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luvrodite · 2 months

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JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

synopsis. the room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. you smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. a pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other. the only problem, you realise when bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant.

content warning. fem!reader, inspired by The Boy (2016), dark content, horror, extreme dubcon, non consensual voyeurism, violence, death, blood, masturbation, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie please let me know if you feel i've missed any tags

additional note. idk i’m trying my hand at something new but also this isn’t for everyone and that is OK! please don’t read if you’re not interested in the above tags and remember that you curate your own internet experience. peace and love.

minors and blank blogs do not interact, you will be blocked. please have your age in your profile

read on ao3

You see the notice when you need it the most. Seeking Household Manager/Nanny for Child, written in small bold letters on the corner of your friend’s open newspaper. You’re glad then, for their insistence on subscribing to the papers of surrounding cities, the Gotham Gazette something akin to a beacon of hope when you nearly topple over yourself to reach for the issue and scan the ad. When they’ve saved the glass of wine you nearly knocked over, their eyebrows furrow into a disdainful frown.

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

You look up from the black and white print, breathless. Immediate start. 9 to 6 weekdays. Boarding and meals provided. “It isn’t like I’ve got that many other options.”

They grimace, leaning over to skim the print. “It’s in Gotham. You’re just asking to get robbed, at the very least. Have you ever even looked after a kid?”

The double digits in your bank account weigh on you, the suitcases that have been pushed into their storage closet. The couch that’s served as a bed for the past month has begun to mold itself to the shape of your body – and isn’t that a humiliating thought, for how much had been spent on it, it deserves more than for its primary purpose to be housing a poor girl. Your friend sits beside you, clad in thousands of dollars worth of clothing and sneers at what’s beginning to look like the only option you have.

You push down the urge to bite back, eyeing them pointedly instead. “I can’t afford to be picky. Besides, I’ve babysat my cousins before. It’ll be fine.”

The semester is well underway when you get the email, midterms that you haven’t so much as glanced at closely approaching and about a dozen other things to do that threaten to break you into hives when you linger on it for too long. A Mr Bruce Wayne confirms that you’re fit for the job, and he looks forward to meeting you. You stare at the cracked screen of your phone until the letters begin to blur into one another, feeling the rising lump in your throat. A dinner party goes on around you, all friends of friends who you’ve never exchanged more than a few words with. They don’t miss you when you slink away to the bathroom to cry, relief pulling the stopper of your emotions free.

Not wasting any time, the car comes for you early in the next morning and your friend sees you off, massively hungover and raising a hand as you pile the meagre collection of your belongings into the trunk. You are grateful to be rid of the townhouse, and in truth you think they are glad to be rid of you – a month and then some of their poor, Poor, border taking up space on their couch. It’s an unkind thought, fueled by the bitter humiliation of your failure – they’d not complained once, unthinkingly, unhesitatingly opening their door to you when the job you’d been relying on to (barely) make ends meet had let you go and your roommate had quit on you not a week later.

The stress of it all lulls you into sleep as the car pulls away from the city, cement grey turning to green and rolling farmland. You’re too drowsy to appreciate any of it, and you’re out before you even leave the state.

You wake from your dreamless sleep, startling at the sound of screeching metal. A wrought iron gate pulls open slowly, disused hinges whining loudly. It feels as though an eternity passes before the car is able to pass through, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end when you cross the threshold, eyes drinking in the secluded land around you. Gravel crunches under the tires as you drive down a private road, lined on both sides by looming oak trees. Through the gaps, you catch a glimpse of the wide stretch of land that makes up the Wayne estate.

The chill of the morning has travelled with you, it seems. A thin cloak of mist hangs in the air, painting all it touches in wide strokes of silvery grey. Through bleary eyes, you take it all in. The car turns a corner and you duck your head to peer through the windshield, a large manse coming into view suddenly, only growing bigger the closer you get.

It looms over you when you come to a stop, blotting out the already pale autumn sunlight. Here, everything is tinged in a light blue film, forever suspended in twilight despite the early afternoon hour – the sun isn’t due to set for another few hours but you half expect the moon to be hanging in the sky when you step out of the car.

Sleep softened and weary from the journey, you stretch your limbs, trying to regain some of the feeling after sitting for so long. Your legs feel static-y and you’re conscious as the front door opens and the face of your employer comes into view, of the wrinkles in your clothing. Discreetly, you smooth a hand over the hem of your shirt, but it only folds back after your palm passes over it.

“Mr Wayne,” you greet when the man comes to a stop in front of you.

It’s difficult to mask your surprise. For all that you’d spent the better part of the last few weeks emailing him, you hadn’t expected someone so...old. He looks a great deal older than a man nearing his fifties, raven hair streaked with thick locks of silver and exhaustion lining an aged face. You feel a pang of sympathy.

“Hello. I hope the journey up wasn’t too bad?” He turns his attention to the driver, who has begun to lift your things out of the car, eyes creasing kindly at the corners and an awkward smile lifting his mouth. “You can just take those on inside, thank you.”

“I can’t complain,” you tell him easily. I wasn’t awake enough to. “You’ve got a beautiful home.”

“Ah, thank you,” he mutters, glancing back over his shoulder at the house. Upstairs, a window is open, and the curtain flutters through, white fabric rippling in the air. “Come on inside, we’ve got a lot to get through before I have to leave.”

You pause at the doorway. “You’re leaving tonight?”

He hums. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive me.” He offers no further explanation and you’re too tired to press.

He runs you through the basics – emergency contacts, the local police department’s number – as he takes you through a number of rooms on the lower floor. In the living room, as he’s telling you about the fair distance to the town, your attention snags on the portrait hanging over the mantle.

It’s a large thing, set in a gilded frame with a small plaque below it. It dates to a little over a decade ago, and you look up to the subjects of the painting. Of the two faces, you recognise only one and it takes a few seconds to register. Bruce, much, much younger, stands for the portrait with an easy smile curving his mouth. The only wrinkles to be found are those that frame his eyes. He’s handsome, you think, stunned, with an old movie-star kind of charm, blue-black hair and pearly grin. It’s a stark difference from the man that stands next to you now, lacking all the heaviness that clouds over him now.

There’s a little boy in the painting, too. You draw closer, curious. Bright blue eyes, almost blazing, stare back at you, a soft, sweet face that offers a toothy smile.

You’re ushered into the next room before you can get a closer look, but the date lingers with you. What could have happened in such a short amount of time, you think, to cause such a change? Ten years had passed, yes, but the age in your employer’s face spoke of a greater, age old haunting.

You are finally led, after a labyrinthine tour through the manor and its various rooms, to the bedroom of your charge.

Something, you aren’t quite sure what, tips you off before you even open the door. It might be the sudden tense set to Bruce’s shoulders, hiking up nearly imperceptibly as he reaches for the doorknob, or the tremble in his voice he disguises with a cough.

“Jason,” he murmurs, “is eager to meet you.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him, too,” you say slowly, and he steps through the threshold.

The room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. You smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. A pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other.

The only problem, you realise when Bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant.

He turns and you freeze when you take in the mass in his arms.

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

Pale, porcelain and unmoving, a doll stares back at you from its perch in your employer’s arms. Its likeness is a mimicry of the boy in the painting, a manufactured blush painting its cheeks in soft rose, dull blue eyes lacking the vibrancy of the portrait. It unnerves you, staring at it, and you look back and forth between Bruce and the thing but the former remains steady, expectant.

You raise a trembling hand, fingers clasping one small hand in greeting – it’s barely bigger than a pre-schooler, and even smaller in your arms when he deposits in your arms.

(It takes every ounce of your strength not to flinch at the press of cool ceramic against your skin.)

Whether this is a sick joke or some awful scheme, your situation takes time to reveal itself. Bruce addresses the thing as though it were flesh and blood and you follow, uncertain and stilted. Rising unease makes it difficult to look at the thing properly, and you trail after Bruce back downstairs cradling it stiffly.

It begins to piece itself together easily enough when on your way out of Jason’s bedroom, you catch sight of various photographs littering the surface of the walls and end tables, Bruce and a very real boy with bright blue eyes. It’s easy then, to understand what has happened, and what is being asked of you. Your discomfort softens, if only slightly, making way for sympathy.

You know loss. Death is no stranger to you. The grief of losing a child – it feels cruel to fault your employer for how he’d chosen to cope. Soft-hearted, your chest aches when you catch the lingering of his gaze on the photographs as you pass them in the hall. So dearly loved, it’s no wonder the death of his son had driven him to...this.

Still, you wonder whether this is right, to take money from him like this. It feels as though you’ve taken advantage of this man, accepting to live in his house and eat his food in return for services that wouldn’t come to be.

But the emptiness of your wallet stings like a phantom lash, the desperation of your situation weighs on you and you close your mouth.

Bruce takes your leave almost immediately after your tour concludes. You stand on the front steps with the doll in your arms, a puppet held like a toddler on your hip, and watch him pile into a sleek black car.

“If you need anything,” he says, “they’ll take care of you in town.”

Something in your consciousness snags on the tightness in his voice, something that’s just out of reach, a note you can’t quite make out. His eyes flicker down to the mass in your arms and you follow his gaze. There is nothing you find, the black of the doll’s sweater unruffled, the manufactured flush of his rosy cheeks still cool to the touch – still porcelain. It has not suddenly gained the weight and warmth of a real child.

“Jason’s a good boy. He won’t give you too much trouble,” Bruce murmurs.

When you look up, you catch the comet tail of a funny look, winking out of existence before you can see it properly. It triggers a crawling sensation on the back of your neck that you try to tamp down. Grief is all it is. You chalk it up to grief.

He takes your leave, then, piling into his car with a brief goodbye to the doll. A cloud of dust kicks up behind him and by the time it settles, the car has vanished.

The doll remains tucked in its bed in the hours that follows your employer’s departure, and once or twice you’ll peer into the room, tugged by an invisible string towards the empty bedroom to make sure you haven’t dreamt it all. But every time you open the door, there it lies, porcelain and so very still.

You take the rest of the evening to explore the house – properly this time, lingering in the various rooms of this huge home. Part of you wonders how you’ll manage to keep the place tidy. You’re no neat freak, but it seems a herculean task for one person to manage the entire household. Dust amasses easily, and you eye the high ceilings of each floor critically – how on earth are you meant to get up there?

You file it away as a worry for later, drifting in and out of rooms. An office, untouched, down the hall from your room with a sturdy, mahogany desk and large window which offers you a view of the estate. Guest rooms on guest rooms, white tarp covered furniture and slightly stale air. You find the library after a few turns, drawing closer to a table stacked with books.

They’re well loved, each with a child’s scrawling handwriting in the front cover. Property of Jason Peter Todd.

It sends a pang through you and you pick up the books, flipping through them absentmindedly. It’s fairly advanced for a younger child, you think. One of them piques your interest and when you leave the room a little while later, it’s with the hardcover in your hands.

Your first night in the manse is restless. The house is old. Every so often, the bones of the place snap and crack, shuddering under a great weight. You curl further into the heavy blankets of your bed, willing your burning eyes to close but the nap on the way up has left you unable to sleep. You let out a frustrated sigh, a hand smacking against the sheets before you push yourself up to sit against the headboard and switch on the bedside lamp. From where you sit, the mirror in the corner of the room shines your reflection back at you, a soft orange diffusing through the room.

Down the hall, another snap of the foundations. You shiver, and reach for the book, opening the cover to the name scribbled inside. The clock on your phone reads a bright 2:43 and you flip the page.

To Mrs. Saville, England. St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking...

Dawn comes in slow breaths, the world swallowed in a cool, blue mist as the sky begins to lighten. You have long since succumbed to your fatigue, the pages of your borrowed book splayed open against your sheets and eyes closed to the world. The shadows lengthen on the floor, the house echoes, groans, and sunlight slips in through the gaps in your curtains.

Still, you sleep.

The schedule that Bruce leaves you with is left on the table in Jason’s room, a sheaf of papers detailing his day at length – when he is to take his breakfast, lunch and dinner, when you are to sit down with him for his lessons.

There are more pressing things that hold your attention – namely, the matter of your coursework.

When you wake the following day, it is a little after noon and you curse when you realise you’ve slept half the day away. The list of things to do hasn’t grown any shorter in your search for a job. In fact, when you sit down at the desk in the office with your laptop and connect to the internet – poor, laggy – it only seems to have grown exponentially.

You spend most of the day holed up there, staring at the screen of your laptop as you try to catch up, typing out notes upon notes until your eyes burn and the emptiness of your stomach is too hard to ignore. In the kitchen, you assemble a plate of what you can find. Cold cuts of meat, cheese in the fridge that seems edible, bread slathered in butter, a few slices of fruit.

It isn’t a proper meal, but it tides you over until dinner, when you wander out of the study to root through the butler’s pantry and put together a simple bowl of pasta.

You eat alone in the kitchen, sitting at the island and staring at the grooves in the counter-top. The silence presses in on all sides of you and not even scrolling through social media, of which a limited number of posts actually deign to load, distracts you from the stillness of it all. For some reason the tinny sound of your music, filtering through your wired headphones, isn’t enough either.

Dinner is a short affair, before you return to your work.

It’s a gradual thing, the building anxiety in your gut. The loneliness and late hour are no friends of yours and the tottering pile of coursework threatens to topple over, crushing you beneath a mountain of assigned readings and lectures. The world had not waited for you to get your shit together, and midterms had crept up on you before you could blink.

It isn’t the time for panic. You stave it off when the anxiety simmering in your cells threatens to boil over, willing your tears away. The third cup of coffee at your desk side has grown cold, and the espresso tastes bitter when you bring the mug to your mouth, clinging to your tongue like film.

You get back to bed well into the evening, too exhausted to shower the day off. It’s all you can do to let out a few bitter tears before unconsciousness claims you, a distant throbbing in your head that you ignore in favour of sleep.

how is it out there? haven’t heard from you since you left, just checking in you get there okay? let me know

The texts on your phone are responded to in a perfunctory manner – yes, everything’s fine. talk 2 u soon. very busy !! – before you shove it into a drawer and return to your work.

You think the isolation must be getting to you when things begin to go missing.

It’s easy to grow lonely out here, you realise on the third day when you pick up your phone to message a friend and the connection is so bad your texts barely go through. A rare break from your work, you curl up in the window seat of your bedroom and thumb through the photos on your camera roll. Faces you haven’t seen, fond memories of nights out and shared experiences – your old life seems farther away from you than ever, and part of you is a little bitter that it’s only the case for you.

out for G’s bday!!! we miss u text u when im home?

Accompanying those texts are photos – they take an age to load, of course, but when they finally do, your eyes burn with jealousy at the wide, drunken grins, carefree and happy.

It seems especially cruel to you that fate would deal you such a poor hand in comparison to those around you. The girls you love – whose circle you’d once been part of, young, privileged enough to be reckless – get to reel through their lives without a care. Here you were, miles away from anyone else, a grand total of fifty dollars to your name and with only a fucking doll for company.

Envious, self loathing and miserable, you don’t reply to the messages.

You try to reason that you’ll get to it later, that you have work to do, that the house only seems to grow wider and lonelier around you.

Work.

You fling your phone to the side, pressing your hands to your face and letting out a heavy breath. It clatters against the floor with a dull thud and you can already imagine the newest addition to your screen’s collection of hairline fractures.

You file it away – just another thing you don’t have time for.

Back in the study, you sit down at the desk, only to stop short. Where your pen and notebook had been, outlining your midterm paper, the ballpoint is nowhere to be seen. You peer over the edge of the desk, ducking your head underneath, but there’s no sight of it. You’re certain you’d left it just there, atop the paper.

It’s innocuous enough that you forget about it, coming up with a replacement when you rifle through the drawer of the desk. The thought leaves your mind when you return to your work, new, blue ink crossing out black to scribble notes in the margins. It’s not a loss you mourn – or notice – much.

Your bracelet, however, preceded by the vanishing of your clothes, is.

A pair of jeans, your underwear and a shirt had been folded on the counter only twenty minutes ago when you’d entered the bathroom to take a shower. Now, clad in only your towel, you stare at an empty spot and feel something like fear prickle over your skin.

Blood rushes in your ears the longer you remain in place – for what, you have no idea. Perhaps willing your things to return in between blinks, assure you that it had only been a trick of the light, or that the caffeine and stress had gotten to you.

No such luck. Your belongings do not reappear and the longer you remain in the bathroom, the more you feel like a sitting duck, like soft-bellied prey waiting to be caught.

You venture out of the bathroom timidly, clutching the front of your towel. The floor is cold under your bare feet and you suck in a breath, trying to remain quiet. The house is quieter than usual, it feels like, when you peer carefully out into the hall. There is no sign of any disturbance, no sound from the lower levels or any of the surrounding rooms.

The closed door of your bedroom is much more ominous than it ought to be. You stare at it for a long time, heart in your throat, before you reach for the doorknob with shaky hands.

A soft, scared noise leaves your throat before you can reel it in. Your room has been nothing short of ransacked, clothes and other belongings strewn about your bed and the floor. There isn’t an inch of it that hasn’t been left unturned, drawers pulled out, trunk at the foot of your bed sprung open, the fucking covers pulled back. You step further into the room, horror only growing as you spin slowly, taking it in.

Somewhere down the hall, something clatters and your blood turns to ice in your veins. You whirl back to the open door and lunge forward to slam it shut, breath rattling in your chest as you fumble with the locks on it, palms sweaty and fingers trembling so badly you fear it’ll sweep open on you before you can latch it. Water drips into the carpet at your feet when you finally lock the door and back away, trembling lips pulling downwards.

Fear blurs your vision in saltwater, slipping down your cheeks when the sound of laughter filters through the walls, a soft, child-like, playful sound that only drives you further backwards, a scream spilling from your lips when you bump into the post of your bed, the wood pressing against your back unexpectedly and startling you.

“Please...” You don’t know what you’re pleading for, or who to. Tears stream down your damp face, and your breath hitches, stuttering over a sob when the shadows in the hall shift, the gap underneath the door showing movement right outside your door.

And then – so sweetly, so softly you wonder if you’ve heard it wrong – your name.

You begin to cry in earnest then, taking in big, shuddering breaths that wrack through your body. Crouching, you press your hands to your face, sobbing louder when the voice continues –

“Please come out, I promise I’ll be good.”

Your scream catches in your throat, turning into a spluttering cough when the door knob rattles slightly before stilling. You watch through teary eyes, snivelling, as the shadows move once more and then, as if it had never happened, the house falls into silence once more.

It takes a while for you to move from your spot on the floor, to relax your frozen muscles and pull yourself up, clinging to the banister of your bed to steady yourself. Snot and salt smeared across your face, you keep your eyes on the thin gap beneath the door, the small, solid mass in the centre of it.

You must be going crazy. The isolation must be getting to you. It’s the only reasonable explanation you can procure when you open the door and find your clothes in a clumsily folded pile, the metal of your bracelet glinting amongst the folds of fabric. Holding a hand to your head, you slump against the door frame, feeling the energy leave your body.

“Fuck.”

It takes you a long time to clean up your room, pulling on your clothes with an eye kept on the door and returning your things to their places. Nothing is broken, but you don’t know whether you should be thankful for it. The house continues to breathe as it had before, the structure settling back into place after letting whatever had been outside your door loose. You don’t leave your room for the rest of the night.

Daylight returns some of your courage to you. You venture outside, clutching the end of a pair of scissors as a safeguard. You don’t know how much damage they’re actually capable of, meant for cutting through first aid dressings and fabric, the blade barely an inch long – but it feels comforting that you aren’t empty handed.

In his bedroom, where you had last left the Doll, you do not find it. Even the sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains isn’t enough to fully shield you from your unease. You look all over the room, pushing aside the curtains, peering under the bed, but it isn’t there.

The afternoon you had planned to spend studying is wasted away on a hunt for the thing. You check each of the surrounding rooms, first, before moving to the upper floors. In each, all that greets you is a thick layer of dust, white tarp and the smell of long undisturbed air. It grips you, the intense need to locate the doll. You cannot place anything beyond this feeling, only that you must find it.

In a downstairs office – what you assume serves as Mr Wayne’s study – you find, curiously, a few papers scattered over the edge of his desk. At first you are too preoccupied to pay it any mind, instinctively crouching to pick them up and arrange it. Your mind remains fixated on the task at hand.

Chance, or perhaps the machinations of fate, pulls your sight to the bright, bold print on the paper in your hand and you process the text belatedly, stilling on the floor.

GOTHAM GAZETTE Wayne Heir Found: Body Recovered From Tragic Blast Alexander Knox The body of Jason Todd, aged 10, was discovered yesterday after a blast in central Gotham that killed at least 200. The Gotham City Police Department is currently reporting this as a “tragic accident.” Jason Todd is survived by his father, Bruce Wayne, who currently holds the position of CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and older brother Richard Grayson. He is remembered by his classmates and teachers as a “bright soul, with boundless potential, who was taken too soon.” The GCPD are working together with the Gotham City Fire Department in responding to this incident. As of this morning, Rescue and Recovery teams have made progress through 75% of the fallout zone and are continuing to do so. Civilians are reminded to keep clear of the area until recovery efforts have been finalised. In remembrance of Jason’s life, the family asks that any charitable donations be made to the Catherine Todd Recovery Centre.

The photos of the fallout that accompany the article make your throat tighten, staring at the grey of a destroyed city block, smoking rubble and dark stains seeping from beneath cracked cement. The faded edges of the paper, the deep creases where it had been folded and unfolded – your heart twists painfully in your chest at the thought that Bruce had kept this reminder in here, all these years.

It lingers with you long after you exit the room, searching for the doll with a slightly muddled mind. You’d known, of course, that his son had died – but you think of the violence of it all, how abruptly he’d been ripped from him. It settles in your chest uncomfortably, making a home for itself in the space beneath your sternum and pressing down on your oesophagus as you move through the house.

When you finally chance upon the doll – sat upright in plain sight in the downstairs sitting room – you pause a few feet away. The fear of last night’s incident clings to you, but with that is something else, the makings of a theory you haven’t quite gotten to, another, foreign feeling that outweighs your fear, tempers it into something malleable. You scrutinise the porcelain face, drawing closer slowly until you come to a stop in front of the armchair you’d been lounging in only yesterday.

Crouching, you stare into dull glass eyes. They remain lifeless, forever affixed on nothingness, unmoving. You pass a hand over it.

“Was it..” you hesitate, feeling acutely aware that you’re talking to an inanimate object, and half expecting an answer. You whisper, “Was it you, last night?”

There is no answer. Of course there isn’t. Still, you stare a moment longer, before your gaze slides over to the leaf of paper that’s tucked beneath it’s leg – the schedule of rules you’re meant to abide by in Bruce’s absence.

You look back up to the doll.

You’ve bowed to the pressure of your isolation and gone mad, you think absently as you sink a knife into the flesh of an apple. Clumsily cut, you arrange the slices onto a plate in the kitchen and slide it onto the small table where you’ve sat the doll. You lean forward until you’re level with it, and narrow your eyes.

“Is it you?” you ask again. Silence hangs in the air of the kitchen and you begin to feel a little hopeless, clinging to this half-formed idea.

You stand and turn, taking a few steps forward into the butler’s pantry but the sound of footsteps makes you whirl around, heart in your throat. The doll remains in place, but – the plate is empty. You draw in a shaky breath, moving closer.

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” Your hands tremble as you peer around the kitchen, eyeing the closed door. It’s implausible that anyone might have moved in such a short space of time without your noticing – you’re the only one in the room.

You try once more, this time without turning around, keeping your gaze fixed on the doll as you slide a plate of toast in front of him. It’s covered in a thin smear of hazelnut spread, the chocolate melting over the warm bread.

The doll does not move.

Your brows draw together, confused. A few beats. The toast is cooling, and a silly, superficial part of you worries that it won’t taste any good if this goes on any longer.

“Are you shy...?” you wonder out loud. The doll does not answer you but you turn away slowly anyway, fixing your eyes on the back door.

A second passes, and then another. You wait.

You feel it then, a few moments later, rather than hear it. It’s difficult to place, the manner in which the very atmosphere in the kitchen shifts, to let you know you are no longer the only one in here. There is the rustle of something moving, the bread, you think, and then it recedes entirely without a sound.

You wait a few beats before you turn, and your breath punches out of you in a rush when you note the once again empty plate. Disbelieving, you laugh.

“Holy shit.” Rounding the table, you pick up the doll, handling its weight much more carefully as you hold it out in front of you. “It was you, then, last night. You know, if you wanted my attention, you’ve got a funny way of showing it, kid. I think I lost ten years of my life with that little stunt.”

The threat seems to abate, after that, when you consider it. The spirit of a lonely child tugs at your poor heartstrings, and when you open your bedroom door after your evening shower to find a clumsily arranged sandwich, it only softens you further. You go to check on the doll – on Jason – and find him sat in bed, his schedule next to him once again.

“So this is what you want, hm?” you mutter under your breath, scanning the paper. Your lips tug downwards into a pout, and you reach out to fix his hair. “Poor thing. You must be bored out here, with no one else to play with.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you find you already know the answer.

Rules 1. No Guests 2. Never Leave Jason Alone 3. Save Meals in Freezer 4. Never Cover Jason’s Face 5. Read a Bedtime Story 6. Play Music Loud 7. Clean the Traps 8. Jason is Never to Leave 9. Kiss Goodnight

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that.

There’s a shift in your mind after your discovery, a distinction that shifts the doll into Jason. You’re able to rest a little easier now, knowing what had been behind the disturbances, and that it wasn’t something you had to fear. He sits comfortably in a chair next to you in the study, keeping you company as you return to your studies, worries that you’d been dealing with something more nefarious comfortably assuaged.

You learn to communicate with him, in your own shared way. The music you play as you study is no longer isolated to your headphones, but filters through the speakers of your laptop as you work. When you begin making your own offhand remarks to him, you don’t know, but as the hours pass it feels less like you’re unaccompanied and more like you’re studying with a friend. Every so often, there is a sign – a tap, or the roll of something on the floor outside the study – that signals you to take a break, pushing away from the desk to take a turn about the room with Jason in your arms.

Once, during a longer break, you bring him along on a walk outside. He doesn’t seem to like it very much – hiding your notebook until you figure it out. And you suppose spirits don’t require much exercise, so you let it be, content to take quick trips to the kitchen for snacks. You keep it for after the day is over, right before the sun sets, stretching your legs as you walk around the gardens before dinner.

Before you’ve realised, you’ve built a camaraderie with Jason. It’s easy for you to confide in him, slumping back in your desk chair with your hands pressed to your face. Tonight, the amount of coursework seems, not for the first time, never-ending. Tears streak through your fingers as you quietly sob.

“I’m so tired,” you cry, and a little hiccup stutters out of you. “It’s so...it’s just unfair. None of this would’ve happened if I’d – if I wasn’t so busy trying to look for a place.”

You work yourself up, tears smearing against the deep hollows beneath your eyes – despite how comfortable your bed is, lately you’ve still been working late into the night, long after you put Jason to sleep with a kiss to his brow. Though the night is young enough that you won’t have to tuck Jason in for a while, it still presses on you. There is too much to do, and not nearly enough time.

“It’s not fair,” you mumble again, weakly. You slide a look over to Jason through swollen eyes, pressing your cheek against your knees. “Everyone else gets to – they get to not care about money and they get to enjoy their lives. It’s just...not fair.”

You close your eyes, hiding your face in the fabric of your leggings. Your head feels congested, after crying so much, heavy, and stuffed with wool. A few minutes later, as you’re working up the will to return to your work, you hear a thud.

When you look up you find an apple on the corner of the desk, bright red and freshly washed, if the few drops of water that cling to it are anything to go by. The sight makes you burst into fresh tears again, a kindness that feels too tender for your poor, bruised heart. You reach for the fruit, feeling the juice run down your wrist when you sink your teeth into its flesh. Mumbling a thank you, you feel, for the first time since your arrival, your hopelessness begins to flicker out.

A crash wakes you in the middle of the night, startling you from your sleep with a jolt. At first, you think it might be Jason. You groan quietly, rolling over into the pillow with a grumble of his name before you sit up and shove the covers off. It’s particularly freezing tonight and you reach for a robe as you shuffle over to your bedroom door only to stop short when, through the walls, floating up from the lower floors, you hear voices.

Your blood turns to ice in your veins and you register the shattering of something downstairs. In the moments that follow, you barely think, flying down the hall to where Jason’s bedroom is and clutching him close to your chest. All the while, the racket downstairs grows louder, raucous bickering and jeering laughter nipping at your heels as you push into a spare room and slip into the depths of a wardrobe.

You kick yourself when you realise you haven’t brought your phone, the landline in Jason’s room being too far out of reach now to dial the local police. You can only press yourself further into the wardrobe, cradling Jason with a hand on the back of his head like you might your own child – like he shouldn’t have to bear witness to the violence enacted on his home. Tears – how many have you spent since your arrival, it must be enough to fill an ocean – slip onto your collar and you hide in a case that smells of mothballs, the fur of old coats brushing against your arms and face.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whisper, feeling half crazed as you comfort Jason. “We’re going to be okay.”

It’s the longest night of your life, waiting for them to leave. Even without you leaving a crack in the wardrobe door, the noise from downstairs would have reached you. It’s jumbled in your fear-addled mind, but you hear the shatter of glass and yelling �� they break out into arguments amongst themselves. You can’t make out the words, but it carries the threat of further violence – the kind that goes beyond stolen valuables and broken glassware.

And then, abruptly, you think you hear a whisper of something, before it all falls still.

The darkness in the wardrobe is stifling but you remain there, clutching Jason with your head bowed until you hear a shout announcing the presence of the police.

It’s only when the Commissioner announces himself, climbing to the second floor of the manor and stepping into the room, that you crawl out from the wardrobe. You’re shaking when he steps forward to meet you, arms coming around you to help you stand.

You’re coaxed into a blanket and ushered into a chair as they question you – the tiles of the kitchen floor are freezing under your bare feet and you wince when you catch the looks his deputies share amongst themselves. You must look like a mess, tear tracks drying on your face and cradling a doll in your arms.

There’s a look in the Commissioner’s eyes, as he questions you, that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise – you forget about it quickly enough when he presses further, but later you’ll recall it. There’s a lack of surprise in his gaze, as though he hadn’t expected any less. You figure he’s hardened by his profession. Still, it lingers in the recesses of your mind.

They clean it up quick enough, and they leave right as the sun begins to creep over the horizon. You see them off, standing on the front steps with a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders and Jason in your arms. When the last of the car headlights fade out of sight, you turn back inside.

You venture into the living room, staring at where the sunlight catches on a stray shard of glass, scuffs on the floor where heavy boots had tracked mud in on the hardwood. The lingering smell of peroxide – all that it suggests had happened here – makes you let out a shaky breath, clutching Jason closer.

You know it then, what – who had kept you safe. And if there were any lingering doubts about him, they dissolve under your tongue. The solid weight of the mass in your arms is an anchor, grounding you, reminding you. Safe. You’re unharmed, you’re okay. The intrusion is gone, it’s just the both of you now. You turn your head, pressing your mouth to his hairline. It’s cold beneath your lips as you whisper, a tear carving a path down your cheek.

“Thank you, Jason.”

After the intrusion things, mercifully, begin to settle. You’re glad for it, sure you’ve fulfilled your share of excitement for the next decade. You return to your and Jason’s routine, rebuilding your shattered safe space with every album you introduce him to and each portion of coursework you complete. Brick by brick, you patch the rift.

The evening you finally feel as though you’ve begun to make headway, you turn to him, overjoyed, patting his hand excitedly.

“I think we deserve a bit of celebration, don’t we, Jason?”

You make dinner for the both of you, a simple but favourite pasta dish of yours that you’re grateful to have made extra of when Jason clears his plate in the time it takes you to carry your own plate into the dining room where you’d set him down. You pout at him sympathetically, running a hand over his head.

“If you’re still hungry,” you murmur, taking a seat and spearing a pasta shell on your fork, “there’s more in the pan, sweetheart.”

In the next room, a clatter almost immediately and it draws a smile on your face. You treat yourself to a glass of something sweet, giggling when the bubbles flit up your nose and pop. The taste lingers on your tongue when, after dinner, you scoop him up into your arms and travel into the living room. A record is placed onto the old gramophone and you spin on your feet, socked feet sinking into the plush carpet as you dance around the room. You spin, and spin, and spin until you land on the couch, laughing breathlessly. On the couch, Jason watches until you pick him up once more and dance with him in your arms. You’re careful with him, conscious of tripping in your state and dropping him. You think he might enjoy it, when you hear the whisper of laughter alongside your own.

When you tuck him into bed that night, it’s with a giddy smile as you kiss his forehead. You go to bed feeling floaty, lighter than you’ve felt in an age. There’s a buzz in your veins that isn’t entirely the drink. You’re happy. It isn’t the same as the life you’d wanted back so fervently, but you’re hopeful. It feels, for the first time, like things might work out. You cling to this victory with a vice grip, unwilling to be parted from it.

Your head hits the pillow and you sleep easily, but wake in the middle of the night, slipping out of hazy dreams into consciousness like slipping upstream. You’re distinctly aware of the wetness pooling between your legs, and the lingering warmth of the drinks.

It’s been a long time. The stress of everything – moving, money, adjusting to the manor – has left you unable to focus on anything else. Tonight, though, a reprieve from it all, a break in the clouds offers you a spike in your energy, a longing that heats the blood in your veins and makes your stomach twist. For the first time in a long time, you indulge, fingers creeping beneath the waistband of your pants.

He watches you touch yourself, the night spent tending to what is a seemingly insatiable appetite. Hardening in his trousers, he stands behind the panelling and a large hand curls into a fist by his side, nails digging into the meat of his palm so hard he draws blood. You work yourself up, differently from the way you had when he’d revealed himself. It’s gentler, fingers skimming over your skin beneath the fabric of your shirt. In the dark his gaze sharpens on the soft plane of your stomach, your body shifting under every touch, pliant and responsive.

You come, and it isn’t enough. He tastes copper, sees stars when you kick the covers off and his keen eyes make out the folds of your cunt, sodden and wanting. Your body is covered in a sheen of sweat when you finally, finally, drift off to sleep. Hungry little thing, his girl. You’ll want for nothing, he thinks, remembering the debauched way you’d put your fingers to your mouth. He recalls the slick sounds, the little whines, drawn out and practically demanding he come forth to please you. With no one around for miles to hear you, unknowingly, you feed him with your gasps.

He longs for it, imagines putting his mouth to you. How you’d keen, how you’d thrash under his hold like you had tonight, legs kicking out under the full force of your pleasure. But he’d hold you down, he thinks, breathing hard, draw even more wretched sounds from that mouth – pretty, soft mouth that always curled around his name so sweetly – than the ones you’d spilled out tonight. Prettier, than the sobs of the last few weeks, that’d had him gritting his teeth. He likes you drunk and dizzy on pleasure like this, likes the breathless, open mouthed smile that pushes the apples of your cheeks upwards. This, he thinks, is all you should know, tears born of desire. Not jittery hands, or envy.

Frail, pretty thing. You need to be taken care of. You wouldn’t know worry ever again, he would take care of you, would take care of everything. You’ll want for nothing.

His chest heaves at the thought, muscles tensing as if readying to crash through the wood at a moment’s notice.

No, he thinks, taking a shuddering breath. He can almost taste you from here but – not yet.

You wake up sticky, despite the chill in the air. Late autumn carries with it hints of the oncoming winter – you think it’s going to be a bad one, if your fingertips are numb already. It takes a bit of maneuvering to untangle yourself from the web of sheets and when you finally stand, there’s a distant ache in your head, a dryness in your throat that makes you grimace.

You drag yourself into the shower, scrubbing off the filth of last night’s activities and letting the warm water run over your muscles. The steam fills the air of the bathroom, thick enough to trap the warmth when you step out and reach for your towel.

It confuses you, though, once you’ve dried off and moisturised, that when you turn to reach for your clothes, they aren’t there. A sense of déjà vu settles over you. Significantly more awake, you wrap the towel around you once more and make the trek back to your room, a little peeved.

“Jason,” you call out as you pad down the hall, trying to keep the bite in your tone from being too harsh. “This isn’t funny, it’s cold. I’m not very impressed right now.”

Not even a laugh, but you’re too huffy to notice, picking up your clothes from where he’d relocated them to the top of your dresser and shutting your door firmly.

When you go to pick him up before breakfast – closer to lunch, now, really – you frown at him.

“Not cool, kid,” you tell him. “What if I got sick? Who’d make you lunch, then, hm? You can’t survive on peanut butter sandwiches alone.”

It feels a little as though you’ve regressed over the next week. More and more things go missing, only to turn up in the oddest places. You think he might be a little more playful, finally comfortable around you, but it’s hard to find gratification in that when your underwear joins the catalogue of missing things, turning up when you take your laundry out to hang even though you know you hadn’t put them in the washing. So maybe there’s a bit of wilful ignorance there. You don’t know how to address this, the pressing feeling of eyes on you at every moment now, an obvious presence that lingers around you more insistently, it feels, than before.

And you can’t place what’s brought this on, don’t know what’s to blame for this turn in his mood, toeing the line of malevolent, no longer innocently playful but shifting into something more intent, dull blue eyes seeming darker these days, more watchful.

“What’s going on, huh?” you ask, when you put him to bed, brushing a hand over his hair. “How come you don’t wanna be good anymore? Is something up? I don’t know, kid, I’m not a mind reader.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. Leaning forward, you brush your lips against his forehead. “Let’s have a better day tomorrow, okay? Goodnight, Jason.”

Midnight comes to you in slow winks that night, the pages of Jason’s book marked with a ribbon and placed carefully to the side with the half-formed, tired thought that you would talk to him about it tomorrow. Perhaps it would soften whatever had him agitated as of late. The lamp switches off, and you breathe out into the darkness, one last sigh before sleep claims you.

You wake up to a pressing blackness. Not even the moonlight breaks through the clouds to offer you reprieve tonight, the very air sucked out of the room. Groggy, sleep still clinging to you like silken threads of a spider’s web around your eyes, you blink rapidly. The darkness settles around you and your vision adjusts.

The first thing you notice is the hulking silhouette at the foot of your bed and you freeze under the covers, breath punching out of your chest.

Your first thought is to scream. Before your lips can even part, a rough palm is pressing over your mouth and tears prick your eyes.

(What’s the point? Who is there to hear you scream so far out here?)

In the dim, your tearful eyes adjust further and your heart seizes in your chest when you make out the glint of white – a porcelain mask, a face that’s been your only companion these last few weeks. The cupid’s bow, rosy cheeks greyed in the dark. Down to the very last detail, it’s him.

The cause of all the haunting, the thief of your belongings, sentry of this manor. Not a spirit, but real, solid flesh and blood. He looms over you. There’s a solid weight that settles into the cradle of your hips, arms that cage you in, the smell of sawdust and something. Unbidden, your mind tugs back to you the missing lace, satin stolen by unseen hands – the very hands that press on your mouth and side, now, calloused, roughened.

The whisper of your name hangs in the air between you, your resounding whimper muffled.

It’s faster than it ought to be, your compliance, going limp in his hold and ceasing your thrashing. You stare tearfully, heart in your throat, up at him. He lingers like this a moment longer before withdrawing, seemingly satisfied you won’t bolt. Slowly, you push up onto your elbows. The movement brings your face closer to his, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to flinch at the proximity. He seems pleased enough, however, head tilting, rather like a cat, tracking your movements carefully.

It isn’t as though you’re going anywhere, his weight yet to lift from your legs. You reach out to the side, a shaking hand scrabbling for the flip of a switch. The sudden flood of orange light into the room, soft though it is, makes you flinch.

It’s the eyes that you’re drawn to first. Through the holes of the mask, you meet ultramarine eyes, leagues beyond that of the painting downstairs, which couldn’t hold a candle to the vibrant irises that stare back at you now. Your breath catches when he leans in a hair’s breadth closer and he pauses.

Your voice fails you, when you part your lips to speak, frightened tears wetting your face. You clear your throat, and try once more.

“Jason?”

Dark lashes flutter, something pleased passing through his gaze, something like an unspoken affirmation. It floors you, the blood rushing from your head and leaving you dizzy all of a sudden. He swallows your field of vision, so impossibly big, broad and nothing about him carrying any of the delicateness your doll had. Dark curls fall over the edges of the mask, dark hair peeking beneath it, trailing down the sides of his jaw.

You reach out, carefully, and he lets you press a hand to his chest – clad in a thin, dirtied henley. He gives under the slightest pressure, drawing back until he’s sitting on his haunches, your legs free. You let go, pushing yourself further up against the headboard of the bed and bringing your knees to your chest. He watches, silent, unmoving except for the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. Real, solid, flesh and blood.

“You’ve been alive this whole time?” The dust clings to your sticky cheeks and you swipe at them again. Your breaths are shaky as you come down from your fright. He nods, and you wince, the porcelain mask shining as it reflects the light of your lamp.

“Can you – will you take that off? Please?” He stills and you, foolish, softened by fear or trust, scoot forward a little, legs folding under you. Now it’s his turn to widen the distance between you. You let out a soft warble, lips trembling. “It’s scaring me.”

“...Scary?” His voice is hoarse from disuse, and your eyes drop to his sides, watching his fingers curl into fists. “Under...you won’t like it..”

Your breath catches on a sob and you shake your head. You’re still shaking, still scared. He draws a little closer, hands raising as if to reach for you, and you flinch. “Please, Jason.”

Time stretches so long you fear you’ll remain here forever, trembling, suffocating, before big hands reach up to his face. He’s shaking, too, you notice absently. His head bows when the mask is discarded to the side, lying atop your sheets face down. The shadows obscure him slightly, cloaking his face from you, only the dark thatches of hair that cover his jaw visible to you.

You whisper his name.

His eyes flash when he lifts his head, blue flickering into a green glow so suddenly it feels like a trick of the light – gone in an instant. Scarred flesh, waxy, pink patches of skin and pale, jagged remnants of lacerations; he bares himself to you and your breath catches in your throat.

There are remnants of a classical beauty in his face, beneath the scarring. It’s the kind that would’ve made you stop short on the street, that would’ve brought warmth to your face if you’d met his eyes across a subway car during rush hour. The violence wrought renders him no less handsome but lends a brutality to him, the oppressive aura that cloaks him impossible to ignore, laid bare across his face. Still, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that your attention snags on, a child-like wariness that reminds you of the headline you’d found in Bruce’s office that day.

Silly, soft-hearted girl. It makes your heart ache, and once the tears start, they refuse to stop. Your hand draws closer to cradle his face, hovering a hair’s breadth from his cheek before he makes the leap for you, leaning against your touch. His own comes up, fingers pressing beneath your eye.

“Crying..”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, sniffling, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Crying for me?” His voice sounds odd, a tone you can’t quite read through your tears. You try to look away but he refuses to let you, clumsy fingers swiping beneath your eyes.

“You didn’t deserve that. That must’ve been so scary,” you sniffle, and look up at him. “Why were you...why’d you hide? Did – did your father know?”

His eyes flash at the mention of Bruce, and you still at the anger that lines his face.

“Bastard,” he mutters, a decade’s worth of pain packed into one word. It hints to a history you aren’t privy to, raw, jagged wounds still bleeding from an age old hurt. He stiffens and you slide your hand to his shoulder.

“Okay, don’t – we don’t have to talk about him,” you defer hastily, wary of the way his muscles ripple, the thrum of lightning barely contained beneath his skin. It reminds you of something else. “Was...It was you...that night, when they -”

Your breath stutters on the memory of the invasion, and his eyes darken. He crowds into your space more, ducking his head to meet your eyes. More green than blue now, he wills you to understand the severity of his promise.

“Keep you safe,” he says, and you barely notice the hand that curls possessively around your hip, your heart thrumming anxiously in its cavity at the threat of violence his words carry. And yet, you can’t deny it to yourself that it quiets a part of you, too, stills a restlessness that had lingered in your skin after that night.

You don’t consider that night, why he had chosen to reveal himself to you – properly, in all his glory, stripped of parlour tricks and the facade – you’re too relieved that he doesn’t intend to hurt you to linger on it. He lets you guide him back to his room and draw the covers over him, the mask carefully carried in your hands and placed on the bedside table. He catches your hand when you go to leave and for a moment you fear he’ll demand something of you, blue eyes flashing cat’s eye green for the briefest of moments. He lets you go after a moment’s scrutiny, and you eke out a timid goodnight, returning to your bedroom in a daze.

Perhaps you ought to have, though. Perhaps it might have suited you better to linger on the why, to consider what this meant, that there was something in motion, had been since your arrival. Exhaustion renders you pliant, however, and you slip into dreamless sleep the moment your head hits the pillow, the lingering smell of sawdust beneath your nose.

Jason makes it easy on you. It’s a little eerie in a way, re-learning him and yet finding all the hints of your spirit companion in him. He doesn’t stray far from you, content to continue to sit at your side when you sit down for your classes. In the morning, when you go to check on him, he is already awake, and you usher him into the bathroom, unsure at all whether you even should follow the schedule but moving mechanically if only for something to do, to avoid floundering. He waits by the door as you brush your teeth, eyes fixed on you.

You find yourself returning the stare, brows furrowing as you take in every inch of him. Dust and dirt clings to his skin. You wonder when the last time he’d bathed was. You tell him as much, receiving only a blank stare. Uncommunicative, even now.

“You should take a bath,” you murmur, worrying the skin of your lip with your teeth. “I don’t want you to get sick, or something.”

He’s compliant enough, letting you steer him into the bathroom and turning the knobs of the tub. Water comes spraying out, and you startle a little when the pipes whine, but ultimately settle. Dipping a hand in, you test the temperature before looking over your shoulder. He stands by your side, and you tilt your head to the water.

“Will you check if this is okay?” He obeys, dropping his chin in a short nod after brushing his fingers in. You offer him a short smile, and move to stand.

“I’ll try to find some clothes, this is...” you hesitate, looking at the hem of his shirt. “You can’t wear this.”

But his arm blocks your path when you go to step around him, curling around your midsection to keep you in place. You look up, startled. You try to move but he doesn’t budge, looking down at you intently.

“You’ll stay.” It isn’t a request, nor a command, but he delivers it firmly, a matter of fact statement – that you will remain here, with him. You balk, blood rushing to your face.

“I can’t!” you protest, stepping back if only to escape the barricade of his arm, your hands coming up to rest on your hips. “That’s not – Jason, it’s not-”

“You’ll stay,” he repeats, simply, rock-salt voice echoing slightly in the bathroom. Water drips into the steaming bath, and you’re at an impasse, abject indignation warming your veins.

In the end, you give in. You think there was no possible outcome where you did not acquiesce to his whims – you recall the destruction he’d wreaked on his father’s office the night you had foregone a kiss goodnight, frightening you back into his room to press your lips to his temple. You sit by the side of the tub, handing him a cloth and keeping your eyes trained firmly ahead of you as he scrubs himself down. Somehow, you end up washing his hair for him, soapy water providing a suitable enough cover that you breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the gentlest you’ve ever seen him, pleased and bath soft, skin flushed and curls wet against his forehead as you pour water over his crown.

He only lets you go once the water begins to grow cool and you insist on finding clean clothes for him. It’s easier than you think, rifling through the drawers in the master bedroom and finding a pair of soft trousers and t-shirt that you figure will fit him. You keep your back turned when he emerges from the bath, waiting until he’s dressed to face him with warmth in your cheeks. The glimpse you’d caught as he’d risen from the water had made you squeak, hard lines and dark hair, wet skin glistening – all Man, real, breathing, human man. It’s a jarring contrast from the sexless porcelain of his counterpart. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his broad chest and you promptly whirl around, guilt swarming in your stomach at your momentary lapse in senses.

(In his mind he thinks, don’t you know you’re all his, as he is yours? There is no inch of him that isn’t for your eyes.)

When you sit down for your classes later, you’re more conscious of his presence than ever, a warm arm diffusing soft heat at your elbow. He only shakes his head when you ask if he would rather do something else and you get the feeling later, when you take a bathroom break, that he would follow after you, had you not closed it between you.

He sits close when you have lunch, knee knocking into yours beneath the table in the kitchen. You watch him eat, ravenous, and your wariness melts a little at the familiarity. This, you knew. This, you could handle. When he finishes his plate you push your own towards him in lieu of pointing to the pan but he surprises you – shaking his head and watching you carefully until he’s satisfied you’re fed.

It’s sort of like losing a friend to gain a guard dog. He lingers by your side, catalogues your every movement and bosses you around where he sees fit. You don’t know how to feel about it, and don’t witness the full extent of it until, midway through your lunch, there’s a knock at the back door.

Reactive, he’s a wraith at your back, chair clattering and pressing you away. No guests. You recall the first rule in his schedule as you wrangle him, a hand tight on his chest to set him at ease. You figure it’s fear, in his own, muddled way. There had been a break in, after all, he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone else on the property – you were the only one meant to be here.

“It’s only the groceries,” you whisper, fingers circling around his wrist and pressing down against his pulse to draw his attention. Green eyes strike you down, near unseeing in his wrath and you startle. The seconds pass and you figure the longer this goes unhandled, the likelier Jason is to react for the worse. You take a deep breath, wrangling your own unease to step in front of him, blocking off his path to the door and squeezing his wrist once more.

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay,” you murmur, stroking the back of his hand comfortingly. “Just wait here for me, okay? It’s okay.”

He lingers in the room, though it seems only you’re aware of it as the delivery boy brings the bags in. You’re thankful he doesn’t loiter, unwilling to test Jason’s thin patience. The very shadows in the room seem to stretch the longer it takes and by the time the final bag is carried in and the receipt is left on the counter, you fear the kitchen floor will start to crack beneath your feet.

He’s on you the moment the door shuts, wrapping himself around you to run big hands over your sides, assessing you like he hadn’t kept you in his line of sight the entire exchange. You sigh, letting him tilt your chin, inspecting your face. The green in his eyes has completely swallowed the shades of blue, pupils dilated as he closes in on you.

“I’m fine,” you assure. He seems ill-convinced, but finally lets go. “Come on. You’re probably still hungry. Maybe that’s why you’re acting like this.”

He lets out a puff of breath in response and you let out a small laugh.

You make the mistake that night, when you see him off to bed, of unthinkingly voicing out loud as you look around the room,

“Isn’t it -” you hesitate, feeling your words catch on something. You ought to listen to it, but he tilts his head inquisitively, and it coaxes it out of you. “Doesn’t it feel weird sleeping in here? It’s a kid’s room. I don’t think you even fit in that bed.”

His eyes gleam, and you don’t understand what for until he pushes up from the covers and stands. Your brows draw together, confused, but you have no time to question it, weight on your shoulders pushing you forward until you’re steered down the hall to –

Your room.

You stare, wide eyed, as he pushes you; he’s clumsy, but gentle, fingers coaxing you under your covers before rounding the bed to slip under them on your other side. Your heart catches in your throat, alarmed.

“Jason – no, this isn’t what I meant, you-” He turns on his side and you fall silent.

“Kiss goodnight,” he murmurs, a hand reaching out beneath the soft weight of your covers to tug you closer, warmth searing through your pants where it rests on your hip. You resist, pressing against his chest to create a modicum of distance between you, but it’s impossible against his strength. Again, your mind supplies you unhelpfully with attention to the heat that rolls off him, the proximity or lack thereof between you.

“Are you – did the delivery upset you? Is this why-” You’re grasping for straws, searching for something to cling to, a reason that softens the weight of his gaze and all that lies behind it. You blind yourself to it, convince yourself the flash of his eyes is affirmation, let yourself believe it, breathing out a shaky, “Okay.”

“Kiss.” He repeats the word, and your chest presses against his. He’s a furnace, warmth trapped beneath the covers threatening to burn you alive. Your mouth is dry as you lean up, smoothing a hand against his curls to flatten them backwards, bare his temple to you.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, into his hairline, lips brushing against the raised outline of a pale scar.

Slowly, the sands in your hourglass begin to trickle to an end.

The kisses brush closer and closer these days. No longer do your lips meet the spot at his hairline, or his temple. The first time Jason brings a hand to your cheek and guides you lower, you’re too surprised to do anything, kissing the higher point of his cheekbone and pulling away hastily, face warm. It feels so incredibly inappropriate, letting him continue to blur the boundaries between you. He makes a noise of discontent the next night, when you return to his forehead, only settling back into your sheets when your mouth finds his cheek. The hand on the back of your neck is heavy, fingers brushing against the small hairs in feather light touches and sending shocks of something down your spine.

He sleeps on his side, always, facing you. You can feel his eyes on your back as you feign sleep. Is it unwise, to turn your back to him, you wonder. The idea of sleeping on your other side makes your stomach curdle, his breath fanning over your cheek, nose brushing against yours – much too close, too intimate for the way he’s been acting lately. You fear if you give him an inch you’ll never come back from it.

(Silly little thing. You were his the moment you stepped over the threshold.)

Tonight, Jason is heavier handed with you than usual. Something simmers in your gut as he presses on the back of your neck, green eyes near luminescent under the swathes of soft orange light from your lamp. You waver, but it’s all you can do to give in, your arms threatening to buckle under you if you don’t follow. Hovering over his side, you bend your head.

Lower still, Jason pulls you to him – you only barely manage to avoid meeting his lips with your own, skating the corner of his mouth and planting a clumsy peck there. When you chance a look up at him, he’s already watching you, a crease where his eyebrows meet.

“Kiss goodnight,” he says, expectantly, voice rough with an undercurrent of something eerily like want. It makes your breath hitch.

“I...I did,” you stammer, one last attempt at resistance. He doesn’t buy it, blinking slowly at you.

“Kiss.”

Saliva pools in your mouth the longer he stares at you, time stretching between you as he waits and when you swallow, his gaze flicks down to track the movement of your throat, pupils dilating. Now, only a thin ring of green surrounds the vastness of black, observing your every action.

Finally, seemingly sick of your inaction, Jason shifts upwards on the bed and you squeak in surprise, reeling backwards only to meet the solid wall of his hand. Your heart races in your chest, sounds spilling out of your mouth that are muffled when he closes the distance and slants his lips against yours.

It’s a wet, messy thing, clumsy and hungry. Jason’s tongue slides against your bottom lip hungrily and you, foolishly, part your lips to protest. He only uses it to push further, tongue tracing the contours of your mouth, a deep groan wracking through him, a deep-seated tremor that you think he must have been holding back for a long time. His hand fists the material of your pants, the other bearing down on your neck as if to press you even closer. Your own are helpless against his chest, unbalanced and tottering forward onto his lap, trying to push away –

“Mmh, no, J-” you’re cut off, unable to get out a single word. “’S wrong.”

He ignores you, swallowing the pitiful whimper you let out to lick into your mouth. You’re dizzy, head spinning from the lack of air, mouth swollen and spit slicked. Against his chest, your fists push weakly, your strength pale in comparison to his. Absently, a part of you wonders if that’s really the reason you aren’t trying harder – a distinct pressure growing between your legs that you try to tamp down.

Your spine arches ever so slightly under his fingers, legs bracketing his hips to accommodate his size. The throb you feel between your legs is not only his.

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

Uncaring of your internal conflict, the world around you tips in a matter of seconds and you blink up at Jason, vision swimming as he comes into sight. Your positions are now reversed, with him hovering over your body, pressed flat against the wrinkled sheets. Your clothing is rumpled, top riding up the expanse of your stomach and baring your flesh to hungry eyes.

He remains between your legs, an arm descending beside you to hold himself up as he closes in. You shake your head, twisting to avoid the wet press of his mouth against yours again, your hand coming to press against his shoulder.

“No– ‘s wrong,” you murmur, desperately, trying to push him away. Undeterred, his mouth trails over the line of your jaw and you stumble over a gasp when his teeth graze over your skin, taking it between his lips and nipping, tongue flicking out almost immediately after to soothe the sting, something like a keen in his throat when you squirm beneath him. You draw blood trying to stifle the sound you nearly make as a result of it, legs going to press together but only tightening around his waist.

“Not,” he pants, hand on your leg squeezing, trailing higher until it skims the space above your waistband, fingers ghosting over your bare belly. His touch leaves a trail of wildfire behind it, burning licks over your skin that make you gasp. “Not wrong.”

You whimper, a haze of desire settling like a cloud cover over your guilt when he flattens his hand over your stomach and presses down, eyes flashing possessively as he delivers his next blow. “Not wrong,” he repeats in a reverent whisper, leaning down until you’re nose to nose. The smell of cedarwood fills your nose, a history he’s unable to scrub no matter how much of your soap he uses, the milk and honey scented liquid bubbling over his skin. You hold your breath, eyes widening, the flex of his bicep in your periphery as he supports his weight with one arm. “You’re mine.”

The tears leak out of your eyes, and you shake your head. “I’m – not.”

Nose caressing yours – “You are,” he confirms steadily, voice low.

You understand then, the curtains pulling back to reveal the future that has been hanging in the wings this whole time for you, the fate you’d sealed for yourself. The long absence of his father, the shiftiness in Bruce’s demeanour when you’d met him and the eagerness in which he took his leave. Your very purpose, here – all of it, every strand, threaded, curling around you.

It all leads to Jason.

He swallows your sob with an open mouthed kiss, then, and the sands of time run out.

It’s horrifying, the gentleness he treats you with, divesting you of your clothing like you might wilt under his fingers if he isn’t careful, delicate flower that he thinks you to be. There’s adoration in every touch, worship in his eyes. Layer by layer, they come off until you’re bare beneath him, swathes of orange light swimming over your belly and lighting a fire in his eyes. They’re green again, now, near neon in hue, teeming with barely restrained hunger. His fingers shake, hovering over your sides, pressing you down when you try to raise your arms. One broad hand swallows your wrists, held against the soft flesh of your stomach as the other begins to tug his shirt off.

Your breath catches in your throat, whimpered pleas clogging your airway when his fingers drift to the waistband of his pants. Scars, so many scars line the expanse of his torso. His body is a map of puckered lines and flat, pale marks, a lifetime of brutality carved into his skin. Dark whorls of hair dust his chest and stomach, a pattern that continues lower as he tugs his trousers off, muscles flexing as he twists. In another lifetime, under an entirely different set of circumstances, you might’ve salivated at the sight of a man like this, might’ve reached out to splay a hand against his barrel chest, reveled in how miniscule you were in comparison. In another lifetime, there wouldn’t be that ever pressing guilt, that shame that colours your vision and tightens around your neck – you might’ve admitted to wanting it.

In another lifetime, you might’ve even begged for it.

Your mind eddies at the sight of him, blood rushing so startlingly through your veins you have to slump back into the sheets, dizzy and daunted. You’re stunned into silence, throat too dry to string together any sounds beyond a strangled whimper.

He’s thick, head an angry, dark colour that you can’t make out in the low light, weeping. As if caught in a dream, you watch a bead of pre-cum slip down his length, the light gleaming over the trail it leaves on his skin. When you raise your eyes, fearful, he’s already watching you, eyes sharp.

The bright green of his irises shocks you back into your body, and you begin to shake your head anew, struggling to push yourself away, back hitting the headboard.

“No, Jason, no.” You begin to weep, hands coming to pound weakly at his chest when he hovers over you once more and he dips his head, nosing along your cheek. Your tears do little to stop him. If anything, it only spurs him on, pupils dilated at the sight of you like this and breathing growing ragged. A rough hand skims along your ankle and pulls, until you’re flat on your back beneath him. “It’s wrong.”

“Don’t cry,” he rumbles, plaintive, lips brushing against yours clumsily, an attempt at comfort. He settles between your legs, one slung over his hip and you mewl when he tilts forward, the weight of his length sliding against your traitorously wet folds. You draw blood trying to stifle a whimper when his head nudges against your clit, a dizzying spiral of unwanted pleasure curling down your spine. His lips curve into a pout against yours, a hair’s breadth between them as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I’ll be good,” he promises quietly, voice pitching into a plea as he ruts against you. You squeeze your eyes tightly, trying to turn your head but a hand comes up to cup your jaw, keeping you face to face with him. “I’ll be good. I’ll–‘ll take care of you. Make you feel good.”

Clumsy, painful, intrusive. You’re wet, but it’s not enough – Jason breaches your entrance and your gasp teeters on a scream, fingernails digging into the meat of his forearm as you struggle to accommodate for his size, not nearly prepared enough for the stretch. His voice joins yours, a different kind of pain in his groans as he pushes slowly in. You curse him, drawing blood where your nails sink into his skin and gasping for breath.

It’s sweltering in the room, despite the chill of winter, Jason’s body a canopy over yours. Every inch of him that presses against you is searing, burning to the touch and threatening to flay you alive. You sob when he finally bottoms out, his teeth gritted and forehead scrunched, the last strands of his control steadily fraying.

Big fingers swipe at your under eyes, smearing your tears instead of wiping them, and then he begins to move. The first thrust winds you, pushing all the air out of your lungs and eliciting a choked sound out of your throat, one he echoes, dropping his head into the hollow of your neck and thrusting again.

Shame and guilt war within you, fear pebbling your skin as his hips cant forwards, setting a sloppy pace meant only to seek a quick release. Every second that ticks past, he draws closer and closer to the edge and shamefully – so do you. There’s a burning in your gut, the sound of your wetness loud in the room over his desperate groans, your cunt squeezing around his thick length. It’s a horrifying truth, one you don’t want to accept – it feels good. The drag of his cock against you, the slippery movements of his fingers, the overwhelming weight of his body against yours. It lights every nerve in your body alight, repulsion and longing amassing as one, a torturous cover that threads through your veins against your will.

Your sobs subside as it comes to you, pleasure pooling slowly in your gut like a leaky faucet, a puddle growing until your cries turn into whimpers, gasped breaths when he manages to find that one spot that empties your head of all thought.

No, no, no turns into muffled whines, your tears carving their own scarred paths down your face. Each thrust, every slide of his length and whisper of his fingers carves a bit of your resistance away, until all that’s left between your desire and his is the ruins of your sensibilities. The last of your defences gone, your nerves feel like spun sugar, dizzying, electrifying – wanting, needing more.

He’s highly attuned to your reactions, and you watch through blurry eyes as his gleam when he makes this realisation, thrusting forward unforgivably and pulling more screams from you. Your head tips back into the pillow, ultraviolet green burned into the back of your eyelids.

“Be good for – for you,” he gasps out, a low whine building in his throat and you weep, arms reaching up to wind around his shoulders. It’s a twisted thing, that the one inflicting this on you should bring you comfort, but you cling to him still. He tucks himself closer to you, eager to provide this cover, allowing you to hide your face in his neck – hide from yourself, as he fucks you. His hands wander, brushing, coaxing, petting your body. No longer are you the caretaker, but now the doll, almost. A pretty thing for him to cradle, to have, to do with as he pleases. And he does, driving into you hungrily, as though he’s been starved of it, unable to hold himself back any longer. He sates his appetite on you tonight, teeth, tongue, cock. All of you, his for the taking. Under his hand you are taken apart and remade, molded by rough hands and lovingly pieced together until you’re born anew, settling into your role like drifting into dreams.

Your orgasm washes over you, abrupt and unrelenting, so far gone a scream tears from your throat to bleed into his, your teeth sinking into the junction of his neck and shoulder as your leg kicks out and you fall apart on his length. Sloppy thrusts pick up the pace and he presses you further down into the sheets, grasp on your hips and waist bruising. It’s animal, the way he bucks into you, mouth open in a snarl to bare sharp canines, tongue laving against your pulse.

Too much – it’s too much. You’re still riding out the high of your orgasm, but he continues to fuck into you, head bumping against one particular spot that has your toes curling painfully, body twisting in his grasp and trying to pull away. A vain effort. Even your squealed protests fall on deaf ears, dizzying pleasure bubbling up once more in your gut, overwhelming and feverish.

Your eyes squeeze shut tight as you come again, colour exploding in your vision in vivid hues of red and orange, mouth dropping open to swallow lungfuls of air. Jason, in your ear, lets out a guttural moan that lances straight through his chest to spear yours. Warmth trickles down your body, spend and slick smeared where the two of you are connected.

You swim in and out of focus, eyelids heavy and attention spotty. Like an old radio, or as if underwater, his voice breaches your consciousness in snippets. Soft cooing and fingers stroking along your spine, you’re vaguely aware of being shifted, hefted onto a warm chest as easily as lifting a feather. Downy hairs tickle your cheek, the smell of musk and cedarwood burning beneath your nose.

Mine...so good...take care of...

There’s an ache between your hips, a fullness that has yet to retract – but when you blink drowsily up at your captor, you begin to realise in the last dregs of your consciousness: in this, and all that follows after, he has no intention of parting from you.

Cobalt blue now, half lidded eyes regard you with reverence, kiss bitten lips cooing unintelligibly, praises you barely register. Jason cranes his head to press his mouth against your temple – a mockery of your rituals to you, perhaps an homage, in his twisted mind.

The mark on his neck smarts, the beast in his chest purring in satisfaction. He looks down at you, the drying tears on your face, lashes fluttering in your sleep. He strokes a finger over the crease between your brows, dragging down to where your lips part ever so slightly. He barely manages to hold back a satisfied rumble when, at the touch of his finger, you accept him in. Precious, sweet girl. Even in sleep, you know him. He shifts on his back, careful not to jostle you too much, and once more the bite stings. In the morning, you’ll insist on tending to it, he knows. Your eyes will pool, diamantine, lips trembling tearfully at the wound you’ve left on him. You’ve claimed him as he would you, in time, but he knows it’ll take a little longer for you to see it as he does, that in the morning you’ll begin to piece back the ruins of your defences and he’ll have to work again to keep them down.

That’s okay. He’s got all the time in the world. You’ll see, soon. Out here, with only each other for company, you’ll quickly learn. He’ll take care of you.

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

um. there's a lot i wanted to include in this fic, mostly that there's something off about jason's death and his being alive - i didn't really get to explore that beyond the eyes so if you caught that i hope u know i meant for it to convey that he's a Freak.

Brahms in The Boy is entirely human but i think there's an air of supernaturalism to jason in this (and even arguably in the original source material) with how such a large man manages to move through the walls quietly and quickly, he feels a bit wraith like to me. also again with the eyes - there's something wrong with him but there's literally like 294728 other things to worry about that you don't notice until it's staring at you in the face and by then it's too late.

anyway this came to me during finals and it was driving me SO damn insane during finals, i think i've been working on this for about a month? i'm not sure - the writing program i've been using lately doesn't have a date of creation so i don't really know but finals were in early june so maybe just shy of two months? i would say a month and a half.

this is the first time i've properly dipped my toe into content of a darker nature like this and i hope i did it justice! idk i wanted to try my hand at something new, i think there's a lot that's interesting about the psychological aspect of fics like this, like the buildup and feelings leading up to and during the climax. anyway this was a bit of an experiment and i hope you enjoyed it.

#divider by anitalenia #jay my heart #jasonsmirrorball #tw dubcon #cw dubcon #tw noncon #cw noncon #<- putting the noncon tags to be safe !!#jason todd imagine #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #x reader

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plathfiles · 6 months

Text

Protector | BW

pairing: Bale!Bruce Wayne x fem!reader

warnings: kinda rushed relationship, fluff, Bruce being protective and kinda stalker vibes. Not proof read. Kinda long?

taglist: @bumblebeesfromvenus @allysunny @junmsli

❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎

Bruce was your protector. That’s how he saw it anyway. He would do anything to keep you out of harms way. But you also had a life that he could not control. Bruce worried about you a lot, especially when you were not with him.

It wasn’t safe in Gotham. The Joker was running rampant. Scarecrow — Dr.Crane — still hadn’t been found. These were all of Batman’s enemies. If they knew about Bruce being Batman then they would come for you.

You had nagged your way into Bruce’s life. As a reporter for the Gotham Gazette, you wanted to interview Bruce for a charity he was donating a lot of money to. Usually Bruce wasn’t big on giving interviews.

When you walked into his office on your arrival, you were taken back by his good looks and obvious charm. You’d seen him in magazines and in your publication but in person he looked quite different.

“Mr. Wayne,” you greeted him.

When Bruce saw you, he was struck. You were beautiful. But your presence felt familiar. Like he knew you in another universe.

“Please call me, Bruce,” He insisted and you nodded, taking out your reporters notebook and tape recorder.

You sat down across his desk and crossed your legs. Bruce looked you up and down and you felt uneasy.

The interview went well and you went back to your office to write the article. You couldn’t shake off Bruce though. And Bruce couldn’t shake you off either.

He wondered when he would be able to see you again. Little did he know, you had a thing for getting yourself in sticky situations.

One night you were in the office working late, when you got a tip about a deal going on between two of the Jokers henchmen. That would be a big story for you, you thought. So impulsive as you were, you grabbed your bag and left.

Bruce was patrolling as Batman, when he saw two of the Joker’s henchmen start making a deal. He then saw you, hiding behind a dumpster. His heart dropped into his stomach. What the hell were you doing here? This is not safe for you!

You tripped behind the dumpster and one of the goons heard you. It wasn’t long until they cornered you and grabbed you.

“Hey! Let me go!” You screamed. You tugged against them and they had your purse. You stepped on one of the men with your heel and he yelped, letting you go.

You began to run away when the second one caught you.

“Let her go,” A dark voice in the shadows said. You looked up only to see the famous ‘Batman’ that Gotham Gazette had been so interested in.

Batman dropped down from the building and grabbed the goon. You fell to the ground but picked yourself back up. Batman fought the men and you watched from the sidelines.

“You should go,” Batman told you, tying up the Jokers goons.

You shook your head, “this is a story and a crime scene. I’m not leaving.”

Bruce thought you were stubborn. But it was attractive that you cared enough to stay. From that moment, he wanted to be by your side always.

When the cops showed up, you got your story. Even Batman gave you a quote, which was rare.

“Do you need a lift home?” Batman asked. Bruce under his mask was blushing furiously.

You looked so calm in a state of panic. You were truly a reporter.

“That would be nice, actually. Thanks,” you replied. Batman drove you home. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

Bruce smiled softly. His persona of Batman slipping away. You were that dangerous.

“It’s no problem. You need to be careful out there.” He said, then driving away.

You didn’t see Batman or Bruce for a while after that. But Bruce kept tabs on you. He wanted to see you again. Maybe ask you out for coffee. But he was afraid to get involved. Alfred called him silly.

“It would be nice to see you settled down, Master Wayne. This girl seems like a wonderful person.” Alfred said, always the helpful one.

Bruce wasn’t very good at taking Alfred’s advice though. The next time he saw you, you were in disguise. However it wasn’t very good, as Bruce spotted your curious eyes from a mile away.

“You know, if you’d only reached out I would give you any source you want,” Bruce said, taking a drink from his glass of whiskey.

You turned around to see him, albeit surprised. “Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrected.

“Bruce. I am perfectly capable of getting my own sources. But that is not why I’m here.” You said.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Why are you here?” He asked, holding out his hand to dance with you.

You accepted and he pulled you into his arms. “Did you know that one of Commissioner Gordon’s men is working for Joker?”

Bruce didn’t know this. In fact he wondered how you knew before him. You were smart and he was falling more in love.

“I did not. Please tell me more.” Bruce said.

You looked in his eyes and found that you could trust him. His brown orbs looked so familiar, like you’d seen them in a dream.

“The men you arrested that one night. I went to Arkham to interview them again. And he ratted out the information but no name,” you explained.

You and Bruce continued to dance, he held you close and you found yourself blushing.

“And this person. Is here now?” Bruce asked and you nodded.

“Once I know who they are. We can alert Batman.” You said brightly.

“You really think so highly of him?” Bruce asked, snobbishly. He had to play his part well.

“Of course. He’s helping the city.” You said.

Bruce couldn’t argue. He loved that you thought so highly of Batman — of him. But you had no idea they were one and the same.

As you danced with Bruce, your connection grew. You got lost in his eyes and he in yours.

“Bruce…” you said, above a whisper.

“Yes?” He asked, looking down at your lips then back to your eyes.

Before you could answer, the doors to the dance hall closed shut and Jokers goons crowed around the doors.

Bruce held you close. He had no idea how he was going to pull off being Batman and getting you out of there.

You and him stopped dancing and he wrapped his arms around you protectively. You blushed.

“Do you trust me?” Bruce asked. You looked at him suspiciously but then nodded.

Bruce guided you away from the surprised crowd as fast as he could. He practically carried you off that dance floor.

“Bruce— what about? Where are we—“ you began to argue.

He shushed you, “You said you would trust me. Now please be quiet,” he pleaded.

You did as you were told. Bruce lead you to a secluded part of the building and opened the wall.

“What is this your panic room?” You teased. Bruce gave you a look. “Alright I’ll be quiet.”

Once you were through the wall, the lights to a gigantic room turned on and in the middle of the room was — the Bat suit.

“I can’t have anything happening to you. The joker probably came here for you because you’re on this story. Now I need you to stay here where you are safe.” Bruce said, beginning to undo his tie.

“You’re Batman.” You said, speechless.

Well there’s goes no telling her out of the window., Bruce thought.

“Yes.” He replied.

You walked closer to him. “So you’re the one who saved me. The one that drove me home.”

You were speechless and had all these pent of feelings for the man that saved you. Who was also the man who danced with you.

You pulled him to you by his half undone tie and kissed him softly. Bruce immediately kissed back, his hands wrapping around your waist.

“Hmm, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to kiss you,” Bruce said, pulling away.

You smiled, looking into his eyes softly. “Go. Be Batman. But please be safe.”

He nodded, a hand going to your cheek to caress it softly. “I will. I need you to stay here though. I need to protect you.”

You knew that Bruce Wayne and Batman would always be your protector.

#bale!bruce wayne x fem!reader #bale!batman #bale!bruce wayne x reader #bale!bruce wayne #christian bale is hot #christian bale fluff #christian bale x reader #christian bale smut #chrisitan bale batman #batman x fem!reader #batman x reader #batman begins #the dark night x reader #the dark knight trilogy #the dark knight #bale!batman x reader #christian bale #bale!

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 8 months

Text

Cozened Indigo - Part One

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes. Word count: ~4k

Summary: Unhappy with the assignment she has been given to work on for the Duskendale Gazette, she opts to pursue her own story, not quite realising what she's getting herself into. Series masterlist.

Author's note: For @humanpurposes. I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Chewing the end of her pen, she leans closer to the computer monitor as her eyes scan the Reuters website almost frantically.

Aemond Targaryen, son of late billionaire, Viserys Targaryen, charged for the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Case pending trial.

Nervous excitement swirls in her gut, as she leans back in her uncomfortable, creaky office chair. This is the first mention she has seen of such a scandal, unsurprising considering how high profile the Targaryen family are in Westeros. They’ll have worked hard to cover this up, however, with a court case imminent, the news is now public knowledge.

She knows that every media outlet from Dorne to Eastwatch will be all over this, but it will be nothing beyond surface level detail, the most basic of coverage. None of them will be able to get the family to talk, but she can, that is her specialty – was her specialty.

Essos Fraudster Glorified by White Cloak Magazine.

The headline passes through her mind like a stormcloud, a dirty mark upon her career that she can never scrub out. She had been duped, it was an honest mistake, but it had cost her dearly.

When whisperings began regarding an oligarch from Essos having shady business dealings in King’s Landing, she had set out to investigate, feeling it was a story worth telling. To her surprise, he had agreed to an interview, and she had been spun a tale of a man born into tremendous wealth, who was now looking to give back by setting up charitable foundations across Westeros.

She had done her due diligence, followed up on all of the sources at her disposal. Every phone call she made checked out, verifying his claims, and so the glossy double page spread had run in White Cloak Magazine, painting a picture of a misunderstood, altruistic individual who just wanted to share his wealth.

It had been the crowning achievement of her journalistic career, until two days later when the Blackwater Post had run their own story, utterly destroying hers. The oligarch was in fact guilty of tax evasion and money laundering, the charities he had founded mere fronts, empty shell corporations and hedge funds used to hide large sums of money that were never intended to be donated. The sources he had provided to back his claims had all been disreputable business associates of his, posing as bankers, accountants and employees.

He was jailed for his crimes and White Cloak was made a laughing stock for the piece they had run. As the person who had written it, it was her head that was placed upon the chopping block, a blunder of such enormity could not be overlooked.

Her humiliation had felt as though it would swallow her whole. She ought to have been more thorough in her research, but hindsight always possesses more clarity than what is right in front of you. She had considered just giving up and pursuing a different career path entirely, yet despite the shame that shrouded her, she had known that the urge to write would never leave her, an insatiable itch that must be scratched.

For a year she had looked for another job, had applied to just about every magazine and newspaper that existed in Westeros. If she had to relocate to Dorne, The Reach, or even The North then she’d do it for the sake of her career. Unfortunately, the blemish on her record was well known, and nowhere reputable would touch her.

That was until the Duskendale Gazette had taken a chance on her. The pet project of Royce Baratheon, it is a small, localised publication, a far cry from the nationwide reach of the high end White Cloak, but they were willing to hire her, the salary covers her rent, and it means not having to move away from King’s Landing.

For the last eighteen months she has occupied a desk in a darkened corner of the Duskendale Gazette’s offices, lovingly nicknamed “The Wall” by those that sit there - a place where writers at the end of their careers or close to retirement are sent to die.

It has been a slow, painful death, covering everything from disputes over fishing permits in Blackwater Bay to the implementation of a one way traffic system in Rosby. Discovering the news regarding Aemond Targaryen feels like the shot of adrenaline that her career needs to bring it back to life, provided he’s willing to speak to her – provided she can get sign off to write the story in the first place.

She sets down the biro she has been gnawing on and looks at the time on her computer. 9.02am. Glancing over her shoulder towards the big, glass walled meeting room that sits at the centre of the newsroom, she can see that Royce, along with the other editors and department heads are settling around the table, preparing to plan the next round of commissions.

Anxiously biting her lip, she considers her options. It would look bad to just walk in uninvited, however, if she doesn’t ask now then she’ll never get to do it. This is a story worth writing, surely they’d see that? Abruptly, she stands up, drawing in a steadying breath.

Fuck it, I’m going in.

She knocks at the door, not awaiting an answer before pushing it open. The men around the table furrow their brows, falling silent as they turn to look at her.

Royce shuffles the papers in front of him, sighing in irritation. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

Undeterred, in spite of the way her heart thunders in her chest, she steps further into the room towards the head of the table where he sits. “I know and that’s why I’m here. I saw on Reuters this morning that Aemond Targaryen has been charged with the murder of his nephew. I–”

“You won’t be covering that,” Royce interrupts, standing from his seat and lifting a sheet of paper from the pile. “I’m putting you on the upcoming curfew that’s to be implemented in Flea Bottom.”

“Royce, please, there’s something here, I know there is,” she presses, attempting to push down the anger that simmers hotly under her skin at his dismissal. “This could be huge for us.”

“You’ll write the story you’re assigned,” he insists, thrusting the paper towards her, “the last thing we need is a profile of some spoiled aristocrat, especially from someone with your track record.”

There it is. Someone with your track record.

“Just give me a chance–”

“You will write what I’ve commissioned, and be grateful you’re getting anything at all.”

“So you’re just going to ignore this?”

“We’ll place a court reporter on it once it goes to trial, but that is not your concern. Focus on your own assignment.”

She turns on her heel, storming back to her desk. Her skin burns with humiliation, tears blurring her vision as she sits down, slapping the commission sheet down next to her keyboard. Drawing in a steadying breath, she scrubs her hands over her face in an attempt to calm herself.

Scanning the assignment she’s been given, she scoffs. A curfew enforced by King’s Landing Constabulary as a means to curb the violent and drunken behaviour that’s rife in Flea Bottom. It's a soulless story, she knows she’ll be expected to simply present the facts, alongside a media ready quote from the police force, instead of addressing the rampant poverty in the area that is the catalyst for such problems. The final product will be better used as ad space.

It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, and wanting to prove Royce wrong, she decides to press ahead with the story that she wants to write anyway. Opening her internet browser, she searches the Targaryen name, presented with hundreds of links and articles regarding the family.

There is nothing she doesn’t already know; they’re from old money, own most of the banking and legal services from here to Oldtown and there is a rift that divides Viserys’ second wife, Alicent, and her children from his first daughter, Rhaenyra, and her family.

The remaining patriarch of the family, Otto Hightower, owns a law firm called Red Keep Solicitors which is based in the centre of King’s Landing. A good enough place to start for her background research. Scanning the office to ensure no one’s looking, she stuffs her assignment sheet into her bag and slips out unnoticed.

As she steps out of the taxi that has pulled up outside of the high rise office block, she is surprised by the lack of media presence. She had assumed that with the information that leaked this morning, there would be a line of news station vans parked along the pavement, with journalists all clamouring to get a vox pop from someone from either the Hightower or Targaryen family. Besides a steady flow of traffic down the street, it’s dead. Whoever is working to keep the media away is doing an exceptional job. For once, she is thankful she works for a small, local newspaper; no notoriety means being able to fly under the radar.

The polished black marble of the foyer floor causes each of her footsteps to echo around the lofty reception. The space is modern and minimalist; the reception desk placed at the far wall, the motif of a castle with the company name emblazoned across the wall behind it. A forest green, crushed velvet sofa sits off to the side, serving as the waiting area.

“Good morning,” the young woman seated behind the desk greets her. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Otto Hightower,” she says, smiling politely. The less she gives away, the less likely she is to be turned away.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not. I was hoping he might be able to squeeze me in for a quick consultation?” She asks hopefully.

“Hmm,” the receptionist’s eyes narrow, regarding her with suspicion, before she taps delicately at the keyboard of her computer. “I’m afraid Mr. Hightower is fully booked for today. Can I take a message?”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll wait,” she replies, keeping her tone light, attempting to appear casual. She moves to the sofa, taking a seat and crossing one leg over the other. She ignores the receptionist, who is now eyeing her intently.

Plucking her mobile out of her bag, she pretends to look busy as the woman behind the desk picks up the phone and speaks in a hushed tone into the receiver, clearly alerting whoever is on the other end to her presence.

Thirty minutes tick by in uncomfortable silence, during which she has checked just about every app on her smartphone and read through most of her emails. Her head snaps up upon hearing the elevator ding. As the doors slide open she sees a tall, much older, bearded man step out. There is no mistaking that this is Otto Hightower.

Jumping to her feet, she follows him as he walks quickly past her, out of the building.

“Mr. Hightower, might I have a moment of your time?”

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even turn to look back at her, his tone clipped as he tells her “I have no interest in speaking to the press.”

Undeterred, she lengthens her strides to keep up with him. “I understand your concern, but I’m not here to drag anyone’s name through the mud. I’d just like to understand more about what happened with your grandson.”

“No comment,” he says flatly, pulling open the rear door of a sleek, black Mercedes that pulls up to the curb and climbing in.

Before she has the opportunity to say anything else, he’s slamming the door closed and the car is pulling away.

She groans in frustration, walking back towards the entrance of Red Keep solicitors and leaning against the wall. She isn’t ready to give up, not when she’s had a small taste of what it’s like to work on something she actually cares about again. This is just a minor setback, she’ll find someone willing to speak to her. For now, she just needs to get back to the office and plan what the next step of her strategy will be. Pulling out her phone, she opens the taxi app, preparing to head back.

“You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer.”

The quiet voice pulls her attention away from her screen and she glances over her shoulder to be met by a dark, curly haired man, leaning heavily on a cane, an orthopedic shoe on his left foot.

“Excuse me?”

“You couldn’t really have believed that showing up here unannounced would get you an interview, surely?”

She scowls. “And who might you be?”

“Larys Strong,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers.

She turns fully to face him. “And how do you know what will or won’t get me an interview?”

His lips quirk into the faintest of smiles, eyes moving slowly from her head to her feet and back up again. It unnerves her and she can feel herself involuntarily shrinking away from him.

“It’s my job to know. The Hightowers are keen to prevent any unwanted…whispers from occurring, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“So, no one from the family would be willing to speak with me?”

“Absolutely not. But I might be.”

“You? How would you be able to help me?”

His eyes seem to glitter, almost malevolently, as he stares at her. It sends a shiver up her spine.

“Oh, I provide all kinds of help to all kinds of people.”

He produces a business card from his inside pocket, handing it to her.

Larys Strong, Harrenhal Associates.

She gives a quiet thanks, fishing around in her bag and handing him one of her own. He glances at it quickly, before slipping it into the pocket from which he’d taken his own.

“Come by my office around seven this evening,” he tells her. “I’m sure we have much to talk about.”

Watching in stunned silence as he turns and shuffles back inside the entrance of Red Keep Solicitors, she knows she should feel excited – she finally has her in, dubious as it may be – however, she cannot shake the feeling that she has just unwittingly stepped into the midst of something sinister.

She whiles away the remainder of the day back at the Duskendale Gazette, ensuring she knows everything there is to know about the Targaryen and Hightower families – at least everything that’s publicly available anyway. She also looks into Larys Strong; there’s little to be found about him, but what she is able to dig up is impressive. He’s a solicitor, and has seemingly never lost a case for any of the clients he’s defended. She has an eerie feeling that the means through which he achieves this are far from ethical.

By the time seven o’ clock rolls around, she’s stood outside of a dingy brick building, located off of the Street of Silk. It does not even come close to the grandiosity of Red Keep Solicitors, without even so much as a sign to indicate it’s a place of business.

Ignoring the voice at the back of her mind that screams at her to turn and run, she presses the buzzer, pulling the door open as it’s released and making her way up the rickety wooden staircase to the top floor.

The room is dimly lit, small and stuffy, worn out carpet lines the floor, complete with furnishings that are likely older than she is. What strikes her as most odd is the abundance of flowers, there’s a vase on every flat surface and they look strangely out of place, a lurid splash of brightness against their darkened surroundings. She wrinkles her nose, the cloying scent of patchouli is overpowering. It’s either being used to cover up the odour of something else or is a misguided attempt to suggest opulence, but instead comes across as tacky.

Larys hovers in the doorway to his own personal office, watching her as she takes in her surroundings.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he eventually says. “I appreciate that an out of hours visit is less than ideal, but I’m sure you understand the need for discretion.”

She nods, nerves swirling in her gut at the sudden realisation that no one knows that she’s here.

“My secretary has left for the day, so please leave your phone and any recording devices on her desk. I trust you realise that anything discussed this evening is strictly off of the record?”

“Understood,” she replies, deciding to just leave her entire bag on the desk as she follows Larys into his office.

It’s even smaller and more cramped than the tiny space that serves as the reception area. Overstuffed shelves of books line the walls, and the room’s only illumination is a lamp which sits upon the desk.

Larys settles into a leather armchair behind it, gesturing for her to take the seat on the other side.

“Can I ask what your involvement with the Targaryen family is?” She finally asks, once settled across from him.

He sits back, fingers moving absentmindedly over the grip of his cane. “I provide counsel to them. I will be acting as Aemond’s legal defense in the upcoming trial.”

She raises her eyebrows in shock. It’s surprising to know a family as wealthy as the Targaryens would be willing to trust such a delicate matter with someone who operates their business out of a seedy back alley. “You? Why?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, upturning the palm of his free hand. “Who else would? No one from Red Keep Solicitors could represent him, it would be a conflict of interest. And besides, I get results, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, I do, as I’m sure you know all about me. Which leads me to my next question, if the Targaryens don’t want the media involved in this then why have you agreed to speak with me?”

Larys is silent for a moment, fingers stroking delicately over the petals of a red flower that sits within a vase upon his desk. “My reasons are twofold,” he says, finally looking up at her. “First, both sides of the family have come to a mutual agreement that neither one will talk to the press. I feel that is a mistake. Aemond needs all the help he can get. I don’t necessarily mean starting a media circus to report upon his every move and dig into his past, just one reputable source to give him a leg up while he’s at a disadvantage. Second, I have chosen you because I’m aware of your past…indiscretions. The future of your career rests upon this, so I know you will treat it with the due diligence it deserves.”

She scoffs in disbelief, running a hand through her hair. “The guy’s been charged with murder, how much care could he possibly need?”

“The prosecution will be pushing for a sentence for murder, yes. I’ll be arguing for a lesser sentence of manslaughter.”

“So, he didn’t mean to do it?”

“I think it’s better said in his own words.”

“You can arrange an interview with him?”

“I can arrange a visit for you to speak with him where he’s currently being remanded in custody, at Dragonstone Prison, yes.”

She attempts to remain neutral as her excitement bubbles unrestrained internally. “When is the trial?”

“In three weeks, so we have to act swiftly. I believe this concludes our discussion. I shall be in touch regarding your visitation.”

She is taken aback by the abrupt ending to their conversation, rising slowly from her seat as she leaves his office and collects her bag. It’s unnerving that even as she descends the staircase she can still feel his presence, the sweet, heady aroma clinging to her clothes like an invisible fog.

True to his word, Larys gets her her visit, and two days later she sits in the ferry terminal for Dragonstone Prison. Having had her identification checked, and her details input onto the system, she is issued a number and has to wait for it to be called before she can board.

The wait is agonising, and a full hour passes before she is called forward, scrambling to her feet towards the boarding area. The grey waters are choppy, causing the ferry to rock slightly on its short journey across the Gullet, until the craggy isle that houses the criminals of Westeros comes into view. The high, cement walls of Dragonston Prison are imposing and bleak against the skyline.

Disembarking the ferry, she is guided through the visitors’ entrance and searched, her personal effects rifled through as she walks through a metal detector, and her electronic devices taken away, to be returned to her upon her departure. Her identification is checked once more, and her details input onto the system again. She is told to take a seat, her name will be called when it’s time for her visitation to begin.

The hard seat is uncomfortable, and without the distraction of her phone she is left to stare at the clock on the wall. Its relentless ticking is maddening, the minutes feeling as though they crawl past. So absorbed in watching it, she jumps when her name is finally called, struggling to compose herself as she’s ushered through into the visitation area.

A series of tables and plastic chairs make up the startling white windowless room, and she is led to one in the far corner. Unsure of what to do, she simply stands beside her seat, awaiting the man she is to meet.

From the photos she has seen, Aemond cuts an imposing figure, dressed all in black. She hopes that the softness of the grey prison uniform will render him less intimidating. However, those thoughts are dashed the moment she sees him walk slowly through the door on the opposite side of the room.

He is in no rush, his steps are methodical, unhurried, a predator stalking its prey as he moves towards her. The photographs do not do justice to his height, long and lithe, he towers over her, and she feels herself holding her breath as she takes in the sharpness of his features. His long, platinum hair is pulled back into an immaculately styled ponytail, giving her an unhindered view of his chiseled jaw, aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones, though spoiled slightly by the ragged, angry looking scar that runs the length of the left side of his face. The eye within the socket sits milky and lifeless, but it does little to lessen the intensity of the brilliant blue of his right.

She notices the slightest dilation of his pupil as he stares unblinkingly at her, making her heart race as the cold sweat of fear prickles the back of her neck. So preoccupied with simply getting her story, it has not occurred to her until now that she would be face to face with a killer.

Certain he senses her fright, she sees his lips twitch with the faintest of smirks. The fact that it does not reach his eye makes her blood run cold.

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brain-rot-central · 7 months

Text

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 3

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. She's finally here.

Word count: 3.5k Rating: M (nothing sexual; mostly topics that may be uncomfortable) Pairing: Ascended Astarion/Fem!Tav Warnings: 18+; Mentions of murder, violence, death, blood, gore (very minor), blood drinking, sexual acts. Angst, alcohol consumption.

Summary: Tav and Shadowheart finally reunite for a simple lunch date. Their discussion turns toward Astarion, and a particularly unsettling event.

Chapter track: Cry - Cigarettes After Sex

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

Dawn breaks over the horizon. The subtle stirrings of a city coming to life once more fill the streets. Maids and matrons pat down their mats just beyond their front doors. Street vendors begin setting up their carts. A young boy with a satchel carrying copies of the Gazette goes from home to home delivering the day’s latest print.

Tav kneels before her front window, watching the street below. A few days have passed since her meeting with Jaheira. Astarion hasn't been to see her; the longest stretch of time between visits since they began their ordeal. She fully expected a visit last night. However, he never came. She hates admitting it to herself, but she feels a shallow pit in her stomach beginning to form having gone without him for so long.

Standing up, Tav closes the window and brings herself into the washroom to prepare for the day ahead. An old friend has requested a lunch date; she hasn’t seen Shadowheart for many months, and owes her dearest friend an audience.

Tav pours the carafe of water into the wash basin, dipping a cloth into the water before bringing it to her face. Studying the various soaps and creams she has lined along the shelf, she chooses one of nettlebark, smelling of citrus and pine forests. This scent is one of her favorites, and she’s relieved she can still find comfort within the smell. Scents are still a trigger for her nausea at this stage in her pregnancy. The usually tempting smell of breakfast wafting about the air of the city turns her stomach upright, now. Tav has found that if she holds off eating until mid-morning, she's in the clear.

Yet… odd cravings have begun.

For instance, she's since gone back to the butcher's, profusely apologetic to poor Gideon. Of course, the kind soul that he is, he was nothing but understanding and even offered her a few rations free of charge. Tav politely declined his offer, yet as she stared into the display cases full of various raw meats, she found herself practically bewitched by the sight. Rich, bloody beef; cut straight from the animal. She recalls how intensely saliva pooled within her mouth staring at the provisions. Tasting the metallic twang of the blood on her tongue, swallowing thickly as Gideon returned with her order.

Patting her face dry with a small towel, Tav returns into the main room and begins rummaging through her dresser for the day's outfit. The midnight blue bottle Jaheira gave her sits atop the dresser. Tav considers the potion every morning, but quickly declines as her heart aches at the thought.

She believes the weather to be rather warm today, so she settles on an airy, light blue sundress and a wide brimmed hat. The gray scarf she recently bought matches perfectly as she stands before her mirror, assembling the ensemble.

The ghost of scars catches her eyes as she adjusts the scarf around her neck. They're light enough; most wouldn't notice, though to her, they blare. Permanent gifts from her months-long affair with Astarion during their journey to defeat the Absolute. His bite was always a clean one, never marring her tanned skin. Two faint fang marks are all that remain, Tav taking the index and middle fingers of one hand to press lightly over the imprinted flesh as she lifts her chin.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

The rhythmic beating of her heart can be felt beneath her fingertips as she pushes slightly into the artery. Accurate, Tav notes, a shiver running down her spine. She makes quick adjustments to the scarf and grabs her hat off the edge of her bed, placing it atop her head.

Returning to the mirror, Tav smiles approvingly at her reflection as she gives herself a final glance over. The dress is loose enough that it hides the new softness of her body, something she's thankful for. Curiously, she places her hands over her stomach, pushing the fabric of the dress down and under the small swell of her lower abdomen. A pleased laugh escapes her lips while admiring the sight.

Tav turns her body from side to side, tracing the movement with her eyes. Her breasts now fill the top of the garment. The deep plunge of the dress’s neckline displays her new cleavage in a flattering manner. Feeling suddenly bare, Tav unwraps the scarf from around her neck, repositioning it lays across her chest like a bandana. Better. A bit more modest.

The satisfaction doesn’t last very long as she thinks of Shadowheart. How can she tell her? Will she tell her? While Shadowheart has never been anything but supportive, Tav worries how she may respond to news of her pregnancy. Tav is not ready for the backlash and potential lecture her best friend would give her, hearing Shadowheart's scolding voice echo within her mind.

You cried over him for months! Tav envisions clearly, sour facial expressions and all. How many times did you come to me distraught in the middle of the night? Only to end up like this?

If the conversation doesn’t occur naturally, Tav decides on not discussing it. Not yet.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Tav grabs her satchel from behind her main door, throwing it over her shoulder and across her chest. She inspects the contents quickly to ensure everything is present. Slipping her feet into brown sandals, she makes her way down the stairs to face the day ahead.

----------------------------------------------------

The morning is spent strolling around the park not far from her apartment. Tav recalls an altercation with Bhaal’s followers in this very park so many months ago. Today though, people are enjoying the sun and the company of one another. Lovers lay out on the grass, hands interlaced as they speak freely of their devotion to one another. A book club gathers in the middle of the park to discuss their latest obsession. Tav overhears bits and pieces of mixed conversations, finding comfort in the fact that life is slowly returning to normal for the citizens of Baldur's Gate.

The midmorning quickly slips into afternoon, and Tav begins her trek over toward the Elfsong to meet with Shadowheart. A few people nod in recognition as she passes by. “That's our hero!” they shout. “The savior of the city!” Tav smiles and bows graciously toward them, never quite comfortable with everyone suddenly knowing of her existence. Still, she is thankful for their praise and support.

Upon entering the Elfsong, Tav scans the tavern and quickly finds Shadowheart seated at a booth along the wall. Their eyes meet, Shadowheart waving her over with a warm smile on her face. “There you are!” she exclaims as Tav draws closer. “My goodness, I feel as if it's been ages!” The two women exchange a quick embrace, planting chaste kisses upon eachother's cheek.

“Good to see you again, Shadowheart,” Tav says as she settles into the booth. She removes her hat and scarf, placing both items on the cushion to her left.

Shadowheart soon joins her, taking a sip from her glass of wine. “Shall I ask for another glass?” she proposes, nodding to hers. “We could just order a bottle,” she quickly adds with a smirk.

“Oh, no, I'm quite fine,” Tav declines, a sharp twist in her abdomen forms at the thought. “Truth be told, I haven't had the best stomach, as of late.” Bile begins to rise in the back of her throat as a quick wave of nausea passes over her. She quickly swallows it back down.

Taking another sip from her glass, Shadowheart cocks her head to the side. “Truly? Why haven't you been to see me yet?”

“Not to worry,” waving a hand in reassurance. “I've been to a healer. All is well,” Tav replies with a liar’s smile.

All is not well. None of this is well.

Fortunately, Shadowheart takes the bait and quickly switches subjects. Waiting for service, they begin a pleasant conversation about resettling back into their lives. They speak of their new jobs and all other mundane activities of day-to-day life, sharing a few laughs between remarks as they pursue the menus in front of them.

The waitress takes their orders – Shadowheart keeps it light, ordering salad with grilled chicken; Tav orders a rare steak with potatoes and a side of vegetables. “Rare?” Shadowheart comments as soon as the waitress is out of earshot. “You hate all meat, unless it’s well done.”

She's right. Any hint of pink in Tav’s portion would go right back into the fire. “I-I've been trying new things lately,” Tav explains, rubbing her neck coyly. The cravings only seem to grow as the days pass, and she briefly wonders if it's a consequence of having a half-vampiric pregnancy.

Shadowheart raises a brow again, but fortunately does not pry further. The women then delve into a discussion regarding their old companions as they wait for their meals. Tav talks of her efforts to bolster the city watch with Wyll, now the Duke after his father's unfortunate death. Shadowheart speaks of Gale, who she notes has since opened a school of wizardry back in Waterdeep. Neither has heard much regarding the others, though they agree that they're most likely doing well.

Shadowheart wastes little time once their meals arrive, forking salad into her mouth. “So, have you heard from Astarion at all?” she asks casually after swallowing.

A shudder passes over Tav as she begins slicing into her steak. “No,” she feigns with eyes cast downward, “I-I have not.”

Gesturing toward Tav with her fork as she chews, Shadowheart swallows. “I read something interesting in the Gazette a few days ago,” she suggests.

“About him?” Tav questions, bringing a potato wedge to her mouth.

Shadowheart shakes her head in disapproval around a sip of wine. “Not in particular,” she clarifies. “They don't name him explicitly, though it made me think of him.”

Silence befalls the table as Tav awaits her companion to continue. She doesn't trust her voice enough at this point to offer more to their conversation now that Astarion is the topic at hand. Playing idly with the vegetables on her plate, she chooses a small piece of broccoli to bring up to her mouth. The heavy pull of dread is beginning to creep in, her chest tightening.

“They… mentioned an incident that occurred in the sewers but a tenday ago,” explains Shadowheart, a sour expression befitting her face. “Some sort of deal gone wrong.”

Tav looks up to meet Shadowheart's gaze, puzzled. “How exactly does that involve him?” she inquires.

“Well, that's just the thing,” Shadowheart continues, “those first on the scene mentioned five victims in total, all young males.” She interrupts herself to feed another forkful of salad into her mouth, swallowing before resuming, “They were all reported as being exsanguinated, though only three had their throats slashed.”

Tav swallows hard around another piece of steak, silently savoring the rare flavor washing over her tongue as she focuses her attention on Shadowheart. “And the other two?”

Shadowheart looks sheepishly around the bar, discomfort evident. She dips her head. “Tav, I know of your history with Astarion. I don't wish to speak ill of him out of respect for you.”

Tav's fist tightens around the knife in her left hand. The tightness in her chest has traveled up to her throat. Her heart pounds rapidly as she drinks from the glass of water within her right hand. “What of the others?” Tav insists, placing the glass back down on the table with force.

Eyes falling closed, Shadowheart sighs heavily. “The other two…” she begins, voice trailing off. She pulls in a deep breath. “Well, they're reported as having two pin marks on their necks.” She gestures to Tav's throat with a soft nod of her head. “...Not unlike the scars you bear.”

A prickling heat spreads across Tav’s face. A tenday ago? she speaks within her mind. Rather close to when she'd last seen Astarion. Tav recalls again how miffed he'd been that night; impatient and direct, wasting little time coaxing her down onto the bed.

She pushes around a chunk of potato on her plate, anxiety mounting. “What makes you think it was Astarion? It could have been a kobold, or a spider, or-”

“They were gone the next day,” interrupts Shadowheart, bluntly.

Tav’s heart nearly freezes. She locks eyes with Shadowheart. “Gone? What do you mean gone?” she asks frantically, furrowing her brow.

“Gone,” Shadowheart reiterates, raising the wine glass to her lips again. “When the investigators returned the following day alongside the medical examiner, only the three with the knife wounds remained.” She pulls a long drink from the glass. “The other two were nowhere to be found. As if they'd simply gotten up and walked away.”

Tav shivers, entire body twitching with the thought. “T-that doesn't mean it's Astarion, Shadowheart. It could be-”

“Could be what? Another vampire?” suggests Shadowheart, sarcastically. “I don't think Astarion would take kindly to someone else moving into his territory.” She sighs, clicking her tongue. “I'm sorry to say it, Tav, but it sounds an awful lot like him.”

The sounds of the tavern flood Tav’s ears. Her vision narrows to a single pinpoint, the edges of her vision growing fuzzy. She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. “We don't know that,” Tav states, trying desperately to calm the wild beating of her heart. “We don't know what happened.” She shakes her head, slowly opening her eyes. “We won't know until the case is settled.”

“Why do you still defend him?” asks Shadowheart bluntly, mouth pulling into a displeased pout. “Surely you remember how badly he hurt you. Why continue to defend him at all?”

The question echoes in her mind. Why does she defend him? The man is a monster; an abomination, as Jaheira had called his child. Tav knows not who he’s become. Small glimpses of the man he once was shine through now and again, mostly when they argue. The stubborn selfishness of him reveals itself, inevitably bleeding into raw passion once she works at him enough. It almost makes her feel at home in his arms, albeit for a few hours.

“He wouldn't, Shadowheart. It's not like him…” Tav says, quietly. She's unsure if she believes it or if she's lying in an effort to convince herself that it's true. She's suddenly lost her appetite, pushing the plate of food away from her.

Shadowheart is quiet for some time, eyes cast down at the table. “Well,” she says, cutting through the silence, “let's hope he's as innocent as you say.”

Silence stretches across the table before the two women agree to shift the conversation elsewhere. They inevitably tie up their gathering, sharing an embrace and chaste kisses to the cheeks once again. They vow to meet the following week, and head out on their way.

Walking back toward her apartment, Tav's stomach begins to sour as she thinks over her conversation with Shadowheart. Vivid images of Astarion sinking his fangs into the necks of the alleged victims flood her mind's eye. She feels a tingling sensation over her own scars as she imagined how they must have felt. Could he have really done such a thing? The sounds of the city are almost absent from her ears as she ponders the question.

“Wait a minute,” she speaks aloud, freezing in place. Her eyes are cast down to the cobblestone street below as her heart fills with horror. Her mouth dries quickly, choking as she tries to breathe.

The last night she'd seen Astarion coincides almost exactly with the timeline of the murders within the sewers. If the report is true, then Astarion's enthusiasm that night wasn't solely due to want, necessarily. Tav dips into a small alley between two buildings, leaning against the brick wall as her knees grow weak.

No, his insistence was not due to missing her. It was attributed to blood-fueled lust, a state Tav has seen him in a number of times. She clasps a hand over her mouth as a sob suddenly racks her chest. Her whole body shakes as the horrific realization sinks deep into her bones. The puzzle aligns near perfectly as the thought continues to blossom.

Astarion had come to her bed after draining two people dry. He didn't spend time on their typical foreplay because he couldn't. Tav knows the power mortal blood has over him, and she doubts the ascension has changed that. She recalls how it all but possesses his thoughts, his feelings, and his body, enslaved by the sheer power of unbridled desire running through him.

Lurching forward, she begins to dry heave; a million thoughts race across her mind. He couldn't have done this on purpose, could he? He wouldn't. There's simply no way he would. Denial clouds her thoughts as saliva drips freely from her open mouth, gathering it together to spit upon the floor. Holding a hand to her stomach she rises, leaning her temple against the cool brick of the wall next to her. She closes her eyes, trying to calm her excitement with slow, deep breaths.

“No innocents; you have my word.”

Astarion's past promise to her rings loudly in her ears. It was from this promise their almost nightly affair to keep him well-fed began. Tav tries desperately to block out the memories of what would transpire after their sessions; how could she have not noticed? All the signs were there.

Because he didn't drink from me.

Her stomach churns again and she rubs her hand in a circular motion above her navel. Her chest burns as she chokes back tears. What to do, now? Does she wait until his next visit to confront him? When will that be? The anticipation will burn a hole through her soul, she knows. But, what other option does she have?

A small voice wrestles from within as she wipes her mouth with the back of a hand.

…Do I go to him?

The decision is made before the logical side of her mind can argue a rational point, her feet carrying her toward the Crimson Palace. She second guesses the choice; from some place within, a voice yells for her to reconsider.

He'll tell me the truth, surely, she argues against her doubt.

Right?

Aware that she's potentially putting herself in a grave position, Tav cannot rest until he tells her otherwise. She needs to hear from Astarion's own mouth that he didn't murder five people only to share her bed mere hours later. She needs to hear from him that he wouldn't do this, that he still abides by his promise to her, that her blood is all he's ever known.

“Why do I care so much?” Tav questions aloud to herself, practically running now toward the monastery. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts; he will eventually drink the blood of others. If he is to create an army of spawn as he'd so claimed after the ritual, that would be the only way to do so.

They're no longer lovers; no longer deeply acquainted. They just sleep together, and she fell pregnant as a result.

Why does she care so much?

Before long, Tav stands before the immaculate palace. Grand mahogany doors stand proudly at the building's entrance, adorned with intricate carvings along the wood. Black metal knockers depicting the faces of gargoyles signal a way in. Tav’s hand reaches instinctively around the bell of one, pulling up.

Before she can complete the knock, the door creaks open. A faint glow from a distant light source cracks through the opening of the door and Tav releases the handle, stepping back. She freezes in place, fully expecting the door to continue opening. Yet, it halts, remaining only slightly ajar. Stale air greets her nostrils and a shiver passes through her.

Silence suddenly engulfs her, the sounds of the city falling dormant. As she surveys the area around her, Tav notes no other presence out on the street for as far as the eye can see. Her ears pick up the soft sound of someone humming, and she determines its origin lies within the palace.

An assimon carved into the middle of the marble trim along the heavy doors catches her attention as she looks up. Tav turns her head as she studies the figure; a young woman with long hair, eyes closed and wings outstretched as she holds a lance within one hand.

The humming from within the building turns into a tune and cuts through Tav’s daydream. She shakes her head briefly, regrouping. She can turn away now and forget this entire thing. Forget that this was even a thought that crossed her mind, leave, and no one would ever know she was here.

A quick flash of Astarion’s fangs piercing into skin flits across Tav’s vision. She winces. I simply must know, she reassures herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she steps forward.

Resting the flat of her palm against the door, Tav slowly pushes it open. The old metal and wood fuss loudly as the door gives way under the force of her hand. The faint glow of the light from within now pours out, illuminating the street behind her. With some hesitation, Tav steps over the threshold, disappearing into the palace.

#astarion #ascended astarion #bg3 astarion #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion angst #astarion smut #astarion x female tav #astarion x tav #bg3

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ashtavula · 7 months

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Royalty AU: Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, and Octavinelle

This is going to provide a bit more lore for the au, as well as providing some information about what the rest of the boys are doing in this world!

Start Here

Your Kingdom:

-Your kingdom is known as the Kingdom of Sages, and its capital is the city of Ramshackle. As the heir to the throne, you reside in Night Raven Castle, along with your staff. You have Crowley, your tutor and advisor. Master Crewel is your personal healer. Trein is the steward of the castle. Sam is the castle's quartermaster, and Captain Vargas is the leader of your Royal Guard. There are also more maids, butlers, and cooks than you can count. Your parents also reside within the castle, but you don't often see them, due to their royal duties.

Heartslabyul:

Riddle:

-The Rosehearts manage the Heartslabyul march, which is a fairly large patch of land on the borders of your kingdom. However, only Marquess Rosehearts actually lives in the march. Marchioness Rosehearts and Riddle both reside in a rather lavish estate in Ramshackle. The family's investments in medical research have made them more wealthy than most others of their class, and plenty of nobles despise them for it.

-Riddle's mother is still extremely strict with him, but her motivations are a bit different here. The marchioness is fairly power hungry, and she wants social status more than anything. Thus, she's been raising Riddle to be the most suitable candidate for your hand in marriage. If you choose him, then she'll be the mother of your king consort, and that grants her more social standing than the rest of the aristocracy. Riddle, for what it's worth, is hesitant to actually court you because of that. He's aware of what she's like, and he doesn't want to subject you to her whims.

Trey:

-He's recently taken over for the Four Leaf Bakery, which is the most popular sweet shop in Ramshackle. His mother, father, and siblings are still helping out, but his parents are trying to make sure that he knows how to run things properly before they get too old. Trey likes to think that people come to the bakery because of how good his treats taste, but honestly, people also come to see him. He's polite, hard working, and sweeter than a slice of his bakery's famous strawberry tarts. Swing by the shop, won't you? He'll make sure to whip up your favorites.

Cater:

-Cater works for the capital's best selling newspaper, the Ramshackle Gazette. He's always busy writing new articles, and interviewing people. Pretty much everyone recognizes his charming smile, and his news stories are always plastered on the front page. Secretly, he finds all the running around to be more than a little tiring, but he wouldn't trade his job for the world. You've spotted him prowling around the gates of your castle recently, hoping to snag an exclusive interview with you. After all, putting your words to paper will make him even more popular.

Ace:

-Ace works as a delivery boy, making sure people receive their packages and other sundries. He's often paired up with Deuce, who works for the same company. Ace ends up running around all over the capital, and he usually complains about having to do so. Honestly though, he's not sure what he'd rather do in life. He enjoys doing little magic shows, but being a street busker isn't a steady job, and his mother would yell at him for doing it. One day, he might figure out his life's purpose. But that day isn't today, he thinks, as yet another bundle of mail is shoved into his hands.

Deuce:

-He also works as a delivery boy, but he gets a few more benefits, since his mother is the one who runs the office. Unlike Ace, Deuce does like the job. He gets to wander all over the city, and meet interesting people. But he wants to be a knight, deep down inside. He grew up hearing stories about valiant knights protecting delicate princesses, and he's been enamored with the idea ever since. Still, his mother always says he should keep his head out of the clouds. So he'll work hard to make her happy.

Savanaclaw:

Leona:

-He's still the second prince of Sunset Savannah, and he still resents his place in life. However, Falena is doing what he can to further diminish Leona's political power by planting rumors and stirring up their citizens. Leona is intelligent, bitter, and ambitious. Three traits that make him a rival for the throne, despite the birth of Falena's son, Cheka. The best way to get rid of Leona is to marry him off to someone outside of their country, where he won't pose as much of a problem. Falena doesn't quite like the idea of Leona becoming your king consort, but it's better than letting him continue to stay. Besides, if you marry his brother, then your country will be more open to diplomacy, and trade. And that's what's driving Falena to push Leona your way.

-As for Leona himself, he's heard about your search, but he isn't all that interested in going to see you. He's not keen on the idea of actually courting you, because he's aware of what Falena is attempting to do. Besides, he doesn't want to end up playing second fiddle to a spouse that won't take his advice, or let him rule beside them. Although, he has to admit that he's a bit curious as to what you're actually like. And who knows? Play your cards right, and you might just be able to snag his full attention.

Ruggie:

-Cleaning, cooking, washing clothes, scrubbing floors, he does it all. Ruggie is a personal attendant for Leona, and that means doing whatever the prince demands of him. It's tough, and he almost never has time for a break, but it's not all bad. Normally, Leona would have a small fleet of servants, but thanks to Falena's efforts, Ruggie is pretty much his only servant. Despite that, Ruggie is proud to serve Leona. The prince pays well enough for Ruggie to feed his family, and that's what matters most. And, if Leona marries you, hopefully the man will remember who actually took care of him.

Jack:

-Jack serves as a personal guard for Leona. Admittedly, Jack isn't sure how he ended up being the one to guard the prince. Protecting the royal family is usually a task only given to the very best of the royal guards, but Jack is still a fresh faced recruit. Still, he takes his job very seriously. He's never too far from Leona, and he's constantly scanning his surroundings. Once he hears the news about your search, his mind instantly goes to his prince. He sincerely hopes that, if you marry Leona, you'll let him continue to protect the man who's earned his steadfast loyalty.

Octavinelle:

Azul:

-His mother owns what is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of the most famous restaurants in your kingdom. Even your own parents have been there, and loved every dish she presented. Azul, however, wasn't satisfied with just helping her run the family business. He set his sights higher, and managed to open his information agency with the help of the Leech family. It's worth knowing that, despite Azul's wealth and connections, his reputation isn't the best. Sure, he always delivers exactly what you asked for, but many people have figured out firsthand why you should always read the fine print.

-As for his reasons for courting you, he claims that it's all about the power he'll gain from winning your hand. And he's not exactly lying about that. But he's also a romantic, deep down. He's always wanted a fairytale romance, and he sees the opportunity to have that with you. He sighs, already dreaming about the tales people will tell about how the heir to the throne fell deeply in love with a common octopus mer. Floyd and Jade are already teasing him for how often he's practiced writing "King Consort Azul" on the margins of his papers.

Jade:

-Jade is one half of Azul's "eyes and ears." Literally. When they first started helping Azul with the Octavinelle Agency, the twins struck a deal with Azul. Now, Azul is capable of seeing and hearing the same things as them, to an extent. As for your search for a husband, he's extremely curious to see who you'll select. After all, it might be fun for him and his brother to have royal backing for their antics. Or, it might be even more amusing to watch you fall for someone else, and crush Azul's hopes and dreams.

Floyd:

-Right now, he's bouncing between eagerly listening for news on your search, and getting irritated at you because it's all anyone's talking about. Honestly, it's so much fuss! He sometimes entertains the idea of trying to woo you himself, just to see the looks on everyone's faces. But Azul's quick to remind him that meeting you is going to be a big deal, so he needs to be on his best behavior. That sounds so boring! He'd rather see how cute you'd look if he gave you a little squeeze. You won't mind, right?

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anacdoce · 2 months

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I Wish Chapter 3 - Wedding with a glow of silver

Pairing: Astarion x you (f!reader, implied sorcerer)

Rating: T

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Basically there is fluffness everywhere. That’s it. That’s the warning.

Summary: “You can tell that little heart of yours, there’s no need to race because I am not going anywhere. You are stuck with me, my darling.”

And indeed you are because the big day has arrived: you and Astarion are getting married. A beautiful night to remember, between some other things.

a/n: I can't thank you enough, @bloodlessdarling, for bringing Astarion to life, with your screenshot, in this perfect and special day. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. This means a lot to me 🖤

And thank you to @galesdevoteewife for the inspiration to some... huh... special rings 😜

Lots of Love to all of you 🖤

Read on ao3

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Months have passed since Astarion proposed to you, and you have been the most blissful person alive ever since, dreaming with it. You wanted something simple, a ceremony in the woods not far from your house, in a clearing by the lake, surrounded by your closest friends. They all promised to come, and you couldn't be more thrilled.

As for Astarion… Well, he would have preferred a grand celebration, but he agreed with your wishes, making you promise to let him commission a passage in the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette announcing your union. So, a small wedding in the woods it is.

Together, you decided to have an ancient ceremony, but Astarion wanted to surprise you and offered you a wedding ring all the same. He found someone who was willing to forge the metal with blood and he requested two similar rings with some drops of your blood mixed together.

The rings couldn’t be more stunning. The silver, darkened by the blood, had hints of red that shimmered when caught by the light. Since that day, you wore them constantly. However the forger did warn Astarion that the blood might imbue the rings with some kind of power to them, even more because of your inherent magic present in it. But unpredictable as the blood is, he couldn’t really tell him what it would be. It was up to you to discover.

As for the rest of the details and preparations, Astarion didn’t let you take control of that. “My sweet little sorceress, there isn’t much to prepare, really. The date was settled, which was the most relevant matter. Just take care of our guests, invite whomever you want. I’ll be happy with your choices.”

“And who will take care of the ceremony? Can we talk to Shadowheart? I would like that very much.”

“Hrg… Really, Darling? She despises me! She’d keep you miles away from me if she could.” He grumbles.

“Don’t say that!”

“You know it’s true. You just won’t admit it.”

“She’s just difficult to please, my love. As you are, by a matter of fact.” You wink at him, and he turns away, ignoring your teasing. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she is a cleric, and so happens that she is my best friend too. I don’t think she could refuse my request.”

“Fine. She can do it.” You leap into his lap, aiming to kiss him, but he stops you, resting a finger on your lips. “She can do it, but you must do something for me in return.”

“What is it?” You look at him suspiciously.

“You will not use those rags that you love so much at our wedding. You will buy a beautiful dress, perfect for the occasion, and you will dazzle me with your choice.”

“Astarion! You know I don’t like those fancy dresses!” You protest.

“I know. And I don't like Shadowheart either.” He looks impassable, and you know he won’t be changing his mind.

“Gods! You are insufferable!” You sigh, and admitting your defeat on this matter, you agree to his request. “All right. Have it your way. But don’t complain afterward if I look ridiculous on it.”

“Good girl. And you won’t. You will look perfect.” He then kisses you, a victorious smile on his lips.

He will be my ruin. And I love him so much.

–

The day that you had longed for finally arrived, and you couldn’t be more nervous. Astarion, on the other hand, is all smiles and sighs, utterly calm. Gods! How can he be so relaxed? But seeing him like this, radiant, makes your heart swell with love.

In the invitation, you asked your friends to gather after sunset at your house, just to make a quick catch up with all of them before the wedding. And all of them came: Gale, Shadowheart, Karlach, Halsin, Wyll, Lae’zel, and Jaheira. You couldn’t be more joyous to see them again. It had been quite a while since the Withers party, and some of them you haven't had the chance to see since then.

Gale and Shadowheart are your closest friends, and even if you hadn’t seen them as often as you liked, you always stayed in touch. Wyll and Karlach managed to make an escape out of Avernus, to be with you on this important day. After defeating Vlaakith, Lae’zel was able to travel through the astral plane again, and your wedding was a perfect excuse to visit Baldur's Gate once more. Halsin was very pleased with your invitation and looked forward to seeing you again. As for Jaheira, whom you bumped into now and then in Baldur’s Gate, seemed glad for you when you invited her personally.

And Jaheira is the first to arrive. She brings with her a bottle of a refined wine, and gives it to Astarion.

“How thoughtful.” He says, pleased with her offering.

“You’re welcome, Astarion. I think you’ve earned it. I had it stored for some years now. Hope to cheer for your happiness later on.” And she walks to you and gives you a hug.

You hugged them all as they arrived, and you couldn’t contain your tears when you saw Karlach jump out with Wyll from a portal that suddenly appeared. You ran to her, and she hugged you, lifting you into the air, spinning you around. “Hey, Soldier! I can’t believe I’m here again! Attending your wedding!” She set you down gently. “Fangs did hook you up, didn’t he?” She says playfully.

“How could he not? I mean… look at him.” You both look at Astarion, mingling with your friends, avoiding close contact but seemingly delighted, in his own way, to see all of them again.

You both giggle at the sight of him, and Karlach hugs you again, this time more tenderly. “I missed you a lot. All of you. And I’m very happy for you. For you two… You deserve this.” She releases you and turns to the others. “Hey, Fangs!” she shouts, moving away from you.

And here they are, all gathered again, like old times.

You give yourself a few minutes to stay behind, appreciating the sight of your friends all together. The people you consider as your own family. You had been through a lot together, saving Faerun from the Absolute.

Yes, you are sure that you don’t need anyone else on this day with you. They are your family.

“What are you doing here, all by yourself, little pup?” Astarion’s silky voice purrs beside you, as he takes your hand.

“Oh… just wandering about our past adventures. I missed them a lot, you know? I’m glad they’re here.”

“I know, Darling. As much as it may not seem like me, I do miss them too.”

“Well, well, look at you!” You tickle his belly, teasing him while he laughs.

“Tease me all you want. Today, I grant you that.” He chuckles, placing a small peck on your nose. “Now, come. It’s almost time, my dear.”

You follow him back to the others, and as you approach, Shadowheart grabs your forearm and pulls you close to her. “Well, now that you’ve greeted everyone, it’s time to prepare you for the wedding, don’t you think? I will help, if you want.”

You nod at her in agreement, pleased with her help, and in that moment she pulls you out of everyone's grasp, into the house, closing the door behind her. “Finally, a moment alone with you!” She sighs, leading you to sit with her. “I have wanted to talk to you since the day I received your invitation. Don’t get me wrong, I am very happy for you and all I want is your well-being and happiness. But I have to ask: are you sure about this?”

“About what?”

“About marrying a vampire?! Are you sure you want to commit your life to him? I agreed to celebrate your vows, but I’m worried.”

“Shadowheart, we’ve talked about this a million times already…”

“I know, but you never mentioned a wedding to me. I always thought that, eventually, one of you would break things off.” She looks concerned.

“I am sorry to disappoint you… I love him. I’ve never loved anyone like I love him, and you know that!” You frowned your eyebrows, confused.

“Well, I wasn’t talking about you, to be honest. I know you love him. But are you sure he loves you the same way that you do?”

“Oh! I see… Tell me, why don’t you like him?”

A pause.

“I didn’t say I don’t like him. Well, I don’t quite like his style, that’s for sure.” She chuckles nervously. She’s stalling, but you keep looking at her, waiting for a sincere answer. “Fine. I don’t understand what you see in him! You could have had anyone! And yet you choose him, of all people. He is mean, annoying, cocky, vain. Not to mention all of his conditions, consequences of his undead state! “

You place a hand on her shoulder, giving her an understanding smile. “Thank you for telling me that, for being honest with me. I know nothing I say will change the way you see him, but let me try to appease your concerns.” As you talk, you rise from her side, and start to prepare for the wedding. “I understand your worries. And yes, to others, he may be all theatrics, full of charms and empty words, but he is so much more than that. And maybe, if you give him a chance, you might see that too. He is funny, committed, resilient, persistent, and when you gain his trust, he is the most loyal friend you can have.

It’s not easy to gain his trust though, but given his past, who can blame him?

I don’t know if you have noticed but, to me, he is nothing but tenderness and adoration. With me, he is himself. And in the middle of all this, his curse is just a detail.

So, to answer your earlier question, yes, Astarion loves me. Believe me. I feel his love when he looks at me, when he embraces me, when he cuddles me in bed, when we make love. Damn, I feel his love when he brings me a glass of water on a summer’s day. He shows me his love every day, at everything he does for me. And I don’t think that he wanted to marry me if he had any doubts.”

Shadowheart joins you, helping to unbox your dress for the day. She looks calmer, satisfied with your words, at least for now. “Your love for him is beautiful, you know? Everyone should be able to experience a love like yours. He is a very lucky bastard to have you. I just hope you’re right about him.”

“I am.”

“And by the way, the rings are stunning.”

“They are, aren’t they?!”

As you are about to start putting on your dress, after undressing the worn clothes of the day, a knock at the door interrupts the moment. “What a perfect timing. I'm going!” Shadowheart calls out, opening the door just enough to find a silver-haired man with some crimson eyes on the other side. “Oh… It’s you.”

“Yes, it is me. Now, can you step aside and let me take a look at my dear wife-to-be?” Astarion tries to peer inside, but Shadowheart was committed to block his view. “Sweetheart, please, take this creature out of the door. I just want to talk to you.” He pleads.

“Let me speak to him.” You approach the door, giggling, as Shadowheart moves away, exasperated. “Yes, my needy husband-to-be. What do you need?” You ask, peeking through the door, concealing your naked body behind it.

“Why hello, love!” He greets you with a smile. Then he frowns his eyebrows, trying to peek at the rest of you behind the door, as you fight to keep him outside laughing at your little game. “Why are you hiding from me?”

“I’m naked, Astarion!”

“Not a sight I haven't seen already.” He smirks.

“Well, you’ll have to wait to see it again. Now, what do you want?”

“Now? Now I want you.” He whispers, his voice dropping to a seductive tone. “I want to take you to our bed. I want to adore your beautiful body and feel your warm skin under my hands. I want to bite that pretty little neck of yours and I want to devour the rest of you.” Then he reaches your neck and nibbles it, letting his fangs graze your skin just enough to make your body shivers.

“I can hear that, you know?” Shadowheart shouts from inside.

“Is that a promise?” You tease him.

He gazes at you with a feral look, eyes full of lust. “Careful, Darling. I may bite you right now.”

“All right that’s enough!” Shadowheart approaches the door and pushes you away. “Is that all?”

Astarion clears his throat before speaking. “No. I just wanted to say that we are leaving for the clearing.”

“Okay, go then. We’ll join you when she’s ready.”

“Can I see her again before I go?”

Shadowheart grows impatient and takes a deep breath. “No, you can’t.”

“How bitter.” He frowns at her, offended. “My sweet, I will be waiting for you eagerly!” He shouts, trying once again to peek inside. You giggle as Shadowheart closes the door on his face, rolling her eyes.

“Oh you’re so mean! My poor love!”

“Please! You just left him minutes ago! Is he always like this?”

“Yes.” You chuckle. “He needs me around. And he feels even better if he can touch me all the time.”

“I don’t know how you put up with that… But enough talking. Let’s get you ready before he lurks by the door again!”

Amidst laughter, you finish dressing. A beautiful silver silky long dress, with a big cleavage on the back and some thin shoulder straps. It fits perfectly on you, enhancing your body curves. You look at the mirror, uncertain. “I’m not sure about this. Astarion asked me to impress him with my choice, but I think he’s expecting something more… elaborated. And for me, this is already too much.”

Shadowheart approaches from behind, looking at your reflection in the mirror. “My friend, I think he will love it. You are beautiful.” Then she smiles, and grabs your hair, starting to comb it. “Now, let me have the pleasure to help you with your hair.” After a while, you’re ready, with a beautiful hairstyle revealing your back cleavage. “Do you want me to conceal those bite marks for today?” She points to those two little bite marks on your neck, a gift from your vampire lover.

“No, please, let it be that way. They are already a part of me, and I don’t want to take that away from him.” And with no more delay, you head out with Shadowheart to meet the others who were eagerly waiting for you.

The evening is enchanting. A gentle summer breeze stirs the air, and the sky is clear, with a full moon casting a silvery glow on the path through the woods. The forest whispers softly, guiding you to a magical clearing.

The sight before you is breathtaking. Torches form a glowing circle around the clearing, their flickering light dancing on the serene surface of the lake. Opposite the lake, a grand table stands adorned with countless candles, casting a warm, romantic glow. It's laden with an array of delectable foods and drinks, crowned by a magnificent wedding cake topped with fresh summer fruits.

Surrounding the table are elegantly arranged wooden chairs, adorned with vibrant red flower arrangements, their petals glistening in the moonlight. The entire scene is framed by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft hum of nocturnal creatures, creating a perfect, intimate atmosphere for your special evening. And you can hear some music too. Alfira is there! So thoughtful of him to remember her!

But your eyes only want to see one particular sight in this perfect, intimate setting. You search among your friends until you find what you were looking for at the far end of the clearing. There, beside an arch adorned with red flowers, the same type that decorate the chairs, and illuminated by the soft glow of fireflies, stands Astarion.

He is turned away from you, engaged in conversation with Karlach, but the elegance of his silhouette captivates you. He wears a refined black garment adorned with some silver and golden details. The sleeves are beautifully embroidered with silver waves that echo the curls in his own hair. All these choices contrast strikingly with his marble-like skin, making him appear almost ethereal under the moonlight. He spared no detail in his attire, and you wouldn’t expect anything less. After all, today is a very special day, and he couldn’t be more stunning.

He often tells you how fortunate he is to have found you, yet it is you who feels truly blessed to have him.

Lost in these thoughts, you notice that Shadowheart has quietly left your side. As she approaches the flower-adorned arch, the gathering turns to acknowledge your presence. At that moment, Astarion turns to face you. His eyes, filled with admiration, lock with yours, and a tender smile spreads across his lips.

“Go on, Fangs! Don’t just stand there staring! Go meet her already!” Karlach's playful shove breaks the moment, and Astarion begins to walk towards you. His steps are deliberate, and when he reaches you he offers you his hand, waiting for you to accept it. You hold it, craving for his touch, and he takes it, bringing it close to his chest.

“My love… I cannot tell you how beautiful you are.” He murmurs, his voice filled with emotion.

You kiss his lips gently and your heart starts racing, reacting to his touch and his bergamot and rosemary scent. How I miss him already! Maybe he is not the only one who needs me around all the time… “You are fine yourself.”

“Fine?! How dare you?” His voice high-pitched, faking offense.

“Silly! You are perfect, my handsome love.”

Then Astarion interlace your arm with his, bringing you to meet Shadowheart, who is already waiting. As he starts to walk you can see how he straightened himself, tightening your arm against his ribs, full of pride, walking with you by his side. “You can tell that little heart of yours, there’s no need to race because I am not going anywhere. You are stuck with me, my darling.” He mutters, leaning to your ear.

“Will do!” You say as you lay your head to the side, resting it on his arm.

When you finally reach Shadowheart, your friends gather around as she begins to speak, her voice filled with warmth and emotion. “My dear friends! Tonight, we are here together to celebrate a love that has shone brightly through the darkest of times, to celebrate a love that we watched grow, day by day, while we were facing the most difficult days of our lives. You found each other when life was at its most challenging, and you weren’t afraid to trust your lifes in the other's hands. In the middle of chaos and despair, you leaned on one another, finding strength and hope in each other’s presence.

Your love has endured countless trials and temptations, overcoming every obstacle in your path, and they weren’t few. All of us, who are here today, are witnesses to the incredible bond you share. I wish you all the happiness that the Gods can give you. You deserve nothing less than that.”

Shadowheart takes a white silk ribbon from her pocket and approaches Astarion, gently taking his left hand. She whispers to him: “I may not have always been fond of you, but I see the joy you bring her. You have my sincere blessing on this.”

“I…I appreciate that.” He whispers back, eyes wide open.

Shadowheart returns to the ritual, leading your left hand to his, and starts to interlace the ribbon on his hand as she speaks. “You will now repeat after me. I, Astarion Ancunin, accept to marry you, (Y/N), and with that, I accept to love and care for you in the good times and in the bad ones, until death takes us apart.”

“I, Astarion Ancunin, accept to marry you, (Y/N), and with that I accept to love and care for you in the good times and in the bad ones, until death takes us apart.” Astarion vows as he rubs your hand with his thumb, ever so gently.

“Now you, my friend.” Shadowheart turns to you, continuing to interlace the ribbon in your hand, binding yours to his. “I, (Y/N), accept to marry you, Astarion Ancunin, and with that I accept to love and care for you in the good times and in the bad ones, until death takes us apart.”

And you repeat after her. “I, (Y/N), accept to marry you, Astarion Ancunin, and with that I accept to love and care for you in the good times and in the bad ones, until death takes us apart.”

She places her hand above yours and continues. “You are now husband and wife. May Selune bless you!”

“And the Oak Father guides you!” Halsin intercedes with great joy.

Shadowheart turns once again to Astarion, offering him a rare tender smile as she releases your hands. “You may kiss her now.”

He takes a moment to enjoy your united hands, looking at them in amazement, and you know how much this symbolic act means to him. Then, he closes his body to yours. With his free hand he holds the back of your neck, and touches your lips with his, whispering: “Thank you for always believing in me.” Your heart stops, and for a moment, time freezes as he wraps you in a kiss full of emotion. His tongue searches yours desperately, and as soon as you open your mouth he entangles his tongue around yours, savoring your taste, but not with lust or desire, with love. And you can feel him telling you, with his kiss, how deeply he loves you, over and over again. Then, like a spell of yours that wears off, you return to reality, and your friends are cheering and clapping, starting to approach, hugging you both with happiness.

The music starts to play again and it is now time for the party. You gather around with your friends, dancing, eating, drinking and cheering throughout the evening.

Wyll made sure to toast to your happiness a dozen times, and a dozen of times he robbed you from Astarion's grasp to dance with you. Even Lae'zel is enjoying herself, although you could hear her Chk from time to time.

Everyone is elated, all for you and Astarion. Your heart is full, and you feel complete.

After a long while, Astarion grabs you to dance with him one more time, and you oblige happily. “Are you tired, my love?” Your feets, dragging on the floor.

“A bit. But I’m not complaining. Thank you for tonight. It was beautiful! All of it!”

“My sweet, I would have married you in a palace, but you insisted on it being here, so it was my job to make it a perfect night.” Then he makes you spin as he admires once again all of you. “And for someone who doesn't like fancy clothes, let me tell you how stunning the dress fits on you.”

“Do you like it? I wasn’t sure…”

“I love it, my dear! I will have to blackmail you more times in the future.” He taps your nose with his finger and adds, “And don’t you think I didn’t notice what you did there with your choice of color, Mrs. Ancunin.”

“Well… I thought it wouldn’t be fair if you were the only one glowing with the moonlight throughout the night! And let me tell you, I like that title very much! Mrs. Ancunin… yes, I can live with that for the rest of my life!” As both of you laugh, Gale approaches you, clearing his throat before speaking.

“I am very sorry to interrupt, but can I have a last dance with your lovely wife, Astarion, before I leave? It’s getting late, or early, depending on the point of view.”

Astarion side-eyed Gale, not very pleased with the request. “All right, I’ll have another glass of wine while you say your goodbyes. See you in a minute, my love.” He makes a subtle bow with his head, turns around, and leaves you alone with Gale.

“Are you returning to Waterdeep already?” You ask him.

“Yes. But I will come back to Baldur’s Gate in a few weeks, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you alone, without someone’s ears nearby, if you know what I mean.” You glance in the direction of Astarion and, as you expect, he is looking at you two, watchful.

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“I have gathered some knowledge about something that may be of interest to our mutual undead friend, and to you.”

“What? But I told you that he doesn’t care about myths anymore…”

“I know, that’s why I’m telling you this. Because this is not a myth. I did my research thoroughly before approaching you with this. I can assure you it's real. It can change your lives drastically. But tonight is not the night to talk about such things. We will have plenty of time to discuss this when I return to Baldur’s Gate. But please, don’t tell Astarion just yet. Hear me out first, will you?”

“But why? He would want to know, don't you think?”

“Yes, he would. But I think that he will not agree with this either. Sacrifices may be at stake, and I think he had his fair share of that already.” Astarion approaches you again with a suspicious look on his face. Gale smiles, used to his friend's behavior, returning your hands to him. “Well, thank you for this lovely evening. It was a pleasure to be a witness of your eternal vows. Now it is time for me to go, and I think you should consider leaving too. The sun is almost rising.” Gale points to the sky, which is now clearer than before. “I'll let you know when I get back to Baldur’s Gate. And you should consider paying me a visit at Waterdeep! Tara and I would be delighted to receive you both!”

You watch as Gale leaves, pondering his words.

“What did you two talk about?” Astarion interrupts your thoughts, looking at you curiously.

“Hum? Oh… nothing important really…”

“It does not seem like it, by the way you were far away, lost in your thoughts right now, my sweet.”

“Yes… right… He may have told me something, but I didn’t quite understand what, to be honest.” Astarion keeps staring at you, now more suspicious than before. You cup his face with your hand, brushing his cheek with your thumb. “Don’t you fret, my star. I’ll tell you as soon as I find out what it was myself. Now, the sun is indeed rising, we should go, Astarion.”

If you still had your tadpoles, Astarion would use it right now to peek into your mind, you are sure of it. Though he is not satisfied with your answer, he lets you drop the subject. “All right, my dear. Let’s say our farewells and get back to our home. I have a promise to fulfill.” He nibbles your earlobe, kissing your neck after.

You then whisper in his ear: “I can’t wait, my husband.”

He rolls his eyes to the sound of your words and purrs, “Hum…I do rather like that, you know?”

You smile at him, then hold his hand and head to your friends to say goodbye, all while thinking of Gale's intriguing words.

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yanderes-galore · 10 months

Note

hii \(^ヮ^)/ your works are always a treat to read and since dead by daylight is on the list…

may I request some yandere hcs for pre-fog Danny Johnson (the Ghostface guy) with a coworker darling? Like someone with whom he worked at the Roseville Gazette. Maybe they both were often sent together to interview the families of victims?

oh and btw, good luck with other requests (⁀ᗢ⁀)

Thank you! I've been having fun with them ^^ Hope you enjoy this request too! It's nice to write more pre-fog ones.

Yandere! Danny Johnson with Coworker! Darling

(Pre-Fog/Trial AU)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Murder/Death, Sadism, Teasing, Manipulation, Secret picture taking, Attempted kidnapping, Dubious/Forced relationship.

You most likely know Danny by his alias, Jed Olsen.

He's hopped around towns as to not get caught with his murders.

To you, he's just Jed Olsen, a fellow freelancer just trying to write shocking newspapers.

He's been described as modest and enthusiastic and has experience in many past newspapers.

You met him while working at Roseville Gazette and got along with him well.

You have no suspicions about him, in fact you see him as a friend.

You often share stories and sometimes ask him for help.

To keep a good image he helps you with a smile.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Danny is scoping for new victims for good stories.

He's a stalking and methodical killer in the dark while he's all nice and caring in the day.

By the time the murders start up you and Danny are close.

Soon he even begins to think he's fallen for you.

What a story, yeah?

The secret killer falling for the innocent reporter?

He honestly likes the sound of that.

You could be helping him to publish the stories he creates.

You have no idea but you're his partner in what he does.

What could be even better is if he began dating you as he conducts his work.

However, he isn't going to rush things.

Danny doesn't just stalk the potential victims of his stories, he likes to watch you.

He doesn't want to hurt you, he just likes to slip by where you live (once he finds the address) to check things over.

He likes to see your nightly routines and often takes pictures.

He is sure to remember the layout from your house and often sneaks in while you sleep.

It's a nice rest before he has to go back to work.

The whole time you are oblivious to his obsession and work.

Just like most of this town.

You still greet him with a smile, you still work on papers with him, you even offer to help interview the victim's families.

You have no clue that he's caused all this.

You have no idea he's been watching you too.

That's fine, Danny loves you clueless.

Honestly, he'll be happy if you just pay attention to him during the job.

What happens at night is a secret.

Well, a secret until this town catches onto him.

Once that happens he sadly has to rush things.

He's been making good progress with you and has been watching you at night for quite awhile.

About time he reveals the truth to you, yeah?

Imagine this;

A figure slips through your window ever so quietly.

He doesn't want to kill you, if anything he plans to take you with him as he moves to a new town.

He inches towards your room before entering, hovering over you as you rest.

When you stir you slightly open your eyes.

Only to see a silhouette.

Your eyes then shoot open upon seeing him, the figure in a ghostly cowl giving you a friendly wave.

"Hey there baby, it's me... missed me?"

As you try to run he restrains you in your bed, body sitting on top of you as he grins under the mask.

It's at this point he tells you who he is and his real name.

However, before he can take you away, fog fills the room.

Your scream rings in his ears, it's a pleasant sound to him...

However Danny feels rather upset when he wakes up in a new realm.

Where is he? Did he lose you?

Fortunately, Danny hears your voice and screams echo in the distance...

It's then he gives chase... all to look for his dearest in this newfound game.

#yandere dead by daylight #yandere dbd #yandere ghostface #yandere danny johnson

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nctdreams4me · 1 year

Text

In Service of Mr Wayne

Synopsis: I need to do my part in protecting Gotham City - my home - from further decay and corruption. What I discover at the long abandoned Wayne Manor is beyond anything I am prepared for...6 nameless men, coming into the light as I uncover the truth about a legend, and my own past...

Pairing: Y/N (Femme/She/Her) X NCT U "The BAT" subunit (Johnny/Yuta/Jungwoo/Hendery/Jeno/Jisung)

Genre: Mystery Thriller Smut, Mostly PWP, Crappy Depictions of Batman lore so please DC/Batman fans don't read this. I did no research and superheroes are not my strong suit.

Word Count: 7k+

Rating: Explicit Sex, Mature, PWP, 18+ ONLY

Warnings: Gangbang, Blow Jobs, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Spit Roasting (I think ToT), Double Penetration, Cream Pie, Cum Swallowing, filth I wrote in a sleep deprived state

Author's Note: Someone has to have written a better "The BAT" smut piece, please, someone tell me there are fics based off this video already? ToT Cuz look....I am in NO state to be writing this sort fic.

I wrote this in like 4 hours IDK what else to say. I just needed to purge this out of my system. Take it for what it is, me being horny for NCT ToT PS. Sorry for everything, I barely edited it. I wrote this just a few hours ago. I should be in bed. Enjoy.

* * *

The night air was still, not even a breeze. With the clouds covering the moon, darkness cloaked the manor that sat at the top of the hill overlooking the sea. I tried my best to blend into the quiet atmosphere as I pressed the pass code to the gate, one careful digit at a time, ears straining for any sort of noises.

The loud creaking from the metal gate doors sent my heart jumping around like the Trix rabbit after getting a bite of that sweet processed fruit shaped cereal. Looking around, the night remained black, even my feet before me difficult to make out, grey shapes I hoped wasn’t a trap just about to stun me into unconsciousness.

A new pass code at the front door before I heard the giant oak doors unlock. Gloved hand pushing the door, I entered into the empty mansion of retired billionaire, Bruce Wayne.

Or that was what he wanted the public to believe.

I received an anonymous tip about Mr. Wayne hiding his hobbyist life. Did his broken body really come from a random car collision?

Or had the elusive billionaire gotten his body mangled behind the private walls of Wayne Corp?

It was up to the truth seekers of Gotham City to figure out the honestly of these stories.

My filthy, corrupted city - the only place I ever called home - was undeserving of deceit and exploitation. It was the local folks like my family and neighbors who helped me work my way up in life.

Despite our broken down apartment and dangerous streets that we called home, my community supported me through school and I’d gotten a step up in life by landing a job at the Gotham Gazette.

Sure, I’m just the mail delivery girl on the 7th floor - but I’d received a white, unmarked envelope in my locker. Inside was a dark, blurry grey picture of what looked like 6 bodies (shapes, to be honest) standing at the edge of a cliff, miles high above the ocean. The only writing was on the back of the picture. “Outside Wayne Manor” with a date just 3 days before.

Below were 3 sets of 7 digit numbers.

I’ve always thought there was something funny about Gotham’s philanthropic CEO, but I was still in high school when Mr. Wayne announced his retirement after recovering from a life altering car accident. He moved away to enjoy his retirement with his broken back in Madagascar.

Almost a decade later, suddenly there’s a suspicious picture with 3 sets of numbers sent to me? I knew I’d been a bit chatty about wanting to get a chance to get a journalist role at Gotham Gazette, but so did half of the interns at the place.

I had to figure out the truth, and I hated my job, so I’d spent all my free time studying the history of Wayne manor. Allegedly, Mr. Wayne had sold the land off to a company based in South Korea, but the sale happened around his retirement. I couldn’t find the name of the company (or any human names) from my research.

The place seemed untouched. No news or announcement on any new developments. It was like Mr. Wayne left the property to rot.

I should have told someone about my investigation. But then again, I didn’t even know if I’d find anything. I was surprised the pass codes worked. It was instinctual to enter the numbers at the gate and door. Now that I was inside, I could text my best friend. Let them know where I was and why I was there.

But before I could take my phone out of my bag, I heard voices in the distance. Turning away from the closed front door, I saw light in the distance. Like there was an area down the hallway toward the right side that had a lamp light on.

Quietly, I walked carefully toward the light source, listening for more noises. The voices were too far away to make out but there was more than two people inside the manor.

Walking down the hallway, I took a quick glance around. The manor looked pristine, like it’d been cleaned from top to bottom regularly. Fully furnished, room to room, but eerily quiet and still.

Making it to the end of the hallway, I saw a set of stairs leading downwards, the light source coming from below.

Taking my phone out, I took a picture of the stairway that led downwards. It looked like it had appeared behind a sliding wall of some kind. A hidden entrance.

Slowly, left hand holding my phone out, I entered. I heard voices echoing along the giant cave.

“...days til we can unleash Batman Project 9.0 -”

“No one agreed on that as the title.”

“Johnny!”

“Hey, c’mon guys. We have to get all the cars into the cave before sunrise. This is Robin’s most important project.”

Step by step on the metal stairs, I got more and more insight into Mr Bruce Wayne’s secret hobby. He was…he was the Caped Crusader, the…

“It’s the Batman,” I blurted out, eyes falling to the symbol of the Batman - long wings with pointed tips inside a thick oval - adorned on a giant wall, red light adorned over the white sheet of the Batman symbol.

“Who the fuck are you?” There were a pair of hands on my shoulders from behind, pushing me forward. I gasped, losing my footing. “Johnny, did you order a seventh member?”

Making it to the bottom landing, I threw my hands out to catch onto the table, hip hitting the metal top. My eyes scanned the laptops and maps scattered on the table before going up to see four men standing before me.

All wearing black, all of them with hair slicked back. All tall and hovering over me. The tallest and broadest of the lot took a step forward, hands in his front pocket.

“You got her phone?” he asked, eyes on me before darting behind my left shoulder.

“She took a picture.” The guy who’d push me had dark red hair, big black eyes scanning me in my skin tight leggings. His front was up against my back as he handed my phone to the guy across the table. “I had no idea anyone even knew of our arrival.”

“I-I’m from the Gotham Gazette,” I said, trying to step away from the hot body behind me. I cleared my throat, standing up straight. “I-I got a tip that there was something going on here. Th-this is Mr Wayne’s mansion. W-what are you doing here? The people of Gotham deserve to know. When Mr. Wayne left, Batman did too. We always suspected-but-I”

My neck craned around as I took in the cave. Cars, guns, protective gear, too many screens and gadgets for me to take much else in.

“Well, we can’t have you revealing the truth of the Batman,” the tall guy holding my phone said. He handed my phone to another handsome man, before running a hand over his mouth, eyes scanning me. Less menacingly than the red haired guy. “If you want the protection like Mr Wayne and the Batman provided all those years ago, we can’t have you leave here. Not until we know what to do with you. Not until we launch the new Batman program. You’ll get a team of Batmans to help take care of your city. That’s what you want, right?”

I took a step back, seeing him step forward, but I ran right back into the red haired guy, his front hotter than just a moment ago.

“C’mon Johnny, she’s cute.” He planted his hands on the table, caging me into his arms. “We can get good PR if she works for the Gazette.”

“We can’t just let her loose based on her word,” the guy named Johnny said, hands back into his pants pockets.

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t say anything to anyone,” one of the men behind him stepped forward. Milky skin, intense glare in his eyes as his hands fisted at his sides. “I can take care of a small thing like that.”

“Hey, I have a name.” I balled my own hands into fists. I'm not afraid to let these strangers know who I am. I have nothing to hide. I told them as much, giving them my name, telling them exactly how long I've lived on earth in Gotham, knowing my love and care for the rotten city went deeper than any of these strangers.

“We aren’t here to hurt you,” someone spoke up behind me. A beautiful man with pouty pink lips walked down the stairs, big eyes staring at me. “We want to clean up Gotham, too. We were all orphans. What do you think Mr Wayne did when he retired?”

“He…” I looked around. One tall handsome man after another. First one, Johnny. He was the only one with a name. Behind stood the man with the intense stare, his eyes making your heart beat faster. A taller guy stood behind him fiddling with a switchblade in his hands. Behind you stood the hot bodied red head and the beautiful pouty lipped stranger. “He raised an army of new Batmans?”

“So far only six of us,” Johnny said. He held a hand out, as if offering for me to take it. “I need you to trust us. We want to help. I’m Johnny.”

“I’m Jeno,” said the guy with the intense stare. His demeanor softened as Johnny shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t mind Jeno,” the one with switchblade said, throwing an arm around Jeno’s neck. “He’s more bark than bite. I’m Hendery.”

“Yuta, if you want to know my name,” the red haired guy said as he refused to let up space between us. His hand touched my hip. I stepped away, almost colliding into the pouty pink lipped guy. “Shy.”

“Come on Yuta, be nice.” The pouty lipped beauty gestured for me to take Johnny’s hand. “I’m Jungwoo.”

“Meet our young savant, Jisung,” Johnny said when I took his hand once more, stepping away from Yuta. He led me deeper into the cave, down a small set of stairs and toward an opening behind a dark corner. “Jisung! We made a new friend.”

I stopped, back colliding against Yuta as he remained behind me. He looked much older than I last remembered.

Jisung.

Handsome with muscular arms as a man. Sparkling eyes still soft with his pointed chin and high cheekbones. He belonged with his five handsome friends. All making me blush as they stared at me.

“Y-you’re supposed to meet us tomorrow,” he said. “Didn’t you get my letter? Who let you in?”

“You sent me that letter?” I wanted to punch his arm like when we were little, neighbors who played together. He could have simply come over to my place and explained. “There was nothing in there!”

His eyes scrunched up with his nose as he threw a hand to his forehead.

“I forgot to put the letter in with the picture.” He sighed, staring at me. My whole body flared up, seeing his eyes scan down and up my body. “At least Haechan dropped it into the right locker. You’re smart, figuring it all out with just the picture-not that I expected anything less from you.”

“Well, I did solve all the riddles in class,” I said, standing up straight. “What the hell is going on? Are you really bringing back the Batman?"

“I heard you needed help getting a foot into the Gotham Gazette, so why not team up with us?” he said. “I told Johnny I could get good PR with you.”

“This is-” I looked around the room, dozens of vehicles lined up neatly in the garage, domed walls making me feel like I could fall over at any second, “-impressive. What am I supposed to do?” “Tell the truth about what’s really happening with the criminals working with the corrupt cops and politicians,” Johnny replied. “We’ll have a security team work with you. Ensure no one’s following you or trying to breach into your phone and private affairs. We plan to keep your contacts anonymous and safe too.”

“And how am I supposed to trust you?”

“Come on,” Jisung said, walking closer to you. “I stayed up all night watching over you that night your parents were gone. No one to look after us but each other.”

“And then you left me without a goodbye!”

Like the pain of losing a pet when I was little, I didn’t know how long I’d missed it until I saw Jisung staring at me with such a deep voice, eyes refusing to look away from me. My tears were wiped away with Jisung’s thumbs as he held my face in his palms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lips against mine. Breathing mint into my mouth, taking over my senses. “We were kids. I didn’t know how to find you. Not until I returned.”

“Until now?!” His arms were around me, lips pressing against mine. I wanted him to keep kissing me, my arms wrapping around his neck.

“So don’t leave me.” His lips on my neck, he whispered my name against me. “Stay. Stay with me.”

“With us,” Yuta said. I held onto Jisung tighter as I felt a hand on my lower back. “You have to tell her, Jisung.”

“Tell me what?” I asked, pulling away from Jisung, standing up straight to look into his eyes. “Jisung? Tell me what?”

“You have to earn our trust too,” Johnny said. “Jisung vouched for you, we did a background check, but I have a strict third rule in terms of trust.”

Jisung took a step back as Johnny stood before me, hands going to my hips. His hands roamed down my ass before gliding up my sides and his long fingers fondled my breasts. Hands grazing down my back and between my thighs. Down my calves before he stood up and pressed his body against me.

“You seem clean,” he said, fingers pulling my chin up to stare into his eyes. “If you’re not in the Batman program I can only trust you if you can handle all six of us.”

“W-what?” I snorted. “Straight out of Pornhub. What a convenient rule to throw onto me when I’m alone with 6 strong men.”

“Yeah, more or less,” Johnny said, hands on my hips as he pressed his front against me, hot cock hardening against my stomach. “You were a stupid fucking girl to sneak in here in the dead of night. Trespassing on private property. Honestly, I’d cage you up for that. But since you’re Jisung’s friend, this is considered a gift.”

“Jisung.” My eyes darted over to him, right behind Johnny. My heart beat thrumming against my throat as I felt Yuta’s breath at the crook of my neck, his cock poking against my ass. “You’re not…you’re not going to-” “Rules are rules.” Jisung's eyes were cold as he unbuckled the fastening at the wrist of his leather gloves. “I know you can handle this. You’re a fighter. We need fighters on our side.”

The confidence he had in me helped me take in a deep inhale, shaky breath outwards as my hands went under Johnny’s pants, helping him untuck his shirt.

“Fast learner, I like that,” he said, hands helping me unbutton his shirt. “Get down on your sexy knees and suck some dick.”

My whole head was spinning. Hands gliding down Johnny’s thick thighs as I dropped down to my knees. The words and affection of these men was convincing me to help Gotham out by using my body.

If I had to use my mouth on six cocks, I could do it. Prove to Jisung that I was as resilient as he believed me to be.

Johnny exhaled loud and slow as I planted kisses on his hard abs. Fingers undoing his belt buckle and zipper, palms stroking his long, thick cock. It was hot as it grew in my fist. A soft giggle escaped as I looked up at Johnny, seeing him bite his lip.

Hands massaging my scalp. He was impatient as one palm pressed against the back of my head, shoving my mouth against his wet, musky cock. Tongue licking along his length, I inhaled his taste. Licked and sucked his balls as I stroked his thick hairy cock.

“Fuck, keep it up.” He was lost in loud inhales and exhales, eyes shut as I put the tip into my mouth, sucking softly like I needed to drink up the contents inside his thick meat. “Shiit.”

I ate up more of him as I sucked in. Slowly sinking his cock in, inch by inch. Hoping my throat didn’t constrict until I had him in more than halfway. Hand massaging his balls, I gagged as his tip shoved down my throat, no air as it constricted.

“Don’t you fucking forget me,” I spat out as I stroked him fast, my slimy bubbly saliva all over his hairy cock. I sucked on his tip again, tongue swirling around the sensitive pink mushroom. “Who’s next?”

I looked over my shoulder to see Yuta undoing his pants. He’d been horny for me the second he laid eyes on me. I couldn’t wait to see if he could handle me.

I stood, pushing Johnny away as his fingers tugged at my jacket. I slipped it off, letting it fall to the floor as I walked over to Yuta, pushing him to sit onto the roof of a shiny black Porsche.

“Fucking pervert,” I breathed against his lips as his hands palmed my ass. “Haven’t been able to keep your hands off me, can you? Can’t wait to let me suck you dry?”

“Prove it.” His hands fell to his side as my hands went under his shirt to feel his abs. He was soft, smooth. A scent like ocean breeze and cloves right up into my sinuses as we kissed, my left hand slipping down his front to find a smooth, warming cock. “Anyone can choke on a giant cock.”

“Fuck you,” Johnny said. He groaned as I heard the wet noises of him stroking himself. “You’re going to cum the second she licks your balls.”

“Let’s see,” I said, smiling up at Yuta as he grabbed my hair, tugging my neck back. I whined, hands grasping onto his thighs for leverage. “Asshole.”

“Suck it,” he cooed out gently. Hissing with a loud exhale as I swirled my tongue around his tip. It poked against the left side of my cheek. I glided my tongue up against his sweet cock. Gathering saliva in my hand to stroke his base. “Fuck, you’re no fucking joke.”

I lifted his cock as I sucked his left nut before licking the right, using both hands to massage his shaft and tip.

“You’re a greedy fuck,” I said as I stood up, continuing to massage his tip with the tips of my fingers. “All about you and everything all over your cock.”

He pulled me in for a kiss, arms wrapping around my waist. Pervert sucking up my spit, making it a point to get a good taste of Johnny as his tongue explored my mouth.

“Go on, pick the next one,” Yuta said, releasing me, hands pulling my sweater off. “Whose dick will taste better than mine? Hm?”

I felt a hand palm my left breast, feeling blood rush up to my brain, making it hard for me to focus. A soft kiss on my shoulder as a pair of hands led me out of Yuta’s hot hold.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Jungwoo said, hands unhooking my bra from behind. “Press those pretty tits between my dick. Johnny, can I cum on her face?”

He looked away from me, standing up straight as he looked over at Johnny.

“You just want a titty job?” Johnny asked.

“We’re only cumming once?”

My whole body flared up like I'd been struck by lightning as I looked down at Jungwoo tugging his pants off. His pink cock wasn’t as hairy or thick as Johnny’s, but he was much longer than Yuta.

I was beginning to look forward to comparing the taste of their cocks. See whose cock fit my mouth the best. Jungwoo began pulling his clothes off, eyes on my body as he reached out to palm my tit.

“Jungwoo,” I said, hand reaching up to caress his muscular arms, “your body is amazing.”

“Thank you,” he said, face flushing pink. “I don’t have tits like you. Your body is amazing.”

I laughed against his lips as he pulled my body against his. His kisses were soft, he moaned when his tongue parted my lips.

“I’d love your tits around my dick,” he requested softly, hand stroking my neck.

I wanted to suck his dick dry, because he was so soft and gentle, but if he wanted a titty fuck…

I got down onto my knees, hands cupping my breasts as I wrapped them around his wet, squiggly cock. Holding my tits firmly around Jungwoo, I spat out to get some lube onto his tip.

The whole room was filled with low groans. My head snapped up as I saw all six men staring at me.

In that moment, spit gliding down between my tits and Jungwoo’s cock, I finally realized that I was fucking 6 guys.

All of them enjoying the sight of me.

Jungwoo moaned, hands scooping my hair up into a ponytail as his left hand held my hair secure. His hips thrust against me.

“So pretty,” he panted, praising me continually as his cock lit up my chest. “So fucking pretty. Your tits. Lovely.”

“My turn,” Jeno said loudly, hand wrapping around my arm as I felt Jungwoo’s breathing grow shallow. “Jesus, Jungwoo, learn to hold it in longer.”

Jungwoo’s whimpered, shriveling as I left his body. On my feet, I couldn’t stop staring at Jungwoo. Sweat was gliding down his bare chest, perfect nipples hardened as he nodded at me. Fighting to keep his eyes open as he breathed heavily through his mouth.

“I’ll cum later.”

“Pretty, pretty lips,” Jeno said softly as he pushed me to sit on top of a black Ferrari. Fingers groping my cheeks as his palm pressed up against my chin. “Been a while since I’ve had such pretty lips on my cock.”

My eyes shut, feeling his sweet sugary lips over mine. His mouth was clean, free from the cock musk of his 3 friends. I sucked on his lips, loving the sweetness over my sinuses and taste buds. He moaned onto my tongue as my hands palmed his stiff cock through his pants.

“More bark than bite,” I breathed against his neck before sucking on his porcelain skin. Tongue gliding up against his Adam’s apple, feeling his heartbeat against the tip of my tongue. “Make sure you never forget these pretty lips.”

He was quick to be rid of all of his clothes. He pulled me up to my feet before he pulled my leggings and panties off, stating I needed to be naked for him.

Kissing up and down his shaft, I shut my eyes, savoring the special earthy taste of Jeno. He was like a woodsy forest, dewy and mossy, filling my senses with his calming scent. Smooth cock, thick and hot against my lips.

Licking up and down his big dick, I opened my eyes to see him with furrowed eyebrows, mouth hanging open with intense focus on me. Lips finding the thick blue vein on the left side of his cock, I sucked on it gently before licking my tongue against it, savoring the way the vein pulsed angrily against my taste buds.

Fingers from both of his hands fisted into my hair as I swallowed his tip, loosening my jaws, wanting to take all of him in. He breathed evenly as he shoved my head back and forth on his cock.

“So fucking pretty,” he panted, grip on my hair tightening, sending blood right up to my scalp as he thrust his tip back and forth against my throat, paying no mind to me gagging and spitting onto him, “Jungwoo’s right, you’re so fucking pretty.”

He released my hair as my hands pushed against his hips. I coughed inhaling air, mouth free from his thick cock. Hands stroking him as I blinked away tears from my eyes. My entire vision blurred when I was choking on his cock. My nipples and clit were throbbing, wanting a cock to be rough on my pussy too.

“Saving the best for last,” Hendery said, hands smooth as he pulled off his black leather vest, revealing a tan body, six pack abs glistening with sweat. Pecks smooth and firm. “Consider me warm up for your childhood friend.”

Jeno had me in his arms as he planted kisses onto my tits. An electric jolt hit my clit as Jeno wrapped his mouth around my left tit and sucked hard on it. My mind blanked as my whole focus fell onto the unbearable pain of Jeno grinding his teeth onto my swollen nub.

I moaned, feeling another mouth clamp around my right breast. Hendery sucked hard, his teeth giving my right tit the same pleasure Jeno gave my left.

“She’s good,” Hendery said through gritted teeth, hand shoving against Jeno’s chest.

I giggled, hands holding onto Hendery’s shoulders as he stepped me away from Jeno’s possessive hold. His lips went to suck on my neck before landing over my lips. Hand on my chin, he broke our kiss. Lips almost as sweet as Jeno.

His hands roamed down my back, groping my ass before caressing my sides and tits. His mouth returned to my tits, eyes barely open as he continually kissed and licked my fleshy mounds. I shut my eyes, blood rushing up my back when he made eye contact with me, tongue licking my left tit.

“I want to play with you so much,” he said softly, fingers pressing up against my slit. My hips shook as I pushed myself closer to him. “Show me how good you can suck my dick, first. Kinky little thing.”

Obedient to his gentle order, I got down onto my knees, hands helping him tug his pants down as he sat down onto the table. Shutting my eyes as I wrapped my mouth around his citrusy musk, like inhaling oranges as his tip twitched down my throat, tickling my tonsils.

“Yes, so good.” His soft hisses encouraged me to keep bobbing back and forth. The taste of his cock was addictive, I wanted to keep sucking, as if his cock was an orange creamsicle. I wanted the foamy white stuff. “Fuck.”

His voice pitched up high, palm resting at the crown of my head as I sucked faster, left hand massaging his balls.

“How do you like it?” I asked, inhaling loudly when I let go of his tasty cock. My tongue lapped up sloppily against his balls as I fisted his shaft, stroking fast, chest swelling as Hendery’s hips shook and he whined. “Kinky enough for you, Hendery?” “Better not cum,” Johnny spoke up. “Hend, get it together man.”

“She’s a good cock sucker.” Hendery groaned, hands on my shoulders to pull me away from his cock. My jaw was hurting, knees feeling numb and raw, but the shy half smile he gave me sent a sharp surge of energy into me. I wanted to keep sucking him off. Find out if Hendery’s cum tasted as good as his cock. “Fuck, you’re a good cock sucker.”

“Thank you,” was all I could say, cheeks flushing.

“Come on.” Soft baritone reverberating down my spine as a pair of hot hands pulled at my hips, away from Hendery. “I’ve dreamed of this moment for months.”

“Jisung.” I turned around to see him with sweaty hair, damp tendrils falling over his eyes. I moaned as his fingers glided up and down my sides. His hand landed on my shoulder. “I-i…are you sure you want to do this with me?” His hand over my right led me to his stiff cock, smooth and hot. His eyes closed, his head tilted up into the air, hissing as I stroked down on him. I kept stroking him, feeling tears welling at the corners of my eyes.

Chest shaking, I wanted to please Jisung. I wanted to taste him. I knew he’d taste better than anyone else, but…

Blinking away the tears, I fell to my knees. Mouth kissing his tip, I laughed against his cock as it twitched. Tongue swirling around his tip, I stroked the bottom of his shaft before kissing his cock well. I wanted to know every centimeter of his cock against my lips, never forget Jisung’s cock.

His groan rang deep into me when I pushed his cock into my mouth. Thick tip engulfing the entirety of my mouth as I tried to suck in more. Tongue lapping up against him as best as I could. Savoring his earthy musk, licking up his bitter sweat. Making my mouth pool, pussy just as wet.

Tears leaking out the corners of my eyes as I looked up at him, hands massaging his balls. I tried to steadily suck his cock, but I felt a shiver ride up my back.

Releasing him, I let out a sob. I landed down on my ass, legs tucked under me as I wiped my tears away. Jisung called out my name, stooping down to pick me up.

I felt at least 3 pairs of hands on my body as I got onto my feet. Shaking my head, I thought of the glint of pride in his eyes when he said he needed a fighter.

“Fuck me, Jisung,” I said, sitting on the edge of the table. “Anywhere and any way. Who wants the other hole?” “Fuck, look at how kinky you are,” Hendery said, body pressed up against my left side, fingers fondling my folds. He hissed when I moaned, body hot with pleasure. “I knew you were kinky.”

“Yuta’s got dibs on the asshole,” Yuta said, pulling me back onto my feet.

“Of course.” I laughed as I felt his arms wrap around my waist, lips on my neck.

Yuta laid down onto the edge of the Porsche, hand fisting his cock, keeping himself hard. Jisung helped me get onto the car, hands unable to stop groping my body, fingers teasing my folds. Lips on my body as I laid on top of Yuta, back to Yuta.

My mind blanked as Jisung stood over me, bending over so he can position his cock against my pussy. Looking up at him, seeing sweat drip down his chin, gliding down the sides of his face, my whole body throbbed along to Yuta’s heartbeat underneath me. Head falling against Yuta’s chest as I felt Jisung's thick cock slide into my wet hole.

“Sucking that much dick makes you wet.” Jisung grunted, hands firmly holding onto my hips. I mewled, feeling him go in deeper, cock squirming as my walls enveloped him. Palming my tit, he nodded as he stilled inside of me. “Fucking precious cunt, you're mine.”

“Ji-jisung,” I moaned. Eyes shut, my hands squeezed his arms as I felt Yuta guiding the tip of his cock into my ass. “Yuta, y-you didn’t-lube-or-prep-”

“I’ll be slow,” he breathed against my ear. The knots in my stomach twirled tight as I felt two throbbing cocks fill both my holes. “So tight.”

“Get to sucking,” Johnny ordered, hand fisting my hair as he directed my mouth to his cock. He stood beside the low sitting car, cock right against my face. I moaned, refusing to break eye contact with him as I took more of him in, trying my best to loosen my throat and jaws. He groaned, controlling me with his fist in my hair. “Good girl. I’ll trust you when you swallow my cum.”

My entire body was ablaze. All I could focus on was trying to breathe through my nose as Johnny’s massive cock assaulted my throat, my neck straining. Senses overloaded as I struggled to breathe or taste anything but Johnny's salty cock.

My pussy was aching. Jisung didn’t give any shits how Yuta’s cock was affecting me. His thrusts were relentlessly fast as he chased for his release. Hands kneading my tits as he groaned out praises over how good my pussy was. Moaning around Johnny’s cock, he benefitted from the ways Jisung fucked me.

Yuta’s ragged breaths shaking under me sent chills deep into me, slow careful thrusts against my asshole creating deep ripples of pressure into my guts. Relentlessly slow and pleasurable, I moaned onto Johnny’s cock again.

My grip on Jisung’s thighs tightened as I felt Johnny’s hot cum spurt into my mouth. Holding my head still with both hands Johnny grunted as he shoved his cock down my throat.

“Swallow it,” he commanded, voice sharp. “Swallow.”

Obeying I gulped as best as I could with his cock keeping my mouth open. Gulping again when his cock left. He laughed as he got down and kissed me, tongue lapping all over lips and chin. He hummed against my lips before letting me go.

“Fuck, Jisung, she’s one hell of a fuck.” Johnny’s heavy panting intensified the shivers down my back with every thrust of Yuta’s throbbing cock inside my asshole. “Fuck, get to it Jungwoo.”

Yuta cummed, hips thrusting up hard, interrupting Jisung’s fast strokes. I gasped, whining as Yuta’s tip pressed up hard into me. Such a hard thrust, it felt like he hit the back of my cervix. I barely had mind to notice Jisung getting off, cursing as he glared at Yuta.

I whined, feeling Yuta’s cum heat up my ass. Eyes shut, I bit my bottom lip as the tingles rode up my back into my guts.

It wasn’t until his lips were against me did I realize that Jisung had me in his arms. Yuta had given me to Jisung once he got his release.

What a fucking gentleman.

Jisung’s soft lips on me brought my mind back to him. I wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking him gently, hoping he hadn’t gotten hurt with Yuta’s greedy fucking.

“Jeno, let her sit on your lap.” Jisung let me go as he looked over to Jeno. He smiled, hand fisting his cock. “Put on a good show.”

“About fucking time,” Jeno said, taking my hands as he sat down on the Ferrari. Hands fondling my breasts as he pulled me onto his lap. “Gorgeous body. Soft tight pussy. Let’s get it, Jungwoo.”

I shivered, heat riding down my back as Jeno’s teeth nipped my earlobe. Tongue gliding down the side of my neck. Left hand squeezing my tit as his right hand parted my legs wider with every soft caress down the inside of my thighs.

“Fuck.” I moaned, whimpering as the pads of his fingers stroked up and down against my aching clit. Tip of his middle finger sinking into my pussy. “Jeno, I like how you handle me.”

“I know,” he whispered against my ear, tongue teasing the shell, “so hot deep in here. For me, yeah? For me.”

I moaned as his finger went in deep, thumb rubbing against my clit. Lips on the pulse at the side of my neck, Jeno’s fingers left my pussy. Instantly, his cock was parting my lips, tip prodding against my clit.

“Time to multitask,” Jungwoo said, stepping forward, eyes fixed on my face. His lovely, big brown eyes scanned down my body, long slender fingers massaging my tit. “So pretty, I want to see those pretty lips on me.”

“Yes Jungwoo.” One hand caressing his abs, fingers collecting his hot sweat as I curled them into a fist before laying my palm flat to marvel his abs again. My other hand wrapped around his long cock. Hot thing pulsating, wet with clear precum leaking out the tip.

Tip of my tongue flicking against his tip, I tried to rub my taste buds against him, taste every bit of Jungwoo. I want to see if I could get those giant puppy eyes to bulge out, surprised with how good my mouth is. He whimpered, hands gently bobbing my head up and down as he thrust against my mouth.

“Fuck, suck him good,” Jeno breathed out, hands on my hips as he bounced me on his cock. I whined onto Jungwoo’s cock as I felt Jeno’s middle finger flicking my clit. “Cum on my cock. Cum on me.”

Trying to stroke Jungwoo’s shaft as I sucked on his balls, I tried not to get lost in the way Jeno’s cock was sending mind melting thrusts into me. Giant cock rearranging my insides as his fingers mashed my clit around like an elevator button.

I sucked hard when Jungwoo came, his hands holding onto my head as he stilled. Cute thing was silent when his cock softened in my mouth. His beautiful long fingers caressed my cheeks as he let me go. Silently walking away to pick up his clothes as Jeno stood us up.

He turned us around, my knees and palms hitting the top if the Ferrari. Hands on my hip Jeno pushed himself balls deep into me. One hand reaching for my right tit, he thrust back and forth hard. First time, I cried as the motions of his cock turned my vision red. Second time, we moaned together as he pulled me up against him, hand kneading my tit.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he panted, hand on my shoulder to push me forward, forcing me to plant my hands against the Ferrari again. Left hand on my hip as his hips slapped my ass. “Make me cum.”

“Jeno!” He spanked me. First on the right side and then the left.

“Tight cunt,” he panted with a guffaw. He kept spanking me with his cast iron skillet palms, red heat reverberating so deep into me my insides shook like Quasimodo ringing the bells of Notre Dame. My walls constricted around his cock again. He groaned as he quickened his pace. “Fuck, make me cum.”

By his own accord, he came as he spanked my asscheeks into bright red hot plates. Cock heating up hotter - like thick molten lava - in my belly before he pulled out and spilled his cum over my ass, smearing his cock against my thighs when he finished cumming. All I could feel and smell was Jeno's musk. Body reverberating with undiluted pleasure.

“Territorial shit,” Hendery said, pulling me away from Jeno. “You don’t always have to mark things when you cum.”

“Get it over with,” Jeno panted out, sitting back down onto the hood of the now fucked up Ferrari, eyes barely open. Sweaty back making squeaky noises as he laid down on it, completely naked.

Hendery rested his back against another black car - another Ferrari - as he kissed me. His soft kisses sent calming shivers down my body. His gentle touches on my body relaxing my muscles.

“Don’t think I’m done with you,” Jisung breathed against my ear before I felt him kiss the back of my shoulder.

I yelped, honeyed swoon as he tugged my ass against him, hand on my lower back guiding me to lean down closer to Hendery’s cock. Hendery’s citrusy musk consumed my senses as I took hold of his cock, licking up against the underside of his wet stick. My tongue glided over the parting of his ballsack, sucking up his sweet fresh musk as I felt Jisung glide his cock against the puffy lips of my pussy.

Hips shaking, I was ready to cum. Moaning into Hendery’s cock, I thrust my hips back, wanting Jisung’s cock to ruin me.

They both praised me as Hendery moaned at my mouth sucking on his smooth cock and Jisung sunk his cock into my wet pussy. Stroking Hendery hard, I licked around his tip, hoping he would come fast. My mouth was aching and my back was shaking, legs feeling weak.

Most of all I wanted to savor Jisung fucking me. His cock was heating my insides like the best cup of coffee on a chilly winter morning. Keeping me comfortably warm with every stroke into me.

Without warning, Hendery cummed into my mouth. Hands keeping my head still as he ordered me to swallow him.

“Swallow it good,” he said, similarly to Johnny. “Swallow, good girl. Good - fucking - girl.”

He fondled my breasts - soft fingers rolling my sensitive nubs around like marbles - as Jisung continued to fuck me. My hands grasped onto Hendery’s hips as I shut my eyes, moaning as Jisung’s cock radiated up into my stomach and up to my chest.

Hips thrusting against Jisung, I moaned as my entire body was hot and sweaty, lost in complete sex and lust. The stench of all 6 men all over me with my own sloppy sex all over the Bat Cave.

My back was pressed to Jisung’s front as he bent over, fingers intertwined with mine as he wrapped our arms around my waist. His thrusts were relentless, hips slapping roughly against my ass. He grunted, arms pulling me tighter against him as he came. Cum lighting up inside me, dripping down my legs.

"Jisung." I inhaled shakily as his cock left me. I fell to my knees, palms against the concrete to catch my fall. "Holy fuck, Jisung."

“You did great,” Jisung panted out, throwing a large trench coat over my shoulders, picking me up in his arms. “I told you, you’re a fighter.”

“Jisung,” I panted out, eyes roaming over the Batman symbol on the wall behind us adorned on the wall, “do you trust me now?"

Forehead against mine he nodded. A soft kiss on the lips. A calming warmth rode over my aching body, completely stuffed with cum. Sex filth all over me as all six Johnny, Yuta, Jungwoo, Hendery, Jeno and Jisung left me in ruins. Comfortably in Jisung’s arms.

"For today."

* * * THE END * * * Thank U 4 Reading! Like, reblog and send in Ask if you liked it!

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secretlyaraven · 2 months

Text

Little Sounds of Pain

That tadpole had been your bittersweet salvation. Cursed for a bargain not of your own doing, damned by those you called family, and doomed with the knowledge that one day, each and every one of the vessels in your body would rupture. Your life forfeit at the hands of those you once cared so dear.

Spawn Astarion x Tav (Gender Neutral Reader)

w/c: 12.5k . ao3 . song . 18+ only . nsfw Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

a/n: Not my first bg3 fic but certainly my longest, this will be three parts split across the acts. Updates may be slow as I've a busy couple of months ahead, and this has been in the works for about 5 months? I hope you enjoy!

tags: canon typical violence, blood drinking, angst, hurt and little comfort (later chapters), cursed tav/reader, death

One morning you woke to your nose bleeding. Blood coagulating in your throat as you retched up the sticky mass.

With a resigned sigh, you had slumped at the foot of your bed; staring blankly at the ceiling as a gentle trickle seeped into your mouth.

This occurred for a week, each day brought a more violent bleed and new symptoms.

The next had been the bruises, dark purple welts developing in the soft of your flesh; painless, but a reminder that this body was not to last.

On the seventh day you finally glanced in the mirror, at first you did not recognise yourself; skin pallid, spiderlike blooms of red spread across your cheeks, the once white sclera now a deep crimson.

“I don’t suit red”, you laughed almost bitterly.

On what you felt to be your final day, you left the small room you called home; locking the door behind you as you pulled your cloak tighter around yourself; shielded from the would be stares of passerby’s.

What a lovely day it was, if not for the obvious.

The gentle warming your skin. The sound of vendors setting up their stalls for the day. One of the many local children shouting headlines from the Gazette.

It was perfect.

Yet that almost tranquillity was shattered like a club to bone.

A looming shadow.

Piercing screams.

The distant thunder of the belltower.

Your feet carried you as fast as they could, lungs burning like a wildfire as you stumbled to the ground. Chest tight, you gripped at your shirt as you gasped; a familiar copper taste filling your mouth.

That shadow grew larger.

Darker.

Then there was nothing but darkness.

You remember the parasite, the way it screeched at you, tendrils reaching towards your eye; the way it gripped and slithered over the globe, leaving an uncomfortable cold ache as it nestled behind your optic nerve.

Things were a blur, the nautiloid was attacked, you had dug your hands into an elf’s skull to free a brain; you’ll never forget how supple the flesh was, the squelch as fingers met tissue.

You made unlikely allies, a githyanki fighter, and a reticent cleric; an odd pairing for sure.

You should be dead, why do you care.

Yet here you were, traversing Avernus and ready to crash at any moment.

Honestly, the curse should have hurried up if this were to now be your fate.

Time moved impossibly fast, instinct kicked in as you hurtled towards the transponder, as your allies battled with imps and hellbeasts; creatures you never thought you’d see in your wildest dreams.

Grabbing hold of the fleshy nerves, you felt the spark between them and the jolt as the nautiloid warped itself through time and space. Weightless as your body failed to stay steady with the speed of the ship.

It was nauseating.

Without warning you were thrown out into cool nighttime air.

No longer did the smell of sulphur clog your nose, flames no longer licked at your skin.

But you were falling.

Rapidly.

Dizzying thoughts raced through your mind.

Is this the end? Has your fate finally caught up with you after your little excursion? Is this perhaps crueller? Why couldn’t things have been simple?

The impact did not come, but you did land rather ungracefully.

Woken by a throbbing behind your eye and a scream caught in your throat, you breathed in salt air, the feeling of fine sand and pebbles under your fingers, the gentle sound of the ebb and flow of waves.

You were alive, that’s for certain, but everything else? Unsure. You were a day past your death date and that fact sat uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach.

The earth was owed a body.

Bad things happen when debts are left unpaid.

You found the cleric from the nautiloid, a strange metal artefact lay next her; you heeded it no attention as you shook her awake.

“You look terrible.” She remarked, “and in desperate need of healing.”

You shook off her concern.

“It’ll pass.” You lied easily, she looked unconvinced.

Two tadpole infected heads were better than one the pair of you had decided, your new charge; to rid yourselves of the parasite.

Thus began your new borrowed life.

The next tadpole host you met was a pale elf with a suspicious disposition, a dagger to the throat was not your usual greeting; yet here you were once again rolling in the dirt. His sharp laugh when you informed him the tadpole would turn you all into mindflayers had you raising an eyebrow.

His smile was too easy, and his gaze was hardened like stone; you recognised it for a lie.

Well, another companion to your merry band didn’t sound like a terrible idea. Liar or not.

“You look like you’re at death’s door.” The elf commented as the three of you set off in search for a healer.

“I’ve seen better days.”

“Clearly.”

Just how many people were infected with these parasites? A wizard with a kind gaze and a strained smile stuck in an ancient sigil, the githyanki from the nautiloid trapped by tieflings in a cage; a few persuasive words soon freed her.

A warlock known as the Blade of Frontiers, voice like honey and an uneasiness simmering under his skin. His kindness towards the tiefling children made something bitter twist within you. Few had shown you a kindness when your affliction started to dig its talons into your body.

You turned away, a scowl on your face.

“You look positively murderous.” Astarion tittered, wearing an all too amused smirk. “The bloodied eyes don’t help.”

You rolled said eyes, stepping in the direction where this supposed healer called Nettie was meant to be.

“A discerning feature of mine, I’m sure.”

Now, whilst Wyll’s kindness to the tiefling children had riled you, you couldn’t stand by and let a power drunk druid sentence a child to death; your own death sentence hung heavy over your head as you demanded the child be let go – perhaps to the ire of said druid.

Guilt would have eaten you alive had she died. The relief from her parents upon her return was palpable and soothed an open sore that had stung for years.

A small kindness in the world.

Nettie did not fill you with hope in the slightest, instead had you swear that should you start showing symptoms of ceremorphosis that you would poison yourself with wyvern toxin. You saw how Astarion physically recoiled in distaste at the suggestion, even Shadowheart wore a grimace. There was one ray of hope, Halsin, the missing Archdruid; squirreled away by goblins no doubt.

The search went on.

Murmurings of an upstart god called the Absolute were common conversation at camp, goblins having order amongst their ranks and acting on the orders of three leaders. These were strange times indeed, and stranger yet that with each elapsed day you still drew breath. Even the angry red of your sclera began to calm down, the bruises that had bloomed on your body had become smaller and there were no new instances of violent nosebleeds.

Your curse was in stasis, and you could only attribute it to the tadpole.

However, talk of removing it made you uneasy, you knew, should it be removed, you would succumb immediately; but nor did you want to become a mindflayer.

What was worse? Every single vessel rupturing, your nerves on fire as the world turns dark? Or to watch your body twist and warp into something unrecognisable, your soul lost forever and a pale imitation takes your place?

Your mood turned pensive, deciding to turn in early for the night. Your companions watched, some with mild concern as you dipped into your tent, bringing the flap down making it clear you did not wish to be disturbed.

A certain elf decided to ignore the clear sign, standing outside your tent as he gazed at his nails with practiced boredom.

“I must say, I didn’t think you’d be so upset about getting rid of our stowaways.”

“Who said I was upset?” You shot back, perhaps a tad too forcefully. You could hear the grin in Astarion’s voice.

“Darling, it was obvious.”

You peered out of your tent up at him, brows pinched.

“Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t think I will. But I will say this, something more going on with you, isn’t there?” His stare was scrutinising, head cocked to one side brow raised; gone was his usual arrogance, replaced with a curiosity that you weren’t sure came out of malice or a place of concern.

You regarded him for a moment, holding his stare.

“Goodnight Astarion.” You said as you retreated back into your tent.

“Urgh, really?” Came his petulant response, but he did leave soon after; you assume to join back with the others.

Another day, another infected. This time a tiefling burning hot as the hells; you remember her. On the frontlines of the Blood War, slicing and dicing through demons, a fierce rage in her screams. She was desperate. Her gaze held an indescribable hurt, but there was a softness to her that endeared you.

It was certainly no issue to you if a trio of “paladins” went missing, you had become awfully adroit with a dagger as of late.

As Karlach raged and burned hotter than imaginable, you wiped the blood from your dagger onto your trouser leg; a dash more wasn’t going to make a difference to the already saturated fabric.

“I’m in need of a bath.” You muttered, sheathing your dagger before you began to rummage through bags and sacks, a little bit of soap would be lovely whilst you grappled with the novelty of camp life.

“Aren’t we all.” Astarion lamented, idly picking at a lock; helping himself to the spoils inside. “I miss my oils; nothing like a nice smelling bath at the end of the day.”

“Aren’t you fancy.” You teased, stashing the bars of soap you had found into your pack; they didn’t smell particularly strongly of anything, but you couldn’t complain; simple pleasures and all.

“It’s the small luxuries in life, darling.”

An ex-sanguinated boar left brazenly in your path was not on the list of things you had expected to see. The poor thing had been completely drained, as you knelt next to the creature you eyed two neat puncture marks in its neck.

“Strange, not many creatures can completely drain a carcass.”

Astarion shifted uncomfortably, huffing as you examined the boar.

“The pig’s dead my friend. Staring at it won’t bring it back.”

You glanced back at him, eyes narrowing.

“Come on. We’ll never fix these brainworms if we stop and gawk at every piece of carrion you find.”

“Give me a moment.” You said, taking a closer look at its neck. There was barely any blood surrounding the wound, just a light bit of bloodied matted fur.

“And? Is it dead enough for you.” You could hear the simmering frustration in Astarion’s voice, the way his eyes fixated on the boar and suddenly drifted when you locked onto him.

“You know something? Don’t you?” Your tone accusatory, your other companions’ gazes flitted between you and Astarion, you saw the way his eyes momentarily widened, his lips parting before that hardened stare crashed back down.

“I…” He hesitated, “it’s been drained of blood with wounds in its neck. It’s been killed by a vampire.” He glanced towards the boar before back at you. “I didn’t want to say anything because I… didn’t want to worry you. They’re ferocious creatures.”

Liar

“But don’t worry, I’ll keep watch tonight.” He assured. “We won’t have to worry about nocturnal visitors. Now please, let’s go.” That last part was said a little too quickly for your liking, he was trying to hurry you along, distract you.

You weren’t sure what he was hiding, but everyone has secrets; even you. It’d be hypocritical of you to judge; even if you didn’t trust whatever secret he kept tucked away.

Nocturnal visitors.

It would be almost funny if you didn’t have fangs inches away from your neck.

As Astarion swore and backed away, you rushed to your feet; glaring angrily at him.

“So it *was *you!” You hissed, “you snacked on that bloody boar we found.”

“It’s not what it looks like! I swear.” His body swayed, unbalanced, his expression a picture of guilt and embarrassment.

Under normal circumstances you might have enjoyed putting him on the spot.

But there was something deeply uncomfortable about this.

An element of desperation lingered in the air; you could almost taste it.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed – well, blood.”

In the dim firelight you caught a glimpse of two small protruding fangs, glinting in the light. The crimson of his eyes reflecting his sanguine nature.

“How long as it been since you last killed someone? How can I trust you not to kill any of us?” You shot back at him.

“I’ve never killed anyone!”

As Astarion regaled you of his usual feeding habits, a cool feeling washed over your mind; a momentary connection – his mind slipping over yours, half-truths revealed. You felt the nerves twinge and delved deeper, plucking at the fractured and errant memories.

The feeling of matted fur and congealed blood sat heavy on your tongue, you wanted to retch; all the while a commanding voice ordered you to feed.

“You – you fed on animals because you were forced to.” A sick feeling pooled in your stomach, unsure whether it was from the memory or from the invasiveness of what just transpired.

Astarion’s stare became cold, his frown deepened.

“Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I’m slow to trust you, besides…“ his tone took a lighter, more mischievous nature, “the connection goes both ways, darling. I’m not the only one with a secret.”

Paralysed to the spot, a deer caught in in the hunter’s trap. You could feel you heart thrumming in your ears; that rush of blood threatening to drown out every living sound.

“Come now, hardly seems fair that I have to spill out my guts meanwhile you get to keep whatever your sordid little secret is.”

He was toying with you, like one would play with their food.

It made your blood boil.

“Why should I divulge my secret? Why should I trust you?”

“Because I trust you. And you can trust me.” It was hard to discern if he was being genuine or just trying to placate you, he could taste your fear just as much as you could taste his, perhaps there was an element of truth to his words.

“That hardly seems like a reason…”

“It’s up to you my dear, but the fact you haven’t staked me yet is enough of a reason for me to trust you at the moment.”

“I…” you hesitated, “whatever you saw; I’d be grateful if you kept it quiet.”

Astarion wore an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Understanding? Concern? Whatever it was, it was a far cry from his usual cocky demeanour.

“Alright, then perhaps I could ask for a favour? In… exchange.” He looked like he loathed to say the word.

Tilting your head a little, you look at him curiously.

“What do you need?”

“I feel… weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer, fight better. I only need a taste, I swear.”

Perhaps what little charm Astarion had was working on you, or perhaps you felt for his plight. Concern dropped like a stone, what if your curse was passed to him? Could you live with that knowledge? What implications did it have for you? Would his actions be the catalyst to your unavoidable fate?

“And if my blood is… tainted?”

Astarion huffed a laugh.

“You have a habit of getting bloodied up, if there were anything wrong with it, I would have known by now.”

Well.

That was a comfort at least.

You think.

“Alright, but not a drop more.”

“Really? I- of course, not a drop more.” His momentary shock soon patched back up, his easy smile and courteous demeanour once again falling back into place. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?” He gestured to your bedroll, a silent invitation.

You eased yourself back down onto your bedroll, trepidation and uneasiness swirling in the pit of your stomach, your hands felt clammy as you heard your heart thrumming in your ears once more.

Astarion loomed over you, his eyes locked onto your throat. It all happened so fast, that ice sharp pain as he bit down; a gentle warmth spread through your body as your heart hammered harder. You whimpered as Astarion bit deeper, reaching out to grasp the front of his shirt in panic as he cradled your head.

A cool numbness began to spread, dark splotches creeping in on your vision whilst the world began to drown by a ringing in your ears.

“Ast-Astarion,” you gasped, “no more, please.” Trying to push at him, arms like lead.

In an instant he pulled back, catching his breath.

“Ah- apologies… that was… incredible.” He wiped at his mouth with a finger, licking off the smudge of blood. Breathless with euphoria. “I feel good, strong, happy.”

You placed a hand over the tender wound, hot to touch, your neck aching. You let out a small groan as you winced.

“I look forward to seeing you fight. I hope this was worth it.”

Astarion merely grinned.

“Shouldn’t take long, so many people need killing.” Giving a mock courtesy he continued, “now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

Unsteady and slightly breathless, you stared as he stalked towards the woods. He paused for a moment, glancing back at you. Sincerity tinged his voice.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

You watched as he faded into the darkness of the woods, confident, and poised to hunt.

Gods help the poor beast that was to become his prey.

Morning was interesting to say the least.

Your neck throbbed each time you turned, and the pounding in your head was reminiscent of the early stages of your curse.

But you still drew breath.

And your heart beat steadily in your chest.

The dizziness you could do without, along with the overwhelming feeling of fatigue that settled in deep in your bones; each movement like wading through mud.

Astarion certainly looked rejuvenated, as you walked over to him you saw how his eyes were brighter, his complexion slightly less deathly, and a new thrum of confidence you hadn’t seen in him before.

“Good morning. How do you feel?”

The look on your face said it all, as his eyes lit up and that damned smirk graced his features once more.

“Oh dear, a little woozy, are we?”

“I’m sure it’ll pass. My neck bloody hurts though.” You waved him off, bringing your hand back to the puncture site to try and alleviate some of the throbbing.

“Be grateful I’m not a ‘true’ vampire then, one bite from them and you may wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self.”

You questioned Astarion on his vampiric nature, querying his ability to stand in the sun. Most knew of vampires and their fatal relationship with the sun, to have one stood before you was certainly a novelty.

Yet, Astarion’s voice was filled with a childlike wonder, the perfectly mundane privileges of everyday life now once again available to him – albeit the vampiric hunger, but the question on how he was going to be kept fed was for a later date.

Presently, your companions had edged their way over, a mixture of curiosity and disdain at having a vampire amidst them. Had they been anyone else you’re certain the pitchforks would have already been drawn and a stake sharpened ready. You caught a glimpse of Astarion’s hesitation and worry, a sadness panged within you. His secret had been revealed, but at what cost?

“A vampire? Well, that explains the pallor.” Shadowheart remarked, perhaps a little bit too amused by the revelation. You were starting to peg her as an odd one. “I just better not wake in the night to find fangs at my throat.”

Wyll was almost mirthful in his approach, or perhaps that was a cover for the utter contempt he felt at the prospect of travelling with a vampire.

“Hunting with vampires. Never thought I’d see the day.” He regarded Astarion with a serious gaze, however his tone still took on a light note. “No wisecracks about having us for supper.”

Astarion did nothing to hide his eye roll. You stifled a laugh. All things considered this was likely the best outcome for your toothsome friend. Even if he was taut like a bowstring, tension working in his jaw whilst his hands twitched; ever eager to reach for his dagger and shed a little blood.

Goblins.

Wretched creatures at the best of times, more so when united by a new god. Yet, easily influenced. As the tadpole burrowed deeper into your brain, you could feel its wriggles of excitement – it wanted you to command. To exert authority.

You could command these goblins to let you pass into their camp, you’ll learn little else if they’re all dead, and you didn’t fancy wiping shit on your face either.

A bright blistering spark of power shot through your nerves, the tadpole shrieked in delight as it connected to the minds of the goblins; commanding them to stand down.

Your party passed with ease, bewildered, if not unsettled by the tadpole’s power.

But as you walked, a familiar warmth trickled down your face.

You blinked, stopping in your tracks as you tried to stem the bleeding. A bubbling panic welling up inside of you. Breath caught in your throat, heart quickening.

“What a waste.” Astarion tutted, “perhaps leave the parasitic powers to us, hm?”

You nodded in absent agreement.

The rest of your companions eyed you with concern. Shadowheart gave you an assessing look, bringing her hands close to examine you. You side-stepped hastily, avoiding the contact.

“It’s just a nosebleed. I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t believe you.

Goblin revelry was certainly… something.

The writer you had previously encountered at the Druid’s Grove looked incredibly uncomfortable as he sang accolades about someone called Dror Ragzlin – one of the three leaders no doubt. Stuttering and stumbling over attempts to ingratiate himself with the goblins.

So much for trying to get a first-hand account.

Your presence had him fumbling more, quick as a whippet he was dragged away for his failure of a show.

You supposed you now had someone else to search for, as much as the writer grated on your last nerve with his exaggerated truths and unwillingness to listen, a certain guilt bloomed at the prospect of leaving him in the hands of the goblins.

As you wandered the courtyard you found yourself roped into a game, chicken chasing the goblin lady had called it; although that was no chicken you were chasing, instead it was a terrified owlbear cub. His high-pitched chirps a signal of fear.

After a light bit of persuasion to keep him, you slowly approached him; holding out your hand.

An invitation to find you later.

The owlbear ran, undoubtedly finding somewhere to hide until it was safe to leave.

Dubious meats and ale ran aplenty, goblins filling their tankards with alarming frequency. You pondered on how inebriated they were, but you didn’t doubt that they could still put up a decent fight; especially in groups. Your eyes drifted over to where a goblin was filling at least his fifth tankard since you’ve been there.

“Why don’t we liven up this party?” A hushed voice said behind you.

Startled, you whipped round to see Astarion wearing a devious grin, twirling a potion in his hand; you recognised it to be an invisibility potion you had pilfered from a particularly annoying druid.

“How did you-“

“Now, now, let’s not draw attention to ourselves.” He purred, “I just need you to provide a distraction.”

“And how am I meant to do that?” You raised an eyebrow at him, “I don’t know if you’ve failed to notice, but this place is crawling with goblins; I’m not about to become the next Volo.”

Astarion merely chuckled.

“A little drop of poison in the barrel, and these goblins won’t know what’s hit them. Although they will look for someone to blame.”

You stared at him incredulously, mouth agape.

“I’m sorry, you *want *me to take the fall for your nefarious little plan?”

He just shrugged.

“You aren’t the one poisoning them. Feign innocence, whatever need be; but let’s not get our blades out just yet.”

Reluctantly you agreed to his plan, as he slipped out of sight you situated yourself next to the roasting meats; stomach turning, something smelled disgustingly off. You watched as the goblins gulped down tankard after tankard, your eyes flitting to the barrel, you wondered if Astarion had poisoned it yet; a shifting to your side and a satisfied hum told you all you needed to know.

A goblin trudged over to you, thrusting an overflowing tankard in your hand. Its contents sloshing and spilling.

“Uh… thanks.”

“C’mon, a toast! Gather round you lot, this one ere’s gonna make a toast.”

Astarion barely suppressed a giggle.

“… to your good health? And everlasting tyranny.” You raised your tankard in the air, shouts and cheers echoed round you in celebration.

“Oh please.” Astarion muttered under his breath. He glanced to you, raising an eyebrow, waiting for your next move. The goblins were waiting for you to drink, bringing the jug to your mouth you pretended to empty its contents. More cheers of jubilation rippled through the crowd as they began to down their own poisoned brew.

One by one goblins began to drop to the ground.

As panic began to rise you tipped out what remained in your jug into the sizzling fire behind you. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of amusement at the chaos, your amusement was short lived. The goblin who encouraged your toast looked furious, pointing an accusing finger at you.

“You poisoned us!”

You scoffed.

“If I had poisoned you, would I still be standing here? Your companions were weak.”

She scrutinised you for a moment, features relaxing as she shrugged.

“S’pose you’re right.”

Astarion couldn’t keep his enjoyment to himself as your party entered the now long since desecrated temple. Shaowheart scolded him on being so obvious, he refuted her claims.

“It was a little fun though, wasn’t it? Don’t lie.”

You had little connection to the gods, but seeing a once splendorous temple now in ruin sat uncomfortably with you. Statues of Selune in ruin, walls crumbling; marked with blood in strange symbols you couldn’t decipher. The further you entered, the greater the uneasiness built.

A mockery of a priestess making proclamations of the Absolute as she branded new followers caught your attention, and you caught hers.

“The Absolute has touched you, hasn’t She? Priestess Gut needs to touch you too.”

You recoiled from her grasp.

“I’d rather not be branded, thank you.”

She looked dismayed at your refusal, but unsurprised. Instead, under your suggestion you retreated to her private chapel to “talk.”

You had no intention of letting her live.

As the door came to a gentle close, you fiddled with a bottle of alchemist’s fire behind your back, lightly tapping the glass as Gut rattled on. Your companions looked just as eager, practically itching to draw their weapons and end the twisted priestess’ life.

The fight couldn’t have gone more wrong, the bottle had shattered at her feet but she narrowly missed the hit; shouting for reinforcements. You were all overwhelmed.

Goblin after goblin after goblin swarmed the chapel.

You’re not sure how many times you were hit, only that a searing pain ripped through your side, forcing you to the ground. Vision a blur, you could vaguely make out someone or something running towards you ready to strike.

The world became red, blood splattered on your face as a body slumped next to you.

“Get up darling, of all the places.” You felt yourself being hauled to your feet, you had little time to steady yourself as you evaded another attack.

You had never seen so much blood before.

Footsteps splashing in the sticky substance, you surveyed the room littered with bodies. The pang of guilt was soon swallowed whole, you were dealing with a cult; a dangerous one at that, and still two more leaders drew breath.

Your body ached, bones screaming for rest, but you couldn’t stop now.

One leader was down, how long until someone noticed?

And how long before they came for your head?

Fortunately for you, finding the other two was hardly a challenge.

Dror Ragzlin’s booming assertions were difficult to miss, goblins cheered and shouted at each decree of The Absolute’s will.

“He’ll be difficult to take down.” Wyll commented, eyeing the rafters. “Let’s leave him until last, and use height to our advantage.”

“Agreed, I don’t fancy becoming spider food.” Shadowheart murmured.

The drow, now she was secluded away from the rabble, instead inspecting what looked like a map whilst berating the incompetency of the goblin in her presence. You overheard mentions of the grove, how no one had breached it yet, scouting groups failing to return.

She was frustrated.

Perhaps that could play in your favour.

You saw Astarion ready his bow in the shadows, you placed your hand atop to halt him.

“I’m not sure we should kill her…”

“Are you actually insane?” He hissed, “she’s a drow, she will not hesitate to kill us as soon as she finds out we’ve been picking off leaders.”

“Look, it’s just a feeling.”

He rolled his eyes, huffing.

“*Fine. *But if this gets us killed, I’m blaming you.”

Without warning he fired an arrow at the goblin with such precision the creature was dead before it hit the ground.

You could have smacked him.

In an instant you were dragged into another fight, Astarion rashly pinning you against a wall out of sight.

“It was your idea to spare her, then you can figure out exactly how you’re going to do that.” With that he released you, slipping further into shadows to hunt.

The drow did not take kindly to be assailed.

Unsurprisingly.

She was ferocious and mighty, highly skilled and a trained fighter. One hit could very well be your last.

You could laugh.

Here you were still living on borrowed time, yet you were worried about being killed?

You should have been dead days ago.

Whittling down the drow’s energy was your plan, you didn’t have a backup; if absolutely necessary you knew you had to kill her, but still, something stirred within you. Your tadpole longed to reach out to hers feeling that faint crackle psionic energy.

Her mind was shuttered to your interference.

Shadowheart seemed particularly intent on bludgeoning her.

Wyll and Astarion kept back, picking off any goblins that came your way.

Your lungs were starting to burn. There were only so many near misses you could take, thighs burning and arms aching.

She could feel your exhaustion just as much as you could feel hers.

Blood red eyes flickering with resolve, a cold calculating stare gauging your next move, but as you anticipated her actions you could see that hairline crack starting to develop.

Fear.

As Shadowheart took a swing at her, you took the opportunity to rush her, far too close for comfort; she could gut you on the spot should you fail. Swallowing down the fear, you pommelled her, weapon connecting with skull, a sickening crack that left her off kilter. With staggered steps she backed away before collapsing to the cold stone floor.

Hesitantly, you stepped towards her, quickly checking for a pulse. A slow thrum confirmed all you need to know.

“So, you saved her just to give her brain damage.” Astarion criticised, cleaning off his blade, vague annoyance pinched in his brows. “Can we go now?”

“A moment.” You breathed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Fatigue creeping into your senses like spiders crawling in the dark.

“I’m not certain we have a moment.” Wyll hedged, “who knows how long we have until she wakes up, not to mention there is one more leader we need to take down.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Shadowheart added, “we can’t rest. Not yet.”

All things considered, your party weren’t faring terribly, the odd bruise here and there, a couple of scratches; nothing a couple of potions couldn’t sort out. You pilfered a few healing potions from the drow, knocking them back as if you were parched; the carmine liquid trickling down your chin.

You felt lighter.

Relived almost.

A temporary stay, you knew you’d be paying for it later.

Looking towards each other, you nodded silently.

Time to finish what you started.

As you crept up ladders and across the rafters, you all spotted goblins carrying barrels.

“What do you suppose is in the barrels?” You whispered.

“If I were to guess, I’d say smokepowder.” A wily smile spread across Astarion’s face, “now wouldn’t that be fun.” Slipping a hand into your pack, he retrieved another bottle of alchemist’s fire.

You stared at him in disbelief.

“What? You’re closest.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to the goblins below.

Dror Ragzlin sat on a crude throne, a mindflayer corpse in front of him; must have been one from the nautiloid wreckage, you felt little sympathy for it. As Ragzlin delivered his sermon and edicts, pairs of goblins carried the heavy barrels behind him. Astarion spotted them too his grin growing wider, as they began to pile the barrels next to a store; fumbling with keys.

You watched as he launched the bottle. That deadly glow fading away.

A thunderous explosion had you shielding your face.

Shrieks and screams filled the sanctum, bodies flung into the air.

Ragzlin knocked to the ground, his shouts furious as he scanned the room for the offenders.

You knew smokepowder was no joke, but even you were surprised at how many goblins it had taken out; even the humans amongst the crowd didn’t stand a chance. A handful of wounded goblins, including Ragzlin were left.

Easy pickings.

Whilst you had managed to avoid being punted off a rafter, and narrowly evaded the odd ice spell, the effects of those potions you drank earlier were beginning to wear off.

You were exhausted.

Your chest felt tight and your legs threatened to give way. You felt yourself sway, teetering far too close to the edge.

Wyll pulled you against his chest, steadying you.

“Careful. It’s quite the fall.”

You gripped onto his arm like a vice, vision swimming as another headache threatened to swallow your senses.

“We need to leave. The leaders are down and we’re sitting ducks.” Shadowheart said, watching as goblins began to frenzy, spats breaking out between groups as panic began to fill the air; their leaders gone, orders abandoned – it was chaos.

“We still haven’t found the druid.” You tried to argue.

“Druid be damned, I’m not losing my hide, and you’re in no state either.” Astarion countered.

“For once I agree with the vampire.” Shadowheart responded, an almost disgusted look on her face which had Astarion sneering.

You looked to Wyll, concerned, but he merely shook his head. Still steadying you, he spoke gently.

“Have faith. The goblins are in disarray, if there were an opportune moment to escape; it would be now.”

“We don’t even know if he’s alive.”

Wyll, ever the optimist, and painfully pragmatic had an answer for that too.

“He’s no use to them dead.”

You decided to trust his judgement.

You were tired.

So, so, tired.

You’re unsure how you made it back to camp, a vague blur of red and screams flitted through your mind, body moving on its own accord as if strings were attached to a puppeteer.

And now, those string had been cut.

The world faded to darkness once more.

Your dreams flitted from one memory to the next, spinning and swirling nauseating colours filling your vision. The voices of your companions echoing in the vast nothingness. You dreamt of your childhood, summers in the Gate paddling in the shallows of the Chionthar; fish circling your ankles.

The riverbanks dissolved into your childhood home, barely an adult, you spied your parents talking to a cloaked figure, the way they glanced towards you unsettled you. Hands clasped; a deal struck.

A flash of red.

A searing pain.

You lurched awake, gripping the thin material of your bedroll, heart pounding as you gulped down air as if it were too thin. Your vision swam, pressing your fingers into your eyes you took a steadying breath.

You listened to the world around you.

You were in your tent, your companions were talking outside, you could hear a gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the trees above, long grasses swaying and birds singing.

It was peaceful.

With a groan you shuffled towards the flap of your tent, wincing as you pulled back the fabric and light filtered in. For a moment you watched as your companions busied themselves. Gale appeared to be cooking something, the faint scent of cooked meats filled the air; you were a little bit hungry.

Pulled by the enticing scent, you wandered over, sitting on a log near the campfire. Gale greeted you warmly, handing you a warm bowl of what you think was soup? A roll of bread and some cuts of the meats that had been roasting.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, joining you on the log, a needed break for tired hands.

“Confused.” You admitted as you slurped from the bowl, “I don’t remember getting here.”

“Oh! Now that’s a story to tell.”

His words filled you with little confidence.

“You were a bit out of sorts. Barely standing from what I could see. If not for our talented cleric I’m unsure if you’d even be awake right now.”

“That bad?” You sounded simultaneously unsurprised and mortified, whilst the fatal effects of your curse were currently held at bay, some of the more minor inconveniences certainly liked to make themselves known. Ringing in your ears, unpredictable nosebleeds, hazy memory – these were all things you had become accustomed to.

Your companions on the other hand, well, you wondered at what point they’ll finally decide you’re a liability.

Gale’s voice wrested you from your thoughts.

“An overindulgence of potions will certainly do that to you. Do take care in the future. Now, eat up, we have a party to plan.”

You blinked owlishly at him.

“A… party?”

“Of course! You weren’t awake for the details. A few of us returned to the Grove to inform Zevlor that the goblin leaders had been -ah, *indisposed. *A night of revelry before the tieflings journey forth!”

A party. Certainly a welcome distraction from the horrors you face. What’s one night to relax and forget your problems? Good company, and potentially good wine would make for a merry night. It’s nice to be recognised for something good for a change.

Nightfall came, and the camp teemed with life. Wine flowed freely as people chatted, sang, and danced with abandon. From your little alcove of peace you watched on, tiefling children chasing each other; Mol squirrelling away a couple of bottles, no doubt to extort people later. You saw Rolan putting on a show for his siblings, colourful sparks of magic bursting into existence before shimmering away.

Wyll had secluded himself away by the lake, but you saw how Karlach approached him, a spring in her step and a smile on her face; she may not be able to touch, but you were confident that by the end of the night she would have plucked a laugh or two from him.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel kept to their own corners of camp, after their spat the other night, you’ve been wary about the pair being in close proximity. The hatchet may very well be buried, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t go and dig it back up. Perhaps best for now they enjoy their own company.

Gale appeared to be entertaining a group of tieflings, or perhaps that was a grimace you saw on their faces? Whilst Gale was regaling them of tales from Waterdeep, Scratch intently eyed a rather tasty looking link of sausages; you saw him creep over to where they were roasting, tentatively nibbling before yanking the lot and darting into the bushes. The tieflings laughed whilst Gale yelled at the dog.

You ought to make rounds, mingle, show your face to those eager to thank you.

As you surveyed the festivities, your eyes caught sight of an abnormally large elf with deep scars that bisected his face; despite the rugged appearance, his eyes held a gentleness to them. He greeted you warmly when you approached him, introducing himself as Halsin.

“I must thank you for your help with the Grove, I would have done so sooner but I understand you were resting.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” You murmured, wincing at your tone. “I’m glad we could help, although I must ask, how did you escape the goblins? We hadn’t even found you… apologies.”

Halsin merely laughed, no hint of anger or malice in his voice.

“It appears your indisposing of the leaders caused quite a stir; I was able to use the opportunity to escape.”

You briefly mentioned the tadpole behind your eye, which Halsin responded to gently; telling you that it was no ordinary tadpole and that removing it would almost certainly kill you. He did not miss the way your expression shifted, a resigned sigh leaving your lips. Seems that no matter what happens; you’re destined to die.

His voice brought you back to the present, warm and jovial.

“Go on now. Don’t waste your night talking to me. We’ll discuss your problem tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you take your own advice? Go on – mingle a little.”

“Later, perhaps. Don’t worry about me. A night under the stars amidst nature’s creation is just what I need after being locked up in the goblins’ dungeon.” Halsin looked to the very stars he mentioned, gesturing to the world around him as a certain peace settled on his features. He smiled at you, motioning to the various bottles of wine that threatened to run out soon.

“Go on, enjoy yourself. Seek out some wine before it runs dry – there are a lot of thirsty people around here.”

You bade him a good night.

Bottle in hand, you wandered the camp; the taste of the liquid sweet and fruity on your tongue, by far one of the better beverages you’ve had recently. Although the same could not be said for your vampire companion. Astarion positively grimaced with every swig of the bottle.

“That bad?” You asked as you walked over to him.

He sighed dramatically.

“I would have liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine.”

“Tastes fine to me.” You remarked.

“You’ve clearly never tasted finer things in life.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, taking another sip from your bottle. Swirling the contents and watching it whirl.

“These days I’ll take what I can get. Never know when it’ll be my last.”

“Hm, I’m inclined to agree with you.” He looked to his own bottle disdainfully before his eyes met yours, a spark of cunning flashed behind them. “All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?”

“Knowing you?” You raised a brow at him, “probably, or it could mean you want to kill something. It’s hard to tell at times.”

He flashed a sinister grin.

“What’s life without a little danger? A little death, so to speak” His expression shifted to something more intimate, his tone suggestive as he closed in on the space around you. “We could create our own entertainment, get to experience each other’s *full portfolio of talents, *if you catch my meaning.”

You knew exactly what he meant.

But you wanted to hear it from him directly.

“And what would your meaning be?”

He knew you were teasing, by the glint in your eye and barely suppressed smirk. He responded in kind, with exasperation and a roll of his eyes. Leaning in close.

“By the hells. Sex, my dear. A night of passion.”

He leant back, a more relaxed smile in place; he looked almost pleased with himself.

“Let’s wait until things quieten down. Once the others are asleep, we’ll find each other.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you were intimate with someone, perhaps not long after you were burdened with your curse, before its talons had fully embedded themselves into your flesh.

What harm could one night bring?

As the party had settled down and your companions slept soundly in their bedrolls, you pulled back the fabric of your tent; it was almost eerie how silence fell over the camp like a blanket muffling the sound. Only the gentle crackle of the fire could be heard, its embers floating up into the sky.

You caught glimpse of Astarion slipping out of his tent, he knew you had seen him, overconfident; without even turning to look at you he stalked towards the forest.

You huffed at his arrogance, but followed nonetheless. Steps quiet as a mouse until you were sure no one could hear you.

The forest was still, but not silent; a gentle rustle of leaves and the call of nightly birds filled the air. Moonlight filtering through the leaves as an evening mist settled like a shroud. As you took in your surroundings you were aware of a presence slipping out from the copse of trees.

Astarion looked beautiful in moonlight.

The way the light shone through his hair like a halo, the shadows that sculpted his face.

You were staring, the telltale smirk on his face told you he’d caught you.

“There you are.” He purred, “I’ve been waiting. Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you.”

He stepped closer to you.

“Waiting to have you.”

You regarded him for a moment, these were honeyed words to charm you.

It would be a lie to say they weren’t working.

But you’re a stubborn kind, and do rather enjoy teasing.

You huffed a laugh.

“You held a dagger to my throat when you set eyes on me.”

“Darling, don’t ruin the mood.” He chastised lightly. “Besides, you’re here, aren’t you? And I don’t think you want to talk.”

Caressing the air in front of you he continued, his voice dipping.

“I think you want to be known. To be tasted.”

You tilted your head; he certainly had a way with words, but there was a certain tenseness to him you couldn’t place. He was too put together, too poised.

“And what do you want?”

He faltered for a moment, a glimmer of surprise and uncertainty flashed across his features before his clever tongue picked up the pieces.

“What do any of us want? Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy.”

That uncertainty returned not a moment later, his eyes searching yours for an answer to a question only he knew. Hesitancy creeping into his voice.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me.”

That last part sounded more like a statement.

“I want us both to have fun.” You breathed.

Astarion looked unsurprised.

“I thought so.”

A cold hand took your wrist, pulling you closer as cool lips closed over yours. Gentle, eager, too soon he was pulling away, merely grinning at you. Barely a heartbeat later his lips were back on yours, teasing and playful, he pressed you roughly against a tree; its bark digging into your skin.

You gasped, heat flooding through your body as you held him close like a lifeline.

He pulled away once more, gone was his hesitancy from before; replaced by the overbearing confidence of a practiced dancer.

How many times had he danced to this particular tune?

An element of mischief bubbled up inside you, with newfound confidence you pushed Astarion down onto the ground, straddling him with a mischievous grin; head tilted exposing your neck, your intention clear. He gazed up at you, eyes wide, a faint surprised smile on his lips, sweat beading in his hairline.

Playfully he rolled you beneath him, a ghost of a kiss against your throat before that ice sharp sting took over. You moaned, instinctually pulling him closer as he lapped at your neck; warmth trickling down it.

Breaths mingled.

Bloodied kisses.

Your senses overwhelmed, Astarion was everywhere; lavishing attention upon you in reverence. Skin tingling at his every touch as he explored every expanse of your body. When he wasn’t whispering sweet nothings in your ear, his clever tongue had you gasping out his name like a prayer.

If his intention was for you to be quiet, then he was doing awfully, but the way your cries seemed to spur him on told you otherwise.

Head full of dizzying pleasure, you trembled in his arms; you could hear him speaking; soothing even, it made little sense to you.

A telltale warmth, an almost repressed groan and Astarion relaxing told you everything.

Breathless, sticky, your heart hammering in your chest. You lay in each other’s arms, no words passed between you, only the ragged breaths of two people who bared all to each other.

You were exhausted.

The gentle lull of sleep claimed you when the shadows began to dance in your vision.

If you thought Astarion looked beautiful in the moonlight, then he was positively radiant in the sun. Gentle dappling of sunlight glittered against his skin, gone was his deathly pallid tone; replaced by a warmth simmering under his skin – the throbbing in your neck was almost worth the sight.

Despite his devastating beauty, your eyes wandered over a large scar so crudely carved into his back. The sharp, complex, and almost methodical nature of his scars stirred a memory within you. You had seen similar markings before, not on flesh, but they were unmistakable – Infernal, language of the Hells.

You groaned, pushing yourself to your feet.

“You sleep light. I thought you’d be exhausted.” Astarion teased, glancing back at you as he continued basking in the sun.

“I am. But I can’t spend all day on the floor now, can I?” You quipped, “as much as that may delight you.”

“Darling, I’m hurt.” As he was about to turn back to the sun, he caught how your gaze slipped to his back, an unreadable expression on your face. His own tone soured. “You’re staring. What is it?”

You shook your head.

“Sorry… your scars, do you know what it is?”

“No, I don’t.” Astarion said condescendingly, “it’s not like I can look at it in a mirror.”

With a pained sigh, he told you with little detail how he fell into Cazador’s clutches, how his flesh had been carved and revised over the course of a night; the unspoken told you enough.

“Why did he write in Infernal?”

“Infernal?” Astarion looked shocked, blinking almost owlishly at you before his usual frown fell back into place, “who knows? The bastard was insane. Anyway, enough pillow talk. Let’s go before the tieflings drag us into another mess.”

With a huff you gathered your strewn clothing, whilst you were almost certain the rest of camp were aware of your late-night tryst, you preferred to not be so obvious about it.

Morning brought discussion of shadow cursed lands and a lead to your tadpole problem. Moonrise Towers, not a place that rung a bell in your memory but a place that offered a potential cure to your affliction – and certain death if it were to be true.

Halsin warned of the dangers of travelling overland, and whilst he loathed to say it, suggested the Underdark be a safer passage.

Speak of Dark Justiciars perked Shadowheart’s ears, for better or for worse.

Your camp of misfits packed their belongings, readying for their next part of adventure. You were going to miss this particular camp, so much had transpired in such a short time and the prospect of moving on brought a sickening feeling of dread. What other chaos was to be thrown your way? How many more bodies must you step over to preserve your own safety?

Lae’zel had become quite vocal in her interest of locating the Githyanki creche; perhaps less out of interest and more necessity, whilst the thought of wandering into a Gith stronghold with Illithid parasites burrowing deeper into your grey matter didn’t fill you with joy, a part of you was curious about their supposed “cure”. Either it cured you of your parasite and you perish, or it backfires terribly and you still perish; truly nothing to lose in that case.

“Fine, let’s find this creche. But after that we travel the Underdark.”

The mountainous trek was arduous and your legs burned with fatigue, the scenery however, now that was quite breathtaking. The odd grumble parsed between your companions about the trek, Shadowheart wished you all had horses to which Astarion countered that they were temperamental beasts and bite.

“We keep you around, don’t we?” She responded, a short laugh left your throat, Astarion glaring at you as you tried to cover it with a cough.

It appears people have a habit of repurposing places of worship.

Rosymorn Monastery, a once glittering jewel nestled in the mountains that basked in the Morninglord’s splendour.

Rather ironic that death now paints its walls.

Lae’zel’s demands thankfully granted you access to safe passage, for now. Still, you couldn’t help but feel as though this fragile peace would soon shatter. Eyes bore into your skulls, your every movement tracked and calculated for weakness – how easy would it be to overwhelm you all? How many flaws had already been detected?

Well, you were somewhat free to roam; may as well make use of it. A trade here, a barter there; you soon realised that the Gith were receptive to the odd coin. Whilst a few brows were raised at just how many healing potions you had bought it was brushed off as your kind being much weaker, fragile bones and all.

Whatever works.

That tentative peace did not last long.

The Gith’s insane purification device backfired spectacularly, shattering into shards of metal and chunks of flesh. Lae’zel gripping her head, screaming just as your mind splintered apart. You could taste the blood at the back of your throat, swallowing thickly, grimacing as you willed the ache and taste away.

Astarion gave you a sidelong glance but remained silent.

You had hoped to have avoided a fight; however, your deception had much left to be desired and the Ghustil did not take kindly to blatant lies. Lae’zel agitated, she had not wanted to fight against her people but their patience had limits, and your wandering with an Illithid parasite buried in your skull left you all with little choice.

Lae’zel wiped the blood from her eyes.

“Come. We must inform the Inquisitor there is a hshar’lak in our midst.”

“And also tell him we just butchered a load of gith too?” Shadowheart raised a brow, “I’m certain that’ll go well.”

“Chk. Their misguided pursuit is what lead to their downfall. I will not be held responsible for the faults of others.”

“Let’s just get going.” You hedged, “I don’t relish staying here a moment longer.”

Abysmal.

That was the only word that came to mind as you recounted the events within the Creche. You had met with the Inquisitor, and in turn had an audience with Vlaakith herself.

You were far from the pious type, and her domineering presence partnered with Lae’zel’s undying devotion made something twist sickly in your stomach. Even still, you found yourself listening to Vlaakith’s request come order, descending into the astral prism to confront the person who has protected you this entire time. They had appeared in your dreams, told you of their own desire and plight, how they protected you and would continue to do so. Their presence was soothing, to kill them was suicide.

You did not want to kill them.

You couldn’t.

Decision made, your return to the creche was a bloody one. Vlaakith be damned, she had no intention of letting any of you live.

Yet still, Lae’zel remained devoted to her.

You wanted to scream at her, tell her to open her eyes – you knew it was fruitless.

Leaving the creche was an even bloodier mess.

Venturing further into the depths of the monastery, disarming one trap after the next, your party entered a dimly lit cavern; a glittering jewel at its centre. This must be the blood of Lathander you had heard whispers of.

With no clear route forward you had yanked the mace from its resting space, the cavern sprung to life, whirring and clunking, lights dazzling you as you shielded your eyes.

Then you were levitating.

“What in the hells-“

Everything was doomed for destruction, and that place was set to be your grave unless you acted.

“Get me out of this thing before the whole building collapses!” You had screamed.

“I’ll get them free – you get out of here!” Astarion had yelled to the others, you looked at him in surprise as the others bolted towards the exit.

Turns out scrolls can be very useful in a pinch, and once free the pair of you had ran as if hellhounds were at your ankles. The very stone beneath your feet cracking and collapsing, deafening rumbles as stones crashed to the canyons below, the earth swallowing it whole. With a leap you made it to safety, back to the ground as to stared up at the sky, the cacophony of destruction echoing still.

You caught your ragged breath rolling onto your stomach, gazing over the rubble of the monastery, head pounding as the urge to vomit rose, a metallic taste stuck in the back of your throat. You glanced to Astarion who appeared to be in marginally better shape, the adrenaline wearing off as he sagged against a tree.

“Why did you help me?” You said between breaths, easing yourself up.

“Most people say thank you when rescued from mortal peril.” Astarion huffed, “No matter, I’ll take it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes before rolling his shoulders, levelling you with an unreadable stare.

“Being crushed to death is hardly pleasant. I’m sure we could have asked that withered skeleton to bring you back, but I’d rather not waste the gold.”

You scoffed, pushing yourself off the rock you were resting against, moving your way past Astarion, his hand against you shoulder stopping you in your tracks, eyes narrowed.

“I can smell the blood in your mouth.”

You paused, glancing at him, muttering derisively.

“Worried? Or enticed?”

“Neither.” He frowned, “but I am curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Oh, but I’m already dead. It hardly matters anymore.”

You shrugged him off, your bedroll was calling and your weary bones needed the rest.

You tossed and turned in fitful sleep, nightmares a plague behind your eyes, heart hammering in your chest. Sinew and muscle warped and torn, the pressure behind your eyes building and building until the vessels burst and your vision distorts. Your teeth felt loose, rocking in their sockets as blood began to fill your mouth.

You were destined to die.

To choke on your own blood until your gurgling was silenced.

Cold hands shook you awake, with a sharp gasp you sat up suddenly, world spinning around you. You pressed your palms into your eyes trying to relieve the pressure behind them.

“Quite the nightmare you were having.”

Astarion’s voice was soothing, gone was his usual mocking cadence, replaced with a mild concern that seemed almost odd on him. You stared at him for a moment, reorienting yourself with the world.

“Are you quite alright? You look worse than when I first met you; and that’s saying something.”

You groaned, wiping at your face and pulling away when you felt a sticky substance against your clammy skin.

“You could smell the blood.”

“No late-night surprises from me, I assure you; however, it is hard to ignore when someone spontaneously bleeds in their sleep.”

If your head weren’t currently splitting apart you may have found humour in his statement.

“I know what I saw in your head. None of it good.” Of course, he was going to remind you of the half-truths you let slip, he had that over you – could use it for the smallest bit of leverage should he wish to damn you further, yet, his expression spoke not of deceit, but that of understanding. With a grimace he handed you a cloth, lips pressed into a thin line as he watched you mop up the blood that still flowed freely.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re dying.”

You glanced away; cloth pressed firmly to your nose as you gathered your thoughts. You could lie, a small lie, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things but just enough to sate his curiosity. Or… you could be truthful, sate his curiosity and tear open the wound that had barely begun to heal once again.

“You’re closer to the truth than you realise.” You sighed.

A deep frown settled on his features, his gaze flicking from your face to the bloodied cloth that now sat in your lap.

“I’m definitely missing something here.”

A wry smile tugged at your lips.

“It’s a long story. Let’s just say I was the unfortunate bastard caught in a bargain not of my own making. Fey are tricky creatures.”

“Deals with devils rarely go well, look at dear Wyll – Pride of the Gate with a devil on his tail. But Fey? They’re just as cunning and twice as cruel.” He paused, regarding you for a moment. “How in the hells did you manage that?”

“Oh! Believe me, this was not my choice, let’s just say my doting family felt that I had more use to them as a conduit. Why waste precious resources, just another mouth to feed after all.” Bitterness laced your words like an acrid poison, any love you once held for your family had long since been eaten by the gnawing void in your chest. “They knew the cost, there was little point in the fey dressing up their words into a neatly packaged riddle – ‘a drop of blood to keep you flushed, a skipped beat for added time.’”

Fists balled, crescent moons digging into your flesh, you took a shuddering breath as your temper rose. How long had you dampened your feelings? Accepted your fate and made peace with it? When had you ever spoken of your plight to another soul? The rage you had felt the day you were betrayed came surging back in a violent flurry that flashed red behind your eyes.

“The day I was captured by the Mindflayers was the day I was meant to die. To complete the deal, and grant those who I once held dear a life free of disease, of aging, but not immortality – no, they couldn’t afford that price, but they got close to it.”

You threw the rag into the corner of your tent in fury.

“I hope they rot.”

You refused to let tears spill, your family were not worth it, instead you gritted your teeth, voice thick.

“If we remove these parasites, I will succumb to my own personal oblivion, but I don’t want to become a mindflayer either. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

A tense silence fell upon your tent, your pulse quickened as the urge to empty the contents of your stomach increased. This was a mistake; you shouldn’t have told him; not only is he now privy to your secret but now he shares the burden of keeping that secret. Cat out the bag, it was only a matter of time before the others found out. You stared down at your hands, when had they gripped the hem of your shirt? Little jolts of nerves rattled through your body; you were shaking.

Then the tears fell.

“Gods damn it.” You hissed, furiously wiping at your eyes.

Astarion said nothing, but that look, was that sympathy? His eyes flitted to the side before resting back on you, clearly, he wasn’t used to this sort of vulnerability. As his throat bobbed in hesitance, you filled the silence.

“Sorry… this is a lot. I’ll be fine… eventually.”

Astarion sighed, finally breaking his silence.

“You’ve truly been dealt a vile hand. I suppose we’re more alike than I first thought.”

You barked a harsh laugh.

“I suppose we are. At least there’s a future for you.”

It was Astarion’s turn to laugh, terse and cold.

“My future is meaningless if I fall back into Cazador’s clutches.” He gestured to his own head, “these brain worms are the only thing protecting me, I’ll be damned to return to the life I knew.”

“Providing we don’t turn into mindflayers and I don’t suddenly keel over, you won’t need to.” There was a peculiar confidence to your tone, not quite a promise, but an assurance. Your future may be limited, but Astarion’s needn’t be, you felt a strange affection for the man; neither love nor friendship, a curious solidarity.

Astarion laughed once again, softly, a tentative warmth in his voice.

“Don’t make promises darling.”

“I’m doing no such thing. Only a fool makes promises.”

“Indeed... Well, seeing as you’re not going to die on me at any moment, I shall take my leave.” He held his hand up to silence you, anticipating your request for privacy. “I won’t tell the others, but… at some point you will have to.”

That day was only going to creep closer.

Neither of you spoke of what happened the next morning, instead packed for your trek to the Underdark as if it were a normal day with a parasite wriggling in your brain. You had burned the evidence of the previous night’s bleed, no need to be concerning the others; there’s more pressing issues at hand.

Truthfully, you just wanted to press on, the less you had to think about your own situation, the better.

“So, the Underdark.” Astarion started, “I wonder what manner of terrifying foes we’ll meet there.”

“Well, I dare say we may come across a bulette or two, and I hear it’s a fantastic place for myconids.” Gale answered, “I for one am intrigued if not a little apprehensive.” With glee he regaled of the various creatures he had read about, Astarion look to you; unimpressed. You merely grinned at him before continuing to pack.

The Underdark felt like it was a realm away, deep caverns with jagged rocks, steep edges and sheer drops; one misstep into gnawing nothingness. Glowing mushrooms illuminated the way, some exploded, others… well let’s say hearing your companions lose their minds with laughter was both hilarious and terrifying. Curiosity was no friend of yours here.

Violence always found your merry band of misfits, one way or another. Be it in the form of defending yourself from a bulette – Gale was very smug about that one. Or by venturing into a blistering forge to decapitate a drow; a truly awful experience, to feel how muscle and tendon went taut against your blade, still warm blood dripping onto your hands and down your arm, the cracking and crushing of bone; why this particular task was left to you was beyond your understanding. You were sorely tempted to throw the head at one of your companions.

“My, my, don’t you look dashing covered in blood.” Astarion teased, his eyes lit up in delight as you scowled.

“And here I thought you’d be eager to do the deed yourself. I distinctly remember you saying decapitation was a ‘fine way to go’.”

“Did I say that?” He feigned innocence, “well, I’m sure another opportunity will arise.”

“I’ll make sure to volunteer you for it then.”

“Certainly.”

Absently he reached out, smudging a drop of blood on your cheek before licking at the crimson on his thumb. Blinking owlishly, you could feel the heat rush to your cheeks.

“Are you always this off-putting in public?” You could barely contain your distaste, scrunching your nose and looking away, almost ashamed at the interaction. “Can your hunger not wait for later?”

Astarion merely chuckled, relishing in your discomfort and the apparent discomfort of your companions, all of whom suddenly found interest in their nails or a “new” speck of dirt on their clothing.

“I suppose it could wait.”

It was impossible to tell if it were daytime or nighttime, although as the hours waned on your body certainly let you know. Lounging against a particularly sturdy mushroom, you watched as your companions setup their tents and prepared for the night ahead. Scratch and the owlbear cub chased each other playfully, tussling and tumbling; a playful nip here and there. At least someone was having fun.

Halsin had made himself comfortable and adapted well to camp life, he sat by the fire whittling whilst Gale prepared a meal with whatever resources had been procured. Wyll chatted with Karlach who lounged in her open tent. Even Shadowheart and Lae’zel appeared amicable, comparing weapons and discussing tactics.

Your vampire friend was nowhere to be seen.

Surely, he hadn’t gone hunting here? Of all the places, the Underdark was probably the most dangerous, there was a distinct lack of boars and bears and you shuddered at the thought of what would be considered close.

Dubious of Astarion’s whereabouts, you elected to wander the camp, inspecting all manner of secluded areas; noting some for when you wanted your own privacy. It didn’t take long for you to find Astarion, although you weren’t expecting to see him in a manner of undress. His fingertips grazing at the scars on his back, red angry marks where he had repeatedly traced particular areas.

“Bloody Infernal, how is anyone meant to read this garbage?” He hissed, attempting to contort his arm more than it naturally could.

“And I thought you didn’t care for what Cazador wrote on your back?” You said, arms folded as Astarion turned in surprise, eyes wide as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Ah! There you are. I admit, I got curious.” His little smirk gave way to a frown, a sombre expression, gesturing to his back as he spoke. “I’ve been tracing the scars on my back with my fingers, trying to read them by touch, but I can’t.”

“Want me to take another look?” You offered, watching as he considered; almost as quickly as that sliver of vulnerability peaked through, the walls were up again like a fortress.

“I – This isn’t your problem you know.”

“It’s your choice. I may not be able to read your scars, but at the very least I can draw them.”

“I…” Astarion pursed his lips, regarding you for a moment; unsure if this was trickery under a guise, unwilling to be so open once again. He gave a resigned sigh. “I’d… appreciate that.”

Turning around, you once again bore witness to the swirling patterns hacked into his flesh; how crudely it had been carved. You could see where the deepest scars took the longest to heal, raised and purple; just how long did it take him to recover? There were signs where wounds had healed and reopened, skin barely knitting together, now thick and tough. With a deft hand you scribed into the soft soil below, mirroring each terror inflicting mark to completion.

“There…” You murmured, “you can turn around now.”

A scowl etched into Astarion’s features as he laid eyes upon the sigil, centuries of wondering what secrets his scars held only to be met with more questions.

“What in the Hells… What did he do to me?”

You grimaced.

“Any idea what it says?”

“I have absolutely no idea. But it’s no poem.” His voice wavered slightly, “two centuries carrying this, and I can finally see it.”

A strained silence fell between you, Astarion staring down at the sigil, eyes flitting from one etching to the next, the rage simmering under his skin was palpable.

“Disappointed? Or...” You began.

“Perplexed.” Astarion interrupted. “This was a surprise, and Cazador’s surprises are never good.” He shifted slightly, body still taut like a bowstring, but voice minorly relaxed, inquisitive even. “Then again, even he couldn’t know I’d be kidnapped. Whatever he had planned, it’s gone wrong. Which gives us an advantage.” He kicked at the dirt, marring his reflected scar into obscurity. “Whatever I’ve ran off with, he’ll be furious.”

He looked to you; expression softened faintly.

“Thank you, by the way. This is… well, it’s something.”

“I would say make sure it doesn’t get us killed, but…” You gestured to yourself.

Astarion smirked.

“Hells forbid.”

You didn’t sleep well that night, whilst your body was exhausted your mind was awake and racing; as one thought appeared it was devoured by another. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you pondered on what lay ahead, tomorrow you will continue to Moonrise Towers; a desolate place shrouded in shadow if Halsin’s warnings were anything to go by. Perhaps you’ll find out more about your wriggling friends, or maybe you’ll succumb to whatever lay in wait.

How were you meant to protect yourself against a curse that threatened to swallow every light and living being whole?

You squeezed your eyes shut, shifting onto your side, bringing the covers of your bedroll up to your ears; you felt… cold.

With a heavy sigh you stared into the dark of your tent, the snores and mumbles of your companions brought little comfort. Astarion’s words from the other day swam in your mind. Guilt washed over you like a wave, they all had their own horrors to deal with, all of which they had confided in you; yet here you were, squirrelling away your secrets. Did you not trust them? Or was it the pity you were scared of? To be known, to be seen.

If you made it through the shadows alive, then you’ll tell them.

A promise to yourself.

You fool.

#bg3 #bg3 fic #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #spawn astarion #my fic #my writing #fic: little sounds of pain

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frost-queen · 1 year

Text

Flavored sweets (Reader!Potter x Fred Weasley)

Requested by: Anon Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @elllie-does-the-posts, @alex--awesome--22 @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco, @subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @imagines-by-her, @vviolynn, @melsunshine, @evilcr0ne, @callsignwidow, @whotfskai, @freddieweasleysgf, @untoldshortsofthefandoms

Summary: Unlike what everyone thinks didn't Fred and you meet in the train. Rather meeting him at Honeyduke's near the last box of different flavored beans before school even began.

Wrapping paper ripped. Filling the table with a mess as the gifts got revealed. Fred and George pulled out a scarf putting it around their neck. – “Just what I wanted mother.” – George said teasingly with a smirk. Molly slapped him against the head with the wizarding gazette. – “Au I was merely showing you my gratitude.” – George responded rubbing his head. – “I know you well enough to know when you are joking.” – Molly spoke with a glare at him. George turned to look at his brother with a funny face.

Fred pulled his shoulders up, not getting involved in it. Hermione who sat beside Fred came leaning forwards to look at George. – “I’ll take it if you don’t want it.” – Hermione said knowing how much effort Molly had put in those clothing. George smiled funnily at her. – “You’ll get one for yourself.” – he responded receiving another slap against his head with the gazette.

“Au what was that for?” – He asked confused, holding his head. Molly glared at him, a hand on her hip. – “I was just…” – he continued as Ginny giggled across the table. Molly’s scowl intensified as Fred patted his brother on the shoulder. – “Shall we move on to the next present?” – he said trying to change the subject. Molly clasped her hands in delight. She turned round to fetch some presents. – “Nice handling son.” – Arthur said sitting at the head of the table.

Harry smiled sheepishly beside Ron, who was stuffing his mouth with sweets. Fred locked eyes with you across from him, giving you a wink. It made you smile bashful. Molly returned with two gifts, one in each hand. – “These are for Fred and Y/n.” – she said placing one down in front of you and him. – “Let me guess a pair of mittens?” – George joked out. Ginny plucked the wizarding gazette from the table, hitting at George. – “Au! Why did I deserve that?” – he asked her loudly as she had hit his arm.

“I think you know.” – Ginny answered. – “I should be really careful of your next words.” – Hermione warned him knowing if he kept being so jokingly he would be hit more times. – “You shouldn’t have done this Misses Weasley.” – you said with a warm smile. – “Oh nonsense you are practically family Y/n.” – she said bashful feeling her cheeks warm up.

You shared a look with Fred full of love and mischief. With one nod, ripped you the wrapping off it. Fred and you working as fast as you could. Wrapping paper flying up eager to know what you had. You gasped at the sweater taking it out to admire it. Turning it around, you showed it to Fred as he showed you yours. – “You better keep that mouth of yours closed.” – Hermione spoke with a hint at George as a warning. George swallowed his teasing words back in, leaning back in his chair. – “Put it on! Put it on!” – Ginny chanted.

Fred and you got up putting on the sweater. It was a matching sweater. – “Stand next to each other.” – Hermione asked waving Fred over to you. Fred went round the table wrapping an arm around your waist. – “Well mother what do you think?” – he asked presenting himself and you to her. Molly smiled proudly feeling sentimental. – “It looks just perfect.” – Arthur commented. Fred kissed your cheek making you smile. – “I still find it sweet how you first met each other at the train.” – Hermione talked about.

Fred and you frowned. – “That is not where we first met.” – you told her. Everyone looked surprised at the both of you. – “It is not?” – Ron asked with his mouth stuffed. You shook your head. – “But I thought…” – Ginny started furrowing her brows. – “How come I don’t know any of this?” – George had crossed his arms, bumped out that even he didn’t know. Fred slid his arm over your shoulder, pulling you closer.

“Now I am very curious.” – Molly spoke coming to sit down. – “Me too.” – Harry pitched in looking questionable at you. – “Shall we tell them love?” – Fred asked you. You hummed thoughtfully. – “Please, please do.” – Hermione and Ginny begged. – “Are you sure it wasn’t at the train?” – Harry questioned. You nodded. – “It was before that.” – you explained to your brother. Fred took a deep breath. – “Alright we’ll tell you.”

Diagon alley was crowded. Young witches and wizards eager to get their school supplies. Harry and you still being in awe and shock of what was happening around you. A witch in a green pointy hat passed you, her books floating behind her. It made you gawk at her, pausing for a moment to stare. Hagrid nudged you gently against the shoulder. – “Stick with me Y/n.” – he said. You nodded taking his big hand and tagging along. – “Hagrid I can hardly understand half of this list.” – Harry said looking at the school supply list.

Hagrid took the list from Harry taking a look at it for himself. – “It isn’t that hard to read.” – he spoke making you laugh. – “Here you hold onto it Y/n.” – he moved the list down for you to take. You read the list, mouth falling open. – “Can we truly pick a pet for school?” – you asked him excitedly. Hagrid hummed loud. – “We’ve never been allowed any pets. This is exciting isn’t it Harry.” – you leaned forwards to look around Hagrid over to your brother.

“What pet should I get?” – you wondered. You felt Hagrid’s hand on your back, gently pushing you a bit faster. – “What do you think of a cat? Hagrid would a cat be nice?” – you asked him. – “Oh I don’t know missy but a dragon! A dragon would be a fine pet.” – Hagrid said with a glimmer in his eyes.

You snorted loud. – “I don’t think the school would be pleased as we come with a dragon to school.” – you chuckled out. – “You are right.” – Hagrid replied pushing you closer to him when a group of wizards passed. The three of you bought a few items from the list as some hours had passed. You sat on a bench kicking your feet back and forth while Hagrid was standing before a window shop with Harry. Admiring a broom. Looking around at the shops, your stomach started to growl at the sign of one of them. Honeyduke’s.

“Hmm sweets.” – you water-mouthed. You got up heading over to Hagrid and Harry. You tugged at Hagrid’s jacket for his attention. Hagrid turned around bending over to be closer to you. – “Yes Y/n.” – he said. You pointed to a shop not far away. – “Can I go buy some sweets?” – you asked nervously. – “I’m feeling a bit hungry.” – grabbing your stomach you felt it growl again. Hagrid looked over his shoulder to Harry still admiring the broom.

“I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.” – he muttered stroking his beard. – “I won’t be long, and I’ll bring you something along.” – you persuaded as you really craved some sweets. Harry turned round to you. – “It will be fine Hagrid. We can look in the meantime inside.” – Harry tugged Hagrid on his sleeve. – “But…but…” – Hagrid was a bit confused of what to do.

“I’ll be right back.” – you told him as Harry pulled Hagrid inside with him. – “See you in a bit.” – Harry waved you goodbye for now. You ran over to the shop with eagerness. Honeyduke’s being the most colorful shop you had ever seen. The little bell above the door rang as you entered. The scent of sweets filling your nostrils with a sugar rush. Immediately you had the desire to buy everything. Never having had the opportunity to do so.

You rushed over to some lollipops plucking one from the basket. Admiring it hesitantly. Something else caught your eye as you placed the lollipop back. Picking up a little box you observed it. – “A chocolate frog?” – you whispered to yourself. The idea of a real frog made you shudder and put it back. In this world of magic anything was possible. Heading towards some rows with shelves filled with sweets, you left the chocolate frogs for what they were.

You stopped and observed several types of sweets. There was so much choice you felt a bit overwhelmed. So much to choose from. You wanted to buy so many things yet at the same time you were hesitant to do so. What if you didn’t like them and wasted your money on it. Setting a box of sweet worms back you wandered a bit further down the rows.

Taking a turn, heading into another row, you spotted a large box. Just one of them left. It seemed interesting as you went over to it. Near the box you bumped into someone. – “Oh sorry.” – you said panickily. The boy with ginger hair and a goofy smile chuckled sheepishly. – “It’s alright.” – he answered. Both of you left it for what it was, reaching for the box. Your hands touched right in front of the box, making you blink startled at it.

The boy turned back to you laughing loud. – “It seems we want the same thing.” – he said rubbing the back of his head. You smiled shyly back. – “You ca…” – you started wanting to offer it to him as he beat you to it. – “It’s yours.” – he blurted out. You stared stunned at him. The boy picked up the box handing it over to you. You accepted it shyly. – “it’s a great box! It has all the great flavored beans.” – he explained.

You opened the box holding it out to him. – “Take your pick.” – you offered. The boy laughed shyly. He stuck his hand in the box, grabbing for a flavored bean. – “I’m Fred Weasley.” – he said as you took one out for yourself. – “Y/n Potter.” – you answered before putting the bean in your mouth. It tasted funny as Fred could tell from your face. – “How does it taste Y/n?” – he asked you. You stuck up a thumb still getting used to the flavor.

Fred followed you to the cashier as you bought the box of flavored beans. – “I hope to see you around Y/n Potter.” – Fred called out saying his goodbye to you outside. – “You too Fred Weasley.” – you said waving back at him. Heading back to your brother and Hagrid you felt a flutter in your stomach after meeting him.

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