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howisjoostfanfictionforfree · 11 hours ago

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Three Times as Many ///// Longer Nights

Real person fiction! Joost Klein x vampire!reader

CW: 18+, MDNI, RPF, brief reference to past murder, cannibalism if you squint, smoochin, dry humping, oral sex, light bondage

Reader: vampire!reader, cisfemale!reader, not too descriptive with readers appearance, implied to be smaller than Joost but by an unspecified amount

Notes: Read part 1 here. Sorry for how atrociously long this part took! Vampire Joost in the Why Not??? mv helped give me the inspo to finish. I hope you guys like it because I can’t tell if I do or not. Thanks for reading!

Gargantuan kudos to @joosthead for being my inspiration and my support as always! Also huge shoutout to @catholicfacade and @tkomptgoedluv for your kind words that have driven me onwards with this fic! My tumblr homies on god

Words: ~11,600

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You're not sure why you left Joost standing there.

Why you ran away.

Again.

Things were going so well. You could have kissed him. Could have done all sorts of things. It's not like he wasn't into it.

Maybe it was just to get a reaction. Joost is so expressive. The way he looks at you is already something you crave and you've really only just met. Maybe it’s because as much as you want to believe you overreacted that first night, you're still not really sure you did. Nothing has made you lose control like that since the time you literally ate someone.

The doubt tickles at the back of your mind but it’s also hard to pay it too much attention when the insistent pressure of Joost’s cock against your ass is seared so clearly into your memory. It’s hard not to want to see him again.

Still, if you’re doing this, you’re taking no chances.

Joost is expecting you at his studio tomorrow, so tonight, Melkweg is the place to be. Tickets to actually see a show are too expensive when you're not there to enjoy yourself so the cold evening is spent against the even-colder cement wall of a movie theater across the street. Wedged between gently lit ads for Bones and All and Puss in Boots you watch those who have partied too hard trickle out of Melkweg’s ever-revolving door. Each is more than drunk enough to suit your needs, but tonight they are all in groups. So responsible. So unhelpful. When one guy finally stumbles out sans-friend you let yourself follow, slipping into those same shadows that are deeper than ever.

Fall is well underway and nights are only getting longer.

A few streets away the lamps are sparse enough and he goes down easy. His blood is hot and sharp and everything it should be, but it’s hard to miss how unmoved you are by the man beneath you. He tastes good, it scratches an itch, but your attention is divided and the whole process somehow feels clinical. Even now you're thinking of Joost. How you wish it were him. How he would moan when your teeth slide in deep. Deeper than he expects. Would he still be so happy-go-lucky then? Or would he claw and beg? You don’t even know which one you prefer. The man groans and you realize you're biting way too hard.

It was a good idea to do this tonight.

You try to drink your fill, as much as you suspect the poor guy can tolerate, and release him. He nearly stumbles into the canal in his panic, but rights himself before you have to make a watery rescue. His hot blood simmers in your veins, warming you against the evening chill as you watch him stagger down the street and disappear. Hopefully he can find his way home on a cold night like this.

Anti-murder insurance measures complete, you head for your own home with what you hope is a full belly.

The morning doesn't bring the rain so typical of your new favorite city, but instead a creeping mist. Almost as thick as the shadows that multiply with each passing night, the tiny droplets obscure the neighborhood as you stand on your balcony ruminating on how very in-control you will be today.

The address Joost gave is surprisingly close to your own apartment. The brisk ride on your shabby bike that may or may not have originally belonged to someone else lasts only ten minutes. 16 Schimmelstraat is like much of Amsterdam. One of many brick row houses lined up one after another, complete with compulsory loading beam and hook jutting out above the top window, leftover from when the street was once a canal. There are a few small shops tucked in at ground level but most of the buildings appear residential. Few people are on the street and with the way the sun can’t quite penetrate through the murky whiteness, the world almost seems to stand still.

Joost stands on the stoop at the end of the row in what looks like at least three hoodies. He’s still so beautiful it’s shocking. Leaning against cold whitewashed brick, much as you did last night, he smokes lazily. The tendrils curl up and away from perfect pouty lips to join with the mist and you can imagine the city is enshrouded all because of him.

You see Joost long before he sees you. Hard not to spot a glowing head of hair like that even in this murkiness. Here in the Netherlands it shouldn’t stand out, but it did in the club and it does now too. You’re sure it’s just the almost-mullet. Nothing to do with the way his features are imprinted on your hindbrain.

When he notices you coming down the street, his face lights up just like before. He can barely stub out his cigarette as he keeps looking up like you’ll disappear. Bounding down the steps on those long long legs, Joost skids to a halt mere inches away, nearly bowling you over and flooding you with his scent.

“Heyyy!” Joost looks so excited it's almost embarrassing. Hands flit around at his sides like he wants to touch but in the sober light of day he can't seem to find an excuse. It doesn't keep him from standing way too close for sanity. Already, your preparations are threatening to become useless as you fight the tug behind your eyes. “I’m happy you came!” He blurts, giddy. “I didn't know if you would really come in the middle of the day.”

You squint. He can’t be serious. “I’m not nocturnal, I just prefer the club at night!”

He giggles nervously “I wasn’t sure. Everyone knows vampires burn in the sun. Or sparkle. Looks like you don’t sparkle either.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

He smiles so sweetly at that. “You don’t. I’m glad you came. Still want me to show you my stuff?” There's the eyebrow waggle again. You didn't know someone could look so sweet and so unrepentantly horny at the same time. “C’mon, it’s just upstairs.”

Opening the door, Joost lets you through before following you inside. Immediately faced with another door you try the handle, but before you can budge it there is a jingle and he leans past with a key. It’s obvious Joost is making a move when he lets his chest press against your back as he all but pens you in, breath fanning over your neck. It’s more than welcome, but in the tiny space trapping every molecule of his scent, it nearly makes you do something terrible..

“Wait, wait, hold on.” You whip around and press flat against the door to regain some space, trying desperately not to get riled. No matter your preparations, Joost is an assault on the senses.

“Sorry!” he pulls away quickly, big blue eyes searching you from behind thick black frames, eyebrows inching upwards. “Sorry. Was I reading this wrong?”

Holding your breath would help, but he's asked you a question and you can’t imagine ignoring a face like that. “No, you just..you smell too nice…and…I really need to get a handle on the eyes. Just…hold on one sec.” Joost absorbs that for a split second before melting back into a smile. “Oh, but we're alone, it's okay right? I like your eyes.”

Such a flatterer. And he’s kind of right, it is good that you're alone for this. It’s a goddamn miracle no one noticed your eyes at the club. Here, you almost want to take advantage of the opportunity to relax around such an unusually accepting person. Still, you know Joost is also an unusually slippery slope. “No- I’m trying not to-” you can’t even finish. He waits patiently while you fight it but the memory of him hard against your ass in the club makes a timely reappearance and the eyes snap into place.

“Fuck.” You cover them quickly.

He brings a hand to your wrist. “Let me see.” So gentle and so shameless, he convinces you easily. Dropping your hand, you meet his eyes and he holds them, just as mesmerized as before.

“That must be a huge pain in the ass.”

Your confusion must show because he clarifies “Hiding that all the time I mean. I’m glad I didn’t just buzz you in, Tantu might have been the one to get the door.”

You blink. “I don’t think Tantu would have been a problem.”

It’s his turn to look puzzled.

“I mean, this isn’t usually a problem. You just smell so much better than anyone else.” Now that you’re past pretending to be human you can’t find it in you to be anything other than blunt.

The gears turning in his head are all but visible as he swallows thickly, face pink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Well, just give me a minute, I think I’m almost there.” something about what you say makes his stunned look slide into a smirk but you ignore it in favor of focusing on slowing your heart and pretending you don’t smell the spike of arousal coming off him.

You’re definitely not wet. Nope.

After another minute you take a deep breath, and even though the accompanying wave of pheromones makes you want to punch the wall, you manage to keep your eyes normal. “Okay, let’s go” He obliges, and you give him room to unlock the door.

Turns out, Tantu is the DJ from the club. One of the many of Joosts friends that had been there that night. You step into is in fact a very real studio full of very real equipment you couldn't even begin to guess the purpose of. Tantu daps Joost up with noticeable warmth and welcomes you into the space without fuss. It’s clear any friend of Joost’s is a friend of Tantu and he soon leaves you to return to stabbing at his computer. Joost shows you to his own in the opposite corner.

Right off the bat, you realize any assumptions you might have had about Joost had been wrong as he hands you the most expensive looking pair of headphones you've ever seen and proceeds to play you his entire studio album released just over a month ago. At the club he had said ‘huge artiest’ so jokingly, so flirtatiously, somehow managing to be modest mid-brag. You hadn’t known whether to believe him. You had hoped it would be true, but you hadn't really expected it.

Here, now, in the span of fourteen songs it becomes abundantly clear he’s not just some soundcloud rapper, not a wannabe star. He’s a real one.

He tells you a little about each song before he plays it. Who helped him the most in the end (mostly Tantu), where he was when he started writing it (so many places, he travels a lot), how he sampled this for this song and this for that song. He is deeply proud but you can tell there is also a layer of nervousness, like he truly wants you to like it.

You sing along to Fryslan Bop, the one from the club, and he laughs hysterically as you try and fail to imitate the sound of Dutch lyrics you can’t understand to the best of your memory.

Finally, you finish and he seems to be waiting for a review.

“I couldn’t understand almost any of that, sorry to say. Only fuck, the handful of other English words, and Joost Klein. That really is your favorite lyric isn't it?” He shrugs happily. “But I didn't need to. I liked it. It made me feel… things. You have a lot of range in your sound. All the festivals I went to this summer and nothing sounded like this.”

He’s grinning ear to ear. “Did you go to Pinkpop? I got to play this year!”

“Yes! I definitely didn't see you though, I would have remembered.”

He nods sagely. “Must have been a different day.”

You want to ask about the sad song in the middle of the album. Florida-something. So different from the upbeat tracks before and after. Somehow though, it feels like you can’t, like you shouldn't, and you let it lie.

“All right! What’s next?”

Joost remains flirtatious over the afternoon but it’s dramatically toned down compared to your last encounter. Maybe it’s just how he behaves normally, without the booze and the high of the club. Maybe it's shyness given Tantu within earshot. Either way, you have no such reservations.

“Y’know, I was half expecting it to be all talk. Like, I wondered if ‘come to my studio’ was code for my place or yours?” Tantu coughs in the corner and a blush creeps up Joost’s neck. His scent kicks up and you're reminded why flirting right now isn’t actually a good idea. Still, getting reactions out of Joost is a wonderful pastime and you can't help yourself. “This is so much better, this stuff is amazing, I’m serious. I think I’m gonna join the groupies.” From the corner of your eye you can see Tantu put on headphones. Joost looks rightfully smug.

Hmm, not shy then. Smug is good too.

After another hour of poking around in the files, you propose early dinner. Joost seems kind of surprised but suggests a few spots nearby. Maybe he expected you to bail again. To be fair, you’ve never stuck around this long before. Tantu declines to join, citing too much to do. A suspicious answer, but you won't complain if he wants to let you be alone with Joost.

Joost leads you to an Italian restaurant of all places. It’s a short walk but from the corner of your eye you catch him almost reach for your hand no less than four times. You don’t reach back, pretend not to notice. He hasn’t touched you since this morning when he crowded you against the door and you wish he would again but watching him squirm is so much fun. The November sun has already gone down and the neon sign for Antonio’s glows like a beacon on a street with few other lights. Joost stops to stare up at it. “Can you uh…can you eat garlic?”

What are you gonna do with this guy?

“No, I'll die.” He whips his head around. “Really?! Fuck, sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I know another place-.” You can’t keep a straight face. “No, I’m kidding. C’mon I’m hungry.” He follows, sputtering.

They must peg you for a couple because they automatically seat you at a table in the corner away from other customers. As you peruse the menu, Joost is unusually quiet. His eyes keep flicking up to you as you read. The waitress comes to take your order and his eyebrows disappear into his bangs when you ask for pasta. He’s still staring once she leaves and you can’t stand it any more.

“Dude, I can't drink blood all the time.”

He chokes on his water.

This is apparently the permission he needs to unleash the legion of questions that have been brewing since the fateful moment you rubbed up on his dick and disappeared into the night. Joost proceeds to take inventory of your personal brand of vampire with a thoroughness you did not expect. You really should have, considering the way his heart picks up every time anything vaguely vampiric takes place.

He’s a bit of a nerd about it actually.

“So you eat regular food?”

Yes.

“Do you have to drink blood?”

Yes.

“Do you have fangs?”

Yes.

“It doesn’t look like you have fangs.”

They’re retracted.

“Re..tracted.”

Not full length right now.

“Oh. Can you turn invisible?”

No.

“Can you brainwash humans?”

No. What?

“Can you turn into a bat?”

No!

“Okay, okay! How often do you have to drink blood?”

You tell him what you’ve found to be true over the years.

Blood doesn’t seem to be necessary for actual nutrition, but the longer you go without it the more you crave it, and ultimately the more forceful you become when you finally take what you need. It makes you feel healthier, it gives you energy, but beyond any of that it’s just an urge you always have. Abstaining for very long only leads to bad times for your unwilling donors when you finally give in. Indulging about twice a week seems to be the best for keeping people out of the hospital.

By the time the food arrives, Joost is looking suspiciously horny. Smells like it too. Resisting the tug at the back of your eyes is already becoming a practiced routine. He doesn’t seem the least bit deterred by the casual mention of violence and you wonder if you could ever tell Joost about that night.

The thought gets flicked aside as quickly as it came.

No one can ever know what you’ve done and it’s honestly crazy to be letting him in at all. Everything you have come to accept can’t be part of your life, everything you left behind, it was to protect you- you did it to survive.

With Joost, it’s almost like those rules have gone out the window. You don’t know what about him has you wanting to be so honest. He may be unfairly hot and the only person who has never freaked out on you but where is the self preservation?

You’re probably going to have to move again.

Joost has more questions but you’re curious about him. He’s Dutch, he’s beautiful, he’s not actually a poser, he clearly has a danger kink, but who is he? Somehow, though he’s bright red again, the first thing out of his mouth is that he is not Dutch. He is from Fryslân! Joost tells you a little bit about where he grew up, when he first moved to Amsterdam, how he used to do Youtube and how he first met Tantu. You let him talk and set to work making a dent in your noodles.

Everything Joost tells you helps paint a picture, but to your curiosity, he is quick to skate over most of his past. Anything more than a handful of years ago gets more and more vague and it becomes clear there's something he’s avoiding. You don’t see why he would be holding out on you, it’s not like you haven’t been telling him all your secrets. Well, maybe not all of them. Whatever.

The Florida song tickles at the back of your mind and you don’t press it.

“I’m down to one noodle, wanna Lady and the Tramp this shit?”

Sadly, though he accepts with enthusiasm, the noodle breaks and you don’t get your arrabiata kiss. He checks his phone while you wait for the bill and curses under his breath. “What is it?” you mumble through your napkin.

“Tantu was just being polite earlier. He wanted to work on more stuff after dinner but I didn’t see the message.” You begin to wonder what that means for your evening but Joost is already smiling again as he slips the phone back into his pocket. “Oh well, Tantu always forgives me. We’ll do it later. Wanna go through the park on the way back?” Your stomach gives a little flip. “Yeah.”

The last vestiges of the sunset are long gone and the park is deathly quiet. The fog has been so thick for so long that the grass is soaked, glistening under the lamplight and stretching out on either side of the path to form dark fields of glitter.

“So, is it a date this time?” He asks innocently. You try not to trip over nothing.

You want it to be a date. It really shouldn't be, you shouldn't let people know you, but for so long it hasn’t even been an option and Joost is so much more than an option. You’ve never met anyone like him.

“Yes.”

He grabs your hand and every hair on your body stands on end. It’s an innocent touch, all things considered, but you know where this is going and finally, finally, something is happening. It’s a wonder you didn’t end up in his bed that night at the club. He so clearly wanted you, and you were just as ready to let him hit it against the wall in the alley if he’d asked. This time, you're not running.

He swings your hands as you walk, trying and failing to keep the smile off his face. Every ounce of your attention is zeroed-in on the way his big hand curls around yours, but it’s also becoming impossible not to notice the emptiness around you. The surface of the pond is mirror-smooth and the trees stand lifeless as you wander deeper into the park, like everything is holding its breath. You are utterly alone and the crunching of your shared footsteps seems to echo.

Forgetting you're an apex predator, one would almost worry about what is lurking in the shadows. It’s fun to suspend your disbelief, let the atmosphere affect you and pretend that Joost is your only hope against the creatures of the night. You grip his hand tighter and he grips back, giving a little squeeze then lacing his fingers between your own.

The path continues along the water and under a bridge. Low but wide, the street that goes over must be a main thoroughfare yet not a single car can be heard. Joost’s puffs of breath are all the more audible as you enter the void of the tunnel underneath. The shadows are deep, unnaturally so, and you can only half make out the patchwork of graffiti. The lamp at the exit seems farther than it should be and it gives you a thrill, still indulging in your supernatural fantasy. You press your side up against Joost, letting the closeness be a comfort even though you are nothing but excited.

He stops in place suddenly, catching you by the hand, and pulls you to his chest. He wraps an arm around your back and squeezes. “Why are we walking so fast?”

The light is so low but you can still make out his features, pink, golden, and perfect, looking at you bemused. “It’s spooky out here, don’t you think?” You half-whisper. “If I’m out here, who knows what else is too.” It’s said with a smile and Joost grins right back.

“Don’t worry, we’re safe if we’re together.” His eyes dart to your lips and back up before he speaks again. “Slow down for me?” In the stillness of the night, his heartbeat is deafening. His normally crystal eyes are dark, pupils dilating more and more with his climbing pulse. It’s a shame he can’t hear yours. A feeling you refuse to name pricks at your chest and you crane your neck up.

He beats you to it.

Your mouths meet and color explodes behind your lids. If his scent was powerful, the taste of him is something else entirely. Joost groans against your lips and releases your hand to wrap both arms around you, crushing you close. When he has you where he wants you, one hand comes up to cradle the back of your head and he licks at the seam of your mouth. You open for him and he licks further into you with a sigh. It’s hard to keep up. Now that Joost finally has you in his arms he is greedy and the hot wet of his mouth threatens to eat you alive.

You don’t think you would mind if it did.

Joost is forced to pull away first, his laboured breath visible in the cold. You whine at the loss and his eyes widen. Need for air forgotten again, he peddles you backwards until your back hits the wall of the tunnel and he’s on you again. Joost kisses you deep, hard, pressing you into the concrete like you’re laid flat on a bed. The kisses make their way down your neck and when your eyes open as he sucks at your collar bone, it is to see that the passage and all its vandalism register in perfect detail. You never even felt the tug but your eyes are fully shifted.

He lifts his head to capture your mouth again and you can’t mistake the infatuation in his eyes when he notices your own.

It ruins you. You could never say no to a face like that. What’s more, you don’t want to. His devotion is so apparent and this is only your first time together. If he weren't pressing you into the wall, it would have you on your knees.

You kiss back, hungry. Maybe if you swallow him whole, you can keep him forever. It’s hard to ignore how good he smells. His arousal has been simmering all day but now it’s kicked up to a thousand and every inhale sends a pang to your cunt. Your panties are toast.

The hand cushioning your head from the wall comes around to cup your cheek as Joost tries his best to drink your little noises. He has plenty of his own. Words too. Little yes’s and encouragements when he slips his knee between your thighs and you grind down.

His length is hard against your tummy, bigger than you realized when it was against your ass before.

The rush of blood just below his skin is audible to your sensitive ears- so quick, so loud, with the frantic pace of his heart. The hot length of his throat is flush with it, and the most mouth-watering aroma curls lazily from the neck of his hoodie.

Your core throbs. Your teeth ache.

Joost’s fingers start to curl under the edge of your jacket, fumbling to get under the shirt. The cool air and his cold hands make you moan and he whimpers in response, grabbing you hard by both hips and grinding into you firmly. It turns your legs to jelly, and you have to break the kiss to catch your breath against his chest.

Too overcome to focus on a rhythm, he thrusts mindlessly every couple beats as his lips make their way slowly down your temple. Even through all the clothing, the hot length of him is like a brand over your navel. He licks over your ear and all the air you managed to recover whooshes right out again. Joost’s shameless enthusiasm, his desperation, has your head spinning. His scent has enveloped you completely- arousal so thick you can almost taste it with his throat so close to your face. You want to taste it. He nibbles at your earlobe tenderly and your stomach swoops.

Spit pools on your tongue and it’s dawning on you that there might be a problem.

His lips start to travel down your neck a second time. Open-mouthed kisses and tiny nips followed by the flat of his tongue laving over each mark, soothing each time it makes you grip him tighter. Then, without warning, his mouth drops to that same spot on your shoulder- the same as in the club, and he bites down.

The thrill it sends through you ricochets down to your pussy, clenching around nothing, and back up again in a split second. Your fangs drop.

You lunge forward before you can think.

You can’t think, actually. Joost is on you, around you, and he might as well be in you with the way he fills up every corner of your awareness making higher functions impossible. He jerks back, surprised at the speed of the movement, and your teeth sink into three layers of hoodie.

It tastes like the pasta sauce he dripped on himself at dinner.

Your gut swoops in an entirely different way as your head clears all too suddenly and you unlock your jaw and shove him off you, hand slapping over your mouth. Joost staggers back a few steps at the force, nearly falling on his ass. He looks petulant, big eyes pleading like you’ve just taken away his favorite toy.

“What's wrong?” He huffs, already closing the distance again. You lurch away to maintain the space and confusion twists his brow. Joost tugs at the neck of his hoodie, tucking his chin to look at it and finding two jagged holes and a patch of dampness. His brow goes slack in understanding. “Oh, it’s okay, come here.” He reaches for you again. “You know I want you to bite me right?”

Your eyes widen and you dodge his grabby hands. You don’t dare remove your own hand from your mouth to speak. Really, you should have known. In retrospect, it was obvious. Should have known from the moment he bit you the first time in the club that he really did want you to bite him back. Fucking vampire kink fucking weirdo. Not that you’re entirely complaining.

Finally Joost stops reaching for you, pouting, and waits. You don’t trust yourself to speak for several minutes. It would be better if you left, ran away again in case the sanity doesn’t hold. You don’t want to do that to him again though, not a third time. You have to get a grip.

Slowly, you remove your hand and he perks up. “Sorry, about your hoodie. I- , We- , We shouldn’t do that. You won’t like it.”

“What, why not? I think I would.”

“Believe me, it hurts.”

His trademark blush and grin combo is firmly back in place. “I don't care, it’s kind of hot.”

You pause, unsure how to counter without laying out the details of how you don’t want to commit murder a second time. “It’s like with the eyes. With you, I can’t really help what I’m doing, can’t control myself. It would probably be rough. I might hurt you. I mean, it always hurts but I think I might hurt you for real.”

He looks contemplative, though you notice the blush hasn’t diminished. “Is it really that different with me?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why. I think- , I think I just need to get used to you. I probably can’t ever bite you, but if we’re gonna get cozy without me flipping my shit, then I think we might need an adjustment period.” You immediately realize what you said. “That is, uh, if you want to keep doing this sometimes.”

He doesn’t leave you hanging. “I do! You said this is a date, I want more dates.” His earnest expression becomes immediately suggestive. “If I have to wait to show you my stuff, that's okay. Can’t help it if I drive you crazy.”

Oh, he’s a bastard. “Whatever you say, spaghetti shirt. You’re gonna need to stop biting me too, I can’t be held responsible for what that makes me want to do to you.”

“Noted.” He chokes through a laugh.

“Alright, let's go back. I’m fucking cold.”

The second Joost had kissed you, all fantasies of supernatural ambiance were forgotten. Now that you're separated again, they are at the front of your mind once more. The shadows look like more than shadows and the density of the fog feels designed to conceal something lurking beyond. You feel the need to protect Joost, probably from yourself, but it’s nicer to imagine something else so you let the fantasy reform. The twinge of unease from the misty morning on your balcony is back and you do your best to stomp it out. You just need to take it slow. You can still do this if you take it slow and let yourself get used to him.

The walk is mostly quiet. Joost seems thoughtful and you try not to hold his hand too hard. When you make it back to the studio, you unlock your bike and try not to imagine the night swallowing him when you go your separate ways. When you turn back to him, Joost swoops in again for another kiss. It’s only a peck, he’s giving you the space you asked for, but then his hand grabs your own and brings it to his mouth. It seems like he's going to kiss that too, goofy as he is, but quick as blinking he gives your knuckle a nip and winks before doing a one-eighty and starting down the street.

You clutch your hand to your chest like you’ve been burned. He bit you! Again! He keeps biting you and now he's walking calmly with his back turned like it doesn’t make you want to chase him down and pin him. Like it doesn't make you want to take him there on the pavement and tear into him. “See you later!” He waves before disappearing around the corner. It’s hard to decide whether to blush or go pale.

You wonder, not for the last time, what the fuck you are doing.

There's no chance to stew too long because the very next day Joost is already taking up all your attention. He hits you up at ten. You're naked in front of the mirror brushing your teeth when he calls.

“Hey, what are you doing?” So chipper.

You spit into the sink. “Just work, was gonna go to a cafe.”

“Can I come with?” He is possibly the most distracting person in the world for you, if last night was any indication, but he sounds so eager you can’t find it in you to say no.

Joost meets you at your usual cafe down the street. A place you often find yourself working these days when your cozy apartment, though a good refuge from the persistent rain, becomes just a little too monotonous. There is another moment of acclimation when you meet him out front, but you manage to keep your eyes from changing. You lean into him, forehead against his chest to keep anyone from seeing in case you can’t keep a handle on it while he smooths a hand down your back, heart noticeably fast and scent stirring at the closeness. Anyone bothering to pay attention would think you were any normal couple embracing. After a few minutes when nothing happens, you straighten. Joost almost looks disappointed.

He swoops in rather dramatically to pay when you order at the counter and you let him, bemused. He wants to know whether you’ve ever tried poffertjes and when the food arrives he feeds you one off his plate, looking only vaguely horny when you wrap your lips around it. Joost asks you how you like the Netherlands and you find yourself telling him how long you really haven't been here. Before you know it, you're telling him all the places you've lived over the past few years, distracted from your work already. He has so many questions and he drinks up your stories eagerly, relays some of his own about some of the same places. He really does travel a lot.

You get so caught up that you retrace your journey all the way back to your home country. When you pause, he notices you’ve exhausted your list. “That’s where you're from, right? You have the accent.”

You hesitate, but telling him where you're from won’t actually bring him any closer to knowing what you did. “Yeah, that’s home.”

“Why did you leave? Why so many places?”

Fuck.

“Is it because-” he pokes at his canines with the tips of his index fingers “vampire?” Relief washes over you. It’s the truth technically, more than he will ever know, and you don't really have to explain it. He’s filling in the gaps himself. “Yeah, got too hard to hide.”

When you part after many hours and little work, he gives you the tiniest, softest kiss, takes your hand, and brushes his mouth over the same knuckle before gently biting it once more.

The cafe becomes a pattern for the two of you, him showing up more often than you would have thought he had time for. He’s better at letting you work after that first day. Often brings his own things to work on, mostly concert visuals, and becomes deeply immersed in editing and drawing when he isn’t serving as your unwitting tech-support.

When you’re not working, he takes up your time all the same. He texts you constantly. A stupid picture of his dog, of Tantu, an edgy meme. You're not used to it. It's been years since anyone has texted you at all. Even your boss just emails. Most often, the texting is to suss out where you are and if you're busy. He seems determined to take you to what you're realizing is every place he usually spends his free time. His favorite restaurants, his favorite parks, his favorite bars. He's so bright, so gleeful in almost everything that he does. Joost shows you things just to see if you like them too.

One night he shows up at your door, six-pack in hand.

“Hi! …How do you know where I live?”

He stares back with eyes that look huge through the black frames slid low on his nose. “You sent me a pin? I thought you wanted me to meet you.”

A glance at your phone reveals the sent pin and several highly enthusiastic reply texts that you very much had not noticed. You meant to send him the link to the place you were meeting tomorrow. Fuck your life.

“Uh, I didn’t mean to. Hope I didn't make you drop anything to come here.”

“No, you didn't! What are you up to? Wanna hang out?” Joost almost talks like a kid. The bottles clink at the way he wiggles while he speaks and it only adds to the effect despite the way he towers over you like you're the child. That night you proceed to have the first of many regular movie marathons with Joost. Keeping your hands to yourself is hard with him on your couch all cozy and warm, oozing pheromones, but he mostly behaves and so do you.

Another night, he takes you to his favorite skate park where you don't do any skating. You just sit and watch everyone else and eat ice cream that melts way too fast while he tells you about someone named Nathan.

Another night after that he brings you to his place where you play COD until he gives up trying to teach you and you talk until the sun comes up. It's more difficult being in Joost’s flat, everything smells like him and it was fucking mean of him to wear grey sweatpants the first time you come over. Still, he gives you space, not pushing like you can tell he wants to.

It’s kind of sweet actually. This stranger you met at the club, grinded on at the club, trying to work with you and be delicate like being delicate matters. It all felt like some kind of weird extended hook-up at first, but the longer this goes on the more it feels like Joost wants to know you.

No one has been allowed to know you in a long time.

You want to know him too- know more of his favourite places, his favorite movies, his favourite foods. Know what it is he isn't saying every time you talk about the past.

It’s beginning to feel like you will. Like this thing you have going isn't so crazy.

Seeing Joost starts to fill your days, replacing the sporadic trips to the club that filled the human-shaped hole in your chest with a companionship that made you forget there ever was a hole. You didn’t realize how much of your time was so empty before.

Of course he isn’t always around. Often disappears for days on end to the studio and long weekends away for concerts. But, he always comes looking for you when he’s done and no matter what else you get up to together, you always find yourselves back at the cafe. You’ve carved out your own territory there, a table where no one else ever seems to sit as if they know it's meant for the two of you.

One morning you sit at it, waiting for Joost. He strolls in later than usual, humming what sounds a lot like Numa Numa as he approaches with an extra spring in his step. He plops down unceremoniously in his usual seat across from you, fishes around in one cavernous pocket, and deposits a steel ball-gag in front of your croissant and coffee with a clatter.

“Hey, good morning. What’s this?”

He rubs his hands together like some kind of cartoon villain. “Good morning! I’m so glad you asked! I was just thinking since, y’know, sharp teeth problem, you could wear this and then we could do whatever we want!” His eyebrows wiggle furiously. “Well, I guess we wouldn’t be able to kiss, but you know what I mean.”

“Uhhhhh.”

“I know you said you just need to get used to me but this way you don’t have to!” His giggly, somewhat bashful self of the first few weeks knowing him has melted away to leave a Joost with honestly very little shame. It was gradual, and he was never too reserved to begin with, but these days he is incorrigible. You must be rubbing off on him.

Sadly, this one isn’t up your alley.

“I’m gonna be real, that’s not happening. Have you ever tried one of these? It’s a good idea but I can’t handle that much drool.”

“Come on, please? I won’t laugh at you I swear. And honestly-” He leans in close. “I needed to eat you out like yesterday. Can we try it?”

As much as you don’t care that everyone in the cafe has been looking at you since the second Joost whipped out a ball gag, you also don’t want to get kicked out. This is your favorite spot. “No, put that away!”

Joost takes it in stride but as the days pass, you can tell he’s far from done with his scheming. At the movies and the automat and everywhere else he takes you, at his apartment and at yours where you’ve both started expecting each other, he is always nudging. Tempting you more and more while still following the rules. Little flirtations and kisses and those goddamn tiny little bites you never quite get used to. The tender press of his canines around your knuckle make your stomach swoop without fail. You're sure Joost knows what he’s doing, what with the way he smiles that same little smile every time.

Bastard.

It’s not like you can blame him for any of it. You want him too.

One day though, a few weeks before Christmas, Joost is forced to pause his efforts. It’s a cold and gray afternoon, and though there’s no snow on the ground, every shop and every home has wreaths and candles on doors and in windows. It’s impossible not to notice what time of year it is and when Joost comes knocking, all bundled and breathless and confused why you aren’t at the cafe, he can tell immediately that something is wrong.

It’s a bad day, really no other way to put it. It’s your little sister’s birthday and for the third time ever, you won’t be there.

She was a brat really, but you loved her and she is one of the few things that always makes you think of home. That wasn’t true at first, when you spent the first few months missing all your friends and family something awful. But after you literally killed and ate someone, the fear of discovery and the fear of hurting them drove your travels farther and farther until before long, you felt like you were doing the right thing.

Besides, the world was too big and too detailed to miss out on. Too vibrant in all of your new senses to spend your time sulking over what could never be. Most days now, home was just a passing thought. Still, your sister never fully left your mind, and on this one day every year you have been gone, you can never help but let your mind drift over what is and what could have been.

Joost can tell the second you open the door. You let him in without fuss, but when you answer his probing questions with little more than noncommittal grunts and squeeze him far too tight when he goes in for a hug, he starts to adjust his demeanor. He follows you into the kitchen and you shut your laptop, still open with the work you had been using for distraction.

“So, you don’t usually pass up the gift of my presence, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m good. I just have a lot going on with work. Sorry I forgot to tell you I wasn’t gonna be there.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

A pause.

“I've seen you stressed about work. Usually you’re asking me to help you find a file or proofread an email…”

“Yeah, okay, yeah. I’m a little distracted.”

“With what?”

“With-” you allow yourself to lean against him. He’s saddled up behind you as you finally come to a stop in the middle of the kitchen. His arms come around your waist and you let out a bone-rattling sigh. There’s few places you’d rather be than in his arms, but the knowledge that even that is something you're still trying to allow yourself to have makes it hard for it to feel like a comfort right now.

“-with things at home. There are things I left behind that I can’t go back to.”

“You wish you could?”

“Sometimes.”

“You miss someone?”

“Yeah.”

Fuck it. There’s so much you’ve already told him. Why not this.

“My sister.”

His grip relaxes slightly. You didn’t realize it had become tense. “Oh. I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Yeah.”

“I have a sister too. I don’t see her very often but it’s not because I can’t or anything. I don’t know what it would be like to not have the option.”

“Yeah.” You sniff. It seems to be the only thing you can say.

He squeezes you tight again when he hears it. “Wanna…talk about it?”

“No, not right now. I’ve been thinking about it all day and there’s nothing I can do so I might as well stop.”

“Okay. Wanna do something with me? Wanna watch a movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, how about Spiderman?”

He knows you so well by now.

Joost coaxes you back to his apartment. Away from your work and to what you have to admit after many movie marathons is a home cinema setup superior to your own. The perfection of the couch-pillow-foot rest-cup holder placement leaves you unable to turn down the journey when the ride is only ten minutes.

Tonight, you watch Far From Home. Though you always cycle through the Spiderman movies, it’s the one you saw with your friends the night you turned, and somehow it's the one you always come back to. You’ve never told Joost you prefer it but he’s noticed anyway, and tonight he pulls it out before you can ask. By the time Peter Parker gets knocked out by Mysterio and accidentally arrives in the Netherlands via train, you're in Joost’s lap, clinging on with arms slung around his neck and face pressed into his chest, barely watching. Being sad does wonders for not being riled by his closeness.

He holds you right back, hands at your waist, occasionally pressing light kisses to your hair as he comments on the inaccuracies of the movie’s Dutch portrayal.

“Y’know we do love soccer but honestly, no one is so super happy like this, especially not if you’re stuck in jail.”

You just hold him tighter. It’s been hours now in Joost’s presence and finally, you feel yourself unwinding. Just like always, Joost is the best distraction you’ve ever encountered. Your teeth itch of course, what with your face so close to his throat, but you ignore it so you can savor the feeling of him wrapped around you. Joost is sweeter than you could have ever asked for. So often wants to know about your problems and offers up his time to solve them. Provides his presence and his affection when he can’t.

Not that you have many problems. Your tech issues present the majority.

Still, here and now, he's trying to fix everything just like he always does and it is with a deep shudder from yourself that he starts to rub your shoulders. His hands smooth down your back to your hips and back up again, reminiscent of the moments in front of cafes and shops where you always have your moment of initial acclimation. Now, there is no pressure to the moment, no rush to get yourself under control. All you have to do is relax further into his hold and let his big hot hands melt sensation into your flesh.

A sort of tingle accompanies his hands wherever they go. Up and down and up again. They knead at the muscles of your lower back before working their way up either side of your spine with gentle compressions of his knuckles. One big palm cups the back of your neck when his ministrations make it to the top and he takes a moment to inhale deeply from your hair. The motions repeat over and over, up and down and back again. You would be letting him know exactly how much his efforts are appreciated if those efforts weren’t completely melting your mind.

Lingering in that liminal goo-brain space for what feels like hours, it occurs to you that every pass over your hips is gradually getting lower. Every time he works his way down your spine, his thick fingers splay just a little further over the swell of your ass. You let him do it, fully on board with the feelings it’s inspiring in your core and too strung-out to think of why there might be any reason not to indulge.

Before long, his hands are fully cupping your ass with every pass. Each time he spends a moment squeezing lightly before continuing the cycle. After a couple more circuits, he finally breaks the pattern and stops to hold each cheek in one huge hand, pulling back from your hair to make eye contact, asking silent permission. You hold his gaze, unable to think further than the lazy, slow, creeping want he inspires. He made you so comfortable, so pliant and soft, why would you ever do anything other than what he wants? You slump forward to mouth at his jaw, forgetting yourself, and his heart stutters. His hands slide lower to the back of each thigh and his fingertips brush over your slit. It’s the first time he’s ever done anything quite so direct since that moment under the bridge and it makes you moan so loud that he pulls back once more to get a read on your face.

“Is this okay?”

“Mmm, yeah.” It’s hard to remember why such a question makes sense. His fingertips, so close to where you need them, make higher processes a herculean effort. Still, your brain is the stuff of legends, and you pull it together to consider what he means.

“Fuck, uhhnh, gimme a sec.”

His hands don’t leave their precarious position, but make no further move. In the meantime, his mouth fills in the gap. ‘You know I bought something else. After the ball gag I mean. I was thinking handcuffs kinda do the same thing but, y’know, less drool.” He smiles sheepishly. “We don’t have to use them, I just wanted to tell you. It could keep your mouth away from me if I stayed down here.” he squeezes with both hands for emphasis.

“Oh.” With the strong departure from the sadness that had been consuming you and the reminder of all Joost represents, you are quickly coming back to awareness. Your gums ache in a way they haven’t for quite a while now, the tug behind your eyes making a return. “I- how would that work?”

“If I cuff you to the headboard and stay down here-”

Another squeeze for demonstrative purposes,

“-then your teeth will never come near me. We can’t kiss, after a point, but we can do other stuff. There are a lot of things I want to do to you.”

“Okay, I’m with you, but you would need like a steel headboard or something. I’ve seen the IKEA particle board slats you have going on.”

“I may have- uh, I may have bought that too.”

Oh he is a freak.

Your smile is all Joost needs to scramble to shut off the movie and scoop you up like it’s nothing, mouth on yours like a man starved. You cling to his shoulders as he slowly walks you back through the apartment. It’s a miracle you make it when he can’t be bothered to look where he’s going.

Somehow, he neither bangs your elbow nor your knee on a door frame and all of a sudden the world shifts as you are deposited onto his bed with a bounce. True to his word, it’s a new bed. Same dark blue comforter and faded Minecraft bed sheets but a new frame with solid metal bars. He lets you look while he fiddles with something on the bookshelf before turning back to you with a ‘clink’.

The handcuffs, equally metal and solid, glint in the low light of his bedroom. You’ve never been into bondage per se, but just about anything Joost wants, you find yourself wanting too. His enthusiasm never gets old. Even if the bed and the cuffs are just a means to an end, Joost picked them out for you, he picked them out and bought them because after all this time dancing around each other, he still wants to fuck you so badly.

The tug behind your eyes is irresistible like never before. This time, you don’t fight it.

Joost takes you in, eyes wide and wanton, fixed on your own dark pools. He gives a shuddering sigh and unclicks the cuffs. “Oh, liefje, let’s start with this.”

The simple endearment used for the first time short-circuits any intelligent response. There are no words. You scoot up the bed, overcome by the word still bouncing around your skull and the hunger evident in his scent. Laying back slowly, you lift your arms above your head as he crawls over you.

Something about the position feels a little strange, but the thought leaves as quickly as it came when you’re distracted by cold metal clicking into place. He adjusts the cuffs gently, one on each wrist with the chain hooked around a thick steel post of the headboard. A good tug proves them to be durable and Joost lets out a breath you didn’t know he had been holding.

Though the bedside lamp is dim, the blue of his eyes practically glows as he removes his glasses and lays them on the nightstand to admire what’s laid out before him.

It’s obvious all too soon that there are drawbacks to the position. You can’t lean up to kiss him, at least not much, can’t reach out to touch him and tuck a bright blond strand behind his ear or cup a cheek and trace his pouty bottom lip. You need to, if you're being honest. Need to touch him and hold him and kiss him and tell him there is no one else you would ever want to do this with. You don’t even know what that means, since there haven’t exactly been other options, but you know it’s true.

Joost watches your squirming with increasing amusement as you test the limits of your bonds. Finally, mercifully, he parts your thighs and presses flush against you to capture your mouth. Your legs wrap around him immediately, holding him the only way you can. His scent is just as potent as it was that night under the bridge and quickly becoming stronger. It’s a good thing you’re cuffed because your willpower is already softening.

As overwhelmed as you are already, your teeth haven't dropped yet and you're thankful as he all but steals the breath from you. The increasingly desperate press of your mouths is all that's keeping you from begging him to get on with it. You never thought you would be one to beg, but here with Joost above you, presence all encompassing and hips slotted into the cradle of your own like he belongs there, you think you would.

In the end you don’t have to. Joost pulls away all too suddenly and the hands braced at either side of your head come down to toy at the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?”

“Please!”

The transparent need in your demand short-circuits him for a moment. He says nothing, huge pupils unblinking for several long seconds before they snap down to fix on the stripe of skin that gets wider and wider as tattooed fingers slowly peel the shirt up your stomach. It would have been smart to get undressed first, but you’re both a bit beyond reason and you do your best to help as he drags it up above your head to tangle around your wrists. He pauses again to drink you in, more bare skin than he’s had the opportunity to see yet. So much of the past months has been little more than kisses. His hands trace their way back down, over your sternum and your belly until they reach the hem of your lounge pants.

Joost doesn’t ask this time, just meets your eyes and takes the nod you give without words. He removes them much easier than the shirt and whips them away to land somewhere to be found later. Hot palms smooth up your thighs and a single finger hooks into the elastic waistband of your panties. The whine you let out as soon as he does it sends him scrambling and they are quickly tossed away to join the pants.

Huge hands brace themselves against your inner thighs and you're made to bend your knees up to accommodate. It spreads you wide, everything on display. It’s been so long since anyone has seen you like this it’s borderline embarrassing, but the way his scent picks up and his pupils nearly eclipse their blue border makes it all worth it. He crawls forward to give you a single deep kiss.

“All good?” He breathes against your lips.

“All good.”

He shuffles back down and starts laying more kisses against your inner thighs.

You know exactly where this is going.

Joost’s overture that day in the cafe never strays too far from your mind. If you were wet before, now you’re positively dripping. It starts to run down your ass and you wonder if he will notice, see your desperation made flesh. It’s unlikely, what with the way his eyes are shut tight and his brow is slack with bliss. He’s getting exactly what he wants. Joost laves a hot stripe over the skin closest to the junction of your thigh, pauses for one maddening moment, then turns to lick into where you need him most without warning.

Your gasp is more of a shout.

He groans in response and hooks an arm around each thigh before you can squirm away, the wet, slippery friction on your clit so intense you almost try to. He starts out with deep, long licks directly over it before he goes anywhere else, straight to the punch without teasing. After what feels like far too much and nowhere near enough, he gives one long lick through your folds and shifts his focus lower. He lingers over your entrance, the flat of his tongue seals tight to the rim, textured buds undulating against the delicate skin making you writhe. He does it again and again, taking breaks to pull back and run the tip around the edge, tracing and circling before latching to it yet again with a wet ‘smack’. Normal breathing is becoming impossible and when your thighs have been tensed so long they start to shake, he dips it in.

There’s no telling what undoubtedly guttural noise you make because you are too busy wrestling with the sensation of blood blooming across your tongue and iron filling your sinuses. Every teasing nudge inside your pussy sends your fangs digging deeper into your lip.

The brief agitation from earlier has returned, but now you know what it is. There’s nothing actually wrong, it’s just so much harder to bite lying on your back. The urge you usually manage to suppress is now front and center of all thought. As always, pleasure seems inextricably tied to predation. You need to pin Joost and bite him and feel him struggle but you also need his delicious weight on top of you and his hands around you and his tongue inside you and you can’t have both. You feel insane.

Joost’s groans are heavy, the vibrations rolling through you as he lazily pumps his tongue deeper, nose grinding into your swollen clit. He settles into a pattern. Deep, languid tongue-fucking followed by licks to either sider of your bud, close but not close enough, before directly grinding the flat of his tongue into it a few times and then starting the process all over again.

The cuffs are fighting a battle of their own above you. Every time Joost switches targets the headboard gives a heavy creak. You hardly notice. It’s taking all your remaining brain power just to try not to squeeze him too hard with your thighs. Though, it might be okay since every time you do he lets out a groan, far too pleased for what is probably a legitimate threat to his skull. Blood drips down your chin now, your canines deep in your bottom lip when you hear it:

A shuffle.

A rustle.

A slight sway to the mattress.

He takes your clit between his lips and sucks hard. The bedsprings give a pathetic wheeze as your head slams back and your spine arches as a squeal rips out of you.

The rhythmic swaying picks up the pace.

When Joost finally gives you a second of reprieve to kiss at your thigh, hot heavy breaths fanning over you, the gentle swaying continues. Puzzled, you find the willpower to lift your head and shakily unlock your thighs from where they have become earmuffs. It’s hard to place it at first, the incessant tongue back on your skin and sharp iron in your mouth more than distracting, but then you notice.

Gently,

slowly,

almost tenderly,

Joost’s hips roll down into the mattress.

It might be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

The way his brow has started to knit as he ruts instinctively, pleasure seeping up his spine as he gets off on your own. The way his hips jerk softly like he isn’t even aware, like his body is just making him do it. The way his sweats have slid down to reveal the dark material of his boxers, snug against the muscles of his ass that are working insistently.

You can’t handle it. You have to do something, anything. Your hands whip down to bury your fingers in his hair as you grind up into his mouth and lose your mind.

Your fingers in…his hair?

He flinches. Makes a pathetic noise as he withdraws his tongue. The sudden hard stop to the blissful sensation all the more highlights the bright red sheeting from his brow.

In your pleasure, the cuffs ripped like paper. Both loops are still attached but the chain, now broken, swings freely from your right wrist, bloody from where it lanced him deep across the temple.

Oh.

Fuck.

Joost has never bled in front of you before. Not a single scratch or cut, not even a hangnail.

It's like hearing colors or tasting music. Now that the source of his scent isn’t trapped under his skin, it is so much more potent than you could have ever prepared for. You could never have built a tolerance to this.

The sudden certainty of a guaranteed meal, the knowledge that your strength is superior, that you've won, it overwhelms you in an instant and the sureness of it almost leaves you calm. You're going to get what you want. There's nothing that could possibly stop you. And why should it?

The only thing that keeps you from destroying him on the spot is the look on his face.

It’s all happening within seconds. He’s still mid-recoil. His face screws up now that the pain is starting to register, blank confusion twisting to stricken agony.

It’s nothing like you imagined.

Those nights alone when you think about Joost and can’t quite control that deep, savage part of your mind, the part that's been there ever since you woke up bloody in the middle of the street all those years ago, you never imagined it like this. That inhuman part of you was sure his pain would be something beautiful. Even if the logical majority of you protested, somewhere deep down, you always expected it to be true.

Maybe it’s the added shock of the sudden blow, maybe it’s just the wrong kind of pain, but the hurt on his face is terrible. Not pleasure-pain like when you press on a bruise you accidentally gave him the day before and he can’t help the way his eyelids flutter, not like when your sharp nails dig into his back when you go in for a kiss and he picks you up and you have to hold on tight as he groans into your mouth.

Just pain.

Your heart folds in.

You’re rolling off the bed and shooting to your feet before Joost can even look at you, too busy staring at the blood on his fingers as he draws them back from his forehead, shaking. It’s physically painful to turn away. You grab your phone with enough force to rattle the night stand and make yourself walk towards the door. Every sense is cranked to eleven and every reflex and muscle fiber is dialed in. All strength and no precision as you work against your instincts. Every base impulse is screaming at you to turn back and take what is right in front of you. There’s no running away this time, just brute force resistance.

There’s so much blood.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m gonna get someone, just stay there. Stay there.” The words are choked as you use every ounce of willpower to force yourself into the hall. You don’t know if he hears you and you can’t afford to look back to check. His gasps of pain almost sound erotic now without the visual evidence of his suffering and it makes you want to turn around and devour him. When you recognize the thought, you hate yourself just a little.

You wrestle into your long winter coat and manage not to break the front door as you unlock it. Joost calls out your name just before it slams shut behind you.

Outside in the cold, damp, wind whipped darkness, there is enough of a disconnect from what’s inside that you can feel control come back online.

You want to run but you make yourself walk, thankful your coat covers your bare ass, as you prioritize sending a cryptic but detailed text to 112 and then dialing the one other person that can possibly help. Tantu answers on the third ring.

“Tantu. I need you to check on Joost. I need you to go over to his place right now and it can’t wait.”

“What? What do you mean? Did he call you?”

“No it’s- Tantu please just do it. Please. Will you check on him?”

“Yes, yeah, I will, what’s going on?”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes! I’m putting on my coat! Tell me what’s wrong!”

“Please hurry, Tantu.”

You hang up, cutting off what sounds like a curse.

He’s a good friend, you can tell. It’s a good thing you have his number. You don’t know any of Joost’s other friends. Honestly, you barely know Tantu. Joost talks about them often and with love but you’ve just never met them.

It’s mostly Joost’s efforts to try not to spook you, to ease you into knowing him without pressure. You let it slip once that you try not to make close connections for practical reasons and he let up on group invites quickly, if a little disappointed. Anything to keep you around and unwilling to gamble with being the exception.

The trill of your phone makes you slow once more.

It’s Joost.

He’s okay. Okay enough to call at least. Hopefully emergency medical or Tantu gets there soon.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your phone continues to buzz as he calls again.

And then again.

You wanted to see if this could work, whatever this is. It felt possible once. Felt like one day you would say yes to meeting his friends, like you would feel close enough to ask him about his past and maybe even tell him the full truth about yours, felt like one day you might finally adjust enough to be able to love him properly.

Because you do love him.

You’ve known it and denied it but you do.

You do and it didn't stop you. Such a small mistake, made so easily and unconsciously and almost the end of his life.

You love him and that’s why as you walk down the street, completely enveloped in abyssal shadow, no moon in sight, you know that when you get home you’re going to pack your things.

#joost klein x reader #joost klein fanfic #joost x reader #joost klein smut #joost klein

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jollyinmadness · 7 months ago

Text

Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 1, Solas | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Minor Azriel x Elain. References to sexual thoughts. Very vague references to a genocide. Cursing.

Summary:

When an unknown curse starts spreading through the Night Court's lands, the Inner Circle is forced to seek help in the wisdom of Day's vast libraries. Among the dusty tomes, they are met with a mysterious female who wields magic that may yet be the key to their problem.

Kira, one of the few surviving Purifiers, will have to leave her reclusiveness on the shores of the Continent and learn what her ancestor's vow really means.

Azriel will be forced to reconcile his follies, step out from his shadows and push against his shortcoming with nothing but the scarred skin of his hands.

After years of lucky breaks, will the Inner Circle succeed one last time? Or will their fate rest in the hands of an outsider who has more to lose than gain in helping them?

Then again, the Cauldron is forever being stirred by the Mother and no one escapes the yarn on the embroidery of their lives.

Azriel’s hands were hidden under his armpits as he walked the empty streets of Velaris. The faelights in the Palace of Thread and Jewels still shone brightly, though many of the shops had their doors shut and signs turned to say ‘closed.’

He had just left a seamstress’s shop and regretted not accepting a jacket for the suit Rhysand ordered on his behalf. Despite having many in his closet, Rhysand noted that he only owned outdated ones and needed to, quote, freshen up. After a few adjustments, the seamstress had ushered him into the cold street with a smile, saying she was celebrating tonight and needed to get ready too.

During the longest night of the year, even this part of the town closed down, its habitants retiring to dining rooms with their families. As Azriel passed by houses that hadn’t closed their blinds, he dared to peek in if even for the smallest moment. More often than not, he saw children running around a table while the adults prepared utensils and plates, scolding the little ones for not being careful enough. It caused the corners of his mouth to lift, seeing these people so free of worry that they didn’t even care to draw their curtains.

His feet moved on their own accord, walking the familiar paths. Something unsettled and grew restless inside his bones as he thought of the estate he was heading to. This year, his own family was meeting in the River House to celebrate the Winter Solstice and the attendance was bound to be plentiful.

He had already helped Feyre decorate, while Rhysand looked after little Nyx. This year would mark his first Solstice and everyone was eager to make it the most memorable one. Nyx put up the first decoration on the tree but when he was handed a garland from paper, he had torn it in half which elicited a laugh from Azriel and a gentle scolding from both his parents.

Considering he was Rhysand’s son, he was surely going to be a handful once he learned how to talk back and run away.

During it all, Azriel had noted Cassian’s lack of presence, though his brother was most likely hunting down some last-minute gifts before the shops closed for the evening. And last he heard, his mate was up in the House of Wind, preparing with Emerie and Gwyn. Emerie had been spending the last few days with her and Azriel could tell the Illyrian female felt out of place here even after months of daily training. The priestess, on the other hand, had promised Nesta she would spend the dinner with her, before returning to the Library for the evening service.

Gwyn had shown so much growth since her arrival to Velaris and after the Rite, after she cut the ribbon, Azriel noted how she looked to the sky with a renowned longing. Some of the fear and reluctance had fallen off and in its place had grown courage and curiosity. Perhaps her trip to the River House was a stepping stone.

His mind shifted to the rest that were bound to be present and Azriel wondered what Elain was up to. Whether she was trying on dresses and picking out the ones Azriel would love to see on the ground of his private quarters.

He hadn’t seen her since a few days ago when he had walked past the kitchen in the River House and beared witness to her gentle chuckles. Her hands were covered in flour and his two trusted shadow wraiths talked in hushed voices to her. Not even his shadows were quick enough to catch onto what was being said because when the three had noticed him, their words died down just like their laughter.

Cerridwen and Nuala had sketched a quick bow to Azriel, much to his dismay but Elain only stared at him with those wide, doe-like eyes. It had made the air in the kitchen warmer and as she offered him a soft smile. He had disappeared into the shadows after nodding at her. Nodding.

What a fool he was, pining after a female who was mated to another male, let alone allowing himself such a visceral reaction to simple things like smiles. Foolish, indeed.

Feyre had mentioned in passing that Lucien was bound to make an appearance during the night. He didn’t let himself feel insulted. The voice inside his head was telling him that Feyre could see right through him and thought him fragile. He didn’t need to be notified of guests, especially Lucien.

Azriel sighed, blowing a white cloud into the biting air and hoped Rhysand had enough chairs for everyone.

A shiver ran through him when, at last, the front gate to the River House appeared at the far end of the street. He quickened his pace, hands pushing the gate open. His dress shoes clicked against the stone walkway leading to the front door and before he reached for the knob, he pulled at his suit. His scarred hand ran through his hair, fixing and making sure he looked presentable before tackling the entirety of the Inner Circle.

The shadows curled around his ear, telling him that everyone was already somewhere in the house except for Amren and Varian, who were Mother-knew where and doing Mother-knew what. Azriel didn’t care enough to know.

With one last inhale, he braced himself for an eventful evening and opened the door. He followed the sound of chatter and bottles clinging to the decorated family room where everyone was gathered.

The first person to notice his entrance was Cassian. “Az, brother, there you are!”

He came up to Azriel, stuffing a crystal glass full of aged rum into his hand and wrapping a shoulder around him. Cassian was already inebriated, Azriel could tell as their wings brushed on accident. Nesta sent subtle stares their way from the corner of the room while nursing a cup of grape juice and making sure he was still standing upright. She made some comment to the two Valkyries near her, making them giggle while watching.

Cassian and Nesta were still considered to be newly mated and Azriel avoided the House of Wind with fervor. Especially after Feyre and Rhysand had given it to them as a mating gift. He had been planning on vacating his room and moving to the Townhouse way before that but he dreaded packing all of the trinkets decorating his shelves. He would have missed the silence too hadn’t it been replaced by sounds of rabid fucking. Even the dining table wasn’t safe from their ministrations and a small part of Azriel grew jealous at it.

“You should stop with the drinks if you plan on participating tomorrow,” muttered Azriel, still cheering his glass with Cassian’s.

Cassian laughed, the sound joyous and open. “I will end your winning streak this year, spymaster.”

“No, I think it will mark my two hundredth win,” Azriel remarks absentmindedly, elbow shoving itself into Cassian’s ribs. Cassian didn’t take to that lightly and while balancing his almost empty glass, he put Azriel into a chokehold with a boom of laughter. He ruffled his hair while promising utter devastation come tomorrow morning.

Cassian’s technique wasn’t sloppy despite being drunk but it took one smooth move for Azriel to free himself and knock back the contents of his glass.

“I would save the energy, Cass,” he told him, unfastening the button on his jacket.

Cassian grinned. “Or I can beat you now and eliminate the competition.”

Before they could begin to play-wrestle, Feyre cleared her throat, staring them down. “No fighting in front of Nyx,” she reminded them. “Besides, Az just arrived and you’re already wrinkling his suit! Get off of him, Cassian.”

“A suit I paid good money for,” whispered Rhys from beside his mate, his ankle resting atop his knee. The tips of Azriel’s ears went red and once he pushed Cassian off, he heard a soft, female chuckle behind him.

Without a thought, he turned his head, his shadows scattering at the sight in the doorway. Words escaped him like they always did in Elain’s presence and instead, he stared down at her.

Her hair was done half-up half-down, decorated with little white flowers she was sure were grown by her own gentle hands. Baby breaths, he recalled her saying. As his face traveled from those brown eyes looking at him with mirth, his breath caught somewhere on its way from his lungs and to his mouth. A light pink dress made of the softest fabric adorned her curves, pooling and shimmering around her feet like a waterfall. The color and the design reminded him of that one time he stayed in the Day Court. Sun had just risen and painted the entire sky a brilliant pink and small puffy white clouds dusted the horizon.

At once, he willed his shadows to enshroud him again and stepped from the doorway, his eyes never leaving hers. His only thought was on that necklace in his breast pocket, still undecided on whether he should give it to her or not. Seeing her, he couldn’t help but notice that the little rose pendant would go perfectly with the dress. There and then, his mind was made. He would put the petite box on the pile later once everyone had gone to sleep.

Somebody behind her cleared their throat and it was the only reason Azriel noticed the fire-haired male.

Lucien’s stare softened considerably as the golden eye shifted from Azriel the moment their eyes met. The emissary chose to ignore him, instead put a gentle hand on Elain’s upper back that Azriel traced with his eyes. As they crossed over the threshold, it was all he could do once the scent of their unaccepted mating bond filled the room.

Sometimes, Azriel thought to himself, the Mother had a cruel sense of humor.

Azriel leaned against the wall, letting the murmur of his shadows take the attention from Elain and Lucien. He listened, ignoring questioning stares from Rhysand and focusing on the sauntering female making her way to the family room.

He turned his head just in time to be met with Mor’s profile appearing in the doorway. She was holding a bottle of wine and smiling, love filling her eyes as they went over everyone present. The familiar faces and the new. Azriel noticed how she took a while to look at the Illyrian female next to Nesta and he noticed Emerie staring right back. He bit back the small smirk fighting to be shown. Though once she had her fill, the last person whom she graced with her glance was Azriel.

They shared a knowing look and at last, it was void of any tension or anxiety. “Hey, Az,” she said, a gentle smile on her lips.

He dipped his chin. “Mor.”

He saw a flurry of brown hair before a muffled “Mor!” was exclaimed into the female’s chest. Mor recoiled due to the impact and suddenly, Feyre was hugging the Morrigan, not caring for propriety in front of guests.

Rhysand’s cousin had been spending more time in Vallahan than in the Night Court, forging alliances and still not succeeding in convincing the Queen to sign the peace treaty. She tried to visit as much as she could and sent many letters through Azriel’s spies concerning the foreign kingdom. He worried for her, hearing just how proud the people in Vallahan were and the schemes the court was prone to.

“Feyre, please, don’t crush me before I can make it through the doorway.”

“I’m so glad you could make it for the dinner,” she murmurs into her chest before pulling away and taking in the red gown Mor had put on. It earned a hum of approval from her High Lady and Mor wiggled her eyebrows, whispering something into Feyre’s ear and making her laugh.

Azriel stepped away, moving further inside the room though the wall was his preferred place. Feyre had handed off Nyx to Elain, who was rocking the baby on her hip while conversing with the Valkyries. Gwyn was wearing her usual priestess robes and cooed at the small Illyrian. The middle Archeron sister was smiling unabashedly, sending something warm trickling down Azriel’s chest.

“Brother,” Rhysand greeted, breaking him out of the reverie and lifting a bottle to fill his glass. With a cocked brow, Rhysand poured the liquor and walked away from Azriel without another word, leaving the shadowsinger hanging in the air.

Rhysand stopped in front of his mate, kissing her temple without sparing Azriel another second of his attention after filling his glass. It left an unsure feeling behind but he brushed it off, convincing himself to have misread the slippage of his brother’s mask.

— ✾ —

It was only after an hour filled with Mor’s complaining about being hungry and Cassian’s grunts of approval that Varian and Amren arrived. Azriel knew the moment Rhysand’s second had walked through the front door of the River House and his shadows notified him that Amren’s lipstick was smudged, and Varian was rubbing a handkerchief along his face.

It made Azriel swear up the Cauldron as he began rethinking his decision to come to this particular family dinner. It wasn’t often that he chose to, rather opting for eating by his lonesome in the House of Wind. The smell of people’s scents mixed in the aftermath of sex was something akin to strangulation and Azriel liked to enjoy his meals without the sensation.

Rhysand turned away from Amren and Varian, clasping his hands together and announcing, “It’s time we feast!”

Cassian whooped alongside of Mor, and they were the first ones on Rhysand’s heels. At the left-hand side of the family room were double doors, too, decorated with garlands and ribbons. Rhysand pushed down on each handle, leading the grand entrance to a refurbished dining room.

Azriel’s shadows skittered around him as they watched everyone enter. In hushed voices, they began counting those walking through the threshold and Azriel fought the urge to roll his eyes.

As much as everyone assumed he had complete control over his little shadows, they were sentient creatures fascinated by the simplest things. It wasn’t a coincidence that shadowsingers were oftentimes spies, because while the shadows liked talking, they adored observing and reporting everything to their master whose job was to pick out the important information.

And so, Azriel had to ignore his shadows gushing about a new table that could now fit not ten people but twelve! Once they were sure their master knew of the fact his shadows returned to counting.

There’s four, five, six. Seven. Eight, nine, ten and eleven, and twelve.

Amren had taken the head of the table, leading Varian to sit next to her with their intertwined hands.

Mor chose to be the mediator between Lucien and Elain and ignored all the sideways glances the emissary sent her way as she laid a hand on the back of the chair. The little smile she sent Elain did not escape Azriel either. While everyone had chosen their seats, Azriel entered last, closing the door behind him with his back to the group.

There’s the thirteenth. Such a lucky number.

In all his years spent in Velaris, Azriel failed to remember a time when a dining room was this full. The new table added two extra seats and dwarfed the room in comparison to how it used to be. Everyone made themselves comfortable, shucking off jackets and laying them across the backs of their chairs.

Azriel hadn’t had the chance to pick where he wanted to sit and as he turned to the room, he had come to realize with an odd mix of relief and disdain that his seat was between Nesta and Varian. Pick of the litter, then.

The seats have been specially altered to accommodate winged individuals and while Azriel settled into his chair, he was at least grateful that his closest companions lacked any membranous monstrosities protruding from their backs. Were he sat next to inebriated Cassian, he’d have to focus his attention there and leave his shadows with filling up the blanks.

As food started appearing one plate after another, Azriel took in where the rest of the people were sat. He was facing Feyre and Rhysand, Nyx placed into a tiny chair between theirs. Cassian was occupying the other head of the table and already spoke to Elain in hushed tones to the best of his abilities. To the General’s other side was Gwyn, then Emerie and Nesta. One of his newer shadows notified him that Emerie couldn’t take her eyes from Rhysand’s cousin and that she blushed when their eyes met.

A table of this size offered a lot of variety and where there was space between statement pieces, candelabras and flowers, there was food or drink. Once the sound of cutlery filled the room, the conversation fell off and comments about the food were exchanged. The feast, as Rhysand called it, was truly one for the books.

Oh, the beef. It’s delicious.

Could you hand me more of the potatoes, Lucien?

Is there any more wine on your end of the table?

We should do this more often.

The exchanges appeared awkward to Azriel and the small talk he had to endure from Varian made him want to retreat further into his shadows. All throughout the main course he felt Rhysand’s eyes on him but when he went to meet his High Lord’s stare, he had already turned away.

As the food dwindled and the fae lights dimmed down to a comfortable glow, many different conversations were going on. Feyre talked to Lucien while letting Rhysand feed their son and the Valkyries were explaining their training to Mor, who had been unaware of all the progress the priestesses had made.

Gwyn was in the middle of explaining the new technique that she discovered while helping Merill with her research when she offhandedly mentioned a thing that elicited a groan from Nesta and Emerie.

Cassian, dragged out from his conversation with Elain, drew back. “What? What happened?” he questioned, brows drawn together in confusion.

“It’s the long-lost kingdom again,” explained Nesta and Cassian ah’d with some recognition, nodding along.

Gwyn blushed a deep crimson. "I promised Nesta not to talk about it," she sent a glare to the mentioned female over Emerie's head. "So I won't."

Nesta rolled her eyes but it couldn't be taken seriously because as she looked down, one corner of her mouth was lifted up.

"To talk about what?" asked Feyre from the other end of the table, cutting her conversation with Lucien short. The male was already tilting his body towards the priestess, eyes straying to his mate before focusing wholeheartedly back on Gwyn.

Gwyn met Feyre's kind gaze. "I've finally started my own research and these three hear too much about it."

Something struck Azriel's chest on the left-hand side as he realized he was not included in the explanation. His shadows stilled and watched Gwyn.

"Oh?" mused Feyre back. She settled her chin on the heel of her palm, smiling gently at the priestess. “What is it about?"

Almost taken aback by the attention she was getting from her High Lady, it had taken her a moment to get the words out. "It's this extinct nation– or at least many think it's extinct. They just about fell off the face of this world five hundred years ago."

There were more blank faces around the table as even Amren drew her unsettling gaze to Gwyn. Now, everyone was listening to her and even Elain let her gentle and encouraging eyes rest on her small form.

What a kindness she thinks she’s offering, one shadow hissed and coiled around his ear.

Gwyn’s hand reached up to play with a strand of coppery hair, continuing, "Truly, there are barely any records on its fall, some books on its existence and even less on their emergence."

"You do love a challenge, Gwyn," muttered Nesta, earning a gleaming smile from Gwyn.

"That I do," she responded, almost sheepish. "The last scriptures go back to a few decades before the War. It's unheard of that a kingdom from the continent is not mentioned in writing."

Mor shuffled in her seat, holding the glass of wine in front of her with both hands and offering an inquisitive look to Gwyn. "Is it Severín, by any chance?"

"Yes," she breathed out, the realization that many of them are as old as five hundred dawning over her. "You fought in the War, didn't you?" she asked, this time with more gentleness. She looked to Cassian who was pushing his food around and nodding lightly, the tone of the conversation still easygoing, edging on clinical.

"We all did," stated Mor, her mood growing more serious with each sip she took. "I went there once but decades after it had fallen to aid an old friend."

"You were there for the liberation of Black Land?" she inquired, earning a nod and a small smile from Mor. She had connected the dots fast enough that it pleased her.

"I offered my help to Drakon and Myriam, yes. I would not be wrong to suggest you know who they were."

The use of past tense didn’t escape Azriel.

"Could I—" she started but faltered before she got too ahead of herself. But before she could find better words or consider a better timing, Mor lifted a gentle hand.

"You can ask any questions you want. I'll come to the library tomorrow for a few hours and I'll make sure to find you."

For a moment, Gwyn was left speechless before she stammered out a quick, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she uttered, before looking around the table. "We wouldn't want to bore these people with the recounting of ancient history."

"I, for one," said Feyre pointedly while fixing Nyx's clothes, "would love to hear more about this fallen kingdom. I don't get to read as much anymore."

Nesta bit back a grin, turning to her sister with a goodhearted smile. "Anymore? You were illiterate a few years ago."

A few reluctant giggles escaped the present and even Azriel had to hide his smile. Feyre gasped, resting her palms on the table and looking in feigned disbelief at her oldest sister. Rhysand looked to his wife, a smile splitting his face in half. "And whose fault is that?"

This broke the hesitance, light laughter echoing around the room and even Amren cracked a smirk.

Feyre hummed, letting her chin rest against her palm again. "But about the Black Land... Is it not the same as what Mor said? Severing, or something?"

"Severín, my lady," corrected gently Gwyn, letting Feyre copy the hard r's in her own time. She gave her an encouraging smile once she got it right. "But they're not the same, though they existed in the same place within Rask."

“I think I've seen it on one of the older maps, near where the Wall would be," wondered aloud Feyre and her mate gave her a nod, confirming her guess. "Is it close to that mountain range with a river? The northern one."

"Yes, the Vistula River,” she nodded at Feyre. “There’s a legend involving the Severínians and the river delta. Supposedly, before they ever settled in Rask’s territory, the region was surrounded by a desert and there was no vegetation unless you were close to the seashore. And even then it was only rocky ridges, not fit for cultivating crops.”

“But something changed,” muttered Feyre playfully, enchanted by the story Gwyn was gladly unraveling for her.

“Something did change. ‘When the Severínians finally decided to settle, rivers sprang from the mountains and created a cradle for a new kingdom to rise from.’ It’s a quote from a diary of a Raskan traveler. The name ‘Vistula’ actually means to flow slowly and its roots are in the Severínian language.”

Feyre smiled at the little tidbit of information. “Do we know what urged them to settle there? If there was no life there, it must have been a hard decision to make.”

“I asked myself the same thing! We do know that they were a nomadic people, that their archetypal features were feathered wings. Individuals with pale hair were denoted to have powers. That actually created a new branching in the classification of magic. I saw some scholars give them the title of ‘purifiers.’”

Mor nodded along with the explanation as if everything that came out of Gwyn’s mouth was just confirmation of something she had already known.

“They had a so-called affinity for ‘life’ and it was sought after by many rulers at that time. They could grow crops within a few hours which would otherwise take months under normal circumstances. They made for very good healers and menders and no one had ever described them as violent. Actually, they were quite a docile people. One of their saying was something along the lines of ‘to live is to be gifted and to serve is to protect.’”

“Do you think they had never settled before because someone would have come to take their freedom away—simply because of what they possessed?” asked Feyre again with a thoughtful expression.

“Perhaps,” agreed Gwyn calmly and judging by her change of expression, the silence around the table came to her with a force of a thousand bricks. Alarmed, she looked around at the present and realized that everyone, including Amren, was fully focused on what she was saying. Shadows notified Azriel that Varian on his right had sent Gwyn a smile before saying that he had never known anything about this kingdom.

“Rask had never taken lightly to someone encroaching on their territory. They might be the reason why this kingdom has been ‘wiped’ from the collective memory,” offered Rhysand.

Mor scoffed, agreeing with her cousin. “Especially if they offered refuge to humans who could have been a workforce in their salt mines instead.”

“Refuge?” Feyre turned her attention to Mor, brows furrowed. “What do you mean by refuge?”

The blonde female looked to her High Lady, skillfully avoiding Lucien’s whirring gold eye. “Before their fall and before Rask had turned it into Black Land, they allowed humans to live side by side with them and even earn their keep. It was unheard of at that time since most of the Courts even in Prythian considered humans slaves.”

“The talks of human rights were nothing but murmurs within chosen circles,” concluded Rhysand, swirling the wine in his cup. “Shame, Severín could have made for good allies during the War.”

“They would not have fought,” spoke up Amren all of a sudden, surprising even Rhysand into stumped silence.

He frowned, facing his second and declared, “You are right. They wouldn’t have but they were the only example of Fae and mortals living in peace together. That could have made a difference.”

“The fools were so in love with peace, they wouldn’t have sided with foreigners even if it cost them their lives. Which it did anyway.”

Azriel thought to himself that it was perhaps the biggest reaction Amren had given in the past year and since the day she crawled out of the Cauldron. It wasn’t often that this ancient female chose to speak her mind but something had grated against her at the mention of this long-lost kingdom.

“Rask is a nation of conquerors,” said Amren, her hand playing with a ruby necklace adorning her collarbone. It twinkled in the candlelight of the table and the danger of her eyes. “They wouldn’t have given in where they didn’t have to.”

Mor sucked on the inside of her cheek before responding, “So they chose to sack a peaceful people?”

“Their feud wasn’t just some baseless thing, dusted over by centuries of anger. Those Severínians,” she had spat out the name like spoiled food, “had settled in Raskan territory, knowing damn well where they were.”

“They were the ones who created life there, not Rask,” argued Mor.

Amren’s ageless gaze moved sideways. “So the legend goes.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

She sat up, leaning on her elbows and zeroing in on Mor with a poise of a predator. “What I mean, Morrigan, is that not everything written in those books and scriptures is fact. It takes one desperate generation to rewrite what has truly happened.”

“Are you insinuating that those people deserved getting slaughtered?”

Amren bared her teeth. “All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t let someone with that magic anywhere near me. It’s not of this world and trust my word, I would know.”

Azriel’s shadows had stilled with the exchange, murmurs of questions and curiosity filling his ears. He just watched on as Mor and Amren exchanged heated glances, bared their teeth. Between them, Feyre massaged the space between her brows and when Rhysand laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, she had shook it off.

“Please,” said Feyre, gaze still downturned. “Don’t argue. Not tonight and not over something meaningless.”

Within the plead was hiding something more. It wasn’t often that Feyre could just sit down and dine with all of her close friends. She had a child to take care of, she taught children in the city how to paint and see the beauty of the world through the medium of the brush and when she came home, she was still a mother and a High Lady with obligations. The last thing she wished for was an argument—on her birthday, nonetheless.

On her other side, even Lucien had sent worrying glances her way.

“I’m sorry, Feyre,” murmured Mor, though Amren remained silent. Azriel supposed that it was the biggest apology they would get from her, considering she had never once explained herself to anyone. All she deigned herself to do was meet Feyre’s eyes and nod as if she was heeding a command from her High Lady.

The Inner Circles and the rest had grown quiet, their eyes as if stuck to their plates. Only Azriel was still looking up and around, noticing how awkward it had gotten and wishing it was socially acceptable to winnow from this room.

From the other end of the table, Cassian cleared his throat and said, “Varian, do you think I could visit this summer? I swear not to shatter another building.”

The laugh from Varian was a little choked and aware of the diversion Cassian had tried to make. “I don’t know if my cousin has lifted your ban.”

“Not even after everything?”

“I’m afraid not,” he sighed. “But Cresseida and I will put in good word for you.”

With a wink from Varian, Cassian laughed, exclaiming, “Atta boy!”

Elain, from Cassian’s side, leaned in and asked with a small voice meant for him only, “How did you get banned from the Summer Court?”

Those who already knew laughed along as Cassian dived into a dramatized retelling of that fateful day in Adriata.

— ✾ —

The River House had finally fallen quiet after the eventful Winter Solstice dinner and the following party. The faelights had been dimmed to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadows of the longest night of the year.

Amren, Mor and Varian had finally gone to bed but Azriel found himself still lingering downstairs.

He knew he should get some sleep. He would need it come dawn for the snowball battle at the cabin. After everyone had retired back to the family room, Cassian had mentioned no less than six times that he had a secret plan regarding his so-called impending victory. Azriel had let his brother boast, especially since he had been planning his own win for a year now.

Cassian wouldn’t know what was coming for him. And Azriel planned on capitalizing on the fact that Nesta likely wouldn’t let Cassian sleep much tonight.

Azriel snickered to himself and the ever-restless shadows around him stirred, gazing out to the family room.

Sleep, they had whispered in his ear and a sense of deep-set exhaustion crawled over his bones again.

I wish I could, he comforted them silently. But sleep rarely found him these days.

Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced any time he grew still long enough for them to strike. Too many wants and needs left his skin overheated as it pulled taut over his muscles. And so he chose to sleep only when his body gave out, and even then only for a few hours.

Azriel surveyed the empty room from the hallway, the presents under the tree and the ribbons littering the furniture. There were two dirty glasses on the mantel of the fireplace, smeared lipstick on one and nothing on the other.

Nesta and Cassian hadn’t reappeared in the house, though that came as no surprise. They were among the first ones to leave and Azriel’s shadows had notified him of his brother carrying Nesta to the House of Wind mere minutes after Rhysand had winnowed her friends out.

He was elated for him and yet Azriel was never able to stop it—the green envy in his chest of Cassian, of Rhys. Cauldron, even of Amren. He knew he would be swallowed by that never-ending despair if he went to his bedroom, and so he chose to remain down here by the dying light in the fireplace.

The room lacked the bustle and laughter it had enshrined for the last couple of hours. Now the silence grew heavy and the stillness of his bedroom began crawling between the walls and into the family room. He clutched his fingers around the jacket on his forearm, letting it dissolve into shadows.

Azriel removed himself from the doorway, entering the hall and walking soundlessly to the foyer.

Soft steps padded from the stair archway and there she was.

The faelights gilded across Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. Again, the image from the Day Court had appeared before his eyes and as she halted, her breath caught in her throat.

“I…” He watched her swallow. She clutched her fingers around a small box. “I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. I forgot to put it there earlier.”

A lie. At least the second part was a lie. He didn’t need his shadows to read her tone, the slight tightening of her face. She had waited until everyone was asleep before venturing back down, where she would leave her gift among his other, unopened presents. Subtle and unnoticed, she wanted him to find it in the morning and after the snowball battle. Perhaps she had hoped he would pocket the little box, open it in the privacy of his room and away from the prying eyes of his family.

Elain closed the distance and her breathing quickened as she paused a scant foot away. “No trouble in giving it to you now, I guess. Here.” She extended the wrapped gift, her hand trembling.

Azriel fought hard not to look at his scarred fingers as they took the gift. She hadn’t bought her mate a present, he recalled. When his shadows went over the gifts, they had divulged this precious detail to him. He hadn’t gotten one this year nor last but she went through the trouble of buying something for him. She had given Azriel a headache powder a year ago which he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use but just to look at. Something he had done every night he had slept there—or rather attempted to sleep there.

Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days. -Elain, and then opened the lid.

Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, "You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you..."

He hadn’t had the heart to tell he was going to move from the House soon and so unable to suppress his impulse, he just chuckled. “You wouldn’t want me to open this in front of everyone.”

Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t appreciate the joke.”

As he closed the box and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, he returned her smile. “I wasn’t sure if I should give you your present…”

He had left the rest unspoken as he reached into his shadows. Her mate was here, sleeping only a level above them and he had been present all throughout the evening, not once leaving the room before Elain had retired for the night. The scent of their mating bond had filled Azriel’s lungs and even if he had positioned himself to a far corner, it would still reach his nostrils, tickling something wicked that called for unfairness.

Though tonight, here in the dark and silence, there was only the two of them and he supposed it was fair at last to give her this one thing. Despite wanting to give much more.

He pulled the velvet box out, letting his shadows open it for her. Once revealed, they scattered to the back of his neck in a moment’s time.

Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin and his shadow retreated even further, almost completely disappearing. They and their murmurs had always been prone to vanish when she was around and so did his voice of reason.

The golden chain was unremarkable and the amulet tiny enough to be dismissed as an everyday charm. Weeks ago, he had escaped the House of Wind and found himself walking through the Palace of Thread and Jewel. A vendor had waved him over from the crowd, choosing Azriel to present his newest invention. When he told him to hold it up to the sun, Azriel was rendered speechless once the true depth of colors became visible and it reminded him of her. It was a thing of secret, lovely beauty, just like the female before him.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Azriel watched her face tentatively as she lifted the necklace from the box. The fae lights shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm aglow with hues of red, pink, white and green.

Azriel let his shadow swallow the box as she said softly, “Put it on me?”

The everlasting murmurs in his head slowed to a still. But he took the necklace, opening the clasp as she exposed her back, sweeping her hair up in one hand to bare her neck.

He knew it was wrong but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. He let his scarred fingers touch her unmarred skin, letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took his sweet time fastening the clasp.

Azriel's hand lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch, until his palm lay flat against her neck.

It had never gone this far. They'd exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching.

Wrong—it was so wrong. The murmurs returned with fervor but he didn’t care.

He needed to know what the skin of her neck felt like. What those lips tasted like, her breasts, her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue—

The fabric of Azriel’s pants began straining against his will. It ached so fiercely he could only pray she didn’t peer down. Pray she didn’t understand the shift in his scent.

He would only allow himself these thoughts in the dead of night, when everyone had fallen asleep and when no one, not even his shadows, could bear witness to his selfishness.

Elain bit her lower lip and it took every ounce of Azriel’s restraint not to free it with his own.

“I should go,” Elain said but made no move to leave. She was still peering up at him with those big eyes.

“Yes,” he said, his thumb sweeping long strokes along the side of her neck. The gentle brush sent a shiver down Elain’s spine and as her arousal drifted up to him, his eyes nearly fell shut. If he could, he would drop to his knees in front of her, asking her to let him worship her body. But Azriel settled for stroking her neck. For now.

She shuddered, drifting closer. So close, one deep breath would brush up her chest again his upper stomach. She was looking up at him, face so open and unafraid as if he could deliver her to the lands of milk and honey. Azriel wouldn’t put it past himself to try.

Still, her naivety hadn’t escaped those incessant murmurs of his own. They scratched their talons against his reserve, reminding him that the hand brushing her neck had done unspeakable things. Who was he to touch her like this?

It should be a sacrilege for his rough, scarred fingers to rest on her skin, to taint her with his presence.

He could have this, right?

Azriel wouldn’t admit it to anyone ever but he was a selfish bastard and he would allow himself to have this one moment of reverie. If only to drive away his curiosity. But afterward, he promised himself to keep a hold on himself, he would go back to restraint. This single occasion would be it for him. Something to keep, something to remember during those long, dark and lonesome hours.

“Yes," Elain breathed like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them.

Azriel's hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain's mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut.

Offer and permission. He nearly sighed in relief as he lowered his head toward hers.

Azriel.

Rhysand’s voice thundered through him, halting him mere inches from Elain’s sweet and awaiting mouth.

Azriel.

The unrelenting command was an undercurrent to his name and Azriel looked up. Atop the staircase, Rhysand stood with a clenched jaw and a glower pointed at him and only him.

My office. Now.

Rhysand vanished into thin air and Azriel was left standing there, the prickle of being watched and observed still skipping along his skin. Elain who stood before him was still awaiting his lips on hers. His stomach twisted as he pulled his hand from her hair and stepped back so their breaths would mix no longer.

He forced himself to say, “This was a mistake.”

Something had his throat in a vice, whether it was a need or the shame at being called on like a dog, he didn’t know. He was only aware of the strained sentence coming out and Elain opening her eyes. They widened, filling with hurt and confusion before she whispered a single, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t– Don’t apologize,” he managed to say. “Never apologize, it’s I who should…” He shook his head, unable to stand the bleakness in her face that he was the reason for. “Goodnight.”

Azriel winnowed himself into shadows before he could hear what she had to say if anything. He appeared only a heartbeat later in front of Rhysand’s study. His shadows whispered in his ear that Elain was already retreating upstairs. Shame washed over him and he ran a hand over his face.

He pushed the dark, heavy door to reveal Rhysand at his desk, fury a moonless night across his face.

He asked softly and only once, “Are you out of your mind?”

Azriel let the door shut behind him and didn’t even think of sitting down in the chair facing the monstrous desk littered with papers and memos. Azriel thinned his mouth at the question. He was always sparse with words and wasn’t going to stop the habit now.

His brother looked at him in exasperation, as if not believing what he was seeing. Upon closer inspection, the lines on Rhysand’s face were longer and shadows lingered in the space below his eyes. But even despite the tired appearance, his power rolled around him like a dark cloud in an ominous reminder.

“I asked you something, Azriel.”

Azriel joined his hands behind his back, saying, “What do you want me to say?”

Rhysand’s frown should have been an answer enough. “I want you to explain why I saw you about to kiss Elain in the middle of a hall where anyone could see you,” he snarled, pointing an accusing finger his way. “Including her mate.”

Azriel scoffed. Of course, he would mention Lucien. It wasn’t often that Azriel’s hackles rose and he allowed them to. But when he met his brother’s eyes with rage, he knew Rhysand could match him a thousand times over. His glare had crossed with its violet twin as the air grew heavier and heavier. The siphon on his chest that he kept glamoured vibrated in answer to the challenge.

Rhysand blinked. “What of Mor, Az?”

“Don’t talk to me about Mor,” he bit out.

“I’m going to talk to you about whatever I damn wish. Especially if you go about your delusions like that.”

Azriel chose to ignore that last bit if only to keep some of his sanity. This male before him had been his friend for over five centuries. They have bled, cried and laughed beside each other. He would never lie to him and never spare his feelings. And Rhysand was right, after all. The little voice in the back of his mind had always been right too and the way Rhysand was scowling at him was all the confirmation he needed.

He glared at his shadowsinger. “If Lucien finds out you’re pursuing her, he has every right to defend the bond as he sees fit. Including the Blood Duel.”

“That’s an Autumn Court tradition.”

The duel had historically been enacted in rare cases and ended only when the other person was dead. There was no yielding, no three taps and out. There were only two fighters and no titles could help once the Blood Duel had been invoked. Despite being an outsider, Azriel had wanted to invoke it when he had found Mor all those years ago. He had been ready to challenge both Beron and Eris, prepared to kill them or die with them. But it was Mor’s right to claim their heads that had stopped him and he would never do her the dishonor of taking that choice away.

“Lucien, as Beron’s son, has the right to demand it of you,” reminded him Rhysand.

“I would win,” he stated, pure conviction lacing every word.

“I know.” It was a bitter sense of acceptance that dawned on Rhysand’s face. “Your doing so would rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn Court but also the Spring Court. Jurian and Vassa, too.” Rhys looked up from where his hands were joined in front of his face. “You will leave Elain alone.”

Azriel neared one step closer to Rhysand’s desk. “You can’t order me to do that.”

The High Lord took in that step and thinned his lips. “I can and I will. If not to protect you three from a world of hurt, then to protect this Court. I watched you tonight and half the evening you had your eyes glued to Elain and the other half, you were lost in your thoughts. And if I caught onto it, then Lucien did too. You better mind yourself, brother. You’re losing focus.”

Azriel snarled softly against his best judgment.

“Snarl all you want.” Rhysand leaned back in his chair. “But if I see you panting after her again, I’ll make you regret it.”

Rhysand had rarely considered punishment, let alone threatened it. It stunned Azriel enough to knock him out of his rage and into incredulity. His brother avoided his gaze, grabbing a pen and focusing on the papers on his desk. Even as he looked down, his eyes weren’t scanning the words written there. His hand with the wedding ring shook slightly when he ran it through his hair.

“Get out, Az,” he said, more gently under his breath but Azriel heard it all right. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

With no further words from Rhysand or himself, Azriel walked out of the study, pushing himself to keep a calm pace, though he wanted to storm out. He tucked in his wings, walked down the stairs and past the spot where his and Elain’s mouth had almost met. His eyes were focused forward, shadows swirling around him and sensing the distress of their master. Once he pushed through the front door and into the frigid air, he let it consume him.

The white clouds escaping his mouth were the only sign he was alive because as he passed the gate, he stood still. Too still. The River House towered behind him and the light in Rhysand’s study went out.

How his brothers used to fear being chained down by the ankles. They had joked with Azriel, saying he would be the first to settle and that their fleeing nature would never allow them to stay still for one female.

But they had grown, changed over time while Azriel stayed behind, hoping that the relationship they shared would remain unchanged.

As Azriel kept standing in the cold, he let it permeate past his suit. Down through his skin and to the marrow of his bones. There was no jacket to ward off the chill—all by his choice. There was no one to run to and Azriel wondered if that was his choice too.

Taglist:

this is being crossposted to ao3 so make sure to show some love there too, if you feel so inclined!

omg hi to whomever is reading this work ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

thank you for taking the time out of your day to sit down with this, be it on your commute, after a long day at school or whatever other downtime you have!! i am very honored and i hope i can entertain.

i'm very pumped to get this out and into the world. this oc has been stuck in my head for like over a year, i swear. maybe even perhaps when the bonus chapter of acosf with azriel first dropped ! the ideas of the plot and scenes just kept coming to me in random moments throughout these last 12 or so months. it felt like i was being shaken by my shoulder and someone was screaming into my face to, "write this one, goddammit!!!!!"

so here i am, appeasing some azriel-obsessed part of me.

since his character is very… open to interpretation due to the utter lack of anything (looking at you, SJM), i'm going to take certain liberties with his personality and motivations. so this might be slightly OOC, but i'll make sure that this is tagged on my ao3.

enjoy, my lovelies. i'll be grateful for any comments, tips or questions. if you think something could have been done differently, don't ever be afraid to comment on it. i am very open to criticism as bettering my craft is one of my biggest goals with this. my inbox is open (i think).

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 7 months ago

Text

heart to heart

cw. selfship-coded, childhood friend au, pre-canon, pre-relationship, slight angst, fluff, one piece spoilers

pairing. portgas d. ace x black!fem!reader

notes. apparently it isn't enough for me to brainrot in private about a character i've been obsessed with for a decade, you guys have to be subjected to it as well. whoops🤪

It is not hyperbole to say that early mornings are the only time of day when the Dadan Family base is peaceful.

The sun has barely risen, the morning birds have barely begun their song and most everyone is still snoring away in their cots. Early mornings and late evenings have become Dadan’s favorite time of day, citing them as the only times she is ever allowed a moment of peace.

That peace is stalled whenever Garp visits.

“You sure you don’t wanna come with us,” you ask Ace a final time before you leave for your hometown.

Ace shakes his head with a small smile, “they’re more your friends than mine.” A true sentiment, in your six years of knowing each other, there is still a distinction between your friends in Windmill Village and your friends living among bandits on Mt. Corvo. “Tell ‘em I said ‘congrats’ though. We might end up seeing them later down the road.”

“As marines!” Garp calls over his shoulder gruffly, not waiting for you to catch up. He has one more year to change his grandson’s mind about becoming a marine before the two of you left Dawn Island for saltier pastures. If he knew that fact, however, you’re sure the marine would grab you both by the back of your shirts and drag you to the port in Windmill Village this second. “You should take after those boys!”

The boys in question are Demarius and Stacey.

They’ve adored Garp since before you knew Ace was his grandchild, constantly pleading for him to take them to a naval base. He promised to do so once they turned 16. The least you could do was bid your friends farewell before they lived out their naval dreams.

Ace rolls his eyes, “Pirate!”

“It’s too early in the morning for you two to start that old fight again,” Dadan grumbles, turning around to head back inside. This was enough kissing Garp's butt for her, tucking away her handkerchief. “I get nothing but headaches when Garp comes around.”

You snicker at the grouchy woman’s exit, looking over her shoulder. The door to the room you share is shut close but you can easily picture Luffy stretched out and snoring, limbs all over the place wildly. He’ll be adding to Dadan’s headache soon enough. “Alright, well, I’ll be back later,” you tell Ace unnecessarily.

“You should spend the night in town,” Ace’s disgruntled expression shifts into something warm. You remember a time when he seldom smiled and could only offer you scowls. It’s hard to believe how much he smiles now, your lips quirking instinctively at the sight. “You haven’t been in town for a while. Everyone probably misses you.”

You lean forward, wiggling your eyebrows, “aww, trying to get rid of me now? You’re just trying to get more of a cut at dinner.”

“Maybe,” Ace’s grin widens and you share a laugh before Garp calls after you, further away than he was last.

Damn for an old man he moves fast. “See you,” you nudge your freckled friend before turning on your feet, nearly tripping as you stumble after his grandfather. “I’m okay,” you call over your shoulder.

Garp is grumbling to himself as you approach him. You don’t need to hear his words clearly to know he is thinking about his pirate obsessed grandsons. “Those dolts,” he mutters. “You used to play marines all the time with those kids in town. Now they’ve got you talking about being a pirate. You’ll all be marines, mark my words!”

“I really only ever wanted to just sail on the seas,” you tell Garp truthfully. Even as a child when Demarius demanded you play marines because he always wanted to play marines, you never played because you aspired to be one. It didn’t have to be the marines, it didn’t have to be pirates, you just wanted to set sail on the ocean blue. Pirate merely became the subsequent medium you vowed to pursue. “The marines kinda seem,” you mull over your next words carefully. “Strict. I just wanna see the world, not be told what to do.”

“Discipline is a good thing,” is his rebuttal. He certainly was very strict in the training you unwittingly got pulled into once he discovered your true intentions.

Silence falls between you both but it isn’t comfortable, not like the silences you’re used to.

Silence in Dadan’s home is accompanied by snores or the movement of someone heading to the bath. Luffy mumbling in his sleep about the many adventures he and his dream crew are on causing you and Ace to share a look and chuckle quietly under your breaths.

It’s when you tell yourself ‘Today’s the day I actually do it’ and you count away in your head the number of Ace’s freckles until you inevitably mess up the count and have to start all over again.

It’s when it’s raining and you, Ace and Luffy sleep in an empty hollow of a tree, the croak of the frogs singing to the drops.

Silence with Garp is suffocating and the jungle is too quiet and your brain too full of anxiety-ridden hypotheticals to even think about your childhood friends you’d be bidding farewell to. Instead, the ones you wouldn’t be saying goodbye to were at the forefront of your mind.

Another minute of silence follows before you’re unable to stop the words from falling from your lips, “Mr. Garp?”

Garp hums gruffly, bark worse than his bite, “what is it?”

“Let’s say that, hypothetically speaking of course, Ace and Luffy do become pirates,” you begin nervously, wincing at how the older man’s eyes sharpened at the word. “Hypothetically!” You’ve been a recipient of many of the marine’s Fists of Love, despite not belonging to his family, you don’t fancy receiving another. “They hypothetically become pirates and end up getting taken in,” you lick your lips as you try to imagine the scenario.

To your discomfort, it is terrifyingly easy to imagine Ace and Luffy in shackles.

The spectacle the World Government would make of it all. The grand executions of the sons of Gol D. Roger and Monkey D. Dragon.

The vitriol of the onlookers spewing words of hatred and damnation. No one would know who they are, not the onlookers in the crowds or the marines holding the weapons that would end their lives. Devils, they would be called.

There would be one marine who knew them, however. Who truly knew them and not what they represented. It only breaks your heart that in your many years of knowing the older man that you don’t know what end of the spectrum he falls on. No, that’s an incorrect assessment. What breaks your heart is that it has always been too easy suspecting precisely where Monkey D. Garp would fall.

In spite of your suspicions, you still part your lips and ask, “would you help them?” Uncharacteristically, you fiddle with your fingers, the index finger of your right hand being nestled by the thumb and index finger of your left. Clad in a tacky red button up with white roosters, the stocky man’s back seems broader than usual.

It’s the long pause between your question and his answer that sinks in your chest like a knife. “They,” Garp begins but you cut the man off with a laugh.

“Don’t be so serious,” you laugh so convincingly you almost believe you’re unbothered. “I was just messing around. I’m up in the air on the pirate thing but for all we know, Luffy’ll start talking about being the Marine King the next time you see him.”

The elderly marine laughs at the absurdity of your thought, “a king among marines, that’ll be the day.”

ー

“Your shadows not with you for once?” Stacey jokes lightheartedly as he leans his head over in mock surprise at the lack of people accompanying you.

“I’m pretty sure Mr. Garp would drag them onto that boat if they did,” anything to make those two follow in their grandfather’s footsteps. “Ace sends his congratulations anyways.”

“I’m still convinced that guy was replaced by aliens,” Demarius murmurs, squinting at the mountain’s peaks with narrowed eyes. You snort at the absurdity. You, along with your village-bound friends, had met Ace when he was more angry at the world and nearly all of the people inhabiting it. To say they’d been shocked when, the next time they met him, Ace was polite and all smiles is an understatement. Demarius’ suspicious glance lasts a beat longer before he turns his dark eyes to you, shoulders set back. “You can still come with us, you know.”

You remember being 10, running down these dirt roads playing marines with your friends as a rowdy quintet.

The battles you pretended to have against whatever made-up opponents Demarius decided you’d be fighting against. He’d always been the leader of the five of you ー him, Stacy, Pierre, Lisa Lisa and you ー would find yourselves on the tempestuous seas of the Grand Line, all odds against you.

“This is not a good day for battle but it is a glorious day to die,” you remember resolutely saying, words too heavy for someone who hadn’t been in a real fight her entire life until that point.

Real fights came after you met Ace and Sabo. When you began running amok in the capital and Gray Terminal. Real battle came when their angering the Bluejam pirates caught up with them. You couldn’t say you felt glorious fighting the Bluejam pirates in the flames of their hideout. Nor could you say Sabo’s horrifying end was glorious either. There is no glory in fighting but you will do what you have to to protect who you have left.

Pulling yourself from the memories, you shake your head, “you’ll see me at sea next year,” you vow with a grin. You lower your voice so the cantankerous marine behind you cannot hear what you say next. “It’ll just be in a way that pisses off the old man.”

There’s simply one more year to go.

You, alongside the other locals, wave the boys down until they become nothing but a speck on the horizon. Well, off their asses go. You sit on the porch step of what used to be the house that belonged to you and your grandfather. I think the last time I came here it was like, you purse your lips thoughtfully. Shiiieet, 3 months ago? You seldom spend time in the empty shack now. It is only good for your occasional visits and when you’re too lazy to head back up to Dadan’s. That is where home is now.

It’s wherever Ace and Luffy are.

Ace and Luffy who you know Garp loves but will always choose work first. He always has and he always will, so you will always choose them instead.