#full fic

[gasolinecookie]

☆•° SHADOWMILK FIC BELOW!!! °•☆

k so this is my first time posting my fanfic onto tumblr. farts. lmk if i need to do anything special or not

Content; soul jam freakery, pwp, non-penetrative sex, switch shadow milk, switch pure vanilla, cookiefucking ig, brief mentions of purelily(?), 3k+ words :3

Pure Vanilla stood in a glade of flowers. As far as the eye could see, there were hills lined with hundreds and thousands of flowers. A shy moon peered over a hilltop, stars winking playfully across a picturesque, midnight-blue sky. For a moment, he just observed them.

On one hill surface, it was all coated in brilliant yellow and white petals. Yellow carnations, baby’s breath, chamomile, daisies, honeysuckle, white hyacinth, white roses. A beautiful cloud, light shining through each split where the sun kissed the feathery vapor.

Another swath of blue flowers lined another hill. Hydrangeas, irises, delphiniums, hyacinth, and morning glories. As Pure Vanilla heaved a relaxed sigh, inhaling the sweet scent of the floral arrangements around him, he noticed but a single flower at his feet.

A forget-me-not.

The rest of the flowers in the field burnt up, despite there being no fire present. They simply crumbled on their own, squeezing into themselves and turning into blackened char. The sweet smell of pollen and nectar and the midnight stars was replaced by the acrid stench of strawberry jam and burnt leaves. Ah. This must be a dream.

"Y'know, my silly little Vanilly, this has been in your cards for a loooong time coming," came a playful voice, an idle teasing to it, as if it were a conversation between old friends. Pure Vanilla didn’t bother to turn around towards it. In a way, it was really a reunion of sorts. “Have you missed me?”

Pure Vanilla stayed staring, fixedly, almost mechanically, at the single, twinkling flower before him. He wouldn’t give Shadow Milk the satisfaction of seeing him look startled, or even seeing his face at all. “Not in the slightest,” he replied with a sigh, the forget-me-not dancing in the painfully burnt nighttime air.

Hands wrapped around his eyes.

He resisted the urge to immediately elbow the foe behind him, or thrash out of the (admittedly gentle— why was it so gentle?) grasp of Shadow Milk, but he steadied his will, staying perfectly still. A warmth, a slow embrace, spread across his back as Shadow Milk pulled himself flush with the back of Pure Vanilla’s robes.

“Vannilly…” Shadow Milk cooed in a drawn-out tone. “If you want to look at anything ever again, look at me. You know that I can hear what you’re thinking. You can’t ignore me forever!”

Pure Vanilla sucked in a breath. He knew reading cookie’s minds wasn’t impossible— he himself could do it if he tried. Yet, he wasn’t sure if Shadow Milk truly knew how, if he was bluffing, or if you even could read one’s mind inside of a dream.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it.

“That power is not yours, beast.” Pure Vanilla didn’t utter another word, keeping his lips drawn tightly together. Shadow Milk simply wouldn’t earn it from him, no matter how much he toyed with him.

When the ravaged flower field disintegrated around him, and reformed into a chapel, and Shadow Milk vanished from his back to reform in front of him, Pure Vanilla felt almost let-down, as ridiculous of a notion that it was, that Shadow Milk hadn’t tried harder to make him speak. Two rows of pews lined the rectangular room, highlighted by the beautiful moonlight coalescing through the windows. It streamed through blue, stained-glass windows— no doubt, they bore imagery of the wielder of the Light of Deceit.

Pure Vanilla felt a tightness about his limbs, and suddenly he noticed tendrils creeping around the floor, darkness forming and deforming vague shapes of tentacles as they wove between the pews. As he glanced towards the throne, between his bangs, there was a beast hovering above him, a sadistic grin twisting his cutesy, mis-matched features into a mockery of a cookie's face. Shadow Milk cookie, a tyrannical creature born of lies and falsehoods. There were many ways to end a dream, so Pure Vanilla quickly shuffled through his options, mentally. He didn’t want to even give this creature a chance to speak more. There was a war to fight, and it needn’t be distracted with silly things like dreams.

"Now, quit it with that look. We all know you can't do anything to escape from this dream, now! Stupid 'Nilla!" Shadow Milk cackled, as if he really could hear Pure Vanilla’s thoughts, and sure enough, more mysterious darkness rose from the floor, binding Pure Vanilla by the ankles. They slithered up Pure Vanilla’s slender legs, tracing his figure, wriggling across each inch of his dough. "Hey, didn’t you say you were going to protect everyone? That you didn’t have things like nightmares? You're the worst liar of us all. Which is why I'm going to take my Soul Jam back from you, Vanilly.”

Pure Vanilla glowered at this foe. He may have a point-- Pure Vanilla was not always the most truthful, as much as his jam implied it. Yet, every time he lied, it was in the name of justice. In the name of keeping the peace, and ruling over what he needed to protect. So, that was different. It certainly wasn't the shameful secret that Shadow Milk was making it out to be. If it was leveraged against him, though... he wasn't sure what he'd do. He just had to escape the dream before it got to that point.

Then, of course, in his moment of distraction, Shadow Milk took it as an excuse to approach Vanilla, looking down on him as the tendrils suddenly squeezed around his dough, crumbling the surface ever-so-imperceptibly. It burned. There was truly nowhere he could go, as far as his eyes could see, no way to fight against this darkness— he was caged in like a feral animal, and felt merely inches away from being provoked to fight like one.

Shadow Milk stepped towards the altar, finally lowering himself to standing height instead of floating. The porcelain tiles hissed as his feet touched them. With a gentle motion, he ascended the half-stairs, and settled atop the marble altartop. With one hand, he beckoned to Pure Vanilla, and he was dragged forward and onto his knees by the shadows binding his legs. Shadow Milk gazed down at him, cooing softly as one might to a stray animal. Pure Vanilla resisted the urge to growl at him in response.

"Don't worry, silly. This won't hurt a bit, okay? I'm gonna warm your jam up... bet no one's ever done that before, hmm, tightwad? Ahaha!" Shadow Milk cackled, and slowly rolled his sleeve a bit further back up his arm. His forearm was littered in hundreds of tiny scars that Pure Vanilla elected to ignore. This psychopath's sob story was worthless to him; he had probably just gotten into fights, or ran through brambles in boredom.

It was just as meaningless as the rest of his deceitful actions.

The shadows yanked Pure Vanilla upwards, suspending him off the floor by their grasp on him, and giving his knees an air-borne surface to rest upon. Being pulled forward so that his chest was level with Shadow Milk’s knees, he glanced up at the beast who held him in place. “Oh, my. Now that’s a sexy face on you, Vanilly. You look so angry…! What, going to crumble me with your teeth?” Shadow Milk offered with a smirk that only surfaced more and more suggestions in Pure Vanilla’s mind.

Shadow Milk’s hand found the side of his face, and it cupped his cheek. Without missing a beat, and keeping eye-contact with Shadow Milk, Pure Vanilla parted his lips and put his mouth around Shadow Milk’s hand, as if to bite it open. If this went as planned, Shadow Milk would surely become distracted and lose his grip on Pure Vanilla’s dream. What he didn’t expect, somehow, was the look of sheer masochistic elation that crossed Shadow Milk’s features, like a cloud crossing over the path of the sun and darkening a summer day.

“Does that feel good?” Vanilla asked in utter disbelief, whispering the words across Shadow Milk’s dough, far more sensually than intended, as he fixed him with a stare. “Ah, you’ve always been strange…” he continued, “but truly, I could never have expected to what degree.” He just had to keep throwing Shadow Milk off of his game. Then, he’d be able to slip away.

Then, unexpectedly Shadow Milk brought his other hand (not the one cupping his cheek) up to Pure Vanilla’s upper chest, and began to toy with his Soul Jam, grazing his finger crossed it’s blue surface. It was an overwhelming sensation, causing him to cry out— ah, why was that so sensitive? Vanilla knew they were connected to their senses, as his own had flickered when he was in pain, but he didn't expect it to literally feel like his soul was being stroked along the edge by Shadow Milk, a wanton noise peeling itself from his lips. It was a tightness and blossoming in his chest, all while Shadow Milk's multi-colored eyes, on his face and on his body, seemed to be watching the faces he was making with curiosity raptly.

Pure Vanilla did try to reign in his expression, concealing his faint noises of surprise by biting his lower lip. It was made vastly more difficult by the fact that his legs were restrained and he couldn't simply run from this.

Normally, the moment before the villain could enact their awful plan, a hero would come bursting into the room, and save the hostage just as it started to look hopeless. Well, it seemed futile to resist, to Pure Vanilla, and there was yet to be another cookie within sight. No, it was all those piercing, mis-matched eyes.

Mis-matched eyes that were gobbling up eyefuls of Pure Vanilla's pathetic condition greedily, lustfully. "I just love how this looks on you," Shadow Milk whispered, sultry, to the distressed monarch before him. It was a new thrill to have this brilliant leader finally subjugated before him, finally brought (literally) to his knees by Shadow Milk's plans. It's not as if he couldn't have potentially seen it coming, but there were so many possibilities for losing or capturing Pure Vanilla every day that Shadow Milk cookie had simply taken to ignoring them.

He stroked along the edge of the Soul Jam with one pallid blue hand, the other halfway covering the flustered face of Pure Vanilla.

"Shall I keep going?" Shadow Milk offered with nothing short of a insane grin, just feeling the waves of pleasure rolling off of his body from just the blonde’s expressions. Yet, that grin was just the sort of thing that would perfectly throw Pure Vanilla off his game. "Seems like you're plenty ready for the warm-up, needy-Nilly.”

"Don't do this," Pure Vanilla said, eyes furrowing— though, it just looked like he was relaxing into the pleasure even more, "I'm not going to do whatever you want." Oh? Shadow Milk smelled a Class A lie around those words, like curdled milk atop an otherwise perfect latte. All it took was a little teasing to bring out the deceitful side of the blonde, and Shadow Milk had yet to tell even a single lie. Frankly, he knew which one of them deserved the Soul Jam more, based on that.

Teasingly slow, Shadow Milk reached a blue hand deep into the jam on Pure Vanilla’s chest, sinking into its substance like a cushion; the tone of his dough and the surface of the soul were the same color, as if they were always meant to be put together this way. He slowly pushed in, first inching in his fingers, then his palms, and then the beginnings of his wrist. It pulsated around him— it wasn't meant to be touched like this, but nevertheless, it burned in a way that was both painful and pleasing. It seemed almost to him as if he had stuck his arm into a pocket dimension somehow contained within Pure Vanilla's body. He would’ve been curious as to how it felt, if he hadn't tried such a thing with his half of the jam. And by his own experiences, he knew exactly how overwhelming it was.

“How’s that…? You know, this is why you’re mine. Without me, you wouldn’t be able to feel this way. Without my Soul Jam on your body, you’d never have known this pleasure,” he cooed, leaning down to speak into Pure Vanilla’s ear as he slowly began to swirl his hand and the tips of his fingers around inside of Pure Vanilla.

Pure Vanilla suppressed a strangled moan at the intrusive feeling, immediately attempting to further cover his mouth with one of his own hands. Not that it lasted long, with one of Shadow Milk's tendrils quickly ripping it away, but an effort had been made to at least save himself part of the humiliation. "Please..." Pure Vanilla whispered, not being quite sure what he was begging for, other than that Shadow Milk was sure not to provide it, if he asked.

Shadow Milk made a satisfied grin and hum as Pure Vanilla's mouth was re-uncovered, wriggling his fingers inside the goopy substance of the jam until Pure Vanilla couldn't help but moan out again. It felt like someone had reached directly into his chest and was playing harp with his bare nerves; too overwhelming to form words, but still amazing.

"Oh, wow!" Shadow Milk giggled, tensing his fingers to squeeze the surface of the Soul Jam's glistening tension. "I can feel it, pulsing. It wants us to do this, doesn't it? Just think of how powerful we'll be together, Nilly..."

Pure Vanilla full-body shuddered at the nickname, feeling a familiar, aroused tingle in his back from the jester's rough voice; somehow, that managed to be almost more intimate than Shadow Milk's fingers inside of his soul. "It's too— too much," he finally managed, squirming away from Shadow Milk.

That's when it happened: Shadow Milk curled his hands through the jam, grabbing it like a handle from the inside, and yanking Pure Vanilla forward by it. The utterly debauched sound that fell from Pure Vanilla's mouth was both a shriek of pain and a guttural cry of pleasure: he wasn't sure which part was more earnest. "No running away, now! We've only just started, Vailly!"

With that, he pulled Pure Vanilla up against him into his lap, still holding him by the inside of his jam. This time, Pure Vanilla managed to keep it at a controlled yelp, but it did nothing to diminish the lustful burning he felt in every inch of his dough. He saw his Soul Jam faintly flicker with burnt out light— he was suffering, and he couldn't help but feel as though his perverse pleasure derived from it was a betrayal of everything his Light stood for, everything that he and the others like White Lily had fought for.

Just as he made the thought, Shadow Milk tsked aloud. “Don’t think of her. I can see it on your pathetic face— she doesn’t own you, I do. She wouldn’t make you feel like this, right…?” he asked, relaxing his grip on Pure Vanilla’s jam and returning to stroking it gently from the inside. It felt like stepping into a hot room on a cold, winter’s afternoon— it tingled all over Vanilla’s body, causing him to emit a soft squeak as the feeling bubbled up into every square inch of his vanilla dough.

"Now that you're up here..." Shadow murmured into Pure Vanilla's ear, pulling him closer to his chest. Vanilla couldn’t help but smell the faint aroma of blueberries on his skin. He managed to grasp onto Shadow Milk’s shoulder, bracing himself through his panic at being pulled, and steadying his pleasure. "Let's try something, okay? This'll feel even better than just my hands," Shadow Milk promised, and then their Soul Jams gently touched together as he pulled Pure Vanilla up closer into him, engaging him in a sloppy kiss.

Pure Vanilla could suddenly feel everything in Shadow Milk’s body and nothing in his own all at once. He was somehow two sets of lips, locked in an embrace that smeared frosting lewdly across faces, he was the future, he was the past, he was Blueberry Milk and he was being torn apart in luxurious torment and lust.

After either all of time, or just a second, Shadow Milk shoved him away with a sudden gasp, multichrome eyes going wide. His face was brushed in a dark blue flush, giving him a healthy looking bake, for once. He panted, licking his blue lips, causing Pure Vanilla's smudged off-white frosting to smear slightly across them both. "Woah there, Vanilla! Getting ahead of yourself!" Shadow Milk chuckled, his eyes slightly too wide for it to really come across as a properly controlling order. Had he really not predicted what this would do? Had Shadow Milk truly been unable to predict how this would feel?

That, or he was simply more sensitive than Pure Vanilla. When was the last time Shadow Milk had touched another cookie, dough-to-dough, after all?

Shadow Milk was overwhelmed. When he had touched his own half of the Jam, it hadn’t felt even half that intense. No, that was a splash of cold water, and this was a dunk in the ocean. Oh, God, he felt so one with Pure Vanilla. What had he been thinking? He needed… Vanilla to become him, not the other way around…!

Pure Vanilla's grasp on Shadow’s shoulders tightened, sensing his weakness like blood in the water. "Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you forced me to do?" Pure Vanilla spoke forcefully, his voice carrying more venom than he ever let it have. Vanilla was purity, he was a figure of angelicness, forgiveness. Yet, now that he had felt what it was like to be him, he had a taste of being like Shadow Milk, feeling how Shadow Milk felt; a lingering flavor of blueberry and strawberry jam on his tongue.

He found he liked it.

He found it was the bit of Deceit inside of him, that sort of sadistic joy he found at Shadow Milk's startled expression, the nervous twitch to his pupils as they raked over Pure Vanilla's body. Glancing down to where Shadow Milk's eyes were fixed, he saw that his Soul Jam was... slightly melted, in appearance. Bits of it dripped loosely in comparison to its typically crystalline appearance, and Shadow Milk eyed it with trepidation, yet enthusiasm.

"Again," Pure Vanilla found his voice demanding, despite originally being the one who disagreed with this whole arrangement. Surely, it was the pieces of Shadow Milk's Soul Jam that were simply combining with his own. They were extended body parts, nervous systems— as if a second brain purely to use magic existed in the beasts and the ancient heroes.

After all, this was just a dream. Pure Vanilla could do whatever he wanted with this blue freak; he had given up on escaping. He’d have fun until Shadow Milk had enough and ended the dream. It was his domain, after all— it’s not like Vanilla could do anything that Shadow Milk couldn’t escape from at his very own will. Besides, when was the last time that Pure Vanilla was allowed to have fun?

With a sudden lean forward, Pure Vanilla caught the dough of Shadow Milk's neck in his mouth, dragging their Soul Jams into another gooey connection. Devouring him, tasting the faint flavor of blueberries and darkness and sweet, fresh milk, on his dough. It made a frankly lewd sound, and Pure Vanilla could feel himself losing his purity yet again, slipping into the body and mind of the insane man before him as if it were his fine Sunday clothes. A gratuitous moan rippled from Shadow Milk's lips. "Oh, Vanilla..." he managed, trying again to pull back from their embrace.

No, that wouldn't do. Pure Vanilla ran his hand up the back of Shadow Milk's head, feeling emboldened by the Light of Deceit that was flowing through him, the contradicting nature of the powers within him. He grabbed a fistful of Shadow Milk's hair, and gave it a harsh tug as he bit down more harshly on his neck. The resulting sound was something Pure Vanilla wished he could hear for the rest of his life. A debauched shriek, rough in the quality of the jester's voice, of his own name. "N-Nilla...!"

Pure Vanilla paused for just a moment, teeth in Shadow’s dough, paralyzed by the intoxication of lust. With that, he was giving Shadow Milk another chance to struggle against him, but it was futile in earnest. Shadow was only doing it for the fun of it: both of them knew he could run whenever he wanted. Two-toned eyes gazed up at Vanilla in all of their sex and pain-tinged glory. "No running away. We're just getting started." Shadow Milk’s expression grew even more lustfully destroyed with the idea of Vanilla echoing his words, his earnest expression, with just the faintest hint of a smile on his blue-smudged lips.

☆°•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~●°☆

OKAY BYE THATS ALL THANK YOU

Gasoline Cookie OUT !! (feel free to send me requests in asks!)

[arieslost]

quiet | op81

oscar piastri x fem!reader

summary: oscar is quiet in the ways he loves you.

word count: 1,620

warnings: disgusting levels of fluff

masterlist — join my tag list here!

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

– the sidewalk rule

You don’t even have to explain this to Oscar. In fact, he’s done it every single time the two of you walk together. You really don’t even notice until you see something on TikTok about it and think it would be fun to pay attention and see if he did it or not without you saying anything.

“Wanna go for a walk?” You ask him casually, and he nods, reaching for his sneakers.

Exercise tends to be the bane of your existence, a la Yuki Tsunoda, but you love to walk, and Oscar loves to walk with you. So whenever you ask him to go for a walk, no matter what he’s doing or how he’s feeling, he’ll always drop everything to go with you.

He holds the door open for you to go out first. “What kind of walk are you thinking, babe?”

“Mm, probably a longer one. It’s pretty nice out today.” You say, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. It feels so nice after being cooped up inside working for most of the day.

Lacing your fingers with his, you purposely place yourself on the outside of the sidewalk, but you don’t make it more than fifteen feet before Oscar stops both of you so abruptly that you nearly fall backwards.

“What? What’s wrong?” You ask your boyfriend, who is frowning.

“This is not right,” he mumbles, gently grabbing you by your shoulders and maneuvering you to the inside of the sidewalk. “You walk there. I walk here.”

“Why?” You feign innocence.

“I protect you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m always on the outside to protect you.”

He says it with such conviction that you don’t bother telling him that you did it on purpose because you saw a TikTok. Instead, you press a kiss to his cheek, take his hand again, and go on your way on the proper side of the sidewalk.

– fixing your clothes

Sometimes, you think that Oscar is more attentive to you than you are to yourself. It’s like he’s gained a sixth sense dedicated entirely to you. This applies to microexpressions, body language, even when your clothes are even the tiniest bit askew.

You’re five minutes late to a work meeting, you can’t find your shoes, and you haven’t even left yet. Oscar watches you rush around the apartment, holding your bag and your keys in his hand so you don’t have to go looking for those either.

“I’m so fired after this,” you huff, forcing your feet into your shoes that you finally located and wincing when your fingers get stuck between your heel and the shoe.

“You won’t get fired,” he says gently. “This is the first time you’ve ever been late, and you’re a fantastic employee. I’m sure they’ll be understanding.”

“They’d better be, I need this job.” You mutter, shoving your arms into your jacket and buttoning it at the speed of light.

“You don’t need a job, I can take care of you.”

“Nice try, Osc. We’ve talked about this, I’m not going to be your sugar baby.”

“Trophy wife?”

You glare at him playfully. “I’ll see you later. Or in an hour, if I get fired.”

“You won’t get fired,” he repeats as you take your bag and keys from him. “Oh, wait a second!”

You pause as he reaches for you, undoing the uneven buttons courtesy of your hastiness and deftly buttoning them back up the right way. “There y’go, have a good day, honey.” He gives you a kiss and opens the door for you.

A few days later, Oscar comes home to see that his favorite hoodie is missing. He walks into the living room, where you’re curled up on the couch taking a nap, wearing the hoodie in question. He sits at your side, brushing your hair away from your face, and that’s when he notices that one of the drawstrings is tucked back behind your neck into the hoodie. It doesn’t look like it’s causing you any discomfort, since you’re asleep, but regardless he immediately starts to tug on it. You stir, and he freezes.

“No, don’t wake up,” he whispers. “Just fixing this for you.”

“M’kay, thanks Osc,” you reply, wrapping a hand around his wrist. “Cuddle me.”

“Baby, I just got home from work, I’m sweaty-”

“Don’t care,” you grumble, reaching for him when he stands up and causing the hoodie to ride up over your stomach. “Miss you. Cuddle me.”

“Let me shower quick, and then I’m all yours, okay?” He pulls the hem of the hoodie down as he leans over and kisses your forehead.

You twiddle the drawstring that he fixed between your fingers as you wait for him, thinking about how sweet he is to pay such close attention to you all the time.

– watching your favorite movies with you

Nobody is perfect, and in your eyes, Oscar’s only imperfection is that he’s never seen Star Wars. As a life-long, diehard fan, you decided to wait until you’d been with him for a few months to introduce him to that side of you and invite him over for a Star Wars marathon.

“I hope these live up to the hype,” Oscar teases, surveying the way you’ve decorated the entire living area with Star Wars paraphernalia, prepared Star Wars inspired snacks, and just laid a Star Wars blanket across the both of you.

“Are you joking? It will be everything I say it is and more, now be quiet.” You shush him as the main theme begins.

You peek over at him over and over throughout every movie, almost watching him more than the films to see how he reacts to every little moment. You start to watch him more intensely during Revenge of The Sith, but ultimately your focus goes back to the movie when Padme arrives on Mustafar to confront Anakin, Obi-Wan secretly in tow.

Oscar’s enjoying the movies, of course, but even without seeing them he knows how well you know this upcoming scene. He’s heard you recite it so many times under your breath at various times that he feels like he might be able to surprise you with his minimal well of knowledge within the next few minutes. He grins to himself as the penultimate moment of the scene grows closer and closer and you sit up straight, accidentally knocking his arm off of your shoulders without noticing as you move to the edge of the couch.

“I have brought peace, freedom, justice, and security to my new empire!” Anakin says on screen, and you say the words at the same time.

“Your new empire?” Obi-Wan replies. Oscar mouths the words along with him, gathering up his nerve.

“Don’t make me kill you,” you and Anakin warn.

“Anakin, my allegiance is to the Republic, to democracy!” Oscar exclaims, getting a little ahead of Obi-Wan in his enthusiasm.

“If you’re not with me,” you and Anakin say as you slowly turn to face your boyfriend, “then you’re my enemy.”

“Only a Sith deals in absolutes.” Oscar and Obi-Wan reply evenly, Oscar unable to hide the smile on his face at your barely contained excitement. “I will do what I must.”

“You will try.” Only Anakin says this final line, because you launch yourself at Oscar and bear hug him.

“You knew the lines! You did so well!” You cheer, kissing his head, his temple, his cheeks.

“You say them all in your sleep, that’s how I knew,” Oscar says, flushed from your sudden onslaught of affection.

“I do not!” He gives you a look. “Okay, I wouldn’t be surprised if I did, but still! You knew! I can’t believe- oh, wait, shh!” You shush him again, even though you’re the one talking. “Pay attention, this part is so good.”

Oscar’s smile doesn’t fade for the rest of the night as he pulls you back into his side, knowing that while this is the first, it definitely isn’t the last time he’s watching these movies with you.

– nose kisses

Oscar is the first and only person to kiss you on the nose, and you’re glad. It’s become such an Oscar thing that if anyone else did it you’d feel wrong.

The first time he did it had been a complete accident– all the lights were off already, you were both exhausted, and he was just trying to give you a goodnight kiss, but completely overshot your lips and ended up getting your nose instead.

“I’m too tired to apologize, I’ll do it in the morning,” he grumbled, and you had simply snuggled closer to him.

“S’alright, I liked it.”

After that it became the place he kissed you the most. He gives you a nose kiss first thing in the morning and last thing at night. At this point, he kisses your nose more than anywhere else, including your lips. You ask him for a kiss, and he kisses your nose.

“A real kiss,” you whine, and he furrows his eyebrows at you.

“That was a real kiss.”

“On the lips, like a normal person, please.”

Oscar crosses his arms over his chest. “Now hold on, I thought you said you liked it.”

“I do!” You protest. “It’s very sweet, but sometimes I want to actually kiss my boyfriend.”

He gives in easily, but the nose kisses are never ending. Posing for a picture? He wants to kiss your nose. Saying goodbye? You’re getting a nose kiss. He’s about to get in the car to race? He’s kissing your nose before he puts his helmet on.

While you love getting “real” kisses, Oscar’s nose kisses are more precious to you than any other kind of kiss.

note: here is the prompt list i used for this; this was a different format than how i usually write so i hope it was good! this is also the first full fic i’m posting that isn’t in the 3k word range which is shocking jdjfkfkf

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika !

tags (i’m sorry if i couldn’t tag you!): @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @mia-rrrs @customsbyjcg-blog @hauntedphotographybookstaco @bigheartsthings @northpizzasposts @notturlover @riv3rbank @gesfjjsl @oliveisunstable @lily1sposts @sadbut-true0 @lilcowboy0 @alltoowelltaylor @kimis-gloves @superheroreader @alexmarie29 @anedpev @lalalaphie @waitingforsmartpeople @arrowenchantress @zillygoose @its-cat-eyes @gxllumsriddles @fionaschicken @mrsgeorgerussell63 @bre013 @lizzypiastri @blldsnjs @samantha-chicago @homosexualjohnwayne @opheliabluewolff @catbat011 @drivelikeiido @what-is-happening-helpp @decafmickey @tania2748 @steviesscoops @annahowardsworld @nessacarty1 @tswizzleismother @anythingforourmoonsy @meko-mt @solonelystill @tomriddleswhorecruxes @sammykiszkalover @landosgirl

[natalievoncatte]

6. Embers

I won’t be writing a ficlet today for the “Embers” prompt because I already have a story by that title that captures it, I think.

[ficbrish]

Threadbare

[AO3 Link]

[Here we go! @flufftober Spring Edition 2024! Thank you for the prompt 🥰 March 11th - New Beginnings]

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

tw/cw: Sexual content, blood, blood drinking, past abuse, cptsd, choking kink, interrupted masturbation, alcohol, light hurt/comfort

Late in Act III, Astarion finds Vistri cuddling with his old shirt alone in their rooms at the Elfsong.

LATE ACT III SPOILERS!

“...And gave him a taste of a flaming fist! ” Karlach howled, leading the whole tavern in laughter.

Other mugs echoed her pounding on the bar with a dull, banging rhythm. Little golden drops of mead spilled over the tops, dripping down the glasses and mixing with condensation.

Astarion personally never tired of this story of hers. A Flaming Fist had been inappropriately whistling at Shadowheart, and Karlach responded by knocking the man flat on his ass in one swing. While Astarion smiled quietly and nostalgically at her recollection of those events, the other tavern patrons, who’d never heard it before, were an eager and raucous audience.

Shadowheart’s face turned Karlach’s color. Shouting over the Elfsong’s laughter, she protested, “I could have handled it myself. Really!”

Wyll threw an arm over her shoulder, “Come, come, Shadowheart. Was it not a bit satisfying for such a gallant devil to step in and exact your revenge?”

A huge smile spread over her face, “Galant devil could describe any of us.”

Astarion raised his glass, “Cheers!”

Wyll met his delicate wine glass with his own burly mug of mead. Unprepared for how much enthusiasm Wyll would use, Astarion ended up with red all down his front. A collective groan sounded along with wild laughter.

“It’s all right,” he assured Wyll, whose eyes were apologizing faster than his mouth could move.

“Astarion, I’m so—”

Funny thing, how such a sight affected him. Astarion wasn’t used to apologies. Or friendships for that matter. Wyll’s genuine sorrow over such a small inconvenience was like a hearty meal to a starving soul. He couldn’t let the apology continue. It was too painful to witness.

“No, no! It’s all right,” Astarion insisted, “Please don’t put yourself out. I’ll just go change. This tunic is hideous anyways.”

It wasn’t. It was a pretty blue thing with silver thread. But there was a prettier blue thing with silver scales waiting for him upstairs in their rooms, one he was eager to get back to.

Vistri was having a lie down. She wasn’t sick, just exhausted. Her body was fine, but her mind was ragged. Astarion was only reluctantly dragged from her side through her stubborn, repeated insistence to be left alone for a little while. He had the sense she’d been saying it more for his sake than hers. She didn’t want to be the reason why he didn’t spend time with the others.

“You say no one else has my heart, but they do!” she’d said, “You do!”

He’d frowned at the way she used his own words against him. Especially so inaccurately. Astarion was right, there was no one else like her. He’d stand by that forever.

“That’s not—!”

“Yes, it is! Go down there and have fun. Let them earn your trust as I have.”

Raising his brow, he left her with one last tease, “Certainly not in the same way you have?”

His charm wasn’t enough this time. He was dismissed.

Let the others in .

Well, he’d gone down with the others, had a bit of fun, and now he was covered in wine. He had the perfect excuse to go back up and check on her. The fretting in his stomach turned into excitement. 

So much had changed in so little time, after two centuries of endless, torturous consistency, spilled wine was now just spilled wine. He would just change his clothes, maybe wash up a bit, and there would be more waiting for him to wear. Choices.

Sewing was a skill Cazador forced on all his spawn. Keeping them all as cheaply as possible, they had to make every article of clothing last. No matter the care, or the tending, their clothes always ended up degrading into rags and tatters. Astarion was almost jealous of the way his outfits got to age and die. They had a temporal escape, while his torture was bound to be endless.

It also had the side benefit of shame. Sewing was for servants. It reminded the spawn of who they were.

Now that was all over. Cazador was gone. Ended by his hand.

And he had so many new clothes.

He had choices. How bizarre! Astarion was sure he’d forgotten how to make them.

And then he chose her.

A smile brewed on his face just at the mention of her in his thoughts. He took to the steps three at a time, surely looking absolutely ridiculous. He didn’t remember much from his life before undeath, but the more time he spent away from Cazador, the more he realized how much his desire to avoid appearing foolish was part of the weight of those old chains. If he tripped and fell on his face, he would probably laugh from the rebellious feeling of it.

The tadpoles brought him the sun and then Vistri. She helped him find love, true freedom, and then true love.

He decided looking a fool was worth it the moment he stepped through the door. His eyes found her immediately on one of the sofas by the fireplace. The dancing reflections of the flames rolled over the silver scales on her brow in waves. He could see it from the door. She was lying down; her eyes opened at the sound of his entrance.

She seemed a little shocked, “Astarion!”

“Hello, dear!” he greeted with open arms and a wide smile. It felt like ages since they’d been in the same space.

Although, reading her expression, he was a little worried she wasn’t as happy to see him.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, “Are the others—?”

“Just me,” he stated, then dramatically drew attention to his ruined shirtfront, “I’ve been decorated with libations! I need to freshen up. Is that all right?”

“Of course it’s all right! Don’t be silly.”

Vistri was a sorcerer; she was used to her thoughts becoming reality. But her mind was reeling from his sudden appearance. Like he’d stepped from her thoughts, but with an entirely different attitude. The Astarion in front of her was all lightness and soft good-humor. The one in her head was a whole other, harder side of his.

Their storage trunk was near the fireplace as well, by the other sofa. As Astarion walked towards her to rifle through it, she slowly removed her hand from between her legs, careful not to let the movement show under the blanket, which wasn’t even a blanket, but his old shirt.

Gods! It couldn’t be more embarrassing.

He came over to her first, bending down to plant a gentle kiss on her damp forehead. Astarion looked at her curiously, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Vistri nodded, humming a high-pitched, “Mmmm-hmmm.”

His brow was all questioningly screwed up, but he decided to drop it, and started unbuttoning his tunic.

Vistri subtly wiped her fingers on her thigh, then sat up, “Here, let me help you.”

“I’ve got it love,” he insisted, “You just lie down. Say… Why aren’t you in our bed?”

The way she smiled and repeated the words, “Our bed,” in that bright tone allayed all Astarion’s fears in an undead heartbeat. He was welcome. She was just as happy to see him as he was her. Poor love was just worn out.

He sighed and bent back down to kiss her. Her pulse pounded, he could feel it rush at the brushing of his lips. A rumble brewed in his middle and his fangs ached. She gave a little moan without meaning to, losing herself in the power of his affection.

“Don’t get too excited,” he teased, “I’m only here for a moment.”

“Why only a moment?” she asked genuinely.

With a smile, he tucked her braid behind her ear, “Didn’t you want to be alone?”

Her eyes were wide, like a begging dog, “I can be alone with you here.”

Astarion froze. He swallowed heavily, then giggled, “What a silly idea! Doesn’t that defy the whole concept of being alone?”

She pouted, and he rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he scoffed, sitting down next to her, “I can be—Hang on!”

Upon reaching for her hand, he finally noticed her blanket. Her expression filled with panic at his recognition, and too late, she tried to hide it.

He chuckled with sinister delight, “Why, is this my—?”

“No!” she stubbornly refused.

“Bloody liar! ” he laughed.

“It’s not!”

Vistri was cuddled up with his old shirt. She must’ve taken it out of the trunk and sat down nearby.

“That’s why you’re not in bed! You came over here for my shirt!”

Blushing deeply, Vistri was struggling to accept her fate. She couldn’t get out of talking about her feelings now. Eventually, she admitted, “...I did.”

His query was meant to tease, but there was something… raw and needy in his voice that made it something entirely different, “You were…”

She was nuzzling his old rags like they were something precious. Intentionally. Used her alone time to fish it out of the stuffed trunk, and secretly treasure it. While he was just downstairs in the tavern, missing her, she was up here longing for him.

“You were holding onto my old shirt?”

Vistri rolled her eyes and groaned. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed.

Astarion made a “tsk” sound and smirked, “Aw, don’t reject it now, darling. My poor shirt! You’ll hurt its feelings.”

“No! I don’t want that!” she whined, as if that were something possible to really do.

He held it away from her reaching grasp, “Nuh, uh! Apologize first.”

“Astarion!”

“That’s my name, dear. Not an apology.”

Vistri frowned. Astarion leaned in and kissed it into a smile.

“I hate you!” she giggled, playfully pushing him off her.

“I hate you too,” he said lovingly, “Now! Walk me through the process of deciding to take out my shirt. Was this before or after you shooed me away?”

“Must I?”

Savoring the look on her face, he nodded, “You must, dearest.”

She bit her lip, “Okay. Ugh. Fine. You left and I…”

“You what?”

“I missed you! ”

“Hah!” he boasted.

“Arsehole!”

“An arsehole you love to kiss,” he grinned, “Shall I call you butt breath?”

“No!” she protested, laughing, “Please no!”

“Here,” Astarion handed her his old shirt, “Hold this.”

He stood and finished undoing his tunic, then threw off the soiled shirt underneath. Bare-chested, he climbed over to her side.

“Scoot over,” he demanded.

“There’s no room!” she laughed.

He pulled her tight once his body was flush against hers, “We’ll make it work.”

Vistri felt dizzy. Like she was flying.

“Okay.”

Not letting it go, Astarion asked, “So you missed me, and then what happened?”

With his fingers absently drawing figures on her waist, Vistri had no fight left. Sighing, she continued to expose herself, ���I started thinking about… When we met, and I first saw you.”

“How you adored me instantly?”

“No, actually. How much I despised you. Like really, really just wanted to… shake you.”

“That’s so romantic.”

She chuckled, “I’m sorry. It’s horrible, but it’s true. But then… I also…” She shifted so they were chest to chest, and she could look at his face as she spoke. Without thinking, her nose nuzzled his as she admitted, “I really liked you.”

He sort of snorted and sighed and called out in the same second, like a baby that didn’t know if it was hungry or tired or perfectly content. That didn’t know whether to coo or cry.

“You did?” he asked, heart on his tongue.

Nodding, Vistri admitted it all, “I think I’ve come to learn… It wasn’t you I was mad at, but everyone else you reminded me of. And part of me knew that, and the unfairness of it made me hate myself more.”

“Wanna know a secret?”

“What?” she chuckled.

“I hated myself and liked you too.”

Grinning, she humorously exclaimed, “And that’s why we had sex!”

Astarion gave a hearty laugh. It was rich and deep, and sounded like relief from a long-ago burden.

Instead of joining his mirth, Vistri’s expression grew more serious, “I don’t believe there’s a single thing I could hate about you. Not now that I know you.”

“Not a single thing?”

“Impossible.”

He caressed the length of her ear, gentle like a caretaker, then kissed her cheek.

“So what was that you were saying, about thinking of how much you hated me when we first met?” he whispered, stroking the side of her face with the tip of his nose.

“I didn’t hate you, I was falling in love. That’s what I was thinking of. Falling in love.”

“With me?”

She laughed, “Who else?”

He kissed her forehead, waiting with bated breath for her to continue.

She breathed deeply, leaning into his kiss, “I wanted to run down and get you, but we can’t be together all the time.”

“Who says?”

Chuckling, she shook her head, “We can’t!”

“And the next best thing was my shirt?”

“The one I met you in.”

He’d almost thrown it out. Now that he had new clothes, he no longer needed Cazador’s old rags.

But he couldn’t. And he was glad he didn’t.

“And then you just decided to relax here? And daydream about me?”

“Uh…” she said way too awkwardly for him to just accept.

Brow raised, Astarion repeated, “‘Uh? ’”

“It’s just so incredibly lame!” Vistri looked horrified.

“Then I have to hear it!” he giggled, thrilled to have her in this little trap she set up herself.

“I was… Oh gods! ” she rolled her eyes, “Can I just… tadpoles?”

He laughed, “It’s so embarrassing you can’t speak it?”

“Yes.”

Laughing even harder, he agreed. He put his forehead to hers even though they didn’t need touch for brainworm-to-brainworm communication. Relaxing into his embrace, she let her memory play out through his senses.

Vistri was thinking of him, and Astarion found beauty in himself he could only see through her eyes. Like freedom, it was overwhelming. A goodness he could drown in. That she could drown in. He was her, and she was him.

Knots in her stomach, tied like strings of fate, spelling his name in her blood.

Rushing, pounding, flowing. Her heart.

Stillness. Serenity. Bliss.

After lying down on the couch, she held his shirt to her face and breathed into it. Even washed, it smelled like him. Like his heat and his lusts and his heavy soul. She kissed its loose threads like it was his chest, where his heart was. Imagined his arms around her like they were now.

Astarion felt Vistri loving him; fell into her blurred line of desire and devotion. He could taste it on her tongue as he kissed her now and felt her love him through that too. Past and present blended, and they shared all of it like one being. In her memory, her hand traveled between her legs at the thought of his laughing face. Then there was the sincerity in his eyes as they both kneeled over his grave. I want you, spilling out of his lips. She was touching herself, thinking of him, adoring him, with the shirt she’d met him in clutched to her throat. As they lived through it together on the same sofa, he kissed her again and again.

She didn’t even mean to break the connection, but his mouth was too distracting. He just couldn’t help himself. It felt like coming home after two centuries.

“How rude,” he muttered, “I seem to have interrupted.”

“It’s fine,” she said breathlessly, “I’m glad you came back.”

He chuckled warmly, “Darling I was just downstairs. At your insistence!”

“I know,” she said plainly, holding him tighter.

His heart ached, still absorbing what he’d just felt and seen through her memory, “You… Thinking about me–how you love me–makes you…?”

Unable to look at him, she buried her face in his chest, “I told you it was lame!”

Helping her out of hiding, he lifted up her chin, “I don’t think it’s lame.”

His tone sounded like he thought it was the most extraordinary thing. A miracle that couldn’t even be perceived, even with it plainly in front of him. It tore her heart open, but filled it rather than took.

Astarion kissed her neck, “I think it’s quite hot actually. Makes me want to finish what you started.” Vistri felt the heat of her blush again, and he moaned, “Fuck! I love when your blood rushes.”

He scraped his fangs hungrily against her skin. Her heart grew heavy with the weight of his need. She wanted to be the reason he felt better. Stronger.

“Go ahead, Astarion,” she said comfortingly, “Have a bite.”

He kissed her neck, from her chin down to the base of her throat, and bit into the muscle that connected her shoulder. Vistri gasped, surrendering to the sharp pain, and to him, leaning into his bite. Her blood dripped between them as it rolled messily off his lips.

Just allowing himself a taste, Astarion released Vistri from his fangs, licking up the remnants and kissing her wound until it closed. The hunger wasn’t sated, but he was dizzy with power nonetheless.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked, still concerned despite knowing how much she loved it.

“More than all right! Are you—?”

He met her warm smile with one of his own, “More than all right.”

“Good.”

No other partner ever cared. Neither had ever been asked genuinely what they wanted or who they were. No one else but them, making such questions a lyrical aphrodisiac for them to exchange.

Astarion could read her arousal in a thousand different languages. His tongue could feel it in her frantic heartbeat. His teeth could smell it in her glistening sweat. She was a meal ready to be devoured, prey begging to be taken. His hands traveled along her waist, and she twitched pleasantly. All the places that usually tickled made her shiver with want.

Vistri was always so ecstatic that it was him touching her this way, and no one else, that her skin would cry if it could. He could have clumsy hands and awkward touches, and still his embrace would make her shake. Astarion could easily bring ecstasy to her, even if he didn’t know what he was doing, just because it was him.

But gods did he know what he was doing! He played her body like it was one of her instruments, and all he did was fondle her torso.

His fingers lingered just under her waistline as he rubbed his arousal against her thigh. Throbbing under his pants, Astarion let his hand dive into her knickers. The wet lace made him groan.

“You’re soaking,” he sighed, licking his lips, “Might I have another taste?”

Whimpering as he teased her sensitive skin with brushing fingertips, Vistri pleaded, “Yes!”

First, he undressed her one article at a time, unwrapping her like a gift.

It was better than being alone. The whole purpose of her rest was to not think. She didn’t want to disappear, not anymore. She wanted to be present, but out of her head, and this was so much better. However, her heart still ached and missed him. Demanding more touch, more feeling. 

Being wanted by Vistri was the prettiest sight. Astarion had only ever known admiration, not adoration. Images of her in her memory ran through his mind; and with them came echoes of her emotion as she’d nuzzled into his old shirt, desperate for his lingering smell, pretending it still held his warmth. As the monster in his head screamed to devour her, he slid a finger up and down her soaking slit.

Following the roll of her hips, he almost lost himself in their rhythm as he teased her clit. Her desire was one he’d never known, a love he’d never felt. Vistri gave herself to everyone, but never like this. It was the same for him. Everyone had him, but no one knew him like this. Between them, old habits were entirely new.

Crawling his way down her legs, he had another taste. Vistri’s hands caressed his head and her fingers wrapped around his ears in a way that made him hum with security.

She cried out at every lash of his tongue.

He whined licking her, the rushing blood just under her skin overwhelmed his senses as much as her taste. It made him feel alive. Pangs of need made his fingers tremble as they pushed into her, stretching her. She moaned, a song promising this would always be his. He wanted to fuck her until he saw stars.

And it felt good to want. The desire he felt was his. All his.

“Astarion,” she called out his name in a breathy voice, her body tensing with pleasure. Even without tadpoles, he knew how close Vistri was.

The next words from her lips yanked his heart out of his chest and brought it to his sleeve.

“Yours. I’m all yours.”

He’d planned to pleasure her in so many ways, but those words took away his will to perform. They didn’t need ecstasy as much as each other. She’d touched herself thinking of his laugh and his expressions; of his being, not his figure. Vistri just wanted him.

Lifting his head up, he asked, “Can I—?”

“Get back here!”

She pulled on his shoulders as he rushed to her lips, climbing her torso. She was so small, but it felt like miles. Ages until they were face to face.

His mouth was like a bully, commanding hers about. Vistri struggled with things like self love and acceptance, but could adoringly savor her taste on his tongue. It was so sweet mixed with his underneath. Astarion took her by the wrist to rub her hand along the outside of his trousers, almost growling as rutted into her palm. Being used by him was the best thing in the world, just as being used by others was the worst. Her ecstasy from it was as sharp as her bruised soul.

One long, deep, “Uuuuh,” from Vistri was the final snap in Astarion’s composure. One hand went to her neck as the other started undoing his laces. 

He licked along her jaw, and spoke in the crook of her throat as it called to him, “Do you know what it means? When you say you’re all mine?”

“I know what it means,” she looked him squarely in the eyes, seriously, which was unusual for either of them, “I say it because I know what it means.”

When there was enough give, Astarion pulled his trousers and pants down in one motion, just far enough to reveal himself. He spread her thighs apart and rubbed his aching cock along her belly to show off how deep he’d go.

Writhing, wanting him, she uttered, “Fuck, I love you.”

Astarion buried himself in her, saying he loved her too. Vistri screamed his name so loudly it probably answered what was taking him so long to change to the others downstairs.

“Wait, is the door locked?” he asked, suddenly remembering.

Vistri groaned, realizing it wasn’t, “Shit. Nooo.”

It was a rare occasion for their rooms at the Elfsong to be empty of everyone but them. Anyone could come back at any time, and they were in the middle of the room.

“Well, we don’t want to make an unsuspecting audience out of Shadowheart’s parents. Do we?”

Cackling, she suggested, “Or Withers.”

Astarion giggled, “Old bastard might try to join.”

Vistri’s laughter made her shake and pulse so pleasantly on his cock, he didn’t want to leave.

“Go lock it,” she could barely get the words out, overtaken by hilarity. Like she was wearing that cursed amulet again. 

Sighing with frustration, he reluctantly pulled out of her and got up, tearing the rest of clothes off of his legs. Her slick covered his whole length, making the air cool on his dick as it bounced with his steps.

At the sound of the lock snapping shut, Vistri stupidly called out, “Please!”

He stood by the door smiling with his arms crossed, “Please, what?” The crimson-violet scream of his skin, his retreated foreskin, and the precum pooling at his tip betrayed his casual nature.

“Fuck me!” she begged.

He smirked and held up two fingers.

Vistri buried her face in the side of the sofa to hide her laughter, “I cannot stand you!”

Wishing to see her face again, Astarion dropped his game and broke into a full run. She squealed as he leapt to her, and then cried out as he tore through her again. He savored the look on her face. Her eyes spilled the truth of her heart. Their expression exposed her even though she wasn’t trying to hide anything. Vistri belonged to him, gave herself over to him to use and take care of at whatever whim. As long as she was his .

“What was that about not being able to stand me?” he smirked, distracting himself from the pleasure shaking his spine like a tree in a rough storm. He wanted Vistri to find ecstasy at least once before giving into his.

Running her hands along his chest and stomach made him almost whimper. Vistri licked his earlobe and kissed his ear before whispering, “I lied. I actually adore you, and want you all the time.”

Roughly, he pushed her down into the sofa. He wrapped a big hand around her delicate neck and held it firm, like a brace. Slowing his thrusts to an unbearably slow pace. A teasing rhythm.

“Do you adore me now?” he asked. It was impossible for even Astarion to tell if he was asking out of seduction or sincerity.

“Even more,” she promised.

A devious smile tugged at the corner of his lips, “Turn around.”

After tucking pillows, and his old shirt, under Vistri for a better angle, Astarion playfully bounced his hard cock against her ass. They both laughed at the smack, but grew serious as he began to touch her from behind. She rocked back into his palm so deliciously he had to angle himself against her. With a slight push, he was covered to the hilt. They shivered in tune with each other. Vistri felt ripped open at his thrust; his hands firmly holding onto her hips grounded her.

She reached back for one of them, and his finger twisted around one of hers as they met.

He froze, “Is this still what you want?”

“It is all I want,” she answered, caressing his finger.

Even though Vistri couldn’t see his smirk, she could hear it, “Then let’s give the others an update on our whereabouts.”

He roughly pumped his hips, angling deep.

“Astarion!”

He wanted them to hear it, everyone her voice could reach; hear the news that she was his. Going faster made her louder.

“Astarion! ” 

“Yes,” he groaned, as he felt her tightening around him, “Yes.” It was a word he wasn’t used to meaning, and the truth of it felt like the sun tingling like home on his skin.

Gasping through the edges of death, in unison, too quickly, they cried out.

Astarion wanted to see the stars, and there they appeared behind both their eyes. They never really knew why it was called a little death before they met. It became clear the first time they transcended flesh and spirit together under the thrall of an all-consuming ecstasy. In that bliss, they were gone from the world, and in coming back to it, were reborn into their shaking embrace.

He rocked his hips gently, even when there was nothing left to spill into her. Just because he didn’t want the moment to pass yet.

As Astarion sat back on his knees, Vistri turned around and covered his face with a flurry of breathless, grateful pecks. He chuckled, and wrapped his arms around her. Vistri threw hers over his shoulders too and pulled him tighter.

“Never leave me alone again,” she half-joked.

Astarion was so happy his words had a sobbing laugh under them, “Oh, I’m never leaving you alone again!”

They squeezed each other even closer at the same time. Never wanting to let go.

Miraculously, nothing got on the couch. So all they had to clean off was each other. After freshening up, they crawled into their bed. Which wasn’t really their bed. It was rented. But, unless tents and bedrolls counted, this bed was the first sort of home they’d claimed together.

“This is my favorite part,” she said as she nuzzled into his chest.

“What are you talking about?”

Vistri hummed happily and sighed, running her fingers along his arm, “This.”

Smiling, he bent to kiss her head. She gave another happy hum.

“You’re perfect,” she said.

“No, I’m not,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

Looking up, she poked him on the nose and refuted his denial, “Yes, you are!”

Astarion smirked and made a show of trying to bite her finger. Vistri squealed, laughing.

“No, don’t bi—”

A series of loud, rapid bangs on the door snatched them from their lighthearted moment, and instinctively, they got ready to fight. Each made a protective gesture over the other. Astarion sat up and pulled her closer by the waist, as she positioned her body in front of his.

Drunken shouts answered them before they could call out and ask who was there.

“—en it!”

“‘S’locked! ”

“OY! WHY’S THE DOOR SHUT?!” That would be Karlach.

Vistri smirked at Astarion.

Brow raised, he remarked, “Looks like this time, we forgot to unlock the door.”

She snickered, “Ready to let them in?”

He made a show of thinking about it for a moment as kicks and insults shook the door, “Hmmm, I don’t know. I think we should make them wait.”

The burst of laughter that left Vistri was loud enough for the others to notice, and the muffled shouting now included their names.

Astarion rolled his eyes and got out of bed, “You’ve done it now, love.”

As he walked to the door, he took a look back at Vistri, who had sunk back into their bed, holding her sides in a laughing fit. He felt as free as she sounded, and so full of happiness Astarion couldn’t feel his feet on the ground.

Vistri was wearing his old shirt. She’d insisted on changing into it when they got dressed. Telling him she didn’t want to spend a second without him wrapped around her.

The sight made him smile so broadly his cheeks ached.

[witchofsparkles]

Vampire Ghost and hunter Soap fic I wrote a while ago. I'm posting the full fic down below, it's also on AO3. You can check the tags first on AO3 if you like.

Soap aimed his crossbow for the deer bowed its head. It was oblivious to the human and the bow in his hand, didn't realize the fate that was on the way to claim its reward.

Every living thing was a fuel to the another. The energy never disappears but it changes. The deer's life was going to be the human's. There was a circle to complete. The circle of life.

But when Soap released the trigger and waited for the deer to shake with the arrow's force, it went into something taller and slender. Something more human. Soap watched the deer to run away into the depths of the forest and slowly walked to the prey. It was a human. At least his body was, Soap couldn't see the face of him because of the skull mask covering most of it. He squated next to him to check his pulse. Yes, Soap was a hunter and a killer if it came to it, but he wasn't out to kill innocent people. If he didn't see it necessary to his survival, every breath was God's to take.

Soap reached for the man's neck, to see if he is alive and thought he faced the death itself. The man reacted with the speed of light and Soap found his neck between the man's hand. The pulse he wanted to feel was the man's, not his own.

"Hey, calm down. It was an accident, are you okay?" Soap eyed the arrow's entry point and saw it was just under his shoulder. It shouldn't be life threatening. The man was still breathing harshly like a caged animal, so Soap put his hands on the man's. He hoped to calm him down, but the hand squeezed his neck more. "You're going to kill me." Soap managed to whisper through his clenched jaw but he started to see the stars. "I can't breath."

That brought the man's senses back and he relaxed his hand around Soap. Then leaned back to the tree behind him, kept watching Soap who was struggling to breath between coughing fits. "I was going after the deer. What were you doing there?"

Soap stared at the injured man and waited for an answer that seemed like would never come. But he spoke, with a powerless but deep voice. It was almost like he was using his all strength for a couple words. Soap didn't know who was in a worse condition: Soap who just got choked or the man who got shot with an arrow. "Going after the deer."

Soap sat down with a grunt, face to face with the man. After a careful and long watch, Soap pointed to the arrow on the man's shoulder. "Do you want me to take it out?"

The man didn't answer.

"You were going after the deer too? I don't see any weapon. You would catch it with what? Hopes and dreams?" That granted Soap a stare. He could imagine the man was raising an eyebrow. But he didn't answer, again.

"Do you have anyone at home that can cook and nurse?" The man's eyes met with Soap's and they stayed like that under the setting sun for some time. Soap couldn't see the man's eyes, they were in the shadow under the skull mask but he could see his mouth which had scars around. Soap found it sad, for some reason. It looked like the man never smiled in his life. That made him come to a decision and Soap raised to his feet. Then under the masked man's questioning eyes, he extended his hand. "Come. Let's get that wound cleaned up."

The man followed him after a brief moment, Soap guessed he was weighing his choices and walked especially slower. But when he heard the silent footsteps, Soap picked the conversation from where he left. "So. What's your name?" That stretched the silence, rather than putting a stop to it. Soap turned his head back to see the man. "I'm Soap. It's John, actually but people call me Soap. I'm taking Tarzan home, I think I deserve a name."

The man was holding the arrow stable with his hand while following Soap down the hill and he didn't raise his eyes when answering. "Ghost." Soap nodded to himself as if it was the most satisfying name he heard and Ghost frowned behing him. If he knew why Ghost was given that name, he wouldn't be looking so carefree.

They came to Soap's house, which was more like a hut than a house. There were only two rooms inside and they were small. Soap's head was just under the door but Ghost had to bend slightly to protect his head. Soap left Ghost in the room with a couch, a small table and two chairs. On his right were two kitchen cabinets with a sink and a stove. Enough things for a man who lives alone, Ghost thought. When Soap returned to the room with gauzes and medicines, Ghost went to the couch without giving Soap time to say anything. If he wanted to get the arrow out, who was he to stop him? But Ghost didn't know how to explain that he stopped bleeding long ago and the only thing preventing the wound from closing was the arrowhead still buried into his flesh.

And yet, Soap didn't face any opposition when he held the shirt to cut it away. The white shirt was wet with blood and Soap expected to see an injury under it, but the under the dried blood was just an arrow. Soap grabbed the arrow with his right hand and put his left on Ghost's chest to stabilize himself. The injury that stopped bleeding was in the vicinity of things he could maybe explain to himself, but not feeling any heartbeat under his palm was not. While pulling the arrow out with force, Soap did everything he could to not start shaking like leaf under Ghost's gaze and the heart that wasn't beating. And the worst, he invited him in.

Soap looked at the arrow in his hand. Ghost didn't make any sound when Soap was forcing the arrow out. His hand was aching from gripping it too tight but Ghost didn't make any sound.

Why would he, if he wasn't a human?

Soap took a deep breath. He needed to calm down. If Ghost wanted to kill him, he wouldn't be alive now. And there they were, Soap's knee on the couch between Ghost's thighs and his hand on his chest. He didn't look like he was going for Soap's head.

"Okay. The arrow is out and apparently you don't need gauzes, " Soap said nervously. His eyes were still on the hole, which supposed to stay open for at least a week. The flesh was already mending. Ghost's lips curled with a cold smile. "What?"

Soap took himself back quickly, almost stepping on his own foot. His heart was beating like caged bird in his chest. "You don't have a heart." Ghost's smile stayed but Soap knew it didn't reach his eyes. It didn't even reach his lips. It was only there for a show. "Ouch. I just told you my name."

Soap waved his hand after he huffed a short, unamused laugh. "It wasn't metaphorical. Your heart literally don't beat. Who the fuck are you?"

Ghost wasn't sitting anymore, he got to his feet and closed the gap between them. Soap hated how he had to lift his head a little to see Ghost's eyes and how it made him feel like a prey. He remembered three hours ago, how he thought this man was lying there like one. "I'm a demon you welcomed in." Soap's mind haywired and he actually laughed. It came from inside, from his belly and his whole body shook with the force of it. He noticed this whole thing was a sick joke but he was standing face to face with a probably immortal or already dead creature -given the fact that he had no beating heart. He had his own doubts of the origin of him, but to hell with it. He just pulled an arrow out of a myth, he had his reasons to lose it a little.

"Oh please. Who are you? Dracula? Go sit down when I'm prepping the meal. Even the demons get hungry."

Soap turned his back to Ghost and went to the kitchen, as if his heart was not about to leave his ribcage. He wasn't aware what he was saying until after he already said it and only thing he was sure about was that Ghost could most likely rip his head of when he was reaching for the pan. And yes, the demons would get hungry but what did they eat?

Ghost watched Soap from the couch he was sitting. He had a thoughtful look on his face. Was he really so fearless or so stupid? Soap didn't know what he was, he only got the vague idea of him being not human and said fuck it. Why was he treating Ghost like a human? Like someone who deserves any kindness of heart? He didn't have a heart.

Ghost didn't need kindness. He didn't need to rest. He didn't need his wounds to be cleaned. He didn't need to eat. Not normal, human meals, at least.

He needed to feed like every living creature. With or without a heart. But he only needed the souls. The flesh wasn't on the menu.

"What do you want to eat? I couldn't hunt, thanks to someone, so I don't have any meat." Ghost didn't look away from Soap's back and Soap shuddered under the realization of being watched. He had to ask what Ghost was eating. He had to know.

"Nothing. I don't eat. I... devour." Soap's hand froze on the ladle and he had to stop himself from reaching to the knife. He turned to face Ghost, who was still sitting where he left him. There wasn't any emotion on his mouth, the only part on his face that Soap could see. "Devour what? The souls of the innocent?" Soap's voice was mixed with mock but one could feel the tension behind it. Ghost sent him a little smirk as a prize of getting it right. "Enemies and the animals first. But if I have to, innocents are okay too."

"You're just pulling my leg now." Soap made a sound that indicates he didn't buy it. But the longer he looked at Ghost's unwavering eyes, the more he lost his confidence. "You're telling the truth. What the fuck?"

Ghost shrugged, and crossed his arms on his chest. "So. What's for the dinner?"

After an uncomfortable dinner which Ghost just watched while Soap was drinking a tasteless soup, he left Ghost in the room and went to bed to the next room. The idea of locking the door crossed his mind but he didn't. If Ghost wanted to take his soul away, a wooden door with a key on it wouldn't stop him. So he just left the door unlocked but closed, then went to bed. He thought he wouldn't be able to sleep with the fact that a soul sucker vampire was in the next room, but he drifted the moment his head touched the pillow. He dreamed of ghosts and souls.

The days turned into weeks like this. Soap didn't ask for Ghost to leave. It was out of fear at first but then he just liked to have a company. He didn't take his mask of, he didn't eat and sometimes he left for a couple of hours but he was always back before the night. Soap even found himself forgetting that Ghost wasn't a human. He was just there with his sometimes inappropriate jokes and sometimes silence. But these last days, he was mostly on the silent side and it made Soap feel... worried.

"Ghost, you good?" Ghost was on the couch, just lying there and dangling his feet from the armrest. He didn't voice an answer but nodded. Soap pressed the matter, cause Ghost's skin was looking paler than normal. "You look sick." Soap waited. Ghost would talk when he wanted to, not when he have to. While waiting to be taken into consideration of answering, Soap had a disturbing idea. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Ghost finally looked at Soap. He looked into his eyes. Soap bit his lip. "Was it before we met? Were you going for the deer because of it?" Ghost sighed. "Yes, Johnny."

Soap didnt dwell on the nickname. Not yet. "But you left almost everyday. You didn't find any animal?" Soap followed Ghost's stare and looked out the window. It was snowing. "I don't go for every animal. The sick ones are already dead, the healthy ones are gone."

"How big should it be?" Soap asked with urgency. If Ghost was half sick as his face, Soap was scared that he was gonna die in two days. Ghost didn't make a sound and for a second, Soap thought he just withered away in front of his eyes. The thought of Ghost dying made his breath caught in his throat. "Is a chicken okay? I don't know, a sheep?"

Ghost turned his head to the side and stared at Soap. He looked so helpless and panicked. Ghost smiled to him. It was a genuine one, and Ghost knew Soap noticed that too. He knew it from how Soap's posture changed. How he tensed first, then relaxed. How his shoulders sagged with relief for a moment. "Whatever you can find. A soul is a soul."

It did matter. Yes, a soul was a soul but the smarter the creature was the more fullfilling it would be. A cat's soul would do it for him, for two days. Maybe. A crow? About a week. That's why, the other ones were always hunting humans. They were the epitomes of wit. The emperors of the food chain. But he didn't have the luxury of a choice. He was already hungry and weak when he met Soap. After that, with every passing day with no soul, he got weaker. The weaker he became, the lesser he could go out to hunt. And because the village was small and they didn't know him, he couldn't go to the other houses to see if they have any animal. The last time he left the house, he had to sit under a tree not too far from home so he could go back. At first, staying with the human was a wise choice for him. If he couldn't hunt, he could always take Soap's soul. After some time, he couldn't bring himself to even think about it. The image of Soap between his arms, his soul leaving his body to feed Ghost, his blue eyes closing forever to keep Ghost's eyes open.

It sounded so sick and so wrong.

He found himself at the bring of death, so he could keep Soap alive.

When Soap came back, his hands were empty and there was a shocked look on his face. Ghost knew something was wrong. He sat up quickly and saw the stars for a moment. Soap was still standing in front of the door that closed after him. "They... They're all dead. Everyone. All of them." Ghost frowned. He took Soap's hand without thinking about it and got his attention. "What's happening? Tell me. Slowly." Soap nodded and dropped himself next to Ghost on the couch. There was a distant look in his eyes. "I- The village was too quiet. I followed the road down, I walked till the woods. Every door was closed. There was no one outside. Even the kids. Kids are always outside. I knocked on the doors, no answer. Then I saw blood on the path. Just droplets. Followed it through, it was going inside a house. The door wasn't locked so I went inside." Soap stopped talking and pressed into his eyes with his palms like he wanted to erase the scenes from his brain. Ghost put his hand on Soap's back and slowly circled. He hoped to bring some peace. "All dead. Went from door to door. All dead. Kids, animals, even the bugs. All dead. I found blood on only few of the bodies. The rest was... just sleeping. They didn't look dead. They looked like sleeping."

Ghost's body froze. He could feel Soap's skin under his palm and the heat radiating from it, but rest of his body was frozen. "Like sleeping. Are you sure?" Oblivious to Ghost's state of mind, Soap nodded. He was looking at his own hands. "Yes. No injury. They were all clean except the ones with blood. I think they tried to fight against whatever it was."

Ghost didn't talk for a long time and Soap's mind was occupied with the images of his friends bodies. Then he snapped his head to look at Ghost. Ghost was lost in thoughts but Soap figured it out. He figured it out long ago, deep down he got what was happening but only now he could voice it. "Ghost. Is it only you? The vampire?" Ghost nodded slowly and the nightmare turned into reality. Soap clenched his fists to slow his breath down. So he wouldn't start shouting. "How many? Ghost. How many? Did I do this to them? Did they follow you? Or were they looking for you? Are you a part of a pack? Did you do this?" Soap's voice raised through the talking and he was yelling at the end. He didn't realize he was standing in front of Ghost till he looked down and saw Ghost's head hanging low.

"I left them a long time ago. They turned me into this monster, and feed me the souls. The humans. It was mandatory for them, to feed on humans. They always went after the smartest ones, in wit and in emotion. After they made me eat the soul of a child, I left. And I brought the bastards with me. Their souls. It's a funny thing, how we think when the heart stops the soul leaves. It's normally like that.Any human would lose their souls when their heart stopped. But with us, it's different. Our hearts stopped long ago, but we still live. It's like we tricked God into thinking we're still alive, even after hundreds of years. Or we're all so wicked that even God doesn't want to claim our souls. When I ate the other ones' I tasted rotten blood. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever eaten. But when I was feeding on them, I also fed on the souls they took. I tasted fear, sadness, happiness, hope, love... I tasted it all. Then I tasted my own mother. My brother and his finance, my nephew. These bastards put their hands on my family."

Soap couldn't move. Couldn't breath. He felt the tears stinging his eyes. He let them fall, and stream down his face.

"Among them, I found who did it. And I sliced him. Carved him with a knife. You see, Johnny, I was a soldier before. They turned me because I was too good. The perfect soldier. But I would die one day. So they turned me into this beast. I know how to torture and how to make people scream with pain. But he was already dead and I already took his soul. So I carved a message on his body." Ghost took a knife out of his pocket and showed to Soap. "This is the only thing that was left from my old life. I want to end the new one with it too. Unless someone from them or God himself doesn't want to get my soul, I will keep walking this earth till the apocalypse come and take us all. Or maybe, one day, I will be strong enough to do it myself."

Soap was still looking down at Ghost. Ghost, who was sitting like a stone while telling Soap his life. The horrors he experienced. He squatted down. It was like the first day they met. Soap wrapped his arms around Ghost's body and pulled him close, his head was just under Soap's chin. Ghost trembled and took a deep breath, like the weight on his shoulders lifted with the touch of Soap. He leaned to Soap's chest without realizing and the hard edges of the mask sinked into Soap's flesh.

Soap didn't move, but Ghost knew it hurt. He took the mask out, then hugged Soap back with force. Like he was trying to run away from the world into the Soap's chest. Like he was trying to get into it, to nest in his ribcage and become the neighbour to his heart. Soap stroked his back, and let him pour it all out. If he wanted to stay, he was going to let him stay. Let it be in his house, or in his heart. Both were his home.

Ghost took himself back from the Soap's hug and for a moment, he didn't lift his head. It was an integral part of Ghost, Soap couldn't possibly imagine how hard it was to take it off in front of someone else. "I put this mask on after they force me to take that child's soul. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I was an entity with a damned soul and no heart. I was a ghost." Ghost looked up at Soap and it made Soap's heart jump. Soap saw his brown, more like auburn hair with blond strands here and there. And saw his brown eyes, which turned into pot of honey under the sun. His mouth was always on display, with scars around it that made him look like a mistreated porcelain doll. But the cheekbones were new. The cut starting from under his eye and ending right before where the mask sits was new. The freckles across his face were brilliant, like God took a look at it and decided it would be a nice location for another desert. For Soap to get lost and see a mirage under his eyes.

Soap took Ghost's hands into his and didn't look away from his eyes. Then kissed the corner of his lips. Lifted corners with a smile was the prize. Ghost held his face with both hands, then put his thumbs under Soap's eyes. He drank from the oceans, that clenched his thirst. Then he went for his lips, and not like a shy thank you. Ghost devoured Soap's lips. The human Ghost thought that he would eat his soul away was taking his' through the lips. And Ghost was giving it away willingly.

The moment ended with a bang on the door and they froze on the spot. Ghost went for his mask again, and Soap ran to the kitchen to get a knife. "Simon... I know you're here, dear." Ghost's hand stopped at midair with the mask. After hearing the name, he lowered his hand and dropped the mask. Soap wasn't listening the man shouting outside the door. His eyes were on Ghost. And when Ghost handed Soap the knife he was carrying with him, he snapped. "What are you thinking?"

Ghost didn't speak. But his eyes and face did. "Absolutely not. You're not fed. You're weak. And you give the knife to me? No." Ghost put the knife in Soap's palm and made him clench his fist, then put his hand on top of it. "I've been alive for 200 years, Johnny. And you're the best thing ever happened to me." Soap shook his head furiously. "No. Ghost -Simon. No. I won't allow it. Stay. We can figure it out."

Ghost listened the sounds. There were at least three of them. In his best, Ghost would take them down at the same time. But now, he was weaker than a kid and he knew they came after him, not Johnny. He wasn't going to put his life in danger. Ghost leaned in for another kiss before getting up to his feet. A kiss of goodbye. Soap wanted to tear down the walls with his fingers.

Ghost left like a summer breeze in the middle of the barren winter.

Soap's grip around the knife tightened to the degree that the handle left prints in his palm. He got up and went to the door. He wasn't going to let them get Ghost alone. Even as a mere human, he knew he could do something. He was a hunter, he could do some damage. When he grabbed the knob with determination, the door opened wide with a bang. A man with a red hair with blood on his face was standing in front of him with psychopatic smile. "Hi, Johnny. Let's take a walk."

Soap used the knife Ghost gave him on the red haired man. He stabbed his arm but it didn't make him leave Soap. Instead, he bent Soap's arm to his back and took him out of the house. Soap didn't realize how far they come till they stopped and only then he noticed the speed they had. The man almost flied him to the woods with his speed. When they stopped, Soap took a look at their surroundings and his eyes stopped at Ghost. He was bleeding from his arms and his face, Soap saw a hole on his chest which made his heart stop. Ghost's wounds would close by itself normally, but his body was too hungry to do so. He was going to die soon. "Ghost..."

Ghost's unseeing eyes focused on Soap and his eyes widen with fear. He struggled under the grip of the other man. "Soap! No! Why did you take him? This is between us!" Ghost's cries didn't reach to the red haired man. He just laughed. "All these fightings made me hungry. I bought a snack on my way back." The man turned his look from Soap to Ghost, then his smile turned into something more wicked. "Oh. I almost forgot. You didnt eat for so long, right? I will leave this for you. I know you don't like it, but a cut on the body will do the job. It did before."

He touched Soap's cheek and made a little cut with his fingernail, just enough to draw blood. "Soap, did you know he hates to take human soul? But the beast does like it. Blood is the link between the body and the soul. If you bring it out, we always want to taste it. Some of us want it more than the others. Especially if you're too hungry. Too weak. If you're at the door of the underworld, the beast will do anything to keep its soul inside the body. To keep it from dying."

Soap locked his eyes with Ghost, and saw the color leaving his face. He was living up to his name now, his face was as white as a ghost. Soap could see him struggling, trying to lock his jaw, close his mouth, dig his toes into the dirt to keep him from moving. But Soap also could see the beast was winning. Ghost was too helpless, he didn't have enough strength to hold himself back. The man standing at Ghost's side let him go.

Soap closed his eyes. He didn't mind dying. He didn't mind it because he knew his soul was going to live in Ghost. He was going to let Soap in, like Soap did with Ghost weeks ago. Soap was okay with it.

He embraced death with open arms.

But it didn't come. He felt the grip on his coat loosen and he planted on the ground face first. He tasted dirt in his mouth but his soul was where it should be. He stayed on his knees and hands first, then looked around. The man with the red hair was on the ground and his eyes were looking at the trees above, empty. He was dead. Rather, his soul was sucked out of him. Soap searched for Ghost and found him on the other side, the man who was holding Ghost was now between Ghost's arms, his limbs stopping moving by the time goes.

When Ghost finished his job, he tossed the body to the side like a trash. He left the mask home, so Soap saw his face as a whole. He looked phenomenal with the dried blood on his cheek and the franzy look on his eyes. But he felt scared too. This was the beast. The monster. Even though Ghost could take his last breath away from his lungs, Soap still reached a hand to him when Ghost got closer. "Simon..."

Ghost squatted and took Soap's hand, then lifted it to his face and pressed his cheek on it. Then kissed his palm. "Yes, Johnny. I'm here."

Soap let Ghost wrap him into a hug. They stayed like that for a moment, till the tension of fear leave both of their bodies. Soap nudged his head into Ghost's neck and spoke in a muffled voice. "Simon, is it over?" Ghost nodded over him. "It is. We can go home now."

Soap grabbed Ghost's shirt and held him down with himself. "Everybody is dead. There's no home." Ghost kissed the top of Soap's head. "Wherever you are, there is my home. We can leave, if you want. To somewhere better."

Soap chuckled under him. "To somewhere with unlimited access to little innocent animals."

"That too, yeah." Ghost parted away and saw Soap still holding the knife he gave, grabbing it to death. Ghost unclenched his fist, then took the knife away. It made a deep cut on Soap's hand, the blade was dripping blood. Ghost wrapped the wound with a piece of the red hair man's cloth, then clened the knife on his shirt. Soap shook his head when Ghost wanted to give the knife back. "No. It's yours. And no one's dying. So you can take it."

Ghost refused, and put the knife back on Soap's good hand. "My life is always in your hands. You can kill my kind with a stab to the heart. I never had the courage, never bring myself to try. But if one day-" Soap stopped Ghost from talking with a kiss. He kissed Ghost like this was a war and Soap was determined to win. Ghost breathed into Soap's mouth and Soap tasted Ghost's soul. He tasted love and murder. Both had traces of blood.

"If you ever, ever, talk about dying again. I will kill you. Just a warning." Ghost laughed and bit Soap's lower lip. "Mhm. I'm warned."

Five hundred years later, a man with a wide hat stepped next to a disturbed tomb. He had a shovel in his hand, and the grave was getting swept by men and women with shovels and all kinds of tools. "Price!" The man turned to the sound of his name. "Gaz. What's it?" Gaz pointed to a grave that was six foot away. "Take a look at this."

They were called to a graveyard because a sick bastard was burying his victims' bodies with the already dead people. Price greeted the people working on the other graves on his way and went to the one Gaz pointed. "Would you look at that?"

Price lowered himself and tried to take everything in. There was two bodies in the space of one, so he thought it was the psycho's doing but when he gave his attention he realized it wasn't the case.

What was left from them were only the skeleton but a trained eye could see it. One of the bodies was almost in a manner of hugging the other. The hugged one had nothing and probably died of natural causes because Price couldn't see any trauma on the bones. He was probably too old, if you take the sternum's width. But the other, the one that looked like it was hugging, had a knife between his ribs, stuck there till eternity.

Price took his eyes from the grave and plunged the shovel into the ground, taking a load of it and filling the grave. "Let them rest, son."

[writtenbyan-aries]

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[tortellini-bandit]

- Oh My God They Were Roommates: Chapter 2

Word count: ~4.2k

Description: Henry tells Pez what’s going on. Alex and Henry have sex for the first time

Edited by: @morbific-or-felicific

Chapter 2

“Kill him, kill him, kill him!”

           

“I’m not going to kill him, you soulless demon. What if he has a wife and kids?”

           

“Oh, so it has to be a wife, huh? Why can’t he have a husband?” Alex scoffs. “Homophobic much?”

           

“Alex,” Henry says slowly, like he’s explaining basic math to a small child. “I’m gay.”

           

“Sounds like an excuse to me.” Alex turns back to the screen, the fluorescent light from the TV glinting off his glasses, and distracting Henry for perhaps a moment too long. “Come on, look what you’ve done, he’s getting away!”

           

Henry sighs, also turning back to face their television.

           

Recently, Alex has taken to attempting to get Henry to play some sort of video game called “Skyrim”. Which, from what Henry’s gathered so far, involves running around mindlessly and attempting to find civilians to kill with a very large axe.

           

For the next hour and a half, Alex continues to get him to commit several war crimes. Henry continues to refuse to hurt any innocent people. Alex is getting progressively more frustrated with Henry about this. And every once in a while, Henry will find out a useful bit of information.

           

“Why didn’t you tell me you can wield magic in this bloody game? You should have led with that!”

           

“Because magic is lame compared to that two-handed battle axe you’ve got in your hands right now.”

           

“Magic is not lame-”

           

That argument goes on for a while. It ends in Henry’s triumph when he threatens to stop playing altogether if Alex doesn’t let him wield magic instead. He feels rather smug about it.

           

Henry’s relationship with Alex hasn’t changed since they fucked in their kitchen two weeks ago.

           

Alex still makes Henry a cup of Orange Pekoe with a splash of cream when he makes his coffee in the morning. He still falls asleep halfway through truly horrible comedy movies he spent half an hour convincing Henry to watch with him. He still sends Henry Instagram reels at all ungodly hours of the night and day, even when Henry is sitting in the same room as him. He still leaves lists, most of them completely unintelligible, scattered about their flat for Henry to collect and place in a neat pile on Alex’s desk. Still places a pillow under his head and a blanket over him when Henry falls asleep on the couch, reading, at 3:00am because he couldn’t fall asleep in his cold, lonely room. He still plucks the book carefully from Henry’s slack grip, marking his page, and setting it on the coffee table.

           

Well, nothing’s changed except now sometimes Alex will slide off the sofa during their movie nights, unbuckling Henry’s belt, and taking half of him in his mouth at once. He’ll bring Henry right to the edge over and over for what feels like hours, not letting him fall over it until he’s writhing on the sofa, crying and begging, movie long forgotten. Only then will Alex finally let Henry spill down his throat. He’ll open his mouth, showing Henry his cum on his tongue. And then he’ll make Henry thank him.

           

Nothing’s changed except now sometimes when Henry comes home, stressed and tense after a long day, Alex will put him on his knees. Will fuck his face, will pull his hair a little too roughly and squeeze the sides of his throat until he’s choking and gasping for air. He’ll call him a whore for enjoying it. And Henry’s mind will go blissfully blank for the first time all day.

           

Nothing’s changed except now Henry has gotten a taste of what it would be like to have Alex. Have all of him the way he wants him.

           

Nothing’s changed except now Henry can no longer shove down his emotions as easily as he could before. He finds himself staring at Alex more and more often. Expression open and raw, before he catches himself, schooling his features and forcing his gaze back to what he’s supposed to be focused on. His book. His essay. The breakfast he’s making.

           

“Hey, dude, I don’t mean to complain when you’re cooking for me and everything. But those eggs are looking a little… black.”

           

Henry startles, looking back down at the pan on the stove and realizing that Alex is right. What he’s been pushing mindlessly around in the pan now resembles a charred mess more than it resembles scrambled eggs.

           

 “Damn,” Henry swears, turning the stove off and removing the skillet from the burner. He stares ruefully at the blackened eggs, unable to meet Alex’s eyes. He didn’t miss the way Alex called him “dude” before. Like they’re just friends. Like they’re “bros”. Like Henry doesn’t know how Alex tastes. Like Henry doesn’t know the exact cadence of Alex’s breaths right before he comes. Like Henry can’t still feel the bruises on his inner thighs that Alex hasn’t let heal since he gave them to him.

           

Like Henry hasn’t been in love with him since he was nineteen.

           

“You seem distracted lately, sweetheart.” Alex’s lean body presses against Henry’s from behind, his arms wrapping around his waist. He can feel the small rise and fall of Alex’s chest with his breaths. Can feel his warmth through the fabric of their shirts. Henry shifts, leaning his body back against Alex’s, closing his eyes, relishing the small comfort.

           

In these moments, Henry can almost pretend that Alex actually wants him too. Can almost pretend they live together because they want to, not because rent is cheaper this way. That Alex wants him, and only him. That Alex isn’t just using him as a body to warm his bed because it’s convenient. At least until he finds someone he actually wants to spend his life with.

           

“Just tired. You know how I get when finals are coming up.”

           

Alex hums, pressing his lips into the spot in between Henry’s shoulder blades.

           

He suppresses a shiver.

           

After a long moment, Alex pulls away. “Come on, we can still get breakfast on the way if we leave now.” Alex looks mournfully at what was supposed to be their breakfast. “And perhaps pick up a new skillet.”

           

“Sod off.” Henry shoves at him playfully. “I absolutely did not ruin our frying pan. It just needs to be washed.”

           

“If by ‘washed’, you mean ‘thrown out entirely’, then yes, I completely agree.”

           

Henry rolls his eyes, but he knows the gesture comes across more fond than anything.

 

***

           

“My darling Hazza.”

           

Henry sighs.

           

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been letting our dear Alexander bend you over every possible surface of that sad excuse for a flat for two weeks, and you’re just telling me now?” Pez screeches.

           

Henry winces. “Technically speaking, he hasn’t bent me over any surfaces. We haven’t done anything past blowjobs.”  

“You know better than to think I’ll let you off the hook on a technicality.” Pez’s voice comes out so high pitched that Henry is impressed it didn’t crack.

           

“See,” Henry exhales, suddenly very tired, “this is why I didn’t want to tell you. Because I knew you’d overreact.”

           

“Overreact?” Pez looks like he’s fighting the urge to strangle Henry. Henry can’t really blame him. He’s also had the urge to strangle himself quite frequently these past few weeks.

           

“Mate, you’re having ‘casual, no strings’ sex with the man you’ve been in love with since the moment you laid eyes on. And that’s not even mentioning the fact that you bloody live with him! What are you going to do when all of this inevitably goes down in flames?” Pez throws up his hands in frustration.

           

“I don’t know, okay?” he snaps. He pushes himself angrily to his feet, going to stand by the window, watching the snow flutter gently to the ground, illuminated by the halos of light cast from the streetlamps.

           

 “I don’t know,” he says quieter.

           

“Haz.” Pez comes to stand beside him, voice softer this time. It’s lost its sharp edge of frustration, replaced by something else.

           

Pity maybe.
           

“I think you should break it off now, before this has a chance to hurt you any more than it already has.”

           

“I can’t do that.”

           

“Why not? Can’t you see what this is doing to you?” Pez implores.

           

“I can’t, alright?” Henry’s almost yelling now. “I can’t because this is as close as I’m going to get to having him.” He draws in a shaky breath. “He’s going to move on, he’s going to find somebody else, and this will all just be an amusing memory he looks back on sometimes, but for me.” He pauses for a moment, collecting himself, fighting the sting in his eyes. “But for me, this is everything. I would never forgive myself if I gave this up just to save myself a little pain.” Henry can feel Pez’s eyes on him, but he stares resolutely out the window.

           

The snow has picked up little, falling in delicate bunches rather than individual snowflakes. “Because right now I can pretend that this is more than it is. And that’s worth more to me than trying to protect myself from any future heartbreak.”

           

Pez stares at him for a long moment before finally speaking. “Then I think you should tell him how you feel.”

           

Henry whips his head around at that, staring incredulously at his best friend.

           

“I think he might surprise you,” Pez says gently.

           

“No. No, he won’t surprise me. He’ll stop whatever this is immediately. He’ll conveniently never have time for our movie nights anymore. He’ll start to look at me with pity in his eyes. ‘Poor Henry fell in love with his best friend who will never feel the same.’ And what if he moves out to try to make it less awkward between us? I’ll never see him again. I’ll lose any part of him I ever had.” Henry hangs his head.

           

“Oh, Henry.”

           

In the hollow silence that follows, Henry knows he’s right.

 

***

           

When Henry walks through the door of their flat, shoulders curled inward on himself, eyes downcast, melted snow dripping from his hair, Alex is by his side in an instant. “Baby. What’s wrong?”

           

Henry’s heart soars in its metal cage at the nickname.

           

“Nothing. It’s just– it’s nothing.”

           

Alex’s hand starts rubbing soothing circles over Henry’s shoulder. “Do you want me to make you some tea? Or we can get wine drunk and blast music; fuck the neighbours.” Alex tilts Henry’s chin up with gentle fingers, forcing him to look into his kind eyes. “Tell me what I can do.”

           

Henry juts his chin out, meeting Alex’s steady gaze, and says what he’s wanted to say for years.

           

“Fuck me.”

           

Alex’s eyes dart back and forth between Henry’s, searching for any sign of doubt. “Are you sure?”

           

Henry almost laughs. There’s very little else he’s more sure of than this. “Yes. Please, Alex. I– I need this.”

           

“Fuck, okay, yes. Yes, of course I’ll fuck you, baby.” Alex gently cradles the side of his face with his warm hand.

           

“I– I need you to be rough,” Henry tells him. “I need you to use me. So I don’t have to think.” He pauses. “Please, Alex.”

           

Alex’s pupils dilate, expression changing. Shifting into something less kind. Something crueler. “Yeah? You want me to put you on your back and give you a good fucking, princess? Split you open on my cock until you forget every word that’s not my name?”

           

“Yes,” Henry breathes.

           

“Yes, what?” Alex snaps.

           

A bolt of lightning shoots up the length of Henry’s spine. “Yes, sir.”

           

Alex smirks. “Such a good little slut.”

           

Henry shatters.

           

Alex lets his hand fall, taking a step back. His eyes languidly travel the length of Henry’s body, deliberating. “I want you on your bed,” Alex says. “Waiting for me come fuck you.”

           

Henry’s breath hitches. He nods.

           

“And if you touch yourself before I get there.” Alex’s eyes narrow. “Then you don’t get to come. I’ll fuck you open, and then leave you desperate and alone. Begging for more. Understood?”
           

Henry nods again.

           

“Good.” He jerks his head in the direction of Henry’s bedroom.

           

 Henry steps out of his shoes, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the hook. Alex lazily tracks his movements. Then Henry walks off down the hall without a backwards glance. Leaving Alex to stare after him.

           

One he’s in his room, he strips down to his boxers, folding his clothes and placing them neatly on his desk chair. Impossibly, he’s already half hard. From the way Alex had looked at him. From the anticipation of what’s to come. He lays on the bed, propped against his pillows, watching the door. He aches to wrap a hand around himself, to take the edge off, but Alex’s warning rings in his ears, stopping him.

           

He isn’t kept waiting long. When Alex walks through the door, forgoing knocking, he’s holding a condom, a bottle of lube, and– a length of rope. Alex’s eyes glint with something bright and dangerous when he sees Henry’s gaze linger on the rope.

           

Henry’s no stranger to being tied up, but this rope is rather thin. The kind that will dig painfully into his wrists if he pulls too hard. The kind that will leave marks tomorrow. If he’s lucky.

           

“Having second thoughts, princess?” Alex taunts. His tone is mocking, but Henry can hear the genuine question underneath. He’s giving Henry an out. Even though he’s the one who asked Alex to fuck him. To use him. Like he’s nothing more than Alex’s personal plaything.

           

Henry shakes his head. “No.”

           

“Good.” Alex’s smirk returns. It’s a little crooked and positively lethal. Henry wants to sear the image into his mind.

 

Alex approaches the bed, setting the condom and the lube on the night stand, but keeping the rope. Henry lifts his arms above his head, bracing them near the headboard, staring up at Alex expectantly.

           

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Alex breathes.

 

Henry’s heart stutters in his chest.

           

The bed dips when Alex braces his knee against the edge, leaning over Henry to tie his wrists. The rope is surprisingly smooth against his skin as Alex ties practiced loops, pulling them taut. The knots is just this side of too tight, so Henry knows there will likely be bruises tomorrow. He’ll probably have to wear a long sleeve shirt to cover them.

           

He doesn’t want to. He wants to show them off. He wants the world to see. Wants everyone to know that Henry was tied to headboard and used. Wants them to know it was Alex who gave him these bruises.

           

Alex, who has the body of an Olympic swimmer. Alex, with his infectious laugh. Alex, with his perfect curls he spends half an hour styling every morning. Alex, with his adorable glasses he refuses to wear to class, but insists on wearing when he’s playing video games because it ‘enhances the experience.’ Alex, who could have anyone, but who chose Henry.

           

For now.

           

Alex climbs onto the bed, hovering over Henry, arms braced on either side of him. He leans down, and for one utterly insane moment, Henry thinks Alex is about to kiss him. He doesn’t, of course. They don’t do that. Instead, he moves higher, and Henry gasps when he feels Alex’s warm tongue tracing patterns just below the delicate skin of his wrists. It takes him a moment to realize that Alex is tracking the path of his veins with his tongue.

           

“Alex, please.”

           

“Did I say you could talk?” Teeth dig painfully into his forearm. “Do you need me to gag you just to make you behave?” Alex soothes over his mark with his tongue. An apology.

 

A shiver runs the length of Henry’s spine, and he shakes his head, not making the mistake of speaking out of turn again.

 

He wonders if Alex would actually gag him. He wonders what else Alex might do if he talked back. If he was a brat. But that’s something to test another time.

 

***

 

“Fuck, Henry. You’re so tight.”

 

Henry gasps at the stretch, suddenly overwhelmed when he feels Alex push into him in one long, slow movement. So much bigger than his fingers. He writhes on the bed, instinctually pulling at his restraints, but they don’t so much as budge. The thin rope digs into his skin, and he almost moans at the dull sting.

 

Alex stops when he bottoms out, giving him a moment to adjust. His curls are falling into his eyes, and Henry aches to push them out of his face, but he can’t. So, instead, he settles for watching the pleasure painting Alex’s beautiful features, and the strain of his arm muscles from where he’s hovering over Henry, keeping most of his weight off. Henry almost wishes he wouldn’t.

 

He wants him closer, though he knows that’s physically impossible right now. But it doesn’t stop him from wanting Alex to break open his chest and make a home for himself, curled around Henry’s pathetic little heart.

 

He gives Alex a small nod, almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking for it, but Alex sees and understands.

 

He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in.

 

Henry almost blacks out from the intense combination of pleasure and pain, hands scrabbling for purchase against the headboard.

 

Alex starts to build a brutal, punishing rhythm, the bed banging unceremoniously against the wall. And for one, hysterical moment, he worries about the neighbours. Within the next moment, he isn’t thinking much about anything.

 

“Ngh–” A strangled moan is torn from his lips.

 

“God, Henry, you’re so, ah, desperate for it, aren’t you? Desperate for me to fuck your slutty little hole, aren’t you?” Alex rakes his blunt nails down Henry’s side, and he cries out. “Use your words, princess.”

 

“Yes, yes! I need you. Need your cock. Harder, please,” he begs.

 

“Fuck, you’re such a perfect little cockslut. Just for me, isn’t that, ah, right, princess?”

 

Henry’s back arches off the bed, very nearly coming from those words alone.

 

Yes! Yes, yours. Only ever yours.

 

“I’m going to wreck you for anyone else. No one’s ever gonna be able to fuck you like I can.” As if proving his point, he changes his angle, hitting that spot he was purposefully avoiding before.

 

“God, yes.” Henry’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, and stars explode behind his eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s drooling onto his pillows. His cock is red and angry and weeping where it’s trapped between their bodies, and the small friction in the drag of Alex’s body against his is everything.

 

His body feels like a livewire. Every sensation, every filthy word coming out of Alex’s perfect mouth feels magnified, somehow. But he also feels like if he moves the wrong way, he might shatter.

 

“Look at you, princess.” Alex’s thumb catches on the tip of Henry’s cock, smearing precum. “You’re so wet.” Alex *fists his cock, too hard, and Henry cries out, thrashing. His body trying to get away from the overwhelming stimulation, but his restraints, and Alex’s strong, warm hands keep him firmly in place.

 

“Please, Alex,” Henry whines.

 

“Please what, sweetheart?” Alex flicks his wrist, and Henry arches into his touch. “Please fuck you so hard you’re limping for a week?” A particularly hard thrust sends Henry’s thoughts scattering from his mind, and he’s too slow to catch them. “Answer me.”

 

“I–I don’t, ngh–”

 

“Please give you a collar of pretty bruises so everyone knows that you’re mine?” Alex grabs a fistful of Henry’s hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to meet Alex’s dark gaze. Mine to fuck.” Another hard thrust. “Mine to use.” Another. “Mine.”

 

Yes, yes, yes!

 

“Christ, I’m gonna– Alex, I’m gonna–”

 

Alex squeezes the base of his cock, effectively stopping his building orgasm. Henry cries at the loss.

 

Alex draws his mouth up right next to Henry’s ear. “You don’t get to come until I say you can.” Alex’s voice is quiet, dangerous. It makes Henry want to record it so he can listen to it again and again, long after their little arrangement has ended. “Do I make myself clear?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Henry voice sounds pitiful, even to his own ears.

 

Alex smirks. “Good.” He changes his angle again, somehow managing to get deeper than before. “Good bitch.”

 

“God, Alex, you’re, ngh, so big.” Henry can barely string two thoughts together anymore. Too lost in the feeling of being fucked open like this, of being forced to just take it. He can practically feel Alex in his throat.

 

“Fuck, princess, I’m, ah, close.” Alex attaches his lips to Henry’s collarbone, sucking at Henry’s skin like his goal is to leave a bruise so dark, Henry couldn’t possibly hide it. His hands are leaving bruises in the shapes of his fingerprints, and he’s making good on his promise to give Henry a necklace of bruises.

 

Alex wraps his hand around Henry’s cock again, strokes fast and rough, and electricity sparks at the contact.

 

“Yes, god, yes! Please. Let me come, I need, ngh, to come.”

 

“God, you’re so pretty when you’re begging for it.”

 

“Alex–”

 

“Open your mouth for me, baby.”

 

Henry blinks, uncomprehending, and Alex wrenches his head back with his tight grip curled around Henry’s hair. “I said open your mouth.”

 

Henry complies, and Alex flashes his teeth in a cruel grin before spitting in his mouth. Henry gasps, eyes rolling back in his head. His whole body shudders, and he wants. Wants to taste Alex’s lips against his. Wants to feel his tongue in his mouth. Wants Alex to bite at his lips until he tastes copper. Wants Alex to want him.

 

“Swallow.”

 

Henry shudders, swallowing Alex’s spit in his mouth.

 

 

Removes his hand from Henry’s hair, wrapping it around Henry’s dick, now slick with Henry’s precum, and his cock is nailing his sweet spot with almost every thrust. Henry knows he’s letting out little whimpers and moans, but he’s so close to the edge, if Alex doesn’t let him come, he’ll shatter underneath him.

 

“Fuck, fuck, Henry, I’m gonna come.” Alex’s breaths are coming in a staccato. He scratches his blunt nails roughly across Henry’s scalp, fucks into him once, twice, three times, and comes. Henry doesn’t think he’s wanted anything more than he wants there not to be a condom separating them; he wants to feel Alex, hot inside him.

 

Alex fucks Henry slowly through the aftershocks, still stroking him lazily, and Henry sobs at still being denied his release, unsure how much more he can take.

 

Then. “Come for me, princess.”

 

Henry cries as he comes, vision going white, streaking his cum across his stomach and Alex’s abdomen. He thinks he even feels some up by his chest.

 

Alex continues to stroke him until he’s whining and trembling and fighting to get away from the overstimulation.

 

When Henry comes back to himself, he notices Alex is staring down at him and stroking his hair softly. The expression on Alex’s face makes him look away. He looks– he looks like he’s never seen anything as beautiful as what he’s looking at right now. Henry can’t bear to look at him, not knowing it doesn’t mean anything. Knowing it’s just the post-orgasm haze.

 

Alex doesn’t say anything, just stares at Henry for a moment longer, and then starts to move. He pulls out slowly, placing a gentle kiss to his temple when he notices Henry’s grimace of discomfort. He ties the condom off and tosses it in the bin and shuffles up the bed, leaning over Henry to untie him.

 

When he’s free, Henry sits up, bringing his wrists to his face, examining the damage. There’s definitely a little bruising, though it’s not nearly as bad as it could have been, and there’s no rope burn. He’s rubbing his wrists, trying to soothe the tender ache when Alex gets up and leaves.

 

Henry’s not really sure why he’s surprised. They’re not dating. Alex doesn’t owe him anything. He asked Alex to fuck him, and he did. He shouldn’t have expected anything more.

 

A minute later, Alex returns, a warm, wet cloth in his hand, and a soft smile on his face. Shame floods Henry’s body. Of course Alex wouldn’t just leave someone after something like this. That’s not who Alex is.

 

Henry offers him his own shaky smile in return.

 

 

“You made quite the mess here, Your Highness.” Alex gestures to Henry’s cum that’s cooling on his stomach.

 

“All for you, dear.”

 

Alex tips his head back and laughs. A real laugh. Not the one he uses when he’s trying to charm someone, or flirt his way into getting what he wants. Henry watches the elegant column of his throat, his Adams apple bobbing.

 

Alex uses the cloth to gently wipe away Henry’s cum, and Henry hisses when he reaches his sensitive cock. Alex kisses over his hip bones in apology.

 

When he’s done, he stretches out on Henry’s bed like he owns it, smiling sleepily at him.

 

“Are you coming to bed, Your Highness?”

 

“It’s my bed, you insolent arse.”

 

“Exactly.” Alex grins

 

Henry exhales a long breath, gets up to flick off the light, pulls on a pair of boxers, then lays down, somewhat stiffly, next to Alex. He’s not entirely sure why Alex isn’t leaving to go back to his own room. But then Alex sighs contentedly and slings an arm across Henry’s waist before promptly falling asleep, snoring in his ear. Leaving Henry to stare at the ceiling, and wonder if he’ll still be here in the morning.

 

Eventually, some hours later, he falls asleep too.

[arieslost]

home to you | op81

oscar piastri x fem!reader

summary: oscar does what he should’ve done a long time ago.

word count: 2,978

warnings: healing sunburn right at the beginning, a touch of angst

masterlist — join my tag list here!

this is a PART TWO! read part one here :)

© arieslost 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

Your sunburn is peeling.

Oscar’s been watching you absentmindedly pick at it for the last ten minutes as you recount your day to him. He’s paying attention to what you’re saying, of course, but now he’s worried that you might accidentally hurt yourself.

“Stop doing that,” he says when you pause to catch your breath, reaching for his phone as if he could put his hand through and stop you himself.

“What?” You frown, and then look at your shoulder. “Oh, right. It’s weirdly satisfying though.”

“This is why you can’t go to the beach by yourself.” Oscar sighs. “You never put on enough sunscreen.”

“I know,” you reply quietly.

As much as both of you have tried, neither of you can help the awkward undertones that seep into every silence you share now. Oscar knows you love him, and you know that he doesn’t feel the same way.

You think he doesn’t feel the same way.

When he saw that look on your face that morning in the kitchen, it reminded him of the way he stared at you on prom night. Oscar didn’t get asked to the senior prom, but you did, and you had turned the offer down. Oscar asked you why, and you told him that you only wanted to go with him, otherwise you weren’t going. You’d dragged him back and forth from your table to the dance floor all night long, and it all would’ve faded into the mush of fleeting high school memories if your favorite song hadn’t come on. Oscar remembers every detail of how your eyes lit up, how you cried, “I love this song!” even though he knew you did, and how you’d grabbed his hands and started dancing with a refreshed energy. He felt like time had stopped and his world revolved around you, and it felt right.

So yeah, he knew the moment you gave him that look that not only did he still love you, but you finally, finally felt the same way. And, for the second time, he’d epically fucked it up.

He often wishes that he could go back and confess to you like he wanted to that night. You’d stayed over because you were too tired to drive home. You were both single. It was the perfect time. But now it’s four years later and he’s sitting in the hotel bathroom on the other side of the world, his girlfriend asleep in the hotel bed, and you on the other end of his phone screen picking at your sunburn that he could’ve prevented had he spent more time with you on vacation.

“You doing okay, Osc?” You ask, pulling on a hoodie of his that you stole from him before he left for his very first F1 race. “Aside from the races, I mean. I know you’re doing great with those.”

“Yeah, I’m alright.” The words come out with practiced ease. “I’d rather hear about how you’re doing though.” I miss you like you wouldn’t believe.

“I think I’ve told you everything like five times now,” you giggle. “I could tell you about the guy that came up to me in the grocery store this afternoon and took a painstakingly long time to ask for my number, but that’s not a long story.”

Oscar’s heart stops. “What?” He replies, teeth gritted, before he clears his throat and lightens his tone. “I mean, what?”

“Yeah, it was kind of strange. He started the conversation by asking me how you were doing, obviously, because you’re so cool and famous-” Oscar flips you off when you roll your eyes, and you laugh. “Anyway, I guess that was his icebreaker, because then he just abruptly segued into grilling me right there in the cereal aisle about my life and how he ‘couldn’t believe he’d never seen me before.’” You recount dramatically. “I’m telling you, Osc, it was nonstop cheesy line after cheesy line. I felt so bad for him I let him have my number.”

“So, he used me as an in and then harassed you until you gave him your number?”

You nod slowly. “Pretty much.”

“You better not actually be considering going out with this guy.” Oscar scoffs.

“Oh, no, I’m not!” You rush to clarify, and he can see a faint blush rising on your cheeks. “I mean, it’s not like I’m waiting for anyone-anything. He was just weird. I only gave him my number so he’d leave me alone… I blocked him when he texted me.”

“You’re horrible,” he starts laughing now, relieved that this guy never even stood a chance. “I love it.”

“You’re supposed to be encouraging me to get out there and find a boyfriend, loser. Brush up on the best friend manual.” You complain, pulling the hood over your head and hiding your face from him so he can’t see how much it hurts to think about finding someone that isn’t him.

He doesn’t notice anyway; he’s distracted by the sound of the covers moving and his girlfriend yawning.

You hear it too, and glance up at the camera. “You have to go?”

His heart breaks at how sad you look. “Yeah, sounds like she’s actually waking up this time. Sorry, honey.”

You shrug, and he knows you’re trying to appear unbothered. “It’s okay. We got, what, an hour and a half? That’s a whole extra 45 minutes or so.”

“You’re allowed to tell me how you really feel, y’know.”

“Damn it, Oscar. You just see right through me. I don’t know why I even bother.” You sigh, covering your face with your hands.

“I don’t know why, either,” he attempts to joke. “Look, I-”

“Oscar? Where are you?” His girlfriend calls, and you stiffen up at the sound of her voice.

“Be there in a minute!” He responds, turning his attention back to you. “I’ll call you again as soon as possible, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye, Osc.”

You hang up first.

“I love you,” he whispers to his blank phone screen, and gets up to start his day.

You say it back to your own blank screen and go to sleep.

Oscar comes to the steadfast conclusion that he wants you and only you at his side at his home race, and not as a friend.

Breaking up with his girlfriend still looms over him. He lies awake for way too long at night trying to figure out the nicest way to do it, but his thoughts always end up taking a detour to you and how he wishes it was you sleeping next to him instead.

Despite the struggle going on in his mind, he goes through the motions of PDA with her for all the cameras and other drivers in the paddock to see. Lando is the only one who realizes what his issue is.

“Mate, you have to figure this out.” The older driver said out of the blue as they were lounging in McLaren hospitality after qualifying.

“Huh?” Oscar frowned at him, tearing his eyes away from his texts with you. “I know I fucked up that quali, but it’s not like I can’t improve.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, you muppet.” Lando rolled his eyes, and said your name like it’s obvious. “You just have to break up with the girl you’re with now so you can have the girl you really want.”

“You say that like it’s so simple.” Oscar mumbled, looking at the text from you that had just come in.

Just focus on the race, Osc. Quali’s behind you, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll be cheering you on, what could possibly go wrong??

“It is, if you think about it. Besides, you’ve been acting so weird lately she might already think something’s up.”

“Gee, thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.” Oscar groaned, sinking lower into his chair.

“Always here for you, mate.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I don’t care.”

That enlightening conversation gets Oscar to finally work up the courage to tell his girlfriend those dreaded words following the race– “We need to talk.”

He waits until they’re in the hotel room after dinner to say it so there’s no audience, primarily because he knows that she’s prone to throwing fits when things don’t go her way. The memory of her losing her mind when he took you to breakfast during vacation comes screaming back to him at the speed of light.

She doesn’t say anything at first; instead, she takes her time removing her shoes and taking the pins out of her hair. Oscar can’t stand the silence, so he starts speaking again.

“It’s about-”

“I think I know what this is about.” She interrupts him.

“You do?”

“I’d have to be stupid not to know, Oscar. You’ve been off for the past few days, it’s only with me, and every time I wake up you’re hiding in the bathroom on the phone.” She holds up a hand when he opens his mouth. “I know it’s her, and I’ve known since that vacation. You don’t have to tell me.”

“You’re… you’re not gonna yell?” He can’t hide the surprise in his voice.

“It won’t get me anywhere, will it?”

“It never did.”

She smiles matter-of-factly. “I guess I have to work on that.”

She packs her things without argument. Oscar offers to buy her a plane ticket somewhere, but she waves him off and thanks him anyway before walking out the door.

The Australian Grand Prix is in two weeks. Oscar doesn’t think before he calls you.

“I’m coming home. I need to see you.”

Your heart has been in your throat ever since Oscar called you this morning. He was so hasty that he didn’t even tell you when he was coming, so every little movement you see outside your window has you running to see if it’s him or not.

He doesn’t show up until almost 9:30 at night. You can hear the engine of his car as he flies through your neighborhood with practiced ease and nearly drifts into your driveway. Your stomach is jumping with nerves and excitement; you didn’t think you’d see him for another two weeks, and despite the awkwardness that your feelings have brought to your friendship, you want nothing more than to hug your best friend.

He starts impatiently knocking on the door as you nearly trip down the stairwell in your rush to let him in.

“Hold on!” You shout, fingers shaking as you unlock the door and wrench it open. “Are you trying to break my door?”

“Jokes later, let me hold you,” he says, reaching for you and meeting you in the middle of the doorway as he pulls you into his chest for a tight embrace.

You melt into him immediately, your arms wrapped around his neck and your nose pressed to the warm skin that peeks out of his hoodie. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you mumble, squeezing him.

He shivers, kissing the top of your head. “I’m here, baby.”

I’m sorry, baby. You think about that so much that it shouldn’t hurt anymore. It sobers your mood a little.

“Why, though?” You ask, pulling away a little to look at him. “Don’t you have things to be doing?”

“I may have forced them to clear my schedule by coming home without telling anyone.”

“Oscar!” You exclaim. “Why? You could get in trouble!”

“Can we talk inside?”

“Yeah, of course. C’mon.” You take his hand and lead him into your house.

He takes off his shoes, leaves his suitcase in the hall, and goes to your living room on autopilot, where he flops down on the couch and lets out a long breath. You sit next to him, knees bumping together as you look at him with a reasonable amount of concern. “You’re acting weird. What’s wrong with you?”

“I broke up with her.” He says, rolling his head to the side so he’s looking at you. “So, nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Bullshit, Osc, it seemed to me like you really liked her.”

“You didn’t, though.”

“Who cares what I think?” Your brain fully computes his words. “Wait- actually, no. I’m not even going to act surprised by the fact that you knew that.” You sigh.

“I care what you think. I care about you. A lot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t think you do.” He sits up straighter now, turning his whole body to face you. “Like, in a romantic way.”

You blink at him a couple times. “No you don’t.”

“I don’t?” He repeats incredulously.

“You can’t. You don’t.” You say. “You’re lying.”

“I’m lying?” He says through a laugh. “You’ve known me your whole life. When have I ever lied to you?”

You press your lips together. The only time he’s ever lied to you is when he planned your surprise parties. “I’m gonna need you to do a really good job explaining yourself, otherwise I’m kicking you out. You can’t do this to me, Oscar, you know how I feel-”

“Yes, I do, and I’d love to explain if you’d stop spiraling for a second.” He interrupts, taking your hands to ground you.

You’re once again having the dilemma of wanting to push him away and pull him closer simultaneously. The pressure of his hands holding yours succeeds in calming you, so you allow it.

“The whole reason I knew how you felt in the first place is because of the way you looked at me in the kitchen. You didn’t notice, but I looked at you the exact same way at the prom.” He says, gauging your reaction by how your face contorts slightly as you try to remember the prom at all, aside from the fleeting memory of forcing him to slow dance with you. “That feeling like time stops? Like-”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” you recall, looking down as he runs his thumbs over your knuckles.

“Right.” He nods. “Look, the bottom line here is that I screwed up by not telling you then, and if I had, we would’ve been dating for years at this point and this conversation wouldn’t even be happening.”

You feel like you look like a fish out of water with how your jaw is opening and closing, searching for something to say in response. “Osc-”

“If this makes you change your mind, I get it.” He continues. “But the whole reason I came here is to tell you that I love you. I’m in love with you and I have been since we were 18.”

You go to muster up something to say in response when he says one more thing. “Oh, and I’m tired of only being able to see you through the phone. That’s the other reason.”

You can’t help it– that, paired with his polite cat smile, his flushed cheeks, and his confession has you dissolving into giggles. That quickly morphs into laughter that sends you leaning so far forward your head is practically in Oscar’s lap, but he doesn’t seem to mind because he’s laughing too.

“I hate you so much,” you gasp out, pushing yourself back up so you can look at him when you tell him the complete and total truth. “I’ve been in love with you since we were 14.”

“Shit, that means I have eight years to make up for, not four.”

“Sucks to suck.” You say, easily falling back into your age-old banter.

“You sound like Lando,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “And I was gonna ask if I could kiss you.”

“Ah, shoot. I ruined it.”

“Hmm, no. I’m gonna ask you anyway.” He shifts closer to you, brushing your hair out of your face with both hands. “Can I kiss you? Please?”

You start nodding before he even finishes asking, maybe too enthusiastically, but it’s Oscar. He knows you. He wants you. You don’t need to be embarrassed.

The press of his lips against yours is soft, gentle. You always thought that if you ever kissed Oscar it might be too weird, but the only thing you feel now is right.

It feels right to thread your fingers into his hair. It feels right to let him tug you closer, closer, closer, until you have no choice but to straddle him so you can be as close as he wants you. It feels right when his hands slip under your shirt and lightly run over the skin of your back, when his tongue meets yours, when you give his hair an experimental tug and he moans into your mouth.

The only thing wrong about it is that you have no choice but to break the kiss in order to breathe, but even then you don’t move far from each other, breaths mixing in the minimal space between you both.

“We could have been doing that for a long time,” Oscar sighs, throwing his head back against the couch.

“We have all the time in the world now that we stopped being idiots and confessed.” You point out.

“D’you think you can come to the race in a couple weeks? We can take it slow with this, no one needs to know… I just want you to be there.” He asks.

“Of course, Osc, are you kidding?” You run your hands over his shoulders and down to where his hands rest on your hips. “Though, if you win, I can’t promise no PDA or anything.”

“I’d expect nothing less from my girlfriend.” You can feel him tense up a little, like he’s expecting you to react negatively, but he relaxes immediately when your smile lights up your whole face and you kiss him again.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you,” you whisper back.

No one else needs to hear it just yet. You only need to tell each other.

note: i sincerely hope this made up for any tears i may have caused with the angst in the first part. this is the first time i’ve ever been inspired to write a part 2, and i think it’s because i desperately needed it to end happily. thank you so much for all the love on falling for you; i never expected it to get as much attention as it did!

requests are OPEN, and my inbox is always open for comments, criticism, and conversation! feel free to pop in!

reblogs are greatly appreciated <33

dividers by @/saradika !

tags (i’m sorry if i couldn’t tag you!): @venusacrossthestars @67-angelofthelordme-67 @emails-i-can-send @nelly187 @cixrosie @fangirl-dot-com @sainzluvrr @imheretoread @mellowarcadefun @yourbane @monsieurbacteria6 @c-losur3 @papayatori @ssprayberrythings @namgification @maih23 @evlkking @witchycarmen @ilovethispookie @maxverstappenfan79 @sya-skies @niallerswolf @fangirl-dot-com @hood-jabi @vellicora @k-pevensie28 @cami26cami @arian-directioner @vildetry06 @hauntedphotographybookstaco @bigheartsthings @northpizzasposts @notturlover @riv3rbank @gesfjjsl @oliveisunstable @lily1sposts @sadbut-true0 @lilcowboy0 @alltoowelltaylor @kimis-gloves @superheroreader @alexmarie29 @anedpev @lalalaphie @waitingforsmartpeople @arrowenchantress @zillygoose @its-cat-eyes @gxllumsriddles @fionaschicken @mrsgeorgerussell63 @bre013 @lizzypiastri @blldsnjs @samantha-chicago @homosexualjohnwayne @opheliabluewolff @catbat011 @drivelikeiido @what-is-happening-helpp @decafmickey @tania2748 @steviesscoops @annahowardsworld

[coleranchdorito]

The Death Of Peace Of Mind

I was asked to post my new fic on here so those that can't get on AO3 may enjoy, sooooo, here it is!!! Bare with me, I've never posted fic on here <3

Summary: Bakugou Katsuki has been told nearly his whole life that he's a talentless witch. Someone with no affinity for magic. Three years after the death of his mother, High Priestess Mitsuki, Katsuki decides to perform a familiar summoning ritual--against the better judgement of his friends. Inevitably, the summoning goes wrong and he ends up calling upon Tsukuyomi: The Crow Demon. In exchange for the demon's true name, Katsuki agrees to a warlock pact for actual power. Now, Katsuki has to figure out how to maneuver through his life with a demon essentially attached to his hip--a demon that very much doesn't care to keep himself a secret. But, what happens when he accidentally start falling in love with said demon? And said demon starts to feel emotions that he doesn't quite understand?

Word count: 3152

Content Warning: Minor gore later on, demon summoning, talks of child neglect and abuse (but it's never shown)

Ship: Bakugou Katsuki/Fumikage Tokoyami

Chapter 1: August 2nd

Katsuki keeps glancing over at the book laid open on the floor beside him–sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries to copy the drawing on the page with a piece of white chalk. 

Deku had advised him against this. Having gone on an entire muttering rant about the dangers of summoning anything, especially a demon or familiar. Katuski still wanted to try, though. Wanted to prove that he has actual talent and he wasn’t accepted into the coven just because of his mother. 

Katsuki bites down a little too hard on his lip, wincing from the sting. “Shit.” He drops the chalk and presses a finger to his lip, sucking lightly and tasting the coppery tang of blood. Shifting his sitting position, Katsuki stretches his legs out and looks over the sigils on the floor with a sigh. 

“What are you doing?” 

Katsuki jolts and looks behind him, finding Todoroki standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. “What does it look like, Candy Cane?” 

Todoroki rolls his eyes as he moves further into the room, pausing when he finally sees all of the sigils drawn on the hardwood floor of Katsuki’s bedroom. “You can’t be serious, Kat.” Todoroki grimaces and glances over at the book to Katsuki’s left. “Are you really trying to summon something?”

“Just a familiar!” Katsuki blurts out. Todoroki’s eyebrows shoot up and Katsuki curses under his breath, grabbing the book from the floor. 

“You know it’s dangerous to do this, right?” Todoroki sighs. “Not only that, but it’s incredibly stupid and you can get yourself killed.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes and focuses on the book resting on his lap.

Todoroki wasn’t a witch–he came from a long line of elementals–but he’d been friends with Katsuki and Midoriya long enough to know what they were doing. Most of the time, at least.

“You forget my mother had a familiar.” Katsuki moves his right hand towards his mouth–hopefully hiding the fact he’s biting his thumb nail. It’s a nervous habit he’s had since he was a kid. “If the old hag could do it, so can I.” 

Katsuki can see Todoroki move out of the corner of his eye. The elemental crouching next to him to better get on his level. “Why do you keep comparing yourself to your mom?” 

“Because,” Katsuki’s head snaps up and he holds Todoroki’s gaze. “I have to prove that I have talent. I was grandfathered into the coven she ran and now that she’s dead, I have to prove that I’m worthy.”

“That’s not true.” Todoroki replies and Katsuki huffs out an angry sigh, turning back to his book. 

Deku had also told him that he didn't need to prove himself worthy of the coven. All twenty members had respected High Priestess Mitsuki's decision when she welcomed her son without any test of talent. Mitsuki was gone now–had been for three years–and the new High Priestess, Nemuri, didn't even bother with testing members. But, his mother's cruel words would always linger in his mind: “No talent, but it would be an embarrassment if I don't allow your entry.”

No one but Midoriya knew Katsuki had a difficult time with performing magic–no affinity for it. But, he worked hard, learned everything he could and if he got this summoning to work, he’d prove to himself–and his dead mother–that he was a talented witch.

“You don’t know what the truth is, Sho.” Katsuki mutters. 

Todoroki sighs and places a too warm hand on Katsuki’s right shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Do what you feel like you need to, but please be careful.” He looks at Todoroki over his shoulder and the elemental gives him a small smile. Todoroki gives his shoulder another squeeze and leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

Katsuki glances down at the book in his lap again, biting the inside of his bottom lip and tapping his finger on the page he’d been looking at for an hour and a half. Maybe Midoriya had been right about this being a mistake? 

“Even if the summoning works, you don’t know what you’re summoning!” Midoriya stands before him in the foyer, eyes wide as he pleads for Katsuki to stop. “You’re just opening a doorway and you can’t control what comes through!”

Katsuki sniffs and picks up the chalk, placing the book back on the floor and sitting on his knees. 

He doesn’t care if all he’s doing is opening a doorway. Katsuki needed to prove that he was a witch, even if it was just proving he could do this to himself.

An hour later, Katsuki wipes his forehead with the back of his arm and sets the piece of chalk next to him; it’s so worn down by now that it wasn’t even useful anymore. He pushes himself off the floor–shaking the pins and needles from his legs–and limps over to his alter. 

“Salt, ritual dagger,” Katuski murmurs to himself, picking them up as he goes. “What else?” He walks back to the circle and carefully places the items in his hands on the floor, turning to read over the passage in the book. 

Six black candles placed equal distance around the circle. 

With a nod to himself, Katsuki looks towards the trunk he keeps all of his spell components in at the end of his bed. He’s positive he has six black candles inside that would be perfect for this. Digging through the trunk, he finds them easily and quickly places the candles around the circle, lighting them as he goes. 

After that, Katsuki picks up the box of salt and pours it around the circle and candles, stepping inside before closing it. Placing the box at the edge of the salt circle, Katsuki kneels on the floor in front of the last sigil he’d drawn. 

He reaches over and picks up the ritual dagger and curses to himself when he notices his hands are shaking. 

You can do this. You HAVE to be able to do this.

Katsuki raises the ritual dagger to his hand and inhales deeply as he quickly slashes it across his palm. He exhales roughly with his teeth clenched and cups his hand to let the blood pool as he looks down at the final sigil for the summoning ritual. 

The only one that needed his blood to activate.

“Hope this fucking works.” Katsuki mutters as he holds his hand out over the chalk drawing. He slowly tilts his hand, the blood spilling from his palm and…

Nothing happens.

Katsuki furrows his brow in frustration, glancing at the book to his right on the floor.

Place hand directly on sigil.

He’d just done it wrong, like a novice. With an eye roll and an angry huff, Katuski opens his hand fully–hissing from the burn of the cut–and slaps his hand onto the sigil.

For a few moments, nothing happens. Katsuki moves to look at the book again, almost positive he’s done something else incorrectly when the temperature in the room drops to freezing. He can see his breath puff out in a cloud as the candles extinguish and the circle and sigils begin to glow with a faint blue light.

The floorboards creak as if someone is walking towards the circle and Katsuki’s eyes dart around in fear. A liquid gurgle fills the room and he glances back at the circle as black sludge bubbles from the center, filling the circumference of the chalk circle.

“Fuck.” Katsuki leans back and tries to pull his hand from the sigil, but he can’t. It’s like he’s glued to the floor as the black substance continues to bubble. 

A black, taloned hand breaks the surface in the middle–Katsuki bites his tongue to keep from screaming. A second hand follows behind the first and both make contact with the floor as something pulls itself out of the black pool. 

Katsuki notices the glowing red eyes before anything else. They almost burn into him as they lift higher and higher–the beings head almost scraping across the low ceiling as the rest of its body pulls free of the goo.

The second thing Katsuki notices, when he’s finally able to pull his eyes away from the monster’s, are the very bird-like features it has. From the talons that first appeared to the feathers and beak on its face. Its entire form is still black, almost like it’s coated in the black substance it crawled out of or it’s made from shadows.

The more Katsuki takes in the hulking form, the more his skin starts to tingle.

“Why did you summon me, witch?” The voice echoes everywhere in the room, including within Katsuki’s skull. 

He winces and shies away from the being, but he can’t move far with his hand still glued to the sigil on the floor.

The creature moves, placing both hands on the floor–still within the chalk circle–and leans forward as much as it can. “Answer me.”

“I need a familiar!” Katsuki chokes out and his face burns with embarrassment. He sounds pathetic. 

The creature tilts its head to the side, considering him. “You want a familiar?” Katsuki nods, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. “So you summon the Crow Demon to provide one? Or to be one?” 

Katsuki’s eyes widen as more fear floods his body, the realization finally sinking in. 

Midoriya was right. Katsuki shouldn’t have attempted this, he couldn’t control what had come through. 

“I wasn’t trying to summon you,” He wheezes out, still trying to pry his hand from the floor. “I promise I wasn’t.” The creature only watches as Katsuki feels his panic trying to swallow him whole. 

His mother’s familiar had been a demon of some sort, but it had always been in the form of a cat. Katsuki had never feared it, had loved the creature the more he thought about it, but this wasn’t that. This demon before him had palpable power. It had status. 

The creature narrows its blazing red eyes as it considers him. 

“I can’t do this.” 

Katsuki blinks.

The creature leans away from him and, with a wave of one of its taloned hands, its form begins to shrink. The shadows that covered its form recede and within a span of minutes, an arguably handsome man with a slight frame, wearing what looks to be a simple black chiton stands before him. 

“What’s your name, kid?” The man puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head to the left, watching him. 

Katsuki blinks again. His brain is taking extremely too long to process that the man before him is the crow monster from not even five minutes ago. His skin is pale in color–his shoulder length, soot black hair and black chiton making it almost glow in the dark of Katsuki’s room–and his eyes are the same red from before, just in a more human form.

“Hello?” The man snaps his fingers and waves at Katsuki, pulling him from his thoughts.

“It’s Katsuki,” he’s finally able to say. “And I’m not a fucking kid. I’m twenty five.”

The man laughs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Considering how old I am, you’re still a child.” 

Katsuki furrows his brow. “Why were you the one summoned?” He couldn’t think of another question to ask as he tried to search his brain for why a crow demon sounded familiar.

The man steps forward, careful to not step too close to the chalk line and glances at the book on the floor. “Well, you summoned me directly.” He points to the book and Katsuki looks over at it. 

Sure enough, the page is on how to summon Tsukuyomi: the Crow Demon. 

“That can’t be right,” Katsuki mutters and grabs the book with his free hand, flipping the page and finding the original familiar summoning spell he’d intended to use. “Fuck. No, no no.” The book falls from his lap, crossing over the chalk line in the process.

Tsukuyomi bends down and picks it up, flipping through the pages with a laugh. “Oh, you human witches are an entertaining bunch.” He glances up and Katsuki meets his gaze with a frown. “You do know summoning familiars is a dead practice, right? No one has done one of these in decades.” 

“My mother did.” 

The demon raises an eyebrow. “Like I said,” he closes the book rather roughly. “Decades.” Tsukuyomi tosses the book towards Katsuki and he dodges it, but just barely–his hand still glued to the floor. “So, Katsuki,” he shoots the demon a glare. “You wanted a familiar. Do you want me to create you one or would you like me to be one?”

Katsuki freezes as confusion floods him. He could have a specialized demon as a familiar? 

“How could I have you as a familiar?” Tsukuyomi smiles at his question. 

“Simple, little witch,” He snaps his fingers and a scroll appears on the floor just inside the chalk line in front of Katsuki's hand. “We draw up a contract.”

A contract. 

Katsuki looks down at the scroll before him and narrows his eyes. He’d been told stories about encounters just like this his entire childhood and in every story the foolish mortal lost their life and their soul while the demon continued to wreak havoc. 

“What are your terms?” Katsuki asks, glancing up at Tsukuyomi.

The demon smiles and it feels like ice water in Katsuki’s veins. “Read it first,” Tsukuyomi glances down at the scroll. “And mind the fine print.” Something about the tone of the demon’s voice has him even more on edge. 

Katsuki grabs the scroll with his free hand and adjusts how he’s sitting, using his foot to unroll it. The writing isn’t the scrawling script that you usually see on television or in video games–which Katsuki is grateful for–but it is extremely lengthy. 

Most of it is odd, technical legal jargon, but he reaches a term that makes him pause. “Wait.” Katsuki furrows his brow as he continues to read over the rest of the contract. “This is a patron contract. I just wanted a familiar.” 

Tsukuyomi raises an eyebrow. “That’s what a familiar is.”

“No.” Katsuki snaps and looks up at the demon, anger seeping into his tone. “My mother had a familiar, I know what they do. They help you with spell work and ingredient gathering and protect you and–”

“Grant you added power,” Tsukuyomi crosses his arms and leans forward with a smirk. “Guess your mommy didn’t let you in on that juicy tidbit, did she?”

Katsuki’s mouth goes dry and he drops the contract. “So familiars are just…patrons?”

Tsukuyomi squats down, getting on Katsuki’s eye level and shrugs. “Not quite.” He grabs the contract from the floor and glances over it. “Familiars make contracts with mortals to boost their innate abilities, adds to them. They also do everything else you listed, but in return for their services, they feed on the mortal’s life force. Resulting in the mortal’s death.” He holds the contract out towards Katsuki again. “Tit for Tat, basically. Mortals get boosted powers and minor demons gain souls to elevate their status down below.” 

“But your contract is different?” Katsuki feels like he’s catching on. The contract he’d just read over sounded like a patron contract, something warlocks agreed to for a wellspring of power. Katsuki had only met one or two warlocks in his life and they’d been almost as terrifying as the dark entities he could sense following them. 

“Well, of course,” Tsukuyomi waves the contract in front of Katsuki. “I’ll grant power beyond your wildest imagination without that nasty stipulation of feeding off your life force.”

Katsuki glances at the contract again, knowing better than to reach over the chalk line. It’s the only thing keeping him safe. “But I’m a witch, I already have magic. What good will becoming a warlock do?” 

Tsukuyomi’s neck seems to go slack as his head falls to the right, an eyebrow raised as his eyes rove over Katsuki’s form. “You don’t have a lot of innate magical ability for someone claiming they’re a witch.”

“But I did this ritual! How could I do that without any magic?” Katsuki’s becoming agitated. All of this was pointless and he wished he’d read over how to send the abomination back to Hell. 

“Oh,” the demon laughs. It sounds like breaking glass. “You don’t need any magical ability for a summoning. The sigils do all the work to open the doorway.” Katsuki’s shoulders droop and Tsukuyomi grins. “What’s the matter, Katsuki? Did you think you were special?” 

No. Katsuki had never thought he was special, his mother had made sure of that. He’d just hoped that this summoning would prove something to himself, but all it did was show him that he’s just as useless as Mitsuki had always said. 

Deeply inhaling, Katsuki reaches out to take the contract from Tsukuyomi and nearly jumps out of his skin when a black taloned hand wraps around his wrist. 

“If you accept this, you’ll have power beyond anything you could ever imagine.” Katsuki nods and Tsukuyomi’s hand tightens slightly. “But, sacrifices will need to be made. Your life will change and not always in a positive way.” He nods towards the contract and Katsuki glances over at it, the words glowing a faint blue. “You read my conditions, you know what I might ask of you.” 

“I do,” Katsuki swallows. “But I have a condition I want met before I agree.” 

Tsukuyomi narrows his eyes and nods. “Go on, little witch. Name it.” 

Katsuki breathes in slowly. “Give me your real name.” The demon raises an eyebrow. “Names hold power. You know mine and I want to know yours.”

“How do you know that Tsukuyomi isn’t my name?” He smirks and Katsuki rolls his eyes.

“Demons aren’t stupid enough to put their real names out into the world like that.” He could pull back right now and figure out how to break the connection. Katsuki didn’t have to go through with this, but–

“Fine.” Katsuki blinks. “My name for your agreement to the pact. Deal?” 

Katsuki glances at the contract again. He swallows, looks back at the demon before him, closes his eyes and nods. “I agree to your deal, demon.”

When he opens his eyes, Tsukuyomi is grinning like a madman. “Oh, little witch,” The contract flairs bright blue for a moment and vanishes in a cloud of ash. “You won’t regret this.”

Katsuki’s skin starts to tingle and he’s finally able to pull his hand from the floor. His vision starts to dim as what feels like fire shoots up his spine and just before he feels his consciousness start to slip he blurts out, “Your name! Now!”

The demon stands, holding his head high as he looks down at Katsuki. “Fumikage.”

Katsuki relinquishes his grasp on the material plane. 

[ocwreads]

To Know Your Mind, Your Soul

@/neoncaskets- AO3

[madamechrissy]

If yall wanna read my first JJK fanfic I wrote, here it iss ❤️ It’s way more lighthearted and fun than my current angst lol 💀😭

Time after Time Masterlist

♡ Chapter 1 ♡ Chapter 2 ♡ Chapter 3 ♡ Chapter 4 ♡ Chapter 5 ♡ Chapter 6 ♡ Chapter 7 ♡ Chapter 8 ♡ Chapter 9 ♡ Chapter 10 ♡ Chapter 11 ♡ Chapter 12 ♡ Chapter 13 ♡ Chapter 14 ♡ Chapter 15 ♡ Chapter 16 ♡ Chapter 17 ♡ Chapter 18 (Final)

♡ ♡ Pairings ♡ ♡ CEO! Satoru Gojo x Fem Reader

♡ ♡ Warnings/Info ♡ ♡ MDNI- Fingering, thigh riding, cumming, explicit sex, lots of Gojo eating out reader, blow jobs, breeding kink, Gojo is kinda a dick lol, hints at a threesome but rly just teasing, excessive mentions of cum (Satoru rly wants to breed you lol) Choking, smacking, angry sex, mentions of drug use, some toxic behaviors, jealousy and so much office sex

♡ ♡ Word Count ♡ ♡ Finished!- 102,537 words (18 chapters)

♡ ♡ Summary ♡ ♡ Gojo Satoru is your boss And you've been his head assistant for over two years now. You do everything for him, including and not limited to cleaning his messes, picking out his clothes, and writing his speeches. Sixteen hour days... night calls... You are tired of being overworked and at his beck and call. You decide you are going to put in your two weeks notice. He is shocked, and wants to try to keep you, because you're the best. But you know better. Right? . You really wanna fucking quit. You also wanna fuck him. Also, fuck him.

A/N (Kinda has 'two weeks notice' vibes a bit! No use of y/n.) Fully finished <3 Satoru is a womanizer dick at first, FYI lol. He gets better. (This was my first fanfic and different than my current style wise, keep this in mind lol)

Playlist for this story:

Part one of my JJK romcom series. Part two (Nanami’s story) Part three (Suguru's story) you can read them alone though 🥰 They're just connected and in the same universe ❤️

A03- Buy me a Coffee ☕️ - Masterlist

[ficbrish]

Chapter 2 - Never meet your heroes

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[Ao3 Link] | [previous chapter] | [reading guide]

[[TW/CW: F-slur (in the non-slur context of a UK cigarette and as a self-reference), "poof"-slur (UK), gender dysphoria, gender envy, depression/cptsd, misogyny, internalized homophobia (from a queer character), Cazador/captivity mentions, hunger/starvation (vampire), bullying, smoking, drug use (weed), sexual choking fantasy, nsfw descriptions of city infrastructure]]

Summary: Time for their first practice together. What could go wrong?

Vistri's red leather boots click-clacked against the old, cobblestone road. Echoing around her like a shadow of sound as she crossed through the historic part of Blackgate. Each step less real, more wing than foot.

Astarion Ancunín. She was going to skate with Astarion Ancunín.

"Didn't you used to have posters of him all over your room?"

Wyll teased Vistri in the same breath he used to bestow his congratulations. He knew his friend would never accept front-and-center praise. Not any issue of humble nobility. She just never believed it. A bit of mockery and never taking things too seriously went a long way. In the same vane, Shadowheart silently took her hand and squeezed it with a warm smile.

The prospective partnership was confidential, of course, at least until all the papers were signed and their ink, dry. But whenever anything happened to Vistri, her dearest friends inevitably knew soon after. She and Wyll went as far back as their school days, and as they grew into adulthood, became a sort of family. They adopted Shadowheart somewhere along the way.

And they'd all dated at some point—But that was hardly here nor there! Well… Sort of. It was all a bit poofier than that. Any attraction or romantic entanglements between them from the past only flavored their current companionship. No bad blood existed among them, nor any lingering wishes. They all just knew one another very well. Worked out a few kinks together, one might say.

"I could swear that man was staring at me whenever we'd have a bit of a snog," Wyll continued, "From about five different directions!"

Shadowheart couldn't help but interject, "How could there be five different directions if rooms typically only have four walls?"

"Aahhh, but you're forgetting about ceilings!"

Vistri blushed, but that was as far as she went towards admitting he was correct.

Astarion Ancunín was indeed a young adult fancy of hers, but he was much more to Vistri than that—which made it all the more embarrassing! He wasn't just some Adonis capable of landing the most impressive moves, he dominated physics as if he wrote their very rules!

There was absolutely no one else to compare him to.

And it wasn't just about athletics either. His style was its own phenomenon!

Every costume he ever performed in, every outfit he ever modeled in magazines—Vistri didn't only admire or covet, but needed to step into. For a while there, she sustained her own life through observing his. His art, his magic—needing to live it! She practically laced up her first skates just to try on for size how it felt to be him.

Yet even with such a partner on offer, Vistri detested pair work so entirely that it still took a bit of extra convincing for her to say yes.

"Well… Why the fuck not?" Shadowheart prodded after the second no.

Thought it was simple, she did! Practical! To Shadowheart, there was absolutely no reason to refuse an opportunity like this.

Unless, of course, Vistri were a coward.

And maybe she was.

A partner complicated matters. In solo work, there wasn't anyone else to let down or hurt—No one else to do the same to her either! Working with Astarion was a dream, and dreams were notorious for dying at the end of the night.

"Not worried you're gonna shag him, are you?" Shadowheart followed up gingerly with what was considered tact for her. Despite the unceremonious delivery, it was well-intended. She genuinely wanted to grasp the root of her best friend's hesitation. And… Well, it was a valid question.

But such a question only pushed Vistri further away. The very idea of desiring anyone, who didn't clearly express their desire for her first, was so utterly vile that she completely refused to entertain the possibility at all—No matter who it was!

"No! Of course not!" Vistri denied a little too vehemently.

"Well, then why not?" she asked again plainly, not trying to be obstinate. Shadowheart was just eating her salad. They both knew how this was going to end; she would keep asking until they reached a suitably honest answer. So it was really Vistri drawing out the whole thing!

"I'd just rather run a pair of skate blades through my own eyes than do…" she gestured vaguely while searching for the right words until she gave up and settled on, "Pair work!"

Cliché as ever, the third time was the charm. Coach managed to pester her with the offer again at the exact right moment. If Vistri's pager hadn't buzzed that night, she might have said no, but it just so happened to ring right then, when she couldn't go home.

The Upper City had a scene that only the best of Baldur's Gate were a part of—And if you weren't, you were no one! Vistri frequented no such scenes. She was often invited, but always refused. Which, in part, probably kept those invitations coming. It was all a dance, and Vistri was sick to death of dancing. She'd left ballet for a reason. Hated Pairs for a reason!

However, there was another popular scene in the city. One much preferred that thrived within the very bowels of Baldur's Gate. Where music was played in the literal underground; catacombs, sewers, and caves.

They called it Grunge.

Something about it called to Vistri with the same sort of lure that drew her to the ice all those years ago. She found a home in the underground. A type of home that the ice just wasn't anymore.

Aside from being a siren song to her soul, Grunge was freedom. It disdained the set order of things, like Punk if Punk hated itself and wanted to die. The guitar wailed with a resigned grief, cradled by the bass' heavy hum. The vocals were a gurgling lament, like Blues if Blues preferred cacophony over rhythm. Real, unpolished, and raw. Chaos, but not the active kind—The kind that clogged a heart with its rot.

Grunge called out that evil spirit by its name, stripping it of its power. It brought people together and broke them apart. Each show, a collective undoing. A transcendence of ego; like death, but alive. You weren't you, you were the whole world. All the heartbreak in it. All its yearning. You saw it all and were seen in return. Vistri went to shows with friends, but eventually the whole crowd of strangers melded into a collective friendship. In those moments, there were no drow and darthiir; no species divide. No men, no women—just people.

She flew in those moments. But that flight always filled her with a deep nostalgic longing. The ice had been her first set of wings. It used to be freedom.

Then it became expectation.

Procedure. Regulation.

Regulation. Mark. Failure, failure. Mark. Win, failure, win, win. Regulation. Win, failure, win—Silver!

Regulation. Remonstration! Regurgitation.

Skating was just a job now, another obligation on a long list. Not something she was anymore. Luckily, she found the Grunge scene. Underground.

How depressingly fitting for a drow…

But perhaps that feeling of belonging was just novelty's effect and wouldn't last. A new community scene, with a new androgynous look, and a new gritty sound. Because on the night she received the third offer, Vistri didn't fly. She didn't become part of the crowd. There were just a lot of people in her way.

It wasn't the show. Tucked inside a seaside cave with a near-perfect lineup, Vistri found no reasonable explanation for her malaise. Perhaps it was her that was wrong. Not wanting to ruin their fun, she told Wyll and Shadowheart that she wanted to turn in early for practice the next day and left them down at the concert, insisting they not follow.

That peculiar yet familiar bout of melancholy took her lurking over by the cave entrance. Lingering in the dark among the crunchy, faded echoes of a deadened heart's cry. Teetering alone along the edges of a damp, moonstruck shoreline.

And then her pager rang.

If only she'd left her sending stone at home! Then Vistri would've had an excuse not to call back until she reached a payphone. With that blasted thing in her bag, Jaheira could call through the matching one at any time, and if Vistri didn't pick up, she’d literally be able to see her screening it.

At least Coach had the decency to page first…

Equal parts dread and defiance, Vistri lit a cigarette and smoked it halfway before magically calling out through the stone.

"HELLO! VISTRI?! Can-you-hear-me?"

Coach's weathered scowl suddenly jutted out of the rock like a bewildered djinn. Vistri quickly backed away from the awkward spectral projection of her enlarged face.

"You don't have to shout, Jaheira!—And you're too close!"

"And you're smoking again! Great!"

Vistri took another pull, "I never stopped."

"Put that out."

She made a show of flicking the ash, "I will when I'm done, love. Now, what were you hoping to talk about?—And do hurry it up! We've got about ten minutes before these mystery pills kick in."

"What pills?!"

Vistri decided to take pity on Coach's blood pressure. She was getting up there in years after all, "Relax! There are no pills."

"Good."

But she just couldn't help herself and winked, "Not yet, anyway."

Jaheira made it through a round of expletives before getting to her point, "Listen, Cub! Because I'm the only one left willing to level with you."

"Oh, this should be good. Do go on!" Vistri played it nonchalantly but her heart fluttered out of sorts.

She knew Jaheira since the start of her ice skating career, and had even done her best work under her coaching. Theirs wasn't just an artistic or professional tie either. Jaheira knew her as a person. She'd seen Vistri at her lowest. Witnessed her growths and regressions. Whatever Coach had to say now would be the truth. Vistri wasn't sure whether or not she was ready to hear it.

Jaheira chose to ignore her foolishness, "I'll give it to you then!—You burned bright for a while there, Cub. It was genuinely impressive. And that was great! For a while..."

Her throat tightened, "But it hasn't lasted."

Coach nodded. Solemnly. Empathetically.

It made Vistri feel so very sick.

"No one really cares about last-Olympic's Silver medalist. People don't want to see a repeat of what you, or anyone else for that matter, has done before. They want to see innovation—Evolution! Something they haven't seen yet."

"I told you," she practically whimpered, "I'll get the Gold."

Jaheira sighed, "It wouldn't matter if you did, Cub. Sure, you can land a Triple like it's butter, but that's old news."

"You're one to talk about old," Vistri muttered bitterly.

"What?!"

"I said, 'What else is there to do besides earn Gold?'"

"Pair work."

"Gods!"

"They won't help you—Pairs will. Especially with a big star like Ancunín coming out of retirement just to be your partner. Do you know what an honor that is? Do you understand how rude it would be to turn that down? To turn him down?"

A big star.

And what was she then?

"How much are they paying you to give that pitch?"

Jaheira didn't even hesitate, "Enough to put up with you!"

"Crone!"

"Fool!"

It made them laugh.

Which lowered her guard just enough for Vistri to finally see sense. A partnership with Ancunín would make a good story and thus earn the network a lot of views.

Vistri finally agreed. And regretted it immediately.

Regret was at least a change of pace. Most days were just numb.

Anything to shake her out of this unrelenting funk; a living nonexistence. Sometimes she smoked something to rouse her senses, or took something that knocked out the remainder of her mind. More than occasionally, she fucked someone. At least Vistri could still laugh, but any spirit she gained from that died at the end of her breath.

She was so bored.

Beeeeeeep!

"Fuck off, mate!" Vistri yelled, stepping back onto the sidewalk. She hadn't noticed the light turn, and the car closest to her wasn't about to wait another second.

She hated this part of town. Wide, trafficked two-way streets. Horrible, modern corporate buildings. Malls and tourists. Just awful! An area to be entirely avoided if not for the stadium being smack dab in the middle.

Blackgate was a dump. As it has always been!

Beginning as the Upper City's parasite, a slum-town just beyond the Black Dragon Gate. It grew and expanded over time, like an eager prick. It started as a black market and became a thriving downtown. Which made it a prime area for government buildings; just a short distance for the Upper crust, yet separated by one of the city's ancient gates. Then came the entertainment: museums and stadiums peppered throughout to impress visiting dignitaries.

Modernity's final blow was the emergence of the financial quarter. The Blackgate prick had reached its peak and the resulting bust was Tall Street, a cum-drip of a place where coin was the final boss. With post-nut clarity, history repeated itself, and the district settled itself back into a black market.

Such a setting usually made Vistri even more sour, but today she found relief in an anxious sort of boldness fluttering inside. A sign of life. She lit a fresh fag and pulled on it, feeling the smoke billow into her chest and scratch at her throat.

Maybe this could be the moment that everything changed! Maybe her heart had simply held out for perfection. Something as enormous as skating with—

No!

Because this ray of hope in the dark wasn't anything as crass as some youthful fantasy made real. It was something else; more to do with the muse within.

She'd done everything right for the Gold. Dressed the way the judges wanted, smiled the way they demanded, gave them the routine they'd yearned for—Literally broke records!

Any ounce of herself Vistri brought to the ice that year had been cut down and refined into the most marketable persona of the year. Anything she asked for was rejected because it didn't fit her overall image in the public's eye. Nobody wanted to see a princess in something other than a dress. Nobody wanted to see inside the smile sheltering all those sparkling teeth. It didn't spoon-feed them the story of a flitzy paper doll!

Not the tongue there. Nor the palate.

Even her mouth was supposed be a suggestion, neither wet nor dry. A mystery beyond painted lips.

She wanted her routine set to Grunge, but it was off-putting according to family programming standards. She wanted black skates, they told her white. Denial. Denial. Over and over.

Vistri hadn't been shy about blaming external circumstances for her Silver that year. She and Jaheira even walked away from their corporate sponsor, leaving for W.S. instead. They held press conferences for her where she smirked bashfully at journalists who were firing off questions like bidders in an auction. Asking if she thought the result was a bias against sorcerers. Whether she felt the judges too old school. So on and so on.

Deep down, Vistri knew she only had herself to blame. If she'd earned Gold, she would have won Gold. There was no denying her execution had been flawless, but it lacked substance. Her body, a proficient husk, skated those routines. Not her soul.

The Gold required soul.

To win, she would need to feel the same sense of liberation she had landing her first spin. Ice skating was falling, and how does one manage to control a fall? Conquering gravity in that way used to flush her cheeks with the all-consuming pride of a god's chosen. Vistri needed to get that back. To come alive!

And it didn't hurt that meeting and working with her actual hero was part of the package.

She actually blushed thinking about it. Astarion Ancunín. She was going to skate with the Astarion Ancunín!

But she couldn't afford to get caught up in all that. It was imperative for Vistri to calm down and wipe away the ridiculous smile creeping across her face. She was almost at their first practice together, and it wouldn't do to appear quite the fan. Oh, no, no!—She couldn't have that!

How pathetic would that be? Vistri was a high-value professional herself. She was too well-known and adored to be anyone's star-struck little fool. Ancunín would simply be another skater. Another pair of shoulders lifting her about; getting in the way.

The glass dome above the stadium's entrance came into view and stopped Vistri in her tracks, having thought she was still a few blocks back. Smoking was no longer allowed inside, so she tossed her cigarette before it was quite through. Usually she would stand outside to finish, even if it meant being very late.

Today, she flicked it into the street before traversing the tree-lined pavement that led up to the stadium's elaborate main entrance. The leaves had all turned orange-reds and burnt-yellows, and a few fell lazily beside her. Her heart pounded.

Vistri took a moment to stand inside the main lobby after twirling her way through the rotating glass doors. She was in the same building as Astarion Ancunín!

It was proving quite hard to keep the smile from her face. Her cheeks even ached a little.

"This is Vistri," Jaheira would probably say.

To which she would give a cheeky, little bow. Just a slight dip of her knees. And before their coach had a chance to continue, she'd chime in with, "Mr. Ancunín here needs no introduction."

A coy nod to his notoriety. A respectful acknowledgment of his influence that didn't put him above her or expose the depths of her admiration.

Which would make a fine start.

Practice would begin from there. The set of shoulders uselessly spinning her about would be his shoulders. She used to dream of it. Back when she first learned to skate Pairs, she would close her eyes and pretend other chests were his.

Those fantasies were about to become true. His shoulders. His chest.

She was quite sure that's where it would stop. A professional through and through, Ancunín would likely work her to death on the ice and barely say a word off of it. They would most likely practice and go home; compete then go home. And once they had their medals, he'd end their partnership and move on, and she'd just be another descriptive detail in his life's story. Someone he skated with once and forgot.

Her other fantasy made her feel foolish.

The one where he ended up as charmed by her as she was by him. That he'd look at her and see a muse too. Her clothes. Her energy. Her abilities. He'd admire her. Desire her. Keep her around as something to treasure.

More likely than that, they'd fuck and he'd fall in love. The tables would turn then. Vistri would go from want-er to the wanted, wrenching all the power from his grasp in the process. He could even bend her over and choke her with that Gold medal of his, and she'd still hold all the cards. Because she'd have given him a taste of something he'd never be able to have again. Something he would always want, and she could always deny.

Maybe she'd fall in love too. For a little while. Have a bit of fun with it before taking away his new plaything. Vistri might not be anyone's true love, but she could be the best fuck anyone ever had. She would blow his mind, upturn his universe. And then she'd be someone he fucked once and never forgot.

Unless, of course, he was gay.

That was always a possibility, especially with dancers and the like. Whenever Ancunín was asked about his sexuality in interviews, he'd smirk and say something like "I eat at every table, darling," which could really mean anything.

Vistri shook her head and stepped forward.

Entering the rink was like going through the gateway to another world. A surreal environment where every detail came through so clear, it got fuzzy again. Each step forward was its own lifetime.

But with this heightened awareness came a certain blindness to the various sounds and energies that were echoing about, bouncing between the bleachers. Until a certain phrase funneled her attention.

"—pair work!"

Something about those particular words made Vistri hurry around the bend where the rink came into full view.

She found quite a sight there.

It had been closed off for their private session, so the emptiness came as no surprise, but curiously, there was a small crowd gathered on the ice. From what Vistri could tell, it was five people and a zamboni. One of them, with drow-white hair and a long leather coat, was perched atop the enormous machine's wide hood.

Smoking.

Even when smoking indoors was allowed, it was never permitted out on the ice.

Three others paced around the zamboni, all wearing the stadium's uniform. No doubt workers who were reluctant to interfere but obligated to do more than just walk away. Jaheira, their coach, was part of the group too. Not intimidated into silence like the others, but busy with another subject.

"I do not understand," she asked firmly, "How did you not know?"

"I don't know! No one said anything to me about skating Pairs!"

Vistri stood over by the wall, unsure of whether to wave or not. Nothing about the current situation made her particularly keen to introduce herself, but she also couldn't just stand there and watch like a creep. The longer she went without saying anything, the more awkward an eventual introduction would be. She just didn't know how, or when, to step in.

Should she quickly throw on her skates and go greet them?

Or…

All the others appeared to be wearing shoes, and Vistri didn't want to be the odd one out. Maybe she should just… Sit somewhere and wait?

Her thoughts were too busy attempting to connect the dots between that man on the zamboni and Astarion Ancunín to come up with any good answers. It looked a lot like him, but her mind kept convincing itself she had always been mistaken in how he looked.

Then the man turned his head in her direction.

It was him!

For the very first time, Vistri's idol beheld her image. Locking eyes with him was nostalgic, having looked into them endlessly before. But only through television screens and magazine photos. Static, captured eyes that never looked back. Not really.

Certainly not with… Recognition?

They weren't close enough yet for their expressions to be made clear, but it was in the way his back straightened. Ancunín's causally imperious manner burnt away like rice paper and left behind a loathing imprint.

Despite their distance, his look of damnation made captives of her eyes.

"You!" he roared. "What are you doing here?!"

His question was an accusation.

Vistri checked over her shoulder for anyone else. No one was there.

But before she could point to herself and ask "Me?", Jaheira leapt in with, "What do you mean?—Haven't you received any communication from W.S?—How did you even know to be here?"

Ancunín's malicious stare broke once Jaheira spoke again. Distracted by the interjection, he released his relentless focus.

Vistri caught her breath.

And lost it again at the turn of his head. A transformation from those unknown, dissecting eyes back into the familiar, cutting bone structure she'd long-admired.

"Of course I've received communication from W.S.!" he countered, "Someone rang a while back and gave me the schedule—Which you and I will need to have a few words about, by the way."

"You didn't get their webmail?"

"Email," Vistri muttered impatiently. No matter how many times she corrected her, Jaheira still refused to call it anything but, webmail.

"The hells is a webmail?" Ancunín scowled.

"Email!" Vistri repeated a lot louder. Realizing her mistake, she swallowed.

Her seething idol took a long, gloating drag from on top of that zamboni. Crossed his legs.

Looked her up and down.

Despite his apparent ire, he answered calmly, "No. I did not receive any… emails." His gaze lingered loosely in Vistri's direction, like the smoke dancing in his curls.

Jaheira pinched the middle of her brow and cursed, "If this turns out to be some bullshit I don't get paid for…"

Why Ancunín was taking such issue with her, Vistri couldn't understand. She was quite sure they'd never met before. She often forgot a lot of things, but would definitely remember something like that!

Perhaps she was wearing something offensive? Vistri tried her best to dress conservatively enough for an initial meeting. Pants and a sweater. Sure, she was wearing a leather jacket, but then so was he.

She looked herself up and down.

Maybe the red boots were a little much…

"Perhaps it got lost in the mail," he suggested.

"Lost in the…?—Vistri!"

"Yes…?" she dreaded to ask.

Jaheira turned to her for technical advice, as she always did. Not that Vistri was an expert or anything. Just that, well… She wasn't ancient or one of her many children, all of whom had smart mouths and long memories. Qualifications which were good enough for Jaheira as far as technology was concerned.

"Can that happen?" she gestured vaguely, "Webmail getting lost? Like real mail?"

"Uh…"

Once again, Vistri didn't know what to say. It took a lot for her right now to not stop and argue how email is real mail, which only further clouded her mind. However, after picking up on a strong sense that any hesitation was very unwelcome, she settled on the truth.

"No? I mean, n-not really. It—It doesn't work like that. It's data. Like… Like bits of information! Can't really chuck it in the bin or drop it anywhere."

That bitch!

Astarion had thought his little fib about the message getting lost was a perfectly reasonable explanation, but then that purple-blue priss went and blew his cover!

Ooooh, Vistri was exactly the type he thought she would be. An overrated, sniveling tart!

Satisfied with Vistri's answer, Jaheira turned back on him, "You're sure you gave them the correct information?"

Sure, he gave an email to that urchin who invaded his flat the other day, but it wasn't real. And he wasn't going to make one either!

"Yes," Astarion answered, grinning through clenched teeth and a cigarette, "I'm quite sure."

"Fine then," she sighed, letting it go, "I'll tell them to re-send it."

"Cheers," he muttered, ashing the remainder of his smoldering transgression against the zamboni.

Vistri stared at her coach, eagerly awaiting for a reaction. The woman furrowed her brow for a moment.

And said absolutely nothing!

She couldn't believe this was the same Jaheira who shouted down the press and still occasionally commanded the Harpers! If Vistri ever acted like that, Coach would surely kick her ass three ways to sideways! Her lack of response wasn't just a betrayal to all the years they'd spent in each other's company — she was her coach first! — but also a deference of power, and worst of all, star power.

Even more than that, it deprived her of the chance to witness Jaheira ream somebody else out for once.

"You!" Coach turned her frown over to Vistri.

"Me?!—What about me?"

"You're late!"

Vistri swallowed her rage with a shrug and a smile. "I'm here though, aren't I? We got there in the end, love," she winked.

Jaheira blinked a few times, looking between these disasters. These professionals were the team she had to turn into Gold. An alchemist's task. She sighed, hands on her hips, "Just go get dressed! Both of you! We're wasting time!"

"What are you on about?" Astarion asked with blossoming panic.

"Are you joking?" Coach shot back, sure she was being fucked with.

"You don't mean… No," he sounded lost.

A look Vistri had never seen before softened his face. It transfixed her until he hung his head. Hair hid his eyes, before parting again as he rose with a dawning emotion. Something that made his expression hard, his eyes cold.

She watched him raise his hand and viciously point in her direction without even looking her way.

"I'm not working with that one!" he spat furiously.

"W-What?" Vistri sputtered.

Jaheira threw her hands up, "I told them webmail was a stupid idea!"

"Email!"

Astarion crossed his arms. W.S. was trying to appear all modern by insisting on computers. Which was absurd! No one said anything about pair work, or Vistri for that matter! For gods' sakes, he was here to be her competitor, not her partner! He wouldn't have even shown up today if he'd known the entire arrangement—Lying, good-for-nothing corporate wizardry!

Although… Maybe that was all included in the message he missed.

With locker areas on either side of the building, Vistri waited to see which one Astarion was pointed towards, and went the opposite direction. Inconveniently, she had access to a private dressing room on that side, but the discomfort of the public lockers was worth being as far away from Astarion as possible. Besides, no one else should be there.

His words infected her consciousness—That one?!

Somewhere between pulling on her black spandex and lacing up her white skates, it all sunk in. Vistri finally met her inspiration, and he turned out to be just another celebrity washout with a rotten sense of self-importance.

All those wasted years…

She slammed the flimsy-metal locker door with so much force it sounded throughout the space.

Then realized she didn't bring a lock, "Oh damn."

Vistri looked absolutely ridiculous skating across the rink, carrying all her clothes. She couldn't even see over the top of the pile and almost flew into the zamboni.

Astarion, already dressed and waiting, was sad to see her miss and hoped for a hard crash into the side barrier instead. Sadly, she managed to gracefully transition off the ice and disappear through the archway leading to the VIP lounge, without even dropping a sock.

That bitch.

Coach led them through a few rounds of stretches while they waited for the zamboni to finish resurfacing the ice—Which would've be done already if Astarion hadn't delayed it! Which Coach made sure to keep reminding him of.

Confined to the kiss and cry area, the three of them were situated closer than they would have liked. In such proximity, Astarion couldn't avoid the occasional glance at Vistri. Those baggy clothes she'd arrived in hid her figure entirely. Now she was wearing tight spandex, he noticed that the drow was a lot smaller than he imagined she'd be. Not that he expected her to be very large! Just that she seemed so much shorter in person. Not as imposing. Slight.

Like some sort of yappy, little dog!

Rubbing salt on the wound, Astarion was clearly out of shape. He couldn't hold his stretches for as long or as deep as her. He tried each time, but to no avail. This slothfulness made him the first to let go when they all bent over to touch their toes, which gave him a clear view of Vistri's backside on the way up.

Good Lords! That's quite a lot of ass.

"How in the hells am I going to lift that?" he privately sneered, out loud.

Vistri swore she heard something. But what she thought she heard was so directly out of one of her nightmares, she dismissed it as an anxious hallucination.

"On the ice!" Jaheira commanded as soon as the zamboni left it. Which was all well and good. Their group stretches were beginning to drag on.

Astarion crossed his arms and scoffed, "At the same time?"

Jaheira scowled until they obliged.

Naturally, they flew to opposite ends of the rink as soon as their blades touched the resurfaced ice.

Vistri hated the part of herself that still got excited at the prospect of sharing the ice with Astarion, especially since it was apparently so reviling to him. She tried to quickly crush that excitement, but it was overwhelming to be this close; to be skating on the same fresh surface. The only marks in the rink would be theirs.

Sure, the two of them were only gliding around, but there was a power and athleticism in Astarion that she recognized. Even at its most stripped down layer, his abilities were breathtaking and nostalgic.

"All right," Coach clapped her hands, "Let's start from the very top. I want to see your single loop jumps."

Vistri couldn't remember the last time she'd been this intimidated by a single loop. It was really just a hop-skip! Getting air and a bit of spin out of the same blade. But she'd never skated in front of someone like him.

Astarion executed his move flawlessly, which was easily done at their level, but he made such a simple thing seem so awe-inducing.

"Vistri, keep up!" Jaheira called out.

He'd already run a few jumps in the time she stood there hesitating. Vistri rushed to start but the blush she felt on her cheeks was so distracting, she almost popped her jump, and practically forced herself off the ground. More like catapulting into the air than a nice hop. Her instincts wanted to back out right before her leap. But she didn't. She jumped, spun once, and landed it.

Not perfect, but there. Easy—

"Ow! Fuck!"

Astarion came flying up from behind, knocking Vistri off-balance and smacking her flat onto her tailbone.

"Mind your balance!" Coach shouted.

"He pushed me!" Vistri awkwardly attempted to rise but was in too much pain to do so successfully.

"Push you? I didn't even touch you!" he protested.

Her ass was throbbing.

"I don't care what happened!" Jaheira yelled, "Get up!"

Astarion giggled.

"And you!—Stop standing around!"

As soon as Coach turned her back to them, Astarion flashed Vistri a victorious smirk, practically admitting he'd done it on purpose. He seemed to be gloating over a triumph, like they were part of a contest she didn't know they were both competing in.

As miserable as that was, it was workable. Vistri knew exactly how to drive his type mad in return.

Don't react.

She met his satisfied look with an oblivious smile. Just the emptiest expression she could possibly summon.

Predictably provoked, he jabbed, "Come on, keep up."

Don't react.

Vistri ignored him and strode forward, getting back into her rhythm.

"Aw, don't wanna dance, darling?"

Don't react!

"All right, that's enough!" Coach chided, "Calm down and let's see what we have to work with. Take each other's hands and go once around the rink. Get a feel for—"

"Uh… Wait a moment," Vistri glided towards Jaheira with her finger held high, "I'm not running any Pairs until he's signed his papers."

Jaheira sighed, "Come on, Cub. Are you really going to do this?"

"Do what?"

Coach raised a coach-brow.

Vistri crossed her arms defiantly, "Yes, I am."

"Fine," she frowned, "In that case, we'll run Solos. But! You'll have to share the ice. Okay? Try not to run into each other."

"Ladies first," Astarion sneered.

"No," Jaheira insisted, "You're new. I know her already and where she needs improvement. I do not know you. Show me."

Vistri grinned with the knowledge of the exhaustive assessment that he was about to receive. Coach would run the same basics over and over again until Astarion would likely feel he was losing his mind. Vistri had to do the same at the start of every season. Internally, she referred to it as 'the endless loop' because it involved a relentlessly repetitive series of jumps and laps around the rink.

"I'm getting rather dizzy!" he grumpily cried out after shakily landing a triple loop.

"Again!" Jaheira insisted, bulldozing over his protest.

He was rusty, but marvelous too. Expertise came through clear in all his moves, but his skating was nowhere near what Vistri knew him to be capable of.

Watching him was like visiting a weathered monument. His edges were once the best in the league, but they weren't as sharp as they used to be. His lean was deeper in those days, giving him much more control than what she was seeing now. The power he had then wasn't the same either, but the potential of what it used to be was quite obvious.

Vistri realized she'd expected him to be the same as when he left at the peak of his career. Even if Astarion made it to the rink from time to time since then, civilian life was showing. Come to think of it, no one had seen him around for a while, so it was entirely possible he'd never made it to a rink after retirement.

How in the hells did W.S. manage to find him?—Vistri guessed it had something to do with their previous partnership. Maybe they had his address on file? Or… something.

It made her wonder why he even came back in the first place. Clearly, not to skate Pairs! And definitely not with her for some unknown, bloody reason.

Astarion did a flip jump, and Jaheira had something to say about it, "Your knees are too tight, loosen up!"

He didn't seem to like constructive criticism very much, "They're already bloody loose!"

Maybe it was some sort of mid-century life crisis. As one of the longer-lived species, elves usually didn't age out of professional ice skating until around their 50s and 60s, and even then, that was more of a cultural boundary than a physical one. Like the concept of elven "adulthood" itself, age maximums for elven skaters were based in identity and mindset rather than biology.

Funnily enough, Vistri was now the same age as Astarion had been when he retired, 39. Which would make him about… 49 now? Even for an elf, he wore those ten years rather well. He didn't look a day over his last magazine spread.

"That was sloppy! Again!"

"Oh, dear…" Vistri muttered to herself, and not unkindly.

It was seeming ever more possible that he hadn't been on the ice this whole time. To be fair, for a regular person? Astarion was in astonishing shape. But as an Olympic competitor? He needed a lot of work.

Hopefully that meant Jaheira was getting paid a lot better than last time. Their reasons for abandoning their old sponsor weren't entirely petty, and W.S. hadn't exactly stepped up yet as far as Vistri was aware.

"Why don't you have the other one try flitting about for a while?!" Astarion eventually snapped.

He then seemingly reeled in his frustrations, but that suppressive control only made his tone more deadly, "I think it is my turn to sit around and smirk."

Vistri's train of thought went crashing off course. She shot upwards in the stands and shouted, "Hey! I'm not sitting around, smirking!"

"Ugh, what a terrible waste of downtime."

The itch to get up in that smarmy darthiir's face propelled Vistri into the middle of the rink like a sudden storm. However, instead of stopping just short of Astarion to throw him off-balance, she turned her momentum into a backwards jump. Spinning around twice, as smoothly as if she were attached to strings. One of those same clunky jumps Jaheira kept making Astarion repeat over and over.

Hoping that it would cut him deeper than a slap.

"Excellent!" Jaheira shouted, genuinely delighted, "Watch the way Vistri flows through her edges. She doesn't just control her turns, she stays flexible to the force of them. Think seaweed in the current. Your turns are too rigid! You need to loosen up."

"Funny," Astarion japed, "I've always heard one should keep it tight."

Jaheira was not amused, "That does not apply to this context."

"I'll keep that in mind," he murmured flatly.

Unable to help herself, Vistri butted in, "Like this."

Her words were casually spoken as she glided by, but Astarion knew them as a curse. He shivered a little at the base of his neck as her voice wrapped around him and sounded through his bones.

Vistri drew back like the ebbing sea before leaping back into the air. Higher this time and with an extra spin. Looking at her, one could almost mistake the ice for a theater. Skating for dancing. Athleticism for art.

It was far beyond anything he was capable of now. And she knew it. And she was taking the piss.

If he wasn’t so weak! His mind and body so fuzzy! Then there’d be absolutely no contest! He'd won Gold where Vistri only ever managed to get Silver. His mind and senses were muddled back then too, and it hadn't held him back. It was all just a matter of getting himself into competition-shape again.

Then he'd—!

But what if…?

Astarion's hands shook. He retreated to the bleachers to sit down and steady them.

What if he never got it back? What if Vistri was just… better? Something entirely new. Something capable of sweeping the Gold this time around, leaving nothing for anyone else besides Silver, Bronze, and tears. He could imagine her now at the press tours. Gloating. Leaving him out. Watching her fly into the sun as he failed to keep up with even his own past achievements, leading to his eventual rot into obscurity. Would all this be worth it if he didn't even meet previous—

Shit.

A part of him had forgotten about Cazador.

Not that a vampire spawn could ever truly forget their master. He'd just gotten so caught up in the idea of defending his glory that he didn't think of the consequences.

"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me!" Vistri complained from the ice. Their coach was throwing her through the same drills, "We did this last month!"

Jaheira kept her hands tight on her hips, "Too bad! And to think… I had planned on running Pairs today. We could be doing that instead."

Vistri groaned like a petulant child, and Astarion watched her obey without any of her usual grace.

Vistri.

Astarion chuckled bitterly. He should have just killed her instead of all this. Cazador never cared about a trail of bodies unless it led the authorities to his doorstep.

Maybe Astarion wouldn't have minded the rise of a new star so much if it had been anyone else. Maybe if it wasn't Vistri climbing onto his throne, he wouldn't have been forced to defy his master in order to defend it. Something familiar about her hollow arrogance peeved him to the point of stupidity.

While he was vaguely aware that returning to the ice meant facing Cazador's ire, it hadn't been at the forefront of Astarion's mind. It wasn't like he meant to take a defiant stand or anything. He'd learned that lesson over a century ago. It just escaped him as something to really think about.

Every jump that Vistri landed mocked him. Especially the flips.

"Wonderful! Excellent," Jaheira clapped, "Perfect knees! Let's go!"

No one really knew the effort it took for him to skate the way he did, how truly impressive it was for him to have accomplished what he'd accomplished.

Hunger pangs washed over him in a rough wave. He'd forgotten how much the exertion of skating demanded on his body. Astarion wasn't just out of shape, he was hungrier and weaker than before. He had never supped on another person's blood, but Cazador kept him well-fed when his skating career was permitted. Boars and the like.

Now he was only good enough to suck vermin.

"Good turn!" Jaheira clapped, "Keep them tight! Push yourself!"

Rodent blood just wasn't enough for Astarion to turn corners as sharply as Vistri.

His nails dug into his skin.

Before she was on the ice, Vistri had something of the air of the dead about her. But watching her skate, he witnessed vitality. Her blood fueled her body with a power that Astarion salivated at the forbidden thought of tasting.

The scales scattered across her forehead in a diadem-pattern promised power enough. Silver. Like her medal, he smirked triumphantly.

He wondered… What would her dragon blood taste like? Would it be cold as ice? As frigid and bitter as her heart appeared?

Wild gesturing from Jaheira interrupted his line of thought, signaling him to rejoin them. When he did, she asked him to try those same basic turns.

"Lean deeper! Look at how Vistri does it. Use that strength of yours."

He didn't need all that shouting to know his edge-work was middling at best. Glancing over at Vistri made the bile rise in his throat. All of this was a waste. He was too rusty, too ravenous!

Jaheira bid them both to start on parallel spins. Vistri's were tightly controlled whirlwinds. She pulled off hers with a flair that made Astarion's stomach twist. If he only had a drink from her neck…

And Vistri was at throat-ripping distance…

Sadly, the temporary satisfaction wouldn't be worth it. And Astarion was already in enough trouble as it is. Well, if he couldn't kill her and eat her, he could attempt to outdo her. Riddle her with shame and put her in her proper place.

Under his skate. Blade at her jaw.

However, his determination made him careless. Astarion summoned all the strength that he had left in his thighs to launch himself into the air with as much power as possible.

But it was an out-of-control mess that caused him to slip and crash hard, directly onto his bum. The force of his landing ungracefully bounced him forward on his cheeks, and his legs got tangled up in the attempt to still himself. It was like watching a cat wipe out mid-run.

And it hurt like the hells! Bullocks! No doubt his nerves would remember this bruise long after it faded. Hunger in a vampire dulled every sense and thought except for pain, which only grew sharper and more consuming.

Vistri stifled a laugh, but not quick enough. The loud shooting-gun start of it crackled around the barren stands.

"If you're going to laugh at me, at least have the decency to do it out loud!" Astarion shouted from the ground.

Something different sat inside his prideful display. A whisper of a higher, weaker pitch. It gave Vistri pause, not knowing if she actually heard it or not. Down on the ice, her former idol looked so…

Defeated.

Vistri hadn't expected such frailty from him. Astarion Ancunín was a figment of perfection who lived only in her mind, yet here he was, the real thing; shoulders sagging, some unknown pain straining his words. A vision on the ice who still occasionally fails and falls over like a blundering novice.

Just another broken person waiting for death in the busted city of Baldur's Gate. Where adventure used to thrive.

Vistri really thought he was going to breathe life back into hers. She truly believed he'd be her answer. Instead she found another breathless person. Perhaps, like herself, he was just another living corpse shambling along until time crumbled him to dust.

Seeing that rough egotistical veneer of his blur for a moment, Vistri's feet glided over on their on. She thought she saw Astarion flinch at her approach, but that was probably just nerves playing mad tricks with her head.

"Humbling, isn't it?" she grinned, offering her hand.

Instead of gratitude, he flashed an expression that was so furious it burned to be at the other end of it.

Hearing how she might have come off, Vistri explained herself further; smiling stupidly for his comfort in the way that all men demanded. Even the gay ones.

"Since we're professionals, I mean. No matter how many times we do something, we still end up with our bums kissing the floor."

He still didn't take her hand.

So she kept going, "Honestly, it's not as bad as you think. If you just kept that turn a little tighter, then—"

He held up a finger, hushing her immediately, and said, "Gold never needs the advice of Silver, sweetheart."

Vistri's jaw fell open.

Astarion helped himself up and dusted himself off before skating away.

That overrated, posh twink! That absolutely massive knob-end! That—That bitch!

Vistri could feel her whole chest vibrating! That man was hateful! Horrible! Nothing but a bloated sense of self importance. Yesterday's egotistical nightmare returning with the vengeance of having been forgotten.

Miserable man!—Hateful disgrace!

Gods, she could throw up.

He was so washed out.

She tasted bile.

No one sold t-shirts with his name on them anymore—they sold them with her name now! He wasn't any better than she was!

Vistri stifled a burp and blinked back a tear.

Anything he could do, she could do too!

With shaking hands, she reached into her costume and pulled out a slightly smushed cigarette from out of her bra. She lit it with a snap of her thumb, her rage making revelry with fire magic, and took a long drag. If Astarion could smoke indoors without anyone stopping him, she could too!

Astonished by the sight of Vistri smoking on the ice, Jaheira yelled, "What are you doing?!"

She didn't answer, just indulged in another inhale. Another breath.

"For heavens' sakes," Jaheira sighed.

Vistri shot a smirk at Astarion. See? It said, I'm just as much of a star as you are. You're no better than I am. Suck it.

—Bitch! she added, punctuating her thought with a triumphant exhale.

"Excuse me," a voice popped up behind her. Vistri turned around and saw it was one of the security guards leaning over the barrier.

"I'm gonna need you to put that out."

Astarion's eyes lit up; his smile grew ten-rinks wide.

"Oh…" Vistri muttered in defeat, "Quite right. Should I—?"

"There's still an ashtray on the bin over there," he pointed.

Walks of shame weren't usually so utterly humiliating! Skating along with that sad little fag between her fingers was representative of everything her life had come to. And of her too. Just a sad little fag…

That is, if she counted… Which she did! Because she was. Sorta. Kinda. She thinks. People tend to have a lot of opinions.

—Never to be smoked! Just discarded. Right as she was lit. One hit and then trash.

This was it. All there was…

Vistri knew it when she laced up her first skates; she could never live up to him. Never really fill his shoes. No one would adore her and admire her the way Astarion was adored and admired. No one could ever look at her and see what they saw when they looked at him. All they would see— all she would ever be— was trashed potential. A barely-used smoke.

She couldn't bear to face the others or get back on the ice, so she ran off with her rubbish instead. If anyone cared, they would notice the tears she was barely holding back as she disappeared into the locker area, on the exclusive side.

Jaheira turned on Astarion, "Great! Look at what you've done!"

"What I've done? What did I do?"

"What didn't you do?"

"Come on!" he scoffed, "The girl ran off crying like I'd shagged her mother! That's not my fault. That's a lack of professionalism, is what that is!"

"Hah!" Jaheira cackled mirthlessly, "Professionalism? You're one to bring up professionalism."

"How dare you!" Astarion wasn't used to such mouth out of mortals.

"You are antagonistic to your team," she began listing on her fingers, "Have not turned in your paperwork. I definitely saw you push her! And you smell."

"I do not smell!"

Jaheira had known hotshots like him since her early Harper days. Alienated from other people, they either didn't last long, or ended up ruthless. She couldn't tell which one Astarion fell into yet, but neither were ideal. Not to mention spelled disaster for pair work.

And Vistri…? Well… Vistri was Vistri.

The coach sighed. If she could somehow pull this off, the two of them could make history. The question being: could she? And did she want to? And if she wanted to, she'd have to figure out a way to make them work together, and perfectly! And in order to do that, she would have to navigate this carefully.

"Did you know that you can be quite a disappointment?" she asked, as if it were a simple inquiry about the weather.

"Excuse me?"

"Imagine she was looking forward to working with you. You've been an ass since she got here. Didn't even introduce yourself!—And you're the one she's got tossing her around at top speeds!"

"So?" Astarion sounded dismissive, but he was quite frankly astounded at himself for not simply telling her to fuck off.

"I want you to go after her and fix it."

"Why me?!"

"Because you broke it."

Astarion shrugged insincerely, "Oops."

But she just looked back at him with her steady, stern look. Not saying anything.

Oh, she was good. At the guilt thing, at least. Astarion didn't care much about anything anymore, and here she was tugging at his long-dead heartstrings.

He never considered the possibility that the bimbo blueberry tart might be an admirer.

"Oh, bugger it all!"

Getting off the ice also meant getting Jaheira out of his sight. Of course, once he was set on Vistri's path, Astarion felt stupid just standing around doing nothing. He figured it wouldn't be too much to actually look for her.

Not because he felt bad.

Not because of their coach's insufferable scowl either! He just… Well, he was already in too deep. Breaking his word with Cazador was… He figured he might as well see this through. At the very least, finding Vistri would be a chance for him to savor her crushed spirit. A little snack for his wicked, black heart.

Besides, that would establish him as someone who could admit their mistakes and apologize. Then, the next time something unpleasant occurred between them, the blame for any continued tension could be more easily shifted to her.

He'd seen Vistri disappear in this direction, but couldn't find her in any of the lounge areas. He even brought himself to search all the private dressing rooms—Which were hideous and gauche, by the way! Packed with awful wall-to-wall mirrors and cheap, rotting furniture. Everything coated by outdated glamour decor—Astarion resolved to avoid entering any of those in the future.

That damn girl wasn't bloody anywhere!

He couldn't understand where she might have gone off to. Until he spotted the propped open side-door. Light peeked through in a slanted line.

Astarion frowned.

Sighed.

And double-backed to grab his long, leather coat.

Outside, Vistri caught movement from the corner of her eye and anxiously turned towards it only to find Astarion, who was acting rather curiously. He was carefully fitting himself through the crack in the door, holding what appeared to be his coat from earlier dangling above his head.

She blinked and squinted. Surely she couldn't already be that stoned!

Astarion was the last person Vistri wanted to see right now, but the oddity of his behavior kept her gradually glazing eyes peeled. She watched him peek fearfully up at the awning and then hesitantly examine the path between them. Maybe he was afraid of the outdoors or something? That would certainly explain his lack of media presence in the past decade.

Looking up at the sun, Astarion wondered if maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all.

Fittingly, Vistri was smoking over by a dumpster. The area was thankfully covered by a roof, being a sort of alley between buildings—It shouldn't be too risky... Besides, the path was shaded, and if all else failed, he still had his coat for extra protection.

And what did he really have to lose at this point anyway? He chuckled darkly and strode forward with both hands holding the coat up over his head.

"You know there are less dramatic ways of making an exit, yes?"

"Oh," she greeted flatly, "You."

Astarion threw his coat over his shoulder and leaned back against the well-maintained brick wall, crossing his arms, "I'll admit, I'm used to a little more enthusiasm than that."

"Pity."

He couldn't hide his smile, so he swallowed it instead. Who knew little Miss Prisslefriss had a bit of humor in her?

Now he was closer, Astarion could smell that the rolled cigarette between her fingers wasn't a cigarette at all. It was something slightly less 'Princess of the Faerûn Ice Skating Association' than that.

Another surprise! How thrilling.

People didn't often surprise him. Not after 200 years of undeath. Perhaps there were worse things in this whole, big, wide multiverse than being stuck with Vistri as a partner.

"Care to share, darling?"

"Fuck off."

"I guess I've earned that," he sighed, slumping further into the wall.

Vistri didn't have the strength to deal with him at the moment. This could have all gone so differently. So wonderfully!—But he acted the rotten asshole instead!

She took a desperate hit, and ended up inhaling way too much. Unfortunately, her valiant effort not to cough only made her choke even harder. There she was, in the middle of a dream that had been sewn secretly into her very fibres; full-bodied sweats, gasping for air.

"Careful!" Astarion shouted, stepping away, "You're spitting on my coat!"

"I'm not," cough-cough, "Spitting on your—!" cough-hack-cough, "—Coat!"

Astarion couldn't back any further away without stepping into the sunlight, "Cover your mouth, you heathen!"

Vistri took a while to regain control of her breath, and once she managed it, stood silently with glossy marble eyes. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, only slightly, but its rhythm made it noticeable.

"That's why you haven't aged," she muttered, startling him with the sudden break in her silence.

"Excuse me?!"

"You. Walking with your coat over your head, avoiding any drop of sunlight. Smart one for that. Sort of explains why you're so pale too… All these years I thought it was just makeup—Say, aren't Surface elves usually more tan?"

"I… Look! I came out here to apologize for being—Coach told me to come get you, so I'm here."

Vistri blinked up at him, "But that's not an apology."

"Give me a hit of that, and I'll give you an apology."

After a few clicks of her tongue and a long, narrow stare, Vistri nodded. Astarion Ancunín wasn't who she wanted him to be. But he was here to stay, and if she wanted the Gold, she needed to accept that.

"Apology first," she smirked.

It was playful enough that he smirked back. Astarion obliged, hitting her with a deep, theatrical bow and a preposterously suffering tone, "Please forgive me, for I have sinned egregiously against your kind self."

However Vistri had been expecting him to respond, it wasn't that. She broke into a wheezing laugh "I didn't mean for you to lay it on so thick!"

Astarion didn't share her hysteria but smiled, and without any trace of malice.

As her laughter ebbed away, Vistri held out the joint for him to take.

Surprised by the sudden peace offering, he stared at it before nodding his thanks.

He took a hit. Passed it back.

Vistri looked at it there in her hand, face flushing with the realization that her lips were about to be right where Astarion Ancunín just had his. She put it to hers and inhaled as his exhale dissipated around them.

Astarion noticed Vistri didn't flinch as his cloud enveloped her face. She even seemed to savor it. Sure, she closed her eyes, but it seemed more like a tucking away than an avoidant gesture. It was subtle enough that she herself might have even been unaware, but Astarion knew what it looked like when another body sought his.

Hells! It could make for really good chemistry on the ice.

Besides, Vistri was here to stay. He used to be the face of W.S., but now W.S. was her and Jaheira. If Astarion wanted to be a part of it, he'd have to learn to play nice.

Vistri held out the joint for him again without his even having to ask. He took it without any hesitation, feeling a little lighter than before.

She never imagined Astarion as someone who could relax like this. He was always too perfect. And yet, as Vistri watched him inhale and exhale, she found herself looking at a real person.

Which was… unreal.

They didn't exchange another word, but kept passing the joint between them. Back and forth, neither in war nor peace. Until it was all used up.

[ladydorian]

[writtenbyan-aries]

The very first snippet to become a full one shot is ….

This has been one of my most popular snippets between here and Wattpad, so if you haven’t already, check out the snippet here and I’ll get the full fic out asap!

[tortellini-bandit]

- As You Wish

Word count: 2.0k~

Description: Post canon fluff and smut. Degradation, feminization, breeding kink

Edited by: @morbific-or-felicific

The first thing Henry notices when he walks through the door of the brownstone is scent of cooking pozole. The second thing he notices is David trotting lazily over to him from the kitchen with a pleased look on his face that can only mean Alex has been sneaking him food. Henry fails to suppress a fond smile.

“Hello, love,” he calls, scratching absentmindedly behind David’s ears, staring at his fiancé’s ass as Alex stands at the stove, seasoning his stew and swaying his hips to the music playing softly from their kitchen speaker, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants slung low over his hips and an apron tied around his waist. His glasses are perched on his nose.

Alex turns when he hears Henry, and his face lights up. “Hi, sweetheart. How were the kids at the shelter today?”

“They’re doing well.” Henry straightens, moving to stand in front of Alex, looping his arms around his neck. “They were asking when the next time you’re coming to visit is.” He leans down to press a gentle kiss to Alex’s lips, and he can feel Alex’s grin against his mouth.

“It must be so disappointing to know that the children at the shelter you run love me more than you.”

Henry rolls his eyes, lacing his fingers together with Alex’s and brings their hands up to his lips, brushing his lips gently over the ring on Alex’s finger. The ring that used to belong to Henry’s father.

Alex turns back to his pozole, adding a small splash of vinegar and the hominy. Henry’s hands find their way to Alex’s waist, and his lips find their way to Alex’s neck, sucking an absentminded bruise as Alex mixes in the new ingredients. Henry gasps when Alex starts grinding back against his clothed cock to the rhythm of the music, instinctively tightening his grip on his hips, pulling him closer. Alex tilts his head, and he pulls Henry into an open-mouthed kiss with one hand tangled in Henry’s hair. Henry reaches around Alex’s front, beneath the apron, and palms his slowly hardening dick over his sweatpants.

Alex’s tongue fucks into his mouth, and his hand tightens in Henry’s hair. Henry grinds forward against Alex’s ass, searching for friction.

“I need you to fuck me, darling,” Henry breathes against his fiancé’s mouth.

“Yeah? You want me to fuck you? Fill you up with my cock, princess?”

“Yes.”

Alex turns the stove down to a low simmer and puts the lid on, untying his apron and setting it on the counter before grabbing Henry’s hand and leading him up the stairs into their bedroom. Alex leans against the doorframe, eyes raking lazily up and down Henry’s body.

“Strip for me, sweetheart.” Henry hurries to comply, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it somewhere on the floor before unbuttoning and stepping out of his trousers, tossing them aside as well.

Alex retrieves the lube from their nightstand, taking his glasses off and setting them aside, and drops to his knees in front of Henry. He mouths at the embarrassingly large dark patch on the front of Henry’s pale blue boxers, and Henry’s eyes roll back in his head, his fingers winding their way into Alex’s curls. Alex sucks teasingly on the head through the fabric before hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, exposing Henry’s hard cock, dripping precum.

“God, you’re so wet for me. Such a desperate little cockslut.” Alex swipes his thumb across the tip of Henry’s leaking cock, gathering some of the precum, presses his thumb to Henry’s open, eager mouth. “Suck.”

Henry wraps his lips around Alex’s thumb, sucking gently, tasting himself. He lets out a loud moan, uncaring that he sounds like a desperate whore. “Fuck me, Alex, Christ. I need your cock,” he whines around Alex’s finger.

“Fuck, H, look at you. Getting off on tasting yourself.” Alex bites roughly on Henry’s inner thigh. “What would your people think if they saw you now, hmm? Perfect Prince Charming whining like a bitch in heat, begging for me to fuck his needy cunt.” An intense shudder runs down Henry’s spine, and he cants his hips upwards, searching for a friction that’s not there.

“Yes. I need you. Fuck my pussy, please.”

“Sit.” Alex pushes him none too gently backwards, and he half falls, half sits on the edge of the bed. Alex takes the head of Henry’s cock into his mouth, sucking lightly, teasing. Henry whines, tangling his fingers in the sheets, trying to thrust up into Alex’s mouth, but Alex’s hands on his hips keep him in place. Alex pulls off, licking a gentle stripe from base to tip, circling his tongue back around the head, catching the precum that’s steadily leaking.

Alex uncaps the lube, pouring a small amount onto his hand, and pulls Henry forward on the bed, his first finger circling Henry’s rim; Henry gasps. Alex presses his finger in, building a slow rhythm.

“I can’t wait to fuck your tight little cunt. God, you feel so good.”

Henry whines, fucking himself back onto Alex’s hand, attempting to get Alex to speed up. In retaliation, Alex takes the head of Henry’s cock back into his mouth, sucking harshly, scraping with the barest hint of teeth; Henry lets out a pained whimper.

Alex adds another finger, moving faster, and Henry moans.

“Yeah? You like this? Like when I fuck your pretty little pussy?”

“Ngh. Yes, please, fuck.”

“You’re such a fucking slut for it, aren’t you? Begging for my cock.” Alex crooks his fingers and Henry writhes.

“Yes, fuck me, please. I need your cock.”

“Can’t even go five seconds without something filling your needy hole, can you? God, you’re such a fucking whore.” Alex half stands, pulling his fingers out, and tosses Henry farther up the bed like Henry doesn’t have four inches on him; Henry yelps at the sudden movement. Alex crawls onto the bed after him, pushes his legs up to his chest so Henry is folded nearly in half.

“Where would you be right now if I wasn’t here to fuck you full of my cum, huh? Probably out on the streets, offering it up to anyone who will take it.” Alex pushes two fingers back in, immediately hitting that spot inside him that punches all the air out of his lungs for a moment.

“No.” Henry shakes his head vigorously. “Only you. I only, ngh, want you.”

“Is that so? Have I ruined you for everyone else? No one else can fuck your perfect little cunt like I can?”

“Yes. Only you. Don’t, hngh, don’t ever want anyone else.”

“Good.” Alex bites down on Henry’s collarbone hard enough to draw blood, and Henry cries out, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

Alex adds another finger, fucking into him roughly, and Henry gasps from the stinging pain mixed with overwhelming pleasure, torn between trying to lean into Alex’s touch and trying to pull away from it. Alex’s tongue is warm against his cheek as he licks away a tear as it falls. Alex slots his lips against Henry’s, and Henry tastes salt as Alex feeds him his own tears on his tongue.

Eventually Alex pulls his fingers away, and Henry whimpers at the loss, trying to chase after him.

“Jesus, you’re such a fucking whore. Can’t even stand to be empty long enough for me to get my cock out to fuck you.” Alex’s presses his thumb cruelly against the bite mark on Henry’s collarbone, and Henry cries out at the sudden, sharp pain. “Maybe we should get you a nice little toy that you can wear all day, keep you nice and full all the time.”

Henry keens.

“Or maybe,” Alex pushes his sweatpants down his thighs, tossing them somewhere at the foot of the bed, and fists his hard cock, “Maybe I should just jerk off.” He starts stroking his cock leisurely, almost like he’s bored. “Come all over your tits, and leave you here, desperate and empty and begging for my cock.”

“No,” Henry wails. “Please, I need you. Fuck me, use me, please.”

Alex smirks, pouring a little more lube onto his hand, slicking his cock. “Okay, princess. As you wish.” Alex thrusts all the way in at once and doesn’t pause to give Henry a moment to adjust, holding him by the hips and fucking roughly into him.

Henry tries to move, to meet Alex halfway, but Alex is holding him firmly in place, fucking into him like he’s some sort of sex doll. Henry moans, tossing his head back and most likely drooling onto their pillows.

“Do you think I’m going to, fuck, knock you up like this? Fuck you so good you get pregnant?” Alex fucks him harder, pressing his hand to Henry’s stomach where Henry swears he can feel him. “Then everyone will know that you’re *mine.” Alex bites down harshly on his shoulder, and Henry lets out a strangled cry, arching off the bed.

“Yes! Fill me with your cum, fuck me until I’m pregnant.” Henry tangles his hands in Alex’s dark curls, pulling him down until their lips meet in a bruising kiss, licking into Alex’s mouth. Alex nips at his lower lip, soothing over it with his tongue. Henry gets lost in the slide is his tongue against Alex’s, and the rough drag of Alex’s cock inside him.

Alex changes his angle, fucking into him harder, hitting his sweet spot with every thrust. Henry whimpers into Alex’s mouth, raking his blunt nails down Alex’s back so hard there will probably be marks tomorrow. He can’t find it in himself to care.

Alex’s grip on his hips is harsh, and his pace is unrelenting. “Henry, fuck, I’m going to come.”

“Come. Get me, ngh, pregnant.” Henry thrashes at the relentless pressure against his prostate, eyelashes wet.

“Open your mouth for me, princess.”

Henry parts his lips, staring up at Alex with wide eyes, and Alex leans over him and spits into his mouth. Henry’s back arches off the mattress and he comes, untouched, with a surprised half laugh, half sob, spasming around Alex’s cock, painting his and Alex’s stomachs with his cum.

Alex follows a few seconds later, his forehead pressed to Henry’s shoulder, panting and rocking gently into him through the aftershocks. Eventually, he slows to a stop.

They stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, and Henry tugs Alex down and into a long, slow, gentle kiss. Alex is the first to pull away, resting his forehead against Henry’s.

“How are you feeling, baby?” Alex’s eyes are filled with such genuine love and concern, like he’s worried he went too far, and Henry smiles softly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Alex’s face.

“So good, love. I feel so good.”

Alex grins at him, wide and unashamed. “As much as I’d love to stay here forever, I need to take the pozole off the stove, and we need to have a shower.”

Henry hisses when Alex pulls out, and Alex presses and apologetic kiss to his temple before getting up to retrieve a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom to wipe the cum and sweat from their stomachs. Alex pulls his sweatpants back on and bounds down the stairs, presumably to turn the stove off.

When Alex reappears in the doorway a few minutes later, Henry is still laying on the bed, stretching his sore limbs.

Alex takes his hand and gently guides him to their bathroom and turns the shower on. When the water reaches the right temperature, they step in together, and Henry stands with his chest to Alex’s back, massaging shampoo into his hair. When he’s finished, Alex turns in his arms and returns the favour. They stand under the spray for a few minutes, alternating between rubbing body wash on each other and making out lazily until Alex gets hungry enough to rinse the lasts of the suds away and turn the shower off.

They sit on the couch together with bowls of pozole, Henry’s with significantly less chiles than Alex’s, Alex’s feet in Henry’s lap, and Bake Off playing softly in the background. David is curled up on the couch between them, and Alex is gesticulating wildly, almost knocking his bowl over, and talking about how Chopped really has its merits and Henry should really give it another try, and Henry cannot wait to marry this man.

[itseghost]

"Unbidden, an image of Jayce smiling in bed earlier this morning comes to mind. Viktor's hand on his cheek. His slightly chapped lips. His bedhead. Stubble. His smile lines. The shape of his jaw."

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one of my favorite little scenes from coming home (but not to you) by @lesbianherald :) haven't done comics in so so long but really wanted to give it a shot lol