#red brass n buttons

[kaira-diaries]

Nocturne:

warning: smut-implied age gap || wound cleaning || violence || implied death ||

pairing: fem!xfrontman/In-ho

wc: 4k

a/n: Okay, I feel like while writing this I blindly turned it into an enemies to lovers. Kind of? Sorta? Maybe?

summary: The sheltered daughter of a VIP grows bored of the games, and finds herself exploring the quarters of the front man, only she's blindly unaware. This mistake, while nearly costs her her life, also opens up an intense and longing romance.

->Masterlist <-

You stifled a yawn, staring down at the game room where players carefully carved honeycombs under the watchful eyes of masked guards. Dalgona—a game you knew well but found painfully dull. Your father, sprawled beside you on the velvet loveseat, reeked of expensive liquor and slurred, "Where are you going?"

As you stood, you tucked a pillow beneath his head, smoothing your burgundy dress. "For a drink. Rest now."

Another VIP leaned over, gesturing to your snoring father. "Had too much?"

"Always," you replied with a tight smile. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

Glass in hand, you ascended the grand staircase to the bar. The itch of your golden mask only added to your frustration. The sound of a gunshot from the game room below barely held your attention. Forty lost—disappointing. You popped the cork on a fresh bottle of wine, pouring a glass and savoring the first sip.

Then, through the double doors ahead, you noticed something. A space you'd never seen before, dark and enticing.

You hesitated, glancing back at the games. Nothing exciting there, and your father was well guarded. With a sly smile, you patted the blade strapped to your thigh, pushed the doors open, and stepped into the unknown.

With the wine bottle in hand, you take a generous swig, the rich flavor a momentary comfort. The foyer feels stark, oppressive—its black walls and cool gray floors exuding a chill that seeps into your skin. Gold accents glint faintly in the dim light, the only warmth in this austere domain. You grimace at the decor but press on, curiosity pulling you deeper.

The elongated hallway looms ahead, flanked by heavy, closed doors. Each one seems to hum with secrets, daring you to turn the handle. You hesitate, a voice in the back of your mind warning you to turn around. Yet, as your fingers graze the cool brass of a doorknob, you pull back. Another sip of wine quiets the voice, and you continue to the open space at the hall's end.

This room feels different—softer, more inviting. You run your fingers along the sleek fabric of a gray loveseat, its plush texture a strange comfort against the stark surroundings. Your gaze lands on a collection of vibrant figurines—a rare splash of color in the muted space. One stands out: a woman in a flowing red gown, microphone in hand, her face alight with passion. Around her, a miniature band, instruments gleaming, seems poised to play.

Your heart races as you spot a remote beside the figures. The urge to press it outweighs any lingering caution. You place the bottle down next to your mask as you remove it, press the button, and watch as the figures come to life, their voices harmonizing in a hauntingly beautiful rendition of "Fly Me to the Moon."

The melody fills the room, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Eyes closed, you let the music wash over you, unsure if it's the alcohol or the song that's softening the edges of the world. 

You were halfway through the bottle of wine when the music stopped abruptly, and a cold dread prickled your spine. The figures had ceased their dance mid-note, leaving the room in a suffocating silence.

You spun around, the blade on your thigh now in your grip, sharp and ready.

Standing in the doorway was a figure shrouded in shadow, his presence dominating the room. He stepped forward, the dim light catching the edges of a cold, metallic mask. His posture was rigid, and his gloved hand gripped a pistol aimed directly at you.

"Who are you?" His voice was like crushed gravel, low and commanding.

Your pulse quickened, but you kept your expression sharp, masking the fear threatening to surface. "You first," you bit back, your fingers tightening around the hilt of your blade.

His head tilted slightly, the gesture almost mocking. "You're in my quarters, and yet you demand answers."

You shifted your stance; every muscle in your body coiled like a spring. "I didn't see your name on the door," you snapped, each word laced with defiance.

In a flash, he was upon you, closing the distance with startling speed. His hand caught your wrist, twisting it just enough to force the knife from your grip without breaking the skin. You gritted your teeth as he pinned your arm behind your back, pressing you against the cold edge of the table.

His gun found its way under your chin, tilting your head back to meet his masked gaze. The mask's lifeless eyes stared down at you, void of humanity, and yet you swore you could feel the heat of his scrutiny.

"Answer me," he growled, his voice a hairsbreadth from your ear.

You smirked, though your pulse hammered against your ribs. "Kill me, then. I dare you. Let's see how you'd like explaining to everyone why a VIP's daughter ended up dead in your quarters."

His grip faltered for a fraction of a second, a hesitation so slight that most wouldn't notice. But you did. He released you with an almost annoyed shove, holstering his gun as he took a deliberate step back.

Rubbing your wrist, you straightened and smirked at him, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. "Yeah didn't think so," you muttered.

Before he could respond, the room was flooded with pink-clad guards, their rifles raised and aimed squarely at you. Your eyes darted between the barrels of the guns and the masked man.

"Stand down," he barked at the guards, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

They hesitated but obeyed, lowering their weapons.

You scoffed, brushing past the guards as you retrieved your blade from the floor. "All of this for little ol' me?" you quipped, slipping your knife back into its sheath.

The masked man didn't respond, his head tilting slightly as if studying you. His silence unnerved you more than the gun had.

With a flick of your hair, you grabbed your golden mask from the table and placed it over your face, the metallic surface catching the dim light. As you walked past him, your eyes never left his, and neither did his leave yours.

"Try not to miss me," you said with a smirk, your voice dripping with mockery as you exited the room.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You lay on your back, rubbing your eyes as exhaustion clung to you, but sleep refused to come. You didn't know what time it was, but when a dull headache crept in, you sighed and slipped out of bed to find a glass of water. Throwing on a black robe, you padded into the quiet halls, unconcerned. At this hour, only the guards would be awake, and none would dare glance at the daughter of a VIP—not if they valued their lives.

You crossed your arms against the chill and shut the door behind you. The once-bright hallway was now shaded, the only light spilling faintly from the main room ahead. Your knees ached as you trudged down the cold corridor.

The earlier Dalgona game had thinned the herd. Many players were gone, and your father's friends were divided—some bitter over their financial losses, others laughing as they poured another drink. For them, the money was trivial.

Mama had always been against gambling, insisting money was meant to be earned, not squandered on fleeting thrills. You missed her fiercely, the ache of her absence tightening your chest. You pressed on, trying to shake the melancholy, though your thoughts drifted elsewhere—to him.

His presence lingered in your mind like a gloom you couldn't shake. He had come terrifyingly close to ending your life, yet there was something in that encounter—a charged energy you couldn't explain, equal parts fear and... something else.

Reaching the kitchen, you stepped inside, greeted by the faint hum of the industrial fridge. The space was massive, gleaming stainless steel counters and cabinets casting faint reflections in the dim light. You found a glass in one of the cabinets, filling it with water from the sleek faucet.

As you raised the glass to your lips, a flicker of movement in the doorway caught your eye. Your heart stopped. He stood there, The masked man, silent and imposing.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as you stumbled back a step, clutching your chest.

"You're gonna give me a heart attack—again," you snapped, scowling at him as you poured 

another generous measure of water into your glass. "Ever heard of announcing yourself?"

His voice came out low and mechanical, but there was something unspoken behind it, something you couldn't quite place. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his eyes behind the mask locked on you, lingering just a little too long. His steps were slow and soft, as if he was trying not to scare you off.

You cleared your throat, shrugging off the weight of his gaze. "Could be better," you said nonchalantly, swirling the liquid in your glass. Then, flashing a sharp smile, you added, "I didn't quite catch your name after you nearly blew my brains out."

"I'm the Front Man," he replied evenly.

Your grin faltered slightly, but you held it together, leaning casually against the counter. "Fitting. So, what's your deal in all this? Why are you here?"

"I oversee and operate the facility," he said, his voice as detached as ever.

You tilted your head, curiosity tugging at you. "So, you're the game maker," you said, taking a sip and adding, "Those were actually your quarters, then."

"Among other things," he admitted, a touch of something—pride, perhaps?—edging into his tone.

Your lips twitched with the hint of a smile as you folded your arms, suddenly acutely aware of your black robe, barely held together at the waist. "Sorry for snooping earlier," you said, your voice softer. "Curiosity and boredom get the better of me sometimes."

He didn't respond immediately, and the silence stretched, charged and heavy. When he finally spoke, his question caught you off guard. "What did you think of today's game?"

You raised a brow, knowing he didn't care about your opinion. Still, you couldn't resist taking the bait. "Honestly? It was a bit of a snooze fest. The Dalgona challenge?" You shook your head. "A complete letdown. I was so bored I ended up raiding your quarters just to find something more entertaining."

You thought you heard a low scoff beneath the mask, but his face was unreadable. "How so?" he asked, almost begrudgingly.

"It lacked drama," you said, setting your glass down. "There was no big moment to keep the audience on edge. No payoff. It felt...lazy." You leaned forward more, catching his stare. "I'm not easily impressed, and for my first visit? Not great, especially after being...manhandled."

His head tilted slightly, his mask catching the low light. "You're a spoiled brat," he said, his tone clipped. "I'm not here to entertain you."

You pushed away from the counter, stepping in front of him closely, your golden necklace catching the light as it swung forward. "That's where you're wrong," you said, your voice low, each word deliberate. "I'm part of the next generation of VIPs—the ones funding your 'little business.' If you can't impress me, why should I invest in you?"

The room felt colder for a moment, his silence more cutting than any retort. "Why wait until now to join your father at the games?" he asked abruptly, sidestepping your challenge.

You blinked, momentarily thrown. "I've been busy," you said.

"Busy with what?" he pressed.

You toyed with a strand of hair, smirking. "Business," you said lightly. "I mostly dabble in the legal kind...and sometimes the not-so-legal, if the payout's worth it."

A gust of cold air swept through the room, making you shiver. You rubbed your arms for warmth, feeling the tension in the air grow thicker. "How did you end up running all of this, anyway?" you asked, meeting his gaze. "Doesn't seem like the kind of job you'd find on a career board."

His answer was clipped. "I'm skilled at what I do. That's all you need to know."

"That's it?" you asked, your frown betraying your disappointment. "No juicy backstory?"

"Does it really matter?" he countered.

"Guess not," you said with a shrug. But his words lingered, their finality leaving a mark.

"If you're mostly about legal businesses, what are you doing here?" he asked, his tone sharp, probing.

"I love my father," you said simply. "He asked me to come, so I came. And this...this is my future, isn't it? Might as well get familiar with it instead of pretending it doesn't exist."

For a moment, he said nothing, his mask a void, his gaze impenetrable. But you felt it—the weight of his attention, the unspoken pull between you.

Finally, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the spell breaking. "I should get to bed," you said softly, stepping around him toward the hallway with your water. "Goodnight."

He inclined his head, his voice low. "Goodnight."

As you descended, the warmth of the exchange lingered, a quiet echo in the stillness of the night.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

A week had passed in a whirlwind of chaos, each game more brutal and captivating than the last. Yet, what lingered in your mind was the frustrating absence of The Front Man. Beyond fleeting glances, he seemed distant, as though merely going through the motions. It bothered you that you were disappointed.

Seated in your velvet chair, you felt the thrill of a game's dramatic conclusion but soon found yourself craving a refill. With a sudden burst of energy, you left your seat, not bothering to smooth your sage green dress, and ascended the staircase to the bar. The marble counter gleamed under soft light as you reached for the whiskey decanter.

Before the amber liquid could hit the glass, a loud crash from behind the double doors stopped you cold. Another crash followed, then a cry of pain that sent chills down your spine.

Heart pounding, you slipped inside to find The Front Man hunched over, a knife digging into his bloodied shoulder.

"What the fuck?" you blurted, stepping closer.

He shot out his good arm, stopping you. "I'm fine. Go back to the game," he said, his voice calm but distant.

You hesitated, his words tempting you to leave, but the sight of him—wounded and vulnerable—rooted you to the spot. Walking away felt impossible.

"Let me get it out. At that angle, you'll never dislodge it." He continued to poke and prod at his shoulder, his fingers and the blade digging into the tender flesh. Groaning in pain as blood pooled from his shoulder, he ultimately ignored your offer; shocker. 

You rolled your eyes and rushed over to him, hovering until he quit and met your gaze through the grey mask. "You can barely stay upright; let me help," you said, palm outstretched for the blade. "Believe me, you don't want to bleed out. It's a mess to clean up." He stalled for a few heartbeats, and you almost felt awkward until he placed the bloodstained blade in your hand. 

Sitting beside him, the tension in his body eased slightly. 

"You're stubborn," you muttered, wiping away the blood to get a clearer view of the wound. 

"And you're persistent," he shot back, a flicker of amusement flashed in your expression. 

"Call it a survival skill." You took a steadying breath. You hesitated for a moment, then glanced at the mask that concealed his face. "This isn't going to work with that thing in the way. Take it off."

Silence followed for a few moments, "It stays on."

"Look," you said, your tone firm but not unkind. "If I'm going to pull this bullet out without nicking an artery, I need to see what I'm doing. That means the mask—and the jacket—have to go."

A tense silence stretched between you, broken only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he reached up and unfastened the mask. As it fell away, you froze.

He was breathtaking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing eyes that seemed to cut right through you. Despite the blood and sweat streaking his skin, he radiated a rugged intensity that made it hard to look away. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus.

"Jacket and whatever is on underneath too," you managed, your voice quieter now.

He smirked faintly, as if he'd caught the flicker of shock in your expression, but said nothing as he shrugged off his jacket and black shirt with a wince. Beneath it, his body was lean and sculpted, the muscles taut as he shifted to give you better access to the wound. You swallowed hard, mentally cursing yourself for being distracted. "This might hurt a little more." 

"Just do it," he deadpanned, taking a wealthy swig of liquor. 

The blade slipped deep into the wound, and your fingers steadied as you worked with precision. The bullet was lodged in an awkward angle, and you cursed under your breath. "What were you doing to end up like this?" You asked, partly to distract him and partly because your curiosity was gnawing at you. 

"Nothing, it was a disagreement," he said curtly.

"With a bullet?" you teased, but his silence told you it wasn't a joke. "Right. Noted."

Finally, your blade scraped against something hard, and you exhaled in relief. "Got it." You carefully maneuvered the bullet free, holding it up triumphantly before tossing it onto the table with a metallic clink. 

He let out a shaky breath, his body fully relaxing for the first time since you'd entered the room. "You're good at this," he admitted, his voice softer now.

"Thanks. Years of practice." You grabbed another cloth and doused it with the liquor, dabbing it against the wound to clean it. He hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. 

"So," you said, wrapping a bandage tightly around his shoulder, "are you going to tell me what actually happened, or do I have to piece it together myself?" 

He studied you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. "You ask too many questions."

"Maybe," you admitted with a small smile, tying off the bandage. "But it's part of my charm." He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile. 

"You're lucky I decided to be a helpful hand today," you commented, admiring your handiwork. "That should hold for now; I'll come back tonight to clean and bandage it once more. Just don't go picking any more fights."

"I'll keep that in mind." You started to gather the bloodied cloths and the blade, but his voice stopped you. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and you glanced back at him. For a moment, the stoic, commanding figure seemed almost... human. 

"You're welcome," you said softly. "Just try not to die on me. It'd be a shame after all that work." 

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound sending you a strange warmth. "I'll do my best."

With that, you left his quarters to rejoin the game, the faint sound of his laughter following you as you returned to your velvet seat. 

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The room was dim, bathed in the soft, amber glow of a single lamp on the bedside table. The air was thick with the heady mix of whiskey and expensive cologne, an intoxicating blend that made you pause in the doorway, savoring it for a moment longer than you should have. In your hands, bandages and a damp cloth felt heavier than they were, as if weighted by the tension you carried with you. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight and shoulders taut, every inch of him radiating restraint. The mask was absent, left somewhere out of sight, and you were mesmerized by the faint outline of his profile in the low light. 

You knocked softly on the open door, the sound cutting through the thick silence. "So." he said without looking up, his voice, edged with dry humor. "That's how you announce yourself to someone." 

A soft laugh escaped your lips, an involuntary reaction to his sharp wit, as you entered the room. The distance between you felt heavier with every step, but you closed it anyway and sat beside him. 

"Any dizziness?" You asked, your voice gentle, almost tentative, as you set the supplies beside you. 

He turned his head toward you, his eyes shadowed yet heavy with something unspoken. His stillness was unnerving like he was waiting for something-waiting for you. "No," he said finally, his tone steady but low. "I feel fine." 

"Good," you murmured, reaching for his shoulder. His body tensed beneath your touch, a subtle reaction, but you felt it all the same. You worked carefully, peeling away the bandage with delicate fingers, wincing at the angry wound beneath. "Your body must be making up for the blood loss," you added, your voice softer now. 

His gaze lingered on you, the intensity of it palpable. You could feel the heat of it, even as he said nothing. The space between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, and though neither of you spoke, the weight of what remained unsaid hung in the air like a fragile thread. 

"You don't have to do this," he said, his voice breaking the quiet. 

You glance up, meeting his weary gaze. "Maybe not," you admitted, your fingers brushing his skin as you cleaned the wound. "But I want to." 

His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening for a moment before he let out a slow measured breath. "You shouldn't care," he murmured, almost to himself, but the words felt directed at you as if he was referring to when he pressed a gun to your head. 

"And yet, here I am," you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. 

His expression was unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more. Instead, he sat in silence, letting you work.

As you finished securing the new bandage, your fingers lingered for just a moment too long, the touch barely there but electric nonetheless. You pulled back slowly, your heart thundering in your chest, and you pulled your hands into your lap, staring down at them.

You could feel his heavy and unwavering gaze on you. He hadn't said a word, but his silence spoke louder than any declaration. His dark and intense eyes roamed over you, not just your face but every detail—the loose strands of your freshly washed hair, the way your shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve beneath. There was more than curiosity in his gaze; there was hunger, restrained and smoldering like a fire barely contained. 

"Why did you offer to come here tonight?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. 

"To check on your wound," you said, though your voice cracked under the weight of his stare. 

He leaned forward slightly, his good hand bracing against the bed, and you caught that familiar scent of cologne mingling with a raw scent that was entirely his. "That's not the only reason," he countered, his tone sharp. 

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, the proximity dizzying. "Maybe I was worried," you admitted in a whisper as his presence consumed you. 

"Worried," he repeated, almost to himself, his lips curling into a faint smirk. 

"You shouldn't be." 

"I can't help it," you whispered. 

His hand moved before you could think, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes burned with something deeper, something primal. His thumb traced a line down your jaw, "You're exquisite," he murmured as his hand slid down, resting on the side of your neck, his thumb now grazing the hollow of your throat. The pulse beneath his touch quickened, betraying you. 

"You should leave," he said, though the words lacked conviction. 

"Do you want me to leave?" you asked, searching his eyes for any truth. 

His grip on your neck tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against your skin as he tilted his head closer. "No," he admitted, the confession slipping out. Your lips parted, a sharp inhale escaping as the tension between you snapped, and he closed the distance. His lips captured yours with a heat that stole your breath. 

The kiss wasn't tentative or hesitant—it was consuming, demanding, and filled with a longing that neither of you could deny anymore. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy, his control slipping just enough to let you feel how much he wanted you. 

Your breath hitched as the kiss deepened, his grip on your back tightening, holding you to him. Without breaking the kiss, you shifted even closer, the soft fabric of your shirt brushing against his chest as your hands settled, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Wanting more, needing more, you leaned further in, swinging one leg over his lap. His breath caught as you settled onto him, straddling his thighs with deliberate care, mindful of his injured shoulder. His good hand explored every inch of you now as the kiss quickened with appetite. You gasped as his hand gripped your ass with breathtaking strength. 

The intimacy of the position sent a flush of heat through you, pooling between your thighs as your pulse thrummed wildly. Gazing down at him, he searched your face, lingering on your lips before flicking back up to look at you. Your hands reached up, brushing your fingers against his jaw; the faint stubble was rough beneath your touch.  "I didn't hurt you, did I?" you asked softly. 

"No," he said, the single word rough and weighted. You smiled. 

"Good," you mumbled, your palm pushing his hair from his face.

 "Because I don't want to stop." With that said, you pulled your shirt up, over your head and tossed it to the side, unveiling your breasts. He took every inch in of you, wasting no time attaching his lips to you. The sensation was breathtaking as you threw your head back, moaning. 

You exhaled sharply. There'd be marks, no doubt. However, concern surfaced within you as he suddenly pulled back. You gazed down at him, catching the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I can't fuck you how I want." 

Your expression eased as you met his gaze. "Then let me take care of you," you murmured, your voice gentle but determined as you lifted off him and slid down to the floor, settling on your knees. Reaching for his pants, your fingers diligently worked at the leather belt, yanking it free. Unzipping his pants and sliding your hands in, he sprang free before you, and your mouth watered at the view of him. You caught his eye, finding a smirk on his lips as he reached for your hair, wrapping it around his knuckles.

He gave a sharp tug, pulling your head back, and you whined. "You look so pretty on your knees for me," he remarked with desire staining his eyes.

With that, you took his immense size in your mouth, gliding to the pace he had set for you. Your tongue danced on his tip, and you swallowed every time you took the entirety of him; he groaned, "Fuck, just like that." He praised and your eyes watered from the intensity. You weren't outstanding at providing head, and a wave of insecurity washed over you. Nerves twisted in your stomach at the thought of not satisfying him, but the hitches in his breathing, the sharp inhales and exhales, and the praise he offered gave you the assurance you needed as you took him deeper and deeper with intensity and lust. You hadn't been able to see, but his head was thrown back in pleasure, lips parted.

Feeling him twitch in your mouth, you knew he was close as he picked up the speed even more. Saliva began pooling from your lips, dripping onto your knees and covering his length as you fought to breathe. His pull on your hair grew sloppy and you moaned at the appetizing ache in your scalp. "Fuck you're going to make me cum." His voice is rough as he offers one last yank of your hair, slamming you back down onto him and filling your mouth. You swallow the load, pulling off him and meeting his exhausted eyes; he rubs his thumb over your lips, promptly shoving it in your mouth, and you take it with no protest.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

His chest radiated warmth as you melted into his embrace, your heartbeat gradually syncing with his steady rhythm. Your eyes remained closed as you hummed, "you never told me your name." 

A calloused palm rubs your shoulder, "In-ho." 

You smiled, repeating it, "In-ho. I like that much better than FrontMan." 

His fingers gently encircled your wrist, his touch spoke volumes. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. You pushed yourself onto your elbow, looking down at him. "I am, " you whispered, but he shook his head and caressed your cheek. "Stay here with me. Help me run the whole fucking thing." The request entailed a lot and you weren't able to form a response, stunned by such a proposal, but then you thought it over. There was nothing left for you back home except your emergency medical clinic, which could indeed survive without you. Your father was fine and could take care of himself as long as he had his money. All you contained was a large sum of untouched money. You bit your lip, looking back at him. "Alright." 

->Part Two <-

[dhampling]

the gate girl!dadstarion, 1.5k

He knows vaguely where the building is - he’s sure he’s passed it on one of his late night jaunts - but you’re coming along too. He knows he’s prepared for this moment, down to the most minute detail.  - astarion is a school-gate dilf on his first pick-up adventure with you. wc: 1.5k a/n: dadstarion fridays! wooooo! hope you enjoy - love, dal x

“Come on. We’ll be late.”

Your hand meets his with a toothy grin.

Astarion teeters a little.

He knows vaguely where the building is - he’s sure he’s passed it on one of his late night jaunts - but you’re coming along too. 

He knows he’s prepared for this moment, down to the most minute detail. 

Weeks spent designing the overcoat now covering his clothes - almost feltish in texture, a deep blue with gentle golden threading. Brass buttons. The smallest red ribbon detailing in the seams. The fit is immaculate, despite the fact he had to take his own measurements. The gloves match beautifully, just as he’d intended.

Shoes polished within an inch of their lives. Shirt and trousers pressed to perfection. Hair neatly coiffed with assistance from your gentle hands.

He grimaces.

“She’s going to think I’m weird.”

“Is this for her, or you?’

He takes a moment. Examines both sides of his glove with a flex. Sniffs pointedly. 

‘She’s not going to think you’re any weirder than she already does. She’s your little freak.” You grab at his sides playfully and he shimmies around your clutches, breaking into a timid laugh. 

The dark skies of Deepwinter are primed to allow Astarion his first ever school pick-up. 

He hasn’t slept, you know that. Bag in hand holding the gift he’d spent the short day hidden away working on. Your matching scarves around your necks. The biting chill beyond the threshold of your hearth.  

Eyes round in a contemplative lax as his hand rests atop the door handle. 

“I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

Your eyes roll fondly into your skull.

“Yes. Now, get moving.” 

It takes you enclosing your hand in his for the door to open, immediately facing a brutal fracas of ice-cold winds lapping at your face. 

“How in any realm is a child expected to walk home in this? Ridiculous!” He shuffles from foot to foot as he chunters while you lock the door and pocket the key, looking up to the stars.

“With a coat. And gloves. And…’

You point to the bag in his hand as you interlink your arms.

‘A scarf.’

Astarion gives a small smile, pressing a chaste kiss to your head.

‘Come on, now. We might get there in time to see her out the door.”

-

The walk there isn’t the leisurely gander Astarion had dreamt of when he’d thought of this moment. 

In his head it was always late summer. Sunblushed.

And yet as you turn your head to him in your giddy half-canter; cheeks flush and breath clouding the space around your perfect head, he can’t believe he ever imagined it any other way.

The stars overhead are familiar as they always have been. The slightest slippy tread of frost on the cobble. Windows around you lit with candles and the loud taverns you pass en-route seem well hunkered-down.

He finds himself pulling you closer with each corner turned, stumbling to keep with your gait.

And then, there it is.

A huddle of parents waiting out in the cold, hands rubbing together; a low hum of chatter. School gates still closed. When you greet some of them with familiarity - one or two even getting a hug as you make your way to your preferred circle - and introduce him as your husband, his heart swells. 

He didn’t realise you were friends with these people. That these fellow parents could be people to have anything in common with in the first place. Astarion is hardly the enigma he used to be within the city walls and they know of him. They know you’re with him.

But none have ever seen him in the flesh.

There’s a minute where he ponders what they think of him. How you’d described him, how they may have looked at your daughter under the orange gloaming light of Leaffall and wondered which features of hers came first from him as opposed to you. How they’d pieced him together in their minds.

He feels a little out of place as you chatter - hyper aware of each stolen glance in his direction. The whites of new eyes flickering in the darkness. 

It isn’t often he meets new people anymore. Even his client roster is exclusive. 

“Why would I tell you how good-looking he is when he isn’t even here to hear it?”

He tunes back in. They all look, you included.

“Hm?”

“Marta-’ 

A faux accusatory glance on your face as you look over to the human who - Astarion presumes - is Marta. 

‘Asked why I hadn’t told the group just how attractive you are.”

The way the most blinding smile breaks over your ruddied cheeks. He melts behind a scoff.

“Actually darling, Marta has a point. I’m hurt, frankly.”

Gods. They’re all laughing. Your gaggle of school-gate friends and he has them laughing.

“No, it’s just dark. See him by light. Then you’ll change your minds.”

You huddle closer despite the brazen lie and the group laughs away. He throws in a small chuckle for good measure and presses a kiss to your head once more.

They’re all relatively harmless, he decides.

What do school gate friends do? Why have you never invited them over for wine or something? 

“I mean - Astarion, what do you think?”

“Hm?”

“They’re showing a rather keen interest to come over one evening for dinner. Inconspicuous, I’m sure.” 

He looks around warily. Can they read his mind? Is someone here a weird school gate mind reader freak? What the fuck?

Your eyes narrow at Marta in jest.

Oh.

If you’re even showing the slightest hint at wanting the doting husband, the doting husband he will give you. Freely and willingly. Far too easily. Naturally.

“Oh! Whatever you want, my love. Anything.”

Astarion takes your head in his hands and brings you close for a warm kiss, eyes softening as he holds you in place. A gentle smile against the harsh wind.  

“What’s in the bag?” Another asks in a jarring fettle. Your head whips round. He answers softly. 

“I- I made the little one a scarf.” 

A coo arises from those huddled around the two of you. 

“He’s a tailor. A good one, too. Really good.” 

You nod with a smile, looking at him. You’re mid-cycle and the idea of your daughter spotting him with those big eyes makes you a bit weak.

A saccharine voice from somewhere in the mix - “He’s immaculate, honey. I’m a little jealous?” 

If he can blush, Astarion feels one coming on. This feels staged. 

“He can’t take his shoes off without kicking them up the wall. Or catch spiders.”

-

As you resume your quiet chatter amongst the group, Astarion catches the door open in the near distance and a soft amber glow pouring from it from the corner of his eye.

It’s a trance. He looks over the heads obscuring his view, the tips of his toes touching the ends of his pristine shoes. 

And there she is.

Absolutely perfect. Small, searching the crowd for the parent she knows will be here.

Then she sees him.

It’s not difficult from afar, even in the dark - she recognises the shock of white hair anywhere - and the look of sheer confusion painted on her face shifts to unfettered joy in seconds.

Gods. She’s running. Tiny legs, bag flailing in her hand. Shouting-

“DADDY!”

As she hurtles towards him, he realises he’s never seen her run like this. She can’t run like this in the house. It’d be enough to make him sad if he weren’t so wholly elated.

He crouches just in time for her to barrel into his open arms.

The way he cups the back of her head is as if he hasn’t seen her in years, spinning her as he stands and holds her at his hip. She’s babbling something wicked and all of it sounds like utter nonsense and he’s so besotted it doesn’t even matter.

His little girl, out in the world. Being a person. 

And it’s him that she chooses to run to. 

“Charming! Hello love!” You shuffle closer and plant a large kiss on the back of her head, taking the bags from her hand and hoisting them up over your back in a routine twirl.

You take Astarion’s hint of a glance toward his bag and roll your eyes fondly, feeling for the scarf and slipping it back into his hand.

“My little darling! Hello! I have something for you - close your eyes.”

He haphazardly wraps the scarf around her neck with one hand as she bristles against his hip, wiggling her shoulders in some impromptu happy dance.

“Look now! You match us!” He exclaims. 

She opens her eyes and squeals with glee you haven’t seen at the school gate before, ever.

And true to his word, the scarf wholly matches both of yours. Embroidered with small golden stars on navy fabric. Her name in some immaculate loopy hand. Far too big for her at present, but warm on this coldest of evenings.

“I love it daddy. I want another one.” She nods acutely and smatters his face in small kisses. 

As you look to Astarion, he raises both brows in amusement at her request. She tucks her head in under his chin.

“Come along now. Let’s get you warm by the fire.”

✦

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 10: Pacific Palisades]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death, minor injury and blood, a wild Becca appears, a super relaxing beach day! 😍

Word count: 5.4k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

“I’m so sorry,” you say as the green jasper buttons on the coat won’t quite close. “My agent keeps buying me Cherry Cokes and vanilla lattes.”

The costume designer, mid-forties with box-dye red hair, laughs. She ceases the tugging she’s been doing, ultimately in vain. “The wardrobe is supposed to fit you, sweetheart, not the other way around.” She sweeps the coat off your shoulders and hangs it back on the rack full of Gilded Age-style garments, some faux, some genuine. “We’ll take it in here and let it out there and get everything sorted out.”

“Thank you,” you tell her sheepishly.

“For what? It’s my job.” Then she gestures to the rack. “Which one was your favorite?”

You scan the assortment: chemises, corsets, hoopskirts, stockings, dresses, tea gowns, evening gowns, nightgowns, hats, gloves, fans, shoes, seemingly endless bejeweled ropes of necklaces and bracelets. “The yellow tea gown,” you say, beaming. “I love the ruffles and how flowy it is. And the buttons down the front.”

“Oh, it’s exceptional, isn’t it?” the costume designer agrees. “I found that at an estate sale a few years back, it had been squirreled away in a collector’s attic. It’s authentic, probably made in the 1890s.”

“You told me not to touch the buttons when you put it on. And you wore latex gloves.”

She nods. “They’re brass gilded with gold and mercury, which was common back then. People didn’t know better. But mercury can be absorbed through the skin. We can’t be careless and end up with heavy metal poisoning, now can we?” She grins at you. “But you don’t mind a little danger.”

“Everything worthwhile is a risk.”

“How long have you been in Los Angeles?”

You do some quick math in your head. “Almost six months.”

“Planning to stay long?”

“Forever, hopefully.”

The costume designer smiles warmly. “Good. We need more people like you here.” And as she pulls the rack of clothing out into the hallway on its four small wheels, the director strolls into the room. He is in his thirties, bald, black rectangular glasses, always wearing a suit jacket over a graphic tee. Today’s shirt features the Jurassic Park logo.

“Hey!” he says excitedly, clapping his hands together. “How’d it go?”

“Hi, Dusty!” His name is Dustin, but everyone calls him Dusty. “It was amazing. I love all the weird vintage clothes, they’re so modest but also very sensual, you know?”

“Yeah, it’s fascinating, I feel like with those restrictive modesty standards people really had to get creative to evoke ideas of playfulness, flirtatiousness, power, vulnerability, seduction...and of course, we’ll be experimenting with all of that in this film. You felt okay in everything?”

“Yeah!”

“Because...I mean...I know some of the chamises and nightgowns are a little sheer, but we’ll do a closed set on those days. I won’t even be there, Camille can handle it.” Camille is the assistant director, young and quiet but very sharp. “So it’ll just be her and the camera operator, also a woman. And if you want anyone else there to be your advocate, that’s open for discussion.”

“Can my agent be there?”

Dusty looks a little surprised. The grumpy middle-aged dude? his face says. “Aegon? Yeah, sure, he can be in the room. If you want that.”

“He’s gotten me out of some uncomfortable situations before, so I trust him.”

“Oh yeah, well in that case, I get it,” Dusty says. “Totally. And things with Santi have been fine?”

“Santi is wonderful. Always completely professional, but very inspiring to work with.”

“You guys have great chemistry. Platonically, I mean.”

You laugh. “I know what you meant.”

“And I’ll keep checking in with both of you, to make sure that’s going well and you’re happy and comfortable. I want you to start seeing a personal trainer, by the way. It’s not to lose weight or get toned or anything, it’s for injury prevention. He’ll help you get flexible and teach you tricks for how to move without hurting yourself when we do some of the more physically taxing stuff, like that scene where you and Santi are chasing each other all over the house and slamming into the walls and stuff.”

“That makes sense. Who’s the trainer?”

“His name is Roy, he’s in his sixties and a former Marine. I’ve worked with him before and he’s really chill, I’ve only ever heard good things. But if you end up not liking him, just let me know and I can find somebody else.”

“Dusty?” you say.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for caring about what I think.”

He chuckles uneasily, like he’s not sure if you’re serious. “You’re welcome...?”

Aegon walks in—hair gelled back, wrinkled black suit on—carrying two Starbucks beverages; he left fifteen minutes ago to fetch them. He keeps the Frappuccino topped with whipped cream and chocolate syrup for himself and hands you the iced latte. You take a sip and are startled. “Cinnamon Dolce?”

“Isn’t that what you like?” Aegon asks.

And before you let yourself think poisonous thoughts—he doesn’t care, he doesn’t remember—you consider a different explanation. He might be sick. He might be dying. You give him a radiant smile. “Absolutely. And it’s delicious.”

“She must think very highly of you,” Dusty tells Aegon. “She wants you there on the closed set days.”

Aegon raises his eyebrows at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you admit, a little shyly.

“I’ll send out the filming schedule as soon as we get it finalized,” Dusty says. “Like I said earlier, we’ll start sometime in mid-September. Some soundstage stuff here in L.A., some on-location work in Ontario—that’s where they did Crimson Peak, there’s fantastic Gilded Age architecture—and maybe a trip to London if we can scrape the budget together.”

“Huh,” Aegon mutters to himself, like he suspects Dusty will soon be receiving a sizeable and anonymous donation for the project. He pulls out his iPhone and texts someone.

Dusty shakes your hand. “Thanks for being here today and suffering through approximately one thousand costume changes. I really appreciate you being such a good sport about everything.”

“I told you she had the right temperament,” Aegon says.

“She does.” Dusty smiles at you. “She really does.”

You and Aegon leave Dusty’s suite, office space rented in Downtown, and take the elevator from the tenth floor to the ground level. It’s Wednesday, August 13th, and it’s almost a hundred degrees outside, the sunlight drenching you like a downpour. Fortunately, it’s a short walk to your Honda. Aegon was serious about not driving when you’re in the car anymore; you picked him up in Elysian Park before your appointment with the costume designer. Now you walk together across a pavilion and towards a concrete staircase that will lead you down to the street with the parking garage. You’re wearing a pink floral sundress, matching TOMS wedges, and a pinkish-gold sheen across your eyelids: Fathom by NARS, Phenomena by Natasha Denona. You slurp on your Cinnamon Dolce latte, sweet and warm and blameless like a treat you deserve.

“You know I won’t be there for filming,” Aegon says. “That’s going to be after my wedding. I’ll be long gone, I’ll be in Houston.”

“Maybe not.”

“Uh, I definitely will be.”

“Maybe you’ll fly back to be here for certain things because you know they’re important to me.”

Aegon stops and whirls to you, his voice low but cutting. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you ask, bewildered.

“You know I wish I could be here. Don’t guilt me for something I’m already torn up about.”

“Nothing is stopping you from flying back to L.A. for a few days. Houston isn’t a prison, you can come and go as much as you want to.”

Now he’s somber, quiet, repentant. “I just can’t. I’m really sorry.”

“But who’s going to look out for me?” How could I even begin to forget you?

“I found you a new agent. Her name is Kristen, and she’s great.”

“I don’t want her,” you say immediately.

Aegon sighs. You begin to descend the staircase together. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for either of us, but I need you to—”

“Oh my God, it’s the girl from the Maroon 5 music video!” a young man shrieks, and then he sprints up the concrete steps. You smile when he shoves his phone in your face, recording for TikTok or Instagram or wherever he’s planning to post this...or maybe he’s even streaming live. “Hi!” he bellows at you as Aegon glares. “I love that video, you did an amazing job!”

“Thank you so much,” you say, and you mean it down to your bones. You’re beaming without reminding yourself to; you’re focused on him as you continue to descend the staircase. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Jonathan!”

Aegon snaps at him: “Back up.”

“Hi, Jonathan,” you say, wobbling on a step. “It’s so nice to meet you. Where are you from?”

“I’m from a town in Iowa that you definitely haven’t heard of.”

“That’s okay, I’m from a town in Minnesota that you definitely haven’t heard of.”

“Hey, back up,” Aegon says again.

Jonathan either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t listen. “What was it like working with Adam Levine? I’m kind of obsessed with him. He was my first crush.”

With those tattoos? you think but blessedly don’t say out loud. You have barely ever interacted with Adam Levine, and certainly not in a meaningful way. But of course you don’t say this either. Jonathan’s phone is only inches from your face; it’s practically all you can see. “Oh, it was an incredible experience. He’s so talented and kind—”

Your wedge slips off a step, and you go sprawling; one knee hits the concrete, is scraped raw, begins bleeding down your shin. Your latte flies out of your grasp and spills down the staircase. You clutch for the metal railing, find it, and haul yourself upright. And even through the searing pain you’re already laughing, embarrassed, relieved.

Jonathan is saying as he reaches for you, though he’s still filming with the phone in his other hand: “Oh no, are you okay?!”

“I’m fine, I’m totally fine—”

But Jonathan isn’t, because Aegon’s knuckles connect with his face, draw back, hit him again, and blood is gushing from Jonathan’s nostrils, and Aegon’s hand is stained red. “I told you to back the fuck up!” Aegon is roaring, and he goes to punch Jonathan again as he’s staggering down the steps, blood drops splattering to freckle the concrete.

“Aegon, don’t!” you scream, grabbing his arm. People on the sidewalk below are staring and pointing. “He didn’t do anything!”

“If you get hurt, you can’t act—”

“Aegon, I’m alright!”

And when Aegon turns to you, wayward flecks of blood on his cheeks and in his sand-colored hair, he’s not just furious but afraid: I couldn’t stop. You remember when he put a dent in the wall of the Beverly Hills mansion where Dan had planned to film you practically naked, and you wonder if that was a symptom, volatility, rage, a transient blindness to consequences. Is everything he does a symptom? Is what he’s done with you?

“Aegon...?” Jonathan says from several steps down the staircase. “Aegon Targaryen?!” He’s wiping the blood off his face with the back of one hand but still holding his phone with the other. Now he’s filming himself. “Holy shit, I just got punched by a Targaryen! This is going to go viral! I’m going to be rich!” He dashes off, still dripping blood.

Aegon looks at you, dazed. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You’re trying to catch your breath; your knee burns. Pedestrians on the sidewalk are still gawking. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to fuck up anything related to your career. I’ll fix this, I’ll get Aemond to make it go away.”

“I’m not mad, Aegon.” I’m worried about you. I’m scared for you.

“Are you okay?” He’s scrutinizing the thin tendrils of blood snaking down your leg, the crimson stains on your pink sundress.

“Yeah,” you say gamely.

“No you’re not.” Aegon takes your hand, leads you swiftly to the parking garage, doesn’t stop to talk to any of the people who are staring and pointing and taking out their phones to record him.

You drive your Honda back to Elysian Park—just a quick jaunt northeast on the 110—where Aegon scrubs his hands clean and then plays doctor with equipment supplied by the first aid kit in Brandon’s desk. On the scuffed wood floor of Aegon’s office—mint green walls, cluttered haphazard desk, photographs of him and Becca together sneering down at you—he disinfects the raw patch on your knee and gingerly wipes away flecks of dirt, then slathers it with gooey transluscent Neosporin, the kind that dulls pain. As he is trying to peel the backing off a large rectangular Band-Aid, his hands begin to shake.

“Aegon, here, let me help you—”

“I can do it,” he insists; and it takes him a while, but he does.

~~~~~~~~~~

Baela is back in Paris; Jace is eating a Chipotle burrito on the velvet orange couch and spilling leafy shreds of lettuce everywhere. You are arranging the dried sunflowers in a yellow vase you found at T.J. Maxx. You are careful not to dislodge any of the fragile preserved leaves, curled and brittle. When you are done, you position the vase on the kitchen counter near the refrigerator. The calendar there, affixed with pineapple-shaped magnets, is filled with red-ink appointments related to your indie film, the one you still sometimes can’t believe is real: workouts with your personal trainer, table reads, costume fittings, meetings with the dialect coach, lunches and drinks with your new coworker Chloe. She has third billing, and she’s from Maine, and she loves hiking and flannel and granola and the lobster rolls at Saltie Girl in West Hollywood. You teach her about makeup and dresses; Chloe teaches you about nature and hiking boots. You might even let her talk you into horseback riding lessons on the beach one day.

Jace asks from the couch as he scrolls through his phone with his non-burrito-occupied hand: “Hey, random question, but did your agent beat up a kid?”

You sigh deeply. “He wasn’t a kid. I don’t know why people keep saying that.”

“The TMZ article says he’s a teenager.”

“He’s nineteen years old. He’s legally an adult.”

“Oh.” Jace keeps reading. “But your agent did beat him up.”

“Aegon punched him twice, does that count as beating someone up?”

Jace looks up from his phone. “Yes. Yes it does.”

You sigh again.

“You’re lucky he’s not suing,” Jace says as he resumes reading the article. “Damn, he’s gotten 200,000 views on the video so far. He called it STORYTIME: Targaryen Terror!! I almost died!! The thumbnail is a close-up of his bloody nose. Let’s see what derangement we can find in the comments.” Then Jace recoils, squinting at the screen. “Whoa, the whole article just disappeared.”

Thanks Aemond, you think. “I’ll be back around dinnertime if you want to order Thai food and watch True Blood or something.”

“Cool,” Jace says, and chomps on his burrito. A glob of guacamole drops onto the couch.

In Elysian Park, you park on the curb and step out into sweltering mid-August humidity, the humming of air conditioning window units, ambient dog barks and car radios. You’re wearing flip-flops, a purple maxi skirt, and a black tank top; on your eyelids shimmers Natasha Denona’s silver-and-violet Bolt.

You can hear the shouting before you open the front door, heavy footsteps, chairs screeching as they are pushed out. You run inside to find Brandon standing beside his desk. He looks at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t know what to do. From within his office, Aegon is yelling something you don’t understand—“I don’t want it! No, get rid of it, get out of here!”—and then Becca appears through the doorway, backing away from him, fleeing from him, confused and heartbroken. She’s dressed like a bride, white lace and long beachy waves. She is crying and holding two sealed envelopes in her hands that gleam with rings.

“What’s going on?” you ask her.

Becca freezes when she sees you. She’s too stunned to be angry. “I don’t know, it was supposed to be a surprise, we were going to open them together and it would be fun, but now he’s...he’s...he’s freaking out, he’s completely lost his mind!”

You peek into Aegon’s office; his chair is knocked over, and there are papers and photographs and Honeycrisp apples on the floor. He’s slumped against the wall with his knees to his chest, gazing out at you with vast, glassy eyes, tears painting rivers down his flushed cheeks. “Open what?” you ask Becca. And then you read the artful black lettering on the envelopes: Legacea: Discover All the Wonders of Your Heritage!

“Becca,” you say softly. He’s been caught. He can’t hide it anymore. “Aegon’s dad died of Huntington’s disease.”

“Okay,” she replies, puzzled, not understanding.

“And it’s genetic, and he doesn’t want to know if he has the gene.”

She stares at him, thunderstruck. He hides his face in his hands. And you feel a compulsion—an instinct, a gravity, a predestination—to go to Aegon and hold him, comfort him as much as you can, ward off all the world’s curses here in this undistinguished alcove of Los Angeles where you first met him.

“Here,” Becca hisses, grabbing your hand and pressing one of the envelopes into it too quickly for you to resist. “You’re the person he always wants to talk to anyway.” Then she shoves you so hard your back hits the doorframe, storms across the lobby, slams the front door as she leaves.

“I’m sorry,” Aegon says hoarsely from the floor. “I’m sorry she did that, I...I...” And then he swallows with effort and shakes his head and covers his face again. In the lobby, Brandon sinks into the chair behind his desk and tries to disappear.

You step into Aegon’s office and close the door behind you. You cross the scuffed hardwood floor until you are right in front of him, and then you sit down amidst the bruised apples and splintered glass panes of photographs, close enough to reach out and take his hands if you tried. You look down at the sealed envelope and skim your thumbprint across the black ink. You don’t say anything. You wait for Aegon to realize the inevitable: If Becca paid for these tests, she can access the results anytime she wants to. He’s going to find out one way or the other. He can’t keep running. The answer is right here. Maybe it’s even good.

“You can open it,” Aegon says, barely a whisper.

“Are you sure?”

He nods and wipes his face with his sleeve, the same wrinkled tan sport coat jacket he was wearing for your very first appointment. Beneath that he wears a t-shirt the color of the ocean, a placid royal blue. Then he watches as you carefully rip open the envelope, unfold the stack of four papers, and scan the results. He tries to read the lines and color of your face; he waits for you to say something.

For a long still moment, you don’t say anything. And then at last you look up at him. “Your family can afford the best doctors, you’ll have access to the most advanced treatments—”

“No!” Aegon wails, a mourning, a surrender, and he collapses across the floor, and decades of fear and grief and fury come hemorrhaging out, and you expect that when you try to hold him he’ll push you away, but he doesn’t. He claws for you and his fingernails leave half-moon indentations in your skin, but you don’t mind because soon he’ll be gone: he’ll be flying to Turks and Caicos to marry Becca, he’ll be moving to Houston, Texas, he’ll be dying there of something horrible and painful and inglorious and unfair, he’ll be a secret and then a myth.

“I’m sorry,” you say over and over again, his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair, your voice fracturing and your throat burned to ashes. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this. I wish I could change it. I would do anything to change it.”

And after a while, Aegon goes quiet and pulls away, and he sits on the floor as he absorbs it, staring vacantly at the photographs and the apples and the walls, dragging his hands through his disheveled hair to slick it back again. Then he turns to you and asks: “Do you want to go to the beach?”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve already been to Venice, and Baela and Jace once took you along with them to Santa Monica to walk the pier at dusk; and so today Aegon tells you to follow the 110 south, the 10 west, and finally the 1 north—and if you stayed on it you’d eventually hit Malibu, Santa Barbara, San Francisco, Point Reyes, Eureka, the Oregon border—to Pacific Palisades, where the water is calm and endless and the beach quiet, a few families picnicking on loose golden sand, a few amateur surfers bobbing on docile waves. Gulls flap and caw in a cerulean sky. From a boombox drifts Under the Bridge.

“I always felt like I had it,” Aegon says. His skin glows with the sunscreen you insisted on buying from a surf shop on the way here, SPF 50, but there is nothing in the world that can stop the poison his cells are already making, copying the defective gene’s lethal instructions again and again and again. You look at the crinkles that spring out from the corners of his eyes, the lines around his mouth, and you can see that he is aging—lack of sleep, lack of care—and you have the instinct to pull him back from the ledge of mortality. But for all the wonders of humanity, pyramids and chapels, submarines and satellites, for some reason the most essential magic eludes you.

“But you hoped you didn’t.” You hold the Legacea papers, still creased from where they were folded into thirds inside the envelope, as you and Aegon sit together on the sand. You keep reading the results: cystic fibrosis—variant not detected, hereditary thrombophilia—variant not detected, Parkinson’s disease—variant not detected, he’d be perfect if it wasn’t for one tiny thing, and that seems so unfair.

“That’s why I never told people. That’s why even though I was pretty sure I’d never have kids, I didn’t do anything permanent. Never got a vasectomy, even though I should have. Never saw a specialist. Never joined any support groups. I always thought...you know, maybe. Maybe I was wrong, and I was fine. And I wanted to have that to fall back on, so whenever I started thinking about it and got freaked out, I could say: You don’t know for sure. You might not have it. Aemond got tested because he felt it was the responsible thing to do, and Helaena and Daeron followed his lead because they trust him. I was the only one who didn’t want to know. And I’m the only one who has it.” He shakes his head; his blonde hair blows in the wind. “They had to deal with what happened to my dad. I can’t put them through that again.”

You re-read the results, the only one that matters: Huntington’s disease—variant detected, mutation of the HTT gene. “You’re so young, Aegon. Aren’t you too young to have symptoms? When I was researching, it sounded like it usually starts around forty, and then people can live into their fifties or even their sixties.” That’s almost a normal lifespan! you have to stop yourself from blurting out. That’s thirty more years we could have together!

“A lot of the time, that’s how it goes,” he says. “But there’s this thing in genetics called anticipation.” And then you remember what you overheard Aemond saying when you found him in Aegon’s office a few days after the charity gala: Because you’re still pretty young, but with anticipation...

“Aegon, what’s anticipation?”

“It means that in each generation, the disease shows up earlier and gets more severe. In Huntington’s, that’s especially true when it’s inherited from the father. My dad had visible signs in his late-thirties, got diagnosed at forty-five, and died at fifty-five. I’ve had symptoms since my twenties.”

So how many years does he have left? you think with horror. Five? Ten? And most of them will be bad. “Is that why you left acting?”

Aegon nods, looking out over the waves. “Every time I forgot a line or tripped over a step or something, I’d think it was proof that I had the gene, and it would send me into a spiral. And then because I was so nervous...fuck it, because I was so scared...I would make more mistakes, and get more panicked, and I just couldn’t deal with the...the emotional rollercoaster, I guess. So I got an office in Elysian Park far away from my family and all their industry friends, and I found an assistant I liked, and I met Becca...and I got everything lined up so if...” He shakes his head. “So when the time came, I could slip away without any drama or unnecessary pain for my family.”

“But you’re still mostly okay. You don’t have to leave Los Angeles yet.” You don’t have to abandon me yet. “I can drive you places. I can remember things for you. I don’t mind.”

Aegon gives you a sad, patient smile. “By the time people with this disease get really bad, they stop being able to tell how far-gone they are. And they aren’t competent to make decisions, and they hurt the people who are trying to help them, and it’s not so easy to disappear anymore. I can’t wait around for my brain to get hollowed out enough that I have no good days left. I can’t wait around until you’re finally convinced it’s the right time. You’re always going to be looking for excuses to keep me here. You’ll always see glasses as half-full.”

You think of the countless YouTube videos you’ve watched of Huntington’s patients since that night in Silver Lake when you learned what killed Woody Guthrie—people struggling to walk, to speak, to swallow, to recognize their loved ones—and you break down in sobs, covering your face with your hands as tears flood down your cheeks, the rivulets turning cold as the ocean breeze skates over them. “I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“None of us get a choice, sunshine,” Aegon says gently, laying a palm on your shoulder.

“Am I a symptom?”

“What are you talking about?”

You take a tissue out of your purse and sniffle into it, too mortified to meet his eyes. “Impulsive decisions, poor judgment, erratic emotions. Those are all symptoms of Huntington’s. So is this thing between us...is what you have with me, is it just...just...?” Just your brain dying, just a mistake like punching a fan or wrecking a car or forgetting that I was born in the Year of the Dragon?

“No,” Aegon says. “No, this is real. And the way I feel about you isn’t how I feel about anybody else.”

“But all those other women—”

“I fucked around because life is short and I didn’t want to miss out on things. And I felt like...you know...there will be a day when I’m never going to be able to have sex again. Just like there will be a day when I can never drive again, or help a client get a job, or make it through a barbeque at my family’s beach house without acting insane, or collect stars in Super Mario 64. But you’re not some maladaptive coping mechanism. I don’t sleep with clients. I genuinely really, really like you, and you make me feel better about the world, and I want to be around you all the time. But I can’t do that without ruining your life, you know? So what the fuck am I supposed to do with everything I feel for you?”

His hand is still on your shoulder, warm and safe and steady, and his oceanic blue eyes are resigned. You’re too late to change his mind. You’ve been too late since he watched Viserys crawl towards the grave over the span of a decade. “I would take care of you,” you tell Aegon, something you’ve offered before, and you mean this no matter how irrational he believes it to be.

“You’ll be sad for a while,” he says. “But then you’ll get busy with more roles and the promo tour for your movie, and you’ll have a nice normal boyfriend—maybe that Jace guy—and you’ll forget about me. And you can be an actress and have healthy kids and stay here in Los Angeles forever. You’ll have everything you ever wanted.”

Not everything, you think. Not you. “Why did you invited me to your wedding? It’s actually a really messed up thing to do. I’m supposed to celebrate you marrying Becca? Toast champagne and dance on the beach and eat hors d’oeuvres and then fly back here like nothing’s wrong?”

Aegon sighs and lies flat on the sand, lets the hot midday sun beat down on him, takes his black aviator sunglasses out of his jeans pocket and slides them on. “I invited you because my wedding is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and I want all my favorite people there. And you are definitely one of my favorite people.”

You frown at the wave crests, glittering with daylight. “I can’t go to Turks and Caicos.”

“Why not?”

“Because Becca threatened to break my leg.”

Aegon bursts out laughing. “She what?!”

“She said she would push me down the stairs so I’d break my leg and wouldn’t be able to do any acting for months until it healed.”

He’s cackling. Circumstances aside, it’s nice to see him smile again. “Ignore her. She’s not serious. She tells everyone that.”

“She threatens all your mistresses with bodily harm?”

Aegon shrugs. “Her playbook is limited.”

You debate whether to tell him something, then decide this isn’t the day for secrets. “She pushed me outside your office one time. I fell over. That’s how I sprained my ankle.”

“Fuck, really?” Aegon says, peering up at you from the sand. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead, glistening with Coppertone Sport. “I’m so sorry. That should never have happened. I’ll talk to her.”

“I’m sure that’ll go well.”

“She’ll listen to me,” Aegon insists. “She’ll cave. She always does.”

You look at him, accusing, certain. “You don’t love her.”

“I couldn’t marry her if I did,” he says casually. “But she chose this. She could call it off anytime she wanted, but she won’t. I’ll go home tonight and find out she’s bought twenty books on nursing from Amazon. And it’s not forever. I’m a curse, not a life sentence. My clock is ticking down a lot faster than everyone else’s.”

What if I want that time with you? you think helplessly. What if I love you?

Aegon pushes his sunglasses up into his hair so he can study you with no obstructions, so there’s nowhere to hide. “The wedding might be your last chance to see me, you know?”

“Right,” you say, listening to the shrieks of circling California gulls and the dull primordial rumble of the ocean, a beast that swallows sunlight, a titan with no lifespan.

As you take the 1 southeast back towards Downtown, Elysian Park, Harbor Gateway, Aegon tells you to stop at the Getty Villa Museum. You don’t argue; you don’t want to go home yet either. You don’t want to lose a second of the time you have left with him.

There is an extensive collection of ancient Greek and Roman art, gods, goddesses, heroes, monsters, coins, weapons, magic. Here is an altar carved with the myth of Adonis, here is a horse made of oxidized bronze, here is a Breccia marble fertility goddess whose name no one remembers, here is a bust of Caligula, the emperor who went mad. You pause to admire a statue of Medusa, snakes instead of hair and a face twisted with wrath.

“Don’t look, she’ll turn you to stone,” Aegon whispers as he covers your eyes with gentle, feather-light hands. “That’s the last thing you need. Another curse.”

[anon-188]

series: the playboy’s edition 🖤 — ch. 1

pairing: AJ x f!reader | status: ongoing | masterlist

series summary: you're an editor. he's a headache headline. and for the next two weeks, you're stuck together. what could possibly go wrong?

series warnings: sexual and explicit content (18+), enemies to lovers, bachelor!AJ, billionaire!AJ, slow burn, strong language, mentions of past trauma.

a/n: here's chapter one!! i'm super nervous/excited to share it with you all <3 thanks for being here. i hope you like it!

⟢ the playboy’s edition: ch. 2

Los Angeles, also known as the City of Angels, The Entertainment Capital of the World. But to you? It was the city with too many bachelors. 

And that made it perfect.

You turned the surplus of charm, arrogance, and overpriced ambition into opportunity. LA’s Finest: Bachelor Edition started as a one-off column. A monthly spread profiling the city’s most eligible men—entrepreneurs, actors, athletes, tech prodigies, even the occasional trust-fund philanthropist.

Each month, you handpicked your subject. Interviewed them. Exposed just enough of their personality to make readers swoon.

And now?

Now it wasn’t just a column. It was a headline. A brand. Featured in one of the most powerful magazines in the world: AURUM. 

Founded in New York but headquartered in LA, the publication boasts a global readership of over eighteen million. Online impressions triple that. It’s the kind of publication where a cover doesn’t just elevate a person—it names them. 

At its core, AURUM isn’t about what’s next. It’s about who’s already arrived. Status isn’t purchased here—it’s printed. And everyone wants their name in ink.

You didn’t plan to end up here—surrounded by people who made too much money and talked about deadlines like they were saving lives. You definitely didn’t plan on becoming damn near equals with them either.

But when your column started pulling more clicks than celebrity exposés and breaking traffic records before noon, the brass took notice. They gave you a desk. Then an office. And eventually, a door with your name on it in that font. The one in all-caps, bold serif. The one that told anyone who saw it that you had made it.

And you had.

Your heels clicked steadily against the sidewalk, the signature red soles of your Louboutins flashing with every step as you approached AURUM’s building. It was a towering glass monolith that caught the light just right: sleek, modern, merciless. The kind of structure that made you square your shoulders on instinct, even if you’d walked through those doors a thousand times.

The morning sun was out, sure, but it barely offered any real heat against the bite of early-December air. LA’s version of winter wasn’t exactly brutal, but it still called for layers—and maybe a little more caffeine.

You took it in stride, tightening your grip on your coffee cup as the front doors came into view.

It was officially the end of the year.

Which also meant it was peak season for your feature.

Hot men and holidays? Yeah.

This was your time.

You greeted the doorman, Bexley, like you always did—with a warm smile and an extra coffee. He was older, gentlemanly, the kind of man who still believed in opening doors and tipping his hat. You liked him for that.

“Good morning, Miss Y/L/N,” he said, just as you extended the cup toward him.

As expected, he opened his mouth to refuse. Like clockwork.

“Bexley,” you said, smiling. “We do this dance every morning. You know I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

You nudged the coffee toward him again, and this time he took it with a quiet chuckle, head dipping in thanks.

“Thank you. Have a good day,” you added, tone light, already stepping toward the doors.

“You too, Miss Y/L/N.”

The lobby was warm and still, the faint scent of polished marble and fresh orchids following you as you crossed it. You hit the elevator button, exhaled once, and waited. 

The November issue had done well—Fall for Him: Elliot Bishop. Shooting guard for the Los Angeles Firehawks, six-foot-five with a wingspan that broke records and a smile that could melt concrete. But it wasn’t just the stats or the face. He’d built a youth center in Inglewood, donated a chunk of his signing bonus to public schools. Heart of gold. Rare. The page practically wrote itself.

December was already locked, scheduled to drop in just a few days. You could already hear the reactions. The chosen bachelor? Beckett Wolfe.

All You’ll Want for Christmas.

Some presents aren’t under the tree. They’re in three-piece suits, running the city.

Maybe he owned too many businesses. Maybe he did too many interviews. But one thing was true—he looked good doing it. And so far, the public agreed. People loved Beckett Wolfe.

Today was the first of the month, which meant you were already chasing the next edition. January. A clean slate. A new year. You needed the right face to start it strong.

You had someone in mind.

Scott Kingsley.

CEO of one of the top venture capital firms in California. Sat on the board for three Fortune 500 companies. The kind of man who made billion-dollar deals over brunch. You’d heard his name in passing before. A few choice quotes that made him sound dangerously charming.

You didn’t know much. Just enough to keep you interested.

It would be a strong start to the year. Well, at least, you were planning for it to be.

When you finally made it to your department’s floor, you moved through the space with ease, heels clicking along the floor as you made a beeline for your office in the back corner. Right on cue, Savannah, your assistant, fell into step beside you, heels matching yours like she’d been waiting all along. 

You never saw her arrive, never saw her leave, but she was always there. You told her the job started at nine, but it hadn’t mattered. If you got there at eight, she was already two lattes deep. If you left at seven, she’d still be answering emails on her tablet.

How she always knew where you were? A mystery.

How she always had what you needed before you asked? A superpower.

“November’s numbers are in,” she said, tapping at her tablet as you walked. “Top-performing digital piece across all verticals. Print sold out in four airports and two major bookstores, mostly in LA and Chicago. Bishop reposted the feature twice. The Firehawks’ PR team wants a framed copy.”

You nodded, taking a slow sip of your coffee as she kept pace beside you.

“December issue’s on schedule. The final layout for Beckett Wolfe went to print last night. PR will get digital proofs this afternoon. The teaser line—‘All You’ll Want for Christmas’—is already trending.”

You nodded, pleased. “Good. He’ll love that.”

As you reached your office, you slipped off your coat and hung it by the door, then circled behind your desk. The second your laptop opened, your fingers hovered over the keyboard, already thinking about how to frame Beckett’s backstory for press week. Savannah kept talking, listing off the usual details for the upcoming week—calls, interviews, calendar notes—until she suddenly stopped.

“By the way, Vivienne cleared your day.”

You let out a short laugh, certain you misheard. “Yeah, I wish.”

But Savannah didn’t laugh. She just stood there, tablet held steady in her perfectly manicured hands.

You looked up.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah. She wants to meet with you,” Savannah said. “Didn’t say when or about what. Just said to make sure you were here and ready.”

Your mind immediately started scanning possibilities. What could be important enough to warrant clearing your entire schedule for the day?

She didn’t call you to her office often. In four years, maybe a handful of times. A promotion. A centerfold reshuffle. Once, to congratulate you on breaking a record. Each visit rare enough to remember.

Savannah hovered for a second, like she wanted to say more, but thought better of it.

“Just keep me updated on the final details for December,” you added, glancing back at your screen.

“Of course.” She turned on her heel, tablet tucked against her side. “I’ll let you know the second anything comes in.”

And with that, she slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her.

You didn’t let Vivienne’s vagueness stall your day. Whatever it was, you’d deal with it later. So you checked the time—8:40 a.m.—and got to work.

First stop: your inbox, which was already flooded. You flagged eleven emails as urgent, most from departments that couldn’t make a decision without your approval. Typical. You opened the latest batch of layout proofs from design for next month’s spread. Approved three with quick notes, scribbled edits across a fourth, and deleted two entirely with a sigh.

A quick scroll through analytics confirmed what Savannah had already told you—November’s performance was climbing by the hour. You made a mental note to double down on engagement strategies for Beckett’s release, then went back to organizing your project tracker.

Just as you reached for your coffee, a new email chimed in.

From: vcross@aurumglobal.com

To: yourname@aurumglobal.com

Subject: My Office

Message: When you have a moment, come to my office. Bring what you’ve got for January.

– V. Cross, Editorial Director

You stared at the email for a beat, then glanced at the slim file on your desk labeled JANUARY – KINGSLEY, SCOTT.

There wasn’t much to bring. A name. A loose pitch. Some early stats.

Still, you grabbed the folder and stood, straightening your clothes as you moved. The walk to Vivienne’s office took you past the glass conference rooms and curated wall displays of past AURUM covers. You’d passed your own features in these halls dozens of times, but they still caught your eye—if only to remind you how far you’d come.

Vivienne’s office sat at the far end of the floor, framed by a glass door with her name etched in gold. 

You knocked lightly.

“Come in.”

Vivienne Cross looked exactly how an Editorial Director at AURUM should—elegant, composed, and entirely enigmatic. She wore an ivory blouse tucked into black slacks, a silver watch catching the light as she gestured toward you.

“Let me see Kingsley.” She said, eyes flicking toward your hands.

You held it out, the thin file feeling even lighter now. She took it but didn’t bother to look inside, just placed it behind her on the desk like it was a formality.

Then she leaned back against the edge, arms crossing as she nodded to the chair across from her.

“Have a seat.”

You did, legs crossing as you settled in—composed, but ready.

For a moment, she just watched you. Cool. Controlled. Not a hint of uncertainty.

Then: “AJ West.”

The name hit like a thrown match.

Founder and Managing Partner of West & Vale Capital. Ridiculously good-looking, tattoos that peeked out from beneath handcrafted suits, and the kind of wealth that came with silent partnerships and properties scattered across the globe. On paper, he was exactly the kind of man your column was built for.

But you’d seen it—the missing pieces.

He was a man with a billion-dollar portfolio, a background so clean it felt scrubbed, and a dating history so tightly sealed you’d need a subpoena just to scratch the surface.

Your brows drew in, slow and cautious. “What about him?”

Vivienne arched a brow. “Oh, so you are aware that he exists.”

“Well, yes,” you said, your tone flat. “Hard not to be.”

“So why haven’t you written about him?”

You leaned back slightly. “I cover bachelors. Not walking NDAs.”

Vivienne smirked. That terrifying, corner-of-the-mouth expression she wore whenever she was already ten steps ahead and you were just now realizing you were on the board.

“Call him what you want—he’s in the spotlight now. His publicist wants exposure. January’s edition is wide open.”

You blinked. Slowly. Lips parting before you could stop them.

“You’re asking me to profile AJ West?”

Vivienne didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she turned, plucked a glossy folder from the desk behind her, and held it out like it spoke for itself.

“No, love,” she said. “You’re going to profile him. Cover story. Full spread. We’re branding him as the face of the new year.”

You stared at the folder. The unmistakable AURUM letterhead stamped clean across the top. And below it, the image of AJ West—perfectly tailored dark suit, sharp jawline, and that infuriating smirk that’s made headlines and headaches in equal measure.

You didn’t reach for it.

Because touching it meant saying yes. And saying yes meant babysitting a man who’s made his entire brand on being unreadable, untraceable—and unfortunately, very well-dressed.

She let the folder linger in the space between you, then set it gently back on her desk.

“He agreed to let AURUM cover his press tour,” Vivienne said as her phone buzzed. She barely glanced at it before typing something quick and setting it aside. “On one condition—he gets the section in your column.”

Your stomach tightened.

“So you’re sending me on a publicity parade just because AJ West said jump?”

She leaned back against the edge of her desk again, a slow, pleased look crossing her face.

“Not a parade,” she said. “It’s a takeover. And you’ll be glued to him for the next two weeks.”

“I have a schedule. Deadlines. And what about Scott Kingsley—”

“You have an appointment. With Mr. West. Today. His office. Noon sharp.”

Vivienne cut you off like your argument never mattered—because to her, it didn’t. This was already decided.

Then she grabbed the black envelope beside her and handed it over—thick, matte, and stamped with an emblem you didn’t recognize.

“His team already handled your itinerary. Flights. Wardrobe. Hotel. He insisted.”

You took the envelope, slower than you meant to. It felt heavier than it should—like the weight wasn’t in the paper.

It was in the name.

“Five events. Two exclusives. Four cities.”

Your eyes snap up. “Cities?”

“New York. Miami. Austin. And of course, LA.” Each one dropping like a pin on a map you hadn’t agreed to follow.

“You’ll be shadowing him the entire time. Public appearances. Photo ops. Interviews—”

Her eyes met yours with unflinching clarity. “And his annual gala, which happens to close out the tour.”

Your heart skipped. Just once.

Vivienne raised a brow. “You’ve heard of The West Ball, haven’t you?”

Of course you have. Everyone has.

It’s not just a party—it’s a velvet-rope myth whispered through PR offices and boardrooms, where the one percent dances in masks and rumors get traded like currency. Invite only. No one gets in by accident.

“He calls it a charity event,” Vivienne says, voice like silk over steel. “But that guest list? It’s more valuable than the Met Gala. He’s the perfect candidate for January—he’s got money, power, and presence. What he doesn’t have?” She pauses, eyes sharp. “A narrative people want to root for.”

“Which is where you come in.” She leans in, just enough to make sure you don’t miss it.

“You’re going to make the world fall in love with him.”

You almost laughed.

Make the world fall in love with AJ West?

You were an editor, not a magician. 

And this wasn’t a redemption arc—it was damage control.

If Vivienne wanted to sell him as the second coming of Wall Street, she should’ve picked someone who believed the fantasy.

Because you knew better.

And now?

Now you have two weeks to sell a mystery man with a god complex as America’s sweetheart.

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[shadesofhogwarts]

Ghost Hunter!Marauders x New Recruit Reader (pt.1)

You’re trapped in a haunted hospital with Sirius. The lights go out. Something’s whispering your name.

Wordcount: 3.5k

pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5...

You arrive ten minutes early. Because you're responsible, or nervous, or both. Probably both.

The building is nothing like what you expected. You imagined sleek, high-tech headquarters, maybe a hidden underground bunker with glowing maps and steel hallways. Instead, you’re staring at a rickety, two-story Victorian house with peeling paint, lopsided windows, and a brass plaque on the gate that reads:

The Department of Paranormal Affairs, Subdivision 7: Spirit Intervention Unit

Underneath, someone’s scratched in:

Graveyard Shift

You shift on your feet, clutching your file folder tighter. The wind bites even though it’s early September, and you swear the shadows near the porch steps moved a second ago.

Just as you're about to turn and bolt, the door swings open.

"You lost or just brooding?"

You look up. The man in the doorway has messy dark hair, a crooked grin, and a bomber jacket half-zipped over a threadbare t-shirt. He squints at you like he’s debating whether you’re a threat or just an inconvenience.

"Uh," you stammer, "I– I'm the new recruit. I was told to report here?"

He gives you a once-over, slow and deliberate. Then steps aside, muttering, “Well, shit. Good luck.”

You step inside, the door creaking behind you. The air smells like old wood, coffee, and something faintly metallic. You're halfway through admiring the chaotic, book-filled front room when a voice calls out:

"Sirius, don’t scare the rookies on day one."

Another man enters from a side hallway, looking more put-together: button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, glasses perched on his nose, clipboard in hand.

Sirius shrugs. “Wasn’t scaring her. Just warning.”

“You must be Y/N,” the new guy says, offering a handshake. His grip is warm, firm. “James Potter. Welcome to Subdivision Seven.”

"Nice to meet you," you say, glancing around. "I thought there’d be more... people."

"Oh, there are," James says, “They all quit.”

You blink, unsure if he’s serious.

"Kidding," Sirius mutters from behind you. “Mostly.”

Before you can process that, yet another person enters the room. He moves quieter than the others, a stack of files tucked under one arm and a coffee mug balanced precariously on top. His eyes flick up to you briefly, then back down.

“That’s Remus,” James says. “He does the real work.”

"Hi," you offer.

"Hello," Remus says, not looking up.

“And that’s the team,” James says cheerfully. “Come on, let’s show you around.”

You follow James through a maze of mismatched halls, Sirius trailing behind like a shadow that whistles. The building feels bigger on the inside– like every door opens into a place it shouldn’t. You pass a stairwell that seems to lead nowhere, a flickering overhead light that hasn’t stopped buzzing since 1973 (according to a scrawled Post-it), and a portrait of a woman who definitely turns her head to follow you. James is talking, explaining protocols– check-ins, assignments, the “don’t touch anything unless you want to die” rule– but your brain only half-processes his words. The place has a pulse. You swear you can feel it– humming faintly beneath the floorboards, brushing against your ankles like fog.

Eventually, you’re led into what might’ve once been a sunroom, now converted into a sort of headquarters-slash-lounge-slash-evidence-dumping-zone. There’s a corkboard sagging under the weight of red string and ghost photos. A worn couch. A whiteboard with “FIELD INCIDENTS” scrawled at the top, underneath which someone’s drawn a crude sketch of Sirius being slapped by a ghost with a frying pan.

Remus is already there, perched on the arm of the sofa with his files in his lap, flipping through one as he sips coffee. He glances up as you enter, his gaze sharper this time. Measured. “So what’s her assignment?”

James drops the clipboard on the table. “Training week starts tomorrow, but she’s coming on recon tonight. Just observation.”

Remus raises a brow. “Tonight?”

“Emergency call from Midwick Hospital,” Sirius answers, dropping onto the couch like he owns it. He throws an arm over the back, stretches his legs out, and grins at you like he knows something you don’t. “Lovely little place. Shut down in ’93 after a fire broke out. Spirits have been flaring up all week. Someone’s gotta babysit the ghosts.”

“You’re bringing her to Midwick?” Remus asks, tone flat.

“She won’t even leave the van,” James says. “We just do a sweep, collect readings, go home. Easy.”

“And if it’s not easy?” Remus shoots back.

James shrugs. “Then we improvise.”

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of a rusting black van labeled 'Pest Control', with duct tape over the 'P.' Sirius is driving, naturally. He plays loud music the whole way there– something fast, something grungy– and sings along like you’re not gripping your seatbelt for dear life.

Midwick rises from the darkness like something out of a fever dream– an old red-brick hospital swallowed by trees, its windows hollowed out like sockets. The fence is chained, but Sirius cuts it with bolt cutters and a grin. James handles the equipment. Remus clips a flashlight to his coat and murmurs something under his breath that sounds like Latin. You trail behind them, heart pounding louder than your footsteps.

Inside, the hospital is cold. Not just chilly– wrong. Like the air is thick with things unsaid. The walls are peeling, papered with mildew and graffiti. Old beds lie upturned in corners, and your flashlight flickers twice before stabilizing.

They start their sweep. You stay close. You’re supposed to observe, but something keeps pulling at your attention– like the way the shadows seem to move just a second too late.

An hour in, James gets a call and steps outside to take it, promising he’ll be right back. Remus continues checking the wards, moving with careful precision. You’re in an old surgical room when Sirius wanders off down a hallway lined with broken light panels. You hesitate for a moment before following.

“Sirius?” you call.

“Back here,” comes his voice, echoing oddly. You round a corner and find him standing by a rusted elevator, flashlight aimed at the crack between its doors.

“You okay?”

He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “Why? Worried about me already?”

Before you can reply, the lights go out.

Not a flicker– die.

The silence is instant, suffocating. You freeze. Your flashlight won’t turn on. Neither will Sirius’s. The corridor is thick with darkness, so dense you can’t see your own hand.

Then–

whisper.

Your name.

Soft. Dragged out. Like breath over glass.

You go still. The air shifts around you, and Sirius is suddenly closer, his hand brushing yours in the dark.

“You heard that too,” he mutters, low. Not teasing now. Not even a little.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “What is it?”

His fingers wrap around your wrist, firm and steady. “Don’t panic.”

“Too late,” you whisper.

There’s a clatter behind you– metal on tile. You spin, but there’s nothing. Only more dark. More whispering.

Sirius shifts closer until his arm is nearly around you. “Stay with me, rookie,” he murmurs. “And whatever happens– don’t answer when it says your name.”

“But why–”

“It’s not you it wants,” he says, voice barely audible now. “It’s whoever you used to be.”

You nod without realizing it, breath shallow, fingers curling into Sirius’s jacket as the shadows press closer. There’s a sound behind you again– closer this time. The slow squeak of rubber soles on tile. Someone walking. Someone who shouldn’t be. You’re frozen for a heartbeat, two, three– then Sirius moves, pulling you back with him until your spine hits the wall.

“Where’s Remus?” you whisper. “Where’s James?”

“Probably still outside,” he mutters. “Reception’s shit in here. Can’t call them.”

The footsteps stop. Just beyond the corridor turn. Whoever– or whatever– is there, it knows you know.

“Sirius,” you whisper, clutching his sleeve tighter. “I want to leave.”

“We will,” he says. “Just– stay calm, okay? This kind of thing, it feeds off nerves. If you lose it, it gains more ground.”

He sounds calm, but you can feel the tension in him– how tightly wound he is, how his breathing’s gone shallow like yours. The darkness shifts again, and this time it’s not just sound. Something brushes past your leg. Cold. Weightless.

Sirius shoves you behind him instinctively, stepping forward. “Not tonight,” he mutters to the dark. “You’ve had your fun.”

Silence.

Then, your name again. Sharper now. Close. It echoes off the walls, but you can feel it– in your ear, in your skull. It’s saying it like it knows you. Like it remembers.

“What is that?” you whisper.

"Residual attachment," Sirius says, his voice calm but laced with something darker. "Some spirits cling to names. Memory, emotion. You probably brushed up against something when you walked in. Looked at the wrong photo. Stood in the wrong spot."

“I didn’t do anything–”

“I know,” he replies, firm but reassuring. “Doesn’t matter. Sometimes they pick. Sometimes they choose you because you remind them of someone they’ve lost. Or someone they want to punish.”

You stare at him, unblinking. “And we’re just standing here?”

“No,” he says, with a hint of humor, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small tin. He flicks it open. Salt. “We’re surviving.”

He pours a circle around your feet, movements practiced, murmuring something under his breath that doesn’t sound like Latin– older, rougher.

Then– something shifts. The air grows thick, a pressure swirling like a storm in the room. The darkness folds inward, as if bending to some unseen force. And then– ding. The elevator behind you.

Both of you freeze.

“No one called it,” you say, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Sirius mutters, voice tight. “That’s kind of the point.”

The doors creak open with an unnerving groan, like metal scraping against metal. Inside, nothing. Just void. But you feel it. Something in there. Something ancient.

“I’m not going in there,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your throat.

“Good,” Sirius says, his grin wild. “Because I am.”

You grab his arm, panic clawing at your chest. “Are you crazy?”

“A little bit,” he says with a wink, shaking you off gently. “But it’s part of the job.”

He steps forward, flashlight in hand. The beam flickers– once, twice– then steadies. For a brief second, you see it. In the elevator mirror. Behind him.

A figure. A white dress. Hollow eyes.

Not Sirius.

You scream.

He spins around, but there's nothing there– just his reflection.

The scream shatters the silence. The whispers return, louder, mocking, circling around you. You stumble backward, tripping over something soft. Something that feels… wrong.

You look down. It's a patient chart. With your name. And a date of death.

Sirius is beside you in an instant, yanking the chart from your hands, tearing it in half without even reading. "Nope. Don’t do that. It’s lying."

“But it had my–”

"I told you," he interrupts, his voice low, “it’s not you it wants.”

The walls groan. The lights above flicker, then hold. In the brief flash of light, you see all the doors on the ward are open.

All of them.

And something is stepping out of each one.

Sirius grabs your hand. “Change of plan. We’re running.”

You run.

You sprint through the corridor, past the elevator, past the open doors, the shadows lurking beyond. You don’t look back. You just follow him, feet pounding against the cold tiles, heart a hammer in your chest.

You burst out through a side door and into the night air, collapsing in the gravel beside the van. Remus stands there, flashlight steady, calm as ever.

“Took your time,” he remarks.

“We had company,” Sirius gasps, leaning back against the van. He looks at you then, and for the first time tonight, his smile falters.

“You good?”

You nod, though your hands are still shaking.

Remus crouches beside you, his tone gentler than before. “First night’s always the hardest,” he says. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

James appears from behind the van, looking half concerned, half annoyed. “I leave for ten minutes–”

“Don’t,” Sirius warns, hauling himself upright. “Not the time.”

You stand slowly, legs unsteady. Your palms are scraped. Your heart is still racing.

Sirius watches you, expression unreadable. Then, quieter than before, he says, “Next time, stay closer. I almost lost you in there.”

You blink at him. “There’s going to be a next time?”

He grins– wild, reckless, real. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Welcome to the Graveyard Shift.”

…

You barely sleep that night.

Curled on the threadbare mattress in the guest room, you try to drown out the whispers with the pillow around your ears. It doesn’t help. The voice comes again. Soft. Familiar. Your own.

You can’t escape it.

Around three a.m., you give up. You pad barefoot down the creaky hallway, your steps slow and hesitant. The dim light beneath the door of the common room flickers. You knock once, too tired to care about interrupting.

“Come in,” comes the voice.

Sirius.

You open the door.

He’s sprawled across the couch, long legs draped over the coffee table, a book open on his chest, mug in hand. His hair is a mess, his eyes heavy, like he hasn’t slept either. The fire in the hearth is low, casting a soft warmth across the room.

When he sees you, something shifts in his face– not alarm, not annoyance– just concern, subtle and fleeting.

“You look like hell,” he says.

“I feel like hell.”

You shut the door behind you and cross the room, sinking into the other side of the couch. He doesn’t say anything, just nudges the blanket toward you and sets his mug down.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice soft.

You shake your head. “It kept whispering.”

“The ghost?”

“My own voice.”

Sirius goes still for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more serious. “That happens. Sometimes. When a spirit tries to root itself.”

“Root itself?”

“They latch on. Try to dig in deep. Names are powerful. If it keeps saying yours, it’s not random.”

You pull the blanket tighter around you. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He rubs his face, pausing. “It means we need to look into it.”

Silence settles between you. The crackling fire is the only sound for a moment. Then Sirius shifts slightly, turning toward you. “Hey.”

You look up.

“You did good today.”

Your laugh is bitter. “I screamed. I tripped. I panicked. I almost got you killed.”

He snorts. “Please. You think I haven’t had worse nights? You didn’t bolt. You didn’t break. You stayed with me.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly uncertain. “I felt like I was breaking.”

“Yeah. That’s the job sometimes.”

There’s something different in his voice now. No teasing. No bravado. It hits you before you can stop it.

“I thought I was going to die in there.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t brush it off.

“I know,” he says, his voice quiet. “That’s why I stayed close.”

You look up, surprised. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, but there’s a weight to it now. “I wanted do.”

The room feels different now– heavy in the best way.

The room hums with quiet for a beat too long. Then he shifts again, grabs something off the table and hands it to you. A dog-eared folder, thick with papers.

“What’s this?” you ask, confused.

“Hospital records. That wing you got stuck in? the fire from '93 broke out inside there. No survivors. But some of the names on these records? They’re still showing up. Even though they died decades ago.”

Your brow furrows. “Why are they still here?”

“Unfinished business. Curses. Or maybe,” he says, eyes meeting yours, “they were never meant to leave.”

You shiver.

Without a word, he pulls off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

“I’m fine,” you protest.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice softer than usual. “You’re freezing.”

You let it happen.

An hour later, you fall asleep, curled into the couch with Sirius’s jacket wrapped around you, the file still clutched in your lap.

Sirius doesn’t move. He just watches the fire burn low, eyes darting over the shadows– just in case they start whispering again.

...

The silence when you wake is wrong. The fire’s gone out. Sirius is gone.

Then, you hear it again.

Your name. Soft, breathless.

“Y/N…”

You scramble out of bed, voice thin, desperate. “Sirius?” you call, but there’s no answer.

Just the whisper.

“Y/N…”

It’s coming from upstairs.

You hesitate. Heart pounding. You want to scream. You want to run. But Sirius wouldn’t have left you. Not unless he had a reason.

So you move. Step after step, up the crooked stairs, through the narrow hallway where the shadows feel too thick.

The voice coils down the hall like smoke. You follow it to the end, to the old linen closet. The door creaks open.

A hand grabs your wrist.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. But it’s Sirius, eyes wild, breath shallow.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

“What– what is it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not human. It seems like it followed us from the hospital.”

You shudder, the fear settling deep in your bones.

He pulls you back, closer to the stairs. “Come on,” he says, voice tight with urgency. “We’re leaving.”

You’re about to ask him why, but then you hear it again.

That voice.

“Y/N…”

And now you know, without a doubt. It’s not human.

Your stomach lurches.

Sirius pulls you against the wall, his whisper urgent. “I woke up and you were gone. I heard it too– your voice. I followed it upstairs, saw you walking toward this door, but– Y/N, I swear to God– I also saw you standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching yourself go.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t you.”

The knob turns.

Sirius shoves you behind him, his posture defensive.

The door creaks open– slow, deliberate. At first, there’s nothing. Just the stench of rot. Dust. A hum that rattles in your ears.

Then something crawls out.

You can’t see it– just the blur of limbs, a smear of darkness that shifts like it’s submerged underwater. It moves forward, its voice distorted, echoing in your head.

“Y/N… come closer…”

Sirius fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a tiny silver charm. “Get behind me and don’t let go.”

You do, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

He mutters something under his breath, a Latin phrase that makes the air crackle with power. The charm flickers to life, glowing faintly– moonlight soaked in silver. The thing hisses, recoiling as if burned, but it doesn’t vanish.

Instead, it laughs.

It sounds just like you.

Sirius throws the charm– dead aim, straight into the thing’s chest.

The hallway erupts in blinding white light.

You hit the floor hard, your ears ringing. When you open your eyes, the air is different. Lighter. The thing is gone. The closet door is left ajar, empty.

Sirius crouches beside you, gripping your shoulder firmly. “You good?”

You nod, breath shaky. “What– what was that?”

He hesitates. “A mimic. Nasty spirit. Feeds on fear. Gets stronger every time you listen.”

You glance at the door. “Why was it in my voice?”

“Because you listened.”

You sit there for a long moment, heart still hammering in your chest. Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “Thanks for coming after me.”

Sirius gives you a crooked half-smile. “Always.”

Slowly, you rise, your legs still unsteady. He steadies you, his hand lingering on your arm.

“Come on,” he says, a touch of humor in his voice. “I think we’ve had enough paranormal bonding for one night.”

You manage a weak laugh.

The two of you make your way downstairs. The lights are still out, the fire long cold, and the house groans with age, but–

You don’t feel alone anymore.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

But tonight? You survived.

With Sirius Black by your side.

And he didn’t let go. Not once.

…

Back downstairs in the lounge, James hands you a steaming mug of tea. Sirius sprawls on the couch and, with a grin, declares you "not useless." Remus disappears upstairs with the case files.

You sit in stunned silence.

"So," James asks, leaning casually against the counter, "Still want to work here?"

You think of the flying books, the shrieking ghost, the way Sirius pulled you from danger without hesitation. You remember the way Remus had looked– furious– when he saw you bleeding from a simple paper cut.

You take a long sip of tea.

“Yeah,” you say. ���I do.”

James grins widely. “You’ll fit right in.”

A/n) Buckle up y'all cause I have a whole series planned for ghost hunter!marauders x reader

[forever--darling]

young padawan

summary: in the midst of chaos, you have only two to hold onto, obi-wan & his young padawan. as bakura continues to burn, you can't deny the comfort & safety that is brought by the two jedis, all while you recount your life on the fallen planet

pairings: anakin skywalker x princess!reader

word count: 6.5k

warnings/notes: mention of war, of death, mention of clone wars, swearing, mention of blood, the long escape that is from bakura, as well protector!anakin

series masterlist | 01

“Your highness, we must go.” 

The alarm was like something you had never heard before, almost like a high-pitched scream. It was blaring, outweighing the sounds of gunfire and screams from across the floor. Eyes piercing the back of the Jedi before you, leading you through the capital, his light saber clutched tightly in his opposing arm, the other held tightly onto your hand. 

“No, no, we can’t leave him. We have to go back, we have to try—try to convince him—or something.” 

The pale robes were rustled along his frame, held together by the single brass armor wrapped around his abdomen. His long hair brushing along his neck, head on a swivel as he quickly lead you throughout the abandoned halls of the building. 

“Princess…” 

“We must—” 

“Your—” 

“Obi-Wan, please.” 

Screams and yells echoed across the corridors, corridors that were no longer untouched, you noticed. Rather just as red, just as bright as the alarm, bathed in the blood of the staff of the capital of fellow Bakurans. A void had seemed to fall upon you, numbness that led to silence and disengagement, as you walked quickly but carefully, almost glued to the older Jedi's back. Eyes sweeping along the nightmare that had become of your city. 

“Y/N!” he yelled, both of his hands taking a firm hold upon your shoulders, “We cannot go back. There is not enough time. Not if we want to succeed in your survival. We must go now.”

This is the end. 

Of not you then your sanity, no doubt. The hood felt heavy along your head, concealing the peripheral of your vision, of the horrors that were sure to surround you. As Obi-Wan halted at the edge of the hall, his arm barred out blocking you from advancing. With his saber raised, he peeked around the corner, the hidden corridor that not many people realized was even useable within the capital.

You merely held your breath, waiting, worrying how this would all end. 

His eyes flickered around the room though you were hidden from it. Voices echoed, paired with footsteps in the opposite direction. As they faded, he peered back as if to check on you. Your face was expressionless, a fine line into nothing. 

The static appeared again, quiter than it had earlier, from Obi-Wan’s belt. The voice was the same as it had been before. “Master! Master, come in!” 

Obi-Wan pulled the com near his face and held the button near the side of it, “I’m here, my Padawan.” 

“What’s your status, Master?” 

“You shouldn’t worry, young apprentice we are near. Shouldn’t be more than another minute or so.” 

“The gates are overcome with rebels, sir. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up.” 

A worry line etched across the Jedis face at the sound of his young Padawan’s voice. You watched it carefully, almost quizzically. The only thing you could swear to remember from that day other than the red lights and the red walls. 

“Should I head for the ship? Get it as close as I can?” 

“No. I may need you nearby to help with the safe extraction of the princess.” 

He protested, “But Master—” 

“I believe in you, Anakin. Forge for the east side of the capital. You will find a row of doors there. That is where we will meet you.” 

Placing the com back onto his belt, he turned down the static enough that it were mumble. He peeked once again arond the corner and as he did he spoke back at me, “The room is clear but we have to move quick, another raid could be advancing soon. Just another hallway and then we’ll be near the east entrance.” 

His words felt as if they had gone in one ear and out the other. You could only stare forward, eye vacant of reality other than the last remaining gaze upon your father’s broken frame. He could have been dead at that very moment. Slain, sure to go down with the rest of the capital if the clones were to set fire to it as they had with most of the city. 

Obi-Wan had sensed your hesitation as well as yoru voidness. “Your highness?” 

“Yes?” your voice was meek, a whisper, startled as if he had pulled you from the depths of your mind. 

“I need to ensure that you’re listening to everything I am saying.” 

You nodded, it was all you could get out then as you could hear the echo of footsteps following down the same hallway you two were standing at the end of. Glancing over your shoulder, you waned against Obi-Wan’s back. 

“Okay, now follow close.” 

He extended his saber out from behind the wall, the blue hue emitting along the broken and slicked walls. Ensuring the hood was far across your head, you stepped out just behind Obi-Wan, head moving from side to side following any noises or unsteady silence that poked and prodded at your ears. The woosh of the saber was a mere mumble along the empty corridor of the capital. You were near the front of the building, that you could notice from the once marble pillars that now lay strewn, pulled down. Any and all artifacts and paintings were in ruins, and blood from innocent Bakurans smeared along the front steps.

 The footsteps seemed to get louder, louder as you advanced across the corridor. You felt as if all the hairs on the back of your neck were wire, sticking up, while the energy seemed to shift around the room, it was almost as if you could feel it. “Obi—” 

“Shh.” 

It was then the trot had advanced rather quickly just as you were entering the last hallway. You were so close, so close to being rid of that place. So close and yet—

“We got eyes!” a voice yelled out from the other end of the room, “It’s the princess.” 

As the voice yelled across the room, you felt Obi-Wan grab your arm and swing you around so you were now in front of him near the hallway. As the footsteps sounded like a sudden stampede behind you, gunshots followed, only to be deflected by the blue saber in Obi-Wan’s hands. 

You looked back at him expectnantly not sure what to do as you peered past him to see the rebels followed closely by clones. 

“Run!” Obi-Wan yelled, then, “Run, god damn it. I’ll be right behind you.” 

You did as he asked. You did as your father had planned for you. You turned, and you took off down the hallway, the long pale hallway void of anything and everything. Just a few more turns, and you would be at the east side entrance. The sounds followed of the saber, of Obi-Wan’s struggling breaths, of the com, his voice yelling into it. You didn’t stop, though, not even as the cloak threatened to trip you or the hood had fallen off your head onto your back. 

Not even as the voices followed.

“Not if we want to succeed in your survival. We must go now.”

His words echoed, staining your innocence as you both had left the king to die. 

“You, my dearest daughter, are more like your mother than you ever believe. One day you will make a magnificent queen.” 

“Anakin, be ready at the door,” Obi-Wan’s voice could be heard just down the hallway. 

It was the last thing you heard as you sprinted, through the hallway and out of the large metal door, the red lights still shielding your eyes from the white overheads they once were. Pushing the door open with all of your might, you stepped out, immediately being met with clouds of dark smoke. 

Your feet came to a stop on the outside of steps of the east entrance, the smoke billowing in your face enough to make you cough. Waving away the small gust in front of your face, you glared through the haze immediately feeling the horror amplify before your eyes. Red and orange flames accentuated the once blue and green planet. The city was doused, blinded by so much smoke you could only see the heat through it all. Piles of rubble doused the land as screams of men, women, and children were louder than they had been inside. The color drained from your face then as the only thing you could see through the haze was flashes of light from the guns, the blasters, and collapsed forms. 

A kick of a rock nearby startled you and suddenly you realized just how exposed and vulnerable you were outside — no longer behind a Jedis back. The figure who supposedly kicked the rock from a few feet away, froze in the street, frame turning slightly at the sight of your form through the smoke. He wore a mask concealing his face. 

The anger was gone, the frustration. Suddenly, all that remained was fear. As the stranger tilted his head curiously and took a step closer, you took one further down the steps. You took another, watching carefully how he advanced. As he took another, you broke out in a run down the remainder of the steps. 

You didn’t get very far as at the base of the entrance, a figure popped out from the side wall, their arms wrapping around your torso quickly. Pulling you into them, you felt yourself squirm, panic suddenly washing across your frame as the hold tightened. Just as you felt like yelling out for Obi-Wan, a hand clasped over your mouth as the tall figure pulled you flush against their chest. 

As they did, there seemed to be a sort of hesitation behind their touch. A lack of anger or immorality that you would have expected if it were a rebel. Instead, a certain feeling washed over you, one of unfamiliarity, almost as if the force itself was asking you to relax back into it. Like the energy around you was more than it had been moments ago upon that front step. Fear diminished then.

They leaned closer, their lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as you fought against the iron-like grip. They wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t wane in the slightest. Their palm was warm across your lips and smelled like sweat. Your breathing was short, uneven, moving far too quickly in fear. He could feel it radiating off of you. His grip loosened slightly but didn’t fall from your frame. Carefully, you glanced back, and relief somehow flooded your system at the sight of a Padawan braid in your peripheral vision. 

The Padawan. 

Obi-Wan’s Padawan. 

Sighing against his frame, his nose tickled your temple as he peeked from around the large wall that was hiding the two of you. As he did this, it allowed you to take him in much more closely. He was young, no younger than you but young. You couldn’t help but trace him with your eyes, there was no other comfort you had at that moment. You followed the slope of his nose, of the defining line of his jaw, and the curve to his lips. His eyes were blue. The rare kind of blue that wasn’t too light but almost reflected oceans. A deep blue, that you somehow could see even through the billowing air. His hair was cut short, a dirty blonde along the top with a small ponytail in the back and, sure enough, behind his right ear, a Padawan braid. 

His eyes flickered down to you, having caught you in your act of staring. A small quirk to his lips, you noted as those blue eyes of his flickered across your features quickly, taking in you as well. Or at least that’s what you had thought, not willing to think it into existence. You didn’t have much time to question the validity as the door burst open again, echoing with a slam. 

Heavy breathing could be heard, but nothing else as the figure stood still upon the entrance. The Padawan lifted his finger to his lips, advising you to remain quiet, as his hand remained clasped across your mouth. You inhaled, closing your eyes tightly, hoping it all would be over soon, one way or another. 

There was another huff, a second passed, and then, “Padawan!” 

It was a hushed yell, and yet it was enough to douse your whole body in mere relief. Relief that Obi-Wan was alive. The young Jedi’s hand dropped from around your mouth, but his arm remained around your waist as he stepped out from your hiding spot, dragging you along with him once he had, in fact, confirmed in Master’s presence. 

Obi-Wan hurried over, “Good, you have her.” 

“Are you alright, Master?” 

It was the first you had heard him speak other than through the intercom laced to his Master’s belt and you felt taken aback by both the tone of it as well as the composure he displayed. 

The older Jedi exhaled a small smile appearing and then disappearing as another raid echoed a street or two over, “Yes, just trying to catch my breath.” 

His eyes fell to you then, still wrapped up in his young apprentice’s hold, and he couldn’t help but examine you quickly, “You okay?” 

Once again the only answer came out as a mere nod. 

“Alright, we have to keep moving. How much further is the ship?” 

The Padawan motioned over his shoulder, “Should be just on the northside of the city, near the ports.” 

“Which is about two blocks alright,” Obi-Wan noted out loud, observing the area around him, noting what movements he could see past the flames. “I’ll watch from the back, alright, while you lead my young apprentice. We want her in between us at all times. Got it?” 

“Yes Master.”

With that, the young Jedi released you, his hand reaching for his own saber that sat along his belt. He held it tightly within his grasp but didn’t dare ignite it. Not yet, not unless needed. There was no need to draw extra attention through the smog. Obi-Wan gripped his as well, glancing behind the three of you cautiously as his padawan began to advance from behind the wall. Just as he was about to enter out from the east entrance and into the open city, he stopped for a mere second. A moment of hesitation. 

He looked back over at you, surveying the tired expression that now bathed your skin in fear. Reaching forward, he took a hold of the hood of your cloak and pulled it up and over your head. Then without a single word spoken, he took your cold hand in his and placed it along the back of his armor, where you could onto it. Your fingers curled around it loosely. He nodded at you in confirmation before turning back to the street. He edged out slowly and then began to pick up his pace, keeping the three of you close to buildings, able to watch behind you in case someone appeared out from the clouds of smoke. 

You tried to block it all out, the way the horrendous smell of burning flesh lingered in your nose or how hot the ground at begun. You tried not to peer into the bushes of flowers that now lay abandoned in fits of ash. You tried to conceal it all away from you, once again peering at the back of the young Jedi’s back, hoping it would be enough to save what was left of your humanity. 

To save you from the dead faces of those you once ruled over willingly. 

To save you from the guilt of fleeing. 

“Anakin, to your left!” Obi-Wan suddenly yelled out, gaining the attention of his young Padawan. 

Out from the shadows came two clones paired with a rebel. A beacon blue appeared as you blinked and suddenly he was deflecting the string of beams that had appeared in your direction. Grunting with each collision, he slid forward swinging his saber around his back and within his palm against the lines of defense. You watched as with two quick strikes, the clones were left a few mere pieces short circuiting on the ground. 

The rebel stepped out from the shadows, a scary smile lifting across his face doused in war paint as he noticed your shaking frame back behind the young padawan, glued to Obi-Wan’s side. 

“Found you,” he laughed, his yellow-colored eyes peering past the haze at you. 

“Don’t look at her,” the Padawan hissed, drawing the rebel’s evil gaze again. “Look at me.” 

“Ah a young Jedi, protecting the queen-to-be, how sweet,” he laughed again and the shivers emitted across your back as you felt Obi-Wan take a hold of your arm, “Well your highness, I must say this will be an honor taking down your only means of escape. You’ll be at my disposable soon enough.”

Grabbing at his belt, a beam of red appeared, the saber emitting the evil-like color that became the new paint along the capital’s walls. The Padawan’s cold, hard stare refused to leave the rebel’s face. As the rebel tried to peer at you again, Obi-Wan’s Padawan lunged forward, his saber outstretched. The rebel met his reign of anger in a swift defense with his own saber. The sound of the two colliding echoed across the empty street. 

Once and then again and again. 

You watched as long as you could until Obi-Wan was advancing past the two, dragging you in tow across the block and near the ship. You kept trying to glance behind you to ensure the blue light still emitted, and sure enough, it was colliding with the red still, swinging back and forth. 

Obi-Wan kept pulling you along with him, that is, until another group of rebels stopped his trail, fewer clones accompanied at their sides. They saw his deflated form followed by your pretty eyes and smirked at one another. The one in the front let out a loud whistle, and before you realized Obi-Wan’s saber was outstretched, appearing just as blue as his young Padawan’s.

Nerves pricking away at your insides, you turned back to peer through the smoke to find the blue light from the saber no longer there, the red too now gone from your line of sight. You felt your throat tighten up. Almost painful enough to throw up at the thought of someone else dying just for your survival. The sounds of Obi-Wan’s saber moving through the air were all you could focus on as you squinted into the line of sight of where his Padawan once was. 

Your hands tightened as a figure began to appear. Moving, running through the smoke, far too quickly for you to identify the person. Your chest tightened, fear coating your trembling figure as it dashed through the smog, almost leaping. Landing a few feet away onto the middle of the road, a small relief appeared at the sight of the padawan. A smirk appeared across his lips, a furrowed look evident in his brow as he watched his Master take on the group of rebels. His saber ignited again, the hue of blue reflecting in his eyes as he moved to advance forward. 

As he made the first swing, sending a rebel to the ground, Obi-Wan felt his presence. Though it was needed, weeding out much of the enemy, he could also sense your vulnerability behind them. 

“You must get to the ship!” Obi-Wan yelled towards the Padawan. 

“I can’t just leave you here to fight them all by yourself, Master.” 

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be right behind you, but we can’t fight our way throught this. We have to get to the ship.” 

“And we will, together.” 

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan scolded, his back pressed against his young apprentice, as he surged his saber forward into a rebel’s abdomen. “Take the princess. Go, now.” 

The young Jedi groaned in dismay but obeyed as he turned and looked back at you expectantly, “Come on!” 

He took a harsh hold of your hand and yanked, breaking out into a sprint. Your feet began to pick up, now willing to lose him in the fire. His grip was tight, almost achingly tight, as he used his saber as a guide through the darkness, using it once in a while for any clones or rebels that passed in front of the two of you. Coughing loudly, the smoke was invading your lungs and your body as your feet slapped against the host concrete of the capital of Bakura. Your breathing was heavy, matching the young padawans as he weaved you through the city, the woosh of his saber the only thing you could focus on. 

The screams of pain of those that ran into the path of the chosen one’s weapon weekend with each slice, and you hated how it all made you feel. So weak. So unlucky. 

As you felt your hand becoming numb from his harsh grip, the sounds of the city eased, almost into a faded silence, and in its place, the gentle lap of water. The smoke seemed to clear every so slightly, and you found the docks, almost walking straight off of them with how fast the Padawan was leading the two of you. Breathing heavily, he looked around, remembering where exactly he had placed the ship. His hand dropped yours then. 

“This way,” he said, darting to the right behind a long string of tall rocks that lined the body of water. 

You went to follow, but before you knew it, there was a flash of light, and your feet were taken out from beneath you. You didn’t even have time to scream, not as your body fell back into the lagoon. Sinking in within the confines of your cloak, a tall figure pushes you down. The man’s hard grip was locked around your waist, holding so tightly that you withered in pain. The dark water seemed to be encapsulating pulling you further and further down into its depths. 

You withered, trying to loosen the grip the rebel had around you, even more so as his hands moved up to take hold of your neck. Kicking, you felt the tightness around your throat come quickly. It was almost comforting because it meant it was almost over. All of it. 

The man’s face was shielded in melting paint, the night sky aiding in his identity. Trying to hold your breath so carefully, you tried to escape as you could, but it appeared unsuccessful as the man only squeezed tighter. You felt as if there was no point then. No hope.

“Father, what was it like being a Jedi?” the soft, child-like voice appeared like a lost memory. 

Your father’s followed closely, younger too, “It was like an adventure all the time, my sweet daughter. But it’s more than that, but an honor. There is much respect and to uphold as a Jedi.” 

“Like the force?” 

“Yes, the force,” he confirmed, chuckling, “Something I feel you will grow more closely to the older you get. You are my daughter after all.” 

The edges of your vision began to blur, the last bubbles of air seemed to escape from your nose, the lingering voice of the king of Bakura following you. At the sound of another splash just a few feet away within the lagoon, your eyes peeled back open, struggling even further. Your head ached, feeling as if it were going to explode as your hand raised near the rebel. With it outstretched, you thought of your father, of Bakura, your mother, all of those lost and abandoned by its army, by you. The energies seemed to align, something falling into place, as you internally screamed. The man’s hands released your throat, and he was thrown away from you further into the lagoon. 

Unable to look further, you swam to the surface, bursting out of the water with a final needful breath. Gasping, you peered up into the sky through the smoke to the stars. You could barely keep yourself up, body weakening. Breathing waning, you just continued to look up, feet kicking softly, aware you could get pulled back under. 

There was a burst through the surface, and you flinched only to find the Padawan. Clothes wet along his frame, he swam closer, a quirk of worry across his face, “I got him. I got him.” 

The closer he got, the more the water lapped into your face, and you struggled to stay afloat with the large cloak weighing you down. You groaned out as your legs felt heavy within the clothes. Reaching you, his arms scooped around your frame, either one where the rebels used to be. 

“Keep your head back,” he instructed, as his arms began to pull at the cloak around your frame. “I have you.”

It loosened after two tugs slipped from your body with ease. His hands found your waist again as he began to swim you guys back towards the edge of the lagoon. Your breath had shallowed out, the edges of your eyes still blurry, a certain feeling of darkness creeping within your chest. 

It was as his hand tightened along your side that you let out a groan of pain. Hot and stabbing sensations shot towards your abdomen. Surprised by the sound, the padawan looked down at you, a worried look appearing for a mere moment as he stepped up onto the shore and pulled you up behind him. 

The pain worsened then, the oxygen hitting your body harshly. Your breathing quickened again, this time horrendously, as you peered up to the sky. Glancing down, your hand reached for where his once was. It stung at the contact of your palm, and as you pulled it back, you found it stained with red. 

“Shit. Shit,” he swore, his own hands replacing yours over the wound, “Fuck."

Your eyes fluttered, the tiredness of it all too much, the ache of the pain, the loss consuming you. Obi-Wan’s Padawan leaned over you, his wet frame leaving droplets across your face as he tried to keep your eyes open. “Hey, look at me. Just look at me. Gotta keep those pretty little eyes open for me, your highness.” 

You couldn’t even react to his words, couldn’t even react at him calling your eyes pretty. Nothing but the way the pain began to swallow you. His blue eyes. His sweet blue gaze locked with yours, his pursed lips moving but no sound reaching you. The only thing you could hear at all was the waning of your breath and the shallow beating of your heart. 

The edges were becoming dark, the stars blurring into streaks of the sweetest colors, almost colliding with the sweet pigments of the Padawan’s skin and eyes.

The young Jedi stared down at the pale form of the Bakura’s princess, the curse words of an endless spiel falling from his parted lips. His hands were stained, stained with the darkest red, as your chest began to slow in the way it rose and fell. Eyes fluttered shut, a peace seemed to overtake your form, and he felt the way his chest tightened unwillingly. 

After everything, you couldn’t die. You couldn’t. Not when him and Obi-Wan had gotten this far to save you, to make sure you lived. He wouldn’t allow it. 

“Anakin!” 

The yelling voice of his Master drew his unsteady gaze away from your still frame. An emergence of blue light appeared through the cloud of smoke. Other footsteps followed close behind. As Obi-Wan’s eyes found the frame of the young princess, he stopped momentarily, just for a mere second, to think about the possibilities of what could have happened. 

Anakin stared up at him in disbelief, lost of what to do next. 

“Pick her up!” his Master suddenly yelled. “Grab her now!” 

With his own saber snapped back along his waist, Anakin quickly fell to his knees, his hands dropping from where they held the wound. Instead, they wrapped around your frame, one underneath your knees. He lifted with ease until you were settled closely into his frame. Obi-Wan continued to run, leading the young padawan through the remaining trail to the ship as the rebels wanted close behind. 

“Master, I don’t know how this happened.” 

“Now’s not the time for that, Anakin,” Obi-Wan replied back coldly just as they stumbled along the large grey-wielding spaceship. One the Republic had loaned for this mission alone. As he reached the front panel window, he input the code, and the door of the ship began to fall slowly. 

The two Jedis peered over their shoulders with each passing second, losing their patience. As it finally opened enough to enter, the older Jedi pushed the younger one onboard with the princess weighing down in his arms. Following close behind, the doors shut behind them, wielding them to rush towards the front pit. 

Anakin paused, waiting for further instruction as the princess’s blood began to pool along his armor and robes. Obi-Wan motioned towards the medical bay just down the hall, full of medical assisted robots. “Take her to the med-bay. The 2-1B droids will know what’s best for her.” 

Nodding, the young padawan moved quickly down the corridors of the ship, the sounds of his boots echoing off the metal floor. His blue hues glanced down every once in a while at the face of the woman in his arms. Just as he passed you off onto the medical table and the droids swarmed your still-full frame, he felt the ship rise, jutting upward enough to almost push him to the ground. A sigh of relief fell past the young Jedi’s lips, the contentment to know they would be out of Bakura, finally able to breathe.

He sunk back near the wall of the med bay, unable to look away as the droids pulled at your tunic, trying desperately to get access to the wound. Knowing this was more than what he should see, he stepped out of the med-bay instead finding comfort on the floor of the hall outside of the room. He didn’t dare move, not even as the ship steadied out within the confines of space or when the movements from within the room slowed considerably, some of the robots even leaving the room. He couldn’t and wouldn’t, unable to stall the sudden worry that had befallen him. 

Had he failed the mission? 

Had he failed you, the princess? 

Or rather Obi-Wan? 

He couldn’t stand any of it — not when he had worked so hard, trained his life away, not as he held your frame in his arms, a woman far too beautiful for that kind of ending where a man like him could only hold you in your last moments. 

Why hadn’t the force helped him? Saved you from this. 

It was hours when Obi-Wan had emerged from the pilot pit of the ship. His footsteps were heavy along the long corridors, his robes draping near his ankles. A curious brow was lifted as he found his young padawan sitting outside of the medical bay, his head between his knees, palms digging into his legs. Anakin didn’t even look up as the steps stopped in front of him. He was trying to mediate, trying to will away the fear, the anger, everything forbidden for a Jedi. He was trying to do everything his dear mentor had taught him. 

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan called out, pulling the young Jedi from his trance. Slowly the blue gaze of the Skywalker peered up to find his master looking down at him expectantly. 

Nodding for him to stand, his young apprentice followed and pulled himself to his feet. Entering the med-bay, Anakin felt to advert his eyes as Obi-Wan led him inside. He was afraid of what he would see, possibly your pale frame void of any pulse. He could sense his Master’s eyes on him, the expectations upon his shoulders at that moment, and though he didn’t wish, he lifted his head slowly. 

There upon the table, you still laid, eyes sealed away behind the confines of your eyelids. White blankets pulled up near your chin over your tunic and torso. Hair strewn behind your head, there was a steady rise of your chest, a rhythmic approach to it that had the young Jedi relieved. 

“She will be fine, my young Padawan. She is alive.” 

Anakin nodded, needing to hear those words more than anything, as he refused to look away then. Refused to peer anywhere than you as he felt like he hadn’t had much time to truly take you in until then. Until the chaos and the horror had passed into nothing but this momentarily passing of peace. 

He had forgotten what it was like to stare so shamelessly at a woman. Attachments were forbidden among Jedis, and thus, he had never taken much consideration of those within the Jedi temple or that he passed upon when he was in contact with the senate. It seemed even as he grew into a young man, he had pushed it all down, avoided it all, amongst the title that he was given of the chosen one. There was no room for weaknesses, for the possibility of failure. Not when this war relied on him. 

He felt his Master’s intense eyes following his, but even then, Anakin couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help as his eyes traced along the delicacies of your face, the way your jaw curved, and the gentle slope of your nose. Nor the concise shape of your brows quirked almost in discomfort or the long lashes that brushed your cheeks with such ease. Your lips were pink, and holding his attention the most.

He spoke then, still not looking away, “I had forgotten. Forgotten what it was like to be around a woman. To be able to look at one.” 

Obi-Wan hummed in interest as Anakin chuckled then, almost painfully. 

“Not since my mother and then Padme. I had forgotten, forgotten just how beautiful they can be.” 

Coruscant. It stared back at you through the window. The mere window of chambers that now were sanctioned to be yours. It was different. The city. The planet. From Bakura, you meant. More metal, more dull, yet more full of life. It was political, far more political than you ever realized, in the form of the Jedi Council, the Republic, the Senate. They all held control at the center of the galaxy, and you could merely stand at that window, fingers tracing the bandage along your abdomen uncertain of everything that lay before you. What to do now in the city of the Jedis?

You had woken up upon that medical bed in a frenzy, gasping for answers, afraid of where exactly you had ended up. Obi-Wan had appeared, and you had felt the tears appear, fall freely at the mere relief, and relinquish the control you could have. Lying there exhausted, you grieved, for your father, for your planet. For it all as it lay abandoned and burned down to nothing but dust. 

As your eyes traced the edges of the Senate building in the form of glass of bendable metal, sitting within the windowsill, you sighed at the sound of a soft knock upon the door. You hadn’t left the room since you had gotten there. After a few seconds without your answer, the door opened, and from outside Obi-Wans’s Padawan poked his head in. You felt his presence before he had opened the door or even knocked. It was almost as if you knew whenever he was hovering, waiting for what to do, waiting to see if you would talk. 

You weren’t sure how but you just did. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you sent a blank expression to him, and knowing it was all he would get, he stepped in without even so much of your permission. Closing the door to a mere crack behind him, you noted the stack of robes within his arms, folded nicely. They were bleak, looked long and comfortable at least, but completely unfamiliar. 

His blue hues matched yours, a comforting quirk within his lips forming, “I—uh brought these for you.”

You matched his stare but without your lips so much as saying anything, you merely quirked a brow up in response. His stature deflated slightly, that quirk disappearign into nothing but a fine line as he bowed his head and placed the robes upon the bed. “Obi-Wan has gone to speak to the council. He will be back very soon with good news I’m sure.”

Not able to bear the look on his face, how sweet he appeared, you turned back to the window, to the city, to the only future you had. Even though you weren't looking at him, it was like you could feel the disappoint flooding his system. So much so, that he turned on his heels, his boots echoing along the floor as he reached for the door. 

You felt your heart ache, your barrier fold in on itself just at the thought of him leaving with that look on his face and the dejection upon his frame. As he reached for the door-knob, you found yourself speaking far before you had even realized you had opened your mouth, “Wait.” 

He paused then, hand dropping from where he had reached for the door. Instead, as he hesitantly turned back to face you, he found you already looking at him, a certain softness now where that coldness once was. There was a gentleness then he hadn’t seen before, even after everything you had been through. 

With your hands laced upon your lap, you fiddled with the skin around your nails, uncertainty still plaguing your mind. Finding his intense gaze, you inhaled, “I wanted to— to thank you…” 

Your voice trailed off and as it did he quickly realized why it had. 

“Anakin,” he answered. 

That softness deepened even further, he noted. 

“Thank you, Anakin, for saving me.” 

He nodded, that dejection resolving back into his chest, instead enjoying how skillfully his name fell from your lips. “The pleasure was all mine. I am glad you are recovered and doing well your highness.” 

You bowed your head then, the title sounding so wrong, so devastating to you then. Enough so that you picked at your nails until one was bleeding. Anakin watched carefully, confused by the action alone as you sat there, lost in the depths of your thoughts. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” you finally expressed. 

He rose a brow curiously, stepping closer into the room, silently begging you would look up at him again, “What?”

You smiled sadly, “Call me ‘your highness’ or ‘princess’. I’m far from that now.” 

There was a pause on his end, a moment to take in how sad the princess of Bakura truly was. He knew he shouldn’t question it. Where anyone else would her words, he didn’t, as if understanding you completely then, having been someone himself who had left everything he knew behind. His mother still lay slaved in the very place he had despised completely. 

So instead, he asked innocently, “What shall you have me call you then?”

Surprised by his ask, your eyes flickered up to meet his. There was a certain glint that filled his eyes, that smile of his there, peeking out. His expression had you completely transfixed, content in a way. 

Smiling softly, your hands relaxed along your lap, “Y/N.”

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

The Scent of Missing Buttons

Astarion centred || implied Astarion x gn!Tav || ao3 || Masterlist

Rating: M ; +18Word Count: +2.9k Warnings: prostitution, sex work, sex trafficking, PTSD, suicidal thoughts, no graphic description of sex act

He thought about his old brass buttons as he let the couple have their way with him. His doublet had thirteen buttons, if he recalled correctly. Six he had found on the floor. There was no way of telling where the others were. They had probably rolled under the bed or were lost in the gaps between the splintered floorboards. He would dare another attempt at retrieving them when these brutes were finally done with him. Going back to the master without either of them was simply out of the question. 

a/n: phew, that was hard to write. Don't forget to hug your vampire boyfriend today.

Neither the loud human nor the scrawny half-elf sitting on each side of Astarion cared about how witty or charming he was. All he had to do was sit still and smile while he endured the dirt-stained fingers messing up his carefully coiffed curls. The sweaty hand resting heavily upon his knee. The stench of days-old sweat radiating from their bodies.

Astarion gave the gawking half-elf a crooked smirk for no other reason than to loosen the building tension in his jaw.    

His marks usually came to him, and that night had been no different.

Astarion had noticed the couple looking over at him from the bar ever so often, giving him toothless grins while he’d pretended to sip on the cheap ale the tavern was pouring out en masse. 

Admittedly, the unkempt couple wouldn’t have been his first choice of company, but the night had been approaching eerily fast and Astarion could seldom afford to be picky. 

And so he’d met the couple’s shamelessly lewd looks through heavy-lidded eyes, giving them an inviting smile in return. 

It had taken them embarrassingly long to stumble over to his table, greeting Astarion with the stink of alcohol on their breaths. They must’ve started their night out drinking well before sunset—Astarion rather hoped to get it over with them fast.

Maybe they were already drunk enough to skip business and just follow him back to the master, he mused as the half-elf’s uncoordinated hand tried and failed to locate his groin. 

But then the human let go of his hair; Astarion could feel her sour breath tickle his ear and knew they wouldn’t let him get off the hook that easily.

He tried to subtly lean away from the human, but she was already dragging her coated tongue along his elongated helix.

Astarion shuddered in disgust.

“So much more sensitive than his,” the human panted. Her stupid delight was evident on her face as she indicated the half-elf who was barely an inch short of crawling onto Astarion’s lap.  

“You’re the prettiest thing we’ve ever seen,” she continued, mistaking Astarion’s visible disgust for arousal. Or maybe she was just ignoring his displeasure. 

“We want you.” 

All too easily, Astarion forced his well-constructed mask back over his features. 

Grinning, his fingers curled around the human’s bony wrist as he stood, pulling her with him.

“Wonderful, because I know a place where you can indulge in me all night long,” Astarion purred. “Somewhere quiet—just for the three of us…” 

The human giggled, though her partner eyed him with a slight hint of contempt.

“Our bed will do, filliken,” the half-elf mumbled as he manoeuvred himself off the bench they’d abandoned him on.

Astarion tensed.

Whore…

Even this piss-drunk mutt had taken only one look at him and known him for what he was.

Astarion had half the mind to bare his fangs, rip out the bastard’s throat. Decorate the dingy tavern with his innards. Paint the walls red. 

The human would come next. He would tear off her little ears and shove them down her stinking maw and, maybe, if he was lucky for once, some of the patrons were emboldened enough to drive a stake through his dead heart. 

From a distance, Astarion could hear the clock tower strike thrice and the master’s voice came to his mind.

Do not disappoint me again, boy…

The vampire spawn wet his lips, swallowed down his anger and lust for blood until they mingled with the soaring hunger in the pits of his stomach.

A moment passed. 

Astarion smiled. 

“Lead the way, then, darling.” 

The couple brought him to a cramped attic room right across the street. 

Dark mould grew on scratched windowpanes and it smelled as if the chamber pot hadn’t been emptied that morning.

Somewhere inside the walls, Astarion could sense a small colony of rodents scurrying to and fro.

He tried to focus on the erratic symphony of their heartbeats as he eyed the colourful range of fluids staining the sheets of an unmade bed.

It would be over soon—at least for that night. 

Astarion would deliver these two fools to the master in no time. Maybe he would even get a little treat for a job well done—a fat rat, or even a small dog, if he was being very good. 

And then he would rest in the shadows. Close his eyes to the buzzing city above, imagine the sun caressing his skin as it tenderly reduced him to ashes. 

The attic door slammed shut behind the human.

Astarion knew he would never feel the sun on his skin again, not even for the short moments between pain and salvation, because as much as he was a whore, he was an even bigger coward.  

He stood still as greedy hands began tugging at his clothes. 

The human giggled stupidly as her cross-eyed partner tried to undo the brass buttons on Astarion’s doublet. It was a rather pathetic sight, and before Astarion could assist him, the cursed half-elf ripped the doublet open. 

A curse ready on his lips, Astarion watched as his buttons went flying across the room. 

He doubted the master would afford him new ones any time soon; worse yet, he surely would be chastised for being so careless with his clothes again! 

Fuming inside, Astarion pushed the half-elf onto the bed and sank to the dirty floor where he crawled around to collect the buttons closest to him. 

“What a cute little pup,” the human laughed right above him. 

Her hand clawed at his locks again, and Astarion could feel humiliation merge with the seething mix of anger and hunger and hatred and disgust and—

Astarion pocketed whatever buttons he could retrieve, then rose to his full height.

The human’s hand fell away and her laughter stopped as Astarion crowded her against the rickety bed frame. 

She looked up at Astarion with round eyes. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of her booze-clouded tiny little brain, she recognised the danger she’d invited into her greasy bed. 

Astarion ran his knuckles along her jaw before his fingers curled tightly around her chin. She shivered. 

“Why don’t you two cosy up and just watch for a moment?” Astarion purred. “You like a good show, don’t you?”

“We like so much more than that,” she breathed, her eyes glassy with arousal instead of fear. 

Astarion almost scoffed. Stupid bitch.

“So much more you shall have.”

The human ran her calloused fingers over Astarion’s lean forearm before she eagerly joined her partner on their bed. 

The couple took in every part of his body as he undressed himself. 

They liked that he took his time because they didn’t know that, with every article of clothing that fell away, Astarion imagined ripping them limb from limb. 

A finger here. A foot there. The eyes that had seen entirely too much… 

Oh, how he hoped the master would make them suffer later. 

Allowing himself an honest smile, Astarion tossed his smallclothes atop the rest of his clothes and crawled onto the bed.

The doomed couple groped him roughly, drew their sharp fingernails across his skin. Used him. 

But that was quite alright; their night would end so much worse than Astarion’s. 

He thought about his old brass buttons as he let the couple have their way with him. 

His doublet had thirteen buttons, if he recalled correctly. Six he had found on the floor. There was no way of telling where the others were. They had probably rolled under the bed or were lost in the gaps between the splintered floorboards. He would dare another attempt at retrieving them when these brutes were finally done with him. 

Going back to the master without either of them was simply out of the question. 

Neither the wicked human nor the crude half-elf laying on each side of him cared that his well-timed groans were purely performative, that their touch made his skin crawl. All he had to do was please them, lure them away to their death. 

All he had to do was survive another night. Another year. Another century of nothing but pure shit.

How he wished it would end. Time was running out.  

Don’t you dare disappoint me again, you useless dirty thing…

The half-elf came first, then the human. It had taken them long enough. 

Astarion was quick to pull his shirt back over his head as the human watched him intently—he was sure she wanted another round. Good. This only ever played right into Astarion’s cards. 

The half-elf was a problem, though. He’d passed out the moment the last of his spend had added another stain to the nasty bedsheets. 

Astarion barely refrained from rolling his eyes; they would have to wake him, and that soon. They had places to be and daybreak was approaching fast. 

Astarion gave the human a crooked smile as he put on his breeches. 

“You’re very skilled, handsome,” the human said, taking the bait.

“Likewise, darling.”

She returned his smile as she untangled herself from the bedsheets and sat on the corner of the bed, never letting him out of her sight. 

Astarion slipped into his doublet. So far, he hadn’t spotted another missing button.

“Why don’t we repeat that—there’s a place I’m dying to show you. If we leave now, I promise you it will be unforgettable…”

The human’s smile widened.

“No.”

No?

Astarion wet his lips.

For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. 

No.

It wasn’t like this hadn’t ever happened before. But because it had happened before, Astarion’s hands began to tremble ever so slightly. 

No meant trouble.

No meant failure.

No meant punishment.

“You see, we don’t fuck the same thing twice,” the human said, that arrogant grin still plastered across her hideous face. 

And then she tossed Astarion some coins—laughably few coins at that. They wouldn’t even buy him some cheap ale from across the street.

Astarion was too stunned to catch the coins. They rolled around his feet before they dropped to the floor with a final mocking clink.

He stared at the dirty change, even spotted one or two of his lost buttons among them.

“Pick them up.”

Astarion’s eyes met the human’s, who licked her lips. 

She wanted him to crawl again. Like a dog. Like trash. Like the rat in a cage that he was. 

Astarion turned and fled from the attic room. There was nowhere to go, though; the city’s dirty streets only lead to one end.

The clock tower struck five times. Far in the distance, the sky turned indigo. 

There was no time to find another victim, Astarion knew, as he prowled the shadows.

But he couldn’t return empty-handed, either. 

Astarion considered dragging some passed-out drunk from the next alleyway back to the master. It wasn’t too bad a plan, wasn’t it? 

But the master liked his playthings sharp. He wanted them to be aware of what he did to them. He so delighted in their screams.

And if those poor fools couldn’t scream, Astarion’s screams would have to make do instead. 

In fact, they were the master’s favourite. 

Come to me, boy.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!”

Astarion should’ve gone down on all fours and crawled at that bitch’s feet; begged her to come with him.

He was a fool. He was so fucking stupid. He deserved any punishment the master deemed fit. 

He couldn’t do anything right.

Astarion shot another look over his shoulder, fearing to see the sky having changed colours again. 

But instead of being painted with dawn, the sky… tore open?

People started to scream. They ran from the flying ship that had appeared out of nowhere. Its tentacles chased after them, picking them off the streets one after another. 

Astarion should join the fleeing drunks and alley cats, he thought. 

But, really, what could be worse than what was waiting for him at the master’s feet? 

Astarion stood still; he could be very good at that. 

And unlike the master’s punishment—unlike the nightly humiliation that was his cursed existence—it was over in one blissful moment.

Neither the annoying wizard nor the nosy cleric sitting on the opposite side of the dying campfire cared that they were interrupting Astarion in his plan of bedding you. That night, he’d already endured yet another long-winded retelling of the young warlock’s heroic feats. Listened to the prickly warrior loudly sharpening her blade. Suppressed a laugh at the fiery tiefling’s silly joke. 

He wanted to be alone with you. Look at that cute little smile that had only needed one glass of watered-down wine in order to grow this wide. Subtly close the empty space between you and him sitting side by side on a smooth wooden log.

He wanted to breathe in the herbal fragrance of your soap without anybody watching.

The first thing Astarion had ever noticed about you was that, even covered in the blood and grime of your enemies, you smelled nice.

It had taken him days to figure out that the pleasant scent surrounding you didn’t emit from your washed hair or reasonably clean clothes. Once Astarion’s raging hunger had been sated enough, he’d even understood that it wasn’t your delectable blood that made his head spin.

No, your subtle yet unique scent simply lingered as naturally on your skin as the sunlight did on Astarion’s face these days. 

It was just you that smelled good, and it slowly drove him mad.

Astarion’s plan was simple enough. All he had to do was please you, weasel himself into your bed and good graces. Only then was he as safe from the master as he could possibly be out here in the wilderness. 

But you just had to make this difficult; you didn’t fall for his charm and flirtations. Instead of swooning, you just frowned at him whenever he tried to seduce you—and gods was he trying. And failing.

If he were to lean over and bluntly propose sex to you right then, he was sure you would reject him. The very idea of both excited and terrified him at once.

The wizard and the cleric only excused themselves when the sun’s first golden fingers started to part the night sky.

Astarion watched them vanish into their respective tents, finally leaving you alone with him. 

He stole a glance at you and found you already looking at him. 

Maybe this was his chance. Astarion couldn’t afford wasting another night, not when the master was breathing down his neck at any given time.

“And what are we two pretty things going to do with the rest of the night, darling?” 

You scoffed. “Night? It’s almost morning.” 

“Ah, you’re quite right, of course. With the right company, one can lose track of time so easily, no?” 

“Indeed,” you yawned. “Now let’s get some rest, Astarion. We have a long day ahead.” 

Astarion wet his lips. 

Shit.

What was wrong with you? 

What was wrong with him? 

If he couldn’t even get his stupid little plan right, then maybe he deserved his master’s wrath. 

Astarion picked up a crooked branch and poked around the fading embers.

If you didn’t want his body, then what use did you have of him? He was just some idiot. A whore nobody wanted to fuck. He was—

“Oh!” You exclaimed, suddenly. “I forgot!” 

Astarion, trying to not let his growing desperation show on his face, watched as you excitedly produced something from your pocket. 

You scooted closer to him; your knee brushed against his thigh and your smile grew as you looked up at him. Instinctively, Astarion breathed in your scent.

Then you opened your hand, revealing thirteen buttons. 

The rising sun reflected prettily on their golden surface.

Astarion tensed.

“What’s that?”

Your cheeks reddened, looking as if you’d just scrubbed them clean down by the river. 

“Your doublet—it doesn’t close properly, doesn’t it? So I thought, well…buttons.”

When Astarion neither reached for the buttons nor said anything, you slowly let your hand sink.

“I could sew them on for you,” you offered sheepishly. “I’m sure they’ll look very nice on you.”

Throwing his now broken stick aside, Astarion rose to his full height.

“I don’t want them. Go to bed. We have a long day ahead,” he said courtly before he all but fled to his tent.

The sun burned on Astarion’s skin but didn’t reduce him to ashes. He never was afforded any luck.

He watched you walk far ahead of him, leading your companions through the woods. This far back, he could barely catch your lovely scent. 

Not for the first time that day did he wonder what those buttons you’d offered him would’ve cost him. 

Wouldn’t any price have been worth it?

Astarion had been a fool again. 

He should’ve just thanked you, watched your quick little fingers close the chasm in his chest with nothing but some thread and pretty buttons. After that, he should’ve pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. Take you into his arms.

That’s what he wanted to do, if he was being honest.

But he hadn’t done any of this. His doublet was still shoved to the very bottom of his pack and he hadn’t looked you in the eyes all day.

Because as much as Astarion was a whore, he was an even bigger coward.

That was all to him there was.

The vampire spawn looked over his shoulder but couldn’t see much of what lay behind. 

The golden sun was too bright in his eyes.

As usual, all he could do, though, was endure.

Tag List

@spacebarbarianweird @bardic-inspo @kawaiiusagichansan 

[dazedantics]

You shuffled nervously at the doorstep.

It was quiet outside, clear blue skies, birds chirping in the trees, sun dotting through the branches.

You could have had a nice day out all things considered.

If only that's what you were here for.

Your gaze was drawn up to the door, eyes tracing over the nicks and grooves littering the wood.

The knob was a minimally engraved piece of brass, waiting patiently for you to turn it.

A plain jute rug sat underfoot, clean despite its intention to gather loose mud from your shoes. In fact, the whole of the small porch was spotless and the few potted plants blooming against the mini windowsills were lush and vibrant, so clearly taken care of.

Maybe you'd receive a snippet of that care and attention after announcing your reason for coming.

Speaking of, you need to get to it. His neighbors may begin to worry if they saw you just standing at his steps for so long.

You took a breath and raised your hand to the door.

One knock.

Then two.

The wait couldn't have been more than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity, your mind oddly blank but heart beating a million miles a minute.

You had no way of telling what would happen next, no idea of what you really wanted to happen next.

All you could hope for was that he'd be polite and truthful about his opinions on the situation.

The door clicked.

And then it was open.

"Hello. What do you ... Y/N?"

You looked up at the silver haired man, noting his tired eyes and quirked brow. He wore a simple outfit, black button down and slacks freshly pressed, red ring shining on his finger.

"I wasn't expecting you here," he said smiling politely. "What do you need?"

You took a moment, then smiled back, clasping your hands together, thumbs flicking at your knuckles.

"Hey, Rollo. Um ... there's something I think you'd like to know."

He frowned, concerned, and gestured back.

"I see. Would you like to come in and talk about it?"

"No, no, it's fine! It ... it shouldn't take long. Um ...."

"Y/N, is everything alright?" He asked, brushing your hair back, hand lingering on your cheek.

You gaped for a moment before swallowing thickly.

"I ... would like your honest feelings about this. I don't mind if you want nothing to do with it, but I just ... I wanted to tell you."

His brow furrowed deeper, trying to guess what was going on. Were you in danger? Did it have something to do with mages surrounding you? Of course he'd want to do something about that, you were special to him afterall. There couldn't be any reason he wouldn't want to help you out.

"Tell me what's going on."

You fumbled for a moment, wondering how to word it. But there was no different way to say it when the message would be the same.

You leaned forward, cupping a hand to his ear and whispered softly.

You pulled back, looking up at him expectantly.

His eyes were wide, cadet grey irises swimming with repudiation. The soft purple and gold embroidered handkerchief was quickly pressed against lips, the light blush of pink on his skin peeking beneath the cloth.

His eyes flitted around, from the steps leading to the door to the cobbled streets then finally to you.

You could only imagine that the same overflowing thoughts you had when you first found out were flooding his mind too.

You pursed your lips, giving him a moment to collect himself.

He uttered quietly, slightly lowering the kerchief, "And you're certain I'm the one that ...?"

You affirmed definitively, "Well, yeah. You're the only one that I ...," face now flushing you looked down to the side, "I haven't ... you know ...."

His ears burned red, the purple cloth quickly pressed back up again to hide his face.

A small part of him way back in the darkest depths of his brain, he felt a sense of pride and satisfaction from knowing what you had just admitted to him.

But, at the same time, he felt faint and a bit queasy, terrified of the most common outcome that would occur in the next nine months.

He knew you'd taken the risk all those nights ago down by the seine, lamented over the possibility while tangling himself in the scarf you'd left with him.

He knew he was already willing to remedy this if it did happen.

But how?

The days up till this point had been so blissful, you both moving on as if nothing happened, chatting cordially over some tea and baked treats.

The thought of your labor bearing fruit much later than a handful of days afterwards hadn't even crossed you minds then.

What would you do now?

What was he to do?

He bit his lip. Other than knowing that it was just to take responsibility, he had no real plan in case this had happened. He tapped his foot on the ground. All he knew about this situation came from books. He twisted the ruby decorating his finger. And many of them exemplified the idea that the only right thing for a man to do was ...

"You um ... you okay, Rollo?" You asked softly, shifting your weight to one foot.

He took a breath then tucked his handkerchief into his front pocket. He nodded to himself. He took another deep breath before locking eyes with you, expression devoid of any obvious emotion.

Then, took your hand in his, "We'll be okay," and lowered himself so one knee was on the ground.

You raised a brow. "Rollo, get up up. What are you-"

"I'm doing what's right. I promise to take care of you, okay, trust me," he slipped the diamond shaped ring off his finger, "it may take some getting used to, but it shouldn't be too difficult between the two of us," then slid it onto yours, "we can worry about getting a different ring later, but for now it'll do," your jaw dropped, "Y/N M/N L/N, to make amends for throwing this wrench into your path, I promise to take care of you, to help you and whatever, whoever, comes our way till the end of our days. So you long as you're willing to become mine and mine alone. Any need or want you could possibly have moving forward, I'll do my best to arrange for. I promise to make up for my transgression if you so wish it. I am offering my hand to you. And now, all I have left to ask is, Miss L/N, will you marry me?"

.

.

.

"MARRY?!"

Pt 2

** (I do not have my scrunkly yet and Ortho's B-Day keys are all I have left, so this is my peace offering to have Rollo come home soon) **

[thecrowskitten]

Cryptic Rooftop Murder Scenario

Pairing: Sylus/OC (Ameris)

Summary:

Ameris is led to the Rooftop of Sylus' Skyhaven home, where he has a surprise waiting for her.

Masterlist

Taglist: @mcdepressed290

Word count: 2,061

A/N: Hi I'm back and alive somehow. I handed in the essay that way giving me SO MUCH GRIEF a few hours ago, then had the greatest nap of my life. I don't know if updates will become more frequent yet, but they will be happening more!

***

Humming quietly as it coasted along the elevated roads, the train sliced through thick banks of mist that clung to the city like memory. Skyhaven rose ahead of them like a monument carved from light and shadow—its towers elegant and jagged, their spires reaching into a sky smudged with the bruised remnants of dusk. The city shimmered, veins of gold and blue light threading through its architecture like living circuitry. Beneath that radiant skin, something pulsed—quiet, steady, like a sleeping giant’s heartbeat. From her seat, Ameris watched it unfold through the glass, her breath leaving ghostly trails on the surface as she traced idle shapes in the condensation. Her gaze held the kind of distant weight only nostalgia or dread could bring, her thoughts slipping between the folds of the city and the silence beside her.

They stopped in front of a narrow, unremarkable building tucked between two towering monoliths that glittered with wealth and modernity. Compared to its neighbours, this structure looked like a fossil from another time—its glass façade tinted red, veined with dark brass accents that caught the ambient glow like dying embers. There was no signage, no doorman or valet waiting at attention. Only stillness. Only quiet.

Ameris stepped out, the click of her boots breaking the hush as she surveyed the building’s mirrored face. It offered no clues, only reflections. Her arms folded across her chest as Sylus came to stand beside her, his presence solid and unbothered. “It looks like a hotel,” she murmured, not hiding her suspicion.

“It isn’t,” Sylus replied, already walking ahead with that same unshakeable certainty. “It just wears the skin of one.”

The front doors opened soundlessly, swallowing them into a lobby soaked in low amber light and hushed warmth. Stone pillars rose through the space like petrified trees, their bases wrapped in lazy streams of water that fed into shallow pools, the air laced with the gentle murmur of moving currents. The scent of red datura hung faintly in the air, floral and haunting, like a memory waiting to be triggered. There were no staff, no guests—just curated opulence and the sense of being watched by something that had no eyes.

Ameris tilted her head, eyes roving across the space. “Let me guess—you own this place.”

Sylus pressed the elevator call button without looking at her, his voice low and even. “It’s mine. Though, I rarely come here anymore. Not with Ever circling Skyhaven like vultures.”

A soft chime answered them, and the elevator doors slid open. Smudge bounded inside first, tail high, moving with the easy arrogance of a creature who believed everything belonged to him. He wove between their legs before claiming a corner, curling up with the confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

The ride up passed in silence—the kind that filled in the spaces between thoughts, dense and intimate. It wrapped around Ameris like a weighted blanket, each floor they passed making her feel both closer to something and farther from safety. She stood with her arms loose at her sides, yet tension coiled in her shoulders, subtle but present. Sylus stood still beside her, hands in his coat pockets, his gaze locked on the slow climb of the floor numbers like they were counting something more than distance.

When the doors finally opened, the suite revealed itself like a secret. Floor-to-ceiling windows cradled the space, wrapping it in a soft glow cast by the city’s lights. The room felt suspended above the world, floating. Dark wood stretched beneath their feet, broken only by low, sculpted furniture and seamless stone counters. Everything was warm, golden, quiet. It was not a place where someone lived, but rather a space held in readiness—like a stage awaiting a scene, or a sanctum prepared for a ritual.

Ameris walked slowly, letting her fingers trail along the back of a leather chair, the smooth grain of the long dining table. It was too curated to be casual. Too clean to be accidental. Yet it wasn’t sterile—it was intimate, somehow. Charged. As if the air remembered laughter or arguments, even if the room had never heard either.

Smudge leapt onto the bed, his tiny paws sinking into the thick blankets as he pawed and turned and finally curled up into a perfect coil near the pillows. Ameris smiled, just faintly, her gaze softening for a beat before Sylus moved into her periphery, holding out a coat.

“Come with me.”

She raised an eyebrow, slipping her arms through the sleeves. “Is this a cryptic rooftop murder scenario?”

“Close,” he said, and though his lips barely moved, she caught the twitch of a smile. “But there’s dinner first.”

The elevator doors opened directly onto the rooftop, but what lay beyond them was not the cold sprawl of the industrial skyline—it was a dream carved into stone and vine. Soft lanterns floated between strands of fairy lights, casting delicate halos onto the terrace. Vines spilled from planters in violet and green, wrapping the space in wild beauty, as if nature itself had been invited in and given permission to bloom. The air was cool, and fresh, touched with the scent of rain clinging to flowers that only bloomed after dusk. It felt like stepping out of time.

A small table waited beneath the canopy of lights. Two chairs. One bottle of wine. Flickering candles cast shifting shadows across the stone floor. The glasses were already half-filled, like even time had paused to breathe here.

Ameris froze, momentarily struck silent. “You did this for me?”

Sylus stepped ahead of her, voice brushed with warmth. “For us.”

They sat close, and neither of them shifted to widen the space. The meal came in slow, thoughtful courses—each one something Ameris loved but had never said aloud. Sylus knew anyway. Of course, he did. Between bites, they drifted in and out of conversation. Nothing urgent. Nothing planned. Just small fragments of a shared world—memories of Smudge’s many crimes, the quiet above the city, the surreal calm that comes when the world stops demanding things from you, even if only for a breath.

Ameris laughed. Laughed. The kind of laughter that came from somewhere deep and honest, shaking her shoulders and warming her eyes. It wasn’t loud, but it was alive, and it cracked through the long-standing quiet like light through broken stained glass.

Sylus didn’t laugh. He only watched her—like he was seeing something rare, maybe even sacred. His gaze was still, reverent. As if he were afraid to move and shatter the moment just by existing too loudly.

By the time the plates disappeared—spirited away by unseen hands or quiet automation—neither of them noticed. The wine had gone untouched for a while, forgotten in favour of something far more intoxicating. The stars had broken through the clouds in scattered rebellion, gleaming like secrets in a sky that no longer bothered to hide.

Ameris leaned back in her chair, a hand wrapped around the base of her wine glass, idly tracing the rim with slow circles. Her body had relaxed, but her eyes hadn’t dulled. They found Sylus, locked on him like a puzzle she still couldn’t solve, no matter how much she already knew him. There was tension in her, beneath the calm—a wire drawn taut, a breath held.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” she asked, her voice quieter than the wind that stirred the vines.

Sylus turned to her fully. His voice didn’t need to rise. “Not a chance.”

He stood, then, and held out his hand.

Ameris hesitated for only a moment before placing her glass on the table and sliding her hand into his. He led her to the terrace edge, where the city sprawled beneath them like a living constellation. She leaned against the railing, and he stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her like he might never get to again. He kissed the top of her head. She leaned back into him without thinking, as if her body remembered something even her mind hadn’t decided yet.

“So what part of this turns into the cryptic rooftop murder?” she asked softly, not wanting to break the moment, but needing to know what he was planning.

Sylus didn’t answer with words. He stepped back instead, and when she turned, he was already lowering himself to one knee, moving with the kind of grace that came only from certainty.

“Sylus?” Her voice caught. The world seemed to blur at the edges, time slowing to the sound of her heartbeat. She couldn’t decide what to look at—his face, open and so achingly vulnerable, or the ring he now held between them.

It was dark—so dark it drank in the light. The band is shaped like a laurel crown, wrapped around a pink sapphire cut into a teardrop. It shimmered with something more than light—something alive, something intimate. It pulsed, faintly. Like a heart.

“I know we said later,” Sylus said, steady despite everything trembling in the air around them. “And we will. We’ll wait for however long. But I want to give you this now. Not because I expect anything back. But because I don’t want to wait until the world stops burning to tell you I’m yours.”

She dropped to her knees, breath shattering, eyes brimming with tears as her hands rose to cradle his face. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “You’re doing this in the middle of everything.”

“I am,” he said, not flinching. “Because in the middle of everything else, this is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. You.”

Ameris didn’t wait. Her lips met his in a kiss that was full of everything—grief, longing, hope, love. When they parted, she pressed her forehead to his, still shaking. “You idiot,” she said, tears streaking her cheeks. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”

He slid the ring onto her finger like it was something sacred. The metal kissed her skin, cool at first, then warm—like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting. It pulsed against her, the rhythm syncing with her heartbeat.

She looked down, admiring the stone’s soft glow, but Sylus tilted her chin back toward him. “You can stare at it later.”

And then he kissed her again—slow, sure, quiet. The kind of kiss people give when everything is uncertain, but love is not. Her hands slipped behind his neck. His fingers tangled in her hair. All around them, the city kept breathing, unaware of what had just been promised above its sleeping streets.

When they finally parted, Ameris stayed close, her breath still uneven. “This doesn’t change Ever’s threats,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“It doesn’t fix the curse.”

“I know.”

“But it’s ours.”

He smiled against her, his hands still cupping her face. “It’s ours.”

The night seemed to lean in around them, holding its breath—until a loud, unmistakable yowl echoed from within the suite. Smudge’s cry rang out like a siren of feline injustice, sharp and insistent, demanding immediate attention for what was a grievous neglect of bedtime rituals. Ameris broke into a laugh that caught halfway in her throat, somewhere between cracked and healing, while Sylus let out a soft chuckle of his own. He pulled her back into his arms without hesitation, warm and unguarded now, and pressed a kiss to her cheek that lingered—not rushed, not stolen, but freely given.

The curse still lingered, a shadow they both knew waited just beyond the edge of this quiet moment. The war still loomed, sharpening its fangs in silence. There were choices ahead that would demand everything of them—costs they hadn’t begun to count. But for now, none of it held weight. The night wrapped around them like a secret, the stars above bearing witness not to fear or fire or fate, but to something far more fragile and defiant. Here, in the hush between heartbeats, with a cat howling indignantly in the background and love finding its feet in the dark, they let the world wait.

“So, about this cryptic murder rooftop scenario…” Ameris pulled away to look at Sylus’ features, the man laughing at her call back. 

“You should know by now that I never reveal my plans too early, Sweetie.” 

[frenchkisstheabyss]

7 Psychopaths: Lee Know

x Summary: You are X, a seasoned assassin, and your boss has just assigned you an unusual task. You have two weeks to gather six men for a top-secret mission that requires their unique brand of psychopathy. The trick is, you've got romantic history with all of them.

A detail that might make this a walk in the park or the fight of your life. Time to find out...

x Pairing: assassin!lee know x assassin!chubby!fem!reader

x Genre: angst/crime au/smut

x Word Count: 1.8k-ish

x Warnings: blood, violence, fighting, knives, guns, disposable mob goon deaths, unprotected sex, fingering, mirror sex, hair pulling, lino is a lil obsessed with you, the strongest of language

x A/N: This is #2 in a series of 6 stories featuring two members from TXT, two from ATEEZ, and two from Stray Kids. They all follow the same theme and can be read chronologically or you can jump around. I support the chaos.

Previous Psychopath: Yeonjun | Next Psychopath: Wooyoung

Downstairs in the lobby of the Hotel Artemis the Innkeeper sits behind the check-in desk face down in a pool of his own blood. If someone were to lift his head up, the mangled flesh swimming around might resemble crushed raspberries. Their daily serving of fruit courtesy of you. But no one will lift his head up. They’ll all mind their business because that’s what you do here. You step around his body and grab your fucking key before you end up just like him or worse. He’ll wake up eventually. Probably.

Stepping into the surprisingly well-kept elevator, you press the button for the top floor, adjusting the garter belt beneath your dress as the doors close on the empty lobby. This is no time to admire architecture but you can’t help yourself. The Romanesque style interior is breathtaking, much nicer than the deathtraps you’ve found yourself in trying to track down the Black Cat. Some might call it lucky that Minho’s petty streak led him to the penthouse suite of the Artemis, right down the street from where your hotel is.

Watching the numbers light up one after the other as the elevator ascends, you’re shocked when it comes to a stop at the 6th floor, 14 floors short of your destination. You step back, wedging yourself in a corner, and fish your headphones out of your purse. Your music’s on before the bell dings, doors sliding open to let half a dozen goons file in. Italian mob. Dressed in all black. Cocky. Faces still healing from their last brawl. Half of them smile at you, nodding, politely admiring the way your dress hugs your curves, gawking at your flawlessly applied makeup.

You smile back and they turn away, eliminating you as a threat. Stealthy glances around the elevator reveal the guns tucked into their waistbands. The Big One, twice your size in every way, has a set of brass knuckles on his callused hands. Gold plated. Fancy. “Excuse me, gentlemen” you sing, maneuvering through them with the grace of a proper lady. They part the sea for you, unknowingly clearing a path to the control panel. “Getting off already, beautiful?” “Mmm'' you sigh, a manicured nail hovering near the bright red EMERGENCY STOP button, “Not yet.” Your fist slams down on the button, bringing 6,000 pounds of metal to a screeching halt. 

Minho studies the 16th-century Turkish vase on display in the lavish, and utterly destroyed, penthouse of the Golden Child, a pretty boy whose mob boss daddy provides him with enough money to blow on all the cocaine, strippers, and obnoxiously expensive art he can get his hands on. “Don’t you touch it!” the Golden Child screams, spitting loose teeth and blood onto his bear skin rug. Minho pops open the glass display case that houses the vase and an assortment of other highly fragile artifacts. “Don’t touch what?” he asks, winding up the scarlet splattered golf club he used to lay ruin to the apartment and its inhabitant, “This?”

“I said no!” Minho chews at the inside of his lip, pretending to be unsure of his next move when he knows exactly what he’s about to do. The head of the club shatters the priceless vase into a thousand pieces, shards of ceramics and glass flying through the air as he dishes out swing after spiteful swing to those poor, innocent historical treasures. The Golden Child grabs onto the arm of his white leather couch, attempting to push himself up but broken ribs send him tumbling back down. “You’re out of your fucking mind!” he curses, “All because I spilled a drink on you? I said, ‘My bad!”

Winded, Minho tosses the golf club across the room, grinning to himself as he notices a leaking cut on his hand. “My bad?” he laughs, “My bad?” It disgusts him, the smugness of people who think they can run around doing anything they want to anyone they want. Poor manners, that is. His parents should’ve taught him better but that’s what Minho’s here for. Charging across the room, he grabs the Golden child by the collar of his soft cotton robe and hammers his head onto the floor. “My bad is not ‘Sorry!’”

Minho bashes his fist into the man’s jaw, the brute force of the blow knocking another molar loose, “Say sorry!” “Eat shit.” “What?” Minho snaps, positive his ears are deceiving him. The Golden Child smiles up at him, arrogant and entitled even in his battered state, “Eat shit. My dad keeps tabs on me 24/7. He’s probably sending some guys up here right now and when they get here? You're dead.” Grabbing the belt barely hanging onto the man’s robe, Minho twists it around his neck, depriving him of air.

“I guess I’ll see you on the other side then, huh?” Minho doesn’t blink, not even once, as the color drains from the Golden Child’s eyes, bone splintering, his windpipe crumbling just as easily as his precious vases. Saying sorry really couldn’t have been that hard. 

“There’s nowhere to run, little one” taunts the Big One, trying and failing not to trip over the corpses of his friends. Your chest hurts like hell. The others were easy, so shit with their aim that only one bullet in 20 clips had even managed to skim your thigh. But this one? He won’t go down. Squared up against him, the knife from your torn garter clenched in your fist, you know you can’t let him hit you again. Another blow to the chest and you’re done for. “Who’s running, big boy? Let’s get it.” Tapping the EMERGENCY STOP button again, the elevator whirls back into action.

The Big One charges at you, swinging wildly. You duck, rolling through the bodies and slicing open the back of his left leg. The bell dings on every floor like the start of a boxing match. The Big One punches one of the walls, denting the metal. So much for pristine architecture. As he reels from the hit, you jump on his back, jabbing the knife into his chest from behind. The bell dings for a final time on the 20th floor. Biting down on your arm, he flips you over his shoulder, slamming you down onto the floor, knocking the air out of you.

The doors creak open as he raises his foot to stomp a steel toe boot down on your chest. Bang! A bullet barrels through his skull. The titan stumbles, his brain quite literally scrambled. Bang! Bang! Two more shots and he’s slumped on the ground with his friends where he belongs. Reunited at last. “Who’s your new boyfriend?” Minho teases from the hallway, tossing the gun to the ground. “You’re welcome!” you groan, flipping him off. He hops onto the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby. “Thank you,” he says, sweetly, grateful for your help and your presence.

Taking you into his arms, he props you up in the corner, checking you for injuries. “What is this?” You flinch when he brushes a tender spot on your head, “You tell me. You’re the one with the mob after you.” “No, I mean, what are you doing here?” “Oh, uh, boss sent me to get you” you stutter, the entire reason for your arrival in Rome having shifted to the back of your mind until now.

“We need you.”

“Where?”

“Berlin.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

“Okay, if…”

You whine when he caresses your thigh, checking the severity of the bullet wound. “If what?” “If you let me take care of you” he winks. “Take care of me? Why’d you say it like that?” Minho rips a long strip of material from the shirt of a nameless corpse and secures it around your thigh to stop the bleeding. He kisses your thigh, suckling softly at the tender flesh to distract you from the pain. Ding! First floor. The doors open to the lobby and he takes you by the hand, “Let me show you.” 

Taking care of you. When you say that in this line of business, it’s never a good thing but Minho had no intentions of cutting your life short. The only thing on his mind was carrying you back to your hotel, running you a nice bath, and dressing your wounds. “All better?” he asks, his breath tickling your neck as he plays with your clit. This was a part of the plan too, getting you in his lap, his naked body reunited with yours after months apart. From this position on the edge of the bed, you can see your reflection clearly. Your plush breast bounces in one of his hands while the fingers of the other spread your lips wide enough to fully expose your clit.

With your legs dangling across his, follow your cream as it trickles down the base of his cock. There’s nothing fast or rough about the way he lifts his hips to fill you. The slight curve of his cock makes you stutter each time he disappears into your pulsing warmth. “All---ah---b-b-better.” “B-b-better?” he mocks, his fingers working faster against your clit. You reach back to cup his face, scratching him the slightest bit as punishment for being a smartass. The pain only makes him want you more. His cock is as hard and smooth as polished marble, leaking precum into your needy pussy.

Minho watches you in the mirror, admiring your reflection, entranced by how the beauty of your face and the plumpness of your figure could make him put a bullet through the skull of a man who even dared to look at you wrong. “Take over for me” he whispers, guiding your hand between your legs, his fingers moving on top of yours to splash in the audible wetness of your pussy. You pick up a rhythm together, one that has your breath growing ragged and your stomach in a frenzy. With his hand now free, he brushes your hair out of your face, tilting your head to the side to kiss you.

His tongue ventures as far down your throat as it can go, devouring your moans. Bouncing you in his lap at a quicker pace, still careful not to hurt you, he caresses your body, greedy to claim you as his like you were meant to be from the start. The argument that broke you up. That stupid fucking argument. He doesn’t even remember what it was about anymore and he doesn’t care. Because you’re in his lap, your back arching against his chest, sloppily playing with your own aching bud, biting on his lip while you whimper his name. Your pulse races, your hand reaching back to grip his hair for stability.

“Mmhmm, pull my fucking hair and cum for me” he urges, “Cum for me angel.” Your tongue lashes at his, his words making you burst. “Minho! Aah, baby!” you cry, pulling his hair harder as your orgasm deepens. Minho rests his head on your shoulder. Watching you cum is like performance art. “I don’t care about anyone else. Just promise you’ll never leave me again.” Your glossy eyes meet his in the mirror, “I promise.” “You mean it?” “I mean it.”

And you do mean it. You have to. Because, with the hell that awaits you in Germany, sweet reunions like this might end up being your last.

[the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf]

You're waiting for a train...(6)

Conscience Makes Cowards of us All

Robert Fischer x reader

description - Arthur is an unwelcome presence in y/n's subconscious.

warnings - SA, implied explicit content, killing/death (in the case of waking up from a dream), Arthur being a dick because his ego is bruised, explicit language.

word count - 1.9k

a/n - More of y/n's past is revealed! Also Arthur is such a dick in this, i'm sorry if you like him but I needed him to be this for the plot!

Previous Part Series Master list Master list

If you want to be added to the taglist - here

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*Arthurs pov*

My eyes shot open. I paced around taking in the expanse of the beautiful hotel lobby. It was decorated to be art deco and the murky dimly lit atmosphere with red and gold accents encapsulated her essence. The silence unnerved me. A mind like hers should be bustling like that of any young adult. Instead, it appeared she’d harnessed her subconscious and molded it to her liking.

My gaze was dragged towards an elevator which loomed at the very end of the seemingly never-ending hallway. I doubted my moves. I was walking into her home. No, it was more personal than that. I was invading her soul. She would hate me after this, and I wouldn’t blame her. The years of trust we’d built up would shatter in the face of my curiousity. But the seconds passing showed my body betraying me.

I entered the gold dusted box and the harsh metal rail dragged in front of me. My hand drifted to the marble buttons that climbed up the panel in front of me. “1, 2, 3.” Standard. My breath caught seeing the numbers decrease even further. What has she buried?

1,2,3. 1,2,3. If this was the girl I knew, she’s been logical and organised by memories; early to present. I pressed 3 without a second thought. It rumbled to life and a creaking industrial might rose me up into her mind.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The cage erupted out to reveal me to the third floor of this apparent hotel. The décor was neat and tidy, and the sage green accents gave it a fresh feel. I exited as I felt drawn into the hall.

Each side was home to bright white doors which held different hotel room numbers. How fitting, a hotel full of rooms and a room for each memory. Each room had an imperceptible buzx radiating behind it. As if the pure thoughts were fizzing in their own creation. But there was one.

‘301’ Burned like fire. I could sense the burst of life behind the door, that I found myself drawing closer. Numbing voices chatted behind the wood. And the shadows of two danced through the cracks of light. I placed my hand near the handle and felt the burning sweetness I associate with y/n’s dream state. She was here. I hesitated. She can’t see me here. Any semblance of relationship with her would be gone. But then I heard something else. A new voice. Mingling with her velvety tones. I grasped the brass handle and ripped it open. There I was greeted with my y/n lying in a bed with our mark.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*your pov*

I jumped away from the projection as the room door was yanked open. I scrambled away amongst the sheets, dragging them up to cover ourselves. Arthur stood stock still in the doorway and the look in his eyes could have brought me to tears right there. His eyes raked over our bedraggled forms, taking in the thin sheets we put a lot of trust in. I sat up on the bed whilst Robert kneeled behind, holding me in his arms. I stroked my fingers over his arms. I felt him tense up. This was my dream, and he was my protector.

Arthur let out a humourless laugh, dripping in spite.

“Why did I expect anything less.” He spat at me, crudely gesturing between the two of us. As the tears welled up in my eyes Robert flicked to the defensive and stalked towards Arthur. In a blind panic, I threw on my red dress, foregoing any shoes.

Arthur moved forward, readying his fists.

“NO!” I shouted, halting the two men.

“Stay out of this!” Arthur snapped. His anger being directed towards me unleashed something in Robert’s projection and he lunged forward.

I slipped in the middle and separated the two brawling men. I shoved Arthur past the door threshold. I then took Roberts face in my hands and stroked my fingers through the hairs at his neck. I cooed at him, calming him down. His fingers curled around my waist, caressing my sides. Arthur looked on at us, betrayed.

When I felt he had been soothed enough and his eyes fell close. I pushed him away and sprinted out the door. When I slammed it shut I felt his body crash into it. Banging repeatedly, begging for me to let him out. I composed myself. My hand still clasped around the handle, my breath the only noise.

Eventually I released and let my body fall back onto the door behind me. I sank into the carpet and my gaze tracked to the ceiling. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Arthur. Couldn’t bear to wallow in his disappointed gaze.

“You have to do that every time?” Arthur finally spoke.

My eyes remained firmly on the door, as if daring it to break. “He can get antsy when I leave.”

“You mean the projection.”

“Of course.” I mumbled sadly.

“I actually can’t believe you!” Arthur laughed out. “You are smarter than this.” I let a few tears drop at his admonishment. “Well, I thought you were.” He said dismissively.

“Woah.” I rose up from the floor. “you wanna say that again, whilst standing here in my own dream, that you are not welcome in.”

“Your lipstick’s smudged.” He brushed my messy lips before I swatted away his teasing hand. He smirked. I slapped him.

“It’s just – he – I don’t know he just – “ I began to lose control of my body and my breaths wouldn’t stop leaving.

“What? WHAT?” Arthur stalked towards me to tower over my face. I could feel the spit leaving his shouts. I burst from my cowering.

“IT WAS SOMETHING NEW.” We remained staring at one another. “I looked at him and it was like everything in here made sense.” I tapped my fingers against my head.

“What made sense? What have you locked in here?” He looked at me so seriously that it was oppressive. I giggled and second guessed my decision as I made it. But I still grabbed his hand and led him back to the elevator. We both entered and I pressed the button.

Gravity fell from beneath us to drag us down into the depths. If Arthur wanted to know then he would.

It clanged as it reached the bottom. I could feel the weight of the air down here. I was suffocating on my own dream. The metal gate opened with a hesitation, willing us not to go further. I stepped out into the murky hallway. My bare feet froze on each step on the concrete floor. Arthur followed hesitantly, unnerved by my own confidence in such an unwelcome place. I hurried my pace until I met the end room. My red dress became the beacon of light for Arthur to follow. My silhouette engulfed by the cracking black paint.

I finally felt Arthur’s presence behind me and so I took out my ring of keys. It held many keys but only one stood out. It was as ornate as it was old, and it’s heaviness weighed down the whole set. I placed it in the door to unlock it for our eyes. The door trudged open with an audible creak. A hotel room was revealed, as was me and another man.

*the memory dream*

“I know who you are,” The man spoke. “And I know why you’re here.”

“I think you must be mistaken.” I tried to sneak past his form but he caught me in his arms.

“No no no. You’re not getting away that easily you little thief.” His dirty hands groped my sides and hiked up my dress. His calloused fingers crunched the skin of my thighs.

As I watched, I felt the movements repeated on my own skin, and all I could do was match the look of terror on my past face.

He got closer to my core and his other hand had found its place tightly holding my boobs. My form panicked and tried to wriggle out of his grip. It was too much; I could feel it too clearly. This was a dream but my pain had never felt so real. I elbowed his stomach and crawled away from him. Before he could consider a new move, I grabbed the gun from my holster and put a bullet through my head.

*back to Arthur and y/n*

Arthur jumped at the sound of the gun whilst I forced my eyes open.

“Killing just wakes you up, but pain is all in the mind.” I stated. “It may have just been a dream but I can still feel it, everyday.” Arthur placed his hand on my shoulder, questioning the move itself.

“That was not your fault.” He announced proudly. I turned in his arms to meet his sympathetic gaze. I giggled.

“That’s not why that memory is here. I shot myself, so I didn’t have to stay and finish the job.” I stalked towards him willing him to hear my words. “I buried my own cowardice.”

Arthur slowly backed away. He’d never seen this look in my eyes before and he couldn’t look at it again.

“Dad needs to know I can do this, more importantly, that I want to do this. My weakness helps neither of us.”

“Y/n, if Cobb had seen that, he would have made you wake up regardless.”

“And never let me come on a mission again, and I would have been alone. Again.” I walked back to the elevator and let my back rest on the cold metal. Arthur still hadn’t moved, his gaze on the dreaded door.

“Everything here is for my own good, and the good of the people I love.” He followed me and closed the gate behind us. “But it’s also mine. So get out.”

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The time on the dream ticked out, rousing us from our sleep. I ripped out the IV and threw together my stuff, ready to scram. I was halted by Arthur’s arms around me. He dragged me around to face him.

“Y/n listen to me. You’re compromised. You now have too much invested in this job and your judgement will be askew.” He stared me down as he spoke.

“You have no right to question my ability.” I argued.

“After what I just saw, you’re lucky I don’t rip you off this team right now.” He jerked his hands away from me, harshly rubbing my skin as he moved.

I pivoted away and let my feet march me away from him.

“Oh yeah,” He shouted, “What are you gonna do after? Go after Fischer and try and get yourself a cushy number.” I stopped in my tracks.

“No, actually.” I slowly turned back towards his smug face. “I thought I’d go home for the first time in 5 years.”

“Just don’t go meddling about in his mind with your own ideas.”

“Fuck you.” I forced out amongst the tears threatening to leave.

We were broken out when Eames, Saito, Ariadne, Yusuf and my dad entered the warehouse.

“Guys, Maurice Fischer just died 1 hour ago. They’re transporting the body from Sydney to LA tomorrow morning.” My dad announced, but he frowned when he sensed the tension.

“Well, I guess it’s time.” Arthur said, walking over to the others, ignoring my teary face.

I collected myself enough to leave with my dad so we could pack. We were packing to go home.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

taglist: @jonsncws @h-l-vlovesvintage @theethy @fashionki11a @felicity1994 @bearchermer @idkyoutellmesmh @mimimarvelingmarvel @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away

[kumeko]

A/N: For the @ichiruki-auzine! I think they’d be a lot of fun in a Men in Black world, and wanted to explore another way they could have met for the first time. 

…

…

…

…

Rukia was good at her job. Perhaps not as great as her brother—almost no one could reach Byakuya’s level—but good nonetheless. There was a reason the Men in Black recruited her straight out of university. Just like the FBI or CIA, they only wanted the best.

Best was her middle name. 

Intelligence? She was the top of her class. Every class, for the past five years. 

Fitness? Despite how short she was, Rukia had been on both the soccer and volleyball teams throughout university. She could run laps around her coworkers.

Adaptability? Rukia had lived on the streets for a few years. If she couldn’t adjust to anything after that, then no one could.

Any skill they needed, she had in spades. The top brass agreed: there was a reason she was the only agent on her level who worked alone.  

Rukia grinned as she roared down the highway, swerving her motorcycle in and out of traffic. There were no other motorcycles tailing her as she searched New York for her latest target. She wasn’t forced to sit in a car, making small chat to her partner as they fought traffic.

No, it was just her and the open wind. Rukia took a deep breath of her city’s smog-filled air, listened to the angry honks and screeching tires, and pressed the gas. Her motorcycle jumped forward, and she leaned down closer, hugging the turn as she exited the highway. Her tie flapped in the wind and she felt a feral sort of joy from it all. It was funny how her suit didn’t feel restricting at all as she drove—maybe it was the alien fibers used to make it.

“In two miles, turn right,” her watch declared. A small, green holographic map temporarily floated above the watch, a blinking red dot indicating her destination. 

So close, she thought. No matter where she went, New York was a bright, loud disaster. It was almost eleven and if Rukia didn’t know the time, she’d assume it was day. Buildings jutted out every square inch possible, towering above them and flashing neon lights until it was impossible to see the stars. Pedestrians crowded the well-lit street and she glanced at them as she passed. 

Just how many were human? Alien? At one point, the latter hadn’t even been a question, but now she knew better. She’d opened Pandora’s box and there was no turning back. Not only did aliens exist, but there was an entire economy built off them. There was an immigration system in place, special laws on handling them, and even few presidents had been aliens.

Of all the things Rukia had expected after chasing her brother’s footsteps, joining what was basically an FBI for aliens wasn’t one of them. She glanced at the pedestrians as she drove by. This area wasn’t part of her usual patrol, so for as far as she knew, the hot dog seller could be an alien. Even that schoolgirl skipping eagerly with her friends could be one. 

Alien disguises were too realistic these days. A small scar could hide a zipper, a beard the buttons of a robotic body.

Rukia turned the corner, finally leaving the city proper; the lights were spaced out more, the groups of people decrease to a few stragglers here and there. Even the buildings started to show some variety, houses mixing in between the apartments.

“What’s his name?” she asked, slowing down to match the speed limit.

“Fishbone D., of the Hallow system,” her watch recited immediately. While it looked like any other smart watch, hers was a good deal smarter. “Considering his affinity for water, he is generally found at the docks. He spends his days as a fisherman.”

“The docks?” Rukia snorted. They were nowhere near the ocean now. “What’s he doing all the way over here?”

“He has not checked in with his corresponding agent for the past two weeks,” the watch continued, ignoring her as usual. “He should be somewhere in the next neighbourhood.”

“Probably stumbled in the wrong place.” Rukia turned another corner, slowing down further. The streets here were empty, fortunately. However this went, the less witnesses the better. If she was lucky, Fishbone D.—

“Oh.” Rukia braked hard. Her grip on the handlebars was the only thing that kept her in her seat, gravity trying to jerk her forward and into the eight-foot-tall behemoth in front of her. “Does Fishbone look like a giant shark?”

“Yes,” her watch cheerfully replied, pulling up a hologram of the very alien standing in front of her. “In his original form, he has a skull—”

“Don’t bother, he’s right in front of me.” Rukia sighed as she surveyed the scene.

Not bothering with his human disguise, Fishbone was in his full alien form. It was like looking at a humanoid shark: a sleek grey body with a fin sticking out the back. He had humanesque legs and arms, though his arms were disgustingly long. To top it of, this Frankenstein of a creature had a white, bone-like mask for a face. She wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than having a shark head or even a human head.

Still, there was no way of changing the fact that a giant shark-man was standing in the middle of a rather ordinary suburb, clearly visible for anyone who looked outside. Fishbone also didn’t care about being discrete as he rocked an empty parked car back and forth. Well, it wasn’t like he could be discrete, considering his size, but still. The point was Rukia needed to do a lot of mind-wipes after this was over. It was hard work as is keeping society from knowing about aliens without all of this added to the mix.

Sighing, she dismounted her bike. “Hey, Fishbone.” 

He didn’t look at her. Instead he rocked the car again. This time, it flipped on its side. 

“Great. Property damage too.” Rolling her eyes, Rukia came to a stop in front of him. “Hey. Big guy. You know what comes next, right?”

“She broke up with me,” he whined, his voice oddly deep and guttural.

Rukia could just smell the alcohol clinging to him. “Great, a drunk alien. I don’t care about your life story, you’re still in trouble.”

Fishbone kicked the car. “She left!” 

“I’d leave too.” Tapping on her watch, she shook her head. Honestly, days like these were the worst. There was always too much clean up. “Now you’re going to have to—”

He turned, his right arm whipping back and smacking her right in the stomach with the force of a sledge hammer. As she flew through the air, her only thought was shit.

-x-

Ichigo was drunk. Sure, his body didn’t feel heavy, his brain was particularly unfuzzy, and he didn’t even have that warm tingle that happened after a few too many shots, but he was drunk. It was really the only explanation for the monster that was blocking his walk home.

Though, considering how much the monster stunk of beer, maybe they were both drunk. 

“How do you even drink?” he muttered to himself, squinting at the monster’s face. Despite his black body, his face looked like a white skull. Did that mouth even open? How did he even lift the can, he didn’t look like he had proper hands.

There was a short woman standing next to him, and if the monster was huge, the woman was tiny. She was like one of those fairies his sister liked to draw. Her black suit didn’t make her look at all imposing, and he wondered just what it said to him that he was dreaming about Beauty and the Beast. 

Before he blinked, the monster swatted the woman in his direction. Flying through the air, she shot past him and onto the hood of a car. Loud beeps blared through the quiet night and Ichigo pulled out his stupor. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t dreaming. That was a real monster in front of him.

And that lady needed help. Quickly, he sprang into action, dropping his backpack as he sprinted to the car. The woman groaned as she sat up and rubbed her head. “Fuck,” she swore. 

“You okay?” he asked, quickly scanning her for injuries. Enough years watching his father’s medical practice had left him with just enough knowledge to know what to look for. There wasn’t any blood, fortunately, and she looked more annoyed than in pain.

“I’m fine.” She swatted his hand away, climbing off the car on her own. Somehow, she looked even tinier now; he had to be at least double her height. “You should get going.”

“Get going?” Ichigo snorted, gesturing at the monster. “We should call the cops.”

She shot him a glare. “Don’t. God, the cleanup would be—just don’t, okay? Run along now, idiot.”

“Idiot?” he gawked. Before he could get any further than that, she sprinted toward the monster once more.  

There was a gun in her hand. He had no idea where she’d been hiding that. Were guns even useful against monsters? Ichigo could feel his brain overloading from it all. Maybe he should go; she seemed to know what she was doing.

Yet…he watched as she shot. Two short, white bursts of energy exploded out of the gun and smacked the monster in the back. The monster cried—it was weird how human-like that sounded—before whirling around and attacking her. She looked more than capable of fighting the monster; in fact she looked oddly used to it. He could get in the way.

The monster’s feet swept at her and while she jumped, she couldn’t dodge the monster’s claws coming from the opposite direction.

“Watch out!” 

She turned and crossed her arms over her chest just as she got hit, flying into yet another car. 

“Shit!” Ichigo ran toward her, not caring anymore. She clearly needed help; this thing was far too strong for just her to take care of. 

“Not again.” The woman coughed, blood dribbling down her lips. Whatever got hurt, it was internal, and those were the worst types of injuries.

“Shit, shit, shit.” The monster was still ambling toward them. There was no time to do anything but scoop her up in his arms and run. If she broke something else, well, she’d at least be alive to complain about it. 

“What’re you doing?” she gasped. Despite her pain, she smacked his chest with an open palm. “Let go of me, you idiot.”

“You’re injured, moron,” Ichigo growled back. She was even lighter than he’d expected. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed the monster was oddly slow on its approach. Instead of focusing on them, it was hitting random cars along the way. 

“I’m not.” She groaned as she tried to move. “Fine, a little.”

“A little?” Incredulous, Ichigo tore his eyes off the street and onto the slip of a woman in his arms. He had never seen anyone so stubborn before, it was like everything she was lacking in height, she made up for in attitude. “You’re coughing up blood!”

“All in a day’s work.” She winced as she peeked around his arms. “That fucking drunk idiot.”

There were many words Ichigo would have used on the monster, but none of those were it. And especially strung together like that. “What?”

“Nothing, ignore it.” She studied him. “You’re pretty strong.”

Ichigo raised a brow. “You’re not that heavy.”

The woman’s jaw dropped and she smacked him. “No, you idiot—look, there’s an easy way for all of this to end.” She pointed behind him. “I need you to get me to my motorcycle.”

“And run past that thing?” Ichigo slowed down to look over his shoulder again. It was odd, the monster didn’t look interested in them anymore, more content to wreck a garbage can than to eat them. Suddenly, he understood drunk though he wasn’t sure why a monster of all things would be.

She nodded, not missing a beat. “And then I need you to distract him long enough for me to shoot him.”

“What?” If he hadn’t been holding her, he would have rubbed his brow. As it was, he stopped running. “Are you an idiot?”

“That’s still you,” she growled. “Look, either we do this together, or I do it alone.”

He stared at her.

“It’s my job, I know what I’m doing.”

Job. Ichigo took a deep breath. “None of this makes sense,” he mumbled. It wasn’t like he could leave her alone to face this, and even if he ran away, other people could be hurt by it. Reluctantly, he nodded. “Fine, but you’re explaining everything after.”

The woman snorted, as though there was something hilarious about that. “Sure, I’ll explain everything. Now don’t get hit.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that, shorty,” Ichigo hunched forward slightly and took a deep breath. 

Three—

The monster perked his head up.

Two—

Its skeletal head turned to them.

One—

The monster dropped the garbage bin.

Go!

Ichigo sprinted down the road, trying not to scream. Noticing his approach, the monster bounded toward them, its overly large arms hitting parked cars and setting off several alarms. From the corner of his eyes, he could see blinds pulling back, doors opening; the whole neighbourhood realizing that a monster stood on their front lawn.

But there wasn’t time to think of that. As long as the monster was focused on him, it wouldn’t turn to them. Its hand curled around a trash can and hurled it at him. Ichigo barely dodged in time. The gap between him and the motorcycle was slowly decreasing. It was the size of a football field now.

Unfortunately, the monster stood at the halfway point, and he was only coming closer. 

Ichigo glanced at the woman. Her eyes were fixed determinedly on the monster. “Hey.”

“Yes?” She didn’t look at him.

Ichigo angled toward the lawn on his right. “Can you run?”

“Huh?” She looked at him, curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Can you?” he repeated insistently. There was only a car length between them and the monster now. 

“Y-yes,” she replied quickly. “Why?” 

“Great.” And without warning, he deposited her on the grass. Before she could gather her bearings, he ran straight at the beast.

-x-

Rukia lay flat on the ground, more confused than hurt. No, that was a lie: her chest very much hurt whenever she took a breath. She’d probably cracked a rib or two. “What was that?” 

Gingerly, she sat up, wondering if that guy had just ditched her. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. It was hard enough learning about aliens, let alone facing one that looked like that. Rubbing her head, she glanced back up the street. It was empty. And on the other side…

On the other side, the idiot was taunting the alien. “You—” Rukia cut herself off. He was playing bait and unfortunately, she couldn’t deny that she needed it. In the state she was in, she wouldn’t be able to knock out Fishbone on her own. The entire neighbourhood was awake, families huddling on their doorsteps as they watched in fear, and it was only a matter of time before the cops came. She’d have to scrub the whole place after this.

Rukia clambered to her feet carefully. The stranger at least had some idea of what he was doing, baiting Fishbone to the left side of the street and dodging behind cars. Quickly, she made her way along the right, ducking under cars as she moved. Her chest felt like it was on fire. 

Her motorcycle wasn’t too far, fortunately. She all but sprinted the last few feet, clenching her teeth at the pain. Miraculously, Fishbone hadn’t noticed it in his rampage, leaving the whole thing in once piece. Pressing a button on the handlebars, she impatiently watched as the seat opened up to reveal several small guns.

It was tempting to take the lethal ones, but Fishbone was just drunk and not an actual danger. Grabbing a tranquilizer, she drew it on the alien. His back was toward her. His claws were raised. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger and shot. A small dart pierced his skin and he stumbled forward as he passed out. 

“Good.” Rukia sighed, resisting the urge to sink to her feet. If she sat down now, she wasn’t going to get back up. 

The stranger stared at Fishbone before kicking him once. When he didn’t move, the man jogged over to her. “Is he dead?”

“No, just asleep.” Rukia put her gun back in the rack and pushed it close. 

“What the—” The guy looked at the bike, at her, at the monster. “What is that? All of this?”

“He’s an alien,” Rukia explained easily, slipping on her sunglasses. She pulled out her neutralizer, a slim, metal device that would make all her worries go away. All she had to do was flash it, and her witnesses would forget anything that happened here tonight. “I need you to do one last thing for me.”

“What?” The man stared at her confused. “And why are you wearing sunglasses at night?”

“I’ll explain in a moment.” Raising her neutralizer, she smiled. “Just look at the light.”

“The light?” The second the stranger looked, she activated it. A bright light flashed and the man recoiled. “Good, now you were on your way home and were distracted by all the honking cars.”

“What?” The man shielded his eyes. “I’m more distracted by that fucking monster!”

Now it was her turn to be surprised. Rukia stared at him. “You remember?”

“Of course I remember. It was two seconds ago.” The stranger rubbed his eyes. “What the hell was that light for?”

Rukia had never heard of a neutralizer not working. She’d used it just earlier today, so it couldn’t be the device. No, there was just something really off about the ginger-haired man in front of her, still rubbing his eyes pitifully. 

Somehow, it hadn’t worked on him.

“Hey watch,” she said, not taking her eyes off him. “Tell the boss we have a problem.”

[americanpeoplescareme]

James March x (gn in this chapter) reader

Architect of the west coast - Part 1

warnings: none!

My heels clicked rhythmically against the stone ground of LA. I'm Y/N L/N and I have been invited to stay at the historical Cortez hotel. I am what some call the architect of the west coast, since I've lived here, I have not once been to The Cortez. I for years have been admiring the stunning art deco interior and I was ecstatic when I got invited to stay.

I approached the sunburst style doors and open them up. Immediately my eyes are met with one of the most stunning buildings I've seen in my lifetime. the elegance of the red that matched my dress and shine of the gold accents made my heart throb. I made my way to the front counter to greet the lady standing there reading, her style is beautiful.

"Hi, I'm Y/N L/N. I was invited to stay here, I'm not sure what room they put me in" I told her and flashed a closed mouth friendly smile. she looked down at the pages of a large book on the counter and smiled to me. "you're in room 64, honey." she turned around and took the keys out of their designated cubicle and handed them to me. "Thank you so much, I love the way you dress by the way. you look amazing!" I smiled holding the key in my hand. she smiled sweetly and nodded her head "I appreciate that more than you know, do you need any help finding the room?" she asked.

"Oh no, if I get lost in this place I won't be at all upset, just means I get to relish in its beauty longer. have a nice night" I smiled and waved. she smiled back and looked back at her book. I walked across the carpet; I looked back at the lounge. a woman with short blonde hair watched me. I turned away and kept walking... weird?

I walked up to the elevator and pressed the button for the 6th floor.

-time skip-

I found it. the door looked to be oak and stunningly carved into brass was the number '64' so perfectly. I clicked the key and entered the room. I yelped as I saw a man sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. "I'm sorry! is this not room 64?" I asked confused. He was remarkably handsome... my lord. He laughed lowly "no this is in fact room 64, please! come in!" He stated oh so confidently. I stepped into the room "uhm I apologize if this comes off rude but, this is the room I'm staying in" I said awkwardly, his charisma was intoxicating me.

"Yes! I came here because I was told you were quite the ravishing lady! The name is James, James Patrick March, I am the owner of this hotel." he smiled "In fact, I have been told you have been interested in my work for a long time." I was in shock.

"James March? But didn't you pass years ago?" I asked a smile of disbelief on my face. "Of course, but with this hotel my legacy lives on and I will never die" He states with a dimpled smile and looked me up and down. "They were not lying about you though my darling... you are absolutely show stopping."

I bowed my head slightly "well thank you sir, you look quite nice yourself" I giggled to him.

He stepped closer to me with intense eye contact "I was wondering if there was any possibility of you coming and having dinner with me tonight?" He asked, "We can discuss anything you would like, just you and me?" His eyes had the most demanding look in them but so soft.

"Well, I don't seem to have any plans. I wouldn't mind coming at all." His eyes lit up "Splendid!" I giggled at him; I think this might be love at first sight.

[ikeromantic]

Congratulations on the followers! Could I request red hot with Keith in the observatory? Thank you very much.

Oh nony, I had a bit too much fun with this one! Thanks for the ask ^_^ Approx. 1600 words of pure Keith smut in the observatory. Very spicy! NSFW! TW: blow job (oral sex - male receiving) IkePri New Years Event story!

Keith led Emma into the observatory, a proud smile on his face. The globe above them glittered with the light of a thousand stars, magnified by the lensed glass. In the center stood the telescope, a huge brass and glass mechanism on a rotating dais. 

She stopped about halfway to the dais, her eyes fixed on the stars above. “This is amazing,” she sighed.

He nodded, his own gaze dwelling on the stars in his lover’s eyes. “Truly beautiful.”

Emma turned to look at him, and Keith felt his cheeks heat from the love in her gaze. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“We haven’t even seen the best part.” He gently pulled her toward the telescope. “With this, we can see even more. The court astronomer told me that -” Keith paused, realizing she wasn’t paying attention to the telescope at all. “What is it?”

“You are so adorable when you’re excited.” Emma kissed his cheek. 

“Not half so precious as you.” He turned his head to catch her lips before she could withdraw. It was a bold move, one that made him nervous. But with her, he felt sometimes as if he could do anything. 

The kiss was a soft and gentle thing, an exchange of warmth and breath and love. Yet somehow, this sweet gesture set off a hunger in him. A fire that leapt to life and set desire racing through him. 

Emma drew back from the kiss, a knowing smile on her lips. She ran her hands down his back, and even through his clothes he could feel her nails. The echo of a more intimate touch sent a jolt of pleasure through him. “Are you blushing,” she asked, a lilt of satisfaction in her voice.

“N-no,” he coughed. “Just feeling . . . a bit . . . warm.”

“Maybe you should take your coat off?” She was already sliding it off his shoulders as she spoke.

Keith cleared his throat and nodded, certain if he spoke the words would come out high-pitched and breathy. He wasn’t sure if Emma knew what her touch did to him. In the back of his mind, he could feel his wicked self laugh, thrilled with her forwardness. But for Keith it was almost too much. 

She set his jacket on one of the nearby stools and turned back to him. “Isn’t that better?”

“Y-yes.” He gestured again toward the telescope, searching for safer ground. The things he wanted to do with her now were not proper, not in the least but she was so alluring. Standing close as she was, smiling at him with some secret locked behind her heated gaze. 

Emma looked around again, a little frown creasing her brow. “It’s a bit dark in here. Is that so we can see out better?”

Keith gave another nod. 

“And can people see in? It’s all glass . . .”

“N-no. Unless they’re on the roof. And no one - no one is. I reserved it. For us.” He swallowed, smiled. Surely they were headed back to more known territory now. 

Emma turned to him, her smile even wider. “That’s good.” Her fingertips brushed his thigh, hooked the tops of his belt. “I was just thinking I really wanted some alone time with you.”

“W-with me?” He felt the fire in his heart leap again, though he wasn’t sure what to do with that feeling. Perhaps kiss her again? Keith leaned in for another kiss, and was surprised by her fierce response. 

She pushed him back against the stool, her body pressed against his, her mouth on his, her tongue teasing. 

He felt a tremor roll through his body, the urge to switch and let his wicked self indulge. But Keith wanted her to himself tonight. A selfish desire, perhaps, but honest. He pulled back from the kiss and studied her for a moment. “You know it - it’s just me, right? Just Keith. I - I’m not sure -”

“I know,” she smiled, her eyes alight. 

Keith realized then that she’d undone the buttons on his shirt. The air in the observatory was cool, almost cold. It raised dimples across his skin, and heightened his sensitivity to every touch. “Wh-” He began to ask why, only to gasp as her warm lips kissed his chest.

Emma left a trail of blazing warmth down his chest and belly, ending at the clasp of his belt. She was kneeling in front of him now, her mouth turned up in a teasing smile. 

“What . . . Emma . . .” Keith wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. His thoughts were scattered and he was having trouble focusing on anything but her touch.

“Should I stop? I can, if it’s too much.” She ran her fingers up his inner thigh, along the line of the seam.

He shivered in response, his body aching with a sudden and intense need. “N-no. I like it. I - yes, please. Do . . . continue?”

Emma responded by taking hold of his belt buckle. 

Keith froze, paralyzed by a combination of desire and anxiety as she unfastened the leather and silver clasp and tugged the belt off completely. Her warm mouth found the sensitive trail of skin below his belly button and all Keith’s thoughts burned away.

There was nothing but the feel of her hands and her lips and her wicked tongue. She freed his cock from his trousers, the shock of cool air followed by her satin soft fingers wrapping around the base. He groaned as she slowly stroked him, root to tip. 

He felt as if he should stop her, as if this was too much - he didn’t deserve such unalloyed pleasure in her touch. Such intimacy didn’t belong in the observatory with the stars above watching in silent reproach. But his throat would not produce words and his tongue was incapable of speech. 

Emma’s soft laugh sent a tremor up his spine as her breath danced over his shaft, and then a jolt as her lips wrapped around the tip. She felt his sudden tension and pulled back, looking up at him expectantly.

Keith fought an inner battle as he gazed down at her. He should lift her up, kiss her. Tell her she needn’t give him such a gift. He didn’t deserve to feel this good, and she was too precious, too wonderful to be on her knees before him. But he didn’t have the strength to be that gentleman for her. Or rather, as the wicked voice in his mind whispered, he didn’t truly want to be. He opened his mouth, unsure what he would say. 

“Please . . .”

She gave him a victorious grin, fierce and full of carnal promise. Her silken lips descended on him then, and she took him into her mouth. 

He did not have words for the sensation, and even if he had, his thoughts burst into light. Fireworks of red and white that flickered in tempo with her naughty tongue. Keith felt as if he were sinking into her heat. She was a fire, consuming him. Turning his mere flesh into bliss through her divine touch. 

The deeper she took him, the more desperate his groans. He surrendered to her, to the ecstasy of her lips, her hands, her tongue and teeth. To the love he felt for her. His body tensed, shook, his fingers tangled in her hair. He felt as if he would cease, if she stopped now. Keith’s world shrank to only her touch. 

His pleading gasps came faster now, more ragged. There was an aching tension in his cock and balls, as if in any moment he might burst. “W-wait,” he managed, dragging the words from some small sliver of decorous thought he had left. “I - I’m g-going -”

Emma chose that moment to suckle him, her lips nearly down to the root of his shaft. Her tongue stroked the length of his cock, teasing, as her hands worked what her mouth could not. 

Keith’s thoughts were swept away in an ocean of ecstasy. There was nothing but sensation. Pleasure. He felt as if everything he was burst from him as his hips bucked forward, trying to drive deeper into her sweet, welcoming mouth. The warning he’d meant to give became only a moan of pure rapture. 

She drank him down, her hands pressing back on his thighs to keep him still. Her lapping tongue milked him until he felt expended, empty, drained and trembling. Even when she drew back and released him from the torment and bliss of her mouth, pleasure arced through his body.  

Emma wiped her mouth delicately, and stood. Trying to straighten her hair where he’d tangled it. She gave him an uncertain smile. “Was it . . . okay?”

Keith laughed weakly, feeling as if every breath brought him a new sensation. “You are incredible.”

Her smile widened. “So it was good?”

“I have never in my life . . . I didn’t know . . . it was . . .” He tried to encapsulate the rush of sensations, the helpless awe, the adoration in which he held her. Keith smiled, giving in to his heart’s joy. He didn’t need complicated words to express what he felt. Only three simple ones. 

“I love you.”

She laughed and sat down on his lap. “I love you too.”

“Have you ever -” He began, then stopped himself with a choked cough, surprised he would even have such a thought. At Emma’s encouraging look, Keith cleared his throat and tried again. “That is, would you like to . . . make love? Under the stars?”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Hmmm. I don’t know . . . isn’t it a bit soon after - you know?” 

Keith flushed a deep crimson, the color high and dark on his cheeks. “Erm, I - I don’t think it’s ah . . . a problem?”

She laughed and kissed him.

“That’s a yes, then?”

[fairytailaustories]

Next Generation Profiles: Gajevy's children

1st child

Jayla Redfox

Alias: N/A

Characteristics

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Age: Year X811: 18

Birthday: X793

Hair Colour: Black

Eye Colour: Hazel

Professional Status

Affiliation: Fairy Tail, Sorcerer Magazine

Previous Affiliation: Magnolia Magic Academy

Guildmark Location: Left Thigh

Occupation: S Class Mage, Model

Previous Occupation: Mage Student

Team: Team JJF

Partners:

Julian Strauss

Fabian Redfox

Base of Operations: Fairy Tail building, Magnolia.

Personal Status

Status: Active

Relatives:

Metalicana: Grandfather (Deceased)

Gajeel Redfox: Father

Juvia Lockser Fullbuster: Godmother

Levy McGarden Redfox: Mother

Lucy Heartfilia Dragneel: Godmother

Fabian Redfox: Twin Sibling [Oc]

Yael Redfox: Brother [Oc]

Counterpart: N/A

Magic:

Magic:

Iron Script Make

Steel Make Magic.

Appearance

Jayla is an 18-year-old with black wavy hair, often tied up in a high ponytail or messy bun, allowing a few strands to frame her face. Her hazel eyes gleam with subtle warmth, complementing her sun-kissed skin.

Her emo-punk outfit features a sleeveless black cropped top with a jagged hem, adorned with silver chains and a skull graphic on the front. She pairs this with ripped, high-waisted dark denim shorts layered over fishnet tights. Her footwear consists of combat boots with metallic studs, reaching just below her knees. Accessories include fingerless gloves, a spiked choker, and several earrings lining the curve of her ears, alongside a small nose stud and a hoop in her lip. To complete the look, she carries a distressed leather belt with dangling charms, adding a rebellious edge to her aesthetic.

Little Details

Hobbies: Playing guitar

Fears: Bugs

Dreams: N/A

2nd Child

Fabian Redfox

Alias: Iron Reaper

Characteristics

Race: Human

Gender: Non-Binary (Born male)

Age: Year X811: 18

Birthday: X793

Hair Colour: Blue

Eye Colour: Hazel

Professional Status

Affiliation: Fairy Tail, Magnolia Charity

Previous Affiliation: Magnolia Magic Academy

Guildmark Location: Neck

Occupation: S Class Mage, Singer

Previous Occupation: Mage Student

Team: Team JJF

Partners:

Julian Strauss

Jayla Redfox

Base of Operations: Fairy tail building, Magnolia

Personal Status

Status: Active

Relatives:

Metalicana: Grandfather (deceased)

Gajeel Redfox: Father

Juvia Lockser Fullbuster: Godmother

Levy McGarden Redfox: Mother

Lucy Heartfilia Dragneel: Godmother

Jayla Redfox: Twin Sister [Oc]

Yael Redfox: Brother [Oc]

Counterpart: N/A

Magic

Magic: Iron Dragon Slayer Magic (6th Generation)

Appearance

Fabian is an 18-year-old with blue hair tied neatly at the back, leaving a few loose strands to soften their look. Their hazel eyes stand out against their pale skin, giving them a refined and elegant appearance.

Their vintage-style outfit consists of a cream-colored button-up shirt with a high, starched collar, tucked into dark brown tweed trousers held up by thin leather suspenders. Over the shirt, they wear a fitted navy-blue waistcoat with brass buttons and subtle embroidery along the edges. They completes the look with polished oxford shoes, a pocket watch chain hanging from their waistcoat, and round, gold-rimmed fake glasses perched on their nose. A thin silk ribbon tied in a loose bow at their neck adds a final touch of old-fashioned charm.

Little Details

Hobbies: Singing for Charity

Fears: Silence

Ambitions: Making sure children are safe.

3rd Child

Yael Redfox

Alias: N/A

Characteristics

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Age: Year X811: 12

Birthday: X799

Hair Colour: Black

Eye Colour: Red

Professional Status

Affiliation: Fairy Tail, Magnolia Magic Academy

Previous Affiliation: Magnolia Elementary School

Occupation: D Rank Mage, Mage Student

Previous Occupation: School Student

Base of Operations: Fairy Tail Building, Magnolia

Personal Status

Status: Active

Relatives:

Metalicana: Grandfather (Deceased)

Gajeel Redfox: Father

Juvia Lockser Fullbuster: Godmother

Levy McGarden Redfox: Mother

Lucy Heartfilia Dragneel: Godmother

Jayla Redfox: Sister [Oc]

Fabian Redfox: Sibling [Oc]

Counter: N/A

Magic:

Magic: Book script

Weapons: Book

Appearance

Yael is a 12-year-old boy with black spiky hair that sticks up in messy tufts, framed by a bandana tied securely around his head. His striking red eyes stand out vividly against his pale skin, giving him a bold and unique appearance.

His outfit reflects the typical style of a boy his age: a red graphic t-shirt featuring a stylized dragon design, paired with loose black cargo shorts that reach just above his knees. He wears comfortable white sneakers with red accents and striped ankle socks. The bandana around his head is black with a simple geometric pattern, adding a touch of flair to his youthful look.

Little Details

Habits: Falling asleep in a middle of reading a book

Hobbies: Reading

Fears: N/A

Ambition: To read every book in existance

[mephistosfaust]

One Word Prompts: Pressure | 1862 | Germany + Prussia

A/N: In 1862, the Prussian king appointed Bismarck as Minister-President to push through a controversial military reform. Aimed at modernizing the army for faster response to foreign threats, the reform faced strong parliamentary resistance—but with Bismarck’s appointment, the monarchy found a forceful defender. He would hold the office until 1890, reshaping Prussia and paving the way for German unification. After the failed 1848 revolution, Ludwig was enrolled in cadet school, later studying at the military academy to be shaped into a disciplined, strategic thinker—an effort Gilbert still oversees personally with occasional visits. Ludwig is about 17 years old.

------

My boots hit the stone floor of the cadet school’s corridors like a drumbeat announcing the cavalry. I ran all the way from the training grounds, lungs burning, sweat dampening the back of my collar. When I reach the door to the war room, I pause to catch my breath, quickly button my uniform closed, and run a hand through my hair—which I’ve kept growing, as is the fashion—before pushing the handle down.

Gilbert stands near the window, back lit by the pale gray daylight cutting through the glass. Arms crossed. Still. Watching.

I take a few stops forwards and snap to attention with what breath I have left.

He doesn’t speak immediately, just takes a long drag from his cigarette. Then, without turning: “You could’ve done better.”

I stiffen. “Yes, sir. I—apologies, sir. I… I was delayed on the grounds.”

He turns slowly to face me, eyes sharp beneath the strands of grey-white hair that never quite stay in place—no matter how often he tries, they resist, a quiet rebellion against his rigid sense of order. “I watched. I saw how long it took you to detach the bayonet and aim correctly. Hesitation. You’re lucky it wasn’t a real fight, or you’d be mopping blood off your boots by now.”

My throat tightens. I nod once. “Understood.”

He steps toward the table and flicks the ash from his cigarette into a tin. “No excuses next time. You don’t get to fumble when you’re the future of something this size.”

I lower my eyes briefly. Then I let them drift across the massive breech table at the center of the room. Maps stretch across its surface, freshly printed as if coming directly from the general’s staff, weighed down by carved wooden figures: infantry, cavalry, artillery. Rivers marked with thin strips of painted rope, forests suggested with clusters of green felt, railways leading up all the way toward the Rhenish boarder of the German Confederation.

I exhale slowly, standing with both feet on the ground in perfect rigidity—back straight, shoulders square, hands clasped tightly behind me. “Is it true what they say, about the King appointing Bismarck Minister President?”

Gilbert doesn’t look up. He’s already adjusting pieces on the board, dragging a formation of infantry into place. “It’s true.”

I watch him for a moment. “And… about the army reform? There’s talk among the officers. Some say it’s because of the Second Italian War of…” I catch myself, the word independence sticking in my throat. I don’t dare say it aloud—not in front of him. He’s fought wars of independence already, and in his mind, they ended in 1815. Period. “Are we in danger?” I ask instead with deliberate care.

His hand pauses briefly over the map. Then, quietly: “Danger’s always there, Ludwig. It’s just a matter of whether we’re ready for it when it knocks.”

I frown. “But—this reform. Why now? Why push so hard for change? Isn’t it enough that the army stands strong? For sure it was enough to scare off Francis from getting any ideas.”

He sets down a brass cannon with a small clink. “Because I let it rot once.”

I blink. He doesn't often talk about the past.

“I thought we had time,” he says, his voice lower now. “I believed tradition alone would be enough to strike fear into the enemy—and that pride would carry us through.” He gestures toward a cluster of red enemy figures positioned on the western edge of the board. “Then Napoleon humbled even me.” At last, he looks at me, eyes narrowing slightly as an old memory flickers behind them. “And I think you’re the last nation I need to explain the consequences to.”

I inhale sharply. Yes, the Holy Roman Empire was dissolved—but it wasn’t Napoleon who pulled the trigger. He only laid the gun on the table; others were all too willing to take the shot. Germany wasn’t dead. I could’ve gone on as the Confederation of the Rhine. But neither Austria nor Prussia were willing to let that happen so they buried me, only to drag me from the grave later—tied to strings, made to rise on command and bow to their will.

“I won’t let that happen again,” Gilbert cuts into my thoughts, placing one final figure on the field. A cavalry unit, pressed to the edge of a narrow pass. He takes a final drag of his cigarette and stubs it out. Then he looks at me, that gleam in his eyes returning—sharp, expectant. “Now,” he says. “Let’s see if all that sweat from the training ground amounted to anything. Stand easy.”

I nod once and step forward, muscles loosening slightly even as the tension lingers beneath my skin.

He gestures at the table. “You’ve got a regiment, a battery, and a cavalry detachment. The enemy’s got numbers. Twice your size. Terrain’s broken, winter conditions. Civilian population in the town here—” he taps the little wooden block labeled Wasselonne “—so you’ll need to keep that intact, unless you want to win your first battle on a massacre.”

I nod again, allowing myself to take in the full scale of the offense and defense lines spreading along the German-French border.

He watches me closely as I start to move the pieces. My hand hovers—infantry on the ridge to hold the line, artillery here to cover the north pass, cavalry in reserve. My fingers twitch. I try to recall every theory, every hour spent in the lecture hall here at the cadet school. The writings of von Clausewitz ring in my ears like sermons. I move another unit, trying to set a feint to draw the enemy toward the river crossing.

“I said cover the pass, not leave it wide open like your mother's legs,” Gilbert snaps, smacking the back of my head with a swift, precise motion.

I flinch forward, teeth clenching. “Yes, sir.”

“Do it again.”

I reposition the artillery, heart thudding.

“Enemy reinforcements from the north” he barks suddenly, dragging more red markers onto the board. “Now what?”

I blink, trying to calculate. “I pull back my cavalry here to intercept—”

“Wrong!” Another smack. “You just abandoned your rear. Your flanks are exposed. You’re lucky this is wood and not your men bleeding out.”

“I—”

“Adapt. Move. Think!”

I shove a piece forward. “I’ll reroute the infantry—”

“Too late.” He sweeps two blue units off the map with the back of his hand, the motion carrying through until it strikes me across the face. “You hesitated. They’re dead. Everyone’s dead. Good job, Germany.”

My fists curl on the edge of the table. “Stop,” I mutter. “I need to think.”

Prussia rounds the table so fast I barely register him until he’s inches from me. His voice drops low as he leans in close. “You think you’ll have time to think when artillery tears through your flank? When men scream for orders and the sky is burning down around your ears? No, Ludwig. You don’t get to think. You act. You plan ahead. You adapt on instinct. Or you die.”

I swallow hard. My mouth is dry. His words echo in my skull like gunfire. I can still feel the sting on the side of my face and the back of my head.

He steps back, pacing in a tight circle. His boots thump with clipped precision. “You want to wear this uniform,” he says. “You want to carry the weight of a nation state. But that there’s more to it than poetry and philosophy. It means you command. You decide. You do not get to fall apart.”

“I’m trying,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Try harder.” He slams his hand down on the table. The figurines rattle, some tipping over. “Do it again. Start from the beginning.”

I glance at the table. The map feels vast, hostile. But I nod, jaw tight, and reach forward. Again.

Infantry to the ridge. Artillery set back, slightly to the east. Cavalry poised, shielded behind the hills. I start to anticipate the moves he’ll throw at me—reinforcements from the flank, broken ground, townspeople fleeing into the woods. He tests me every second—changing the rules, throwing in weather, morale, supply shortage, a flooded river and broken railways. I lose units. I get hit again.

But I keep going, and eventually, the board is littered with both red and blue pieces. Losses, yes. But I held the town. Preserved the supply line. My artillery survived. My men are tired but standing.

My brother says nothing at first. He walks around the table once more, slowly, arms crossed. Then he grunts. “Better.”

I exhale shakily, head throbbing behind my red ears.

“You’ll need to be faster next time. Sharper.” He straightens a few pieces on the map. “But you didn’t panic. That matters.”

I nod, “Thank you, sir.”

“Not for barely staying alive. I want your report on the tactical analyses by sundown. And clean up the board afterwards,” he says before the door clicks shut behind me.

I drop into a chair, elbows on the table, face buried in my shaking hands. For a moment, I just sit there, breathing. Then, through my fingers, I glance toward the window as the a church bell is ringing. Two hours until dawn. I straighten up with a quiet sigh and begin resetting the figures one by one, carefully placing them back to their original positions, ready to replay the battle from the beginning as I try to recall each move.