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lilacs-stars · 3 months ago

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sweet like you

pairing: bridget x fem!reader (requested) (note: reader is charming's sister) SUMMARY: you and your pink-haired best friend have your own ways of showing affection. but what will happen if you take things to the next level? GENRE: tooth-rotting fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining CW: nothing really, reader is down bad, thoughts of loneliness and worries she's not good enough, mouth-watering descriptions of food WC: 7k

A/N: this one was heavily based off of the five love languages! I personally think that bridget shows love by gift giving and quality time (although I am willing to hear people out on this), and reader is words of affirmation and physical touch, with maybe a dash of acts of service. hope you guys enjoy, and thank you to the anon who requested this! please give me feedback and suggestions, I’d love to know your thoughts!

You fidget nervously, skittishly glancing up at the girl in front of you.

You were so afraid to do it, to maybe ruin what you two already have.

But if you don’t, you’ll be trapped in a life overshadowed by regret, yearning for a love that will forever linger in your heart like a forgotten memory just out of reach, a devotion that has taken root in you so deep you know it is impossible to abandon or ignore.

And with that thought, you gently lean in towards her soft, pink lips.

“So? How is it?”

The pink-haired girl in front of you stands with her arms hugged to her chest, hands curled in fists that sit right below her chin. She looks at you with an anticipation so potent it's practically overflowing, rocking back and forth in a way that makes you think she’ll combust at any second. Her kind eyes are stretched wide open, staring down your every move as she eagerly awaits your answer.

You take a bite into the freshly baked fruit tart in your hand, the perfectly golden crust and masterful arrangement of strawberries, blueberries, and kiwi slices on top making it look almost too good to eat.

As soon as the flavors make contact with your tongue, you practically melt away at the sweet, delicious taste that graces your tastebuds. The pastry base is like a crisp and delightfully buttery embrace that unifies all the elements, a shell that cradles the flavors with care. The fruits on top are delectable and juicy, the natural sweetness and burst of tang adding a refreshing balance to the sugary taste of the pastry, like little fireworks on your tongue.

Your favorite part, however, is the heavenly vanilla custard filling. It’s smooth and decadent, like diving into a saccharine river of vanilla that glides across your tongue. It’s as if the very essence of pure bliss itself was captured and transformed into a rich, sweet nectar. The cool, silky filling and fresh fruits are delightful in how they contrast the warm, flaky crust, all the ingredients coming together in a harmonious composition of textures and flavors.

Your eyes, which had fluttered closed in sheer ecstasy, open again to see a Bridget that is buzzing with excitement.

Your mouth, still stuffed and chewing, manages to mumble out, “It-it’s incredible," as you cover it with your spare hand—proper etiquette being second nature to you by now—trying to get out the partially coherent words.

Bridget still looks at you with a zealous sparkle in her eyes, expression unchanged and expectant, relentlessly teetering on the balls of her feet like a hummingbird rapidly flapping its wings as it hovers by a flower. Most people would have stopped at the compliment, but you, being a near-professional taste tester from the number of Bridget’s creations that you’ve tried since you met her, have a full evaluation prepared as you swallow.

“The crust is very buttery and just the right amount of crispiness, perfectly balancing out the smooth creaminess of the custard. The fruits add a bit of tartness and a fresh, juicy taste that evens out the sweetness of the rest of the pastry, that could be a bit overwhelming otherwise. As for aesthetics”—you shift around slightly from your position on the edge of her bed, the fluffy pink comforter beneath you practically swallowing you whole—“your placement is very well-done. I would recommend adding a glaze to the fruits, both to make them glossy and to enrich the taste.”

Bridget nods her head fervently, absorbing your every word like your suggestions are an indisputable truth. “I feel like the crust is a bit soggy, too,” she adds, face wrinkled in a frown as she stares at the dessert in your hand.

You look down at your half-bitten treat—its original, untouched beauty now destroyed—in a scrutinizing consideration. “Did you wait for the crust to cool down before adding the filling?” Bridget tilts her head upwards, eyes deep in thought as she looks to the ceiling. “Hmm, now that you mention it, I don’t think I did.”

"That must be the cause." You are certainly no baker yourself, but you’ve had lots of practice critiquing Bridget’s creations to the point where you are highly knowledgeable in the theory of baking. “Still, it is unbelievably delicious.” As if hearing those words for the first time, Bridget’s face lights up, her features all but radiating a brilliant glow as she beams. She clasps her hands together, crying, “Aww, thanks!”

You can’t help but laugh a little—Bridget’s limitless joy is truly contagious. At times like this, when you're staring up at her, gaze swirled with pure adoration and awe as if she's an angel that descended from the heavens in front of your eyes, you start to think just how lucky you are. For once in your life, the strings of fate finally pulled in your favor, crossing your paths with the girl clad in a bright pink dress facing you.

Fate is often cruel to you, like an unrelenting winter wind blowing in your face and biting at your skin, like nature laughing at you as you shiver in raw misery, coldness seeping deep into your bones. A cruel trickster that seems to follow you with malevolent intentions, a vicious smirk painted on its face as it sends every misfortune barreling your way.

You might have been born a royal, a princess that has an unfathomable number of gowns stacked in her closet and an equal number of suitors lined up for her hand. But you aren’t like your brother; you don’t approach groups of strangers and introduce yourself with a wink and an alluring demeanor. He is Prince Charming, after all, which causes you to often ruminate over how accurately your parents named him.

Instead of flashing a winsome smile to every guest at a ball, or every visitor invited to your house, and strike up a conversation with them, you often seek refuge in the quiet expanse of your own room. When required to make an appearance, you prefer to loiter around in the shadows or pass by unseen, like a ghost. This has made you quite the anomaly in the royal world; everyone always whispers behind covered hands and in hushed voices, spreading rumors and wildly speculating about why the princess of such a gregarious family never makes a presence of herself publicly.

And it’s the same at school. Bridget, like your brother, will approach absolutely anyone with a smile gracing her features and kind eyes crinkled in the corners, oftentimes with a home-baked treat in hand. She has countless friends, many random people she mentions or smiles at in the hallways that you’ve never even seen before. She’s never had to worry about finding a partner in class, never avoided eye contact in a crowd of people she didn’t know, never sat watching other people’s carefree conversations with the weight of being an outsider, always looking in through the glass of isolation keeping you from them.

Which is why, to this day, in moments like these, you question whether fate has made a mistake of some sort—maybe jumbled up different karmic ties or gotten confused with names when it came time to draw people’s futures. Or, your biggest fear, is that this is all some elaborate plan, a puzzle piece in destiny’s plan to make your life as ill-fortuned as possible.

In times like this one, you peer up at Bridget and wonder, why in the world, out of her multitude of friends, did she decide to spend the most time with you? To dub you her “best friend”, if you will.

Bridget had noticed your solitary manners a long time ago—like a magnet, she’s drawn to the people who are most in need of a friend, the most ostracized of the outcasts. And so, she had patiently sat with you every day, struck up a conversation even when you gave her the shortest answers possible that were still deemed polite, and attempted to make plans with you, although you always tried to cover up your outlandish excuses with gracious thank-yous.

Over time, the girl with the bright eyes and unfaltering smile finally wore you down, until you began sitting next to her yourself, began looking forward to your idle conversations, and even sought to spend as much time with her as possible. In fact, you spend more time at her dorm than you do yours; neither of you have roommates, so the only time you go back to your room is to get into bed. Besides that, you spend every waking moment basking in Bridget’s cheery presence, so much so that half your belongings are scattered on her floor (your doing), or neatly tucked away in a drawer (her tidying up after you leave).

Your relationship grew to a point where you began to know Bridget well enough that you couldn't keep denying the way she seemed to know everyone, and on a rather personal basis as well. How she had a party or event she was invited to every weekend, or how she had an entire roster of people willing to help her at the smallest of notices anytime she needed a favor. Sure, she may not seem like the “popular” sort, which had definitely deceived you as well when you first met her, but she was definitely well-known and especially well-liked.

So you found yourself many a night sitting on her bed—as you are now—looking at the stack of pretentious letters and notes, carefully placed in ostentatious envelopes with cloyingly ornate lettering, wondering what about you made Bridget seek you out. And that’s when you first thought of it. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t actually like you.

And once that thought popped in your mind, once it was planted and dug its roots in your brain, it grew rapidly, spreading uncontrollably like a weed that was left unchecked for a bit too long. Bridget probably only talked to you in the beginning just to be nice, the intrusive, unwanted voice hissed in your mind. She didn’t really like you. And now you keep on leeching onto her, and she’s way too nice to say she finds you annoying.

Fueled by your disbelief that anyone, especially someone with as many options as Bridget, would actively want to spend their time with you, you started to believe that Bridget was only entertaining you out of required courtesy. And so, you tried spending less time with her after that, building up your walls again and shutting her out; suddenly, you didn’t approach her in the hallways anymore, were always too busy “studying” to hang out in her room, and your long rants about various, trivial topics were reduced to simple, curt responses.

But Bridget persisted, always choosing you amidst a myriad of familiar faces beckoning her over. She still wanted to make plans with you, still left you treats outside your door to taste test. And so, with a hesitant uncertainty, only brought out by your crippling fear and burning shame at the possibility of even coming close to hurting Bridget’s feelings from your cold actions, you decided that she might actually want to be with you, of her own free will.

That night, you had thanked her for being such a good friend to you. She replied as sweetly and modestly as ever (“Oh, it’s nothing! Don’t even mention it.”). When you brought up how you wouldn’t have any friends if not for her choosing to persistently break down your walls, as you are undeniably terrible at making friends, she had simply told you that your style of befriending people was to wait for them to approach you first, whilst her style was to approach them first.

She had pointed out, with a compassionate wrinkle in her brow, that with your way, at least you could be certain that whoever cared enough about you to initiate something and work towards befriending you probably had genuine intentions, which was a drawback of becoming friends with just anyone, like she did—you never who truly likes you, and who’s plotting to stab you in the back. You kept your mouth shut that night, but you really couldn’t help but think if that were true, then did that mean that the only person with genuine intentions towards you in the entire school was Bridget herself?

Fate, you decided, is certainly an interesting character.

“Maybe I should make another batch.” Bridget’s musings draw you back to the present, where she now stands with a bitten fruit tart in her hand and two unoccupied cavities in the tray she had baked them in. “I was thinking of handing these out to my History of World Magic class tomorrow, but they aren’t very good…” She frowns again as she looks down at her pastry, as if furrowing her brow and staring intensely at it can miraculously fix it, or at least give her some insight into discerning what to improve.

“Bridget.” You push up off the bed, taking a step towards her and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to make another batch. These ones are already great.”

Abruptly, you swoop in towards her opposite hand, stealing a bite from her already partially eaten dessert. You chew with a smile on your face as you look at Bridget’s slightly startled expression, commenting, “See? This one is just as good as the other one.”

Bridget remains frozen for a moment, her forehead still puckered, before she relents into a soft grin. “Alright, then. If you say so. I guess they are alright.”

“That’s the spirit.” You let go of her shoulder, now leisurely strolling around the room, eyeing the various objects neatly placed on her furniture. Eyes scanning over each item, your hand subconsciously reaches out, fingertips languidly brushing along her possessions as if soaking up her essence. “About History, I’m so unprepared for that test we have coming up. Ugh, who even assigns that much work? Especially since Mr. Poirier already grades so harshly. Like, last test, he marked me down because I only gave three examples of goblin strikes in the past century out of the five he taught. I mean, you can’t mark someone down if you never said how many examples to give! He’s so unfai—”

Your voice cuts off as your eyes snag on a collection of objects on Bridget's desk that weren’t there before, an assortment of various tools and materials that when combined appear to belong to a crafting set: multicolored beads, tubes of sparkly glitter, delicate metal chains, a set of pliers, and a bright pink vial of glue.

“What are these?” you ask curiously, leaning in closer with a furrowed brow as you inspect the items on the desk, trying to make out what they are, or rather, what they are going to be made into.

“Ah! It’s nothing!” Bridget squeals, rushing over and throwing a spare blanket over the desk before you can take a closer look.

You spin around to face her, a frown etched into your features. “If it’s nothing, then why are you hiding it?”

“It’s not important!”

“You know you’re only making me want to know even more.”

“It’s really nothing! Just don’t think about it.”

You lift your hand, inching it closer to the draped cloth. “I’m thinking about it,” you tease, playfully moving your arm at a gradual, yet deliberate, pace towards the desk. “Still thinking about it. I’m getting closer, closer, closer…”

Just as your fingers are about to make contact with the blanket to pull it off, Bridget lurches forward, taking your troublesome hand in hers as she leads you away, towards the other side of the room with a nervous giggle.

“Come on!” you exclaim with a huff. “What’s so bad about what you’re doing that you don’t want to show me?”

“It’s not bad!” Bridget counters. “It’s just…look, you’ll find out what it is soon. Just give me some time, okay?”

“Hmm…” you hum, glancing upwards with faux consideration. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to wait that long.” A small, cheeky grin dances on your face as you try to conceal it with a feigned pout.

Bridget shoots you a look, a small smile finally spreading across her lips. “What were we talking about again? That’s right, History of World Magic. So, what were you saying?”

You notice the sudden—and rather forced—attempt to change the subject, but ultimately decide to brush it off. “Yeah, I was saying how Mr. Poirier is so unfair when it comes to grading! And his tests are always so hard. Like, seriously, he makes up test questions that he never even talked about during class. He just expects us to memorize the whole textbook or something.”

Bridget gives a small, rueful shrug. “Well, I guess he just wants us to learn the information well.” You shoot her a sharp look, one that screams "Seriously? You’re defending him?"

“Hey, I have an idea!" Bridget exclaims, eyes lighting up again. "How about tomorrow, after school, we go to the library and study for the test? With both our minds put together, we’re a lot less likely to miss something. After all, two heads are better than one. You aren’t busy or anything, right?”

You shake your head no, although it does pass your mind how Bridget must already know that you never have any plans besides the ones she makes with you. “‘Kay, study session tomorrow sounds good. Although we’re probably going to be there till midnight. I mean, seriously, who assigns one test on four different chapters?”

Just as you launch into yet another rant about your insensitive teacher whom you practically despise at this point, a deep, low horn sounds from somewhere out in the hallway, reverberating against the walls.

Both you and Bridget glance up at the clock on her wall, which is custom-made in the shape of a pink heart surrounded by a white rim, now with its glittery hands pointing at ten and twelve.

“How is it curfew already?” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Guess I have to head back to my room.” Many times, you’ve contemplated requesting to move in with Bridget, so you two can officially be roommates. After all, you practically are, with the way that people always knock on Bridget’s door first when asking for you (although that seldom happens, and the few rare times it has, it’s always been on a teacher’s behest). But every time you start to consider it, your mind plummets back into that dark place, the belief rooted deep into your consciousness whispering that you’d just burden Bridget with your inescapable presence and occupied space.

“Aw, well, I’ll see you tomorrow in class! And at the library!” Bridget says as she walks you to the door, her constant smiling shining through once again.

You both bid each other goodnight, and as you walk the familiar solitary path back to your room, the absence of Bridget’s cheerful and bright energy is achingly present. It’s as if a piece of you was stripped away, torn from your very being and leaving you numb and hollow, merely a void of fleeting emotions just out of your grasp. Like the sun disappearing during an eclipse, leaving everyone shrouded in darkness as they await its return, you feel as though your very liveliness is missing from you. You glide down the hallways soundlessly like a ghost, your body nothing more than a shell of the exuberance brought out by the girl who’s constantly emanating pure, unbridled positivity.

Despite your feelings of emptiness, a soft ray of warmth settles onto your soul as memories of the evening, and every other moment you spent in Bridget’s company, replay in your mind. You still hear her melodious laugh, still see the bright sparkle in her eyes only displayed in someone who has not yet been dulled by the merciless, unsparing nature of the world.

Even though she’s not there, you still feel as though she is, carrying a piece of her deep in your heart while you reminisce over your memories, as you always do when you’re in the quiet loneliness of your own company. Even though she’s not there, your heart races at the mere thought of her: her gaze as she listens intently to what you have to say, the way her arms wrap around your torso and how her hair tickles your neck as she gives you a tight, enthusiastic hug.

Even though she’s not there, a shadow of her presence forever lingers in your heart and mind, leaving you yearning to bask in her warm glow again.

You step into the library the next day, after the final bell dismisses you from your last lesson. The library is one of your favorite places in the entire school—aside from Bridget’s room, of course. The peaceful retreat of the rows of dusty shelves and worn, rickety tables is unmatched. The tranquility of the gentle silence that always covers the area like a blanket, the smell of weathered books holding untold quantities of knowledge soothing you with the smallest whiff. Whenever you step across that threshold, it’s like being taken into a different dimension, one with fewer heavy burdens weighing down your shoulders and more blissful ease, a feeling one only reaches when in an untroubled state of mind.

No one looks at you as you walk in, not even sparing a single glance or the slightest movement that acknowledges your arrival. Not that that’s an unusual feeling for you.

You make your way down the aisles of books to your usual table, where you and Bridget always sit, standing in a secluded corner. The book bag slung over your shoulder is weighed down with all the books and notes stuffed into it, causing your arm to ache with strain. Grimacing as the hemp strap painfully digs into your shoulder, certainly leaving a mark that you’ll discover later, you mentally hurl a few obscenities at your teacher for his absurd teaching methods that make your bag so heavy.

However, as you move towards the table, you can see that there’s already some foreign object placed on top of it. A shocked, annoyed anger sizzles inside of you, vexation pumping through your veins at the thought of someone stealing your table. Sure, it doesn’t actually belong to you, and everyone has an equal right to choose any seat they desire, but it’s still your preferred spot and any other one would feel disconcerting and out of place.

As you near, now silently directing your colorful words towards the table thief, you begin to notice that no one else is around; nor do you see any materials on the table besides the peculiar item, which appears to be a small plastic container.

You approach the box, noticing that there’s a small, fuchsia-colored note stuck to the top as you get closer. Instantly, you recognize the handwriting, the half-cursive swirls and loops paired with the little hearts topping all the i’s instead of dots engraved into your brain.

“Dear Y/N,

I’m so so sooo sorry, but someone had an emergency and I had to go help them! I feel really bad for leaving you, and I promise I’ll make it up to you!

For now, I made you some treats as an apology (and to help make studying a little more bearable). Sorry again! I hope you enjoy them!

Love always,

Bridget

You smile at the little heart drawn next to her name, a staple of her signature. Opening the lid of the container, you see that sure enough, it’s stocked with plenty of macarons, a multitude of colors and flavors beckoning at you to try them.

You sigh as you grab a chair to sit in, the small wave of relief that washes over you soon overshadowed by the returning feeling of loneliness, rekindling inside of you like a greeting from an old friend you haven’t seen in a while. You reside in its arms with a comfort brought not by the warmth of a tender hug that soothes your pain and fills the hollow void residing in you, but instead by the ease of familiarity, the peace obtained when the outcome is a cruel one, yet one you foresaw. The security granted by basking in the solace of numbing arms wrapped around you, the feeling of being all alone and undesired, unwanted, something you’ve grown all too accustomed to.

Once again, you’re given a painful reminder of how popular Bridget is, how many other friends she has. How at the end of the day, you're simply an option, a choice she chooses to make. One that she can always change in the blink of an eye.

But you know that you can’t really be disappointed or feel so rejected because of this. After all, it's not like you can expect her to not have a life outside of you—ignoring the fact that you don’t really have a life outside of her. It would be selfish of you to want her to yourself all the time, right?

Readjusting your chair closer to the table, you remind yourself that it’s nice enough of her to even remember your plans, much less take the time to stop by here and leave you a note explaining her absence, in addition to a sweet—both figuratively and literally—gift. She could have just forsaken you with no note, no warning. But then again, that’s simply not the type of person Bridget is. If she knew just how much her presence affects you, how she fills your days with a joy, a happiness so pure and unparalleled by everything and everyone else, you’re almost certain she’d never leave your side again.

To her, you’re just another friend, someone she enjoys seeing. To you, she’s your sun, the very being you revolve around and depend on to survive.

She truly is your everything.

The mouthwatering macarons eyeing you through the clear plastic invite you to take a bite, and you indulge yourself as you rip off the lid and relish in the soft crunch of the outer layers and the smooth flavors bursting within, reminding you of something akin to a dessert sandwich.

After munching on quite a few of them—you simply couldn’t help yourself, they were absolutely delicious—you begrudgingly heave your bag onto the table, pulling out the materials you so diligently packed.

You crack open your textbook to the first chapter, then your notebook to the first blank page. Ripping a sheet out from the spine, you place it down next to your notes. Every time you write something in your notebook, you copy it down on the empty page.

After all, you couldn’t let Bridget’s kindhearted nature get in the way of her good grades. Even if it did mean more grueling work on your part.

For her, you are willing to do anything. Just to see her beam at you again with those rosy lips, the sparkle in her eyes twinkling brightly at you. Reminding you that you’re the cause behind her happiness.

No matter the cost for you.

The sea of faces and bodies in front of you is slightly overwhelming, blurred flashes passing you as you struggle to find your way through the crowd. But then, your eyes snatch on a head of pink curls bouncing up and down animatedly, and instantly, you’re washed over with a wave of relief. Slipping through the cracks between the meandering crowd, you make your way over to the table Bridget is sitting at today in the Dining Hall.

“Hey,” you say gingerly, placing a hand on her shoulder to get her attention as you approach her from behind.

Bridget twists her head back, face visibly lighting up at the sight of you. “Y/N!” she exclaims, scooting over and excitedly patting the space next to her.

You take your seat, turning to face her. “Uh, so, about yesterday…”

Your plan was to thank her for the macarons and the thoughtful note, but before you get the chance, her eyes widen at your words as her face erupts in a look of deep penitence. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! Fay was trying a new spell and accidentally burned half her hair off…” Her face contorts to a look of serious shock and concern, probably reimagining the scene.

“I know that’s no excuse though! I felt so bad for bailing on you, that I stayed up all last night just to finish this…”

She turns around and bends over her seat, reaching into her bag on the floor. She grabs something, then twists back around to you, clutching the mysterious object tightly in her hand.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands!” she instructs, vibrant with pulsating enthusiasm. A bit tentatively, you do as she says, putting your cupped palm out in front of you as you shut your eyes.

You feel a small, very solid object get placed in your hands (So not a new dessert to try, you think with only the slightest tinge of disappointment). But that all dissipates as soon as Bridget exclaims, “You can open them now!”

Your eyes flutter open, gaze pointed downwards towards your palms. Immediately, a tender surge of awe floods your heart, making its pace quicken as it beats rapidly. Your heart throbs with such a profound gratitude you worry it’s going to burst any second from how touched you feel.

You pick up the chain placed in your cupped hands, an elated smile breaking through as you take in the bracelet Bridget gave you. Decorated with numerous charms, you take the time to study all of them carefully, running your fingers over the meticulous hand-crafted details as you realize the significance of each one.

They’re not random designs chosen simply for aesthetic purposes; no, each one resembles something, either about you or your relationship with Bridget. A clear-cut gemstone of your favorite color placed next to a small depiction of your favorite animal both hang off the chain. Then there’s a metallic red apple symbolizing the one time you two went apple picking at an orchard; a little set of playing cards with the same design at the deck she used when she first taught you how to play; a small face of a gray kitten with white whiskers, resembling the one you two saved from an incredibly high and strangely twisted tree the first time you visited Wonderland.

Nevertheless, the finest of them all is the pink, glittery heart that sits right in the middle. Embellished on its surface is a fancy cursive B next to your first initial, conjoined with a small plus sign.

An everlasting symbol of your intimate bond.

Your mouth is fully agape, eyes round as saucers and eyebrows arched in a mix of nearly tangible astonishment and disbelief as you turn the bracelet around in your hands over and over, examining each charm with a sharp, precise eye. Bridget sits in quiet anticipation, holding her breath as she awaits any kind of reaction that can give her even a glimmer of an idea as to how you feel.

“Remember when you were asking me about the stuff on my desk the other day and I said I'd show you soon?” she asks, breaking the thick silence that has grown to be unbearable for her. “Well, I was working on this as a surprise for you. And, I mean, I felt so bad for leaving you yesterday that I wanted to give it to you today as a little apology.”

Your gaze finally breaks away from the bracelet, meeting Bridget’s jittery eyes. Before she can even process what’s happening, the next thing she knows you’ve lurched forward, arms wrapping so tightly around her body that she struggles to even breathe.

After she gets over the initial wave of shock, Bridget’s wide eyes melt into a compassionate smile, returning the embrace. You hug her firmly, getting lost in the moment and not letting go until you hear a little, “I can’t breathe,” paired with a soft tap on your back, drawing you out of your daze as you realize you’re practically smothering her.

“Oh! I-I’m sorry!” you exclaim, drawing back quickly and examining her figure with knitted brows, making sure she’s alright. “I just…I love it so much! It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me!”

Bridget gives a bubbly laugh, eyes matching her grin as she says, “Oh, it really was nothing. I mean, you’re a princess. I’m sure you’ve gotten much nicer things.”

Smiling, you don’t mention how even the most lavish of luxuries, the most exorbitant of material goods only the finest money can buy, all pale into nonexistence when compared to her gift. The thought, the care, the hours of painstaking work and dedicated moments spent carefully crafting, all for you, is simply unfathomable and impossible to match. You may be holding a small bracelet worth not even a tenth of the simplest of rings you normally get gifted by your family, but to you, it’s worth more than every mansion and diamond in the whole world.

You shake your head left and right, tears of joy brimming and threatening to spill as you lean into Bridget for yet another hug (this time making sure not to squeeze her quite so hard). You know that later, you’ll probably lie in bed and wince at your brashness in this moment, hands covering your flustered face as you toss and turn in embarrassment—but for right now, you’re too swept up in your emotions to care.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” you exclaim, pulling away once again to reach into your bag this time. Retrieving a stack of papers neatly stapled, with lines and lines of orderly notes written in meticulous handwriting, you hand them to Bridget. “I figured since you probably wouldn’t have the time to take notes for the test, I took them for you.”

This time, it’s Bridget’s turn to be flustered from your benevolent gesture. “You really didn’t have to!” she cries, a stunned expression painted on her face as she flips through the numerous pages of detailed notes. She peers back up to meet your gaze with a swirl of shock and delight, her gently creased eyes and the lines on her forehead displaying her inner thoughts. Bridget often wears her emotions on her sleeve, and from sharing countless hours with her, you’ve learned to interpret her facial expressions so well you can practically read her mind. And through her gaze, you can see how she’s in disbelief at the thought that, despite your hatred for the subject and assignment—which you made very well-known—you still spent twice the time you had to on it, just for her.

“Well, I guess we’re even now,” you casually add, saving Bridget from having to formulate a response—you can clearly tell she’s having difficulty putting her emotions into words.

She shakes her head ardently from side to side, her springy curls bouncing vibrantly. “No, we still lost the time we were supposed to spend together! And I did promise I’d make it up to you.”

Before you can open your mouth to tell her that she’d made it up plenty, her head swivels to the side. You follow her gaze to a wide window a few meters away, the bright rays of sun poking out through the clouds and casting golden stripes on the table in front of you.

Her head snaps back towards you, the light in her eyes burning bright as she enthusiastically suggests, “I heard the weather is really nice this weekend! How about we go on a picnic?”

“A picnic?” you repeat inquisitively. You don’t know what you were expecting, but this certainly surprised you.

“Yeah!” Bridget’s talking quickens, the glimmer in her eyes shining brighter as she continues while the vague idea solidifies in her mind. “It’ll be a lot more fun than another study session. I can make the food and you can bring the stuff! The fields just south of here are a popular spot. It’s going to be so much fun!”

She squeals as she claps her hands together. You match her smile, her enthusiasm once again infecting you. “Picnic it is, then,” you reply, grinning as she beams at your approval.

A subtle sigh slips past your lips, unnoticed by Bridget. The same way you always wish she didn’t miss how you look at her, pure adoration and devotion mirrored in your gaze, staring at her as if she created the skies and stars with her own two hands. Which she really did—at least in your universe.

A soft breeze blows against your face, tenderly caressing your cheeks as leaves rustle overhead, whispering to the wind of secrets unheard. The sky is a clear, vibrant blue, all but a few clouds lazily drifting by. Sunshine filters through the branches, casting dappled patterns of light over the checkered blanket beneath you. Birds somewhere in the treetops chatter and sing their pleasing songs, weaving a tapestry of notes that paint the horizon with harmonious brushstrokes. The grass sways gently, mirroring the serene breathing of the landscape.

Everything is tranquil, from the fluttering of butterfly wings to the laughter that sounds from pink lips, like the most melodious of music to your ears. The conversation isn’t that important to you; trivial, inconsequential topics that you really couldn’t care less for. But what truly matters is the way her eyes fill with the purest of sparkles, the way she doubles over as she giggles, the breeze brushing her captivatingly gorgeous curls out of her face.

There’s nothing in the world you would trade for this moment, this sliver in time where you are completely at peace. Where not a single care or worry can reach you, not when the only thing on your mind is how much your heart swells with pure affection, how simply perfect the girl in front of you is.

After she manages to catch her breath from laughing, Bridget meets your gaze—one that is directed at her, but isn’t really looking at her. Your eyes are distant, the unwavering smile on your speaking volumes of emotions.

“Those sandwiches were really good, weren’t they?” she asks you, referring to the special-made lunch that you two had just finished.

You nod, still grinning at her with a persistent gaze. “They were great, Bridget. Nothing that you make could ever taste anything less than delicious.”

She blushes, swatting at your arm playfully. “Hey, that’s not true!”

You laugh, sitting up from how you were previously lying on your back. Catching Bridget’s hand in midair, you reply, “Well, it is, because I don’t lie.”

“Oh? Since when?” she asks, mirth dancing on her features.

“Since always.” You feign annoyance at her accusations, your smile still shining through.

“Ah! Speaking of food, I have something special for you.”

You hum in surprise, watching as Bridget reaches over to your woven picnic basket. She shuffles closer to you, to the point where her knees almost brush against your thigh, with how she’s sitting cross-legged and you with your legs outstretched whilst leaning on one arm.

Opening the lid, her hand disappears inside for a moment before reemerging with a singular cupcake, topped with a swirly pastel pink frosting and decorated with small sprinkles in shades of white and red.

“This is a new recipe,” she explains, holding the treat out to you. “I made it with this super rare flower essence, shipped straight from Wonderland. Let’s just say I gave the batter a lick, and I think it’s my best creation yet.”

“You haven’t tried it yet?” you ask, moving to sit in a position similar to Bridget’s as you accept the dessert.

“Nope! I wanted you to have the first bite.”

Your smile only grows wider, now stretching from ear to ear, an undeniable sense of glee emanating from you. You’d normally argue with her, telling her that she really didn’t need to do something like this. But from all those failed attempts you’ve only learned that Bridget never listens, always putting you first time and time again. So, this time, you simply take a bite, nearly melting away again as the flavors hit.

The frosting has a sugary, saccharine taste, the sprinkles adding a delightfully contrasting texture to the creamy richness of the pink swirl. The cake below it is soft and moist, as if eating a fluffy cloud. The vanilla flavor is smooth, an undercurrent that balances out the sweetness. There’s a slight twinge from a distinct flavor as well, something you’ve never tasted and can’t quite put your finger on. The same way that coffee elevates the taste of chocolate, this special ingredient brings out the sweetness of the vanilla, balancing out the sugar of the frosting. Every mouthful is incredibly light and absolutely delectable, making each moment it graces your taste buds feel like an indulgent bite of heaven.

“So? How is it?” Bridget asks as your eyes swiftly open. Her anticipation lingers in the air, along with your awaited response.

But you barely hear her words, too focused on how the color of the frosting perfectly matches her delicate, roseate lips. They’re so gentle, yet lush, almost forming the most endearing of pouts.

Eyes darting from her eyes, to her lips, back up to her wide, doe eyes again, you throw caution to the wind and spring forward. Your hands move in front of you, supporting your weight as you lean in.

Your lips make contact with her velvety ones, which are even smoother than you imagined. A stolen kiss, lasting but a moment, yet enwrapped by the tender caress of your mouth, the purest of affections seeping in as you hold her lips between yours, then draw back for the briefest pause.

Eyes locked with her wide, expressive ones as you linger a mere inch away from her face, you respond to her earlier question.

“Delicious and incredibly sweet. Just like you.”

end x

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vinjinssunglasses · 2 months ago

Text

—————————————————————————

character: kim gitae

summary: him in a relationship w u <33

start: 23 aug

end: 25 aug

a/n: we don’t know much ab him yet, so this definitely had me thinking but he is definitely a red flag 🙏

—————————————————————————

✮ Not the type of guy to chase after people, but he was thrown off balance after you left him a bitter taste in his mouth. It stirred a yearning within that was hard to ignore. That’s when he found himself having a tendency to shadow your every move, unable to overcome the need to be near you, even if it meant watching at a distance.

✮ Gitae wouldn’t outright ask for your affection; instead he’d either catch you off guard or simply command you. Softly whispering, ‘Kiss me,’ into your ear as he’d edge his face closer to yours. You respond with a quick peck on the lips, the sudden close proximity and his soft breath against your ear sending shivers down your spine, all getting you flustered. Even after you fulfilled what his request, he’d still give you an intense, expecting look. That’s when it hits you — he’s craving more than just a small peck, he has an appetite for something that’ll leave you both breathless.

✮ Gitae takes you out in the most expensive and extravagant of dates, preferring a candlelit table and a glass of the finest wine. In his mind, a girl like you deserves nothing but the best, so he effortlessly swipes his card on whatever you ask for, ensuring you have whatever your heart desires.

✮ Gitae’s a ruthless guy who’s never shown affection properly, until you came and taught him how be loved properly. He hates how you tug his strings and push his boundaries, yet loves how you gently coax him to confide in you, bit by bit. It’s a long, slow process that’ll make any impatient person want to pull their hair out, but seeing how docile and cute he is in your arms, you remain determined.

✮ His love language is definitely verbal (as well as physical). Words like “I love you” don’t come out of his mouth easily, he only reserves them to the most intimate of moments, which is why he holds it in such high regard. But Gitae’s undeniably weak in the knees for praises like: “you’re perfect”, “I’m so lucky to have you”. These words have their own way of lifting his spirits for the rest of the day, leaving him unusually distracted as he savours their impact.

✮ Gitae struggles with emotional intimacy; telling all his deepest thoughts to another is almost impossible. Yet when you ruffle your fingers through his hair and whisper endearing words in his ear, Gitae finds himself accidentally spilling some of the emotions he’s been desperately bottling up.

✮ Gitae lacks the ability to express himself correctly, when he pushes you away suddenly you don’t even know what to think. What went wrong? You replay the events that took place in your head —second-guessing yourself and this relationship— but nothing adds up. Then, when you awake the next morning after a late night, you notice a handwritten note with a bouquet of flowers resting on your nightstand. A simple gesture like this speaks volumes louder than anyones words could — his way of expressing the words that he can’t verbalise, attempting to make things right again after he realised his own mistake.

✮ He’s terrible at cooking. After the waking up, you stumble to the kitchen, drawn the smell of eggs and bacon — but you can’t help but notice something about the smell seems off.

“Good morning.” Gitae calls out as he flips an egg, yet you just can’t take your eyes off his muscular, scarred body which was unexpectedly softened by your pastel pink apron tied around his waist. At first, you despised that apron for its childish design, but now you can’t help but love it. Putting the pan aside, he dishes the plate in front of you and leans over the counter, proud and eager to hear your thoughts. As you stare at the plate with a forced smile, a mixture of disgust and guilt churning in your stomach. Gitae’s your boyfriend, and the last thing you want is to disappoint him, however you can’t even imagine having that anywhere near your mouth, let alone near you.

✮ He can come off as controlling, especially when the grip on your waist tightens as you talk to another man, masking his sour expression with a strained smile.

ׂ╰┈➤ On that note, he’s easily jealous and possessive, and successfully hides it under his composed exterior. If he feels that another man is flirting with you, he’ll subtly assert dominance to let him now that your his —and only his. He doesn’t share, and he ensures it obvious.

✮ When he gets close to you, he starts to relax and become clingy, a stark contrast to his usual, unapproachable demeanour. He typically dislikes being in such close contact with others, keeping others at an arms length. But when it comes to you, it’s different. He finds warmth in your touch, when you run your fingers through his hair and rub his back. It’s as if his hands have a mind of their own, wandering all over your body as though possessed. He can’t help but let his lips brush against yours, pulling you in closer for a deeper embrace. ׂ╰┈➤ Despite everything, he’s still the same guy. After a night spent cuddling you wake up with an unfamiliar chill in the air, you impulsively reach out for Gitae for warmth — only to find the space beside you is empty..?

What is he even afraid of? is it getting too attached to you? Being to vulnerable around someone? Getting too attached to you? Or having you as his weakness? He disappears for a day or two, but when he returns, you can see the internal struggle written over his face as he eagerly clings to you. The familiar blend of cigarettes, alcohol and men’s cologne, a bittersweet reminder of what it felt like to have his arms around you again. Rightfully, you were angry, distraught and confused, but the relief took over as you cuddle him for what felt like hours.

Having been subjected to a live of crime, money and harsh realities, he’s learned to put walls up around him to learn how to survive in a world of deception and bloodshed. He yearns to let you in, to show you the world he’s confined himself in, yet, the walls only grow thicker and higher than before despite his hardest efforts.

#lookism #kim gitae #gitae kim #lookism x reader #kim gitae x reader #gitae kim x reader

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bungalowbear · 4 months ago

Text

Wanna Bet?

Pairing: college!Miya Atsumu x reader

Summary: Atsumu makes a bet with his teammate that he can make you over and turn you into the star of the summer festival. Cue the beach volleyball montage and the girl with glasses getting contacts!

Word Count: 8.3k

A/N: This is my entry for @bloompompom’s rom-com collab. The film I chose was She’s All That. This is my first time writing for Atsumu, so please be gentle with me. Thank you Bloomy for hosting! I had a blast writing this!

On a spring afternoon, the university gym’s doors swing open and Atsumu leads the small group of his teammates down the steps. Their bodies are yearning for replenishment, so they start in the direction of the north gate to their usual post-practice dining spot.

Although still weeks away, conversation about summer and upcoming festivals starts up. The one that’s mentioned first in Tanabata, happening on campus in July. Oriver and Adriah talk about going as a group, while Kiyoomi mumbles that he’d rather not go at all.

“I think I’m gonna pass, too,”Atsumu says. Each of his teammates send him confused looks. “What?”

“Doesn’t your girlfriend like doing that kinda stuff?” Oriver asks.

“Oh, yeah. Didn’t Ami win Miss Tanabata last year?” Adriah adds.

“Yeah.” Atsumu hums noncommittally. “I think so.”

Kiyoomi peers at Atsumu beneath the short curtain of dark bangs, his voice slightly muffled by the face mask covering the bottom half of his face. “And she’s fine with you not going?”

“W-well,” Atsumu chuckles, a nervous hand coming up to rub at the back of his head, “Ami and I are kinda, sorta…not together anymore.”

There’s a collective sound of understanding hums.

“Huh?!” The setter’s expression shift instantly. Brow furrowed and mouth set in a deep frown. “What’s that mean? Why don’t you guys sound more surprised?”

“Given your track record, we expected a breakup to happen. Just not so soon,” Shion says, shrugging. “She’s the captain of the cheer team, so we thought it’d last at least until the end of the season.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that whole star athlete and head cheerleader thing is so typical.”

Atsumu pouts, annoyed that they’re right. His relationship with his ex is the longest he’s had while being in college, and he’s sure it only lasted so long because of the mutual status boost. But he didn’t anticipate it ending so abruptly. When they came back from spring break Ami told him it wasn’t working out anymore. That she met some ski instructor at the lodge she and her parents went to in Hokkaido.

We had an instant connection, Ami had told him with a deep, breathy sigh. She looked like one of those anime girls with hearts in her eyes after meeting a cute boy. Delusional is what she is, Atsumu thought.

“Whatever, there are thousands of girls at this school. Any one of them could put on some makeup, wear a pretty outfit, and become Miss Tanabata.” Atsumu spreads his arms out, confidence oozing out of his every pore. “With the right boyfriend of course.”

Oriver and Adriah make gagging noises. Kiyoomi stares flatly, unimpressed. But Shion is the only one with a twinkle in his eye.

“Any girl, Tsumu?” the libero goads.

“Any girl,” the setter confirms.

“Willing to bet on that?”

Atsumu’s head tilts, his eyes half-lidded in friendly challenge, to stare down his teammate. “What are the terms?”

Shion grins.

“I pick a girl for you to makeover,” he says. “If she doesn’t win Miss Tanabata at the festival then you have to streak at our graduation ceremony.”

“And when I win,” Atsumu says, “you have to call me Atsumu-sama every time you see me until we graduate.”

“Deal.”

The two shake hands, making the bet official. The team continues walking and Shion starts planning his pick while Atsumu listens without much care. That is, until you walk by. Arms full of art supplies, large glasses frames sliding down your nose, paint stains on your clothes, hair pulled away from your face with a bandana. Your expression is set in impassive stone as you stride across the walkway.

Shion smiles. “Her.”

“No,” Atsumu jumps in front of him, “Anyone but her.”

“Too bad. She’s my pick.”

Atsumu whispers your name, looking over his shoulder to make sure you don’t hear him. You’re the girl that works at the convenience store with Hinata. “Her? But she’s so…” He wraps his arms around his middle, an unsettling feeling making him shiver. “Unapproachable.”

But Shion doesn’t budge. Instead he smirks. “Time’s ticking, Tsumu.”

Atsumu straightens, taking a deep breath, and mumbles, “Fine.”

The team collectively turns their heads when Hinata and Bokuto race toward them from the direction of the gym, having stayed back for a brief meeting with the coach. Once they catch up, Hinata asks what they were talking about. Shion opens his mouth, about to explain, but Atsumu elbows him and subtly shakes his head, intent on keeping Hinata out of this loop.

You’re on the night shift at the convenience store. Flipping through a newspaper, you clip out headlines of major conflicts around the world. You’re going to use them for a paper mache project for one of your art classes.

The bell above the sliding glass doors chimes.

“Welcome in,” you greet the new customer without looking up.

There’s no greeting in return, but that’s fine with you since the words are mostly out of habit anyway. The customer’s faint footsteps roam the aisles as you continue cutting strips of paper. After a few minutes they approach the register. You put the scissors down and look up. You recognize the customer who towers over you, even though you sit on a high stool, from the other side of the counter as Miya Atsumu.

You’re only familiar with him because of how much Hinata talks about his teammates. And the names that comes up most frequently are Bokuto Kotaro and Miya Atsumu. The former an outside hitter, and the latter the setter for the school’s volleyball team.

“Will this be all for you?” You grab the protein bar and sports drink to scan. The blonde comes to the convenience store fairly often. Coincidentally, only when Hinata’s on shift. And usually you don’t have to interact with Atsumu at all, but right now your orange haired coworker is currently on his break.

Atsumu nods, and you tell him his total. He digs through the pockets of his sweats and places the assorted coins in the small tray in front of the register. You input the amount into the register and the drawer opens. Grabbing the correct change, you place it in the tray.

“Thank you for coming,” you recite the words offered to every customer on their way out and pick up the newspaper and scissors again. “Have a good night.”

“Actually—”

Your eyes cut sharply to him and his mouth snaps shut. Atsumu’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, but he recovers with a grin that slowly smoothes his lips into a soft line.

“Actually, there is something else.” His hands are inside the pockets of his jacket as he leans forward against the edge of the counter. You don’t miss the subtle invasion of your personal space. “I wanted to ask if you’re free tomorrow night?”

Your brow furrows, leaning back slightly in your seat. “Tomorrow night?”

He nods. “Are you doing anything?”

“Did Hinata put you up to this?”

“No.” The edge of his lip twitches. “He doesn’t—”

“Then is this some sort of new social outreach program?”

“What? No, I wanted to talk to you about…” His voice trails off, eyes glancing down at the newspaper strips, then snap back up to you. “Art.”

“Art?” You raise a skeptical brow.

“Yes.”

“You don’t take art.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

“I’ve never seen you in any of my classes. Or in the art building.”

“I’m taking one of those, uh,” his eyes move to the side as he struggles for whatever words he’s trying to spew out, “by-myself-classes.”

“Independent study,” you correct dryly.

“Right.” Atsumu’s smile is back in full force as he repeats, “Independent study.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. In fact, his expression grows to show off a row of pearly white teeth.

“I don’t think so,” you say.

“Huh?” The setter tilts his head. His expression is painted with confusion, as if the opportunity to spend alone time with him has never been rejected. “Why not?”

You’re saved from having to answer when Hinata comes in through the front doors. He’s back from his break which means you’re heading out to yours.

“Atsumu!” The shorter boy comes to stand beside his teammate at the counter. “I didn’t know you were stopping by.”

“Hey, Shoyo,” Atsumu greets him. “Just came by for a snack.”

“I’m going on my break now.” You try to leave while they’re distracted. But of course, Miya Atsumu has to open his big fat mouth.

“So, about tomorrow night,” he starts. “What time should we meet up?”

You freeze at the end of the counter. Your supplies are tucked against your chest as you stand with your back to the two athletes. Maybe you can just keep walking and pretend you didn’t hear him. You’re a little anti-social so it wouldn’t be all that out of character for you.

“Oh?” Hinata’s voice chimes. “Is he the one who’s taking my ticket?”

“Ticket?” Atsumu asks. You turn your head to catch the setter’s brows rise in intrigue. “Do tell, Shoyo.”

“Since we have tomorrow off from practice I was going to go with her to see this real artsy movie that they’re showing for one night only, but something came up and I can’t go anymore.” Hinata looks up at his teammate with relief and gratitude. “So, thank you for going with her.”

Atsumu turns his smug grin in your direction. “Not a problem, Shoyo.”

“This is great,” Hinata says. A bright smile lights up his expression. “My work friend and my teammate getting to know each other.”

You sigh, knowing you’d never want to be the one to dim Hinata’s excitement. It’d be like blowing out the candles on someone else’s birthday cake. So, when you make your way around the counter and pass by the pair, you grumble, “The theater on the east side of campus. Seven o’clock.”

You walk toward the front, and right as you pass through the sliding doors, Atsumu calls after you with an eagerness too suspicious to be real, “See you tomorrow!”

Atsumu arrives at the theater before you do, reveling in the shocked expression that briefly crosses your face when you spot him by the entrance. You quickly school your features and walk up to him.

Although this technically isn’t a date, Atsumu is still slightly appalled at the apparent lack of effort in your outfit. He’s wearing a henley and his best khaki pants that Kiyoomi steamed for him, and you’re in a pair of loose fitting jeans and a t-shirt that is two sizes to big for you. Ami always dressed up whether they were going out to dinner or just to the nearest Family Mart.

He watches you fish the tickets out of your boxy crossbody. At least you’re familiar with the concept of accessorizing. That’ll make his job a little easier.

You hand the usher your tickets to tear then head over to the snack bar. Atsumu insists on paying. Popcorn, no butter, to share. A bottled water for him and Cherry Coke for you. He’ll steal one or two of the candies you picked out, but he doesn’t tell you that.

Once you’ve found your seats, Atsumu asks about the movie. You tell him it’s a surrealist film from France. His face must betray his confusion because you explain the concept to him until the lights dim and the trailers start.

He can’t really follow what’s happening. Nothing seems to make sense. And when it does, it doesn’t seem to fit within the context of the whole movie. He decides to turn his attention to the popcorn. His eyes keep looking down, waiting for your hand to reach over so that he can accidentally grab some too. Except when it happens you don’t really pay any attention to it. You say a quick sorry, keeping your eyes on the screen.

Atsumu frowns.

No big deal. His next tactic is a classic and sure to execute. He starts by slowly extending his arm into the air as if he’s stretching, even throwing in a soft grunt, then when he lowers it he subtly begins to curl his arm around your shoulder. He’s done it with plenty other girls and each time it worked like a charm. Atsumu is sure he’s nailed it again. That is, until he’s two inches from his target as his hand hovers above your opposite shoulder. That’s when your eyes leave the screen. All it takes is a sharp glance out of the corner of your eye to make him abort. He plays it off and quickly raises his other arm to add to the illusion of stretching. Defeated, both his arms drop heavily onto his lap.

Atsumu doesn’t try again.

When the movie finishes and the lights come back on you throw your trash and walk out of the theater. You both briefly go your separate ways to use the restroom. After, you meet in the lobby then exit the building together. You walk down the street until you reach the bus stop.

Turning to face him, you ask, “So what did you think?”

“It was, uh,” he starts. “There was a lot of…sexual imagery. So it seemed like a romance between the main pair, but then there were some parts that were really random. Like when the woman hurt her finger. Didn’t they realize the bandage kept reappearing and disappearing? I’m sure continuity was a thing in the 30s.”

You smile, amused by his observation.

“Remember, surrealism is meant to be an expression of the unconscious mind. So even though we watched the same thing, we both could have different interpretations. Even from what the director’s intentions were, if any.”

“Right.” Atsumu hums, thoughtful. “So what did you think?”

The bus approaches the curb then. You both board and pay your fare before finding seats in the back. He lets you slide into the seat by the window and he takes the aisle. You speak low to respect others on the bus as you share your analysis, and he’s awed by how you answer. Atsumu knew you were smart from how Hinata spoke about you, but hearing it for himself is something else.

When you’re done he stares at you, analyzing your face.

“What?” you ask.

“Do you ever think about wearing contacts?”

“No, not really.” You slip your glasses off, blinking a few times as you look over his shoulder, then put them back on. “The idea of touching my eyeballs is so bleh. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Atsumu carefully adjusts your glasses so they sit correctly on your face. “Just think your eyes are really beautiful.”

Atsumu dons his most charming grin. He’s got you in his clutches. A few compliments here, natural physical contact there, and he’s got this in the—

“Oh, please.”

His stomach plummets at your scowl.

“I knew it.” Then you grumble to yourself, “I should have trusted my instincts.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My eyes are beautiful?”

Your voice rises with incredulity, earning you a few glances from the other passengers. Atsumu shifts in his seat. He says your name.

“Is this what you meant when you said you wanted to get to know me? Was this some sort of prank?”

Atsumu stops breathing. For a good three seconds his brain stops working, frightened by how close you are to the actual truth.

The bus stops and you rise from your seat. You push past Atsumu’s legs and escape down the aisle and out the back door. Atsumu follows after you, calling your name as you get farther down the street. He easily catches up to you, but even as he trails on your heels you ignore him for an entire block. Until finally, Atsumu grabs your arm and swings around to step in front of you.

“I only agreed to this because Hinata was really excited about it.” You shrug your arm out of his hold. “Is this how you treat your teammate’s friends? By coming on to them and then going back to your little squad and having a big laugh about how girls fall for your dumb pickup lines?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yeah, right.” You cross your arms, defensive, as you glare daggers at him. “Like you didn’t try to put your arm around me? And don’t think I didn’t notice how you waited until I was reaching for popcorn just so you could too.”

Atsumu’s cheeks burn, caught in the act.

When he doesn’t come up with a response fast enough, you scoff and walk past him, leaving him feeling like he really has his work cut out for him.

Despite your last encounter ending on an extremely sour note, Atsumu is back at the convenience store two days later. He doesn’t peruse the aisles like he did last time. No, he comes straight to the register. You frown when he smiles easily at you.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well hello to you, too,” he says.

“If it wasn’t already clear, I have no interest in speaking to you if you’re not going to purchase something.”

Atsumu eyes the small bins on the counter filled with trinkets and individually wrapped sweets. He grabs two candies and sets them on the empty counter space between you. The urge to swipe the cocky smirk off his face is great, but instead you ring him up.

“You’re off in an hour, yeah?” he asks as he hands you a coin.

“How do you know—”

“It’s such a nice day out today. We should go to the beach.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” You hand him back his change. “Stalker.”

“That’s a shame. Guess I’ll just have to sit outside. On the curb. With my backpack.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at said backpack. “Asking every person who walks by if they’d like to go to the beach with me. I mean, I wouldn’t want any of the food I packed to go to waste.”

“If you do that I’ll call the police.”

Atsumu pouts. “Just ‘cause I want someone to experience the joy of the beach?”

“For loitering.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’d really call the police?”

You fix him with a flat stare. He clears his throat.

“Look, you’re important to Hinata.” He puffs his chest out, pointing a thumb in between his very toned pectorals. “And as his senpai, I’m obviously a huge influence in his life.”

You roll your eyes. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that we should at least be friendly with each other. Don’t ya think? For Hinata’s sake?”

“We can do that without going to the beach.”

“I know, but it’s more fun this way.”

You’re still not convinced.

“Please?” He says your name. “One more chance. If I totally blow it again then I’ll stick to just small talk when I come through here.”

“Fine,” you relent. Atsumu throws up a victorious fist. “But this is the last chance, got it?”

“Got it,” he repeats.

An hour later and it’s the end of your shift. Since Atsumu already has his backpack full of everything you’ll both need, you walk directly to the train station. When you tell him you don’t have a swimsuit he says there’ll be plenty of shops selling some and that he’ll buy you one when you get there. So you board the train and head to the beach.

When you arrive, the first thing you do is enter one of the shops to buy your swimsuit. You quickly pick one out and, as promised, Atsumu pays for it before you go into one of the changing rooms. When you reemerge, he has his back to you. But when he turns his brows shoot up nearly to his hairline.

“I don’t really wear stuff like this,” you mumble, crossing your arms over your stomach. Your head is turned away. Your cheeks are warm from embarrassment. You usually like to wear lose fitting, comfortable clothes since you’re always on the move. And it’s just easier to wear things that are okay getting paint or glue or clay all over them.

“Sorry.” His expression returns to pleasantly normal. “You look nice. That’s all.”

You both leave the shop and head down to the sand. You walk along the shore side by side. The silence isn’t awkward, but you’d rather something besides the sounds of your feet trekking through the sand fill the emptiness. You wrack your brain for something to say, but it’s Atsumu who’s the first to speak.

“Is this your first time at the beach?”

“No,” you say. “I came once for a project. It was a study on the ocean and how pollution—”

“Do you ever, like, do anything for fun?” Atsumu interrupts.

Your brows narrow. “I have fun.”

“Oh, yeah? When?” he challenges. When you open your mouth to respond he adds, “And going to see those smart people movies doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“You should be going out when you’re having fun. With other people, with friends. You have those, don’t you?”

When you stay silent, he looks over at you. Your eyes are averted, watching the water recede before the next wave.

“I have friends,” you say in a soft voice.

“Other than Hinata?”

“Fine.” You huff. “I only have one friend. Happy now that you’ve found out how much of a loser I am?”

“I don’t think you’re a loser. If you were a loser, do you think the star setter of the school’s volleyball team would be at the beach with you?”

He plays up his declaration with his back straight and hands on his hips, his face turned toward the ocean so the breeze blows through his hair. You should find it annoying, pretentious even, but instead you’re amused. A giggle passes through your lips. You try to hide it behind your hand but he’s already noticed and is laughing along with you.

“Hey,” he steps in front of you. He holds out his hand. You look down at it in confusion. “Friends?”

You’re tempted to take it. While you’ve been happy all this time being in your own bubble and occasionally letting Hinata in, you can admit to yourself that something is missing. And just maybe, Atsumu is the one who can help you figure out what. But you still can’t help but be wary of him.

“We’ll see how the day goes first.”

You walk past him, taking hold of his elbow as you do.

You both walk a bit more until you reach a cove. There aren’t as many people on this part of the beach so it’s the perfect place to set yourselves up for the day. Atsumu takes off his backpack and fishes a couple towels from inside and hands them to you. As you’re laying them out, you hear someone call his name.

You look up to see Hinata at the top of the steps that lead to the street. A taller man with white frosted tips is on his left and another with a wide brimmed hat and a face mask on his right. Hinata waves both hands in your direction and you wave back in confusion.

“I thought you said it was just us two.”

“I didn’t invite them.” Atsumu turns to you, raising his hands in front of him. “I swear.”

“Relax, Miya.” You chuckle. “It’s fine. Hinata talks about you all so much I figured I’d eventually have to meet the rest of the team.”

“Right.”

The rest of the volleyball team files in behind the three at the stairs. They all race down the stairs to join you in the cove. Hinata makes a beeline for you, the strap of a long bag over his shoulders and a volleyball under each arm.

“What are you all doing here? Did Atsumu tell you we were coming to the beach?” you ask your friend.

“We haven’t had a team outing in a while, and when Shion,” he pauses to point to the one who Atsumu pulls away to talk to privately, “suggested the beach Meian, our captain, said it was a good idea.”

“Oh, okay.”

The rest of his teammates are curious about you and so they crowd around you for introductions. Bokuto and Meian carry a large ice chest. Adriah, Oriver, and a couple of the other guys have bags full of food, towels, and sunscreen. Sakusa is setting up his large umbrella and parking himself beneath its shade. Shion comes over when he’s done talking to Atsumu.

They all seem to know you even just a little. Bokuto is the one to tell you that Hinata talks about you all the time, which makes your friend’s face turn bright red.

The bag Hinata carries turns out to be holding a volleyball net. After it’s set up the teams are created. Atsumu ropes you onto his team and shows you how to position your hands to pass. He then stands beside you and shows you the proper form. You copy his stance, bent knees and joined arms outstretched. Hinata helps you practice by throwing you a few loose balls. Atsumu praises you for how quickly you catch on.

Meian calls for the game to start and everyone gathers on their respective sides of the net. Sakusa keeps score from under the umbrella. You’re a bit overwhelmed with how competitive the others are, so you make sure to stick close enough to Atsumu in case you need help. Which is often. You frown when he tells you that they’re toning it down for your sake. If this is what toned down looks like for them, you’re interested to see what they’re like in full action.

After a few games, everyone settles on towels to eat the sandwiches and fruit that was packed. Atsumu unpacks his backpack to show you what he packed for both of you. There’s sliced watermelon, macaroni salad, and egg sandwiches. You thank him before grabbing a half sandwich from one of the bento boxes.

You chew on a piece of watermelon as you watch Atsumu talk with his teammates. His expression is bright as he jokes with them. He will occasionally get poked fun at and that’s when his expression shifts to incredulity, but you even find that sort of endearing.

You turn to Hinata. He’s watching you with thoughtful eyes. You ask if he’s okay. He shakes his head and smiles brightly at you.

“Yup!”

At the end of the day you all ride back together on the train. When you can’t fight your sleepiness, your head ends up resting on Atsumu’s shoulder. The last thought you have is that you feel like you had more fun than you were expecting.

You don’t know how this happened.

You’ve been staring at the bulletin board for ten minutes now. At the sheet of sakura colored paper that has a list of names typed onto it in black letters, yours at the bottom. Atsumu’s ex-girlfriend Ami is at the top. You have no recollection of entering the Miss Tanabata contest. Sure, you enjoy looking at and making pretty things, but you have no intentions of being one. At least not one held up to the standards of a beauty pageant.

Someone is messing with you. That’s the conclusion you draw when you finally tear your attention away from the board and head toward the glade. You join Atsumu for lunch you quietly take your seat next to him on the bench. You pull your lunch out from your bag and notice his leg anxiously bouncing up and down.

“Atsumu?” He perks up at you saying his name. “What’s wrong?”

“Are we not going to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About your nomination for Miss Tanabata?”

“Why would we?” You pop the lid off your plastic bento box. “It’s not like I’m actually going through with it.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen. He frantically turns his body to face you. “W-why not?”

“It’s obviously someone’s dumb idea of a joke,” you say.

“But your name’s already on there. It’d be rude to back out now.”

He has a point. Even if you didn’t enter yourself, the people who organize the festival are probably already accounting for how many contestants there are. You know first hand what it’s like to prepare for big projects. You don’t want to make any trouble for them.

“I suppose…”

Atsumu leans forward, face inches from yours. You’ve noticed he doesn’t fully adhere to the etiquette of personal space. “You’ll do it?”

“Yes,” you concede. You place a hand on his shoulder to regain the distance between you. “But I don’t really know anything about beauty pageants.”

“That’s fine. I’ll take care of everything,” he assures you. “And I know just where to start.”

“Your eyesight is really bad, you know?”

“I do.” You laugh, watching Atsumu unbox your new contact lenses. You’re both in the small bathroom of your studio apartment. “I’m well aware of my prescription.”

“I had to special order these. Express delivery, too.”

“Well,” you shrug, “you were adamant.”

Atsumu chuckles and gestures for you to take off your glasses. You do, and set them on the counter beside the sink. Turning to the mirror, you stand side-by-side with Atsumu while he gets everything ready. Your eyes wander to the mirror. You can’t see yourself, not really. Your face is smudged of all recognition, as if you were a sketch and someone took their thumb and rubbed at the pencil lines that contour your features.

“Everything’s ready,” Atsumu declares. He nudges your elbow to get your attention. “You nervous?”

“A little,” you admit.

“Don’t be.” He offers you a warm smile. “I’ve been wearing them since high school and really the biggest problem you’ll have is remembering to take them off before you got to sleep.”

You hum. “If you say so.”

You wash your hands and dry them off. You take one of the lenses from their package and Atsumu hands you the bottle of solution. You rinse it then tip your head back and carefully place the lens onto your eye. You flinch when you make contact. The feeling is uncomfortable at first but you blink a couple times to let yourself adjust. You do the same with the other lens.

Once they’re both in place you drop your gaze to the mirror again. You raise your brows slightly at your reflection. Atsumu was right. The glasses did hide a lot of your face. You feel exposed, like there’s too much of your surroundings you’re seeing without your glasses to frame your view.

But you’re also intrigued by your bare face. You always thought you were average looking, and maybe you still are, but it’s like your seeing a whole new person. The shape of your cheekbones is slightly off. Your eyes have more space between them now. But somehow it all works.

Atsumu clears his throat, then asks, “What do you think?”

“It’s…different.”

“Good different?”

You turn your head. He’s already looking at you, expression of an eager puppy waiting to be told he’s done a good job. That he’s a good boy. The corners of your mouth tilt upward into a shy smile.

“Yeah,” you say.

The two of you are hanging out in one of the studios in the art building. Well, you’re working on your class project and Atsumu is hanging out. He lounges across the worn sofa at the edge of the room, too long legs dangling off the end.

He blew off his teammates to hang out with you. Again. Lately he finds himself wanting to spend all his time with you, which confuses him because he’s never felt this way with past girlfriends. But you’re not actually his girlfriend. Sure, he spends nearly all his time outside of classes and volleyball with you. But at best you’re a friend. And at worst…you two still wouldn’t even be talking to each other outside of the convenience store if it wasn’t for the bet.

What bothers Atsumu the most is lately there’s something warm and unfamiliar stirring in his chest when his eyes are on you. Everything inside of him is telling him to keep you close, to make sure you’re a friend that he’ll always have. He can’t explain the feeling other than he needs to know you for the rest of his life.

The thought makes him freeze.

You look at him from the corner of your eye and smirk, catching him staring at you.

“You didn’t bring anything to work on. Again,” you tease.

Atsumu shakes his head, clearing it of his sudden revelation, and rises from the sofa.

“I’m just observing today,” he, thankfully, says with a smooth voice.

“You’re always observing.”

“That’s ‘cause I like watching you.” He walks across the room and stands behind you, close enough that if he took a deep breath his chest would connect to your back. He remembers his previous remark and adds, “Doing art, that is.”

You lift your head from your project, turning your body slightly so that you can look over your shoulder at him. Your eyes flicker down to his lips for a split second.

“You do?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Electricity. Magnetism. It’s pulling you both closer together. Atsumu leans his head down, slowly, inching at a snails pace toward your face that tips upward to meet him halfway. His chest stirs again when your lips are about to touch. His heart is pounding with the fact that this will be the first time you both share a kiss.

Your eyes fall closed. You want this. He wants this.

So why does he pull away?

When the kiss doesn’t happen, your eyes reopen and your expression immediately falls. Atsumu wants to kick himself. He wants to kiss you, but he doesn’t understand what this feeling is inside of him. He made a bet. You’re just a bet.

Right?

He’s made this all more complicated than it should be.

You clear your throat, turning your attention back to your work. He watches you stare at your hands for a few seconds before you start up again. He lingers for a few minutes before settling back down on the sofa.

Awkward silence lingers between you for the rest of the night. Neither of you dare to address it even when he walks you back home.

The izakaya is buzzing with excited chatter. The volleyball team is celebrating a big win with an even bigger dinner. Seriously, you’ve never seen a group of people eat so much food.

Atsumu is on your right, but neither of you have said more than a few sentences to each other. Thankfully, Hinata is on your other side so he’s made sure to make you feel included as much as he can. It also helps that the statistician, the only other girl in the group, is seated right across from you. She’s sweet, if not a bit skittish, and you’ve made plans to meet up at a cafe later on in the week.

When everyone has had their fill, the tab is paid and everyone files out the door and onto the sidewalk.

Your apartment is only a few blocks from here so you told Atsumu that you’d be fine walking by yourself. When you told him that you thought it was the right thing to do, but now you’re not so sure. He seems like he wants his space, but you can’t help but wonder and worry if the almost kiss at the studio is what’s making him so weird with you now. You don’t like this distance between you. It doesn’t feel right after getting to know each other better. You want to clear the air.

Thankfully, you catch him before you all go your separate ways. You won’t ask him to walk you home, though you really want to. You want to spend a little more time with him. Instead, you settle for reassurance.

“Atsumu.” You cling to the back of his shirt. Enough to catch his attention, yet weak enough that he can escape if he wants to. Your voice is small, uncertain when you ask, “We’re good. Right?”

“Yeah,” he says without looking back. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I just wanted to make sure. After what happened in the art studio…I just—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he cuts you off. “Nothing happened.”

Finally, Atsumu turns his head to look back at you. But it’s not his usual smile that he fixes you with. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Right.” You release his shirt. “Nothing happened.”

“I…” Atsumu’s lips part. His chest expands in a silent intake of breath. He looks like he’s ready to say something. Instead, he deflates. Averts his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch. ‘Kay?”

You nod once, then Atsumu jogs off to catch up with Sakusa without looking back.

The festival is in a few days and all participants are required to help decorate the quad. You’re helping hang a banner in between streamers when there’s a commotion behind you. At first you don’t pay attention but then you hear a familiar voice.

You peek over your shoulder and see Atsumu with his hands flying over Hinata’s face, trying to cover his mouth, but Hinata dodges every attempt as his voice carries across the quad.

“A bet?!” Hinata shouts. His incredulous tone is accompanied by a tight expression. You’ve never seen him look so angry before.

“Who told you?” Atsumu asks.

“It doesn’t matter who told me. You didn’t tell me.”

Things didn’t get better between you and Atsumu after the izakaya. You’d hoped you could get past whatever weird tension was forming between you, but Atsumu wasn’t giving you any clues as to why that wasn’t possible. Hinata has known him longer so maybe he’s what Atsumu needs to get out of whatever funk he’s in. Although, this looks like too heated of a talk between them to be any sort of constructive.

You hand off your edge of the banner to the girl next to you and walk over to the pair. However, the closer you get, the more your stomach sinks.

“You and Shion bet you could turn any girl into Miss Tanabata,” Hinata accuses, words seething. “And you chose her. She’s my friend, Atsumu. Why would you pretend to get along with her for something as dumb as a bet?”

“Shoyo, please.” Atsumu’s eyes are wide and frantic, like a cornered animal. “Let me—”

“Am I a bet?” you interrupt loudly.

Atsumu’s eyes dart to you. He still has that look of an animal, but now more like a deer caught in the headlights, when he says your name. Nearly half a minute goes by and your patience wears thin when he doesn’t say anything more.

“Am I fucking bet?” you repeat through gritted teeth.

Atsumu has the decency to maintain eye contact when he confesses. His voice is soft, thick with guilt.

“Yes.”

One word is all it takes to shatter the illusion. You look around the room and the heavy weight of everyone’s eyes on you brings you back to reality. You don’t fit in here. You’re only here because Atsumu made it happen.

Your eyes return to Atsumu. You see the struggle in his eyes, torn between being silent and still or speaking up and coming to meet you.

When he makes his choice and the gym remains painfully quiet, you turn away and flee the quad.

You’re in the art studio working on your project when Hinata pokes his head in. He calls your name and you look over your shoulder at him. When you don’t tell him to get lost he takes that as his cue to enter.

He shuffles over to your workstation and drops the bag of takeout on the corner. He begins taking out the containers, and with a single whiff you can tell it’s from your favorite restaurant.

You sigh. Hinata has always been a great friend to you, his cheerful and genuine personality sinking its teeth into you the first time you met. Which is why you feel awful even asking your question. But you just need to hear the words come out of his mouth.

“Did you know?”

“No,” he answers. There’s not a trace of offense heard in his voice. “I wouldn’t have nominated you if I did.”

“You nominated me?”

Hinata shrugs, cheeks dusted with pink. His fingers trace the edge of the food container lid.

“I was really excited to see you and Atsumu getting along at the beach,” he confesses. “You were my first friend outside of volleyball that I made when I first came here. So, I was happy that you were coming out of your shell and talking to someone who wasn’t me or a classmate for a project.”

“I guess I am a bit of a hermit,” you say.

“I talked to the guys.” At the mention of his teammates you immediately frown. “They didn’t mean to hurt you. They were really just trying to knock Atsumu down a few pegs, but didn’t think about the aftermath of it all. They all really like you, and Shion especially wants to apologize for hurting your feelings.”

You’ve had a few days to process everything, but that sting of deception still lingers. The handful of times you were around his teammates you never once felt that they were bad people or would want to purposefully hurt you in any way. That’s probably the reason why you feel as sad and disappointed as you do. You really thought you’d found people you could open up to, but all you did was get hurt in the end.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

Hinata hums, a simple acknowledgement of your choice. Silence lingers for a minute before he blurts out his next sentence.

“I think you should still do the pageant.”

Your brow furrows. “What?”

“Part of it is the popularity vote, but they also judge you on other stuff, too. Like public speaking and hidden talents. Or something like that. I think you could really win.”

“I don’t know, Hinata.”

“C’mon.” He extends the vowel in the way a younger brother might beseech his older sister. “It’ll be tons of fun. And you can’t let your outfit go to waste.”

“Maybe you’re right. I do still have a hair and makeup appointment at the salon.”

You frown, remembering Atsumu’s excitement when he told you. Was he so dead set on winning that he put in this much effort?

“So…” Hinata leans forward, his expressive eyes and orange hair filling up your view inch by inch.

You eye the food beside his elbow. A smirk pulls at the corner of your mouth as you reach for it.

“Let’s eat first, then I’ll give you my answer.”

Hinata is quick to open up the rest of the containers of food. You chuckle as he begins to shovel food into his mouth. But you’re content to take your time with yours.

Atsumu watches the pageant from the crowd and can’t help think how stunning you are. He’s glad you kept the appointment at the salon, and that the outfit you picked out together fits you to perfection. You look beautiful in a new kind of way. However, seeing you this way also makes him appreciate the you underneath all of the fluff. He’s been missing that version of you for a while now.

He cheers the loudest for you during the talent portion where you demonstrate how to paint a cat with your eyes closed. When you step off the stage he stares at you until you find his gaze. He chances a small wave. The big smile you wear lessens just a fraction, but his heart thunders when you send him a nod in reply.

When Ami is announced the winner he sees the brief flash of disappointment across your eyes. Though you keep a pleasant expression until the ceremony is over. That’s when Atsumu pushes through the crowd to find you behind the stage. But one last obstacle stands in his way of getting to you.

Hinata.

The squirt has his knees bent and arms outstretched like a bird, barring Atsumu from going any further. People glance their way as they pass by. Atsumu chuckles nervously, but Hinata keeps his determined gaze locked onto the setter.

“C’mon, Shoyo. I just wanna talk to her.”

“Uh-uh.” Hinata shakes his head. “Not until she says she wants to talk to you.”

Atsumu huffs, about to argue further when your voice sounds from behind Hinata.

“It’s okay,” you say, placing a hand on Hinata’s shoulder. “I want to talk to him.”

Hinata straightens up, smiling warmly at you. But when he turns to leave he pointedly glares at Atsumu and lets him know, “I’ll be nearby.”

You come to stand next to Atsumu and watch Hinata walk over to a food stall, excitedly drooling over the selection.

“He’s been like that at practice too,” Atsumu tells you.

“You know, that actually makes me feel a little better.”

“I deserve that.”

“You do.”

Atsumu says your name. You both turn to face each other, the first time you’re seeing each other so closely in the last three days. You’re looking at him with an unreadable expression and his heart won’t stop pounding.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says. “I was a different person when I made that bet. I went from girl to girl because I just saw them as a way to have fun or let off some steam. Volleyball has always been the most important thing to me, and I didn’t feel like I had any room in my heart for something serious to share that space with. Until you. You slowly crept your way inside and now I can’t get you out. I don’t want to. I want you to stay. That is…if you want to.”

“I was doing just fine on my own before you plopped yourself right into my life,” you start. “I was content to live the rest of college with Hinata as my only friend. But now you’ve made me realize how scary it is to open up to someone, and how much it hurts when they let you down.”

“I’m—”

You raise a hand to stop him. Atsumu holds his breath. He doesn’t think he can handle what you’re about to say. You’re going to let him down easy. Cast him aside in the most humane way possible despite what he’s done to you. He was dumb, ignorant, and so full of himself when he made that bet. But how can he even face another day without you knowing how much he regrets it? How can he prove to you that he’s changed? That he isn’t the same as before? He’ll grovel if he has to. Hell, he’ll even put on a collar and let you—

“But you’ve also shown me how much more exciting life can be when there’s more people to share it with. And that’s something worth taking a chance on.”

Your voice breaks through his thoughts and Atsumu’s brain comes to a screeching halt. He blinks once. Twice. A third time for good measure to make sure he’s processing your words correctly.

“Yeah?” he asks, his hand tentatively brushing against yours.

“Yeah,” you say.

You slip your fingers in the spaces between Atsumu’s. Your soft skin is warm against his, and he feels like he’s closer to being complete.

Epilogue

After four long years your graduation has finally arrived. You’ve worked so hard to get to this point and are ready to move on to the next chapter of your life.

The ceremony is nearing its end and you crane your neck to where Atsumu is supposed to be sitting with his teammates who’re also graduating. You both decided to sit with your respective friends and then find each other after the ceremony. But now you’ve lost sight of him. How could you, though? He’s supposed to stay seated along with everyone else.

Suddenly, you hear a commotion. You turn and see a familiar shade of bottle blonde hair running down the middle aisle. It’s Atsumu. Only he’s no longer dressed in his cap and gown. No, he’s stripped himself of all his clothes, sans a volleyball clutched between his hands that covers his manly bits, and is now streaking across the auditorium.

There’s raucous laughter and applause from the students. Scandalized gasps sound from the edges of the room where family and friends are seated. Some of the faculty try to catch Atsumu as he dash across the podium, but he’s in far better shape than any of them and easily evades them.

He jumps down and heads back up the opposite aisle he came down. You’re sitting at the edge of your row and can see him making a beeline towards you, a wildly gleeful expression on his face.

“Tsumu, what—”

“Hold this for me, babe?” he asks in a hurried breath, thrusting the volleyball into your hands.

He’s fully exposed now. Your cheeks are hot, burning, as there’s an even bigger uproar from the students. He takes advantage of your stunned state and gives you a quick peck on the lips before dashing away once again.

A line of five men in security uniforms chase after your boyfriend. You hear the heavy auditorium doors fly open as Atsumu makes his escape.

You lean back in your seat, wrapping the volleyball in your arms and holding it close to your chest. You can’t fight the laughter that bubbles out from between your lips.

Atsumu never did tell you what he had to do since he lost the bet. So much time had passed that you thought Shion let him off the hook.

Well, now you know that is not the case at all.

#catalog #wanna bet?#miya atsumu x reader #atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #romcomcollab #miya atsumu #atsumu miya #haikyuu!!#college!atsumu

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ilythecolorpink · 1 year ago

Text

The Drinking Game (Ino Takuma x fem reader)

You and your best friend Ino Takuma decide to go drinking and while you both drink more, Ino slips up when he confesses a little too much.

You were brushing your hair in front of your mirror on a Saturday night. Your body yearns to sink into your cozy sheets and drift off to sleep. A ringing from your phone snaps you out of your thoughts as you walk over by your nightstand to see that the caller is none other than Ino Takuma.

Sighing in annoyance, you pick up the phone and ask, "Ino, do you know what time it is?" "Yep, it's 9 o'clock, why do you ask?," he says on the other end of the line. You give up and respond, "Never mind, so what did you want?" to the question. He says, "I was thinking that we should go out drinking?" "Seriously?" you ask as you lay your hand across your forehead. He exclaims with a smile, "Yeah, why not? Trust me, it will be fun." You sigh and mutter, "Oh what the hell, where are we going?" as you finally give in. He responds, "Atta girl, I'll meet you at your place and we can walk there together."

As soon as you're dressed and wearing your freshly designed dress. You move in the direction of the door when you hear a knock. When you open it, Ino is there wearing his typical black sweatshirt, black pants, and a beanie-style cap with his brown hair peeking out. "Wow Y/N, you look... beautiful" he adds with an expression of astonishment as he looks up and down at you and has a slight blush on his cheeks. His redness causes you to feel a flutter in your chest, so you approach him, place a gentle palm on his forehead, and innocently inquire, "Are you okay? You're all red." He timidly says, "Oh what me? I'm totally fine," and then steps back. He cuts himself off as he says "Come on let's just go." Your hands are entwined as you follow him.

You finally make it to the bar after some time has passed; Ino opens the door for you, and you enter to hear the loud music. Together, you two find a booth where you can sit next to each other. You turn to him and say, "Let's order the drinks, shall we?" "Now you're speaking my language, what did you have in mind?" he remarks while flashing a wide smile. As you respond, "I was thinking of having a few shots and you?" you give a small smile. "I'll get the same as you", he declares as he sits back in the seat and spreads his legs out in front of him. "I'll take 4 shots of sake, please," you remark as Ino gets up from his seat to take your order. He quickly replies, "You got it, mama," with a surprised expression on his face.

He returns after getting our drinks and sits down. He hands you your shots and says, "Here you go, my lady," and you thank him in appreciation. He asks the preposition "Let's play a game?" You raise one eyebrow as you inquire, "What kind of game?" "Let's play truth or drink," he adds, putting his arm around your shoulder. "Deal but know that I won't go easy on you", you shrug as you smirk and hold your glass in your hand. He replies with a chuckle and adds, "I'm counting on it." "Okay Y/N, out of all the teachers, who is the hottest?” he says as he poses the first question. Then you smirk and reply, "My my if I had to say, probably Nanami." His exaggerated gasp is followed by the words, "HIM? You can't be serious, but wait, you have to tell me why.” He notices your amused expression as you take the shot and says annoyingly, "HEY, that's not fair." You tease, "Remember, you can only ask one question."

Your faces begin to flush as you both continue to drink more. You respond by asking, "Ok, answer me this, who do you have a crush on?" You're not sure if the man's face is getting redder because of the question or the drink. The thought "Come on brain think what would Nanami do?" kept circling in his head. He pauses for a moment before saying, "I can't say it." He gets a teasing response from you, "Oh don't be shy now." He says "You" while covering his mouth with his hand. "I can't hear you if you do that", you said as you grabbed his hand and put it on his chest to fill the gap between you two because his hand was muffling the sound. He looks down and then away from you before he says, "It's you." You hold him by the collar of his sweatshirt while your faces are only a few inches apart, whispering seductively, "Tell me, what are you going to do now hm?" He tries to maintain eye contact while he hesitantly says, "I want to." Then, as he becomes more nervous, you say "I won't do anything if you don't use your words, darling." Then he says "Please kiss me." He moans a little into your kiss as you hold his hair to keep him close and you taste the alcohol on his soft lips.

A/N: I hope y'all liked this. I want him and Nanami ong, I love you all.

#x reader #fanfic #anime #jjk #jjk x reader #x y/n #anime and manga #jujutsu kaisen #ino takuma #ino takuma x reader #ino takuma x female reader #kento nanami #nanami kento #takuma ino #takuma ino x reader #takuma x reader #ino x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu sorcerer

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edgeray · 5 months ago

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*presses my face against your tank* HELLO RAY !!! :D I AM FINALLY HERE !! MY BRAINCELLS HAVE COLLIDED AND PRODUCED A THOUGHT !!

or, er, sort of? more like a vague vibe, but i digress. basically, consider: pining arle. how does she realize her feelings for you? how does she cope? how does her behaviour around you change? does it? what is she thinking the whole time? when would she consider making a move? essentially i would like to see you psychologically pick apart this woman. go as in depth into her brain or inner monologue as you want !!! the set dressing can be canon or an au, i’ll eat it up regardless :)) and as a professional angst writer i know you can write some absolutely monstrous (/pos) yearning and i’m frothing at the mouth thinking about it 🤤🤤🤤 lookin forward to your thoughts but also take your time with it !!! godspeed 🫡🫡🫡

An Unfit Role

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Oh sev… you spoil me too much. You truly do. Somehow this turned into very ‘Arlecchino is a person'-esque and I don't know how but oh well. I don't know if this answered your questions very well, but hopefully this is what you mean by psychologically picking apart her! Was this enough pining? Content warnings / info - uhh none I think. just a lil bit of angst, 1.4k words

Arlecchino is many things. The Fourth Fatui Harbinger, a Snezynayan diplomat, the head of the House of the Hearth, and simply ‘'Father.’ She takes on many roles, and enforces them with an iron fist, every facade meticulously practiced and rationalized. Perfected as if she were an actor on a stage, every action and step is calculated beforehand. And if external factors or unpredictable variables crop up in the midst of her play? Well, a good actor knows how to improvise. Arlecchino is well aware of her roles, has memorized the lines and drilled through every movement. The Knave has many feats from each character she plays. A flawless performer, in those aspects.

A lover is not a character she can play. Someone who loves. It is a role that she cannot hope to touch, one she cannot imagine assigning herself too. She is far too inexperienced in what it pertains to. Her perception would grossly mischaracterize it, painting a rather crude display of what she knows of but doesn't know. After all, how could one act without an adequate example? No actor would want to showcase a poor impression of an original source material, an actor presents only their most remarkable qualities. A good actor knows what they cannot act, and it is this where her talents reach their limit. It is what her role as a ‘Father’ stems from; this inability to express something far too fragile and flimsy for her to hold.

Of the few showcases of others playing the role, Arlecchino is knowledgeable enough that they are simply inept showcases. The Tsaritsa, who has shown the capability to act, and yet chooses to conceal her abilities from her audience. Crucabena, an unqualified actor, whose words dripped with far too much venom for the soft-spoken voice that she used. Perhaps Clervie was the only accurate and genuine actor able to play the part, but one cannot appreciate the traits of an unfinished story. And the naive Peruere, who could hardly imitate her counterpart, was maimed by Arlecchino’s own hands. It is here that she learns that the role of a lover earns no applause, because it adds little to the plot, and so it lacks a function in her story.

Despite this, she finds herself in this scene, where she plays a character unlike her usual, an entirely new character involuntarily thrusted into her by the cruel machinations of her mind.

It is a subtle thing. First, she was just the Knave to you. But somehow, among your presence, her facade slips, and she dons another character.

She becomes a character who knows of nothing but the way her sight is captured by a singular person, a character whose dead heart begins to beat, daring to flutter back to life after it was painfully wrenched out of her chest by her favorite story's ending. She becomes acutely aware of this role when her eyes linger on you a moment longer than need be, when she indulges your empty but no less engaging conversations, when she familarizes herself with the particular fauna scent you carry. When she closes her eyes, your smile flashes through her mind, she knows she's fallen.

An actor knows when to quit, when they misfit the character they're performing. And yet her mind remains stubborn. Acting a role one does not fit will only damage the actor's reputation, and she intends on abandoning it. But it is difficult for her to dismiss how much she yearns for a warmth that the blood flames in her veins cannot bring. It is difficult to deny that she is not momentarily blinded and stunned by your beaming expression, even when you are not looking at her. It is increasingly more difficult to control the pulsing underneath her skin. This is a character she cannot control, instead, it often feels that the character controls her.

It is an unseemly, disgusting appearance for her. If it were physically possible, she would plunge her very own cursed, clawed hands into her chest, to grasp onto this fickle, volatile organ and crush it just to exhaust the remaining embers of a futile hope. If only it were as simple as that. Love is far too much of a complicated role for her, and yet it is somehow inescapable. Some sort of torment placed onto her by the archons.

She can long, she can reach, she can prance around you, but never can she touch. For love imprints its scorch marks deeper than any weapon or assault. One of the lessons her story has concluded to.

So, instead, she reduces its role to a minor character. She lets her stares remain, but she observes you from a distance. She does not dawdle a second longer besides you if she needn't be. She dresses the role of a lover as an observer. Everything she touches with these wretched, blackened hands soon turns into nothing but embers and ashes, and so the only way that you will remain is away from her.

On her desk, sits a vase with a single flower. It is your favorite flower, the flower that you smell of. It does not move from its place, nothing is done to it besides being watered. Its stem is so brittle, and the petals are far too easy to wither away.

(It is a reminder, every time she sits at her desk. Oh, how'd she like to stroke the patels with as much tenderness as she could muster. How'd she like to cradle it in her hands, this source of life, despite being so delicate, is so beautiful. How'd she like to be able to wake up everyday, and view upon this blossoming flower. But she is not a gardener. She knows nothing of how to make a flower bloom.)

Humans are the only viable actors for the role of a lover. A curse is not.

(In her dreams, sometimes you are in place of Clervie. Yet, like Clervie, the only moment she is able to cradle you is when her sword impales you. She will not let another flower wilt, she will not burn another flower.)

It is why you baffle her. Why do you gaze upon her with that expression, as if her claws are not one one more inch from piercing your skin and ripping into your flesh? How do you take her hands in yours, somehow slotting them as if they were always meant to, when they’re soiled with vulgar blood? Her cutting words and sharp tongue, how do they not dissuade you? How do you see her blackened skin, and not be driven away by such a mark of impurity and depravity?

How could you not tell that she is improper for the role that you seek?

She wonders if a flower is a poor description of you. She wonders if you are instead a Sundew ensnaring a spider, unwilling to let it escape. No, perhaps that is not fitting for you, because you are unaware how effortlessly she can char you–unaware of the imminent danger that comes with keeping such a venomous creature.

Arlecchino is many things. She is a coward, if only for you. She cannot abandon her role, but she cannot perform better, floating in the state of inadequacy that she so despises. Playing a lover makes her foolish, and it is a compromising role.

She is foolish, but she is despicable. She is selfish. And though she is perfect actor, even performers must fail to succeed. One day, her mental will and patience crumbles. She requests you into her office, your doe-eyed expression widens when she gives you the flower that sits lone in a glass vase on her desk. She tells you that you plague her thoughts, every feeling and emotion is muddied when they concern you, a culmination of things not within her grasp, not within her control.

It is your performance that finally teaches her what she lacked before: playing the role of a lover requires another. It is a role dependent on another character, otherwise it cannot succeed. It matters not how experienced one is with the other, as long as the characters are committed to it.

There is another lesson that she learned from you.

“I cannot act as a lover.”

“Why must you act to love me?”

Love is a fickle, unpredictable thing. There is no words to be practiced, no actions to be scripted.

Arlecchino is many things. A lover may be one of them.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact fanfics #genshin fics #arlecchino #edgeray.writes #edgeray.requests

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beenbaanbuun · 6 months ago

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Love im addicted to you Matz and darling work!!✨pls make masterlist

Soooo I was thinking are they into role playing?? Like what scenario matz and darling choose??

I have one unholy one in my mind, what if mommy hwa ties hong to chair and make him watch as he takes darling ?? This would be soo🤌🏻🤌🏻

hello!!!! the masterlist is here!! she needs updating with the last few works but that’s a job for later im afraid 😭😭

——

they definitely like to add a little spice into the bedroom, and i was actually thinking about that very thing just the other day. hongjoong had been a little too bratty after waking up alone and had decided to take it out not just on darling, but also on seonghwa. now, darling knows better than anyone in that house that being a brat gets you nowhere, except in hongjoong’s case, where it gets you tied to a chair.

“comfy?” seonghwa purrs into his husbands ear as he tightens the last nod. hongjoong tries to wriggle a little, but to no avail. it doesn’t surprise him; seonghwa’s rigging skills are unmatched. hongjoong gives a little shake of his head in response to the question, a defiant look in his eyes as he glares up at his partner. “good; you’re not supposed to be.”

he hears a little giggle from across the room and his gaze shoots over to where you sit on the bed, completely bare and ready for the taking. his eyes narrow, determined to convey a message to you; he may be tied up, but he’s still your dom at the end of the day. you seem to understand it, but you never once wipe the smile from your face… fucking brat.

“you did this to yourself, mi amor,” seonghwa says, stalking his way over to where you sit. a pretty hand lands atop your head, tugging at you until you sit leaning against your mommy’s hipbone. you close your eyes in bliss as he brushes your hair from your face and hongjoong can’t help but feel annoyance bubble up within him at the sight. “hasn’t our little darling proved enough times that being a little shit gets you nowhere? haven’t you yourself dragged her over your lap enough for that little lesson to sink in?”

hongjoong, of course, has learnt that lesson. not only has he taught it to you plenty of times, but he’s also been on the receiving end a few more times than he’d like to admit. it doesn’t always end up with him tied to a chair, but it is always torture for him.

his eyes narrow as he watches seonghwa’s hand dip to your chin, gently caressing your soft skin before lifting your gaze from hongjoong to your mommy. the whimper you let out when a thumb slowly pushes its way between your lips is sinful. pair it with the wide eyes look you offer to his husband and its enough to make the devil himself let out a little prayer. only you could make innocence look so slutty…

“you know, you’re lucky my precious lamb is as understanding as she is,” the thumb is pulled from your mouth with a pop, a single string of saliva connecting the digit to the still parted lips. seonghwa swipes at them, smearing your own saliva against them. hongjoong almost cums in his pants when he sees you chase after the thumb, yearning to have something rested against your tongue once more. “she didn’t even snitch on you when you were being such a troublesome brat. seriously mi amor, refusing to let her sit with you simply because she grew too hungry to stay in bed with you this morning? it’s childish, isn’t it lamb?”

and although it really shouldn’t have, the question makes hongjoong smile. clearly seonghwa was in some sort of tyrannical headspace tonight; to punish hongjoong and then continue on to ask you such a leading question? he really is out for blood.

and it seems as though you can see it too. you blink up at seonghwa’s expression of faux-innocence, your lust addled brain taking just a moment longer to compute than usual. if you answer how seonghwa wishes for you to, hongjoong will no doubt pounce the moment he gets free of the restraints. if you don’t, seonghwa will no doubt take joy in punishing you too. you swallow down your worries as your mind races to decide which lover you’d rather have on your side.

“yes, mommy,” you whisper, your voice unsure and trembling. a proud smile forms on seonghwa’s face as you fall right into the trap he lay for you. he turns his head to face his husband, giving hongjoong a single look that tells all; take this punishment like a good boy, and taking care of you will be his reward…

#ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez oneshot #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez smut #matz x reader #opposites attract universe

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hearts4hughes · 1 year ago

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caught | jack hughes

lake house summers au

a/n: this took me forever to write for no reason at all. is it narcissistic that i’m falling in love with my own au? probably but idrc. enjoy!

tags: @sweetestdesire @hughesluv @michaelrikas @spideyy @longlivehughes

it had been two weeks since the ‘confession’ between you and jack. also meaning, it had been two weeks of trying to keep your relationship a secret together. it wasn’t some ‘forbidden love’ that no one could know about. it was simply just a beautiful secret that binds you together. the thrill of keeping your relationship a secret adds an extra layer of excitement, intensifying the bond you share.

every stolen glance, every brush of your fingertips sends sparks coursing through your veins. but as much as you long to shout your love from the rooftops, you both understand the necessity of keeping it hidden.

you navigate the treacherous territory of keeping your relationship a secret with care and precision. your friends and family remain blissfully unaware of the love that blossoms between you and jack.

the sun dances upon the calm waters, and laughter echoes through the air as you all gather on the deck, soaking up the idyllic surroundings. you and Jack exchange knowing glances- as well as interesting texts.

as the afternoon unfolds, games and laughter fill the air. the tension between you both grows with every stolen touch and meaningful glance, yearning for a moment when you can freely express your love.

“y/n, can you go grab me some beer?” trevor asked, laying sprawled out across the pool chair. “thank you,” he answered himself before you even got the chance to open your mouth. usually, you would’ve argued with him. telling him you weren’t his maid and that he’s a grown man who can do things himself; however, this sparked a chance for you and jack to get some alone time.

your gaze quickly found jack’s. he read you like a book, figuring out exactly what you were thinking without you articulating it. huffing, you got up and began making your way to the kitchen.

“i’ll help you.” jack suggested and shot to his feet. he sent you a quick wink as his back was fully turned to everyone else. he almost even wrapped his hand around your waist but stopped himself before he did.

“it’s only one beer, i think she’s fine-”

“shut up trevor, he’s just trying to be nice!” you snapped, causing trevor to scrunch his nose in annoyance and stick his tongue out at you. you flipped him off in response.

as soon as you get into the privacy of the kitchen, jack grabs your waist, pushing you against the counter, and bringing you into a passionate kiss. the moment, filled with tenderness and affection, catches you off guard, and a spontaneous giggle escapes your lips.

you break away from the kiss, a smile dancing on your face as you look into jack’s eyes. his expression is a perfect mix of curiosity and amusement, mirroring your own joy. the world around you fades into the background as you revel in the moment.

"what’s so funny, babe?" jack asks, a playful glint in his eyes. his hands move from lower back to your upper thighs, lifting you up to sit on the counter.

blushing, you find your words, your voice holding a certain playfulness. "you’re so eager, rowdy," you tease, your gaze locked with his.

with the roll of his eyes, he stifles out a laugh, “do not call me that ever again, and of course i’m eager! it’s fucking torture sitting next to you outside and not being able to hold and kiss you.”

“you are a simp, jack hughes.” your smile deepens, your hand reaching up to cup his face. you lean in for another kiss, a sweet and lingering connection. the touch of jack’s lips against yours is like a thousand fireworks exploding, filling you with a sense of bliss and contentment. it’s in these stolen moments of tenderness that you realize how fortunate you are to have each other.

"jesus, what’s taking you guys so long? are you making the beer from scratch?" luke stands at the entrance of the kitchen, his eyes widening in surprise. “oh, shit…” time slows to a crawl as shock washes over you, freezing you in place.

panic floods your senses as you scramble for a response, desperately searching for words to salvage the situation. instinctively, you shove jack away. he stumbles back, mouth hanging agape as luke’s eyes flicker between you and jack.

luke’s gaze shifts between the two of you, his brows furrowed with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “were you just making out?” his voice carries a hint of disbelief as he tries to make sense of the scene unfolding before him.

“no!” you blurt out.

“yeah,” jack replies at the exact same time.

you and jack turn to look at each other in a synchronized motion. luke twists his head in confusion, “huh?” you both are just as confused as him.

you find your voice, finally, and in an attempt to explain. "jack and i are dating,” you pause to take a deep breath, “we have been for a few weeks but you’re the only person who knows.” the weight of secrecy begins to lift, replaced by a sense of newfound trust. you and jack exchange a glance, silently acknowledging the unexpected turn of events.

luke’s eyes widen further, his surprise transforming into a mix of realization and understanding. he takes a step closer, a wide smile gracing his lips. "haha i was right! i knew there was something going on between you too!” he exclaims, a glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

“i’m sorry, what?” jack asks, completely dumbfounded. “there was no way you knew.” he scoffs.

luke quirks an eyebrow, “i mean you two weren’t exactly being discreet about it. the winks, the weird looks, you two were obviously hiding something.” were you and jack really being that obvious? looking back at it, you definitely were.

“well shit,” your voice is laced with slight defeat. “who knew lukey had a love radar.” he stifles out a laugh in response.

as the three of you stand in the kitchen, the air buzzing with a newfound sense of camaraderie, you feel a deep gratitude for the unanticipated moment. it was seriously getting hard for you to keep your relationship a secret from everyone. at least one other person knew about it.

“so can i tell everyone that i was right? i’ve got money to collect.” he asks, his eyes lighting up. it might’ve been shallow to bet on his older brother’s relationship but who cares? a little extra cash couldn’t hurt.

“no!” you and jack respond in unison. he rolls his eyes, “but i bet a lot of money!” he whines like a child- reminding you that he was the youngest brother.

“i don’t give a shit about money, if you tell anyone, i’ll smother you in your sleep.” jack retorts. luke holds his hands up in defense before disappearing back outside.

this was going to be a fun summer.

#lake house summers au #hearts4hughes #new jersey devils #jack hughes #nhl imagine #hockey blurb #jack hughes au #jack hughes fic #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagines #nora's writings 💐

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talltalesandbedtimestories · 9 months ago

Text

“If You Don’t Look Good, We Don’t Look Good” - Dean x Reader

Rating Explicit

Dean x Reader

Tags: Fluff, Angst, Humor, Shameless Smut (I got carried away), Cameo Appearance by Soft!Dom Dean, Unprotected Sex

Word Count: 4200

You and Sam had decided on a code to use in the most grievous, world-shattering of situations.

Full Dean Meltdown

Neither one of you have had to use it – until you get a text from Sam. A case has gone all kinds of awful for Dean. You are not ready for the version of Dean you have to face in the aftermath.

Notes: This is total self-indulgence because I miss This Dean.

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Hair Pulling" square.

Image created in Canva (links for photos used - found on Google: Jensen Ackles, Liverpool Comic Con, 2023; Jensen Ackles Photo Shoot

You stare, mid-muffin chew, at Sam’s text.

“Fuck me.” A few stray crumbs and a rogue blueberry land on a page of lore you should probably be more careful with. But you can’t be bothered with MOL reference handling procedures at the moment.

This is Red Alert. Defcon 5. Designated Survivor Mode Activated.

You and Sam had decided on a code to use in the most grievous, world-shattering of situations.

Full Dean Meltdown

“Fuck.” There’s no point in continuing to curse to yourself. “Fuck.” But you can’t help it. Neither one of you has ever had to use it before. You’d come close a few times.

The book is forgotten, pushed to the side on the table surface. Your fingers glide over the phone’s keyboard.

Is he alright?!? What happened? Please, tell me this is a joke?

I wouldn’t joke about this. Sam’s words bubble up, line by line. Well, I made the mistake of joking right after it happened. It’s gotten progressively worse the entire drive back. He hasn’t said a single word since we got in the car. IDK what’s gonna happen.

“Fuck.”

Should I evacuate? How much time do I have?

Just pulled into the garage.

Shit, Sam! Do you not understand how a code word for disaster preparedness works? One needs enough time to actually prepare for the disaster!

You wait. More bubbles. Then nothing. Maybe Sam didn’t make it out alive. Maybe you should make a run for it through the war room and up the stairs. Save yourself.

I received some communication. He’s headed straight for the showers. Meet you in the lab.

“A what?”

“Musca.” Sam sighs. “Ever seen ‘The Fly’?”

“On cable years ago, filtered through my fingers.”

Sam continues. “They secrete this sticky goo to build a nest.” His mouth crinkles. “Dean landed in it.”

“The nest?” you ask.

“The goo. A puddle of the stuff. Monster fluids freak him out.”

You shiver in disgust at the thought. “Fuck creature feature fluids. 100% in agreement.”

“So, we tracked the musca to its hideout in an abandoned factory. We split up when we got inside…”

“Why do you always split up?” you ask, following it with a frustrated groan.

Sam purses his lips and then proceeds. “When I found him, he was basically glued to this massive conveyor belt holding the goo like it was a kiddie pool. I had to cut him out of most of his clothes to free him.”

The thought of a half-naked Dean has you shiver for other reasons. “Poor guy,” you add in an effort to express sympathy over your dirty thoughts.

Sam chuckles.

You straighten with worry Sam has figured out your crush on his brother. Ready to dispute any yearnings, you add a grumbly edge to your voice and the question. “What was funny about any of that?”

Sam fists long strands on the right side of his scalp high in the air. “Even his hair got stuck to the belt. I had to hack half of it off.” He fingers his bangs back into effortless waves. “Once we killed it, Dean mumbled, ‘Vidal Sassoon you ain’t, fucker.’”

You shrug, confused. “Well, I mean, I get the trauma from the nasty gnat excretions. But that doesn’t explain why you had to warn of a possible Dean disaster.”

Sam’s gaze tears from yours to stare at the floor by his boots.

“Sam?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I might have said something like, ‘We can’t all be masterful hunters with glorious locks.’”

You frown. “Sam…”

Sam raises a hand in defense. “Hey, maybe now he’ll finally shut up about my hair being a liability. I mean, hello, I’ve still got mine.”

The temptation to knock on Dean’s bedroom door is great. But you refrain, hiding away in yours instead. He’ll be better in the morning, you decide. Especially if you fry up some bacon.

A light rap of knuckles against mahogany distracts you from the latest show binge on your laptop. You pause the action. “Yeah?”

“Got a minute?” Even with the question, Dean’s tone sounds like a command.

You gulp. “Sure.” Rotating in the seat, your hand grips the top of the backrest. You’ll try to hold the line against the Dean Winchester Offensive.

The door swings slowly on its hinges. Dean slinks into your space. It’s the opposite of his usual bluster and humorous bellows that lead to inevitable laughter on your end. His slippers shuffle along the tile. He’s wearing roomy sweats and a dark t-shirt that hugs his torso. A folded towel is wedged into the crook of his arm.

Your brain locks onto two things that appear off about Dean. The first thing totally out of place on the masterpiece before you is the baseball cap.

In the next second, you remember why he’s wearing it. It’s not because he’s undercover as a delivery driver or Fish and Wildlife Game Warden.

Dean does not want you to see his hair in its current state.

The second thing makes your pulse quicken. His beard is… gone. You can’t remember the last time you saw him even close to clean-shaven. You forgot what that sharp jawline used to do to your insides.

“Hey.” You don your best don’t-let-on-to-anything smile.

Dean scrutinizes you as if you are a witness in his rapid-fire way and then huffs. “Son of a bitch told you, didn’t he?”

You decide not to remind Dean he and Sam share the same mother. “He did. I’m sorry. You okay?”

The door clicks shut. “I’ll live. Sam might not see the light of day, though.”

You ignore the murder threat, instead focusing on a new scent in the air. You sniff, nostrils flaring with the deep inhale. Dean smells like he’s working on an amazing beach tan.

He nods at your reaction. “Coconut Oil. I had to use all that was in the kitchen for…” He circles his lower body with a finger and eventually points to the baseball cap.

“Did it do the trick?”

“Better than I hoped. I even got all that nasty shit out of my hair.” His weight shifts from one foot to the other. “But I need a favor.”

“At your disposal.” Still seated, you somersault your hand as if addressing royalty.

That at least cracks a tiny smile into his serious veneer. “I had to take a razor to my hair and cut it pretty short. Can you clean me up in the back?”

You clutch your chest and gasp in the most dramatic fashion you can muster. “You trust me to touch your hair?”

“I trust you with my life, wiseass.” Dean smirks. “Can the sass and help a guy out, would ya?”

A warmth blossoms in your heart at Dean’s words. The heat spreads to your skin. You wave a hand at the towel and clear your throat. “Those the accouterments?”

Dean quirks a brow and grins. “Croutons?”

“And you call me the wiseass.” You sigh.

He shrugs with a nod in agreement. He drops the towel on the desk and lifts one of the corners to reveal the electric razor inside.

“Okay. Here’s as good a place as any, I suppose.” You rise from your seat, close the laptop, and move it to your dresser.

“You sure? We can go to the bathroom.” He thumbs at the door.

You wave a hand at the chair you vacated, now standing behind it. “Here’s good.”

Dean sits. The wooden chair creaks.

“Towel.”

Dean grabs the razor before passing the towel. You flap the fabric, channel your inner toreador, and let it billow over Dean’s frame like a sail. When it settles, you wrap and tuck it into the back of the collar.

Moments like this are pure indulgence. Getting within close proximity of Dean years ago left your brain unable to process the simplest tasks. Breathing. Blinking. Talking. Eventually, you got a handle on your senses. Now, you could treat yourself to the experience of him on occasion in a myriad of ways. No one had to be the wiser that the mundane helped create many fantasies.

“Razor.”

Dean chuckles, presenting you with the razor over his shoulder. “It’s not surgery.”

“Hey, appreciate the seriousness with which I’m embracing this endeavor.” You step to his left. “Dean?”

He lifts his head to peer up from under the brim of his cap. “Yeah?” His blinks emphasize the question.

All that does is force you to focus on his pretty lashes and the eye color he’s daring you to try and describe in your head. The cheekbones and the manicured five o’clock shadow aren’t helping matters either. You swallow and remember what’s supposed to happen next. “Can’t do much with that hat on your head.”

“Oh. Right.” He sighs. “Just, no laughing, alright?”

You place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze softly in confirmation. “No laughing. Promise.”

Dean exhales. You suck in your lips and hold your breath. He closes his eyes and peels the cap off.

You stare dumbfounded.

“Say whatever you gotta say,” Dean mumbles with scrunched features and shut lids.

Your vision clouds. Heart races. “It’s…”

“Awful,” he interrupts.

“Perfect,” you whisper.

Eyes open at the word. His gaze shoots up to meet yours. “Huh?”

Gone are the 90s dreamboat bangs he’s been growing out and tending to since 2020. In their place are a couple of directionless inches that need gel after the scrubbing, clipping, and hat matting. The Musca goo must have done most of its damage around the sides and back. In those areas, he’s shaved it short and close, done his best to fashion a fade that you imagine was muscle memory for him even after all these years. You eye the spot at the base of his skull that needs to be cleaned and tapered.

You’re blinking, fighting back tears, utterly speechless.

Dean stares, total confusion lining his face. “Are you crying? Why the hell are you crying?” He taps the top of his head. “Shit… is it that fucking of a fiasco?”

“No.” You cover your mouth at the possibility a nervous laugh might spill out, which will only irritate him further. Moments pass as you struggle to steady your breath.

“Well, what the hell is it then?”

Dropping the hand covering your mouth, you beam down at him. “It’s you.” You could care less about what you were supposed to do with the razor in your hand. Instead, you perch your ass against the desk so you can lean back and take him in.

Dean’s eyes widen. You’ve seen that look of concern many times. “Yeeaaah. It’s me. Who else would it be? Do I need to get Sam?”

Your head shakes in amazement at the vision. “I haven’t seen this Dean since… damn, since before the pandemic. Since you and Sam made that bet, remember?”

“Gonna have to be a little more specific. Sam and I make lots of bets.”

“The one about you being unable to resist the temptation to take a razor to your hair during lockdown. I don’t even remember what the stakes were.”

Dean contemplates. “Hm. I haven’t got a clue. That was like, what, four years ago.” His lids shade the dark green of his irises. “This Dean?”

You nod. Your breath hitches at the swell of emotions rising. “The guy I first met.”

Dean shifts in the chair and leans forward. Every furrow and crinkle on his face melts away. His eyes appear to double in size as he waits for you to continue.

“My hero.” The whisper is a physical manifestation of how vulnerable and exposed you feel at Dean’s silent interrogation method. You press on. “The one that risked his life to save me… forever ago.”

He lifts one side of his mouth in a lopsided grin. “Sam was there, too, you know.”

You laugh. Cheeks warm at the adorably smug reaction. “Yes, you’re right. He was.”

Dean shakes his head. “Sam’s had the exact same haircut for years. I don’t see you crying every time you lay eyes on him. He’s a walking reminder of the guy you first met.”

“But he’s not you.” In your haste to provide an explanation, you realize you’ve said too much.

Dean’s mouth opens a fraction. His brows downturn. He’s working it out in his head in real-time.

You’re terrified.

A new smile forms. You think you spot a blush on his cheeks. “What else do you remember about this Dean?”

You shrug and tear your gaze from his. You don’t want your words to betray you again.

“Hm.” Dean rambles off a laundry list. “A lot of brooding back then, wasn’t there? I was a really good brooder. Hard to figure out? Distant, too, right? Definitely knew what was best for everybody. Stubborn jackass.”

You remain silent.

“Okay, still a stubborn jackass.”

You giggle. He joins in with a chuckle. Your anxiety eases and you find courage to look at him again.

“We’ve all changed in different ways, I guess. You, for example.” Dean gestures in your direction.

You stiffen. This could go many ways. You aren’t ready for any of them.

“You don’t take any of my shit, for one.” He raises a finger. “You're confident. You speak your mind. You have a life outside of these bunker walls.” Four fingers are on display for a while. He smiles and elongates his thumb. “But you still make this your home.”

“Every second of the life I’m able to live is because of you guys. I owe you everything. I’m lucky you let me make this my home.” You reason.

Dean’s smile drops. The open palm clenches into a fist and rests on his thigh. “You don’t owe us anything.”

“You and Sam did all that for me without batting an eye. You didn’t expect anything in return. You and Sam gave me so much more than I could ever repay. You gave me a second chance. You gave me a home.” You shrug and smile. “You became my home.”

He studies the floor and smirks, stating more to himself, “Not the only long-standing bet I’ve lost to Sam today.” Dean inhales and sits tall, focusing back on you. He nods, slow and calculated. “So, perfect, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get a big head.”

“A little late for that.” He grins and reclines back. “Would you go so far as to say this Dean” – he sweeps his hands in front of his figure in a dramatic gesture – “is irresistible?”

You exhale. “I don’t know if I’d say irresistible.”

He licks his lips. “Whew. Well, that’s good. I mean, otherwise, you’d have the same problem I have.”

You drop the razor on the desk and cross your hands over your chest. “What problem would that be?”

A heated gaze, beginning at your socked feet, rakes over you with his answer. “How much I find every fucking thing about you irresistible. You could shave your head and wear a potato sack, and I’d still have to keep my feelings in check.” You're practically on fire by the time his eyes lock with yours. “Every goddamn second of every day I’m around you.”

“This would be one of those times I don’t take any of your shit,” you scoff and squint back.

It’s his turn to clutch his hand to his chest. “You think I’m lying?”

“I think you’re having a little too much fun at the expense of my soul-baring.”

“Wanna bet?”

Dean’s voiced that question countless times. Tonight, though, certainty laces his words.

He seems to take your silence as the only needed response. “Kiss me.”

“Wh-hat?”

“If you think you can resist, kiss me, and it’s a one-and-done.” His brows lift. “But if you can’t… Well, I might not leave this room anytime soon.”

“That doesn’t sound like a wager. More like a dare.” You straighten your stance. “Besides, you’re assuming…”

He grumbles out an interruption, “Sounds like somebody’s stalling.”

Your mouth snaps shut.

“Maybe we both take the armor off for a night. Take a chance on something that could be awesome.” Dean posits. His hands rub the cloth atop his thighs. “I can make it awesome.” The tone is low and promising. “If it helps, I’m this Dean tonight. We can worry about that Dean tomorrow.” He smiles, reaches a hand out to you, and nods in encouragement.

He’s struggling to play it cool, keep his emotions in check. You’ve seen this Dean before. He’s inhaling and exhaling fast through his nose. His jaw clenches and it cracks your resolve even further.

You drop your shield and let this Dean win you over.

You melt, wrapping your fingers over his. This Dean’s touch electrifies every cell and awakens every dormant hope you had put to rest. He tugs you into his space. His lead forces the parting of your legs in order for his thigh to slot between. You hover. Your chin drops to your chest while his chin tips up high to hold your gaze. His body heat pulses off him like a vibrational energy. “Kiss me.” It’s the sweetest and softest request you’ve ever heard this Dean utter.

Your fingers trace along the freshly shaved hair over his right ear. It’s slippery and smooth in one direction, scritch-scratchy in the other. You can study every battle scar on this handsome canvas. No bangs of curtains or overgrown beard can hide them from you now.

His lips part and release a deep sigh. Your fingers slip down his neck. Warm hands rest on the curve of your hips.

“I won’t be able to resist you,” you whisper.

“Good,” he hums. He’s guiding you with a firm grip to straddle his thigh. Then, there’s an encouraging push with a large palm and splayed fingers against the middle of your back. The sweet smell of coconut hits. Your gaze zones onto that bowed top lip. The way the plump bottom one parts from it to grant entrance.

Dean huffs an impatient groan you are all too familiar with. “You don’t kiss me in the next five seconds, I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?” you tease.

“More like a warning.” His voice is gruff and deep.

You hold back a moan at the sound, then dip down and do as you’re told.

Everything about the kiss is eager and rushed. Together you’re a tangle of limbs and fever pitch need. You’re pressed tight and right to his body - all muscle-tense and trigger-ready. His lips respond in kind to your every brush, swipe, and nudge for more and more.

“Gonna take such good care of you,” he murmurs through the kiss.

You gasp in satisfaction at the intention.

His lips skim to your jaw, under your ear, then down your neck. “I gotta know that’s what you want.”

“Yes, Dean.”

Another hum thrums against your skin. You shiver as fingers creep under the hem of your t-shirt. His nose nuzzles along the frayed v-neck collar. He cups your breasts under the fabric. A thumb and finger twists one of your nipples even more erect. Teeth scraping and tongue lapping over the other fabric-covered nipple draw a strained moan out of your throat.

Soon the shirt is tugged hastily over your head for removal. Then you feel his mouth and hands all over your breasts again, unencumbered.

You’re a panting, heaving mess riding his thigh like you’re on an X-rated carousel. You arch your chest into his face. He’s slurping and sucking your nerve endings into the stratosphere. He pops a tit out of his mouth long enough to order, “Yeah, come for me so I can fuck that nice wet pussy.”

Dean staring at you, commanding you to come for him, is the tipping point you need to orgasm hard and fast.

“Yeah.” He grabs a fistful of your hair and clamps his mouth to yours. “Gonna feel so good around my cock.” He steals every gasp of air you expel with his inhales.

You’re tingling all over. He peels you off his thigh to sandwich his standing body to yours. He towers over you. He’s stiff and erect in his sweats, pressed into your lower tummy. His hands sweep up and down the channel of your spine.

“This Dean’s got a lot to make up for.” His tongue licks at your lips. “But I gotta be inside you right now.”

You nod. “You got five seconds to get me naked and on that bed.”

Never let it be said that Dean Winchester is not up for a challenge.

The chair behind him is now careening towards the bedroom door on all four legs. You scream-giggle as he lifts you into the air while he twirls, then tosses you onto the mattress, bouncing at the impact.

The sound of the chair crashing and toppling into a corner does nothing to distract you from watching Dean tunnel out of his t-shirt, kick off his slippers, and hopscotch out of his pants and boxers. His hard, thick cock springs to attention.

Fuck. You want every inch of that deep inside you.

He hooks his fingers onto the hem of your pants and manages to pull your socks off along with them. Kneeing onto the bed, he croons, “Been wanting you for so long, baby.”

Your head falls back into the cushion of the mattress, woozy from Dean’s actions and confession. “Probably been wanting you longer.”

Your panties are off and tossed over his shoulder next. “You don’t gotta wait anymore.” He grips under your knees and drags you to him. He slides over the wet heat of your folds and hisses, “Wanna fuck you without a condom.”

You whimper, “Just fuck me already.”

He smiles, grabs his cock – that must be fitted with a pussy homing device – and pistons into your entrance without any further mother fucking ado.

You gasp at the searing heat and sharp pain of him stretching you open. But he doesn’t stop fucking you. He’s minding how your facial features accept the brunt of each thrust and the agonizing slow release of his cock. Over and over. His descent is just as slow as he fucks. But eventually, your legs clamp around his waist and he wraps you in an embrace. Chests plastered together, moaning into each other’s mouths.

Your fingers inch into what remains of his bangs. You pull at the hair and Dean groans out, “Yeah.”

It’s lovely and languid for however long you both have the patience. The feel of him everywhere and inside is something you don’t ever want to end. But there’s a second orgasm building. The thought of Dean spilling into you has your walls clench in impatience around his cock.

“Fuck,” he grunts, face tucked along your neck. You lift your head up to enjoy the view of his undulating back and curvy ass clenching and raising as his fucking gains momentum. You pull at his hair again. “Fuuuck.”

He stills, turns to stone, and you feel his cock pulse and warmth spill inside. Moments later, a hand wedges between your bodies to thumb your clit and trigger your second orgasm.

You cry out his name.

“I got you, baby,” Dean whispers into your ear. And he does. Not letting go and practically swaddling you with his body. The sexiest weighted blanket on the planet.

You smile and stroke – instead of pulling – at his hair. “Who’s got me exactly? This Dean or That Dean?”

He sighs, sounding winded. “You get all the versions. Whether you like it or not.”

“I’d like that very much.”

He leans back to stare at you. “Yeah?” He’s red and flushed and the happiest you’ve ever seen him. “Even if I grow my hair out again?”

You nod. “Yeah. More for me to pull.”

Dean groans and flops to his back beside you, chuckling.

You listen to the rhythm of your collective breathing slow down and regulate. His fingers brush along the flesh of your thigh. “Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Earlier, you said something about losing two bets to Sam today. What was the other one?”

“Asshole told me you had a thing for me years ago. Let’s hold off on telling him he was right, or I’m doing his laundry for an entire year.”

“I don’t think we have to tell him anything, Dean. I’m pretty sure he heard everything.”

“Hm. You’re right.” He’s up on an elbow, staring down at you. “Maybe text him that code thing? That might get him out of the bunker for a while.”

You blink. “Code?”

“Don’t play coy now.” Dean shakes his head. “But what’s the ‘66’ mean?”

You bite your lip.

He waits.

“It was Sam’s idea.”

He waits.

“The 66 Seals.”

Dean cringes.

You shrug. “Too soon?”

“And he says I have a twisted sense of humor.” Dean yawns. He finds the edge of the comforter you both are lying atop and tosses it over your naked bodies. “So, will you still clean me up in the back? Maybe wait until morning, though?”

“Absolutely.” You snuggle into his chest, secure that Dean will wake up next to you in the morning. “If you don’t look good, we don’t look good.”

It takes a beat before Dean responds with a teasing smack to the back of your head, followed by a kiss on your forehead. “Wiseass.”

#jacklesversebingo23 #dean winchester fan fiction #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 14 days ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 27: Sin and Shadow

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Your laughter resounds through the rotten ruins, sharp and brittle. Astarion’s smug expression falters, taken aback by the sound. You can see his confusion in the way his brow furrows and his mouth pulls into a tight line, unsure of what to make of your reaction. It’s amusing how he expects fear or despair, but rather, you shower him with decisive derision.

“Of course, you would do something like this.” There’s a venomous lilt to your tone, a challenge that burns with each word. “It’s so predictable, really.”

You take a step closer, circling him with measured movements, like a prowling predator. It’s a risky game, but the rabid acrimony gives you strength. Astarion’s scarlet eyes track your every move, his stance rigid.

“Go on then,” you taunt in a deadly whisper. “Do it. Erase me. Free yourself. Take everything I am, everything I could ever be, and twist it into whatever sick fantasy you have. You’ve already taken everything else—my trust, my love, my life. It all belongs to you, doesn’t it? So why haven’t you done it?”

“You think I haven’t done it because I can’t? I could unravel you in a heartbeat if I wished. It’s just—” He sputters, searching for the right words. “It’s more... satisfying to let you cling to that desperate hope, to dangle the possibility of your freedom just out of reach.”

But the way he says it, the way his words tumble out with a rushed sharpness—it doesn’t add up. He’s grasping at straws, trying to convince himself as much as you, and you see it for what it is.

A lie. A thin, flimsy excuse swaddled in cruelty.

“Is that what you’re telling yourself? That it’s about satisfaction? That it’s about keeping me on the edge, trapped in your little game?” You shake your head, your eyes narrowing as you take a step closer. “No, I don’t think so. I think, despite all this—despite your cruelty, your desperate yearning for power—you loathe yourself. Because you know you could do it. You have the power to erase me completely, to make me nothing. But you can’t, can you?”

He flinches, the reaction so quick it’s nearly imperceptible, but you catch it. His expression hardens into a snarl, but the anger doesn’t mask the underlying turmoil in his eyes. “You know nothing about what I want!” he spits, but there’s no conviction behind it, no real strength.

You press on, each word a blade dipped in poison. “I know enough. You hate that you can’t bring yourself to do it. That somewhere, buried beneath all this darkness, is the man who would rather sever his own limb than harm me. That’s why you keep making excuses, why you haven’t turned me into the hollow, broken thing you threaten. Part of you, no matter how small, still cares.”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t strike. He stands there, trembling with rage—or perhaps something deeper, something he doesn’t want to face. His eyes flicker again, that scarlet brightening for a heartbeat, revealing a flash of something pained, something lost.

“Shut up. You think you understand me? You think you can pick me apart like some... some puzzle? You are nothing, and I—” He cuts himself off, biting back whatever admission threatens to spill out.

You take another step closer, your voice softening, but not with pity—no, it’s still a razor-sharp rebellion. “If I’m nothing, then why not finish it? Prove that I’m wrong, Astarion. Prove that you’re really as heartless as you claim to be.”

He stares at you, caught between outrage and confusion, and in that silence, you see it—the fissures, the war he’s waging with himself, the struggle that he so stubbornly refuses to pay any credence to. A war he’s losing, bit by bit.

Astarion’s face twists as he struggles for words, his lips curling back in a snarl. “You think I would hesitate for a moment if I thought you were truly a threat to me? You are my spawn! I own you!”

You laugh again, the sound caustic. “You keep telling yourself that you’re doing all of this to be strong, to be untouchable, but it’s a lie. You can’t even fool yourself, can you?”

He glares at you, stepping closer. “You think you can read me so well, do you? You think you can waltz in, make assumptions about what I am, what I want?”

“Why not?” You meet his eyes with a defiant fire of your own. “I’ve been by your side long enough to know when you’re lying—to yourself, and to me. If you truly wanted to erase me, to take everything that makes me me and twist it into your perfectly obedient puppet, you would have done it by now. But you haven’t. Why is that, Astarion?”

He bares his fangs at you, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he struggles to maintain his composure. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Maybe I enjoy watching you suffer—knowing that I could take everything from you at any moment.”

You scoff, refusing to flinch under his intense gaze. “Oh, please. Drop the act. The truth is much simpler, isn’t it? You don’t want to admit that there’s still a part of you that cares, clinging to some shred of what we had.”

He steps back as if struck, his expression ripping little a disturbed pond. For a moment, he looks like he’s been laid bare, stripped of his defences. Then his face hardens again, but there’s wild desperation in his eyes. “You think I need you?” he growls with a ragged edge to his voice, a strain that betrays the struggle within him. “I do not need anyone. Least of all, you. You’re the one who can’t let go.”

“You’re right. I haven’t let go, and maybe that makes me a fool. But it’s because I see something in you worth saving, even if you’ve forgotten how to see it yourself.”

His breath catches, just barely, but you see it, a moment of hesitation. He turns away, his shoulders trembling. “You think you’re so godsdamned noble,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp. “But if you knew... if you understood what it means to hold this power, you would see why I won’t let go of it. Even for you.”

You take a step closer, closing the distance between you, your voice an urging whisper. “Then prove it, Astarion. Prove that you can let go. Or keep lying to yourself and let it consume you until there’s nothing left. But know this—I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

He whirls back around, his face contorted with a mix of choler and something more fragile—anguish, maybe. “You should be,” he snarls, his voice breaking on the last word, as though the admission costs him something precious.

For a moment, you think he might strike you, compel you, or something far more insidious, but then he just stands there trembling, breathing hard.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, his voice rough and unsteady, each word a struggle to get out. “To have everything you ever wanted, everything you thought would make you invincible, and realize it’s not enough. It’s never enough. There’s a hunger in me now—a darkness that won’t be sated. It’s... it’s eating me from the inside out, and it’s telling me that if I just hold on a little longer, if I just take a little more...”

He trails off, his voice breaking, and his shoulders slump. For a heartbeat, he looks like the man you remember—the man who used to smile, who used to hold you close, who whispered soft promises in the dark. The man who fought so hard to survive, who dreamed of freedom, who loved fiercely and deeply, even when he didn’t know how to show it.

But then the moment passes, and the cruel visage slips back into place, his expression hardening with renewed bitterness. He steps away from you, as if trying to rebuild the distance between you, to put up the walls that have kept you apart.

You follow his movement, refusing to let him retreat into his self-imposed isolation. “You think I don’t understand? I understand more than you realize,” you say firmly, even as your shrivelled heart aches. “I know what it’s like to feel that hunger, that darkness that whispers lies in your ear, telling you that you need more, that you’re nothing without it. But you’re wrong, Astarion. You are something without it. You always have been.”

He glares at you, his eyes flashing with fury, but there’s a wetness in his gaze that he can’t quite hide. “That’s rich coming from you. My favourite little toy who still clings to your precious hope, who thinks there’s some happy ending waiting for us if we just try hard enough? You’re deluded.”

“Maybe I am,” you admit, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “But at least I still feel something. At least I’m still fighting for something more than power. And you hate that, don’t you? You hate that I still care, that I still believe in you, because it means you have to face the part of yourself that you’ve buried so deep you’re scared to dig it back up.”

He lets out a strangled, humourless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “Gods, you’re insufferable,” he mutters, but the words lack the venom they held before. He looks askance, as if he can’t bear to meet your glare. “You always did know how to get under my skin.”

“And I always will, because I know you, Astarion. I know the man beneath all of this,” you gesture toward him, “and I refuse to give up on him. Even if you already have.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, as if the possibility of redemption is something he’s forgotten how to hope for.

“You think it’s that simple?” He says, his intonation harsh but fraying at the edges.

You shake your head, sadness twisting in your chest. “No. I know it’s not simple. But I also know that the man I love is worth fighting for, even if he’s forgotten how to fight for himself.”

Astarion’s expression twists, anger and longing blending into a storm. For a moment, you think he might lash out again, that the fight is still burning too hot inside him to let anything else through. But then, with a rough, unsteady breath, he steps closer, closing the space between you with a suddenness that steals the air from your lungs.

He seizes you by the shoulders, his grip firm, fingers digging into your skin just enough to blur the line between a caress and something that might bruise. His breath ghosts over your lips, his proximity heady and dangerous. Astarion’s eyes are still sharp, still filled with the darkness that’s taken root in him, but there’s something else there now too—a hunger, raw and unfiltered, that pulses through him like a beating heart.

He dips his head closer, his mouth less than a breath away from yours. “You think your love is enough to bring me back from this?” he whispers harshly, his voice trembling with unrestrained intensity.

His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond—a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. It’s wild—nigh on punishing. His hands slide down your back, pulling you flush against him, as if he can fuse your bodies together and somehow make himself whole again through the sheer force of contact.

You gasp into the kiss, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you match his intensity, meeting every bite and graze of his lips with your own fierce resolve. There’s pain in it, yes, but there’s also a heat that ignites your blood, a need that burns just as bright as his. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer even as his hands roam over you with a possessiveness that borders on frantic.

Astarion’s breath comes in ragged gasps as he tears himself away from your lips, his mouth skimming down the curve of your jaw, leaving bruising kisses along the line of your neck. He nips at the delicate skin there, the sharp edge of his fangs a perilous promise, but he doesn’t sink them in, and he groans against your skin.

His voice is rough, barely more than a growl. “You think this is what I want? To let myself be vulnerable, to let you get close enough to tear me apart again?”

“You want to be seen,” you reply, your voice steady. “You want someone to know the real you, the one buried beneath all that power and pain. And I see you, Astarion. All of you.”

Astarion’s grip tightens on your waist, and for a moment, you think he might break again, retreat behind the walls he’s so carefully constructed.

“I hate you for that,” he mutters, but the words sound broken, almost pleading, as if he’s confessing a truth he can’t bear to face. He cups the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that belies the desperation in his touch. “You make me feel... gods, I can’t stand how much you make me feel.”

The admission sends a shiver through you, a flash of hope and desire mingling in your chest. You lean into his touch, your own hands softening their grip, sliding down to rest over the frantic thud of his heartbeat. “Then let yourself feel it,” you murmur against his lips. “Let yourself feel me.”

Astarion's breath hitches, and for a moment, he holds you so tightly it’s as though he’s afraid you might dissolve into nothing. He kisses you again, fiercer this time, but there's a thread of something else woven into it—a hint of surrender, of a desperation that has nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with the way he clings to you.

It’s messy, it’s frantic, and it’s far from gentle, but there’s a need there that neither of you can deny—a mutual hunger that pulls you closer even as it threatens to tear you apart.

Astarion’s fingers are rough as they tug at the clasps and fastenings of your clothes, the fabric falling away beneath his touch with haste. There’s a rawness to his movements, a barely restrained violence that makes your breath catch as you let him strip away the layers between you, both literal and otherwise.

You don’t bother being gentle either as you yank at the hem of his torn shirt, fingers skimming over the bloodied skin underneath. He snarls against your mouth, a low, dangerous sound. He catches your wrist, twisting it behind you as he pushes you against the cold stone, the roughness of it scraping against your bare skin.

His breath comes out in harsh gasps as he presses against you, pinning you with his hips, his need for you hot and hard straining against the fabric of his trousers. “You think you can save him?” he whispers, his voice ragged and raw. “You think this means anything more than a distraction?��

You bite back a sharp retort, tilting your head to meet his lustily hooded eyes. You can see the anger there, the frustration, but also something else—something like a plea. It’s ridiculous, this twisted game you play, this dance between hatred and desire.

You roll your hips and press your body closer to his, relishing the way he shudders against you. “Maybe I just want to forget for a little while. Maybe you do too.”

Astarion’s grip tightens on your wrist, his breath hot against your neck as he bites down, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to send a jolt of pleasurable pain through you. He trails his lips down your throat, sharp teeth grazing your skin, and you shudder at the sensation, a gasp slipping past your lips despite yourself. His hands move over you with a kind of frantic need, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

It’s a messy, brutal dance, each of you trying to gain the upper hand even as you both know there’s no real victory to be had here. You twist out of his grip and catch his shirt, yanking it open with enough force to send buttons scattering across the dusty floor. He laughs, a dark, bitter sound that rumbles through his chest as he allows you to push him back against the wall, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulls you in for another kiss.

For a moment, it’s almost tender, the way he cradles the back of your head, the way his lips brush yours with something like reverence. But then his nails dig into your scalp, and you return the favour, biting down on his bottom lip, hard. He growls low in his throat, a sound that sends a thrill down your spine.

And yet, beneath the frantic hunger, you can feel the tension simmering between you, the sense that this is more than just bodies colliding. It’s the only way either of you knows how to touch each other, through fire and force, through pain that twists into pleasure until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Astarion’s hands skim down your sides. Your clothes have been discarded completely now, like so much meaningless debris, and his hands map every inch of you, tracing old scars and new bruises, as if trying to memorize you in this moment.

You let yourself lean into it, let yourself give in to the heat that flares between you, if only because it’s better than the haunting loneliness. His mouth crashes against yours again, rough and demanding, and you respond with equal fervour, your hands roaming over the hard planes of his chest, digging your nails into his skin.

Astarion’s touch is electric, each brush of his fingers sending jolts of sensation through you that blur the lines between pleasure and pain. He’s always known exactly how to wield desire like a weapon, but this time, you refuse to let yourself be shattered by it. You grip his shoulders, tearing off his shirt and throwing it off to the side.

It’s impossible to ignore how your body responds to him—how the ache that’s settled deep in your bones is temporarily numbed by his closeness. For a moment, you let yourself forget the lies and the betrayals, the shadow of your true husband trapped somewhere behind the darkness in his eyes.

A part of you knows that this is wrong—that you are grasping at a ghost. It feels like betrayal, a twisted mockery of the love you once shared, but you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it, from taking the solace his body offers, no matter how fleeting it might be.

His gaze is filled with a dark satisfaction. His fingers press harder, his grip possessive, as if he can hold onto your body even as he keeps you at arm’s length in every other way. It’s raw and violent, more a clash of wills than anything else, and you’re both losing.

He pivots, pushing you harder against the crumbling wall, the stone biting into your back, and you let him, drinking in the way his breath hitches, the way his hands shake against your skin with rage or lust or something else entirely. You do not care at this point.

I should stop this, pull away, and refuse to let him turn this into just another power struggle. But you don’t. You cling to him as if he is the last solid thing in a world that’s falling apart because if you let him go, you’re afraid there will be nothing left of the man you love.

So you let yourself burn, knowing that you’re playing with fire. And even if it leaves you scalded and scarred, even if it’s a mistake, for this moment, you’ll take the heat over the cold emptiness that waits beyond.

Astarion's fingers intertwine with yours as he pins your hands above your head. His body presses flush against yours. His hips roll in a tantalizing rhythm. The friction sends sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your hips jerk involuntarily, desperate for more contact, more of him.

"Tell me you want this," he barks.

"I want this," you breathe, your voice husky with need. "All of you."

A wicked grin spreads across Astarion's face, his crimson eyes blazing with unholy hunger. "Then allow me to indulge you, my treasure."

Astarion's lips lavish attention to your neck, your collarbone, proceeding lower. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling and teasing until you're gasping his name. Astarion chuckles, clearly relishing the effect he has on you. His fingers slide between your thighs, finding you already slick with arousal.

Astarion groans appreciatively as he strokes your sensitive flesh, his skilled touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. "So wet for me already," he murmurs against your skin.

He works your clit, circling and sweeping in the practice, precise pace that left you addicted to him in the first place. He builds your pleasure higher and higher, increasing the pressure, his touch more insistent as your shuddering moans fill the space. He slips two long fingers inside you, curling them to hit that perfect spot. You cry out, clutching at his shoulders as he works you expertly. His thumb continues to tease your clit as his fingers thrust in and out at an ever-increasing pace.

"That's it, darling," Astarion croons. "Let me hear those beautiful sounds."

Your climax builds rapidly under his ministrations. Just as you're about to tumble over the edge, he withdraws. You cannot stifle the whimper resounding at the back of your throat at the loss.

”Eager little thing, aren’t you?“ he tuts, nipping at your lower lip. "Patience, my dear. I intend to savour every... last... drop.”

Breathing heavily, he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He slams you into the wall, hard enough to make your vision splinter, as if to remind you who your creator is, who you belong to, and bucks his hips into you with a growl, his cock straining against his trousers. “Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Astarion eases you down to the floor with feline grace, and slides down your body, leaving a trail of burning kisses in his wake. His breath ghosts over your flesh, making you tremor with anticipation.

When his mouth finally reaches your aching center, you cry out, overwhelmed by the velvety sensation. He licks a long, slow stripe up your folds, making you gasp. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he sucks gently on your clit. The dual stimulation of his tongue and the slight graze of fangs against your sensitive flesh leave you trembling. Astarion grips your hips, holding you steady as he devours you with single-minded focus.

Astarion's ministrations intensify. His fingers curl inside you, stroking that perfect spot with relentless precision. He applies steady pressure, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and you feel yourself climbing higher and higher towards your peak.

With his free hand, he grips your thigh, holding you open and exposed to his ravenous appetite. His tongue dances in intricate patterns, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that leave you gasping, creating a delicious tension that coils tighter with each passing moment. Your thighs begin to tremble, and Astarion responds by tightening his grip, holding you firmly in place as he redoubles his efforts.

Your fingers tangle tighter in his hair as he works you relentlessly with lips and tongue. Astarion's skilled ministrations build the pressure inside you to a fever pitch. Just when you think you can't take any more, he sucks hard on your swollen bud. Pure, raw ecstasy floods your body, and you cry out his name as a swell of bliss crashes into you.

But Astarion doesn't relent. He laps up your release greedily, prolonging your climax until you're trembling and oversensitive. Only then does he raise his head, lips, and chin, glistening. His crimson eyes burn with hunger as he crawls up your body.

"Delicious," he purrs, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue as he ravishes your mouth.

The kiss deepens, his fingers desperately working at the buttons of his trousers, and freeing his cock. The kiss grows more urgent as Astarion positions himself between your thighs, muscles rippling under his skin. You feel him pressing against your entrance, teasing you, hot and insistent. He breaks the kiss to gaze into your eyes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. Slowly, torturously, he rubs the head of his cock along your slick folds.

With a low growl, he sheaths himself inside you in one powerful thrust. You cry out at the exquisite stretch. Astarion sets a relentless pace, his hips snapping against yours with vampiric strength and speed. Each thrust sends soul-crushing pleasure spiderwebbing through your body, making you pant and whine. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper into you. The feel of him dragging against your walls is almost overwhelming, filling you completely, and every nerve in your body hums.

Astarion's mouth moves from your lips down to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, your hands running over his back as he marks you with his bites.

He moves one hand to cup your breast, squeezing and teasing the hardened nipple between his fingers. The other hand trails down between your bodies, finding that sweet spot between your thighs once again. His fingers dance over it expertly, adding to the pleasure building inside you. You can feel yourself getting closer to another release, but Astarion seems determined to draw it out.

He pulls back slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts and hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. He smirks down at you before picking up his pace even more. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room as Astarion drives into you with a fierce hunger.

“Come for me, pet,” he barks, raspy and breathless.

His words send you over the edge, your body convulsing in ecstasy, pleasure crashing over you with an intensity that narrows your world down to only him. Your body arcs against Astarion as unadulterated ecstasy ripples through you, each one more powerful than the last. You cry out his name, clinging to him desperately as your inner walls clench around him.

Astarion growls, a primal sound of satisfaction as he feels your release. He doesn't slow his pace, plunging into you relentlessly as he chases his own climax. His lips find yours, swallowing your moans as the overstimulation borders on painful rapture.

"You're mine," he snarls, but his words carry less bite than usual, said more as if he's trying to convince himself.

"Yes," you sigh.

"You're going to take all of me, aren't you?" He growls in your ear. "My very good girl."

You moan in response, unable to form any coherent words as pleasure consumes you once again. As if sensing this change in you, Astarion starts moving faster and harder than before. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, his own need driving him to push you to your limits until your body convulses once again.

You feel the shift in him, the way his muscles tense and his thrusts become erratic. With a final thrust, he buries himself deep inside you and lets out a guttural groan. You feel his release, his cock pulsing and spilling his seed into you, hot and intense. As the pleasure begins to ebb, Astarion's movements slow to a gentle rocking. He peppers your neck and collarbone with feather-light kisses, a stark contrast to the fierce passion of moments before. His body covers yours completely, pinning you beneath him. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours as he catches his breath.

For a few minutes, you’re granted a blissful reprieve of thought. Astarion pulls out slowly, and the sensation makes your whimper because you once again feel so very empty. He rolls onto his back on the floor, his cock still glistening with the evidence of your betrayal.

In a movement you don’t quite perceive, he gathers you up, and places you atop his chest. His skin cools within moments, reminding you of a time long ago, and cutting through the searing heat of Avernus like a winter breeze. Your eyes begin to drift shut, but you force them open when Astarion shifts, bending his arm, and slipping his hand behind his head. He opens one eye lazily to glance at you.

“Rest,” he murmurs, his voice husky with the aftermath of your passion.

You shake your head slightly, stubbornness still flaring despite the exhaustion that tugs at your bones. “I can’t... if anything sneaks up on us.”

He cuts you off with a sharp, exasperated huff. “For once in your life, will you stop being so bloody insufferable? Rest. Nothing’s going to sneak up on us, not with me here.” The words are edged, but there’s a faint echo of something less venomous, less cruel.

His eyes slide shut, and eventually, you feel the pull of your trance calling to you. Just a few minutes. Just enough to regain some strength. You let yourself slip into that familiar meditative state, your breathing evening out, your mind beginning to drift.

But just before you fall completely into the quiet embrace, a sharp realization hits you like a dagger to the chest. This didn’t bring him back. The Astarion you love, your husband—the one who has always softened under your touch, who has always let you anchor him—remains locked away. This time, the intimacy didn’t break through. It didn’t bring him home.

A cold dread curls through your gut as your mind slips deeper into the trance, a single, terrible question echoing in the recesses of your thoughts: What if he’s truly lost to you now?

You rise slowly, pushing back the soreness in your muscles as you reach for your scattered clothes. The air is stifling, thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood and the charred remnants of this crumbling ruin that serves as your shelter. Astarion’s presence looms behind you, a shadow that refuses to recede.

He leans casually against the fractured wall, arms crossed, watching you with unsettling glee. “You know, darling, I could still taste you on my tongue when I woke up,” he mocks. “You were... surprisingly sweet for someone who likes to play so very hard to get.”

You stiffen, but refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around. You keep your hands steady, forcing yourself to finish each button as if his words don’t touch you.

“And do not try to tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” he continues, his tone slipping into a near purr. He steps closer until you can feel the whisper of his breath against the back of your neck. “I could taste your enjoyment on your lips, in your cries.” He leans in even closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. “Tell me, did you enjoy it as much as I did?”

“You’re delusional if you think I’m going to stroke your ego about this,” you snap.

He chuckles, a sound that reverberates through you. “Oh, come now. No need to lie to yourself. We both know there was something deliciously twisted about it, wasn’t there? The way you writhed under me, the way our bodies fit together.” His fingers trail along your shoulder, down the line of your spine, light but maddeningly possessive. “I wonder... how long will it take before you crave it again? Before you beg me to make you feel like that again?”

You jerk away from his touch, turning to face him with a glare that’s meant to cut through his bravado, but all he does is tilt his head, a wicked glint in his eyes. He’s studying you, drinking in your reactions like the desert drinks a mirage, savouring every hint of anger, every sign of defiance.

“You’re trying too hard, Astarion,” you bite out, hating the way your voice sounds—hoarse, shaken.

His smirk softens at the edges, but it doesn’t lose its sharpness. He reaches out, tracing a knuckle along your jaw, his touch deceptively gentle. “I think you’re afraid... afraid that you enjoyed it too much. Afraid that you might find yourself wanting me again, even knowing that I am not him.”

You step closer, closing the distance between you until you’re nearly nose to nose, and you let a small, defiant smile curl at your lips. “Enjoy this while you can, Ascendant,” you whisper, your voice like a blade. “Because this power trip of yours won’t last forever.”

He laughs softly, but it’s a brittle sound, like the crackle of a fire on the verge of dying. “Maybe it won’t,” he concedes, his expression darkening. “But I think we both know that you and I? We’re far from done.”

You hold his gaze a moment longer before turning away, grabbing what’s left of your belongings, and walking out into the harsh light of Avernus. Astarion’s silhouette leads the way across the blistered ground. He moves with the confidence of someone who expects to be obeyed, and you follow, your mind restless even as you try to keep your senses sharp, wary of any lurking dangers. It’s not easy—your attention keeps snagging on the memory of the man he used to be, the one you long to bring back from the recesses of his fractured soul.

But that man is not the one in front of you now. This version of Astarion walks as if he owns the Hells themselves, his chin lifted, crimson eyes sweeping the broken landscape with a predator’s calm. He glances back at you occasionally, his gaze cool and assessing, as though measuring how far he can push before you break.

“You’re awfully quiet, darling,” he remarks, his voice carrying over the infernal wind, mocking and sharp. “What’s on your mind? Plotting another romantic gesture, perhaps? Or are you already planning your next betrayal?”

“Some of us prefer to focus on survival rather than listening to our own voices,” you reply, tone as dry as the scorched earth beneath your feet.

He chuckles, a low, indulgent sound. “Yes, yes. Survival. But you’re not exactly thriving, are you? No sun to warm your skin, no prey to hunt, no adoring husband to cling to. I imagine it’s rather dismal, even for you.”

Despite the barbs, you can’t help but notice that he’s talking more. The silence that used to stretch between you has given way to a stream of biting commentary. It’s a small thing, but you cling to it, wondering if it means that some part of him is still trying to reach out.

The path leads you towards the river Styx, its crimson waters churning sluggishly, a scarlet serpent winding its way through the hellish terrain. You duck beneath a twisted tree, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky, just as a fireball streaks overhead, sizzling as it hits the river’s surface.

Your mind wanders. Time hasn’t brought your Astarion back. Blood nor intimacy have, either. You’ve tried every approach you can think of, every small act that might stir a glimmer. But there is one option left, a last-ditch effort that could either save him or doom you both—the psychic bond that ties you to your husband, the thread that you’ve kept hidden, shut tight like a vault.

It’s your last secret, and one that you’ve guarded fiercely. What will happen if it fails? If you open yourself to him, let him see everything you’ve kept hidden—your desperation, your love, your belief that there’s still something left to save—and he remains unchanged, you’ll have nothing left. No hope. No leverage. Just a door flung open to darkness.

“Careful,” he croons, gesturing toward the crimson river that slithers alongside your path, its surface rippling like molten blood. “You know, the Styx has quite the reputation. One touch of its lovely ichor, and you might find yourself... forgetful. Sometimes it’s temporary, a few memories lost like leaves on the wind. Other times... well, let’s just say it can wipe a mind clean, leave you a blank slate.”

“I must admit, the thought is rather entertaining. Just imagine—me, throwing you into those waters, watching as every piece of who you are slips away, until there’s nothing left but a frightened, lost little girl.”

He leans closer, the mockery clear in every syllable. “You would have to rely on me for everything. I could be anything I wanted to you—a hero, a protector, the only one you could trust. You would hang on my every word, wouldn’t you? And would never know just how much danger you’re truly in.”

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to let the threat find purchase in your mind. It’s true, the Styx’s waters are a danger��one that could very easily strip away everything you’ve fought to hold on to. But Astarion’s taunts ring hollow, a game to try and get under your skin. You know, deep down, that if he truly wanted to reduce you to nothing, he wouldn’t need the river to do it.

You tilt your head, letting a faint smirk tug at your lips. “Oh, how thoughtful of you, but perhaps you should consider going for a swim yourself. After all, isn’t forgetting me your deepest, darkest desire? Didn’t the hag say as much?”

The change in him is slight—an almost imperceptible pause, the faintest twitch of irritation behind his eyes—but it’s enough. For a heartbeat, the mask slips, just a crack, and you seize the opportunity to press further.

“Why, Astarion, you almost seem bothered by the idea. Is it because it’s true? Is that what you really want?” You prod, your voice taking on a mocking lilt.

“You think you’re so clever,” he says, his timbre low and dangerous. “I needn't explain myself to you.”

“You’re so quick to dismiss it all, aren’t you?” you press. “So eager to pretend that none of this matters. But you’re lying—to me, to yourself. Maybe if you drown out the truth with enough threats, you’ll start to believe it.”

The shift is instantaneous. His eyes flash with a wild light, and before you can draw your next breath, he’s on you, one hand clamping around your throat. He moves faster than you can process, lifting you off your feet as if you weigh nothing at all.

Your nails scrabble against his wrist, but he doesn’t even flinch, his grip iron and unyielding. He holds you there, suspended in the air above the roiling edge of the Styx, the river’s crimson waters churning just inches below your dangling feet.

His laughter rings out—maniacal, jagged. “You think you can provoke me, that your little words matter?” he sneers, his lips pulling back to reveal a gleaming edge of fangs. “Look at you, dangling here like a broken doll. So fragile. So pathetic.”

He loosens his grip a fraction, just enough for you to suck in a ragged breath, and for a moment, your body drops, slipping toward the writhing red of the river below. Panic claws at you as you feel the heat of the Styx’s surface, the promise of obliteration in its depths. But just before your feet touch the water, his fingers tighten again, hauling you back from the brink with effortless strength. He holds you there, hovering over the edge of oblivion, letting you feel the danger, the power he wields over you.

“Go on then,” you manage to rasp out, voice hoarse with the strain of his grip on your windpipe. “Do it. Drop me. Erase me. Kill me. Just fucking do something.”

It’s a gamble—one that might cost you everything. But you can’t stand the game, the way he toys with you like a cat with a wounded bird, drawing out the agony with every mocking word.

“You think I won’t do it?” He hisses, and for a moment, you feel the tension in his grip shift, as if he’s testing your weight, deciding whether to let you fall. “You really are a fool. You’re so eager for death, aren’t you?”

“You don’t have the spine for it, do you?” you hiss out, fighting to keep your voice steady even as his fingers tighten and loosen again.

His grip slackens further, his expression shifting, something cold and vicious overtaking that momentary uncertainty. You feel the weightlessness beneath your feet, the rush of air as his grip slips—

And you realize, with a jolt of terror, that this time, he might truly mean it.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes: - Did she push him too far? - I cannot tell if I feel like this is a betrayal. It's still technically him... right?

#ascended astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts #pallidmoon #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion ascended

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