, humidity making your lips dry, heat stuck in between your skin and the leather of your gloves. The canopy shields you from the rays, luscious greenery everywhere, trees and grass littered all over the mountain side. You can hear wild horses neighing far away from where you are, their hooves thumping freely on the soil.

You pause from braiding your horse's hair, securing the braid with the pink lace ribbon. Your eyes meet with familiar emerald eyes. “I've been thinking about it actually.”

“Well? What are your options?”

Your lips curl into a mischievous smile. “‘Blue jeans’”

“Oh fuck off.” He rides ahead to hide his growing smile.

You quickly follow, pulling the reins, clicking your tongue to make your horse trot alongside Hobie. “Why not? I like it, I think it fits her.”

“No it does not. You're fucking with me, lovie, and my blue jeans.”

You like him like this, bathed in the sun, in warmth as he smiles back at you; just like the days when you were still just friends, friends with lingering feelings that you're both too afraid to confess. If he doesn't love you back just as before, you'd settle for this, just friends who laugh and talk, and tease each other. It's better this way because friendship means that he still cares for you, that there's still a space for you in his heart no matter how small it is, that you're not forgotten.

“Oh you and your precious blue jeans!” Your laughter echoes around.

“Will you be like this the entire time?” You both turn a corner, where no trees shield you from the sun. He notices you narrow your eyes, palm above your eyes to see him better. “‘ere.”

“W-what?” There's suddenly a hat atop your head, his hat. “Oh!” You run your fingers along the brim that shields you from the light. The leather is soft, a few bumps here and there but you can feel that it's been taken care of. Hobie clears his throat, and your cheeks run warmer than the summer sun. “T-thank you.” You're not an idiot, you've been here for weeks so of course you've heard of the ‘hat rule’ in passing. But you don't know what to do, or what he wants to do when it's in reverse.

“No problem, you've already taken my money, might as well hand you my hat, eh?” Hobie inhales, the mere sight of you wearing his beloved hat sends his heart into overdrive. Maybe he shouldn't have given it to you.

“You make it sound like I'm robbing you blind. I was alright with my old clothes.”

Hobie has the opportunity to say either of the two things that popped up in his mind. One, tell you that you've only robbed him of his heart. And two, make a joke about how much Bucky disdained carrying you with your musty clothes. So he does neither.

“We had to, or we'll be recognized faster than a mother recognizes her child.” You both finally reach the foot of the mountain, successfully surviving without anyone shooting at you, kidnapping you; or hell, getting eaten by a bear. With both of your luck, it's possible.

“Weird analogy but okay.” Your stomach grumbles when you two come to a stop at a fork in the road. One goes to the right, the other on the left. There's nothing else distinguishable on either one of them. The signage is long gone, taken by strong winds, or just time itself. You wince, hoping that he didn't hear the sound your stomach made.

He raises a brow, chuckling deeply at the sight of you hiding your face with the brim of his hat. “I forgot we didn't get to eat. That sandwich smelt really fuckin' good.”

“I really want that pumpkin soup now.” You groan, leaning forward to rest your head on top of your horse who barely notices your movement.

“C’mon, I know a place.” He taps your boot with his own.

“Where?”

“On the left, it's not that far but it'll delay us on our journey.” It's not a bad deal, he thinks to himself.

You suddenly perk up, this is what you were asking for back in that cave, the road less traveled, the road where you get to just spend more time with him. And postpone your homecoming.

“What are we waiting for then, cowboy?” With a kick, and a laugh in your throat, you bolt over to the direction he pointed out.

“‘Cowboy?’ bloody hell.” He really regrets giving you his hat because now he doesn't have anything to hide his flustered face anymore.

—

“You said it was a restaurant,” you huff at the wide river before you, hands on your hips, stomach growling. “Not that we have to catch our own meal!”

Hobie can't help but laugh, a hearty, genuine one that also has you smiling. This suits him, just happy and without a gun in his hand. You like him in every conceivable way possible, even if you're still getting used to his new self. “I just said, ‘I know a place.’ I ain't no liar. Did you expect a café in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yes! And no— I'm hungry now, Hobs!” Your horse agrees, hoof digging into the dirt. Buckeye stands hitched next to her, eyes glued on her white mane. Weird, you thought. “Look, even blue jeans agree!”

“Instant gratification,” Hobie pulls his jacket off and places it on the saddle; he then takes out a folding fishing rod from Bucky's saddle bag. “You should work on that because it's not gonna work well ‘ere, love.” He walks towards the river bank, toeing off his boots, folding up the same trousers you love to see him in. And also folding the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his toned arms. “And her name can't be ‘blue jeans!’” Yelling back, he trudges the rushing cool water that goes up to just below his knees.

“Okay, fine!” You start to strip, taking off your coat and his hat— folding your trousers and sleeves, you follow him to the rocky river bank. “How about ‘trout’ then.”

He hears your voice closer, he laughs at you when you almost slip on a rock. “Careful, it's slippery. You can't name her ‘trout,’ she's too pretty for that.”

“Now you tell me,” you roll your eyes at him as he casts the line. The bait and hook plops in the deeper water, now the waiting game begins. “‘Too pretty?’ you once nicknamed me beetle just because it bit me once!” Warmth spreads across your chest at his laugh. You feel at home in that cold river.

“And? You callin' yourself pretty?” His smirk takes you back at that oak tree.

You have an urge to kiss it off him. You don't, it's not the time yet, or you may ruin everything. “Yeah, you did, I remember you calling me pretty…” you lean closer, face dangerously close to his own. Breaths mixing in together, but you still give him enough space to move away. He doesn't. You don't mention it. He thinks about your lips upon his. “And gorgeous, and then absolutely stunnin’!” You copy his drawl, but before he could even laugh at your teasing, the fishing rod starts to move, yanking him forward.

“Oh fuck!” Hobie reels it in, and you gasp in disbelief at the sheer strength the fish has. “Help me or we'll starve!”

“You don't have to tell me twice!” You embrace him from the back, arms squeezing him, face smothered by his shoulder. He feels warm, he still feels the same. You dig your heels in while he fights with lunch. “Come on, cowboy!”

He almost let go of the rod. “Shit!” You laugh into his shirt and he almost falters once again. “Come on you little—!” With one hard yank, he finally sees the fish fly up, the sun hits its scales, body frantically flopping around. But he pulled too hard, and down he goes on the river bank, with you catching him. “Fuck—!” With a splash, you get a face full of river water.

Hobie immediately jumps to the side to not squash you and drown you in two feet of water. His eyes are full of worry when you emerge coughing. He almost lets go of the rod to tend to you, but your smile and guffaw has relief flowing through him.

“How big is it?!” You ask, entirely drenched.

He gently wipes your face, calloused palms over your soft skin, fingers carefully wiping away a piece of grass stuck on your cheek. You close your eyes, letting him hold you.

Hobie inhales and drinks you in— he still loves you. It's always been there, his love for you, but he refuses to acknowledge it with what he knows just before he left, with what *he said before he took a slice at his neck. Hobie still dreams of you, still dreams of saying those three words again, he's a fool to bury the feeling, especially when you're in front of him again— close to him again, loving him again.

He has no idea what to do now, other than to stand up and give you a helping hand.

—

Hobie's been silent and you have no idea why. You warm yourself on the fire he built, the fish you both caught is now cooking wonderfully on the open fire. The river's currents are a lot stronger now, so it's a lot harder to catch anything without getting carried by it. Your clothes are slowly drying as you wring your sleeves free of water.

“Cherry.” You suddenly break the silence. “I think I'll name her cherry.”

Hobie sits across you again, gazing at you through warmer eyes. “Why cherry?”

“Because horses love fruit, and cherry is a fruit.”

“Brilliant thinkin’ love, horses definitely eat cherries.” He says in a sarcastic tone.

You furrow your brows, “wait, they don't?”

He blinks, “Huh, ‘m actually not sure. Maybe if you take out the pits and cut it in half?”

“That’s…that's plausible, they contain cyanide though.”

“Maybe we should ask them?”

“What?” You chortle, and Hobie cups his hands to yell at the horses.

“Oi! D’you lot eat cherries?” They only stare at him. “Guess not.” You laugh, he finds it infectious so he also does.

“Horses can't talk, Hobs.” You say in between giggles.

“You never know, I might be a horse whisperer.” His smile falters, and you frown at the sudden shift. “‘m sorry for yellin’ at you.” His voice is soft under the cackle of the fire. “I shouldn't have yelled.”

“Apology accepted.” Your nerves calm down, beaming at him, scooching closer to him until your knees grazes his own. He doesn't move away, even nudging your shoulder with a faint smile. “I'm sorry for making you spend so much. But thank you for the nice clothes, and being— just…kind.”

Hobie reaches for your hand slowly, your breath is in your throat, freezing you un place. His pinky brushes along your palm when a twig snaps Hobie quickdraws his gun.

“Who's there?! Show yourself or I'll fuckin' shoot.” Standing up, he hides you with his own body.

You also stand up, hand wrapping around the barrel of the rifle that was leaning next to you. Both yours and Hobie's hearts thump loudly with trepidation. The bush moves and out comes two men brandishing their own weapons. They dress like gentlemen, but their sneers say they are not.

“We came out to piss and we find the spider of the west, guess we're just lucky.” The one with a scar across his nose says, voice scratchy, nudging his companion. “And would you look at that?”

“You’ve found yourself a pretty companion, Hobart, one that has a very high bounty on her head.” The other finishes his partner's sentence. His mustache is all twirly at the end, golden tooth shining in the sun. “Y’know, sweetheart, the whole country's after ya.” You don't falter in your stance.

“With both of your bounties combined, we're aimin’ at ten thousand dollars right now.” The scarred man chuckles.

“Ten thousand?” Hobie whistles, “Can we bring ourselves in instead?” You snort, still aiming at the man's head.

“If only that was possible, Hobart.” The man gives you a twisted smile.

“Are you lawmen?” You ask, “Or pinkertons? You two don't look like either of them.”

“What do we look like then, sweetheart?” The mustachioed man taunts with a toothy smile. “A couple of handsome cowboys?”

“A bunch of dead men.” You push Hobie away, kicking hot coals in their faces, embers flying, smoke filling their lungs. While they're both distracted and yelling at the searing heat— Hobie fans the hammer of his gun, shooting all six bullets into each man's bodies until their lifeless corpses fall atop each other.

“I've seen better.” You stand next to Hobie as he checks for something in their pockets. Their blood slowly spread to the tips of his boots. “What are you doing?”

Hobie rubs a hand across his face, “Lawmen,” he raises the identification papers he found. “We need to go. Pack the fish.”

“But they're dead?” You ask but you still do what you're told.

“Lawmen are like rats, if there's two ‘ere, there's a dozen more near us, hidden under the crevices.” He walks near the banks, head downturned, eyes scanning the plants. “And they've got their noses on us now.”

“Where are you going?” You stand, wrapped fish in your arms. “Hobie!” You start to yell when he has walked a few ways away from you.

Hobie crouches down, hunting knife digging into the soil. You watch him take a bushel of grass, he walks back and now you get a closer look at what he's carrying. You thought your eyes are deceiving you, instead of the familiar green hue, the plant is pink, a very bright shade. There's still dirt clinging to the stems when Hobie carefully covers it with a handkerchief.

“That's oleander, Hobie.” You stare at him, concerned. “And that many could kill a fucking elephant.”

“I know, you taught me, remember?” You nod as shoves it inside your messenger bag. He pauses at the sight of the bundle of letters, then he dismisses them, closing the bag. “It might come in handy.”

“What's your plan?” You're terrified.

“We head to a train station.” He sighs, completely winded, and worried for your safety. “Bounty hunters and outlaws I can manage, but them?” He points at the two bodies. “They've got more resources than either group, and more people in their pocket.”

“Wouldn't that be obvious? Riding the train? We can handle them, just like we always have—”

“They hate my guts more than anyone, Y/N, and they don't fear me as much as bounty hunters or outlaws.”

“But a train…” you shudder. “We'll be in the south in a few days instead of weeks— that's quick, too quick…I don't—” I don't want to leave. “I can't.”

“You wanted the scenic route, right?” He starts to unhitch the horses. “It's the last place they'll look for thinking that we'll be traveling by our lonesome out on the backroads.”

“Yes, but—”

“Nothing’s more scenic than a train ride. C’mon, love, get on Cherry. Before more come out of hidin’”

You nod, tears threatening to spill out. Walking around the corpses, you get on Cherry with a far away look in your eyes. “To the train station then.”

[yaekiss]

on this sinful sunday, i’m having very holy thoughts of either branding or carving my name onto childe’s skin— maybe that tummy he’s so insistent on not covering up, maybe a nice little tramp stamp. i know he’s making sure it scars, picking at the scabs and whining for you to redo them if they dare to fade away— he belongs to you!

꩜ Room Content: Dom! GN! Top! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Yan! Tartaglia, reader's dick can also be read as strap, gore + eroguro, knifeplay + blood, masochist Tartaglia, spanking (just once, on Tartaglia), terrible wound care by Tartaglia please don't follow his actions, lmk if I missed out anything ! ꩜ A/N: Happy Whore Wednesday pulpie! Or uhhh, it was Wednesday when I started writing this. Got a lil carried away hehe :3 Happy Thotaglia Thursday! Slut on! (With you, Childe feels like every day is Thotaglia Thursday)

Anyways. Childe thinks of you as pure divinity, the holiest of beings, and he’s eager to worship all of you and bear everything that you’re willing to bless him with. Who is he to say no to the pain you inflict on him too?

This time, he’s cockwarming you, the heat and desire he feels is dizzying. You’re inside him and just the sensation of you filling him up perfectly has left him giddy with lust. His face is smushed into the mattress with his azure eyes already rolled into their sockets. Prior to this, he pressed a lavishly decorated dagger into your palm with a fervent sort of urgency, begging for you to mark him up however you like. You try to think back on what could’ve spurred this on. Was it that merchant trying to chat you up at the market the other day? Or perhaps it’s just a sick kind of longing that hangs around the ginger no matter how much time you spend together? One thing remains clear, at its core, Childe wants to be utterly and irrefutably yours.

Taking up the dagger, you admire the inlaid gemstones glinting in the lighting of the room, their colours matching the exact shade of your eyes and you’re sure that this must have cost an arm and a leg. Tracing the cold metal down the ridge of his spine, you feel him shudder, your ears picking up a soft keening whine. You start off slow, the tip of the blade breaking past skin and revealing glorious liquid crimson. Childe sucks in a breath at the delirious buzz of pain and pleasure that he’s subjected to at your hands. 

“Nghh… please I wanttt-! to be yours!” Greedy as always.

You take your time carving out your name into his flesh, revelling in just how many moans and whines you can wring out from the harbinger. Despite how muddled his senses are, he’s acutely aware of each and every searing twist and pull of the knife. Some of the warm blood trickles and drips down to where the two of you are connected and the sensation has him losing the ability to speak, brain reeling at how disgustingly intimate this whole act is. However, over time, Childe gets squirmy and twitchy with how pent-up he’s getting, the arousal in him pooling and heightening. That simply won’t do. Good boys need to stay in line while their lover is being so so so nice to them after all. With a pointed “tsk”, you land a hard smack on his ass as a warning. He yelps loudly at the impact but he gets the message, obediently staying still as you finish carving the tramp stamp. 

When you’re finally done, you pull out of him, the lack of your cock filling him up has Childe whining again but it snaps him out of his reverie. You reach over to grab a mirror and angle it so that he can see (read: marvel at) your handiwork. His eyes glint as he catches sight of the fresh cuts, the wound spelling out your name and the fact that you’ve claimed him as your devoted believer. However, he doesn’t let you go further than cleaning and disinfecting the wound site. (Secretly, he hopes that it leaves a permanent scar, an eternal pure white etched into his skin to show that he belongs to you without question.)

Throughout the whole healing process, he picks away at the scabs that try to cover the wound, opening it back up again so that your name is written in a carnal raw red. Whenever he stares at it in the bathroom mirror for too long and thinks that a certain part of it is fading away too fast without leaving a mark, he rushes to you, whining and begging for you to redo it with a frenzied tone in his voice. 

He wishes you’ll dig even deeper, maybe even push your fingers into his flesh until he’s screaming and clenching down on your cock, use his blood as lube as you fuck up into him relentlessly. The thoughts keep coming and you can’t go a full week without Childe pleading for you to lay your claim on him.

Maybe next time he’ll convince you to leave your mark on his abdomen so that everyone can see who he belongs to.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

[alyrasturnz]

matt thinking he'd be the best ghost face killer is my roman empire. like yes you would be bby!!! you would also be the hottest one there

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎CHERRY WAVES

❐ summary » in a chilling tale of obsession and regret, a small town is haunted by the legacy of ghost face, a masked figure whose reign of terror left scars both seen and unseen. amidst the shadows, y/n discovers the hidden wounds of those she thought she knew, unraveling a web of secrets and lies. as the past and present collide, the boundaries between victim and villain blur, leading to a final confrontation where the true face of fear is revealed.

❐ pairings » ghostface!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » heavy gore, insanely violent, mentions of blood, stabbing, carving a heart out, severing a face, skull stabbing, chest stabbing, neck stabbing

❐ a/n && w/c » 400 specialll! THIS TOOK ME A THOUSAND TRIES???? TUMBKR KEPT FUCKING DELETING THIS I ALMOST PISSED MYSELF I SWEARRRR. if this flops im gonna quit THE TARA IN THIS FIC IS NOT TARA YUMMY • 5.68k

a harrowing scream erupts from your lips, reverberating through the air like a mournful echo. tears cascade down your cheeks, blurring your vision as you stare at madi's lifeless body sprawled before you. the stark reality of her death sears into your soul, each heartbeat pounding in your ears like a relentless drum. the world around you seems to fade, leaving only the haunting image of her still form.

her face was a grotesque canvas of horror, completely severed and meticulously carved out, leaving the flesh on her skull barely clinging to the bone. the macabre artistry of the mutilation was both horrifying and surreal, as if some malevolent force had taken perverse pleasure in defacing her humanity.

her skin hung in loose, grotesque folds, blood continuously spilling out in a relentless torrent. her face was a horrifying canvas of raw, exposed musculature, completely devoid of any semblance of normal skin. the entirety of her visage was drenched in crimson, a macabre display that left no trace of her former appearance, only the stark, visceral reality of her suffering.

her body was an eerie shade of pallor, a ghostly white that seemed almost otherworldly. crimson rivulets of blood streamed down her face, tracing morbid paths across her lifeless features before pooling onto her pale, lifeless form. the stark contrast between the vivid red and her alabaster skin created a chilling tableau of death and despair.

the scene was a nightmarish tableau, a grotesque display that twisted your insides and left you feeling profoundly nauseous. it was an assault on your senses, a visceral horror that gnawed at your very core and left your heart aching with an unbearable sorrow.

with sobs wracking your body, you staggered closer to the grisly tableau, each step a harrowing journey towards the macabre scene of the kill. the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground seemed to shift beneath your feet as if recoiling from the horror that lay before you. your heart pounded in your chest, a relentless drumbeat of dread, as you forced yourself to confront the unspeakable carnage that awaited.

you knelt down in front of madi, your legs trembling as if the weight of the world bore down upon them. your lips quivered, a soft whimper escaping as you reached out with a shaking hand towards her face—if it could still be called that. the touch was met with the warm, sticky sensation of her blood, clinging to your skin like a haunting reminder of the life that had been so violently torn apart.

you turned your head to the right, your vision blurred by the torrent of tears streaming down your face. through the watery veil, you could just make out the faint, haunting silhouettes of writing on the wall, the letters dancing and distorting in your tear-filled eyes, as if the very words themselves were weeping with you.

you hastily wiped your tears away with the rough fabric of your sleeve, the motion swift and desperate, before pushing yourself to stand.

"true beauty lies within," the haphazard scrawl declared, the letters smeared and uneven, as if inscribed with a trembling hand. it was written in what you could only assume was madi's blood, the crimson ink a chilling testament to her final moments.

you cast your gaze downward, where her makeup lay scattered across the floor, a chaotic mosaic of colors and textures, each item a silent witness to the turmoil that had unfolded.

you furrowed your eyebrows, a deep crease forming as your mind grappled with the cryptic message. what could it possibly mean?

but then, like a bolt of lightning piercing through the fog of confusion, realization struck you with sudden clarity…

in the dimly lit room, the tension was as thick as the shadows that clung to the walls. everyone was huddled together, their whispers a murmur of suspicion and fear, each casting furtive glances at one another in a desperate attempt to unmask ghostface.

nick's eyes flitted nervously around the room, scrutinizing each face in turn. his gaze finally came to rest on madi, who, with an air of unsettling calm, was nonchalantly retouching her makeup.

“madi? seriously? right now?" nick exclaimed, his voice a turbulent blend of disbelief and frustration, each word dripping with incredulity.

madi looked up, her expression a complex tapestry of indifference interwoven with threads of mild annoyance. "what? just because there's a killer on the loose doesn't mean i can't look good."

the room fell silent, the absurdity of the moment slicing through the fear like a knife. nick shook his head, struggling to comprehend how she could remain so calm—or so vain—at a time like this.

you let out a soft gasp, your breath catching in your throat as you brought your bloodied hands up to your mouth. the sight of the crimson stains on your skin sent a shiver down your spine, the metallic scent mingling with the air around you, creating a haunting reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded.

but soon, nick, matt, chris, tara, and nate came rushing in, their hurried footsteps echoing like a storm of urgency through the corridor.

"we heard your screams. are you okay?" chris said, but his words were cut short by a gasp that escaped his lips as his eyes fell upon madi’s lifeless body, the sight rendering him momentarily speechless.

you turned to them with tear-filled eyes, the tears still streaming down your face like a relentless torrent. "she's dead," you whispered, your voice barely audible, choked with the weight of grief.

as the reality of the situation sank in, uncontrollable sobs began to spill from your lips. seeking solace, you ran up to matt, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso, burying your face in his chest. his presence was the only anchor in the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you.

his hands gently descended onto your back, tracing delicate, soothing circles on your skin. he allowed his chin to rest lightly atop your head, a silent gesture of comfort and reassurance amidst the chaos that surrounded you.

»--•--«

nick's voice shattered the oppressive silence like a thunderclap, raw and fervent. "i didn't fucking do it!" he bellowed, his words reverberating through the room, laden with a mix of desperation and fury.

the fire crackled, its flames dancing and casting flickering shadows across the walls. everyone was seated in the living room, the warmth of the hearth enveloping them as they exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken thoughts and lingering tension.

"it just seems awfully suspicious, nick," you hissed, narrowing your eyes at him. suspicion dripped from your voice, each word weighted with doubt and mistrust. you leaned in closer against matt's embrace, seeking both comfort and solidarity.

matt's fingers traced gentle, soothing circles on your upper arm, a silent gesture of support amidst the tension. the room seemed to hold its breath, every eye fixed on nick, waiting for his response.

"i mean… she did die with her face carved out, and you were the one who mentioned seeing her apply her makeup the other day," you said, your words laced with a mix of incredulity and accusation. you shrugged slightly, as if the weight of the implications could be so easily dismissed.

nick's face flushed with a volatile blend of anger and frustration. his eyes narrowed, and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as he tried to control the surge of emotions. "just because i noticed doesn't mean i'm guilty! you're grasping at straws," he retorted, his voice trembling with indignation.

"everyone, calm down," nate interjected, stepping between you and nick with a composed yet firm demeanor. "we need to maintain our composure and approach this with a clear, rational mind."

tara's eyes welled up with a torrent of emotion, her voice trembling as she softly said, "i love you all too much to accuse anyone. please, let's not tear each other apart." her words hung in the air, a poignant plea for unity amidst the chaos.

matt crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping across the room with a determined intensity. "but we have to figure this out. madi deserves justice," he declared, his voice resolute and unwavering.

chris nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room with a scrutinizing gaze. "we can't just ignore this. someone here knows more than they're letting on."

nick threw his hands up in exasperation, his frustration evident in every gesture. "why are you all looking at me? i just pointed out something i noticed. that doesn't make me guilty," he protested, his voice tinged with a mix of defensiveness and bewilderment.

you took a deep breath, striving to maintain your composure. "it's not just about noticing, nick. it's about the way you said it," you remarked, your voice steady yet filled with underlying tension.

nick shook his head, his voice cracking with disbelief. "i can't believe you're turning this on me. we've been friends for years," he uttered, his words laden with the weight of betrayal and sorrow.

"you killed my best friend!" you yelled out, tears finally streaming down your face. the raw emotion in your voice reverberated through the air, a heart-wrenching cry of sorrow and betrayal.

as matt pulled you closer against him, his fingers gently weaving through your hair, he tried to offer some semblance of comfort. his touch was tender, yet it couldn't quell the storm of emotions raging within you.

the room seemed to close in around you, the weight of your grief pressing down, making it hard to breathe. each tear that fell was a silent testament to the bond you had lost, a bond that could never be replaced.

"I. didn't. kill. her." nick gritted through his teeth, each word punctuated with a seething intensity. fury and frustration flashed through his eyes, a tempest of emotions barely contained within his steely gaze. his clenched fists trembled, as if the sheer force of his denial could alter the reality of the situation.

tara stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of her plea. "please, let's not jump to conclusions. we need to support each other right now," she implored, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and desperation. her words hung in the air, a fragile bridge of hope amidst the chaos, beseeching everyone to hold together in this moment of uncertainty.

nate nodded, placing a comforting hand on tara's shoulder. "tara's right. we need to stay united and figure this out together," he said, his voice steady yet infused with a quiet determination. the warmth of his touch was a silent reassurance, a promise that they would face the trials ahead as one. his words were a beacon of solidarity, urging everyone to find strength in their unity and resolve.

the room fell into a heavy silence once more, each person grappling with their own thoughts and the weight of the situation. the air grew thick with unspoken words, as the gravity of the moment pressed down on them all. shadows seemed to lengthen, and time itself felt suspended, as everyone wrestled with their inner turmoil and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

nate surveyed the room, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he endeavored to piece together the fragmented puzzle before him. suddenly, his hand shot up, and with a voice tinged with both curiosity and suspicion, he asked, "wait… tara, do you truly love us enough to withhold blame? or are you merely the one who feels secure enough to refrain from casting accusations?"

tara's face flushed with indignation, but she took a deep breath, striving to maintain her composure. "nate, that's not fair. i love all of you, and the last thing i want is to start pointing fingers. we're all in this together, and accusing each other without any proof is only going to tear us apart," she responded, her voice a delicate balance of restraint and fervor. her words were a plea for unity, a call to rise above the chaos and hold fast to the bonds that connected them, even in the face of uncertainty.

but nate remained unconvinced. "think about it. if you were guilty, you’d be the last person to point fingers, but if you felt secure enough, you might attempt to steer us in the wrong direction," he argued, his voice edged with skepticism. his words cut through the air like a blade, probing the delicate fabric of trust that held them together, casting a shadow of doubt over tara's intentions.

matt, who had been quietly observing, finally broke his silence. “hold on. if we're going down that road, then maybe it's chris. he's tara's boyfriend. He wouldn't ever kill his girlfriend, so she feels safe enough to not point fingers at him." he stated, his voice a measured blend of logic and caution. his words introduced a new layer of complexity, weaving yet another thread into the intricate tapestry of their predicament.

chris's eyes widened in shock. "are you serious? y’know what, tara's right—this isn't the time to start turning on each other," he exclaimed, his voice a mix of disbelief and urgency. his reaction underscored the fragile state of their unity, a reminder that sowing seeds of doubt could unravel the tenuous bonds holding them together in this critical moment.

tara turned to chris, her eyes pleading. "chris, tell them this is crazy. we need to stick together," she implored, her voice a delicate blend of desperation and resolve. her gaze bore into him, seeking an ally in the storm of suspicion, a beacon of solidarity amidst the encroaching darkness.

chris nodded, stepping forward to address the group. "listen, everyone. tara and i are innocent. we’re just as confused and scared as the rest of you. pointing fingers without evidence is only going to make things worse. we need to work together and find out who the real culprit is," he declared, his voice a steadfast anchor in the turbulent sea of their predicament. his words sought to quell the rising tide of suspicion, urging unity and collective resolve in their quest for the truth.

the room fell silent as everyone grappled with the new accusations, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. the air seemed to hum with unspoken fears and doubts, each person wrestling with their own inner turmoil, the weight of suspicion pressing heavily upon them all.

»--•--«

the darkness enveloped the basement like a thick, suffocating shroud. the only beacon of light pierced through the abyss, emanating from the small, trembling glow of your phone’s flashlight. it cast long, eerie shadows that danced and flickered on the cold, damp walls. you and nick moved cautiously, each step echoing in the oppressive silence, as you strained to make out the shapes and objects hidden in the murky gloom.

"discover anything?" you inquired, your voice reverberating slightly through the cavernous space as you meticulously sifted through the disarray, your fingers searching for the elusive power box amidst the chaos.

"no luck," nick mutters, his voice tinged with frustration as he kicks a cardboard box, sending it skittering across the floor. he collapses into an old, creaky chair, the wood groaning under his weight. burying his face in his hands, he mumbles a string of curse words, the sound muffled and weary.

you clenched your jaw, the tension palpable as you continued to sift through the mess. "y’know, for the record, i still don’t trust you," you said, your voice edged with a mix of determination and lingering suspicion.

nick looked up, his eyes narrowed into slits. "oh really? well, that's just great. because i'm not exactly thrilled about being stuck down here with you either," he retorted sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface and spilling over in his words.

"you think this is fun for me?" you shot back, your voice rising with indignation. "i wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your brilliant idea to check the basement in the first place!"

nick’s eyes flashed with anger as he stood up abruptly, the chair skidding back with a loud scrape. his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his entire body radiating tension. "my brilliant idea?" he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "if it weren’t for me, you’d still be upstairs, fumbling around in the dark like an idiot!"

"at least i wouldn’t be stuck down here with someone who’s more interested in complaining than actually helping!" you fired back, your anger flaring like a wildfire. your voice echoed off the basement walls, each word laden with frustration and bitterness.

"oh, i’m sorry," nick said sarcastically, his voice dripping with mock politeness. "i didn’t realize you were such an expert in power boxes. please, enlighten me with your vast knowledge!" he crossed his arms, leaning back slightly as if to give you the floor, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of challenge and disdain.

"you know what, nick? just stay out of my way," you spat, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. you turned your back on him, dismissing his presence entirely, and resumed your search with renewed determination, your movements sharp and purposeful.

"gladly," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. he moved to the opposite side of the basement, each step a declaration of his disdain. the tension between you both thickened with each passing moment, a palpable force that seemed to fill the air around you.

but then, you heard an agonizing scream that pierced the silence like a knife. you and nick snapped your heads towards each other, eyes wide with alarm, before quickly dashing up the stairs. your hearts pounded in unison as you raced towards the source of the harrowing cry.

you glanced to your right and saw chris standing in the middle of the hallway, his presence both startling and unexpected. your heart began to race at a hundred miles per hour, each beat echoing in your ears like a relentless drum. the hallway seemed to stretch infinitely, the air thick with an unspoken tension, as you took in the sight before you, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

"chris?" you whispered, your voice barely audible as you inched closer to nick. each step you took felt like an eternity, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. the air between you and chris seemed to crackle with tension, every inch of the hallway charged with an almost palpable electricity.

chris slowly turned to face the both of you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. the raw emotion etched on his face was unmistakable, each tear reflecting the turmoil within. the silence between you all was heavy, laden with unspoken words and the weight of the moment, as his gaze met yours, revealing a depth of sorrow that words could scarcely convey.

your gaze fell upon tara's lifeless, limp body, sprawled on the cold ground. her chest was grotesquely cut wide open, a gaping wound that starkly contrasted with the stillness of her form. the scene was a macabre tableau, the sight of her mutilated chest sending a shiver down your spine as the gravity of the moment settled heavily upon you.

the dim light barely illuminated the gruesome scene before you. tara's lifeless body lay sprawled on the floor, her eyes wide open in a haunting stare, as if frozen in the final moments of sheer terror. the shadows danced eerily around her, casting an ominous pallor over the room, each flicker of light revealing the stark horror etched into her features.

your breath caught in your throat as you noticed the gaping wound in her chest, where her heart should have been. blood was everywhere, pooling around her and smeared on the walls in grotesque patterns.

but it was the message scrawled in her blood that sent a shiver through your very soul: "a big heart won't get you to the sequel." the macabre tableau was a chilling testament to the brutality of the act, each word dripping with a sinister foreboding that seemed to echo in the silent room, amplifying the sense of dread that gripped you.

your eyes widened in horror as you saw tara's heart, gruesomely placed in her own hands, as if mocking the very essence of her being. the room seemed to close in around you, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the weight of unspeakable tragedy.

shadows seemed to stretch and writhe on the walls, and the oppressive silence was punctuated only by the faint, echoing drip of blood, each drop a reminder of the horrific scene before you.

you took a step closer, your feet feeling like lead. the details became clearer, each one more horrifying than the last. the jagged edges of the wound, the way her fingers were wrapped around her own heart, the lifelessness that had overtaken her once vibrant eyes.

it was as if a twisted artist had taken their time, ensuring every detail was perfectly macabre. the scene unfolded with a grotesque clarity, each element meticulously crafted to evoke a deep, visceral dread, as if the very air around you conspired to amplify the horror.

the walls seemed to echo with silent screams, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. you could almost hear tara's voice, her laughter, her kindness—now silenced forever.

the message on the wall was not just a taunt; it was a cruel testament to the brutality of her demise. the room seemed to pulsate with a malevolent energy, each shadow whispering of the unspeakable violence that had transpired, leaving behind a haunting silence that spoke volumes of the terror and suffering that had been inflicted.

your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a reminder of the horror that lay before you. the room seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, as if the very walls were alive with the darkness that had claimed tara.

you knew this was just the beginning, and the nightmare was far from over. the shadows seemed to dance with sinister intent, and the air grew thicker, suffocating you with the weight of unseen horrors yet to be revealed. the very fabric of reality seemed to warp, as if the room itself was a living entity, feeding on your fear and despair.

“nick!” chris yelled out, snapping you out of your trance. you quickly looked back, watching in horror as ghost face approached nick. the knife glinted wickedly in the dim light before plunging into nick's neck. his eyes widened in shock, his jaw dropping as he gasped.

ghost face twisted the knife with a cruel precision before pulling it out, and nick crumpled to the side, his lifeblood spilling out in a gruesome arc. the scene seemed to slow, each moment etched into your memory with agonizing clarity.

his body was slumped against the wall as ghost face kneeled down. “like they say, always go for the head, smartass,” ghost face growled, his voice dripping with malice. he brought the blade up to nick’s forehead, the steel glinting ominously. with a brutal, unrelenting force, he shoved the knife in, and you cringed at the sickening sound of nick’s skull cracking. the noise reverberated through the room, a gruesome symphony of violence that left an indelible mark on your soul.

a pathetic sob escapes your lips as you watch chris run away from the scene. the sound is weak and broken, a testament to the overwhelming despair that has gripped you. each step chris takes feels like a betrayal, his figure growing smaller and smaller as he flees, leaving you alone in the suffocating darkness. the weight of the moment crushes you, your sobs mingling with the echoes of your shattered hope.

ghost face looked up at you, his gaze piercing through the dim light. your eyes widened in terror, heart pounding in your chest. without a second thought, you turned and bolted down the basement stairs, each step echoing your frantic escape. the shadows seemed to close in around you, and the air grew colder with every hurried breath you took, as if the basement itself was a labyrinth of dread, eager to consume you.

but the darkness was impenetrable, shrouding everything in a thick, inky blackness. you stumbled blindly, your steps faltering until you tripped, the ground rushing up to meet you with a jarring thud.

you felt your ankle twist with a sickening snap, pain searing through your body. an agonizing scream tore from your throat, drowning out the subtle, menacing sounds of ghost face's careful descent down the steps.

you quickly scrambled away, desperation fueling your movements, until you collided with a cold, unforgiving metal box. the impact sent a jolt of pain through your skull, eliciting a soft groan. your eyes went wide with a mix of shock and fear as the reality of your predicament settled in.

you quickly stood up, wincing as a sharp pain radiated from your injured ankle. with a determined grimace, you hobbled over to the power box, your fingers trembling as you fumbled to switch it on, hoping for a glimmer of light in the oppressive darkness.

the sudden burst of light was almost blinding, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut against its intensity. as you slowly reopened them, you glanced over your shoulder, bracing yourself for the sight of ghost face looming behind you. but to your astonishment, the space was empty, devoid of his ominous presence.

you slowly made your way towards the heart of the basement, each step marked by a pronounced limp as your injured ankle protested with every movement.

you looked down, a gasp escaping your lips as your eyes fell upon nate's lifeless body sprawled across the basement floor. how had you missed such a harrowing sight when you were with nick just moments ago?

your eyes slowly traveled up the wall, where the words "welcome to act 3" were scrawled in a chilling crimson. the realization struck you like a thunderbolt—this was nate's blood, marking the macabre message.

your lips part, but before a single word can escape, you find yourself abruptly pulled back, your spine pressed firmly against ghostface's chest. the cold, unforgiving blade of his knife rests against your neck, its presence menacing yet not breaking the skin. "don't scream, baby," he growls, his voice a sinister blend of threat and dark amusement.

your body turns ashen, and your eyes flutter shut as a solitary tear traces a path down your cheek. "matt…" you whisper, your voice quivering with a mix of fear and disbelief.

"that's right. surprise, baby," he smirks beneath his mask, his confidence palpable in the charged air. with a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he tilts his head, the dark eyes behind the mask gleaming with malevolent amusement.

"did you truly believe you could escape me?" he taunts, his voice dripping with a perverse sense of satisfaction. he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, as he runs a gloved finger along the edge of the knife. "you should have known better."

you swallow hard, your throat dry as you struggle to steady your breath. "matt, please… this isn't you," you implore, your voice wavering with desperation. "you don't have to do this."

his grip on the knife tightens, and he leans in closer, the mask mere inches from your face. "oh, but it is me," he whispers, his voice a chilling, eerie echo that sends shivers down your spine.

he releases his grip on you, compelling you to spin around and face him, your head shaking in disbelief. with a deliberate motion, he lifts the mask off his face, revealing a smirk that sends a chill through you. “you just never saw this side of me," he says, his voice dripping with a sinister satisfaction.

"i know you," you insist, your voice trembling and on the verge of breaking. stepping closer, you reach out, your hand hovering near his, as if the mere touch could pull him back from the abyss. "i know there's still good in you, buried beneath all this darkness."

he lets out a low, mocking laugh. "good? maybe once, but not anymore." he pauses, his confidence wavering just a fraction, his eyes flickering with a momentary doubt. "you think you can change me with your words?"

you hold his gaze, even through the mask, your eyes unwavering. "i believe in you, matt. i always have," you whisper, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

for a moment, the knife wavers, and you can feel the internal struggle within him. the smirk falters, and his breath hitches, betraying the storm raging inside. the man behind the mask is fighting a battle with himself, one that you hope he can win, as his eyes flicker with a glimmer of the person he once was.

"you don't understand," he says, his voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. "i've done things… terrible things. there's no going back for me," he whispers, the weight of his past deeds pressing down on him like an insurmountable burden, his eyes haunted by the ghosts of his actions.

"everyone has a choice," you reply softly, your voice like a gentle breeze cutting through the tension. "it's not too late to make the right one, to turn the tide and find redemption amidst the shadows of your past."

he steps back slightly, the knife still in his hand but no longer pressed against your neck. "why do you care?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper, laden with confusion and pain. "after everything i've done, why would you still care?" his eyes search yours, seeking an answer to the question that has haunted him for so long.

"because i know the real you, matt," you say, taking a cautious step forward, your voice unwavering. "the you that wouldn't hurt me. the you that can still change, the flicker of humanity that remains beneath the shadows of your actions."

his grip on the knife tightens as he glares at you, the intensity of his gaze palpable. "i'm gonna kill you. i have to," he growls, his voice a volatile mix of anger and desperation, each word dripping with the torment of his internal struggle.

you take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. "then do it," you say, your voice steady despite the fear coursing through you like a raging river. "kill me."

for a moment, there's silence. the knife wavers in his hand, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, even through the mask. "why aren't you scared?" he asks, his voice trembling slightly, a quiver that betrays the storm raging within him.

"i am scared," you admit, your voice soft but unwavering. "but i also know you, matt. i know you won't do it. beneath the fury and the pain, i see the man who still has a choice."

"don't be so sure," he snaps, but there's a hint of doubt in his voice, a subtle tremor that betrays his facade. "you don't know what i'm capable of, the depths to which i can descend."

"i know enough," you reply, taking a step closer. "i know that deep down, you're still the person i care about. the person who wouldn't hurt me. beneath the shadows and the rage, i see the flicker of the man who once held my trust."

his hand shakes, the knife lowering just a fraction. "i don't have a choice," he whispers, more to himself than to you, as if trying to convince the ghosts of his past rather than the living soul before him.

"there's always a choice," you say gently, your voice a balm to his troubled mind. "and i believe you'll make the right one, for within every heart lies the power to choose its own path."

he looks at you, the mask concealing his expression but not the turmoil in his eyes. the knife slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor, and he takes a step back, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "i can't do it," he admits, his voice breaking like a fragile whisper in the wind. "i can't kill you."

but just as you begin to hope, he suddenly lunges forward, his movements desperate and wild. he grabs the knife from the ground, tears streaming down his face, and plunges it into your chest with a trembling hand.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice choked with anguish, each word a dagger of its own. "i had to."

you gasp, your eyes wide with shock and pain, as the cold embrace of mortality begins to take hold. with trembling fingers, you reach out to touch his face one last time, a gesture filled with both sorrow and love. "i forgive you," you whisper, your voice barely audible, a breath against the wind. "i always will."

and with that, you fall to the ground, your body weak, leaving him alone with the crushing weight of his actions. the room seems to grow colder, the silence almost deafening, as he stands there, paralyzed by the enormity of what he has done. the echoes of your final words linger in the air, a haunting reminder of the irrevocable path he has chosen.

pathetic sobs wracked his body, salt tears streaming down his face as his knees buckled beneath him. he collapsed onto the ground, his fingers trembling as he gathered the remnants of blood from his knife, the metallic scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the hardwood floor. his gloved hand pressed against the floorboards, a futile attempt to steady himself amidst the chaos of his emotions.

“you were always pretty when you cried,” the bloodied message declared, each letter a grotesque testament to the anguish etched into the very fibers of the floor. the crimson ink seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a chilling reminder of the torment that birthed such words.

taglist -- @imwetforyourmom @meatballzerz69 @pinkishpearls @thedangerousalleyway @sturniolo0bsessed @muchloveforhacker @stinkytinkywinky @jetameivous @everleiqh

[petit-etoile]

chaos construct

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 4869 content warnings: no in-depth descriptions, but mentions of astarion's life with cazador. no in-depth descriptions, but durge!tav remembers torture by kressa and is haunted by memories of orin (unnamed), other tags: canon compliant, hurt/comfort, introspection, character study, codependency, blood drinking, gender neutral tav, the dark urge as player character archiveofourown: here. kiss prompt: ❛ 28 . a kiss over a scar . — here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, be added to the taglist here

summary: ‘It will be rotten work,’ you say softly. / ‘Not for me,’ Astarion promises. ‘I will relish in it.’

　　　　　　𝐈. ﹕previous fic　　　　𝐈𝐈. ﹕next

You lean forward and look into the mirror. You take your time analyzing each and every inch of your unfamiliar reflection. Carefully, you trace the tip of your finger along the thousands upon thousands of thin white lines forever painted into your flesh. You follow the carvings from your bruised lips down between your swollen collar bones until you can no longer follow them. You slip your night shirt over your head and drop it aside unceremoniously, bracing yourself. Your eyes burn dangerously.

There.

Unrestricted by the burden of clothing, you can see it all clearly now.

You touch the scars that Kressa Bonedaughter gave you with violent, shaking hands. In truth, you’re not surprised you’ve never noticed them before. They’re practically translucent but they are there, and you can see them now, and no matter how many times you scrub at your skin to remove them, they will never be gone. You try to rub them away but all it does is make your skin irritated and sensitive.

In the sunlight, your scars are easier to find now that you know what you’re looking for. I wanted to keep you for myself, she had said, I opened you up endlessly with my scalpels, and got lost in your insides. Disgust causes your stomach to churn. Your dreams come back to haunt you. The piles of bodies. A flash of red hair and dead eyes. Knowing, somehow, what to do when Sovereign Spaw demanded Nere’s head. You were the butcher of Baldur’s Gate.

You push your fingers against your mouth and sob hysterically. The truth will always be a part of you now: The Urges, the scars, the pounding headaches, the feeling of possession. It’s horrible and bloody and repugnant and worst of all, real.

There is nothing you can do to take away what you’ve done or what you will do.

It frightens you.

You whip around accusatorially. Astarion doesn’t mean to startle you but the look on his face says he’s been trying to get your attention for a while. You snuck away from camp a while ago to sit in front of this old magical mirror, and he must’ve waited as long as he could before the worry over your disappearance overcame him. He joins your side wordlessly, but he doesn’t look at you directly. He watches you through the mirror with muted fascination, torn between sorrow, between mourning . His expression is so twisted that you almost feel like reassuring him that everything is going to be okay. But you don’t know. You don’t know if you’ll be just fine. You can’t find the words.

You feel very silly all of a sudden.

You do your best to wipe your fingers across your face, smudging your tears down your cheeks and across into your hair. You wipe your hands on your pants and try to calm your shuddering breaths but it’s almost impossible. The air around you is too hot and too cold, and you can’t tell if Astarion is looking at you with pity because you disgust him or if he’s looking at you because he thinks he has to comfort you.

You never asked for this. You never desired the truth of what you were. You wanted it to disappear before anything became real. You turn away from him, trying to force your expression into something more neutral. All you can see is imaginary blood on your hands. You put your face in your hands and hiccup.

‘Don’t you dare hide,’ Astarion says. ‘Not from me.’

He’s gotten touchier since the day he confessed to you. Despite how hurt you had felt at some of the truth, you held him throughout the night until you had fallen asleep first, and when you had woken up, Astarion had still been curled in your grip without you ever having to beg him to stay. Now, he’s the one sliding his fingers across your shoulders so that he can hold you ever so gently in his arms. He presses his face into your hair. His grip is loose enough that you could run away if you wanted to, but you don’t  —  you never want to and you don’t think you ever will. You want to be comforted.

‘Talk to me, please,’ he says, voice strained.

‘What is there to talk about?’ you ask hollowly.

Astarion clicks his tongue against his teeth behind you and presses a tender kiss to the top knob of your spine, his breath warm against your chilled skin. You want to melt back into his touch, but the fear has caused your body to remain rigid. You wait for another headache to overtake you.

‘There is plenty to talk about,’ Astarion insists. He’s trying to not pester you, but patience isn’t a strong suit of his. ‘What are you thinking, my love? What are you feeling?’

You feel sick. ‘I’m a monster.’

‘Ironic,’ he quips.

‘You said it yourself,’ you say thickly. ‘You said that there are more stories about Bhaalspawn in Baldur’s Gate than there are vampires. Who knows what I’ve done, and I can’t even remember it all.’

His thin patience finally snaps. ‘Oh, stop it. If you want to be some terrible and frightening thing, so be it. Be a beast! But remember who you are talking to. You don’t get to sulk and mope and pout.’ He sounds resigned. ‘You don’t get to be worse without me and I don’t get to be better without you. It is our deal. Never one without the other.’

‘I almost killed you that night  —  ’

Astarion bites you, very gently, on the shoulder. ‘I almost did the same to you,’ he warns. ‘This isn’t a competition, you know. I don’t care about what has happened. I’m more interested in the future.’

You almost feel insulated with how blasé he is being about your recent discoveries. You dig your fingers into your own arms and try to formulate your thoughts carefully, but even you can feel how you’re trembling. Carefully, you lean back into his chest with an overwhelmed sigh and let him pamper you.  You don’t have to look to know that he’s watching you in the mirror. Astarion is determined to rub warmth back into your body, and you let his calloused hands roam without complaint. Somehow, you’re relieved he still wants to touch you.

All at once, you feel very tired. You’ve tried hard to not allow yourself to feel overwhelmed ever since the crash but it has been weeks and weeks of nothing but bad news. The more you learn, the more exhausted you feel, and the despair has bundled itself like a painful fracture in your ribcage. It hurts to breathe.

Every day you wonder how much further you’ll be drug down into the undergrowth. Elder brains, Bhaalspawn, avatars of gods and their whims…  Astarion presses a sore bruise against your side and catches the side of your head with his mouth, delicately kissing the curve of your ear while you flinch away from his touch. You peer at him anxiously.

‘I still remember what it felt like when I awoke,’ Astarion explains quietly. ‘My fingers ached from the digging, and I had cried myself to the point where I must have looked undesirable when I finally rose above my grave. Snot, tears, mud and gore from my change clinging to my skin. But unlike you, I could not see what I looked like. I had to wonder for years if my hair looked different or if my eyes had changed color. I knew they had, but I wanted to deny it, to deny him what he had made me. I knew I was a monster and I let that fear paralyze me for centuries.

‘I was a toy for when Cazador was bored. I was a weapon for when he needed blood. I was a creature for when he desired humiliation. Being nothing more than a spawn turned me into something almost unrecognizable. As horrible as the nautiloid was, as vile as this parasite is, I can’t help but feel as though it was somehow a blessing. I could have stayed angry. I could have betrayed you, stolen the other tadpoles and ran away into the night with nothing but power on my mind. But the nautiloid gave me something I never thought I would be allowed to have in this world. It gave me you, and I cannot lose you now. Do you understand?

‘You do not have to be a toy. You do not have to be a weapon. You do not have to be a creature. You know who you are now, and that is what matters in this world. I did not betray you then and I will not betray you now, so you must stay with me, my love. You mustn’t go somewhere I cannot follow you. You and I can beat this together so long as you believe in us .

‘I wish it were different for you, of course,’ he continues, and his tone is so anguished your heart squeezes itself into impossible shapes. ‘I wish I could sweep my hand across your belly and these scars would fade, but more than that, I want  —  I want you to realize you are alive , that these scars are reminders of who you were, but not of who you will be.’ Astarion digs his fingers into your flesh and you watch your skin against his, as he drags his hand across one of the more obvious scars that Kressa had left you. ‘If you wish to tear this world asunder, I am your weapon. If you wish to preserve it, I am its guardian.’

Astarion’s hand leaves your waist to grip your chin, forcing you to look at your own reflection. His thumb cradles your bottom lip and his other fingers splay against your cheek and jaw. He is protecting you from yourself better than your Guardian ever could. What he sees when he looks at you is not the wretched blood you’ve been cursed to bear, but the person you have become since forgetting. Even if your memories were to come in all at once tomorrow, Astarion would not care. If your urges became too much to ignore, he would not care.

You turn your head to force your eyes to meet his. You realize with a frightening hunger that you love him. You love him, and he loves you truly, and this was always meant to happen.

‘If you are to become Death, allow me to be your Dark Consort,’ Astarion whispers.

You swallow. ‘What if I want to be Life and create a new world in my image?’

‘I am your Arbiter of Souls,’ he vows, ‘and I will taste your ripe seed to see your fruit bloom.’

You feel the rush of heat sliding from your stomach into your cheeks before he even finishes. After all, everything you have done has led up to this. Your unyielding devotion. His unwavering faith. Admittedly, it’s an enticing thought. That you, in all your power, could rise to godhood as though it were nothing and slaughter the old pantheon as though they were nothing. Astarion would be there by your side to bask in the glory of your immortality.

You’re so very tempted… 

And Astarion only serves to tempt you further. He begins to take in every single one of your scars like you had before, only with his mouth instead of his hands, tracing the pale lines with plentiful kisses and his tongue. He mouths at your flesh as though he has never tasted your skin before, but he has, and you know he has. Even after all this time, he still favors your taste more than anything else.

Are you hungry? You can tell that it’s been a while for him from the way his hands flex with care to avoid bruising you. His hand grabs your throat again, his thumb pressed uncomfortably under your jaw. He shows great restraint with how he handles you. You could offer, but the words are caught in your throat. Are you hungry? Your eyes flutter closed and you imagine what the world would be like if Astarion drank you dry and replaced your blood with his until the curse of you is gone and the curse of him begins. Are you hungry? You try to push the thoughts away.

Ravenous, you think.

There’s something different in the air tonight.

It’s almost soothing the way that Astarion feeds on your agony. It’s as though he means to eat your desperation, to pull it from your muscles until there’s nothing left to eat. He busies himself in your body, drunk on how you’re malleable for him, intoxicated by the way you give into his whims as he twists and turns your body to look at the different scarring in the light of day. He doesn’t seem to care about anything else rather than appraising your body like a priest who intends on making a relic based on your physique.

And, if you’re being painfully honest, his touch is a welcome distraction from how overwhelmed you felt when you were alone. You did the same thing to him once, constantly poking and prodding about his vampirism. You remember his infinite patience. Astarion had tolerated the way you stuck your fingers in his mouth, spurned on only because he let you press your fingers against his teeth without complaint. He savored the way you apologized for pricking your finger on his canine just because you wanted to see what it would take to make that restraint snap.

Astarion runs his hands down your sides and memorizes every single line left in your flesh. You watch as he grinds his teeth to keep from doing anything impulsive. He desires you so distinctively. If you were to look, you would recognize how glazed over his eyes were and what that meant. He’s trying for you.

‘What if you grow tired of taking care of your Messiah?’ you ask to divert his attention from your throat. 

‘What kind of Disciple would grow tired of their Purpose?’ Astarion counters easily. He raises his chin defiantly. ‘I would never grow tired of the God I chose.’

You would have been skeptical before, but Astarion seems intent on making you a believer of your own regime. For a brief moment, you think you ought to be concerned that this is another manipulation  —  an unapologetic grab for power at your expense. You know better.

Astarion is building a shrine between your ribs, in your marrow and in your sinew. With his loving hands, he shapes you into the Temple of Bhaal anew. Your only task is to dethrone your father and take back the autonomy which ought to have been yours from the beginning. Like the Nightsong from Balthazar. Like Isobel from Ketheric. Like a lamb at a slaughter.

Your flesh is the bread and your blood the wine and Astarion is the most devout of your followers. Not because you saved him for perdition or because you tore apart the hells to save him while he rotted in his grave, but because of the life you have given him in the aftermath of his misery. You are the taste of freedom he so eagerly covets. You are the miracle he has yearned for ever since he pressed you into the leaves in the wilds that first night. You were his from the first taste.

‘It will be rotten work,’ you say softly.

‘Not for me,’ Astarion promises. ‘I will relish in it.’

‘For how long?’

‘For however long it takes,’ he says, and he means it. There’s no coy playfulness behind his words, only the intent itself. ‘I can be devout, you know. I will wash your feet and your hair, and write a scripture so beautiful even the Lady of Loss would be jealous of the devotion.’

Before, you might have considered these promises one of Astarion’s wild whims. One of his techniques used to draw in the unsuspecting, but you have always been something more than a rabbit for the fox to chase. The underlying hum in his voice is the power of the covenant he preaches. These might have been words months ago, but not to you, never to you. This is as sincere as Astarion can be. A genuine oath that rivals the words of a paladin’s honor. He lays his lust bare in your chest.

You slide to your knees with Astarion kneeling behind you. He grabs you by the throat again, and though he tries to be as gentle as he can, you can’t help but gasp at the roughness. He forces you to look at yourself, to look beyond the scars and at the future ahead of you.

You lean into his touch. He’ll never fully understand why, and that’s okay with you. For now, this is enough to keep you content. His hand around your neck, his other tracing every scar you’ve ever received, not even pausing over the recent scrapes and bruises from the battle with Ketheric in the very depths of your personal hell. Astarion has a touch that slowly consumes you  —  that devours you until there is nothing left. You tilt your head back against his shoulder and allow him to witness everything you have to offer.

Damn the hells.

Damn the heavens.

Damn everything beyond.

Astarion does not believe in gods. He does not believe in the kindness of men. If anyone else were to offer him a gentle hand, he would flinch away from the touch in disgust. But it is your hand that is outstretched and he takes it willingly in a marriage of trust. Now your soul rests alongside his, trapped in a cage of your making, as beautiful as a prized canary to be kept in a gilded manse. Together is where you belong.

‘Are we sinning?’ you ask.

He hums in consideration, and strokes your pulse absentmindedly. He bites at your neck again without breaking the skin and inhales. You close your eyes and know the truth.

‘I’m afraid this time we are, my love,’ Astarion confesses. ‘We are passionate heretics, you and I. No other word is as sacred as the one we have to seek to build.’

‘What will become of us?’ you ask.

He laughs against your skin and nuzzles into it. His breath tickles your skin and causes it to rise. Without thinking, he bites down on your shoulder again and groans when you cry softly.

‘What does it matter?’ he murmurs. ‘All we have in the world is us. Let them come.’

‘Are we sinners?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he admits. ‘I’ve been a sinner for quite some time. Did you know  —  Did you know your blood sings for me?’

‘Drink from me,’ you say. ‘A good consort should be strong at all times. Are you weak, Astarion?’

You feel his grin.

‘I am frail, indisposed, feeble without you,’ he says. ‘I am nothing if you are not by my side.’

‘You should say it again.’

‘Why, you’re being cheeky,’ Astarion laughs. He bites you with intent this time and draws blood. You look at yourself, at the heat in your cheeks. ‘I  —  am  —  nothing   —  without  —  you.’

There is nothing more you desire than being consumed. It’s different now. You might have sought Astarion’s warmth once before, but now you seek for something else underneath his practiced exterior. You are the illithid parasite on a hunt of sustenance, and you choose the way he mouths at your skin.

‘Now,’ he muses, ‘let me worship at your altar.’

Instead of biting down into your skin to continue to feed, he trails a line of kisses across your back and the edge of your neck. Over and over, he follows a path with his fingers first and followed by his mouth as if kissing the scars will cause them to fade into oblivion. It’s such a contrast to your conversation you don’t know where to begin. This is the intimacy Astarion chooses to show you.

Nothing else matters.

Baldur’s Gate does not matter. The Elder Brain does not matter. There is only one thing that Astarion seeks. Your happiness and comfort, and Astarion hunts for them with every kiss and thoughtful touch that the dedication makes you feel as though you’re fit to burst. No one has ever done that for you, not in this lifetime and the lifetime of whoever you were before . Your hands were calloused and for murder, not for love. You keep reaching for it.

What is love if not these selfish, unholy desires? When you close your eyes to dream, you imagine Astarion and his silver-white hair over you haloed by intense divinity, his cerise gaze unwavering, this intense loyalty, his practiced laughter and the gentle lines of laughter around his eyes. These dreams drown out the nightmares and the fear. Sceleritas Fel cannot take that from you.

You will not let Bhaal win.

Cazador made Astarion with the purpose of creating a lamb for the slaughter. Bhaal created you as the knife to be used in sacrifice. You would make them both pay for this betrayal of innocence. They have twisted you into something unrecognizable. Astarion might have bit out your throat once upon a time, but now he kisses the back of your hand and watches your expression carefully for any sign of discomfort. You have reminded him of the man he could have been.

‘I do not want you to hate yourself like I have hated myself,’ Astarion tells you, eyes troubled. ‘That isn’t to say you cannot grieve, but you mustn’t become lost. I need you here with me.’

‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’ you ask. ‘Even though I…’

‘I will never be afraid of you,’ he vows, ‘but to be afraid for you, to worry…’

‘There are still things I want to do,’ you tell him.

You think of the red-haired woman who stood next to Gortash and Ketheric, and something about her causes the tadpole to move uncomfortably in your skull. You flinch at it and press your palm against your eye as if that will stop it. You remember something , but it’s hard to think, hard to follow.

Astarion smoothes his hands down your sides and rests them on your hips, peering over your shoulder at something you cannot see. You watch the worry slowly leave his face until there’s nothing left but smooth  acceptance, as if he too is coming to terms with what it means now that the truth of what you are has come into play.

Bhaalspawn.

Not just a spawn, but the favored child of Bhaal, inheritor of the throne of murder.

Underneath that mask, you are still you. The person you have created who is kind, who laughs and plays with tiefling children, who steals stuffed animals to give as gifts to Karlach and encourages Lae’zel to find the truth of Orpheus, who stood with Shadowheart before the Nightsong and encouraged her to choose her own fate, who willingly wades through the depravity of a mindflayer den to find Wyll’s father, who does not want to be another mistake for Jaheira to clean up, who wants to mend broken bones with Halsin, who wants to drink wine with Gale and listen to his stories of Tara.

The person you are now knows not the designs your father had in store. You are innocence reborn and safe from his defiled image. You cannot remember the cruelties of your past, and though you know that doesn’t erase them, it does bring a mild relief. The only proof you have of your sickness are the nightmares that plague you on the nights when your love is not enough of a salvation.

Astarion is devoted to you, as you are to him, as you always have been. You lean into his arms and allow him to kiss the back of your wrist before he embraces you once more, tucking his eyes against your neck so that he no longer has to bear the burden of understanding his reflection will never appear next to yours, no matter how hard you both seek it in the magic mirror. Your throat tightens painfully.

‘Thank you,’ you tell him softly.

‘I couldn’t leave you to your despair alone,’ Astarion says with a hopeless shrug. ‘The thought of you suffering the same as I… I brooded over my own existence for two hundred years with no one to comfort me.’ He mourns carefully. ‘I couldn’t let that happen again. Not to you.’

He takes your hand in his and presses on your knuckles, forcing your fingers to flex against their will. He turns your palm over in hand and stares at the callouses. It's as though he’s admiring a cat, your nails now your claws, his thumb massaging the tension in your palm so your fingers tremble slightly.

‘I’d have let it happen to Gale,’ he says off-handedly. You snort. ‘But not to you,’ he clarifies, dropping your hand and kissing your cheek. ‘I love you too much.’

He always says I love you so painstakingly soft as if it’s the first time he’s ever uttered the words. And with the proper meaning, you know it is. Astarion’s love is a slow molten fire that covers everything. It could be destructive if you let it, but you build with it and twist underneath the heat to forge something greater. Everything is so intense between you as if a chord pulled taut. The littlest bump sends it vibrating and you get lost in the sensation. You want him to say it again.

‘I love you,’ Astarion says, voice ravaged. ‘Whether you are pious or irreligious.’

You think of him as a pioneer of a new religion. He distracts you with the gentlest of kisses against the tip of your ear.

‘Are we sinning?’ you ask again.

‘We are sinning deliciously,’ he tells you sincerely.

You would be a liar if you pretended like it didn’t excite you. You have a chance to hold a new world in the palm of your hands with an executioner by your side. You make your decision  —  If there is to be a God of Creation, you would remake the world in your image. Jergal would rise back from obscurity, no longer embarrassed by his despised successors. You see a flash of red hair and chase it through the darkness, no longer afraid.

‘Drink,’ you whisper to him. ‘I want you to.’

Astarion tilts your chin to the side and bites down onto your neck with great care. It always hurts when he penetrates you for the first time, but by now, he’s learned to not be such a messy eater. These are the new scars that you accept. This is the person you seek to become. You close your eyes and relax into the feeling of sharp teeth and spit, and it’s like he sucks the venom from your veins. You float weightlessly as he seeks his fill.

He plucks your fruit easily with the prettiest of hands. Astarion swipes the goodness of you and brushes it against his lips, tasting it with the tip of his tongue and shivering at the flavor. He treats every time he feeds from you as if it is the first time. He savors your blood, is made man by your blood, until the pale red glow in his eyes fades into something more human . These eyes are the eyes that belong to your angel of death. You welcome it.

There are still battles to come, but you no longer feel as overwhelmed as you had this morning when you awoke with sickness in your stomach and your friends staring at you in a cautious, distant manner. There is now semblance of hope burrowed in your chest where your heart once was.

You say, ‘I want you to be there when I make a new kingdom.’

It means:

At the end of the world, it will be you and me and our memories, our friends and allies, our souls. You twine your fingers with his and let him manipulate you so that you’re facing one another. You no longer seek the mirror for encouragement.

It would not matter if it was this year or in one hundred years. The only certainty in life is that this was what you wanted. Astarion’s honest eyes and searching hands. You could turn into a mindflayer tomorrow and your last thought would not be of your doom and terror, but of this delicate flower you hold in your palms. It has sprouted from nothing with only tears as encouragement, and now it is your turn to be buried, to transform into something beyond your recognition. Only, when you dig your way through layers of dirt and brick, you would not be greeted by nothingness.

Astarion kisses you once, his mouth so tender it’s almost heartbreaking, and then again. He grazes your bottom lip with his teeth and bumps his nose with yours affectionately, murmuring, ‘Yes, my God of Murder.’

[vaporwavebeach-writes]

Kinktober Day 18 (Body Modification)

Victor Zsasz x Reader (NSFW)

(1,152 Words)

Summary: Zsasz makes his mark

Warnings/Tags: 18+, female reader (I got self indulgent sorry LMAO), knifeplay, bloodplay, scarification, penetrative sex, love confessions (yeah, I got REALLY self indulgent), aftercare, fluff (SLAYYY)

Notes: God, I love him. I got SO self indulgent with this one bc I’ve been having a shitty week. All my mutuals should’ve seen this one coming LMAO anyway, enjoy the fic!!!

-

Victor Zsasz loves to make his mark. Most infamously known, are the vast array of tally marks that are carved into his skin. Every mark, a symbol of every life he’s ever taken; every light that’s been snuffed out. In his mind, the marks serve as mementos; being made in the moment as a reminder for a lifetime. It’s an act of permanence. It’s an act of devotion.

So to him, it only makes sense to mark you just as he marks himself.

Apprehension and anticipation linger all around you. You sit there, completely still. Your upper half is completely exposed to him, save for your bra, leaving every inch of your blank, unmarked flesh in his view. Your shirt is discarded, laying in a crumpled pile on the floor. The soft sound of Victor’s footsteps fill you ears, pacing slowly behind you. Suspense and excitement fill your stomach. A deep inhale makes its way into your chest when you feel the cold metal of his switchblade touch your skin.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” his voice is honest, firm, yet comforting. “This is gonna hurt…” you can feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, smoothing down your arm. “…A lot.”

“I appreciate you doing this Victor,” you turn to look at him. “But honestly, I’m a little scared.”

He stands over you. The blade, lightly trails along your chest, just below your collarbone, where you assume the mark will be made, your nerves spike, but you choose to swallow them down, knowing this is how Victor expresses love, in his own, sick way- not that you minded. He kneels, making his way down to your level. His hand guides you chin down to gaze into his dark eyes, filled with reassurance.

“I can promise you,” you feel his thumb gently rub over your cheek, “The pain won’t last long.”

His gaze is intense. Taking a deep breath in, you nod. “I trust you.”

He lets out a grin, tucking your hair behind you ear. He plants a soft kiss to your cheek where he was caressing over it. “Attagirl.”

Your heart flutters at his assurance. For someone so keen on sadism, getting off on the pain of others, Victor was being surprisingly comforting with you.

You can feel his body looming over you, feeling his head look over you to find the exact spot where he would mark you. He makes contact with your eyes, giving each other nodded approval to do it.

The metal is cold and exceedingly sharp. You can hardly feel it when he cuts you. The sensation almost feels pleasant as the blade glides through your flesh. You feel yourself bite back a shriek when he digs the knife deeper into your skin, making sure the cut will leave a lasting scar. Your breath hitches in your chest as he continues dragging the knife into you. Fresh crimson spills out from the cuts being left in the blade’s wake.

“God,” Victor lets out a soft growl, “I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now.”

He’s in awe of the blood trickling down your chest. It coats your chest, running down, nearly dripping down to your bra. You let out an abrupt whimper, unable to hold in the increasing pain.

“Fuck!” you cry out. Your bra strap slips past your shoulder. You feel Victor’s body directly behind you, almost in an hug. His hand smoothes your shoulder firmly, comforting.

“It’s okay,” He hushes you. “I know, I know.”

Those next few seconds, the pain is excruciating. You get up, turning around and steadying yourself on him, wanting nothing more to be enveloped in his embrace. Your eyes meet his, gazing at each other for just a second before crashing your lips together.

You feel yourself being carried over to the bed, feeling Victor’s hungry grasp taking off your already disarrayed bra. You suck in a harsh breath, feeling his tongue lick up the blood that dripped down your tits.

“You did so well,” Victor praises as he devours your bloodied flesh, slowly trailing downward, “I’m proud of you, taking that like a champ.”

“Oh god, V-Victor,” you whimper. You feel your pants being slipped off from under you. Your cunt aches, dripping with arousal as Victor thumbs your clit through your underwear. “I fucking need you.”

Victor gazes at you, carnally. His eyelids are hooded, lust swirling within his eyes. He pulls out a condom from his pocket, tearing the wrapper quickly with his teeth. He urgently slides the rubber onto his cock and eases himself inside you.

You can feel Victor’s body on top of yours, being careful to avoid the cut-up area of your chest. He positions himself, leaning on his shoulders to look at you. He rocks into you slowly, feeling your soaked cunt clench around his cock. As he picks up the pace, he presses his lips to yours feeling yourself moan into his mouth. His tongue feels heavenly and you feel yourself melting into him, letting out a hushed breath when he bites your lip, pulling away.

“You like that?” He asks breathlessly

“Y-yes,” you grunt out tenderly. “You feel fucking amazing.”

Victor chuckled, rolling his hips. You feel your cunt flutter around him as he continues to fuck you. You grip onto him tightly, nails sure to leave some marks on his back. He lets out an amorous groan, enjoying the way you hurt him.

“I love what you do to me,” Victor moans. His pace is rapid, hitting the deepest parts of you, making it hard to keep yourself quiet. You can feel your orgasm swiftly approaching, and judging by his pace- utterly frantic, so could Victor. “Your my girl, and I fucking love you.”

You’re taken aback by his abrupt confession, but honestly? You feel the same. Your hand drops down to your clit, rubbing it quickly, desperate for release. You cry out after he hits a particularly sensitive spot, once again slamming your mouth to his as you ride out your orgasm. He thrusts himself deep into you, a guttural groan escaping his lips as his orgasm isn’t far behind yours.

When all is said and done, you’re completely fucked out, disheveled, and exhausted. The air grows thick, heavy around you as he crashes onto your uncut side.

“Thank you,” you breathe out. “You are so good to me.”

Victor smiles, pressing a loving kiss to your lips. He runs a hand through your hair, before holding out a hand, pulling you up. He turns around, grabbing some towels and antibiotics for the cut “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Hey Victor,” he looks over at you, head cocked curiously. “I love you too.”

You couldn’t wait for the cut to heal. The healed scar in the shape of a heart would soon be a testament to the love you have for one another.

[raccoonfallsharder]

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day six bite ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

low-grade spice & fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | minific | word count: 2,266.

“That’s — a big frickin’ scar you got there.”

Your eyes flare wide and you twist in your seat so fast you nearly spin off it, staring at the stranger who has just hoisted himself onto the barstool next to you. Not because you recognize the voice — you don’t yet, though you will — but just because it’s such a personal remark.

And you’re a little bit sensitive about the scar, if you’re being honest. It’s something of a souvenir.

Then recognition clicks in. Because there he is: short. Covered in fur. Velveteen ears and a dark mask, and a plush ringtail that sweeps behind him. Eyes like red stars.

Cutie.

You stare at him, breath sucked right out of your lungs. He’s got hesitation scrawled and sprawled all over his face: ears flicking down and tail lashing once, nervously. His claws clink against his massive, nearly-empty stein of Xitarish whiskey. 

You tear your eyes away and stare down at the ring of pearly ridges stitched into your arm — like maybe there were answers carved into your flesh there all along, and you’d just never noticed. Or like each toothmark is a lodestar, and together the circle of them can help get you home. 

“Isn’t it rude? To comment on a stranger’s scars?” you breathe out, trying to buy yourself time as all the pieces begin falling together. 

He blinks at you, and shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, Jemiah.” He gestures at the owner of The Boot, who just so happens to be your boss. “Next drink’s on me.”

“Sure thing, Rocket,” Jemiah says warmly — far more warmly than you’ve ever heard from him before. 

You feel your eyes flare wide. “You’re Rocket?” you manage to utter, eyes scrolling up and down him again. “One of the people who bought this damn skull? The pilot — the Guardian of the Galaxy or whatever?”

Somehow he looks even more uncomfortable. “Guardians of the Galaxy. Plural. We’re — a team.”

You exhale slowly — measuredly — and try to loosen all the small feathers of confusion crowding up your head, downy-soft. And as you let go of all those wisps, adrenaline rushes in to take their place: the intoxication of suddenly seeing him. Meeting him — for real this time. Having a name to put with the memory. 

Your smile blows wide. You can’t help yourself. 

“The cutie has a team,” you murmur under your breath, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks when his eyes sharpen on you. He shifts on his stool, but his shoulders relax a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Don’t listen to him, Jemiah,” you call out. “His drink’s on me.”

Your boss ducks to hide his grin even as the cutie in question — Rocket, you think, with a pleased little grin — grimaces. “Wait—“ he starts.

You click your tongue and shake your head, cutting him off and grinning. “Not a chance. You bought this stupid skull out from under the Collector and made it a tolerable place to live? There’s no way you’re buying the drinks. I have to show my gratitude somehow.”

You drop your lids to half-mast and raise a brow, hoping he knows that you’re happy to show your gratitude in a few other ways as well. The risk of offering brings a nervous little buzz to your belly. 

As for him — well, you get the sense that he’s a guy who doesn’t let himself flounder very often, but right now his face is flickering between so many emotions that you can’t possibly catch them all. Shock, and then a brief flash of something like smugness, followed immediately by a flash of narrow-eyed skepticism — then a sort of uncertain hesitance, a brief twinge of humor, and finally, a cynical half-sneer. Then he starts right back at the beginning and does it all over again.

It’s fascinating.  

“Did you know,” you say slowly when Jemiah sets down the fresh drinks, “that I work here at The Boot?”

The stranger — no longer a stranger, you suppose; no longer just the cutie — no, Rocket pauses in his cycle of expressions, takes a slug of his new stein of whiskey, and shakes himself out. 

Where the hell does he put it? you wonder. The stein is as big as his whole torso, you think.

But he doesn’t seem buzzed at all. Instead, he casts you a measuring, sideways glance, entirely too alert for your tastes. 

“You don’t say,” he drawls at last, one brow raised as his spine eases a little more.

“Mmhmm,” you say mildly. “It’s my day off.” You pause meaningfully and take another sip of your own drink. “Didn’t used to get days off in Exitar. Or anywhere else on Knowhere, as a matter of fact.”

His eyes track your hands, and flick to your face. 

“Guess the difference is all thanks to you,” you tell him lightly, and tilt your glass toward him. “Here’s to the happy change in leadership.”

He studies you, and waits till you set your drink down again. 

“So. Uh. How long you worked here?” he asks — as if he didn’t already have at least some idea.

You grin into your glass. “Long enough to have developed a very strict set of rules for my survival.”

His ears flick. You’re glad he’s indulging you — playing along for now. “What’re the rules?”

You lean back. “I’m glad you asked,” you tease, and splay out one hand so you can count them on your fingers. “Number one. Avoid the Collector at all costs.”

He snorts. “Well, guess you’re not a complete idiot,” he mutters, and then slashes his red-amber eyes at you and flinches, like he thinks maybe you’re going to be offended. 

But you only wink at him. Not a chance, cutie.  “Number two. Never hide all your units in one place — or on one datacard.”

A smirk curls the corner of his mouth and his nose twitches.

“Three. Always lock your doors behind you. And four, Don’t walk home alone from the Boot.” The smirk slides off his face at that and his eyes flash, so you rush along to the next rule, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Five. Always get customers’ money before you hand them their booze.”

There you go. The little curve is back at the corner of his mouth, even if his brow is still furrowed — almost like he’s distressed. 

You lean sideways and nudge him with your elbow. “And finally, number six.” He looks up at you and his ears tilt, eyes locked on yours like glimmering red stones. You lean so close you know your breath will flutter in the curve of his ear, and you drop your voice to a whisper. “Don’t try to break up fights.”

The pilot rears back, nearly tumbling backward off his stool, and you reach for him before you both catch yourselves. Reeling your outstretched hand back into yourself, you instead gift him a reckless grin and turn to your drink once more.

“It’s not a comprehensive list,” you tell him pragmatically, “and it isn’t in any particular order, but it’s kept me alive this long.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Rocket says, and his voice is suddenly raspy and low. “Even that last one?”

The laughter surprises you, fluttering up behind your ribs and escaping between your lips, soft  and velvety and hushed. 

“I only broke that one once,” you tell him, lifting your glass to your mouth and half-hiding your grin behind it. You can tell your eyes are sparkling, though. “And it’s not like I ever regretted it.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like you got a story.”

“Mmm,” you acknowledge, and you keep your voice playful. “It was years ago, now. I knew all the regulars back then — well, I still do, but more of them were jackasses back in the day. And this guy comes in — someone I’d never seen before. Swaggering, carrying a cannon twice as big as himself. Maybe — three feet tall? A true Short King.”

He’s got his stein to his lips and he chokes on a mouthful of whiskey, sputtering. “A what?”

You ignore him, still casting him that teasing half-smile and raising an eyebrow. “He had pretty eyes, and I remember him being more foulmouthed than a landlocked Ravager.”

“Pretty — what?” 

“Keep up, Rocket,” you taunt lightly, tapping a finger to the air just an inch away from the top of his nose, and his eyes go narrow. Everything on his face is suddenly promising retribution, but you’re reckless with glee now.

And you’ll be happy to pay up if he actually comes to collect. 

“I told him that I needed payment up front when he ordered—“

“Get the money before you hand them their booze,” he echoes Rule Five, eyes still hunting you, and you nod with mock-approval. 

“You get it,” you say with a chuckle. “Anyway, his response was just to swipe another patron’s datacard right in front of me and hand it over.” You can still fucking see it: his challenging half-grin, one brow raised.  “I think I stared at him for a full thirty seconds, but this cutie just smirked up at me. Brazen as fuck.”

You laugh softly at the memory, and Rocket — who might as well be your new landlord, you’ve realized — grumbles something under his breath. 

“Anyway, I was kinda smitten,” you admit with a little curve in your mouth, still buzzing the inside of your belly. 

It’s the truth, too.  You’d never thought that raccoon can get it before, but there you were. 

And here you are. 

To your surprise, Rocket goes quiet at that. The pilot of the famous — or infamous — Guardians of the Galaxy, and one of the new owners of Knowhere: still and silent for a long moment. 

Maybe he’ll slip out of his chair and leave, you think, and the flutters in your belly twist in sudden regret. Maybe you’ve scared him off. 

But when he speaks, his voice is like crystallized maple syrup: rich and gritty, waiting to crumble and melt and scrub against your skin.

“He’s why you got into a fight?”

You weigh out your options here. What to say? You’d lost sight of the cutie thanks to his height and the constant surge of new customers, and you’d sort of forgotten about him in the moment, to be honest — though you’re sure you’d have remembered later, alone in your shitty little room — but then you’d heard the sudden cacophonous boom of his enormous augmented cannon. There’d been screaming and crashing, and you’d woven yourself  between the bodies toward the sound. Just to assess, just to figure out what kind of danger you’d been in—

Fucking B’darl — the worst of your regular patrons — had entered into view and suddenly hoisted the cutie right up into the air before slamming him down into the orloni fighting ring. 

You hadn’t thought about it — about anything, really — just thrown yourself through the crowd, toward the fighting ring. By the time you’d gotten there, B’darl had the cutie pinned to the miniature arena’s floor by the throat.  Both the orloni and the f’saki had cowered back, blood-soaked and wounded, from the sudden interference in their battle-to-the-death. 

Looks like you wandered outta the ring, the fucking brute had sneered.Time to go back to brawling with the other vermin, you little monster. 

B’darl had lifted his other fist, easily the size of your entire head.

My money’s on the f’saki, though. 

You’d surged between them without thinking, latching onto B’darl’s massive forearm, knocking his fist to one side.

You shrug. “It was worth it,” you tell Rocket mildly, and take another sip of your drink.

His eyes drop to the ring of teethmarks in your arm again. He opens his mouth to speak, and you cut in.

“My own fault,” you tell him. “I should’ve known the cutie could handle himself. I got in the way.”

You can still remember how his firelight-eyes had stared up at you from behind a mouthful of flesh and blood, stunned and maybe horrified, teeth sunk almost to the bone.  In a worse timeline, maybe you’d have tried to rip your arm away. But here, in this one, you’d curled around him instinctively. Protectively. 

And then he’d reached around you smoothly and snagged B’darl’s ion pistol, and you’d heard the gun go off as he’d squeezed the trigger, blind.

“My only regret is that I lost sight of him in the aftermath,” you tell him with a shrug. You try for a teasing smile but it suddenly feels strained, tense on your mouth. You’d been too flushed with adrenaline when you’d first started this conversation. Now, suddenly, the nerves are present: rattling and twitching behind your sternum. Your fingers shake a little and you clamp them onto your glass. “Didn’t even catch his name.” 

He doesn’t say anything, and you squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally get the fluttering in your vagus nerve under control, you hazard a look up at him. 

His eyes are on your forearm though: the circle of silken raised marks, just three shades lighter than the rest of your skin, and strangely — almost prettily — translucent. His finger reaches out: dark and clawed, his touch like warm leather. You go so still that you can’t blink, can’t even breathe as he paints a ring of warmth on your skin, looping the circlet of scars onto his fingertip like pearls threaded on a string.

The flutters are back, full-force. 

Slowly, Rocket drags his gaze up to yours, sunset-eyes glowing.  “Cutie works.”

@hibatasblog deserves so much more & better than this little ficlet but i am dedicating it to them anyway because they regularly call rocket "short king" and i cannot get it out of my head. deepest love to them & all their writing (please do yourselves a favor and check out their ao3 fics if you have not already)

look i just feel like (1) rocket is a cutie and if you say it in the right tone, he'll be flattered enough to not kill you and (2) there's no way he'd ever forget the stranger who jumped into a fight on his behalf — and probably got scarred for it — back before he met the guardians. which is when the og encounter takes place fyi. forget about the fact that i don't think we know if he had ever been there before gamora brought them along — i headcanon that where two or more lowlifes gather, so too there is rocket.

sidenote oh my god i literally cannot stop with the increasing wordcount. day seven (when i eventually get around to it) is gonna be SHORT. it's a promise/challenge to myself. anyway i think my writing quality peaked with machinery and i'm sorry this is so late

day five. machinery. ✷ day seven. home. rocket prompt week masterlist ✷ main masterlist rocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

[astarionslittlejuicebox]

The Story in Our Scars

Author: @astarionslittlejuicebox

Imagine: The reader is concerned with the story behind Astarion’s scars, but what happens when he inquires about the story behind theirs? 

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader

Requested: Yes by Anonymous 

Trigger warnings: minor spoilers (Act 2), suggestive themes, language, mentions of death, mentions of blood, mentions of self-harm, mentions of self-degrading

Word Count: 1739

Side notes:

I own no rights to the characters of Baldur’s Gate 3. 

Scars—a topic (TAV’s name) knew all too well that it was a touchy subject for anyone. Everyone in camp had their own scars—Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart, Halsin—and each scar carried its own story. Some people in camp were open to discussing them: Karlach proudly tells the story of how she got one of her scars from fighting a voracious devil in the Nine Hells. Others, like Halsin, took a bit more convincing to indulge in the stories of their scars. Astarion, the pale elf of the group, had shown her his scars after a night of pleasure, but he was also reluctant to speak further on the story of them. 

Scars had been the topic of conversation lately between Astarion and (TAV’s name). The runes carved onto the flesh of the vampire spawn’s back were occupying Astarion’s mind since the (TAV’s race) had mentioned something about the scars being written in infernal. The spawn wouldn’t admit it to (TAV’s name), but the scars on his flesh had been taunting him since she drew the scars in the dirt at camp. After speaking to Raphael at Last Light Inn, the topic of the scars weighed even heavier on Astarion’s mind as he wondered when the devil would get back to him about the deal. 

Scars was a topic that (TAV’s name) was hesitant to talk about. Raised areas on the skin often drew people’s curiosity, and not all scars came from a victoriously bloody battle or from a cruel, abusive master. No—some scars came from one’s own demons inhabiting their mind.

Scars had been the topic of discussion that night at camp after learning of Raphael’s deal with Astarion outside the tomb of Ketheric Thorm. Karlach and Wyll exchanged stories about fabled foes from the Nine Hells, while the others in the group listened and drank wine. (TAV’s name) felt comfortable with everyone as they shared, but when the attention turned to her, she avoided the topic entirely.

“My—it’s been a long day.” (TAV’s name) spoke with a yawn. “I believe that I shall be heading to bed. We do have a daunting task ahead of us tomorrow.” She stood up abruptly and told everyone good night before the (TAV’s race) rushed to her tent. The rest of the camp shared concerned glances, but continued their lighthearted conversations about bested beasts and other endeavors. Astarion, however, was far more curious about (TAV’s name)’s strange behavior than he was about the stories shared around the campfire.

(TAV’s name) quietly sank into her bedroll as the sound of the group’s laughter echoed off the temple walls around her. Her heart was beating rapidly in the center of her chest.

They’re laughing at you. The dark voice in her mind said, and she squeezed her eyes tighter. Your scars are pathetic compared to theirs. The voice taunted further. The (TAV’s race) felt a familiar pool of liquid form in her eyes as the words echoed in her head. Blinking, she focused on her breathing; a habit she had learned long ago to cry without bringing attention to herself.

You know you want to do it. The voice in her head taunted. You want to add to your story, and make more pretty thin lines on your skin. (TAV’s name) covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut in a desperate attempt to silence the voice in her mind. The lady laying in her bedroll hadn’t brought a sharp instrument to her skin since she had been abducted by mind flayers, but that doesn’t mean the voice in her head had stopped tormenting her. Now, the voice grew louder as the minutes slowly turned into hours.

As the laughter and chatter slowly died and everyone went to their tents, (TAV’s name) laid quietly in her bedroll. 

You’ve fallen in love with him, and he’s far too perfect for you. The taunting voice had taken a different approach now. His scars have meaning. What do yours mean? Tears started to form in her eyes again as she listened to what the voice was saying. 

Across the camp, Astarion laid on his bedroll in his tent, but he was wide awake. Something about (TAV’s name)’s behavior earlier had left him unsettled. The talk of his scars never seemed to bother her, but when the conversation turned to her scars…something seemed to be off. Settling on the fact that something must be bothering her, the vampire spawn got up and started his way to her tent.

Your scars just prove how weak you truly are. Don’t they? The voice continued its ruthless monologue. Astarion spent two centuries enduring a living nightmare; Karlach got hers literally living in Hell. How did little ol’ (TAV’s name) get hers? Tears freely flowed out of the (TAV’s race)’s eyes as she sniffled. Holding her breath to calm her down only caused her to take a quick, almost hyperventilating breath. This noise, while she thought it to be quiet, was picked up by the vampire spawn’s sensitive ears. Astarion frowned and quickened his steps towards his destination.

(TAV’s name) got her pretty little scars because she was weak. The cruel voice continued its cruel taunting. (TAV’s name) couldn’t bear to compare herself to the others—Shadowheart, Laezel, and Karlach—so she carved reminders of her doubts. The tears flowed freely as the woman laying on the ground struggled to breathe properly. What a weak, pathetic woman that others have blindly—

“(TAV’s name)?” The tent flap lifted up, and Astarion saw the shaking shoulders of the (TAV’s race) before he heard the familiar sound of crying. The pale elf’s ears could hear the rapid rhythm in his traveling companion’s chest, and he rushed over to her. “(TAV’s name).” He repeated as he turned her to look at him. Tears streamed down her face as wide (TAV’s eye color) colored eyes stared at him wildly. She tried to form words, but her sobs stopped any and all words that tried to pass through her lips.

“It’s okay. I have you.” Astarion spoke in a hushed tone as he cradled her in his arms. The vampire spawn calmly stroked her hair as she had done to him a few times after he had nightmares. Slowly but surely, (TAV’s name)’s breaths slowed, and her body physically relaxed in his arms.

“I’m sorry.” (TAV’s name)’s soft voice spoke after a few moments of silence. “I was trying to calm down, but—“ Astarion kissed the (TAV’s race)’s forehead. 

“I accept your apology, even though one is not necessary. However, I am more curious as to why you were crying. You acted so strange earlier when we were talking about scars.” Astarion shifted her in his arms, so he could look at her face. Her (TAV’s eye color) eyes refused to meet the intense gaze of Astarion’s crimson ones. She took a deep breath.

“Everyone’s scars have some story attached to them….” She quietly said with a look of pain evident on her face. “Yours made by a cruel master; Karlach’s made from fighting foes in the Hells; hell, even Halsin’s came from mating with an actual bear.” Astarion’s eyebrow raised itself, but he kept quiet as (TAV’s name) continued to speak. “Mine don’t come from either of those.” It was at this movement that (TAV’s name) moved the fabric of her sleeves to reveal several little white lines across her forearms. Astarion stared at the straight scars with a curious face.

“So, what’s the story behind your scars?” He asked, but his voice was soft with genuine curiosity; however, the woman in his arms sighed heavily.

“My scars—“ Pain was evident in her voice. “—are a product of the voices in my head.” Tears began to form again in her eyes. “Some are from the voice’s telling me I’m unworthy; some of the scars are from the comparison of myself to the others.” Her voice broke as tears started to steam down her face. 

“I made most of them many years ago when I was teenager, but some old habits die hard.” A fake chuckle came from the woman Astarion was looking at with saddened eyes. “Some of these were made when we started this journey together….” Her voice grew very quiet. 

“Darling,” Astarion’s voice was soft as he spoke to her. “Why would you do that to yourself?” (TAV’s name) sniffled her nose as she shrugged her shoulders.

“Sometimes I did it to silence the voices—they always went quiet afterwards. Sometimes I did it to try and bring myself back to reality.” Her eyes shifted to look up at the pale elf through her eyelashes. “I am not the strong person everyone at camp thinks I am.”

“I am not the prettiest, nor the strongest; I am not righteous, nor the sanest. I am the weakest because I have given myself these scars.” Astarion felt his heart break as the words left his companion’s trembling lips. “All because some voices in my head say I’m a horrible person.” She looked down, anger clear on her face. Astarion’s hand lifted her chin, so she would look at him.

“If there is something that I have learned from you, it is that people are more than their scars and the stories behind them.” Astarion’s soft voice drew (TAV’s name)‘s attention. “Scars don’t tell us anything about that person’s personality, their morals, or their values.” A soft smile was on the vampire spawn’s lips.

“You…you’re incredible.” Tears continued to stream down the (TAV’s race)’s face.

“You have given so much of yourself to everyone here. You have been the glue that has held each and every one of us together at some point, and you continue to do so despite everything those voices tell you. There is not one person in this camp that isn’t grateful that they have met you.” The vampire spawn wiped the tears falling freely from (TAV’s name)‘s eyes. “I am grateful to have met you.”

“So, let my voice be louder than those stupid little ones in your head: you are worthy; you are incredible; and…I’m so proud of you.” A small smile was present on the vampire spawn’s lips, but he was startled when the (TAV’s race) suddenly wrapped her arms around him. 

“Thank you.” She whispered into his ear. His shock slowly dissipated as he slowly wrapped his arms around her.

“No—thank you.” He whispered back as he received his first hug in over two centuries.

[widowsofchaos]

could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭

synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.

pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader

ao3 // modern au // 5k words.

warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.

a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3

“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”

The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.

“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”

A scoff escapes.

“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.

That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.

“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”

The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.

Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.

Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.

She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.

Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.

Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.

Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.

An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.

He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.

A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.

It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.

Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.

Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.

All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-

“What an incredible scent you have—-”

Oh God, no.

“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”

Fuck.

“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”

It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.

A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.

Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.

A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.

“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?

As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.

“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.

A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.

“Why?”

You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.

“They’re too easy to hunt?”

You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.

“They bore me.”

“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.

It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.

Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.

Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.

“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.

A pregnant pause.

That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.

“You like blondes.”

Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.

“Just one in particular.”

Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.

“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.

But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.

How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.

“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.

Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.

A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.

This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.

It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.

She isn’t normal.

Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.

So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.

But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.

None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.

Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.

Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’

Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.

“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.

Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.

You’re too drunk for this.

“This cat is too tired to entertain.”

“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.

An offense has been made.

“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”

The mask slips.

It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.

“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.

And now the mask has been dropped.

“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.

Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.

Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.

Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.

But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.

Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.

“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.

You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.

Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.

“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.

“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.

“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.

“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.

It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.

“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.

“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”

Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.

Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.

“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.

Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.

You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.

By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.

You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.

All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.

“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.

“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.

You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.

“Goodnight, Carol.”

Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.

-

The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.

The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.

The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.

“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”

Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.

Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.

Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.

“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”

Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.

Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.

Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.

“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.

Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.

“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.

Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.

“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.

“Let me see if she missed me.”

A string of no no no slip from you meekly.

One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.

As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.

Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.

A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.

A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.

“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”

“That’s when I was young and stupid.”

Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.

Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.

Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.

“It seems she missed me.”

All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.

All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.

Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.

Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.

“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.

“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.

“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.

Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.

“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.

“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”

“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”

Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.

“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.

Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.

Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.

A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.

Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.

Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.

Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.

You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.

Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.

Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.

Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.

Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.

Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.

Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.

Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.

A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.

Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.

A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.

Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.

“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”

Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.

“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.

“Then why do you make her cry?”

“What?”

“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.

“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”

Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.

Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.

“Don’t you want to be a family again?”

She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.

Damn her.

“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.

You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.

In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.

Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.

Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.

Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.

You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.

A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.

Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.

In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.

“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.

Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.

“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.

Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.

Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.

Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.

Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.

A pause.

It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.

You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.

-

Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.

Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?

A silent white flag has been waived.

A lonely dog always comes back.

Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.

The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.

No words are needed.

Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.

-

Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.

She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.

-

In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.

Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.

Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.

A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.

Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.

Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.

For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.

The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.

You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.

It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.

The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.

It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.

But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.

Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?

But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.

You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.

[perpetualfox]

I wanna chomp into his arm and tell him to flex !! Fill my whole mouth with him and make him have to pinch my nose to get me off. Take a bite off the extra meat packed onto his inner thigh before eating that mf out. Chomp chomp chomp

Bite Me - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Biting, blood play, pain play, rough handling.

Wordcount:

All I can say for myself is this:

→You kneel before him, taking your place at his feet like it’s the easiest thing in the world—an act of submission devoid of shame; one he beholds in silent wonder from his perch at the edge of the bed. He looms above you, still mostly clothed, his back ramrod straight—a soldier even in moments of respite. The thick treads of his boots sink into the plush carpet, his laces still pulled tight through dented metal eyelets; thick cord knotted so tight it creaks against the dark leather. His belt lays across his lap—flayed open in seconds by eager fingers—the heavy buckle lost beneath the sharp curve of his hipbone. When you had asked, he’d pealed back his cargos, but they’d made it no closer to the floor than his knees, the thick material bunched up beneath them—a show of vulnerability, but on his own terms.

→You’d taken it for the gift it was.

→Stretching forward, you crane your neck to nuzzle against the pale expanse of his inner thigh. His gloves creak as his fists ball into the sheets, and a little thrill goes through you—to be given so much for so little…from Ghost it was as near a dazzling smile or an earnest admission of love as you had ever come. It was intoxicating. You turn your head, lips grazing a hot stripe along his flesh. He twitches beneath you as you mouth along the knotted ridge of an old scar. You know them well, the stories Simon wears on his skin—the kiss of a knife from Mexico, the crater carved out by a bulled he’d caught in Verdansk, the evenly spaced tears of Russian razor-wire—each more terrible than the last, each beheld with a reverence with which he is woefully unfamiliar. Something in his guts squirms with a feeling he cannot name each time you turn it on him—not quite shame, though it takes a similar shape. It’s a battle not to squirm with it.

→Your lips ghost across a smooth patch of flesh, and you pause. The unmarred skin is cool under the heat of your mouth. Your teeth scrape against the flat, untextured skin. Ghost does not move. Your eyes flick up to meet his, eyebrows raised, questioning. In the darkness, you can’t make out the soft brown of his irises; there is nothing but the fathomless black of his pupils, swallowing everything. He stares down at you from behind that expressionless mask. There is no trace of Simon in that stare, only Ghost, his eyes flat and dead. But he understands you all the same, and he nods, the barest tilt of his head; a movement you would have missed if you hadn’t been looking for it. A smile splits your lips as you stamp a final, open-mouthed kiss against his thigh before you crack open your jaw, and sink your teeth in.

→You go slow, allowing him to feel the press of each individual tooth; the slow transition from a bearable pressure to a deep ache as each curve and point burrows deeper into his pale flesh. The hard muscle tenses and jumps beneath you as you bear down on him. His breath catches in his throat, a sharp hiss clamped tight between his teeth. You feel the skin pucker as you bite down, the pressure moulding his flesh around your teeth. It welcomes the strange new shapes as best it can, until, at last, it can take no more, and it tears. Fat droplets of blood well up and pool in the indentations you’ve made—the copper tang of it salty and warm on your tongue.

→You try to pull back, to offer reprieve from the pain that has him gritting his teeth and shuddering beneath you, but a heavy gloved hand thumps down against the back of your neck. He guides you—almost pushing you back down, urging your teeth deeper into the meat of his thigh. There is nowhere else to go, so you let yourself go limp, allowing your head to loll to the side, tucking neatly into the ‘v’ of his hip.

→The swell of his cock bumps up against your cheekbone, warm, and thick—even through a layer of black cotton—and harder than it had any right to be. Shifting your weight, you lean into him, pressing the soft meat of your cheek into the heat of him. A cooing sound chirps to life at the back of your throat, and you smile around his thigh, revelling in the knowledge that this was your doing—revelling in the smell of him, thick and heavy; in the weight of him against your cheek; in the little grunts that catch between his teeth.

→You lock your jaw, and his hold only tightens, the grip pads of his gloves scraping rough against your flesh as his fingers dig into the side of your throat. His thumb brushes against your cheek, coming to rest just beneath the corner of your jaw, pressing up hard enough you’re sure to have a bruise in the morning. He’s trembling beneath you now, almost rocking up into your mouth, even as your bicuspids threaten to do their job and widen the holes you’ve already made in him.

→“Fuck, Lovie,” His voice, little more than a gruff whisper, barely pricks at your ears, “…could cum like this.”

→A shudder rattles through you, your jaw flexing against his thigh, your teeth scraping against wounded and oversensitive flesh, drawing a strangled groan from his throat. Fluid drips warm and wet down over your chin and throat—saliva or blood—you don’t care. Your world narrows to a single point, big enough only for Ghost: the heat of his slick flesh in your mouth and the desperate throb of his cock against your cheekbone.

→Could he really?

→The thought barely registers in your mind before you’re clenching down hard enough to feel something click in your jaw. Ghost makes a wounded sound, his body jerking beneath you as a warm wetness begins to spread against your cheek.

→The hand at the back of your neck goes slack, and you pull yourself back, dizzy and shuddering. Ghost’s chest heaves, his limbs gone boneless and jittery as the aftershocks have their way with him. As he slowly drifts back to himself, his fingers trail absently through the slick mess you’ve made of his thigh. Blood and saliva dribble down to stain the sheets between his legs. When at last he feels present in his body again, he reaches out swipes a droplet of blood from your chin with a broad thumb, “Messy fuckin’ thing you are, hey?”

→You nod dumbly, the tang of his blood still sitting thick on your tongue. He pats your cheek, heavy and slow. Your head lolls against his large palm, your eyes going half lidded, fluttering with each rough stroke of his fingers. “‘S all your fault, Lovie, innit?”

→You nod and quick as a viper, he takes you by the back of the neck and presses your face down against the cum-damp fabric of his boxers, “And this too.” It isn’t a question this time, but you nod anyway. You can feel his spend already beginning to cool as his hips kick up against the softness of your cheek. “That’s right. So be fuckin’ useful and clean it up for me.”

[theanimekid]

Betrayal/ The Veil of Shadow found the new ruler

Synopsis: Love is not eternal, betrayal; cuts deeper than a scar. Now you'll be harmed no longer. You'll be loved once more. Embrace destiny, walk the veil, and rule as a Dark Queen.

Warnings: Monster, angst, sci-fi, blood, betrayal, heartbreak, death,

Shadow owes its birth to light- John Gay

“Love isn’t soft like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.” ― Stephen King, The Body

A/n: This will be about two or three chapters long, so grab some coffee, a blanket, and a couple of tissues, make that a couple boxes of tissue

Chapter 1: The Beginning and End

You will never feel pain again. You'll never feel hurt or suffering. You… will never experience betrayal… for now it was the last time… the last straw.

The Strom fumed in spikes of crimson and light-blue lighting. The chaos of thunderstorms rumbled the sky, buildings of merged flesh and bone carved into each like a deathly art, screams were heard for miles, screeching of the bats not living nor dead. As their dark sparks waved into the night. You stood, outside of your castle, watching the depths below, your body shrouded in mystery and despair. Your veil flew with the wind, eyes cold-hearted, broken no more, vengeance craving for suffering. Skin darker than a shade of navy blue. The might of the doors opened slowly, and a black substance moved within. It was quick and swift. Faster than the human eyes can catch.

It soon emerged with its fingertips skimming fingertips. Its purple hood covered its top face. He spoke in a canny yet diabolical fashion. "My Empress... the time has come," It said, As it played with its fingertips rhythmically. You turned to look at your advisor, your eyes sharpened, lowly. " Already?" You asked in a heartache and pitied tone. " I'm afraid yes, a newcomer has been seen in the human world, young and frail as he is, yet more fearful than the rest." The hand movement swayed and urged as his words, Walked away from the highland view. past your blackened throne so lonely and purposeless. Your advisor walked with you down the very, elongated hallway. Your soldiers lined up and bowed to you. "They're the same as always, Urmas."

"They live to benefit you, my beloved empress, as they will always be." He replied in assurance. The two walked for what seemed like a while and reached the end of the hallway. You stopped. Urmas stopped with you. His expression spread with little concern for his queen. " Is there something the matter, my sovereign?" You still stood there staring blankly at the door. " I-I- feel like I've been here before."

Urmas Cleared his throat. " Can you recall, my sovereign?" You shook your head, " I don't know, but yet at the same time, it feels as though." You turned to your advisor, offering your hand to him. Urmas instantly clutched it and held it to his hand. You beamed maliciously, teeth in all, "let's go raise bloodstained nightmare on humanity and make a world for my own." He smiled back." As you wish, my sovereign." The doors opened to a giant glass sphere, spiraling out of different stirs and harmonies. The two of you walked hand in hand. As you got closer to your glass sphere, lightly grazing the outer layer. Urmas walked on the other side of the figure.

The sphere's outer layer moved fluidly, liquifying. Your hand sunk into the glass sphere. Your eyes dilated, turning into a purplish pink. Your vision became severed as you gaze upon the human world into the brightness of the city. Your eyes searched and looked unnoticed. Til you found a little boy with glasses wandering down a dark alley. Frightened and alone, tight where you wanted him. 

You planted his fear into his mind, it took only mere moments before he was nothing more than paste. And a small portal of flesh emerged from the brick wall, pulsating quietly like a heartbeat for an ear to listen. His body remained dismembered and fractured. His eyes plucked out of their sockets. Your eyes blurred again, returning to normalcy. With a sigh of satisfaction, you removed your hand from the sphere. Urmas clapped his hands in applause. " Another astounding work my sovereign," He feted. You walked away from the sphere and headed towards the door. You tumbled to the floor, holding both sides of your head, Your head began to hurt. Screaming in pain as your advisor tried to assist you. Your vision contradicted with light, a picnic on the hill, a man standing next to you with a loving gaze, his hand reaching out to you, calling to you…

You gasped as you raised your head. Your body trembling, your advisor slowly got you back on your feet. "My empress, are you all right?" He questioned. You sighed, bobbing your head left and right. " I-I'm fine... I just, need to rest my eyes." 

*Back on Earth*

One of his shadow soldiers, sat on top of a nearby building, looking down upon its people and others. The shadow sighed in questionable purpose. It's been the fifth time this past year. The visions He saw, his queen in danger, screaming and sobbing for help, it's like an unending loop. Constantly, she was reaching out to him, calling to him...

His master emerged from the wall, Beru and Igris followed soon after, and his black coast got longer and ragged. He stopped at the edge. Sung turned his gaze toward his summon. " Is there a reason why you're not doing your patrol?" The soldier got up and kneeled before his master. " Forgive me, my king... but it feels like something has been bothering me." He didn't even bother looking upon his master. Thinking he will not believe him." And what has been bothering you?" Sung asked. He collected himself and explained clearly and carefully, not to anger him, " Lately, since the past year, I have been seeing visions... visions that I wish I could ignore, but it just couldn't." Sung knelt to his soldier's eyes. " Look at me, and tell me what you saw." The shadow soldier took a deep breath and looked dead into his king's eyes. " I saw... a woman in white, she was surrounded by black waters, she was slowly drowning, but no end. I was going to save her, but she started to cry, sobbing, calling out your name, and others. She turned to look at me, her face was recognizable... my king... I believe... that our queen is alive and needs your help."

Sung's eyes slowly widened, and he can feel his heart wailing out of his chest. She can't be... he watched her... if she is then why...

Beru and Igris can feel the energy around him growing. With his body trembling, he gripped his soldier's shoulders. " Are you... you 100 certain that's..." He nodded in response. Sung can feel his whole world collapse around him. You were alive, alive and alone, scared. " Did you anything else from your visions? Or where she could be? Did she tell you where to find her?" He started asking a million questions. But his soldier only gave him one and a solution. " She said to locate the portal where no man or light can find. The opposite of all worlds... Find the seer. And that's all I can remember." 

The search for the seer begins.

Part 2 in the making👍