#it's either they crumble and worship me or nothing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jungkoode · 23 days ago

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ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 04

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 24, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: female rivalry/competition, eating disorders(eating cotton pads), ballet classes, self-demands, perfectionism, ribbon discarding (or not), convenience store reencounters and small discoveries.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,2k

➔ A/N: Okay. Okay. Everyone breathe. Especially me. (I’m the one hyperventilating into a protein bar wrapper at 3AM because I cannot believe this chapter EXISTS.) Welcome back to Altars in Shallow Waters, where we do not chase plot—we let it simmer on low heat while the characters emotionally spiral into the void like aesthetically pleasing depressive ballerinas and bleach-stained ghosts of men!!! ✨🩰🧼 So, this chapter. Let’s talk about her. The real action here is perceptual rupture. The moment you realize someone is watching you, but not in the “flirty eye contact in an indie café” way. No. In the “someone found your discarded legwarmer ribbon and folded it like scripture into their jacket pocket” way. Delicious. Horrifying. Both. Psychologically, this chapter is playing with reciprocal hyperfixation. How the act of being seen can unravel just as much as seeing. She doesn't name it, but she feels it—the way she catalogs his reactions, the way her interest grows when he avoids her eyes, like a cat with a wounded bird. She's measuring his discomfort like a dancer mapping mirror angles. Efficient. But curious. And curiosity? Is the gateway drug to ruin. Also let's talk about that ribbon. Because symbolically, she discards it—functionally useless, easy to forget. But he keeps it. Stores it like evidence of contact. That's how obsession works. You think it’s nothing. You think it’s gone. But it's in someone’s pocket. It's their proof that you touched the world they live in. On a more serious note: mental health themes remain central. He is not quirky. He is unwell. She is not "coolly aloof." She is also unwell. And the way those fractures collide? That’s what this fic is. Not fluff. Not romance. A slow collision of two very broken people who think they’re control freaks, but are actually being dragged by subconscious forces stronger than either of them.

And no, I will not give you relief. Not yet. We’re still descending.

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Cotton dissolves like sin on your tongue.

You've perfected this ritual. The pad breaks down slowly against the roof of your mouth, becoming pulp, becoming nothing. The texture no longer bothers you.

Nothing bothers you before 5 AM.

Your reflection watches with clinical interest.

Dark circles beneath your eyes. Acceptable. Not ideal, but within parameters. You've calculated the exact amount of concealer needed to erase them—three dots, blended outward in concentric circles.

Precision matters, even in camouflage.

The cotton expands slightly as you work it around your mouth. Your stomach will feel full for approximately forty-seven minutes. Long enough to get through morning barre without distraction. Long enough to maintain focus when others are already thinking about breakfast.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

Your tongue presses the dissolving fibers against your teeth. No calories. No guilt.

Just the illusion of consumption that tricks your body into compliance.

The bathroom is eerily silent—except for the sound of your breathing.

Four counts in, four counts out. The same rhythm you maintain during adagio. The same rhythm your heart should follow during rest periods.

You reach for your hairbrush. The bristles scrape against your scalp, just shy of painful.

Good.

Pain means progress. Pain means you're paying attention.

Camille took your hairpins. All of them. The evidence was clear: her side of the room littered with them this morning, carelessly scattered like she couldn't be bothered to hide her sabotage.

How desperate. How transparent.

You pull your hair back until it hurts. The ponytail is tight enough to create tension at your temples.

Not your preference—a bun offers cleaner lines, better balance—but you adapt.

Adaptation is part of excellence.

The last of the cotton dissolves. You rinse your mouth, watching the water swirl down the drain.

Clean. Empty. Ready.

Your leotard fits precisely as it should. Dark blue, high-necked, modest in cut but not in purpose. The fabric compresses your ribcage just enough to remind you of your boundaries. Your physical limits. The container you must perfect.

White tights. No runs, no snags.

Navy leg warmers, positioned exactly three inches above the ankle bone. The little ribbons on the front—blue to match—catch your eye. Tacky. Childish. But the color coordinates perfectly with the leotard, and aesthetic cohesion supersedes your opinion on childishness.

Function over feeling. Always.

The cropped sweater—also white—settles just below your sternum. The ensemble is well thought out. Coordinated. It communicates seriousness, dedication, attention to detail.

These are not clothes. They are statements of intent.

Your reflection assesses you with the same merciless scrutiny you apply to everything.

Arms: acceptable. Neck: could be longer. Posture: correct. Weight: maintained within 0.4 kilograms of target.

You turn slightly. Check your profile. The curve of your spine, the placement of your shoulders.

No room for error. No allowance for imperfection.

The cotton has left a slight residue in your mouth—texture that reminds you of your choice.

Your control. Your discipline.

You think, briefly, of the convenience store. Of the cotton pads in their perfect packaging. Of the man who wouldn't look at you.

Kim.

The name surfaces without permission. An unexpected ripple in the still pond of your morning routine.

You dismiss it. Irrelevant. A random encounter that means nothing.

(But you remember the tremor in his gloved hands. The way he backed away. The way he watched when he thought you wouldn't notice.)

Your dance bag waits by the door, packed according to your usual system. Pointe shoes in their separate compartment. Towel folded precisely in thirds. Water bottle filled exactly to the line you've marked with clear nail polish. Kinesiology tape. Scissors. Antiseptic wipes. Bandages. Everything you need. Nothing you don't.

The dormitory is silent as you move through it. Your footsteps make no sound. You've learned to walk like a ghost. To exist without disturbing the air around you.

The kitchen light is on. Unexpected. Unwelcome.

Elodie stands at the counter, spreading something on toast. Butter, probably. Or worse—jam. Sugar and fat combined in a useless, indulgent paste.

You grimace. Her lack of will is evident in every bite she takes.

Every gram of unnecessary calories.

Every moment wasted on pleasure rather than preparation.

She'll be replaced soon. They all will. The company has no room for weakness.

"Morning," she says, her voice still rough with sleep. "You're up early."

The observation is pointless. You're always up early.

She knows this. Everyone knows this.

"Yes," you say, because a response is expected, not because the conversation has value.

Her eyes flick to your ponytail. Notice the deviation from your usual style. Her mouth opens slightly—about to comment, to ask, to pry.

You don't give her the chance. "Excuse me."

Two words. Polite but final.

You move past her, not waiting for a response.

The dormitory door closes behind you as the hallway stretches ahead, empty and dim.

Perfect. This is how mornings should be. Quiet. Solitary. Undistracted.

You begin the walk to the studio at your usual pace.

The route never changes. Left from the dormitory. Right at the café that won't open for another two hours. Straight past the bakery where the smell of fresh bread will soon fill the air.

Your stomach tightens. The cotton is doing its job, but barely.

You focus on your breathing instead. Four counts in. Four counts out.

The streets are empty except for delivery trucks and the occasional cleaner hosing down the sidewalk.

Paris pretends to sleep, but it never truly does. It just shifts its rhythms, like a dancer moving from allegro to adagio.

Your mind drifts, just slightly, to the convenience store again. To the fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly and unreal. To the man with the gloves who wouldn't meet your eyes.

Kim.

What a curious specimen.

Most men stare. They always have.

They look with hunger or appreciation or professional assessment.

They look because looking is taking, and you are something to be taken.

But he refused to look at all. Refused even to be seen himself.

It was... interesting.

The memory of his downturned face surfaces again. The curtain of washed-out hair. The blue latex gloves worn thin at the fingertips.

You wonder what his hands look like beneath those gloves. If they're as elegant as their shape suggests. If they're damaged somehow.

Scarred. Diseased.

You wonder why he was afraid.

(You wonder if he's still afraid.)

The thought brings an unexpected sensation.

A slight warmth in your chest.

A tightening that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

Then, the studio appears ahead, windows still dark.

You'll be the first to arrive, as always. The first to warm up. The first to claim your spot at the barre.

You reach for your key card, already positioned in the outer pocket of your bag for efficiency.

The cotton in your stomach has begun to expand, creating the illusion of fullness. Of satisfaction.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

This is what separates you from Elodie with her toast and jam.

From Camille with her petty sabotage.

From all of them with their weaknesses and wants and human frailties.

You are not weak. You are not wanting. You are not frail.

You are becoming perfect.

The studio door beeps as your card registers. For a moment, you think you see movement in your peripheral vision—a shadow shifting, a presence retreating.

You turn your head, just slightly. Just enough to check.

Nothing. Just the empty street. The dim morning light. The faint drizzle that has begun to fall.

You step inside, leaving the outside world behind.

Here, in the studio, everything makes sense. Everything has purpose. Everything can be controlled, measured, perfected.

The lights flicker on automatically. The empty room waits for you, patient and demanding all at once.

You set down your bag. Remove your sweater. Take your position at the barre.

As you begin your first plié, you notice one of the blue ribbons on your leg warmers has come loose. It dangles precariously, threatening to fall.

Distracting. Imperfect.

You untie it completely. The ribbon comes away in your hand, a small strip of navy satin. You place it deliberately by the door, next to your things. You'll dispose of it properly later.

For now, it's been removed. The imperfection excised.

Your gaze returns to the mirrors, reflection multiplying—four versions of yourself executing the same movement precisely.

Arms: acceptable. Turnout: could be deeper. Neck: elongate further.

You move through your warm-up.

Pliés. Tendus. Dégagés.

Each movement builds upon the last, preparing your body for what you'll demand of it today. Preparing your mind for the scrutiny that will come.

The door opens at 6:15 and Madame Villon enters first, as always. Her eyes sweep the studio, landing on you without surprise.

She expects your presence. Your dedication is not remarkable to her.

It is baseline.

"Good morning," she says, her voice crisp in the quiet room.

You incline your head slightly. "Madame."

She moves to the piano, arranging her notes for the day's class. Her movements are economical. You recognize the discipline in her posture, the control in her hands.

She was exceptional once. Now she creates exceptionalism in others.

The other dancers begin to arrive. First Mathilde, then Sophie, then Clara. They move to their usual spots, begin their own warm-ups. Their reflections join yours in the mirrors, creating a forest of limbs and torsos and necks all striving toward the same impossible standard.

Camille arrives at 6:27. Three minutes before class officially begins.

Her hair is already in a perfect bun—the style you couldn't achieve today.

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. She smiles. The expression doesn't reach her eyes.

"Morning," she says, her voice pitched to carry. To be heard by others. To create the illusion of friendship.

You nod once. Acknowledge the performance without participating in it.

Her gaze drops to your ponytail. Registers the deviation from routine. Her smile widens slightly—satisfaction poorly disguised as concern.

"No bun today?" she asks, knowing exactly why.

"No," you say, final.

She moves to the barre, taking her position behind Mathilde.

Her spot in the hierarchy is clear—not quite at the back with the weakest dancers, not quite at the front with you and Elodie.

Middle tier. Hungry for advancement.

Madame Villon claps once. "Places."

The pianist begins. Your body responds automatically.

First position. Demi-plié. Rise. Second position. The sequence is as familiar as breathing.

More familiar, perhaps, since you've never had to think about how to breathe.

Class progresses with its usual intensity. Madame moves among the dancers, making corrections. Her hand on Sophie's waist, adjusting alignment. Her voice sharp as she instructs Léa to extend further, reach higher.

She passes you without comment. Not approval. Not yet.

Just the absence of correction, which is its own kind of evaluation.

Center work begins. The barre no longer there to support you, to steady you. Just your body in space, responsible for its own balance, its own lines.

You execute each combination flawlessly.

Not perfect—perfect doesn't exist yet—but flawless in the sense that no one else in the room could identify your mistakes. Only you know the millisecond delay in your spotting during the final pirouette. Only you feel the slight tremor in your supporting leg during the adagio.

These are errors you will correct.

Weaknesses you will eliminate.

Imperfections you will excise, like the ribbon from your leg warmer.

Madame calls your name. "Demonstrate the grand allegro, please."

It's not a request. It's not even really a command.

It's an expectation.

You take your place in the center. Feel the weight of every gaze in the room. The cotton in your stomach has long since dissolved.

The music begins. Your body launches into motion. Jump, turn, land, extend. The combination is complex—designed to test not just technique but musicality, stamina, presence.

You move through it flawlessly again. Each beat accounted for. Each position achieved exactly as choreographed.

Your breathing remains controlled.

Your face betrays no effort.

When you finish, landing in fifth position with arms curved perfectly in low fifth, there is a moment of silence.

Then Madame nods once. Not praise. Acknowledgment.

"Again," she says to the class. "Four at a time."

By the time Madame signals the end of class, your leotard is damp with sweat. Your muscles vibrate with exertion. Your ponytail has loosened slightly—another imperfection to address.

"Thank you, ladies," Madame says. "Rehearsals begin at ten. Do not be late."

The dancers disperse, moving toward their bags, toward the changing rooms.

Conversations bloom in their wake—discussions of the day's schedule, complaints about sore muscles, plans for the brief break before rehearsal.

You remain at the barre, extending your cool-down.

There is no benefit to rushing. No advantage to socializing.

Your body requires proper care if it's to serve your ambition.

Camille passes behind you, her reflection catching yours in the mirror.

“Lunch later?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear.

A performance that continues.

"Perhaps," you say, noncommittal.

You both know you won't join her.

You both know she doesn't want you to.

The studio empties gradually. Dancers leave in twos and threes, their voices fading as they move down the hallway.

Soon it's just you and your reflection, multiplied across the mirrored walls.

You finish your cool-down. Move to collect your things.

The sweater goes back on—your body temperature will drop quickly now that you're no longer working. The water bottle is half-empty. The towel damp with sweat.

You look for the navy ribbon, left by the door where you placed it.

It's gone.

You scan the floor.

Perhaps it fell. Perhaps it was kicked aside accidentally.

But there's nothing. The ribbon has vanished.

Your eyes narrow slightly.

Camille. It must be Camille.

First the hairpins, now this.

But why would she take a discarded ribbon? What possible advantage could it give her?

Perhaps it's simply spite. Perhaps it's just another way to demonstrate that your space, your belongings, your boundaries are not truly your own. That nothing here belongs exclusively to you—not even your trash.

Or perhaps it's something else. Something you haven't calculated yet. Some new form of sabotage you'll need to anticipate and counter.

You straighten your ponytail. Adjust your sweater. Shoulder your bag.

The ribbon doesn't matter. It was defective. Discarded. Its loss is irrelevant.

But you remember exactly where you left it.

Remember that it was there, and now it's not.

Remember that someone took something of yours, even something you no longer wanted.

You don't know why you're here.

This purgatory with its flickering lights and linoleum floors that never quite look clean no matter how recently they've been mopped.

L'heure bleue.

The convenience store that exists in that strange space between your world and...

Perhaps it's curiosity.

Perhaps it's boredom.

Perhaps it's the man with the ashy blonde hair who seems to vibrate with anxiety whenever you enter his orbit.

Kim.

The protein bars are arranged in descending order of caloric content. You scan the nutritional information with practiced efficiency. This one: 15g protein, 160 calories, 2g sugar.

Acceptable. Not ideal, but functional.

Your body requires fuel. Not pleasure, not indulgence—just the bare minimum to maintain performance.

The store is empty except for you and him. The pink-haired girl is absent tonight. No buffer between you and his strange, trembling avoidance.

You approach the counter, place the protein bar down slowly, almost teasing.

The sound it makes against the surface is soft but there is no mistaking it.

A statement of presence.

No response.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Your time is valuable. Each wasted moment is a micro-failure.

You tap one long manicured nail against the counter. Sharp. Demanding. A single finger communicating what your voice shouldn't have to.

Still nothing.

Finally, you clear your throat.

There's a sudden scattering noise from the back room—something falling, something being knocked over in haste. Then footsteps, quick and uneven.

He emerges from somewhere behind rows of shelves, eyes are fixed on the floor, that curtain of hair hiding his features just as it did before. His shoulders curve inward, making his tall frame seem smaller, less substantial.

He doesn't look at you.

Doesn't acknowledge your presence beyond the most basic recognition that someone is standing at his counter. His focus fixes on the protein bar as if it's the customer, not you.

"Is the pink-haired girl not working tonight?" Your voice is cool. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

He doesn't respond. His fingers—still encased in those blue latex gloves—hover over the protein bar without touching it. His breathing has quickened, just slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

"Do you work here every night?" Another question. Direct. Uncomplicated.

Nothing. Just that same frozen posture. That same careful avoidance.

How curious.

How peculiar, this man who seems physically incapable of meeting your gaze.

As if eye contact might burn him. As if your attention is a weight he cannot bear.

Is he afraid of you?

The thought brings that same strange warmth to your chest. That same unquantifiable feeling you haven't yet categorized.

"You paid for my cotton pads last time," you say. Not a question this time. A statement of fact. "Why?"

His fingers finally move, picking up the protein bar with such care you might think it was made of glass. He scans it, the beep unnaturally loud in the silent store.

When he speaks, his voice is so soft you almost miss it.

"Three euros forty."

Just that. Just the price. Nothing more.

You extend your hand with exact change, coins arranged in your palm for maximum efficiency of transfer.

He doesn't take them from your hand.

Instead, he places a small plastic tray on the counter, sliding it toward you without making contact.

For coins. So he doesn't have to touch you.

The realization makes something in your chest tighten, and it’s not offense. Not exactly. Something more... interesting.

You place the coins in the tray. He takes it, careful not to brush against your fingers. Counts the money methodically. Places your change in the same tray, slides it back to you.

All without once lifting his eyes to your face.

"Thank you," you say, though you're not sure why.

The transaction doesn't require gratitude. It's a simple exchange of currency for goods. Nothing more.

He nods once, that same sharp downward jerk of his chin you noticed last time. His hands retreat to his sides, then behind his back, as if he doesn't trust them to behave appropriately in your presence.

You collect your change. Take the protein bar. Turn to leave.

That's when you see it.

A flash of navy blue, peeking from his pocket. Small. Satin. Unmistakable.

The ribbon from your leg warmer. The one you left by the studio door. The one that disappeared.

Not Camille.

Him.

But how? How did he get it? How did it travel from the dance studio to this convenience store? To his pocket?

You pause, your back to him, processing this new information.

He must have been there. At the studio.

Must have seen you. Must have taken what you discarded.

The realization should disturb you.

Should trigger alarm, concern, perhaps even fear.

It doesn't.

Instead, that same strange warmth spreads through your chest—that same unnamed feeling that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum

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writeriguess · 4 months ago

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Hey hey hey!

Could I request Kiri x Reader where Reader is being neglected by her boyfriend and Kiri tries his best to be the supportive friend (maybe he even knows her boyfriend), but in the end he just can’t take it anymore and shows her what a good boyfriend he could be to her (by having sex of her of course lol)

Thank yooou

What You Deserve

Your voice trembles as you speak, fingers twisting in your lap. You don’t know why you invited Kirishima over tonight—maybe because you needed to vent, or maybe because you knew he’d be the one person to actually listen. Either way, he’s sitting on your couch now, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white, jaw locked, and eyes burning with something deep and unreadable.

“He just… he doesn’t care,” you murmur, trying to laugh it off. “I try, you know? I wait for him, I ask him about his day, I do everything, and he just—” You swallow, shaking your head. “He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

Kirishima inhales sharply through his nose. His whole body is rigid, like he’s forcing himself to stay still. “That bastard,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Are you serious? He just ignores you?”

You nod, throat tight.

Kirishima suddenly moves. Not violently, not recklessly—but with purpose. He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, crimson eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that steals your breath. “I don’t get it,” he says, voice low and rough. “How the hell could someone have you and not treat you like the most important thing in the world?”

Your breath hitches.

He exhales sharply, eyes searching yours. “You deserve better.”

Your lip trembles, and you open your mouth—whether to argue or agree, you don’t know. But before you can say anything, Kirishima moves again.

One moment he’s sitting, the next he’s towering over you, crowding into your space. His hands come up to cradle your face, warm and steady, his thumb brushing over your cheek like you’re something precious. “Say the word,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But, baby, if you let me…” His forehead presses to yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I’ll show you how a real man loves you.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“Eiji…”

His breath shudders. “Please.”

The last of your hesitation crumbles.

You surge forward, capturing his lips in a kiss that’s desperate, needy, years in the making. Kirishima groans, deep and guttural, as he kisses you back with everything he’s been holding in—his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping you tight as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is, how much he’s been aching for this, and it only makes you whimper into his mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes against your lips, voice wrecked. “Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ loved.”

Then he’s lifting you effortlessly, carrying you to your bedroom like you weigh nothing. His mouth never leaves yours, kissing you with a hunger that borders on desperate. He lays you down carefully before stripping off his shirt, muscles flexing, his body all hard lines and raw strength.

His hands tremble as he touches you again, peeling away your clothes like they offend him. “So perfect,” he murmurs, eyes drinking you in. “Can’t believe he didn’t worship you like this.” His lips press to your collarbone, trailing down, his fingers gripping your hips like he can’t bear to let go.

Then he’s everywhere—his mouth hot and reverent against your skin, his hands tracing over every curve, memorizing you like he never wants to forget. When he finally settles between your thighs, looking up at you with those intense, adoring eyes, you swear you could cry.

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before licking a stripe up your soaked core. Your back arches, a gasp leaving your lips, and Kirishima groans, holding you down as he devours you.

He eats you out like a man starved—hungry, passionate, but so tender it makes your chest ache. “That’s it,” he coaxes, voice thick with praise. “Let me hear you. Wanna make you feel so good, wanna make you forget everything but me.”

Your hands grip his hair, tugging, and he growls against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, gasping his name, your thighs squeezing around his head. And even then, he laps at you gently, soothing you through the waves of overstimulation, whispering, “So good for me, baby. So perfect.”

You barely have a second to breathe before he’s hovering over you again, his cock pressing against your entrance. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “You still with me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Please, Eiji.”

A groan rumbles in his chest, and then he’s inside you—thick, hot, stretching you in the best way. He moves slow at first, letting you adjust, but his patience is thin. His hips snap forward, and the filthy sound you make has him losing his mind.

“Fuck,” he grits out, snapping his hips harder, gripping your thighs to hold you open. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. So tight—like you were made for me.”

You whimper, nails dragging down his back, and he growls, burying his face in your neck. “Mine,” he breathes. “You’re mine now.”

His pace turns rough, desperate, but his hands are so gentle—caressing your skin, squeezing your hips, worshipping every inch of you. Every thrust has you unraveling, your body overstimulated and overwhelmed in the best way.

“Gonna make you come again, baby,” he groans, hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles against your clit. “Wanna feel you squeeze me. C’mon, be good for me.”

The coil in your stomach snaps. Your entire body tenses, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave as you cry out his name. Kirishima follows with a deep, broken moan, hips stuttering as he buries himself inside you, filling you completely.

For a moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing and tangled limbs. Then he moves, rolling onto his side and pulling you into his arms. He kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek—anywhere he can reach.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough but so tender.

You nod, pressing your face into his chest. “Yeah.”

He exhales, holding you tighter. “Never letting you feel unloved again, baby.”

And with the way he holds you, touches you, kisses you—you believe him.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #kirishima x reader #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima eijirou #eijirou kirishima

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sleepingdiaryzzz · 5 months ago

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Yandere dick and yandere kori x adrenalin junkie reader?

ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴜʀɴ ✬

ɴɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x sᴛᴀʀғɪʀᴇ (ʏ!)

omg anon I am so sorry for the late reply you were deep inside(🤯) my inbox😭 ilysm anon dear so sorry for making u wait and making dis short boring ass reply💗😢

ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ!

There’s something about the moment right before impact. A razor-thin stretch of time where gravity abandons you, where air turns solid, where your body sings with the promise of a fall. It’s the kind of sensation that makes your pulse hammer against the cage of your ribs, that makes your fingers twitch, that makes you feel alive.

And they know it.

They watch you like fire watches a wick.

The three of you sit on the edge of the rooftop, the city stretching far beneath your feet. It’s an old, crumbling structure—one you had to shimmy up a drainpipe to reach, one that swayed ever so slightly in the wind. The kind of place that would send lesser mortals scurrying for safer ground. But for you?

You tip your head back and laugh, staring up at the sky, heart hammering as the air thins. You feel the weight of their eyes before you turn to meet them.

Kory’s gaze is molten, bright and all-consuming. Not in the way fire burns recklessly, but in the way it chooses what to devour. It’s worship and hunger wrapped in one, barely softened by the way she smiles, golden hair glinting under the neon haze of the city. Her legs dangle over the edge beside you, completely at ease, yet you can feel the tension in her muscles—ready to move, ready to save you if you fall, even if she has to burn down the world to do it.

Dick, on the other hand, is all restraint. He leans back on his palms, casual, like this is just another night, just another thrill. But you’ve known him long enough to see through the act. His fingers curl against the concrete, tapping out a rhythm against the rooftop—one-two, one-two-three. A habit. A tell. He’s measuring something. Calculating.

"You're thinking about it, aren’t you?" His voice is smooth, teasing. He already knows the answer.

You glance back over the edge. The streets below seem distant, the flickering streetlights turning everything into a distorted dream. Your grin widens. "Maybe."

Kory hums, tilting her head. "Would it be fun?"

"Absolutely."

Dick exhales through his nose, amusement laced with something deeper. Something darker. "You really want to give me a heart attack, don’t you?"

Your lips part to answer, but then—you move.

The wind howls in your ears. The world tips sideways. Your stomach twists into a sharp knot of weightlessness, and for a heartbeat, there is nothing but the drop. The rush. The moment where your body isn’t quite sure if it should prepare for impact or revel in flight.

But, of course, they catch you.

They always do.

Kory’s arms close around you first. A streak of fire, the heat of her body pressing against yours as she lifts you, her grip as unshakable as the stars. Dick is right behind her, the familiar coil of his grappling hook pulling both of you back toward the rooftop. They move like a unit. A force. A gravity all their own.

The landing is rougher than necessary. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you—they didn’t appreciate that little stunt.

Dick is on you in an instant, fingers digging into your waist, his breath sharp. Kory doesn’t let go either. Her arms remain wrapped around you, a lock of gold falling over your cheek as she leans in, forehead brushing yours.

"That was reckless," Dick murmurs.

"You do reckless things all the time," you counter, breath still uneven.

"Yes," Kory agrees, her voice warm. "But we are not willing to watch you fall."

You should be annoyed. You should roll your eyes, brush them off, tell them you had it under control. But there’s something in the way they look at you that makes your heartbeat stutter. Not anger. Not frustration.

Something deeper.

Something like devotion.

Dick’s thumb drags against your jaw, featherlight. His expression softens, but it does nothing to hide the storm behind his eyes. Kory’s arms tighten around you, pulling you close enough to feel the warmth of her skin through your clothes.

"You don’t get to scare us like that," Dick says, and there’s something final in his voice.

"Not ever," Kory whispers.

The way they hold you—it should feel suffocating. But instead, it feels like gravity.

#yandere dc #😺– request #yandere batboys #yandere batfam #yandere robin #yandere dick grayson x reader #yandere dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #yandere robin x reader #yandere nightwing x reader #yandere nightwing #yandere kori #yandere starfire x reader #yandere starfire #starfire x reader #nightwing x reader #robin x reader

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nvrngl · 10 days ago

Text

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓

synopsis. payback has soldier boy shinning on stage--but offstage, you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart... or becoming the monster everyone fears.

pairing. the boys ﹢ soldier boy x reader ﹢ angst

wordcount. 829

warnings. possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, ptsd mentions, co-dependency, fame-related pressure, cursing, implied emotional neglect, a very messy, toxic relationship.

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. heavily inspired by the song monster by shawn mendes n justin bieber

The crowd’s still screaming when you leave the stage.

Their roars echo through the concrete halls of the venue like some twisted lullaby made of ego and adrenaline. You can still hear them chanting his name—Soldier Boy, Soldier Boy, like he’s the second coming of Christ in a bulletproof cape. You know that look in his eye when he bathes in it, soaked in adoration like it’s a drug. He’s high on it, again.

And just like every other time, he left you standing in the wings. Smile painted on. Invisible.

You storm down the corridor, heels pounding against the floor, fingers trembling as you yank open the greenroom door. The scent of cigar smoke and cologne smacks you in the face—him. Always him.

The mirror lights flicker overhead. You cross your arms and wait.

“You done playing the national treasure out there,” you say coldly, “or should I come back when the applause dies down?”

Ben strolls in behind you like he didn’t just kiss a senator’s wife on the hand for the cameras while you stood offstage like a damn accessory. He peels off his gloves slowly, theatrically, like it’s foreplay.

He doesn’t answer. Just smirks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you bite. “You think I’m pissed about the kiss? It’s not the kiss, Ben.”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” he drawls, tossing the gloves on the couch. “Go on, then.”

You spin to face him, fury boiling under your skin. “It’s the fact that once the spotlight’s on, I disappear. You hold my hand in private and drop it the second there’s a crowd.”

“It’s not personal. It’s PR.”

“No, it’s cowardice.”

He blinks.

And there it is—that flicker of something behind his eyes. The part of him that’s never really grown up. Still 20-something and drowning in medals and expectations, still that golden boy who never learned how to love without performance.

“You put me on a pedestal,” you say, voice shaking. “Told me I was different. Made me feel like I mattered. And then you tear it all down the second it threatens your image.”

His jaw flexes, but he says nothing. You’re not done.

“I spill my guts, and you act like I’m the one being unreasonable. You rearrange me, Ben. Break me into pieces just so I’ll fit into your perfect soldier-boy narrative.”

“You done?”

“No. Not even close.”

You stalk closer, the air between you electric, suffocating.

“You say it’s pressure, the fans, the job—yeah, I get it. But what happens when you fall, huh? What if you trip? What if the crowd turns? Are you still the hero then? Or are you the monster they always warned us about?”

His voice drops, dark and low. “Then I guess I’m the fucking monster.”

You flinch. Not at the words—but at how easily he says them.

Like he’s rehearsed it.

Like maybe, deep down, he’s always believed it.

“You want to be worshipped for your strength,” you whisper. “But you can’t handle being seen for your weakness.”

He moves before you can react, caging you between him and the mirror, his arms on either side of you. Not touching, not yet, but it’s a threat. A plea. A desperate need to still be close, even while everything crumbles between you.

“You’re not just some fling,” he says, voice cracking like ice. “You’re the only person who knows who I really am.”

“And that should scare you,” you murmur. “Because I’m starting to wish I didn’t.”

Something flickers in him then—something real, raw and wounded and angry. “You think I want this? You think I wanted to be the country’s weapon, some overhyped mascot who can’t even go to sleep without hearing screams in his head?”

His breath is shallow, panicked.

“I came in with good intentions,” he whispers. “I swear to God, I tried.”

You believe him.

That’s the worst part.

Because Ben’s a walking contradiction. A bleeding heart wrapped in titanium armor. He wants to be good, but he doesn’t know how to get there without leaving a trail of collateral damage.

“I won’t let you ruin me,” you say, quieter now. “I won’t bleed myself dry just to keep you from falling apart.”

A beat passes.

And then, quietly:

“Don’t let me fall.”

Your eyes close. Because he always says it like a prayer, like he still thinks you can save him.

You turn slowly, facing him, the warmth of his chest almost brushing yours. Your fingers find the hem of his jacket, gripping it just enough to keep from walking away.

“You’re not the monster,” you whisper, voice trembling. “But you keep acting like one.”

He exhales like you punched the breath out of him. His forehead falls to yours, touch tender where his words never are.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs.

And god help you, part of you still hopes he means it.

But another part? The smarter part?

It’s already bracing for the next time he lets go.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

#soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy angst #soldier boy fluff #soldier boy smut #soldier boy fic #the boys #.txt #monster

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bunni-v1 · 4 months ago

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May I ask your advice on something? I want to make a cookie that will be loved by shadow milk and I toss and turn the idea in my head thinking about his loneliness, but his arrogance in assuming most cookies aren’t worthy of his time makes it difficult. It leads me to building the cookie to be bigger and more powerful/elaborate than him so he immediately recognizes it, but that’s unsatisfying for me. I’d like them to be ordinary, clever of course, observant, and quick witted to not only keep up with shadow milk, but to even outpace him at times in a verbal sparring match. But most ordinary cookies don’t really fit the bill. They usually either worship or fear him depending on personality and self awareness. Both are good and what he needs/uses, but you can’t really be friends with a tool. Makes it hard to think of an ordinary cookie that might have caught his attention. I liked your analysis of what getting close to him pre corruption was and he’s a more viable candidate, but even he on some level looks down upon ordinary cookies that know less and don’t live as long. Namuwiki and regular wiki categorize his corruption as both an obsession with his own power as well as loneliness in a truth that broke him. I think the truth that did so or that at least planted the seed of corruption was: that cookies/people don’t care about the truth. He states as much so many times to pure vanilla to weaken his resolve, his dedication to truth. How cookies willingly/happily turn from the bitter truth to embrace a sweet lie. How cookies were more interested in listening to him speak than what he was really saying. It’s a one two punch realizing the cookies around you don’t really care about the thing that makes you you. And if they do it may only be for selfish gain, not for knowledge in itself. And the real rub is the reason they don’t care is often times due to some form of ignorance or stupidity. I mentioned this to a friend irl and she said,”oh he got bullied before he got corrupted. 💯” Which made me think of the cookies before his fall, who maybe took for granted that 1. The font of knowledge even exists and 2.That he would willingly and happily answer their questions truthfully forever and 3. Would never lose his patience. Because how much do you want to bet that the illusion from the sugar free road he taunted pure vanilla with, the woman yelling at him saying “tell us where to seek healing! Tell us how to be healthy to live in wealth and happiness! Use your power! Share your power with us! Do it if you truly care!” Were words from a cookie in shadow milks past? How many refused to seek the truth themselves, wishing no demanding he provide it for them. And criticizing him if/when he either refuses or lies, like bratty children. “Nothing but empty promises. All a lie.” Give them! Cookies who were so ignorant and stupid wanting to take away the thing that makes him him. Because that’s all he is isn’t he? His power his soul jam. Neither he nor anyone else it seems has seen him beyond his abilities. To who he is as a cookie.

Which is just another layer to his isolation, but all of which to say. Maybe the ordinary cookie who just happens to be curious, innovative, and above all patient and kind is his only balm against such words. And maybe that cookie crumbles under the weight of their deceit. Maybe that helps crumble his resolve. After all the main thing hes running from, the big lie he tells himself is that nothing bad ever happens to him. Because how could it? He’s a god, he’s all knowing, but not all powerful. Thoughts?

I think Shadow Milk's fall is the most interesting, because it could quite honestly be either he fell first or last. I'm a bigger fan of the him falling last theory, because it's very interesting to see how he would react to his friends becoming beasts and realizing he too will shortly.

With the new costume's story we can get a better look into him, and he's a lot like PV. Patient, kind, gentle, intelligent, and more than willing to share his knowledge with cookies. With such knowledge, he is very separate from other cookies. He knows and understands things that other cookies could never dream of.

That much knowledge will weigh on your being, even if you are a god. Especially if it's all you're supposed to be, a fount of knowledge for cookies. I think he does enjoy sharing his knowledge and the truths of the world. He cares for his cookies. How could he not? they are innocent and freshly baked, full of fear and confusion. His knowledge is meant to soothe them.

But, cookies fear what they do not understand. When they start asking harder questions, and he gives them the truthful answer, they don't like it. They lash out and deny the truth, and he realizes they would rather live in a lie than bear the truth. The fact that, even if it's unintentional, the very cookies he loves and cherishes are rejecting him... well, it would devastate anyone.

Shadow Milk Cookie became a beast because he was rejected by his people. He became the embodiment of lies to become what they wanted, rejecting the truth to show them the error of their ways. This is what they wanted, right?

I think that's why he needs a partner who challenges him. They can't just accept everything he does as okay. He doesn't want or need someone who just sits there and affirms him like his minions. His partner needs a backbone and a strong moral compass, the confidence to look at him and say, "Absolutely not."

They also need to have the awareness that he is the master of lies. They need to be able to see through his lies and illusions by themselves because he can't hold their hand all the time. He has this deep aching need to be seen, though he doesn't acknowledge those feelings. They have to be able to crack his shell by themselves and show that they care, and only then will he open up to them.

It's certainly not an easy feat for a normal cookie, but if Ginger Brave and co. can do it, I'm sure his partner can also do it. It takes a special cookie to get the master of deceit tripping over himself, after all.

#bunni's treats 🧁#shadow milk #shadow milk crk #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie #shadow milk x you

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walpu · 1 year ago

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I really need more nsfw hcs with Aventurine, maybe a small fix where we praise and kiss all over his body, especially his tattoo <33

Remember to take care of yourself and eat, drink and sleep well, take breaks if you need to :))

Thank you so much 😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️ Finally having my annual leave so I'm a free person

Sorry if it's too short I'm still recovering 😭

kissing Aventurine's body

characters - Aventurine

notes - gn!reader, a lot of body worshipping, soft!Aven, nsfw-y but nothing explicit, no beta

If the two of you are dating, Aventurine would love worshipping your body. Kissing all over it, leaving small marks, nuzzling into your thighs etc.

However, would immediately melt if you would do the same for him.

Like I'm not kidding. Kisses on his face? Can handle it. On his neck? Crumbles a bit but still nothing he can't manage. Kissing the rest of his body? Count him dead.

He's a huge sucker for gentle treatment since no one has ever tried to make him feel loved and cared for.

His body is very sensitive so it's easy to overhelm and overestimate him so. I would say be gentle but it's honestly up to you, he would not complain either way 👀

Would whine a lot if you overestimate him tho. Which is not a bad thing at all since he's adorable when he's needy like that.

May tease you a bit, saying stuff like "my dear, who knew you're so addicted to my body, one would think you want to eat me alive" but his eyes are shining with adoration and hus silly smile completely betrays how giddy he is. Tell him tyou want exactly that and then go down on him he'll die

If you take way too much time focusing on kissing his body, he would cup your face or gently pull on your hair to bring you to his lips. He loves kissing you okay.

Gets a bit emotional when you kiss his tattoo during lovemaking sessions. It's just so overwhelmingly soft for him. Allowing you to do it is an ultimate display of vulnerability on his part.

I have a feeling that he doesn't cover his tattoo in a self-defense way like "if I'm so open about this mark that represents my trauma people won't weaponize it".

But it doesn't mean he likes when people pay special attention to it.

So yeah by allowing you to kiss it and nuzzle into it he shows that he trusts you, that he doesn't mind being so open with you.

To him it's also an ultimate proof that you love him whole, even the ugly painful parts.

#can't believe im alive #Hsr #honkai star rail #aventurine #aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine #reader insert #walp's writing

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gilbertscurls · 16 days ago

Text

say you're sorry — matt sturniolo

When Matt screws up, he doesn’t beg for forgiveness—he earns it. With his mouth. On his knees. Right where you like him best.

The fight hadn’t been loud, but it had been real. And it hurt.

You sat curled up on the edge of the bed, legs pulled close to your chest, eyes fixed on the floor while the silence between you and Matt stretched thin like ice ready to crack.

He stood by the doorway, guilt carved deep into every tense line of his body. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You didn’t respond.

“I got defensive. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

Still nothing.

He walked toward you slowly, cautious like he knew how badly he’d messed up. “I hate when we fight. I hate when I make you feel like I’m not on your side.”

You blinked back the sting in your eyes, stubbornly holding on to the last threads of your anger.

Matt stopped right in front of you, kneeling between your legs, hands braced gently on your thighs. His voice dropped low, serious and soft.

“Let me make it right.”

You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t pull away either.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your knee, then your thigh. “I know I hurt you. I hate that I did.”

Another kiss, higher now. A slow slide of his hands as they traced your hips, his eyes never leaving yours. “Let me remind you how much I love you. How much you mean to me.”

Your breath hitched when he gently tugged at the waistband of your shorts, his fingers warm and careful.

“I’m not just saying I’m sorry,” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh. “I’m going to show you.”

And he did.

Slowly. Reverently.

Like worship.

His tongue was patient at first—teasing, tasting—until you gasped his name and fisted the sheets beneath you. His hands held your thighs open, keeping you steady as your walls crumbled. Every flick of his tongue was an apology, every moan he pulled from your lips a promise.

You weren’t even sure when the tears started.

Maybe from how soft he looked up at you, eyes full of regret and adoration. Maybe from how he didn’t stop even when your thighs started to tremble. Or maybe it was when he whispered against your skin:

“I’ll never stop loving you. Even when I’m stupid. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You came with your hands tangled in his curls and your heart open, vulnerable, forgiven.

He kissed your thighs softly as you caught your breath, then climbed up the bed to cradle you in his arms, your face buried in his chest, tears drying on his skin.

“I forgive you,” you whispered into his neck.

Matt tightened his arms around you. “I know.”

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris

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yanderemommabean · 1 year ago

Text

Hey beans! Bit of an update-

This post will include mentions of abuse so, please, don't read if that will harm you in any way!

Sorry for the lack of posts lately! With how weird my school is with testing and clinicals, I've had hardly any real time to feel like I could sleep AND create. On top of that, I am still in the unfortunate position of living with my abuser, along with the rest of my family who seem to be going downhill.

While I'm hoping I can get a job to save up to move out of this state, that's going to take time, and its time I fear I don't have some nights as just the other night while bringing home groceries, I was met with my step dads gun directly in my face, and him being mad I was "Coming home late at ten at night" when it was, in fact, only 9:15 and I made myself known as I walked up the stairs.

My grandma is also a big issue, she's draining as usual but its taking more of a toll on me by the day. I no longer get food stamps either which is a reason she wants to start in on me every day I walk out of my room. The verbal abuse is one thing but she's threatening again and if I stand up for myself I'm seen as the bad guy.

My mom who used to be a person I thought I could turn to is now down a rabbit hole about "Woke" culture and now sees anyone in the LGBTQ community as brainwashers, yet when I remind her I am bisexual, she seems to backtrack a bit and say "Well no, not you, you're a good one"

She's also back into worshipping the Christian God, which I have absolutely no issue with, but she's telling me that I cant have my tarot cards or my own craft in my room like I'm some 15 year old who doesn't understand religions, and not 24 and choosing my own way in life. She keeps insisting that I pray, that I thank God, that I'm a sinner, anything to make her feel like she's scaring me into "Changing". I keep telling her she's driving a wedge between us, but it seems to be for nothing.

Every day I feel like my support net is crumbling, and I feel like this trip to save up is going to be fruitless as I don't have my own car, I have to find a way to get the doctors I need if I even get to the state I'm moving to, and so on and so on.

Any who, I'm going through a lot and can't seem to catch a break but I love you beans! I hope you're all doing good and having a wonderful day!

-Mommabean

#Personal #mommabean #tw abuse #abuse mention #ok to interact #ok to say stuff

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katyawriteswhump · 4 months ago

Text

love and other catastrophes at the omega cafe (6.1/8) 🐈‍⬛

Another loooong chapter, part 2 is up!2 should be up later💚 A little bit of angst this week, but nothing too bad, I promise (part 2 is mainly smut!)

Summary: Steve is a runaway Omega who gets a job at an Omega café, where he’s basically paid to curl up and purr in Alphas’ laps. It’s legal, and he earns a living, rents his own place. He’s getting along fine for a packless Omega. Then Alpha rockstar Eddie Munson turns up for an hour of ‘kitty’ petting, and shatters Steve’s fragile little world…

Rating: E; CW: past angst; Tags: omega steve, alpha eddie, a/b/o dynamics, fluff and angst, sexual content 💚

Chapter 1 on tumblr (also index post) Chapter 2 on tumblr Chapter 3.1 Chapter 3.2 Chapter 4.1 Chapter 4.2 Chapter 5.1 Chapter 5.2

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

Chapter 6.1

Eddie held Steve in his arms and swept his tongue to the depths of Steve’s mouth. The veranda, the city, and the starry sky all crumbled to dust. Eddie didn’t even strain to support Steve’s weight.

He wasn’t floating anymore. They were flying.

He worshipped every strand of Steve’s flavor. Peaches and vanilla or what-the-heck-ever did this Omega no justice. His mouth was sweeter and softer than the lightest cupcake ever baked, tinged with something juicy and salty and verging on badass.

Something uniquely… Steve.

The way he glided his tongue tentatively against Eddie’s was super-sweet also. Soon their flavors mingled, giving that salty cupcake delicacy a sharp metallic edge. Steve twisted his fist in Eddie’s hair, mashing them even closer. His soft purrs trilled in Eddie’s throat.

Eddie was more than turned-the-fuck-on now. His chest was no-holds-barred glowing.

Ooookay, and here we go with the once-dreaded l-word, and already I wanna write dumb lyrics about it. Yeah, you and me we’re gonna ride on a star, if you’ll stay with me, Steve… We can Ruuuuule the Woooo-orld!

Yup, those stars that’d vanished from the heavens wheeled in front of his eyes. Though that possibly meant… Whoops! Need to breathe!

Not a great move to suffocate his Omega with their first kiss either. He pulled away, finding Steve looking gloriously dazed.

“That… was… amazing, Eddie.” One of Steve’s arms slipped from around Eddie’s neck and dangled. “You’re one hell of a kisser.”

“Not so shabby yourself.”

Eddie had no sooner placed Steve on his feet, when he grabbed him again to smack another kiss on those shiny, kiss-swollen lips. He pulled back, cupping the Omega’s face in his hands.

The smile that played on Steve’s lips was… odd, fragile.

“You okay, Baby?” When Steve didn’t answer immediately, Eddie’s heart squeezed, then careered straight back to pouring out its truth. “I’m gonna give you that home. I’m gonna build you a castle! With the cosiest nest you can imagine. I’m gonna treat you so good and the whole world's gonna know you’re mine, and… Hey, what’s up?”

The Omega’s scent soured, and he looked like he verged on tearing up.

“Baby, what is it?”

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I came back to tell you something about my past. I guess I kinda got distracted, your scent sends me wild. You send me wild, and now… Ugh, I can’t think straight!” He buried his fingers in his hair and crinkled his nose. “You might regret everything you just said. You might never want to see me again.”

Eddie’s hands slid to brace the Omega’s shoulders. “That’s not gonna happen. I’m not some old-fashioned douchebag who gives a damn—"

“Eddie, I’m married.”

“Huh?”

The revelation pinballed around Eddie’s brain, refusing to settle.

Married. Married?!?

Sure, fury sparked. Not with Steve. Never with Steve.

Particularly while Steve’s watery eyes stretched so wide and terrified Eddie saw the whites.

“Eddie, say something.” Steve backed away. “Should I go?”

“Don’t you dare!” Eddie lurched for the Omega, needing him back in his arms right this instant. “Steve, don’t you get it? You’re mine, I’m yours, and I don’t give a… shiiiiiiit!”

As Eddie grabbed him, Steve swayed slightly, and momentum did the rest. They tumbled into the deep end of the pool, with Eddie flailing and splashing then sinking like a stone.

His head was already swimming before he fell.

Married. Steve was married.

It didn’t make the teeniest dent in how Eddie felt. Steve had already said he was a runaway. It obviously hadn’t been a happy marriage, and this only heightened his resolve to take care of Steve. To keep him safe and…

Uuuuuuurgh!

Eddie’s flapping arms were not propelling him upward. He inhaled a gallon of water. Panic boomed in his tightening lungs and then…

Steve’s arm hooked firmly around Eddie’s chest. He dragged Eddie to the surface, through the fizzing bubbles of their breath. “Put your feet down, dipshit!”

Eddie did so, simultaneously spluttering out a ton of water—half of it at Steve.

“Eddie?” Steve’s flat wet hair made his eyes seem huge. “You okay?”

Eddie snatched a deep breath, coughed it out, then nodded.

Steve shrank away again. “I’m so sorry, Eddie, there’s so much more I need to tell you. I hope you’ll understand, but I get if—"

“My one-true-darling.” Eddie grabbed him and gently shook him: “I’ll tell you a billion times. Heck, I’ll write a song about it—I don’t give a damn about your past! C’mon, let’s get out of these wet threads.”

They squelched into the apartment and into the chaos of Eddie’s bedroom. Steve remained edgy and quiet, and Eddie was getting jitters too, and not just from the wet and cold.

Maybe there would be major obstacles before they could bond? Maybe Steve wasn’t quite as dead set on them as Eddie was?

He bit back his questions, though. This time, he wouldn’t steamroller Steve before he was ready to speak.

He located Steve the softest, fluffiest towel he owned. Also, clothes including a baby-pink sweater with smiley skulls on it—Granny Munson, who knitted it, was an Alpha with a GSOH. Plus, while it wasn’t quite their color scheme, Eddie was keen to see Steve in it. They changed separately. When Steve emerged from the washroom having changed, he sat down on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched.

“I was betrothed at sixteen to an Alpha three times my age.” He fixed on his hands twisting in his lap. “It was a business transaction for my parents, nothing more. I stayed with them till my nineteenth birthday. That morning, he came for me, and we were legally wed. The same evening, before it was consummated… I ran away. Since then, I’ve been on my own, trying to make a new life for myself.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Eddie sat down besides and curled an arm around him, devastatingly grateful when Steve leaned into him. “Listen, I got lawyers. Rogue wolves, the bunch of them, and cold-blooded killers at what they do, and… this son-of-bitch didn’t mate you. He didn’t bond you. He didn’t even bite you. It was really only a few dumb words?”

Steve’s gaze darted sideways and dipped. “Pretty much.”

“Look, I’ll get it sorted. It’s gonna be fine. You forget about it, Sweetness.” He squeezed Steve a little tighter, and they simply sat together, more quietly than Eddie knew he could sit. Steve sank his head onto Eddie’s shoulder and closed his eyes, and Eddie was more than happy to support him as long as needed.

Unfortunately, having Steve in his room and wearing his clothes was sending several pints of blood due south. He clenched his teeth. Pesky horndog Alpha instincts. It was obvious now that Steve had NOT come back for sexy times and no way did Eddie actually want to jump the Omega right now. Not with that darling scent so dampened and subdued.

Eventually, Steve yawned. “You wanna go home, Baby? Should I call you a ride?”

“No… no. Please, not yet.” Steve rubbed beneath his ribs, sighed, then peeped up. “Could do with some fresh air though.”

“Cool with me. If you’re up for it, there’s something I wanted to show you.”

Eddie led Steve to the half-coconut-shell swing by the pool and pushed him in with a gentle tip. Steve giggled and sunk snugly into the fuzzy cushions. Eddie flung himself down beside him, setting the shell swinging madly.

“Jesus, you’re gonna make me seasick,” bitched Steve.

“Sorry, Babe. Kitties not so keen on water after all?”

“Still not actually a kitty!” He beamed all over his face as he said it. “I mean, you’re the weirdo who’s planted me in a dangling kitty basket!”

“You got me,” admitted Eddie, then, tentative, he added, “It’s the one thing in this crappy apartment I’d actually like for you. We can get one for beside your pool.”

Steve froze… then flinched as if in physical pain. Before Eddie could worry too hard, Steve’s scent spiked up Eddie’s nose, super-sweet for the first time since the marriage bombshell: “Okay, I surrender,” giggled Steve. “A swinging cat basket would rock my world.”

They chatted for a while, mainly about growing up. Steve curled up into a ball with his head in Eddie’s lap, a comfy ‘normal’ that felt like Eddie had enjoyed it for years.

“Honestly, I was a spoiled brat,” admitted Steve. “I was into sports, hung out with the mean crowd, though after I presented, they all jockeyed to get in my panties.” He hissed between his teeth. “My betrothal was a huge slap in the face. I guess it humbled me. Knowing what I was really worth.”

“You’re worth more than all the stars in the sky,” said Eddie, his blood simmering.

Steve seemed all talked out, so Eddie smoothed his hair tenderly, while he shared his own High School story.

“I was the worst kind of drop-out. The principal told me I was the ‘most likely’ to wind up in jail, like my old man. I bet he spat teeth watching me make my first million, and…”

Steve squeaked, and his breath grew snatched and shaky. For about the fifth time in as many minutes, Eddie asked if he was okay. When Steve flapped his hand—and more vanilla-peach scent overpowered the still night air—Eddie pressed on:

“I’ve always had this cuckoo hankering to go back, finish my senior year. Just so I can flip the bird in that asshat’s face as I graduate.”

“I wanna be there cheering when you do,” said Steve, and then… no mistaking it now. Steve cried out desolately, and when Eddie leaned over him, pain was etched all over his face.

“Okay, Baby. You can’t fool me. You’re not okay. What’s wrong?” No answer, just another moan. He caressed the Omega’s clammy brow, and dammit, these next words were gonna sting. Eddie wasn’t proud, but he had a killer erection. While he could resist fucking Steve for good reason, no part of him wanted his Omega to leave. “Do you want me to call Robin?”

Steve’s voice was small, almost lost in the vastness of the night. “Can’t I stay here?”

YEAH, YOU CAN STAY! I LITERALLY NEVER WANT YOU OUT OF MY SIGHT FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY!

Instead, he said, “If you’re sure, Honey? There’s two spare bedrooms to choose from. Neither of them particularly snug, but—”

“Seriously?” The Omega stopped whimpering to glare up at Eddie through the blur of his lashes. “You kiss me and tell me my whole marriage-shitshow is gonna go away. You take me to your room, dress me in your clothes. You pet me mercilessly… and the last half hour, I got heat cramps kicking off like you have no idea! Even though I only got through my stupid heat a week ago! I swear I didn’t plan… Oooooow!” His face crumpled, and he curled his knees to his tummy. “Jesus, Eddie! You gotta help me!”

OMFG, AM I DREAMING? HE WANTS ME TO MATE HIM! OR AT LEAST, HELP HIM THROUGH HIS HEAT.

TONIGHT.

🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛🐈‍⬛

Chapter 6.2

(okay promise won't leave them squirming too long... I'm working on it!)

Thank you so very much for reading. If you enjoyed, every little like and reblog or comment means a lot to me so thank you💚

I am always happy to tag, pls let me know, or you can follow the tag #steddie omega cat cafe 💚

tags 💚🐈‍⬛💚 @disrespectedgoatman 💚 @bumblebeecuttlefishes

@katethetank 💚 @themoonagainstmers 💚 @chaotic-waffle 💚

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

On AO3

#omega steve harrington #alpha eddie munson #omegaverse steddie #steddie omegaverse #steddie omega cat cafe #rock star eddie munson #steddie au #steddie fluff #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #slick sunday #a day early sorry but i'm working tomorrow!

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romanticatheartt · 9 months ago

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Gwyneth and Rhysand

Having the same traumas:

Both being victim of SA

Rhys said quietly, “I was a prisoner in her court for nearly fifty years. I was tortured and beaten and fucked until only telling myself who I was, what I had to protect, kept me from trying to find a way to end it. Please—help me keep that from happening again. To Prythian.” ~ acomaf ch.11 “I hadn’t yet participated in the Great Rite, and we were so remote up there that I never had the chance to lie with a male, and he took that from me, too. And then he called over three of his soldiers and told them to keep going until I revealed where the children had gone.” ~ acosf ch.68

Losing their sisters in the most brutal way

“... I was supposed to be there. I wasn’t. And they slaughtered my mother and sister anyway.”... “It should have been me,”... “They put their heads in boxes and sent them down the river—to the nearest camp. Tamlin’s father kept their wings as trophies. I’m surprised you didn’t see them pinned in the study.” ~ acomaf ch.45 “... So he grabbed Catrin, because our scents were nearly identical, you see, and told me that if I didn’t reveal where the children were, he’d kill her. And when I didn’t give the children up …” Her mouth shook. “He beheaded Catrin right there, along with two other priestesses...” ~ acosf ch.68

Having the same blood rite experience:

He could still feel the crumbling rock beneath his boots, hear the rasp of his breathing as he half hauled Rhys up the slopes, Azriel providing cover behind.* ~ acofas ch.3 Nesta marveled at the hope and bravery in their faces. “I can hold them off.” *... She didn’t wait for Emerie to speak before she helped ease Gwyn onto Emerie’s back, the latter hissing at the weight upon her wings, splaying them at awkward angles. ~ acosf ch.69

They won the blood rite and have the Carynthian title. And I wonder if Rhys at any stage of his life thought he's not a real Carynthian because Cassian had to help him and if Gwyn also might feel the same. And maybe they can bond over it...

Being pretty AF:

Standing before me was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. ~ acotar ch.20 If Rhysand was the most beautiful male I’d ever seen, she [Mor] was his female equivalent. ~ acomaf ch.6 The priestess had been pretty in the library, but with that joy, that confidence as she aimed for the three priestesses, she had emerged into a beauty to rival Merrill or Mor. ~ acosf ch.29

2+2=?

Nerds...

Az, of course, had been fascinated. Rhys had built the model himself centuries ago. It could not only track the sun, but also tell time, and it somehow allowed Rhys to ponder the existence of life beyond their own world and other things Cassian had, again, instantly forgotten. ~ acosf ch.3 “I could only pick up every other word,” Rhys said. Feyre arched a brow. “You speak the language of the ancient Fae?” Rhys shrugged. “My education was thorough.” He waved an idle, graceful hand. “For exactly these situations.” ~ acosf ch.37 “Some philosophers believe there are eleven worlds like that. And some believe there are as many as twenty-six, the last one being Time itself, which …” Gwyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. ~ acosf ch.13 Gwyn let out a breathy laugh. “I mean it. I learned about a new Valkyrie technique last night. It’s called Mind-Stilling.” ~ acosf ch.38

This has nothing to do with their similarity but him being cute and protective<33

The casual smile of a male used to people either fleeing in terror or falling to their knees in worship. “Hello, Gwyn,” he said warmly. “Good to see you again.” Gwyn blushed, shaking herself out of her stupor, and bowed low. “My lord.”... You are to treat Gwyn with kindness and respect. ~ acosf ch.28

*Bonus*:

Gwyn and Rhys were injured and had to be carried to the top while Nesta and Azriel stayed behind to cover for them.

Nesta 🤝 Azriel -> we expected them to have a strong friendship and it happened in hofas. They also have so many similarities!

Gwyn 🤝 Rhys -> ...?

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 01, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: first sight, obsessive observation, ballet practice scene, initial fixation development, mirror dynamics, ritual beginnings, sensory fixation, internal monologue, self-loathing, self-discipline, cleanliness obsession, OCD, asocial/antisocial behaviors.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.9k

➔ A/N: Before we even begin, let me say this loud and clear: This story explores dark themes, toxic dynamics, and morally fucked behavior. If that’s not your vibe or you’re in a vulnerable place right now, please prioritize your mental health and click out. I have a trigger warning + author intro linked above in pink—read it before diving in. Know what you’re getting into. Once you scroll past this note, you’re responsible for engaging thoughtfully. This is not an endorsement of anything. This story is an exploration, not a statement of belief. Don’t absorb it at face value. Think critically. Or log off. Either works. Okay now that the serious voice is out of the way—WELCOME TO ASW. Yes. We’re doing this. Yes, Taehyung. No, I don’t know why either. He just… is. This fic has been rotting in my brain like a cursed wine cellar, and he fit the flavor of psychological mess I needed. It’s the velvet-soaked, morally gray, low-light, mid-cigarette kinda vibe. And you’re invited. This isn’t a longform fic like Fuck Me Up—it’s a series, a slower, tighter pace, same chaos engine running under the hood (hi, it’s me, Kiki Nation). If you’ve read my stuff before: buckle in. If you’re new: …I swear I’ve written fluff before. Maybe. No but seriously, if you like character-driven, trauma-informed, unhinged-but-meticulous messes with literary undertones, welcome. You’ve found your swamp. Also. I beg you to listen to the ASW playlist I linked. It’s essential. Think: Paris—but not “Emily in Paris.” More like the kind of Paris where you haven’t slept in three days and your eyeliner’s smudged and some man with secrets is staring at you across a neon-lit dive bar while Edith Piaf plays from a busted speaker. That Paris.

See you on the other side. You’ve been warned.

➔ SERIES : NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Worthless.

The word sits in Taehyung's skull like a rotting tooth.

Not painful anymore—just there, decayed into the bone, a permanent fixture. Worthless. His mother's voice, twenty-something years later, still echoing.

Sometimes he imagines cutting into his brain, finding where that word lives, and scrubbing it clean. But nothing ever gets clean enough.

Paris is outside—pavement slicked with cold, the breath of a morning rain barely dried. In here, the air is flat.

Fluorescent.

Everything smells faintly of mop water and dying batteries.

He exists behind the counter, with his wrists tucked close, thumbnail grinding against the seam where the plastic laminate splits. It’s not a conscious movement. The itch just collects there—under his skin, inside his jaw, everywhere his mother’s voice ever landed.

(worthless)

The shelf by the door coughs out its contents: a can rolls, then a bottle, another bottle, a clatter that jars the pulse behind his eye. Sticky leaks on the tiles. No one looks at him—customer, manager, pink-haired girl behind the second register sketching with a dried-out pen. He’s the quiet one. The shadow. The clean-up.

He counts the droplets on the ground. One. Two. The stain widens. Beer and cola. A chemical amber, eating its way along the grout. His fingers twitch for the cheap blue rag balled up under the till. Sticky spots, dirty dots, broken thoughts. Three. Four. Five. It’s spreading. Marcel’s voice always comes before the panic does.

“Kid! Clean that shit up, come on! Clients don’t have all day.”

He sees the world in surfaces and stains. Every footprint etched in last night’s grime. Chewing gum slicked flat under a boot near the cooler. The way someone’s fingernails left half-moons in the tape over the torn cereal box. Small atrocities. He is intimately acquainted with the way filth lingers—in the cracks, yes, but also in his chest, in the language of his own hands.

He moves without thinking: rag in hand, knees bending. The bottle neck is sticky. His palm leaves a ghost on the glass—oily, ugly.

(dirty, dirty, dirtydirtydirt)

He swears he can hear her voice; the echo that raised him sharper than any cradle song.

He wipes too hard, more circles than necessary, like there is any chance of making the world new.

One. Two. Three. Seven. Seven. Seven again. If the number is right, the feeling dulls.

Nothing makes it right.

The rag soaks up sugar, cheap wheat, that thin acrid scent that reminds him of old men on metro benches. The stickiness clings to his fingers, seeping past skin and nail, as if he’s absorbing the world’s waste molecule by molecule.

If he had a choice, he’d bleach the whole city. Himself first.

Someone steps around him—he feels the shadow before the person—a grunt, a grumble in French about the mess, about incompetence. He shrinks into the crouch. Tries to take up less space.

Sometimes, he wonders what it would take to be truly invisible.

Sometimes, he thinks he’s halfway there already.

(worthless)

He doesn’t know when the word started looping. Was it, really, at two years old? Maybe three. Maybe four, when he dropped a bowl and she made him hold the shards, blood trailing into the grout as proof of his clumsiness.

‘If you were worth anything, you’d be clean. You’d be careful. You’d be quiet and good and wanted.’

He’s quiet. He’s careful. He’s so good at disappearing he startles himself when Marcel barks his name—the only time he hears it, sandpapered into a reprimand.

Sometimes the sound of it makes him nauseous.

He presses the rag into the floor. Bleach sting in the back of his throat. Nails scrub until knuckles ache, the line between diligent and desperate lost years ago. He likes this better than standing—the way knees grind bone against bone, the ache that says he’s solid, present, here.

It almost feels like penance.

He glances up—Sophie sketches him again, glancing once, twice, pausing on the curl of his neck. He will become a line in her notebook, a story she tells at parties, a tragic fixture in the background of her real life. He hates that he has thoughts about being observed. If anyone really saw, they’d peel back layers until nothing was left but the word.

(worthless)

The store’s radio coughs static. Some old pop song limping its way through a broken speaker. The world blurs at the edges—what is Paris, if not concrete and piss and distant sunlight, leaking slowly across linoleum? He wishes the tiles here would just dissolve.

Wishes his skin would too.

He wrings the rag out in the bucket, watches beer foam swirl with grime down the cheap plastic drain. His hands are pink, raw, stained with the same feeling that never quite leaves. His fingertips burn. Sometimes they bleed. That’s good.

Pain is clean. Pain is honest.

Marcel doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look at him. Sophie tucks her drawing away, eyes flickering elsewhere. Taehyung straightens, wipes his palms on his trousers, and returns to the counter. He exists to erase.

Counting in his head—seven steps to the end of the aisle. Seven minutes until the shift ends. Seven letters in the nine his mother wrote under his skin:

Worthless.

Sometimes he thinks it’s the only word he’ll ever earn.

And outside, the city is gray. Inside, he is nothing. Inside, he is clean.

(For a moment. For seven counts. That’s all.)

The water makes patterns like fractured light.

His shift ends like they always do—uneventful, almost unregistered in the library of his mind.

Paris is set in a brooding mood, rain stalking down the windows carelessly. Taehyung watches each droplet make its slow descent, leaving dirty trails on the glass he'd scrubbed this morning.

Seven hours ago. The bleach has worn off. Everything wears off eventually.

He'll have to clean the windows before going home. Marcel doesn't really care. Clean windows mean cleaner space. Cleaner space is good for Marcel's business. Or its reputation at least. Not that Taehyung cares about reputation or lack thereof, he just needs to quiet down the bubbling pressure that builds in his chest when the water droplets remove the bleach he's injected into the glass this morning.

The streak marks form constellations he doesn't know the names of. Names have never mattered much to him. Except when they belong to ghosts.

(worthlessworthlessworthless)

The register drawer sticks when he pulls it, a metallic scrape that makes his molars ache. He counts the bills by sevens—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. Again. The rhythm is comforting, like a metronome he can set his pulse to. His fingers leave no prints on the paper. He's careful about that. So careful.

Sophie comes by his counter, as she usually does at this time. Her hair is wet at the ends, dripping onto her shoulders. The moisture makes him twitch. He knows the pattern, knows how her hand raises to pat him in the shoulder, so he moves. Just lightly. A shift to the left. His body tilting away from contact like a plant bending from shadow.

She notices. She always notices. But she never says anything about it.

"Marcel left early," she says, tapping her pen against her lower lip. "Something about his daughter's recital. You know how he gets about that little prodigy of his."

Taehyung doesn't respond. He doesn't know what it's like to have a father proud enough to leave work early. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone watch you with anything but disappointment.

Sophie sighs into the silence. The sound scrapes against his eardrums. He counts the register one more time, even though the numbers are perfect. They're always perfect. He makes sure of it.

"You should really come to the dinner tonight. Would do some good for you to socialize," she says with a grin that shows too many teeth.

Her lipstick is smudged at the corner. Imperfect. He wants to hand her a tissue but his hands stay where they are, counting, ordering, fixing what isn't broken.

He doesn't blame her for trying. He doesn't blame her for the invitation that comes every Friday, the same words in slightly different arrangements. He doesn't blame her for not understanding that socializing feels like drowning with an audience.

Taehyung doesn't respond, simply nods. He's learned the minimum requirements for human interaction. Nod. Blink. Breathe. Exist without being noticed.

She sighs, signals two fingers over her forehead as she exits the store, all while saying, "Don't stay too late, and close before you leave!"

Taehyung didn't need the reminder. He always checks seven times before he leaves, that the door is closed.

Sophie knows. He knows she knows. He still doesn't say a word, just nods. Then, Sophie is gone.

Solitude, at last.

Empty store, peace restored.

His fingers move to the cloth under the register. It's damp from earlier, beer and soda and whatever else the world tracked in. He should get a fresh one. Clean things with clean tools. His mother taught him that, at least, between the lessons about worthlessness.

The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the glass. The windows will need extra attention. He can already feel the itch building under his skin, the need to make everything spotless before he leaves. Before he walks through the rain and into his apartment, where everything is already clean but never clean enough.

He moves methodically. Counts each step. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. The mop bucket rattles as he pulls it from the back room. Water sloshes against plastic sides. He measures the bleach precisely. One cap. Two caps. The smell burns his nostrils, familiar and comforting. It smells like absolution.

The store is empty now. Just him and the endless task of erasing evidence that anyone was ever here. He likes it this way. Prefers it. People leave messes. People notice things. People try to touch his shoulder and invite him to dinners where he would have to speak and be seen and remembered.

No one remembers the person who cleans up after them. That's the beauty of it.

The mop makes wet streaks across the floor. He counts each stroke. Seven in one direction. Seven in the other. The pattern matters. The rhythm matters. If he gets it wrong, something terrible might happen. He doesn't know what. He just knows the fear tastes like metal at the back of his throat.

The windows come last. He saves them because they're the worst. Because they connect inside to outside. Because they're never truly clean, no matter how hard he scrubs.

He sprays the glass, watches the solution drip down in rivulets that mirror the rain on the other side. Seven sprays. Seven wipes. Seven circles clockwise, seven counterclockwise. The ritual matters. The counting matters.

When he's done, the store gleams under the harsh lights. No evidence that anyone has been here. No evidence that he exists at all, except in the absence of dirt.

Then, a sound.

It comes from behind the door nobody opens.

Not the storeroom where Marcel keeps the cigarettes he thinks no one knows about, not the employee bathroom with its perpetually damp floor—the other one. The abandoned space where even Marcel refuses to go.

Taehyung freezes mid-wipe, cloth suspended against glass. The sound isn't loud. Just different. A disruption in the pattern of silence he's grown accustomed to.

He finishes the seventh circle, completing the ritual. Can't leave it unfinished. Bad things happen when rituals break. His mother taught him that—one of the few lessons that wasn't delivered with a slap or that word.

(worthless)

The sound comes again. Not a crash or a thud, but something lighter. A scrape, perhaps. The shuffle of something being moved after years of stillness.

His bleach bottle is nearly empty. The level has dropped below the label, and the thought of finishing his cleaning without it makes his chest cave inward. The supply closet—the forbidden one—holds what he needs. Marcel put the cleaning supplies there because no one else wants them. Because Taehyung is the only one who uses them. Because Marcel knows he'll go, no matter how much it terrifies him.

The handle feels wrong under his palm. Not cold or hot, but somehow both. The metal leaves an impression on his skin that he'll need to scrub away later. Seven times. With soap that smells like nothing.

The door creaks—not dramatically like in films, but with the quiet protest of hinges that have forgotten their purpose. The smell hits him first: dust and mildew, ancient paper, and something underneath it all that reminds him of childhood.

Not his childhood—someone else's. Someone who was allowed to be happy.

Taehyung doesn't step fully inside. He hovers at the threshold, one foot in darkness, one in light. Liminal. The word appears in his head unbidden. He knows it from somewhere. A book, maybe. Something he read in the quiet hours when sleep refused to come.

The bleach is stacked against the far wall. Seven bottles. Always seven. Marcel orders them in sevens now without being asked. It's the only kindness Taehyung has ever noticed from the man.

He'll have to cross the room to get there. Step fully into the space that feels wrong.

His skin prickles with contamination.

One step. The floor creaks.

Two. Dust motes dance in what little light filters through a grimy window.

Three. His breathing shallows.

Four. The sound comes again, clearer now. Not from this room, but beyond it.

Five. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to count on fingers but knowing better. Counting out loud is for children. Counting visibly is for the insane.

Six. He sees the wall isn't solid. There's glass embedded in it, cloudy with years of neglect.

Seven. He stops, right where he needs to be. The bottles wait, patient as saints.

He crouches, careful not to let his knees touch the floor. It's filthy here. Beyond salvaging. The kind of dirty that lives in the bones of a place, too deep for even bleach to reach. He imagines gutting the room—tearing out floorboards, scraping walls down to bare structure, burning it all and starting fresh. The fantasy calms him enough to grab a bottle.

That's when the melody starts.

Piano notes, distant but clear. A practice scale, then something more complex. The music doesn't filter through the wall—it seems to emerge from it, as if the plaster itself remembers a tune.

Taehyung stands, bottle clutched to his chest. His eyes find the glass panel naturally, drawn by the sound. It's a mirror, he realizes. Or it was meant to be. Years of grime have turned it into a cloudy barrier between this space and whatever lies beyond.

Curiosity is dangerous. His mother taught him that too. But the music pulls at something in him—a thread he didn't know was loose.

He approaches the glass, steps measured in sevens. The closer he gets, the clearer the sound becomes. Not just piano now. There's movement.

Without thinking, he raises his free hand—the one not clutching bleach like a lifeline—and wipes a small circle in the grime. The action is so automatic, so ingrained, that he doesn't register the contamination until it's done.

His palm is gray with dust. He'll need to wash it. Scrub it. Make it clean again.

But then he sees through the cleared space, and everything else falls away.

The room beyond isn't abandoned. It's alive with light—not the harsh fluorescence of the convenience store, but something softer. Golden. The floors are wood, worn but cared for. Barres line the walls. A practice room.

And in its center, a figure moves.

You don’t dance to the piano.

You are the music.

(worthyworthyworthy)

Your body creates shapes he doesn't have names for. Arcs and lines that make his breath catch.

Taehyung doesn't know ballet. Doesn't know dance at all. But he knows beauty when he sees it. Knows holiness. Recognizes glory.

The glass, he realizes, isn't just dirty. It's one-way. A mirror on your side, a window on his. You can't see him watching. Don’t know you’re being witnessed.

The knowledge makes him feel profane. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be seeing this. It's too intimate, too sacred for someone like him.

(worthless)

But he can't look away.

Your hair is pulled back, severe and perfect. No strand out of place. Your leotard (is that the word? he thinks it might be) clings to a form that seems impossible—all angles and curves existing together in defiance of what bodies should be able to do.

When you turn, your face catches light. Features like a doll. But your gaze is nothing like that. Eyes focused on nothing but your reflection. On perfection. On control.

You are everything he is not.

Clean.

Worthy.

Then, a series of turns that make his head spin just watching. You’re counting, he realizes. Your lips move slightly with each rotation. One, two, three... he can't tell how high you go. Can't follow the complexity of it.

The bleach bottle is cold against his chest. His palm still dirty. His breath fogging the small clear spot he's made in the glass.

He should leave. Should run. Should take his bleach and go back to his world of sticky floors and meaningless tasks. Should never come back here again.

But even as he thinks it, he knows he will. Knows that he'll return tomorrow, like he has to now. And the day after. And every day the store is open. Just to stand in this filthy room he can't bear to be in. Just to watch you move like water, like air.

Like everything pure in a world of contamination.

goal: 150 notes.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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owletstarlet · 10 months ago

Text

patron saint of the lost causes (1/2)

“You can stop looking at him like that.” Taki’s voice is frank, but not unkind. Katsumi could not be less in the mood for whatever the hell kind of conversation this is about to be. “Like what,” he replies anyhow. “Like you broke his best friend."

(For @goodlucktai. You know what you did.

ao3 link | part 2

The thing is, Katsumi really doesn’t want to hear that he couldn’t have known what was going to happen. He knows. Knows because nobody will let him forget it. Knows from his 2AM search history the night after, curled up on his side on a guest futon in the Fujiwaras’ sitting room, feeling pinned down by the blue glow of his phone screen under the duvet.

Here’s how it happens.

***

It’s not that it’s uncomfortable, exactly, to be alone with Tanuma Kaname while walking the forty-five minute round trip between the temple and the combini through nothing but trees and rice paddies and still, thick summer air. Tanuma’s a decent guy. Quiet, thoughtful. And, as he’d made very clear within two minutes of Katsumi meeting him, fiercely loyal.

All good traits, really. But carrying a completely meaningless conversation with someone he honestly doesn’t know all that well doesn’t seem to be within his skill set. And that’s fine, it’s whatever.

It’s just that Katsumi’s starting to feel like a jackass when he’s the only one who’s talking.

School’s been out less than a week, and for some godforsaken reason he’s been talked into coming all the way out to Hitoyoshi by the group chat he’d been added to months ago, for some other godforsaken reason. The conversation had turned to potential vacation plans—the seaside, or a theme park. And it’s not like Katsumi would’ve said no; he’s got a whole month to fill here. But when Tanuma had either hedged or failed to respond altogether, the others had gotten it out of him pretty quickly that the better part of the month both before and after Obon would be full up with temple preparation and events. Apparently, even back when the temple had still stood vacant, some of the locals who had ancestors’ graves out in the crumbling cemetery there would still come out to tidy up as best they could and leave behind their flowers and incense and prayers. This is the second Obon since the temple had reopened, and not only were more visitors expected, but they’d need to be able to properly host them and provide an adequate place of worship.

From just that couple of messages, the others seemed to work out in short order just how overwhelmed he was. Which was news to Katsumi; sure, the guy wasn’t much of a texter, or talker, for that matter—but the messages had just seemed brief, concise, and apologetic.

But when they all show up on the temple doorstep a week later and Katsumi sees the way Tanuma’s shoulders sag with sheer relief, he knows the others were right.

Thus began a multi-day frenzy of scrubbing wood floors, polishing every metal surface within an inch of its life, weeding, dusting, and near-vicious refusals of Tanuma’s father’s offers to compensate them for their efforts. Katsumi certainly wasn’t against the concept of getting paid for busting his ass like this all day, but the man was drowning in paperwork and nonstop phone calls and visitations on top of whatever else it is that priests do all day, so he’d let it drop.

“He really does just radiate that dutiful son energy, huh,” Katsumi says to Kitamoto one day, leaning on a rake and blinking the sweat out of his eyes in the brutal 2PM heat, watching Tanuma pause to tug a crooked, bright red knit cap back into its place on the head of a tiny Jizo statue with endless care. He didn’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds kind of dickish coming out of his mouth anyhow. “Just looking at him is making me tired.”

Kitamoto hums. “That’s part of it,” he says, at length. “But this is his home, too.”

***

Katsumi feels sort of bad that Tanuma has to make this annoyingly long walk just because he himself doesn’t know how to get to the nearest Lawson. He’d lost a fierce, best-of-ten coin flip battle with Nishimura over whose turn it was to pick up snacks. It’s not that it’s a nightmarish distance away considering they’re on the bare outskirts of town, it’s just the late afternoon sun beating down on them that makes him ready to commit homicide. And most of the way there between the wooded temple grounds and the main residential area is along a dusty gravel road between sunken rice fields, riddled with potholes and not especially worth it to navigate with a bike.

And Lawson isn’t even good.

Precisely none of this is Tanuma’s fault. This is an objective fact that he, of course, knows.

But they’ve only just left the store, and Katsumi ran out of random topics to fill up the stagnant air about ten minutes ago. The best he’s got at the moment, short of intermittent bitching about the heat, is his completely unfounded opinion of some new game he’d seen an ad for at the register which he never intends to play.

And Tanuma doesn’t look especially anxious, or at least not like he’s here under duress or anything—he was the one who volunteered to show Katsumi the way— but he doesn’t look especially comfortable, either. He’s already fished a bottle of tea out of the shopping bag, fiddling with the wrapper between sips and watching the dusty gravel crunch beneath their shoes. His responses aren’t rude, just a little off key, a subdued smattering of ‘oh’s and ‘hm’s and ‘I see’s that don’t always quite sync up with Katsumi’s words, a second too late or too early.

Maybe it’s the truly ridiculous heat that’s getting to the guy. But he’s drinking his tea, and he’s wearing the same old wet towel he’s had slung around his neck all week, ojiisan style. He’d just re-soaked it again in the little sink outside the combini bathroom. It’s funny, Katsumi thinks, that Tanuma’s such a painfully self-conscious person, but then there’s these odd little things here and there that it doesn’t even seem to occur to him to be self-conscious about at all. He didn’t get out much as a kid, from what Katsumi’s heard. It’d be almost endearing if Katsumi was in any sort of mood to be endeared. As it stands it’s too fucking hot out here and now he kind of wants a stupid neck towel too.

Katsumi doesn’t want to make shit awkward, not when he’s staying in his house. But why had it been somehow easier to talk to Tanuma when they were being chased around some hell-mansion about to be murdered by some ghost-doll-things.

He’s not gonna take it personally. Even with his actual friends, where he seems most at ease, Katsumi’s seen him get fidgety, fingers worrying at a fraying shirt hem or drumming on his knee like he doesn’t always quite know how to physically handle too many eyes on him at once, or so many voices in the room. And more often than not, if one of the others picks up on this, he’s seen them seamlessly take the volume down a notch, give him some room to breathe, a little radius of calm. As though his comfort level is some sort of sixth sense for them all.

And Katsumi’s starting to wonder if running his mouth so that Tanuma wouldn’t have to was really the best course of action here. Maybe silence, comfortable or otherwise, would’ve spared them both.

Hell, too late now.

“…and it’s only available on the newest consoles, because of course it is, and even though Sakatani managed to get his hands on a copy and says he’ll let me play, apparently the graphics are kind of ass, so—uh. You good over there?”

Tanuma’s pinching the bridge of his nose, mouth twisting a little and pace falling a half-step behind Katsumi. He doesn’t really answer, just gives an absent diplomatic little hum like he has done for most of the conversation.

Katsumi stops walking.

“Hey.”

And Tanuma honest-to-god almost shuffles right past him, reaching up to rub at his temple now. He only stops when Katsumi snags the strap of the little freezer bag that he’d brought in a thoughtful yet desperate bid to keep the drinks cold and the tops of Nishimura’s chocorooms from all melting together inside the box. Tanuma blinks hard, like all the dust in the air has gunked up in his eyes.

Katsumi frowns. “Your head hurts?”

Tanuma just blinks again, nods once. The look on his face is strange. Vague, kind of.

Katsumi swears under his breath. “Hey,” he says again, louder, when Tanuma’s gaze slides away and out of focus. He grabs his shoulder, shakes him just enough to get his hazy attention back.

“Is this some youkai thing?” He tries to make the words slow and clear. “’Cause if we need to run…” Their chances wouldn’t be stellar, probably, out in the very-wide-open with no visible houses or people that Katsumi can see, but if they booked it they might make it back to the temple in 20 minutes. Barring being gutted in a rice paddy by invisible monsters.

Tanuma frowns, like he’s trying to grasp at the edges of his focus. “I don’t…”

“You don’t know? Or you don’t think so?” If there were time, Katsumi would feel like an ass for getting in his face and snapping at him. But he can feel Tanuma listing forward where he’s still gripping his shoulder, and he puts another hand under his elbow to steady him. “Should I call someone?”

Blink, blink. Apparently, that was too many questions at once. “…hot,” is what Tanuma finally settles on, in a small voice. Then his knees buckle.

Fuck.

Katsumi just barely manages to keep Tanuma from a total faceplant. He’s not so heavy, but it’s so abrupt that trying to catch him sends Katsumi falling back hard onto his own ass as Tanuma’s knees hit the ground.

Katsumi yelped as they went down, but Tanuma hasn’t made a sound. They’re both on their knees. Katsumi’s got him by the shoulders, and his head’s lolling forward, bumping into Katsumi’s chest.

And, shit. He was not lying. Katsumi can feel the heat rolling off him. He manages to maneuver a hand up to the side of his neck, and very nearly yanks it away, hissing through his teeth.

“Right, so,” he mutters. “Probably not youkai shit, then.”

Probably not doesn’t mean definitely not, though, and even as he’s trying to lower Tanuma fully onto the parched ground, curled onto his side, Katsumi’s fishing out his phone.

One bar. He’ll take it.

He hesitates for a second, torn between dialing Natsume, firing off a group message, or just calling an ambulance. He settles on the first—Natsume’s got the fastest mode of transport, which also happens to be an apparently giant and terrifying monster, if Sensei’s own words are to be believed, so that’s two birds one stone.

He hits Natsume’s name, fingers shaking.

And, dead air. Not even a dial tone.

He swears, checks the screen. Zero bars. A stupid little red x where the bars ought to be.

Goddamn backwoods towns and their goddamn backwoods reception.

“Hey.” He lays a hand on Tanuma’s shoulder. Katsumi can’t see his face, but his breaths are coming short and harsh. “I’m gonna borrow your phone.”

Less than one minute later and he’s given it up. Tanuma’s got the same network carrier, and an older phone to boot. It’s like there’s some fucked-up barricade made of yellowing rice fields, choking air and far-off cicada screeches between themselves and outside human contact.

Well then.

Tanuma’s eyes are open now. Not a lot, but that’s got to be better than passed out. Katsumi manages to work an arm under his shoulders, get his opposite hand under his head and neck. “Let’s get some tea in you,” he says, because he’s not sure what the fuck else to do. He can feel a pulse that’s far too quick thrumming under his fingertips, can see the intense splotchy flush across his cheeks that seems to have crept up out of nowhere. Tanuma doesn’t answer him, just scrunches up his eyes against the direct sun on his face, makes a small pained noise that makes Katsumi feel ill.

Making him drink turns out to be less than an inspired plan. He doesn’t seem to register the tea at first, letting it dribble down his chin, but then after a few slow gulps, he gags. And then proceeds to be sick, all over Katsumi.

“Eh. Didn’t like this shirt, anyways,” Katsumi tells him, hoping to exude literally any emotion other than pure terror, and barely managing to turn Tanuma’s face away in time before he gags again.

By the time he finishes, there’s tears in his eyes, and his breaths are coming ragged and loud. He doesn’t seem to notice that Katsumi’s dug through the combini bag, sliding the 2 liter of mugicha under his head and neck like a pillow, and tucked the bottle of Calpis that Taki had asked for underneath his armpit. The rest of Tanuma’s own bottle he upends over his neck and chest, soaking his towel and the top of his shirt. That, at least, elicits a reaction, a faint confused “hm” that would be perfectly reasonable for anyone whose friend has just drenched them in a bottle of jasmine tea.

It makes Katsumi smile, just a bit. “Gotta cool you down. Sorry.” He’s got no idea if it’s the correct thing to do; he’s based the entire tactic on some random lackluster TV drama he’d seen years ago, where some captain of a school track team overheated during a practice, and her teammates tried to care for her on the field while someone fetched a teacher.

At the very least, it didn’t seem to be hurting. His eyes are open wider now, marginally less clouded over. Katsumi’s positioned him on his side again in case of more puking, his cheek squashed against the tea bottle, and he seems to be focused on some spot on the gravel past Katsumi. He looks like he wants to say something, mouth forming around the shape of words, but nothing comes out.

Katsumi turns. There, lying maybe a half meter away on the ground, is something small and rectangular. Some kind of talisman, Katsumi thinks; it’s made of thin pale wood and covered in some inked-in kanji and symbols he can’t make out. He doesn’t touch it, at first. “This is yours?”

Tanuma nods, just a little, then screws his eyes shut like his head is protesting the movement. But by his side his fingers twitch vaguely in Katsumi’s direction. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket when Katsumi was getting his phone. Katsumi scoops it up and places it in his palm, and Tanuma’s fingers close immediately around it.

He digs his own phone out again, an exercise in futility, and dials 119, resisting the urge to chuck it into the field as the call refuses to connect. It’s not like he couldn’t half-drag, half-carry Tanuma back towards the nearest house if he really needed to, but god knows how long it’d take, and even with his net zero medical expertise it seems like a bad idea to be moving him from this spot unless it’s on a stretcher, or on the back of a giant invisible wolf monster.

Tanuma’s staring at nothing at all again, his knuckles white from gripping the talisman. Katsumi frowns, grabs Tanuma’s wrist.

“You’re gonna break it. The wood’s pretty thin.”

Tanuma, predictably, ignores him. Even as weak as he is, with his thumb digging into the center of the thing, he’s likely to snap it in half.

But he doesn’t, or can’t, resist when Katsumi takes it from him. “Let’s keep this in one piece, huh. We need all the damned luck the gods want to chuck our way right now.” He’s about to slide it safely back into Tanuma’s pocket when he pauses, glancing down at the talisman.

“You’re sure nothing’s about to pop out and eat us, right?”

But Tanuma’s eyes have fallen shut again. He doesn’t seem to have passed out; he’s still gasping like he’s run a marathon.

“Right. Gonna take that as a yes.” He finishes tucking the talisman away, then slides his hand up under Tanuma’s fringe. He frowns. The intense heat, he was expecting. What he was not expecting was the desert-dryness of his skin. Katsumi’s own hair’s been plastered grossly to his forehead all week long, only to poke up and frizz at odd angles throughout the day. He hadn’t noticed earlier because of the damp towel and the tea-soaked shirt, but Tanuma’s not sweating.

He swallows back panic. God knows how he’s got any more panic to spare, really. “Look,” he says, not expecting an answer. “Nobody’s coming, because apparently nobody in this entire fucking town uses this road except us, so I’m gonna get help.” He blows out a breath. “I think we passed a pay phone. Ten minutes ago? Maybe less. I’ll make it five. If you get eaten by monsters while I’m gone and I ran in this weather for nothing I am gonna be pretty damn irritated.”

***

The only coffee the vending machines have, at least on this floor, is some dismal off-brand that only comes black. But Katsumi resolutely ignores the acid roiling in his stomach when Kitamoto passes him one and pops the tab. It’s something to do. Chug coffee, scroll his phone. Rinse, repeat. At least it’s cold.

“Hey.”

Something lands in his lap. A squashed-looking cinnamon roll, another vending-machine offering.

“Eat that too or you’ll puke again, probably,” Nishimura tells him.

Katsumi has to bite back the reflexive dickish retort. Nishimura looks just about as shit as Katsumi feels, but he’s still got it in him to be kind. Katsumi’s got nothing in him but raw nerves and stomach acid, at this point.

“Right,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

There’s not even a good reason anymore for the weird shitty haze over his brain. When Tanuma’s dad had called, just before three AM and only two-ish hours after they’d been forced to leave the hospital last night, the news had been good. He was awake, talking a little, and the fever definitely wasn’t gone but the numbers were creeping back downwards. They’d need a few days, at least, to run some barrage of tests and keep an eye out for lasting damage. Tanuma’s dad had been judiciously vague about just what kind of damage, but the half dozen browser pages on heatstroke currently open on Katsumi’s phone had given him a pretty grim idea.

The Fujiwaras’ house had been closest to the hospital, so they’d spent the remainder of the previous night all sleepless and huddled together on the floor of Natsume’s room. Katsumi hadn’t even put up a fight when they’d dragged his futon into the very center of the room between Kitamoto’s and Natsume’s, when Nishimura had idly flopped his own legs over Katsumi’s, or when Taki pulled up some aggressively cheerful magical girl anime on Natsume’s laptop to fill the dead air. When Sensei had tucked himself in by Katsumi’s hip and gone to sleep. When Touko-san had patted his arm, after their very late dinner, her eyes so gentle it hurt. He’d felt liminal, then, like he’d take off and run if he could just escape his own skin, but at least with the others all squashed up against him he could remember to breathe.

It's past 10 in the morning now. Visiting hours had started at 9, and they’d all piled on the first scheduled bus towards the hospital this morning and arrived before 8, anyhow. They had, of course, not been allowed to step foot out the door without a bag loaded up with bento lunches and a firm promise to Touko-san they’d be back by late afternoon when visiting hours had concluded to get some rest. Though she’d been saying something about “getting some things ready” to bring over herself for Tanuma and his dad, and based on the look on her face when she’d said it Katsumi’s half expecting her to march through the waiting room doors in the next hour or two like a woman on a mission with half the contents of the closest supermarket and drugstore loaded up in her arms. The thought makes his chest feel tight.

But they’d shown up just in time to be informed that Tanuma had an MRI among other things scheduled that morning, and that no, they did not know how long it would take.

Across from Katsumi, Natsume’s dozed off, despite his own best coffee-fueled efforts. He’s slumped sideways onto Taki, lank-haired and restless, flicking through an old magazine with disinterest as her heel bounces on the scuffed linoleum. Sensei’s perched across both their laps, still absurdly half-stuffed into the duffel bag in which they’d smuggled him through the hospital doors, which seems pretty pointless to Katsumi if he’s just going to sit there with his entire head sticking out at this point. But he seems entirely unbothered, his eyes closed; maybe asleep, maybe not. But they’re the only ones tucked over in this little alcove of a waiting room, and damn if not a soul has interrupted them for a good two hours.

It’s probably for the best that Natsume’s getting some sleep, really. He hadn’t gotten any more than Katsumi had; Katsumi had heard his muffled hitched breaths last night when they were all pretending to sleep. Out of all of them, he’s said the least this whole time.

“You can stop looking at him like that.”

Taki’s voice is frank, but not unkind.

Katsumi could not be less in the mood for whatever the hell kind of conversation this is about to be. “Like what,” he replies anyhow.

“Like you broke his best friend,” Nishimura says, lowly, before letting out a slight oof like he’s been elbowed in the ribs.

Damn. Alright then.

None of them seem to be holding their breath for him to respond, at least. They don’t seem to know what to say, either, really. He’s weighing the pros and cons of just fleeing to the bathroom when Kitamoto finally says, “Natsume knows better than anyone that this isn’t on you.”

“Why?” Katsumi feels his gut give a little lurch. “Was it some kind of youkai shit after all, then?”

Taki shakes her head. “I mean, you’ll have to ask him, but. Sensei did go and check the area out last night and ask around and everything, and it all seemed normal.”

Sensei remains silent, naturally, but his ear flicks in Taki’s direction.

Kitamoto’s mouth twists. “What I meant was, just keeling over in random places with no warning or explanation is like. A hobby of Natsume’s.”

“We love it,” Nishimura mutters. “It’s great.”

Sensei huffs.

Katsumi glances at Natsume, still slack and dead to the world on Taki’s shoulder. And okay, maybe he kind of still looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over. But much less so than when they were kids. Less so even than the first time Katsumi had come to this town. “How many times constitutes a hobby?”

And Nishimura frowns, then honest-to-god starts counting on his fingers.

Taki watches him, mouth twisting like she’s considering it. “I guess it depends what counts as keeling over. Or what constitutes a warning.

“Enough times,” Kitamoto says, decisively.

Nishimura scuffs his toe on the floor. “And with me and Acchan, he’d just be lying through his teeth about it, for months, because he didn’t think he could—“

Could what, Katsumi wonders, but Nishimura never finishes the thought. Kitamoto bumps their shoulders together Nishimura huffs, apparently relinquishing the rant building inside him, but Katsumi thinks the look on his face, the tightness in his eyes, is just this side of grief.

“Anyways,” Nishimura says, after an uncomfortable beat, sounding only slightly more subdued. “Even if you don’t wanna hear it, you’re the Big Damn Hero in this situation. No ifs-ands-or-buts, okay. We all know it. Natsume knows it.” Taki nods, flint-eyed like she’s daring him to argue.

“You can’t predict this stuff,” Kitamoto adds, after a moment, his expression hard to parse. “With anyone. And you’ll just make yourself crazy thinking you can.”

“Okay,” is all Katsumi can think of to say. It sounds dismissive, probably, but it’s all he’s got right now. He watches Natsume scrunch up his nose in his sleep. The council hath spoken, and he is too goddamned tired to refute them.

tbc

#natsume yuujinchou #natsume yuujinchou fanfic #natsume yuujinchou fanfiction #natsume's book of friends #tanuma kaname #shibata katsumi #natsume takashi #nishimura satoru #kitamoto atsushi #taki tooru #goodlucktai #otherwise known as shibata katsumi’s crash course in maneuvering uncomfortable friendships and also medical emergencies #found fambly #did I disappear for like 3 years? yes. Will it happen again? Who's to say #this one fully took me a year but at least it's fully completed and I don't have to think about it anymore #incidentally just in time for obon because I was put on bedrest for pneumonia and somehow had both the time and the motivation #owlet's fanfic

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inquisitornocturn · 9 months ago

Text

⊱─ 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤 & 𝕡𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞𝕤 - 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟙 ─⊰

➺ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Cazador Szarr/f!reader the dhampir/spawn!Astarion

➺ 𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: no y/n is used, rating - E, dead dove do not eat, incest (father/daughter), POV second person, grooming, smut, loss of virginity (in a memory), light bondage, praise kink, fingering, vaginal fingering, spanking, semi-public sex, PiV, vampiric bites, asphyxiation, biting, creampies, threatening, Astarion is very pissed in chapter 1, canon-typical violence, hair pulling, throat fucking, cock worship, cum swallowing

➺ 𝕡𝕝𝕠𝕥 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: You think you have everything you want, a loving father, one of his spawn to entertain you and protection of a vampire coven, but a master and his spawn have you caught in a middle, their jealousy, desire for control and possessiveness influencing their actions. Yet you don't want to be a doll pulled by strings, you want to be the Lady of the House, Lady Szarr, respected just like your father, Cazador, is. But that might not be what Cazador himself has planned for you, and maybe not what Astarion has in mind either. Can you stand against them - only time will tell.

➺ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 7,506

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: some months ago, on my old tumblr account, people wanted more to shades & shadows, and with encouragement (and people enabling me lol) i have promised to write it. well, here it is at long last! i am quite proud of this one and it took me a while to figure out in what direction i wanted to take these three chapters, but i'm glad to finally share this as it is all done and dusted, in the manner of speaking. the dove is so dead it's just bones, guys, so buckle up and, as always, enjoy♡~

➺ 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥: [link] | [on AO3] |

You stand by the sarcophagus of Donnela the Architect. You know she’s your great great aunt or something along those lines, but you feel nothing when you gaze upon the flat surface of the tomb. It doesn’t even bear her image, it’s just a smooth slab of stone that is meant to represent the vampire that once was. You never asked your father if her body is there, or well, anything that can remain after a vampire is destroyed.

Yes, you remind yourself, you’re all monsters, yourself included. You don’t get to be murdered, you are destroyed. And you stand here, wondering what happened to this woman that was taken out of this life many years before you were even born and you are left with solemn questions. Your father does not speak about Donnela, he doesn’t speak about Vellioth either. Whoever came before Cazador Szarr are being erased from the history of your family. You only know their names because you found a list of previous Vampire Masters stashed away in some crook within the palace walls. You don’t even know who wrote the list or if it’s reliable at all, but you remember the skull in the room where your father took your virginity, in the dungeons beneath the mansion, you remember the scroll, clamped within the fanged jaw of someone who was alive once.

Who was it – you do not know, but they seemed of great importance to Cazador, considering he placed the skull in such honored spot, on a cushion, as if to prevent it from crumbling apart. But rest of the memories are blurred by flashes of pain and then pleasure. Your father’s whispered words of praise, his sweaty body moving on top of you. You were smaller back then, shorter, slimmer. You felt so tiny under Cazador’s towering form as he took you three times that night, leaving you sore, but a woman at last. His daughter, his bride.

You press your lips into a thin line at these memories, your arousal stirs in the center of your body and you try not to remember that night, try not to indulge yourself in the memory of your father loving you so tenderly, so protectively. He touched you in a way one touches a wounded bird – with so much care, you have never forgotten it. You exhale with a blush, unable to stop your mind from washing over you with beautiful memories and the sarcophagus in front of you fades from your focus as you relive the touches and grazes of his fingertips, when you heard Cazador’s whispers against your ear promising eternity together, just you and him. How he filled your virgin body with his length and how he inhaled when he smelled blood the moment he took what was rightfully his. Your sigh is strained and you snap out of your thoughts when you begin feeling wetness between your thighs, soaking your underwear.

“Ah.” You exclaim and resist the urge to lift your skirts and inspect it with your fingers, you know already that you got aroused. Right in front of this tomb.

“What are you doing here, daughter?” Cazador’s voice makes you flinch because you didn’t even hear him approach and with a loud swish of your dress you turn to face a man who you love so deeply it makes your very soul ache.

“Father.” You bow your head to him and the Vampire Lord walks closer. He stops in front of you for a moment, then walks past and places a hand on the sarcophagus.

When you look at him you see him gazing down on it with an expression you can’t quite read but that looks close to reminiscence. The Szarr family ring on his finger seems to glint in the moonlight that’s coming through the trees but you’re not sure if it isn’t your mind just tricking you, adding to the beautiful live portrait of your father that you’re observing. He doesn’t come here often, to the family graves sequestered in the far corner of the garden and hidden under the trees. Just as he doesn’t speak about the Vampire Masters before him, so does Cazador avoid this part of his domain.

“You haven’t answered me.” Your father says and his eyes flick to you, making you freeze in spot for a moment, scared that he might get angry at you for being here. Your mind reels, trying to find an answer that would satisfy him.

“I come here to think, to escape the busyness of the palace if it gets too much.” You try to sound calm and not to start stammering, but your throat clenches at Cazador’s bloodstained icy glare that seems to look into your very soul.

“Is that so?” He asks silently and offers you his hand while still resting the other on the lid of the sarcophagus. “Come, my daughter.”

You take his hand without hesitation because if you hesitated – he would notice and he would punish you for it. You were always meant to do everything he tells you to, no matter what is it. But for now Cazador does not seem to be in one of his foul moods, so you let him pull you closer without fear. He holds your hand and taps the sarcophagus lid with the other, drawing your eyes to the action.

“Do you know who’s supposed to be here?” Vampire Lord asks and you pause, again trying to think of an appropriate answer, yet the cooling wetness between your legs is distracting you. Your desire may have passed but remnants of it still linger, making you want to rush this conversation and change your underwear.

“Is it Donnela?” You ask and you know there’s no point lying because he will catch you in your deceit. And you don’t want to experience what happens if he catches you lying, it happened once before and you ended up being suspended in ropes for a week while-

“You are correct.” Cazador’s voice interrupts the horrific memory and you raise your eyes to him looking up, and feeling so small in front of him once more. Previous memories, of your first night together, return, and you feel passion stir in you once again. This face that you love, this face that looks so beautiful when he’s panting while on top of you with his cock stroking your inner walls, you try to focus but it’s hard. Your dearest father, all yours.

“Why she doesn’t have her name carved?” You ask, doing your best to focus on anything else but your cunt that is becoming wetter once again.

“She doesn’t deserve it.” Cazador’s fingers absentmindedly lace with yours and he holds your hand firmly, but without pain. He looks down at the sarcophagus and frowns. “Some should never be remembered once they perish, my child.” With fingertips of his other hand he traces the stone, feeling notches and tiny crevices on the surface. It looks like your father has something on his mind.

His features look calm, almost tinged with a hint of nostalgia and you have a fleeting thought that this is a perfect chance to ask about Donnella, to ask about Vellioth, to perhaps at last learn a bit more about those who came before you, but before you can make up your mind if you should dare to speak the questions, Cazador’s gaze turns to you and his fingers leave the tomb lid, raising to your face. When you look down you see the Szarr crest ring clearly before your eyes as if he’s showing it to you.

“You will have one of your own soon enough.” Vampire Lord says while watching your expression with a small but proud smile on his face. “And when you do, my dear daughter, you will stand by my side instead of being hidden away like a precious jewel that you are.” He squeezes your fingers with his, subtly reminding you that everything he does is for you and you take his other hand with yours, holding it as if you’re a squire to a king, then lean your head kissing the ring, feeling cold metal and the edge of the gem under your lips. “You’re perfect.” Cazador whispers as he pulls his hand from your fingers and your lips, then cups the side of your face, the coldness of his touch makes you feel safe.

You raise your eyes to his and find him looking at you with smirk. The sharp edge always remains in his eyes, that cruel threat of horrors to come if you upset him, but right now he looks almost gentle as he gazes down on you. Horrible and beautiful. Breath catches in your throat and your eyes widen with adoration.

“You’re mine, aren’t you, dear?” Cazador asks in a quiet voice and his fingers work to caress your warm skin. You lean into it and smile softly, he can see the love you carry for him in your eyes. Despite allowing one of his wretched spawn to entertain you, Cazador knows that you belong to him and always will. Still, he likes seeing it in your eyes, in your face, to hear it in your words, to feel it in your body when he’s fucking you. Everything about you belongs to him.

“Of course, dad.” You smile and Cazador’s fingers slip from your cheek to your chin, gripping it and tilting your head higher, then he bends over you, pressing his lips against yours.

“You’re mine and will be mine, forever.” He whispers against your lips and you barely manage to stop a mewl escaping your mouth. The stirrings of your lust increase and you squeeze his fingers tighter. He knows what he’s doing to you and you’re sure he’s doing it on purpose. He trained you so well to be truly his and you never fail him.

Cazador’s lips press against yours once more and his fingers leave your chin before his palm rests against the small of your back and draws your body against his. With free hand you reach up and press your warm palm against his neck as you kiss him back. When his tongue nudges against your lips you part them, letting him in, and moan into the kiss, letting it wash away all the worries or questions you might’ve happened just moments ago. Your father’s tongue grazes over your fangs, a constant reminder of his legacy, and you feel him grip your fingers tighter.

You open your eyes when you feel father pulling away from the kiss and your eyes meet his. You’re gently panting, filled with need, your panties soak it all up and it’s as if he knows. He always does know.

“Even here you’re so ready for me, aren’t you? I can smell your arousal, my dear.” Cazador comments, making you blush despite wanting nothing more than to be filled by his cock until you can’t speak anymore. There’s no other man that fucks you the way he does, he knows all the tricks and games of your body, everything that there is to know about you, and he uses that knowledge against you in most beautiful, merciless ways.

“We could return to our chambers.” You suggest carefully and he lifts an eyebrow at you, feigning surprise.

“Turn around.” Cazador’s voice is a command and you pause, processing it, then let go of both his neck and his hand before you turn around. Your sopping cunt makes movement uncomfortable but you don’t betray it, just clench your fists into your skirts with anticipation. Next moment you feel your father’s hands on your waist, then on your stomach, sliding down your hips. “Lift them up, dear.” He whispers against your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. You begin lifting the skirts of your dress until they are all bunched up against your stomach and chest.

Cazador’s hands leave your hips and you watch him caress your thighs before he grips at them and moves you to face the sarcophagus. Your face flushes and you swallow hard, wondering what he has in mind yet when his fingers grip at your panties and begin moving them down your legs you know exactly what he has in mind – to take you here, on top of this tomb. Whether his reason is to defile the resting place of Donnela or just because he simply wants to fuck you – you don’t know neither do you care. You just bite on your lower lip and step out of your underwear when Cazador moves the garment down to your ankles. For a moment you stand still but then gasp when you feel his face press between your thighs from the back and inhale deeply through the fabric of your dress making you squirm slightly, blushing even harder.

“You smell so sweet, my daughter.” The Vampire Lord mutters against the skirts and you nearly break the skin of your bottom lip from how hard you’re biting on it. Your desire to have him immediately is palpable.

Yet your father seems to have half a mind to torture you in the sweetest way possible – by taking it slow. You sense him moving his face away and hear him stand up once more.

“Your hands behind you.” He commands and you pause, not sure if you should let go of your bunched up dress but decide that you should, then you move your hands behind you. A second later Cazador is tying your wrists together and from weird wet feeling on your skin you know he’s using your soaked panties to do that. “Leg up.” Vampire instructs and you inhale sharply, then lift one leg, resting your foot on the edge of the sarcophagus. “Such a good, obedient girl.” Cazador comments with a grin you can hear in his voice and you open your mouth to respond but a sudden grip on your throat makes you pause. He’s not squeezing to cut off your airflow but it’s a firm, commanding grip nonetheless.

Your father presses himself against your back and makes you lean your head back against his chest while he moves one hand, pulling your dress up again. Cold air of the night caressed your pussy that’s pulsating with need and warm blood. And Cazador is not unaware. When his long fingers begin caressing your plump from arousal folds, he exhales with satisfaction.

“You’re perfect.” He hums while his fingers play with your cunt, spreading your folds widely and letting your arousal begin to drip down your leg unobstructed.

You shiver and mewl at his touch, trying not to move your hips against his fingers, because you know you will be punished if you don’t remain still, as always, but it’s extremely hard to obey tonight. You’ve been wanting for your father even before he showed up at the cemetery part of the garden and now it’s near impossible when his fingertips are grazing your entrance and then moving onto your clit.

“You’re so wet for me.” Cazador comments with a tone that betrays his pride, he’s always proud when you’re easy for him. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” You nod before he even finishes his question and that makes him chuckle. “So so eager, my darling daughter. I guess that spawn of mine is incapable of doing even as little as keeping my precious girl satisfied sufficiently. Or is it that you truly don’t want any other man other than me, hm?” Cazador taunts and you lick your lips slowly, your eyelids become heavy because while he speaks he rubs lazy circles on your swollen clit, making you whimper and your propped leg tremble.

Yet you wonder if this is the right place to be touched like this, taken like this, it feels almost sinful. You feel like you can almost sense Donnela’s eyes on you, piercing through the stone lid of her tomb. And this split moment of doubt, a second of mild discomfort doesn’t go unnoticed by Cazador. His fingers do not pause but you feel his lips against your ear and his grip around your throat tightens.

“What is it, my dear?” He whispers and you swallow dryly.

“Dad… should we be doing this here?” You dare to speak but Cazador doesn’t seem phased by your question nor does it seem to upset him.

“Yes, I’m doing this here.” Your father replies in his most casual manner and you gasp because he pushes a finger into your cunt, making your body shiver in response. “Do you think I’m scared of ghosts?” He asks as he pushes another finger in then begins pumping them slowly, drawing out the sensation of your hot flesh suffocating his digits.

You moan and shake your head slightly, knowing that you wouldn’t have a say in this in the first place. You hear your body make squelching sounds as Cazador fucks you with his fingers and you whine louder now, your body slowly but steadily beginning to prepare for the orgasm, sending shivers down your spine and making your cunt occasionally clench around your father’s fingers. Cazador knows this and he pulls them out of you, then without a warning he thrusts them into your open mouth, making you gasp around his fingers. Yet you don’t protest, you move your tongue, lapping up your own arousal and hear him chuckle against your ear, a low rumble that you feel against your back too.

“Not yet, my dear, you will get yours, but only after I get mine.” His teeth nip at your ear and you whine with despair, your body craving for release.

Then he removes his fingers from your mouth and with a firm grip on your thigh he lowers your leg, pushing you forwards and bending you over the sarcophagus, his grip on your neck vanishing with your repositioning. Your right cheek presses against the cold stone and you feel your father lift your skirts, pilling them up on your back.

Smack.

You flinch when his palm connects with the skin of your ass and you moan again. You wring your arms but the improvised bonds made from your panties hold tight, Cazador, after all, is well versed in subduing his prey and right now – that’s you.

“Tell me you want me.” He demands, his words hard and cold, and you whine when you feel his thumb circle your back entrance and push against it gently, not quite breaching it but putting enough pressure as if he has half a mind to do so.

“I want you dad.” You reply in a hurry and resist the urge to rub your thighs together, impatient and eager to feel him inside of you, no matter the hole he chooses.

“Oh how I like hearing that, my dear.” Cazador chuckles and his hand leaves you, letting your stinging skin cool in the night’s air. “I met Donnela once, you know.” He proceeds to speak while you remain still, your mind barely registering what he’s talking about. All you hear is the sound of fabric being handled as he undoes his pants. “She was a woman of grace but she was weak.”

A palm returns to your rear and he rubs the cheek that he smacked before, you feel the tip of his cock aligning himself to your entrance and you wait patiently, saying nothing. Your cunt aches to be filled, your folds are drenched with your arousal and Cazador seems to be teasing the juices with his length.

“You won’t be weak, will you?” He asks in a voice that’s more curious than demanding and you slightly shake your head. It’s taking everything in you not to move, not to buck your hips against his dick in hopes to be pierced by it. Your body is screaming with desire and you nearly salivate at the thought of him claiming you. Yes, he trained you well. “No, of course you won’t. You’re incapable of being weak.” Cazador chuckles and begins to slide his cock in, slowly, savoring every inch. It makes you moan with despair, because you want him fast and hard yet he’s still torturing you in his own, caring way.

You want to beg but you know better than that so you just wait until his length is buried in you fully, coldness of it nearly making your eyes roll to the back of your head and you exhale with relief. Even when he’s torturing you like this, Cazador never keeps it up for long once his dick is inside you. For a moment he just keeps himself unmoving, enjoying the squeezing heat around his cock but then his fingers grip your hip and he begins thrusting. Slowly, almost carefully, taking himself nearly all the way out and sliding back in with ease.

“You’re such a wonderful creature.” Cazador muses and with a corner of your eye you see him watching his dick disappear in you and then come out again, and then disappear again. Your body reacts with a tremble but he doesn’t address it, seemingly lost in thought. “If only you knew how important you are.”

“I know dad, I know.” You whine, hoping that it will urge him and it seems to work as the Vampire Lord snaps out of his thoughts and shoves his cock deep before leaning over you.

You don’t know what to expect but when you feel one of his arms slide under your stomach in a possessive embrace and his other hand find your throat once more, all while he presses his chest against your back, pinning you to the sarcophagus you realize just how much he wants you right now. A second of movement and his left knee is now on the sarcophagus, giving him proper angle to begin thrusting once more.

His grip on your body makes you incapable of moving even the tiniest bit so you just close your eyes and let him fuck you, feeling his icy length moving faster and faster. You hear Cazador’s breath becoming labored the longer this continues and you feel his tongue against the back of your neck, tasting you. You hear his subdued groans and sounds of his skin slapping against yours with every thrust, the most beautiful symphony. You begin feeling yourself come close, the perch of your father’s knee on the sarcophagus giving him the ability to really use his power to slam into you with as much force as he wants to. And in a few wonderful moments he wants to give you it all.

You moan and tremble, subdued by his hands that are like a straight-jacket and your head swims from pleasure, there’s no thoughts, just your Vampire Lord and you on this tomb, loving each other in a way only a father and a daughter can. At least to you - this is perfect, complete expression of love, and you let yourself sink into the feeling, allowing it to wash over you and take all your worries away. It’s you and him and it will be so forever.

Lost in your extasy you don’t notice a presence approaching, neither does your father. He fully expected to you have you all to himself in this lonesome corner of the garden and he’s completely lost in his lust for you, fangs now promisingly grazing your skin and you wish he would bite you already. Yet you dare not beg. Szarrs don’t beg, after all.

But the figure stops and watches you two tangled in this twisted expression of love. Astarion is nearly dumbfounded when he sees your face, your parted lips, witnesses your expression that speaks of nothing else but ultimate satisfaction. He hears your moans, sees the sweat on your face and then his eyes turn to his master when he makes you cry out once his fangs sink into your neck. The spawn never seen Cazador like this, his expression filled with sensuality he never imagined seeing on a face of a man who he only knows as cruel.

Astarion realizes he sees something he shouldn’t and nearly moves to walk away, maybe hide, but he can’t, because if his master sensed him approaching he would’ve ordered him away already. So he remains still, trying to turn his eyes away but being unable to, his gaze again focused on you and your moment of utter bliss as you very obviously begin approaching your orgasm. He recognizes it even if he never saw you to be this much into it when you’re with him. Astarion’s hands clench into fists and he frowns, jealous and angry. At you, at Cazador, but most importantly at himself. The only way he even manages to get you obey is when he repeats phrases his master does, when Astarion invokes your father’s name before you to remind you who you truly belong to. Spawn’s teeth grit but he can’t look away so he watches with boiling fury in his chest, not daring to look away but not daring to say anything either.

If only he had the power like Cazador he could have anyone he wanted, including you. But he can’t even have you to want Astarion as much as you want your father, spiritually and carnally. He’s reminded of his own powerless existence and hates it.

Astarion keeps watching as you moan louder and louder, hears how your voice echoes into the night and listens to Cazador groan against your neck, his thrusts becoming erratic and hurried, rushing to grant him release that he craves so badly.

“Say it.” Cazador growls with undisguised lust the moment his fangs leave your neck and you immediately know what he means.

“I’m yours, dad! I’m your good girl!” you whine with a shaky voice, you’re trying to hold on, not to come just yet, you know he likes it when he finishes first, but his body pinning yours against the tomb lid is becoming too heavy, you can barely inhale.

“That’s right.” Cazador hisses and his grip on your throat tightens as his lips push aside the dress and press against your shoulder. “You’re mine, now and forever.” He repeats and you can’t tell if it’s a reminder to you or himself, your mind is too dazed to think, too filled with bliss you’re trying to keep at bay.

Then your father’s teeth clamp onto your shoulder tighter, so tight it’s like he wants to take an actual bite out of you. With that he comes, milking his cock with your clenched walls while you try not to come yourself. But the moment he does you let go and cry out, shouting his name into the night while Cazador squeezes on your throat nearly taking your breath away. Your cunt spasms, pulling out last drops of his seed and he keeps thrusting until he knows that your peak is passing. His hips against your body slow, then stop entirely, and you both remain still for a long moment. You hear Cazador panting against your skin with your shoulder still caught between his teeth and you smile dreamily. You couldn’t be happier.

At last the Vampire Lord releases your flesh from his bite and lifts his head, looking at your sweaty face with pride and something too close to love, but you see none of it, because by the time you open your eyes, Cazador is pushing himself from you, his hands leaving your neck and waist, his perched leg finding footing on the ground, and he pulls out of you carefully, not spilling a single drop of his cum. You gasp when you feel him push in a thumb into your cunt, then move it as if he’s confirming just how fully he filled you and it looks like the conclusion satisfies him because you feel your wrists being unbound from the bondage of your panties.

You bring your wrists to yourself, your arms feel numb and weird, but you still push yourself up from the tomb and look back at Cazador, feeling the skirts of your dress drop around your legs the moment you straighten your back, but now you see that he’s not even looking at you.

When you follow your father’s haughty gaze you recognize the silver curls and the scowl. Astarion. How long he has been standing here? You have no clue. You look at Cazador and see an arrogant grin on his face while he tucks his softening cock back into his pants and makes himself presentable once more.

You find yourself mortified for some reason. Maybe because of how Astarion is glaring at his master. With so much hate that you are sure your father will want to punish it. So when he begins walking, not giving you even a glance, you realize you’re clenching the skirts of your dress so strongly your hands are shaking. You watch Cazador walk to Astarion and lean down to his spawn’s ear, whispering something that you cannot hear. Astarion doesn’t move, his gaze now shifted onto you, and then Cazador pats his shoulder with a wide smirk as he walks off, tall and proud. A conqueror.

When your father’s footsteps fade, you watch Astarion straighten his back, his lips pressed into a thin line but he’s not moving. You swallow dryly and feel your legs move before you consciously demand them to. You briefly notice your panties tossed on the ground but ignore them and walk down the path, knowing you’ll have to pass Astarion. Your breathing stops entirely when you get closer, seeing pure rage in spawn’s eyes but you don’t look at him, you command yourself not to as you try to keep your strolling pace, but when you’re about to think that you’re safe, as you think nothing will happen when you pass the pale elf, you feel your upper arm suddenly being gripped with such force that your knees buckle and you drop down on the hard stone.

You raise your face and see Astarion come into view, his gaze filled with fury when he gazes down upon you, his lips curled into a snarl while he holds your arm so painfully you wince with an unsaid plea to be released, but it looks like he enjoys seeing you kneeling and hurting.

“You see me just as he does, don’t you? A worthless spawn! A slave for you both!” He asks in a voice that’s nearly trembling with fury and you gasp, trying to wrench your arm from his fingers.

“What? Astarion, I have no idea-“ Your own voice is shaking from pain and panic that you’re feeling at witnessing spawn’s rage that you don’t even know why you deserve it.

“SHUT UP!” Astarion bellows and you flinch as if hit.

Your eyes are wide from shock and building terror as your lips quiver, trying to form words that could save you or doom you. But spawn ignores your evident fear and finally releases your arm, now grabbing your jaw as he leans over you, bringing his face close to yours. His nails dig into your skin and you wince but keep looking into his eyes, not daring to guess what’s coming next.

“You will never see me as anything but a slave for the rest of your existence, will you?” Astarion’s voice is low and dangerous and you swallow dryly, remaining silent. Your arm throbs but you can barely feel right now. “Tell me, little dhampir, do you think being allowed to fuck you is enough?” He smirks but there’s venom in his expression, poison that you haven’t seen in him before, something that you now realize has been festering in him for a long long time.

“Astarion, what’s gotten into you?” You manage a silent whisper and he squeezes your jaw so tightly you let out a pained moan, your arms gripping at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away but it’s like trying to move a statue – impossible.

“Nothing’s gotten into me, darling. I’ve just realized that no matter how sweetly you moan for me, you will never be truly mine. Is it because I’m not your father or is it because I’m not powerful enough to kill him?”

Your heart skips a beat from sheer terror.

Kill your father? What is he talking about? He can’t be serious. He’s a spawn, surely he can’t even if he wanted to? And for you? Would Astarion attempt that just to have you all to himself?

“You’re hurting me.” You whine, trying to pry his fingers off your face and with a scoff he releases your jaw.

“You like being taught lessons, don’t you?” Spawn says while you rub your jaw with trembling fingers.

“If you hurt me my father will-“

“I don’t care!” Astarion raises his voice again and you just glare at him from under your eyebrows. Who is he to lay his hands on you? “You will be mine.” Not a promise but a threat while you watch him begin to unlace his pants. “Keep kneeling or I will snap your neck.” Another threat spoken with a tone of voice telling you that he means every word. Your knees hurt already but remain on them, watching how he takes out his semi-flaccid cock and begins stroking it with a smirk blooming on his face. “I love how easily you submit, darling. Some things even Cazador does right.”

“Just because you feel powerless it doesn’t mean you have any right to take it out on me.” You can’t help but respond, your jaw still hurts and so does your arm, and you stare at Astarion with anger instead of fear but he just grins at you. There’s no fondness in those eyes, there rarely is, and you understand only now, realize that for him – you’re a conquest, a symbol of power. To Cazador and Astarion both, it seems that to have you – is to have power.

The thought itself stirs something in your body. A response that is so deeply ingrained in you that you weren’t even aware of it until now – you want to be treated this way. Not with roughness but as a reward for being powerful. Maybe it’s just one more of Cazador’s lessons that you internalized it so deeply until it became a part of you.

“I’m not taking my anger out of you, sweet little dhampir. I’m just remind you that Cazador is not the only one who has claim to your body.” Astarion’s grin is sharp and you notice him growing harder by the second. “Open your mouth.” He commands and you look into his eyes with a scowl.

“If you hurt me-“

He slaps you so hard you see only white for a long moment, the sound of it ringing through your ears and nearly deafening you if only temporarily. Your head swings so strongly to your left that you nearly fall to all fours but somehow remain on your knees. Your anger gets replaced by shock and fear once again as you look at the spawn looming over you.

“I said open your mouth.” Astarion repeats and his voice is full of danger so you just release a shaky breath and open your mouth obediently. His expression softens at your compliance and he even smiles, although it’s a smile of a victor and not of a lover, but has he ever been your lover or just another man who wanted your body but not your soul? “See, it’s easier when you simply obey.” Spawn croons in a voice that would sound alluring if you didn’t know what danger lurked just under the surface.

Astarion’s hand moves to tangle into your hair and he roughly yanks back on them, making you face upwards. You blink couple times at the pain but keep your lips parted while he looks down on you with a smug expression. Expression that tells you he doesn’t see you, not really, maybe never have. You’re something to be used, to satisfy himself with, to remind him that the only power he has right now is power over you. And you can’t help but be turned on. You haven’t noticed through the whole interaction how Cazador’s cum seeped out of your cunt and down your thighs but now that you’re getting aroused again you realize how wet your skin is from your father’s seed and your own juices flowing freely out of your entrance.

“You’ve been taught to obey your whole life, little dhampir.” Astarion’s voice is almost soothing as he releases his hard cock and his fingers brush lose hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear like a lover would, but you see the storming rage behind his eyes. It’s subdued now but still present, so much like your father. “Now don’t speak, I don’t want to hear another word from you, understood?”

You nod with a blush spreading across your face and Astarion is not blind to that. It gives him a feeling of satisfaction that no matter what he does to you – you will want him and become aroused by him. It gives him that desired feeling of power. If not over anything else in his miserable slave life, then at least power over you.

“I’m going to enjoy this.” He whispers more to himself than to you and you grip your skirts, trying not to show how aroused you are becoming but your salivating mouth betrays you.

Astarion grips the base of his dick and steps just a little closer, still holding your head firmly in place just before he shoves himself fully into your mouth. You feel the tip of his cock at the back of your throat, cutting off air and you make a pathetic whine before your mouth is full and your face is smashed against his pelvis. You didn’t even have time to notice when his fingers left his length.

“Take it, pet, take it all.” Spawn croons and you let go of your dress and grab onto his pants. At first you try to pull your face away but his grip on your hair is so tight you can’t move an inch.

Your eyes begin to water and your tongue moves in protest of your throat trying to gag around his cock. You forget your stinging cheek and forget Astarion’s rage, you’re in your element now and your pussy throbs with desire even while you struggle without air. His words only escalate your desire, you can’t resist what’s in your nature.

After a long moment, by the point your head begins to swim from lack of oxygen, Astarion finally pulls your head away from his cock. You gasp for air and look up at him, tears rolling down your face and his glistening dick is still connected to your mouth by heavy strings of saliva.

“Beautiful.” Vampire spawn comments with almost soothing affection and then shoves his length back into your mouth, beginning to thrust against your face. “Good obedient little pet, aren’t you? You don’t care who you submit to as long as you do.” His words are mocking but you don’t care.

With drooping eyelids you try to swirl your tongue against his hard cock, enjoying the texture and the sensation of veins, your mouth keeps salivating, covering your chin and dripping down his balls but you care for none of this, you just want to feel him come down your throat. How the tip of his length hits the back of your throat again and again makes your whole body ache with renewed desire.

“What a cock-hungry slut you are.” You hear Astarion chuckle but his breathing sounds increasingly labored and you lift your eyes to him, finally seeing his satisfied expression and lust in his gaze that replaced the rage from earlier. He wants you so much, you realize. “Worship me like you worship Cazador.” He suddenly demands and pulls his dick out of your mouth.

He slams your face against his cock, wetness of it staining your cheek and eyelid, but you stick out your tongue and begin licking. You hear his breathy chuckle and finally he releases your hair, giving you freedom which you immediately use to drag your tongue up and down his length. When you look up at him, you see that Astarion is consumed by pleasure, his eyes clouded and lips parted. You both are panting loudly but you notice it only now.

“Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me.” Astarion says with a degree of desperation in his voice and you hesitate before answering.

“I need you, Astarion. And I want you.” You say with your own voice coarse from the rough face-fucking you have been administered just earlier and a pleased smile appears on Astarion’s face.

“Keep going.”

So you do. Enthusiastically you resume licking his cock, tracing every vein and groove with the tip of your tongue, swirling it around the soft tip of his dick, making him moan now. You feel his hand return to your hair, both of them this time, but he’s not gripping it anymore, just cradling your head while you keep covering his length with saliva. For a moment you even dip your head lower, licking his balls, taking one of them into your mouth gently, sucking on it, then giving same attention to the other one.

“Oh gods, you’re so good…” Astarion struggles to speak and you smile proudly to yourself, you always love to be praised.

After a moment longer you return to his cock and take it into your mouth fully, your tongue pressing to the underside of it and you begin to bob your head, completely focused on the task at hand. You feel Astarion’s fingers tremble against your skull and you know he’s close.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so delicious.” Spawn moans and you feel his length twitch against your tongue just before Astarion shoves it deep into your mouth and begins spilling himself down your throat.

You gulp it down, listening to him moan as he uses your mouth to milk himself of every last drop and when he finally stops you hear him panting while still firmly cradling your head. After a moment Astarion pulls back and you release his already softening dick from your mouth, letting it drop. You open your eyes and look up, noticing his flushed face, beads of sweat on his forehead and his clouded eyes, but a satisfied smirk soon pulls at his lips and by your hair he yanks you back, letting go just before you drop-sit on your feet, finally getting some relief for your knees.

Without a word you use the back of your hand to wipe your chin and lips while Astarion quietly tucks himself back into his pants.

“I hope you won’t forget who you belong to, darling.” He coos again so sweetly it’s almost hard to believe he lost his composure so utterly just earlier. Your desire is still throbbing within your body like a drum but you realize that he’s done with you, at least for now.

“So that’s what this was all about?” You ask and with a silent grunt you get to your feet, looking into his eyes with a small frown. “You saw me with father and decided you needed to remind me that he’s not the only one who can have me?”

Astarion laughs and reaches out, caressing the same cheek he hit. It feels soothing, pleasantly cold against your sore skin and you lean into his touch before you can think against it.

“Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, I had a good time.” Spawn says and you can’t help but smile ever so slightly.

“You’re easy to please then, unlike my father.” You tease him and Astarion chuckles, removing his hand from your face, then he eyes you up and down slowly, as if trying to memorize exactly how you look in this moment, disheveled hair and all, your dress crumpled and stained.

“Maybe you should consider prioritizing me instead of him then. I would be a merciful master to you.” He says and your blink few times, trying to understand if you really heard what you just heard. Does Astarion really want you to choose?

“Astarion…” You begin, trying to pick your words but he just laughs again and starting to walk away, strutting with pride of a Vampire Lord himself.

“I’ll see you around, I’m sure, my little dhampir.” He says loudly and strolls back to the palace while you remain standing there, exhausted and dumbfounded.

Suddenly you feel like you’re between a hammer and an anvil and you dread to think what would happen if both Cazador and Astarion began getting increasingly jealous over you.

One thing you are sure of, if it ever came to that – someone wouldn’t survive.

The thought makes you shudder and you hope it will never come to that.

#baldur's gate 3 #cazador fic #cazador szarr #astarion #astarion fic #reader insert #x reader #female reader #bg3 #astarion x reader #cazador szarr x female reader #cazador szarr smut #cazador szarr x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion smut #my fics #specters & phantoms #fandom: bg3 #nocturn writes

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