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moeitsu · 2 days ago

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The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 8 - A Storm Is Born In Still Water Summary: Spending the evening with the Marstons, laughter and warmth filling the space, you couldn’t ignore the looming presence of the hurricane on the horizon. A quiet unease has settled in your chest—this night felt like the calm before the storm. The last taste of normalcy before everything was about to change. wc: 11k tw: none! Swim Back! ↞ ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

AN: This ended up being longer than I intended, but I really enjoyed it. Reader spends some quality time with the Marstons in this chapter. With a juicy little surprise from Arthur at the end :)

tag list: @photo1030 @v3lv3tf0x @ireallyhonestlydontcare @shygamergirl01 @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @sevikaspuertoricanwife @abducted-cowz @ilovethatforyousworld @gatodebiquini @onyxlune @bomdada

Standing in front of the bathroom sink, I rolled the small pearl between my fingers, its smooth surface cool against my damp skin. Steam curled around the room in ghostly wisps, clinging to the mirror in a thick, hazy veil. The humid air pressed against my bare skin, making me sweat all over again, as if the shower had done nothing to wash away the night.

Since I’d arrived home, I couldn’t stop replaying everything.

I could still feel him everywhere—Arthur’s strong hands gripping my waist, his slick tongue dancing with mine, his warm breath filling my lungs. No amount of scrubbing could erase the phantom sensation of his touch, the way my skin still tingled as if he had left an invisible mark on me.

Maybe it wasn’t just his touch that had me so undone. Maybe it was the trust, the raw vulnerability of it all. Arthur had a way of making me feel safe, seen—like I was something treasured. He unraveled me with the sound of his deep, melodic voice, lured me in with the ethereal glow of his body, pulsing like a heartbeat in the water.

A shiver rolled through me, despite the heat lingering in the air. If he hadn’t been the one to pull away, how far would I have gone?

At that moment, I had been ready to strip my wetsuit from my body, to give myself to him completely, to discover what lay beneath those shimmering scales. It was insane. I had only known him for a week. I barely understood his biology. And yet…to Arthur, I was the first to show him kindness. To explore him with gentleness and admiration.

And standing here, miles away from him, I still felt his pull. That strange, invisible tether binding us together. This feeling inside me was foreign yet familiar, and it felt wonderful. Damn it, some part of me truly did love him.

My gaze dropped to his gift, its pearly-white surface reflecting the golden glow of the bathroom light. My stomach twisted as I finally let the weight of this tiny treasure settle over me.

I had sealed my fate. Not that I could or even wanted to refuse him. But the future… whatever awaited us… terrified me. I had accepted his courtship. I had expressed a mutual desire to mate. The thought of sex with him sent heat rushing up my neck, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My thighs pressed together instinctively, aching with an anticipation I barely understood.

Part of me knew I shouldn’t want this. And yet every time I was near him my body betrayed me.

But this was bigger than just desire. Charles’ warning rang in my ears. This was bigger than my feelings. It could be dangerous. Hell, it could even be deadly.

I placed the pearl down on the cool porcelain sink, its milky surface gleaming under the dim light. My fingers lingered on it for a moment before I turned away, grabbing my night creams and smoothing them over my skin with slow, absentminded strokes. And yet, as I went through the motions, my thoughts wandered.

What do his cocks look like?

The question struck like a bolt of lightning, sending a flush creeping up my neck. I don’t think I’ll ever truly grasp the fact that he has two. My hands faltered for a moment before I forced myself to keep going, spreading the thick cream over my cheeks with shaking fingers.

What would they feel like?

Would they be like the rest of him—silken, slick, and impossibly warm? Would they have the same ridges as his tongue, designed to pleasure and devour? A whimper nearly slipped from my lips at the thought.

I snatched my toothbrush, clicking it on with a little too much force before shoving the humming bristles into my mouth.

Would he even fit inside me?

Arthur was big. Not just in size but in presence, in the way his chest and shoulders dwarfed me, the way his powerful frame moved through the water with effortless grace. He was far bigger than any human I’d ever met. His tail alone nearly weighed 300 lbs. Would it hurt? Would his body even be compatible with mine? Surely there was some way we could make it work.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure up the brief glimpse I’d caught when I was stroking his gills—the way he had pressed them into my soft stomach, the heat of him unmistakable even beneath the water. Slipping past his scales in a moment of raw hunger and pure arousal. Part of me loved that I had that effect on him, that my touch alone brought out a primal side that he tried to keep locked away. That instinctual need to—

My eyes flew open.

Did he want to impregnate me?

My breath caught in my throat, the electric hum of my toothbrush suddenly deafening in the small bathroom.

Could he?

His father was human, which meant there was some possibility for offspring. And sirens—at least from what little I knew from Lenny’s lesson—didn’t just mate for pleasure. Mating season wasn’t about getting off from the heat of arousal. It was a biological imperative, an instinctual drive to breed, to create strong, healthy offspring so the species could endure for generations. Arthur’s body was driven by its biological processes, much like my own. My body still followed its natural reproductive cycle, ovulation and menses occurred whether I wanted it to or not. And I was certain, there was no birth control for sirens.

I spit out the foamy toothpaste, watching the milky swirl spin down the drain as I gripped the edge of the sink, my thoughts following it into the abyss. There was only one way to answer these questions, and standing here spiraling like my minty spit wasn’t going to help.

I needed to take this one day at a time.

Arthur had been open with me about nearly everything. He would understand my hesitation, my concerns, my fears and my fantasies. If he was going to be my mate, and I his, there were things we needed to discuss. Things I had to know first.

But for now, this pearl—this sacred vow—would remain between us. Like our own little secret.

Grabbing my hairbrush, I wrung the excess water from my hair over the sink, watching droplets slide down the porcelain before wiping the mirror with my palm. The fog smeared under my touch, revealing my reflection in hazy fragments. I pulled my tangled hair back from my face, only to freeze as the light caught something shimmering on my ear.

My breath hitched.

Leaning closer, my pulse pounded in my throat as the blood drained from my face.

Iridescent lines, thin as spider silk, wrapped delicately around my earlobe, tracing up the helix in intricate, swirling patterns. The faint shimmer was unmistakable. Evidence of Arthur’s hunger, where he had nipped at my flesh and then soothed the ache with his traitorous tongue.

Shit.

A rush of heat crawled up my neck, an unrelenting mix of embarrassment and something far more dangerous—desire.

With a sharp grunt, I tossed my hairbrush into the sink, the clatter echoing in the small space. Yanking my bathrobe off the door, I threw it around my shoulders and stormed out of the bathroom.

So much for keeping this a secret.

At this rate, I might as well walk into work on Monday with a brand-new fucking piercing.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

The microwave let out a shrill beep, its sound slicing through my quiet apartment like a judge’s gavel, sentencing me to another regrettable meal. With a sigh, I trudged to the kitchen, grabbing the steaming plastic tray and peeling back the film. A wave of artificial cheese and processed nostalgia wafted up, clinging to the air like an unavoidable truth.

Flopping onto my bed, I sank into the pillows, the mattress dipping beneath me. Eating in bed was typically reserved for the days I truly felt pathetic—but after tonight’s adrenaline-fueled chaos, I figured I’d earned it. The glow of the bedside lamp cast long, soft shadows across the walls, wrapping the room in a cozy, almost melancholic warmth.

Ah, gourmet.

Just as I reached for the remote, my phone buzzed against the nightstand, the vibration rattling the wood, its soft white light cutting through the dimly lit room like a whisper demanding to be heard.

Hey. ~JM

A small smile tugged at my lips. Placing my dinner down on my lap as I swiped the notification open and typed back.

Hi.

You alive? ~JM

No, you’re talking to a ghost right now.

Grinning, I stabbed at the sad excuse for macaroni with my fork as I waited for his reply.

Very funny. Just wanted to make sure you got home safe. ~JM

Home by 11 PM sharp, Mr. Marston. Don’t worry, I didn’t break my curfew ;)

Taking a streaming bite, I instantly regretted it, and reached for my drink to wash away the taste of disappointment. My phone vibrated again.

You’re impossible. How’d your swim with Arthur go? ~JM

I smirked, stretching out across the mattress, my legs tangled in the blankets.

Wouldn’t you like to know? You tryna get lessons to be a lifeguard or something?

Three little dots danced on the screen. Disappearing for a moment then coming back. Then—

Forget it. ~JM

I laughed softly, and he was calling me impossible? Perhaps I was playing too much. Despite our antics John was a sincere friend. He was only looking out for me after all.

I’m teasing, you idiot. It was nice. Arthur showed me around the tank. Discovered some new abilities of his too. He really is something incredible.

I couldn’t help but think back to the way his bioluminescence had flickered like a living constellation beneath the water, the way his voice had wrapped around me like a song meant just for me. The way his warm breath curled in my chest. It crossed my mind whether or not I should share that piece of information with the others. Charles asked me to keep him updated on everything. But how much did I really need to share?

Yeah, incredibly weird. You both are. Guess that’s why you get along so well. ~JM

Rolling my eyes, I bit back another laugh.

Don’t hate me ‘cuz I got to swim with the magic fish and you didn’t :P

Oh shut up. Are we still on for tomorrow? Abby and Jack are coming too. ~JM

That made me sit up, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

It was tradition—an unspoken ritual between John and me. Every time a big hurricane loomed on the horizon, we’d go out for drinks, raising our glasses to the storm before it had the chance to take anything away from us. One last hoorah, just in case we woke up to find the world outside our doors washed away.

It was a morbid tradition, sure, but necessary. The hurricanes had been growing stronger, more relentless. Sometimes it felt like Mother Earth was being sinister, toying with its humans. Though who could blame her. Each summer, we lost more land to the sea, watched the shoreline creep further inland, watched the cost of repairs climb higher than we could keep up with.

But this tradition—this small act of defiance—was our way of saying we wouldn’t break. That no matter what was coming, we’d face it together, with laughter in our throats and whiskey in our veins.

This time, though, Abigail and Jack would be joining us. It meant fewer drinks, fewer reckless choices, but I didn’t mind. If anything, I was proud of John for bringing them along, for letting them be part of something that had always just been ours. It meant he wasn’t just bracing for the storm anymore—he was facing it with the people he loved most in the world.

Absolutely, I’ll be there. I miss those two!

They miss you too. Was thinking either Shady Belle or Bronte’s. ~JM

I nearly choked on my drink.

This little island off the coast wasn’t exactly known for its fine dining. There were only a handful of places to eat, and even fewer that were appropriate for the whole family. Neither John nor I were rolling in cash, which meant our options were limited. But Shady Belle? Really?

To put it kindly, Shady Belle was a dump. A dive bar tucked into the shadiest part of town—hence the name. The kind of place where the floors were perpetually sticky, the jukebox was always playing something just off-key, and you were guaranteed to see at least one fight break out before closing time. It attracted the worst kind of crowd—drifters, troublemakers, men who smelled like cheap beer and regret. But it was cheap. Greasy burgers, stale fries, watered-down whiskey. You got what you paid for, and in our case, that wasn’t much.

Bronte’s, on the other hand, was a different world entirely. A cozy little beachside Italian restaurant, nestled right by the harbor where the scent of salt and grilled seafood filled the air. The place had charm—worn wooden tables, twinkling string lights, and the soft hum of waves crashing just beyond the deck. Their seafood was as fresh as it got, pulled straight from the harbor each morning and served up in buttery pastas and rich, fragrant risottos. It wasn’t fancy, not exactly, but it was a place you took your family, where you lingered over good food and even better conversation.

And somehow, John thought these two were interchangeable.

John Marston, you are not bringing your lovely family to a dump like Shady Belle. I forbid it, shame on you. >:(

I’m just messing with you, boss. We’ll see you tomorrow at Bronte’s. ~JM

I set my phone down with a contented sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows. My food had gone cold, my show remained unwatched, and yet my mind was still tangled in thoughts of Arthur—his touch, his voice, the pull of something I didn’t fully understand.

And yet, despite it all, a weight had lifted from my chest.

That small conversation with John had grounded me, brought back a sense of normalcy, like an anchor in the middle of a storm. The calm in the eye of a hurricane. For tonight, I let myself believe that the little pearl gleaming on my nightstand was just that—a simple pearl. A treasure from the abyss. Nothing more, nothing less. Whatever future awaited me with Arthur could wait.

With that thought, I let my eyes slip closed, drifting off to sleep with a small smile on my lips.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

The hum of my truck’s engine faded into silence as I shifted in my seat, giving myself one last once-over in the rearview mirror. It wasn’t vanity that kept me checking my reflection—it was the damn iridescent marks that shimmered no matter how I tried to conceal them. The fading sunlight caught the delicate lines, making them glint like pearls against my skin.

Covering the scars on my wrist was easy enough with a well placed watch or bracelet. But my ear was a different challenge. I had tried earrings, but they only drew more attention. A beanie had crossed my mind, but late summer in the Outer Banks was no time for extra layers. With a sigh and a silent prayer that no one would notice, I raked my fingers through my hair one last time, letting it fall over my ear before stepping out of the truck.

The scent of salt air and freshly baked bread welcomed me as I stepped into the restaurant. It didn’t take long to find the Marstons—the hostess barely had time to point me in their direction before the sound of Jack’s high-pitched giggles rang through the patio. His little voice carried over the murmur of dinner conversations as he eagerly scribbled across his kids’ menu, tongue poking out in deep concentration.

“Aunty!” he shrieked the moment I leaned over his chair, wrapping my arms around him in a tight hug.

“Hey, nugget,” I grinned, ruffling his blond hair as he giggled into my shoulder. I slid into my seat, warmth settling in my chest as I turned to Abigail. “It’s so nice to see you. You’re looking great! How’s the baby?”

Her tired but radiant smile said it all before she even answered.

A few months ago, I had been jolted awake by a drunken call from John, slurring his way through the news that he was going to be a father of two. I had given him an earful—not just for drowning himself in whiskey instead of being there for Abigail, but for calling me instead of facing his own emotions head-on. Still, beneath my frustration, I understood.

John wasn’t in the best place, mentally or physically, when Jack was born. That was before I came around, but Abigail had told me how much he struggled with fatherhood in the beginning. His own father had been a hard, unloving man, and John had spent his youth running wild, just another orphaned street kid scraping by however he could. It wasn’t until Hosea took him under his wing that he found something like guidance—like family.

By the time I entered the picture, John was already trying to be better, to be more present. And then he found out Abigail was pregnant again. The drinking didn’t stop overnight, but I helped him reel it in, reminded him that this time, he didn’t have to figure it out alone. He didn’t have many friends outside the facility, and I had quickly become the person he called on those nights when doubt crept in, when he mumbled about being a failure and a sorry excuse for a father. I listened. I talked him down. I reminded him that he wasn’t his old man—that he had a choice in the kind of father he wanted to be.

And looking at him now, his hand resting protectively on Abigail’s, his eyes soft as he watched Jack chatter away, it warmed my heart to see how far he’d come. To see him not just accepting fatherhood, but embracing it.

Abigail beamed, her whole face lighting up. “She’s wonderful. Been kickin’ around in there like she’s training for the Olympics, though,” she laughed, resting a hand on her belly as if to calm the tiny storm within.

I gasped, nearly dropping my napkin. “She?!” My voice came out more like a squeak. Last time I saw her, the baby’s gender had still been a mystery.

With a proud nod, she confirmed it, and I looked between her and John, my excitement bubbling over. “Well, congratulations, you two! A baby girl—what wonderful news!” I turned to Jack, who was still absorbed in his coloring. “What about you, Nugget? Are you excited?”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. He threw a crayon triumphantly into the air and declared, “I’m gonna be the best big sister!”

Laughter erupted around the table. John chuckled, shaking his head as he gave his son’s shoulder a light nudge. “Big brother, kid. You’re gonna be the best big brother to your little sister.”

The minutes melted away as we talked about everything and nothing, Abigail filling me in on all the baby know-how while Jack chartered between this topic and the next. When the waitress arrived to take our orders, I raised a knowing eyebrow at John as he casually ordered a Blue Moon. He caught my expression and mouthed just one before returning his attention to Jack’s latest tic-tac-toe match.

When my turn came, I ordered an Irish coffee.

John shot me a look. “Little late for coffee, isn’t it? You tryna pull an all-nighter?”

I nodded, stirring my straw absently in my water. “Gonna stay up to track the storm. It’s not supposed to hit land until after midnight. They’re saying it’ll weaken to a Cat 3, but I’m not sure I believe that.”

Abigail’s smile faltered slightly as she twisted her hands in her lap. “I heard they already evacuated some parts of the island. Are you sure you’re safe in your apartment?”

Before I could answer, our drinks arrived, and John lifted his beer in salute. “I’ll drink to that,” he said with a grin before taking a long sip. Jack, wanting to be just like his old man, eagerly lifted his sippy cup of milk and took a dramatic gulp, his little brows furrowed in exaggerated seriousness.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’ll be fine, Abby,” I reassured her, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m on the fourth floor, anyway. Only thing I really gotta worry about is the wind.” I threw in a wink for good measure.

Abigail didn’t look entirely convinced. She reached over the table and took my hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Alright,” she said, her voice softer now. “But if you lose power, water—or even if you just need some company—you’re more than welcome to stay at Hosea’s with us.”

Her warmth settled over me like a blanket, and for a moment, the looming storm didn’t seem quite so daunting.

Dinner carried on in a comfortable rhythm, the conversation flowing as easily as the drinks. Abigail shared stories of Jack’s latest antics—his newfound fascination with bugs, his insistence that he could build a boat out of sticks, his stubborn refusal to accept that the moon wasn’t actually following him home at night. John chimed in with the occasional quip, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation whenever his son interrupted him to “correct” the details of the stories.

Plates were passed, forks scraped against ceramic, and the scent of garlic and butter mingled with the salty ocean breeze. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in deep hues of indigo and violet. The colors reminded me of a certain someone, but I pushed those thoughts aside. As if on cue, the string lights flickered to life above the patio, bathing the space in a warm, golden glow. The soft hum of conversation from other tables drifted around us, but beneath it all, there was something else.

A shift in the air.

The wind carried a different weight now, cooler, charged with something powerful and untamed. The storm loomed just beyond the horizon, invisible but present, pressing against the edges of our peaceful evening. The distant rumble of waves against the shore sounded rougher than before, like an unspoken warning. I glanced toward the darkened sky, the edges of heavy clouds rolling in, and felt it deep in my bones. The tension, the waiting.

But here, on this little patio strung with golden lights, everything still felt normal. Safe.

Jack, having polished off his dinner with the determined enthusiasm only a child could manage, rocked back and forth in his chair, barely containing his excitement. “Dad, can we go inside and see the fish? Please? Please, please, please?”

John sighed, already pushing back his chair. “Alright, alright. But you gotta actually look this time, not just tap on the glass and scare ‘em off.”

Jack beamed, leaping up from his seat and practically dragging his father toward the restaurant’s entrance. “You know Papa Hosea owns an aquarium right? You can come see the fish whenever you like.”

“But I wanna see those fish!” He pointed a small finger towards the tank inside the restaurant.

Abigail and I watched them go, their figures illuminated briefly by the warm glow of the doorway before disappearing inside.

A gust of wind sent a shiver through the patio, rattling the string lights overhead. Abigail pulled her cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders and shot me a look. “You sure you don’t want to take that offer?” she teased, but there was something genuine in her eyes.

I smirked, but the thought lingered. The storm was coming, and even with a full belly and good company, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this might be the last normal night for a while.

Abigail studied me for a moment, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her water glass. The playful glint in her eyes softened into something quieter, something knowing. “And how are you doing?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “I feel like a terrible friend. We’ve spent the whole night talking about me and the baby, and I haven’t even asked about you.”

“You are the farthest thing from a terrible friend Abby. Hell, you’re practically like family.” I hesitated before my next words, swirling the last of my Irish coffee in my mug. “But, I’m fine. Nothing exciting to report,” I said, but even I wasn’t convinced.

Abigail arched her brow. “Oh, fine, huh? That’s convincing.”

I huffed a laugh and shook my head. “I mean it. I’m just… busy. Work’s been a lot.”

“So I’ve heard,” Abigail said, swirling the last of her drink before setting it down. “John told me all about that monster you guys found on the beach. He still won’t let me come see it, though—said he doesn’t want me to get wrapped up in it. Whatever that means.” She waved a dismissive hand, her tone light, but the word monster lodged itself like a thorn in my chest.

I forced a small smile, but my throat tightened. I couldn’t blame her—how could I? She had never met Arthur, never seen him beyond whatever crude image John had painted for her. Knowing him, he had probably fed her just enough details to keep her curiosity in check, just enough to make sure she didn’t go snooping around for more. But I doubted he spared the more unsettling details—the sharpness of Arthur’s features, the unearthly glow in his eyes, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.

To her, he was just a story. A strange, terrifying thing washed up from the deep, something not quite human. And maybe that was easier. Easier to believe in a monster than to acknowledge the gentle yet broken man beneath.

I shifted in my seat, holding my drink just to have something to do with my hands. “John just worries,” I said carefully. “You know how he gets.”

Abigail scoffed. “That’s one way to put it. He acts like I can’t handle myself.” She shook her head, then gave me a pointed look. “But you have seen it, haven’t you?”

My fingers curled around the ceramic mug. Him, I almost corrected. But instead, I just nodded. “Yeah. I have.”

Abigail tilted her head, watching me closely. “And? Is it really as bad as John says?”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of the truth pressing against my ribs. Worse, I wanted to say. And yet... not at all. Instead, I just swallowed and gave her the safest answer I could.

“We’re taking it one day at a time.”

She wasn’t buying it. She never did. “You sound just like Hosea. Anyways, are you seeing anyone?” she pressed, her voice light but her gaze sharp. “Or still working yourself into the grave?”

I exhaled slowly, tapping my fingers against the side of my cup. “I don’t know if I’d call it seeing someone,” I admitted, choosing my words carefully. “It’s… complicated.”

That caught her interest. Abigail leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “Complicated how?”

I let out a breathy chuckle, running a hand through my hair. Where did I even begin? “He’s… different.”

Abigail’s brows lifted. “Different good or different bad?”

“I don’t really know yet,” I admitted honestly. “He’s just—he doesn’t fit into any category. Not someone I ever expected to know, let alone…”

“Let alone what?” she prompted, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

I sighed, shaking my head. “He’s not like anyone else, Abigail. He’s got this way about him—like he’s seen and done things most people couldn’t even begin to understand. And it’s not just that he’s been through a lot, it’s that he wears it, you know? Like it’s stitched into him, into the way he moves, the way he talks.”

Abigail’s expression softened. “Sounds like someone with a rough past,” she said gently.

I swallowed, staring down at the swirls in my coffee. A rough past. That was one way to put it. “Yeah,” I murmured. “And sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t fully see. Like if I step too close, I might lose my footing entirely.”

For a long moment, Abigail didn’t say anything. Then, she reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “You’re not scared of him, are you?”

The question caught me off guard, but the answer was easy. “No. Never.” That much I knew for certain.

“Then maybe that’s what matters,” she said simply. “Different doesn’t always mean bad. And complicated doesn’t always mean impossible.”

I looked up at her, at the quiet reassurance in her eyes, and for a moment, I let myself believe her. But deep down, I knew that Arthur wasn’t just different. He was something else entirely. And that was what made this so damn complicated.

The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence. The clinking of silverware and the hum of distant conversation dimming in the space between us as patrons left to take shelter from the oncoming hurricane. The air was thick now, charged with the quiet presence of the storm rolling in from the sea. The string lights overhead flickered slightly as the wind picked up, rustling the palm trees and sending the scent of salt and rain through the open patio.

Abigail glanced at the sky, then at Jack, who was starting to rub at his eyes between half-hearted scribbles on his kids’ menu. “We should get going before it really starts coming down,” she said, pushing back from the table.

We settled the bill, and as we stepped into the parking lot, the restaurant’s warm glow spilling onto the pavement, the wind had gained strength. It whipped at Abigail’s cardigan and sent Jack giggling as he tried to fight against it.

“Be safe, alright?” she said, pulling me into a tight hug. She smelled like vanilla and the faintest trace of baby powder. “And if you change your mind about staying with us—”

“I know where to find you,” I finished with a small smile.

She gave me one last squeeze before turning to buckle Jack into his car seat, her voice soft and affectionate as she reassured him they’d be home soon. That left me alone with John for a moment, the space between us filled with the howling wind and the rustling of palm fronds overhead.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. “Storm’s rolling in fast,” he muttered.

Before I could respond, a sudden gust swept through the parking lot, catching my hair and blowing it back from my face. I barely noticed it—until I saw the way John’s expression shifted.

His eyes flickered, just for a second, to the iridescent glint of the thread like jewels on my ear, catching the restaurant’s light like tiny embers against my skin. It was only a second. A brief, unreadable look before he schooled his expression into something neutral.

I froze, unsure if I should say something—unsure if he would. But John just exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head before stepping forward and pulling me into a quick, tight, one-armed hug.

“Stay dry,” he mumbled against my hair, his voice low and rough.

“You too.”

And just like that, he let go, turning away without another word. I watched as he climbed into the driver’s seat, the glow of the dashboard briefly illuminating his face before he started the car. Abigail waved at me through the window, and then they were gone, disappearing down the darkened road toward Hosea’s home.

I stood there for a moment longer, the wind tugging at my clothes, the scent of rain heavy in the air. Then, with a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I turned and headed for my truck. It was going to be a long night, and I had a date with the storm radar.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

Sometime after midnight, exhaustion must have won—I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The coffee I’d downed earlier had lost its fight against the weight of my eyelids. The last thing I remembered was watching the storm churn on my computer screen, the swirling eye of the hurricane swallowing our little island whole. Reds and yellows slashed across the radar like open wounds, fading into greens and blues on the outskirts. I had been listening to the radio, tracking power outages, storm surges, trees crashing onto roads, and the eerie mention of debris washing up on the shore.

Now, I woke to a sharp crick in my neck, my laptop dimly glowing where it had slipped between the folds of my blankets. The storm still raged outside—wind shrieking against the windows, rattling the glass in their frames. But something was… off. It was too quiet.

The low hum of the radio had been reduced to static, its garbled voice flickering in and out, whispering in fragmented syllables. I reached up, tugging the string of my bedside lamp. Nothing. No power. That explains the silence, the hum of my AC is typically a comforting white noise.

Rubbing the sleep from my face, I sat up, disoriented. My watch read 3:17 AM. Outside, the wind howled like a living thing, its ghostly wails slipping through the cracks in the building. But beneath it—beneath the storm’s fury—I heard something else.

A faint, rhythmic buzzing. My phone.

It must have slipped from my bed while I slept, and now it was vibrating somewhere on the floor, lost in the darkness. I strained to listen, feeling blindly across the wooden boards until my fingers brushed the smooth glass.

I flipped it over, squinting at the screen. John.

A cold weight settled in my stomach. My thumb hovered over the answer button for only a second before I swiped to pick up.

“John?” My voice was hoarse, the word barely audible over the static hum in the air.

For a moment, there was nothing but the howl of the storm.

Panic began to coil in my gut, tightening with each second of silence. “John, is everything alright?” I was praying this was some kind of butt dial, or that he was simply calling to check in on me.

A sharp burst of static crackled through the line, followed by a distorted mess of noise—wind shrieking, the distant clang of something metal slamming against concrete.

“—out. Power’s out—damn generators—”

I sat up straighter, gripping the phone a little tighter. Did Hosea lose power too? But why would he be calling me about it? “John, I can barely hear you. Where are you?”

The wind battered against my windows, rattling them in their frames. My heart pounded against my ribs, its rhythm matching the erratic pulse of the storm.

“—at the facility—” His voice wavered, distant, then returned in a frantic rush. “It’s bad. Real bad.”

I threw the blankets off and shot up from the bed, already reaching for my boots. So he’s not at Hosea’s, got it. Leave it to John to be at work during a damn hurricane. “What’s happening?”

More static. A low, shuddering creak echoed through the speaker, like steel under pressure.

“—system’s down—” His voice cut in and out, growing more frantic. “Aerators failed—oxygen levels—” Another sharp cut of silence. “Pumps not working.”

I cursed under my breath, fumbling in the darkness as I yanked my jacket on and scrambled for my keys. My hands shook, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a vice. If the generators were down, that meant the entire facility was in darkness—no lights, no air circulation, no cooling systems. And John… John was there alone, trying to handle it himself.

He’d be working himself into the grave, pushing through exhaustion, sweat soaking his clothes in the humid, stifling air. And if the tanks were failing—if the aeration system was down—he wasn’t just fighting to keep the lights on. He was fighting to keep everything inside that building alive.

“Hang on, John, I’m on my way. Don’t do anything stupid, wait—”

His voice broke through again, this time with a single, chilling sentence:

“They’re suffocating.”

I froze. My breath hitched. The wildlife was suffocating.

My mind raced, connecting the dots at a sickening speed. No generators meant no power. No power meant no saltwater pumps. No filtration. No oxygen cycling through the water.

In a normal aquarium tank, that would be bad. In an enclosed system as massive as the facility’s main exhibit—housing fish, sharks, rays, and other massive marine life—it would be a death sentence. Oxygen depletion would happen fast.

Too fast.

Hypoxia. It could happen within hours. A slow, suffocating death. The fish would panic first, gills flaring, their bodies slamming against the glass in erratic distress. Then tissue damage. Starved organs. Their movements slowing as their bodies failed them. Then—

I swallowed hard, forcing my spiraling thoughts to a stop.

A sharp inhale hissed through my teeth as realization slammed into me like a tidal wave.

John wasn’t just talking about the fish.

The static flared again, his voice cutting through—urgent. Desperate.

“Arthur—”

The line crackled, breaking apart into nothingness.

I clutched the phone tighter, pulse hammering in my ears. “John?” I pressed, voice rising. “John, what about Arthur?!”

But the call had already gone dead.

My mind raced as I bounded down the staircase, taking two steps at a time, barely feeling the impact beneath my feet. The last step was a blur—I half-jumped, half-stumbled, but I didn’t stop moving. I tried to remind myself—Arthur can breathe air. He’ll be okay. If things got bad, he could pull himself to a shallower part of the tank, find a pocket of safety.

But that wasn’t enough to quell the gnawing fear twisting in my gut.

Without oxygen circulation, the water would turn against him. CO₂ and ammonia would build rapidly, poisoning the very environment he called home. And Arthur—his entire life had been spent in a controlled aquatic space, monitored, maintained. What if his body needed those precise conditions? What if we had overlooked something critical?

And even if he survived physically, the psychological toll would be its own kind of torment. He would be trapped in that space, forced to witness the creatures he shared his world with convulsing, gasping, dying. The thrashing, the desperation—he wouldn’t just see it; he would feel it.

I shoved through the front doors, and the storm nearly knocked me off my feet.

Wind roared around me, a force so strong it stole the breath from my lungs. Rain pelted my skin like a relentless volley of tiny bullets, cold and stinging. I had to squint against the downpour, barely able to make out anything beyond a few feet ahead. The street was an endless expanse of blackness, the power outage swallowing every familiar landmark into a shapeless void.

My hands shook as I fumbled with the truck keys, the metal slick from the rain. I yanked the door open, using the full force of my body to fight against the wind, and threw myself inside. The moment I slammed the door shut, the world outside became muffled, but the storm still howled, rattling the windows, making the vehicle feel like a fragile bubble against something vast and furious.

I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white. I was terrified.

Of the storm. Of what I might find when I got to the facility. Of what Arthur might be enduring right now.

This was reckless. I knew that. But John was alone. Arthur could be suffering. And I couldn’t sit here, waiting, hoping, while the worst unfolded in the dark.

I had to get to them. I shoved the keys into the ignition, took a deep breath, and turned the engine over.

The roads were a nightmare.

Water pooled in deep, deceptive pockets along the asphalt, and my tires skidded more than once as I navigated the flooded streets. The rain pounded relentlessly, turning the windshield into a smeared, shifting blur, my wipers barely keeping up. Streetlights were dead, leaving only the erratic flashes of lightning to illuminate my path in harsh, fleeting bursts. Each time the sky cracked open, it revealed a scene more unsettling than the last—fallen palm trees, submerged sidewalks, waves crashing violently over the breakwater.

As I neared the facility, the ocean raged against the shore, its swollen tides rising higher than I’d ever seen, swallowing chunks of sand and hurling salt spray across the road. My chest tightened. If the storm surge got worse, the flooding would only accelerate.

Then, through the sheets of rain, I spotted John’s truck parked near the back entrance. Relief and urgency tangled in my chest. I swerved into the lot, barely throwing the gear into park before yanking the door open.

The second I stepped out, the storm slammed into me with full force. Wind tore at my clothes, rain slashed at my skin, and the ground beneath my boots felt slick with rushing water. I forced myself forward, head down, arms wrapped around myself as I fought against the gale.

By the time I reached the door and shoved my way inside, I was drenched to the bone, my breath coming in gasps. The moment I was safe from the storm, another realization hit me like a brick.

I should have brought a flashlight.

The facility was pitch black.

The only sounds were the muffled roar of the wind outside and the frequent claps of thunder that seemed to shake the whole earth. Accompanied by the slow, eerie drip of water somewhere deeper in the dark.

The beam of my phone’s flashlight cut through the suffocating darkness, barely illuminating more than a few feet ahead. The air inside the facility was thick and damp, carrying the scent of saltwater and something faintly metallic. Every step I took echoed down the empty corridors, swallowed by the creaks and moans of the building as it strained against the wind and rain hammering from outside.

“John?” My voice wavered, lost in the vast, suffocating silence.

Nothing.

The emergency lights weren’t working. That meant the backup battery system had failed too, leaving the entire place cloaked in a darkness so absolute it felt unnatural. My pulse pounded in my ears as I moved forward, the walls pressing in closer with every passing second. Shadows stretched and twisted with each flicker of my light, my own breath sounding too loud in the stillness.

A sudden groan reverberated through the ceiling, the metal framework shifting under the storm’s relentless force. I flinched, sucking in a sharp breath as a distant crash echoed somewhere deeper in the facility.

“John!” I called again, louder this time, urgency creeping into my voice. I pushed open the nearest door—a supply closet. Empty.

I turned down another hallway, checking every room I could think of—his office, the staff lounge, even the breakroom. Each one was abandoned, cold, and eerily still. The farther I went without seeing him, the more the panic gnawed at me.

A door down the hall rattled violently, the wind slamming against it from the other side. I spun toward the sound, my breath hitching as the phone’s flashlight beam trembled in my grasp.

“John, where the hell are you?” My voice cracked, frustration and fear tangling in my throat.

I was running out of places to look. If he wasn’t in the generator room or one of the main labs, then that only left one place—the tanks.

My grip tightened around my phone as I turned toward the large double doors leading to the main exhibit hall—the heart of the facility. The water filtration tanks, the viewing platforms, and, of course, Arthur’s enclosure loomed ahead.

Dread coiled in my stomach, the weight of it pressing against my chest as I stepped forward. There was no possible way he was outside. He couldn’t be. My mind began to spiral into dark places, and I fought to pull myself back.

A new fear gripped me, chilling my bones. What if he’d gone outside? What if he’d tried to check the outdoor power lines? The floodwaters had already crept dangerously close to the shoreline. If he got swept away, carried out to sea—no.

Stop.

I couldn’t afford to let my mind race ahead. There was still a whole aquarium to search. Panicking would only slow me down and it certainly wouldn’t help Arthur.

I forced myself to focus, squaring my shoulders as my heart hammered in my chest. A faint sound caught my attention—something that almost felt like instinct pulling me up the stairs. The dive locker. The very top of the facility, where divers prepared for routine cleanings, repairs, and underwater shows. The thought of him up there made my skin crawl, but it was the only place left to check.

I pushed myself faster, my legs burning as I took the steps two at a time. Sweat slicked my face, dripping down my neck, but I didn’t slow down. I needed to find him. And I needed to find him now.

I called his name again, the sound of my voice small and hoarse in the oppressive silence.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I threw open the door without hesitation. The weak beam of my phone’s flashlight sliced through the dark, illuminating the expansive space ahead. The water glimmered, reflecting the dim light in small, rippling waves. It looked strange, like a portal to something deep and unknown—an abyss that threatened to swallow everything in its path.

I moved deeper into the room, my breath shallow, chest tight. Every shadow seemed to shift, each movement amplified in the silence of the storm’s fury outside.

Then, I saw it.

A figure.

Cloaked in shadow, their silhouette outlined faintly against the water’s surface. They were frantic, their hands moving quickly, pulling on something heavy. An oxygen tank. The sound of metal scraping against metal cut through the stillness, a sharp contrast to the storm’s distant wail.

But even in the darkness, I knew who it was.

A flash of pale skin, the faint glow of scars, pink and familiar, unmistakable.

John.

My breath caught in my throat, a mix of relief and dread flooding me all at once. I took a cautious step forward, my heartbeat echoing in my ears, I had no time to waste.

"John!" My voice came out hoarse, louder now, trembling with an urgency that made my hands shake. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

The wind howled through the building, its voice blending with the roar of the storm outside. John didn’t hear me. His back was to me, his focus entirely on the task in front of him—strapping the oxygen tank to his back. Securing the mouth piece for him to breathe and then—

Without warning, he jumped into the water.

I froze, my heart slamming in my chest as the splash echoed across the room. The sound felt too loud, too sudden, like it had split the air. Panic ripped through me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

"John!" I screamed again, but the storm drowned my words, swallowing them whole. He couldn’t hear me. My phone slipped from my trembling hand, hitting the metal floor with a harsh clatter before sliding across the platform into the murky water below.

I didn’t hesitate. I bolted toward the diving stage, my legs shaky and my mind racing. What the hell was he thinking? John couldn’t swim—he’d never learned. And he certainly wasn’t certified to dive. He was throwing himself into a dark, cold ocean of uncertainty with no experience, no knowledge of how to survive down there. Taking a deadly risk on everything.

I reached the edge, my hands gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles ached. My chest was tight, panic clawing its way up my throat. I looked out at the rippling water, scanning the dark expanse, my pulse pounding. It was too dark to see him, let alone see anything in the tank. Did he have a light with him? He could bump into something, or something could bump into him.

What the fuck was he thinking?!

More importantly, what should I do? What could I do? Standing here I felt as useless as a blobfish out of water.

I wanted to dive in after him, to drag him back to safety, but I was no diver either. I couldn’t risk both of us. And besides—if I couldn’t find him in this black water, what would I do? If he was unconscious, if he was already struggling… I’d be no better off. We would both end up dead.

Should I try to get the generator up and running? Was that even possible with the storm raging? I had no knowledge of electrical currents and power supply. But I’d seen it done before, you just pull a ripcord. How hard could it be? The air inside the building was becoming thick with heat, the lack of oxygen starting to settle into my lungs. Time was running out. It was like everything was moving in slow motion—every second stretching into eternity.

I paced back and forth, my hands shaking violently. The cold sweat on my skin clung to me, sticky and nauseating. There were so many things I needed to do, so many choices—and all of them felt like life-or-death decisions.

The air was getting heavier with each passing second, but it was hard to focus, hard to stay calm when my thoughts kept circling back to John, to his reckless jump into the water. I couldn’t lose him, not like this.

Minutes stretched into an endless haze. It was like I was trapped inside a nightmare. No light, no air, no way to call for help. I could hear my own heartbeat, feel the seconds dragging by as I stared into the murky water below, waiting for any sign of movement. Waiting for anything—anything at all—to show me that John was still alive.

And then, suddenly, I heard a sound—a faint, distant thump followed by the familiar hum of the filters. My heart leapt in my chest, but it was swallowed by the howling winds. Was that him?

I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to do something. I turned toward the diving equipment, my hands fumbling as I tried to get the gear on. My fingers were slick with sweat, slipping against the straps and valves. It felt like everything was moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

But what if I made it worse? What if I was too late?

I barely registered the eerie glow steadily growing beneath the water, my mind too tangled in panic, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. It wasn’t until a sudden, violent splash shattered the silence that my head snapped up, my fingers still clumsy against the buckles of the oxygen tank.

Bodies hit the platform with a sickening thud, the wet slap of limbs against the slick metal ringing through the storm-rattled air. My heart seized in my chest.

Arthur.

And beneath him, heaving, coughing, a goddamn mess—John fucking Marston.

Relief hit me first, a bone-deep rush that nearly took my knees out from under me, but it was quickly drowned by something hotter, something furious. The adrenaline that had been running through my veins since I first bolted out into the storm boiled over. I stormed toward them, my pulse still hammering from the sheer terror of thinking I was going to have to drag John’s lifeless body out of that water.

As if sensing my rage, Arthur backed away, slipping silently beneath the surface, his dark eyes lingering on me as he floated in the murky depths. I was glad to see he was okay—grateful—but right now, my fury had a singular target.

“Do you have a goddamn death wish, Marston?” I shouted over the thunder’s deafening growl, my voice shaking with the weight of all the things I wasn’t saying—I thought you were dead, you idiot. I thought I was too late.

John, of course, wasn’t the least bit fazed by my anger. He rolled onto his knees, hacking up water, and cleared his throat like he hadn’t just jumped into a pitch-black tank during a hurricane with no diving experience.

“Pumps are running,” he rasped, still catching his breath. “I can redirect the generators to keep ‘em on so they don’t fail again.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was shaking, his body trembling with cold, adrenaline, maybe even fear—though he’d never admit it. His lips had a bluish tint, his hands clumsy as they tried to push against the slick platform.

“Enough about the goddamn generators!” I snapped, my voice cracking from the force of it. “You could have died, John! Why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”

He let out a breath, slow and heavy, shifting onto his knees. In the dim light, I could see it clearly now—the raw exhaustion in his expression, the way his fingers curled against the platform as if steadying himself.

“We were running out of time,” he murmured, his voice rough with strain. “Without the pumps filtering the water… everything would have—”

He trailed off, his breath still uneven, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. I swallowed hard, my anger warring with something else. Something dangerously close to fear. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Defeated, I yanked a towel from the nearest locker and wrapped it around him as he shrugged the heavy oxygen tank from his back. John coughed again, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater before dragging a trembling hand down his face.

"One of the main pumps was clogged," he finally said, voice raw. "I tried clearing it from the control panel, but nothing was working. The pressure was building, and if it backed up any further, the whole damn system would’ve started dumping toxins back into the tank." He looked up at me then, eyes glassy but sharp with determination. "Everything would’ve died."

I exhaled sharply, my hands tightening around the damp towel I’d just wrapped around him. I knew he was right, knew how delicate the balance in Arthur’s enclosure was. But knowing didn’t make it easier to swallow the fact that he’d risked his life to fix it.

Before I could say anything, a soft ripple caught my attention, and Arthur moved to the edge of the platform, watching us with an intensity that made my skin prickle. His dark hair clung to his face, water glistening on his skin under the glow of his veins. "He nearly drowned," Arthur said bluntly, his voice calm but edged with something deeper. "By the time he realized the tank wasn’t secured properly, he was already sinking."

My stomach twisted violently. I turned back to John, my breath catching in my throat. "Jesus Christ, John—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he cut me off, his lips pressing into a tight line. "By the time I figured out the straps were loose, I was already flailing. Damn near sucked in half the tank trying to stay afloat." He let out a humorless chuckle, but it fell flat against the weight of what had just happened.

Arthur shifted, the water lapping softly as he leaned on the edge of the platform. "I got to him just in time," he continued, eyes locked on mine. "Dragged him up ‘fore he could panic and make it worse."

A shudder ran down my spine. I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—the fact that John had nearly drowned in the dark, or the thought of what might have happened if Arthur hadn’t been there to pull him out.

I sighed, leaning back on my heels. “You got lucky, John. Abigail would’ve killed us all if something happened to you. Go home. Be with your family before this storm tries to take away what really matters.”

John let out a slow breath, his head hanging low as he nodded. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” He turned to Arthur, shifting the towel around his shoulders. “Thank you, Arthur….I don’t know how to—”

Arthur waved a dismissive, webbed hand. “No need. I understand, just do as the lady says. Go be with your family.”

A quiet chuckle escaped John as he pushed himself to his feet, tightening the towel around him. “You two are my family. This place… it’s my home. I’d be lost without it.”

My chest ached at the words, he had always been like family to me. But to acknowledge Arthur like that, it made my heart grow warm. He’d come such a long way. Before I could stop myself, I pulled him into a tight hug. “And we’d be lost without you. Just promise me you’ll be careful getting home. The roads are hell.”

John nodded against my shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Just gonna check the generator room one last time and grab some dry clothes from my office.” He pulled back slightly, studying me with a look of concern. “You sure you don’t wanna come back to Hosea’s with me? I don’t like the idea of you driving out there alone.”

I smiled, touched by his worry—especially after what he’d just been through. But as I glanced at Arthur, something in my gut told me I needed to stay. That I’d be safer here with him. “I’ll be alright. I think I should stay with Arthur, make sure no more pumps get clogged.” I shot him a wink, trying to keep it light.

John huffed out a laugh and pulled me in for one last hug. “Not exactly the swimming lesson I was hoping for.” He gave my shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping back. “You be safe, ya hear?”

I nodded, watching as John disappeared into the darkened corridor, his wet footsteps fading into the storm’s relentless roar. A deep sigh left my lips as I finally let myself sink onto the platform, crossing my legs beneath me. The adrenaline that had kept me moving, kept me focused, was finally wearing off. In its place came exhaustion, creeping in like the tide, mingling with the lingering relief that John was—at least for now—safe.

But even with Arthur’s presence, unease curled around my ribs. The storm was still raging outside, the building groaning under the relentless wind and rain. It was so dark in here, the only source of light coming from the gentle glow of Arthur’s bioluminescent veins, pulsing with his heartbeat beneath the skin. The water around him shimmered with the soft glow, casting strange, shifting shadows along the walls. They twisted and danced with each ripple, almost alive, taunting in the periphery of my vision.

My gaze remained fixed on the door where John had left. Would he be okay? Should I have gone with him? The roads were treacherous, barely visible even with headlights. And the thought of him driving alone in this storm, half-drowned and exhausted—

A violent crack of thunder shook the facility, so loud it felt like the sky itself was splitting open. My whole body jolted, a sharp gasp escaping before I could stop it.

I didn’t even notice Arthur moving until I felt him behind me. The platform barely creaked under his weight as he pulled himself up, his broad chest pressing against my back. Before I could say anything, two strong arms wrapped around my waist, his warmth chasing away the cold that had settled in my bones. His chin found my shoulder, his breath fanning across my neck, a steady and grounding presence against the chaos outside.

“You are afraid,” he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the storm, resonating right next to my ear.

There was no mistaking his meaning, no way the wind could steal his words away. He was close enough that I knew, without a doubt, he was inhaling my scent. Taking in the subtle shifts in my emotions the way he always did.

I swallowed, my fingers absentmindedly grazing over the tops of his hands, feeling the slight texture of his silky skin, the way his thumbs traced slow, soothing circles against my abdomen. “Not afraid,” I whispered, though my voice wavered. “Just… worried. What’s going to be left of this place tomorrow? What if… what if John doesn’t make it home?”

Arthur exhaled a slow, steady breath, then pressed a lingering kiss just beneath my ear. The warmth of it sent a shiver down my spine, but gods, it was a welcome distraction.

“Shhh,” he rumbled against my skin, his lips brushing so softly it made my heart stutter. “You make my hearts bleed when you worry like that.” His embrace tightened, pulling me impossibly closer, as if he could shield me from the weight of my thoughts. “We cannot control the storm, only focus on what’s in front of us.”

Or behind us, I thought, exhaling as I leaned back against him, letting my head rest on his shoulder. He was such a massive presence, his body swallowing mine completely, a wall of solid strength against the uncertainty surrounding us.

Arthur let out a quiet, contented sound, something between a sigh and a low, pleased hum, his arms flexing as he drew me in. His hold was protective, steady, unshakable. And for the first time since I’d raced through the storm to get here, I let myself close my eyes, just for a moment, letting his warmth anchor me.

“Try to relax,” his voice was low, almost strained, like he was holding back something deep and primal. “You’re safe here. Safe with me.”

His hand moved agonizingly slow up my side, fingers tracing along the curve of my ribs, his palm so big that the tips ghosted over my breast. The barely-there touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I sucked in a breath, trying—and failing—to quell the growing heat pooling between my thighs.

I wanted more. Gods, I needed more of him.

Everywhere.

I wanted him to touch me everywhere. I wanted him to slide that hand fully over my chest, to feel the way his rough but gentle thumb would tease over my hardened nipple. To know what it was like to be touched, claimed by something as wild and untamed as Arthur. I wanted his claws to tear through the thin barrier of my clothing, to leave nothing between us. These were dangerous thoughts; terrible, sinful thoughts.

There must be a special place in hell for women who looked at a creature like Arthur and imagined how he would feel between her thighs.

But fuck. These are where my thoughts are.

I was drowning in them, so lost in the heat of my own fantasy that I barely noticed when his hand shifted, cupping my cheek with careful reverence. It wasn’t until I heard the deep, rolling timbre of his voice that reality snapped into focus.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart? What I’m doing to you in your thoughts?”

My breath caught. My body tensed, a mixture of shock and shame flickering through me like a live wire. Startled, I started to pull away, but before I could—

“No,” he whispered against my neck, his voice firm yet impossibly soft. “Don’t stop, I’m certain that whatever it is you’re imagining is something I’m enjoying immensely.”

A large, webbed hand slid down, fingers splaying wide over my belly, holding me in place. If only his hand would move a little lower…claws grazing the line of my waistband. Almost like he was teasing. The pressure of his touch grounded me, kept me from slipping away. I could feel his hearts beating against my back, steady and strong.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I swallowed hard. “S-so you can read my thoughts now too?” My voice was barely a whisper, breathless and unsteady.

Arthur chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his body, reverberating through me like a melody I never wanted to stop hearing. The fondness for him that stretched through my chest was almost painful at this point.

“No, my love,” he murmured, his lips brushing just beneath my ear, sending a delicious shiver racing down my spine. “But when I touch you, your soul is so familiar to me. It’s as if I have known you in a hundred lifetimes before this.”

His grip on my waist tightened, fingers curling possessively, but not to restrain—to anchor.

“I feel your need calling to me, and my own… my own wishes to bury itself inside you.” His voice darkened, rich with longing, heavy with promise. “It tells me to cling to the curve of your waist, to clutch at the feeling in my chest that lingers when you’re near. My soul wishes to keep you—” his lips pressed lightly against my temple, sealing his words into my skin “—and never let you go.”

Something between us shifted then, something that had been dancing on the edge of certainty, now falling into place with an undeniable finality. And it wasn’t just the slickness between my thighs or the fire licking up my spine.

Arthur had just placed the leash to his heart in my hands.

And I knew—he would never ask for it back.

AN: I promise the next chapter is pure smut. The title is "The Point of No Return" and I think we can all guess what that implies. I have sooo many steamy ideas I just need to figure out how to put them all together. But it's gonna be fun ;) I know this was a long chapter, so I hope you don't feel too deprived of our favorite seaboy. I love John/Abigail/Jack so dearly, they deserved some one-on-one time with the reader <3

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #monster au #rdr2 modern au #siren au #siren x reader #monster romance #red dead fandom #ao3

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astraeus-tree · 14 hours ago

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Chapter 4

『Everything Begins From There』

Disparities Between Our Souls You finally reunite with (some of) your family and ask them for help Disclaimer(s): N/A

Chapter 3 <- Chapter 4

Cass had arrived at the rooftop where Damian was at not even 30 minutes after she had said she would. The two had thoroughly inspected the house as best as they could from the distance they were at. Not much was revealed, it had looked almost the exact same as it did before you disappeared.

Hours had passed since your first appearance and when you had gone into the house, many theories about what happened to you were said but none had made sense. The two had stayed on the rooftop, even as they saw the sun peek through the horizon. Their patience was wearing thin, but if this waiting could lead to at least the smallest hint to what happened to you, then it would be worth it.

Finally, when the sun had fully risen, barely visible through the smog, out you came. You were not alone either, the other vigilante was at your side, carrying the rogue that Damian saw last night. They saw you nod at your partner before a silk-like substance come out of your wrist, using it like ropes to jump from one building to another.

Cass and Damian stealthily followed you around the city, utilising the skills they were taught in the League of Assassins. The route you took had been familiar to them, but they had disregarded the thought, focusing on not losing you to your speed instead. Yet, as mere minutes went by, and great distances were covered, they could ignore it no longer. Not when you had stopped in front of the Wayne Manor, their home.

Your home.

You felt your heart beat in your chest and your mind race as you swung through the streets of Gotham. You moved through alleyways that you knew were always empty of thugs. Every once in a while, you would swing high enough to see the city, and every time, you would make sure to take in the scenery. The view of Gotham would never fail to calm your nerves, even with all the pain it had caused you.

As you crossed the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, you knew there was no turning back. The manor made its way into your sight not long after. You didn’t know if you felt relief or dread, or maybe even both. You wanted so badly to turn around and go back to your aunt’s house, but you had no other choice.

You easily jumped over the fence and walked up the stairs to the door. Just like at your aunt’s place, you had hesitated to knock on the door, but one look at your husband was all that you needed to steel your nerves. Alfred had opened it almost instantaneously, something inside you was telling you that he had been expecting you. You were right of course, he had been waiting since he first heard of your appearance last night.

“Master [Name]. Welcome back.” You weren’t surprised to know that even through the mask, he knew it was you. That’s just how he always was.

“Hi Alfred. How are you?” You asked him, attempting to not make this reunion any more awkward that it has to be.

“I have been well. Please enter, master [Name].” The gap between the double doors widened and he bowed down as you entered. You quickly thanked him as you walk inside. “Please follow me into the cave. I’m sure you have plenty to say.” You nodded, your footsteps echoing as the three of you walked down the hallway and into the Batcave.

The Batcave thankfully had an area that held many cells, and that’s where Miguel had put the anomaly. Had it been a normal cell, you wouldn’t had trusted to put him there, but this was your family and you knew their security was top notch.

In another area, sectioned away from the basically-prison area and the main, a couch was set, a coffee table in front of it and TV across from it. You didn’t remember this room, but you knew time inevitably changes things, and this was one of them. You sat on the couch, Miguel sitting beside you, silently taking in his surroundings.

Alfred offered both of you tea, which you had gladly taken up and you husband cautiously accepting. You were thankful for the silence, it gave you time to collect your thoughts, to think about what you wanted and what you should say.

This peace did not last for though. Three familiar figures had barged into the room, and from their frazzled looks, you could tell they had ran. It was your siblings—or at least some of them. Questions and statements had rushed out of their mouths, a cacophony of voices filling the room. It was safe to say, you were overwhelmed. You were thankful when Alfred silenced them, pointing out how panicked you had looked.

“I’ll answer your questions later. I just want to know, where’s everyone else, especially Bruce?” You asked them.

“The other’s are busy right now, they said they’ll come when they finish what they need to. B is on a mission with the JL.” Cass replied. You inwardly sighed, a part of you had hoped B would be here so you could see his reaction, but perhaps this was for the best.

“Alright. Ok. That’s fine.” You muttered under your breath, your disappointment was immeasurable, but you knew you should’ve known better. After all, you had arrived here out of no where. Even if they hadn’t neglected you, dropping everything and coming back to the manor in such short notice was an almost impossible task. Miguel clasped your hand is his, silently comforting you. That was when Tim spoke up.

“Who is this man with you? Oracle and I have scoured everywhere for anything but nothing.” Of course your family’s first words to you would be an interrogation.

“He’s my husband.” You state plainly.

“And why is there no records of this conjugation?”

“Because it didn’t happen in this universe.”

The silence was loud. Just those few words had explained everything. The family was no stranger to multiverse problems, so it was almost astounding how this realisation had never been made until now. Until you were the one that was saying it to them.

“So why return now? It seems like you’ve already made a life for yourself in this other universe, so why throw it away to come back here?” Damian questions, and for once, his voice isn’t filled with contempt at you.

“We don’t even want to be in this universe. Hell, it’s detrimental for us to even stay here for too long—well not for me but for Miguel and the anomaly.”

“Anomaly?” They all asked, in sync.

“A being that doesn’t belong in this universe.” Miguel had spoken up. You let him continue his explanation of the multiverse and the anomalies, with him being more verse in the topic than you were. Once again, they were quiet at the end of his talk, processing the info dump they had just received.

“Ok… Enough with that though. Have you been well in the past years? Are you going to leave me again?” Cass spoke up. You were taken aback by her words. You didn’t expect for someone in the family to actually question your wellbeing.

“I’ve been doing great. As for the second question, that’s the reason why we’re here actually. We need your help fixing our gizmos so we can go back to our universe. We tried earlier but no results came out of it, so we’re hoping you guys could help us.” You could see Cass’ face drop, you were leaving her again, and this time, voluntarily.

“What do we get out of this?” Tim questioned.

“More knowledge of the universe and gadgets that could help you travel it, if you wanted to.” They all had contemplative looks on their faces, and you knew they were all debating on if this was a worthy deal or not.

“I believe we should help master [Name].” Alfred spoke up. You were grateful, this was probably the one factor that they needed to make their final decision, Alfred’s approval. The three of them nodded, yet you could tell Cass and Damian’s were hesitant. You stood up from the couch, and so did Miguel.

“Great. Let’s get started then.”

Taglist (open)

@kik1010 @cxcilla @00hellohello00 @bluepanda08 @frankie-moon3 @guyfuitty @lumi320 @type-ink @kye-chen-r @sugasweettea @sillyheartmoonnyx @definitely-not-sammie @birbtweettweet @itsberrydreemurstuff @bellethesleepypotato @yaoizee @bat1212 @mybones537 @cim0nnin @ninihrtss @redkarmakai @a-lurking-fae @1abi @lettucel0ver @leeiasure @chericia @yotokx @amber-content @oscarisaac2099 @awawage @k-anaru @randomlyappearingartist @cutelittlesugarfairy @ironsaladwitch @pix-stuff @capswife @bibliophile-yomna @inojinieeee

This chapter is kind of a filler chapter, so I apologise for that guys

I lowkey got addicted to binary puzzles when I was writing this and that's why it took so long lmao

Also, a little rant but oml my physics teacher actually makes me hate the subject so much, which is so sad cuz we're doing a cool topic this term, which is nuclear physics

Anyways, mistakes are free to point out and will be fixed immediately

This week's title doesn't come from the lyrics of a song, but does come from an MV! Wiege recently released on Valentines and I felt I had to include it somehow

Have a nice day/night everybody <3

Also the next chapter of DBOS will be delayed since it is the week of my birthday!! Yippee

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crappymixtape · 1 day ago

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among the stars • part one

PART I • PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V • PART VI ❝ summer ended and everyone went back to school or to indianapolis for ‘real’ jobs – steve’s friends practically begged him to come to the city with them at the end of the summer, couch surf in their apartment until he finds work, but he decides to stay until one rainy night in october something happens – someone happens – and it changes the course of his life forever • 18+ | ( 1.3k, strangers to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, extraterrestrials, steve x reader )

B U R N I N G I N T H E D A R K 🎶 oneonta, the album leaf

Rain was coming down in sheets, gathering in the street drains clogged with leaves and filling with water, the yellow quilt-striped center lines drowned out and leaving the road black. A clap of thunder shook the picture frames on the walls of Steve’s apartment, the glass window panes flexing creakily, pulling him up from his spot on the couch as his lamp flickered.

The worst storm Hawkins had seen in years, and of course it hit on Halloween night, scattering any hopes of trick-or-treating into the howling wind.

Pressing a hand to his window, Steve watched the stand of trees at the property line bend like rubber. “Christ…” he murmured, his breath fogging the glass as his eyes narrowed, struggling to see anything out there in the thick, black night.

Ring, ring, ring!

“Shit–”

Steve jumped at the landline jingling from the kitchen wall, heart hammering against his ribcage as he grabbed it off the base, “Hello?”

“Steve? Why do you sound like you just shit yourself?” Robin’s voice crackled through static from the storm.

“I didn’t just shit myself–”

“Do you see this outside?? It’s insane!”

“Yeah, yeah. I see it.”

“On Halloween too! Do you think it’s a curse or something? A witch coming back from the dead to wipe our sorry asses off the planet for burning her at the stake?”

“Robin.”

“Oh! Or that weird guy that lives in the creepy house over by the park? Maybe he’s been like…haunted by a poltergeist or something and it’s telling him to possess our bodies and–”

“Robin.”

“What?”

“It’s just a storm,” Steve said, trying to sound unbothered and completely unaffected by her farfetched theories, but something in the way the wind howled around the corner of his apartment made his skin crawl.

“O-kayyy,” Robin teased in her sing-songy voice, “But when your door gets busted down by some slimy green swamp thing don’t come crying to me.”

“Swamp thing? Robin, you gotta stop watching–”

CRACK!

Lightning split the sky in two, a perfectly blinding fracture, and made it look like the daylight for a second before plunging everything into dark.

“Ste-eve, are-are you st-still th-ere?” Robin’s voice crackled over the line, cutting out as another flash spidered across the horizon.

“What? Robin, you’re cutting out–”

“Can’t-can’t he-ear yo-ou, Ste-e-ve, Ste–”

BOOM!

Another blinding flash of light lit up the dark like the other two, but this one was different. Just as the phone line cut out, a crash sounded followed by an explosion – a bright, orange, burning glow in the trees out Steve’s window.

“What the hell–”

Shielding his eyes with his arm, he could feel the heat coming from the fire that was catching in the dead leaves on the ground, licking up the bare tree trunks. His eyes slowly adjusted against the harsh contrast and the longer he looked the more he realized it hadn’t been a normal lightning strike.

There, at the end of a deep groove cut into the dirt, was a small aircraft of some kind. The windshield was busted out and just a couple feet away from the fire was a body.

And they were moving.

“Oh, shit. Oh, god. Shit, shit, shit–I’m coming! I’m coming!” Steve yelled into his apartment, scrambling to shove his feet into his beat up Blazers, jacket only half-on as he grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen and barreled down the stairs out into the trees.

“Hey! Can you hear me? Hang on! I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Stumbling over fallen branches and overgrown blackberries, Steve felt the thorns ripping at his jacket, one particularly nasty one smarting across his cheek, but he couldn’t stop, he was almost there. He could see the person struggling to pull themselves up against a tree trunk, trying to get to safety.

The fire was huge now, engulfing the aircraft in angry, white-hot flames, and the heat was overwhelming, suffocating and pressing in on every part of him. If there was any gas left, there’d be another, bigger, explosion, and soon based on when it’d crashed. He had to get whoever it was to safety.

Tripping on a root, Steve caught himself just as he reached the crash site.

“Shit–how’d you make it out of there? There’s hardly anything left of it–Jesus–this is bad, this is really bad–” he rambled, the words spilling from his mouth as he watched the flames, panic surging through him like a livewire.

A whimper of pain pulled his attention back to the survivor and he shook himself into action, this was not the time for overthinking.

Scrambling over to the tree, Steve crouched down next to the stranger, holding his flashlight overhead to get a better look at their wounds, and he nearly dropped it at the sight before him.

Long turquoise hair, like seaglass and the glittering water down at the quarry, skin tinged purple, shimmering and soft like moths wings in the beam of light, and ears that tapered into points at the ends. They were wearing what looked like a space suit of sorts, but it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Made from fabric darker than ink and covered in tiny grids of light, blinking in reds and yellows, error, caution, alert.

Leaning in closer, Steve gently pushed stray locks of hair aside and suddenly it felt like the fire had made its way under his skin, but softer. Warmer. Glowing. Strange and curious and he couldn’t help reaching out a hand, his fingertips ghosting over cheeks dotted in indigo freckles, tiny constellations he felt an overwhelming urge to discover.

“Who are you…” he whispered, eyes catching the fragile flutter of a heartbeat at their neck, “…where did you come from?”

And the low, warmth of his voice slowly lifted your eyes open.

Someone, a someone not like you, was close.

Too close.

Danger.

Your brain told your arm to move, grab the pod from your thigh pocket, but when your shoulder flexed, pain shot through your arm, sharp and stabbing as little pinpoints of light clouded your vision. Someone was screaming, and when the being hovering over you started to panic, you realized it was you.

You were screaming.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa–okay, Jesus, okay. I’m here to help, I’m Steve. Did you break your shoulder? Is it your arm maybe? Can you move your fingers? Shit–what would Nancy do? Dammit–”

A loud pop! sounded from the pile of wreckage and you both flinched, as this ‘Steve’ shielded you from the angry embers with his body.

“We gotta get out of here, can you walk?” Steve asked, but another crack! from the flames pushed him to stop asking questions and just move. “I’m so sorry, you can hit me for this later,” he apologized, shoving the light from his hand into his pocket and scooping you up into his arms, holding you tight to his chest.

Another earsplitting scream cut the air in two as your whole body cried out in pain and the last thing you heard before losing consciousness was Steve.

I’m so sorry. It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna get help. It’ll be okay. I promise. I promise.

[ NOTE: THIS IS PART ONE OF A ??? PART SERIES – MORE TO COME SOON ]

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

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noctiva · 5 hours ago

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Sweet Thing [PT. 1]

Toby Rogers x f!reader (NSFW)

WC: 10.2k

Summary: Church on Sundays, a quiet daily life on your family’s farm, and the chirp of crickets to lull you to sleep every night. You had a nice, simple life. That is, until you found yourself entangled with a miscreant from another state. You should’ve listened to mama.

CW: 18+ content, mentions of religion + religious imagery, questioning faith, descriptions of violence and gore, alluded sexism, americans written by a canadian lmaoaoao, female masturbation, manipulation, sort of toxic relationship, loss of innocence, loss of virginity, explicit sexual content, corruption, salirophilia, unsafe sex, semi-public sex, dirty talk, oral sex (male + female receiving), first time blowjobs, pretty plot heavy - you gotta suffer a bit before Toby makes an appearance, but once he doesss, LORD

Part 2 (link will be added once it’s up)

Reminder to separate reality from fiction! Some of the acts written here are definitely not recommended to imitate. Be safe!

NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

“Did ya’ see? The old fence out front got knocked down again.”

Sat at your family’s wooden kitchen table, you push around the scrambled eggs on your plate absentmindedly. It’s a morning like any other. The sun just barely peeking over the horizon, illuminating the dew drops on the crops outside. A crisp chill in the air before the sun warms up the sky.

Your father sits in front of you at the head of the table, dressed and ready for the day like he always was - complete with his suspenders and hat, dirtied blue jeans stuffed into his work boots. Your mother sat next to him, looking lovely - as expected. You sometimes wonder how early she truly woke up, with the way her hair was always perfectly curled and her makeup was spotless before the day had even started.

Your brother sat next to you. Jameson, or ‘Jamesy’ as everyone called him - your family’s crown jewel. He was strong, capable, and smart enough that he really could’ve done something with himself if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. He chose to stay here, much fonder of the smell of dirt and manure than that of gasoline and city smog.

It wasn’t much, but it was comfortable. Easy. For you, at least. Your father and Jameson tended to most of the farm work - harvesting and replanting crops, milking the cows and slaughtering the pigs. All you had to do was collect the eggs from the chicken coop in the mornings. And all your mother had to do was homemake and look pretty (which, truthfully, was probably a lot more difficult than you were giving her credit for).

It was all you had ever known, ever since you were a little girl, but you were content with that. You doubted it got much better than this anyway. Even if it did, the cost was probably far too great.

“Again?” Your mother frowned, polished pink nails clinking against her coffee mug as she raised it to her lips. “That’s the third time this month, ain’t it?”

“You bet.” Your father huffed back to her, lips twitched down into a scowl you had learned to look past. Downturned lips under a bushy greying moustache, you couldn’t reminder the last time his face had changed. Maybe it was stuck that way. “I’m gettin’ damn tired of fixing it.”

You watch as he stabs a few pieces of fresh made sausage onto his fork, before shovelling them into his mouth.

“I fixed the fence last time, Pops.” Jameson pipes up as he leans back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. He crosses his arms over his chest, the navy blue flannel he was wearing rolled up to his elbows.

It was such a run of the mill, mundane conversation, that you were barely even paying attention. The words were more so floating around your ears than actually entering them - the food in front of you going cold the longer you pushed it around. You could name countless other days that has started just the same as this one.

That didn’t mean it was bad, just… Growing stale. After nineteen years on this same old plot of land, everything was. Jameson had his driver’s license and ventured out often, spending nights god knows where only to return with a stupid grin and a flush on his cheeks. You… Well, you didn’t go anywhere. The farthest you wandered was to the old willow tree just outside of your family’s property. Any further, and you’d get an earful from your father.

Which was strange, because you were the eldest, but you suppose that’s just the way life is. Maybe one day you’ll turn out just like your mother - continuing to never wander far, dedicating your time and energy to make some regular farm boy happy. That’s probably the plan.

“Yeah, because I just said - I’m damn tired of fixin’ it!” Your father drops his fork back onto the table with a clink. His plate was clean. Just like your mother’s. Just like Jameson’s. Unlike yours. “I didn’t spend two weeks breaking my back putting that thing up just for it to be knocked down every fuckin’ Tuesday.”

“Language.” Your mother chastises in a soft hiss, shooting your father a narrow look out of the corner of her eye. The pearls hung around her neck showed their lustre the best in the morning sun, as did the absolute rock placed in the centre of her wedding ring. With her fingers clasped around her mug, she lets out a sigh before continuing. “I reckon it’s that new family that moved in at the end of the road. You know, the Rogers?”

Finally, your interest is piqued, and you look up from your plate to gaze curiously at your mother as she rambles on. “None of these things were happening before that lot showed up, and I heard their boy is a real piece of work. They only moved out here to try and keep him outta trouble.”

“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” Your father asks, voicing the question you had been silently wondering yourself. You watch with interest as your mother takes a sip of her coffee before answering - steam billowing up from the mug.

“Word gets around. Saw Darleen when I was runnin’ errands at the market.” She hums softly. “They moved in right across the street from her and Tommy.” She sets her mug down before standing up and pushing her chair in. She picks up her plate, then your father’s, then Jameson’s. When she reaches yours she eyes it quizzically, obviously taken aback by how little you’ve actually eaten. “You’re not done, are you darlin’? You’ve barely made a dent.”

Your eyes widen a little as they lift to meet hers, before you sheepishly brush a few strands of hair off of your shoulders.

“Oh, I’m just not hungry today, mama.” You answer back softly, giving her a little smile. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed I suppose.”

She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at you, studying your face for a few moments. Probably to try and determine whether or not you were lying. You weren’t. You knew better than to try and slip a lie past her.

“Alright.” She breathes out, before collecting your plate as well. “But you’re not skipping supper. Can’t have you going all frail on us.”

You watch as she carries the plates towards to kitchen sink, setting the three empty ones on the counter before scraping yours into the compost under the sink. You can’t help but feel just a little bad about it, knowing that she had been the one to get up early and cook it - only to end up shovelling it into the waste bin. “Anyway, as I was sayin’-“ She however, doesn’t seem phased. But then again, she never did. “The Rogers, they’ve been all over the place because of that boy of theirs. Darlene says he’s got a whole shopping list of medical problems, so they’ve been flying state to state ever since he was a baby to try and get him patched up.”

The faucet squeaks as she turns it, warm water gushing out and starting to fill the sink. Then she turns, grabbing her apron off of a coat hook next to the fridge before fastening it on. “Don’t know what he’s got, but it doesn’t really matter. Apparently he’s been a bad apple ever since he hit puberty. Lyin’, stealin’, the whole lot. Lived in Colarado for a little before he stole a cop car. Paid his bail and moved him out here.”

“You sure love your gossip, don’t you, ma’?” Jameson snorts, shooting you a look out of the corner of his eye that has you letting out a soft giggle.

“It’s not gossip, Jamesy.” You mother sighs. She picks up his plate, and rinses it under the warm water. “It’s talk. Everyone talks around here. What else is there to do to pass the time?” The same thing is done to the other three plates before she’s pouring soap onto a sponge. “Besides, it’s good to talk. Keeps you aware.”

“Aware of what?” You ask, your eyes following her hands as she scrubs grime from the dishes. Just like she had done every day since you could form a memory. Your father’s calloused hands had never even touched a dish in his life. You didn’t even have to ask to be sure of that fact. Which, again, was just the way things were.

“Of what’s going on around us.” She hums softly, not sparing you a glance as she worked. “Of the people you don’t wanna mix with.”

“Well how can you know you don’t like them if you’ve never even met ‘em?” You question again. Where this boldness had come from, you weren’t entirely sure, but questions just kept bubbling up in your mind like popped corn. You suppose you should just keep all these thoughts to yourself, but then where was the fun in that? You needed something to keep your mind lively, even if it was just a hoard of ‘what if’s’ and ‘what could be’s’

This tidbit about some family of strangers was the most excitement you had gotten in weeks.

Your mother’s hands still, and then she’s pausing at the sink to look at you. And that’s all it takes, one look to know you’ve taken a step too far.

“I know enough.” She answers back to you, with a tone of finality in her voice that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the room. You can feel it, and so could your brother, if the way his shoulders tensed up was anything to tell by. “I know enough to know that I don’t want the likes of them hangin’ anywhere around here. Anywhere around you, specifically.”

“Me?” You ask, still pressing through you know it’s a dangerous route. Her warning though, just had your imagination running even more rampant. “Why just me? Jamesy’s the one always goin’ out at night. For all you know he’s probably already met the kid.”

“Have not.” Jameson snaps back immediately. He turns his head and deals you a warning glare, probably a suggestion to not throw him under the bus again. “Rogers is weird. You’d never catch me hanging around him.”

Oh?

“That right?” You push, narrowing your eyes right back at him. The calm morning vibe had long since diminished, leaving plenty of room for something much more volatile. “And how would you know if you’ve never met him?”

You watch as Jameson’s eyes widen a little, his fingers twitching into fists once he’s realized his fatal slip up. Got him, you think, as your lips stretch up into a sly smile. Somehow, the look in his eyes only grows colder, before he’s looking away from you with a scoff.

“Alright, damn, I’ve met him before.” He confesses with a huff. “But don’t worry ma’, I don’t pass the time with him. He’s…” He pauses for a moment, struggling to come up with the right word. “Freaky.” He settles on. “The typa guy that your gut just tells you to stay far away from.”

Your mother hums in satisfaction at the answer, resuming her previous actions as she rinses off soap in the sink. “He’s a gnarly lookin’ fellow too. Face all scarred up, practically torn to shreds on the left half of it.” He turns to look at you again, and then raises finger to point square at your face. “Bad news.” He snaps. “That whole damn family. Ma’s right, and you should listen to her. You’ve got no business bein’ around him. I can’t think of a single intention he could have that would be good.”

“Alright, Jamesy, gosh.” You finally concede, crossing your arms over your chest. Unable to conceal the frown twitching at your lips. “I wasn’t gonna, anyway. Was just curious.”

“Like hell you were ‘just curious’.” He snorts, giving you one last warning glance before standing up. “Curiosity turns into ideas, and ideas turn into actions.” He pushes his chair in. “Ain’t that right, pa’?”

“Right on the money.” Your father hums. He looks to you, meets your eye, and you know right then that this little fight is over. You could argue with your mom, and you could bicker with Jameson - but you knew better than to fight with your dad. So you zip your lips, give him a curt little nod of understanding, and the matter is dealt with.

The curiosity, however, lingers.

Breakfast is finished with, and after helping your mother wring out the fresh washed clothes, you pin them up to dry outside. The sun has finally made its full appearance, painting the whole world gold and blessing your skin with its warmth.

A soft, cream coloured maxi dress hangs off of your body - lacy, flowing, complete with bell sleeves. It was the type of thing that showed off the fact that it wasn’t you who got your hands dirty. Your hands were soft and nimble as they pulled your hair up and off of your neck, pinning it in place with a claw clip. You pull a few strands out to frame your face, before turning to look at your mother. She was just finishing hanging up the last few articles of clothing, dressed in something rather similar to you - though hers boasted a robin’s egg blue tone.

“You look lovely today, mama.” You tell her as you take a few steps towards her, bare feet pressing into the soft blades of grass below you. She looks up to meet your gaze, and you smile to yourself when you catch the way her eyes softened. She always looked so much younger when she smiled. It was like a glimpse at the young girl she used to be - the one who giggled softly and blushed at compliments.

“Thank you, darlin’.” She hums, lips curved upwards minutely. Once the last garment is hung, she wipes her damp hands against the front of her dress. “Why’re you kissing up? Trying to make me forget about the stunt you pulled at breakfast?”

Well, yes, but you didn’t think you were that obvious.

“I didn’t pull a stunt.” You laugh softly, clasping your hands behind your back. A soft breeze blows by you both, tousling the hair you had just made presentable. “I really just wasn’t hungry. Promise.”

“Oh, that’s not what I’m talking about.” She places a hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side. She had this way of peering into your very soul when she looked at you. A result of being born from her very flesh, maybe. Or perhaps you were just too much like her. “Got Pa’ and Jamesy all riled up. A woman’s got to realize when to bite her tongue sometimes, you know.”

“I was just askin’ questions.” You huff, lips tugging into a pout as you gaze up at her. “It’s not often someone new comes around here, can you blame me for wanting to know more?”

It’s silent for a moment as she studies you, her eyes narrowing minutely.

You can see it in her eyes as a million different thoughts pass through her mind, before she’s letting out a huff and settling on one. Closer, she approaches, until she’s standing right before you. Then, she reaches a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear gently. Her fingers are soft, yet so cold.

“Listen to me, okay?” She breathes out. You can tell that she’s trying to keep her expression neutral, but you can still see it when a crease begins to form between her brows. “I know you’re at the age where you’re startin’ to want things, growing up into a woman right before my eyes.” She pinches your cheek gently and lets out a little sigh. “But you’re still my little girl. I’ll be damned to hell if I let you run off with some miscreant.”

“I wouldn’t, mama.” You frown, eyebrows scrunching up at her words. Despite that, you reach up to touch her hand softly with your own. “I just wanted to know more about him. I don’t have many friends around these parts, you know.”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry for that.” Mirroring your own expression, her lips twitch downwards. “But you don’t need to be friends with someone like him. You’re a sweet thing. You need someone who matches that.”

She pulls away and purses her lips, before crossing her arms over her chest. “If you don’t believe me, trust Jameson. He’s met the boy.” Somehow, neither warning is swaying you. You weren’t one for rumours. Would much rather see the horror for yourself and be the judge of it, than just blindly abide to hearsay. For all you knew, he might just be a little off kilter, but a notch too far for your tight knit community to accept.

Maybe, he was just as lonely as you were. Maybe, he also just needed a friend. “We all just want what’s best for you, okay?” Your mother continues when she notices you’ve gone silent - getting lost in a mind that she just knew was growing more and more dangerous with each passing moment. “You need to listen, just this once. You’re a smart girl, act like it.”

Act like it. You’d sure as hell try.

By the afternoon, you’ve finished up lunch and were slipping on a pair of sandals by the back door with a wicker basket hanging from your arm. It was a lovely day outside - all blue skies and warm wind - so it was much favourable to the stuffy quarters of your family’s little homestead. Besides, you really felt like you needed a little time alone after being hounded for the greater half of the morning.

“Where are you goin’?” Your father asks, sat at the dining table with a newspaper in his hands. An ashtray sits in front of him, packed with ash with a smouldering smoke rested precariously on the edge.

“Found a patch of lemongrass out by the willow.” You hum back to him, offering a smile once you’ve fastened your shoes and stood up straight. “Last time I was there it was just shy of being long enough to pick. I think I’ll be able to grab some today.”

“That so?” He reaches forward and picks up his abandoned cigarette, slotting it between his teeth before settling back into his chair again. His calloused fingers rub against the thin paper in his hands as he turns to the next page. “Ma’ would probably like that for the roast shes cookin’ up tonight.” His gaze floats over to you once more and he lets out a soft huff. “Don’t dirty your dress again. Got an earful from ‘er last time she had to scrub grass stains from the knees.”

“I won’t.” You laugh sheepishly, but it’s a half-baked lie. You never try to, but somehow you always find yourself coming home with dirt on the hems and moss caked into your knees. You had an affinity for lying beneath the old willow, sinking into the soft patch of grass below whilst sun shone down on you through the gaps in the branches. Nature wasn’t as gentle as you were though, and always left you sullied by the time you walked back through your front door.

But that was alright. You’d just have to do your own laundry next time. Surely that would make up for it.

The sun heats your skin once you step through the door and skip down the steps of the back porch. The gentle sound of wind chimes meets your ears, a soft melody that brings a smile to your face even as you drift further away from the source. The wind carries you as you pad through the soft grass that made up most of your backyard, bordered with a slew of different crops.

Tomatoes, peppers, sweet peas - basically every vegetable your mother wanted constant free access to. Your favourites, were the potatoes- a variety spanning from golden russets to deep purple yams. It was simply the most fun, on the rare occasion that you’d convince your father to let you slip into a pair of Jameson’s old overalls and pluck each nugget from the ground with your bare hands. Dirt under your fingernails, mud on your elbows, sinking your hands into the earth that kept you fed and provided for.

You make a mental note to try and get him to let you next time. You pass the vegetable crops and venture out further, through the plowed land that served as a home for your father’s pride and joy - his corn field. Spanning acres, what felt like miles and miles of husks waiting to be peeled, the scent so fresh and sweet as you trudged through it. If there was an easier route to get where you needed to be, you didn’t care. Wading through the leaves and stems was a simple pleasure you wouldn’t deny yourself. It tickled as they brushed against your bare skin, stray hairs from the cobs catching in your hair and being carried away by you.

It’s a trek for sure, but it was the length of the journey that calmed your mind. The distance from your home that freed you, at least for now.

By the time you get to the willow tree your shows are caked with dirt, and the bottom hem of your dress is dusted brown from the earth it dragged against. Predictable. You have to hop the small fence that serves as the boundary line for your property, and once your feet land on the other side your heart feels lighter.

You had just barely left home, and yet you felt so far away. It was a euphoric feeling, to be all on your own.

Walking closer, you drop your basket on the ground before sinking into a crouch then flopping onto your back. You hadn’t lied to your father, there was a patch of lemongrass close by that was probably ready for picking, but that was your secondary motive in all honesty. The primary motive, was this. Lying beneath the willow with weeds in your hair, moss staining your dress, dirt sinking into your stockings when you slip your sandals off.

The breeze is warm, and the air is warmer. When you close your eyes and stretch your arms above your head, you feel like a cat stretching out in a spot of sunlight - relaxed, content. Free. You could spend hours like this, and you have before. Lying here until the sun went down and sent a chill through your bones. Sinking into the earth, letting it claim your body as its own for a few hours.

Whenever you die, you wish to be buried here. To have the roots of this tree wrap your corpse in an everlasting embrace. Keeping you close. Winding into your ribs and filling the space where your heart once was. It had been there when others hadn’t. It had watched you grow up, and absorbed your tears into its bark. You were one. A piece of you wound into each ring in its trunk.

You stretch your limbs, then bringing a leg up to bend at the knee. Your dress rises dangerously high, lace against your thigh. Exposing skin never seen, to air that would never speak of it. You bring your hands up to your face, cheeks rosy from the sun, and you hold them there. You can feel how warm you’ve become. How the sun has blanketed you in its heat, providing you with the comfort you so deeply craved.

It was times like these, that you felt guilty for calling yourself lonely. You had the sun, and the earth, and the willow that stood sturdy no matter what storm ripped past. You had all these constants, and they should be enough.

But they’re not. Not even close.

You want the warmth of hands. Hands, that loved you and held you close. Hands, that brushed upon places you had never shown another, imbuing you with a heat you couldn’t produce yourself. You wanted breath that brushed against you softer than the breeze did, causing goosebumps to rise despite the temperate nature of it.

You wanted arms to snake around you like these roots would when you were long gone. Curling around your body, constrictive yet grounding. Tight enough to make your breath shallow.

You wanted a man.

A real one. One who knew what you wanted, and abided to it. One who would kiss the souls of your feet, just to make sure every step of yours was blessed by his protection.

You wanted to feel, taste, love someone who held you just as dear.

But it was slim pickings, in a place like this.

You reach into your cleavage, fingers clasping the warmed metal of the crucifix that rested there. You knew it was sin, but was it not also human nature? Were we not born to crave one another? How else would this species live on?

How could one live, without the embrace of another? How could one die, never experiencing it? You wondered sometimes if you would. If you’d take after Mary, and leave this earth as a virgin unsullied.

Your pastor would probably say that was a blessing of the highest honour. You would call it punishment.

You needed it. Craved it like a starving dog craved a bone to slobber on. You could only imagine how it would really feel, but you were sure that your mind didn’t come close to reality. You didn’t have enough information to accurately picture how calloused palms may feel against your soft skin, or how blunt teeth may feel as they bite into your neck.

The crucifix feels hot in your palm, almost like it knows it’s in the grip of a sinner. But you just hold it tighter, like strengthening your grasp may make up for your lack in faith.

Forgive me, Father, for I am just a woman. Your other knee comes up, bumping into the one next to it. Your hair splays beneath you, like a halo surrounding this fallen angel. Is it truly so wrong, to want to be loved in the highest form?

You feel the breeze hit the backs of your thighs, exposed with your legs drawn close. You wonder if the soft tickle is similar to how it would feel if it were someone’s fingertips instead. Your thighs twitch just from the thought.

Would they touch you like you were something holy? Would they whisper your name in your ear like you were gospel? Would they take you apart, just to remake you in their image?

Would they love you? Truly?

Could you find love in a place like this?

You aren’t even thinking as the cross slips from your fingers, in favour of trailing your fingers against the exposed neckline of your dress. Across your collarbones, yours fingers sweeping over the swell of your chest. With eyes closed, you sink into it, grass in your hair as the pads of your fingers skirt against your warming body.

You were a woman, but were you? Were you not just still a girl, blind to the pleasures hidden from you? You could touch yourself all you wanted, but would it ever be the same?

You wouldn’t know until you felt it for yourself.

You rest your palm on your stomach, right over your womb, curling your fingers gently into the soft material of your dress. You wouldn’t dare venture lower - not with the cross hanging around your neck. You would press your thighs together though, as if it were less of a sin if your hands left the ordeal unstained. You press them together tight, shifting, trying to generate any form of stimulation to placate you.

It works, a little. Enough to send tingles up your thighs. Enough to make your stomach flip. It was just shy of pleasure, so it couldn’t truly be wrong, right?

You shift again, rubbing your thighs together more as your fingers grip the fabric between them tighter. You can feel it. The heat, just barely brewing. So close, but just out of reach. You could have it, if you just slipped your hand down lower.

No one was watching. No one would know.

God would. But would he turn a blind eye, just this once?

You had always, always been good. Would one sin damn you? If so, where was the fairness in that from a god supposedly so compassionate?

If you repented, would it all be erased?

Even if you didn’t, what was the difference? You knew it was wrong either way.

(Or did you?)

You’re just taking the bait, slowly sliding your hand down lower, lower - towards the hem of your dress. Towards a place that was simply a gateway to hell if you laid your fingers on it. You were just about to give it all up, succumb to your desires and worry about repentance later. But then-

“A-Ah, shit. I didn’t expect to see anyone a-around here.”

Your entire body jolts, eyes flying open and being temporarily blinded by the sun. Before you even look at who’s just spoken to you, you’re sitting up and tugging your dress back down to your ankles. It didn’t matter who it was, that voice was a man’s. Low, gravelly. Soft, and wracked with stutters, but a man nonetheless.

A man who had just undoubtedly seen you, mere seconds away from indulging in your wicked desires.

Once you’re completely sure that any bare skin is far out of sight, you finally look up, and immediately your eyes widen.

It’s a man alright, just five feet away (give or take). He stands tall, or maybe it’s just an illusion because you’re still sat on the grass. Brown hair, fluffy and unruly - visibly knotted even from the distance between you. Honey brown eyes, freckles spotting the bridge of his nose and trickling down his cheeks. A bandage on the left side of his face, placed right next to the side of his mouth.

You’re speechless. Speechless as you look up at him. Speechless as he takes a hesitant step forwards. Cautious. Restrained. Like a person approaching a scared animal. Maybe that’s exactly what you were.

Baggy jeans hang off of his hips, ripped at the knees and visibly well worn. A slate grey shirt hugs his torso, covered mostly by the dark brown flannel shrugged over top of it. A black baseball cap completes the look.

The look of trouble. You can sense it before you even open your mouth. Or, it could be that you were just being presumptuous, considering that this was the first man who had spoken to you (besides your father, Jameson, and your preacher) in years.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone here.” You murmur back once you’ve found your voice, sitting up more as you eye him curiously. You just can’t tear your eyes away from him. Away from everything that makes him so much different than you. The wrinkles in his clothes, the stubble on his jaw. The way he carried himself - shoulders square with his hands tucked into his pockets. “This is my tree.”

“Your t-tree?” The man laughs and raises an eyebrow, taking another step forwards that has your entire body tensing up. Not that close in the grand scheme of things, but far too close for your comfort. “I didn’t know people c-could c-claim trees around here.” He tilts his head to the side. “B-Besides, isn’t this unclaimed land?”

“Technically.” You narrow your eyes up at him, trying to gauge his intentions. He looked harmless, but was he? Was anyone? “But I’ve been coming to this tree for years and never had another soul wander close.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Therefore, it’s mine.”

“Y-Yeah?” The man shifts from one foot to the other, and you’ve noticed that he’s rather fidgety. Shifting, twitching, like something inside him was trying to burst free from his body. “I-I’ve been coming here too though, and I-I’ve never seen you.”

“You have not.” You argue back immediately.

“I ha-have too.” He laughs softly, eyes warming at your immediate defiance. It was cute, how something that looked so sweet seemed to have so much bite. “C-Come here all the time when home gets buh-boring. Have since I m-moved in.” You watch curiously as his shoulders jolt, a strange sudden motion that had you raising an eyebrow.

“No you haven’t.” You press as you cross your arms over your chest. You’ve never seen this man, not even once. You knew that it wasn’t possible for you to keep an eye on this place all the time, but the chances of never running into him? Slim. Incredibly slim. For all you knew, this was all just a ploy to gain your trust. “I’ve never seen you ‘round here. I’d know it if I did.”

“Oh, s-so you’re here 24/7 then?” He snorts, rolling his eyes minutely. He takes another step closer, then another, so quickly encroaching on your bubble of personal space. “Or, w-what? You g-got cameras set up?” He makes a show at looking upwards and peering through the leaves, sarcastically scanning the area. You narrow your eyes.

Before you can say anything else, he’s already crouching down before sitting against the grass next to you. Still with a few feet in between, but the action makes your eyes widen nonetheless. You can observe him so much better now. How his eyes looked so dark until the sun hit them, and suddenly they were transfiguring from molasses to pools of honey. The slash in his eyebrow, a scar that left a permanent gap between the hairs. His eyelashes, quite long for a man you thought, fluttering against his cheek every time he blinked.

He smelled like pine and tobacco. It wafted over to you, like a beckoning call to get closer. You wouldn’t. “Can’t we share?” He asks you, leaning back on his palms and turning his head to the side to meet your gaze. You avert your eyes immediately. “I th-think you’re being selfish, keeping something so nice all t-to yourself.”

“And I think you’re being entitled.” You mutter back to him, lips twitched down into a frown.

You watch as he lets out a snort of laughter, a sound that caused his expression to crinkle. Little creases appearing at the corners or his eyes and the bridge or his nose.

“M-Maybe I am.” He shrugs. He tilts his head back, fluffy brown strands of hair falling into his eyes as he looks up through the leaves to the blue sky above. “Or, maybe I just want some c-company. It’s lonely around he-here.”

And for the first time during the conversation, you feel like you can’t argue. Because he was right. It was lonely around here. Agonizingly so. Bringing forth the type of loneliness that sunk into your bones like rot, festering more and more each day. Until one day, the sun rose, and you were completely infected. Numb to the melancholy around you.

That day hadn’t come upon you yet, but you feared you were close. “Y-You got a name?” He asks when your response is mere silence, and your eyes flicker up to meet his.

You know you shouldn’t tell him. Names… They held a lot of power. Transformed strangers into acquaintances. Opened a door that couldn’t easily be shut. If you told him, you couldn’t so easily brush him off if you ever saw him again.

Your name was a snippet of who you were. Something not to be taken lightly.

And yet, you find yourself uttering it out anyways. Soft, carried away by the breeze around you - but he hears it. He hears it clear as day.

“Puh-Pretty.” He hums back to you, lips twitched up at the corners in a way that made your heart flutter. A feeling so foreign to you, that it immediately elicited panic in your mind. “Suits you. Y-You’re a pretty thing.” Again, your heart skips a beat. Were you dying? Your pulse has skyrocketed and was doing flips in your chest. Surely, you must be dying. Before you can attempt to get a word out in response, he’s speaking again. “I’m T-Toby.”

Toby. It’s a nice name, soft and boyish. You mill it over in your brain a few times, imagining how the syllables would taste on your tongue. The craving is too strong to stay silent.

“Toby.” You murmur back to him, testing out the sound as it leaves your mouth. You like it, you decide. “Is that short for somethin’?”

The man - Toby - raised an eyebrow at you and lets out a soft chuckle. It’s a nice sound, deep and smooth, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Very quickly, the distain you had felt for him when he first approached was fizzling away. Even if your mind was on edge, your body was so clearly craving the presence or another. Still a few feet between you, but now you were itching to minimize the space a little. Not enough to touch, of course not, just enough to… Observe him better. Your curiosity was, once again, getting the better of you.

But how could it not? The man beside you was a bundle of unanswered questions, just waiting to be dug into. This was just the excitement you had been looking for.

“I-If you must know…” Toby answers with a dramatic sigh, making your lips twitch as you try to contain a smile. You fail, and his grin only widens when he sees your lips curve. Got her. “It’s short for T-Tobias. Tobias Rogers.”

You can practically hear the glass break when the light atmosphere is shattered.

Rogers? Like… Rogers, Rogers?

The very same that your entire family had spent the greater half of the day warning you to stay far away from? The criminal? The ‘bad news’? The ‘freak’, as Jameson had so eloquently put it?

Toby sees it when your lips part in shock, and the colour slowly begins to drain from your face. Rosy cheeks swapped for a shell-shocked pale tone. It’s staggering, how quickly your mood flipped just from the mention of his name alone. He furrows his eyebrows, and tilts his head to the side a little. “D-Damn, is it that bad? We can just stick to T-Toby then.”

You swallow thickly and take a breath, your eyes locked on his face - practically impossible for you to tear away. He couldn’t be the same person, right? You were being presumptuous.

Jameson had described him as a ‘gnarly looking fellow’, and he didn’t look like that to you. There were a few little scars here and there on his face, but nothing enough to warrant such a grim description. Your eyes drift, catching on the bandaging covering a solid portion of the left half of his face. You wonder what lay beneath it. Was it ‘torn to shreds’ just as your brother had said?

“Why are you all bandaged up?” You blurt out, unable to contain yourself. You just had to know. You felt like you may burst or you didn’t.

You watch as Toby’s lips tug even further down, his eyes flashing with something you couldn’t quite describe. The closest match would probably be shame.

“Manners, much?” He mutters as he catches your eye. “That side of my f-face ain’t pretty. I’d rather k-keep it covered.” He pauses for just a moment. “Especially around s-someone like you.”

You hum softly in response, but you’re nowhere near satisfied by his answer. You needed proof. Proof that your luck truly was laughable, and that sheer coincidence was making a fool out of you. If it was true, and this was who you had been warned about, it’s almost funny how you didn’t even need to try and seek him out. He found you.

Was that fate? Was it God delivering him to you?

And if so, could he truly be that bad?

Unless-

Toby watches you, waiting for your next move as he reached up with his left hand to absentmindedly pick at his bandage. His hands were littered with scars too, the skin on his fingertips red and raw. Nails bitten to the bone. You wonder, against yourself, how they would feel against your skin. They looked so much different than your own soft, unmarred hands. Rough and worn. Battered to such an extent that left you wondering how they had become that way. Not even your father, a man who worked the farm day in and day out, had hands like that.

Would his touch be as rough as he looked? Or would he be gentle, so to preserve your fragility?

-Unless it was a test of faith.

“You can show me.” You speak back to him, pushing your hair over your shoulder as you lean to the side a little. Just barely bridging the distance between the two of you. Testing the waters. “Promise I won’t make fun of ya’.”

That earns a snort of a laugh out of Toby, before he’s shaking his head softly in disbelief.

“I’d sure hope n-not.” Toby chuckles, then pulling his hand back down in favour of leaning back against it once more. “Not today though, darlin’. You’re j-just starting to used t-t-fuck! -to me.” You watch curiously as his shoulders jerk, his head cracking to the side in a way that both looked and sounded painful. Of course, he catches onto your worried gaze pretty quickly. “S-Sorry.” His face crinkles up in embarrassment. “It’s, uh-“ His hand lifts up to wave around absently. “This thing I got. T-Tourette’s.”

And suddenly, you get it. You don’t think a place like this would take kindly to someone like him, regardless of what his true nature was. He was different. Different in a way that wouldn’t so easily be glossed over by people who had been set in their own ways for far too long. Barely any outsiders were accepted warmly into your close-knit community, and so one that was so clearly a contrasting force? Not a chance.

But you weren’t put off. Weren’t scared or disgusted like every other member of your community seemed to be. If anything it made you angry at them. For being so unforgiving, though forgiveness was the very thing they nodded along to when the pastor preached about it.

What hypocrites.

“S’Not a problem.” You wave him off, offering him a kind little smile. He deserved it, you think. Everyone deserved to be treated kindly, but him especially. You could just feel it in your bones, that compassion wasn’t something Toby was often dealt. He was probably far lonelier than you. You don’t suppose you can blame him, for trying to find a connection with someone else, though he had startled you at first. At the end of the day, that’s all you wanted as well. “Don’t gotta be sorry about it. ‘Specially if it’s something you can’t control.”

You shrug softly, then meet his gaze as a gust of wind sent your hair into a flurry.

And though you didn’t know it, that would be the exact moment when Toby fell for you.

You were… So kind. So kind, gentle, and sweet. And so pretty too. The way the sunlight was hitting you right then made it look as if you were glowing - golden rays hitting your unblemished skin like the sun was created simply to shine a spotlight on you. You looked like an angel. Maybe you were. With your sparkling eyes, fluttering lashes, and flowing white fabric draped over your body, the only thing you were missing was a pair of wings.

His fingers curl into the grass beneath him, accidentally ripping out a few blades in his grip as he tries to reign in his thoughts. How could someone so lovely live in this place? Riddled with bigotry and sour expressions. How had they not tainted you? And did he even deserve to be in the presence of your purity?

Probably not. He met your eyes again, so warm and inviting. Definitely not.

“Y-You’re a sweet thing.” He mutters softly, tilting his head to the side a little. “Has anyone ever t-told you that?”

“My mama, sometimes.” You giggle, now fully scooting closer though you can so clearly hear the words your mother had spoken to you just this morning. ‘You’re a sweet thing. You need somebody who matches that.’ Grass smears against your dress as you shuffle towards him, leaving lime green stains against cream fabric. Sorry mama, for more reasons than one. “Y’know, she warned me about you.”

Toby’s breath hitches in his throat as he watches you approach him, finally eliminating the space he had created to be courteous. He could smell you now - fresh linen and lavender - and he could pick out all of the tiny features on your face that made you… You. He could see each little flyaway strand of hair that went into a frenzy whenever the breeze hit you. He could imagine the warmth of your skin when his eyes fixated on the rosiness to your cheeks.

He’s so caught up in how dizzyingly beautiful you are up close, that he nearly misses what you say completely. When the words do register though, his eyes are flicking back to meet yours as a frown tugs his lips downwards.

“W-Warned you?” He raises an eyebrow. “‘Bout what? I didn’t d-do nothin’.”

“Didn’t you?” You giggle softly and narrow your eyes at him playfully. Even if he was trouble, it was so fun to talk to somebody that wasn’t directly a part of the circle you had grown accustomed to. It was exciting. So many unknowns that it made your blood simmer with the need to dig in deeper. “It’s a small town y’know, people talk.” You pull your knees up to your chest and rest your forearms on them as you gaze up at him. “Locals are sayin’ you’re a criminal. And my daddy’s convinced you’re the one who keeps knockin’ down our fence.”

You nod your head in the direction of your property, to which Toby’s gaze follows. Immediately, his expression morphs into one of sheepish realization.

“Hmm… Y-Yeah, that might’ve been me.” He laughs softly, a cocky little smile playing at his lips. “Tell your ‘daddy’ he built his f-fence too close to the- the road. Pretty easy to lose control on g-gravel streets.”

You snort out a laugh and roll your eyes. You’d probably spit in your father’s face before ever criticizing one of his creations. Still though, the thought is funny to you.

“So it was you.” You grin up at him. “Are the rest of the rumours true then? Did ya’ really steal a patrol car?”

His eyebrows shoot up immediately, a look of bewildered amusement coating his expression.

“Christ, country folk are s-scary. How’d you know th-th-“ He draws out that first syllable for a couple seconds, like the word is hard for him to form. After a couple tries, he gets it. “-that?”

“I told you, people talk.” You laugh softly as you lean back on your hands. Your shoulder brushes against his just minutely, but it’s enough contact to raise goosebumps on your arms. “So is it true?”

Toby scoffs softly, before glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re so close now. Welcoming him into your personal bubble so easily, looking up at him with those sweet doe-like eyes. For just a split second, his eyes flicker downwards towards your cleavage - smushed together from the way you were sitting leaned towards him, presented so beautifully in that silken white fabric.

He just knew that you had to be so soft. Could already imagine what your breasts would feel like against his palms - cushy warm flesh, yielding to his hands. He could only dream of what you would sound like it as he did it too. With a voice so soft and lovely, you’d probably sound like heaven itself as you breathed out little whimpers and moans.

He bet that you’d be shy about it. Refusing to meet his eye, flushed pink and pretty as you tug at your bottom lip to try and keep all of your noises at bay. But you wouldn’t stop him. No… You probably look up at him with both desperation and embarrassment clouding your eyes, before you hesitantly tugged him in closer.

Maybe he’d make you beg for it, just to see you squirm. Just to see your eyes shine with tears of humiliation.

He could imagine how your thighs would quiver when he gently pushed them apart. How you’d gasp when he touched you for the first time. How pretty your skin would look, with splotchy red marks and indentations from his teeth.

He could imagine ruining you. Tearing off your wings with his bare hands.

You were a sinful temptation, and you didn’t even know it. Looking up at him like he was the perfect picture of a good man. He wasn’t.

He was rotten. Had been since birth, most likely, because he couldn’t remember a day in his life where misfortune didn’t follow him. He was careless, impulsive, brash, and short-tempered. He would taint you the second you touched, infecting you with the decay hollowing out his bones.

He wanted to do it anyway.

“A-And if I did?” He asks with a sly smile, leaning into you with full intentions - just to see how you’d react. He’s delighted when you don’t move away, but he does feel how you instinctively tense up at the pressure of his shoulder pressing against yours. So timid. Had you ever been touched? “Would it ss-scare you off?”

You can feel his warmth through your clothing. The contact point where his shoulder meets yours being so warm in comparison to the rest of you. His bicep presses against yours when he shifts a little, and you can feel the lean muscle hidden under his flannel. What would it feel like to really touch him? To feel his muscles flex under your grip?

It’s barely anything. Just the slightest contact, but your head was already spinning. You don’t think you’ve ever been this close to a man, and your body was very clearly elated by the prospect. Hormones? Human nature? You weren’t sure what it was, but you were absolutely captivated by every little thing about him. You were trying to stay restrained, but these depraved thoughts just kept worming their way into your brain and speaking louder than the rest.

Would it scare you off? No, you knew that it would only entice you. You could feel it, how the idea of his misdeeds was only making him seem that much more desirable to you.

Trouble. Bad news. Then why did it seem so exciting? Why did he set your mind alight?

Maybe his natural charisma was a trap. A trap that you were so easily falling for, like a mouse too fixated on the prospect of cheese to see the danger.

“No.” You hum, tilting your head upwards to look at him better. He was very handsome. Sharp features but soft eyes. Shaggy, unruly hair, and yet it looked so silky. Stubble on his chin and along his jaw, framing his already captivating face. You were already in too deep. You could tell. “I’m not so easily scared. I’m not some delicate flower, y’know.”

Toby raises an eyebrow at you, clearly not convinced. And though he really was trying not to scare you off, the urge to push just a little bit further was getting harder to ignore. He could see it in your eyes, how receptive you were. Skittish, a little shy by nature, but clearly still wanting more. If you didn’t, then why hadn’t you moved away? Why were you the one to close the distance initially?

You were prodding at his personal space like a scared little kitten. Curious, but still on guard. Could he break down your walls a little? Would you let him get closer?

Toby lifts his hand up, his moments fluid and confident as he reaches down towards your face. Your eyes widen immediately, breath catching in your throat as his hand approaches you. Gently, like he’s scared to break you, his fingers brush the skin of your cheek before he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your cheeks heat up immediately, momentarily frozen in placeby the tender contact. It’s like he’s cast a spell on you, and only once his hand leaves you does it break. Still though, you’re left shell-shocked with shaky breathing as his touch retreats.

“Aren’t you?” Toby asks, leaning back on his hands once more. He can’t hide the smile on his lips as he observed you - so flustered by the smallest touch. You were definitely innocent. From that reaction alone, he’d be surprised if you’d ever been kissed before. Just like that, his mind started whirring with images or what if would be like to do so. Guiding you, slow and gentle. Showing you the ropes. “You sure l-look like one.”

You feel dizzy. Your skin tingling like he was setting you on fire with just his eyes alone. He was looking at you in a way that made your lungs feel tight. Amused, and yet tainted with something deeper. Something darker. Something you had never encountered before. Heady. Carnal.

You couldn’t quite tell if you were intimidated or enraptured.

All you knew, was that your heart had never beat quicker than now. “But… Yeah, I m-might’ve done that.” Toby continues, knowing you’re probably too ruffled to respond properly. “Among other th-things.”

Trying to regain your composure, you swallow thickly and take in a shaky breath. You didn’t want him to know just how easily he was sending your mind into a frenzy. Little did you know, he already did.

“Why?” You ask softly, eyeing him curiously. What did he want from you? What did that expression mean?

Toby hums softly, reaching up to scratch the stubble on his jaw before answering.

“For fun, I g-guess.” He breathes out, sending you a playful grin that made your stomach flip. “Mostly just t-to- to piss my dad off.” You watch his hand as it moves, your skin still tingling where it had touched you. You wonder if he’d do it again. “He moved me out h-here hoping it would calm me d-down, but it just made it all worse. It’s so boring out here, I’m more restless than- than ever.”

He tilts his head down, smiling down at you. “What do you do around here f-for fun?”

You’re a little caught off guard by that question, and it’s hard not to shrink under his gaze. If he really wanted to, it would barely take any effort to close the rest of the distance between you. That possibility, is enough to make you squirm.

“For fun?” You repeat back softly. “Um… Come here?” You laugh sheepishly and look up towards the leaves above you. An easy escape from his paralyzing gaze. “Water our crops.. Read, help my mom sew up old clothes.” You shrug. “Not much else.”

“Really?” Toby asks incredulously, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. That sounded like such an agonizingly boring life, it nearly made his skin crawl. “You don’t d-do anything else? G-Go anywhere?”

You shake your head, before looking to him once more.

“Nah. My daddy doesn’t like it if I wander off somewhere he couldn’t easily find me.” You shrug. “That fence right there is our property. This is as far as I go on my own. Mama takes me to the market sometimes though, and my whole family goes into town for church on Sunday.”

That just makes Toby’s frown deepen. It seemed to him like you were being kept on a leash, hidden away from every interesting thing that life had to offer. How were you not so incredibly restless? Had you lived your whole life this way? Confined within the fence posts of your family’s property.

“That’s… Not right.” Toby speaks back to you slowly. “There’s a whole world out there. D-Don’t you want to see it?”

“Well, of course.” You murmur softly, gaze dropping down to where your hands were folded on your lap. It was strange, having someone agree with what you believed were just troublesome thoughts. Thoughts that had been shot down since you were a child, never once indulged in or encouraged. “But it’s not what you think… They’re just trying to keep me safe.”

“I think it’s exactly w-what I think.” Toby argues back, his eyebrows furrowed. “They don’t want to keep you safe, they want t-to keep you- you- fuck! -contained. Controlled.” His words make your shoulders tense up. “You’re an adult, r-right? Why’re you letting them treat you like a kid?”

“I’m not.” You frown, to which Toby merely scoffs.

“You are.” He protests. “It’s your l-life, you know? Not theirs. Y-You should live it.” He leans his head down lower, practically caging you in as he encroaches on your personal space. “Or are you t-too scared?”

“I ain’t scared.” You snap back at him, eyes narrowing up at him.

“No?” He laughs, eyes crinkling in amusement. You were so cute, it made his chest feel tight. He could definitely understand the need to protect someone like you. God forbid you fall into the clutches of someone like him. “T-Tell you what,” He grins down at you. “If you’re really not scared, l-let me take you out tonight.” Your eyes widen, and you just look even cuter. “I’ll pick you up in my truck. D-Drive you around. Show you a bunch of places I think you’d l-like. How’s that sound?”

Scary. Perfect. Dangerous. Exhilarating.

Like a recipe for disaster.

“I… I dunno if that’s a good idea.” You mumble. “I’d have to sneak out. And… If my daddy saw you trying to take me away he’d probably shoot ya’.”

Toby barks out a laugh, tilting his head back and taking in a wheezing breath like you had just told him something hilarious - and not a threat against his life. A few more giggles slip past his lips before he’s able to contain himself, and he lets out an amused sigh before looking back to you.

“I’m sure h-he would.” He chuckles. “But I’ll take that risk.” His laugh is so warm and addictive, it’s hard for you not to break into a grin as well. “S-Sneak out after he’s sleepin’ then, if you’re so w-worried about me. And I’ll pick ya’ up here, just to be safe.”

He really didn’t quit, did he? His insistence was more charming than anything else though. The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you this badly, was something that made your heart skip a beat. “If he somehow still manages t-to catch you, and he d-does put a hole in my head, I’d still say it was worth it.”

You want to. You really want to. And how the hell are you supposed to stay rational when he’s staring down at you with the warmest brown eyes you’ve ever seen? You’re trying to fight it, but it’s futile. You know you’re going to say yes. It’s a golden opportunity. When’s the next time you’ll be offered freedom like this?

“Okay.” You find yourself muttering out, the wind whistling in your ears and rising goosebumps on your arms. Or was it because of him, and how his aura was so effortlessly subjugating? “Okay.” You repeat, louder this time, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself that you’re truly giving in.

But the smile that Toby gives you in response? It makes all of the apprehension dissipate. He smiles at you like you’ve just offered him the world. Eyes gleaming, expression wrinkling with elation.

“Yeah?” He grins, then nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. “I’ll show y-you a good time, p-promise. And I’ll get you home safe. N-No one will be the wiser.”

“You better.” You giggle. ““I’m taking a big risk for you, you know. Never done anything like this.”

He bet you hadn’t. Bet you wouldn’t know a good time if it stared you in the eye. He could teach you so much. Teach you everything, and more. And maybe, if you liked him enough, you’d let him keep you.

Maybe you’d let him get you out of here, show you what life’s all about, as if he knew. You could figure it out together.

“And for that I-I’m grateful.” He smiles, leaning into you a bit more. “I’ll pick you up a-at midnight, right here.” He was already practically buzzing with anticipation. “Y-You better not stand me up.”

“I won’t.” And you’re leaning right back into him, because it just feels right. Feels like something you need.

“Good.” Toby hums, feeling so satisfied with himself he almost feels guilty. Almost. It’s hard to really, when he’s got someone like you sinking into him so easily. He knew he couldn’t give you what you deserved, but he was sure he could give you something better than you were accustomed to.

That was enough, right?

You probably didn’t even know what a good man acted like. “Then I’ll see you a-at midnight. Wear somethin’ warm.”

You would, though you weren’t sure if you would even need it. Just being around him seemed to make your skin heat up.

Your brother was right, he definitely was trouble.

But maybe that was exactly what you needed.

—————————————————————————☆

getting part one up then working on asks!!

I’ve just really been wanting to get this one out here,, everyone say thank you to ethel cain for placing this idea in my mind!

part two is where all the goody goody will be, and I’m hoping to get it up by next week maybe?? Idk we’ll see

thank you for reading! and thank you to all of my new followers who have been so kind <3

#toby rogers #creepypasta #creepypasta x female reader #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x you #ticci toby #ticci toby smut #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby x you #ticci toby x female reader #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta smut

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agoodroughandtumble · 3 days ago

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Valentine's Day - Zoro x Reader

Status: Complete Summary: A fluffy/angsty oneshot for Valentine's Day Warning: Language (18+). These guys will never know they're in love

Even with the cold water lapping against your shins, the heat radiating from your drinking partner was enough to keep you warm. Increasingly aware that should you turn to face him the heat rising from your cheeks would give your thoughts away, you kept a steady focus on the water in front of you, the hard wood of the dock you sat on, the glint of moonlight against the gentle waves. It was annoyingly romantic.

Zoro was unaware. Zoro was always unaware. It was hardly surprising – the man didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, and even if that weren’t the case he had had ample opportunity to do anything other than this. Whatever “this” was. So. He clearly just wasn’t interested. Which was fine. Absolutely fine. Or at least it would be if you could look at him without a bombardment of gymnastic butterflies invading your stomach. It was pathetic really – the two of you sat in what Zoro would describe was a comfortable, drinking silence whilst the rest of the crews’ party raged on within earshot on the beach. You would describe it as increasingly awkward. Still, it was better than not being in an uncomfortable silence with Zoro. And so, inevitably, the patheticness continued.

You took a sip of your beer, swallowing thickly, waiting for the courage that usually followed inebriation. It wasn’t following quite as quickly as you liked. You were just going to have to ask. Or attempt to anyway. As long as he didn’t look at you. Or answer. Or hear the question. Or maybe just be aware of your existence anyway. This was, somehow, a new level of self-inflicted pathetic yearning. At least that was somewhat of a progression? Or maybe regression? Something different at least.

“So, erm,” you cleared your throat, “Any plans for tomorrow?” Despite your gaze still fixed firmly on the horizon you could feel Zoro’s eyes on you. Your fingers fidgeted against the bottle in your hand.

“What do you mean?”

His voice sounded sincere. Because of course it did. Because how could he possibly understand what you were asking the day before Valentine’s Day. “Well, you know,” you bumped your shoulder against his, trying to sound casual against your increasing frustration. “Valentine’s Day. Any plans?”

Zoro shrugged. “Guess whatever crazy shit Luffy will drag us into.”

In hindsight, you shouldn’t have been surprised. You certainly hadn’t been hopeful (well, alright, maybe, a tiny amount – that small niggling feeling that there might be something between the two of you…) but at least he hadn’t waxed lyrical about some over-elaborate plans made for Nami or Robin.

“Of course, yeah.” You nodded, hoping whatever confusion of emotions wasn’t written completely across your face. Turned out it was annoyingly difficult to keep emotions to yourself when you weren’t actually sure what those emotions were. “Same, just...vibing.” Oh, fuck. Now, that emotion you knew all too well. Just vibing? Might as well have said just being a sad bastard without a date, or just desperately waiting for the slightest hint of romance to detract from the whole Zoro had carved out of your heart only to completely neglect. Just vibing? Fucking hell.

“What do people do? On Valentine’s Day?”

You looked at him – couldn’t help yourself. And the earnestness in his eyes almost crushed you. “Oh, erm.” Your fingers fidgeted with the beer again, eyes dropping, focusing on the bubbles fizzing to the lip of the bottle. “Flowers, chocolate, dinner… I suppose.”

“Okay.” Zoro downed his bottle.

The awkward tension would have been back but he stood up before it could settle. You watched him walk back along the dock to meet the rest of the crew, your heart leaving with him.

The next morning found you on the deck leaning against the guardrail. The ever changing motion of the waves always calmed you – reassuring you that everything was temporary. Everything would pass. Even your feelings for Zoro would inevitably be washed away by the ebb and flow. And as you would forget the streams and rivers and fords of this hateful longing so too would you forget the springs. In theory. In reality in your peripheral you could see Nami and Zoro in very close proximity, and the fact that you couldn’t hear them only solidified your suspicions. Last night he’d asked you what people did on Valentine’s Day – today him and Nami were having a moment. The least he could fucking do was fall for someone you didn’t care about. At least then you could irrationally hate them.

It made sense. Zoro and Nami had known each other far longer than you had known either of them. She was beautiful, fun, intelligent and they wound each other up relentlessly. Of course all of their “bickering” over money was flirting. You should have seen it before. If you had known from the start Zoro would always be unavailable you wouldn’t have been so naïve to think you stood a chance. You just hoped they wouldn’t rub their insufferable happiness in your face. You could smile for the rest of the crew. You could wax lyrical about how perfect for each other they were. You could be happy for Nami. You couldn’t pretend to Zoro. He saw through you far too easily, and even if he couldn’t you didn’t exactly have a poker face.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the smell of salt, the gentle rocking of the ship against its berth, anything to replace the gnawing at your heart. If Zoro didn’t want it, he shouldn’t have taken it.

“What do you mean?” Zoro’s gazed fixed firmly on your face, trying to decipher the smallest flicker of emotion. You were staring at the horizon with a determination he often saw. Always far away, always something, anything that wasn’t him. He’d seen the same look on your face when you were head down towards your shoes. Every time, every single time, he’d tried to get the two of you alone you were always so focused on anything else. And yet every time you accepted his invitation. Why. When he’d asked you to have a drink with him on the dock he’d thought the pair of you could, fuck it, talk. But every time you were alone it was as if you wanted to be somewhere else.

This was stupid. It was too obvious. The faint music from the party in the background. The “clandestine” meet on the dock. The moonlight. He might as well be wearing a sign proclaiming his love. It was too much. Fuck. He always went too far. Too deep. Too… too Zoro. This was supposed to be a casual drink only now he was practically getting his dick out in front of you and expecting you to be totally cool. Fuck’s sake.

“Well, you know.” He felt your shoulder bump against his, “Valentine’s Day, any plans?”

His body tensed. Where you asking him, or were you asking him? He should say something romantic. Anything romantic. He should stay pick a star and he will get Luffy to catapult him into the sky so he could bring it back for you. He should. say. anything. “Guess whatever crazy shit Luffy will drag us into.”

Fucking stars. Fucking Luffy. Why is that in his head. It had started as a romantic gesture and now suddenly he’s wanking on about the captain. Shit, why didn’t he just drag Usopp and Sanji into the conversation too? That fucking love cook would be all over Valentine’s Day – he’s probably preparing a special dinner for you, Nami and Robin right now. Rose petals, candlelight, mood music… fucking curly brows. How could he do something so easily, so casually, so effortlessly when Zoro couldn’t even answer a question without sounding like a dick? Zoro knew how to train, how to fight, how to be a swordsman. He didn’t know how to make you smile. He didn’t know how to surprise you. He didn’t know how to convey the one fucking thing. The fucking thing.

“Of course, yeah. Same, just...vibing.”

Zoro almost felt the tone in your voice drop. You hid it well, but Zoro was all too accustomed. He had studied you almost as much as he had studied the sword. He knew every nook, every corner, every falter in your words. He didn’t need to look at you to understand how crestfallen you were.

Wait.

So… you wanted something? For Valentine’s Day? Maybe not from him, maybe (hopefully) not from anyone else but you wanted something. He could do something. It might not mean a lot but he could, would provide what you wanted. He could be a stand in paramour if that would put a smile on your face – hell, he could do anything if it put a smile on your face. “What do people do? On Valentine’s Day?”

For all of Nami’s intel and all her hype when Zoro started walking towards you the only feeling he was aware of was that of dread. He was aware that you would probably prefer anyone, literally anyone, to be approaching you but here he was – two roses behind his back because even with Nami’s help that was all he had managed to find. And fuck the pervert cook providing your dinner – he was going to. It was going to be awful and possibly inedible but he was going to do it. Flowers, chocolate, dinner. Two out of three. Maybe. Definitely one out of three. Definitely something.

“I got you these.” Zoro thrust the flowers at you.

The sudden noise made you jump – the two roses in your face made you stop.

He retracted them. “You don’t have to take them.”

“No, wait,” Finally finding some wind within your lungs in which to speak you took the two roses. “I want them. I’m, er, no. Thanks.”

Zoro stared at you. You stared back.

“Dinner’s in five minutes. Just us.” Zoro said, told you, before disappearing again.

You opened your mouth to speak but he was gone. And anyway you weren’t sure what to say. You glanced around you – the rest of the crew didn’t seem to be aware except Nami who gave you a bright smile and a thumbs up. You followed Zoro into the galley.

#olpa #one piece #zoro x reader #one piece live action #zoro x y/n #roronoa zoro x y/n #opla x reader #opla x y/n

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staybabblingbaby · 2 days ago

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Project: Stack The Deck (First Meeting a1d1)

Concept: Reader is a long-time trainee at JYP Entertainment, on the verge of being dropped completely due to her age. In her first stroke of luck in ages, she's presented with an opportunity: JYPE is producing a brand new type of audition show - 9 lucky trainees will be 'interning' with 6 of JYPE's active groups for a year in hopes of forming the first ever mixed gender AND mixed subgender group in k-pop. The catch? The trainees are only interning with their exact opposite groups, in an effort to appease ongoing protests.

Or - Babble gives in and writes Omegaverse. But this time, there's ~lore~

Word Count: 2,442

Notes: I've been writing a lot of stuff I can't post for various reasons, but the Fanmeet literally left me in shambles and I can't NOT write right now. So. Have basically our only 'proper' archive fic rn. It took over my brain y'all can't blame me 4 this. Very literally please ask me abt the lore for this fic. Send me an ask, I beg. I wanna talk abt it SO bad I will write essays.

Heavily inspired by To The 9th Degree by azaluvx7 on Ao3.

Warnings: Mention of house fire. This gave me anxiety while I was writing it, so anxiety, maybe?

Masterlist | Prev Part

Being in the same room as Stray Kids gives the same surreal feeling as an oncoming storm. It reminds me of standing in a sunny spot and seeing dark clouds on the horizon, knowing that, despite the warmth I feel now, a downpour is coming. It’s oppressive, it’s heavy, it’s nature and change in motion.

Or maybe it’s their very heavy scents in the air invading my thoughts.

Being in the presence of my wildly successful seonbaes is, of course, as impressive as all that, but I can’t help but wrinkle my nose as I walk into the meeting room. The air is saturated with alpha scents, muddled and indistinct by the sheer amount of them.

There are at least twenty people in this meeting, by my guess. Stray Kids and several Division 1 staff I recognize only due to having been at the company longer than many of them. Most of my trainers and a handful of T&D staff I’m very familiar with. Some producers and choreographers I don’t recognize, but assume work with Stray Kids.

I can hazard a guess that this is the general cast that’s been involved with the planning of the show. The glaring hole where the CEO or JYP himself should be, seeing as this meeting deals with both some of their top talents and a major project, is conspicuously ignored. Maybe this show has lower projected ratings than I thought.

Sudden apprehension seizes me at the prospect. My debut depends on this show getting good ratings. My debut depends on a lot of very nebulous things right now. This is no longer a matter of simply working hard.

The weight of my new reality settles, crooked and off-putting, around my shoulders.

Director Jae-Hwa’s hand feels like a brand on my lower back as she guides me further into the room. I’m toted around, making introductions and shaking hands, greeting those I already know as warmly as I can manage.

Stray Kids are saved for last, and it takes everything in me not to throw up on their shoes. I shake each hand with reverence, making sure to bow at the waist and shake with both hands, and show as much respect as I’m capable of.

I also hold my breath in attempts not to sneeze as their collective scents invade my nose at such close proximity.

It’s easy to tell they’re all wearing scent blockers, as I imagine is a constant necessity with scents as strong as theirs, since all of the nuances I’d normally be able to pick out easily are strangely absent. Still, they’re typical over-the counter Alpha-type blockers, not made to cater to the delicate and sensitive nose of an Omega like myself.

I’m sure they only smell themselves faintly, if they’re not all completely nose-blind to each other by now, but to me it’s like sticking my face directly in a tub of perfume. The lack of nuance to the scents only makes the sensation worse. It feels like my nose-hairs are burning.

When we turn around to head to our seats, Jae-Hwa subtly hands me a tissue. I toss her a grateful smile and delicately blow into it, careful not to dislodge any actual snot or make noise. It takes a couple tries, but the itchy feeling calms.

I allow gratefulness to overtake me as I discard the tissue in the nearest trashbin. Jae-Hwa doesn’t have nearly as sensitive a nose as I do, I know. She wouldn’t be able to manage so many teenage trainees so closely otherwise. But still, she nose my nose is on the stronger side, had remembered that little factoid about me, and prepared accordingly. I owe her more every second I spend in her presence.

The meeting goes smoothly, if slowly, for the most part. Production jargon I don’t yet understand is lobbed around, plans are made, and schedules penned. I look to Jae-Hwa in absolute panic the first time I see Stray Kid’s schedule, terrified and confused by the absolutely packed blocks of colors and words.

She just pats my thigh under the table and makes a point to clarify aloud that I’m only shadowing them during group and select unit schedules, and that ‘Schedules with my trainee are marked in light blue, correct?’

It’s immensely relieving to see that less than half of the contents of that monster calendar involve me.

There are no other hiccups that I need to be at all concerned about, and it’s clear that I was mostly here for the experience and to show my face. I’m more than okay with that, at this point. Jae-Hwa wouldn’t let me miss anything truly important, anyway.

Eventually it’s just me, Jae-Hwa, Stray Kids, and one of their managers left in the room. It had felt a bit claustrophobic when the room was full of people and information being lobbed at me at lightning speeds, but now there’s no buffer between me and the weighty gazes of the group of Alphas and Betas.

One would think my issues with the overwhelming scents would have left with the majority of the people producing it, but if anything Stray Kid’s scents feel more overpowering than ever. It’s like with less people crowding, they’ve unfurled. Like large cats taking up as much space as possible.

I can’t help the mental scoff I give at the image. Alphas.

Their scents are all over each other, intertwined in the way only very close and healthy packs that participate in lots of scenting can manage. I can’t really pick them apart from each other, but the collective evokes images of nature and adventure. It makes me restless, and my chest fills with an odd sort of longing.

I feel a bit foolish at the moment, actually. It was well known that Stray Kids was a very close pack, but somehow I’d still expected to be able to pick apart their scents and hadn’t done any research about it. Like having been in the company since before their debut would help me distinguish the scents of people I’d barely interacted with.

It’s my first time meeting people so very intertwined. My own family hadn’t been big on skinship, and I hadn’t much time for friends or dating since I left them. I feel a bit wrong-footed, like I’ve lost a sense I’ve always had, to not be able to tell them apart with just my nose.

Their manager, too, is lightly dosed in their collective scent, but it’s easy to tell it’s more from exposure than active scenting. He’s an Alpha as well, I can tell, and it’s easy to catch the fresh bergamot of him, along with a hint of tea under his scent blockers.

Or maybe just hot water, but it’s hard to know for sure under the combined might of Stray Kids’ scent. It’s relieving just to be able to tell that much.

It’s all very overwhelming, daunting in it’s enormity. It’s a force I’ll have to get used to over the next year, but for now I allow myself to seek shelter behind a wall of Jae-Hwa. She allows me my comforts for now, but I know I’ll be exposed before too long.

I’d seek out her softer omegan scent, try to refresh my nose and shelter from the storm, but she’s got those nice prescription blockers. The Omega type that applies as a cream over your scent glands and is customized to neutralize pheromones and scent compounds as you produce them. All I can get from her is laundry detergent and faint, lightly sweet, omega scent.

There’s a welling of displeasure from the collective scents across the room as I disappear from sight, but their blockers hold strong against the complexities in their scents and I can’t quite tell who it’s from.

I reckon it’s quite like trying to read the expression of someone with a mask on. It’s a bit socially off-putting, and I find myself floundering.

Once again, the director saves the day.

“I had one more thing I wanted to talk about, but it’s specifically a question for you boys,” She begins kindly. Her words bring everyone to focus where we’d all been drifting in our own thoughts.

The gaze of my seniors is so much heavier when combined with their attention.

Jae-Hwa pulls me out from behind her, like the traitor she is, and presents me to the group of Alphas and Betas. I cant help but fold into myself under their focus. Only a few of them are taller than me, and even then not by much, but I still feel as if they tower over me in this moment.

“This kid’s apartment burned down recently,” She informs them bluntly, patting my shoulder as she speaks. I watch shock ripple through them, and duck into myself a bit further, “And she’s staying in a hotel at the moment.”

Before the director can continue, there’s a spike of something sharp and metallic in the air, like lightning about to strike, and my head whips up to make direct eye-contact with Lee Know. I can almost taste copper at the back of my throat and feel static on my skin from the intensity of it.

Now that it’s been violently brought to my awareness, I can smell Lee Know’s heavy forest scent as a vaguely threatening undertone to the cacophony of the pack. Like dark towering trees and storms rolling in, it’s pervasive and heavy.

I still can’t tell exactly what the emotion behind the spike was, but his blockers, weak patches already struggling for their lives, can’t hide the negativity of it. Even if my nose wasn’t as sensitive a it was, anyone could’ve sensed that much from the way his scent darkened the room.

I’m further convinced by the way one of his packmates, Han, leans into his side soothingly. I can’t tell if it’s to comfort of restrain him, so I just press my lips into a thin smile when your eyes meet and lean into Jae-Hwa.

She’s clearly a badass and so continues like nothing happened at all.

“You boys recently moved into Pack housing, yes?” Jae-Hwa asks like it’s not public knowledge. Everyone knows they moved into a place that could hold them all about as soon as the ink on their Bond registry was dry.

She doesn’t wait for either their manager nor leader to respond before she continues, “I’ve heard have at least one spare room, and since the dorms for the trainees participating in the show won’t be ready for a few weeks yet, and it makes little sense for her to move into the regular dorms and right back out again, I was wondering if you wouldn’t put her up until we can get accommodations squared away.”

I spare myself a moment to be amazed at the way she implies this is a recent thing for me, instead of a weeks-long problem, before her request registers and I snap around to stare at her with wide, shocked, eyes.

“I- Director, no, that’s not...” I tug weakly at her sleeve as if to fill in for words I’m too flabbergasted to say.

It would be one thing if she’d asked them to squeeze me into their dorm when they still had one, especially when they’d all been split up among different apartments. It was another thing entirely to brazenly request them to open their Pack home to me.

Pack housing implies that you were done expanding your pack. That outsiders were no longer welcome. That the Pack was as large as it was going to be until babies got involved, and they’d settled into a space to suit the size they were.

It was a step of permanence, and while friends could certainly be welcome like they would be in any other home, inviting a stranger into that space was just asking for instincts to go haywire. For hindbrains to perceive threats and lash out. It was a recipe for stress at best, disaster in most cases.

Especially when the stranger being invited was an Omega.

Somehow, the group doesn’t react with disgust and rage like I expect them to. At least not outwardly. Personally, I wouldn’t have been able to tolerate even Jae-Hwa, arguably the person I trust the most right now, in my hotel room, let alone a pack space.

I can’t even den down in my hotel room, but still, even the thought of inviting her in sent my hackles rising.

The group defies your expectations though, simply exchanging glances and subtle gestures. A pointed nod from Han in Lee Know’s direction seems to make a poignant enough point, and the pack turns as one to face the director once more.

Bangchan offers the both of you a magnanimous smile that charmingly crinkles the corners of his eyes. “We’ll need to talk about it amongst ourselves first,” He starts, and you’re ready to accept the rejection with relief. The hotel was stressful and expensive, but honestly just fine for now. You didn’t need to be mucking around in someone’s Pack space.

“But I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.” He finishes, and I swear shock stops my heart for a second. I look at the whole group of them incredulously, waiting for someone to speak out against their leader, because I know they’re an Alpha group but surely at least one of them would have some objection to this?

Their instincts couldn’t be that different from mine, could they?

The unnamed manager ushers the group out while I’m frozen, citing some schedule or another they’re running late for. Bangchan promises to reach out to Jae-Hwa to discuss arrangements, and then they’re gone.

You hear faint murmurs and then a rising voice as they head down the hallway.

“If— for one— FUCKING night—!” Is all I hear before it fades out. I’d guess it was Lee Know, but admittedly I only really know his singing voice with any confidence, even after years in the same company. My heart sinks with thoughts of causing discord among such a close pack.

Jae-Hwa settles her hands firmly on my shoulders, jarring me from my stupor. Her gaze is sympathetic and knowing.

“Trust me kiddo,” She says, “They’re an Alpha-heavy pack. Very few of them even have Omegan family members. If they say it’s okay, It’ll be okay.”

I try my best to believe her as I smile and nod, but unease grips tightly at my heart as she leads me out of the room, hand on the small of my back, just as we’d entered it.

The touch still burns.

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This taglist is temporary while I ask y'all a question: Project: Stack The Deck will be a typical archive fic the way Soulmate Garden and Best Friend Protocol aren't - that means It'll be written as fancy strikes, and wildly out of order and likely in fragments. It'll probably be very rare that I have a full scene written out like this at the end of a writing session. So my question is - Do y'all want to be tagged for everything? I don't perma tag for anything but full chapter updates, which this is not, based on an old poll, but like. Do y'all want to be tagged for full scenes like this, just for first and final drafts, just for chapters and not scenes, like. How frequently do you want to be tagged and how complete would you like the chapter to be when you're tagged? If you don't know the rules for the archive, posts are Once every attempt (changes of a paragraph or more), Once every five drafts (small adjustments to wording or grammar), and Once every 1000 words added. pls lmk <3

@chancloud8 , @allenajade-ite , @thatgirlangelb

#stay babbling #stray kids fanfic #skz fic #skz fanfic #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #baby writes #stray kids omegaverse #omegaverse #slow burn

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astarionancuntnin · 22 hours ago

Text

Bad Blood (Chapter 2)

summary: astarion was cast out by the sorceress following his confession. he wants to blame her, he really does, but deep down he can only blame himself for the course of actions that led him there.

rating: M

word count: 3.7k

pairing: astarion x tav (previously femtav!reader, sorcerer!tav)

cw: angst, astarion POV, near death experience, alternate Araj scene, reunion. full list on ao3

a/n: remember bad blood? this is her now, feel old yet? (aka woops i let this one sit for months)

guilty

chapter song inspo: bad blood (see what i did there) by boywithuke and 11 minutes by halsey

previous chapter - read on ao3 - next chapter (soon, i swear)

my masterlist

or keep reading down below~

Toxic apathy

You're way too good for me

You're better off all by yourself

Stoned, cold, losing sleep

You're way too cool for me

You're probably with somebody else

It's bad, bad blood

Gone?!

“Are you completely out of your mind?!” Astarion shouted. “Do you have any idea what is out there?” “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she sneered. “You seem to have a knack for plans — why don’t you craft something out now?”

He stared at her in disbelief, his previous anguish turned to outrage in a matter of seconds. Leaving now after everything he had done for her, everything they had gone through—

“I won’t repeat myself, Astarion,” she continued, breaking his train of thoughts. “You either leave, or I’ll make you.”

He scoffed, “Come off it now, darling. I hardly believe that you could get on your feet with your injuries, let alone cast whatever spell you have in mind that would rid you of my presence.”

He spoke as if he could change her mind, as if his masquerade of charms had any powers left over her, but deep down he knew he had no choice; he could either leave of his own volition now, or she would make him leave in a more brutal way. Even injured, he could see the bright halo of sorcery around her wrists, threatening to destroy her feeble bandages. Not something he was interested in seeing unfold — not if he were on the receiving end of it.

“Fine,” he said, before she could do anything she would regret, with his tone cold and detached. “If this is how you choose to see this, then so be it. Our relationship was nothing but another transaction — you are welcome for my services, and I hope the next time you blow yourself up, it takes you out.”

He spat the last word out with as much venom as he could muster, noticing the magic around her fists dimming as he turned around and left the tent in a furious haste, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Leaving was simply the best outcome for him. He had spent the night ruminating, his mind rushing with everything he wished he had said, and everything he regretted saying. Nothing had worked out, it was a bloody mess, and it was all…

Her fault.

Her fault for acting out irrationally and not hearing him out when he needed it the most, her fault for being careless and almost dying by her own hand. Her own damn fault for not seeing that she needed him as much as he needed—

No. He didn’t need anyone. Not now, not before, not ever. It would do him no good to try and talk his way out of this mess now, either way — whether or not he wanted to, the sorceress wasn’t going to let him stay anywhere near her.

As he packed his things — grumbling and cursing her out under his breath all along — and set off on his own, watching the first lights of the morning sun peaking across the horizon, he barely spared a thought to his fellow companions; the same ones he couldn’t bring himself to give proper goodbyes. Deep down, ke knew he wasn’t wanted by anyone here — aside maybe from the godsdamned dog who whined as Astarion pet him and walked away — so it wouldn’t do anyone any good to lament on his fate and watch their crocodile tears as they pretended to be sad from his departure. He knew damn well someone, at least, would be glad.

It didn't matter, Tav or not — group or not — he needed to clear his head or he wouldn’t survive a minute on his own. Glooming over this situation wouldn’t fix it, and as much as he hated her for saying it, she was right; all he could do now was find a new plan.

Going back was not an option — that much was clear — unless he had a death wish.

This was for the best, he thought. After all, what good would it be for him to stick around, now of all time? Plus, this whole thing had been a chore since the beginning, something he forced on himself, once again. Maybe this was freedom at long last.

Now, he was on his own, again. Truly and utterly alone. As the dread started to set into his mind, he shook his head, seizing himself back with an artificial confidence, one that accompanied him like a devil on his shoulder.

No more pretending to care for any of them, no more sharing space with the beast whom he used to give his rations to — obviously only to cover up his real self, it's not like he cared for it, even after Scratch caught the bad habit to sleep next to his tent — no more witty banter with the wizard or the sorceress as they debated which one of them was the most powerful, no more so-called security from a group of weirdos who attracted all kinds of dangers more than anyone else in the realms, no more annoying laughs disturbing the peace around the campfire, no more…

Gods… what had he done? What was he doing, and what absolute foolery pushed him to say the things he had said? Out here, he was vulnerable again, weak, and without the artefact near, who knew how long he could make it before turning into one of those monstrosities? He could only hope they were near enough, if only to keep the effect of the artefact working on him. At best he could follow them around from the shadows, but what good would that do? No, that would only put a bigger target on his back.

To the Hells with them, I don't need them, he thought.

I don’t need her.

I don’t need anyone.

I'll go to Baldur's Gate and face Cazador on my own.

He kept repeating this mantra to himself over and over again while he made his way through the Shadowlands, and as the words echoed in his head, he realised just how wrong they were.

His false bravado might’ve worked once upon a time, before tadpoles, absolutes, and companionship, but now, the lies he tried to tell himself fell on deaf pointy ears, only getting him so far.

In truth, he could never face Cazador alone. It was obvious, trying it now would only assure him a slow and painful death. Hells, he barely managed to hold his own among their group, often getting saved in extremis, whether it be a healing spell from Shadowheart or a close kill from Karlach, or even a destructive spell from Tav.

Just as he thought about her, his eyes fell upon the carnage they had experienced at the Last Light Inn. How he felt when he thought she was dead, the suffocating fear of losing her, how he would've given everything he didn't have to have her back, only to ultimately lose her for what he had done.

No, he shook his head. I can’t go back. I can’t…

The walk to Baldur’s Gate promised to be lengthy, giving him plenty of time to think about a new plan, but his thoughts became conflicting; on one hand he was well aware of the impossibility of going back, but on the other, he refused to let it be the end, not after getting so far together, not after falling for her, whether or not it was part of the plan, and fuck this plan for putting him in that situation in the first place.

But then… How could he show her that he cared? What could he possibly do to make her forgive him if she was the one who had cast him out in the first place? Chances are she’d cast a fireball at him the very moment her eyes laid on him again, no matter the risk it could impose on her — that much was made clear last night. As much as he wanted to fix this, he couldn’t put her life, and even less his, on the line so carelessly.

No matter what he would end up doing, the answers didn’t lay in the remains of this inn. Maybe, just maybe, travelling alone would allow him easier travels to Baldur’s Gate, where he could find something — anything — to fix this.

Perhaps he could get her to see his side of it — truly, if she just understood better why he had manipulated her in the way he did, things wouldn’t have escalated that far. They wouldn’t have to stay apart, and she could forgive him for whatever tricks he had played on her, and they might even laugh about it! Ha!

Really, when he took a step back from it all, this situation wasn’t as bad as it looked; only their first encounter truly had been intentional manipulation, the rest just came ever so naturally. Did it really count as a trick tactic if he had fallen for her as well? That part for certain wasn’t intentional, and if he could’ve, he would’ve avoided it. Wouldn’t have been in this mess otherwise, or it would be far less messy, probably.

Maybe. Gods, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

If there was anything he was certain of, it was that if she met Cazador she would understand him instantly. She would probably kill him herself, which he would be curious to see how that would go down but also disappointed if he didn’t get to kill the bastard himself. Not a concern for now, he’s still far from within his Master’s reach, but he couldn’t help but let his mind wander. After seeing what kind of monster Astarion was subjected to for the last two centuries, she would surely empathise — or he liked to believe so.

Oh, wishful thinking.

Wait. That’s it! Make it so she meets Cazador, then they can kill him, and she can forgive him for tricking her. She had been so caring in the past, with further proof of his horrible past, she should forgive him. She had to—

Or at least, she would if he could reach the damned city in the first place, which wouldn't be possible with the troop of heavily guarded githyanki guarding its gate. Bloody Hells. Sneaky bastards hiding in the shadows, waiting to ambush the first sorry soul that would cross their path. Not Astarion, though, so here goes option A.

As he walked back to where he came from, Astarion realised it wouldn’t be an option either, as shadows and lost Harpers that had been claimed by the darkness roamed the lands he had previously crossed, putting him between a rock and a hard place.

The choices were now either definitely die at the hand of ruthless, bloodthirsty giths who would decapitate him for having a tadpole, or potentially die against cursed soldiers he had faced before. The choice seemed obvious.

He opted for the silent approach, sneaking back on the trail he came from and taking out two undead soldiers before getting noticed by a third one who rang the alarm.

Potential death it is.

The first soldiers that threw themselves at him had been easy pickings; they were undead, after all. Well, not the smart kind. Not a single thought behind those lifeless eyes of theirs, as if something else was controlling them. Nothing but puppets to their master, now.

The real trouble started when the shadows appeared closer and seemed to multiply as they surrounded Astarion. It wasn't long before he got overwhelmed by their numbers and let his concentration falter.

All it took was one shadow’s Firebolt, who he completely overlooked, hitting him in the back to render him incapacitated, making him wince in pain and his vision flash. This distraction was enough for an undead soldier to plunge its knife into his side and drive him on his knees, putting him out for the count.

This single fight had proven to him just how weak he really was on his own. It had barely been a few hours after his banishment, and upon his first encounter he had already failed, with no one this time around to cover for him or raise him back on his feet. No one aside from the overwhelming amount of enemies closing in on him. How he had believed he could make it to Baldur’s Gate alone is beyond him.

Surrounded, and yet, he had never felt more alone.

As his body landed over the corrupted ground, his ears rang and his surroundings began blending together, the sounds of the on-going fight fading in the back of his mind. Screams from all around led on, as if the fight continued long after he fell against the floor of this courtyard, but he couldn’t make out who was fighting whom at this point, only having a few moments of consciousness before feeling himself succumb to his wounds.

—

Death was oddly peaceful. After centuries without a semblance of rest, with his nights plagued by horrid memories — or even nightmares at times when his body and mind were too exhausted by the abuse — this was a welcome respite.

Darkness beyond horizons, a cool feeling enveloping him like a cocoon, and true solitude. It almost felt nice. In a world where everyone else had abandoned him, the darkness felt like an old friend coming to take him away.

“Oi, wake up!”

A harsh woman’s voice snapped him back into consciousness, roughly breaking his quiet world of emptiness and clearing out of the way the possibility of his death.

Of fucking course it couldn’t have been that easy. When had anything in his life been simple?

He groaned as his eyes opened, the bright light from a nearby fire lamp blinding him as he tried to take in his surroundings.

A plain old cell, by the looks of it. Larger than what he's used to, and much warmer than his standard under Cazador. Although, it was nothing like where he remembered passing out; how it had gotten here in the first place was a mystery he would need to uncover.

He managed to get on his feet with a hiss, clenching at his side to hold onto where he remembered getting hit, and although a sting remained, the wound was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re lucky we found you when we did.” He finally looked up to notice the guard sizing him up. “Those shadows would’ve claimed you if our patrol didn’t stumble on your fight.” She huffed, “The Absolute works in mysterious ways, but I won’t question where she guides us.”

“Right, our mighty Absolute,” he sighed, “what about her now?”

“You’re a True Soul, are you not?” She inquired.

“Well I— argh!”

Before Astarion could give his answer, he felt the reach of the guard standing on the other side of the gate from him, her own tadpole searching for his, lodged way back in his mind.

“I sense her power within you.” She says, breaking the connection between them. “Yes, you have been blessed by her indeed.” “Great!” He groaned, rubbing his temples. “Now that we’re all friends, I’m sure you'll agree that the Absolute would want me out of this cell, wouldn’t she?” The guard chuckled, “You’ll get out once our blood expert has examined you. She has a particular affinity for people of your kind.” “My kind?” He asked with a higher pitch in his tone. “As in absolutely dashing? Drop dead gorgeous, maybe?” “Ah! A vampire!”

Another voice echoed in the larger rooms of the dungeons, this one coming from a drow woman who was just approaching his cell. The sound of her voice was quickly followed by an horrid smell assaulting Astarion’s senses.

“Why yes, that would be correct,” he said, trying to cover up his disgust from the smell, “what about it?”

“Do you have a name, spawn?”

So much for introductions.

“Astarion,” he answered with a light scoff. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Araj Oblodra, trader in blood and the sanguine arts.”

Oh, that was bound to be interesting, “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m in need of your services. You see, ever since I was a little girl, I've dreamed of being bit.”

“Wait—” he blurted out loud. “You want to be bitten?”

“To feel your life’s blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes, I want it.”

And here I thought our group was weird.

“And why would I do that?”

She chuckled, “Do you truly believe you have a choice here?”

Choice or not, there was no way in the seven Hells that he would get anywhere near her, but he had to find a way out, and that might as well be it.

“Well, I’m simply not sure my Master would agree with this being the best usage of my talents, is all.”

Araj sighed heavily, “Well your Master isn’t around to get a say in this, so that leaves you with one option only. It’s simple — if you do, I’ll free you. I’m not asking for much, just a simple transaction.” She eyed him up with a salacious look. “It's either this, or we keep you for further… examinations. So, what will it be, spawn?

Gods, he did not want to stick around to find out what kind of twisted ideas she had for him, and he was thirsty.

It would’ve been a nice meal, if her blood didn't absolutely reek. He could smell her corruption from where he stood, and he was suddenly glad for the gate keeping them apart. Unfortunately, that gate didn't protect his senses from her stench, and he wasn’t desperate enough yet to dive in for just about any neck. With a smirk, he bowed and delivered his answer.

“I… will have to decline.”

Before she could retort anything at all, a voice rang not too far away and Astarion’s head snapped to the side, finding the source of it.

“Fangs?”

His heart clenched at the sight of the friendly, fiery tiefling he recognized — with only her eyes wearing a shade of sadness in them, one he rarely noticed in her. They only partially glinted as she paused to look up to him with a newfound hope, as her companions stepped closer.

“You know the spawn?” Araj asked the group.

“He’s with us.”

Karlach and Lae’zel stepped aside to let the source of the voice appear and a wave of emotions struck Astarion all at once, forcing him to take one step back.

Shadowheart stepped forward, reaching out to their leader, “Tav, are you sure—”

“It’s okay,” she reassured her friend with a faint nod of her head, one that the cleric reciprocated, and a soft voice, all the opposite from the one she used to announce herself. The sorceress stood tall against Araj, and only allowed herself a quick glance at Astarion to acknowledge him.

She looked… rough. He could spy the bits of bandages peeking from underneath her robe, her wounds from the explosion still healing, with a burn noticeable just on the side of her face and tired, dark eyes that hinted at her lack of sleep. Just a few seconds peering into her eyes was all he needed to notice the guilt and sadness she carried with her, before she turned her gaze back onto the Drow woman as she spoke up.

“Ah, so he’s yours then, marvellous.” Araj clapped her hands together gleefully. “Would you mind asking your spawn to bite me? I have something to offer in return, of course, it wouldn’t be fair of me to ask otherwise.”

With those same lifeless eyes, she looked up to the pretentious Drow, unimpressed.

“I’m listening,” she crossed her arms across her chest.

“I have in my possession a powerful potion that will permanently increase your strength, should you drink it. It’s not for sale, but it’s yours if he bites me.”

She hums, “That does sound tempting, doesn’t it, Astarion?” She looked in his direction, awaiting his reaction.

“Oh, believe me darling, I would,” he answered, without skipping a beat. “That is, if her blood didn’t absolutely stink up the place. It’s foul, really.”

“You can smell her blood?”

He scoffed, “Can’t you? Gods, it’s rank.”

“Are you really asking for his opinion? This lowly spawn?” Araj asked, interrupting them, “He’s under your ownership, he answers to you.”

Her gaze lingered on him, her frown softening, “He’s his own person, he can decide for himself.”

Astarion’s brows lifted in response.

“Oh I’m sure he believes that!” Araj laughed. “How utterly adorable.”

“Yes,” Tav continued, snapping her gaze back to Araj. “So you should ask him.”

Araj’s laugh halted to a stop, briefly looking over Astarion before glancing back to Tav, “Well I did but—”

“And what answer did he give you?”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Astarion, awaiting his answer next to a frustrated Araj who turned back to him with a sneer.

His eyes remained on Tav, and he hoped his face didn’t betray the mixed emotions he felt towards her in that very moment. He turned his attention back to Araj, his expression seamlessly blending back into his pompous self.

He shrugged, “It’s still a no, I’m afraid.”

Tav turned her head back to Araj, with a slight smirk, “Then you have your answer.”

The Drow grunted, “Can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?!”

Tav frowned, dropping her smile, “He said no.”

“Fine.” Araj sighed. “How very disappointing.” She turned to the guard, still next to Astarion’s cell, “Release the spawn to the True Soul — he’s her property.”

Following her orders, the guard unlocked the gate from his cell, allowing Astarion out. Araj and the guard let them be, begrudgingly walking away from the group with one last side glance before stepping out of the dungeons.

Once they were gone, Tav let go of a heavy breath, dropping her shoulders and turning on her heels, rallying her companions, “We’re done here, let’s go.”

Karlach, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart followed, leaving Astarion standing still at the entrance of his cell. The sorceress turned when she noticed his absence near them and stopped in her tracks when she saw him unmoving. “Well? What are you waiting for? An invitation?”

Her voice was tired, and those sarcastic comments that Astarion was so used to didn’t strike the same with the weight they now carried. Her words struck something within him; a memory of an explosion, her corpse resting in his arms, a cleric without healing powers, and him powerless in the middle of it all.

He gulped, trying to wash away the feelings he couldn’t find the will to process, and slipped back into his haughty self as he spoke up to break the silence.

“To go where exactly, Master?”

“Camp,” she said. “You’re coming back with us.”

Call me stupid, call me sad, You're the best I've ever had, You're the worst I've ever had, And that keeps fuckin' with my head. You're 11 minutes away and I have missed you all day, So why aren't you here?

Thank you for reading! Comments, reblogs, and likes are very much appreciated <3

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