#mentions of violence but nothing explicit; mentions of blood but nothing worse than what you see in canon
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the alchemy
Mob!Bucky x ReaderÂ
Run-through: About a decade ago you left your home and ran away, looking for a fresh start after having had your heart broken by the boy you loved. Now youâre back and turns out Bucky Barnes â the same man who once broke your heart â is adamant on tormenting you some more. But why? Why does he want you back at all cost when he was the one who once pushed you away and crushed your heart like it meant nothing to him? What secrets has he been keeping for almost a decade? Most importantly, what truly happened that night he broke your heart?Â
Themes: forced marriage/marriage of convenience, angst, mob!bucky, metal arm, fluff, smut, possessive!bucky, childhood friends-to-enemies-to-lovers trope, bratty!reader, mentions of violence, explicit language, slow burn-ish, HEAÂ
a/n: new mob!bucky pics droppedâ
âI do.â You said in a sombre voice, with blood dripping from the cut on your lip as you sealed your fate and married your worst enemy.Â
Buckyâs face was bleeding too, your nails had done some damage earlier when you both got into a physical altercation like wild animals. You nearly smirked when you realised he looked worse than you did.Â
Then again you both looked like you went through hell as you stood here, at this makeshift altar, in the middle of what used to be the foyer of your fatherâs mansion before Bucky and his men shot at it until it was nothing but rubble, broken glass, and cracked marble.Â
Messy hair. Cuts and bruises all over your bodies. Dishevelled clothes. Your white jumpsuit had your own bloodstains on it, and his all black suit was torn in certain places. But he looked every bit the man they say he is. Dangerous. Cold, dark presence. The large bruise on his jaw was beginning to get darker now, thanks to the many punches from you. His near shoulder length hair was surprisingly looking neat. It pissed you off.Â
You looked like a mess too. And for a brief second, as his blue eyes looked down at your throat, you knew he could see a matching bruise forming around your neck from when heâd pinned you down to the floor earlier with that damned metal arm.Â
No one was dead, none of your people and none of his. Thankfully. But right now, as you married the man standing in front of you, you felt dead inside.Â
âYou may now kiss the bride.â Was all you heard and you remained still as Bucky grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into him.Â
You resisted for a moment, but then he pulled you harder until your chests collided and you had no choice but to remain pressed against him. âIâm tired of these games, princess.â He hissed in a lowered voice, looking down at you with his merciless blue eyes.Â
You stared back at him with equal contempt. âYouâre gonna regret this, Barnes.â You sneered, in a hushed voice. Not that the injured family members and men surrounding you â both his men and your fatherâs guards who stood and watched the show in disbelief and shock would mind the disrespect for each other in both your tones â but you didnât want to add to the ridiculousness of this situation.Â
âOh?â He taunted with a faint smirk. Only then did you notice the small cut on his upper lip. It brought you a little solace. âYouâre my wife now, you will do as I say.âÂ
The bitterness in your tone matched his as you said, âWeâll see about that, husband.âÂ
You could tell heâd accepted the unspoken challenge, and he would do anything to win. After all, everything was a game to Bucky Barnes. He didnât care who he used, who he manipulated, or who he tossed aside. He paraded around like he owned this world and everything and everyone in it.Â
Bucky scoffed then leaned in to kiss you, hard. It wasnât a loving kiss in any way. It was possessive though. Like he was putting on a show for whoever was watching, making sure everyone in this dilapidated room understood that you were his now.Â
You kissed him back, angrily. You despised him. Your entire family did. But they couldnât save you this time. Buckyâs attack was unexpected. Your guards were unprepared. You were the last line of defence and this⊠union was necessary. You had to offer something, anything. Otherwise Bucky and his guys threatened to burn down your half of the city and turned it to ash immediately.Â
But it wasnât always like this. Your families used to be allies. You actually grew up with Bucky, he tolerated you enough back then and you had always had a crush on him.Â
Then that night happened almost a decade agoâŠÂ
It was your twentieth birthday party, and your father made an announcement which you were not ready for.Â
He announced to the ballroom filled with important people that you were to marry Bucky, and that both families were beyond happy to transform their friendship into something more solid through this alliance.Â
You remained frozen in place for long minutes after that announcement was made, even though your heart raced like never before. No one had told you about this, but judging by the way your family hugged and congratulated Buckyâs family you understood that this was all planned.Â
You kept that smile on your face though, as people walked over to congratulate you. You looked around and tried to find Bucky in the crowd to see if he knew about this but he was nowhere to be found.Â
You were certain he was here just a moment ago, leaning against one of the pillars and brooding as always. And heâd just disappeared.Â
The announcement made your heart flutter incessantly. After all, youâd always had a huge crush on Bucky. How could you not? He was the boy you grew up around, he had pretty eyes and nice hair. Sure he was broody and rarely ever smiled but you liked how it suited his bad boy personality. And your young heart was weak for the handsome boy with tattoos and blue eyes.Â
After people were done congratulating you, you discretely walked out of the party and decided to look around and try to find Bucky. You hated how giddy you were. Sure, Bucky was broody and rarely ever laughed. He spent his entire time glaring at you then getting jealous when you talked to other guys. But you had liked him since forever.Â
You looked all over your fatherâs mansion. Bucky was nowhere to be found indoors. So⊠maybe the pool area outside? You started walking in that direction, feeling like a princess in your white ball gown as you walked down an empty hallway, a faint smile on your face as you looked for the man you were meant to marry soon.Â
Maybe Bucky knew about this announcement. Maybe he was okay with it. Maybe this would be your fairytale in real life, you thought. Maybe youâd melt his frozen heart and everything would be perfect. Maybe he liked you back all along and you just never knew!Â
â...marry her?âÂ
Your smile vanished as you stopped right before you stepped outside onto the patio. Was that Buckyâs voice? Was he talking to someone? You quietly stepped closer, hiding behind the plants as you tried your hardest to listen to what he was saying.Â
You could see him, standing on the black tiles by the pool. He had his back to you, and he held a phone to his ear. His broad shoulders and lean waist accentuated by how well that black suit moulded to his muscular body. You watched as he ran his fingers through his short black hair in frustration.Â
Who was he talking to?Â
âNo!â He barked at the phone. âDid you not listen to what I just said? I donât want to do this!â He yelled, not bothering that anyone around might hear him. âI tried to talk them out of it! This is so fucking stupid!âÂ
You blinked in surprise, unable to process what you were hearing.Â
âI donât care what I have to do, but I will not marry her.â He said with enough venomous certitude that a silent tear fell down your face.Â
All your previous delusions turned to nothing but heavy disappointment. It made you feel stupid. This gown felt stupid. The diamonds around your neck, around your wrists and in your hair felt stupid. How stupid of you to think this was all going to end well? How stupid of you to think your childhood crush actually meant something? How stupid of you to think that there was a chance he liked you back? Of course he didnât. He wouldnât have ignored you for years if he did.Â
You couldnât stop the sudden sob that escaped your mouth. Afraid that he might have heard, you took a few steps back and hid behind a nearby, tall potted shrub.Â
Things were quiet for a moment or two. You heard him whispering so quietly you couldnât make out what he said. Your face burned in embarrassment at the thought of him finding you here. You already felt stupid and childish, you didnât want to get caught eavesdropping in this situation.Â
But then he resumed talking on the phone. You couldnât risk moving to look at him so you remained hiding, and listened. Your heart broke with each word that left his mouth.Â
âAnd sheâs so blind she doesnât even see it.â He hissed, louder this time. âI barely tolerate her. Her whiny, and bratty attitude. I mean sheâs a grown woman and still acts like sheâs daddyâs little princess.â He scoffed. âYou shouldâve seen her today, she looks like a kidâs toy with that ridiculous dress on.âÂ
More tears streamed down your face as you heard nothing but distaste and irritation in his voice. This was the boy you had a hopeless crush on? This is what he thought of you?Â
You didnât need to hear more. This was more than enough to completely break you so you turned around and quietly walked back down the same hallway. You wiped your tears, and put a fake smile on as you went back to your party. This time with a plan in your head.Â
You endured the party with a heavy heart. Faked some more smiles until it ended. You didnât see Bucky again for the rest of the night, which was good. By the early hours of the morning, everyone had left. You wandered around that empty ballroom like a ghost that night. For hours. Thinking, plotting. It was clear Bucky didnât want this. And now neither did you. But your families had announced it. So what exactly could you do?Â
By the time the sun rose, you had already written a note to your father and left it on his desk. By the time the sky brightened, your bags were packed and you were already driving out of the mansion grounds. And you knew that by the time your father would go into his office and find that note, you would already be on a plane, on your way out of here.Â
You didnât give too many details in the note. You simply said that you were leaving, not knowing when or if youâd be back.Â
Truth was, you had no solid plans. All you knew was that you needed to get away from home.Â
You didnât know that when youâd return home â almost a decade later, so much would have changed.Â
Your father was angry. Livid actually, that youâd been away for years without contact. You briefly explained why you needed to leave. And how youâd been able to make a name for yourself elsewhere. But after he was done berating you for what you did when you were twenty and stupid, he filled you in on all that youâd missed in the past decade almost.Â
Some important points were: your family and Bucky were no longer allies, but were now each othersâ worst rivals but no one knew that. The city was now secretly divided â your family ruled and controlled one side, and Bucky ruled the other.Â
âItâs just him now?â You had asked, and your father nodded.Â
âA lot happened after you left, actuallyââ
A loud noise cut him off. Rounds of bullets shot at the windows of the house, from all sides it seemed. And it was pure chaos. You could hear your guards fighting back, but even by just hearing the commotion you could tell you were severely outnumbered.Â
But whoever it was, they werenât shooting at anyone, just at windows â making enough noise to get your attention and to get you to come outside.Â
You marched out of the room despite your father ordering you not to. And you were halfway down the grand stairs when he walked in and spotted you immediately with a smug look on his face.Â
Bucky. Walked in like he owned the place. He stopped in the middle of the foyer, which was now ruined. Bits and pieces of concrete and glass all over the marble floor. Flower pots destroyed, the gilded mirror in pieces as well. He made a mess of the home you grew up in and you almost shot him right in the heart there and then.Â
Here was the man who once broke your heart after making you think for years that maybe you had a chance.Â
âWhat the hell do you think youâre doing?â You hissed. You could hear your father coming to a stop on the landing several steps behind you. He was unprepared. You were armed with only one handgun tucked into your pocket. Your guards were outnumbered. This was a shitshow.Â
The guards â his and yours â stopped firing and now just stood all over the place on high alert. And you knew, deep down in your gut you just knew something which you werenât ready for was about to happen.Â
âI see youâre finally home, princess.â Bucky just gave you a cold smile and shoved his hands in his pockets. The action drew your attention to one specific thing. The metal arm. You frowned at it in confusion, but didnât react.Â
But that word⊠âprincessâ brought back memories which chased you out of this place. And it only fueled your anger.Â
âWhat the fuck do you want?âÂ
He lifted his nose slightly in the air, like the arrogant prick he had always been. âIâm here to collect what I was promised.â His voice was strong and confident. âA bride. Now you have a choice, princess. Either we do this in peace and no one gets hurt, orâŠâÂ
He didnât even have to finish his sentence because on cue, one of his guards sneakily appeared on the landing behind you, holding a gun to your fatherâs head. You froze for a moment. The look on your fatherâs face made everything so serious all of a sudden. You had to be extra careful here.Â
âYou wouldnât.âÂ
He scoffed, âWouldnât I?âÂ
You argued, âItâs been almost a decade.âÂ
âI donât care. We were supposed to marry each otherâ,âÂ
You cut him off, âYes, and you didnât want that, did you? I heard you on the phone that night.â You finally confessed. âBy the pool. I remember every single word that came out of your fucking mouth. So donât come here acting like youâre entitled toâ,âÂ
âYou think you know everything, donât you?â He smirked, shaking his head. âIs that why you ran away? And didnât come home for a decade? Because you spied on me that night and didnât like what you heard?âÂ
That did it. One moment you were standing on the stairs, afraid that your father might get hurt and the next you had your gun out and shot right at his metal arm, knowing it wouldnât hurt him but it would make him lower his guard for just a second.Â
And that one second was enough to jump him and punch him right in the jaw. Fuck, it hurt but it also felt so damn good. All those years youâd been away, you were also training in your free time. And you knew you were good at combat.Â
But so was he. A few punches in and he managed to throw you down on the floor and pin you to the ground with that same metal hand around your throat, keeping you in place. You didnât know why his guards just stood and did nothing, as though they had been ordered not to shoot at anyone here.Â
But you werenât under any such orders, so you managed to land another punch to his jaw before he yelled, âEnough!â Right in your face. âStop this shit, or I swear toâ,âÂ
You cut him off by punching him again, trying to get free the moment you felt his metal hand get loose around your throat. He growled in annoyance and tightened his grip.Â
âYouâre like a wild fucking animal. Stop!âÂ
You gritted your teeth at the insult and scratched his face exactly like how a wild animal would. You tried everything, tried to punch him again, tried to scratch down his neck and arms which only tore his shirt instead of his skin. You went for yet another punch and only then did you feel another pair of arms â one of his guards â pulling your hands away from his face. You thrashed and tried your hardest to break free but you couldnât and ended up biting your own lip rather badly in the process.Â
âI fucking hate you, Bucky Barnes!â You hissed, defeated, and now with a bleeding, throbbing cut on your lip which matched his.Â
Bucky kept his hand around your neck as he leaned in menacingly and whispered, âHate me all you want, princess. But you will marry me. Right here. Right now.âÂ
And thatâs how you found yourself kissing your husband, in the foyer of your fatherâs ruined mansion. With your helpless father, and the many guards as witnesses.Â
You pulled away from the kiss, breathless and angrier than earlier. Jaws clenched, you were ready to tackle him to the ground again, maybe actually shoot him with your gun this time, but he spoke before you could say anything.Â
âLetâs go.â He spoke, and like the loyal followers that they were, all of his guards silently walked out of your house. And Bucky grabbed your hand firmly in his and began pulling you out of the house as well.Â
You resisted again. âWait! You brute!â You pulled your hand away from his and ran back up the stairs to your father. âI ruined everything, Iâm sorry.âÂ
He just hugged you and told you to be careful and be smart. And that he forgives you. You promised youâd come to see him soon. And then you left, refusing to take Buckyâs hand again as you walked out of your fatherâs house.Â
You needed to think. You couldnât fight him right now. Besides, itâs not like you married him legally. All Bucky wanted was to make a scene and you let him. For now. Youâd need some time to come up with a plan and decide what needed to be done. But for nowâŠÂ
âIf youâre thinking about running away and disappearing for a decade again, you better stop. Youâre not getting away this time. You hear me?â Bucky spoke, sitting next to you in the backseat of his car as the driver drove to his side of the city, to his house surely. That authoritative tone of his made you want to scratch his face again.Â
âYou seem to be under the impression that youâre in control here, Barnes. Just know, I could still shoot you right now if I wanted to.â You didnât look at him, you looked out the window. At the city that had changed in your absence.Â
âOuch.â He faked his surprise. Then proceeded to put his arm around your shoulders to pull you into his chest, leaning down he whispered into your ear, âThatâs not a nice way of treating your new husband, now is it?âÂ
You gave him a fake smile, ignoring the way your brain thought he smelled delicious, and reached into your pocket to pull out your handgun. Placing the cold barrel right under his chin you said, âTry me, husband.âÂ
The driver cleared his throat in nervousness and you didnât want to traumatise the man so you pulled your gun away but left it in Buckyâs line of sight. He pulled away then, pulling his hand away from your shoulders but placed his metal hand on your thigh. A possessive move.Â
Yet that didnât bother as much. But the metal hand? Where did that come from? What happened while you were gone?Â
He answered your questions voluntarily. âGot caught in a crossfire. I got shot too many times, the arm was beyond saving. So I had the metal arm made. Itâs a very intricate technology, but it works just fine.â He said, flexing the hand on your skin.Â
You didnât miss the hidden sexual connotation in that last part of his sentence. And you certainly couldnât ignore the way your body responded to the cold, metal touch. It looked⊠badass. Not that you would ever tell him.Â
You tried to look out the window again, but his touch on your thigh was more distracting than you wanted it to be. It was all you could focus on. Just to stop thinking about it you said, âI donât have any of my things.âÂ
âItâs all been taken care of. Donât worry.â He answered, looking down at his phone. Acting like he didnât know his hand on your thigh was messing you up.Â
Still you frowned at his answer, âWhat do you mean itâs been taken care of?â Then you paused and thought about it for a moment, âDid youââ You sighed, âYou knew I was coming, didnât you? Did you have people spying on me?âÂ
He shrugged, âYou thought I would let my betrothed be out there in the world without keeping an eye on her?â He scoffed, looking up from his phone for a brief moment, âOf course I did. I know everything about you. I even know all about that secret, women-only army you created.â He added, âI was half expecting them to pop out of nowhere earlier at your fatherâs house.âÂ
You were in disbelief. This whole time you thought youâd hid well. But no.Â
âWhere are they anyway? Your girls?â He asked, and for once it didnât sound like a taunt. It sounded like he was genuinely curious.Â
âProbably out hunting and beheading men who think they can get away with forcing women into marrying them by threatening to kill their fathers.â You gave him another one of your fake smiles, âIâve trained them well.âÂ
Bucky smiled back. âWell good. When they get here to try and free you, we could unite our forces. Weâll be untouchable then, you and I. I have the money and you have an army.â He winked. âUltimate power couple.âÂ
âYou wonât get away with this, Barnes.âÂ
He looked out of the window and said, âI just came to collect what was promised to be mine that night.âÂ
You argued, bitterly, âOh we both know what happened that night.âÂ
âI do.â He said, âBut do you? Do you really?âÂ
You remained quiet for a moment. This was the second time he questioned your knowledge of what truly happened that night. As if you hadnât heard him loud and clear on that phone call.Â
âYouâ,âÂ
He cut you off and looked out the window as he said, âWeâre home.âÂ
It had been a long day. And you were running out of energy so instead of arguing some more, you just followed him out of the car and remained stunned for a moment as you looked at his house. It wasnât his family home. This one seemed new.Â
It was just as large as your fatherâs mansion, just a lot more contemporary compared to the more Georgian architecture-inspired one you grew up in.Â
Buckyâs house sat on a sprawling green and pristine property. It was a perfect blend of sleek architecture and a glass house, which allowed the right amount of privacy but also allowed glimpses of the warm, farmhouse inspired interior. Even from outside you could tell it was homey and bright inside.Â
Before you could get a word out, you felt his hands on you again. You tensed up and almost hit him again in defence but before you could, Bucky was carrying you bridal style â literally â and marching towards the large doors of his ridiculously pretty home.Â
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â You questioned, squirming just a little in the intimate embrace.Â
âTraditions,â He said, looking down at you, âCanât have you trip at the doorstep and risk bringing bad luck into our marriage.âÂ
You frowned at him, reluctantly wrapping your arms around his neck for support. âYou say âour marriageâ like itâs gonna be a real thing. It wonât, Barnes. Iâll be out of here before youâ,âÂ
He used you to push open the door and the warm interior of the home shut you up. For some reason you never imagined someone like Bucky would live in a house that actually looked like a home. You pictured him living in some villainâs lair.Â
But this was⊠beautiful.Â
You squirmed into his arms until he finally set you down carefully. You stood there for a minute, in the foyer, just looking around. Then you couldnât help but say, âIt would be a real pain if someone just started shooting at the windows of your house like a madman, wouldnât it?â You waved your gun in front of his face.Â
âIâll send people over tomorrow morning to fix your fatherâs house.âÂ
âYou donât even sound apologetic.â You scoffed.Â
âIâm not.âÂ
You narrowed your eyes at him. âWas it necessary? To shoot at my house like that? You couldnât just, I donât know, ring the doorbell to get me to come outside? You absolutely had to be a child?âÂ
He smirked then said, âFirst of all, that isnât your house anymore. This is where you live now, and you will call this your home. Second of all, why blame me when you acted just as childish when you decided to run away all those years ago? Third of all, I did it because, well, I do like some drama.âÂ
You couldnât not believe him. âYou amaze me with your stupidity, Barnes.âÂ
âYou amaze me with your bratty attitude, Mrs. Barnes.âÂ
You stepped closer to him, slow and in a threatening manner. âDonât call me that.âÂ
âDonât call me that.âÂ
You sighed, âYou know youâre still that little boy who used to bully everyone when we played as kids.âÂ
He clarified, âNo, I bullied you because you were annoying. Everyone else was fine.âÂ
âI hate you.â You said with enough hostility you hoped it would shut him up.Â
It didnât. âWell, see.â He took your hand in his and said slowly as if talking you down, âThatâs something weâll work on together as a couple.âÂ
You pulled your hand away and were so tempted to justâÂ
âCome,â he said, âIâll show you where our room is.â You began protesting immediately but he cut you off by saying, âStop being fucking difficult. Weâre married now, act like it.âÂ
âI want a separate room!âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âIâm not sleeping with you!âÂ
âThen donât. But you will sleep in my bed. Like my wife should.âÂ
âYouâre a fucking animal!â You tried tugging your hand free from his grasp.Â
Bucky had had enough. So he pinned you to the nearest surface, which happened to be the closed door of his bedroom. He grabbed both your wrists in his metal hand and pinned them above your head. His face was just inches away from yours, and he stared deep into your eyes.Â
Your mind immediately went to that harsh kiss youâd shared earlier. And you hated how your body squirmed just as the thought of it. You refused to think about it any more, but his mouth was just so, so close. The cut on his lip, the slight stubble on his cheek and around his mouth, the texture of his skin, you were picking up on details youâd missed.Â
Bucky spoke in a calm, deep voice which sent shivers down your spine. âLetâs be adults here, okay? You stop acting like a brat, and Iâll stop treating you like one.â He said, pressing his chest into yours. âItâs been a long day, and I know youâre running out of energy as well so stop resisting me. If I was an animal, I wouldâve dragged you to bed right now and wouldâve made you mine in every sense of the word.â He whispered, his voice cold and dangerous. âBut Iâm not. So you will walk into this room, and head straight for a warm shower and after youâre done weâre gonna clean these wounds. Am I clear?âÂ
You nodded quickly, like an idiot entranced by his gorgeous voice.Â
âUse your words, princess. Am I clear?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âGood. Letâs go.âÂ
âÂ
You leaned against the counter, wrapped in a fluffy robe and another towel wrapped around your wet hair, and Bucky was cleaning the cut on your lip.Â
His wounds were all cleaned. It looked like he had used a different shower while you were in here. His long hair was damp and tied into a small bun, with strands of his dark hair falling on either side of his face. He had changed into a tight black t-shirt and PJ trousers. It was frustrating to look at him. Because he looked so damn good.Â
Last time youâd seen him was when he was a twenty year old boy. Heâd changed since. He seemed taller somehow. Or maybe it was just the muscles making him look bigger.Â
You couldnât look away from the metal arm. And the intricate details on it.Â
âAre you hurt anywhere else?â He asked, throwing the used cotton balls and napkins in the trash can.Â
You didnât miss the way he was being gentle all of a sudden. Calm voice, calm movement. Very different from the man whoâd forced you to marry him just hours ago.Â
âNo.â You answered, turning around to look in the mirror. The bruise on your neck was very much visible now. You didnât notice Bucky approaching you again, you didnât notice how close he got, not until he reached out and touched your neck with his warm fingers.Â
And for the first time, he sounded genuine when he said, âIâm sorry. About that.âÂ
You met his eyes through the mirror and remained quiet for a moment. For a brief moment you thought back to that night. What if you hadnât heard him on the phone? What if you had married him back then? Would this be a normal, daily thing? Sharing a bathroom, a bed?Â
âI punched you. Multiple times. This makes us equal.âÂ
Bucky scoffed, then nodded. Then said, âCome to bed when youâre done.â And left you alone in the bathroom.Â
Shit. You stared at yourself in the mirror. What a day. All you wanted was to pay your father a visit and maybe spend some days at home and then fly back to where you came from. Having your fatherâs house be attacked, getting married, and having to share a bedroom with the man who once broke your heart⊠yeah, all that wasnât in the plan.Â
You changed into some comfy PJs Bucky had brought you earlier and walked out into the bedroom. You found Bucky on his phone again, standing by the foot of the bed.Â
âWhich side do you sleep on?â He asked, not looking up from his phone.Â
âUh, right.â You answered, because for some reason now he felt the need to ask for your opinion.Â
Bucky didnât say a word as he moved to the left side of the bed and peeled back the covers before getting in. Like this was just another day. Like this was normal. You awkwardly walked to your side of the bed and just stood there for a moment.Â
âJust get in bed. I wonât touch you.âÂ
He didnât even look at you as he spoke and, well, the lack of attention from him bothered you. Oh what the hell. You pulled the covers and got under them. You curled onto your side, with your back facing him.Â
Soon, you heard him click something and all the lights turned off. You sensed movement behind you but that was it. He didnât touch you. In fact, there was so much distance between you two that your back felt cold. And now that annoyed you as well.Â
You couldnât sleep.Â
An hour went by, you still couldnât sleep.Â
Another hour went by, and now youâd begun tossing and turning so much that you heard Bucky groaning.Â
âWill you stop that?âÂ
âI canât sleep.â You mumbled.
âDonât make it my problem. Stop moving.âÂ
âWow. Some husband you are.âÂ
Silence. Then you felt your body sliding across the bed as Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his warm chest.Â
âWhat theâ,âÂ
âShh.â He cut you off, his warm breath tickling your cheek as he spooned you from behind. âItâs cold. We could both use the warmth. Now go to sleep.âÂ
You scoffed, but didnât move. âYour fancy house doesnât have a thermostat? Fix the temperature.âÂ
âI like this better.âÂ
âI better not find your hands wandering.âÂ
You moved around for a bit, finding a comfortable spot. Then you moved some more and Bucky tightened his arm around you and whispered into your ear, âStop wiggling against my cock. I understand itâs our wedding night and all but Iâm too tired to do anything.âÂ
Your face burned in embarrassment. You tried to put some distance between your bodies, even though you liked his body heat, but thankfully Bucky pulled you right back.Â
âDid I say you can move?â He chided.Â
âWhat now, I need your permission to get comfortable in bed?âÂ
âBrat.âÂ
âAsshole.âÂ
âÂ
You didnât know when you fell asleep at night. But the heat from Buckyâs chest definitely helped. It mustâve been that. And in the middle of the night, you mustâve searched for more heat. That was probably the only reason why you woke up and found yourself sprawled all over him, face into the crook of his neck and both your hands under his shirt, legs tangled with his.Â
âYou call me an animal. But look at you. Touching me while I was sleeping.â He mumbled. âShameless.âÂ
You pulled away so fast, but then regretted it. Because now you missed his warmth. You shivered even under the covers. âWould it kill you to keep your damn house a little warmer?âÂ
He just yawned and got out of bed. âGet ready.â He said, âWe might have a guest coming over. And you have to be a good little wife and play host.âÂ
âFuck you.âÂ
âOh you will.â He teased, âSoon.â Then he winked and walked out of the room.Â
Well, he at least was giving you some privacy and let you have this bathroom all to yourself. Screw his and his mind games. First he barges into your house, forces you to marry him, then cuddles you to sleep.Â
You caught yourself frowning multiple times while you showered, did some skin care, and found the closet on the other side of the room. You werenât even surprised when you found a whole section filled with all you could need. All the shoes seemed like they would fit you, all the outfits as well.Â
Nothing fazed you anymore. Not even the fact that your new husband might be a bit of a stalker. How else would he know your underwear size!? And there were drawers full of them.Â
You tried not to worry too much as you got dressed. You were gonna get out of here soon anyway.Â
Once dressed and ready for the day, you got downstairs and immediately heard Buckyâs voice, along with another voice. They were laughing over something. You found out where they were and approached the high-ceilinged, charming, farmhouse-inspired kitchen which blended with a spacious, cosy dining area.Â
The other man had his back to you, but you knew that voice. Even though you hadnât heard it in years.Â
âSam?â You couldnât help but call out, lingering by the large doorway. Bucky remained leaning against the kitchen counter with a coffee mug in his hand, while Sam got up from where he sat at the breakfast counter.Â
He turned around and his familiar, warm brown eyes met yours. He gave you a comforting smile. You, Sam, and Bucky all grew up together, along with some other kids from families similar to yours. And Sam had always been a sweetheart. Youâd missed him.Â
So you didnât even hesitate to walk right into his arms once he opened them, wanting a hug. You squeezed him tight and said, âI thought Iâd never see you again, Sammy!âÂ
Sam hugged you back just as tight, âI canât believe I havenât seen you in almost a decade.â He pulled away to look down at you before giving you a loud kiss on the cheek. Safe to say, he was just as handsome as he was when you left this place. âHow have you been?âÂ
You looked over Samâs broad shoulder and found a broody Bucky. âIâve been better.âÂ
Sam got really serious, and was about to say something but Buckyâs voice rumbled from behind. âThatâs enough hugging and smooching. Sam, stop touching my wife.âÂ
âOoh, your wife.â Sam teased, before letting go of you and letting you walk out of his arms. âFirst of all, why didnât you tell me you two were planning to get married this whole time?â He asked Bucky in an accusatory tone. âMy childhood friends got married and I wasnât even invited.âÂ
Sam sat back down at the breakfast counter, so he didnât see the questioning stare you sent Bucky. So Sam wasnât aware of the circumstances under which you got married? Of course he didnât. Nobody knew, and Bucky wasnât about to tell anyoneÂ
âIt all happened so quickly, Sam.â You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as you said, âBucky was⊠impatient. Even my father didnât have time to prepare much. It all just, you know, happened.â You spoke as you helped yourself to some breakfast, taking a seat at the table where you could see both men well.Â
You didnât miss the way Buckyâs jaws kept clenching and unclenching as you tiptoed the line between telling the truth and lying to Sam.Â
âYeah,â Sam agreed, âI know how impatient he can be.â He glared at Bucky, who shook his head in disbelief.Â
âI take it you two work together now?â You only asked because you remember how the parents would always talk about how wonderful it would be if these two boys worked together. Apparently they made a great team back then.Â
âWe do.â Bucky answered, placing his mug down before turning around and began chopping some things.Â
âYou see,â Sam began explaining in a playful tone. âAfter everything happened, Bucky was all along. Poor little princeling with no guidance and a kingdom to run.â You saw Bucky shaking his head at Samâs words. Sam continued, âSo I knew I had to step in and become his mentor. He wouldnât have survived without me.âÂ
You made a mental note to ask about what âeverythingâ he was referring to, but couldnât help but smile at the camaraderie between them, despite it all. Sam had always been a good company. He was the sun rays filtering through dark clouds, and Bucky was the dark, gloomy day who needed the sunâs brightness.Â
âWouldnât have survived.â Bucky muttered, mocking his friend. âYou helped me train sometimes. You introduced me to people. Thatâs about it.â He clarified, bringing over a bowl of chopped fruit over to you and pushed it towards you without a word said.Â
You liked fruits for breakfast. And you assumed he remembered. But he did it all too casually. As if he did it every day. You didnât want to cause a scene so you accepted the bowl quietly.Â
âThatâs about it?â Sam shook his head, then turned to you. âI took care of him like a parentâ,â
âNo you didnât. YouââÂ
ââand this is how he treats me. I shouldâve let you bleed out from that bullet wound that one time. Maybe you wouldnât be here disrespecting me then.âÂ
You chuckled, clearly on Samâs team. Bucky didnât like that. âWhat about my wife then? Who would be taking care of her?âÂ
âI would.â Sam answered without missing a beat. âWe all know if not you then I was gonna marry her.â He turned to you, knowing damn well he was gonna get a reaction out of Bucky any time now. Sam lived to mess with Bucky after all. He always did, ever since you were all kids. âWouldnât you have married me if Bucky had died?â He asked you with that mischievous smile on his face.Â
âIâ,âÂ
âYou answer that and youâll never see Sam again.â Bucky said, narrowing his eyes at you, before you couldnât get a word out of your mouth.Â
Sam smirked triumphantly.Â
You rolled your eyes at Bucky and looked right at Sam and said, âI wouldâve married you in a heartbeat, Sammy.âÂ
Sam went to grab your hand, surely to bring it up to his lips for a kiss, but Bucky threw a napkin right at him before he could.Â
âYou touch my wife again and I swearâ,âÂ
âMust you always threaten people?â You asked, glaring at Bucky.Â
He glared back. And opened his mouth to say something but Sam cut him off. âHey, hey, kids. No fighting.â He quickly changed the topic, âNow, since you have gotten married and no one was there, how about a party? To announce it to everyone? We could invite the whole city.âÂ
Party. Yeah right. The last time you attended an extravagant party you had your heart broken. Not just broken, but stepped onto and crushed to a pulp.Â
You went to say no, âMaybe we shouldnâtâ,âÂ
But Bucky declared, âAbsolutely we should. After all, we waited almost a decade to marry each other.â He looked right at you as he said that. âItâs time everyone knows youâre finally mine.âÂ
âPerfect!â Sam began planning immediately. He had always been the life of all parties, and he loved them.Â
While you occasionally answered his questions, you didnât stop glaring at your husband while you finished your breakfast. There was something he was hiding. You were certain of it. But what?Â
âÂ
A couple days later, it was finally the night of the party.Â
The past few days had been more or less similar. Youâd always wake up sprawled all over Buckyâs chest, and he always made a teasing comment about it. Youâd have breakfast in silence, after which heâd disappear and then heâd come home in the evenings. You never talked while having dinner.Â
The one time you did talk, it didnât end well.Â
You brought it up at dinner. âI tried to go out today. Your people followed me into the city.âÂ
âOur people.â He corrected. Bucky didnât find anything wrong with that apparently because he simply said, âAnd theyâre your security detail. Theyâve been ordered to follow you.âÂ
âSo I donât escape?âÂ
âSo youâre always safe.âÂ
âOh come on. You canât keep me here forever.âÂ
He shrugged, âYouâre not being kept. This is your home, weâre married. This is where you live now.âÂ
You stood up from the table.You didnât care that the housekeepers youâd been recently introduced to could hear. âAnd who are you to make that decision for me?â You asked, in a surprisingly calm tone.Â
He replied in a similar tone. âYour husband.âÂ
You sighed, trying your hardest to keep it all contained. âI have a life, you know? A totally separate life Iâve been living since I left this place. I have to get back to it at some point. You proved your point. Now let me go.âÂ
He ignored all of that. âIâm working on transferring all your businesses and staff here.â He announced. âIâm buying a brand new building in the city, you can have it and set it up however you want. The only thing I canât find is your secret army of highly trained soldiers.âÂ
âYouâll never find my girls.âÂ
âWhyâs that?âÂ
âTheyâre trained to outrun men like you. All men, in fact.â You added, âI made sure of that. I made sure theyâd never be used and moved around like pieces on a chessboard then discarded by people like you.âÂ
âSounds like you speak from experience.âÂ
âFuck you, Barnes.â You spat before walking away.Â
You made sure to sleep on the very edge of the gigantic bed that night, as far away from him as possible. But in the morning, you still woke up snuggled into his chest, on his side of the bed, like youâd been trying to burrow under his skin seeking warmth at night.Â
You didnât speak after that. You made sure to ignore him. Each time you left the house, to go see your father or to just roam around the city youâd missed so much, youâd look in the rear view mirror and find big, bulky SUVs following you around.Â
And here you were now, after days of silent treatment, you stood in front of the large mirror in the closet of your bedroom and watched your reflection. Of course the bastard had chosen an extravagant evening gown for you to wear which looked eerily similar to the one you wore that night for your birthday almost ten years ago.Â
Except this one was much more elegant. And looked a lot like a wedding dress. With its simple square neckline, thin straps, fitted bodice and a majestic skirt. All white and sparkly. The last time you felt like a princess, the night ended terribly. So this time you were afraid to even let yourself appreciate the beautiful woman in the mirror who stared back at you.Â
You kept fidgeting, with the skirt of the dress, watching it swish around. You didnât notice Bucky approaching you from behind. Not until he stood right behind you, his chest brushing against your slight exposed back.Â
He looked⊠unreal in his all black suit. Shiny black tie and a small shiny pin. His hair was perfect as always, and his all black outfit really made his eyes seem bluer than ever. Or maybe it was the lights in this closet that did it. But it made you notice the lines by his eyes, which gave away just how much time had gone by.Â
He was still that bad boy with tattoos whom you had a crush on, who made your race whenever he looked at you. Except now he was older, meaner. And your husband. Whom you hated.Â
Did you?Â
You tensed up when he placed a hand on your waist, right where the bodice and skirt were sewn together. You met his eyes through the mirror, but said nothing. You had no mean words to throw at him this time and neither did he.Â
âYou look beautiful.â He said, leaning in just a little to rest his cheek against your temple.Â
You froze at the soft touch which drove you insane. You must be ovulating, you thought, because there was no way that mere touch was making your heart race like this for no other reason. You began breathing faster, thatâs how fast your heart was racing.Â
You almost leaned into his touch, ready to forget it all just for one moment of warmth. Of peace and quiet. Just one moment to appreciate that you looked beautiful and you had your husbandâs attention and all was well. To appreciate that you two look great together. To stop fighting this weird alchemy between you two which kept drawing you to one another no matter what. But then you remembered.Â
âDo I?â You asked, keeping your voice steady. âYou sure I donât look like a kidâs toy with this ridiculous dress on?âÂ
He remembered too, judging by the look on his face. He looked surprised, then briefly apologetic before settling on a familiar, broody frown. âWhat did I say about being a brat?âÂ
âIâll stop being a brat when you stop being an asshole.â You scoffed. âYou always were so⊠careless. With people. With everything. Always thinking you were above everyone else, ever since we were just kids.â You added, âI hate you.âÂ
He smirked, then grabbed your elbow and turned you around so he could look at you, or glare at you with his ocean blue eyes. âYou didnât hate me back then, did you?â He pushed you against the closest surface, which happened to be a wooden dresser. âYou craved my attention back then. You used to find excuses to hold my hand when we were little. When we got older you used to hate it when I looked at other girls at school. Now look at you. Youâre in my house, you sleep in my bed.â He leaned in, whispering in your ear, âYouâre my wife. Then why do you keep resisting me, hmm?âÂ
âI was stupid back then. Wasted so much time trying to get your attention, and all I ever was to you was a whiny, brattyâ,â You cut yourself off with a surprised gasp as you watched Bucky lower to his knees in front of you, his hands lifting the skirt of your dress. He was rough with it, crumpling it in his strong fists. âWhat are you doing?â You asked, shocked and surprised but not making a move to get away. âYouâ youâre ruining my dress.âÂ
He looked up at you, bunching some of the fabric near your waist and holding the front part of your dress up, pinning the bunched up skirt at your abdomen. As if he wanted toâÂ
Your entire face burned when you realised just how close and intimate this was.Â
âI bought this dress. Iâll ruin it if I want to.â He spoke in that arrogant tone you werenât sure you entirely hated at this moment. âYouâre lucky Iâm not tearing it off of you.âÂ
âAnd youâre lucky Iâm notâ,âÂ
He cut you off by leaning in and kissing your inner thigh. Just like that. As if you werenât on the verge of arguing just now. You were still processing that soft kiss he left on your thigh, and he was already moving to spread your legs apart as he slowly looked up, waiting to see if youâd tell him to stop or push him away.Â
You didnât.Â
His eyes remained focused on your face as his hand reached out and he ran his metal knuckles between your legs, along your wet folds through your thin underwear, making you shudder at his mere touch. You flinched at the cold, but didnât pull away.Â
âYouâre dripping.â He commented, slowly sliding down your underwear. âDoes arguing with me turn you on, baby? Is that why you do it all the time?â He smirked, finally throwing your underwear to the side.Â
You glared at him, opening your mouth to argue yet again but you ended up just letting out a soft moan as you felt his metal fingertips gently trail up and down your legs. He chuckled at how sensitive and responsive you were. Bucky placed a kiss on your inner thigh again and you gasped.
âLooks like you havenât been taken care of in a while.â He said, moving his fingers over your clit, circling it slowly. âHave you?â He sounded like he was accusing you.
âNo.â You hissed, angry at how much you didnât mind his touch. âYou barged in and married me before I could go out and find someone who mightâ,âÂ
âI tolerate you talking to and about Sam because heâs our friend.â He cut you off. âBut if I hear you talking about any other man, I promise I will be committing unnecessary crimes and itâll all be on you.â He paused, glaring at you. âYou hear me?âÂ
You nodded. Fuck he looked good from up here.Â
He held your stare as he leaned in and placed his mouth to your core, giving your clit a firm such before his warm tongue slipped past your folds and teased your dripping hole. One hand holding part of your dress up while the metal one worked in tandem with his tongue, circling your throbbing clit and parting your wet folds with ease.Â
âShouldâve known youâd taste like fucking heaven,â He whispered, almost to himself.Â
You couldnât hold the moans and whimpers in, feeling his stubble rubbing against your soft skin, craving more of it. You couldnât help but slide hesitant fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. âPlease, moreâŠâ You whined.Â
That made him wild. And he ate you out relentlessly, taking his time and learning what worked for you and what didnât, until your legs were shaking and your moans were louder.Â
He slid his fingers, just a knuckle deep inside you and watched how much you loved that. âThat feels good, doesnât it, baby?âÂ
You only whimpered in response.Â
When he was certain you were right on the edge, hips moving in a frantic way which made you grind against his fingers and tongue, only then did he pull away and let go of your dress before standing back up to face you with a condescending smirk.Â
âYou think itâs that easy?â He spoke, but you focused more on the wetness coating his lips rather than his words.Â
You blinked a couple of times to break out of whatever spell heâd just put you under using that damned mouth and fingers of his. Heâd⊠heâd dared bring you right to the edge. But hadnât let you come.Â
You were breathing heavily, feeling hot and tingly all over.Â
He chuckled, enjoying the speechlessness which was rare when it came to you. âIf you want more, then behave tonight. Be good and tell everyone how in love we are and all the nice things, and I promise Iâll take care of you later tonight. Okay?â
You knew what he was doing. He wanted you to tell as many people as possible because the more people knew, the harder it would be for you to sneak out of this place again.Â
He didnât even wait for a response. He just licked his lips clean, shamelessly holding your stare while he did. Then turned to the mirror and fixed his suit before bending down to pick up your discarded underwear. You looked away, embarrassed but waiting for him to hand it to you.Â
Except he didnât. He pocketed it like it was nothing and said, âCome on, our guests are waiting.â Then he walked out of the room like nothing happened. Like he hadnât made you almost lose your mind just minutes ago. Like he didnât have his tongue and fingers inside you. Like he hadnât gotten so close to making you come.Â
Like your heart wasnât still racing even after heâd left the room.Â
Eventually, you calmed down. Fixed your makeup, hair and dress again before heading towards the temporary, clear outdoor party tent Sam had people install in Buckyâs huge backyard. The closer you got, the more it looked straight out of a fairytale. Given the clear walls, you could see the golden lights and decor inside.Â
The chandeliers, the floral arrangements, the tables and the dance floor where people danced with their partners.Â
Speaking of partners, there by the entrance stood a tall, dark figure. Your husband.Â
âTook you a while.â He muttered once you got close enough to him.Â
You stopped by his side and sighed. Then answered in a monotone voice, trying to hide how bothered you were. âWell, some conceited asshole left me to deal with a mess he made so thereâs that.âÂ
Bucky snickered. âDonât act so indifferent. You were dripping all over my tongue and hand just minutes ago.âÂ
âKeep your voice down.â You hissed.Â
âNothing to be ashamed of. Itâs not taboo for a husband to take care of his wife, you know?â He sounded just as annoying as you expected he would.Â
You looked down and noticed he had his elbow extended out for you to take. You took it and spoke once you two began walking into the venue. âIf you think you are getting anywhere near me to take care of me again, husband, you are dead fucking wrong.â You put a fake smile on as people began noticing your arrival and flocked to you.Â
Bucky whispered one last thing into your ear before he left you in the care of the excited, curious, and loud group of ladies coming your way, âOh youâll beg me to touch you soon enough, wife.âÂ
Then he was gone again. Leaving you right on that edge again.Â
Damn him!Â
â
You had to give it to Sam, he knew how to organise a party. The decor, the food, the music, the performances, all of it was perfect.Â
He even re-introduced to all the people you might have forgotten while you were gone. And naturally everyone had questions. You repeated the same answers to them all. The same lies.Â
Where were you this whole time? You wanted to do your own thing, and make your own name so you decided to get away from home.Â
Why did you leave right after it was announced that you were to marry Bucky Barnes? Oh your father never said when you were to marry him. He just said you would. Besides, both you and Bucky were too young to marry back then.Â
Did Bucky know you were going to be gone? Of course he did! You two were childhood sweethearts after all. Yes, you did keep in touch this whole time and only fell more and more in love. Yes, distance does make the heart grow fonder and all.Â
Why did the wedding happen so suddenly and in secret? After almost a decade of being far apart from each other, you two could no longer wait anymore. So you eloped the day you came back.Â
There are rumours that your father and Bucky have some kind of tension going on between them, is any of it true? That was the one question you didnât feel too confident about. Because your father never ended up telling you why that was. How did the rivalry start? You lied and said, itâs just because you eloped. Your father wanted to be involved but you were too in love to think straight. So now your father was giving your poor husband a hard time for stealing his little girl.Â
As you paraded around and met everyone, you could feel Buckyâs eyes on you at all times. You didnât have to look to know. You could feel the burning sensation along your back and you just knew he was watching you.Â
And he watched all night. Up until the moment people began leaving and you had no choice but to find him again, not knowing what else to do.Â
âYou lie very well.â He commented, holding his elbow out for you to take again.Â
You did. And also leaned into him a little because you had been standing for too many hours. You decided to ignore the hostility for just a minute. âYes, Iâm a natural.âÂ
âEveryone bought your bullshit about how we are childhood sweethearts turned lovers.â He whispered, turning his head to face you.Â
âWell, you did say to make it believable.âÂ
âOh it is.â He boasted, âEspecially since youâve been looking at me like that the whole night.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, âHow?âÂ
âWith longing, and desire. Youâre all hot and bothered. You crave my tongue back on that throbbing little clit, donât you?âÂ
âYouâre delusional, Barnes.âÂ
âAnd youâre dripping wet for me, Mrs. Barnes.âÂ
âÂ
The party ended, and after Sam left you and Bucky made your way back inside the house. Sam, being the angel that he was, had made sure a clean up crew would be here early the next morning so you had nothing to worry about.Â
Not that it should bother you whether or not Buckyâs house is tidy.Â
You had a faint smile on your face as you went about your nighttime routine. Shower, skin care, a quick snack in the kitchen. And while you were downstairs, searching the pantry for something sweet, you saw Bucky near the thermostat.Â
The pantry hid you well, so Bucky didnât see you. But you watched him mess with the temperature. You squinted and realised he was lowering it. The damned bastard was making it colder! No wonder you were freezing each night and woke up each morning snuggled up to him, basking in his warmth.Â
This asshole.Â
You remained in hiding until Bucky left, and this time as you made your way upstairs you vowed you wouldnât reach for his warmth. No matter how cold it got. And he wouldnât get to use you as a personal heated blanket either. Let him freeze.Â
You barely lasted thirty minutes under the covers.Â
And he was quiet and didnât move so you thought he was asleep already as you carefully scooted a little bit closer, trying to feel where he was in the dark. If only this bed wasnât so damn big. You patted around, trying not to move to much as youâÂ
âI can hear you, you know? If you want to cuddle, just say it.âÂ
You stopped moving immediately. âShut up.â You muttered, frowning at him even though he couldnât see it. You could see his faint silhouette in the dark, so you knew when he turned on his side to face you.Â
âWhat is it, wife? You need some warmth on this cold, cold night?â He asked in that mocking tone of his.Â
âNo.â You answered, lying. Because yes you did.Â
He muttered âstubborn bratâ under his breath and then grabbed you and pulled you close until your back was completely pressed against his chest. His warm, comfy chest. You bit back a sigh of relief once you felt his body heating wrapping you in a cocoon.Â
âI saw you messing with the thermostat.â You admitted.Â
âOh?â
âYes. You make it cold on purpose.âÂ
âOh no.â He mocked. â Why didnât you fix it then?â He asked, and it hit you how childish this was. He leaned in just enough so that his lips brushed against your cheek when he spoke. âCould it be that you like cuddling with me?âÂ
âShut up.âÂ
He scoffed, finally wrapping his arms around you, but you hissed upon feeling his metal arm on your body. Â
âItâs cold.âÂ
âWarm it up for me then.âÂ
âWhatââÂ
You stopped talking the moment Bucky grabbed one of your legs and hooked it on top of his, spreading your legs to make room for his hand as you both remained on your sides, with him spooning you from behind.Â
His metal hand found itself sliding into your shorts, past your underwear and he cupped you with such confidence and authority that you couldnât help leaning into and grinding into his touch. His other hand slid under your pillow and down so he could grab and give your breast a firm squeeze.Â
Fuck. His hands felt like they were touching you everywhere.Â
âI told you Iâd take care of you if you behaved.â He whispered into your ear. âTime for a little reward, wife.âÂ
He slid two fingers inside you, you gasped at the feeling of him being knuckles deep inside you. You whined as he stretched you a little, moving his fingers around until your hips were moving on their own, trying to get him to move some more.Â
He chuckled. âThat feels good?â He murmured into your ear.Â
His voice, his warmth, the softness of his embrace, the unhurried way his fingers were moving in and out of you, sliding over your clit and stroking your walls like he had all the time in the world.Â
Your hands wrapped around his metal wrist, keeping his hand in place as you rode his fingers the way you wanted. Hips moving forward and causing his fingers to slide in and out, while you moaned and whimpered.Â
His lips brushed against your cheek over and over again as he whispered against your skin, âSee how nice it is when you behave? Hmm? You can have me whenever you want, baby. Just be good for me, and Iâll do anything for you.âÂ
The animosity between you was forgotten at this moment. Here, in this dark room the past didnât matter for a few minutes. Nothing mattered, just that you wanted something and he was giving it to you.Â
His thumb caressed your clit, teasing it a little more until you cried out, âBucky, pleaseâŠâÂ
He froze. You did too. Then he chuckled and said, âSo all is takes is a little finger fucking and now you have manners and you call me by my name?â He sounded just as annoyingly playful as you knew he would.Â
âOh fuck you!â You spat, then immediately let out a loud moan as he sped up and really fucked you with his fingers until you were a whimpering mess. âPlease, please, pleaseâŠâÂ
âWhat did I say, huh?â He hissed. âKeep acting like a fucking brat and youâll be treated like one.â He kept his fingers moving in and out of you. âI planned on really taking care of you tonight, but you know what? This is all youâre gonna get.âÂ
Your moans and whimpers got louder and louder until you began clenching around his fingers, coming undone with a loud cry of his name. Body shaking and your hips grinding down on his hand as you savoured the last moments of your orgasm before he pulled out and pulled away from you.Â
You thought heâd go right back to sleep but then you felt him get out of bed. âWhere are youâ,âÂ
âIâll fix the temperature.â He mumbled, sounding annoyed. Rightfully so. âGo to sleep.âÂ
And that was the last you heard or saw of him until the morning because you passed out right after. You didnât even know if he returned to bed or not. Not that you cared much.Â
Right?Â
âÂ
Things changed after that night.Â
A lot changed actually. Bucky had, miraculously, managed to uproot ten years of your life from elsewhere and planted it right here in the city. He took you to the building heâd been getting ready for you and it sure was something. You didnât know what you expected but a brand new skyscraper was not what you had in mind.Â
The day he handed over papers and keys and gave you a tour of the huge building was the first time you felt a shift in this⊠bond you shared with him.Â
âThank you.â You simply said as you both stepped into the shiny elevator so he could take you all the up to the top floor, to show you to your new office.Â
Bucky slid his hands in his pockets and turned to face you. âYou think being nice equals sexual favours from me, wife?âÂ
You couldâve told him to shut it. Or told him to go get fucked. But he was trying to be good to you, wasnât he? Even after all he did, he wanted you next to him for some unknown reason and frankly you were tired of resisting. Your entire life was here now anyway. It wouldnât hurt to⊠try. Would it?Â
So instead you answered with, âDoesnât it?âÂ
Bucky narrowed his eyes at you, searching for the catch. He didnât find any so he said, âWeâll see about that.âÂ
And that night he followed you into the shower and kissed you hard under the falling water. âI see you behaved yourself today.â He whispered against your mouth.Â
You pulled him closer by grabbing his neck and said, âDo I get a reward then?âÂ
He didnât say anything, just kissed you hard again and walked the two of you backwards until your back collided with the cold clear glass of the shower cubicle. Then he pulled away, looked down into your eyes. His own filled with lust and hunger as he asked, âYouâre gonna let me fuck you?âÂ
You nodded quickly before saying, âYes. Please.âÂ
He didnât waste a single moment. He grabbed one of your legs and hooked it to his hip, spreading you open. He kissed you senseless again while he pushed inside of you. You moaned into the kiss as he filled you up, his cock stretching you out, making you whine and whimper as he slow fucked you.Â
âFuckâŠâ He breathily moaned against your open mouth while he moved against you. Pushing deeper, in and out of you until your moans and whimpers got louder and louder. The sound of the water falling from the shower drowned out most of it, so he fucked you until you moaned loud enough that he could hear you over the falling water.Â
âPlease,â You cried out. Weeks of frustration wanting to be let out. âPlease, BuckâŠâ Your hands wrapped around his shoulders, and you held on while he fucked you.Â
Bucky almost froze again at the sound of his nickname falling from your lips. But he maintained his composure and sped up into you, feeling your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock.Â
âYouâve been good today,â He said, noticing the way you clenched around him hard at the sound of praise. âYou didnât talk back, not once. Is it because you wanted this cock, baby?âÂ
You whined in response. Feeling his damp skin rubbing against yours, and for a brief moment you wanted to live in this moment forever.Â
âOh, poor baby.â He gave you a messy, heated kiss then said, âItâs all yours, you know? You just have to ask nicely. And you can have it whenever you want.âÂ
âPleaseâŠâ You begged again, your pride nowhere in sight. âPlease, Bucky.âÂ
âCome for me, babyâŠâ He breathed against your skin. His hands held you in place as he pounded into you. âCome for me.âÂ
You did, moaning so loud it was all he heard as he came right after you.Â
âÂ
It became a daily thing over the next few weeks. Youâd seek Bucky out at random times during the day or more often right when heâd get into bed at night.Â
âWere you good today, wife?â He asked, his hands already moving all over you trying to undress you as fast as he could.Â
âYes,â You breathed into his ear, your hands touching him all over his tattooed chest. âI even made you breakfast, remember?âÂ
âThose burnt pancakes count?âÂ
You shut him up by kissing him, pulling him down onto the bed and straddling him, then proceeded to ride him until you were both moaning and spent, too tired to move.Â
â
Things got⊠playful.Â
Oftentimes youâd catch yourself wondering why you werenât actively working to get out of here. But your whole life was here now. Work, your family, and your husband. You didnât hate Bucky as much as you thought you would. Just a few months ago you wanted to kill him on sight but nowâŠÂ
âI saw the new building you work at. He bought you that?â Your father asked one morning when you went over to join him for breakfast.Â
You cleared your throat and answered, âHe did. He moved everything here. My businesses, my staff, all of it.âÂ
âAnd the girls?â He asked, referring to the infamous, feared, and fierce army you had raised and trained over the last ten years.Â
âMy girls are free to go wherever they want to.â You let pride fill you as you thought of them. âBesides, they donât have to be here for me to know I can always count on them. Theyâre just a phone call away.â You explained. âPlus they have work to do. People to save, women to recruit. You know, the usual.âÂ
âIâm proud of you, you know?âÂ
You smiled at your father. Then a few moments passed and you couldnât help but ask, âWhat happened after I left? Where is the rest of Buckyâs family?âÂ
Your father looked surprised. âHe didnât tell you?âÂ
âTell me what?âÂ
Your father shook his head. âIt doesnât matter now. Theyâre all gone anyway. Plus the boy, he⊠he treats you right, doesnât he?âÂ
You nodded. Then left it at that. You wanted a peaceful morning with your father, you didnât want to ruin it by insisting he tell you about whatever it was that he wanted to keep in the past.Â
â
But it bothered you, knowing that something happened while you were gone that you knew nothing about and everyone refused to tell you about it.Â
All except one man. Your beloved friend, Sam.Â
He showed up one morning, demanding to see Bucky.Â
âHe said he has an important phone call to attend to. With someone named Steve. Heâs been outside for over an hour now,â You explained to Sam, who stood at the foyer looking disappointed, âIt looks like heâll be out for quite some time.âÂ
Sam frowned, and sighed. âHe said to come over for a round of golf.â He sounded like heâd been betrayed. âEver since he started doing business and being friendly with that Steve guy,â Sam complained, âThat bitch has been trying to steal my best friend.âÂ
You chuckled and grabbed his hand to lead him further into the house. âIâm sorry my husband ruined your playdate, Sammy. But you can hang out with me.âÂ
Sam reluctantly agreed only after you promised to make him blueberry muffins. He liked those ever since you were kids.Â
He agreed to help, and you both had a nice, comfortable conversation going while you worked. You caught yourself shaking your head a few times thinking about how just a few months ago if someone had told you youâd be in Buckyâs kitchen making muffins you wouldnât believe it.Â
But here you were now.Â
Then Sam casually said, âIâm glad you two worked it out, you know? Youâre so perfect for each other. Even back when we were kids, remember how everyone used to tease you two and say you would surely marry one another?â He laughed. âI mean after he told me all about how you heard him on the phone with me by the pool, I was worried you might never clear up the misunderstanding.â He chuckled, keeping his eyes down as he lined the muffin tin so didnât see the way you froze. Sam continued, âI thought thatâs why you left when I heard about your sudden disappearance. Butââ
You cut him off, heart racing as memories of that night came flooding back in. âSam⊠what do you mean on the phone with you?âÂ
Sam looked up, frowning. âThat night of your twentieth birthday. Remember how you found Bucky by the pool? He was on the phone with me that night. He was so angry when he told me what his family was planning to do to yours, how they were going toâ,â Sam cut himself off as the realisation set in. âDid he not tell you the truth?âÂ
Your heart pounded. Something was wrong.Â
âTell me what truth?âÂ
Samâs eyes softened. âOh, I shouldnât be the one toâ,â
âSammy, please.â You begged in a whisper. âEven my father refuses to tell me anything. I have the right to know. What happened?âÂ
Sam tried his hardest to make sense as he told you everything in a rush. âLook, something went wrong back then. Buckyâs family began siding with the rivals and they were trying to take your father down. They tricked your dad into thinking that getting you and Bucky married would be a good idea and well, your father chose to believe his friends so he made that announcement at the party.â Sam sighed, âBut Buckyâs family were planning something really bad. They were going to use the wedding as an excuse to gather all your family in one place and⊠end all of you. Just so theyâd be able to expand their territory. Bucky found out about this plan and he was pissed. So that night, he called me. To vent.âÂ
You felt your eyes begin to water.Â
Sam continued. âBut then you found him. I remember him whispering to me that you were doing a terrible job at hiding behind a plant or some shit. Then your huge gown gave away your hiding spot. But given you were listening, Bucky decided heâd get you annoyed enough to have you at least try to call off the wedding which would buy us some time to figure out what to do. Thatâs when he began saying those things about you. Trying his hardest to sound like he truly did not want to marry you.â Sam sighed, âI mean there might have been a better way of doing it rather than fake dialogues on a phone call, but we were twenty year old boys. We didnât know better. We didnât know youâd write that note and just disappear.âÂ
What the actual fuck.Â
âSamâŠâ You whispered in disbelief.Â
He shook his head. âPlease tell me you didnât truly believe all that. He lied when he said those things that night, you know? Bucky liked you ever since we were kids. You don't remember how he used to get mad at me whenever I was around you for too long? How he always ignored your hiding spots when we played just so youâd win at hide-and-seek? You donât remember how he used to bully your stupid boyfriends as we got a older?âÂ
You couldnât believe any of this. But Sam would never lie to you.Â
âWait,â Sam put the pieces together. âSo you didnât know about any of this?âÂ
You closed your eyes and sighed, âI didnât. I heard all the things he said that night and⊠I had spent my entire life loving him and I thoughtâŠâ You sighed. âI was young and stupid and heartbroken so I just left.â Then you explained. âI got back recently, Bucky made this whole show of raining down bullets at my fatherâs house and, well, we kinda got married that same day, in my fatherâs destroyed foyer.âÂ
âYou didnât talk to each other this whole time?â Sam was in disbelief. âOh for fuckâs sake. And I thought Bucky just never mentioned you while youâve been gone because⊠well, heâs not exactly good at the whole heart to heart thing. Heâs Bucky.âÂ
Your surprise morphed into anger really quickly. âI need to find my husband.â You said, quickly walking out of the kitchen.Â
Sam yelled behind you, âI'm gonna take this muffin batter and go before he shoots me after he finds out I told you all this!âÂ
You just yelled back, âBye Sammy, I love youâ
Samâs voice sounded distant as he yelled back, âDonât let him hear you!âÂ
You ran out to the back, where Bucky said he would be. And you found him by the pool. Again. The sight of him standing there gave you dĂ©jĂ -vu. Except he wasnât your twenty-year old crush, in a black suit, arguing with who turned out to be Sam, on the night of your birthday anymore.Â
He was older now, your husband, wearing dark trousers and a loose white-button up shirt, standing by the pool with the sun setting behind him. You stood on the patio, for a second more, admiring him. The metal hand casually shoved in his pocket and his heavily tattooed arm held a phone to his ear.Â
You called out, no longer containing your anger. âYou absolute piece of shit!âÂ
Bucky looked towards you and just frowned, before rolling his eyes. Then said on the phone, âHang on a minute, Steve. My wifeâs angry at me again.â He lowered the phone to his chest and whispered to you, âWhat is it this time?âÂ
âHow long were you going to keep the truth from me?â You accused him. âWhy didnât you just tell me?âÂ
He raised the phone to his ear again and said, âIâll call you later Steve, something came up.â Then he hung up, tossed his phone onto one of the lounge chairs before turning to face you again. âDonât get madââ
âStop telling me what to do!âÂ
He sighed. âDid Sam tell you anything? I saw his car coming in earlier.âÂ
You hissed, âOh leave him alone! Heâs a good man who doesnât lie to me!âÂ
Bucky shook his head, understanding that you knew all about what heâd been hiding, and too calmly said, âThey were gonna kill you. All of you. Not just your family members, but the guards, the family friends, the members of your family who arenât even in this life â all of you. I had to do something. My folks were wrong, I couldnât let innocent people die just because my family got too power hungry.âÂ
You took a step forward, âWhy didnât you tell me before I left? I wouldâve talked to someone.âÂ
âWe barely even talked to each other as we got older. I thought you wouldnât believe me.âÂ
âBut you couldâve at least tried to say something!âÂ
He was quiet for a moment. Then said, âI came to see you the next day.â He confessed. âThe morning after the party. But your father had found your note and youâd already left. You never mentioned exactly why you left in the note, so I let him think it was because of me.â He explained, âSince there would be no wedding I didnât have to worry anymore. But the threat remained. So I goaded your father into a fight. He took the bait and tried to shoot at me. He missed, of course. But enough people heard about it so he ended up declaring war against my family.âÂ
He paused. You listened quietly.Â
âNo one knew it was all because of me. But at least from then on, your father was more cautious. And he began hating my folks. And they couldnât keep pretending to be his friend for much longer either. All the truth began spilling out. Soon the city was divided and the attacks began. Allies became enemies, just like that.âÂ
You were quiet. Processing everything. All of that shit happened and you were not aware.Â
For some reason, you asked, âDuring those attacks⊠Is that when you lost your arm?â
You only realised youâd been stepping closer and closer to him when he raised said metal arm and touched your cheek gently. He smiled and said, âNo, baby. That was a different time.âÂ
You had a tear sliding down your face. He wiped it away. âWhat happened then?â You asked.Â
âMy folks didnât stand a chance. Your father was not only angry and betrayed, but he was also sad that he lost you because of them, or me.â Bucky explained. âIt got⊠really bad. Your father lost a lot of his guys. Then he got angrier. So he stopped responding to the petty attacks and came after my folks directly.âÂ
âHe killed them?â They were his friends once.Â
Bucky said, âHe still doesnât know I helped him all the way until the end.âÂ
âBut he spared you.âÂ
Bucky smirked. âHe just could never catch me.âÂ
âBut your familyâŠâ Bucky went against his own you realised.Â
âThey were bad people. Not just because of what they planned to do to you butâŠâ He sighed. âThey were doing bad things in the background. Dealing in substances, and people.â He spared you the gory details.Â
But you understood. Â
âWhy didnât you tell me all this that day we got married?âÂ
âYou wouldnât have believed me. You had just spent ten years hating me.â He shrugged. âBut hey, it kept you safe.âÂ
You stepped closer to him, feeling tired with all that you felt inside you. âSo you never meant the things you said that night?âÂ
Bucky pulled you close, cupping your face in his hands. âI have loved you my entire life. I never stopped.âÂ
You sniffled, looking up into his pretty eyes. âWe lost so much time. I spent years hating you for nothing.â It hurt thinking about it.Â
He smiled at you, âI shouldâve thought it through better. But I was young and rash, and my family threatened to kill the girl I loved. I thought I was doing the right thing by pushing you away.â He sighed. âI just didnât think I was going to lose you for almost a decade. I was always aware of where you were and what you did in life in those years. I was so proud of everything you did, the name you made for yourself. But I couldnât reach you. You were angry and you hated me. So I waited. And then you came back and⊠I needed you with me. Iâm sorry, I couldnât wait any longer.âÂ
You wrapped your arms around him, shoving your face into the crook of his neck as you let the tears fall quietly.Â
âShh,â He whispered, running a comforting hand down your back. âItâs okay now, Iâm here. Weâre okay.âÂ
âIâve been mean to you.â You whispered. âIâm sorry.âÂ
He chuckled quietly, âAnd I shot at your fatherâs house. Weâre equal.âÂ
âI⊠I love you too, you know?â You sniffled.Â
Bucky pulled away so he could look down at your teary face. âSorry to say this, wife, but this isnât half as romantic as the first time you told me you loved me.âÂ
You frowned. âWhat?â Did you talk in your sleep? Oh no. Did you? âWhen did I say it?âÂ
âWe were seven, playing in the hedge maze in your fatherâs backyard.â He smiled, thinking about that day. âHe had just had a new water fountain placed in there, and you wanted to show it to me. You must have thought it was pretty and that I needed to see it too. Then you dragged me all the way there and told me you loved me.â He smirked, âSeven-year old you would be disappointed in you right now.âÂ
A chuckle escaped your lips at the faded memory. âI wish we could go back in time.âÂ
âWell, we canât. But we can have the rest of our lives together.âÂ
You sniffled again, wiped your tears. Then nodded, and leaned in for a kiss. Deepening it the moment he kissed you back. Your fingers found their way into his longish hair and you gently tugged at his roots.Â
He smiled into the kiss when you whispered against his lips, âI like you with long hair.âÂ
âI see youâre being nice again,â He murmured in between kisses, âDoes my wife need something?âÂ
You giggled this time. âI want you, Buck. Just you.âÂ
âYou have me.â He said. âAlways.â
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Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so
Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!
For Your Eyes Only
Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW
Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.
Word Count: 5.8k
After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.
You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadnât fully appreciated the cold when you had it.Â
The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, theyâre chafing.Â
Gods, what you wouldnât give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.
Whatâs worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldurâs Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but itâs everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.
Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. Itâs seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when youâve finally settled down for dinner, youâve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.Â
The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didnât know better, youâd think itâd just rained.
A quick glance at your map confirms what youâd feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. Youâre on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or youâll have to proceed through this stupid pond.
Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. âOh, by all means, darling, you go first!â he exclaims, raising a brow. âIt wonât be me jumping in that slop.â
Karlach frowns at the mudâs appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. âCanât be that deep, right?â
âI donât know,â you reply. Youâre aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but thereâs nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.Â
âI say we go back,â Shadowheart urges. âI donât know about any of you, but Iâm not keen on dirtying myself.â
âWeâd have to backtrack through hours of traveling,â you point out. âThereâs no other way forward. Iâve checked the map.â
âFine,â she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. âYou go first, and weâll follow behind you. Once weâve seen itâs safe, that is.â
And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the dayâs walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really donât have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.
âAlright,â you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.Â
You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than youâd thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.Â
Suddenly, the day isnât quite so warm.
When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.
âUrgh,â you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. âDisgusting.â But it wonât budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. Youâre dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.
âWhat a brilliant idea,â Shadowheart says. âNow youâre stuck.â
âThank you, Shadowheart,â you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. âI had no idea!â
Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. âCome on. Up you go, soldier,â she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. Youâre expecting the mud to release you, but it doesnât. Your legs donât budge - not even an inch.Â
âWhat in theâŠ?â she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mudâs grip only tightens around you. Itâs beginning to feel like youâre a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.Â
âShit! Iâm sorry!â she exclaims. âSo, so, sorry!â
âWhat are you doing?â Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. âYouâre hurting her! Put her down!â
âSo she can get sucked further into the mud?â Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. âWe have to get her out!â
But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, itâs useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like itâs gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.
Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. Itâs up to the bottom of your ribs now.Â
âFuck me,â she pants, wiping her forehead. âWhat should we do?â
âHow should I know?â Astarionâs face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you itâs even worse than it feels.
 âStep back,â Shadowheart instructs quietly. âI have an idea.âÂ
Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.Â
Karlachâs axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.
âThank you,â you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.
âNever say I didnât do anything for you,â Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. âNow. Turning around, are we?â
By the time you get back to camp, youâre the most uncomfortable youâve ever been in your life. Youâre wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. Itâs in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - youâve lost a good dayâs worth of travel.Â
The only thing you want is to fall into Astarionâs arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. âOh, no you don't,â he says. âBath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.â
It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but itâs better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.Â
Thank the gods youâd found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you donât even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.
The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt thatâs splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.Â
Youâre still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.Â
Nothing. You find nothing.
âDarling,â comes Astarionâs voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. âPlanning to render me dead twice-over?â
âYou scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!â you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. âWhat are you doing out here?âÂ
He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. âYou were taking ages to get clean,â he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. âAnd, unfortunately, our companions havenât had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.â
âYou could give me a warning next time,â you reply, still a little jarred. âI thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.â
A smirk flickers across his lips. âOh, but I am,â he says. âDo you mind terribly?â
Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. âI donât mind,â you say. âNot if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.âÂ
âIâll be on my very best behavior,â he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. âGods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.â
âI have an extra pair.â You move to tug your shirt off, but itâs clinging to you. âGods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.â
âOh, please,â Astarion says. âHeâs been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesnât do much in the way of socializing.â
The shirt finally pulls free, and itâs clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.
âHand that here,â Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.
âWhat?â you ask. âWhat were you looking for?â
âOh, darling, nothing,â he says. âThatâs my âto be burnedâ pile. Weâll get you a new one.â
Youâd argue, but you arenât very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, itâs falling apart even without the mud.Â
âDo what you want with it,â you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. âThat shirt was barely surviving anyway.â
You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but youâd never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you arenât covered in filth.
You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time youâre finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.
Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but youâre determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and itâs taking much longer than youâd hoped.
When youâre finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.Â
Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. âDearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-â
But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, heâs lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.Â
Not a moment later, thereâs a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarionâs knife to his throat.
Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the airâs chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?
Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but itâs useless. Heâs a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarionâs lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarionâs grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.
âGive me one reason why I shouldnât kill you here and now,â Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.
In response, the man spits in his face. âSheâs your bitch, is she?â he croaks. âYou can take a turn after Iâm done with her.â
Astarion snarls in response, gripping the manâs collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.Â
âWait,â you call, stepping closer. âDonât.â
Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. âMy love, you canât be serious,â he says. âYou want to spare this-â
âSpare?â you echo, cutting off his words. âWho said anything about sparing him?âÂ
Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. âDarling,â he drawls, his tone admirational. âBy all means.â
He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. Itâs heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the manâs nose.
Thereâs a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last nightâs feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he wonât be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.
When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost donât even realize - youâre so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.
The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarionâs hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the manâs throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.
For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.Â
Youâve fought and killed more people than you can count so⊠why does this feel different? Why here, why now? Youâve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like itâs much more than that?
Then Astarionâs hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.
âDarling,â heâs saying, half-breathless, âare you alright?â
You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. âWe need to get you patched up,â he murmurs, his brows pinching together.
âDonât take me to Shadowheart,â you choke out. Sheâs already done you enough favors, and you wonât be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after todayâs fiasco.
He huffs. âStubborn little thing,â he mutters, but he doesnât argue.Â
Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and itâs only then that you realize youâre naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastardâs nose in the nude, but⊠well, it hadnât been your intention.
Heâs dead now, though. Heâll never look at you again.
Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.Â
You canât find it in you to care at the moment. Youâve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things wonât be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.
He takes you to your tent, and youâre grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, sheâd be seething.Â
And though sheâd undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you donât think you can muster up the words to tell her whatâd happened.
After heâs carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until heâs found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. Youâve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.Â
Youâve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarionâs hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he canât seem to meet your eyes, even when heâs done bandaging you up.
âAstarion,â you murmur. âHeâs dead.â
He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tentâs floor, his hands balling into fists. âHe deserved so much worse than that,â he snaps.Â
You donât argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where heâd managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs thatâs become habit to him.Â
After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, thereâs a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.Â
Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. Itâs what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.
One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, itâs incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until youâre straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.
When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.
Gods, you need him. Youâre already soaked, and heâs barely even touched you.
You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.Â
The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but youâre hardly patient. Youâve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.
âAstarion,â you breathe. âPlease.â
âHm? Did you want something, darling?â he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.
âI want you,â you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. âPlease. I want you.â
âEasy, love. You have me,â he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you werenât so ridiculously needy.
And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.
You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. Youâd once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then youâd seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and youâd practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you donât understand it.Â
Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and thereâs the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.
He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.
He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels⊠new.
And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and youâre left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-
And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what heâs doing to you. Of course he does. Heâs always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.
âYou know,â he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, âback at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.â
Gods, heâs been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, youâre surprised you donât come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.
âAstarion,â you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. âGods, Astarion.â
He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. âThatâs it, darling,â he encourages, shifting his fingers until theyâre brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. âSay my name. Let everyone hear you.â
You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. âThe entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.â
He nips at your thigh. âLet them try,â he muses. âTheyâll have to get through me.â
He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. Itâs an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, youâre coming-
Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.Â
You know heâd prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, youâll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and youâll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.
Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.Â
Heâs still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. Thereâs a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.Â
For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.
You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.
âGods,â he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. âWait here, my sweet. I need to - Iâll be right back. I promise.â
And before you can protest, heâs scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if youâre dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then heâs pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.
âDo I want to know what that is?â you ask.
âA scroll of Silence, darling. Iâve been saving it.â He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.Â
You donât hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. Itâs a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.Â
Astarion doesnât waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and itâs messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. Thereâs the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.
You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.Â
If you were an artist, youâd make him your lifeâs work. Youâd chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. Youâd spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.Â
He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.
Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. âDarling,â he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. âIf anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, Iâll tear them to shreds.â
You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. âI wonât stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.â
He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.
âYou feel incredible,â he breathes. âGods. Youâre incredible.â
Your eyes donât quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.Â
His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You canât think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that youâre not going to last much longer.
You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.
âThatâs it,â he pants. âCome for me, darling.â
And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.
 Youâve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.
You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.
âYou know,â he says, âI think Iâm going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.â
And, gods, all you can do is laugh.
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COMPASS / CHAPTER 2
bad boy!Sanemi âą modern gang AU
A/N: oh boy oh boy! It only took me four months to write this, and I still had to split it in half.
This is a very Sanemi-focused chapter. Enjoy seeing some other characters and everyone's favorite little brother. Smut enjoyers have no fear, there are plenty of references to sex this chapter, and the next installment will be fucking filthy. For now, enjoy pining bitch boy Sanemi, some humor, and a whole lot of self-hatred.
CW: 17k. MDNI. Morning-after awkwardness. Humor. Gang-related violence. Brief description of bones being broken. Gun violence. Masturbation. Somewhat explicit references to sex that occurred in the previous chapter. Mentions of blood. Angst.
chapter one // masterlist
Sanemi doesnât remember ever having woken up as peacefully as he does that next morning, with you in his arms. His hands are resting against the curve of your spine, his fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin even well before heâs fully aware of what heâs doing.
Youâve remained tangled up with him throughout the night, your legs intertwined and you, laid out against his torso. A small smear of your drool has dried on his skin, right beneath where your cheek is mashed between his pectorals where you snore softly.
If he could, heâd stay like this forever; warm and wrapped up in blankets that smell distinctly of you while you remain asleep on his chest. No outside world to speak of, no debts to collect or bones to smash. Nothing beyond the parameters of your bed, and the way your body fits so perfectly against his.
Sanemi is acutely aware of your mutual nudity. The luxurious feel of your bare skin pressed to his ushers in a flurry of images from the night before, each snap shot flashing through his mind, a montage of naked limbs and breathless moans.
Heâd fucked you â though some small voice in his head quips that heâd done something more than just fucking, but he resolves to ignore that for now. Worse (was it?), heâd done it without using protection â and he came in you.
Whatever rule book heâd played by before, it no longer mattered. Itâs been thoroughly shredded, cast aside along with every last fragment of common sense heâd had, its remnants strewn somewhere among his clothes where they lay discarded on your floor. He should feel horror; should feel guilt and shame for being so fucking reckless with you despite having committed to doing everything in his power to be more careful with you than he is with himself, and yet, Sanemi cannot seem to find a morsel of regret.
Instead, all he can feel is bliss. He can focus on nothing more than how warm you are, how your soft breasts are squished against his abdomen. How sweet your hair smells, how silky your skin is beneath his greedy fingertips. How badly he wants you again; selfishly. Completely.
And despite knowing heâs in the wrong, Sanemi canât help but be struck at how right this feels. So right, in fact, that his body is quickly coming to life the longer he spends beneath you, his blood hot and full of need.
He shifts under you, gnashing his teeth together as your lower belly rubs right against his groin. His morning wood is almost painful, and he half contemplates waking you up to see if youâre willing to go for a second round, but he refrains. While it wouldnât be out of the realm of reasonability for him to ask for more, given the events of the last twelve hours, he knows it wouldnât be smart.Â
More importantly, Sanemi doesnât want you thinking he feels entitled to your body â or your affection â now that heâs had a taste of both, no matter how addicted to you he is.
Gently, he untangles himself from you and lays you back against your pillows. Once he ensures the blankets are pulled up over you, he peels off the bed to search for his pants. He finds them a few feet away and tugs them on, though he leaves his belt unfastened. He forsakes his shirt, too, at least until you wake up, not wanting you to feel overexposed in your nudity while heâs fully dressed.
Sanemi quietly pads into your kitchen and begins fumbling around for your coffee machine. He pulls two mugs from your cabinet and finds your stash of coffee beans shoved on a random shelf, and he sets to work, doing his best to keep as quiet as he can.
He hears you stirring from the kitchen right as your mug of coffee finishes brewing.
He lingers in the doorway to the kitchen. âHey.â
You sit up in your bed, clutching the blankets to your chest. His heart throbs. Youâre beautiful like this, unfairly so, despite having just woken up. Your hair is a little messy, but your eyes are bright, and your bare skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through your windows.
âHi,â you say shyly, eyes tracking him as he crosses the room, mug in hand. You gratefully accept the coffee he hands you, but you keep one hand fisted around your blanket, holding it tightly to your chest.
He grimaces. Even though Sanemi has now seen every inch of your body, you seem committed to shielding as much of it as possible from him.Â
Whether itâs out of insecurity or morning-after regret, he canât say.
âI wanted to wait âtil you got up before I left. Didnât want you to think I just dipped.â Sanemi runs an awkward hand through his hair. âBut now that youâre up, I can run down the street. Grab ya the morning after pill.â
At your questioning look, his cheeks redden. âSince â yâknow ââ
He gestures lamely at you, as though that somehow is enough of an explanation. But itâs apparently successful, because your eyes blow wide with understanding, a twin blush creeping up your neck.
âI donât need it.â You squeak, ducking your head, your fingers tightening around your blanket.
Sanemi blinks. Great, he groans internally. He knew you were a virgin, but heâd assumed you knew the risks associated with fucking raw.
âYeah, you do,â he corrects, and his stomach flips as the memory of last night â of how tightly youâd gripped him as he came, of your soft moan as youâd felt the first spurt of his cum fill you â flashes through his mind. âWe didnât use protection, and I assume you know how babies are made ââ
âI donât need it.â
Your insistence sets off alarm bells in his head. Maybe he shouldâve explained to you his stance on children before he came in you, but heâll be damned if he lets you baby trap him now.
No matter how in love with you he is.
âYes, you do. Iâm not lettinâ you get pregnant ââ he starts hotly, his temperament shifting into something dangerous.
With a huff, you reach over to your nightstand and yank on a drawer. You root around inside it for a moment before pulling free a small card lined with neat rows of pills.
You wave it at him, sarcastic. âNo, I donât, dumbass.â And you busy yourself with popping one of the pills free to swallow. âIâve been on birth control since high school.â
Sanemi blinks. âBut youâd never ââ
You toss your pills back into your drawer with a groan. âYou donât need to be sexually active to be on birth control, Sanemi. It has other uses.â You chew on your lip as you stare down at the mug balanced between your legs. âMy periods are horrible. It helps me manage them.â
He stares at your bedside table for a long moment, feeling decidedly stupid.
âI can still take it if itâll make you feel better,â you offer. âBut Iâve been consistent with taking my birth control for years.â
âNah,â he clears his throat. âIf you think the pill is enough, then thatâs fine by me.â
Silence, tense and stiflingly awkward settles between you once more, and Sanemi feels damn near ready to jump out of his skin.
âFeel okay?â He asks after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.
You blush again. âI think so,â you pause and stretch, testing your limbs, though you manage to keep that blanket locked tight against your chest. âMaybe a little sore, but I guess thatâs normal, right?â
âYeah,â and to his embarrassment, Sanemi finds himself needing to clear his throat again to cover up the way his voice cracks. âYeah, thatâs not surprising.â
âWhat about you? Are you okay?â
Sanemi blinks. âWell â yeah.â Itâs not a lie. Physically, he feels phenomenal. How he feels internally, however, is a whole separate matter, and itâs not one heâs particularly keen on exploring at the moment.
Absently, you tap your thumbs against the ceramic lip of your coffee mug. âSo â,â
ââSo,â he starts, but he falters just as you do, the two of you looking quickly away from one another in mutual embarrassment.
This would be far easier if you were just another hookup. He wouldâve already left, would already be on another job, riding his post-sex high for the remainder of the day. He wouldnât feel as he is now, full of doubt and oily shame for having to leave you now, naked and vulnerable as you are.
âI should go,â he finally offers after another unbearably awkward moment. The phone in his pocket is a burning weight he cannot ignore, one thatâs started buzzing with an incessant demand that he answer; that he collect.
You nod, your gaze almost reproachful as you watch him retrieve the gun heâd laid on your kitchen table the night before and tuck it into his waistband.
âWill I hear from you?â Your voice is soft, almost imperceptibly so.
The guilt in Sanemiâs knotted stomach turns sour. He shouldnât be surprised â he canât be, really. Not when he knows youâve heard the rumors of how he acts with other bed partners.
Still, your quiet, resigned assumption that he might treat you the same way â that he was satisfied with using your body and would now would fuck off and do whatever â stings.
ââCourse you will.â And he means it â and not just because he knows he said a lot of things last night while between your legs and damn near delirious with pleasure. He told you things heâd meant; things he doesnât want you chalking up to passionate outbursts brought on by the heat of the moment.
But he also said things that probably mean heâs fucked himself over, and now, he needs to figure out what heâs going to do about it.
Sanemi fishes his shirt from its discarded place on your floor and tugs it over his head. He can feel your eyes tracking his every movement, and he feels near ready to burst into flames as he crosses the studio to your bed.
He stoops down to press one, soft kiss to your forehead. ââTil next time.â
You donât respond; you only remain there, sitting still in your bed, your sheets clutched to your chest. The scent of your hair ushers a flood of memories from only a few hours earlier, and the way they blur together make his head hurt and his heart ache.
Mine. Heâd said to you, just before you shattered so prettily against your sheets as he fucked you. Youâre fuckinâ mine.
Yeah, he thinks as he closes the door of your apartment behind him. Yeah, heâs fucked.
â
When he was a boy, Sanemi always imagined what it would be like to fly.
Life in the Silo was suffocating and heâd often found himself turning his face up toward the sky, savoring the wind as it rustled his hair and carried leaves off into horizons he would never see. He envied the pigeons that always clustered near the overfilled trash cans spilling out onto the streets, pecking at molded scraps of food because they could take off at any moment. One loud noise, one obnoxious asshole barreling through them, and they could launch right into the sky, their wings beating as they rode the breeze to seek out safer sidewalks.Â
Heâd never join them; he knew that. But on his bike, Sanemi feels like the wind itself, and he supposes itâs the closest heâll ever be to flying free.Â
He finds his bike where he always parks it â in a back alley behind your apartment, tucked behind a dumpster far out of sight. Straddled upon it, his helmet secure, he keys the ignition and it roars to life beneath him, its engine a steady rumble that echoes off the pavement. The moment he releases the clutch, he is soaring. He drives, the wind whipping at his clothes, his knuckles, until it sings in his blood and he feels weightless.Â
He tears down streets, darts between honking cars slowed on the freeway as he makes his calls, collects the Corpsâ dues. And in those moments when he zips and speeds through throngs of traffic, sometimes narrowly avoiding clipping a side mirror or two, he can almost forget the magnitude of his royal fuck up with you. Â
Almost.
â
Itâs nearly midnight when his bike gutters to a stop in front of the dingy shoebox he calls home. Not that this mildewed apartment complex has ever been anything close to such a thing, but itâs one of the few things in his life Sanemi can call his own.Â
No matter how shitty it is.
Deep down, he knows the closest thing to home is back at your apartment, likely wondering when the fuck heâll shoot you a text. Not even he knows the answer to that; all he knows is that he hasnât spoken to you since shutting your door behind him this morning, and he has no idea how to start if he did.Â
So, he doesnât.
He doesnât text you even as he strips himself of his clothes, readying for his shower. Nor does he so much as glance at his phone when he catches the whiff of you on his body as he kicks off his pants and underwear, the faint, lingering scent of your pleasure redirecting his blood flow straight to his cock.
Itâs not that he doesnât want to reach out â he does, very much so. Heâs wanted to talk to you the moment your apartment building faded from view, his fingers itching to reach for the phone buried in his pocket and send you something, anything, so you might know that he has no intention of treating you like any of the others. Even if he ultimately decides that he can go no further with you, that last night can only be a one-time indulgence, he will give you the courtesy of telling you as much. It was the least you deserved.
Sanemi tries his best to keep thoughts of you and this wonderfully fucked situation at bay, focusing entirely on the way the water burns his skin, a thousand needles of flame licking at his face, his scalp, his back. He scrubs hard at his hair first, then his face. He leaves washing his body for last, unwilling to soap over whatever invisible marks still linger upon his skin, left behind by your hands and lips. Only when he cannot possibly procrastinate the task any longer does he pump a generous amount of soap into his palm, rubbing his hands together until it turns frothy and thick.
As he washes himself, Sanemi manages to avoid thinking of the way you touched him the night before, soft and tentative and yet passionate. He thinks he might just make it through without his mind wandering too far away, but then his fingers brush over the odd, raised lines of the mark branded between his shoulder blades. A sudden thread of images from the night before unspools in his mind: your hands, dropping from his hair down his back, resting over the ugly scar seared into his skin. Your nails, raking along his spine as you gasped his name. The flutter of your hands against his abdomen, exploring him; how they gripped his backside and pulled him hard into you.
An arm braces against the cold, sud-scummed tile of his shower and Sanemiâs forehead follows. Even the hot beat of the water canât un-work the tension in his muscles, the way his body now demands to be reunited with you. He is powerless against this onslaught of memory; the flashes of you tangled up so perfectly with him; the scent of your hair. Your voice, God, your voice, sighing and moaning in his ear until he could focus on nothing but how to make you cry out louder, call his name â
With a frustrated grunt, Sanemi takes his stiffened cock in his hand and he works his frustration â and longing â out under the roaring spray of the shower until his spend washes with the soap bubbles down the drain.
â
Showered and dressed in nothing but his underwear, Sanemi paces his apartment.Â
Itâs not that he regrets doing what he did with you â he doesnât, not by any means. And thatâs exactly what makes him so selfish.Â
Deep down, heâd wanted to be the one to do it â taking your virginity. For whatever reason, the universe decided to give him you, had brought you back into his life after years of him not sparing you so much as a passing thought. And heâd been weak, unable to stick to the code heâd sworn his blood, his body, to upholding. Heâd broken it at the first opportunity, all but jumped at the chance of human connection after years of being starved for it, only to find that the first person he latched onto was also the one person who ever actually saw him; saw past the mask forged out of cruel rumors and his own blood-stained hands.
He shouldâve known the moment you expressed anything more than mild interest in him that he was in danger. His impulses scream that he should run before the fallout of last night can catch up to him. To you.
Running is a temptation more dangerous than any of the heists or debt collections heâd ever carried out, even the one that left his face half-ripped open and bleeding. Dangerous not just by the amount of consideration he gives the idea of leaving the Corps and this rotting city behind, but dangerous because if he runs, heâs taking you with him. And that means exposing you not just to his enemies, but to all the consequences dealt to those who dare try and leave the Corps.
Sanemi paces and paces until he finally wears a tread into his shabby bedroom and collapses on his bed. He recites to himself the tenets of the Corps that heâd abandoned â namely, the rule for not getting attached â before a crude voice in his head sternly reminds him of the most important rule of all. The one even he doesnât know if he can bend, let alone break.Â
Number one: once youâre in, youâre in.Â
No one leaves the Corps unless itâs in a body bag or because a higher-up forces your retirement, and the latter is usually reserved for those who survive bullets meant to kill. Those who will never be the same, if they even made it out of the hospital at all.Â
There is no room for deserters, and none are tolerated. Whispers of plots to abandon the Corps were sniffed out and reported, the conspirators dealt with severely. They usually fell back in line once the reminder of the fate that awaited them should they try was thoroughly beaten into them â usually by one of the Hashira (including him). And Sanemi has shattered his fair share of the bones of those starry-eyed juniors stupid enough to think they were the exception.
In any event, leaving itself was only half the battle. Evading capture was a whole separate beast. The Corps didnât take well to losing its investments, so their recovery was entrusted only to one person: the most senior of the Hashira.
A man Sanemi only knew by surname and his massive, hulking size, reserved primarily for guarding the Boss and his family.
Himejimaâs success rate in tracking down and dealing with deserters is perfect. The few whoâd tried since Sanemiâs own initiation had managed on their own a few days at most before they were caught.Â
Bitterly, Sanemi supposes their wishes were granted, in a way. They did get out â but in a body bag, a bullet-shaped hole between their eyes.Â
Without fail, photos of their lifeless faces â blood soaked, portions of their skulls missing â were circulated through the Corpsâ networks, popping up on phones from unknown numbers.
A warning. A reminder.Â
It is not just a risk â it is a guarantee, a nuclear bomb designed to snuff out any hope that other Corps members might follow in place. And even if he could try, Sanemi does not know how to ensure you wonât be caught in the blast zone. No Hashira has ever tried to escape, but he can imagine if any of them dared, theyâd be made a bigger example out of than some rank-and-file Corps member. There is a mythos surrounding the Hashira even among the junior ranks, a sort of air that they carry. In his own days as a junior, heâd heard whispers comparing his now-equals to gods, because really, what else could not just survive, but prosper in a place that claims far more lives than it produces?Â
That very mystique is why he can almost guarantee his defection would be met with a retaliation proportionate to the level of his betrayal. There would be no quick end for him; it would be brutal and drawn-out, his death a kindness they would make him beg for.Â
No one leaves hell in one piece and Sanemi is no exception. He knows better than to think â than to wish â for different. The Corps will swallow him whole, suck the marrow from his bones and turn him to dust before that happens.Â
But as the memory of your skin beneath his fingertips and your lips moving with his beckons him to sleep, heâd be damned if he said the idea of trying wasnât tempting as hell.
â
The days mount alongside Sanemiâs self-loathing until almost a week has passed without so much as a word from you â or him, for that matter.Â
Itâs likely youâre only parroting his own radio silence, giving him space heâs made you think he needs. But the lack of your name above any notifications on his phone grates at him.Â
Itâs hypocritical of him to be bothered at all, given that he could just as easily pick up his phone and shoot you a text or give you a call. He knows that. But he sulks all the same.Â
He sulks and sulks, his mood souring with every passing minute until not even his fellow Hashira risk triggering his bitchy attitude. Just when he thinks he might cave, might actually pick up his damn phone and put an end to the nonsense heâs created, Uzui dings him with a job, and all thoughts of you come to a grinding halt.
The job itself seemed straightforward enough: go to a pawn shop and collect on a payment owed by its broker. When the orders initially came through on his phone (always an unknown number, never the same one), Sanemi at first, was confused. Heâs used to being called upon to help other Hashira on their jobs; used to being the extra muscle, the extra layer of intimidation needed to ensure promises were made good on. He looks terrifying; Sanemi knows this. His scars are just another weapon for the Corps to use, and it is not wasteful. Deals tended to go smoother, debts were paid, when they shook hands under the eye of the Corpsâ boogeyman; the monster whoâd come knocking should they forget their obligations.
Customers donât know how to see past his scars. Not like you do, anyway.
But the job Uzui has sent him on isnât like the others; for one, the obnoxious peacock isnât accompanying him. Nor is the pawnshop broker in default yet on his payments, and the amount Sanemiâs been tasked with collecting isnât particularly large. More perplexing, the instructions sent from the anonymous number were specific to direct him to pick up a burner car from Rengokuâs garage, an unusual command that made him click his tongue in annoyance. Sanemi doesnât do cars.Â
Itâs not his place to question orders, however, so he doesnât. He merely picks up the piece of shit car from its designated spot and tries not to put his fist through the dash when he struggles to figure out how to drive the stupid thing. As it stands, Rengoku currently owes him a favor, and heâd rather not waste it by having him forgive damage Sanemi does to his inventory.
The ramshackle store heâs been forced to pay a visit to teeters right on the edge of the Western Wing â Kizuki territory.Â
Confusion gives way to suspicion the moment he steps inside the pawn shop. Throughout his gruff conversation with Uzuiâs client, Sanemi is unable to shake the prickle at the back of his neck that only ever came from being watched.
Survival, as heâd learned, was in the details. It was about noticing the gaps between the counters, the foggy reflections in the display cases. Heâs survived this long because he knew when a silent door had opened, could feel the slight shift in the air as it warmed a couple of degrees even when his back was turned.
It is these very observations, this very compulsion to be hyper vigilant every hour, every second of his life, that has Sanemiïżœïżœïżœs hand flying to the gun tucked into his hip the moment he sees the shadows in the glass ripple.Â
Itâs drawn and cocked, his finger ready to jump the trigger without a moment of hesitation, but no one ever comes inside. If the pawnbroker is taken aback, he doesnât show it, and tensely, Sanemi reholsters his gun, though he keeps an eye trained on the front door.Â
The moment he exits the pawn shop, Sanemi knows heâs being followed.Â
It starts with a pair of headlights that flash in his mirror. Though evening is rapidly approaching, it is still far too light outside for the lights to be necessary, and Sanemi isnât stupid enough to think theyâre trying to signal that something is wrong with the burner car, piece of shit though it is. Helpful drivers donât lay on their horns and whoop taunts out their windows.
His suspicion is confirmed when a second car jerks over into the opposite lane and rides even next to the one tailing Sanemi. It lingers for a moment, keeping pace with the other car before it falls back behind it.
Well, he knows that move; they were talking. Plotting.
Thatâs when all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the job clicks into place. Small job though it was, Sanemi knows anyone ranked lower than him wouldâve already been sporting a bullet hole in their head.Â
Really, he shouldnât be surprised by the tail, and itâs even less of an oddity that heâd been instructed to take a car to pick up rather than his bike. Uzui had known heâd need the cover.Â
They keep their distance while Sanemi weighs his options. He could try and lose them, but Sanemi is far better at ditching tails when heâs on his bike. This body hunk of metal on the other hand is foreign, its dimensions unfamiliar. Survival meant taking risks only when there were no other options, and heâs not there. Not yet.Â
Thereâs a sharp pop and the glass on his side mirror shatters.
âFuck.â His low growl slides out through clenched teeth. Sanemi throws his body down, willing the high back of his seat to give him the cover he needs.Â
It was a warning shot; the chase is up and now, the cats are ready to catch their prey.
The tires squeal over the pavement as he wrenches the steering wheel sharply to the left, gunning down a side alley nestled between the high rises of the business district. Heâs too landlocked in civilian territory to risk anything more; heâll have to try and lose them.Â
Good thing Sanemi knows these streets like the back of his hand. He can only pray his tails arenât as wise.
They know heâs affiliated with the Corps but not who he is; if they had, there would be no play, no production. These are lower-ranked Kizuki members â pathetically named Demons â who think theyâve caught themselves a fun little Corps member to toy with.
Sanemi lays his foot out on the gas. Heâs no fucking mouse, and heâll be damned if he end up in their trap.
His eyes flick to the rear view mirror. All he can see are the two sets of blinding headlines rapidly gaining behind him.Â
He slams down on the accelerator as far as it will go, yanking the steering far to the right. The car Uzui had given him may look like a piece of shit, but right now, itâs his best shot at getting out of this in one piece. So far, Sanemiâs lifeline is holding fast, the tires squealing only slightly as he veers sharply off the freeway and flies down First Street.Â
Somewhere over the cantankerous hum of the engine, his phone rings.
âWhat.â
âLooks like youâve got a demon on your tail, Shinazugawa.â A familiar voice intones through his speaker.
Sanemi smirks into the phone. âTwo. You offerinâ to help, Uzui?âÂ
Thereâs a crackly laugh on the other end. âGo south three blocks and take the first right. Gun through the light and then get down. Itâs a straight road.â
Sanemiâs mouth thins. Three blocks south is Market Street, dangerously close to Center City â a hotbed of civilian activity, especially on a summer night like this.Â
âNo innocents,â he warns. âWe ainât them.â The implication is clear: we only kill the bad guys.Â
A banal moral line, but theyâve got to draw one in the sand somewhere.Â
âJust focus on getting back to base without a bullet in your skull,â Uzui dismisses, but his tone loses that playful edge as it always does when he means business. âWeâre stretched thin enough as it is.â
âIâm in this shit because of you.â
âAnd Iâm the one getting you out of it.â Uzui finishes smoothly. âBe grateful I was tracking your ass.â
Sanemi doesnât know if he likes the idea of having his movements scrutinized but he canât worry about that right now. He clicks his phone off and tosses it to the side, not caring whether it lands on the passenger seat.
Right now, he needs to get the fuck out of here.
A deft twist of the steering wheel enables him to narrowly avoid smashing into a minivan that tries to ease into the intersection Sanemi guns through.
If heâd been hoping the pedestrian van might slow down his pursuers, he is bitterly disappointed. They pull the same stunt, the poor driver of the van laying on his horn that no one pays any heed toward.
He shakes it off; doesnât matter. He just needs to drive.
An unfamiliar beep sounds, further fraying his nerves. His eyes find the gas on the dashboard, and Sanemi unleashes a new string of vicious swears as he realizes the low light is dinging its warning. Leave it to fucking Uzui to stick him not just with a piece of shit, but a piece of shit with a low gas tank.Â
Fuck, he hates driving cars. His bike allowed him to be far nimbler, to soar away from enemies as fast as the wind could take him. But his bike is back at the garage, so for now, heâs stuck with this lumbering hunk of rusted metal.
If by some miracle, it does its damn job and keeps him from having to make another unexplained trip to Tamayo to get a bullet fished out of his flesh, Sanemi swears heâll never shit talk a car again.Â
Another sharp crack of gunfire rips through the evening air, and Sanemi grinds his teeth at the sound of his tail light shattering. Theyâre getting bold; Uzuiâs assistance will mean jack shit if he doesnât get to Market soon.Â
He whizzes by the signposts marking Central Avenue and Main; one more block to go.Â
Behind him, an engine revs and Sanemi doesnât have to look in his rearview mirror to know the tail is nearly at his bumper. He shifts forward in his seat, ruching his shoulders up as he guns harder for Market, the demarcating stoplight growing closer, closer âÂ
The light turns red but he does not slow; he sails through the intersection, jerking the car sharply to the right. The tires squeal and groan beneath him but the vehicle does not give. Turn cleared and hands glued firmly to the steering wheel, Sanemi throws himself to the side, ducking down below the dash.Â
A half second later and the telltale spray of bullets nearly shatters his eardrums.
Adrenaline vibrates in his veins, forces his foot down harder on the accelerator. He doesnât dare breathe, and doesnât think he could try even if he wanted to; the air is lodged in his throat, a bubble threatening to choke him. Though his ears ring, it is not enough to drown out the screeching of tires against pavement, nor does it muffle the sudden, sickening crunch of metal as the car tailing him veers off the road and slams into something hard. Half a heartbeat later, the other car meets the same fate.Â
The gunfire ceases for a moment and only the eerie echo of a horn lingers in the air, growing more distant with each inch he gains.
Sanemi counts the seconds. One, two âÂ
Three gunshots fire in rapid succession, now much more muted than that first initial barrage. Only when they fade does Sanemi chance pushing himself up, allowing himself to return to his normal position the driverâs seat, the carâs speedometer hovering somewhere near eighty. Somewhere in the distance, Sanemi hears the familiar wail of police sirens, no doubt already speeding for the chaotic scene that just unfurled behind him. Swearing, he eases his frantic hurtle down Market Street, falling in line behind a string of traffic flooding out of a nearby baseball stadium, its attendees blissfully unaware of the violence that nearly followed him into their midst.Â
Three shots; three bodies between the cars behind him, now splattered across the interiors. Those final bullets were more a formality than anything; Sanemi suspects most if not all the carâs inhabitants had been killed in the initial blitz, but being in the Corps means being thorough. There are no survivors among enemies.Â
His phone bleats its shrill ring and Sanemiâs hand shakes as he lifts it to his ear.Â
âClear.âÂ
Uzui hangs up and Sanemi finally exhales.Â
â
He coasts back to base on fumes, but manages to sneak into a garage fashioned out of a converted warehouse, one made to store stolen vehicles like the one now guttering under the steering of his sweaty palms.Â
The car screeches to a stop the moment he guides it into the safe shadows of the garage, the door quickly lowered behind him by a greasy-haired Corps member whose name Sanemi canât be fucked to remember. Fighting to quell the faint tremor lingering in his hands, Sanemi pitches himself out of the driverâs side of the car and throws the keys at the kid, kicking the door shut behind him.Â
Fuck, he hates when heâs rattled.
He swallows his anxiety, forces it back into whatever bottle it slipped free from as he crosses the alley toward the faintly glowing purple neon sign that marks his target location.Â
The Wisteria Tree is a deceptively whimsical name for the grungy den of iniquity that serves as Uzuiâs homebase. The club is one of three located in the Silo and one of many that are operated throughout the city, each location ranging from cheap strip joints to upscale nightclubs, making Uzui the biggest money-maker among the Hashira. Sanemi supposes that makes sense; as long as humans have lived, thereâs been a market for selling bodies.Â
At least Uzui takes care of his workers â pays them well, makes sure theyâve got the healthcare they need. He kept their bellies fed, and made sure Sanemi was on speed dial to take care of any customers who forgot that their dollars didnât entitle them to rough up the merchandise.Â
Whores, some might call those who danced atop the sticky, sleek bars inside Uzuiâs joints. Not Sanemi. Long ago, his mother had worked the streets of the Silo, trading her feeble body for spare change that she devoted to the baby boy her bastard husband had saddled her with. Sanemiâs birth had weakened her already fragile health; Genyaâs arrival a few years later was the nail in her coffin, their mother being found dead on a sidestreet not three months after heâd been born, half-dressed and a crumpled twenty-dollar note in her hand.
Perhaps if sheâd been employed by someone like Uzui, she wouldâve lived. But she wasnât, and she didnât, and Sanemi had long-since learned that if he let himself mourn every life stamped out by the Silo, heâd never stop. Surviving meant letting bygones be bygones, so Sanemi locked away his sadness for his mother in the space between his ribs, right alongside his love for Genya and you.Â
And no matter; Uzuiâs whores are all fiercely loyal to him and serve as the Corpsâ best source of information in the City. People have a tendency to forget to watch their tongues when they believe themselves to be surrounded by nothing more than stupid whores.Â
Time and time again, that was their mistake.Â
It is dark inside The Wisteria House. The only light comes from clusters of strobing lights with colors that pulse and change in time with the beat thundering over the speakers, so loud that Sanemi can scarcely hear himself think. Though the night is young, the way the darkness inside the club swallows up any and all trace of the world outside its doors is enough to convince him heâs fallen down a rabbit hole into a land of perpetual midnight. Then again, the club thrives on sensory deprivation, relying on its ability to trick customers into thinking itâs still the wee hours of the morning, when alcohol flows freely and dollars rain from the ceilings to be tucked into the waistbands of non-existent thongs and the linings of jewel-crusted bras.
When people lose track of time, they lose track of their own inhibitions; itâs a smart business tactic on Uzuiâs part. Already there are patrons lining the massive bar that sits in the center of the clubâs main floor.
Stuffed far in the back behind the bar is a small hallway, nearly hidden from sight. Sanemi shoves his way back, stopping only before the unassuming door leading to the club proprietorâs office to allow the guards standing by to pat him down.Â
Uzui prefers the company of women to men, and itâs that preference that has Sanemi on edge. While heâs certainly never been shy around handsy women, Sanemi feels wrong allowing them to touch him, though protocol demands it.Â
Their hands arenât yours.
The guards in question are two of Uzuiâs favorite girls â Suma and Makio, if memory serves him correct. But neither are gentle as they search for wires Sanemi wouldnât dream of being stupid enough to wear.Â
Rough hands dip into the pockets of his jacket, his pants, before sliding down his legs. âYou wanna check between my ass cheeks, too?â Sanemi snaps irritably. âOr under my balls?â
âIf youâre looking for someone to make you bend over, Shinazugawa, then youâve come to the wrong place. Uzui doesnât mix business and pleasure.â A gruff voice â Makioâs, he thinks â chuffs back.Â
He rolls his eyes. âPleasure is his business.â
Neither woman bothers with an answer.Â
âClean.â One confirms to the other. Sanemi does not allow himself to breathe until those hands withdraw from him.Â
Makio shoves open a door leading into Uzuiâs office and waves him through. âHinaâs inside. Donât linger.â
âNever do,â Sanemi grumbles, and he breezes past the two bodyguards without another word. The door swings shut behind him, muffling the thumping bass and grating dub music crackling through the clubâs surrounding speakers.
For all the flashy glitz and seedy glamor of The Wisteria House, Uzuiâs office is surprisingly subdued. Like the rest of the club, the small room is dark, but absent are the neon lights pulsating in time with overloud music. Instead, the office is lit by a handful of dimmed lamps and the few computer screens idly displaying the clubâs logo.
A large desk stands at the back wall, flanked by one considerably smaller â more a repurposed table than anything. And behind the empty, high-backed leather computer chair neatly pushed in stands a large safe. Its door is an austere slate gray steel, one that gleams even in the muted overhead lights and takes up almost the entire back wall. The stout, wheel-turn lock looks untouched, and itâs just as much a silent brag that no one is stupid enough to fuck with it when they shouldnât as it is a subtle dare that they try.
But Sanemi knows better.
Itâs a decoy; no matter how much Uzui liked to make a spectacle of himself, he isnât stupid enough to keep cash in such an obvious place. At least, not the type of cash that matters; not the kind Sanemi risked his neck to bring here.Â
Another notable thing about this hole notched in the back of the clubâs sticky walls? How neat everything is. Unlike the rest of The Wisteria House, the floor here isnât tacky from spilled alcohol and god knows what else. The surfaces of every desk, of every cabinet is free from dust and smudged fingerprints, everything properly in its place and out of sight.Â
Itâs a rather stark contrast to the debauched chaos that plagues the rest of the club. If Sanemi were a betting man, heâd wager a fair amount of cash that the officeâs tidiness had less to do with the clubâs loudmouth owner, and more to do with the the pair of luminous violet eyes tracking his footsteps across the neatly swept floor.Â
âIâm glad to see you made it back in one piece, Shinazugawa.âÂ
Sanemi snorts, but gives the woman seated behind the smaller side desk a tight nod. While Uzui may have expressed that sentiment with a hint of the dry sarcasm that he never dropped, Hinatsuru â the third of the silver-haired Hashiraâs favored girls â was never anything short of genuine.Â
If he were honest, the pretty, dark-haired woman reminded him a great deal of his mother. Her face was kind in the same way Shizuâs had been, unhardened by the hollowness of her cheeks or the shadows beneath her eyes. And, just like his mother, she always found the time to spare him a soft smile, one that seemed far too out of place in the dump theyâd had the misfortune of being born into.
But where Sanemi would have normally been a bit more subdued around her, the afternoonâs events had left him far too unsettled, and he cannot remember how to blunt his bite.
He only hopes she understands.Â
Crossing the space between the entryway and Uzuiâs great, paper-covered desk, Sanemi pulls the envelope free from the inside of his jacket and dumps its contents over the deskâs surface. âHereâs his fuckinâ money.âÂ
The stacks thump pathetically against the stained wood, and Sanemi feels no compunctions about selecting the one nearest the top and shoving it into his pocket. He doesnât bother counting out the amount; he knows how Uzui demands to have his cash delivered. Bundles of twenties, a hundred bills per strap.Â
Sanemiâs brush with the enemy will cost his fellow Hashira two grand.Â
âTell him I took my cut. If heâs got an issue with it, then he can go get shot at next time. Iâm outta here.â
If Hinatsuru disapproves, she says nothing. âYouâre not going to lie low?â
âFuck that.â Sanemi is already halfway out the door, his beaten leather jacket slung over his shoulder. âIâm goinâ to Kasugai. If you need anything, make it someone elseâs problem.âÂ
Heâs out the door before she can say goodbye.Â
â
Kasugai is the nearest dive bar firmly nestled within the Corpsâ territory.Â
While he certainly has his vices (an entire contact list of them, at that), alcohol has never been one of them. But right now, the promise of a stiff drink is calling his name, and since he hasnât been able to indulge in any of his past dalliances in the months since you became the only thing on his mind and heart, Sanemi is desperate for a distraction.Â
By no means is it a respectable joint, but Kasugai is full of Silo rats like him, which means itâs the closest thing to a safe house that he has, apart from base. Not that anywhere in this City is safe for someone like him, but Sanemi takes his silver linings when and where he can.
He coasts his bike to the alley behind the dive and kills the engine. The faint scent of oil and grease lingers in the air, signaling it needs to be serviced soon.Â
Great. Heâll be sure to pencil that in between smashing femurs and pathetically pining after you.Â
The back door opens filling the air with a sudden rush of stale beer and the loud, slurred voices of the barâs patrons. His irritation flares at the thought of having to shoulder through a throng of sweat-stained bodies sardined inside, and Sanemi decides he needs to take some of his edge off before he reaches the sticky bar top inside. Heâs in no particular mood to smash in anyoneâs teeth.Â
Good thing heâd stopped to pick up a new pack of cigarettes on his way over; a few, quick puffs is sure to calm his agitation enough to allow him to avoid picking any unnecessary fights. Though he'd brazenly insisted to Hinatsuru that he didnât care to lie low following the brush heâd had with the Kizuki, he knows better than to make a public spectacle of himself. If word got around that Sanemi Shinazugawa, the most brutal of the Corpsâ Hashira, was getting drunk at shitty bars and starting brawls with the first scrappy asshole that made the mistake of looking at him the wrong way, more of those Demons would come sniffing, eager to make a name for themselves by taking him out.Â
And Sanemi has no intentions of turning his recklessness with you into a greater pattern. He still has some interest in living, after all.Â
He thumps the sealed carton of cigarettes against his palm, loosening the tobacco before flicking the lid open and thumbing one free. Stuffing the pack back into his jacket, Sanemi rummages through his pockets for his lighter. Once lit, he brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long, indulgent drag. He holds in his breath for a moment, loosing it only when his lungs burn, the smoke curling delicately around his head.
The rush of nicotine eases some of the jitter in his limbs, quiets his racing thoughts. He needed this; if he canât get his fix of you, then the cancerous little stick wedged between his lips is the next best thing. Puffing lightly on his cigarette, Sanemi pulls his phone free and flicks through his notifications. An update on a new shipment of fine jewelry from Iguro. A report from Genyaâs school â his midterm grades. Gambling tickets that need collecting for Rengoku.
Not a single notification is from you. Just like the yesterday; just like the day before that.
Annoyed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Sanemi takes another harsh drag before flicking some of his ash to the ground. His irritable mood isnât your fault, he knows; it has everything to do with his inability to make a fucking decision about if or how he moves forward with you.Â
I love you, Sanemi.
Youâve laid all your cards out on the table already; itâs his own damn fault he hasnât figured out how to show his hand. So no, he canât be surprised you havenât reached out, considering he hasnât been able to say a damn thing at all.Â
Since youâre already on his mind, he figures he might as well indulge himself and think about you some more; what you might be doing right then, on the other side of town. Itâs Thursday, so youâve already dealt with your weekly shipping orders, no doubt each box already inventoried, its contents swiftly organized and shelved. He wonders whether that new release heâs been waiting on has come in; the next installment in a series youâd turned him on to, one heâd stayed up for nearly a week straight devouring in the few precious moments of free time heâd squirreled away.
Do you feel his absence as keenly as he feels yours? Since that night, there have been no movie nights, no cheap, greasy takeout dinners that he usually insisted on paying for in light of your pitiful earnings and inability to cook for yourself. He wonders whether youâve settled back into your pre-him routine of relying on cereal for sustenance, and his mood sours even further when he realizes you probably have. After all, youâve never shown a particular interest in your own well-being, as evidenced by your inexplicable attraction to him.Â
Fuck, he shouldnât be here. Heâs not in any mood for watered down liquor, and he knows better than to try and drown his feelings into a glass. If he drinks, heâs liable to act like an idiot, calling you or showing up at your place without first taking all the precautions he normally does before opening you up to the risk of his presence.Â
No, drinking is the last thing he needs to be doing right now, no matter how it might dull some of his edge. And unfortunately for him, the only thing he truly wants is exactly what he canât have.
He takes one last, heavy drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. No sex and no booze; he really needs to come up with better vices.Â
A quick glance at his phone confirms itâs late and he should probably fuck off home before he lets temptation entice him any further. He eyes the date on his home screen and thinks about the inquiry he put in with that firm in that obsolete, faraway city.Â
Heâll need to pay it a visit soon; heâs got more shit to give them and, with any luck, a new account to open. But itâs been a few days since heâd received the confirmation that his query was under review, and the lack of response has him even more on edge.Â
If his ruse is discovered, after all, itâs not just him whoâs fucked.
Sanemi leans against the solid body of his bike and retrieves his helmet. Heâll give them another couple of days to respond. In the meanwhile, he needs to come up with Plan B, C, Plan whatever-the-fuck to ensure that all his soul-shredding work doesnât go to waste once a bullet gets shoved through his brain. And perhaps sometime in between all his violence and plotting, heâll grow a pair and figure out what the hell heâs going to do about you.
â
Crunch.
âP-please! Iâll p-pay, I s-swear ââÂ
âYeah, yeah,â Sanemi dismisses. The skin on his knuckles split a while ago, but heâs long since stopped being able to feel the sting. âHeard it all before.â
Crimson spills down the manâs face, drips down his front from his nose, flattened on its side. His plea is garbled by the blood filling his mouth, quieting into a single, wet rasp as Sanemi socks his fist hard into his soft gut.Â
When it came time to collect on the Corpsâ debts, Sanemi finds he no longer needs to think about the how. How he breaks bones; how exacts the vengeance of his fellow Hashira when their ventures were taken for granted. Even the crow bar or steel pipe that inevitably ended up in his hand felt like a mere extension of his body, every swing, every crush of metal into flesh, pure instinct. Slipping back into this cool detachment is easy; it is a transition ingrained into his bones, the product of having spent years contorting himself into the perfect toy soldier.Â
The man is still doubled over, choking and sputtering to catch his breath, when Sanemi throws him back against the wall.
Blood bubbles in the corner of his busted mouth. âP-please â tell Mr. Tomioka it was a b-bad bet, b-but the next one ââÂ
âMr. Tomioka said you could take that bad bet and shove it up your ass.â Not exactly how the dull waste of brain matter had put it, but close enough. âWhereâs his money?â
The customer babbles some pitiful excuse Sanemi canât be bothered to piece together. He takes note only of the number of stuttered syllables, none of which point to any drawer or lockbox, and all of which stack up to reveal the admission heâs so desperate not to make.
He doesnât have the cash to fork over.Â
His hands are tied, then. Sanemi has to do what only he can.Â
Fingers tight around the manâs collar, Sanemi spins them away from the wall. The entire room shudders when he slams Tomiokaâs bloodied patron down on his own desk, the wood creaking and groaning beneath the manâs mashed cheek.Â
Before he can finish moaning his pained grunt, Sanemi takes his right arm and twists it sharply behind his sweaty back.Â
âFifty grand to The Striking Tide. One week.â He gets the manâs arm into position. âLast warning.âHis target tenses beneath him, whimpering under the mounting pressure in his arm. âOr else the next time you see me, itâll be at the Wisteria overpass.âÂ
The answering gulp of fear is confirmation that he understands Sanemiâs threat. All those dumb enough to dip their toes in the Corpsâ Acheron learn rather quickly that the Wisteria overpass is where bodies go to disappear. Perhaps the taunt is overkill; after all, fifty grand isnât worth the bullet. But itâs effective, judging by the trickle of urine that puddles on floor by the manâs feet.Â
If he thinks thatâs the extent of his warning, however, heâs sorely mistaken. Sanemi doesnât deal in empty threats.Â
Sanemiâs grip tightens. The arm joint pops and the man begins to beg. He knows what comes next; what Sanemi means to do, as he wraps his hand around the manâs wrist.
Blood spatters across the desk as he coughs his last plea. âN-no â!â
But thereâs nowhere to run; nothing the man can do but scream as Sanemi gives a single, harsh jerk, snapping the bone.Â
Message received; job done.Â
So, Sanemi takes and he takes, and with every job completed, he reminds himself that this is what he truly is. A monster. A fiend. Not someone who might build a better life elsewhere, who could live normally â peacefully.
Not someone who deserves to have you.Â
As usual, the numbness doesnât set in until after heâs finished, while Sanemi scrubs blood from hands he knows will never fully be clean. It starts as a pit deep within his stomach, but it quickly blooms into a terrifying knot of twisted brambles that takes root in his veins. Before long, Sanemi is immune to the sting of cold water on his skin as he washes and washes, unable to hear the curses being spat in his direction by his bleeding, broken target with a hatred he canât feel.Â
âFifty grand.â Sanemi repeats as he departs. His final warning sounds faraway, a disembodied voice that does not feel entirely his own. âOne week.â
That unfeeling continues seeping into his bones until heâs heavy with it. By the time his bike roars through the rusted shipyard buttressing the Silo, Sanemi canât even feel the wind whipping at his face.
The numbness follows him inside the shitty box he hardly calls home and Sanemi knows he needs a fix, and fast. A monster with a conscience is one thing; one without is a nightmare heâd prefer to avoid.
Your face flashes through his mind and some of his paralysis eases, but Sanemi pushes you away. Not now; not while heâs like this.
Though the practice of slumping on his couch and reaching for his phone feels familiar, Sanemi does not dabble in old habits. That particular cure for the gaping, gnawing paralysis thatâs taken him over is one Sanemi hasnât had the stomach for even before youâd so sweetly offered yourself to him. Now that heâs had you, he is doomed never to go back, and right now, youâre not an option.
And so, Sanemi scrolls through the contacts on his phone, his eyes glazing over at the series of entries marked by random emojis denoting his past distractions. He almost gives up, but then his half-hearted perusal turns up one name that sticks out over all the others.Â
Sanemiâs thumb is tapping the phone icon before he can question whether he should. Itâs been too long, anyway. More than three weeks, for that matter, so heâs due to make a call.Â
Besides, it would do him some good to hear the little bastardâs voice. Especially right now, when his head and heart are so delightfully fucked.
He waits only two rings when the other line answers.Â
âAniki?â
âWhat are you doing?â Sanemi glances at the tiny clock on his microwave. âYou just get outta class?âÂ
Itâs a question Sanemi already knows the answer to given that he has every detail of his little brotherâs schedule committed firmly to memory, but itâs an easier opener than hey, I miss you, you little shit.Â
âYeah,â Genya confirms and thereâs a rustling on his end, like a bag being shifted between shoulders. âIâm on my way back to the dorms now, and then â uh, practice.âÂ
Sanemi snorts into the speaker. âYou donât have practice on Wednesdays. Try again.âÂ
While Sanemi knows he wields far more responsibility for Genya than most siblings would claim, he tries to toe the line between responsible older brother and overbearing parent as much as his paranoia will allow. So while he may know the first and last name of every person his brother associates with, their backgrounds, his teacherâs backgrounds, and every detail of his brotherâs time at school, outwardly, Sanemi makes an effort to appear like heâs not butting too much into Genyaâs life.Â
But he wonât tolerate lying; especially not when it comes to Genyaâs activities. His safety.Â
His brother makes a disgruntled sound. âWell â Iâm â weâre going to Tanjiroâs. For dinner. A few of us.âÂ
Sanemi rolls his eyes. âJust because I donât like him doesnât mean I give a shit if you hang out with âim. As long as he ainât gettinâ your ass in trouble.âÂ
Not that Sanemi would be too concerned about Genyaâs ability to handle himself â after all, his brother was raised in the Silo, just like him.Â
In his youth, Genya had been as hot-tempered as his older brother; prone to thinking his grievances had to be aired out through his fists. As Sanemi grew older, he realized how much Genya resembled his father when he had his fist cocked back, towering over some kid whoâd run their mouth for too long. And while Genya hated the old man as much as he did, Sanemi couldnât help but wonder if his brotherâs resemblance to Kyogo had come from Sanemi himself.
At the rate his anger had been progressing, Genya was on the path to a one-way collision with the Corps, just as Sanemi had been. The difference, however, was that as much as Genya resembled their father when enraged, heâd always known his little brother had their motherâs heart; her gentleness. He never would have made it far in the Corps, and Sanemi would be damned if heâd had to bury his brother, too.Â
No matter how Genya idolized his elder brother, Sanemi would not allow him to follow in his footsteps.Â
It wasnât long after that he started swiping brochures for different boarding schools from the city library. The moment their old man turned cold, Sanemi shipped his younger brother away.Â
Genyaâs reproachfulness pulls Sanemi back out of his head. âHe really is a good guy ââÂ
âI told you, I donât give a shit if you hang out with him as long as your grades stay up and youâre keepinâ your nose clean.â Sanemi crosses his kitchen and yanks open his fridge, eyes narrowed as he scans the half-bare shelf for something to distract him. âI just think heâs annoying.âÂ
He settles on a beer and closes the door. Phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder, he twists the cap off and takes a hearty swig. âI wanna come up this weekend. See ya for a bit.â And to sweeten the pot, Sanemi adds, âDinner on me. Anywhere you want.âÂ
Thereâs a pause on the other end of the line. âI â sure!âÂ
Though his brother cannot see him, Sanemi frowns. âWhat, I canât come see you all of a sudden? Too cool for me?âÂ
âNo!â Genyaâs voice cracks slightly and for a moment, he sounds every bit the dumpling-faced, starry-eyed boy of Sanemiâs memory rather than the nearly grown sixteen-year-old he knows him to be. âI always wanna see you â but â I mean, is everythingâŠgood? With you?âÂ
Sanemi canât help his rueful smile as he sets his beer on the counter. His brother knows him too well. âYeah. I got some things I gotta talk to you about.âÂ
âOkay,â Genya sounds skeptical. âYou sure youâre good?â
Your face flashes through his mind. âYeah. Itâs just nothinâ I wanna discuss over the phone.âÂ
Itâs not a lie; Sanemi has wanted to see his brother for a while, but thereâs an ulterior motive to his spur-of-the-moment decision to make the three and a half hour journey to Genyaâs school. One that has little to do with his brother and everything to do with you.Â
âOkay,â Genya repeats again, though he still sounds uncertain. âSanemi ââÂ
âIâll meet you at the campus entrance at five. Donât be late, alright? Iâm gonna be hungry.â Sanemi cuts his brother off. Heâs not chancing bringing you up over the phone; not when enemies might be lurking in corners he hasnât yet checked. Not after heâs spent most of his life living with one eye always open.Â
Itâs his brotherâs turn to sigh through the phone, Genya knowing better than to try and argue. âOkay. Iâll see you then. I gotta get back ââ
âYeah, yeah, to the Kamado shithead. I know.â Sanemi snatches his beer up and takes another swig. âIâll see ya Friday. Keep your nose clean.â
His brother grumbles his goodbye and Sanemi hangs up, more at ease now. Talking to Genya was the right call; his younger brother had a special talent for brightening his day, whether or not the little dumbass knew it.Â
Now that heâs confirmed to be visiting Genya in a few daysâ time, Sanemi knows he needs to plan for a stop along the way. It would be real fucking nice if the notice heâs been waiting on would come through. In fairness, itâs been a few days since heâd last checked for it, so Sanemi leans against his counter and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through the rest of his notifications and once heâs sufficiently depressed over the lack of any from you, he tabs over to a hidden folder.
To the untrained eye, the private folder is unassuming; a collection of apps marked âMisc.,â hidden behind a single passcode. And even those who might be nosy, who might be too curious as to the type of shit Sanemi Shinazugawa stored on his phone would be sorely disappointed. In fact, they might write him off as no better than any other young, single man upon discovering a folder full of apps labeled as popular porn sites, their icons tiny thumbnails of their logos.Â
Anyone who sought access to his phone would look for contacts, financials, some details about his involvement with the Corps or its overall operations. They would search his texts, his contacts, his photos, even. That was expected; anticipated.Â
But Sanemi canât imagine anyone â cop or Kizuki alike â who would give two shits about his porn habits.Â
He taps the icon marked âBustyBeautiesâ and waits for the app to direct him to the first password screen, and then to a second. Only after heâs entered both passwords (separate, of course) does his secret email account finally open, its inbox barren save five entries.Â
Right there, at the top, is the message heâs been waiting for. Eagerly, Sanemi opens and reads the letter, mentally tallying every instruction, committing each detail to memory.Â
His impending visit to Genya really couldnât be at a better time. Heâd strategically chosen this firm because it is exactly halfway between here and the school.Â
A quick confirmation back to his agent later, and Sanemi has his scheduled appointment time slotted just over two hours before heâs due to meet Genya for dinner. He then opens his contacts and finds the number saved under a single flame emoji, and brings his phone to his ear, waiting.Â
The line picks up on the third ring.
âRengoku?â Sanemi tips his head back and swallows the last contents of his beer in a smooth gulp. âRemember that job I did for ya a few weeks back? Got a favor. I need a car.â He pauses before adding, âAnd a suit.â
â-â
Life as a Hashira with the Corps entails few luxuries, but the one Sanemi appreciates most is the discretion.Â
When he was a lower-ranked initiate, Sanemi couldnât so much as shit without someone knowing about it. Time was money, and every moment not spent chasing paper for the Corps was money wasted. At best, that meant a dock in pay; at worst, youâd be treated no better than any other run-of-the-mill debtor.Â
As a Hashira, however, heâs allowed a fair degree of wiggle room on his leash to do as he pleases, so long as a job doesnât crop up. And even then, all it takes is a smooth lie or two to buy him some extra time, and thatâs exactly what he gives Rengoku when he stops by his main hub that Friday morning to pick up his goods.Â
âRecon,â Sanemi says simply, catching the keys to one of Rengokuâs many vehicles that he tosses his way. âGotta blend in, yâknow?âÂ
âApologies for not being able to reserve something nicer,â his flame-haired comrade nods at the keys Sanemi twirls around a finger. âIâm afraid my luxury fleet is occupied at the moment.â Rengoku offers him a megawatt smile that reminds Sanemi of the flashy, bright billboards that dotted Center City â a product of top tier orthodontia, no doubt bankrolled by his familyâs long-standing ties with the Corps. âThough I doubt anyone will notice while youâre wearing that suit.â
Sanemi waves him off. âDonât sweat it. As long as I keep stickinâ my nose up, Iâm sure Iâll fit right in with those rich fucks.â
Rengoku laughs heartily in response and Sanemi smirks. Though their backgrounds couldnât be more different, Rengoku has always had a good sense of humor about the nature of the elite heâd been born into. Itâs a good thing, too; after all, Rengokuâs silver spoon hadnât prevented him from being sold off to the Corps, the same way Sanemi was.Â
He follows Rengoku down to a secured garage, one insulated by three, pass-code locked doors, and guarded by a handful of junior Corps members.Â
Despite his fellow Hashiraâs apologies, the car reserved for him is a luxury model, even if Rengoku didnât seem to think so. Then again, Sanemi supposes he and the burly blonde have very different definitions as to what constitutes high value transportation.
Whatever. It certainly isnât the tin wad of junk heâd been forced to drive while getting shot at for Uzui, and that alone means luxury, at least to him.Â
Sanemi hangs the suit bag from Rengoku in the back seat. He leaves his fellow Hashira behind with a firm handshake before lowering himself into the driverâs side and closing the door. Â
Owlish, ochre eyes track him as Sanemi pushes the start button (of course itâs a push-start), the engine purring quietly to life. Mirrors adjusted and the A/C cranked low, Sanemi glides out of Rengokuâs garage as silent as a shadow, setting off down the road leading out of Center City and to the freeway.Â
The carâs interior is all rich leather and gleaming accents, the dash controlled by a sleek touchscreen that Sanemi doesnât dare sully with his fingerprints. The car is undoubtedly a brand new model; one any average Joe would jump at the chance to drive, and yet, Sanemi remains unimpressed.Â
He still prefers his bike.
He stops at a gas station once heâs about sixty miles out from the city, eyes carefully scanning the parking lot as he totes the garment back inside. This particular rest stop has only single bathrooms, a preference of his when he travels. Better to have a door that locks out the rest of the world than to have to risk sidling up to some unknown enemy at the urinal.
The suit borrowed from Rengoku fits him like a glove, a serious but trendy shade of dark blue. The crisp white button down he wears beneath has been starched to perfection, and the glossy brown leather shoes he wears likely cost more than his monthly rent.Â
Sanemi Shinazugawaâs childhood had been anything but typical. But if heâd been normal, he imagined this is what it wouldâve felt like to play dress-up. Though everything has been perfectly tailored to him, he feels like a clown.
No matter; he has a part to play and the success of his performance heavily depends on his appearance. So, Sanemi swallows his pride in that gas station bathroom, dressing quickly in his costume. He leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but makes sure the collar is precise and properly frames the lapel of his jacket.Â
His choice of forsaking the gold tie clipped inside the garment bag is intentional; while his normal appearance would certainly raise red flags among the upper echelon of the society heâs about to pretend heâs a part of, so too would him being overly polished. Thus, this small act of intentional dishevelment only serves to further his own ruse, helps him assimilate into a world he has never once been a part of.
Besides, Sanemi doesnât do ties. He canât stand the tightness at his throat, choking off his air; the way it feels like heâs being strangled by blended silk.Â
Dressed, Sanemi considers his reflection in the bathroomâs age and mildew-spotted mirror. Itâs a miracle, the difference a tailored suit can make; he scarcely recognizes the face grimacing back at him.Â
The sink tap squeaks as Sanemi runs the water, dampening his hand and smoothing it back through his hair. There. Now he looks passably proper, no hint of the brutish thug he knows he is in sight, save for the silvery scars that cover half his face. Jack shit he can do about those though, so Sanemi stuffs his discarded clothes back into the garment bag and shoves out of the bathroom, the tap on the sink still running behind him.
â
Another half hour passes before Sanemi takes the exit leading to a small town, about ten miles off the freeway.Â
Itâs almost jarring how quickly the world around him shifts from an endless stretch of asphalt to finely crafted brick and limestone. This town is a far cry from the gilded glamor of the City. Itâs respectable; clean, without so much as a hint of an overfilled trash can in sight. Once he steps outside, he knows he will be greeted by the faint, lingering scent of summer magnolia blossoms, rather than the familiar, urine-soaked sulfur which encases the Silo.Â
The median household income of this town is triple than that of even the Cityâs dwindling middle class. But the wealth of its residents is precisely what makes this town so unassuming. No one would suspect a gang rat like him would ever set foot in a place like this, let alone know how to blend in, and that is exactly why he chose this place to begin with.Â
Sanemi cruises down a familiar cobbled street, passing stately brick townhomes that look more like mini mansions than the law offices and specialty practices he knows them to be. Then again, the people who live here wouldnât deign to live in something as small as a townhouse, what with their sprawling estates on the other side of town, locked behind the safety of tall iron gates. Â
It isnât long before Sanemi slows to a stop right outside yet another colonial mansion. Car parked and engine turned off, Sanemi steps out and fastens his suit jacket with an off-handed ease, as though the motion is second-nature. As though he is used to traversing through wealthy streets in a custom suit.Â
Gloved security men open the buildingâs double doors to him the moment his foot hits the first stair.
The inside of the bank is all rich wood and high ceilings. The wide floor is flanked by rows of tidy desks, each topped with antique bankerâs lamps. Glass-walled offices line the perimeter, reserved for only the highest-value clients who wish to deal privately with their assets and away from any overly-curious ears. Itâs toward these offices that Sanemi strides, his face schooled carefully into a mask of neutrality even as his pulse quickens.Â
âMr. Masachika,â a receptionist outside the furthest glass office nods to him, rising from her desk to greet him. âPunctual as always.âÂ
Sanemi returns her welcome with a closed-lip smile that makes her cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. The guilt heâd once felt over using the surname of a long-dead friend had run out years before, when heâd been young and desperate to get his brother the fuck out of the Silo.
Besides, he didnât think Masachika would mind, if he knew his reasoning.Â
Behind the glass wall, Sanemi spies the familiar face of his accountant. Her secretary pokes her head inside the door and murmurs his name, and the accountantâs eyes rise over the top of her computer. The receptionist is dismissed with a curt nod, and she steps aside.Â
Thatâs his cue; Sanemi mutters a small thank you and the door behind him is pulled shut. He returns the accountantâs firm handshake and settles into the small, leather chair that sits opposite of hers, and waits.Â
The entire office is encased in glass, offering both the accountant and every visitor a perfect, three-sixty view of the entire bank. From a practical standpoint, Sanemi can understand its use; this bank handles considerable assets, so itâs no wonder that even the accountants want to be able to monitor every movement, every face, which passes through its doors.Â
Still, though, something about it sets him on edge; makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A lifetime spent operating in the shadows means Sanemi hates feeling too exposed, and this fishbowl of an office is about as comforting as a helicopter searchlight.Â
The accountantâs clipped voice snaps him out of his mounting paranoia. âIt is good to see you again, Mr. Masachika. I see youâre here for an asset transfer, and perhaps to discuss a new account?âÂ
âIndeed I am,â the formality with which he speaks feels foreign, and yet, the words roll easily off his tongue. âThe Principalâs estate has generated some new revenue, and it is his desire to add another family member as a beneficiary.âÂ
âI see.â The accountantâs fingers move quickly over her keyboard. âBefore we begin, I will need to verify your identity and your legal authority.â Her eyes flash to his and she offers him an apologetic smile. âItâs an annoying formality, I know, given how familiar we are with you. But our system wonât allow me to proceed until I re-enter the information.âÂ
âOf course.â He presents her with the documents heâd had forged assigning him power of attorney over one Sanemi Shinazugawa (âthe poor bastard was in a nasty car wreck. Practically a vegetable,â heâd told the accountant more than two years ago), and he waits.Â
His palms are sweaty where his hands rest in his lap, but Sanemi resists the urge to fidget. His nerves are nothing new; he always feels anxious here, when heâs wearing the mask of another, more so than he would back home. At least his Hashira mask is not all that different from the core of what he is; here, the identity he assumes is his exact opposite, and the microscope he operates under feels more intense.Â
The accountant enters the information with a punctual tap of her finger on her computer key, and turns her attention back to him. âNow that weâve got that out of the way, how may we be of assistance?âÂ
âFifty thousand split between the two trusts for Genya Shinazugawa,â Sanemi says smoothly, reaching into the suit jacket pocket to produce an envelope full of a thick stack of cash and a folded piece of paper. âAnd another fifty into a new account, to be opened under this name.â
The accountant unfolds the sheet and skims the information, her lips pursed.Â
A bead of sweat slides down Sanemiâs spine, the skin over his knuckles nearly turn white where his hand clenches in his lap, hidden from sight.
âVery well, Mr. Masachika,â the accountant nods before she begins promptly typing the information into her computer. âAnd we thank Mr. Shinazugawa for his continued business. Ms. Y/L/Nâs trust will be active within the next forty-eight hours.âÂ
Beneath the ledge of her tidy little desk, the hand fisted on his thigh relaxes and Sanemi conceals his quiet sigh of relief by feigning a sneeze.
A contingency; Sanemi always has a contingency.Â
â
Itâs a quarter til five when Sanemi rolls to a stop outside the pristine entrance of his brotherâs school. Classes have just let out, and already he can see the flood of boys rushing the courtyard and the quad, laughing away the stress of the day.
Car parked, Sanemi stretches and waits.
He finds Genya easily; the boy sticks out above the others mulling about the campus in the late-afternoon sun by his height and brawn alone, but his mohawk is what really sets him apart. For as long as he could remember, his brother had always worn his hair like that â a mop thick, dark hair carefully arranged, the sides of his head always sheared close to his skin. The schoolâs dress code had initially prohibited it, and ten-year-old Genya had thrown himself a right little temper tantrum when he was ordered to shave it.Â
A well-placed bribe by Sanemi enabled the admin to overlook it. He hadnât been able to eat more than a can of beans for an entire month after, but it was worth keeping his brother happy.Â
Genya loiters under one of the campus streetlamps, his arms folded over his chest, his face set into what he must imagine is a menacing scowl.Â
Sanemi snorts to himself. What a little showoff.Â
He types a quick text to his brother and watches as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, his head shooting up. All of that feigned coolness melts away the moment Genya spots him standing at the bricked archway marking the schoolâs campus. In an instant, Sanemiâs little brother is bounding toward him with a lopsided grin, half-stumbling over his feet in excitement.Â
With his uniform rumpled, a casual carelessness only a teenager could spare, Genya looks every bit the boy Sanemi himself never got to be.
It is not self pity that sinks into his gut at the thought; itâs relief. Because that means Sanemi has at least done something right in his life.Â
âAniki!âÂ
âHey, brat.â Sanemi returns his brotherâs wide, toothy grin with a half-smirk of his own. âHowâve ya been?âÂ
Genya skids to a halt in front of him, his arms half raised as though he means to hug his brother, before they drop back to his sides. When he was a boy, Genya was prone to throwing his arms around Sanemiâs neck whenever his brother returned home with a small bag of candy, or a cheap little toy car heâd managed to swipe from the corner store, pealing with laughter and gratitude that always left Sanemi feeling slightly embarrassed, even as heâd pat his brotherâs back.
That impulse, it appears, still lingers, but Genya tampers it down, perhaps too aware of the number of curious eyes that watch the two of them. Sanemi resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, his brother has an image he wants to maintain. Probably the same tough-guy bullshit he liked to front in his youth, when he pretended like he didnât beg his big brother to tote him around on his back.
ââM fine,â Genya rocks back and forth on his heels. âYou?â His eyes are wide as they count the new scars peppering the skin of his exposed forearms, some snaking their way up to his elbow before disappearing under the rolled cuff of his sleeves.Â
âDonât worry about it.â Sanemi cuts off his brotherâs question before the boy can find the nerve to ask it. âSide effect of the gig. You know that.â He tugs at the shirtâs starchy collar in discomfort. âWhereâd ya wanna eat?âÂ
âThereâs a good breakfast buffet a few blocks away. All you can eat.â Genya rubs the back of his neck, shy. âGood for the dollar too.âÂ
Sanemi scoffs. âWeâll stop there on the way back. Iâm takinâ you to get something decent first.â Sanemi throws an arm around his shoulders and tries not to scowl at the fact he has to stretch up somewhat, his brother now standing a good inch taller than he. âThey feedinâ you here? You feel scrawny.âÂ
Not entirely true, but Sanemi feels rather bruised that his brother has surpassed him in height. Now, the only thing he has over him is his own brawn, though from his cursory squeeze of Genyaâs shoulder, he finds that his brother runs the risk of catching up to him in that department as well.Â
It takes no time for them to fall into their respective roles: Genya, immediately launching into a rambling play-by-play of every single thing heâs done since theyâd talked a few days later, so animated he hardly remembers to take a breath. And Sanemi easily assumes his role as the listener, occasionally scoffing or rolling his eyes as his brother recounts his antics.Â
As they walk, Sanemi supposes that from afar, they look more like friends than a pair of brothers. But despite having the advantage of height, Genyaâs youth is betrayed by the way he curls in on himself as he walks, his shoulders slumped and his head half-pulled in like that of a turtle.Â
Normally, heâd admonish his brotherâs poor posture, but he lets it slide. Because, despite the mildly disinterested set of his mouth, Sanemi is far too happy to see his brotherâs unscarred, smiling face.
â
Despite a rather extravagant meal at one of the best steakhouses in the area, Sanemi knows his brother is still hungry, and that is how they end up at Genyaâs suggested diner not twenty minutes after Sanemi had paid their first bill.Â
âSeriously, the hell am I payinâ them an arm and a leg for?â Sanemi scowls as Genya lopes back to their table booth, the plate in his hands piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon, enough to give anyone the distinct impression his brother had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. âThought their big bragginâ point was the gourmet dining hall they have. Buffet style and shit.âÂ
âYeah, but they cut you off after fourths.â Genyaâs eyes gleam, his fork hovering over his bounty as he decides what to start on first. âItâs okay though. Zenitsu and I sneak food back to the dorms all the time.â
He settles on his pancakes right as a waitress brings over their drinks â a soda for him and a hot tea for Sanemi.Â
Genya points at the empty stretch of table before his brother with his knife. âNot hungry?â Â
He lifts his mug by its steaming rim and blows on the liquid. âNot like you.â
Genya shrugs and tears into his pancakes with the same vigor as a hyena does its prey, forgoing his knife in favor of ripping off large chunks of the sweet with his teeth.
Sanemi waits until his brother has chewed his first mouthful before he speaks.Â
âI saw your midterm grades. Good work.âÂ
Genyaâs head shoots up from where he inhales his food, his eyes wide. Just as quickly he straightens and drops his gaze again, his cheeks, red. Â
âThanks, Aniki.â He murmurs after a thick swallow, bashful. âI know my math grade wasnât the best ââ
âItâs an improvement from last term. Thatâs all I care about.â Sanemi takes a measured sip of his tea and scowls. Too weak. Heâs been spoiled; you always know how to make it the way he likes.Â
But thereâs nothing else he can distract himself with in the periods of silence in which his brother shovels his food into his mouth, so Sanemi forces himself to drink it. The liquid is still piping hot, enough so that it burns his tongue, but he pays it no mind. His scorched taste buds just make it easier to choke it down.
âYou hanginâ with anyone else? Or just Kamado and the other shits?â He asks after a moment, his eyes sharp over the lip of his mug. Anyone new? Anyone I havenât properly vetted?
âStill âem,â his brother answers through another garbled mouthful of pancake. âMuichiro ân Zenitsu, too.â
âWhat about the other one?â And when Genya raises a confused eyebrow, he clarifies. âThe one with rabies.â
His brother snorts and swallows half a piece of bacon. âInosuke?â
âYeah. That thing.â
âHe doesnât have rabies â he wore a taxidermied boar head one time ââ
âYeah, and you dumbasses ended up in the Deanâs office because heâd stolen it.â Sanemi narrows his eyes, annoyance flaring at the memory of the phone call heâd received right in the middle of breaking Maedaâs left leg. Heâd had to shove the toe of his boot into the ratâs mouth to keep him quiet while heâd borne the brunt of the Deanâs condescending lecture about why it was unacceptable for students to break into the science and tech building mess with the schoolâs natural history displays.Â
As though heâd been the one to break curfew and at least half a dozen other school rules, and not his shithead brother.Â
Genya only shrugs and returns his focus to his food. He hunches over his plate, leveling his mouth with its edge as he shovels in the rest of his pancakes.
Sanemi watches in muted distaste as his brother shifts to attack his eggs with the same ferocity, only remembering to come up for air to take a long gulp of his drink.Â
âThereâs a girl, Gen.â
The boyâs head snaps up, his jaw slack enough that a dribble of his soda escapes down his chin.Â
Sanemi wrinkles his nose. âClose your mouth.â
âSorry,â Genya swallows thickly and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. âA girl?â
âYeah.â
âA real one?â
Sanemi chokes on a slurp of his tea. âThe fuck does that mean?â
âN-nothing!â Genya turns bright red and shrinks beneath Sanemiâs accusatory glare. âJust, youâve never â at least, youâve never told me about anyone youâre seeing ââ
âThatâs âcause I donât see anyone.âÂ
His brother eyes him carefully. âButâŠyou are now?â
For a moment, Sanemi says nothing; he only plays with his unused knife, spinning it on its tip as he considers his words.
âThingsâŠescalated. Between us.â Sanemi frowns. Itâs the most judicious way he can put it; he doesnât exactly air the details of his sex life to his younger brother on principle, but at the same time, thereâs no other way he can phrase it. âAnd I donât know whatâs gonna happen going forward.â
The implication of exactly how things between Sanemi and you changed is not lost on his brother, and Genyaâs cheeks turn a faint red. He focuses hard on his half-eaten eggs before him, pushing them around with his fork.Â
âYouâŠlike her though, right?â
Sanemi grimaces. Far more than that, actually. Itâs a truth heâs hardly been able to admit to himself, save his silent utterance against your hair long after youâd fallen asleep on him that night.Â
Heâs in love with you. And fuck if thatâs not the most terrifying damn thing in the world.
Genya must realize it too, for he only offers a soft âOh.â
âYeah. Oh.â Sanemi leans forward on his elbows, his hands folded under his chin. âAnd fuck if I know what to do about it. Woulda been easier if I hadnât crossed the line, but well,â he gives his brother a wry grin. âSince when have I ever made shit easy for myself?â
For a moment, thereâs no sound but that of Genyaâs fork scraping across his plate. âWhat does she think?âÂ
âI donât know. I havenât talked to her in a few days.â
Genyaâs eyes widen in something like horror. âYou mean - you all ââ he turns scarlet. âYou all did â whatever â and you havenât talked to her since?âÂ
His face heats and Sanemi disguises his discomfort with a cough that he tucks into his mug as he forces himself to drink the watery tea. Â
Only when he canât avoid his brotherâs discerning look any longer does Sanemi set his cup down. âShit, Gen,â he runs a hand through his hair. âI donât even know what to do about her at this point.âÂ
The boy turns his fork over again and again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. âYou want to be with her though, donât you? Like, date and stuff?â
Sanemi scowls. âI donât know. Iâve never really dated anyone. You know how shit is. The risks. I canât even be a normal brother to you, so I sure as shit ainât boyfriend material.âÂ
Genya chews on his lip and then shrugs. âI dunno. I donât think you wouldâve brought her up if you werenât looking for permission, I guess.â He glances up and this time, he doesnât cower under the intensity of his brotherâs gaze. âAre you?âÂ
But Sanemi doesnât know the answer to his brotherâs question, and if he did, he supposes he wouldnât still be stuck in this limbo.
âYouâre allowed to be selfish, Aniki.â Genyaâs voice softens to something almost gentle. âYouâre allowed to do things thatâll make you happy. I wish you would.âÂ
Sanemi doesnât have many memories of their mother, but he does remember how she spoke to him. Always kind, always loving in a way that made him feel a flutter of happiness; a warmth, even when the lights at home had been cut off, and they were slowly freezing half to death.Â
Thatâs exactly how Genya speaks to him now, and it makes him want to squirm. Heâs already feeling too emotionally exposed thanks to his feelings for you; he doesnât need to turn to mush in front of his baby brother simply because Genya managed to inherit all the good of a woman heâd never known.Â
Gruffly, Sanemi clears his throat. âIâm tellinâ you all this for a reason. You know how Iâve got stuff for you, if somethinâ happens to me?â
His little brother scans anxiously behind him, before answering in a hushed voice, âThe accounts?â
âJesus, be more obvious, why donât you?â Sanemi rolls his eyes and brings his mug to his lips. He tips his head back and swallows the rest of the cupâs watery contents in a single gulp. âYeah. Those. You still got that lockbox with all that shit in it?âÂ
The one Sanemi had brought to his brotherâs dorm in the dead of night and had him shove beneath his bed. Genya nods.Â
âGood,â Sanemi reaches into his jacket and pulls free a small envelope folded twice. âPut this in there, too. Itâs for her. You know the drill. I wrote down all her info on the cover sheet. If anything happens, give her a call and have her meet you outside the City. I donât want you going near it, understand?âÂ
Genya nods and accepts the parcel Sanemi slides across the table, tucking it safely into his own jacket lining.
A waitress brings them their check and Sanemi tosses a few bills onto the table. They wait for Genya to chug the rest of his drink and then the two set off, the bell above the door chiming as it swings shut behind them.
It sounds just like the one that dangles above your store door.Â
â-
The walk back to Genyaâs campus takes considerably longer than it should, though the diner is only about four blocks away. Not that Sanemi minds; in fact, heâs purposefully walking slower, wanting to stretch out the minutes until he has to bid his brother goodbye as long as he can. Whether Genya knows, or whether heâs simply acting on his own hesitancy, he canât say, but his brother seems not to be in any more of a hurry than he is. God knows the next time Sanemi will get to see him.Â
If heâll see him again at all. This single day of pretend away from the Corps hasnât changed shit about his life expectancy, and Sanemi wants to savor every moment he can.Â
All of it is for him, after all.Â
Soon, far too soon, the iron and stone gates of the school come into view, and Sanemi steels himself against the impending goodbye. His brother never failed to look at him with the same, wide-eyed trepidation heâd had the very first time Sanemi had brought him here; a child-like fear of the unknown, even though Genya was all-too aware of his brotherâs likely future. It was an anxiety that never failed to make Genya hug him harder, cling on longer than he should, until Sanemi was forced to push him away.
It killed him, every time.
He wonât get choked up in front of Genya â he wonât. Heâll swallow his heartache, choke it back until only a tear or two escapes down his cheek as he drives away, the school and his brother safely in his rearview mirror.
Sanemi turns to his brother, dread curdling in his stomach. He parts his lips, ready to give him the gruff, guess Iâll be headinâ out, that always precipitates this most dreaded goodbye, but his brother speaks up first.
âI think,â Genya hesitates, his mouth opening and closing before his lips press into a firm line. âI think you should decide what you want. Our whole life, youâve been making decisions to survive, yâknow?â And he shakes his head. âYouâve never done what you wanted. Iâm grateful for everything youâve given me but ââÂ
Genya trails off for a moment and looks out to the proud, stately campus quad sprawling before them. âI think itâs time to be selfish for once, Aniki. Youâve earned it. You canât survive on your own.â He turns back to his elder brother with a wan smile. âYou know that better than anyone. Used to tell me all the time.â
Heâs not sure what he was expecting Genya to say, but it sure as shit wasnât that. It isnât often that heâs caught off guard; even less than heâs left at a loss for words, and for once, Sanemi finds it difficult to meet his brotherâs eyes. âItâs not that simple. Me beinâ selfish has consequences.â
âBut â I mean, youâve already made a choice in a way, right?â Sanemiâs gaze snaps to him as Genyaâs hand pats his jacket, right over where the envelope bearing your name sits. âYou might as well enjoy it.â
He stares at his brother for a long moment until Genyaâs cheeks turn pink. âWhen the fuck did you get so grown?â
âYeah, well,â his brother shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at a stray pebble. âMaybe you just needed to hear youâre allowed to be a little happy.âÂ
âYou sayinâ Iâm a grouch?âÂ
âYeah,â Genya admits with a toothy grin. âYouâre a real asshole sometimes, yâknow? Maybe she can make you nicer.â
Sanemi mirrors his shit-eating smirk. âAn asshole, huh?â With a viper-like swiftness, he locks an arm around his brotherâs neck and yanks him down, mashing his knuckles into Genyaâs head. âStill an asshole when I let you eat a hole through my wallet?âÂ
âAni â Sanemi â!â Genya wrestles with Sanemiâs arm, helpless against his elder brotherâs playful assault on his carefully-styled mohawk.
Sanemi lets himself indulge in this brief moment of rough-housing and for a second, he imagines this is what it wouldâve been like had life dealt them a less-shitty hand. Just two brothers, wrestling on the lawn, laughing with a freeness neither one of them had ever known.Â
Just two boys.Â
But like all good things in his life, the moment ends, and Sanemi straightens, his grin sliding from his face. Genya sorts himself out, too, though his eyes turn sad.Â
âGuess you gotta hit the road, right?âÂ
Sanemi swallows around the lump growing in his throat and nods. âIâll text ya when Iâm back.â
As tall and brawny as his little brother is, Genya looks every bit a kicked puppy as he stares hard at the ground, his lips mashing together in an effort Sanemi knows is meant to keep himself from crying.Â
âStay safe, Aniki.â His voice is small.Â
A hand reaches out and clasps the boy around the shoulder, pulling him into a firm hug. âIâll try,â Sanemi says roughly, clearing his throat. His brotherâs arm squeezes tightly around his neck, and Sanemi closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine, just for a moment, that they are kids again.Â
He claps Genya on the back and pulls away. âGo on,â he juts his chin toward the dorms. âNot having you gettinâ your ass chapped over missing curfew on my account.âÂ
The boy rubs at his eyes and fakes a yawn to cover how they water. âI know. Thanks, Aniki. For visiting.âÂ
âYeah, yeah,â Sanemi waves him off, flashing him a crooked grin. âDonât get all mushy on me. Get back to your studies.âÂ
With that, Genya turns and shuffles back toward his dorm, periodically looking over his shoulder. Sanemi holds his arm up in farewell, and stays there until his brother is safely inside and out of his sight.
And only then does he lower his hand to wipe at the tears misting in his eyes.Â
â
The entirety of the more than three-hour drive back to the City is completed in total silence.Â
Itâs done out of preference, more than anything. Sanemi is too used to his bikeâs lack of a radio, the rumbling purr of its motor, the only noise that accompanies him on his rides. The radio carries too much potential for distraction, and Sanemi wonât impair his senses if he can help it.Â
Besides, after Genyaâs too-shrewd observations of the shitshow that is his lovelife, Sanemi needs the hours to think.Â
The day heâd been initiated as a Hashira was the day Sanemiâs future had ended. The moment heâd been pushed to his knees, his shirt stripped from his back, he understood that his life began and ended with the Corps. As heâd searched the faces of the other Hashira, noting the youth in each of their features, heâd known that his expiration date was likely sooner rather than later. It was only logical; to rise up to the level of Hashira meant you had skills that painted a target on your back. To claim a kill on one of them meant solidifying your own status within whatever fringe group you belonged to. When the Kizuki came along, theyâd only upped the ante, offering exorbitant payouts to even non-affiliates who could deliver on a Hashiraâs head.
So yeah, Sanemi had known his chances of making it out of his twenties were slim to none. He thought heâd given up any idea of growing old the moment Uzui placed that searing hot iron between his shoulders, every trace of a future untainted by blood sizzling away under the pop and crackle of his burning skin.Â
Until you.Â
Your simple existence had been a seed that was cultivated the longer heâd gotten to know you, one that blossomed into a portrait of what his life might be, rather than what it is. And once heâd seen it, heâd not been able to look away. It was a life of happiness; unshackled and unburdened by the Corps, the stains of his misdeeds finally washed from his skin. One that ends not in a spray of gunfire and an unmarked grave, but when heâs old and gray, surrounded by kids and grandkids, tangible proof of a life long-well lived.
A life created out of his love for you. With you.
It was one thing for him to keep these reveries locked tightly in his heart, only to be taken out under the dark cover of solitude and handled carefully, a fairytale like those in that book with the story of the beauty and the beast. To keep them confined to a secret sanctuary for him to retreat into whenever he needed to pull himself out of that gaping numb chasm that always opened in his chest after a particularly bad job. Heâd never need to seek comfort or distraction in the arms of another again, not as long as he had this small dream of what couldâve been to keep him warm. There wouldâve been no need to get you involved at all, save the permanent place youâd hold in his heart.
You would be safe and he wouldâve been alone, as intended. As needed.
But heâd gotten greedy; and when youâd looked up at him, sweaty and naked and vulnerable, and told him you loved him, Sanemi had seen how that small, glowing dream of his was more than what could have been. It was what still could be.Â
Sanemi rests his hand on his fist, his left arm propped on the ledge of the driverâs window as his other guides the steering wheel. Never before has he felt so torn between two paths. Then again, heâs never been presented with a choice; he has only ever been forced to adapt to the shit life hurled his way.Â
And it had thrown one hell of a wrench at his head through you.Â
I donât think you wouldâve brought her up if you werenât looking for permission. Are you?
Sanemi sits up, eyes widening in thought. His brotherâs question packs more punch than heâd initially realized, settling over him like a weight as he drives.Â
Is there any choice left to be made at all?Â
Perhaps the part of him that has screamed and cursed his stupidity for doing the one thing heâd sworn not to do hadnât been his own conscience at all. Perhaps it had been the Corpsâ, and Sanemi, too accustomed to being an extension of its will, had simply been unable to know the difference. After all, wasnât that the entire reason heâd let himself be forced to his knees all those years ago to be branded â in order to forsake his own identity so he might be re-forged into a weapon through burning hot iron? Had he not whored himself out, allowed himself to be bent and molded and beaten into the perfect shape of a soldier in exchange for the promise of a filled belly and the chance that Genya might be free of the cage theyâd been born into?Â
That had all been before; heâd lost himself somewhere between the stench of his burning flesh and the black, twisted underbelly of the Corps. And it wasnât until you appeared that Sanemi had dared to wonder whether he might find his way back to himself.Â
You were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky; the light in the dark whose fire revealed the beauty in the shadows of his small world that he hadnât known existed. Was it selfish of him to want to pluck you from the horizon and tuck you into his pocket, for keeps? Perhaps. But Sanemi had spent so much time alone in the dark that he hadnât been able to help wanting to cling to what little brilliance had been brought into his life.
I donât think you wouldâve brought her up if you werenât looking for permission. Are you?
Genya had hit the nail right on the fucking head. All this time, he has been agonizing over what he should do without any consideration as to what it is he wants. After a life of having to make decisions to survive, he really shouldnât have expected anything less â he simply didnât know how to do anything different. But heâd made a choice the moment heâd laid you back against your blankets, drunk on your lips and ensorcelled by the feel of your skin sliding with his.
So what does he want?Â
The answer is easy; so easy, in fact, even his kid brother could see it.
He wants you. Only you.
Don't worry, he's gonna go get her.
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#demon slayer#kimetsu no yaiba#sanemi shinazugawa#kny#kny x reader#kny sanemi#sanemi x reader#kny fanfic#kny smut#demon slayer smut#shinazugawa sanemi#sanemi x y/n#sanemi fanfic#sanemi smut
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Enshrouded
Summary: (abbreviated from the ao3 version because this baby is long enough đ) MC is an Auror seeking refuge from the arduous nature of her everyday life, and finds it in a secret wizarding club hidden in London; where she has an unforgettable encounter with a strangely familiar, masked man.
Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x F!MC / Reader
Warnings: EXPLICIT 18+ MINORS DNI. â p in v, oral (f and m receiving), drug/alcohol use, semi-public, anonymous, little bit rough but nothing too crazy, mentions of violence/blood (mc just really LOVES her job lmao), lots of adult language oop, aged up characters (everyone is in their early 20âs)
Word count: 7.3k
A/N: this idea came to me in a dream⊠nah jk it came to me while watching Bridgerton (go figure). Started writing it months ago and after much self-doubt I present babyâs first published filth đ
read here on Ao3 đč
It was the mystery. She had long suspected that was what kept her going back for more, time and time again.
The risk of it all was enticing too, of course, but more than anything, she loved a damn good mystery. One complex and intricate, one that took time and effort to unravel. As an Auror, well, her life was chock full of such simple delights.
Regrettably, there wasnât much joy to be had in solving the cases slapped on her desk by the Chief Auror - any satisfaction in making an arrest was often muddied by the names of the victims left behind. So she often sought out milder (but just as potent) forms of that heady adrenaline rush in order to scratch the itch - and her absolute favorite was Reverie. Unassuming enough as names go, and the facade would lead you to think so, too: its uniform brick painted a dingy gray just like every other shopfront along the shadowed, misty cobblestone of Knockturn Alley.
If any of her coworkers found out she frequented such a spot âŠoh, sheâd never hear the end of it. Worse than that, her Chief might even believe such behavior warranted suspension; as wanton impropriety from a well known Ministry employee would bring her morals into question. Likely, sheâd get an earful about the utter shame it would bring upon the Ministry itself if she were spotted.
But that was the glorious thing about Reverie: the moment you stepped through its doors, you became somebody else.
Or, rather, no one at all.
Attendance was by invitation only; delivered anonymously while the recipient slept soundly in their bed (certainly disconcerting, but how could she complain?). No letter, just a silken black mask.
Donning the disguise allowed its wearer to see past the heavy glamor placed on the building and step inside - without being apprehended by one of the black-clad guards on watch. Yet the maskâs hidden talents didnât end there. It was the clubâs signature secret: while it was true they merely framed the eyes, each mask contained a glamor of their own that completely concealed oneâs identity - whether or not someone would recognize them without it.
(You could be staring into the face of your best friend and would never know it.)
Which, incidentally, was expressly forbidden inside the clubâs boundaries (one of very few rules, mind); as strict anonymity was what kept the underground facility running, despite the fact that the Ministry remained attuned to the whispers of a taboo venue boasting all manners of rampant debauchery right under their noses.
Still, the sorcery that offered Reverie protection had held true for well over five years, and its owners were more than dedicated to ensuring it was always so.
Most well-versed and connected members of English wizarding society had at least indulged in rumors of an alternative establishment hidden in the city. They traded whispers of what horrors may lurk behind those gray walls - dark magic and blatant impropriety and dangerous indulgencesâŠ
They couldnât be more right.
The air was already thick with the tang of whiskey and rank with perspiration by the time she arrived an hour after its Friday opening. With each step she took through the meandering crowd, heels clicking on the marble floors, curling smoke in every shade imaginable wafted around the room and blissfully chased away the odor with frankincense and mallowsweet.
But she hadnât come for the medicinals tonight, tempting as they were after a week that had left her emptier than the glasses long ago abandoned by drunken patrons. Not even a goblet of Merlot or a shot of coffee liqueur (with a splash of cream) could chase away what ailed her.
No, tonight she sought only one means of release, and needed nothing but the tension simmering in her blood as fuel for the fire driving her to desperation.
Nights at Reverie were not for the faint of heart (or stomach), nor the chaste and mild. While technically not allowed in open spaces, more than half of the attendees usually found themselves with a partner by dawn; in one of the many private back rooms or curtained-off alcoves - or dark corners, even.
After all, what did they have to lose when the strings of your identity werenât a factor?
Usually sheâd been content to let the men and women come to her, and admittedly there hadnât been a shortage of such⊠entanglements in the three months since sheâd received her own mask.
But the time for coy shyness and drawn out flirtation was long gone. Leaning against one of the wall-to-floor Grecian columns at the edge of the room, she simply tossed back her hair and began to scan it for potential prey.
There was a generous sample size, it was true. A tall, lithe gentleman whose hair shone like spun gold, a flawlessly curved woman with rich brown skin, a broad redhead sporting a wide grinâŠ
No, no, and no⊠none of them are just right.
She huffed with restrained frustration, tapping her foot to the string music playing a haunting melody that seemed to fill every space in the curved underground.
You know thereâs only one person you wanted to find here tonight.
Perhaps sheâd have to lower her standards - beggars canât be choosers, and all that.
âThere you are.â
Gasping, she pressed a palm to her satin covered chest, which heaved beneath the boning of her - possibly too tight - corset at the unexpected greeting. But what truly robbed her of breath until she was penniless⊠oh, gods.
Theyâd answered her prayers after all: the man standing behind her with a luminous grin was precisely the one sheâd been hoping to see.
A regular, as luck would have it. Sheâd spotted him in attendance more often than not, but had never had the courage to approach (mainly due to the slew of witches and wizards who got to him first).
With her attraction being largely from afar, sheâd assumed that his lack ofâŠwell, anything - other than a single dance lasting no more than five minutes - had meant he was uninterested. Though the smile he wore was genuine, not like the mask framing his dark eyes, and it sparked in the dim lighting cast from candelabras around the wide room.
âHere I amâŠ?â She quirked a brow questioningly, hand lowering to her hip. âBut, er, you must be mistaken. Iâm not sure Iâm the person youâre looking for.â
âOh, Iâm quite sure you are.â His chuckle was somehow more musical than the quartet filling the air and more rough than smooth, but exquisitely rich - as was the material of his dark vest and the deep gray collared shirt rolled above his elbows.
âOn account of the fact that Iâd know that particular dress anywhere. Weâve never been properly introduced, as I recall.â
âYou recall correctly.â She smiled - maybe coy was still in the cards, if only to spend more time with this handsome stranger.
âI suppose thatâs frowned upon here really, soâŠI believe thereâs a better way we could become acquainted, if youâd be amenable.â
She had to be impressed with his wanton confidence, if nothing elseâŠthough she got the sense there were many rather impressive things about him. Even more arresting was the boldness of his touch; broad hands reaching for hers to bring to his supple lips, where they lingered for a moment before releasing her gently.
Alright. He knew what he was doing.
But she had to play just a touch hard to get - if only to give him a taste of what heâd been dishing out for months (intentionally or otherwise). Heâd been playing coy after their first and only real interaction; shooting her little winks and whispered hellos on random nights - only to disappear again amongst the all-black crowd without giving her a chance to respond.
Likely, heâd been going off to find some other witch or wizard for entertainment.
âIâm sorry,â she said sweetly, a knowing smile playing on her own red-painted lips. âI donât recall meeting you at all. Your face has a similar quality to many men here, you see.â
âAh, somehow I doubt that.â Darkness collected in his dimples (how had she not noticed them before?)
âSaturday, precisely two months ago to the day, you were dancing in my arms wearing a red dress like you have on right now.â His voice was like honey and velvet as he spoke. With each word, he seemed to get closer.
And yes, of course she remembered. She was just surprised he still did.
Itâs why sheâd been stuck with a ridiculous, schoolgirl infatuation for weeks now; why sheâd worn red each and every night in the hopes of catching his attention once more.
The brief escapades sheâd busied herself with in the meantime had done in a pinch, but there was something about him she was positively dying to unravel. Perhaps it was the spark in those deep brown eyes - like the dark liquor she favored- that spoke of depths hidden far below the playful, self-assured surface.
Or maybe it was how he smelled from mere inches away, as he was now: pine, sandalwood, and a spicy scent akin to the smoke furling around him like a haze of fog.
âYouâve got quite the memory.â She mused, unable to stop her smile from bursting into full bloom. âI suppose that does ring a bellâ you trodded on my foot.â
He groaned. âIâd had a lot of whiskey that night. Iâm usually much more coordinated when sober. In factâŠâ
His fingers slid up her wrist, moving with slow caresses up her arm and shoulder until they came to rest beneath her jaw, angling it up to align with his gaze.
âIs it too presumptuous of me to askâŠif youâd let me make it up to you?â
For a moment - just a breath, she hesitated. And why? This was exactly what sheâd come for tonight, and with the man sheâd lusted over for ages now falling right into her lap⊠what sort of woman would refuse?
It was something unidentifiable, intangible. A tug on her gut. Something that flashed in the white of his smile as it caught the candlelight. Like a sense of deja vu; there one second and gone the next, leaving her with nothing but the old itch crawling beneath her flushed skin.
âPresumptuous, certainly. But not unwelcome. Everyone deserves a second chance.â She purred, squaring her shoulders and allowing him to guide her to the edge of the room with one palm flat on her lower back.
What sheâd expected was to be whisked away to one of the rooms tucked away in the back; filled with four poster beds and velvet curtains and enough firelight to be a safety hazard. Instead, he brought her up to the bar, catching the attention of its immaculately suited (and masked) tender with a wave of his finger. The movement distracted her while he ordered Merlin-even-knew what. She found herself watching the way his fingers curled and wrist turned with each gesture made, his palms visibly calloused - perhaps he had seen his fair share of combat, too - and the backs of his knuckles covered in freckles.
She had to wonder what constellations might be found if she dared to uncover the rest of him.
A glint of gold caught the light, mercifully returning her attention on the smiling eyes of the man who had taken to slipping a glass of red wine between her fingers.
âShall we toast?â He asked, tilting his chin up in the direction of the raised goblet.
âWhat are we toasting to?â
âToâŠâ his lips pursed thoughtfully. (Another startlingly distracting body part.) How pink and supple they looked, and how good they would taste when stained with burgundyâŠ
âLiberation.â
Fitting, indeed.
âSantĂ©.â She touched her chalice to his without breaking the meeting of their eyes.
âSlainte.â
The cloying bitterness of Merlot coated her tongue, filling her stomach with warmth - a taste she hadnât encountered for years. One she missed dearly.
âHowâd you know Iâd like Merlot?â She licked wine from her bottom lip.
He spoke at the same time; thick brows arched high. âYouâre French?â
They laughed, the sounds winding together into a hypnotic sort of harmony.
âYou first.â He inclined his head.
âPerhaps. Or perhaps Iâm simply fluent in the language.â She couldnât give away any secrets, not even the place of her birth.
âThat accent was flawless. Nobody but a native could articulate like that.â
She shook her head coyly, though not without amusement.
âFine.â A sigh that seemed almost long-suffering stirred the smoke coiling around them. âI prefer my women with a bit of mystery, anyway. As for your question, darlingâŠâ
Oh, he was a rogue through and through. His eyes greedily swept over every inch of her gown to settle on the curves and shapes he seemed to appreciate most before he even deigned to finish.
âItâs⊠bold. Much like you, if you donât think me too audacious for saying so.â
He paused to take another sip, savoring the act of licking his lips as she had moments ago, and almost smugly noting her obvious interest. âAnd Iâve obviously noticed you enjoy the color red, even if that partâs a bit on the nose.â
âYou could say that.â Her heart fluttered traitorously into her throat. His undivided and enthusiastic attention was not only a welcome surprise, but a conflicting one. It wouldnât do to fall for a masked man - in the end, they could never truly know each other beyond the four walls that brought them together.
Reverie. A dream - thatâs all. Youâll wake up in the morning.
She straightened her shoulders, resolved and refortified. âAnd do you? Enjoy the color, that is?â
Her voice was low, only audible due to the minute distance between them, the man tilting his head down towards her as one finger grazed the dip of her neckline.
âWhatâs not to love?â He mused. âRed represents⊠vitality. Danger. PassionâŠâ
Her skin prickled in the wake of the trail he drew from collar to shoulder and down her arm, and when it found her free hand, their fingers threaded together with such ease that they could have done it a thousand times before.
He could hear her heart, couldnât he? With that amount of surety behind his stare, there was no doubt she was being read like an open book.
âThatâs why we keep coming back here, isnât it?â He was near enough now that every word was felt as a cloud of heat gracing her wine-flushed cheeks.
âBecause we relish danger, and need passion like air. We all come to feel⊠alive.â
âHmm. Itâs almost as if you prepared that line beforehand.â She laughed.
His was such a beautiful sound, bubbling like champagne and leaving her with a warm feeling as if sheâd tasted it herself.
âLetâs say I did⊠is it working?â
âAbsolutely.â
Whatever spell had allowed them to maintain a sense of decorum shattered after that confirmation, which said so much more than was spoken aloud. The look exchanged between them was another conversation in itself; a volley of traded questions and answers that sent pure lightning skittering up her spine.
âCome with me.â He said abruptly (though not without a dutiful incline of his head; dark hair shining with veins of red in the candlelight) before tugging her away from the bar, where their drinks were hastily abandoned.
It seemed he was just as content to curse restraint, pulling her along with such haste that she tripped on her skirts (more than once) - evidently forgetting his longer legs and her tall heels as she bumped into a distracted patron that was left with a spilled drink, a scowl, and a breathless apology she didnât quite mean.
They paused at the mouth of the corridor tucked in the back. It was lined with nothing but identical doors of deepest mahogany: some tightly shut, some cracked, and others yet wide open.
The meaning behind each was simple enough: shut meant âdo not disturbâ, cracked meant âlisten or join, if you dareâ, and wide open meant âvacantâ. The wizard gave her a boyish grin as they all but stumbled to a stop in front of one that remained ajar and beckoned with soft golden light from the candles within.
âWhat are you waiting for?â She panted.
Without waiting on so much as a blink, her hand fisted in the crisp white of his button down, guiding him through the threshold before the slam of wood against the frame echoed in the empty chamber.
âA witch who knows what she wants, I see.â He chuckled, his hands needing no invitation to wind around her waist until their bodies molded at each curve.
âWell, youâve been taunting me for a while, havenât you?â
She took advantage of her hold on his clothes, forgoing the ease of simply waving her wand when she could take the opportunity to feel every inch of skin she revealed by releasing the buttons on his shirt.
Freckled - just as sheâd suspected, and with a neat nest of dark hair over the swell of his pectorals that her palms begged to rest on.
âWait, wait.â He huffed, hands coming to halt hers before they had time to slide the heavy coat from his shoulders.
âNo - not wait as in stop -â heâd seen the crease between her brows. âWait, as in⊠slow down.â
âYou seemed rather impatient a minute ago when you were dragging me through the place.â She said wryly.
âImpatient to get you alone, yes.â His knuckle grazed her cheek gently, reverently studying what little of her face he was able to see.
âButâŠâ It was as transient as a ghost, at first. A phantom of touch over the swell of her lip, and then firmer as his thumb outlined the shape. âIâd very much like to kiss you first. May I?â
That he even asked such a question - let alone made his intentions to savor the night clear - was enough to poke another hole in her notions of a one-night affair. What if she couldnât stand to never have this man again when it was over?
Well⊠there was always the luxury of dreams.
âYes, of course.â She whispered.
Sheâd been right earlier - the taste of wine clung to the corners of his mouth, somehow even sweeter when combined with a hint of peppermint cooling the sharp breath he took the moment their lips fit together effortlessly. Her tongue sought to part them in search of the buzz that the alcohol couldnât take credit for; finding his and groaning with delight as he melted into her.
A soft tug on her scalp announced the presence of his fingers as they threaded through strands of hair with the sole purpose of eliminating any and all space between them. Eagerly he rolled their tongues together, smearing the red painted on her lips across his chin.
They only paused to share a breath that left her dizzy. The sight of his skin stained with rouge was more beautiful than any art piece hanging on the tapestried walls - and there would be more colors adorning it by the end of the night, if she had anything to say about it.
âNowâŠâ The brunet exhaled when they broke apart, lips brushing with each word. âNow, you can take off my clothes.â
No need to tell her twice.
His vest slumped to the floor, giving her leave to continue her work on that long trail of buttons ending at the waist of his trousers. Before long it, too, was little more than a rag at their feet. When she was privy to every square inch of his bare torso, her hands took liberties to caress the panes of his chest, marveling without shame.
âIf youâll allow me the honor, Iâd like to even the score.â His voice was near a husk as he watched her intently.
No complaints arose (alright, perhaps one â when he spun her around; effectively depriving her of the ability to keep touching him) as the skilled wizard sought the eye hooks at the back of her bodice, dexterous fingers releasing each one with a snap that seemed to echo. All the while his mouth found her skin - tongue laving over her throat, teeth nipping where it met her shoulder to plant a bloom of deepest red.
âMmm⊠keep doing that.â She hummed appreciatively, head lolling to the side.
âYou donât mind if I leave you a few reminders to find in the morning?â He chuckled. By then, heâd succeeded in freeing her of the constricting garment, tossing it to the carpet by the fire before he started to untie her skirt.
âNot at all.â
âGood,â another kiss, just below her ear this time. âBecause I want to be able to see that itâs still there next time we meet.â
If he wasnât careful, sheâd start to think he already had plans to do this again.
She didnât wait for him to move her this time; taking control back once she was only clad in her underthings by going for the buttons holding up his bottoms. Oddly enough, her fingers took on a tremulous quality - one sheâd rarely (if ever) experienced in an intimate moment since her very first.
He seemed to adopt a similar growing impatience that made him forgo the back and forth to slip the sleeves of her chemise down, guiding the garment over her figure.
âGods, youâre a vision.â He groaned and reached for the curve of her waist, feeling out the shape only to travel upwards until he could cup a breast in each hand, thumbs teasing the peaks hardened against the air.
Even as she shivered when he leaned down to bestow a kiss on either one, she managed to get him out of everything but the long undergarments concealing that which she craved most. But when she went for them, he stopped her yet again - catching her wrist only to sweep the startled witch into his awaiting arms with a self-satisfied grin.
The mattress depressed beneath her weight, bouncing back as she blew away a stray lock of hair to look up at him. Watching the way his arms â corded with thick veins â flexed and his eyes narrowed. With barely concealed impatience he climbed onto the bed and wrapped his hands around her thighs.
âQuite the man handler, you are.â She giggled once heâd yanked her towards him so her legs fell open on either side of his knees.
That drew the attention of his wandering eyes.
âSomehow I doubt that was a complaint.â His mouth quirked in earnest. âNor do I envision youâll have any after Iâm done with you.â
He began to toy with the idea of removing her drawers - the last thing preventing her from losing her mind, potentially - by sliding his fingers beneath their frilly hems, nails prickling the skin of her thighs as they scratched up and down in a taunting rhythm.
âTell me something about yourself,â he whispered out of the clear blue. âAnything. The only things I know about you are that youâre French, love the color red and Merlot⊠oh, and youâre a much better dancer than me.â
Sharing random factoids wasnât necessarily the foreplay sheâd been expecting, nor the kind she was used to, but she couldnât say she minded when his voice alone made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
âUhmmâŠâ She had to think of something vague; a throwaway tidbit useless to anyone else.
While he watched, waited with wide and patient eyes, she sighed, âI canât go a day without coffee. Never quite developed a taste for tea. And I drink it with three sugars.â
He blinked twice in quick succession. All the while he had yet to stop playing with the edges of her knickers, though he gradually let one hand inch up her covered thigh, as if testing the waters. But, she wondered⊠what was there to test? He had been so self-assured outside this room, yet now there was a hint of nerves beneath the cool exterior.
âSo dark and sweet is the way you like it, huh?â He simply couldnât help himself, it seemed.
The smirk she donned was enough of an answer. âTell me something about you, then.â
âMe⊠well.â His mouth quirked before he shifted on the bed - lying on his stomach to greet the center of hers with a kiss. Then each of her hips with a gentle nip.âI love to read. Anything I can get my hands on, really. Fiction, nonfiction, magical and otherwise⊠Iâll devour it all.â
A slight pinch followed by the softness of his lips alerted her to another cluster of marks he began working onto her lower stomach, covering as much ground as he could on her thighs. His breath, heating her core as it came in little pants, was beginning to become a significant problem - one made her feel warm and heavy. Like sinking into a hot bath, if it were near-boiling.
âIn fact, if I had to pick my favorite place in the world, it would be sitting in front of a fire with a good book.â His fingertip ever so slightly grazed the inner curve of her thigh.
âA man of charm and intelligenceâŠhow ever did I get so fortunate?â
He chuckled at her teasing lilt, the sound tickling her sensitive skin while he began to make way for the kisses left up the length of her thigh â bunching her drawers up until his fingers just brushed the soft nest of curls at the top.
âAlthough right now I have to say; Iâm very much enjoying this spot, as well.â The wicked man smiled up at her.
âWell, if youâre waiting for an invitation, youâve got it.â She tried to sound casual about it all, but truth be told, she was fighting every urge to rip his underwear off and throw him onto the bed herself like some sort of madwoman.
He might make her into one before the sun rose, anyway.
She was sure of it when he began pressing tortuously chaste kisses to her other thigh, and when his fingers slid lower to deliver a gentle stroke down the center of her slit had her shuddering with anticipation.
âAnd how long have you been this wet, love?â His deep rasp was muffled by the fabric of her underwear.
She chuckled. âHmmâŠsince the moment you took me to the bar, probably.â
He sat up with a distinctly prideful grin, slipping the soft cotton undergarments down her legs, his eyes alight as he settled back between them.
She could almost see the words hanging off his lips as he gazed up at her (that sight was enough to make her hips shift needily), but for whatever reason, they werenât cut loose. No, he busied his mouth with far more important pursuits. After pausing briefly to indulge his eyes in an appreciative sweep of her naked body, he at last found the perfect spot to make her whine (and on the first try, too) with naught but a languorous sweep of his tongue.
It wasnât nearly enough to quell any bit of the ache driving her into inevitable madness, but he showed her mercy by flattening the wet muscle against her folds and following a slow trail up until the tip of it lightly flicked her clit.
âOh, please do that again.â She pleaded (had she been reduced to begging so quickly?), one hand inching towards her breast â seeking any more stimulation she could find â as the other slid through the silken waves atop his head.
He obliged. But with more pressure this time, and so, so slow, observing her reaction as if she were the most scintillating thing heâd ever laid eyes on.
It really was something about those eyes. With such unfairly long lashes that fanned over russet cheeks, and the way the candlelight flickering off the walls would touch them just so to light the near-black irises with a rich gold. His lips stretched against her skin, noticing her attention and giving her an approving hum that was met by the push of her hips towards his tongue.
âMmmph ââ he grunted when her thighs pressed to his ears, entrapping him between them greedily. âLike that, do you?â
Her answering moan earned another grin followed by a gentle suck on her clit that only brought out another breathy, low sound.
âBut gods, you taste so sweetâŠdecadent, just as Iâd said.â
Merlin, his voiceâŠthe way it rumbled with barely contained desire and pulled obscenities from her own throat was sinful.
Drowning in sin didnât seem such a bad way to go, at present.
The possibility became reality once he re-added a finger to the mix; curling it beneath his tongue to trace the folds before sinking gradually into her awaiting heat.
âOh, fââ
One of her own fingers rolled her nipple atop the breast sheâd been playing with as she shivered. If he kept this up much longer, she would surely come undone right on his tongue; wrapped around that rough digit gliding in and out of her as it stroked her upper walls.
But that didnât feel right. As wonderful as the softness of his lips enclosing around her clit was, she couldnât imagine a proper substitute for the stretch his cock would provide instead.
âI needâŠâ she had been about to voice her request when the tip of his tongue prodded her entrance. Both of her hands now gripped his auburn waves like they were keeping her tethered to earth, legs trembling with the effort to fight off the warmth swelling in her core.
âNeed what?â He took an eager breath in, only to release it through pursed lips over the throbbing bud he seemed to adore. âI want to hear it loud and clear, lovely.â
An impatient groan parted her bitten lips. âI need more. I need you inside me when you make me come.â
âThere you go. Gods, you sound so pretty when you ask to be fuckedâŠâ It took one last excruciating pump of his finger inside of her before he withdrew to push himself up onto his knees with a mess of her own making shining on his clean-shaven chin.
âFirst, thoughâŠâ The finger coated with her fluids was sucked between his reddened lips. When it was pulled out with a slick, slow draw, he crooked it in her direction. âCome here. I want you to get a little taste, too.â
Donât mind if I do.
On trembling hands she raised herself up on wobbly knees pressed into the soft mattress, sucking in a breath when she curled her fingers over the band of his underwear and waited for approval.
âDonât be shy.â He coaxed gently.
It was difficult not to be at least a little intimidated by the proud shape outlined through his bottoms (and leaving a very telltale wet spot in the light fabric), but she pushed past it with a firm swallow.
Her breath whooshed out without prompting as she rolled them over his hips and the rather shapely swell of his backside. And, as it had before taking a sip of the wine heâd offered earlier, her mouth watered when she was rewarded with the view of his cock as it twitched at the first rush of air over the leaking tip.
Personally, she wasnât much of an artist. She preferred a wand to a brush and blood over red paint, but there was something about him that begged to be immortalized on canvas. How satisfying it would be to perfectly capture the artful tapering from wide shoulders to a slimmer waist, or even to carve from marble the thickness of his thighs.
She doubted it would do him justice.
âAre you going to paint a portrait?â He teased, as if ripping those very thoughts from her mind.
âJust might. And could you blame me?â She answered with a bite of her lip. But there was too much bloody talk going on. In the spirit of action, she lowered her mouth to meet the curve of his hipbone and began marking a wet trail downwards.
The light scrape of his fingernail over her cheekbone made her lashes flutter as he tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, his breathing growing more labored when her palm slipped over the softness of his length â only to fold her fingers around it with gentle pressure. By the time she brushed her lips over the head â then her tongue to collect the salty fluid now leaking down the shaft â he was keening under his breath.
âMmhmmâŠkeep going, please.â he murmured.
As if she would stop. On the contrary, she wrapped her mouth around him, making a circle around the ridge of his cockhead with the tip of her tongue only to trace the length of him by following a thick vein. He was thick â stretching her lips wide when she took him in inch by inch, allowing him to prod the back of her throat to moisten her mouth.
âJust like that. Youâre doing brilliantly, love; just perfect.â He said breathlessly, scraping her hair back into a haphazard updo with a broad hand.
Spurred on by the praise, she hollowed her cheeks for a better seal, dragged her mouth along his shaft until he rewarded her with a broken, guttural moan. She kept it up until finding a rhythm that his hips desperately pushed forward to match.
âI wonât⊠fuck, youâre going to make me embarrass myselfâŠâ he chuckled weakly.
Well that wouldnât do at all. As much as the idea of swallowing his seed enticed her, there was a far better option in her mind. Which is why, despite his immediate protest in the form of a low grunt and a harsh tug on her hair, she gave one last slow lick before pulling away.
The increasingly flustered wizard tracked her movements with lust-glazed eyes. âI was hoping to drag this out, but I think youâre proper ready for me, arenât you?â
Her enthusiastic nod spurred a laugh as he unfolded her legs from beneath her, wasting no time in hooking one around his hips and propping the other up to rest on his shoulder. The view was⊠magnificent, and he seemed to agree as his tongue darted out to taste her essence on his lips.
Sheâd expected another round of teasing. How relieved she was when instead, the blunt head of his cock parted her readily, sweeping through the slickness there with a stuttered, needy groan.
And just when she was about to insist â
A gasp tore through her dry throat as he pushed himself inside of her with little resistance. She was suddenly so full; though it wasnât until he was fully sheathed that she let out a long, breathy sigh.
âGood? You alright?â He murmured, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing circles on the inside of her thighs. When she nodded, his mouth curled into a smile that she felt amidst the kisses left along her calf.
Oh, it was more than good â by the time he dragged his length out just to drive himself forward again, she was positively keening for more; her hands blindly reaching for some part to grab and managing to splay them flat on his lower back to force him deeper. He could hardly fight her, and it seemed like he didnât want to anyway. The wizardâs eyes had grown hooded with lust, those sumptuous lips parting to make way for a moan that sent a shock down her spine. Her own eyes fluttered shut as he began to glide in and out of her in languid, practiced thrusts.
âMm mmm,â he hummed chastingly. âIâd like to see those pretty eyes.â
His boldness â so wildly sexy.
Looking at him was almost a taboo in itself. Nine times out of then, her trysts had involved a lot of pleasure-filled sounds and heavy breathing; but conversation? Not so much. Some people didnât even like to be kissed â and others found a prolonged gaze entirely too intimate.
This man didnât just fuck. It was a different experience altogether, and it was bloody incredible. So, like the hopelessly besotted witch she was, she met his gaze and responded with a wanton moan at the sight of his head thrown back in pleasure while his hips made wide circles against hers.
âGods, you fit like a glove,â his body shuddered with a stuttered exhale. âFeel so goodâŠâ
She canted her hips up to meet his in protest of his lazy pace, earning a broken chuckle before being rewarded with the head of his cock roughly probing her to its absolute limit.
âGodricâŠâ she whined pathetically. âAgain â right there.â
âIs Godric Gryffindor the one providing your pleasure right now?â He mocked. âNo, I donât think so.â
âWell, then tell me your name, and Iâll scream it as much as you want.â
Locks of mussed hair fell over his forehead as the man shook his head, ignoring her small pout, but soothing the disappointment by giving her something else sheâd wanted.
Again, he speared himself nice and deep. And again; and again, until her nails were carving crescents into the muscle of his back and he was whispering streams of filth into her ears between husky groans. Just when she was about to warn him of her rapidly approaching release, he had to go and stop â worst of all, he dragged his length out of her.
âYou must be joking,â she panted.
A wicked grin told her she was in for it, and her thighs squeezed together in anticipation as he twirled his finger midair. âOh, weâre not done. Sit up for me, love, and turn around. Thatâs it⊠now put your hands on the headboard.â
When her fingers curled around the solid chunk of wood, the bed dipped and creaked as he came up behind her, chest to spine and fingers curling over hers.
âMake sure youâre holding on tight.â Without warning, he ripped a sharp cry from her throat by driving back into her lonely heat until his hip bones dug into her ass and she swore she could see the night sky in that very room.
âBuggering hell ââ she blurted. This new angle was sure to be the end of her, and he was well aware of it from the delighted chuckle he huffed in her ear.
âYouâve got such a mouth on you for a lady⊠damned if I donât love it.â The wizard panted with pride.
He wasnât taking it easy on her any longer. The sheer force of his thrusts was enough to rock the bed frame against the wall; the thuds as the headboard struck exposed brick likely heard by everyone in the surrounding rooms (not that she had any room to care in her sex addled brain). It was enough to wring every last coherent thought from her, rendering her a shaking, mewling mess and unable to do anything but meet each snap of his hips with her own â while holding on for dear life.
âOh, yesâŠâ he was on his way to leaving bruises on her hip from the force of his steadying grip, but the sparks of pain only led her to greater pleasure.
Well-attuned to the signs of her mounting release as it threatened to overwhelm her for the third time, he released her hand to reach around and find her clit, abandoning the precision and prowess from before. Those dexterous fingers worked tirelessly, and coupled with the uneven little pants warming her neck between his kissesâŠ
âI know youâre close, love,â he shuddered. âGo on, Iâll be right behind you.â
He threw every last bit of his energy into shoving her over the edge; and as his cock prodded that spot inside of her once more, she gave in and fell apart under his hands. Every unbridled, broken sound that tumbled out as she rode through her orgasm was met with an encouraging whimper from the wizard. Just when the last bit of pleasure was wrung from her body, he pulled out with a groan, releasing ropes of warm seed over her backside and spine.
There he rested for a moment. While he caught his breath, the manâs hands traced the shape of her body, slipping in the essence coating her with a proud chuckle. âEvanesco.â he murmured, restoring her skin to its unmarred state.
âAre youâŠâ he gulped in a lungful of sex-scented air. âAre you alright?â
âBrilliant.â She panted, letting go of the headboard to turn and rest her back against it instead. âYou?â
It was an understatement, really: all that stress pounding between her temples and tension in her shoulders had disappeared. She felt spectacular.
âNever better.â
He sank back to his knees, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair as he admired her with a lazy grin. How she wished she could peel the satin from his cheeks to see that smile reach his dark eyesâŠ
âOnly wanted to make sure. You were getting quite loud.â The question seemed more taunt than anything.
Walking might prove difficult for the next couple of hours (at the least), and her hair was likely in a right state (along with her marked-up skin), but none of that mattered when the lingering rush instilled her with a rare lightness.
âIs that a complaint?â
âNot at all. I was very much enjoying the sounds you made. Means I did my job well.â
She gave him a playful eye roll, rolling onto her side with the intention of returning to the solace of his arms before she realized â pillow talk and cuddling were sort of an unspoken faux pas when it came to casual encounters. Usually, her or her partners would leave the bed before the sweat had dried on their skin, and for once the expectation feltâŠlonely.
It truly struck her when he cleared his throat a moment later, gingerly untangling their weakened limbs to climb out of the bed seeking the various items of clothing discarded across the room.
âDo you need anything?â He asked, eyes darting to her before he located his pants. âWater, food..? Anything.â
Though appreciative, she waved his offer away with a quiet laugh. âIâll be just fine. Though Iâm sure Iâll need a hot bath at home.â
Sitting idly in bed while he already had a foot out the door picked at her pride, and so the Auror dragged herself out of it on trembling fawnâs legs. She managed to locate her underthings and slip them on before plucking her gown up from the floor.
âOh,â a flash of gold caught her eye, and she bent to retrieve his trousers â as well as the shiny pocket watch that had evidently fallen out while they were distracted earlier. âHere, you donât want to lose this.â
He was dragging his shirt over his bed head when she walked over to return it. She couldnât help but admire the pieceâs subtle artistry; the metal so perfectly preserved with intricate curling ivy etched into the rim of the case. Such a unique designâŠ
So unique that she could easily recall seeing one just like it before.
And it, too, had been monogrammed with the letter S.
If he hadnât snatched the watch out of her hand before the shock hit, she might have dropped and broken one of the last artifacts of the Sallow family.
Merlin, the irony of her asking for his name to say it in bed when she wanted to scream it in outrage now. And of course he had the audacity to take a step towards her, to soften his wide brown eyes (how had she looked into them and not known) and adopt an innocent frown; the one he had always used before begging for forgiveness.
She took a step back in turn and fixed him with a look that could have frozen the fire in the hearth. It was enough to confirm for him exactly what conclusion sheâd reached.
âBlast it all, it is you.â He breathed.
âSebastian?â
#the fear that just struck me#running away now#sebastian sallow fanfic#sebastian sallow x reader#sebastian sallow x mc#hogwarts legacy#hogwarts legacy fanfic#sebastian sallow#writing
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ok but what about werewolf!reader who is protective over tyler lockwood since mason died, and she's at senior prank night when klaus turns tyler. i imagine klaus being curious about her bc he hasn't seen or met her since she doesn't hang around elena & co. bc of what they did to mason. love u and thank you for blessing us with all these requests!!
i think i want you | klaus mikaelson
klaus mikaelson x reader (no y/n!)
author's notes; sorry this took a while!! holidays got the best of me and i've been so busy. i hope u like this!! go check out my klaus fic on wattpad for more content :) link on my masterlist
warnings; mentioned violence & death but nothing explicit. this is genuinely just a lot of fluff, and only a tiny bit of angst. I like writing klaus being straight up infatuated so enjoy
Sheâs heard of him. Klaus Mikaelson. Not only is he an Original, but heâs the worst of them. Heâs a mystery, a myth of a man. The hybrid. The only one of his kind, and heâs trying to make more. Heâs trying to become a god of his own making. Heâs a terrifying beast, even in their world of monsters. He is the monster beneath your bed, he is the boogeyman that you see in the shadows of alleyways and glimpses out of the corner of your eye.
When she meets him for the first time, she expects something out of a fairytale, she supposes. It was unintentional, the image of him she had in her head, but sheâs heard of this fabled man her whole life as a warning of what can happen if you grow lonely in this life.Â
She figured if she ever met Klaus Mikaelson, itâd be the first and only time. There werenât many stories based on peopleâs personal interactions with him for a reason. If he bothered to pay you a personal visit and not just send one of his cronies out to deal with you, it probably meant you wouldnât be seeing another day.Â
But instead of that, instead of meeting her demise at the hand of the infamous man for some offense she most likely didnât even mean to do, she meets him in the high school gym in Mystic Falls, Virginia.Â
She meets him, and heâs just a man.Â
Heâs a terrible man, no doubt, but just a man. She is perhaps wrongfully unafraid of him because of this. It most likely doesnât bode well for her, because even though he looks just as human as the rest of them, she doesnât doubt those stories about him are all real, and likely worse than the retellings.Â
But she was raised with a pack that taught her to be unafraid in the face of death, and even though she doesnât have that pack anymore because of men just like Klaus Mikaelson, she wants Tyler to know the security and safety of it just as she had.Â
She does not flinch when he looks her way, and resists the urge to rip his head off of his shoulders when he snaps Tylerâs neck and puts Bonnie on a timer for finding a way to bring him back to life as a hybrid.Â
She knows she canât win a fight against him, so she doesnât fight back, not even as he forces Tyler to drink the doppelgĂ€ngerâs blood and turns him into a hybrid. A half-dead, half-wolf thing that her pack would likely call him an abomination for. Itâs a very dark, comforting thought to her that they arenât around to condemn Tyler to the ends of the earth for something that was entirely out of his control.Â
She knows Tyler is frightened of her doing that, just by the way he looks at her. He learned from Mason and herself that thereâs a sense of loyalty to their kind, and that vampires are an inherent enemy. Even his relationship with Caroline would be enough to get him shunned from most werewolf communities at this point. Though, even Mason himself didnât take that into consideration considering his relationship with one of the doppelgĂ€ngers.Â
After everything is said and done that night, she takes Tyler home without saying a single word to Klaus. Anything she wants to say will get her killed, and Tyler needs her more than ever now, so she canât get ahead of herself.Â
Tyler sheds rare tears in the privacy of his home. He tells her heâs terrified right now because of the fact that a part of him is technically dead now, and that heâs never felt like a monster about being a werewolf until now.Â
She does her best to comfort him, but it doesnât help much. She doesnât know what heâs feeling right now and they both know it. If the circumstances were any different, sheâd probably think he was the new enemy.Â
He falls asleep eventually and she leaves him be, heading to her temporary room in the Lockwood mansion. She falls asleep looking at the moon just outside her window, thinking about how she was just a little disappointed in the fact that Klaus Mikaelson is just a man.Â
ââââââÂ
The next time she sees Klaus Mikaelson, itâs in the tea room in the Lockwood house. He somehow looks even more underwhelming in this place, despite its grandiosity. She doesnât know why or when sheâs going to stop feeling so disappointed in the fact that if she didnât know any better, she couldâve walked past him on the street without even looking his way.Â
Heâs there for Tyler, she knows, but Carolâs playing her role of oblivious hostess, and now sheâs left to entertain him while Carol goes and handles a small, mayoral emergency.Â
Carol leaves them with a charming smile, winking her direction, and she ignores the older woman pointedly.Â
âI donât think I got your name the other night at the school,â Klaus says, tilting his head as he looks at her. âIâm not usually so rude, but the stakes were high and I ran out of patience. You know how it is.âÂ
She narrows her eyes, shaking her head a bit. âA thousand years old and you havenât worked on your patience? Maybe your priorities are a little skewed,âÂ
Klausâs eyes flash with danger, but she swears she sees amusement in the smirk that pulls at his lips. It sparks that flint inside of her that likes to push and push, just to see the breaking point. Sheâd tried to deny it, but it only takes the smallest moment for that desire to set its sights on Klaus Mikaelson, even though pushing him could mean death. Her curiosity was a fatal flaw in itself, she knows.
âMy only goal in life has been to break this curse,â He says, leaning forward to sit the cup of tea Carol had brought him on the table in between them, the only obstacle stopping him from lunging for her and snapping her neck before she could even blink. She wonders if heâs even aware of all the ways he could kill her, just by looking at her in this mundane setting. She doesnât know if she actually wants an answer to that, though. âAnd now Iâve done that. I think a thousand years of this has proven I have nothing but patience.âÂ
She hums, acknowledging the fact that he was right. She couldnât imagine being in his shoes, waiting a thousand years to break a curse that kept you from being who you are. Even now, knowing that the Sun and the Moon curse was fabricated in order to help Klaus break the only curseâ his curseâ when it comes down to it, she canât blame him for his insistence.Â
But she thinks about Tyler and how frightened he was, and she canât stop the annoyance that builds in her all over again, so any bit of understanding washes away like sand beneath the rising tides.Â
She shrugs, unwilling to vocalize the depth of her understanding, as miniscule as it may be. âStill, choosing a hormonal teenage boy as your first hybrid probably wasnât the smartest decision, wouldnât you say?âÂ
Klaus narrows his eyes at her and she stubbornly sits still, unwavering beneath his prolonged, burning stare. âYouâre protective of him. I understand why you wouldnât like me. But Iâve just made him the strongest creature he could ever be. He wonât need you, or any other pack he might have been clinging to before this.âÂ
And this, she thinks, is the biggest indicator to why sheâs not properly afraid of this man before her. Itâs not just because he looks unfortunately normal, spare his admittedly beautiful face, or that heâs yet to truly focus any of his true capabilities of danger in her direction. Itâs that, at the end of the day, Klaus Mikaelson is just as human as the rest of them are. Because no matter how long you live, or what kind of creature you are, everyone gets lonely.Â
âOn the contrary,â She says, blinking slowly as she scans his face. âTyler needs me now more than ever. And any pack would be lucky to have him around. Thatâs the whole point of a pack. You know that youâre never alone, no matter what happens.âÂ
To a degree, she knows thatâs a lie. There are plenty of packs out there that will banish Tyler and any other hybrid that is made in the coming months because of the rivalry between the creatures that the hybrids are made of. But she also knows that for every pack that will turn them away, thereâs one that wonât. Thereâs always someone, even if itâs just one person, and sheâs willing to be that person for Tyler, or for any other hybrid that goes through the loss of their pack.Â
âItâs a shame youâve never known what thatâs like,â She says, leaning forward to set her own cup of tea down, a mirror of his actions a moment ago. âUnwavering loyalty and trust, and a sense of family that never goes away. You may think that Tyler has no one, but I will always be here for him, just as I was his uncle.âÂ
Something defensive passes through his face and he stands abruptly, making her tilt her head back to maintain eye contact with him.Â
Klaus leans down into her space, and they glare at each other with a surprising amount of vitriol that neither one of them feels is even genuine.Â
âYou can cling to your idea of family all you want, but it wonât change the fact that Tyler isnât just a werewolf anymore. And as much as you may want to deny it, you canât help him anymore just like you couldnât help his poor uncle,â
He stands upright again, looking at her almost accusingly. âBut since itâs causing no harm to me, I suppose thereâs no real reason to make you give up this desperate mission. I wish you the best of luck, dear, truly,âÂ
He doesnât wait for a response from her before he leaves, and after her initial anger and embarrassment wears off, she realizes he never even talked to Tyler like she assumed he came here to do in the first place.Â
ââââââÂ
Mystic Falls has never felt like a smaller town. Sheâs never run into someone so many times when all she wants to do is avoid them.Â
Itâs like all of the sudden, since that very first night she saw Klaus Mikaelson, heâs everywhere. Heâs in Tylerâs house, because the newly-made hybrid suddenly worships him. Heâs in her dreams. She canât escape him.Â
Even now, sitting in a corner booth at the Mystic Grill, heâs suddenly there, sitting across from her like an old friend catching up for lunch.Â
Immediately, her face twists in disgust. âKlaus.âÂ
He smiles in the face of her adversity, and says her name with a fondness of unknown origins. She almost feels insane, looking at him with any degree of civility.Â
âWhat do I owe this visit to?âÂ
âIâm curious about something and Iâm hoping youâll humor me,âÂ
âInteresting start,â She huffs, taking a sip of her drink beside her. âWhat on earth could you possibly be curious enough about that you have to ask me?âÂ
âYou, of course,âÂ
She swallows roughly, nearly choking as she looks at him in surprise. âMe?âÂ
The hybrid nods, smirking at her reaction.Â
âWhat⊠What do you want to know about me?âÂ
He leans forward on the table, looking at her as she suddenly avoids his eyes, unwilling to admit that sheâs feeling heat rise in her chest. âWhy is it you arenât banding together with those bumbling idiots to get rid of me, hm?âÂ
âOh,â She breathes out, face turning solemn for a moment as she looks down at the tabletop. âI donâtâ I donât have any reason to want to get rid of you, really. I donât necessarily like you, but you havenât hurt Tyler in any permanent way so⊠I guess Iâm just not really worried about it.âÂ
When she finally meets Klausâs gaze again, thereâs something shocked and unexpectedly warm in his blue eyes that makes her own soften.Â
âIs it really that simple?âÂ
She falls silent for another moment, picking nonsensically at her nails. âThey killed my friend.âÂ
She looks back up at him, sighing. âMason Lockwood. Tylerâs uncle. He came here because of Katherineâ she was looking for the moonstone so she could break that stupid curse that you made up. And they killed him for it,â She shakes her head, anger seeping into her voice. âTheyâre irrational. And if Iâve learned anything about this life, itâs that being irrational gets people killed.âÂ
Klaus hums lowly. âYou are right about that.âÂ
Heaving a heavy sigh, she looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading. âWhat do you want from me, Klaus? Iâm not picking sides hereâ Iâm going to protect Tyler until it kills me, and thatâs all. So what do you want from me?âÂ
He observes her for a moment and she doesnât falter beneath his stare, if only out of spite.Â
âPerhaps,â He starts. âI just want to know you.âÂ
Something fragile breaks on her face and she shows just a little bit more of that vulnerability to him in this new space between them. âWhatâs so interesting about me that Klaus Mikaelson wants to know me?âÂ
His eyes search her face, lost. âI donât know yet. Iâm hoping youâll let me find out,âÂ
She lets out a breath, quiet, and admittedly flattered.Â
A smile pulls at her lips, bashful in a way she isnât used to. She allows it to spread across her face and beneath Klausâs gaze, she feels like a blooming rose being adored. It makes her feel things sheâs nowhere near ready to admit to herself, or anyone else. âI think we can work something out.âÂ
Klausâs returning smile takes her breath away. It feels new, and wonderful.Â
#klaus mikaelson#elijah mikaelson#rebekah mikaelson#the vampire diaries#the vampire diaries fanfiction#kol mikaelson#the originals#fic recs#tvd klaus#klaus x reader#klaus mikaelson x reader#klaus mikaelson fanfiction#klaus mikaelson fanfic#damon salvatore#elena gilbert#tyler lockwood
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Shadows of the Past
Chapter 12: Growth
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.5K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
You stare into the pale Elfâs vibrantly red eyes as he holds the razor-sharp edge of his dagger against your neck, which he seems to be looking at rather too ardently for your liking. You frown at him, struggling against his hold on you. Heâs stronger than he appears at first glance. You knew this man was bad news as soon as you laid eyes on him. Youâll never be able to comprehend why you thought it was a lovely idea to turn your back on this stranger and walk away.
Perhaps you can blame it on being tired, having a worm thrust into your eye socket, falling out of the sky, or your head injury that smarts fierce and unforgivingly under the baking heat of the noonday sun.
Youâre about to burn him to a crisp for this attack, but as you gaze into those eyes, your soul sparks with recognition you canât place. You know this man, somehow, but youâre sure youâve never seen him before.
The way he leers at you almost makes you giggle. âAnd now youâre going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.â
Fear. You can see it plainly, hidden behind this facade of confidence. Your arm holds the dagger's tip steady as the steel kisses your neck. Keeping your voice as balanced as you can, you retort, âYou have it backwards - they took me prisoner, just like you.â
âDonât lie to me. I - agh.â
Your mind twists. Gods. The squirming behind your eye is beyond uncomfortable as it moves your brain matter around. You close your eyes and surrender to the sensation. It seems like the only option lest whatever is wiggling might break open your skull like a melon. A vision is steadily anthropomorphized. Youâre looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. You try to hold onto the memory, but it fades, and youâre left with the light and a potent fear that makes your stomach churn.
âWhat was that?â The pale Elf stares at you with a suspicious glower. The tenor of his voice increases. You recognize distress when you hear it. You better proceed carefully, or youâre going to wind up with a blade in your windpipe, âWhatâs going on?â
Well, thereâs no point in lying. Is there?
âItâs the mind flayerâs worm - it connected us."
His grip on you eases as he draws the pointed tip of the dagger away. You think about asking him if he recognizes you or if youâve met before, but thereâs nothing in his demeanour to indicate such. Have you hit your head far worse than you thought, and itâs scrambled your brain like an egg?
âYouâre not one of them. They took you, just the same as me.â His scowl eases and becomes⊠artificial amusement? Real amusement? This man is decidedly hard to read. âAnd to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.â
Apologies? Apologies?! Is that really all he has to offer you after he dragged you to the ground with a godsdamned dagger? Heâs lucky you didnât hail fire from the fucking sky! Gods. You want to punch him in his pointy, pale, beautiful face.
Well, I was contemplating burning him to death.
âApology accepted.â You hiss at him, dusting off your robe. Thereâs sand in your mouth, gritty against your teeth. It makes you want to punch him all the more, âI might have done the same if roles were reversed.â
He chuckles at your taunting, âAh, a kindred spirit.â He leers at you with a haughty glower, âMy nameâs Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me.â
The streets were familiar as the vision played out behind your eyelids. If the glimpse wasnât enough to convince you that heâs telling the truth about his origins, his accent does.
âIâm a Baldurian as well,â you glower back at him, meeting his arrogance with your own.
âIs that so? We clearly move in different circles.â You roll your eyes at his pompous intonation. âSo, do you know anything about these worms?â
âYes, unfortunately.â You hesitate but decide truth is the best course of action. He might as well know what heâs up against, âTheyâll turn us into mind flayers.â
âTurn us into - ha. Hahaha!â You jolt at his mordant laughter like a giggle at a funeral. Thereâs such a deep sadness woven between the facade cracking. âOf course, itâll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?â
Your heated palms itch. Not with the draconic fire that squirms underneath the thin skin, but to reach out to him, to comfort this total stranger who has been nothing but a pain in your ass since you met him moments ago. So, why do you desperately want to hug him?
What in the Hells is wrong with me? Good Gods.
He continues with an abstract hopefulness, âAlthough it hasnât happened yet. If we can find an expert - someone that can control these things - there might still be time.â
âControl it?â You scoff and quirk a brow, shaking your head. Control the worm? No. You need to fucking expel it immediately! You lean forward and resist the urge to poke his chest, which you are currently trying to imagine without that lovely doublet. You shake your head again, trying to rid yourself of your thoughts, âWe need to get rid of it!â
âWell yes, of course,â he drawls as if youâre an idiot. With the way youâre acting and thinking, you begin to wonder if your head wound is worse than you thought, âBut first things first.â
âYou should travel with me.â The words are blundering out of your mouth before you have time to consider what youâre asking. Heâs already been enough trouble, and youâre requesting more, but maybe, if youâre lucky, you will see him shirtless⊠Fuck! What in the Hells is wrong with you? You clear your throat, âOur odds are better together.â
âYou know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isnât such a bad idea.â Astarion, this pale Elf you donât know but somehow recognize, sizes you up as you frown at him, âAnd you seem like a useful person to know. All right,â he bows shallowly, âI accept, lead on.â
A useful person to know?
Ah. Yes. Of course. Heâs one of those. He does not see you as another living being. No. You know his kind well. He sees you as a tool he can use to implement his liberation from your new friend whoâs currently in a competition with your brain matter for space in your skull.
You walk a couple of steps before your outrage gets the best of you, and you whirl on him, fire in your palm and the Weave aglow in your eyes, âYou said your name was Astarion, correct?â
âYes,â his hand moves toward the daggerâs hilt at his hip. âThatâs correct.â
âDonât make any sudden moves, Astarion,â you snarl and toss Firebolt as close to his toes as you can without burning him.
âAh,â he puts his hands up in an innocent gesture. Youâre sure itâs merely a placation so that you let your guard down. His voice is as smooth as butter and warm as daylight, âI think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, yes? I apologized. What more do you want? Iâm all out of wine and chocolates - Iâm afraid.â
âListen closely, Rogue,â you try to hide the insecurity youâre feeling behind an illusion of poise. âIf you ever put another knife to my throat, if I have even a suspicion you might, I will reduce you to dust.â
âOh, sorceress,â Astarion smirks, cavalier and handsome, âI would love to see you try, you brute. I donât fancy your chances. I know a thousand ways to kill you before you can so much as utter an incantation, but I digress. Youâre welcome to try, of course. Youâll find I am particularly hard to kill.â
You scoff, holding your hand in his view as fire edges over your fingers, up your arm, and back before petering out. âWho said anything about incantations? I hope youâre as good with that blade as you seem to think you are.â
âI assure you, I am. Iâve had more practice than you can possibly imagine,â he turns his nose up, puffing his chest out in bravado that makes you want to deflate that cocksure attitude.
You roll your eyes, stalking away toward the wreckage. You need to find supplies, coin, food-
âAh-ah, sorceress!â Astarion chimes behind you with a jeering lilt that makes you close your eyes and curse under your breath as your patience wears incredibly thin.
Gods, give me strength.
âWhat?â
âHells. Youâre a snappy one. Are you always this rude?â He quips. âDo you have a name, or shall I just continue calling you sorceress, brute, shrewâŠ.â
âSHREW?!â You cut him off, trying very hard to hide your amusement but finally relenting and dissolving into raving laughter.
âI fail to see whatâs so funny,â he peers around, crossing his arms, jutting a hip out. Heâs obviously not accustomed to his jeers being scorned, but youâre not some soft-hearted juvenile.
âIf you mean to upset me,â you giggle as he glares disdainfully, âyou will have to try much harder than that. Until you can come up with a worthwhile slight, you may call me Kamena.â
âKamenaâŠâ Something flashes in Astarionâs ruby-red eyes, dazzling and animated in the sunlight. His lips rap together as if heâs sampling how your name feels on his tongue. He shakes his head, sweeping the perplexity furrowing his brow away, âI would say itâs been a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying. Now, if youâre quite done threatening me, may I suggest we get a move on?â
The spoon in your hand idly churns the thick, pasty curds of the cold porridge that was supposed to be your breakfast. You stare, disconnected and disgusted by the thought of consuming any form of nourishment despite the grumbles in your stomach indicating that youâre hungry. You slump in the chair, pushing the bowl away from you with a grimace. Your appetite is insufficient, and you canât conjure the will to shove a spoonful of the algid, viscus goop into your mouth.
Days have turned into anxious nights with naught a syllable uttered between you and Astarion. Your heart is heavy in your chest with longing and uncertainty. He doesnât come out of his room during the day and leaves late at night when he thinks youâve fallen into your trance. Your nightmares have returned with a savage vengeance now that Astarion is no longer there to wake you from them before they start to escalate. Dark, puffy bags are beginning to extend under your eyes as you avoid slipping into your trance night after hopeless night. Your head spins misery like a web around your last interaction.
Perhaps I should have kept my feelings to myself.
âSorceress,â Tara grumbles by your side, but youâre so tired her voice is forgotten as soon as it whispers over your ears. âKamena!â She asserts more stridently, jolting you awake.
âWhat?â You snap at her, digging your fingernails into the table.
âYou look weary,â Tara purrs soothingly. âWhat troubles you?â
âI did it,â you whisper, trying to swallow the heavy shadow of your heart constricting your throat. âI told Astarion how I felt. He has not spoken to me since.â
âI see,â she considers your words and then smirks as much as her little nose will allow. âSo, now he is being the idiot.â
Even with tears welling in your eyes, seeping from the corners, mutinying your control, you laugh, âI suppose you could say that.â
âDid the vampire tell you he did not feel the same?â She looks at you softly with those green eyes that hold the wisdom of a sage in their depths.
âNo. Nothing like that,â you say with a tremoring voice and shake your head. âHe requested I give him space.â
âAnd this troubles you,â she cocks her head, âthis request for solace?â
âNo,â you try to find the words to explain your melancholy. âNo, itâs not the space. I can give him that. Itâs the avoidance. The silence. He is usually so hard to shut up.â You give a meek laugh and let your head drop into your hands. âI will never get this right, will I?â
âCome, idiot,â she tilts her head toward the door. âTake a walk with me, will you?â
Tara half flies, half-scampers beside you, leading you deep into the forest. Golden sunlight flickers gently through the canopy. A brisk wind shakes the withering leaves from the trees, and they float down around you in a shower of oranges, reds and yellows. She leads you into a small alcove. Her wings flutter as she lands, stretches and settles them.
âWhat are we doing out here, Tara?â
âPick a tree and make it fall.â Taraâs eyes glimmer as bold and keen as a hawk. âIt matters not how.â
The request is odd, even for her. You canât begin to fathom why in the world she would drag your sleepless, sapped self out here to simply fell a tree. You grasp the Weave and let the peaceful force thread through your muscles, giving them a pleasant buzzing tingle that starts in your toes and gambles up your spine. The incantation rolls off your tongue like poetry and the electric blue of lightening hisses as the current churns around your fingers. Picking a tree far from you or Tara, the bolt strikes true right at the base with a resounding, echoing boom that causes birds to flit away from the high boughs.
Tara shakes off the splinters of timber your grand display deposited on her fur. âDid it make a sound, sorceress?â
âAre you deaf?â You scoff. Your ears are still ringing from the blast, âYes, of course, it made a sound.â
âWhen a tree falls, it tells the forest the tale of its demise, yet its seeds will grow in silence,â she says softly like a purring lullaby. âGrowth and creation are often quiet. Even in this silence, you and the vampire are still growing.â
Oh, Hells. This godsdamn cat.
Shit. Tressym.
Astarion sits in the dimly lit confines of his room with his head in his hands and fingers curled in his hair. Turmoil surges within him as long-dormant fears roil, unravelling a tapestry of overwhelming emotion. He scolds himself with a scoff. Heâs being a fucking fool, but those catacombs of pain and darkness have once again cast their baleful spell on him. Old insecurities he thought he had conquered paralyze him.
Cazadorâs words often float through the darkness in his room. Will he ever stop hearing his voice? How many years will it take for it to fade away, lost to time like the colour of his eyes?
âYou are nothing but an insignificant little insect, my boy.â
"You are no one. A monster, a fiend, a creature that can never be loved.â
âYou are an abomination, unworthy of affection or compassion.â
Itâs not an easy thing to untangle the web that Cazador wove. There are so many knots, snares and tangles that he keeps getting caught on. He feels trapped in this bloody prison of his own making, bound by the chains of his past. Fear has become his warden, prattling doubts that feed on his shattered self, holding him captive. Why can he not leave these things behind? Why do they keep cropping up to plague him?
Gods. He yearns for her touch, the warmth of her embrace to melt away the ice that has solidified in his veins, but shadows loom over him like monstrous spectres, threatening to extinguish any hope of happiness.
He heard the snarky feline call him an idiot today, and heâs loathe to admit it, but sheâs right. Two hundred years of being surrounded by lover after lover, victim after victim, and never did he feel any real connection. Not until he met her.
âYou look dreadful in that colour, sorceress.â He tuts, clicking his tongue. âThat robe is quite unsightly. It leaves much to be desired.â
âItâs a good thing that you already desire me so much then,â she turns, walking backward and taunts. âPerhaps this will stop you from drooling over me like a lovesick pup.â
âI do not drool!â He scoffs.
âYouâre drooling over my very delectable neck right now.â She grins, caressing her buttery skin. She does have a very lovely, biteable neck. He would not mind another nibble.
âGods. You wish.â He crosses his arms, glowering at her presumptuousness. âNo one will drool over you if you keep wearing that.â
âI think Gale finds this robe particularly attractive,â she giggles, twirling to showcase the horror show of a garment.
He attempts to remain impassive and emotionless, but a scowl devours his features nonetheless. The wizard has been all over her since she pulled him out of that damned portal. He hoped that Gale might be deterred after their little late-night tryst. It didnât seem to dissuade him any. He should not even care if she finds herself in the arms of another. Yet, the more he witnesses Gale, Wyll, Hells, even the Gith, ogling her, flirting with her, giving her those amorous looks and suggestive comments, the more it simply rubs him the wrong way. He cannot quite comprehend why. Heâs never been a jealous man before. He tells himself itâs because they might ruin his âsimple planâ if they gain her affections.
âThatâs not a good thing, darling. Do you see that purple curtain heâs wearing?â he snorts, grimacing.
âNeed I remind you that you were also wearing purple when we met?â
âYes, but it looks decidedly fabulous on me,â he retorts. âYou look like you're wearing a burlap sack.â
âOh,â she brings a finger to her lips and cocks her head in an adorable fashion. âNow, thatâs a great idea. I shall adorn a sack on our next outing for your viewing pleasure since you seem so utterly invested in my outfits.â
âHells below.â He grumbles. She likely will do it to get a rise out of him. âBy all means, embarrass yourself further. I care not. Just have the decency to leave me at camp so I donât have to be seen with you.â
âYou know what?â She giggles, her face crinkling with the delight of teasing him. âIâll just take it off right now. Will that shut you up, or will I have to rescue you from drowning in a puddle of your own saliva?â
âFirst, I cannot drown. I do not need to breathe.â He huffs, sticking his nose in the air. âSecond. I do not drool. Third. Iâm calling your bluff. Surely, you would not disrobe right in the middle of the road.â
âHmm.â She ponders with her eyes cast skyward, twinkling in the fading light. A mischievous glower splits her lips, âChallenge accepted.â
âWhat?â
She laughs as her fingers unlace the ties on her hideous robe. His mouth drops open. Surely, she will stop. Even if she doesnât, surely, sheâs wearing something more than her undergarments under that.
Right?
âŠ. Right?!
It falls open as she fiddles with the last couple of ties, and heâs glad sheâs not looking at him because his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. She is decidedly not wearing anything other than her undergarments, and fuck, she is not stopping. He swallows thickly. She is a sight to behold, but good Gods, he does not want anyone else to behold it!
She chuckles and throws the robe over her shoulders, letting it drop to the dusty ground in a puddle around her feet and saunters off with a provocative sway of her hips. It takes him a moment to regain his poise as she strolls down the road in nothing but her underclothes and tall boots.
âWhat are you doing?â He grabs her robe off the ground, shaking it off and jogging to her. âAre you out of your mind? There are Goblins, Gnolls, and, ugh, Gnomes, roaming all over these parts.â
âWell, I guess itâs a good thing I am not shy, hm?â She laughs lightheartedly. âYouâre gawking, Astarion.â She leans in close, swiping a thumb over the corners of his mouth, âAnd drooling.â
He swallows. He might be drooling a little, but he will never admit it.
âYou, my dear, are intolerable sometimes.â He smirks. This woman is full of surprises. âNow, get dressed before I hold you down and redress you forcibly.â
âNo, darling,â she tuts, mocking him and poking his chest. She purses her lips, glowering defiantly at him, âI donât believe I will.â
âI will do it, sorceress,â he asserts with a low growl. âDo not tempt me.â
She giggles and takes off in a sprint through the trees. She calls back over her shoulder, âConsider yourself tempted, Rogue.â Â
Day bleeds into nightfall, and you sit with your back pressed against the headboard of your bed, resting your chin on your knees as you make the fire transform into various shapes. Your ears seemingly twitch with every tick, tick, tick of the clock, which is maddening as it seems to mock every second spent without Astarion. Youâve considered breaking it several times, and tonight may be the night it meets its fiery end. You see a shadow crawling across the floor, and you jump to your feet on the mattress, looking for the offender. Your heartbeat reflexively patters in your chest as you scan the floor. Your door opens abruptly, and you yelp.
Astarion looks around and arches a brow. He leans a shoulder on the doorframe with a regaled smirk, âLet me guess,â he chuckles, shaking his head. âYou saw a spider.â
He knows you too well. His voice is a salve to the deafening silence, and for a moment, you just let the sound and sight of him wash over you.
âI saw the shadow of a spider,â you finally reply, eyes flicking toward the floor to make sure the errant arachnid is not crawling toward you. âI have yet to see that actual perpetrator.â
âWell,â Astarion giggles. âIf you can calm the thumping of your heart. I could find this transgressor rather quickly.â
âItâs not funny, Astarion!â You scold him and cringe, âHave you seen all the legs?â
âOn the contrary, darling. Itâs fucking hilarious and entirely adorable.â Astarion strolls around your room with silent footsteps. He cocks his head, listening intently, âItâs under your bed.â
Fire instantly leaps to life on your fingers, and you wonder how angry Gale would be if you burned his manor to the ground. You feel like it might be justified.
âA little excessive, no?â Astarionâs hand covers yours, making you smother the flames. âCome, love.â He grabs your legs and throws you over his shoulder. âI will rescue you from this most deadly of foes.â
You giggle as Astarion strides down the hall to his room. He places you back onto your feet and closes his door. You nearly wrap your arms around him until you remember he asked for space. Instead, you fold your arms around yourself and shrink away, taking quick steps back.
He frowns at your retreat, and an awkward silence stretches between you. âIâm sorry Iâve been distant lately,â Astarion begins, breaking the silence, âI just needed time to-â
âAre you okay?â You donât mean to cut him off, but you finally find your voice. Unfortunately, it means everything youâve been holding in starts spewing out in a blundering regurgitation of words. âIâm sorry. It was perhaps an ill-judged confession. I donât expect you to feel the same. Nothing will change between us if-â
Astarionâs lips mould to yours, cutting off your verbal vomit. He holds you close, your body perfectly pressed into the contours of his. He takes his time tasting you, savouring your flavour with an intimacy that makes your knees feel like hot jelly.
âWell,â he smirks, breaking off the kiss, leaving you once again breathless and wordless. âThat always did work wonders to shut you up. Now, will you allow me to get a word in, or shall I keep kissing you until you forget what it is you were going to say?â
âIâve sufficiently been shut up,â you say breathily.
âGood. Sometimes, your mouth is bigger than mine.â He chuckles, taking your hand and kissing all your fingers and palms, rubbing them comfortingly, âCazador devoted much of his time to convincing us that we were nothing, that we did not matter - not to him, not to any of the Gods, and certainly not to anyone else, and the centuries proved him right, unfortunately. No one ever saw me, really saw me. They saw the rake, the persona I portrayed, and never thought to look any further than that - until you came along with that very darling neck, all your questions, and your objective stupidity.â
You open your mouth to answer, but Astarion puts his finger against your lips and tsks you, âUh, uh. Patience, sweetheart. It never was your strength.â
His voice is trembling with a vulnerability he seldom allows himself to display. âMy past⊠makes me believe that I am unworthy of such love, but more to the point, it makes me unworthy of you.â
Your eyes widen in genuine surprise. Your features are a gentle portrait etched in a mix of concern and resolve. âAstarion,â you implore, reaching for his hand, âthere is no past that can make you unworthy of love.â
âI have done⊠unspeakable things,â Astarion protests, casting his eyes away from you. âThings that will haunt me for eternity and beyond.â
âIâll always be there to fight those phantoms of your past with you if you will allow me,â you assure, trying to keep your voice steady while tears streak down your hot cheeks. This is starting to sound a lot like a goodbye, and youâre not sure if youâre ready, âIf youâre going to tell me youâre leaving, itâs okay. I understand.â
âWhat?!â Astarion looks at you with his eyebrows curved upward in shock. âGods above. No. Come here.â Astarion pulls you in, pressing you against his chest. He only pushes you away slightly so he can guide your eyes to his and looks at you with an intensity that makes you shiver. âIâm not afraid anymore. Not of our future together. I once told you the Gods sent you to ruin me. I realize now they sent you to save me. My heart is yours now and forevermore.â
He pushes you up against the door, pinning you with his hips. Your lips are locked with his in a passionate embrace. Astarion gently skims his fangs down your neck. Your hands tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. He scoops you into his arms and throws you on the bed playfully. He crawls over you, removing his shirt and catching your lips in his with a wild and ravenous desire.
He peels off your nightdress with desperation as if his hands simply cannot bear to not have your skin against them for a moment longer. Astarion kisses your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the stiff peak. Your back arches off the bed, pushing yourself further into him. Your skin is hot, melting the icy chill of his, and you shudder as he bucks his hips into you.
He looks up at you through thick lashes, âWhat would you say if I said I wanted to make love to you tonight?â
His question consumes all the air inside your lungs, and your body goes rigid as stone. Your heartbeat kicks up as you stare at him with rounded eyes. âAstarion⊠What are you saying?â
âHmm,â he cocks his head and arches a brow at you with a charming smirk, âI thought I was rather clear. No matter. Let me try that again. If a night of passion is on offer, I would very much like to make love to you tonight.â
âI⊠Are you comfortable with that? Are you ready? We donât have to. We can wait for as long as you need.â
âOh, my love,â Astarion purrs, taking your hand, kissing every knuckle while never taking his eyes off you. âYou have no idea how hard itâs been to keep my hands off, well, mostly off, you. Do you? I have been thinking about being inside you nonstop. It has been quite distracting.â
You sweep your thumb across his cheek and along his strong jaw. Trepidation slightly pinches your brow. Good Gods. You want this, but you are afraid.
âI will stop if I need to.â Astarion assures assertively, kissing your forehead and cheek, âBut I do not foresee the need. Do not hold back. I want this, Kamena. Really, really want it.â
âHells, Astarion. I want you too.â
âI know,â he smirks as his fingers find your folds already slick with arousal. âAlways so eager for me,â he teases. âGods below. I love the way your body responds to me.â
Astarion parts you, running his fingers up and down your seam, coating them in the sleekness of your desire. He circles the border of your swollen flesh, and your hips jerk in a plea as you whine against his needy mouth. You wrap your arms around him, and Gods - he feels like heâs been made to fit in your embrace. Astarionâs arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you tightly to him. His fingers finally sweep over your sensitive bud, and he groans as he coaxes whimpers and moans from your throat, catching your sweet cries on his lips. The outline of his desire is pressed against you. Your fingers undo the laces of his pants and grip him greedily, eliciting a hiss from his clenched teeth.
âGods,â he pants, kicking off his trousers and freeing his throbbing cock. Precum already beads from his swollen head, and your mouth waters with the memory of the salt of him on your tongue.
Astarion sinks two fingers into you, twitching the pads up so that they hit that sweet spot that makes white flash in your vision with every languid pump. He expertly settles into a rhythm that drives you senseless. You could not keep your eyes open if you tried, and you jerk your hips, sinking his fingers deeper into you with the cry of his name.
âO-oh! Gods. A-Astarion.â
âI love the sound of my name on your tongue,â he purrs, peppering kisses down your neck, and he increases the speed of his thrusting fingers.
âAstarionâŠâ you mewl into the crook of his neck, dragging your fingers through his hair as your muscles tighten. âF-fuck. Youâre s-so good. Iâm going to⊠fuck. Astarion! Youâre going to make meâŠâ
âYes,â he groans, guttural and eager, as you both drown in each other. âLet me feel you come.â
Your head drops back, and you cry out with the pure blissful intensity of your climax. Your core grips his fingers, clutching and spasming around him as he hauls you tightly to him and catches your lips in a savage and passionate kiss.
Heâs between your legs before youâve fully recovered, hooking your knee with his. His hands guide your hips in little rolls against him as he glides his cock that weeps with his arousal through your folds. The chill of him on your heated sex is decadent, bracing and sets your nerves aflame.
âHells,â he purrs with a heavy breath, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. His voice is gentle, yet rough as sandpaper. âI will go slow. Tell me if it hurts or if you need to stop.â
âMake love to me, Astarion,â you murmur, kissing his chest, nipping his neck playfully, and letting your lips whisper up to the tapered point of his ear.
Astarion gasps, shuddering and curling his fingers into your hair. He eases in inch by delicious inch, slowly working you open. You let out a pained whine, and he stills, allowing your body time to adjust to his girth. Gods. The stretch is such a pleasurable kind of pain that you wrap your legs around him and plunge him into you, savouring the fullness.
âShit,â he hisses, blinking slowly, looking into your eyes. âYou feel divine wrapped around my cock, Kamena,â he pants darkly. âFuck. I missed this.â
He thrusts, tender and sensual, almost painfully teasing in the measured pace. He rocks his hips into you, coming to his forearms and caging you beneath him, pressing himself into every curve of your body as if he cannot possibly get close enough. You sputter nonsensically, twisting your fingers into his silky silver curls. Astarion increases his tempo, and you buck your hips in time to meet his thrust. He presses kisses to your forehead, your cheek, and down your neck. You roll your head to the side in an offering.
He growls, unadulterated and wanton. His fangs sink into your neck. Your eyes snap open. Your hands grab the taut muscles of his side, and then the pain ebbs to an all-consuming ecstasy as youâre spiralling through his body and drizzling in his veins. Your skin prickles as you chase your release. Astarionâs hips stutter as your walls flutter around his hard length, and he moans, a sinfully heavenly rumble deep in his chest. Astarionâs pace becomes less measured and masterful, his movements frantic and hungry.
When youâre walking on the precipice of your orgasm, Astarion rests his forehead on yours. His face is twisted in pleasure, lips parted, taking heavy breaths with every snap of his hips. Itâs a beautiful sight that brings tears to your eyes. Astarion purrs, âI love you.â
Fuck. Thatâs it. That is your undoing, and you crash into a blissful rapture so intense youâre sure that your heart skips several beats.
With one last plunging pump, Astarion joins you as your core is still in the throes of clenching and spasming, massaging him. You can feel his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself into you, âGods above. Oh, f-fuck! Kamena!â
You wrap your arms around him and take his panting lips, dragging him into a ravaging kiss, pressing your sweat-slicked bodies together. Astarion rolls, somehow keeping his cock in you, catching you in his arms and pulling you atop him. You nuzzle your face into him, breathing in his scent. His chest rises and falls beneath you as he heaves a contented sigh.
âYou are perfect,â he coos, pressing a kiss into your mussed-up hair and checking the bite on your neck. His breathing is as uneven as yours, âEvery time.â
You lay there with him for a while - youâre not quite sure how long, while his hand skates up and down your back, and he hums comfortingly. You could stay like this forever, wrapped in his embrace, sheltered and shielded from your troubles and worries.
Eventually, after your heartbeat settles, you crane your neck to look at Astarion. He smiles at you with ardent love impassioned in the vibrant scarlet of his eyes, âAre you okay?â
Astarion chuckles and points to his temple, âUp here, you mean?â
âYes.â
âI am free, safe, and happy.â He sweeps some wild strands of your hair back and runs his fingers along your jaw, âI have you in my arms, in my bed and on my cock. It would be a most grievous understatement to say I am simply okay.â
âSo vulgar!â You giggle, âAre all vampires so crude?â
âOh yes,â he drawls, grinning devilishly. âItâs a well-loved pastime of ours. We often meet to exchange vulgarities to unleash upon the unsuspecting masses.â
âI would love to see you unleash some of those upon Gale,â You laugh, letting your fingers trace the defined muscles of his arm, âI wonder how red he would get.â
âSweetheart,â he snickers, âGale would positively expire on the spot if he heard some of the things that come out of my mouth. Even yours. You are not innocent, sorceress.â He leans close to your ear and gives you a playful jostle, âIâve heard some delicious, sinfully indecent things from your very lovely lips.â
âI learned from the best,â you quip with a clever flare in her eye.
âOh, as much as I would adore taking the credit,â he chuckles with a wicked grin. âI think youâve always been an absolute freak.â
When you wake, youâre famished, and Astarion practically pushes you out of bed, grumbling about how your growling stomach annoyed him all night.
âYouâre a vampire,â you retort, giggling at the look of annoyance scrunching up his face. âYou donât even need to trance.â
âNeed and want,â he tuts, clicking his tongue, âare very different things. Now, get out of my bedroom and eat something.â Astarionâs lips quirk up, lop-sided and handsome. His curls are mussed, falling with reckless abandon. He winks, âI have some very depraved, hedonistic plans for you later. If you hope to keep up with me, you need your strength.â
Good Gods. You're already wet. Astarion chuckles as you roll your eyes and slink out of the bedroom. The remnant of your night together is still sticky between your thighs, and your skin prickles with the exhilaration of it all.
Astarion is here, in your bed, in your hands and in you.
âGood morning!â Gale greets you as soon as you step into the kitchen. âI trust you had a⊠good night?â
You hear Astarionâs loud laughter echoing through the manor and try to stifle your own.
Oh⊠shit.
âYou could say that.â You feel the blush burning your cheeks.
Gale chuckles, sipping his tea while you shovel cut-up fruit into your mouth. The silence is a little awkward, and youâre not sure if participating in useless small talk will make it worse or better, so you opt to stay quiet.
Thereâs a tap on the door that makes you jump, âIâll get it. Gale, are you expecting someone?â
âI donât believe so.â Galeâs brows pinch, and then he smirks, âItâs likely a neighbour coming to make a noise complaint.â
You groan, feeling the heat erupt, rushing back to your face. The early morning sun dazzles you as it streams into the open doorway, blinding you momentarily. When you blink, you realize itâs not the sun that blinds you; it's the gleaming of the silver, metallic armour of the guards standing before you.
âThatâs her!â Mr. Blackwell snarls from behind the City Watch guards. The noble is bruised and bleeding, with an eye swollen shut, his lip split and seeping, and a cheekbone that appears to be broken along with many of his teeth. âSheâs the one who assaulted me!â
âNo!â You gasp as the guards grab your arms, forcing them behind your back. âI didnât do this!â
âSave it for the courts,â the guard drones, paying your protests no consideration as iron manacles snap shut around your wrists, biting into your skin with an uncomfortable pinch.
âGale!â You shout over your shoulder as they drag you away. âDonât let him do anything utterly fucking foolish!â
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support.
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
We are finally getting to the smutty goodness :)
And then Kamena is entirely ripped away from the promise of these depraved plans. I, for one, would kill Mr. Blackwell simply for that alone.
#astarion x tav#astarion x you#bg3 astarion#astarion x reader#astarion x mc#astarion#astarion romance#baldurs gate astarion#astarion ancunin#astarion smut#shadows of the past#astarion bg3#astarion x oc#astarion x named tav#astarion spawn#spawn astarion
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Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Chapter 14: Devil's Ploy
Summary:Â After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
You snort and blink rapidly to clear your nose of the fetid sulphuric odour burning the membranes of your nostrils, throat and eyes. In the cramped, dimly lit sewers, where the air doesnât stir, the stench of it lingers and never seems to dissipate.
When your vision finally becomes unimpaired by burning tears, the cambion and her fire-red hair, horns bedazzled with chains of gold, is leering at you with a conniving expression that makes your stomach sink. Youâve seen this expression on her plenty of times when she was scheming and plotting.
âGods above,â you hiss with a rasp to your voice. âWhat do you want, Mizora? I thought I was good and done with your kind.â
âAnd here I thought we had all become such good friends,â she titters, feigning cordiality terribly. âYou always did have so much⊠spunk. Iâm happy death still hasnât taken your lovely little spark.â
âYou can ask Raphael all about my spark,â you smirk. Vivid blue lightning crackles and buzzes over your fingertips. âOh, wait. You canât because I killed him for seeing me as no more than a little mouse, a pawn, and I will do the same with you if you think you can play games with me.â
âOh-yes,â Mizora giggles, not one iota ruffled by your threats. âAll nine Hells were positively astir with the news of his demise. He always was such a pompous and over-confident twat, not unlike your master, I suppose."
Master. Ugh.
âI would be lying if I said it was nice to see you again, Mizora. If you will excuse me, I have my prey to hunt, and youâve made me lose its trail.â
You canât hear or smell Elowyn anymore. She will be deep into the ruin by now, or worse yet, in the Crimson Palace itself, but you still donât understand what use she would have of that place. There is nothing left there but closed cells full of rotting gore that can never be opened again since you made Astarion break Cazadorâs quarterstaff - Woe. Insofar as youâre aware, that was the only key to controlling everything.
âA great pity youâre in such a rush, pet,â Mizora snickers. Gods, you hate being called âpet.â You almost growl, but youâre too preoccupied with the rising feeling of foreboding swishing around in your stomach. You know that laugh and dread whatâs about to come out of her mouth next. âI was going to offer to assist your Vampire Ascendant with his little⊠problem, but I suppose if you donât want help⊠well, you can lead a horse to water, but you canât make it drink. Ta-ta!â
âWait!â You snap, whirling around. Youâre going to regret this. âWait⊠What do you know of Astarionâs ailment?â
âI thought that might get your attention,â she smirks smugly. âLetâs make ourselves more comfortable, shall we? You may be accustomed to living in such filth, but I am decidedly not.â
Mizora snaps her fingers, fire bursts to life all around you, and then youâre in a grand sitting room with glitzy settees, lounges and chairs. Rugs made of creatures youâve never seen before litter the floor. Some appear reptile-like with scaly hides, others plush furs, others with feathers and more with something you can only begin to describe as some form of cartilaginous exoskeleton. They look at you with glassy, dead eyes ashine in their long-dead sockets.
Itâs stiflingly hot, and you peer out of double doors leading to the terrace and take in the landscape. In the distance, black, jagged mountains pierce the horizon with peaks wreathed in an eerie crimson mist. Brimstone and fire dance in a perpetual inferno bordering a river made entirely of lava or possibly blood. Itâs hard to tell from this height. The air is acrid and clouded with volcanic ash, and the sky flickers reds and oranges as fireballs race through clouds of darkest black.
âAvernus,â Mizora gushes. âIsnât it beautiful?â
âI think I preferred the sewers,â you croak, wiping the sweat from your brow and going back inside. It does little to provide any comfort or liberation from the sweltering climate.
âOf course, sewer spawn,â she scoffs indignantly and drops unceremoniously onto a lounge. âIt was your home for a little while. Wasnât it? Until the Cleric and Wizard found you down there.â
âHave you been watching me this entire time?â You cross your arms and quirk a brow at her. âDo you have nothing better to do than derive pleasure from pain and suffering?â
âOh, darling.â Her head falls back, and she laughs, âOf course! Who wouldnât want to watch this little tragedy play out? It has been quite amusing thus far.â
âIâm glad youâre enjoying the show,â you bow sarcastically with a frown. âIf youâre getting such a kick out of it, why are you meddling in my nightmare?â
âSit. Wonât you?â She gestures toward the chaise. Mizora wonât tell you anything until you do as she asks. This is all part of her little game, after all. So, you sit with a roll of your eyes. âI would have been happy to watch until the vampire killed you, but alas, all good things must come to an end. Zariel and the other archdevils have other plans.â
Fuck. If another archdevil, or several, from the sounds of it, are getting involved, this is unlikely to be good. What got you here was another deal with an archdevil, but if thereâs even a chance that something Mizora might tell you can give you somewhere to start, well, you can humour her.
âWhich are?â
âOh,â Mizora shrugs. âI donât know, little lamb. I am merely a messenger.â
âOkay,â you comb your fingers through your sweat-dampened hair. Sheâs lying. You can see the hinting glint in her eyes. She knows more than sheâs letting on. âWell, what is it you can tell me?â
The toothy, menacing smile that sidles across Mizoraâs face should send you running. She sneers, âTell me. What do you know of Mephistopheles?â
You shrug, âI know he is an archdevil, a rather powerful one. His domain is Cania. The Rite of Profane Ascension was a contract with him. Beyond that, I do not spend much time researching devils.â
âSo, nothing then,â she pouts. âWell, allow me to enlighten you.â
Fire leaps to life in a circle, and Mizoraâs eyes gleam with the keenness of a wild cat as you jump and get ready to defend yourself. Everything goes black except for the inferno burning around you.
As you watch the writhing blaze, depictions form in the leaping flames, moving against them. A towering devil with bright red skin, curling ram horns and massive bat-like wings jutting out from his back. He has an unnervingly charming smile, but itâs offset by cold, milk-white eyes that stare through you, making you shudder.
The figure paces around, muttering to himself and the empty grand halls around him. His eyes bounce around with feral neuroticism. He twitches, growls, hisses and waves his hand as if shooing away an annoying insect while snarling.
Abruptly, the fiery figure lets out a blood-curdling shriek and starts clawing at his skin, tearing gashes into himself until his skin is hanging in gruesome, dripping flaps from his arms and chest. Fire explodes in his palms, and he flings around bolts of Hellfire, instantly turning everything around him to ash. He pivots quickly and appears to be looking straight at you. He roars so loud youâre sure your eardrums have burst. He charges toward you with the ferocity of a rabid animal and a fireball barrels toward you.
Everything goes black, and you fall onto the floor by Mizora, who is snickering.
âWhat in the Hells was that?â You snap, getting up and getting in her face. You grab that fur collar in your hands and shake her, âWhat the fuck did I just witness?â
âMephistopheles, for all his cunning and brilliance, is a deeply troubled individual. As you saw, he is neurotic and suspicious and often flies into fits of explosive and violent rage. Does that remind you of anyone?â
â⊠Astarion,â you breathe and stumble back. âOh GodsâŠâ
âYes, pet.â Mizora nods with a fiendish cackle. âI can see you putting it all together. The Vampire Ascendant was an experiment of sorts. As you can imagine, these tendencies are not becoming of an archdevil. In an effort to rid himself of his neurotic temper, he needed a willing vessel to imbue with a portion of his nature. What better way to lure a willing participant than to offer unfathomable power?â
You collapse onto the chaise, wracking your fingers through your hair, âThe Vampire Ascendant was nothing more than a way for Mephistopheles to offload his psychosis?â
Gods above. It makes so much sense. Astarionâs blind fits of rage. The voices in his head. The alternate version of him that sometimes takes control. You never got to see the whole contract. Did Raphael know about this and neglect to say it?
âBut.â You add, looking at Mizora, âAstarion is himself some of the time.â
âAh-yes,â Mizora snickers, glancing at her nails. âThe vessel was never supposed to have an intact soul. Itâs much easier to work with an empty cask than one that is already full, so to speak. A spawn was never supposed to usurp the ritual. I would say an oversight on Mephistophelesâ part, but truly, who could have imagined a spawn would get infected with a mind flayer tadpole that broke his masterâs chains? Then, he just so happened to come upon a fine hero to help him. Itâs all rather ludicrous sounding. Astarionâs soul is fractured but not completely eradicated. Well, not yet at least.â
âWhat do you mean not yet?â
âThink of it like this,â Mizora speaks to you slowly, as if you might not be smart enough to understand the metaphor slipping past her lips. âThe entity is like an infection. It contaminates him, tainting everything from his thoughts, the platelets in his blood, to the marrow in his very bones, faster than his body can heal itself.â
âWhy are you telling me all of this?â Youâre starting to get suspicious. Where is the catch? The line she will hook you with?
âCanât I just want to help out an old friend?â She pouts.
You glower at her and cross your arms, âNo.â
âYou were always so clever.â Mizora suddenly becomes serious, âMephistopheles is a threat. Now that he is no longer burdened by his demons, heâs set his aspirations quite high. Too high for the liking of many of the archdevils. We would like to see him reunited with himself. Itâs a very fine little deal. You get what you want to rid Astarion of the entity thatâs eating him from the inside out, and we get to cage Mephistopheles back in the prison of his mind. A warning, pet. It will not be an easy road.â
âMy life has never been easy. Why would it start now?â You sigh, âTell me what needs to be done, and I will do it.â
âSuch a good little spawn. Arenât you? Heâs killed you, tortured you, starved you, beat you, emotionally ruined you, and stolen your name, and youâre still willing to risk yourself to save him?â Mizora giggles, âI would say it was a true love story in the making were it not so fucking tragic.â
âWhat do you mean stolen my name?â You growl, cocking your head at her, âI have a name!â
âOh,â she snickers, âThen tell me, pet. Whatâs your name?â
âMy nameâŠâ You trail off, wracking your brain for the word. Itâs right there, sitting precariously on the tip of your tongue. âMy name⊠Itâs⊠ItâsâŠâ
Mizoraâs laughter is a haunting melody, a sinister cackle in a chilling symphony. That sound could freeze the blood of the bravest soul and make the earth tremble, âYou canât remember it. Can you?â
You replay old conversations in your head. You can see Shadowheartâs lips moving, but then thereâs a sudden silence where all you hear is white noise even though sheâs still talking. Itâs the same with conversations with Gale, just white noise in the place where your name should have been.
Astarion stole your name from you⊠When did that happen, and why canât you remember? What else has he stolen from you?
âWhatâs my name,â you swallow the thick odium thatâs erected itself into your throat. You shriek, rage sweeping through you in a gust of hatred, âWhat my name, Mizora! Say it!â
Mizora smiles haughtily and speaks. You focus with every iota of your capacity, watching her lips move, but it is as you feared. Your ears hear nothing but the breathy whisper of silence, and your eyes seem unable to read the phonetics on her lips.
Youâre his darling. His sweet girl. His precious treasure. His consort. His nameless spawn.
And yet, youâre still prepared to sacrifice your life.
Yes, a very good little spawn, indeed.
âIt doesnât matter,â you mutter, clenching your chest as a tendril of sadness wraps around your heart and chokes it. âWhat do I have to do?â
âBefore we can do anything about Astarion. We must first unbind him from his contract.â Mizora says, eyes narrowing, fixed on you. âI donât care how you do it, but you must get Astarionâs contract from Mephistopheles. Steal it. Bargain for it. The choice is yours, but you must do it fast. Thereâs no way to know how much time before Astarion is lost forever.â
Mizora deposits you back into the sewers, and her voice bounces off the stony passageways, âTick-tock, tick-tock, pet.â
You consider continuing to try to track Elowyn, but youâre reeling with information and cannot fathom how you would even begin to concentrate on her. She must be dealt with. That is certain, but it must wait until your mind isnât fraught and unsettled.
How are you supposed to get Astarionâs contract from Mephistopheles? Bargaining for it should be your last resort, but how do you get to Cania, the eighth layer of the Nine Hells, survive it long enough to sneak into Mephistar and somehow sneak through an archdevil citadel? It seems like an impossible task.
Should you tell Astarion? He would usually be the first person you ran to for help with a heist, but heâs unlikely to let you go, even if it is the only means to save him from inevitably losing himself entirely. You canât risk Astarion forcing you to stay, but you might not be able to risk going to the Hells without him. The Vampire Ascendant will likely be an invaluable asset if you meet resistance. But if he loses himself, you might not survive Astarionâs wrath long enough to get where youâre going. Whether that thing inside him is a separate entity or a version of himself thatâs been infected and corrupted, you doubt it will take kindly to you trying to remove it.
Do you approach Shadowheart? You would be putting her in great peril, but she might be able to help with research. This is your mistake to fix, and you donât relish putting your friendâs lives on the line. Karlach and Wyll are in the Hells. They may be able to help ascertain a way to get to Cania, but youâll need to figure out how to contact them.
And Good Gods, your nameâŠ
The silent corridors echo with the foreboding sound of your heavy footsteps like the ominous rumble of an approaching storm as you work through the maze of gangways and channels. Tears stroll in rivulets down your snowy cheeks, liquid poetry to express all the emotions you canât.
Dejection. Grief. Fear. Defeat. Loss.
Lost in the spiralling thoughts, you forget to look to the sky as you drag your weary body home. The only thing you want right now is to curl up in the strong arms of Astarion and let him hold your broken pieces and fears together because youâre not sure if you can do it by yourself.
The sun cracks the skyline, the first rays of the soft light of an autumn day embracing the streets, but the sun no longer embraces you. It blinds and broils you. Your skin glows, flakes, and melts. Deep, molten silver-blue channels crack in your arms, legs and face. The pain is so intense you canât even remember to scream as you stand, waiting for your skin to slough off your bones and cover the street with ash.
You donât remember reaching out to the bond with Astarion, but his voice fills your head, âGods above. What in the nine Hells are you doing!? â Astarion bellows. Panic infects his usual halcyon timbre, âFind shelter! Iâm coming!â
The pain is all-consuming. You canât move, canât think, canât speak as your nerves are melted away. Your skin dissolves like water evaporating under the sunâs heat. Every inch of your skin is being flayed in a single moment that lasts forever.
You will die nameless and alone.
âFuck! Find shelter. Now!â
Astarionâs compulsion overrides everything else, and your body moves stiffly to obey the command even as it smokes and your skin is loosened from your frame, liquifying and dripping off your arms and legs, turning to ash in midair and being carried away by the morning breeze.
Find shelter. Find shelter. Find shelter.
Your instructions resound in your head even louder than the pain that falls to a buzz in the background. You canât even blink as your fingers curl around the boards of a long-abandoned shack. Gods. Are those your fingers? Is that bone you see? You wrench the board off the window. The pads of your fingers squelch and ooze. When you throw the boards down, your skin sticks to them, peeling away in rangy, fibril bands like gum. Thank the Gods, you lack the capacity to mull it over much as your body throws itself inside without your consent.
With the order completed, there is a brief moment of pure, blissful euphoria - a reward for being so very obedient. The compulsion pales, the vines recede, and youâre pitched back into the residual agony that has yet to abate.
Now that the sun is no longer skinning you alive, the pain has lessened, and you remember how to scream. An inhumane noise rends your throat somewhere between a shriek and a wail. Your head lolls to the side, and your eyes fall to your arms.
You immediately wish they hadnât.
Your skin is not the smooth pearlescent youâre used to seeing now that the colour it once held has faded to deathâs grip. Itâs powdery and matte. Youâre sure youâre looking at the bones of your forearms in the chasmal rifts.
You hear white noise in your head, murmuring over the bond. It feels like Astarion is trying to contact you, but you hear no words. To get your thoughts off the pain still being recited by your nerves, you shift your focus to the emotions in your head, trying to sift through them. Astarionâs heartbeat in your chest is excruciating. It hammers with the intensity of a blacksmith striking an anvil. Heâs petrified, bordering on hysterical.
You reach out in your head, âAstarion?â
âLittle love!â He howls. You must remember to request he not attempt to dissolve your brain matter. âWhy havenât you been answering me?â
âWhere are you?âÂ
âClose, my treasure.âÂ
You donât know how much time elapses as you bounce between consciousness and dissociation while focusing on not moving. The less you move, the better for you, but your limbs and muscles seem to jerk and twitch without your consent, and every time, it sends another agonizing swell of suffering to break over you. Teardrops flutter on your lashes, but you canât move to wipe them away.
Your ears pick up the thudding tempo of Astarionâs beating heart before he bursts through the door, scattering the planks and showering splinters in his haste. Astarion drops to his knees beside you. He visibly shudders as his eyes land on you, slumped against a wall.
âHells,â he breathes, chest heaving from exertion. You can feel his horror in your head, but you need not. Itâs evident in his shaky and rapid speech, âItâs okay. Iâm here. Iâm here. Youâre safe. Look at me, darling.â
Why, after everything he has done to you, is his proximity so remarkably comforting? You let your eyes roam over him and truly appreciate the beauty before you. His scarlet eyes, dazzling like vivid, perfectly polished jewels ashine behind⊠tears? No. That doesnât seem right. Your vision is blurred from your eyes being boiled in their sockets. You must be imagining the tears, but his eyes are beautiful nonetheless. His sculpted, full lips, which once held the promise of an eternity of silk kisses, are downturned at the corners. You would give anything to run your fingers along them right now, feel them on your skin, taste them on your tongue. He is breathtaking, quite literally.
âSweetheart.â Astarion reaches to you. His fingers tremble as they hover below your jaw. He knows it will hurt if he touches you, âCan you hear me?â
You answer in his head because moving the muscles in your face to make you capable of speech will hurt, âYes. I hear you.â
âI can compel you to not feel the pain, to sleep, but I need your permission.â His eyes bore into you. His voice is a favourite dream you long to slip into, âPlease.â
Itâs dangerous permission to give. Youâve told him you will leave if he compels you again, but he just did, didnât he? He compelled you to find shelter when you could not do it yourself. He compelled you from afar. He does not need to be near you to force commands upon you. He can wrap your brain and body around his finger like twine from anywhere, anytime, on a whim. But Gods, you will do anything to make this pain end, to drift away from this fucking nightmare.
âDo it.â
Immediately, you feel your control funnelling away, like sand through an hourglass.
âYou feel no pain,â he purrs, and the pain vanishes as your nerve endings deactivate. Itâs a blissful respite, and you sigh. âThank you for trusting me. Sleep now.â
Your brain shuts off. Darkness claims you, and Hells below, you welcome it.
âWake.â
The directive floats through your comatose mind like a beam of light cuts through the pitch-blackness of nullity. Your faculties burst to life, waking one by one, unfurling like a blooming flower. The first thing you feel is hunger so painful that your body jerks to collapse in on itself as your limbs jolt and tremor insuppressibly. Excruciating cramps make your toes curl and your hands ball into fists. Your mind is raving, mad with hunger. You consider biting your tongue if only for the sweet succour of that crimson elixir.
You cannot think of anything other than the sensation of your insides gnawing on themselves, the paralyzing contracting of every ligament and tendon in your body, the desiccation thatâs withered your tongue, and the grave need to feed - on anything and anyone.
Another spasm causes you to lurch and claw at your skin like you could dig yourself out of this ailing body. Warm hands clasp your wrists, and all your mind can think is warm means alive, and alive means blood. Your eyes snap open, but your addled brain simply cannot process the visual input, and you donât think twice before fire erupts from your palms.
âShit!â
You hear it, but you do not process it. As soon as the grip on you rescinds, you lunge at this figure before you whose beating heart is thrumming the provocative siren song of life and food. Colliding with it is like being throttled into a brick wall, but you waste no time fumbling and climbing with bared fangs. Youâre so close to that beautifully pulsing vein, and itâs the only thing your eyes can focus on.
Stomach bubbling with hunger, you go to bite, jaws snapping and slobbering like a feral beast. As soon as your fangs hover within striking distance, your body arrests, and youâre instantaneously immobilized.
Strong arms wrap around you, lift, and sink you to the floor. A hand cradles your cheek, and the branching blue-purple veins make you swoon. You think about biting them only to have your body freeze up on you further. It guides your eyes to vivid crimson irises that spark recognition and reason back into your dazed lucidity.
âAstarionâŠâ
âStop thinking about biting me,â he chuckles and shifts you to the side. âYouâll be able to move again.â
âWhat?â You would quirk a brow at him, but youâre too focused on trying to push your intentions of biting him away. They do not concede to your urges, and you find your eyes wander without your permission to any vein that might be in striking distance. Astarion always gently walks your errant gaze back to his. âYou havenât compelled me?â
âAh. Apologies. I do forget how new you are to this.â Astarion reaches for something on the dresser to his right, âNo. This is not a compulsion. As myâŠâ he trails off.
âSpawn.â You state with a palpable despondency threaded between the fog of hunger that looms over you.
âI do hate that word,â he shakes his head with discontentment as if he does not want to face the reality of what he has turned you into. âYou are physically unable to bite me without my permission. Your body simply will not allow you to do it. Which is why you currently cannot move.â
Astarion holds a goblet out to you, and your stomach is set on fire by the iron sharpness that wafts from the syrupy, bright red nectar. It breaks you away from your absorption of sinking your fangs into Astarionâs flesh, and you snatch it out of his hands and drink with mindless gluttony.
The blood is fresh, hot and rich as the liquid rushes into your mouth. It waterfalls through your body, unknotting the snarls in your muscles, dissolving away the relentless twist of your stomach, and replacing the bloodlust hysteria in your mind with a sultry buzzing.
Astarionâs already holding another goblet, and you throw the empty one to the side and close your eyes as you guzzle. The blood is buttery and decadent. Itâs hundreds, nay, thousands of exquisite dishes in a single swallow. Itâs like a summertime dawn on your tongue. The wet warmth of it sinks between your thighs, settling with a molten throbbing in your core, and you moan at the pure bliss.
Astarion slips the goblet from your fingers once youâve finished, and you look at him with half-lidded eyes. You rack your brain for memories of the few times youâve tasted the blood of thinking creatures. You bit a few in the battles between when he turned you and the Netherbrain, but you cannot remember any of them ever tasting that deliciously arousing.
âThat wasnât animal blood,â you state, almost slurring. You feel drunk, or maybe Astarion is just intoxicating to look at while he mesmerizes you with those red eyes and perfect lips that foretoken pleasure. âWho did you just feed me?â
âNo, it was decidedly not animal blood,â he grins as you adjust on his lap and straddle him. Youâre not entirely sure what youâre doing in your desirous daze, and you trace the perfect bow of his lips as he speaks. âIt was my blood.â
âYou are delectable,â you giggle as your fingers help themselves and start fiddling with the buttons on his chemise. As your muddled mind starts to make sense of what he just said, youâre tripped up. You stare at him with a slack jaw and round eyes.
âThe look on your face is priceless, darling,â he giggles and glances down at your roving hands as they push open his shirt and trace the defined muscles. Astarionâs fingers trace down your neck, sending shivers down your spine and making you squirm on his lap in wanton desperation for even the most minuscule friction to sate the ache, âI told you that you would taste me, and I you. It will not make you a True Vampire, though, if thatâs what youâre wondering.â
Right now, you could not care less about being a True Vampire. There is very little on your mind except how his skin feels on your fingers and how extraordinary he would feel stretching you.
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent deeply, placing slow kisses up the column. His fingers curl into the silk nightdress he must have changed you into at some point as he groans.
âWhatever are you doing?â He mutters near your ear, pressing his cheek to yours.
âI want you,â you sigh as you curl your fingers into his hair.
âYou just attacked me,â he swallows.
âThen, let me apologize,â you grind against his hardening length in a way that makes you both gasp.
âYouâve been asleep for a week,â he mumbles, even as his arms wrap around you, tugging you close. âYou have no idea how close you were to dying. Truly dying.â
You should probably be concerned with how long he kept you asleep since your time is limited, but you donât care. You canât care. Youâve never been quite so high on blood, on him. He is the light, darkness and blood that runs through your veins, and good Gods, you will give him everything.
âSo, wake me up,â you purr as you push his shirt over his shoulders and run the flat of your tongue up his neck, relishing the salt of his skin. âTouch me like only you can. Love me like only you do. Help me feel alive, Astarion.â
Astarion pulls you back, cradling your face with this thumb pressed gently under your chin, drawing your eyes to his, and you stare at him through narrow, seductively hooded eyes like a love-sick pup. He traces your lips with his thumb, and you catch it in your mouth and suck.
âHells,â he rasps darkly with a sharp inhalation.
You feel the offering call of the bond, and you donât hesitate to throw it open. That beautifully overwhelming frisson shatters through you as Astarionâs lips catch yours in an eager, bordering on frantic kiss. He snakes his hand into your hair, holding you firmly against his vehement embrace. His tongue darts into your mouth, and a guttural groan thunders in his chest. His kiss is unusually clumsy, lacking the artistry and mastery he typically possesses, and your teeth click together with your greed for each other. You roll your hips, sinking your clit against his length, and your head falls back as white-hot sparks of want rupture behind your eyelids.
As far as youâre concerned, he is the definition of desire. His lips, his hands, and his taste are the only things that can bring you back to life from this deathless death, and youâre sure that you could never get close enough to him. Even with every curve of your body pressed into every contour of his, it still wouldnât be enough. Nothing is sweeter than the serene sin of the kisses his lips press against your throat.
You peel off your nightdress, and your fingers tug at the opening of his breeches, graceless in your wild hunger to be filled, to be taken, to be his. Astarion quirks his hips up and pulls them down his hips, freeing his cock. The head glistens with evidence of his arousal. With no warning or hesitation, you sink his full length into you. The heavenly stretch makes you cry out and dig your fingers into his chest.
âFuck,â he breathes, heavy, ragged and uneven. The pads of his fingers find your swollen flesh, sweeping and circling, and you get lost in the divine stimulation.
You set a slow, teasing pace, rising and sinking back down onto him as you delight in feeling the ridges of his head with every languid pump. Astarion pants as he lets out breathy moans. He brings a hand to your hip, trying to urge you to move quicker.
âGood Gods,â he whimpers, his gaze glossed with desire. âHave mercy.â
You are starving for pleasure, famished, and you will take it how you want it. With a warning growl, you grasp his wrist and pin it above his head to the wall. Astarion grins at your dominance and doesnât fight it. He murmurs something unintelligible as you plunge onto his cock, and stares reverentially through thick lashes, drinking you in as you forfeit all rational thought.
Time runs away with you. You could have been riding him for hours or seconds, but eventually, your savouring pace turns reckless and erratic. Astarion bucks his hips in time to meet yours as the sound of smacking flesh, wanton cries and panting is all that fills your ears and head.
Astarionâs fingers tremble and quake against your sensitive bud, his skin sheens with sweat and his breath hitches. When you finally unpin his wrist, he clutches your hips and guides you to continue the tempo that is driving you perilously close to the edge.
His breath starts to come faster, panting hot and crude, fanning across your sweat-veiled skin. Scarlet eyes devour you as you chase your release in his lap. He penetrates you - Harder. Deeper. Animalistic.
âOh shitââ His eyes snap open wide, almost in a look of blissful confusion. In your rapture, you barely notice the way his lips move, but you hear nothing but white noise. âIâm going toâ Gods. I think Iâm going toââ
A shuddering gasp escapes his lips, his body suddenly tensing beneath you. The look of ecstasy that washes over his face is enough to hurl you over the precipice, and you cry out with him. Between your walls clutching and spasming, you feel his cock twitching and pulsing, flooding you with his seed. His arms wrap around you, and you cling to him with a grip that would surely bruise. He crushes you against him as youâre both overwhelmed with pleasure so pure you think maybe it would have killed you were you not already dead.
As the intoxication of your climax fades, you sag into him, pressing your forehead against his neck. You close your eyes, breathing in the fragrance of his sweat, and focus on the rise and fall of his chest. It would be nice to stay in this darkness, snug and safe and home in his embrace, with the bond open so you can remain one pale star against the dusk of reality.
And then you remember the white noise from the moving lips of Shadowheart, Gale, Mizora, and him ⊠You pull back abruptly, breaking out of Astarionâs arms and staring at him, tears teeming in your eyes. Astarionâs confusion is evident on his face and through the connection.
âWhatâs wrong?â He asks. You can feel him trying to figure it out in his head. Itâs such an odd sensation, almost like your emotions are being poked and prodded. âWhat did I do?â
âSay my name,â you whimper, focusing on his lips.
âWhat?â His eyes bounce around as his brows pull down.
âMy name,â you repeat with a quivering lip. âSay it.â
Astarionâs lips move, and⊠nothing. All you can hear is the buzzing, fizzing hiss of white noise coming from his mouth.
âAgain.â
âI donât understand ââ He yet again opens and closes his mouth with only a droning hum. Your fingers clamber against his lips, pushing his mouth open as if you might be able to grasp the word as it leaves his tongue. âWhatever is the matter?â
He doesnât even know, you realize. He has no idea that heâs stolen your name just as he stole your life. You find some comfort in knowing that it wasnât this version of him that did it, at least. You stare off dejected as everything rushes back to you like a slap across the cheek.
Mizora. The Hells. Mephistopheles. The Contract. The ticking clock. Your name.
âMy love,â Astarionâs fingers curl into your hair, and he ushers your eyes to his. âDid I harm you? Please. Tell me whatâs troubling you."
âI donât remember my name,â the tears spill out of your eyes. âYou stole it from me.âÂ
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!
AO3 [Crossposted]
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
So... does she tell him what Mizora revealed?
#ascended astarion#bg3#astarion fanfic#astarion x you#astarion#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 astarion#astarion x reader#astarion x tav#astarion smut#fangs and fractured hearts
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Se Zaldrīzoti' Prƫmia - Chapter 3: When The Lance Fells The Falcon (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)
Chapter 3: When The Lance Fells The Falcon
The day of the Heir Tournament has finally arrived, and what is a joust without some bloodshed?Â
Se ZaldrÄ«zoti' PrĆ«mia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 |Â
HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
Warnings: TW! Depictions of violence, mentions of blood, Daemon being an asshole, angst, the continuation of my blood feud against HOTDâs costuming department
Word Count: 4.3k words
Disclaimer:Â I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out!
A/N: With all the explicit detailing I included about the characterâs dresses, would you guys maybe be interested for me to post some of my fashion designs here, so you guys can get a clearer vision of what I envisioned the characters wearing? Because I find it extremely difficult to translate my designs into words lol, blame my lack of fashion background. And from this chapter on, things are going to start getting serious.Â
Also recommended that you listen to âThere Are Worse Games To Playâ on the Hunger Games soundtrack while you read this chapter, particularly towards the end đ
lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics as always!
The fire crackled merrily in Lady Y/Nâs chambers, although the room was filled with a ruminative silence. Night had once again descended on the Red Keep, and after tending to Aemma all day, who was in more discomfort than usual, Y/N was exhausted.Â
She was still simmering with displeasure at Daemonâs words from that afternoon. One could argue that Daemon was merely being careless with his words, but Y/N knew better. Just like many other people, he disregarded her based on her gender. She thought maybe Daemon would be different since he cared not for the restraints society has put on him, but it appears she was nothing but a fool to ever think positively of him.Â
I sighed, my fingers continuing to weave the bonnet for Aemmaâs babe, even though I found no pleasure in the task. Daemonâs words this afternoon had sent me tumbling into an unpleasant spiral of emotions, and I directed my dark gaze towards the roaring fire, where the charred remains of my fatherâs letter still sat.Â
Lord Matthos and Lady Primrose, Lord and Lady of Highgarden, and my parents. With my lady mother dead now, and me being their unfortunate sole surviving child, my father had directed his focus on getting me married off as soon as possible. âYou must wed and produce heirs that could inherit Highgarden,â my father had insisted, pleaded, even. âI know with your...reputation, it might be difficult to find a match, but you are no longer young anymore, and you must marry as soon as possible. It is the duty you owe to House Tyrell.âÂ
âMy duty,â I snorted, nearly pricking myself with the needle in the process. It was simply unfair, why must I be expected to marry and pump out babes for my husband while men like Daemon could prance about freely without a care in the world? I wanted to enjoy my youth, as was my right. Why should i care for duty? Even if my father required heirs, House Tyrell was not lacking in any cousins that could inherit if he should pass.Â
Indignation coursed through my blood as I began increasing the speed in which I was weaving the bonnet. Even Aemma had reminded me on more than one occasion of the importance of duty, and I was sick of it. There was just some part of me that couldnât grasp why everyone was so fixated on it. The Seven had granted us one chance at life: one should revel in it by pursuing their own desires. And besides, after witnessing Aemmaâs grief and pain over her many miscarriages and stillbirths, I shuddered to think what duty might have in store for me. I was determined that I would not succumb to the notion of the dutiful, heir producing daughter that my father so wished me to be, no matter how much my father pleaded with me. After all, if Daemon could evade it as long as he did, surely I could do the same.
I frowned as I eyed the finished bonnet. Not as pretty as I envisioned, but children grow fast anyway. I went over to the window, gazing at the Dragonpit, dark and imposing against the night sky. It only made me think of a certain princeling, and I huffed, drawing my curtains shut. Rubbing my temples and exhaling heavily. I decided not to waste any more of my thoughts on the Rogue Prince. Clambering into bed, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.Â
I had not expected to be in attendance at the tournament today. Aemma had been experiencing increasing bouts of pain for the past few days, and I wanted to keep her company should the babe be close to making its arrival in this world. Unexpectedly, I had been nearly dragged out of Aemmaâs apartments by Rhaenyra and Alicent early in the morrow, with Aemma insisting I go spectate the tourney instead of staying with her like a watchful owl. I had argued, but Aemma specifically called upon Rhaenyra and Alicent as reinforcement, with some explicit threats that I would be quartered, hung and my head placed on a spike should I refuse to attend.Â
Thus here I was, in the royal box, my face etched with concern as my mind kept wandering over to Aemma. I prayed fervently to the Seven that she would not go into labour in my absence, and to the Mother that if she did, that her labour would be smooth and painless.Â
âWhat say you, Y/N?â I was pulled out of my reverie, eyes wide as I muttered an unintelligible âHuh?â Rhaenyra rolled her eyes good-naturedly while Alicent struggled to hide her giggles. âI was just discussing with Alicent why you seem to be favouring gowns of Tyrell green as of late. Usually, we noticed you would be in lighter shades.â My gaze shifted downward, surprised at her observation.Â
I was dressed in my best, another gown of Tyrell green silk, with fitted sleeves that trailed to a more sheer, but still dark green material that flared out below my elbows. Several gold roses adorned my shoulders, interspersed with tiny rubies. The neckline dipped slightly in the valley of my breasts, but anything that could cause scandal was covered by a layer of Myrish lace. The dressâ skirts clung to my figure, parting at the centre to reveal an underskirt of olive green and gold brocade. It had cost a fortune, and had once belonged to my mother. My signature gold earrings adorned my earlobes, and my hair was pinned into an elegant braided updo. I might dislike the idea of duty to my house, but regardless, I had to represent House Tyrell in the best light possible, especially at such an important event.Â
Rhaenyra and Alicent were decked out in their finest for the occasion as well. Rhaenyra was clad in Targaryen colours, and I admired the black corset that looked reminiscent of armour fitted across her upper half of her body. Dragon scales were painstakingly patterned on the corset, and they were held together by laces made of fine golden thread. Underneath the corset, she wore a dark red gown with an intricately pleated skirt. The sleeves were off the shoulder, going down to her wrists. Gold shoulder plates set in a dragonscale pattern with gold fringes protected her bare shoulders from the autumn chill. She wore a heavyset necklace cut with square shaped rubies, hammered into gold, and her hair was let loose in a wild cascade of curls. She looked every inch a Targaryen warrior princess. Alicent was dressed simpler, but still looked beautiful nonetheless. A light blue dress of brocade and silk with a square neckline hugged her soft curves, exposing a little bit of her collarbone, where two strands of pearls were draped across her neck. Her sleeves were puffed at the shoulders, stopping short just before her elbow, while the rest of her sleeves were fitted tightly to her wrists. Small delicate flowers were sewn at the hem of her sleeves. Her skirts parted at the centre to reveal an underlying layer of cream white brocade, and her bodice had crisscrossing geometric diamond patterns sewn on it, dipping at her waist with a point. Her hair was fashioned in a half up, half down hairdo, curls tumbling to the small of her back. Both of them had inquisitive looks in their eyes, though Rhaenyraâs harboured a glimpse of impatience.
I smiled a little awkwardly at the question. Truth be told, I had no idea why. My thoughts had been taking on a darker turn since my encounter with Daemon in the throne room and the raven sent by my lord father, and I supposed my choice of apparel reflected my mood. âWell, at such a celebration, it is only fitting of me to dress in the colours of my house.â I reasoned, tilting my head slightly. âDo the darker gowns not suit me?âÂ
âAll colours suit you well, my lady.â Alicent said gently. I smiled gratefully at her, as Rhaenyra turned to Alicent and asked teasingly if she suited any colour as well. My smile widened as I watched the two bicker playfully.Â
We were interrupted however, by the arrival of the King. We all stood up to greet him, bowing politely. He was beaming from ear to ear, as he began addressing the crowd, much to the raucous cheers of the crowd.Â
âThe day has been made more auspicious, by the news I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labours!â My eyes widened upon hearing those words, and as soon as the King finished his address, I stood up, ready to excuse myself to go tend to Aemma, when I felt a hand on my shoulder, effectively halting my attempts of a hasty exit. âViserys-âÂ
âI know you want to be there for Aemma,â the corner of Viserysâ eyes crinkled as he spoke gently, trying to push me back down to my seat, âBut she asked me to relay a message: trust that she will be alright, and enjoy the tourney instead. It will be your only time to relax before you are swept up in your duties to take care of the babe.âÂ
I bit my lip, a sense of unease washing over me. âBut-â âYou must stay and enjoy the tourney. Your King commands it. As does your Queen.â I glanced at him, eyes filled with worry, but he only nodded encouragingly.Â
âIf my king commandsâŠI shall obey,â I said with some reluctance, although it dissipated somewhat when Viserys beamed at me, clapping my shoulder affectionately before sitting back down. I sat back down too, my eyes wandering over to Rhaenyra, who gave me a smile, which I returned. I said a silent prayer to the Seven as the first few contenders were being announced, that both Aemma and her babe would be safe and healthy.
The first of the tilts began, to the boisterous cheers of the crowd. I watched as a jouster carrying a shield with a sigil unknown to me quickly unhorsed a squire of House Tarly. My brows furrowed., I turned to Rhaenyra, âDo you recognise the sigil that the mystery knight was carrying?â She shook her head. Alicent leaned over, eyes fixed on the knight as he steered his horse before the royal box and bowed, âI think heâs from House Cole. Of the Stormlands, I believe.âÂ
Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose, âIâve never heard of House Cole. This should prove most interesting.â I pursed my lips as Lord Boremund Baratheon asked for Princess Rhaenysâ favour, addressing her as âThe Queen Who Never Wasâ, causing the crowd to stir a little in dissent. âYou could have Baratheonâs tongue for that.â âTongues will not change the succession,â came Viserysâ assured response. âLet them wag.âÂ
âLord Stokeworthâs daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire.â âLord Masseyâs son?â Alicent inquired, a little surprised. Rhaenyra nodded, âTheyâre to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.â I snorted, remembering some of the unsavoury rumours I had heard swirling around the court as of late. âBest get on with it,â my voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, âIâve heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.â Rhaenyra's eyes widened in disbelief, and Alicent clapped a hand over her mouth as if reeling from the sheer impropriety of it, while I merely shrugged, a smirk tugging at my lips and turned my gaze back to the proceedings.Â
I leaned forward in my seat, intrigued when the mystery knight of House Cole unhorsed Lord Boremund in a single tilt, much to the crowdâs delight and mocking laughs. Rhaenyra let out a small âoofâ sound, while Alicent looked dumbstruck. Mayhaps the tourney would be of some excitement after all.Â
âPrince Daemon, of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!â The smile that was forming at my lips dropped in an instant, and I pursed my lips as Daemon, clad in his black armour, raced past the audience astride his black steed, much to the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. I rolled my eyes: show off.Â
I was unsurprised and somewhat amused when Daemon chose Ser Gwayne Hightower as his first jousting opponent. Of course, Daemon chose today to be even more of a little shit than usual. Oftentimes, I wondered if he gained his life essence from pissing Otto Hightower off. I craned my neck backwards to catch a glimpse of the Handâs expression, my lips curving upwards in a smirk when I took note of his irked expression.Â
Suddenly, I felt a heavy stare upon me, and I turned back to the spectacle to see Daemonâs violet eyes fixed on me. When he met my gaze, that little shit had the audacity to smirk and tilt his lance at me. I huffed and turned away, fixing my eyes on Ser Gwayne instead. Â
I had to bite my lip to stifle a laugh as Daemonâs lance was nearly knocked out of his hand by a well angled tilt by Ser Gwayne. Mayhaps that smug bastard will get some comeuppance today, I thought with glee.Â
That glee was short lived as Ser Gwayne was thrown from his horse in an unsightly scene, when Daemon aimed for his horseâs legs, causing the animal to neigh with agony as it slid forward and bucked Ser Gwayne off into the dirt. I heard Alicent gasp with fright next to me, and I reached out to pat her hand reassuringly. That cheating bastard really had no scruples when it came to dealing with Otto Hightower, even to his kin.Â
I frowned as I watched Daemon parade around on his horse, looking all too pleased with himself. I was caught off guard however, when Daemon came to a stop in front of the royal box, prompting Rhaenyra to get out of her seat, tugging me and Alicent with her. I was screaming internally for Rhaenyra not to drag me into this, but I begrudgingly followed Rhaenyra as she leaned over the railing, grinning at Daemon. âNicely done, uncle,â Rhaenyra complimented him, causing Daemon to tilt his chin upwards arrogantly. âThank you, Princess.âÂ
He smirked as he zeroed in on me, lingering behind Alicent. âLady Y/N,â he called, a certain mischief in his voice. Oh no.Â
âYou look rather radiant today, dressed in your house colours.â I narrowed my eyes, aware of his attempts to bait me, by first paying me a compliment, so that if I rejected him, I would seem ill-mannered. But with so many eyes on us, I could only respond through gritted teeth, âThank you, my prince.âÂ
âWith such a beautiful lady as the one before me, Iâd be remiss if I didnât ask for her favour.â Murmurs echoed throughout the crowd, as I attempted to minimise the lethality of my death glare. This brazen little punk. To ask for my favour after what he had said yesterday-
I leaned forward, whispering harshly, âWhat in the seven hells do you think youâre doing?â Daemon merely raised an eyebrow. âYou know I am certain I can win these little games. Having your favour would all but assure it. You wonât rebuff me with so many eyes watching us, wonât you, byka zaldrizes?âÂ
Grinding my teeth, I did my best to keep my expression neutral. He was right, the crowd was getting restless. I could hear some murmuring from the lords behind me, and even Rhaenyra was nudging me subtly. The gods have chosen to curse me on this very day. I sighed, before moving to retrieve my favour, a small wreath of orange and purple flowers. Sliding it down the lance Daemon offered up, I forced a smile on my face. âI wish you good luck in the jousts, my prince.âÂ
Daemon smirked, having gotten under her skin like he wanted. âWith your favour, Iâm sure I donât need it.â Daemon rode away as I rolled my eyes and took my seat once more, Rhaenyra and Alicent following suit. âIt appears the Prince Daemon is attempting to play nice today, Lady Y/N,â Alicent smiled at me. Rhaenyra nodded earnestly, âMayhaps he is starting to be civil to you, Y/N.â I had to refrain from snorting and saying something very derogatory about the Prince, instead letting my surly expression do all the talking.Â
As Lady Y/N was distracted by the frenzy of the tourney, a maester sidled up to the Hand of the King to relay a message. The Handâs eyes turned grim, and he turned towards Viserys, whose expression was still filled with mirth after witnessing his brother ask Y/N for her favour. Upon hearing the news, the Kingâs face visibly blanched, and he got out of his seat swiftly, followed closely by the Hand.Â
Y/N, Alicent and Rhaenyra were engaged in fervent conversation, completely absorbed in the proceedings. But soon enough, the tourney had given way to violence and bloodshed. Y/N winced and averted her gaze as one after the other, the jousters who chose to continue their battle in arms caved in each otherâs heads, fighting each other like feral beasts. A wave of nausea rolled over her, and she did her best to block out the sound of agonised grunts and screams from the bludgeoned competitors. Looking over, she saw Alicent picking at her own fingernails till it was bloody. Frowning, she quickly nudged Alicent, who immediately stopped with a sheepish expression. Covering Alicentâs hand with hers to provide some reassurance, Y/N turned her head backward to take in Viserysâ expression, startled when she realised both the King and the Hand were missing. Cursing herself for her lack of awareness, she quickly moved to get up, but Alicent pulled her down to her seat. âY/N, you must not leave now!â Alicent insisted, âPrince Daemon is about to tilt against Ser Criston!âÂ
I tried to shake off Alicentâs hand, but her grip was surprisingly strong. âI couldnât give two damns about Daemon, the Queen needs me-â âIt would be rude to leave before youâve seen the jouster whom youâve bestowed your favour to compete,â Rhaenyra chimed in, her purple eyes alight with excitement. âFather is there with Mother, she will be alright. They commanded you to enjoy the tourney with us, and as your princess, I order you to stay.â My face fell as I chewed my lip while glancing at the exit of the royal box. Alicent tugged on my hand, and I found myself relenting at the determined looks both of them were levelling at me. After all, there was no harm in staying for just a while. And I might even see Daemon get bested for the first time in his life.Â
Reluctantly, I relayed my attention back to the tourney, just as both the competitors began charging at each other. Putting a hand over my mouth, I watched as Ser Criston and Daemon both failed to knock each other off their horses in the first tilt. With my heart in my mouth, my eyes nearly boggled out of my head when I watched Daemon being knocked off his saddle and into the dirt.Â
Daemon had lost.Â
Mouth agape, I stayed rooted in my seat, even as the crowd all stood to rain thunderous applause and cheers on Ser Criston. I felt a smug smile slowly spreading across my lips. Daemon had lost! At long last, someone had humbled that egotistical bastard, and I had been here to witness it. I sighed happily, savouring the prospect of being able to mock him for this for the rest of his life. âPrince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!âÂ
I raised my eyebrows as Daemon approached Ser Criston, wielding Dark Sister with a dangerous expression on his face. He is nothing better than a petulant toddler throwing a tantrum, I thought to myself, snickering. My eyebrows shot to my forehead when I noticed Ser Criston carrying a morningstar. A most unusual weapon.Â
The crowd followed the ensuing sparring match with enthralled eyes, myself included. Rhaenyra was nearly falling out of her seat from the way she was leaning forward, and Alicent had a hand over her mouth. When Ser Criston splintered Daemonâs shield, it was like something feral had awoken in Daemon. He began doling out more impulsive blows as anger overtook him, slashing at Ser Criston like a madman and deftly manoeuvring out of the range of his blows.Â
I clasped Alicentâs hand tightly in mine as Daemon kicked Ser Criston to the ground, pouncing on him with brutal force. When Daemon blocked Ser Cristonâs attack by lodging Dark Sister with the morningstarâs chains, Rhaenyra reached over to take Alicentâs hand, squeezing it tightly. Finally, Daemon delivered the final blow, hurling the remains of his shield at Ser Criston, striking him squarely in the face and causing him to flounder on the ground.Â
I shook my head in disbelief as Daemon raised both his arms up, hollering and revelling in his triumph. But that victory was soon short lived as Daemon felt a slash on his behind, knocking him to the dirt, face first. I felt Alicent reel back in surprise next to me. Daemon tried to lurch for his sword, but was forced to submission by a few well aimed kicks from Ser Criston, breathing heavily as he dangled the morningstar threateningly in Daemonâs face.Â
âYield.â Daemon could scarce believe what was happening right now. He had lost. To some unknown commonborn knight. Him, the Rogue Prince. The finest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms. Tasting bile in his mouth, he gritted his teeth. âYield.â Ser Cristonâs voice made it clear that he would not ask again. Daemon chuckled humorlessly, refusing to say a word, but begrudgingly surrendered. He knocked away the arm that the knight offered, rising to his feet before stalking off. While leaving the jousting field, he took note of Y/N running off from the royal box. His ire now increased by tenfold, he swiftly made his way to the exit of the royal box, where he spotted his lady emerging from the shadows. Snarling, he grabbed her wrist, spinning her around to face him. âDaemon, let me go right now. I do not have time for your tantrums-âÂ
âIt was you,â he hissed, twisting her arm, causing her to grimace. His rage was blinding him, the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears making his blood boil. âYour favour cursed me. If it hadnât been for you, I would have won. And instead, I was humiliated-â Y/N scoffed, trying to break away, but Daemon only tightened her grip. âYou lost because you were a cocky, arrogant bastard. Do not attempt to blame your failings on me. Now let go!âÂ
Daemonâs vision was nearly red by now, and he pulled her closer to him as he spat out, âYouâre not going anywhere, byka zaldrizes.â âLet. Go.â her voice was laced with contempt. âI will not ask a second time. Go reflect and accept your loss, maybe this will teach you some humility.âÂ
Daemon opened his mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by the arrival of that cunt, Otto Hightower. He wanted to spit at him to fuck right off, but the look on his face made him think twice. Y/Nâs hand went slack, causing Daemon to release her, worried that he had hurt her. He looked between the both of them, confused, but quickly caught on when he saw the Hand bow his head grimly.Â
Daemon had experienced a lot of things he would never forget that day, but nothing could compare to the pure look of devastation on Y/Nâs face at that moment. The Hand inclined his head, lips pressed together, before he moved past them to the entrance to the royal box, no doubt to inform the other lords.Â
His anger dissipating, an unsure look appeared on his face as he scrutinised Y/Nâs face. She nearly stumbled over, eyes mad with grief, and Daemon unconsciously caught her arm with his left hand, steadying her. She didnât seem to register his touch however, mumbling in a daze, âAemmaâŠI need to find Viserys. ViserysâŠâ Daemon followed her movements with his eyes silently, as she mounted a horse reserved for the nobility nearby, spurring it towards the Red Keep. He watched her disappear into the distance, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his purple eyes swimming with a dozen complicated emotions. He needed to get out of his armour, it suddenly felt all too stifling to be in it.Â
Y/N raced into the Red Keep, taking the steps two at a time as she rushed past startled servants. Barging into Aemmaâs apartments, she stopped short when she reached Aemmaâs bedchambers, her hand going to her mouth when she took in the gruesome sight before her, praying fervently that it was just some sick nightmare.Â
Queen Aemma, no, her friend, her dearly beloved friend, Aemma, was sprawled out on the bed, the coppery stench of blood permeating through the room. Trickles of blood still oozed out of the incisions the maesters had made around her abdomen, and Y/N felt bile creeping up her throat as she realised what had been done.
No.Â
No.Â
 Y/N bypassed Viserys - still hunched over in grief, staring at Baelonâs small, wiggling frame with a broken expression - and went straight to Aemma. Her footsteps felt leaden and unsteady, as she crouched down to hold Aemmaâs lifeless hand. She squeezed it desperately, willing her to wake up, to be alive. But it was in vain.Â
Y/N went still, before she gently reached over and slid Aemmaâs wide blue eyes shut. Trembling as tears began to cloud her vision, Y/N noticed the sunâs rays glinting off a small object tucked between Aemmaâs sweat covered neck. It was Rhaenyraâs present to Aemma, that necklace with the ruby falcon pendant, its red shining brilliantly in the sun as Y/N and Viserys mourned for their good Aemma.Â
rip aemma :( and also f*ck viserys, he deserves to be burnt alive, roasted and fed to balerion.Â
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The Enemy of My Enemy
Summary: When your home port suddenly claims a ban on pirates docking there, you and your rival are forced to join forces. Characters: Kim Hongjoong + Gender Ambiguous Reader; ft. ATEEZ members Genre: Fantasy Short Series (part 1) with a bit of Angst (and possible fluff in later parts) Tropes: pirate!AU, enemies to friends (to lovers in a later part), working together against a mutual enemy Word Count: 2.9K Contains: pirate-related violence (explosions, knives, injury, blood, etc), betrayal, cursing, mention of death and loss of limbs, homoromantic undertones for certain characters (nothing explicit or confirmed), use of 'sir' as honorific without gendered undertones
A/N: support banner by @cafekitsune ; pirate divider by @firefly-graphics đ€
You aren't new to discrimination, not by any means. However, that didn't stop you from getting blindsided as you tied your ship to its usual post at the port.
"This ship and its crew are unwelcome in this port." A stern, deep voice booms from behind you, loud enough to gather the attention of everyone nearby - all but yours, at least.
As you finish tying the knot and stand up, you feel the figure looming directly behind you. You hadn't the slightest thought that they were speaking of your wondrous Moon Raider, not after the past three years of ensuring that your crew respected the port and its customs.
Turning, you ask the man, "What ship is unwelcome, exactly?"
Although you wanted to hide your irritation, your crew noticed. The man also must've noticed since he clears his throat harshly before responding with a tone rivaling that of an automated robot.
"Any and all pirate ships have been banned from docking on our port. Leave immediately or face the consequences."
Your irritation morphs into booming laughter, "We always pay any fines you assign us. What's with the extra formality this time around?"
As you mimic his stature, you notice another officer walking past your boat's position. You watch him announce the same rehearsed statement to the captain there as he hops out to anchor his ship to its post. However, rather than offering him a chance to leave, he grabs his arm, locking him into constraints instantly. At this point, you realize the gravity of the situation, but it's all too late. As you're focused on the Sun Howler, the officer in front of you approaches and places restraints on you. You call out to your crew, reminding them to stay calm and follow all the rules.
Dragging your rival, the other officer follows behind as you walk with your officer silently. Trying to remain calm, you attempt to calculate why this may happen. Although you may not follow all the rules perfectly, everything worked out up until now. And, although you may not enjoy competing with him, you know Captain Hongjoong plays fair just like you. For the harbor police to arrest you both, there's really only one option: new port ownership. Although this was your first time back to the dock in months, you hadn't expected such a drastic change.
Reaching the prison, the officers shove you both into a cell together. Through the bars, they remove your cuffs.
"You sure we won't kill each other in here?" You joke, screaming at their backs as they leave, entirely unfazed by your comment.
"I think they'd prefer it," Hongjoong scoffs as he taps on the sheath on his hip, "Otherwise, they'd at least remove our obvious weapons."
Cursing, you sit down with your back against the cold brick wall. Fidgeting with the frayed fabric on the thigh of your pants, you wonder if the situation could get any worse.
"What'd you do, Raider?" He prompts, using your boat as your name, somewhat of a custom between you.
"Nothing here. Not in a long time. We've been gone for three months time. What of you, Howler?"
You look up to see him leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed and one foot laid over the other. He shakes his head, and - although his hat covers his face - you can imagine how hard the cogs turn in his head to analyze the situation.
"It wasn't like this when I left either. We've only been gone about seven weeks. How'd something happen so quickly?"
After a long period of silence, you hear footsteps approaching. Even simply seeing their shoes, everything clicks for you. You can tell Hongjoong understands as well, as you can sense him tense up.
"Hongjoong.Y/N. What an amazing situation for us to reunite."
The callous tone pricks at your skin, leaving goosebumps in its stead, but you refuse to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Your cellmate, however, is far too quick to anger to stop himself. He leans against the bars as he curses at the person who once sailed the seas opposite you both.
"The fuck is going on, Wooyoung?! Why in hell's name are you standing there high and mighty while we're stuck in a damned cage in this cellar?!"
Hands up by his head, Wooyoung stifles a laugh, "Quite aggressive now, aren't we? I know we were rivals on the sea years ago, but it looks like I won out."
"Sell out. Traitor. Fucking turncoat."
This time, he allows his laugh to echo through the prison. Cockily, he steps closer to Hongjoong, leaning in just barely out of reach.
"Does it matter what I did if I won? You look pathetic, Captain."
With this comment, you interject, "This is why you never had a loyal crew, you know. Your ego got in the way and Topaz Shields lost out because of it. Such a gorgeous ship, too. So sad. How's the leg?"
Knowing he wanted to hit below the belt, you remind him of his greatest tragedy by asking about his leg. Due to his ego, he drove his ship directly into the sirens' call and barely escaped with his life. He lost his loyal-to-a-fault first mate that day two years ago, all because he couldn't stand the thought of the other two crews finding a sacred treasure before him.
"Don't you dare mention Shields, Raider. The leg was the least of my troubles, and you know that much."
"Right, right. Pardon my impertinence. How could I forget that you lost your boyfriend as well?"
Trying to hold his composure, he reminds you that San was only ever his first mate, nothing more. Despite what everyone knows to be true thanks to their actions and Wooyoung's immediate reaction to the man's untimely death, he has denied his feelings since the incident - something to hide behind to lessen his feelings of guilt for causing his death.
"Well, whatever the case, I've come here to alert you that we'll be charging you for crimes against the city through your illegal market dealings and disregard for the laws of the area."
Hearing a former pirate captain charge someone for essentially being a pirate feels laughable, but you simply ask for the price point of said charges.
"Oh, no price for this one, Y/N. You both have been sentenced to time in jail equal to that of your career length. For you, that's three years; Hongjoong, you have 4."
Quick to react once again, Hongjoong unsheaths his dagger and swings it through the bars. It cuts Wooyoung on the lower part of his cheek, but the sound is far more intimidating than the actual damage.
Bringing his hand up to his face, Wooyoung smirks as he sees his red-stained fingertips. You keep a hand on your weapon, worried he might lash out against you both, but he simply turns to walk out.
"Enjoy your years. Once you return, there will be no Sun Howler. No Moon Raider. No pirates." He doubles down with his irritating remarks by waving his hand nonchalantly as he turns the corner.
As soon as the click of his footsteps fades to silence, Hongjoong drops into a squat. He curses Wooyoung and grumbles about the ridiculous sentencing. Seeing him freak out like this makes you giggle. He's usually light and free, the shining sun amongst a hoard of disheveled and mangled captains. You share that commonality with him - you've never quite been one for abandoning health and presentation, even if that's what many people picture when imagining pirates. The crews from this port rarely saw those kinds of pirates, not when the three captains who called this place home were you, Hongjoong, and Wooyoung. So, seeing one of these captains falling apart on the floor while cursing and swinging at someone makes you wonder how quickly you could also fall apart.
Shaking your head to rid yourself of those thoughts, you break the silence, "What's the plan, Howler?"
He looks at you dumbfounded, "Plan?"
"The escape plan? Ain't no way I'm letting that one-legged chicken act all high and mighty like that. We aren't gonna sit here and accept years of punishment for things he once did with us."
Suddenly recognizing escape as an option, Hongjoong stands up straight. You see a fire burning in his eyes and tricks within his crooked smile. He twirls the dagger around carelessly as he paces in the small box of a cell. With his newfound joy, he examines the bars, the lock, and every crevice that might be used to thwart Wooyoung's scheme and escape from the prison.
"I think this calls for a good old-fashioned bust out. Unless you think you can pick the lock from in here."
You approach the bars, trying to find the perfect angle to see what you need on the lock. However, you can't find the necessary parts to allow you to pick it from awkward angles. Turning to your cellmate, you shake your head.
"Bust out it is. Not as quiet, but it gets the job done all the same." He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a small trinket about the size and shape of a pocketwatch, which confuses you. He must be able to read the confusion on your face, because he explains, "My first mate loves to tinker, and he's made some marvelous contraptions. Stand back at the bars and watch."
Listening to his advice, you stand flush against the metal bars, the cold bleeding through your clothing to leave your skin feeling fresh. He stands next to you, flips the gadget open and closed quickly, and tosses it to the opposite side of the cell. When it connects with the wall, you hear a clicking noise and instinctively close your eyes. In that short moment, you feel Hongjoong move from beside you to in front of you. With the cold on your back and the warmth from his body closely in front of you, you barely process the explosion. When you open your eyes, you see the captain boxing himself around you, framed by the outside light streaming in. You assume it's around midday from how strongly it enters the room, and you try to look anywhere that isn't directly at Hongjoong's face.
He clears his throat as he steps back, "Sorry. I didn't want debris flying into your chest or anything."
Noticing him fiddling with his shoulder, you quickly thank him before asking if he's injured. Although he blows it off, he refuses to turn around, so you know debris likely lodged itself into his upper back. You decide not to fight it until you reach the docks, so you simply make your way over the rubble and out into the sunlight, letting him follow behind to hide his injuries.
Despite the explosion, nobody seems interested when you walk past. The only looks passed your way feel like those typical for known pirates walking around. As you reach the docks again, your crew quickly catches sight of you and rushes off the ship. You're glad that they make it to you long before his crew can see you.
"Mingi, can you tend to him? We blew our way out of jail, and he got hit with debris. He's acting like he's fine, but drag him aboard anyway."
Hongjoong tries to argue, but Mingi ends up behind him and sees the injury. With your first mate yelling at him for hiding it, he can't help but walk onto the Moon Raider for medical help. As he passes you, you sneak a glance at his back and see the top left corner of his otherwise tan shirt torn and stained dark red already. Trying to figure out the trajectory of the rubble, you place your hand on your right shoulder and vow to find Hongjoong a new shirt as thanks for blocking it from hitting you.
After reassuring your crew that everything will be okay and joking that you may be fined for the massive hole in the prison wall, you make your way past your prized ship. Approaching Sun Howler, you receive a much colder reception. Bowing before the ship, you address the first mate.
"Quartermaster of Sun Howler, I wish to inform you that your captain is currently aboard the Moon Raider receiving medical care from my crew. He protected me during an explosion of his creation, so I took it as my role to aid him with our supplies. He will be fine, and we will send him to you once his wound is properly dressed."
As you raise your head, you notice an exceptionally pretty man standing about ten feet in front of you. He nods as you acknowledge him before thanking you for taking care of his captain. You weren't expecting someone who could shine in his own respect to be Hongjoong's right hand, but hearing him speak makes you understand exactly why he would be in such a position. A voice that rivals one of a siren, the grace in his speech patterns, and his subtly decorated uniform all suggest a royal background. You begin to wonder whether he was a runaway or kidnapped and assimilated.
"Stop gawking at Seonghwa, Raider. Don't go stealing someone else's first mate." Hongjoong struts up to you, shirtless other than the bandages circling his chest, back, and shoulder blade.
Although Seonghwa laughs at the comment and explains the situation, Hongjoong doesn't back down in his jests, pointing out Seonghwa's obvious beauty.
"Sometimes, even I swear you're a siren. Even royals don't typically look and sound as good as you. You sparkle, Hwa." He reaches the boy as he talks, placing a hand on his shoulder to emphasize his final sentence.
"Captain, stop with the flattery. A first mate is never as wonderful as the captain, and yet you forbid us from saying those types of comments towards you."
Feeling out of place in the interaction, you quietly excuse yourself and begin walking back to your ship, but Hongjoong calls after you, "Y/N, let's find a new port together."
You try not to react, but the comment makes you trip over the air by your feet. You hope that they don't notice while you continue walking, making your way to your ship to break the news to your crew that you need to find a new home base and likely won't be able to return. Some crew members are quick to show their anger towards Wooyoung, but you reassure everyone with one simple claim.
"If we've done everything we can and they still don't want us here, we shouldn't want to stay either."
You explain how there likely isn't any time for goodbyes since the police likely won't waste time chasing you down again, so you work towards setting sail immediately. Luckily, your crew instinctively filled up on supplies while you were stuck in the cell, so there isn't much left to do.
"Cap'n, there's someone requesting to talk to you. Should we allow him aboard?" A member screams across the ship.
"Who is it?"
"Captain Hongjoong of Sun Howler, sir."
"Let him board."
As your new companion faces you, you address him properly and lead him into your chambers. Motioning to the nearest chair at your desk, you drop the formalities in the privacy of the room. Dragging out another chair to sit in front of him, you ask about the plan. As he recounts the pirates and their known home ports, you deduce that the safest plan would be to sail north, up the coast to the city rivaling this one.
"Won't they shun us away?"
"Didn't you and I once shun each other away and brace this port together regardless? Or what of Wooyoung taking over this city to shun us away from here?"
Nodding in acknowledgment, Hongjoong confirms, "So, we head north? Stop at each port we come across?"
"We might end up too close if we do that. Does your crew have the supplies to sail safely for a week before finding a port? I don't want to taunt Shields too soon; I want to be ready to fight back."
Uncertain of Wooyoung's response to your escape, the captain agrees to meet again in a week's time. After the seventh sunrise, they will look for the closest port. In case of landing at different ports, you agree on a plan to find one another via smoke signals and a trail of coded notes. To stay one step ahead of potential enemies, you assign each other new aliases to use in the notes, basing the initials on the boats' names and their respective quartermasters: Sea Heist Sails and Mightly Reel Mast.
After agreeing on the specifics, you shake Hongjoong's hand and wish him luck on his journey. Leaving you with a quick show of comradery in smiling and claiming that he'll see you in a week, he heads back to the Sun Howler to untie her and set sail. Following his lead, you untie Moon Raider and instruct Mingi to head north, staying near the coastline if possible.
As you drift out of the port, you hear a commotion behind you. Eyes drawn towards the ruckus, you see Wooyoung red-faced and angrily yelling at his guards. As he flails his arms in the direction of your ship, he makes direct eye contact with you. With a smug smile on your face, you remove your hat in a mocking salute, signaling to the man that you've won this round without breaking a sweat.
Tags: @yourfatherlucifer @pyeonghongrie
#cultofdionysusnet#wonderlandnet#kpop scenarios#kpop imagines#kpop fanfiction#kpop fic#ateez#ateez imagines#ateez scenarios#ateez fanfiction#ateez fic#ateez hongjoong#pirate ateez#ateez pirate au#kim hongjoong#hongjoong scenarios#hongjoong imagines#hongjoong fic#hongjoong fanfic
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the overlook
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader x Tess Servopoulos
Word Count: 23.3k
Rating: Explicit
Summary: When you almost get killed, Joel and Tess are there to rescue you. They take you in and Joel nurses you back to health. When you discover that Joel and Tess are in a relationship, tension rises until it inevitably breaks.
Warnings: threesome (m/f/f) | but itâs also very depressing, so keep that in mind when reading it | masturbation (f) | voyeurism kink | unprotected p in v sex | hair pulling | overstimulation | fingering (f receiving) | hand job | (very brief) cum play | canon typical violence and gore | themes of death/dying | mentions of abuse and rape (nothing graphic) | descriptions of injuries and medical procedures (again, nothing too graphic) | mentions of food and alcohol | and yes I donât shut up about Joelâs hands
Notes: Well, here it is, one and half months after I first mentioned it. As it turns out, I wrote a short novella about Joel and Tess and their little hideaway high up in the mountains that they suddenly have to share with someone else. HUGE thanks to Dani @joel-tessââ (which is a very fitting URL lmao) for spending two whole weeks reading this and leaving helpful comments and pointing out that I start half my sentences with 'but' and the other half with 'and'. I hope the end result is worthy of the show, at least I was trying to make this about love and what it means to love in a world that runs on hopelessness and hate.
***
Everything hurts. Every bone, every muscle, every movement, no matter how small. Are your eyes closed or open? Is it day or night? Those things lose all meaning in a world where youâre so close to death. You donât even feel the clammy wetness of the snow because the ache in your side makes everything else seem less important.
A gurgling sound escapes your throat, and you stop breathing, just for a little while, but long enough for panic to kick in. Your body doesnât want to die. It hasnât accepted its fate yet, the one your mind has made peace with. The blood you cough up lands sticky on your lips and chin. Thereâs really no coming back from this. You donât want to spend your last minutes on Earth fighting and struggling â you donât want to die how you lived.
Now you start to feel the cold seeping in through your torn pants, making your legs numb. Or maybe thatâs just what dying feels like. Maybe your body is shutting down, limb by limb. First your legs, then your arms, and soon all that will be left will be your brain, your thoughts, all the things you regret, all the things you should have done differently, all the chances you didnât take. Just like your body that should accept your journey is coming to an end, you too should accept that you did the best you could in a world that has been trying to kill you from the start. Maybe you should be proud youâve made it this far. There is no shame in dying in a cold, dark forest under the stars, no shame at all in accepting defeat when faced with an enemy that is so much stronger than you are.
Your eyes are open now, and you can see the dark outlines of the trees surrounding you, the darker, more solid shadows moving between the trunks. Maybe theyâve come back to gloat, or to finish the job. It doesnât matter â why should you spend your last minutes worrying? Coughing, you turn your head to look up at the sky again, at the vastness above you. Yes, you never thought you would die here, today, but there are also worse ways to go, darker, more painful ones. Maybe you should be grateful youâre not dying in an abandoned warehouse, chained, gagged, discarded. Youâre free, out in the open, able to breathe clean air, feel a gentle breeze on your cheeks. And youâre not alone, not with thousands of stars twinkling above you, and the forest whispering sweet nothings.
Your eyes are closed now, and you can feel yourself drift off. There is no more fight left in your body, no more struggle against the inevitable. You feel warm all over, as if someone is hugging you, refusing to let go. Surrendering is so simple, so easy. In death there are no more expectations, no reason to worry about snapping branches and heavy steps. All those things are irrelevant now â what matters is to let go. Once youâve done that, youâll be free. You already are free you realize with a burst of relief. Those heavy footfalls close to you, they donât fill you with worry or dread or fear. Itâs not even indifference that youâre feeling. You just feel nothing.
Nothing at all.
*******
Death is colder than you expected.
Itâs a cold, harsh wind that cuts your face and burns your hand. All those stories about a bright light, about an engulfing warmth were lies. As were those about pain vanishing because you feel it burning, eating away at your side, even more intense than it was before. Or maybe there is a Hell after all, and instead of being filled with fire and brimstone and screams and horrors, itâs this â having to go on how you died, cold and in pain, unable to escape your mistakes and regrets.
Do you deserve to be in Hell? Youâre not sure. Probably not any more or less than everyone else you know. Yes, you killed people, but who didnât? At least you never killed without having a good reason. You didnât lead an honest life, but no one could under these circumstances. Lying and cheating and manipulating was what kept you alive for all these years. If you hadnât allowed yourself to make some mistakes, you wouldâve died much sooner. But maybe that was the point â if you had stopped fighting, maybe there would be light and warmth waiting for you now.
Blood tickles the back of your throat but youâre too weak to cough. All you can do is lie there, the copper taste filling your mouth before you feel yourself drift off into unconsciousness. At least youâre allowed this short break. Maybe death isnât so bad after all.
*******
Death smells like gasoline and disinfectant, it smells like burning trash and blood. That doesnât surprise you now that youâve made peace with never being embraced by that warm light. Death is also quiet, calm. No more rustling leaves, no more heavy steps â just silence. If the smell wasnât so bad it made you retch, you would think you were back home, in your childhood bedroom, before the world was fucked up and you lost everything. Or maybe you have to experience it all over again, the loss, the pain, the heartbreak. Maybe thatâs your punishment for killing and lying and cheating. It could be worse, you decide. Itâs nothing you donât know, nothing you canât live with.
Watching your mother being executed by soldiers? You replay those few short seconds every day, and have been for 15 years. Reliving the pain of your brother beating you until you couldnât get up? You forgave him for that a long time ago because he was right â you deserved it. Being gagged and bound so you couldnât run off, unable to escape your father selling you to a group of men when you were barely 22? Back then, you thought it was the worst thing that could happen to you. You laugh. Life had so much worse in store for you.
All those memories canât hurt you anymore, but there is just one ⊠one day you donât want to relive. Still, there is no sense in worrying about it now. You can submit to the guilt and self-hatred when you get there. And maybe you wonât. Maybe something else entirely is about to happen, something much worse than you could ever imagine. No one knows what happens after death, but youâre about to find out.
*******
The voices have been with you for quite some time, but you still canât recognize them. You canât be sure, but you donât think youâve heard them before. Itâs odd â isnât this supposed to be about your life, your memories? Maybe you could place them if you could understand what they were saying, but itâs impossible to make out. Youâre fairly certain there are at least one man and one woman. Sometimes you can hear her laughing, sometimes she shouts and growls. His voice is always the same, a deep rumble, monotone.
It could be that you know them. Youâve met so many people over the course of your life, so many strangers, some of them good, some of them cold and cruel and dangerous. But if the man and the woman are significant to you, significant to learning one final lesson, then why donât you recognize them? And why canât you understand what theyâre saying? Whatâs the point to it all?
When you realize you can open your eyes, it comes as a shock to you, and you immediately close them again. You donât want to see because you donât want to know where you are, but your left arm itches and burns, and you canât move your right hand to feel out what the problem might be. You also canât move your left arm or your legs for that matter. So, if you want to find out whatâs going on, youâre going to have to open your eyes sooner or later.
Youâre breathing too fast but you canât help it. If this is death, then why are you so terrified? The worst thing that could happen to you has already happened. There is nothing worse, nothing more final than dying. Still, you pant like a rabbit caught in a trap, your heart fluttering inside your chest when you finally manage to force yourself to open your eyes. And you see nothing, just darkness, not entirely black but too dense to make out much except a lamp somewhere above your head, the lightbulb cold and dark. It could be worse.
Even with your breathing still too fast and your heart still fighting with everything it has, you manage to turn your head to the left. You can make out an IV bag next to the surface youâre lying on, its line leading to your arm, buried in the crook of it. You groan, and try to lift your right hand again to free yourself but you canât. You canât and you donât know why and the room is spinning and spinning and ⊠you realize.
Youâre tied down.
You can feel the coarse leather against your skin now, against both wrists and around your ankles. This canât be death â itâs too much like life, too much like what youâre used to. A disappointed sob forces its way out of your chest, followed by a dry heave. Not only did you fail to escape, you ended up in a worse situation than before. Panic grips you, cold and hard, and you donât hear yourself screaming but you must have because a door bangs open and the voices are in the room with you now.
You lose consciousness ⊠you donât want to know.
*******
You dream of a mountain stream, cold and clear. You dream of the ocean, of waves rolling in, quietly at first, then louder and louder. You dream of birds in the sky, of your gun in your hand. You dream of red sunrises, of fire burning flesh, of the iron taste of blood.
You dream of her.
You donât want to dream of her, so you wake yourself up. But the only thing that awaits you is the horror of still being alive, of still being trapped in a windowless room, hooked up to an IV bag, tied down, with no idea about where you are, what time it is, and what they want from you. And you wish you had died in that forest under the stars, so the snow could have covered your body, and you would have been forgotten. But youâre refused that one final kindness, even now, when you have nothing left to lose.
There are sounds outside the locked door â itâs bound to be locked, isnât it? You canât get up and check, but there is no point anyway. Youâve been confronted with enough locked doors in your life to know better than to expect anything else. The sounds are loud, metallic, like someone is working on something, destroying it. You donât hear voices anymore, you donât hear the man or the woman, you donât know if itâs one of them out there or someone else entirely. And itâs probably best that you donât. The sooner you find answers to those questions youâre chewing on, the sooner youâll be in danger again.
The sounds stop and your entire body tenses. You try to move but you canât â all you get as a reward is a sharp pain in your left side, right where the bullet hit you. But itâs much softer compared to the pain you felt lying in the snow. It doesnât take up so much of your mental capacity now and you can breathe through it. Almost as if someone tended to the wound and itâs healing. But before you can ponder that possibility you hear a key being turned in the lock of your door and it swings open, bringing a beam of light with it.
You donât want to see, so you close your eyes, pretend you are still asleep. It wonât save you, it never has before, but it might buy you some time, prolong the inevitable for a little while longer. But your breathing is too fast, your body is too tense â youâre not fooling anyone.
You hear footsteps that sound heavy against the hard floor. One pair of boots, so at least youâll only have to deal with one of them for now. Not that you can deal with anyone in the condition youâre in, but itâs still a small consolation.
âI know youâre awake.â A deep voice. A manâs voice.
You donât move. He doesnât know shit.
He sighs, moves closer to the bed youâre lying on, but he doesnât touch you, doesnât hit you. Instead, you feel an uncomfortable tug on your arm as he checks the IV. And thatâs it. Thatâs all he does. Soon, you hear his footsteps receding, moving back toward the door. And you risk one glance at him before he shuts it behind himself.
You should focus on the gun and knife strapped to his side, on the fact that you could easily grab them from your position if you werenât tied down. Instead, all you can see is his profile, mostly hidden in shadow, his strong jaw and big nose, his furrowed brow. And despite all your instincts, despite everything you had to learn the hard way, you want to believe heâs not planning on hurting you.
What a foolish thought to have.
*******
The next time you wake up, the restraints on your ankles and wrists are gone. You notice it immediately because youâre curled up on your side in a tight ball, hugging yourself. But once you realize that, you shoot upright, pulling the needle from your arm with the quick movement. Before you can jump out of the bed, you feel a yank and a metallic clang puts you back in your place. Yes, the leather is gone, but youâre still handcuffed to the bed. Youâre only able to move more as long as youâre not planning on getting up.
âSleep well?â
It takes everything in you not to scream. Youâve been alone in this room for so long, waking up alone for so long, you werenât expecting someone else to be there with you. And thatâs on you â you really should know better after living like this for 15 years.
The room is still dark, except for a lamp right next to your bed thatâs bright enough to let you guess the dimensions of the space youâre in. Outside the circle of light, just beyond what you can comfortably see, the man who checked up on you ⊠hours ago â maybe days ago â sits on a chair, leaned back, legs spread, arms crossed over his chest. Today, you canât pretend youâre still asleep.
âWho are you?â Your voice is hoarse from screaming, itâs hoarse because youâre parched.
He nods at you. âDrink.â
You take your eyes off him for a second to see thereâs a glass of water on a small table next to the bed. You donât touch it.
He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. âItâs not poisoned if thatâs what youâre worried about.â
âWho are you?â
Would knowing really help you? Probably not. But it would give you back some control. It would make you feel like you were more than a good heâs going to barter the first chance he gets.
âMy name is Joel.â He looks at his hands when he says it, so you canât see his eyes. You canât know if heâs telling the truth, but there is no reason for him to lie. Joel. He could be anyone and no one, but heâs the man whoâs currently holding you captive.
âWhere am I? Why am I here?â
Joel sighs again. âI ainât the one ⊠Iâm just supposed to make sure you donât dehydrate. Drink.â
You shake your head.
âYou almost died out there. Hell, you almost died in here, too. You need fluids.â
What he says makes sense. You were there, after all, lived through the whole thing. But this is after, and no one helps anyone after the world perishes, at least not out of the kindness of their hearts. The water is probably laced with drugs so he can put you under again. You know better than to expect anything from strangers. You knew better before, and you certainly know better after.
âOh, for fuckâs sake.â
He pushes himself out of his chair, and you push yourself back so your head makes painful contact with the hard metal wall behind you. He doesnât need to drug you for whatever it is he wants to do to you. You couldnât defend yourself in the state youâre in, even if it was your life on the line. But he doesnât touch you. He picks up the glass of water and takes one big gulp, spilling some of it down his chin and chest. The reverberating sound that comes with him putting it back down echoes around your head.
âThere. Happy?â
He lets himself fall back into the chair and crosses his arms again. A few drops of water cling to his beard but he doesnât wipe them away. He doesnât do anything except stare at you.
You shouldnât do it. Maybe heâs immune to whatever he put in your glass, maybe a small dose doesnât have any effect on him. But youâre too thirsty to care. Your mouth is dry and sticky at the same time, and your throat aches for some relief, for some water.
The water is so cold the first sip sends a shiver down your spine and makes your teeth hurt. But after that it gets easier and easier and you drink it down faster and faster until there is nothing left and your empty stomach feels so full it hurts. He doesnât say anything, just takes the empty glass from you and makes to leave.
âHey,â you call after him. Hey, Joel, you want to say, but it feels too intimate. âUntie me?â
He doesnât even shake his head before he closes and locks the door behind himself.
*******
The soup burns your lips and tongue, but youâre too greedy to pay much attention to the pain. Itâs nothing special, just some roots and mushrooms, and a few pieces of lean meat, but itâs the best meal youâve ever had. Joel watches you drink down the soup, one hand resting on his knee, the other hanging down, hovering close to the gun. He expects you to throw the soup in his face, and you canât even be upset he thinks so little of you because you were considering it for a second.
âBe careful, itâs hot.â Itâs too late for that warning, but he says it anyway.
âDo you think youâll untie me today?â you ask, moving your bound wrist so the handcuff scrapes against the handle youâre tied to. Youâre still in the same room, tied to the same hospital bed, but at least the IV is gone.
He smacks his lips. âNope.â
âI wonât run,â you promise. âHonestly, Joel, where do you think I would go? You still wonât even tell me where I am.â
âYou donât need to be untied if you want to stay right here.â Youâve heard this a million times.
âDonât you think itâs time you trusted me?â
He huffs. Sometimes he says, âYou clearly donât trust me,â sometimes he gets up and leaves. Today, he just quietly watches you as you drink your soup.
You know he doesnât want to harm you. He had plenty of opportunities in the three weeks youâve been living under his roof. Thatâs something else you know â three weeks. Two of those you spent drifting in and out of consciousness, hovering between life and death. One you spent trying to convince Joel to unlock the handcuffs.
The one thing you still donât know is why youâre here. What does he want with you? Why is he keeping you alive? Why is he nursing you back to health? Sometimes you arenât even sure if he knows the answers to those questions himself. But the stronger you get, the more youâre looking for answers. And the more you push him, the more he shuts down.
âWhere am I, Joel?â Youâve asked him this so many times that the words have started to sound fake.
âYouâre safe.â He replies, and as always, those words sound like a lie.
âIf Iâm safe, then why are you holding me captive?â Why am I still locked up? Why donât you want to untie me? Whatâs behind that door? Youâve tried countless variations on that same question and heâs found countless ways to avoid answering them.
âWould you like some more soup?â He nods at your empty bowl.
Yes, you would, but you also want to get up and move about. Wordlessly, you hold out the bowl and he takes it from you, always careful not to come too close to you, so you canât grab the knife or the gun. You tried, of course you did, and you failed miserably. You still have the bruise on your arm to prove it.
Joel walks through the door but leaves it open. He sometimes does that because there is nothing of interest to you to see beyond it. Just a table, and a calendar on the wall opposite. August 2003, and a picture of a golden-fronted woodpecker, a tiny red berry held gently in its open beak. Its eye looks red, too. You guess there must be a stove somewhere (or at least a gas cooker) or Joel wouldnât be able to cook soup. But thatâs it. You donât know how many other rooms there are (if there are any), you donât know how many other people there are (if there are any). Wasnât there a woman here while you were fighting for your life? You canât be sure. And asking Joel is useless â youâve tried.
âHere.â You take the soup from him and he sits back down to watch you as before. âBe careful, itâs hot.â Youâre trapped in a loop.
âWhy do you always do that?â you ask, holding the bowl in your hands, letting it warm your cold fingers. âWhy do you always watch me eat?â
A puff is your only answer.
âScared Iâm going to whittle a key from a few pieces of boiled potatoes and a sprig of rosemary?â you tease.
âI have my orders,â he answers as if that settles the matter.
You know better than to ask him whose orders they are. This conversation is giving you a headache. So you try a different approach. âWhatâs your favorite kind of soup, Joel?â
The corners of his mouth twitch like heâs about to smile, but he gains back control immediately. âAny soup thatïżœïżœïżœs warm and keeps me alive.â
You roll your eyes. âOh, come on, whatâs the real answer?â
You donât think youâre going to get an answer since he just looks at you for the longest time. Youâre used to it, to his brown eyes on you, assessing you, trying to determine how dangerous you are. Only today itâs a different kind of gaze. Heâs not looking for danger but something else. And eventually he finds it.
âBlack bean soup,â he answers.
Thereâs already a witty remark on your tongue but before you can get it out, a siren goes off, loud and jarring, unlike anything youâve heard in a while. Your bodyâs reaction to it is instantaneous. You drop your soup, fling it from you, so the bowl hits the ground, bursting, spilling the warm liquid everywhere. Joel doesnât notice. Heâs on his feet and halfway out the room at this point. You have no idea whatâs going on, what the siren means, but you know youâll be safe cowering in the room under your blanket. At least you hope you will be. Whatever is out there, whatever triggered the alarm ⊠Joel is just one man. And isnât this how it started last time? You thought you were safe too, but there were just too many, and they took whatever they wanted. This time, youâre not even strong enough to close off your mind. This time, you will surely die.
You hear no sounds from the other room, except the telltale click of a magazine being pushed into a rifle. You hear no sounds because you try to block out everything that comes afterwards âŠ
When itâs all over, Joel cleans up the soup you spilled. Youâve lost all appetite, and he doesnât push you to eat more. Joel smells metallic, like smoke. You donât want to ask him what happened and heâs not going to tell you anyway. Instead, when heâs done, he softly closes the door to your room, leaving you alone in the darkness. He has things to do now, gruesome things, things you wouldnât know how to help him with even if you werenât injured. But you could tell from the tension in his shoulders and the cruel lines around his mouth that whoever tripped the alarm wasnât infected.
And it never gets easier.
*******
You flinch. It still hurts whenever he changes the dressing, even though heâs so careful now. Joel wasnât like that at first. The first time you were fully conscious during the procedure, you broke down crying because the pain was too much for you to bear. You definitely werenât looking for comfort from him, but a kind word would have gone a long way. Instead, all you got was a, âSuck it up, youâve been through worse.â
The more your wound heals and the more you recover, the more careful he handles you. Still, every time he undoes the bandage around your chest, it feels like heâs tearing the wound open again, as if all the scab your body formed around it is coming clean off. It doesnât help that the wound is on your left side near your ribs, and you have to take your shirt off every time Joel cleans it. It leaves you exposed and uncomfortably on display. Every other man would have taken advantage of your situation by now, but not him. Maybe that makes you feel even more vulnerable.
âIt looks good,â he tells you, examining the wound. He carefully touches the tender flesh around it with the coarse tip of his forefinger, sending an uncomfortable shudder down your spine. âNo sign of infection. I think it might be time to take you off the antibiotics.â
âIf you say so, doctor,â you say through gritted teeth.
He huffs, removing his finger. âDoes it still hurt?â
âOf course it fucking does,â you snap.
He draws back, straightening his back. His face is a blank mask. âWas this your first time getting shot?â
âNo,â you answer, protectively slinging an arm across your naked stomach, âbut the first time I almost died from it.â
He raises an eyebrow. âIt wasnât just the wound.â
Thereâs no question in it, just an observation. And yes, heâs right, it wasnât just the wound. It probably wasnât life-threatening to begin with, but itâs none of his business when he doesnât even want to tell you where you are and why youâre here. You know better than to open yourself up to a complete stranger who keeps you locked up. In the future, you need to be more careful. You canât let him come any closer than he already has.
âLike you would know,â you say defensively.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and he flexes his fingers fast, balling them into a fist and releasing them.
âCome on, letâs get this over with,â you sigh impatiently.
Without another word, he gets back to work. He cleans the edges of the wound with some cold water, then he has you press a gauze pad against it while he ties the bandage around your torso again.
âA few more days and we can leave it open,â he tells you once heâs done.
âAnd then what?â
Is it going to be the same as always?
You glance at Joel, his furrowed brow, as he focuses on tying the bandage tight enough to hold but not tight enough so it will hurt you. He wouldnât, would he? Hurt you? You shake your head. No, youâve been there before. You put your trust in people before and it almost cost you your life, and it certainly cost you part of your soul. If anyone should ask, you still have the scars to prove it.
Once heâs done, Joel runs his fingers from the edge of the bandage down your naked side to your hip. Itâs not a conscious movement, at least you donât think it is, since his brown eyes are glazed over, almost empty. But it still pushes all your questions and doubts aside. Joel would hurt you if he could, there is no doubt about that. But he would also protect you, has already protected you. And thatâs where the real danger lies waiting. Itâs not hidden beneath cruelty and malice. It lies buried beneath care and attention. You either die for the people you love or you live long enough to lose them. And if they betray you, you can never really fully recover from that.
âThatâs not up to me,â Joel answers, averting his gaze.
âPlease,â you start.
âThatâs enough.â His voice is harsh, the words meant as a shove, but all you feel is a pull deep in the pit of your stomach.
âJoel,â you try again, but he shakes his head and stands.
Usually, before he leaves, he tells you to get some rest or holler if you need anything. Today, he stomps out of the room, his boots heavy against the concrete floor, and you turn away from the door because you wonât sink so low as to call after him. But before you can make sense of the whirlwind of feelings holding you captive, before you have time to put your thoughts into order, you hear him return. He grabs your wrist, the one thatâs tied to the bed, in a firm hold, one that makes you yelp in surprise.
âJoel, what âŠ?â you try, wanting to get away from him and be closer at the same time.
Before your heart can decide if it wants to stop beating or spin out of control, you hear a metallic click and a weight falls off your wrist. Youâre free! Your brain doesnât have enough time to process that new piece of information before your fingers close around the handcuff and you raise it, bringing it down hard against Joelâs temple. He grunts in pain but you donât pause â youâre sprinting toward the door as fast as you can after weeks of being tied to a bed. You have the element of surprise on your side because Joel doesnât come after you, at least not right away. Youâve made your way to the room with the table before he has fully realized what is happening.
Your lungs and legs burn like theyâre on fire and your head is spinning, screaming for you to slow down or you will collapse, but you ignore all the warning signs, desperately searching for an exit. There are two doors, one on your left and one on your right. They both look the same â dark green, dirty, paint chipped away, especially around the handles. Itâs crazy how much your brain is able to take in and process whenever youâre in danger. But you donât have time! You canât linger and stare at the small kitchen corner, maybe even look for a knife you can use as a weapon when Joel finally does come after you. You donât pick a firearm out of the crate right in front of you either because the rifles and guns probably arenât loaded and you canât afford to be slowed down by dead weight.
You make a decision in the spur of the moment, without any plan where you are, any idea about what kind of building youâre in. But you just know that the door on your right will lead you to freedom. And so you make for it, spurred on by the grunts behind you. Joel is in pursuit now, having recovered from the initial shock. If you want to get out of here, itâs now or never.
The door is unlocked. Itâs not even particularly hard to push it open, not even for someone in such a weakened state as yourself. It just swings open, and youâre outside â just like that. You donât see much: snowy mountains, a quiet forest, fences and barbed wire, two abandoned cars, a horse, its flanks steam in the cold winter air. You see your own breath too, and it almost makes you turn back. If you leave in your condition, face the winter without so much as a coat to keep you warm, youâll be dead within a few hours. You certainly wonât make it through the night. But itâs a fate you can choose, something you can control now that you donât feel like your own person anymore. And itâs preferable to dying tied to a bed in a dark room.
You run, stumbling like a fawn. If you push through the pain and the cold, if you ignore your cramping muscles, the jab in your side, the iron taste in your mouth, you should be able to climb over the fence. And then you can hide in the forest until itâs too dark for Joel to find you.
Something barrels into you, pushing you to the ground. You scream as your entire world erupts with pain. Lights flicker in front of your eyes, white and red, and your world tilts and spins. Youâre so cold but your left side burns red hot. Did Joel shoot you?
âFuck!â Itâs the womanâs voice â you recognize her instantly. Sheâs the one you heard talking to Joel during those first few days when you had no way of knowing what was real and what wasnât. Sheâs lying next to you, covered in snow, one hand firmly wrapped around your arm. âWhat the fuck is going on here?â
Youâre being lifted up by a strong hand wrapped tightly around the collar of your shirt. A desperate gasp escapes you as Joel lifts you out of the snow. His eyes are bright with rage, his breath is a hot cloud between your faces, and it doesnât look like heâs going to let go soon. If anything, his grip turns harder as he twists your collar in his hand.
âWhat are you doing?â the woman snaps at him.
âI untied her and she made a run for it.â His honesty surprises you, even if there are other issues right now you should focus on.
âLet go of her,â the woman orders, and thereâs just a brief moment of hesitation. Then youâre dropped to the ground, crumpling into a heap in the snow.
The woman sighs and pushes herself to her feet. âCome on,â she hisses at you, pulling your arm. âGet up.â
You try to tear yourself loose, even if your entire body is screaming for you to stop fighting and give in. âNo,â you grunt through gritted teeth. âLet me go.â
She laughs in your face. âAnd where do you want to go, sweetheart? Look around. Youâre stuck here, whether you like it or not.â
You look around at her words but you only see the same trees and mountains you saw before, and you still feel like youâd rather die in the woods than live with this helplessness any longer.
âOh, youâve got to be kidding me!â she groans. âCome on.â And with that she pulls you up like you weigh nothing and shoves you. âGet moving.â
You should probably put up a fight â if 15 years living in this world have taught you anything, itâs that the strong survive. It should feel like this situation has just gone from bad to worse, but there is something about the way Joel lowers his head as you walk past him that gives you pause. And you might be imagining it but the womanâs grip feels less hard. Itâs not that you think theyâre good people, but youâve been here for more than three weeks and if they had wanted to hurt you, theyâve had plenty of opportunity so far.
*******
âWhy am I here?â you ask. Youâre sitting at the table, a steaming bowl of soup in front of you, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. âWhat do you want from me?â
The woman, Tess, sits opposite you. In front of her on the table is a loaded gun. Itâs as if sheâs taunting you. You could reach for the gun, try to shoot her, but sheâs faster than you and youâd be dead before youâre fully out of the chair. Joel leans against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. Maybe his lack of trust hurts you, maybe itâs an uncomfortable pull near your heart, but you also canât blame him. There is a bruise forming on his temple where you hit him with the handcuffs. You donât even remember doing it.
âWe donât want anything from you,â Tess answers, and itâs just as unhelpful as Joelâs non-committal grunts.
âThen let me leave.â
Tess shakes her head. âNo.â Before you can protest, she adds, âYou still need some time to recover.â
âWhy are you helping me?â The question is directed at Joel but he keeps quiet.
âYou were almost killed, remember that?â It sounds almost like an accusation, the way Tess says it. âWe found you and brought you here.â
âWhy?â It baffles you. They must have an ulterior motive.
âWhere Iâm from, you donât just leave people to bleed out in the snow.â
You laugh at that. âWhere Iâm from you do. Has it ever occurred to you there might be a reason why I was almost killed?â
âThereâs always a reason,â Tess says with a nod. âNo one can afford innocence.â
You look at her for the first time, really look. She might be around Joelâs age, but itâs not easy for you to tell. She has long, brown hair that is starting to gray, and wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. The look she gives you is cold, hard, but beneath all that there is something else â itâs as if sheâs forcing herself to put up a front. Before, when you came in, she took off the heavy winter coat she was wearing. Now she sits opposite you, dressed in a dark sweater that is tattered along the edges. A second gun is strapped to her side with a leather shoulder holster. It looks new.
âAnd you donât care about the reason at all?â you press. âMaybe I murdered ten FEDRA officers.â
âThose guys who were trying to kill you werenât FEDRA.â Joelâs voice is deep, almost hoarse.
You definitely donât want to talk about that so you change the subject. âIf Iâm that innocent, why not let me go?â
Tess just glares at you.
âOh, come on,â you groan. âIâm grateful and all, but I really deserve some answers, donât you think?â
âItâs the truth,â Tess says after a brief moment of contemplation. âWe found you in the woods, we decided to look after you until you were better. You arenât fully healed yet and weâd like you to stay with us until you have recovered.â
âAnd what do you want from me in return?â
Tess doesnât look like sheâs going to answer you, but Joel does. âWe need a third person to look after the compound, at least until the end of winter. If you want to repay us, youâre more than welcome to stay and pull your weight until the snow melts.â
âFor real?â you ask. Heâs joking, surely.
Tess nods at Joel. âYouâre clearly capable. And youâre strong. We could use someone like you.â She hesitates. âEspecially since I canât be around most of the time.â
You prick up your ears at that. Sheâs giving you more information than she needs to give you, vital information about one of their weak spots. She probably doesnât trust you, not fully, but she trusts you enough.
You clench your jaw and nod. âAll right, but you have to start answering my questions honestly.â
*******
Youâre high up in the mountains, far away from whatever is left of civilization as you know it. No one comes up here â no humans and certainly no infected. Itâs just Joel and Tess, at least during the winter. In summer, when the weather clears and the snow melts, they will go back to Boston. Until then, theyâre in charge of a warehouse of ammo and guns. They are in charge of a stockroom full of food. And the people who put them in charge arenât FEDRA.
Mostly, itâs just Joel up here. Tess leaves for weeks on end, travelling around the country on errands they donât tell you about. Trust only goes so far. And when she comes back, she never stays for longer than a day or two. Itâs their third winter up here, Joelâs third winter of being mostly on his own. They both donât want to come next year, but they go where theyâre sent. Tess also makes it clear that itâs best if the people in charge never find out about you staying here.
Here. Itâs not home, not exactly, but itâs the safest youâve felt in a long time. Joel and Tess call it the Overlook. The main building they kept you in, a warehouse where they keep the ammo, the stockroom, and a tower, tall and menacing, that they use as an outlook. Most days, you canât see much up there. Winter is cold and gray in these parts, the clouds hang low almost every day or itâs snowing constantly. You havenât seen the sun in weeks.
Itâs not easy work what they expect of you. Itâs back-breaking, skin-tearing kind of work, but it feels so good to be doing something. Especially now that youâre fully healed you focus on getting back your strength. Seeing the progress and noticing how much more your body can take with each passing day gives you a grim satisfaction. The first time Joel let you out of the house you couldnât even make it to the fence and back without almost collapsing in the snow. Today, youâre outside, setting traps to catch rabbits, climbing trees, helping Joel skin and gut a deer he shot. And you donât feel tired. You feel alive, driven by purpose.
Joelâs naked hands and wrists are covered in blood, his face is grim and set. It took you some time to learn that heâs not angry when he looks like this, but that heâs concentrating and you definitely shouldnât interrupt him when his brow is furrowed like that. So you watch as he works, grunting with the strain of it, his knife quick and fast in his hands. There is no point in carrying a whole animal back to the Overlook; itâs better to carve out the parts you want to use here and now.
Joel has taught you so much in the time youâve been with him. Sometimes you wonder how you were able to survive the first 15 years without him. And sometimes you wish you could stay with him into spring and all the way through summer and fall, even though both he and Tess made it clear that itâs not possible.
A crack cuts through the silence of the forest, as if something â or someone â close to you just stepped on a twig. Joel drops the knife so fast you almost donât see it fall. The rifle is in his hands, heâs up on his feet, pointing it into the general direction the sound came from all before your hand has moved to the gun hanging at your side. Three birds take flight, their flapping wings almost as loud as the step you heard. But other than that, nothing moves in the snow-covered forest.
âMaybe it was just an animal,â you dare point out.
âYeah, maybe,â Joel says through gritted teeth, still observing the trees and the spaces between them.
You know not to say anything more or give any advice until Joel has decided itâs safe to continue his task. You havenât been living out here for years, you havenât even been living outside high walls that much. Itâs not your place to question Joel or any judgement he makes regarding safety. But, soon enough, he lowers his rifle and falls back onto his knees with a grunt. There is a lot of work left to do and it will get dark soon.
You watch as his knife glides under the deerâs skin, separating it from the meat and muscle beneath. A pungent smell fills the air around you and you wonder if you might be attracting other animals, like wolves. You hear them howling at night, higher up in the mountains, too far away to be of much concern. But the winter is hard and there isnât much meat to spare. Youâre an easy target for a pack of apex predators close to starvation.
Joel puts the knife down next to his knee and begins to pull, tearing away the deerâs skin with a sickening sound. And then, before you can offer Joel help to roll over the big carcass, something jumps Joel with a shout, pushing him to the ground. It all happens so fast you canât shout a warning â you didnât even see the assailant coming even though Joel told you to be on the lookout. Your surprised shout comes too late.
A man pushes Joel to the ground. You canât make out his face, but itâs covered in a trimmed, black beard. Joel, taken by surprise, raises his hands to protect his face, but the man has a knife clasped in a fist, its blade gleaming in the afternoon light.
âJoel, watch out!â you shout, but there is nothing you can do.
The man brings down the knife in a slashing motion, cutting into the red skin on Joelâs wrist. Joel doesnât scream â he doesnât even grunt. Instead, as the man draws back for a second attack, Joel punches him so hard he rolls off and Joel can get to his feet. The man assumes a crouching position immediately, apparently unfazed by Joelâs punch. Heâs hunching down low, the knife still in his hand, twirling the handle, trying to get a firm grip on it. Joel glares at him, calculating, his face masked in concentration.
You calculate too â how long would it take for Joel to grab the rifle and fire it? Too long. What about the knife? The attacker is squatting between him and the blade. Could you help him? You donât dare to when you see Joelâs furrowed brow.
The man jumps in Joelâs direction and Joel manages to grab both his wrists and push, so he stumbles back again. With a sickening grin on his face, the man approaches a second time, slower, blade outstretched in front of him. Joel doesnât take his eyes off the weapon for a second and itâs the first time you see him, that cold, calculating man who knows he has to kill to survive. Sure enough, the man attacks again, going for Joelâs stomach, an easy target since Joel opened his jacket when he was working on the deer. Joel jumps back two steps and the man stumbles. A death sentence.
Joel is on him in a split second, pushing him to the ground, not caring that his face comes dangerously close to the blade. The other man shouts out in surprise as Joel climbs on top of him, his teeth bared. He pins the manâs arms to the ground with his knees, the effort bringing an angry flush to his cheeks, then reaches over the manâs head to where his own knife is lying on the ground. Thatâs when you know itâs over. Joel buries the fingers of his left hand in the manâs long, straggly hair and pulls to expose his throat.
Itâs just one slash. Just one quick move of Joelâs arm and the man stops kicking, struggling, fighting for his life. You donât look away. You watch as warm blood spills onto the snow thatâs now dirty with soil kicked up during the struggle. You watch bubbles of blood form on the manâs lips, hear his last gurgling breath. You watch Joel hold him down, breathing hard, knife raised for a second cut if necessary. Joelâs eyes are empty.
âLetâs finish up here,â he grunts, pushing himself to his feet.
You want to apologize for having failed him, but youâre still too frozen to speak. Even though the whole altercation was shorter than a minute, you struggle with what you just witnessed. Not with the killing â youâve seen enough of that and you know it was self-defense â but with the speed with which it all went down, with how quickly a life can be taken if you miscalculate and fuck with the wrong person.
âYouâre bleeding.â Itâs not much, but itâs something.
Joel looks down at his wrist as if heâs only just noticing the injury himself. âItâs okay,â he says, then kneels down and cuts a piece of cloth out of the manâs shirt to tie it around the cut. âLetâs finish up here before it gets dark.â
You nod, then watch him shove the manâs body away from the carcass. Thereâs nothing you can do to help him with the body or the deer, and you fight down a feeling of uselessness and helplessness. Now is neither the time nor the place to feel sorry for yourself. You can do that later in the privacy of your own room.
Joel finishes up fast, wraps the meat into old sheets heâs brought along, then stows them in his backpack. You get your own load to carry back to the Overlook. The trek back you spend in silence; Joel marches ahead with purpose, you follow, a queasy feeling in your stomach. What if the man wasnât alone? What if his group is nearby, waiting for an opportunity to attack? Joel can fight off one attacker, maybe even two, but heâs wounded and exhausted from a day of hard work and youâve proven today that youâre not much use in a fight. Luckily, there is no need for you to worry. You safely arrive back at the Overlook and breathe freely again once the gate shuts behind you.
âHere,â you say once Joel has locked the door to the main building. Youâre standing behind a chair, offering Joel a seat. âLet me take a look at that cut.â
He nods and lets himself fall into the seat, the wood groaning beneath his weight. âThereâs a first aid kit under the sink.â
You donât tell him that you know â itâs best if he doesnât realize how much youâve been snooping around. So you get the first aid kit without a word and put it down next to the pot of steaming water you boiled while Joel was putting away the meat. Finding some clean towels or even just pieces of fabric wasnât easy but you managed.
The cut isnât long but deep, and it takes you a while to clean it. Joel doesnât complain, but flinches from time to time when you use too much pressure. It will leave a scar but it isnât his first and it wonât be his last. You donât have any disinfectant since most of it expired years ago, but someone put a small bottle of clean, stinging alcohol in the kit and you use that to battle any possible infection. Itâs the only time Joel hisses through gritted teeth.
âIâm sorry I wasnât more vigilant,â you apologize while youâre bandaging the wrist. âYou trusted me to keep a lookout and I failed you.â
âYes, you did,â Joel agrees and even though you know you made a mistake it still stings to hear him confirm it. âNext time, donât watch me. Keep your eyes on the forest.â
Itâs only now, when he points it out, that you realize how much you must have been staring at him. Your face grows hot with shame and embarrassment. âIt wonât happen again,â you promise, your eyes lowered, pretending to examine the bandage.
âItâs not just your fault,â Joel adds. âI shouldâve been more careful after that twig snapped.â
His admission takes the sting out of it a little bit. âIs it hard toâŠâ you trail off, struggling to find the words to the question that's on your mind.
You look at him for help, watch as a shadow clouds his features before seeing it pass and be replaced by disbelief. âYouâve never killed someone?â
âI have. Just⊠never like that, with a knife to their throat.â
âIt ainât different from using a gun,â he replies gruffly. âYou end their life either way.â
Satisfied with your work on Joelâs arm, you let go of it, ignoring how empty your hands feel without the warmth of his skin against yours. âBut you were so close to that man; you could watch him die, you saw him take his last breath, saw him slip away.â
âIt was either him or me.â Thereâs a strain in Joelâs voice when he says it.
âIt was him or us,â you correct him, not sure if that makes it better or worse. âI wouldnât have been able to kill him on my own.â
âYouâd be surprised how much you can do when your life is at stake,â he says with a cold laugh.
âYeah,â you agree.
Then you both fall silent. Itâs not until much later in the evening when youâre about to go to bed that he stops you with a hand on your arm, pulling you into the same chair you had him sit down in earlier.
âWhat happened to you?â he asks then. âWho were those men who were trying to kill you?â
You feel your body stiffen and your jaw tighten as you try to keep down the unpleasant memories of that night and of what came before. âI donât want to talk about it.â
âTough luck,â he growls. âItâs time you gave us some answers.â
The stab of jealousy you feel at his use of the word us is almost strong enough to defeat the rising panic. Almost. âWhy?â you snap. âBecause you saved my life today?â
âNo.ïżœïżœïżœ Joel sits down in a chair opposite you so the table is between you. He fills two shot glasses with a cloudy, brown liquid and pushes one across the wood to you. âWe trust you enough to let you stay. Itâs time that trust was returned.â
You laugh coldly but wrap your fingers around the glass. âItâs not what you think.â
âHow do you know what Iâm thinking?â The confrontational tone has gone from his voice. He knows he has you.
You make one last attempt to get out of the situation. âI wouldnât even know where to begin.â
âThe beginning is usually a good start.â You expect him to be smirking at you, but he isnât. There isnât even much expectation in his gaze. He knows youâre not leaving the table until youâve given him some answers.
âWell,â you sigh, giving in. âThe beginning is always Outbreak Day, isnât it?â
He shrugs.
âI was luckier than most,â you go on. âI only lost my mother in the days afterwards. She was shot by soldiers because she was coughing. Back then, no one really knew what symptoms people displayed before turning, so they got rid of everyone who was sick one way or another. At least where Iâm from.â
âAnd whereâs that?â Joel asks.
âMontana,â you reply, fighting to keep down the memories of your mother crumbling to the ground, gunfire ringing out around you, the sound of it almost shattering your skull. Then you were screaming. And all your father did was tell you to move along. Even now, youâre still screaming sometimes when you dream about that day. âWe lived in a small, rural community, but the military found everyone. At first, we thought we were safe. You heard rumors about the cities, but in my town, no one even turned until the second day.â
Joel has a curious look on his face now. âHow old were you?â
â20,â you reply. âNo, 21. Itâs not that easy to keep track of time.â You shoot him an apologetic smile. âI was engaged to a guy from my town, we were supposed to take over my parentsâ farm.â
âIs he still alive?â
You shrug. âI have no idea. I got rid of the engagement ring a long time ago.â You take a steadying breath. âAfter that, my dad and my brother and I went to live in the mountains. There were some vacation rentals up there we moved into with a small community of other survivors. We probably would have survived up there for years if my brother âŠâ Tears prick behind your eyes. No, youâre not going to cry, not yet. This isnât even the worst part.
âHe died?â Joel guesses.
You shake your head. âWe lived there for about half a year. I ⊠I started seeing someone. Iâm not proud of giving up on my fiancĂ© that easily, but during those times ⊠it really made you realize how short life is, and I wasnât going to say no when Steve approached me. He was a few years older than me. He lived in Seattle but was visiting his parents when it happened. I kept the relationship secret from my family for the longest time but my brother eventually found out. And he was furious.â Your voice breaks on that last word and you swallow.
For the first time there is something like understanding in Joelâs face.
âMy fiancĂ© was his best friend in high school,â you go on. âBy seeing Steve, I wasnât only betraying him, I was also betraying my brother. And my father was on his side.â A cold laugh escapes you. âMaybe I deserved what happened afterwards. Maybe I shouldâve waited a year before seeing someone new. Maybe I shouldâve been honest with my dad and brother. But I also think that no matter what, they wouldâve found a way to punish me.â
Youâve told this story once before, and the person you told it to was full of sympathy, interrupting you constantly, cursing your family for the way they treated you. Joel is quiet. Heâs not trying to lead you or push you, he waits for you to tell him the story in your own time and on your own terms. Itâs a change, but not an unwelcome one.
âMy brother beat me until I could barely walk,â you say next. âI canât be sure but I think my dad told him to. He was too calm and calculating when he did it for it to have come out of rage. They didnât dare touch Steve, but they made sure we never saw each other again. There was this group our community traded with sometimes. I thought they were FEDRA at first because they were dressed in military uniforms, wore tac vests, had assault rifles ⊠Once I had gotten better, my dad bound me and sold me to them.â
You feel a grim satisfaction at the shadow that passes over Joelâs face. Heâs not indifferent after all.
âI think I donât need to tell you what happened next.â The truth is you canât. âI spent the next 14 years escaping, living with different communities, even living in a QZ for a while, being caught, escaping again. As a woman, alone, this world is very hard to survive in. Those men who were trying to kill me when you found me ⊠they were from a community who took me in after I lost the last group I was with. They were friendly enough at first. I was assigned kitchen duty which was fine by me. But then that evolved into having to dance at parties, and that evolved into offering my body to anyone who wanted me. It was far from the first time this was happening to me. But then they forced me to sleep with the leader of that group, a violent man who had just killed a little girl the day before because she had spilled some wine onto his pants and ⊠I couldnât take it anymore. When he started beating me, I grabbed a knife and slashed his face. Then I ran.â
The silence that follows is unbearable. You know youâve made mistakes in your life, but you havenât even told Joel the worst part yet. Surely, he wonât throw you out based on what he knows.
âSee?â Your laugh is hollow. âI told you itâs not what you think it is.â
âWhen we brought you in there were bruises on your legs,â he finally says. âThere were cuts on your arms, scars and fresh ones. One of your eyes was swollen shut. I had a pretty good idea of what youâve been through.â
Itâs not much, but your breath catches in your throat nonetheless. Heâs not judging you. He knows what youâve been through, what you had to do to survive, and he accepts you for who you are.
You shrug. âYeah. I hope that answers your question.â
Joel empties the glass in front of him with one big gulp. âIt does put me at ease.â
You mirror him. âSo, what about you? Whatâs your story?â
He bares his teeth at you. âThatâs not how this works.â
âOh, come on,â you groan.
He shakes his head. âItâs late, we have a lot to do tomorrow.â
âWill you tell me tomorrow then?â you press.
âNo,â he answers. And thatâs the end of it.
*******
Itâs completely quiet in the middle of the night when you lie in bed and have nothing else to focus on than your thoughts. Joel is in the other room, the one off to the left side of the kitchen. Or maybe he isnât. Maybe he left you all alone at the Overlook. You donât hear another sound apart from your breathing, but you never do. Every night you wonder if heâs still going to be there in the morning, and every morning he is.
Heâs still with you, even through the walls and closed doors between you. You spend every waking moment with him and in turn he haunts your dreams. Tonight though, sleep wonât come. Your mind is too preoccupied with the events of the day, too much in turmoil to settle down. Telling him your story brought back all kinds of memories, good as well as bad ones, things you can never get closure on. But no matter how hard you try to focus on the familiar pain, on the regret that is like an old friend to you, tonight your mind keeps wandering back to Joel in the woods, fighting for his life. He didnât just kill so he could live, he killed to protect you too.
Your breathing gets heavy as you remember the look on his face, his flushed cheeks, the way he didnât let anger or fear control him. He knew what needed to be done and he did it. You remember how he was straddling the manâs chest, pinning him down to immobilize him, gaining the upper hand even when the other had surprised him. Youâve never seen anyone kill like that. Youâve never felt so safe with anyone.
With a deep sigh you turn onto your back and stare up into the darkness. You canât make out the ceiling but you know itâs there. Just as you canât hear Joel but you know heâs just a room away â both thoughts comfort you. You try to focus on that comfort, try to preserve it, but the building tension between your legs demands your attention. Other memories start coming back. A few days ago, when Joel had been cleaning his rifle, his sleeves rolled up so they wouldnât get in the way, his arms flexing with each movement. The way he didnât complain when you cleaned his wound today. Last week when he had come back from moving crates around, drenched in sweat â the smell had been so prominent, had lingered for so long that you had to excuse yourself and go to bed early. And then today, restraining that man, killing him with one move, one cut.
Your fingers press against your clit through your underwear before you can stop yourself. Immediately, your entire body comes to life. You bite the back of your other hand to stifle a moan, but roll your hips up, chasing friction. Itâs not like you havenât thought about it before, like you havenât thought about him before, but youâve always managed to keep yourself under control. Itâs too late for that now.
You move fast, kicking at your blanket, tearing your underwear off. Your knees fall open without the restraints, and you bury two fingers deep inside of you, clenching around them desperately. Is he that cool and collected when he fucks someone? Does he know what he wants and takes it? You like to think so. An image comes to you: you, spread out on his bed, maybe even on your stomach, and him thrusting into you without uttering a word. The only sound you can hear are his low grunts. You wish you could give him that, be there for him like that.
When you think about him gripping your hair to bend your back, to make you writhe and moan, the pressure between your legs becomes unbearable. You release your hand, sure your teeth left markings in the skin, and press your fingers against your clit. The moan of relief echoes around your quiet room. Working your fingers in and out of yourself and circling your clit, you can feel yourself rushing toward an orgasm, accompanied by an image of Joel above you, his broad shoulders caging you in, fucking into you, breaking out of the restraints he puts himself in. Your breathing becomes more ragged, louder, and that cautious part of your brain thatâs been trained to be quiet for 15 years urges you to be more careful. But how can you when you think back to how easy it was for Joel to defend himself today? How easy it would be for him to take from you exactly what he wants, what he needs.
You turn your head to the side, determined to stifle a desperate moan against your pillow, but before you can take any precautions, the tension thatâs been building inside of you snaps; you come hard, working your fingers inside as deep as they will go. You donât mean to voice your deepest desires, but you canât stop yourself.
âFuck, Joel! Yes!â
It hangs there in the thick air afterwards, your desires no longer a secret, at least not in front of yourself.
*******
Tess returns two days later, and that door youâd been opening further and further with Joel falls shut again. Or maybe youâre using Tessâs appearance as an excuse to distance yourself from Joel.
He didnât hear you that night, youâre sure of it; he doesnât look at you differently, he doesnât treat you differently. But something has changed and itâs your fault. Even though you slept better than you had in years after that night, you canât help but feel ashamed, too. Youâre more careful around him now, awkward at times, scared heâll take one look at you and know. Joel doesnât look at you the same way you do at him.
So when Tess comes back and Joel spends time with her, bringing her up to speed on things at the Overlook, you canât be entirely sure itâs them shutting you out or youâre withdrawing. Itâs so easy to blame them. Itâs so easy to feel resentment when they go out together, even when they try to sell it to you as leaving you in charge. Itâs so easy to fall asleep with your stomach tied into a knot because they both go to the other room at night. Thatâs also partly your fault. After all, they have to share a bedroom because they gave the other one to you. But itâs still easier to tell yourself theyâre excluding you on purpose instead of analyzing why you come up with excuses every time Joel asks you to help him with something.
On Tessâs third morning at the Overlook, she offers to show you the top of the tower. Itâs a clear day, sunny and bitingly cold. Youâd be able to see for miles. And even though youâve been here so many days youâve lost count by now, youâve never been up the tower. Itâs not important to Joel and you never asked him. So you agree to Tessâs suggestion.
The climb to the top is hard, the steps are higher than what youâre used to, and youâre out of breath fast. Your wound, almost fully healed by now, starts acting up halfway up the tower, but you grit your teeth and push through. Youâre not going to look weak in front of Tess. But once you reach the top, sweat is running down your face and back, and she makes you sit down on a crate.
âNot a lot of people push through on their first climb,â she tells you, leaning against the wall next to you. âJoel hates coming up here, says itâs because of his knees.â
âShouldnât someone be keeping watch though?â you ask, trying to hide how hard youâre breathing. âThatâs what this place is supposed to be, isnât it?â
Tess nods. âIt was, at first. In the beginning, it was used by a group of people who were looking out for survivors. Then it was used as an outpost by FEDRA. But after a couple of years, everyone gave up on it. There are hardly any survivors left who havenât settled down in a QZ or are tied to another group. And those who arenât donât want to be found.â
âLike Joel,â you mumble under your breath.
âCome on.â Tess pushes your shoulder. âGet up. Let me show you the view.â
You try not to let the awe youâre feeling show on your face, but Tessâs knowing smirk means youâre failing. âYou can almost see the ocean from here!â
Tess laughs. âNot quite, but close enough.â
Youâre so high up in the mountains that you are looking out over some of the nearer peaks at the forests and lakes beyond. The day is so clear you can see two or three smoke columns from other camps but theyâre too far away to worry you. The brilliantly white snow and the endless blue sky are so bright you have to shield your eyes with your hand. Standing behind the glass at the top of the tower makes you feel truly free for the first time since that horrible night.
âThis was here the entire time?â you ask, meaning it as a rhetorical question. âI could have seen this every day?â
âMost days the clouds hang too low to see much,â Tess answers. âBut on days like these, coming up here makes you feel like you can fly.â
You tear your eyes away from the view before you and glance at her. Thereâs a wistful smile on her face, like sheâs buried herself deep in a happy memory that is none of your business. This might be the first time you truly see her, the first time you look beyond her graying hair and the hardness in her eyes, the first time you look beyond the uneasy feeling you get when you see her and Joel together. The fact that sheâs letting her guard down around you, even if itâs just for a few short moments, moves you. Itâs more than Joel has given you so far. What you see is a woman who went through unspeakable things to stay alive, a woman who knows how to survive in a world where everything is out to get you, a woman who looks beyond the selfishness of most people. In that moment youâre sure that if her death meant she could keep Joel safe, she would welcome it with a smile on her face.
But then that jealousy comes back ten times stronger. And Tess closes up.
âJoel told me what happened to you,â she says without warning.
âHe did what?â Jealousy is joined by a feeling of having been betrayed. Itâs so sudden that you canât stop the anger from bubbling up.
âDonât be angry with him,â Tess sighs. âItâs part of the deal. What he knows, I know. Why do you think weâre still alive?â
âHe didnât tell me about that deal when he forced me to tell him,â you snap.
âOh, donât be naĂŻve.â Her words feel like a slap. âWe need to know who weâre taking in.â
âYeah, well.â The anger burns bright red in your chest now. âWho says I was telling the truth? Who says anything about that story is true?â
Tess looks at you curiously, like a cat who is deciding if catching a bird high up on a branch is worth the effort. âWhy would you make up a story like that?â
You canât think of a single good reason.
âYou have nothing to be ashamed of,â Tess goes on.
âThanks,â you spit. âDonât you think I know that?â You donât, because it isnât true.
âJoel and I, we ⊠we can make sure youâre safe from now on. There are places âŠâ
âI donât need your charity.â You expect her to lose patience. For most people offering to help you, it doesnât take more than this. Except she doesnât. She looks at you like she understands, like she knows exactly what youâre going through, and the fact that she doesnât pity you makes you bold.
âYouâre right not to trust me. Joel and you ⊠you donât really know me. You have no idea what Iâm capable of.â
âYou survived 15 years of torture and abuse. Youâre capable of a great many things.â
The fact that she sees you unnerves you. âI didnât tell Joel the whole story, so donât think you have me all figured out.â
âI know you didnât.â She crosses her arms over her chest. âJoel, he ⊠heâs not the best at understanding people. Not because the compassion isnât there, but because he has his own shit to deal with. But I can see thereâs something bothering you. Itâs eating you up from the inside and if you donât let it out, itâll kill you.â
You laugh coldly. âThanks, but I donât need your advice on whatâs killing me.â
âTell me or donât,â she says with a shrug. âBut I promise you, whatever it is, it wonât leave this room.â
You want to believe her but you know you shouldnât. You couldnât trust people before Outbreak Day and you certainly canât trust them now. âWhat about your deal with Joel?â
âI make the rules around here,â she answers with another shrug. âAnd if itâs something he doesnât need to know, then he doesnât need to know.â
You take a deep breath, then another one. She waits patiently while your mind is spinning, trying to decide whether you can trust her or not. Werenât you just wishing for someone who always has your back, someone you can rely on? But maybe thatâs the reason she let her guard down around you ⊠she wants you to think you can trust her. And once she knows the full truth, she wonât hesitate to throw you out. No one can ever trust you again after what you did.
âIâm not trying to trick you.â Itâs like Tess can read your mind. âI can see youâre in pain and I want to help you.â
You huff. âNo one can.â
âTry me.â It sounds like sheâs challenging you â and thatâs exactly the push you needed.
âEveryone thinks they have to do such terrible things to survive, but then you ask them about it and itâs just, âYeah, one time I stole this loaf of bread from this old man and kicked him,â as if people werenât doing that well before Outbreak Day. And I think ⊠I think most people stay human, no matter what. They see all those horrible things, and pain and suffering and death, and manage to go on. Maybe itâs because they have people relying on them, maybe itâs because thatâs just who they are. And I think that whatever you do, you should be forgiven if itâs for the right reasons. Even if you kill someone.â
âWho will judge if you did something for the right reasons?â Tess interjects. âAt the end of the day, you only have to justify your actions in front of yourself.â
âMorals, I guess.â Your throat feels tight all of a sudden. âIf you round up women and children for your soldiers to use as target practice, then youâre a bad person, apocalypse or not.â
âNot necessarily. If those soldiers gain skills to protect 10,000 more women and children, arenât a few deaths justified?â
âThatâs not the point ⊠Okay, what if you get someone killed? Someone you were supposed to love? And they died because you werenât there for them when they needed you the most?â
âYou made a mistake. You decided to save yourself instead of dying to save someone else. That just makes you human.â
âWhat if ⊠what if Joel sends you to the next town for some supplies, and you know itâs dangerous, and you ask him to come with you, and he says no, one person will be less suspicious. But you wonât stop pleading, and the only reason Joel doesnât want to go is because he knows how dangerous it is and he thinks, âBetter her than meâ. So, to get you to go, he promises heâll come for you if something bad happens. Only he doesnât. Not when he hears youâve been captured. Not when they parade you around, stripped naked, tied to a pickup. Not even when they offer the crowd a deal: his life for yours. He doesnât even come to recover your broken body. He just leaves you there.â
You donât realize youâve started crying but Tess raises a hand and wipes the tears off your cheek. âI would forgive him,â she says. âSometimes we do selfish things for selfish reasons. Sometimes we do them out of fear. Sometimes the enemy weâre faced with is so powerful we feel so helpless we canât move. Joel didnât force me to go into town â in the end, I went out of my own free will, knowing the risk.â
âBut wouldnât you hate him when he doesnât come to save you, like he promised?â
âSure,â she says with a weak smile, wiping your other cheek dry. âFor a while, maybe. But I wouldnât blame him. Maybe thatâs something thatâs unique to our relationship, I donât know. We know exactly what we can ask of the other.â
You and Julia, you hadnât known that. And youâve been wondering â if your positions would have been reversed, would she have come for you? You doubt it. But still ⊠for 15 years you wished that someone would come and save you, telling yourself you wouldnât leave anyone behind. And the second you had to prove yourself, you got scared.
âBut doesnât that make me a bad person? Someone you shouldnât trust? I shouldnât get to choose who lives and who dies.â
Tess sighs. âI donât think itâs that easy. You always have a choice, and choosing to save yourself over another person doesnât necessarily make you evil. Sometimes the best thing we can do is look out for ourselves.â
âBut you wouldâve saved Joel, right?â
That makes Tess laugh. âOf course I would have. But not because I think it would make me a good person, but because I donât see how I could go on if heâs dead.â She says it like itâs the easiest, most natural thing in the entire world. âMaybe I got it wrong, too. Maybe I should close myself off more, think more about myself. Maybe I would live longer if I did. But thatâs my choice. And I choose to stick with him, no matter what.â
It makes sense what sheâs saying. If you had known Julia better, if you had loved her, maybe it would have been easy to follow her into death. But you were basically strangers who had known each other for a couple of months. You also wouldnât ask Joel and Tess to rescue you. The only thing is ⊠they already did, and you were a stranger to them.
âHow do you know what people are worth dying for?â you ask her, feeling dumb. It makes you sound like a child.
âYou never know. Not until it happens. Iâve heard stories about people who, before everything, thought they were strong protectors, whoâd lead their families through every storm life sent their way. And then they bolted at the first sign of danger.â
âNot you and Joel though.â
âBelieve me, weâve made mistakes too.â She gives you a grim smile. âIâve done things Iâm not proud of, things I deserve to die for, probably. But Iâve also done good things, like helping you. You have to find a balance.â
You nod, feeling hot tears run down your cheeks again. That youâre still here unnerves you. Tess should have chased you away; at least thatâs what you were expecting her to do. Instead, she opens her arms and pulls you into a hug. You immediately press into her and sling your arms around her shoulders. Maybe you donât deserve her kindness, but itâs her choice to look after you, and you wonât push her away for it. For the first time in a long time, you feel the burden grow lighter and your heart beat a little freer.
*******
That night, you canât find sleep. The conversation with Tess is still on your mind. It opened some barely healed wounds you let fester over the last few months, and now the burning is keeping you awake. If Tess is able to see beyond your mistakes, you should be able to do that too. But Juliaâs screams still come to you every time you close your eyes. No matter what Tess says, you donât believe she has done anything equally as bad as this.
There is something about Tess that unnerves you, something you canât quite put your finger on. She appears to be so strong, but in a different way than Joel, one that is harder to define. Still, the notion that sheâs in charge around here makes you want to laugh. Youâve spent enough time with Joel to know how he runs things, and he would never take orders from anyone, not even Tess. It doesn't take away that you think Tess is very capable of doing the things she talked about. If worst comes to worst, she would die for Joel - so would you, but there's less conviction behind your resolution. It wouldn't be the first time you overestimated yourself.
Then again, Joel doesnât need anyone to die for him, and itâs presumptuous of Tess to think he does. Julia would have needed someone willing to die for her, someone who wasnât you. You could see it in her rounded shoulders, hear it in her pleading voice. But Joel is nothing like Julia. And Tess is nothing like you.
A stab of jealousy shoots through your body, not directed at Tess this time. You just wish you had someone like Joel in your life, someone you could rely on, someone you knew had your back. It would make dying for them so much easier. You realize that someone like Joel is very quickly turning into just Joel, and you have to confront the fact that your time here is limited, and that youâre not going to share that bond with him that Tess shares, because they will send you away as soon as the snow clears. Itâs unfair. If it was just Joel, you could get him to let you stay, but Tess is so focused on her rules and the mission that she wonât make an exception. Not even if she liked you more. And right now, you donât think Joel cares either way.
Jealousy turns into helplessness, and helplessness opens your eyes wide, making you stare at the dark ceiling. Itâs late, itâs cold, you should be asleep by now, but your throat is dry and itchy, and swallowing is painful. What you need is a glass of water. You kick off the covers and stand up, your naked feet hitting the ice-cold floor with a loud slap. You shiver and sling your arms around yourself, careful to avoid the bullet hole in your side. Itâs just a few seconds and youâll be back under the warm covers.
Quickly, you make your way to the kitchen, only pausing briefly by the door to make sure Joel and Tess already went to bed. You donât really feel like talking to either of them right now. But the kitchen is dark and deserted and no one stops you when you go straight for the water canister. You pour yourself a glass and gulp it down, then pour yourself another one to bring to your room. Your feet are ice cold now and you hurry back over to your door.
Only then you hear it â a faint moan or grunt, and a creaking sound, like someone is writhing in bed, possibly in pain. Youâre wide awake now. Was the Overlook attacked while you were lying in bed, feeling sorry for yourself? Did someone break in? Is someone in the room with Joel and Tess? Carefully, you put your glass down on the kitchen table and make your way across the room to their door, trying to stay as quiet as possible. Your cold feet forgotten, youâre determined to find out whatâs going on. If thereâs someone in the house with you, you wonât run from danger again.
As soon as youâre in front of the door, you hear the moan again, but now youâre less certain itâs one of pain. A different kind of panic grips you, one that is not connected to any danger but the sense that you shouldnât be here. Then you hear a low grunt, deep and guttural, and you know itâs Joel. You know it is Joel and Tess, and theyâre ⊠Youâre listening now, really listening, and you can hear all the subtle, repressed gasps, you can hear an urgent whisper, you can hear the sound of naked skin moving against naked skin.
Your face grows hot with shame and you stumble backward, indifferent to any noise you might be making. Let them know you know. They should, and they should apologize. The cocktail of emotions youâre feeling as you rush to your room is a dangerous one: jealousy, hurt, confusion. You feel so fucking stupid. Of course theyâre sleeping together! How could you have been so blind? And yet, you still feel led on, like they were toying with you when they were just trying to be nice. This discovery is a slap in the face, a reminder of what you can never have. They both know how hurt and lonely you are and yet it has never crossed their minds to tell you just how deep their connection goes.
You refuse to cry. Joel didnât mean to hurt you. He probably wasnât keeping this from you on purpose. But Tess? Didnât she say sheâs making the rules? It was her decision not to tell you she and Joel are a couple, it was her decision to make you look like a fool. Itâs so easy to focus all your anger on her because you really thought that by opening up to them, they would let you in, in turn. Instead, they are still keeping vital information from you, waiting for you to stumble across it.
At least Tess is leaving tomorrow. You might not get to have Joel the way you wanted to, you might feel embarrassed about your crush now, about how easily you opened up to him, but at least you wonât have to see Tess anymore. At least itâs just going to be you and Joel again. So it doesnât really matter. It doesnât really matter theyâre fucking.
You donât find sleep that night. Your thoughts are too loud, the weight of the world is too heavy. You canât stop straining your ear, afraid youâll hear them again. Hoping youâll hear them again. Because once youâve calmed down, once your anger has dissipated in part, you feel something else. The moans and grunts are playing on a loop in your head, and once they stop fueling your anger, they start fueling your desire. You donât do anything about that pull low in your stomach, the pressure between your legs, but you also donât try to distract yourself. And a part of you is angry with them for not telling you because it feels like theyâre excluding you when all you want to do is join them.
****** The next morning, you stay in bed until youâre sure Tess has left. You donât feel like seeing her, mostly because you have no idea how you would react to her. Joel is easier that way. He never makes you feel wanted or unwanted. The both of you just exist in the same space, working together quietly. Itâs exactly what you need today. So once you come out of your room, you try not to look at Joel too closely. Is his hair more disheveled than usual? Do his cheeks look rosy? Are the bags under his eyes less heavy? Whatever, it doesnât matter.
âSleep well?â he asks as he puts down a mug of coffee in front of you.
âYes,â you lie. âHow about you?â
âSame,â he says with a shrug. Then he looks at you with raised eyebrows. âDid you leave a glass of water on the table yesterday?â
Hot panic grips you unexpectedly but you force yourself to keep breathing evenly. âI might have. I donât remember. Why?â
âYou shouldnât do that,â he says, but it doesnât feel like a rebuke, just a fact. âIt can get cold at night; you donât want the water to turn to ice. The glass could burst.â
âOkay, it wonât happen again.â
And just like that, the issue is resolved. Being with Joel is so much easier than being with Tess.
You spend the day tending to the horses and checking the fence for weak spots. Joel spends his cleaning his weapons and counting the supply in the storeroom. The sun is out again, and it feels warm against your cheeks, even making you sweat as the day moves toward noon. You might have a few short weeks left before spring is here, before Tess will force you to leave. And then youâll be on your own again.
Joel joins you when youâre working on repairing a tear in the fence, his quick hands making short work of cutting the wire and reinforcing the hole. You want to watch him work, determined to make the most out of your last weeks with him. But today, you catch yourself glancing at the forest and the mountains frequently, almost as if you canât bear to look at him.
Why donât you stand up for me? you want to ask. But you donât. You know the answer, and hearing him admit it would only hurt you â more than the unspoken question anyway. A tight knot in your stomach makes it hard for you to focus on the task at hand. It demands all your attention by chewing and clawing and spitting, like a wild animal trapped in a tiny space. Should you let it out? No, Joel isnât the one to blame, he isnât the one you should focus your anger on. Still, you canât help but feel stupid, stupid and betrayed. Itâs your own fault for thinking you had found someone in Joel who wants to keep you, someone who likes having you around, who trusts you enough to rely on you, to seek comfort when the nights are cold and lonely. Why did he keep his relationship with Tess a secret from you? You know the answer to that. Why does she have such a strong hold over him he does whatever she asks of him?
âYou okay?â he grunts somewhere to your left.
Youâre not. âYes, sorry. Iâm just thinking.â
He makes a sound between a sigh and a cough. âPass me the pliers?â
You hand him the tool without looking at him. He can probably see it all on your face, and the last thing you want to do is talk about it. But you allow yourself to look at his hands, reddened from the cold, calloused from years of hard labor, swiftly working to repair something broken by harsh weather and time. And you canât help but wonder what it would feel like to have those same hands roam across your body, worshipping every inch of it. The guilt of that fantasy almost drowns you, but itâs a familiar pain.
Without warning, a deep rumble fills the forest, shaking snow off sagging branches. Airplane is the first thing that comes to your mind, even though thatâs impossible. There hasnât been one of those landing or taking off in 15 years. To your right, you see a white cloud rise over the treetops, ice and snow glinting in the afternoon sun before swallowing the light with dusty gray fangs. Youâve never seen anything like it, and even though youâre far enough away from it to not feel threatened, it still makes you want to run and seek shelter.
âWhat is that?â you ask, pointing at the cloud.
âAvalanche,â Joel answers. âThe warm weather softens the snow and it slides away.â
âAre we in danger?â
When Joel doesnât answer immediately, youâre forced to turn and look at him. His brow is furrowed and his mouth is a thin, hard line. His hand is wrapped around the pliers, knuckles white.
âAre we?â you press.
âNo,â he finally says, voice low with strain, âbut Tess went that way this morning.â
******* Itâs a long afternoon, the longest since you arrived at the Overlook. Joel wants to go out and look for Tess, you beg him not to. Youâre not proud of the desperation in your voice, the way you fall to your knees when he refuses to listen, but you canât bear the thought of being left alone in this place, waiting for hours or even days for some news, coming closer and closer to accepting a horrible, inevitable truth. If theyâre both dead, youâll die too.
Joel doesnât listen to you, of course. He has a duty to fulfil, and you canât resent him for it, even though you hate him for a short while. But then heâs gone and youâre all alone, and youâd do anything to get him back. You donât think about what Tessâs death would mean for you, because youâre scared of what you might discover about yourself; youâre worried about her, but youâre not terrified like Joel. And what if she doesnât come back? Wouldnât your life stay the same, improve even?
When the sun sets, two figures approach the compound. You only notice because youâre outside with the horses, too nervous to sit cooped up in the kitchen where everything smells of stale smoke and him. Reaching for the gun in the holster at your side, youâre painfully aware of the vulnerable position youâre in, all alone, far away from anyone who could help you. But before you can take cover, you recognize Tess from the way she pushes her hair out of her face, and you recognize Joel by his gait, a slight limp. You barely manage to stifle a sob.
âThe way is blocked,â Joel tells you once youâre back inside. He takes off his jacket and stows away his rifle. âWeâll have to wait for it to clear.â
You donât really know what that means. Tess doesnât say anything but slumps down in one of the chairs around the kitchen table.
âAre you okay?â you ask her, not sure if sheâs hurt or just exhausted.
âIâm not,â she snaps. You flinch back. âThis sets us back weeks.â
Joel puts a comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezes. She takes his hand and squeezes back. Your heart squeezes too.
âWhat do you mean, weeks?â you push. âArenât you going to leave tomorrow?â
âIâm not,â Tess answers, tension in her jaw. âJoel just told you weâll have to wait until the snow melts.â
âThe road is blocked,â Joel adds. âWeâre cut off. We could try and go through the woods but âŠâ
â⊠but weâd get lost,â Tess finishes for him.
âIâm sorry. I â I didnât know,â you stammer. How long until the snow melts? You look between Joel and Tess, the unspoken question on the tip of your tongue. Tess canât leave until the snow melts. You have to leave once it does. Youâre never going to have Joel to yourself again. That sudden realization hits you like a wave of grief. So much unsaid. And with Tess there, you donât stand a chance.
âExcuse me,â you mumble, throat tight. The door to your room closes with a loud bang behind you.
*******
The thing you dread most is the thing you desire most, too. Itâs an impossible situation, one that makes you reel from its power. Giving in would be easiest. Avoid Tess (and avoid Joel, too), keep your head down, pray for spring to come. But a part of you wants to fight for a few last moments of happiness, for a chance to feel like you belong somewhere before having to face an uncertain future that holds nothing but death. Tess can have him for the rest of their lives. You just want him for an hour or so. But youâre immobilized, curled up under your blanket, fighting back tears. Why is it that whenever something good happens to you in this Godforsaken world, it gets taken away immediately? And why canât you find anyone to blame? Not even Tess? You understand her, you feel for her, you would probably do the same if your positions were reversed, but why does she have to make everything so difficult with her probing questions and her cruel rules?
If the avalanche hadnât happened, youâd be preparing dinner now. Joel would mend his clothes or peel potatoes or check the perimeter. And after a quiet meal, heâd talk to you. Or heâd offer you an old paperback to read. Or youâd challenge him to a game of cards. Instead, itâs Tess whoâs preparing dinner tonight. Itâs Tess who will lead the conversation, Tess who will command Joelâs attention. And itâs going to be like this until the day sheâs making you leave. Should you submit to her? Spend the final weeks moping? Or should you try to make the best out of a terrible situation? Before your injury, youâd have picked the first option. Now youâre not so sure anymore.
Joel and Tess are both sitting around the dinner table when you finally come out of your room. Thereâs a pot of stew on the stove and three empty plates next to that, waiting to be filled. You sit down without a word, facing them, pretending the day hasnât happened. You donât yet know Joel and Tess are sleeping with each other. The avalanche hasnât happened. Youâre just as important, just as included as they are.
âI couldâve helped,â you say, nodding toward the stove.
âI thought it would be best to let you sleep,â Tess answers, running a finger along the edge of the table. âYou looked exhausted earlier.â
You shrug. âI can still pull my weight.â Are you imagining it or is Joel smirking? âIf anyone is exhausted, itâs you,â you go on. âThat trek through the woods today âŠâ
Now itâs Tessâs turn to shrug. âIâm used to much worse.â
âLetâs eat,â Joel decides and gets up. You watch him at the stove, stare at the broad shoulders hidden beneath a denim shirt. Youâd give almost anything for a glimpse into his thoughts.
âCan I have some whiskey?â you ask when Joel puts down a plate in front of you.
Tess raises her eyebrows at him when he says, âSure,â but doesnât say anything. You werenât supposed to know about the whiskey, were you? And yet Joel decided to share it with you.
âThanks,â you say when you get a small glass full of golden liquid. âHow about you, Tess? Would you like some?â
The corner of her mouth twitches like sheâs trying not to smirk or bare her teeth at you. âNot tonight, thank you.â
You down the whole glass with one big gulp, then wait for Joel to join you at the table while a familiar warmth is spreading from your stomach to your limbs. Youâd ask for another glass but that would be pushing it. The three of you eat silently, the only sounds the scraping of the spoons against the bowls. You keep your eyes fixed to your plate, counting down the pieces of meat and potatoes. Only five more to go. What will happen once youâre done? You should go back to your room. But there is something you need to know.
âJoel, can I ask you something?â You drop your spoon into your empty bowl loudly to make sure theyâre both paying attention to you. Once Joel nods, you continue. âOnce the snow melts and spring comes, do you also want me to leave?â
The way Tessâs cheeks turn red fills you with grim satisfaction. âItâs not a question of want -,â she starts, but you interrupt her.
âI asked Joel.â
Joel glances at Tess, then back at you. âThose are the rules,â he answers.
âYeah, but whose rules?â you press. âYou keep telling me you work for these people ⊠I have no idea if youâre making it up or not. Maybe there is no group, maybe itâs just Tess who wants me to leave, and youïżœïżœïżœre playing along.â
Tess laughs. âYou have no idea ââ
âIâm talking to Joel, not you,â you interrupt her again.
âOh, sweetheart, you have no idea what youâre talking about.â The tone in her voice makes the hairs on your arms stand up with a charge of anger that hits you out of nowhere. âWe took you in, we let you stay, but that doesnât mean you get to question how we run things around here.â
âCareful,â Joel says, but youâre not sure if he means you or her.
âNo, maybe itâs my fault,â Tess goes on. âI didnât think youâd need to know the details, but you clearly do, because youâre convinced itâs me who decides things around here. That isnât true. And the sooner you get over your resentment for me, the better.â
You hate that she can read you so well, how she sees right through you. âOh, donât pretend youâre only following orders.â
âIâm not,â Tess replies, her voice calm and even. âIâm breaking rules by letting you stay here, rules that could get us punished if they ever found out you were here. And Iâm not talking about a slap on the wrist, Iâm talking about the fucking death penalty. Iâm not sending you away because I canât wait to see the back of you, Iâm sending you away because the alternative is death.â
You donât want to believe her. âThen why canât I just join you?â
âThe penalty isnât for staying here,â Joel says quietly. âItâs for bringing you here.â
You snort. âThen why didnât you leave me out there to die?â
Joel glances at Tess, but Tess is already answering you. âIs that really what you would have wanted us to do?â
âIf it means saving yourself, then yes.â Your chest tightens as soon as youâve said it. Itâs what you would have done, not them. They risked everything, even death, to help a stranger whereas you couldnât even be bothered to help a friend.
You expect Tess to use that against you, but she doesnât. âWeâve done a lot for you, more than anyone else would have done. I think itâs not asking too much of you to respect the rules.â
âThe same rules that keep changing every day?â you challenge.
âOur rules,â Joel interjects. His deep voice, a low rumble, makes you pause. âIf we say you leave when spring comes, then you leave. No questions asked.â
âCanât I stay with you? You can just say you met me in the woods on the way to wherever it is youâre going next.â
Joel and Tess exchange a glance thatâs impossible for you to read. Is it pity? Shame? Regret? But they donât give you an answer.
âOr is it because you donât want me to come with you?â you go on, weighing each word carefully even though the whiskey is rushing through your veins, edging you on. âIs it because Iâm a threat to that little thing going on between the two of you? Are you scared Iâm going to take him away from you, Tess?â
Joel freezes. And when Tess jumps out of her chair, you do too, so quickly it falls over and hits the floor with a loud bang. You want to stand your ground, show Tess youâre not scared of her, that you mean the things youâre saying, but sheâs coming toward you, her eyes dark with rage, and you canât help but take a few steps backwards, even if it means youâve lost this standoff before it even properly began.
The thing that hurts the most is that you can see it now, you can see why Joel would choose to follow this woman to the ends of the earth. The way she carries herself â shoulders back, chin held high â the way she doesnât let her emotions get the better of her but is carefully calculating her next steps, the way she slightly raises her right hand to signal Joel to stand back, is making your knees grow weak. Youâre scared of her, she could tear you apart without breaking a sweat, but that tight knot thatâs been curled up in your stomach all day is beginning to sink lower as your blood heats up.
âYou donât know anything about me and Joel.â Tess takes two steps toward you, you take two steps back. âAnd youâre not that special.â
You want Joel to say something, tell Tess sheâs wrong, tell her that youâre just as important to him as she is. He doesnât, of course. He just looks at you from where heâs still sitting at the dinner table, like this doesnât concern him. Then he looks back at Tess and crosses his arms over his chest. Tess notices how your gaze wanders over her shoulder, how you look hopeful and then lost, how you slowly have to face that youâre fighting a losing battle. When she steps closer again, you stand your ground.
âDo you want him to fuck you, is that it?â she asks, her voice so quiet itâs hardly louder than a whisper. Sheâs mocking you, taunting you.
Joel is out of his chair now. âTess,â he starts, but she raises her hand and he shuts up.
âLet her answer.â
The urge to look at him is almost unbearable, almost enough to break you. But you keep your eyes on her, on her slightly parted lips, her red cheeks, her dark eyes. And it makes you surrender.
âYes,â you answer with a nod. âYes, I want him to fuck me. But I also want you to.â You catch yourself by surprise with that admission, but as soon as the words have left your mouth you know itâs true. Youâre not jealous of Tess because she got to Joel first, youâre jealous of them both because they have each other.
Tess laughs hollowly, like she doesnât believe you. A minute ago, you wouldnât have believed yourself either. You were acting like a fool, and even though youâre hurt by her rejection, you canât really blame her for it. She licks her lips, uncertainty in her eyes as she scans your face for any deceit, for any sign youâre making fun of her. Or at least thatâs what it looks like to you. The longer she stares, the more it dawns on her that she wonât find anything there. Youâre telling the truth.
Behind her, Joel hasnât moved. He stands next to the table, his hands balled into fists at his side, watching the both of you, like heâs unsure of what to do. Should he put a stop to this? Should he wait and see where this is going?
âTess,â he repeats, less urgent than last time. She doesnât interrupt him again, so he goes on. âLetâs give her at least that.â
Itâs all the confirmation you need, all the evidence to put your mind at ease. He has been talking to Tess about you, he has been trying to argue your case, and ⊠heâs not opposed to what youâre suggesting, which leaves you with a quickened heart.
âHow do you know sheâll do as sheâs told?â Tess asks, her eyes still on you.
âIâm sure she will,â Joel says, and then his gaze lands on you, laden with heat and lust.
Youâre there and yet you arenât. They talk about you like you canât hear them, discuss what to do with you as if it doesnât concern you, and it makes your head spin. But the way Joel looks at you and the way Tessâs gaze glides over your body makes you feel seen, wanted. Itâs a dangerous mix, one that puts you in the spotlight, leaves you open and vulnerable without a backup plan, without any idea how this is going to go and no way out.
You bite your lip and lower your gaze.
Tess smirks, her momentary insecurity gone. She reaches past you, and opens the door to Joelâs bedroom, the same door that was closed to you the previous night. âGo on then.â
A strange feeling comes over you, a feeling of being trapped, of being at their mercy. You shouldnât turn your back on them, you shouldnât let them out of your sight. Joel, tall and dark in the middle of the kitchen licks his lips; Tess nods at you, a challenge in her gaze. She still doesnât believe you, doesnât think this is what you truly want. Adrenaline rushes through your bloodstream, makes your heart pound and your hands grow cold. You canât wait to prove her wrong.
You walk backwards into the dark room, keeping your eyes on them. Youâre not entirely sure how you got to this moment, what switch was flipped, what happened to put you at their mercy like this, but youâre convinced this is the natural conclusion to weeks of uncertainties and conflicting feelings, of wanting to run and stay put at the same time. You canât have Joel without Tess, and you canât have Tess without Joel, and from the way your body reacts to that realization, you know you donât want to have it any other way. All the tension thatâs been building over weeks and weeks is slowly fading away.
Joel and Tess follow you, leaving the door to the kitchen open. A small strip of fluorescent light is illuminating the bedroom, too weak for you to make out many details, but you donât need to. The only thing that matters right now are the two people in front of you, the way they keep pushing you further into the dark without touching you. Youâre not sure what happens next, if youâre supposed to do something or if they want you to follow their lead. And a very tiny but persistent part of you still isnât sure if this is really happening or if theyâre just toying with you.
But then your legs connect with the bed and you canât go any further, so Tess catches up with you. She reaches for your wrist, grabs it hard, and twists until youâre forced to turn around, arm pinned to your back. Your breath comes in hot pants as youâre trying to evaluate the situation. The only problem youâre faced with is that your brain has stopped working at all and youâre unable to form a single thought trapped by her like this. She pulls you close so your back is pressing against her chest and she starts undoing your pants with nimble fingers.
âYouâll do as youâre told,â she whispers into your ear while she works. âIf you donât want to do something, you say stop, loud and clear. Youâll answer when spoken to. Is that understood?â
You try hard to make sense of her words but youâre overwhelmed. This is so different from what youâre used to â no one ever takes into consideration what you want. And right now, all you want is to be touched, thatâs all you can think about. The only response you manage is a tight nod.
Tess only tightens her grip, making you gasp, and pushes a hand into your pants, palming you. âIâm going to have to hear you say it.â
Are you imagining it or is there a strain in her voice, a note of desperation?
You grab her wrist to hold her in place and roll your hips, her fingers brushing against your clothed clit. If she wasnât holding you up, you would crumble in her arms. âYes, I understand,â you manage.
One of Tessâs fingers presses upwards through your underwear, and youâre sure she can feel how soaked you are, but instead of feeling embarrassed, you feel a strange sense of purpose and liberation. You want her to know. You want her to want you just as much as you want her.
âGood,â she says, letting go of you, and you stumble toward the bed.
It takes you a few seconds to catch your breath, to make sense of your whereabouts, of the desperate longing with which your body reacts to the loss. Your senses are heightened â you smell the stew you had for dinner, the stale air of the closed-off room, taste the cold on your tongue, feel the coarse material of your heavy winter pants scratch your legs. Behind you, you hear their voices, whispering intently, negotiating something you donât need to be a part of. You lower your pants with trembling hands, step out of them while almost falling over, and then you turn around to face them, trying to keep your self-consciousness at bay, pretending youâre much bolder than you actually feel. You might not be involved in the deal theyâre making, but youâre still its subject, and the least they can do is acknowledge you.
Theyâre standing closely together. Joel is facing you fully, Tess is partly turned toward him. Their faces are cast in shadow, almost unreadable, but theyâre looking at you, thereâs no doubt about that. You cross your arms over your chest in defiance, trying to copy some of Tessâs strength you saw earlier. They might not involve you in the negotiations, but nothing happens without you agreeing to it, and you donât want them to forget that. Tess made sure you understood the rules and you wonât hesitate to use them to your advantage if you have to. You canât tell if you returning their stares has any effect on them, but after a while they seem to be coming to some kind of understanding. They donât say anything to you, they even stop talking to each other, but youâre the focus of attention again, at least the focus of Joelâs.
With just a few steps heâs in front of you, imposing, blocking your view of Tess and the light from the kitchen. Itâs dark and intimate, the way he demands your attention, the way he becomes your focus, and your throat is suddenly dry. To make sure you have no other choice but to look at him, he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding your head in place. The sudden touch, soft yet determined, sends a jolt of pleasure through you that puts you even more on edge. And then heâs kissing you. Itâs not romantic, nothing like the first kiss you shared with your fiancĂ©, nothing like the first kisses that came afterwards. Joel isnât gentle, he doesnât give you time to get used to the feeling of his lips against yours, to his taste on your tongue. Instead, he takes and claims, making your knees weak and your core clench.
You kiss him back eagerly, pressing up against him, daring him to pull you close and make you his. You want more, more of his taste on your tongue, sharp and male, more of his body against yours, strong and so much more powerful, more of the way he bites your lip, your neck, with an urgency he can barely comprehend himself. Your hands find his belt buckle, but he slaps them away, then breaks off the kiss to pull your shirt over your head. He opens your bra next, quickly and without hesitation. You stand before him, almost naked, fully on display for him, while he is slightly out of breath but still finds his dignity intact.
His eyes roam your body, lingering on your naked chest for a while, scrutinizing your stomach, your thighs, and the flimsy excuse for underwear that leaves little to the imagination. Countless hours you spent wishing he would look at you like that and now that itâs coming true, youâre unsure of what to do with all of that attention, that calculation. You just know you want to rattle him like heâs rattling you.
âLike what you see?â you tease, your voice breathy from having been claimed by his kisses.
You get an honest answer, a hoarse, âYes,â that makes your heart pick up speed. So much for rattling him.
With his big hand, Joel reaches up and cups one of your breasts. The sensation of his coarse skin against your much softer one makes you shudder, but you refuse to look away. Let him see what he does to you, let him know how much youâve wanted this, ever since he killed that man in the woods for you. He massages your breast briefly, squeezes the nipple, rolls it between thumb and forefinger, catches your moan on his tongue. But before you can switch off your brain and surrender yourself fully to him, he grabs you and turns you around, just like Tess did earlier.
âOn your knees.â
Joel says it through gritted teeth, like heâs barely able to hold back. Youâre trembling so much with anticipation that climbing onto the bed is an almost impossible feat, one you should be proud of accomplishing in the end. Positioning yourself on all fours on the bed with Joel and Tess behind you leaves you in a vulnerable position, and the thrill of it makes you tremble even more. You lick your lips, chasing the taste Joel left in your mouth. From behind you comes the sound of him unbuckling his belt and your cunt clenches eagerly in anticipation when leather scrapes against metal. You grab the duvet under your hands hard, steadying yourself.
Nothing happens.
You wait for a few moments, but the room is quiet now. You donât even dare to breathe, anticipating Joelâs next move. And then you hear it, the sound you heard the previous night â a deep, satisfied groan. Now that there is no door between you, itâs impossible for you to escape its pull.
You look over your shoulder to see Tess stroking him, twisting her fingers up and down his length. He is completely hard, visibly full and thick. His eyes are half closed and his head has fallen back somewhat, but Tess looks straight at you.
âTake off your underwear,â she orders.
You donât immediately do as youâre told â you canât. Youâre transfixed by Joelâs dick, by how it dwarfs Tessâs hand in comparison, by how it twitches when she strokes across the glistening tip. Heâs going to stretch you open, stretch you until it burns.
âTake off your underwear,â Tess repeats, her voice sharp with impatience.
Eager to follow her orders this time, scared she wonât let Joel fuck you if you donât, you struggle briefly before returning to the same position, having discarded the last shred of clothing somewhere on the ground next to the bed. There is more movement behind you before Tess comes into view. Casually, she sits down on the edge of the bed so youâre facing her, so sheâs facing Joel and you. Sheâs going to watch him fuck you. That realization is accompanied by a sudden rush of wetness between your legs.
Tess asks, âIs she ready?â
Suddenly, two of Joelâs fingers are between your legs, feeling for your arousal. Your eyes flutter shut and you moan deeply. âYes,â he answers, his voice deep and husky, while he teases you, pushing the tip of his finger into you.
You let your head hang between your shoulders, already unable to catch your breath. If Tess reacts in any way, you have no way of knowing. Joelâs fingers leave you and are replaced by something much bigger, much more, something full and heavy pushing inside of you so slowly it feels like torture. You groan and whimper, moving so youâre resting on your lower arms and elbows instead of your hands while you still and try to accommodate him. The burn is definitely there, and itâs much more delicious than you had imagined. Itâs not enough. You push back because you want more, but Joel immediately holds you in place by grabbing your hips, guiding himself into you with his other hand. When heâs fully sheathed, youâre stretched impossibly wide; itâs almost too much to handle and he hasnât even started moving yet. He doesnât give you a moment to adjust yourself, not even to catch your breath.
He pulls out almost all the way and pushes himself back into you hard. Itâs enough to make your arms and legs tremble, and you bite your lip in an attempt to stifle a deep, desperate moan. It comes out as a sob anyway. With every thrust, the fabric of his jeans scrapes against the back of your thighs, a pleasant addition to the burn you already feel.
It doesnât take long for Joel to pick up the pace. He does it with a rough grunt and you hear the sound of metal banging against metal when he does. He is still wearing his belt loosely around his hips, heâs still practically fully dressed. That image, even if itâs just a mental one for now, makes you crave more of him, more, more, more, and you push back again, meeting his thrusts. With a sharp slap, he places his other hand on your hip, holding you in place so he can fuck into you. You just have to take it.
âPlease,â you want to whimper, but your voice is too weak. All you can do is hold onto the duvet.
âI want to see her face.â
You have almost forgotten that Tess is there, watching you getting fucked until youâre a desperate, whimpering mess. But Joel hasnât forgotten. His fingers wrap around the hair at the back of your neck and he pulls roughly so your chin snaps up. Itâs uncomfortable, the way he bends your back, the way your scalp screams for some relief, but it pushes you closer to the edge immediately. So does the look on Tessâs face.
Sheâs watching you, a hungry look in her eyes. Her mouth hangs slightly open and you can see her chest move as she takes deep, eager breaths. Youâve never been looked at like that. And she is looking at you, not Joel, you â straight into your eyes, watching pain and pleasure fight for dominance there. Youâve never had all that attention on you, and it awakens a desire deep within you that you hadnât known was slumbering there. You want her to watch, to be unable to escape her gaze, be totally exposed to her.
And then you clench around Joel once, a second time, and before you know whatâs happening, youâre coming. It catches you by surprise, makes your brain struggle to catch up with your body. Everything pulls taut and your mouth falls open in a silent scream. The flicker of triumph in Tessâs eyes is what finally makes you let go and you give in to pleasure, letting Joel fuck you through it. Itâs violently intense, being stretched around him, clamping down, trying to hold him in place.
Until itâs all too much.
You reach back for him, tears stinging in your eyes, but he just lets go of your hair and grabs your wrist. With impossible strength he twists your arm onto your back and continues to fuck you with the same sharp, punishing pace as before, spurred on by your cunt fluttering desperately around him. All you can do is hold on, completely overstimulated. You let your head fall back down again, you let Joel take what he needs, and when he finally spills inside of you, youâre rewarded with a deep groan, and his hold on you tightening. It kindles another flame inside of you, that feeling of his hot pleasure dripping out of you when he pulls out. You need to feel it again, and soon. It doesnât matter that his hands will leave bruises, that youâll feel him between your legs for days. Youâve never known satisfaction like this.
Tessâs hand finds your cheek, soft and careful, and she coaxes you to lift your head. âWell done,â she says, and kisses you. âLay down.â
You do as youâre told, only now realizing how stiff your arms and legs are, bathing in the afterglow of Tessâs praise. You also wouldnât mind feeling this kind of satisfaction again.
For a short while, you allow yourself to rest, closing your eyes and sinking into the well-worn mattress. For the first time in weeks, all those confusing thoughts in your head are quiet and you can shut down. Curiosity quickly gets the better of you though, and when you open your eyes again, you find Tess standing next to Joel, running her fingers through his hair. She kisses him gently, almost carefully, and he closes his eyes and furrows his brow, getting lost in the moment. You canât look away even though you probably should; this is their moment, not yours, but the intimacy of it has a pull thatâs impossible to escape. Itâs not just the intimacy between the two of them, it's also the fact that they know youâre here and are allowing you to become a part of this by letting you watch.
Theyâre still kissing when he starts to undress her, much slower than he undressed you, savoring every newly exposed bit of skin with gentle caresses. Your heart tightens at that sight, not because youâre jealous but because you understand. Itâs not just about the quick release, the carnal act of it, itâs also about the intimacy, the giving, the ability to be vulnerable around each other. Theyâre offering you those same things.
Once Joel is done and Tess is completely naked, youâve propped yourself up on your elbow, watching her with interest. She crawls into bed next to you, and from the smirk on her face you know itâs not because she wants to catch some rest. She lies down on your right side and takes your hand, placing it between her legs. Sheâs soaked. You canât help it â your face heats up at that realization, at being caught off-guard by it. You hadnât expected her to be affected by this at all, and proof of the opposite gives you a pleasant rush.
The same smirk is still on her face when she moves her hand between your legs. You whimper when she rolls your clit under her finger, still overstimulated, still too keyed up from earlier, but she kisses you gently and whispers, âShhh, itâs okay,â against your lips. You try to relax, and it comes easy, giving yourself over to her gentle touch. She watches your reactions, making sure she gets it just right, and youâre content to let her explore, to let her discover how you want to be touched. Soon, you push your hips upward again, eager for more. Next to you, she moans and gasps softly as you continue to stroke her clit as best as you can while all the blood is rushing down from your brain. Still, the little sounds she makes are reward enough.
Then something shifts. Youâre not sure what it is, whether itâs the hoarse moan that escapes you, whether itâs the way you make her shudder when you apply more pressure, whether itâs the way the mattress dips on Tessâs other side as Joel sits down on the bed. But her hand moves faster. She presses her fingers against you harder, and uses her free hand to grab your hair, tangling her fingers in the strands. You canât move, completely at her mercy, and she uses that to her advantage to kiss you roughly, hungrily, all the gentleness replaced by carnal desire. You let her bite your lip, scrape her teeth along your neck, press into you hard, let her give you what she thinks you deserve.
When you come, it catches you by surprise. Your whole body tenses up before you erupt into desperate pants and moans, rolling your hips against her hand to chase as much friction as you can, pulsating so hard Tess can most likely feel it against her fingers. Instead of teasing you about it, she just growls, âYeah, thatâs it. Let go,â which makes you moan even louder. They both make it so easy to give yourself over to them, to trust them.
Youâre still trembling when you open your eyes, you still twitch and pulse when you try to catch your breath. Swallowing hard, you try to calm yourself, but your head is spinning from one of the best orgasms youâve ever had. A small part of you starts to feel embarrassed about how desperate you were, how much you let your guard down, and you find yourself unable to look at Tess, even when she continues to kiss your neck and shoulder, so you look at Joel instead.
He lies propped up on his elbow on Tessâs other side, watching you come undone under Tessâs skilled touch. His chest and neck are an angry red, almost a deep purple in the dim of the bedroom. Heâs half-hard again, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. You clench one final time at the memory of him inside of you, and Tess finally removes her hand, falling back onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh.
Joel doesnât let either one of you catch a break. He grabs the wrist of your hand thatâs still between Tessâs legs and moves it lower, pushing two of your fingers into her. She clenches around you and groans, her eyes fluttering closed. The sound gets stuck in her throat when Joel presses his thumb against her clit and begins to move it in a lazy circle. You try to match the pace, pumping your fingers lazily in and out of her, glad for a chance to finally be the one who watches. You watch as Tess opens her eyes, watch as her gaze lands on Joel, watch as they get completely lost in the moment and in each other. They seem to be forgetting youâre there with them and you let them for a while before you decide to remind them.
You move lower and tentatively lick across Tessâs nipple before sucking it into your mouth. The small peak is hard against your tongue and you glow with pride and satisfaction when Tess arches her back and groans, digging her nails into your thigh. The sharp pain only spurs you on, eager to please, eager to make her forget herself like you forgot yourself when she was fucking you. You start to pump your fingers in and out of her faster, harder, and Joel, understanding, stops teasing her. Her eyes wide, her gaze still on Joel, she groans, âJoel, fuck. Please.â
The pull in the pit of your stomach at hearing her voice so raw and desperate makes you shift. Joel kisses her forehead to try to calm her, then raises his eyes and looks at you. âFuck her.â
You do as youâre told, stifling a moan by teasing Tessâs nipple with your teeth, curling your fingers inside of her, putting all your strength into your thrusts. Youâre rewarded with shallow breathing, and trembling limbs, and when she finally comes, she comes hard, holding your fingers inside of her with hard clenches. Youâve never felt anything like it, and the hunger for more is a sharp, burning sensation at the base of your spine. Will you ever be sated?
You collapse against her chest, your arm burning from the strain of keeping you propped up for so long, and Tess strokes your head with a trembling hand. Joel leans over her and kisses her cheek.
âYou okay?â he asks softly, almost too quietly for you to hear.
She nods and swallows, the muscles in her neck twitching. Closing your eyes, you grant yourself a momentâs rest, listening to her slowing heartbeat, afraid that if you move, this moment might shatter into a million pieces.
After a while, Tess pulls on your arm and makes you roll over her, so you come to rest between her and Joel. She takes your hand into hers and places it at the base of Joelâs cock, now hard and heavy again. You blink a few times, still somewhat out of your body, floating around, not sure what is happening. All you can feel are Tessâs fingers wrapped around yours, and yours wrapped around him. But then she begins to guide you up and down his shaft. Slowly at first, making sure youâre able to take it all in, feel how hot he is, feel the little veins and soft skin, the way he twitches when she makes you tighten your grip. You only fully realize what is happening when he groans softly and screws his eyes closed. Then you know.
Tess shows you how to twist your hand on the upstroke to make him gasp, to make the sinews in his neck stand out, and then she lets go of you, putting you in charge. âHe wanted this, you know,â she whispers into your ear, her voice low with pleasure. âHe sometimes thinks about what your hand would feel like wrapped around his cock.â
You donât care whether sheâs making it up or not, her words make your core tighten, especially when he follows them with a groaned, âTess,â that almost sounds like a warning. It doesnât matter if itâs true or not, she lets you have the fantasy, and she lets you have the real thing too.
Then she adds, âI think he told me about it shortly after he heard you moan his name in the middle of the night.â
A sudden pang of embarrassment almost makes you let go, but Tess closes her fingers around yours again. âNo, keep going.â
You feel the heat of Tessâs body at your back, the heat radiating off Joelâs chest, and youâre eager to comply. What does it matter now? They know how you feel about them and they donât mind. After all, Joel came inside of you not even half an hour ago, and Tess came around your fingers, leaving little halfmoon marks in your thigh with her nails.
âI just didnât think youâd like to be fucked by me, too,â Tess goes on, running her fingers along your thigh, teasing you, making you gasp and writhe.
âFaster,â Joel growls.
You donât pick up the pace immediately â itâs not your call.
âGo on, itâs all right,â Tess grants. She kisses your neck when you pick up speed, two soft pecks right behind your ear. âGood girl.â
Itâs meant for you, so quiet only you can hear it, and it makes you abandon all restraint. You sneak a hand between your legs and touch yourself. Tess lets you.
âCan I kiss him?â you ask, unable to keep your eyes off Joelâs brown ones that appear almost black now, clouded with desire.
âJoel?â Tess asks.
Joel nods, his eyes wandering to your lips, his tongue darting out to lick his own. Â You roll over so you come to rest on your knees and lean forward, your fingers still circling your clit. He captures your lips, growls against them, pushes his tongue into your mouth hungrily. Behind you, Tess strokes the back of your thighs, teasing you, making you twitch and gasp and squeeze Joelâs cock until he growls. Without warning, Joel grips your hair and he comes, spilling all over your hand and his stomach in hot, white ropes. You come too, wet heat rushing down your thighs and onto Tessâs fingers.
Tess presses a kiss to your back and you hear her chuckle softly as she gets up to look for a clean piece of cloth. You fall down next to Joel, curled up on your side, watching him. He runs a finger through his cum, coats your lips with it â and then he leans forward to kiss you, to chase his own taste with his tongue.
When Tess comes back, Joel cleans you first and then himself before he makes you lie back down between them, facing Tess. The two of you kiss lazily, unhurried, while Joel strokes your back, running his fingers down your spine.
After a while, Tess kisses the top of your head, then tugs you in beneath her chin. âYouâll still have to leave when the snow thaws out.â
âWhen the snow thaws out,â you agree.
***
joel miller taglist: @commalinsâââ | @mandinloreâââ | @mumma_moonchild | @n7cjeââ | @ronica-dlâââ | @swimmjacketâââ
permanent taglist: @amneris21âââ | @aurelacmoon | @din-jarheadâââ | @harriedandharassedâââ | @joel-tessâââ | @littlemissthistleâââ | @martellthemandalorâââ | @nyfeeer | @nobodys-baby-nowâââ | @od-endsâââ | @pedrorascalâââ | @pedrostoriesââ
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller#joel miller x reader x tess servopoulos#joel miller x you x tess servopoulos#tess servopoulos x reader#tess servopoulos x you#tess servopoulos#the last of us fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfiction#the overlook
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Pedro Pascal Character Fic Recs | Vol 40
AO3 | Kofi | Main Masterlist | The Spreadsheet Masterlist
Howdy Folks!
Here's the 40th volume of the Spreadsheet Digest. Pretty Joel heavy this week, but there's a few other boys in here too.
Summaries and Tags provided by the author. Please pay attention to the tags!
Sharpshooter
Dave York one shot by @foli-vora
Dave takes you to the fair
swearing, dave being a fucking MENACE, guns/air rifles, first date carnival shenanigans, it's a bit soft and fluffy, Dave 'BDE' York, SMUT 18+ ONLY: fingering, oral sex (f rec), unprotected p in v (no matter how pretty they are or how horny they make you - wrap that shit), public sex, outdoor sex, rough sex, dirty talk, dave doing what dave does best - completely fucking annihilating pussy.
Hitman
Dave York series by @punkshort
Fresh on the heels of a breakup, you move into a new apartment in a shady part of town. When a mysterious man breaks in, insisting he knew the prior tenant and needs to recover something left behind, you get caught up in a whirlwind of danger and attraction.
language, threats of violence, physical violence, blood/gore, guns/knives/hitman shit, smut
15 minutes
Din one shot by @whocaresstillthelouvre
Being a cam girl isn't as exciting as people think it is, that is until a mystery of a deep voiced man asks you what makes a woman feel good.
Smut, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, sex work, Din reveals his face, silver dildo, Din's a virgin, premature ejaculation. Banner has nothing to do with appearance of reader, reader has no physical descriptors besides being AFAB.
Blood on Your Name
Ezra one shot by @kedsandtubesocks
Texas 1885 - the townâs ranching competition brings in new souls out from the desert, one unfortunately happens to be a ghost haunting you & heâs still as handsome and dangerous as ever
old Wild West AU, slight enemies to lovers, very morally!gray Ezra, fingering, oral (f receiving), pussy pronouns, one moment of spit kink, allusions to p in v, scoundrel but soft!Ezra, themes of violence & reader enacting violence on another, use of guns, blood & injury, morally!gray reader, time period views of marriage & shaming women (brief use of derogatory terms against reader), minor character deaths, light gender language usage, use of nicknames
Beneath the Mire
Ezra one shot by @bonezone44
You're a human-turned-swamp monster and a man crashes into your corner of the bayou.
DDDNE, Non-con somnophilia. Blowjob. Unprotected p-in-v.
Room 301
Joel one shot by @milla-frenchy
Joel finds out that babysitting isn't your only student job
PWP. Age gap unspecified, escort, dirty talk, praise kink, sir kink, size kink, spitting, pussy slapping, light degradation, oral (m/f), unprotected piv, creampie. No outbreak
Life and Loss
Joel one shot by @wildemaven
Momentos of him, your late husband, have remained tucked away for the last year following his unexpected death. As you settle into your new widowed life and new home over a thousand miles away from the life you created with Dave, all the beautiful memories reside in cardboard boxes out of sight.
death, grief/loss, major character death (no description of said death), AU and crossover universes, kind of fluffy, navigating loss, reader is non descriptive/blank slate.
Call It What You Want
Joel one shot by @chaotic-mystery
Who knew a storm would push you and Joel exactly where you wanted to be but never thought youâd end up?
shocker shocker, Mads wrote fluff for once! Thereâs a slight mention of arson and your house burning down but ya know, the rest of it is fluff. Nicknames, implied age gap but itâs not specified, storms. NO USE OF Y/N.
Worse than Death
Joel one shot by atticrissfinch (AO3)
When Joel and his group of raiders finds you alone and in need of assistance, he offers to help you. You quickly discover those are not his intentions.
Post!Outbreak, Sadistic/Borderline Psychotic!Joel, explicit noncon, Gangbang, Kidnapping, Bondage, Double Penetration, Triple Penetration, Fisting, unprotected piv. Anal, Rough Oral Sex, Cum Eating, Watersports (including consumption of piss), Spanking, Object Insertion, HEAVY Degradation, references to necrophilia, Face Slapping, Physical Abuse, Boot Crushing, Dehumanizing Language and Behaviors, Use of the word Rape in a sexual context, Murder of unnamed OMC, alcohol consumption, Reader is implied curvy aka not a member of the IBTC, Joel has zero remorse or compassion in this, so if that's what you're looking for this is not it. Jesus i think that's everything, But in case it's not please just read with caution, MAJOR DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, spitting, Choking, Gun Violence
Helen
Joel series by @kiwisbell
a retired hitman returns to the fold.
hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence throughout, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and a little bit of blasphemy), injuries, murder, revenge, cars, smut (individual warnings in chapter tags), fluff, angst angst angst (i mean it), joel is an idiot, heartache, healing, forgiveness, threats of rape/SA, mob activities, secrecy + lies, childhood/religious trauma, grovelling, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, erotic paintings
Whiskey Sour
Joel series by @kiwisbell
Reuniting with your estranged father while you finish college in Austin has unintended consequences. His best friend, for one.
dbf!joel being extremely criminally attractive, big ol' age gap (40s/early 20s), unprotected piv (do not follow the leader), creampie, multiple sex positions, multiple orgasms, oral sex (m and f receiving), dry humping, spitting, biting, joel miller is a MUNCH, very appropriate use of a showerhead, consensual somnophilia, yoga, heavy emphasis on payphones, daddy issues, family reunions, angst, dead mom, grief and mourning, father/daughter relationship, bartending, reader is a woman in STEM (author is not), being a student in university deserves a warning probably, attempted drugging (roofies), college boys suck, possessive sex, possessive joel, protective joel, obligatory warning for joel's salt-and-pepper hair, masturbation, wet dreams, no outbreak AU, hurt/comfort, healing, no sarah or ellie, stargazing, face-sitting, pining/yearning, happy ending
Happy Reading!
#fic recs#the spreadsheet digest#fanfiction recommendations#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fanfiction#ppcu fanfiction#pedro pascal fanfiction
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The darkest parts of me (2/5)
Title:Â The darkest parts of me (2/5) Summary: They find each other in a dark world where they do twisted things. The only way things could have become more dangerous, is if they were together. Funny how life turns out.
Unsub!Hotchniss AU.  Word count: 2,9k Rating: Explicit Warnings (for most or all chapters): smut, descriptions of violence, descriptions of murder, gore (nothing too explicit), mentions of weapons
It was supposed to be one night of pleasure, but it didnât turn out that way.
One night turns into more and he knows that they should stop. Because the craving was increasing, getting worse as his need to kill grows. He should leave Washington, but for some reason he doesnât, and he tries to ignore the thought that maybe Joan was the reason. Then one night the need becomes too much, and he finds a man, a scum of a human to take back to his apartment with a promise of drugs.
When he punches him hard enough for bones to break he feels the release heâs been needing, and he takes his time, savors every scream, enjoys every whimper. Maybe thatâs why he loses track of how much time actually passes, maybe thatâs why he doesnât hear the knock on his front door or the soft hello from the hallway. Heâs in the middle of cleaning up the blood and when he looks up, sheâs there.
âJoan-â He starts but stops at the way she doesnât look afraid.
âWhat happened?â Emily looks at the pools of red, smells bleach and lye and she should walk away. She had left this life behind. But she feels the familiar pull in her stomach, feels adrenaline and the rush she had missed terribly since she left Ireland, so she stays.
âHe broke in.â He says it slowly, the lie sliding off his tongue easily as he stands up. His eyes stay on hers, thereâs something about the way her cheeks flush and how she looks more relaxed than heâs ever seen her that immediately makes him feel at ease.
âYouâre lying.â She whispers as he walks towards her, a shudder running through her when he comes close enough to touch. His eyes are hard, the darkness of his orbs reflecting something close to vehemence and she feels her thighs clench in response to his violence. âTell me what happened.â He smells of blood, the sweet and metallic smell mixing with the intense smell of bleach and she breaths in through her nose, inhaling the familiar scent greedily.
âYouâre not afraid?â He takes off his gloves and grabs her jaw, his fingers gripping tightly. His knuckles are bruised and swollen and she doesnât as much as flinch as she keeps her eyes on his.
âNo.â She smirks and her eyes flicker with want, making them even darker than usual. When he smiles back she knows that whatever it was that had attracted her to him in the first place, was even more dangerous than anything sheâd ever had before.
That night she finds out about his past and as she tells him about hers, he listens intently. She tells him her name, her real name that she hadnât used for years and as she helps him clean up the mess in his home, she realizes that the connection between them was something more hazardous than either of them had expected.Â
Before Aaron, Emily never had to deal with the clean-up, one of Ianâs men always taking care of it for them. But Aaron teaches her, and together they find themselves finding a new kind of release. He was addicted to the kill, the chase, Emily was addicted to the power of it.
âYou get off on it.â He stated after their first kill together. They had travelled to New York, and after he had watched Emily end another manâs life she had pressed him against a wall. The way she clawed at him, tugged his clothes and fucked him right then and there was more than enough for him to know.
âI do.â She smiles, cheeks still flushed and hair wild. âBut I donât get off on the torture like you do.â
âI only kill those who deserve it.â He rolls on top of her and traps her between his body and the bed. His hand hovers over her throat and when she nods he squeezes tight. âI torture men who are rotten, men that this world is better without.â
When Emily licks her bottom lip he groans and letâs go of his hold.
âI want to watch next time.â She spreads her legs wide and she feels his hard cock against her naked thigh, already ready for another round. âBut I want to finish him off.â
âDeal.â He thrusts inside of her roughly and enjoys the way she gasps at the stretch. âIâll teach you how to use the knife.â
âBut I like my gun.â She squirms when he stays still, hips pressed against hers and almost uncomfortably big. She buckles her hips, needing him to move.
âAh-ah, thatâs how you get caught.â He bites her neck and she hisses, her nails digging into his skin in warning and he starts to thrust. They could talk more about this later, right now all he wanted was to hear the way she moaned his name.
*
Money was never an issue for either of them, Aaron had saved his whole life and always took a little from each of his victims, Emily still had her funds and money from her years with Ian. It had been surprisingly easy as she got him a whole new identity to use and as they traveled to South Carolina together, Aaron realized just how much easier it was being a pair than a single man traveling alone.
âWhat about him?â Emily asked as they sat in a bar in Georgetown, having a drink as they watched people walking by. They hadnât killed in almost a month and she couldnât help missed the raw danger that she now associated with the rush of arousal and Aaron.
âYou canât choose someone at random, I told you, we need to know if he deserves it.â His warped sense of justice causes her to smile. She had never really given much thought to who deserved to die and who didnât, she had always just thought about the way it made her feel. She wasnât patient enough for the chase, maybe thatâs why she had met him, she thought. Aaron grounded her in a way no one ever had.
âWhat?â He mutters and she realizes that he had caught her staring.
âI just, never thought Iâd meet someone like you. Someone so similar and yet so different.â It wasnât logical, it wasnât the kind of love sheâd grown up reading about. It was more, the way he made her feel addictive. It had only been a few months, but she couldnât imagine life without him anymore. Their destructiveness was something that she knew was dangerous, but couldnât see herself without. Â
He smiles at her words, they were rarely soft with each other, both getting off on the cruelty of it all, but he knew heâd never felt the way he did for someone else, not even Haley. He takes her hand and rubs his thumb over the top of hers, feeling her soft skin.
âCome on, I know where to go.â
He takes her to a part of the city that he knows has a high crime rate and as they sit in their rental car he keeps his hand on her thigh. Itâs warm outside, so she was wearing a dress and when his fingers skim over her smooth skin he notices the way she shivers, always just a touch away from needing more.
âPay attention.â He says lowly with a knowing smirk and then watches her as she watches the street. It doesnât take long before two men walk past their car and into an alley. He takes notice of the way they speak to each other, how the quick flash of a gun gleams under the streetlight before they disappear from sight and he notices that Emily has seen it too.
âLetâs go.â She says and gets out of the car, Aaron right behind her.
They walk in silence, just barely catches the drug deal before one of the men turns to walk the other way. Emily knew that wouldnât be enough of a reason for Aaron to want either of them dead. But then the second man walks straight up to a woman who couldnât be more than 18, a life on the street already forcing her to use her body to survive. The conversation between the man and the woman is quiet, until itâs not. They watch as he grabs her and she fights but heâs stronger and bigger and when he reaches for his gun she stops struggling.
âYouâre coming with me one way or the other, are you going to make it hard?â The man says, gun still pointed towards the woman who looks at him with teary eyes.
âPlease, donât kill me.â She whispers, taking a slow step backwards.
Theyâre still hidden away in the dark and Aaron takes advantage of the fact. He hits him in the back of the head, then punches him again and knocking him out.
âLeave.â Emily tells the woman whoâs looking at them, stuck somewhere between fear and surprise. âGet out of here.â When the woman still doesnât move Emily sighs and pulls out her gun. âNow.â
She runs away, barely sparing them another glance as Aaron starts to drag the man back further into the alley.
âGo get the car so I donât have to carry him the entire way.â He tells her and she catches the car key he throws her way.
âDo you think sheâll talk?â She asks, eyes still on the retrieving form of the woman.
âNo, she wonât deal with cops unless sheâs arrested herself.â He knew women like her, they never talked to the police, even when they should.
Emily takes his word for it with a nod and then walks back through the alley to get the car. She drives around the building, makes sure that she stays hidden out of streets lights and cameras and when Aaron puts the body of the man in the trunk, she feels excitement run through her.
Theyâve rented a small house on the outskirts of town, far away from other residents. It comes in handy, Emily realizes as she hears the loud screams coming from the man each time Aaron cuts him with his knife. She had never found blood or the mess thrilling, but as she watched Aaron, effortlessly powerful, twisted in all the ways she was, she found a steady pulse of arousal beating between her legs.
Aaron takes a break and looks up at her as she watches him from a stool, a glass of red wine in hand. Heâs sweaty, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He never thought heâd enjoy being watched this way, but as Emilyâs breathing hitches and cheeks flush pink he realizes that he does.
âHow many women have you hurt?â He uses his foot to roll the man onto his back and looks down at his bloody face. Thereâs no answer, only grunts of pain and fear. âYou donât even know, do you? Filth.â His foot connects to his stomach and when the gurgling wheeze of a mouth filled with blood is the only sound heard Aaron feels the euphoria heâs always chasing. âCome on sweetheart, finish him off.â
Emily reaches for her gun on the countertop but he stops her with a shake of his head.
âYou think you feel powerful with the gun? Just wait until you use the knife.â He smirks and she carefully drops the gun back on the counter. So far she had stuck to her gun but Aaron had encouraged her to stop ever since they started killing together.
She knew that a gun was easier to trace, that he was right when he said that she should change things up. When her fingers grasp the knife her hand shakes from nerves and adrenaline, but he only nods reassuringly at her.
âPlease-â The man on the floor pleads and the rush of power is immediate as she kneels down next to him.
âBegging will get you nowhere.â She holds his stare as she raises the knife. The feeling of steel slicing through flesh is foreign, the heat of blood on her hand new and she stares, wide-eyed at the way the floor is colored red.
âGoing for the neck, smart choice.â Aaron says behind her, voice thick with barely restrained want.
She doesnât stand back up until sheâs sure the man is dead and when she does Aaron grabs her tightly, his hands shaking against her hips.
âYouâre so pretty like this baby.â He tells her and she lets go of the knife and grabs his shirt instead, not caring that sheâs ruining the material as she does.
She pulls him into a rough kiss, her tongue immediately seeking out his as they leave the mess theyâve made on the floor for the time being. He tastes like danger and adrenaline, metallic and Aaron and she moans softly as his hands starts to tug her dress up her hips.
He hears the fabric of her dress tearing as he forces it off her body and swiftly picks her up and her legs wrap around him. Even through his shirt and her underwear, he feels the heat of her between her legs and he growls against her lips. He needs her, needs to feel her and with that thought in mind he places her on the counter. She seems just as desperate for him, her fingers working on each button of his shirt with an impatient huff until she gives up and rips the shirt open, sending buttons flying.
The marble is cold against her heated skin but she barely registers it, her sole focus on him. She watches as he pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough for his cock to spring free, then helps him with her panties by lifting her hips as he drags them down her legs. His teeth are bruising her as he bites down on the soft flesh of her breast and when she moans at the pain he looks at her with something close to madness.
âFuck me.â She tells him, her fingers tight in his hair as she pulls him up to kiss him. âMake me come.â
Aaron nods into another messy kiss, mostly tongue and heavy breaths but he doesnât care. Emily drunk off the power of a fresh kill was his favorite kind of Emily. The heat of her as he rubs the tip of his cock through her makes him suck in a breath, her slick shiny on her thighs.
âYour wish, my command.â He whispers and the way her lips tug into a satisfied smirk goes straight to his cock. His grip on her is bruising when he pushes inside of her. He takes his time, lets her feel every inch of him until heâs pressed flush against her.
Her eyes drift closed as he starts to pull out, keeping the same slow pace. Normally theyâre frantic, desperate to be pleased and to please, but the way heâs teasing them both is driving her insane in the best way possible. She canât move, his hold is too tight and she can tell that he knows just how much heâs teasing her from the way heâs smirking at her.
âHarder, fuck me like you mean it.â She grunts, voice tight with frustration and sheâs once again impressed by his self-control. But it seems like heâs done teasing only a few strokes later and instead he fucks into her faster, hard enough for her body to jolt and she bites down a loud moan.
âYou can scream, no oneâs going to hear you.â He lets go of her hip and moves his hand between her legs, his thumb starting to rub her clit. She leans back against the counter, resting her weight on her elbows as she watches him with hooded eyes. Heâs sweaty, his body shining with it, his hands red and stained with dried blood, small specks of it on his neck and face. The visual mixed with how heâs touching her causes her to cry out as her head falls back.
âItâs so good.â She gasps, eyes hooded and mouth slack.
Itâs not long until she feels the coiling in her belly and she can tell that heâs close as well. Heâs rubbing her clit in fast circles, his muscles tense. Then he pulls her up so sheâs sitting again, his lips claiming hers in a bruising kiss.
âCome with me.â He grunts and she nods. Her arms wrap around his neck and when he bites down on her shoulder she moans at the painful pleasure. She comes with a scream, her body shuddering as her muffles more sounds against his neck. The feeling of his release only prolongs her pleasure, the heat of him inside of her making her gasp as his hips stutter against hers.
Aaron doesnât move away until his breathing has slowed and his heart rate has returned to normal. When he looks down at her, he sees the same relaxation on her face that he feels himself.
âWeâre too good at this.â She smiles and he chuckles before kissing her forehead.
âSex or murder?â He asks, half teasingly.
âBoth.â
#hotchniss#criminal minds fanfiction#hotchniss smut#hotchniss fanfiction#criminal minds smut#aaron hotchner x emily prentiss smut#aaron hotchner x emily prentiss#hotch x emily#aaron x emily#aaron hotchner fanfiction#aaron hotchner smut#emily prentiss fanfiction#emily prentiss smut
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"Permanently Tied." Freddy Krueger X Amber Cottrell.
Today is a big day! Today marks three years of me writing! And you all know what that means, the first thing I ever posted was chapter one of The Man Of My Dreams, so itâs been three years of this lovely little fic of mine, happy birthday to the baby that started it all! So to celebrate as per uzeâ I wrote up Freddy and Amber thing, natch. I hope you allll enjoy it! Not super long, not super extra, but it feels very, very them and I had fun doing it which is the most important thing.Â
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Length. 2.7K. Rating. Explicit. Freddy Kreuger X Amber Cottrell. Warnings: Amber Has A Real Bad Day. Banter. Teasing. Mentions Of Violence. Blood Play. Knife Play. Vaginal Sex. Dirty Talk. Just Freddy And Amber Being Freddy And Amber.
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Today was a beast for poor Amber.Â
One of those days where almost everything went wrong. She loved her hair, the big mess of curls was one of her favourite things about herself but today no matter what she did before she left the house it was just that, a fucking untamable mess. She left the house on time but when she was halfway to her office, fumbling for her cell phone to answer a call she wasnât paying close enough attention, her heel got caught in part of a subway grate. Worse still, it broke off, totally ruining her shoe and making her spill her caramel macchiato on herself in the process.
She had to hobble back home, cursing the whole way for the wasted drink, the horribly stained blouse and skirt that needed dry cleaning and her perfectly good patent leather Louboutin heel that was ruined beyond recognition. She couldnât even pry the busted heel out of the grate so taking it to a cobbler to try and salvage it was out. She called her assistant, him on speaker phone on the table in her walk-in closet as she got redressed, informing him she would be late.Â
She had to change and couldnât show up to work in a broken shoe and a ruined outfit, not with performance reviews today, she was up first before delivering some of the people she managed and he informed her that her boss called just before her and was going to be early.Â
She barely made it in time.Â
Her review was fine, better than fine, it was glowing, the one highlight of today. Her own reviews she gave were more disorganised than she would like, her lunch order was wrong, her computer was out of commission and needed IT to fix it, by five o-clock she was fucking bone tired and had totally written the day off.Â
She wanted to cook dinner, wanted to lose herself to the methodical nature of it, and help make up for the lack of breakfast and her terrible lunch. Sadly, dinner somehow got inexplicably burnt and she just about lost it. She tossed the smoking pan into the sink after turning off her smoke alarm and then picked up her cell phone and almost felt bad for the poor guy on the other end who took her pizza order which was surely the most angry pizza request anyone had ever put in at that particular establishment.Â
When her order was in, phone tossed down and forgotten, she busted out her nicest bottle of whiskey and poured a glass for herself, neat. She downed it in one painful swallow that burned in the most satisfying way and then poured herself another.Â
The pizza arrived in less than thirty minutes, she thrust the folded bills in the hand of the clearly nervous delivery person, but she didnât blame them. Wild red curls around her head, her blouse unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, giving dead eyes and a vaguely angry expression, glass in her (Chipped! Another thing that pissed her off earlier-) manicured grip, saying nothing. She took the pizza in the other hand that wasnât holding her glass and she slammed the door closed with her foot before walking into the living room. She sat on the couch, put down her glass and opened the box, about to eat the pizza right out of there, sans plate.Â
When she opened it, something made her stop.Â
She stared down at the offending box, around 50% of the cheese from the pizza stuck to the box's lid.Â
She sighed, closed the box, finished her drink and turned off the tv.Â
Today is done, itâs over, she isnât doing this anymore.Â
Sheâd laugh if she had anything left inside. She stripped off, threw the clothes down, and left them on the bathroom floor. She ran a bath, used salts and oils and bubble bath and slipped into the scalding hot water and allowed the tension to start to melt out of herself. She breathed deep and let the smell of lavender soothe her frayed nerves. She got out when the water was significantly cooled, she moisturised, did her skin care, spritzed herself with perfume she knew he liked best, vanilla and honeysuckle but not just cloying sweetness, it had depth to it.
Making her way to her closet, she thought about how she was going to get to see him soon. Tonight was a big deal, she had hoped today was going to be a good day leading up to it but sadly it wasnât, tonight was their anniversary, three years since he had been back and she was excited to celebrate it with him. She wasnât going to let her terrible day dampen tonight.
She pulled out the bag from her closet that she had bought a month ago, fished out the white silk pyjama set that she knew Freddy would eat up. It was traditional, very, very unlike anything she had worn previously for him, it screamed innocence and begged two words, âcorrupt meâ, there was no way he wouldnât love the change of pace.
Now in a much better headspace she made her way to bed, as fun as a good hate fuck is every now and again, she didnât want to bring that energy to him this time. Â
She slipped into the sheets and stretched out, even after so long she still felt palpable excitement to see him on a night like tonight. It made falling asleep harder but no matter what, it always got to her eventually, just like him, he always got to her eventually.Â
The change from awake to asleep bleeds, it melts slowly, from her being conscious to un. She always becomes aware of it when she feels the sheets of the bed in the playroom as opposed to the ones on her own bed. She feels the weight of the mattress shift and her eyes slide open, she feels his hands on her body through the blanket and she looks up to see him, already almost on top of her, âThere she is. Was wondering if you were ever gonna show up.â
âAwe, did I keep you waiting?âÂ
âYou did. Terrible, awful, girl. Making me hang around on a night like tonight. Maybe I shouldnât give you your gift as punishment.â He teased and she laughed, a roll of her eyes, âWe both know you arenât gonna not fuck me tonight.â
He gasps, mock offence, âYou think that is the only thing I got you?â His gloved hand to his chest and she laughs over his expression.
âWouldnât be the first time.â She taunts as she sits up and as the blanket slips down and pools at her waist he sees what she is wearing. âOh. Now what-â He reaches out, feels her arm with his non-gloved hand, â-is this?â
âOne of your gifts.â She says with a smile, leaning away a little bit as he takes in the creamy white silk covering her form. He yanks the rest of the blanket away to see the rest of her and she asks, âWhat do you think?âÂ
âI thiiiink, it is very different from what you usually wear.â He said honestly and she hummed as he leaned in closer, âGood different or bad different?â
âOh I think you know what kind of different.â He stated and she let him think he was going to let him kiss her and when his lips were an inch away from hers instead she fell back onto the bed and he groaned, his head tipping forward and she giggled. Looking up at him through her hair, playing with her fingers as she looked up at him, mocking with a playful pout, âWhatâs the matter Freddy? You donât wanna work for it?â
âI didnât have to work for it the first night you came sniffing around for me, why do I gotta work for it now when we are years in?â The tone shows he is joking and she reaches out, toying with the hem of his sweater. âCuz itâs fun. Annnd you love me, and I humour you all the time.âÂ
He sighs as if he is put out when they both know he is not. âCompelling argument you strike.âÂ
She pats the space on the bed next to her and he takes her up on it, lays beside her, feet to head and facing her, one of his hands resting on her leg, looking towards her and asks, âSo how was your day?â
A groan leaves her, one of her arms thrown over her eyes overdramatically in a fashion that makes him smile, âTerrible! The worst ever!âÂ
She then proceeds to vent about her day, from the spilled coffee and broken heel to her burnt dinner and the ruined pizza that was surely congelling, grease leaking through the box onto her nice glass coffee table, and he listened. He actually validated what she said and agreed it was all bullshit. âReally?âÂ
âYes!â He said and she asked, âYou donât think I am overreacting?âÂ
âNot at all.â He affirmed, his hands hadnât left her, tracing slow and sweet patterns over the pyjama pants she was wearing. âEven the thing with my heels?â
âHey I loved those heels, the ones with the red bottoms? They looked so good on you!â The look he was giving her she knew exactly what he was thinking of.
âYeah you always did love 'em propped on your shoulders.â She said with a smile and he laughed, âCanât sneak nothing past you.âÂ
âNot after all this time, no.â She sighs, âThanks for listening.â
âOf course, the least I could do.â He started to sit up, his hand not leaving her thigh as he asked, âIs there anything I can do to help fix such a shit fucking day?âÂ
âI just wanna do whatever you have planned. You do have something planned, donât you?â She asks sweet as pie.
âYou think I donât have something planned? Honey, you wound me deeply.âÂ
âHardly. Give me that glove and we can talk about me wounding you deeply.âÂ
âHave you thought about this a lot?â He asked and she laughed, reaching out she plucked up his gloved hand, âOh yeah, donât you know? I masturbate exclusively to the thought of me murdering you with your own weapon.âÂ
âI knew it.â He accused her. He got up and held out said gloved hand, âCâmon, letâs go.â
She hums and takes what he offered as she always did. Turns out the plans took them to some well loved and previously enjoyed spots, a drink out a certain club, all while recalling fond old times. âRemember last time we came to this club and I-â
âFucked me in the alley so good I ended up flat on my ass? Yes! It was hilarious, my legs just gave out.â She laughed, âYou looked like a newborn deer trying to walk after.â
âDid I ever tell you I called out of work that morning?â She asked and he laughed, âFuck off! No you never said!â
âWell I tried to get up but it was a no go, I had to fucking crawl to the bathroom-âÂ
After all of that, food was gotten at a particular restaurant, more good times recalled,Â
âSo did you ever see Joseph again?âÂ
âYou mean after the time he tried to kiss me and you got so jealous you almost gutted me like a fish? Nope, steered clear after that.â It was said in a shockingly light tone considering how heavy the subject matter was.Â
âI wasnât gonna kill you, fuckssake-â He groaned, a fond roll of her eyes, âUh-huh, just what was your intention?â
âJust scare you real bad.âÂ
âWell you accomplished that-â
And soon the gifts were exchanged. He laughed when he opened his, pulling out the silver object from the box with his non-gloved hand, âReally? You got the permanent burn victim a lighter?â He flicked it open and lit it once on the first strike before snapping it closed, snuffing out the flame, âHilarious.âÂ
âI thought so! But read it.â She encouraged and he did so, seeing the engraving on the other side, âThank you for the fire you lit inside me.â Â
It made him have a small moment of pause, thumb ran over the embedded words, but instead of being sweet or acknowledging the touching gesture he instead teased, âLook at you. When did you get so fucking soft on me?â
âFreddy, câmon, youâve felt me all over, you know first hand how soft I am.â She joked and he sighed, âOpen your gift already Amber.âÂ
She hooks a nail under the red green silk ribbon that was tied around the red wrapped box, she pulls until the bow gives way and she opens the box and sees what he got her, âOoh! New piercing set!â She lightly touched the polished dark green metal, âOoo, different colour this time.â She lifted the matching pieces out, turning them over in her fingers. âYou gonna outfit me in the whole rainbow eventually, hm?â
âOnly took you this long to figure it out, Iâm shocked.â He said before taking a sip from his bourbon.
âIâm slow on the uptake sometimes, can you blame me when you distract me so often?â
âIâll let it slide this time. You wanna put those new ones in?â He asked and she laughed hard into her glass, before she set it down, âHere? At the table?â
âIâve fucked you on this table in front of the whole restaurant before but sure, you changing out your piercings is too far?â
âHeaven forbid I have some boundaries left.â She finishes the rest of her drink, âWe can head back and maybe you can help me change em yourself.âÂ
âTempting offer.â He agrees as he gets up and takes her hand.Â
They never got to him helping her change her piercings, both were a little too distracted a little too quickly for that. He used his glove to shred her nice pyjamas, he popped the buttons off so the top hung loose and open, pretty tits on display, pants mostly cut apart giving him the ample access he needed to torture her and please himself. It didnât take much for it to escalate to its current point, there was no need to rush but sometimes the need they feel is too much to take their time.
Amber is riding Freddy as they are sitting up, both of them very, very into it, bodies pressed almost as close as can be. She pulls back from him, slightly, breaking the very sloppy kiss they had been sharing, a soft moan of, âFreddy.â, gracing her lips.
âAmberrr-â He almost purrs her name back, a clench of her on him, another rush of arousal pouring through her chest and straight to her overheated cunt.Â
Panting, she asks around a half laugh, half moan, âFuck, is it possible to be addicted to hearing the sound of your own name?âÂ
He laughs too, âShit, I dunno, letâs test it, eh? Say my name.â Her arms looping around his neck, rolling her hips she breathes to him, âFreddy-â His head falls back with a groan, thrusting up into her harder, âYou know, I think youâre onto something.âÂ
A breathy giggle breaks out, she starts âYou narcissistic fucker-â He cuts her off, âHey, youâre one to talk! This was your fucking idea-â Another series of hard thrusts upwards makes her shudder, a series of broken moans leave her open mouth, â-Amber.âÂ
The son of a bitch said it just the way she adored when he did, focusing on the M, stretching out the R, lingering on it as if every syllable was a delicious treat for his senses.
âWhat? No cute little comment?â He asked and when her pleasure addled brain made her response take too long for his liking he stopped cold and she groaned, a shake of her head, âNo, no, ju-st keep going-â When he did she gasped, clung closer, even with her thighs trembling she resumed her earlier pace, slamming down to meet him in the middle, âFuck! Right there!â
This is just what she needed, being rendered physically unable to focus on the bullshit of earlier, instead she could come here and lose herself in the feeling of shredded and blood soaked silk plastered to her broken skin while getting fucked totally dumb. She loved being able to go to sleep, to rest and come and see him, he fixes all of that so easily, hopelessly devoted and she knew he was in a similar boat, no doubt with how he touched her, looked at her, that he didnât feel it all as strongly as she did.Â
#Freddy Krueger X oc#Amber Cottrell#Freddy Krueger X Amber Cottrell#The Man Of My Dreams#TMOMD#BHF writing#Happy birthday to me and the blog and these two and on and on
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Find the Word Tag X
I KNOW I've missed a bajillion of these tags, but the ones I have on hand are from @ls-daydreams and @celestepens!! Thank you both <3
The words I'm finding are dear, yellow, burn, rust, rain, drink, wipe, state, teeth, and star
And because this Will Be Long, tags + your words to find are as follows:
Tagging @authoralexharvey, @calicojackofficial, @indecentpause, @naps-tries-writing, and @ashen-crest! Absolutely 0 pressure to play, and this doubles as an open tag if you'd like!
Your words are lock, dust, jacket, bed, spine, and offer.
And now, on with the game!
All of these are from Whispers, and while there's no explicit violence or sexual content, there are mentions of alcohol, smoking, blood, kidnapping, and more, so please tread carefully!
Dear (Whispers, Lorelei POV):
âYou locked the door behind you?â
âOf course,â she says, passing my notebook over. She turns to leave, pauses as I flip the notes open. âAnd I closed the window for you.â
âThank you, dear.â Folding the worn pages under so their curling edges and bleeding ink donât distract me, I look up to Ilya and nod. âTell me everything.â
Yellow (Whispers, Lorelei POV):
The paper inside is thin and yellowed, the frame around the words marking it immediately as an article from the Myshari Times. It smells of dust and old books, and I silently wonder to myself what archive had the misfortune of bearing the bait.
Burn (Whispers, Marika POV):
The eyes of an Uryak see the world differently. Their vision is wide, precise, able to see everything around them not hidden by their own bulk--but it is flat, too, almost all of it more like periphery than the true vision I am most used to. It is brighter than that of a fox. More colorful than a bearâs.
An Uryak hears more, too. From ten feet away, it hears the shaking breaths below the sharp breeze and the crinkling of paper hidden in a jacket.
An Uryak is, by far, the largest thing I have ever become.
My marrow will burn like Hio himself when I go back.
Rust (Whispers, Marika POV):
âThere are rooms upstairs,â Kira tells us as the door slams behind him. âStick to your right coming from the landing, or youâll end up with us Debtors. Weâve got worse beds.â
[Redacted] nods, silent, making himself as small as he can when a pair of shadows darken the stairs, pushing himself as far out of the way as possible and keeping [his daughter] by his side. As I round the bar prepared to warn them against looking at the blood on the floor, I instead find that all trace of it has been swept away but for the slight rusting of the rug--which I wouldnât know was not normal, if I hadnât seen its color before.
Rain (Whispers, Marika POV):
Dakarsa scoffs. âSays the one who kidnapped a fucking child.â
Ivanâs hand slams onto the counter, knuckles white as they grip the glass with a new, light crack climbing up from its bottom. And like birds in the wake of cracking thunder, the other conversations in the room grind to a halt, the itch of a dozen eyes crawling up my spine like rain.
In the long silence that blooms, I lay a hand on Dakarsaâs shoulder from my place hiding behind him.
âIvan did next to nothing,â I say as he tenses beneath me, breath freezing at my touch. âThey came without protest. So if you insist on being angry at anyone--â I spin him around on the stool with a shove â--be angry at me.â
Drink (Whispers, Marika POV):
[Dakarsa] catches Vikâs questioning gaze, hand reaching for the back of his neck as he scrambles to explain. âShe was the Uryak.â
âAh,â Viktor says, dark eyes still wide, before setting the kettle down and lighting the stove like nothing happened. âWelcome.â
I have to hold back a laugh at Dakarsaâs dumbfounded expression. âYou took that better than these two.â
Viktor shrugs, a smile slipping across his cheeks. âAt a certain point, you learn to stop asking questions. Anything to drink?â
Wipe (Whispers, Lorelei POV):
[The officer] hardly acknowledge[s] me when I kick out the stool next to them and take a seat, instead downing the shot of liquor in their hand with a grunt.
I wave the barkeep away when they start to offer me a drink, fixated solely on the white-clad individual next to me, waiting for them to wipe the glittering droplets of liquor from their blond beard before I begin my interrogation.
State (Whispers, Marika POV):
Instead, the first view of Fowden is not even of the city itself, but the sheer wall of ice that bridges two jagged peaks and the black-iron gate at its center, the shade cast by the sun dipping ever-further towards the horizon to our left making it as stark against the snow as grass against stone.
It is the gate that reminds me Emarye used to be an Empire, not a disconnected swathe of eternally-arguing City-States.
It is the gate that reminds me Fowden was host to the throne.
Teeth (Whispers, Marika POV):
Vikâs face ignites in a mirror of my own suspicion, watching Ivanâs motions intently as he quietly passes out our drinks, before something else lights in his eyes and he sucks a hiss through his teeth.
âOh, you ballsy son of a bitch,â he breathes, setting his mug down and watching Ivan take a seat with wide eyes. âWhen did she figure it out?â
Star (Whispers, Marika POV):
Neither of us say anything for the long moment after I step up next to him. In the silence, after watching his hands shake for a little too long when he lights the next smoke, I watch the strip of stars that are visible between the cluttered walls overhead.
As the edges of the thin clouds first catch a hint of the green auroras, he snuffs the butt of this second cigarette.
âIâm sorry,â he croaks, still gazing at the yawning darkness below as he flicks the smoldering remains down into the depths.
#fun fact i discovered i dont have a tag for this game specifically when looking for what number it is#so im making one now.#find the word tag#whispers#snip
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à©âĄ SOLDIER, POET, KING: PROLOGUE !
oo. "o children, rejoice"
âč ážáž Ë we're all weeping now, weeping because there ain't nothing we can do to protect you.
content. hotd!ocs, explicit violence, mention of death, grief, childbirth, trauma + wc. 1.2k
the air atop visenyaâs hill weighed heavy, thicker than the stillness of death itself. baelon felt it pressing down on his chest, constricting his breath. every sound seemed mutedâthe rustle of cloaks in the cold wind, the distant crackle of the pyre awaiting its final flame, the quiet sobs of courtiers standing behind them, too removed to matter. it was as though the world itself mourned, caught in a solemn stasis that suffocated and subdued.
the weight of expectation, too, sat heavy on his narrow shoulders. baelon knew he wasnât supposed to understand these things yetâresponsibility, grief, deathâbut he felt them all the same. the burn of them thrummed in his small hands, clenched tight at his sides. his fingers twitched toward aelora, wailing in the wet nurseâs arms, but they stopped short. his sisterâs cries cut through the silence, piercing, relentless. they werenât soft whimpers of sadness. no. aelora screamed as if she knew what no one dared to say aloud.
she was there, and she was not.
baelon didnât look at her. he couldnât.
instead, his eyes fixed on the pyre. his mother lay there, still and small beneath layers of targaryen red and black, the intricate dragon embroidery dulled by the shroud of death. she didnât look like herselfânot like the mother he had known before her face grew lined and pale, her smile strained and fleeting. she looked like a stranger now, and that thought lodged itself somewhere deep in his chest, festering.
somewhere behind him, his father was weeping. or perhaps he wasnât. viserysâs grief had become an unnerving thingâsilent, detached, like a black hole that swallowed everything around him. in the hours since aemmaâs death, he had not once looked baelon in the eye.
the weight of that absence clawed at baelon more than anything else.
a soft breeze stirred, tugging at his cloak, but the air around him remained cold. how could it be so cold when fire waited to devour everything in front of him? baelon shivered, his jaw clenching. his gaze drifted sideways toward rhaenyra.
she stood a few feet away, small and fragile in her black mourning gown, though her posture betrayed none of it. her chin was high, her lips pressed into a thin line of defiance, though her fingers trembled where they twisted the folds of her cloak. her dragon, syrax, loomed behind her, its golden scales reflecting the dim firelight. rhaenyraâs gaze, sharp and steady, remained fixed on their mother.
baelon envied her.
he envied the quiet resilience she exuded, the certainty with which she carried herself. even now, as tears threatened to spill from her violet eyes, she looked like she belonged hereâlike the gods had placed her atop this hill to embody strength in the face of despair.
baelon didnât feel strong.
he felt small. and weak. and utterly powerless.
the absence of his own dragon made that feeling worse, a sharp edge twisting deep. his dragon egg hadn't hatched in his crib like rhaenyra'sâor after thatâdespite the promise of his blood. despite his prayers to the gods, old and new, whispered every night before sleep claimed him. the egg sat lifeless in the hearth of his chambers, mocking him with its silence.
rhaenyra had syrax. she could say the words. she could wield fire and ash in their motherâs name.
but baelon? baelon had nothing.
baelon targaryen, eldest son of king viserys, the prince of dragonstone, didnât have a dragon.
his chest tightened as his gaze flicked back to aelora. she had quieted now, her wails subdued into hiccupping sobs against alicentâs shoulder. her small fingers clutched at the older girlâs gown, desperate and clinging. baelonâs stomach twisted, guilt and resentment warring within him.
she should have had their mother.
their mother should have been here, alive, singing to her, holding her, feeding her. aelora deserved that much, didnât she? but alas, she would never have it. she would grow up as baelon did nowâwithout.
and yet, when baelon looked at her, all he could feel was bitterness, sharp and accusatory. aelora had taken their mother from them, in a way. and everyone knew it. they just wouldnât say it aloud.
his gaze flitted to rhaenyra again, and he caught her looking back. for a moment, their eyes locked, an unspoken understanding passing between them. maybe he had imagined it, a glimpse of her own resentment, buried beneath layers of guilt and duty. the way her brows pinched, the faint flicker of something cold behind her tears.
aelora would grow up loved. baelon and rhaenyra would see to that. but they would also be expected to carry the weight of what had been lost.
and they would carry it in silence.
âbaelon,â daemonâs voice pulled him from his thoughts. the rogue prince stood nearby, his silver hair glinting in the faint light. he looked calm, almost bored, but baelon knew better. there was a tightness to daemonâs jaw, a tension in the way he stood apart from the others.
âitâs time.â
baelon blinked, his eyes widening.
time for what? he wasnât supposed toâ
and then rhaenyra stepped forward, syrax moving along with her in perfect synchrony. her small shoulders were squared, her expression hardening into something fierce and determined. she turned her face toward him for only a moment, and in that moment, baelon felt everything he wasnât.
she would light the fire.
he should have been the one. he was the eldest. he was supposed to lead, to protect, to carry the familyâs burdens. but he didnât have a dragon. he couldnât even say the words.
he watched as rhaenyra raised her small chin, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands.
âdracarys.â
the word left her lips with the weight of a command.
syrax obeyed.
flames roared to life, consuming the pyre in an instant. the heat was blinding, searing, but baelon couldnât look away. the fire devoured everythingâhis motherâs body, her shroud, the memories of her gentle hands and soft lullabies.
baelonâs fists tightened at his sides. his nails bit into his palms, but he didnât care. the pain grounded him, cutting through the numbness that threatened to swallow him whole.
he glanced back at aelora, who had fallen silent, her small form trembling against the wet nurse. a sharp pang shot through him, a tangle of grief and guilt and anger. she was innocent in all this, wasnât she? she didnât choose to take their mother from them.
but innocence didnât matter.
not here.
not now.
he turned his gaze back to the pyre.
he stood there as the flames began to die down, the edges of the wood blackened and charred. his mother was gone now, reduced to ash and smoke that spiraled into the dark sky above. he watched as the wind carried her away, scattering her into nothing.
he wouldn't forget this momentâthe helplessness, the shame, the anger. he wouldn't let himself forget.
because he would never feel this weak again.
he swore it.
as the fire burned on, baelon made a silent vow.
he would become stronger. strong enough to carry the weight of everything they had lost. strong enough to protect what remained. strong enough to tame a dragon.
and if the gods wouldn't grant him strength, he would take it for himself.
next chapter â
#calicocita#à©â©âžâž hotd#hotd#house of the dragon#rhaenyra targaryen#the conquerors#hotd x oc#hotd oc#house targaryen#hotd fanfic#daemon targaryen#hotd x reader
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Feral Heart - Chapter IV
Chapter 4
Wordcount 4,6k
Title Fever Dreams and Rocks
Fandom Tenkaichi: Nihon Saikyo Bugeisha Ketteisen
Previous chapters
Prologue . 1 . 2 . 3
Symbols â â đ€
Warnings: Mentions of violence against wild animals (non explicit); mild injury provoked by sharp object; mentions of blood and references to bloodlust and assassins
Tagging @chrollossweat (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)
N.A.: So... finally this chapter is ready and posted! It ended up longer than I first planned (way longer! haha) and I needed an equally long time to revise it, though I admit I didn't work on it every single day due to personal circumstances. Anyways, I'm really happy that we finally reached this chapter because it contains some of the scenes that made me create this story, and if you enjoy writing you know that feeling too <3
I hope you enjoy this chapter :)
The students had a short amount of free time after lunch, during which they would rest or engage in inoffensive activities like playing and taking walks at Nobunaga-samaâs gardens. Of course, with the emotions experienced that morning, they all had much to think about, but not everyone was willing to spend the afternoon ruminating, so they did what many girls would do while staying idle and unsupervised: they started talking.
You, on the other hand, knew you wouldnât stand hearing your name among the gossiping, neither you wanted to be confronted about the events of earlier, so you were quick to escape your classmatesâ reach and got yourself into the depths of the grove that grew behind the compound where you were housed.
You too had a lot to think about, but your deliberations had little to do with the lessons, so you wouldnât share them with anyone.
You were now sitting on one of the highest branches of a tree in the middle of the grove; your sandals were taken off and had their stripes tied to each other, forming one thread that you tossed over your shoulder to free your hands, occupied with a knife you stole from the kitchen and an apple that you didnât have to steal. Having your back resting on the tree trunk, you chomped a thick piece of the fruit and recalled the morning lessons for the hundredth time.
The thing was that you couldnât forget how quickly you were deceived and dominated by Yagyu, how easy was for him to get close and trap you on the ground, under him, with no signs of embarrassment â unlike yourself, who couldnât help the heat coming up your face at the memory of the fight. Apparently, your master was really worthy the title Peerless, but his incomparability wasnât restricted to swordsmanship.
He was so close that he could kiss me if he wanted. And to think he did that in front of so many people⊠has he no shame?
You swallowed the fruit and sighed, both from angry and shyness. The idea of a kiss happening in those circumstances was too much to bear. How would you go back to the compound and join the other girls with all those thoughts stirring in your head? How would you fall asleep at night? You didnât want to imagine what kind of dreams could invade your mind in case you werenât able to leave those feelings aside. Even worse, the idea of returning to the training area the next day and facing him as if nothing happened would haunt you until the said day came.
You chopped another part of the apple and put it on your mouth with the tip of the knife, but you ended up closing your lips before taking the blade away, resulting in a small, superficial cut. You gasped and touched your lower lip, and a little red drop was seen on your thumb. You cursed and continued to eat, but the irritation caused by the cut wouldnât let you close your mouth, and the appleâs juice leaked from it, staining your yukata. You tried to clean it as best as you could, but the mark couldnât be conceived. You abandoned the knife and decided to eat using only your teeth. This situation would be too trivial to shake your moods if it wasnât for what youâve already experienced that day.
Could it be that what happened between us impressed me to the point of distraction? Why do I keep thinking it, anyway?
You bit the apple on a spot still covered by the red peel, and for a moment you closed your eyes, letting the pulp and the juice fill your mouth. The answers, just as you imagined â and feared â were already there.
At the same time my instincts tell me to keep away from him, they suddenly fall silent when he approaches me. As if he has some power of shutting down oneâs defenses to invade and plunder them effortlessly.
Standing there, at a strangerâs mercy, was an unsettling feeling, and you didnât like it at all. Youâve been dealing with all kinds of people since the days youâve lived in your village, and now among girls from each part of the country, servants, military men and noble ones: simple-minded, smart, generous, cunning, dreamers, realistic ones, alternating between giving and taking something from each other. All of them admittedly human, whom you sensed you could deal with. However, this man⊠was something else.
Something apart from regular humans, but not exactly foreign to them. Something that mixed their remnants with certain things that would go beyond, all of this hiding in a delicate shell.
It was when a drop of blood from your lips entered your mouth and touched your tongue, and the sudden realization of its taste made your eyes open wide. You were still holding the knife; you hid it carefully in your clothes and finished the apple on a rush, as if sensing a close threat, an uneasiness creeping through the grass, searching for your spot.
That was the answer. That was how you should name the feeling, the scent youâd notice whenever you found yourself around him; and it didnât matter how well he could hide it from the others, to people like you, who has dealt with it before, that thing would always be detectable. Something that wasnât found in average humans, for its growth was only possible in a certain type.
That person⊠that man smells like blood. Heâs not just a warrior. Heâs an experienced assassin, hungry but clever. He craves slaughter, but knows when and how to act, and not even the gods can stop him when he decides itâs time to feed.
You bit the apple again and thought about it.
You felt a mixture of terror and relief with this discovery. You were content in understanding what was going on, but completely aware of the need to protect yourself now; your experience was telling you so.
Still, what was that thing bubbling in your core while you recalled the moment when he knocked you out and put himself over you?
I canât remember feeling like this about anyone. I felt defenseless, alone and naked under his eyes⊠But I wasnât afraid.
You took a deep breath, shaking the memory away. Whatever was this feeling, you were better off shutting it down and avoiding its source in every opportunity youâd have.
***
In fact, sleep seemed to avoid you in that particular night.
You were turning and tossing on your mattress, your mind too full to allow you some rest. You were physically tired, but your eyes refused to stay closed, so youâve spent the next hours staring at the darkness where the ceiling was. As the events of that day kept coming back, you kept asking yourself questions to which you had no answer; though you were careful to not disturb the other girls, your heart was racing at the possibility of making too much noise and ending up being inquired about your restlessness.
Not that your previous nights at the compound were too calm, though. Truth was that you werenât used to sleep in comfortable, safe places since you left your homeland, and the fact that this was part of the Shogunâs property did nothing to diminish your distress: after days and nights sleeping by yourself on trees, caves and other hostile places in nature, standing beside other people in a regular room was a new, scary experience. You looked around, hearing the soft snoring of the other girls and wondering how they were capable of falling in such deep sleep outside their house.
You sighed. Despite being tired, you sat on the mattress and considered leaving that place, not taking too long to find comfortable clothing and a pair of shoes: a cold wind was blowing outside, and you were going to need something to replace your sheets. You observed your surroundings to make sure no one was watching and disappeared from the building, doing it through a window.
The night outside was peaceful and quiet, except for the sounds of the wind through the trees and the gaps of the building. You walked on tip toes across the porch, always looking around to prevent yourself from being caught by a guard, and when you were sure you werenât being followed, you rushed to the grove.
There was a spot in the middle of it that was rarely visited by the girls and the palaceâs personnel, a sort of circle formed by the roots of ancient trees that could be used as a hideout and which you already turned into your favorite place. You quickly found a comfortable position among the roots â if that was possible â and closed your eyes. As if by magic, sleep found you there, and your body relaxed in contact with the grass, a warmth growing around you in that spot where the wind couldnât reach you.
Your mind wandered back to the things youâve experienced that morning, transforming them with the power of the dreams. In that twisted version of the episode, you werenât surrounded by the other students: you were alone with your master at the training area, and the intent of the fight you were having had nothing to do with teaching. Your movements were exactly the same as before, and so were his responses. Soon, you saw yourself trying to take him down by striking his ankle, and his flawless defense manifested that instant, making you fall on the floor, immobilized.
Then it came the deepest difference in the form of a sudden kiss. You had no time to question, neither to breathe: in one moment, you were staring silently at that delicate face, the strands of his hair falling around yours, the clink of his earring beside you, and in the next your lips were touched by his. From that moment you had no control over your reactions: following his guidance, you closed your eyes, forgetting the fight, and let him hold your chin; his thumb pressed your lower lip and separated it from the upper one, opening your mouth to receive his tongue. At the same time you werenât believing in what was happening, you gave him anything but a heated response: you just felt your hand letting go of your sword and reaching for the back of his head, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down to youâŠ
Then your eyes suddenly opened up, and you found yourself curled on the same position between the roots, breathless and sweating. What the hell just happened? You made an effort to sit among the roots and recollect the dream, but the shame was too much and you ended up trying to shut down the images.
However, they persisted. And, deep inside, you knew the reason.
Seriously? Could it be that I canât even trust my feelings now? Am I reallyâŠ?
Youâve put these deliberations aside and sat on the grass, trying to calm down your breath. While you did this, you tried to focus on your surroundings, on the sounds of the grove, hoping that theyâd bring you some peace. And you managed to do it⊠until strange, loud noises cut through the air and reached your ears.
You straightened up and turned your head at what you thought to be the direction of the sounds. It was like the scream of an animal in pain, followed by angry voices, but it wasnât possible to distinguish the words. You stood up and, forgetting the sleep, you left the grove to search the source of the disturbance.
And you found it after walking around the girlsâ compound and following to another one near it, almost the same size and with similar structure, but reserved to meals. It was surrounded by lamps on its outside, and thanks to this you were able to see the scene.
And it enraged you.
Three men, two dressed as guards and one as a servant, were surrounding a red fox with screams and curses. The animal, smaller and weaker than three big individuals, was cowering against the wall, and you saw the moment when it bit the hand of the servant when he tried to catch it; his response was to give it a smack, but the fox deflect it.
â You vicious beast! â the man held the injured hand against himself with an expression of angry and pain.
The guards, though not daring approach the fox, didnât move a finger to intervene or at least to leave some space for the animal to return to the wild, where its home was. You considered them obtuse for this, of course, but your rage was solely directed to the servant, for his cruelty and stupidity.
The food is stocked here. The fox might have sensed its smell. Itâs not its fault.
The men havenât seen you there yet, and you took the opportunity to prepare yourself. You looked around and saw some rocks near your spot. You grabbed some in the fold of your clothes, but held a specially heavy one in your left hand and took quiet steps toward the light.
No one had time to notice your presence before the rock flew from your hand and collided with the back of the servantâs head with the sound of a crash, making him lose his balance, almost falling forward with a scream.
â What the hellâŠ!
The fox, you noticed, didnât miss the opportunity and ran, disappearing in the dark. The man straightened up and turned. The guards immediately looked back and startled: a girl from the compound was the last person they expected to find there, and you read the doubt in their eyes.
They know they should stop me, but they donât want to harm one of Nobunaga-samaâs girls. Good.
You took the chance and made a move to approach the servant, who passed a hand on his head and started trembling: on his palm he saw a dark stain of blood.
Finally the guards decided to move. You didnât forget them, and threw a rock on oneâs foot, making him curl and groan, and deflected the other by beating his hand with another rock when he stretched it to catch you. You left them behind and just ran toward the servant, standing still while looking at the scene, unsure of what to do.
Your heart started beating faster with the fear in the manâs eyes, not able to do anything while you jumped in his direction and threw your body over his, making you both fall on the grass. You didnât waste time and stroke his nose with your elbow, for somehow you imagined itâd be more effective than just punching him. And it really worked, judging by the thick stream of blood that ran down from his nose.
But that wasnât enough for you.
You looked at your hand and noticed still had one rock with you. The servant made the same discovery and swallowed, not wanting to give up the last thread of his pride by begging to a little girl.
You looked deep into his eyes and raised your handâŠ
But the rock never reached the target.
A subtle, but firm grip appeared around your wrist and you couldnât move it; as you had no courage to look at the handâs owner, their other one came to yours and made you drop the rock.
You saw incredulity in the servantâs face as he turned his attention to the person who just arrived and saved his dignity, or what was left from it.
When you finally turned to the newcomer, you werenât surprised to see who he was.
â Yagyu-sama? â your voice was a rushed whisper, more irritated that you intended.
His response was to smile as if you just had a casual encounter during the day instead of him avoiding a tragedy in the middle of the night; if the circumstances werenât different, you could say he carried a sweet expression.
â What are you doing out of your bed at this hour, young lady? â he inquired in a voice as soft as his traits â The lessons will be tough in the next morning. You should be resting.
You didnât reply. You wouldnât discuss your preference for sleeping in the wild to this man.
â And I believe that resting doesnât include throwing rocks at people, right? â he continued; not minding your stubborn silence, he stood up and made you stand as well, freeing the scared servant from your grip; still holding your wrist, he turned to the man â Now, my good man, are you able to walk?
The wretch, trembling, managed to leave the ground and murmured a âYes, my Lordâ, not daring look at you. He still had a hand on the back of his head, where you stroked the first rock. Yagyu observed him with a sort of pitiness.
â You can go, now. Clean your wound and take some rest.
The servant nodded in gratitude, in a flattering way that disgusted you, and disappeared at the corner of the building. You glanced around after he was gone and noticed the absence of the guards; Yagyu probably dismissed them before dealing with you.
And now, it was only the two of you.
Just like in my dream.
Out of instinct, you shook your wrist out of his reach and stepped back, waiting to see what he was doing next. He weren't shocked nor offended by your skittish attitude, keeping the composed manners while observing you with curiosity.
â Now, I already know you have a thing for strange places â he emphasized the word strange â But I thought this trait only manifested during the day. Are you a friend of the owls, then?
You kept quiet.
If you want to ask why I left my bed, just do it already.
Instead of verbalizing these very words, what you said instead was:
â I've spent a long time in company of their sounds, so much that I've learned to fall asleep listening to them â you shrugged â My bed is away from the windows in that building. The only thing I can hear from there are the cracks on the wooden floor and the other girls snoring.
Yagyu kept that unnerving smile while listening to your explanation, as if you were some child who were putting all their efforts in elaborating an absurd lie â except that he knew you weren't lying.
â So, no owls, no sleep. I see.
He took a step toward you. That time, you didnât move.
â I only hope you're not considering spending the next nights outside the compound.
You frowned.
How did you guess...?
â And why would it be a problem for you? â you blurted.
â I know it can feel liberating for people who aren't used to regular beds, but it's just too dangerous, you understand? â Yagyu shook his head in sad gesture â Nobunaga-sama would hate to hear that his provisions are being rejected in favor of the wilderness. Besides, how will I stand before him and explain myself if you eventually get involved in another... incident with his servants?
You swallowed. He was right, and you knew that. Nobunaga-samaâs will was the priority in every inch of his domains, and you couldn't defy this if you wanted to stay alive. Yet you didn't want people getting into your business like this, even less the Peerless Swordsman.
If only he didn't catch me here...
You decided to fight back.
â And why can't you just close your eyes to what happened here?
â Ah, what do you mean? â he wasnât expecting that.
â I know you saw what that bastard did to the poor fox, but if youâre able to ignore that, I am not. Not only this, but if this whole space belongs to Nobunaga-samaâs, the same can be said about the living beings here, so how was that man right in mistreating his master's property?
The smile on Yagyu's face faded a bit, and that increased your confidence. Without realizing what you were doing, you stepped closer to him again, this time not afraid to look into his eyes.
â Besides, if both my night wanderings and beef with the servant reaches Nobunaga-samaâs ears, you will have to explain your reasons to be here at this hour as well.
A breeze was blowing that moment, the sounds of the grove reaching your ears with a unsettling lament. The clouds that were obstructing the moonlight were carried away, and the light descended to the scene, touching both of you. Because you were eye to eye with him, you saw when that new, strange glimmer appeared in his globes, a mixture of pride for his student's perspicacity and a hunger for finding out where that discussion would take you in case it continued. It wasnât the first time you had the impression of something inhuman in him, and you sensed it wouldnât be the last.
And, as you expected, your inquiring wasnât enough to intimidate him, who took it more as a diversion than a challenge.
â I wouldn't present Nobunaga-sama reasons that are too different from yours, dear. If inquired, I would simply explain that I struggled to get some sleep and needed to breathe fresh air â he sighed â And, then, unfortunately, I witnessed one of my dear students involved in such a mess.
While he spoke, the sensation of imminent danger was present, as strong as a scent, and you only understood why it increased when you noticed he approached you as well, to the point you felt his breath on your face.
Yet you didn't back down.
â Now, since you had your chance to make a keen question to your master, it is only fair that you satisfy my curiosity â he bent down, staring into your eyes â Why did you choose rocks?
You felt your lips twisting before you could control them. Among all the things about which he couldâve questioned you, he chose to ask about this?
But if he wanted an answer, youâd give it to him.
â Rocks have always been effective. Specially when youâre not a powerful warrior.
â I donât doubt that, but thatâs not what Iâm talking about â he grinned â I want to know why you chose rocks when you already carried a weapon with you.
You frowned, and he giggled at it. Suddenly, you felt a hand grabbing the folds of your robe and slipping inside it; you were so shocked that you had no reaction⊠but it wasnât for his audacity.
Yagyu removed his hand as fast as he put it there, but it didnât come out empty: on his palm, you saw the knife you stole from the kitchen, that one you used to cut the apple and, unfortunately, your lower lip. Youâve been carrying it with you all day just in case.
It canât be⊠How?! How did he find out?!
Your surprise was a delight to your master, who didnât hesitate in giving you an explanation for the guess.
â Nothing stands out of a masterâs sight, dear â he hid the knife in his own clothing, in a way that, at the same time you couldnât recover it, he could slip it out and use it with no difficulties â And, if his disciples are far from his eyesâ reach, there are always people to do the work for him.
You stood there, in silent disbelief. You already knew that dropping your guard around this man wasnât an option; now, you would have to be careful while he was away too.
â Oh, donât look at me like this â he raised his hands as an apology â Itâs my duty to grant your safeness, which includes stopping you from possessing things that could only hurt yourselves.
Another sudden move from him, and you felt your lower lip being caressed by a thumb, exactly on the spot you cut.
â But it seems that Iâm late in your caseâŠ
You held your breath. He had no restraints, just as you supposed earlier; and he was too close, having left you unarmed and unable to argue. Still, you werenât as scared as you should be. You were just eager to show a response, a quick one to get out of this situation and protect yourself from retaliation.
Later, when you recalled those events, you would realize that you had no conscience of your actions. You didnât plan anything; you just let your body lead things, while you were a mere spectator of it, just like in your fever dream.
That time, you were the one who stepped closer to Yagyu. You held his hand and moved it away from your lips, only to grab his clothingâs hem and pull him to yourself, covering his mouth with yours.
It wasnât like in your dream, though: with the rush, you were a bit clumsy, your feet stepped on his, so that you wouldâve stumbled if he didnât hold you, and your bruised lip ached a little when it touched his. But the conscience of making a mess didnât stop you, and perhaps your braveness supplanting your lack of sophistication was pleasing to him, for his response was at the same time a show of his approval and a sort of guidance for the act: his hands surrounded your waist, giving you the balance you needed; one of his hands reached for your lips and opened them, giving room to his tongue; his breath was slow, calm, as if inviting you to follow his rhythm. And you accepted the invitation, your hands leaning on his shoulders for balance, your body going limp in his arms, trapping you beteent them with the strength of claws.
It might have lasted for a moment, or for an entire hour. You were somewhere between reality and another version of it, one where fear, prudence and moderation werenât but vague concepts, for what kind of world you would get into such situation, when you threw yourself in the grip of an assassin â and master â without thinking twice?
And, well if it was you who started it, it should be you the one to end it: slowly, you moved away, your lips suddenly cold from the separation even though you breathed the same air; your feet, once on tiptoes, were now fully on the ground, but your hands didnât let go of his clothes, neither you got rid of his grip. Your cheeks were on fire; you could barely look in his eyes.
Between your heavy breath, you heard him giggling. The kiss didnât do anything to affect his composure.
â I could never suppose you had that fire in you, dear â you glanced and saw him touching his own lips as he spoke.
You looked away. The air felt colder now. And so your mood should be.
â You don't speak about this, I don't speak about you â you murmured.
â What do you mean?
â If you keep quiet about the servant, I won't speak about the kiss â you stared at him â A fair exchange, donât you think?
He raised an eyebrow.
â Maybe⊠â a shadow of a smile danced on his lips â But I will be content with it for now.
#tenkaichi#tenkaichi nihon saikyou bugeisha ketteisen#tenkaichi yagyu munenori#yagyu munenori#yagyu x reader
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